"Thinking something unusual to be brewing overhead, we are off for the lake about 10 A. M. CARVIL."
"A very observing, considerate man, that Mr. Carvil," said the hunter, still musingly keeping his eyes on the unique dispatch. "He is one of the few book-learned men I have ever known, who could apply science to the natural philosophy of the woods. I can see how justly he reasoned out this case: knowing that we had some thought of a jaunt to Dead river this trip, he judged we should notice the signs of the weather just as we did, and, as it seems,hedid; and that, in consequence, when we got there, we should decide on the nearest route back, which would bring us so near their camp that we should be tempted to come to it; and so he left this notice for us that they thought it wisdom to depart."
While the hunter was thus delivering himself, as he stood by the fire before the entrance, spreading out his hands over the coals, Claud went inside, and, returning with two fine, fresh trout, which the late occupants had, for some cause, left behind them, held them up to his musing companion, and exclaimed:
"Look here, Mr. Phillips,—see what they have left for us!"
"Good!" cried the hunter, rousing himself, "for, whether they left them by design or mistake, they come equally well in play at this time. You out with your knife and split them through the back, and I will prepare the coals. We will roast them for a lunch, which will refresh and strengthen us for the ten or twelve miles walk that is still to be accomplished, before reaching the lake."
After dispatching the welcome meal, which in this primitive fashion they had prepared for themselves out of the material thus unexpectedly come to hand, and enjoying the half-hour's rest consequent on the grateful occupation, they again swung on their packs, and, striking into one of the marked lines of their companions, set forth with fresh vigor on their journey. Their walk, however, was a long and dreary one. Contrary to what they had ever before experienced, in jaunts of this length through the woods, not a single hunting adventure occurred, to enliven the tedium of the way. For, although the heavens above were made vocal with the screams of wild geese, still pouring along in their hurried flight to the south, to escape the elemental foe behind, like the rapidly succeeding detachments of some retreating army, yet not a living creature, biped or quadruped, was anywhere to be heard or seen in the forest beneath. All seemed to have instinctively shrunk away and fled, as from the presence of some impending evil, to their dens and coverts, there to await, cowering and silent, the dreaded outbreak. Slowly, but steadily, the lurid storm-clouds were gathering in the heavens, bringing shade after shade over the darkening wilderness. Low, hollow murmurs in the troubled air were now heard, ominously stealing along the wooded hills; and now, in the sharp, momentary rattling of the seared beech-leaves, the whole forest seemed shivering in the dead chill that was settling over the earth. The cold, indeed, was now becoming so intense as to congeal and skim over all the pools and still eddies of the river, and make solid ice along the shores of the rapid currents of the stream; while even the ground was fast becoming so frozen as to clumper and sound beneath the hurrying tread of our anxious travellers. By three in the afternoon, it had become so dark that they could scarcely see the white blazings on the sides of the trees, by which they were guided in their course; and in less than another hour, they were stumbling along almost in utter darkness, uncertain of their way, and nearly despairing of reaching their destination that night. But, while they were on the point of giving up the attempt, the bright glare of an ascending blaze, shooting fiercely through the thickets before them, greeted their gladdened eyes, and put them on exertions that soon brought them rejoicing into the comfortable quarters of their almost equally gratified friends and comrades; where it was at once decided that, instead of proceeding to their own camp, to build a fire and lodge, they should turn in for the night.
After some time passed in the animated and cheery interchange of inquiries and opinions, which usually succeeds on the meeting of anxiously-sought or expected friends, Claud and Phillips, having by this time warmed and measurably rested themselves, took hold with Carvil and Mark Elwood in dressing and cooking for supper and for breakfast the next morning, Claud's goose, and a pair of fine ducks from a flock which the two latter had encountered just before reaching camp that afternoon; and, after completing this process with their good supply of game, and the more agreeable one of eating so much of it as served for a hearty supper, they drew up an extra quantity of fuel for the large fire which they felt it would be necessary to keep up through the night; and then, seating themselves in camp, went into an earnest consultation on the measures and movements next to be taken. When, in view of the lateness of the season, coupled as it was with the alarming portents of an immediate storm, which they had all noticed, it was unanimously determined that they should embark, early next morning, for head-quarters on the Maguntic, where Gaut Gurley, instead of preparing to come round again, as was now nearly his usual time to do, would, under the altered aspect of things, doubtless be awaiting them, and making arrangements for the return of all to the settlement. Then, building up a fire of solid logs, for long burning, the tired woodsmen drew up their bough-pillows towards the entrance of the camp, so as to bring their feet near the fire, closely wrapped their thick blankets around them, lay down, and were soon buried in sound slumber. And it was well for them that they were thus early taking their needed rest; for, soon after midnight, they were awakened by the lively undulations of the piercing cold air that was driving and whistling through the sides of their camp, and by the puffs of suffocating smoke that the eddying winds were ever and anon driving from their fire directly into their faces. One after another they rose, and ran out to see what had caused the, to them, sudden change that had occurred in the air since they went to sleep. And they were not long in ascertaining the truth. The expected storm had set in, with that low, deep commotion of the elements, and that slowly gathering impetus, which, as may often be noted at the commencement of great storms, was but the too certain prelude of its increase and duration. The fine snow was sifting down apace to the already whitened ground, and the rising wind, even in their mountain-hemmed nook, was whirling in fierce and fitful eddies about their camp, and shrilly piping among the strained branches of the vexed forest around; while its loud and awful roar, as it careered along the sides of the distant mountains, told with what strength and fury the storm was commencing over the country at large. In the situation in which the company now found themselves, neither sleep, comfort, nor quiet were to be expected for the remainder of the night. They therefore piled high the wood on their fire, and gathered round the hot blaze, to protect them from the cold, that had now not only grown more intense, but become doubly difficult to withstand, from the force with which it was brought by the driving blasts in contact with their shivering persons. And thus,—in alternately turning their backs and fronts to the fire, while standing in one place, and often shifting places from one side of the fire to the other; in now taking refuge within their camp when the constantly veering gusts bore the smoke and flame outward, and then fleeing out of it when the stifling column was driven inward; but finding no peace nor rest anywhere, among those shifts and commotions of the battling elements,—they wore away the long and comfortless hours of that dreary night, till the return of morning light, which, after many a vain prayer for its speedier appearance, at length gradually broke over the storm-invested wilderness.
As soon as it was light enough to see objects abroad, or see them as well as they can ever be discerned through the fast-falling snow of such a driving storm, Phillips and Carvil sallied out through the snow, already eight inches deep, and made their way down to the nearest shore of the lake, about a quarter of a mile distant, to ascertain the condition of the water before embarking upon it in their canoes, as they had designed to do immediately after breakfast. On reaching the shore, they found the narrow bay, before mentioned as forming the estuary of the two rivers on which they had been located, comparatively calm, though filled with congealing snow and floating ice from the rivers. But all beyond the line of the two points of land inclosing the bay was rolling and tumbling in wild commotion, madly lashing the rocky headlands with the foaming waters, and resounding abroad over the hills with the deep, hoarse roar of the tempest-beaten breakers of the ocean.
"Do you see and hear that?" exclaimed Phillips, pointing to the lake.
"Yes, yes; but what was that I just caught a glimpse of, out there in the offing, to the right?" hastily cried Carvil.
They both peered forward intently; and the next moment they saw a canoe, containing a single rower, low bending to his oar, shoot by the northern headland with the speed of an arrow, strike obliquely out of the white line of rolling waves into the bay, and make towards the point where they stood.
"Who can it be?" inquired Carvil, after watching a while in silence the slow approach of the obstructed canoe.
"In a minute more we shall see," replied the hunter, bending forward to get a view of the man's face, which, being seen the next moment, he added, with a shout: "Hallo, there, Codman, is that you? Why didn't you crow, to let us know who was coming?"
"Crow?" exclaimed the trapper, driving through the ice to the shore; "did you ever hear a rooster crow in a time like this? There! I am safe, at last," he added, leaping out upon the shore, and glancing back with a dubious shake of the head towards the scene from which he had thus escaped. "Yes, safe now, for all my fright; but I would not be out another hour on that terrible lake for all the beaver in the province of Maine! I started at daylight, got out a mile or two, tolerably, but after that, Heaven only knows how I rode on those wild waves without swamping! But no matter,—I am here."
"But where is Tomah, the Indian?" asked the hunter.
"Tomah!" said Codman, in surprise. "Why, haven't you seen him? He went off three days ago, saying he must return to the settlement, to be training his moose to the sledge, so as to start for Boston with him, the first snow. He said he should leave it with Gaut Gurley to see to his share of the furs. I supposed he would call at one of your camps. But come, move on. I suppose you have a fire at camp, and something to eat; I am frozen to death, and starved to death, besides being more than half-dead from the great scaring I've had; but that's all over now, and I'm keen for breakfast. So troop along back to your camp, I say."
To return to camp, take their cold and comfortless breakfast, and decide on the now hard alternatives of remaining where they were, to await the event of the storm, without provisions, and with their imperfect means of protection from the rigor of the elements, or of starting off through the cumbering snow beneath their feet, and the driving tempest above their heads, with the hope of reaching head-quarters by land, before another night should overtake them, was but the work of half an hour. To remain, with the foretaste of the past and the prospects of the future, was a thought so forbidding that none of them could for a moment entertain it; and to set out to travel by land, with such prospects, over the mountains, by the long, winding route on the eastern side of the lake,—which was the only one left to them, and which could not be less than fifteen miles in extent,—was a scarcely less forbidding alternative. But it must be adopted. So, gathering in their steel traps and iron utensils, they buried them all, except their lightest hatchet, under a log, that they should not be encumbered with more weight than was absolutely necessary; snugly packing up the few peltries they had taken since Gaut Gurley had been round, and putting the scanty remains of their food into their pockets, for a lunch on the way, they set forth on their formidable undertaking.
Led on and guided by the calm and resolute hunter,—who at different times had been over the whole way, and in whose skill and discretion, as a woodsman, for conducting them by the nearest and easiest route, they all had undoubting confidence,—they vigorously made their way onwards through the accumulating snows and natural obstructions of the forest; now threading the thickets of the valleys; now skirting the sides of the hills; now crossing deep ravines; and now climbing high mountains in their toilsome march. And, though the storm seemed to rage more and more fiercely with the advancing hours of the day,—whirling clouds of blinding snow in their faces, hurling the decayed limbs and trunks of the older tenants of the wood to the earth around them, in the fury of its blasts, and rattling and creaking through the colliding branches of the writhing green trees, as it swept over the wilderness,—yet, for all these difficulties of the way and commotions of the elements, they faltered not, but continued to move forward in stern and moody silence, hour after hour, in the footsteps of their indomitable leader, until they reached the extreme eastern point of the lake, where their destination required them to turn round it, in a sharp angle to the west. Here, at the suggestion of their leader, who made the encouraging announcement that the worst half of their journey was accomplished, they made a halt, under the lee of a sheltering mountain, for rest and refreshment. And, sitting down on a fallen tree, from whose barkless trunk they brushed off the snow, they took out and commenced chewing their stale and frozen bread, with a few small pieces of duck-meat, remaining from their breakfast, and comprising the last of their provisions. The animal heat, produced by their great and continued exertions in travelling, had thus far prevented them, from suffering much from the cold, or perceiving its actual intensity. But they had been at rest scarcely long enough to finish their meagre repast, when they were driven from their seats by the chill of the invading element, and were eagerly demanding, as a lesser annoyance, again to be led forward on their journey. The snow by this time had accumulated to the depth of a foot and a half, and still came swiftly sifting down aslant to the earth, without the least sign of abatement; while the wind, which was before a gale, had now risen to a hurricane, causing the smitten earth to tremble and shake under the force of the terrible blasts that went shrieking and howling through the bowed, bending, and twisting forests, where
"The sturdiest birch its strength was feeling,And pine trees dark and tallTo and fro were madly reeling,Or dashing headlong in their fall."
But, still undismayed by these manifestations of elemental power around them, or the prospects before them, all terrific and disheartening as they were, and nerved by the consciousness that their only chance of escape from a fearful death depended on their exertions, the bold and hardy woodsmen again started out into the trackless waste, and labored desperately onward, mile after mile, through the impeding snow; sometimes taken to the armpits in its gathering drifts, and sometimes thrown at full length beneath its submerging depths by stepping into some hole or chasm it had concealed from their sight. And thus resolutely did they beat and buffet their rough way through the perplexed and roaring wilderness, and thus stoutly did they bear up against the constantly thickening dangers that environed them during the last part of that dreadful day. But, as night drew on, their strength and spirits began to flag and give way. The cold was increasing in intensity. The tempest howled louder than ever over their heads, and the snow had become so deep and drifted that furlongs became as miles in their progress. And yet, as they supposed, they were miles from their destination. At length, one after another, they faltered and stopped. The strong men quailed at the fate which seemed staring them in the face, and they were on the point of giving up in despair. But hark! that cheery shout which rises above the roaring of the wind, from their more hardy and hopeful leader, who, while all others stopped, had pushed on some thirty rods in advance. It comes again!
"Courage, men! We have struck the river, at whose mouth stands our camp, now not half a mile distant."
Aroused by the glad tidings, that sent a thrill of joy through their sinking hearts, they sprang forward, with the revivified energies which new and suddenly-lighted hope will sometimes so strangely impart, and were soon by the side of the exulting hunter; when together they rushed and floundered along down the banks of the stream towards the place, in joyful excitement at the thought that their troubles were now so nearly over, and with visions of the comfortable quarters, warm fires, and smoking suppers, which they confidently expected were awaiting them at camp, brightly dancing before them. Joy and hope lent wings to their speed; and, in a short time, they could discern the open place and the well-remembered outlines of the locality where the camp was situated. But no bright light greeted their expectant eyes. They were now at the spot, but, to their utter consternation, no camp was to be seen! Could they be mistaken in the place? No; there was the open path leading to the structure; there rose the steep side of the hill; and there, at the foot of it, stood the perpendicular rock against which it was erected! What could it mean? After standing a moment in mute amazement, peering inquiringly at each other, in the fading twilight, they started forward for the rock, and, in so doing, came upon the two front posts, still standing up some feet out of the snow. They were black and charred! The sad truth then flashed over their minds. Their camp had been burnt to the ground, and with it, also, probably, their rich collection of furs,—nearly the whole fruit of all the toils and fatigues of their expedition! O death, death! what shall save the poor trappers, now?
"Great God! I have had a presentiment of this," exclaimed Phillips, the first to find utterance, in a voice trembling with unwonted emotion.
"How could it have happened?" and "Where is Gaut Gurley?" simultaneously burst from the lips of the others.
"Well may you, ask those questions, and well couple them together, I fancy," responded the hunter, with bitter significance. "But away with all speculations aboutthat, now. We have something that more nearly concerns us to attend to, in this strait, than forming conjectures about the loss of our property: our lives are at stake! If you will mind me, however, you may all yet be saved."
"Direct us, direct us, and we will obey," eagerly responded one and all.
"Two of you follow me, then, for something dry, if we can find it, for a fire, and the rest go to kicking away and treading down the snow under the rock, with all your might!" sharply commanded the hunter, dashing his way towards the thickets, with hatchet in hand.
With that ready obedience which a superior in energy and experience will always command among his fellows, in emergencies like this, the men went to work in earnest. In a short time the snow was cleared away or beat down compactly over a space some yards in extent along the side of the rock, while the others soon returned with a supply of the driest wood to be found, together with an armfull of hemlock boughs, to strew over the beaten snow. The next thing requiring their attention was the all-important object of starting a fire. But in this they were doomed to sad disappointment. Their punk-wood tinder had been so dampened by the snow sifting into their coat-pockets, where they had deposited it, that it could not be made to catch the sparks of the smitten steel. They then tried the flashing of their guns; but they had no paper, and could find no dry leaves or fleecy bark of the birch, and the finest splinters or shavings they could whittle, in the dark, from the clefts of the imperfectly dry pine, would not take fire from the light, evanescent flash of the powder in their pans. Again and again did they renew the doubtful experiment; but every succeeding trial, from the dampness of their material in the driving snow, and from the unmanageable condition of their benumbed fingers and shivering frames, became more and more hopeless, till at length they were compelled to relinquish wholly the fruitless attempt.
"This is a calamity, indeed!" exclaimed the hunter. "I feared it might be so from the first. Could we have foreseen the want, so as to have been on the lookout for material coming along, or have got here before dark, it might have been averted. But as it is, there is one resort left for us, if we would live in this terrible wind and cold till morning, and that is, to keep in constant and lively motion. Whoever lies down to sleep is a dead man!"
But he found it difficult to impress on the minds of most of them his idea of the danger of ceasing motion. They began to say they felt more comfortable now, and, being very tired, must lay down to take a little rest. Sharply forbidding the indulgence, the hunter sallied out, cut and trimmed two or three green beech switches, and returned with them to his wondering companions; when, finding Mark Elwood, in disregard of his warning, already down and dozing on a bunch of boughs under the rock, he sternly exclaimed:
"Up, there, in an instant!"
"O, let me lie," begged the unconsciously freezing man: "do let me lie a little while. I am almost warm, now, but very, very sleepy," he added, sinking away again into a doze.
Instantly a smart blow from the tough and closely-setting switch of the hunter fell upon the outstretched legs of the dozer, who cringed and groaned, but did not start. Another and another, and yet another, fell with the quickness and force of a pedagogue's rod on the legs of an offending urchin, till the aroused, maddened and enraged victim of the seeming cruelty leaped to his feet, and, with doubled fists, rushed upon the assailant, who darted off into the snow and led his pursuer a doubling race of several hundred yards before he returned to the spot.
"There are some spare switches," resumed the active and stout-hearted hunter, as he came in a little ahead of the puffing, reanimated, and now pacified Elwood; "take them in hand, and do the same by me, if you see me going the same way; it is our only salvation!"
But, notwithstanding all this preaching, and the obvious effects of this wholesome example, others of the company, deceived by the insidious sensation which steals upon the unsuspecting victims of such exposures, as the treacherous herald of their death,—others, in turn, required and promptly received the application of the same strange remedy. But this could not always last. The fatigue of their previously overtasked systems prevented them from keeping up their exertions many hours more; and, declaring they could bear up no longer, one after another sunk down under the rock; and even their hitherto indomitable leader himself now visibly relaxed, and at length threw himself down with the rest, feebly murmuring:
"I know what this feeling means; but it is so sweet! let us all die together!"
At that instant a shock, quickly followed by the loud, gathering rumblings of an earthquake, somewhere above them, suddenly aroused and brought every man to his feet. And the next moment an avalanche of snow, sweeping down the steep side of the rock-faced declivity above, shot obliquely over their heads to the level below, leaving them unharmed, but buried twenty feet beneath the outward surface.
"Now, God be praised!" cried the hunter, at once comprehending what had happened, and starting forward to feel out what space was left them between their shielding rock in the rear and the wedged and compact slant snow-wall in front, which, with the no less deeply blocked ends, formed the roof and sides of their new and thus strangely built prison-house. "This is the work of Providence! We are now, at least, safe from the cold, as you will all, I think, soon have the pleasure of perceiving."
"You are right, Mr. Phillips," responded Carvil; "and it is strange some of us did not think of building a snow-house at the outset. Even the wild partridges, that in coldest weather protect themselves by burrowing in the snow, might have taught us the lesson."
"Yes, but it has been far better done in the way God has provided for us. And we have only now to get our blood into full circulation to insure us safety and rest through the night; and let us do this by shaking out our boughs, and treading down the snow, as smooth as a floor, to receive them for our bedding."
"It may be as you say about its being mild here, Mr. Phillips," doubtingly observed Mark Elwood; "but it seems strange philosophy to me, that being inclosed in snow, the coldest substance in nature, should make us warmer than in the open air."
"And still I suspect it is a fact, father," said Claud. "The Esquimaux, and other nations of the extreme north, it is known, live in snow-houses, without fire, the whole of their long and rigorous winters."
"O, Phillips is right enough aboutthat," added Codman, now evidently fast regaining his usual buoyancy of spirits; "yes, right enough aboutthat, whether he was about that plaguey switching he gave us, or not. Why, I can feel a great change in the air here already! warm enough, soon; safe, at any rate; so, hurra for life and home, which, being once so honestly lost, will now be clear gain. Hurra! whoo-rah! whoo-rah-ee! Kuk-kuk-ke-o-ho!"
And the hunterwasright, and the trapper was right. Their perils and physical sufferings were over. They were not only safe, but fast becoming comfortable. And, by the time they had trod down the snow as hard and smooth as had been proposed, and shaken out the boughs and distributed them for their respective beds, the air seemed as warm as that of a mild day in October. Their clothes were smoking and becoming dry by the evaporation of the dampness caused by the snow. Their limbs had become pliant, and their whole systems restored to their wonted warmth and circulation. And, wrapping themselves in their blankets, they laid down—as they knew they could now safely do—and were soon lost in refreshing slumber, from which they did not awake till a late hour the next morning.
When they awoke, after their deep slumbers, they at once concluded, from the altered and lighter hue of all around them, as well as by their own feelings, that it must be day without; and with one accord commenced, with their hatchets, cutting and digging a hole through the wall of their snowy prison-house, in the place where they judged it most likely to be thinnest. After working by turns some thirty or forty minutes, and cutting or beating out an upward passage eight or ten yards in extent, they suddenly broke through into the open air. The roaring of the storm no longer greeted their ears. The terrible conflict of the elements, which yesterday kept the heavens and earth in such hideous commotion, was over and gone. Though it was as cold as in the depths of winter, the sky was almost cloudless; and the sun, already far on his diurnal circuit, was glimmering brightly over the dreary wastes of the snow-covered wilderness. By common consent, they then packed up, and immediately commenced beating their slow and toilsome way towards the nearest habitation, which was that of the old chief, now only about five miles distant, over land, on the shore of the lake below. With far less fatigue and other suffering, save that of hunger, than they had anticipated, they reached the hospitable cabin of Wenongonet before night. Here their wants were supplied; here an earnest discussion—in which they were aided by the shrewd surmises of the chief—was held, respecting the burning of their camp and the probable loss of their common property; and, finally, here, though the "Light of the Lodge" was absent at her city home, they were agreeably entertained through the night and succeeding day,—when, the lakes having become frozen over sufficiently strong to make travelling on the ice as safe as it was convenient and easy, they, on the second morning after their arrival at his house, bade their entertainer good-by, and set out for their homes in the settlement, which they respectively reached by daylight, to the great relief of their anxious and now overjoyed families and friends.
"There was a laughing devil in his sneer,That rais'd emotions both of hate and fear."
In the early part of an appointed day, about a fortnight after the return of the imperilled and unfortunate trappers to their homes, as described in the preceding chapter, an unusual gathering of men was to be seen within and around a building whose barn, open shed, watering-trough, and sign-post, showed its aspirations to be a tavern, occupying a central position among a small, scattering group of primitive-looking houses, situated on the banks of the Androscoggin, five miles below that lake, and where it might be considered as fairly under way, as an uninterrupted river, in its devious course to the ocean.
In the yard and around the door stood men, gathered in small knots, engaged in low, earnest conversation; while, every few minutes, some were seen issuing from the house and hastily departing, as if dispatched on special messages,—the company in the mean time being continually augmented by fresh arrivals of the settlers, who came straggling in from both directions of the great road, which, leading from the more thickly-settled parts of Maine to the Connecticut, here passed over the Androscoggin.
Within the house, in the largest room, and behind a table, drawn up near the wall at the farther end, sat a magistrate, in all the grave dignity of a court, with pen in hand and paper before him, as if in readiness to take such testimony in the case on hand as should be presented for his consideration. On his right sat Mark Elwood, Phillips, and Codman, appearing as the representatives of the injured trappers or hunters, who were the prosecutors in the case; while on his left sat Gaut Gurley, in custody of the sheriff and his assistant, who had arrested and brought him there to answer to the complaint of the former. Gaut appeared perfectly unconcerned, glancing boldly about him with an air of proud defiance; while his former companions, the trappers just named, sat looking down at their feet, compressing their lips and knitting their brows in moody and indignant silence.
But, before proceeding with any further description of the court, its parties or doings, let us briefly recur to what had happened in the interim between the return of the trappers and their present appearance in court, for redress for the outrages that they supposed had been designedly committed upon them, or at least for bringing to punishment the man who, they felt morally certain, must be the perpetrator.
After the trappers had reached their homes, become fully restored from the chill and fatigues they had undergone during the terrible storm with which their expedition so disastrously terminated, and attended to such domestic wants as demanded their immediate care, they met at the house of Phillips, in accordance with an appointment they made when they parted, to report what evidence each might be able to collect relative to the burning of their camp, and the suspected previous abstraction of their furs; and thereupon to decide what measures should be taken in the premises. Finding that Gaut Gurley had been seen at home, or in the vicinity, some days previous to the storm, and that he was not likely to come tothem, they dispatched a disinterested person tohim, to notify him of their arrival, and the condition in which they found matters at the store-camp, left in his charge, and also of their wish that he would attend their proposed meeting, and account for the catastrophe which had so unexpectedly occurred. He pretended to know nothing of the affair, and feigned great surprise at the news; said he had left the camp and its stores, all safe, two days before the storm, to come to the settlement for more provisions; believing that his companions would remain a fortnight longer; that, having procured his supplies, he was intending to return to camp the day the storm came on; and finally that it devolved on those last at the camp, and not onhim, to account for what had taken place. He therefore declined meeting them on the business. As soon as they ascertained that Gaut had taken this stand, which only added to their previous convictions of his guilt, the different members of the company made journeys to the nearest villages or trading-places in Maine and New Hampshire, to see if any furs, answering in description to their collection, had recently been sold in any of those towns. And at length they found, in one of the frontier villages in Maine, a small collection of peltries, which they thought they could identify, and which the trader said he had lately purchased of an unknown travelling pedlar, who, out of a large lot of peltries, would sell only these at prices that would warrant the purchasing. This small lot of furs they prevailed on the trader to let them take home with them, for the purpose of making proof in court. This was all the direct evidence they could find to implicate Gaut; but they believed it would be sufficient. For, at the meeting they then held, Mark Elwood found among the furs a beaver-skin, that he could swear was of his own taking, from a careless slit he remembered to have made in the skinning. Codman found another, which he could safely identify by a mangled ear which was caught in one end of the trap, while the tail was caught in the other. And Phillips found an otter skin, with a bullet-hole on each side, made, as he well remembered, by shooting the animal through and through in the region of the heart. On this proof they unanimously decided on a prosecution; and accordingly Phillips and Mark Elwood set off the next day for Lancaster, the shire-town on the Connecticut, for legal advice, warrants, and a sheriff to serve them. On reaching the place, they were told by the attorney they consulted that they could not make out larceny or theft against Gurley for taking the furs placed in his trust, but for their private redress must resort to a civil action of trover, or unlawful conversion of the common property. A criminal process for arson, or the burning of the camp, would probably be sustained. And the result of the consultation was, that a complaint and warrant for arson should be issued, and the arrest made by the sheriff, who should also have in his hands a civil process returnable to the court of Common Pleas, to serve on Gurley and his property, provided the proof elicited at the court of inquiry on the criminal charge should be such as to afford them any prospect of a recovery.
It was under these circumstances that Gaut Gurley had been arrested for the burning of the camp, and brought before the magistrate, who, with the lawyers employed on both sides, had come to this place, as before described, for the hearing of the case.
The magistrate now declared the court open, and directed the parties to proceed with the case. The attorney for the prosecution then rose, read the complaint, and briefly stated what they expected to prove, to substantiate the allegations it contained. Mark Elwood, Phillips, Codman, and the trader who had purchased the furs of the pedlar, and who had been summoned for the purpose, were then called to the stand, and sworn, as witnesses on the part of the prosecution.
The trader, being first called on, testified to the identity of the furs which had been produced in court with the lot he had bought of the pedlar, as before mentioned; and he further stated that the man had a large lot, which well answered the general description given by the complainants of the lot they had in camp; but where or how he obtained the lot, or who he was, or where he went to when he left town, he did not learn, and had no means of ascertaining. All he could say, was, that these were the furs he purchased, and the only ones of the whole lot on the prices of which he and the fellow could agree, so as to effect a trade.
Phillips, next called, swore plumply that the bullet-pierced otter-skin before him was taken by his own hand from the animal he shot. He also added that there were several strings of sable-skins in the lot before him, which he felt confident he had seen among the furs of the company, and he especially pointed out one strung together by a braid of wickape bark. And in this last statement he was confirmed by Codman, who, besides identifying one beaver-skin, had the same impression in relation to the string of sable; but neither of them would swear positively in the matter of the smaller furs.
Mark Elwood, the last of the witnesses to be examined, then took the stand; and, contrary to what might have been expected from one of his wavering disposition, and particularly from one who had been so strangely kept under the influence and fear of the man on trial, bore himself resolutely under the menacing looks which the latter fixed upon him by way of intimidation. For some time he had utterly refused to harbor the idea of Gaut's guilt. He believed the burning of the camp was accidental; that Gaut, in anticipation of the storm, had taken all the furs home with him, and would soon call the company together for the distribution. But when he heard of the course Gaut was taking, and coupled it with the other circumstances, he suddenly changed his tone, fell into the belief of his companions, and more loudly and openly than any of them denounced the crime and its author,—seemingly throwing off, at once and forever, the mysterious spell which had so long bound him. Accordingly he now swore confidently to the beaver-skin in question, as one of his own taking, and, facing him boldly, even went so far as to declare his full belief in Gaut's guilt, not only in the burning of the camp, but in the stealing of the furs.
This gratuitous assertion of a mere matter of belief in the respondent's guilt, which was no legal evidence in the case, at once aroused, as might have been expected, the ire of Gaut's lawyer, who, with, fierce denunciations of the conduct of the witness, subjected him to a severe cross-examination.
"What reason, then," asked the somewhat mollified lawyer, now himself incautiously venturing on ground which, with a better knowledge of the parties, he would have seen might injure his cause, and on which his client evidently wished him not to push inquiries. "What reason, then, could you have for your extraordinary conduct in trying, against all rule, to lug in here your mere ungrounded conjectures, to prejudice the court and spectators against an innocent man?"
"Innocent?" here broke in Phillips, provoked by what, in his exasperated state of feeling, he viewed as the cool impudence and hypocrisy of the lawyer. "Innocent, hey? Well, well, there are various ways of lying in this world, I see plainly."
"What doyouknow about my client, whom you are all conspiring to ruin?" exclaimed the excited lawyer, turning fiercely on the interposing hunter.
"Know about him?" retorted the other. "I know enough, besides this outrageous affair; I know enough to—"
"Beware!" suddenly exclaimed Gaut Gurley, with a look that brought the speaker to a stand.
"I don't fear you, sir," said the hunter, confronting the other with an unflinching countenance. "But you may be right; it may beI hadbetter forbear; it may be your time is not yet come," he added, in a low, significant tone.
"Now, I will finish with you, sir," resumed Gaut's lawyer, turning again sternly to Elwood, from whom he—like many other over-acting attorneys, who cannot see where they should stop in examinations of this kind—seemed to think he could draw something more that would make for his client. "When that fellow interrupted me, just now, I was asking what reason, besides some grudge or malice, you had for your unwarrantable course in pronouncing the respondent guilty, without proof; for, allowing the furs you swear towereonce yours, you don't show, by a single particle of proof, that he had any thing to do with it more than yourselves, who were quite as likely to have taken them as he. Yes, what reasons,—facts, facts, I mean; no more guess-work here; so speak out, sir, like an honest man, if you can."
"I will, then," promptly responded Elwood. "You shall have facts, to your heart's content; I said what I did because I am convinced heisguilty."
"Convinced!" sneeringly interrupted the other; "there it is again; thrusting in sheer conjectures for evidence! I must call on the court to interpose with the stubborn and wilful fellow. Didn't I tell you, sir, I'd have no more of your guess-work? Facts, sir, facts, or nothing."
"Well, you shall have them, then," replied the other, in a determined tone, "for I know enough facts to convinceme, at least, of his guilt. Both before and after we started on our expedition, he threw out hints to me which I did not then quite understand, but which, since this affair, I have recalled, and now know what they meant. He hinted, if I would fall into his plan and keep council, we might—"
"Might what?" sharply demanded the excited and alarmed attorney. "Do you know you are under oath, sir? Might what, I say?"
"Might get all the furs into our hands, and—"
"Traitor! liar! scoundrel!" exclaimed Gaut Gurley, in a tone that sounded like the hiss of a serpent, as he bent forward and glared upon Elwood, with an expression so absolutely fiendish as to make every one in the room pause and shudder, and as to be remembered and recounted, months afterwards, in connection with events which seemed destined to spring from this worse than fruitless trial.
"You was going to say," said the attorney for the prosecution, here eagerly pricking up and turning to the interrupted and now evidently discomposed witness,—"you was going to say, he proposed that he and you should take all the furs to yourselves, and so rob the rest of the company!"
"I can't tell the words; but I think he meant that," replied Elwood, in more subdued tones.
"O ho," exclaimed Gaut's lawyer; "younowthink, that is, you guess, he meant something that you didn't dream of his meaning at the time he uttered it. Pretty evidence this; make the most of it!"
"We will," said the opposite counsel; "and I request the court to take it all down, together with the prisoner's exclamations oftraitor, etc., which involves, indirectly, an admission that I shall remark on in the argument. Yes, let all this be noted carefully. It is important. It goes to show the previous design, which, coupled with the identified furs, is, I trust the court will see, sufficient to fix the crime on the respondent, beyond all doubt or question."
"We will soon show you how much you will make out of your identified furs," rejoined the other lawyer, with a confident and defiant air.
"Have you witnesses to introduce on the part of the defence?" asked the court.
"Yes, your honor; but our most important one has not yet arrived. We are expecting him every minute."
At that moment, a shout of surprise and laughter, together with an unusual commotion in the yard, arrested the attention of all in the court-room; and they mostly rushed to the door or windows to ascertain the cause, when they were amused to behold the young Indian, Tomah, driving into the yard, with his moose harnessed to a pung or sledge, of his own rigging up, on which—-with reins and whip in hand—-he sat as jauntily as a coachman, and almost with, the same ease, apparently, brought his strange steed to a stand before the door.
"Our witness has come!" exclaimed Gaut's lawyer, exultingly. "Mr. Sheriff, send out and bring him in. We will now dispose of this miserable prosecution, in short metre."
In a few minutes Tomah entered the room, and, readily comprehending,—from a knowledge of the usages of courts he had obtained during his residence in the villages of the whites,—what was expected of him, now demurely advanced in front of the magistrate, raised his hand, and received the oath of a witness. He was then shown the lot of furs that had been identified by the hunters present, his attention directed to the peculiar marks by which part of them had been distinguished, and he was asked if he had ever seen these furs, and noticed the marks on them, before.
"Yes, think so," replied Tomah, quietly, as he rapidly handled every large skin, and each parcel of the smaller ones, keenly noting the palpable marks shown him on the former, and every tie confining together the latter. "Yes; here bullet-holes on otter; slit on this beaver; cropt ear on that; little fat back of fore-legs on rest of beaver; wickape strings on that bunch sable; elm-bark tie on that; and beech twigs on that. Yes, seen 'em all."
"Where? And how do you know the furs? Tell the court all about it," saidGaut's lawyer, as an exultant smile played over his sardonic features.
"Well, now," calmly and with his usual passionless cast of countenance replied Tomah, after a considerable pause; "well, this lot of skins all taken from the great lot taken by our company up round the great lakes, this fall. I come back to settlement, three, four, five days, may be, 'fore the rest; to see to moose, train him for Boston, and make sled; wanted my part of furs to sell right off, to bear expenses, and get off on journey soon. Mr. Gurley, then, after while, said he venture to divide off to me greater part of what I would get for my share of skins then got into the great camp. So he do it; and I take my part, just this lot you show me here, and steer off with them to Bethel; but, 'fore got quite there, come cross pedlar and sold them cheap, for money, and go right back to Mr. Gurley's, where moose was. Found Mr. Gurley home, too; said he left all furs safe in camp; come for provisions to carry back, to hunt one, two weeks longer; but storm come, and he stayed to home, and soon heard all the men got home, too; big storm, bad; I no start for Boston yet, but most ready; go soon, get heap of money for moose, certain."
The counsel for the prosecution and his clients—on hearing such a piece of testimony from a witness whom they themselves would have summoned, but for the belief that he would be so much under the influence and training of Gaut, that little could be drawn from him making against the latter—were taken so completely by surprise, by the unexpecteddenouement, that they all sat mute and dumb-founded for some moments; both lawyer and clients being scarcely able to credit their own senses, and each hoping that the other had discovered some flaw in the testimony, by which it could be picked to pieces. But no such flaw or discrepancy could be discovered; and the testimony, after the severe and prolonged cross-examination to which it was subjected by the rallying and desperate attorney, remained wholly unshaken, in every material part, standing out, in all its decisive force and effect, for the exclusive benefit of the respondent. Every person in the room, indeed, at length became convinced that the young Indian had told the truth, and that he could know nothing of Gaut's guilt, though unconciously made a witness in his favor; with the view, probably, of meeting just such an exigency as had occurred in the present prosecution.
The attorney for the prosecution, then, it being agreed to submit the case on the testimony now in, made a long and ingenious speech, abandoning the matter of the identified furs; dwelling largely on Gaut's dimly-hinted proposals to Elwood to join in the crime; and, on the ground that he was the only person in a situation to burn and rob the camp, raising the violent presumption that he must have perpetrated the double crime.
Gaut's lawyer then rose, with a confident and exultant air, and said he might, with the best reason in the world, make a plea to the jurisdiction of the court, since he had discovered that the camp which was alleged to have been burnt was situated some miles within the boundary of Maine; that no New Hampshire magistrate, of course, could take jurisdiction of the case; and, that the respondent, on that ground alone, must be at once discharged, if he wished it. But he did not wish it. He courted a trial and decision, on the merits of the cases which, after briefly urging the strong points of the defence, he submitted to the court.
Tomah's testimony had settled the case; and, though nearly every one in the room, probably, were deeply impressed with suspicions of Gaut's guilt, yet all felt that the evidence was not sufficient for a legal conviction. And they were not surprised, therefore, when the court, after briefly commenting on the testimony, pronounced the full discharge of the prisoner.
"Ha, ha!" exclaimed Gaut, with a laugh so inconceivably devilish that his own lawyer, even, recoiled at the sound. "Ha, ha!" he repeated, with a smile on his lips, made ghastly by the fires of concentrated malice that shot from his eyes. "Wouldn't my good friends, here, like to try this game again?"
"Yes," boldly retorted the hunter. "Yes, and we shall, with evidence Heaven will direct us where to find. Your time hasn't come. But itwillcome! God ain't dead yet!"
"Be still the unimaginable lodgeFor solitary thinkings; such as dodgeConception to the very bourn of Heaven,Then leave the naked brain; be still the leavenThat, spreading in this dull and clodded earth,Gives it a touch ethereal, a new birth." KEATS.
It is not to be supposed that a lawsuit, or prosecution, in so new and remote a settlement, especially one that involved so many interests, and whose result must have so many and complicated bearings, as the one described in the last chapter, would be suffered to pass away like any ordinary occurrence and be forgotten. With the settlers, besides the novelty of having a court held among them, for any cause, it was an extraordinary occurrence that there should be any grounds for a prosecution or lawsuit of this character,—extraordinary that any one should be found base enough to violate the common faith and honesty which the trappers and hunters had, up to that time, so implicitly reposed in, and observed with each other,—and doubly extraordinary that the perpetrator could not be detected and brought to punishment. To them, such a flagitious betrayal of trust was a new and startling event. They felt it deeply concerned them all; and the sensation it produced was accordingly as profound as it was general, in all that region of the country.
But, if such was the effect of the unfortunate occurrence in question, on the community at large, how much more deeply would the effect be naturally felt by the parties immediately concerned? By the loss of their stock of furs, three families, at least, were deprived of the means on which they had relied for supplying them, with a large part of the necessaries of life, through the ensuing winter; while, besides this, many a wife and child were doomed to sad disappointment, in being thus deprived of the fondly-anticipated purchases of articles of dress, books, and various other little comforts, which had been promised them on the division and sale of the peltries. Nor were these the only interests and feelings affected by the event and its concomitants. Friendships were broken, and even more tender relations were disturbed, if, indeed, their further existence were not to be terminated. By the open, and as was supposed irreconcilable, quarrel between Mark Elwood and the terribly vindictive Gaut Gurley, their children, Claud and Avis, who were understood to be under mutual engagement of marriage, were placed in a position at once painful and embarrassing in the extreme. And Claud, especially, although he had carefully abstained from all accusations of Gaut, had taken no part in getting up the prosecution, and purposely absented himself from the trial, yet felt very keenly the perplexing dilemma into which he would be thrown, by continuing the connecting link between two such deadly foes as he now found his father, whom he could not desert, and Gaut Gurley, whom he felt conscious he could not defend. And for this reason he had, from time to time, deferred the visit to Avis, which he had designed, and which she would naturally expect on his return from the expedition. But still he could not see how a quarrel between the fathers discharged him from his obligations to her; and he grew more and more doubtful and uneasy in the position he found himself occupying. He was soon, however, to be relieved. One day, a short time after the trial, while he was anxiously revolving the subject in mind, a boy, who had come as a special messenger from the Magalloway settlement (for the purpose, as it appeared), brought him the following letter:
"DEAR CLAUD,—You do not know, you cannot know, what the effort costs me to write this. You do not know, you cannot know, what I have felt, what I have suffered since I became fully apprised of the painful circumstances under which your late expedition was brought to a close; and especially since I became apprised of the lamentable scenes that occurred in the court, growing out of that unfortunate—O how unfortunate, expedition! Before that court was held, and during the doubtful days which intervened between it and your escape from the terrible perils that attended your return, the hope that all would, allmustturn out right, in some measure relieved my harrowing fears and anxieties; though even then the latter was to the former as days of cloud to minutes of sunshine. But, when I heard what occurred at the trial,—the bitter crimination and recrimination, the open rupture, the menaces exchanged, and the angry parting,—and, more alarming than all, when I saw my father return in that fearful mood, from which he still refuses to be diverted, the last gleam of hope faded, and all became cloud, all gloom,—dark, impenetrable, and forbidding. My nights, when sleep at length comes to close my weeping eyes, are passed in troubled dreams; my days in more troubled thoughts, which I would fain believe were dreams also. O, why need this be? I have done nothing,—you have done nothing; and I have no doubt of your faith and honor for performing all I shall ever require at your hands. But, Claud, I love you, and all
'Know love is woman's happiness;'
and all know, likewise, that the ties of love are but gossamer threads, which a word may rupture, a breath shake, and even the power of unpleasant associations destroy. Still, is there not one hope,—the hope that this thread, hitherto so blissfully uniting our hearts, subtle and attenuated as it is, may yet be preserved unbroken, if we suffer no opinion, no word, no syllable to escape our lips, respecting the unfortunate affair that is embroiling our parents; if we wholly deny ourselves the pleasure of that social intercourse which, tome, at least, has thus far made this wilderness an Eden of delight? But can it be thus preserved, if we keep up that intercourse, as in the sunshine of our love,—those pleasant, fleeting, rosy months, when I was so happy, O so very happy, in the feelings of the present and the prospects of the future? No, no, it is not possible, it is not possible for you to come here, and encounter my father in such a mood, and then return and receive the upbraidings of your own, that you are joining or upholding the house of his foes. It is not possible for you to do this, and your heart receive no jar, and mine no fears or suspicions of its continued fealty. I dare not risk it. Then do not, dearest Claud, O do not come here, at least for the present. Perhaps my dark forebodings, that our connection is not to be blessed for our future happiness, may be groundless. Perhaps the storm that now so darkly hangs over us may pass harmlessly away. Perhaps this painful and perplexing misunderstanding—as I trust in Heaven's mercy it only is—may yet be placed in a light which will admit of a full reconciliation between our respective families. But, till then, let our relations to each other stand, if you feel disposed to let them, precisely as we left them at our last mournfully happy parting; for, till then, though it break my heart, I could never, never consent to a renewal of our intercourse. Have I said enough, and not too much? I could not, under the almost insupportable weight of grief, fear, and anxiety, that is distracting my brain, and crushing my poor heart,—I could not say less, I dare not say more. O Claud, Claud, why has this dreadful cloud come over us? O, pray that it may be speedily removed, and once more let in, on our pained and perplexed hearts, the sunshine of their former happiness. Dearest Claud, good-by; don't come, but don't forget.
Claud felt greatly relieved, in some respects, by this unexpected missive; in others, the contents caused him uneasiness and self-condemnation. It relieved him from the sense of obligation he had entertained, to make the dreaded visit to the house of Gaut Gurley,—who, with every desire to arrive at a different conclusion, he could no longer believe guiltless of the basest of frauds, and the basest of means to conceal it. It relieved him, indeed, on this point; but, as we have said, made him sad and thoughtful on others. The great grief and distress under which the fair writer was so evidently laboring, and the deep-rooted love for him which was revealed in almost every line, but which her pride, in the bright hours of their courtship, had never permitted her to disclose, keenly touched his feelings, and rose in condemnation of the comparative indifference, which, in spite of all his efforts to correct its waywardness, he felt conscious had been gradually stealing over his heart, since his admiration, to say the least, had been raised by a rival vision of loveliness. In the newly-awakened feeling of the moment, however, he bitterly upbraided himself for his tergiversations in suffering his thoughts to vacillate between the Star of the Magalloway, who had his plighted faith, and Flower of the Lakes, who had no claims to his special consideration. But still, when his thoughts wandered over the scenes of the past summer, which now, since trial and hardship had brought his mind back within the dominion of reason and judgment, seemed much more like dreams than realities,—when he thought of the manner in which he became acquainted with Avis Gurley; how he persisted in gaining her affections, and kindling into an over-mastering flame his own fancy-lit love; and finally, how, against the known wishes of his family, and the dictates of his own sober judgment, he had urged her into an engagement of marriage, which he could now see had, as his mother predicted, in all probability led to a renewal of the intimacy between his father and Gaut Gurley, and that last intimacy to the present disaster, and a new quarrel, whose consequences might yet well be looked for with uneasiness and apprehension,—when he thought of all this, he deeply condemned his own indiscretion, and could not help wishing himself clear from an engagement, which, like every thing connected with the schemes of that dark and dreaded man, who was now an object of suspicion through the whole settlement, seemed destined to lead only to trouble and disaster. Such was the maze of perplexity by which the young man, now too late for an honorable retreat, found himself on every side thickly environed. Yet, for all this, and in despite of all these perplexities and misgivings, he resolved he would not cease to play the man, but honorably fulfil all his obligations in such manner as should be required of him.
So much for the love and its hapless entanglements, which had been so deeply but so unsatisfactorily occupying, for the last few weeks, the thoughts of Claud Elwood, who then little suspected that there was another heart, besides that of the pure, proud, and impassioned Avis Gurley, whose every pulse, in the great unseen system of intermingling sympathies, beat in trembling vibration to his own,—a heart that had been won uncourted and unknown,—a heart that had secretly nursed, in the favoring solitudes of these wild lakes, and brooded over, a passion more deep and intense than words could well be found to describe. Therewassuch a heart; and that heart was now wildly beating, in the agonizing uncertainties of a hoped reciprocation, in the bosom of that peerless child of the forest, the beautiful Fluella; and all the more intense were its workings, because confined to its own deep recesses, where the hidden flame was laboring constantly for an outlet to its pride-walled prison, but as constantly shrinking in terror from the disclosure. She had once, however, through the violence of emotions which she could not control, accidentally betrayed the state of her feelings; but it was to one in whose discretion and friendship she was soon made to repose undoubting confidence, and with whom, therefore, she at length became reconciled to let her secret remain. The person, who had thus become the depositary of that secret was, as the reader may remember, Mrs. Elwood. The consciousness that this lady knew all, coupled as it was with the thought of the relation in which the latter stood to the object of her secret idolatry, had irresistibly drawn to her the yearning heart of the guileless maiden. She had longed for another interview, but dare not seek it; longed for some excuse for opening a communication with her, but could not find one. At length, however, fortune opened the desired avenue; and, after much hesitation and trembling, she summoned up the courage to avail herself of the offered opportunity. Phillips, in his determination to ferret out the outrage which had been committed on him and his companions, and of the author of which he still entertained no doubt, had, immediately after the trial, commenced a series of rapid journeys to all the nearest villages or trading towns in Maine and New Hampshire, to ascertain if any lot of furs, answering to those caught by his company, had been sold in those places. And one of these journeys, for that and other purposes, he had extended to the seaboard. On his return home, he immediately repaired to his neighbor Elwood's, and, unperceived, slipped into the hands of Mrs. Elwood a letter, which the wondering matron soon took to a private room, curiously opened, and, with a deep, undefined interest and varying emotions, commenced reading. It ran thus:
"MRS. ELWOOD, MY FRIEND,—Our Mr. Phillips has been here, and told us all that has happened in your settlement. Mrs. Elwood, I am greatly troubled at the loss your family suffer, with the rest of the hunters, but still more troubled and fearful for your husband and your noble son, about what may grow out of the quarrel with that dark man. My father knew him, time long past, and said there would be mischief done the company, when we heard he was going with them. I hope Mr. Elwood will keep out of his way; and I hope, Claud,—O, I cannot write the thought. Mrs. Elwood, I am very unhappy. I sometimes wish your brave and noble son had suffered me to go down and be lost in the dark, wild waters of those fearful rapids. By the goodness of my white father, whom I am proud to hope you may some time see with me in your settlement, I have all the comforts and indulgences that a heart at ease could desire; warm, carpeted rooms, dress, books, company, smooth flatterers, who mean little, it may be, together withrealfriends, who mean much, and prove it by actions, which do not, like words, ever deceive. And yet, Mrs. Elwood, they are all now without any charms for me. My heart is in your settlement. The grand old forest, and the bright lake, were always things of beauty for me, before I sawhim; but now, when associatedwithhim,—O, Mrs. Elwood, if I did not know you had something of what I meant should forever be kept secret from all but the Great Eye, in your keeping, and if you had not made me feel you would be my discreet friend, and keep it as safe from all as an unspoken thought, I would not for worlds write what I have, and what I every moment find my pen on the point of writing more fully. O, how I wish I could make you understand, without words, what I feel,—how I grieve over what I almost know must be vain hopes, and vainer visions of happiness! You have sometimes had, it may be, very bright, delightful dreams, which seemed to bring you all your heart desired; and then you suddenly awoke, and found all had vanished, leaving you dark and sad with disappointment and regret. If you have, you may fancy what my thoughts are undergoing every hour of the day. O, how my heart is drawn away towards you! I often feel that I must fly up, like a bird, to be there. I should come now, but for what might be thought. I shall certainly be there in early spring. I can't stay away, though I may come only to see what I could bear less easy than these haunting, troubled fancies. Mrs. Elwood, adieu. You won't show this, or breathe a word about it,—I know you won't; you could not be so cruel as that. Mrs. Elwood, may I not sign myself your friend? FLUELLA."
On perusing this unexpected communication, Mrs. Elwood felt—she scarcely knew herself what she felt, except a keenly appreciating sense of the writer's embarrassed feelings, and except, also, the pleasurable emotions which this timid and tender outpouring of an unsophisticated heart somehow afforded her. Ever since her singular interview with this remarkable girl, as described in a former chapter, Mrs. Elwood had not ceased to think of her as of some good angel, sent by an interposing Providence, in answer to the agonizing supplications which immediately preceded her unexpected appearance at the time,—sent to be the means, in some unforeseen way, of extricating her family from the fatal influences, as she viewed them, under which they had insidiously been brought by their different connections with the Gurleys. Especially had she been impressed that this would prove the case, in all that related to her idolized son, Claud; whom, in her disregard to all considerations of lineage, when relieved by such excellence of beauty and character, she would a thousand times rather have seen united to the Indian girl than to the one he appeared to have chosen. She was, therefore, besides being touched by the broken pathos of the letter, gratified by its reception; for it seemed to come as a sort of confirmation of her grateful presentiment, that her son, at least, was to be happily disenthralled. Nor was she, at this time, without the evidence which led her to hope that her husband, also, had now finally escaped from the toils that had, once and again, caused him such calamity and suffering. The sudden and terrible outbreak of indignation, which, with equal surprise and gratification, she had seen him exhibit against Gaut, and the quarrel in court, which followed in consequence, must, she thought, now forever keep them separate. If so, poorly as her family could afford to suffer their part of the loss of the avails of the fall's work, she would cheerfully bear it, and even look upon the event in the light of a Heaven-sent mercy. But even of this poor comfort she was destined soon to be deprived. After the trial, Mark Elwood—who, however bravely he bore himself at first, on that occasion, was finally seen to quail under the terrible glances of Gaut—soon became strangely silent respecting the prosecution and supposed perpetration of the offence about which he had before manifested so much zeal and indignation. And, in the active exertions which Phillips and Codman, in the vain search for evidence or some clue to the robbery of the furs, perseveringly kept up during the whole of the long and dreary winter that followed, he could not be induced to take any decided part. Nor would he, when they met him at his own house, or that of Phillips, as they several times did, that winter, to compare the discoveries and observations they had made, and discuss the subject, any longer maintain the position he at first so boldly took, respecting Gaut's guilt, or say any thing in aid of their deliberations.He, indeed, astheygrew more decided and convinced, seemed to grow more wavering and doubtful. Such was his demeanor and conduct in company of his late companions; while, with his own family, he appeared moody, irresolute, and restless, and even, at length, he began to throw out occasional hints tending to defend or extenuate the conduct of the very man whom, a few weeks before, he had so confidently denounced as a thief and a robber. Alarmed at these indications of returning weakness and fatuity in her husband, Mrs. Elwood soon put herself on inquiry, to ascertain the cause; and she was not long in making discoveries that more than justified her worst fears and suspicions.
It appeared that Gaut Gurley, after his arrest, and after his escape from the punishment of the law, through the means, as was now generally believed, which he had cunningly provided before he entered on the commission of the offence charged, remained almost constantly at home, during nearly the whole winter, brooding, in savage mood, over his own dark thoughts and varying schemes for advantage and revenge, keeping his family in continual awe of him, and causing all who approached him to recoil, shuddering, from his presence, and mark him as a dangerous man in the community. Towards spring, however, he appeared suddenly to change his tactics, or, at least, to undergo a great change in his deportment and conduct. All at once, he came round in his usual manner. The dark cloud had been banished from his brow. He civilly accosted every acquaintance he met, appeared cheerful and good-humored, and desirous of prolonging the conversation with all with whom he came in contact, without seeming to notice, in the least, the evident inclination of most of the settlers to avoid his company. He came down, every few days, to the little village before named as the place where the court was held, and lounged for hours about the tavern; which, during the winter season, was the common resort of the settlers. Here he soon encountered his old companions, Phillips, Codman, and the Elwoods, all of whom, notwithstanding the cold and demure manner with which the two former, at least, turned away from him, he saluted with careless ease, and as if nothing had happened to disturb their former social relations. And, having thus surmounted the somewhat difficult task of breaking the ice with them, without receiving the open and absolute repulse which, however disposed, they did not deem it wise to give him, he, at the next meeting, ventured to broach the subject of their late quarrel, affecting to laugh at their mutual exhibitions of folly in getting so angry with each other in court, under the belief, on his part, thattheyhad got the furs, and, on their part, thathehad made way with them; when neither of them were guilty, and ought not to be charged with the offence. For himself, he said, he was now satisfied, on thinking the matter over, who were the real culprits. They were a couple of "cussed runagate Indians," that had strolled over from Canada, and, having discovered his camp, had laid in wait for his absence. He had seen the tracks of two different-sized moccasins in the sand on the lake-shore, but two days before he left; but the circumstance was forgotten, or he should not have left the camp unguarded. It was a great loss for them all; but it would not help the matter to mourn now. It must be borne; and he knew of no way to make it up but to try their luck in another expedition. He should, for his part; for he had no notion of giving up so.
Such was the drift of his conversation at this interview; and, seeming to think he had ventured far enough for one experiment on their credulity, he dropped that subject and struck off on to others. But the next time he met them he contrived to turn the conversation upon the same theme; when, telling them with a confidential air that, a few days before he left camp, he discovered, on a stream coming in at the upper end of the Megantic, a succession of freshly-constructed beaver dams, which, from the number of houses and other indications around each, he thought must be occupied by one of the largest colonies of beavers ever collected on one stream in that part of the country, he directly proposed to them to join him, when the spring opened, in an expedition to secure this extraordinary collection of the valuable animals that were, unquestionably, still all there, and as unquestionably might be captured.
This story, with the accompanying proposal, presented, as Gaut well knew, the most tempting inducement that could be offered, to trappers. But it made no impression on Phillips and Codman. They deeply distrusted the man, his whole story, and the motives which they believed moved him to concoct it. Spurning in their hearts, therefore, the bait that had been so artfully laid for them, they would have nothing to do withhimor his proposal. And, both then and thereafter, they remained unmoved, and stood proof against all the arguments his taxed ingenuity and devilish cunning could invent and bring to bear upon them.
With the infatuated Mark Elwood, however, the case seemed to be almost wholly reversed. He again listened,—was again lost. He, restless, uneasy, and evidently apprehensive of something he did not disclose, from continuing under the terrible displeasure which Gaut had so significantly manifested towards him,—he had appeared, from the first, to hail with pleasure the indications of the relenting mood of the other, and seemed but too glad to be again noticed with favor. He could see no reason to distrust the man's sincerity, he said, when others raised the question; and he was much inclined to adopt his version of the robbery and burning of their camp. When, therefore, the proposal of a new expedition was made, under the circumstances we have named, the blinded Elwood seemed fully prepared to accept it; and he would have openly and without reserve done so, but for the restraining presence of his companions, who, he felt conscious, would disapprove and deprecate his conduct. Gaut had noticed all this, and was not long in bringing about a private interview with his dupe and victim, which resulted, as might be supposed, in settling the matter in just the way he intended.