The Silent Battle

“I’m going downstream, Joe. You follow.”

The Indian nodded and Gallatin moved down among the rocks in the bed of the stream. Pools invited him, but he did not fish. He had not even jointed his rod. He was moving rapidly now, like a man with a mission, a mission with which fishing had nothing in common, splashing through the shallow water, jumping from rock to rock, or where the going was good along the shore, through the underbrush. There was a trail to follow now, a faint trail scarcely defined, but in which he saw the faint marks of last year’s footprints. His own they must be, heavy from the weight of the deer he had carried through the mud and wet. They were the symbols of his regeneration. Since then he had brought other burdens to camp and had thrown them at her feet, for what?

Later on, in a moist spot, he stopped and peered at the ground curiously. Other footprints had emerged from somewhere and joined his own, fresh footprints, one made by the in-turned toe of an Indian, the other smaller, the heel of which cut deep into the mud and moss. He bent forward following them eagerly. What could a woman be doing here?

Suddenly Gallatin straightened and sniffed the air. The smoke of a camp fire! The smell of cooking fish! Some one had preceded him. He moved forward cautiously, his heart beating with suppressed excitement, his mind for the first time aware that unusual impulses had dominated him all the morning. He also knew that the smell of those cooking fish was delicious.

In a moment he recognized the glade, the two beech trees and the rock, saw the bulk of the shack that he had built, the glow of the fire and a small figure sitting on a log before it, cooking fish on a spit. He stopped and passed a hand before his eyes. Had a year passed? Or was it—yesterday? Who was the girl that sat familiarly at his fire, hatless, her brown hair tawny in the sunlight, her slender neck bent forward?

He rubbed his eyes and peered again. There was no mistake. It was Jane.

XXIX

ARCADIA AGAIN

She did not move at his approach, although his footsteps among the dried leaves must have been plainly audible, and he was within ten feet of the fire before she turned.

“We had better be going soon, Challón,” she began and then stopped, as she raised her head and looked at him. He wore his old fishing hat with the holes in it, a faded blue flannel shirt, corduroys and laced boots; and as her eye passed quickly over his figure to his face, she paled, started backward and stared with a terror in her eyes of something beyond comprehension. He saw her put her arm before her face to shut out the sight of him and rise to one knee, stumbling blindly away, when he caught her in his arms, whispering madly:

“Jane! Jane! Don’t turn away from me. It’s Phil, do you hear? Myself—no other. You were waiting for me—and I came to you.”

She trembled violently and her hand clutched his arm as though to assure herself of its reality.

“Jane, look up at me. Look in my eyes and you’ll see your vision there—where it has always been, and always will be—unchangeable. Look at me, Jane.”

Slowly she raised her head and saw that what he said was true, the pallor of dismay retreating before the warm flush that suffused her from neck to brow.

“It’s—you, Phil? I can’t understand–”

“Nor I. I don’t know or care—so long as you are here—close in my arms. I’ll never let you go again. Kiss me, Jane.”

She obeyed, blindly, passionately, the wonder in her eyes dying in heavenly content.

“You came to me, Phil,” she whispered. “How? Why?”

“Because you wanted me, because you were waiting for me. Isn’t it so?”

“Yes, I was waiting for you. I came here because I couldn’t stay away. I—I don’t know why I came—” She paused and her hands tightened on his shoulders again. “Oh, Phil,” she cried again, “there’s no mistake?”

“No—no.”

“You frightened me so. I thought you were—unreal—a vision—your hat, your clothes are the same. I thought you were—the ghost of happiness.”

He kissed her tenderly.

“There are no ghosts, Jane, dear. Not even those of unhappiness,” he murmured. “There is no room for anything in the world but hope and joy—and love—yours and mine. I love you, dearest. Even when reason despaired, I loved you most and loved the pain of it.”

“The pain of it—I know.”

She was sobbing now, her slender body quivering under his caress.

“Don’t, Jane,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. Don’t!”

But she smiled up at him through her tears.

“Let me, Phil, I—I’m so happy.”

He soothed her gently and held her close in his arms, her head against his breast, as he would have held that of a tired child. After a time she relaxed and lay quiet.

“You’re glad?” he asked.

There was no reply.

“Are you glad?” he repeated.

“Glad! Oh, Phil, I’ve suffered so.”

“Oh, Jane, why? Look at me, dear. It was all a mistake. How could you have misjudged me?”

She drew away from him and took his head between the palms of her hands and sought his eyes with her own.

“There was no other?” she asked haltingly.

“No—a thousand times no,” he returned her gaze eagerly. “How could there be any other?” he asked simply.

She looked long and then closed her eyes and drew his lips down to hers.

“You believe in me—now?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes still closed. “I believe in you. Even if I didn’t, I would still—still—adore you.”

“God bless you for that. But you do believe–” he persisted.

“Yes, yes, I do believe in you, Phil. I can’t doubt you when you look at me like that.”

“Then I’ll never look away from you.”

“Don’t look away. Those eyes! How they’ve haunted me. The shadows in them! There are no shadows now, Phil. They’re laughing at me, at my feminine weakness, convinced against itself. I thought you were a ghost.” She held him away and looked at him. “But you’re not in the least ghostlike. You’re looking very well. I don’t believe you’ve worried.”

“Nor you. I’ve never seen you looking handsomer. It’s hardly flattering to my vanity.”

She sighed.

“I’ve lived in Arcadia for three weeks.”

He led her over to the log beside the shack and sat beside her.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “how you came to be here—alone.”