all classes of riders and horses. Every good rider and every good horse
may rely upon it, no matter which of the many roads through life they
may travel together: all may trustingly rely upon it till one or both
shall have breasted "Sleep's dreamy hill." The horse of the fox-hunter,
of the race-rider, of the mounted soldier--every one of these noble
beasts has the fullest understanding of his rider's calling, and gives
it his completest sympathy with the greatest assistance in his power.
Who that has known the horse at his best can have failed to observe and
recognize and be moved by this fact? We have all seen that the hunter
hardly needs the touch of his rider's knee to be off like the wind and
to go without urging from whip or spur on to the end of the chase; never
flagging, no matter how long or hard it may be; never flinching at the
deepest ditch nor fouling at the highest fence; straining every sinew to
the last, for his rider's defeat is his own failure, his rider's success
his own victory. And we have all seen the gallant response of the
race-horse to every movement of his rider's body--a loyal gallantry that
ennobles even the merely mercenary; and the sight of these two--now
one--flying toward the goal, always makes the heart beat faster and grow
warm with its brave showing of this magical bond. And above all, we have
seen the trooper's horse, which comes closer to him than the comrade
fighting by his side; for it is to his horse more than to his sword that
the soldier must owe any glory that he may hope to win; and when
strength and courage can no longer serve, it is his horse that often
gives his own body to shield his rider from death.
And if all this be true, as all horsemen know it to be--even when the
bond is strained by cruelty and tainted by gain and stained by
blood--how much closer and stronger must have been the tie between this
priest of the wilderness and his friend. Toby's loyalty was never tried
like the hunter's by seeing some dumb brother tortured and slain--and
that the hunter feels the test keenly, no one can doubt after seeing the
horror in his eloquent eyes. Toby never had to suffer from a broken
heart because of a lost race, or because he shared the disgrace of his
rider's dishonesty, and many noble beasts have seemed to suffer
something strangely like this. Toby never had to lend his strength to
the taking of human life, like the trooper's horse; and the soldier's
horse does not need the power of speech to tell that he suffers almost
as much in the spirit as in the flesh from the horrors of the
battle-field. Toby and his friend worked together solely for peace,
kindness, and mercy, for the relief of suffering, and the saving of
bodies and souls; all and always, solely for the good of the world, of
their fellow-creatures, and the glory of God.
Think of what it was that Father Orin and his partner did! They had
ecclesiastical jurisdiction over a strip of country which was more than
fifty miles wide and little less than four hundred miles long. This lay
on both sides of the Ohio River, much of it being the trackless forest,
so that Father Orin and Toby used the Shawnee Crossing oftener than the
Shawnees themselves. They went unharmed, too, where no other pioneers
ever dared go. Some mysterious power seemed to protect them, as the rude
cross drawn on a cabin door is said to have saved the inmates from the
savages. Father Orin and Toby thus travelled about two hundred miles
each week all the year through, without stopping for heat or cold. There
was only one church when they first began their labors, and this was the
little log chapel; but the members of that small and widely scattered
congregation were served with the offices of their religion by the
priest at many private houses which were far apart and called
"stations." There were about thirty of these in Kentucky, several in
Indiana and Illinois, and one or two in Tennessee, and Father Orin and
Toby visited them all, some as often as once a month and the others as
often as possible. To say Mass and to preach constituted but a part of
the duty which called them from place to place. They went wherever the
priest was needed to administer baptism to infants or older persons;
they went wherever any one, old or young, required instruction in
religion; they went wherever the priest was needed to hear confession;
they went far and wide, so that the priest might solemnize marriage for
Protestants as well as Catholics; they visited the sick, no matter how
distant, in summer and in winter alike, and Toy day or by night; they
went at any summons to bury the dead; and they tried to go again, so
that the priest might do what he could to comfort the living. Yet with
all this untiring zeal for the soul's welfare, there was also a
ceaseless care for the body's welfare, and a divine disregard of any
narrow line of faith; for wherever Toby carried Father Orin that good
man's heart was always moved by compassion for any distress of mind,
body, or estate, always overflowing with a deep, wide pity infinitely
greater and more Christian than any creed.
It is not strange, then, that the good man and the good horse had become
almost one in mind and body, and that they were quite one in spirit. It
is not in the least strange, certainly, that Toby came to know the
nature of their errand almost as well and nearly as quickly as Father
Orin himself. He easily knew a sick call by the haste with which they
set out, and he knew its urgency by their going with the messenger. He
seemed to be able to tell unerringly when they were bearing the
Viaticum, and it was plain that he felt the responsibility thus resting
upon his speed and sureness of foot. Then it was that he would go like
the wind, through utter darkness, through storm and flood and over an
icy earth, without a pause or a misstep. Many a time, after such a
struggle as this, has Toby turned his head, as if trying to see why
Father Orin was slow in doing his part when the rain, freezing as it
fell, had frozen the priest's poor overcoat to the saddle, and his
ragged leggins were heavy and clumsy with icicles. But the apologetic
tone in which Father Orin always said, "Well, here we are, old man," and
the explanatory pat that he always gave Toby's neck, after going through
the respectful form of hitching him, never failed to make this right.
And when the priest came out of the house, he always had something in
his pocket for Toby, if any one had remembered to give himself anything
to eat.
But their errands were not all so sad as this. Sometimes there were
weddings to attend, and Toby entered into the happy spirit of that
lively business quite as heartily as Father Orin. The only thing that
Toby was strict about then, was that his friend should not forget to
wear his best clothes, which he was too apt to do, even if he had not
given them away, and that there should not be a speck of mud on his own
coat, which had to be neglected in more urgent cases. Father Orin used
to declare that Toby eyed him from top to toe when he knew they were
going to a wedding; and that if there were a spot on his cassock, or a
hole in it, Toby's eye never failed to find it. At such leisurely times
he was indeed so exacting as to his own proper appearance that he would
not budge until the last "witch's stirrup" had been combed out of his
mane and tail. He was only a degree less particular when he knew they
were going to the christening of an infant. It was then plainly Toby's
opinion that, while they might not take quite so much time to christen
as to marry, there was still no need to rush off with the priest's
vestments out of order and his own fetlocks weighted with mire. The two
had many friendly contests on these occasions, but Toby's will was the
stronger, and his temper was not quite so mild; and as it is always the
less amiable who wins, it was commonly he who won, in the long run.
Whenever the way before them was not quite clear, Father Orin would let
Toby lead, and only once in all their long pilgrimage together did he
ever fail to lead aright. It was on a wild winter's night, and neither
could see either heaven or earth; yet on against the bitter wind went
the priest and his horse, Toby stretching his fullest length at the top
of his speed, and Father Orin bending low to escape the boughs of unseen
trees; and thus they sped through the stormy blackness. Faster still
they went, up hill and down hill, leaping fallen trees, flying across
the hollows made by the uptorn roots, swimming swollen streams, while
the priest knelt on the saddle, holding the Viaticum high above the
rushing water which dashed over his knees. At last they stopped,
utterly exhausted, only to find that they were lost in the icy, dark
wilderness; and they went on groping blindly for any kind of shelter
under which to wait for the first glimmer of dawn. They finally came
upon a ruined cabin, and although the whole front of it was gone, some
of the roof and a part of the walls were left, and Father Orin led Toby
into the driest, corner. Taking off the wet saddle and the soaked,
half-frozen blanket, he laid them on the ground. He patted Toby as he
did this, and Toby's responsive whinny said it was all right, just as
plain as if he had been able to talk. But Father Orin was not quite
satisfied, and moving a little farther over in the corner, where it was
so dark that even Toby could not see what he was doing, he pulled off
his poor old overcoat, from which the water was dripping, but which was
still warm and partly dry on the inside. Stealing back to Toby, he laid
the coat over his shivering shoulders, chuckling to think that Toby
would never know that it was not the saddle-blanket. Feeling now that he
had done his best for his friend, he buttoned his cassock closer and
laid down on the freezing ground, with the frozen saddle for a pillow,
and tried to get what rest and sleep he could.
At times like this--and they were not a few--it was hard for Father Orin
to believe that Toby had no soul. It was indeed so hard now and then,
as on that night, that he could not believe it; that he could not think
there would be no reward of any kind for such service as Toby was giving
the Faith. It was service as faithful as his own; he could not have
given his without Toby's help. Looking upward toward his own reward,
even this bitter, black winter's night became as nothing; but Toby--what
was there for Toby? He did not remember that he often gave Toby the food
which he needed himself, as he had just given him the warmth from his
own shivering body. He thought only of the things that Toby did for him
and for the Faith. And so thinking, very strange fancies about Toby
would now and then come to him with the profoundest reverence. And on
that dreary night, when their dauntless spirits seemed to touch, while
their exhausted bodies thus dozed side by side, a pleasant vision
vaguely blended Father Orin's half-conscious dreams with his perplexed
waking thoughts.
Of a sudden, all was bright and warm, and he felt himself going up, up,
up, through flawless blue space. He thought he had no wings, but he did
not miss them, nor even think about them; he was missing and thinking
about Toby, and wondering, where he was, and what he was doing. But ah!
there he was all ready and waiting close to the gate of paradise. Yes,
there was Toby after all! There he was, standing by a celestial manger
overflowing with ambrosia, already blanketed with softest zephyrs,
saddled with shining clouds, and bitted with sunbeams--quite ready and
only waiting for the touch of his friend's hand on the bridle--to canter
up the radiant highway walled with jasper and paved with stars.
XV
THE WEB THAT SEEMED TO BE WOVEN
The fancy pleased Father Orin, and he spoke jestingly to Toby about it,
reminding him, however, seriously enough, that it was only in visions
that there could be any such direct passing from earth to heaven.
"For you see, old man, there's a place on the way where most of us must
tarry a while. Maybe you might be able to pass by and go straight on. I
am afraid there wouldn't be much of a chance for me."
But they were both still far from their long, hard journey's end on that
gloomy November evening. They were merely turning a little aside from
their usual broad path for a still wider service to humanity. They had
not seen the doctor that day, and there was always reason to fear that
he might at any moment fall a victim to the epidemic which he was
ceaselessly fighting, so that they were now going in some anxiety to see
what had kept him away from the places in which they were used to seeing
him. They were both very tired, yet Toby, nevertheless, quickened his
weary pace at a gentle hint from Father Orin, and they got to the
doctor's house just as the sun went down behind the cottonwoods on the
other shore.
The cabin stood near the river bank. It was a single room of logs, rough
without and bare within. The doctor was not very poor, as poverty and
riches were considered in the wilderness, having inherited a modest
fortune. But he was generous and charitable, and had gone from Virginia
into Kentucky with an earnest wish to serve his kind. And then his
acquaintance with Father Orin had brought him in close contact with want
as well as suffering, and would have given him good uses for larger
means than his own. Yet rude and empty as the cabin was, there were
traces of refinement here and there, as there always must be wherever
true refinement dwells. A miniature of his mother, whom he could not
remember, hung against the logs at the head of his bed. There were a few
good books on a rough shelf, and a spray of autumn leaves lay on the
table. The beauty of the leaves had drawn him to break the spray from
the bough and bring it home. But he had forgotten it as soon as he had
laid it down on the table, and the leaves were withering as he sat
beside them with his head bowed upon his hands.
The man of conscience, who cares for the bodies of his kind, bears
almost as heavy a burden as he who cares for their souls. He must
everywhere, and unrestingly, fight ignorance and prejudice with one
hand, while he strives to heal with the other, and this double strife
was fiercer in the wilderness, just at that time, than almost anywhere
else within the furthest reach of science. On first coming he had found
more people being killed by calomel and jalap than by the plague. At
every turn he encountered this bane of the country which was called
callomy-jallopy, and at that moment he was utterly worn out, body and
soul, by a struggle to save the life of a man who had ignorantly
poisoned himself by drinking some acid after taking the dose. This was
not his first experience of the kind; but he had met the other trials
with the high courage of a light heart and a free mind. It was only
within the last two days that he had been weighed down by
discouragement, by heaviness of heart, and depression of mind. He was so
weary and absorbed now in disheartened thought, that he did not hear
Toby's approach, and he was startled when Father Orin appeared in the
open door. He greeted him with a warmly outstretched hand, but did not
say that he was glad to see him; they were too good friends for empty
phrases, such good friends that they sat down silently, neither needing
a word to know the other's sadness. It was the priest who finally broke
the silence.
"You are troubled, my son," he said, quietly and gently. "I see there is
something besides the trouble which touches us all--this terror of what
is coming on the other side of the river. I see that there is something
else--some closer trouble of your own. If you wish to tell me about it,
I will do what I can to help you; but you know this without being told."
He had spoken at the right moment, for there are moments in the lives of
the most reserved and self-reliant when the heart must speak to ease the
mind. Paul Colbert was a Protestant, and so firm and strong in his faith
that he was ready at all times to defend it, to fight for it; yet this
moment, which has nothing to do with any creed, had come to him, and he
spoke as one man speaks to another whom he trusts and knows to be his
friend. He told what he was suffering, and the cause of his
wretchedness. He spoke of his first meeting with Ruth, and of the love
for her that had leapt up in his heart at the first glimpse of her face,
before he had heard her voice, before he knew her name. He said how
happy he was when chance put her in his arms through that wild night's
ride. He described his visit to her on the next day, and said how far he
was from suspecting that William Pressley was more than a member of the
same family. He went on to speak of the other visits which he had paid
to Ruth, telling how fast his love had grown with every meeting. He
ended with the revelation at the dance in the woods.
"But it wouldn't have made any difference had I known sooner. It
couldn't have made any difference in my loving her," he said. "I must
have loved her just the same no matter when or how we might have met.
Nothing ever could have altered that. I am afraid that I couldn't have
helped loving her had she been another man's wife. I am keeping nothing
back, you see, Father. I am telling you the whole truth. But perhaps it
wouldn't have been quite so hard to bear, had I known at the very first.
It can hardly be so hard to give up happiness when we have never dared
long for it. And I knew no reason why I might not try to make her love
me. As it is, from this time on, every thought of her must be like
constantly trying to kill some suffering thing that can never die!"
He dropped his head on his arm which lay on the table. The priest gently
laid his hand on the thick, brown hair.
"My son," he murmured.
"If the man that she is to marry were only different," Paul groaned. "If
he were only more worthy, if I could only think that she would be
happy."
He did not know that he was merely saying what every unfortunate lover
has thought since love and the world began; and it was a sad smile that
touched the sympathy of Father Orin's face.
"William Pressley is not a bad young fellow," the priest said. "He means
well. He lives uprightly according to his dull, narrow ideas of right.
And none of us can do any better than to live up to our own ideals.
It's a good deal more than most of us do. I am afraid he is selfish,"
with the hesitation which he always felt in pronouncing judgment upon
any one; "but then most of us men are, and maybe he will not be selfish
toward her, for he must be fond of her. Everybody loves the child."
"But about her--is she fond of him? How can she be?"
"I can't answer for that. There's no telling about a girl's fancy; in
fact, I have never given the engagement a thought. It was all settled;
it seemed a good, suitable arrangement--"
"Arrangement!" groaned Paul.
Father Orin shook his head. "It was most likely Philip Alston who
brought it about. He doubtless thought it a wise choice for both the
young people. He certainly never would have consented if he had not
believed it to be for Ruth's happiness--that always comes first with him
in everything."
Paul Colbert sat up suddenly, throwing back his hair, and looked at the
priest with a clearing gaze. All the questions which he had been wishing
to ask now rushed to his lips. What was Ruth's relation to Philip
Alston? What right had he to choose her husband? What was his influence
over William Pressley? What was his hold upon Judge Knox? What was this
power that he wielded over the whole family of Cedar House?
"He is no relation to her, is he? He isn't even her guardian. And
William Pressley is an honest man, isn't he, even though such a solemn,
pompous prig? He can hardly be a confederate of counterfeiters, forgers,
robbers, and murderers. And a single look at the judge's face shows him
to be the most upright of men; his open, unswerving honesty of thought
and deed, cannot be doubted. How is it, then, that Philip Alston can
move all these honorable and intelligent people to suit his villanous
purposes, as if they were pawns in a game of chess?"
"Ah, you don't know much about Philip Alston. You have met him only
once--yet that must have made you feel the wonderful charm of the man,
his singular power. You have seen how he looks," laughing at some
recollection. "Sometimes when he has talked to me, looking me straight
in the face with his clear, soft, gentle, blue eyes, I have doubted
everything that I ever had heard against him. Things that I know to a
moral certainty to be true seemed a monstrous slander. You must have
felt something of this, though you have seen him but once; and the more
frequently you meet him the more you will feel it. The power of the man
is past words and past understanding. Did you know that he once held a
high office under Spain? Oh, yes, for years he controlled the arrogant,
treacherous, local government of Spain as absolutely as he controls the
simple family of Cedar House. He was living in Natchez then, and was
apparently a very devout Catholic, too, about this time. But the church
which he attended was mysteriously robbed; its altar was stripped of
everything precious,--gold, jewels, paintings,--when none but himself
had had access to the church unobserved. That is the story. I do not
vouch for its truth. There was no evidence against him--only suspicions
in this as in everything else. It was shortly afterward that he suddenly
appeared in this country a stanch Protestant; and then almost
immediately the present reign of crime began. Yet he has never been seen
in the company of any known law-breakers. Many mysterious visitors are
said to come to his house over the Wilderness Road, and to go as
mysteriously as they come. But no one claims to know who or what they
are, where they come from, or where they go. It is said that these men
who carry out his orders hardly know him by sight, that he sees only the
leaders, and that they never dare go to his house unless they are sent
for. It is believed that he rarely goes into detail, and does not wish
to know what they do in carrying out his wishes. It is said that he is
sickened by the slightest mention of bloodshed or cruelty, like any
delicate, sensitive woman, but is perfectly indifferent to all sorts of
atrocity that go on out of his sight and knowledge. There is, indeed, a
general opinion that he actually does not know half of the time what
his tools are guilty of; that he purposely avoids knowing. I have heard
it said that the boldest of the band would no more venture to tell him
of the crimes they commit while executing orders, than he would put his
head in a lion's mouth. It is understood that Alston simply points to a
thing when he wants it done, leaving all shocking details to his tools.
But this is mere hearsay. No one really knows anything about him; that
is to say, no one outside his band--if he actually has one. It is very
generally believed, however, that he has only to blow a single blast on
a horn at any hour of the day or night, and that from fifty to a hundred
armed men will instantly appear, as if they had sprung out of the earth.
It is also generally believed that he makes all the fine counterfeit
money with which this country is flooded, and that he does the work with
his own delicate, white hands. Yet not a dollar has ever been traced to
him, although its regular sale goes steadily on at a fixed rate of
sixteen bad dollars for one good dollar. It is generally believed, too,
that he keeps his money, both the good and the bad, buried somewhere in
the forest near his house, presumably for the double purpose of guarding
against robbery by his tools and against surprise by the officers of the
law. This, of course, is also mere speculation; nobody really knows
anything about what he does. I only know that his house is a bare log
hut, which is singular enough, seeing what a fine gentleman he is, and
what luxury he has surrounded the girl with. But I know that to be true,
because accident once took me to his house, and greater courtesy I never
found anywhere, though I was not invited to come again. It is known that
he owns a fleet of flatboats, and one of them is usually seen waiting
near Duff's Fort when horses are stolen, and it is always gone before
the dawn of the next day; but there is no proof of this, either. Boats
belonging to other people have a hard time getting past Duff's Fort.
More often than not, they are never seen or heard of after reaching that
fatal point, and the passengers vanish off the face of the earth. That
is what happened to Ruth's parents, as nearly as any one but Alston
knows. Most likely he knows nothing more."