CHAPTER XIV
HEART'S DESIRE
Those who had complained of Captain Franklin's lax methods were silent now. The fortifications were strengthened at every possible point and pickets were stationed in the woods, at points on the lake shore, along the Fort Wayne trail, and at various places on the prairie. There was no target practice for fear of a scarcity of ammunition; but the women were taught to handle the pistols, muskets, and even the cannon in the blockhouses.
Mackenzie, Forsyth, and Chandonnais divided the night watch at the trading station. At the first sound of a warning gun, the women and children were to be taken to the Fort. As before, Beatrice was to go to Captain Franklin's, Mrs. Mackenzie and the children to Lieutenant Howard's, and the men to barracks.
"I guess I'll move over anyway," said Beatrice. "I wouldn't care to make the trip in the night. I'll sleep at the Captain's and eat wherever I happen to be."
Mrs. Franklin was not told of the plan until Beatrice and Robert appeared at her door with the enterprising young woman's possessions, but she made her guest very welcome.
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" she asked.
"What would be the use of telling you?" inquired Beatrice. "You'd be obliged to say you wanted me, so I just came."
The Captain's wife was genuinely glad, for of late she had been very lonely. Franklin was always more or less absorbed in his own affairs, and the feeling between Lieutenant Howard and his superior officer did not tend to promote friendly relations between the women. There had been no open break, but each felt that there might be one at any time.
Ronald was in high spirits. Since he had given Beatrice the basket she had treated him more kindly, and he led Queen twenty times around the Fort every day for exercise, without a murmur of complaint. Beatrice stood at the gate and kept count; while, across the river, Forsyth sat on the piazza and envied the Ensign, even during his monotonous daily round.
Among the officers at the Fort the declaration of war had not been altogether unexpected, for vague rumours of England's arrogance upon the high seas had reached the western limits of civilisation, but the situation was covered only by general orders from the War Department.
For once, Lieutenant Howard agreed with the Captain, in that there seemed to be no great possibility of a British attack. However valiantly defended, the Fort could not be held long in the face of a vigorous assault from the enemy, since the fighting force numbered less than sixty men, but England would have nothing to gain from that quarter. Other points were far more important than Fort Dearborn, but the garrison was ready to fight, nevertheless.
Ronald was more sanguine, and lived in hourly hope of hearing the signal of the enemy's approach. He sharpened the edge of his sword to the keen thinness of a knife blade, and slept with one hand upon his pistol. Doctor Norton, too, was making elaborate preparations in the way of lint and bandages, and Ronald helped him make stretchers enough to last during a lifetime of war.
But the days passed peacefully, and there were no signs of fighting. The Indians were particularly lawless, but confined their violence to their own people, though they had lost, in a great measure, their wholesome fear of the soldiers at the Fort.
"The devils are insolent because they think there's going to be trouble, and in the general confusion it will escape notice," remarked Ronald, as he sat in the shade of Lieutenant Howard's piazza. "I'm in favour of stringing up a few of 'em by way of example to the rest."
"Yes," replied Howard, twisting his mustache, "and in a few minutes we'd have the entire Pottawattomie tribe upon us. You don't seem to understand that they knew war had been declared long before we did, and that even now, in all probability, they are in league with the enemy. No people on earth are too low down for England to ally herself with when she wants territory."
"True," answered Ronald; "but I'm not afraid of England. She's had one good lesson, and we'll give her another any time she wants it."
"We've got enough on our hands right here," sighed the Lieutenant, "without any more foreign wars. We've got to have it out with the Indians yet, and fight our way step by step. The trail of blood began at Plymouth and will end—God knows where. England is more or less civilised, but she isn't above setting the Indians upon us to serve her own ends."
"What are you talking about?" asked Beatrice, coming across from Captain Franklin's.
"Yes, do tell us," said Katherine, from the doorway.
"Affairs of state," answered the Lieutenant, easily.
"Any British in sight?" inquired Beatrice.
"Not yet," replied Ronald; "but the entire army is likely to drop on us at any minute."
"What would you do?" she asked curiously.
"Do?" repeated Ronald, striding up and down in front of the house; "we'd call in the pickets, bar the gates, man the guns, and send the women and children into the Captain's cellar."
"Could Queen go, too?"
"Can Queen go down a ladder?"
"She never has," answered Beatrice; "but she could if she wanted to—I'm sure of it."
"If that's the case," said Lieutenant Howard, "we'd better offer her to the British officers as a trick horse and buy off the attack."
"If they come in the daytime," continued Beatrice, ignoring the suggestion, "I will go out to meet them all by myself. I'll put on my pink dress and my best apron, and carry a white flag in one hand and the United States flag in the other. When the British captain comes running up to me to see what I want, I'll say: 'Captain, you are late, and to be late to dinner is a sin. We have been looking for you for some time, but we will forgive you if you will come now. The invitation includes the ladies of your party and all the officers.' They never could shoot after that."
Katherine joined in the laugh that followed, but her heart was uneasy, none the less. Like Ronald, she was continually expecting an attack and knew there could be but one result. She believed that the Indians and the British would make common cause against them, when the time came to strike.
"I'll tell you what," said Ronald, "some of us ought to go out and drag in Mad Margaret. If we stood her up on the stockade, there isn't an Indian in the tribe who would dare to aim an arrow or throw a tomahawk toward the Fort."
"I've never seen her," said Beatrice, thoughtfully.
"I hope you never will," answered Ronald, quickly. "She's crazy, of course; but she has an uncanny way about her that a sensitive person would consider disturbing. She pranced into the Fort on a Winter afternoon two years ago and prophesied a flood, followed by a terribly hot Summer, and no crops. When the Spring rains came, the river spread on all sides, and, sure enough, there were no crops that year."
"Was it hot, too?"
"Oh, Lord! Was it hot? If hell is any hotter I don't care to go to it."
"You talk as if that was your final destination," observed Katherine.
"That's as it may be," returned the Ensign. "I've often been invited to go, and several times I've been told that it was a fitting place of residence for such as I."
"I didn't know about that," said the Lieutenant, thoughtfully, referring to the fulfilment of the prophecy.
"You weren't here," explained Ronald. "It was before you came—in 1810, I think."
"Cousin Rob told me about her," said Beatrice. "He said she came to Uncle John's the same day he did, and he's seen her once or twice since. She always says that she sees much blood, then fire, and afterward peace."
"Yes," growled the Ensign; "she's for ever harping on blood. She stuck her claws into me that night, I remember—told me I should never have my heart's desire."
"What is your heart's desire?" asked Beatrice, lightly.
The Summer faded and another day came back. Once again he sat before the roaring fire at the trading station, with Forsyth, Mackenzie, and Chandonnais grouped around him, while phantoms of snow drifted by and sleet beat against the window panes. Then the door seemed to open softly and Mad Margaret made her way into the circle. Chandonnais' wild music sounded again in his ears, then he felt the thin, claw-like hands upon him and heard the high, tremulous voice saying, "You shall never have your heart's desire"; and, in answer to his question, "It has not come, but you will know it soon."
The blood beat in his ears, but he heard Beatrice say, once more, "What is your heart's desire?"
A flash of inward light revealed it—the girl who stood before him, with the sunlight on her hair, and her scarlet lips parted; strong and self-reliant, yet wholly womanly.
Ronald cleared his throat. "You shouldn't ask me such questions," he said, trying to speak lightly, "when all these people are around."
"We'd better go, Kit," remarked the Lieutenant; "we seem to be in the way."
"Anything to please," murmured Mrs. Howard, as they went into the house.
Ronald was looking at Beatrice, with all his soul in his eyes. "I—I must go," she stammered. "Aunt Eleanor will want me."
"Don't—dear!" The boyishness was all gone, and it was the voice of a man in pain. The deep crimson flamed into her face and dyed the whiteness of her neck just below the turn of her cheek. She did not dare to look at him, but fled ignominiously.
He did not follow her, but she heard him laugh—a hollow, mirthless laugh, with a catch in it that sounded like a sob. She never knew how she crossed the river, but she was surprised to find Forsyth waiting for her. As he helped her out of the pirogue, he said; "I was just going after you—we feared we had lost you."
"I'm not lost," she said shortly, "and I don't want people running around after me!"
The shadow that crossed his face haunted her, even while he sat opposite her at dinner and laughed and joked with her as usual. When Mrs. Mackenzie took the baby away for his afternoon nap, with Maria Indiana wailing sleepily at her skirts, Beatrice went to her own room, fearing to be alone with Robert. She was strangely restless, and something seemed to hang over her like an indefinite, threatening fate.
Outside was the drowsy hum of midsummer, where the fairy folk of the fields rubbed their wings together in the grass and the sun transformed the river to a sheet of shining silver. Ronald came out, took the good boat which belonged to the Fort, and pulled down-stream with long, steady strokes. The river was low, but he passed the bar with little difficulty and went on out into the lake.
Beatrice heard Robert singing happily to himself, but she could not stay any longer where she was. She gathered up her sewing and climbed out of the window, ungracefully but effectively, and went back to the Fort.
Katherine saw her coming and smiled. That morning, with quick intuition, she had read the secret in Ronald's heart, and suddenly knew how much she cared for the boy who teased and tormented, but never failed her if she needed him. In her own mind, she had written down Beatrice as an unsparing coquette, and determined to take up the cudgels in behalf of her victim.
The girl sewed nervously, breaking her thread frequently, but she kept at it until Katherine said, very gently, "Bee, George cares for you."
"I know!" snapped Beatrice. Her thread broke again, and her hands trembled so she could scarcely knot it.
"And Robert, too," said Katherine, presently.
"I know!"
"Well, dear, what are you going to do about it?"
"Cousin Kit," said the girl, angrily, "if you're going to lecture me, I'm going back home." She folded up her work, but Mrs. Howard put a restraining hand upon her arm.
"Don't, Bee. You know we talked about my trouble together—why can't we talk about yours?"
"I haven't any trouble!" Beatrice's face was flushed, but her voice was softer, and she seemed willing to stay.
"What are you going to do about it?" asked Katherine, once more.
"What can I do about it?" cried Beatrice, in a high key—"why, that's simple, I'm sure! I can go to Mr. Ronald and say, 'Please, Mr. Ronald, don't ask me to marry you, because I'm going to marry Cousin Rob. He doesn't know it yet; in fact, he hasn't even asked me, but I'm going to do it just the same.' Or, I might go to Cousin Rob and say, 'My dear Mr. Forsyth, I hope you won't ask me to marry you, because I'm going to marry Mr. Ronald, who hasn't asked me as yet. In fact," she continued, with her temper rising, "I've about concluded that I won't marry anybody!"
"Bee, dear, I'm only trying to help you—please don't be cross to me. Which one do you care for?"
"Neither!" cried Beatrice, in a passion. "I don't care for anybody, and I'm never going to be married. I'd be happy, wouldn't I? Tied up—chained like a dog—take what my master gave me—slave—drudge—bear whatever burden he saw fit to put upon me—eat my heart out in loneliness—cry all day and all night for my lost freedom. Marry? Not I!"
"Marriage means all those things, as you say," said Katherine, after a silence; "but the bitterest part of it is that, when you find your mate, you have to go. The call is insistent—there is no other way. It means child-bearing and child loss—it means a thousand kinds of pain that you never knew before,—loneliness, doubt, sacrifice, misunderstanding,—and always the fear of change. Before, you think of it as a permanent bond of happiness; later, you see that it is a yoke, borne unequally. You marry to keep love, but sometimes that is the surest way to lose it.
"They say," continued Katherine, with her face white, "that after the first few years the storm and stress dies out into indifference, and that happiness and content are again possible. But oh," she breathed, "those few years! If man and woman must go through the world together, shoulder to shoulder, meeting the same troubles, the same difficulties and dangers, why, oh, why, didn't God make us of the same clay! We are different in a thousand ways; we act in opposite directions, from differing and incomprehensible motives—our point of view is instinctively different, and yet we are chained. Sex against sex it has been since the world began—sex against sex it shall be to the bitter end!"
"Katherine!" sobbed Beatrice, "I know! That is what I am afraid of! All the time I keep tight hold of myself to keep from caring, because I dare not surrender. If I yield, I am lost. If I loved a man, he could take me between his two hands and crush me—so; I should be so wholly his!"
"Yes," said the other, bitterly, "and many times he will crush you, just to see if he can—just to see that he has not lost his command of you. Power is what he must have—power over your mind and body, your heart and your soul—for every little unthinking action of yours, you are held responsible before the bar of his justice. His justice," she repeated, scornfully, "when he does not know what the word means. You have a little corner of his life; you give him all of yours in return. We are bound like slaves that never can be free—God made it so—and we obey!"
There was a tense silence, then a step was heard upon the piazza, and Katherine opened the door to her husband. Beatrice managed to wipe her wet eyes upon her sewing before he saw that she was there.
"Well," said the Lieutenant, easily, sinking into a chair, "what have you girls been doing?"
"Oh, we've just been talking," answered Katherine, diffidently.
"Talking, talking,—always talking," he continued. "What would women do if they couldn't talk?"
"They'd burst," remarked Beatrice, concisely.
"I guess that's right," laughed the Lieutenant; "but you needn't fear it will happen to you."
"You're mean to me," said Beatrice, gathering up her work, "so I'm going home."
"Don't be in a hurry," put in Katherine.
"I haven't been—you don't want me to live here, do you?"
"We should be charmed," replied the Lieutenant, gallantly.
"I'll consider it," she said shortly. "Good-bye!"
"Tempestuous sort of a girl," commented Howard, as Beatrice disappeared. "She'd play the devil with a man, wouldn't she?"
"That's exactly what she's doing."
"Which man?" asked Howard, curiously.
"Messrs. Ronald and Forsyth," answered Katherine, laughing. "How blind and stupid you are!"
The Lieutenant's disposition had undergone outward improvement of late. By common consent he and Katherine had started afresh, making no reference to past disagreements, and he had wisely ceased to question her motives or her actions. He let her understand that she might do as she pleased in all things, and, naturally, she was not willing to take undue advantage of her tacit freedom. Still, the old happiness and confidence were gone.
Forsyth had the second watch that night and was sitting on the piazza, listening for the warning guns of the pickets on the lookout for the enemy, when Ronald came across the river.
"Thought you were here," he said, "so I came over, as I couldn't sleep."
"I'm glad you did," returned Robert. "It gets pretty lonely out here about three o'clock in the morning."
"Are you sleepy?"
"Not a bit."
"Who comes on next, and when?"
"Chan's watch begins at three—it isn't far from that now."
"Call him up, then, and let's go out awhile. I can't sit still."
"All right."
When the half-breed, muttering sleepily, was finally stationed on the piazza, with instructions to listen for the guns, they walked out to the river.
"Which way?" asked Robert.
"Either—I don't care."
The moon was shining brightly and the earth was exquisitely still. The Fort, transfigured by its mantle of silver sheen, might have been some moss-grown feudal castle, with a gleaming river at its gate. Ronald walked rapidly, and his breath came in quick, short jerks.
"What's gone wrong with you?" asked Forsyth, kindly.
"I don't know how to put it," said the soldier, after a long silence, "for I never was good at words; but,—well, you like Beatrice pretty well, don't you?"
"Yes, don't you?"
"She's my heart's desire," said Ronald, thickly.
They were in the forest now, where the tall trees stood like the pillars of a cathedral, and the moonlight, softened by the overhanging branches, fell full upon Robert's face, white to the lips with pain.
"Old man," said Ronald, huskily, "one of us is going to get hurt."
"Yes," returned Forsyth, dully, "I suppose so—we can't both have her."
"Perhaps neither of us can, but—well, whatever happens—say, it isn't going to interfere with our friendship, is it?"
"No!" cried Forsyth; "a thousand times, no!"
Ronald wrung the other's hand in a fierce grasp and choked down a lump in his throat. "She's too good for me," he muttered; "I know that as well as anybody, but, on my soul, I can't give her up!"
"She's for the man she loves," said Forsyth, "and for no other. She wouldn't marry a king if she didn't love him."
"Well," sighed Ronald, "so be it. May the best man win!"
"For the sake of her happiness, yes. Of the three of us, only one will suffer, unless you and I share it together; but even that is better than for her to be unhappy. I haven't a chance with you—I know I haven't; but you're my friend and—I—I love her so much, that I could give her to you, if she loved you better than she loved me."
"Rob! Rob!" cried Ronald, "you're the only friend I've got, but I don't need any more. Whatever happens, I'll hold fast to that—there'll be something left for me after all!"
CHAPTER XV
RIVALS
August came, but there was no sign of fighting. Beatrice was openly skeptical, and said she did not believe there had been any declaration of war, but she spent more of her time at Captain Franklin's than at home.
Forsyth and the Mackenzies missed her keenly, even though she made occasional visits across the river. Her real reason was her wish to avoid Forsyth and Ronald; but both of them went cheerfully to the Captain's on flimsy pretexts or on none at all.
Robert fell into the habit of making early morning calls on Lieutenant and Mrs. Howard. Then, when Beatrice came out of the house to sit on the porch, he could saunter over carelessly and spend an accidental hour or so with her. Ronald was more direct and never hesitated to pound vigorously at the door when he wanted to see Beatrice and had the slightest excuse for going there.
The experience was new to the Ensign, who had come unscathed through many a flirtation, and who had regarded love lightly, after the manner of his kind. He had been the master of every situation so far, but at last he had come face to face with something that made him weak and helpless—as if he had been clay in the potter's hands.
No matter how hot it was, he led Queen patiently twenty times around the Fort in the broiling sun, and never attempted to mount, even when Beatrice was in the house. Moreover, though he would have scorned to rub down his own horse, he often put finishing touches upon Queen's glossy coat after she had been groomed. This gave him an opportunity to go over to Captain Franklin's, still leading the horse, and ask Beatrice how she liked her pet's appearance. Simple and transparent as the device was, it never failed to win a smile for him, and sometimes, too, the girl would linger to feed Queen lumps of sugar and gossip with Ronald meanwhile.
She painted when she felt like it, and did a great deal of sewing, both occupations being fraught with interest to Forsyth and Ronald. Mrs. Franklin was often one of the group, and Katherine made no attempt to efface herself.
They were all sitting on the porch in front of the Captain's house one hot morning, when Ronald appeared with a bowl and a spoon. "Taste," he said, offering it to Mrs. Franklin. Katherine followed her example, then Beatrice, always eager for new sensations, helped herself rather liberally. Robert also partook of the savoury stew.
"Pretty good," he said critically; "what is it?"
"It's poor old Major," replied Ronald, sadly; "the Indians cooked him and let me have some of the remains."
Beatrice gasped and fled into the house. The other women had risen to follow her, when the situation was relieved by the appearance of Major coming across the parade-ground in full cry, with Doctor Norton in hot pursuit.
"I couldn't hold him any longer!" shouted the Doctor.
"You brute!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin.
Katherine went into the house to relieve Beatrice's apprehensions, and they returned together to add to the torrent of reproach that assailed the Ensign's ears. He was doubled up with unseemly mirth and apparently did not hear.
"That just goes to show," he said, when the paroxysm had passed, "how the mind influences the body. I had an argument with Doc this morning, and I've proved my point. If he hadn't let Major go, you would have thought you had eaten him and been miserable accordingly. Rob said it was good, and, dog or not dog, the fact remains."
Beatrice turned pale as a horrible suspicion entered her mind. "What is it?" she asked. "Upon your word and honour, what is it?"
"It's mutton stew," replied Ronald, conclusively, "made by Mrs. Mackenzie this very morning for your own approaching dinner. She kindly gave me some of it to keep me alive till noon. In fact, I helped to make it."
"You're a wretch!" exclaimed Katherine.
"Just hear 'em, Doc," said Ronald, assuming a grieved tone.
"I'm not sure but what you deserve it," laughed Norton. "If I had known what you were going to do, I wouldn't have tried to hold the dog."
"It's really very interesting," observed the Ensign, thoughtfully. "It shows what slaves of custom we are. Major is a medium-sized, woolly animal, much better looking than a sheep, yet sheep is considered eatable and Major isn't. Then, too, we eat cattle and draw the line at horses—there must be many a good steak on Queen."
Tears came to Beatrice's eyes, but she said nothing, and Forsyth warned Ronald with a look which was not noticed.
"Not that I think of eating her," resumed George, cheerfully; "I wouldn't get any exercise if I did. I wouldn't miss leading that beast around the Fort every morning for a fortune. It's the only uninterrupted feminine society I have."
At this juncture, Beatrice went into the house and slammed the door emphatically.
"Our diet here seems to be somewhat restricted," continued Ronald, apparently unmindful of his decreasing audience,—"cow and sheep, sheep and cow, with an occasional piggy rift in the cloud. Birdie eats dog whenever he can get it, and look at him—he's got as much endurance as any five of us, and I'm not sure but what he's better put together than I am."
"Yes, he is," put in Katherine, with caustic emphasis; "and he's better company, also. Come in," she continued, to Mrs. Franklin.
Ronald gazed after the retreating figures in pained amazement. "Well, what do you think of that?" he asked mournfully. "You fellows probably don't notice it, because you're not sensitive to such things; but, to my mind, which is more finely organised, it's a delicate intimation that we're not wanted. Let's move along."
"'Delicate' is good," commented the Doctor, as they walked away. "I call it rather pointed, myself."
"Strange, isn't it," remarked Ronald, impersonally, "how some people fall into line with the expressed opinions of others!"
"Ronald," said the Doctor, with mock admiration, "I don't think I ever met a man with so much fine tact as you have. Your unerring choice of happy subjects stands by itself—alone and unapproachable."
"Run along to your medicines, you old pill-roller," retorted the Ensign; "I want to talk to my cousin Robert."
Norton laughed and turned away, but he felt his isolation keenly, none the less. Lieutenant Howard was barely civil to him, as was natural under the circumstances, and he dared not see much of Katherine. Captain Franklin was not particularly congenial, and Mrs. Franklin had a vague distrust of him. She knew nothing more about the affair than Katherine had told her in the winter, but she surmised a great deal. Ronald had been the Doctor's mainstay, but since Beatrice came to Fort Dearborn he had been conspicuous by his absence. Forsyth was busy a great deal of the time, and the Doctor was left to intermittent association with the Mackenzies and the dubious consolation of the barracks.
It was true, as he often told himself, that his nature was one of those foreordained to loneliness, but at times he hungered for the companionship of his kind. Books were few upon the frontier, and those few he knew by heart; so he scraped lint, made bandages, brewed medicines, cultivated a certain philosophical turn of mind, and wondered vaguely where and how it would end.
Ronald and Forsyth were walking aimlessly in the neighbourhood of the Fort. The rigid discipline had somewhat relaxed, but no one was permitted to pass the picket lines. The Indians only came and went as they pleased, recognising no laws but those of their own making.
Ronald appeared to have something on his mind, and made disconnected and irrelevant answers to Forsyth's observations. "Say," he interrupted, at last, "how do you suppose we're ever going to get anywhere?"
"What do you mean?" asked Robert, in astonishment.
"Why, Beatrice, you know," he said awkwardly; "you don't give me any chance."
"I don't understand you," returned the other, coolly.
"Come now," said Ronald, roughly; "you know I'm no good at words, but I don't get your idea. There's always a mob around wherever she is, and if I get her to myself a minute you prance in as if you belonged there. If you're always going to do that, we might as well hunt her up now, tell her we both want to marry her, ask her to take her pick, and end the suspense."
An amused light came into Robert's eyes. "Do you know," he replied, "it's seemed to me the same way. If I get her to myself for a minute, you make it your business to join us. This morning, now,—I was there first, wasn't I?"
The Ensign's clouded face cleared. "I guess you were," he said slowly; "honestly, do I do that?"
"I should say you did," answered Forsyth, with unexpected spirit. "Since she moved away from Aunt Eleanor's, I haven't seen her alone for ten minutes."
Ronald laughed heartily as the ludicrous element of the situation dawned upon him. "I say, old man," he began, "we'll have to fix it some way—divide her up into watches, you know, or something like that."
Forsyth did not relish the way Ronald expressed it, but he caught the idea and nodded.
"How'll we do it?" continued the Ensign. "We can't take her into our confidence."
"Don't know," returned Robert, dully. "It doesn't make any difference, really, for I haven't a chance with you."
"Cheer up—you'll never get her if you mourn all the time. A girl likes to have things lively. I know how you feel—I've often felt that way myself; but I try to keep things going just the same. You have to attract a woman's attention—it doesn't much matter how."
"I surmised you thought that this morning," remarked Forsyth, with veiled sarcasm. He failed to mention the fact that, although he loved Beatrice, her evident displeasure had made him unspeakably glad.
Ronald's face bronzed, but he seldom admitted the possibility of his making a mistake. "We'll say," he began, "for the hypothesis, that our chances are equal. Since she moved over to the Captain's you've lost your unfair advantage. She goes across the river, of course, but we'll set against that the fact that she's in the Fort the rest of the time. Now, suppose we divide the day into three parts—morning, afternoon, and evening. It's morning till noon, afternoon till six, and evening till midnight. She mustn't lose her sleep, or she'll be cross. We'll take turns. For instance, if I have the morning, you get the afternoon, and I'll take the evening. The next day it will be your turn in the morning and evening, and mine in the afternoon—see?"
"Suppose she doesn't come out?"
"That's as it may be. The fellow whose turn it is takes the risk. She can do as she pleases—we simply agree to leave the field for the other at the times specified, military and educational duties to the contrary notwithstanding. That's fair, isn't it?"
"Yes, I think it is. Anyhow, it's better than we've been doing—it will lessen the possibility of friction."
"Good thing," commented Ronald. "Many a time I've felt like taking you by the collar and shaking you as a terrier shakes a rat."
"Me, too," laughed Forsyth. "Whose turn is it this afternoon?"
"I think it's mine. We were both there this morning, but you've intimated that I didn't leave a pleasant impression, and I ought to have a chance to set myself right, don't you think?"
"As you say—it doesn't make any difference to me."
"I'll have to get out pretty early some of the time," mused Ronald, "and exercise the beast. I don't want to lose a precious hour doing that."
"We might take turns—" suggested Forsyth, tentatively.
"We will not," retorted Ronald. "That's my job—she gave it to me herself."
Forsyth went across the river and Ronald returned to the Fort. Each was relieved because the matter was settled, for, as Robert had indicated, there had been friction.
All through the long, hot afternoon Ronald kept a close watch upon Captain Franklin's door. His knock met with no response, and Katherine had long since gone home. Doctor Norton had attempted to talk with the waiting swain, but found it unsatisfactory and retired gracefully.
Just before six o'clock Beatrice emerged. Her white gown was turned in a little at the throat, and her hair hung far below her waist in a heavy, shining braid, ending in a curl. Ronald's heart gave a great leap as he went to meet her.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Over to Aunt Eleanor's. You spoiled my dinner and I'm hungry."
"I'm sorry," he said, with evident contrition; "will you forgive me?"
"You ought to do penance for it."
"I'll do anything you say, Miss Bee."
"Lead Queen twenty-five times around the Fort after sundown," she said. "She'll be glad to get out again, and it won't hurt you."
Ronald smiled grimly as she went away, disregarding his offer to row her across. "It's a hard service," he thought, "but I've enlisted and I'll see it through. Thorny damsel; but oh, ye gods, she's sweet!"
Forsyth had made the most elaborate toilet his circumstances permitted, and was prepared to make the best of his coming opportunity. "Did you see George this afternoon?" he asked, with feigned carelessness.
"I did not," returned Beatrice, with a toss of her head. "He nearly broke down the Captain's door, but it was locked and nobody let him in. He was talking with that precious dog of his when I came out, and he offered to row me over, but I came by myself."
"I would have gone after you," said Robert, with ill-advised eagerness.
"Thank you," she answered coolly; "but I'm not so old yet that I can't row fairly well on still water."
That evening Forsyth had the felicity of sitting on the piazza, with Beatrice beside him, while his rival dejectedly led Queen round and round the Fort. His efforts at entertainment seemed to be unusually happy and effective, though he was too obtuse to notice that she laughed only when Ronald was in sight and, presumably, within hearing.
Mackenzie sat with them for a while, but soon went in. "You take the first watch," he said to Robert, "and call Chan for the second. I've got to get up early in the morning, anyway."
"All right, sir."
"Do you think there's any use of watching?" she asked, when the trader had closed the door.
"Of course," answered Robert, promptly. "If we were all asleep, no one would hear the gun and we might all be taken prisoners before we had a chance to get to the Fort."
"Have you always watched out here?"
"Yes, a part of the night, ever since we knew war had been declared."
"It's lonely, isn't it?"
"It might be, but I always have something pleasant to think about."
Beatrice did not press the question further. "What time does the first watch end?"
"Oh, along about midnight."
"I'll stay with you," said the girl impulsively; "I had a long sleep this afternoon, and I'd love to help watch. May I?"
Robert's heart beat loudly, but he controlled his voice. "Of course you may," he said.
When Ronald's task was finished, he led Queen into the Fort. "Twenty-four," mused Beatrice. "He's skipped one, or else I didn't count right."
"Twenty-four?" repeated Robert, inquiringly.
"Yes," she said. "He had to take Queen around twenty-five times because he was bad this morning and tried to make me think I'd eaten Major. I don't like things like that."
Robert laughed happily and felt an inexplicable generosity toward Ronald. "You didn't count right," he assured her. "He never would skip."
"Perhaps not—anyhow, I'll let it go."
The hours passed as if on wings, and both were surprised when the deep-toned bell at the Fort tolled taps. The moon rose and a path of gold gleamed on the water, rippling gently with the night wind.
"See," said Beatrice, softly, "it's always seemed to me as if one might row along that path, when the moon is low, and go straight in. When I was a child I used to think that I'd do it as soon as I got old enough to manage a boat by myself. I wondered why nobody ever went to the moon when it was so close, and I thought it would be a fine thing if I could be the first one to go. I couldn't see any doors, and concluded they must be on the other side; but I was sure I could row around when I got there, and I never doubted for an instant that the moon people would be delighted to see me. What strange fancies children have!"
"You're only a child now," said Robert, huskily,—"a little, helpless child."
"Helpless?" repeated Beatrice, with an odd little cadence at the end of the rising inflection; "I've never been told that before. See how strong my hands are!"
Laughing, she offered a small, white, dimpled hand for his inspection. With an inarticulate cry he bent to kiss it, and she snatched it away, much offended.
"You presume," she said, coldly. "Perhaps you think I'm like other girls!"
"You are different from everybody in the world," he answered, in a low, tender tone. "They are clay like the rest of us, only of a finer sort, but you are a bit of priceless porcelain. You are made of flowers and stars and dreams—of sunlight and moonlight, Spring and dawn. All the beauty of the earth has gone to make you—violets for your eyes, a rose for your mouth, and white morning-glories for your hands. When you smile it is like the light of a midsummer noon; when you laugh it is the music of falling waters; when you sing to yourself it is like a bird in the wilderness, breaking one's heart with the exquisite sweetness of it. Darling! darling!" he cried, passionately; "no one in the world is like you!"
Beatrice was trembling, and for the moment was dumb. Robert stood before her with his hands outstretched in pleading until, emboldened by her silence, he leaned forward to take her into his arms, and she moved swiftly aside.
"Very pretty," she said, with an effort, and in a matter-of-fact tone, then she laughed. "I did not know you were a poet," she continued, rising and shaking out her skirts,—"the moonlight has made you mad."
"Not the moonlight, sweetheart, but you!"
"Well, the two of us, then," returned Beatrice, lightly. "It's getting late, and I must go."
"No!" he cried. "You said you would stay till the end of my watch!"
"That was before I knew you were a poet. No, I'm going back by myself—good-night, and pleasant dreams!"
He untied the pirogue for her and helped her into it, his senses reeling at the momentary touch of her hand; and when she crossed the path of gold that lay upon the water, the light shone full upon her flower-like face. The man's blood surged into his heart with rapturous pain, as, exquisite, radiant, and unattainable, she passed through the gate of the Fort and out of his sight. He stood there long after she had vanished, shaken from head to foot by a passion as pure and exalted as Sir Galahad might have felt for Elaine.