CHAPTER VII.
"A WOMAN WHO WAS LOST--LONG AGO!"
The next morning, bright and early, Kalitan called at the ranch; andMiss Fred, accustomed as she was to the red men, grew ratherenthusiastic over this haughty, graceful specimen, who gave her oneglance at the door and walked past her into the house--as she afterwarddescribed it, "just as if she had been one of the wooden door-posts."
"Rashell Hardy?" was all he said; and without more ado Miss Fred betookherself up the stairs to do his implied bidding and hunt Miss Hardy.
"I rather think it's the grand mogul of all the Kootenais," she said, inannouncing him. "No, he didn't give any card; but his personality is toostriking to be mistaken, if one has ever seen him or heard him speak. Helooked right over my head, and made me feel as if I was about two feethigh."
"Young Indian?"
"Yes, but he looks like a young faun. That one never came from a scrubrace."
"I'll ask him to stay to dinner," laughed Rachel; "if anything will cureone of a tendency to idealize an Indian, it is to see him satisfying theinner man. Come down and talk to him. It is Kalitan."
"Oh, it is Kalitan, is it? And pray what it is that--a chief rich inlineage and blooded stock? His assurance speaks of wealth and power, Ishould say, and his manner shows one a Fenimore Cooper spirit come tolife. How am I as a guesser?"
"One of the worst in the world. Kalitan is really a handsome humbug insome ways. That superb manner of his is the only stock in trade hepossesses beyond his swift feet; but the idea of importance he managesto convey speaks wonders for his strength of will. Come along!"
"Klahowya, Rashell Hardy?" he said; and stepping solemnly forward,shook her hand in a grave, ceremonious fashion. Rachel told him theother lady was her friend, by way of introduction, and he widened hismouth ever so little in a smile, but that was the only sign ofacknowledgement he gave; and when Rachel spoke to him in English hewould not answer, but sat stolidly looking into the fire until she sawwhat was wrong and addressed him in Chinook. "Rashell Hardy need not sosoon forget," he reminded her briefly; and then went on with his speechto her of where he had been; the wonders he had done in the way of arunner, and all else of self-glorification that had occurred in the pastmonths. Many times the name of his chief was uttered in a way thatimpressed on a listener the idea that among the troops along thefrontier there were two men who were really worthy of praise--a scoutand a runner. "Kalitan tired now--pretty much," he wound up, as afinale; "come up Kootenai country to rest, may be, while spring comes.Genesee he rest, too, may be--may be not."
"Where, Kalitan?"
"S'pose camp--s'pose may be Tamahnous cabin; not here yet."
"Coming back?"
Kalitan nodded, and arose.
"Come see you, may be, sometime, often," he said as if conferring aspecial honor by promised visits; and then he stalked out as he hadstalked in, only checking his gait at sight of Aunty Luce coming in fromthe kitchen with a dish of cold meat. She nearly dropped it in herfright, and closed her eyes in silent prayer and terror; when she openedthem the enemy had left the porch.
"Good Lawd, Miss Rache!" she gasped. "He's skeered me before bad enough,but this the fust time he evah stopped stock an' glare at me! I's gwineto complain to the milantary--I is, shuah."
"You are a great old goose!" said Rachel brusquely. "He wasn't lookingat you, but at that cold meat."
There seemed a general gathering of the clans along the Kootenai valleythat winter. With the coming north of Genesee had come the troops, thenKalitan, then their mercurial friend of the autumn--the Stuart; and downfrom Scot's Mountain came Davy MacDougall, one fair day, to join thecircle that was a sort of reunion. And among the troops were found manygood fellows who were so glad of an evening spent at the ranch thatnever a night went by without a party gathered there.
"The heft o' them does everything but sleep here," complained AuntyLuce; "an' all the other ones look jealous 'cause Mr. Stuart does that."
For Hardy and his wife had insisted on his stopping with them, asbefore, though much of his time was spent at the camp. There wassomething about him that made him a companion much desired by men;Rachel had more opportunity to observe this now than when their circlewas so much smaller. That gay good-humor, with its touches of seriousfeeling, and the delicate sympathy that was always alive to earnestemotion--she found that those traits were keys to the hearts of men aswell as women; and a smile here, a kind word there, or a clasp of thehand, were the only arts needed to insure him the unsought friendship ofalmost every man in the company.
"It's the gift that goes wi' the name," said MacDougall one day whensomeone spoke of the natural charm of the man's manner. "It's justthat--no less. No, o' course he does na strive for it; it's but a bit o'nature. A blessin', say you, Miss? Well, mayhaps; but to the old stockit proved but a curse."
"It seems a rather fair life to connect the idea of a curse with,"remarked the Major; "but I rather think he has seen trouble, too.Captain Sneath said something to that effect, I believe--some suddendeath of wife and children in an epidemic down in Mexico."
"Married! That settles the romance," said Fred; "but he is interesting,anyway, and I am going immediately to find out what he has written andsave up my money to buy copies."
"I may save you that expense in one instance," and Rachel handed her thebook Stuart had sent her. Tillie looked at her in astonishment, and Fredseized it eagerly.
"Oh, but you are sly!" she said, with an accusing pout; "you've heard mepuzzling about his work for days and never gave me a hint."
"I only guessed it was his, he never told me; but this morning I chargedhim with it, and he did not deny. I do not think there is any secretabout it, only down at the Fort there were several ladies, I believe,and--and some of them curious--"
"You're right," laughed the Major; "they would have hounded him todeath. Camp life is monotonous to most women, and a novelist, especiallya young, handsome fellow, would have been a bonanza to them. As it was,they tried to spoil him; and look here!" he said suddenly, "see that yousay nothing of his marriage to him, Babe. As he does not mention ithimself, it may be that the trouble, or--well, just remember not tobroach the subject."
"Just as if I would!" said his daughter after he had left. "Papa neverrealizes that I have at all neared the age of discretion. But doesn't itseem strange to think of Mr. Stuart being married? He doesn't look a bitlike it."
"Does that state of existence impress itself so indelibly on one'sphysical self?" laughed Rachel.
"It does--mostly," affirmed Fred. "They get settled down and prosy, orelse--well, dissipated."
"Good gracious! Is that the effect we are supposed to have on thecharacter of our lords and masters?" asked Mrs. Hardy unbelievingly.
"Fred's experience is confined to barrack life and its attendant evils.I don't think she makes allowance for the semi-artistic temper of theStuart. He strikes me as having just enough of it to keep his heartalways young, and his affections too--on tap, as it were."
"What queer ideas you have about that man!" said Fred suddenly. "Don'tyou like him?"
"I would not dare say no with so many opposing me."
"Oh, you don't know Rachel. She is always attributing the highest ofvirtues or the worst of vices to the most unexpected people," saidTillie. "I don't believe she has any feeling in the question at all,except to get on the opposite side of the question from everyone else.If she would own up, I'll wager she likes him as well as the rest ofus."
"Do you, Rachel?" But her only answer was a laugh. "If you do, I can'tsee why you disparage him."
"I did not."
"Well, you said his affections were always on tap."
"That was because I envy him the exhaustless youth such a temperamentgives one. Such people defy time and circumstances in a way we prosaicfolks can never do. It is a gift imparted to an artist, to supply thelack of practical ingredients that are the prime ones to the rest ofcreation."
"How you talk! Why, Mr. Stuart is not an arti
st!"
"Isn't he? There are people who are artists though they never draw aline or mix a color; but don't you think we are devoting a great deal oftime to this pill-peddler of literary leanings?"
"You are prejudiced," decided Fred. "Leanings indeed! He has done morethan lean in that direction--witness that book."
"I like to hear him tell a story, if he is in the humor," remarkedTillie, with a memory of the cozy autumn evenings. "We used to enjoythat so much before we ever guessed he was a story-teller byprofession."
"Well, you must have had a nice sort of a time up here," concluded Fred;"a sort of Tom Moore episode. He would do all right for thepoet-prince--or was it a king? But you--well, Rachel, you are not justone's idea of a Lalla."
"You slangy little mortal! Go and read your book."
Which she did obediently and thoroughly, to the author's discomfiture,as he was besieged with questions that taxed his memory and ingenuitypretty thoroughly at times.
He found himself on a much better footing with Rachel than during hisfirst visit. It may have been that her old fancy regarding his missionup there was disappearing; the fancy itself had always been a ratherintangible affair--a fabrication wrought by the shuttle of a woman'sinstinct. Or, having warned Genesee--she had felt it was awarning--there might have fallen from her shoulders some of theresponsibility she had so gratuitously assumed. Whatever it was, she wasmeeting him on freer ground, and found the association one of pleasure.
"I think Miss Fred or your enlarged social circle has had a mostexcellent influence on your temper," he said to her one day after a ridefrom camp together, and a long, pleasant chat. "You are now more likethe girl I used to think you might be--the girl you debarred me fromknowing."
"But think what an amount of time you had for work in those days thatare forfeited now to dancing attendance on us women folk!"
"I do not dance."
"Well, you ride, and you walk, and you sing, and tell stories, andmanage at least to waste lots of time when you should be working."
"You have a great deal of impatience with anyone who is not a worker,haven't you?"
"Yes," she said, looking up at him. "I grow very impatient myself oftenfrom the same cause."
"You always seem to me to be very busy," he answered half-vexedly; "toobusy. You take on yourself responsibilities in all directions that donot belong to you; and you have such a way of doing as you please thatno one about the place seems to realize how much of a general manageryou are here, or how likely you are to overburden yourself."
"Nonsense!"
She spoke brusquely, but could not but feel the kindness in thepenetration that had given her appreciation where the others, throughhabit, had grown to take her accomplishments as a matter of course. Inthe beginning they had taken them as a joke.
"Pardon me," he said finally. "I do not mean to be rude, but do you mindtelling me if work is a necessity to you?"
"Certainly not. I have none of that sort of pride to contend with, Ihope, and I have a little money--not much, but enough to live on; so,you see, I am provided for in a way."
"Then why do you always seem to be skirmishing around for work?" heasked, in a sort of impatience. "Women should be home-makers, not--"
"Not prospectors or adventurers," she finished up amiably. "But as Ihave excellent health, average strength and understanding, I feel theyshould be put to use in some direction. I have not found the directionyet, and am a prospector meanwhile; but a contented, empty life is acontemptible thing to me. I think there is some work intended for us allin the world; and," she added, with one of those quick changes that keptfolks from taking Rachel's most serious meanings seriously--"and I thinkit's playing it pretty low down on Providence to bluff him on an emptyhand."
He laughed. "Do you expect, then, to live your life out here helping tomanage other people's ranches and accumulating that sort of Westernlogic in extenuation?"
She did not answer for a little; then she said:
"I might do worse."
She said it so deliberately that he could not but feel some specialthing was meant, and asked quickly:
"What?"
"Well, I might be given talents of benefit to people, and fritter themaway for the people's pastime. The people would never know they had lostanything, or come so near a great gain; but I, the cheat, would know it.After the lights were turned out and the curtain down on the farce, Iwould realize that it was too late to begin anew, but that the samelights and the same theater would have served as well for the truths ofChrist as the pranks of Pantaloon--the choice lay only in the will ofthe worker."
Her eyes were turned away from him, as if she was seeking for metaphorsin the white stretch of the snow-fall. He reached over and laid his handon hers.
"Rachel!"
It was the only time he had called her that, and the caress of the namegave voice to the touch of his fingers.
"Rachel! What is it you are talking about? Look around here! I want tosee you! Do you mean that you think of--of me like that--tell me?"
If Miss Fred could have seen them at that moment it would have done herheart good, for they really looked rather lover-like; each wasunconscious of it, though their faces did not lack feeling. She drew herhand slowly away, and said, in that halting yet persistent way in whichshe spoke when very earnest yet not very sure of herself:
"You think me egotistical, I suppose, to criticise work that is beyondmy own capabilities, but--it was you I meant."
"Well?"
His fingers closed over the arm of the chair instead of her hand. Allhis face was alight with feeling. Perhaps it was as well that herstubbornness kept her eyes from his; to most women they would not havebeen an aid to cool judgment.
"Well, there isn't anything more to say, is there?" she asked, smiling alittle out at the snow. "It was the book that did it--made me feel likethat about you; that your work is--well, surface work--skimmed over forpastime. But here and there are touches that show how much deeper andstronger the work you might produce if you were not either lazy orcareless."
"You give one heroic treatment, and can be merciless. The story waswritten some time ago, and written under circumstances that--well, yousee I do not sign my name to it, so I can't be very proud of it."
"Ah! that is it? Your judgment, I believe, is too good to be satisfiedwith it; I shouldn't waste breath speaking, if I was not sure of that.But you have the right to do work you can be proud of; and that is whatyou must do."
Rachel's way was such a decided way, that people generally accepted her"musts" as a matter of course. Stuart did the same, though evidentlyunused to the term; and her cool practicalities that were so surelynoting his work, not himself, had the effect of checking that firstimpulse of his to touch her--to make her look at him. He felt more thanever that the girl was strange and changeable--not only in herself, butin her influence. He arose and walked across the floor a couple oftimes, but came back and stood beside her.
"You think I am not ambitious enough; and you are right, I suppose. Ihave never yet made up my mind whether it was worth my while to write,or whether it might not be more wise to spare the public."
"But you have the desire--you must feel confidence at times."
"How do you know or imagine so much of what I feel?"
"I read it in that book," and she nodded toward the table. "In it youseem so often just on the point of saying or doing, through the people,things that would lift that piece of work into a strong moral lesson;but just when you reach that point you drop it undeveloped."
"You have read and measured it, haven't you?" and he sat down againbeside her. "I never thought of--of what you mention in it. A high morallesson," he repeated; "but to preach those a man should feel himselffit; I am not."
"I don't believe you!"
"What do you know about it?" he demanded so sharply that she smiled; itwas so unlike him. But the sharpness was evidently not irritation, forhis face had in it more of sadness than any other feeling; she saw it,and did not
speak.
After a little he turned to her with that rare impetuosity that was soexpressive.
"You are very helpful to me in what you have said; I think you are thatto everyone--it seems so. Perhaps you are without work of your own inthe world, that you may have thought for others who need help; that isthe highest of duties, and it needs strong, good hearts. But do youunderstand that it is as hard sometimes to be thought too highly of asto be accused wrong-fully? It makes one feel such a cheat--such a cursedliar!"
"I rather think we are all cheats, more or less, in that respect," sheanswered. "I am quite sure the inner workings of my most sacred thoughtcould not be advertised without causing my exile from the bosom of myfamily; yet I refuse to think myself more wicked than the rest ofhumanity."
"Don't jest!"
"Really, I am not jesting," she answered. "And I believe you areover-sensitive as to your own short-comings, whatever they happen to be.Because I have faith in your ability to do strong work, don't think I amgoing to skirmish around for a pedestal, or think I've found a piece ofperfection in human nature, because they're not to be found, my friend."
"How old are you?" he asked her suddenly.
She laughed, feeling so clearly the tenor of his thought.
"Twenty-two by my birthdays, but old enough to know that the strongestworkers in the world have not been always the most immaculate. Whatmatter the sort of person one has been, or the life one has lived if hecome out of it with knowledge and the wish to use it well? You have acertain power that is yours, to use for good or bad, and from a fancythat you should not teach or preach, you let it go to waste. Don'tmagnify peccadillos!"
"You seem to take for granted the fact that all my acts have beentrifling--that only the promises are worthy," he said impatiently.
"I do believe," she answered smiling brightly, "that you would rather Ithought you an altogether wicked person than an average trifler. But Iwill not--I do not believe it possible for you deliberately to do anywicked thing; you have too tender a heart, and--"
"You don't know anything about it!" he repeated vehemently. "Whatdifference whether an act is deliberate or careless, so long as theeffect is evil? I tell you the greater part of the suffering in theworld is caused not by wicked intents and hard hearts, but by thecareless desire to shirk unpleasant facts, and the soft-heartedness thatwill assuage momentary pain at the price of making a life-long cripple,either mentally, morally, or physically. Nine times out of ten the manwhom we call soft-hearted is only a moral coward. Ah, don't help me tothink of that; I think of it enough--enough!"
He brought his clenched hand down on the arm of the chair with anemphasis that was heightened by the knitted brow and compressed lips. Hedid not look at her. The latter part of the rapid speech seemed more tohimself than to her. At least it admitted of no answer; the manner asmuch as the words kept her silent.
"Come! come!" he added, after a little, as if to arouse himself as wellas her. "You began by giving me some good words of advice andsuggestion; I must not repay you by dropping into the blues. For a longtime I've been a piece of drift-wood, with nothing to anchor ambitionto; but a change is coming, I think, and--and if it brings me fairweather, I may have something then to work for; then I may be worth yourbelief in me--I am not now. My intentions to be so are all right, butthey are not always to be trusted. I said, before, that you had thefaculty of making people speak the truth to you, if they spoke at all,and I rather think I am proving my words."
He arose and stood looking down at her. Since he had found so manywords, she had seemed to lose hers; anyway, she was silent.
"It can't be very pleasant for you," he said at last, "to be bored bythe affairs of every renegade to whom you are kind, because of somefancied good you may see in him; but you are turning out just the sortof woman I used to fancy you might be--and--I am grateful to you."
"That's all right," she answered in the old brusque way. To tell thetruth, a part of his speech was scarcely heard. Something in the wholeaffair--the confidence and personal interest, and all--had taken hermemory back to the days of that cultus corrie, when another man hadshared with her scenes somewhat similar to this. Was there a sort offate that had set her apart for this sort of thing? She smiled a littlegrimly at the fancy, and scarcely heard him. He saw the ghost of asmile, and it made him check himself in something he was about to say,and walk toward the door.
She neither spoke nor moved; her face was still toward the window.Turning to look at her, his indecision disappeared, and in three stepshe was beside her.
"Rachel, I want to speak to you of something else," he said rapidly,almost eagerly, as if anxious to have it said and done with; "I--I wantto tell you what that anchor is I've been looking for, and without whichI never will be able to do the higher class of work, and--and--"
"Yes?"
He had stopped, making a rather awkward pause after his eager beginning.With the one encouraging word, she looked up at him and waited.
"It is a woman."
"Not an unusual anchor for mankind," she remarked with a little laugh.
But there was no answering smile in his eyes; they were very serious.
"I never will be much good to myself, or the rest of the world, until Ifind her again," he said, "though no one's words are likely to help memore than yours. You would make one ambitious if he dared be and--"
"Never mind about that," she said kindly. "I am glad if it has happenedso. And this girl--it is someone you--love?"
"I can't talk to anyone of her--yet," he answered, avoiding her eyes;"only I wanted you to understand--it is at least a little step towardthat level where you fancy I may belong. Don't speak of it again; I canhardly say what impelled me to tell you now. Yes, it is a woman I caredfor, and who was--lost--whom I lost--long ago."
A moment later she was alone, and could hear his step in the outer room,then on the porch. Fred called after him, but he made no halt--did noteven answer, much to the surprise of that young lady and Miss Margaret.
The other girl sat watching him until he disappeared in the stables, anda little later saw him emerge and ride at no slow gait out over thetrail toward camp.
"It only needed that finale," she soliloquized, "to complete thepicture. Woman! woman! What a disturbing element you are in theuniverse--man's universe!"
After this bit of trite philosophy, the smile developed into a noiselesslaugh that had something of irony in it.
"I rather think Talapa's entrance was more dramatic," was one of thereflections that kept her company; "anyway, she was more picturesque, ifless elegant, than Mrs. Stuart is likely to be. Mrs. Stuart! By the way,I wonder if it is Mrs. Stuart? Yes, I suppose so--yet, 'a woman whom Icared for, and who was lost--long ago!'--Lost? lost?"
Told in the Hills: A Novel Page 16
