Round Anvil Rock: A Romance

by Nancy Huston Banks

  XXI

  THE EAGLE IN THE DOVE'S NEST

  The worst hurt that Paul Colbert had received was from a blow on thehead, which had stunned and nearly killed him. But there had been nolasting injury, even from this, and the knife-wound in his shoulder hadhealed rapidly; he was young, and strong, and healthy.

  On the morning of the seventh day he awoke and looked at Ruth. He wasfeeling almost well, but had no inclination to stir. It was pleasantenough just to lie there and look at her, and let his gaze wander aroundher chamber. This white shrine of maidenhood! He had felt its influencebefore he was able to understand, and the reverential awe had grown withhis returning strength. How dainty it was, for all its rough board floorand rude log walls! Even those were as white as the driven snow. The bedwas like the warm, soft breast of a snow-white swan, and its drawncurtains like folded wings. There were spotless muslin curtains over thewindows, and the little toilet table also was draped in white and strewnwith bits of carved ivory. The whole room showed the same mingling ofluxury and simplicity that was to be seen in the great room below.These fine ivory carvings, the rare prints and a painting or two on therude walls, the alabaster vase on the rude stand,--filled with fresh,late-blooming flowers,--the costly white fur rug on the floor, thedelicate work basket with its coquettish bows of riband, contrastedoddly with the other simple things which had evidently been made in thewilderness by unskilled hands. Yet even those were tasteful and allpainted white, so that the whole was purity, beauty, and exquisiteness.

  Yet his gaze quickly turned from the room to her. He knew that shebelieved him to be asleep; but it was so pleasant to watch her that hedid not hasten to let her know that he was awake. She was very busy atthe window, with her back to him, and deeply absorbed in something thatshe was doing. Moving lightly and swiftly to and fro across the light,she was working hard, with no more noise than the sunbeams made inglancing about her slender form. He lay watching her for some time indreamy delight, before he saw what it was that she was doing. Butpresently he knew that she was making an aeolian harp. The two fragilebits of vibrant wood to hold the strings were already in place on eitherside of the window, just where the upper and lower sash came together.She was now engaged in carrying the threads of fine silk floss, whichwere to form the strings of this simple wind-harp, from one piece ofwood to the other. Back and forth she wove them across the current ofair, moving with swift, noiseless motions of exquisite grace. As thelast fine fibre thus fell into place and was firmly drawn, a soft,musical sigh breathed through the shadowed room, the very shadow ofmusic's sweet self.

  "She was making an aeolian harp."]

  "Thank you," Paul Colbert said. "What beautiful things you think of,what lovely things you do!"

  She turned quickly with a smile and a blush, and came to the bedside.

  "Why--you were not to wake up yet! It's much too early for a sick man toopen his eyes."

  "But I am not a sick man any longer. I am almost well. I could get upnow, if I wished," jestingly, "I am getting well as fast as I can, justto convict the other doctor of a mistaken diagnosis. What a fine oldfellow he is!" with a quick change to earnestness. "How kind he hasbeen, how untiring in his attention and goodness to me. And so skilful,too. I am ashamed of my presumption. A mere beginner like myself, toquestion his methods in dealing with the Cold Plague! I don't believe hemade the mistakes they said he did. He couldn't!"

  It was an unlucky recollection. The thought of this mysterious epidemicwhich had grown worse, till it was now devastating the whole country,made him suddenly restless. His patients were needing him sorely whilehe lay here, still bound hand and foot by weakness. He turned his headmiserably on the pillow. It was not the first time that this thought hadtroubled him, and she knew the signs. Laying a gentle, soothing hand onhis tossing head, she spoke in the quieting tone that a woman alwaysuses to soothe and comfort a child or a man whom she loves.

  "It will not be long now. You can soon go back to them," she said.

  The tone was none the less soothing because a bitter pang went throughher own heart with the words. What should she do when he was gone? Andhe was almost strong enough to return to the work which was calling him.But the aching of a true woman's own heart has nothing to do with thepeace that she gives to those whom she loves. And then it may have beenonly the sweet sadness of the spirit harp's sighing that made Ruth'slips quiver under their bright smile.

  "But they need me now," he groaned. "They are dying untended while I liehelpless here. The old doctor cannot take care of them. He has too manypatients of his own. He is riding day and night. He tries to hide thetruth, but I know it. The Cold Plague grows in violence every day."

  He suddenly raised himself on his elbow with a great effort.

  "Maybe I can sit up if I try very hard," he gasped. "The will has muchto do with the strength. I am determined--"

  "No! no!" cried Ruth in alarm.

  But he had already sunk back exhausted. His lids drooped heavily for amoment through weakness. And then he looked up in her frightened facewith a reassuring smile as she gently pressed his head down upon thepillow.

  "What strict little mother," he murmured.

  She shook her head and drew the counterpane closer about his neck,carefully lightening the weight over his wounded shoulder. With softlight touches she smoothed out the smallest wrinkle marring the comfortof the narrow, bed. When this was done and he lay quiet again, she beganto talk quietly but brightly of other things, hoping to divert histhoughts. She told him all the innocent gossip of the neighborhood. Mostof this had come to her from the Sisters, for she seldom saw any oneelse. There was much to tell of their little charges, and particularlyof the three babies whom he and Father Orin had taken from the deserted,plague-stricken cabin in the wilderness. She did not say that theselittle ones had become her own special care, but caused his smile togrow brighter by telling how like children the gentle Sisters themselveswere. She repeated what they had said of Tommy Dye's last visit. Theirserious, perplexed account of it was now unconsciously colored by herown gentle, fine sense of humor which also came so close to pathos thata lump rose in Paul Colbert's throat as he listened. He could see justhow poor Tommy Dye had looked, but his eyes grew dim while his lipssmiled. And now another and deeper shadow swiftly swept over his face.

  "So even poor old Tommy Dye has gone to Tippecanoe. Everybody but me isgone or going. I alone am left behind. And yet--even if this hadn'thappened--I must still have stood at my post," he said sadly.

  Her hand fluttered down upon his like a startled dove. There was asudden radiance in her dark blue eyes. She barely breathed the nextwords that she spoke:--

  "Yes; you must have stayed, anyway. The doctor of the wilderness--thehealer everywhere--can never march with other soldiers. He can never goshoulder to shoulder with cheering comrades at the roll of drums and theblare of trumpets under waving banners--to seek glory on thebattle-field while all the world looks on and applauds. No--no--thedoctor of the wilderness--the healer everywhere--is a solitary soldier,who must always go alone and silently to meet Death single-handed, andstruggle with him, day after day, and night after night, so long as hemay live, fighting ceaselessly for his own life as well as the lives ofothers."

  There was a quivering silence, filled only with the sighing of thewind-harp. The young doctor's hand had closed over hers. She went on ina lower tone:--

  "And surely the man who risks his life to save is braver than he whorisks it to slay."

  Startled at her own boldness, she drew away when he tried, with theslight strength that he had, to draw her to him. They had not spoken toeach other of love. He knew little of what had taken place that night atAnvil Rock when she had believed that his soul and her heart wereparting with all earthly things. He had not heard what she had saidthen, and they had not been left alone together since his hurt untilthis morning. There had been many constantly coming and going about thesick bed during the first days, and to him those days were mere blanksof suffering and blurs of p
ain. It was only to-day that he had begun toregain in a measure the power of his mind and will. If he could but havehad for one instant the old power of his body! He did not know whetherthis beautiful, tender young creature beside him was still under promiseto marry another man. There had been no opportunity for any confidentialtalk. The name of William Pressley had never been mentioned betweenthem. The thought of him was like a touch of fire to Paul Colbert, soburning was the contempt which he felt for this conceited dullard whoseblundering had nearly been his own death. But he could not say anythingof this to her--the fact that she had once been engaged to be married tothe man held him silent. It might be that she was still bound, and yetthere was something in her soft eyes that led him to hope that she wasfree--something, at least, which seemed to give him leave to wrestfreedom for her from the strongest that might try to hold her againsther sweet will. If only he were not stretched here, a mere burden, aclog.

  The look in his sunken eyes,--glowing like coals,--the burning wordswhich she read on his silent lips, made her slip her hands from his andmove hastily away. She went confusedly over to the window and hailed thesight of the birds on the sill with sudden relief.

  "My little feathered family are all here," she said without lookinground. "Can you see the blue jay? He is on the window-sill trying hisbest to peep over it at you."

  "I hope he is jealous of me," trying to speak lightly.

  "He's a great tyrant. He has driven away all the other birds. He willnot allow them to have one of the crumbs that I put out. Most of themare sitting in a forlorn little row on the nearest tree. I wonder whathe is saying to them in that rough voice, yet maybe it is better not toknow. It must be something very rude, the redbird's bearing makes methink so. He is standing very straight and holding his head very high,but he isn't saying a word--of course. He is too much of a gentleman toquarrel with a rowdy like the blue jay. Just hear how he is domineering!These little song sparrows must surely be ladybirds--they are talkingback in such a saucy twitter. Can you hear them? I wish you could seethem. They are turning their pretty heads from side to side as much asto say, that he can't keep them from speaking their minds if he doeskeep them from getting the crumbs. Can you hear the silvery ripple oftheir plaints? Nothing could be sweeter. There! I will raise the windowjust a hair's breadth. Listen! Isn't it like a chime of fairy bells,heard in a dream? But I hope you haven't felt any draught. It is muchcolder than yesterday."

  Dropping the sash she went to the fireplace and laid several sticks onthe blaze. She stood still for a moment, gazing down at the fire andthen she took a low chair beside the hearth. She knew that Paul Colbertwas looking at her, but she did not turn her head to meet his gaze. Forshe also knew that he was merely biding his time, merely gatheringstrength to speak, merely waiting till he had found words strong andtender enough. If her eyes were to meet his, she must go to him--shecould not resist--and yet she felt that she must not go while herplighted word was given to another man. It did not matter that thepromise had been made under persuasion and in ignorance of what lovemeant. It made no difference that she was sure that William, too, longedto be free. The promise had been made, and she was bound by it, untilshe could tell William Pressley the truth and ask him to set her free.Soft and feminine as her nature was, she had nevertheless a singularlyclear, firm sense of honor as most men understand that term--and as fewwomen do. She had already tried more than once to tell him, but he hadbeen almost constantly away from home of late. It was to her mind simplya question of honor. The dread of giving him pain which she had shrunkfrom at first, had now wholly passed away. It was so plain that he alsorecognized the mistake of this engagement and would be glad to be free,that the last weight was lifted from her heart. She had been trulyattached to him as she was to almost every one with whom she came indaily contact, and this affection was not altered. Hers was such aloving nature that it was as natural for her to love those about her asfor a young vine to cling to everything that it touches. Every instinctof her heart was a tender, sensitive tendril of affection, and all thesesoft and growing tendrils reaching out in the loneliness of her life hadclung even to William Pressley, as a fine young vine will twine round ahard cold rock when it can reach nothing softer or warmer or higher. Herown rich, warm, loving nature had indeed so wreathed his coldness andhardness that she could not see him as he really was. And now--withoutany change in either the vine or the rock--everything was whollydifferent. It was as if a tropical storm had suddenly lifted all theseclinging tendrils away from the unresponsive rock and had borne themheavenward into the eager arms of a living oak.

  She knew now the difference between the love that a loving nature givesto all, and the love which a strong nature gives to only one. Her heartwas beating so under this new, deep knowledge of life, that she fearedlest the man whom she loved might hear. Yet she sat still with herlittle hands tightly clasped on her lap, as if to hold herself firm, andshe held herself from looking round, though the silence continuedunbroken. William must be told before she might listen to the wordswhich she so longed to hear from Paul's lips. It was noble of him tohold them back. Every moment that she had been sitting by the hearth shehad been expecting to hear them. So that she sat now in tense, quiveringsuspense, waiting, fearing, longing, dreading, through this strange,long silence; filled only by the sighing of the wind-harp and thecrackling of the fire. And then, being a true woman, she could endure itno longer, and turning slightly she gave him a shy, timid glance. As shelooked she cried out in terror.

  His head, which had been so eagerly raised a moment before, had fallen;his eyes, which had been aglow but an instant since, were closed. Theeffort, the agitation, had been too great for his slight strength. Thestrong spirit, impatient of the weak flesh, was again slipping away fromit.

  She thought he was dying, and forgetting everything but her love forhim, she flew to him and fell on her knees by his side. Raising hisheavy head in her arms she held it against her bosom. She did not knowthat her lips touched his, she was seeking only to learn if he breathed.When his eyes opened blankly, she kissed them till they closed again,because she could not bear to see the dreadful blankness that was inthem. When he moaned she fell to rocking gently back and forth, holdinghis head closer against her breast, and presently began to croon softly.She never once thought of calling for help; it was to her as if therehad been no one but themselves in the whole world. And presently hisfaintness passed away, and when his arms, so weakly raised, went roundher, she did not try to escape. After a little he found strength tospeak a part of all that was in his heart, and she told him what shecould of all that was in hers. And both spoke as a great love speakswhen it first turns slowly back from facing death.