looked at her through the open door. He had ridden up unheard, had
dismounted, tying his horse to a tree, and had then stood for several
minutes without being seen by Ruth or David. When he spoke, they thought
that he had just arrived. Ruth went forward to welcome him with the ease
and grace that marked everything she did. Nature had given her a pretty,
gentle dignity, and Philip Alston's cultured example had polished her
manner. She now did all the graceful offices of the hostess, quietly and
simply. She said how sorry she was that neither her uncle nor her cousin
was at home. They wished, she said, to be there when he came, so that
they might try to thank him for his kindness to her. But one or the
other would return very soon; both had hoped to do so before his
arrival.
"It is early for a visit," Paul Colbert said, in a tone of apology; "but
I couldn't come at all to-day, unless I stopped now in passing."
"Oh, no!" said Ruth, quickly. "It isn't very early."
"And then I thought you might like to see this," he said.
Rising, he stepped to her side, and gave her a sheet of paper torn from
his note-book and covered with writing. He did not return to the chair
which he had arisen from, but took another much nearer her own.
"Poetry!" she said. "Is it something that you have written?"
He smiled. "I have merely copied it. I saw the poem for the first time
an hour or so ago at Mr. Audubon's. It is new and has never been
printed. It was written by the young English poet, John Keats, to his
brother George Keats, who is a partner of Mr. Audubon in the mill on the
river. Mr. Keats and his wife are here now, the guests of Mr. Audubon.
The poem came in a letter which has just been received. I have copied a
part of it, and a few words from the letter, also. Mr. George Keats was
kind enough to allow me, and I thought you would like to see them. I
hadn't time to copy the entire poem, though it isn't very long."
"It was very kind," said Ruth. "I am so glad to see it. May I read it
now? This is what the letter says," reading it aloud, so that David also
might hear. "If I had a prayer to make for any great good ... it should
be that one of your children should be the first American poet?"
"The first English hand across the sea!" said Paul Colbert.
Ruth read on from this letter of John Keats to his brother: "I have a
mind to make a prophecy. They say that prophecies work out their own
fulfilment." And then she read as much of "A Prophecy" as the doctor had
copied.
* * * * *
"Though, the rushes that will make
Its cradle are by the lake--
Though the linen that will be
Its swathe is on the cotton tree--
Though the woollen that will keep
It warm is on the silly sheep--
Listen, starlight, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
And hear my lullaby!
Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee!
Midst the quiet all around thee!
Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee!
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee.
Child, I know thee! Child no more,
But a poet ever-more!
See, see, the lyre, the lyre!
In a flame of fire
Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring,
Past the eyesight's bearing.
Wake it from its sleep,
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze--
Amaze, amaze!
It stares, it stares, it stares,
It dares what none dares!
It lifts its little hand into the flame
Unharmed and on the strings
Paddles a little tune and sings,
With dumb endeavor sweetly--
Bard thou art completely;
Little child,
O' the western wild...."
Ruth looked at Paul with shining eyes. "I thank you again for thinking
that I would like this," she said.
"A little chap whom I saw last night made me feel like making a prophecy
that he would be the first Kentucky astronomer," said Paul, with a
smile. "He was hardly more than a baby, not much over two years old--a
toddling curly-head. Yet there he stood by the roadside, looking up at
the heavens, as solemn as you please. And he said that 'man couldn't
make moons.' I didn't hear him say this, but his brother repeated what
he said."
"Yes, I know. You mean' little Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel. His people live
near here, over on Highland Creek. His father came there from Virginia.
He intended to bore for salt water, meaning to make salt. But he found
more interest in the wild multiflora roses that bloom all around the
Lick, and the bones of unknown animals buried fifty feet beneath the
surface of the earth--though the bones were not found just there--but
farther off at another Lick."
"Then Master Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel is the true son of his father,"
smiled Paul Colbert. "Neither seems commonplace enough to be content
with what everyday people find between heaven and earth."
He said this idly, as we all speak to one another when casting about for
mutual interests before really knowing each other. Thus the talk drifted
for a few moments, with a shy word now and then from David. And
presently a chance reference to the epidemic brought a new light into
the doctor's eyes, and a new earnestness into his voice.
"The fathers and mothers of the country are much alarmed for their
children," he said. "But there is far more need to be alarmed for
themselves. The Cold Plague attacks the strong rather than the weak. But
all the people, young and old, everywhere through the wilderness, are
almost frantic with terror. They fear infection from every newcomer.
There was a panic throughout this vicinity a few days ago, over the
landing of a flatboat, and the coming ashore of the unfortunates who
were on it. They were in a most pitiful plight. I hope never to see a
sadder sight than that poverty-stricken little family. But they were not
suffering from any disease more contagious than want; they were only
cold, wet, tired, hungry, and disheartened. The poor mother was sitting
on the damp sand near the water's edge, with her little ones around her,
when I found them. They were merely stopping to rest on their way from
another portion of the state, to the wild country on the other side of
the river."
"We saw them, too, poor things," said Ruth, quickly, with pity in her
soft eyes. "Father Orin and Toby came by to tell us, and David and I
went at once to do what we could. I can't forget how the mother looked.
She was young, but had such a sad, haggard face, with such a prominent
forehead, and such steady gray eyes. She held a strange looking little
child on her lap. She said that her name was Nancy Lincoln, and she
called the baby 'Abe.' He couldn't have been more than two years of age,
but he looked up at Father Orin, and from his face to ours, like some
troubled little old man."
"Yes, Father Orin and Toby were first to the rescue, as they always are.
I can't imagine when those two sleep, and I am sure they never rest when
awake."
And then, seeing her interest and sympathy, he went on to tell of three
little ones, orphaned by the plague, and left alone and utterly
helpless, in a cabin on the Wilderness Road. As he spoke, he remembered
with a pang of self-reproach, that Father Orin was with them now and
waiting for him. He rose suddenly, saying that he must go, but a slight
noise at the door caused him to pause and turn. It was William Pressley
coming in, and Ruth went forward to meet him, and introduced him to the
doctor, who sat down again for a few moments. The two young men then
talked with one another as strangers do, of the current topics of the
day and the country, speaking mostly of the Shawnee danger--the one
subject then most earnestly and universally discussed throughout the
wilderness. The nearest approach to a personal tone was in William
Pressley's formal expression of thanks. Paul Colbert put these aside as
formally as they were offered, and in a moment more he got up to take
leave. Yet in that brief space the two men had begun to dislike each
other.
This was natural enough on the part of William Pressley. It is indeed
the first instinct of his kind toward any equal or superior. When a
man's or a woman's vanity is so great that it instinctively and
instantly levies on all within reach--demanding incense--nothing can be
so dislikeful as a bearing which refuses to swing the censer. From its
very nature it must instantly resent any such conscious or unconscious
claim to equality, to say nothing of superiority. Those so afflicted
must of necessity like only their inferiors and must have only inferiors
for friends, if they have any friends at all. So that this is maybe the
real reason why many reasonably good and perfectly sincere men and
women go almost friendless through useful and blameless lives. And this
was William Pressley's natural feeling toward Paul Colbert. The honest,
sincere young lawyer could have forgiven the honest, sincere young
doctor almost any real sin or weakness and have liked him well enough;
but he could not forgive the polite indifference of his manner toward
himself, or his looking over his head at Ruth, or turning from him to
speak to David. Least of all could he forgive him for being at that
moment the most conspicuous figure in the whole region, on account of
his single-handed struggle with the mysterious disease, which, defying
the other doctors, had been devastating the new settlements of the
wilderness. Nor could the difference in their aims affect this feeling
in the least. To a nature like William Pressley's, anything won by
another is something taken from himself. Yet the dislike for Paul
Colbert, which thus hardened within him, had no taint of jealousy in the
ordinary sense of that term. He did not think of Ruth at all in the
matter. It did not occur to him to associate her with this stranger, or
with any one but himself. It was in keeping with his character for him
to be slower than a less vain man to suspect her--or any one whom he
knew--of personal preference for another than himself; for vanity of
this supreme order has its comforts as well as its torments.
On the part of Paul Colbert, the feeling was wholly different, and
largely impersonal. It was merely the dislike that every busy man feels
for a new acquaintance which promises no interest, even at the outset.
Had he been less busy, and his mind more free, he might perhaps have
found some amusement in trying to find out how far this serious young
man was mistaken in his high estimate of himself. He thought at a first
glance that he was a good deal in error, but he also saw that he was
sincere in his conviction; so that the young doctor was tolerantly
amused at the lofty air of the young lawyer, without the slightest
feeling of real resentment. He made one or two straightforward, friendly
efforts to thaw the ice of William Pressley's manner. His own was
naturally frank and cordial. He always wished to be liked, which is the
natural wish of every truly kind nature. And then, above and beyond
this, was the right-minded lover's instinctive desire to secure the
good-will of all who are near the one whom he loves; for Paul Colbert
had fallen in love with Ruth, and he knew it, as few do who have fallen
in love at first sight. He could, indeed, have told the very instant at
which love had come--like a bolt from the blue.
He was therefore more than willing to be friendly with William Pressley,
and already seeking a pretext to come again. He now said, turning to
Ruth with a smile:
"Since you are fond of poetry, perhaps you will allow me to fetch you a
new volume of poems by a young Englishman, Lord Byron. A friend sent it
to me from London. He says it is being severely treated by the critics.
They say that they never would have believed that any one could have
been as idle and as worthless generally, as those 'Hours of Idleness'
prove the author to be. But I think you will like the poems, especially
one called 'The Tear.' It is said that the poet means to write something
about Daniel Boone."
"There should be many tears in that poem," said Ruth, a shadow falling
over the brightness of her face. "To think of the poor old hero as he is
now makes the heart ache."
"It should make us all ashamed," said Paul Colbert. "He gave us the
whole state, and we are not willing to give him back enough of it to
rest his failing feet upon, nor a log cabin to shelter his feeble body,
worn out in our service. It is the blackest ingratitude. It is a
disgrace to the commonwealth."
"Pardon me," said William Pressley, with his cool smile; "but as I look
at the matter, there is no one but himself to blame. It is solely the
result of his own negligence and ignorance. He did not observe the plain
requirement of the law."
"But, William," said Ruth, impulsively, with a brighter color in her
cheek, "just think! How could he know--a simple old hunter, just like a
little child, only as brave as a lion!" There was a quiver in her voice
and a flash in her soft eyes.
"We can but hope that the state will remember what it owes," said the
doctor, moving toward the door.
He felt that he had been tempted to linger too long. Father Orin was
still waiting for him in the desolate cabin where the Cold Plague had
left the three orphans. His conscience smote him for lingering, and yet
he could not leave, even now, without speaking again of the poems, and
saying that he would fetch the book and leave it the next time he rode
by Cedar House.
When he was gone, Ruth looked at William Pressley in silent, troubled
perplexity. She was wondering vaguely why she had felt so
ashamed--almost as if she had done some shameful thing herself--when he
had spoken as he had done before the doctor about Daniel Boone. It must
have been plain to the visitor that she did not think as William
thought. And yet she flinched again, recalling the doctor's glance at
William, and wondered why it should have hurt her, as if it had fallen
upon herself. She was not old enough or wise enough to have learned that
the mere promise to marry a man makes a sensitive woman begin forthwith,
to feel responsible for everything that he says and does; and that this
is one of the deep, mysterious sources of the misery and happiness of
marriage.
X
FATHER ORIN AND TOBY MEET TOMMY DYE
Under the spur of his conscience the young doctor rode fast. He was not
the man to let duty wait even on love, without trying to make amends.
But a sharper pang stung him when he reached the desolate cabin in which
the Cold Plague had left the orphans.
It seemed to him that Toby, standing by the broken door, gave him a look
of reproach. Toby had not failed or been slow in doing his part; Father
Orin and he had already done all that they could, though this was
piteously little. The one had cut fire-wood from the near-by fallen
trees, and the other had drawn it to the cabin door, so that there was a
good fire blazing on the earthen hearth. But the rotting, falling logs
of the cabin's walls were far apart, the mud which had once made them
snug having dropped out; and the chilly, rising wind blew bitterly
through the miserable hut. The covers on the bed were few and thin,
although Father Orin had spread Toby's blanket over them. The three
little white faces lying in a pathetic row on the ragged pillows, lay so
still that the doctor was not sure they were alive, till the oldest
child, a boy of three, languidly opened his eyes, looked up unseeingly,
and wearily closed them again.
There was a tightening in the doctor's throat when he turned away, and
he was glad to smile at Father Orin's housekeeping. The priest certainly
had left nothing in his power undone, to keep life in the frail little
bodies. On the hearth was such food as he had been able to prepare,
carefully covered to keep it warm. As the young man's gaze thus wandered
sadly about the cabin, his eyes encountered the old man's. The laughter
with which he was fighting emotion died on his lips, and their hands met
in a close clasp.
"The poor little things!" the young man said. "Ah, Father, it is wild
work--this making of a state. The soil of Kentucky should bear a rich
harvest. It is being deeply sown in pain and sorrow, and well-watered
with tears and blood."
They stood silent for a moment, looking helplessly at the bed and the
little white faces.
"What shall we do?" then asked Father Orin. "These children can't stay
here through another night. That wind blows right over the bed, and
there is no way to keep it out. They could hardly live till morning. And
yet they may die on the way if we try to take them to the Sisters at
once."
"That is their only chance. We are bound to take the risk. We must do
our best to get them to the Sisters as quickly as possible. Women know
better than doctors how to take care of babies. What is there to put
round them--to wrap them in?"
There were no wrappings, nothing that could be used for the purpose,
except the bed covers and Toby's blanket. The men took these and with
awkward tenderness covered the helpless, limp little bodies as well as
they could. Father Orin then went out of the cabin, and with a nod
summoned Toby to do his part. When the priest was seated in the saddle,
the doctor turned back to the bed, and lifting one of the three limp
little burdens, carried it out and carefully placed it in Father Orin's
arms.
"But you can't carry both of the others," said the priest, in sudden
perplexity. "And we can't leave one here alone while we take the others
and return. Maybe it would be better to take one at a time. I can either
stay or go."
"Oh, no, indeed! I can take these two easy enough--one on each arm. They
weigh nothing--poor little atoms--and I don't need a hand for the reins.
My horse often goes in a run with them thrown over the pommel. He went
on a bee-line with them so last night."
With both arms thus filled with the helpless morsels of humanity, he had
no trouble in seating himself in the saddle. He laughed a little,
thinking what a spectacle they must make; and Father Orin laughed too,
with the shamefacedness that the best men feel when they do such
gentle things. And then the strange, pathetic journey through the
wilderness began.
[Illustration: Father Orin and Toby.]
"Steady, Toby. That's right, old man," said the priest, now and then.
The doctor kept a close, anxious watch over the child in Father Orin's
arms, and frequently glanced down at the two little faces lying in the
hollow of his own arms. Any one of the three,--or all of them--might
cease to breathe at any moment. It seemed to both the anxious men that
they were a long time in going to the Sisters' house, although the
distance was but a few miles. When the log refuge first came in sight
through the trees, they breathed a deep sigh of relief in the same
breath. The Sisters, who had been warned, saw them coming, and ran to
meet them, and took the babies from their arms. When the little ones had
been borne in the house and put to bed, the doctor sat down beside them
to see what more might be done. But the priest, without rest or delay,
set out on another errand of mercy. Toby, needing no word or hint, at
once quickened his pace, knowing full well the difference between this
business and that which was just finished, so far as they were
responsible.
"You're right, old man. Keep us up to the mark, right up to the mark,"
chuckled Father Orin. "I'm mighty tired, and I'm afraid I might shirk if
you would let me."
As he bent down with a bantering chuckle to pat the horse's inflexible
neck, a man's voice suddenly hailed them from the darkening woods lying
at their back.
"Hello! Hello! Hold on!" the unseen man shouted.
They turned quickly and stood still, looking in the direction from which
the shouting came. A horseman soon appeared under the trees and came
galloping after them, and when he had drawn nearer, the priest saw, with
some annoyance, that it was Tommy Dye. As he reined up beside them, Toby
turned his head slowly and gave the horse precisely the same look that
Father Orin gave the rider. Toby wanted to have nothing more to do with
a tricky race-horse than Father Orin wished to have to do with a shady
adventurer.
Tommy Dye looked at them both with a grin. "I saw you just now--you and
the new doctor--a-toting them there youngsters."
Father Orin straightened up, feeling and showing the embarrassment and
indignation that every man, lay and clerical alike, feels and shows at
being seen by another man acting as a nurse to a child.
"Well, what of it?" he retorted, as naturally as if he had never worn a
cassock.
Tommy Dye grinned again, more broadly than before. He took off his hat
and rubbed his shock of red hair the wrong way. The humor of the
recollection became too much for him, and he roared with laughter. Toby
of his own indignant accord now moved to go on, and Father Orin gathered
up the reins saying rather shortly that he had urgent business, and must
be riding along.
"I say--wait a minute. What makes you in such an all-fired hurry?" Tommy
Dye called after them.
Toby stopped reluctantly, and he and Father Orin waited with visible
unwillingness, until Tommy Dye came up again and stammeringly began what
he had to say. He did not know how to address a priest. He had never
before had occasion to speak to a churchman of any denomination. So that
he now plunged in without any address at all:
"I say--who pays for them there youngsters, yonder?" he blurted.
Father Orin merely looked at him in silence for a moment, and then
gathered up the reins once more.
Tommy Dye saw that there was something amiss, that he had made some
mistake, and not knowing what it was, he resorted to the means which he
usually employed to set all matters right. He hastily plunged his hand
in the outer pocket of his coat, and then dropped the bottle back in its
place still more hastily, after another glance at the priest.
"Well, I thought you might like it," he said with a touch of defiance,
feeling it necessary to assert himself. "When a man's face is as red as
yours, I don't see why a fellow mightn't ask him to take a drink."
Father Orin laughed with ready good humor.
"My face is red, my friend. I can't deny that fact; but the redness
comes from a thin skin and rough weather. What is it you want? I haven't
time to wait."
"Say, I kinder thought, seeing you and the doctor with them babies just
now,"--grinning again at the comical recollection--"that maybe you would
let me come into the game. I'd like to take a hand in the deal, if
there's room for another player. I'll put up the stakes right now." His
hand went into his breeches pocket this time. "Here's the roll I won on
the fall races. Put it all up on the game. What's the odds? Come easy,
go easy."
He held out the money. "I saw you at the court-house, too," he added
sheepishly, as if trying to excuse what he did.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Father Orin, gravely. "I didn't
understand. I've done you great injustice."
"Hey? What did you say?"
"The Sisters would be only too glad to use this money for those
children, and for other little ones just as helpless and needy,"
murmuring something about the use purifying the source. "But I want you
to take it to them yourself, and give it to them with your own hands."
"Me! Old Tommy Dye!"
The coarse face actually turned pale under its big freckles. Its dismay
was so comical that Father Orin laughed till the woods rang with his
hearty, merry voice. Toby turned his head in sober disapproval of such
unseemly levity, and Tommy Dye was a good deal miffed.
"'Pears to me you are mighty lively--and most of the time, too," he
said, in a tone of offence, tinged with wonder.
"Why not?" said the priest, still chuckling. "Why shouldn't I be
lively?"
Tommy Dye hesitated, more puzzled now than angry. "Well, you see, your
job has always seemed to me just about the lonesomest there is."
Father Orin began to laugh again, but he was hushed by the soft, sweet
pealing of the Angelus through the shadowed forest. The gambler also
listened, with a softening change in the recklessness of his face.
"The sound of that bell always makes me feel queer," he stammered. "It
sets me to thinking about home, too,--and home folks. I'm blamed if I
can see how it is. I never had any home, and if I've got any kin-folks,
I don't know where they live. But anyhow, that's the way the ringing of
that bell always makes me feel. Say! there's lots of things about your
church that come over a fellow like that. Now there the very name of
that little house back yonder amongst them trees--Our Lady's Chapel.
That's just it--just to the notch what I mean--there's something kind
of homelike in the name itself. And that's the very difference between
your church and the other churches. The Protestant church seems real
lonesome, like a sort of bachelor's hall. The Catholic church makes you
feel at home, because there's always a mother in the house."