You see this chase is hotly followed.
You see this chase is hotly followed.
—Henry V.
The spot called Hardscrabble was distant about two miles from Fort Dearborn, and had been the scene of a recent and bloody tragedy. They who are familiar with the events that occurred during a different and earlier phase of this tale are aware that, not four months previously, the father of Mrs. Ronayne had, as well as a faithful domestic, been cruelly murdered there, during a period of profound peace, by a party of Winnebagoes, and that, on the removal of his body to the grounds of the cottage, near the fort, in which his wife and daughter resided, the house had been hermetically closed. The outrage upon Mr. Heywood had taken place early in April. It was now, as has already been said, the 7th of August, and within that period Mrs. Ronayne had drunk deeply of the cup of reciprocated wedded bliss, she had also known the anguish of the severance of every natural tie. Both her parents were buried near the summer-house, and, had it not been for the fervent love of her husband—a love that daily increased in purity and intensity—even the great strength of mind for which she was remarkable would have ill enabled her to endure the twofold shock. But, even with all his love, the natural melancholy of her character became tinged with an additional shade of seriousness, which, far from being displeasing, or detracting from the sweetness of her most expressive and faultless face, seemed to invest it with a newer and a holier charm. The perfection of her classic style of beauty given as Maria Heywood, may well justify a repetition here.
Above the middle size, her figure was at once gracefully and richly formed. Her face, of a chiselled oval, was of a delicate olive tint, which well harmonized with eyes of a lustrous hazel, and hair of glossy, raven black, of rare amplitude and length. A mouth classically small, bordered by lips of coral fulness, disclosed, when she smiled, teeth white and even; while a forehead, high and denoting strong intellect, combined with a nose somewhat more aquiline than Grecian, to give dignity to a countenance that might otherwise have exhibited too much of a character of voluptuous beauty. Yet, although her features, when lighted up by vivacity or emotion, were radiant with intelligence, their expression when in repose was of a pensive cast, that, contrasted with her general appearance, gave to it a charm, addressed at once to sense and sentiment, of which it is impossible by description to give an adequate idea. A dimpled cheek—an arm, hand, and foot, that might have served the statuary as a model, completed a person which, without exaggeration, might be deemed almost, if not wholly, faultless.
For some minutes, as the party rode along the road bordering on the serpentine branch of the Chicago leading to Hardscrabble, Mrs. Ronayne, apprehensive that her husband might attribute any appearance of depression of spirits to physical illness, and insist on postponing her ride to some future occasion, fell, as most people do who are sensible that for the first time in their lives they are acting with insincerity, into the very opposite extreme. With a consciousness of wrong at her heart—with a soul distracted with uncertainty and hesitancy as to the result of the course she was pursuing—she indulged in a gaiety that, in her, was wholly unnatural. She rattled, talked, laughed with ill-timed volubility—offered to make wagers with the surgeon and Ronayne that she would take her horse over the highest fallen log, or, if they preferred it, swim with either of them across the river, and lastly proposed that they should start together and see who would first reach the farm-house. All this time the deepest scarlet was on her cheek, her manner betrayed the most feverish excitement, and there was unwonted brilliancy in her eye.
Ronayne looked at her earnestly. Suddenly a change came over her, for she had remarked, and felt confused under the penetrating glance which seemed to tell her that she did not feel that lightness of heart with the semblance of which she was seeking to deceive him. For the first time since his marriage—nay, for the first time since his acquaintance with her—and this had been of more than two years' date—he felt pain—pain inflicted byher. There was evidently some secret thought at her heart which she withheld; and she who had never before concealed a passing emotion of her soul, was now wrapped up in an unaccountable mystery.
In proportion with her husband's increasing gravity, Mrs. Ronayne's spirits became depressed, until in reality enfeebled by her strong previous excitement, she looked pale as death itself, and expressed a desire for a glass of water.
Deeply touched and alarmed by the sudden change which had taken place in his wife's appearance and manner, Ronayne threw himself from his horse, and, being provided with a silver drinking cup, flew to the river to fill it. In order to obtain the liquid pure and cool, however, it was necessary to turn a small and acute point of underwood, a little to the right, where a few rude stone steps led to a sort of natural well, where, even in the hottest day of summer, the beverage came fresh as from a coral fountain. It was a spot well known to every frequenter of that road, and few passers-by ever drank from any other source.
The young officer was in the act of dipping his cup into the stream, when three shots were distinctly heard in the neighborhood of Hardscrabble, then about half a mile distant, and after the interval of a few seconds, the rapid galloping of horses' hoofs behind him. With an inconceivable dread of he knew not what at his heart, he sprang round the point of wood to gain the road where he had left his wife and Von Voltenberg. To his astonishment both were gone. They were the hoofs of their horses he had heard—his own was tied to a tree, as he had left him, and making endeavors to free himself, that he might follow his companions.
We will not attempt to describe the feelings of Ronayne. The mere disappearance of the party might have been accounted for, had it not been for the shots which preceded. But the association was terrible. It bewildered him—almost deprived him of thought and judgment. Evidently, there was an enemy in the neighborhood; but, even if so, why the obvious advance into the very heart of danger; for, from the direction of the sound, he could have no doubt that one horse, at least, had taken the direction of Hardscrabble, and that, from the peculiar and rapid footfall of the animal, he felt assured was his wife's.
What could this mean? Mrs. Ronayne's he knew to be a very spirited young horse, and the only manner in which he could explain her absence was by inferring that, startled by the report of the firearms, he had suddenly run away with her, and that Von Voltenberg had followed as speedily as he could to check him.
He dashed the cup of water to the earth, mounted, and dug his spurs in the flanks of his horse, when the latter, bounding forward with agony under the exquisite sense of pain, seemed rather to leap than run over the ground Fifty yards from the point where he started, something glaringly white on the ground frightened the animal and caused him to shy so abruptly, even while continuing his speed, that Ronayne, excellent horseman as he was, had great difficulty in preserving his seat. Rapid as was the glance obtained of the object, he at once recognised it for the habit collar of his wife, and therefore all uncertainty was at an end as to the direction her horse had taken. His heart was full, but he had scarcely power to think. A thousand incidents and fears seemed to crowd upon his brain at the same time, and in such confusion that he felt as though his very reason were deserting him. The recollection of the strong presentiment of evil which he had expressed in regard to this ride came with tenfold force on his mind, and scarce left a hope to weigh against the fears that overwhelmed him.
Still he dashed on, straining his eyes as though he would have doubled the extent of his vision, looking searchingly into every opening into the wood, and endeavoring to distinguish, amid the rapid sounds produced by his own horse's hoofs, those of his companions. It seemed an age while he passed over the ground that kept him from the fatal farm-house. At length the orchard attached to it came in view, and then the garden, and on the broad lane which separated both, the large walnut tree the branches of which, two months before covered with snowy blossoms, were now bent low by the weight of their own fruitfulness. In another instant, he was in the centre of the open space. Uncertain what course to follow now, he checked his generous steed so suddenly and fiercely as to throw him upon his haunches. Everything was still. Beyond the breathing of his own horse, there was not a sound to indicate the existence of animal life. The Indians had evidently destroyed all the stock on the farm since its abandonment, and melancholy appeared here to have established universal dominion. This suspense was torture—the silence horrible. He would rather have heard the Indian scalp-cry—heard the death-shriek—anything, provided it would guide him to the form of her he loved. Beyond this forest there was nothing that could be called a road. A few narrow footpaths diverged from it into the forest, but these were merely sufficiently broad for the passage by Indian file, except on the immediate verge of the river, where horse and rider might barely escape collision with the branches. The bank, over which this apology for a highway ran, was composed of a sandy soil, so that sound was not absolutely necessary to the assurance that horsemen were on that road. From its absence, however, in every other quarter, the distracted officer was naturally led to infer that they whom he so anxiously sought had taken that direction, and thither he determined to follow. But a second thought induced him to turn the angle of the house, before leaving, that he might not have to reproach himself later with having left anything unexamined behind. To his great surprise he found the door, which he had himself hermetically closed many weeks before, wide open. His first purpose, after sweeping his eye rapidly but keenly around the half-trodden cornfield in the rear, was to enter. This, in order not to lose time, and the rude aperture being sufficiently large, he did without dismounting.
As his horse sprang in, he thought he could distinguish a moccasined foot just at the moment of its hurried disappearance into the loft above, but everything was so still that he felt satisfied his distempered imagination and excited feeling, running on one all-absorbing subject, had deceived him. He looked around. Two dark objects attracted his attention, in the farthest corner from him, of the room, the shutters of which being closed, yielded but an indistinct light to one coming suddenly from the open air. He moved his horse, stooping low himself as he advanced to that end of the rude apartment, and beheld to his surprise, two small trunks of black leather, on one of which was painted in rather large letters “Maria Heywood.” The other had no name upon it, but he could have pledged his existence that, not one week previously, he had seen it in his own apartment, and that it was his. That, however, might be a mistake, for it was difficult to distinguish with certainty; but in regard to the proprietorship of the other there could be no question, and the only reasonable manner in which he could account for their being there at that moment, was, that the trunks had been in use by Mr. Heywood at the period of his murder, and that, having been overlooked by the Indians, they had been locked up, on closing the farm-house altogether.
It must not be supposed that the young officer took as much time to comprehend and draw inferences from what he saw, as we have taken in the description. A few rapid glances only were thrown around, when, satisfied that there was no more to aid him in his search, he turned his horse's head to gain the broader pathway which, it has already been said, bordered on the river. Again he sallied from the house, but his emotions of alarm and surprise may be conceived—not springing from any personal consideration, but from the certainty he now entertained of the probable fate of his wife—when, on gaining the exterior, he perceived, not fifty yards from him, a party of Indians, about twenty in number, some scattered along the edge of the wood, and others peering cautiously around the corners of the outbuildings. Although his heart sank within him at the sight, and the image of his Maria was at the moment uppermost in his thoughts—stood palpably before him as she looked at the very moment when she stood first equipped for this most unfortunate ride—his keen and collected eye could distinguish the very color of the war paint, for they were in full costume, and the peculiar decorations that told them to be of their old and inveterate enemies the Winnebagoes.
There are epochs in life when the thoughts of years crowd upon the mind in little more than moments. All the past then seems to flash full upon the recollection, and in such rapid yet distinct succession, that the only surprise is how the brain can sustain the torturing and confounding weight. No one incident of the slightest interest had ever occurred to his wife and himself that Ronayne did not recall vividly, keenly, even while gazing on those men of blood; and he suffered anguish of heart, physical as well as mental, which none can understand who have not experienced that rending asunder of the soul which follows the loss of that in which the soul alone lives. Presently, as his quick eye glanced rapidly along the wood, he saw, to his increasing dismay, Von Voltenberg brought forward to its edge by two other Indians leading the horse by the bridle. He was, evidently, a prisoner. Oh, how he strained his eyes with painful, with agonizing earnestness, to behold her whom he expected to behold next, and how rapidly rose the feeling of hope and exultation when he found no second prisoner appear. He now felt assured that his last chance of recovering the lost one lay in his pursuing the course he had at first selected. The prospect of eluding his enemies and gaining that road was poor, for there was but one way open to him—almost in their very teeth—yet this he was resolved to try. Death was before him if he hesitated; although, had he beheld his wife a prisoner, he would rather have shared a similar fate than abandoned her in her extremity, now that a hope had sprung up in his heart—his energies were aroused, and renewed activity braced his limbs.
On the right of the farm-house called Hardscrabble, as it faced the water, there was a kitchen garden, the fence of which was quite five feet high, and scattered about within this were standing, now almost shrivelled up from age, many clusters of peas and beans pending lazily and languidly from their poles. To force his way across this fence, and then diagonally through the garden in order to gain the opposite corner and cross into the road beyond, was now the sole object of the young officer; but before putting it in practice, he called out in a loud and distinct voice to Von Voltenberg to know what had become of his wife, and whether she too was a prisoner. But there was no answer. The Doctor had evidently been enjoined not to reply, for, immediately after he had put his question, Ronayne saw an Indian hold up his tomahawk menacingly to the prisoner, and heard him utter some words as if to enjoin silence. Seemingly desirous, however, at all risk to satisfy his friend, Von Voltenberg suddenly raised his hand, and seemed to point significantly over his shoulder in an oblique direction to the rear. This convinced Ronayne that he had been correct in his conjecture, for the direction was the road he intended taking. Gathering himself up in his saddle, he slowly walked his horse about twenty paces towards the edge of the forest. This was done both for the purpose of preventing any suspicion of an attempt at flight, and of giving sufficient run for his leap. Then suddenly wheeling round, he put the animal to his speed, and, amid the loud shouts of the Indians, who rushed forward from every point to overtake him, accomplished the desperate leap, the tips of his horse's hoofs just grazing as he passed. Encumbered with their arms as they were, it took each Indian, however active, at least a second to clear the fence, and this gave the young officer considerable advantage of distance; but what surprised him was that not a shot was fired. It seemed as though his pursuers thought it beneath their dignity to fire at a single fleeing man, whom they were certain of taking, and matter of rivalry with all to be the first to reach and secure. Onward they pressed now without uttering a sound; but the rattling of their war ornaments, with the crackling of the decayed vegetation beneath their feet, told Ronayne that they were too near for him to hope for escape, unless his horse should clear the opposite corner of the field, and of this he almost despaired, jaded as the animal was by previous exertion through the heavy ground he was now traversing. Fortunately he found that there was a perceptible declivity as he approached the water, and not merely that, but that one of the rails of the zigzag fence had been detached. Desperate as his position was, this gave him renewed confidence, and he even ventured to turn and examine the number and position of his enemies. They were some twenty in number, all painted perfectly black, and dispersed at long intervals throughout the field. In front of all was a very young warrior, who seemed the most emulous of the party to secure the honor of the capture, for the leaps he took were prodigious, and it was evident that nothing but the clearing of the fence could save the closely-pursued officer from capture. Again his horse took the leap, and this time easily enough; and even while in the very act, he thought, he fancied, he heard a voice behind him softly pronounce his name. In the confusion of his mind, however, he could not judge distinctly of anything. It might have been the sighing of the wind among the dried leaves and tendrils that floated from the bean-poles at his side, and he regarded it not. His mind was too much intent on, too much absorbed on weightier matters to heed the occurrence. The air from the water revived, reinvigorated both himself and his horse. Again at full speed, he dashed on along its margin until suddenly, after having gone over nearly a mile of ground, the conviction arose to him that he must have been wrong in his comprehension of Von Voltenberg's sign, and that the beloved of his soul—she for the uncertainty of whose fate his heart suffered an anguish the most horrible, was not before him, but a prisoner with her companion. That thought, growing rapidly into assurance, was sufficient to destroy all energy. He checked his horse, and brought him to a full stand. As a soldier, whose services belonged to his country, he felt that he had no right to throw himself into a position that would render those services useless, but at least he would take no unnecessary trouble to avoid it. He turned to listen to the sounds of his pursuers, now fully resolved to make no further attempt at escape. He heard nothing but the rustling of the leaves and the gurgling of the water over the shallow and pebbly portions of its bed. He retraced his way at a walk. That was his direct course to the fort, and he was determined leisurely to pursue it, taking the chapter of accidents as it might be opened to him. Soon he came to the point where he had first leaped the garden fence. He looked within. There was not an Indian to be seen. That they were lurking somewhere around him, he felt perfectly assured, and at each moment he expected to see them start up and seize his horse by the bridle. But although he now rode slowly, carelessly, his eye was everywhere. The pathway he followed led along a strip some twenty feet in width, between the garden fence and the river, to the bottom of the clearing or lawn that ran to the edge of the latter. Keenly he glanced towards the skirt of the forest on his left where he had first beheld the savages with their prisoner, but not a sign of one of them was to be seen. All this was certainly most extraordinary and unaccountable, but Ronayne knew the character of Indian stratagem too well not to feel assured that the very next moment succeeding that of this serpent-like quietude, might be replete with excitement, and he was prepared for its occurrence. He dreaded to advance. He almost feared that he should not be seen. Every step forward in safety increased the distance which separated him from the idol of his soul, and the purest air of heaven had no sweetness for him that was not breathed with her. His head drooped upon his breast—he could hear the beating of his own heart. He prayed inwardly, secretly, fervently to God to restore to him his wife as by a miracle, and save him from the madness of despair. When he again raised his head, he was startled but not surprised to see his further progress interrupted by a dozen Indians, springing up as it were from the very bowels of the earth, and standing in the same careless and unexcited attitude in which he had beheld them at the outset. Mechanically wheeling his horse to escape by the lane, he beheld a similar display. He was evidently hemmed in. His further advance or retreat was completely intercepted.
Truly has it been said, we are the creatures of circumstance. A moment before, and while there was no enemy visible, Ronayne had felt the utmost indifference in regard to a fate the bitterness of which would, at least, have been sweetened by the fact of his being near to solace and sustain his wife. He could not believe that it was the purpose of the warriors to do them bodily harm; for, had that been their intention, they would, without doubt, have fired at him, when they found themselves foiled in their recent pursuit; and such was the devotedness of love of the man, that forgetting under the circumstances the sterner duty of the officer, he would have preferred the tent and bonds of the savagefor everwith her to the comforts and freedom of his own home, when the presence of the loved and familiar being in whom alone he lived should no longer give life and interest to the latter. But now a sudden change in his plans was resolved upon, for the same glance which had fallen on the warriors in his front, had enabled him to see, in the distance, that Von Voltenberg, profiting probably by the carelessness of those left in charge, was moving stealthily and alone between the cornfield and the building, behind which he soon disappeared. The quickening sound of hoofs immediately succeeding attested that he was in full flight, and then a rapid association of ideas brought to the strongly imaginative mind of the young officer the conviction that his wife had escaped too, for he felt assured that Von Voltenberg would not abandon her. What the object was in endeavoring to secure himself he could not tell. The Indians had evidently some more than ordinary motive in his capture, or wherefore their great anxiety to take him unhurt, and their seeming indifference in regard to the other prisoners, who had been left almost unguarded. There might be two reasons for this. Firstly, they might be on their war-path, and therefore might not find it either convenient or desirable to incumber themselves, on a march, with a woman; and, secondly, having discovered the Doctor to be a “medicine man”—a fact of which he would not have failed to apprise them—they might not feel themselves permitted by the Great Spirit to detain him, and therefore, without absolutely releasing, gave him the opportunity for escape.
Of course, all these reflections were the result of but a momentary action of the brain. Ronayne, with much warmth and impetuosity of character, was of quick and sound apprehension, and at once saw the advantages or disadvantages of an extreme position. To advance or retire, as has already been remarked, was impossible, for both in front and rear stood the warriors leaning carelessly on their guns, as if they expected at each moment that he would come up and surrender himself. But, whatever his previous musings, half nursed into the determination, such was now far from being the intention of the Virginian. Certain that he would be fired at, his main object was to prevent their closing with him so far as to impede his action. In order to prevent nearer advance upon him, therefore, he pulled his pocket handkerchief from the bosom of his hunting-shirt, and waved it over his head in token of submission. Guttural sounds of approbation broke from the warriors, amid which he thought he could hear the voice of his wife earnestly calling upon his name, in the distance. He looked, but saw nothing. The idea that she had been suffered to make her escape grew stronger. He felt assured, for the sounds of horses' hoofs had ceased, that she was lingering for him to join her; that she had seen him wave the handkerchief, and that, tearing he was about to deliver himself into the hands of his enemies, she had uttered that cry to indicate her position. Apparently in the certainty of their prisoner, the Indians both above and below had thrown themselves at the side of the lane under the fence, some even commencing to fill and smoke their pipe tomahawks. This again was the moment of action. To leap the fence at this time was out of all question, but the river was unusually deep immediately on his right. Rapidly he wheeled his horse, and, bearing him up with a strong arm, as he reached the bank, while he forced the rowels of his spurs into his flanks, caused him to bound over nearly one third of the narrow stream. Almost before the Indians had time to recover from their surprise and dash in after him, he was nearly across. As he ascended the opposite bank, and gained the road above, another cry from the same voice rang upon his ears. He looked and beheld at one of the windows of the farm—house a form evidently that of a woman, the outline and dress of which he could not, however, distinguish, reclining negligently, almost motionless, on the bosom of the youngest warrior, who had evinced such earnestness in his desire to capture him. Alternately, as Ronayne continued his course to the fort, along that bank of the Chicago, the youth pealed forth the peculiar war-whoop of his tribe, and waved, seemingly, the very pocket handkerchief which the unhappy officer had a few moments before thrown down as an earnest of his submission. Was this meant as a reproach or a threat? He could not tell; but certainly he felt that he deserved the former in their eyes, who had shown him so much mercy. In less than ten minutes he had passed over the intermediate ground, his ear achingly on the stretch to catch the sounds of horses' hoofs on the opposite' bank—that bank which, not two hours previously, he had traversed with a bright hope, if not with a heart wholly free from anxiety—but in vain. Furiously, wildly, he rode into the fort. He was haggard, pale, and dripping from the immersion he had so recently undergone. His first inquiry at the gate, on entering, was if Mrs. Ronayne had returned. Being answered in the negative, life itself seemed to be annihilated; and, overcome by the overwhelming agony he had endured for the last two hours, he gave a frightful shriek of despair, and, on gaining the centre of the parade, fell fainting from his horse to the ground, as we have already seen at the close of our opening chapter.
“My particular grief is of so floodgate and overbearing nature, that it engluts and swallows other sorrows.”
“My particular grief is of so floodgate and overbearing nature, that it engluts and swallows other sorrows.”
—Othello.
Never did day close more cheerlessly on the hearts of men, than that which succeeded to the occurrences detailed in our last chapter. Yea, it was a terrible blow which had been inflicted upon all. The sun of the existence of each, from the commanding officer to the youngest drummer-boy, had been dimmed; and many a weather-beaten soldier, grown grey in the natural apathy of age, now found himself unable to restrain the rising tear. Not a woman, not a child arrived at the years of consciousness, but missed and mourned over the absence of her who had been, not merely the favorite, but the beloved of the whole garrison.
The young Virginian himself was, for the moment, the only exception to this mental anguish. When taken up from the ground to which he had fallen, and borne to his room, he was in a high fever and delirious from excitement—unconscious of everything around. He did not manifest a sense of the nature and extent of his grief by exclamations of despair, or reference to the past, but lay like one stupified, his cheek highly flushed, his eyes fixed and upturned, his hands clasped across his chest, his breathing scarcely audible, and seemingly without the power of combination of thought, or the exercise of memory.
When Von Voltenberg soon afterwards followed, he at once saw that congestion of the brain was rapidly forming, and immediately prepared to bleed him. The room, which, first filled with sorrowing soldiers and their wives, not only excluded the necessary air, but impeded action, was now urgently requested to be cleared, and none remained but Mrs. Headley, Mrs. Elmsley, Mr. Ronayne's servant Catherine, and Corporal Collins, who, having been relieved from his duty as orderly, had entreated the surgeon to permit him to render what service might be required during the young officer's illness. There was no fastidious or misplaced delicacy here. Mrs. Headley had ever felt as a mother towards the Virginian, Mrs. Elmsley as a sister, and, even had this not been the case, the strong affection they bore to his wife would have led them to attend the sick couch of the husband. One supported his shoulder as he was raised in his bed, the other took his extended hand, while Corporal Collins, looking much paler and more frightened than either of them, held the basin. If Von Voltenberg was not particularly given to fasting, or loved the punch made of the horrid whiskey distilled in those days in the west, he was, nevertheless, a skilful surgeon. With a steady hand he now divided the vein, when forth gushed a stream of blood so dark and discolored that the significant and triumphant shake of the head which he gave clearly indicated what would have been the result had the bleeding been delayed much longer.
Greatly relieved by the removal of the oppressive weight, the unhappy ensign opened his eyes, and became sensible of objects, but it was only that consciousness might render him even more keenly alive to the horror of his position. Each article of furniture and dress around the room brought increased desolation to his heart. There was the harp Maria was wont to touch with such exquisite grace. There was the dress she had thrown off to assume her riding habit—for it will be recollected that the officers of that post had no gilded suites of apartments at their command, but barely a couple of barrack rooms for the married men, and one for the single. Now a shoe caught his eye, now a glove, a hat, a slipper, her dressing-case; even the tiny thimble with which she had worked the linen upon his back; each and all of these, endearing yet painful to the sight from the recollections they brought up, he glanced at alternately, until his feelings were so wrought upon that he was almost frantic.
“Take those things away!” he cried, starting up and pointing to them; “I cannot endure the sight. They will kill me—ay, worse than kill—tear my heart-strings with slow agony. Ah! dear Mrs. Headley—Mrs. Elmsley—both of you, who loved Maria so well—can you not understand the pangs I suffer! Yesterday I could have defied the world in the vain pride of my happiness and strength; to-day I feel that I am more wretched than the slave that tugs at his chain—more feeble than a child. Would to heaven that I could die within this hour! Oh, God! oh, God! oh, God! how shall I endure this!”
He turned on his side, buried his face in the pillow, and sobbed and wept, until every one around had caught the deep infection of his profound suffering. The lips of Corporal Collins, as he stood stiff in his military attitude, were closely compressed, and his brow was contracted. A sympathy, traceable on each quivering muscle, was evidently struggling for mastery, and he turned abruptly round. Had others taken time from their own sorrow to watch his next movement, they might have seen him raise his hand to his lips, and drain deeply from a flask he had taken from the bosom of his uniform. Mrs. Elmsley, with her face buried in her hands, leaned against one of the foot-posts of the bed; and Mrs. Headley—the majestic Mrs. Headley, with more complex feelings at her heart than actuated the others—knelt at the head of the bed, laid her hand upon the shoulder of the patient, and conjured him, in tones that marked her own deep sorrow, to bear the trial like a man, and not destroy himself by unavailing grief. Yet, even as she spoke, the tears fell copiously upon the bed.
“Mrs. Headley,” said Von Voltenberg, who afterwards admitted that, in the whole course of his practice, he had never been similarly touched, “do not check him. Let him give full vent to this emotion, for painful as it now is, both to himself and to us who witness it, this outburst once exhausted, the crisis once past, there will be less fear of a return. See, already the paroxysm is weaker—he is more calm—both mind and body are worn out, and if he can but sleep for a few hours, although he may perhaps awaken to more acute sorrow, no danger to his life need be apprehended.”
Notwithstanding this remark was made in little more than a whisper, it was distinctly heard by the sufferer. Suddenly starting up again in his bed, he turned quickly round to the surgeon, and said, in a tone of reproach—
“And is this all the consolation you have to offer me? What! tell me that I shall awaken to keener pain than that which now racks my being, and drag on a miserable life! Of what value that life to me? But stay, my mind is not yet itself, or how is it that I have not yet questioned you about my wife! Dear Von Voltenberg!” and he threw the hand of the recently-punctured arm upon the shoulder of the surgeon, “what news have you of Maria? Tell me of her safety say that you have rescued her and that I shall see her again, and I will for ever bless the voice that saves me from despair. Oh, Von Voltenberg! speak, speak! surely you could never have had the baseness to desert her. How were you taken? how have you escaped? and why alone?”
“Poor Ronayne! would to God that I could give you consolation; but, alas! I cannot. She fell into the hands of the Indians before I did, and I saw her borne rapidly to the rear of the farm-house; me they took to the road where you saw me. From that moment I never once beheld her; but reassure yourself, all may yet be well. True, she is a prisoner, but I apprehend no violence, for the Indians offered none to myself, and I thought that they showed unaccountable moderation to you, never firing a shot when you had so completely baffled them in the chase. It was that which gave me confidence to attempt my own escape, when I saw them all pressing forward to secure you, leaving me altogether unguarded. But we will speak of this no more to-night. You must sleep, Ronayne, if you would have strength to enter upon action to-morrow. From the appearance of their encampment, not twenty paces in rear of the spot where you beheld me, I have reason to think that it has been established there many days, and that Mrs. Ronayne may yet be rescued, for the party of Indians does not exceed five-and-twenty men. What they want is, doubtless, ransom, a few blankets or guns.”
“Oh! say you so; bless you for that!” continued the Virginian, eagerly; “yes, I will be calm—seek rest to restore me for the morning; I will see Captain Headley, and entreat him to let me take out a detachment. Oh! he will not refuse me. Do you think he will, Mrs. Headley? Surely you will plead for me. I know twenty brave fellows who will cheerfully volunteer for the duty.”
“Alas!” said Mrs. Headley, with a deep despondency at her heart, “I fear I can give you no encouragement there, Ronayne; I am quite satisfied, indeed, that Headley will not suffer a man to leave the fort at this crisis.”
“Crisis! what crisis!” interrupted the youth vehemently. “Obdurate man, has the past not cured him of his martinetism? By heaven, let him refuse me, and I, alone and without permission, will go in search of my wife. Fool, fool that I was to return now without her; but I had hoped she was here;” and again he burst into another wild agony of grief.
Corporal Collins touched his cap and advanced a pace forward.
“The Captain said this afternoon that the next time your honor left the fort you should never return to it. I thought it was my duty, your honor, to tell you, for I couldn't make out what he meant.”
“Oh! he did, did he?” muttered Ronayne, with sudden calm. “Well, be it so!”
“Corporal Collins,” said Mrs. Headley sternly to him, as she arose from her kneeling posture, “you would have done better to have held your peace on a matter which you say you do not comprehend. Mr. Ronayne has annoyance sufficient without your misinterpreting to him an observation of his commanding officer, which, in all probability, was made in any other spirit than that which your words would convey.”
The corporal made a respectful obeisance and withdrew into the corridor, rebuked.
“Ronayne,” pursued Mrs. Headley, “I can make all allowance for your excited feelings. I will speak to Headley on the matter; and, although I cannot hold out to you any hope that he either will even acknowledge the necessity, much less take the action you desire, I feel perfectly assured that, when you have heard his reasons, you will agree with us both that it would neither be of avail nor politic to take a step of this kind for the recovery of her whom we all deplore—God knows, no one more bitterly than myself.”
“Mrs. Headley, you surprise me; I can scarcely believe that I understand you rightly. I had always thought your feelings towards Maria were those of a mother for her child?”
“Even so, Ronayne. You judged them rightly. As a mother I have loved, and love her still; but we will talk of all this to-morrow morning, and I leave you now to the quiet, if rest is not to be hoped for, that you so much require; for Headley needs all his officers in important council to-morrow, prior to holding a second immediately after with our Indian allies. Nay,” seeing that all present looked surprised, and a desire to know wherefore, “it were idle to enter upon the subject now; sufficient be it to know that it is one of the deepest importance, and that, even should you be carried there in a litter, Ronayne—but God forbid the necessity! —you must be present.”
“At what hour does that council assemble, Mrs. Headley?” asked the ensign.
“At midday, I believe. Winnebeg has been desired to bring the chiefs to the glacis, between the flagstaff and the southern block-house, at two o'clock precisely.”
“What! Winnebeg returned?” exclaimed Ronayne, as he impetuously rose in his bed. “Ah, then there is hope. He will aid me in my enterprise. And what of Wau-nan-gee? Is he, too, here, Mrs. Headley? Yes, he must be. Oh, this is indeed providential! I shall rise with the dawn, and seek them both. Everything can be accomplished, if at all, before the hour of our own council arrives.”
Mrs. Headley cast a look of profound sadness on him, as, taking his hot hand in hers, she said—
“Wau-nan-gee did not come with Winnebeg, Ronayne; but there is reason to believe that he is not far from the camp of the Pottowatomies, for he was seen yesterday. Yet he will not aid you in your proposed enterprise.”
“Oh! Mrs. Headley, you do him wrong—indeed you do. Wau-nan-gee loves Maria too well not to risk his life for her. You little know the strength of his generous attachment, if you doubt his interest in her preservation.”
“I know, that his love for her is great—perhaps too much so,” she replied, emphatically, after a moment's pause, while bending over to adjust his pillow, and in a voice so subdued as to be inaudible to all but himself.
Ronayne's pale cheek became suddenly scarlet. He perceived from the tone and look that accompanied the words that suspicion of some kind, whence derived he knew not, had entered into the mind of Mrs. Headley, and that she saw in the regard of the young Indian for his wife, evidence of a prepossession which might prove dangerous to his peace. But this, to a mind generous and impetuous as that of the highly-gifted officer, brought no alarm. Conscious of the entire possession of the heart and confidence of his wife, it was a source of speculative pride, rather than of concern to him, that the warm-hearted and inartificial Indian, at once brave, boy-like, and handsome, should, with a cheek glowing, and an eye beaming with overweening softness, feel and betray all the power of her beauty when exposed to the influence of its presence. It was a compliment to himself—to his own taste and judgment, and, had this been possible, would have increased his love for her on whom nature, hand in hand with the graces, had lavished such adornments of disposition and person as to compel a homage which rarely came to woman from such a quarter. The love of Wau-nan-gee had been known to both, but it had always been regarded as the innocent and enthusiastic preference of the boy who had scarcely yet learned to comprehend the new and strange emotion struggling for development at his heart. It had often been the topic of their conversation; and many a smile, half crimsoning into a blush, had Ronayne called up to the brow of his young wife, while playfully adverting to the equal right to invest her with the marriage ring, which he had so eagerly manifested on the evening of their union. And, if he had shown a humor on that occasion which displeased or hurt the Indian it was not from any unworthy jealousy of the act he had sought to perform, but because he was ashamed of his own awkwardness, exhibited on such an occasion and in presence of his bride. Since that night Wau-nan-gee had disappeared, and both by the husband and wife had his absence been deeply regretted, for they both loved the youth, not only for the services he had rendered, but the interest his gentleness of deportment and retiring modesty had inspired.
If, therefore, he changed color at the remark of Mrs. Headley, it was not because a guilty passion was hinted at as influencing the boy, or because, even if it did, that he much heeded it, but because he thought it was meant to suggest that the danger would come from the tenderness of her who had inspired it. For the moment he felt mortified at the possibility of such an idea being entertained, and, had Mrs. Headley made the remark she did, except In his own ear, Ronayne would have expressed himself accordingly.
“He cannot love her too well,” was his reply; “oh, no, that is my chief hope. Think you that I should be calm as I am, did I not, now that I know he is returned, feel assured that his strong yet pure attachment for her will cause him to head a strong band for her rescue? I am better now—I am determined to be better; for at the first dawn I will go forth and seek Wau-nan-gee. We shall not be five hours away; and, long before the council assembles, we shall again, I am confident, be re-united. Ah, what a long night until then! would that it were dawn!”
“That were of no use,” returned Mrs. Headley, gravely and aloud. “I know that the strictest orders were issued immediately after your return, to allow neither officer nor man to leave the fort, unless passed by Headley himself.”
“Or I shall never return, I suppose,” muttered the Virginian bitterly; “well, we shall see;” and he ground his teeth together fiercely.
“Ronayne,” said Mrs. Headley, “spare your bitterness. You will know to-morrow what Headley meant by his remark; yet promise me one thing before I leave you, that before you seek to leave the fort, you will see me in the morning, in my apartments. If, then, I fail to satisfy you of the reasons which exist against your entertaining any hopes of success in the enterprise you meditate, I think I may venture to say that I shall obtain of not to oppose you. But, stay! on consideration, it will be better that what I have to urge should be said at once. This is no time or occasion for mere forms or ceremonies. There is too much at stake. I shall leave you now, and return, alone, in little more than an hour. You will dismiss Collins for the night, desiring him to close the door—not fasten it, so that I may make no noise—find no difficulty in entering. Better that you give vent to your feelings here, in the privacy of your own room, than reveal by your excitement to others that which should be known only to ourselves.”
“Good heaven! what can all this mean? what can it portend?” exclaimed the startled officer.
“Prepare yourself for no pleasant communication, Ronayne,” continued Mrs. Headley, sadly; “I must wound, yet I trust but to heal; one point I would have you question Von Voltenberg on before I go—the manner in which Maria fell into the hands of the Indians.”
During this short and low conversation, Mrs. Elmsley and Von Voltenberg had been talking aside on the same subject, the former continuing to weep quietly but bitterly for the loss of her friend. Ronayne now questioned the surgeon in regard to the cause of the suddenness of their departure from the point where he had dismounted to procure water.
Von Voltenberg replied that he scarcely knew himself, but his own impression was that Mrs. Ronayne had started off her horse the moment the shots were fired—he supposed in the very exaggerated spirit of wantonness which had marked her actions ever since leaving the fort. He had mechanically followed in courtesy, and the result was as has been seen—her sudden captivity by the war party, who had hurried her off, almost unresistingly, he knew not whither, while he himself was taken in the direction in which Ronayne had seen him.
“Did she scream—did she express alarm when taken?” asked Mrs. Headley.
“No; I cannot say that she did,” returned the Doctor, somewhat surprised, and not comprehending the motive for the question; “but you know Mrs. Ronayne is a woman of great nerve and presence of mind. Moreover, as the thing was done in a moment, she must have been too greatly astonished to understand her danger, for she came abruptly on the Indians on turning the sharp angle of the road leading up to the house.”
Mrs. Headley's eyes met those of Ronayne with grave meaning. He seemed to understand her, and when, with Mrs. Elmsley, she had departed, he threw himself back upon his pillow, and, closing his eyes, mused deeply. To the inquiry of Von Voltenberg, he replied that, feeling disposed to rest a little, he would not trouble him to sit up longer, but begged him to retire and to send Collins to his barrack-room, leaving his door on the latch, in case he should be summoned by the commanding officer for any purpose before morning.
As Mrs. Headley separated for the night from Mrs. Elmsley, and approached her own door, a man in uniform came up, touched his cap respectfully, and presented a packet.
“This parcel, Mrs. Headley, I received from Mrs. Ronayne on leaving the fort this afternoon, with the direction that I should hand it to you if she did not return by midnight. Alas! ma'am, we have every reason to fear the dear lady will never return; twelve o'clock has just struck, and I am come to fulfil my trust.”
“Thank you, Serjeant Nixon. As you say, I fear there is little hope of Mrs. Ronayne returning; but this package may possibly throw some light on the cause of her absence.”
“Oh! I hope so; yet how Should it, ma'am? she could not have known what was going to happen when she went out.”
“No—true, Nixon, you are right. I suppose it contains something that she has borrowed, or that I have asked her for. Ah! I recollect now—it is some embroidery she worked for me. Good night, serjeant; or do you wish to see Captain Headley?”
“No, ma'am, I only came to deliver the package which Mrs. Ronayne seemed so anxious you should get to-night.”
“There was no such very great hurry about it,” returned Mrs. Headley, carelessly, yet not without agitation; “I would to heaven she had been here to give it to me herself!”
“Amen!” solemnly returned the serjeant; “I would willingly lose my left arm, could I see her sweet face in Fort Dearborn again.”
“Good night, Nixon,” said Mrs. Headley, quickly and much affected; “you are a noble fellow!” and she took and warmly pressed his hand.
“Oh! Mrs. Headley, that is the way Mrs. Ronayne pressed my hand after she had placed the packet in it, and obtained my assurance that her directions should be punctually obeyed. I shall ever feel that pressure—see the look of kindness that accompanied it. I prayed inwardly to God, as I stood gazing on her while she rode gracefully away, to shower all His choicest blessings on her.”
“Good Nixon, no more;” and Mrs. Headley was in the next minute at the side of her husband, who, with deep care on his brow, sat at a table buried in papers, and with the despatch of General Hull in his hand.
“Well, my dear, have you seen him—and how does he bear his affliction?”
“Oh! Headley, I pity him from my inmost soul—pity him for what he now suffers; and, oh! how much more for the greater agony he has yet to endure!”
“You have not yet, then, told him?”
“No! Mrs. Elmsley and Von Voltenberg were there; and even the former must not know the secret. Let all mourn her as one lost to us for, ever, but not through her own fault. Let them continue to believe that she has been violently torn from us, not that she has proved unfaithful to her husband, ungrateful to her friends.”
“Think you not, Ellen, that it would be better to continue Ronayne in the same belief? As you have not opened the subject to him, it is not too late to alter your first intention.”
“Dear Headley, Ronayne must know all. In no other way can the wound at his heart be healed. I comprehend his noble, generous character well. Such is his love for Maria, that he will never recover the shock of her loss while he believes her to have been unwillingly torn from him. He will pine until he sickens and dies, and, indeed, unless the whole truth be told to him, he will find some means of leaving the fort in search of her; indeed he has said he will—that nothing shall prevent him; and, alas, if he does, it will be with but little disposition to return without her. Now, I know that if his love be great, his pride and proper self-esteem are not less so, and feel assured that however acute his first agony, he, will dry up the fountain of his grief, from the moment that he learns that her love for himself has been transferred to another; that, carried away by a strange and seductive fascination, she has abandoned him for an uneducated boy. His pride, even if it do not make him forget her, will so balance with his now unrequited affection, as to enable him to bear himself up, until time shall have robbed the wound of all its bitterness, and nothing remain but the scar. You will, moreover, have an efficient officer preserved to you, and one whose services may be much required in the present crisis—whose voice in the council will not be without its weight, and whose arm and example will help to instil confidence in the men, with all of whom he is a marked favorite.”
“You are right, Ellen, if all that you suppose be true; better that the wound should be enlarged to insure its speedier cure, than that the laceration, though less acute, should be continued. But is it not necessary to be well assured of this? Should you not have stronger ground than what you witnessed yesterday to justify the belief that this excursion was planned to insure the result that has followed?”
“Depend upon it, Headley, I will not do so, for you know I am not disposed to 'aught extenuate or aught set down in malice,' but I have already prepared Ronayne, indirectly, to expect some singular relation in which Maria is concerned. I wanted him to form some idea of the nature of the revelation I had to make, in order that the shock might not be so great, when I fully entered upon the subject, I had at first intended that he should come to me in the morning, but, on reflection, I thought it better that everything should be told to him to-night where he is, and therefore stated, on leaving, that I would return within an hour. Was I right, my love?” and she took and pressed his hand to her lips.
“Always right, dear Ellen—always considerate and prudent. Yes, poor fellow, it were cruel to let him slumber in hope, however faint, only to wake to confirmed despair in the morning. Besides there may be, most probably will be, a wild outbreak of his passionate grief, and that, manifested here where the servants cannot fail to hear him, may induce suspicions of the true cause that must never be entertained. No, whatever we know, however we may deplore the weakness—the infatuation of that once noble girl, within our own hearts must remain her unfortunate secret.”
“Generously, nobly said, my husband. Were I not certain that it would destroy, wither up the very soul of Ronayne to keep him in uncertainty and ignorance, I would not rend the veil from before his eyes; but it must be so, even for his own future peace. Besides me, therefore, for he will not know that I have entrusted you with the fact, none in the garrison will be aware of the truth, and Ronayne will at least not have to feel the mortification—the bitterness arising from the conviction that his wife is mourned by his comrades, with aught of diminution of that respect they had ever borne to her.”
“How annoying is this occurrence at this particular moment,” observed Captain Headley, musingly pressing his hand to his brow, “and how unfortunate. Had Winnebeg brought General Hull's despatch one day sooner, all this would not have happened, for they never could have obtained permission to leave the fort, much less to visit so dangerous a vicinity as Hardscrabble. Our march from this would have changed the whole current of events.”
“Even so,” returned Mrs. Headley; “but here is a packet, left with Serjeant Nixon, which he has just handed to me, and which may throw some light on the subject. I will first glance over it myself.”
She broke the seal—hurriedly read it—and then passed it to her husband, whose utter dismay, as he exchanged looks of deep and painful intelligence with her, after perusing the letter, was scarcely inferior to her own.
“This is evidence indeed!” he murmured. “Who could have expected it?”