not allow them to have one of the crumbs that I put out. Most of them
are sitting in a forlorn little row on the nearest tree. I wonder what
he is saying to them in that rough voice, yet maybe it is better not to
know. It must be something very rude, the redbird's bearing makes me
think so. He is standing very straight and holding his head very high,
but he isn't saying a word--of course. He is too much of a gentleman to
quarrel with a rowdy like the blue jay. Just hear how he is domineering!
These little song sparrows must surely be ladybirds--they are talking
back in such a saucy twitter. Can you hear them? I wish you could see
them. They are turning their pretty heads from side to side as much as
to say, that he can't keep them from speaking their minds if he does
keep them from getting the crumbs. Can you hear the silvery ripple of
their plaints? Nothing could be sweeter. There! I will raise the window
just a hair's breadth. Listen! Isn't it like a chime of fairy bells,
heard in a dream? But I hope you haven't felt any draught. It is much
colder than yesterday."
Dropping the sash she went to the fireplace and laid several sticks on
the blaze. She stood still for a moment, gazing down at the fire and
then she took a low chair beside the hearth. She knew that Paul Colbert
was looking at her, but she did not turn her head to meet his gaze. For
she also knew that he was merely biding his time, merely gathering
strength to speak, merely waiting till he had found words strong and
tender enough. If her eyes were to meet his, she must go to him--she
could not resist--and yet she felt that she must not go while her
plighted word was given to another man. It did not matter that the
promise had been made under persuasion and in ignorance of what love
meant. It made no difference that she was sure that William, too, longed
to be free. The promise had been made, and she was bound by it, until
she could tell William Pressley the truth and ask him to set her free.
Soft and feminine as her nature was, she had nevertheless a singularly
clear, firm sense of honor as most men understand that term--and as few
women do. She had already tried more than once to tell him, but he had
been almost constantly away from home of late. It was to her mind simply
a question of honor. The dread of giving him pain which she had shrunk
from at first, had now wholly passed away. It was so plain that he also
recognized the mistake of this engagement and would be glad to be free,
that the last weight was lifted from her heart. She had been truly
attached to him as she was to almost every one with whom she came in
daily contact, and this affection was not altered. Hers was such a
loving nature that it was as natural for her to love those about her as
for a young vine to cling to everything that it touches. Every instinct
of her heart was a tender, sensitive tendril of affection, and all these
soft and growing tendrils reaching out in the loneliness of her life had
clung even to William Pressley, as a fine young vine will twine round a
hard cold rock when it can reach nothing softer or warmer or higher. Her
own rich, warm, loving nature had indeed so wreathed his coldness and
hardness that she could not see him as he really was. And now--without
any change in either the vine or the rock--everything was wholly
different. It was as if a tropical storm had suddenly lifted all these
clinging tendrils away from the unresponsive rock and had borne them
heavenward into the eager arms of a living oak.
She knew now the difference between the love that a loving nature gives
to all, and the love which a strong nature gives to only one. Her heart
was beating so under this new, deep knowledge of life, that she feared
lest the man whom she loved might hear. Yet she sat still with her
little hands tightly clasped on her lap, as if to hold herself firm, and
she held herself from looking round, though the silence continued
unbroken. William must be told before she might listen to the words
which she so longed to hear from Paul's lips. It was noble of him to
hold them back. Every moment that she had been sitting by the hearth she
had been expecting to hear them. So that she sat now in tense, quivering
suspense, waiting, fearing, longing, dreading, through this strange,
long silence; filled only by the sighing of the wind-harp and the
crackling of the fire. And then, being a true woman, she could endure it
no longer, and turning slightly she gave him a shy, timid glance. As she
looked she cried out in terror.
His head, which had been so eagerly raised a moment before, had fallen;
his eyes, which had been aglow but an instant since, were closed. The
effort, the agitation, had been too great for his slight strength. The
strong spirit, impatient of the weak flesh, was again slipping away from
it.
She thought he was dying, and forgetting everything but her love for
him, she flew to him and fell on her knees by his side. Raising his
heavy head in her arms she held it against her bosom. She did not know
that her lips touched his, she was seeking only to learn if he breathed.
When his eyes opened blankly, she kissed them till they closed again,
because she could not bear to see the dreadful blankness that was in
them. When he moaned she fell to rocking gently back and forth, holding
his head closer against her breast, and presently began to croon softly.
She never once thought of calling for help; it was to her as if there
had been no one but themselves in the whole world. And presently his
faintness passed away, and when his arms, so weakly raised, went round
her, she did not try to escape. After a little he found strength to
speak a part of all that was in his heart, and she told him what she
could of all that was in hers. And both spoke as a great love speaks
when it first turns slowly back from facing death.
XXII
"A COMET'S GLARE FORETOLD THIS SAD EVENT"
When the barriers had thus been broken down, she had spoken of the
breach between William and herself. There had not been a bitter word or
a harsh thought in all that she said. It had been merely a mutual
mistake; they had both mistaken the affection which grows out of
familiar association, for the love that instantly draws a man and a
woman together, though they may never before have seen one another, and
holds them forever, away from all the rest of the world.
"I know the difference now," she said several days later, with a deeper
tint in her cheeks and a brighter light in her blue eyes. "And I am sure
that William does, too. It's plain enough that he will be glad to be
free, but he cannot say so, because he is a gentleman. Don't you see?
For that very reason, just because he is so high-minded, I am all the
more bound to do what is right. You do see, don't you?"
He was sitting up for the first time that day, his chair was by the
window and she was sewing beside him.
"I see what you think is right," Paul said smilingly. "And he certainly
should be told at once. But perhaps I might--"
"Oh, no! I must tell him myself. That would only be treating him with
due respect. And William thinks a great deal of respect--much more than
he does of love. But I can't get a chance to speak to him. He is always
coming and going of late, and all the family are present when I do see
him. You must wait; you must not say a word to uncle Robert till I have
told William; it wouldn't be honorable on my part."
"But you are forgetting, little girl, that there may be scruples on my
side, too. If my strength should come back as fast in the next two or
three days, I shall be able to leave Cedar House before the end of the
week. I cannot go away in silence; there must be no sort of secrecy. You
perceive there is a question of honor there, too. I must speak to the
judge--"
"It isn't any question of secrecy. There is nothing to keep secret," she
protested and coaxed. "I am thinking only of William's feelings, and
trying to spare his pride. I know him best and I am fond of him. Don't
forget that. There has not been the least change in my affection for
him," holding her beautiful head very straight. "Don't think for a
moment that my regard for William has been lessened," suddenly dimpling,
softening, and beaming, "by my falling in love with you. That is an
entirely different thing."
"I should hope so, indeed!" suddenly bending forward and catching her in
his arms with a happy laugh. "You see how strong I am. Well, then, you
needn't expect to have your own way all the time much longer. I yield
only so far as to give you three days--exactly three days from the
moment that I leave this house, and not one moment more. At the end of
that time I shall come to see the judge."
"And uncle Philip. I couldn't be happy without his approval. I have been
longing to tell him. I would have told him at once if I hadn't felt
bound to speak to William first. Dear uncle Philip! He is always happy
over anything that makes me happy. Next to you, dear heart, there is no
one in all the world that I love so much--not half so much. And there is
no one whom he loves as he does me; he thinks only of my happiness."
Her eyes sought his with a wistful look. She felt that he did not like
Philip Alston, and there was distress in the thought that these two,
whom she loved most out of all on earth, should not be the warmest of
friends.
"You mustn't think him indifferent because he hasn't been to see you,"
she pleaded. "Please don't think that, for it isn't true. He hasn't come
because he never can bear the sight of suffering. He says it's purely a
physical peculiarity which he cannot control. Anything that makes him
think of violence or cruelty shocks and repulses him. He shrinks from it
as he would from a harsh sound or an evil odor. He says it's because his
refinement is greater than his humanity. But it is really his tender
heart. Some day when you know him better you will find his heart as
tender as I have always found it."
He, knowing what was in her loving heart, could not meet her gaze, and
hastily looked away gazing across the river. His thoughts swiftly
followed his eyes, for he would not have been the man that he was, could
even this great new love which was now filling his heart, and was to
fill all his future life, have made him forget his old love for this
great new state, and the awful crises through which it was passing.
For that was a time of great stress, of deep anxiety, and of almost
intolerable suspense. Those early days and nights of November in the
year eighteen hundred and eleven, were indeed among the most stressful
in the whole stormy history of Kentucky. And through her--since her fate
was to be the fate of the Empire of the West--they were as portentous as
any that the nation has ever known. On that very day in truth, and not
very far off, there had already been enacted one of the mightiest events
that went to the shaping of the national destiny. Over the river on the
banks of its tributary, the Wabash, the battle of Tippecanoe had been
fought and won between the darkness and daylight of that gloomy seventh
of November. The young doctor, like all the people of the country, knew
that the long-dreaded hour had struck, that this last decisive struggle
between the white race and the red must be close at hand; but neither he
nor any one in that region knew that it was already ended. There had not
been a single sign or sound to tell when the conflict was actually going
on. It was said that the roar of the cannon was heard much farther away,
as far even as Monk's Mound, where the Trappists--those most ill-fated
of Kentucky pioneers--had found temporary refuge. But if this be true,
it must have been by reason of the fact that sound carries very far over
vast level prairies, when it cannot cross a much shorter distance which
rises in hills covered with forests, such as shut out every echo of the
battle from Cedar House.
Paul Colbert got up suddenly and began to walk the room, though he
staggered from weakness. He could not sit still under the torture of
such suspense, when he thought of all that was at stake on the outcome
of the conflict which might even then be waging beyond those spectral
trees. The safety of the people living along the river, their homes,
their lives--all these were hanging upon the strength of the soldier's
arm. He knew how small the white army was. If it should be conquered,
the opposite shore might at any instant be red with victorious savages
rushing to the great Shawnee Crossing. And then--he looked at Ruth,
feeling his helplessness as he had not felt the keenest pain of his
wound. She saw the look, and felt its distress, although she did not
understand all that it meant. She gently urged him back to his chair,
frightened to see how weak he was.
"Sit still till I come back. I will run downstairs and see if there is
any news," she coaxed in a soothing tone.
The household was gathered in the great room waiting and watching. The
old ladies by the hearth scarcely noticed one another. The judge sitting
apart half started up at the faint rustle of Ruth's approach, but
finding that it was no messenger bringing news, he sat down again with a
weary sigh, and his gaze went back to the other side of the river. His
appearance told how great his anxiety was. His rugged, homely face was
haggard and unshorn, and his rough dress was even more careless than
common. William Pressley arose and came forward to give Ruth a chair.
There was no visible change in him, his dress was as immaculate as it
always was. His manner was just as coldly implacable as it had been ever
since the quarrel; but then his temper never had anything to do with his
looks or his manners. No degree of uneasiness could ever make him forget
appearances or the smallest form of courtesy; and he would have thought
it a pitiable sort of man who could be moved by emotion to any kind of
irregularity. His way of placing the chair proclaimed that he never
failed to do all that became a gentleman, no matter how neglectful
emotional people might sometimes become.
Philip Alston, coming in just at that moment, saw something of this with
mingled amusement and satisfaction. The candor of William Pressley's
self-consciousness, the sincerity of his self-conceit, the firmness of
his belief in his own infallibility, claimed a measure of real respect,
and Philip Alston gave it in full. He thought none the less of him
because he could not help smiling a little at the solemn progress which
the young lawyer was then making across the great room. To be able to
smile at anything on that day of strain was a boon. And then it was
always pleasing and cheering to see any fresh sign that he had read the
young lawyer's character aright, and he was glad to see again what a
good-looking, well-mannered, right-minded young fellow he was. Nothing
could be said against him. Everything--or almost everything--was to be
said in his praise. The open fact that he thought all this himself would
be nothing against him with Ruth. A man's faith in himself is indeed
often the chief cause of a woman's faith in him. No one knew this better
than Philip Alston. As he looked at William that day, a new feeling of
peace came into his perturbed breast. He was beginning to be
disheartened by unexpected opposition to his plan to have the young
lawyer appointed to the office of attorney-general. Had he been closer
in touch with the governor, he would have known that all his efforts
were useless, for the office was held by appointment in those days, and
not by election as it is now. But it was a long way to the state capital
on horseback, and he had seen no newspapers, so that he knew nothing
positively, and was only beginning to fear. And thinking about the
uncertainty, he was encouraged to feel that even failure in this would
not alter his belief that the marriage was the best Ruth could make.
There was something purely unselfish in the content that he felt. With
clouds lowering around his own head, it comforted him to feel that her
future would be safe whatever came. He smiled at her, shaking his head
when she asked if he had heard any news, and drew her down by his side.
At the first opportunity he must ask about Sister Angela's progress with
the wedding clothes. It was not long now till Christmas Eve, and he
wanted to hear more about the preparations for the marriage. These had
seemed to lag of late.
* * * * *
The blood-red sun went down behind threatening clouds on that terrible
day, and the second morning came in with a wintry storm of icy winds and
swirling snow. Then followed two more gloomy, gray days and two more
wild, black nights. The fifth day dawned still wilder and darker, but
Paul Colbert found strength to go away. On the sixth it seemed to Ruth
that her heart would break with its aching for his absence; and with the
sadness that came from listening to a sobbing wind which sighed
despairingly through the naked forest; and with watching a melancholy
rain which hung a dark curtain between Cedar House and the other side of
the river. And thus the dreadful time dragged on into the seventh
endless day, and still there was no news from Tippecanoe. A courier
could have brought it in a few hours by riding fast through the wide,
trackless wilderness, and swimming broad, unbridged rivers. But no
couriers came toward Cedar House. There was no reason for sending a
special messenger to a corner of one state when the whole nation was
clamoring to hear. So that the couriers were speeding with all possible
haste toward the National Capital, and the people of Cedar House could
only wait and watch like those who were much farther off.
And thus it was that after a whole week had passed, they still did not
know that the battle of Tippecanoe had been fought, and that a precious
victory had been bought at a fearful price. And even now, who knows
whether or not that fearful price need have been paid? It is hard to see
the truth clearly, looking back through the mists of nearly a hundred
years. In the strange story of that famous battle, only one fact stands
out clear beyond all dispute, and that is so incredible as to stagger
belief. It appears at first utterly past belief that the white army,
marching against the red army with the open purpose of attacking it on
the next day, should have lain down almost at the feet of the desperate
foe, and have gone quietly to sleep. Only the recorded word of the
general in command makes this fact credible. He also says, to be sure,
that the soldiers "would have been called in two minutes more;" but he
admits that they had not been called when the red army made the attack,
without waiting till the white army woke of its own accord to begin
fighting at leisure by daylight, without even waiting those two minutes
for the general's convenience. What happened to the helpless sleepers
then, when the waking warriors thus fell upon the sleeping soldiers, may
be most eloquently told in the general's own words. "Such of them as
were awake or easily awakened, seized their arms and took their
stations, others, more tardy, had to contend with the enemy at the doors
of their tents." Turning the yellowed pages of this most amazing report,
the reader can only wonder that the furious tide of battle which set so
overwhelmingly against the soldiers in the beginning, ever could have
been turned by all the brave blood poured out before its turning.
On the eighth anguished day of suspense Ruth went to the door to welcome
Philip Alston, and looking toward the forest path, saw Father Orin and
Toby approaching. There was something in the way they moved that told
they had news, and when they reached Cedar House, the whole household
was breathlessly waiting for them. The white family was gathered inside
the front door, and the black people, running up from the quarters,
crowded round the door on the outside, with ashen faces, for their fear
of the savages was, if possible, greater than the white people's. All
pressed around Toby, and Father Orin told the good news as quickly as he
could, without taking time to dismount; but his voice trembled so that
he could hardly speak, and his eyes were so full of tears that he could
not see. He was not yet able to rejoice over a victory which had cost
the life of a dear friend.
"And Joe Daviess?" asked Philip Alston.
Father Orin silently turned his face toward the river and made the sign
of the cross; but he turned back and patted Ruth's head when she pressed
it against Toby's mane and burst into sobbing.
"It was he who saved the day," the priest said huskily. "He led the
desperate charge that won the battle, when everything seemed lost. He
received his death wound in the charge, but he lived long enough to know
that the victory was ours."
"He was a great man; his name will never be forgotten. His sword has now
carved it imperishably on the key-stone of the new state's triumphal
arch," said Philip Alston.
"And Tommy Dye?" asked Ruth, lifting her wet eyes. "The Sisters are so
anxious."
"And poor Tommy Dye, also," answered Father Orin.
These two brave men who lived their lives so far apart, had fallen
almost side by side. Joe Daviess, the noble, the fearless, the highly
gifted, the honored, the famous; and Tommy Dye, the kindly, the
reckless, the poorly endowed, the misguided, the obscure,--both had done
all that the noblest could do. The mould and the dead leaves of the
wilderness would cover both their graves. Only the initials of his name
roughly cut on a tree would mark the glorious resting-place of the one.
Only an humble heap of unmarked earth would tell where a noble death had
closed the ignoble life of the other.
XXIII
LOVE CLAIMS HIS OWN
The tears had been heavy on Ruth's dark lashes when she had fallen
asleep, but she awoke with a smile, radiant and expectant. She could not
remember at first what made her so happy, and a pang touched her heart
at the sudden recollection of the night's sadness. And then suddenly she
began to glow again at the thought of her lover's coming. The week of
his exile was ended on that day, and he would come. She knew just how he
would look when he came with his head held high, and his clear eyes, so
kind, and yet so fearless, looking straight in every face. She could
tell the very moment when he would come, for she had the
happiness--which every woman prizes and few ever know--of loving a man
who kept his word in the letter as well as the spirit. If men could but
know the difference there is to a woman! But they hardly ever do know,
because this is a little thing, and they can never understand that it is
the little things and not the large ones that make the happiness or the
wretchedness of most women.
She exulted in the thought that he would come at the very instant he had
named, no sooner and no later, and this would be precisely at four
o'clock. She looked round with a smile, trying to tell by the mark on
the window-sill what the time was then. But the day was gloomy, and
there was no sunlight to mark the hour. Solitary snowflakes were
drifting irresolutely across the window, as if uncertain whether to go
on earthward or return whence they came. The birds sat on the bare
branches near the window waiting for their breakfast in ruffled
impatience, the blue jay having done his best to call her to the window
earlier. And he said so, in his own way, as she scattered the crumbs
with a cheery good morning.
When she went down to breakfast, the family received her much as the
birds had done. Her coming cheered them also, as if a sunbeam had
entered the dark room. Miss Penelope left off what she was saying about
the calamities that must be expected in consequence of the comet's tail
coming loose from its head. The widow Broadnax relaxed her watch for a
moment, as the fair young figure came toward the hearth and stood by her
chair, resting a hand on her shoulder. The judge brightened, without
knowing what it was that suddenly heartened him, and David came out of
his corner under the stairs, as he never did, unless she was in the
room. Only William held aloof after a formal bow. At the sight of her,
smiling and radiant, the sullen anger within him glowed like a covered
fire under a sudden breeze. She had not been punished enough; her face
was far too bright, her manner far too frank. When she approached him
and tried to speak to him in a tone that no one else could hear, he
arose, and murmuring a stiff apology moved away, just as he had done
every time she had made the attempt. She flushed and lifted her head,
for there was no lack of pride or spirit in her softness. Yet by and by
she could not help looking at him across the table with another soft
appeal in her sweet eyes which plead dumbly for old times' sake. And
after breakfast was over she tried again, knowing that this would be the
last opportunity, and yearning with all her loving heart to win back
some of the old friendliness that she still prized as a precious thing,
which she could not give up for a mere touch of pride. Such soft
persistence is even harder to evade than to resist, and she followed
William to the door as he was going away later in the day, and was
bravely gathering courage while he looked at her in implacable coldness.