III
"PHILIP ALSTON, GENTLEMAN"
Philip Alston still stood before the candle-stand. His gaze rested onthe girl's radiant face with wistful tenderness. It was plain that hethought nothing of all these rich, rare gifts which he had given her,save only as they gave her pleasure and might win from her anotherloving look, another butterfly kiss on his cheek.
As he stood there that night in the great room of Cedar House, beforethe firelight and under the beams of the swinging lamps, he scarcelyappeared to need the help of any gift in winning a woman's love. His wasa presence to hold the gaze. He was very tall and straight and slender,yet most finely proportioned. The heavy hair, falling back from hishandsome face and tied in a queue, must once have been as black asRuth's own; surely, no paler shade could have become so silvery white.His eyes, also, were as blue as hers, and none could have been bluer.His skin was almost as fair and smooth as hers, his manner as gentle andkind, his voice as soft and his smile as sweet. He was elegantlydressed, as he always was, his fine long coat of forest greenbroadcloth had a wide velvet collar and large gold buttons. His velvetknee-breeches and the wide riband which tied his queue were of the samerich shade of dark green. The most delicate ruffles filled the front ofhis swan's-down vest and fell over his hands, which were remarkablywhite and small and taper-fingered, like a fine lady's. His white silkstockings and his low shoes were held by silver buckles. So lookedPhilip Alston, Gentleman,--and so he was called,--as he stood in thegreat room of Cedar House on that night of October, nearly a hundredyears ago. And thus he is described in the few rare old histories whichtouch the romance of this region when he ruled it like a king, by thepower of his intelligence and the might of his will.
He was foremost in the politics of the time as in everything else, andhe and William Pressley had been discussing this subject at the momentof Ruth's appearance, which had interrupted their conversation. PhilipAlston had forgotten the unfinished topic, but William Pressley had not.He, also, had been pleased to look on for a while at the girl's radiantdelight; and he, also, had enjoyed the charming scene. But there was alull now, and he at once turned back to the matter in which he was mostdeeply interested. Ambition for political preferment was the theme whichmost absorbed his mind, and ambition was the one thing which couldalways light a spark of fire in his cold, hard, shallow hazel eyes.This was not for the reason that he cared especially for politics initself, which he did not. But he turned to it in preference to warfare,since the choice of the ambitious young men of the wilderness laybetween the two. Politics seemed to him to open the surest and shortestroad to the prominence which he craved above everything else. He was oneof those unfortunates who can never be happy on a level--even with thehighest--and who must look down in order to be at all content with life.Yet with this overweening and insatiable craving for distinction andprominence, he had been given no talent by which distinction may be won;had been granted no quality, mental, moral, or physical, by which hemight rise above the mass of his fellows. It was a cruel trick forNature to play, and one that she plays far too often. The sufferers fromit are certainly far more to be pitied than blamed, and it is harmfulonly to the afflicted themselves, so long as it meets, or still expects,a measure of gratification. When they are permitted to reach any heightfrom which to look down, the terrible craving appears to be temporarilyappeased; and they become kind, and even generous, to all who look upwith willing, unwandering gaze. It is only when the sufferers fail toreach any height, or when they lose what little they may have attained,or when the gaze of the world wanders, that they become hard, sour,bitter, and merciless toward all who have succeeded where they havefailed. The only mercy that Nature has shown them in their affliction,is to make most of them slow to realize that they can never gain the onething they crave. And this miserable awakening had not yet come toWilliam Pressley. On that evening he had every reason to be content andwell pleased with himself. The future promised all that he mostearnestly wished for. He was already moderately successful in thepractice of his profession. This was mainly owing to his uncle'sinfluence, but he was far from suspecting the fact. His domestic life,also, was admirably settled; he was fond of Ruth and proud of her, as hewas of everything belonging to himself. But the thing which made himhappiest was a suggestion of Philip Alston's, first offered on theprevious day; and it was to this that he now recurred at the firstopportunity.
He spoke with an eagerness curiously apart from his words:
"There seems to be no doubt that the Shawnees are really gone. Men,women, and children, they have all disappeared from their town on theother side of the river. A hunter who has been over there told me soyesterday. It appears reasonably certain that the warriors are gatheringunder the Prophet at Tippecanoe."
"Yes, it is undoubtedly true that the Indians are rising," repliedPhilip Alston, still looking at Ruth. "Well, it was bound to come,--thislast decisive struggle between the white and the red race,--and thesooner the better, perhaps. I hear, too, that the troops are alreadymoving upon the Shawnee encampment."
"Have you heard anything more about the attorney-general's offering hisservices? Is it decided that he will go?" asked William Pressley.
He spoke more quickly and with more spirit than was common with him. Andhe sank back with an involuntary movement of disappointment when PhilipAlston shook his head.
"However, there is little doubt that he will go. He is almost sure to,"Philip Alston went on. "It is his way to put his own shoulder to thewheel. You remember, judge--"
"What's that!" cried the judge, starting up from his doze.
"We are talking about Joseph Hamilton Daviess," said Philip Alston.
"A great man. A great lawyer--the first lawyer west of the Alleghaniesto go to Washington and plead a case before the Supreme Court," said thejudge.
"He has certainly been untiring and fearless in the discharge of hisduty as the United States Attorney," Philip Alston said warmly. "I wasjust going to remind you of the journey that he made across thewilderness from Kentucky to St. Louis to find out, if he could, at firsthand, what treason Aaron Burr was plotting over there with thecommandant of the military post as a tool. He didn't find out a greatdeal. That old fox knows how to cover his tracks. But theattorney-general did more than any one else could have done. He hauledBurr to trial, almost single-handed, and against the greatest publicclamor. He leaves nothing undone in the pursuit of his duty. Iunderstand that he is to be here soon. He thinks that something shouldbe done to put down the lawlessness of this country as Andrew Jacksonhas subdued it in his territory."
"But he must, of course, resign the office, if he intends going toTippecanoe," said William Pressley.
He was so intent upon this one point of interest to himself that he hadscarcely heard what had been said. He now turned with dignifiedimpatience when his aunt broke in, speaking from the hearth. MissPenelope always spoke with a greater or less degree of suddenness andirrelevance. She commonly said what she had to say at the instant thatthe thought occurred to her, regardless of what others might be talkingor thinking about. The tenor of nearly everything that she said wassingularly gloomy. Her mind was full of superstition of a homely,domestic kind. She was a great believer in signs, and the signs withwhich she was most familiar were usually forewarnings of some great andmysterious public or private calamity. Her voice was remarkably soft,low, and sweet, so that to hear these alarming threats and theseappalling prophecies uttered in the tones of a cooing dove, was verysingular indeed.
"'Pon my word!" she now exclaimed, facing the room, but still keepingclose to the coffee-pot. "How you all can expect anything but terribletroubles and awful misfortunes is more than I can understand. Thewarning of that comet sent a-flying wild across the heavens is enoughfor me."
No one noticed what she said--which certainly seemed to require nonotice; but it never made any difference to Miss Penelope whether herremarks were warmly or coolly received. After stooping to turn thecoffee-pot round on its trivet she faced the room again.
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"Yes, the warning is plenty plain enough for me!" she cooed. "And justlook at the dreadful things that have happened already! Just look atwhat came to pass between the time we first heard of that comet early inthe summer, and the time we first saw it early in September. Didn't allthe wasps and flies go blind and die sooner than common, right in themiddle of the hottest weather? Who ever heard of such a thing before?And look at the fruit crop,--the apple trees, the peach trees, all kindof fruit trees--and the grape-vines a-bending and a-breaking clear downto the ground because they can't bear the weight."
"It is probable that the early dying of the wasps and flies may havehad something to do with the fineness of the fruit," said WilliamPressley, quite seriously, with formal politeness and a touch ofimpatience at the interruption.
Miss Penelope took him up tartly in her softest tone: "Then, William,may I ask why the people all over the country are calling this year'svintage 'comet wines'? For that's the way they are marking it, andeverybody is putting it to itself--as something very uncommon. But nevermind! I am used to having what I say mocked at in this house. It'snothing new to me to have my words passed over as if they hadn't beenspoken. I can bear it and it don't alter my duty. I am bound to go ona-doing what I believe to be right just the same, however I am treated.I can't sit by and say nothing when I know that I ought to lift up myvoice in warning. So I say again--you can mark my word or not as youthink best--that we are all a-going to see some mighty wild sightsbefore we see the last of that comet's tail."
"Pooh! Pooh! Pooh!" cried the widow Broadnax, roughly and hoarsely, asshe nearly always spoke, and sitting up suddenly among her cushions."Who's afraid of a comet with only one tail? I'll have you to know,sister Penelope, that my grandmother--my own grandmother and Robert'sown grandmother, not yours--could remember the famous comet ofseventeen hundred and forty-four, and that had six tails."
Miss Penelope was daunted and silenced for the moment. She did not mindthe greater number of the rival comet's tails. It was not that whichmade her feel herself at a disadvantage. It was the slur at her lesserrelationship to the master of the house. Any reference to that was ablow which never failed to make her flinch; and one which the widownever lost a chance to deal. But Miss Penelope had not yielded an inchthrough the ceaseless contention of years, and held her ground now;since there was nothing to say in reply, she ignored the taunt as shehad done all that had gone before. She turned upon William Pressley,however, as we are prone to turn upon those whom we do not fear, when wedare not attack those with whom we are really offended.
"Well, William, maybe you think that the early dying and the going blindof the wasps and the flies caused the breaking out of the 'Jerks,' too.You and the rest all think you know better than I do. I don'tcomplain--maybe you all do know better. But some day, when I am dead andgone, some day, and it mayn't be very long, when my hands are stone coldand crossed under the coffin-lid, you will think differently about agood many matters," she cooed, as if saying the mildest, pleasantestthings in the world. "The Jerks have brought many a proud head low.Others besides myself will see a warning in the Jerks before they aregone. And now here are the Shawnees a-coming to welter us in our blood.And the Cold Plague already come to shake the life out of the few thatare left. But it is their own fault. There's nobody but themselves toblame. It's easy enough to keep from having the plague," Miss Penelopeadded confidently. "Anybody can keep from having it, if they will onlytake the trouble to blow real hard three times on a blue yarn stringbefore breakfast."
William Pressley turned gravely and was about to protest against suchabsurd superstition, but Philip Alston interfered tactfully, to assurethe lady that she was quite right, that it could not fail to benefitalmost any one to breathe on anything, especially if the breathing werevery deep and very early in the morning.
"And then the new doctor knows how to cure the plague, aunt Penelope,dear," said Ruth, suddenly looking up from the things on thecandle-stand. She was always the peacemaker of the family. "The Sisterstold me. They are not afraid now that he has come. They were neverafraid for themselves; it was for the children--the orphans. They saidthat little ones were dying all over the wilderness like frozen lambs."
"This new doctor is a most presumptuous person," said William Pressley,with the chilly deliberation which invariably marked his irritation. "Herefuses to bleed his patients or to allow them to be bled. Theseunheard-of objections of his are levelled at the fundamental principlesof the established practice and calculated to undermine it. Everyphysician of reputable standing will tell you that bleeding is the onlyefficacious treatment for the Cold Plague, and that it is entirely safeif no more than eight ounces of blood be taken at a time, and notoftener than once in two or three hours."[1]
[Footnote 1: "Medical Repository," 1815, p. 222.]
No one said anything for a moment. When William Pressley spoke in thattone, which he frequently did, there seemed to be nothing left for anyone else to say. The subject appeared to have been done up hard and fastin a bundle and laid away for good and all. The judge was dozing again,Philip Alston was still gazing at Ruth, Miss Penelope was busy over thecoffee-pot, and the widow Broadnax was watching every movement that shemade. It was Ruth who replied after a momentary pause. She never lackedcourage to stand by her own opinions, timid and gentle as they were; andshe spoke now firmly though gently:
"But, William, just think! These were little bits of babies. Such poor,weak, bloodless little mites anyway. And it is said that the greatestpain and danger from the plague is from weakness and cold. The strongestmen shiver and shiver till they freeze out of the world."
William Pressley bent his head in the courtesy that stings more thanrudeness. He never argued. He had spoken; there was no need to sayanything more. So that with this bow to Ruth he turned to Philip Alstonand again took up the topic which he was so anxious to resume. It hadalready been interrupted, he thought, by far too much unimportant talk.Ruth looked at him expectantly when he started to speak, but he waslooking at Philip Alston and spoke to him.
"You have, I suppose, sir, mentioned to my uncle what you so kindlysuggested to me, in the event that the attorney-general should resign ongoing to Tippecanoe."
The deepest feeling that Ruth had ever heard in his voice thrilled itnow. She involuntarily bent forward. Her eager lips were apart, herradiant eyes were upon him. Was he going with the attorney-general toTippecanoe? She was afraid, glad, frightened, proud, all in a breath.She had forgotten the beautiful gifts that lay before her. The meremention, the merest thought of the noble and the great, stirred herheart like the throb of mighty drums.
"No, but I will speak to him about it now," replied Philip Alston."Judge, Judge Knox!" raising his voice.
The judge, aroused, sat up, looking round. But William Pressley spokeagain before Philip Alston could explain.
"If the attorney-general really intends to go, he must resign. Therewill, of course, be many applicants for the place, and we can hardly betoo prompt in applying for it, if I am to succeed him."
Ruth sank back in her chair. The fabric which she had held unconsciouslynow dropped unheeded from her hand. She could not have told why she feltsuch a shock of revulsion and disappointment. She had known somethinglike it before, when this man who was to be her husband had shown somestrange insensibility to great things which had moved her own heart toits depths. But the feeling had never been so strong as it was now; hadnever come so near revealing to her the real character of him with whomher whole life was to be spent; and she was still more bewildered andperplexed than shocked or distressed. She thought that she must havemisunderstood; that he could not have meant thus to pass over this greatnational crisis,--this noble offering of a great man's life to theservice of his country,--in unfeeling haste to grasp some selfish profitfrom it. She looked at him wonderingly, with all the light gone out ofher face. Being what she was, she could not see that he was just as trueto his nature as she was to hers; that he was following it with entiresincerity in looking at the no
blest things in life and the greatestthings in the world, solely as they affected himself and his owninterests. It was not for a nature like hers ever to understand that anature like his would, if it could, bend the whole universe to his ownends without a doubt that such was its best possible use.
Philip Alston, also, was regarding William Pressley with rather aninscrutable look. But his estimate and understanding were fairer thanRuth's, for the reason that he could come nearer to giving the young manhis due. He knew that William Pressley was honest and sincere in hisvanity and conceit, and was assured that these traits were the worst hepossessed. Philip Alston knew men, and he had found that those whohonestly thought highly of themselves usually had something, more orless, to found the opinion upon. He had never known a bad man whosincerely thought himself a good one. He knew that many dull men reallybelieved themselves to be intelligent,--but that was a comparativelyharmless mistake,--and he had never observed that a woman thought lessof a man who thought well of himself. Aside from this surface weaknessWilliam Pressley was a most worthy young fellow; far more worthy to beRuth's husband than any one else in that rough and thinly settledcountry. The nearer the time for the marriage approached, the morePhilip Alston came to believe that he had chosen wisely in selectingWilliam Pressley. Fully convinced at last that he could not do betterfor her future than to intrust it to this serious, conscientious youngman, who was unquestionably fond of her and to whom she was muchattached, he now rested content. He still found, to be sure, someamusement in the young man's estimate of himself; but he never doubtedits sincerity or questioned its harmlessness. It did not occur to himthat Ruth might be troubled by these matters which merely made himsmile.
There would have been a warning for him in the look which she now gaveWilliam Pressley had he seen it. But he was looking at the judge, whocould not grasp the meaning of what had been said; and he tried again toput the facts before him, but the judge would not allow him to finish.
"Who says Joe Daviess is going away?" he demanded excitedly. "Why, hecan't leave. It's out of the question. There is nobody to take hisplace. We can't spare him. It is preposterous to think of his going tobe slaughtered by those red devils. A man like that! when there areplenty of no-account wretches good enough to make food for powder. Hemustn't go. The country needs him more here than there--or anywhere. AndI will see him to-morrow, for he is coming; tell him so, by ----!"
"You will have your trouble for nothing, then, sir," said Philip Alston,quietly, interrupting him. "The attorney-general is not a man to letanother man tell him what to do or not to do. And we are merelyconsidering the probability of his going. If he should go, some onemust, of course, take his place. In that case I can think of no onemore fit than William here," laying his hand on the young man's arm."With his qualifications, backed by your influence and mine, thereshould not be much difficulty. But we must press his claims in time; thenotice will be short."
The idea was new to the judge and startling. He turned quickly andlooked at his nephew blankly for a moment, and then his left eyebrowwent up. His opinion was easy enough to read on his open, rugged face asit always was, and Philip Alston read it like large print; but it didnot suit him to show that he did, and no one else saw it. Ruth's facewas buried in her hands as she sat with her elbows on the candle-stand.William was looking at the floor with the quiet air of one who is calmlyconscious of his own merits, and can afford to await their recognition,even though it may be tardy. The ladies were deeply absorbed in theduties binding them to the hearth. The coffee was now ready, and MissPenelope lifted the pot from its trivet, and, carrying it to the table,called everybody to supper. No affairs of state ever were, or ever couldbe, of sufficient importance in her eyes to justify letting the coffeeget cold.
Philip Alston went to her side with his deferential air, and told herthat he could not stay for the evening meal. He explained that he wasexpecting several friends that night over the Wilderness Road. It waspossible that they might already have arrived and were now awaiting himin his cabin. He must hasten homeward as fast as possible. So saying hetook her bony little hand and bowed over it, and made another bow ofprecisely the same ceremony over the widow Broadnax's pudgy fingers. Healways brought his finest tact to bear upon his acquaintance with theseladies.
He looked around for Ruth and held out his hand. She came to him, andwent with him to the door. They stood close together for a moment,talking with one another while the others were settling around thetable. When he had mounted his horse and set out, she still stood gazingafter him till the judge's voice, exclaiming, caused her to turn.
"Call Alston back, if he isn't out of hearing!" he said.
Ruth shook her head. Philip Alston always rode very fast. He was alreadyout of sight in the falling night.
"Pshaw! I never seem able to keep my mind on anything these days," thejudge said, fretted with himself. "I fully meant to ask Alston to takethat money to the salt-works. It wouldn't have been much out of his way.I don't know what makes me so forgetful lately--and always so drowsy. Ipromised faithfully to pay for that cargo of salt to-day, so that itwould be on the river bank ready for loading when the flatboat comesto-morrow. The owner of the boat sent the money yesterday. I've got ithere in my pocket. And the salt was to be delivered for cash; it willnot be sent till it is paid for." He paused a moment in troubledthought. "David! Call that boy. He's always hidden off somewhere."
"Here, sir," said David, standing up and coming out of the shadowbeneath the stairs.
"You will have to help me in this matter, my lad," said the judge,kindly, forgetting his momentary irritation. "I'll have to send themoney by you."
He drew from his pocket a queer-looking roll which he called his wallet.It was a strip of thin, fine deerskin, bound with a narrow black ribandand tied with a leathern string. The bank-notes were rolled in this, andthe gold pieces and the "bits"--which were small wedges of coin cut fromsilver dollars--were in two pouches sewed across the end of the strip.It was very seldom that this wallet of the judge's contained so large asum of money as on that night, for salt was dear in the wilderness. Itrequired eight hundred gallons of the weak salt water and many cords offire-wood, and the work of many men for many days, to make a singlebushel of the precious article. It was still scarce and hard to getthereabouts at five dollars a bushel, so that a large sum was needed topay for an entire cargo. Drops of perspiration stood on the judge'sforehead as he counted out the bank-notes, the gold, and the cut money.He cared little for his own money, and he rarely had much at a time;but he was scrupulously careful in his handling of other people's. Andhe knew that his eyes were not very clear that night, and that hisfingers were not so sure as they should be of anything that theytouched. Ruth saw how it was with a tender pang at her heart, for sheknew how honest he was and how good, and she loved him. She knelt downat his side and helped him count the money, over which his clumsy handswere fumbling pathetically, so that there might be no error in thecounting.
"There!" he said, tying the string round the wallet, which was nowalmost empty, and putting it back in his pocket. "I want you, David, totake this and go over to the salt-works very early in the morning, assoon after daybreak as you can see your way. Take two of the best blackmen with you,--they will take care of you and the money, too," he added,with his easy-going laugh. And then he grew suddenly sobered with atouch of shame. "I wouldn't give you the money to-night, my boy," hesaid hesitatingly, "but--I am hard to wake in the morning. I am afraidyou couldn't wake me early enough for me to give you the money in timeto get you off by dawn. And my client will be here with his boat,waiting for the cargo, if you are any later in starting. But you cantake just as good care of the money as I could. You are not so likely tolose it."
"I will do my best, sir," said the boy, quietly.
He took the money and put it away in his safest pocket. When he hadeaten supper with the family, he went back to his shadowed corner underthe stairs. But he could not read his book; his mind was too full ofthoughts which were fast be
coming a purpose. Ruth looked at him and athis book now and then, while she talked to the others, and her teasingglances hastened his decision. She would never laugh at him again fordreaming over romances, if he could prove that he was able to do anearnest man's part in the world. Yes, this was the chance which he hadbeen wishing for. He would go to the salt-works at once--that verynight--without waiting for daylight and without calling the black men.The judge would not care; he never cared for anything that did not givetrouble, and he need not know until afterward. David stood up suddenlyin the shadows under the stairs. He had decided; he would go as soon ashe could get away from the great room and put his saddle on the pony.Even Ruth must acknowledge that a night's ride over the Wilderness Roadwas the work of a man--the work of a strong, brave man.