AN INDIAN IN THE MOONLIGHT
When Mrs. West returned to the ranch in the evening, she sought Bess in
her room to learn of her experience in the culinary department during
the day. As she tapped at the door and softly entered, a dejected,
dishevelled and tear-stained figure arose and flung her arms about the
“little Mother.”
Impulsively and swiftly she poured into Mrs. West’s astonished ears all
that had transpired that morning, and when she had finished, she said,
“Why, little Mother, I love so much already, I cannot find room for any
more. I love you—I love James—the birds—the grass and flowers! I love
the mountains and the wonderful lake! I love my music—my books and my
pictures! I love Mauchacho—I love babies—and dogs. Where is there room
for any more?”
Then Mrs. West led her to a seat, and taking both the girl’s hands into
her own, told her that the love of all these things was so entirely
different from the love she would one day understand, that they would
be crowded out and set apart when her heart was ready to receive the
great and inevitable passion.
“But I do think, dear, that Major Davis was rather premature in his
announcement. Perhaps selfishness prompted him, and he spoke before
leaving you lest someone else would try to teach my little girl life’s
most wonderful and most beautiful lesson. He need not have been so
anxious, however, as there are no eligible young men near here, except
perhaps my own son.” After a slight pause she added, “But he is—he
is—only an Indian!”
“Oh, little Mother! What difference need that make! He has the whitest
heart! That is his greatest innate quality, the one which prompts him
to be a—_man_! God does not make any discrimination between him and me;
why should insignificant _I_ presume to.”
Impulsively Bess threw her arms about Mrs. West’s neck, and looked
deeply into her eyes. For a moment, neither could say a word, and when
Mrs. West assumed control of her voice she said: “My dear child—thank
you for your sympathy; it helps so much. But, there is all the
world—outside there, who do not understand as you do, dear; who do not
feel as you feel; who—,” but she could say no more.
“Come, little Mother, let us go out by the lake and watch the moon
rise. We each need God and nature tonight.”
As they passed through the hall-way Bess gently placed a light shawl
about Mrs. West’s shoulders, and taking a wrap for herself, together
they went out into the night.
As she passed the door of the living-room she saw Henry reclining on a
cozy couch and knew, from the listless manner in which he held a book,
that he had fallen asleep. Over his knees was spread a bright-colored
Navajo blanket.
Together they walked, their hands clasped in loving pressure. Bess knew
where a log, sheltered from any passing breeze, commanded a splendid
view of both the lake and the mountains. It was quite a little walk
from the house, and gladly Mrs. West seated herself to recover her
breath.
The scene was too beautiful to be marred by idle words, and each felt
that to speak would be sacrilegious. All about them was the purple
twilight, deep and silent,—immeasurable silence everywhere, except
where the tiny waves splashed against a rock, or a tall pine whispered
a tender sigh to a near-by tamarack. Myriads of quivering stars hung
balanced in the far-off sky, and occasionally one shot out across the
illimitable space, with a tiny trail of light, which suddenly became
extinguished as if it had sunk into the sea. By this symbol, the
shooting star, the world might know a soul had been released and found
its way to heaven. Mrs. West reverently crossed herself, and Bess gave
the hand a pressure of understanding.
“Bess, dear, I fear I am growing chilly. It will be some time before
the moon shows over the hills. We better go indoors.”
“Please, little Mother, let me remain a little while. I shall not be
afraid. Why! I have been here several times alone before! All I have
thought of is the stars! There are so many things I must think of
before I could go to sleep. That’s a dear—let me stay,” she concluded
in such an entreaty that Mrs. West allowed herself to be gently turned
toward the house.
Bess stood watching till the retreating figure became fainter and
fainter and was swallowed in the gloom of the willows near the spring.
She was alone—alone with the stars, the sea—the moon. Alone with all
the new and strange emotions which she had learned this day! “Hurry,
oh, moon! Come over the tops, to help me to think! To give me light! To
teach me to know and to understand!” she prayed.
The sky grew brighter, the rough and rugged tips of the mountains
softened and glowed with luminous silvery light, and the tiny ripples
on the lake caught the half-shed radiance, glistening like millions of
jewels. The girl drew her wrap snugly about her and sinking into a seat
on a rock with her back against the huge log, drew her knees up so that
her chin rested against them on her clasped hands. Her ears rang with
the words they had heard in the morning—“I love you—you made me love
you!” till she knew no other thought.
“Yes, but how can anyone know—know, when they really love! How is
one to be sure—sure—sure!” The girl’s thoughts thronged. “All love
seems to me the same! The degree may vary, but it all feels the same!
How am I to know when I possess that other kind! Dear me, what’s the
use of trying to love any more when my heart is too crowded already!
No—I guess I won’t try—won’t even try to love you, Mr. Davis.” She
straightened with a relieved sigh.
Just then, the moon, fair, round and full, shot up over the crests,
and all the world was filled with beautiful, silvery light. One could
distinguish the greens of the pines and firs as well as the browns and
greys of the rocks. Even the girl’s dress showed a softest pink in the
tender moonlight. How glorious it was! The lake looked like the sea as
it stretched across the miles to the far shore. The mountains towered
loftily into the vault of heaven. The quietude of the forests, as the
gigantic monarchs bathed in the glowing light. And above all, to _be_,
to _breathe_, to _live_ amongst all this sublimity of beauty. How
glorious it all is! What more could one wish? What more could one love?
What need of any other kind of love? On—on ran the thoughts of the
girl, all unconscious physically, save to the wonder of the night.
A movement behind her, caused her to turn her head quickly. She
smothered a cry of fear as she saw approaching through the trees, a
tall form closely wrapped in a brightly-colored blanket. How clearly
she could distinguish the colors as the man came from the shadows out
into the brilliant moonlight. Bess held her breath and did not move as
the man stopped and looked searchingly about. Silently he stood; then
suddenly flinging out his arms and lifting his face to the witchery of
the moon, the blanket fell off his shoulders to the ground about him
and revealed Henry West.
What a picture he made! His upturned face, silhouetted against the
trees, seemed in a halo of light—the arms lifted in an appeal to the
sky. The garb of the white man enshrouded him, the robe of the Indian
lay at his feet. Slowly he passed his hands across his brow with a
despairing gesture, and held them over his eyes, as if they could no
longer endure the lovely, if loveless, night.
When the object of her alarm had vanished, Bess startled West by
springing quickly to the top of the log and saying: “Oh, Henry! How you
frightened me! When I saw you stalking through the trees I thought it
was an In—!” Quickly as she checked herself, she was not quick enough,
for West ended her sentence for her.
“Indian! So I was—see, lying here at my feet!”
He stooped and picked up the Navajo blanket which he had hastily caught
off the couch and wrapped about him when his mother awakened him.
He quietly walked over to the girl standing on the log, nonchalantly
enfolded himself in the blanket, crossed it over his face to his eyes,
and for a moment stood motionless. Bess placed her fingers against her
parted lips as if to keep back any idle words.
“Sometimes—sometimes—now, I wish all I knew was how to wrap my blanket
about me!” he said, with effort. “The great outside world does not want
me, cannot understand me. What need or comfort are the things which the
world has taught me, when after all, my winding-sheet will be but a
blanket? What right has the world to give me a desire for knowledge, a
taste of heaven, an understanding of the past, a dread of the future,
and then hold up its hands to say, ‘You are still an Indian.’”
Again he let the blanket drop at his feet and stood gazing into
the moon, while written on his face were despair and longing and
resignation. A chord in the girl’s heart was touched at the sight of
the strong man before her, and it was set attune to the one which had
been awakened in the churchyard, where she once before saw his misery.
She sprang lightly to the ground, picked up the blanket and placed it
again about his shoulders.
“I like to see you so. You are too often sad, Henry. Tell me something
I may do to make you happy. Tell me!” Bess entreated.
West stood looking at her for a moment, the shadow of a fleeing cloud
hiding the love-light which shone in his dark eyes, then said: “You
placed my blanket about me, that’s enough. Mother is anxious about you,
Bess, and sent me to bring you into the house. Come—one may have too
much moon you know.”