CHAPTER XXXIII.
With the coming in of this tumultuous November, there came to Second Westings a few days of Indian summer magic. The moveless air seemed a distillation of dreams. The faint azure haze hung everywhere, soft yet cool, with an elusive fragrance as of clean smoke and fading roses and fresh earth-mould and lofts of grain. And on one of these consecrated days Barbara set out early in the morning to paddle across the lake and see old Debby.
As on a morning long ago, but not so early, she ran down the back garden path, and behind the barn, and climbed the pasture bars. This time she called to Keep; and the big mastiff, who now slept later than of old, came somewhat stiffly gamboling from his manger bed in the horse stable. She tripped along the pasture path, between the hillocks. She trod rapidly the black earth of the old wood-road, where the shadows were lighter now, and no sound broke the stillness save the eerie sigh and footfall of the dropping leaves. She launched the canoe with easy vigour, motioned Keep to his place in the bow, and pushed out with strong, leisurely strokes across the enchanted mirror. That far-off morning of her flight came back to her with strange poignancy, and she wondered if the blue heron would be standing at the outlet to admonish her with his enigmatic gaze.
As she approached the outlet, the point was vacant. But suddenly a strange, dishevelled figure, hatless, and in a blood-stained British uniform, emerged from the trees near by, came down amid the tall yellow grasses, and stood staring across the lake. He stood thus with blank eyes for a moment, apparently not seeing the canoe, then pitched forward, and lay on his face close to the water's edge.
With one sharp cry of his name, Barbara surged upon the paddle and shot the canoe toward land, wasting no mare breath on words. She sprang ashore, turned the still form over, loosened the low vest and the throat of the shirt, and dashed water in the white, stained, deathlike face. At first she thought he was dead, and she felt things growing black before her eyes. Then she caught herself, and held herself steady for the need. If she could not be strong now, what right had she to call herself a woman, or to love a man. She felt at his heart and found that he was alive. She saw that he was sorely wounded. She told herself that he had swooned from loss of blood, weariness, hunger,—but that he had lived, would live, must live. Then she dragged him further back into the grass, where he was hidden.
Calling Keep from the canoe, she sat down for a moment with Robert's head in her lap, and planned what should be done. He must not be found in Second Westings, that she knew. For an English prisoner of war it would be all very well,—but for a Tory it might be different. She could take no risks. In a moment or two her mind was made up. She bent over, and kissed the unresponding mouth. Then she rose, and turned to Keep, who had stood sniffing at Robert's clothes with sympathetic interest. They were shocking clothes, but Keep dimly remembered the man within them. Barbara pointed to the helpless figure, saying:
"Lie down, Keep!"
And Keep lay down, with his muzzle on Robert's arm.
"Guard, sir!" commanded Barbara. And Keep rolled upon her a comprehending and obedient eye. Then she pushed off the canoe, and paddled hastily down the river to fetch old Debby.