"Well, 'pon my word! Did anybody ever see the like of that!" she cried, seeing that Ruth had followed her to the door. "That boy don't know half the time whether he has had anything to eat or not. And it's just exactly the same to him when he's got money and when he hasn't."
The girl did not hear what Miss Penelope said. Her heart was responding, as it always did, to everything great or heroic, and she looked after this boy preacher with newly opened eyes. She suddenly saw as by a flash of white light, that he and the other pioneer men of God—these soldiers of the cross who were bearing it through the trackless wilderness—were of the greatest. Her dim eyes followed the young man—this brave bearer of the awful burden of the divine mission—watching him press on to the river. She thought of the many rivers that he must swim, the forests that he must thread, the savages that he must contend against, the wild beasts that he must conquer, the plague that he must defy, the shelterless nights that he must sleep under the trees—freezing, starving, struggling through winter's cold and summer's heat, and all for the love of God and the good of mankind.
VIII
THE LOG TEMPLE OF JUSTICE
Most of those dauntless soldiers, who first bore the cross through the wilderness were as ready to fight as to pray—as they had to be. No power of earth or evil which he had been able to combat could have turned young Peter Cartwright that day or have held him back. Pressing on without rest or food, he was in time to preach. When this duty was done, he returned over the Shawnee Crossing and rode straight to the court-house. To go there was in his eyes the next service due the Word.
The court-house was a single large, low room built of rough logs, and standing in the depths of the primeval forest. Great trees arched their branches over its roof and the immemorial "Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes," went up through their heavy dark tops. It must have been strange thus to hear this formal summons before the bar of human justice, strange indeed to see the precise motion of man's law in so wild a spot. Roundabout there still stretched the wilderness which is subject only to nature's law—the one immutable law which takes no heed of justice or mercy; which recks neither man's needs nor his deserts.
The court-house in the wilderness stood quite alone, with no other building near. There was not even a fence round it, nor so much as a hitching-post in front of the rude door which was rarely closed. Those who came—the judge, the jury, the lawyers, the clients, the spectators—all hitched their horses to the swinging limbs of the trees. The sole sign of man's handiwork, beyond the log walls of the court-house itself, was a crude attempt at bridge-building. A creek ran between the court-house and the home of Judge Knox, who was the judge of the court, and over this a few rough boards had been loosely laid across two rotting logs. The structure being both weak and unsteady, it was the judge's habit to dismount on coming to the bridge and to cross it on foot, leading his horse by the bridle. It was then but a stone's throw to the court-house, and as he was heavy, clumsy, and an awkward rider, he did not mount again, but walked on till he came to the spot where he always stopped to tie the bridle to the same limb. And there he invariably tied it in his absent-minded way, without ever thinking of looking round to see if the horse was tied with the bridle. Sometimes he was and again he was not, for this was as that sagacious and dignified animal himself thought best. He commonly made up his mind upon this point when they got to the bridge, where he could tell easily enough by the judge's gait in crossing over, whether or not it would be advisable to follow. If the horse then saw fit to turn back and go home, as a hint to the family to send for the judge at the proper time, he never hesitated to pull his head out of the old bridle which he could do very easily. So that the judge sometimes went on and tied the empty bridle in the usual place, never knowing the difference; while his horse calmly turned round and soberly walked back to the stable. Seeing him thus pass the windows, the good people of Cedar House sighed a little, and shook their heads, but they nevertheless always knew exactly what to do.
On this late October day, however, the horse followed the judge without demur, assured by his own observation that all was right. The judge, honest, simple soul, rarely failed to turn over a new leaf and make a fresh start on the morning after the meeting of the grand jury, which gravely and respectfully found an indictment against him almost as regularly at it met. He had already assessed and—gravely ordering it written up—paid his own fine on this occasion without a murmur, as he always did, and he was now quite sober and ready to resume his place on the bench. He had held it for a long time to the public satisfaction; and he continued to hold it for many years afterward with honor, ability, and distinction, notwithstanding these occasional lapses. His one weakness was of course well known but his profound knowledge of the law, and his unimpeachable integrity were still better known. It was said of him that he never had anything to say which could not be shouted out from the court-house door. And these qualities were sorely needed on the bench of the wilderness, more sorely needed at this time than ever before or since.
The whole country had lately been overrun by open and defiant lawlessness. It was fast coming to be known far and wide as "Rogue's Harbor." It had already become the recognized refuge and hiding-place of the outcasts from the older states. The breakers of all laws human and divine,—the makers of counterfeit money, the forgers of land titles, the stealers of horses, robbers, murderers, thieves and criminals of every sort and condition, the fine gentleman and the ruffian, the duelist and the assassin—all these were now flocking to Rogue's Harbor. Once there, they were not long content merely to find a hiding place from the wrath of broken law and outraged civilization. They were soon seeking and finding opportunity to commit other and worse offences. It was no longer a secret that regular stations of outlawry were firmly established between Natchez on the one side and Duff's Fort, on the other. The most dreaded of these were known to be within the new state's border along the line of the Wilderness Road, although the law had not been able to lay its hand upon them. And thus was southern Kentucky now bound, blinded and helpless, in a long, strong, bloody chain of crime.
It was knowing this and feeling his own responsibility and powerlessness that made the judge's good-humored face stern on that October morning. It was this which made his absent-minded eyes clear and keen as he drew near the court-house. He had come earlier than usual but others, equally anxious, were there before him. And then the court-house was in a way the mart of the whole region, especially for the sale of horses. Rough-looking men with the marks of the stable and the race-track upon them, were riding the best quarter nags up and down the forest path and pointing out the delicate leg, the well-proportioned head, and the elegant form, which made the traits of the first race-horses in Kentucky. Foremost among these first men of the turf was Tommy Dye, scanning the quarter nags with a trained eye. As soon as the judge saw him, he knew that General Jackson was not far away, for wherever the general went, there also was to be found his faithful henchman, Tommy Dye. It was he who arranged the cockfights in which the general delighted, declaring a game cock to be the bravest thing alive. It was he who was always trying to find for him a race-horse which could beat Captain Haynie's Maria. This famous racer had beaten the general's Decatur in that year's sweepstakes, and he had sworn by his strongest oath that he would find a horse to beat her if there was one in the world that could do it. But Tommy Dye and other eager, tireless agents of the general had already searched far and wide. They had gone over all the horse-raising states with a drag-net, they had sent as far as other countries. And no horse which even promised to beat Maria had yet been found, so that the general's defeat was still rankling bitterly, for it was the bitterest that he had ever met or ever was to meet. He did not feel his defeat in the first race for the Presidency nearly so deeply and keenly as this; and then that was afterward retrieved by a most brilliant victory. But, as a friend once said of him—although he went on achieving great victories of many kinds, overcoming powerful enemies, conquering the Indians, subduing the lawless, defying the Spanish and the French, vanquishing the British and slaying single-handed the Dragon of the Bank—he could never find a horse to beat Maria.
But he was still trying everywhere and under all circumstances however unpromising. On that day he cast anxious glances through the open door of the log court-house at the horses which Tommy Dye, in a forlorn hope, was having paraded up and down the forest path. He turned away with a sigh, and went on talking to the United States Attorney for Kentucky at whose request he had come to the court-house that day. He had done for his own territory in a lesser degree, the identical thing which Joseph Hamilton Daviess was desperately striving to do for this country; and he had consented to give him the benefit of his own experience, and to advise him as to ways and means. These were always strenuous with Andrew Jackson, and Joe Daviess himself was not a man of half measures. In mind and body he was quite as powerful as the man to whom he now listened with such profound deference. He was also a handsomer man and younger. He was fully as tall, too, with as lordly a bearing; the most marked contrast in their appearance being in their dress. General Jackson wore broadcloth of the cut seen in all his older portraits; Joe Daviess wore buckskin breeches and a hunting shirt belted at the waist, both richly fringed on the leg and sleeve. The suit was the same that he had worn when he rode over the Alleghanies to Washington, to plead the historic case before the Supreme Court. But the rudest garb could never make him seem other than the courtly gentleman that he was. He was a scholar moreover, and a writer of books. A great mind, and ever eager to learn, he now stood listening to General Jackson with the humility of true greatness. He bowed to the judge, seeing him enter, but he did not move or cease to listen. His grave, intent face brightened suddenly as if a light had passed over it, when he saw Father Orin's merry, ruddy countenance look in at the open door. He and the priest were close friends, although they held widely different faiths, and argued fiercely over their differences of opinion whenever they met—and had time—and notwithstanding that neither ever yielded to the other so much as a single hair's breadth.
Father Orin now came straight toward him, merely nodding and smiling at those whom he passed, and reaching Joe Daviess' side, he coolly ran his hand deep down in his friend's pocket, precisely as if it had been his own. The attorney-general made believe to strike out backward with his left hand—his right being full of papers. But he laughed, and he did not turn his head to see how much money the priest had taken and was calmly transferring to his own pocket. And then, chuckling and nodding his gray head, Father Orin quietly made his way round the court room, keeping close to the wall, and taking care to pass behind the jury which sat on a bench of boards laid across two logs. He was now making his way to the little platform of logs on which the judge was sitting. The judge saw him coming and hastily shook his head, knowing from long experience what he was coming for. But Father Orin only chuckled more merrily and drew nearer. When he put out his hand the judge surrendered, knowing how useless it would be to resist while a few Spanish dollars or even a few bits of cut money were left in his wallet, or there was want in the wilderness which the priest's persistence could relieve. But his left eyebrow went up very high in a very acute angle, as he leant far over to one side and ran his hand into the depths of his breeches pocket.
"There!" he said, handing over what he had. "I am glad I haven't got any more. Hereafter, when I see you coming, I'm going to take to the woods. Much or little, you always get all there is," he said, ostentatiously buttoning the flap over his empty pocket. "Oh, by the way, Father, somebody wants you over yonder in that corner. Those men, standing there, asked me just now if I knew where you were. They have got into some sort of a snarl, and they want you to straighten it out."
"Very well, I will go and see," said the priest, simply, being used to all sorts of calls, temporal as well as spiritual.
The two men had already seen him, and were standing to receive him when he came up. One of them was a member of his own church and known to him as a man of large affairs. The other, a lawyer and a Protestant, he had a much slighter acquaintance with. It was the lawyer who spoke after both had greeted him warmly, as if they felt his appearance to be a relief.
"We have been hoping you might come. We are in trouble and think you are the man to help us set matters right," said the lawyer.
"What is it?" laughed Father Orin. "I don't know anything about law."
The lawyer laughed too. "Well, you see, Father, it isn't law exactly. That is, not the kind of law that I know. That's just where you come in. It's this way. My client here has won a suit. He was bound to win it and I told him so before it came to trial. The law was clear enough. But you see, Father, law isn't always justice. You can keep within the law and do mighty mean things. And my client here doesn't want to do anything that isn't right. He, as you know, is a clean, straight man. He has scruples about the rights that this decision gives him. It's a knotty question. The other man thinks that he is being cheated, and my client isn't quite sure himself. I didn't know what to advise in such a case. I could tell him what the law of the land and the court—of this court—was, and I have told him. But I couldn't tell him anything about the law of that other land or that Higher Court. I don't know any more about those than you know about my laws and my court. And so we have decided to ask you, to leave the whole dispute to you, and the other man has agreed to let you decide it. He is a Protestant, as I am, but that has nothing to do with this business. We are all perfectly willing to leave it to you; we will all abide by your decision without another word."
Father Orin hesitated. "I don't know that I can see any more clearly than the rest of you. Well, call the other man," he then said. "We can try to find out what is right, anyway. We can't go far wrong if we do our best to treat the other man as we should like him to treat us. Come over here where we will be more to ourselves, and fetch the other man."
The judge was too busy to notice the consultation, but after a while he saw the four men leaving the court room together, with quiet, smiling faces. They all stopped for a moment in the doorway to allow Father Orin to shake hands with Peter Cartwright. The young preacher had been delayed on his way, and was just now entering the court-house. He did not smile when the priest said something which made the others laugh. His square jaw was grimly set, and his fiery black eyes looked over the heads of the crowd at the tall figure of General Jackson which towered above every one else in the court room, with the exception of the attorney-general. These two great lawyers still stood absorbed in low-toned conversation. But the young preacher had no eyes for Joe Daviess nor for any one except Andrew Jackson. As soon as he could free his hand from Father Orin's clasp he entered the court room and went straight up to General Jackson and stood still in front of him, looking at him. Both the gentlemen turned in surprise at the young backwoodsman's abrupt approach. Both were much older and taller than he, and very different altogether from this square-built, rough-mannered youth. But they may have felt the power that was his as well as theirs, for neither gave a sign of the impatience that both were quick to feel and almost as quick to show. Peter Cartwright was gazing steadily up into General Jackson's eagle eyes—which few could face, which turned many a stout heart from a firm purpose—without swerving for an instant from what he meant to do.
[Illustration: "'I wanted to shake the hand of a man like you.'"]
"This is General Jackson, I believe," he said.
Andrew Jackson bent his haughty head. His gaze was now enough to make the bravest flinch. But the young preacher went on without the slightest flinching.
"I have been told, sir, that you wanted to see me. I am Peter Cartwright. I understand that you intend to chastise me for what I said at the camp-meeting. Well, here I am."
Andrew Jackson stared at him silently for a moment, as if he did not get the drift of the words. And then he suddenly burst into a great roar.
"The man who told you that was an infernal fool! I did say that I wanted to see you—to meet you. But I said so because I desired the honor of knowing you, sir. I wanted to shake the hand of a man like you. Will you give it to me now, sir? I shall take it as an honor. I am proud to know a man who is ready to do his duty in spite of anybody on God's earth—as a preacher should be. A minister of Jesus Christ should love everybody, and fear no mortal man. Give me your hand again, sir. By the eternal, if I had a few officers like you, and a well-drilled army, I could take old England!"
With the meeting of the two men's hands a shout rang out from the crowd now pressing in at the door. Shout followed shout, till the outcry sounded far through the forest. It reached the ears of Philip Alston and William Pressley, who were riding slowly toward the court-house. They spurred their horses forward, wondering what could be the cause of the unusual noise and excitement. When they had reached the court-house and learned what the shouting meant, Philip Alston smiled in approval.
"Very fine, very patriotic," he said.
But his real attention was not for the crowd; he cared nothing for its cries. He was looking at Joe Daviess and Andrew Jackson, the two famous attorneys, who were again absorbed in grave, low-toned consultation.
"Do you happen to know, William, what these distinguished gentlemen are discussing with such interest and gravity? It must be something of importance. But of course you know, my dear boy. You needn't tell me if it is any matter of state or any sort of a secret. I asked without thinking. Pardon me," said Philip Alston.
He spoke in a low tone of gentle indifference. There was nothing to indicate that he felt any special interest, but William Pressley answered the question at once, and without reserve. Nothing pleased that young man more than a chance to display his own first knowledge of political affairs, either local, state, or national. A single word of politics never failed to fire his ambition, to light that one spark in his cold eyes. And Philip Alston knew how to strike the flint that lit this spark, as he knew how to do almost anything that he wished to do. So that William now told him what it was that these two powerful guardians of the public peace and safety had met to discuss. He also told him everything that the judge had said of his own determination to do his utmost to aid Joe Daviess in carrying out the plans which were to be laid that day. Philip Alston listened in silence, with his eyes on General Jackson and Kentucky's attorney-general; looking first at the one and then at the other, admiring and appreciating both. He had a sincere, although purely intellectual admiration for any real greatness. Thus gazing at the two men he saw how great was the responsibility resting on them, and how ably and fearlessly they were meeting it. He realized clearly that these two grave, honest, earnest, fearless thinkers must find help for the whole country solely in the might of their own minds and in the strength of their own hands. He knew that no aid ever had been given, or ever would be given, by the government as none could know better than themselves. All this and much more came to Philip Alston, as he stood looking at Andrew Jackson and Joe Daviess while listening to William Pressley. Through his whole life this had been his attitude. He had always looked one way and rowed another, like the boatman in The Pilgrim's Progress.
"And doubtless you too are giving valuable assistance," he said, turning his inscrutable gaze on William Pressley, and speaking in the tone of deference which often covered his contempt. "You will, however, be in a position to make your services far more valuable and much more widely recognized, should the attorney-general resign. There can be no doubt of your succeeding him. No one else stands so close to the place. You shall have it without fail if any influence can aid you. And then, when things are as we wish them to be in this vicinity, we will send you to Congress to look after our larger interests. But in order to do this, we must both keep a keen lookout beforehand—there must be no mistakes. It might be well for you to meet me to-morrow at Anvil Rock. I shall pass there at twelve o'clock on my way to Duff's Fort. You can then tell me the plans which these able gentlemen are now making. You will learn them from your uncle. Take care to remember the smallest detail. Bear in mind, my dear boy, that you will soon have this whole responsibility on your own shoulders. You are now in excellent training for it. Everything that passes between these brilliant lawyers must be of personal value to you in the discharge of your future duties, and to me, also, in order that I may serve you."
William's chest swelled out with pride, and he held his head higher in conscious rectitude. He had not a doubt of his ability to fill the place, nor thought of doubting that he was doing what was right and wise in being perfectly candid with Philip Alston. He thought it most likely that he could secure the appointment without that gentleman's influence. He was quite sure that he would not require any one's assistance in filling it. Still, he was willing to pay all proper deference to an old friend, and to the foster-father of the girl who was to be his wife. These thoughts were an open book which Philip Alston read with another queer smile, while thanking him for the promise to come to Anvil Rock.
"I will leave you now," Philip Alston said. "I have business to-day, also, at Duff's Fort. And you, left alone, will be free to join your uncle and the distinguished gentlemen who are working with him."
The two great lawyers had not seen Philip Alston up to the moment that he turned to leave the court-house, when General Jackson's eagle eye fell upon him.
"Why, there's Philip Alston now!" he exclaimed in an undertone and with a frown. "The splendid audacity of the magnificent rascal! Think of his coming here—right under our noses—to-day, too, of all days! And he knows perfectly well that we know him to be the leader, the originator, the head and the brains of all this villany!"
"Yes. But how are we going to prove it?" asked the attorney-general. "Believing a thing and proving it are two different things. If I could only once get my hand on a particle of evidence.—Do you suppose he could have known what we were talking about?" with sudden uneasiness. "He is intelligent enough to guess, without hearing a word. It is scarcely possible that Judge Knox could have been so thoughtless as to speak of our plans to his nephew—that solemn, pompous young fool who was with Alston. Surely, even Robert Knox couldn't have been so indiscreet in a matter of life and death, such as this!"
"Not when he was sober; and he hasn't been drinking to-day. As for yesterday—that is another matter," said General Jackson. "Robert Knox always means to do exactly what is right, but what a man means is sometimes very different from what he does, especially when he doesn't know what he is doing."
IX
PAUL'S FIRST VISIT TO RUTH
None of this strife had yet touched Cedar House. Even the hazy sadness which had dimmed Ruth's bright spirits as she had watched the young preacher ride away, had passed as quickly as mist before the sun. For it is one of the mercies that happy youth never sees life's struggle quite clearly, and that it is soon allowed to forget the fleeting glimpses which may cloud its happiness for an instant.
Her thoughts were now solely of the young doctor's coming. He had not named the hour; the epidemic made him uncertain of his own time. But he had said that he would come during the day, so that it was necessary to be ready to receive him at any moment. And there were many pleasant things to do in preparation for his coming. More roses were to be gathered, and other flowers also, were blooming gayly among the sober vegetables as if it were mid-summer. So that the first thing Ruth did was to strip the garden, with David to help her and no one to hinder.
The judge and William had gone away from the house as soon as breakfast was over, saying they would try to return in time to see the visitor. Miss Penelope was busy in seeing that the coffee-pot was washed with hot water and rinsed with cold, and scoured inside and out till it shone like burnished silver. The widow Broadnax, too, was as busy as she ever was, sitting in her usual place in the chimney-corner, looking like some large, clumsily graven image in dark stone, and watching her half-sister's every movement without winking or turning her head. So that Ruth and David were left to follow their own fanciful devices, free to put flowers everywhere. They wrought out their fancies to the fullest and the more fantastic, as the artistic instinct rarely fails to do in its first freedom. When they were done, the great room of Cedar House was an oddly charming sight, worth going far to see. Never before had it been so wonderful, strange, and beautiful. It had now become an enchanted bower of mingled bloom and fragrance, shadowed within yet open to the sun-lit day and the flashing river.
"There!" cried Ruth, looking round, with her head on one side. "There isn't one forgotten spot for another flower. Now, I must run and dress. And you must wait here till I come back, David, dear, for the doctor may arrive at any moment, and somebody should be ready to welcome him. Why! aunt Molly has actually followed aunt Penelope clear to the kitchen, so that there is no one left but you. Don't go till I come back."
She went up the broad, dark stairs, turning on almost every step to look down over the room and drink in the beauty and sweetness. David, also, drank it in still more eagerly, taking deep intoxicating draughts, as the thirsty take cool, sparkling wine. He then sat quietly looking about and waiting. His book was in his pocket, as it nearly always was when not in his hand. But he had grown shy of reading "The Famous History of Montilion—Knight of the Oracle, Son to the true Mirror of Princes, the most Renowned Pericles, showing his Strange Birth, Unfortunate Love, Perilous Adventures in Arms: and how he came to the Knowledge of his Parents, interlaced with a Variety of Pleasant and Delightful Discourse," since Ruth had laughed at it, and had laid the blame for his weakness upon the romance. And then his craving for the romantic and beautiful was satisfied for the moment by gazing about this big, strange, shadowy, embowered room. Moreover, Ruth came back very soon. When beauty is young, fresh, natural, and very, very great, it does not need much time for its adornment. Ruth's toilet was like a bird's. A quick dip in pure, cold water—a flutter of soft garments as the radiant wings cast off the crystal drops—and she was ready to meet the full glory of the sunlight. When she thus came smiling down the stairs that day, with the dew of life's morning fresh upon her, David turned from the flowers.
"Yes, indeed! Isn't it a lovely frock!" she cried, running her hand lightly over the big, puffy, short sleeve. "It is one of the last uncle Philip had made in New Orleans, and fetched up the river. You might draw this muslin through my smallest ring. See this dear little girdle—way up here right under my arms—and so delicately worked in these pale blue forget-me-nots, that look as if they were just in bloom. See!"—lifting the gauzy skirt as a child lifts its apron—"Here is a border of the forget-me-nots all around the bottom. But you are such a goose that you don't know how pretty it is unless I tell you," pretending to shake him, with trills of happy laughter. "All the same, you shall look at the slippers, too! You shall see that the kid is as blue as the forget-me-nots,—whether you want to or not!" drawing back the skirt and putting out her foot.
And the boy gazing at her face, forgot his bashfulness far enough to admire the frock and the slippers as much as she thought they deserved. Neither of these children of the wilderness knew how unsuitable her dress was, that it had never been intended for wearing in the morning anywhere, or for the forest at any time. Ruth had worn only the daintiest and finest of garments all her life, without any regard for suitableness. From her babyhood to this day of her girlhood, it had been Philip Alston's pride and happiness to dress her as the proudest and richest father might dress his daughter, in the midst of the highest civilization. Ruth knew nothing else, and those who knew her would scarcely have known her, seeing her otherwise. It was only the few strangers stopping at Cedar House, on their way over the Wilderness Road, who gazed at Ruth in wondering amazement. Naturally enough, those who had never seen her before could not at first believe the evidence of their own dazzled eyes. To them this radiant young creature in her rich, delicate raiment could not seem real at first; she was too lovely, too like an enchanting vision born of the dim green shadows of the forest, a bewitching dryad, an exquisite sprite.
Some such thoughts as these crossed the mind of Paul Colbert as he looked at her through the open door. He had ridden up unheard, had dismounted, tying his horse to a tree, and had then stood for several minutes without being seen by Ruth or David. When he spoke, they thought that he had just arrived. Ruth went forward to welcome him with the ease and grace that marked everything she did. Nature had given her a pretty, gentle dignity, and Philip Alston's cultured example had polished her manner. She now did all the graceful offices of the hostess, quietly and simply. She said how sorry she was that neither her uncle nor her cousin was at home. They wished, she said, to be there when he came, so that they might try to thank him for his kindness to her. But one or the other would return very soon; both had hoped to do so before his arrival.
"It is early for a visit," Paul Colbert said, in a tone of apology; "but
I couldn't come at all to-day, unless I stopped now in passing."
"Oh, no!" said Ruth, quickly. "It isn't very early."
"And then I thought you might like to see this," he said.
Rising, he stepped to her side, and gave her a sheet of paper torn from his note-book and covered with writing. He did not return to the chair which he had arisen from, but took another much nearer her own.
"Poetry!" she said. "Is it something that you have written?"
He smiled. "I have merely copied it. I saw the poem for the first time an hour or so ago at Mr. Audubon's. It is new and has never been printed. It was written by the young English poet, John Keats, to his brother George Keats, who is a partner of Mr. Audubon in the mill on the river. Mr. Keats and his wife are here now, the guests of Mr. Audubon. The poem came in a letter which has just been received. I have copied a part of it, and a few words from the letter, also. Mr. George Keats was kind enough to allow me, and I thought you would like to see them. I hadn't time to copy the entire poem, though it isn't very long."
"It was very kind," said Ruth. "I am so glad to see it. May I read it now? This is what the letter says," reading it aloud, so that David also might hear. "If I had a prayer to make for any great good … it should be that one of your children should be the first American poet?"
"The first English hand across the sea!" said Paul Colbert.
Ruth read on from this letter of John Keats to his brother: "I have a mind to make a prophecy. They say that prophecies work out their own fulfilment." And then she read as much of "A Prophecy" as the doctor had copied.
* * * * *
"Though, the rushes that will make
Its cradle are by the lake—
Though the linen that will be
Its swathe is on the cotton tree—
Though the woollen that will keep
It warm is on the silly sheep—
Listen, starlight, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
And hear my lullaby!
Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee!
Midst the quiet all around thee!
Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee!
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee.
Child, I know thee! Child no more,
But a poet ever-more!
See, see, the lyre, the lyre!
In a flame of fire
Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring,
Past the eyesight's bearing.
Wake it from its sleep,
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze—
Amaze, amaze!
It stares, it stares, it stares,
It dares what none dares!
It lifts its little hand into the flame
Unharmed and on the strings
Paddles a little tune and sings,
With dumb endeavor sweetly—
Bard thou art completely;
Little child,
O' the western wild…."
Ruth looked at Paul with shining eyes. "I thank you again for thinking that I would like this," she said.
"A little chap whom I saw last night made me feel like making a prophecy that he would be the first Kentucky astronomer," said Paul, with a smile. "He was hardly more than a baby, not much over two years old—a toddling curly-head. Yet there he stood by the roadside, looking up at the heavens, as solemn as you please. And he said that 'man couldn't make moons.' I didn't hear him say this, but his brother repeated what he said."
"Yes, I know. You mean' little Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel. His people live near here, over on Highland Creek. His father came there from Virginia. He intended to bore for salt water, meaning to make salt. But he found more interest in the wild multiflora roses that bloom all around the Lick, and the bones of unknown animals buried fifty feet beneath the surface of the earth—though the bones were not found just there—but farther off at another Lick."
"Then Master Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel is the true son of his father," smiled Paul Colbert. "Neither seems commonplace enough to be content with what everyday people find between heaven and earth."
He said this idly, as we all speak to one another when casting about for mutual interests before really knowing each other. Thus the talk drifted for a few moments, with a shy word now and then from David. And presently a chance reference to the epidemic brought a new light into the doctor's eyes, and a new earnestness into his voice.
"The fathers and mothers of the country are much alarmed for their children," he said. "But there is far more need to be alarmed for themselves. The Cold Plague attacks the strong rather than the weak. But all the people, young and old, everywhere through the wilderness, are almost frantic with terror. They fear infection from every newcomer. There was a panic throughout this vicinity a few days ago, over the landing of a flatboat, and the coming ashore of the unfortunates who were on it. They were in a most pitiful plight. I hope never to see a sadder sight than that poverty-stricken little family. But they were not suffering from any disease more contagious than want; they were only cold, wet, tired, hungry, and disheartened. The poor mother was sitting on the damp sand near the water's edge, with her little ones around her, when I found them. They were merely stopping to rest on their way from another portion of the state, to the wild country on the other side of the river."
"We saw them, too, poor things," said Ruth, quickly, with pity in her soft eyes. "Father Orin and Toby came by to tell us, and David and I went at once to do what we could. I can't forget how the mother looked. She was young, but had such a sad, haggard face, with such a prominent forehead, and such steady gray eyes. She held a strange looking little child on her lap. She said that her name was Nancy Lincoln, and she called the baby 'Abe.' He couldn't have been more than two years of age, but he looked up at Father Orin, and from his face to ours, like some troubled little old man."
"Yes, Father Orin and Toby were first to the rescue, as they always are. I can't imagine when those two sleep, and I am sure they never rest when awake."
And then, seeing her interest and sympathy, he went on to tell of three little ones, orphaned by the plague, and left alone and utterly helpless, in a cabin on the Wilderness Road. As he spoke, he remembered with a pang of self-reproach, that Father Orin was with them now and waiting for him. He rose suddenly, saying that he must go, but a slight noise at the door caused him to pause and turn. It was William Pressley coming in, and Ruth went forward to meet him, and introduced him to the doctor, who sat down again for a few moments. The two young men then talked with one another as strangers do, of the current topics of the day and the country, speaking mostly of the Shawnee danger—the one subject then most earnestly and universally discussed throughout the wilderness. The nearest approach to a personal tone was in William Pressley's formal expression of thanks. Paul Colbert put these aside as formally as they were offered, and in a moment more he got up to take leave. Yet in that brief space the two men had begun to dislike each other.
This was natural enough on the part of William Pressley. It is indeed the first instinct of his kind toward any equal or superior. When a man's or a woman's vanity is so great that it instinctively and instantly levies on all within reach—demanding incense—nothing can be so dislikeful as a bearing which refuses to swing the censer. From its very nature it must instantly resent any such conscious or unconscious claim to equality, to say nothing of superiority. Those so afflicted must of necessity like only their inferiors and must have only inferiors for friends, if they have any friends at all. So that this is maybe the real reason why many reasonably good and perfectly sincere men and women go almost friendless through useful and blameless lives. And this was William Pressley's natural feeling toward Paul Colbert. The honest, sincere young lawyer could have forgiven the honest, sincere young doctor almost any real sin or weakness and have liked him well enough; but he could not forgive the polite indifference of his manner toward himself, or his looking over his head at Ruth, or turning from him to speak to David. Least of all could he forgive him for being at that moment the most conspicuous figure in the whole region, on account of his single-handed struggle with the mysterious disease, which, defying the other doctors, had been devastating the new settlements of the wilderness. Nor could the difference in their aims affect this feeling in the least. To a nature like William Pressley's, anything won by another is something taken from himself. Yet the dislike for Paul Colbert, which thus hardened within him, had no taint of jealousy in the ordinary sense of that term. He did not think of Ruth at all in the matter. It did not occur to him to associate her with this stranger, or with any one but himself. It was in keeping with his character for him to be slower than a less vain man to suspect her—or any one whom he knew—of personal preference for another than himself; for vanity of this supreme order has its comforts as well as its torments.
On the part of Paul Colbert, the feeling was wholly different, and largely impersonal. It was merely the dislike that every busy man feels for a new acquaintance which promises no interest, even at the outset. Had he been less busy, and his mind more free, he might perhaps have found some amusement in trying to find out how far this serious young man was mistaken in his high estimate of himself. He thought at a first glance that he was a good deal in error, but he also saw that he was sincere in his conviction; so that the young doctor was tolerantly amused at the lofty air of the young lawyer, without the slightest feeling of real resentment. He made one or two straightforward, friendly efforts to thaw the ice of William Pressley's manner. His own was naturally frank and cordial. He always wished to be liked, which is the natural wish of every truly kind nature. And then, above and beyond this, was the right-minded lover's instinctive desire to secure the good-will of all who are near the one whom he loves; for Paul Colbert had fallen in love with Ruth, and he knew it, as few do who have fallen in love at first sight. He could, indeed, have told the very instant at which love had come—like a bolt from the blue.
He was therefore more than willing to be friendly with William Pressley, and already seeking a pretext to come again. He now said, turning to Ruth with a smile:
"Since you are fond of poetry, perhaps you will allow me to fetch you a new volume of poems by a young Englishman, Lord Byron. A friend sent it to me from London. He says it is being severely treated by the critics. They say that they never would have believed that any one could have been as idle and as worthless generally, as those 'Hours of Idleness' prove the author to be. But I think you will like the poems, especially one called 'The Tear.' It is said that the poet means to write something about Daniel Boone."
"There should be many tears in that poem," said Ruth, a shadow falling over the brightness of her face. "To think of the poor old hero as he is now makes the heart ache."
"It should make us all ashamed," said Paul Colbert. "He gave us the whole state, and we are not willing to give him back enough of it to rest his failing feet upon, nor a log cabin to shelter his feeble body, worn out in our service. It is the blackest ingratitude. It is a disgrace to the commonwealth."
"Pardon me," said William Pressley, with his cool smile; "but as I look at the matter, there is no one but himself to blame. It is solely the result of his own negligence and ignorance. He did not observe the plain requirement of the law."
"But, William," said Ruth, impulsively, with a brighter color in her cheek, "just think! How could he know—a simple old hunter, just like a little child, only as brave as a lion!" There was a quiver in her voice and a flash in her soft eyes.
"We can but hope that the state will remember what it owes," said the doctor, moving toward the door.
He felt that he had been tempted to linger too long. Father Orin was still waiting for him in the desolate cabin where the Cold Plague had left the three orphans. His conscience smote him for lingering, and yet he could not leave, even now, without speaking again of the poems, and saying that he would fetch the book and leave it the next time he rode by Cedar House.
When he was gone, Ruth looked at William Pressley in silent, troubled perplexity. She was wondering vaguely why she had felt so ashamed—almost as if she had done some shameful thing herself—when he had spoken as he had done before the doctor about Daniel Boone. It must have been plain to the visitor that she did not think as William thought. And yet she flinched again, recalling the doctor's glance at William, and wondered why it should have hurt her, as if it had fallen upon herself. She was not old enough or wise enough to have learned that the mere promise to marry a man makes a sensitive woman begin forthwith, to feel responsible for everything that he says and does; and that this is one of the deep, mysterious sources of the misery and happiness of marriage.
X
FATHER ORIN AND TOBY MEET TOMMY DYE
Under the spur of his conscience the young doctor rode fast. He was not the man to let duty wait even on love, without trying to make amends. But a sharper pang stung him when he reached the desolate cabin in which the Cold Plague had left the orphans.
It seemed to him that Toby, standing by the broken door, gave him a look of reproach. Toby had not failed or been slow in doing his part; Father Orin and he had already done all that they could, though this was piteously little. The one had cut fire-wood from the near-by fallen trees, and the other had drawn it to the cabin door, so that there was a good fire blazing on the earthen hearth. But the rotting, falling logs of the cabin's walls were far apart, the mud which had once made them snug having dropped out; and the chilly, rising wind blew bitterly through the miserable hut. The covers on the bed were few and thin, although Father Orin had spread Toby's blanket over them. The three little white faces lying in a pathetic row on the ragged pillows, lay so still that the doctor was not sure they were alive, till the oldest child, a boy of three, languidly opened his eyes, looked up unseeingly, and wearily closed them again.
There was a tightening in the doctor's throat when he turned away, and he was glad to smile at Father Orin's housekeeping. The priest certainly had left nothing in his power undone, to keep life in the frail little bodies. On the hearth was such food as he had been able to prepare, carefully covered to keep it warm. As the young man's gaze thus wandered sadly about the cabin, his eyes encountered the old man's. The laughter with which he was fighting emotion died on his lips, and their hands met in a close clasp.
"The poor little things!" the young man said. "Ah, Father, it is wild work—this making of a state. The soil of Kentucky should bear a rich harvest. It is being deeply sown in pain and sorrow, and well-watered with tears and blood."
They stood silent for a moment, looking helplessly at the bed and the little white faces.
"What shall we do?" then asked Father Orin. "These children can't stay here through another night. That wind blows right over the bed, and there is no way to keep it out. They could hardly live till morning. And yet they may die on the way if we try to take them to the Sisters at once."
"That is their only chance. We are bound to take the risk. We must do our best to get them to the Sisters as quickly as possible. Women know better than doctors how to take care of babies. What is there to put round them—to wrap them in?"
There were no wrappings, nothing that could be used for the purpose, except the bed covers and Toby's blanket. The men took these and with awkward tenderness covered the helpless, limp little bodies as well as they could. Father Orin then went out of the cabin, and with a nod summoned Toby to do his part. When the priest was seated in the saddle, the doctor turned back to the bed, and lifting one of the three limp little burdens, carried it out and carefully placed it in Father Orin's arms.
"But you can't carry both of the others," said the priest, in sudden perplexity. "And we can't leave one here alone while we take the others and return. Maybe it would be better to take one at a time. I can either stay or go."
"Oh, no, indeed! I can take these two easy enough—one on each arm. They weigh nothing—poor little atoms—and I don't need a hand for the reins. My horse often goes in a run with them thrown over the pommel. He went on a bee-line with them so last night."
With both arms thus filled with the helpless morsels of humanity, he had no trouble in seating himself in the saddle. He laughed a little, thinking what a spectacle they must make; and Father Orin laughed too, with the shamefacedness that the best men feel when they do such gentle things. And then the strange, pathetic journey through the wilderness began.
[Illustration: Father Orin and Toby.]
"Steady, Toby. That's right, old man," said the priest, now and then.
The doctor kept a close, anxious watch over the child in Father Orin's arms, and frequently glanced down at the two little faces lying in the hollow of his own arms. Any one of the three,—or all of them—might cease to breathe at any moment. It seemed to both the anxious men that they were a long time in going to the Sisters' house, although the distance was but a few miles. When the log refuge first came in sight through the trees, they breathed a deep sigh of relief in the same breath. The Sisters, who had been warned, saw them coming, and ran to meet them, and took the babies from their arms. When the little ones had been borne in the house and put to bed, the doctor sat down beside them to see what more might be done. But the priest, without rest or delay, set out on another errand of mercy. Toby, needing no word or hint, at once quickened his pace, knowing full well the difference between this business and that which was just finished, so far as they were responsible.
"You're right, old man. Keep us up to the mark, right up to the mark," chuckled Father Orin. "I'm mighty tired, and I'm afraid I might shirk if you would let me."
As he bent down with a bantering chuckle to pat the horse's inflexible neck, a man's voice suddenly hailed them from the darkening woods lying at their back.
"Hello! Hello! Hold on!" the unseen man shouted.
They turned quickly and stood still, looking in the direction from which the shouting came. A horseman soon appeared under the trees and came galloping after them, and when he had drawn nearer, the priest saw, with some annoyance, that it was Tommy Dye. As he reined up beside them, Toby turned his head slowly and gave the horse precisely the same look that Father Orin gave the rider. Toby wanted to have nothing more to do with a tricky race-horse than Father Orin wished to have to do with a shady adventurer.
Tommy Dye looked at them both with a grin. "I saw you just now—you and the new doctor—a-toting them there youngsters."
Father Orin straightened up, feeling and showing the embarrassment and indignation that every man, lay and clerical alike, feels and shows at being seen by another man acting as a nurse to a child.
"Well, what of it?" he retorted, as naturally as if he had never worn a cassock.
Tommy Dye grinned again, more broadly than before. He took off his hat and rubbed his shock of red hair the wrong way. The humor of the recollection became too much for him, and he roared with laughter. Toby of his own indignant accord now moved to go on, and Father Orin gathered up the reins saying rather shortly that he had urgent business, and must be riding along.
"I say—wait a minute. What makes you in such an all-fired hurry?" Tommy
Dye called after them.
Toby stopped reluctantly, and he and Father Orin waited with visible unwillingness, until Tommy Dye came up again and stammeringly began what he had to say. He did not know how to address a priest. He had never before had occasion to speak to a churchman of any denomination. So that he now plunged in without any address at all:
"I say—who pays for them there youngsters, yonder?" he blurted.
Father Orin merely looked at him in silence for a moment, and then gathered up the reins once more.
Tommy Dye saw that there was something amiss, that he had made some mistake, and not knowing what it was, he resorted to the means which he usually employed to set all matters right. He hastily plunged his hand in the outer pocket of his coat, and then dropped the bottle back in its place still more hastily, after another glance at the priest.
"Well, I thought you might like it," he said with a touch of defiance, feeling it necessary to assert himself. "When a man's face is as red as yours, I don't see why a fellow mightn't ask him to take a drink."
Father Orin laughed with ready good humor.
"My face is red, my friend. I can't deny that fact; but the redness comes from a thin skin and rough weather. What is it you want? I haven't time to wait."
"Say, I kinder thought, seeing you and the doctor with them babies just now,"—grinning again at the comical recollection—"that maybe you would let me come into the game. I'd like to take a hand in the deal, if there's room for another player. I'll put up the stakes right now." His hand went into his breeches pocket this time. "Here's the roll I won on the fall races. Put it all up on the game. What's the odds? Come easy, go easy."
He held out the money. "I saw you at the court-house, too," he added sheepishly, as if trying to excuse what he did.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Father Orin, gravely. "I didn't understand. I've done you great injustice."
"Hey? What did you say?"
"The Sisters would be only too glad to use this money for those children, and for other little ones just as helpless and needy," murmuring something about the use purifying the source. "But I want you to take it to them yourself, and give it to them with your own hands."
"Me! Old Tommy Dye!"
The coarse face actually turned pale under its big freckles. Its dismay was so comical that Father Orin laughed till the woods rang with his hearty, merry voice. Toby turned his head in sober disapproval of such unseemly levity, and Tommy Dye was a good deal miffed.
"'Pears to me you are mighty lively—and most of the time, too," he said, in a tone of offence, tinged with wonder.
"Why not?" said the priest, still chuckling. "Why shouldn't I be lively?"
Tommy Dye hesitated, more puzzled now than angry. "Well, you see, your job has always seemed to me just about the lonesomest there is."
Father Orin began to laugh again, but he was hushed by the soft, sweet pealing of the Angelus through the shadowed forest. The gambler also listened, with a softening change in the recklessness of his face.
"The sound of that bell always makes me feel queer," he stammered. "It sets me to thinking about home, too,—and home folks. I'm blamed if I can see how it is. I never had any home, and if I've got any kin-folks, I don't know where they live. But anyhow, that's the way the ringing of that bell always makes me feel. Say! there's lots of things about your church that come over a fellow like that. Now there the very name of that little house back yonder amongst them trees—Our Lady's Chapel. That's just it—just to the notch what I mean—there's something kind of homelike in the name itself. And that's the very difference between your church and the other churches. The Protestant church seems real lonesome, like a sort of bachelor's hall. The Catholic church makes you feel at home, because there's always a mother in the house."
"Take care!" exclaimed the priest. "But I am sure you don't mean to be irreverent, my friend. And about your generosity to the orphans. Here, let me give the money back. I am in earnest in asking you to give it to the Sisters with your own hands. When they see you and you see them, you will both understand each other better than if I were to try ever so long and hard to explain."
He looked at Tommy Dye for a moment with a returning smile, but the pity of it all put the humor aside.
"The doctor will be coming along in a moment—ah, there he comes now! I will ask him to go with you to see the Sisters. I am sorry that I cannot turn back with you myself. I should be glad to."
It did not take long to state the case to the doctor, who readily agreed to do what the priest asked. Tommy Dye was by this time so thoroughly cowed by the situation in which he thus found himself that he no longer resisted. There was one uncertain instant when, seeing the Sisters appear in the door, he was undecided whether to run away or go on. But he was afraid to flee, with the Sisters' eyes upon him, and the doctor led him into the house. The ladies had been frightened by the doctor's unexpected and speedy return; but he soon quieted their fears, and made them happy by telling them the reason of his turning back. Sister Teresa, the Lady Superior, keenly touched, quickly turned to Tommy Dye and he handed her the money in awkward haste.
"How good of you! How generous—how noble! Ah, you don't know how much good this will do," she said, with her eyes full of tears. "We thank you with all our hearts for ourselves and for the children."
"Thank you,—ma'am," stammered Tommy Dye, scarlet, and almost dumb.
None of the many sins of which he had been suspected had ever made him feel nearly so uncomfortable as he felt now. None of the many sins of which he had been convicted had ever made him look half so guilty as he looked now.
"You mustn't call me 'ma'am,'" said Sister Teresa. "You must call me Sister, and Sister Elizabeth and Sister Angela are your sisters, too. You must always think of us as your real sisters, and the little ones belong to you after this, as much as they do to us. You must always remember that. Will you come into the other room and see them? Or I will fetch—"
But Tommy Dye could not endure any more. He turned with hardly a word, and fled in desperate haste. The Sisters gazed after him in surprise, and with a good deal of alarm, until Paul Colbert told them about him, who and what he was, of his meeting with Father Orin, and the whole story of the money.
"The poor fellow," said Sister Teresa, softly. "We will pray that the gift may bring him some of the good that it will do the children. Yes, we will hereafter remember him, also, in the prayers for our benefactors," turning her gentle, smiling gaze on the young doctor.
And then he reddened almost as suddenly as Tommy Dye had done, and he likewise was hastening to make his escape when Sister Teresa called him back, to ask if he would not be passing Cedar House on the way home. He said that he would, reddening again. Whereupon the Sister begged as a favor, that he would stop at the door and tell Ruth to come on the next day, if possible, to look at the sewing which Sister Angela was doing for her.
"Sister Angela is a wonderful needle-woman," Sister Teresa could not help adding with modest pride. "She learned to sew and to do the finest embroidery while she was studying in a convent in France. She could earn a great deal of money for the little ones if we were where there were more patrons who wished to have such fine sewing done. But nobody in this wild country ever wants it except Mr. Alston for Ruth."
"Mr. Alston for Ruth," Paul Colbert repeated, wonderingly.
"Oh, yes. He thinks nothing is fine enough for Ruth," said Sister Teresa, simply. "And he pays anything that Sister Angela asks. He never says a word about the price. Sometimes I fear we ask too much. But then, the children need so many things, and we have so few ways of earning money. You won't mind stopping to tell Ruth, doctor? Ask her to come early to-morrow morning, please. And another thing, if it isn't too much trouble. Tell her to bring more of the finest thread lace."
This was the first time that Paul Colbert had heard Philip Alston's name associated with Ruth. It was a shock to hear the names called in the same breath, for he already knew as much of Philip Alston as any one was permitted to know. He was aware of the suspicion which blackened his reputation. He had learned this on first coming to the country. Father Orin, when asked, had told him something of the reasons for the general distrust and fear of the man. But the doctor himself had never seen him, and, naturally enough, thought of him as the usual coarse leader of lawlessness, only more daring and cunning, perhaps, than the rest of his kind. Thus it was that trying to understand only bewildered the young man more and more, so that he was still filled with shocked wonder when he came within sight of Ruth's home.
The day was nearing its close. In the forest bordering the bridle-path, dark shades were noiselessly marshalling beneath the great trees. But the sunset still reddened the river, and the reflected light shone on the windows of Cedar House. He glanced at her chamber window before seeing that she stood on the grass by the front door, giving the swan bits of bread from her fingers while the jealous birds, forgetting to go to roost, watched and scolded from the low branches overhead. But she had seen him a long way off and looked up as he approached.
"Isn't he a bold buccaneer?" she said, with a smile, meaning the swan. "We thought at first that he couldn't be tamed—Mr. Audubon, too, thought he couldn't—and we clipped his wings to keep him from flying away. And now he wouldn't go. See! He is the most daring creature. Why, he will go in the great room before everybody and walk right up to aunt Penelope when she's making the coffee, without turning a feather!"
It was not till he was leaving that Paul remembered the Sister's message which had served him as a pretext for stopping. And he was sorry when he had given it, for a shadow instantly came over the brightness of Ruth's beautiful face. Riding on to his cabin he wondered what could have cast the shadow.
XI
THE DANCE IN THE FOREST
She did not go on the next morning. That day had been chosen for the dance in the forest, one of the two merrymakings dearest to the hearts of those earliest Kentuckians. The May party came first, with its crowning of the queen of love and beauty and its dance round the May-pole; and after that this festival of dancing and feasting under the golden trees.
Both of these were held as regularly as the opening of the spring flowers and the tinting of the autumn leaves. No one ever asked why or when they were first begun; it was never the way of the Kentuckians to ask any questions about anything that they had always been used to. And indeed, had they tried ever so hard, they could hardly have found in their own history the origin of these ancient customs. Those must have been sought much farther back than the coming of those first settlers into the wilderness,—as far back, perhaps, as the oldest traditions of the purest stock of the old English yeomanry from which these people were sprung. For in their veins throbbed the same warm red blood, which, having little to do with the tilling of the soil or the building trade, had everything to do with the fighting of battles and the making of homes. For in their strong simple hearts was the same love of country that bore England's flag to victory, and the same love of the fireside that made peace as welcome as conquest.
And as these old English fighters had danced with their sweethearts on the greensward in the intervals between wars, so these fighters of the wilderness now went on with the dance in the forest just as if there had been no fierce conflict at hand. They might be called to fight to-morrow and they would be ready, but they would dance to-day, just as their forefathers had done. To go elsewhere than to the dance on the morning selected for it was, therefore, not to be thought of by any young person of the neighborhood. Ruth had asked David to take her, explaining that William Pressley could not accompany her quite so early as she wished to go. He had business which would detain him, she explained with a painful blush. And then, when she had said this with a troubled look, she flashed round on the boy, demanding to know why William should not do whatever he thought best.
"William always has a good reason for everything he does, or doesn't do. He is never neglectful of any duty. Never!" with her blue eyes, which were usually like turquoises, flashing into sapphires. "He takes time to think—time to be sure that he is right. He isn't forever rushing into mistakes and being sorry, like you and me!"
In another moment she laughed and coaxed, patting his arm.
"Do be ready, David, dear, and wear your nicest clothes," she said, in her sweetest way. "And no girl there will have a handsomer gallant than mine, than my Knight of the Oracle, my—"
The boy teased but smiling ran away to do her bidding, as he always did. He had no clothes besides the worn suit of homespun which he was then wearing, except one other of buckskin, gayly fringed on the sleeves and on the outer seam of the breeches. This had been his pride till of late. But he now took it down from its peg behind his cabin door and eyed it with new dissatisfaction. Fashions were changing in the wilderness. Gentlemen no longer clothed themselves in the skins of wild beasts, nor even in the coarse homespun. Not many, to be sure, were dressed like Philip Alston; but David had lately seen Mr. Audubon hunting in velvet knee-breeches and white silk stockings, with fine ruffles over his hands. That gentleman had laughed at himself for doing it, but the sight had pleased the boy's taste and gratified his craving for everything refined and beautiful. It humiliated him to have no choice between the shabby homespun and the fantastic buckskin. But he tried to find comfort in thinking that he would have a boughten suit before very long. The judge had given him a calf. The master of Cedar House was always kind when he did not forget, as has already been said, and he was most generous at all times. The calf was now ready for sale to the first passing buyer of cattle. Nevertheless, David sighed as he put on the buckskin suit, wishing, as only the young can wish for what they desire, that he had the boughten suit then to wear to the dance in the forest.
Yet Ruth smiled at him as if she were well pleased with his looks. There were, to be sure, certain tangles in the gay fringes for her deft fingers to untangle. There were, of course, many swift little touches to be given here and there, the caressing touches that no true woman can withhold from the dress of a man whom she is fond of. So that David's buckskin suit suddenly seemed to him just what it should be—as all that a man wears or has or is always does seem, when a woman's caressing touches have convinced him that everything is right. Indeed, David forgot to think any more of his own clothes or of himself. Looking at Ruth he thought only of her.
He did not know what it was that she wore. He did not know that the muslin of her dress had cost an hundred francs the yard. He did not know how charmingly odd the mode of its make was, since Ruth's little hands had planned it out of her own pretty head in enchanting ignorance of the fashion. He knew nothing of the value of the three-cornered kerchief of white lace which tied down her gypsy hat. He did not notice that the flowers on her hat were primroses, or that the long gloves meeting the short sleeves and the slender little slippers peeping from beneath her skirt, were both of the finest primrose kid. He saw only the beauty of her face smiling at him from under the gypsy hat, the sweetness of her red lips, and the charm of her blue eyes. And she seeing only the look that she had seen in every man's eyes ever since she could remember, was not made vain thereby, as a less beautiful girl might have been. She took it all for granted and thought no more about it. Rising on the tips of her toes, she put back an unruly lock of David's hair with a last loving little pat.
"There now! We are all ready," she said, with a happy sigh.
"Yes, the coffee is the first thing on the top of the basket," said Miss Penelope, coming in from the kitchen. "That's it in the biggest bottle. You can have it warmed over the campfire. I shouldn't like to drink warmed-over coffee, myself. But then nobody in this house ever thinks as I do about anything. It isn't my notion of what's right and proper—to say nothing of Christian—to be a-dancing when everybody ought to be a-praying. Not a day passes without something in the way of a warning. Now there is the big hole that they've just found in the earth right over yonder—a hollowness without end or bottom, and as dark as the bottomless pit. That's what it ought to be called, too—instead of the Mammoth Cave. For if that don't show that there is nothing but a dreadful, empty shell left of this awful world, I don't know what any true sign is. But all the same, I know very well that nobody in this house pays any attention to what I say. Howsomever, the works of the light-minded who are a-dancing on the edge of perdition don't make any difference in my plain duty. And I am a-going to do it as near as I can so long as I breathe the breath of life. When my cold, stiff hands are crossed under the coffin-lid, nobody left 'pon top of this mournful earth ever can say that I sat by, like a bump on a log, and never said a word when I saw all these awful calamities a-coming."
Thus voicing these vague alarms in her sweetest tones, Miss Penelope turned nervously and glanced at her half-sister. She was always afraid of her, as very talkative, restless people often are of those who say little and watch a great deal. But the widow Broadnax seemed to be dozing among her cushions, and Miss Penelope felt it quite safe to go on with the softly uttered threats which scattered the small dark servitors, who were still flying about her like a flock of frightened blackbirds, although the basket was packed.
"No," said Miss Penelope, "it don't make any difference in my duty. If folks won't listen to what I am bound to say, that is no fault of mine. My duty is to give warning when I see true signs of what's a-going to happen. For a true sign is as plain as daylight to me. I never had a caul, and I don't lay any claim to second sight. But I know what it means when I hear the dogs a-baying the midnight moon. I know, too, what's a-coming to pass when the death-watch goes thump, thump, thumping in the wall right over my head the whole blessed night. And more than that, I was a-looking for both these true signs of bad luck before I heard 'em. That big black ring round the comet's head that I've seen for a night or two back told me plain enough what to expect. And look at the things that have already happened—all over the country. Nobody in this world of trouble surely ever saw the like. Just look at the twins!"
This was the chance that the widow Broadnax had been waiting and watching for in motionless silence. She seized it as suddenly as a seemingly sleepy cat seizes an unwary mouse.
"I don't see any sign of bad luck in twins, or triplets either, for my part," she said hoarsely and loudly. "They are every one of 'em bound to be whole brothers and sisters. To my mind, it don't make any difference how big a family is so long as it ain't mixed up."
Ruth and David seized the basket, and escaped—laughing and running—carrying it between them.
The spot chosen for this Indian Summer dance in the forest was near Cedar House. It was one of the natural open spaces, of which there were many in the wilderness, and it overlooked the river. High walls of thick green leaves enfolded it upon three sides, and it had a broad level floor of greener sward. It was sun-lit when the shadowed woods were dark. In the spring the greensward was gay with wild flowers; for it was in these open spaces between the trees that Nature displayed her most brilliant floral treasures which would not bloom in the shade. In the fall the leafy walls were more brilliant than the flowery sward, and they now rose toward the azure dome, gorgeously hung with bronzed and golden vines, blossoming here and there with vivid scarlet leaves. Below ran a dazzling border of shrubs—the sumac, which does not wait for the coming of the frost king to put on its royal livery; the sassafras already gleaming with touches of fire; the wild grape as red as the reddest wine, and rioting over all the rich green; the bright wahoo with its graceful clusters of flame-colored berries overrunning its soberer neighbors; the hazel, the pawpaw, the dog-wood, the red-bud, the spice-wood, the sweet-strife, the angelica. On the west the velvet turf began to unroll gently downward toward the river. The quiet stream ran with molten silver on that flawless October day, and deep shadows of royal purple hung curtains of wondrous beauty above the water. Back under the trees the shadows were darkly blue, bluer even than the cloudless sky arching so high above the tall tree-tops.