Menotah Part 27

'You lie, girl,' cried the Ancient, smiting a feeble palm upon his staff. 'Has not the old Chief, your father, told me of his favour towards Muskwah? More, the young man himself has spoken of his warm hope. Many a time did he tell of his love, beneath the still evening, when he sought me for counsel.'

'Did the Chief also tell you that I looked upon Muskwah with eyes of love? Did the young man come ever with the tidings that I had promised to be his bride? You would ask me riddles, old Father. Now must you also be ready with answers.'

''Tis not so. You are but a girl, and one made to obey. Since your father chose, with the wisdom of age, a husband for you, it was your duty to receive him, and thank the Spirit that he had sent you so perfect a man. You know not, child, the peril that lies in self-choice.'

Menotah stepped forward with all her lithe grace. She raised her beautiful features to the coloured air of evening, while the cheeks warmed in a glow of anger. Then she parted her proud lips for reply.

'I have not your learning, old Father, for I am but a girl, yet one who would wish to know. But I am the equal of those who call themselves men.

You are wiser? I can draw you from your knowledge path with a glance.

You are stronger? I can disarm you with smile or frown. I can outwit you in your slow movements. Now you would hold out to me advice. I scorn it, though I have listened for the sake of the love you bore me once. But when you cast blame at me, I will throw back your words and tell you that I have planned out my own life path, that I will follow it to the end, in spite of you and all. Do you heed, old Father? Once you taught me the power of ready speech. Now it is the master who is put to silence.'

The Ancient tottered to the door of the hut, then paused, leaning in helpless fashion upon his staff. His shrunken form seemed more dwarfed than ever, the wrinkled face more deeply lined. There was suffering in every slow movement.

Weakly he quavered forth, 'I am old, so old that I have lost count of the years in the past. Now my age is mocked by those who were crawling children when I was already weak with time. Is it to be sorrow to the end, nothing but sorrow, until my body is brought to the fire, and memory fades away?'

The girl was touched by her old mentor's genuine misery. 'Surely,' she said in soft accents, 'none may pity those who sorrow when there is need to rejoice. Old Father, I would not cause you suffering.'

The dull ears were quick to note the change in voice. All that was good in his withered heart poured from him, like a death gasp, in a last pitiful entreaty,--

'Have I not always loved you, daughter, child of the laughing heart?

Even now would I have shown you hatred, for loving one of the hated race, but I could not. Love is stronger than mind, greater than Nature, for it conquers both, and binds them down in chains. It must live and burn, nor may it be quenched at desire. Child, fair child, by such love--the only gift an old man can give--I pray you, be guided by my counsel. Come back to your people, and forget the past. All will stretch forth arms of love, to clasp you close. There will be joy in the encampment, with a song at every heart. For the tribe will not lose the sunshine, its morning and evening light. See! I am an aged man, and I beg this of you.

'Well can I look upon the days when you were but a crowing child. Then I would raise you in my arms and clasp you to my shoulder, while you would lift your baby head to smile into my face. Then I first felt the love fire stealing silently from your holding limbs to my old heart. So in the white winter I would clutch you to my heart, to warm the body which had never known the power of love. Also, when you were older, with uncertain steps you would walk at my side, while I would point out tree and rock by name, that I might list in to the music of your voice raised to imitate the sounds.

'Yet seasons came and went, each finding you beauteous, and leaving you more perfect. But one day, when I gazed on you in the sunlight, I knew you were formed to a woman, a being enriched with what loveliness and grace the Spirit may give. Jealously I watched you, flitting lightly, as the wind-borne flower blossom, from forest to river, always with the pure joy smile and the same heart gladness. Then I knew we had truly given you the name of Menotah--the heart that knows not sorrow.

'Then the white company came to our land. I feared, for I saw your beauty; also I knew the black hearts of those who had robbed us of our own. Yet now that which I have feared and fought against has befallen you.

'Menotah, daughter of love, light of my age, listen once again to the weak old Father. Grant me that for which I ask. See! I will come to my knees; I will kiss your hands. Never have I humbled myself to any before. Child! give me back my love, and hear my words.'

Tears of heart grief coursed drearily along the cheek wrinkles. His clenched hands shook, while the senile body trembled with emotion. The words fell without meaning against his ears. Sad thoughts were at his heart, and the tongue gave utterance, but whether the two agreed he might not tell.

He had cause for sorrow; for he spoke truth, when he said the girl before him was the only being he could love. Now the great affection, enshrined in a weak body, was held a thing without worth; it was to be laughed at and cast aside. A single satisfaction remained, and that a sad one. Future might bring change, she might yet learn that the love she now discarded was a thing unchanging, which would burn at the time of need with the steady flame of constancy. After the reckless pa.s.sion of youth, this would be the final haven of shelter, the last rock on which the broken soul might pause and rest a while, before continuing the pitiless march of despair.

'Girl, I have done. Forget an old man's tears. Yet bear in memory one thing: when his aid is needed, he will be found, with hand outreached--to save, or to avenge.'

The last word fell forth in a sharp whisper. Then he leaned in exhaustion against the log wall, while there was silence save for his deep breathing. Menotah stood near, a resolute determination upon her paler face, defiance in every proud pose of her body. Presently she spoke,--

'Better had you saved breath and strength by silence, old Father. Must I again say that I have my will, that none shall turn me from following the desire of my mind?'

'I but spoke the innermost thought, child. Perchance it has given you pain.'

The Ancient was humbled in his weariness.

'It was as casting a handful of feathers to the wind,' said the rebellious girl. 'Even the memory has now faded.'

He raised his head half fiercely. 'It will return. A time lies in the future when the echo of my words will deafen your hearing. You will come back to me then. Yes, you shall return, and pray for my aid.'

'I shall not need it. There will be one to protect me, stronger than you.'

He shivered as her words touched him. 'But I look forward, child. I gaze into the black shadow beyond. My eyes are clear in spite of age, while yours are blinded with mistaken trust.'

He cast off his weakness and faced her. The blanket crawled from his lean shoulders and rustled to the ground. The eyes shone wildly, with that strange, prophetic instinct of the uncivilised mind.

'I tell you, girl, that time _shall_ come. Even now it is not far distant. Then you will seek me out, you will creep to me with a prayer on your white lips. You shall come as a suppliant to me, seeking vengeance on the head of him you now proudly call your life support.'

Night had now fallen; the forest had grown black and weird; shivering spindles of the northern lights crept tremulously, with whispering movements, backward and forward across a blue-white sky.

Menotah stepped back in all her happiness. Then her bright laugh rang forth, drowning, for the minute, soft moanings of the night breeze in the tree tops.

'Laugh, girl; yes, laugh. It gives me joy to hear your happiness once again. In the coming sorrow I shall never listen to that sound which has so often brought warmth to my weak heart.'

She laughed again, while the pines shook and muttered. 'You shall hear my laughter while you walk in life,' she cried merrily, 'unless you would stop your ears to it. Old Father, I shall leave you to your sleep.

You are speaking on strange things to-night.'

She picked the blanket from the ground, and arranged it, with soft, womanly attention, round his body. Then she took his arm and led him to the door.

'It is a truth,' he quavered. 'Surely as to-morrow's sun will kiss yonder trees, shall you cry for vengeance on the betrayer.'

With a slight shudder--the night air was chill--Menotah stepped back from the hut. 'You cannot kill my heart with your bodings, old Father,'

she said sternly. 'To-morrow, perhaps, you will speak in a different manner.'

But, at the moment of departure, a tall figure, enveloped in a long cloak, came quickly from the shadowy trees in ghostly fashion. It might have been man or woman. As this apparition reached the clearing round the hut, Menotah beheld it and cried aloud with startled surprise.

The old Antoine came to the door at the sound. But when his eyes fell upon the cloaked figure, a mighty fear of the unknown overwhelmed him.

'To the water, child!' he cried shrilly. 'Tis the _Mutchi-Manitou_. He comes from the swamp to seize you. To the water! His power is only upon land.'

But she showed no such fear. She merely caught the black cloak, and said, 'You should not be here. Why have you come?'

'You haven't been near me all day,' said the figure. 'I am out of food, and hungry.'

She drew this apparition back to the forest with eager hands. 'I will come when the moon shines, and laugh at the spirits of the dead. But there is someone within the hut.'

The figure stepped away silently, while Antoine came feebly forward.

'What is this, child?' he asked, yet with tone of suspicion.

Menotah turned to him in her liveliest manner, and again drew him back to shelter. 'We two have looked on much to-night, old Father. We have seen and spoken with the evil one himself.'

Then her joyous laughter rose again and circled in the night.

CHAPTER IX

THE LAUGH THAT DIED