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The Scarlet Hunter
by
“You have grown wise, Hester,” he replied.
“No, I am sick in brain and body; but it may be that in such sickness there is wisdom.”
“Ah,” he said, “it has turned my head, I think. Once I laughed at all such fanciful things as these. This Scarlet Hunter, how many times have you seen him?”
“But once.”
“What were his looks?”
“A face pale and strong, with noble eyes; and in his voice there was something strange.”
Trafford thought of Shangi, the Indian,–where had he gone? He had disappeared as suddenly as he had come to their camp in the South.
As they sat silent in the growing night, the door opened and the Scarlet Hunter stood before them. “There is food,” he said, “on the threshold–food for those who go upon a far journey to the South in the morning. Unhappy are they who seek for gold at the rainbow’s foot, who chase the fire-fly in the night, who follow the herds in the White Valley. Wise are they who anger not the gods, and who fly before the rising storm. There is a path from the valley for the strangers, the path by which they came; and when the sun stares forth again upon the world, the way shall be open, and there shall be safety for you until your travel ends in the quick world whither you go. You were foolish; now you are wise. It is time to depart; seek not to return, that we may have peace and you safety. When the world cometh to her spring again we shall meet.” Then he turned and was gone, with Trafford’s voice ringing after him,–“Shangi! Shangi!”
They ran out swiftly, but he had vanished. In the valley where the moonlight fell in icy coldness a herd of cattle was moving, and their breath rose like the spray from sea-beaten rocks, and the sound of their breathing was borne upwards to the watchers.
At daybreak they rode down into the valley. All was still. Not a trace of life remained; not a hoofmark in the snow, nor a bruised blade of grass. And when they climbed to the plateau and looked back, it seemed to Trafford and his companions, as it seemed in after years, that this thing had been all a fantasy. But Hester’s face was beside them, and it told of strange and unsubstantial things. The shadows of the middle world were upon her. And yet again when they turned at the last there was no token. It was a northern valley, with sun and snow, and cold blue shadows, and the high hills,–that was all.
Then Hester said: “O Just, I do not know if this is life or death–and yet it must be death, for after death there is forgiveness to those who repent, and your face is forgiving and kind.”
And he–for he saw that she needed much human help and comfort–gently laid his hand on hers and replied: “Hester, this is life, a new life for both of us. Whatever has been was a dream; whatever is now”–and he folded her hand in his–“is real; and there is no such thing as forgiveness to be spoken of between us. There shall be happiness for us yet, please God!”
“I want to go to Falkenstowe. Will–will my mother forgive me?”
“Mothers always forgive, Hester, else half the world had slain itself in shame.”
And then she smiled for the first time since he had seen her. This was in the shadows of the scented pines; and a new life breathed upon her, as it breathed upon them all, and they knew that the fever of the White Valley had passed away from them forever.
After many hardships they came in safety to the regions of the south country again; and the tale they told, though doubted by the race of pale-faces, was believed by the heathen; because there was none among them but, as he cradled at his mother’s breasts, and from his youth up, had heard the legend of the Scarlet Hunter.
For the romance of that journey, it concerned only the man and woman to whom it was as wine and meat to the starving. Is not love more than legend, and a human heart than all the beasts of the field or any joy of slaughter?