CHAPTER XXV.
ON MANHATTAN ISLAND.
"What do you intend to make of your life, Montana, since you avoid allquestions of marriage? You will not go to school, and care nothing aboutfitting yourself for the society where by right you should belong."
A whole winter had gone, and the springtime had come again; and over allthe Island of Manhattan, and on the heights back from the rivers, thegreen of the leaves was creeping over the boughs from which winter hadswept all signs of life months ago.
In a very lovely little room, facing a park where the glitter of a tinylake could be seen, 'Tana lounged and stared at the waving branches andthe fettered water.
Not just the same 'Tana as when, a year ago, she had breasted the coldwaves of the Kootenai. No one, to look at her now, would connect thetaller, stylishly dressed figure, with that little half-savage who hadscowled at Overton in the lodge of Akkomi. Her hair was no longer shortand boyish in its arrangement. A silver comb held it in place, exceptwhere the tiny curls crept down to cluster about her neck. A gown of softwhite wool was caught at her waist by a flat woven belt of silver, and anembroidered shoe of silvery gleam peeped from under the white folds.
No, it was not the same 'Tana. And the little gray-haired lady, whoslipped ivory knitting needles in and out of silky flosses, watched herwith troubled concern as she asked:
"And what do you intend to make of your life, Montana?"
"You are out of patience with me, are you not, Miss Seldon?" asked thegirl. "Oh, yes, I know you are; and I don't blame you. Everything I haveever wanted in my life is in reach of me here--everything a girl shouldhave; yet it doesn't mean so much to me as I thought it would."
"But if you would go to school, perhaps--"
"Perhaps I would learn to appreciate all this," and the girl glancedaround at the fine fittings of the room, and then back to the point of herown slipper.
"But I do study hard at home. Doesn't Miss Ackerman give me credit forlearning very quickly? and doesn't that music teacher hop around and wavehis hands over my most excellent, ringing voice? They say I study well."
"Yes, yes; you do, too. But at a school, my dear, where you would have theassociation of other girls, you would naturally grow more--more girlishyourself, if I may say so; for you are old beyond your years in ways thatare peculiar. Your ideas of things are not the ideas of girlhood; and yetyou are very fond of girls."
"And how do you know that?" asked 'Tana.
"Why, my dear, you never go past one on the street that you don't give hermore notice than the very handsomest man you might see. And at thematinees, if the play does not hold you very close, your eyes are alwaysdirected to the young girls in the audience. Yes, you are fond of them,yet you will not allow yourself to be intimate with any."
And the pretty, refined-looking lady smiled at her and nodded her head ina knowing way, as though she had made an important discovery.
The girl on the couch lay silent for a while, then she rose and went overto the window, gazing across to the park, where people were walking andriding along the green knolls and levels. Young girls were there, too, andshe watched them a little while, with the old moody expression in her darkeyes.
"Perhaps it is because I don't like to make friends under falsepretenses," she said, at last. "Your society is a very fine and verycurious thing, and there is a great deal of false pretense about it.Individually, they would overlook the fact that I was accused of murder inIdaho--the gold mine would help some of them to do that! But if it shouldever get in their papers here, they would collectively think it their dutyto each other not to recognize me."
"Oh, Montana, my dear child, why do you not forget that horrible life, andleave your mind free to partake of the advantages now surrounding you?"and Miss Seldon sighed with real distress, and dropped her ivory needlesdespairingly. "It seems so strange that you care to remember that whichwas surely a terrible life."
"Much more so than you can know," answered the girl, coming over to herand drawing a velvet hassock to her side. "And, my dear, good, innocentlittle lady, just so long as you all try to persuade me that I should goout among young people of my own age, just so long must I be forced tothink of how different my life has been to theirs. Some day they, too,might learn how different it has been, and resent my presence among them.I prefer not to run that risk. I might get to like some of them, andthen it would hurt. Besides, the more I see of people since I came here,the more I feel that every one should remain with their own class inlife."
"But, Montana, that is not an American sentiment at all!" said MissSeldon, with some surprise. "But even that idea should not exclude fromrefined circles. By birth you are a lady."
The girl smiled bitterly. "You mean my mother was," she answered. "But shedid not give me a gentleman for a father; and I don't believe the parentsof any of those lovely girls we meet would like them to know the daughterof such a man, if they knew it. Now, do you understand how I feel aboutmyself and this social question?"
"You are foolishly conscientious and morbid," exclaimed the older lady. "Ideclare, Montana, I don't know what to do with you. People like you--youare very clever, you have youth, wealth, and beauty--yes, the last, too!yet you shut yourself up here like a young nun. Only the theaters and theart galleries will you visit--never a person--not even Margaret."
"Not even Margaret," repeated the girl; "and that is the crowning sin inyour eyes, isn't it? Well, I don't blame you, for she is very lovely; andhow much she thinks of you!"
"Yes!" sighed the little lady. "Mrs. Haydon is a woman of very decidedcharacter, but not at all given to loving demonstrations to children. Longago, when we lived closer, little Margie would come to me daily to bekissed and petted. Max was only a boy then, and they were greatcompanions."
"Yes; and if he had been sensible, he would have fallen in love with herand made her Mrs. Lyster, instead of knocking around Western miningtowns, and making queer friends," said the girl, smiling at the old lady'sastonished face. "She is just the sort of girl to suit him."
"My dear," she said, solemnly, "do you really care for him a particle?"
"Who--Max? Of course I do. He is the best fellow I know, and was so goodto me out there in the wilderness. There was no one out there to compareme with, so I suppose I loomed up big when compared with the averagesquaw. But everything is different here. I did not know how different. Iknow now, however, and I won't let him go on making a mistake."
"Oh, Montana!" cried the little lady, pleadingly.
Just then a maid entered with two cards, at which she glanced with adismay that was comical.
"Margaret and Max! Why, is it not strange they should call at the sametime, and at a time when--"
"When I was pairing them off so nicely, without their knowledge," addedthe girl. "Have them come up here, won't you? It is so much more cozy thanthat very elegant parlor. And I always feel as if poor Max had been turnedout of his home since I came."
So they came to the little sitting room--pretty, dark-eyed Margaret, withher faultless manners and her real fondness for Miss Seldon, whom shekissed three times.
"For I have not seen you for three days," she explained, "and those twoare back numbers." Then she turned to 'Tana and eyed her admiringly asthey clasped hands.
"You look as though you had stepped from a picture of classic Greek," shedeclared. "Where in that pretty curly head of yours do you find the ideasfor those artistic arrangements of form and color? You are an artist,Montana, and you don't know it."
"I will begin to believe it if people keep telling me so."
"Who else has told you?" asked Lyster, and she laughed at him.
"Not you," she replied; "at least not since you teased me about the clayIndians I made on the shores of the Kootenai. But some one else has toldme--Mr. Roden."
"Roden, the sculptor! But how does he know?"
She glanced from one face to the other, and sighed with a serio-comicexpression. "I might as well confess," she said, at last. "I am so gladyou
are here, Miss Margaret, for I may need an advocate. I have beenworking two hours a day in Mr. Roden's studio for over a month."
"Montana!" gasped Miss Seldon, "but--how--when?"
"Before you were awake in the morning," she said, and looked from one tothe other of their blank faces. "You look as if it were a shock, insteadof a surprise," she added. "I did not tell you at first, as it would seemonly a whim. But he has told me I have reason for the whim, and that Ishould continue. So--I think I shall."
"But, my child--for you are a child, after all--don't you know it is avery strange thing for a girl to go alone like that, and--and--Oh, dear!Max, can't you tell her?"
But Max did not. There was a slight wrinkle between his brows, but she sawit and smiled.
"You can't scold me, though, can you?" she asked. "That is right, for itwould be no use. I know you would say that in your set it would not beproper for a girl to do such independent things. But you see, I do notbelong to any set. I have just been telling this dear little lady, whois trying to look stern, some of the reasons why society life and I cannever agree. But I have found several reasons why Art life and I shouldagree perfectly. I like the freedom of it--the study of it. And, even if Inever accomplish much, I shall at least have tried my best."
"But, Montana, it is not as though you had to learn such things," pleadedMiss Seldon. "You have plenty of money."
"Oh, money--money! But I have found there are a few things in this worldmoney can not buy. Art study, little as I have attempted, has taught methat."
Lyster came over and sat beside her by the window.
"'Tana," he said, and looked at her with kindly directness, "can the Artstudy give you that which you crave, and which money can not buy?"
Her eyes fell to the floor. She could not but feel sorry to go against hiswishes; and yet--
"No, it can not, entirely," she said, at last. "But it is all thesubstitute I know of, and, maybe, after a while, it will satisfy me."
Miss Seldon took Margaret from the room on some pretext, and Lyster roseand walked across to the other window. He was evidently much troubled orannoyed.
"Then you are not satisfied?" he asked. "The life that seemed possible toyou, when out there in camp, is impossible to you now."
"Oh, Max! don't be angry--don't. Everything was all wrong out there. Youwere sorry for me out there; you thought me different from what I am. Icould never be the sort of girl you should marry--not like Margaret--"
"Margaret!" and his face paled a little, "why do you speak of her?"
"I know, if you do not, Max," she answered, and smiled at him. "I havelearned several things since I came here, and one of them is Mr. Haydon'sreason for encouraging our friendship so much. It was to end anyattachment between you and Margaret. Oh, I know, Max! If I had not lookedjust a little bit like her, you would never have fancied you loved me--forit was only a fancy."
"It was no fancy! I did love you. I was honest with you, and I have waitedpatiently, while you have grown more and more distant until now--"
"Now we had better end it all, Max. I could not make you happy, for I amnot happy myself."
"Perhaps I--"
"No, you can not help me; and it is not your fault. You have been good tome--very good; but I can't marry any one."
"No one?" he asked, looking at her doubtfully. "'Tana, sometimes I havefancied you might have cared for some one else--some one before you metme."
"No, I cared for no one before I met you," she answered, slowly. "But Icould not be happy in the social life of your people here. They arecharming, but I am not suited to their life. And--and I can't go back tothe hills. So, in a month, I am going to Italy."
"You have it all decided, then?"
"All--don't be angry, Max. You will thank me for it some day, though Iknow our friends will think badly of me just now."
"No, they shall not; you are breaking no promises. You took me only ontrial, and it seems I don't suit," he said, with a grimace. "I will seethat you are not blamed. And so long as you do not leave America, I shouldlike you to remain here. Don't let anything be changed in our friendship,'Tana."
She turned to him with tears in her eyes, and held out her hand.
"You are too good to me, Max," she said, brokenly, "God knows what willbecome of me when I leave you all and go among foreign faces, among whom Ishall not have a friend. I hope to work and--be contented; but I shallnever meet a friend like you again."
He drew her to him quickly.
"Don't go!" he whispered, pleadingly. "I can't let you go out into theworld alone like that! I will love you--care for you--"
"Hush!" and she put her hand on his face to push it away; "it is no use,and don't do that--try to kiss me; you must not. No man has ever kissedme, and you--"
"And I sha'n't be the first," he added, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, Iconfess I hoped to be, and you are a greater temptation than you know,Miss Montana. And you ought to pardon me the attempt."
Her face was flushed and shamed. "I could pardon a great deal in you,Max," she answered; "but don't speak of it again. Talk to me of otherthings."
"Other things? Well, I haven't many other things in my mind just now.Still, I did see some one down town this morning whom you rather liked,and who asked after you. It was Mr. Harvey, the writer, whom we met firstat Bonner's Ferry, up in the Kootenai land. Do you remember him?"
"Certainly. We met him afterward at one of the art galleries, and I haveseen him several times at Roden's studio. They are great friends. Helooked surprised to find me there, but, after I spoke to him, he talked tome a great deal. You know, Max, I always imagine he heard that suspicionof me up at the camp. Do you think so?"
"He never intimated it to me," answered Max; "though Haydon nearly wentinto spasms of fear lest he would put it all in some paper."
"I remember. He would scarcely allow me breathing space for fear thestranger would get near enough to speak to me again. I remember all thatjourney, because when I reached the end of it, the past seemed like atroubled dream, for this life of fineness and beauty and leisure was allso different."
"And yet you are not contented?"
"Oh, don't talk of that--of me!" she begged. "I am tired of myself. I justremembered another one on the train that journey--the little varietyactress who had her dresses made to look cute and babyish--the one withbleached hair, and they called her Goldie. She looked scared to death whenhe--Overton--stopped at the window to say good-by. I often wondered why."
"Oh, you know Dan was a sort of sheriff, or law-and-order man, up there.He might have known her unfavorably, and she was afraid of beingidentified by him, or something of that sort. She belonged to the rougherelement, no doubt."
"Max, it makes me homesick to think of that country," she confessed. "Eversince the grass has commenced to be green, and the buds to swell, it seemsto me all the woods are calling me. All the sluggish water I see here inthe parks and the rivers makes me dream of the rush of the clear Kootenai,and long for a canoe and paddle. Contrive something to make me forgetit, won't you? Make up a party to go somewhere--anywhere. I will becavalier to your lovely little aunt, and leave you to Margaret."
"I asked you before why you speak of Margaret and me in that tone?" hesaid. "Are you going to tell me? You have no reason but your own fancy."
"Haven't I? Well, this isn't fancy, Max--that I would like to see mycousin--you see, I claim them for this once--happy in her own way, insteadof unhappy in the life her ambitious family are trying to arrange for her.And I promise to trade some surplus dust for a wedding present just assoon as you conclude to spoil their plans, and make yourself and thatlittle girl and your aunt all happy by a few easily spoken words."
"But I have just told you I love you."
"You will know better some day," she said, and turned away. "Now go andpacify your aunt, won't you? She seemed so troubled about themodeling--bless her dear heart! I didn't want to trouble her, but thework--some work--was a necessity to me. I was growing so homesick for thew
oods."
After she was left alone, she drew a letter from her pocket, one she hadgot in the morning mail, and read over again the irregular lines sent byMrs. Huzzard.
"I got Lavina to write you the letter at Christmas, because I was so tickled with all the things you sent me that I couldn't write a straight line to save me; and you know the rheumatiz in my finger makes it hard work for me sometimes. But maybe hard work and me is about done with each other, 'Tana; though I'll tell you more of that next time.
"I must tell you Mr. Harris has got better--can talk some and walk around; can't move his left arm any yet. But Mr. Dan sent for two fine doctors, and they tried to help him with electricity. And I was scared for fear lightning might strike camp after that; but it didn't. Lavina is here still, and likely to stay. She's a heap of company; and she and Captain Leek are better friends than they was.
"There is a new man in camp now; he found a silver mine down near Bonner's Ferry, and sold it out well. He was a farmer back in Indiana, and has been on a visit to our camp twice. Mr. Dan says it's my cooking fetches him. Everything is different here now. Mr. Dan got sawed lumber, and put me up a nice little house; and up above the bluff he has laid out a place where he is going to build a stone house, just as if he intends to live and die here. He doesn't ever seem to think that he has enough made now to rest all his days. Sometimes I think he ain't well. Sometimes, 'Tana, I think it would cheer him up if you would just write him a few lines from time to time. He always says, 'Is she well?' when I get a letter from you; and about the time I'm looking for your letters he's mighty regular about getting the mail here.
"That old Akkomi went south when winter set in, and we reckon he'll be back when the leaves get green. His whole village was drunk for days on the money you had Mr. Seldon give him, and he wore pink feathers from some millinery store the last time I saw him. But Mr. Dan is always patient with him whether he is drunk or sober.
"I guess that's all the news. Lavina sends her respects. And I must tell you that on Christmas they got some whisky, and all the boys drank your health--and drank it so often Mr. Dan had to give them a talking to. They think a heap of you. Yours with affection,
"LORENA JANE HUZZARD.
"P. S.--William McCoy is the name of the stranger I spoke of. The boys call him Bill."
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