An American Part 14

"My Daughter, come with me; I'll house you all for this one night at least; I'll find a way tomorrow, somehow, for you, so that you may go on in the path that you were meant to walk in. My Daughter, let us pray for guidance in this unexpected sorrow. Let us pray."

They knelt there underneath the friendly stars and the good Priest prayed, earnestly:

"Dear, kind and loving Father," then he said, "look down upon us as we kneel before Thee, here; direct us with Thy holy Wisdom, for we falter and are cast down with the burden of this day. Direct the feet of her who has been sorely stricken, here, tonight; direct her feet so that she may go on upon the path that Thou hast pointed out to her. Help her to go on with courage and devotion to the cause for which she has made this great and almost overpowering sacrifice. Help her to show in all her acts, henceforth, the same sweet resignation to Thy Will that she has shown so far. And help me, Father, help Thy humble servant who is but feeble and who often fails in doing all he should for Thee and for Thy children, help Thy humble and most unworthy servant to stand as if he were a pillar, so that she may lean upon him if her courage falters, or if she should stumble or grow weak in walking in the path that she was meant by Thee to walk upon. Look down in mercy on Thy servants as we kneel before Thee here. Amen."

Tid-i-wats endured this, patiently, until he went beyond the common run of prayers for him when they had been together, then she squirmed and twisted in Ruth's arms, and, finally, escaped her altogether; then old Mage corraled her and the two of them had quite a little conversation on the side:

"You naughty little thing! You must behave yourself and be a nice little lady. Can't you see what's happened to us without making us a lot of trouble, too?"

And Tid-i-wats said, plainly:

"I'll do just as I please, you mean old thing you! Don't you _dare_ to hold me when I want to get away! I'll show you what my claws will do to you, old Mage! You let me go this minute!"

Then she used some language only known to cats and those who know the devious ways of little petted cats.

Then Ruth turned to her and whispered:

"Little Dadditts! Little Tid-i-wats! Be a nice lady, now ... be a very nice little lady, now. Dadditts ... little bit of Dadditts...."

Then she held her close and tried to comfort her and gain some comfort for herself, but her tears would come to think how happy they had always or most always been in that fine home which seemed so much a part of life to Ruth that, now that it was gone from her, life seemed a sordid and a sorry thing.

But she went with Father Felix, quietly, to the refectory and there they all found comfort and refreshment, for the good Priest always had prepared himself to entertain some unexpected guests, and, with returning security and peace, his parishioners had brought some supplies to welcome him on his return; so they fared quite well considering what had met them when they reached the place where Ruth had thought to find rest from her arduous toil; instead, she had to meet renewed unrest and many problems to be solved in her near future.

CHAPTER XX

When Ruth Wakefield awoke the next morning after her arrival in the village of San Domingo, she became conscious of her surroundings with a sudden start; at first, she scarcely realized just where she was, for her long trip on the boat following her strenuous and nerve-wracking labor of the past few weeks, had left her very weary in mind as well as in body, so that her sleep had been profound and restful; she looked about her wonderingly and did not recognize anything near to her except little Tid-i-wats who was cuddled up in a little soft round ball right beside her pillow; then, from the adjoining room, she began to hear old Mage, who was, evidently, making her customary strenuous efforts to continue her slumbers.

Gradually, Ruth remembered the desolation to which she had returned, and, hastily dressing, she left the refectory intending to go at once to the spot where her much-loved home had been, and ascertain, under the light of day, the extent of her loss, also, she wished to make some plans, while she could do so quietly and un.o.bserved, as to the future of her little family, who, as it seemed, was now without a roof to shelter them.

She slowly and cautiously ascended the hill; the pathway was almost obliterated by the growth of the wild things that had been allowed to run riot over it and she followed it more by instinct than anything else; as she gained the point from which the proud edifice she had so loved used to become visible to anyone approaching it, the fact that no buildings of any kind were in sight pressed upon her inner consciousness, and it was only with great effort that she proceeded at all; somehow, she had hoped, she now found, that the hasty survey they had made the night before might have been overdrawn in some respects and the corroboration of her worst fears was hard for her to bear; but she had become accustomed, from long endurance, to meet whatever came with calmness and courage; so she straightened her slim, tall figure to its full height, and advanced with the air of a soldier marching forth to meet the foe.

She had pa.s.sed the spot where the entrance gates had been; the pillars on either side of the entrance were almost entirely demolished and there was nothing to be seen of the gates themselves; all along the driveway debris was piled in disordered heaps; evidently, no one had been here, or so it seemed at a first glance, anyway, for some time; vegetation had even partially covered a part of the ruins of the dwelling itself; with repeated gasps of horror, she ran from what had been the front entrance to her home to first one side and then the other; finally, she sat down, disconsolately, like Niobe, amid the ruins of her former happiness; she knew that she was where her library had been; here she had found her most satisfying, lasting happiness, surrounded as she had been by the books she had loved; she could see the half-burned remains of many of her favorites lying all around her; thinking to save some portion of one of these, she picked it up, fondly, and laid it in her lap, while she bent over it searching for some word of comfort or some sustaining sentence; it seemed to her that some of the authors she had so dearly loved and almost reverenced, would surely come to her aid in this dire calamity ... it almost seemed to her as if one or more of them would actually speak to her in such a way as to impress her mind with their fine thoughts.

Suddenly, she became conscious of the nearness of some human being; looking up, surprised and even alarmed, she beheld the man whose life she had been instrumental in saving after the battle of San Juan Hill.

"Tender Heart," he said, softly, "Tender Heart, what have we here? Why are you so sad? You came to me in grievous trouble and I, it seems, have found you under similar circ.u.mstances. Tender Heart," he pleaded, "Tender Heart, let me help you as you helped me if I can do so."

She turned and looked into his eyes ... she rose to her feet and took one hesitating step toward him ... she stretched out both her hands, and, somehow, then, she felt his strong arms fold themselves around her yielding form ... she felt his heart beat very near to hers ... she felt his lips against her hair ... and, then, she turned her face from his broad shoulder where it had found a resting-place, and, as her lips met his, it seemed to her that, after all, she had come home; a feeling of deep security and sweet peace crept over her:

"Tender Heart," he murmured very near to her small, sh.e.l.l-like ear, for she had, once more, put her head against his shoulder, "Tender Heart, you do not know my name.... I am, to you, but one of those five men who volunteered, at once, to follow Teddy up San Juan Hill.... I am, to you, but only him you rescued from almost certain death upon that b.l.o.o.d.y battle-field. Are you sure you are not making a mistake, sweet, trusting Tender Heart, to grant me this great privilege, knowing as little of me as you do?"

He waited for her answer, for some time, but, then, he waited willingly indeed, for her soft nearness was enough to make him very happy; when her answer came she spoke in such low tones he had to listen very closely ... he had to put his arms about her a little closer than they had been yet ... he had to lift her from the ground and bring her soft, red mouth upon a level with his head, indeed ... and then, he heard her say:

"I know you just as well as you know me. We do not know each other's names ... we do not need to know them ... now ... I only know I love you, Dear ... and, now, I know that you love me."

And, then, he set her feet upon the ground again and looked down into her clear, gray eyes, and found within their shining depths the very things he wanted most to know; and she looked up and saw a man who was a man indeed ... a man on whom she knew that she could lean ... a man whom she would love to walk beside ... a man of whom she could be always proud.

Standing there, they gazed into each other's eyes and read their future in them ... read the happiness that they might know together on the earth, and, then, they saw beyond the chance and change that seem to to govern earthly things, and saw themselves together in some higher, better sphere. They plainly saw, there, in each other's eyes, the promise of another, more etherial world, where they might spend long ages of eternal joy and gladness in each other's company.

Father Felix found them so, for he had followed Ruth to see if he could help her meet the problems that confronted her; the good Priest hesitated for only a moment before he said:

"My Daughter, I trust that you have found true happiness. Sir, I do not know you very well, but I can give you most profound a.s.surance that you have found a jewel among women; if she has any faults I have not found them, yet, and I have spent full many happy hours in her society; my work is to find faults, if so be I can trace them out; I am a hunter, and a most successful one, of human frailties, and, when I give you my most profound a.s.surance that I have not found a fault in this one woman, the statement is worthy of respect.

"Your coming at this time is most propitious, for I was almost at my wit's end as to how to help her bear the direful calamity that has just come upon her. She has not remembered half she's lost, and, now that she has found you, Sir, I trust that she will nevermore remember much of it, but that she will go on, with you beside her, leaving far behind her in her earthly path sad memories of happy days that nevermore can come to her."

The man, then, gave to Father Felix his right hand and kept his left arm round Ruth's slender waist:

"I do not doubt your word," he answered the good Priest. "I feel that every single word of what you've said is strictly true, and, yet, I have some fault to find with this young lady, here; she came away and did not leave a message behind for me, and I have had a weary, most disheartening time since she departed. I came to San Domingo, I traced her that far, easily, and, then, I found a little girl named Tessa something, who said she knew the very place to find her in ... she said she knew she'd go where, once, the mansion on the hill had stood ...

and, so, I came straight here, and, so, I've found her. Tender Heart,"

he asked, "have you told the good Priest how we met?"

Then Ruth blushed her pretty, fleeting, characteristic little blush, and said:

"Father Felix knows me even better than I know myself, for he has told me many times what I would do before I did it. Father Felix knows me better, even, that _you_ do," then she turned to Father Felix, laughing like a happy little child, and added, "He don't even know my name and I have no idea what _his_ is; he calls me Tender Heart because I am so easily misled by tenderness and I call him ... why, I have never called him anything at all."

"Yes, you have!" he interrupted, eagerly. "You called me 'Dear' just now ... so she is Tender Heart and I am Dear and that's enough, I think, don't you?"

The good Priest smiled upon them almost condescendingly, for he was far above such little human twists and turns, or so he seemed to be at least, and so he was in very truth, for he had had his romance ... he had seen the grave close over the bright curls of one he dearly loved who loved him just as dearly as he did her; it was after that that he had taken up the work he did so well; he left his human happiness behind him in that narrow grave and looked beyond it to a higher, better kind of happiness; Ruth knew a little of this romantic sorrow for the good Priest had imparted it to her, and, so, her tender eyes filled up with sudden tears and her low, sweet voice trembled into even softer cadences than usual as she said:

"Dear Father Felix, you are more to me than any loving brother that a woman ever had ... you are the only one who ever understood my human sorrow and I think that you will fully understand my human happiness. I wish with all my heart that you could be as happy as we are," her fair face flushed again, "for you deserve far more of happiness than I do ...

as for him," she added, archly, "as for him ... do not be too sure of perfect human happiness for him.... I am but a mere child in very many ways.... I have so very much to learn.... I'm sure I'll always do the very best I can, but whether that will be the very best that could be done, of course I do not know."

"I'll risk it, anyway, and I will risk it gladly, joyfully," the man averred. "I'd go again upon that b.l.o.o.d.y battle-field if you'd be sure to find me, Tender Heart," he ended, "if only in that way we two were meant to meet."

When Ruth went back to the refectory she found old Mage and Tid-i-wats as lively as two crickets and as cheery as could be ... she introduced the man whose life she'd saved, or so it seemed, to them, and each of them acknowledged the introduction in her own peculiar way; old Mage stared at the man and sized him up most shrewdly, and, then, she gave her verdict very plainly by her manner of addressing him:

"I'm glad to see you, Sir," she said. "I'm surely very glad to see you for I've often heard my dear young lady speak of you; I hope you'll stay around here near to us for we will have another home to build and Tid-i-wats and I are not much help to her.... I'm growing to be an old woman, now, and Tid-i-wats is so peculiar that she never is much help to anyone."

And, then, the little cat came close to him and smelled his hands and rubbed against his legs, and, finally, when he sat down, she jumped up in his lap and settled down and twisted round and licked herself and washed her face and made herself entirely at home; and then she looked up at old Mage and Ruth and whispered to them that she liked him very well indeed, and, so, he was adopted into that small family.

CHAPTER XXI

An author who has been considered by very many people to be a most successful writer, one whose words have set before very many eyes vivid pictures of individual characteristics and national events as well, whose Indians are known all over the world, and whose historical novels will be eagerly perused as long as there are American eyes to read the pages of any book at all, used to make a sort of summary of the princ.i.p.al events in the lives of his very interesting characters: it always seemed to me that there was something very wholesome and satisfying in the way he finished up his books, and, so, I'd like to relate just a little more about the people I have tried to picture in this little book of mine.

Ruth Wakefield found her earthly mate when she found him whose life she helped to save upon the battle-field at night, and spent full many happy years in his society; they built a modern home upon the site of the mansion on the hill and did much good among the peasants living near to them; the man became the author of very many books, and Ruth a.s.sisted him in very many ways.

Old Mage and little Tid-i-wats lived out the span of earthly life allotted to each one of them, beneath the tender eye and ready hand of her who loved them both, and, when the time that had been set for them to leave this world behind them, came, Ruth Wakefield staid beside them to the very last, and ministered to them as no one else would ever do.

The man she'd found had named her well when he said "Tender Heart!" to her, that night upon the battle-field.

Her heart was very tender, always, except with reference to herself; she often did upbraid herself and never gave herself much credit; she often mourned, in secret, over her few brief memories of the wild, impulsive, almost insane, so-called love of him she'd married in her untried youth; she often said: