Part 14

“Thanks,” she said, returning the cup. “I must be going now. I’ve stayed too long already. The Danites will be after me. Do you think any of them are in hearing now? President Young put me under their surveillance before they’d let me start. He put his hands on my head and blessed me, too. Talk about your popes! Why, Brigham Young can discount a ten-acre field full of Apostolic successors, and be the father of a whole regiment of American progeny in the bargain. I know you think I’m crazy, but there’s plenty of method in my madness. I’m not half as crazy as I act and talk.”

“Will the Danites protect you till you reach the end of your journey?” asked Jean. “Are you sure?”

“Not if they catch me among Gentiles. President Young took precautions to prevent me from talking to outsiders, he thought. I mustn’t be seen here. But I must tell you before I go that his blessing came direct from God. It filled my very marrow-bones with light. It was like phosphorus in the dark, or diamonds in the sunlight. I felt like a bird! No man can do these things that President Young is doing unless God be with him.”

“Do you believe that Brigham Young is really inspired of God?” asked Mary, incredulously.

“It is by their fruits that we know them, miss. Zion has been greatly blessed under the ministrations and guidance of President Young.”

“Then why do you wish to escape from his kingdom?” asked Marjorie.

“Because I was not good enough to endure polygamy; I was too great a sinner. I couldn’t obey the gospel and keep my senses.”

“Did the thought never strike you that the fault might be in the gospel, instead of your heart or head?” asked Hal.

“The High and Holy One of Israel cannot err,” she replied, shaking her head, and again waving her long arms to and fro in the smoky air. “There are disbelievers in this camp, and I cannot tarry. May Heaven guide and protect you all, and bring you into the holy faith of the Latter-Day Saints! O blessed Lord, direct these souls into Thy kingdom before it is everlastingly too late!”

She waved her arms over their heads once more, and turning suddenly, vanished like a deer into the darkness.

“That poor misguided creature has the spirit of a martyr,” said Captain Ranger, after a painful silence.

“It is a good deal easier for some folks to preach than to practise,” exclaimed Sally O’Dowd.

“There are kernels of truth in all ’ologies,” said Scotty.

“As a man thinketh, so is he,” exclaimed Mary.

“She is striving to save her immortal soul. All religions have their origin in human selfishness,” remarked the Captain, dryly.

“Better say they originate in human needs,” replied Jean; “but selfishness is universal, all the same.”

“Yes. Selfishness is a necessary attribute of human existence,” said the Little Doctor, punching the dying fire into a blaze. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Burns?”

“I quite agree with you, madam. Selfishness belongs to human environment, and is as much a part of us as hunger, thirst, love, or ambition. Nothing is made in vain.”

“Not even sin?” asked Mary.

“Not even sin!” echoed Jean. “This would have been a very useless world if there had been no wrongs to set right in it, and no suffering to relieve. Nobody could appreciate heat if it were not for cold, or light if there were no darkness. Hunger compels us to search for food; thirst seeks satisfaction in drink, and ambition in the search for personal advancement. It often unconsciously assists the weak by its efforts, when it intends to help nothing but the personal selfishness that inspires it. Everything, both good and evil, is a part of the eternal programme.”

“Where did you imbibe such ideas as you often express on this subject?” asked her father, a great pride in her springing afresh in his heart.

“From the stars, I guess, or from the angels. Or maybe they were born within me. I never could reconcile myself to the generally accepted idea of gratitude. To thank God for blessings we enjoy that are not accessible to others, to me is nothing else but blasphemy.”

“Then you cannot say with the poet,—

“‘Some hae meat, and canna eat, And some would eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit!’”

said Mrs. Benson, who had been looking on in silence.

“Indeed I can’t!” exclaimed Jean. “But we’ve all heard just such prayers and praises through all our lives.”

“Nobody in normal health has any right to be thankful for anything unless he earns it,” said the Captain; “and then he has nobody to thank but himself.”

“He ought to be thankful for health, at least,” suggested Marjorie.

“If you’d follow your logic to its natural sequence, Captain, my occupation would be gone,” laughed the Little Doctor. “It is as unnatural and unscientific to be sick as to be hungry; therefore there should be no doctors.”

“I can see no analogy between your conclusions and my observations,” said the Captain.

“I can,” cried Jean.

“Every error under the sun is mixed with good, or it couldn’t exist at all,” said Scotty. “But the truth remains that the Universe with all that it contains exemplifies the Divine Idea. God IS.

“‘All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose _mother_ Nature is, and God the soul.’

“You see, I’ve altered the thought a little, Mrs. McAlpin; but I look to the shade of Pope for pardon. If he were with us to-day, he would doubtless accept my amendment. We can’t know much about the mystery we call God. It makes little difference to the humanity of the various nations of the earth, all of whom must worship the Divine Idea, whether it be called Vishnu, Chrishna, Isis, Allah, Jehovah—”

“These learned disquisitions over things unknown make me very weary,” yawned Jean.

“And border on blasphemy,” added Mary.

“We had better go to bed,” exclaimed the Captain, rising. “These questions have taken a wide range, and we’ve all followed that poor Mormon devotee beyond her depth and our own.”

“But such discussions relieve the monotony of travel and sometimes lead to independent thought,” said Lengthy, who had sat squat upon his heels and haunches, a silent listener.

“God be with our Mormon sister,” said Scotty, rising and adjusting his crutches. “Let us hope for her a safe journey to some friendly spot where polygamy ceases from troubling, and the saints are at rest!”

“That’s from the Bible,” cried Hal.

“Nobody can conceive of a better method of expressing an idea than that modelled after the language of the Bible,” was the ready retort. “If I were as pronounced an agnostic as our Captain pretends to be, which I am not, I’d read my Bible daily, if for no other reason than to improve my vocabulary. Read it, Hal; study its precepts; imitate its language; revere its antiquity; emulate the example of its good men; shun the sins of its Davids and Solomons; fill your mind with the wisdom of its Isaiahs and Deborahs; and, above all, obey its Ten Commandments and follow the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount and the Golden Rule.”

“I’ll see spooks to-night!” cried Jean.

* * * * *

As these chronicles will have no further dealings with the Mormon refugee, it is well to add, in closing the incident, that twenty years after the episode had passed and was almost forgotten, some of the members of the long disbanded Ranger train, who were passing through eastern Oregon, on their way to the mines of northern Idaho, found her keeping a “Travellers’ Rest” in the bunchgrass country, where, as cook, chambermaid, waiter, and general scullion, she was supporting her repentant consort, who dutifully received the cash given by her guests in exchange for such food for man and beast as her unique hostelry afforded.

XXV

_JEAN LOSES HER WAY_

A stanch but frail-looking ferry-boat waited to carry the Ranger train across Green River.

Jean, who, after her mother’s death, had developed a strong propensity for daily hours of solitude, looked longingly at the desolate scenery while her father’s train was awaiting its turn at the ferry, and, noting the great table-rock that still overlooks the river, climbed unaided to its top, where she became so deeply absorbed in contemplating the wild, weird character of the scenery about her that she did not see that the afternoon was waning, until the sun was down.

“The Psalmist wondered at the mystery of the heavens, but I marvel at the mysteries of earth,” she said. “Tell me, ye rugged rocks, and you, ye waters of the desert, the secret of existence, if you can. Am I alone with Thee, O God? Or are these rough-ribbed rocks, like me, instinct with life?”

“You’d better hurry, young lady, or you’ll miss the last trip of the ferry-boat for the night,” cried a voice that seemed to come from beneath her feet. Thoroughly frightened, she hastened to retrace her steps. How she regained the river-bank she could never recollect; but when she stood panting at the water’s edge, and beheld through the gloaming the last of her father’s wagons ascending the opposite steep, it was past the twilight hour, and one by one the stars came out amid the circling blue of the bending sky. The roar of the waters was deafening.

“Can I do anything for you, miss?”

It was the same voice that had reached her from beneath the rock. She looked up and beheld a tall, sunburned young man, bowing and lifting a broad sombrero, who seemed as much embarrassed over the novel situation as herself.

“I am glad to see the face of a white man, sir. I was frightened half out of my senses till I saw you.”

“And are you not frightened now?”

“Yes, a little bit. There are too many Indians stalking about to allow me to feel exactly comfortable. But I shall rely upon you for protection, sir.”

“I suppose other trains will be along presently. They will encamp on this side of the river for the night, so you will have company.”

“We are away ahead of the other trains, sir. We took a cut-off in the mountains.”

“But you are afraid of the Indians?”

“No, sir; not now, because—” She stopped as she looked into his kindly face and caught the amused gleam of a pair of piercing eyes.

“Because—why?”

“Because you talk and act like a gentleman, sir. I am not afraid of a gentleman.” She paused again, surprised at her own composure. Her eyes fell, and a deep flush overspread her features, as the thought flashed through her mind that she was utterly in the power of this stranger.

“Can you ferry me across the river to-night, sir? My daddie will pay you well for your trouble.”

“I could not attempt it. We never risk running the ferry after sundown. Guess we can make you comfortable on this side till morning.”

“But there is no house where I can stop, and I haven’t any money. But that’s nothing new for girls. They never have money.”

“Oh, yes, they do, often. In the old country, where I came from, girls often inherit money; and some of them own very large estates.”

“But only by courtesy, sir.”

He smiled at her frank simplicity. “You are sure of a safe night’s lodging and a speedy return to the custody of the man you call daddie. What ever possessed you to bestow upon him such a name?”

“It was merely a notion, and is peculiar to myself in our family. But, sir, what ever shall I do? Daddie will be frightened out of his wits; and so will Mame and Marjorie and Hal!” and Jean began to weep convulsively.

“There, there, don’t cry! There is nothing to be afraid of. I have a home in the bank yonder. It isn’t a palace,—only a cave, or dugout, in the side of the rock,—but it is clean and dry and warm. You’ll be as securely protected there as in your father’s camp. I could do no better, under the circumstances, for my mother or my Queen.”

“Are you English, sir?”

“I am proud to answer, Yes.”

“You don’t look like the subject of a woman ruler.”

“Why not?”

“Because you seem like a sovereign in your own right.”

“So I am, in America.”

“I mean to be a sovereign American, myself, some day.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“I hope you are never going to become one of those discontented women whom I’ve heard of in America, who are engaged in a perpetual quarrel with their Creator because they were not born men.”

“Have you seen such women in America, sir?”

“No; but I have read some newspapers that made the charge.”

“Do you believe everything that you read in the papers? Daddie don’t.”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“God understands what He is about when He creates a girl, sir; and God didn’t create us to be the vassals of anybody. All we ask is a chance to do our best in everything, ourselves being the judges as to what that best shall be.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost sixteen.”

“You act with the charm of a child, but you talk like a grown-up woman. Are all the girls of your family equally clever?”

“God never made two trees, or even two leaves of a tree, exactly alike. You couldn’t expect two persons to be alike.”

The stranger, conscious of a peculiar interest in this new and original character, felt a tumultuous sensation in the region of his heart.

“I am hungry, sir. But as I haven’t any money, I must ask you to trust me till to-morrow.”

He was leading her toward his dugout as they talked, or rather as he listened. He had a school-day remembrance of a pair of brown eyes like Jean’s. He had worshipped those eyes from a distance, for their possessor was a nobleman’s daughter with whom he had never exchanged sentiments, and she had never bestowed a thought upon him. And here was this artless, untaught, but wonderfully intelligent maiden, in a travel-soiled blue calico dress, and sunbonnet to match, who seemed to him possessed of potentialities so far in advance of any promise ever given by the object of his earlier dreams that he spurned the thought of comparing the two as he dwelt upon her words. His heart continued its wild tattoo, and he felt as if walking on air.

“Here! This way, Siwash,” he called to his Indian servant, as he paused in front of his lodgings and tendered her a seat outside. “As you see, I have company. Get up the very best meal the place affords. This guest and I are to dine together.”

The Indian grunted assent; and the simple meal of pemmican, black coffee, army biscuit, and baked beans fresh from the covering of hot ashes in which they had been smothered till done to a turn, which formed the ferryman’s usual bill of fare, was supplemented by a dessert of tea-cakes and preserved ginger, the whole arranged on a small table covered with a white oilcloth and furnished with tin dishes and steel cutlery.

“I trust you will excuse the accompaniments of a higher civilization, little miss. You will find the fare plain but palatable.”

“It is fine,” cried Jean, as she ate with the zest that a life in the open air alone can give. “Nobody need ask for better.”

“Will you favor me with your past history?” asked her host, after the repast was finished.

“There isn’t much to tell, sir. My daddie got the farthest West fever a good while ago; but he never sold out his farm and sawmill till last March. Then he got ready, and we started across the continent. God saw that the journey was too hard for my dear mother, so He took her to heaven from the Black Hills. And now, sir, will you tell me about yourself? Were you born in London?”

“Why do you think I was born in London?”

“Because you remind me of my great-grandmother. She was born in London. We call her Grannie.”

The Indian servant had heaped some fagots of sagewood upon the hearth, filling the little room with a pungent and not unpleasant odor, and diffusing a delightful warmth and glow through the air, to which the light of a pair of candles gave an eerie charm.

“To be plain with you, I grew weary of life at college, so I ran away and went to sea. I was a headstrong boy, and gave my mother a whole lot of trouble.”

He ceased speaking and bowed his head upon his hands, his elbows upon the table. Jean saw that his fingers were long and shapely, his head was large and well-balanced, and his abundant hair was brown and bright and slightly curled.

“Were you never sorry, sir?”

“Having put my hand to the plough, or rather helm, I couldn’t afford to turn back—or at least I thought I couldn’t—till I had made my fortune.”

“Did you make your fortune, sir?”

“Not till—” He checked the word that was in his heart. “I first went to Montreal, where I fell in with a company of Hudson Bay traders, with whom I went to the Great Northern Lakes. I soon made, and lost, several fortunes. I have always intended to return to my mother, but the years have come and gone; and now, at the age of twenty-four, you find me, as you see, with another fortune to make. But it seems an uphill struggle.”

“Do you write regularly to your mother, sir?”

“I am sorry to be compelled to answer no; but I promise you to do better hereafter. And now, as the evening wanes, and I must leave you to the privileges of my castle for the night, will you tell me your name?”

“Certainly. It is Ranger,—Jean Robinson Ranger. And you are Mr.—?”

“Ashleigh; Ashton Ashleigh, of Ashton Place, London, England.”

“May I write to your mother from my Oregon home, when I get there, and tell her all I know about you?”

“Isn’t that an odd request, Miss Ranger?”

Jean blushed to the tips of her ears.

“Nobody ever called me Miss Ranger before,” she said, to hide her confusion. “My sister Mary is the Miss Ranger of our family. Yes, I did make an unusual request; but I thought of your mother pining for news of her son, and fancied she might be glad to hear about him, even from a stranger. But I see that it would hardly be proper for me to write; so please do it yourself.”

“Write to her by all means, Miss Ranger, as I assure you I surely will. And now,” he added, rising, “I hear your Indian maid tapping outside, and it is time to say good-night. I trust you will sleep well and have pleasant dreams.”

“Good-night, Mr. Ashleigh. I thank you ever so much for all your kindness.”

XXVI

_LE-LE, THE INDIAN GIRL_

“Nika klosh cloochman!” clucked the Indian girl.

Jean looked at her inquiringly.

“Nika wake cumtux Siwah wa-wa?” asked the dusky maiden, offering her hand.

“She says she is a good Indian girl, and asks if you understand her,” said Siwash, who was leisurely putting the room to rights. “She’s my little sister; heap good. Ugh! Nika speak jargon?”

“No, Siwash.”

But the maiden’s manner, though coy, was assuring, and Jean clasped her hand eagerly. She was a graceful, nimble, and pretty creature; and Jean thought with a sigh of regret of the ugly transformation awaiting her under the cares and burdens of maturity and maternity, when, no longer like “the wild gazelle, with its nimble feet,” she would resemble other elderly Indian women.

“What is your name, little girl?” she asked, as the maiden dropped gracefully upon the hearth at her feet.

“Nika wake cumtux Boston wa-wa.”

“She says she doesn’t understand you,” grunted Siwash.

“Ah-to-ke-nika a-it sewar.”

“She says she has a good heart.”

“Why doesn’t she speak her name?”

The girl crouched low on the hearth and spread her shapely brown fingers before the dying embers.

“Nika Le-Le. Nika caid.”

“She says her name is Le-Le, and she is a slave.”

“Your sister? and a slave?”

“I, too, was a slave,” said Siwash, “but I bought my freedom; and when I get ten horses of my own, I will buy Le-Le’s. Could you help us? Your father is good.”

“A good heart isn’t always accompanied by a full purse,” thought Jean.

“Who imagines that he has a property interest in your sister?” she asked aloud.

“Our chief, Tyee of the Nootkas. He captured both of us in a war with our people, the Seattles, many, many moons ago.”

“Ugh! Way-siyah! Whulge!” cried the girl, writhing like a captured eel.

“Mac-kam-mah-shish, copa-nika?”

“She asks if you cannot buy her.”

“Nowitka! Mika! Closh potlatch hy-u chickamin?”

“God knows I wish I could buy her,” said Jean.

No painter could have done justice to the varying expressions that alternately lighted and clouded the Madonna-like face of Le-Le, as she strained every nerve to comprehend the conversation. And when at last every vestige of her awakening hope had settled into a conviction of failure, she buried her face in her hands, and, bending forward, shook her black abundant hair over her face and body to the floor, and uttered a piercing wail, making Jean’s blood curdle.

“Le-Le’s cold!” cried the girl, crouching lower, till the embers singed the ends of her straying locks.

“Don’t cry, Le-Le dear. You have come to spend the night with me,” exclaimed Jean, seizing her gently by the arm.

“Nika wake cumtux,” cried the girl.

“You have come to sleep,” pointing to the bed in the corner.

“Nowitka! sleep! Nika cumtux.”

“She understands,” said Jean, rising and turning to Siwash. “Good-night.”

Jean was too full of contending emotions for sleep. She lingered long upon the hearth. “I could stay here always,” she exclaimed in a low voice, but loud enough to awaken the wary maiden from her slumbers on the bed. But the mutual vocabulary of the twain did not admit of satisfactory conversation, and the Indian girl sank back into unconsciousness.

As she sat there thinking, a pair of kindly eyes seemed watching her every movement with a tender devotion that made her heart beat wildly. “I wish I’d never teased or laughed at Mame,” she sighed, as the Reverend Thomas Rogers flitted past her inner vision. “What is Life but Love? And who and what is Love but God? And what is God but the wonderful Mystery that is both Life and Love?”

Le-Le was away in dreamland, on the enchanted shores of Whulge,—the Indian name for the magnificent body of water known to the civilized world as Puget Sound.

“This is holy ground,” cried Jean, so softly to herself that none but Cupid heard. “These lowly walls will be a sacred memory to me through all the rest of my life. But life will mean worse than nothing to me without my one hero. Must I go away to-morrow? Oh, my God! can I ever live again, away from this lodge in the wilderness? Guard and guide my love, O Spirit of Life, and shield him with Thine everlasting arms!”

Then, recollecting that she had not prayed, as usual, for the dear ones in camp, she lovingly invoked divine protection for each and all, and was soon in a sound, refreshing sleep.

* * * * *