REFLECTIONS AND AN ENCOUNTER
The sun was barely above the eastward wall of trees when Kenneth and
his man rode away from the home of Phineas Striker. Their progress
was slow and arduous, for the black mud was well up to the fetlocks
of the horses in this new road across the boggy clearing. He rode
ahead, as was the custom, followed a short distance behind by his
servant on the strong, well-laden pack-horse.
The master was in a thoughtful, troubled mood. He paid little
attention to the glories of the fresh spring day. What he had just
heard from the lips of the settler disturbed him greatly. That
beautiful girl his half-sister! The child of his own father and the
hated Rachel Carter! Rachel Carter, the woman he had been brought
up to despise, the harlot who had stolen his father away, the scarlet
wanton at whose door the death of his mother was laid! That evil
woman, Rachel Carter!
Could she, this foulest of thieves, be the mother of so lovely, so
sensitive, so perfect a creature as Viola Gwyn?
As he rode frowningly along, oblivious to the low chant of the
darkey and the song of the first spring warblers, he revisualized
the woman he had known in his earliest childhood. Strangely enough,
the face of Rachel Carter had always remained more firmly, more
indelibly impressed upon his memory than that of his own mother.
This queer, unusual circumstance may be easily, reasonably accounted
for: his grandfather's dogged, almost daily lessons in hate. He was
not allowed to forget Rachel Carter,--not for one instant. Always
she was kept before him by that bitter, vindictive old man who was
his mother's father,--even up to the day that he lay on his deathbed.
Small wonder, then, that his own mother's face had faded from his
memory while that of Rachel Carter remained clear and vivid, as he
had known it now for twenty years. The passing years might perforce
bring about changes in the face and figure of Rachel Carter, but
they could not, even in the smallest detail, alter the picture his
mind's eye had carried so long and faithfully. He could think of
her only as she was when he last saw her, twenty years ago: tall
and straight, with laughing eyes and white teeth, and the colour
of tan-bark in her cheeks.
Then there had been little Minda,--tiny Minda who existed vaguely
as a name, nothing more. He had a dim recollection of hearing his
elders say that the babe with the yellow curls had been drowned
when a boat turned over far away in the big brown river. Some one
had come to his grandfather's house with the news. He recalled
hearing the talk about the accident, and his grandfather lifting
his fist toward the sky and actually blaming God for something! He
never forgot that. His grandfather had blamed God!
He had thought of asking Striker about his father's widow, after
hearing the truth about Viola, but a stubborn pride prevented. It
had been on his tongue to inquire when and where Robert Gwynne and
Rachel Carter were married,--he did not doubt that they had been
legally married,--but he realized in time that in all probability
the settler, as well as every one else in the community, was totally
uninformed as to the past life of Robert and Rachel Gwynne. Besides,
the query would reveal an ignorance on his part that he was loath
to expose to speculation.
Striker had explained the somewhat distasteful scrutiny to which
he had been subjected the night before. All three of them, knowing
him to be Viola's blood relation, were studying his features with
interest, seeking for a trace of family resemblance, not alone
to his father but to the girl herself. This had set him thinking.
There was not, so far as he could determine, the slightest likeness
between him and his beautiful half-sister; there was absolutely
nothing to indicate that their sire was one and the same man.
Pondering, he now understood what Striker meant in declaring that
he ought to know the truth about the frustrated elopement. Even
though the honest settler was aware of the strained relations existing
between the widow and her husband's son by a former wife,--(the
deceased in his will had declared in so many words that he owed more
than mere reparation to the neglected but unforgotten son born to
him and his beloved but long dead wife, Laura Gwynne),--even though
Striker knew all this, it was evident that he looked upon this son
as the natural protector of the wilful girl, notwithstanding the
feud between step-mother and step-son.
And Kenneth, as he rode away, felt a new weight of responsibility
as unwelcome to him as it was certain to be to Viola; for, when
all was said and done, she was her mother's daughter and as such
doubtless looked upon him through the mother's eyes, seeing a common
enemy. Still, she was his half-sister, and whether he liked it or
not he was morally bound to stand between her and disaster,--and if
Striker was right, marriage with the wild Lapelle spelled disaster
of the worst kind. He had only to recall, however, the unaccountable
look of hostility with which she had favoured him more than once
during the evening to realize that he was not likely to be called
upon for either advice or protection.
He mused aloud, with the shrug of a philosopher: "Heigh-ho! I fear
me I shall have small say as to the conduct of this newly found
relation. The only tie that bound us is gone. She is not only
the child of my father, whom she feared and perhaps hated, but of
mine enemy, whom she loves,--so the case is clear. There is a wall
between us, and I shall not attempt to surmount it. What a demnition
mess it has turned out to be. I came prepared to find only the
creature I have scorned and despised, and I discover that I have
a sister so beautiful that, not knowing her at all, my eyes are
dazzled and my heart goes to thumping like any silly school boy's.
Aye, 'tis a very sorry pass. Were it not so demned upsetting,
it would be amusing. Fate never played a wilder prank. What, ho,
Zachariah! Where are we now? Whose farm is that upon the ridge?"
Zachariah, urging his horse forward, consulted his memory. Striker
had mentioned the farms they were to pass en route, and the features
by which they were to be identified. Far away on a rise in the
sweep of prairie-land stood a lonely cabin, with a clump of trees
behind it.
"Well, Marse Kenneth, ef hit ain' de Sherry place hit shorely am de
Sheridan place, an' ef hit ain't nuther one o' dem hit mus' belong
to Marse Dimmit er---"
"It is neither of these, you rascal. We are to the north of them,
if I remember our directions rightly. Mr. Hollingsworth and the
Kisers live hereabouts, according to Phineas Striker. A house with
a clump of trees,--it is Mr. Huff's farm. Soon we will come to the
Martin and Talbot places, and then the land that is mine, Zachariah.
It lies for the most part on this side of the Crawfordsville road."
"Is yo' gwine to stop dere, Marse Kenneth?"
"No. I shall ride out from town some day soon to look the place over,"
said his master with a pardonable lordliness of mien, becoming to
a landed gentleman. "Our affairs at present lie in the town, for
there is much to be settled before I take charge. Striker tells me
the man who is farming the place is an able, honest fellow. I shall
not disturb him. From what he says, my property is more desirable
in every way than the land that fell to my father's widow. Her
farm lies off to our left, it seems, and reaches almost to the
bottomlands of the river. We, Zachariah, are out here in the fertile
prairie land. Our west line extends along the full length of her
property. So, you see, the only thing that separates the two farms
is an imaginary line no wider than your little finger, drawn by
a surveyor and established by law. You will observe, my faithful
fellow,--assuming that you are a faithful fellow,--that as we
draw farther away from the woods along the river, the road becomes
firmer, the soil less soggy, the--If you will cast your worthless
eye about you, instead of at these mud-puddles, you will also
observe the vast fields of stubble, the immense stretches of corn
stalks and the signs of spring ploughing on all sides. Truly 'tis
a wonderful country. See yon pasture, Zachariah, with the cows and
calves,--a good score of them. And have you, by the way, noticed
what a glorious day it is? This is life!"
"Yas, suh, Marse Kenneth, Ah done notice dat, an' Ah done notice
somefin ailse. Ah done notice dem buzzards flyin' low over yan way.
Dat means death, Marse Kenneth. Somefin sho' am daid over yan way."
"You are a melancholy croaker, Zachariah. You see naught but the
buzzards, when all about you are the newly come birds of spring,
the bluebird, the robin, and the thrush. Soon the meadow lark will
be in the fields, and the young quail and the prairie-hen."
"Yas, suh," agreed Zachariah, brightening, "an' de yaller-hammer
an' de blue-jay an' de--an' de rattlesnake," he concluded, with a
roving, uneasy look along the roadside.
"Do not forget the saucy parroquets we saw yesterday as we came
through the forest. You went so far in your excitement over those
little green and golden birds, with their scarlet heads, that you
declared they reminded you of the Garden of Eden. Look about you,
Zachariah. Here is the Garden of Eden, right at your feet. Do you
see those plum trees over yonder? Well, sir, old Adam and Eve used
to sit under those very trees during the middle of the day, resting
themselves in the shade. And right over there behind that big rock
is where the serpent had his nest. He gave Eve a plum instead of
an apple, because Eve was especially fond of plums and did not care
at all for apples. She--"
"'Scuse me, Marse Kenneth, but dem is hawthorn trees," said Zachariah,
grinning.
"So they are, so they are. Now that I come to think of it, it
was the red-haw that Eve fancied more than any other fruit in the
garden."
"Yas, suh,--an' ole Adam he was powerful fond ob snappin'-turtles
fo' breakfas'," said Zachariah, pointing to a tortoise creeping
slowly along the ditch. "An' lil Cain an' Abel,--my lan', how dem
chillum used to gobble up de mud pies ole Mammy Eve used to make
right out ob dish yere road we's ridin' on."
And so, in this sportive mood, master and man, warmed by the golden
sun and cheered by the spring wind of an April morn, traversed this
new-found realm of Cerus, forded the turbulent, swollen creek that
later on ran through the heart of the Gwynne acres, and came at
length to the main road leading into the town.
They passed log cabins and here and there pretentious frame houses
standing back from the road in the shelter of oak and locust
groves. Their passing was watched by curious women and children
in dooryards and porches, while from the fields men waved greeting
and farewell with the single sweep of a hat. On every barn door
the pelts of foxes and raccoons were stretched and nailed.
Presently they drew near to a lane reaching off to the west, and
apparently ending in a wooded knoll, a quarter of a mile away.
"There," said Kenneth, with a wave of his hand, "is where I shall
some day erect a mansion, Zachariah, that will be the wonder and the
envy of all the people in the country. For unless I am mistaken, that
is the grove of oaks that Striker mentioned. Behold, Zachariah,--all
that is mine. Four hundred acres of as fine farm-land as there is
in all the world, and timber unparalleled. Yes, I am right. There
is the house that Striker described, the place where my father
lived he first came to the Wea. Egad, 'tis not a regal palace, is
it, Zachariah? The most imposing thing about it is the chimney."
They were gazing at a cabin that squatted meekly over against the
wall of oaks. Its roof was barely visible above the surrounding
stockade, while the barn and styes and sheds were hidden entirely
beyond the slope. It was, in truth, the most primitive and
insignificant house they had seen that day.
"He was one of the first to build in this virgin waste," mused the
young man aloud. "Rough and parlous were the days when he came to
this land, Zachariah. There was no town of Lafayette, no neighbours
save the rude, uncultured trappers. Now see how the times have
changed. And, mark my guess, Zachariah, there will be still greater
changes before we are laid away. There will be cities and--Ha!
Look, Zachariah,--to the right of the grove. It is all as Striker
said. There is the other house,--two miles or more to the westward.
That is HER house. It is new, scarce two years old, built of lumber
instead of logs, and quite spacious. There are, he tells me, two
stories, containing four rooms, with a kitchen off the back, a
smoke-house and a granary besides the barn,--yes, I see them all,
just as he said we should see them after we rounded the grove."
He drew rein and gazed at the distant house, set on a ridge and
backed by the seemingly endless forest that stretched off to the
north and south. His face clouded, his jaw was set, and his eyes
were hard.
"Yes, that would be Rachel Carter's house," he continued, harshly.
"Her land and my land lying side by side, with only a fence between.
Her grain and my grain growing out of the same soil. What an unholy
trick for fate to play. Perhaps she is over there, even now. She
and Viola. It is not likely that they would have started for town
at an earlier hour than this. And to think of the damnable situation
I shall find in town. She will be my neighbour,--just as she was
twenty years ago. We shall live within speaking distance of each
other, we shall see each other perhaps a dozen times a day, and
yet we may neither speak nor see. Egad, I wonder what I'll do if
she even attempts to address me! Heigh-ho! 'Tis the mischief of
Satan himself. Come, Zachariah,--you lazy rascal! As if you had
not slept soundly all night long, you must now fall asleep sitting
bolt upright in the saddle."
And so on they rode again, at times breaking into a smart canter
where the road was solid, but for the most part proceeding with
irksome slowness through the evil slough. Ahead lay the dense wood
they were to traverse before coming to the town. Soon the broad,
open prairie would be behind them, they would be plunged into the
depths of a forest primeval, wending their way through five miles
of solitude to the rim of the vale in which the town was situated.
But the forest had no terrors for them. They were accustomed to the
long silences, the sombre shades, the seemingly endless stretches
of wildwood wherein no mortal dwelt. They had come from afar and
they were young, and hardy, and fearless. Beyond that wide wall of
trees lay journey's end; a new life awaited them on the other side
of the barrier forest.
Suddenly Zachariah called his master's attention to a horseman who
rode swiftly, even recklessly across the fields to their left and
well ahead of them. They watched the rider with interest, struck by
the furious pace he was holding, regardless of consequences either
to himself or his steed.
"Mus' be somebody pow'ful sick, Marse Kenneth, fo' dat man to be
ridin' so fas'," remarked Zachariah.
"Going for a doctor, I sup--Begad, he must have come from Rachel
Carter's farm! There is no other house in sight over in that
direction. I wonder if--" He did not complete the sentence, but
frowned anxiously as he looked over his shoulder at the distant
house.
Judging by the manner and the direction in which he was galloping,
the rider would reach the main road a quarter of a mile ahead of
them, about at the point where it entered the wood. Kenneth now
made out an unfenced wagon-road through the field, evidently a
short-cut from Rachel Carter's farm to the highway. He permitted
himself a faint, sardonic smile. This, then, was to be her means
of reaching the highway rather than to use the lane that ran past
his house and no doubt crossed a section of his farm.
Sure enough the horseman turned into the road some distance ahead
of them and rode straight for the forest. Then, for the first time,
Gwynne observed a second rider, motionless at the roadside, and in
the shadow of the towering, leafless trees that marked the portal
through which they must enter the forest. The flying horseman slowed
down as he neared this solitary figure, coming to a standstill when
he reached his side. A moment later, both riders were cantering
toward the wood, apparently in excited, earnest conversation. A
few rods farther on, both turned to look over their shoulders at
the slow-moving travellers. Then they stopped, wheeled about, and
stood still, awaiting their approach.
Kenneth experienced a poignant thrill of apprehension What was he
to expect: a friendly or a sanguinary encounter? He slipped his
right hand into the saddle pocket and drew forth a pistol which he
shoved hastily inside his waistcoat, covering the stock with the
folds of his cape.
"Keep a little way behind me," he said to his servant, a trace of
excitement in his voice.
"Yas, suh," said Zachariah, with more alacrity than valour, the
whites of his eyes betraying something more than a readiness to
obey this conservative order. It was a foregone conclusion that
Zachariah would turn tail and flee the instant there was a sign
of danger. "Slave hunters, Marse Kenneth, dat's what dey is," he
announced with conviction. "Ah c'n smell 'em five miles away. Yas,
suh,--dey's gwine a' make trouble fo' you, Marse Kenneth, sho' as
you is--" But by this time he had dropped so far behind that his
opinions were valueless.
When not more than fifty yards separated the two parties, one
of the men, with a word and an imperative jerk of the head to his
companion, advanced slowly to meet Kenneth. This man was the one
who had waited for the other at the edge of the wood.
Gwynne beheld a tall, strongly built young man who rode his horse
with the matchless grace of an Indian. Although his companion was
roughly dressed and wore a coon-skin cap, this man was unmistakably
a dandy. His high beaver hat observed a jaunty, rakish tilt; his
brass-buttoned coat was the colour of wine and of the latest fashion,
while his snug fitting pantaloons were the shade of the mouse. He
wore no cumbersome cape, but fashioned about his neck and shoulders
was a broad, sloping collar of mink. There were silver spurs on
his stout riding boots, and the wide cuffs of his gauntlets were
embroidered in silver.
He was a handsome fellow of the type described as dashing. Dark
gleaming eyes peered out beneath thick black eyebrows which met in
an unbroken line above his nose. Set in a face of unusual pallor,
they were no doubt rendered superlatively brilliant by contrast. His
skin was singularly white above the bluish, freshly shaven cheeks
and chin. His hair was black and long and curling. The thin lips,
set and unsmiling, were nevertheless drawn up slightly at one
corner of the mouth in what appeared to be a permanent stamp of
superiority and disdain,--or even contempt. Altogether, a most striking
face, thought Gwynne,--and the man himself a person of importance.
The very manner in which he jerked his head to his companion was
proof enough of that.
"Good morning," said this lordly gentleman, bringing his horse
to a standstill and raising his "gad" to the brim of his hat in a
graceful salute.
Gwynne drew rein alongside. He had observed in a swift glance that
the stranger was apparently unarmed, except for the short, leather
gad.
"Good morning," he returned. "I am on the right road to Lafayette,
I take it." "You are," said the other. "From Crawfordsville way?"
"Yes. I left that place yesterday. I come from afar, however. This
is a strange country to me."
"It is strange to most of us. Unless I am mistaken, sir, you are
Mr. Kenneth Gwynne."
The other smiled. "My approach appears to be fairly well heralded.
Were I a vain person I should feel highly complimented."
"Then you ARE Kenneth Gwynne?" said the stranger, rather curtly.
"Yes. That is my name."
"Permit me to make myself known to you. My name is Lapelle,--Barry
Lapelle. While mine no doubt is unfamiliar to you, yours is well
known to me. In fact, it is known to every one in these parts. You
have long been expected. You will find the town anxiously awaiting
your appearance." He smiled slightly. "If you could arrange to arrive
after nightfall, I am sure you would find bonfires and perhaps a
torchlight procession in your honour. As it is, I rather suspect
our enterprising citizen, Mr. William Smith, will fire a salute
when you appear in view."
"A salute?" exclaimed Kenneth blankly.
"A joyful habit of his, but rather neglected of late. It used to
be his custom, I hear, to put a charge of powder in a stump and
set it off whenever a steamboat drew up to the landing. That was
his way of letting the farmers for miles around know that a fresh
supply of goods had arrived and they were to hurry in and do the
necessary trading at the store. He almost blew himself and his
store to Hallelujah a year or two ago, and so he isn't quite so
enterprising as he was. I am on my way to town, Mr. Gwynne, so if
you do not mind, I shall give myself the pleasure of riding along
with you for a short distance. I shall have to leave you soon,
however, as I am due in the town by ten o'clock. You are too heavily
laden, I see, to travel at top speed,--and that is the way I am
obliged to ride, curse the luck. When I have set you straight at the
branch of the roads a little way ahead, I shall use the spurs,--and
see you later on."
"You are very kind. I will be pleased to have you jog along with
me."