THE RAIN UPON THE WIGWAM
To the heart of the gypsy there is a kindred voice in the cheerful
crackle of a camp fire--in the wind that rustles tree and grass--in the
song of a bird or the hum of bees--in the lap of a lake or the
brilliant trail of a shooting star.
A winter forest of tracking snow is rife with messages of furry folk
who prowl by night. Moon-checkered trees fling wavering banners of
gypsy hieroglyphics upon the ground. Sun and moon and cloud and the
fiery color-pot of the firmament write their symbols upon the horizon
for gypsy eyes to read.
What wonder then that the milky clouds which piled fantastically above
the Indian camp fashioned hazily at times into curious boats sailing
away to another land? What wonder if the dawn was streaked with
imperial purple? What wonder if Diane built faces and fancies in the
ember-glow of the Seminole fire-wheel? What wonder if like the
pine-wood sparrow and the wind of Okeechobee the voice of the woodland
always questioned? Conscience, soul-argument--what you will--there
were voices in the wild which stirred the girl's heart to introspection.
So it was with the rain which, at the dark of the moon, pattered gently
on the palmetto roof of her wigwam.
"And now," said the rain with a soft gust of flying drops, "now there
is Sho-caw!"
"Yes," said Diane with a sigh, "there is Sho-caw. I am very sorry."
"But," warned the rain, "one must not forget. At Keela's teaching you
have fallen into the soft, musical tongue of these Indian folk with
marvelous ease. And you wear the Seminole dress of a chief--"
"Yes. After all, that was imprudent--"
"You can ride and shoot an arrow swift and far. Your eyes are keen and
your tread lithe and soft like a fawn--"
"It is all the wild lore of the woodland I learned as a child."
"But Sho-caw does not know! To him the gypsy heart of you, the
sun-brown skin and scarlet cheeks, the night-black hair beneath the
turban, are but the lure and charm of an errant daughter of the
O-kee-fee-ne-kee wilderness. What wonder that he can not see you as
you are, a dark-eyed child of the race of white men!"
"I do not wonder."
"He has been grave and very deferential, gathered wood for you and
carried water. Yesterday there was a freshly killed deer at the door
of the wigwam. It is the first shy overture of the wooing Seminole."
"I know. Keela has told me. It has all frightened me a little. I--I
think I had better go away again."
"There was a time, in the days of Arcadia, when Philip would have
laughed, and a second deer would have lain at the door of your
wig-wam--"
"Philip is changed."
"He is quieter--"
"Yes."
"A little sterner--"
"Yes."
"Like one perhaps who has abandoned a dream!"
"I--do--not--know."
"Why does he ride away for days with Sho-caw?"
"I have wondered."
The wind, wafting from the rain which splashed in the pool of Mic-co's
court, might have told, but the wind, with the business of rain upon
its mind, was reticent.
"And Ronador?"
"I have not forgotten."
"He is waiting."
"Yes. Day by day I have put off the thought of the inevitable
reckoning. It is another reason why presently I must hurry away."
"A singular trio of suitors!" sighed the rain. "A prince--an Indian
warrior--and a spy!"
"Not that!" cried the girl's heart. "No, no--not that!"
"You breathed it but a minute ago!"
"I know--"
"And of the three, Sho-caw, bright copper though he is, is perhaps
braver--"
"No!"
"Taller--"
"He is not so tall as Philip."
"To be sure Philip is brown and handsome and sturdy and very strong,
but Ronador--ah!--there imperial distinction and poise are blended with
as true a native grace as Sho-caw's--"
"Humor and resource are better things."
"Sho-caw's grace is not so heavy as Ronador's--and not so sprightly as
Philip's--"
"It may be."
"One may tell much by the color and expression of a man's eye.
Sho-caw's eyes are keen, alert and grave; Ronador's dark, compelling
and very eloquent. What though there is a constant sense of
suppression and smouldering fire and not quite so much directness as
one might wish--"
"Philip's eyes are calm and steady and very frank," said the girl, "and
he is false."
"Yes," said the rain with a noise like a shower of tears, "yes, he is
very false."
The wind sighed. The steady drip of the rain, filtering through the
vines twisted heavily about the oak trunks, was indescribably mournful.
Suddenly the nameless terror that had crept into the girl's veins that
first night in the Seminole camp came again.
"When the Mulberry Moon is at its full," she said shuddering, "I will
go back to the van with Keela. I do not know what it is here that
frightens me so. And I will marry Ronador. Every wild thing in the
forest loves and mates. And I--I am very lonely."
But by the time the Mulberry Moon of the Seminoles blanketed the great
marsh in misty silver Diane was restlessly on her way back to the world
of white men.
Philip followed. Leaner, browner, a little too stern, perhaps, about
the mouth and eyes, a gypsy of greater energy and resource than when he
had struck recklessly into the Glades with the music-machine he had
since exchanged for an Indian wagon, Philip camped and smoked and
hunted with the skill and gravity of an Indian.
So the wagons filed back again into the little hamlet where Johnny
waited, daily astonishing the natives by a series of lies profoundly
adventurous and thrilling. Rex's furious bark of welcome at the sight
of his young mistress was no whit less hysterical than Johnny's instant
groan of relief, or the incoherent manner in which he detailed an
unforgettable interview with Aunt Agatha, who had appeared one night
from heaven knows where and pledged him with tears and sniffs
innumerable to telegraph her when from the melancholy fastnesses of the
Everglades, Diane or her scalp emerged.
"She wouldn't go North," finished Johnny graphically, his apple cheeks
very red and his eyes very bright, "she certainly would not--she'd like
to see herself--she would indeed!--and this no place for me to wait.
Them very words, Miss Diane. And she went and opened your
grandfather's old house in St. Augustine--the old Westfall
homestead--and she's there now waitin'. Likely, Miss Diane, I'd better
telegraph now--this very minute--afore she takes it in her head to come
again!"
Johnny's dread of another Aunt Agathean visitation was wholly candid
and sincere. He departed on a trot to telegraph, hailing Philip warmly
by the way.
Here upon the following morning Diane and Keela parted--for the Indian
girl was pledged to return to the lodge of Mic-co.
"Six moons, now," she explained with shining eyes, "I stay at the lodge
of Mic-co, my foster father. When the Falling Leaf Moon of November
comes, I shall still be there, living the ways of white men." She held
out her hand. "Aw-lip-ka-shaw!" she said shyly, her black eyes very
soft and sorrowful. "It is a prettier parting than the white man's.
By and by, Diane, you will write to the lodge of Mic-co? The Indian
lads ride in each moon to the village for Mic-co's books and papers."
Her great eyes searched Diane's face a little wistfully. "Sometime,"
she added shyly, "when you wish, I will come again. You will not ride
away soon to the far cities of the North?"
"No!" said Diane. "No indeed! Not for ever so long. I'm tired.
Likely I'll hunt a quiet spot where there's a lake and trees and
lilies, and camp and rest. You won't forget me, Keela?"
Keela had a wordless gift of eloquence. Her eyes promised.
Diane smiled and tightened her hold of the slim, brown Indian hand.
"Aw-lip-ka-shaw, Keela!" she said. "Some day I'm coming back and take
you home with me."
The Indian girl drove reluctantly away; presently her canvas wagon was
but a dim gray silhouette upon the horizon.