Chapter 10
The spot chosen for this Indian Summer dance in the forest was near Cedar House. It was one of the natural open spaces, of which there were many in the wilderness, and it overlooked the river. High walls of thick green leaves enfolded it upon three sides, and it had a broad level floor of greener sward. It was sun-lit when the shadowed woods were dark. In the spring the greensward was gay with wild flowers; for it was in these open spaces between the trees that Nature displayed her most brilliant floral treasures which would not bloom in the shade. In the fall the leafy walls were more brilliant than the flowery sward, and they now rose toward the azure dome, gorgeously hung with bronzed and golden vines, blossoming here and there with vivid scarlet leaves. Below ran a dazzling border of shrubs--the sumac, which does not wait for the coming of the frost king to put on its royal livery; the sassafras already gleaming with touches of fire; the wild grape as red as the reddest wine, and rioting over all the rich green; the bright wahoo with its graceful clusters of flame-colored berries overrunning its soberer neighbors; the hazel, the pawpaw, the dog-wood, the red-bud, the spice-wood, the sweet-strife, the angelica. On the west the velvet turf began to unroll gently downward toward the river. The quiet stream ran with molten silver on that flawless October day, and deep shadows of royal purple hung curtains of wondrous beauty above the water. Back under the trees the shadows were darkly blue, bluer even than the cloudless sky arching so high above the tall tree-tops.
Nature indeed always made more preparations and much finer ones, for the dance in the woods than the simple people of the wilderness ever thought of making. The word merely went from one log house to another, fixing the day for the dance. The hunters' daughters with the help of their mothers, filled the big baskets with simple good things on the night before; for the young hunters came very early to go with their sweethearts to the festival, and there was no time to spare on the morning of the dance. The dancing sometimes began at nine o'clock in the morning. The three black men from Cedar House who played for the dancing were in their places long before that hour, with their instruments already in tune. One had an old fiddle, another the remnant of a guitar, and the third a clumsy iron triangle which he had made himself. Nevertheless they were famous for their dance music and known throughout the wilderness to all the dancers. Those old-time country fiddlers--all of them, black or white--how wonderful they were! They have always been the wonder and the despair of all musicians who have played by rule and note. The very way that the country fiddler held his fiddle against his chest and never against his shoulder like the trained musician! The very way that the country fiddler grasped his bow, firmly and squarely in the middle, and never lightly at the end like a trained musician! The very way that he let go and went off and kept on--the amazing, inimitable spirit, the gayety, the rhythm, the swing! No trained musician ever heard the music of the country fiddler without wondering at its power, and longing in vain to know the secret of its charm. It would be worth a good deal to know where and how they learned the tunes that they played. Possibly these were handed down by ear from one to another; some perhaps have never been pent up in notes, and others may have been given to the note reader under other names than those by which the country fiddlers knew them. This is said to have been the case with "Old Zip Coon," and the names of many of them would seem to prove that they belonged to the time and the country. But there is a delightful uncertainty about the origin and the history of almost all of them--about "Leather Breeches" and "Sugar in the Gourd" and "Wagoner" and "Cotton-eyed Joe," and so on through a long list.
On this day the musicians sat in a row on a fallen tree, and the grass beside it was very soon worn away, and the earth before it beaten as hard as any ballroom floor under the gay and ceaseless patting of their feet. On the other side of the wide level space was a green bower made of freshly cut boughs. This was a retiring room, intended for the use of any fair dancer whose hair might fall into disorder or whose skirt might be torn in the dancing. The baskets were all put out of sight till wanted, hidden beneath the bushes that bordered the open space. But now and then, when the soft warm breeze swayed the leafy screen of green and gold and crimson, there were tantalizing glimpses of the folded table-cloths covering the baskets, like much belated or very early snowdrifts.
Most of the hunters' daughters came to the dance riding behind their sweethearts, after the pleasant custom of the country. They were fine girls for their station in life, and well fitted for the hardships which must be their portion. They were large, strong, brave, simple, good--healthy in body and mind, warm in heart, and cool in courage, with pleasing faces roughened by exposure, and capable hands hardened by work. They were dressed in homespun as became their looks, their means, and manner of living. In all things these future mothers of a great state were the natural and suitable mates for the gallant young state-makers. And each one of the young hunters now standing beside them, held his head high as he led out the girl of his choice, feeling his own right to be prouder and happier than any of his fellows.
The dancing had begun before Ruth and David came, although they were so early. The spot being near, they had walked through the forest swinging the basket between them like two happy children, and coming to the open space, they stopped for a moment and looked on, thinking what a pleasing scene it was. The girls, tripping through the dance, smiled at Ruth as they passed. They knew her very well, and had seen her so often that they no longer looked at her as plump brown partridges might look at an exquisite bird of paradise. And then, they felt that Ruth was unconscious of any difference between herself and them. There was a sweet, cordial friendliness about her, an innate warm-hearted, magnetic charm which won women as well as men. The hunters' daughters liked her because they knew that she liked them for, after all, most of us get what we give in our larger relation to humanity--seldom, if ever, anything else, either more or less. Those who truly love their kind can never be really hated: those who hate their kind can never be really loved. The balance may waver one way or the other at times, but it cannot fail to weigh truly at last.
Ruth danced first with David and then with one of the bashful young hunters. But all the while she was looking toward the opening in the undergrowth, expecting to see Paul Colbert. He had said that he would be there, and presently she saw him standing in the opening between the trees, with the shining river at his back. He was wearing his best and Ruth thought with a leap of her heart, that she had not known till now how handsome he was. His hair was fairer than she had thought, as fair as hers was dark, and she liked it all the better for that. His eyes were gray and clear and steady and fearless. He had a proud way, too, of throwing up his head, as if he tossed away all petty thoughts. She saw him do this as he crossed the greensward, coming straight to her side. It pleased her that he did not stop for a single glance round. She felt his unlikeness to another man, when she saw that he had no thought of any eyes that might be upon himself. And because of this comparison, and the pang of uneasiness and self-reproach which it brought, she blushed when her eyes met his as she had not done heretofore.
There is little use in trying to put into words what he thought of her, or what any true lover thinks of the beloved. The rose of the dawn, and the breath of the zephyr were not glowing or delicate enough to portray Ruth as she was to Paul that day. The beauty of her face under the gypsy hat; the witchery of her dark blue eyes smiling up at him; the pink roses blooming on her fair cheeks; the red rose of her perfect mouth--all this gave him at a glance a likeness of her to lay away in his memory: a vivid flashing, imperishable treasure to keep forever.
* * * * *
The gayety of the Indian Summer dance was now at its height. The mellow sunlight fell straight down through the arching green branches of the bordering trees. The earth, still warm with the summer's fires, lifted a cool face to the soft breeze. The dancers growing tired and hungry about noon, sat down on the greensward in little groups, while the baskets were taken from their hiding-places and the simple feast was soon spread. The black men served it with the coffee which they had heated over the campfire built at some distance in the forest. The homespun linen of the table-cloths looked very white on the dark green of the rich grass. But the single square of fine damask from Ruth's basket was not whiter than its humble neighbors, and she did not think of her finer linen or richer food. With Paul Colbert seated on the grass at her right hand, and David at her left, she took what was given her, knowing only that she was quite content and perfectly happy. She was indeed so happy that she was less gay than usual, for the greatest happiness makes least noise. She listened to all that was said, saying almost nothing herself. Paul's eyes hardly left her face, and he instantly observed that a shadow suddenly clouded it, the same shadow which had fallen over it on the evening before. Turning his eyes in the direction of her gaze, he saw William Pressley standing not far away. He did not know that the white-haired gentleman who stood beside the young man was Philip Alston, but he noted that the shadow quickly left Ruth's face at sight of the older man, when, brightening and smiling, she beckoned the newcomers to approach. And he also saw what she seemed not to see, that the older man turned a frowning face on the younger, and said something which was not cordially received. Had he known William Pressley better, he would have seen the dignified protest that was in every line of his large slow-moving figure as he followed Philip Alston across the wide open space to Ruth's side. To her, William's very step said as plain as words could have spoken that he was used to being misunderstood, but none the less sure of having done his whole duty. She looked up with the little uneasy flutter which this manner of his always caused her. She so craved love and approval that a dark look made her tender heart ache, even though she was unconscious of having done anything to deserve it. This was nearly always the state of feeling between her betrothed and herself, but up to this moment she had never doubted that her own shortcomings were wholly to blame. She hurriedly drew her thin skirt closer about her, nervously trying to make room for him between David and herself. The boy and doctor rose to their feet as the two men approached. Ruth sat still on the grass, lifting her blue eyes to William Pressley's face with a timid, wistful, almost frightened glance.
"You have met Doctor Colbert, William," she said quickly, and then she turned with a smile that was like a flash of light. "And uncle Philip--Mr. Alston--this is the doctor."
Paul Colbert in his utter amazement took the hand which Philip Alston held out. He could not have refused it had there been time to think, for her eyes were on him, and there was no doubting her affection for Philip Alston; that shone like sunlight on her face and thrilled in every tender tone of her voice. The young doctor could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes and ears. This Philip Alston! It was incredible, impossible; there was certainly some mistake. Nevertheless he hastily withdrew his hand and Philip Alston noted the haste, understanding it as well as Paul Colbert himself. His own manner was quiet and calm, showing none of the irritation which he felt at William Pressley's negligence. He lost none of his graciousness through seeing the young doctor's involuntary recoil. His intuitions were unerring; he knew instantly that this newcomer was already acquainted with the stories told about himself, but he cared little for that. He was considering the interference with his plans which might come from the sudden appearance of a young man of this young doctor's looks and intelligence. Hardly half a dozen commonplace remarks had been exchanged between them before he had recognized the unusual power of mind and body which he might soon have to contend with. He turned and looked at William Pressley and then back at Paul Colbert with a clouded brow, but he glanced down with a smile when Ruth touched his arm.
"Dearest uncle Philip," she said, "I am so--so--glad that you have come. You are just in time to dance with me. You did once, you know, at the May party, and none of the other girls had so courtly a partner. They couldn't have because I wouldn't let them have you. I should be jealous if you were to dance with any one else, and there is no one anywhere like you."
Looking up with her eyes full of affection she took his hand and pressed it against her pink cheek. At the sight a stab of pain and a thrill of fear went through the doctor's perplexed thoughts. He suddenly realized that the girl's life was closely bound up with this man's. He felt that any distrust of him must wound her, and although he still knew nothing of the bond between them, he saw that there could be no question of its being very close and strong. His first impulse was to try to persuade himself that the suspicion against Philip Alston might be unfounded; as it was certainly unproven. And then, finding himself unable to do this, he felt tempted to put the whole problem of the man's guilt or innocence aside, as no concern of his own. It is always the lover's temptation to shut his eyes when he must choose between the neglect of duty and the wounding of the woman he loves. And alas! this is a choice that comes sooner or later, in one form or another, to all who love. The woman sometimes can find an invisible thread leading through the labyrinth of the feminine conscience which may help her to follow a middle course. The man never has any such subtle resource and he knows, from first to last, that he must do what is wrong if he does not do what is right.
Paul Colbert's troubled perplexity grew deeper as he continued to look at Philip Alston and to listen as he talked. The softness of his voice, the culture that every word revealed, the intellectual quality of each thought, the clear, calm, steady gaze of his fine eyes, the noble shape of his distinguished head--all these things taken together almost made the young doctor feel that Philip Alston was the victim of monstrous calumny. And yet some unerring intuition told him that the terrible things which he had heard were true. His gaze wandered from Philip Alston to Ruth, and he grew sick. A sudden cold dampness gathered on his forehead under all the mellow warmth of the sun. He began to wish that he could get away long enough to clear his mind--to think. It was rather a relief when Philip Alston suggested that William Pressley should lead Ruth out for the next dance. Paul Colbert's gaze followed them as they walked away across the sun-lit grass, but he scarcely knew that he was looking at them till Philip Alston spoke.
"They are a handsome, well-matched young couple, are they not?" he said with a smile, and with his eyes on the young doctor's face. "You know, of course, that they are to be married on Christmas Eve."
XII
THE EVE OF ALL SOULS'
Ruth saw Paul Colbert when he passed Cedar House for the first time without stopping. He was riding very fast, and she feared that the Cold Plague must be growing worse. Still, a glance at her chamber window would not have delayed him, and she wondered why he did not turn his head. She was almost sure he must know that she always gave the birds their supper on the window-sill at that hour. She did not know that he had seen her without looking, and had borne away in his heart a picture of her slight white form, framed by the sun-lit window, and surrounded by the fluttering birds. Disappointed, wondering, and vaguely troubled, she gazed after him as long as he was visible amid the green gloom of the forest path. And then when he was lost to sight, she turned sharply on the boldest blue jay.
"Go 'way, you greedy thing! You startled me. I wasn't thinking about any of you. How tiresome you all are! To teach you better manners, I am going to throw this down to Trumpeter," leaning forward to see the swan which stood on the grass below, anxiously watching everything that went on above. "There! That is the last nice fat crumb."
The day had seemed endlessly long. She went wearily down the stairs again, as she had done many times since morning. Neither the judge nor William was at home. Miss Penelope and the widow Broadnax were in their accustomed places, and matters around the hearth were going forward as usual. Miss Penelope had asked fiercely in her mildest tone, what anybody could expect to become of any country, when one of the biggest towns in it built a theatre before building any kind of a church, as Louisville had done. The widow Broadnax had replied in her loudest, roughest voice, that she supposed the people there, as well as elsewhere, could keep on getting married two or three times, and mixing up families that otherwise might have lived in peace, just as well without a church as with one. But the girl listened listlessly and unsmilingly, hardly hearing what was said. Going out of the room she sat for a long time on the doorstep, watching the forest path with patient wistfulness. But there was no sign of the young doctor's coming back and it was a relief when David came up the river bank. He reminded her that she had asked him to go with her to the Sisters' house, and she arose and went indoors to get her bonnet.
"You'd just as well take the orphans one of the biggest fatty gourds of maple sugar," sighed Miss Penelope. "Ten to one none of us will ever live to eat much of anything, with that comet a-hanging over us. It's just as well to get ready as soon as you can, when you've been warned. I know what to look for when I've dreamt of wading through muddy water three times a-hand-running. Tell the Sisters that all the maple sugar that was ever poured into fatty gourds couldn't hurt the children's teeth now. The poor little things, and all of us, will have mighty little use for teeth--or stomachs either, for that matter--if things don't take a turn for the better a good deal sooner than I think they will. For my part, I don't see what else anybody can expect with that big black ring round the comet's head a-getting bigger and blacker every night of our miserable lives."
She called all the small cup-bearers,--for some unknown reason she never called one or two without calling all,--and sent them running to the smoke-house to fetch the fatty gourd. She threatened them fiercely in her dovelike tones, saying what she would do if they loitered, or stopped to put their little black paws in the sugar. But the cup-bearers knew Miss Penelope quite as well as she knew them, and when they came back with the fatty gourd they waited, as a matter of course, till she gave each one of them a generous handful of the sugar, before handing the gourd to David.
The Sisters' house was within walking distance, and Ruth and David had gone about half the way when they met Father Orin and Toby. These co-workers were not moving with their usual speed on account of an unwieldy burden. Tied on behind the priest's saddle was a great bag, containing the weekly mail for the neighborhood. He went to the postoffice oftener than any one else, and it had become his custom to fetch the mail to the chapel once a week, and distribute it after service on Sundays. When possible, he sent the letters of those who were not of his congregation by some neighbor who was present; but he often rode miles out of his way to deliver them with his own hand. It was in carrying the mail on a bitter winter's day, when the earth was a glittering sheet of ice, that he had fallen and broken his arm. It was a serious accident, and would have disabled any one else for a long time, but he was out again and as busy as ever within a few days, though he had to carry his arm in a sling for several weeks. He now hailed the two young people with his kind, merry greeting.
"There's a great letter up at the convent," he said, when he came up beside them. "The Sisters have got it, and they will show it to you. Ask them to read it to you. That letter will have a place in Kentucky history. This is where we must turn out. No, Toby, old man, there's no time for you to be listening and enjoying yourself, nor for nibbling pea-vine, either. Move on, move on! Good-by, my children. Don't forget to ask the Sisters to show you the bishop's letter."
Sister Teresa held it in her hand when she came to the door to meet them. Both the girl and the boy had been her pupils, and she had formed an attachment for them which had not been weakened by their leaving the little school. Sister Elizabeth also hastened to receive them most cordially. Sister Angela merely waved her hand through the window, but the little faces peeping over the sill, and the tops of the little curly heads bobbing up and down at her side, told why she could not come with the others to meet the welcome guests. Sister Teresa did not wait to be asked to read the letter, she was too much excited over it to forget it for a moment; its coming was the greatest event that the convent had ever known.