Round Anvil Rock A Romance

XXI

THE EA­GLE IN THE DOVE'S NEST

The worst hurt that Paul Col­bert had re­ceived was from a blow on the head, which had stunned and near­ly killed him. But there had been no last­ing in­jury, even from this, and the knife-​wound in his shoul­der had healed rapid­ly; he was young, and strong, and healthy.

On the morn­ing of the sev­enth day he awoke and looked at Ruth. He was feel­ing al­most well, but had no in­cli­na­tion to stir. It was pleas­ant enough just to lie there and look at her, and let his gaze wan­der around her cham­ber. This white shrine of maid­en­hood! He had felt its in­flu­ence be­fore he was able to un­der­stand, and the rev­er­en­tial awe had grown with his re­turn­ing strength. How dain­ty it was, for all its rough board floor and rude log walls! Even those were as white as the driv­en snow. The bed was like the warm, soft breast of a snow-​white swan, and its drawn cur­tains like fold­ed wings. There were spot­less muslin cur­tains over the win­dows, and the lit­tle toi­let ta­ble al­so was draped in white and strewn with bits of carved ivory. The whole room showed the same min­gling of lux­ury and sim­plic­ity that was to be seen in the great room be­low. These fine ivory carv­ings, the rare prints and a paint­ing or two on the rude walls, the al­abaster vase on the rude stand,--filled with fresh, late-​bloom­ing flow­ers,--the cost­ly white fur rug on the floor, the del­icate work bas­ket with its co­quet­tish bows of riband, con­trast­ed odd­ly with the oth­er sim­ple things which had ev­ident­ly been made in the wilder­ness by un­skilled hands. Yet even those were taste­ful and all paint­ed white, so that the whole was pu­ri­ty, beau­ty, and exquisite­ness.

Yet his gaze quick­ly turned from the room to her. He knew that she be­lieved him to be asleep; but it was so pleas­ant to watch her that he did not has­ten to let her know that he was awake. She was very busy at the win­dow, with her back to him, and deeply ab­sorbed in some­thing that she was do­ing. Mov­ing light­ly and swift­ly to and fro across the light, she was work­ing hard, with no more noise than the sun­beams made in glanc­ing about her slen­der form. He lay watch­ing her for some time in dreamy de­light, be­fore he saw what it was that she was do­ing. But present­ly he knew that she was mak­ing an ae­olian harp. The two frag­ile bits of vi­brant wood to hold the strings were al­ready in place on ei­ther side of the win­dow, just where the up­per and low­er sash came to­geth­er. She was now en­gaged in car­ry­ing the threads of fine silk floss, which were to form the strings of this sim­ple wind-​harp, from one piece of wood to the oth­er. Back and forth she wove them across the cur­rent of air, mov­ing with swift, noise­less mo­tions of exquisite grace. As the last fine fi­bre thus fell in­to place and was firm­ly drawn, a soft, mu­si­cal sigh breathed through the shad­owed room, the very shad­ow of mu­sic's sweet self.

[Il­lus­tra­tion: “She was mak­ing an ae­olian harp.”]

“Thank you,” Paul Col­bert said. “What beau­ti­ful things you think of, what love­ly things you do!”

She turned quick­ly with a smile and a blush, and came to the bed­side.

“Why--you were not to wake up yet! It's much too ear­ly for a sick man to open his eyes.”

“But I am not a sick man any longer. I am al­most well. I could get up now, if I wished,” jest­ing­ly, “I am get­ting well as fast as I can, just to con­vict the oth­er doc­tor of a mis­tak­en di­ag­no­sis. What a fine old fel­low he is!” with a quick change to earnest­ness. “How kind he has been, how un­tir­ing in his at­ten­tion and good­ness to me. And so skil­ful, too. I am ashamed of my pre­sump­tion. A mere be­gin­ner like my­self, to ques­tion his meth­ods in deal­ing with the Cold Plague! I don't be­lieve he made the mis­takes they said he did. He couldn't!”

It was an un­lucky rec­ol­lec­tion. The thought of this mys­te­ri­ous epi­dem­ic which had grown worse, till it was now dev­as­tat­ing the whole coun­try, made him sud­den­ly rest­less. His pa­tients were need­ing him sore­ly while he lay here, still bound hand and foot by weak­ness. He turned his head mis­er­ably on the pil­low. It was not the first time that this thought had trou­bled him, and she knew the signs. Lay­ing a gen­tle, sooth­ing hand on his toss­ing head, she spoke in the qui­et­ing tone that a wom­an al­ways us­es to soothe and com­fort a child or a man whom she loves.

“It will not be long now. You can soon go back to them,” she said.

The tone was none the less sooth­ing be­cause a bit­ter pang went through her own heart with the words. What should she do when he was gone? And he was al­most strong enough to re­turn to the work which was call­ing him. But the aching of a true wom­an's own heart has noth­ing to do with the peace that she gives to those whom she loves. And then it may have been on­ly the sweet sad­ness of the spir­it harp's sigh­ing that made Ruth's lips quiver un­der their bright smile.

“But they need me now,” he groaned. “They are dy­ing un­tend­ed while I lie help­less here. The old doc­tor can­not take care of them. He has too many pa­tients of his own. He is rid­ing day and night. He tries to hide the truth, but I know it. The Cold Plague grows in vi­olence ev­ery day.”

He sud­den­ly raised him­self on his el­bow with a great ef­fort.

“Maybe I can sit up if I try very hard,” he gasped. “The will has much to do with the strength. I am de­ter­mined--”

“No! no!” cried Ruth in alarm.

But he had al­ready sunk back ex­haust­ed. His lids drooped heav­ily for a mo­ment through weak­ness. And then he looked up in her fright­ened face with a re­as­sur­ing smile as she gen­tly pressed his head down up­on the pil­low.

“What strict lit­tle moth­er,” he mur­mured.

She shook her head and drew the coun­ter­pane clos­er about his neck, care­ful­ly light­en­ing the weight over his wound­ed shoul­der. With soft light touch­es she smoothed out the small­est wrin­kle mar­ring the com­fort of the nar­row, bed. When this was done and he lay qui­et again, she be­gan to talk qui­et­ly but bright­ly of oth­er things, hop­ing to di­vert his thoughts. She told him all the in­no­cent gos­sip of the neigh­bor­hood. Most of this had come to her from the Sis­ters, for she sel­dom saw any one else. There was much to tell of their lit­tle charges, and par­tic­ular­ly of the three ba­bies whom he and Fa­ther Orin had tak­en from the de­sert­ed, plague-​strick­en cab­in in the wilder­ness. She did not say that these lit­tle ones had be­come her own spe­cial care, but caused his smile to grow brighter by telling how like chil­dren the gen­tle Sis­ters them­selves were. She re­peat­ed what they had said of Tom­my Dye's last vis­it. Their se­ri­ous, per­plexed ac­count of it was now un­con­scious­ly col­ored by her own gen­tle, fine sense of hu­mor which al­so came so close to pathos that a lump rose in Paul Col­bert's throat as he lis­tened. He could see just how poor Tom­my Dye had looked, but his eyes grew dim while his lips smiled. And now an­oth­er and deep­er shad­ow swift­ly swept over his face.

“So even poor old Tom­my Dye has gone to Tippeca­noe. Ev­ery­body but me is gone or go­ing. I alone am left be­hind. And yet--even if this hadn't hap­pened--I must still have stood at my post,” he said sad­ly.

Her hand flut­tered down up­on his like a star­tled dove. There was a sud­den ra­di­ance in her dark blue eyes. She bare­ly breathed the next words that she spoke:--

“Yes; you must have stayed, any­way. The doc­tor of the wilder­ness--the heal­er ev­ery­where--can nev­er march with oth­er sol­diers. He can nev­er go shoul­der to shoul­der with cheer­ing com­rades at the roll of drums and the blare of trum­pets un­der wav­ing ban­ners--to seek glo­ry on the bat­tle-​field while all the world looks on and ap­plauds. No--no--the doc­tor of the wilder­ness--the heal­er ev­ery­where--is a soli­tary sol­dier, who must al­ways go alone and silent­ly to meet Death sin­gle-​hand­ed, and strug­gle with him, day af­ter day, and night af­ter night, so long as he may live, fight­ing cease­less­ly for his own life as well as the lives of oth­ers.”

There was a quiv­er­ing si­lence, filled on­ly with the sigh­ing of the wind-​harp. The young doc­tor's hand had closed over hers. She went on in a low­er tone:--

“And sure­ly the man who risks his life to save is braver than he who risks it to slay.”

Star­tled at her own bold­ness, she drew away when he tried, with the slight strength that he had, to draw her to him. They had not spo­ken to each oth­er of love. He knew lit­tle of what had tak­en place that night at Anvil Rock when she had be­lieved that his soul and her heart were part­ing with all earth­ly things. He had not heard what she had said then, and they had not been left alone to­geth­er since his hurt un­til this morn­ing. There had been many con­stant­ly com­ing and go­ing about the sick bed dur­ing the first days, and to him those days were mere blanks of suf­fer­ing and blurs of pain. It was on­ly to-​day that he had be­gun to re­gain in a mea­sure the pow­er of his mind and will. If he could but have had for one in­stant the old pow­er of his body! He did not know whether this beau­ti­ful, ten­der young crea­ture be­side him was still un­der promise to mar­ry an­oth­er man. There had been no op­por­tu­ni­ty for any con­fi­den­tial talk. The name of William Press­ley had nev­er been men­tioned be­tween them. The thought of him was like a touch of fire to Paul Col­bert, so burn­ing was the con­tempt which he felt for this con­ceit­ed dullard whose blun­der­ing had near­ly been his own death. But he could not say any­thing of this to her--the fact that she had once been en­gaged to be mar­ried to the man held him silent. It might be that she was still bound, and yet there was some­thing in her soft eyes that led him to hope that she was free--some­thing, at least, which seemed to give him leave to wrest free­dom for her from the strongest that might try to hold her against her sweet will. If on­ly he were not stretched here, a mere bur­den, a clog.

The look in his sunken eyes,--glow­ing like coals,--the burn­ing words which she read on his silent lips, made her slip her hands from his and move hasti­ly away. She went con­fus­ed­ly over to the win­dow and hailed the sight of the birds on the sill with sud­den re­lief.

“My lit­tle feath­ered fam­ily are all here,” she said with­out look­ing round. “Can you see the blue jay? He is on the win­dow-​sill try­ing his best to peep over it at you.”

“I hope he is jeal­ous of me,” try­ing to speak light­ly.

“He's a great tyrant. He has driv­en away all the oth­er birds. He will not al­low them to have one of the crumbs that I put out. Most of them are sit­ting in a for­lorn lit­tle row on the near­est tree. I won­der what he is say­ing to them in that rough voice, yet maybe it is bet­ter not to know. It must be some­thing very rude, the red­bird's bear­ing makes me think so. He is stand­ing very straight and hold­ing his head very high, but he isn't say­ing a word--of course. He is too much of a gen­tle­man to quar­rel with a row­dy like the blue jay. Just hear how he is dom­ineer­ing! These lit­tle song spar­rows must sure­ly be la­dy­birds--they are talk­ing back in such a saucy twit­ter. Can you hear them? I wish you could see them. They are turn­ing their pret­ty heads from side to side as much as to say, that he can't keep them from speak­ing their minds if he does keep them from get­ting the crumbs. Can you hear the sil­very rip­ple of their plaints? Noth­ing could be sweet­er. There! I will raise the win­dow just a hair's breadth. Lis­ten! Isn't it like a chime of fairy bells, heard in a dream? But I hope you haven't felt any draught. It is much cold­er than yes­ter­day.”

Drop­ping the sash she went to the fire­place and laid sev­er­al sticks on the blaze. She stood still for a mo­ment, gaz­ing down at the fire and then she took a low chair be­side the hearth. She knew that Paul Col­bert was look­ing at her, but she did not turn her head to meet his gaze. For she al­so knew that he was mere­ly bid­ing his time, mere­ly gath­er­ing strength to speak, mere­ly wait­ing till he had found words strong and ten­der enough. If her eyes were to meet his, she must go to him--she could not re­sist--and yet she felt that she must not go while her plight­ed word was giv­en to an­oth­er man. It did not mat­ter that the promise had been made un­der per­sua­sion and in ig­no­rance of what love meant. It made no dif­fer­ence that she was sure that William, too, longed to be free. The promise had been made, and she was bound by it, un­til she could tell William Press­ley the truth and ask him to set her free. Soft and fem­inine as her na­ture was, she had nev­er­the­less a sin­gu­lar­ly clear, firm sense of hon­or as most men un­der­stand that term--and as few wom­en do. She had al­ready tried more than once to tell him, but he had been al­most con­stant­ly away from home of late. It was to her mind sim­ply a ques­tion of hon­or. The dread of giv­ing him pain which she had shrunk from at first, had now whol­ly passed away. It was so plain that he al­so rec­og­nized the mis­take of this en­gage­ment and would be glad to be free, that the last weight was lift­ed from her heart. She had been tru­ly at­tached to him as she was to al­most ev­ery one with whom she came in dai­ly con­tact, and this af­fec­tion was not al­tered. Hers was such a lov­ing na­ture that it was as nat­ural for her to love those about her as for a young vine to cling to ev­ery­thing that it touch­es. Ev­ery in­stinct of her heart was a ten­der, sen­si­tive ten­dril of af­fec­tion, and all these soft and grow­ing ten­drils reach­ing out in the lone­li­ness of her life had clung even to William Press­ley, as a fine young vine will twine round a hard cold rock when it can reach noth­ing soft­er or warmer or high­er. Her own rich, warm, lov­ing na­ture had in­deed so wreathed his cold­ness and hard­ness that she could not see him as he re­al­ly was. And now--with­out any change in ei­ther the vine or the rock--ev­ery­thing was whol­ly dif­fer­ent. It was as if a trop­ical storm had sud­den­ly lift­ed all these cling­ing ten­drils away from the un­re­spon­sive rock and had borne them heav­en­ward in­to the ea­ger arms of a liv­ing oak.

She knew now the dif­fer­ence be­tween the love that a lov­ing na­ture gives to all, and the love which a strong na­ture gives to on­ly one. Her heart was beat­ing so un­der this new, deep knowl­edge of life, that she feared lest the man whom she loved might hear. Yet she sat still with her lit­tle hands tight­ly clasped on her lap, as if to hold her­self firm, and she held her­self from look­ing round, though the si­lence con­tin­ued un­bro­ken. William must be told be­fore she might lis­ten to the words which she so longed to hear from Paul's lips. It was no­ble of him to hold them back. Ev­ery mo­ment that she had been sit­ting by the hearth she had been ex­pect­ing to hear them. So that she sat now in tense, quiv­er­ing sus­pense, wait­ing, fear­ing, long­ing, dread­ing, through this strange, long si­lence; filled on­ly by the sigh­ing of the wind-​harp and the crack­ling of the fire. And then, be­ing a true wom­an, she could en­dure it no longer, and turn­ing slight­ly she gave him a shy, timid glance. As she looked she cried out in ter­ror.

His head, which had been so ea­ger­ly raised a mo­ment be­fore, had fall­en; his eyes, which had been aglow but an in­stant since, were closed. The ef­fort, the ag­ita­tion, had been too great for his slight strength. The strong spir­it, im­pa­tient of the weak flesh, was again slip­ping away from it.

She thought he was dy­ing, and for­get­ting ev­ery­thing but her love for him, she flew to him and fell on her knees by his side. Rais­ing his heavy head in her arms she held it against her bo­som. She did not know that her lips touched his, she was seek­ing on­ly to learn if he breathed. When his eyes opened blankly, she kissed them till they closed again, be­cause she could not bear to see the dread­ful blank­ness that was in them. When he moaned she fell to rock­ing gen­tly back and forth, hold­ing his head clos­er against her breast, and present­ly be­gan to croon soft­ly. She nev­er once thought of call­ing for help; it was to her as if there had been no one but them­selves in the whole world. And present­ly his faint­ness passed away, and when his arms, so weak­ly raised, went round her, she did not try to es­cape. Af­ter a lit­tle he found strength to speak a part of all that was in his heart, and she told him what she could of all that was in hers. And both spoke as a great love speaks when it first turns slow­ly back from fac­ing death.