GIFTS
"Cousin Rob," said Beatrice, the next morning, "I think you're
dreadfully stupid."
"Why?"
"Because--yesterday, you know."
"You're indefinite."
"Why, when Aunt Eleanor was telling about the quilt that was stolen--a
white quilt, with blue stars--you didn't know where it was."
"Did you?"
"Of course I did--it's in the little house in the woods."
"I wasn't in the house, Bee--you told me about it, but I didn't see
it."
"Well, anyhow, you should have known," she concluded, with truly
feminine inconsistency.
"Perhaps," smiled Robert; "but I'd rather not know, and then there'd
be an excuse for your telling me."
A faint colour came into the girl's cheeks. "I had an awful dream
about you last night," she said, in a low tone; "I dreamed you were
drowned in the lake."
Robert started, but managed to control his voice. "I'm not drowned,"
he answered, with apparent lightness; but he was wondering whether
Ronald had broken his promise. Still, no one had crossed the river,
from either side, since the accident--he was sure of that.
"Be careful, won't you?" Beatrice pleaded earnestly.
"Certainly--but would you care?"
All the rosy tints faded from her face and the mist came into her
eyes. Her "yes" was scarcely audible, but it moved the man strangely.
"I'd do anything to please you, my dear--cousin," he said tenderly.
"Quarrelling?" asked Mackenzie, from the doorway.
"Not this time," laughed the girl.
"I've got something to tell you, Bee. Black Partridge was here early
this morning, long before you were up, and apologised for running off
with the picture--that is, as nearly as an Indian ever apologises.
From what he said, I infer that he thinks the Great Spirit dwells in
you, but he is willing for you to finish it. The medicine-man of the
tribe told him good would come from it, rather than evil, so he left
it here to be completed."
"All right," she answered; "I'll go to work at it now and try to get
it done before he changes his mind again."
Robert brought the picture and her paints, and they sat down together
on the piazza while she added the finishing touches. "Couldn't we make
a frame for it?" asked Robert.
"What could we make it of?"
"He'd prefer beads, wouldn't he?"
"Yes, I suppose so," she said, with a puzzled little frown; "but I
don't know how to make a bead frame."
"I should think a plain wooden frame might be whittled out, smeared
with pitch or rosin, and the beads stuck on while it was hot."
"You're a genius, Cousin Rob. Get the beads off uncle and make it
while I'm finishing the picture."
Mackenzie willingly placed his stock at their service, and, after
taking careful measurements, Forsyth found a piece of soft pine and
made a narrow, flat frame. Beatrice finished her work in time to help
set the beads in the rosin, and Mackenzie and his wife came out to
admire the result.
The picture was framed to their satisfaction when Black Partridge,
somewhat shamefaced, appeared at the trading station. He took it with
every evidence of delight and made a long speech to Mackenzie, of
which Robert understood only a little.
"What does he say?" asked Beatrice, impatiently.
"He says he is very thankful and very grateful and much pleased, and
that as long as he lives neither of you shall ever want for a friend.
He says while the sun rises and sets and the stars move in their
courses, Black Partridge will be the faithful friend of the paleface
and her lover."
Robert was much embarrassed, but Beatrice only laughed. "Tell him he
is very welcome," she said, "and that when we need a friend we will
not hesitate to call upon Black Partridge."
The speech was duly repeated, with additional assurances which
Mackenzie knew would please the chief, and the visit was ended with
much ceremony.
Ronald was coming across the river, and Beatrice lingered upon the
piazza until he opened the gate, when she gathered up her paints and
went into the house without a word of greeting. There was a shade of
annoyance in the Ensign's salutation, but he made no allusion to the
girl.
"Come on out for a bit," suggested Robert; "I want to talk to you."
They went north along the river bank in silence until they were out of
sight of the house, then Robert turned suddenly and faced him.
"Say," he said, "did you tell any one about my--about yesterday, you
know?"
"No," answered Ronald, meeting his eyes squarely; "why?"
"Oh--nothing. Are you sure you didn't say anything that would lead any
one to suspect?"
"'Nary peep, unless I talked in my sleep. When I found out that you'd
drained my flask of everything but the smell, I went to Doc after a
new supply, and when he asked me what had become of it I told him
you'd taken to drink, but that was all. Now, I'll ask you a few
questions. Why doesn't Miss Manning want me to come over?"
"Why, I don't know," replied Forsyth, wonderingly; "doesn't she?"
"Doesn't look like it," grumbled the other. "Didn't you see her gallop
into the house the minute I opened the gate?"
"I didn't notice."
"You would, if she'd done it to you." Ronald was plainly in a bad
humour. "What's more, if I speak to her, she never answers me
decently. A girl never treated me like that before," he fumed; "just
wait till I get my new uniform!"
"When is it coming?" asked Forsyth, glad of the chance to change the
subject.
"Dunno--the boys are going to start early in the morning, but there's
no telling when they'll get back."
"Are you going?"
"Indeed, and I am not. How can I go when there's no horse for me?"
"I thought you were going to--to borrow," stammered the other.
"Hardly!" The Ensign stopped and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
"Suffering Moses!" he said, "wouldn't she be mad!"
"Yes, I think she would, but I don't see why. She lets you lead Queen,
doesn't she?"
"Oh, Lord, yes! I'm allowed to lead the beast twenty times around
the Fort every day for exercise--she said we both needed it, and
she didn't want to ride while it was so hot,--but she particularly
impressed it upon me that under no circumstances was I to mount. A
groom--a stable boy,--that's what she thinks I am! I believe I'll
tell her to lead her own nag!"
"I wouldn't," returned Forsyth.
"Why not?" demanded the other. "What do you know about women?"
"Not very much," admitted Robert, laughing; "but we're all at sea
there, I fancy."
Gradually Ronald's temper improved, and in a short time he was his
sunny self again. Peace dwelt in the woods along the river, and where
the young officer stretched himself full length under an overhanging
willow, the quiet coolness of the unsunned spaces put an end,
insensibly, to his irritation.
"Say," he said, "did you ever write poetry?"
Forsyth smiled, remembering certain callow attempts in his college
days. "Yes, I called it that."
"Then you're the very man for me," announced George, "for I'm going to
write a poem!"
"What about?"
"Oh--er--anything. Poems don't have to be about anything, do they?
It's to go with a present--a birthday present, you know."
"To a girl?"
Ronald laughed long and loud. "No," he cried; "of course not! It's a
little tribute of affection for the Captain! Lord, but you're green!"
"How can I help you with it if I don't know the circumstances?"
demanded Forsyth. "What is the present?"
"The present isn't much--the poem is the main part of it. It's an
Indian basket that Mrs. B. P. made for me in return for two fists of
beads." Ronald took off his cap, felt around carefully inside of it,
and at length produced a slip of paper, much worn. "I've got some
of it," he said, "and I thought if I kept it on my head it might
stimulate thought, but it hasn't."
"Let's hear it."
The poet cleared his throat and read proudly:
"Lovely lady, take this basket;
'Tis your willing slave who asks it."
Robert bit his lips, but managed to turn a serious face toward Ronald.
"Is that all you've got?"
"That's all, so far. I thought myself into a headache about it, but I
couldn't write any more. What shall I put in next?"
"I don't want to seem critical," observed Forsyth; "but you've got a
false rhyme there."
"What's a 'false rhyme'?"
"'Basket' and asks it'--'ask it' would be all right."
"It doesn't fit. We'll leave that just as it is--nobody but you would
notice it, and you're not getting the present."
"What do you want to say next?"
"Well, I don't know, exactly," replied Ronald, confidentially. "Of
course, I want it to be personal in a way, with a delicate reminder of
my affection at the end of it."
"You've got a 'delicate reminder,' as you call it, in the second line."
"Never mind that; go to work."
"Lovely lady, take this basket;
'T is your willing slave who asks it,"
repeated Robert, thoughtfully. "It was made by an Indian maiden--how
would that do?"
"That's all right, only it was a squaw."
"It was made by an Indian squaw, then," continued Robert. "What rhymes
with squaw?"
"Dunno."
"Paw," said Forsyth.
"It was made by an Indian squaw
With a dark and greasy paw."
"Shut up!" said Ronald. "She'd throw it out of the window if she
thought it wasn't clean. Call her a maiden if you like."
"It was made by an Indian maiden--there isn't any rhyme for 'maiden.'"
"Laden," suggested George, after long and painful thought.
"That's good, if we can work it in."
"It was made by an Indian maiden--
With my love it now goes laden.
"How's that?"
"Fine!" beamed Ronald. "Say, I didn't know you were a poet!"
"Neither did I," replied Forsyth, modestly.
"Lovely lady, take this basket:
'Tis your willing slave who asks it.
It was made by an Indian maiden--
With my love it now goes laden."
"That's simply magnificent!" said Ronald. "We ought to write another
verse, hadn't we?"
"As you say."
"If we can do another one as good as that, it'll be a masterpiece. My
name ought to come in at the end, hadn't it?"
"Nothing rhymes with 'Ronald,' does it?"
"I didn't mean that--I meant my front name."
"Oh," said Forsyth. He was wondering how the girl in Fort Wayne would
like the poem, and longed to ask questions about her, but felt that it
would be improper.
"'Forge' is the only thing I can think of for a rhyme," said the
Ensign, at length; "that wouldn't do, would it?"
"My heart is burning like a forge,
All because I love you--George."
"How's that?"
Ronald's delight knew no bounds. "The very thing!" he shouted. "Now,
all we have to do is to put two lines above it and it will be done.
That's the end of the verse, you know."
"Might put her name in," suggested Robert, not without guile.
Ronald appeared to consider it carefully. "No," he said, "that wouldn't
do. One name is enough to have in it. Something ought to go in about
her looks, don't you think so--eyes, or mouth, or skin?"
"'Skin,'" repeated Robert, laughing; "girls never have 'skin.' They
call it their 'complexion.'"
"Thought you didn't know anything about women," George said, looking
at him narrowly.
"Oh, come now, I can't help knowing that--any fool knows that!"
"Except me," put in the Ensign, pointedly. "However, I'll let the
insult pass for the sake of the poem. Put in something about her
mouth, can't you?"
The vision of Beatrice's scarlet, parted lips, with their dangerous
curves, came before Robert.
"Reddest roses of the South
Are not sweeter than your mouth,"
he suggested.
"Man," said Ronald, soberly, "you're a genius. Write it down quick
before it gets away. Now I'll read the whole thing:
"Lovely lady, take this basket;
'T is your willing slave who asks it.
It was made by an Indian maiden--
With my love it now goes laden.
"Reddest roses of the South
Are not sweeter than your mouth;
My heart is burning like a forge,
All because I love you--George.
"Sounds like Shakespeare, doesn't it?"
"I wouldn't say that," answered Forsyth, with proper modesty.
"Got any good paper to write it on?"
"Only a little, but you're welcome to it."
"All right, let's go back and get it. Say, do you think she'll be
pleased?"
"She can't help being pleased," Robert assured him.
"I'm ever so much obliged," said Ronald diffidently. "I never could
have done it so well alone."
When they reached Mackenzie's, Beatrice came out on the piazza as
Robert went in after the paper, and she was evidently inclined to
conversation.
"Where have you been?" she asked sweetly.
"Oh, just up-stream a little ways," replied Ronald, carelessly.
"Have you had Queen out this morning?"
"Yes, I rode her half-way to Fort Wayne and back. She got pretty well
used up, but it did her good."
"How dare you!" flamed Beatrice, stamping her foot.
Ronald laughed and leaned easily against the side of the house while
she stormed at him. Even Robert's appearance did not have any effect
upon her wrath.
"Say, Rob," said the Ensign, when she paused to take breath, "your
cousin here doesn't seem to know a joke when she sees it. She thinks
I'd ride that old gun-carriage she keeps in the garrison stables. Calm
her down a bit, will you? Bye-bye!"
The fire died out of the girl's eyes and her lips quivered. Her breast
was heaving, but she kept herself in check till Ronald slammed the
gate, then her shoulders shook with sobs.
"Bee!" cried Robert. "Don't, dear!"
Instinctively he put his arm around her, and she leaned against his
shoulder, sobbing helplessly, her self-control quite gone. Ronald was
untying a pirogue at the landing, when he looked back and saw the
inspiring tableau.
"Good Lord!" he said, under his breath, as Robert, with his arm still
around her, led Beatrice into the house.
* * * * *
Later in the week, as Robert was on his way to breakfast, he met Maria
Indiana in the long, narrow passage back of the living-rooms. "What
have you there, baby?" he asked.
Maria Indiana held out a small Indian basket of wonderful workmanship,
filled with berries, fresh and fragrant, with the dew still on them.
Tucked in at one side was a note, written upon his own stationery, as
he could not help seeing. "It's for Tuzzin Bee!" lisped the child.
"Misser George said nobody mus' see!"
The little feet pattered down the passage, but Robert stood still for
a moment, as if he had turned to stone. Then wild unrest possessed him
and stabs of pain pierced his consciousness. "Fool that I was!" he
said to himself, bitterly; "blind, cursed fool!"
All at once he knew that he loved Beatrice with every fibre of his
being--that she held his heart in the hollow of her hand, to crush or
hurt as she pleased. He was shaken like an aspen in a storm--this,
then, was why her flower-like face had haunted his dreams.
Swiftly upon the knowledge came a great uplifting, such as Love brings
to the man whose life has been clean. It was a proud heart yielding
only to the keeper of its keys--the absolute surrender of a kingdom to
its queen.
Beatrice was late to breakfast, as usual; and Robert, acutely
self-conscious, could not meet her eyes. She brought the basket with
her and offered the berries as her contribution to the morning meal.
Between gasps of laughter she read the poem, thereby causing mixed
emotions in Forsyth. "Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?" she
asked, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes.
Robert wished that the giver might see the rare pleasure his gift
had brought to the recipient, but swiftly reproached himself for the
ungenerous thought.
"It was nice of him to remember your birthday, Bee," said Mrs.
Mackenzie, who was always ready to defend Ronald.
"How did he know it was my birthday?" demanded Beatrice.
"I told him," replied Mrs. Mackenzie. "He asked me, long ago, to find
out when it was and to let him know."
"Clever of him," commented Beatrice, somewhat mollified. "Why didn't
you get something for my birthday, Cousin Rob?" she asked, with a
winning smile.
"Perhaps I did," he answered; "the day is still young."
He had already decided what to give her, and knew that his offering
would not suffer by comparison with Ronald's, even though no poem
went with it; but when he went to his room to look in his box for the
moccasins he had bought so long ago, he was astonished to find that
they were gone.
He ransacked the room thoroughly, but without success. He could not
even remember when he had seen them last, though he knew he had taken
them down from the wall of his room and put them away. Still, he was
not greatly concerned, for he was sure that he could go to the Indian
camp and find another pair.
After school he started off on a long, lonely tramp, and returned at
sunset, empty handed and exasperated. Beatrice had on her pink calico
gown, and was sitting demurely upon the piazza--alone. She seemed
like a rose to her lover, and he was about to tell her so, but she
forestalled him.
"Where's my birthday present?" she asked, sweetly; "I've been looking
for it all day!"
Then he told her about the moccasins he had for her, though he failed
to mention the fact that he had bought them for her long before she
came to Fort Dearborn. "When I went after them this morning," he said,
"I discovered that they had been stolen. I've been out now to see if
I couldn't get another pair, but I couldn't even find a squaw who was
willing to make them. You don't know how sorry I am!"
"Never mind," she said soothingly, "it's no matter. Of course, I'd
love to have the moccasins, but it's the thought, rather than the
gift, and I'd rather know that you found out from Aunt Eleanor when my
birthday was, and tried to give me pleasure, than to have the pleasure
itself."
The colour mounted to Robert's temples, but he could not speak. He
felt that his silence was a lie, and a cowardly one at that, but he
was helpless before the girl's smile.
"What's that?" asked Beatrice, suddenly, pointing across the river.
There was a stir at the Fort. Men ran in and out, evidently under
stress of great excitement, then a tall and stately being, resplendent
in a new uniform, came out and turned a handspring on the esplanade.
"What's up?" shouted Robert.
Ronald turned another handspring and threw his cap high in the air
before he condescended to answer. "Bully!" he roared; "we're going to
fight! War is declared against England!"