Round Anvil Rock: A Romance

by Nancy Huston Banks

  XVIII

  THE GENTLEST ARE THE BRAVEST

  The boy stood staring after him in dazed alarm. He could not comprehendthe cause of his friend's sudden agitation and abrupt departure, butthey filled him with vague, helpless terror. He did not know what to dotill he suddenly felt the urgency of the message to Ruth, and thethought of her made him turn and start running back to Cedar House.

  As he went, he instinctively tried to calm himself; he was fast learningto hide the emotion which was always shaking him. On reaching the doorhe paused for a moment, and strove hard to control his panting breath.He almost hoped that this might prove to be merely one of the fancieswhich were constantly swaying him. And then there was an instinctivefeeling that it would be best not to tell any one except Ruth what hadoccurred. The meaning of the message to her was not yet clear to him,but he nevertheless felt it to be something which she might not wishothers to hear. He did not remember that the message was not to be givenher unless Paul failed to come back. There had not been time for Paulto impress this upon him, and it was natural enough that the boy,startled and frightened, should not have noted all that was said.

  His one aim now was to get a word alone with Ruth, and hastily lookinground the room, he saw her sitting near the hearth. But there was nochance to approach her, or to speak without being overheard by the wholefamily. Every member of the household was present, it being the eveninghour when all households come closest together around the fireside. Thesupper-table was laid, and a servant moved about lighting the lamps andcandles. William Pressley was sitting near Ruth, but it was she who hadlast taken a seat and he was silent, save as some timid advance from hercompelled him to make a coldly civil reply. His resentment was asimplacable as ever; the wound to his self-love had only grown deeperwith nursing, as it always does with a nature like his. The breaking ofthe engagement was with him, now, merely a question of timeliness, ofdiscretion and expediency. In these matters he was not consideringRuth's feelings as she was considering his, despite her own most eagerwish to be free. He was thinking first of the light in which he,himself, would be placed. After this he was considering Philip Alston'sview of his conduct. Knowing that he wished the marriage to take place,William Pressley felt reasonably sure that Philip Alston would bedispleased at any breach, and that he would make his displeasure felt,should the first movement toward the breaking of the engagement comefrom himself. The displeasure of Philip Alston was not a thing to belightly incurred at any time. No one knew this better than WilliamPressley, and he saw it to be particularly undesirable to displease himand possibly incur his enmity, just at the moment when his good-willmight be useful in the matter of the appointment. William Pressley didnot believe Philip Alston's influence to be at all essential--merit wasin his opinion the only essential. Still it seemed best, under thecircumstances, to let the engagement stand till a time more auspiciousfor breaking it. And then his sore self-love found some balm in thegirl's self-reproach, which he saw plainly enough, without understandingit in the least. It was like him to consider the effect which thebreaking of the engagement might have on his political prospects, and topostpone it on the bare chance of its affecting them adversely. But itwas still more like him merely to postpone it with an immovabledetermination in his mind, utterly unaffected by all the girl's winninggentleness and open regret. And it was most of all like him never for aninstant to allow any thought of Philip Alston's fortune to make himwaver. All the gold in the world could have done nothing to make WilliamPressley forget, or forgive, the wound which his self-love had received.

  She continued for a while in her shy, gentle efforts to win him back tosomething like the old friendliness, which had existed between thembefore they had become engaged to be married. It was this which shelonged to have restored, with her craving for affection and her dread ofhard feeling. But despairing at last, she arose with a sigh and went tothe hearth, and began talking to the two old ladies, who left offquarrelling when she came, as they nearly always did. From the hearthshe turned to the supper-table, to give it the delicate finishingtouches, and then there was a general movement as the family settledinto their places.

  It seemed to David that the meal would never end, that he should neverbe able to tell Ruth. As he sat looking down at his untasted food, andhad time to think, he came gradually to understand something of themeaning of the young doctor's sudden agitation, his solemn message, andhis hurried departure. The boy could not keep his distress out of hisface, and Ruth saw it in her first glance at him across the table. Inthe shadows of the room she had not seen him distinctly until now, andthe sight of his trouble touched her as it never failed to do even whenshe believed it to be imaginary. As soon as possible she left the tableand went to the door, glancing at him over her shoulder. He followedinstantly and, passing her swiftly as she stood in the doorway, hebeckoned her to come outside.

  "What is it?" she asked, running to him.

  She grasped his arm and turned white and began to tremble, not knowingwhat she feared. There was something in his look, and something in herown heart, which told her that this was no boyish whim or fancy, such asshe was often called to comfort and beguile for him. She could not seehis face distinctly enough to gather anything from looking at him; theywere standing beyond the broad band of light streaming from the opendoor. But there was no need for sight; he poured out the story almost ina breath, ending with Paul's message to her. And she understood morethan he had said, far more than he could ever say or understand, beforethe words had fairly left his lips. The divination of a woman'slove--that marvellous white light--flashed the whole truth, and sheuttered a smothered cry as she saw it. So crying out, she shrank awayfrom him, and threw off his hand and struck at him fiercely, like somesoft little wild thing suddenly hurt.

  "How could you? Why did you tell him?" she cried. "I hate you. I'll hateyou for this as long as I live. You have sent him to his death--youmeddler, you simpleton! And you don't even know what you have done. Youhave sent him to his death, I tell you! Yes, that's what you have done,and I will never forgive you while I breathe. He has gone to warn theattorney-general, and he will be killed, too. You heard what uncle saidabout the danger. What are the robbers or the country to me--beside him?What do I care about what happens to the attorney-general? I wouldn'tcare if every other man in the world was lying dead, this minute, if Icould know that he was safe. Oh! Oh! And you knew that he and theattorney-general were friends. You knew he would go to help him. And yetyou told him--and he is gone--"

  She broke into a helpless passion of weeping so pitiful that the boycould do nothing but go to her and take her in his arms. She did notresist; her anger was instantly melted in grief. Her arms went round hisneck, and she sobbingly implored his pardon.

  "Forgive me--forgive me. I didn't know--I don't know what I am saying.Oh! my heart is breaking, David! Help me--help me to think! We must dosomething--we mustn't stand here crying like this. Think! Think! Help meto think what we can do."

  She pushed him away and stood pressing her trembling hands hard againsther temples, trying desperately to clear her thoughts. The thought ofcalling on any one in the house did not cross her mind. There wasnothing to expect from the judge; he had fallen asleep in his chair atthe table. William Pressley would not believe there was any danger. Henever believed in any trouble or agitation. It would only annoy him.Indeed, she scarcely thought of him at all. She caught the boy's armwildly, with her tears suddenly dried.

  "Why don't you say something--do something!" she cried bitterly, "Youare no better than, a girl yourself."

  She turned toward the house and ran a few steps only to come flyingback.

  "I have thought of something--you must go after him! That's what youmust do! He may be wounded. He may need you to help him. Surely youcould fight if you tried. I could, myself! And you will try, dear, Iknow you will, for my sake. Come! Run! Run! Let's go to the stable andget the pony. He goes fast."

  Her passionate excitement swept them along, and she and the boy were now
running toward the stable, hand in hand, hardly knowing what they did.Her head was bare, her white dress and her delicate slippers were verythin, and the chill of the autumnal night was already coming on. But shethought of none of these things, felt none of them, and did not stop atthe door of the stable, although she had never entered it before, and itwas now very dark within. But there was nothing for her to fear, sheknew all about the horses, as every girl of the country did, sinceriding was a part of the life of the wilderness. Keeping close toDavid's side, she followed him to the pony's stall, and when she heardhim take down the saddle and bridle that hung overhead, her handseagerly went out in the darkness to help him buckle the girth.

  "There! You will ride as fast as you can--I know you will. And you willhelp him fight. Make haste. Why didn't we think to get your rifle? Oh,why! You are very slow. There! Isn't it ready?"

  But as the boy started to lead the pony from the stable, a suddenthought flashed through her mind, and she acted upon it as quickly asshe grasped it.

  "Let me have the pony," she gasped. "You can get one of the other horsesfor yourself. Make haste! I must have the pony because he is all ready.Hurry! Hurry! I have just thought--uncle Philip will help us. He can doanything. He will do anything in the world for me if I can only reachhim. He is nearly always coming to Cedar House about this time. I amgoing to meet him. Everything will be safe and right if I can find himand tell him. Help me up to the saddle, quick! quick!"

  They were now out of the stable and could see each other dimly. Heexclaimed in affright, grasping her skirt and holding her back when sheattempted to mount.

  "It's my saddle, too, you couldn't ride that!" he cried.

  "What difference does the saddle make? I have ridden it many atime--and many a time without any. If you will not--"

  She caught the pommel, and he, seeing how utterly useless it was tocontend further, now held out his hand and she set her foot in his palm.With a leap and a swift, lithe turn of one knee under the other she wasseated in his saddle as easily and firmly as if it had been her own, andgrasped the reins.

  "Follow as quickly as you can," she called back over her shoulder. "I amgoing to meet uncle Philip in the buffalo path beyond Anvil Rock."

  And then the pony sprang away and was running into the falling night.