Round Anvil Rock Part 19

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 a.s.sociation, 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 pa.s.sing.

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 sh.o.r.e might at any instant be red with victorious savages rus.h.i.+ng 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sed, 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 n.o.ble, 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 n.o.blest 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 n.o.ble death had closed the ign.o.ble 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.

He was not softened by the fact that his hopes were high that morning over what appeared to be the certainty of his receiving the appointment.

There was, he thought, not the slightest doubt if he could manage to secure the influence of one or two other leading citizens. As it was, there seemed to be little danger of failure, and when he now saw Philip Alston coming, he paused and waited for him to come up, so that he might tell him what he had been doing. He did not know that he was merely telling Philip Alston how his own orders had been carried out, and there was nothing in that gentleman's manner to remind him.

William Pressley, accordingly, went on talking with the modest consciousness of having done all that was possible for any man to do, and he said, as they were entering the great room, that he considered his success a mere question of time.

"A mere question of time, and a very short time, too," repeated Philip Alston, heartily. "I congratulate you. I am proud of you. We are all proud of him--hey, judge?"

"I hope he knows what he is trying to undertake," the judge said abruptly, turning a glum look on his nephew. "I trust, William, that you are realizing the responsibility of this office. Most men would hesitate to a.s.sume it. I should tremble at the thought."

"I think, sir, that I shall be able to do my duty." William Pressley spoke stiffly, with a touch of condescension and a shade of resentment, such as he always evinced at any sign that the censer might cease to swing.

"It isn't a simple matter of duty. It's a much more complicated matter of ability," the judge said sternly.

"Pardon me, sir, but it really does not seem to me such a difficult place to fill," said William, loftily. "In this, as in any other position of life, the man who is influenced solely by the profoundest and most conscientious conviction, and who is firm in following his convictions, can hardly go far astray."

The judge looked at him over his big spectacles in perplexed, troubled silence for a moment. So gazing, he gave the old impatient toss of his tousled head, and the old quizzical look came under his suddenly uplifted eyebrow.

"All _right_, William!" he said at last, almost immediately lapsing into silence, and presently beginning to nod.