Part 26 (1/2)
”The war-trail is always open for those who seek it. When my younger brother makes ready for a trail, does he summon it to come to him by magic, or does he seek it on his two legs?”
”Are you hoping to go out with the scout to-night?” I asked. ”That would not do.”
”I go to-night with my brother Loskiel--to take the air,” he said slyly.
”That may not be,” I protested, disconcerted. ”I have business abroad to-night.”
”And I,” he said very seriously; but he glanced again at the pretty garments on my arm and gave me a merry look.
”Yes,” said I, smilingly, ”they are for her. The little lady hath no shoon, no skirt that holds together, save by the grace of c.o.c.kspur thorns that bind the tatters. Those I have bought of an Oneida girl.
And if they do not please her, yet these at least will hold together.
And I shall presently write a letter to Albany and send it by the next batteau to my solicitor, who will purchase for her garments far more suitable, and send them to the fort where soon, I trust, she will be lodged in fas.h.i.+on more befitting.”
The Sagamore's face had become smooth and expressionless. I laid aside the garments, fished out quill and inkhorn, and, lying flat on the ground, wrote my letter to Albany, describing carefully the maid who was to be fitted, her height, the smallness of her waist and foot as well as I remembered. I wrote, too, that she was thin, but not too thin. Also I bespoke a box of French hair-powder for her, and buckled shoes of Paddington, and stockings, and a kerchief.
”You know better than do I,” I wrote, ”having a sister to care for, how women dress. They should have s.h.i.+fts, and hair-pegs, and a scarf, and fan, and stays, and scent, and hankers, and a small laced hat, not gilded; cloak, foot-mantle, sun-mask, and a chip hat to tie beneath the chin, and one such as they call after the pretty Mistress Gunning. If women wear banyans, I know not, but whatever they do wear in their own privacy at morning chocolate, in the French fas.h.i.+on, and whatever they do sleep in, buy and box and send to me. And all the money banked with you, put it in her name as well as mine, so that her draughts on it may all be honoured. And this is her name----”
I stopped, dismayed, I did not know her name! And I was about to sign for her full power to share my every penny! Yet, my amazing madness did not strike me as amazing or grotesque, that, within the hour, a maid in a condition such as hers was to divide my tidy fortune with me. Nay, more--for when I signed this letter she would be free to take what she desired and even leave me dest.i.tute.
I laughed at the thought--so midsummer mad was I upon that sunny July afternoon; and within me, like a hidden thicket full of birds, my heart was singing wondrous tunes I never knew one note of.
”O Sagamore,” I said, lifting my head, ”tell me her surname now, because I need it for this business. And I forgot to ask her at the Spring Waiontha.”
For a full minute the Indian's countenance turned full on me remained moon-blank. Then, like lightning, flashed his smile.
”Loskiel, my friend, and now my own blood-brother, what magic singing birds have so enchanted your two ears. She is but a child, lonely and ragged--a tattered leaf still green, torn from the stem by storm and stress, blown through the woodlands and whirled here and yonder by every breath of wind. Is it fit that my brother Loskiel should notice such a woman?”
”She is in need, my brother.”
”Give, and pa.s.s on, Loskiel.”
”That is not giving, O my brother.”
”Is it to give alone, Loskiel? Or is it to give--that she may render all?”
”Yes, honestly to give. Not to take.”
”And yet you know her not, Loskiel.”
”But I shall know her yet! She has so promised. If she is friendless, she shall be our friend. For you and I are one, O Sagamore! If she is cold, naked, or hungry, we will build for her a fire, and cover her, and give her meat. Our lodge shall be her lodge; our friends hers, her enemies ours. I know not how this all has come to me, Mayaro, my friend--even as I know not how your friends.h.i.+p came to me, or how now our honour is lodged forever in each other's keeping. But it is true.
Our blood has made us of one race and parentage.”
”It is the truth,” he said.
”Then tell me her name, that I may write it to my friend in Albany.”
”I do not know it,” he said quietly.
”She never told you?”