IN THE NEW GRAY DAWN

M MY anxious glance wandered from the face I so dearly loved, out where those dark restless waters merged into the brooding mystery of the black night. How unspeakably dreary, lonely, hopeless it all was! Into what tragic unknown fate had this earliest comrade of my manhood been remorselessly swept? Was all indeed well with him? or had the Nemesis of a wrong once done dealt its fatal stroke at last? The voices of the night were silent; the chambers of the great tossing sea hid their secret well. Had this gallant and reckless young soldier of France, this petted courtier of the gayest court in Europe, whose very name and rank I knew not, succeeded in his desperate deed? Had he reached yonder blood-stained shore, lined with infuriated savages, and found safe passage through them to the side of the woman he had once called wife, and then forgotten? Or had he found, instead, the solemn peace of death amid the swirling waters of this vast inland sea, so many leagues to the westward of that sunny land he loved? These were the thoughts that shook me, as I leaned out above the rail, her dear hand always on my shoulder. Never have the circling years found voice, nor the redeemed wilderness made answer.

"Possibly it might be done," I admitted slowly. "'Tis scarce farther than I swam just now, and he is neither weary nor wounded."

We all realized it was a useless peril to remain there longer, and I sat at the helm and watched, while Burns, who developed considerable knowledge in such matters, fitted the heavy sail in place. With the North Star over the water for our guidance, I headed the blunt nose of the boat due eastward into the untracked waters.

I confess that my memory was still lingering upon De Croix, and my eyes turned often enough along our foam-flecked wake in vague wonderment at his fate. It was Mademoiselle who laid hand softly on my knee at last, and aroused my attention to her.

"Why did you tell Sister Celeste that you came to Dearborn seeking Elsa Matherson?" she questioned, her clear eyes intently reading my face.

"I had even forgotten that I mentioned it," I answered, surprised at this query at such a time. "But it is strictly true. While upon his death-bed Elsa Matherson's father wrote to mine,—they were old comrades in the great war,—and I was sent hither to bring the orphan girl eastward. I sought her as a brother might seek a sister he had never seen, Mademoiselle; yet have failed most miserably in my mission."

"How failed?"

"In that I have found no trace of the girl, and beyond doubt she perished in the massacre. I know not how, but I have been strangely baffled and misled from the first in my search for her, and it was all to no purpose."

For the first time since I had fallen dripping into the boat, a slight smile was visible in the dark eyes fronting me.

"Why hid you from me with such care the object of your search?"

"I hid nothing, Mademoiselle. We spoke together about it often."

"Ay, indeed you told me you sought a young girl, and your words led me to think at first it must be Josette, and later still the Indian missionary. But not once did you breathe the name of the girl in my ears. The dwellers at Dearborn were neither so many nor so strange to me that I could not have aided you in your search."

"You knew this Elsa Matherson?"

"I am not so sure of that, Master Wayland," she returned gravely, her eyes wandering into the night. "Once I thought I did, but she has changed so greatly in the last few days that I am hardly sure. A young girl's life is often filled with mystery, and there are happenings that turn girlhood to womanhood in a single hour. Love has power to change the nature as by magic, and sorrow also has a like rare gift. Do you still greatly wish to find this Elsa Matherson?"

"To find her?" and I gazed about me incredulously into those flitting shadows where the waves raced by. "Ay, for I have dreamed of her as of a lost sister, and it will sadly grieve those at home to have me return thus empty-handed. Yet the thought is foolishness, Mademoiselle, and I understand not why you should mock me so."

She drew closer, in the gentle caressing way she had, and found my disengaged hand, her sweet face held upward so that I could mark every changing expression.

"Never in my useless life was I farther removed from any spirit of mockery," she insisted, soberly; "for never before have I seen the presence of God so clearly manifest in His mysterious guidance of men. You, who sought after poor Elsa Matherson in this wilderness, looking perchance for a helpless orphan child, have been led to pluck me in safety out from savage hands, and yet never once dreamed that in doing so you only fulfilled your earlier mission." I stared at her, grasping with difficulty the full significance of her speech.

"Your words puzzle me."

"Nay, they need not," and I caught the sudden glitter of tears on her lashes; "for I am Elsa Matherson."

"You? you?" and I crushed her soft hand within my fingers, as I peered forward at the quickly lowered face. "Why, you are French, Mademoiselle, and of a different name!"

She glanced up now into my puzzled face, a bit shyly, yet with some of the old roguishness visible in her eyes.

"My mother was indeed French, but my father was an American soldier," she said rapidly, as if eager to have the explanation ended. "You never asked my name, save that one night when we first met amid the sand, and then I gave you only that by which I have been most widely known. None except my father ever called me Elsa; to all others I was always Toinette. But I am Roger Matherson's only child."

It was clear enough now, and the deception had been entirely my own, rendered possible by strange chances of omission, by rare negligence of speech—aided by my earlier impression that she whom I sought was a mere child.

"And 'twas Sister Celeste who told you whom I sought?" I asked, for lack of courage to say more.

"Yes, to-night, while we waited for you beside the ruins of the old factory. Oh, how far away it all seems now!" and she pointed backward across the waters. "Poor, poor girl! Poor Captain de Croix! Oh, it is all so sad, so unutterably sad to me! I knew them both so well, Monsieur," and she rested her bowed head upon one hand, staring out into the night, and speaking almost as if to herself alone; "yet I never dreamed that he was a nobleman of France, or that he had married Marie Faneuf. She was so sweet a girl then,—and now to be buried alive in that wilderness! Think you that he truly loved her?"

"I almost have faith that he did, Mademoiselle," I answered gravely. "He was greatly changed from his first sight of her face, though he was a difficult man to gauge in such matters. There was a time when I believed him in love with you."

She tossed her head.

"Nay," she answered, "he merely thought he was, because he found me hard to understand and difficult of conquest; but 'twas little more than his own vanity that drew him hither. I trust it may be the deeper feeling that has taken him back now in face of death to Marie."

"You have indeed proved hard to understand by more than one," I ventured, for in spite of her graciousness the old wound rankled. "It has puzzled me much to understand how you so gaily sent me forth to a mission that might mean death, to save this Captain de Croix."

It was a foolish speech, and she met it bravely, with heightened color and a flash of dark eyes.

"'Twas no more than the sudden whim of a girl," she answered quickly, "and regretted before you were out of sight. Nor did I dream you would meet my conditions by such a sacrifice."

"You showed small interest as you stood on the stockade when we went forth!"

"You mean when Captain de Croix and I leaned above the eastern palisades?"

"Ay, not once did your eyes wander to mark our progress."

Her eyes were smiling now, and her face archly uplifted.

"Indeed, Master Wayland, little you know of the struggles of my heart during that hour. Nor will I tell you; for the secrets of a girl must be her own. But I marked each step you took onward toward the Indian camp, until the night hid you,—the night, or else the gathering tears in my eyes."

The sudden yawing of the boat before a gust of wind drew my thought elsewhere, and kept back the words ready upon my tongue. When once more I had my bearings and had turned back the plunging bow, she sat silent, deep in thought that I hesitated to disturb. Soon I noted her head droop slightly to the increased movement of the boat.

"You are worn out!" I said tenderly. "Lean here against me, and sleep."

"Indeed, I feel most weary," was her drowsy reply. "Yes, I will rest for a few moments."

How clear remains the memory of those hours, while I sat watchful of the helm, her head resting peacefully on my lap, and all about us those lonely tossing waters! What a mere chip was our boat in the midst of that desolate sea; how dark and dreary the changeless night-shadows! Over and over again I pictured the details of each scene I have here set forth so poorly, to dream at the end of a final home coming which should not be alone. It was with heart thankful to God, that I watched the slow stealing upward of the gray dawn as the early rays of light crept toward us across the heaving of the waters. It was typical of all I had hoped,—this, and the black shadows fleeing away into the west. Brighter and brighter grew the crimsoning sky over the boat's bow, where Burns lay sleeping, until my eyes could distinguish a far-off shore-line heavily crowned with trees. I thought to rouse her to the glorious sight; but even as I glanced downward into the fair young face, her dark eyes opened in instant smile of greeting.

"'Tis the morning," she said gladly, "and that dark, dark night has passed away."

"For ever, Mademoiselle; and there is even a land of promise to be seen out yonder!"

She sat up quickly, shading her eyes with her hand as she gazed with eagerness toward where I pointed.

"Think you we shall find shelter and friends there?"

"The half-breed chief said there were yet white settlers upon the Saint Joseph, Mademoiselle; and the mouth of that river should be easily found."

She turned toward me, a slight frown darkening her face.

"I wish you would not call me Mademoiselle," she said slowly. "It is as if we were still mere strangers; and you said Elsa Matherson was to be as your sister."

I bent over her suddenly, all my repressed love glowing in my face.

"Toinette!" I whispered passionately, "I would call you by a dearer name than that,—by the dearest of all dear names if I might, for you have won my heart in the wilderness."

For a single instant she glanced shyly up into my face, her own crimson at my sudden ardor. Her eyes drooped and hid themselves behind their long lashes.

"Those who sent you forth seeking a sister might not thus wish to welcome Elsa Matherson," she said softly.

"'Tis a venture I most gladly make," I insisted, "and would seal it with a kiss."

Her eyes flashed up at me, full of sudden merriment.

"The unpaid wager leaves me helpless to resist, Monsieur."

The soft haze of Indian summer rested over the valley of the Maumee. We rode slowly along the narrow winding trail that hugged the river bank; for our journey had been a long one, and the horses were wearied. Burns was riding just in advance of Toinette and me, his cap pulled low over his eyes, his new growth of hair standing out stiff and black beneath its covering. Once he twisted his seamed face about in time to catch us smiling at his odd figure, and growled to himself as he kicked at his horse's flanks.

It was thus we rounded the bend and saw before us the little clearing with the cabin in the centre of its green heart. At sight of it my eyes grew moist and I rested my fingers gently upon the white hand that lay against her saddle-pommel.

"Fear not, dear heart!" I whispered tenderly. "It is home for both alike, and the welcome of love awaits you as well as me."

She glanced up at me, half shyly as in the old way, and there was a mist of tears clinging to the long lashes.

"Those who love you, John, I will love," she said solemnly.

It was Rover who saw us first, and came charging forth with savage growl and ruffled fur, until he scented me, and changed his fierceness into barks of frantic welcome. Then it was I saw them, even as when I last rode forth, my father seated in his great splint chair, my mother with her arm along the carved back, one hand shading her eyes as she watched our coming.

This is not a memory to be written about for stranger eyes to read, but as I turned from them after that first greeting, their glances were upon her who stood waiting beside me, so sweet and pure in her young womanhood.

"And this, my son?" questioned my father kindly. "We would bid her welcome also; yet surely she cannot be that little child for whose sake we sent you forth?"

I took her by the hand as we faced them.

"You sent me in search of one whom you would receive even as your own child," I answered simply. "This is Roger Matherson's daughter, and the dear wife of your son."

What need have I to dwell upon the love that bade her welcome? And so it was that out of all the suffering and danger, forth from the valley of the shadow of death, Toinette and I came home.

THE END

Uniform with "When Wilderness Was King"

Each with six full-page pictures in color and
other decorations by the Kinneys, $1.50

The striking appearance of these volumes is due to the
appropriate character of the type, initials, end-papers, etc.,
and to the wonderful pictures in color.