CHAPTER XIITHE CHERRY-TREE SPRING
Mary Derwent returned home with a mournful determination to seek the confidence of her sister—to inform her frankly of the knowledge she had obtained, and, if possible, to save her from, the consequences of her unprincipled encouragement of Walter Butler, when her faith was pledged to another.
She found Edward Clark and her sister seated by the only glazed window of the cabin, conversing cordially as usual. But, as the evening wore on, she observed that Jane grew petulant and restless. Two or three times she went to the door, looked out hurriedly, and returned without any obvious reason. She would not sit down by Clark again, but when he addressed her, answered him impatiently, as if his society had all at once become irksome.
Once Edward made some allusion to a farm which his father had promised to give him when he settled for life, and spoke of the kind of house he intended to build, asking Jane’s opinion.
She answered abruptly that she was tired of farming and hard work of all kinds; indeed, she hoped the time would come when she need not be obliged to live in a log-house, and spoil her hands by washing dishes from morning till night.
Young Clark looked a little surprised at this sudden outbreak of discontent, but laughingly told the spoiled beauty that she should have a two-story frame house, with glass windows in every room when his ship camein from the moon, and the Indians were all driven from Wyoming.
Jane was about to return some saucy reply, but that instant a shrill whistle came up from the river, which brought a torrent of crimson into her face, and she looked wistfully at the door without daring to approach it.
Mary understood it all, and her pure heart ached within her. She blushed even more deeply than her sister; and when Jane attempted to speak carelessly of night birds which roosted on the island, her face grew troubled, like that of an angel who sees a beloved companion ready to fall.
Clark observed this embarrassment without suspecting its cause, while Mother Derwent droned on with her flax-wheel, and talked about the comfort of living upon an island where the wolves could only bark at you from the opposite shore, thus unconsciously aiding in her granddaughter’s deception.
After a time, Clark mentioned Walter Butler, and observed that he had seen him on the river that day; something in Jane’s manner seemed to excite his attention that moment, for he asked, a little suspiciously, if the young Tory had landed on the island.
Jane crimsoned to the temples again, but answered promptly, that she had not seen Mr. Butler in a week—that was, since her birthday.
This direct falsehood smote Mary to the heart; tears swelled to her eyes till she could hardly discern the beautiful face of her sister through the mist.
Filled with these unquiet thoughts, Mary went to her little bedroom, that she might weep and pray alone. As she closed the door, her sister was asking Edward Clark how far it was from Wyoming to Canada, and if all the handsome ladies there wore silk dresses and had hired people to wait on them?
Mary closed the door and went to bed, but she couldnot sleep; for the first time, the sweet voice of her sister, as it sounded through the thin partition, brought disquiet to her affectionate heart. She heard Edward Clark leave the house about ten o’clock, but it was more than an hour before Jane came to bed. When, at length, she felt the familiar touch of her cheek, it was heated with feverish thought. The deformed lay within her sister’s arms, apparently asleep, but deliberating on the most effectual method of opening the subject which lay so heavily on her heart, when that whistle which had haunted her footsteps continually since the night before again sounded from the cove with a shrillness that cut to her heart like a dagger.
Jane caught her breath, rose suddenly to her elbow, and listened, while her frame trembled till it shook the bed. After a few minutes, during which the whistle sounded sharply again, she crept softly from the bed, put on her clothes, and stole from the house. Mary was so shocked and confounded that it was several minutes before she could collect her thoughts sufficiently to decide what course to pursue. At last she arose, and hastily dressing herself, ran down to the cove.
The trees hung in leafy quiet over the green sward, and the moonbeams shed their radiance on the waters as they rippled against the bank; no human being was in sight, but a strange canoe lay rocking at its mooring by the side of her own, and the murmur of distant voices came faintly from the direction of a spring which supplied the household with water.
The moonlight lay full on the overhanging trees as Mary approached, and, in the stillness, the voices she had heard became each moment more distinct. She paused in the shadow which fell across the footpath where it curved down into the little hollow. Her sister. Jane, was sitting on a rock just within the moonlight,which flickered through the boughs above, and by her side, with her hand in his, was Walter Butler.
He was speaking, and Mary’s heart swelled with indignation as she listened to his words.
“Take your choice,” he said, “remain here and become the wife, the drudge, of Edward Clark—condemn these beautiful hands to perpetual toil; milk his cows, cook for his workmen, be content with the reward of a homespun dress, now and then, to set off this form, which a king might look upon with admiration; accept this miserable life if you choose. But do not pass by the offer I make, without thought; for it is wealth, ease, luxury, in fact everything that beauty craves, against neglect and drudgery. I offer the heart of a man who knows how to estimate your beauty—who will deck it in gold and robe it in silks—who will provide servants to do your bidding, and surround you with such elegance as you never dreamed of. It is no idle promise, Jane, for I have become rich, very rich, independent of my father. What are you crying for? can I offer more than this?”
“Oh, no,” replied the infatuated girl; “I was thinking of poor old grandma—dear, dear Mary; what will they do when I am gone—what will Edward Clark think of me?”
“Edward Clark again! and that old woman and selfish girl who have made you a slave. Will you never stop whimpering about them?—have I not promised that you shall send them money?”
“They would not take it; I am sure they would not touch a cent of your money. Indeed, I cannot help feeling bad when I think of leaving them in this manner. When we are married you will bring me back sometimes, won’t you?”
“Yes, when we are married I will certainly bring you to see them; have no fear of that. It is now past twelve,and we must be many miles hence before daybreak. Come, dry these tears and go with me to the canoe—we are losing time—what good is there in all these tears? they only spoil your beauty; come, come.”
As Butler spoke, he placed his arm round the weeping girl and drew her, with some violence, along the footpath; but they had scarcely reached the bend which led into the open moonlight when Mary Derwent stood in the way.
“The little Hunchback, by all the furies!” exclaimed Butler, girding the waist of his companion with a firm arm and attempting to drag her forward, though she struggled in his embrace, and with tears and sobs entreated him to free her.
“Jane—sister! you will not go with this wicked man; listen to me before you take this dreadful step! Ask him where he obtained the money which he but now boasted of. Jane, I have never, in the whole course of my life, told you a falsehood. Believe me now—this wicked man dares not deny what I say. He is another woman’s husband! I heard him make the promise—I saw him on his way to perform that promise! Jane, it is a married man for whom you were about to forsake us. Let him deny it if he dare.”
“Out of my path, lying imp! before I trample your shapeless carcass under my feet!” cried Butler, through his shut teeth.
But the undaunted girl kept her station, and her stately voice told how little effect his taunt on her deformity had made.
“I have told no lie,” she exclaimed boldly, “and you dare not accuse me of it. Last evening I heard all that passed between you and the strange white woman who lives among the Shawnees. Jane, look in that face. Is there no guilt there?”
“You do not believe this,” said Butler, still attempting to draw the wretched girl away.
“Yes, I do!” cried Jane, with sudden vehemence, and leaping from his grasp she flung her arms around Mary where she stood, and urged his departure with a degree of energy that he could no longer contend against. Baffled and full of rage, he loaded them both with bitter imprecations, and pushed out into the stream. Locked in each other’s arms, the sisters saw him depart; one shedding tears of penitence and shame, the other full of thanksgiving.
As they stood thus, unable to speak from excess of feeling, the young vines were torn apart just above them, a pair of glittering eyes looked through, and a voice that made them cling closer to each other broke upon the night, sharp and wild as the cry of an angry bird.
“Look up, that I may see the pale face that comes between Tahmeroo and her love!”
With a wild bound that tore the vines before her into shreds, Tahmeroo leaped down among the loose rocks, and seizing Jane Derwent by the shoulder, dragged her up the path into the moonlight; for the clouds that had tented her wedding with their gloom were swept away now, leaving the sky clear, full of stars, and pearly with the glow of a full moon.
Jane Derwent shrunk and cowered under those flashing eyes. She was forced to her knees among the stones, and held there, while Tahmeroo perused her face, lineament by lineament, as if it had been a book in which her own destiny was written. A fierce, angry fire burned in those black eyes, and that mouth, so beautiful when it smiled, writhed and trembled with terror, scorn, and bitter, bitter hate. She clutched her hand on the poor girl’s shoulder till its nails penetrated the skin; with the other hand she groped at her girdle, and drew a knife from its glittering sheath at her side; for this remnant of her savage dress she still retained.
Jane crouched down to the earth, shielding herselfwith both uplifted hands; her shrieks rang out, one upon another, till the opposite rocks echoed them back like demons.
This terror exasperated the young Indian to still keener madness. She drew back the knife with a force that lifted her clear of the form grovelling at her feet, the next instant it would have been buried in the white neck—but Mary Derwent sprang upon her, seized the uplifted arm and dragged it downward.
“Would you kill her? This is murder—she has never wronged you!”
Tahmeroo’s rage broke fearfully over the gentle girl as she clung to her arm; for one instant it seemed checked by the agony of that lovely face; but another cry from Jane brought the fury back; her eyes rained fire; she tore her arm from the grasp of those poor little hands; again the knife quivered on high—again she drew back to give a sure blow.
But a stronger arm than Mary’s grasped her now. The knife was torn from her with a force that sent her reeling down the bank—its blade flashed over her, struck with a sharp clink against the stones, rebounded and plunged into the spring, sending up a storm of diamonds as it fell.
“Tahmeroo—woman—squaw—how dare you touch this girl!”
Butler lifted Jane from the earth as he spoke, and holding her with one arm, thus confronted his young wife, as she rose from the stones-where he had dashed her.
She could not speak; her face was blanched; specks of foam settled on her marble lips; her eyes were lurid with smouldering fire, and all her limbs quivered like those of a dying animal.
At last her voice broke forth.
“You have struck Tahmeroo, and for her.”
“Tahmeroo—woman—squaw—how dare you touch this girl!” said Butler.
“Tahmeroo—woman—squaw—how dare you touch this girl!” said Butler.
“Tahmeroo—woman—squaw—how dare you touch this girl!” said Butler.
Something more than anger spoke in that voice—it had the dull hollow sound of desolation.
“Squaw—traitoress—half-breed!—go back to your wigwam before I lay you dead at the girl’s feet!”
The Indian girl withered under this fiendish speech; she fell forward, grovelling, with her face to the earth, and lay there like a drift of autumn leaves, through which the wind is moaning. Her lamentations broke forth in the Indian tongue, but the tones were enough to win tears from marble.
Mary Derwent knelt down and took the drooping head upon her lap; the anguish in that face as it was turned to the moonlight went to her gentle soul.
“Oh, me! you have killed her; cruel, cruel man!” she said, lifting her eyes to the lowering face of Butler, who was striving to reassure Jane Derwent, passing by the sufferings of his wife with reckless scorn. “She cannot speak; every breath is a moan.”
“Let her rest, then; no one wants her to speak, the young tigress! My poor Jane, the dagger was quivering over you when I came up. I shudder to think what might have happened but for your cries; had I been a little farther off, your cries could not have reached me, and I should have lost you eternally. Look up, dear one, now that I have saved your life it is mine, all mine.”
Tahmeroo evidently heard these words; she struggled to get up, but sank back again, moaning out: “No, no, Tahmeroo is his wife!”
“You hear,” said Mary Derwent, looking up at her sister, who, still trembling with terror, clung to young Butler with all her strength, and seemed soothed by his expressions of tender interest. “This poor girl is his wife, his cruel words are killing her. Leave his arms, sister; stand up alone, and look upon the woman you have both wronged, asking God to forgive you!”
“Come, come, with me now. Let the crooked little witch preach on. You are not safe here—the moment I leave you, this pretty fiend will find her knife again. She will not let you live a week. See how your sister tends her as if she, not you, had been hurt! Leave them together, sweet one; we can reach the canoe before they miss us. I shall leave Wyoming at once. Horses are ready for us down at Aunt Polly’s tavern; before daylight we shall reach the Blue Mountains.”
Butler whispered these words into Jane Derwent’s ear, drawing her down to his side as he spoke, and enforcing his entreaties with covert caresses.
Half overcome with terror, half with these entreaties, the unhappy girl yielded herself to the power of his arm, and they both fled towards the shore.