Round Anvil Rock: A Romance

by Nancy Huston Banks

  XXII

  "A COMET'S GLARE FORETOLD THIS SAD EVENT"

  When the barriers had thus been broken down, she had spoken of thebreach between William and herself. There had not been a bitter word ora harsh thought in all that she said. It had been merely a mutualmistake; they had both mistaken the affection which grows out offamiliar association, for the love that instantly draws a man and awoman together, though they may never before have seen one another, andholds them forever, away from all the rest of the world.

  "I know the difference now," she said several days later, with a deepertint in her cheeks and a brighter light in her blue eyes. "And I am surethat William does, too. It's plain enough that he will be glad to befree, but he cannot say so, because he is a gentleman. Don't you see?For that very reason, just because he is so high-minded, I am all themore bound to do what is right. You do see, don't you?"

  He was sitting up for the first time that day, his chair was by thewindow and she was sewing beside him.

  "I see what you think is right," Paul said smilingly. "And he certainlyshould be told at once. But perhaps I might--"

  "Oh, no! I must tell him myself. That would only be treating him withdue respect. And William thinks a great deal of respect--much more thanhe does of love. But I can't get a chance to speak to him. He is alwayscoming and going of late, and all the family are present when I do seehim. You must wait; you must not say a word to uncle Robert till I havetold William; it wouldn't be honorable on my part."

  "But you are forgetting, little girl, that there may be scruples on myside, too. If my strength should come back as fast in the next two orthree days, I shall be able to leave Cedar House before the end of theweek. I cannot go away in silence; there must be no sort of secrecy. Youperceive there is a question of honor there, too. I must speak to thejudge--"

  "It isn't any question of secrecy. There is nothing to keep secret," sheprotested and coaxed. "I am thinking only of William's feelings, andtrying to spare his pride. I know him best and I am fond of him. Don'tforget that. There has not been the least change in my affection forhim," holding her beautiful head very straight. "Don't think for amoment that my regard for William has been lessened," suddenly dimpling,softening, and beaming, "by my falling in love with you. That is anentirely different thing."

  "I should hope so, indeed!" suddenly bending forward and catching her inhis arms with a happy laugh. "You see how strong I am. Well, then, youneedn't expect to have your own way all the time much longer. I yieldonly so far as to give you three days--exactly three days from themoment that I leave this house, and not one moment more. At the end ofthat time I shall come to see the judge."

  "And uncle Philip. I couldn't be happy without his approval. I have beenlonging to tell him. I would have told him at once if I hadn't feltbound to speak to William first. Dear uncle Philip! He is always happyover anything that makes me happy. Next to you, dear heart, there is noone in all the world that I love so much--not half so much. And there isno one whom he loves as he does me; he thinks only of my happiness."

  Her eyes sought his with a wistful look. She felt that he did not likePhilip Alston, and there was distress in the thought that these two,whom she loved most out of all on earth, should not be the warmest offriends.

  "You mustn't think him indifferent because he hasn't been to see you,"she pleaded. "Please don't think that, for it isn't true. He hasn't comebecause he never can bear the sight of suffering. He says it's purely aphysical peculiarity which he cannot control. Anything that makes himthink of violence or cruelty shocks and repulses him. He shrinks from itas he would from a harsh sound or an evil odor. He says it's because hisrefinement is greater than his humanity. But it is really his tenderheart. Some day when you know him better you will find his heart astender as I have always found it."

  He, knowing what was in her loving heart, could not meet her gaze, andhastily looked away gazing across the river. His thoughts swiftlyfollowed his eyes, for he would not have been the man that he was, couldeven this great new love which was now filling his heart, and was tofill all his future life, have made him forget his old love for thisgreat new state, and the awful crises through which it was passing.

  For that was a time of great stress, of deep anxiety, and of almostintolerable suspense. Those early days and nights of November in theyear eighteen hundred and eleven, were indeed among the most stressfulin the whole stormy history of Kentucky. And through her--since her fatewas to be the fate of the Empire of the West--they were as portentous asany that the nation has ever known. On that very day in truth, and notvery far off, there had already been enacted one of the mightiest eventsthat went to the shaping of the national destiny. Over the river on thebanks of its tributary, the Wabash, the battle of Tippecanoe had beenfought and won between the darkness and daylight of that gloomy seventhof November. The young doctor, like all the people of the country, knewthat the long-dreaded hour had struck, that this last decisive strugglebetween the white race and the red must be close at hand; but neither henor any one in that region knew that it was already ended. There had notbeen a single sign or sound to tell when the conflict was actually goingon. It was said that the roar of the cannon was heard much farther away,as far even as Monk's Mound, where the Trappists--those most ill-fatedof Kentucky pioneers--had found temporary refuge. But if this be true,it must have been by reason of the fact that sound carries very far overvast level prairies, when it cannot cross a much shorter distance whichrises in hills covered with forests, such as shut out every echo of thebattle from Cedar House.

  Paul Colbert got up suddenly and began to walk the room, though hestaggered from weakness. He could not sit still under the torture ofsuch suspense, when he thought of all that was at stake on the outcomeof the conflict which might even then be waging beyond those spectraltrees. The safety of the people living along the river, their homes,their lives--all these were hanging upon the strength of the soldier'sarm. He knew how small the white army was. If it should be conquered,the opposite shore might at any instant be red with victorious savagesrushing to the great Shawnee Crossing. And then--he looked at Ruth,feeling his helplessness as he had not felt the keenest pain of hiswound. She saw the look, and felt its distress, although she did notunderstand all that it meant. She gently urged him back to his chair,frightened to see how weak he was.

  "Sit still till I come back. I will run downstairs and see if there isany news," she coaxed in a soothing tone.

  The household was gathered in the great room waiting and watching. Theold ladies by the hearth scarcely noticed one another. The judge sittingapart half started up at the faint rustle of Ruth's approach, butfinding that it was no messenger bringing news, he sat down again with aweary sigh, and his gaze went back to the other side of the river. Hisappearance told how great his anxiety was. His rugged, homely face washaggard and unshorn, and his rough dress was even more careless thancommon. William Pressley arose and came forward to give Ruth a chair.There was no visible change in him, his dress was as immaculate as italways was. His manner was just as coldly implacable as it had been eversince the quarrel; but then his temper never had anything to do with hislooks or his manners. No degree of uneasiness could ever make him forgetappearances or the smallest form of courtesy; and he would have thoughtit a pitiable sort of man who could be moved by emotion to any kind ofirregularity. His way of placing the chair proclaimed that he neverfailed to do all that became a gentleman, no matter how neglectfulemotional people might sometimes become.

  Philip Alston, coming in just at that moment, saw something of this withmingled amusement and satisfaction. The candor of William Pressley'sself-consciousness, the sincerity of his self-conceit, the firmness ofhis belief in his own infallibility, claimed a measure of real respect,and Philip Alston gave it in full. He thought none the less of himbecause he could not help smiling a little at the solemn progress whichthe young lawyer was then making across the great room. To be able tosmile at anything on that day of strain was a boon. And then it wasalways
pleasing and cheering to see any fresh sign that he had read theyoung lawyer's character aright, and he was glad to see again what agood-looking, well-mannered, right-minded young fellow he was. Nothingcould be said against him. Everything--or almost everything--was to besaid in his praise. The open fact that he thought all this himself wouldbe nothing against him with Ruth. A man's faith in himself is indeedoften the chief cause of a woman's faith in him. No one knew this betterthan Philip Alston. As he looked at William that day, a new feeling ofpeace came into his perturbed breast. He was beginning to bedisheartened by unexpected opposition to his plan to have the younglawyer appointed to the office of attorney-general. Had he been closerin touch with the governor, he would have known that all his effortswere useless, for the office was held by appointment in those days, andnot by election as it is now. But it was a long way to the state capitalon horseback, and he had seen no newspapers, so that he knew nothingpositively, and was only beginning to fear. And thinking about theuncertainty, he was encouraged to feel that even failure in this wouldnot alter his belief that the marriage was the best Ruth could make.There was something purely unselfish in the content that he felt. Withclouds lowering around his own head, it comforted him to feel that herfuture would be safe whatever came. He smiled at her, shaking his headwhen she asked if he had heard any news, and drew her down by his side.At the first opportunity he must ask about Sister Angela's progress withthe wedding clothes. It was not long now till Christmas Eve, and hewanted to hear more about the preparations for the marriage. These hadseemed to lag of late.

  * * * * *

  The blood-red sun went down behind threatening clouds on that terribleday, and the second morning came in with a wintry storm of icy winds andswirling snow. Then followed two more gloomy, gray days and two morewild, black nights. The fifth day dawned still wilder and darker, butPaul Colbert found strength to go away. On the sixth it seemed to Ruththat her heart would break with its aching for his absence; and with thesadness that came from listening to a sobbing wind which sigheddespairingly through the naked forest; and with watching a melancholyrain which hung a dark curtain between Cedar House and the other side ofthe river. And thus the dreadful time dragged on into the seventhendless day, and still there was no news from Tippecanoe. A couriercould have brought it in a few hours by riding fast through the wide,trackless wilderness, and swimming broad, unbridged rivers. But nocouriers came toward Cedar House. There was no reason for sending aspecial messenger to a corner of one state when the whole nation wasclamoring to hear. So that the couriers were speeding with all possiblehaste toward the National Capital, and the people of Cedar House couldonly wait and watch like those who were much farther off.

  And thus it was that after a whole week had passed, they still did notknow that the battle of Tippecanoe had been fought, and that a preciousvictory had been bought at a fearful price. And even now, who knowswhether or not that fearful price need have been paid? It is hard to seethe truth clearly, looking back through the mists of nearly a hundredyears. In the strange story of that famous battle, only one fact standsout clear beyond all dispute, and that is so incredible as to staggerbelief. It appears at first utterly past belief that the white army,marching against the red army with the open purpose of attacking it onthe next day, should have lain down almost at the feet of the desperatefoe, and have gone quietly to sleep. Only the recorded word of thegeneral in command makes this fact credible. He also says, to be sure,that the soldiers "would have been called in two minutes more;" but headmits that they had not been called when the red army made the attack,without waiting till the white army woke of its own accord to beginfighting at leisure by daylight, without even waiting those two minutesfor the general's convenience. What happened to the helpless sleepersthen, when the waking warriors thus fell upon the sleeping soldiers, maybe most eloquently told in the general's own words. "Such of them aswere awake or easily awakened, seized their arms and took theirstations, others, more tardy, had to contend with the enemy at the doorsof their tents." Turning the yellowed pages of this most amazing report,the reader can only wonder that the furious tide of battle which set sooverwhelmingly against the soldiers in the beginning, ever could havebeen turned by all the brave blood poured out before its turning.

  On the eighth anguished day of suspense Ruth went to the door to welcomePhilip Alston, and looking toward the forest path, saw Father Orin andToby approaching. There was something in the way they moved that toldthey had news, and when they reached Cedar House, the whole householdwas breathlessly waiting for them. The white family was gathered insidethe front door, and the black people, running up from the quarters,crowded round the door on the outside, with ashen faces, for their fearof the savages was, if possible, greater than the white people's. Allpressed around Toby, and Father Orin told the good news as quickly as hecould, without taking time to dismount; but his voice trembled so thathe could hardly speak, and his eyes were so full of tears that he couldnot see. He was not yet able to rejoice over a victory which had costthe life of a dear friend.

  "And Joe Daviess?" asked Philip Alston.

  Father Orin silently turned his face toward the river and made the signof the cross; but he turned back and patted Ruth's head when she pressedit against Toby's mane and burst into sobbing.

  "It was he who saved the day," the priest said huskily. "He led thedesperate charge that won the battle, when everything seemed lost. Hereceived his death wound in the charge, but he lived long enough to knowthat the victory was ours."

  "He was a great man; his name will never be forgotten. His sword has nowcarved it imperishably on the key-stone of the new state's triumphalarch," said Philip Alston.

  "And Tommy Dye?" asked Ruth, lifting her wet eyes. "The Sisters are soanxious."

  "And poor Tommy Dye, also," answered Father Orin.

  These two brave men who lived their lives so far apart, had fallenalmost side by side. Joe Daviess, the noble, the fearless, the highlygifted, the honored, the famous; and Tommy Dye, the kindly, thereckless, the poorly endowed, the misguided, the obscure,--both had doneall that the noblest could do. The mould and the dead leaves of thewilderness would cover both their graves. Only the initials of his nameroughly cut on a tree would mark the glorious resting-place of the one.Only an humble heap of unmarked earth would tell where a noble death hadclosed the ignoble life of the other.