The Hidden Children. Robert W. Chambers
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sir; but nothing worse than marriage!"
"Child!" I exclaimed. "Where have you lived to belie the pitiful youth of you with such a worldly-worn and bitter tongue? I tell you all men are not of that stripe! Do you not believe me?"
"Birds sing, sir."
"Will you come into camp?" I repeated hotly.
"And if I will not?"
"Then, by heaven, I'll carry you in my arms! Will you come?"
She laughed at me, dangerously calm, seated herself, picked up the partly eaten food, and began to consume it with all the insolent leisure in the world.
I stood watching her for a few moments, then sat down cross-legged before her.
"Why do you doubt me, Lois?" I asked.
"Dear sir, I do not doubt you," she answered with faintest malice.
"I tell you I am not of that stripe!" I said angrily.
"Then you are not a man at all. I tell you I have talked with men as good as you, and heard them protest as you do—yes, with all the gentle condescension that you use, all of your confidence and masterful advice. Sooner or later all have proved the same," she shrugged; "——proved themselves men, in plainer words."
She sat eating thoughtfully, looking aloft now and then at the thick splendor of the firmament.
Then, breaking a bit of corn bread, she said gravely:
"I do not mean that you have not been kind, as men mean kindness. I do not even mean that I blame men. God made them different from us. And had He made me one, doubtless I had been as all men are, taking the road through life as gaily, sword on thigh and hat in hand to every pretty baggage that a kindly fate made wayfarer with me. No, I have never blamed a man; only the silly minx who listens."
After a short silence, I said: "Who, in the name of heaven, are you, Lois?"
"Does that concern you?"
"I would have it concern me—if you wish."
"Dear sir," she said very coolly, "I wish nothing of the kind."
"You do not trust me."
"Why, yes, as I trust every man—except a red one."
"Yet, I tell you that all that animates me is a desire to render you a comrade's service——"
"And I thank you, Mr. Loskiel, because, like other men, you mean it generously and well. Yet, you are an officer in the corps d'élite; and you would be ashamed to have the humblest bugler in your regiment see you with such a one as I."
She broke another morsel from her bread:
"You dare not cross a camp-parade beside me. At least the plaything of an officer should walk in silk, whatever clothes a soldier's trull. Sir, do you suppose I do not know?"
She looked up at the stars, and then quietly at me.
"The open comradeship of any man with me but marks us both. Only his taste is criticized, not his morals. But the world's judgment leaves me nothing to cover me except the silk or rags I chance to wear. And if I am brave and fine it would be said of me, 'The hussy's gown is brave and fine!' And if I go in tatters, 'What slattern have we here, flaunting her boldness in the very sun?' So a comradeship with any man is all one to me. And I go my way, neither a burden nor a plaything, a scandal only to myself, involving no man high or low save where their advances wrong us both in the world's eyes—as did those of your friend, yonder by a dead fire asleep."
"All men are not so fashioned. Can you not believe me?"
"You say so, sir."
"Yes; and I say that I am not."
"Birds sing."
"Lois, will you let me aid you?"
"In what? The Sagamore feeds me; and the Middle Fort is not so far."
"And at the Middle Fort how will you live?"
"As I have lived; wash for the soldiers; sew for them—contrive to find a living as I journey."
"Whither?"
"It is my own affair."
"May I not aid?"
"You could not if you would; you would not if you could."
"Ask me, Lois."
"No." She shook her head. Then, slowly: "I do thank you for the wish, Mr. Loskiel. But the Siwanois himself refuses what I ask. And you would, also, did you know my wish."
"What is your wish?"
She shook her head: "It is useless to voice it—useless."
She gathered the scant fragments of her meal, wrapped them in a bit of silver birch-bark, unrolled her bundle, and placed them there. Then she drained the tin cup of its chilly water, and, still sitting there cross-legged on the rock, tied the little cup to her girdle. It seemed to me, there in the dusk, that she smiled very faintly; and if it was so it was the first smile I had had of her when she said:
"I travel light, Mr. Loskiel. But otherwise there is nothing light about me."
"Lois, I pray you, listen. As I am a man, I can not leave you here."
"For that reason, sir, you will presently take your leave."
"No, I shall remain if you will not come into camp with us."
She said impatiently:
"I lie safer here than you around your fire. You mean well; now take your leave of me—with whatever flight of fancy," she added mockingly, "that my present condition invests me with in the eyes of a very young man."
The rudeness of the fling burnt my face, but I answered civilly:
"A scalping party may be anywhere in these woods. It is the season; and neither Oneida Lake nor Fort Niagara itself are so distant that their far-hurled hatchets may not strike us here."
"I will not go with you," said she, making of her bundle a pillow. Then, very coolly, she extended her slim body and laid her head on the bundle.
I made no answer, nor any movement for fully an hour. Then, very stealthily, I leaned forward to see if she truly slept. And found her eyes wide open.
"You waste time mounting sentry over me," she said in a low voice. "Best employ your leisure in the sleep you need."
"I can not sleep."
"Nor I—if you remain here awake beside me."
She raised herself on her elbow, peering through the darkness toward the stream.
"The Siwanois has been standing yonder by the stream watching us this full hour past. Let him mount sentry if he wishes."
"You have a tree-cat's eyes," I said. "I see nothing."
Then I rose and unbuckled my belt. Hatchet and knife dangled from it. I stooped and laid it beside her. Then, stepping backward a pace or two, I unlaced my hunting shirt of doe-skin, drew it off, and, rolling it into a soft pillow, lay down, cradling my cheek among the thrums.
I do not know how long I lay there before I fell asleep from very weariness of the new and deep emotions, as strange to me as they were unwelcome. The restlessness, the misgivings which, since I first had seen this maid, had subtly invaded me, now, grown stronger, assailed me with an apprehension I could neither put from me nor explain. Nor was this vague fear for her alone; for, at moments, it seemed as though it were for myself I feared—fearing myself.
So far in my brief life, I had borne myself cleanly and upright, though the times were loose enough, God knows, and the master of Guy Park had read me no lesson or set me no example above the morals and the customs of his class and of the age.
It may have been pride—I know not what it was, that I could notice the doings of Sir John and of young Walter Butler and remain aloof, even indifferent. Yet, this was so. Never had a woman's beauty