CHAPTER XVIII

FANCIES OR MEMORIES?

Miss Winthrop nodded. “Tell me everything you can recall and keep back nothing for fear it is not the whole truth or that I will not understand. Whoever your father and mother may have been, you certainly have ancestors of whom you need not be ashamed.”

Then Olive, clasping her fingers together over her knee with her eyes on the floor, began to speak. And first she told the story of the Indian village and of Laska and how she could not recall a time when she had not spoken English as white people speak it, then of her years at the Government school for Indians taught by a white woman, who had always been her friend and assured her that she was not of the same race as the Indian children about her. But in proof of this she had nothing save the ornaments in the sandalwood box, which, in the interest of her story, Miss Winthrop had not yet examined.

Yes, and one thing more Olive could remember. Through all the years she had lived with the Indian woman there had come to old Laska in the mail each month a certain sum of money, large enough to keep her and her son in greater wealth and idleness than any of the other Indians in the village enjoyed. But from what place this money had come nor who had sent it Olive did not know, and so to her this fact did not seem of great value, although Miss Winthrop’s face had shown keen interest on hearing it.

“Was there not a postmark on the outside of the letter, Olive?” she demanded.

Clasping her fingers over her eyes in a way she had when puzzled, the girl waited a moment. “Why, yes, there was,” she said slowly. “How strange and stupid of me never to have thought of this before! The postmark was New York! But New York meant nothing to me in those days, Miss Winthrop, except just a name on a map at school. You cannot guess how strange and ignorant I was until the ranch girls found me and began teaching me a few things that were not to be found in school books. But no one could have sent money to Laska for me from New York. I must have been mistaken and this money did not come for me as I have always hoped. Laska must have received it for some other reason.” And then Olive, either from weariness or disappointment, stopped in her narrative, not as though she had told all that she knew, but because she could not quite make up her mind to go on.

A few moments of quiet waiting and then Miss Winthrop spoke again:

“The money was sent Laska for your care, Olive, I am sure of it. But this story of the Indian woman and your life there you have told to other persons, to the ranch girls and your chaperon, Miss Drew. What I most wish you to confide to me are the ideas and impressions of the years when you may not always have lived in the Indian village.”

Sadly the girl shook her head. “Miss Winthrop, the fancies that I have had lately have been too ridiculous for me to feel I can confide even to you, kind as you are to me. For how can it be possible that a human being can remember things at one time of their life and not have known them always? Why, since my arrival at Primrose Hall, do I seem to recall impressions that I did not have at the Rainbow Ranch?”

The older woman did not reply at once, as she was pondering over the question just asked her. “Olive,” she returned slowly, “I believe I can in a measure understand this problem that troubles you. Half the memories that we have in the world come through association. It is the sight of an object that recalls something in our past which brings that past back to us. Now when you were living at the Rainbow Ranch the memory of your life with Laska, the fear that she might take you away from your friends, was so close to you that you thought of little else. But now you are in an entirely different place, the fear of the woman has gone from you; it is but natural, I think, that new and different associations should bring to life new memories. What is there that you have been recalling in these past few months?”

And still the girl hesitated. “It is so absurd of me,” she murmured at last, “but one of my most foolish ideas is that I have seen the big, white house where Madame Van Mater lives at some time before. Of course, I know I have not seen it, for I have never been in this part of the world before. But the other day, standing at the window, I suddenly remembered a description of the Sleepy Hollow scenery, which I must have read and learned long years ago, though I never thought of it until that moment.”

Miss Winthrop’s face was now more puzzled than the speaker’s by reason of her deeper knowledge of life. “Go on,” she insisted quietly. “Can you recall anything more about the house and do you think that you ever saw Madame Van Mater before the other day?” The strange note in her questioner’s voice was lost upon the girl at her feet.

“No, I never saw Madame Van Mater in my life and I do not like her,” Olive returned quickly. “The furniture inside the house did not seem familiar, only the outside and the tower room and those ridiculous iron dogs guarding the front door. But I want to tell you something that seems to me important—of course, my impression about Madame Van Mater’s home is sheer madness. What I really can remember is this—” Olive stopped for a moment as though trying to be very careful of only telling the truth. “I remember that when I was a very little girl I must have traveled about from one place to another a great deal, for I do not think I ever had a home nor do I remember my mother. My father, lately I have believed I have a real impression of him,” and Olive’s eyes, turned toward her teacher, were big with mystery and hope. “He must have been very tall, or at least he seemed so to me then, and I went about with him everywhere. Finally we came to a place where we stayed a much longer time and there Laska first must have come to take care of us. I think now that my father must have died in that place, for I can not remember anything more of him and ever afterwards I lived on with Laska and the Indians. That isn’t very much to know and of nothing am I perfectly certain,” Olive ended with a sigh, seeing that Miss Winthrop had not spoken and supposing therefore that she considered her idle fancies of little account.

The older woman now sat with one elbow on the arm of her chair, her hand shading her eyes so that it was impossible to catch the expression of her face. Whatever idea had come to her with the hearing of her pupil’s strange story, she did not now mean to reveal.

“It is all very interesting, Olive,” she answered, quietly, “and surely very puzzling, so that I am not surprised at your putting but little faith in your own recollections, for I cannot see any possible connection between your travels in the West as a little child and your idea that you had seen some old house like ‘The Towers.’ But there is one person who can tell us something of your early history without doubt—and that person is this woman Laska! She kept you with her all those years for money and probably pretends that you are with her still, so that she continues to receive the same money each month, else she would have made another effort to get hold of you. Well, if the love of money has made the Indian woman keep your secret, perhaps an offer of more money will make her tell it. We will not speak of this, Olive dear, to any one in the world at present, but I will write to your old teacher at the Government school in the Indian village and perhaps through her aid we may reach this Laska.”

Olive made no answer, for to have expressed ordinary thanks in the face of so great interest and kindness would have been too inadequate. What could she say? Besides, Miss Winthrop was now looking at her few treasures in the sandalwood box.

“I have seen your cross and chain before,” she said, letting it slip through her fingers as once more she examined its curious workmanship, “but this little book—why, it is written in Spanish and is a Spanish prayer book.” Then for a second time Miss Winthrop put her hand under Olive’s chin, studying the unusual outline of her face. “I wonder if you are a Spanish girl, child, for that would explain why you are darker than most Americans and why you have so foreign an appearance?”

Olive, silently opening the watch, lifted the picture inside it to her friend’s gaze.

Miss Winthrop looking at the picture nodded, and then began turning the watch over in her hand; strangely enough, not so deeply interested in the photograph as in the watch itself. “This watch was sold here in New York, Olive, and I have seen one exactly like it years ago.” Her voice trembled a little and she seemed fatigued. “But don’t let us talk of this any more this evening, as it is nearly dinner time. I am going to ask you to trust me with these trinkets of yours, as I want to study them more closely.”

And without another word Miss Winthrop quietly arose and left the room.