It is all very well for men of the world, men of fashion, men who pride
themselves on being highly civilised and peculiarly refined, to fancy
that there are no other visions in this world than "visions in silk,"
"visions in white," and the like. Those who think thus labour under an
egregious, though a civilised, mistake.
Happily there are kind, loving, pretty faces in this world, the
possessors of which know nothing about pink gauze or white muslin--faces
that have never felt the hot air of a drawing-room, but are much used to
present themselves, unveiled, to the fresh breezes of the prairie and
the mountain; faces that possess the rare quality of universal
attraction, and that cause men to fancy, when they see them for the
first time, that they have beheld a vision!
The fact is that some faces are visions, whether the forms that support
them appear to us in muslin or in deerskin. The only requisite needful
to constitute a face a vision to any particular person, is that it
should have in it that peculiar _something_ which everybody wants, but
which nobody can define; which is ineffably charming, though utterly
incomprehensible; and which, when once seen by any one, constitutes the
countenance that possesses it a vision evermore!
It is quite immaterial what material composes the dress in which the
vision appears. No doubt, the first time it bursts upon the smitten
victim, dress may be a powerful auxiliary; but, after the first time,
dress goes for little or nothing. March Marston's vision appeared, as
we have said in leather.
After the Wild Man had vanished, March continued to gaze at his new
companion with all kinds of feelings and emotions, but without being
able to move or speak. The vision returned the compliment, also without
speaking or taking any further notice of him.
She was a wonderful creature, that vision in leather! That she was of
Indian extraction was evident from the hue of her skin, yet she was not
nearly so dark as the lightest complexioned Indian. In fact her clear
soft forehead was whiter than those of many so-called pale-faces; but
her ruddy cheeks, her light-brown hair, and, above all, her bright brown
eye showed that white blood ran in her veins. She was what men term a
half-caste. She was young, almost girlish in her figure and deportment;
but the earnest gravity of her pretty face caused her to appear older
than she really was. March, unconsciously and without an effort,
guessed her to be sixteen. He was wrong. She had only seen fifteen
summers.
Her dress was a beautifully dressed deerskin gown, reaching below the
knees, as soft as chamois leather, and ornamented with beads and quill
work. It was girded round her small waist by a leather belt, from which
depended a small hunting-knife. A pair of ornamental leggings of the
same material as the gown covered her limbs, and moccasins her feet,
which latter, as well as her hands, were small and beautifully formed.
Over her shoulders were slung the masculine appendages of a powder-horn
and bullet-pouch, proving that this creature was, so to speak, a Dianic
vision.
Her staring so hard and so long at March without speaking or smiling, or
taking any more notice of him than if he had been an effigy on a
tombstone, seemed unaccountable to that youth. Had he been able to look
at himself from her point of view he would not have been so much
surprised.
In his late accident he had received so severe a blow on the left eye
that that orb was altogether shut up. As he did not move, and as the
other eye, with which he gazed in supreme astonishment at the sweet face
before him, happened to be farthest from the fire, besides being hid in
the shadow of his own nose--which was not a small one by nature, and was
a peculiarly large one by force of recent circumstances--the vision very
naturally thought that he was fast asleep. As she stood there gazing
wonderingly and somewhat sadly at the poor youth, with the red
flickering flame of the fire lighting up her yellow garments, deepening
the red on her round cheeks, glinting on the loose masses of her rich
tresses, and sparkling in the depths of her bright brown eyes, March
thought he had never in all his life before beheld such an exquisite
creature.
Supposing that he was asleep, the vision sat down quietly on a log
beside the fire, still keeping her eyes, however, fixed on her guest.
The action took her out of "the direct line of fire" of March's sound
eye, therefore he turned his head abruptly, and so brought his staring
orb into the light of the fire, and revealed the fact that he was
wide-awake; whereupon the vision uttered an exclamation of surprise,
rose hastily, and went to his side.
"You is woke," she said. "Me tink you was be sleep."
"Asleep!" cried March with enthusiasm, "no, I wasn't asleep. More than
that, I'll never go to sleep any more."
This bold assertion naturally filled the vision with surprise.
"Why for not?" she asked, sitting down on a log beside March in such a
position that she could see him easily.
"For thinkin' o' _you_!" replied the bold youth firmly.
The vision looked at him in still greater astonishment, opening her eyes
slowly until they seemed like two pellucid lakelets of unfathomable
depth into which March felt inclined to fling himself, clothes and all,
and be drowned comfortably. She then looked at the fire, then at March
again. It was evident that she had not been accustomed to hold
intercourse with jocular minds. Perceiving this, March at once changed
his tone, and, with a feeling of respect which he could not well account
for, said rather bluntly--
"What's your name?"
"Mary."
"Ay! did your father give you that name?"
"My father?" echoed the girl, looking hastily up.
"Ay, did Dick give it you?"
"Did him tell you him's name be Dick?" asked Mary.
"Oh! he's known by another name to you, then, it would seem. But, Mary,
what _is_ his name?"
The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it. Then, with a
little sad smile, said--
"Him tell you Dick, that be good name. But Dick not my father. My
father dead."
The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone that
March felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord. He
hastened to change the subject by saying--
"Is Dick kind to you, Mary?"
"Kind," she cried, looking up with a flashing eye and flushed face,
while with one of her little hands she tossed back her luxuriant
tresses. "Kind! Him be my father _now_. No have got nobody to love me
now but him."
"Yes, you have, Mary," said March stoutly.