Part 18 (1/2)
He demanded this accounting in a tone of pa.s.sionate fierceness such as none of those present had ever heard in him, turning first upon William Pressley and then upon Robert Knox. His face was white, and his eyes were blazing, and they did not at once resume their natural look when he had been a.s.sured of Ruth's safety. But he said nothing more, and only Father Orin noted how altered and worn and old he looked, when he entered the room and the brighter light fell upon him.
He came to the fireside and sat down with the light of a swinging lamp falling full on his face. His clear blue eyes, growing quiet, now looked straight into Father Orin's--which were openly searching and suspicious--during the second telling of the story of the night. It was not easy for suspicion to stand against such a gaze. The priest's wavered in spite of its strength. No one could believe evil of Philip Alston while looking in his n.o.ble, open face. He did not speak immediately after the story was told. When he did, it was to say, quietly and naturally, precisely what any right-minded man would have said under the circ.u.mstances:--
”This young stranger is certainly a man of courage. He has protected the attorney-general at the risk of his own life. In doing this, he has done a great service for all of us--for the whole country. We must now do what 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 the wounded 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 most unfortunate affair. She has had far too much to do with it already. That mooning, foolish boy must have led her into this romantic folly through some girlish enthusiasm about Joe Daviess, the popular hero of romance.
It is plainly the boy's fault that she was induced to do so dangerous and unheard-of a thing. She could never have thought of it herself. I shall see that he keeps his place hereafter. We must look to it, William,” turning upon the young man with more severity than his voice often 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, together with the older ladies, all in attendance upon the injured man. The priest 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 she has not been harmed.”
As he rose, there was a sound outside. He turned to the open door and saw two hors.e.m.e.n approaching at a gallop. It was light enough for him to see and recognize the attorney-general and the doctor. The other men hurriedly went out to meet them. Philip Alston stood still in a shadowed corner of the great room, while the rest hastened up the stairway and into the chamber where Paul Colbert lay. And then he followed them with his swift, light step, and pausing upon the threshold, looked into the open room, his gaze first seeking Ruth. She stood on the other side of the chamber, apart from the group around the bed. But she did not see him; her eyes and hands and thoughts were on the bandages which she was hastily preparing. He shrank from what she was doing and turning hastily away fixed his eyes on the attorney-general. Thus, silently looking and listening, he presently heard him say how deeply he regretted being compelled to leave the country before knowing the result of his friend's wound, adding that he was leaving on the next day for Tippecanoe. Philip Alston barely glanced at the white face lying against the pillow. He was disturbed and even shocked to see it there. He felt this stranger's presence in her chamber to be a desecration. And then the sight of suffering always made him uncomfortable. He wondered how she could endure it. The repulsion which the average man feels for any affliction of mind, body, or estate was so intensified in him that he could not, with all his intelligence, understand that the very sight of great suffering n.o.bly borne, does much to win a woman's heart.
XXI
THE EAGLE IN THE DOVE'S NEST
The worst hurt that Paul Colbert had received was from a blow on the head, which had stunned and nearly killed him. But there had been no lasting injury, even from this, and the knife-wound in his shoulder had healed rapidly; he was young, and strong, and healthy.
On the morning of the seventh day he awoke and looked at Ruth. He was feeling almost well, but had no inclination to stir. It was pleasant enough just to lie there and look at her, and let his gaze wander around her chamber. This white shrine of maidenhood! He had felt its influence before he was able to understand, and the reverential awe had grown with his returning strength. How dainty it was, for all its rough board floor and rude log walls! Even those were as white as the driven snow. The bed was like the warm, soft breast of a snow-white swan, and its drawn curtains like folded wings. There were spotless muslin curtains over the windows, and the little toilet table also was draped in white and strewn with bits of carved ivory. The whole room showed the same mingling of luxury 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 the rude walls, the alabaster vase on the rude stand,--filled with fresh, late-blooming flowers,--the costly white fur rug on the floor, the delicate work basket with its coquettish bows of riband, contrasted oddly with the other simple things which had evidently been made in the wilderness by unskilled hands. Yet even those were tasteful and all painted white, so that the whole was purity, beauty, and exquisiteness.
Yet his gaze quickly turned from the room to her. He knew that she believed him to be asleep; but it was so pleasant to watch her that he did not hasten to let her know that he was awake. She was very busy at the window, with her back to him, and deeply absorbed in something that she was doing. Moving lightly and swiftly to and fro across the light, she was working hard, with no more noise than the sunbeams made in glancing about her slender form. He lay watching her for some time in dreamy delight, before he saw what it was that she was doing. But presently he knew that she was making an aeolian harp. The two fragile bits of vibrant wood to hold the strings were already in place on either side of the window, just where the upper and lower sash came together.
She was now engaged in carrying the threads of fine silk floss, which were to form the strings of this simple wind-harp, from one piece of wood to the other. Back and forth she wove them across the current of air, moving with swift, noiseless motions of exquisite grace. As the last fine fibre thus fell into place and was firmly drawn, a soft, musical sigh breathed through the shadowed room, the very shadow of music's sweet self.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”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 to open his eyes.”
”But I am not a sick man any longer. I am almost well. I could get up now, if I wished,” jestingly, ”I am getting well as fast as I can, just to convict the other doctor of a mistaken diagnosis. What a fine old fellow he is!” with a quick change to earnestness. ”How kind he has been, how untiring in his attention and goodness to me. And so skilful, too. I am ashamed of my presumption. A mere beginner like myself, to question his methods in dealing with the Cold Plague! I don't believe he made the mistakes they said he did. He couldn't!”
It was an unlucky recollection. The thought of this mysterious epidemic which had grown worse, till it was now devastating the whole country, made him suddenly restless. His patients were needing him sorely while he lay here, still bound hand and foot by weakness. He turned his head miserably on the pillow. It was not the first time that this thought had troubled him, and she knew the signs. Laying a gentle, soothing hand on his tossing head, she spoke in the quieting tone that a woman always uses 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 through her own heart with the words. What should she do when he was gone? And he 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 the peace that she gives to those whom she loves. And then it may have been only the sweet sadness of the spirit harp's sighing that made Ruth's lips quiver under their bright smile.