Kitabı oku: «The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort Dearborn», sayfa 8
CHAPTER XI
A JUNE DAY
On a warm morning in June, Beatrice took her despised sewing under an unwilling arm and went over to Mrs. Howard's. Mrs. Franklin was there also, and they all sat on the porch, under the impression that it was cooler there than indoors.
"I wish you girls would show me how this goes," pleaded Beatrice. She was making herself a gown of pink calico, and encountering new difficulties at every turn.
"Where's your pattern," asked Katherine.
"I haven't any map," returned Beatrice; "I lost it. I sawed this out by an old one."
"It looks as if it had been sawed," laughed Mrs. Franklin. "Why didn't you ask Mrs. Mackenzie to help you cut it?"
"Because I didn't want Aunt Eleanor to be ashamed of me."
"She doesn't mind us," put in Katherine.
"Stop teasing," commanded Beatrice, "and show me how to put the thing together. Which piece goes where?"
Mrs. Franklin took the skirt and Katherine went to work at the waist, pinning and basting firmly, so that there could be no mistake in the result. Beatrice leaned lazily against the side of the house and watched them admiringly, praising their skill now and then in accents suspiciously soft.
"She's been taking lessons from George," remarked Mrs. Franklin. "That's the way he gets things done."
"Speaking of angels – " said Katherine.
Ronald crossed the parade-ground and joined the group. "What's that thing?" he asked, contemptuously indicating the pink calico.
"It's clothes," replied Beatrice, with spirit; "don't you wish you were going to have new ones?"
The Ensign's answering laugh had a hollow sound to it, for the shabby clothing at Fort Dearborn was a sore spot with both officers and men, even though new and proper raiment was said to be on the way.
"You might make me some," he suggested, "and I'll promise to encourage you while you do it."
"No, thank you," she returned loftily; "you'd be in the way."
"I expect I'm in the way now," he observed, making himself more comfortable against the pillar of the porch. "When needles fly, women's tongues fly faster; when women sew, they rip their husbands to pieces."
A faint flush came into Mrs. Franklin's face as she bent over her work.
"I'll wager, now," continued Ronald, "that when you saw me coming, you had to change the subject. Mrs. Franklin was explaining the vagaries of the Captain, Mrs. Howard was telling what she was obliged to put up with, and Miss Manning was talking about me."
The implication sharpened the edge of the girl's tongue. "You ought to be very glad you're not married," she said sweetly; "and it goes without saying that you never will be. Nobody on earth would have you!"
"Don't quarrel, children," put in Katherine, hastily. "Here comes Ralph."
The Lieutenant sat down opposite Ronald and wiped his forehead. "Lord!" he exclaimed, "isn't it hot!"
"Get a little closer to Miss Manning," advised the Ensign. "She's in an icy mood this morning."
Beatrice and Howard smiled at each other understandingly. "Be careful what you say," warned Mrs. Franklin; "they've decided that they're cousins."
"Yes," replied the Lieutenant, "we've got it all settled. We're step-cousins-in-law once removed. Want to go for a ride, Ronald? Forsyth and I are going a little way down the trail."
"Which trail?"
"Fort Wayne, of course."
"Yes, I'll go," said the Ensign, rising; "it can't be any hotter on horseback than it is here."
When the three men rode off, Beatrice pouted. "Why didn't they ask me to go?"
"I guess they're going swimming," returned Mrs. Franklin, "for Mr. Forsyth had some towels."
"Here's your waist," said Katherine; "did you shrink the goods?"
"Did I what?"
"Shrink it. Wash it, you know."
"Indeed I didn't. Why should I wash it when it's new?"
"Here's your skirt," said Mrs. Franklin. "You'd better make a narrow hem and run a tuck or two above it so you can let it down. I'm going home now, because Wallace is all alone. Good-bye."
Beatrice went to work gingerly, and Mrs. Howard watched her for a few moments, then took pity. "I'll help you," she said, "I have nothing else to do."
The work progressed rapidly, and they went into the house frequently to fit the gown. "I can wear it to-night, I believe," said the girl, delightedly. "I didn't know sewing was so easy!"
"Don't be too hopeful – there's lots to do yet."
Noon came on apace and the heat increased. Shimmering waves hung over the parade-ground and vibrated visibly. There was not a tree within the enclosure of the Fort, and the flag hung limply from the staff, stirring only when the hot wind from the south-west swept over the sandy plains.
Doctor Norton came out, looked around the deserted Fort, and crossed to Lieutenant Howard's.
"Where are you going?" asked Beatrice, indicating an Indian basket he was carrying.
"I'm going to the woods – primarily, to find a cool place, and, secondarily, to gather roots and simples. Some of my medicines have given out and I'm going to make a new supply if I can find the proper plants."
Katherine was sewing busily and took no part in the conversation, but there was a scarlet signal on either cheek.
"If you get enough of anything," said Beatrice, "the poor souls under your care can have some of it, can't they?"
"Certainly."
"What do you expect to get around here?"
"Oh, lots of things. Wild ginger, for instance – would you like some of that?"
"Don't care for it," she answered conclusively.
"Would you like a concoction of May apples?"
"I believe I would – it sounds well."
"My dear girl," said Norton, seriously, "the root of the mandrake is such a deadly poison that the Indians give it to their enemies."
"I must remember that," murmured the girl. "I may need it for mine."
The Doctor laughed, then turned to Mrs. Howard. "Are you well?" he asked anxiously.
Katherine's eyes met his. "Yes," she answered, but her voice was scarcely audible. There was an uneasy moment for both of them, then he went away.
Beatrice took up her sewing again and saw that Katherine's hands were trembling. "He's an abrupt person," she said; "don't you think so?"
"Yes," answered the other, in a low tone.
"He's lovable in a way, though, don't you think so? I wonder why he has never married?"
Katherine started and her lips moved, but there was no sound. Beatrice looked into her face for an illuminating instant – then she knew.
"Katherine!" she cried, in horror.
Mrs. Howard dropped her work and fled into the house, trying to lock the door, but the girl was too quick for her.
"Katherine, dear!" cried Beatrice, with her arms around the trembling woman, "don't be afraid of me! You poor child, don't you know a friend when you see one?"
"Friend?" repeated Katherine, in a rush of unwilling tears; "I have none!"
"Yes you have, dear; now listen to me. I'm your friend, and there's nothing in the world that could make me anything else. Tell me, and let me help you!"
The words brought back the memory of another day, when the winter snows lay deep upon the ground, and a man's voice, dangerously tender, said the same thing.
"There's nothing wrong, Bee – don't, oh, don't think that of me!"
"I couldn't, dear – no one could!"
The curtains were drawn and the house was dark and comparatively cool. Within that soothing shadow, Katherine gathered courage to face the girl, and, little by little, hint at the tempest raging in her soul.
It was the old, common story of a proud woman with a hungry heart, denied love and sympathy where she had a right to expect it, and tempted unwillingly, but tempted none the less.
"Men are beasts!" exclaimed Beatrice, angrily.
"Don't say that, Bee! Ralph has a great deal to bother him, but I can't help wishing he were different. If he were only as he used to be! If I knew, or even thought he loved me – if he would try to understand me – if he wouldn't always misjudge me – but now – "
"You're brave enough to fight it out and win, Kit – I know you are!"
"I hope so; but what hurts me most is the fear that he – that he knows – that I – that I care – and pities me!"
"Who? Ralph?"
"No – the – the – "
"I understand," said Beatrice, quickly; "you mustn't let him know. Besides, you don't really care. Women often mistake loneliness for something else – don't you think so?"
"Perhaps. Oh, if he would only go away, where I would never see him again – if he only would – sometime, in the long years, things would come right between Ralph and me!"
"You'll have to wait, Kit. Life is made up of waiting, for women, and it's the hardest thing for us to do. Oh, I know," continued Beatrice, with a harsh laugh; "I fought something out myself once, but I won. It was hard, but I did it, and I'd do it again – I wouldn't be coward enough to run away. When things hurt you, you don't have to let anybody know. You can shut your lips tight, and if you bite your tongue hard it keeps back the tears. I always pretend I'm a rock, with the waves beating against me. Let it hurt inside, if it wants to – you don't have to let anybody see!"
The girl's fine courage insensibly strengthened the woman. "I'm so glad you know," she sighed.
"I'm glad, too. I'm going now, Kit, and I wish you'd lie down a little while. Don't forget I'm your friend, and I'll always help you when I can, and anyhow, I'll always try."
It was characteristic of Beatrice that she went home without any demonstrative farewell. She had been gentle, sympathetic, and genuinely sorry for her cousin, but there was an inner hardness somewhere which the other felt.
Overwrought by emotion, Katherine slept for hours, and when she awoke a cool breeze had risen from the lake and was moving her white curtains to and fro. Dull sorrow was gnawing at her heart, but the stab was gone.
She dressed and went out, without any particular object in view. The loneliness of the house depressed her, and she felt that she must get away from it; yet she did not wish to talk to any one.
As she went toward the gate the Captain's wife met her. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"To – to the little lad," faltered Katherine.
"Oh," said the other, quickly, turning away as if she had been hurt. For a moment the childless woman envied the other her grave.
Half a mile from the Fort, in a hollow near the river, was a little mound, marked only by a rude slab of limestone and the willow that grew above it. At the sight of it her eyes filled.
"Oh, Baby," she sobbed, pressing her face against the cold turf above him, "I wish I was down there beside you, as still and as dreamless as you! You don't know what it means – you never would have known! Oh, I'd rather be a stone than a woman with a heart!"
"Katherine!" cried a man's voice beside her; "Katherine!" Norton's arm lifted her from the grave and held her close. "Dear heart," he said, "is the world unkind?"
She drew away from him, but he still held her cold hand in his. "My heart aches for you, Katherine – can't you tell me?"
"You never lost a child," she whispered, clutching at the straw.
"That is true, but I have lost far more. I – " He stopped and bit his lips upon the words that struggled for utterance. "Come away," he said, gently.
He led her to the bank of the stream, where they sat down under a tree. She leaned against it, unconscious that he still held her hand.
There was a long silence, in which she regained, in some measure, her self-control. "I can't think what's wrong with me," she sighed. "I've cried more in the last six months than in all my life before. I'm not the crying kind – naturally, that is."
"Don't think about that, for nature knows a great deal more than we do. Cry all you want to, and thank God you have no grief beyond the reach of tears."
"Beyond – tears?"
"Yes; there is another kind, which I am glad you do not know. It cuts and burns and stings till it is the very refinement of torture, and there is no veil of mist to blind the eyes."
She looked at him curiously. "You – ?"
"Yes," he answered, with his head bowed; "that is the kind of grief I know the best."
"I – I'm sorry," she said, stirred to pity.
"Why should you be sorry for me?" he asked, with a rare smile. "There are countless joys in the world, but the griefs are few and old. The humblest of us can find new happiness, but there has been no increase of sorrow since the world was first made. There is a fixed and unvariable quantity of it, and we take turns bearing it – that's all. Nothing comes to any of us that some one before us has not met like a soldier, bravely and well."
"You are strong, but I have no strength."
"There are different kinds of strength, Katherine, and of these the one most to be prized is what we call endurance, for lack of a better word. One can always bear a little more, for we live only one day at a time, and to-morrow may bring us new gifts of which we do not dream."
Lengthening shadows lay on the river and the sun hung low in the west, but they talked on. She forgot everything but the peace of the moment, which came to her sore heart like a benediction. Without knowing it, she was very near to happiness then.
The Doctor's voice was soothing, as if he were talking to a child, and she did not dream that he was fighting the exquisite danger of her nearness with all the power at his command. At last she leaned forward with her eyes shining, and put her hand on his. "Thank you," she said, softly, "for helping me!"
The man's blood leaped in his veins, and he sprang to his feet. He walked back and forth on the bank of the river for some time before he dared trust himself to speak.
"Your happiness is very near to me," he said, trying hard to keep his voice even, "you must always remember that. And for me, it is enough to be near you, even if – "
She stretched out her hands and he lifted her to her feet. "I must go," she said.
"Yes, you must go, and go alone. I will stay here until you have had time to get back."
The deference to circumstances jarred upon her and she did not answer. Her hat was lying by the child's grave, and as he picked it up for her, she said: "Why, there are violets all around. I never saw those before."
"Didn't you?" he asked diffidently; "I thought you came often."
"No," she said, in a low voice, "not very often. Who put them there?"
He lowered his eyes at her question, and then she understood. "Did you plant flowers on my baby's grave?" she cried.
There was a tense moment before he dared to look at her. "Yes," he answered, slowly, "because – "
They were standing face to face, with the little grave between them, and the woman's heart quivered with a strange and terrible joy. There was no need of words, for, all at once, she knew why, during the four years of her marriage, he had followed her from one post to another. She saw a new meaning in his sympathy when the little lad died and her husband blamed her so bitterly; moreover, she knew that her battle was with herself, not him, for the unyielding edge of Honour lay between them, and, even if she would, he would not let her cross.
For his part he, too, was uplifted, because without words she understood, and answered with love in her eyes. Undisguised and unashamed, her heart leaped toward him, but he stood with his hands clenched so tightly that the nails cut deep into the flesh.
Neither had heard nor seen, but she felt an alien presence, and turned. Not six feet away from them stood Lieutenant Howard, with his face ashen grey. He had an armful of flowers – purple flags and yellow lilies from the marsh and clover from the fields.
When he knew that she saw him, he came to the grave, stooped, and put the flowers upon it. The Doctor stepped back, but Howard took no note of him whatever. "It is a strange place for a tryst," he said, with forced calmness. "Katherine, will you come home?"
They went all the way to the Fort without speaking, and when they reached their own house, he stood aside for her to enter, then followed her in and locked the door.
Trembling with weakness, he sat down and drew her toward him. "Katherine, have you anything to say to me?"
Strangely enough, she was not afraid, and the terrible joy was still surging in her heart.
"Only this, Ralph – that you have wronged me and misjudged me; but you know this – that I never told you a lie in my life. As long as I bear your name I will bear it rightly; while I call myself your wife, you may know that I am faithful to you and to myself. That is all I have to say, but for your sake and my own – and for the little lad's sake – be just a little kind to me!"
Her voice broke at the last words, but he rushed past her and went out. From the window of her room she saw him pacing back and forth on the plains beyond the Fort, fighting his battle with himself. She knew she had hurt him past all healing and pitied him subconsciously; the dominant knowledge warred with her instincts.
When he came in to supper, his face was still pale, but his voice was even and controlled. He ate but little, and they talked commonplaces until afterward.
"Katherine," he said, "I remove the embargo; you may have – him – or any of your other friends at the house as often as you please. I will not force my wife to make clandestine appointments outside!" He laughed harshly and went out, but, though she waited for him till long past midnight, he did not return.
For her there was no rest. Pity, shame, fear, pride, and ecstasy struggled for mastery in her soul. The sound of moving waters murmured through the night with insistent repetition as the waves came to the shore. In the dark hours before dawn she saw a man, indistinctly, walking on the prairie, with his hands clasped behind him and his head bowed.
At first she thought it was Ralph, but, straining her eyes through the darkness, she saw that it was the other, and her heart beat hard with pain.
"Dear God," she murmured brokenly, "oh, give him peace, and help me to be true!"
CHAPTER XII
IN THE NORTH WOODS
"Come on, Doc," said Ronald.
"Where?" asked Norton, lazily.
"Across the river, of course; don't you see the mob over there?"
The large yard in front of the Mackenzie house was fairly well filled with people when they arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, Forsyth, Chandonnais, Lieutenant and Mrs. Howard, and Mrs. Franklin were standing behind Beatrice, who was painting in water colours. Black Partridge, in all the glory of his feather head-dress and his most gorgeous blanket, was posing for his picture. The chief endeavoured to preserve the appearance of calm, but in reality he was greatly excited.
Doctor Norton and the Lieutenant exchanged cool salutations, and Katherine was scarcely more cordial. All three of them had decided to ignore past events, but there was an element of difficulty in the situation, none the less.
"How do you suppose Birdie can wear a blanket in July?" asked Ronald. "I should think he'd be roasted to a turn."
"It's his best blanket," explained Beatrice, selecting another brush, "and he wants it in his picture."
"I'd rather my clothes would be painted separately on a day like this," murmured Ronald.
"I didn't know you had more than one suit," remarked the artist, with a flourish of her brush; "you can't properly say 'clothes.'"
"Well, 'clo', then," retorted the Ensign, "if it suits you better; but some day you'll see me in a brand-new uniform."
"It's what I'm living for," answered Beatrice. "Somebody get me some more water."
A dozen hands were outstretched, but it was Forsyth who secured the cup, and he was rewarded with a radiant smile when he returned.
"Ain't that smart, now!" exclaimed the trader, delightedly, as the unmistakable features of Black Partridge appeared upon the paper. Chandonnais was grinning broadly, and even Ronald and the Lieutenant condescended to praise.
"To think that we've had a real artist here for months and never knew it!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin. "Why didn't you let us know about it before?"
"Because," answered the girl, "as an old lady at Fort Mackinac would have said, I didn't 'feel to paint.'"
Mrs. Mackenzie was restraining the children with difficulty, for each and every one of them yearned to take a brush and assist in the delicate task. At last she took the baby and went into the house, leaving Maria Indiana to Katherine, and the two older children to their father and Forsyth.
"There," said Beatrice, with a critical squint at her work; "it's almost done."
Against a background of delicate green, the Indian, in his scarlet blanket, stood boldly and properly pictured. The colouring was very good and she had caught the spirit of the pose.
"Let me show it to him," suggested Robert.
She was wiping her brushes and did not see the expression of dismay on the chief's face when he beheld his counterfeit presentment, but she saw him snatch the picture out of Robert's hand and heard his indistinct mutterings when he fled like a deer.
"Well, what do you think of that!" she gasped. "What was he saying, Uncle John?"
"I didn't catch it, Bee – did you, Rob?"
Forsyth had made a little progress in the language, but had understood only a word or two. "It was something about the 'Great Spirit,' I think, but I didn't get the connection."
"That's gone, anyhow," said the Doctor. "You meant it for him, didn't you?"
"Why, yes, eventually; but it wasn't done."
"It was done enough for him, evidently," observed Ronald; "he seems to prefer his pictures a little rare. Are you ready to make mine now?"
"Indeed, I'm not going to paint you. I'm going in to help Aunt Eleanor."
Mrs. Howard followed her. The Doctor offered to row Mrs. Franklin across the river, Chan disappeared, and the Lieutenant went over to the Agency House with Mackenzie. Ronald looked at Forsyth and laughed.
"Everybody's moving," he said. "Let's go over and get Major and go swimming."
"You go after Major," suggested Robert, "and I'll get some towels of Aunt Eleanor. We'll go up north."
Ronald embarked in a pirogue and Forsyth went into the house. "I don't see where it's gone to," Mrs. Mackenzie was saying. "Are you sure you haven't it, Katherine?"
"What have you lost, Aunt Eleanor?" he asked.
"Why, my blue-and-white patchwork quilt – a white one with blue stars in it. It was washed and put away clean last Fall, and now it's gone."
Beatrice was looking at him in a way that puzzled him. "I'm sure I haven't seen it," he hastened to say. "Am I suspected?"
"Of course not," returned Mrs. Mackenzie; "but it's a strange thing to happen right here in the house. I wish you'd go up to the loft and see if it's on Chan's bed – he may have taken it by mistake."
Forsyth climbed the ladder to the empty loft, but no quilt was to be seen. The rude shakedown on which the half-breed slept had only blankets for covering. He looked around curiously, for he had never been in the loft before, but he did not envy Chan his quarters. There was only one window in the desolate place, and that scarcely deserved the name, for it was merely a small aperture in the front of the house. The floor was comparatively clean, but there was a pile of rubbish in one corner, which he promptly investigated. He had hardly expected to find the quilt, but he was surprised when he discovered a ham, a side of bacon, and a large piece of dark blue calico hidden under the nondescript heap.
"I expect he gets hungry in the night," thought Robert, remembering Chan's ferocious appetite.
"No quilt there, Aunt Eleanor," he said, when he went down. "May I have some towels?"
"The Indians must have taken it," she sighed, "but I don't know when nor how."
Beatrice was in a brown study, but Robert, even though he was gifted with rather more than the average man's discernment, did not know what she was thinking about. Remembering the conversation he had overheard the night of the barbecue, he had thought it likely that the cross over the door of the house in the woods had been stolen from the half-breed by an Indian, or else, after the manner of others somewhat higher in the social scale, Chan had taken unto himself an Indian wife.
Except as it concerned Beatrice, the matter did not interest him, and he forbore to tell her what he knew, lest the "secret" between them should come to an end. Her curiosity about the mysterious cabin had increased rather than diminished; but Robert had refused to go with her when she wanted to investigate it again, and she did not quite dare to go alone.
Ronald was waiting for him outside, and the dog trotted along beside them in high spirits, lavishing moist caresses upon his master, and punctuating his expressions of affection with exuberant barks.
"Down, Major, down!" commanded Ronald, "or I'll throw you into the lake."
The shadowy coolness of the woods was invigorating, and they walked on, heedless of the distance. "When we find a deep place," said Forsyth, "we'll dive into it from the bluff."
"No we won't," returned Ronald, conclusively. "I knew a fool once who broke his neck in just that way. No loss to the world particularly, but unpleasant. They'd miss us mightily at the Fort."
When Robert saw that they were approaching the neighbourhood of the cabin, he said that he was tired.
"So 'm I," answered the other. "Let's sit down and get cooled off before we go in."
Major was far ahead, ranging back and forth eagerly in pursuit of some small animal that had escaped him. "Something has happened," continued Ronald; "guess!"
"Couldn't guess – what is it?"
"That's right," laughed the Ensign, slapping his knee; "nobody could guess. We've actually got our new uniforms!"
"You don't say so! Where are they?"
"At Fort Wayne."
"Oh, you haven't got them, then?"
"No, but we've almost got 'em. Some of the boys are going this week sometime, as soon as the Captain can make up his mind to send 'em. I wish I could go, too, but they'll need nearly all the horses – fifty-eight new uniforms, you know. I've thought seriously of borrowing Miss Manning's horse and taking the trip – I need a change."
"She wouldn't let you have it."
"I hadn't intended to ask her," explained Ronald. "Lord, but she'd be mad! I'd give a pretty penny to see her when she found out I'd done it! I'd really rather see her good and mad than to take the trip, but I can't do both. If I have one pleasure, you'll have the other."
"I'd rather not, thank you – I'd much prefer to be out of the way of the storm. I hope you won't do it."
"Well, I'm not going to," said the Ensign; "at least, I don't think I am. I'm more or less subject to impulses, however."
A shrill feminine scream brought both men to their feet. "What was that?" cried Forsyth.
Major came toward them from the north, on a dead run, with his tail between his legs and panting for breath. "What's the matter, old boy?" shouted Ronald. The dog took shelter behind his master, trembling violently.
"He isn't hurt," said the Ensign, after looking him over carefully, "he's just scared. Do you think we'd better go up and see what's wrong?"
"No," answered Forsyth; "everything is quiet now. Major probably got into trouble with a squaw. It was a woman's scream."
"Maybe so," assented Ronald, sitting down again. "Anyhow, it was none of the women at the Fort, and I'm in favour of letting the Indians fight their own battles."
The dog, still frightened, insisted on lying uncomfortably close to his master. "Move over a bit, Major," he suggested; "you're too warm to sit by."
"He's all right," laughed Forsyth, as the dog refused to move; "let him alone."
"Do you know," said Ronald, after a silence, "that scream sounded like Mad Margaret's voice. Don't you think so?"
"Perhaps, now that you speak of it; but I haven't seen her for a long time."
"Neither have I, and I don't want to. Do you remember the night you came?"
Forsyth nodded.
"I can't get that out of my head – the way she looked at me when she told me I should never have my heart's desire. Someway, it sticks."
"You're not superstitious, are you?"
"Not exactly, but it was rather uncanny, if you remember, – at least it would have seemed so if she had said it to you."
"That's true," admitted Robert.
"I'm not afraid of anything in this world," resumed the Ensign; "but I don't want to tackle the next before I get to it – if there is any next."
"What do you think about the next world, anyway?"
"Well," answered Ronald, seriously, "I don't think much about it, and that's a fact. Nobody knows any more about it than anybody else, and I don't see why one man's opinion isn't as good as another's. Personally, I have always felt that if I was decent and honest and minded my own business, I'd get my share of anything good that night be coming after I got through here. Actions, to my mind, are a good deal more important than beliefs."
"That's so, too, but I've learned to keep pretty still about those things, for I've been accused more than once of too much liberality."
"The chaplain at West Point was a nice old fellow, and he used to tell us that if we were good soldiers and abided by the army regulations, we wouldn't get into trouble after we died. I've always remembered it and I've marched by it ever since."
"Let's go in now," suggested the other, after a long silence.
"All right – come on, Major!"
The sun was shining brightly on the water, and the dog barked joyously as they plunged in. "Keep him here," said Ronald, "I'm going on out." Robert watched him enviously as he swam north-east with a long, free stroke, until he was almost out of sight. The dog was eager to be after him, and, having no collar, was not easily controlled. When he came back, aglow with life, it seemed to the other that he had the clean-limbed beauty of a young Greek god.
"You go now," shouted Ronald, "and I'll amuse the pup."
Forsyth swam straight out, with an exultant sense of power in breasting the waves, and his pulses thrilled with something so vital, keen, and elemental that it seemed as if he could go on forever. When he turned back, he saw the gleam of light far to the northward, where the sun shone on the cross, and thought of Beatrice, happily, and of the day in the woods. He was well in toward shore when his muscles suddenly lost their strength – as if he had forgotten how to swim. He called once, but faintly, then unutterable darkness surrounded him.
