The Indian On The Trail From "Mackinac And Lake Stories", 1899

Maurice Barrett sat waiting in the old lime-kiln built by the British in the war of 1812--a white ruin like much-scattered marble, which stands bowered in trees on a high part of the island. He had, to the amusement of the commissioner, hired this place for a summer study, and paid a carpenter to put a temporary roof over it, with skylight, and to make a door which could be fastened. Here on the uneven floor of stone were set his desk, his chair, and a bench on which he could stretch himself to think when undertaking to make up arrears in literary work. But the days were becoming nothing but trysts with her for whom he waited.

First came the heavenly morning walk and the opening of his study, then the short half-hour of labor, which ravelled off to delicious suspense. He caught through trees the hint of a shirt-waist which might be any girl's, then the long exquisite outline which could be nobody's in the world but hers, her face under its sailor hat, the blown blond hair, the blue eyes. Then her little hands met his outstretched hands at the door, and her whole violet-breathing self yielded to his arms.

They sat down on the bench, still in awe of each other and of the swift miracle of their love and engagement. Maurice had passed his fiftieth year, so clean from dissipation, so full of vitality and the beauty of a long race of strong men, that he did not look forty, and in all out-door activities rivalled the boys in their early twenties. He was an expert mountain-climber and explorer of regions from which he brought his own literary material; inured to fatigue, patient in hardship, and resourceful in danger. Money and reputation and the power which attends them he had wrung from fate as his right, and felt himself fit to match with the best blood in the world--except hers.

Yet she was only his social equal, and had grown up next door, while his unsatisfied nature searched the universe for its mate--a wild sweetbrier-rose of a child, pink and golden, breathing a daring, fragrant personality. He hearkened back to some recognition of her charm from the day she ran out bareheaded and slim-legged on her father's lawn and turned on the hose for her play. Yet he barely missed her when she went to an Eastern school, and only thrilled vaguely when she came back like one of Gibson's pictures, carrying herself with state-liness. There was something in her blue eyes not to be found in any other blue eyes. He was housed with her family in the same hotel at the island before he completely understood the magnitude of what had befallen him.

“I am awfully set up because you have chosen me,” she admitted at first. He liked to have her proud as of a conquest, and he was conscious of that general favor which stamped him a good match, even for a girl half his age.

“How much have you done this morning?” she inquired, looking at his desk.

“Enough to tide over the time until you came. Determination and execution are not one with me now.” Her hands were cold, and he warmed them against his face.

“It was during your married life that determination and execution were one?”

“Decidedly. For that was my plodding age. Sometimes when I am tingling with impatience here I look back in wonder on the dogged drive of those days. Work is an unhappy man's best friend. I have no concealments from you, Lily. You know I never loved my wife--not this way--though I made her happy; I did my duty. She told me when she died that I had made her happy. People cannot help their limitations.”

“Do you love me?” she asked, her lips close to his ear.

“I am you! Your blood flows through my veins. I feel you rush through me. You don't know what it is to love like that, do you?”

She shook her head.

“When you are out of my sight I do not live; I simply wait. What is the weird power in you that creates such gigantic passion?”

“The power is all in your imagination. You simply don't know me. You think I am a prize. Why, I--flirt--and I've--kissed men!”

He laughed. “You would be a queer girl, at your age, if you hadn't--kissed men--a little. Whatever your terrible past has been, it has made you the infinite darling that you are!”

She moved her eyes to watch the leaves twinkling in front of the lime-kiln.

“I must go,” she said.

“'I must go'!” he mocked. “You are no sooner here than--' I must go '!”

“I can't be with you all the time. You don't care for appearances, so I have to.”.

“Appearances are nothing. This is the only real thing in the universe.”

“But I really must go.” She lifted her wilful chin and sat still. They stared at each other in the silence of lovers. Though the girl's face was without a line, she was more skilled in the play of love than he.

“Indeed I must go. Your eyes are half shut, like a gentian.”

“When you are living intensely you don't look at the world through wide-open eyes,” said Maurice. “I never let myself go before. Repression has been the law of my life. Think of it! In a long life-time I have loved but two persons--the woman I told you of, and you. Twenty years ago I found out what life meant. For the first time, I knew! But I was already married. I took that beautiful love by the throat and choked it down. Afterwards, when I was free, the woman I first loved was married. How long I have had to wait for you to bloom, lotos flower! This is living! All the other years were preparation.”

“Do you never see her?” inquired the girl.

“Who? That first one? I have avoided her.”

“She loved you?”

“With the blameless passion that we both at first thought was the most perfect friendship.”

“Wouldn't you marry her now if she were free?”

“No. It is ended. We have grown apart in renunciation for twenty years. I am not one that changes easily, you see. You have taken what I could not withhold from you, and it is yours. I am in your power.”

They heard a great steamer blowing upon the strait. Its voice reverberated through the woods. The girl's beautiful face was full of a tender wistfulness, half maternal. Neither jealousy nor pique marred its exquisite sympathy. It was such an expression as an untamed wood-nymph might have worn, contemplating the life of man.

“Don't be sad,” she breathed.

Vague terror shot through Maurice's gaze.

“That is a strange thing for you to say to me, Lily. Is it all you can say--when I love you so?”

“I was thinking of the other woman. Did she suffer?”

“At any rate, she has the whole world now--beauty, talent, wealth, social prestige. She is one of the most successful women in this country.”

“Do I know her name?”

“Quite well. She has been a person of consequence since you were a child.”

“I couldn't capture the whole world,” mused Lily. Maurice kissed her small fingers.

“Some one else will put it in your lap, to keep or throw away as you choose.”

The hurried tink-tank of an approaching cow-bell suggested passers. Then a whir of wheels could be heard through tangled wilderness. The girl met his lips with a lingering which trembled through all his body, and withdrew herself.