CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
THE VISION IN LEATHER.
It is all very well for men of the world, men of fashion, men who pridethemselves on being highly civilised and peculiarly refined, to fancythat there are no other visions in this world than "visions in silk,""visions in white," and the like. Those who think thus labour under anegregious, though a civilised, mistake.
Happily there are kind, loving, pretty faces in this world, thepossessors of which know nothing about pink gauze or white muslin--facesthat have never felt the hot air of a drawing-room, but are much used topresent themselves, unveiled, to the fresh breezes of the prairie andthe mountain; faces that possess the rare quality of universalattraction, and that cause men to fancy, when they see them for thefirst time, that they have beheld a vision!
The fact is that some faces are visions, whether the forms that supportthem appear to us in muslin or in deerskin. The only requisite needfulto constitute a face a vision to any particular person, is that itshould have in it that peculiar _something_ which everybody wants, butwhich nobody can define; which is ineffably charming, though utterlyincomprehensible; and which, when once seen by any one, constitutes thecountenance that possesses it a vision evermore!
It is quite immaterial what material composes the dress in which thevision appears. No doubt, the first time it bursts upon the smittenvictim, dress may be a powerful auxiliary; but, after the first time,dress goes for little or nothing. March Marston's vision appeared, aswe have said in leather.
After the Wild Man had vanished, March continued to gaze at his newcompanion with all kinds of feelings and emotions, but without beingable to move or speak. The vision returned the compliment, also withoutspeaking or taking any further notice of him.
She was a wonderful creature, that vision in leather! That she was ofIndian extraction was evident from the hue of her skin, yet she was notnearly so dark as the lightest complexioned Indian. In fact her clearsoft forehead was whiter than those of many so-called pale-faces; buther ruddy cheeks, her light-brown hair, and, above all, her bright browneye showed that white blood ran in her veins. She was what men term ahalf-caste. She was young, almost girlish in her figure and deportment;but the earnest gravity of her pretty face caused her to appear olderthan she really was. March, unconsciously and without an effort,guessed her to be sixteen. He was wrong. She had only seen fifteensummers.
Her dress was a beautifully dressed deerskin gown, reaching below theknees, as soft as chamois leather, and ornamented with beads and quillwork. It was girded round her small waist by a leather belt, from whichdepended a small hunting-knife. A pair of ornamental leggings of thesame material as the gown covered her limbs, and moccasins her feet,which latter, as well as her hands, were small and beautifully formed.Over her shoulders were slung the masculine appendages of a powder-hornand bullet-pouch, proving that this creature was, so to speak, a Dianicvision.
Her staring so hard and so long at March without speaking or smiling, ortaking any more notice of him than if he had been an effigy on atombstone, seemed unaccountable to that youth. Had he been able to lookat himself from her point of view he would not have been so muchsurprised.
In his late accident he had received so severe a blow on the left eyethat that orb was altogether shut up. As he did not move, and as theother eye, with which he gazed in supreme astonishment at the sweet facebefore him, happened to be farthest from the fire, besides being hid inthe shadow of his own nose--which was not a small one by nature, and wasa peculiarly large one by force of recent circumstances--the vision verynaturally thought that he was fast asleep. As she stood there gazingwonderingly and somewhat sadly at the poor youth, with the redflickering flame of the fire lighting up her yellow garments, deepeningthe red on her round cheeks, glinting on the loose masses of her richtresses, and sparkling in the depths of her bright brown eyes, Marchthought he had never in all his life before beheld such an exquisitecreature.
Supposing that he was asleep, the vision sat down quietly on a logbeside the fire, still keeping her eyes, however, fixed on her guest.The action took her out of "the direct line of fire" of March's soundeye, therefore he turned his head abruptly, and so brought his staringorb into the light of the fire, and revealed the fact that he waswide-awake; whereupon the vision uttered an exclamation of surprise,rose hastily, and went to his side.
"You is woke," she said. "Me tink you was be sleep."
"Asleep!" cried March with enthusiasm, "no, I wasn't asleep. More thanthat, I'll never go to sleep any more."
This bold assertion naturally filled the vision with surprise.
"Why for not?" she asked, sitting down on a log beside March in such aposition that she could see him easily.
"For thinkin' o' _you_!" replied the bold youth firmly.
The vision looked at him in still greater astonishment, opening her eyesslowly until they seemed like two pellucid lakelets of unfathomabledepth into which March felt inclined to fling himself, clothes and all,and be drowned comfortably. She then looked at the fire, then at Marchagain. It was evident that she had not been accustomed to holdintercourse with jocular minds. Perceiving this, March at once changedhis tone, and, with a feeling of respect which he could not well accountfor, said rather bluntly--
"What's your name?"
"Mary."
"Ay! did your father give you that name?"
"My father?" echoed the girl, looking hastily up.
"Ay, did Dick give it you?"
"Did him tell you him's name be Dick?" asked Mary.
"Oh! he's known by another name to you, then, it would seem. But, Mary,what _is_ his name?"
The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it. Then, with alittle sad smile, said--
"Him tell you Dick, that be good name. But Dick not my father. Myfather dead."
The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone thatMarch felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord. Hehastened to change the subject by saying--
"Is Dick kind to you, Mary?"
"Kind," she cried, looking up with a flashing eye and flushed face,while with one of her little hands she tossed back her luxurianttresses. "Kind! Him be my father _now_. No have got nobody to love menow but him."
"Yes, you have, Mary," said March stoutly.
Mary looked at him in surprise, and said, "Who?"
"Me!" replied March.
Mary said nothing to this. It was quite clear that the Wild Man musthave neglected her education sadly. She did not even smile; she merelyshook her head, and gazed abstractedly at the embers of the fire.
"Dick is not your father, Mary," continued March energetically, "but hehas become your father. I am not your brother, but I'll become yourbrother--if you'll let me."
March in his enthusiasm tried to raise himself; consequently he fellback and drowned Mary's answer in a groan of anguish. But he was not tobe baulked.
"What said you?" he inquired after a moment's pause.
"Me say you be very good."
She said this so calmly that March felt severely disappointed. In theheight of his enthusiasm he forgot that the poor girl had as yet seennothing to draw out her feelings towards him as his had been drawn outtowards her. She had seen no "vision," except, indeed, the vision of awretched, dishevelled youth, of an abrupt, excitable temperament, withone side of his countenance scratched in a most disreputable manner, andthe other side swelled and mottled to such an extent that it resembled acheap plum-pudding with the fruit unequally and sparsely distributedover its yellow surface.
March was mollified, however, when the girl suggested that his pillowseemed uncomfortable, and rose to adjust it with tender care. Then shesaid: "Now me bring blankit. You go sleep. Me sit here till you sleep,after that me go away. If ye wants me, holler out. Me sleep in nextroom."
So saying, this wonderful creature flitted across the cavern andvanished, thereby revealing to March the fact that there was a thirdcavern in that place. Pr
esently she returned with a green blanket, andspread it over him, after which she sat down by the fire and seemedabsorbed in her private meditations while March tried to sleep.
But what a night March had of it! Whichever way he turned, that visionwas ever before his eyes. When he awoke with a start, there she was,bending over the fire. When he dreamed, there she was, floating in anatmosphere of blue stars. Sometimes she was smiling on him, sometimesgazing sadly, but never otherwise than sweetly. Presently he saw hersitting on Dick's knee, twisting his great moustache with her delicatehand, and he was about to ask Dick how he had managed to get back sosoon, when he (the Wild Man) suddenly changed into March's own mother,who clasped the vision fervently to her breast and called her her owndarling son! There was no end to it. She never left him. Sometimesshe appeared in curious forms and in odd aspects--though always pleasantand sweet to look upon. Sometimes she was dancing gracefully like anembodied zephyr on the floor; frequently walking in mid-air;occasionally perambulating the ceiling of the cave. She often changedher place, but she never went away. There was no escape. And March wasglad of it. He didn't want to escape. He was only too happy to courtthe phantom. But it did not require courting. It hovered over him,walked round him, sat beside him, beckoned to him, and smiled at him.Never,--no, never since the world began was any scratched and batteredyouth so thoroughly badgered and bewitched, as was poor March Marston onthat memorable night, by that naughty vision in leather!
The Wild Man of the West: A Tale of the Rocky Mountains Page 17
