by Zane Grey
She could not resist the desire to ride down to the old sycamore. The pony turned into the bridle-path that led down the bluff and the sure-footed beast picked his way carefully over the roots and stones. Betty’s heart beat quicker when she saw the noble tree under whose spreading branches she had spent the happiest day of her life. The old monarch of the forest was not one whit changed by the wild winds of winter. The dew sparkled on the nearly full grown leaves; the little sycamore balls were already as large as marbles.
Betty drew rein at the top of the bank and looked absently at the tree and into the foam covered pool beneath. At that moment her eyes saw nothing physical. They held the faraway light of the dreamer, the look that sees so much of the past and nothing of the present.
Presently her reflections were broken by the actions of the pony. Madcap had thrown up her head, laid back her ears and commenced to paw the ground with her forefeet. Betty looked round to see the cause of Madcap’s excitement. What was that! She saw a tall figure clad in brown leaning against the stone. She saw a long fishing-rod. What was there so familiar in the poise of that figure? Madcap dislodged a stone from the path and it went rattling down the rock, slope and fell with a splash into the water. The man heard it, turned and faced the hillside. Betty recognized Alfred Clarke. For a moment she believed she must be dreaming. She had had many dreams of the old sycamore. She looked again. Yes, it was he. Pale, worn, and older he undoubtedly looked, but the features were surely those of Alfred Clarke. Her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stop beating while a very agony of joy surged over her and made her faint. So he still lived. That was her first thought, glad and joyous, and then memory returning, her face went white as with clenched teeth she wheeled Madcap and struck her with the switch. Once on the level bluff she urged her toward the house at a furious pace.
Col. Zane had just stepped out of the barn door and his face took on an expression of amazement when he saw the pony come tearing up the road, Betty’s hair flying in the wind and with a face as white as if she were pursued by a thousand yelling Indians.
“Say, Betts, what the deuce is wrong?” cried the Colonel, when Betty reached the fence.
“Why did you not tell me that man was here again?” she demanded in intense excitement.
“That man! What man?” asked Col. Zane, considerably taken back by this angry apparition.
“Mr. Clarke, of course. Just as if you did not know. I suppose you thought it a fine opportunity for one of your jokes.”
“Oh, Clarke. Well, the fact is I just found it out myself. Haven’t I been away as well as you? I certainly cannot imagine how any man could create such evident excitement in your mind. Poor Clarke, what has he done now?”
“You might have told me. Somebody could have told me and saved me from making a fool of myself,” retorted Betty, who was plainly on the verge of tears. “I rode down to the old sycamore tree and he saw me in, of all the places in the world, the one place where I would not want him to see me.”
“Huh!” said the Colonel, who often gave vent to the Indian exclamation. “Is that all? I thought something had happened.”
“All! Is it not enough? I would rather have died. He is a man and he will think I followed him down there, that I was thinking of — that — Oh!” cried Betty, passionately, and then she strode into the house, slammed the door, and left the Colonel, lost in wonder.
“Humph! These women beat me. I can’t make them out, and the older I grow the worse I get,” he said, as he led the pony into the stable.
Betty ran up-stairs to her room, her head in a whirl stronger than the surprise of Alfred’s unexpected appearance in Fort Henry and stronger than the mortification in having been discovered going to a spot she should have been too proud to remember was the bitter sweet consciousness that his mere presence had thrilled her through and through. It hurt her and made her hate herself in that moment. She hid her face in shame at the thought that she could not help being glad to see the man who had only trifled with her, the man who had considered the acquaintance of so little consequence that he had never taken the trouble to write her a line or send her a message. She wrung her trembling hands. She endeavored to still that throbbing heart and to conquer that sweet vague feeling which had crept over her and made her weak. The tears began to come and with a sob she threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillow.
An hour after, when Betty had quieted herself and had seated herself by the window a light knock sounded on the door and Col. Zane entered. He hesitated and came in rather timidly, for Betty was not to be taken liberties with, and seeing her by the window he crossed the room and sat down by her side.
Betty did not remember her father or her mother. Long ago when she was a child she had gone to her brother, laid her head on his shoulder and told him all her troubles. The desire grew strong within her now. There was comfort in the strong clasp of his hand. She was not proof against it, and her dark head fell on his shoulder.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Alfred Clarke had indeed made his reappearance in Fort Henry. The preceding October when he left the settlement to go on the expedition up the Monongahela River his intention had been to return to the fort as soon as he had finished his work, but what he did do was only another illustration of that fatality which affects everything. Man hopefully makes his plans and an inexorable destiny works out what it has in store for him.
The men of the expedition returned to Fort Henry in due time, but Alfred had been unable to accompany them. He had sustained a painful injury and had been compelled to go to Fort Pitt for medical assistance. While there he had received word that his mother was lying very ill at his old home in Southern Virginia and if he wished to see her alive he must not delay in reaching her bedside. He left Fort Pitt at once and went to his home, where he remained until his mother’s death. She had been the only tie that bound him to the old home, and now that she was gone he determined to leave the scene of his boyhood forever.
Alfred was the rightful heir to all of the property, but an unjust and selfish stepfather stood between him and any contentment he might have found there. He decided he would be a soldier of fortune. He loved the daring life of a ranger, and preferred to take his chances with the hardy settlers on the border rather than live the idle life of a gentleman farmer. He declared his intention to his step-father, who ill-concealed his satisfaction at the turn affairs had taken. Then Alfred packed his belongings, secured his mother’s jewels, and with one sad, backward glance rode away from the stately old mansion.
It was Sunday morning and Clarke had been two days in Fort Henry. From his little room in the block-house he surveyed the well-remembered scene. The rolling hills, the broad river, the green forests seemed like old friends.
“Here I am again,” he mused. “What a fool a man can be. I have left a fine old plantation, slaves, horses, a country noted for its pretty women — for what? Here there can be nothing for me but Indians, hard work, privation, and trouble. Yet I could not get here quickly enough. Pshaw! What use to speak of the possibilities of a new country. I cannot deceive myself. It is she. I would walk a thousand miles and starve myself for months just for one glimpse of her sweet face. Knowing this what care I for all the rest. How strange she should ride down to the old sycamore tree yesterday the moment I was there and thinking of her. Evidently she had just returned from her visit. I wonder if she ever cared. I wonder if she ever thinks of me. Shall I accept that incident as a happy augury? Well, I am here to find out and find out I will. Aha! there goes the church bell.”
Laughing a little at his eagerness he brushed his coat, put on his cap and went down stairs. The settlers with their families were going into the meeting house. As Alfred started up the steps he met Lydia Boggs.
“Why, Mr. Clarke, I heard you had returned,” she said, smiling pleasantly and extending her hand. “Welcome to the fort. I am very glad to see you.”
While they were chatting her father and Col. Zane came
up and both greeted the young man warmly.
“Well, well, back on the frontier,” said the Colonel, in his hearty way. “Glad to see you at the fort again. I tell you, Clarke, I have taken a fancy to that black horse you left me last fall. I did not know what to think when Jonathan brought back my horse. To tell you the truth I always looked for you to come back. What have you been doing all winter?”
“I have been at home. My mother was ill all winter and she died in April.”
“My lad, that’s bad news. I am sorry,” said Col. Zane putting his hand kindly on the young man’s shoulder. “I was wondering what gave you that older and graver look. It’s hard, lad, but it’s the way of life.”
“I have come back to get my old place with you, Col. Zane, if you will give it to me.”
“I will, and can promise you more in the future. I am going to open a road through to Maysville, Kentucky, and start several new settlements along the river. I will need young men, and am more than glad you have returned.”
“Thank you, Col. Zane. That is more than I could have hoped for.”
Alfred caught sight of a trim figure in a gray linsey gown coming down the road. There were several young people approaching, but he saw only Betty. By some evil chance Betty walked with Ralfe Miller, and for some mysterious reason, which women always keep to themselves, she smiled and looked up into his face at a time of all times she should not have done so. Alfred’s heart turned to lead.
When the young people reached the steps the eyes of the rivals met for one brief second, but that was long enough for them to understand each other. They did not speak. Lydia hesitated and looked toward Betty.
“Betty, here is—” began Col. Zane, but Betty passed them with flaming cheeks and with not so much as a glance at Alfred. It was an awkward moment for him.
“Let us go in,” he said composedly, and they filed into the church.
As long as he lived Alfred Clarke never forgot that hour. His pride kept him chained in his seat. Outwardly he maintained his composure, but inwardly his brain seemed throbbing, whirling, bursting. What an idiot he had been! He understood now why his letter had never been answered. Betty loved Miller, a man who hated him, a man who would leave no stone unturned to destroy even a little liking which she might have felt for him. Once again Miller had crossed his path and worsted him. With a sudden sickening sense of despair he realized that all his fond hopes had been but dreams, a fool’s dreams. The dream of that moment when he would give her his mother’s jewels, the dream of that charming face uplifted to his, the dream of the little cottage to which he would hurry after his day’s work and find her waiting at the gate, — these dreams must be dispelled forever. He could barely wait until the end of the service. He wanted to be alone; to fight it out with himself; to crush out of his heart that fair image. At length the hour ended and he got out before the congregation and hurried to his room.
Betty had company all that afternoon and it was late in the day when Col. Zane ascended the stairs and entered her room to find her alone.
“Betty, I wish to know why you ignored Mr. Clarke this morning?” said Col. Zane, looking down on his sister. There was a gleam in his eye and an expression about his mouth seldom seen in the Colonel’s features.
“I do not know that it concerns any one but myself,” answered Betty quickly, as her head went higher and her eyes flashed with a gleam not unlike that in her brother’s.
“I beg your pardon. I do not agree with you,” replied Col. Zane. “It does concern others. You cannot do things like that in this little place where every one knows all about you and expect it to pass unnoticed. Martin’s wife saw you cut Clarke and you know what a gossip she is. Already every one is talking about you and Clarke.”
“To that I am indifferent.”
“But I care. I won’t have people talking about you,” replied the Colonel, who began to lose patience. Usually he had the best temper imaginable. “Last fall you allowed Clarke to pay you a good deal of attention and apparently you were on good terms when he went away. Now that he has returned you won’t even speak to him. You let this fellow Miller run after you. In my estimation Miller is not to be compared to Clarke, and judging from the warm greetings I saw Clarke receive this morning, there are a number of folk who agree with me. Not that I am praising Clarke. I simply say this because to Bessie, to Jack, to everyone, your act is incomprehensible. People are calling you a flirt and saying that they would prefer some country manners.”
“I have not allowed Mr. Miller to run after me, as you are pleased to term it,” retorted Betty with indignation. “I do not like him. I never see him any more unless you or Bessie or some one else is present. You know that. I cannot prevent him from walking to church with me.”
“No, I suppose not, but are you entirely innocent of those sweet glances which you gave him this morning?”
“I did not,” cried Betty with an angry blush. “I won’t be called a flirt by you or by anyone else. The moment I am civil to some man all these old maids and old women say I am flirting. It is outrageous.”
“Now, Betty, don’t get excited. We are getting from the question. Why are you not civil to Clarke?” asked Col. Zane. She did not answer and after a moment he continued. “If there is anything about Clarke that I do not know and that I should know I want you to tell me. Personally I like the fellow. I am not saying that to make you think you ought to like him because I do. You might not care for him at all, but that would be no good reason for your actions. Betty, in these frontier settlements a man is soon known for his real worth. Every one at the Fort liked Clarke. The youngsters adored him. Jessie liked him very much. You know he and Isaac became good friends. I think he acted like a man to-day. I saw the look Miller gave him. I don’t like this fellow Miller, anyway. Now, I am taking the trouble to tell you my side of the argument. It is not a question of your liking Clarke — that is none of my affair. It is simply that either he is not the man we all think him or you are acting in a way unbecoming a Zane. I do not purpose to have this state of affairs continue. Now, enough of this beating about the bush.”
Betty had seen the Colonel angry more than once, but never with her. It was quite certain she had angered him and she forgot her own resentment. Her heart had warmed with her brother’s praise of Clarke. Then as she remembered the past she felt a scorn for her weakness and such a revulsion of feeling that she cried out passionately:
“He is a trifler. He never cared for me. He insulted me.”
Col. Zane reached for his hat, got up without saying another word and went down stairs.
Betty had not intended to say quite what she had and instantly regretted her hasty words. She called to the Colonel, but he did not answer her, nor return.
“Betty, what in the world could you have said to my husband?” said Mrs. Zane as she entered the room. She was breathless from running up the stairs and her comely face wore a look of concern. “He was as white as that sheet and he stalked off toward the Fort without a word to me.”
“I simply told him Mr. Clarke had insulted me,” answered Betty calmly.
“Great Heavens! Betty, what have you done?” exclaimed Mrs. Zane. “You don’t know Eb when he is angry. He is a big fool over you, anyway. He is liable to kill Clarke.”
Betty’s blood was up now and she said that would not be a matter of much importance.
“When did he insult you?” asked the elder woman, yielding to her natural curiosity.
“It was last October.”
“Pooh! It took you a long time to tell it. I don’t believe it amounted to much. Mr. Clarke did not appear to be the sort of a man to insult anyone. All the girls were crazy about him last year. If he was not all right they would not have been.”
“I do not care if they were. The girls can have him and welcome. I don’t want him. I never did. I am tired of hearing everyone eulogize him. I hate him. Do you hear? I hate him! And I wish you would go away and leave me alone.”
“Well, Betty,
all I will say is that you are a remarkable young woman,” answered Mrs. Zane, who saw plainly that Betty’s violent outburst was a prelude to a storm of weeping. “I don’t believe a word you have said. I don’t believe you hate him. There!”
Col. Zane walked straight to the Fort, entered the block-house and knocked on the door of Clarke’s room. A voice bade him come in. He shoved open the door and went into the room. Clarke had evidently just returned from a tramp in the hills, for his garments were covered with burrs and his boots were dusty. He looked tired, but his face was calm.
“Why, Col. Zane! Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
“I have come to ask you to explain a remark of my sister’s.”
“Very well, I am at your service,” answered Alfred slowly lighting his pipe, after which he looked straight into Col. Zane’s face.
“My sister informs me that you insulted her last fall before you left the Fort. I am sure you are neither a liar nor a coward, and I expect you to answer as a man.”
“Col. Zane, I am not a liar, and I hope I am not a coward,” said Alfred coolly. He took a long pull on his pipe and blew a puff of white smoke toward the ceiling.
“I believe you, but I must have an explanation. There is something wrong somewhere. I saw Betty pass you without speaking this morning. I did not like it and I took her to task about it. She then said you had insulted her. Betty is prone to exaggerate, especially when angry, but she never told me a lie in her life. Ever since you pulled Isaac out of the river I have taken an interest in you. That’s why I’d like to avoid any trouble. But this thing has gone far enough. Now be sensible, swallow your pride and let me hear your side of the story.”