Part 32 (1/2)
”No, no. I cannot go there--not near it--no!”
”Oh, you brave, sweet woman! It is only a skin. Don't look at it, then. You have been frightened. I see how you have suffered. Wait.
There--no, don't put your foot to the ground. Sit on this hillock while I take it away.”
But she only clung to him the more, and sobbed convulsively. ”I am afraid--'Arry King. Oh, if--if--they are there still! Those Indian! Do not go there.”
”But they are gone; I have been in and they are not there. I won't take you into that place until I have made it fit for you again. Sit here awhile. Amalia Manovska,--I can't see you weep.” So tenderly he spoke her name, with quivering lips, reverently. With all his power he held himself and would dare no more. If only once more he might touch her lips with his--only once in his renunciation--but no. His conscience forbade him. Memory closed upon him like a deadening cloud and drenched his hurt soul with sorrow. He rose from stooping above her and looked back.
”Your mother is coming. She will be here in a moment and then I will set that room in order for you, and--” his voice shook so that he was obliged to pause. He stooped again to her and spoke softly: ”Amalia Manovska, stop weeping. Your tears fall on my heart.”
”Ah, what have happen, to you--to Amalia--? Those terrible men 'rouge'!” cried Madam Manovska, hurrying forward.
”Oh, Madam, I am glad you have come. The Indians are gone, never fear.
Amalia has hurt her foot. It is very painful. You will know what to do for her, and I will leave her while I make things more comfortable in there.”
He left them and ran to the cabin, and hastily taking the hideous pelt from the wall, hid it, and then set himself to cleaning the room and burning the litter of bones and sc.r.a.ps left from the feast. It was horrible--yes, horrible, that they should have had such a fright, and alone there. Soon he went back, and again taking her in his arms, unresisted now, he laid her on the bunk, then knelt and removed her worn shoe.
”Little worn shoe! It has walked many a mile, has it not? Did you think to ask Larry Kildene to bring you new ones?”
”No, I forgot my feet.” She laughed, and the spell of tears was broken. The long strain of anxiety and fear and then the sudden release had been too much. Moreover, she was faint with hunger.
Without explanation Harry King understood. He looked to the mother for help and saw that a change had come over her. Roused from her apathy she was preparing food, and looking from her to Amalia, they exchanged a glance of mutual relief.
”How it is beautiful to see her!” Amalia spoke low. ”It is my hurt that is good for her mind. I am glad of the hurt.”
He sat with the shoe in his hand. ”Will you let me bind your ankle, Amalia? It will grow worse unless something is done quickly.” He spoke humbly, as one beseeching a favor.
”Now it is already better, you have remove the shoe.” How he loved her quaint, rapid speech! ”Mamma will bind it, for you have to do for those horse and the mule. I know--I have seen--to take them to drink and eat, and take from them the load--the burden. It is the box--for that have you risk your life, and the gladness we feel to again have it is--is only one greater--and that is to have you again with us. Oh, what a sorrow and terror--if you had not come--I can never make you know. When I see those Indian come walking after each other so as they go--my heart cease to beat--and my body become like the ice--for the fear. When fearing for myself, it is bad, but when for another it is much--much--more terrible. So have I found it.”
Her mother came then to attend to her hurt, interrupting Amalia's flow of speech, and Harry went out to the animals, full of care and misgiving. What now could he do? How endure the days to come with their torture of repression? How s.h.i.+eld her from himself and his love--when she so freely gave? What middle course was possible, without making her suffer?
That afternoon all the events of his journey were told to them as they questioned him keenly, and he learned by little words and looks exchanged between them how great had been their anxiety for him, and of their night of terror on the mountain. But now that it was past and they were all unhurt except for Amalia's accident, they made light of it. He dragged in the box, and before he left them that night he prepared Larry's gun, and told Amalia to let nothing frighten her.
”Don't leave the bunk, nor put your foot to the ground. Fire the gun at the slightest disturbance, and I will surely hear. I have another in the shed. Or I will roll myself in my blanket, and sleep outside your door. Yes, I will do that.”
Then the mother turned on him and spoke in her deep tones: ”Go to your bed, 'Arry King, and sleep well. You have need. We asked of the good G.o.d your safety, and our fear is gone. Good night.”
”Good-night.”
CHAPTER XXI
THE VIOLIN
While Amalia lay recovering from the sprained ankle, which proved to be a serious hurt, Madam Manovska continued to improve. She took up the duties which had before occupied Amalia only, and seemed to grow more cheerful. Still she remained convinced that Larry Kildene would return with her husband, and her daughter's anxiety as to what might be the outcome, when the big man should arrive alone, deepened.
Harry King guardedly and tenderly watched over the two women. Every day he carried Amalia out in the sun to a sheltered place, where she might sit and work at the fascinating lace with which her fingers seemed to be only playing, yet which developed into webs of most intricate design, even while her eyes were not fixed upon it, but were glancing about at whatever interested her, or up in his face, as she talked to him impulsively in her fluent, inverted English.
Amalia was not guarded; she was lavish with her interest in all he said, and in her quick, responsive, and poetic play of fancy--ardent and glowing--glad to give out from her soul its best to this man who had befriended her father in their utmost need and who had saved her own and her mother's life. She knew always when a cloud gathered over his spirit, and made it her duty to dispel such mists of some possible sad memory by turning his thoughts to whatever of beauty she found around them, or in the inspiration of her own rich nature.