Part 24 (2/2)
”Euan,” she said, still smiling at me, ”I think that I could be your friend--if you do truly wish it. What is it you desire of me? Ask me once more, and make it very clear and plain.”
”Only your confidence; that is all I ask.”
”Oh! Is that all you ask of me?” she mimicked mockingly; but so sweet her smile, and soft her voice, that I did not mind her words.
”Remember,” said I, ”that I am older than you. You are to tell me all that troubles you.”
”When?”
”Now.”
”No. I have my was.h.i.+ng to complete, And you must go. Besides, I have mending, darning, and my knitting yet to do. It all means bed and bait to me.”
”Will you not tell me why you are alone here, Lois?”
”Tell you what? Tell you why I loiter by our soldiers' camps like any painted drab? I will tell you this much; I need no longer play that shameless role.”
”You need not use those words in the same breath when speaking of yourself,” I answered hotly.
”Then--you do not credit ill of me?” she asked, a bright but somewhat fixed and painful smile on her red lips.
”No!” said I bluntly. ”Nor did I ever.”
”And yet I look the part, and seem to play it, too. And still you believe me honest?”
”I know you are.”
”Then why should I be here alone--if I am honest, Euan?”
”I do not know; tell me.”
”But--are you quite certain that you do not ask because you doubt me?”
I said impatiently: ”I ask, knowing already you are good above reproach. I ask so I may understand how best to aid you.”
A lovely colour stole into her cheeks.
”You are kind, Euan. And it is true--though--” and she shrugged her shoulders, ”what other man would credit it?” She lifted her head a little and looked at me with clear, proud eyes:
”Well, let them say what they may in fort and barracks twixt this frontier and Philadelphia. The truth remains that I have been no man's mistress and am no trull. Euan, I have starved that I might remain exactly what I am at this moment. I swear to you that I stand here unsullied and unstained under this untainted sky which the same G.o.d made who fas.h.i.+oned me. I have known shame and grief and terror; I have lain cold and ill and sleepless; I have wandered roofless, hunted, threatened, mocked, beset by men and vice. Soldiers have used me roughly--you yourself saw, there at the Poundridge barracks! And only you among all men saw truly. Why should I not give to you my friends.h.i.+p, unashamed?”
”Give it,” I said, more deeply moved than ever I had been.
”I do! I do! Rightly or wrongly, now, at last, and in the end, I give my honest heart and friends.h.i.+p to a man!” And with a quick and winning gesture she offered me her hand; and I took it firmly in my clasp, and fell a-trembling so I could not find a word to utter.
”Come to me to-night, Euan,” she said. ”I lodge yonder. There is a poor widow there--a Mrs. Rannock--who took me in. They killed her husband in November. I am striving to repay her for the food and shelter she affords me. I have been given mending and was.h.i.+ng at the fort. You see I am no leech to fasten on a body and nourish me for nothing. So I do what I am able. Will you come to me this night?”
”Yes.” But I could not yet speak steadily.
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