THE END OF THE CHAIN.
We are conscious that the description of the great battle just given
is but a poor and lame delineation, and we can only plead defective
powers in that department of art--the treatment of battle-pieces.
We cannot describe the appearance of the battle-field after the
combat, any more than the contest.
Wounded and crack-crowned, groaning and muttering heroes dragging
themselves away--this is the resumé which we find it in our power
alone to give.
One hero only seems to be seriously injured.
He is a man of forty-five or fifty, with a heavy black beard, thick
sensual lips, and dog-like face. He is clad roughly; and the few words
which he utters prove that he is a German.
The fight has taken place opposite Mr. Rushton's office, and thither
this man is borne.
Mr. Rushton growls, and demands how he had the audacity to break the
peace. The man mutters. Mr. Rushton observes that he will have him
placed in the stocks, and then sent to jail. The German groans.
Suddenly Mr. Rushton feels a hand upon his arm. He turns round: it is
Redbud.
"That is the man who sold me the necklace, sir!" she says, in a
hesitating voice. "I recognize him--it is the pedlar."
Mr. Rushton starts, and catches the pedlar by the arm.
"Come!" he commences.
The pedlar rises without assistance, sullenly, prepared for the
stocks.
"Where did you get this necklace? Speak!"
The lawyer's eyes awe the man, and he stammers. Mr. Rushton grasps him
by the collar, and glares at him ferociously.
"Where?"
In five minutes he has made the pedlar speak--he bought the necklace
from the mother of the young man standing at the door.
"From the Indian woman?"
"Yes, from her."
Mr. Rushton turns pale, and falls into a chair.
Verty hastens to him.
The lawyer rises, and gazes at him with pale lips, passes his hand
over his brow with nervous, trembling haste. He holds the necklace up
before Verty there, and says, in a husky voice--
"Where did your mother get this?"
Verty gazes at the necklace, and shakes his head.
"I don't know, sir--I don't know that it is her's--I think I have seen
it though--yes, yes, long, long ago--somewhere!"
And the young hunter's head droops, thoughtfully--his dreamy eyes seem
to wander over other years.
Then he raises his head and says, abruptly:
"I had a strange thought, sir! I thought I saw myself--only I was a
little child--playing with that necklace somewhere in a garden--oh,
how strange! There were walks with box, and tulip beds, and in the
middle, a fountain--strange! I thought I saw Indians, too--and heard a
noise--why, I am dreaming!"
The lawyer looks at Verty with wild eyes, which, slowly, very slowly,
fill with a strange light, which makes the surrounding personages keep
silent--so singular is this rapt expression.
A thought is rising on the troubled and agitated mind of the lawyer,
like a moon soaring above the horizon. He trembles, and does not take
his eyes for a moment from the young man's face.
"A fountain--Indians?" he mutters, almost inarticulately.
"Yes, yes!" says Verty, with dreamy eyes, and crouching, so to speak,
Indian fashion, until his tangled chestnut curls half cover his
cheeks--"yes, yes!--there again!--why it is magic--there! I see it
all--I remember it! I must have seen it! Redbud!" he said, turning to
the young girl with a frightened air, "am I dreaming?"
Redbud would have spoken. Mr. Rushton, with a sign, bade her be
silent. He looked at the young man with the same strange look, and
said in a low tone:
"Must have seen what?"
"Why, this!" said Verty, half extending his arm, and pointing toward
a far imaginary horizon, on which his dreamy eyes were fixed--"this!
don't you see it? My tribe! my Delawares--there in the woods! They
attack the house, and carry off the child in the garden playing with
the necklace. His nurse is killed--poor thing! her blood is on the
fountain! Now they go into the great woods with the child, and an
Indian woman takes him and will not let them kill him--he is so pretty
with his long curls like the sunshine: you might take him for a girl!
The Indian woman holds before him a bit of looking-glass, stolen from
the house! Look! they will have his life--oh!"
And crouching, with an exclamation of terror, Verty shuddered.
"Give me my rifle!" he cried; "they are coming there! Back!"
And the young man rose erect, with flashing eyes.
"The woman flies in the night," he continues, becoming calm again;
"they pursue her--she escapes with the boy--they come to a deserted
lodge--a lodge! a lodge! Why, it is our lodge in the hills! It's _ma
mere_! and I was that child! Am I mad?"
And Verty raised his head, and looked round him with terror.
His eye fell upon Mr. Rushton, who, breathing heavily, his looks
riveted to his face, his lips trembling, seemed to control some
overwhelming emotion by a powerful effort.
The lawyer rose, and laid his hand upon Verty's shoulder--it trembled.
"You are--dreaming--," he gasped. Suddenly, a brilliant flash darted
from his eye. With a movement, as rapid as thought, he tore the
clothes from the young man's left shoulder, so as to leave it bare to
the armpit.
Exactly on the rounding of the shoulder, which was white, and wholly
free from the copper-tinge of the Indian blood, the company descried a
burn, apparently inflicted in infancy.
The dazzled eyes of the lawyer almost closed--he fell into the old
leather chair, and sobbing, "my son! my son Arthur!" would have
fainted.
He was revived promptly, and the wondering auditors gathered around
him, listening, while he spoke--the shaggy head, leaning on the
shoulder of Verty, who knelt at his feet, and looked up in his eyes
with joy and wonder.
Yes! there could be no earthly doubt that the strange words uttered by
the boy, were so many broken and yet brilliant memories shining from
the dim past: that this was his son--the original of the portrait. The
now harsh and sombre lawyer, when a young and happy man, had married
a French lady, and lived on the border; and his little son had, after
the French fashion, received, for middle name, his mother's name,
Anne--and this had become his pet designation. His likeness had been
painted by a wandering artist, and soon after, a band of Delawares had
attacked the homestead and carried him away to the wilderness, and
there had remained little doubt, in his father's mind, that the
child had been treated as the Indians were accustomed to treat such
captives--mercilessly slain. The picture of him was the only treasure
left to the poor broken heart, when heaven had taken his wife from
him, soon afterwards--and in the gloom and misanthropy these tortures
inflicted upon him, this alone had been his light and solace.
Retaining for the boy his old pet name of Anne, he had cried in
presence of the picture, and been hardened in spite of all, against
Providence. In the blind convulsions of his passionate regret, he had
even uttered blasphemy, and scouted anything like trust in God; and
here now was that merciful God leading his child back to him, and
pardoning all his sin of unbelief, and enmity, and hatred; and saying
to him, in words of marvellous sweetness and goodness, "Poor soured
spirit, henceforth worship and trust in me!"
Yes! his son Arthur, so long wept and mourned, had come to him
again--was there before him, kneeling at his feet!
And with his arms around the boy, the rugged man bent down and wept,
and uttered in his heart a prayer for pardon.
And we may be sure that the man's joy was not unshared by those
around--those kind, friendly eyes, which looked upon the father and
son, and rejoiced in their happiness. The very sunshine grew more
bright, it seemed; and when the picture was brought forth, and set
in his light, he shone full on it, and seemed to laugh and bless the
group with his kind light--even the little laughing child.