CHAPTER XVIII.
AWAKENING.
"Flap-Jacks," said 'Tana, softly, so as to reach no ear but that of thesquaw, who came in from Harris' cabin to find the parasol of Miss Slocum,who was about to walk in the sunshine. To the red creature of the forestthis parasol seemed the most wonderfully beautiful thing of all thestrange things which the white squaws made use of. "Flap-Jacks, are theygone?"
Three weeks had gone by, three weeks of miraculous changes in the beautyof their wild nook along the trail of the old river.
"Twin Springs," the place was called now--Twin Spring Mines. Already menwere at work on the new lode, and doing placer digging for the free goldin the soil. Wooden rails were laid to the edge of the stream, and over itthe small, rude car was pushed with the new ore down to a raft on which atest load had been drifted to the immense crusher at the works on LakeKootenai. And the test had resulted so favorably that the new strike atTwin Springs was considered by far the richest one of the year.
Through all the turbulence that swept up the little stream to their camp,two of the discovering party were housed, sick and silent, in the littledouble cabin. The doctor could see no reason why 'Tana was so slow in herrecovery; he had expected so much more of her--that she would be carriedinto health again by the very force of her ambition, and her eager delightin the prospects which her newly acquired wealth was opening up to her.
But puzzling to relate, she showed no eagerness at all about it. Herambitions, if she had any, were asleep, and she scarcely asked a questionconcerning all the changes of life and people around her. Listless she layfrom one day to another, accepting the attention of people indifferently.Max would read to her a good deal, and several times she asked to becarried into the cabin of Harris, where she would sit for hours talking tohim, sometimes in a low voice and then again sitting close beside him inlong silences, which, strangely enough, seemed more of companionship toher than the presence of people who laughed and talked. They wearied herat times. When she was able to walk out, she liked to go alone; even Maxshe had sent back when he followed her.
But she never went far. Sometimes she would sit for an hour by the stream,watching the water slip past the pebbles and the grasses, and on to itsturbulent journey toward a far-off rest in the Pacific. And again, shewould watch some strange miner dig and wash the soil in his search for theprecious "yellow." But her walks were ever within the limits of the busydiggings; all her old fondness for the wild places seemed sleeping--likeher ambitions.
"She needs change now. Get her away from here," advised the doctor, who nolonger felt that she needed medicines, but who could not, with all hisskill, build her up again into the daring, saucy 'Tana, who had won thegame of cards from the captain that night at the select party at SinnaFerry.
But when Overton, after much hesitation, broached the subject of her goingaway, she did look at him with a touch of the old defiance in her face,and after a bit said:
"I guess the camp will have to be big enough for you and me, too, a fewdays longer. I haven't made up my mind as to when I want to go."
"But the summer will not last long, now. You must commence to think ofwhere you want to go; for when the cold weather comes, 'Tana, you can'tremain here."
"I can if I want to," she answered.
After one troubled, helpless look at her pale face, he walked out of thecabin; and Lyster, who had wanted to ask the result of the interview,could not find him all that evening. He had gone somewhere alone, up onthe mountain.
She had answered him with a great deal of cool indifference; but when thetwo cousins entered her room, she was on the bed with her face buried inthe pillows, weeping in an uncontrollable manner that filled them withdismay. The doctor decided that while Dan was a good fellow in most ways,he evidently had not a soothing influence on 'Tana, possibly not realizingthe changed mental condition laid on her by her sickness. The doctorfurther made up his mind that, without hurting Dan's feelings, he mustfind some other mouthpiece for his ideas concerning her or reason with herhimself.
But, so far, she would only say she was not ready to go yet. Dan, wishingto make her stay comfortable as possible, went quietly to all thesettlements within reach for luxuries in the way of house-furnishing, andhad Mrs. Huzzard use them in 'Tana's cabin. But when he had done allthis, she never asked a question as to where the comforts came from--she,who, a short month before, had valued each kind glance received from him.
Mrs. Huzzard was sorely afraid that it was pride, the pride of newlyacquired wealth, that changed her from the gay, saucy girl into a moody,dreamy being, who would lie all alone for hours and not notice any of themcoming and going. The good soul had many a heartache over it all, neverguessing that it was an ache and a shame in the heart of the girl thatmade the new life that was given her seem a thing of little value.
'Tana had watched the squaw wistfully at times, as if expecting her to saysomething to her when the others were not around, but she never did. When'Tana heard the ladies ask Lyster to go with them to a certain place wherebeautiful mosses were to be found, she waited with impatience until theirvoices left the door.
The squaw shook her head when asked in that whispering way of theirdeparture; but when she had carried out the parasol and watched the partydisappear beyond the numerous tents now dotting the spaces where the grassgrew rank only a month before, then she slipped back and stood watchfuland silent inside the door.
"Come close," said the girl, motioning with a certain nervousness to her.She was not the brave, indifferent little girl she had been of old. "Comeclose--some one might listen, somewhere. I've been so sick--I've dreamedso many things that I can't tell some days what is dream and what is true.I lie here and think and think, but it will not come clear. Listen! Ithink sometimes you and I hunted for tracks--a white man's tracks--acrossthere where the high ferns are. You showed them to me, and then we cameback when the moon shone, and it was light like day, and I picked whiteflowers. Some days I think of it--of the tracks, long, slim tracks, withthe boot heel. Then my head hurts, and I think maybe we never found thetracks, maybe it is only a dream, like--like other things!"
She did not ask if it were so, but she leaned forward with all of eagerquestion in her eyes. It was the first time she had shown strong interestin anything. But, having aroused from her listlessness to speak of theghosts of fancy haunting her, she seemed quickened to anxiety by thepicture her own words conjured up.
"Ah! those tracks in the black mud and that face above the ledge!"
"It is true," said the squaw, "and not a dream. The track of the white manwas there, and the moon was in the sky, as you say."
"Ah!" and the evidently unwelcome truth made her clench her fingerstogether despairingly; she had hoped so that it was a dream. The truth ofit banished her lethargy, made her think as nothing else had. "Ah! it wasso, then; and the face--the face was real, was--"
"I saw no face," said the squaw.
"But I did--yes, I did," she muttered. "I saw it like the face of a whitedevil!"
Then she checked herself and glanced at the Indian woman, whose dark,heavy face appeared so stupid. Still, one never could tell by the looks ofan Indian how much or how little he knows of the thing you want to know;and after a moment's scrutiny, the girl asked:
"Did you learn more of the tracks?--learn who the white man was that madethem?"
The woman shook her head.
"You sick--much sick," she explained. "All time Dan he say: 'Stay here bywhite girl's bed. Never leave.' So I not get out again, and the rain comewash all track away."
"Does Dan know?--did you tell him?"
"No, Dan never ask--never talk to me, only say, 'Take care 'Tana,' thatall."
The girl asked no more, but lay there on her couch, filled with dry mossand covered with skins of the mountain wolf. Her eyes closed as though shewere asleep; but the squaw knew better, and after a little, she saiddoubtfully:
"Maybe Akkomi know."
"Akkomi!" and the eyes opened wide and slant. "Th
at is so. I should haveremembered. But oh, all the thoughts in my brain have been so muddled. Youhave heard something, then? Tell me."
"Not much--only little," answered the squaw. "That night--late that night,a white stranger reached Akkomi's tent, to sleep. No one else of the tribegot to see him, so the word is. Kawaka heard on the river, and it was thatnight."
"And then? Where did the stranger go?"
The squaw shook her head.
"Me not know. Kawaka not hear. But I thought of the track. Now many whitemen make tracks, and one no matter."
"Akkomi," and the thoughts of the girl went back to the very first shecould remember of her recovery; and always, each day, the face of Akkomihad been near her. He had not talked, but would look at her a little whilewith his sharp, bead-like eyes, and then betake himself to the sunshineoutside her door, where he would smoke placidly for hours and watch therestless Anglo-Saxon in his struggle to make the earth yield up itsriches.
Each day Akkomi had been there, and she had not once aroused herself toquestion why; but she would.
Rising, she passed out and looked right and left; but no blanketed bravemet her gaze. Only Kawaka, the husband of Flap-Jacks, worked about thecanoes by the water. Then she entered Harris' cabin, where the sight ofhis helpless form, and his welcoming smile, made her halt, and drop downon the rug beside him. She had forgotten him so much of late, and shetouched his hand remorsefully.
"I feel as if I had just got awake, Joe," she said, and stretched out herarms, as though to drive away the last vestige of sleep. "Do you know howthat feels? To lie for days, stupid as a chilled snake, and then, all atonce, to feel the sun creeping around where you are and warming you untilyou begin to wonder how you could have slept so many days away. Well, justnow I feel almost well again. I did not think I would get well; I did notcare. All the days I lay in there I wished they would just let me be, andthrow their medicines in the creek. I think, Joe, that there are timeswhen people should be allowed to die, when they grow tired--tired awaydown in their hearts; so tired that they don't want to take up the oldtussle of living again. It is so much easier to die then than when aperson is happy, and--and has some one to like them, and--"
She left the sentence unfinished, but he nodded a perfect understanding ofher thoughts.
"Yes, you have felt like that, too, I suppose," she continued, after alittle. "But now, Joe, they tell me we are rich--you and Dan and I--sorich we ought to be happy, all of us. Are we?"
He only smiled at her, and glanced at the cozy furnishing of his rudecabin. Like 'Tana's, it had been given a complete going over by Overton,and rugs and robes did much to soften its crude wood-work. It had all theluxury obtainable in that district, though even yet the doors were butheavy skins.
She noticed the look but shook her head.
"Thick rugs and soft pillows don't make troubles lighter," she said, withconviction; and then: "Maybe Dan is happy. He--he must be. All he thinksof now is the gold ore."
She spoke so wistfully, and her own eyes looked so far, far from happy,that the face of the man was filled with longing to comfort her--thelittle girl who had tramped so long on a lone trail--how lonely none knewso well as he. His fingers closed and unclosed, as if with the desire toclasp her hand,--to make some visible show of friendship.
She saw the slight movement, and looked up at him with a new interest.
"Oh, I forgot, Joe! I never once have asked how you have got along while Ihave been so sick. Can you use your hands any at all? You could once, alittle bit that day--the day we found the gold."
But he shook his head, and just then a step was heard outside, and Lysterlooked in.
A shade of surprise touched his face, as he saw 'Tana there, with sobright an expression in her eyes.
"What has Harris been telling you that has aroused you to interest, Tana?"he asked, jestingly. "He has more influence than I, for I have scarcelybeen able to get you to talk at all."
"You don't need me; you have Miss Slocum," she answered. "Have you droppedher in the creek and run back to camp? And have you seen Akkomi lately? Iwant him."
"Of course you do. The moment I make my appearance, you want to get rid ofme by sending me for some other man. No, I am happy to say I have not seenthat royal loafer for the past hour. And I am more happy still to findthat you really want some one--any one--once more. Do you realize, my deargirl, how very many days it is since you have condescended to wantanything on this earth of ours? Won't you accept me as a substitute forAkkomi?"
"I don't want you."
But her eyes smiled on him kindly, and he did not believe her.
"Perhaps not; but won't you pretend you do for a little while, long enoughto come with me for a little walk--or else to talk to me in your cabin?"
"To talk to you? I don't think I can talk much to any one yet. I just toldJoe I feel as if I was only waking up."
"So I see; that is the reason I am asking an audience. I will do thetalking, and it need not be a very long talk, if you are too tired."
"I believe I will go," she said, at last. "I was thinking it would be niceto float in a canoe again--just to float lazy on the current. Can't we dothat?"
"Nothing easier," he answered, entirely delighted that she was again morelike the 'Tana of two months before. She seemed to him a little paler anda little taller, but as they walked together to the canoe, he felt thatthey would again come to the old chummy days of Sinna Ferry, when theyquarreled and made up as regularly as the sun rose and set.
"Well, why don't you talk?" she asked, as their little craft drifted awayfrom the tents and the man who washed the soil by the spring run. "Whatdid you do with the women folks?"
"Gave them to Overton. They concluded not to risk their precious selveswith me, when they discovered that he, for a wonder, was disengaged.Really and truly, that angular schoolmistress will make herself Mrs.Overton if he is not careful. She flatters him enough to spoil an averageman; looks at him with so much respectful awe, you know, though she neverdoes say much to him."
"Saves her breath to drill Mrs. Huzzard with," observed the girl, dryly."That poor, dear woman has a bee in her muddled old head, and the bee isCaptain Leek and his fine manners. I can see it, plain as day. Bless herheart! I hear her go over and over words that she always used to saywrong, and she does eat nicer than she used to. Humph! I wonder if DanOverton will take as kindly to being taught, when the school-teacherbegins with him."
There was a mirthless, unlovely smile about her lips, and Lyster reachedover and clasped her hand coaxingly.
"'Tana, what has changed you so?" he asked. "Is it your sickness--is itthe gold--or what, that makes you turn from your old friends? Dan neversays a word, but I notice it. You never talk to him, and he has almostquit going to your cabin at all, though he would do anything for you, Iknow. My dear, you will find few friends like him in the world."
"Oh, don't--don't bother me about him," she answered, irritably. "He isall right, of course. But I--"
Then she stopped, and with a determined air turned the subject.
"You said you had something to talk to me about. What was it?"
"You don't know how glad I am to hear you speak as you used to," he said,looking at her kindly. "I would be rejoiced even to get a scolding fromyou these days. But that was not exactly what I brought you out to tellyou, either," and he drew from his pocket the letter he had carried forthree weeks, waiting until she appeared strong enough to accept surprises."I suppose, of course, you have heard us talk a good deal about theEastern capitalist who was here when you were so sick, and who,unhesitatingly, made purchase of the Twin Spring Mines, as it is callednow."
"You mean the very fine Mr. Haydon, who had curly hair and looked likeme?" she asked, ironically. "Yes, I've heard the women folks talking abouthim a good deal, when they thought me asleep. Old Akkomi scared him alittle, too, didn't he?"
"So, you _have_ heard?" he asked, in surprise. "Well, yes, he does look alittle like you; it's the hair, I think. But I don't see
why you utter hisname with so much contempt, 'Tana."
"Maybe not; but I've heard the name of Haydon before to-day, and I have agrudge against it."
"But not this Haydon."
"I don't know which Haydon. I never saw any of them--don't know as Iwant to. I guess this one is almost too fine for Kootenai country people,anyway."
"But that is where you are wrong, entirely wrong, 'Tana," he hastened toexplain. "He was very much interested in you--very much, indeed; askedlots of questions about you, and--and here is what I wanted to speak of.When he went away, he gave me this letter for you. I imagine he wants tohelp make arrangements for you when you go East, have you know nice peopleand all that. You see, 'Tana, his daughter is about your age, and looksjust a little as you do sometimes; and I think he wants to do somethingfor you. It's an odd thing for him to take so strong an interest in anystranger; but they are the very best people you could possibly know if yougo to Philadelphia."
"Maybe if you would let me see the letter myself, I could tell betterwhether I wanted to know them or not," she said, and Lyster handed it toher without another word.
It was a rather long letter, two closely-written sheets, and he could notunderstand the little contemptuous smile with which she opened it. Haydon,the great financier, had seemed to him a very wonderful personage when hewas 'Tana's age.
The girl was not so indifferent as she tried to appear. Her fingerstrembled a little, though her mouth grew set and angry as she read thecarefully kind words of Mr. Haydon.
"It is rather late in the day for them to come with offers to help me,"she said, bitterly. "I can help myself now; but if they had looked for mea year ago--two or three years ago--"
"Looked for you!" he exclaimed, with a sort of impatient wonder. "Why,my dear girl, who would even think of hunting for little white girls inthese forests? Don't be foolishly resentful now that people want to benice to you. You could not expect attention from people before they wereaware of your existence."
"But they did know of my existence!" she answered, curtly. "Oh! youneedn't stare at me like that, Mr. Max Lyster! I know what I'm talkingabout. I have the very shaky honor of being a relation of your finegentleman from the East. I thought it when I heard the name, but did notsuppose he would know it. And I'm not too proud of it, either, as you seemto think I ought to be."
"But they are one of our best families--"
"Then your worst must be pretty bad," she interrupted. "I know just aboutwhat they are."
"But 'Tana--how does it come--"
"I won't answer any questions about it, Max, so don't ask," and she foldedup the letter and tore it into very little pieces, which she let fall intothe water. "I am not going to claim the relationship or their hospitality,and I would just as soon you forgot that I acknowledged it. I didn't meanto tell, but that letter vexed me."
"Look here, 'Tana," and Lyster caught her hand again. "I can't let you actlike this. They can be of much more help to you socially than all yourmoney. If the family are related to you, and offer you attention, youcan't afford to ignore it. You do not realize now how much their attentionwill mean; but when you are older, you will regret losing it. Let meadvise you--let me--"
"Oh, hush!" she said, closing her eyes, wearily. "I am tired--tired! Whatdifference does it make to you--why need you care?"
"May I tell you?" and he looked at her so strangely, so gravely, that hereyes opened in expectation of--she knew not what.
"I did not mean to let you know so soon, 'Tana," and his clasp of her handgrew closer; "but, it is true--I love you. Everything that concerns youmakes a difference to me. Now do you understand?"
"You!--Max--"
"Don't draw your hand away. Surely you guessed--a little? I did not knowmyself how much I cared till you came so near dying. Then I knew I couldnot bear to let you go. And--and you care a little too, don't you! Speakto me!"
"Let us go home," she answered in a low voice, and tried to draw herfingers away. She liked him--yes; but--
"Tana, won't you speak? Oh, my dear, dear one, when you were so ill, sovery ill, you knew no one else, but you turned to me. You went asleep withyour cheek against my hand, and more than once, 'Tana, with your handclasping mine. Surely that was enough to make me hope--for you did like mea little, then."
"Yes, I--liked you," but she turned her head away, that he could not seeher flushed face. "You were good to me, but I did not know--I could notguess--" and she broke down as though about to cry, and his own eyes werefull of tenderness. She appealed to him now as she had never done in herdays of brightness and laughter.
"Listen to me," he said, pleadingly. "I won't worry you. I know you aretoo weak and ill to decide yet about your future. I don't ask you toanswer me now. Wait. Go to school, as I know you intend to do; but don'tforget me. After the school is over you can decide. I will wait with allpatience. I would not have told you now, but I wanted you to know I wasinterested in the answer you would give Haydon. I wanted you to know thatI would not for the world advise you, but for your best interests. Won'tyou believe--"
"I believe you; but I don't know what to say to you. You are differentfrom me--your people are different. And of my people you know nothing,nothing at all, and--"
"And it makes no difference," he interrupted. "I know you have had a lotof trouble for a little girl, or your family have had trouble you aresensitive about. I don't know what it is, but it makes no difference--nota bit. I will never question about it, unless you prefer to tell of yourown accord. Oh, my dear! if some day you could be my wife, I would helpyou forget all your childish troubles and your unpleasant life."
"Let us go home," she said, "you are good to me, but I am so tired."
He obediently turned the canoe, and at that moment voices came to themfrom toward the river--ringing voices of men.
"It is possibly Mr. Haydon and others," he exclaimed, after listening amoment. "We have been expecting them for days. That was why I could nolonger put off giving you the letter."
"I know," she said, and her face flushed and paled a little, as the voicescame closer. He could see she nervously dreaded the meeting.
"Shall I get the canoe back to camp before they come?" he asked kindly;but she shook her head.
"You can't, for they move fast," she answered, as she listened. "Theywould see us; and, if he is with them, he--would think I was afraid."
He let the canoe drift again, and watched her moody face, which seemed togrow more cold with each moment that the strangers came closer. He wasfilled with surprise at all she had said of Haydon and of the letter. Whowould have dreamed that she--the little Indian-dressed guest of Akkomi'scamp--would be connected with the most exclusive family he knew in theEast? The Haydon family was one he had been especially interested in onlya year ago, because of Mr. Haydon's very charming daughter. Miss Haydon,however, had a clever and ambitious mamma, who persisted in keeping him ata safe distance.
Max Lyster, with his handsome face and unsettled prospects, was not thebrilliant match her hopes aspired to. Pretty Margaret Haydon had, in allobedience, refused him dances and affected not to see his efforts to benear her. But he knew she did see; and one little bit of comfort he hadtaken West with him was the fancy that her refusals were never voluntaryaffairs, and that she had looked at him as he had never known her to lookat another man.
Well, that was a year ago, and he had just asked another girl to marryhim--a girl who did not look at him at all, but whose eyes were on theswift-flowing current--troubled eyes, that made him long to take care ofher.
"Won't you speak to me at all?" he asked. "I will do anything to help you,'Tana--anything at all."
She nodded her head slowly.
"Yes--now," she answered. "So would Mr. Haydon, Max."
"'Tana! do you mean--" His face flushed hotly, and he looked at her forthe first time with anger in his face.
She put out her hand in a tired, pleading way.
"I only mean that now, when I have been lucky enough to help myself, itseems
as if every one thinks I need looking after so much more than theyused to. Maybe because I am not strong yet--maybe so; I don't know." Thenshe smiled and looked at him curiously.
"But I made a mistake when I said 'every one,' didn't I? For Dan nevercomes near me any more."
Then the strange canoes came in sight and very close to them, as theyturned a bend in the creek. There were three large boats--one carryingfreight, one filled with new men for the works, and in the other--theforemost one--was Mr. Haydon, and a tall, thin, middle-aged stranger.
"Uncle Seldon!" exclaimed Lyster, with animation, and held the canoe stillin the water, that the other might come close, and in a whisper he said:
"The one to the right is Mr. Haydon."
He glanced at her and saw she was making a painful effort atself-control.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "We will just speak, and drift on pastthem."
But when they called greeting to each other, and the Indian boatman wastold to send their craft close to the little camp canoe, she raised herhead and looked very levelly across the stranger, who had hair so like herown, and spoke to the Indian who paddled their boat as though he were theonly one there to notice.
"Plucky!" decided Mr. Haydon, "and stubborn;" but he kept those thoughtsto himself, and said aloud: "My dear young lady, I am indeed pleased tosee you so far recovered since my last visit. I presume you know who Iam," and he looked at her in a smiling, confidential way.
"Yes, I know who you are. Your name is Haydon, and--there is a piece ofyour letter."
She picked up a fragment of paper that had fallen at her feet, and flungit out from her on the water. Mr. Haydon affected not to see the pettishact, but turned to his companion.
"Will you allow me, Miss Rivers, to introduce another member of our firm?This is Mr. Seldon. Seldon, this is the young girl I told you of."
"I knew it before you spoke," said the other man, who looked at her with agreat deal of interest, and a great deal of kindness. "My child, I wasyour mother's friend long ago. Won't you let me be yours?"
She reached out her hand to him, and the quick tears came to her eyes. Shetrusted without question the earnest gray eyes of the speaker, and turnedfrom her own uncle to the uncle of Max.