By the forest-grave she mournful stood,
While her soul went forth in prayer;
Her life was one long solitude,
Which she offer'd, meekly, there.
Sarah pursued the foot-path, which she had so often trod through the
forest, with a heart that beat quicker at the sight of each familiar
bush or forest-tree.
"Poor woman, she must have been very lonely," she murmured, more than
once, when the golden blossoms of a spice-bush, or the tendrils of a
vine trailing over the path, told how seldom it had been traveled of
late, and her heart imperceptibly became saddened by the thoughts of
her friend.
To her disappointment, she found the wigwam empty, but a path was
beaten along the edge of the woods, leading toward the Pond, which she
had never observed before. She turned into it with a sort of indefinite
expectation of meeting her friend; and after winding through the depth
of the forest for nearly a mile, the notes of a wild, plaintive song
rose and fell--a sad, sweet melody--on the still air.
A few steps onward brought the young girl to a small open space
surrounded by young saplings and flowering shrubs; tall grass swept
from a little mound which swelled up from the center, to the margin of
the inclosure, and a magnificent hemlock shadowed the whole space with
its drooping boughs.
A sensation of awe fell upon the heart of the young girl, for, as she
gazed, the mound took the form of a grave. A large rose-tree, heavy
with blossoms, drooped over the head, and the sheen of rippling waters
broke through a clump of sweet-brier, which hedged it in from the lake.
Sarah remembered that the Indian chief's grave was on the very brink of
the water, and that she had given a young rose-tree to Malaeska years
ago, which must have shot up into the solitary bush standing before
her, lavishing fragrance from its pure white flowers over the place of
the dead.
This would have been enough to convince her that she stood by the
warrior's grave, had the place been solitary, but at the root of the
hemlock, with her arms folded on her bosom and her calm face uplifted
toward heaven, sat Malaeska. Her lips were slightly parted, and the
song which Sarah had listened to afar off broke from them--a sad
pleasant strain, that blended in harmony with the rippling waters and
the gentle sway of the hemlock branches overhead.
Sarah remained motionless till the last note of the song died away on
the lake, then she stepped forward into the inclosure. The Indian
woman saw her and arose, while a beautiful expression of joy beamed
over her face.
"The bird does not feel more joyful at the return of spring, when snows
have covered the earth all winter, than does the poor Indian's heart at
the sight of her child again," she said, taking the maiden's hand and
kissing it with a graceful movement of mingled respect and affection.
"Sit down, that I may hear the sound of your voice once more."
They sat down together at the foot of the hemlock.
"You have been lonely, my poor friend, and ill, I fear; how thin you
have become during my absence," said Sarah, gazing on the changed
features of her companion.
"I shall be happy again now," replied the Indian, with a faint sweet
smile, "you will come to see me every day."
"Yes, while I remain at home, but--but--I'm going back again soon."
"You need not tell me more in words, I can read it in the tone of your
voice, in the light of that modest eye,--in the color coming and going
on those cheeks; another is coming to take you from home," said the
Indian, with a playful smile. "Did you think the lone woman could not
read the signs of love--that she has never loved herself?
"You?"
"Do not look so wild, but tell me of yourself. Are you to be married so
_very_ soon?"
"In four days."
"Then where will your home be?"
"In Manhattan."
There were a few moments of silence. Sarah sat gazing on the turf, with
the warm blood mantling to her cheek, ashamed and yet eager to converse
more fully on the subject which flooded her young heart with supreme
content. The Indian continued motionless, lost in a train of sad
thoughts conjured up by the last word uttered; at length she laid her
hand on that of her companion, and spoke; her voice was sad, and tears
stood in her eyes.
"In a few days you go from me again--oh, it is very wearisome to be
always alone; the heart pines for something to love. I have been
petting a little wren, that has built his nest under the eaves of my
wigwam, since you went away; it was company for me, and will be again.
Do not look so pitiful, but tell me who is he that calls the red blood
to your cheek? Does he love you? Is he good, brave?"
"He says that he loves me," replied the young girl, blushing more
deeply.
"And you?"
"If to think of one from morning to night, be love--to know that he
is haunting your beautiful day-dreams, wandering with you through
the lovely places which fancy is continually presenting to one in
solitude, filling up each space and thought of your life, and yet in
no way diminishing the affection which the heart bears to others, but
increasing it rather--if to be made happy with the slightest trait
of noble feeling, proud in his virtues, and yet quick-sighted and
doubly sensitive to all his faults, clinging to him in spite of those
faults--if this be love, then I do love with the whole strength of my
being. My heart is full of tranquillity, and, like that white rose
which lies motionless in the sunshine burdened with the wealth of its
own sweetness, it unfolds itself day by day to a more pure and subdued
state of enjoyment. This feeling may not be the love which men talk
so freely of, but it can not change--never--not even in death, unless
William Danforth should prove utterly unworthy!"
"William Danforth! Did I hear you aright? Is William Danforth the
name of your affianced husband?" inquired the Indian, in a voice of
overwhelming surprise, starting up with sudden impetuosity and then
slowly sinking back to her seat again. "Tell me," she added, faintly,
and yet in a tone that thrilled to the heart, "has this boy--this young
gentleman, I mean--come of late from across the big waters?"
"He came from Europe a year since, on the death of his grandparents,"
was the reply.
"A year, a whole year!" murmured the Indian, clasping her hands over
her eyes with sudden energy. Her head sunk forward upon her knees,
and her whole frame shivered with a rush of strong feeling, which was
perfectly unaccountable to the almost terrified girl who gazed upon
her. "Father of Heaven, I thank thee! my eyes shall behold him once
more. O God, make me grateful!" These words, uttered so fervently, were
muffled by the locked hands of the Indian woman, and Sarah could only
distinguish that she was strongly excited by the mention of her lover's
name.
"Have you ever known Mr. Danforth?" she inquired, when the agitation
of the strange woman had a little subsided. The Indian did not answer,
but raising her head, and brushing the tears from her eyes, she looked
in the maiden's face with an expression of pathetic tenderness that
touched her to the heart.
"And _you_ are to be _his_ wife? You, my bird of birds."
She fell upon the young girl's neck as she spoke, and wept like an
infant; then, as if conscious of betraying too deep emotion, she lifted
her head, and tried to compose herself; while Sarah sat gazing on her,
agitated, bewildered, and utterly at a loss to account for this sudden
outbreak of feeling, in one habitually so subdued and calm in her
demeanor. After sitting musingly and in silence several moments, the
Indian again lifted her eyes; they were full of sorrowful meaning, yet
there was an eager look about them which showed a degree of excitement
yet unsubdued.
"Dead--are they both dead? his grandparents, I mean?" she said,
earnestly.
"Yes, they are both dead; he told me so."
"And he--the young man--where is he now?"
"I left him at my father's house, not three hours since."
"Come, let us go."
The two arose, passed through the inclosure, and threaded the path
toward the wigwam slowly and in silence.
The afternoon shadows were gathering over the forest, and being anxious
to reach home before dark, Sarah refused to enter the wigwam when they
reached it. The Indian went in for a moment, and returned with a slip
of birch bark, on which a few words were lightly traced in pencil.
"Give this to the young man," she said, placing the bark in Sarah's
hand; "and now good-night--good-night."
Sarah took the bark and turned with a hurried step to the forest track.
She felt agitated, and as if something painful were about to happen.
With a curiosity aroused by the Indian's strange manner, she examined
the writing on the slip of bark in her hand; it was only a request
that William Danforth would meet the writer at a place appointed, on
the bank of the Catskill Creek, that evening. The scroll was signed,
"Malaeska."
Malaeska! It was singular, but Sarah Jones had never learned the
Indian's name before.