The Hidden Children. Chambers Robert William
Читать онлайн книгу.
their dogs."
I had already turned to retrace my steps when it occurred to me that perhaps an inquiry of this lad might not be misunderstood.
So I walked up to his horse and stood caressing the sorry animal while I described to him the wench I was seeking.
"Yes, sir," he said seriously, "that's the one the boys are ever plaguing to make her rage."
"Do you know her?"
"By sight, yes, sir."
"She is one of the camp followers, I take it," said I carelessly.
"I don't know. The boys are ever plaguing her. She came from the North they say. All I know is that in April she was first seen here, loitering about the camp where the White Plains Indians were embodied. But she did not go off with the Continentals."
"She was loitering this afternoon by the camp of Colonel Thomas's men," I said.
"Very like, sir. Did the men plague her?"
"Yes."
He bit into his apple, unconcerned:
"They are all after her. But I never saw her kind to any man—whatever she may be."
Why, I did not know, but what he said gave me satisfaction.
"You do not know which way she went?" I asked.
"No, sir. I have been here but the half hour. She knows the Bouton boys yonder. I have seen her coming and going on this road, sometimes with an Indian–"
"With a Sagamore?"
He continued his munching. Having swallowed what he chewed, he said:
"I know nothing of savages or Sagamores. The Indian may have been a Sagamore."
"Do you know where he is to be found?"
"No, sir, I do not."
"Perhaps this young girl knows?"
"Doubtless she does, seeing she journeys about with him on the ridge yonder, which we call the Rock Hills."
"Do you know her name, soldier?"
"They call her Lois, I believe."
And that was all the news I could get of her; and I thanked the boy and slowly started to retrace my steps toward the village.
Already in the air there was something of that stillness which heralds storms; no leaves on bush and tree were now stirring; land and sky had grown sombre all around me; and the grass glimmered intensely green.
Where the road skirted the Stone Hills were no houses, nothing, in fact, of human habitation to be seen save low on the flank of the rocky rampart a ruined sugar house on the edge of a maple ridge, I do not know what made me raise my head to give it a second glance, but I did; and saw among the rocks near it a woman moving.
Nor do I know, even now, how at that distance and in the dusk of a coming storm I could perceive that it was she whom I was now seeking. But so certain was I of this that, without even taking thought to consider, I left the highway, turned to the right, and began to mount the hillside where traces of a path or sheep-walk were faintly visible under foot among the brambles. Once or twice I glanced upward to see whether she observed me, but the scrubby foliage now hid her as well as the sap-house, and I hastened because the light was growing very dim now, and once or twice, far away, I thought I heard the muttering of thunder.
It was not long before I perceived the ramshackle sap-house ahead of me among the maples. Then I caught sight of her whom I was seeking.
It was plain that she had not yet discovered me, though she heard me moving in the thicket. She stood in a half-crouching, listening attitude, then slowly began to retreat, not cowering, but sullenly and with a certain defiance in her lithe movement, like some disturbed and graceful animal which is capable of defending itself but prefers to get away peaceably if permitted.
I stepped out into the clearing and called to her through the increasing gloom; and for a moment thought she had gone. Then I saw her, dimly, watching me from the obscurity of the dark doorway.
"You need have no fear of me," I called to her pleasantly. "You know me now, do you not?"
She made no answer; and I approached the doorway and stood peering into her face through the falling twilight. And for a moment I thought I had been mistaken; but it was she after all.
Yet now she wore neither the shabby chip hat with its soiled blue ribbon tied beneath her chin, nor any trace of hair powder, nor dotted kerchief cross-fastened at her breast and pinned with the withered rose.
And she seemed younger and slimmer and more childish than I had thought her, her bosom without its kerchief meagre or unformed, and her cheeks not painted either, but much burned by the July sun. Nor were her eyes black, as I had supposed, but a dark, clear grey with black lashes; and her unpowdered hair seemed to be a reddish-chestnut and scarce longer than my own, but more curly.
"Child," I said, smiling at her, I know not why, "I have been searching for you ever since I first saw you–"
And: "What do you want of me?" said she, scarce moving her lips.
"A favour."
"Best mount your cobbler's mare and go a-jogging back, my pretty lad."
The calm venom in her voice and her insolent grey eyes took me aback more than her saucy words.
"Doubtless," I said, "you have not recognized in me the officer who was at some slight pains to be of service–"
"What is it you desire?" said she, so rudely that I felt my face burn hot.
"See here, my lass," said I sharply, "you seem to misunderstand my errand here."
"And am like to," said she, "unless you make your errand short and plainer—though I have learned that the errands which bring such men as you to me are not too easily misunderstood."
"Such men as I–"
"You and your friend with the bold, black eyes. Ask him how much change he had of me when he came back."
"I did not know he had seen you again," said I, still redder. And saw that she believed me not.
"Birds sing; men lie," said she. "So if–"
"Be silent! Do you hear!" I cut her short with such contempt that I saw the painful colour whip her cheeks and her eyes quiver.
Small doubt that what she had learned of men had not sweetened her nor taught her confidence. But whatever she had been, and whatever she was, after all concerned not me that I should take pains to silence her so brutally.
"I am sorry I spoke as I did," said I, "—however mistaken you are concerning my seeking you here."
She said nothing.
"Also," I added, with a sudden resurgance of bitterness that surprised myself, "my conduct earlier in your behalf might have led you to a wiser judgment."
"I am wise enough—after my own fashion," she said indifferently.
"Does a man save and then return to destroy?"
"Many a hunter has saved many a spotted fawn from wolf and fox—so he might kill it himself, one day."
"You do yourself much flattery, young woman," I said, so unpleasantly that again the hot colour touched her throat and brow.
"I reason as I have been taught," she said defiantly. "Doubtless you are self-instructed."
"No; men have taught me. You witnessed, I believe, one lesson. And your comrade gave me still another."
"I care to witness nothing," I said, furious; "far less desire to attempt your education. Is all plain now?"
"Your words are," she said, with quiet contempt.
"My words are one with my intention," said I, angrily; far in spite of my own indifference and contempt, hers was somehow arousing me with its separate sting hidden in every word she uttered. "And now," I continued, "all being plain and open between us, let me acquaint you with the sole object of my visit here to you."
She shrugged her shabby shoulders