"Her heart is in the wild wood;
Her heart is not here.
Her heart is in the wild wood;
It was hunting the deer."
It would have been an unnatural thing had that picturesque young mother
abandoned the woods, and prisoned herself in a quaint old Dutch house,
under the best circumstances. The wild bird which has fluttered freely
from its nest through a thousand forests, might as well be expected to
love its cage, as this poor wild girl her new home, with its dreary
stillness and its leaden regularity. But love was all-powerful in that
wild heart. It had brought Malaeska from her forest home, separated her
from her tribe in its hour of bitter defeat, and sent her a forlorn
wanderer among strangers that regarded her almost with loathing.
The elder Danforth was a just man, but hard as granite in his
prejudices. An only son had been murdered by the savages to whom this
poor young creature belonged. His blood--all of his being that might
descend to posterity--had been mingled with the accursed race who had
sacrificed him. Gladly would he have rent the two races asunder, in the
very person of his grandchild, could the pure half of his being been
thus preserved.
But he was a proud, childish old man, and there was something in the
boy's eyes, in the brave lift of his head, and in his caressing manner,
which filled the void in his heart, half with love and half with pain.
He could no more separate the two passions in his own soul, than he
could drain the savage blood from the little boy's veins.
But the house-mother, the gentle wife, could see nothing but her son's
smile in that young face, nothing but his look in the large eyes,
which, black in color, still possessed something of the azure light
that had distinguished those of the father.
The boy was more cheerful and bird-like than his mother, for all her
youth had gone out on the banks of the pond where her husband died.
Always submissive, always gentle, she was nevertheless a melancholy
woman. A bird which had followed its young out into strange lands, and
caged it there, could not have hovered around it more hopelessly.
Nothing but her husband's dying wish would have kept Malaeska in
Manhattan. She thought of her own people incessantly--of her broken,
harassed tribe, desolated by the death of her father, and whose young
chief she had carried off and given to strangers.
But shame dyed Malaeska's cheek as she thought of these things. What
right had she, an Indian of the pure blood, to bring the grandchild of
her father under the roof of his enemies? Why had she not taken the
child in her arms and joined her people as they sang the death-chant
for her father, "who," she murmured to herself again and again, "was
a great chief," and retreated with them deep into the wilderness, to
which they were driven, giving them a chief in her son?
But no! passion had been too strong in Malaeska's heart. The woman
conquered the patriot; and the refinement which affection had given
her, enslaved the wild nature without returning a compensation of love
for the sacrifice. She pined for her people--all the more that they
were in peril and sorrow. She longed for the shaded forest-path, and
the pretty lodge, with its couches of fur and its floor of blossoming
turf. To her the very winds seemed chained among the city houses; and
when she heard them sighing through the gables, it seemed to her that
they were moaning for freedom, as she was in the solitude of her lonely
life.
They had taken the child from her. A white nurse was found who stepped
in between the young heir and his mother, thrusting her ruthlessly
aside. In this the old man was obstinate. The wild blood of the boy
must be quenched; he must know nothing of the race from which his
disgrace sprang. If the Indian woman remained under his roof, it must
be as a menial, and on condition that all natural affection lay crushed
within her--unexpressed, unguessed at by the household.
But Mrs. Danforth had compassion on the poor mother. She remembered the
time when her own child made all the pulses of her being thrill with
love, which now took the form of a thousand tender regrets. She could
not watch the lone Indian stealing off to her solitary room under the
gable roof--a mother, yet childless--without throbs of womanly sorrow.
She was far too good a wife to brave her husband's authority, but,
with the cowardliness of a kind heart, she frequently managed to evade
it. Sometimes in the night she would creep out of her prim chamber,
and steal the boy from the side of his nurse, whom she bore on her own
motherly bosom to the solitary bed of Malaeska.
As if Malaeska had a premonition of the kindliness, she was sure to be
wide awake, thinking of her child, and ready to gush forth in murmurs
of thankfulness for the joy of clasping her own son a moment to that
lonely heart.
Then the grandmother would steal to her husband's side again, charging
it upon her memory to awake before daylight, and carry the boy back to
the stranger's bed, making her gentle charity a secret as if it had
been a sin.
It was pitiful to see Malaeska haunting the footsteps of her boy
all the day long. If he was taken into the garden, she was sure to
be hovering around the old pear-trees, where she could sometimes
unseen lure him from his play, and lavish kisses on his mouth as he
laughed recklessly, and strove to abandon her for some bright flower
or butterfly that crossed his path. This snatch of affection, this
stealthy way of appeasing a hungry nature, was enough to drive a
well-tutored woman mad; as for Malaeska, it was a marvel that she could
tame her erratic nature into the abject position allotted her in that
family. She had neither the occupation of a servant, nor the interests
of an equal.
Forbidden to associate with the people in the kitchen, yet never
welcomed in the formal parlor when its master was at home, she hovered
around the halls and corners of the house, or hid herself away in the
gable chambers, embroidering beautiful trifles on scraps of silk and
fragments of bright cloth, with which she strove to bribe the woman who
controlled her child, into forbearance and kindness.
But alas, poor woman! submission to the wishes of the dead was a
terrible duty; her poor heart was breaking all the time; she had no
hope, no life; the very glance of her eye was an appeal for mercy;
her step, as it fell on the turf, was laden with despondency--she had
nothing on earth to live for.
This state of things arose when the child was a little boy; but as he
grew older the bitterness of Malaeska's lot became more intense. The
nurse who had supplanted her went away; for he was becoming a fine lad,
and far removed from the need of woman's care. But this brought her
no nearer to his affections. The Indian blood was strong in his young
veins; he loved such play as brought activity and danger with it, and
broke from the Indian woman's caresses with a sort of scorn, and she
knew that the old grandfather's prejudice was taking root in his heart,
and dared not utter a protest. She was forbidden to lavish tenderness
on her son, or to call forth his in return, lest it might create
suspicion of the relationship.
In his early boyhood, she could steal to his chamber at night, and give
free indulgence to the wild tenderness of her nature; but after a time
even the privilege of watching him in his sleep was denied to her.
Once, when she broke the tired boy's rest by her caresses, he became
petulant, and eluded her for her obtrusiveness. The repulse went to her
heart like iron. She had no power to plead; for her life, she dared not
tell him the secret of that aching love which she felt--too cruelly
felt--oppressed his boyhood; for that would be to expose the disgrace
of blood which embittered the old man's pride.
She was his mother; yet her very existence in that house was held as a
reproach. Every look that she dared to cast on her child, was watched
jealously as a fault. Poor Malaeska! hers was a sad, sad life.
She had borne every thing for years, dreaming, poor thing, that the
eternal cry that went up from her heart would be answered, as the boy
grew older; but when he began to shrink proudly from her caresses, and
question the love that was killing her, the despair which smoldered
at her heart broke forth, and the forest blood spoke out with a power
that not even a sacred memory of the dead could oppose. A wild idea
seized upon her. She would no longer remain in the white man's house,
like a bird beating its wings against the wires of a cage. The forests
were wide and green as ever. Her people might yet be found. She would
seek them in the wilderness. The boy should go with her, and become the
chief of his tribe, as her father had been. That old man should not
forever trample down her heart. There was a free life which she would
find or die.
The boy's childish petulance had created this wild wish in his mother's
heart. The least sign of repulsion drove her frantic. She began to
thirst eagerly for her old free existence in the woods; but for the
blood of her husband, which ran in the old man's veins, she would have
given way to the savage hate of her people, against the household in
which she had been so unhappy. As it was, she only panted to be away
with her child, who must love her when no white man stood by to rebuke
him. With her aroused energies the native reticence of her tribe came
to her aid. The stealthy art of warfare against an enemy awoke. They
should not know how wretched she was. Her plans must be securely
made. Every step toward freedom should be carefully considered. These
thoughts occupied Malaeska for days and weeks. She became active in
her little chamber. The bow and sheaf of arrows that had given her the
appearance of a young Diana when she came to Manhattan in her canoe,
were taken down from the wall, newly strung, and the stone arrow-heads
patiently sharpened. Her dress, with its gorgeous embroidery of fringe
and wampum, was examined with care. She must return to her people as
she had left them. The daughter of a chief--the mother of a chief--not
a fragment of the white man's bounty should go with her to the forest.
Cautiously, and with something of native craft, Malaeska made her
preparations. Down upon the shores of the Hudson, lived an old
carpenter who made boats for a living. Malaeska had often seen him at
his work, and her rude knowledge of his craft gave peculiar interest
to the curiosity with which she regarded him. The Indian girl had
long been an object of his especial interest, and the carpenter was
flattered by her admiration of his work.
One day she came to his house with a look of eager watchfulness. Her
step was hurried, her eye wild as a hawk's when its prey is near. The
old man was finishing a fanciful little craft, of which he was proud
beyond any thing. It was so light, so strong, so beautifully decorated
with bands of red and white around the edge--no wonder the young
woman's eyes brightened when she saw it.
"What would he take for the boat?" That was a droll question from her.
Why, he had built it to please his own fancy. A pair of oars would make
it skim the water like a bird. He had built it with an eye to old Mr.
Danforth, who had been down to look at his boats for that dark-eyed
grandson, whom he seemed to worship. None of his boats were fanciful or
light enough for the lad. So he had built this at a venture.
Malaeska's eyes kindled brighter and brighter. Yes, yes; she, too, was
thinking of the young gentleman; she would bring him to look at the
boat. Mrs. Danforth often trusted the boy out with her; if he would
only tell the price, perhaps they might be able to bring the money, and
give the boat a trial on the Hudson.
The old man laughed, glanced proudly at his handiwork, and named a
price. It was not too much; Malaeska had double that amount in the
embroidered pouch that hung in her little room at home--for the old
gentleman had been liberal to her in every thing but kindness. She went
home elated and eager; all was in readiness. The next day--oh, how her
heart glowed as she thought of the next day!