Round Anvil Rock A Romance

XXII

“A COMET'S GLARE FORE­TOLD THIS SAD EVENT”

When the bar­ri­ers had thus been bro­ken down, she had spo­ken of the breach be­tween William and her­self. There had not been a bit­ter word or a harsh thought in all that she said. It had been mere­ly a mu­tu­al mis­take; they had both mis­tak­en the af­fec­tion which grows out of fa­mil­iar as­so­ci­ation, for the love that in­stant­ly draws a man and a wom­an to­geth­er, though they may nev­er be­fore have seen one an­oth­er, and holds them for­ev­er, away from all the rest of the world.

“I know the dif­fer­ence now,” she said sev­er­al days lat­er, with a deep­er tint in her cheeks and a brighter light in her blue eyes. “And I am sure that William does, too. It's plain enough that he will be glad to be free, but he can­not say so, be­cause he is a gen­tle­man. Don't you see? For that very rea­son, just be­cause he is so high-​mind­ed, I am all the more bound to do what is right. You do see, don't you?”

He was sit­ting up for the first time that day, his chair was by the win­dow and she was sewing be­side him.

“I see what you think is right,” Paul said smil­ing­ly. “And he cer­tain­ly should be told at once. But per­haps I might--”

“Oh, no! I must tell him my­self. That would on­ly be treat­ing him with due re­spect. And William thinks a great deal of re­spect--much more than he does of love. But I can't get a chance to speak to him. He is al­ways com­ing and go­ing of late, and all the fam­ily are present when I do see him. You must wait; you must not say a word to un­cle Robert till I have told William; it wouldn't be hon­or­able on my part.”

“But you are for­get­ting, lit­tle girl, that there may be scru­ples on my side, too. If my strength should come back as fast in the next two or three days, I shall be able to leave Cedar House be­fore the end of the week. I can­not go away in si­lence; there must be no sort of se­cre­cy. You per­ceive there is a ques­tion of hon­or there, too. I must speak to the judge--”

“It isn't any ques­tion of se­cre­cy. There is noth­ing to keep se­cret,” she protest­ed and coaxed. “I am think­ing on­ly of William's feel­ings, and try­ing to spare his pride. I know him best and I am fond of him. Don't for­get that. There has not been the least change in my af­fec­tion for him,” hold­ing her beau­ti­ful head very straight. “Don't think for a mo­ment that my re­gard for William has been less­ened,” sud­den­ly dim­pling, soft­en­ing, and beam­ing, “by my falling in love with you. That is an en­tire­ly dif­fer­ent thing.”

“I should hope so, in­deed!” sud­den­ly bend­ing for­ward and catch­ing her in his arms with a hap­py laugh. “You see how strong I am. Well, then, you needn't ex­pect to have your own way all the time much longer. I yield on­ly so far as to give you three days--ex­act­ly three days from the mo­ment that I leave this house, and not one mo­ment more. At the end of that time I shall come to see the judge.”

“And un­cle Philip. I couldn't be hap­py with­out his ap­proval. I have been long­ing to tell him. I would have told him at once if I hadn't felt bound to speak to William first. Dear un­cle Philip! He is al­ways hap­py over any­thing that makes me hap­py. Next to you, dear heart, there is no one in all the world that I love so much--not half so much. And there is no one whom he loves as he does me; he thinks on­ly of my hap­pi­ness.”

Her eyes sought his with a wist­ful look. She felt that he did not like Philip Al­ston, and there was dis­tress in the thought that these two, whom she loved most out of all on earth, should not be the warmest of friends.

“You mustn't think him in­dif­fer­ent be­cause he hasn't been to see you,” she plead­ed. “Please don't think that, for it isn't true. He hasn't come be­cause he nev­er can bear the sight of suf­fer­ing. He says it's pure­ly a phys­ical pe­cu­liar­ity which he can­not con­trol. Any­thing that makes him think of vi­olence or cru­el­ty shocks and re­puls­es him. He shrinks from it as he would from a harsh sound or an evil odor. He says it's be­cause his re­fine­ment is greater than his hu­man­ity. But it is re­al­ly his ten­der heart. Some day when you know him bet­ter you will find his heart as ten­der as I have al­ways found it.”

He, know­ing what was in her lov­ing heart, could not meet her gaze, and hasti­ly looked away gaz­ing across the riv­er. His thoughts swift­ly fol­lowed his eyes, for he would not have been the man that he was, could even this great new love which was now fill­ing his heart, and was to fill all his fu­ture life, have made him for­get his old love for this great new state, and the aw­ful crises through which it was pass­ing.

For that was a time of great stress, of deep anx­iety, and of al­most in­tol­er­able sus­pense. Those ear­ly days and nights of Novem­ber in the year eigh­teen hun­dred and eleven, were in­deed among the most stress­ful in the whole stormy his­to­ry of Ken­tucky. And through her--since her fate was to be the fate of the Em­pire of the West--they were as por­ten­tous as any that the na­tion has ev­er known. On that very day in truth, and not very far off, there had al­ready been en­act­ed one of the might­iest events that went to the shap­ing of the na­tion­al des­tiny. Over the riv­er on the banks of its trib­utary, the Wabash, the bat­tle of Tippeca­noe had been fought and won be­tween the dark­ness and day­light of that gloomy sev­enth of Novem­ber. The young doc­tor, like all the peo­ple of the coun­try, knew that the long-​dread­ed hour had struck, that this last de­ci­sive strug­gle be­tween the white race and the red must be close at hand; but nei­ther he nor any one in that re­gion knew that it was al­ready end­ed. There had not been a sin­gle sign or sound to tell when the con­flict was ac­tu­al­ly go­ing on. It was said that the roar of the can­non was heard much far­ther away, as far even as Monk's Mound, where the Trap­pists--those most ill-​fat­ed of Ken­tucky pi­oneers--had found tem­po­rary refuge. But if this be true, it must have been by rea­son of the fact that sound car­ries very far over vast lev­el prairies, when it can­not cross a much short­er dis­tance which ris­es in hills cov­ered with forests, such as shut out ev­ery echo of the bat­tle from Cedar House.

Paul Col­bert got up sud­den­ly and be­gan to walk the room, though he stag­gered from weak­ness. He could not sit still un­der the tor­ture of such sus­pense, when he thought of all that was at stake on the out­come of the con­flict which might even then be wag­ing be­yond those spec­tral trees. The safe­ty of the peo­ple liv­ing along the riv­er, their homes, their lives--all these were hang­ing up­on the strength of the sol­dier's arm. He knew how small the white army was. If it should be con­quered, the op­po­site shore might at any in­stant be red with vic­to­ri­ous sav­ages rush­ing to the great Shawnee Cross­ing. And then--he looked at Ruth, feel­ing his help­less­ness as he had not felt the keen­est pain of his wound. She saw the look, and felt its dis­tress, al­though she did not un­der­stand all that it meant. She gen­tly urged him back to his chair, fright­ened to see how weak he was.

“Sit still till I come back. I will run down­stairs and see if there is any news,” she coaxed in a sooth­ing tone.

The house­hold was gath­ered in the great room wait­ing and watch­ing. The old ladies by the hearth scarce­ly no­ticed one an­oth­er. The judge sit­ting apart half start­ed up at the faint rus­tle of Ruth's ap­proach, but find­ing that it was no mes­sen­ger bring­ing news, he sat down again with a weary sigh, and his gaze went back to the oth­er side of the riv­er. His ap­pear­ance told how great his anx­iety was. His rugged, home­ly face was hag­gard and un­shorn, and his rough dress was even more care­less than com­mon. William Press­ley arose and came for­ward to give Ruth a chair. There was no vis­ible change in him, his dress was as im­mac­ulate as it al­ways was. His man­ner was just as cold­ly im­pla­ca­ble as it had been ev­er since the quar­rel; but then his tem­per nev­er had any­thing to do with his looks or his man­ners. No de­gree of un­easi­ness could ev­er make him for­get ap­pear­ances or the small­est form of cour­tesy; and he would have thought it a pitiable sort of man who could be moved by emo­tion to any kind of ir­reg­ular­ity. His way of plac­ing the chair pro­claimed that he nev­er failed to do all that be­came a gen­tle­man, no mat­ter how ne­glect­ful emo­tion­al peo­ple might some­times be­come.

Philip Al­ston, com­ing in just at that mo­ment, saw some­thing of this with min­gled amuse­ment and sat­is­fac­tion. The can­dor of William Press­ley's self-​con­scious­ness, the sin­cer­ity of his self-​con­ceit, the firm­ness of his be­lief in his own in­fal­li­bil­ity, claimed a mea­sure of re­al re­spect, and Philip Al­ston gave it in full. He thought none the less of him be­cause he could not help smil­ing a lit­tle at the solemn progress which the young lawyer was then mak­ing across the great room. To be able to smile at any­thing on that day of strain was a boon. And then it was al­ways pleas­ing and cheer­ing to see any fresh sign that he had read the young lawyer's char­ac­ter aright, and he was glad to see again what a good-​look­ing, well-​man­nered, right-​mind­ed young fel­low he was. Noth­ing could be said against him. Ev­ery­thing--or al­most ev­ery­thing--was to be said in his praise. The open fact that he thought all this him­self would be noth­ing against him with Ruth. A man's faith in him­self is in­deed of­ten the chief cause of a wom­an's faith in him. No one knew this bet­ter than Philip Al­ston. As he looked at William that day, a new feel­ing of peace came in­to his per­turbed breast. He was be­gin­ning to be dis­heart­ened by un­ex­pect­ed op­po­si­tion to his plan to have the young lawyer ap­point­ed to the of­fice of at­tor­ney-​gen­er­al. Had he been clos­er in touch with the gov­er­nor, he would have known that all his ef­forts were use­less, for the of­fice was held by ap­point­ment in those days, and not by elec­tion as it is now. But it was a long way to the state cap­ital on horse­back, and he had seen no news­pa­pers, so that he knew noth­ing pos­itive­ly, and was on­ly be­gin­ning to fear. And think­ing about the un­cer­tain­ty, he was en­cour­aged to feel that even fail­ure in this would not al­ter his be­lief that the mar­riage was the best Ruth could make. There was some­thing pure­ly un­selfish in the con­tent that he felt. With clouds low­er­ing around his own head, it com­fort­ed him to feel that her fu­ture would be safe what­ev­er came. He smiled at her, shak­ing his head when she asked if he had heard any news, and drew her down by his side. At the first op­por­tu­ni­ty he must ask about Sis­ter An­gela's progress with the wed­ding clothes. It was not long now till Christ­mas Eve, and he want­ed to hear more about the prepa­ra­tions for the mar­riage. These had seemed to lag of late.

* * * * *

The blood-​red sun went down be­hind threat­en­ing clouds on that ter­ri­ble day, and the sec­ond morn­ing came in with a win­try storm of icy winds and swirling snow. Then fol­lowed two more gloomy, gray days and two more wild, black nights. The fifth day dawned still wilder and dark­er, but Paul Col­bert found strength to go away. On the sixth it seemed to Ruth that her heart would break with its aching for his ab­sence; and with the sad­ness that came from lis­ten­ing to a sob­bing wind which sighed de­spair­ing­ly through the naked for­est; and with watch­ing a melan­choly rain which hung a dark cur­tain be­tween Cedar House and the oth­er side of the riv­er. And thus the dread­ful time dragged on in­to the sev­enth end­less day, and still there was no news from Tippeca­noe. A couri­er could have brought it in a few hours by rid­ing fast through the wide, track­less wilder­ness, and swim­ming broad, un­bridged rivers. But no couri­ers came to­ward Cedar House. There was no rea­son for send­ing a spe­cial mes­sen­ger to a cor­ner of one state when the whole na­tion was clam­or­ing to hear. So that the couri­ers were speed­ing with all pos­si­ble haste to­ward the Na­tion­al Cap­ital, and the peo­ple of Cedar House could on­ly wait and watch like those who were much far­ther off.

And thus it was that af­ter a whole week had passed, they still did not know that the bat­tle of Tippeca­noe had been fought, and that a pre­cious vic­to­ry had been bought at a fear­ful price. And even now, who knows whether or not that fear­ful price need have been paid? It is hard to see the truth clear­ly, look­ing back through the mists of near­ly a hun­dred years. In the strange sto­ry of that fa­mous bat­tle, on­ly one fact stands out clear be­yond all dis­pute, and that is so in­cred­ible as to stag­ger be­lief. It ap­pears at first ut­ter­ly past be­lief that the white army, march­ing against the red army with the open pur­pose of at­tack­ing it on the next day, should have lain down al­most at the feet of the des­per­ate foe, and have gone qui­et­ly to sleep. On­ly the record­ed word of the gen­er­al in com­mand makes this fact cred­ible. He al­so says, to be sure, that the sol­diers “would have been called in two min­utes more;” but he ad­mits that they had not been called when the red army made the at­tack, with­out wait­ing till the white army woke of its own ac­cord to be­gin fight­ing at leisure by day­light, with­out even wait­ing those two min­utes for the gen­er­al's con­ve­nience. What hap­pened to the help­less sleep­ers then, when the wak­ing war­riors thus fell up­on the sleep­ing sol­diers, may be most elo­quent­ly told in the gen­er­al's own words. “Such of them as were awake or eas­ily awak­ened, seized their arms and took their sta­tions, oth­ers, more tardy, had to con­tend with the en­emy at the doors of their tents.” Turn­ing the yel­lowed pages of this most amaz­ing re­port, the read­er can on­ly won­der that the fu­ri­ous tide of bat­tle which set so over­whelm­ing­ly against the sol­diers in the be­gin­ning, ev­er could have been turned by all the brave blood poured out be­fore its turn­ing.

On the eighth an­guished day of sus­pense Ruth went to the door to wel­come Philip Al­ston, and look­ing to­ward the for­est path, saw Fa­ther Orin and To­by ap­proach­ing. There was some­thing in the way they moved that told they had news, and when they reached Cedar House, the whole house­hold was breath­less­ly wait­ing for them. The white fam­ily was gath­ered in­side the front door, and the black peo­ple, run­ning up from the quar­ters, crowd­ed round the door on the out­side, with ashen faces, for their fear of the sav­ages was, if pos­si­ble, greater than the white peo­ple's. All pressed around To­by, and Fa­ther Orin told the good news as quick­ly as he could, with­out tak­ing time to dis­mount; but his voice trem­bled so that he could hard­ly speak, and his eyes were so full of tears that he could not see. He was not yet able to re­joice over a vic­to­ry which had cost the life of a dear friend.

“And Joe Daviess?” asked Philip Al­ston.

Fa­ther Orin silent­ly turned his face to­ward the riv­er and made the sign of the cross; but he turned back and pat­ted Ruth's head when she pressed it against To­by's mane and burst in­to sob­bing.

“It was he who saved the day,” the priest said huski­ly. “He led the des­per­ate charge that won the bat­tle, when ev­ery­thing seemed lost. He re­ceived his death wound in the charge, but he lived long enough to know that the vic­to­ry was ours.”

“He was a great man; his name will nev­er be for­got­ten. His sword has now carved it im­per­ish­ably on the key-​stone of the new state's tri­umphal arch,” said Philip Al­ston.

“And Tom­my Dye?” asked Ruth, lift­ing her wet eyes. “The Sis­ters are so anx­ious.”

“And poor Tom­my Dye, al­so,” an­swered Fa­ther Orin.

These two brave men who lived their lives so far apart, had fall­en al­most side by side. Joe Daviess, the no­ble, the fear­less, the high­ly gift­ed, the hon­ored, the fa­mous; and Tom­my Dye, the kind­ly, the reck­less, the poor­ly en­dowed, the mis­guid­ed, the ob­scure,--both had done all that the no­blest could do. The mould and the dead leaves of the wilder­ness would cov­er both their graves. On­ly the ini­tials of his name rough­ly cut on a tree would mark the glo­ri­ous rest­ing-​place of the one. On­ly an hum­ble heap of un­marked earth would tell where a no­ble death had closed the ig­no­ble life of the oth­er.