The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort Dearborn

"To – to the little lad," faltered Katherine.

"Oh," said the other, quickly, turning away as if she had been hurt. For a moment the childless woman envied the other her grave.

Half a mile from the Fort, in a hollow near the river, was a little mound, marked only by a rude slab of limestone and the willow that grew above it. At the sight of it her eyes filled.

"Oh, Baby," she sobbed, pressing her face against the cold turf above him, "I wish I was down there beside you, as still and as dreamless as you! You don't know what it means – you never would have known! Oh, I'd rather be a stone than a woman with a heart!"

"Katherine!" cried a man's voice beside her; "Katherine!" Norton's arm lifted her from the grave and held her close. "Dear heart," he said, "is the world unkind?"

She drew away from him, but he still held her cold hand in his. "My heart aches for you, Katherine – can't you tell me?"

"You never lost a child," she whispered, clutching at the straw.

"That is true, but I have lost far more. I – " He stopped and bit his lips upon the words that struggled for utterance. "Come away," he said, gently.

He led her to the bank of the stream, where they sat down under a tree. She leaned against it, unconscious that he still held her hand.

There was a long silence, in which she regained, in some measure, her self-control. "I can't think what's wrong with me," she sighed. "I've cried more in the last six months than in all my life before. I'm not the crying kind – naturally, that is."

"Don't think about that, for nature knows a great deal more than we do. Cry all you want to, and thank God you have no grief beyond the reach of tears."

"Beyond – tears?"

"Yes; there is another kind, which I am glad you do not know. It cuts and burns and stings till it is the very refinement of torture, and there is no veil of mist to blind the eyes."

She looked at him curiously. "You – ?"

"Yes," he answered, with his head bowed; "that is the kind of grief I know the best."

"I – I'm sorry," she said, stirred to pity.

"Why should you be sorry for me?" he asked, with a rare smile. "There are countless joys in the world, but the griefs are few and old. The humblest of us can find new happiness, but there has been no increase of sorrow since the world was first made. There is a fixed and unvariable quantity of it, and we take turns bearing it – that's all. Nothing comes to any of us that some one before us has not met like a soldier, bravely and well."

"You are strong, but I have no strength."

"There are different kinds of strength, Katherine, and of these the one most to be prized is what we call endurance, for lack of a better word. One can always bear a little more, for we live only one day at a time, and to-morrow may bring us new gifts of which we do not dream."

Lengthening shadows lay on the river and the sun hung low in the west, but they talked on. She forgot everything but the peace of the moment, which came to her sore heart like a benediction. Without knowing it, she was very near to happiness then.

The Doctor's voice was soothing, as if he were talking to a child, and she did not dream that he was fighting the exquisite danger of her nearness with all the power at his command. At last she leaned forward with her eyes shining, and put her hand on his. "Thank you," she said, softly, "for helping me!"

The man's blood leaped in his veins, and he sprang to his feet. He walked back and forth on the bank of the river for some time before he dared trust himself to speak.

"Your happiness is very near to me," he said, trying hard to keep his voice even, "you must always remember that. And for me, it is enough to be near you, even if – "

She stretched out her hands and he lifted her to her feet. "I must go," she said.

"Yes, you must go, and go alone. I will stay here until you have had time to get back."

The deference to circumstances jarred upon her and she did not answer. Her hat was lying by the child's grave, and as he picked it up for her, she said: "Why, there are violets all around. I never saw those before."

"Didn't you?" he asked diffidently; "I thought you came often."

"No," she said, in a low voice, "not very often. Who put them there?"

He lowered his eyes at her question, and then she understood. "Did you plant flowers on my baby's grave?" she cried.

There was a tense moment before he dared to look at her. "Yes," he answered, slowly, "because – "

They were standing face to face, with the little grave between them, and the woman's heart quivered with a strange and terrible joy. There was no need of words, for, all at once, she knew why, during the four years of her marriage, he had followed her from one post to another. She saw a new meaning in his sympathy when the little lad died and her husband blamed her so bitterly; moreover, she knew that her battle was with herself, not him, for the unyielding edge of Honour lay between them, and, even if she would, he would not let her cross.

For his part he, too, was uplifted, because without words she understood, and answered with love in her eyes. Undisguised and unashamed, her heart leaped toward him, but he stood with his hands clenched so tightly that the nails cut deep into the flesh.

Neither had heard nor seen, but she felt an alien presence, and turned. Not six feet away from them stood Lieutenant Howard, with his face ashen grey. He had an armful of flowers – purple flags and yellow lilies from the marsh and clover from the fields.

When he knew that she saw him, he came to the grave, stooped, and put the flowers upon it. The Doctor stepped back, but Howard took no note of him whatever. "It is a strange place for a tryst," he said, with forced calmness. "Katherine, will you come home?"

They went all the way to the Fort without speaking, and when they reached their own house, he stood aside for her to enter, then followed her in and locked the door.

Trembling with weakness, he sat down and drew her toward him. "Katherine, have you anything to say to me?"

Strangely enough, she was not afraid, and the terrible joy was still surging in her heart.

"Only this, Ralph – that you have wronged me and misjudged me; but you know this – that I never told you a lie in my life. As long as I bear your name I will bear it rightly; while I call myself your wife, you may know that I am faithful to you and to myself. That is all I have to say, but for your sake and my own – and for the little lad's sake – be just a little kind to me!"

Her voice broke at the last words, but he rushed past her and went out. From the window of her room she saw him pacing back and forth on the plains beyond the Fort, fighting his battle with himself. She knew she had hurt him past all healing and pitied him subconsciously; the dominant knowledge warred with her instincts.

When he came in to supper, his face was still pale, but his voice was even and controlled. He ate but little, and they talked commonplaces until afterward.

"Katherine," he said, "I remove the embargo; you may have – him – or any of your other friends at the house as often as you please. I will not force my wife to make clandestine appointments outside!" He laughed harshly and went out, but, though she waited for him till long past midnight, he did not return.

For her there was no rest. Pity, shame, fear, pride, and ecstasy struggled for mastery in her soul. The sound of moving waters murmured through the night with insistent repetition as the waves came to the shore. In the dark hours before dawn she saw a man, indistinctly, walking on the prairie, with his hands clasped behind him and his head bowed.

At first she thought it was Ralph, but, straining her eyes through the darkness, she saw that it was the other, and her heart beat hard with pain.

"Dear God," she murmured brokenly, "oh, give him peace, and help me to be true!"

CHAPTER XII

IN THE NORTH WOODS

"Come on, Doc," said Ronald.

"Where?" asked Norton, lazily.

"Across the river, of course; don't you see the mob over there?"

The large yard in front of the Mackenzie house was fairly well filled with people when they arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, Forsyth, Chandonnais, Lieutenant and Mrs. Howard, and Mrs. Franklin were standing behind Beatrice, who was painting in water colours. Black Partridge, in all the glory of his feather head-dress and his most gorgeous blanket, was posing for his picture. The chief endeavoured to preserve the appearance of calm, but in reality he was greatly excited.