The Silent Battle

She straightened quickly and peered around.

“But I’m not alone—my guide—he went into the brush for firewood.”

“Curious!”

“He should be back by now.”

“I hope he doesn’t come back.”

“Oh, Phil, so do I—but he will. And you?”

“My guide, Joe Keegón, is there,” and he pointed upstream.

A shade passed over her face.

“But we’ll send them away, Jane, back where they came from. We need no guides now, you and I, no guides but our hearts, no servants but our hands. We’ll begin again—where we left off—yesterday.”

She crouched closer in his arms.

“Yesterday. Yes, it was only yesterday that we were here,” she sighed. “But the long night between!”

“A dream, Jane, a dream—a phantom unhappiness—only this is real.”

“Are you sure? I’m afraid I’ll awaken.”

“No,” he laughed. “See, the fire is just as we left it last night; the black log charred, the shack, your bed, the two birch trees and your ridgepole.”

“Yes,” she smiled.

“The two creels and the cooking fish–”

“Oh, those fish! My fish are all in the fire.”

“Do you care?”

“No—I’ll let them burn. But you’ll be good to me, won’t you, Phil?”

There was another long pause. About them the orchestral stillness of the deep woods, amid which they lived a moment of immortality, all thought, all speech inadequate to their sweet communion. A venturesome sparrow perched itself upon Jane’s ridgepole, and after putting its head on one side in inquiry uttered a low and joyful chirp, and failing to attract attention flew away to tell the gossip to its mate. The breeze crooned, the stream sighed and the sunlight kissed the cardinal flowers, which lifted their heads for its caress. All Nature breathed contentment, peace and consummation.

But there was much to be said, much mystery to be revealed, and it was Jane who first spoke. She drew away from him gently and looked out into the underbrush.

“Phil! Those guides,” she whispered. “They may have seen.”

“Let them. I don’t care. Do you?”

“Ye-s. Let me think. I can’t understand. Why hasn’t Challón come back? He was here a minute ago—or was it an hour? I don’t know.” Her fingers struggled with the disorder of her hair as she smiled at him.

“Challón is a myth. I don’t believe you had a guide.”

“A myth, indeed! I wish he was—now. I wanted to go out alone, but father wouldn’t let me–”

“Mr. Loring!” Gallatin started up. “Oh, of course!” he sighed. “I had forgotten that there were such things as fathers.”

“But there are—there is—” she laughed, “a perfectly substantial father within ten miles from here.”

“You’re in camp again—in the same spot?”

She nodded.

“Any one else?” he frowned. “Not Mr. Van Duyn.”

“Oh, dear, no. Coley has gone to Carlsbad.”

He took her by the hand again. “You sent him away?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“After ‘Clovelly.’ Oh, Phil, you hurt me so. But I couldn’t stand seeing him after that.”

“Why?”

“Because, cruel as you were, I knew that you were right and that I was wrong. I hated you that night—hated you because you made me such a pitiful thing; but— Oh, I loved you, too, more than ever. If only you hadn’t been so hard—so bitter. If you had been gentle then, you might have taken me in your arms and crushed me if you liked. I shouldn’t have cared.”

“Sh—that was only in the dream, Jane.” And then: “You never cared for him?” he asked quickly.

“Never.”

“Then why–?”

“My pride, Phil. Poor Coley!”

He echoed the words heartlessly.

“Poor Coley!”

A pause. “Who else is in camp?”

“Colonel Broadhurst, Mr. Worthington, Mr. and Mrs. Pennington–”

“Nellie! Here?”

“Yes, she had never been in the woods before. Why, what is the matter, Phil?”

Gallatin straightened, one hand to his forehead.

“I have it,” he said.