A FORCED OPPORTUNITY.
We left William standing in the hallway at Stanham Manor. When Cato had
gone with the heavy saddle-bags, he closed the door that led to the
north wing softly behind him.
Lieutenant Frothingham was left alone. He sighed and rested his elbow on
the back of a tall chair, and gazed into the glowing embers on the
hearth. For a long time he remained motionless, and when he looked up
again and out of the window he saw that a black cloud had obscured the
moon. But there was a small circle of light moving down the lane. Long
black shadows wavered across the snow on the meadow.
He stepped to the window sill, and at last could make out that it was a
lantern, and that the shadows were those of the man's legs who carried
it. There were dark objects behind him, and now the figures turned
about the corner and came straight toward the house. He heard the
slamming of a side door, and saw Cato step outside and start to meet the
new-comers.
Suddenly Cato stopped, and turning, sped like a deer back to the
veranda, and dodged in through the side entrance. How noiselessly the
old man could move! William did not know that he had entered the hall
until there was a soft touch on the elbow that was in the sling.
"Jasper Gates!" exclaimed the old man, whispering, with his face close
to William's ear. "Hide yo'self. Don't go outside. Some folks is
bringin' some one up here on a litter, and, 'fo' de Lawd, I do believe
it's yo' brudder Mas'r George. Come quick. Hide in de big garret at de
head ob de stairs. I'll help you git 'way 'fore mornin'. Don't stop to
talk now, chile, but come 'long."
He led the way up the stairway two steps at a time. In a minute or so
there was great confusion through the house.
Two men carrying a rough litter made of boughs came into the hall. They
were preceded by the slouching figure of Adam Bent Knee, the old Indian,
carrying a lantern. The men laid their burden on the floor before the
fire.
Aunt Clarissa, in a quilted dressing-gown, came down the stairs. The
light from the candle showed red through her fingers.
"Ugh! most froze," said the old Indian.
"It's Master George, ma'am," said one of the men who had carried the
litter. "Old Adam found him in the snow a short way down the road. He's
got a bad touch, surely."
The other man tapped his forehead significantly.
It was evident that something serious was amiss, for the poor figure on
the litter murmured incoherently.
Aunt Polly, scared almost gray, had been awakened at last. She had given
one look at the empty bed that William had left, and like a frightened,
squawking hen flew down the hall. "Lawd fo'gib me, I done fall 'sleep,"
she said, "an' he must git 'way den. What's he don wiv dose close?"
"His imprisonment was too much for him," said Aunt Clarissa. "We should
have watched him more closely."
A delirious moan showed that some immediate action must be taken.
"Here, you, lift him up and take him to his room--poor boy! How did he
get out?" said Aunt Clarissa, noticing that the right arm was still
supported in the black silk neckerchief.
In a few minutes George, moaning feebly, was ensconced in the pillows
not long ago left vacant by his brother. It was evident that he was
suffering from exposure. He was in a raging fever.
A man was despatched at once for the doctor, but it would be some hours
before he could return.
"Now, all of you, off to bed," said Aunt Clarissa. "I will watch him."
"Won't you let me stay, Mistis?" murmured Aunt Polly, tearfully. "I'll
promise not to go to sleep."
"Out of my sight!" said Aunt Clarissa, sternly. "I would not trust you
to watch a boiling kettle. Out of my sight, you viper!"
Mrs. Frothingham's solicitude for her nephew was something new and
strange, but, nevertheless, the servants slunk away.
Aunt Clarissa, however, had not forgotten to thank Adam Bent Knee or the
men whom he had called from the foundry settlement to assist him in
carrying the litter. The old Indian had related none of the
circumstances, merely stating he had found George in the snow.
When she was alone the stern nature broke down, and Aunt Clarissa
approached the bedside. She knelt down and hid her face in her hands.
"I am punished for my stubborn pride," she said. Then in prayer she
poured forth all the contrition of her heart.
Sleep is a curious phenomenon in many ways. Things that might be
expected to awaken seem to coincide with our dreaming thoughts and pass
us by, while soft noises or an unexpected presence awakens us as if a
cold hand had been laid upon the forehead.
Grace had not been awakened by the trampling of the many feet or the
commotion caused by carrying George up the stairway. She had dreamed
that a body of troops had taken possession of the house, and that she
was endeavoring to hide, for a voice had seemed to say, "The British are
here!"
Afterwards the dream had changed, as all dreams do, and she was again a
little girl playing on the bank of the brook with her two beloved
brothers--one now lying ill in the big room down the hall, and the
other, for aught she knew, far away in the distant city of London--for
William's letter to Aunt Clarissa announcing his arrival in America had
not reached Stanham Mills.
As Grace dreamed once more of the old days, she had awakened. The moon
had come out again, and was about to sink behind the range of western
hills, but the cold light flooded the room.
All at once Grace started and sat up. Yes! There was no doubt about it.
There were footsteps going down the hall. She stole to the door and
opened it cautiously, her heart beating fast.
She was not mistaken, for there was the figure of her brother George,
dressed exactly as when he had arrived on horseback, stepping carefully
down the broad staircase.
The girl hastened back into the room, and slipping her little white feet
into a pair of soft slippers, she threw a heavy cloak about her, and
picked up the candle that was burning brightly behind its paper shade.
When she reached the hallway below she started. There was her brother
endeavoring with his left hand to open the heavy front door. "George!"
she called, "Is it you?"
"Go back. Don't come near me," came the answer, "I pray you let me go."
[Illustration: "WHERE ARE YOU GOING? STOP! STOP!" SHE SAID.]
It seemed to Grace that she must yet be dreaming; but despite the
warning, she approached closer, holding the candle high above her head.
"Where are you going? Stop! Stop!" she said.
"Good-by, good-by, dear sister," was the only answer.
With an effort the door had been thrown open, and a gust of wind blowing
coldly in extinguished the candle she was holding.
The door closed softly. Grace stumbled forward. The last thing that was
pictured in her mind was that strange left hand reaching and tugging at
the massive bolt. Across the back of it she had seen a scar!
It was so black around her that her eyes at first could not find the
direction of familiar objects. At last, however, she made out the
stairway, and turned toward it, filled with fright at what she had seen.
What did it mean? It was _William's hand!_ And now something was moving,
she was sure, over to the left against the wainscoting, and she could
hear it scrape: and then she felt as if she heard a breath. It was too
much for her tense nerves, and she shrieked aloud--the terrifying
woman's scream of fear and horror that starts the strongest nerves.
"'S--'sh--, it's only Cato!" said a voice close to her.
Grace controlled herself with an effort. But the one scream had rung
through the house, and lights and footsteps came hurrying along the
corridors. "Oh, Cato, I'm so frightened!" she said. "You don't know what
I have seen."
"You's been walkin' in yo' sleep, missy," said the old negro. "Come,
here's Aunt Polly; jes go 'long wid her."
"It's nuffin, it's nuffin at all," he shouted to the group that had
assembled at the head of the stairway, Aunt Clarissa and the guest, the
young officer, among them. The latter had wound, toga fashion, about him
a patchwork quilt, and carried his drawn sword in his hand, "Jes Miss
Grace been walkin' in her sleep, and got little skeered, I reckin," said
the old servant, with a throaty laugh.
"No, Cato, I was not walking in my sleep. I saw--"
"Now come, Miss Grace," interrupted Aunt Polly, "jes don' t'ink ob dat
no more. Come off to bed, an' let yo' ol' mammy tuck yo' in."
Aunt Clarissa followed her niece into her bedroom, but would not let the
old negress follow.
The young officer had disappeared as soon as he had seen there was no
use for his eager steel.
"Grace," said Aunt Clarissa, "what was it?"
"It was William," said the girl; "I saw him plainly. He said, 'Good-by.'
Oh, auntie, what does it mean? You remember the scar across his hand?"
"It means that something has happened," said Aunt Clarissa, at first,
sententiously. Then, after a pause: "Come, come, now; it may only be a
dream, after all. Go to sleep. I must go back to your brother George."
Aunt Clarissa was worried, nevertheless; and when she reached the
bedroom where George lay she once more sank down upon her knees. Oh,
Inconsistency! Aunt Clarissa was praying for the confusion of the forces
of the King!
The figure on the bed moaned uneasily.
"What is it, dear?" said Aunt Clarissa, lifting her head from the
counterpane.
If George could have heard this term of endearment, it would have almost
convinced him that he must have lost his wits; but Aunt Clarissa had
undergone a great reconstruction.
"Oh, it is you, Cloud, is it?" exclaimed George, distinctly. "You
black-hearted villain, you dare not harm me." Again he sank back and
mumbled incoherently.
Aunt Clarissa had listened. "Cloud--Cloud--why, that's the name of our
old overseer! What could he have been doing around here?" she whispered.
At this minute there was a clatter at the front door; the doctor had
arrived.
"Where under the sun has this young man been?" he asked, as he stood at
the bedside.
"In a few words I will tell you," said Aunt Clarissa, who never wasted
her breath at the best. "He has escaped from an English prison in New
York, where they treat men so horribly that it is enough to turn one's
hair to listen to it, let alone one's heart. He arrived yesterday
afternoon on horseback, looking tired and worn. He fainted, and I put
him to bed. I left that worthless colored wench Polly to keep her eye on
him, and she fell asleep. He got out somehow, and the Lord only knows
where he has been, for his clothes were torn and smothered in mud and
ooze when they found him up the road. He probably had been gone two
hours."
"He's been through some great strain," said the doctor; "and see the
marks around his neck."
There was a welt the breadth of one's finger showing plainly on the
white skin of George's throat.
"Rest is what he needs. The trouble is with his brain. The wound in his
arm is old and healing." The doctor spoke slowly, and placed his ear on
George's chest. "He will recover," he said.
After he had made this examination the surgeon had left a sleeping
potion, and had ridden home in the early morning light. He had arrived
at the Manor House by the Valley Road, but determined to make his way
back across the Ridge.
But he had gone only a short distance along the road that led up the
hill when his horse stopped and began to blow, much in the manner of a
startled deer, his ears pricked forward, and his haunches lowered and
quivering.
The doctor looked ahead, and saw something in the bushes. But not a step
nearer could he urge his steed. So he slipped from the saddle, and
dragging the reins over the trembling horse's head, took a stride to one
side of the road.
There lay the body of a man with arms outstretched and the face turned
upwards. He had on a pair of fringed buckskin leggings and an old
soldier coat, green with red facings. He was dead.
The doctor stooped closer to examine, and an exclamation broke from his
lips. The man had been scalped skilfully! It was years since such a
thing had occurred in that part of the country.
There was something familiar in the drawn features, and the doctor,
twisting himself so as to obtain a better look, uttered something
beneath his breath.
"By Homer's beard!" he said, "it's Cloud, the renegade!"
There were signs of a struggle in the bushes and the prints of
moccasined feet in the snow. Further on it was evident from footprints
that a number of men and horses had crossed the road.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
RICK DALE.
A Story of the Northwest Coast.
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE'
SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHER," ETC.