CHAPTER IX
ON THE FORT WAYNE TRAIL
As silently as they had gone, the Indians returned. No one but the sentinels saw the ghostly procession when it passed the Fort from the southward, in the grey mists of dawn. Black Partridge was still at the head, the others following him in single file.
The deserted wigwams in the hollow were as they had left them, and inside of an hour they had taken up the thread of existence at the point where the annual pilgrimage had broken it off. Some exchanges of gifts were made among them; but, in the main, each one was satisfied with what he had received.
Early in the morning the chief went to the trading station, and, finding it deserted, went immediately to the Fort in search of his friend Shaw-nee-aw-kee. They had a long conversation on the parade-ground, and soldiers and civilians gathered around them, listening impatiently until the interpreter was ready to speak.
"I understand it now," said Mackenzie to the Captain. "He says that while they were up in Canada, the Chippewas and Ottawas sent speeches among them, saying the northern tribes had heard that the Pottawattomies and Winnebagoes were not upon good terms with the white people and that they desired them to be friendly. His own people only laughed, but the Winnebagoes determined to show their independence in a refusal to obey the commands of other tribes. So a dozen braves came here to take some white scalps, that they might flaunt them in the faces of the others. He says a large force was waiting in the woods, and that they would doubtless have killed every one outside of the Fort, even if they did not make an attack upon the Fort itself, but that the guns of the White Father frightened them away."
Here the chief began to talk again, with many gestures.
"He says," continued Mackenzie, "that we need not now be afraid, since he and his people have returned to protect us. He is sorry that his friends have suffered during his absence, and after this a part of the tribe will always remain here, while the others go after their gifts."
"We can go home, then," said Mrs. Mackenzie.
"Isn't he splendid!" exclaimed Beatrice. "I'd like to paint his picture. Do you think he'd let me, Uncle John?"
It took a great deal of explanation to make Black Partridge understand, but he finally consented, on condition that the picture would be given to him. "He's afraid the white squaw will make a charm," said Mackenzie.
"All right," laughed Beatrice. "I can make several sketches, and he can have one of the pictures. He needn't know I make more than one."
By night the Mackenzies were in their own home again, and, as the weeks passed, the fear was forgotten by all save Beatrice. She could not enter her own room without a vivid remembrance of her fright, coupled with the consciousness that she had cried like a baby, and that the Ensign had put his arm around her unrebuked. She hated herself for her weakness and blamed herself bitterly for her foolishness, because, if she had only stopped to think, she would have known the difference in sound between a moccasin and an army boot.
Still, at night, she would sometimes start from troubled dreams with the same deadly fear upon her and tremble long after she knew she was awake and safe. Behind it all was something she did not care to think of, but memory gave her no peace.
Pictures, clear and distinct, intruded upon her mental vision against her will. She saw Robert leaning on his musket, the only man in the Fort who was not up and doing when danger seemed imminent, and shuddered at the look on his face when she called him a coward. In his eyes there had been something of the same reproach with which a dog regards the well-loved master who has unjustly struck him. "Lexington!" she said to herself over and over again; "his fathers fought there, and I called their son a coward!"
Swiftly upon the memory came the sound of his voice when he had cried, "Beatrice, do you despise me?" and the sight of his strained, eager face, as he waited for her to speak. The knowledge of her answer made her shrink from herself with bitterness and shame. The obvious course of apology lay open to her, but her pride refused to humble itself that far. Time and time again she had determined to make partial atonement in that way, but her stubborn lips would not move to shape the word "forgive."
Robert seemed to have forgotten, and each day he made himself dearer to the Mackenzies. Between the trader and his college-bred nephew there slowly grew one of those rare friendships possible only to men. Mackenzie had not spent his life upon the frontier without learning to understand his fellow-man, and to read, though perhaps roughly, the inner meaning of outward semblances. In Robert he saw the blood of the Forsyths undefiled—the martial spirit was there, educated, refined, and tempered until it was akin to polished steel. From his mother the boy had received broad charity and a great gentleness, as well as the adamantine pride which is at once the strength and terror of a woman's heart.
Mrs. Mackenzie had quickly learned to love him, and with her he took the place of a grown son. He helped her in countless little ways, and often sat with his arm thrown over her shoulders while she sewed upon the rough garments her husband wore, and talked to him as she worked. The children idolised him.
From all this Beatrice felt herself an outcast, though there was no visible evidence that she was not one of them. The trader laughed and joked with her as he always had done, and her aunt regarded her with tender affection. Maria Indiana and the baby adored her, and the other children openly admired her, in spite of a lingering belief that she had broken one of the Ten Commandments. Still, she was not satisfied, for every day she remembered, with a pang of self-reproach, and Robert stood aloof. He never failed to be courteous and considerate, yet between them was a cold, impenetrable distance which never softened in the slightest degree.
Beatrice and Ronald were great friends. His unnatural shyness had worn off, but he did not treat her with the easy familiarity the other women at the post had learned to expect from him. He was quite capable of teasing Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Franklin to the limit of their endurance; but Mrs. Mackenzie and Beatrice were included in the manifestations of deep respect.
Mr. and Mrs. Burns decided to leave the post and go to Fort Wayne, where they had relatives, as soon as Mrs. Burns was able to travel. The man and boy who had escaped from the Indians at Lee's determined to go with them. The farm was too far away from the Fort to be altogether safe, and a kind of disembodied horror had hung about the place since the killing of the two men and the savage mutilation of their bodies.
Black Partridge and a few of the Pottawattomies volunteered to accompany them to Fort Wayne whenever they might be ready to start. For a time it was thought best to take one of the waggons at the Fort; but Spring was at hand, and there would doubtless be streams which a waggon could not successfully ford.
Ronald assisted Mr. Burns in selecting and packing the few things they were to take with them, and their household effects were distributed among the Indians who were to compose the guard. The four white people were to ride horseback and the Indians were to follow on foot, riding the horses back when the others had safely reached Fort Wayne.
"Miss Manning," said Ronald one afternoon, "we are having trouble in finding a horse suitable for Mrs. Burns. Would you be willing to lend her yours?"
"No, I wouldn't," snapped Beatrice.
"The horse will be brought back safely," pleaded the Ensign.
"No, she won't, because she isn't going."
Ronald's face changed and he left her without another word.
"I don't care," said Beatrice to herself; "she couldn't ride Queen anyway. Queen wouldn't let her—nobody has ever ridden her but me." Later, it occurred to her that she might have explained more fully to Ronald, but she put the thought from her as unworthy of a proud spirit. She knew that he had put her down as selfish, but repeatedly told herself that she did not care.
The day was set for their departure, and they were to start at sunrise. The night before, Beatrice found it impossible to sleep, and, long before daylight, she got up and dressed. Because there was nothing to do in the house and she was afraid of waking the others, she went out on the piazza.
Across the river there were signs of life, and she got into a pirogue with the laudable desire to say good-bye to Mrs. Burns. When she reached the Fort, Mrs. Franklin and Katherine were already up and assisting Mrs. Burns in her preparations for the journey; but the Captain and Lieutenant Howard were not there.
Suddenly it occurred to Beatrice that she might take Queen and ride a little way along the trail. She had been over the ground before and was not afraid to come back alone. Without saying anything of her intention, she appeared on the parade-ground, mounted, and met a chorus of protests.
"It isn't safe for you to go alone," said Mrs. Franklin.
"Please don't, Bee," added Katherine.
"Really, Miss Manning," observed Doctor Norton, "it is not best for you to go."
"I'm not afraid," replied the girl, with a toss of her head.
The party she had determined to escort, individually and collectively, offered feeble objections, which were immediately waved aside. "I'm going," said Beatrice, "because I want to, and because it would break Queen's heart if we went back now."
"What's all this fuss about?" inquired Ronald, sauntering up, and rubbing his eyes.
The women explained all at once, in incoherent sentences; but Beatrice did not appear to hear any part of the conversation until he ended it by saying, "She can go if she wants to, because I'm going along."
Beatrice bit her lip. "You are not," she said, in a tone of command.
"Yes, I am," he laughed; "and, moreover, you are never to ride out of the gate of the Fort unless an officer goes with you."
She turned and looked at him scornfully, and Ronald, still laughing, saluted. "A military order, Miss Manning."
It was scarcely light when they started, with Beatrice leading the way. Queen's eager feet fairly flew, and the girl's pulses caught the exultant sense of life. The others fell far behind, and Beatrice doubled and crossed on the trail wherever it was possible.
They had gone about six miles from the Fort when she reined in and waited for the others to come up, then made her adieux.
"Why do you say good-bye?" asked Ronald.
"Why, because I'm going back now."
"Oh, are you coming back? I thought you were going to Fort Wayne."
She made no reply, but watched the four riders as they turned a little away from the lake and went south-west over the prairie. A pack horse, Black Partridge, and four other Indians were following them.
"What made you think I was going to Fort Wayne?" she asked.
"Nothing, only you had such a good start. Besides, you live there, don't you?"
"No," she said slowly, "I live here. I fought at Fort Wayne."
"Indeed!" remarked Ronald, with polite interest. "Indians or soldiers?"
The pink flush upon her face deepened. "Shall we go back, now?"
"As you please, Miss Manning."
She went ahead, leaving him to follow or not as he chose.
"I wish Major was here," he called to her.
"Why?" she asked, over her shoulder.
"Because it's the same kind of a procession we had around the parade-ground, and I enjoyed that so much."
Beatrice apparently had not heard, for she went on at the same leisurely pace. At her right, touched here and there with silver, the lake lay like a sheet of dusky pearl. Far in the east was spread the glowing tapestry of dawn, and the rising wind stirred the girl's hair faintly as she looked across the water, with the sunrise reflected on her face.
Ronald saw her pure, proud profile, touched to exceeding beauty by the magic light of morning, and an unconscious, childish wistfulness in the lines of her mouth. A lump came into his throat and he swallowed hard. The morning was in his blood, and he had a quick sense of uplifting, as if his heart had suddenly found its wings.
Then Beatrice turned still more toward him. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, softly.
All of her harshness seemed to have fallen from her; she was radiant and exquisitely womanly in this new mood, and the boy's soul knelt in worship.
"Why wouldn't you let me come alone?"
"Because I didn't want you frightened," he answered.
The dimple at the corner of her mouth was barely manifest as she said, demurely, "You should have stayed, then; for you are the one who frightened me."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I told you that before."
"Yes, I know." She sighed, and added, "It was awful, though, and I shall never forget it."
"Neither shall I."
He was beside her now, for the trail had widened, and he put his hand upon the small white one that held Queen's bridle.
"That day," he said huskily, "you put your hand in mine,—when we met the Captain,—a little, cold hand."
She nodded, but did not take her hand away. "I was dreadfully frightened then, and you saved me."
His blood leaped in his veins. "That's nothing—I'd do more than that for you, any time. I had my reward before I had earned it."
The girl's violet eyes opened wide. "I don't understand."
"Have you forgotten that I had my arm around you, just for a minute? I have dreamed of it ever since—dear."
For an instant she saw him as if he had been a young Greek god, strangely met in the fields of Arcady; then the glamour passed and he was only an awkward soldier in a shabby uniform. She cut Queen with her riding-whip and went furiously ahead, but a boyish, troubled face was close beside her.
"Have I offended you?"
Beatrice smiled with calm superiority. "You shouldn't say such things," she replied; "you're far too young."
"Huh!" he retorted, with spirit, "I'm twenty-five!"
"Twenty-five?" she repeated incredulously; "I don't believe it. Why, I'm twenty myself, and I never thought you were more than eighteen."
She laughed wickedly as she saw him squirm. Through long experience she had found that shaft one of the most effective in her repertory, which was not by any means limited. More than once it had quenched an incipient declaration as effectually as if it had been a shower of cold water.
They rode in silence till they reached the Fort. "Shall I take you across?" he asked.
"No, thank you; I can go by myself, if there is no military order against it; but you may take Queen to the stables, if you like."
She dismounted, taking no note of his proffered assistance, and went to the river without another word. He watched her until she landed, then turned away, leading Queen. "A rose, a little rose," he said to himself; "but, oh, the thorns!"
When Beatrice arrived, she found the family in a state of high excitement. Mackenzie was just preparing to go over to the Fort and ask that a search party be sent out to look for her. He had surmised that she had returned to Fort Wayne until he found that none of her things were missing, and he received her explanation in stolid silence.
"Why didn't you tell us, Bee?" asked Mrs. Mackenzie. "You gave us all a fright."
"Dear Aunt Eleanor," she cooed, rubbing her soft cheek against Mrs. Mackenzie's, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know I was going till I got ready to start,—I never know,—and I did not dream that any one would care."
Robert had been conducting a private search on his own account, and a tell-tale relief crossed his face when he came in and found her at the breakfast table.
"Were you worried about me, Cousin Rob?"
The deep, vibrant contralto voice thrilled him, but he told his lie well. "No," he answered, carelessly, "of course not. Why should I be?"
The new mood of softness lasted all day. Beatrice did not stop to analyse, but she was dimly conscious that something strange had happened to her. At twilight she went out on the piazza, humming happily to herself, and Robert smiled at her as she came toward the open window of his room.
He had an old sword in his hand and was rubbing the thin blade with a handkerchief. "What are you doing?" she asked, curiously.
"Just cleaning this."
"Is it yours?"
"Yes, it is now; but it was my grandfather's." He straightened instinctively, as if in answer to some far-away bugle, and looked at her without seeming to see. "He fought at Lexington."
His voice betrayed his pride of blood, and his nostrils dilated with a quick, inward breath. His hands moved lovingly along the keen blade—and then Beatrice humbled herself.
"Cousin Rob," she began, impulsively, "I want to tell you something. I'm sorry and ashamed for——"
Scarlet signals were flaming in her cheeks, and he interrupted her. "Say no more about it," he said generously; "we were all unaccountably excited, and at such times we say and do things that otherwise we would not. Forget about it."
"I'll be glad to," she answered earnestly; but in her heart of hearts she knew she was not forgiven.
CHAPTER X
A GLEAM AFAR
As warm weather approached, the children grew restless under so much schooling, and Robert made Saturday a holiday. In order to help his uncle more efficiently, he was trying to learn the Indian tongue, but found it far more difficult than Greek and Latin, and made many ludicrous mistakes. Mackenzie was very patient with him, and Black Partridge made occasional comments and suggestions, being deeply flattered by the college man's desire to learn from him.
The trader had told him of the great school in the East, where Forsyth had learned everything that was written down in books, and yet could not talk with the Indians, or make a fire by rubbing sticks together; and the implied superiority of the chief had its own subtle gratification.
The women at the Fort were very fond of Beatrice, and she made daily visits there, but time began to hang heavily upon her hands. Without knowing why, she was restless and unhappy, and, after the manner of her sex, attributed it to some hidden illness of the body rather than the mind.
"I feel as if I simply must go somewhere or do something," she said to Doctor Norton, in a vain effort to explain her unrest.
He examined her pulse and tongue, then laughed at her. "You're all right," he said; "there's nothing on earth the matter with you."
"There is, too," she contradicted. "I don't feel right and I need medicine."
"Quinine?"
She made a wry face. "No, I don't need that."
"Sulphur and molasses?"
Beatrice turned up her nose in high disdain. "Is that all you can think of?"
"No," replied the Doctor, "I have other remedies, but I want to give you something that would please you. If you feel that you need medicine, my entire stock is at your service. I ask only for the right to supervise your selection, as we don't want you poisoned."
They were sitting on the piazza, and the girl's laugh reached the schoolroom and set the teacher's heart to throbbing. He could steel himself against her smiles and her playful pouting, but when she laughed, he was lost.
"I don't think you'd care much," observed Beatrice, "whether I was poisoned or not, just so you didn't have to give up any of your precious medicines. You're selfish—that's all."
"What more can I do, Miss Manning? I've offered you all my worldly goods. Which bottle do you want?"
"Thank you, I've decided not to rob you. I'll die, if I have to, without medical aid."
"Some people prefer it," murmured Norton.
"How did you happen to come here?" she asked abruptly.
He started slightly, remembering the face that led him, like a star, from one frontier post to another, but he merely said: "An army surgeon has no choice. We go where we are sent by the powers that be."
"I'd hate to be sent anywhere."
"I believe you," replied the Doctor, smiling; "and if you were told you couldn't go anywhere that place would immediately become desirable."
"Wonderful insight," commented Beatrice. "Or perhaps some one has told you?"
"No, I don't always have to be told. I can see some things, you know."
"That's what Katherine told me. She said you could see through anything or anybody, especially a woman. Your glance goes right through us and ties in a bow-knot behind. I can feel the strings dangling from my shoulders now."
Robert came to the door, followed by the children, who were eager to get outdoors for the short recess they had every day. Beatrice had a little insight of her own, and had noted the change in Norton's face when Katherine was mentioned, and the quick, inquiring look in Robert's eyes as he greeted them both.
"Forsyth," said the Doctor, "I'm going now, and I turn this refractory patient over to you. She needs to get outdoors and walk till she drops—it's the only cure for impudence. Will you see that she does it?"
"Certainly, if she will go with me."
"I'll go," put in Beatrice, "if I have to take medicine."
They watched the Doctor until he started across the river. "Perhaps," said Robert, "you'd rather some one else would go with you. If so, it can be easily arranged."
"Now, Cousin Rob," said the girl, coaxingly, "don't be horrid to me. You're the only cousin I have, except Katherine and the infants; and as long as I'm here you'd better make the best of me."
His heart suddenly contracted. "Are you going away?"
"I can't," she laughed. "I have nowhere to go."
Robert smiled curiously. "When do you want to go, and where?"
"Saturday morning," she replied; "to the woods, after flowers."
"Very well," he said, quietly, turning away.
To one of them the days passed slowly, but on Saturday, when Beatrice expressed surprise at the rapid flight of time, Forsyth unhesitatingly chimed in. She looked at him narrowly when she thought he did not know it, and put him down as a self-absorbed prig.
She was at odds with herself when they started, but it was one of those rare mornings which May sets like a jewel upon the rosary of the year. They walked north along the lake shore, and, since silence seemed to suit her, he wisely said nothing.
Gradually peace crept into her heart, and as they approached the woods they turned to the west, where white blossoms were set on thorny boughs and budded maples were crimson with new leaves.
"You were good to bring me here," she said gratefully; "it seems like an enchanted way."
"I am glad to give you pleasure," he replied conventionally.
The ground was still hidden under the brown leaves of October, that rustled gently with a passing breeze or echoed the fairy tread of the Little People of the Forest, playing hide-and-seek in the wake of Spring. As Beatrice walked ahead of him, it seemed to Forsyth that she belonged to the woods, as truly as did the nymphs and dryads of old.
Buttercups scattered garish gold around them, and beyond, among the trees, the wild geranium rose on its slender stalk, making a phantom bit of colour against the background of dead leaves. Between the mossy stumps budded mandrakes were huddled closely together, afraid to bloom till others had led the way. Beatrice looked around her and drew a long breath, then gently stroked a satin bud upon a bare stalk of hickory.
"Why don't you pick something?" asked Robert, with a laugh. "That's what we came for, isn't it?"
"No, I can't pick things. I feel as if I were hurting them. Suppose you lived here in this lovely place and a giant came along and broke you off at the waist to take your head home with him—how do you suppose you'd feel?"
"I don't think I'd feel anything after the break. Besides, that's not a fair hypothesis. There is no real analogy."
"Hy-poth-e-sis," repeated Beatrice, looking at him, mischievously; "did I pronounce it right?"
"Of course—why?"
"Because," she answered, with her eyes dancing, "it's a nice word and I'd like to learn it. I want to say it to Doctor Norton. Some of his words are as long at that, but they're not nearly so complicated, and I yearn to excel in his own specialty."
The girl's mock reverence for his learning irritated him unspeakably, and he closed his lips in a thin, tight line.
"Cousin Rob," she said, putting her hand on his arm, and with bewildering kindness in her tone, "can't you take me just as I am?"
The temptation to take her, just as she was, into his arms, made him draw back a step or two. "I always make a point of that," he said, clearing his throat.
Then a vista opened before them, which might have been a field of Paradise. Across the plain, where the dead goldenrod of Autumn still lingered, there were white blossoms on invisible branches, set against the turquoise sky, as still as stars of frost. It was as though a cloud of white butterflies had paused for an instant, with every dusty wing longing for flight.
Great white triliums bloomed in clusters farther on, with here and there a red one, lonely as a lost child. Far to the right was a little hollow filled with wild phlox, shading from white to deepest lavender, and breathing the haunting fragrance which no one ever forgets.
"Let's go to the lake," she said.
Tall bluffs rose on either side where they turned eastward, with triliums and dog-tooth violets within easy reach, and a robin's cheery chirp was answered by another far away. Slanting sunbeams came like arrows of light into the shadow of the woods, and at the shore line was an expanse of sand which shone like silver under the white light of noon.
"Why do you stand there?" asked Beatrice. "Why don't you sit down?"
"I was just looking at something."
"What?"
"Come here—perhaps you can see."
She strained her eyes in the direction he indicated, but unsuccessfully. "I don't see anything," she said; "what is it like?"
"I don't know. It's something shiny, but it isn't a bird, because it doesn't move."
"Birds aren't shiny, anyway," objected Beatrice. "Let's eat our lunch."
"I'm willing, for it's getting heavy, and I'd rather carry it inside."
Beatrice laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. "That's the first time I ever heard you say anything funny," she said, wiping her eyes. "Mr. Ronald is always saying funny things."
A dubious smile crossed Robert's face, and there was a long silence. "I wish you'd show me that shiny thing again, Cousin Rob," she said at length; "I'm interested in it."
"You didn't seem to be."
"That's because I was hungry," she explained. "I feel better now, and by the time we've finished our lunch I'll be absorbingly interested in it."
Robert stood on the sand, in the same place as before, and saw the silvery gleam again. Then she took his place and saw it, too. "Why," she said, "isn't it queer? Do you think it's the sun on a birch?"
"No, it's too high, and birches don't often grow on the very edge of the shore."
"That isn't the edge."
"Well, it's near it. The light just hangs in the air. There doesn't seem to be anything behind it. I've often seen stray gleams in the woods and tried to find them, but I never found anything. It's a daylight will-o'-the-wisp."
"Let's follow this one," suggested Beatrice.
They walked along the hard sand, close to the water, stopping every few steps to find the gleam. Sometimes it was only a thread of light, detached and unrelated to anything around it, then in other places it was a white glare, like the reflection thrown from a mirror.
Often they lost it, but found it again a little farther on. Beatrice was tired but determined, and kept on for what seemed miles. Then they stopped several times without finding it. "Let's go up into the woods," she said; "perhaps we'll see it again from there."
They climbed the steep bluff of sand, with the aid of bushes and cotton wood saplings, and for an instant caught the light again, then it vanished. The girl was pale, and Robert feared they had come too far.
"We'll go back," he said, "as soon as you rest for a little while. Why didn't you tell me you were tired?"
"Because I'm not," she retorted. "I'm willing to rest a little while, but I'm going to find it."
They sat down under the spreading branches of an elm for a few minutes, then, in spite of his expostulations, Beatrice started north again. "We can walk till midnight," he pleaded, "without finding it, and it's foolish, anyway."
"No, it isn't; see there!"
In the air, between the bluff and the lake, hung a shimmering thread of light which seemed close by, and all at once he became as eager as she. They walked rapidly for a few moments, then Beatrice stopped.
"Why," she said, in a high key, "it's a house!"
"Be careful," warned Robert, "we'd better go back."
"I'm not going back till I see. I've come too far!"
A little farther on, they came to it. Set far back into the bluff, so that only the face of it was visible, was a little one-roomed cabin, built of logs. The door was open, but the place was empty, as Beatrice discovered. "Come in," she said hospitably.
"We'd better go back," said Forsyth, warningly. "Come!"
"I will, in just a minute."
She took a long look about the room, then came out. From the top of the cabin, which projected only a foot or so from the bluff, and suspended from a whittled branch not quite weather-worn, hung a silver cross, fully eight inches high, with a wondrously moulded figure of the Christ stretched upon it.
Robert's eyes followed hers, and for a few minutes neither spoke. "That's what we saw," she murmured, in a low tone; "that's the light that led us here—the sun upon the cross!"
"Come," said Robert, firmly, taking her by the arm.
Reluctantly she let him lead her away, and they turned south, keeping close to the lake shore, but out of the sand.
"Who lives there?" she asked.
"Why, I don't know—how should I?"
"It was neat inside, and there was blue clay and chips in the cracks, just as there is at home. There was a fireplace, too, but I didn't see any chimney."
"There was a chimney, though, of some dark-coloured stone. It looked like a stump on the bluff. I noticed it while you were inside."
"There's no dark-coloured stone around here."
"Then it must have been limestone darkened with mud. I didn't get near enough to see."
"Somebody lives there," said Beatrice. "There was a narrow bed, with a blue-and-white patchwork quilt upon it, and two chairs made out of barrels, and a little table and shelves,—do you think Indians live there?"
"It's possible. Some of them may be more civilised than the rest and prefer to live in a house—in the Winter, at least," he added, remembering the panes of glass in the front of the house, either side of the door.
"It's queer that a cross like that should be there."
"Stolen," he suggested promptly, "from some Catholic church in the wilderness."
"I'll tell you what," she said, after a long silence; "let's say nothing about it to any one—just keep it a secret for the present. What do you say?"
"I'm willing." The idea of a secret with his pretty cousin was far from unpleasant to Robert.
"Because, if the others knew, some of the soldiers would go there—Mr. Ronald would be the first one. Besides, I've noticed that if you really want to find out about anything, you always can, though it takes time. I'd rather we'd find out by ourselves, wouldn't you?"
Robert thought he would.
"I think," she continued, "that some of the Indians live there, as you said, and that the cross was stolen and hung over the door for an ornament. Perhaps Black Partridge lives there—he seems to know more than the rest."
"Yes; that's possible. Anyhow, we'll find out without asking anybody,—is that it?"
"That's a bargain. Whoever lives there doesn't want to be bothered, for you can't see the house at all except from the shore; and in Summer, when the canoes are passing, it must be pretty well hidden by the saplings and the undergrowth on the ledge in front of it. There's just one place there where anybody can get down—a steep little path, worn smooth."
"You saw a great deal in a few minutes, didn't you?" asked Robert, admiringly.
"Of course," she answered, with a toss of her head. "A woman can see more in one minute than a man can see in sixty—didn't you know that?"
"I didn't, but I do now."
Silver-winged gulls glistened in the sun for a moment, then plunged into the cool softness below. A rabbit track wound a leisurely way across the sand and disappeared at the bluff. Down a ravine came a tiny stream, murmuring sleepily all along its way to the lake.
Beatrice sighed and her eyes drooped. "Take me home," she said.
The blue of the water grew deeper, then changed to grey. The white clouds turned to rose and gold, touched with royal purple, and the wings of the gulls no longer shone. A bluejay with slow-beating wings sank to his nest in a lofty maple, and, somewhere, a robin chirped mournfully, as if he, too, were tired.
At last they came to the edge of the woods and saw the house, with the four tall poplars at the gate, the shimmering gold of sunset upon the river, and the Fort beyond. The exquisite peace of the woods had been like that of another sphere. There was a twittering of little birds in swaying nests, a sudden chill, a shadow, and a mist. The fairy patter was hurried and hushed, the rustling leaves were quiet, and she leaned wearily upon his arm.
"Tired?" he asked tenderly.
"Yes," she answered, smiling back at him, "but happy. Thank you for a perfect day."
CHAPTER XI
A JUNE DAY
On a warm morning in June, Beatrice took her despised sewing under an unwilling arm and went over to Mrs. Howard's. Mrs. Franklin was there also, and they all sat on the porch, under the impression that it was cooler there than indoors.
"I wish you girls would show me how this goes," pleaded Beatrice. She was making herself a gown of pink calico, and encountering new difficulties at every turn.
"Where's your pattern," asked Katherine.
"I haven't any map," returned Beatrice; "I lost it. I sawed this out by an old one."
"It looks as if it had been sawed," laughed Mrs. Franklin. "Why didn't you ask Mrs. Mackenzie to help you cut it?"
"Because I didn't want Aunt Eleanor to be ashamed of me."
"She doesn't mind us," put in Katherine.
"Stop teasing," commanded Beatrice, "and show me how to put the thing together. Which piece goes where?"
Mrs. Franklin took the skirt and Katherine went to work at the waist, pinning and basting firmly, so that there could be no mistake in the result. Beatrice leaned lazily against the side of the house and watched them admiringly, praising their skill now and then in accents suspiciously soft.
"She's been taking lessons from George," remarked Mrs. Franklin. "That's the way he gets things done."
"Speaking of angels——" said Katherine.
Ronald crossed the parade-ground and joined the group. "What's that thing?" he asked, contemptuously indicating the pink calico.
"It's clothes," replied Beatrice, with spirit; "don't you wish you were going to have new ones?"
The Ensign's answering laugh had a hollow sound to it, for the shabby clothing at Fort Dearborn was a sore spot with both officers and men, even though new and proper raiment was said to be on the way.
"You might make me some," he suggested, "and I'll promise to encourage you while you do it."
"No, thank you," she returned loftily; "you'd be in the way."
"I expect I'm in the way now," he observed, making himself more comfortable against the pillar of the porch. "When needles fly, women's tongues fly faster; when women sew, they rip their husbands to pieces."
A faint flush came into Mrs. Franklin's face as she bent over her work.
"I'll wager, now," continued Ronald, "that when you saw me coming, you had to change the subject. Mrs. Franklin was explaining the vagaries of the Captain, Mrs. Howard was telling what she was obliged to put up with, and Miss Manning was talking about me."
The implication sharpened the edge of the girl's tongue. "You ought to be very glad you're not married," she said sweetly; "and it goes without saying that you never will be. Nobody on earth would have you!"
"Don't quarrel, children," put in Katherine, hastily. "Here comes Ralph."
The Lieutenant sat down opposite Ronald and wiped his forehead. "Lord!" he exclaimed, "isn't it hot!"
"Get a little closer to Miss Manning," advised the Ensign. "She's in an icy mood this morning."
Beatrice and Howard smiled at each other understandingly. "Be careful what you say," warned Mrs. Franklin; "they've decided that they're cousins."
"Yes," replied the Lieutenant, "we've got it all settled. We're step-cousins-in-law once removed. Want to go for a ride, Ronald? Forsyth and I are going a little way down the trail."
"Which trail?"
"Fort Wayne, of course."
"Yes, I'll go," said the Ensign, rising; "it can't be any hotter on horseback than it is here."
When the three men rode off, Beatrice pouted. "Why didn't they ask me to go?"
"I guess they're going swimming," returned Mrs. Franklin, "for Mr. Forsyth had some towels."
"Here's your waist," said Katherine; "did you shrink the goods?"
"Did I what?"
"Shrink it. Wash it, you know."
"Indeed I didn't. Why should I wash it when it's new?"
"Here's your skirt," said Mrs. Franklin. "You'd better make a narrow hem and run a tuck or two above it so you can let it down. I'm going home now, because Wallace is all alone. Good-bye."
Beatrice went to work gingerly, and Mrs. Howard watched her for a few moments, then took pity. "I'll help you," she said, "I have nothing else to do."
The work progressed rapidly, and they went into the house frequently to fit the gown. "I can wear it to-night, I believe," said the girl, delightedly. "I didn't know sewing was so easy!"
"Don't be too hopeful—there's lots to do yet."
Noon came on apace and the heat increased. Shimmering waves hung over the parade-ground and vibrated visibly. There was not a tree within the enclosure of the Fort, and the flag hung limply from the staff, stirring only when the hot wind from the south-west swept over the sandy plains.
Doctor Norton came out, looked around the deserted Fort, and crossed to Lieutenant Howard's.
"Where are you going?" asked Beatrice, indicating an Indian basket he was carrying.
"I'm going to the woods—primarily, to find a cool place, and, secondarily, to gather roots and simples. Some of my medicines have given out and I'm going to make a new supply if I can find the proper plants."
Katherine was sewing busily and took no part in the conversation, but there was a scarlet signal on either cheek.
"If you get enough of anything," said Beatrice, "the poor souls under your care can have some of it, can't they?"
"Certainly."
"What do you expect to get around here?"
"Oh, lots of things. Wild ginger, for instance—would you like some of that?"
"Don't care for it," she answered conclusively.
"Would you like a concoction of May apples?"
"I believe I would—it sounds well."
"My dear girl," said Norton, seriously, "the root of the mandrake is such a deadly poison that the Indians give it to their enemies."
"I must remember that," murmured the girl. "I may need it for mine."
The Doctor laughed, then turned to Mrs. Howard. "Are you well?" he asked anxiously.
Katherine's eyes met his. "Yes," she answered, but her voice was scarcely audible. There was an uneasy moment for both of them, then he went away.
Beatrice took up her sewing again and saw that Katherine's hands were trembling. "He's an abrupt person," she said; "don't you think so?"
"Yes," answered the other, in a low tone.
"He's lovable in a way, though, don't you think so? I wonder why he has never married?"
Katherine started and her lips moved, but there was no sound. Beatrice looked into her face for an illuminating instant—then she knew.
"Katherine!" she cried, in horror.
Mrs. Howard dropped her work and fled into the house, trying to lock the door, but the girl was too quick for her.
"Katherine, dear!" cried Beatrice, with her arms around the trembling woman, "don't be afraid of me! You poor child, don't you know a friend when you see one?"
"Friend?" repeated Katherine, in a rush of unwilling tears; "I have none!"
"Yes you have, dear; now listen to me. I'm your friend, and there's nothing in the world that could make me anything else. Tell me, and let me help you!"
The words brought back the memory of another day, when the winter snows lay deep upon the ground, and a man's voice, dangerously tender, said the same thing.
"There's nothing wrong, Bee—don't, oh, don't think that of me!"
"I couldn't, dear—no one could!"
The curtains were drawn and the house was dark and comparatively cool. Within that soothing shadow, Katherine gathered courage to face the girl, and, little by little, hint at the tempest raging in her soul.
It was the old, common story of a proud woman with a hungry heart, denied love and sympathy where she had a right to expect it, and tempted unwillingly, but tempted none the less.
"Men are beasts!" exclaimed Beatrice, angrily.
"Don't say that, Bee! Ralph has a great deal to bother him, but I can't help wishing he were different. If he were only as he used to be! If I knew, or even thought he loved me—if he would try to understand me—if he wouldn't always misjudge me—but now——"
"You're brave enough to fight it out and win, Kit—I know you are!"
"I hope so; but what hurts me most is the fear that he—that he knows—that I—that I care—and pities me!"
"Who? Ralph?"
"No—the—the——"
"I understand," said Beatrice, quickly; "you mustn't let him know. Besides, you don't really care. Women often mistake loneliness for something else—don't you think so?"
"Perhaps. Oh, if he would only go away, where I would never see him again—if he only would—sometime, in the long years, things would come right between Ralph and me!"
"You'll have to wait, Kit. Life is made up of waiting, for women, and it's the hardest thing for us to do. Oh, I know," continued Beatrice, with a harsh laugh; "I fought something out myself once, but I won. It was hard, but I did it, and I'd do it again—I wouldn't be coward enough to run away. When things hurt you, you don't have to let anybody know. You can shut your lips tight, and if you bite your tongue hard it keeps back the tears. I always pretend I'm a rock, with the waves beating against me. Let it hurt inside, if it wants to—you don't have to let anybody see!"
The girl's fine courage insensibly strengthened the woman. "I'm so glad you know," she sighed.
"I'm glad, too. I'm going now, Kit, and I wish you'd lie down a little while. Don't forget I'm your friend, and I'll always help you when I can, and anyhow, I'll always try."
It was characteristic of Beatrice that she went home without any demonstrative farewell. She had been gentle, sympathetic, and genuinely sorry for her cousin, but there was an inner hardness somewhere which the other felt.
Overwrought by emotion, Katherine slept for hours, and when she awoke a cool breeze had risen from the lake and was moving her white curtains to and fro. Dull sorrow was gnawing at her heart, but the stab was gone.
She dressed and went out, without any particular object in view. The loneliness of the house depressed her, and she felt that she must get away from it; yet she did not wish to talk to any one.
As she went toward the gate the Captain's wife met her. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"To—to the little lad," faltered Katherine.
"Oh," said the other, quickly, turning away as if she had been hurt. For a moment the childless woman envied the other her grave.
Half a mile from the Fort, in a hollow near the river, was a little mound, marked only by a rude slab of limestone and the willow that grew above it. At the sight of it her eyes filled.
"Oh, Baby," she sobbed, pressing her face against the cold turf above him, "I wish I was down there beside you, as still and as dreamless as you! You don't know what it means—you never would have known! Oh, I'd rather be a stone than a woman with a heart!"
"Katherine!" cried a man's voice beside her; "Katherine!" Norton's arm lifted her from the grave and held her close. "Dear heart," he said, "is the world unkind?"
She drew away from him, but he still held her cold hand in his. "My heart aches for you, Katherine—can't you tell me?"
"You never lost a child," she whispered, clutching at the straw.
"That is true, but I have lost far more. I——" He stopped and bit his lips upon the words that struggled for utterance. "Come away," he said, gently.
He led her to the bank of the stream, where they sat down under a tree. She leaned against it, unconscious that he still held her hand.
There was a long silence, in which she regained, in some measure, her self-control. "I can't think what's wrong with me," she sighed. "I've cried more in the last six months than in all my life before. I'm not the crying kind—naturally, that is."
"Don't think about that, for nature knows a great deal more than we do. Cry all you want to, and thank God you have no grief beyond the reach of tears."
"Beyond—tears?"
"Yes; there is another kind, which I am glad you do not know. It cuts and burns and stings till it is the very refinement of torture, and there is no veil of mist to blind the eyes."
She looked at him curiously. "You——?"
"Yes," he answered, with his head bowed; "that is the kind of grief I know the best."
"I—I'm sorry," she said, stirred to pity.
"Why should you be sorry for me?" he asked, with a rare smile. "There are countless joys in the world, but the griefs are few and old. The humblest of us can find new happiness, but there has been no increase of sorrow since the world was first made. There is a fixed and unvariable quantity of it, and we take turns bearing it—that's all. Nothing comes to any of us that some one before us has not met like a soldier, bravely and well."
"You are strong, but I have no strength."
"There are different kinds of strength, Katherine, and of these the one most to be prized is what we call endurance, for lack of a better word. One can always bear a little more, for we live only one day at a time, and to-morrow may bring us new gifts of which we do not dream."
Lengthening shadows lay on the river and the sun hung low in the west, but they talked on. She forgot everything but the peace of the moment, which came to her sore heart like a benediction. Without knowing it, she was very near to happiness then.
The Doctor's voice was soothing, as if he were talking to a child, and she did not dream that he was fighting the exquisite danger of her nearness with all the power at his command. At last she leaned forward with her eyes shining, and put her hand on his. "Thank you," she said, softly, "for helping me!"
The man's blood leaped in his veins, and he sprang to his feet. He walked back and forth on the bank of the river for some time before he dared trust himself to speak.
"Your happiness is very near to me," he said, trying hard to keep his voice even, "you must always remember that. And for me, it is enough to be near you, even if——"
She stretched out her hands and he lifted her to her feet. "I must go," she said.
"Yes, you must go, and go alone. I will stay here until you have had time to get back."
The deference to circumstances jarred upon her and she did not answer. Her hat was lying by the child's grave, and as he picked it up for her, she said: "Why, there are violets all around. I never saw those before."
"Didn't you?" he asked diffidently; "I thought you came often."
"No," she said, in a low voice, "not very often. Who put them there?"
He lowered his eyes at her question, and then she understood. "Did you plant flowers on my baby's grave?" she cried.
There was a tense moment before he dared to look at her. "Yes," he answered, slowly, "because——"
They were standing face to face, with the little grave between them, and the woman's heart quivered with a strange and terrible joy. There was no need of words, for, all at once, she knew why, during the four years of her marriage, he had followed her from one post to another. She saw a new meaning in his sympathy when the little lad died and her husband blamed her so bitterly; moreover, she knew that her battle was with herself, not him, for the unyielding edge of Honour lay between them, and, even if she would, he would not let her cross.
For his part he, too, was uplifted, because without words she understood, and answered with love in her eyes. Undisguised and unashamed, her heart leaped toward him, but he stood with his hands clenched so tightly that the nails cut deep into the flesh.
Neither had heard nor seen, but she felt an alien presence, and turned. Not six feet away from them stood Lieutenant Howard, with his face ashen grey. He had an armful of flowers—purple flags and yellow lilies from the marsh and clover from the fields.
When he knew that she saw him, he came to the grave, stooped, and put the flowers upon it. The Doctor stepped back, but Howard took no note of him whatever. "It is a strange place for a tryst," he said, with forced calmness. "Katherine, will you come home?"
They went all the way to the Fort without speaking, and when they reached their own house, he stood aside for her to enter, then followed her in and locked the door.
Trembling with weakness, he sat down and drew her toward him. "Katherine, have you anything to say to me?"
Strangely enough, she was not afraid, and the terrible joy was still surging in her heart.
"Only this, Ralph—that you have wronged me and misjudged me; but you know this—that I never told you a lie in my life. As long as I bear your name I will bear it rightly; while I call myself your wife, you may know that I am faithful to you and to myself. That is all I have to say, but for your sake and my own—and for the little lad's sake—be just a little kind to me!"
Her voice broke at the last words, but he rushed past her and went out. From the window of her room she saw him pacing back and forth on the plains beyond the Fort, fighting his battle with himself. She knew she had hurt him past all healing and pitied him subconsciously; the dominant knowledge warred with her instincts.
When he came in to supper, his face was still pale, but his voice was even and controlled. He ate but little, and they talked commonplaces until afterward.
"Katherine," he said, "I remove the embargo; you may have—him—or any of your other friends at the house as often as you please. I will not force my wife to make clandestine appointments outside!" He laughed harshly and went out, but, though she waited for him till long past midnight, he did not return.
For her there was no rest. Pity, shame, fear, pride, and ecstasy struggled for mastery in her soul. The sound of moving waters murmured through the night with insistent repetition as the waves came to the shore. In the dark hours before dawn she saw a man, indistinctly, walking on the prairie, with his hands clasped behind him and his head bowed.
At first she thought it was Ralph, but, straining her eyes through the darkness, she saw that it was the other, and her heart beat hard with pain.
"Dear God," she murmured brokenly, "oh, give him peace, and help me to be true!"