CHAPTER XXXIII.
With the coming in of this tumultuous November, there came to Second Westings a few days of Indian summer magic. The moveless air seemed a distillation of dreams. The faint azure haze hung everywhere, soft yet cool, with an elusive fragrance as of clean smoke and fading roses and fresh earth-mould and lofts of grain. And on one of these consecrated days Barbara set out early in the morning to paddle across the lake and see old Debby.
As on a morning long ago, but not so early, she ran down the back garden path, and behind the barn, and climbed the pasture bars. This time she called to Keep; and the big mastiff, who now slept later than of old, came somewhat stiffly gamboling from his manger bed in the horse stable. She tripped along the pasture path, between the hillocks. She trod rapidly the black earth of the old wood-road, where the shadows were lighter now, and no sound broke the stillness save the eerie sigh and footfall of the dropping leaves. She launched the canoe with easy vigour, motioned Keep to his place in the bow, and pushed out with strong, leisurely strokes across the enchanted mirror. That far-off morning of her flight came back to her with strange poignancy, and she wondered if the blue heron would be standing at the outlet to admonish her with his enigmatic gaze.
As she approached the outlet, the point was vacant. But suddenly a strange, dishevelled figure, hatless, and in a blood-stained British uniform, emerged from the trees near by, came down amid the tall yellow grasses, and stood staring across the lake. He stood thus with blank eyes for a moment, apparently not seeing the canoe, then pitched forward, and lay on his face close to the water's edge.
With one sharp cry of his name, Barbara surged upon the paddle and shot the canoe toward land, wasting no mare breath on words. She sprang ashore, turned the still form over, loosened the low vest and the throat of the shirt, and dashed water in the white, stained, deathlike face. At first she thought he was dead, and she felt things growing black before her eyes. Then she caught herself, and held herself steady for the need. If she could not be strong now, what right had she to call herself a woman, or to love a man. She felt at his heart and found that he was alive. She saw that he was sorely wounded. She told herself that he had swooned from loss of blood, weariness, hunger,--but that he had lived, would live, must live. Then she dragged him further back into the grass, where he was hidden.
Calling Keep from the canoe, she sat down for a moment with Robert's head in her lap, and planned what should be done. He must not be found in Second Westings, that she knew. For an English prisoner of war it would be all very well,--but for a Tory it might be different. She could take no risks. In a moment or two her mind was made up. She bent over, and kissed the unresponding mouth. Then she rose, and turned to Keep, who had stood sniffing at Robert's clothes with sympathetic interest. They were shocking clothes, but Keep dimly remembered the man within them. Barbara pointed to the helpless figure, saying:
"Lie down, Keep!"
And Keep lay down, with his muzzle on Robert's arm.
"Guard, sir!" commanded Barbara. And Keep rolled upon her a comprehending and obedient eye. Then she pushed off the canoe, and paddled hastily down the river to fetch old Debby.
During all these years since Barbara's interrupted flight, no one had really read her heart, or been the unacknowledged recipient of her confidences, so fully as Mrs. Debby Blue. Now, when Barbara arrived, breathless, with great, strained eyes, tears in her voice, but her red mouth sternly set, the old woman understood with few words. At another time, Barbara would have been amazed at this swift understanding. Now, she was only grateful for it. While she was explaining, Debby was rummaging on shelves and in boxes, looking for sundry simples of her cunning extraction. At last she said:
"Don't you be worried, my sweeting. If Mr. Robert kin be cured up, old Debby's the one that kin cure him up, well as any doctor in the land, not even exceptin' Doctor Jim. An' I've got the place where we kin hide him, too, an' keep him safe till he gits well. An' now, I'm after you, Miss Barby, sweetheart!"
"God bless your dear, true heart, Debby," cried Barbara, leading the way in hot haste to the canoe.
When they arrived at the point, Robert was just recovering consciousness, in a dazed fashion. They saw him make an effort to sit up; and they saw Keep, who was nothing if not literal in his interpretation of Barbara's commands, put his two huge fore paws on Robert's breast and firmly push him down again. The tears jumped to Barbara's eyes at this, and she gave a little hysterical laugh, exclaiming:
"Just look at that, Debby! Good _dear_ old Keep! Even he knows that Robert must be kept hidden!"
When they got to him, he sat up determinedly, and recognised Barbara with a look of utter content.
"You, my lady! I have come a very long way to look--" and then he sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms.
"Why, he's _starved_, that's what he is!" exclaimed Debby, examining him critically and feeling his pulse. "An' he's lost pretty nigh all the blood was ever in him. An' he's got two wounds here, either one enough to do for a man!"
She forced some fiery liquor down his throat, and then, as a faint colour came back to his lips, she gave him to drink from a bottle of milk. He drank eagerly, but automatically, without opening his eyes.
"He's been wounded at White Plains, poor dear!" murmured Barbara, leaning over him a face of brooding tenderness.
"An' he's wandered all the way up here, a-lookin' for you, Miss Barby!" responded the old woman.
"Do you really think so?" murmured Barbara.
"No manner of doubt!" said old Debby, positively, as she set about dressing and binding Robert's wounds.
In a little while Robert was able to sit up again; and then to be helped to his feet; and then to be half guided, half carried to the canoe. There he was placed on a bed of heaped armfuls of dry grass. Old Debby squatted precariously in the bow,--she was more at home in a punt than in a canoe,--and Barbara thrust out from shore, heading down the little river.
Robert was still too far gone in exhaustion to explain his strange appearance at Second Westings, or to ask any questions, or to care where he was going, so long as he was able to open his eyes every once in awhile and look at Barbara. When he did so, Barbara would smile back reassuringly, and lay a slim brown finger on her lips, as a sign that he was not to talk. And happily he would close his eyes again.
Barbara paddled down past Debby's landing, past the ducks and hens and turkeys, now too lazy to make more than casual comment. Keep, meanwhile, followed anxiously along the shore, close to the edge, and now and then splashing in belly deep.
"How far is it, Debby dear?" asked Barbara, presently.
"Jest a little mite furder," answered the old woman, who relished the situation immensely. "A matter of half a mile, maybe!"
And so they slipped noiselessly on, in that enchanted light, over that enchanted water with its reflections of amber and blue. Some crows, grown suddenly garrulous over private matters, cawed pleasantly in the pine-tops a little way off against the sky, and then subsided again into silence.
On both banks of the stream the trees held out their leaves, russet and gold, amethyst and bronze and scarlet, like so many little elfin hands attesting that all fair dreams come true at last for those who have the key to the inner mysteries.
Barbara was paddling in a dream herself, when suddenly old Debby said, "Turn in here, my sweeting! Here to your right!"
"But where?" asked Barbara, puzzled. "I don't see any place to turn in!"
"Straight through them dripping branches yonder by the water-logged stump!" directed the old woman. "Straight on through!"
As the prow of the canoe came up to what was seemingly the shore, old Debby parted the branches. As the canoe pushed onward, she continued this process,--and a few feet in from the main stream they entered a long, narrow deadwater, deep and clear, and perfectly hidden from the world. It was perhaps a hundred yards in length, slightly winding; and at its head, on a gentle rise, stood a little deserted log cabin.
"Oh, _Debby_!" cried Barbara. "How did you ever find such a place?"
"It's been empty this ten year!" answered Debby. "An' folks has forgotten, that ever knowed. An' I've been keepin' it to myself, when I wanted to get away from the ducks an' hens a mite. An' I've kep' it from fallin' to pieces. I'll nurse Master Robert here till he's able to get away, if it takes a year. An' I'll come back and forward in my punt. There's a bunk ready now, full of pine-needles; an' when we get him into it we'll go back to make it all right with Aunt Hitty. _Ain't_ I got a head on my old shoulders, now, Miss Barby?"
Even as Debby had so swiftly and fully planned, it was done. Robert was still so far gone in exhaustion, and so wandering in his mind, that Barbara would not let him talk; and before they left him--with Keep an incorruptible sentry at the door--he had fallen into a deep sleep. When they returned a couple hours later, he was awake and quite clear, and so determined to talk that Barbara could not but let him. He sat up in the bunk, but Barbara, bending shining eyes down close to his, laid him back upon the pillow.
"Debby says you must not sit up at all, Robert!" she said.
"And what do you say, my lady?" he asked, devouring her radiant dark face with his eyes.
"I say so, too!" she answered, laughing softly.
"Why, my lady?" he persisted.
"Because it will hinder you getting well, Silly!" she replied, touching his hair with cool fingers.
"What matter about a 'damned Tory' getting well?" he began, being very weak and foolish. But the slim hand sweetly closed his mouth.
"How did you get here--to me?" Barbara asked, changing the subject.
He smiled up at her.
"We charged through the rebels!" he explained, frankly. "We cut them down, and scattered them, and chased them till we were within the enemy's lines. Then we could not get back. They surrounded us. They overwhelmed us. We were annihilated. I escaped, I shall never know how, hatless and horseless, as you found me, my lady, I tried to get back to my regiment. It was no use. Then, somehow, a spirit in my feet led me back here, to you. I just escaped capture a score of times. I had nothing to eat for days, save roots and leaves. I remember coming to the shore of the dear lake, and straining my eyes across it, to see the chimneys of the house where my love lay. Then I saw no more, knew no more, till I saw my love herself in very truth, leaning her face over mine. And I thought I was in heaven, my lady."
"You still love me, Robert, after the hideous way I treated you?" questioned Barbara, her voice a little tremulous.
He started again to sit up; but being again suppressed, was fain to content himself with clutching both her hands to his lips.
"There is nothing in the world but you, Barbara," he said. "There is nothing I want but you, wonderful one!"
"Then--you may take me, Robert, I think!" she whispered, dropping her face, and brushing his lips with her hair.
"Me?" he cried, in a voice suddenly strong, glad, and incredulous. "Me? Sick near to death, hunted near to death, a beaten and fleeing enemy, a Tory? I may take you, my queen, my beloved?"
"Whatever you are, dear, I have found that you are my love," she answered. "I don't care much what you are, so long as you are mine. I find I am just a woman, Robert--and in my conceit I thought myself something more. I love my country, truly. But I love my lover more. I shall not ask you whether you bow to King or to Congress,--but only ask you to get well!"
He reached up both arms, and slowly pulled down her still averted face till it was close to his. Then she turned her face suddenly to him, and her lips met his. A moment later she untwined his arms, went to the door, and glanced unheeding down at old Debby, gathering wood. Then, her face and eyes still glowing, she came back, smoothed his hair, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and said, "Now you must be quiet, dear. Debby will scold me if I let you talk any more!"
But Robert was excited, drunk with new joy after long despair.
"Just one word, and I will obey, dear heart! Listen, my lady. I will draw sword no more in this quarrel. I have given my blood, my lands,--I have given, as I thought, my love,--for a cause already lost, for a cause that I felt to be wrong from the day of Lexington, But whichever side wins, I will stay in my own country, if my country, when it is all over, will let me stay. When I am well enough to go away--love, love, will you go with me, to return, when the fighting and the fury cease, to our own dear river and our own dear woods?"
"Yes, you know I will, Robert," answered Barbara, kneeling down and looking into his eyes. "You know that is what I am planning, dear one. Now go to sleep, and get well, and take me away when you will!" And holding her hand against his neck he forthwith went to sleep, like a child, tired and contented.
Barbara knelt for a long time unmoving, her hand warm in his weak clasp, and was grateful to old Debby for staying so long away. As she knelt, the side of her face to the door, she heard a soft _thud, thud_ on the threshold, and looked around out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head. She saw two wild rabbits, filled with curiosity at finding the cabin door open. They hopped in warily, and went bounding all about the room, sniffing with their sensitive, cleft nostrils; waving their ears back and forth at every faint whisper; and from time to time sitting up to ponder their discovery. One of them bounded over Barbara's little foot, turned to examine it, and nibbled tentatively at the heel of her shoe till she had to make the muscles tense to keep him from pulling it off. Then, standing up together for a moment, they seemed to take counsel and conclude that they had business elsewhere. As they hopped lazily away from the door, Barbara got up and followed to look after them. The wonderful day was drawing to its close; and long, straight beams of rosy gold, enmeshed with the haze, were streaming through the trees to her very feet. She laughed a little happy laugh under her breath. Those bright paths leading to the sun seemed a fair omen.
THE END.
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REBECCA MARY. By Annie Hamilton Donnell. Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green.
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TOLD BY UNCLE REMUS. By Joel Chandler Harris. Illustrated by A. B. Frost, J. M. Conde and Frank Verbeck.
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THE FORGE IN THE FOREST. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated by H. Sandham.
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A SISTER TO EVANGELINE. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated by E. McConnell.
Being the story of Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into exile with the villagers of Grand Pre. Swift action, fresh atmosphere, wholesome purity, deep passion and searching analysis characterize this strong novel.
THE OPENED SHUTTERS. By Clara Louise Burnham. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.
A summer haunt on an island in Casco Bay is the background for this romance. A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside vanity and self love. A delicately humorous work with a lofty motive underlying it all.
THE RIGHT PRINCESS. By Clara Louise Burnham.
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DR. LAVENDAR'S PEOPLE. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Lucius Hitchcock.
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OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Howard Pyle.
Stories portraying with delightful humor and pathos a quaint people in a sleepy old town. Dr. Lavendar, a very human and lovable "preacher," is the connecting link between these dramatic stories from life.
HE FELL IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. By E. P. Roe. With frontispiece.
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THE YOKE. By Elizabeth Miller.
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SAUL OF TARSUS. By Elizabeth Miller. Illustrated by Andre Castaigne.
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HALF A CHANCE. By Frederic S. Isham. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
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VIRGINIA OF THE AIR LANES. By Herbert Quick. Illustrated by William R. Leigh.
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THE GAME AND THE CANDLE. By Eleanor M. Ingram. Illustrated by P. D. Johnson.
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BRUVVER JIM'S BABY. By Philip Verrill Mighels.
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THE FURNACE OF GOLD. By Philip Verrill Mighels, author of "Bruvver Jim's Baby." Illustrations by J. N. Marchand.
An accurate and informing portrayal of scenes, types, and conditions of the mining districts in modern Nevada.
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THE MESSAGE. By Louis Tracy. Illustrations by Joseph C. Chase.
A breezy tale of how a bit of old parchment, concealed in a figurehead from a sunken vessel, comes into the possession of a pretty girl and an army man during regatta week in the Isle of Wight. This is the message and it enfolds a mystery, the development of which the reader will follow with breathless interest.
THE SCARLET EMPIRE. By David M. Parry. Illustrations by Hermann C. Wall.
A young socialist, weary of life, plunges into the sea and awakes in the lost island of Atlantis, known as the Scarlet Empire, where a social democracy is in full operation, granting every man a living but limiting food, conversation, education and marriage.
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THE THIRD DEGREE. By Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrations by Clarence Rowe.
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The son of an aristocratic New York family marries a woman socially beneath him, but of strong, womanly qualities that, later on, save the man from the tragic consequences of a dissipated life.
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THE THIRTEENTH DISTRICT. By Brand Whitlock.
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COMRADES. By Thomas Dixon, Jr. Illustrated by C. D. Williams.
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TONO-BUNGAY. By Herbert George Wells.
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A HUSBAND BY PROXY. By Jack Steele.
A young criminologist, but recently arrived in New York city, is drawn into a mystery, partly through financial need and partly through his interest in a beautiful woman, who seems at times the simplest child and again a perfect mistress of intrigue. A baffling detective story.
LIKE ANOTHER HELEN. By George Horton. Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.
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THE MASTER OF APPLEBY. By Francis Lynde. Illustrated by T. de Thulstrup.
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WHEN A MAN MARRIES. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.
A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that a visit is due from his Aunt Selina, an elderly lady having ideas about things quite apart from the Bohemian set in which her nephew is a shining light. The way in which matters are temporarily adjusted forms the motif of the story.
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THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF JOSHUA CRAIG. By David Graham Phillips. Illustrated.
A young westerner, uncouth and unconventional, appears in political and social life in Washington. He attains power in politics, and a young woman of the exclusive set becomes his wife, undertaking his education in social amenities.
"DOC." GORDON. By Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman. Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.
Against the familiar background of American town life, the author portrays a group of people strangely involved in a mystery. "Doc." Gordon, the one physician of the place, Dr. Elliot, his assistant, a beautiful woman and her altogether charming daughter are all involved in the plot. A novel of great interest.
HOLY ORDERS. By Marie Corelli.
A dramatic story, in which is pictured a clergyman in touch with society people, stage favorites, simple village folk, powerful financiers and others, each presenting vital problems to this man "in holy orders"--problems that we are now struggling with in America.
KATRINE. By Elinor Macartney Lane. With frontispiece.
Katrine, the heroine of this story, is a lovely Irish girl, of lowly birth, but gifted with a beautiful voice.
The narrative is based on the facts of an actual singer's career, and the viewpoint throughout is a most exalted one.
THE FORTUNES OF FIFI. By Molly Elliot Seawell. Illustrated by T. de Thulstrup.
A story of life in France at the time of the first Napoleon. Fifi, a glad, mad little actress of eighteen, is the star performer in a third rate Parisian theatre. A story as dainty as a Watteau painting.
SHE THAT HESITATES. By Harris Dickson. Illustrated by C. W. Relyea.
The scene of this dashing romance shifts from Dresden to St. Petersburg in the reign of Peter the Great, and then to New Orleans.
The hero is a French Soldier of Fortune, and the princess, who hesitates--but you must read the story to know how she that hesitates may be lost and yet saved.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
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BRILLIANT AND SPIRITED NOVELS
AGNES AND EGERTON CASTLE
Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents per volume, postpaid.
THE PRIDE OF JENNICO. Being a Memoir of Captain Basil Jennico.
"What separates it from most books of its class is its distinction of manner, its unusual grace of diction, its delicacy of touch, and the fervent charm of its love passages. It is a very attractive piece of romantic fiction relying for its effect upon character rather than incident, and upon vivid dramatic presentation."--_The Dial_. "A stirring, brilliant and dashing story."--_The Outlook_.
THE SECRET ORCHARD. Illustrated by Charles D. Williams.
The "Secret Orchard" is set in the midst of the ultra modern society. The scene is in Paris, but most of the characters are English speaking. The story was dramatized in London, and in it the Kendalls scored a great theatrical success.
"Artfully contrived and full of romantic charm * * * it possesses ingenuity of incident, a figurative designation of the unhallowed scenes in which unlicensed love accomplishes and wrecks faith and happiness."--_Athenaeum_.
YOUNG APRIL. With illustrations by A. B. Wenzell.
"It is everything that a good romance should be, and it carries about it an air of distinction both rare and delightful."--_Chicago Tribune_. "With regret one turns to the last page of this delightful novel, so delicate in its romance, so brilliant in its episodes, so sparkling in its art, and so exquisite in its diction."--_Worcester Spy_.
FLOWER O' THE ORANGE. With frontispiece.
We have learned to expect from these fertile authors novels graceful in form, brisk in movement, and romantic in conception. This carries the reader back to the days of the bewigged and beruffled gallants of the seventeenth century and tells him of feats of arms and adventures in love as thrilling and picturesque, yet delicate, as the utmost seeker of romance may ask.
MY MERRY ROCKHURST. Illustrated by Arthur E. Becher.
In the eight stories of a courtier of King Charles Second, which are here gathered together, the Castles are at their best, reviving all the fragrant charm of those books, like _The Pride of Jennico_, in which they first showed an instinct, amounting to genius, for sunny romances. "The book is absorbing * * * and is as spontaneous in feeling as it is artistic in execution."--_New York Tribune_.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers,--New York
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THE MASTERLY AND REALISTIC NOVELS OF
FRANK NORRIS
Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents per volume, postpaid.
THE OCTOPUS. A Story of California.
Mr. Norris conceived the ambitious idea of writing a trilogy of novels which, taken together, shall symbolize American life as a whole, with all its hopes and aspirations and its tendencies, throughout the length and breadth of the continent. And for the central symbol he has taken wheat, as being quite literally the ultimate source of American power and prosperity. _The Octopus_ is a story of wheat raising and railroad greed in California. It immediately made a place for itself.
It is full of enthusiasm and poetry and conscious strength. One cannot read it without a responsive thrill of sympathy for the earnestness, the breadth of purpose, the verbal power of the man.
THE PIT. A Story of Chicago.
This powerful novel is the fictitious narrative of a deal in the Chicago wheat pit and holds the reader from the beginning. In a masterly way the author has grasped the essential spirit of the great city by the lakes. The social existence, the gambling in stocks and produce, the characteristic life in Chicago, form a background for an exceedingly vigorous and human tale of modern life and love.
A MAN'S WOMAN.
A story which has for a heroine a girl decidedly out of the ordinary run of fiction. It is most dramatic, containing some tremendous pictures of the daring of the men who are trying to reach the Pole * * * but it is at the same time essentially a _woman's_ book, and the story works itself out in the solution of a difficulty that is continually presented in real life--the wife's attitude in relation to her husband when both have well-defined careers.
McTEAGUE. A Story of San Francisco.
"Since Bret Harte and the Forty-niner no one has written of California life with the vigor and accuracy of Mr. Norris. His 'McTeague' settled his right to a place in American literature; and he has now presented a third novel, 'Blix,' which is in some respects the finest and likely to be the most popular of the three."--_Washington Times_.
BLIX.
"Frank Norris has written in 'Blix' just what such a woman's name would imply--a story of a frank, fearless girl comrade to all men who are true and honest because she is true and honest. How she saved the man she fishes and picnics with in a spirit of outdoor platonic friendship, makes a pleasant story, and a perfect contrast to the author's McTeague.' A splendid and successful story."--_Washington Times_.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers,--New York
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