Hilton was staying his horse by a spring at Guidon Hill when he first
saw her. She was gathering may-apples; her apron was full of them. He
noticed that she did not stir until he rode almost upon her. Then she
started, first without looking round, as does an animal, dropping her
head slightly to one side, though not exactly appearing to listen.
Suddenly she wheeled on him, and her big eyes captured him. The look
bewildered him. She was a creature of singular fascination. Her face was
expressive. Her eyes had wonderful light. She looked happy, yet grave
withal; it was the gravity of an uncommon earnestness. She gazed through
everything, and beyond. She was young--eighteen or so.
Hilton raised his hat, and courteously called a good-morning at her. She
did not reply by any word, but nodded quaintly, and blinked seriously
and yet blithely on him. He was preparing to dismount. As he did so he
paused, astonished that she did not speak at all. Her face did not have
a familiar language; its vocabulary was its own. He slid from his horse,
and, throwing his arm over its neck as it stooped to the spring, looked
at her more intently, but respectfully too. She did not yet stir, but
there came into her face a slight inflection of confusion or perplexity.
Again he raised his hat to her, and, smiling, wished her a good-morning.
Even as he did so a thought sprung in him. Understanding gave place to
wonder; he interpreted the unusual look in her face.
Instantly he made a sign to her. To that her face responded with a
wonderful speech--of relief and recognition. The corners of her apron
dropped from her fingers, and the yellow may-apples fell about her feet.
She did not notice this. She answered his sign with another, rapid,
graceful, and meaning. He left his horse and advanced to her, holding
out his hand simply--for he was a simple and honest man. Her response
to this was spontaneous. The warmth of her fingers invaded him. Her
eyes were full of questioning. He gave a hearty sign of admiration. She
flushed with pleasure, but made a naive, protesting gesture.
She was deaf and dumb.
Hilton had once a sister who was a mute. He knew that amazing primal
gesture-language of the silent race, whom God has sent like one-winged
birds into the world. He had watched in his sister just such looks of
absolute nature as flashed from this girl. They were comrades on the
instant; he reverential, gentle, protective; she sanguine, candid,
beautifully aboriginal in the freshness of her cipher-thoughts. She saw
the world naked, with a naked eye. She was utterly natural. She was the
maker of exquisite, vital gesture-speech.
She glided out from among the may-apples and the long, silken grass, to
charm his horse with her hand. As she started to do so, he hastened
to prevent her, but, utterly surprised, he saw the horse whinny to her
cheek, and arch his neck under her white palm--it was very white. Then
the animal’s chin sought her shoulder and stayed placid. He had never
done so to anyone before save Hilton. Once, indeed, he had kicked a
stableman to death. He lifted his head and caught with playful shaking
lips at her ear. Hilton smiled; and so, as we said, their comradeship
began.
He was a new officer of the Hudson’s Bay Company at Fort Guidon. She was
the daughter of a ranchman. She had been educated by Father Corraine,
the Jesuit missionary, Protestant though she was. He had learned the
sign-language while assistant-priest in a Parisian chapel for mutes. He
taught her this gesture-tongue, which she, taking, rendered divine; and,
with this, she learned to read and write.
Her name was Ida.
Ida was faultless. Hilton was not; but no man is. To her, however, he
was the best that man can be. He was unselfish and altogether honest,
and that is much for a man.
When Pierre came to know of their friendship he shook his head
doubtfully. One day he was sitting on the hot side of a pine near his
mountain hut, soaking in the sun. He saw them passing below him, along
the edge of the hill across the ravine. He said to someone behind him in
the shade, who was looking also, “What will be the end of that, eh?”
And the someone replied: “Faith, what the Serpent in the Wilderness
couldn’t cure.”
“You think he’ll play with her?”
“I think he’ll do it without wishin’ or willin’, maybe. It’ll be a case
of kiss and ride away.”
There was silence. Soon Pierre pointed down again. She stood upon a
green mound with a cool hedge of rock behind her, her feet on the margin
of solid sunlight, her forehead bared. Her hair sprinkled round her as
she gently threw back her head. Her face was full on Hilton. She was
telling him something. Her gestures were rhythmical, and admirably
balanced. Because they were continuous or only regularly broken, it was
clear she was telling him a story. Hilton gravely, delightedly, nodded
response now and then, or raised his eyebrows in fascinated surprise.
Pierre, watching, was only aware of vague impressions--not any distinct
outline of the tale. At last he guessed it as a perfect pastoral-birds,
reaping, deer, winds, sundials, cattle, shepherds, hunting. To Hilton
it was a new revelation. She was telling him things she had thought, she
was recalling her life.
Towards the last, she said in gesture: “You can forget the winter, but
not the spring. You like to remember the spring. It is the beginning.
When the daisy first peeps, when the tall young deer first stands upon
its feet, when the first egg is seen in the oriole’s nest, when the sap
first sweats from the tree, when you first look into the eye of your
friend--these you want to remember....”
She paused upon this gesture--a light touch upon the forehead, then the
hands stretched out, palms upward, with coaxing fingers. She seemed
lost in it. Her eyes rippled, her lips pressed slightly, a delicate wine
crept through her cheek, and tenderness wimpled all. Her soft breast
rose modestly to the cool texture of her dress. Hilton felt his blood
bound joyfully; he had the wish of instant possession. But yet he could
not stir, she held him so; for a change immediately passed upon her. She
glided slowly from that almost statue-like repose into another gesture.
Her eyes drew up from his, and looked away to plumbless distance, all
glowing and childlike, and the new ciphers slowly said:
“But the spring dies away. We can only see a thing born once. And it may
be ours, yet not ours. I have sighted the perfect Sharon-flower, far up
on Guidon, yet it was not mine; it was too distant; I could not reach
it. I have seen the silver bullfinch floating along the canon. I called
to it, and it came singing; and it was mine, yet I could not hear its
song, and I let it go; it could not be happy so with me.... I stand at
the gate of a great city, and see all, and feel the great shuttles of
sounds, the roar and clack of wheels, the horses’ hoofs striking the
ground, the hammer of bells; all: and yet it is not mine; it is far,
far away from me. It is one world, mine is another; and sometimes it is
lonely, and the best things are not for me. But I have seen them, and
it is pleasant to remember, and nothing can take from us the hour when
things were born, when we saw the spring--nothing--never!”
Her manner of speech, as this went on, became exquisite in fineness,
slower, and more dream-like, until, with downward protesting motions of
the hand, she said that “nothing--never!” Then a great sigh surged up
her throat, her lips parted slightly, showing the warm moist whiteness
of her teeth, her hands falling lightly, drew together and folded in
front of her. She stood still.
Pierre had watched this scene intently, his chin in his hands, his
elbows on his knees. Presently he drew himself up, ran a finger
meditatively along his lip, and said to himself: “It is perfect. She
is carved from the core of nature. But this thing has danger for her...
‘bien!’... ah!”
A change in the scene before him caused this last expression of
surprise.
Hilton, rousing from the enchanting pantomime, took a step towards her;
but she raised her hand pleadingly, restrainingly, and he paused. With
his eyes he asked her mutely why. She did not answer, but, all at
once transformed into a thing of abundant sprightliness, ran down
the hillside, tossing up her arms gaily. Yet her face was not all
brilliance. Tears hung at her eyes. But Hilton did not see these. He
did not run, but walked quickly, following her; and his face had a
determined look. Immediately, a man rose up from behind a rock on the
same side of the ravine, and shook clenched fists after the departing
figures; then stood gesticulating angrily to himself, until, chancing to
look up, he sighted Pierre, and straightway dived into the underbrush.
Pierre rose to his feet, and said slowly: “Hilton, here may be trouble
for you also. It is a tangled world.”
Towards evening Pierre sauntered to the house of Ida’s father. Light of
footstep, he came upon the girl suddenly. They had always been friends
since the day when, at uncommon risk, he rescued her dog from a freshet
on the Wild Moose River. She was sitting utterly still, her hands folded
in her lap. He struck his foot smartly on the ground. She felt the
vibration, and looked up. He doffed his hat, and she held out her hand.
He smiled and took it, and, as it lay in his, looked at it for a moment
musingly. She drew it back slowly. He was then thinking that it was the
most intelligent hand he had ever seen.... He determined to play a
bold and surprising game. He had learned from her the alphabet of the
fingers--that is, how to spell words. He knew little gesture-language.
He, therefore, spelled slowly: “Hawley is angry, because you love
Hilton.” The statement was so matter-of-fact, so sudden, that the girl
had no chance. She flushed and then paled. She shook her head firmly,
however, and her fingers slowly framed the reply: “You guess too much.
Foolish things come to the idle.”
“I saw you this afternoon,” he silently urged.
Her fingers trembled slightly. “There was nothing to see.” She knew he
could not have read her gestures. “I was telling a story.”
“You ran from him--why?” His questioning was cruel that he might in the
end be kind.
“The child runs from its shadow, the bird from its nest, the fish jumps
from the water--that is nothing.” She had recovered somewhat.
But he: “The shadow follows the child, the bird comes back to its nest,
the fish cannot live beyond the water. But it is sad when the child, in
running, rushes into darkness, and loses its shadow; when the nest falls
from the tree; and the hawk catches the happy fish.... Hawley saw you
also.”
Hawley, like Ida, was deaf and dumb. He lived over the mountains, but
came often. It had been understood that, one day, she should marry him.
It seemed fitting. She had said neither yes nor no. And now?
A quick tremor of trouble trailed over her face, then it became very
still. Her eyes were bent upon the ground steadily. Presently a bird
hopped near, its head coquetting at her. She ran her hand gently along
the grass towards it. The bird tripped on it. She lifted it to her
chin, at which it pecked tenderly. Pierre watched her keenly-admiring,
pitying. He wished to serve her. At last, with a kiss upon its head, she
gave it a light toss into the air, and it soared, lark-like, straight
up, and hanging over her head, sang the day into the evening. Her eyes
followed it. She could feel that it was singing. She smiled and lifted
a finger lightly towards it. Then she spelled to Pierre this: “It is
singing to me. We imperfect things love each other.”
“And what about loving Hawley, then”? Pierre persisted. She did not
reply, but a strange look came upon her, and in the pause Hilton
came from the house and stood beside them. At this, Pierre lighted a
cigarette, and with a good-natured nod to Hilton, walked away.
Hilton stooped over her, pale and eager. “Ida,” he gestured, “will you
answer me now? Will you be my wife?”
She drew herself together with a little shiver. “No,” was her steady
reply. She ruled her face into stillness, so that it showed nothing of
what she felt. She came to her feet wearily, and drawing down a cool
flowering branch of chestnut, pressed it to her cheek. “You do not love
me”? he asked nervously.
“I am going to marry Luke Hawley,” was her slow answer. She spelled the
words. She used no gesture to that. The fact looked terribly hard and
inflexible so. Hilton was not a vain man, and he believed he was not
loved. His heart crowded to his throat.
“Please go away, now,” she begged with an anxious gesture. While the
hand was extended, he reached and brought it to his lips, then quickly
kissed her on the forehead, and walked away. She stood trembling, and
as the fingers of one hand hung at her side, they spelled mechanically
these words: “It would spoil his life. I am only a mute--a dummy!”
As she stood so, she felt the approach of someone. She did not turn
instantly, but with the aboriginal instinct, listened, as it were, with
her body; but presently faced about--to Hawley. He was red with anger.
He had seen Hilton kiss her. He caught her smartly by the arm, but, awed
by the great calmness of her face, dropped it, and fell into a fit of
sullenness. She spoke to him: he did not reply. She touched his arm:
he still was gloomy. All at once the full price of her sacrifice rushed
upon her; and overpowered her. She had no help at her critical hour,
not even from this man she had intended to bless. There came a swift
revulsion, all passions stormed in her at once. Despair was the
resultant of these forces. She swerved from him immediately, and ran
hard towards the high-banked river!
Hawley did not follow her at once: he did not guess her purpose. She had
almost reached the leaping-place, when Pierre shot from the trees, and
seized her. The impulse of this was so strong, that they slipped, and
quivered on the precipitous edge: but Pierre righted then, and presently
they were safe.
Pierre held her hard by both wrists for a moment. Then, drawing her
away, he loosed her, and spelled these words slowly: “I understand.
But you are wrong. Hawley is not the man. You must come with me. It is
foolish to die.”
The riot of her feelings, her momentary despair, were gone. It was
even pleasant to be mastered by Pierre’s firmness. She was passive.
Mechanically she went with him. Hawley approached. She looked at Pierre.
Then she turned on the other. “Yours is not the best love,” she signed
to him; “it does not trust; it is selfish.” And she moved on.
But, an hour later, Hilton caught her to his bosom, and kissed her full
on the lips.... And his right to do so continues to this day.