CHAPTER XLII
THE RAIN UPON THE WIGWAM
To the heart of the gypsy there is a kindred voice in the cheerfulcrackle of a camp fire--in the wind that rustles tree and grass--in thesong of a bird or the hum of bees--in the lap of a lake or thebrilliant trail of a shooting star.
A winter forest of tracking snow is rife with messages of furry folkwho prowl by night. Moon-checkered trees fling wavering banners ofgypsy hieroglyphics upon the ground. Sun and moon and cloud and thefiery color-pot of the firmament write their symbols upon the horizonfor gypsy eyes to read.
What wonder then that the milky clouds which piled fantastically abovethe Indian camp fashioned hazily at times into curious boats sailingaway to another land? What wonder if the dawn was streaked withimperial purple? What wonder if Diane built faces and fancies in theember-glow of the Seminole fire-wheel? What wonder if like thepine-wood sparrow and the wind of Okeechobee the voice of the woodlandalways questioned? Conscience, soul-argument--what you will--therewere voices in the wild which stirred the girl's heart to introspection.
So it was with the rain which, at the dark of the moon, pattered gentlyon the palmetto roof of her wigwam.
"And now," said the rain with a soft gust of flying drops, "now thereis Sho-caw!"
"Yes," said Diane with a sigh, "there is Sho-caw. I am very sorry."
"But," warned the rain, "one must not forget. At Keela's teaching youhave fallen into the soft, musical tongue of these Indian folk withmarvelous ease. And you wear the Seminole dress of a chief--"
"Yes. After all, that was imprudent--"
"You can ride and shoot an arrow swift and far. Your eyes are keen andyour tread lithe and soft like a fawn--"
"It is all the wild lore of the woodland I learned as a child."
"But Sho-caw does not know! To him the gypsy heart of you, thesun-brown skin and scarlet cheeks, the night-black hair beneath theturban, are but the lure and charm of an errant daughter of theO-kee-fee-ne-kee wilderness. What wonder that he can not see you asyou are, a dark-eyed child of the race of white men!"
"I do not wonder."
"He has been grave and very deferential, gathered wood for you andcarried water. Yesterday there was a freshly killed deer at the doorof the wigwam. It is the first shy overture of the wooing Seminole."
"I know. Keela has told me. It has all frightened me a little. I--Ithink I had better go away again."
"There was a time, in the days of Arcadia, when Philip would havelaughed, and a second deer would have lain at the door of yourwig-wam--"
"Philip is changed."
"He is quieter--"
"Yes."
"A little sterner--"
"Yes."
"Like one perhaps who has abandoned a dream!"
"I--do--not--know."
"Why does he ride away for days with Sho-caw?"
"I have wondered."
The wind, wafting from the rain which splashed in the pool of Mic-co'scourt, might have told, but the wind, with the business of rain uponits mind, was reticent.
"And Ronador?"
"I have not forgotten."
"He is waiting."
"Yes. Day by day I have put off the thought of the inevitablereckoning. It is another reason why presently I must hurry away."
"A singular trio of suitors!" sighed the rain. "A prince--an Indianwarrior--and a spy!"
"Not that!" cried the girl's heart. "No, no--not that!"
"You breathed it but a minute ago!"
"I know--"
"And of the three, Sho-caw, bright copper though he is, is perhapsbraver--"
"No!"
"Taller--"
"He is not so tall as Philip."
"To be sure Philip is brown and handsome and sturdy and very strong,but Ronador--ah!--there imperial distinction and poise are blended withas true a native grace as Sho-caw's--"
"Humor and resource are better things."
"Sho-caw's grace is not so heavy as Ronador's--and not so sprightly asPhilip's--"
"It may be."
"One may tell much by the color and expression of a man's eye.Sho-caw's eyes are keen, alert and grave; Ronador's dark, compellingand very eloquent. What though there is a constant sense ofsuppression and smouldering fire and not quite so much directness asone might wish--"
"Philip's eyes are calm and steady and very frank," said the girl, "andhe is false."
"Yes," said the rain with a noise like a shower of tears, "yes, he isvery false."
The wind sighed. The steady drip of the rain, filtering through thevines twisted heavily about the oak trunks, was indescribably mournful.Suddenly the nameless terror that had crept into the girl's veins thatfirst night in the Seminole camp came again.
"When the Mulberry Moon is at its full," she said shuddering, "I willgo back to the van with Keela. I do not know what it is here thatfrightens me so. And I will marry Ronador. Every wild thing in theforest loves and mates. And I--I am very lonely."
But by the time the Mulberry Moon of the Seminoles blanketed the greatmarsh in misty silver Diane was restlessly on her way back to the worldof white men.
Philip followed. Leaner, browner, a little too stern, perhaps, aboutthe mouth and eyes, a gypsy of greater energy and resource than when hehad struck recklessly into the Glades with the music-machine he hadsince exchanged for an Indian wagon, Philip camped and smoked andhunted with the skill and gravity of an Indian.
So the wagons filed back again into the little hamlet where Johnnywaited, daily astonishing the natives by a series of lies profoundlyadventurous and thrilling. Rex's furious bark of welcome at the sightof his young mistress was no whit less hysterical than Johnny's instantgroan of relief, or the incoherent manner in which he detailed anunforgettable interview with Aunt Agatha, who had appeared one nightfrom heaven knows where and pledged him with tears and sniffsinnumerable to telegraph her when from the melancholy fastnesses of theEverglades, Diane or her scalp emerged.
"She wouldn't go North," finished Johnny graphically, his apple cheeksvery red and his eyes very bright, "she certainly would not--she'd liketo see herself--she would indeed!--and this no place for me to wait.Them very words, Miss Diane. And she went and opened yourgrandfather's old house in St. Augustine--the old Westfallhomestead--and she's there now waitin'. Likely, Miss Diane, I'd bettertelegraph now--this very minute--afore she takes it in her head to comeagain!"
Johnny's dread of another Aunt Agathean visitation was wholly candidand sincere. He departed on a trot to telegraph, hailing Philip warmlyby the way.
Here upon the following morning Diane and Keela parted--for the Indiangirl was pledged to return to the lodge of Mic-co.
"Six moons, now," she explained with shining eyes, "I stay at the lodgeof Mic-co, my foster father. When the Falling Leaf Moon of Novembercomes, I shall still be there, living the ways of white men." She heldout her hand. "Aw-lip-ka-shaw!" she said shyly, her black eyes verysoft and sorrowful. "It is a prettier parting than the white man's.By and by, Diane, you will write to the lodge of Mic-co? The Indianlads ride in each moon to the village for Mic-co's books and papers."Her great eyes searched Diane's face a little wistfully. "Sometime,"she added shyly, "when you wish, I will come again. You will not rideaway soon to the far cities of the North?"
"No!" said Diane. "No indeed! Not for ever so long. I'm tired.Likely I'll hunt a quiet spot where there's a lake and trees andlilies, and camp and rest. You won't forget me, Keela?"
Keela had a wordless gift of eloquence. Her eyes promised.
Diane smiled and tightened her hold of the slim, brown Indian hand.
"Aw-lip-ka-shaw, Keela!" she said. "Some day I'm coming back and takeyou home with me."
The Indian girl drove reluctantly away; presently her canvas wagon wasbut a dim gray silhouette upon the horizon.
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