CHAPTER XXVIII
THE TRYSTING PLACE OF THOUGHTS
The turmoil and excitement over the Indian outbreak increased during
the day. A constant stream of refugees, mostly old men, women and
children, poured into Lafayette from regions west of the Wabash.
By nightfall fully three hundred of them were being cared for by
the people of the town, and more were coming. Shortly after noon
a mounted scout rode in from Warren County with the word that the
militia of his county was preparing to start off at once to meet
the advancing hordes; he brought in the report that farther north
the frontier was being abandoned by the settlers and that massacres
already had occurred. There was also a well-supported rumour that
a portion of the Illinois militia, some two hundred and fifty men
in all, had been routed on Hickory Creek by Black Hawk's invincible
warriors, with appalling losses to the whites. He bore a stirring
message from his commanding officer, urging the men of Tippecanoe
to rouse themselves and join Warren County troops in an immediate
movement to repel or at least to check the Sacs and Miamis and Pottawattomies
who were swarming over the prairies like locusts.
The appearance of this messenger, worn and spent after his long
ride, created a profound sensation. Here at last was official verification
of the stories brought in by the panic-stricken refugees; here was
something that caused the whole town suddenly to awake to the fact
that a real menace existed, and that it was not, after all, another
of those rattle-brained "scares" which were constantly
cropping up.
For months there had been talk of old Black Hawk and his Sacs going
on the warpath over the occupation of their lands in Northern Illinois
by the swift-advancing, ruthless whites. The old Sac, or Sauk, chieftain
had long threatened to resist by force of arms this violation of
the treaty. He had been so long, however, in even making a start
to carry out his threat that the more enlightened pioneers had ceased
to take any stock in his spoutings.
The Free Press, Lafayette's only newspaper, had from time to time
printed news seeping out of the Northwest by means of carrier or
voyageur; their tales bore out the reports furnished by Federal
and State authorities on the more or less unsettled conditions.
There was, for example, the extremely disquieting story that Black
Hawk, on his return from a hunting trip west of the Mississippi,
had travelled far eastward across Northern Indiana to seek the advice
of the British commander in Canada. Not only was the story of this
pilgrimage true, but the fact was afterward definitely established
that the British official advised the chief to make war on the white
settlers,--this being late in 1831, nearly twenty years after the
close of the War of 1812. Many of Black Hawk's warriors had served
under Tecumseh in the last war with England, and they still were
rabid British sympathizers.
Amidst the greatest enthusiasm and excitement, the men of Lafayette
organized the "Guards," a company some three hundred strong.
After several days of intensive and, for a time, ludicrous "drilling,"
they were ready and eager to ride out into the terrorized Northwest.
Kenneth Gwynne was a private in "The Guards."
During the thrilling days of preparation for the expedition, he
saw little of the women next door. Doubtless for reasons of their
own, Viola and her mother maintained a strange and persistent aloofness.
It was not until the evening before the departure of the "Guards"
that he took matters into his own hands and walked over to Rachel's
house.
The few glimpses he had had of Viola during these busy days and
nights served not only to increase his ardent craving for her but
caused him the most acute misery as well. Utter despond had fallen
upon him.
It was significant of her new attitude toward life that she had
cast aside the sombre habiliments of mourning. She was now appearing
in bright, though not gay, colours,--unmistakable evidence of her
decision to abandon all pretence of grief for the man she had looked
upon for so many years as her father.
There was a strange, new vivacity in her manner, too,--something
that hurt rather than cheered him. He heard her singing about the
house,--gay, larksome little snatches,--and she whistled merrily
as she worked in the garden. Somehow her very light-heartedness
added to his despair. What right had she to be happy and gay and
cheerful whilst he was so miserable? Had he not told her in so many
words that he loved her? Did that mean nothing to her? Why should
she sing and whistle in her own domain when she must have known
that he was suffering in his, not twenty rods away? He was conscious
at times of a sense of injury, and as the time drew near for his
departure without so much as a sign of regret or even interest on
her part, this feeling deepened into resentment.
He was very stiff and formal as he approached the porch on which
Viola and her mother were seated, enjoying the cool evening breeze
that had sprung up at the end of the hot and sultry day. A strange
woman and two small children, refugees from the Grand Prairie, had
been given shelter by Mrs. Gwyn, but they had already gone to bed.
"We are off at daybreak," he said, standing before them,
his hat in his hand. "I thought I would come over to say good-bye."
His hungry gaze swept over the figure of the girl, shadowy and indistinct
in the semi-darkness. To his amazement, he saw that she was attired
in the frock she had worn on that unforgettable night at Striker's.
She leaned forward and held out her hand to him. As he took it he
looked up into her dusky face and caught his breath. Good heaven!
She was actually smiling! Smiling when he was going away perhaps
never to return alive!
She did not speak. It was Rachel Carter who said, quietly:
"Thank you for coming over, Kenneth. We would not have allowed
you to go, however, without saying good-bye and wishing you well
on this hazardous undertaking. May God protect you and all the brave
men who go out with you."
He had not released Viola's hand. Suddenly her grip tightened; her
other hand was raised quickly to her face, and he was dumbfounded
to see that she was dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. His
heart swelled. She had been smiling bravely all the while her eyes
were filled with tears. And now he knew why she was silent. He lifted
her hand to his lips.
"I want you to know, Viola dear, before I go away," he
said huskily, "that I can and will give you back the name of
Gwynne, and with my name I give more love than ever any man had
for woman before in all this world. I lay my heart at your feet.
It is yours whether you choose to pick it up or not."
She slowly withdrew her hand. Neither of them heard the long, deep
sigh in the darkness beside them.
"I don't know what to say to you, Kenny," she murmured,
almost inaudibly.
"There is nothing for you to say, Viola, unless you love me.
I am sorry if I have distressed you. I only wanted you to know before
I go away that I love you."
"I--I am glad you love me, Kenny. It makes me very happy. But
it is all so strange, so unreal. I can't seem to convince myself
that it is right for you to love me or for me to love you. Some
day, perhaps, it will all straighten itself out in my mind and then
I will know whether it is love,--the kind of love you want,--or
just a dear, sweet affection that I feel for you."
"I understand," he said gravely. "It is too soon
for you to know. A brother turned into a lover, as if by magic,
and you are bewildered. I can only pray that the time will come
when your heart tells you that you love me as I want you to, and
as I love you."
They spoke thus freely before the girl's mother, for those were
the days when a man's courting was not done surreptitiously. It
is doubtful, however, if they remembered her presence.
"There have been times--" she began, a trace of eagerness
in her voice, "when something seemed to tell me that--that
I ought to keep away from you. I used to have the queerest sensations
running all over--" She did not complete the sentence; instead,
as if in a sudden panic over the nearness of unmaidenly revelations,
she somewhat breathlessly began all over again: "I guess it
must have been a--a warning, or something."
"They say there is such a thing as a magnetic current between
human beings," he said. "It was that, Viola. You felt
my love laying hold upon you, touching you, caressing you."
"The other night, when you held me so close to you, I--I couldn't
think of you as my brother."
Out of the darkness spoke Rachel Carter.
"You love each other," she said. "There is no use
trying to explain or account for your feelings. The day you came
here, Kenneth Gwynne, I saw the handwriting on the wall. I knew
that this would happen. It was as certain as the rising of the sun.
It would have been as useless for me to attempt to stop the rising
sun as to try to keep you two from falling in love with each other.
It was so written long ago."
"But, mother, I am not sure,--how can you say that I am in
love with him when I don't know it myself?" cried Viola.
"When you came, Kenneth, I knew that my days were numbered,"
went on the older woman, leaning forward in her chair. "The
truth would have to come out. A force I could not stand up against
had entered the field. For want of a better word we will call it
Fate. It is useless to fight against Fate. If I had never told you
two the truth about yourselves, you would have found it out anyway.
You would have found it out in the touch of your hands, in the leap
of the blood, in the strange, mysterious desire of the flesh over
which the soul has no control. You began loving him, Viola,--without
knowing it,--that night at Phineas Striker's. You--"
"How can you say such a thing, mother?" cried Viola hotly.
"I was in love with Barry Lapelle at that--"
"You were never in love with Barry," broke in her mother
calmly.
"I think I ought to know when I am in love and when I am not!"
"Be that as it may, you now know that you were never in love
with him,--so it comes to the same thing."
Kenneth's heart gave a joyous bound. "I--I wish I could believe
that. I wish I knew that you are not thinking of him now, Viola,
and wanting him back in spite of all he has done."
Viola arose suddenly. "I am going in the house," she said
haughtily. "Neither of you seems to think I have a grain of
sense. First mother says I am in love with you without knowing it,
and now you are wondering if I am in love with Barry without knowing
it, I suppose. Don't you give me credit for having a mind of my
own? And, mother, I've just got to say it, even if it is insolent,--I
will be very much obliged to you if you will allow me to make up
my own mind about Kenny. It is not for you or anybody else to say
I am in love with him."
"Oh, don't go away angry, Viola," cried Kenneth, distressed.
"Let's forget all we've said and--"
"I don't want to forget all we've said," she exclaimed,
stamping her foot. "How dare you come over here and tell me
you love me and then ask me to forget--Oh, if that's all it amounts
to with you, Kenneth, I dare say I can make up my mind right now.
I--"
"You will find, Kenneth," broke in her mother drily, "that
she has a temper."
"I guess he has found that out before this," said Viola,
from the doorstep. "He has had a taste of it. If he doesn't
like--"
"I am used to tempers," said he, now lightly. "I
have a devil of a temper myself."
"I don't believe it," she cried. "You've got the
kindest, sweetest, gentlest nature I've ever--"
"Come and sit down, Viola," interrupted her mother, arising.
"I am going in the house myself."
"You needn't, mother. I am going to bed. Good night, Kenny."
"I came to say good-bye," he reminded her.
She paused with her hand on the latch. He heard the little catch
in her breath. Then she turned impulsively and came back to him.
He was still standing on the ground, several feet below her.
"What a beast I am, Kenny," she murmured contritely. "I
waited out here all evening for you to come over so that I could
say good-bye and tell you how much I shall miss you,--and to wish
you a speedy and safe return. And you paid me a great compliment,--the
greatest a girl can have. I don't deserve it. But I will miss you,
Kenny,--I will miss you terribly. Now, I MUST go in. If I stay another
second longer I'll say something mean and spiteful,--because I AM
mean and spiteful, and no one knows it better than I do. Good-bye,
Kenneth Gwynne."
"Good-bye, Minda Carter," he said softly, and again raised
her hand to his lips. "My little Minda grown up to be the most
beautiful queen in all the world."
She turned and fled swiftly into the house. They heard her go racing
up the stairs,--then a door open and slam shut again.
"She would be very happy to-night, Kenneth, if it were not
for one thing," said Rachel. "I still stand in the way.
She cannot give herself to you except at a cost to me. There can
be nothing between you until I stand before the world and say there
is no reason why you should not be married to each other. Do you
wonder that she does not know her own heart?"
"And I would not deserve her love and trust if I were to ask
you to pay that price, Rachel Carter," said he steadily.
"Good-bye, Kenneth," she said, after a moment. She held
out her hand. "Will you take my hand,--just this once, boy?"
He did not hesitate. He grasped the hard, toil-worn hand firmly
in his.
"We can never be friends, Rachel Carter,--but, as God is my
witness, I am no longer your enemy," he said, with feeling.
"Good-bye."
He was half-way down to the gate when she called to him:
"Wait, Kenneth. Moll has something for you."
He turned back and met Moll Hawk as she came swiftly toward him.
"Here's somethin' fer you to carry in your pocket, Mr. Gwynne,"
said the girl in her hoarse, low-pitched voice. "No harm c'n
ever come to you as long as you got this with you,--in your pocket
er anywheres. Hit's a charm an old Injin chief give my Pap when
he wuz with the tribe, long before I wuz born. Pap lost it the day
before he wuz tooken up by the sheriff, er else he never would ha'
had setch bad luck. I found it day before yesterday when I wuz down
to the cabin, seein' about movin' our hogs an' chickens an' hosses
over to Mis' Gwyn's barn. The only reason the Injun give it to Pap
wuz because he wuz over a hundred years old an' didn't want to warn
off death no longer. Hit's just a little round stone with somethin'
fer all the world like eyes an' nose an' mouth on one side of it,--jest
as if hit had been carved out, only hit wuzn't. Hit's jest natural.
Hit keeps off sickness an' death an' bad luck, Mr. Gwynne. Pap knowed
he wuz goin' to ketch the devil the minute he found out he lost
it. I tole Miss Violy I wanted fer you to have it with you while
you wuz off fightin' the Injuns, an' she said she'd love me to her
dyin' day if I would give you the loan of it. Mebby you don't believe
in charms an' signs an' all setch, but it can't hurt you to carry
it an'--an' hit's best to be on the safe side. Please keep it, Mr.
Gwynne."
It was a round object no bigger than a hickory nut. He had taken
it from her and was running his thumb over its surface while she
was speaking. He could feel the tiny nose and the little indentations
that produced the effect of eyes.
"Thank you, Moll," he said, sincerely touched. "It's
mighty good of you. I will bring it back to you, never fear, and
I hope that after it has served me faithfully for a little while
it may do the same for you till you, too, have seen a hundred and
don't want to live any longer. What was it Miss Viola said to you?"
"I guess I hadn't ought to said that," she mumbled. "Anyhow,
I ain't goin' to say it over again. Good-bye, Mr. Gwynne,--and take
good keer o' yourself."
With that she hurried back to the house, and he, after a glance
up at the second story window which he knew to be Viola's, bent
his steps homeward.
His saddle-bags were already packed, his pistols cleaned and oiled;
the long-barrelled rifle he had borrowed from the tavern keeper
was in prime order for the expedition. Zachariah had gotten out
his oldest clothes, his thick riding boots, a linsey shirt and the
rough but serviceable buckskin cap that old Mr. Price had hobbled
over to the office to give him after the first day of drill with
the sententious remark that a "plug hat was a perty thing to
perade around in but it wasn't a very handy sort of a hat to be
buried in."
His lamp burned far into the night. He tried to read but his thoughts
would not stay fixed on the printed page. Not once but many times
he took up from the table a short, legal-looking document and re-read
its contents, which were entirely in his own cramped, scholastic
hand save for the names of two witnesses at the end. It was his
last will and testament, drawn up that very day. Minda Carter was
named therein as his sole legatee,--"Minda Carter, at present
known as Viola Gwyn, the daughter of Owen and Rachel Carter."
His father had, to all intents and purposes, cut her off without
a penny, an injustice which would be righted in case of his own
death.
It was near midnight when he blew out the light and threw himself
fully dressed upon the bed. Sleep would not come. At last, in desperation,
he got up and stole guiltily, self-consciously out into the yard,
treading softly lest he should wake the vehement Zachariah in his
cubbyhole off the kitchen. Presently he was standing at the fence
separating the two yards, his elbows on the top rail, his gloomy,
lovelorn gaze fixed upon Viola's darkened window.
The stars were shining. A cool, murky mantle lay over the land.
He did not know how long he had been standing there when his ear
caught the sound of a gently-closing door. A moment later a dim,
shadowy figure appeared at the corner of the house, stood motionless
for a few seconds, and then came directly toward him. The blood
rushed thunderously to his head. He could not believe his senses.
He had been wishing--aye, vainly wishing that by some marvellous
enchantment she could be transported through the dark little window
into his arms. He rubbed his eyes.
"Viola!" he whispered.
"Oh, Kenny," she faltered, and her voice was low and soft
like the sighing of the wind. "I--I am so ashamed. What will
you think of me for coming out here like this?"
The god of Love gave him wings. He was over the fence, she was in
his arms, and he was straining the warm, pliant body close to his
bursting breast. His lips were on hers. He felt her stiffen and
then relax in swift surrender. Her heart, stilled at first, began
to beat tumultuously against his breast; her free arm stole about
his neck and tightened as the urge of a sweet, overwhelming passion
swept over her.
At last she released herself from his embrace and stood with bowed
head, her hands pressed to her eyes.
"I didn't mean to do it,--I didn't mean to do this," she
was murmuring.
"You love me,--you love me," he whispered, his voice trembling
with joy. He drew her hands down from her eyes and held them tight
in his own. "Say you do, Viola,--speak the words."
"It must be love," she sighed. "What else could make
me feel as I do now,--as I did when you were holding me,--and kissing
me? Oh,--oh,--yes, I DO love you, Kenny. I know it now. I love you
with all my soul." She was in his arms again. "But,"
she panted a little later, "I swear I didn't know it when I
came out here, Kenny,--I swear I didn't."
"Oh, yes, you did," he cried triumphantly. "You've
known it all the time, only you didn't understand."
"I wonder," she mused. Then quickly, shyly: "I had
no idea it could come like this,--that it would BE like this. I
feel so queer. My knees are all trembly,--it's the strangest feeling.
Now you must let me go, Kenny. I must not stay out here with you.
It is terribly late. I--"
"I can't let you go in yet, dearest. Come! We will sit for
a little while on the steps. Don't leave me yet, Viola. It is all
so wonderful, so unbelievable. And to think I was looking up at
your window only a few minutes ago, wishing that you would fly down
to me. Good heavens! It can't be a dream, can it? All this is real,
isn't it?" She laughed softly. "It can't be a dream with
me, because I haven't even been in bed. I've been sitting up there
in my window for hours, looking over at your house. When your light
went out, I was terribly lonely. Yes, and I was a little put out
with you for going to bed. Then I saw you come and lean on the fence.
I knew you were looking up at my window,--and I was sure that you
could see me in spite of the darkness. You never moved,--just stood
there with your elbows on the fence, staring up at me. It made me
very uncomfortable, because I was in my nightgown. So I made up
my mind to get into bed and pull the coverlet up over my head. But
I didn't do it. I put on my dress,--everything,--shoes and stockings
and all,--and then I went back to see if you were still there. There
you were. You hadn't moved. So I sat down again and watched you.
After awhile I--I--well, I just couldn't help creeping downstairs
and coming out to--to say good-bye to you again, Kenny. You looked
so lonesome."
"I was lonesome," he said,--"terribly lonesome."
She led him to a crudely constructed bench at the foot of a towering
elm whose lower branches swept the fore-corner of the roof.
"Let us sit here, Kenny dear," she said. "It is where
I shall come and sit every night while you are gone away. I shall
sit with my back against it and close my eyes and dream that you
are beside me as you are now, with your arms around me and your
cheek against mine,--and it will be the trysting place for our thoughts."
"That's wonderful, Viola," he said, impressed. "'The
trysting place for our thoughts.' Aye, and that it shall be. Every
night, no matter where my body may be or what peril it may be in,
I shall be here beside you in my thoughts."
She rested against him, in the crook of his strong right arm, her
head against his shoulder, and they both fell silent and pensive
under the spell of a wondrous enchantment.
After a while, she spoke, and there was a note of despair in her
voice:
"What is to become of us, Kenny? What are we to do?"
"No power on earth can take you away from me now, Minda,"
he said.
"Ah,--that's it," she said miserably. "You call me
Minda,--and still you wonder why I ask what we are to do."
"You mean--about--"
"We can be nothing more to each other than we are now. There
is some one else we must think of. I--I forgot her for a little
while, Kenny,--I was so happy that I forgot her."
"Were ever two souls so tried as ours," he groaned, and
again silence fell between them.
Kneeling at the window from which Viola had peered so short a time
before, looking down upon the figures under the tree, was Rachel
Carter. She could hear their low voices, and her ears, made sharp
by pain, caught the rapturous and the forlorn passages breathed
upon the still air.
She arose stiffly and drew back into the darkness, out of the dim,
starlit path, and standing there with her head high, her arms outspread,
she made her solemn vow of self-renunciation.
"I have no right to stand between them and happiness. They
have done no wrong. They do not deserve to be punished. My mind
is made up. To-morrow I shall speak. God has brought them together.
It is not for me to keep them apart. Aye, to-morrow I shall speak."
Then Rachel Carter, at peace with herself, went back to her bed
across the hall and was soon asleep, a smile upon her lips, the
creases wiped from between her eyes as if by some magic soothing
hand.