The Roof Tree. Charles Buck

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СКАЧАТЬ woods still sobbing and chill, a great fire roared on Caleb Parish's hearth. Before it sat the householder with his daughter and Kenneth Thornton; as usual, too, silent and morose yet stubbornly present, was Peter Doane.

      Oddly enough they were talking of the minuet, and Kenneth rose to illustrate a step and bow that he had seen used in England.

      Suddenly the girl came to her feet and faced him with a curtsey.

      Kenneth Thornton bent low from the waist, and, with a stately gesture, carried her fingers to his lips.

      "Now, my lord," she commanded, "show the newest steps that they dance at court."

      "Your humble servant, Mistress Dorothy," he replied, gravely.

      Then they both laughed, and Caleb Parish was divided between smile and tears – but Peter Doane glowered and sat rigid, thinking of freshly reared barriers that democracy should have levelled.

      CHAPTER IV

      A week later Dorothy led Kenneth Thornton and Peter Doane to a place where beside a huge boulder a "spring-branch" gushed into a natural basin of stone. The ferns grew thick there, and the moss lay deep and green, but over the spot, with branches spreading nobly and its head high-reared, stood an ancient walnut and in the narrow circle of open ground at its base grew a young tree perhaps three feet tall.

      "I want to move that baby tree," said Dorothy, and now her voice became vibrant, "to a place where, when it has grown tall, it can stand as a monument over my mother's grave."

      She paused, and the two young men offered no comment. Each was watching the glow in her eyes and feeling that, to her, this ceremony meant something more than the mere setting out of a random seedling.

      "It will stand guard over our home," she went on, and her eyes took on an almost dreamy far-awayness. "It will be shade in summer and a reminder of coming spring in winter. It will look down on people as they live and die – and are born. At last," she concluded, "when I come to die myself, I want to be buried under it, too."

      When the young walnut had been lifted clear and its roots packed with some of its own native earth Kenneth Thornton started away carrying it in advance while Dorothy and Peter followed.

      But before they came to the open space young Doane stopped on the path and barred the girl's way. "Dorothy," he began, awkwardly, and with painful embarrassment, "I've got something thet must needs be said – an' I don't rightly know how to say it."

      She looked up into his set face and smiled.

      "Can I help you say it?" she inquired, and he burst out passionately, "Until he come, you seemed to like me. Now you don't think of nobody else but jest him … and I hates him."

      "If it's hatred you want to talk about," she said, reproachfully, "I don't think I can help you after all."

      "Hatred of him," he hastened to explain. "I've done lived in the woods – an' I ain't never learned pretty graces … but I can't live without you, an' if he comes betwixt us…"

      The girl raised a hand.

      "Peter," she said, slowly, "we've been good friends, you and I. I want to go on being good friends with you … but that's all I can say."

      "And him," demanded the young man, with white cheeks and passion-shaken voice, "what of him?"

      "He asked me an hour ago," she answered, frankly. "We're going to be married."

      The face of the backwoodsman worked spasmodically for a moment with an agitation against which his stoic training was no defense. When his passion permitted speech he said briefly, "I wishes ye joy of him – damn him!"

      Then he wheeled and disappeared in the tangle.

      "I'm sorry, dearest," declared Thornton when she had told him the story and his arms had slipped tenderly about her, "that I've cost you a friend, but I'm proud beyond telling that this tree was planted on the day you declared for me. To me too, it's a monument now."

      That night the moon was clouded until late but broke through its shrouding before Dorothy went to bed, and she slipped out to look at the young shoot and perhaps to think of the man who had taken her in his arms there.

      But as she approached she saw no standing shape and when she reached the spot she found that the freshly placed earth had been dug up. The tree had been spitefully dragged from its place and left lying with its roots extending up instead of its branches. Plainly it was an act of mean vandalism and Dorothy feared an emblem of deeper threat as well.

      Already in the girl's thought this newly planted monument had become a sacred thing. To let it be so soon destroyed would be an evil augury and submission to a desecration. To tell Kenneth Thornton would kindle his resentment and provoke a dangerous quarrel. She herself must remedy the matter. So Dorothy Parish went for her spade, and late into the night she laboured at that second transplanting.

      The roots had not had time to dry or burn, because they had been upturned so short a time, and before the girl went to her bed the task was finished, and she dreamed of birds nesting in broad branches and other home-making thoughts more intimate, but also of vague dangers and grudge-bearings.

      But the next morning her face blanched when her father roused her before dawn.

      "Kenneth Thornton was waylaid and shot last night," he said, briefly. "They fear he's dying. He's been asking for you."

      About the door of Thornton's cabin in the gray freshness of that summer dawn stood a clump of silent men in whose indignant eyes burned a sombre light which boded no good for the would-be murderer if he were found. As the girl came up, with her face pale and grief-stricken, they drew back on either side opening passageway for her, and Dorothy went directly to the bed.

      Caleb, though, halted at the threshold in response to a hand laid detainingly on his fringed sleeve.

      "We hates to accuse a white man of a deed like this," said Jake Rowlett, a time-gnawed old Indian fighter, "but Thornton made a statement to us – under oath. He recognized Peter Doane – and Peter would of scalped him as well as shot him only he heard somebody rustlin' the brush an' got away."

      "Peter Doane!" Caleb pressed a shaken hand to his bewildered forehead. "Peter Doane – but I can't credit that! Peter has sat by my hearth night after night … Peter has eaten my salt … Peter has been our staunchest reliance!"

      Caleb's glance travelled searchingly about the circle of faces and read there unanimous conviction and grim determination.

      "Peter has done growed to be half Injin hisself," came the decided answer. "Thornton didn't swear to no lie when he knew he mout be dyin'."

      Caleb straightened decisively and his eyes blazed in spurts of wrath.

      "Go after him then," he ordered. "It won't do to let him get away."

      The pursuit parties that spread into the woods travelled fast and studiously – yet with little hope of success.

      No man better than Peter Doane himself would recognize his desperation of plight – and if he had "gone bad" there was but one road for his feet and the security of the colony depended upon his thwarting.

      Pioneer chronicles crowned with anathema unspeakable their small but infamous roster of white renegades, headed by the hated name of Samuel Girty; renegades who had "painted their faces and gone to the Indians!"

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