CHAPTER II
THE STRANGE YOUNG WOMAN
The tempest by now had subsided to a distant, rumbling murmur, although
the rain still beat against the window-panes in fitful gusts, the
while it gently played the long roll on the clapboards a scant two
feet above the tallest head. Far-off flashes of lightning cast ghastly
reminders athwart the windows, fighting the yellow candle glow with
a sickly, livid glare.
Kenneth's fellow-guest was standing near the stove, her back toward
him as he entered the kitchen. The slant of the "ceiling"
brought the crown of her head to within a foot or so of the round,
peeled beams that supported the shed-like roof, giving her the appearance
of abnormal height. As a matter of fact, she was not as tall as
the gaunt Eliza, who, like her husband and the six-foot guest, was
obliged to lower her head when passing through the kitchen door
to the yard.
The table was set for four, in the middle of the little kitchen;
rude hand-made stools, without backs, were in place. A figured red
cloth covered the board, its fringe of green hanging down over the
edges. The plates, saucers and coffee-cups were thick and clumsy
and gaudily decorated with indescribable flowers and vines done
entirely in green--a "set," no doubt, selected with great
satisfaction in advance of the Striker nuptials. There were black-handled
case-knives, huge four-tined forks, and pewter spoons. A blackened
coffee-pot, a brass tea-kettle and a couple of shallow skillets
stood on the square sheet-iron stove. "Come in and set down,
Mr. Gwynne," said Mrs. Striker, pointing to a stool. With the
other hand she deftly "flopped" an odorous corn-cake in
one of the skillets. There was a far from unpleasant odor of grease.
"I can't help thanking my lucky stars, Mrs. Striker, that I
got here ahead of that storm," said he, moving over to his
appointed place, where he remained standing. "We were just
in time, too. Ten minutes later and we would have been in the thick
of it. And here we are, safe and sound and dry as toast, in the
presence of a most inviting feast. I cannot tell you how much I
appreciate your kindness."
"Oh, it's--it's nothing," said she, diffidently. Then
to Striker: "Put 'em here on the table, you big lummix. Set
down, everybody."
The young lady sat opposite Gwynne. She lowered her head immediately
as Phineas began to offer up his established form of grace. The
unhappy host got himself into a dire state of confusion when he
attempted to vary the habitual prayer by tacking on a few words
appertaining to the recent hurricane and God's goodness in preserving
them all from destruction as well as the hope that no serious damage
had been done to other live-stock and fowls, or to the life and
property of his neighbours,--amen!
To which Zachariah, seated on a roll of blankets in the corner,
appended a heartfelt amen, and then sank back to watch his betters
eat, much as a hungry dog feasts upon anticipation. He knew that
he was to have what was left over, and he offered up a silent prayer
of his own while wistfully speculating on the prospects.
The two colonial candlesticks stood in the centre of the table,
a foot or two apart. When Gwynne lifted his head after "grace,"
he looked directly between them at his vis-a-vis. For a few seconds
he stared as if spell-bound. Then, realizing his rudeness and conscious
of an unmistakable resentment in her eyes, he felt the blood rush
to his face, and quickly turned to stammer something to his host,--he
knew not what it was.
Never had he looked upon a face so beautiful, never had he seen
any one so lovely as this strange young woman who shared with him
the hospitality of the humble board. He had gazed for a moment full
into her deep, violet eyes,--eyes in which there was no smile but
rather a cool intentness not far removed from unfriendliness,--and
in that moment he forgot himself, his manners and his composure.
The soft light fell upon warm, smooth cheeks; a broad, white brow;
red, sensitive lips and a perfect mouth; a round firm chin; a delicate
nose,--and the faint shadows of imperishable dimples that even her
unsmiling expression failed to disturb.
Not even in his dreams had he conjured up a face so bewilderingly
beautiful.
Her hair, which was puffed and waved over her ears, took on the
shade of brown spun silk on which the light played in changing tones
of bronze. It was worn high on her head, banded a la grecque, with
a small knot on the crown from which depended a number of ringlets
ornamented with bowknots. Her ears were completely hidden by the
soft mass that came down over them in shapely knobs. She wore no
earrings,--for which he was acutely grateful, although they were
the fashion of the day and cumbersomely hideous,--and her shapely
throat was barren of ornament. He judged her to be not more than
twenty-two or -three. A second furtive glance caught her looking
down at her plate. He marvelled at the long, dark eyelashes.
Who was she? What was she doing here in the humble cot of the Strikers?
Certainly she was out of place here. She was a tender, radiant flower
set down amongst gross, unlovely weeds. That she was a person of
consequence, to whom the Strikers paid a rude sort of deference,
softened by the familiarity of long association but in no way suggestive
of relationship, he was in no manner of doubt.
He was not slow to remark their failure to present him to her. The
omission may have been due to ignorance or uncertainty on their
part, but that was not the construction he put upon it. Striker
was the free-and-easy type who would have made these strangers known
to each other in some bluff, awkward manner,--probably by their
Christian names; he would never have overlooked this little formality,
no matter how clumsily he may have gone about performing it. It
was perfectly plain to Gwynne that it was not an oversight. It was
deliberate.
His slight feeling of embarrassment, and perhaps annoyance, evidently
was not shared by the young lady; so far as she was concerned the
situation was by no means strained. She was as calm and serene and
impervious as a princess royal.
She joined in the conversation, addressed herself to him without
constraint, smiled amiably (and adorably) upon the busy Eliza and
her jovial spouse, and even laughed aloud over the latter's account
of Zachariah and the silver-top boots. Gwynne remarked that it was
a soft, musical laugh, singularly free from the shrill, boisterous
qualities so characteristic of the backwoods-woman. She possessed
the poise of refinement. He had seen her counterpart,--barring her
radiant beauty,--many a time during his years in the cultured east:
in Richmond, in Philadelphia, and in New York, where he had attended
college.
He was subtly aware of the lively but carefully guarded interest
she was taking in him. He felt rather than knew that she was studying
him closely, if furtively, when his face was turned toward the talkative
host. Twice he caught her in the act of averting her gaze when he
suddenly glanced in her direction, and once he surprised her in
a very intense scrutiny,--which, he was gratified to observe, gave
way to a swift flush of confusion and the hasty lowering of her
eyes. No doubt, he surmised with some satisfaction, she was as vastly
puzzled as himself, for he must have appeared equally out-of-place
in these surroundings. His thoughts went delightedly to the old,
well-beloved story of Cinderella. Was this a Cinderella in the flesh,--and
in the morning would he find her in rags and tatters, slaving in
the kitchen?
He noticed her hands. They were long and slim and, while browned
by exposure to wind and sun, bore no evidence of the grinding toil
to which the women and girls of the frontier were subjected. And
they were strong, competent hands, at that.
The food was coarse, substantial, plentiful. (Even Zachariah could
see that it was plentiful.) Solid food for sturdy people. There
were potatoes fried in grease, wide strips of side meat, apple butter,
corn-cakes piping hot, boiled turnips, coffee and dried apple pie.
The smoky odor of frying grease arose from the skillets and, with
the grateful smell of coffee, permeated the tight little kitchen.
It was a savoury that consoled rather than offended the appetite
of these hardy eaters.
Striker ate largely with his knife, and smacked his lips resoundingly;
swigged coffee from his saucer through an overlapping moustache
and afterwards hissingly strained the aforesaid obstruction with
his nether lip; talked and laughed with his mouth full,--but all
with such magnificent zest that his guests overlooked the shocking
exhibition. Indeed, the girl seemed quite accustomed to Mr. Striker's
table-habits, a circumstance which created in Kenneth's questing
mind the conviction that she was not new to these parts, despite
the garments and airs of the fastidious East.
They were vastly interested in the account of his journey through
the wilderness.
"Nowadays," said Striker, "most people come up the
river, 'cept them as hail from Ohio. You must ha' come by way of
Wayne an' Madison Counties."
"I did," said his guest. "We found it fairly comfortable
travelling through Wayne County. The roads are decent enough and
the settlers are numerous. It was after we left Madison County that
we encountered hardships. We travelled for a while with a party
of emigrants who were heading for the settlement at Strawtown. There
were three families of them, including a dozen children. Our progress
was slow, as they travelled by wagon. Rumours that the Indians were
threatening to go on the warpath caused me to stay close by this
slow-moving caravan for many miles, not only for my own safety but
for the help I might be able to render them in case of an attack.
At Strawtown we learned that the Indians were peaceable and that
there was no truth in the stories. So Zachariah and I crossed the
White River at that point and struck off alone. We followed the
wilderness road,--the old Indian trace, you know,--and we travelled
nearly thirty miles without seeing a house. At Brown's Wonder we
met a party of men who had been out in this country looking things
over. They were so full of enthusiasm about the prairies around
here,--the Wea, the Wild Cat and Shawnee prairies,--that I was quite
thrilled over the prospect ahead, and no longer regretted the journey
which had been so full of privations and hardships and which I had
been so loath to undertake in the beginning. Have you been at Thorntown
recently?"
"Nope. Not sence I came through there some years ago. It was
purty well deserted in those days. Nothin' there but Injin wigwams
an' they was mostly run to seed. At that time, Crawfordsville was
the only town to speak of between Terry Hut an' Fort Wayne, 'way
up above here."
"Well, there are signs of a white settlement there now. Some
of the old French settlers are still there and other whites are
coming in. I had heard a great deal about the big Indian village
at Thorntown, and was vastly disappointed in what I found. I am
quite romantic, Miss--ahem!--quite romantic by nature, having read
and listened to tales of thrilling adventures among the redskins,
as we call them down my way, until I could scarce contain myself.
I have always longed for the chance to rescue a beautiful white
captive from the clutches of the cruel redskins. My valour--"
"And I suppose you always dreamed of marrying her as they always
do in stories?" said she, smiling.
"Invariably," said he. "Alas, if I had rescued all
the fair maidens my dreams have placed in jeopardy, I should by
this time have as many wives as Solomon. Only, I must say in defence
of my ambitions, I should not have had as great a variety. Strange
as it may seem, I remained through all my adventures singularly
constant to a certain idealistic captive. She looked, I may say,
precisely alike in each and every case. Poor old Solomon could not
say as much for his thousand wives. Mine, if I had them, would be
so much alike in face and form that I could not tell one from the
other,--and, now that I am older and wiser,--though not as wise
as Solomon,--I am thankful that not one of these daring rescues
was ever consummated, for I should be very much distressed now if
I found myself married to even the most beautiful of the ladies
my feeble imagination conceived."
This subtle touch of gallantry was over the heads of Mr. and Mrs.
Striker. As for the girl, she looked momentarily startled, and then
as the dimples deepened, a faint flush rose to her cheeks. An instant
later, the colour faded, and into her lovely eyes came a cold, unfriendly
light. Realizing that he had offended her with this gay compliment,--although
he had never before experienced rebuff in like circumstances,--he
hastened to resume his narrative.
"We finally came to Sugar River and followed the road along
the southern bank. You may know some of the settlers we found along
the river. Wisehart and Kinworthy and Dewey? They were among the
first to come to this part of the country, I am informed. Fine,
brave men, all of them. In Crawfordsville I stopped at the tavern
conducted by Major Ristine. While there I consulted with Mr. Elston
and Mr. Wilson and others about the advisability of selling my land
up here and my building lots in Lafayette. They earnestly advised
me not to sell. In their opinion Lafayette is the most promising
town on the Wabash, while the farming land in this section is not
equalled anywhere else in the world. Of course, I realize that they
are financially interested in the town of Lafayette, owning quite
a lot of property there, so perhaps I should not be guided solely
by their enthusiasm."
"They are the men who bought most of Sam Sargeant's lots some
years back," said Striker, "when there wasn't much of
anything in the way of a town,--them and Jonathan Powers, I think
it was. They paid somethin' like a hundred an' fifty dollars for
more'n half of the lots he owned, an' then they started right in
to crow about the place. I was workin' down at Crawfordsville at
the time. They had plenty of chance to talk, 'cause that town was
full of emigrants, land-grabbers, travellers an' setch like. That
was before the new county was laid out, you see. Up to that time
all the land north of Montgomery County was what was called Wabash
County. It run up as fer as Lake Michigan, with the jedges an' courts
an' land offices fer the whole district all located in Crawfordsville.
Maybe you don't know it, but Tippecanoe County is only about six
years old. She was organized by the legislature in 1826. To show
you how smart Elston and them other fellers was, they donated a
lot of their property up in Lafayette to the county on condition
that the commissioners located the county seat there. That's how
she come to be the county seat, spite of the claims of Americus
up on the east bank of the Wabash.
"Maybe you've heard of Bill Digby. He's the feller that started
the town o' Lafayette. Well, a couple o' days after he laid out
the town o' Lafayette,--named after a Frenchman you've most likely
heerd about,--he up an' sold the whole place to Sam Sargeant fer
a couple o' hundred dollars, they say. He kept enough ground fer
a ferry landin' an' a twenty-acre piece up above the town fer specolatin'
purposes, I understand. He afterwards sold this twenty-acre piece
to Sam fer sixty dollars, an' thought he done mighty well. When
I first come to the Wea, Lafayette didn't have more'n half a dozen
cabins. I went through her once on my way up to the tradin' house
at Longlois, couple a mile above. You wouldn't believe a town could
grow as fast as Lafayette has in the last couple o' years. If she
keeps on she'll be as big as all get-out, an' Crawfordsville won't
be nowhere. Tim Horran laid out Fairfield two-three years back,
over east o' here. Been a heap o' new towns laid out this summer,
all around here. But I guess they won't amount to much. Josiah Halstead
and Henry Ristine have jest laid out the town o' Columbia, down
near the Montgomery line. Over on Lauramie Crick is a town called
Cleveland, an' near that is Monroe, jest laid out by a feller named
Major. There's another town called Concord over east o' Columbia.
There may be more of 'em, but I ain't heerd of 'em yet. They come
up like mushrooms, an' 'fore you know it, why, there they are.
"This land o' yours, Mr. Gwynne, lays 'tween here an' this
new settlement o' Columbia, an' I c'n tell you that it ain't to
be beat anywheres in the country. I'd say it is the best land your
fa--er--ahem!" The speaker was seized with a violent and obviously
unnecessary spell of coughing. "Somethin' must ha' gone the
wrong way," he explained, lamely. "Feller ort to have
more sense'n to try to swaller when he's talkin'."
"Comes of eatin' like a pig," remarked his wife, glaring
at him as she poured coffee into Gwynne's empty cup. "Mr. Gwynne'll
think you don't know any better. He never eats like this on Sunday,"
she explained to their male guest.
"I got a week-day style of eatin' an' one strickly held back
fer Sunday," said Phineas. "Same as clothes er havin'
my boots greased."
Kenneth was watching the face of the girl opposite. She was looking
down at her plate. He observed a little frown on her brow. When
she raised her eyes to meet his, he saw that they were sullen, almost
unpleasantly so. She did not turn away instantly, but continued
to regard him with a rather disconcerting intensity. Suddenly she
smiled. The cloud vanished from her brow, her eyes sparkled. He
was bewildered. There was no mistaking the unfriendliness that had
lurked in her eyes the instant before. But in heaven's name, what
reason had she for disliking him?
"If you believe all that Phineas says, you will think you have
come to Paradise," she said. At no time had she uttered his
name, in addressing him, although it was frequently used by the
Strikers. She seemed to be deliberately avoiding it.
"It is a present comfort, at least, to believe him," he
returned. "I hope I may not see the day when I shall have to
take him to task for misleading me in so vital a matter."
"I hope not," said she, quietly.
As he turned to Striker, he caught that worthy gazing at him with
a fixed, inquisitive stare. He began to feel annoyed and uncomfortable.
It was not the first time he had surprised a similar scrutiny on
the part of one or the other of the Strikers. Phineas, on being
detected, looked away abruptly and mumbled something about "God's
country."
The young man decided it was time to speak. "By the way you
all look at me, Mr. Striker, I am led to suspect that you do not
believe I am all I represent myself to be. If you have any doubts,
pray do not hesitate to express them."
Striker was boisterously reassuring. "I don't doubt you fer
a second, Mr. Gwynne. As I said before, the whole county has been
expectin' you to turn up. We heerd a few days back that you was
in Crawfordsville. If me an' Eliza seem to act queer it's because
we knowed your father an'--an', well, I can't help noticin' how
much you look like him. When he was your age he must have looked
enough like you to be your twin brother. We don't mean no disrespect,
an' I hope you'll overlook our nateral curiosity."
Kenneth was relieved. The furtive looks were explained.
"I am glad to hear that you do not look upon me as an outlaw
or--"
"Lord bless you," cried Striker, "there ain't nobody
as would take you fer an outlaw. You ain't cut out fer a renegade.
We know 'em the minute we lay eyes on 'em. Same as we know a Pottawatomy
Injin from a Shawnee, er a jack-knife from a Bowie. No, there ain't
no doubt in my mind about you bein' your father's son--an' heir,
as the sayin' goes. If you turn out to be a scalawag, I'll never
trust my eyes ag'in."
The young man laughed. "In any case, you are very good to have
taken me in for the night, and I shall not forget your trust or
your hospitality. Wolves go about in sheep's clothing, you see,
and the smartest of men are sometimes fooled." He turned abruptly
to the girl. "Did you know my father, too?"
She started violently and for the moment was speechless, a curious
expression in her eyes.
"Yes," she said, at last, looking straight at him: "Yes,
I knew your father very well."
"Then, you must have lived in these parts longer than I have
suspected," said he. "I should have said you were a newcomer."
Mrs. Striker made a great clatter of pans and skillets at the stove.
The girl waited until this kindly noise subsided.
"I have lived in this neighbourhood since I was eight years
old," she said, quietly.
Striker hastened to add: "Somethin' like ten or 'leven years,--'leven,
I reckon, ain't it?"
"Eleven years," she replied.
Gwynne was secretly astonished and rather skeptical. He would have
taken oath that she was twenty-two or -three years old, and not
nineteen as computation made her.
"She ain't lived here all the time," volunteered Eliza,
somewhat defensively. "She was to school in St. Louis fer two
or three years an'--"
The young lady interrupted the speaker coldly. "Please, Eliza!"
Eliza, looking considerably crestfallen, accepted the rebuke meekly.
"I jest thought he'd be interested," she murmured.
"She came up the Wabash when she was nothin' but a striplin',"
began Striker, not profiting by his wife's experience. He might
have gone on at considerable length if he had not met the reproving,
violet eye. He changed the subject hastily. "As I was sayin',
we've had a powerful lot o' rain lately. Why, by gosh, last week
you could have went fishin' in our pertato patch up yander an' got
a mess o' sunfish in less'n no time. I never knowed the Wabash to
be on setch a rampage. An' as fer the Wild Cat Crick and Tippecanoe
River, why, they tell me there ain't been anything like--How's that?"
"Is Wabash an Indian name?" repeated Kenneth.
"That's what they say. Named after a tribe that used to hunt
an' fish up an' down her, they say."
"There was once a tribe of Indians in this part of the country,"
broke in the girl, with sudden zest, "known as the Ouabachi.
We know very little about them nowadays, however. They were absorbed
by other and stronger tribes far back in the days of the French
occupation, I suppose. French trappers and voyageurs are known to
have traversed and explored the wilderness below here at least one
hundred and fifty years ago. There is an old French fort quite near
here,--Ouiatanon."
"She knows purty nigh everything," said Phineas, proudly.
"Well, I guess we're about as full as it's safe to be, so now's
your chance, Zachariah."
He pushed back his stool noisily and arose. Taking up the two candlesticks,
he led the way to the sitting-room, stopping at the door for a word
of instruction to the negro. "You c'n put your blankets down
here on the kitchen floor when you're ready to go to bed. Mrs. Striker
will kick you in the mornin' if you ain't awake when she comes out
to start breakfast."
"Yassuh, yassuh," grinned the hungry darkey. "Missus
won't need fo' to kick more'n once, suh,--'cause Ise gwine to be
hungry all over ag'in 'long about breakfus time,--yas-SUH!"
"Zachariah will wash the dishes and--" began Kenneth,
addressing Mrs. Striker, who was already preparing to cleanse and
dry her pots and pans. She interrupted him.
"He won't do nothin' of the kind. I don't let nobody wash my
dishes but myself. Set down here, Zachariah, an' help yourself.
When you're done, you c'n go out an' carry me in a couple of buckets
o' water from the well,--an, that's all you CAN do."
"I guess I'll go out an' take a look around the barn an' pens,"
said Phineas, depositing the candles on the mantelpiece. "See
if everything's still there after the storm. No, Mr. Gwynne,--you
set down. No need o' you goin' out there an' gettin' them boots
o' your'n all muddy."
He took up the lantern and lighted the tallow wick from one of the
candles. Then he fished a corncob pipe from his coattail pocket
and stuffed it full of tobacco from a small buckskin bag hanging
at the end of the mantel.
"He'p yourself to tobaccer if you keer to smoke. There's a
couple o' fresh pipes up there,--jest made 'em yesterday,--an' it
ain't ag'inst the law to smoke in the house on rainy nights. Used
to be a time when we was first married that I had to go out an'
git wet to the skin jest because she wouldn't 'low no tobaccer smoke
in the house. Many's the time I've sot on the doorstep here enjoyin'
a smoke with the rain comin' down so hard it'd wash the tobaccer
right out o' the pipe, an' twice er maybe it was three times it
biled over an'--What's that you say?"
"I did not say anything, Phineas," said the girl, shaking
her head mournfully. "I am wondering, though, where you will
go when you die."
"Where I c'n smoke 'thout runnin' the risk o' takin' cold,
more'n likely," replied Phineas, winking at the young man.
Then he went out into the windy night, closing the door behind him.