"How sweet she looks!" exclaimed a man of nearly my own age--a man most distinguished in his own land--as we gazed on a young and lovely girl, near and dear to us both as our own child--soon to become my child-in-law as she already is in affection. "How sweet she looks!"
The words set me thinking. What was it in which that sweetness consisted? Sweetness as of the song of a bird, or the ambrosial breathing of a flower--sweetness as of an entrancing melody, which had its solemn sadness as well as its delight--sweetness which carried the soul on its wings of perfume into the far future, to gather in the land of dreams, with the trembling awe of fear-touched hope, the mystic signs of her future destiny. It consisted not in the lovely lines of the features, in the exquisite hues of the complexion, in the beautiful symmetry of the form. But it consisted in that nameless, unphonetic, but ever lucid, hieroglyph of the heart--expression--expression in form as well as in face--in tranquillity as well as in movement--in the undefined and undefinable beauty of beauties--grace.
"La grace encore plus belle que la beauté."
Grace which no art can ever attain, though it may imitate. Grace which is the gift of God to the body, to the mind, to the spirit. Grace which, in our pristine state, was, doubtless, common to all the three, blending taste, and reason, and religion in one harmony almost divine--breathing forth from the earthly form in the image of its Maker, and which lingers yet, and breathes forth still, in the pure and the innocent and the bright.
Such grace was in Edith Prevost; and hard or preoccupied must have been the heart that could resist it. She was certainly very beautiful, too, and of that beauty the most attractive. Though so young, her fully-developed form left maturity but little to add; and every swelling line flowed into the other with symmetry the most perfect. The rich, warm, glossy curls of her nut-brown hair, unstained and unrestrained by any of the frightful conceits of the day, wantoned round her ivory forehead in lines all in harmony with her figure and her features, and in hue contrasting, yet harmonizing, with her complexion, in its soft, rich warmth; fair, yet glowing with a hardly perceptible shade of brown, such as that which distinguishes the Parian marble from the stone of Carrara. Then her liquid, hazel eyes, full of ever-varied expression--now sparkling with gay, free joy, now full of tender light (especially when they turned upon her father), and now shaded with a sleepy sort of thoughtfulness, when one of her day-dreams fell upon her. There was something, moreover, in her manner--in her whole demeanour--which lent another charm to beauty, and added grace to grace. Yet it was of a kind difficult to define. I cannot describe it; I can only tell how she came by it.
I have shown that, in early years, she had been educated in a land where civilization and refinement were carried to their highest point; but it is necessary to add, that her education there had been conducted in the midst of the most refined society of that land, and by those in whom refinement had been a quality rather than an acquisition. She had it, too, as an hereditary right: it was in her blood and in her nature; and, until she was nearly fourteen years of age, everything that father or mother could do was done to cultivate the rich soil of her mind and her heart--remember, to cultivate, not to alter: it needed no change. Every natural grace remained entire, and many a bright gift was added.
Then suddenly she was transplanted to a scene where all was wild--where there were no conventionalities--where Nature ruled, and was the rule. She came there exactly at the age when, without losing one particle of that which society could confer that was worth retaining, the mind--the fresh, young mind--was ready to receive a peculiar tone from the wild things around her, a freedom, an innocent carelessness of the trifles magnified into false importance in a more artificial state. Feeling, knowing, that she was a lady, that every thought was pure and bright, that every purpose was noble and true, she had no fear of infringing small proprieties; she had no thought of that dread bugbear of the multitude, "what the world would say." Thus, while habit rendered all refined, and while heart and innocence gave dignity and calmness, she had all the free, frank, heartful confidence of untutored nature.
Such was Edith Prevost, and such she appeared to the stranger who had visited her father's house. At first, perhaps, he did not comprehend her fully; but he was a man of keen perceptions and a great and noble heart. Within his breast and hers were those sympathies which are keys to open the doors of character; and he had not been four-and-twenty hours under the same roof before he knew her, and appreciated her entirely. He had seen much of the world, much of society; and perhaps that which is false and wrong therein had been over-estimated by a mind somewhat too clear-sighted for much happiness. At all events, he had passed through life hitherto heart-whole and untouched with love; and he felt fearless and confident from the experience of security. Thus he boldly made the character of Edith a study; scanned it accurately, watched every little trait, dwelt upon her beauty and her grace, and took pleasure in eliciting all that was bright and lovely. Imprudent man! He had never met any one like her before.
She, too, in unconscious frankness, without thought or design, was led on, by new and fresh association, to open all the treasures of her mind to her new friend, not knowing how they might dazzle; and her brother and her father both aided, unthinkingly, in the same course.
When Brooks had left them, half an hour was spent in one of those pleasant after-breakfast dreams, when the mind seems to take a moment's hesitating pause before grappling with the active business of the day. But little was said; each gazed forth from window or from door--each thought, perhaps, of the other, and each drank in sweet sensation from the scene before the eyes.
Each thought of the other, I have said; and when such is the case, how infinite are the varieties into which thought moulds itself!
Walter paused and pondered upon the stranger's state and objects; asked himself who he was; what could be his errand; how, why, he came thither. Major Kielmansegge he knew him not to be. A chance word had shown him not only his rank and station, but had shown also that there was a secret to be kept--a secret to which his imagination, perhaps, lent more importance than it deserved. He was an English peer, the young man knew, one of a rank with which, in former years, he had been accustomed to mingle, and for which, notwithstanding all that had passed, and lapse of time, and varied circumstances, he retained an habitual veneration. But what could have led a British peer to that secluded spot? what could be the circumstances which, having led him thither, had suddenly changed his purpose of proceeding onward, and induced him to remain a guest in his father's cottage, in a state of half-concealment? Could it be Lord Loudun, he asked himself, the commander-in-chief of the royal forces, whose conduct had been so severely censured in his own ears by the man just gone?
Youth always leaves a thousand things out of calculation, and darts at its conclusions with rapidity that overleaps the real end; and thus, what with the military bearing, the secrecy, a certain degree of reserve of manner, and an air of command, he argued himself into the belief that their guest was certainly the general of whom they had heard so much and knew so little; without at all considering how unlikely it was, that so important a command should be intrusted to one so young. It did not, indeed, raise the stranger in his esteem, or in his regard, to believe him to be Lord Loudun; for this nobleman had not won the goodwill of the people of the province, nor secured their approbation. They had perhaps expected too much from his coming, and had been bitterly disappointed by the result.
Edith thought of his rank and station not at all. Some of his words lingered in her ear, and afforded matter for the mind to work with. They were not such as she had heard for long. They were different even, in some respects, from any that she remembered. There was nothing light in them, nothing frivolous; but, combined with the tone and manner, they gave the impression that they sprang from a mind deep, powerful, self-relying, cultivated and enriched by study and observation, and full of activity and eagerness. She might inquire what sort of heart was united with that mind; she might be doubtful of it; for she had not much experience, and she knew not how often men, in mere sport, or to elicit the shy secrets of woman's heart, or for idle vanity or light caprice, utter that which they do not feel, affect a character they do not possess, and often inferior to their own.
She did not make up her mind hastily, however. Indeed she had not yet sufficient interest in the object of her thoughts to care much about making up her mind at all. She thought him a very handsome and a very agreeable man, sufficiently odd, or different from the common run, to excite some interest, yet with an oddity in no degree offensive; but that was all. She knew that he had only come for a day, and that, though some accidental meeting with Sir William Johnson had induced him to protract his stay, it would probably only be for a day or two longer. Then he would go: his shadow would pass away from the floor, and his memory from her mind--she thought.
Accident! Who is there that believes in accident? On my life, it requires more faith to conceive such a thing as accident than to believe in the divinity of Juggernaut. The only reason why any man can imagine such a thing, is because he sees not the causes which bring to pass the event which he calls an accident; and yet he perceives the hands of a clock move round the dial, without beholding the springs and wheels, and never dreams it is by accident that the bell chimes noon. Let any man look through the strange concatenation of event with event, through the course of his own life, and dream of accident, if he can.
It was not by accident that Lord H---- and Edith
Prevost met there. It was for the working out of their mutual destiny, under the will of God; for, if there be a God, there is a special Providence.
"This is very lovely, Miss Prevost," said the young soldier, when the long meditative lapse was drawing to a close; "but I should think the scene would become somewhat monotonous. Hemmed in by these woods, the country round, though beautiful in itself, must pall upon the taste."
"Oh, no!" cried Edith, eagerly; "it is full of variety. Each day affords something new; and every morning's walk displays a thousand fresh beauties. Let us go and take a ramble, if you have nothing better to do, and I will soon show you there is no monotony. Come, Walter, take your rifle and go with us. Father, this is not your hour. Can you never come before the sun has passed his height, and see the shadows fall the other way?"
"Mine is the evening hour, my child," answered Mr. Prevost, somewhat sadly; "but go, Edith, and show our noble friend the scenes you so much delight in. He will need something to make his stay in this dull place somewhat less heavy."
The stranger made no complimentary reply, for his thoughts were busy with Edith, and he was, at that moment, comparing her frank, unconscious, undesigning offer to lead him through love-like woods and glades with the wily hesitations of a court coquette.
"Perhaps you are not disposed to walk?" said Edith, marking his reverie, and startling him from it.
"I shall be delighted," he said, eagerly, and truly, too. "You must forgive me for being somewhat absent, Miss Prevost. Your father knows I have much to think of, though, indeed, thought at present is vain; and you will confer a boon by banishing that idle but importunate companion."
"Oh, then, you shall not think at all while you are with me," returned Edith, smiling.
And away she ran, to cover her head with one of those black wimples very generally worn by the women of that day.
Let us see what can be made out of a walk. It began with a bad number, though one that is generally assumed to be lucky. But, on the present occasion, no one felt himself the third; and Walter, and Edith, and Lord H----, conversed as freely as if only two had been present. First came a discussion between Edith and her brother as to what path they should take; and then they referred it to their companion, and he, with a smile, reminded them that he knew none but that by which he had come thither; and so Edith had her own way, and led towards the west.
By dint of labour and taste, aided, in some degree, by accident, not less than fifty acres of ground had been cleared around the house of Mr. Prevost--not partially cleared, with large black stumps of trees sticking up in the fields, and assuming every sort of strange form, all hideous; but perfectly and entirely, leaving the ground (some part of which had, indeed, been free of forest when Mr. Prevost first settled there) smooth and trim as that of the fair farms of England. The fences, too, were all in good order, and the buildings neat and picturesque.
Beyond the cultivated ground, as you descended the gentle hill, lay the deep forest, at the distance of about three hundred yards; and at its edge Edith paused, and made her companion turn to see how beautiful the cottage looked upon its eminence, shaded by gorgeous maple-trees, in their gold and crimson garb of autumn, with a tall rock or two, grey and mossy, rising up amidst them.
Lord H---- gazed at the house, and saw that it was picturesque and beautiful--very different, indeed, from any other dwelling he had beheld on the western side of the Atlantic; but his eyes expressed an absent thoughtfulness, and Edith thought he did not admire it half enough.
Close by the spot where she had stopped appeared the entrance of a broad road, cut, probably, by the Dutch settlers many years before. It could not be called good, for it was furrowed and indented with many a rut and hollow, and roughened by obtrusive stones and rock; but there were no stumps of trees upon it, no fallen trunks lying across, which, for a forest road in America, at that time, was rare perfection. For about a quarter of a mile it was bordered on each side by tangled thicket, with gigantic pine-trees rising out of an impenetrable mass of underwood, in which berries of many a hue supplied the place of flowers. But flowers seem hardly wanting to an American autumn; for almost every leaf becomes a flower, and the whole forest glows with all the hues of yellow, red, and green, from the soft primrose-colour of the fading white-wood and sycamore, through every tint of orange, scarlet, and crimson on the maple, and of yellow and green on the larch, the pine, and the hemlock.
"How strange are man's prejudices and prepossessions!" ejaculated Lord H----, as they paused to gaze at a spot where a large extent of woodland lay open to the eye below them. "We are incredulous of everything we have not seen, or to the conception of which we have not been led by very near approaches. Had any one shown me, before I reached these shores, a picture of an autumn scene in America, though it had been perfect as a portrait, hue for hue, or even inferior in its striking colouring to the reality, I should have laughed at it as a most extravagant exaggeration. Did not the first autumn you passed here make you think yourself in fairy-land?"
"No; I was prepared for it," replied Edith; "my father had described the autumn scenery to me often before we came."
"Then was he ever in America before he came to settle?" asked her companion.
"Yes, once," answered Edith. She spoke in a very grave tone, and then ceased suddenly.
But her brother took the subject up with a boy's frankness, saying--"Did you never hear that my grandfather and my father's sister both died in Virginia? He was in command there, and my father came over just before my birth."
"It is a long story, and a sad one, my lord," interposed Edith, with a sigh; "but look now as we mount the hill, how the scene changes. Every step upon the hill-side gives us a different sort of tree, and the brush disappears from amidst the trunks. This grove is my favourite evening seat, where I can read and think under the broad shady boughs, with nothing but beautiful sights around me."
They had reached a spot where, upon the summit of an eminence, numbers of large oaks crested the forest. Wide apart, and taller than the English oak, though not so large in stem, the trees suffered the eye to wander over the grassy ground, somewhat broken by rock, which sloped down between hundreds of large bolls to the tops of the lower forest trees, and thence to a scene of almost matchless beauty beyond. Still slanting downwards with a gentle sweep, the woodlands were seen approaching the banks of a small lake, about two miles distant, while, beyond the sheet of water, which lay glittering like gold in the clear morning sunshine, rose up high purple hills, with the shadows of grand clouds floating over them. Around the lake, on every side, were rocky promontories and slanting points of lower land jutting out into the water; and, where they stood above, they could see all the fair features of the scene itself, and the images of the clouds and sky redoubled by the golden mirror. To give another charm to the spot, and make ear and eye combine in enjoyment, the voices of distant waters came upon the breeze, not with a roar exactly, but with rather more than a murmur, showing that some large river was pouring over a steep not far away.
"Hark!" ejaculated Lord H----. "Is there a waterfall near?"
"Too far to go to it to-day," answered Edith. "We must economize our scenes, lest we should exhaust them all before you go, and you should think more than ever that our country wants variety."
"I cannot think so with that prospect before my eyes," replied the young nobleman. "Look how it has changed already! The mountain is all in shade, and so is the lake; but those low, wavy, wood-covered hills, which lie between the two, are starting out in the prominence of sunshine. A truly beautiful scene is full of variety in itself. Every day changes its aspect, every hour, every season. The light of morning, and evening, and mid-day, alters it entirely; and the spring and the summer, the autumn and the winter, robe it in different hues. I have often thought that a fair landscape is like a fine mind, in which every varying event of life brings forth new beauties."
"Alas, that the mind is not always like the landscape!" exclaimed Edith. "God willed it so, I doubt not, for there is harmony in all His works; but man's will and God's will are not always one."
"Perhaps, after all," said her companion, thoughtfully, "the best way to keep them in harmony is for man, as much as may be, to recur to Nature, which is but an expression of God's will."
"Oh yes!" cried Walter Prevost, eagerly; "I am sure the more we give ourselves up to the factitious and insincere contrivances of what we call society, the more we alienate ourselves from truth and God."
The young nobleman gazed at him with a smile almost melancholy.
"Very young," he thought, "to come to such sad conclusions. But do you not, my friend Walter," added he aloud, "think there might be such a thing as extracting from society all that is good and fine in it, and leaving the chaff and dross for others? The simile of the bee and the poisonous flower holds good with man. Let us take what is sweet and beneficial in all we find growing in the world's garden, and reject all that is worthless, poisonous, and foul. But truly this is an enchanting scene. It wants, methinks, only the figure of an Indian in the foreground. And there comes one, I fancy, to fill up the picture.--Stay, stay, we shall want no rifles. It is but a woman coming through the trees."
"It is Otaitsa--it is the Blossom!" cried Edith and Walter in a breath, as they looked forward to a spot where, across the yellow sunshine as it streamed through the trees, a female figure, clad in the gaily-embroidered and brightly-colouredgakaahor petticoat of the Indian women, was seen advancing with a rapid yet somewhat doubtful step.
Without pause or hesitation, Edith sprang forward to meet the new comer, and, in a moment after, the beautiful arms of the Indian girl who had sat with Walter in the morning were round the fair form of his sister, and her lips pressed on hers. There was a warmth and eagerness in their meeting, unusual on the part of the red race; but, while the young Oneida almost lay upon the bosom of her white friend, her beautiful dark eyes were turned towards her lover, as, with a mixture of the bashful feelings of youth and the consciousness of having something to conceal, Walter, with a glowing cheek, lingered a step or two behind his sister.
"Art thou coming to our lodge, dear Blossom?" asked Edith, and then added, "Where is thy father?"
"We both come," answered the girl, in fluent English, with no more of the Indian accent than served to give a peculiar softness to her tones. "I wait the Black Eagle here since dawn of day. He has gone towards the morning, with our father the White Heron; for we heard of Hurons by the side of Corlear, and some thought the hatchet would be unburied; so he journeyed to hear more from our friends by the Horicon, and bade me stay and tell you and our brother Walter to forbear that road if I saw you turn your eyes towards the east wind. He and the White Heron will be by your father's council-fire with the first star."
A good deal of this speech was unintelligible to Lord H----, who had now approached, and on whom Blossom's eyes were turned with a sort of timid and inquiring look. But Walter hastened to interpret, saying--
"She means that her father and the missionary, Mr. Gore, have heard that there are hostile Indians on the shores of Lake Champlain, and have gone down towards Lake George to inquire; for Black Eagle--that is her father--is much our friend, and he always fancies that my father has chosen a dangerous situation here just at the verge of the territory of the Five Nations, or their Long House, as they call it."
"Well, come to the lodge with us, dear Blossom," said Edith, while her brother was giving this explanation; "thou knowest my father loves thee well, and will be glad to have the Blossom with us. Here, too, is an English chief, dwelling with us, who knows not what sweet blossoms grow on Indian trees."
But the girl shook her head, saying--
"Nay, I must do the father's will. It was with much praying that he let me come hither with him; and he bade me stay here from the white rock to the stream. So I must obey."
"But it may be dangerous," replied Edith, "if there be Hurons so near; and it is sadly solitary, dear sister."
"Then stay with me for a while," said the girl, who could not affect to deny that her lonely watch was somewhat gloomy.
"I will stay with her, and protect her," cried Walter eagerly; "for, dearest Blossom, should there be danger, my sister must fly to the lodge."
"Yes, stay with her, Walter. Oh, yes, stay with her," ejaculated the unconscious Edith. And so it was settled, for Otaitsa made no opposition, though, with a cheek in which something glowed warmly through the brown, and with a lip that curled gently with a meaning smile, she said--
"Perhaps my brother Walter would be elsewhere? He may find a long watch wearisome on the hill and in the wood."
Well was it that others were present, or the lips that spoke would have paid for their insincerity. But perhaps the Blossom would not have so spoken had they been alone; for woman feels a fear of playfulness, and knows that it needs a safeguard; while deep passion and pure tenderness seem to have a holy safeguard in themselves, and often in their very weakness find strength.
"Let us stay awhile ourselves," said Lord H----, seating himself on the grass, and gazing forth with a look of interest over the prospect: "methinks this is a place where one may well dream away an hour, without the busiest mind reproaching itself for inactivity."
There was no ceremony certainly in his manner, and yet no assumption. Had there been older persons present, women nearer his own age, perhaps the formal decorums of the time might have put upon him a more ceremonious bearing: he might have asked their wishes--waited till they were seated--bowed, and assisted them to a commodious spot. But Edith was so young, that a feeling of her being almost a child was unconsciously present in his mind--a very dangerous feeling, inasmuch as it put him wholly off his guard; and, acting as plain nature taught, he cast himself down there to enjoy an hour of pleasant idleness, in a beautiful scene, with one too lovely, too deep-toned in mind--ay, too mature in heart and in body--to be so treated with impunity.
That hour passed by, and another came and went, while into his thoughts and into his breast's inmost caves were stealing strange new sensations. A dreamy charm was over him, a golden spell around him, more powerful than Circe ever threw, or the Siren ever sung. Oh, the Lotus!--he was eating the Lotus, that sweet fruit, the magic taste of which could never be forgotten--which was destined thenceforth and for ever to draw him back, with irresistible power, to the spot where it grew.
Surely that nectareous fruit, which transformed the whole spirit into desire for itself, was but an image of love, pure and bright, growing wild upon the bank of the sacred river. And the first taste, too, gave no warning of its power. Thus he was all unconscious of what was coming over him, but yielded himself calmly to the enjoyment of the moment, and imagined that in the next he could be free again in every thought.
The reader may ask--"Was he thus early in love? Had the impassioned haste of Italian love--the love of Romeo and Juliet--flown across the wide Atlantic?"
No! I answer, no. But he was yielding himself to thoughts and feelings, scenes, circumstances, and companionships, which were sure to light it up in his heart--yielding without resistance. He was tasting the Lotus-fruit; and its effects were inevitable.
For two hours the four companions sat there on the hill-side, beneath the tall shady trees, with the wind breathing softly upon them--the lake glittering before their eyes--the murmur of the waterfall sending music through the air. But to the young Englishman these were but accessories. The fair face of Edith was before his eyes, the melody of her voice in his ear.
At length, however, they rose to go, promising to send one of the slaves from the house with food for Walter and Otaitsa at the hour of noon; and Lord H---- and his fair companion took their way back towards the house.
The distance was not very far, but they were somewhat long upon the way. They walked slowly back, and by a different path from that by which they went; and often they stopped to admire some pleasant scene; often Lord H---- had to assist his fair companion over some rock, and her soft hand rested in his. He gathered flowers for her--the fringed gentia and other late blossoms; they paused to examine them closely, and comment on their loveliness. Once he made her sit down beside him on a bank, and tell the names of all the different trees; and from trees his conversation went on into strange, dreamy, indefinite talk of human things and human hearts.
Thus noon was not far distant when they reached the house; and both Edith and her companion were very thoughtful.
Edith was very thoughtful through the rest of the day. Was it of herself she thought? Was it of him who had been her companion through the greater part of the morning? Hardly at all.
Hast thou not heard, reader, in eastern fable, of springs of deep, clear water, covered from the eye of passing strangers by a sealed stone; and how, when he who has the talismanic secret approaches and says the words of power, or makes the sign, the sealed fountain opens its cool treasure, and the bright stream wells forth? Such is woman's love.
No word had been spoken, no sign had been given; no intimation to make the seal on the fountain indicate that the master of its destiny was near. Edith had had a pleasant ramble with one such as she seldom saw--and that was all. That he was different from the common multitude--higher, brighter, nobler in his thoughts--she had gathered from their short acquaintance; and so far she might be led to think of him somewhat more than she thought of other men. But her meditations had another object; her mind was attracted strongly in another direction.
It is strange how clearly and how willingly women look into the hearts of others--how dimly, how reluctantly they see into their own. There had been something in the manner of her brother Walter, a hesitation, and yet an eagerness, a timidity unnatural, with a warmth that spoke of passion, which had not escaped her eye. In the sweet Indian girl, too, she had seen signs not equivocal: the fluttering blush; the look full of soul and feeling; the glance suddenly raised to the boy's face, and suddenly withdrawn; the eyes full of liquid light, now beaming brightly under sudden emotion, now shaded beneath the long fringe, like the moon behind a passing cloud.
They were signs that Edith did not mistake, and they were for her suggestive of thoughtfulness.
It might tire the reader, were we to trace all the considerations that chased one another through her mind, or to tell how, for the first time--when she thought of her brother wedding an Indian girl, linking his fate for ever to the savages of the woods--she realized the consequences of the solitary life her father had chosen, of the removal from civilization, of the life in the wild forest.
For the first time it seemed to her that a dark, impenetrable curtain was falling between herself and all the ancient things of history; that all, indeed, was to be new, and strange, and different. And yet she loved Otaitsa well, and, in the last two years, had seen many a trait which had won esteem as well as love. The old Black Eagle, as her father was called, had ever been a fast and faithful ally of the English; but to Mr. Prevost he had attached himself in a particular manner. An accidental journey on the part of the old Sachem had first brought them acquainted, and from that day forward the distance of the Oneida settlements was no impediment to their meeting. Whenever the Black Eagle left his lodge, he was sure, in his own figurative language, to wing his flight sooner or later towards the nest of his white brother; and, in despite of Indian habits, he almost invariably brought his daughter with him. When any distant or perilous enterprise was on hand, Otaitsa was left at the lodge of the English family; and many a week she had passed there at a time, loved by, and loving, all its inmates.
It was not there, however, that she had acquired her knowledge of the English tongue, or the other characteristics which distinguished her from the ordinary Indian women. When she first appeared there, she spoke the language of the settlers as perfectly as they did; and it was soon discovered that from infancy she had been under the care and instruction of one of the English missionaries--at that time, alas! few--who had sacrificed all that civilized life could bestow for the purpose of bringing the Indian savage into the fold of Christ.
Nor was it altogether rare in those days to find an Indian woman adopting, to a considerable degree, the habits and manners of the Europeans. The celebrated Queen of Hearts, who played so important a part in the conspiracy of Pontiac, went even further than Otaitsa, for she assumed the garb of the French, while the latter always retained the dress of her own nation, and was proud of her Indian blood. And yet it was with a sort of melancholy pride; for she would frankly acknowledge the superiority of the white race, and the advantage of the civilization which her own people did not possess. It was, perhaps, rather like the clinging affection which binds the noble-hearted to the falling and unfortunate than that vainer sort of pride which fancies a reflected light to fall upon ourselves through connection with the powerful and the prosperous.
Whatever she was--whatever was high and bright in her nature--she was still the Indian maiden; and as such only could Edith look upon her when she thought of the love between her brother and Otaitsa, which had become but too apparent to her eyes.
Then again she asked herself, how should she act towards Walter, towards her father. Could she direct his attention to that which was so evident to her? Oh, no! She felt as if it would be betraying a secret intrusted to her keeping. True, no word had been spoken, no confession made; still they had both unveiled their hearts to eyes they believed friendly, and she would not take advantage of the knowledge so acquired. Her father could and would see, she thought, and he would then judge for himself, and act according to his judgment.
But Edith did not know how little and how rarely men see into such secrets--especially men of studious habits. Mr. Prevost judged it quite right that Walter should stay with Otaitsa, and he even sent out the old slave Agrippa, who, somehow, was famous as a marksman, with a rifle on his shoulder, to act as a sort of scout upon the hill-side, and watch for anything bearing a hostile aspect.
After dinner, too, he walked out himself, and sat for an hour, with his son and the Indian girl, speaking words of affection to her that sank deep into her heart, and more than once brought drops into her bright eyes. No father's tenderness could exceed that he showed her; and Otaitsa felt as if he were almost welcoming her as a daughter.
When Mr. Prevost returned to the house, he gave himself up to conversation with his guest, transporting his spirit far away from the scenes before him to other lands and other times. Matters of taste and art were discussed: the imperishable works of genius, and the triumphs of mind; and, from time to time, the musical tones of Edith's voice mingled with the deeper sounds of her two companions. It was a pleasant afternoon to all, for Mr. Prevost was himself somewhat of a dreamer; and he, or Edith, or both, perhaps, had taught Lord H----, for the time, at least, to be a dreamer also.
Nor were higher topics left untouched. Nowhere so well as in wide solitudes can the spirit feel itself free to deal with its own mighty questions. The pealing organ and the sounding choir may give a devotional tone to the mind; and the tall pillar and the dusty aisle may afford solemnity to the thoughts; but would you have the spirit climb from the heart's small secret chamber towards the footsteps of the throne of God, and bring back some rays of brighter light to illuminate the darkness of our earthly being, choose the temple unprofaned of his own creation; stand and contemplate His might and majesty amidst the solemn woods or on the awful mountain-tops: or gaze with the astronomer at the distant stars, resolving filmy clouds into innumerable worlds, and separating specks of light into suns and systems.
Evening had not lost its light, when a shout from Walter's voice announced that he was drawing nigh the house; and in a moment after he was seen coming across the cleared land, with his bright young companion, and two other persons.
One was a tall red man, upwards of six feet in height, dressed completely in the Indian garb, but without paint. He could not have been less than sixty years of age; but his strong muscles seemed to have set at defiance the bending power of time. He was as upright as a pine, and he bore his heavy rifle in his right hand as lightly as if it had been a reed. In his left he carried a long pipe, showing that his errand was one of peace; but tomahawk and scalping-knife were in his belt, and he wore the sort of feather crown or Grostoweh distinguishing the chief.
The other man might be of the same age, or a little older. He, too, seemed active and strong for his years; but he wanted the erect and powerful bearing of his companion; and his gait and carriage, as much as his features and complexion, distinguished him from the Indian. His dress was a strange mixture of the ordinary European costume and that of the half-savage rangers of the forest. He wore a black coat, or one which had once been black; but the rest of his garments were composed of skins, some tanned into red leather, after the Indian fashion, some with the hair still on, and turned outwards. He bore no arms whatever, unless a very long and sharp-pointed knife could be considered a weapon, though in his hands it only served the innocent purpose of dividing his food, or carving willow whistles for the children of the Sachem's tribe.
Running, with a light foot, by the side of the chief, as he strode along, came Otaitsa; but the others followed the Indian fashion, coming after him in single file, while old Agrippa, with his rifle on his arm, brought up the rear, appearing from the wood somewhat behind the rest.
"It is seldom I have so many parties of guests in two short days," said Mr. Prevost, moving towards the door. "Generally, I have either a whole tribe at once, or none at all. But this is one of my best friends, my lord, and I must go to welcome him."
"He is a noble-looking man," observed the young officer. "This is the Black Eagle, I suppose, whom the pretty maiden talked of."
Mr. Prevost made no reply, for, by this time, the chief's long strides brought him almost to the door, and his hand was already extended to grasp that of his white friend.
"Welcome, Black Eagle!" said Mr. Prevost.
"Thou art my brother," returned the chief, in English, but with a much less pure accent than that of his daughter.
"What news from Corlear?" asked Mr. Prevost.
But the Indian answered not; and the man who followed him replied in so peculiar a style, that we must give his words, though they imported very little, as far as the events to be related are concerned.
"All is still on the banks of Champlain Lake," he said; "but Huron tracks are still upon the shore. The friendly Mohawks watched them come and go; and tell us that the Frenchman, too, was there, painted and feathered like the Indian chiefs; but finding England stronger than they thought, upon the side of Horicon, they sailed back to Fort Carrillon on Monday last."
For awhile, Lord H---- was completely puzzled to discover what it was that gave such peculiarity to the missionary's language; for the words and accents were both those of an ordinary Englishman of no very superior education; and it was not till Mr. Gore had uttered one or two sentences more, that he perceived that everything he said arranged itself into a sort of blank verse, not very poetical, not very musical, but easily enough to be scanned.
In the mean while, the Black Eagle and his host had entered the house, and proceeded straight to the great eating-hall, where the whole party seated themselves in silence, Otaitsa taking her place close to the side of Edith, and Walter stationing himself where he could watch the bright girl's eyes, without being remarked himself.
For a moment or two, no one spoke, in deference to the Indian habits; and then Mr. Prevost broke silence, saying,--
"Well, Black Eagle, how fares it with my brother?"
"As with the tamarack in the autumn," answered the warrior; "the cold wind sighs through the branches, and the fine leaves wither and fall; but the trunk stands firm as yet, and decay has not reached the heart."
"This is a chief from the land of my white fathers," said Mr. Prevost, waving his hand gracefully towards Lord H----; "he has but lately crossed the great water."
"He is welcome to what was once the red man's land," said Black Eagle; and, bending his eyes upon the ground, but without any sign of emotion at the thoughts which seemed to lie beneath his words, he relapsed into silence for a minute or two. Then raising his head again, he asked, "Is he a great chief? Is he a warrior? or a man of council? or a medicine man?"
"He is a great chief and a warrior," answered Mr. Prevost; "he is moreover skilful in council, and his words are clear as the waters of Horicon."
"He is welcome," repeated the chief; "he is our brother. He shall be called the Cataract, because he shall be powerful, and many shall rejoice at the sound of a strong voice.--But my brother--"
"Speak on," said Mr. Prevost, seeing that he paused; "they are friends' ears that listen."
"Thou art too near the Caturqui; thou art too near to Corlear," said the warrior, meaning, the river St. Lawrence and Lake Champlain. "There is danger for our brother; and the wings of the Black Eagle droop when he is in his solitary place afar amidst the children of the Stone, to think that thou art not farther within the walls of the Long House."
"What does he mean by the walls of the Long House?" asked Lord H----, in a whisper, addressing Edith.
"Merely the territory of the Five Nations, or Iroquois, as the French call them," answered his fair companion.
"I fear not, brother," replied Mr. Prevost; "the fire and the iron have not met to make the tomahawk which shall reach my head."
"But for the maiden's sake," pursued Black Eagle. "Is she not unto us as a daughter? Is she not the sister of Otaitsa? I pray thee, White Pine-tree, let her go with the Eagle and the Blossom into the land of the children of the Stone--but for a few moons--till thy people have triumphed over their enemies, and till the Five Nations have hewed down the tree of the Huron and the Alonquin; till the war-hatchet is buried, and the pipe of peace is smoked."
"'Twere better, truly, my good friend Prevost," said Mr. Gore. "We have seen sights to-day would make the blood of the most bold and hardy man on earth turn cold and icy to behold, and know he had a daughter near such scenes of death."
"What were they, my good friend?" asked Mr. Prevost. "I have heard of nothing very new or near. The last was the capture of Fort William-Henry, some six weeks since, but as yet we have not heard the whole particulars; and surely, if we are far enough away for the tidings not to reach us in six weeks, it is not likely that hostile armies would approach us very soon."
"Thou art deceived, my brother," answered the Black Eagle. "One short day's journey lies betwixt thee and the battle-field. This morning we crossed it when the sun wanted half an hour of noon, and we are here before he has gone down behind the forest. What we saw chilled the blood of my brother here, for he has not seen such things before. The children of the Stone slay not women and children when the battle is over."
"Speak, speak, my good friend, Mr. Gore," said the master of the house; "you know our habits better, and can tell us more of what has happened. Things which are common to his eye must be strange to yours."
"We passed the ground between the one fort and the other," answered the missionary. "The distance is but seven or eight miles, and in that short space lay well nigh a thousand human bodies slain by every dark and terrible means of death. There were young and old; the grey-headed officer; the blooming youth fresh from his mother's side; women, and boys and girls, and little infants snatched from a mother's breast, to die by the hatchet, or the war-club. We heard that the tiger Montcalm, in violation of his given word, in defiance of humanity, Christianity, and the spirit of a gentleman, stood by and saw his own convention broken, and gallant enemies massacred by his savage allies. But what the chief says is very true, my friend. You are far too near this scene; and although, perhaps, no regular army could reach this place before you received timely warning, yet the Indian forerunners may be upon you at any moment; your house may be in flames and you and your children massacred ere any one could come to give you aid. The troops of our country are far away; and no force is between you and Horicon, but a small number of our Mohawk brethren, who are not as well pleased with England as they have been."
Mr. Prevost turned his eyes towards Lord H----, and the young Englishman replied to Mr. Gore at once, saying, with a quiet inclination of the head,--
"On one point you are mistaken, sir. Lord Loudon has returned, and there is now a strong force at Albany. I passed through that city lately, and I think that, by the facts which must have come to his knowledge, General Montcalm will be deterred from pushing his brutal incursions farther this year, at least. Before another morning shines upon us, he may receive some punishment for his faithless cruelty."
"If not here, hereafter," said the missionary. "There is justice in heaven, sir, and often it visits the evil-doer upon earth. That man's end cannot be happy. But I fear you will not give us aid in persuading your friend here to abandon, for a time, his very dangerous position."
"I know too little of Mr. Prevost's affairs," replied Lord H----, "to advise either for or against. I know still less, too, of the state of the country between this and the French line. Perhaps, in a day or two, I may know more, and then, as a military man myself, I can better tell him what are the real dangers of his situation. At all events, I should like to think over the matter till to-morrow morning, before I offer an opinion. From what was said just now, I infer that the Hurons and the French having gone back, there can be no immediate peril."
Mr. Gore shook his head, and the Indian chief remained in profound and somewhat dull silence, seeming not very well pleased at the result of the discussion.
A few minutes after, the evening meal was brought in, and to it the Black Eagle did ample justice; eating like an European with a knife and fork, and displaying no trace of the savage in his demeanour at the table. He remained profoundly silent, however, till the party rose, and then, taking Mr. Prevost by the hand, he said,--
"Take counsel of thine own heart, my brother. Think of the flower that grows up by thy side--ask if thou wouldst have it trodden down by the red man's moccassin; and listen not to the Cataract, for it is cold."
Thus saying, he unrolled one of the large skins, which lay at the side of the room, and stretched himself upon it to take repose.
Edith took Otaitsa by the hand, saying--"Come, Blossom: you shall be my companion as before." Walter, retiring the moment after, left Lord H---- and his host to consult together with Mr. Gore.