"Look, look, Prevost!" cried Lord H----, after they had gazed during one or two minutes in silence; "the wind is drifting away the smoke; I can see the top of your house; it is safe as yet--and will be safe," he added, "for the wind sets somewhat away from it."
"Not enough," said Mr. Prevost, in a dull, gloomy tone. "The slightest change, and it is gone. The house I care not for; the barns, the crops, are nothing. They can be replaced, or I could do without them; but there are things within that house, my lord, I cannot do without."
"Do you not think we can reach it?" asked Lord H----. "If we were to push our horses into the stream there, we might follow its course up, as it seems broad and shallow, and the trees recede from the banks. Are there any deep spots in its course?"
"None, massa," replied the negro.
"Let us try, at all events," exclaimed Lord H----, turning his horse's head; "we can but come back again, if we find the heat and smoke too much for us."
"My daughter!" ejaculated Mr. Prevost, in a tone of deep, strong feeling; "my daughter, Lord H----!"
The young nobleman was silent. The stories he had heard that day, and many that he had heard before, of persons getting entangled in burning forests, and never being able to escape--which, while, in the first enthusiasm of the moment, he thought only of himself and of Mr. Prevost, had seemed to him but visions, wild chimeras--assumed a terrible reality, as soon as the name of Edith was mentioned; and he would have shuddered to see the proposal adopted, which he had made only the moment before. He was silent, then; and Mr. Prevost was the first who spoke.
"I must go," he said, with gloomy earnestness, after some brief consideration--"I must go, let what will betide."
He relapsed into silence again, and there was a terrible struggle within his bosom, which the reader cannot, even in part, comprehend, without having withdrawn for him that dark curtain which shades the inmost secrets of the heart from the cold eyes of the unobservant world. He had to choose whether he would risk the sacrifice of many things dearer to him than life itself, or go through that fiery gulf before him--whether he would take that daughter, far dearer than life, with him, exposing her to all the peril that he feared not for himself, the scorching flame, the suffocating smoke, the falling timber--or whether he should leave her behind him, to find her way in darkness, and through a forest perhaps tenanted by enemies, to a small farmhouse, seven or eight miles off, where resided some kind and friendly people, who would give her care and good attendance. Then came the question--for the former was soon decided--whom he should leave with her. Some one was needed with himself, for, in the many, many perils that environed his short path, he could hardly hope to force his way alone, unaided. Lord H---- might have been his most serviceable companion in one view; for his courage, his boldness, his habits of prompt decision, and his clearness of observation, were already well and publicly known.
But then, to leave Edith alone in that dark night, in that wild wood, with nothing but a negro for her guide; a man shrewd and clear-witted, keen and active enough, yet with few moral checks upon his passions, few restraints of education or honour, and still fewer of religion and the fear of God. It was not to be thought of. In Lord H---- he felt certain he could trust. He knew that, in scenes as dangerous to the spirit as any he could go through would be to the body, he had come out unfallen, unwounded, untouched. He had the reputation and the bearing of a man of honour and a gentleman; and Mr. Prevost felt that the man must be base, indeed--low, degraded, vile, who, with such a trust as Edith on his conscience, could waver even in thought.
Such considerations pressed upon him heavily--they could not be disposed of by rapid decision; and he remained for two or three minutes profoundly silent. Then, turning suddenly to Lord H----, he said,--
"My lord, I am going to entrust to you the dearest thing I have on earth, my daughter--to place her under the safeguard of your honour--to rely for her protection and defence upon your chivalry. As an English nobleman, of high name and fame, I do trust you without a doubt. I must make my way through that fire by some means--I must save some papers, and two pictures, which I value more than my own life. I will take my good friend Chando here with me. I must leave you to conduct Edith to a place of safety."
"Oh, my father!" cried Edith; but he continued to speak without heeding her.
"If you follow that road," he continued, pointing to the one which led southward, "you will come, at the distance of about seven miles, to a good-sized farmhouse on the left of the road. Edith knows it, and can show you the way up to it. The men are most likely out, watching the progress of the fire; but you will find the women within; and good and friendly they are, though homely and uneducated. I have no time to stop for further directions. Edith, my child, God bless you! Do not cloud our parting with a doubt of Heaven's protection. Should anything occur--and be it as He wills--you and Walter will find at the lawyer's at Albany all papers referring to this small farm, and to the little we still have in England. God bless you, my child, God bless you!"
Thus saying, he turned and rode fast down the hill, beckoning the negro to follow him.
"Oh, my father, my father!" cried Edith, dropping her rein and clasping her hands together, longing to follow, yet unwilling to disobey. "He will be lost--I fear he will be lost!"
"I trust not," said Lord H----, in a firm, calm tone, well fitted to inspire hope and confidence. "He knows the country well, and can take advantage of every turning to avoid the flame. Besides, if you look along what I imagine to be the course of the stream, you will see a deep undulation, as it were, in that sea of smoke, and, when the wind blows strongly, it is almost clear. He said, too, that the banks continued free from trees."
"As far as the bridge and the rapids near our house," replied Edith; "after that, they are thickly wooded."
"But the fire has evidently not reached that spot," observed the young nobleman; "all the ground within half a mile of the house is free at present. I saw it quite distinctly a moment ago, and the wind is setting this way."
"Then can we not follow him?" asked his fair companion imploringly.
"To what purpose?" returned Lord H----; "and besides," he added, "let me call to your mind the answer of the good soldier, Corporal Clithero, just now. He said he must obey orders, and he was right. A soldier to his commander; a child to a parent; a Christian to his God, have, I think, but one duty--to obey. Come, Edith, let us follow the directions we have received. The sun is already beneath the forest edge; we can do no good gazing here; and although I do not think there is any danger, and believe you will be quite safe under my protection, yet, for many reasons, I could wish to place you beneath the shelter of a roof and in the society of other women as soon as may be."
"Thank you much," she answered, gazing up into his face, on which the lingering light in the west cast a warm glow; "you remind me of my duty, and strengthen me to follow it. I have no fear of any danger, with you to protect me, my lord--it was for my father only I feared. But it was wrong to do so even for him. God will protect us all, I do hope and believe. We must take this way, my lord." And with a deep sigh she turned her horse's head upon the path which her father had pointed out.
There is no situation in which good feeling shows itself more brightly than in combat with good feeling. It may seem a paradox; but it is not so. Lord H---- did not at that moment like to hear Edith Prevost call him by his formal title. He would fain have had her give him some less ceremonious name. Nay, more, he would have gladly poured into her ear, at that moment of grief and anxiety, the tale of love which had more than once during their ride been springing to his lips, and which he fondly fancied, with man's usual misappreciation of woman's sensitiveness, might give her support and comfort--for by this time he felt sure that, if he rightly appreciated her, she was not indifferent towards him. But he remembered that she was there a young girl, left alone with him, at night, in a wild forest--a precious trust to his honour and his delicacy; and he struggled hard and manfully to govern every feeling, and regulate every word. What if a degree of growing tenderness modulated his tone?--what if the words "Miss Prevost," were uttered as if they should have been "Edith?"--what if the familiar expression of "my dear young lady," sounded almost as if it had been, "dear girl?" We must not look too closely, or judge too hardly. There was but enough tenderness to comfort, and not alarm--just sufficient familiarity to make her feel that she was with a friend, and not a stranger.
No general subject of conversation could, of course, be acceptable at that moment; only one topic had they to discuss. And yet Lord H---- made more of that than some men would have made of a thousand. He comforted, he consoled; he raised up hope and expectation. His words were full of promise; and from everything he wrung some illustration to support and cheer.
If he had appeared amiable in the eyes of Edith, in the quiet intercourse of calm and peaceful hours, much more so did he appear to her now, when the circumstances in which she was placed called forth all that was kind and feeling in his heart, naturally gentle, though it had been somewhat steeled by having to struggle and to act with cold and heartless men in scenes of peril and of strife.
A few moments after they left the summit of the hill, and began the more gentle descent which stretched away to the south-east, the last rays of the sun were withdrawn, and night succeeded; but it was the bright and sparkling night of the American sky. There was no moon, indeed; but the stars burst forth in multitudes over the firmament, larger, more brilliant, than they are ever beheld even in the clearest European atmosphere, and they gave light enough to enable the two travellers to see their path. The wind still blew strongly, and carried the smoke away; and the road was wide enough to show the starry canopy overhanging the trees.
Lord H---- lifted his hand, and, pointing to one peculiarly large orb which glittered not far from the zenith, said in a grave but confident tone, "The God who made that great, magnificent world, and who equally created the smallest emmet that runs along our path--who willed into being innumerable planetary systems with their varied motions, and perfected the marvellous organization of the most minute insect, must be a God of love and mercy, as well as of power; and is still, I do believe, acting in mercy in all that befalls us here on earth."
"I believe and trust so too," answered Edith; "yet there are times and seasons when, in our blindness, we cannot see the working of the merciful, in the mighty hand, and the heart sinks with terror for want of its support. Surely there can be no sin in this. Our Divine Master, himself, when in our mortal nature, on the cross, exclaimed, in the darkest hour, 'My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!'"
Obliged to go very slowly, but little progress had been made in an hour, and, by the end of that time, a strong odour of the burning wood and a pungent feeling in the eyes showed that some portion of the smoke was reaching them.
"I fear the wind has changed," said Edith; "the smoke seems coming this way."
"The better for your father's house, dear lady," answered Lord H----. "It was a change to the westward he had to fear; the more fully east, the better."
They fell into silence again; but in a minute or two after, looking to the left of the road, where the trees were very closely set, though there was an immense mass of brushwood underneath, Lord H---- beheld a small solitary spot of light, like a lamp burning. It was seen and hidden, seen and hidden again, by the trees as they rode on, and must have been at about three or four hundred yards' distance. It seemed to change its place, too; to shift, to quiver; and then, in a long winding line, it crept slowly round and round the boll of a tree, like a fiery serpent, and, a moment after, with flash, and crackling flame, and fitful blaze, it spread flickering over the dry branches of a pitch-pine.
"The fire is coming nearer, dear Miss Prevost," said Lord H----, "and it is necessary we should use some forethought. How far, think you, this farmhouse is now?"
"Nearly four miles," answered Edith.
"Does it lie due south?" asked her companion.
"Very nearly," she replied.
"Is there any road to the westward?" demanded the young nobleman, with his eyes still fixed upon the distant flame.
"Yes," she answered; "about half a mile on, there is a tolerable path made along the side of the hill, on the west, to avoid the swamp during wet weather, but it rejoins this road a mile or so farther on."
"Let us make haste," said Lord H---- abruptly; "the road seems fair enough just here, and I fear there is no time to lose."
He put his hand upon Edith's rein as he spoke, to guide the horse on, and rode forward, perhaps somewhat less than a quarter of a mile, watching with an eager eye the increasing light to the east, where it was now seen glimmering through the trees in every direction, looking through the fretted trellis-work of branches, trunks, and leaves, like a multitude of red lamps hung up in the forest. Suddenly, at a spot where there was an open space or streak, as it was called, running through some two or three hundred yards of the wood, covered densely with brush, but destitute of tall trees, the whole mass of the fire appeared to view; and the travellers seemed gazing into the mouth of a furnace. Just then, the wind shifted a little more, and blew down the streak: the cloud of smoke rolled forward; flash after flash burst forth along the line as the fire caught the withered leaves on the top of the bushes: then the bushes themselves were seized upon by the fire, and sent flaming far up into the air.
Onward rushed the destroying light, with a roar, and a crackle, and a hiss--caught the taller trees on either aide, and poured across the road right in front.
Edith's horse, unaccustomed to such a sight, started and pulled vehemently back; but Lord H----, catching her riding-whip from her hand, struck him sharply on the flank, and forced him forward by the rein. But again the beast resisted.
Not a moment was to be lost; time wasted in the struggle must have been fatal; and casting the bridle free, he threw his right arm round her light form, lifted her from the saddle and seated her safely before him. Then striking his spurs into the sides of his well-trained charger, he dashed at full speed, through the burning bushes, and in two minutes had gained the ground beyond the fire.
"You are saved, dear Edith," he said,--"you are saved!"
He could not call her Miss Prevost then; and, though she heard the name he gave her, at that moment of gratitude and thanksgiving it sounded only sweetly on her ear.
I have not paused to tell what were Edith's thoughts and feelings when she first saw the fire hemming them in. They were such as the feelings of any young and timid woman might be at the prospect of immediate and terrible destruction.
As always happens, when any of the stern events of Fate place before us an apparent certainty of speedy death--when the dark gates between the two valleys seem to be reached, and opened to let us pass--when the flood, or the fire, or the precipitous descent, or any other sudden casualty, seems ready to hurry us in an instant into eternity, without dimming the sight of the mind, or withering the powers of reason and of memory, as in the slow progress of sickness or decay--as always happens, I say, in such cases, Edith's mind passed rapidly, like a swallow on the wing, over every event of her past existence; and thoughts, feelings, hopes, joys, griefs, cares, expectations, regrets, rose one after the other to the eye, presented with the clearness and intensity which will probably appertain in a future state to all the things done in the flesh. Every memory, too, as it rose before her, seemed to say, in a sad and solemn tone, "We are gone for ever!"
It is terrible to part with life--with all its joys, ay, and even with its cares--at the bright season of hope and happiness; to have the blossom broken off the bough of life, before the fruit can form or ripen; and Edith felt it as much as any one could feel it. But it is only necessary to allude to her feelings, in order to contrast them with the joy and gratitude she felt when the moment of peril had passed away.
"Thank God, thank God!" exclaimed Edith; "and oh, my lord, how can I ever show my gratitude to you?"
Lord H---- was silent for a moment, and then said, in a low tone--for itwouldbe spoken:--
"Dear Edith, I have no claim to gratitude; but if you can give me love instead, the gratitude shall be yours for life. But I am wrong, very wrong, for speaking to you thus, at this moment, and in these circumstances. Yet there are emotions which force themselves into words, whether we will or not. Forget those I have spoken, and do not tremble so, for they shall not be repeated till I find a fitter occasion--and then they shall immediately. Now, dear Edith, I will ride slowly on with you to this farmhouse; will leave you there with the good people; and, if possible, get somebody to guide me round another way, to join your father, and assure him of your safety. That he is safe, I feel confident; for this very change of wind must have driven the fire away from him. Would you rather walk? for I am afraid you have an uneasy seat, and we are quite safe now; the flames all go another way."
From many motives, Edith preferred to go on foot, and Lord H---- suffered her to slip gently to the ground. Then, dismounting himself, he drew her arm through his, and, leading his horse by the bridle, proceeded along the road over the shoulder of the hill, leaving the lower-road, which the flame still menaced, on their left.
Edith needed support, and their progress was slow, but Lord H---- touched no more upon any subject that could agitate her, and at the end of about an hour and a half, they reached the farmhouse, and knocked for admission.
There was no answer, however; no dogs barked; no sounds were heard; and all was dark within. Lord H---- knocked again. Still all was silent; and, putting his hand upon the latch, he opened the door.
"The house seems deserted," he said. Then, raising his voice, he called loudly to wake any slumbering inhabitant who might be within.
Still no answer was returned; and he felt puzzled, and more agitated than he would have been in the presence of any real danger. No other place of shelter was near; he could not leave Edith there, as he had proposed; yet the thought of passing a long night with her in that deserted house produced a feeling of indecision, chequered by many emotions which were not usual to him.
"This is most unlucky!" he ejaculated. "What is to be done now?"
"I know not," replied Edith, in a low and distressed tone. "I fear, indeed, the good people are gone. If the moon would but rise, we might see what is really in the house."
"I can soon get a light," rejoined Lord H----; "there is wood enough scattered about to light a fire. Stay here in the doorway, while I fasten my horse, and gather some sticks together. I will not go out of sight."
The sticks were soon gathered, and carried into the large kitchen into which the door opened directly. Lord H----'s pistols, which he took from the holsters, afforded the means of lighting a cheerful fire on the hearth; and, as soon as it blazed up, a number of objects were seen in the room, which showed that the house had been inhabited lately, and abandoned suddenly. Nothing seemed to have been carried away, indeed; and amongst the first things that were perceived, much to Edith's comfort, were candles, and a tin lamp of Dutch manufacture, ready trimmed. These were soon lighted; and Lord H----, taking his fair companion's hand in his, and gazing fondly on her pale and weary face, begged her to seek some repose.
"I cannot, of course," he said, "leave you here, and join your father, as I proposed just now; but, if you will go upstairs, and seek some room, where you can lock yourself in, in case of danger, I will keep guard here below. Most likely, all the people of the house have gone forth to watch the progress of the fire and may return speedily."
Edith mused, and shook her head, saying,--
"I think something else must have frightened them away."
"Would you have courage to fire a pistol in case of need?" asked Lord H----, in a low tone.
Edith gently inclined her head, and he then added,--
"Stay, I will charge this for you again."
He then reloaded the pistol, the charge of which he had drawn to light the fire, and was placing it in Edith's hand, when a tall, dark figure glided into the room with a step perfectly noiseless. Lord H---- drew her suddenly back, and placed himself before her; but a second glance showed him the dignified form and fine features of Otaitsa's father.
"Peace!" exclaimed the old chief. "Peace to you, my brother!"
And he held out his hand to Lord H----, who took it frankly. Black Eagle then unfastened the blue blanket from his shoulders, and threw it round Edith, saying,--
"Thou art my daughter, and art safe. I have heard the voice of the cataract, and its sound was sweet. It is a great water, and a good. The counsel is wise, my daughter. Go thou up, and rest in peace. The Black Eagle will watch by the cataract till the eyes of morning open in the east. The Black Eagle will watch for thee, as for his own young; and thou art safe."
"I know I am when thou art near, my father," said Edith, taking his brown hand in hers; "but is it so with all mine?"
"If I can make it so," answered Black Eagle. "Go, daughter, and be at peace. This one, at least, is safe also; for he is a great chief of our white fathers, and we have a treaty with him. The man of the Five Nations who would lift his hand against him is accursed."
Edith knew that she could extract nothing more from him, and, her mind somewhat lightened, but not wholly relieved, she ascended to the upper story. Lord H---- seated himself on the step at the foot of the stairs; and the Indian chief crouched down beside him. But both kept a profound silence; and, in a few minutes after, the moon, slowly rising over the piece of cleared ground in front, poured in upon their two figures as they sat there, side by side, in strange contrast.
There was the fate of another connected with the events of that night, of whom some notice must be taken, from the influence which his destiny exercised over the destinies of all. With greater promptness and celerity than had been expected from him, even by those who knew him best, Walter Prevost had executed the business entrusted to him, and was ready to set out from Albany, a full day, at least, before his return had been expected by his family. Fortune had favoured him, it is true. He had found the commander-in-chief in the city, and at leisure. A man of a prompt and active mind had readily appreciated the promptitude and activity of the lad; and his business had been despatched as readily as circumstances permitted.
A boat sailing up the Hudson with some stores and goods for traffic was found to convey him a considerable way on his journey; and he was landing at a point on the western bank of the river, some seventeen miles from his father's house, at the very moment that Mr. Prevost, Lord H----, and Edith, were mounting by the side of the little lake to pursue their journey.
The way before him was rough and uneven, and the path somewhat intricate; but he thought he knew it sufficiently to make his way by it, before sunset, to a better known part of the country, and he hurried on with youthful confidence and vigour. His rifle in his hand, his knapsack on his shoulder, and a good large hunting-knife in his belt, with great agility of limbs and no small portion of bodily vigour, he would have proved no contemptible opponent in the presence of any single enemy. But he never thought of enemies; and all in his bosom was courage, and joy, and expectation.
Whatever great cities, and camps, and courts might have offered, Albany, at least, a small provincial capital, filled with a staid and somewhat rigid people, and only enlivened by the presence of a regiment or two of soldiers, had no attraction for him; and he was heartily glad to escape from it again, to the free life around his paternal dwelling, and to the society of his father and Edith--and Otaitsa.
Steadily he went along, climbed the hills, strode along the plain, and forded the river. The traces of cultivation soon became fewer, and then ceased; and, following resolutely the path before him, two hours passed before he halted, even to look around. Then, however, he paused for a minute or two to consider his onward course.
Two or three Indian trails crossed at the spot where he stood, one of them so deeply indented in the ground as to show that its frequent use existed from a very ancient date. Its course seemed to lie in the direction in which he wanted to go, and he thought he remembered having followed it some months before. Across it ran the settlers' way, broader and better marked out, but not very direct to his father's house; and he was hesitating which he should take, when the sound of creaking wheels, and the common cry used by ploughmen and teamsters to their cattle, showed him that some one was coming, who was likely to give him better information. That information seemed the more necessary, as the day was already far on the decline; and he had not yet reached a spot of which he could be certain.
A moment or two after, coming up the lane in the wood, as we should call it in England, appeared a heavy ox-waggon, drawn by four stout steers, and loaded with three women and a number of boxes; while by the side of the rude vehicle appeared three men on foot, and one on horseback, each very well armed, together with no less than five dogs of different descriptions.
Walter instantly recognised in the horseman the farmer who lived some ten miles to the south-west of his father's house. The farmer was a good-humoured, kindly-hearted man, honest enough, but somewhat selfish in his way; always wishing to have the best of a bargain, if it could be obtained without absoluteroguery, yet willing enough to share the fruits of his labour or his cunning with any one who might be in need.
On the present occasion, however, he was either sullen or stupid; and it was indeed clear that both he and his male companions had been drinking quite enough to dull the edge of intellect in some degree. Those on foot went on, without even stopping the oxen to speak with their young neighbour; and the farmer himself only paused, for a moment or two, to answer Walter's questions.
"Why, Mr. Whitter," said the young gentleman, "you seem to be moving with all your family."
"Ay, ay," answered the farmer, a look of dull cunning rising to his face. "I don't like the look of things. I've had a hint. I guess there are other places better than the forest just now--though not so warm, mayhap."
"Why, what is the matter?" asked Walter; "has anything happened?"
"Oh no," answered the farmer, looking uncomfortable, and giving his bridle a little sort of jerk, as if he wished to pass on. "The forest's too full of Ingians for my notion; but as you and your father are so fond of them and they of you, there's no harm will come to you, I guess."
His manner was almost uncivil; and Walter moved out of his way without even asking the question he had intended. The man passed on; but suddenly he seemed to think better of the matter, and turning round in the saddle called out, in a voice much louder than necessary considering the distance between them--
"I say, Master Walter, if you're going home, you'd better take that deep trail to the right, I guess. It's shorter and safer; and them red devils, or some other vermin, have set fire to the wood on there. It's not much of a thing just yet, but there's no knowing how it will spread. However, if you keep to the west, you'll get on. I'm going to more civilized parts for a month or two, seeing I have got all my crops in safe."
As soon as these words were uttered, he turned and rode after his waggon; and Walter at once took the Indian trail which the other had mentioned. About half a mile farther on, for the first time, he perceived the smell of smoke; and as soon as he reached the summit of another hill beyond, the whole scene of the conflagration was before his eyes. Between the spot where he stood and his father's house stretched a broad belt of fire and smoke, extending a full mile to the north farther than he had expected from the vague account of the farmer; and the cloud of brownish vapour had rolled so far up the opposite slope, that the lad could neither see the dwelling itself, nor distinguish what spot the fire had actually reached.
Ignorant of the absence of his father and sister, and well aware how rapidly the flame extended when once kindled in a wood after a long season of dry weather, Walter's heart sank as he gazed. But he lost no time in useless hesitation. The sun was already setting, the distance was still considerable, and he resolved to break through that fiery circle, if it were possible, and reach his home at once.
Onward he plunged, then down the side of the hill; and the moment he descended the whole scene was shut out from his sight so completely that, but for the strong and increasing smell of burning pinewood, and a feeling of unnatural warmth, he would have had no intimation that a fire was raging close at hand. As he came nearer and nearer, however, a certain rushing sound met his ear, something like that of a heavy gale of wind sweeping the forest, and the smoke became suffocating; while through the branches and stems of the trees a red light shone, especially towards the south and west, showing where the fire raged with the greatest fierceness.
Breathing thick and fast, he hurried on, lighted by the flames alone, for the sun had sunk by this time, and the dense cloud of smoke which hung over this part of the wood shut out every star, till at length he reached the very verge of the conflagration. Some hundreds of acres lay before him, with trees, some fallen one over the other, some still standing, but deprived of foliage, and with masses of brushwood and long trailing parasites, all in fiery confusion and glowing with intense heat.
To proceed in that direction he felt was death. He could hardly breathe; his face seemed scorched and burning; and yet the drops of perspiration rolled heavily from his forehead. Retreating a little to escape the heat, he turned his steps northward; but by this time he had lost the trail, and was forcing his way through the brushwood, encumbered by his rifle and knapsack, when, suddenly, by the light of the fire shining through the trees, he saw a dark figure, some twenty or thirty yards before him, waving to him eagerly and apparently calling to him also. The roar and crackling of the burning wood were too loud for any other sounds to be heard, but the gestures of the figure seemed to direct him towards the south again, and obeying the signs, he soon found himself once more upon an Indian trail.
The next instant, the figure he had seen was upon the same path, and a little nearer. It was that of an Indian; but, in the smoky light, Walter Prevost could not distinguish the tribe or nation. He advanced cautiously, then, with his thumb upon the cock of the rifle; but, as soon as he was within hearing, the man called to him, in the Oneida tongue, and in a friendly tone, telling him to follow, and warning him that death lay to the westward.
Thrown off his guard by such signs of interest, the lad advanced with a quick step, and was soon close to his guide, though the man walked fast.
"Is the house burnt, brother?" asked the youth, eagerly.
"What, the lodge of the pale-face?" returned the Indian. "No--it stands fast."
"Thank God for that!" ejaculated Walter Prevost, in English.
But the words had hardly passed his lips, when he suddenly felt his arms seized; his rifle was wrested from his hands, and he himself cast backward on the ground. Two savage faces glared above him, and he expected to see the gleam of the deadly tomahawk the next instant.
"What now?" he exclaimed, in Oneida; "am I not your brother? Am I not the son of the Black Eagle--the friend of the children of the Stone?"
There was no answer; but in dead silence the Indians proceeded with rapid hands to bind his arms with thongs of deer-skin, and then, raising him on his feet, forced him to retread his steps along the very trail which had brought him thither.
Day broke slowly and heavily under a gray cloud, and found Lord H---- and the Indian chief still seated side by side at the entrance of the farmhouse. A word or two had passed between them in the earlier part of the night; but for many hours before dawn they had remained perfectly silent. Only once, through the hours of their vigil, had the Black Eagle moved from his seat, and that was nearly at midnight. The ears of Lord H---- had been upon the watch, as well as his own; but, though the English nobleman heard no sound, the chief caught a distant footfall about a quarter before twelve; and, starting up, he listened attentively.
Then moving slowly towards the door, he stood there a few moments, as still as a statue. Presently Lord H---- caught the sound which had moved him, though it was exceedingly light; and the next instant another dusky figure, not quite so tall as that of the chief, darkened the moonlight, and threw its shadow into the doorway.
A few words then passed between the two Indians in their native tongue, at first low and musical in tone, but then rising high in accents, which seemed to the ear of the listener to express grief or anger. Not more than five sentences were spoken on either part, and then the last comer bounded away with a quick and seemingly reckless step into the forest; and the old chief returned, and seated himself, assuming exactly the same attitude as before.
When day dawned, however, Black Eagle rose, and said in English,--
"Now, my brother, let the voice of the Cataract awake the maiden, and I will lead you on the way. Her horse has not yet come; but, if it have not run with the wind or fed upon the fire, it will be here speedily."
"Do you know, then, what became of it after it broke away from us?" asked Lord H----.
"Nay," answered the Indian, "I know not; but my steps were in yours, from the setting sun till you came hither. I was there for your safety, my brother, and for the safety of the maiden."
"We should often have been glad of your advice," observed Lord H----; "for we were sometimes in sore need of better information than our own."
"The man who aids himself needs no aid," answered Black Eagle. "Thou wert sufficient for the need; why should I take from thee the right to act?"
As they were speaking, the light step of Edith was heard upon the stairs; and the eyes of Black Eagle were fixed upon her, as she descended, with a look which seemed to Lord H---- to have some significance, though he could not tell exactly in what the peculiarity consisted. It was calm and grave; but there was a sort of tenderness in it, which, without knowing why, made the young nobleman fear that the Indian was aware of some evil having befallen Mr. Prevost.
His mind was soon relieved, however; for, when Edith had descended, the chief said at once,--
"Thy father is safe, my daughter. He passed through the fire uninjured, and is in his own lodge."
Edith looked pale and worn, but the words of the chief called a joyful smile upon her face and the colour back into her cheek. In answer to the inquiries of Lord H----, she admitted that she had slept hardly at all, and added, with a returning look of anxiety, "How could I sleep, so uncertain as I was of my father's safety?"
She expressed an anxious desire to go forward as soon as possible, and not to wait for the chance of her horse being caught by the Indians, which she readily comprehended as the meaning of the Black Eagle, when his somewhat ambiguous words were reported to her.
"They may catch him," she said, "or they may not; and my father will be very anxious, I know, till he sees me. I can walk quite well."
The Indian was standing silently at the door, to which he had turned after informing her of her father's safety; and Lord H----, taking her hand, inquired in a low tone if she would be afraid to stay alone with the Black Eagle for a few moments, while he sought for some food for herself and him.
"Not in the least," she answered. "After his words last night, and the throwing of his blanket round me, I am as safe with him as Otaitsa would be. From that moment he looked upon me as his daughter, and would treat me as such in any emergency."
"Well then, I will not be long," returned Lord H----; and, passing the Indian, he said, "I leave her to your care for a few moments, Black Eagle."
The Indian only answered by a sort of guttural sound, peculiar to his people; and then turning back into the house, he seated himself on the ground as before, and seemed inclined to remain in silence. But there were doubts in Edith's mind which she wished to have solved; and she said, "Is not my father thy brother, Black Eagle?"
"He is my brother," answered the Indian, laconically, and relapsed into silence.
"Will a great chief suffer any harm to happen to his brother?" asked Edith again, after considering for a few moments how to shape her question.
"No warrior of the Totem of the Tortoise dare raise a tomahawk against the brother of the Black Eagle," answered the chief.
"But is not Black Eagle the great chief of the Oneidas?" said Edith again. "Do not the people of the Stone hear his voice? Is he not to them as the rock on which their house is founded? Whither in the sky could the Oneidas soar if the Black Eagle led them not? And shall they disobey his voice?"
"The people of the Stone have their laws," replied the chief, "which are thongs of leather, to bind each Sachem, and each Totem, and each warrior. They were whispered into the roll of Wampum which is in the hand of the great medicine-man, or priest, as you would call him; and the voice of the Black Eagle, though it be strong in war, is as the song of the bobolink, when compared to the voice of the laws."
Short as this conversation may seem when written down, it had occupied several minutes; for the Indian had made long pauses; and Edith, willing to humour him by adopting the custom of his people, had followed his example.
His last reply was hardly given, when Lord H---- returned, carrying a dry and rather hard loaf, and a jug of clear, cold water.
"I have not been very successful," he said; "for the people have evidently abandoned the place, and all their cupboards but one are locked up. In that, however, I found this loaf."
"They are squirrels who fly along the boughs at the sound of danger, and leave their stores hidden," said the Black Eagle. "But dip the bread in water, my daughter; it will give you strength by the way."
Lord H---- laid the loaf down upon the table, and hurried out of the room again; but Edith had little opportunity of questioning her dusky companion further before the nobleman's return. He was absent hardly two minutes; and when he came back he led his horse behind him, somewhat differently accoutred from the preceding day. The demi-pique saddle was now covered with a pillow firmly strapped on with some leathern thongs which he had found in the house, thus forming it into a sort of pad; and the two stirrups brought to one side, stretched as far apart as possible, and somewhat shortened, were kept extended by a piece of plank passed through the irons, and firmly attached; thus presenting a comfortable rest for the feet of any one sitting sideways on the horse.
Lord H---- had done many a thing in life on which he might reasonably pride himself. He had resisted temptations to which most men would have yielded; he had done many a gallant and noble deed; he had displayed great powers of mind, and high qualities of heart in terrible emergencies and moments of great difficulty; but it may be questioned whether he had ever smiled so complacently on any act of his whole life as on the rapid and successful alteration of his own inconvenient saddle into a comfortable lady's pad; and when he brought out Edith to the door, and she saw how he had been engaged, she could not help rewarding him with a beaming smile, in which amusement had a less share than gratitude. Even over the dark countenance of the Indian, trained to stoical apathy, something flitted, not unlike a smile.
Lifting his fair charge in his arms, Lord H---- seated her lightly on the horse's back, adjusted the rest for her feet with care, and then took the bridle, to lead her on the way. The Indian chief, without a word, walked on before, at a pace with which the horse's swiftest walk could hardly keep up; and crossing the cleared land around the house, they were soon once more under the branches of the forest.
More than once the Black Eagle had to pause and lean upon his rifle, waiting for his two companions; but, doubtless, it was the difficulties of the narrow path, never made for horses' hoofs, and not the pleasure of prolonging conversation, and of gazing up, the while, into a pair of as beautiful eyes as ever shone upon mortal man, or into a face which might have looked out of heaven and not have shamed the sky, that retarded the nobleman on his way.
Six miles were at length accomplished; and then they came into the military high-road again, which led within a short distance of Mr. Prevost's cottage. During the whole journey, the Indian chief had not uttered a word; but as soon as he had issued forth from the narrow path into the more open road, he paused, and waited till Edith came up; then, pointing with his hand, he said--
"Thou knowest the way, my daughter; thou hast no more need of me; the Black Eagle must wing his way back to his own rock."
"But shall we be safe?" asked Edith.
"As in the happy hunting-grounds," replied the chief. And, turning away, he re-entered the trail by which they came.
Their pace was not much quicker than it had been in the more difficult path. The seal seemed to be taken from Lord H----'s lips. He felt that Edith was safe--nearer home, no longer left completely to his mercy and his delicacy, and his words were tender and full of strong affection; but she laid her hand gently upon his as it rested on the peak of the saddle, and with a face glowing as if the leaves of the autumn maples had cast a reflection from their crimson hues upon it, she said--
"Oh, not now, not now--for Heaven's sake spare me a little, still."
He gazed up in her face with a look of earnest inquiry; but he saw something there, either in the half-veiled swimming eyes, or in the glowing cheek, or the agitated quivering of the lip, which was enough to satisfy him.
"Forgive me," he said, in a deprecatory tone; but then, the moment after he added, with frank soldierly boldness, "Dear Edith, I may thank you now, and thank you with my whole heart; for I am not a confident fool, and you are no light coquette; and did you hesitate, you would say more."
Edith bent her head almost to the saddle-bow; and some bright drops rolled over her cheek. The companions remained silent, each communing with his and her own thoughts for a short time.
They were roused from somewhat agitated reveries by a loud and joyous call; and, looking up the ascent before them, they saw Mr. Prevost on horseback, and two of the negro slaves on foot, coming down as if to meet them. They hurried on fast. The father and daughter sprang to the ground; and oh, with what joy she felt herself in his arms!
It is a mistake to think that affection cannot be divided. Love is like the banyan tree, which increases its own volume by casting forth shoots in every direction; and each separate branch grows and strengthens by the other. At that moment--with her whole bosom thrilling with new emotions--with love for another acknowledged to her own soul--with the earnest looking forward to happiness with him,--oh, how much more strongly than ever she had felt it before, did Edith feel her love for her father! What relief, what comfort, what happiness, it was to her to find herself in those fond paternal arms!
It is unnecessary to give here the explanations that ensued. Mr. Prevost had little to tell. He had passed safely, though not without much danger and the scorching of his clothes and face, along the course of the stream, and through a small part of the thicker wood. He had found his house and all the buildings safe, and even the forest immediately around still free from the fire, and out of danger, as long as the wind remained easterly. Satisfied that his daughter would find the farmer's family, and be kindly entertained, he had felt no anxiety on her account, till about an hour before, when her horse had come back to the house with the saddle and housings scorched and blackened, and the hoofs nearly burnt off his feet. In great alarm for Edith, Mr. Prevost had set out to seek her in haste. Her tale was soon told; and again and again Mr. Prevost shook her protector's hand, thanking him earnestly for all he had done for his child.
The distance to the house was not now great; and, giving the horses to the negroes, the little party proceeded on foot, talking over the events of the last few hours. When they reached the house, there were somewhat obstreperous screams of joy from the women-servants, to see their young mistress return; and Edith was speedily carried away to her chamber for rest and refreshment. Breakfast was immediately prepared in the hall for Lord H----, who had tasted no food since the middle of the preceding day; but he ate little even now, and there was a sort of restlessness about him which Mr. Prevost remarked with some anxiety.
"My lord, you hardly taste your food," he said; "and either seem not well, or not well at ease. I trust you have no subject of grief or apprehension pressing on your mind?"
"None whatever," replied Lord H----, with a smile; "but, to tell you the truth, my dear sir, I am impatient for a few moments' conversation with you, alone; and I could well have spared my breakfast till they were over. Pray let us go into the other room, where we shall not be interrupted."
Mr. Prevost led the way, and closed the door after them, with a grave face; for, as is usual in such cases, he had not the faintest idea of what was coming.
"Our acquaintance has been very short, Mr. Prevost," said Lord H----, as soon as they were seated--feeling, indeed, more hesitation and embarrassment than he had imagined he could have experienced in such circumstances; "but I trust you have seen enough of me, taken together with what you may know by general repute, to make what I am going to say not very presumptuous."
Mr. Prevost gazed at him in perfect astonishment, unable to conceive where his speech would end; and, as the nobleman paused, he answered, "Pray speak on, my lord. Believe me, I have the highest esteem and regard for you. Your character and conduct through life have, I well know, added lustre to your rank: and noble blood has justified itself in you by noble actions. What on earth can you have to say which could make me think you presumptuous for a moment?"
"Simply this, and perhaps youmaythink me presumptuous when I have said it," replied Lord H----: "I am going to ask you to give me something, which I value very much, and which you rightly value as much as anything you possess. I mean your daughter. Nay, do not start, and turn so pale! I know all the importance of what I ask; but I have now passed many days entirely in her society,--I have gone through some difficulties and dangers with her, as you know--scenes and sensations which endear two persons to each other. I have been much in woman's society,--I have known the bright and the beautiful in many lands; perhaps my expectations have been too great--my wishes too exacting; but I never met woman hitherto who touched my heart. I have now found the only one whom I can love; and I ask her of you with a full consciousness of how much it is I ask."
Mr. Prevost had remained profoundly silent, with his eyes bent down, and his cheek, as Lord H---- had said, very pale. There was a great struggle in his heart, as there must be always in a parent's bosom in such circumstances.
"She is very young--so very young,--just seventeen!" he murmured, speaking to himself rather than to his companion.
"I may, indeed, be somewhat too old for her," said Lord H----, thoughtfully; "yet, I trust, in heart and spirit at least, Mr. Prevost, I have still all the freshness of youth about me."
"Oh, it is not that--it is not that at all," answered Edith's father; "it is that she is so very young to take upon herself both cares and duties. True, she is no ordinary girl, and perhaps if ever any one was fit at so early an age for the great responsibilities of such a state, it is Edith. Her education has been singular--unlike that of any other girl."
Mr. Prevost had wandered away, as was his custom, from the immediate question to collateral issues; and was no longer considering whether he should give his consent to Edith's marriage with Lord H----, but whether she was fit for the marriage state at all, and what effect the education she had received would have upon her conduct as a wife. The lover, in the mean time, habitually attaching himself and every thought to one important object, was impatient for something more definite; and he ventured to break across Mr. Prevost's spoken reverie, by saying--
"Our marriage would be necessarily delayed, Mr. Prevost, for some time, even if I obtain your consent. May I hope that it will be granted to me--if no personal objection exists towards myself?"
"None in the world!" exclaimed Mr. Prevost, eagerly "You cannot suppose it for a moment, my dear lord. All I can say is, that I will oppose nothing which Edith calmly and deliberately thinks is for her own happiness. What does she say herself?"
"She says nothing," answered Lord H----, with a smile; "for, though she cannot doubt what are my feelings towards her, she has not been put to the trial of giving any answer, without your expressed approbation. May I believe, then, that I have your permission to offer her my hand?"
"Beyond a doubt," replied Mr. Prevost. "Let me call her; her answer will soon be given, for she is not one to trifle with anybody."
He rose as he spoke, as if to quit the room; but Lord H---- stopped him, saying,--
"Not yet, not yet, my dear sir. She had little, if any, rest last night, and has had much fatigue and anxiety during the last twenty-four hours. Probably she is taking some repose, and I must not allow even a lover's impatience to deprive her of that."
"I had forgotten," said Mr. Prevost. "It is, indeed, true, that the dear child must need some repose. It is strange, my lord, how sorrows and joys blend themselves together in all events of mortal life. I had thought, when in years long ago I entwined my fingers in the glossy curls of my Edith's hair, and, looking through the liquid crystal of her eyes, seemed to see into the deep fountains of pure emotions in her young heart--I had thought, I say, that few joys would be equal to that of seeing her at some future day bestow her hand on a man worthy of her, to make and partake the happiness of a cheerful home. But now I find the thought has its bitter as well as sweet; and memories of the grave rise up, to cast a solemn shade over the bright picture fancy drew."
His tone dropped gradually as he spoke, and, fixing his eyes again upon the ground, he relapsed into absent thought.
Lord H---- would not disturb his friend's reverie, and, walking gently out of the room, he gave himself also up to meditation. But his reflective moods were of a different kind from those of his friend--more eager, more active; and they required some employment for the limbs, while the mind was so busy. To and fro he walked before the house, for nearly an hour, before Mr. Prevost came forth and joined him, and then the walk still continued; but the father's thoughts, though they had wandered for awhile, soon returned to his daughter, and their conversation was of Edith only.
At length, when it was nearly noon, as they turned upon the little open space of ground in front of the dwelling, the eyes of the nobleman, which had been turned more than once to the door, rested on Edith, as she stood in the hall and gazed forth over the prospect.
"The fire seems to be raging there still," she said, pointing with her fair hand over the country towards the south-west, where hung a dense canopy of smoke above the forest. "What a blessing one of our heavy autumnal rains would be!"
Lord H---- made no reply, but suddenly left her father's side, and, taking the extended hand in his, led her into the little sitting-room.
Shall we follow them thither, and listen to the words they spoke--shall we tear the veil from that young, innocent, gentle heart, and show, in the broad glare, the shy emotions only fitted to be seen by one eye beside that of God? Oh, no! They remained long together--to Mr. Prevost it seemed very long; but when Edith's lover led her to the door again, happy tears were once more in her eyes, glad blushes on her cheek; and, though the strong, manly arm was fondly thrown around her waist, she escaped from its warm clasp, and cast herself upon the bosom of her father.
"She is mine!" ejaculated Lord H----; "she is mine!"
"But none the less mine," answered Mr. Prevost kissing her cheek.
"Oh no," said Edith, "no! Always yours, my dear father--your child." And then she added, while the glowing blood rushed over her beautiful face, like the gush of morning over a white cloud, "yourchild, though his wife."
It cost her an effort to utter the word; yet she was pleased to speak it; but then, the moment after, as if to hide it from memory again, she said, "Oh, that dear Walter were here! He would be very happy, I know, and say I had come to the end of my day-dreaming."
"He will be here probably to-night," observed her lover.
"We must not count upon it," rejoined her father; "he may meet with many things to detain him. But now, my children, I will go in, and make up my journal, till the dinner hour."
Edith leaned fondly on his bosom, and whispered, "And write that this has been one happy day, my father."
Alas, alas! that the brightest sunshine and the softest sky should so often precede the day of storms! Alas, that the dark tempest-clouds should be so frequently gathering beneath the horizon all around us, when the sky above seems full of hope and promise! But so it is too often in this life. The old geographers' fancied figure of the earth was very like the earth on which human hopes are raised--a fair and even plain, with a yawning precipice all round it.