Part 11

"Stay," he pleaded. "I will be silent--I will say not a word unless you bid me speak--but let me look at you."

She stood a moment as if thinking.

"Do you hear that bird song?" she asked, looking upward.

"Yes, it has a merry sound."

"It is my answer to you," said she.

"Then I am sure you love me."

As he came nearer she retreated a little.

"I give you everything--everything but myself," said she.

"And why not yourself?"

Her voice had a plaintive note in it when she said to him, "There are those who need me more."

"I offer myself to you and to them also."

She stood with averted eyes. In a moment she said, "Tell me what are we to do when those we love die?"

"I, too, and all the children of men have that same worry," said he. "There's an old Eastern maxim, 'Love as many as you can, so that death may not make you friendless.'"

She walked away slowly. She stopped where the children sat playing and embraced them.

"Will you not say that you love me?" the young man urged.

The girl went up the gloomy trail with lagging feet as if it were steep and difficult. That clear-voiced love-call of the children halted her, and she looked back. Again the bird flung his song upon the silence. The sweet voice of the maiden rang like a bell in the still forest, as if answering the bird's message. "I love you--I love you," it said. Then she turned quickly and ran away.

XXIV

EDITH DUNMORE wandered slowly through deep thickets, and where she could just see the lighted chasm of Catamount between far tree-tops she lay down to weep and think and be alone. She was like some wounded creature of the forest who would hide, even from its own eyes, on the soft, kindly bosom of the great mother.

She had learned enough to have some understanding of that strange power which of late had broken every day into seconds. These little fragments of time had all shades of color, from joy to despair. She lay recalling those which had been full of revelation. In a strange loneliness she thought of all Robert Master had said, of far more in that wordless, wonderful assurance which had passed from his soul to hers. She knew that to be given in marriage was to leave all for a new love.

She knew better than they suspected--those few dwellers at Buckhorn--how dear, how indispensable she was to them. She knew how soon that loneliness, which had often seemed to fill the heavens above her, would bear them down. Yet she would not hesitate; she would go with him, and for this she felt a sense of shame.

She lay longer than she knew, looking up at the sky through needled crowns of pine. That passion which has all the fabled power of Fate was busy with her.

A band of crows had alighted in a tree above her head and begun cawing. Roc, who had gone to roost in a small fir, answered them. One dove into the great, dusky hall of the near woods and made it echo with his cawing. Roc rose and followed through its green roof into the open sky. The maiden called to him, but he heeded only the call of his own people, and made his choice between flying and creeping, between loneliness and joy, between the paths of men and that appointed for him in the heavens. His had been like her own decision--so she thought--he had heard the one cry which he could not resist. Lately she had neglected him. He had missed her caresses and begun to think of better company, Again and again she called, but he had gone quickly far out of hearing. She listened, waiting and looking into the sky, but he came not.

Master had taken the children home and returned to his little' camp on the pond. She could hear the stroke of his axe; she could hear him singing. She fancied, also, that she could hear the children call--that little trumpet tone which had thrilled her when it rang in the woods. She rose and walked slowly towards the lighted basin below her. She could not bear to turn away from it. She would go down and look across from the edge of the thickets. She feared that she had too freely uncovered her feeling for him.

Soon she turned back, but then she seemed to be treading on her own heart. She ran towards the place where she had met him. She thought not of the children now, but only of the young man. She had heard her father say: "A man throws off his mask when he is alone. If we could see him then we should know what is in his soul." Could she look into his face while he knew not of her being near she would know if he loved her. She tried to enlarge this fancy into a motive. It failed, however, to end her self-reproaches. Soon, almost in tears, she began to whisper: "I do not care. I must see him again. I cannot go until I have seen him."

Moose-birds flew in the tops above her, scolding loudly, as if to turn her back. They annoyed her, and she stopped until they had flown away. She trembled as she drew near the familiar cove. Stealthily she made her way, halting where they had talked together. A solemn silence brooded there. She felt the moss where his feet had stood. He had held this fragrant, broken lily in his hand. She picked it up and pressed it to her lips. She slowly crossed the deep, soft mat sloping to the water's edge, and peered between sprays of tamarack. The shadows had shifted to the farther shore. A sprinkle of hot light fell upon her shoulders. The disk of the sun was cut by dead pines on the bald ridge opposite. She heeded not the warning it gave her, but only looked and listened. She could hear Master over at the landing, hidden by the point of Birch Cove. He was cutting wood for the night. Under cover of thickets, she made her way along the edge of the pond. It was a walk of more than half a mile around the coves.

By-and-by she could hear the tread of Master's feet and the crackle of his fire. She moved with the stealth of a deer. Soon she could smell the odor of frying meat and was reminded of her hunger. She passed a spring, above which a cup hung, and saw the trail leading to his camp. Possibly very soon he would be going after water. She knelt in a thicket where she could see him pass, and waited. For a long time she waited.

Suddenly she rose and peered about her. She paled with alarm. It was growing dusk; she had forgotten that the day would have an end. It was a journey to Buckhom, and her little guide--where was he? Cautiously she retraced her steps along the shore. In a moment she' began to weep silently. When she tried to hurry the rustling of the brush halted her. Had he heard it? What was that sound far up the ridge before her? She knelt and listened. It was a man coming in the distance. She could hear him whistling as he walked. Slowly he approached, passing within a few feet of her. She had often hidden that way from unexpected travellers in the forest. She waited a little and hurried on.

The thickets seemed now to hold her back as if to defeat her purpose. She got clear of them by-and-by and ran up the side of the ridge.

She peered about her, seeking the familiar trail. The dusk had thickened--her alarm had grown. She stopped a moment to make sure of her way. Again she hurried on. Soon she entered the little six-mile thoroughfare from Catamount to Buckhorn. She ran a few rods down the trail and stopped. It was growing dark; she could scarcely see the ground beneath her; she might soon lose her way in the forest. She leaned against a tree-trunk and shook with sobs, thinking of her folly and of her friends at home. Presently she ran back in the direction of Master's camp. She left the trail and went slowly down the side of the ridge. She must go and tell him that she had lost her way and ask for a lantern. She could see the flicker of his fire. She groped through the bushes to a little cove opposite, where, across water some twenty rods away, she could see his camp.

In the edge of the dark forest the girl sat gazing off at the firelight. She was weary and athirst; she was tortured with anxiety, but she could not summon courage to go. She could see the light flooding between tree columns, leaping into high tops, gilding the water-ripples. She could see shadows moving; she could hear voices. Light and shadow seemed to beckon and the voices to invite her, but she dared not go. She would boldly rise and feel her way a few paces, only to sit down again. Tales which her father had told her concerning the wickedness of men flashed out of her memory.

That light was on the edge of the unknown world--full of mystery and peril. She could not goad herself nearer.

XXV

IT was Strong who had passed Edith Dunmore as night was falling over the hollow of Catamount. He was returning from his day of toil at Nick Pond.

"Just in time," said the young man, who was eating supper at a rude table, from a pole above which two lighted lanterns hung.

The great body of the Emperor fell heavily on a camp-stool. He blew as he flung his hat off.

"Hot!" said he, and then with three or four great gulps he poured a dipper of water down his throat.

Master put a small flask on the table at which they sat.

"Opey-d-dildock?" Strong inquired, softly.

"The same," said Master. "Help yourself."

The Emperor obeyed him without a word.

"How's that?" inquired the young man.

"S-sassy," Strong answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fall to," said Master, putting the platter of trout in front of him.

"Here's f-fishin'," said Strong, as he lifted a large trout by the tail.

"Good place to anchor. Anything new?"

"B-bear," Strong stammered, with a little shake of his head.

"Where?"

The Emperor crushed a potato' and filled' his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully before he answered, "Up t-trail."

"How far?"

Strong pointed with his fork. He stopped chewing and turned and listened for a breath. "B-bout mile." He sighed and shook his head sorrowfully.

"What's the matter?"

"F-feelin's!" Strong answered, pointing the fork towards his bosom.

"No gun?"

Strong nodded. It was a moment of moral danger. He knew that Satan would lay hold of his tongue unless it were guarded with great caution. He sat back and whistled for half a moment.

"S-safe!" he exclaimed, presently, with a sigh, as he went on eating.

"Which way was he travelling?"

"Th-this way--limpin'," said Strong.

"Limping?"

"W-wownded," Strong, added, softly, gently, as if he were still on dangerous ground.

They finished their meal in silence and drew up to the fire and filled their pipes.

He rose and lighted his pipe and returned to the table as soon as he had begun smoking. He took out his worn memorandum-book and thoughtfully wrote these words:

_"July the 6

"See a bear--best way to kepe the ten commandments is to kepe yer mouth shet."_

Strong resumed his chair at the camp-fire. Suddenly he raised his hand. They could hear the cracking of dead brush across the cove.

"S-suthin'," Strong whispered.

Again the sound came to their ears out of the silent forest.

"Hearn it d-dozen times," said the Emperor.

They listened a moment longer. Then Strong rose.

"B-bear!" he whispered. "Light an' rifle."

Master tiptoed to the shanty. He lighted the dark lantern--a relic of deer-stalking days--with which he had found his way to Catamount the night before. He adjusted the leathern helmet so its lantern rested 'above his forehead. He raised his rifle and opened the small box of light. A beam burst out of it and shot across the darkness and fell on a thicket. The spire of a little fir, some forty feet away, seemed to be bathed in sunlight. The beam glowed along the top of his rifle-barrel, and he stood a moment aiming to see if he could catch the sights.

Strong beckoned to him. The young man came close to the side of the hunter and suggested, "Maybe it's a deer."

"'T-'tain' no deer," Strong whispered. "S-suthin' dif'er'nt." He listened again. "It's over on th-that air cove."

He explained briefly that in his opinion the bear, being wounded, had come down for rest and water. He presented his plan. They would cross the cove in their canoe. When they were near the sound he would give the canoe a little shake, whereupon Master should carefully open the slide and throw its light along the edge of the pond. If he saw the glow of a pair of eyes he was to aim between, them and fire.

They tiptoed to the landing, lifted their canoe into water, and, without a sound louder than the rustle of their garments or the fall of a water-drop, took their places, Master in the bow and Strong in the paddle-seat behind him. The hunter leaned forward and felt for bottom and gave her a careful shove. Then, with a little movement of his back, he tossed his weight against the cedar shell and it moved slowly into the black hollow of Catamount. The hunter sank his paddle-blade. It pulled in little, silent, whirling slashes. The canoe sheared off into thick gloom, cleaving its way with a movement soundless and indistinguishable.

For a few seconds Master felt a weird touch of the soul in him--as if, indeed, it were being stripped of its body and were parting with the senses. Then he could scarcely resist the impression that he had risen above the earth and begun a journey through the black, silent air. So, for a breath, his consciousness had seemed to stray from its centre; then, quickly, it came back. He began to know of that which, mercifully, in the common business of life, is just beyond the reach of sense. He could hear the muffled rivers of blood in his own body; he felt his heart-beat in the fibres of the slender craft beneath him, sensitive as a bell; he became strangely conscious of the great, oxlike body behind him--of moving muscles in arm and shoulder, of the filling and emptying of its lungs, of its stealthy, eager attitude.

The night life of the woods was beginning--that of beasts and birds that see and wander and devour in the darkness.. From far away the faint, wild cry of one of them wavered through the woods. It was like the yell of a reveller in the midnight silence of a city.

The sky was overcast. Dimly Master could see the dying flicker of his firelight on the mist before him. A little current of air, nearly spent, crept over the pine-tops and they began to whisper. The young man thought of the big, blue, tender eyes which had looked up at him that day, so full of childish innocence and yet full of the charm and power of womanhood.

Master turned his head quickly. Near him he had heard the sound of a deep-drawn, shuddering breath, and then a low moan. He thought with pity of the poor creature now possibly breathing its last. He was eager to end its agony. He trembled, waiting for the signal to open his light. The bow brushed a lily-pad. He could feel the paddle backing with its muffled stroke. The canoe had stopped.

Again he heard a movement in the brush. It was very near; he could feel the canoe backing for more distance. Then he felt the signal. That little shake in the shell of cedar had seemed to go to his very heart. He raised his hand carefully and opened the lantern-slide. The beam fell upon tall grass and flashed between little columns of tamarack. At the end of its misty pathway he could just dimly make out the foliage. He could see nothing clearly.

Again he felt the signal. He knew that the hunter had seen the game. Now the light-beam illumined the top of his rifle-barrel.

Suddenly the trained eye of Strong had caught the gleam of eyes--then the faint outline of lips dumb with terror. He struck with his paddle and swung his bow.

The hammer fell. A little flame burst out of the rifle-muzzle, and a great roar shook the silences. A shrill cry rang in its first echo. The canoe bounded over lily-pads and flung her bow on the bank a foot above water. Master sprang ashore followed by Strong. They clambered up the bank.

"Strong, I've killed somebody," said the young man, his voice full of the distress he felt. He swept the shore with his light. It fell on the body of a young woman lying prone among the brakes. Quickly he knelt beside her and threw the light upon her face.

"My God! Come here, Strong!" he shouted, hoarsely.

His friend, alarmed by his cry, hurried to him. Master had raised the head of Miss Dun-more upon his arm and was moaning pitifully. He covered the beautiful white face with kisses.

Strong, who stood near with the lantern, had begun to stammer in an effort to express his thoughts.

"K-keep c-cool," he soon succeeded in saying.

"I switched the canoe an' ye n-never t-touched her. She's scairt--th-that's all."

Edith Dunmore had partly risen and opened her eyes. Master lifted her from the earth and held her close and kissed her. His joy overcame him so that the words he tried to utter fell half spoken from his lips. She clung to him, and their silence and their tears and the touch of their hands were full of that assurance for which both had longed.

"T-y-ty!" Strong whispered as he held the light upon them.

For a long moment the lovers stood in each other's embrace. . .

"I don't know why I came here," said she, presently, in a troubled voice.

He took her hands in his and raised them to his lips.

"I must go; I must go," she said.

"Come, we will go with you," said the young man.

He put his arm around the waist of the girl. They walked slowly up the side of the ridge, with Strong beside them, throwing light upon their path. Master heard from her how it befell that darkness had overtaken her in the basin of Catamount, and she learned from him why they had come out in their canoe.

"You will not be afraid of me any more," he said.

She stopped and raised one of his hands and held it against her cheek with a little moan of fondness. Curiously she felt his face.

"It is so dark--I cannot see you," she whispered.

"I loathe the darkness that hides your beauty from me," said the young man.

Strong turned his light upon her face. Tears glittered in the lashes of her eyes and a new peace and trustfulness were upon her countenance.

"We shall see better to-morrow," the young man said.

"My father is coming--he will be angry--he will not let me see you again--" Her voice trembled with its burden of trouble.

"Leave that to me--no one shall keep us apart," he assured her. "I will see him tomorrow and tell him all."

They walked awhile in silence. The whistle blew for the night-shift at Benson Falls. Its epic note bellowed over the plains and up and down the timbered hills of the Emperor. It seemed to warn the trees of their doom.

She thought then of the great world, and said, "I will go with you."

"And be my wife?"

"Yes. I am no longer afraid."

"We shall go soon," he answered.

A mile or so from the shore of Buckhom they could hear the voice of a woman calling in the still woods, and they answered. Soon they saw the light of a lantern approaching in the trail. For a moment Master and the maiden whispered together.

Soon the old nurse and servant of Edith Dun-more came out of the darkness trembling with fear and anxiety. Gently the girl patted the bare head of the woman as she whispered to her. In a moment all resumed their journey.

When they had come to Buckhom and could see the camp-lights, Master launched a canoe and took the girl and her servant across the pond. He left them without a word and returned to the other shore. Strong and he stood for a moment listening. Then they set out for their homes far down the trail. The Emperor was busy "thinking out thoughts."

"Mountaneyous!" he muttered, "g-great an' p-powerful."

For the second time in his life he felt strongly moved to expression and seemed to be feeling for adequate words. Master put his arm around the big hunter and asked him what he meant.

"Oh-h-h! Oh-h-h!" Strong murmured, in a tone of singular tenderness. "P-purty! purty! w-wonderful purty! She's too g-good fer this w-world. I jes' f-felt like t-takin' her on my b-back an' makin' r-right across the s-swamps an' hills fer heaven."

The Emperor wiped his eyes and added:

"You're as handy with a g-gal as I am with a f-fish-rod."

Next day he noted this conclusion in his memorandum-book:

_"Strong cant wait much longer. He's got to have a guide for the long trail."_

XXVI

NEXT day Master went to Tillbury for his mail, a-walk of some twenty miles. He lingered for awhile near the shore of Buckhom on his way, but saw nothing of her he loved.

Two fishermen had arrived at Strong's, and the Emperor had taken them to spring holes in the lower river.

After supper that evening he built a big fire in front of the main camp, and sat down beside the fishermen with Socky and Sue in his lap.

Darkness had fallen when Dunmore strode into the firelight.

"Dwellers in the long house," he said, removing his cap, "I am glad to sit by your council fire."

"Had supper?" Strong inquired.

"No--give me a doughnut and a piece of bread and butter. I'll eat here by the fire."

He took the children in his arms while Strong went to prepare his luncheon.

"I love and fear you," said he. "You make me think of things forgotten."

Of late Socky had thought much of the general subject of grandfathers. He knew that they were highly useful members of society. He had seen them carry children on their backs and draw them in little wagons. This fact had caused him to put all able-bodied grandfathers in the high rank of ponies and billy-goats. His uncles Silas and Robert had been out of camp so much lately they had been of slight service to him. The thought that a grandfather would be more reliable, had presented itself, and he had broached the subject to little Sue. How they were acquired--whether they were bought or "ketched" or just given away to any who stood in need of them--neither had a definite notion. On this point the boy went to his aunt for counsel. She told him, laughingly, that they were "spoke for" in a sort of proposal like that of marriage. He had begun to think very favorably of Mr. Dunmore, and timidly put the question:

"Are--are you anybody's gran'pa?"

"No."

"Mebbe you'd be my gran'pa," the boy suggested, soberly. .

"Maybe," said Dunmore, with a smile.

"We could play horse together when Uncle Silas is away," was the further suggestion of Socky.

"Why not play horse with your sister?"

"She's too little--she can't draw me."

"Gran'pas don't make the best horses," Dunmore objected.

"Yes they do," Socky stoutly affirmed. "May Butler's gran'pa draws her 'round everywhere in a little cart."

"Well, that shows that old men can be good for something," said Dunmore. "Where's your wagon?"

Socky ran for the creaking treasure.

"Now get in--both of you," said the whitehaired man.

Socky and Sue mounted the wagon. Dunmore took the tongue-peg in both hands and began to draw them around the fire. Their cries of pleasure seemed to warm his heart. He quickened his pace, and was soon trotting in a wide circle while Zeb ran at his side and seemed to urge him on.

When, wearied by his exertion, he sat down to rest, the children stood close beside him and felt his face with their hands, and gave him the silent blessing of full confidence.

For Dunmore there was a kind of magic in it all. Somehow it faced him about and set him thinking of new things. That elemental appeal of the little folk had been as the sunlight breaking through clouds and falling on the darkened earth. In his lonely heart spring-time had returned.

The children climbed upon his knees, and he began a curious chant with closed eyes and trembling voice. The firelight fell upon his face while he chanted as follows:

"I hear the voices of little children ringing like silver

bells,

And the great bells answer them--they that hang

in the high towers--

The dusky, mouldering towers of the old time, of

hope and love and friendship.

They call me in the silence and have put a new

song in my mouth."

So he went on singing this rough, unmeasured song of the old time as if his heart were full and could not hold its peace. He sang of childhood and youth and of joys half forgotten.

Sinth stood waiting, with the food in her hands, before he finished.