"Come on, Doc," said Ronald.
"Where?" asked Norton, lazily.
"Across the river, of course; don't you see the mob over there?"
The large yard in front of the Mackenzie house was fairly well filled with people when they arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, Forsyth, Chandonnais, Lieutenant and Mrs. Howard, and Mrs. Franklin were standing behind Beatrice, who was painting in water colours. Black Partridge, in all the glory of his feather head-dress and his most gorgeous blanket, was posing for his picture. The chief endeavoured to preserve the appearance of calm, but in reality he was greatly excited.
Doctor Norton and the Lieutenant exchanged cool salutations, and Katherine was scarcely more cordial. All three of them had decided to ignore past events, but there was an element of difficulty in the situation, none the less.
"How do you suppose Birdie can wear a blanket in July?" asked Ronald. "I should think he'd be roasted to a turn."
"It's his best blanket," explained Beatrice, selecting another brush, "and he wants it in his picture."
"I'd rather my clothes would be painted separately on a day like this," murmured Ronald.
"I didn't know you had more than one suit," remarked the artist, with a flourish of her brush; "you can't properly say 'clothes.'"
"Well, 'clo', then," retorted the Ensign, "if it suits you better; but some day you'll see me in a brand-new uniform."
"It's what I'm living for," answered Beatrice. "Somebody get me some more water."
A dozen hands were outstretched, but it was Forsyth who secured the cup, and he was rewarded with a radiant smile when he returned.
"Ain't that smart, now!" exclaimed the trader, delightedly, as the unmistakable features of Black Partridge appeared upon the paper. Chandonnais was grinning broadly, and even Ronald and the Lieutenant condescended to praise.
"To think that we've had a real artist here for months and never knew it!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin. "Why didn't you let us know about it before?"
"Because," answered the girl, "as an old lady at Fort Mackinac would have said, I didn't 'feel to paint.'"
Mrs. Mackenzie was restraining the children with difficulty, for each and every one of them yearned to take a brush and assist in the delicate task. At last she took the baby and went into the house, leaving Maria Indiana to Katherine, and the two older children to their father and Forsyth.
"There," said Beatrice, with a critical squint at her work; "it's almost done."
Against a background of delicate green, the Indian, in his scarlet blanket, stood boldly and properly pictured. The colouring was very good and she had caught the spirit of the pose.
"Let me show it to him," suggested Robert.
She was wiping her brushes and did not see the expression of dismay on the chief's face when he beheld his counterfeit presentment, but she saw him snatch the picture out of Robert's hand and heard his indistinct mutterings when he fled like a deer.
"Well, what do you think of that!" she gasped. "What was he saying, Uncle John?"
"I didn't catch it, Bee—did you, Rob?"
Forsyth had made a little progress in the language, but had understood only a word or two. "It was something about the 'Great Spirit,' I think, but I didn't get the connection."
"That's gone, anyhow," said the Doctor. "You meant it for him, didn't you?"
"Why, yes, eventually; but it wasn't done."
"It was done enough for him, evidently," observed Ronald; "he seems to prefer his pictures a little rare. Are you ready to make mine now?"
"Indeed, I'm not going to paint you. I'm going in to help Aunt Eleanor."
Mrs. Howard followed her. The Doctor offered to row Mrs. Franklin across the river, Chan disappeared, and the Lieutenant went over to the Agency House with Mackenzie. Ronald looked at Forsyth and laughed.
"Everybody's moving," he said. "Let's go over and get Major and go swimming."
"You go after Major," suggested Robert, "and I'll get some towels of Aunt Eleanor. We'll go up north."
Ronald embarked in a pirogue and Forsyth went into the house. "I don't see where it's gone to," Mrs. Mackenzie was saying. "Are you sure you haven't it, Katherine?"
"What have you lost, Aunt Eleanor?" he asked.
"Why, my blue-and-white patchwork quilt—a white one with blue stars in it. It was washed and put away clean last Fall, and now it's gone."
Beatrice was looking at him in a way that puzzled him. "I'm sure I haven't seen it," he hastened to say. "Am I suspected?"
"Of course not," returned Mrs. Mackenzie; "but it's a strange thing to happen right here in the house. I wish you'd go up to the loft and see if it's on Chan's bed—he may have taken it by mistake."
Forsyth climbed the ladder to the empty loft, but no quilt was to be seen. The rude shakedown on which the half-breed slept had only blankets for covering. He looked around curiously, for he had never been in the loft before, but he did not envy Chan his quarters. There was only one window in the desolate place, and that scarcely deserved the name, for it was merely a small aperture in the front of the house. The floor was comparatively clean, but there was a pile of rubbish in one corner, which he promptly investigated. He had hardly expected to find the quilt, but he was surprised when he discovered a ham, a side of bacon, and a large piece of dark blue calico hidden under the nondescript heap.
"I expect he gets hungry in the night," thought Robert, remembering Chan's ferocious appetite.
"No quilt there, Aunt Eleanor," he said, when he went down. "May I have some towels?"
"The Indians must have taken it," she sighed, "but I don't know when nor how."
Beatrice was in a brown study, but Robert, even though he was gifted with rather more than the average man's discernment, did not know what she was thinking about. Remembering the conversation he had overheard the night of the barbecue, he had thought it likely that the cross over the door of the house in the woods had been stolen from the half-breed by an Indian, or else, after the manner of others somewhat higher in the social scale, Chan had taken unto himself an Indian wife.
Except as it concerned Beatrice, the matter did not interest him, and he forbore to tell her what he knew, lest the "secret" between them should come to an end. Her curiosity about the mysterious cabin had increased rather than diminished; but Robert had refused to go with her when she wanted to investigate it again, and she did not quite dare to go alone.
Ronald was waiting for him outside, and the dog trotted along beside them in high spirits, lavishing moist caresses upon his master, and punctuating his expressions of affection with exuberant barks.
"Down, Major, down!" commanded Ronald, "or I'll throw you into the lake."
The shadowy coolness of the woods was invigorating, and they walked on, heedless of the distance. "When we find a deep place," said Forsyth, "we'll dive into it from the bluff."
"No we won't," returned Ronald, conclusively. "I knew a fool once who broke his neck in just that way. No loss to the world particularly, but unpleasant. They'd miss us mightily at the Fort."
When Robert saw that they were approaching the neighbourhood of the cabin, he said that he was tired.
"So 'm I," answered the other. "Let's sit down and get cooled off before we go in."
Major was far ahead, ranging back and forth eagerly in pursuit of some small animal that had escaped him. "Something has happened," continued Ronald; "guess!"
"Couldn't guess—what is it?"
"That's right," laughed the Ensign, slapping his knee; "nobody could guess. We've actually got our new uniforms!"
"You don't say so! Where are they?"
"At Fort Wayne."
"Oh, you haven't got them, then?"
"No, but we've almost got 'em. Some of the boys are going this week sometime, as soon as the Captain can make up his mind to send 'em. I wish I could go, too, but they'll need nearly all the horses—fifty-eight new uniforms, you know. I've thought seriously of borrowing Miss Manning's horse and taking the trip—I need a change."
"She wouldn't let you have it."
"I hadn't intended to ask her," explained Ronald. "Lord, but she'd be mad! I'd give a pretty penny to see her when she found out I'd done it! I'd really rather see her good and mad than to take the trip, but I can't do both. If I have one pleasure, you'll have the other."
"I'd rather not, thank you—I'd much prefer to be out of the way of the storm. I hope you won't do it."
"Well, I'm not going to," said the Ensign; "at least, I don't think I am. I'm more or less subject to impulses, however."
A shrill feminine scream brought both men to their feet. "What was that?" cried Forsyth.
Major came toward them from the north, on a dead run, with his tail between his legs and panting for breath. "What's the matter, old boy?" shouted Ronald. The dog took shelter behind his master, trembling violently.
"He isn't hurt," said the Ensign, after looking him over carefully, "he's just scared. Do you think we'd better go up and see what's wrong?"
"No," answered Forsyth; "everything is quiet now. Major probably got into trouble with a squaw. It was a woman's scream."
"Maybe so," assented Ronald, sitting down again. "Anyhow, it was none of the women at the Fort, and I'm in favour of letting the Indians fight their own battles."
The dog, still frightened, insisted on lying uncomfortably close to his master. "Move over a bit, Major," he suggested; "you're too warm to sit by."
"He's all right," laughed Forsyth, as the dog refused to move; "let him alone."
"Do you know," said Ronald, after a silence, "that scream sounded like Mad Margaret's voice. Don't you think so?"
"Perhaps, now that you speak of it; but I haven't seen her for a long time."
"Neither have I, and I don't want to. Do you remember the night you came?"
Forsyth nodded.
"I can't get that out of my head—the way she looked at me when she told me I should never have my heart's desire. Someway, it sticks."
"You're not superstitious, are you?"
"Not exactly, but it was rather uncanny, if you remember,—at least it would have seemed so if she had said it to you."
"That's true," admitted Robert.
"I'm not afraid of anything in this world," resumed the Ensign; "but I don't want to tackle the next before I get to it—if there is any next."
"What do you think about the next world, anyway?"
"Well," answered Ronald, seriously, "I don't think much about it, and that's a fact. Nobody knows any more about it than anybody else, and I don't see why one man's opinion isn't as good as another's. Personally, I have always felt that if I was decent and honest and minded my own business, I'd get my share of anything good that night be coming after I got through here. Actions, to my mind, are a good deal more important than beliefs."
"That's so, too, but I've learned to keep pretty still about those things, for I've been accused more than once of too much liberality."
"The chaplain at West Point was a nice old fellow, and he used to tell us that if we were good soldiers and abided by the army regulations, we wouldn't get into trouble after we died. I've always remembered it and I've marched by it ever since."
"Let's go in now," suggested the other, after a long silence.
"All right—come on, Major!"
The sun was shining brightly on the water, and the dog barked joyously as they plunged in. "Keep him here," said Ronald, "I'm going on out." Robert watched him enviously as he swam north-east with a long, free stroke, until he was almost out of sight. The dog was eager to be after him, and, having no collar, was not easily controlled. When he came back, aglow with life, it seemed to the other that he had the clean-limbed beauty of a young Greek god.
"You go now," shouted Ronald, "and I'll amuse the pup."
Forsyth swam straight out, with an exultant sense of power in breasting the waves, and his pulses thrilled with something so vital, keen, and elemental that it seemed as if he could go on forever. When he turned back, he saw the gleam of light far to the northward, where the sun shone on the cross, and thought of Beatrice, happily, and of the day in the woods. He was well in toward shore when his muscles suddenly lost their strength—as if he had forgotten how to swim. He called once, but faintly, then unutterable darkness surrounded him.
When he came to his senses he was lying on the sand, and Ronald was rolling him over and over and pounding him vigorously. A whine sounded indistinct and far, as if it were leagues away, even while the dog was licking his face.
"My God, man," said the Ensign, with white lips, "I'd almost given you up!"
The voice beat painfully upon his ears and his senses were confused, but he tried to sit up. "What was the matter?" he gasped.
"Cramps, I guess—that's the usual thing. We'd better have let Major drown and gone out together. I had a nice time getting both of you back to shore."
Ronald continued his violent treatment until the other protested. "Don't hit me again," he said faintly, "I'm all right!"
"Pile into your clothes, then, or you'll take cold."
He obeyed, but slowly, for he was thoroughly exhausted and movement was difficult. Ronald was dressed long before he was, and insisted upon helping him.
"There, now you're fixed," he said, at length; "and if you're good for it, we'll go back to the bank and sit down a bit. There's no hurry about going home."
Forsyth was faint when they reached the tall tree they had started from, and was more than willing to rest. His speech was still thick, but he stammered his thanks.
"You owe it to Major," explained Ronald, diffidently, "for I never would have seen you. He started out, all of a sudden, and I went after him. Of course I wondered what had happened when I didn't see you, but I thought you were swimming under water. He found you, though. Good old boy," he added, patting the dog.
"I'm much obliged to both of you," said Robert weakly. "I've been in the water more or less all my life, and nothing like that ever happened to me before."
"Hope it won't again—the first time came mighty near being the last."
Forsyth had more strength than he appeared to have, but the shock was severe. "There's no hurry," said George, "and we won't go back till you're ready for a long walk. Say, how did you feel?"
"Why, I don't know exactly. I was all right, and I was thinking what a glorious swim I was having and how fine the water was, when all at once I couldn't move, and everything was black. I think I called you, though."
"Didn't hear you, but I guess the dog did. Queer, isn't it, that it should come just after we had been talking about death and the hereafter and so on?"
"Perhaps it was a warning."
"You're superstitious, now," returned Ronald; "but there's no getting out of it—when we get near the jumping-off place it makes us feel devilish queer. I was nearly crazy when I got you to shore and found you were dead—the thing came so quick, why, it was like a stroke of lightning."
"If that's death, though, it's nothing to be afraid of. Everything was black and soft, and there was no hurt to it—just a stop."
"Do you know," said the Ensign, "I've never seen very many dead people, and I've never seen anybody who had been killed in an accident—suddenly, you know. Those fellows up at Lee's were the nearest to it, but I didn't see them." His face whitened and his hands clenched instinctively. "God!" he breathed, between his set teeth, "I hope I'll be spared a death like that, at the hands of the red devils. I want to die like a soldier—in battle!"
"Come," said Forsyth, smiling, "we're getting serious—let's go back."
"Do you feel all right?"
"Yes; I'm a little shaky, but I guess I'm good for it. Don't say anything about it at the Fort, nor anywhere else—the women would make a great row."
"As you say—it's your business, you know."
In spite of Forsyth's valiant efforts, his progress was slow. "I'm as weak as a woman," he complained, when he was forced to stop and rest for the fourth time.
"You'll make it all right," said the other, cheerily; "take your time. And say, when we get back, come on over to the Fort and get a good stiff drink of whisky—that will set you on your pegs as quickly as anything."
When they came to the river Forsyth sat down and waited until Ronald went down to Mackenzie's, got a pirogue, and came up after him. "Didn't see anybody," said Ronald, in answer to a question, "and it's just as well. You're pretty white around the gills yet."
"Steady," he continued, as the boat grazed the shore, "and in ten minutes you'll be a new man."
Mrs. Franklin and Mrs. Howard were playing battledore on the parade-ground, while Beatrice and the Lieutenant watched them from the piazza. Captain Franklin, Mackenzie, and a couple of Indians were standing in front of the Captain's quarters, and Ronald yearned to join the group and see what was going on. He gave Robert his flask, bade him take it slowly, and rushed out.
The Indians were just leaving, and Captain Franklin had started back to the house, when one of them turned back and said something.
"What did he say?" he asked of Mackenzie.
"Nothing," replied the trader, with the dull colour bronzing his face; "they ain't our folks, you know."
"I insist upon knowing," said Franklin, peremptorily.
Mackenzie came nearer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "He said something about the women over there,"—indicating Mrs. Franklin and Mrs. Howard. "He said 'the white chief's wives are amusing themselves very much. It will not be long before they are hoeing in our corn-fields.'"
"Humph!" snorted the Captain.
"Oh!" laughed Ronald, "I must tell 'em!"
"Shut up," said the Captain; "you will do no such thing!"
"All right," returned the younger officer, good humouredly, "they're not my wives!"
"Cousin Rob," said Beatrice, the next morning, "I think you're dreadfully stupid."
"Why?"
"Because—yesterday, you know."
"You're indefinite."
"Why, when Aunt Eleanor was telling about the quilt that was stolen—a white quilt, with blue stars—you didn't know where it was."
"Did you?"
"Of course I did—it's in the little house in the woods."
"I wasn't in the house, Bee—you told me about it, but I didn't see it."
"Well, anyhow, you should have known," she concluded, with truly feminine inconsistency.
"Perhaps," smiled Robert; "but I'd rather not know, and then there'd be an excuse for your telling me."
A faint colour came into the girl's cheeks. "I had an awful dream about you last night," she said, in a low tone; "I dreamed you were drowned in the lake."
Robert started, but managed to control his voice. "I'm not drowned," he answered, with apparent lightness; but he was wondering whether Ronald had broken his promise. Still, no one had crossed the river, from either side, since the accident—he was sure of that.
"Be careful, won't you?" Beatrice pleaded earnestly.
"Certainly—but would you care?"
All the rosy tints faded from her face and the mist came into her eyes. Her "yes" was scarcely audible, but it moved the man strangely. "I'd do anything to please you, my dear—cousin," he said tenderly.
"Quarrelling?" asked Mackenzie, from the doorway.
"Not this time," laughed the girl.
"I've got something to tell you, Bee. Black Partridge was here early this morning, long before you were up, and apologised for running off with the picture—that is, as nearly as an Indian ever apologises. From what he said, I infer that he thinks the Great Spirit dwells in you, but he is willing for you to finish it. The medicine-man of the tribe told him good would come from it, rather than evil, so he left it here to be completed."
"All right," she answered; "I'll go to work at it now and try to get it done before he changes his mind again."
Robert brought the picture and her paints, and they sat down together on the piazza while she added the finishing touches. "Couldn't we make a frame for it?" asked Robert.
"What could we make it of?"
"He'd prefer beads, wouldn't he?"
"Yes, I suppose so," she said, with a puzzled little frown; "but I don't know how to make a bead frame."
"I should think a plain wooden frame might be whittled out, smeared with pitch or rosin, and the beads stuck on while it was hot."
"You're a genius, Cousin Rob. Get the beads off uncle and make it while I'm finishing the picture."
Mackenzie willingly placed his stock at their service, and, after taking careful measurements, Forsyth found a piece of soft pine and made a narrow, flat frame. Beatrice finished her work in time to help set the beads in the rosin, and Mackenzie and his wife came out to admire the result.
The picture was framed to their satisfaction when Black Partridge, somewhat shamefaced, appeared at the trading station. He took it with every evidence of delight and made a long speech to Mackenzie, of which Robert understood only a little.
"What does he say?" asked Beatrice, impatiently.
"He says he is very thankful and very grateful and much pleased, and that as long as he lives neither of you shall ever want for a friend. He says while the sun rises and sets and the stars move in their courses, Black Partridge will be the faithful friend of the paleface and her lover."
Robert was much embarrassed, but Beatrice only laughed. "Tell him he is very welcome," she said, "and that when we need a friend we will not hesitate to call upon Black Partridge."
The speech was duly repeated, with additional assurances which Mackenzie knew would please the chief, and the visit was ended with much ceremony.
Ronald was coming across the river, and Beatrice lingered upon the piazza until he opened the gate, when she gathered up her paints and went into the house without a word of greeting. There was a shade of annoyance in the Ensign's salutation, but he made no allusion to the girl.
"Come on out for a bit," suggested Robert; "I want to talk to you."
They went north along the river bank in silence until they were out of sight of the house, then Robert turned suddenly and faced him.
"Say," he said, "did you tell any one about my—about yesterday, you know?"
"No," answered Ronald, meeting his eyes squarely; "why?"
"Oh—nothing. Are you sure you didn't say anything that would lead any one to suspect?"
"'Nary peep, unless I talked in my sleep. When I found out that you'd drained my flask of everything but the smell, I went to Doc after a new supply, and when he asked me what had become of it I told him you'd taken to drink, but that was all. Now, I'll ask you a few questions. Why doesn't Miss Manning want me to come over?"
"Why, I don't know," replied Forsyth, wonderingly; "doesn't she?"
"Doesn't look like it," grumbled the other. "Didn't you see her gallop into the house the minute I opened the gate?"
"I didn't notice."
"You would, if she'd done it to you." Ronald was plainly in a bad humour. "What's more, if I speak to her, she never answers me decently. A girl never treated me like that before," he fumed; "just wait till I get my new uniform!"
"When is it coming?" asked Forsyth, glad of the chance to change the subject.
"Dunno—the boys are going to start early in the morning, but there's no telling when they'll get back."
"Are you going?"
"Indeed, and I am not. How can I go when there's no horse for me?"
"I thought you were going to—to borrow," stammered the other.
"Hardly!" The Ensign stopped and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Suffering Moses!" he said, "wouldn't she be mad!"
"Yes, I think she would, but I don't see why. She lets you lead Queen, doesn't she?"
"Oh, Lord, yes! I'm allowed to lead the beast twenty times around the Fort every day for exercise—she said we both needed it, and she didn't want to ride while it was so hot,—but she particularly impressed it upon me that under no circumstances was I to mount. A groom—a stable boy,—that's what she thinks I am! I believe I'll tell her to lead her own nag!"
"I wouldn't," returned Forsyth.
"Why not?" demanded the other. "What do you know about women?"
"Not very much," admitted Robert, laughing; "but we're all at sea there, I fancy."
Gradually Ronald's temper improved, and in a short time he was his sunny self again. Peace dwelt in the woods along the river, and where the young officer stretched himself full length under an overhanging willow, the quiet coolness of the unsunned spaces put an end, insensibly, to his irritation.
"Say," he said, "did you ever write poetry?"
Forsyth smiled, remembering certain callow attempts in his college days. "Yes, I called it that."
"Then you're the very man for me," announced George, "for I'm going to write a poem!"
"What about?"
"Oh—er—anything. Poems don't have to be about anything, do they? It's to go with a present—a birthday present, you know."
"To a girl?"
Ronald laughed long and loud. "No," he cried; "of course not! It's a little tribute of affection for the Captain! Lord, but you're green!"
"How can I help you with it if I don't know the circumstances?" demanded Forsyth. "What is the present?"
"The present isn't much—the poem is the main part of it. It's an Indian basket that Mrs. B. P. made for me in return for two fists of beads." Ronald took off his cap, felt around carefully inside of it, and at length produced a slip of paper, much worn. "I've got some of it," he said, "and I thought if I kept it on my head it might stimulate thought, but it hasn't."
"Let's hear it."
The poet cleared his throat and read proudly:
Robert bit his lips, but managed to turn a serious face toward Ronald. "Is that all you've got?"
"That's all, so far. I thought myself into a headache about it, but I couldn't write any more. What shall I put in next?"
"I don't want to seem critical," observed Forsyth; "but you've got a false rhyme there."
"What's a 'false rhyme'?"
"'Basket' and asks it'—'ask it' would be all right."
"It doesn't fit. We'll leave that just as it is—nobody but you would notice it, and you're not getting the present."
"What do you want to say next?"
"Well, I don't know, exactly," replied Ronald, confidentially. "Of course, I want it to be personal in a way, with a delicate reminder of my affection at the end of it."
"You've got a 'delicate reminder,' as you call it, in the second line."
"Never mind that; go to work."
repeated Robert, thoughtfully. "It was made by an Indian maiden—how would that do?"
"That's all right, only it was a squaw."
"It was made by an Indian squaw, then," continued Robert. "What rhymes with squaw?"
"Dunno."
"Paw," said Forsyth.
"Shut up!" said Ronald. "She'd throw it out of the window if she thought it wasn't clean. Call her a maiden if you like."
"It was made by an Indian maiden—there isn't any rhyme for 'maiden.'"
"Laden," suggested George, after long and painful thought.
"That's good, if we can work it in."
"How's that?"
"Fine!" beamed Ronald. "Say, I didn't know you were a poet!"
"Neither did I," replied Forsyth, modestly.
"That's simply magnificent!" said Ronald. "We ought to write another verse, hadn't we?"
"As you say."
"If we can do another one as good as that, it'll be a masterpiece. My name ought to come in at the end, hadn't it?"
"Nothing rhymes with 'Ronald,' does it?"
"I didn't mean that—I meant my front name."
"Oh," said Forsyth. He was wondering how the girl in Fort Wayne would like the poem, and longed to ask questions about her, but felt that it would be improper.
"'Forge' is the only thing I can think of for a rhyme," said the Ensign, at length; "that wouldn't do, would it?"
"How's that?"
Ronald's delight knew no bounds. "The very thing!" he shouted. "Now, all we have to do is to put two lines above it and it will be done. That's the end of the verse, you know."
"Might put her name in," suggested Robert, not without guile.
Ronald appeared to consider it carefully. "No," he said, "that wouldn't do. One name is enough to have in it. Something ought to go in about her looks, don't you think so—eyes, or mouth, or skin?"
"'Skin,'" repeated Robert, laughing; "girls never have 'skin.' They call it their 'complexion.'"
"Thought you didn't know anything about women," George said, looking at him narrowly.
"Oh, come now, I can't help knowing that—any fool knows that!"
"Except me," put in the Ensign, pointedly. "However, I'll let the insult pass for the sake of the poem. Put in something about her mouth, can't you?"
The vision of Beatrice's scarlet, parted lips, with their dangerous curves, came before Robert.
he suggested.
"Man," said Ronald, soberly, "you're a genius. Write it down quick before it gets away. Now I'll read the whole thing:
"Sounds like Shakespeare, doesn't it?"
"I wouldn't say that," answered Forsyth, with proper modesty.
"Got any good paper to write it on?"
"Only a little, but you're welcome to it."
"All right, let's go back and get it. Say, do you think she'll be pleased?"
"She can't help being pleased," Robert assured him.
"I'm ever so much obliged," said Ronald diffidently. "I never could have done it so well alone."
When they reached Mackenzie's, Beatrice came out on the piazza as Robert went in after the paper, and she was evidently inclined to conversation.
"Where have you been?" she asked sweetly.
"Oh, just up-stream a little ways," replied Ronald, carelessly.
"Have you had Queen out this morning?"
"Yes, I rode her half-way to Fort Wayne and back. She got pretty well used up, but it did her good."
"How dare you!" flamed Beatrice, stamping her foot.
Ronald laughed and leaned easily against the side of the house while she stormed at him. Even Robert's appearance did not have any effect upon her wrath.
"Say, Rob," said the Ensign, when she paused to take breath, "your cousin here doesn't seem to know a joke when she sees it. She thinks I'd ride that old gun-carriage she keeps in the garrison stables. Calm her down a bit, will you? Bye-bye!"
The fire died out of the girl's eyes and her lips quivered. Her breast was heaving, but she kept herself in check till Ronald slammed the gate, then her shoulders shook with sobs.
"Bee!" cried Robert. "Don't, dear!"
Instinctively he put his arm around her, and she leaned against his shoulder, sobbing helplessly, her self-control quite gone. Ronald was untying a pirogue at the landing, when he looked back and saw the inspiring tableau.
"Good Lord!" he said, under his breath, as Robert, with his arm still around her, led Beatrice into the house.
Later in the week, as Robert was on his way to breakfast, he met Maria Indiana in the long, narrow passage back of the living-rooms. "What have you there, baby?" he asked.
Maria Indiana held out a small Indian basket of wonderful workmanship, filled with berries, fresh and fragrant, with the dew still on them. Tucked in at one side was a note, written upon his own stationery, as he could not help seeing. "It's for Tuzzin Bee!" lisped the child. "Misser George said nobody mus' see!"
The little feet pattered down the passage, but Robert stood still for a moment, as if he had turned to stone. Then wild unrest possessed him and stabs of pain pierced his consciousness. "Fool that I was!" he said to himself, bitterly; "blind, cursed fool!"
All at once he knew that he loved Beatrice with every fibre of his being—that she held his heart in the hollow of her hand, to crush or hurt as she pleased. He was shaken like an aspen in a storm—this, then, was why her flower-like face had haunted his dreams.
Swiftly upon the knowledge came a great uplifting, such as Love brings to the man whose life has been clean. It was a proud heart yielding only to the keeper of its keys—the absolute surrender of a kingdom to its queen.
Beatrice was late to breakfast, as usual; and Robert, acutely self-conscious, could not meet her eyes. She brought the basket with her and offered the berries as her contribution to the morning meal. Between gasps of laughter she read the poem, thereby causing mixed emotions in Forsyth. "Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?" she asked, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes.
Robert wished that the giver might see the rare pleasure his gift had brought to the recipient, but swiftly reproached himself for the ungenerous thought.
"It was nice of him to remember your birthday, Bee," said Mrs. Mackenzie, who was always ready to defend Ronald.
"How did he know it was my birthday?" demanded Beatrice.
"I told him," replied Mrs. Mackenzie. "He asked me, long ago, to find out when it was and to let him know."
"Clever of him," commented Beatrice, somewhat mollified. "Why didn't you get something for my birthday, Cousin Rob?" she asked, with a winning smile.
"Perhaps I did," he answered; "the day is still young."
He had already decided what to give her, and knew that his offering would not suffer by comparison with Ronald's, even though no poem went with it; but when he went to his room to look in his box for the moccasins he had bought so long ago, he was astonished to find that they were gone.
He ransacked the room thoroughly, but without success. He could not even remember when he had seen them last, though he knew he had taken them down from the wall of his room and put them away. Still, he was not greatly concerned, for he was sure that he could go to the Indian camp and find another pair.
After school he started off on a long, lonely tramp, and returned at sunset, empty handed and exasperated. Beatrice had on her pink calico gown, and was sitting demurely upon the piazza—alone. She seemed like a rose to her lover, and he was about to tell her so, but she forestalled him.
"Where's my birthday present?" she asked, sweetly; "I've been looking for it all day!"
Then he told her about the moccasins he had for her, though he failed to mention the fact that he had bought them for her long before she came to Fort Dearborn. "When I went after them this morning," he said, "I discovered that they had been stolen. I've been out now to see if I couldn't get another pair, but I couldn't even find a squaw who was willing to make them. You don't know how sorry I am!"
"Never mind," she said soothingly, "it's no matter. Of course, I'd love to have the moccasins, but it's the thought, rather than the gift, and I'd rather know that you found out from Aunt Eleanor when my birthday was, and tried to give me pleasure, than to have the pleasure itself."
The colour mounted to Robert's temples, but he could not speak. He felt that his silence was a lie, and a cowardly one at that, but he was helpless before the girl's smile.
"What's that?" asked Beatrice, suddenly, pointing across the river.
There was a stir at the Fort. Men ran in and out, evidently under stress of great excitement, then a tall and stately being, resplendent in a new uniform, came out and turned a handspring on the esplanade.
"What's up?" shouted Robert.
Ronald turned another handspring and threw his cap high in the air before he condescended to answer. "Bully!" he roared; "we're going to fight! War is declared against England!"