notice; but it never made any difference to Miss Penelope whether her
remarks were warmly or coolly received. After stooping to turn the
coffee-pot round on its trivet she faced the room again.
"Yes, the warning is plenty plain enough for me!" she cooed. "And just
look at the dreadful things that have happened already! Just look at
what came to pass between the time we first heard of that comet early in
the summer, and the time we first saw it early in September. Didn't all
the wasps and flies go blind and die sooner than common, right in the
middle of the hottest weather? Who ever heard of such a thing before?
And look at the fruit crop,--the apple trees, the peach trees, all kind
of fruit trees--and the grape-vines a-bending and a-breaking clear down
to the ground because they can't bear the weight."
"It is probable that the early dying of the wasps and flies may have
had something to do with the fineness of the fruit," said William
Pressley, quite seriously, with formal politeness and a touch of
impatience at the interruption.
Miss Penelope took him up tartly in her softest tone: "Then, William,
may I ask why the people all over the country are calling this year's
vintage 'comet wines'? For that's the way they are marking it, and
everybody is putting it to itself--as something very uncommon. But never
mind! I am used to having what I say mocked at in this house. It's
nothing new to me to have my words passed over as if they hadn't been
spoken. I can bear it and it don't alter my duty. I am bound to go on
a-doing what I believe to be right just the same, however I am treated.
I can't sit by and say nothing when I know that I ought to lift up my
voice in warning. So I say again--you can mark my word or not as you
think best--that we are all a-going to see some mighty wild sights
before we see the last of that comet's tail."
"Pooh! Pooh! Pooh!" cried the widow Broadnax, roughly and hoarsely, as
she nearly always spoke, and sitting up suddenly among her cushions.
"Who's afraid of a comet with only one tail? I'll have you to know,
sister Penelope, that my grandmother--my own grandmother and Robert's
own grandmother, not yours--could remember the famous comet of
seventeen hundred and forty-four, and that had six tails."
Miss Penelope was daunted and silenced for the moment. She did not mind
the greater number of the rival comet's tails. It was not that which
made her feel herself at a disadvantage. It was the slur at her lesser
relationship to the master of the house. Any reference to that was a
blow which never failed to make her flinch; and one which the widow
never lost a chance to deal. But Miss Penelope had not yielded an inch
through the ceaseless contention of years, and held her ground now;
since there was nothing to say in reply, she ignored the taunt as she
had done all that had gone before. She turned upon William Pressley,
however, as we are prone to turn upon those whom we do not fear, when we
dare not attack those with whom we are really offended.
"Well, William, maybe you think that the early dying and the going blind
of the wasps and the flies caused the breaking out of the 'Jerks,' too.
You and the rest all think you know better than I do. I don't
complain--maybe you all do know better. But some day, when I am dead and
gone, some day, and it mayn't be very long, when my hands are stone cold
and crossed under the coffin-lid, you will think differently about a
good many matters," she cooed, as if saying the mildest, pleasantest
things in the world. "The Jerks have brought many a proud head low.
Others besides myself will see a warning in the Jerks before they are
gone. And now here are the Shawnees a-coming to welter us in our blood.
And the Cold Plague already come to shake the life out of the few that
are left. But it is their own fault. There's nobody but themselves to
blame. It's easy enough to keep from having the plague," Miss Penelope
added confidently. "Anybody can keep from having it, if they will only
take the trouble to blow real hard three times on a blue yarn string
before breakfast."
William Pressley turned gravely and was about to protest against such
absurd superstition, but Philip Alston interfered tactfully, to assure
the lady that she was quite right, that it could not fail to benefit
almost any one to breathe on anything, especially if the breathing were
very deep and very early in the morning.
"And then the new doctor knows how to cure the plague, aunt Penelope,
dear," said Ruth, suddenly looking up from the things on the
candle-stand. She was always the peacemaker of the family. "The Sisters
told me. They are not afraid now that he has come. They were never
afraid for themselves; it was for the children--the orphans. They said
that little ones were dying all over the wilderness like frozen lambs."
"This new doctor is a most presumptuous person," said William Pressley,
with the chilly deliberation which invariably marked his irritation. "He
refuses to bleed his patients or to allow them to be bled. These
unheard-of objections of his are levelled at the fundamental principles
of the established practice and calculated to undermine it. Every
physician of reputable standing will tell you that bleeding is the only
efficacious treatment for the Cold Plague, and that it is entirely safe
if no more than eight ounces of blood be taken at a time, and not
oftener than once in two or three hours."[1]
[Footnote 1: "Medical Repository," 1815, p. 222.]
No one said anything for a moment. When William Pressley spoke in that
tone, which he frequently did, there seemed to be nothing left for any
one else to say. The subject appeared to have been done up hard and fast
in a bundle and laid away for good and all. The judge was dozing again,
Philip Alston was still gazing at Ruth, Miss Penelope was busy over the
coffee-pot, and the widow Broadnax was watching every movement that she
made. It was Ruth who replied after a momentary pause. She never lacked
courage to stand by her own opinions, timid and gentle as they were; and
she spoke now firmly though gently:
"But, William, just think! These were little bits of babies. Such poor,
weak, bloodless little mites anyway. And it is said that the greatest
pain and danger from the plague is from weakness and cold. The strongest
men shiver and shiver till they freeze out of the world."
William Pressley bent his head in the courtesy that stings more than
rudeness. He never argued. He had spoken; there was no need to say
anything more. So that with this bow to Ruth he turned to Philip Alston
and again took up the topic which he was so anxious to resume. It had
already been interrupted, he thought, by far too much unimportant talk.
Ruth looked at him expectantly when he started to speak, but he was
looking at Philip Alston and spoke to him.
"You have, I suppose, sir, mentioned to my uncle what you so kindly
suggested to me, in the event that the attorney-general should resign on
going to Tippecanoe."
The deepest feeling that Ruth had ever heard in his voice thrilled it
now. She involuntarily bent forward. Her eager lips were apart, her
radiant eyes were upon him. Was he going with the attorney-general to
Tippecanoe? She was afraid, glad, frightened, proud, all in a breath.
She had forgotten the beautiful gifts that lay before her. The mere
mention, the merest thought of the noble and the great, stirred her
heart like the throb of mighty drums.
"No, but I will speak to him about it now," replied Philip Alston.
"Judge, Judge Knox!" raising his voice.
The judge, aroused, sat up, looking round. But William Pressley spoke
again before Philip Alston could explain.
"If the attorney-general really intends to go, he must resign. There
will, of course, be many applicants for the place, and we can hardly be
too prompt in applying for it, if I am to succeed him."
Ruth sank back in her chair. The fabric which she had held unconsciously
now dropped unheeded from her hand. She could not have told why she felt
such a shock of revulsion and disappointment. She had known something
like it before, when this man who was to be her husband had shown some
strange insensibility to great things which had moved her own heart to
its depths. But the feeling had never been so strong as it was now; had
never come so near revealing to her the real character of him with whom
her whole life was to be spent; and she was still more bewildered and
perplexed than shocked or distressed. She thought that she must have
misunderstood; that he could not have meant thus to pass over this great
national crisis,--this noble offering of a great man's life to the
service of his country,--in unfeeling haste to grasp some selfish profit
from it. She looked at him wonderingly, with all the light gone out of
her face. Being what she was, she could not see that he was just as true
to his nature as she was to hers; that he was following it with entire
sincerity in looking at the noblest things in life and the greatest
things in the world, solely as they affected himself and his own
interests. It was not for a nature like hers ever to understand that a
nature like his would, if it could, bend the whole universe to his own
ends without a doubt that such was its best possible use.
Philip Alston, also, was regarding William Pressley with rather an
inscrutable look. But his estimate and understanding were fairer than
Ruth's, for the reason that he could come nearer to giving the young man
his due. He knew that William Pressley was honest and sincere in his
vanity and conceit, and was assured that these traits were the worst he
possessed. Philip Alston knew men, and he had found that those who
honestly thought highly of themselves usually had something, more or
less, to found the opinion upon. He had never known a bad man who
sincerely thought himself a good one. He knew that many dull men really
believed themselves to be intelligent,--but that was a comparatively
harmless mistake,--and he had never observed that a woman thought less
of a man who thought well of himself. Aside from this surface weakness
William Pressley was a most worthy young fellow; far more worthy to be
Ruth's husband than any one else in that rough and thinly settled
country. The nearer the time for the marriage approached, the more
Philip Alston came to believe that he had chosen wisely in selecting
William Pressley. Fully convinced at last that he could not do better
for her future than to intrust it to this serious, conscientious young
man, who was unquestionably fond of her and to whom she was much
attached, he now rested content. He still found, to be sure, some
amusement in the young man's estimate of himself; but he never doubted
its sincerity or questioned its harmlessness. It did not occur to him
that Ruth might be troubled by these matters which merely made him
smile.
There would have been a warning for him in the look which she now gave
William Pressley had he seen it. But he was looking at the judge, who
could not grasp the meaning of what had been said; and he tried again to
put the facts before him, but the judge would not allow him to finish.
"Who says Joe Daviess is going away?" he demanded excitedly. "Why, he
can't leave. It's out of the question. There is nobody to take his
place. We can't spare him. It is preposterous to think of his going to
be slaughtered by those red devils. A man like that! when there are
plenty of no-account wretches good enough to make food for powder. He
mustn't go. The country needs him more here than there--or anywhere. And
I will see him to-morrow, for he is coming; tell him so, by ----!"
"You will have your trouble for nothing, then, sir," said Philip Alston,
quietly, interrupting him. "The attorney-general is not a man to let
another man tell him what to do or not to do. And we are merely
considering the probability of his going. If he should go, some one
must, of course, take his place. In that case I can think of no one
more fit than William here," laying his hand on the young man's arm.
"With his qualifications, backed by your influence and mine, there
should not be much difficulty. But we must press his claims in time; the
notice will be short."
The idea was new to the judge and startling. He turned quickly and
looked at his nephew blankly for a moment, and then his left eyebrow
went up. His opinion was easy enough to read on his open, rugged face as
it always was, and Philip Alston read it like large print; but it did
not suit him to show that he did, and no one else saw it. Ruth's face
was buried in her hands as she sat with her elbows on the candle-stand.
William was looking at the floor with the quiet air of one who is calmly
conscious of his own merits, and can afford to await their recognition,
even though it may be tardy. The ladies were deeply absorbed in the
duties binding them to the hearth. The coffee was now ready, and Miss
Penelope lifted the pot from its trivet, and, carrying it to the table,
called everybody to supper. No affairs of state ever were, or ever could
be, of sufficient importance in her eyes to justify letting the coffee
get cold.
Philip Alston went to her side with his deferential air, and told her
that he could not stay for the evening meal. He explained that he was
expecting several friends that night over the Wilderness Road. It was
possible that they might already have arrived and were now awaiting him
in his cabin. He must hasten homeward as fast as possible. So saying he
took her bony little hand and bowed over it, and made another bow of
precisely the same ceremony over the widow Broadnax's pudgy fingers. He
always brought his finest tact to bear upon his acquaintance with these
ladies.
He looked around for Ruth and held out his hand. She came to him, and
went with him to the door. They stood close together for a moment,
talking with one another while the others were settling around the
table. When he had mounted his horse and set out, she still stood gazing
after him till the judge's voice, exclaiming, caused her to turn.
"Call Alston back, if he isn't out of hearing!" he said.
Ruth shook her head. Philip Alston always rode very fast. He was already
out of sight in the falling night.
"Pshaw! I never seem able to keep my mind on anything these days," the
judge said, fretted with himself. "I fully meant to ask Alston to take
that money to the salt-works. It wouldn't have been much out of his way.
I don't know what makes me so forgetful lately--and always so drowsy. I
promised faithfully to pay for that cargo of salt to-day, so that it
would be on the river bank ready for loading when the flatboat comes
to-morrow. The owner of the boat sent the money yesterday. I've got it
here in my pocket. And the salt was to be delivered for cash; it will
not be sent till it is paid for." He paused a moment in troubled
thought. "David! Call that boy. He's always hidden off somewhere."
"Here, sir," said David, standing up and coming out of the shadow
beneath the stairs.
"You will have to help me in this matter, my lad," said the judge,
kindly, forgetting his momentary irritation. "I'll have to send the
money by you."
He drew from his pocket a queer-looking roll which he called his wallet.
It was a strip of thin, fine deerskin, bound with a narrow black riband
and tied with a leathern string. The bank-notes were rolled in this, and
the gold pieces and the "bits"--which were small wedges of coin cut from
silver dollars--were in two pouches sewed across the end of the strip.
It was very seldom that this wallet of the judge's contained so large a
sum of money as on that night, for salt was dear in the wilderness. It
required eight hundred gallons of the weak salt water and many cords of
fire-wood, and the work of many men for many days, to make a single
bushel of the precious article. It was still scarce and hard to get
thereabouts at five dollars a bushel, so that a large sum was needed to
pay for an entire cargo. Drops of perspiration stood on the judge's
forehead as he counted out the bank-notes, the gold, and the cut money.
He cared little for his own money, and he rarely had much at a time;
but he was scrupulously careful in his handling of other people's. And
he knew that his eyes were not very clear that night, and that his
fingers were not so sure as they should be of anything that they
touched. Ruth saw how it was with a tender pang at her heart, for she
knew how honest he was and how good, and she loved him. She knelt down
at his side and helped him count the money, over which his clumsy hands
were fumbling pathetically, so that there might be no error in the
counting.
"There!" he said, tying the string round the wallet, which was now
almost empty, and putting it back in his pocket. "I want you, David, to
take this and go over to the salt-works very early in the morning, as
soon after daybreak as you can see your way. Take two of the best black
men with you,--they will take care of you and the money, too," he added,
with his easy-going laugh. And then he grew suddenly sobered with a
touch of shame. "I wouldn't give you the money to-night, my boy," he
said hesitatingly, "but--I am hard to wake in the morning. I am afraid
you couldn't wake me early enough for me to give you the money in time
to get you off by dawn. And my client will be here with his boat,
waiting for the cargo, if you are any later in starting. But you can
take just as good care of the money as I could. You are not so likely to
lose it."
"I will do my best, sir," said the boy, quietly.
He took the money and put it away in his safest pocket. When he had
eaten supper with the family, he went back to his shadowed corner under
the stairs. But he could not read his book; his mind was too full of
thoughts which were fast becoming a purpose. Ruth looked at him and at
his book now and then, while she talked to the others, and her teasing
glances hastened his decision. She would never laugh at him again for
dreaming over romances, if he could prove that he was able to do an
earnest man's part in the world. Yes, this was the chance which he had
been wishing for. He would go to the salt-works at once--that very
night--without waiting for daylight and without calling the black men.
The judge would not care; he never cared for anything that did not give
trouble, and he need not know until afterward. David stood up suddenly
in the shadows under the stairs. He had decided; he would go as soon as
he could get away from the great room and put his saddle on the pony.
Even Ruth must acknowledge that a night's ride over the Wilderness Road
was the work of a man--the work of a strong, brave man.
IV
THE NIGHT RIDE
He left the great room for his own cabin at the usual hour. No one but
Ruth observed his going. She smiled at him as he passed, and caught his
hand and gave it a little teasing, affectionate squeeze. He must leave
"The Famous History of Montilion" unread for one night,--so she
said,--and he must go to bed at once, since he was to be up before the
sun. These little ways of Ruth's were usually very sweet to him, but he
did not find them so that night. He made no reply, and looked at her
gravely, without an answering smile. Had anything been needed to fix his
purpose, this gentle raillery would have been more than enough.
He went straight from the door of Cedar House to the stable under the
hill, stopping at his cabin only long enough to get his rifle. The
stable was very dark within, but he knew where to find the pony that he
always rode, and the saddle and bridle which he always used, without
needing to see. And the pony knew him, too, for all the darkness, and
welcomed him with a friendly whinny which said so as plainly as words.
For the boy and the pony were good friends, and moreover they
understood one another perfectly, which is rarely the case with the best
of friends. And then they were both foundlings, and that may have made
another bond between them. The pony had been a wild colt caught in the
forest on the other side of the river. Nothing was known of his
ancestors, although they were supposed by those who knew best, to have
been the worn-out horses of good blood which had been deserted in the
wilderness by the Spaniards. But then everything cruel was laid at the
door of the hated Spaniards in those days, when they had so lately been
forced to take their throttling grasp from the throat of the Beautiful
River. The pony certainly bore no outward mark of noble ancestry. He was
a homely, humble, rough-coated little beast. Yet David liked him better
than all the other finer horses in the judge's stables, notwithstanding
that some of these had real pedigrees; for good horses were already
appearing in Kentucky. The judge allowed David to claim the pony as his
own. Robert Knox was a kind man when he did not forget, and he never
forgot any one without forgetting himself,--first and most of all,--as
he did sometimes.
David always thought of the pony as an orphan like himself, and his own
bruised feelings were very tender toward the friendless little fellow.
He led him from the stable now as a mark of respect and because it was
dark; for he knew that the pony, with a word, would follow him anywhere,
at any time, like a faithful dog. It was not quite so dark outside, and
springing into the saddle, the boy bent down and stroked the rough neck
and the tangled mane that no brush could ever make smooth. The pony
lifted his head to meet the caress, and then these two orphans of the
wilderness looked out dimly, wondering, over this wonderful new country
into which both were come, without knowing how or why or whence, through
no will or choice of their own.
That portion of Kentucky rises gently but steadily from the river, and
rolls gradually upward toward its eastern hills. On this October night
so close to the very beginning of the commonwealth, these terraced hills
were still covered with the primeval forest. Hill after hill, and forest
after forest, on and on and higher and higher, till the earth and the
heavens came together. Near the river on the natural open spaces, and
where earliest the clearings had been made, the boy could see the widely
scattered rude homes, the young orchards, and the new fields, which the
first Kentuckians had won from the wilderness, from the savage, from the
wild beast and the pestilence. Southward, and a long way off, lay the
great Cypress Swamp. The wavering sable line of its tree-tops spread a
pall across the starless horizon. The deadly white mists which shrouded
its gloomy mystery through the sunniest day were now creeping out to
enshroud the higher land. Through the mingled mist and darkness the
sombre trunks of the towering cypress trees rose with supernatural
blackness. The mysterious "knees," those strange, naked, blackened
roots, so wildly gnarled and twisted about the foot of the cypress,
appeared to writhe out of the swamp's awful dimness like monstrous
serpents seen in a dreadful dream.
And thus these dark fancies swayed the boy's imagination as wind sways
flame, till he suddenly remembered and turned from them more quickly and
firmly than ever before. He had made up his mind to cease dreaming with
his eyes open. He was resolved to see only real sights and to hear only
real sounds from this time on. He did not deceive himself by thinking
that this ever could be easy for him to do. He knew too well that in
place of the cool, steady common-sense which should dwell in every man's
breast, there dwelt something strangely hot and restless in his own. He
had always felt this difference without understanding it; but he had
hoped that no one else knew it--up to the cruel revelation of Ruth's
laughing and kindly meant words. Well, neither Ruth nor any one should
ever again have cause to laugh at him for romantic weakness, if he might
help it by keeping guard over his fancy.