IX
PAUL'S FIRST VISIT TO RUTH
None of this strife had yet touched Cedar House. Even the hazy sadnesswhich had dimmed Ruth's bright spirits as she had watched the youngpreacher ride away, had passed as quickly as mist before the sun. For itis one of the mercies that happy youth never sees life's struggle quiteclearly, and that it is soon allowed to forget the fleeting glimpseswhich may cloud its happiness for an instant.
Her thoughts were now solely of the young doctor's coming. He had notnamed the hour; the epidemic made him uncertain of his own time. But hehad said that he would come during the day, so that it was necessary tobe ready to receive him at any moment. And there were many pleasantthings to do in preparation for his coming. More roses were to begathered, and other flowers also, were blooming gayly among the sobervegetables as if it were mid-summer. So that the first thing Ruth didwas to strip the garden, with David to help her and no one to hinder.
The judge and William had gone away from the house as soon as breakfastwas over, saying they would try to return in time to see the visitor.Miss Penelope was busy in seeing that the coffee-pot was washed with hotwater and rinsed with cold, and scoured inside and out till it shonelike burnished silver. The widow Broadnax, too, was as busy as she everwas, sitting in her usual place in the chimney-corner, looking like somelarge, clumsily graven image in dark stone, and watching herhalf-sister's every movement without winking or turning her head. Sothat Ruth and David were left to follow their own fanciful devices, freeto put flowers everywhere. They wrought out their fancies to the fullestand the more fantastic, as the artistic instinct rarely fails to do inits first freedom. When they were done, the great room of Cedar Housewas an oddly charming sight, worth going far to see. Never before had itbeen so wonderful, strange, and beautiful. It had now become anenchanted bower of mingled bloom and fragrance, shadowed within yet opento the sun-lit day and the flashing river.
"There!" cried Ruth, looking round, with her head on one side. "Thereisn't one forgotten spot for another flower. Now, I must run and dress.And you must wait here till I come back, David, dear, for the doctor mayarrive at any moment, and somebody should be ready to welcome him. Why!aunt Molly has actually followed aunt Penelope clear to the kitchen, sothat there is no one left but you. Don't go till I come back."
She went up the broad, dark stairs, turning on almost every step tolook down over the room and drink in the beauty and sweetness. David,also, drank it in still more eagerly, taking deep intoxicating draughts,as the thirsty take cool, sparkling wine. He then sat quietly lookingabout and waiting. His book was in his pocket, as it nearly always waswhen not in his hand. But he had grown shy of reading "The FamousHistory of Montilion--Knight of the Oracle, Son to the true Mirror ofPrinces, the most Renowned Pericles, showing his Strange Birth,Unfortunate Love, Perilous Adventures in Arms: and how he came to theKnowledge of his Parents, interlaced with a Variety of Pleasant andDelightful Discourse," since Ruth had laughed at it, and had laid theblame for his weakness upon the romance. And then his craving for theromantic and beautiful was satisfied for the moment by gazing about thisbig, strange, shadowy, embowered room. Moreover, Ruth came back verysoon. When beauty is young, fresh, natural, and very, very great, itdoes not need much time for its adornment. Ruth's toilet was like abird's. A quick dip in pure, cold water--a flutter of soft garments asthe radiant wings cast off the crystal drops--and she was ready to meetthe full glory of the sunlight. When she thus came smiling down thestairs that day, with the dew of life's morning fresh upon her, Davidturned from the flowers.
"Yes, indeed! Isn't it a lovely frock!" she cried, running her handlightly over the big, puffy, short sleeve. "It is one of the last unclePhilip had made in New Orleans, and fetched up the river. You might drawthis muslin through my smallest ring. See this dear little girdle--wayup here right under my arms--and so delicately worked in these pale blueforget-me-nots, that look as if they were just in bloom. See!"--liftingthe gauzy skirt as a child lifts its apron--"Here is a border of theforget-me-nots all around the bottom. But you are such a goose that youdon't know how pretty it is unless I tell you," pretending to shake him,with trills of happy laughter. "All the same, you shall look at theslippers, too! You shall see that the kid is as blue as theforget-me-nots,--whether you want to or not!" drawing back the skirt andputting out her foot.
And the boy gazing at her face, forgot his bashfulness far enough toadmire the frock and the slippers as much as she thought they deserved.Neither of these children of the wilderness knew how unsuitable herdress was, that it had never been intended for wearing in the morninganywhere, or for the forest at any time. Ruth had worn only thedaintiest and finest of garments all her life, without any regard forsuitableness. From her babyhood to this day of her girlhood, it had beenPhilip Alston's pride and happiness to dress her as the proudest andrichest father might dress his daughter, in the midst of the highestcivilization. Ruth knew nothing else, and those who knew her wouldscarcely have known her, seeing her otherwise. It was only the fewstrangers stopping at Cedar House, on their way over the WildernessRoad, who gazed at Ruth in wondering amazement. Naturally enough, thosewho had never seen her before could not at first believe the evidence oftheir own dazzled eyes. To them this radiant young creature in her rich,delicate raiment could not seem real at first; she was too lovely, toolike an enchanting vision born of the dim green shadows of the forest, abewitching dryad, an exquisite sprite.
Some such thoughts as these crossed the mind of Paul Colbert as helooked at her through the open door. He had ridden up unheard, haddismounted, tying his horse to a tree, and had then stood for severalminutes without being seen by Ruth or David. When he spoke, they thoughtthat he had just arrived. Ruth went forward to welcome him with the easeand grace that marked everything she did. Nature had given her a pretty,gentle dignity, and Philip Alston's cultured example had polished hermanner. She now did all the graceful offices of the hostess, quietly andsimply. She said how sorry she was that neither her uncle nor her cousinwas at home. They wished, she said, to be there when he came, so thatthey might try to thank him for his kindness to her. But one or theother would return very soon; both had hoped to do so before hisarrival.
"It is early for a visit," Paul Colbert said, in a tone of apology; "butI couldn't come at all to-day, unless I stopped now in passing."
"Oh, no!" said Ruth, quickly. "It isn't very early."
"And then I thought you might like to see this," he said.
Rising, he stepped to her side, and gave her a sheet of paper torn fromhis note-book and covered with writing. He did not return to the chairwhich he had arisen from, but took another much nearer her own.
"Poetry!" she said. "Is it something that you have written?"
He smiled. "I have merely copied it. I saw the poem for the first timean hour or so ago at Mr. Audubon's. It is new and has never beenprinted. It was written by the young English poet, John Keats, to hisbrother George Keats, who is a partner of Mr. Audubon in the mill on theriver. Mr. Keats and his wife are here now, the guests of Mr. Audubon.The poem came in a letter which has just been received. I have copied apart of it, and a few words from the letter, also. Mr. George Keats waskind enough to allow me, and I thought you would like to see them. Ihadn't time to copy the entire poem, though it isn't very long."
"It was very kind," said Ruth. "I am so glad to see it. May I read itnow? This is what the letter says," reading it aloud, so that David alsomight hear. "If I had a prayer to make for any great good ... it shouldbe that one of your children should be the first American poet?"
"The first English hand across the sea!" said Paul Colbert.
Ruth read on from this letter of John Keats to his brother: "I have amind to make a prophecy. They say that prophecies work out their ownfulfilment." And then she read as much of "A Prophecy" as the doctor hadcopied.
* * * * *
"Though, the rushes that will make Its cradle are by the lake-- Though the linen that will be
Its swathe is on the cotton tree-- Though the woollen that will keep It warm is on the silly sheep-- Listen, starlight, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, And hear my lullaby! Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee! Midst the quiet all around thee! Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee! And thy mother sweet is nigh thee. Child, I know thee! Child no more, But a poet ever-more! See, see, the lyre, the lyre! In a flame of fire Upon the little cradle's top Flaring, flaring, flaring, Past the eyesight's bearing. Wake it from its sleep, And see if it can keep Its eyes upon the blaze-- Amaze, amaze! It stares, it stares, it stares, It dares what none dares! It lifts its little hand into the flame Unharmed and on the strings Paddles a little tune and sings, With dumb endeavor sweetly-- Bard thou art completely; Little child, O' the western wild...."
Ruth looked at Paul with shining eyes. "I thank you again for thinkingthat I would like this," she said.
"A little chap whom I saw last night made me feel like making a prophecythat he would be the first Kentucky astronomer," said Paul, with asmile. "He was hardly more than a baby, not much over two years old--atoddling curly-head. Yet there he stood by the roadside, looking up atthe heavens, as solemn as you please. And he said that 'man couldn'tmake moons.' I didn't hear him say this, but his brother repeated whathe said."
"Yes, I know. You mean' little Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel. His people livenear here, over on Highland Creek. His father came there from Virginia.He intended to bore for salt water, meaning to make salt. But he foundmore interest in the wild multiflora roses that bloom all around theLick, and the bones of unknown animals buried fifty feet beneath thesurface of the earth--though the bones were not found just there--butfarther off at another Lick."
"Then Master Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel is the true son of his father,"smiled Paul Colbert. "Neither seems commonplace enough to be contentwith what everyday people find between heaven and earth."
He said this idly, as we all speak to one another when casting about formutual interests before really knowing each other. Thus the talk driftedfor a few moments, with a shy word now and then from David. Andpresently a chance reference to the epidemic brought a new light intothe doctor's eyes, and a new earnestness into his voice.
"The fathers and mothers of the country are much alarmed for theirchildren," he said. "But there is far more need to be alarmed forthemselves. The Cold Plague attacks the strong rather than the weak. Butall the people, young and old, everywhere through the wilderness, arealmost frantic with terror. They fear infection from every newcomer.There was a panic throughout this vicinity a few days ago, over thelanding of a flatboat, and the coming ashore of the unfortunates whowere on it. They were in a most pitiful plight. I hope never to see asadder sight than that poverty-stricken little family. But they were notsuffering from any disease more contagious than want; they were onlycold, wet, tired, hungry, and disheartened. The poor mother was sittingon the damp sand near the water's edge, with her little ones around her,when I found them. They were merely stopping to rest on their way fromanother portion of the state, to the wild country on the other side ofthe river."
"We saw them, too, poor things," said Ruth, quickly, with pity in hersoft eyes. "Father Orin and Toby came by to tell us, and David and Iwent at once to do what we could. I can't forget how the mother looked.She was young, but had such a sad, haggard face, with such a prominentforehead, and such steady gray eyes. She held a strange looking littlechild on her lap. She said that her name was Nancy Lincoln, and shecalled the baby 'Abe.' He couldn't have been more than two years of age,but he looked up at Father Orin, and from his face to ours, like sometroubled little old man."
"Yes, Father Orin and Toby were first to the rescue, as they always are.I can't imagine when those two sleep, and I am sure they never rest whenawake."
And then, seeing her interest and sympathy, he went on to tell of threelittle ones, orphaned by the plague, and left alone and utterlyhelpless, in a cabin on the Wilderness Road. As he spoke, he rememberedwith a pang of self-reproach, that Father Orin was with them now andwaiting for him. He rose suddenly, saying that he must go, but a slightnoise at the door caused him to pause and turn. It was William Pressleycoming in, and Ruth went forward to meet him, and introduced him to thedoctor, who sat down again for a few moments. The two young men thentalked with one another as strangers do, of the current topics of theday and the country, speaking mostly of the Shawnee danger--the onesubject then most earnestly and universally discussed throughout thewilderness. The nearest approach to a personal tone was in WilliamPressley's formal expression of thanks. Paul Colbert put these aside asformally as they were offered, and in a moment more he got up to takeleave. Yet in that brief space the two men had begun to dislike eachother.
This was natural enough on the part of William Pressley. It is indeedthe first instinct of his kind toward any equal or superior. When aman's or a woman's vanity is so great that it instinctively andinstantly levies on all within reach--demanding incense--nothing can beso dislikeful as a bearing which refuses to swing the censer. From itsvery nature it must instantly resent any such conscious or unconsciousclaim to equality, to say nothing of superiority. Those so afflictedmust of necessity like only their inferiors and must have only inferiorsfor friends, if they have any friends at all. So that this is maybe thereal reason why many reasonably good and perfectly sincere men andwomen go almost friendless through useful and blameless lives. And thiswas William Pressley's natural feeling toward Paul Colbert. The honest,sincere young lawyer could have forgiven the honest, sincere youngdoctor almost any real sin or weakness and have liked him well enough;but he could not forgive the polite indifference of his manner towardhimself, or his looking over his head at Ruth, or turning from him tospeak to David. Least of all could he forgive him for being at thatmoment the most conspicuous figure in the whole region, on account ofhis single-handed struggle with the mysterious disease, which, defyingthe other doctors, had been devastating the new settlements of thewilderness. Nor could the difference in their aims affect this feelingin the least. To a nature like William Pressley's, anything won byanother is something taken from himself. Yet the dislike for PaulColbert, which thus hardened within him, had no taint of jealousy in theordinary sense of that term. He did not think of Ruth at all in thematter. It did not occur to him to associate her with this stranger, orwith any one but himself. It was in keeping with his character for himto be slower than a less vain man to suspect her--or any one whom heknew--of personal preference for another than himself; for vanity ofthis supreme order has its comforts as well as its torments.
On the part of Paul Colbert, the feeling was wholly different, andlargely impersonal. It was merely the dislike that every busy man feelsfor a new acquaintance which promises no interest, even at the outset.Had he been less busy, and his mind more free, he might perhaps havefound some amusement in trying to find out how far this serious youngman was mistaken in his high estimate of himself. He thought at a firstglance that he was a good deal in error, but he also saw that he wassincere in his conviction; so that the young doctor was tolerantlyamused at the lofty air of the young lawyer, without the slightestfeeling of real resentment. He made one or two straightforward, friendlyefforts to thaw the ice of William Pressley's manner. His own wasnaturally frank and cordial. He always wished to be liked, which is thenatural wish of every truly kind nature. And then, above and beyondthis, was the right-minded lover's instinctive desire to secure thegood-will of all who are near the one whom he loves; for Paul Colberthad fallen in love with Ruth, and he knew it, as few do who have fallenin love at first sight. He could, indeed, have told the very instant atwhich love had come--like a bolt from the blue.
He was therefore more than willing to be friendly with William Pressley,and already seeking a pretext to come again. He now said, turning toRuth with a smile:
"Since you are fond of poetry, perhaps you will allow me to fetch you anew volume of poems by a young Englishman, Lord Byron. A friend sent itto me from
London. He says it is being severely treated by the critics.They say that they never would have believed that any one could havebeen as idle and as worthless generally, as those 'Hours of Idleness'prove the author to be. But I think you will like the poems, especiallyone called 'The Tear.' It is said that the poet means to write somethingabout Daniel Boone."
"There should be many tears in that poem," said Ruth, a shadow fallingover the brightness of her face. "To think of the poor old hero as he isnow makes the heart ache."
"It should make us all ashamed," said Paul Colbert. "He gave us thewhole state, and we are not willing to give him back enough of it torest his failing feet upon, nor a log cabin to shelter his feeble body,worn out in our service. It is the blackest ingratitude. It is adisgrace to the commonwealth."
"Pardon me," said William Pressley, with his cool smile; "but as I lookat the matter, there is no one but himself to blame. It is solely theresult of his own negligence and ignorance. He did not observe the plainrequirement of the law."
"But, William," said Ruth, impulsively, with a brighter color in hercheek, "just think! How could he know--a simple old hunter, just like alittle child, only as brave as a lion!" There was a quiver in her voiceand a flash in her soft eyes.
"We can but hope that the state will remember what it owes," said thedoctor, moving toward the door.
He felt that he had been tempted to linger too long. Father Orin wasstill waiting for him in the desolate cabin where the Cold Plague hadleft the three orphans. His conscience smote him for lingering, and yethe could not leave, even now, without speaking again of the poems, andsaying that he would fetch the book and leave it the next time he rodeby Cedar House.
When he was gone, Ruth looked at William Pressley in silent, troubledperplexity. She was wondering vaguely why she had felt soashamed--almost as if she had done some shameful thing herself--when hehad spoken as he had done before the doctor about Daniel Boone. It musthave been plain to the visitor that she did not think as Williamthought. And yet she flinched again, recalling the doctor's glance atWilliam, and wondered why it should have hurt her, as if it had fallenupon herself. She was not old enough or wise enough to have learned thatthe mere promise to marry a man makes a sensitive woman begin forthwith,to feel responsible for everything that he says and does; and that thisis one of the deep, mysterious sources of the misery and happiness ofmarriage.