Part 10

He loved to do her bidding, even if it were not blended with many odd “sups an’ bites,” of a quality peculiarly acceptable to an invalid’s capricious appetite. He would have drunk poison as readily for her sake, he said to himself, and added with a grim smile that he might do that yet. For he had come to a full realization of late. He consciously recoiled from all his loyal plans, his secret orders, his duties, his pride of intellect, of achievement, his past, his profession, his future. He said to himself that he would have liked the life of a poppet--he could have felt if he had been made of wood or wax--to be placed thus in a corner; to gaze at her with unwinking eyes; to be given a bowl of drink, withdrawn in a minute, as she must needs test with her own lips whether it were not too hot. He sought with sedulous care the section of the rim her lips had touched. Poison! but the cup of the present held nectar! He would have been satisfied--would have kissed the hand of fate had he been only her pet dog.

A great collie, old, cosmopolitan,--he had come across on the ship with her father in the days “lang syne,” and exceedingly surprising did he find the experience of a collie of degree on the ocean,--had deserted the trading-house, since her arrival, repudiated his master, forgotten his friends, the packmen, cut his Indian acquaintance dead, to lie by her hearth, to follow her footsteps, to feed from her hand, to sit with his head against her knee and his listless body, dislocated, weighing against her, to whine in jealous disfavor and an effort to attract her attention had she more than a sentence or two to exchange with any interlocutor save him.

“Whist, whist, hinny,”--she would gently smite his lolling head--“ye’ll talk soon, and then I’ll ken ye’re no canny!”

For this, even so little as this, Laroche felt at times that he would barter his learning, his prospects, his identity, his duty. Sometimes he sought to justify his long, unnecessary lingering here, despite his consciousness of the fact that his very individuality was a dangerous secret. Were it known or suspected that he was employed in the French interest, he could not hope to escape arrest, and thereby injury to the cause he represented. Whatever might be the will of personal friends, should he retain them in the stress of these disclosures, hard usage would he encounter at the hands of the British colonial authorities--perhaps even death; nay, had there not been a reward offered for the scalp of every Frenchman busy among the Indians? And certainly in such an adverse development he could not count on the adhesion of the fickle Cherokees, especially to their detriment! But for this one rift in his loyalty, he was wholly devoted to the Louisiana interests which he had so zealously sought to advance. This--this was his own personal beguilement. He would have known how to resist his wonted allurements,--the pride of intellect, the pampered independence and security of life, the world, the flesh, and the devil. He was full armed against them; the attack would have been met by hardy resistance along those lines. But to divert him from his duty, his loyalty to his political trust, his obedience to his officers by means of a virtuous attachment to a being so gentle, so fair, so good that “no man could think on evil seeing her”--this seemed a device worthy of the devil, and very like him; for this attachment would have done him honor in any station of life save this, harbored deep, deep in the subtle, deceitful heart of an enemy in the guise of a friend, a spy upon his benefactor, the destroyer of their simple and limited and humble prosperity.

Not so subtle as he thought--for now the schemer was but the man. Worse still, for his secret, he was a Frenchman. Sometimes as he looked at her those keen, eagle-like eyes of his softened suddenly, with his emotional French susceptibility, and filled with tears. These tears she saw, and in responsive emotion her own would start, trembling, to the eyelids. She was not used to the sight of tears in a man’s eyes. Callum MacIlvesty had not trafficked with such gear since he had first gotten afoot on his sturdy infant legs and began his long travels through this weary world. Sometimes, taking a pinch out of the proffered snuffbox of a merchant of degree in Charlestown, Jock Lesly, who could carry his liquor well enough, would find this unaccustomed gentility of the mull culminating in a sneeze and water in the eyes. But such tears as these of Laroche’s--tears of sheer pleasure, of subtle sorrow, of hopeless love, of the sweet emotion of looking upon her--she had not witnessed, and yet, enlightened by a kindred sentiment, she could appreciate; and the difference of the manifestation for her sake from aught else she had ever known made it seem the deeper, the truer, the dearer.

Certainly it was more picturesque than the obvious signs of Callum’s dissatisfaction in an unhappy love, though, to be sure, she took scant heed of them. When “ses jupons” swished out of the room in his swinging stride, she was cognizant neither of the cause nor the circumstance of his sudden taking of offense. And this brought slowly to his intelligence the fact that she was equally unmindful of his embarrassed return, as he sat glowering at Laroche across the fire, well aware that his watchful rival fully appreciated and rejoiced in the futility of his show of anger. Once, in awkward inadvertence, Callum stepped on the collie’s tail, and the shrieks that the doggie sent up to high heaven would seem to imply that there was no other canine so ruthlessly afflicted in the universe. Lilias rebuked MacIlvesty’s carelessness in a tone which conveyed genuine indignation, and he could only protest in a gruff monosyllable; while the beast, leaning against her knee, causelessly sobbing for half an hour, would burst forth in a plaintive yelp whenever his eyes met Callum’s, and her “Whist, hinny, whist” had all the adverse sentiment that might have been expressed in an admonition, “I wad not tak ony notice o’ him.”

Callum could not even mend the fire with wonted deftness, nor keep his temper when the logs of wood would roll down, but would administer a kick of such free force as to send the red-hot coals flying about the puncheon floor and all the family scuttling to catch them up before the whole “bigging suld be in a low.” Even in the assiduous comity of his conversations with Jock Lesly he often seemed to forget names of people and places in Scotland with which he was obviously familiar, and he was curiously uninformed of all calculated to interest the elder in the doings of the regiment. Sometimes, indeed, his sentence broke off in the middle, and he would fall into a revery, from which he was only roused by the sudden jocularly upbraiding voice of Jock Lesly, and once more with galvanic earnestness he would essay his method of propitiation. Matters went better with him when the simple and unobservant Jock Lesly himself did the talking, which was usually the case, in great fullness of detail and long, circuitous routes of narrative, leaving his auditor scant duty save to murmur “Ou!” “Ay!” “I’se warrant ye!” at intervals, these dicta being uncompromising and calculated to be generally applicable to any situation. His supplantation was definite and complete.

And still Laroche, despite his qualms of conscience, putting aside his repentance as for indulgence at a more convenient season, interpreted all the _indicia_ of the young Highlander’s state of mind, felt the complacence of a favored rival, and experienced all the joys of triumph over the poor young Callum, as if he had a full intention to enter a contest against him for this prize. True he was touched with the generosity of the young mountaineer, who had shown at the first some definite proclivity to inquire into the stranger’s means as well as local habitation and association, but becoming impressed from some casual phrase with the idea that the guest was of meagre resources and had experienced much financial hardship, he withdrew all his forces along that line. The reverse, in fact, was the case, for Laroche’s fortune was not inconsiderable and he enjoyed fair prospects. The error of his magnanimous rival elicited that æsthetic sentiment, that prepossession in favor of whatever is noble, which a certain type delights to admire rather than to emulate. It stimulated a degree of reciprocal interest in the young Highlander,--a sort of curiosity as to his status which comprised several incongruities. MacIlvesty’s poverty was obvious, not merely from his humble estate as a foot-soldier, but often from allusions to it that escaped him. He had the manner of a gentleman of a high type,--he was lofty, yet not assuming; kind without condescension. He was often merry but never clownish, and by turns grave and dignified without affectation. Yet his education was most limited; he notably lacked the training appertaining to a certain social rank, while possessing all its other worthy attributes and inherent values; his experience of travel was the service of the Forty-Second, the troop ship, and the forced march of the wilderness.

Laroche, in his idle interest, had had an intermittent intention of inquiring directly of Jock Lesly concerning the inconsistency of the young Highlander’s endowments and position, but the awkwardness of this display of sheer curiosity was obviated when one day the trader complained of a freak of taciturnity which he declared Callum had shown.

“I canna get muckle mair talk out o’ Callum now than when he kenned naught but the Gaelic.”

Then in reply to a question which seemed to express but a civil interest, “Ou, ay,--Callum was near grown when he had the meenister for a tutor, an’ the callant got to his English. Ou, ay,--the family hae had hard straits,--but, wow, man! the clan were a’ out in the Fifteen, an’ then what was left o’ them went out in the Forty-five!” Though not without sympathy, he spoke with obvious reprehension of this clan’s misfortunes, for Jock Lesly was of the Lowland Scotch and had always been well affected to government. “An’ they lost much blood, an’ a head or twa amang them afterward,--an’ a’ the land was forfeited to the crown--there were twa or three titles amang them, a yerl an’ a baronet or twa--I wot na what, but a’ very fine--if it were not for the attainder. Callum is kin to gre’t folk! But what’s a title--neither fitten to eat nor to drink, I trow. I wad wuss, though, the callant did own the land that the government took away from his father,--wha died in hiding after the Forty-five,--an’ the rents, that he might hae made a gentleman o’ himsel’ instead o’ just a buirdly foot-sodger.”

He was a gentleman even without the land or the rents, and the Frenchman piqued himself upon his subtlety of discernment in having perceived this fact in so untoward a guise as a “foot-sodger” who shoulders a musket for pay.

For these reasons now and again Laroche experienced a compunction that he should be destroying the prospect of the domestic happiness of this man, when circumstances--nay, his life was at stake!--forbade any serious intentions on his own part. And yet, and the thought was subtly sweet, she loved him--he was sure of it--as he loved her. But in the dark hours of the night, when the house was silent, all wrapped in slumber, a certain wakefulness had begun to harass him, like a Nemesis; a voice of reproof sounded in all his reflections, of warning, of presentiment, the prophecy of the future. When thus repentance and doubt fell upon him he would urge in extenuation that if he had idly won her heart it was but in the interests of that disguise still so imperative upon him. Yet the thought of their kindness was like coals of fire. They had brought him back from the verge of the grave. They had lavished their best upon him, the stranger, for aught they knew humble of station and penniless. Still, and it was the trifle that wrung his heart with the most poignant pang, the best room in the house was his; the graces of the bed curtains; the luxury of the sheets; the cleanly though rude furnishings; all the little comforts packed with the view of her father’s illness, and brought so far through the toilsome wilderness, were for the guest.

The heavy snoring of Jock Lesly would echo from one of the rooms on the other side of the spence, but through the flimsy partition of the adjoining chamber Laroche could often hear the creaking cords of the bedstead as Callum MacIlvesty, sleepless too, flounced back and forth in the instability of his feather bed, restless, anxious, reviewing many trifles fraught with great moment to him, heartsore, weary, and despairing. Laroche commiserated the young Highlander’s sentimental anguish, but he had a sentimental anguish of his own, and he dwelt upon it in alternate pain and pleasure, in an ecstatic torment.

One night as he lay thus, pondering the events of the day, his attention was arrested by a stealthy step. He put his hand under his bolster and grasped the handle of his pistol. He listened hopefully for the stir of the tortured Callum MacIlvesty, but sleep at last and some fond and peaceful dream held the young Scotchman, and naught but the sound of his deep and regular breathing attested his proximity in the next room. Laroche hardly dared cry out and alarm the house, lest the impending demonstration be delayed and renewed at some moment when no one was awake and on guard. Except for the possibility of firing the building, it was in danger of no calamity that could fall upon it without noise. The doors were locked, the batten shutters had heavy bars; therefore he judged it prudent to wait and listen.

There came again the tread of feet, stealthy, quiet as before; the impact of a bare sole upon the ground beneath the window was distinct for a moment. In the blank interval that ensued he heard the continual rise and fall of the breathing of the night; the chiming and chanting of woodland cicada, in regular alternations; the rush of the Tennessee River dashing over the rocks. Once more that sound, as of a bare foot, and again beneath the window.

He was exceedingly deft and light and certain in all his movements; when it had passed he slipped out of his bed and crossed the room to the window, not a sound attesting his progress, save that once a puncheon creaked. He stood for a moment motionless, then peered through the rift between the shutter and the window.

Outside there was a glare--a sudden glare. He saw a figure so grotesque as to recall for a moment the associations of his delirium; then half a dozen figures came into view, all in Indian file, and strangely bedight. They were making the rounds of the house again and again, evidently working a charm. Perfect silence waited on their movements, save always beneath his window the stroke of a bare foot fell on a sleek and clayey space with that slight sibilance that gave him warning. Heads surmounted by torches enclosed in great gourds, hideously painted in the semblance of human faces, showed faces below still more hideously painted; buffalo horns and tails adorned figures grotesquely and silently dancing; others wore bears’ claws and hides; a human panther ran on all fours, now and again leaping so high into the air that he seemed some inconceivable triumph of mechanism instead of a living creature. The soldier felt his heart sink. Seldom did the Indians permit the presence of white strangers in their more national customs, and thus often the depths of their savagery, their fantastic barbarism, lay unrevealed. Some strange significance surely marked this grim pantomime, enacted in the darkest hour of the night about the silent dwelling, while its unconscious inmates slept. Their lives might seem to hang by a hair. He bethought himself, with a pang of terror, of the young packmen quartered in the attic of the trading-house--surely the glance of a wakeful eye must prelude the crack of a rifle, for could a sane man imagine this to be aught but the revelings of the creatures in the midst of an assault. But while he gazed in a terror he could hardly suppress yet dared not voice, in one instant, while the panther was in the mid-air trajectory of one of its wild leaps, every light was extinguished, every figure vanished; and lurk and listen as he might for the impact of the bare foot upon the clayey soil which would intimate that in darkness the strange procession continued its rounds, he heard only the vague sighings of the melancholy woods, a creak once of the timbers of the house, and again the voice of the Tennessee River dashing against its rocks.

VI

THE next morning Jock Lesly positively refused to credit the reality of the remarkable procession that had thrice encircled his house while the dwellers within, all save one, had slept oblivious and unsuspecting.

His bushy eyebrows had drawn together in a big blond frown as he listened, his eyelids contracted over his narrowed eyes, but he shook his head when all was said.

“Na--na!--ye were dreaming, lad--just a bit of the fever on ye yet!”

The futility of the proceeding; its lack of precedent in his experience; the clear, fresh, reassuring presentment of Ioco Town under the vernal sky, so peaceful with the dewy matutinal woods hard by, the flashing river, the mountain ranges suavely blue; the friendly denizens of the vicinage coming and going in and out of the trading-house; the clusters of headmen about the buildings of the “beloved square,” perhaps discussing some point of interest in the cabin of the aged councilors, or playing the endless but trivial sedentary game of “roll the bullet”--all combined to discredit it; all was as sane, as seemly as civilization itself, once adopt a different standard--how could it be aught but a dream!

But Laroche continued pale, anxious, distrait.

“I thought I ought to tell you and Callum,” he said--the young men affected a friendly familiarity of address. “I know what I know! It was no dream!”

Jock Lesly rubbed his hands together as he leaned forward with his wrists on his knees and looked up at the younger man’s face, with an expression of kindly but superficial gravity--obviously humoring, as he thought, a whimsey.

“If you have no objection, I should like to speak of it to Moy Toy,” Laroche said.

“To no one else, then,” said Jock Lesly, for he accounted himself a great proficient in the subject of Indian traits and manners. “The Injuns no like to be keeked at an’ spied out when they are at their high jinks and fandangoes. But Moy Toy’s a kindly soul an’ friendly. I mind how he wearied to speak wi’ ye while ye lay in a dwam when ye cam first to Ioco.”

The instant the revelation passed the lips of Laroche, he saw by the change in the Indian’s face that the disclosure was unexpected. Moy Toy, however, caught his features into their wonted stoical calm, and the flicker of expression was as sudden and as transient as the flash of light reflected from a bird’s wing on a pool of sombre waters.

Then he replied casually, almost in the words of the Scotchman,--

“It was but a dream!”

“But, Moy Toy,” urged Laroche, “dreams come true. All the Cherokee nation believe the dreams that visit the sleep of their ‘beloved men.’”

The chief smiled with a sort of flouting contempt that the white man should thus place himself and his paltry sleeping fancies on the same plane with the “beloved men” of the great Cherokee nation and the eternal truths, the veiled face of the future, revealed to them in the sanctities of their priestly visions; he seemed angrier than even the presumption might warrant. The paleface, he declared, was not a Cherokee “beloved man,” nor even an adopted tribesman. Why should Indian visions haunt his slumbers in the sincerities of truth? Then, once more visibly repressing some secret, rising agitation, he continued with a specious smile, “I myself have firmly grasped your hand, and I do not speak with the lying lips nor the snake’s forked tongue. I am Moy Toy! But these Indians of the dreams--beware of them. They do not know you to be the best beloved friend of the Cherokee chief. They may cheat you and deride! No man can lay hands on them--the dream Indians,--and this makes their lying tongue so strong to the paleface, even to the ‘beloved man’ of the French king. No Indian of the vision should delude you to the wreck of your peace of mind.”

Laroche said no more, resolving that no Indian of the flesh should delude him, whatever deceptions might be wrought upon his senses by the immaterial Indians of dreams. He seemed to assent. No man could so fashion the guise of appearances to the similitude of fact. He laughed a little, with the suggestion of being a trifle out of countenance, a little ashamed of his confidences. Moy Toy, from being keenly observant, grew distrait, and answered presently at random. At length, as if in justification of the foolish importance he had attached to his vision, Laroche declared that he had great interest in the significance of dreams, that he held them to be scenes, as it were, vouchsafed from the border world beyond, peopled by those who have once lived here, that he had always longed to be admitted to listen when he saw the “beloved men” grouped under a tree, or in the “holy cabin” of the “beloved square,” telling their dreams to each other and conning their interpretations.

“And so you shall hear,” Moy Toy interrupted, “when you are adopted into the Cherokee nation and made a great ‘beloved man,’ after you have taught us to manufacture the powder, the spirit of death that comes roaring and rushing with fire and smoke out of the mouth of the gun, sending the leaden bullet to work his will.” He was still looking about with a preoccupied mien and eager eyes, and suddenly he said that he must be gone for a space, as he had matters of some import to discuss with the headmen of Ioco Town, for he had been summoned from Tellico to meet them in their council-house.