THE FOREST WALK
When the missionary arose from his knees—for to that position he had
unconsciously fallen—Mary stood beside him, quiet and smiling.
“Come, my child,” he said, taking Mary by the hand, and leading her up
from the ravine. “It is almost night, and you have wandered far from the
island; see, the woods are already dusky. The birds and squirrels are
settling down in the leaves; you would have been afraid to go home in
the dark.”
“I might have been lost, but not afraid,” answered Mary, in a sad voice;
“after this, darkness will be my best friend.”
“But the forest is full of Indians, Mary, and now, since the English
have excited them against us, no white person is safe after dark; I will
go home with you; but, after this, promise me never to come alone to the
woods again.”
“The Indians will not harm me,” answered Mary, with a mournful smile;
“they pity me, I think, and love me a little, too. I am not afraid of
them; their tomahawks are not so sharp as Jason Wintermoot’s words were
this morning.”
As she spoke there was a rustling among the bushes at their right, and
through the purple gloom of the woods they saw a group of Indians
crouching behind a rock, and glaring at them through the undergrowth.
One had his rifle lifted with a dusky hand, creeping towards the rock;
the others were poised for a spring. Mary saw them, and leaped upon a
rock close by, protecting the missionary from the aim taken at his life.
“Not him—not him!” she cried, flinging up both arms in wild appeal;
“shoot _me_! You don’t know how I long to die.”
The Indians looked at each other in dismay. The threatening rifle fell
with a clang upon the rock, and instead of an assault the savages crept
out from their ambush, lighting up the dusky ravine with their gorgeous
war-dresses, and gathered around the young girl, like a flock of
tropical birds surrendering themselves to the charms of a serpent.
Mary met them fearlessly; a wild, spiritual beauty lighted up her face.
The Indians lost their ferocity, and looked on her with grave
tenderness; one of them reached forth his hand, she laid hers in the
swarthy palm, where it rested like a snowdrop on the brown earth; he
looked down upon it, and smiled; her courage charmed him.
“The white bird is brave, the Great Spirit folds his wing over her which
is pure like the snow,” he said, addressing his companions in their own
language.
Mary knew a little of the Shawnee tongue, and looking up at the savage
said, very gently:
“Why harm my father? The Great Spirit covers him, also, with a wing
which is broad and white, like the clouds. Look in his face. Is he
afraid?”
The Indians drew back, and looked fiercely at the missionary, gathering
up their rifles with menacing gestures.
He understood their language well, and spoke to them with that calm
self-possession which gives dignity to courage.
“My children,” he said, “what wrong have I done that you should wish to
kill me?”
The leading savage set down his gun with a clang upon the rock.
“You have sat by the white man’s council-fire down yonder. The Great
Father over the big water is our friend, but you hate the Indian, and
will help them drive us through the wind gap into strange hunting
grounds.”
“I am not your enemy. See, I carry no tomahawk or musket; my bosom is
open to your knives. The Great Spirit has sent me here, and He will keep
me free from harm.”
Unconsciously the missionary looked at the deformed girl as he spoke.
The Indians followed his glance, and changed their defiant gestures.
“He speaks well. Mineto has sent his beautiful medicine spirit to guard
him from our rifles. The medicine father of the Shawnees is dead, his
lodge is empty. The white bird shall be our prophet. You shall be her
brother, live in the great Medicine Lodge, and dream our dreams for us
when we take the warpath. Do we speak well?”
The missionary pondered a moment before he spoke. He read more in these
words than one not acquainted with Indian customs might have understood.
“Yes,” he said at last, “I will come to your Medicine Lodge, and tell
you all the dreams which the Great Spirit sends to me. She, too, will
love the Indians, and dream holy dreams for them, but not here, not in
the Medicine Lodge. She must stay in Monockonok among the broken waters.
The Great Spirit has built her lodge there, under the tall trees, where
the Indians can seek her in their canoes. Go back to your council-fire,
my children, before its smoke goes out. I will light the calumet, and
smoke with you. Now the Great Spirit tells me to go with this child back
to Monockonok. Farewell.”
He took Mary Derwent by the hand, turned his back on the menacing rifles
without fear, and walked away unmolested.
Mary had wandered miles away from home; nothing but the superior
knowledge of her guardian could have found her way back through all that
dense and unequal forest. It was now almost nightfall; but a full moon
had risen, and by its light this man, accustomed to the woods, guided
their way back towards the river. But after the wildest of her
excitement had worn away, Mary began to feel the toil of her long walk.
She did not complain, however, and the missionary was unconscious of
this overtax of strength till she sank down on a broken fragment of rock
utterly exhausted. He stopped in great distress, and bent over her. She
smiled, and attempted to speak, but the pale lids drooped over her eyes,
and the strength ebbing completely from her limbs left them pale and
limp. She lay before him entirely senseless, with the moonbeams falling
over her like a winding-sheet.
Nothing but the angels of Heaven could see or understand the look of
unutterable thankfulness which came to his noble features as the
missionary stooped and took the young girl in his arms. A smile luminous
as the moonlight that played upon it stole over his whole face, and the
words that broke from his lips were sweet and tender, such as the
Madonna might have whispered to her holy child.
He took no pains to bring her back to life, but when she did come to,
soothed her with hushes, and laid her head tenderly upon his shoulder
till she fell asleep, smiling like himself.
As he came in sight of Monockonok a swell of regretful tenderness swept
all his strength away more surely than fatigue could have done. He sat
down upon a fallen tree on the bank just opposite the island and looked
down into the sweet face with a gaze of heavenly affection. His head
drooped slowly down, he folded her closer, and pressed his lips upon the
closed eyes, the forehead, the lips, and cheeks of the sleeping child
with a passion of tenderness that shook his whole frame.
“Oh, my God, my God! forgive me if this is sinful! my soul aches under
this excess of love; the very fountains of my life are breaking up!
Father of heaven, I am thine, all thine, but she is here on my breast,
and I am but human.”
Deep sobs broke away from his heart, almost lifting her from his bosom;
tears rained down his face, and dropped thick and fast amid the waves of
her hair.
His sobs aroused Mary from her slumber. She was not quite awake, but
stirred softly and folded her arms about his neck. How the strong man
trembled under the clasp of those arms! how he struggled and wrested
against the weakness that had almost overpowered him, and not in vain! A
canoe was moored under a clump of alders, just below him. It belonged to
the island, and in that Mary must be borne to her home. He was obliged
to row the canoe, and of course must awake her. Once more he pressed his
lips upon her face, once more he strained her to his heart, and then
with loving violence aroused her.
“Mary—come, little one, wake up, wake up! See how late it is!
Grandmother will be frightened.”
“Let me alone—oh! please let me alone!” murmured the weary child.
“No, Mary, arouse yourself; you and I have slept and dreamed too long.
There, there! look around. See how the moonlight ripples upon the river!
Look at the island; there is a light burning in the cabin. They are
anxious no doubt at your long stay. Come, child, let us be strong:
surely you can walk to the river’s brink.”
Yes, Mary could walk again; that sweet sleep had given back her
strength. She sat down in the canoe, tranquilized and happier than she
had ever hoped to be again. The bitterness of the morning had entirely
passed away. They floated on down the river a few minutes. Then the
missionary bent to his oars, and the canoe shot across the silvery
rapids, and drew up in a little cove below the house.
The missionary stepped on shore. Mary followed him.
“Are you happier now? Are you content to live as God wills it?” he said,
extending his hand, while his eyes beamed upon her.
“Yes, father, I am content.”
“To live even without earthly love?”
Mary shrunk within herself—it takes more than a few words, a struggle,
or a single prayer to uproot a desire for human love from a woman’s
heart.
He did not reason with her, or upbraid her then, but only said:
“God will find a way—have no fear, all human beings have some road to
happiness if they will but let the Heavenly Father point it out.
Good-night Mary.”
“Good-night,” responded the young girl, while her eyes filled with
grateful tears; “good-night, my father!”
He turned around, laid his hands on her head, and blessed her, then
stepped into the canoe and disappeared along the path of silver cast
downward by the moon. The young girl smiled amid her tears. How dark it
was when he found her at noontide; how bright when he went away!
Mary Derwent entered that log-cabin a changed being. She scarcely
understood herself, or anything that had filled her life up to that day.
Her own nature was inexplicable. One great shock had thrust her forward,
as it were, to a maturity of suffering; her smile became mournful and
sad in its expression, as if the poor creature had become weary of life
and of all living things. She never again joined in the childish sports
of her companions.