Round Anvil Rock: A Romance

by Nancy Huston Banks

  XX

  BALANCING LIFE AND DEATH

  While they consulted, several of the attorney-general's men galloped up.They had been delayed and sent astray by a false message purporting tocome from him. But they had met with no harm and were now in time tohelp in lifting the wounded man's helpless weight into the priest'ssaddle. This was the best plan that could be devised in haste, andFather Orin hastily mounted behind the unconscious body, to hold it inplace. He being much the strongest among the men, the duty naturallyfell to him. It was also natural that the double burden should be laidupon Toby, because the heaviest burdens of life are always laid uponthose who are readiest to bear them.

  And Toby appeared to feel his responsibility, for, setting out at arapid pace, which seemed to show that he knew the need of haste, he yetmoved with so steady a step that Father Orin did not require the aid ofthe other hands which were held out to help him. Nevertheless, everyhand was constantly in readiness, and all kept close together; so thatthus moving through the dim light, the shadowy mounted figures lookedlike some fabulous monster of gigantic size and with many arms, allextended toward a common burden. But the pony kept closest to Toby'sside and in the gloom that followed the going down of the Hunter's Moon,a trembling little hand stole out now and then, to touch the still, coldone which swung so pathetically over Father Orin's strong arm.

  The stars were paling, and the dark east was growing wan, when CedarHouse rose at last out of the gray shadows. At the first glimpse of itRuth suddenly sent the pony forward and urging him to a run, left theothers far behind. Reaching the house, she leapt to the ground and ranto the front door. It was deeply in shadow, but she did not need sightto find the latch string, which she had played with as a child, and inanother instant she stood in the great dark room. It was deserted allthe household being asleep, and never dreaming that she also was notsafely in bed. The fire had been covered as it always was at night, butit blazed when she stirred it, and by the light of the flame she found acandle on the tall mantelpiece. Holding this to the blaze, it seemed toher as if it would never catch the flame. When the wick caught she wentrunning up the stairs with the lighted candle in her hand, arousing thesleeping household by repeated calls. She did not pause to answer thealarmed cries that came in response. She heard a scream from MissPenelope's room, with, muffled sounds from the widow Broadnax's, andthe disapproving tones of William Pressley's voice. But she was utterlyheedless of everything, except the necessity of getting the room readyin time, so that there should be no waiting before doing what might bedone. She quivered with terror to think how long the delay had beenalready. The servants were too far away to be summoned quickly, so thatthere was only herself to do what must be done, and she set about it indesperate haste. Hers was the only chamber that could be given him.Every room in Cedar House was occupied, and it was always her room whichwas given to a guest, so that she often slept on a couch in MissPenelope's chamber. But she did not think of that; there was no thoughtof herself, beyond wishing to give him her own room. Had there been everso many guest chambers, she would still have wished him to have hers.But to get it ready in time! To make sure that there should be nofurther waiting before doing all that human power could do. Even now itmight be too late. The wood fire had almost burned out, and to kindle ablaze was the first thing to be done, so that she ran straight to thehearth and dropped on her knees beside it. There was a little heap ofsticks in the chimney-corner, but her hands trembled so that she couldhardly put them on the dying coals. The breath that she coaxed the flamewith came in gasps, but a blaze quickly sprang up and leapt among thesticks, and then she flew to prepare the bed. If she might only get itready before they came! The thought of that helpless head lying againstFather Orin's shoulder was like a stab at her heart.

  Footsteps were rushing up and down stairs, and excited voices werecalling her name all over the house, but she did not pause or turn fromher task. It was Miss Penelope who first found her and clamored to knowwhat had happened; but she did not stop to answer, and went on turningback the covers of the bed--the last thing needing to be done--andlistening for the sounds of the horses' hoofs. They could now be heardapproaching with that sad, slow, solemn rhythm--that subdued beat, beat,beat, of horses' feet--which has fallen on all our bruised hearts as anawful part of the funeral march. She ran out of the room and downstairs,drawing her skirt away from Miss Penelope's frightened grasp, andpassing William Pressley, as if his restraining words had been no morethan the gusty wind. She was waiting outside when the three horsemendrew up at the door. The burden which they bore was still apparentlylifeless, and with a sickening pang of fear she bent over the partedlips as they lowered him from the saddle, thinking for one despairingmoment that he no longer breathed. But the faint flutter went on, andshe gave way so that he might be borne up the stairs, and runningbefore, she told them where to lay him down.

  William Pressley made one or two efforts to direct what was being done,and although the girl's passionate excitement swept him aside, he stilldid what he could, and offered to furnish a fresh horse for the quickerfetching of the doctor, when the attorney-general said he would go forhim at once. It was like William Pressley to do this; it would have beenunlike him to neglect any duty that he saw. But the offering of thehorse and the full performance of his own duty did not keep him fromlooking at Ruth in severe displeasure. He did not yet know how thisthing had happened, and was far from suspecting that she had been out ofthe house that night. Yet it disturbed and angered him to see her flyinghere and there, and running to and fro to get things that were wanted,as though the servants could not be quick enough. With all this in histone, he coldly and strongly urged her to join the rest of the family,pointing out the fact that there was nothing more to be done by any onetill the doctor should come. But she merely shook her head, withoutspeaking, and slid softly into a seat by the bedside, and there WilliamPressley left her, disdaining to contend. She thought that she wasalone--so far as she thought of herself at all--but the boy sat unseenand forgotten in a shadowed corner of the chamber. He was gazing at her,but her gaze never once wandered from the still white face on thepillow.

  The rest of the family were gathered around the hearth in the great roomdownstairs. The judge had been summoned from the cabin in which heslept, and he was now plying Father Orin with questions. There was a cryof alarmed amazement when the priest told of finding Ruth at Anvil Rock.Only William Pressley said nothing, and sat perfectly still, with asudden stiffening of his bearing. It was not easy for the priest to makethe whole story clear, for he did not understand it quite clearlyhimself. But he told as much as he knew of the night's events. And whenhe was done, the judge's voice stilled the clamor of the other excitedvoices.

  "How can the child have known what was going on? Where is she? We mustfind out at once how she came to do so wild and strange a thing. Whatunder heaven could she have been doing there--in such a place, at such atime? Where is she?" But he went on with another thought, withoutwaiting for an answer. "How can those murderous scoundrels have knownthat the attorney-general would ride to Anvil Rock alone? It is plainenough that they did know. The question is--How? By what means can theypossibly have learned anything about the plan? That's the thing! How didthey find out enough to enable them to set this villanous trap? Allthose assassins hidden there in the darkness of the Cypress Swamp,waiting to spring out on one man!" He turned suddenly to the priest."What is your opinion, Father? Have you the slightest idea how theycould have learned anything of our plan?"

  Father Orin looked straight at William Pressley.

  "Yes, I have an idea," he said quietly, with his gaze still fixed on theyoung lawyer. "But it is merely unfounded suspicion. I have no realreason for my suspicions."

  "Well, what are they?" asked the judge, eagerly. "You can hardly beafraid of doing any injustice to those scoundrels. It would be hard tosuspect such murderous villains of any sneaking treachery that theywouldn't be guilty of if they could. How do you think they found out?That's what I want to kno
w."

  Father Orin was still looking steadily at William Pressley, who returnedthe look just as steadily with one that was easier to read than thepriest's. William Pressley's gaze expressed a large, patient tolerancefor prejudice, slightly touched with calm contempt, and there was nodoubting its entire sincerity.

  "I think," said Father Orin, slowly, "that these banded robbers andmurderers must have learned of the plan through some one's inadvertence.It is my opinion that the plan was betrayed by some one who did not meanto betray it, and who may not have known what he had done."

  William Pressley regarded him with an incredulous smile. "It is hardlylikely that the plan can have been revealed in any such way as yousuggest, sir," he said, with the politeness which is more exasperatingthan rudeness. "You are certainly overlooking the fact that only a fewknew what the attorney-general intended to do, and that those who didknow are the ablest and most reliable men in the country. It istherefore utterly out of the question to assume that any one among them,any man of their intelligence and standing, could have made such ablunder. Really, my dear sir, if you will pardon my saying so, the ideais absurd."

  The priest made no reply and his eyes were still fixed on the younglawyer's face, but as he gazed, the expression of his own face changed.A half smile lighted it for a moment. The good man's sense of humor waskeen. But this passed quickly and in its stead there came the compassionwhich any purely human weakness, however great or small, always awoke inhis truly compassionate breast.

  The judge apparently had not heard what his nephew said. He always beganto feel impatient as soon as the young man commenced to speak. And henow gave his tousled head the old, unconscious toss, like a horseshaking his mane at the lighting of a persistent fly. And then, payingno more attention to William Pressley and drawing his chair nearerFather Orin's, he went on with the grave talk. It was he, however, whodid all the talking now; the priest had suddenly become a passivelistener. He had no more ideas to advance.

  The three men turned many anxious looks on the open door. It was still aframed space of misty gray, filled only with the melancholy mystery ofthe wintry dawn. It seemed to the watchers to stay unchanged for a longtime, as it always does to those who watch for its brightening introuble and anxiety. Yet while they longed for the light they dreaded tosee it, as the troubled and alarmed always dread, lest it should revealsomething terrible which the darkness has concealed. Their words grewfewer, also, under this strain of waiting, and they gradually fell intothe tone that night watchers use, when they speak of mysterious thingsunder the gloomy spell of this sad half-light which is neither night norday. In the silences between their hesitating words, they bent forwardand listened. All was still--there was no distant sound of theattorney-general's return or of the old doctor's coming. In the tensestillness they could hear only the sad murmur of the river gliding underthe darkness and--now and then--the sudden hurrying of footsteps in thechamber overhead where the wounded man lay.

  And so a long, heavy hour dragged by. The leaden gray framed by thedoorway began to glimmer with a silvery pallor. The quicker breath ofthe awakening world sent a heavier shower of leaves from the trees. Thebirds still lingering among the cold, bare branches were already awake,and calling cheerily to one another, as if the higher world in whichthey lived was all untouched by the struggle and strife of this lowerhuman world. The heavy-hearted men in the great room of Cedar Houselistened with the vague wistfulness that the happiness of bird voicesalways brings to the troubled. They also heard the low trumpeting of theswans as the breath of the morning swayed the rushes and that, too,filled them with a deeper longing for peace. But suddenly the far-offecho of a horse's rapid approach made them forget everything else. Thedoctor was coming at last! As one man, the three men sprang to open thedoor, and leapt out into the pallid daylight. The horseman was now nearby and in another moment they saw that the rider was not the doctor, noryet the attorney-general, but Philip Alston.

  The priest shrank back with an uncontrollable recoil and then stoodstill and silent, watching every movement of the tall figure which hadreined up and was dismounting with the ease of a boy. The judge and hisnephew had made an exclamation at the sight of him; but they were merelysurprised at the unusual hour of his appearance and he explained this atonce.

  "Where is Ruth? What is wrong? Has anything happened?" he asked, turningin visible agitation from one to another. "What was it that those menon horseback brought here? I could barely make out something moving thisway. Has anything happened to Ruth? The light was dim, and I was a longway off. I was coming from the river where I had been attending to theloading of a boat, and so happened to see that something was going on.But I wasn't near enough to tell what it was. Of course I came at onceto see if there was any trouble, and to do what I could. Is anythingwrong with Ruth? My horse fell and lamed himself, or I should have beenhere much sooner. Tell me instantly! What have you done with the child?What have you allowed to happen to her? By God, if--"

  He demanded this accounting in a tone of passionate fierceness such asnone of those present had ever heard in him, turning first upon WilliamPressley and then upon Robert Knox. His face was white, and his eyeswere blazing, and they did not at once resume their natural look when hehad been assured of Ruth's safety. But he said nothing more, and onlyFather Orin noted how altered and worn and old he looked, when heentered the room and the brighter light fell upon him.

  He came to the fireside and sat down with the light of a swinging lampfalling full on his face. His clear blue eyes, growing quiet, now lookedstraight into Father Orin's--which were openly searching andsuspicious--during the second telling of the story of the night. It wasnot easy for suspicion to stand against such a gaze. The priest'swavered in spite of its strength. No one could believe evil of PhilipAlston while looking in his noble, open face. He did not speakimmediately after the story was told. When he did, it was to say,quietly and naturally, precisely what any right-minded man would havesaid under the circumstances:--

  "This young stranger is certainly a man of courage. He has protected theattorney-general at the risk of his own life. In doing this, he has donea great service for all of us--for the whole country. We must now dowhat we can for him. Is he badly, hurt? Where is he? Who is with him?"

  The priest saw that he flinched for the first time when told that thewounded man had been taken to Ruth's room.

  "That was wrong," said Philip Alston, with a subtle change in his tone."Ruth must have nothing further to do with this extraordinary and mostunfortunate affair. She has had far too much to do with it already. Thatmooning, foolish boy must have led her into this romantic folly throughsome girlish enthusiasm about Joe Daviess, the popular hero of romance.It is plainly the boy's fault that she was induced to do so dangerousand unheard-of a thing. She could never have thought of it herself. Ishall see that he keeps his place hereafter. We must look to it,William," turning upon the young man with more severity than his voiceoften expressed. "Where is she? What is she doing? I wish to see her."

  It was the judge who told him that she was in her own room, togetherwith the older ladies, all in attendance upon the injured man. Thepriest then saw the second swift darkening of Philip Alston's face.

  "I will go up to her room," he said quietly. "I wish to be sure that shehas not been harmed."

  As he rose, there was a sound outside. He turned to the open door andsaw two horsemen approaching at a gallop. It was light enough for him tosee and recognize the attorney-general and the doctor. The other menhurriedly went out to meet them. Philip Alston stood still in a shadowedcorner of the great room, while the rest hastened up the stairway andinto the chamber where Paul Colbert lay. And then he followed them withhis swift, light step, and pausing upon the threshold, looked into theopen room, his gaze first seeking Ruth. She stood on the other side ofthe chamber, apart from the group around the bed. But she did not seehim; her eyes and hands and thoughts were on the bandages which she washastily preparing. He shrank from what she was doing and turning hasti
lyaway fixed his eyes on the attorney-general. Thus, silently looking andlistening, he presently heard him say how deeply he regretted beingcompelled to leave the country before knowing the result of his friend'swound, adding that he was leaving on the next day for Tippecanoe. PhilipAlston barely glanced at the white face lying against the pillow. He wasdisturbed and even shocked to see it there. He felt this stranger'spresence in her chamber to be a desecration. And then the sight ofsuffering always made him uncomfortable. He wondered how she couldendure it. The repulsion which the average man feels for any afflictionof mind, body, or estate was so intensified in him that he could not,with all his intelligence, understand that the very sight of greatsuffering nobly borne, does much to win a woman's heart.