"Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourn of Heaven,
Then leave the naked brain; be still the leaven
That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth,
Gives it a touch ethereal, a new birth." KEATS.
It is not to be supposed that a lawsuit, or prosecution, in so new and
remote a settlement, especially one that involved so many interests, and
whose result must have so many and complicated bearings, as the one
described in the last chapter, would be suffered to pass away like any
ordinary occurrence and be forgotten. With the settlers, besides the
novelty of having a court held among them, for any cause, it was an
extraordinary occurrence that there should be any grounds for a prosecution
or lawsuit of this character,--extraordinary that any one should be found
base enough to violate the common faith and honesty which the trappers and
hunters had, up to that time, so implicitly reposed in, and observed with
each other,--and doubly extraordinary that the perpetrator could not be
detected and brought to punishment. To them, such a flagitious betrayal of
trust was a new and startling event. They felt it deeply concerned them
all; and the sensation it produced was accordingly as profound as it was
general, in all that region of the country.
But, if such was the effect of the unfortunate occurrence in question, on
the community at large, how much more deeply would the effect be naturally
felt by the parties immediately concerned? By the loss of their stock of
furs, three families, at least, were deprived of the means on which they
had relied for supplying them, with a large part of the necessaries of
life, through the ensuing winter; while, besides this, many a wife and
child were doomed to sad disappointment, in being thus deprived of the
fondly-anticipated purchases of articles of dress, books, and various other
little comforts, which had been promised them on the division and sale of
the peltries. Nor were these the only interests and feelings affected by
the event and its concomitants. Friendships were broken, and even more
tender relations were disturbed, if, indeed, their further existence were
not to be terminated. By the open, and as was supposed irreconcilable,
quarrel between Mark Elwood and the terribly vindictive Gaut Gurley, their
children, Claud and Avis, who were understood to be under mutual engagement
of marriage, were placed in a position at once painful and embarrassing in
the extreme. And Claud, especially, although he had carefully abstained
from all accusations of Gaut, had taken no part in getting up the
prosecution, and purposely absented himself from the trial, yet felt very
keenly the perplexing dilemma into which he would be thrown, by continuing
the connecting link between two such deadly foes as he now found his
father, whom he could not desert, and Gaut Gurley, whom he felt conscious
he could not defend. And for this reason he had, from time to time,
deferred the visit to Avis, which he had designed, and which she would
naturally expect on his return from the expedition. But still he could not
see how a quarrel between the fathers discharged him from his obligations
to her; and he grew more and more doubtful and uneasy in the position he
found himself occupying. He was soon, however, to be relieved. One day, a
short time after the trial, while he was anxiously revolving the subject in
mind, a boy, who had come as a special messenger from the Magalloway
settlement (for the purpose, as it appeared), brought him the following
letter:
"DEAR CLAUD,--You do not know, you cannot know, what the effort costs me to
write this. You do not know, you cannot know, what I have felt, what I have
suffered since I became fully apprised of the painful circumstances under
which your late expedition was brought to a close; and especially since I
became apprised of the lamentable scenes that occurred in the court,
growing out of that unfortunate--O how unfortunate, expedition! Before that
court was held, and during the doubtful days which intervened between it
and your escape from the terrible perils that attended your return, the
hope that all would, all _must_ turn out right, in some measure relieved my
harrowing fears and anxieties; though even then the latter was to the
former as days of cloud to minutes of sunshine. But, when I heard what
occurred at the trial,--the bitter crimination and recrimination, the open
rupture, the menaces exchanged, and the angry parting,--and, more alarming
than all, when I saw my father return in that fearful mood, from which he
still refuses to be diverted, the last gleam of hope faded, and all became
cloud, all gloom,--dark, impenetrable, and forbidding. My nights, when
sleep at length comes to close my weeping eyes, are passed in troubled
dreams; my days in more troubled thoughts, which I would fain believe were
dreams also. O, why need this be? I have done nothing,--you have done
nothing; and I have no doubt of your faith and honor for performing all I
shall ever require at your hands. But, Claud, I love you, and all
'Know love is woman's happiness;'
and all know, likewise, that the ties of love are but gossamer threads,
which a word may rupture, a breath shake, and even the power of unpleasant
associations destroy. Still, is there not one hope,--the hope that this
thread, hitherto so blissfully uniting our hearts, subtle and attenuated as
it is, may yet be preserved unbroken, if we suffer no opinion, no word, no
syllable to escape our lips, respecting the unfortunate affair that is
embroiling our parents; if we wholly deny ourselves the pleasure of that
social intercourse which, to _me_, at least, has thus far made this
wilderness an Eden of delight? But can it be thus preserved, if we keep up
that intercourse, as in the sunshine of our love,--those pleasant,
fleeting, rosy months, when I was so happy, O so very happy, in the
feelings of the present and the prospects of the future? No, no, it is not
possible, it is not possible for you to come here, and encounter my father
in such a mood, and then return and receive the upbraidings of your own,
that you are joining or upholding the house of his foes. It is not possible
for you to do this, and your heart receive no jar, and mine no fears or
suspicions of its continued fealty. I dare not risk it. Then do not,
dearest Claud, O do not come here, at least for the present. Perhaps my
dark forebodings, that our connection is not to be blessed for our future
happiness, may be groundless. Perhaps the storm that now so darkly hangs
over us may pass harmlessly away. Perhaps this painful and perplexing
misunderstanding--as I trust in Heaven's mercy it only is--may yet be
placed in a light which will admit of a full reconciliation between our
respective families. But, till then, let our relations to each other stand,
if you feel disposed to let them, precisely as we left them at our last
mournfully happy parting; for, till then, though it break my heart, I could
never, never consent to a renewal of our intercourse. Have I said enough,
and not too much? I could not, under the almost insupportable weight of
grief, fear, and anxiety, that is distracting my brain, and crushing my
poor heart,--I could not say less, I dare not say more. O Claud, Claud, why
has this dreadful cloud come over us? O, pray that it may be speedily
removed, and once more let in, on our pained and perplexed hearts, the
sunshine of their former happiness. Dearest Claud, good-by; don't come, but
don't forget.
"AVIS."
Claud felt greatly relieved, in some respects, by this unexpected missive;
in others, the contents caused him uneasiness and self-condemnation. It
relieved him from the sense of obligation he had entertained, to make the
dreaded visit to the house of Gaut Gurley,--who, with every desire to
arrive at a different conclusion, he could no longer believe guiltless of
the basest of frauds, and the basest of means to conceal it. It relieved
him, indeed, on this point; but, as we have said, made him sad and
thoughtful on others. The great grief and distress under which the fair
writer was so evidently laboring, and the deep-rooted love for him which
was revealed in almost every line, but which her pride, in the bright hours
of their courtship, had never permitted her to disclose, keenly touched his
feelings, and rose in condemnation of the comparative indifference, which,
in spite of all his efforts to correct its waywardness, he felt conscious
had been gradually stealing over his heart, since his admiration, to say
the least, had been raised by a rival vision of loveliness. In the
newly-awakened feeling of the moment, however, he bitterly upbraided
himself for his tergiversations in suffering his thoughts to vacillate
between the Star of the Magalloway, who had his plighted faith, and Flower
of the Lakes, who had no claims to his special consideration. But still,
when his thoughts wandered over the scenes of the past summer, which now,
since trial and hardship had brought his mind back within the dominion of
reason and judgment, seemed much more like dreams than realities,--when he
thought of the manner in which he became acquainted with Avis Gurley; how
he persisted in gaining her affections, and kindling into an over-mastering
flame his own fancy-lit love; and finally, how, against the known wishes of
his family, and the dictates of his own sober judgment, he had urged her
into an engagement of marriage, which he could now see had, as his mother
predicted, in all probability led to a renewal of the intimacy between his
father and Gaut Gurley, and that last intimacy to the present disaster, and
a new quarrel, whose consequences might yet well be looked for with
uneasiness and apprehension,--when he thought of all this, he deeply
condemned his own indiscretion, and could not help wishing himself clear
from an engagement, which, like every thing connected with the schemes of
that dark and dreaded man, who was now an object of suspicion through the
whole settlement, seemed destined to lead only to trouble and disaster.
Such was the maze of perplexity by which the young man, now too late for an
honorable retreat, found himself on every side thickly environed. Yet, for
all this, and in despite of all these perplexities and misgivings, he
resolved he would not cease to play the man, but honorably fulfil all his
obligations in such manner as should be required of him.
So much for the love and its hapless entanglements, which had been so
deeply but so unsatisfactorily occupying, for the last few weeks, the
thoughts of Claud Elwood, who then little suspected that there was another
heart, besides that of the pure, proud, and impassioned Avis Gurley, whose
every pulse, in the great unseen system of intermingling sympathies, beat
in trembling vibration to his own,--a heart that had been won uncourted and
unknown,--a heart that had secretly nursed, in the favoring solitudes of
these wild lakes, and brooded over, a passion more deep and intense than
words could well be found to describe. There _was_ such a heart; and that
heart was now wildly beating, in the agonizing uncertainties of a hoped
reciprocation, in the bosom of that peerless child of the forest, the
beautiful Fluella; and all the more intense were its workings, because
confined to its own deep recesses, where the hidden flame was laboring
constantly for an outlet to its pride-walled prison, but as constantly
shrinking in terror from the disclosure. She had once, however, through the
violence of emotions which she could not control, accidentally betrayed the
state of her feelings; but it was to one in whose discretion and friendship
she was soon made to repose undoubting confidence, and with whom,
therefore, she at length became reconciled to let her secret remain. The
person, who had thus become the depositary of that secret was, as the
reader may remember, Mrs. Elwood. The consciousness that this lady knew
all, coupled as it was with the thought of the relation in which the latter
stood to the object of her secret idolatry, had irresistibly drawn to her
the yearning heart of the guileless maiden. She had longed for another
interview, but dare not seek it; longed for some excuse for opening a
communication with her, but could not find one. At length, however, fortune
opened the desired avenue; and, after much hesitation and trembling, she
summoned up the courage to avail herself of the offered opportunity.
Phillips, in his determination to ferret out the outrage which had been
committed on him and his companions, and of the author of which he still
entertained no doubt, had, immediately after the trial, commenced a series
of rapid journeys to all the nearest villages or trading towns in Maine and
New Hampshire, to ascertain if any lot of furs, answering to those caught
by his company, had been sold in those places. And one of these journeys,
for that and other purposes, he had extended to the seaboard. On his return
home, he immediately repaired to his neighbor Elwood's, and, unperceived,
slipped into the hands of Mrs. Elwood a letter, which the wondering matron
soon took to a private room, curiously opened, and, with a deep, undefined
interest and varying emotions, commenced reading. It ran thus:
"MRS. ELWOOD, MY FRIEND,--Our Mr. Phillips has been here, and told us all
that has happened in your settlement. Mrs. Elwood, I am greatly troubled at
the loss your family suffer, with the rest of the hunters, but still more
troubled and fearful for your husband and your noble son, about what may
grow out of the quarrel with that dark man. My father knew him, time long
past, and said there would be mischief done the company, when we heard he
was going with them. I hope Mr. Elwood will keep out of his way; and I
hope, Claud,--O, I cannot write the thought. Mrs. Elwood, I am very
unhappy. I sometimes wish your brave and noble son had suffered me to go
down and be lost in the dark, wild waters of those fearful rapids. By the
goodness of my white father, whom I am proud to hope you may some time see
with me in your settlement, I have all the comforts and indulgences that a
heart at ease could desire; warm, carpeted rooms, dress, books, company,
smooth flatterers, who mean little, it may be, together with _real_
friends, who mean much, and prove it by actions, which do not, like words,
ever deceive. And yet, Mrs. Elwood, they are all now without any charms for
me. My heart is in your settlement. The grand old forest, and the bright
lake, were always things of beauty for me, before I saw _him_; but now,
when associated _with_ him,--O, Mrs. Elwood, if I did not know you had
something of what I meant should forever be kept secret from all but the
Great Eye, in your keeping, and if you had not made me feel you would be my
discreet friend, and keep it as safe from all as an unspoken thought, I
would not for worlds write what I have, and what I every moment find my pen
on the point of writing more fully. O, how I wish I could make you
understand, without words, what I feel,--how I grieve over what I almost
know must be vain hopes, and vainer visions of happiness! You have
sometimes had, it may be, very bright, delightful dreams, which seemed to
bring you all your heart desired; and then you suddenly awoke, and found
all had vanished, leaving you dark and sad with disappointment and regret.
If you have, you may fancy what my thoughts are undergoing every hour of
the day. O, how my heart is drawn away towards you! I often feel that I
must fly up, like a bird, to be there. I should come now, but for what
might be thought. I shall certainly be there in early spring. I can't stay
away, though I may come only to see what I could bear less easy than these
haunting, troubled fancies. Mrs. Elwood, adieu. You won't show this, or
breathe a word about it,--I know you won't; you could not be so cruel as
that. Mrs. Elwood, may I not sign myself your friend? FLUELLA."
On perusing this unexpected communication, Mrs. Elwood felt--she scarcely
knew herself what she felt, except a keenly appreciating sense of the
writer's embarrassed feelings, and except, also, the pleasurable emotions
which this timid and tender outpouring of an unsophisticated heart somehow
afforded her. Ever since her singular interview with this remarkable girl,
as described in a former chapter, Mrs. Elwood had not ceased to think of
her as of some good angel, sent by an interposing Providence, in answer to
the agonizing supplications which immediately preceded her unexpected
appearance at the time,--sent to be the means, in some unforeseen way, of
extricating her family from the fatal influences, as she viewed them, under
which they had insidiously been brought by their different connections with
the Gurleys. Especially had she been impressed that this would prove the
case, in all that related to her idolized son, Claud; whom, in her
disregard to all considerations of lineage, when relieved by such
excellence of beauty and character, she would a thousand times rather have
seen united to the Indian girl than to the one he appeared to have chosen.
She was, therefore, besides being touched by the broken pathos of the
letter, gratified by its reception; for it seemed to come as a sort of
confirmation of her grateful presentiment, that her son, at least, was to
be happily disenthralled. Nor was she, at this time, without the evidence
which led her to hope that her husband, also, had now finally escaped from
the toils that had, once and again, caused him such calamity and suffering.
The sudden and terrible outbreak of indignation, which, with equal surprise
and gratification, she had seen him exhibit against Gaut, and the quarrel
in court, which followed in consequence, must, she thought, now forever
keep them separate. If so, poorly as her family could afford to suffer
their part of the loss of the avails of the fall's work, she would
cheerfully bear it, and even look upon the event in the light of a
Heaven-sent mercy. But even of this poor comfort she was destined soon to
be deprived. After the trial, Mark Elwood--who, however bravely he bore
himself at first, on that occasion, was finally seen to quail under the
terrible glances of Gaut--soon became strangely silent respecting the
prosecution and supposed perpetration of the offence about which he had
before manifested so much zeal and indignation. And, in the active
exertions which Phillips and Codman, in the vain search for evidence or
some clue to the robbery of the furs, perseveringly kept up during the
whole of the long and dreary winter that followed, he could not be induced
to take any decided part. Nor would he, when they met him at his own house,
or that of Phillips, as they several times did, that winter, to compare the
discoveries and observations they had made, and discuss the subject, any
longer maintain the position he at first so boldly took, respecting Gaut's
guilt, or say any thing in aid of their deliberations. _He_, indeed, as
_they_ grew more decided and convinced, seemed to grow more wavering and
doubtful. Such was his demeanor and conduct in company of his late
companions; while, with his own family, he appeared moody, irresolute, and
restless, and even, at length, he began to throw out occasional hints
tending to defend or extenuate the conduct of the very man whom, a few
weeks before, he had so confidently denounced as a thief and a robber.
Alarmed at these indications of returning weakness and fatuity in her
husband, Mrs. Elwood soon put herself on inquiry, to ascertain the cause;
and she was not long in making discoveries that more than justified her
worst fears and suspicions.
It appeared that Gaut Gurley, after his arrest, and after his escape from
the punishment of the law, through the means, as was now generally
believed, which he had cunningly provided before he entered on the
commission of the offence charged, remained almost constantly at home,
during nearly the whole winter, brooding, in savage mood, over his own dark
thoughts and varying schemes for advantage and revenge, keeping his family
in continual awe of him, and causing all who approached him to recoil,
shuddering, from his presence, and mark him as a dangerous man in the
community. Towards spring, however, he appeared suddenly to change his
tactics, or, at least, to undergo a great change in his deportment and
conduct. All at once, he came round in his usual manner. The dark cloud had
been banished from his brow. He civilly accosted every acquaintance he met,
appeared cheerful and good-humored, and desirous of prolonging the
conversation with all with whom he came in contact, without seeming to
notice, in the least, the evident inclination of most of the settlers to
avoid his company. He came down, every few days, to the little village
before named as the place where the court was held, and lounged for hours
about the tavern; which, during the winter season, was the common resort of
the settlers. Here he soon encountered his old companions, Phillips,
Codman, and the Elwoods, all of whom, notwithstanding the cold and demure
manner with which the two former, at least, turned away from him, he
saluted with careless ease, and as if nothing had happened to disturb their
former social relations. And, having thus surmounted the somewhat difficult
task of breaking the ice with them, without receiving the open and absolute
repulse which, however disposed, they did not deem it wise to give him, he,
at the next meeting, ventured to broach the subject of their late quarrel,
affecting to laugh at their mutual exhibitions of folly in getting so angry
with each other in court, under the belief, on his part, that _they_ had
got the furs, and, on their part, that _he_ had made way with them; when
neither of them were guilty, and ought not to be charged with the offence.
For himself, he said, he was now satisfied, on thinking the matter over,
who were the real culprits. They were a couple of "cussed runagate
Indians," that had strolled over from Canada, and, having discovered his
camp, had laid in wait for his absence. He had seen the tracks of two
different-sized moccasins in the sand on the lake-shore, but two days
before he left; but the circumstance was forgotten, or he should not have
left the camp unguarded. It was a great loss for them all; but it would not
help the matter to mourn now. It must be borne; and he knew of no way to
make it up but to try their luck in another expedition. He should, for his
part; for he had no notion of giving up so.
Such was the drift of his conversation at this interview; and, seeming to
think he had ventured far enough for one experiment on their credulity, he
dropped that subject and struck off on to others. But the next time he met
them he contrived to turn the conversation upon the same theme; when,
telling them with a confidential air that, a few days before he left camp,
he discovered, on a stream coming in at the upper end of the Megantic, a
succession of freshly-constructed beaver dams, which, from the number of
houses and other indications around each, he thought must be occupied by
one of the largest colonies of beavers ever collected on one stream in that
part of the country, he directly proposed to them to join him, when the
spring opened, in an expedition to secure this extraordinary collection of
the valuable animals that were, unquestionably, still all there, and as
unquestionably might be captured.
This story, with the accompanying proposal, presented, as Gaut well knew,
the most tempting inducement that could be offered, to trappers. But it
made no impression on Phillips and Codman. They deeply distrusted the man,
his whole story, and the motives which they believed moved him to concoct
it. Spurning in their hearts, therefore, the bait that had been so artfully
laid for them, they would have nothing to do with _him_ or his proposal.
And, both then and thereafter, they remained unmoved, and stood proof
against all the arguments his taxed ingenuity and devilish cunning could
invent and bring to bear upon them.
With the infatuated Mark Elwood, however, the case seemed to be almost
wholly reversed. He again listened,--was again lost. He, restless, uneasy,
and evidently apprehensive of something he did not disclose, from
continuing under the terrible displeasure which Gaut had so significantly
manifested towards him,--he had appeared, from the first, to hail with
pleasure the indications of the relenting mood of the other, and seemed but
too glad to be again noticed with favor. He could see no reason to distrust
the man's sincerity, he said, when others raised the question; and he was
much inclined to adopt his version of the robbery and burning of their
camp. When, therefore, the proposal of a new expedition was made, under the
circumstances we have named, the blinded Elwood seemed fully prepared to
accept it; and he would have openly and without reserve done so, but for
the restraining presence of his companions, who, he felt conscious, would
disapprove and deprecate his conduct. Gaut had noticed all this, and was
not long in bringing about a private interview with his dupe and victim,
which resulted, as might be supposed, in settling the matter in just the
way he intended.
From that time, the conduct of Mark Elwood became wholly inexplicable to
all his friends and acquaintances in the settlement. He commenced with
defending Gaut Gurley, thus giving the lie to all he had said, and ended
with declaring an intention of accompanying him in another trapping
expedition to the upper lakes, to be entered upon on a given day in April,
then near at hand. And, in spite of all the advice and warnings of his late
associates in the former disastrous campaign; the remonstrances of his son,
who shared in the apprehensions of the others; and the agonizing tears and
entreaties of his wife, he strangely persisted in his purpose, and, like
the fated one of the Scriptures, steadily "set his face" towards his
contemplated destination.
"The man is _hurried_!" said Phillips to Codman, as they left Elwood's on a
second and last visit, made with the sole object of dissuading him from a
step which they shrank from themselves,--that of going into the distant
forest with such a desperate fellow as they now deeply suspected Gaut
Gurley to be,--"the man is evidently _hurried_. When I saw that look Gaut
gave Elwood in court, I knew he was marked for destruction, more especially
than the rest of us, who are doubtless both placed on the same list. And
Elwood would see it himself, if he was right-minded. Yes, he is _hurried_,
and can't help it. He will go, and God grant my fears may not be realized."
And he did go, but not alone. As soon as Claud became fully satisfied that
his father's purpose was not to be shaken, he began earnestly to debate in
mind the question whether he himself should not, as a filial duty, become a
participant in the expedition, with the view of making his presence
instrumental in averting the apprehended danger. And, although he perceived
that his mother's distress, all troubled and doubtful as she was in
deciding between her conflicting duties of affection, would be enhanced by
the step; and, although his mind had been still more staggered by a brief
confidential note from Avis Gurley, advising him, if not too late, to find
means to break up the project of the expedition entirely, yet he finally
made up his mind in the affirmative. And, accordingly, on the morning of
the appointed day, both father and son, after a leave-taking with the
despondent wife and mother, more ominously sad and mournful than had ever
before marked their family trials, set forth again for the wild wastes of
the lakes, with their now doubly questionable companion.