Complete weird tales of.., p.760
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 760
And, as I gazed at them outlined against the evening sky, I remembered what Betsy Hunt had said at Poundridge — how she had encountered them together on the hill which overlooked the Sound.
Long before I reached them or they had discovered me, the Sagamore turned and took his departure, with a dignified gesture of refusal; and Lois looked after him for a moment, her hand to her cheek, then turned and gazed straight into the smouldering West, where, stretching away under its million giant pines, the vast empire of the Long House lay, slowly darkening against the crimson sunset.
She did not notice me as I came toward her through the waving Indian grass, and even when I spoke her name she did not seem startled, but turned very deliberately, her eyes still reflecting the brooding thoughts that immersed her.
“What is it that you and this Mohican have still to say to each other?” I asked apprehensively.
The vague expression of her features changed; she answered with heightened colour:
“The Sagamore is my friend as well as yours. Is it strange that I should speak with him when it pleases me to do so?”
There was an indirectness in her gaze, as well as in her reply, that troubled me, but I said amiably:
“What has become of your mincing escort? Is he gone to secure a canoe?”
“He is on duty and gone to the fort.”
“Where he belongs,” I growled, “and not eternally at your heels.”
She raised her eyes and looked at me curiously.
“Are you jealous?” she demanded, beginning to smile; then, suddenly the smile vanished and she shot at me a darker look, and stood considering me with lips slightly compressed, hostile and beautiful.
“As for that fop of an Ensign — —” I began — but she took the word from my mouth:
“A fiddle-stick! It is I who have cause to complain of you, not you of me! You throw dust in my eyes by accusing where you should stand otherwise accused. And you know it!”
“I? Accused of what?”
“If you don’t know, then I need not humiliate myself to inform you. But I think you do know, for you looked guilty enough — —”
“Guilty of what?”
“Of what? I don’t know what you may be guilty of. But you sat on the stairs with your simpering inamorata — and your courtship quarrels and your tender reconciliations were plain enough to — to sicken anybody — —”
“Lois! That is no proper way to speak of — —”
“It is your own affair — and hers! I ask your pardon — but she flaunted her intimacy with you so openly and indiscreetly — —”
“There is no common sense in what you say!” I exclaimed angrily. “If I — —”
“Was she not ever drowning her very soul in your sheep’s eyes? And even not scrupling to shamelessly caress you in the face of all — —”
“Caress me!”
“Did she not stand for ten full minutes with her hand upon your shoulder, and a-sighing and simpering — —”
“That was no caress! It was full innocent and — —”
“Is she so innocent? Indeed! I had scarcely thought it of her,” she said disdainfully.
“She is a true, good girl, innocent of any evil intention whatsoever — —”
“I pray you, Euan, spare me your excited rhapsodies. If you prefer this most bewitching — minx — —”
“She is no minx!” I retorted hotly; and Lois as hotly faced me, pink to her ears with exasperation.
“You do favour her! You do! You do! Say what you will, you are ever listening for the flutter of her petticoats on the stairs, ever at her French heels, ever at moony gaze with her — and a scant inch betwixt your noses! So that you come not again to me vowing what you have vowed to me — I care not how you and she conduct — —”
“I do prefer you!” I cried, furious to be so misconstrued. “I love only one, and that one is you!”
“Oh, Euan, yours is a most broad and catholic heart; and any pretty penitent can find her refuge there; and any petticoat can flutter it!”
“Yours can. Even your fluttering rags did that!”
She flushed: “Oh, if I were truly weak and silly enough to listen to you — —”
“You never do. You give me no hope.”
“I do give you hope! I am ever ladling it out to you as they ladle soupaan to the militia! I say to you continually that never have I so devotedly loved any man — —”
“That is not love!” I said, furious.
“I do not pretend it to be that same boiling and sputtering sentiment which men call love — —”
“Then if it be not true love, why do you care what I whisper to any woman?”
“I do not care,” she said, biting the rose-leaf lower lip. “You may whisper any treason you please to any h-heartless woman who snares your f-fancy.”
“You do not truly care?”
“I have said it. No, I do not care! Court whom you please! But if you do, my faith in man is dead, and that’s flat!”
“What!”
“Certainly.... After your burning vows so lately made to me. But men have no shame. I know that much.”
“But,” said I, bewildered, “you say that you care nothing for my vows!”
“Did I say so?”
“Yes — you — —”
“No, I did not say so!... I — I love your vows.”
“How can you love my vows and not me?” I demanded angrily.
“I don’t know I can do it, but I do.... But I will love them no longer if you make the selfsame vows to her.”
“Now,” said I, perplexed and exasperated, “what does it profit a man when a maid confesses that she loves to hear his vows, but loves not him who makes them?”
“For me to love even your vows,” said she, looking at me sideways, “is something gained for you — or so it seems to me. And were I minded to play the coquette — as some do — —”
“You play it every minute!”
“I? When, pray?”
“When I came to Croghan’s this afternoon there were you the centre of ’em all; and one ass in boots and spurs to wave your fan for you — oh, la! And another of Franklin’s, in his Wyandotte finery, to fetch and carry; and a dozen more young fools all ogling and sighing at your feet — —”
Her lips parted in a quick, nervous laugh:
“Was that the way I seemed? Truly, Euan? Were you jealous? And I scarce heeding one o’ them, but my eyes on the doorway, watching for you!”
“Oh, Lois! How can you say that to me — —”
“Because it was so! Why did you not come to me at once? I was waiting!”
“There were so many — and you seemed so gay with them — so careless — not even glancing at me — —”
“I saw you none the less. I never let you escape the range of my vision.”
“I never dreamed you noticed me. And every time you smiled on one of them I grew the gloomier — —”
“And what does my gaiety mean — save that the source of happiness lies rooted in you? What do other men count, only that in their admiration I read some recompense for you, who made me admirable. These gowns I wear are yours — these shoon and buckles and silken stockings — these bows of lace and furbelows — this little patch making my rose cheeks rosier — this frost of powder on my hair! All these I wear, Euan, so that man’s delight in me may do you honour. All I am to please them — my gaiety, my small wit, which makes for them crude verses, my modesty, my decorum, my mind and person, which seem not unacceptable to a respectable society — all these are but dormant qualities that you have awakened and inspired — —”
She broke off short, tears filling her eyes:
“Of what am I made, then, if my first and dearest and deepest thought be not for you? And such a man as this is jealous!”
I caught her hands, but she bent swiftly and laid her hot cheek for an instant against my hand which held them.
“If there is in me a Cinderella,” she said unsteadily, “it is you who have discovered it — liberated it — and who have willed that it shall live. Did you suppose that it was in me to make those verses unless you told me that I could do it? You said, ‘Try,’ and instantly I dared try.... Is that not something to stir your pride? A girl as absolutely yours as that? And do not the lesser and commonplace emotions seem trivial in comparison — all the heats and passions and sentimental vapours — the sighs and vows and languishing all the inevitable trappings and masqueradings which bedizzen what men know as love — do they not all seem mean and petty compared to our deep, sweet knowledge of each other?”
“You are wonderful,” I said humbly. “But love is no unreal, unworthy thing, either; no sham, no trite cut-and-dried convention, made silly by sighs and vapours.
“Oh, Euan, it is! I am so much more to you in my soul than if I merely loved you. You are so much more to me — the very well-spring of my desire and pride — my reason for pleasing, my happy consolation and my gratitude.... Seat yourself here on the pleasant, scented grasses and let me endeavour to explain it once and for all time. Will you?
“It is this,” she continued, taking my hand between hers, when we were seated, and examining it very intently, as though the screed she recited were written there on my palm. “We are so marvelously matched in every measurement and feature, mental and bodily almost — and I am so truly becoming a vital part of you and you of me, that the miracle is too perfect, too lofty, too serenely complete to vex it with the lesser magic — the passions and the various petty vexations they entail.
“For I would become — to honour you — all that your pride would have me. I would please the world for your sake, conquer it both with mind and person. And you must endeavour to better yourself, day by day, nobly and with high aim, so that the source of my inspiration remain ever pure and fresh, and I attain to heights unthinkable save for your faith in me and mine in you.”
She smiled at me, and I said:
“Aye; but to what end?”
“To what end, Euan? Why, for our spiritual and worldly profit.”
“Yes, but I love you — —”
“No, no! Not in that manner — —”
“But it is so.”
“No, it is not! We are to be above mere sentiment. Reason rules us.”
“Are we not to wed?”
“Oh — as for that — —” She thought for a while, closely considering my palm. “Yes — that might some day be a part of it.... When we have attained to every honour and consideration, and our thoughts and desires are purged and lifted to serene and lofty heights of contemplation. Then it would be natural for us to marry, I suppose.”
“Meanwhile,” said I, “youth flies; and I may not lay a finger on you to caress you.”
“Not to caress me — as that woman did to you — —”
“Lois!”
“I can not help it. There is in her — in all such women — a sly, smooth, sleek and graceful beast, ever seeming to invite or offer a caress — —”
“She is sweet and womanly; a warm friend of many years.”
“Oh! And am I not — womanly?”
“Are you, entirely?”
She looked at me troubled:
“How would you have me be more womanly?”
“Be less a comrade, more a sweetheart.”
“Familiar?”
My heart was beating fast:
“Familiar to my arms. I love you.”
“I — do not permit myself to desire your arms. Can I help saying so — if you ask me?”
“When I love you so — —”
“No. Why are you, after all, like other men, when I once hoped — —”
“Other men love. All men love. How can I be different — —”
“You are more finely made. You comprehend higher thoughts. You can command your lesser passions.”
“You say that very lightly, who have no need to command yours!”
“How do you know?” she said in a low voice.
“Because you have none to curb — else you could better understand the greater ones.”
She sat with head lowered, playing with a blade of grass. After a while she looked up at me, a trifle confused.
“Until I knew you, I entertained but one living passion — to find my mother and hold her in my arms — and have of her all that I had ached for through many empty and loveless years. Since I have known you that desire has never changed. She is my living passion, and my need.”
She bent her head again and sat playing with the scented grasses. Then, half to herself, she said:
“I think I am still loyal to her if I have placed you beside her in my heart. For I have not yet invested you with a passion less innocent than that which burns for her.”
She lifted her head slowly, propping herself up on one arm, and looked intently at me.
“What do you know about me, that you say I am unwomanly and cold?” Her voice was low, but the words rang a little.
“Do not deceive yourself,” she said. “I am fashioned for love as thoroughly as are you — for love sacred or profane. But who am I to dare put on my crown of womanhood? Let me first know myself — let me know what I am, and if I truly have even a right to the very name I wear. Let me see my own mother face to face — hold her first of all in my embrace — give my lips first to her, yield to her my first caresses.... Else,” and her face paled, “I do not know what I might become — I do not know, I tell you — having been all my life deprived of intimacy — never having known familiar kindness or its lightest caress — and half dead sometimes of the need of it!”
She straightened up, clenching her hands, then smiled her breathless little smile.
“Think of it, Euan! For twenty years I have wanted her caresses — or such harmless kindness of somebody — almost of anybody! My foster-mother never kissed me, never put her arm about me — or even laid her hand lightly upon my shoulder — as did that girl do to you on the stairs.... I tell you, to see her do it went through me like a Shawanese arrow — —”
She forced a mirthless smile, and clasped her fingers across her knee:
“So bitterly have I missed affection all my life,” she added calmly. “...And now you come into my life! Why, Euan — and my sentiments were truly pure and blameless when you were there that night with me on the rock under the clustered stars — and I left for you a rose — and my heart with it! — so dear and welcome was your sudden presence that I could have let you fold me in your arms, and so fallen asleep beside you, I was that deathly weary of my solitude and ragged isolation.”
She made a listless gesture:
“It is too late for us to yield to demonstration of your affection now, anyway — not until I find myself safe in the arms that bore me first. God knows how deeply it would affect me if you conquered me, or what I would do for very gratitude and happiness under the first close caress.... Stir not anything of that in me, Euan. Let me not even dream of it. It were not well for me — not well for me. For whether I love you as I do, or — otherwise and less purely — it would be all the same — and I should become — something — which I am not — wedded or otherwise — not my free self, but to my lesser self a slave, without ambition, pride — wavering in that fixed resolve which has brought me hither.... And I should live and die your lesser satellite, unhappy to the very end.”
After a silence, I said heavily:
“Then you have not renounced your purpose?”
“No.”
“You still desire to go to Catharines-town?”
“I must go.”
“That was the burden of your conversation with the Sagamore but now?”
“Yes.”
“He refused to aid you?”
“He refused.”
“Why, then, are you not content to wait here — or at Albany?”
She sat for a long while with head lowered, then, looking up quietly:
“Another pair of moccasins was left outside my door last night.”
“What! At Croghan’s? Inside our line!” I exclaimed incredulously.
“Aye. But this time the message sewed within them differed from all the others. And on the shred of bark was written: ‘Swift moccasins for little feet as swift. The long trail opens. Come!’”
“You think your mother wrote it?” I asked, astounded.
“Yes.... She wrote the others.”
“Well?”
“This writing is the same.”
“The same hand that wrote the other messages throughout the years?”
“The same.”
“Have you told the Sagamore of this?”
“I told him but now — and for the first time.”
“You told him everything?”
“Yes — concerning my first finding — and the messages that came every year with the moccasins.”
“And did you show him the Indian writing also?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. But there flashed up suddenly in his eyes a reddish light that frightened me, and his face became so hideous and terrible that I could have cried out. But I contrived to maintain my composure, and I said: ‘What do you make of it, O Sagamore?’ And he spat out a word I did not clearly understand — —”
“Amochol?”
“Yes — it sounded like that. What did he mean, Euan?”
“I will presently ask him,” said I, thoroughly alarmed. “And in the meanwhile, you must now be persuaded to remain at this post. You are contented and happy here. When we march, you will go back to Schenectady or to Albany with the ladies of the garrison, and wait there some word of our fate.
“If we win through, I swear to you that if your mother be there in Catharines-town I will bring news of her, or, God willing, bring her herself to you.”
I rose and aided her to stand; and her hands remained limply in mine.
“I had rather take you from her arms,” I said in a low voice, “ —— if you ever deign to give yourself to me.”
“That is sweetly said.... Such giving leaves the giver unashamed.”
“Could you promise yourself to me?”
She stood with head averted, watching the last faint stain of color fade from the west.
