THE ISLAND COVE
The two sisters stood together under the willow trees that overhung the
little cove from which Mary had landed with the missionary three years
before. Both had grown into girlhood since then, and both had improved
in loveliness; Jane in the bloom and symmetry of her person—Mary in that
exquisite loveliness of countenance which touches the soul like music in
a sound, or tints in a picture. Jane Derwent was just seventeen years
old that day.
“And so you _will_ go, Mary, dear—though this is my birthday? I have a
great mind to cut the canoe loose and set it adrift.”
“And then how will your company get to the island?” said Mary Derwent,
raising her eyes to the blooming face of her sister, while a quiet smile
stole out from their blue depths.
“I don’t care for company! I don’t care for anything—you are so
contrary—so hateful. You _never_ stay at home when the young folks are
coming—it’s too bad!” And Jane flung herself on the grass which
surrounded the little cove where a bark canoe lay rocking in the water,
and indulged her petulance by tearing up the strawberry-vines which her
sister had planted there.
“Don’t spoil my strawberry-bed,” said Mary, bending over the wayward
girl and kissing her forehead. “Come, be good-natured and let me go; I
will bring you some honeysuckle-apples, and a whole canoe full of
wood-lilies. Do say yes; I can’t bear to see you discontented to-day!”
“I would not care about it so much—though it is hard that you will never
go to frolics, nor enjoy yourself like other folks—but Edward Clark made
me promise to keep you at home to-day.”
A color, like the delicate tinting of a shell, stole into Mary’s cheek
as it lay caressingly against the rich damask of her sister’s.
“If no one but Edward were coming I should be glad to stay,” she
replied, in a soft voice; “but you have invited a great many, haven’t
you? Who will be here from the village?”
Jane began to enumerate the young men who had been invited to her
birthday party; they held precedence in her heart, and consequently in
her speech; for, to own the truth, Jane Derwent was a perfect specimen
of the rustic coquette; a beauty, and a spoiled one; but a warm-hearted,
kind girl notwithstanding.
“There are the Ward boys, and John Smith, Walter Butler from the fort,
and Jason Wintermoot——”
Jane stopped, for she felt a shiver run over the form around which her
arms were flung as she pronounced the last name and saw the cheek of her
sister blanch to the whiteness of snow.
“I had forgotten,” she said, timidly, after a moment; “I am sorry I
asked him. You are not angry with me, Mary, are you?”
“Angry? No! I never am angry with you, Jane. I don’t want to refuse you
anything on your birthday—but I will not meet these people. You cannot
guess—you can have no idea of my sufferings when any one looks upon me
except those I love very, very dearly.”
“That is just what they say,” replied Jane, while a flush of generous
feeling spread over her forehead.
“What, who says?” inquired Mary, for her heart trembled with a dread
that some allusion was threatened to her person.
After her question there was a moment’s silence. They had both arisen,
and the deformed girl stood before her sister with a tremulous lip and a
wavering, anxious eye.
Jane was quick-witted, and, with many faults, very kind of heart. When
she saw the distress visible in her unfortunate sister’s face she formed
her reply with more of tact and kind feeling than with strict regard to
truth.
“Why, it is nothing,” she said; “the girls always loved you, and petted
you so much when we were little children in school together that they
don’t like it when you go away without seeing them. They think that you
are grown proud since you have taken to reading and talking fine
language. You don’t have to work like the rest of us, and they feel
slighted, and think you put on airs.”
Tears stole into the eyes of the deformed girl, and a sudden light, the
sunshine of an affectionate heart, broke over her face as she said:
“It is not that, my sister. I have loved them very much all these years
that I have not seen them; but since that day—— Sister, you are very
good; and, oh! how beautiful; but you cannot dream how a poor creature
like myself feels when happy people are enjoying life together. Without
sympathy, without companions, hunchbacked and crooked. Tell me, Jane, am
I not hideous to look upon?”
This was the first time in her life that Mary had permitted a
consciousness of her malformation to escape her in words. The question
was put in a voice of mingled agony and bitterness, wrung from the very
depths of her heart. She fell upon the grass as she spoke, and with her
face to the ground lay grovelling at her sister’s feet, like some
wounded animal; for now that the loveliness of her face was concealed
her form seemed scarcely human.
All that was generous in the nature of Jane Derwent swelled in her heart
as she bent over her sister. The sudden tears fell like rain, glistening
in drops upon the warm damask of her cheeks and filling her voice with
affectionate sobs as she strove to lift her from the ground; but Mary
shrunk away with a shudder, and kneeling down Jane raised her head with
gentle violence to her bosom.
“Hideous! Oh! Mary, how can you talk so? Don’t shake and tremble in this
manner. You are not frightful nor homely; only think how beautiful your
hair is. Edward Clark says he never saw anything so bright and silky as
your curls—he said so; indeed he did, Mary; and the other day when he
was reading about Eve, in the little book you love so well, he told
grandmother that he fancied Eve must have had a face just like yours.”
“Did Edward say this?” murmured the poor deformed one as Jane
half-lifted, half-persuaded her from the ground, and with one arm flung
over her neck was pressing the face she had been praising to her own
troubled bosom.
Poor Mary, though naturally tall, was so distorted that when she stood
upright her head scarcely reached a level with the graceful bust of her
sister, and Jane stooped low to plant reassuring kisses upon her
forehead.
“Did he say it, Mary? Yes, he certainly did; and so did I say it. Look
here.” And eagerly gathering the folds of a large shawl over the
shoulders of the deformed, she gently drew her to the brink of the
basin, where the canoes still lay moored. “Look there!” she exclaimed,
as they bent together over the edge of the green sward; “can you wish
for anything handsomer than that face? Dear, good Mary, look.”
An elm-tree waved its branches over them, and the sunshine came
shimmering through the leaves with a wavy light. The river was tranquil
as a summer sky, and the sisters were still gazing on the lovely faces
speaking to theirs from its clear depths, when a canoe swept suddenly
round the grassy promontory which formed one side of the cove.
With a dash of the oar the fairy skiff shot, like an arrow, into the
basin, and its occupant, a young man of perhaps two-and-twenty, leaped
upon the green sward. The sisters started from their embrace. A glad
smile dimpled the round cheek of the younger as she stepped forward to
meet the newcomer. But Mary drew her shawl more closely over her person,
and shrunk timidly back, with a quickened pulse, a soft welcome beaming
from her eyes, and her face deluged with a flood of soft, rosy color,
which she strove to conceal with the tresses that fell about her like a
golden mist.
“I have just come in time to keep you at home for once,” said the youth,
approaching the timid girl, after having gaily shaken hands with her
sister. “I am sure we shall persuade you——”
He was interrupted by a call from Jane, who had run off to the other
side of the cove; no doubt with the hope of being speedily followed by
her visitor.
“Come here, Edward, do, and break me some of this sweet-brier; it
scratches my fingers so.”
Clark dropped Mary’s hand and went to obey this capricious summons.
“Don’t try to persuade Mary to stay,” said Jane, as she took a quantity
of the sweet-brier from the hands of her companion. “She is as restless
when we have company as the mocking-bird you gave us; and which we never
could tame, besides,” she added, with a little hesitation, “Wintermoot
will be here, and she don’t like him.”
“It were strange if she did,” replied the youth; and a frown passed over
his fine forehead; “but, tell me, Jane, how it happened that you invited
Col. Butler when you know that I dislike him almost as much as she does
Wintermoot.”
Jane looked confused and, like most people when they intend to persist
in a wrong, began to get into a passion.
“I am sure I thought I had the right to ask any one I pleased,” she
said, petulantly and gathering her forehead into a frown.
“Yes, but one might expect that it would scarcely please you to
encourage a man who has so often insulted your house with unwelcome
visits; and Wintermoot—my blood boils when I think of the wretch! Poor
Mary! I had hoped to see her enjoy herself to-day; but now she must
wander off alone as usual. I have a great mind to go with her.”
And turning swiftly away from the angry beauty, Clark went to Mary,
spoke a few words, and they stepped into his canoe together. But he had
scarcely pushed it from the shore when Jane ran forward and leaped in
after them.
“If _you_ go, so will _I_!” she said angrily, seating herself in the
bottom of the canoe.
Mary was amazed and perplexed. She looked into the stern, displeased
face of the young man, and then at the sullen brow of her sister.
“What does this mean?” she inquired, gently; “what is the matter, Jane?”
Jane began to sob, but gave no answer, and they rowed across the river
in silence. The canoe landed at the foot of a broken precipice that hung
over the river like a ruined battlement. Clark assisted Mary to the
shore, and was about to accompany her up the footpath, which wound over
the precipice, but Jane, who had angrily refused his help to leave the
boat, began to fear that she had carried her resentment too far, and
timidly called him back.
A few angry words from the young man—expostulation and tears from the
maiden, all of which a bend in the path prevented Mary observing; and
then Clark went up the hill—told the solitary girl not to wander far—to
be careful and not sit on the damp ground—and that he would come for her
by sundown; the young folks would have left the island by that time.
They were all going down to Wilkesbarre, to have a dance in the
schoolhouse. He and Jane were going, but they would wait and take her
home first.
Edward was almost out of breath as he said all this, and he appeared
anxious to go back to the canoe. But Mary had not expected him to join
her lonely wanderings, and his solicitude about her safety, so
considerate and kind, went to her heart like a breath of summer air. She
turned up the mountain-path, lonely and companionless; but very happy.
Her eyes were full of pleasant tears, and her heart was like a flower
unfolding to the sunshine. There is pleasure in complying with the
slightest request from those we love; and Mary confined her ramble to
the precipice and the shore, merely because Edward Clark had asked her
not to wander far. She saw him land on the island with her sister while
half-sitting, half-reclining on a crag of the broken rock, at whose foot
she had landed. She saw the boat sent again and again to the opposite
shore, returning each time laden with her former companions.
She was aroused by the rustling of branches over her head, followed by a
bounding step, as of a deer in flight; then a young girl sprang out upon
a point of rock which shot over the platform on which she lay, and
bending over the edge gazed eagerly down upon the river.
Mary held her breath and remained motionless, for her poetical fancy was
aroused by the singular and picturesque attitude of the figure. There
was a wildness and grace in it which she had never witnessed before. At
the first glance she supposed the stranger to be a wandering Indian girl
belonging to some of the tribes that roamed the neighboring forests. But
her complexion, though darker than the darkest brunette of our own race,
was still too light for any of the savage nations yet seen in the
wilderness. It was of a clear, rich, brown, and the blood glowed through
the round cheeks like the blush on a ripe peach.
Her hair was long, profusely braided, and of a deep black; not the dull,
lustreless color common to the Indians; but with a bloom upon it like
that shed by the sunlight on the wing of a flying raven. She appeared to
be neither Indian nor white, but of a mixed race. The spirited and wild
grace of the savage was blended with a delicacy of feature and nameless
elegance more peculiar to the whites. In her dress, also, might be
traced the same union of barbarism and refinement—a string of bright
scarlet berries encircling her head, and interwoven with the long braids
of her hair, glanced in the sunlight as she moved her head, like a chain
of dim rubies.
A robe of gorgeous chintz, where crimson and deep brown were the
predominating colors, was confined at the waist by a narrow belt of
wampum, and terminated a little below the knee in a double row of heavy
fringe, leaving the flexible and slender ankles free and uncovered. Her
robe fell open at the shoulders; but the swelling outline of her neck,
thus exposed, was unbroken, except by a necklace of cherry-colored
cornelian, from which a small heart of the same blood-red stone fell to
her bosom. The round and tapering beauty of her arms was fully revealed
and unencumbered by a single ornament. Her moccasins were of dressed
deer-skin, fringed and wrought with tiny beads, interwoven with a vine
of silk buds and leaves done in such needlework as was, in those days,
only taught to the most refined and highly educated class of whites.
Mary had never seen anything so exquisitely beautiful in its workmanship
as that embroidery, or so brightly picturesque as the whole appearance
of the stranger.
For more than a minute the wild girl retained the position assumed by
her last bounding step. There was something statue-like in the tension
of those rounded and slender limbs as she stood on the shelf of rock,
bending eagerly over the edge, with her weight thrown on one foot and
the other strained back, as if preparing for a spring. All the grace,
but not the chilliness, of marble lived in those boldly poised limbs, so
full of warm, healthy life. There was spirit and fire in their very
repose, for after an eager glance up and down the river she settled
back, and with her arms folded remained for a moment in an attitude of
dejection and disappointment.
A merry laugh which came ringing over the waters from the island drew
her attention to the group of revellers glancing in and out of the
shrubbery which surrounded Mother Derwent’s dwelling. Flinging back her
hair with a gesture of fiery impatience, she sprang upward and dragged
down the branch of a young tree, which she grasped for support while
throwing herself still more boldly over the very edge of the cliff.
Mary almost screamed with affright. But there was something grand in the
daring of the girl, which aroused her admiration even more than her
fear. She knew that the breaking of that slender branch would
precipitate her down a sheer descent into the river. But she felt as if
the very sound of a human voice would startle her into eternity.
Motionless with dread, she fixed her eyes, like a fascinated bird, on
the strange being thus hovering over death, so fearless and so
beautiful. All at once those bright, dark eyes kindled, one arm was
flung eagerly outward—her red lips parted and a gush of music, like the
song of a mocking-bird, but louder and richer, burst from them.
Mary started forward in amazement. Before she could lift her eyes to the
cliff again, a low, shrill whistle came sharply up from the direction of
the island. She caught one glance of those kindling cheeks and flashing
eyes as the strange, wild girl leaped back from the cliff—a gleam of
sunlight on her long hair as she darted into a thicket of wild cherry
trees—and there was no sign of her remaining, save a rushing sound of
the young trees, as the bent limb swayed back to its fellows. Again the
notes, as of a wild, eager bird, arose from a hollow bank on the side of
the mountain; and, after a moment, that shrill whistle was repeated from
the water, and Mary distinctly heard the dipping of an oar.
She crept to the edge of the rock which had formed her concealment and
looked down upon the river. A canoe rowed by a single oarsman was making
its way swiftly to the island. She could not distinguish the face of the
occupant; but there was a band of red paint around the edge of the
canoe, and she remembered that Edward Clark’s alone was so ornamented.
It was the same that had brought her from the island. Did the signal
come from him—from Edward Clark? What had he in common with the wild,
strange girl who had broken upon her solitude? A thrill of pain, such as
she had never dreamed of before, shot through her heart as she asked
these questions. She would have watched the landing of the canoe, but
all strength suddenly left her, and she sunk upon a fragment of stone,
almost powerless and in extreme suffering.
In a little more than an hour she saw the same solitary rower crossing
the river, but with more deliberate motion. She watched him while he
moored the canoe in the little cove, and caught another glimpse of him
as he turned a corner of her dwelling and mingled with the group of
young persons who were drinking tea on the green sward in front.
It was a weary hour to the deformed girl before the party broke up and
were transported to the opposite shore, where farm-wagons stood ready to
convey them to Wilkesbarre. The sun was almost down, and the island
quiet again when she saw two persons coming from the house to the cove.
She arose, and folding her shawl about her prepared to descend to the
shore.
Mary had walked half-way down the ledge when she stopped abruptly in the
path; for sitting on the moss beneath one of these pines was the strange
girl who had so excited her wonder. Mary’s slow step had not disturbed
her, and unconscious of a witness she was unbraiding the string of
berries from her hair and supplying their place with a rope of twisted
coral. The strings of scarlet ribbon with which she knotted it on her
temple were bright, and had evidently never been tied before.
Mary’s heart beat painfully and she hurried forward, as if some fierce
animal had sprung up in her path. An uncontrollable repulsion to that
wild and beautiful girl, which she neither understood nor tried to
account for, seized her. When she reached the shore the canoe with
Edward Clark and her sister seated in it was making leisurely towards
the mouth of the ravine, and she sat down on the shadowy side of an oak,
to await their coming. Their approach was so noiseless that she did not
know they had reached the shore till the voice of Edward Clark apprised
her of it. He was speaking earnestly to her sister, and there was both
agitation and deep tenderness in his voice—a breaking forth of the
heart’s best feelings, which she had never witnessed in him before.
“No, Jane,” he said, in a resolute voice, shaken with a sorrowful
tremor; “you must now choose between that man and me; there can be
nothing of rivalry between us; I heartily despise him! I am not
jealous—I could not be a creature so unworthy; but it grieves me to feel
that you can place him for a moment on a level with yourself. If you
persist in this degrading coquetry you are unworthy of the love which I
have given you. Forgive me, Jane, if I speak harshly; don’t cry—it
grieves me to wound your feelings, but——”
He was interrupted by a sound as of some one falling heavily to the
ground. He leaped from the canoe, and there, behind the great oak, lay
Mary Derwent helpless and insensible.
“She has wandered too far, and exhausted herself,” said the agitated
young man as he bore her to the canoe. “Sit down, Jane, and take her
head in your lap—your grandmother will know what to do for her.”
Jane reached forth her arms and received the insensible head on her
bosom. She turned her face petulantly away from that of her lover, and
repulsed him with sullen discontent when, in his attempts to restore
Mary, his hand happened to touch hers.
“Set her down,” she said, pushing him indignantly away. “Attend to your
oars; we neither want your help or your ill-natured grumblings. I tell
you, Ned Clark, you are just the Grossest creature I ever saw. Take that
for your pains!”
Clark did not answer this insolent speech, but gravely took up the oars
and pushed off.
They were half-way across the river when Mary began to recover
animation. Edward laid down his oar, and taking her hand in his was
about to speak, but she drew it away with a faint shudder, and burying
her face in her sister’s bosom remained still and silent as before.