She lay inert, her head pillowed upon her arm, face to face with the
unspeakable shadow that had haunted Carl. Not married. Aunt Agatha
had said, but just a mother! Now the pitiful fragments of a hallowed
shrine lay mockingly at her feet. How scornfully she had flashed at
Carl!
Diane quivered and lay very still, torn by the bitter irony of it.
And the Indian mother! Carl had known and Ronador. She had caught a
startled look in the eyes of each at the Sherrill _fete_. Every wild
instinct, if she had but heeded the warning, had pointed the way; the
childhood escapade in the forest, the tomboy pranks of riding and
running and swimming that had horrified Aunt Agatha to the point of
tears, and later the persistent call of the open country.
What wonder if the soft, musical tongue of the Seminole had come
lightly to her lips? What wonder if Indian instincts had driven her
forth to the wild? What wonder if the nameless stir of atavism beneath
a Seminole wigwam had frightened her into flight. Indian instincts,
Indian grace, Indian stoicism and courage, Indian keenness and
hearing--all of these had come to her from the Indian mother with the
blood of white men in her veins.
But the stain of illegitimacy--
That brought the girl's proud head down again with a strangled sob of
grief.
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