17 A House of Glass

My fool’s paradise lasted long. We pressed on, finding the forest as peaceful and friendly as a gentleman’s park in the Old World. Rabbits leaped up from their coverts, once or twice a deer ran across our path, but of human beings there was no sign save ourselves, and we rejoiced because in the wilderness one expects enemies—he merely hopes for friends.

The joy of escape was still upon Miss Carew, her passing weakness swiftly ceasing. Lightness of heart now remained with her; she was going back to civilization, and the dangers of the forest would no longer be hers.

I suppose that all of us have our moments of supreme weakness. I was a hardened man near to thirty; in my youth, in the gay days, when I was twenty, I had known beautiful women, and—well, I was near to loving more than one of them; but now, with such a past as mine, I should have known better. But she led me on, not that she meant to do it or knew that it was so, but it was the revulsion in her mind, the lightness of heart coming after escape from so many and such great dangers, because as we two walked together in the forest, Osseo and Winchester coming on behind, she talked of many things, and I heard her low laugh more than once; she told me again of her life in Philadelphia, where she called the names of men and women whom I too had known in those thoughtless days of my youth. Thus did I find a link between us, though saying nothing of it to her. She knew well that old life of civilization, that larger world than this of the wilderness; and a hope to see it and taste it again, a longing which I had persuaded myself was dead, thrilled me. And with it came the old bitterness, stronger than ever because she was by my side. Were it not for that ancient stain I could walk with her, so I thought, as her equal, and measure myself in this gentler competition against any man who chose to enter, and I doubted not that they would be many.

I paid little heed to the forest then. My eyes were upon the rosy face beside me, noting the delicate curve of her chin and the wonderful deep blue of her eyes. Her hair was in two long braids, after the Indian fashion, and they hung far down her back, two tawny cables that glinted in the sun, pure gold, slightly tinted with a faint reddish gleam. This may seem a strange time to speak of or even note such matters, but mine was a peculiar situation, and this girl who walked beside me, trusting herself to me with such faith, stood not for herself alone, which would have been sufficient, but also for that old dead past which now in a foolish moment I almost persuaded myself might live again.

We walked as fast as we thought we ought to tax her strength in view of the journey that yet lay before us. The days were beautiful, more like late Indian summer than early winter, and the air was crisp and fresh. The wilderness was in a frolicsome mood, and presented a smiling face. Rose Carew had forgotten its treachery.

“How long will it take us to reach Fort Jefferson?” she asked.

“We should arrive there in two days.”

“And then?”

“And then?” I repeated, not knowing her meaning.

“And then,” she said, “what is to be done?”

“You,” I replied, “will go back to your relatives in Kentucky. I shall return to the wilderness with Osseo.”

“I think it likely,” she said, “that I shall go at once from Kentucky to Philadelphia; after such an experience as this my father would consider me safer there. And why not come to Philadelphia too? You say that you know only the wilderness; then it is time that you knew the cities also. It is worth the visit.”

“Do you ask me to come?” I said.

“Yes,” she replied, looking straight into my eyes. “I wish to see you there.”

The tempter spoke loudly to me then. I knew that I loved this girl, and I was sure that she did not hate me. Perhaps I might rebuild my ruined fortunes, and my soul was full of longing.

“It may be that I shall come,” I said.

She did not reply, but for a moment there was a deeper colour in her face, and a sudden thought made me tremble with happiness. I have said that she did not hate me; that I knew, and I began to believe that, disgraced man as I was, I might hope for more.

We stopped one day by the side of a brook, and saw only peace around us. The forest was still friendly and protecting. But a little anxiety began to creep into my mind. Miss Carew noticed the cloud on my face, and quickly asked me its cause; I sought to dismiss it as nothing.

“You will come to Philadelphia; remember that you have promised,” she said, misinterpreting the subject that I had upon my mind.

We resumed our flight as soon as we had taken a little rest, travelling nearly all of a beautiful starlit night, no enemy disturbing us, and nothing occurring to indicate that a hostile hand was near. When it was within an hour or two of daylight we told Miss Carew to rest. Osseo spread his blanket upon the ground for her, and Winchester had another with which he proposed to cover her while she slept. But she would not accept our suggestion. “No,” she said, “I can go on, and I will not have you risk yourselves further by delaying here on my account.”

But I knew that she should stop, and I told her to do as we said. Her lip quivered a little, and she looked at me reproachfully, but she yielded with surprising meekness. Exhaustion has a way of playing us queer tricks, and five minutes after the blanket was spread over her she was asleep, only a pale wisp of her face showing above the covering.

Osseo left us for awhile, and presently returned with fruit of the wild paw-paw; but as Miss Carew was still sleeping, and we did not wish to wake her, we waited. All of us needed rest, and while the girl slept the men reclined against tree trunks, gathering fresh strength and watching the forest. None of us spoke, because of the sleeper.

We were so much nearer safety, and by as much did my spirits fall. I was no longer alone with her; I was not bewitched by the sound of her voice, and my fool’s dream was over. I was what I was before I met her—John Lee, the condemned traitor—and while I might dream such a fool’s dream once, it could not be done twice. It would be as well for her to be tied to a stone and dropped in a river as tied to me—the difference would not be great. And I was a fool, too, for thinking that she could ever consent to such an alliance when she learned what I was, as she speedily would do.

She woke with a pretty start of surprise to see the sun so high in the sky, and began to make excuses, pleasant for us to hear, but most unnecessary.

“Miss Carew,” said Winchester, with a smile, “you sleep well for one who does not want to sleep at all.”

She retorted in like fashion, and while Osseo produced his paw-paws and some dried venison from his pouch she shot the shafts of her wit and fancy at both Winchester and me. Her gay spirits evidently were on the increase, and she rallied me on my glum face.

“What has occurred since I slept that you have grown so sombre, Mr. Lee?” she asked. “One would think that you are about to become a missionary among the Indians instead of a scout and hunter who fights them. But, in truth, has anything wrong happened to you?”

She looked at me with such clear eyes of sympathy that my spirits fell to greater depths than ever, but I responded that my countenance was a deception, a law unto itself, and that often I was most joyous when it seemed most gloomy.

After our brief breakfast we resumed the flight toward Fort Jefferson, which we reached on the following day without interruption, and behind the walls of which we at last placed Miss Carew in safety.

We found the fort filled with soldiers, other troops having come and officers of high rank present, among the latter Captain Hardy, who had shown me sympathy before St. Clair’s defeat. Nor was he less friendly now.

“Tis a great deed that you have done, Mr. Lee,” he said, “this saving of Miss Carew.”

“Others have done as much as I,” I replied. “Besides Osseo there were Winchester, the Englishman, and a wild Frenchman named De Chamillard, whose fate I do not know.”

“You were the leader,” he said, “and by this deed you have made new and powerful friends.”

“It may be so,” I replied, “but I shall not use them. I return to the forest when this task is concluded.”

He put his hand upon my shoulder and his manner was most friendly. It was like the touch of a brother.

“I think that you do wrong, Lee,” he said. “Finish this campaign with us and go back to the East. There are few things so bad that they can not be cured. No one can overlook your work here on the border; friends may do much; you may return to your original position, and you may marry.”

I saw plainly by his eyes what he meant, but I shook my head.

“Do not tempt me, Hardy,” I said. “I have already been tempted enough, God knows!”

And then in a weak and unmanly moment I put my face in my hands and groaned. He said no more, but he sounded my praises in the fort, as many things proved to me, among them the deference shown me by the soldiers and young lieutenants as I passed.

About midnight after our arrival the sentinels were aroused by a strange, clear note from the forest. I too heard it, and I went to the palisades, where I found that Osseo had preceded me. Captain Hardy was on watch, and turning to me he asked:

“What is that odd sound, Mr. Lee?”

It rose upon the still air, clear and melodious, and I knew it at once.

“What is it?” repeated Captain Hardy.

“That,” I replied, “is the mad Frenchman of whom I told you. Won’t you kindly warn your sentinels not to shoot at him?”

“He is not so mad as he seems,” replied the captain, “since he is wise enough to play his flute when he approaches the fort at night and save himself from a bullet.”

I made no mistake when I said it was De Chamillard, as he emerged presently from the woods, playing another flute, and approached the palisade. When Captain Hardy admitted him he saw me, and cried out with joy.

“Ma foi, but you are a welcome vision, Mr. Lee!” he said. “Did you bring the beautiful lady with you?”

I replied in the affirmative.

“Thanks to your help, M. De Chamillard,” I said. “You have risked your life nobly in her service.”

“’Tis a small matter to risk one’s life for such a lady,” he said. “The debt is mine.”

Then he informed me that the Indians found him bound in my place a few hours after my flight. There was a great uproar, but no one thought of blaming the man who was in Manito’s special keeping. He was released, and again he wandered as he chose, and his choice took him in a few days to Fort Jefferson, his desire to know of us urging him on. He was truly rejoiced over our escape, the sincerity of his manner permitting no doubt of it, and avowed his intent to pay his humble respects to the beautiful lady, as he insisted upon calling her, at the first opportunity, a purpose which I could not criticise.

I was near the palisade early the next morning, and Rose Carew came to me there. I saw at once by her face that she knew. Some one—and there are always such—had taken the trouble already to tell her. Here, in her presence, stubbornness and that sense of defiance came to my aid, as they had come when I faced others.

“They have told you of me; you know now what I am,” I said.

“I did not hear until a few minutes ago the charge against you,” she replied.

I looked at her, and I saw in her eyes the glow of confidence in me. I knew then that I was to her the man who had rescued her from the savages and who had guided her safely through the woods. To a pure mind like hers it did not seem possible that such a man could have done a great wrong. My heart sank, but it was no time for evasion or subterfuge.

“You have heard of the charge soon enough,” I said.

“But I do not believe it.”

She was refreshed by her sleep, and the colour had come back to her cheeks. Her clothing, torn by the bushes and briers, had been repaired by the loans of other women in the fort.

I met her questioning look with firmness, but I knew that I cared greatly for this girl’s opinion.

“I am waiting for you to deny this odious charge, Mr. Lee,” she said.

“I have not said that I was innocent.”

The old warlike passion rose stronger than ever in me—not against her, but against the situation in which I found myself. Let her believe it if she wished to do so! Strengthened by this feeling, I beheld without flinching the incredulous look in her eyes change to surprise, then to brief aversion, then to momentary bewilderment, and back to disbelief—all these variations as swift as the shifting colours of water under sunlight. ’Tis pleasant to feel that you have one’s faith, but ’tis bitter to shock that faith. So I said, with some hesitation:

“Miss Carew, I was tried and convicted of the crime with which you have heard me charged.”

“Then you were guilty?”

I was silent, and the momentary look of aversion returned to her face.

“Why don’t you deny it?” she cried. “I would not have believed it had everybody in the world save yourself told me that it was true—and after all that you have done! And throughout our flight you had the look and manner of a true man! And you were concealing the truth even then! Why did you bear yourself so? Why did you seem to be the most honest and unselfish of men? Was it merely a part that you played to deceive others?”

I had offered myself a sacrifice in her place, and for the moment, under the influence of other emotions, she seemed to forget it. But she was white; she could not have the simple creed of that gentleman in red, Osseo, who took me for what I was, not for what I may have been years before. After all, might not there be something in his contention that his was the superior race, simpler perhaps, but also more majestic? So I met her eyes again—so firmly that hers, not mine, fell. Then she suddenly extended to me her hand, which I did not take, because I felt anger in my soul.

“Mr. Lee,” she said, “will you not take my hand?”

“Why?”

“Because I wish to beg your pardon. What right have I to inquire into your past? I can not believe you guilty. I do not think that the man who risked his life again and again to save a stranger could have committed so base a crime.”

“And if I had committed it you would despise me. You would let the past outweigh the present. You have just credited me with a good deed: then a bad one done long ago is to have more effect after so many years than a good one done now?”

“I am not different from other people,” she said, half in bewilderment, half in appeal.

I had Osseo in mind, and I did not answer her.

“Mr. Lee,” she said, “let us be friends. If you did this I know that you have since undone it a hundredfold. I spoke foolishly just now, but it was under impulse. It is not for me to be the judge of any man, and I can only say in apology that I cared for your honour. I did not wish to hear any one speak against you. ’Tis but human, I think, to wish well to those who have done us a great service.”

I took her hand then, but I saw that her manner was not quite the same. She was now making an effort to like me. Yet I was re-enforced by pride, which can bear great burdens.

She went away without saying more, but presently she came back to me, and her manner was winning. “Your breakfast is ready, Mr. Lee,” she said.

A bright spot of colour appeared in either cheek, and then faded. Her manner was embarrassed, and I surveyed her for a moment trying to discern her meaning. She flushed again, but, as before, the colour was fleeting.

“I know it is waiting,” I said, “and a place is left for me over there.”

I pointed to a group of scouts and hunters who were enjoying the morning venison and coffee.

“I have prepared your breakfast myself, Mr. Lee,” she said, “and I hope that you will not refuse it. I wanted to give you something better than the common camp fire.”

So I went with her and found that she had made ready with her own hands the best food that could be obtained, and, moreover, she insisted upon serving it herself. I was grateful, but there yet seemed to be something lacking in her manner. She was singularly silent as she attended to the duties of this office, and suddenly it occurred to me that she was doing penance. She did not like me now; she could not forget what she had heard, but she was seeking to show the gratitude that she believed she ought to feel. So a resolution was formed in my mind—that is, it formed itself; I always felt that my will had but little to do with it. It was, I suppose, another ebullition of warlike temper.

I began to find fault with the breakfast; I remarked that the venison was not well cooked, at least not so in the opinion of a hunter of experience; the coffee had a suspicious muddiness and weakness; In fact, I was so captious and fault-finding that perhaps I should now be ashamed of myself. She flushed and pouted after her quick fashion at my first complaints, and then flaming red spots remained in either cheek. But she endured it awhile in silence.

Then I shifted my comments to the hollowness of human protestations. I asked if one really had friends; was there ever a time when they did not cast one away at the slightest excuse? She said nothing, and I returned to my criticisms upon her breakfast, although it was really of the best.

“Mr. Lee,” she said at last, “I told you in the forest that you could not have always been a hunter and wanderer through this Western wilderness, as you seemed to have in your speech and manner a reminder of the cultivated East.”

“Well?”

“I am convinced now that I was mistaken.”

“But you have just been told that I was a Revolutiomary soldier.”

“It was some other Lee.”

She would say nothing more after this, but I did not change my manner, still feeling belligerent, and resolved not to wish sympathy and friendship unless they were spontaneous. Her own attitude became somewhat hostile, but she forced herself to finish what she had undertaken.

“Miss Carew,” I said carelessly, when the breakfast was over, “I thank you, and I tell you now that in a day or two we start south. I shall not leave you until I give you back to your parents.”

But she did not show aversion to me again. She seemed rather now to seek my presence, and I did not avoid it. Whether it was the feeling of penance that still urged her I did not know, and I began to feel ease while with her.

De Chamillard heard of my conviction, but, like Winchester, he scorned it.

“If I do not know whether a friend of mine is innocent or guilty,” he said, “it is certainly my part to believe him innocent, or I am no friend. It is pleasanter to me, Monsieur Lee, to consider you innocent, and I swear I will not listen to anything else!”

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