Erskine Dale—Pioneer

by John Fox

  XVIII

  The sun was close to the uneven sweep of the wilderness. Through itsslanting rays the river poured like a flood of gold. The negroes were onthe way singing from the fields. Cries, chaffing, and the musicalclanking of trace-chains came from the barnyard. Hungry cattle werelowing and full-uddered mothers were mooing answers to bawling calves. Apeacock screamed from a distant tree and sailed forth, full-spread--agreat gleaming winged jewel of the air. In crises the nerves tightenlike violin strings, the memory-plates turn abnormally sensitive--andErskine was not to forget that hour.

  The house was still and not a soul was in sight as the three, stillsilent, walked up the great path. When they were near the portico Harrycame out. He looked worried and anxious.

  "Where's Barbara?" asked her father.

  "Locked in her room."

  "Let her alone," said Colonel Dale gently. Like brother and cousin,Harry and Hugh were merely irritated by the late revelation, but thefather was shocked that his child was no longer a child. Erskineremembered the girl as she waited for Grey's coming at the sun-dial, herface as she walked with him up the path. For a moment the two boys stoodin moody silence. Harry took the rapiers in and put them in their placeon the wall. Hugh quietly disappeared. Erskine, with a word of apology,went to his room, and Colonel Dale sat down on the porch alone.

  As the dusk gathered, Erskine, looking gloomily through his window, sawthe 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 bothpassed from sight. On the thick turf the colonel's feet too werenoiseless, and when Barbara stopped at the sun-dial he too paused. Herhands were caught tight and her drawn young face was lifted to theyellow disk just rising from the far forest gloom. She was unhappy, andthe colonel's heart ached sorely, for any unhappiness of hers alwaystrebled his own.

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

  She turned and saw him, with arms outstretched, the low moon lightingall the tenderness in his fine old face, and she flew to him and fell toweeping on his breast. In wise silence he stroked her hair until shegrew 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 notwant 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 itwill all pass and she will be glad. But she must be brave. Mother is notwell and she must not be made unhappy too. She must not know. Can't mylittle girl come back to the house now? She must be hostess and this isErskine's last night." She looked up, brushing away her tears.

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

  "Yes--he goes to-morrow to join Captain Clark at Williamsburg on hisfoolish 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 notunderstanding.

  "I'm sorry," she said. She took her father's arm, and when they reachedthe steps Erskine saw her smiling. And smiling, almost gay, she was atsupper, sitting with exquisite dignity in her mother's place. Harry andHugh looked amazed, and her father, who knew the bit of tempered steelshe was, smiled his encouragement proudly. Of Erskine, who sat at herright, she asked many questions about the coming campaign. Captain Clarkhad said he would go with a hundred men if he could get no more. Therallying-point would be the fort in Kentucky where he had first comeback 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 aswell. Perhaps they might bring back the Hair-Buyer, General Hamilton, aprisoner to Williamsburg, and then he would join Harry and Hugh in themilitia if the war came south and Virginia were invaded, as someprophesied, by Tarleton's White Rangers, who had been ravaging theCarolinas. After supper the little lady excused herself with a smilingcourtesy to go to her mother, and Erskine found himself in the moonlighton the big portico with Colonel Dale alone.

  "Erskine," he said, "you make it very difficult for me to keep yoursecret. 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 havethought of the matter at all. It was a boyish impulse of generositywhich 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 yoursteward, and I must tell you one thing. Mr. Jefferson, as you know, isalways at open war with people like us. His hand is against coach andfour, silver plate, and aristocrat. He is fighting now against the lawthat gives property to the eldest son, and he will pass the bill. Hisargument is rather amusing. He says if you will show him that the eldestson eats more, wears more, and does more work than his brothers, he willgrant that that son is entitled to more. He wants to blot out alldistinctions of class. He can't do that, but he will pass this bill."

  "I hope he will," muttered Erskine.

  "Barbara would not accept your sacrifice nor would any of us, and it isonly fair that I should warn you that some day, if you should changeyour 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 fairfor me to consider Barbara alone, but she will be fair and youunderstand. I wish you would regard the whole matter as though I didn'texist."

  "I can't do that, my boy. I am your steward and when you want anythingyou 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, asI expect to be most of the time, I need nothing at all." Colonel Dalerose.

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

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

  "You'll certainly need to know that, if you are going to be as recklessas 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?--hewas not buying furs. It's absurd. Why was he hand in glove with LordDunmore?"

  "Lord Dunmore had a daughter," was the dry reply, and Erskine flung outa gesture that made words unnecessary. Colonel Dale crossed the porchand 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 ofus in all ways. Then everything may yet come out in the only way thatwould be fitting and right." The boy blushed, and the colonel went onearnestly:

  "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 youhave 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 hernor for this life. I'll never forget the goodness of all of you to me--Ican't explain--but I can't get over my life in the woods and among theIndians. Why, but for all of you I might have gone back to them--I wouldyet. I can't explain, but I get choked and I can't breathe--such alonging for the woods comes over me and I can't help me. I must _go_--andnothing can hold me."

  "Your father was that way," said Colonel Dale sadly. "You may get overit, but he never did. And it must be harder for you because of yourearly associations. Blow out the lights in the hall. You needn't boltthe door. Good night, and God bless you." And the kindly gentleman wasgone.

  Erskine sat where he was. The house was still and there were no noisesfrom the horses and
cattle in the barn--none from roosting peacock,turkey, and hen. From the far-away quarters came faintly the merry,mellow notes of a fiddle, and farther still the song of some courtingnegro returning home. A drowsy bird twittered in an ancient elm at thecorner of the house. The flowers drooped in the moonlight which bathedthe great path, streamed across the great river, and on up to its sourcein the great yellow disk floating in majestic serenity high in thecloudless sky. And that path, those flowers, that house, the barn, thecattle, sheep, and hogs, those grain-fields and grassy acres, even thosesinging black folk, were all--all his if he but said the words. Thethought was no temptation--it was a mighty wonder that such a thing couldbe. And that was all it was--a wonder--to him, but to them it was theworld. Without it all, what would they do? Perhaps Mr. Jefferson mightsoon solve the problem for him. Perhaps he might not return from thatwild campaign against the British and the Indians--he might get killed.And then a thought gripped him and held him fast--_he need not comeback_. That mighty wilderness beyond the mountains was his real home--outthere was his real life. He need not come back, and they would neverknow. Then came a thought that almost made him groan. There was a lightstep in the hall, and Barbara came swiftly out and dropped on thetopmost step with her chin in both hands. Almost at once she seemed tofeel his presence, for she turned her head quickly.

  "Erskine!" As quickly he rose, embarrassed beyond speech.

  "Come here! Why, you look guilty--what have you been thinking?" He wasstartled 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. Papasays a girl does not understand and no man can, but he does better thananybody. You saw how I felt if you had killed him, but you don't knowhow I would have felt if he had killed you. I don't myself."

  She began patting her hands gently and helplessly together, and againshe 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 youwould please think of your little cousin--will you?" She turned eagerlyand he was too moved to speak--he only bowed his head as for a prayer ora benediction.

  "You don't know how often our thoughts will cross, and that will be agreat comfort to me. Sometimes I am afraid. There is a wild strain on mymother's side, and it is in me. Papa knows it and he is wise--so wise--Iam 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 herhands over both his and held them tight.

  "I never, never distrusted you. I trust you more than anybody else inthe whole world except my father, and he might be away or"--she gave alittle 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 puthis forehead on both her little hands.

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

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

  "Good-by, Erskine!" And she was gone--swiftly--leaving the boy in a dizzyworld of falling stars through which a white light leaped to heights hissoul had never dreamed.