Erskine Dale-Pioneer Part 15

As the dusk gathered, Erskine, looking gloomily through his window, saw the girl flutter like a white moth past the box-hedge and down the path.

A moment later he saw the tall form of Colonel Dale follow her-and both pa.s.sed from sight. On the thick turf the colonel's feet too were noiseless, and when Barbara stopped at the sun-dial he too paused. Her hands were caught tight and her drawn young face was lifted to the yellow disk just rising from the far forest gloom. She was unhappy, and the colonel's heart ached sorely, for any unhappiness of hers always trebled his own.

"Little girl!" he called, and no lover's voice could have been more gentle. "Come here!"

She turned and saw him, with arms outstretched, the low moon lighting all the tenderness in his fine old face, and she flew to him and fell to weeping on his breast. In wise silence he stroked her hair until she grew a little calmer.

"What's the matter, little daughter?"

"I-I-don't know."

"I understand. You were quite right to send him away, but you did not want him harmed."

"I-I-didn't want anybody harmed."

"I know. It's too bad, but none of us seem quite to trust him."

"That's it," she sobbed; "I don't either, and yet--"

"I know. I know. My little girl must be wise and brave, and maybe it will all pa.s.s and she will be glad. But she must be brave. Mother is not well and she must not be made unhappy too. She must not know. Can't my little girl come back to the house now? She must be hostess and this is Erskine's last night." She looked up, brus.h.i.+ng away her tears.

"His last night?" Ah, wise old colonel!

"Yes-he goes to-morrow to join Captain Clark at Williamsburg on his foolish campaign in the Northwest. We might never see him again."

"Oh, father!"

"Well, it isn't that bad, but my little girl must be very nice to him.

He seems to be very unhappy, too."

Barbara looked thoughtful, but there was no pretense of not understanding.

"I'm sorry," she said. She took her father's arm, and when they reached the steps Erskine saw her smiling. And smiling, almost gay, she was at supper, sitting with exquisite dignity in her mother's place. Harry and Hugh looked amazed, and her father, who knew the bit of tempered steel she was, smiled his encouragement proudly. Of Erskine, who sat at her right, she asked many questions about the coming campaign. Captain Clark had said he would go with a hundred men if he could get no more. The rallying-point would be the fort in Kentucky where he had first come back to his own people, and Dave Yandell would be captain of a company.

He himself was going as guide, though he hoped to act as soldier as well. Perhaps they might bring back the Hair-Buyer, General Hamilton, a prisoner to Williamsburg, and then he would join Harry and Hugh in the militia if the war came south and Virginia were invaded, as some prophesied, by Tarleton's White Rangers, who had been ravaging the Carolinas. After supper the little lady excused herself with a smiling courtesy to go to her mother, and Erskine found himself in the moonlight on the big portico with Colonel Dale alone.

"Erskine," he said, "you make it very difficult for me to keep your secret. Hugh alone seems to suspect-he must have got the idea from Grey, but I have warned him to say nothing. The others seem not to have thought of the matter at all. It was a boyish impulse of generosity which you may regret--"

"Never," interrupted the boy. "I have no use-less than ever now."

"Nevertheless," the colonel went on, "I regard myself as merely your steward, and I must tell you one thing. Mr. Jefferson, as you know, is always at open war with people like us. His hand is against coach and four, silver plate, and aristocrat. He is fighting now against the law that gives property to the eldest son, and he will pa.s.s the bill. His argument is rather amusing. He says if you will show him that the eldest son eats more, wears more, and does more work than his brothers, he will grant that that son is ent.i.tled to more. He wants to blot out all distinctions of cla.s.s. He can't do that, but he will pa.s.s this bill."

"I hope he will," muttered Erskine.

"Barbara would not accept your sacrifice nor would any of us, and it is only fair that I should warn you that some day, if you should change your mind, and I were no longer living, you might be too late."

"Please don't, Uncle Harry. It is done-done. Of course, it wasn't fair for me to consider Barbara alone, but she will be fair and you understand. I wish you would regard the whole matter as though I didn't exist."

"I can't do that, my boy. I am your steward and when you want anything you have only to let me know!" Erskine shook his head.

"I don't want anything-I need very little, and when I'm in the woods, as I expect to be most of the time, I need nothing at all." Colonel Dale rose.

"I wish you would go to college at Williamsburg for a year or two to better fit yourself-in case--"

"I'd like to go-to learn to fence," smiled the boy, and the colonel smiled too.

"You'll certainly need to know that, if you are going to be as reckless as you were today." Erskine's eyes darkened.

"Uncle Harry, you may think me foolish, but I don't like or trust Grey.

What was he doing with those British traders out in the Northwest?-he was not buying furs. It's absurd. Why was he hand in glove with Lord Dunmore?"

"Lord Dunmore had a daughter," was the dry reply, and Erskine flung out a gesture that made words unnecessary. Colonel Dale crossed the porch and put his hand on the lad's shoulders.

"Erskine," he said, "don't worry-and-don't give up hope. Be patient, wait, come back to us. Go to William and Mary. Fit yourself to be one of us in all ways. Then everything may yet come out in the only way that would be fitting and right." The boy blushed, and the colonel went on earnestly:

"I can think of nothing in the world that would make me quite so happy."

"It's no use," the boy said tremblingly, "but I'll never forget what you have just said as long as I live, and, no matter what becomes of me, I'll love Barbara as long as I live. But, even if things were otherwise, I'd never risk making her unhappy even by trying. I'm not fit for her nor for this life. I'll never forget the goodness of all of you to me-I can't explain-but I can't get over my life in the woods and among the Indians. Why, but for all of you I might have gone back to them-I would yet. I can't explain, but I get choked and I can't breathe-such a longing for the woods comes over me and I can't help me. I must _go_-and nothing can hold me."

"Your father was that way," said Colonel Dale sadly. "You may get over it, but he never did. And it must be harder for you because of your early a.s.sociations. Blow out the lights in the hall. You needn't bolt the door. Good night, and G.o.d bless you." And the kindly gentleman was gone.

Erskine sat where he was. The house was still and there were no noises from the horses and cattle in the barn-none from roosting peac.o.c.k, turkey, and hen. From the far-away quarters came faintly the merry, mellow notes of a fiddle, and farther still the song of some courting negro returning home. A drowsy bird twittered in an ancient elm at the corner of the house. The flowers drooped in the moonlight which bathed the great path, streamed across the great river, and on up to its source in the great yellow disk floating in majestic serenity high in the cloudless sky. And that path, those flowers, that house, the barn, the cattle, sheep, and hogs, those grain-fields and gra.s.sy acres, even those singing black folk, were all-all his if he but said the words. The thought was no temptation-it was a mighty wonder that such a thing could be. And that was all it was-a wonder-to him, but to them it was the world. Without it all, what would they do? Perhaps Mr. Jefferson might soon solve the problem for him. Perhaps he might not return from that wild campaign against the British and the Indians-he might get killed.

And then a thought gripped him and held him fast-_he need not come back_. That mighty wilderness beyond the mountains was his real home-out there was his real life. He need not come back, and they would never know. Then came a thought that almost made him groan. There was a light step in the hall, and Barbara came swiftly out and dropped on the topmost step with her chin in both hands. Almost at once she seemed to feel his presence, for she turned her head quickly.

"Erskine!" As quickly he rose, embarra.s.sed beyond speech.

"Come here! Why, you look guilty-what have you been thinking?" He was startled by her intuition, but he recovered himself swiftly.

"I suppose I will always feel guilty if I have made you unhappy."

"You haven't made me unhappy. I don't know what you have made me. Papa says a girl does not understand and no man can, but he does better than anybody. You saw how I felt if you had killed him, but you don't know how I would have felt if he had killed you. I don't myself."

She began patting her hands gently and helplessly together, and again she dropped her chin into them with her eyes lifted to the moon.

"I shall be very unhappy when you are gone. I wish you were not going, but I know that you are-you can't help it." Again he was startled.

"Whenever you look at that moon over in that dark wilderness, I wish you would please think of your little cousin-will you?" She turned eagerly and he was too moved to speak-he only bowed his head as for a prayer or a benediction.

"You don't know how often our thoughts will cross, and that will be a great comfort to me. Sometimes I am afraid. There is a wild strain on my mother's side, and it is in me. Papa knows it and he is wise-so wise-I am afraid I may sometimes do something very foolish, and it won't be _me_ at all. It will be somebody that died long ago." She put both her hands over both his and held them tight.

"I never, never distrusted you. I trust you more than anybody else in the whole world except my father, and he might be away or"-she gave a little sob-"he might get killed. I want you to make me a promise."

"Anything," said the boy huskily.

"I want you to promise me that, no matter when, no matter where you are, if I need you and send for you you will come." And Indian-like he put his forehead on both her little hands.

"Thank you. I must go now." Bewildered and dazed, the boy rose and awkwardly put out his hand.

"Kiss me good-by." She put her arms about his neck, and for the first time in his life the boy's lips met a woman's. For a moment she put her face against his and at his ear was a whisper.