calling her name all over the house, but she did not pause or turn from
her task. It was Miss Penelope who first found her and clamored to know
what had happened; but she did not stop to answer, and went on turning
back the covers of the bed--the last thing needing to be done--and
listening for the sounds of the horses' hoofs. They could now be heard
approaching with that sad, slow, solemn rhythm--that subdued beat, beat,
beat, of horses' feet--which has fallen on all our bruised hearts as an
awful part of the funeral march. She ran out of the room and downstairs,
drawing her skirt away from Miss Penelope's frightened grasp, and
passing William Pressley, as if his restraining words had been no more
than the gusty wind. She was waiting outside when the three horsemen
drew up at the door. The burden which they bore was still apparently
lifeless, and with a sickening pang of fear she bent over the parted
lips as they lowered him from the saddle, thinking for one despairing
moment that he no longer breathed. But the faint flutter went on, and
she gave way so that he might be borne up the stairs, and running
before, she told them where to lay him down.
William Pressley made one or two efforts to direct what was being done,
and although the girl's passionate excitement swept him aside, he still
did what he could, and offered to furnish a fresh horse for the quicker
fetching of the doctor, when the attorney-general said he would go for
him at once. It was like William Pressley to do this; it would have been
unlike him to neglect any duty that he saw. But the offering of the
horse and the full performance of his own duty did not keep him from
looking at Ruth in severe displeasure. He did not yet know how this
thing had happened, and was far from suspecting that she had been out of
the house that night. Yet it disturbed and angered him to see her flying
here and there, and running to and fro to get things that were wanted,
as though the servants could not be quick enough. With all this in his
tone, he coldly and strongly urged her to join the rest of the family,
pointing out the fact that there was nothing more to be done by any one
till the doctor should come. But she merely shook her head, without
speaking, and slid softly into a seat by the bedside, and there William
Pressley left her, disdaining to contend. She thought that she was
alone--so far as she thought of herself at all--but the boy sat unseen
and forgotten in a shadowed corner of the chamber. He was gazing at her,
but her gaze never once wandered from the still white face on the
pillow.
The rest of the family were gathered around the hearth in the great room
downstairs. The judge had been summoned from the cabin in which he
slept, and he was now plying Father Orin with questions. There was a cry
of alarmed amazement when the priest told of finding Ruth at Anvil Rock.
Only William Pressley said nothing, and sat perfectly still, with a
sudden stiffening of his bearing. It was not easy for the priest to make
the whole story clear, for he did not understand it quite clearly
himself. But he told as much as he knew of the night's events. And when
he was done, the judge's voice stilled the clamor of the other excited
voices.
"How can the child have known what was going on? Where is she? We must
find out at once how she came to do so wild and strange a thing. What
under heaven could she have been doing there--in such a place, at such a
time? Where is she?" But he went on with another thought, without
waiting for an answer. "How can those murderous scoundrels have known
that the attorney-general would ride to Anvil Rock alone? It is plain
enough that they did know. The question is--How? By what means can they
possibly have learned anything about the plan? That's the thing! How did
they find out enough to enable them to set this villanous trap? All
those assassins hidden there in the darkness of the Cypress Swamp,
waiting to spring out on one man!" He turned suddenly to the priest.
"What is your opinion, Father? Have you the slightest idea how they
could have learned anything of our plan?"
Father Orin looked straight at William Pressley.
"Yes, I have an idea," he said quietly, with his gaze still fixed on the
young lawyer. "But it is merely unfounded suspicion. I have no real
reason for my suspicions."
"Well, what are they?" asked the judge, eagerly. "You can hardly be
afraid of doing any injustice to those scoundrels. It would be hard to
suspect such murderous villains of any sneaking treachery that they
wouldn't be guilty of if they could. How do you think they found out?
That's what I want to know."
Father Orin was still looking steadily at William Pressley, who returned
the look just as steadily with one that was easier to read than the
priest's. William Pressley's gaze expressed a large, patient tolerance
for prejudice, slightly touched with calm contempt, and there was no
doubting its entire sincerity.
"I think," said Father Orin, slowly, "that these banded robbers and
murderers must have learned of the plan through some one's inadvertence.
It is my opinion that the plan was betrayed by some one who did not mean
to betray it, and who may not have known what he had done."
William Pressley regarded him with an incredulous smile. "It is hardly
likely that the plan can have been revealed in any such way as you
suggest, sir," he said, with the politeness which is more exasperating
than rudeness. "You are certainly overlooking the fact that only a few
knew what the attorney-general intended to do, and that those who did
know are the ablest and most reliable men in the country. It is
therefore utterly out of the question to assume that any one among them,
any man of their intelligence and standing, could have made such a
blunder. Really, my dear sir, if you will pardon my saying so, the idea
is absurd."
The priest made no reply and his eyes were still fixed on the young
lawyer's face, but as he gazed, the expression of his own face changed.
A half smile lighted it for a moment. The good man's sense of humor was
keen. But this passed quickly and in its stead there came the compassion
which any purely human weakness, however great or small, always awoke in
his truly compassionate breast.
The judge apparently had not heard what his nephew said. He always began
to feel impatient as soon as the young man commenced to speak. And he
now gave his tousled head the old, unconscious toss, like a horse
shaking his mane at the lighting of a persistent fly. And then, paying
no more attention to William Pressley and drawing his chair nearer
Father Orin's, he went on with the grave talk. It was he, however, who
did all the talking now; the priest had suddenly become a passive
listener. He had no more ideas to advance.
The three men turned many anxious looks on the open door. It was still a
framed space of misty gray, filled only with the melancholy mystery of
the wintry dawn. It seemed to the watchers to stay unchanged for a long
time, as it always does to those who watch for its brightening in
trouble and anxiety. Yet while they longed for the light they dreaded to
see it, as the troubled and alarmed always dread, lest it should reveal
something terrible which the darkness has concealed. Their words grew
fewer, also, under this strain of waiting, and they gradually fell into
the tone that night watchers use, when they speak of mysterious things
under the gloomy spell of this sad half-light which is neither night nor
day. In the silences between their hesitating words, they bent forward
and listened. All was still--there was no distant sound of the
attorney-general's return or of the old doctor's coming. In the tense
stillness they could hear only the sad murmur of the river gliding under
the darkness and--now and then--the sudden hurrying of footsteps in the
chamber overhead where the wounded man lay.
And so a long, heavy hour dragged by. The leaden gray framed by the
doorway began to glimmer with a silvery pallor. The quicker breath of
the awakening world sent a heavier shower of leaves from the trees. The
birds still lingering among the cold, bare branches were already awake,
and calling cheerily to one another, as if the higher world in which
they lived was all untouched by the struggle and strife of this lower
human world. The heavy-hearted men in the great room of Cedar House
listened with the vague wistfulness that the happiness of bird voices
always brings to the troubled. They also heard the low trumpeting of the
swans as the breath of the morning swayed the rushes and that, too,
filled them with a deeper longing for peace. But suddenly the far-off
echo of a horse's rapid approach made them forget everything else. The
doctor was coming at last! As one man, the three men sprang to open the
door, and leapt out into the pallid daylight. The horseman was now near
by and in another moment they saw that the rider was not the doctor, nor
yet the attorney-general, but Philip Alston.
The priest shrank back with an uncontrollable recoil and then stood
still and silent, watching every movement of the tall figure which had
reined up and was dismounting with the ease of a boy. The judge and his
nephew had made an exclamation at the sight of him; but they were merely
surprised at the unusual hour of his appearance and he explained this at
once.
"Where is Ruth? What is wrong? Has anything happened?" he asked, turning
in visible agitation from one to another. "What was it that those men
on horseback brought here? I could barely make out something moving this
way. Has anything happened to Ruth? The light was dim, and I was a long
way off. I was coming from the river where I had been attending to the
loading of a boat, and so happened to see that something was going on.
But I wasn't near enough to tell what it was. Of course I came at once
to see if there was any trouble, and to do what I could. Is anything
wrong with Ruth? My horse fell and lamed himself, or I should have been
here much sooner. Tell me instantly! What have you done with the child?
What have you allowed to happen to her? By God, if--"
He demanded this accounting in a tone of passionate fierceness such as
none of those present had ever heard in him, turning first upon William
Pressley and then upon Robert Knox. His face was white, and his eyes
were blazing, and they did not at once resume their natural look when he
had been assured of Ruth's safety. But he said nothing more, and only
Father Orin noted how altered and worn and old he looked, when he
entered the room and the brighter light fell upon him.
He came to the fireside and sat down with the light of a swinging lamp
falling full on his face. His clear blue eyes, growing quiet, now looked
straight into Father Orin's--which were openly searching and
suspicious--during the second telling of the story of the night. It was
not easy for suspicion to stand against such a gaze. The priest's
wavered in spite of its strength. No one could believe evil of Philip
Alston while looking in his noble, open face. He did not speak
immediately after the story was told. When he did, it was to say,
quietly and naturally, precisely what any right-minded man would have
said under the circumstances:--
"This young stranger is certainly a man of courage. He has protected the
attorney-general at the risk of his own life. In doing this, he has done
a great service for all of us--for the whole country. We must now do
what we can for him. Is he badly, hurt? Where is he? Who is with him?"
The priest saw that he flinched for the first time when told that the
wounded man had been taken to Ruth's room.
"That was wrong," said Philip Alston, with a subtle change in his tone.
"Ruth must have nothing further to do with this extraordinary and most
unfortunate affair. She has had far too much to do with it already. That
mooning, foolish boy must have led her into this romantic folly through
some girlish enthusiasm about Joe Daviess, the popular hero of romance.
It is plainly the boy's fault that she was induced to do so dangerous
and unheard-of a thing. She could never have thought of it herself. I
shall see that he keeps his place hereafter. We must look to it,
William," turning upon the young man with more severity than his voice
often expressed. "Where is she? What is she doing? I wish to see her."
It was the judge who told him that she was in her own room, together
with the older ladies, all in attendance upon the injured man. The
priest then saw the second swift darkening of Philip Alston's face.
"I will go up to her room," he said quietly. "I wish to be sure that she
has not been harmed."
As he rose, there was a sound outside. He turned to the open door and
saw two horsemen approaching at a gallop. It was light enough for him to
see and recognize the attorney-general and the doctor. The other men
hurriedly went out to meet them. Philip Alston stood still in a shadowed
corner of the great room, while the rest hastened up the stairway and
into the chamber where Paul Colbert lay. And then he followed them with
his swift, light step, and pausing upon the threshold, looked into the
open room, his gaze first seeking Ruth. She stood on the other side of
the chamber, apart from the group around the bed. But she did not see
him; her eyes and hands and thoughts were on the bandages which she was
hastily preparing. He shrank from what she was doing and turning hastily
away fixed his eyes on the attorney-general. Thus, silently looking and
listening, he presently heard him say how deeply he regretted being
compelled to leave the country before knowing the result of his friend's
wound, adding that he was leaving on the next day for Tippecanoe. Philip
Alston barely glanced at the white face lying against the pillow. He was
disturbed and even shocked to see it there. He felt this stranger's
presence in her chamber to be a desecration. And then the sight of
suffering always made him uncomfortable. He wondered how she could
endure it. The repulsion which the average man feels for any affliction
of mind, body, or estate was so intensified in him that he could not,
with all his intelligence, understand that the very sight of great
suffering nobly borne, does much to win a woman's heart.
XXI
THE EAGLE IN THE DOVE'S NEST
The worst hurt that Paul Colbert had received was from a blow on the
head, which had stunned and nearly killed him. But there had been no
lasting injury, even from this, and the knife-wound in his shoulder had
healed rapidly; he was young, and strong, and healthy.
On the morning of the seventh day he awoke and looked at Ruth. He was
feeling almost well, but had no inclination to stir. It was pleasant
enough just to lie there and look at her, and let his gaze wander around
her chamber. This white shrine of maidenhood! He had felt its influence
before he was able to understand, and the reverential awe had grown with
his returning strength. How dainty it was, for all its rough board floor
and rude log walls! Even those were as white as the driven snow. The bed
was like the warm, soft breast of a snow-white swan, and its drawn
curtains like folded wings. There were spotless muslin curtains over the
windows, and the little toilet table also was draped in white and strewn
with bits of carved ivory. The whole room showed the same mingling of
luxury and simplicity that was to be seen in the great room below.
These fine ivory carvings, the rare prints and a painting or two on the
rude walls, the alabaster vase on the rude stand,--filled with fresh,
late-blooming flowers,--the costly white fur rug on the floor, the
delicate work basket with its coquettish bows of riband, contrasted
oddly with the other simple things which had evidently been made in the
wilderness by unskilled hands. Yet even those were tasteful and all
painted white, so that the whole was purity, beauty, and exquisiteness.
Yet his gaze quickly turned from the room to her. He knew that she
believed him to be asleep; but it was so pleasant to watch her that he
did not hasten to let her know that he was awake. She was very busy at
the window, with her back to him, and deeply absorbed in something that
she was doing. Moving lightly and swiftly to and fro across the light,
she was working hard, with no more noise than the sunbeams made in
glancing about her slender form. He lay watching her for some time in
dreamy delight, before he saw what it was that she was doing. But
presently he knew that she was making an aeolian harp. The two fragile
bits of vibrant wood to hold the strings were already in place on either
side of the window, just where the upper and lower sash came together.
She was now engaged in carrying the threads of fine silk floss, which
were to form the strings of this simple wind-harp, from one piece of
wood to the other. Back and forth she wove them across the current of
air, moving with swift, noiseless motions of exquisite grace. As the
last fine fibre thus fell into place and was firmly drawn, a soft,
musical sigh breathed through the shadowed room, the very shadow of
music's sweet self.
[Illustration: "She was making an aeolian harp."]
"Thank you," Paul Colbert said. "What beautiful things you think of,
what lovely things you do!"
She turned quickly with a smile and a blush, and came to the bedside.
"Why--you were not to wake up yet! It's much too early for a sick man to
open his eyes."
"But I am not a sick man any longer. I am almost well. I could get up
now, if I wished," jestingly, "I am getting well as fast as I can, just
to convict the other doctor of a mistaken diagnosis. What a fine old
fellow he is!" with a quick change to earnestness. "How kind he has
been, how untiring in his attention and goodness to me. And so skilful,
too. I am ashamed of my presumption. A mere beginner like myself, to
question his methods in dealing with the Cold Plague! I don't believe he
made the mistakes they said he did. He couldn't!"
It was an unlucky recollection. The thought of this mysterious epidemic
which had grown worse, till it was now devastating the whole country,
made him suddenly restless. His patients were needing him sorely while
he lay here, still bound hand and foot by weakness. He turned his head
miserably on the pillow. It was not the first time that this thought had
troubled him, and she knew the signs. Laying a gentle, soothing hand on
his tossing head, she spoke in the quieting tone that a woman always
uses to soothe and comfort a child or a man whom she loves.
"It will not be long now. You can soon go back to them," she said.
The tone was none the less soothing because a bitter pang went through
her own heart with the words. What should she do when he was gone? And
he was almost strong enough to return to the work which was calling him.
But the aching of a true woman's own heart has nothing to do with the
peace that she gives to those whom she loves. And then it may have been
only the sweet sadness of the spirit harp's sighing that made Ruth's
lips quiver under their bright smile.
"But they need me now," he groaned. "They are dying untended while I lie
helpless here. The old doctor cannot take care of them. He has too many
patients of his own. He is riding day and night. He tries to hide the
truth, but I know it. The Cold Plague grows in violence every day."
He suddenly raised himself on his elbow with a great effort.
"Maybe I can sit up if I try very hard," he gasped. "The will has much
to do with the strength. I am determined--"
"No! no!" cried Ruth in alarm.
But he had already sunk back exhausted. His lids drooped heavily for a
moment through weakness. And then he looked up in her frightened face
with a reassuring smile as she gently pressed his head down upon the
pillow.
"What strict little mother," he murmured.
She shook her head and drew the counterpane closer about his neck,
carefully lightening the weight over his wounded shoulder. With soft
light touches she smoothed out the smallest wrinkle marring the comfort
of the narrow, bed. When this was done and he lay quiet again, she began
to talk quietly but brightly of other things, hoping to divert his
thoughts. She told him all the innocent gossip of the neighborhood. Most
of this had come to her from the Sisters, for she seldom saw any one
else. There was much to tell of their little charges, and particularly
of the three babies whom he and Father Orin had taken from the deserted,
plague-stricken cabin in the wilderness. She did not say that these
little ones had become her own special care, but caused his smile to
grow brighter by telling how like children the gentle Sisters themselves
were. She repeated what they had said of Tommy Dye's last visit. Their
serious, perplexed account of it was now unconsciously colored by her
own gentle, fine sense of humor which also came so close to pathos that
a lump rose in Paul Colbert's throat as he listened. He could see just
how poor Tommy Dye had looked, but his eyes grew dim while his lips
smiled. And now another and deeper shadow swiftly swept over his face.
"So even poor old Tommy Dye has gone to Tippecanoe. Everybody but me is
gone or going. I alone am left behind. And yet--even if this hadn't
happened--I must still have stood at my post," he said sadly.
Her hand fluttered down upon his like a startled dove. There was a
sudden radiance in her dark blue eyes. She barely breathed the next
words that she spoke:--
"Yes; you must have stayed, anyway. The doctor of the wilderness--the
healer everywhere--can never march with other soldiers. He can never go
shoulder to shoulder with cheering comrades at the roll of drums and the
blare of trumpets under waving banners--to seek glory on the
battle-field while all the world looks on and applauds. No--no--the
doctor of the wilderness--the healer everywhere--is a solitary soldier,
who must always go alone and silently to meet Death single-handed, and
struggle with him, day after day, and night after night, so long as he
may live, fighting ceaselessly for his own life as well as the lives of
others."
There was a quivering silence, filled only with the sighing of the
wind-harp. The young doctor's hand had closed over hers. She went on in
a lower tone:--
"And surely the man who risks his life to save is braver than he who
risks it to slay."
Startled at her own boldness, she drew away when he tried, with the
slight strength that he had, to draw her to him. They had not spoken to
each other of love. He knew little of what had taken place that night at
Anvil Rock when she had believed that his soul and her heart were
parting with all earthly things. He had not heard what she had said
then, and they had not been left alone together since his hurt until
this morning. There had been many constantly coming and going about the
sick bed during the first days, and to him those days were mere blanks
of suffering and blurs of pain. It was only to-day that he had begun to
regain in a measure the power of his mind and will. If he could but have
had for one instant the old power of his body! He did not know whether
this beautiful, tender young creature beside him was still under promise
to marry another man. There had been no opportunity for any confidential
talk. The name of William Pressley had never been mentioned between
them. The thought of him was like a touch of fire to Paul Colbert, so
burning was the contempt which he felt for this conceited dullard whose
blundering had nearly been his own death. But he could not say anything
of this to her--the fact that she had once been engaged to be married to
the man held him silent. It might be that she was still bound, and yet
there was something in her soft eyes that led him to hope that she was
free--something, at least, which seemed to give him leave to wrest
freedom for her from the strongest that might try to hold her against
her sweet will. If only he were not stretched here, a mere burden, a
clog.
The look in his sunken eyes,--glowing like coals,--the burning words
which she read on his silent lips, made her slip her hands from his and
move hastily away. She went confusedly over to the window and hailed the
sight of the birds on the sill with sudden relief.
"My little feathered family are all here," she said without looking
round. "Can you see the blue jay? He is on the window-sill trying his
best to peep over it at you."
"I hope he is jealous of me," trying to speak lightly.