The Little Red Foot Part 73

"That," said I impatiently, "smacks of a too Scotch and stubborn conscience, does it not, Penelope?"

"Stubborn Scotch pride, I fear. For it is not in my Scottish nature to accept benefits for which I never can hope to render service in return."

"Imaginary obligation!" said I scornfully, yet admiring the independence which, naked and defenceless, prefers to spin its own raiment rather than accept the divided cloak of charity.

And it was plain to me that this girl was no beggar, no pa.s.sive accepter of bounties unearned from anybody. And now I was secretly chagrined and ashamed that I had so postured before her as My Lord Bountiful, and had offered her the Summer House who had refused a modest fortune from a good old man who loved her and who had some excuse and reason to so deal by one to whom his bodily comfort had long been beholden.

"Few," said I, "would have put aside so agreeable an opportunity for ease and comfort in life. I fear you were foolish, Penelope."

She smiled at me: "There is a family saying, 'A Grant grants but never accepts'.... I have youth, health, two arms, two legs, and a pair of steady eyes. If these can not keep me alive through the world's journey, then I ought to perish and make room for another."

"What do you meditate to keep you?" I asked uneasily.

"For the present," said she, still smiling, "what I am doing is well enough to keep me in food and clothes and lodging."

At first I did not understand her, then an odd suspicion seized me; for I remembered during the last two weeks, when I lay sick, hearing strange voices in her ante-chamber, and strange people coming and going in the pa.s.sageway.

Seeing me perplexed and frowning, she laughed and took the empty bowl from my hands, and set it aside. Then she smoothed my pillow.

"I am employed by the garrison," said she, "to work for them with needle and shears. I do their mending; I darn, st.i.tch, sew, and alter. I patch shirts and under-garments; I also make shirts, and devise officers'

neck-cloths, stocks, and wrist-bands at request.

"Also, I now employ a half-breed Oneida woman as tailoress; and she first measures and then I cut out patterns of coats, breeches, rifle-frocks, and watch-coats, which she then takes home and sews, then tries on her customers, and finally finishes,--I sewing on all galons, laces, and braids.... And so you see I pay my way, Mr. Drogue, and am in no stress for the present at any rate."

"Good heavens!" said I amazed, "I never dreamed that you were so employed!"

"But I am obliged to eat, John Drogue!"

"I have sufficient for both," I muttered. "I thought it was understood----"

"That I should live on your bounty, my lord?"

"Will you ever have done with lording me?" I said angrily. "I think you do it to plague me."

"I ask forgiveness," she murmured, still smiling. "Also, I crave pardon for refusing to live on your kind bounty."

"I do not mean it that way!" said I sharply. "Besides, you kept Summer House for us, and did all things indoors and most things outdoor; and had no pay for the labour----"

"I had food and a bed. And your protection.... And most excellent company," she added, smiling saucily upon me. "You owe me nothing, John Drogue. Nor do I mean to owe you,--or any man,--more than that proper debt of kindness which kindness to me begets."

I lay back on my pillows, not knowing whether to laugh or scowl. That Penelope had become a tailoress and sempstress to the garrison did not pleasure me at all; and it was as though I had lost some advantage or influence over this girl, whose present situation and whose future did now considerably begin to concern me.

Yet, what was I to say against this business, or what offer make her that her modesty and pride could consider?

It was perfectly clear to me that she never had intended to be obliged to me for anything, and never would be. And now her saucy smile and gentle mockery confirmed this conclusion and put me out of countenance.

I cast a troubled glance at her from my pillow, where she sat by my bed sewing on a pair of wrist-bands for some popinjay of the garrison--G.o.d knew who he might be!--and, as I regarded her, further and further she seemed to be slipping out of my influence and out of the care which, mentally at least, I had felt it my duty to give to her.

She troubled me. She troubled me deeply. Her independence, her sufficiency, her beauty, her sly and pretty mockery of me, all conspired to give me a new concern for her, and I had not experienced the like since Steve Watts kissed her by the lilacs.

I had seen her in many phases, but never before in this phase, and I knew not what face to put on such a disturbing situation.

For a while I lay there frowning and sulky, and spoke not. She tranquilly finished her wrist-bands, went to her chamber, returned with a dozen stocks, all cut out and basted, and picked up one to fit a plain military frill to it.

From my window, near where my head rested, I saw a gold sunset between the maple trees and the roofs across the street. Birds sang their evening carols,--robins on every fence post, orioles in the elms, and far away a wood-thrush filled the quiet with his liquid ecstasies.

And suddenly it seemed to me horrible and monstrous that this heavenly tranquillity should be shattered by the red blast of war!--that men could actually be planning to devastate this quiet land where already the new harvest promised, tender and green; where cattle grazed in blossoming meadows; where swallows twittered and fowls clucked; where smoke drifted from chimneys and the homely sights and sounds of a peaceful town sweetened the evening silence.

Then the thought of my own helplessness went through me like a spear, and I groaned,--not meaning to,--and turned over on my pillow.... And presently felt her hand lightly on my shoulder.

"Is it pain?" she asked softly.

"No, only the weariness of life," I muttered.

She was silent, but presently her hand smoothed back my hair, and pa.s.sed in a sort of gentle rhythm across my forehead and my hair.

"If I lie here long enough," said I bitterly, "I may have to beg a crust of you. So get you to your sewing and see that you earn enough against a beggared cripple's need."

"You mock me," she said in a low voice.

"Why, no," said I. "If I am to remain crippled my funds will dwindle and go, and one day I shall sit in the sun like any poor old soldier, with palm lifted for alms----"

"I beg--I beg you----" she stammered; and her hand closed on my lips as though to stifle the perverse humour.

"Would you offer me charity if I remain crippled?" I managed to say.

"Hush. You sadden me."

"Would you aid me?" I insisted.

She drew a long, deep breath but made no answer.

"Tell me," I repeated, taking her by the hand, "would you aid me, Penelope Grant?"

"Why do you ask?" she protested. "You know I would."

"And yet," said I, "although I am in funds, you refuse aid and choose rather to play the tailoress! Is that fair?"

"But--I am nothing to you----"

"Are you not? And am I then more to you than are you to me, that you would aid me in necessity?"

She drew her hand from mine and went back to her chair.

"That is my fate," said she, smiling at me. "I was born to give, not to receive. I can not take; I can not refuse to give."