Part 32 (2/2)
To avoid disquieting her by the studied guardedness of his manner, Harry employed himself as much of the time as possible away from the cabin, often in providing game for the winter. Larry Kildene had instructed him how to cure and dry the meat and to store it and also how to care for the skins, but because of the effect of that sight of the b.l.o.o.d.y sheep's pelt on Amalia, he never showed her a poor little dead creature, or the skin of one. He brought her mother whatever they required of food, carefully prepared, and that was all.
He constructed a chair for her and threw over it furs from Larry Kildene's store, making it soft and comfortable thereby. He made also a footstool for the hurt ankle to rest upon, and found a beautiful lynx skin with which to cover her feet. The back of the chair he made high, and hinged it with leather to the seat, arranging it so that by means of pegs it might be raised or lowered. Without lumber, and with the most simple tools, he sawed and hewed the logs, and lacking nails he set it together with pegs, but what matter? It was comfortable, and in the making of it he eased his heart by expressing his love without sorrowful betrayal.
Amalia laughed as she sat in it, one day, close to the open door, because the air was too pinching cold for her to be out. She laughed as she put her hands in the soft fur and drew her fingers through it, and looked up in Harry's face.
”You are thinking me so foolish, yes, to have about me the skins of poor little killed beasts? Yet I weeped all those tears on your coat because to see the other--yes,--hanging beside the door. It is so we are--is not?”
”I'm glad enough you're not consistent. It would be a blot on your character.”
”But for why, Mr. 'Arry?”
”Oh, I couldn't stand it.”
Again she laughed. ”How it is very peculiar--that reason you give. Not to stand it! Could you then to sit it?” But Harry only laughed and looked away from her. She laid her face against the soft fur. ”Good little animals--to give me your life. But some time you would die--perhaps with sorrow of hunger and age, and the life be for nothing. This is better.”
”There you're right. Let me draw you back in the room and close the door. It will freeze to-night, I'm thinking.”
”Oh, not yet, please! I have yet to see the gloryful sky of the west.
Last evening how it was beautiful! To-night it will be more lovely to look upon for the long line of little cloud there on which the red of the sun will burn like fire in the heaven over the mountain.”
”You must enjoy the beauty, Amalia, and then pray that there may be no snow. It looks like it, and we want the snow to hold off until Larry comes back.”
”We pray, always, my mamma and I. She that he come back quickly, and me--I pray that he come back safely--but to be soon--it is such terror to me.”
”Larry will find a way out of the difficulty. He will have an excuse all thought out for your mother. I am more anxious about the snow with a sunset sky like that, but I don't know anything about this region.”
”Mr. 'Arry, so very clever you are in making things, can you help me to one more thing? I like very much to have the sticks for lame walking,--what you call--the crutch? Yes. I have for so long time spoken only the Polish that I forget me greatly the English. You must talk to me much, and make me reproof of my mistakes. Do you know for why I like the crutch? It is that I would go each day--many times to see the water fall down. Ah, how that is beautiful! In the sun, or early in the morning, or in the night, always beautiful!”
”You shall have the crutches, Amalia, and until I get them made, I will carry you to the fall each day. Come, I will take you there now.
I will wrap these furs around you, and you shall see the fall in the evening light.”
”No, 'Arry King. To-morrow I will try to ride on the horse if you will lift me up on him. I will let you do this. But you may not carry me as you have done. I am now so strong. You may make me the crutch, yes.”
Of all things he wished her to let him carry her to the fall, but her refusal was final, and he set about making the crutches immediately.
Through the evening he worked on them, and at nightfall the next day he brought them to her. As he came down from his shed, carrying the crutches proudly, he heard sweet, quavering tones in the air wafted intermittently. The wind was still, and through the evening hush the tones strengthened as he drew nearer the cabin, until they seemed to wrap him in a net of interwoven cadences and fine-spun threads of quivering melody--a net of sound, inclosing his spirit in its intricate mesh of sweetness.
He paused and breathed deeply, and turned this way and that, as if he would escape but found no way; then he walked slowly on. At the door of the cabin he paused again. The firelight shone through from underneath, and a fine thread of golden light sifted through the latch of the door and fell on the hand that held Amalia's crutches. He looked down on the spot of light dancing over his hand as if he were dazed by it. Very gently he laid the crutches across the threshold, and for a long time stood without, listening, his head bowed as if he were praying.
It was her father's violin, the one she had wept at leaving behind her. What was she playing? Strange, old-world melodies they seemed, tossed into the air, now laughing, now wailing like sorrowing women voices. Oh, the violin in her hands! Oh, the rapture of hearing it, as her soul vibrated through it and called to him--called to him!--But he would not hear the call. He turned sorrowfully and went down again to the shed and there he lay upon his face and clasped his hands above his head and whispered her name. It was as if his heart were beating itself against prison walls and the clasped hands were stained with blood.
He rose next morning, haggard and pale. The snow was falling--falling--softly and silently. It fell like lead upon his heart, so full of anxiety was he for the good friend who might even then be climbing up the trail. Madam Manovska observed his drawn face, and thought he suffered only from anxiety and tried to comfort him.
Amalia also attempted to cover her own anxiety by a.s.surances that the good St. Christopher who watches over travelers would protect Larry Kildene, because he knew so well how many dangers there were, and that he, who had carried the Christ with all his burden of sorrows could surely keep ”Sir Kildene” even through the snows of winter. In spite of an inherent and trained disbelief in all supposed legends, especially as tenets of faith, Harry felt himself comforted by her talk, yet he could not forbear questioning her as to her own faith in them.
”Do you truly believe all that, Amalia?”
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