Menotah Part 40

'Bet your life. First-cla.s.s saloons, I'm told. We'll sample 'em, eh?'

Dave sn.i.g.g.e.red. 'I reckon.'

More he might have said, but at that instant they came upon a log lying across the road. Without the least hesitation they both took a header, then lay sprawling on the other side in the dew-wet dust.

They sat up, more pleased with themselves than damaged by the fall. 'Was it a cyclone, Alf?' asked Dave, blankly.

'Whist, Dave. Don't make a racket, or we'll have the police on us.

They'll say we put that thing across the sidewalk. Disgraceful in a great big city like this, ain't it?'

Dave sympathised, then the Factor's note changed to anger. 'Goldam! I've split up my right boot and half smashed a toe. I shall go to a lawyer's office first thing, and sue the corporation of this darned city.

Sticking obstacles on the sidewalk to smash the toes of honest citizens.

Sha'n't be able to walk in Central Park to-morrow, now my boot's broken up.'

'Never mind, Alf. You can get boots half price from the Company. Nothing at all, if you cook the books.'

'Davey,' said the Factor, reproachfully. 'I couldn't do it. I'd like to cheat, but dern it, Davey, I can't. I'm too high-minded.'

For some time longer they talked from their respective dust heaps, while mosquitoes sang in the air, and frogs chirped in the gra.s.s around them.

Then they climbed to their feet to continue aimless peregrinations.

'I know, Davey,' said the Factor, suddenly, as they came to a corner house. 'There's a nice little saloon right up here. Come on, and I'll drink your health, lad.'

'Isn't it next turning?' said the other, merely for sake of argument.

''Course not. That 'ud take us down to Broadway. Think I don't know my way about?'

'Long time between drinks, ain't it, Alf?'

'You're right, Davey. Wonderful fine place New York, ain't it? We'll have a drink, then I'll take you around on a car, while we take in the show.'

'I'm right on,' hiccoughed Dave. 'Come on, Alf.' They linked together, and staggered up the byway in the darkness. The road and themselves soon ended in a ditch.

[1] Geographically known as Selkirk Island, though wrongly placed on all maps.

CHAPTER V

THE DEAD HEART

While the lonely, heart-broken girl sat in that tainted room, her whole being bowed with grief, the drunken revellers shouting before her, many thoughts pa.s.sed and flashed across the highly-strung mind.

Position, before that brutal a.s.sault, was as nothing. It mattered not at all that she looked on others enjoying themselves in the manner to them most congenial, that she was outside all this, barred by the law of race from having any part in their festivities, even had she wished it.

But why should men be cruel to her, she who had harmed no one? Why, because she was Indian, should she be treated as animal? She knew she was beautiful--once that knowledge had been the chief joy of the heart; she had, to the ruin of that joy, succeeded in attracting the desire of a handsome white; he had told her she was perfect in face and form, that she was in fact the divine woman of Nature. Yet he had taken her, under the seal of a false love, but to while away a few careless hours of leisure.

He would not so have treated the woman of his own race. Had he ventured to, others would have risen to prevent the insult Yet the same justice-mongers would have raised no bar to the ruin of the poor girl, more perfect, more trusting, infinitely more loving than her white sister. She might be trampled on, despised, destroyed. And why? Because she was merely the girl of the forest, the Indian, not a human being in their sense of the word.

Her brain could not unravel this paradox.

The tears of blood dripped forth silently. Once had she been Menotah, now time and treachery had changed that happy heart into dead fruit. The lively girl had grown to a revengeful woman. In such a state, sympathy would have been gall. True, there were none who would offer pity. Had there been, what balm of healing could their compa.s.sion bring to that diseased mind? Every incident in the bright past had faded, each hope and warm pleasure had been shrivelled up like a dry leaf and swept away For the one hour of deepest misery drives into oblivion all memory of the lapsed years, when joy was ever present, into forgetfulness each day of laughing sunshine, each hour of unburdened delight.

Each man or woman in the last despair can live upon the dreary phrase, 'There was a time.' All, whether in poverty, in death, or time of lost honour, may repeat the sad and mocking words for what consolation they contain. There was a time of youth, when sorrow was unknown, when the mind was always a b.u.t.terfly with its light hope, when the heart was hot and large with love. It was summer then. Now it is winter--all is coldness and desolation.

Yet the hour of vengeance approached, when that terrible life duty must be discharged. She felt the substance warming in its poison by her bosom, and, in the bitterness of her grief, smiled. She must make entrance into her husband's room and find him alone. This drug had no internal effect, though its commingling with the human blood meant a death lingering and terrible in its slow wasting. She would place a portion in her mouth, then approach the destroyer with tears and bitter protestations of yet living love. As a last favour she would beg permission to kiss the hand which so often had fondled her. This he could not refuse. Then she would bite deeply with her poisoned teeth into the flesh, and watch him, as he fell away from her, with the fearful greyness spreading over his features, as the racking cold seized every limb and made each muscle shiver. Afterwards she might go away and look for peace.

Yet, supposing that he relented at the sight of her, that he renewed the vow of love, that he swore again to be constant. Should she grant pardon, if only for the sake of healing her own deep wound?

Never! Take again that which had been given in pure confidence, the gift which had been despised? She had given him her best, her all. He had broken it with scorn, had cast it down, and trampled on it with his feet. Perhaps he might even now offer to return it as a proof of his manly affection. What would be the value of such a gift? What would be the true feeling at the heart of such a man?

Then forget the wronger, and search for the true-hearted. If some men are faithless, there are others, and many, who are honourable. If there is one enemy, there are others who are friends. Surely such a vile man is not worthy of remembrance. Forget that black clouds of treachery have ever darkened the sunshine happiness of a past.

Forget! This, alas, is the ever-present impossibility of life. None may forget death, when its grim power lies across the body, nor may the wound be disregarded, while the red blood pours therefrom. Can the heart forget when it has been robbed of life, of health, of joy, of hope, of all that makes the world beautiful? There is but one thing that in such case may be brought as food for oblivion--the vanished happiness of the past.

For this wound was deep as death itself. There was nothing left but vengeance, and after that--after that--Rest comes only after duty.

How mighty were these white men in their creations! How weak were they in themselves! For, in the l.u.s.t after power, they had cast aside Nature and her works. They knew nothing of the sacred fire, of the beauty of life. Across the mighty water they came in great vessels to seize upon the territories of the weak Indian. With might they had driven out right, and made the former owners slaves in their own land. But when these conquerors lay beneath the cold shadow of death, whom would they call upon for aid? The Indian, with his deep knowledge of healing medicines. When food was desired for the body, to whom would they turn for a.s.sistance? To the Indian, who alone could lead them to the spot where the animals lay concealed. When it was their wish to feast the sight upon things of wonder, whom would they summon? The Indian, with his inscrutable knowledge of Nature's inner secrets. Finally, when they wished to learn the power of love, it were useless to search for it among their own habitations. They must turn to the tents of the despised race, then depart with knowledge gained. Yet, by the law of justice, the white ruled the world. The Indian lay beneath his feet and looked to him for life.

Stranger than all this was the story of the white man's G.o.d. If the old mentor had not been advised wrongly, this G.o.d had walked the earth for years, to teach His children the lesson of life and death. This G.o.d must have taught them that women were of no account. One was to be taken and sported with, then cast aside for another. Their tears and their sorrow were to be laughed at and counted as nothing. This was strange teaching, for why should the woman be held so inferior to the man?

But perchance the white man had many G.o.ds, who gave each a different teaching. Yet no, it could not be. From all sides came the same unvarying tale of treachery and desertion. There were many white men in the country, yet they were all the same. All treated the women with cruelty, all were inconstant. Some there were who married, then deserted their wives for other women. The faith of the white G.o.d must be a cruel one. She would have none of it.

Yet, in obeying the prompting of her own mind, the will of the Spirit had been disobeyed. She had allied herself to one outside the tribe, and now but suffered the penalty of wrong-doing. A man who could not love joined to a woman with a heart. The result of such union meant misery to one, death to both. The heart continued its musings on the mystery of love.

Man is man, and woman, woman, whatever race or colour. They mingle together and pa.s.s daily, until one is strangely stopped by power of attraction for another. The man looks upon the woman, and sees that she is beautiful. She regards him with the growing thought that he is good and strong. Then, as the time pa.s.ses, he comes to know that here is the life being whom the Great Spirit has brought into creation and led across his track, that he may take her to his home and call her his. For she was brought into life for him, and he for her. So he takes her by the hand in the evening time, and whispers in her ear, 'Let me twine my life with yours. Let us live as one, with soul to soul, having one mind, one wish.' Then she will agree, and the solemn compact is made, with the Great Spirit as witness. He has promised to shelter and clothe her, to care for her in time of sickness, to rejoice with her in happiness, to grieve with her in sorrow. She, also, promises to lighten his burden of daily toil with her soft love touch, to devote herself to him alone, to prepare his comforts, to make his home the centre of heart joy. But what shall be done to that man, who has fallen away from the great oath, by her who has remained true and faithful?

Let him be forgotten and forgiven? It were impossible. The heart, when it stirred into faint life, prompted otherwise. The teaching of the G.o.d was different. What justice was there in treating the apostate as though he had remained constant? Nor could it bring satisfaction to the stricken mind to see the G.o.d performing the work of vengeance.

Was there strength at the heart? Resolution for the meeting and the work? Doubtless, yet the strain and tension would be well nigh unbearable. There would be the journey, the watching for the opportunity, the antic.i.p.ating of others, then the dread discovery before the once loved. After that must come the actual bitterness of the struggle. To look upon that face, which had been so indelibly stamped upon the memory; to behold again that well-remembered form; to speak and plead, with a love a.s.sumed, while hatred burnt within; to hold that hand, which had so often caressed her in the days of innocence. All such must be endured before commission of the act. The poison would be dissolving and stirring within her mouth, mingling with the breath, lying upon the tongue which had softly spoken to his ear the sounds of love. Another moment of strength, one more wave of feeling, and the work would be accomplished. The hand would be seized within hers, the touch electrifying each subtle sense current in her body. She would raise it to her lips, and she would kiss--yes, she would kiss first, then bite, burying her white teeth in the flesh with the mad intensity of the pa.s.sion hatred, feeling his blood dripping and surging hotly across her mouth, mingling with the poison, which must then commence a deathly revelry along his veins. If the heart strength lasted for so long, all would be well. She might then crawl away to a place of quietness, cast down the aching body, and suffer the final pangs of ebbing life.

Was the heart of joy entirely dead? Had the single ice-stroke deprived it of all consciousness, blotting out the warm love and flowing vitality in a breath? The limb, frozen by the rigours of Arctic cold, is wax-like, cold, and dead to feeling. Yet it may perhaps be gradually revived and restored again to use and animation by a.s.siduous attention.

Was there not then some sensitive fibre of the heart, at present numbed by the intense frost of sorrow, yet which might be re-animated into at least a portion of the old happiness by tender nurture? The heart is so great in its far-reaching sympathies, so diversified in its range of feeling. Was there not a spot, as yet untouched by the mortification, one slight nerve which could yet respond to the anxious voice of friend--more, to the soft sound of lover's voice? a.s.suredly not. The heart was dead to feeling of human pa.s.sion, alive only to its ice-cold determination of duty. Nothing could stir its sluggish pulsations as it lay within the flesh tomb. Not the excitement of her mission, nor the taunts of those who should have been men enough to have protected her from insult, not even the contemplation of again facing him she had so wildly and so foolishly loved, could awake that heavy, torturing burden within to a semblance of its past activity, to a shadow of the former brightness. All light and colour had been stripped from life. Even the body was cold, shrunken and debilitated. The mind had no resource to lean upon, the body no satisfaction to hope for. For the latter there remained death; the former looked only for silence.

A faint colour crawled into her thin cheeks and became constant, increasing in intensity of shade. The remainder of her face and the dull eyes became ghastly by contrast. Such a bright colour had once marked the rich stain of health; then it had altered to the pure heart blush; now it was the slow spreading fever of the mind. It seemed, indeed, as though the fire which had long been consuming her heart, after burning away the vitals, had spread to the exterior, there to consummate its work and consume the poor remnants of life.

There was one more thought at the dead heart, one doubting and perplexing query. Well might it trouble her, for none could have given answer to that constant cry--what is the rest that comes to the mind of sorrow after death?

CHAPTER VI

DURING THE DAY