Round Anvil Rock: A Romance

by Nancy Huston Banks

  XIII

  SEEING WITH DIFFERENT EYES

  It was on the boy's account that they had their first and last seriousquarrel a few hours later. This was by no means the first time that theyhad openly disagreed, and had come to rather sharp words. Their views ofmany things were too far apart for that to have been the case, but therehad never before been any great or lasting trouble by reason of theirdifference of opinion. Ruth, gentle and yielding, was ever most timidlyfearful of being at fault; William, hard and unyielding, was alwaysperfectly certain of being in the right. It was therefore to be expectedthat his opinions should generally rule, and that he should construe herreadiness to yield and her self-distrust, as proofs that he was notmistaken. Rock-ribbed infallibility could hardly be expected tocomprehend the doubts that assail a sensitive soul.

  William, naturally enough, had never noted that in giving way, Ruth hadnot turned far or long from anything involving a principle. The truthwas that she had merely evaded his intolerance of any and all differenceof opinion--as a deep stream quietly flows round an immovablerock--only to turn gently back into its own course as soon as might be.And even in doing this, she had put aside only her own opinions andfeelings and rights, never those of any one else. But this presentdispute over David was wholly unlike any that had gone before. Thisconcerned the boy's feelings and rights, so that she suddenly foundherself forced to take a firm stand--affection, justice, and even mercy,now forbidding her to yield. Yet it was, nevertheless, just as clear toher in this as in everything else, that William sincerely thought he wasright. That was the trouble. That is always the trouble with people likeWilliam Pressley, who are often harder to deal with and sometimes harderto live with, than those who knowingly do wrong.

  The three had scarcely entered the great room of Cedar House thatevening, when the judge asked the boy to go on an errand to aneighbor's. This was to take some seed wheat which the judge hadpromised to send for the fall sowing. The growing of wheat was still aninteresting and important experiment which was exciting the wholecountry. There had been good corn in abundance from the first; on thosedeep, rich, river-bottom lands the grains had but to reach the fertileearth to produce an hundred bushels to the acre. But the settlers weretired of eating corn-bread; their wives and children were pining for thedelicate white loaves made from the sweet fine wheat which they hadeaten in their old Virginia homes. So that the culture of the best wheathad lately become a vital question, and this new seed was making a stirof eager interest throughout the region. Philip Alston had given it tothe judge, and he, in turn, was dividing it among the neighbors. Eachgrain was accordingly treasured and valued like a grain of gold, and thejudge cautioned the boy to be careful in tying the bag; wheat in thegrain is a slippery thing to handle, and he wished none of this to belost.

  "You must have a good, strong string--one that can't slip," said Ruth,in her thoughtful, housewifely way. "Let me think--what kind would bebest?"

  "Here!" the judge drew out his wallet, and took off the string thatbound it. "You may use this, David, but take care not to lose it. Thisis the strongest, finest strip of doeskin--"

  Ruth's sweet laughter chimed in, "It looks like minkskin--it's soblack!" touching it gingerly with the tips of her fingers.

  The judge laughed, too. Everything that she said and did pleased him.But he cautioned the boy again not to lose the string, and to be carefulto bring it back. William Pressley looked on in grave, indifferentsilence. A slight frown gathered on his brow when he saw Ruth trying theknot, to make sure of its firmness, after the bag was tied. His gazedarkened somewhat and followed her when she went to the door to see theboy set out; and he watched her stand looking after him, with her handsraised to shield her eyes from the rays of the setting sun. Itdispleased William to see her show such regard for any one of so littleimportance--the personality of the boy did not enter into the matter.While gazing at her in this cold disapproval, he noted with increasedannoyance that she then turned and looked long and wistfully toward theforest path. It did not occur to him that she might be expecting orwishing to see some one riding along the path. He was merely irritatedat what seemed to him an indication of unseemly restlessness andempty-mindedness. To his mind the unusual and the unseemly were alwaysone and the same. And it was eminently unseemly in his eyes that thewoman who was to be his wife should wish to look away from the spot inwhich he was sitting. And then, his displeasure turned to anger whenRuth, after standing still and gazing up the forest path, till he feltthat he must go out to her and utter the reproof that was on his lips,did not come back to her seat by his side, but began instead to playwith the swan.

  He sat motionless and silent, calmly biding his time to express thedisapproval which such childish behavior made incumbent upon him. Cold,hard anger like his can always wait; and waiting only makes it colderand harder; there is never heat enough in it to melt its merciless ice.

  A sudden darkening of the sky sent her into the house at last, and eventhen she did not return to her proper place by his side. She did noteven look at him, but spoke to the judge who was just leaving the greatroom to go to the cabin which he used as his bedroom and office. Ruthbegged him not to start out, saying that the storm seemed so near thatit might break before he could reach the cabin. But he went on with asmiling shake of his head, after a glance at the dark clouds which weregathering blackly on the other side of the river behind the spectralcottonwoods, now bare of leaves and ghostly white.

  "Did David have to go through the big deadening, William?" she askedsuddenly, speaking over her shoulder, without leaving her anxious postin the doorway, though the wind was whipping her skirts about herslender figure and loosing her long, black hair. "I wish he would come.He should be back by this time. I am afraid--the great trees fall so ina storm. Father Orin and the doctor, too, often ride through there. Andit is such a dangerous place when the wind blows. Oh!" with a cry ofrelief, "there's David now! Here he comes. David, David dear--I am soglad!"

  She sprang down the steps and ran to meet the boy. The rush of therising storm kept from hearing William Pressley's call for her to comeback. He stood still for a moment, hesitating, and then, seeing that sheflew on, he followed and overtook her just as she reached David, who wasgetting down from the pony and taking the empty bag from the saddle. Thewind was now very violent, and the darkened air was thick with the deadleaves of the forest swirling into the river which was already lashedinto waves and dashing against the shore. Waterfowl flew landward withfrightened cries; a low, dark cloud was being drawn up the stream overthe ashen face of the water--a strange, thick, terrible black curtain,shaken by the tempest and bordered by the lightning--pressed onward bythe resistless powers of the air.

  There was a lull just as William Pressley reached Ruth's side. It wasone of those tense spaces which are among the greatest terrors of astorm by reason of their suddenness, their stillness, and theirsuspense. He grasped her hand, and she clung to his as she would haveclung to anything that she chanced to touch in her fright. He saidrather sternly that she must come to the house at once, and she turnedobediently, following the motion of his hand rather than the meaning ofhis words. He spoke to David also, without looking at the boy, but shewas clinging to him and hiding her face on his arm whenever thelightning flashed, and did not notice what he had said until he repeatedhis words:--

  "You have of course brought back the doeskin string."

  Ruth suddenly lifted her face from his arm, loosed her grasp upon it andstood away from him. Yet in that first dazed instant she could notbelieve that she had heard aright. It was impossible for her, being whatshe was, to understand that he had never in all his life done anythingmore true to his nature, more thoroughly characteristic, than to askthis question at such a time. She forgot the lightning while she waitedtill he asked it for the third time. And then, straining her incredulousears again, she heard the boy murmur something, and she saw himhurriedly and confusedly searching his pockets for the string.

  "I can't find it," he stammered.
"I must have dropped it when I pouredout the wheat. I am so sorry--I will go to-morrow--"

  "You will go now;" said William, calmly. "The string will be lost byto-morrow. And then," judicially, "you will remember a needed lessonbetter if you go at once."

  "William!" burst out Ruth almost with a scream. "You can't mean what yousay. Listen to the roar of the coming storm. It's almost here. Surelyyou don't know what you are saying. Send David through the deadening inthe very teeth of a tempest like this, for a bit of string!"

  "Come to the house, my dear. It is beginning to rain. I am afraid youwill take cold. You, sir, will go back at once," turning to the boy."You know, of course, that the string itself is of no importance in thismatter. It is absurd to speak of such a thing. But it is my duty toteach you, as far as I can, to perform yours. I tell you again to go atonce. That is all I have to say, I believe, concerning this matter.Come, Ruth, it is beginning to rain."

  She shrunk away from his hand as if its touch horrified her. Her tearswere falling faster than the heavy, isolated drops that fell on her barehead. But her courage was rising at need, as it always rose, and she wasnot too much blinded by tears to see that the boy was getting on thepony again. She ran to him and caught his sleeve, and turned uponWilliam Pressley with the reckless fierceness of a gentle creature madedaring in defence of what it loves.

  "You are cruel," she said, speaking calmly, steadied by the veryextremity of her excitement and distress. "You have no more heart than astone. You feel nothing that does not touch yourself. You have alwaysbeen unkind to David. But you shall not do this. I will preventyou--defy you. You shall not send him to his death for some narrow,tyrannical notion. He is like my brother. I love him as if he were. AndI wouldn't allow you to treat a stranger so. It's inhuman! It shall notbe!" panting, and clinging to the boy.

  William Pressley stared at her as if he thought she had suddenly losther senses. Could this be Ruth speaking like that--and to himself?Instinctively he threw into his voice the whole weight of his heavy,cold rage, which had never yet failed to crush all life and spirit outof her most fiery resistance.

  "This is truly shocking. I scarcely know what to say. I am merely tryingto do my unpleasant duty in a perfectly simple matter. If I didn't tryto do it, I should always think less well of myself--"

  "Think less well of yourself!" she cried. "Nothing in the world couldever make you do that! Nothing! Whatever you think and say and do isalways right; whatever anybody else thinks or says or does is alwayswrong. I have given up in almost everything because I loved peace morethan my own way, and because I am not often sure that I know best. But Iwill not give up in this!" shrinking and quivering at a peal of thunder,but clinging closer to the boy's arm.

  William Pressley came nearer and laid his hand on her shoulder.

  "Come to the house, my dear," he said quietly. "It is beginning to rainharder. You will certainly take cold. Come at once. When you have timeto think, you will see how childish and foolish all this is. We will sayno more about it. You, sir, know what is right for you to do. You knowas well as I do what the judge's positive orders were. You havedisregarded them--"

  "But uncle Robert never meant anything like this," she said. "He iskind and tender-hearted. I will call him. He would not--"

  The boy had turned proudly and silently, meaning to get back in thesaddle, but she would not loose her hold on his arm. And then came thefirst furious blast of the tempest, and the greatest trees--themightiest giants of the ancient forest--bent and crouched before it,bracing themselves for the fierce conflict with the elements in whichthey must gain or lose centuries of life. The rain now began to fallheavily, and William abruptly told the boy to come in the house till thestorm was over. In yielding thus far, he was not influenced by Ruth'sthreat to appeal to his uncle. He had scarcely heard what she said, andhe was never in awe of the judge's opinion, and never looked foropposition from any source, because he could not anticipate an opiniondifferent from his own. He merely dropped the argument for the momentbecause he saw the urgent necessity of bringing an undignified scene toa speedy close, and could not see any other or better way of doing it.

  When they had gone indoors and had gathered around the fire, so thattheir damp clothes might dry, he was by far the most composed of thethree. The boy was deeply agitated and suffering as only thesupersensitive can suffer from harshness, whether merited or not. Ruthwas still quivering with excitement and distress, and very soon hertender conscience also was aching. She could not recall very distinctlyall that she had said, but she knew how bitter her words must have been,and was already wondering how she ever could have uttered them. How theycame in her mind and heart she could not comprehend. She had alwaysthought William a good man, and worthy of all respect, and she now feltthat there had been much truth in what he had said. David was a dreamer,poor boy, and it would be well if he could be taught to remember, to bepractical and useful like other people. She still could not think itright for him to have been forced to go back through the storm tocorrect an error; but she now thought that William had not reallyintended to send him. It seemed suddenly plain that William's soleintention must have been to impress him with the necessity of doing whathe was told to do. She had scolded the boy herself about that very thingmany a time. The fault was hers, she had been too hasty, too excitable,too impetuous. Ah, yes, that was always her fault! She looked at Williamwith everything that she thought and felt clearly to be seen on hertransparent face. But a ray of comfort shone through the cloud whichdarkened her spirits. Surely this and everything else would be well whenshe had told him how sorry she was, and how plainly she saw her mistake.They had been such good friends as far back as she could remember; thebond between them had been such a close and strong one that itcertainly could not be broken or even strained by a few hasty,passionate words, repented at once. Her lovely eyes were already seekinghis face and silently appealing to this old and faithful affection.

  But William's gaze did not meet hers. He was looking into the fire andseeing what had occurred with wholly different eyes. To him everythingwas altered, and nothing could ever make the relation between them whatit had been. No tenderness of affection, no length of association, nofaithfulness of service, could stand for an instant against a single oneof the many blows that his morbid self-love had received. For self-lovelike his is an incurable disease of sensibility, a spreading cankerwhich poisons the whole character, as an unsound spot in the fleshpoisons the whole body. To those who have not come in close contact withthis form of morbidity, it may seem impossible that William Pressley'slove for Ruth, which had been real so far as it went, should havehardened into dislike almost as soon as the words that wounded it hadleft her lips. Yet that was precisely what had taken place, quitenaturally and even inevitably. He had loved her as much as he wascapable of loving, mainly because of the deep gratification which hefound in her great esteem for himself. No one else had ever come so neargranting his self-love all that it demanded. Her sweet presence, alwayslooking up to him, had been like the perpetual swinging of a censerperpetually giving the fragrant incense that his vanity craved. And nowall this was changed. The gentle acolyte was gone, the censer no longerswung, and instead there was a keen critic armed with words as hard asstones. No, there was nothing strange in the fact that, when WilliamPressley finally turned his gaze on Ruth, he looked at her as if she hadbeen a stranger whom he had never seen before; an utter stranger, andone moreover whose presence was so utterly antagonistic to him thatthere was not the remotest possibility of any liking between them. Buthe said nothing, and gave no indication of what he felt. No feeling wasever strong enough to cause him to say or do an unconsidered thing. Inthis, as in all things, he waited to be sure that he was doing whatwould place himself in the best possible light. While he had never amoment's doubt of being wholly in the right, he thought it best to waitand consider his own appearance in the matter. And then, just at thattime, political affairs were claiming his first attention, for that wasa period of intense public stress.