THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPEST
Tahmeroo, the Indian girl, was sitting under the pine as Mary Derwent
had left her. With the coral but half twisted in her hair, she had
paused in her graceful task, and sinking gently back to the bank of moss
which formed her seat reclined on one elbow, with her long tresses
unbraided and floating in wavy masses over her person. She was yielding
to the repose of a soft and dreamy reverie—new and very sweet to her
wild, young heart—when the sound of voices and the dash of an oar
aroused her. She started to her feet and listened. The fire flashed back
to those large dark eyes but late so pleasant and soft in their
expression, and a rich crimson rushed to her cheek. The voices ceased
for a moment; then were renewed, and the rapid beat of the paddle became
still more audible.
Tahmeroo sprang forward and ran up to a point of the hill which
commanded a view of the river. The little canoe, with its band of red
paint, was making from the shore, and in it sat Jane Derwent, with the
head of the deformed girl resting in her lap. The back of the oarsman
was towards the shore; his head was bent, and the eyes, the beautiful
eyes of Jane Derwent were fixed on him with an expression which
Tahmeroo’s heart, unlearned as it was, taught her to understand. A storm
of surprise, anger and fear rushed through the heart of the young
Indian. The oarsman turned his head, and the face was revealed. Then a
smile, vivid and bright as a burst of sunshine after a tempest, broke
over her features.
Tahmeroo breathed deeply and turned away. It seemed as if an arrow had
been withdrawn from her heart by the sight of that face. She hurried
down the hill towards a clump of black alders that overhung the river’s
brink and unmoored a light canoe hitherto concealed beneath the dark
foliage. Placing herself in the bottom, she gave two or three vigorous
strokes with the paddle, and shot like a bird up the stream.
As Tahmeroo proceeded up the river the scenery, till then half-pastoral,
half-sublime, became more savage and gloomy in its aspect. Huge rocks
shot up against the sky in picturesque grandeur; the foliage which
clothed them grew dusky in the waning light and fell back to the ravines
in dark, heavy shadows. A gloom hung about the towering precipices, and
the thick masses of vegetation, like funeral drapery, swathing the
pillars and wild arches of a monastic ruin. It was the darkness of a
gathering tempest. There was something sublime and almost awful in the
gradual and silent mustering of the elements.
Tahmeroo rested for a moment as she entered the rocky jaws of the
mountain, and as her frail bark rocked to the current of wind which
swept down the gorge she looked around with a feeling of hushed terror.
A mountain, cleft in twain to the foundation, towered to the sky on
either hand—bold, bleak and sombre. Through the rent, down hundreds of
feet from the summit, crept the deep river stealthily and slow, like a
huge serpent winding himself around the bulwark of a stronghold. The
darkness of the forests was so dense, and the clouds so heavy, that
there was nothing to distinguish the outline of the murky waters from
the majestic ramparts through which they glided. All was wild, solemn
and gloomy.
As the Indian girl looked upward the clouds swept back for a moment and
the last rays of sunset fell with a glaring light on the bold summit of
the mountain, rendering by contrast the depths of the chasm more dreary
in its intense shadow.
The threatened storm had seemingly passed over, and a few stars trembled
in the depths of the sky when she moored her canoe in a little inlet,
washed up into the mouth of a narrow ravine which opened on the river’s
brink.
Tahmeroo tore away the dry brambles and brushwood which clothed the
entrance of the defile, and made her way through a scarcely defined
footpath up the hillside. Through this ravine rushed a mountain torrent,
known to the Indians as the Falling Spring, which filled the whole
forest with its silvery tumult.
Tahmeroo kept close to the banks of this torrent, helping herself
forward by the brushwood and trailing vines that grew thickly on its
margin. Nothing less surefooted than an antelope could have forced a
passage through the broken rocks and steep precipices which guarded the
passage of this stream up to its source in Campbell’s Ledge. A little
way from the river it came, with a single leap, through a chasm in the
rocks, and lost itself in a storm of white spray among the mossy
boulders which choked up the ravine.
The storm had mustered again so blackly that Tahmeroo could scarcely see
her course, but lost herself among the rocks and young pines below the
fall. Still she climbed upward, leaping from rock to rock, till the
sheer precipices that walled in the cataract on either side obstructed
her passage, and she stood poised half-way up, uncertain which way to
turn or how to move.
A flash of lightning revealed her position, kindled up the young trees
to a lurid green; gave the slippery brown precipices to view, and shot
in and out of the foaming torrent as it leaped by like flashes of fire,
tearing a snowdrift into flakes again and scattering it to the wind.
The lightning revealed her peril and her path. She sprang back from the
precipice, from which the next leap would have precipitated her downward
with the cataract into the depths of the ravine, and tore her way into
the bosom of the hills, keeping Campbell’s Ledge on the right.
A less vigorous form would have fainted beneath the toil of that
mountain-pass; but the young Indian scarcely thought of fatigue; for a
dull, moaning sound came up from the depths of the forest, like the
hollow beat of a far-off ocean; the pent-up thunder muttered and rumbled
among the black clouds, floating like funeral banners above her, every
other instant pierced and torn with arrowy lightning. These signs of the
storm gathering so fearfully about the mountains terrified and
bewildered the Indian girl. Though a wild rover of the forest, she had
been gently nurtured, and for the first time in her life was alone among
the hills after nightfall.
At length she stood on a high ledge of rocks, panting and in despair;
she had lost the path that led to the Indian encampment, and found
herself on the sweep of a mighty precipice, far above the valley. After
one wild, hopeless look upon the sky, she sunk to the ground and,
burying her face in her hands, muttered, in a trembling and husky voice:
“Tahmeroo has been wicked. She has acted a lie. The Great Spirit is very
angry. Why should she strive to shut out his voice? Tahmeroo can die.”
While she spoke there was a hush in the elements and the sound of many
hoarse, guttural voices arose from the foot of the ledge. The terrified
Indian lifted her head, and a wild, doubtful joy gleamed over her face
as the lightning revealed it, with the damp, unbraided hair floating
back from the pallid temples, the lips parted, and the eyes charged with
terror, doubt and eager joy. She listened intently for a moment, then
sunk cautiously to the ground as one who fears to break a pleasant
delusion, and crept to the edge of the rock.
[Illustration: FALLING SPRING]
A dozen watch-fires flashed up in a semicircle, flinging a broad light
over the whole enclosure and gleaming redly on the waving vines, the
weeping birches, and the budding hemlocks that intermingled along its
broken ramparts. A hundred swarthy forms, half-naked and hideously
painted, were moving about, and others lay crouching in the grass,
apparently terrified by the tempest gathering so blackly above them.
The untrodden grass and fresh herbage told that this hollow had recently
been made a place of encampment; yet, in the enclosure was one lodge,
small and but rudely constructed—a sylvan hut, more picturesque than any
cabin to be found in the settlements. How recently it had been
constructed might be guessed by the green branches yet fresh on the
half-hewn logs. A score of savage hands had been at work upon it the
whole day, for the Chief of the Shawnees never rested in the open air
with the lower members of his tribe when his fierce mother, his haughty
wife, or beautiful daughter was of his hunting party.
Tahmeroo had wandered upward from the path which led to the encampment.
She had madly clambered to the highest chain of rocks which surrounded
the enclosure, when she should have made her way around its base to the
opening which gave egress to the forest. She arose from the edge of the
rock, where she had been lying, high above the encampment, and was about
to descend to the path she had missed, when a sound like the roar and
tramp of a great army came surging up from the forest. The tall trees
swayed earthward, flinging their branches and green leaves to the
whirlwind as it swept by. Heavy limbs were twisted off, and mighty
trunks, splintered midway, mingled the sharp crash of their fall with
the hoarse roar of the tempest. The thunder boomed among the rocks, peal
after peal, and the quick lightning darted through the heaving trees
like fiery serpents wrangling with the torn foliage.
The very mountain seemed to tremble beneath the maiden’s feet. She threw
herself upon the ledge, and with her face buried in its moss lay
motionless, but quaking at heart, as the whirlwind rushed over her.
A still more fearful burst of the elements struck upon the heights,
lifted a stout oak from its anchorage and hurled it to the earth. The
splintered trunk fell with a crash, and the topmost boughs bent down the
young saplings with a rushing sweep and fell like the wings of a great
bird of prey, above the prostrate Indian. She sprang upward with a cry,
and seizing the stem of a vine swung herself madly over the precipice.
Fortunately the descent was rugged, and many a jutting angle afforded a
foothold to the daring girl as she let herself fearlessly down—now
clinging among the leaves of the vine—now grasping the sharp point of a
rock, and dropping from one cleft to another. Twice she forced herself
back, as if she would have sunk into the very rock, and dragged the
heavy vines over her, when a fresh thunder-burst rolled by, or a flash
of lightning blazed among the leaves; but when they had passed she again
swung herself downward, and finally dropped unharmed upon the grass back
of her father’s lodge.
The enclosure was now perfectly dark; for the rain had extinguished the
watch-fires and the lightning but occasionally revealed a group of dark
forms cowering together, awed by the violence of the tempest, and
rendered abject by superstitious dread.
A twinkling light broke through the crevices of the lodge; but Tahmeroo
lingered in the rain, for now that the fierceness of the storm was over
she began to have a new fear—the dread of her mother’s stern presence.
Cautiously, and with timid footsteps, she advanced to the entrance and
lifted the huge bear-skin that covered it. She breathed freely; for
there was no one present save her father, the great Chief of the
Shawnees. He was sitting on the ground, with his arms folded on his
knees, and his swarthy forehead buried in his robe of skins. The heart
of the Indian King was sorely troubled, for he knew that the wing of the
Great Spirit was unfolded in its wrath above his people.
Tahmeroo crept to the extremity of the lodge and sat down in silence
upon the ground. She saw that preparations had been made for her
comfort. A pile of fresh berries and a cake of cornbread lay on a stool
nearby, and a couch of boughs woven rudely together stood in the corner
heaped with the richest furs and overspread with a covering of
martin-skins lined and bordered with fine scarlet cloth. A chain of
gorgeous beadwork linked the deep scallops on the border, and heavy
tassels fell upon the grass from the four corners. The savage
magnificence of that couch was well worthy the daughter of a great
chief.
Another couch, but of less costly furs, and without ornament, stood at
the opposite extremity. Tahmeroo threw one timid look towards it, then
bent her head, satisfied that it was untenanted, and that her mother was
indeed absent. As if suddenly recollecting herself, she half-started
from the ground and disentangled the string of coral from her damp hair.
With her eyes fixed apprehensively on the chief, she thrust it under the
fur pillows of her couch, and stole back to her former position.
Tahmeroo had scarcely seated herself when the bear-skin was flung back
from the entrance of the lodge and Catharine, the wife of the Shawnee
chief, presented herself in the opening. The light from a heap of pine
knots fell on the woman’s face as she entered; but it failed to reveal
the maiden where she sat in the shadowy side of the lodge.
The chief lifted his head and uttered a few words in the Indian tongue,
but received no answer; while his wife gave one quick look around the
lodge, then sallied back, clasped her hands tightly and groaned aloud.
Tahmeroo scarcely breathed, for never had she seen her mother so
agitated. It was, indeed, a strange sight—those small, finely cut
features usually so stern and cold, working with emotion—the pallid
cheek, the high forehead, swollen and knitted at the brows—the trembling
mouth—the eyes heavy with anguish. This was a sight which Tahmeroo had
never witnessed before. And this was the stern, haughty woman—the white
Indian—who ruled the Shawnee braves with despotic rigor—whose revenge
was deadly, and whose hate was a terror. This was Catharine Montour!
When Tahmeroo heard her name mingled with the lamentations of her
mother, she started forward, exclaiming, with tremulous and broken
earnestness: “Mother, oh! mother, I am here!”
A burst of fierce thanksgiving broke from the lips of Catharine. She
caught her daughter to her heart and kissed her wildly again and again.
“Thank God, oh! thank my God! I am not quite alone!” she exclaimed; and
tears started in the eyes that had not known them for twenty summers.
Without a word of question as to her strange absence, Catharine drew her
child to the couch, and seeing the bread and the berries yet untasted
she forced her to eat while she wrung the moisture from her hair and
took away the damp robe. She smoothed the cushions of crimson cloth that
served as pillows, and drawing the coverlet of martin-skins over the
form of her child sat beside her till she dropped to a gentle slumber.
Then she heaped fresh knots on the burning pine and changed her own
saturated raiment.
The sombre chief threw himself upon the unoccupied heap of furs, and
Catharine was left alone with her thoughts. Long and sad were the vigils
of that stern watcher; yet they had a good influence on her heart. There
was tenderness and regret—nay, almost repentance—in her bosom as she
gazed on the slumbers of her child—the only being on earth whom she
dared to love. More than once she pressed her lips fondly to the
forehead of the sleeper, as if to assure herself of her dear presence
after the frightful dangers of the storm. She remained till after
midnight, pondering upon past events with the clinging tenacity of one
who seldom allowed herself to dwell on aught that could soften a shade
of her haughty character; at length she was about to throw herself by
the side of her daughter, more from the workings of unquiet thoughts
than from a desire for rest. But the attempt disturbed the slumbering
girl. She turned restlessly on her couch, and oppressed by its warmth
pushed away the covering.
Catharine observed that the cheek which lay against the scarlet cloth
was flushed and heated. She attempted to draw the pillow away, when her
fingers became entangled in the string of coral concealed beneath it.
Had a serpent coiled around her hand it could not have produced a more
startling effect. She shook it off, and drew hastily back, as if
something loathsome had clung to her. Then she snatched up the ornament,
went to the pile of smouldering embers, stirred them to a flame and
examined it minutely by the light. Her face settled to its habitual
expression of iron resolution as she arose from her stooping posture.
Her lips were firmly closed, and her forehead became calm and cold; yet
there was more of doubt and sorrow than of anger in her forced
composure.
She returned to the couch and placed herself beside it, with the coral
still clenched in her hand. Her face continued passionless, but her eyes
grew dim as she gazed on the sleeper; thoughts of her own youth lay
heavily upon her heart.
Tahmeroo again turned restlessly on her pillow, her flushed cheeks
dimpled with a smile, and she murmured softly in her sleep. Catharine
laid her hand on the round arm, flung out upon the martin-skins, and
bent her ear close to the red and smiling lips, thus betraying with
their gentle whisperings the thoughts that haunted the bosom of the
sleeper.
Tahmeroo dreamed aloud. A name was whispered in her soft, broken
English, coupled with words of endearment and gentle chiding. The name
was spoken imperfectly, and Catharine bent her ear still lower, as if in
doubt that she had heard aright. Again that name was pronounced, and now
there was no doubt; the enunciation was low, but perfectly distinct. The
mother started upright; her face was ashy pale, and she looked strangely
corpse-like in the dusky light. She snatched a knife from its sheath in
her girdle, and bent a fierce glance on the sleeper. A moment the blade
quivered above the heart of her only child, then the wretched woman
flung it from her with a gesture of self-abhorrence, and sinking to the
ground buried her face in both hands. After one fierce shudder she
remained motionless as a statue.
It was more than an hour before that stern face was lifted again; shade
after shade of deep and harrowing agony had swept over it while buried
in the folded arms, and now it was very pale, but with a gentler
expression upon it. She laid a hand on the rounded shoulder, from which
the covering had been flung, passed the other quickly over her eyes and
awoke the sleeper.
“Tahmeroo,” she said, but her voice was low and husky, and it died away
in her throat.
The maiden started to her elbow and looked wildly about. When she saw
her mother with the string of red coral in her hand she sunk back and
buried her face in the pillow.
“Tahmeroo, look up!” said the mother, in a soft, low voice, from which
all traces of emotion had flown. “Has Tahmeroo dreams which she does not
tell her mother? The white man’s gift is under her pillow—whence came
it?”
A blush spread over the face, neck and bosom of the young girl, and she
shrunk from the steady gaze of her mother. She was sensible of no wrong,
save that of concealment; yet her confusion was painful as guilt.
Catharine had compassion on her embarrassment, and turned away her eyes.
“Tahmeroo,” she said, in a voice still more gentle and winning, “tell me
all—am I not your mother? Do I not love you?”
The young Indian girl rose and looked timidly towards the couch of the
Shawnee Chief.
“Does my father sleep?” and her eyes again fell beneath the powerful
glance which she felt to be fixed upon her.
“Yes, he sleeps; speak in English, and have no fear.”
Catharine went to the heap of blazing pine and flung ashes on it; then
returned to her daughter, folded her to her bosom, and for half an hour
the low voice of Tahmeroo alone broke the stillness of the lodge.
Scarcely had Catharine interrupted the confession of her child with a
word of question. She must have been powerless from emotion, for more
than once her breath came quick and gaspingly; and the heavy throbbing
of her heart was almost audible at every pause in that broken narrative.
Yet her voice was strangely cold and calm when she spoke.
“And you saw him again this day?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Did he tell you to keep these meetings from my knowledge?”
“He said the Great Spirit would visit me with his thunder if I but
whispered it to the wind.”
“The name—tell me the name once more; but low, I would not hear it
aloud. Whisper it in my ear—yet the hiss of a serpent were sweeter,” she
muttered.
Tahmeroo raised her lips to her mother’s ear and whispered, as she was
commanded. She felt a slight shudder creep over the frame against which
she leaned, and all was still again.
“You _first_ saw this—this man when we were at the encampment on the
banks of Seneca Lake three moons since, and I was absent on a mission to
Sir William Johnson: did I hear aright in this?” questioned the mother,
after a few minutes of silence.
“It was there I first saw him, mother.”
“Listen to me, Tahmeroo: were I to command you never again to see this
man, could you obey me?”
The young Indian started from her mother’s arms, and the fire of her
dark eyes flashed even in the half-smothered light.
“Never see him? What, tear away all this light from my own heart? Obey?
No, mother, no. Put me out from my father’s lodge—make me a squaw of
burden, the lowest woman of our tribe—give me to the tomahawk, to the
hot fire—but ask me not to rend the life from my bosom. The white blood
which my heart drank from yours must curdle that of the Indian when his
child gives or takes love at the bidding of anything but her own will!
No, mother, I could not obey—I would not.”
Catharine Montour was struck dumb with astonishment. Was she, the
despotic ruler of a fierce war-tribe, to be braved by her own child? The
creature she had loved and cherished with an affection so deep and
passionate—had _she_ turned rebellious to her power? Her haughty spirit
aroused itself; the gladiator broke from her eyes as they were bent on
the palpitating and half-recumbent form of Tahmeroo.
The girl did not shrink from the fierce gaze, but met it with a glance
of resolute daring. The young eaglet had begun to plume its wing! There
was something of wild dignity in her voice and gesture, which assorted
well with the curbless strength of her mother’s spirit.
Catharine Montour had studied the human heart as a familiar book, and
she knew that it would be in vain to contend with the spirit so suddenly
aroused in the strength of its womanhood. She felt that her power over
that heart must hereafter be one of love unmixed with fear—an imperfect
and a divided power. The heart of the strong woman writhed under the
conviction, but she stretched herself on the couch without a word of
expostulation. Her own fiery spirit had sprung to rapid growth in the
bosom of her child; passions akin to those buried in her experience had
shot up, budded and blossomed, in a night time. The stern mother
trembled when she thought of the fruit which, in her own life, had
turned to ashes in the ripening.
When Tahmeroo awoke in the morning the lodge was empty. Her mother had
left the encampment at early dawn.