A CIRCLE IN THE SAND
I have since thought it almost providential that my food supply was
so limited; for, after first asking me if I had eaten all I required,
she fell upon it like a famished thing, and did not desist until all
was gone. A threatening bank of dark cloud was creeping slowly up
the northern sky as we were resting, but directly overhead the stars
were shining brilliantly, yielding me sufficient light for the study
of her face. She was certainly less than my own age by two or three
years, a girl barely rounding into the slender beauty of her earliest
womanhood, with hints of both in face and form. She was simply dressed,
as, indeed, might naturally be expected in a wilderness far removed
from marts of trade; but her clothing was of excellent texture, and
became her well in spite of its recent exposure, while a bit of rather
expensive lace at the throat and a flutter of gay ribbons about the
wrists told plainly that she did not disdain the usual adornments
of her sex. And this was quickly shown in another way. She had not
yet completed her frugal meal when her mind reverted to her personal
appearance, and she paused, with heightened color, to draw back her
loosened hair and fasten it in place with a knot of scarlet cord. It
was surely a winsome face that smiled up at me then.
"I feel almost guilty of robbery," she said, "in taking all this food,
which was no doubt intended for your own supper."
"Merely what chanced to be left of it," I answered heartily. "Had
I so much as dreamed this stretch of sand was to yield me such
companionship, I should have stinted myself more."
An expression of bewildered surprise crept into her eyes as I spoke.
"Surely you are not a mere _coureur de bois_, as I supposed from
your dress," she exclaimed. "Your expression is that of an educated
gentleman."
I smiled; for I was young enough to feel the force of her unconscious
flattery.
"I believe I can prove descent from an old and honorable race," I said;
"but it has been my fortune to be reared in the backwoods, and whatever
education has come to me I owe to the love and skill of my mother."
My frankness pleased her, and she made no attempt to disguise her
interest.
"I am so glad you told me," she said simply. "My mother died when I
was only ten, yet her memory has always been an inspiration. Are you a
Protestant?"
This unexpected question took me by surprise; yet I answered
unhesitatingly, "Yes."
"I was educated at the Ursuline Convent in Montreal. It was my mother's
dearest wish that I should take the vows of that order, but I fear I am
far too frivolous for so serious a life. I love happy things too well,
and the beautiful outside world of men and women. I ran away from the
Sisters, and then my father and I voyaged to this country, where we
might lead a freer life together."
"Here?" and I glanced questioningly about me into those darkening
shadows which were momentarily hemming us in more closely.
"To Fort Dearborn," she explained. "We came by boat through the
straits at the north; and 'twas a trip to remember. My father brought
out goods from Canada, and traded with the Indians. I have been in
their villages. Once I was a week alone with a tribe of Sacs near
Green Bay, and they called me the White Queen. I have met many famous
warriors of the Wyandots and Pottawattomies, and have seen them dance
at their council. Once I journeyed as far west as the Great River,
across leagues and leagues of prairie," and her face lighted up at the
remembrance. "Father said he thought I must be the first white woman
who had ever travelled so far inland. We have been at Dearborn for
nearly a year."
She rose to her feet, and swept her eyes, with some anxiety, around
upon dim mounds of sand that appeared more fantastic than ever in the
darkness.
"Had we not better be going?" she asked. "There is surely a storm
gathering yonder."
"Yes," I answered, for I had not been indifferent to the clouds
steadily banking up in the north. "Yet you have not told me your name,
and I should be most glad to know it."
The girl courtesied mockingly, as though half inclined to laugh at my
insistence.
"What is a name?" she exclaimed. "'Tis not that for which we greatly
care. Now I--I am simply Mademoiselle Antoinette,--at least, so most
of those I care for call me; and from now on, the very good friend of
Master John Wayland."
I was deeply conscious that I blushed at her words and manner; but with
it there arose an instant query in my mind: could this be the fair
Toinette whom De Croix sought so ardently? I greatly feared it; yet I
resolved I would not mention his name to her.
"It has a decided French sound," I stammered.
She laughed at my tone, with a quick shrug of her shoulders.
"And pray, why not, Monsieur? Have you such a prejudice against that
great people that you need speak of them with so glum a voice? Ah, but
if I must, then I shall endeavor to teach you a higher regard for us."
"That may not prove so hard a task," I hastened to assure her; "though
I was surprised,--you speak English with so pure an accent that I had
not dreamed you other than of my own race."
"My father was of English blood," she answered more gravely; "but I
fear you will find me quite of my mother's people, if ever we come
to know each other well. But hark! that was surely thunder! We have
loitered too long; the storm is about to break."
It was indeed upon us almost before she ceased speaking. A sudden rush
of wind sent my hat flying into the darkness, and whipped her long
black hair loose from its restraining knot. I had barely time to wrap
my hunting-jacket closely around her shoulders, when the rain came
dashing against our faces.
I drew her unresistingly around the edge of the nearest sand-pile; but
this supplied poor protection against the storm, the wind lashing the
fine grit into our faces, stinging us like bits of fire. I tried to
excavate some sort of cave that might afford us at least a partial
shelter; but the sand slid down almost as rapidly as I could dig it out
with my hands.
"Oh, let us press on!" she urged, laying her hand upon my arm in
entreaty. "We shall become no wetter moving, and your camp, you said,
was only a short distance away."
"But are you strong enough to walk?" And as I leaned forward toward
her, a quick flash of vivid lightning, directly overhead, lit both our
faces. I marked she did not shrink, and no look of fear came into her
eyes.
"I am quite myself once more," she answered confidently. "It was
despair and loneliness that so disheartened me. I have never been timid
physically, and your presence has brought back the courage I needed."
There was a natural frankness, a peculiar confidence, about this girl,
that robbed me of my usual diffidence; and as we struggled forward
through the dampening sand, her dress clinging about her and retarding
progress, I dared to slip one arm about her waist to help in bearing
her along. She accepted this timely aid in the spirit with which it was
offered, without so much as a word of protest; and the wind, battering
at our backs, pushed us forward.
"Oh, that troublesome hair!" she exclaimed, as the long tresses whipped
in front of our faces, blinding us both. "I have never before felt so
much like sacrificing it."
"I beg that you will not consider such an act now," I protested, aiding
her to reclaim the truants, "for as I saw it before the darkness fell,
your hair was surely worthy of preservation."
"You laugh at me; I know I must have been a far from pretty sight."
"Do you wish me to say with frankness what I thought of your appearance
under such disadvantages?"
She glanced at me almost archly, in the flash of lightning that rent
the sky.
"I am really afraid to answer yes,--yet perhaps I am brave enough to
venture it."
"I have never been at court, Mademoiselle, and so you may not consider
my judgment in such matters of much moment; but I thought you rarely
beautiful."
For a moment she did not attempt to speak, but I could distinctly feel
the heaving of her bosom as I held her hard against the assault of the
wind, and bent low hoping to catch an answer.
"You are sincere and honest," she said at last, slowly, and I felt that
the faint trace of mockery had utterly vanished from her soft voice.
"'Tis manifest in your face and words. You speak not lightly, nor with
mere empty compliment, as would some gilded courtiers I have known;
and for that reason I do value your opinion."
"You are not angry at my presumption?"
"Angry?--I?" and she stopped and faced me, holding back her hair as she
did so. "I am a woman, Monsieur; and all women, even those of us hidden
here in the wilderness, like best those who admire them. I do not know
that I am as beautiful as you say, yet other men have often said the
same without being pressed for their opinion. No, I am not angry,--I am
even glad to know you think so."
"And you surely do know?" I insisted, with a courage strange to me.
"Yes," she answered, but her eyes fell before my eagerness; "you are
not one who has yet learned to lie, even to women. 'Tis a relief to
know there are such men still in the world."
We had come to a full halt by this time.
"Do you have any idea where we may be?" she asked, peering anxiously
about, and perhaps glad to change the tone of our conversation. "I
cannot note a landmark of any kind. These sand-hills seem all alike."
"I believe we have kept to the southward, for we have merely drifted
with the storm; but I confess my sole guidance has been the direction
of the wind, as these sand-lanes are most confusing. If there were the
slightest shelter at hand, I should insist upon your waiting until the
rain was over."
"No, it is better to go on. I am now wet to the skin, and shall be
warmer moving than resting on this damp sand."
We must have been moving for an hour, scarcely speaking a word, for the
severe exertion required all our breath. The rain had ceased, and stars
began to glimmer amid the cloud-rifts overhead; but I knew now that we
were lost. She stopped suddenly, and sank down upon the sand.
"I am exhausted," she admitted, "and believe we are merely moving about
in a circle."
"Yes," I said, reluctantly; "we are wasting our strength to no purpose.
'T will be better to wait for daylight here."
It was a gloomy place, and the silence of those vast expanses of
desolate sand was overwhelming. It oppressed me strangely.
"Let me feel the touch of your hand," she said once. "It is so
desperately lonely. I have been on the wide prairie, at night and
alone; yet there is always some sound there upon which the mind may
rest. Here the stillness is like a weight."
Possibly I felt this depressing influence the more because of my long
forest training, where at least the moaning of limbs, fluttering of
leaves, or flitting of birds brings relief to the expectant senses;
while here all was absolute solitude, so profound that our breathing
itself was startling. The air above appeared empty and void; the
earth beneath, lifeless and dead. Although neither of us was cowardly
of heart, yet we instinctively drew closer together, and our eyes
strained anxiously over the black sand-ridges, now barely discernible
through the dense gloom. We tried to talk, but even that soon grew to
be a struggle, so heavily did the suspense rest upon our spirits, so
oppressed were we by imaginings of evil. I remember telling her my
simple story, gaining in return brief glimpses of her experiences in
Canada and the farther West. She even informed me that orders had been
received, the day before she became lost upon the lake, to abandon Fort
Dearborn; that an Indian runner--whom she named Winnemeg had arrived
from General Hull at Detroit, bringing also news that Mackinac had
fallen.
"Doubtless your absence has greatly worried them also," I said.
"Oh, no; none of them knew my plight. Possibly some may miss me, but
they will naturally suppose I have been at Mr. Kinzie's house all
this time. I have been there often for weeks together, and they have
frequently urged me to take shelter with them. You see it is far safer
there than at the Fort, for even the most hostile Indians remain on
friendly terms with Mr. Kinzie and his family. He has been there so
many years, and is so just a man in his dealings with them. 'Tis
really strange to see how he leaves his house unguarded, while the
garrison at the Fort is almost in a state of siege. It makes it hard to
realize how imminent is the danger. Yet they are terribly alarmed at
the Fort, and I fear with cause. Even Mr. Kinzie feels the situation
to be critical. There were fully three hundred Pottawattomie warriors
encamped without the Fort two days ago; and they were becoming bold and
impudent,--one chief even firing his gun in Captain Heald's office,
thinking to frighten him into furnishing them with liquor."
"But the Fort is strong?" I asked. "It is capable of resisting an
attack?"
"I should suppose so," she answered, hesitatingly; "but that is not a
matter upon which a girl may judge. I fear, however, all is not harmony
among its defenders. I know that Captain Heald and Ensign Ronan do not
agree, and I have heard bitter words spoken by other officers of the
garrison."
I thought she did not care to speak more about this matter, and we
drifted off upon other topics, until I felt her head sink slowly down
upon my shoulder, and knew she slept. I sat there still, pillowing her
tenderly upon my arm, when the gray light of the dawn stole slowly
toward us across the ridges of sand and revealed the upturned face.