The point of land, which we have described in the early part of this
story, as hedging in the outlet of Catskill Creek, gently ascends
from the juncture of the two streams and rolls upward into a broad
and beautiful hill, which again sweeps off toward the mountains and
down the margin of the Hudson in a vast plain, at the present day cut
up into highly cultivated farms, and diversified by little eminences,
groves, and one large tract of swamp-land. Along the southern margin of
the creek the hill forms a lofty and picturesque bank, in some places
dropping to the water in a sheer descent of forty or fifty feet, and in
others, sloping down in a more gradual but still abrupt fall, broken
into little ravines, and thickly covered with a fine growth of young
timber.
A foot-path winds up from the stone dwelling, which we have already
described, along the upper verge of this bank to the level of the
plain, terminating in a singular projection of earth which shoots out
from the face of the bank some feet over the stream, taking the form
of a huge serpent's head. This projection commands a fine view of the
village, and is known to the inhabitants by the title of "Hoppy Nose,"
from a tradition attached to it. The foot-path, which terminates at
this point, receives a melancholy interest from the constant presence
of a singular being who has trod it regularly for years. Hour after
hour, and day after day, through sunshine and storm, he is to be seen
winding among the trees, or moving with a slow monotonous walk along
this track, where it verges into the rich sward. Speechless he has
been for many years, not from inability, but from a settled, unbroken
habit of silence. He is perfectly gentle and inoffensive, and from his
quiet bearing a slight observer might mistake him for a meditative
philosopher, rather than a man slightly and harmlessly insane as a
peculiar expression in his clear, blue eyes and his resolute silence
must surely proclaim him to be.
But we are describing subsequent things, rather than the scenery as it
existed at the time of our story. Then, the hillside and all the broad
plain was a forest of heavy timbered land, but the bank of the creek
was much in its present condition. The undergrowth throve a little more
luxuriantly, and the "Hoppy Nose" shot out from it covered with a thick
coating of grass, but shrubless with the exception of two or three
saplings and a few clumps of wild-flowers.
As the moon arose on the night after Sarah Jones' interview with the
Indian woman, that singular being stood upon the "Hoppy Nose," waiting
the appearance of young Danforth. More than once she went out to the
extreme verge of the projection, looked eagerly up and down the
stream, then back into the shadow again, with folded arms, continued
her watch as before.
At length a slight sound came from the opposite side; she sprang
forward, and supporting herself by a sapling, bent over the stream,
with one foot just touching the verge of the projection, her lip
slightly parted, and her left hand holding back the hair from her
temples, eager to ascertain the nature of the sound. The sapling bent
and almost snapped beneath her hold, but she remained motionless, her
eyes shining in the moonlight with a strange, uncertain luster and
keenly fixed on the place whence the sound proceeded.
A canoe cut out into the river, and made toward the spot where she was
standing.
"It is he!" broke from her parted lips, as the moonlight fell on the
clear forehead and graceful form of a young man who stood upright in
the little shallop, and drawing a deep breath, she settled back, folded
her arms, and waited his approach.
The sapling had scarcely swayed back to its position, when the youth
curved his canoe round to a hollow in the bank and climbing along the
ascent, he drew himself up the steep side of the "Hoppy Nose" by the
brushwood, and sprang to the Indian woman's side.
"Malaeska," he said, extending his hand with a manner and voice of
kindly recognition; "my good, kind nurse, believe me, I am rejoiced to
have found you again."
Malaeska did not take his hand, but after an intense and eager gaze
into his face, flung herself on his bosom, sobbing aloud, murmuring
soft, broken words of endearment, and trembling all over with a rush of
unconquerable tenderness.
The youth started back, and a frown gathered on his haughty forehead.
His prejudices were offended, and he strove to put her from his bosom;
even gratitude for all her goodness could not conquer the disgust with
which he recoiled from the embrace of a savage. "Malaeska," he said,
almost sternly, attempting to unclasp her arms from his neck, "You
forget--I am no longer a boy--be composed, and say what I can do for
you?"
But she clung to him the more passionately, and answered with an appeal
that thrilled to his very heart.
"Put not your mother away--she has waited long--my son! my son!"
The youth did not comprehend the whole meaning of her words. They were
more energetic and full of pathos than he had ever witnessed before;
but she had been his nurse, and he had been long absent from her, and
the strength of her attachment made him for a moment forgetful of her
race. He was affected almost to tears.
"Malaeska," he said kindly, "I did not know till now how much you loved
me. Yet it is not strange--I can remember when you were almost a mother
to me."
"_Almost!_" she exclaimed, throwing back her head till the moonlight
revealed her face. "Almost! William Danforth, as surely as there is a
God to witness my words, you are my own son!"
The youth started, as if a dagger had been thrust to his heart. He
forced the agitated woman from his bosom, and, bending forward, gazed
sternly into her eyes.
"Woman, are you mad? Dare you assert this to _me_?"
He grasped her arm almost fiercely, and seemed as if tempted to offer
some violence, for the insult her words had conveyed; but she lifted
her eyes to his with a look of tenderness, in painful contrast with his
almost insane gaze.
"Mad my son?" she said, in a voice that thrilled with a sweet and
broken earnestness on the still air. "It was a blessed madness--the
madness of two warm young hearts that forgot every thing in the sweet
impulse with which they clung together; it was madness which led your
father to take the wild Indian girl to his bosom, when in the bloom of
early girlhood. Mad! oh, I could go mad with very tenderness, when I
think of the time when your little form was first placed in my arms;
when my heart ached with love to feel your little hand upon my bosom,
and your low murmur fill my ear. Oh, it was a sweet madness. I would
die to know it again."
The youth had gradually relaxed his hold on her arm, and stood looking
upon her as one in a dream, his arms dropping helplessly as if they had
been suddenly paralyzed; but when she again drew toward him, he was
aroused to frenzy.
"Great God!" he almost shrieked, dashing his hand against his forehead.
"No, no! it can not--I, an Indian? a half-blood? the grandson of
my father's murderer? Woman, speak the truth; word for word, give
me the accursed history of my disgrace. If I am your son, give me
proof--proof, I say!"
When the poor woman saw the furious passion she had raised, she sunk
back in silent terror, and it was several minutes before she could
answer his wild appeal. When she did speak it was gaspingly and in
terror. She told him all--of his birth; his father's death; of her
voyage to Manhattan; and of the cruel promise that had been wrung from
her, to conceal the relationship between herself and her child. She
spoke of her solitary life in the wigwam, of the yearning power which
urged her mother's heart to claim the love of her only child, when that
child appeared in her neighborhood. She asked not to be acknowledged as
his parent, but only to live with him, even as a bond servant, if he
willed it.
He stood perfectly still, with his pale face bent to hers, listening
to her quick gasping speech, till she had done. Then she could see
that his face was convulsed in the moonlight, and that he trembled and
grasped a sapling which stood near for support. His voice was that of
one utterly overwhelmed and broken-hearted.
"Malaeska," he said, "unsay all this, if you would not see me die at
your feet. I am young, and a world of happiness was before me. I was
about to be married to one so gentle--so pure--I, an Indian--was about
to give my stained hand to a lovely being of untainted blood. I, who
was so proud of lifting her to my lofty station. Oh, Malaeska!" he
exclaimed, vehemently grasping her hand with a clutch of iron, "say
that this was a story--a sad, pitiful story got up to punish my pride?
say but this, and I will give you all I have on earth--every farthing.
I will love you better than a thousand sons." His frame shook with
agitation, and he gazed upon her as one pleading for his life.
When the wretched mother saw the hopeless misery which she had heaped
upon her proud and sensitive child, she would have laid down her life
could she have unsaid the tale which had wrought such agony, without
bringing a stain of falsehood on her soul.
But words are fearful weapons, never to be checked when once put
in motion. Like barbed arrows they enter the heart, and can not be
withdrawn again, even by the hand that has shot them. The poor Indian
mother could not recall hers, but she tried to soothe the proud
feelings which had been so terribly wounded.
"Why should my son scorn the race of his mother? The blood which she
gave him from her heart was that of a brave and kingly line, warriors
and chieftains, all--"
The youth interrupted her with a low bitter laugh. The deep prejudices
which had been instilled into his nature--pride, despair, every feeling
which urges to madness and evil--were a fire in his heart.
"So I have a patent of nobility to gild my sable birthright, an
ancestral line of dusky chiefs to boast of. I should have known this,
when I offered my hand to that lovely girl. She little knew the dignity
which awaited her union. Father of heaven, my heart will break--I am
going mad!"
He looked wildly around as he spoke, and his eyes settled on the
dark waters, flowing so tranquilly a few feet beneath him. Instantly
he became calm, as one who had found an unexpected resource in his
affliction. His face was perfectly colorless and gleamed like marble
as he turned to his mother, who stood in a posture of deep humility
and supplication a few paces off, for she dared not approach him again
either with words of comfort or tenderness. All the sweet hopes which
had of date been so warm in her heart, were utterly crushed. She was a
heart-broken, wretched woman, without a hope on this side the grave.
The young man drew close to her, and taking both her hands, looked
sorrowfully into her face. His voice was tranquil and deep-toned, but a
slight husky sound gave an unnatural solemnity to his words.
"Malaeska," he said, raising her hands toward heaven, "swear to me by
the God whom we both worship, that you have told me nothing but the
truth; I would have no doubt."
There was something sublime in his position, and in the solemn calmness
which had settled upon him. The poor woman had been weeping, but
the tears were checked in her eyes, and her pale lips ceased their
quivering motion and became firm, as she looked up to the white face
bending over her.
"As I hope to meet you, my son, before that God, I have spoken nothing
but the truth."
"Malaeska!"
"Will you not call me mother?" said the meek woman, with touching
pathos. "I know I am an Indian, but your father loved me."
"Mother? Yes, God forbid that I should refuse to call you mother; I am
afraid that I have often been harsh to you, but I did not know your
claim on my love. Even now, I have been unkind."
"No, no, my son."
"I remember you were always meek and forgiving--you forgive me now, my
poor mother?"
Malaeska could not speak, but she sank to her son's feet, and covered
his hand with tears and kisses.
"There is one who will feel this more deeply than either of us. You
will comfort her, Mala--mother will you not?"
Malaeska rose slowly up, and looked into her son's face. She was
terrified by his child-like gentleness; her breath came painfully. She
knew not why it was, but a shudder ran through her frame, and her heart
grew heavy, as if some terrible catastrophe were about to happen. The
young man stepped a pace nearer the bank, and stood motionless, gazing
down into the water. Malaeska drew close to him, and laid her hand on
his arm.
"My son, why do you stand thus? Why gaze so fearfully upon the water?"
He did not answer, but drew her to his bosom, and pressed his lips down
upon her forehead. Tears sprang afresh to the mother's eyes, and her
heart thrilled with an exquisite sensation, which was almost pain. It
was the first time he had kissed her since his childhood. She trembled
with mingled awe and tenderness as he released her from his embrace,
and put her gently from the brink of the projection. The action had
placed her back toward him. She turned--saw him clasp his hands high
over his heed, and spring into the air. There was a plunge, the deep
rushing sound of waters flowing back to their place, and then a shriek,
sharp and full of terrible agony, rung over the stream like the
death-cry of a human being.
The cry broke from the wretched mother, as she tore off her outer
garments and plunged after the self-murderer. Twice the moonlight fell
upon her pallid face and her long hair, as it streamed out on the
water. The third time another marble face rose to the surface, and with
almost superhuman strength the mother bore up the lifeless body of
her son with one arm, and with the other struggled to the shore. She
carried him up the steep bank where, at another time, no woman could
have clambered even without incumbrance, and laid him on the grass.
She tore open his vest, and laid her hand upon the heart. It was cold
and pulseless. She chafed his palms, rubbed his marble forehead, and
stretching herself on his body, tried to breathe life into his marble
lips from her own cold heart. It was in vain. When convinced of this,
she ceased all exertion; her face fell forward to the earth, and, with
a low sobbing breath, she lay motionless by the dead. The villagers
hearing that fearful shriek, rushed down to the stream and reached the
"Hoppy Nose", to find two human beings lying upon it.
The next morning found a sorrowful household in Arthur Jones' dwelling.
In the "out-room" lay the body of William Danforth, shrouded in his
winding-sheet. With her heavy eyes fixed on the marble features of her
son, sat the wretched Indian mother. Until the evening before, her
dark hair had retained the volume and gloss of youth, but now it fell
back from her hollow temples profusely as ever, but perfectly gray.
The frost of grief had changed it in a single night. Her features were
sunken, and she sat by the dead, motionless and resigned. There was
nothing of stubborn grief about her. She answered when spoken to, and
was patient in her suffering; but all could see that it was but the
tranquility of a broken heart, mild in its utter desolation. When the
villagers gathered for the funeral, Malaeska, in a few gentle words,
told them of her relationship to the dead, and besought them to bury
him by the side of his father.
The coffin was carried out and a solemn train followed it through the
forest. Women and children all went forth to the burial.
When the dead body of her affianced husband was brought home, Sarah
Jones had been carried senseless to her chamber. She was falling
continually from one fainting fit to another, murmuring sorrowfully in
her intervals of consciousness, and dropping gently away with the sad
words on her lips. Late in the night, after her lover's interment, she
awoke to a consciousness of misfortune. As the light dawned, a yearning
wish awoke in her heart to visit the grave of her betrothed. She arose,
dressed herself, and bent her way with feeble step toward the forest.
Strength returned to her as she went forward.
The wigwam was desolate, and the path which led to the grave lay with
the dew yet unbroken on its turf. The early sunshine was playing among
the wet, heavy branches of the hemlock, when she reached the inclosure.
A sweet fragrance was shed over the trampled grass from the white
rose-tree which bent low beneath the weight of its pure blossoms. A
shower of damp petals lay upon the chieftain's grave, and the green
leaves quivered in the air as it sighed through them with a pleasant
and cheering motion. But Sarah saw nothing but a newly-made grave, and
stretched upon its fresh sods the form of a human being. A feeling of
awe came over the maiden's heart. She moved reverently onward, feeling
that she was in the sanctuary of the dead. The form was Malaeska's. One
arm fell over the grave, and her long hair, in all its mournful change
of color, had been swept back from her forehead, and lay tangled amid
the rank grass. The sod on which her head rested was sprinkled over
with tiny white blossoms. A handful lay crushed beneath her cheek, and
sent up a faint odor over the marble face. Sarah bent down and touched
the forehead. It was cold and hard, but a tranquil sweetness was there
which told that the spirit had passed away without a struggle. Malaeska
lay dead among the graves of her household, the heart-broken victim of
an unnatural marriage.
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A TALE OF NEW YORK IN 1776.
BY HERRICK JOHNSTONE.
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Transcriber's Notes:
Some unusual, possibly unintentional spellings have been retained from
the original.
Retained some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "gunlock" vs. "gun-lock").
Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=.
Page 20, changed comma to period after "into the boy's face."
Page 21, changed "a thousands fiery tongues" to "a thousand fiery
tongues."
Page 22, changed "irres-solute" to "irresolute" and added missing quote
before "Malaeska, we must part."
Page 24, changed "brethen" to "brethren."
Page 32, removed stray quote before "Malaeska turned her eyes eagerly."
Page 35, changed "scraf" to "scarf."
Page 37, changed "throubled" to "troubled."
Page 53, changed "unplesant" to "unpleasant."
Page 55, removed stray quote before "She paused a moment."
Page 59, changed "out side" to "outside" for consistency.
Page 66, changed ? to ! in "please, don't!"
Page 67, changed "same other cause" to "some other cause" and
"high-soulded" to "high-souled."
Page 69, changed "olden hom" to "olden home" (possibly a printing
problem specific to the source copy).
Page 70, changed "formely existed" to "formerly existed" and "requsite"
to "requisite."
Page 71, changed "comdemned" to "condemned."
Page 77, changed "did'nt" to "didn't."
Page 85, changed "would'nt" to "wouldn't."
Page 98, added missing quote after "thousand sons."