Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (3 page)

 
          
           
But soon he heard the creature bounding after him, and he uttered one ringing
shout for help, feeling too late that he had been foolhardy. Fortunately, he
was nearer camp than he thought. Onawandah heard him, and was there in time to
receive the beast, as, mad with the pain of the wound, it sprung at Reuben.
There was no time for words, and the boy could only watch in breathless
interest and anxiety the fight which went on between the brute and the Indian.

 
          
           
It was sharp but short; for Onawandah had his knife, and as soon as he could
get the snarling, struggling creature down, he killed it with a skilful stroke.
But not before it had torn and bitten him more dangerously than he knew; for
the dusk hid the wounds, and excitement kept him from feeling them at first. Reuben
thanked him heartily, and accepted his few words of warning with grateful
docility; then both hurried back to Eunice, who till next day knew nothing of
her brother's danger.

 
          
           
Onawandah made light of his scratches, as he called them, got their supper, and
sent Reuben early to bed, for to-morrow they were to start again.

 
          
           
Excited by his adventure, the boy slept lightly, and waking in the night, saw
by the flicker of the fire Onawandah binding up a deep wound in his breast with
wet moss and his own belt. A stifled groan betrayed how much he suffered; but
when Reuben went to him, he would accept no help, said it was nothing, and sent
him back to bed, preferring to endure the pain in stern silence, with true
Indian pride and courage.

 
          
           
Next morning, they set out and pushed on as fast as Eunice's strength allowed.
But it was evident that Onawandah suffered much, though he would not rest,
forbade the children to speak of his wounds, and pressed on with feverish
haste, as if he feared that his strength might not hold out. Reuben watched him
anxiously, for there was a look in his face that troubled the boy and filled
him with alarm, as well as with remorse and love. Eunice would not let him
carry her as before, but trudged bravely behind him, though her feet ached and
her breath often failed as she tried to keep up; and both children did all they
could to comfort and sustain their friend, who seemed glad to give his life for
them.

 
          
           
In three days they reached the river, and, as if Heaven helped them in their
greatest need, found a canoe, left by some hunter, near the shore. In they
sprang, and let the swift current bear them along, Eunice kneeling in the bow
like a little figure-head of Hope, Reuben steering with his paddle, and
Onawandah sitting with arms tightly folded over his breast, as if to control
the sharp anguish of the neglected wound. He knew that it was past help
now,
and only cared to see the children safe; then, worn out
but happy, he was proud to die, having paid his debt to the good parson, and
proved that he was not a liar nor a traitor.

 
          
           
Hour after hour they floated down the great river, looking eagerly for signs of
home, and when at last they entered the familiar valley, while the little girl
cried for joy, and the boy paddled as he had never done before, Onawandah sat
erect, with his haggard eyes fixed on the dim distance, and sang his death-song
in a clear, strong voice,—though every breath was pain,—bent on dying like a
brave, without complaint or fear.

 
          
           
At last they saw the smoke from the cabins on the hillside, and, hastily
mooring the canoe, all sprang out, eager to be at home after their long and
perilous wandering. But as his foot touched the land, Onawandah felt that he
could do no more, and stretching his arms toward the parsonage, the windows of
which glimmered as hospitably as they had done when he first saw them, he said,
with a pathetic sort of triumph in his broken voice: "Go. I cannot. Tell
the good father, Onawandah not lie, not forget. He
keep
his promise."

 
          
           
Then he dropped upon the grass and
lay
as if dead,
while Reuben, bidding Eunice keep watch, ran as fast as his tired legs could
carry him to tell the tale and bring help.

 
          
           
The little girl did her part tenderly, carrying water in her hands to wet the
white lips, tearing up her ragged skirt to lay fresh bandages on the wound that
had been bleeding the brave boy's life away, and, sitting by him, gathered his
head into her arms, begging him to wait till father came.

 
          
           
But poor Onawandah had waited too long; now he could only look up into the dear,
loving, little face bent over him, and whisper wistfully: "Wild Rose will
remember Onawandah?" as the light went out of his eyes, and his last
breath was a smile for her.

 
          
           
When the parson and his people came hurrying up full of wonder, joy, and
good-will, they found Eunice weeping bitterly, and the Indian boy lying like a
young warrior smiling at death.

 
          
           
"Ah, my
neighbors, the savage has
taught us a
lesson we never can forget. Let us imitate his virtues, and do honor to his
memory," said the pastor, as he held his little daughter close and looked
down at the pathetic figure at his feet, whose silence was more eloquent than
any words.

 
          
           
All felt it, and even old Becky had a remorseful sigh for the boy who had kept
his word so well and given back her darlings safe.

 
          
           
They buried him where he lay; and for years the lonely mound under the great
oak was kept green by loving hands. Wild roses bloomed there, and the murmur of
the Long River of Pines was a fit lullaby for faithful Onawandah.
 
 

 
          
           
"IT can't be done! So I may as well give it I up and get a new pair. I
long for them, but I'm afraid my nice little plan for Laura will be
spoilt," said Jessie Delano to herself, as she shook her head over a pair
of small, dilapidated slippers almost past mending. While she vainly pricked
her fingers over them for the last time, her mind was full of girlish hopes and
fears, as well as of anxieties far too serious for a light-hearted creature of
sixteen.

 
          
           
A year ago the sisters had been the petted daughters of a rich man; but death
and misfortune came suddenly, and now they were left to face poverty alone.
They had few relations, and had offended the rich uncle who offered Jessie a
home, because she refused to be separated from her sister. Poor Laura was an
invalid, and no one wanted her; but Jessie would not leave her, so they clung
together and lived on in the humble rooms where their father died, trying to
earn their bread by the only accomplishments they possessed. Laura painted
well, and after many disappointments was beginning to find a sale for her
dainty designs and delicate flowers. Jessie had a natural gift for dancing; and
her former teacher, a kind-hearted Frenchwoman, offered her favorite pupil the
post of assistant teacher in her classes for children.

 
          
           
It cost the girl a struggle to accept a place of this sort and be a humble
teacher, patiently twirling stupid little boys and girls round and round over
the smooth floor where she used to dance so happily when she was the pride of
the class and the queen of the closing balls. But for Laura's sake she
gratefully accepted the offer, glad to add her mite to their small store, and
to feel that she could help keep the wolf from the door. They had seemed to
hear the howl of this dreaded phantom more than once during that year, and
looked forward to the long hard winter with an anxiety which neither would
confess to the other. Laura feared to fall ill if she worked too hard, and then
what would become of this pretty young sister who loved her so tenderly and
would not be tempted to leave her? And Jessie could do very little except rebel
against their hard fate and make impracticable plans. But each worked bravely,
talked cheerfully, and waited hopefully for some good fortune to befall them,
while doubt and pain and poverty and care made the young hearts so heavy that
the poor girls often fell asleep on pillows wet with secret tears.

 
          
           
The smaller trials of life beset Jessie at this particular moment, and her
bright
wits were trying to solve the problem how to spend her
treasured five dollars on slippers for herself and paints
for Laura.
Both were much needed, and she had gone in shabby shoes to save up money for
the little surprise on which she had set her heart; but now dismay fell upon
her when the holes refused to be cobbled, and the largest of bows would not
hide the worn-out toes in spite of ink and blacking lavishly applied.

 
          
           
"These are the last of my dear French slippers, and I can't afford any
more. I hate cheap things! But I shall have to get them; for my boots are
shabby, and every one has to look at my feet when I lead. Oh dear, what a
horrid thing it is to be poor!" and Jessie surveyed the shabby little
shoes affectionately, as her eyes filled with tears; for the road looked very
rough and steep now, when she remembered how she used to dance through life as
happy as a butterfly in a garden full of sunshine and flowers.

 
          
           
"Now, Jess, no nonsense, no red eyes to tell tales!
Go and do your errands, and come in as gay as a lark, or Laura will be
worried." And springing up, the girl began to sing instead of sob, as she
stirred about her dismal little room, cleaning her old gloves, mending her one
white dress, and wishing with a sigh of intense longing that she could afford
some flowers to wear, every ornament having been sold long ago. Then, with a
kiss and a smile to her patient sister, she hurried away to get the necessary
slippers and the much-desired paints, which Laura would not ask for, though her
work waited for want of them.

 
          
           
Having been reared in luxury, poor little Jessie's tastes were all of the
daintiest sort; and her hardest trial, after Laura's feeble health, was the
daily sacrifice of the many comforts and elegances to which she had been
accustomed. Faded gowns, cleaned gloves, and mended boots cost her many a pang,
and the constant temptation of seeing pretty, useful, and unattainable things
was a very hard one. Laura rarely went out, and so was spared this cross; then
she was three years older, had always been delicate, and lived much in a happy
world of her own. So Jessie bore her trials silently, but sometimes felt very
covetous and resentful to see so much pleasure, money, and beauty in the world,
and yet have so little of it fall to her lot.

 
          
           
"I feel as if I could pick a pocket to-day and not mind a bit, if it were
a rich person's. It's a shame, when papa was always so generous, that no one
remembers us. If ever I'm rich again, I'll just hunt up all the poor girls I
can find, and give them nice shoes, if nothing else," she thought, as she
went along the crowded streets, pausing involuntarily at the shop windows to
look with longing eyes at the treasures within.

 
          
           
Resisting the allurements of French slippers with bows and buckles, she wisely
bought a plain, serviceable pair, and trudged away, finding balm for her wounds
in the fact that they were very cheap. More balm came when she met a young
friend, who joined her as she stood wistfully eying the piles of grapes in a
window and longing to buy some for Laura.

 
          
           
This warm-hearted schoolmate read the wish before Jessie saw her, and gratified
it so adroitly that the girl could accept the pretty basketful sent to her
sister without feeling like a spendthrift or a beggar. It comforted her very
much, and the world began to look brighter after that little touch of kindness,
as it always does when genuine sympathy makes sunshine in shady places.

 
          
           
At the art store she was told that more of Laura's autumn-flowers were in
demand; and her face was so full of innocent delight and gratitude it quite
touched the old man who sold her the paints, and gave her more than her money's
worth, remembering his own hard times and pitying the pretty young girl whose
father he had known.

 
          
           
So Jessie did not have to pretend very hard at being "as
gay as a lark" when she got home and showed her treasures.
Laura
was so happy over the unexpected gifts that the dinner of bread and milk and
grapes was quite a picnic; and Jessie found a smile on her face when she went
to dress for her party.

 
          
           
It was only a child's party at the house of one of Mademoiselle's pupils, and
Jessie was merely invited to help the little people through their dancing. She
did not like to go in this way, as she was sure to meet familiar faces there,
full of the pity, curiosity, or indifference so hard for a girl to bear. But
Mademoiselle asked it as a favor, and Jessie was grateful; so she went,
expecting no pleasure and certain of much weariness, if not annoyance.

 
          
           
When she was ready,—and it did not take long to slip on the white woollen
dress, brush out the curly dark hair, and fold up slippers and gloves,—she
stood before her glass looking at herself, quite conscious that she was very
pretty, with her large eyes, blooming cheeks, and the lofty little air which
nothing could change. She was also painfully conscious that her dress was
neither fresh nor becoming without a bit of ribbon or a knot of flowers to give
it the touch of color it needed. She had an artistic eye, and used to delight
in ordering charming costumes for herself in the happy days when all her wishes
were granted as if fairies still lived. She tossed over her very small store of
ribbons in vain; everything had been worn till neither beauty nor freshness
remained.

 
          
           
"Oh dear!
where
CAN I
find something to make me look less like a nun,—and a very shabby one,
too?" she said, longing for the pink corals she sold to pay Laura's
doctor's bill.

 
          
           
The sound of a soft tap, tap, tap, startled her, and she ran to open the door.
No one was there but Laura, fast asleep on the sofa. Tap, tap,
tap
!
went
the invisible hand; and
as the sound seemed to come from the window, Jessie glanced that way, thinking
her tame dove had corne to be fed. Neither hungry dove nor bold sparrow
appeared,—only a spray of Japanese ivy waving in the wind. A very pretty spray
it was, covered with tiny crimson leaves; and it tapped impatiently, as if it
answered her question by saying, "Here is a garland for you; come and take
it."

 
          
           
Jessie's quick eye was caught at once by the fine color, and running to the
window she looked out as eagerly as if a new idea had come into her head. It
was a dull November day, and the prospect of sheds, ash-barrels, and old brooms
was a gloomy one; but the whole back of the house glowed with the red tendrils
of the hardy vine that clung to and covered the dingy bricks with a royal
mantle, as if eager to cheer the eyes and hearts of all who looked. It preached
a little sermon of courage, aspiration, and content to those who had the skill
to read it, and bade them see how, springing from the scanty soil of that back
yard full of the commonest objects, the humblest work, it set its little
creepers in the crannies of the stone, and struggled up to find the sun and
air, till it grew strong and beautiful,—making the blank wall green in summer,
glorious in autumn, and a refuge in winter, when it welcomed the sparrows to
the shelter of its branches where the sun lay warmest.

 
          
           
Jessie loved this beautiful neighbor, and had enjoyed it all that summer,—the
first she ever spent in the hot city. She felt the grace its greenness gave to
all it touched, and half unconsciously imitated it in trying to be brave and
bright, as she also climbed up from the dismal place where she seemed shut away
from everything lovely, till she was beginning to discover that the blue sky
was over all, the sun still shone for her, and heaven's fresh air kissed her
cheeks as kindly as ever. Many a night she had leaned from the high window when
Laura was asleep, dreaming innocent dreams, living over her short past, or
trying to look into the future bravely and trustfully. The little vine had felt
warmer drops than rain or dew fall on it when things went badly, had heard
whispered prayers when the lonely child asked the Father of the fatherless for
help and comfort, had peeped in to see her sleeping peacefully when the hard
hour was over, and been the first to greet her with a tap on the window-pane as
she woke full of new hope in the morning. It seemed to know all her moods and
troubles, to be her friend and confidante, and now came with help like a fairy
godmother when our Cinderella wanted to be fine for the little ball.

 
          
           
"Just the thing!
Why didn't I think of it?
So bright and delicate and becoming?
It will last better
than flowers; and no one can think I'm extravagant, since it costs
nothing."

 
          
           
As she spoke, Jessie was gathering long sprays of the rosy vine, with its
glossy leaves so beattifully shaded that it was evident Jack Frost had done his
best for it. Going to her glass, she fastened a wreath of the smallest leaves
about her head, set a cluster of larger ones in her bosom, and then surveyed
herself with girlish
pleasure,
as well she might; for
the effect of the simple decoration was charming. Quite satisfied now, she tied
on her cloud and slipped away without waking Laura, little dreaming what good
fortune the ivy spray was to bring them both.

 
          
           
She found the children prancing with impatience to begin their ballet, much
excited by the music, gaslight, and gay dresses, which made it seem like
"a truly ball." All welcomed Jessie, and she soon forgot the cheap
slippers, mended gloves, and old dress, as she gayly led her troop through the
pretty dance with so much grace and skill that the admiring mammas who lined
the walls declared it was the sweetest thing they ever saw.

 
          
           
"Who is that little person?" asked one of the few gentlemen who
hovered about the doorways.

 
          
           
His hostess told Jessie's story in a few words, and was surprised to hear him
say in a satisfied tone,—

 
          
           
"I'm glad she is poor. I want her head, and now there is some chance of
getting it."