Chapter 6

"Golightly, dear Golightly, save us both," she whispers. And Golightly tosses up his head with a little whinny of comprehension, and, bracing up every nerve, prepares for a rush through that ominous path blocked as it is by two dark figures.

[Sidenote: Rosalind's Rifle speaks]

"Bang!"

It is Rosalind's rifle this time, and a scream, shrill and piercing, rends the air. One form drops like a stone right across the path. But there is another to dispose of. His rifle is raised. Either Golightly or his mistress will receive the contents of that barrel. But Rosalind's hand never wavers as she points at that upraised arm.

"Bang!"

"Bang!"

The two shots resound almost simultaneously, but Rosalind's is first by half a second. Again a scream rends the air, and yet another, coming this time from the rear. Rosalind's palpitating heart prevents her from glancing about to learn the cause. She knows she has shot the Indian in the right arm, but she does not know, and will never know, that her opportune shot has saved herself and her steed from being fired at from behind as well as in front. For when the Indian's arm was struck, it directed the contents of his rifle away from the point he aimed at. He shot half a second after Rosalind's fire, and killed his chief Feathertop, who was lurking in the background, grinning horribly at his good fortune in taking aim at the back of the paleface and her flying steed.

Over the body of the dead Indian Golightly springs, paying no heed to the savage Redskin who stands aside from the trampling hoofs with his right arm hanging broken at his side. He is helpless, but he may yet do damage to Rosalind's cause. She lifts her rifle in passing him, and aims once more at his retreating form. He springs into the air, and, without a groan or cry, meets his death.

Rosalind has cleared her path from further danger. Ride swiftly though she does, no lurking forms are seen, no gliding figures block her way. But the danger she has gone through has taken all her strength from her. She leans her cheek on Golightly's sympathetic head and sobs out her gratitude to him.

When a foam-flecked steed dashed up to the first house in the village there was great commotion. Frank Robertson, with his mother and sisters, rushed out to find a white-faced Rosalind, spent and nearly fainting, sitting limply on Golightly's back. She had no words to explain her presence. She could only look at them with lack-lustre eyes. But Golightly turned his head as the young man lifted her gently off, and his eloquent eyes said as plainly as any words could say--

"Deal gently with her; she has gone through more than you will ever know, and has played her part bravely."

His comfort was looked after in as great degree as was Rosalind's. For while Rosalind lay on a couch, faint but smiling, and listening to the praises which the women-folk showered upon her, Golightly was stabled and rubbed down by two of Robertson's hired men, and caressed and given a good feed of corn with as many admiring words thrown in as ever his mistress had.

No time was lost in collecting a good body of mounted men, and away they rode with Frank Robertson at their head, arriving in good time to save McArthur's home and family from savage destruction by the Redskins.

[Sidenote: Their Last Visit]

With the knowledge that their chief Feathertop was killed, the Indians' enthusiasm cooled, and those who could saved their lives by flying to their homes in the mountains. McArthur was never again troubled by a visit from them, and lived to rejoice in the marriage of his brave daughter to Frank Robertson.

The young couple settled within a couple of miles of McArthur's homestead, and as each anniversary of Rosalind's ride came round, it was a familiar sight to see old McArthur standing up amongst the great gathering of friends to praise the brave girl who jeopardised her life that moonlight night to save the lives and property of those dearest to her.

[Sidenote: Mittie's love of self might have led on to a tragedy. Happily the issue was of quite another kind.]

Which of the Two?

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

"It's going to be a glorious day--just glorious! Joan, we must do something--not sit moping indoors from morning till night!"

Mittie never did sit indoors from morning till night; but this was a figure of speech.

"I'm all alive to be off--I don't care where. Oh, do think of a plan! It's the sort of weather that makes one frantic to be away--to have something happen. Don't you feel so?"

She looked longingly through the bow-window, across the small, neat lawn, divided by low shrubs from a quiet road, not far beyond which lay the river. The sisters were at breakfast together in the morning-room, which was bathed in an early flood of sunshine.

Three years before this date they had been left orphaned and destitute, and had come to their grandmother's home--a comfortable and charming little country house, and, in their circumstances, a very haven of refuge, but, still, a trifle dull for two young girls. Mittie often complained of its monotony. Joan, eighteen months the elder, realised how different their condition would have been had they not been welcomed here. But she, too, was conscious of dulness, for she was only eighteen.

[Sidenote: "Think of Something!"]

"Such sunshine! It's just _ordering_ us to be out. Joan, be sensible, and think of something we can do--something jolly, something new! Just for one day can't we leave everything and have a bit of fun? I'm aching for a little fun! Oh, do get out of the jog-trot for once! Don't be humdrum!"

"Am I humdrum?" Joan asked. She was not usually counted so attractive as the fluffy-haired, lively Mittie, but she looked very pretty at this moment. The early post had come in; and as she read the one note which fell to her share a bright colour, not often seen there, flushed her cheeks, and a sweet half-glad half-anxious expression stole into her eyes.

"Awfully humdrum, you dear old thing! You always were, you know. How is Grannie to-day?" Mittie seldom troubled herself to see the old lady before breakfast, but left such attentions to Joan.

"She doesn't seem very well, and she is rather--depressed. I'm afraid we couldn't possibly both leave her for the whole day--could we?" There was a touch of troubled hesitation in the manner, and Joan sent a quick inquiring glance at the other's face.

"No chance of that. We never do leave her for a whole day; and if we did we should never hear the end of it. But we might surely be off after breakfast, and take our lunch, and come back in time for tea. She might put up with that, I do think. Oh dear me! Why can't old people remember that once upon a time they were young, and didn't like to be tied up tight? But, I suppose, in those days nobody minded. I know I mind now--awfully! I'm just crazy to be off on a spree. What shall we do, Joan? Think of something."

"Mittie, dear----"

"That's right. You've got a notion. Have it out!"

"It isn't--what you think. I have something else to say. A note has come from Mrs. Ferris."

"Well--what then?"

"She wants me--us--to go to her for the day."

Mittie clapped her hands.

"Us! Both of us, do you mean? How lovely! I didn't know she was aware of my existence. Oh, yes, of course, I've seen her lots of times, but she always seems to think I'm a child still. She never asked me there before for a whole day. How are we to go? Will she send for us?"

"Yes, but--but, Mittie--we can't both leave Grannie all those hours. She would be so hurt."

"So cross, you mean. You don't expect _me_ to stay behind, I hope! _Me_--to spend a long endless day here, poking in Grannie's bedroom, and picking up her stitches, and being scolded for every mortal thing I do and don't do, while you are off on a lovely jaunt! Not I! You're very much mistaken if that is what you expect. Will Mrs. Ferris send the carriage or the motor?"

"She is sending the boat. And her son----"

"What! is he going to row us? That nice fellow! He rows splendidly, I know. I shall get him to let me take an oar. It's as easy as anything, going down the stream. Oh, we must do it, Joan--we really, really _must_! Grannie will have to put up for once with being alone. Is he coming by himself?"

"Yes--no--I mean, he will drop his sister Mary at The Laurels and come on for us, and then take her up as we go back."

"The Laurels? Oh, just a few minutes off. Mary--she's the eldest. When does he come? Eleven o'clock! No time to waste. We must put on our new frocks. You had better tell Grannie at once that we are going. I shall keep out of her way. You'll manage her best."

"But if she doesn't like to be left?"

"Then she'll have to do without the liking! Yes, I know what you mean, Joan. You want me to stay here, and set you free. And I'm not going to do it. I simply won't--won't--won't! It's no earthly use your trying to make me. I'm asked too, and I mean to go."

"Mittie, you've not seen the note yet. I think you ought to read it. She asks me first--and then she just says, would I like to bring----?"

"It doesn't matter, and I don't want to see! It's enough that I'm invited." Mittie had a quick temper, apt to flare out suddenly. She jumped up, and flounced towards the door. "I shall get ready; and you'd better make haste, or you'll be late."

"And if I find that I can't be spared as well as you?"

Joan's eyes went to Mittie, with a look of grieved appeal. That look went home; and for a moment--only one moment--Mittie wavered. She knew how much more this meant to Joan than it could mean to herself. She knew that she had no right to put herself first, to snatch the joy from Joan. But the habit of self-indulgence was too strong.

[Sidenote: "It is all Nonsense!"]

"If you choose to stay at home, I shall go without you. It is all nonsense about 'can't'! You can go if you like."

* * * * *

Joan remained alone, thinking.

What could she say? Mittie, the spoilt younger sister, always had had her own way, and always insisted on having it. She would insist now, and would have it, as usual.

That Mittie would go was indeed a foregone conclusion, and Joan had known it from the first. The question was--could she go too? Would it be right to leave the old lady, depressed and suffering, all those hours--just for her own pleasure, even though it meant much more than mere pleasure?

The girls owed a great deal to Mrs. Wills. She was not rich, though she had a comfortable little home; and when she took in the two granddaughters, it meant a heavy pull on her purse. It meant, also, parting with a valued companion--a paid companion--whom she had had for years, and on whom she very much depended. This necessary step was taken, with the understanding that the two girls would do all in their power to supply her place. And Joan had done her best. Mittie seldom gave any thought to the matter.

In a general way, Joan would at once have agreed that Mittie should be the one to go, that she herself would be the one to stay behind.

But this was no ordinary case. In the summer before she had seen a good deal of Fred Ferris. He had been at home for three months after an accident, which, for the time, disabled him from work; and he had been unmistakably attracted by Joan. Not only had he made many an opportunity to see her, but his mother had taken pains to bring the two together. She liked Joan, and made no secret of the fact. Mittie had often been left out of these arrangements, and had resented it.

For a good while Fred Ferris had been away from home; but Joan knew that he was likely to come soon, and she built upon the hope. She had given her heart to Fred, and she indulged in many a secret dream for the future while pursuing her little round of daily duties, and bearing patiently with the spoilt and wayward Mittie.

And now--this had come!--this intimation of Fred's arrival, and the chance of a long delightful day with him--a day on which so much might hang!

And yet, if Mittie insisted on going, it would probably mean that she would have to give it up. That would be hard to bear--all the harder because Mittie knew at least something of the true state of affairs. She knew how persistently Fred Ferris had come after her sister, and she must at least conjecture a little of what her sister felt for Fred. Nobody knew all that Joan felt, except Joan herself; but Mittie had seen quite enough to have made her act kindly and unselfishly.

Joan's hopes had grown faint when she left the breakfast-table and went upstairs.

Mrs. Wills spent most of her time in her bedroom, sometimes hobbling across to a small sitting-room on the same floor. She was too infirm to come downstairs.

"Eh? What is it? I don't understand!"

The old lady was growing deaf, and when she objected to what was being said, she would become doubly deaf. Like her younger granddaughter, she had always been accustomed to getting her own way.

[Sidenote: "Your Turn now!"]

"You want to do--what?" as Joan tried to explain. "I wish you would speak more clearly, my dear, and not put your lips together when you talk. Mrs. Ferris! Yes, of course I know Mrs. Ferris. I knew her long before _you_ came here. She wants you for the day? Well, one of you can go, and the other must stay with me. You've got to take turns. That is only reasonable. Mittie went last time, so it is your turn now."

But Mittie never cared about turns.

"I suppose you couldn't for once--just once, Grannie, dear--spare us both together?"

Joan said this with such a sinking of heart that, had the old lady known it, she would surely have yielded. A sick fear had come over the girl lest Fred might think that she was staying away on purpose--because she did not want to see him. But she only looked rather white, and smiled as usual.

"Spare you both! What!--leave me alone the whole day, both of you!" The old lady was scandalised. "I didn't think before that you were a selfish girl, Joan. Well, well, never mind!--you're not generally, I know. But of course it is out of the question, so lame as I am--not able to get anything that I want. That wasn't in the bargain at all, when we settled that you should live with me."

Joan knew that it was not. But it was very hard to bear!

She went to Mittie, and made one more attempt in that direction, ending, as she expected, unsuccessfully.

"It really is my turn, you know, Mittie, dear."

"Your turn? What! because I went to that silly tea last week? As if the two things could be compared!"

Mittie ran to the glass to inspect herself.

"Why didn't you just tell Grannie that you meant to do it, instead of asking whether she could spare you? So absurd! She would have given in then."

Joan might have answered, "Because I have some sense of duty!" But she said nothing--it was so useless.

She debated whether to write a note for Mittie to take, and then decided that she would run down to the river-edge and would explain to Fred Ferris himself why she might not go, not implying any blame to her sister, but just saying that she could not leave her grandmother.

The thought of this cheered her up, for surely he would understand.

But a few minutes before the time fixed for his arrival a message summoned her to the old lady, and she found that for a good half-hour she would be unable to get away. All she could do was to rush to Mittie and to give a hurried message--which she felt far from certain would be correctly delivered.

Then for a moment she stood outside Mrs. Wills's room, choking back the sobs which swelled in her throat, and feeling very sad and hopeless at the thought of all she would miss, still more at the thought that her absence might be misunderstood.

From the window, as she attended to her grandmother's wants, she had a glimpse of Mittie, running gaily down the garden, in her pretty white frock, carrying an open Japanese parasol in one hand, while from the other dangled her hat and a small basket of flowers.

"Oh, Mittie, I wouldn't have done it to you--if you had cared as I do!" she breathed.

When Mittie reached the stream, Ferris had that moment arrived.

He had made fast the painter, intending to run up to the house, and had stepped back into the boat to put the cushions right.

A straight well-built young fellow, he looked eagerly up at the sound of steps; and when Mittie appeared alone, a momentary look of surprise came. But, of course Joan would follow!

Mittie wore her prettiest expression. She dropped her hat into the boat, and he took her parasol, holding out a hand to help, as she evidently meant to occupy her seat without delay.

[Sidenote: "Your Sister is Coming?"]

"Your sister is coming?" he said.

"She doesn't like to leave Grannie. So you'll have to do with me alone," smiled Mittie. "Such a pity, this splendid day! I did my best to persuade her--but she wouldn't be persuaded."

There was an abrupt pause. Even Mittie's self-complacency could not veil from her his changed face, his blank disappointment.

In that moment she very fully realised the truth that Joan, and not herself, was the one really wanted. But she smiled on resolutely, careless of what Fred might think about Joan's motives, and bent on making a good impression.

"It's the first time I've been to your house--oh, for months and months! I'm _so_ looking forward to a whole day there. And being rowed down the river is so awfully delightful. I did try my hardest to get Joan to come, too; but she simply wouldn't, and she asked me to explain."

This only made matters worse. Fred could hardly avoid believing that Joan's absence was due to a wish to avoid him. In Mittie's mind lay a scarcely acknowledged fear that, if she were more explicit, Fred might insist on seeing Joan; and, in that event, that she might herself be in the end the one left behind. She was determined to have her day of fun.

Ferris had grown suddenly grave. He made Mittie comfortable in her seat, cast loose, and took the oars; but he seemed to have little to say.

Almost in complete silence they went to The Laurels. Mittie's repeated attempts at conversation died, each in succession, a natural death.

When Mary Ferris appeared, surprise was again shown at the sight of Mittie alone. Mary Ferris did not take it so quietly as her brother had done. She was naturally blunt, and she put one or two awkward questions which Mittie found it not easy to evade.

The hour on that lovely river, to which she had looked forward as delightful, proved dull.

Fred Ferris had nothing to say; he could not get over this seeming snub from Joan. He attended silently to his oars, and somehow Mittie had not courage to suggest that she would very much like to handle one of them. Mary was politely kind, and talked in an intermittent fashion; but the "fun" on which Mittie had counted was non-existent.

When they reached the landing-place and stepped out Mrs. Ferris stood on the bank, awaiting them. And Mrs. Ferris, though able, when she chose, to make herself extremely charming, was a very outspoken lady.

There was no mistake about her astonishment. Her eyebrows went up, and her eyes ran questioningly over the white-frocked figure.

"What, only Mittie! How is this? Where is Joan?"

Mittie felt rather small, but she was not going to admit that she had been in the wrong.

"Joan wouldn't come," she said, smiling.

"Is she not well?"

"Oh yes; quite well. I did try to persuade her--but she wouldn't."

The mother and daughter exchanged glances. Fred was already walking away, and Mary remarked:

"Joan always thinks first of other people. I dare say she felt that she could not leave Mrs. Wills."

Mittie, conscious of implied blame, grew pink and eager to defend herself.

"She could have come--perfectly well! There wasn't the _least_ reason why she shouldn't. Grannie was all right. Joan simply--simply wouldn't!" Mittie stopped, knowing that she had conveyed a false impression, but pride withheld her from modifying the words. "I told her she might--just as well."

Mrs. Ferris began to move towards the house. "It is a great pity," she said. "We all counted on having Joan. However, it cannot be helped now. I hope you will enjoy yourself, my dear. Mary will show you over the garden and the house."

To Mary she added: "The old castle must wait for another time, I think--when Joan is here."

Mittie cast a questioning look, and Mary said, in explanation: "Only an old ruin a few miles off. We meant to have an excursion there this afternoon."

Mittie loved excursions, and could not resist saying so. No notice was taken of this appeal; but somewhat later she overheard a murmured remark from Mrs. Ferris to Mary.

[Sidenote: "Certainly not--now!"]

"No, certainly not--now. Fred will not care to go. He is very much disappointed, poor boy! If only one could be sure that it means nothing!" But Mittie was not meant to hear this.

They were very kind to her, and she really had nothing to complain of on the score of inattention. Mary, who happened to be the only daughter at home, took her in charge and put her through a steady course of gardens, glasshouses, family pets, and old furniture--for none of which Mittie cared a rap. What she had wanted was a gay young party, plenty of fun and merriment, and for herself abundance of admiration.

But Fred made himself scarce, only appearing at luncheon and vanishing afterwards; and Mrs. Ferris was occupied elsewhere most of the time; while between Mary and herself there was absolutely nothing in common. Mary, though only the senior by two or three years, was not only clever, but very intelligent and well read, and she had plenty of conversation. But the subjects for which she cared, though they would have delighted Joan, were utter tedium to Mittie's empty little head.

Before an hour had passed, Mary's boredom was only less pronounced than Mittie's own.

It was so tiresome, so stupid of Joan not to come! Mittie complained bitterly to herself of this. If Joan had come too, all would have gone well. She could not help seeing that she had not been meant to come without Joan, still less instead of Joan.

With all her assurance, this realisation that she was not wanted and that everybody was regretting Joan's absence made her horribly uncomfortable.

When left alone for a few minutes, early in the afternoon, she tugged angrily at her gloves, and muttered: "I wish I wasn't here. I wish I had left it to Joan. I think they are all most awfully frumpish and stupid, and I can't imagine what makes Joan so fond of them!"

But she did not yet blame herself.

* * * * *

Five o'clock was the time fixed for return. Had Joan come it would have been much later.

At tea-time Fred turned up, and it appeared that he meant to get off the return-row up the river. He had engaged a boatman to do it in his stead. Mary would still go, and though Mittie proudly said it did not matter, she wouldn't in the least mind being alone, Mary only smiled and held to her intention.

But long before this stage of proceedings everybody was tired--Mary and Mittie especially, the one of entertaining, the other of being entertained.

Mary had tried every imaginable thing she could think of to amuse the young guest, and every possible subject for talk. They seemed to have arrived at the end of everything, and it took all Mittie's energies to keep down, in a measure, her recurring yawns. Mary did her best, but she found Mittie far from interesting.

When at length they started for the riverside, Fred went with the two girls to see them off; and Mittie felt like a prisoner about to be released.

She was so eager to escape that she ran ahead of her companions towards the landing-place, and Mary dryly remarked in an undertone: "Mittie has had about enough of us, I think. How different she is from Joan! One would hardly take them for sisters."

Fred was too downhearted to answer. He had felt all day terribly hopeless.