“Lord!” said I. “Is that the way you read us, also?”
“No. Women may read women. But never one who lived has read truly any man, humble or high. Say that to the next pretty baggage who vows she reads you like a book! And in her secret heart she will know you say the truth — and know it, raging even while her smile remains unaltered. For it is true, Euan; true concerning you men, also. Not one among you all has ever really read us right. The difference is this; we know we can not read you, but scorn to admit it; you honestly believe that you can read us, and often boast of doing it. Which sex is the greater fool, judge you? I have my own opinion.”
We both laughed; after a moment she put on her sun-mask and I tied it.
“Where do you and Mrs. Lansing lodge until your husband’s regiment returns?” I asked.
“They have given us the old Croghan house. What it lacks in elegance of appointment it gains in hospitality. If we had a dish of tea to brew for you gentlemen we would do it; but Indian willow makes a vile and bitter tea, and I had as lief go tealess, as I do and expect to continue until our husbands teach the Tory King his manners.”
She rose, giving me her pretty hand to aid her, shook out her dainty skirts, put up her quizzing glass, and inspected me, smilingly.
“Bring her when you think it time,” she said. “Somehow I already believe that she may be something of what your fancy paints her. And that would be a miracle.”
“Truly she is a miracle,” I said earnestly.
“Then remember not to say it to Angelina Lansing — and above all never hint as much to Lana Helmer. Women are human; and pretty women perhaps a little less than human. Leave them to me. For if this romantic damsel be truly what you picture her, I’ll have to tell a pretty fib or two concerning her and you, I warrant you. Leave that saucy baggage, Lanette, to me, Euan. And you keep clear of her, too. She’s murderous to men’s peace of mind — more fatal than ever since Clarissa played the fool.”
“I was assassinated by Lana long ago,” said I, smiling. “I am proof.”
“Nevertheless, beware!” she whispered, as Boyd and Lana came sauntering up. And there seemed to me to be now about them both a careless indifference, almost studied, and in noticeable contrast to their bright animation when they had left us half an hour ago.
“Such a professional heart-breaker as your Mr. Boyd is,” observed Lana coolly to us both. “I never before encountered such assurance. What he must be in queue and powder, silk and small-sword, I dare not surmise. A pitying heaven has protected me so far, and,” she added, looking deliberately at Boyd, “I ought to be grateful, ought I not, sir?”
Boyd made her a too low and over-courtly bow.
“Always the gallant and victorious adversary salutes the vanquished as you, fair lady, have saluted me — imputing to my insignificant prowess the very skill and address which has overthrown me.”
“Are you overthrown?”
“Prone in the dust, mademoiselle! Draw Mr. Loskiel’s knife and end me now in mercy.”
“Then I will strike.... Who is the handsome wench who passed us but a moment since, and who looked at you with her very heart trembling in her eyes?”
“How should I know?”
They stood looking smilingly at each other; and their smile did not seem quite genuine to me, but too clear, and a trifle hard, as though somehow it was a sort of mask for some subtler defiance. I reflected uneasily that no real understanding could be possible between these two in such a brief acquaintance; and, reassured, turned to greet our macaroni Ensign and Mistress Angelina Lansing, now approaching us.
That our regimental fop had sufficient diverted her was patent, she being over-flushed and smiling, and at gay swords’ points already with him, while he whisked his nose with his laced hanker and scattered the perfume of his snuff to the four winds.
So, two and two, we walked along the road to Croghan’s house, where was a negro wench to aid them and a soldier-servant to serve them. And the odd bits of furniture that had been used at our General’s headquarters had been taken there to eke out with rough make-shifts, fashioned by Alden’s men, a very scanty establishment for these three ladies.
Lana Helmer, to my surprise, motioned me to walk beside her; and all the way to Croghan’s house she continued close to me, seeming to purposely avoid Boyd. And he the same, save that once or twice he looked at her, which was more than she did to him, I swear.
She was now very serious and sweet with me on our way to Croghan’s, not jeering at me or at any of her teasing tricks, but conversing reasonably and prettily, and with that careless confidence which to a man is always pleasant and sometimes touching.
Of the old days we spoke much; the past was our theme — which is not an unusual topic for the young, although they live, generally, only in the future. And it was “Do you recall this?” and “Do you remember that?” and “Do you mind the day” when this and that occurred? Incidents we both had nigh forgotten were recalled gravely or smilingly, but there was no laughter — none, somehow, seemed to be left either in her heart or mine.
Twice I spoke of Clarissa, wishing, with kindliest intention, to hear more of the unhappy child; but in neither instance did Lana appear to notice what I had said, continuing silent until I, too, grew reticent, feeling vaguely that something had somehow snapped our mutual thread of sympathy.
At the door of Croghan’s house we gathered to make our adieux, then first went mincing our Ensign about his precious business; and then Boyd took himself off, as though with an effort; and Lana and Angelina Lansing went indoors.
“Bring her to me when I am alone,” whispered Betty Bleecker, with a very friendly smile. “And let the others believe that you stand for nothing in this affair.”
And so I went away, thinking of many things — too many and too perplexing, perhaps, for the intellect of a very young man deeply in love — a man who knows he is in love, and yet remains incredulous that it is indeed love which so utterly bewilders and afflicts him.
CHAPTER IX
MID-SUMMER
Since our arrival from Westchester the weather had been more or less unsettled — fog, rain, chilling winds alternating with days of midsummer heat. But now the exhausting temperature of July remained constant; fiery days of sunshine were succeeded by nights so hot and suffocating that life seemed well-nigh insupportable under tents or in barracks, and officers and men, almost naked, lay panting along the river bank through the dreadful hours of darkness which brought no relief from the fiery furnace of the day.
Schott’s riflemen mounted guard stripped to the waist; the Oneidas and Stockbridge scouts strode about unclothed save for the narrow clout and sporran; and all day and all night our soldiers splashed in the river where our horses also stood belly deep, heads hanging, under the willows.
During that brief but scorching period I went to Mrs. Rannock’s every evening after dark, and usually found Lois lying in the open under the stars, the garret being like an oven, so she said.
Here we had made up our quarrel, and here, on the patch of uncut English grass, we lay listlessly, speaking only at intervals, gasping for air and coolness, which neither darkness nor stars had brought to this sun-cursed forest-land.
But for the last two nights I had not found Lois waiting for me, nor did Mrs. Rannock seem to know whither she had gone, which caused me much uneasiness.
The third evening I went to find her at Mrs. Rannock’s before the after-glow had died from the coppery zenith, and I encountered her moving toward the Spring path, just entering the massed elder bloom. Her face was dewy with perspiration, pale, and somewhat haggard.
“Lois, why have you avoided me?” I exclaimed. “All manner of vague forebodings have assailed me these two days past.”
“Listen to this silly lad!” she said impatiently. “As though a few hours’ absence lessen loyalty and devotion!”
“But where have you been?”
“Where I may not take you, Euan.”
“And
where is that?” I asked bluntly.
“Lord! What a catechism is this for a free girl to answer willy-nilly! If you must know, I have played the maid of ancient Greece these two nights past. Otherwise, I had died, I think.”
And seeing my perplexed mien, she began to laugh.
“Euan, you are stupid! Did not the Grecian maids spend half their lives in the bath?”
The slight flush of laughter faded from her face; the white fatigue came back; and she passed the back of one hand wearily across her brow, clearing it of the damp curls.
“The deadly sultriness of these nights,” she sighed. “I was no longer able to endure the heat under the eaves among my dusty husks. So lately I have stolen at night to the Spring Waiontha to bathe in the still, cold pools. Oh, Euan, it is most delicious! I have slept there until dawn, lying up to my throat in the crystal flood.” She laughed again. “And once, lying so, asleep, my body slipped and in I slid, deep, deep in, and awoke in a dreadful fright half drowned.”
“Is it wise to sleep so in the Water?” I asked uneasily.
“Oh! Am I ever wise?” she said wearily. “And the blood beats in my veins these heated nights so that I am like to suffocate. I made a bed for me by Mrs. Rannock, but she sobbed in her sleep all night and I could not close my eyes, So I thought of the Spring Waiontha, and the next instant was on my way there, feeling the path with naked feet through the starlight, and dropped my clothing from me in the darkness and sank into the cool, sweet pool. Oh, it was heaven, Euan! I would you might come also.”
“I can walk as far as the pool with you, at all events,” said I.
“Wonderful! And will you?”
“Do I ever await asking to follow you anywhere?” said I sentimentally.
But she only laughed at me and led the way across the dreary strip of clearing, moving with a swift confidence in her knowledge of the place, which imitating, I ran foul of a charred stump, and she heard what I said.
“Poor lad!” she exclaimed contritely, slipping her hand into mine. “I should have guided you. Does it pain you?”
“Not much.”
Our hands were clasped, and she pressed mine with all the sweet freedom of a comradeship which means nothing deeper. For I now had learned from her own lips, sadly enough, how it was with her — how she regarded our friendship. It was to her a deep and living thing — a noble emotion, not a passion — a belief founded on gratitude and reason, not a confused, blind longing and delight possessing every waking moment, ever creating for itself a thousand tender dreams or fanciful and grotesque apprehensions.
Clear-headed so far, reasonable in her affection, gay or tender as the mood happened, convinced that what I declared to be my love for her was but a boy’s exaggeration for the same sentiments she entertained toward me, how could she have rightly understood the symptoms of this amazing malady that possessed me — these reasonless extremes of ardour, of dejection, of a happiness so keen and thrilling that it pained sometimes, and even at moments seemed to make me almost drunk.
Nor did I myself entirely comprehend what ailed me, never having been able to imagine myself in love, or ever dreamed that I possessed the capacity for such a violent devotion to any woman. I think now, at that period, somewhere under all the very real excitement and emotion of an adolescent encountering for the first time the sweet appeal of youthful mind and body, that I seemed to feel there might be in it all something not imperishable. And caught myself looking furtively and a little fearfully at her, at times, striving to conceive myself indifferent.
When we came to the Spring Waiontha I had walked straight into the water except for her, so dark it was around us. And:
“How can you ever get back alone?” said she.
“Oho!” said I, laughing, “I left the willow-tips a-dangle, breaking them with my left hand. I am woodsman enough to feel my way out.”
“But not woodsman enough to spare your shins in the clearing,” she said saucily.
“Shall we sit and talk?” I said.
“Oh, Euan! And my bath! I am fairly melting as I stand here.”
“But I have not seen you for two entire nights, Lois.”
“I know, poor boy, but you seem to have survived.”
“When I do not see you every day I am most miserable.”
“So am I — but I am reasonable, too. I say to myself, if I don’t see Euan today I will nevertheless see him to-morrow, or the day after, or the next, God willing — —”
“Lois!”
“What?”
“How can you reason so coldly?”
“I — reason coldly? There is nothing cold in me where you are concerned. But I have to console myself for not seeing you — —”
“I am inconsolable,” said I fervently.
“No more than am I,” she retorted hotly, as though jealous that I should arrogate to myself a warmer feeling concerning her than she entertained for me.
“I care so much for you, Lois,” said I.
“And I for you.”
“Not as I care for you.”
“Exactly as you care for me. Do you think me insensible to gratitude and affection?”
“I do not desire your gratitude for a few articles — —”
“It isn’t for them — though I’m grateful for those things too! It’s gratitude to God for giving me you, Euan Loskiel! And you ought to take shame to yourself for doubting it!”
I said nothing, being unable to see her in the darkness, much less perceive what expression she wore for her rebuke to me. Then as I stood silent, I felt her little hands groping on my arm; and my own closed on them and I laid my lips to them.
“Ai-me!” she said softly. “Why do we fight and fret each other? Why do I, who adore you so, let you vex me and stir me to say what I do not mean at all. Always remember, Euan — always, always — that whatever I am unkind enough to say or do to vex you, in my secret mind I know that no other man on earth is comparable to you — and that you reign first in my heart — first, and all by yourself, alone.”
“And will you try to love me some day, Lois?”
“I do.”
“I mean — —”
“Oh, Euan, I do — I do! Only — you know — not in the manner you once spoke of — —”
“But I love you in that manner.”
“No, you do not! If you did, doubtless I would respond; no doubt at all that I also would confess such sentiments in your regard. But it isn’t true for either of us. You’re a man. All men are prone to harp on those strings.... But — there is no harmony in them to me.... I know my own mind, although you say I don’t — and — I do know yours, too. And if a day ever comes that neither you nor I are longer able to think clearly and calmly with our minds, but begin to reason with our emotions, then I shall consider that we are really entering into a state of love — such as you sometimes have mentioned to me — and will honestly admit as much to you.... And if you then desire to wed me, no doubt that I shall desire it, too. And I promise in that event to love you — oh, to death, Euan!” she said, pressing my hands convulsively. “If ever I love — that way — it truly will be love! Are you content with what I say?”
“I must be.”
“What an ungracious answer! I could beat you soundly for it! Euan, you sometimes vex me so that I could presently push you into that pool.... I do not mean it, dearest lad. You know you already have my heart — perhaps only a child’s heart yet, though I have seen ages pass away.... And my eyes have known tears.... Perhaps for that reason I am come out into this new sunshine which you have made for me, to play as children play — having never done so in my youth. Bear with me, Euan. You would not want me if there were nothing in me to respond to you. If there ever is, it will not remain silent. But first I want my play-day in the sunshine you have promised me — the sunlight of a comrade’s kindness. Be not too blunt with me. You have my heart, I tell you. Let it lie quiet and safe in your keeping, like some strange, frail chrysalis. I myself know there is a mirac
le within it; but what that miracle may be, I may not guess till it reveals itself.”
“I am a fool,” I said. “God never before sent any man such a comrade as He has sent in you to me.”
“That was said sweetly and loyally. Thank you. If hearts are to be awakened and won, I think it might be done that way — with such pleasant phrases — given always time.”
Presently she withdrew her hands and slipped away from me in the dark.
“Be careful,” said I, “or you will slip overboard.”
“I mean to presently.”
“Then — must I go so soon?”
She did not answer. Once I thought I heard her moving softly, but the sound came from the wrong direction.
“Lois!”
No reply.
“Lois!” I repeated uneasily.
There was a ripple in the pool, silence, then somewhere in the darkness a faint splash.
“Good Lord!” said I. “Have you fallen in?”
“Not fallen in. But I am truly in, Euan. I couldn’t endure it any longer; and you didn’t seem to want to go.... So please remain where you now are.”
“Do you mean to say — —” I began incredulously.
And, “Yes, I do!” she said, defiant. “And I think this ought to teach you what a comrade’s perfect confidence can be. Never complain to me of my want of trust in you again.”
In astonished and uneasy silence, I stood listening. The unseen pool rippled in the darkness with a silvery sound, as though a great fish were swirling there in the pallid lustre of the stars.
After a while she laughed outright — the light, mischievous laughter of a child.
“I feel like one of those smooth and lurking naiads which haunt lost pools — or like some ambushed water-sprite meditating malice, and slyly alert to do you a harm. Have a care, else I transform you into a fish and chase you under the water, and pinch and torment you!”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 707