Silas Strong 32

Silas Strong 32

"He's the b-best chap that ever c-come to my camp," Strong added.

 

Dunmore came close to the Emperor and spoke in a low tone.

 

"Tell him," said he, "that I send apologies for my rudeness--he will

understand you. Tell him to let us alone awhile. I have been foolish,

but I am changing. Tell him if marriage is in his mind I cannot now bear

to think of it. But I will try--"

 

Dunmore paused, looking down thoughtfully, his hand over his mouth.

 

"I will try," he repeated, in a whisper, "and, if he will let us alone,

some day I may ask you to bring him here. You tell him to be wise and

keep away."

 

Strong nodded, with full understanding of all that lay behind the

message.

 

The old lady came out of the door and that ended their interview. She

spoke to Strong with a kindly query as to his sister, and then came a

great surprise for him.

 

"I wish she would come and visit me," said the old lady. "And I would

love also to see those little children."

 

Dunmore took the hand of his mother and no word was spoken for half a

moment.

 

"It's a good idea," he said, thoughtfully. Then, turning to Strong,

he added: "We shall ask them to come soon. I shall want to see those

children again."

 

In the moment of silence that followed he thought of those little

people--of how they had begun to soften his heart and prepare him for

what had come.

 

The Emperor paddled back to the landing and returned to Lost River camp.

 

 

 

 

XXVIII

 

MASTER accepted the counsel of his friend and kept away from Buckhom.

He was, at least, relieved of the dark fears which Dunmore's angry face

had imparted to him. He left camp to look after his canvass and was gone

a fortnight. Strong had promised to let him know if any word came down

the trail from their neighbors. The young man returned to his little

shanty at Catamount and suffered there a sublime sort of loneliness. The

silence of Dunmore seemed to fill the woods. Every day Master went to

Birch Cove and wandered through the deer trails. Every graceful thing in

the still woods reminded him of her beauty and every bird-song had

the music of her voice in it. He began to think of her as the embodied

spirit of the woodland. She was like Strong himself, but Strong was the

great pine-tree while she was like the young, white birches.

 

One bright morning--it was nearly a month after Strong had returned

from Buckhom---Sinth put on her best clothes and started for the camp of

Dunmore alone. The Emperor had gone away with some fishermen and Master

with the children.

 

Sinth had said nothing of her purpose. Her heart was in the cause of

the young people, and she had waited long enough for developments. The

injustice and the folly of Dunmore filled her with indignation. She had

her own private notion of what she was going to say, if necessary, and

was of no mind to "mince matters."

 

She stood for a few moments at the landing on Buckhom and waved her

handkerchief. The old lady saw her and sent the colored manservant to

fetch her across. Dunmore and his mother welcomed her at the veranda

steps.

 

"My land! So you're Mis' Dunmore!" said Sinth, coolly, as she took a

chair and glanced about her.

 

"Yes, and very glad to see you.".

 

"An' you've stayed fifteen years in this camp?"

 

The old lady nodded. "It's a long time," said she.

 

"It's a wonder ye ain't all dead--livin' here on the bank of a pond

like a lot o' mushrats!" Sinth went on. "Cyrus Dunmore, you ought t'

be 'shamed o' yerself. Heavens an' earth! I never heard o' nothin' so

unhuman."

 

A moment of silence followed. Dunmore smiled. He had never been talked

to in that way. The droll frankness of the woman amused him.

 

"I mean jest what I say an' more too," Sinth went on. "You 'ain't done

right, an' if you can't see it you 'ain't got common-sense. My stars! I

don't care how much trouble you've had. A man that can't take his pack

full o' trouble an' keep agoin' is a purty poor stick. I know what 'tis

to be disapp'inted. Good gracious me! you needn't think you're the only

one that ever got hurt. The Lord has took away ev'rything I loved 'cept

one. He 'ain't left me nothin' but a brother an' a weak back an' lots o'

work t' do, an' a pair o' hands an' feet an' a head like a turnup. He's

blessed you in a thousan' ways. He's gi'n ye health an' strength an'

talents an' a? gal that's more like an angel than a human bein', an' you

don't do nothin' but set aroun' here an' sulk an' write portry!"

 

Sinth gave her dress a flirt and flung a look of unspeakable contempt

at him. The face of Dunmore grew serious. Her honesty had, somehow,

disarmed the man--it was like the honesty of his own conscience. There

had been a note of strange authority in her voice--like that which had

come to him now and then out of the depths of his own spirit.

 

"Suppose every one that got a taste o' trouble was t' fly mad like a

little boy an' say he wouldn't play no more," Sinth went on. "My land!

we wouldn't be no better than a lot o' cats an' dogs that's all fit

out an' hid under a barn! Cyrus Dunmore, you act like a little boy. You

won't play yerself an' ye won't let these women play nuther. You're as

selfish as a bear. You 'ain't got no right t' keep 'em here, an' if you

don't know it you better go t' school somewhere. Now there's my mind

right out plain an' square."

 

She rearranged her Paisley shawl with a little squirm of indignation.

 

Dunmore paced up and down for half a moment, a troubled look on his

face. He stopped in front of Sinth.

 

"Boneka, madam," said he, extending his hand.

 

"I forgive," said Sinth, quickly, "providin' you'll try to do better.

It's nonsense to forgive any one 'less he'll quit makin' it nec'sary."

 

"I acknowledge here in the presence of my mother," said Dunmore, "that

all you say is quite right. I have been a fool."

 

Sinth rose and adjusted her shawl as if to warn them that she must go.

 

"Wal, I'm glad you've come t' yer senses," said she, with a glance at

the man. "'Tain't none o' my business, but I couldn't hold in no longer.

I've fell in love with that girl o' your'n. She's as purty as a yearling

doe."

 

"I don't know what I would have done without her," said the old lady.

"Since she was a little girl she's been eyes and hands and feet for me.

I fear that I'm most to blame for her imprisonment." As she talked the

indignation of Sinth wore away. Soon Dunmore helped her into his canoe

and set her across the pond.

 

"I'll find out about the young man," said he, as they parted. "He'll

hear from me."

 

One day soon after that Dunmore began to think of the children. In spite

of himself he longed to see them again. He started for the camp at Lost

River, and planned while there to have a talk with Strong and Master. At

Nick Pond, on his way down, he met the two Migleys.

 

After his interview with them he decided that he must have more

information regarding the young man before going farther.

 

 

 

 

XXIX

 

MORE than a month had passed since the journey of Sinth to Buck-horn;

but nothing had come of it. Silas, tramping with a party of fishermen,

had met Dunmore one day, but the latter had stopped only for a word of

greeting.

 

Master had left his little camp and Strong was to send for him on

the arrival of important news. The candidate had canvassed every mill

village among the foot-hills of the county but had found it up-hill

work. Many voters had lately become bosom friends of Joe Socket,

the able postmaster at Moon Lake. Once Master had wandered into the

Emperor's camp with a plan to invade the stronghold of Dunmore and

release the girl if, perchance, she might desire to be free. Strong had

wisely turned the young man's thought from all violence. He had taken

out his old memorandum-book and pointed to this entry:

 

_"Strong says the best thing fer a man to do in hell is kepe cool.

Excitement will increase the heat."_

 

So a foolish purpose had ended in a laugh.

 

Since midsummer some rain had fallen, but not enough to slake the thirst

of the dry earth. Now in the third week of September the tops were

ragged and the forest floor strewn with new leaves and with great rugs

of sunlight. Big, hurtling flakes of red and gold fell slowly and shook

out the odors of that upper, fairy world of which Edith Dunmore had told

the children.

 

One still, sunlit day of that week the old struggle between Satan and

Silas Strong reached a critical stage. Sinth had gone for a walk with

Sue and Socky, and young Migley, coming down from his camp at Nick,

had found the Emperor alone. He was overhauling a boat in his little

workshop. .

 

"Well, Colonel," said the young lumberman, "we want to know why you're

fighting us."

 

Strong had lately gone over to the scene of his quarrel on the State

land and plugged some of the pines with dynamite and posted warnings. He

had rightly reckoned that thereafter the thieves would not find it easy to hire men for that job.