him?"
"The child doesn't know anything about it. Who would tell her? He is
like her father--he could not have been more tender of her had she been
his own child. There is nothing strange in her loving him; it would be
far more strange if she did not. She is a gentle, loving nature, and he
has done everything to win her love, and you know what he is."
"How can any creature in human form be so utterly unnatural--so wholly
a monster? How can he endure to see her, much less profess fondness for
her, knowing what he has done?"
"I have thought a good deal about that, and I have never been able to
make up my mind. You see we don't know that he has done anything wrong.
Yet it may be an unconscious expiation. Who knows? The human heart is a
mysterious thing. But it is most likely that he simply began to love her
when she was a baby, just because she was so lovely that he couldn't
help it. She won all hearts in her cradle--the little witch. I remember
very well how she used to keep me from my work, by curling her rose leaf
of a hand around one of my rough fingers, before she could talk."
"But why--loving her--should he wish to marry her against her will?"
"We do not know that it is against her will. That is to say, I know
nothing of the kind, and I have no reason even to think it."
There was a silence after this. Paul Colbert was suddenly realizing that
he also had no reason to think her unwilling; but this did not comfort
him or change his feeling. It is the delight and misery of love never to
have anything to do with reason.
"It is not likely that Alston would approve anything that he did not
believe was for her happiness," Father Orin went on after a brief
silence. "But there may have been other inducements. With the judge's
nephew under his thumb, he need not have much fear of the law or the
court. That was the reason most generally assigned for his patronage of
William Pressley in the first place, before there was any engagement
between the young man and Ruth. But that will, as a matter of course,
bind him closer to Alston's interests, through her fondness for him. And
on yesterday I heard of a scheme to put Pressley in Joe Daviess' place.
It has been kept quiet, but is said to be well on foot, and I should not
be surprised if it were true. Pressley is politically ambitious above
anything, so that there are several reasons why he and Alston should
hold together. In the event of Pressley's securing the appointment,
there would not be much danger of the law's interference with any
unlawful plans that Alston might have. Mind you, I don't say that he has
any. I don't know that he has, and I am not even sure that I am right in
telling you these things, which are merely rumor, after all. Well, at
all events he has his good points. He is very generous, and always
ready, open-handed, to help any good work of the Sisters. I have had
scruples about letting them accept his gifts, but I have hesitated to
speak for they know nothing against him, and there is always danger of
doing injustice. We have no right to accuse anyone of anything that we
cannot prove."
Paul was not listening to his friend's scruples. He had risen from his
chair, and was walking up and down the room. Presently he paused and
faced the priest with the air of a man who sees his way and has made up
his mind. His voice rang clear with decision.
"Then this is the net that has been woven about her--the innocent,
helpless little thing! She is to be made a victim through her tenderest
and most natural affections. It's like seething a kid in its mother's
milk. And how utterly unprotected she is! Think of her father! Look at
the judge--for all his kindness! What is there to expect from him? And
Philip Alston, who pretends to love her? He is using her affection for
himself to bring about this marriage, so that she may bind this dull
tool--this pompous fool, Pressley--to the service of an organized band
of robbers and assassins."
"You are rushing to conclusions, my son. There is no reason, is there,
to think that she doesn't love the young man? We haven't the slightest
right to assume that. I certainly have not--have you?"
Father Orin spoke with a keen look at the pale, agitated young face,
which flushed painfully. Seeing this the priest went on more gently
without waiting for any reply.
"And I must again remind you that we do not know that Philip Alston has
anything to do with the lawlessness of the country,--we merely suspect
him. Suspicion and evidence are different things; so widely different,
indeed, that I may have done grave wrong in even mentioning the first to
you."
"Then we must try to find out the truth--try to lay our hand on the
evidence which will prove Alston's innocence or his guilt. Doing that
cannot harm her--if she is happy in this engagement," with a strong
effort, "and it may help her--if she is not."
The priest shook his head. "You forget that many able men have already
tried hard to do what you suggest, and that every attempt has failed."
"That hasn't a straw's weight with me. I shall not fail, because I am
going to try harder than any one else ever can have tried," with the
confidence and courage that belong to love. "I think I can do something
to aid the officers in gathering evidence. My work, carrying me over the
whole region where these villains do theirs, gives me opportunities to
know what is going on. I shall speak to the attorney-general early
to-morrow morning. Every honest man owes it to the state to give such
help as he can in this extremity."
"Take care," said Father Orin, gently. "I am doubting more and more the
wisdom and right of having told you these stories about Philip Alston.
Remember, they are merely rumors, widespread and generally believed, it
is true, yet still wholly unsupported by evidence. We must be careful.
There is a bare possibility that we may be wrong, that we may be doing
a terrible injustice to an innocent man. I do not believe that anything
can be long believed by a great many honest people unless there is some
truth underneath for it to rest upon; and this about Philip Alston has
been believed by the best men of this country for a good many years. But
the fact that it hasn't been proven remains, nevertheless. There has
never been a shadow of real evidence, and we, as fair-minded men, are
bound to remember that." He hesitated for a moment, and looked at the
young doctor as if uncertain whether to say something else that was in
his kind, wise thoughts. "There is another thing that you would do well
to bear in mind, my son. Any one bringing any charges, supported or
unsupported, against Philip Alston, will break that little girl's heart.
She would never credit the strongest proof. A woman like that,--a
tender, soft, clinging, unreasoning little thing,--who is all affection
and trust, could not be reached by testimony that would convince any
jury. That is one of the merciful dispensations; that is one of the
reasons why men get so much more mercy here below than they deserve.
This gentle girl not only would never believe, but she would never,
never forgive you for breathing a word against Philip Alston. That is
the way with women of her kind. And you would not wish to hurt her, even
though--"
"No! No--no!"
"And then you must not forget that the young man whom she is to marry
is also more or less involved. And you must remember that he is
essentially an upright, well-meaning, well-trained young fellow. There
is no reason to think she doesn't love him. His conceit is the only
thing against him, and she may not mind that. A gentle, yielding nature
like hers is often attracted by a dominant, overbearing one like his. I
have often noticed it. Maybe it is intended by nature and providence to
keep the balance of things. What would become of the world if all the
strong ones or all the good ones were to come together, and leave all
the weak ones or all the bad ones by themselves? You can see at once
that that would never do--everything would be at once unbalanced. It's
hard on the good and the strong; but then, many of nature's provisions
are hard on the individual, and yet they all work for the welfare of
creation."
He said this with a smile and a chuckle, hoping to win his friend to the
half-earnest, half-jesting talk with which they sometimes tried to
lighten the heavy burdens that both were constantly bearing. But he saw
that Paul could not respond, and he went back at once to the grave
sympathy with which he had been speaking.
"At all events, this young couple have chosen one another for better or
worse, and we, as honest men, and Christians, cannot allow ourselves to
discuss, or even think of anything else. I wish I could help you, my
son, but I can only beg you to hold to your own road in life, to press
straight on upward as steadily and as bravely as you can. And you must
put all thought of Philip Alston, too, out of your mind. You and I must
work for the saving of men's bodies and souls--we have nothing to do
with their punishment. Work, my son! Work, work for others, that is the
secret of happiness! And if we work hard enough for the help and the
healing of others, it may be that after a while we will be allowed to
find help and healing for ourselves."
And the young man looking sadly in the face of the old man promised that
he would try--that he would do his best.
XVI
LOVE'S TOUCHSTONE
Ruth, meantime, was still waiting and watching the forest path, and
wondering why he did not come back. He nearly always passed Cedar House
more than once during the day, but he did not return now, although she
waited and watched from early morning till the sun went down. She was
tired of hearing the old ladies wrangling over the hearth, and going
outside the door she had played with the swan, and had grown tired of
that. Looking listlessly about for something else to do, she caught
sight of David sitting alone under the willows on the river bank. He
thought himself safely hidden for the reading of his book, but the
foliage was thinner now on the slender golden wands; some of them were
quite bare, and hung like long silken fringes of shining yellow. The
first frost had touched them on the night before; the soft breeze was
freighted with drifting leaves, and there was a fresh sparkle in the
crystalline air.
She had put on a long coat of dove-colored cloth--one of the fine
garments that Philip Alston was always finding for her--on account of
the cool weather, and she was wearing her gypsy bonnet tied down with
its three-cornered handkerchief of white lace, so that she was all ready
for going further from the house. In another moment she was skimming
down the river bank toward the boy. He saw her coming; but she moved so
like a darting swallow that he barely had time to hide his book under
the mossy log on which he was sitting before she fluttered into a seat
beside him, nestling against his arm.
"There now!" she sighed, smoothing down her skirts. "Now we can have a
nice long talk about love."
The boy moved with the uneasiness that every boy feels at any abstract
approach to the great topic. The girl went straight on, with all the
serenity of the least experienced of her sex. Her big blue eyes were
gravely fixed on his reddened face. Her own was quite calm, and very
serious indeed. Her soft lips were set as firmly as one rose leaf may be
folded against another. The tips of her little fingers met in wisdom's
gesture.
"Listen, David, dear. Listen well, and think hard. I have been thinking
a great deal about love lately. It is right, you know, that all young
people should. I will tell you everything that I have thought, and then
you must tell me what you think. For there are some things that I can't
find out by myself, though I have tried and tried. And boys ought to
know more than girls about love. But I don't believe they do!"
The blue eyes gazed at him rather severely from under the gypsy hat. It
was the woman arraigning the man with the eternal challenge. The boy
looked down at the ground, and tried not to feel guilty, as the
challenged always do. Ruth saw how it was, and relented, as the woman
always does. She ran her arm through David's, and gave it an
affectionate teasing little squeeze.
"You can't help not knowing anything, can you, poor dear?" she said,
with sweet laughter. "Well, then, never mind. We will try to find out
together. There are only three things that I really must know--that I
can't possibly do without knowing."
The smile faded. She sat silently gazing across the wide, quiet river.
"Only three really very, very important things," she presently went on.
"The first is this: How may a girl tell what people call 'true love'
from every other kind of love? You see, dear, there are so many kinds of
love, and they are all true, too. When a girl like me has loved every
one ever since she could remember--because every one has always been so
good and loving to her that she couldn't help it--she knows, of course,
when another kind of love comes; but she doesn't know whether it is
truer than all the rest. How can she tell? That is one of the things I
want to find out--the first of the three really important things that I
most wish to know," checking it off on her small forefinger.
Resting her elbow on her knee, and her chin in the palm of her hand, she
fell suddenly silent again, and sat gazing across the river. Her blue
eyes seemed to be wistfully seeking the secret of love among the rosy
mists which the sunset had left beneath the shadowy trees. She did not
observe that the boy made no reply. Her lovely head was intently bent to
the other side, as if listening to hear some whisper from her own heart.
When she spoke, it was in a low, absent tone, as though she were
whispering to herself, or thinking only half aloud.
"And what are the signs of true love? That is the next thing. What are
the sure signs that true love may be known by, so that there can be no
danger of making a mistake, no risk of taking one kind of love for
another? That is the question. How do the signs of true love look? How
do they feel, I wonder? Can it be one of the sure signs of true love to
feel at the first sight of a face that it is the one you have most
wanted to see all your life? Can it be one of the sure signs of true
love to have your heart leap at the first sound of a voice, so that you
are glad to be alive--glad--glad as you never were before, although you
have always been happy? I wonder--I wonder! And can it be another of the
sure signs of true love to feel utter content in one presence, to feel
that, walled in with it forever away from all the rest of the world,
there would be nothing left outside on the whole, wide earth to wish
for? Do you think so, David? I wonder if it can be. And then can it be
yet another of true love's sure signs to have a warm, sweet glow come
around the heart, as it never did before, and to have something tell you
that it will grow warmer and sweeter and brighter as long as you live? I
wonder--wonder--wonder. And could it be the surest sign of all, that you
don't know why any of all these things are so; that you only know that
everything some one is and says and thinks and does--satisfies and
delights your eyes and mind and heart and soul."
Two heavy tears, like sudden drops from a summer shower, fell on her
clasped hands, although her lips were smiling and she was still softly
thinking aloud.
"And yet there is another kind of love--quite, quite different from
this--and that, too, must be true. A feeling that you have had ever
since you could remember must be true, surely. And you are always
thinking about this one--always arguing with yourself about how right
and reasonable it is. There isn't any trouble in finding one the reasons
for this love. The only trouble about this kind of love is in your own
unworthiness. It's somehow disheartening and tiring to be always looking
up, higher than you can see, as though you stood all the time on your
tiptoes. And then when you are always feeling how unwise and childish
you are, it is hard to love wisdom and dignity as they deserve to be
loved."
Saying this, Ruth turned suddenly upon David. Her soft eyes were
flashing through her tears.
"Why do you sit there like a stone and never say a word!" she demanded.
"I knew you didn't know the first earthly thing about love, but I didn't
know you were dumb. Why don't you speak? Can't you say what a fine
fellow William is? You know it, just as well as I do! Everybody knows
it. Everybody respects William and looks up to him. Everybody is bound
to do it. He always does what is right and sensible. He isn't forever
doing and saying things that he has to be sorry for, as I am. He always
goes steadily straight ahead. He isn't moved by every heart-beat and
swayed by every fancy like you and me. Why even uncle Robert defers to
William, because he is so dignified and right-minded. He always knows
just what to do and say. Uncle Philip often speaks of it. _He_
appreciates William. _He_ never criticises him for being serious when
other people are joking. And I've seen you do it many a time, when you
didn't know I was looking. Yes, and uncle Robert, too. I've seen his
eyebrow go up when he didn't know that it did. And I won't have it! Do
you hear? I won't have people laughing at William, just because he
never laughs. I like him all the better for it. I think all the more
highly of him because he never understands my silly, light little ways.
I do--I tell you I do!"
She sprang up and stamped her foot, and then, sitting down again, burst
into helpless sobbing, and laid her head on the boy's shoulder. He could
only draw her closer, and hold her in silent tenderness, having no words
that he dared utter. After a time her sobs ceased, and lifting her head,
she looked round, dimpling and smiling through the tears which were
still heavy on her dark lashes.
"Well, then, since you don't know anything about love, sir, look and see
what your silly old book says. Oh, you needn't pretend that you haven't
got it," she said gayly. "If it isn't in your hand, it is in your
pocket, or you have hidden it. Get it instantly," pretending to shake
him.
The boy bashfully drew the book from beneath the log, while Ruth
bantered him with sweet, bubbling laughter that made him think of
awakening birds and blossoming orchards. He turned the leaves in
embarrassed haste.
"I don't find anything about love," he stammered. "But here is something
about marriage."
"As if they weren't one and the same!" cried Ruth. "Read it. Let's hear
what it says. Read every word carefully and distinctly."
David then read aloud what the Knight of the Oracle said to the Most
Fair Constantia:--
"They are truly married that have with united hearts plighted promise of
perpetual friendship, electing one another by true love and not by
outward ceremony; for where true love is not there can be no perfect
marriage, though the outward ceremony be never so well performed."
"As if everybody didn't know that already!" scouted Ruth. "Any gosling
of a girl knows that without having to be told. There isn't a single
word there to tell what true love is, and what its signs are. If I
didn't love you so dearly, David, I couldn't love you at all when you
are so dull. What do you mean by reading anything so tiresome out of
that foolish book? I think worse of it than ever."
Her smiles vanished like watery sunbeams. David trembled for fear she
might begin crying again. But she looked fondly up in his face, and
beamed brightly when she saw how frightened he was.
"But you know I do love you, David, dear. You know that you are all I
have, of my very own," she said. "I am unreasonable--I know that well
enough; but I couldn't help being hurt at your injustice to William.
Could I, dear?"
"Oh, no! No indeed!" responded the boy, with vague eagerness.
"Well, then, I will forgive you if you promise never to do it again.
And do you know any more about birds than you do about love, you poor
dear? Look at that one flying over the river. Why do they always cross
the stream in a slanting direction? Why do they never fly straight
across? And why do birds sing so seldom in the depths of the forest? And
is it true that none of the singing birds were here till the settlers
came? It is said that they came with the settlers. I've heard many
persons state that as a fact. But how does anybody know? Did any bird
say so? Those paroquets could tell if they would; but they never will.
They only chatter to scold one another. Just listen! I am sure they
could tell lots of things if they liked. They are not so green as they
look--not half so green as you, my dear. I shall have to ask Mr. Audubon
if there were any birds here before the settlers came. He will know; he
doesn't go round all the time with his head in the clouds, as you do.
You don't even know how old a snow-goose has to be before it turns from
gray to white. And you really ought to know that, because you are a
goose yourself. I saw a pure white snow-goose the other day on the pond
back of Cedar House, and when the snow-goose comes, then winter is here,
and it isn't long till Christmas."
She suddenly stood up shivering, and said she was cold; but it was the
thought of Christmas Eve, not the frost in the air, that sent the chill
to her heart.
XVII
THE ONCOMING OF THE STORM
On entering the great room of Cedar House they found the rest of the
family in a most unusual state of excitement. The lamps and candles had
not been lighted, as it was not yet quite dark, but the firelight was
bright, and they could plainly see the anxiety on every face.
Miss Penelope was in her accustomed place, which she could no more get
away from than a planet could leave its orbit. But her attention was
wandering, as it rarely did, and she was silently casting uneasy glances
at the judge and his nephew who sat on the other side of the room,
talking to each other in a loud, excited tone. The widow Broadnax, also,
was in her usual seat in the chimney-corner, yet looking now and then at
the two men; and the mere fact that she thus allowed her gaze to stray
for a moment from what her half-sister was doing, indicated the uncommon
disturbance of her mind.
Ruth and David hardly knew the judge as he looked and spoke now, for it
was he who was speaking as they came in. He had just motioned his
nephew to silence with a sternness which was not to be disobeyed. His
voice rang with a decision and severity, such as none of the household
had ever heard from him, who was commonly so carelessly mild and
abstracted.
"No one shall, with my consent, or even my knowledge, go from my house
to Duff's Fort on any account whatever."
"Pardon me, sir," began William, stiffly.
He was keeping his self-control with the air of one who does it under
great provocation, and who has scant respect for those who lose it; but
his face was flushed, and his eyes were angry. The strained coldness of
his tone and manner were like oil to the flame of his uncle's wrath. The
judge's hand went out in a gesture that had almost the force of a blow.
"Stop!" he shouted. "I refuse even to discuss the matter. It is enough
for me to tell you again that no one shall go from under my roof to the
place where robbers and cutthroats congregate. It's a disgrace that I
haven't been able to break up their den. I have done my best, and I am
still doing it, but the reproach of this band's existence, here at my
very door, nevertheless rests on me more than on any one else. I am the
representative of the law--the law, good God! with the country in the
murderous clutches of that lawless gang! Keep away, I tell you! And I
will ask Alston what he means by even seeming to give countenance to
those scoundrels by going nigh them. Business! What business can he or
any other decent man have with the nest of rattlesnakes that we can't
drag out from under that bluff?"
"It is a very simple matter, sir, if you would permit me to explain,"
William said more coldly and deliberately than ever. "Mr. Alston is
merely making a trade for a boatload of horses, and simply asked me, as
his attorney, to meet him at Duff's Fort to draw up the contract with
Mason and Sturtevant."
The judge stared blankly for a moment, so overwhelmed by surprise that
he forgot his anger. "Mason and Sturtevant," he repeated. "Do you mean
to tell me that a man of half Alston's intelligence doesn't know that
those men never have a horse that they haven't stolen?"