THE MISSIONARY’S CABIN
The history of Wyoming is interwoven with that of the Indian missionary
whose paternal care had so long protected the family on Monockonok
Island. Like Zinzendorf, his life was one errand of mercy, alike to the
heathen and the believer. For years he had served as a link of union
between the savage life of the woods and the civilization of the plains.
While a comparatively young man, he had come among the Six Nations
nameless and unarmed, with his life in his hand, ready to live or die at
his post. His home was in the wilderness; sometimes he passed through
the white settlements, preached in their schoolhouses and slept in their
cabins; but it was always as a guest; his mission lay with the forest
children, and in the wilds where they dwelt was his home.
Almost the entire portion of years which had elapsed since his encounter
with Mary Derwent in the hills, he had spent among the savages that kept
possession of broad hunting grounds beyond the Wind Gap. But a movement
of the tribes toward Wyoming, where a detachment of their own people
from about Seneca Lake had been appointed to meet them in council,
filled him with anxiety for his friends in the valley, and he came back
also to watch over their safety. He knew what the settlers were ignorant
of as yet—that the Shawnees were about to unite with the Tories, whose
leader lay at Wintermoot Fort, and that great peril threatened the
inhabitants of Wyoming in this union.
This man was alone in a log-cabin which Zinzendorf had once occupied on
a curving bank of the Susquehanna, between Wilkesbarre and Monockonok
Island. His face, always sad and merciful, now bore an anxious
expression. The patient sweetness of his mouth was a little disturbed.
He was pondering over the hostile attitude threatened by the Indians
against the whites, and that subject could not be otherwise than a
painful one.
The hut was small, and but for recent repairs would have been in ruins.
It consisted only of one room. A deal-box stood in one corner, filled
with books and rolls of manuscript. Two stools and a rude table, with a
few cooking utensils, were the only remaining furniture. The missionary
sat by the table, implements for writing were before him, and the pages
of a worn Bible lay open, which, after a little while, he began to read.
It was a picture of holy thought and quiet study; but the crackling of
branches and the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted its
beautiful tranquillity.
The silvery flow of water from a spring close by was broken by the
sound; the birds fluttered away from their green nestling places in the
leaves, and a half-tamed fawn, which had been sleeping in a tuft of
fern-leaves, started up, gazed a moment on the intruder with his dark,
intelligent eye, and dashed up the river’s bank as she crossed the
threshold of the lowly dwelling.
The missionary looked up as the stranger entered, and a feeling of
astonishment mingled with the graciousness which long habit had made a
portion of his nature. He arose, and with a slight inclination of the
head placed the stool, on which he had been sitting, for her
accommodation.
The intruder bent her head in acknowledgment of the courtesy, but
remained standing. She was a woman majestic in her bearing, of
well-developed form, and somewhat above the middle height; her air was
courtly and graceful, but dashed with haughtiness approaching to
arrogance. She had probably numbered forty years; her face, though
slightly sunbrowned, bore traces of great beauty, in spite of its
haughty expression. The mouth had been accustomed to smiles in its
youth, and though an anxious frown clouded the broad forehead, it was
still beautifully fair. The missionary had spent his life amid the
aristocracy of European courts, and had passed from thence to the lowly
settlement, and to the still more remote Indian encampment; but there
was something in the appearance of this strange woman that filled him
with vague uneasiness, and he looked upon her with a sort of terror. Her
air and dress were not strictly those of any class with which he had as
yet become familiar. There was wildness mingled with the majesty of her
presence, and her rich and picturesque attire partook at once of the
court and the wigwam.
Her long, golden, and still abundant hair was wreathed in braids around
her head, and surmounted by a small coronet of gorgeous feathers. A
serpent of fine, scaly gold, the neck and back striped and variegated
with minute gems, was wreathed about the mass of braids on one side of
her head, and formed a knot of slender coils where it clasped the
coronet. There was something startlingly like vitality in these writhing
folds when the light struck them, and the jewelled head shot out from
the feathers and quivered over the pale temple with startling
abruptness. There was an asp-like glitter in the sharp, emerald eye, and
the tiny jaw seemed full of subtle venom. It was a magnificent and rare
ornament to be found in the solitude of an American forest; yet scarcely
less remarkable than the remainder of the strange woman’s apparel.
A robe of scarlet cloth, bordered with the blackest lynx fur, was girded
at the waist by a cord of twisted silk, and fell back at the shoulders
in lapels of rich black velvet. Above the fur border ran a wreath of
embroidery, partly silk, partly wampum, but most exquisitely wrought in
garlands of mountain flowers, with tiny golden serpents knotting them
together and creeping downward, as it were, to hide themselves in the
fur. It had loose, hanging sleeves, likewise lined with velvet, beneath
which the white and still rounded arm gleamed out in strong contrast.
A serpent, mate to the one on her head, but glowing with still more
costly jewels, coiled around the graceful swell of her right arm, a
little below the elbow, but its brilliancy was concealed by the drapery
of the sleeve, except when the arm was in motion. She wore elaborately
wrought moccasins lined with crimson cloth, but the embroidery was
soiled with dew, and the silken thongs with which they had been laced to
the ankle had broken loose in the rough path through which she had
evidently travelled.
The missionary stood by the table, while his visitor cast a hasty glance
around the apartment and turned her eyes keenly on his face.
“I am not mistaken,” she said, slowly withdrawing her gaze. “You are the
godly man of whom our people speak—the Indian missionary?”
The man of God bent his head in reply.
“You should be, and I suppose are, an ordained minister of the church?”
she resumed.
“I am, madam.”
His voice was deep-toned and peculiarly sweet. The woman started as it
met her ear; a gleam of unwonted expression shot over her features, and
she fixed another penetrating glance on his face, as if some long-buried
recollection had been aroused; then, satisfied with the scrutiny, she
turned her eyes away, and drawing a deep breath spoke again.
“I ask no more than this; of what church matters little. But have you
authority to perform marriages after the established law?”
“I have; but my services are seldom required. I mingle but little with
the whites of the settlement, and Indians have their peculiar forms,
which, to them, are alone binding,”
“True,” replied the woman, with a slight wave of the hand; “these forms
shall not be wanting; all the bonds of a Christian church and savage
custom will scarcely yield me security.”
She spoke as if unconscious of a second presence, and again abruptly
addressed the missionary.
“Your services are needed in the Shawnee encampment a few miles back in
the mountains. A guide shall be sent for you at the appointed time. Stay
in this place during the next twenty-four hours, when you will be
summoned.”
The missionary, though a humble man, was by no means wanting in the
dignity of a Christian gentleman. He was displeased with the arrogant
and commanding tone assumed by his singular visitor, and threw a slight
degree of reproof into his manner when he answered.
“Lady, if the welfare of a human being—if the safety of an immortal soul
can be secured by my presence, I will not hesitate to trust myself among
your people, though they come here on an errand I can never approve; but
for a less important matter I cannot promise to wait your pleasure.”
“Rash man! do you know who it is you are braving?” said the woman,
fixing her eyes sternly on his face. “If your life is utterly valueless,
delay but a moment in following the guide which I shall send, and you
shall have the martyrdom you seem to brave! Catharine Montour’s will has
never yet been disputed within twenty miles of her husband’s tent
without frightful retribution.”
The missionary started at the mention of that name, but he speedily
regained his composure, and answered her calmly and with firmness.
“Threats are powerless with me, lady. The man who places himself unarmed
and defenceless in the midst of a horde of savages can scarcely be
supposed to act against his conscience from the threat of a woman,
however stern may be her heart, and however fearful her power. Tell me
what the service is which I am required to perform, and then you shall
have my answer.”
The haughty woman moved towards the door with an angry gesture, but
returned again, and with more courtesy in her manner seated herself on
the stool which had been placed for her.
“It is but just,” she said, “that you should know the service which you
are required to perform. There is in the camp now lying beneath
Campbell’s Ledge a maiden of mixed blood, my child—my only child; from
the day that she first opened her eyes to mine in the solemn wilderness,
with nothing but savage faces around me, with no heart to sympathize
with mine, that child became a part of my own life. For years I had
loved nothing; but the tenderness almost dead in my heart broke forth
when she was born, the sweet feelings of humanity came back, and the
infant became to me an idol. In the wide world I had but one object to
love, and for the first time in a weary life affection brought happiness
to me. You may be a father; think of the child who has lain in your
bosom year after year, pure and gentle as a spring blossom, who has
wound herself around your heart-strings—think of her, when dearest and
loveliest, stolen from your bosom, and her innocent thoughts usurped by
another.”
“Forbear—in mercy forbear!” said the missionary, in a voice of agony
that for an instant silenced the woman.
Catharine looked up and saw that his eyes were full of tears; her own
face was fearfully agitated, and she went on with a degree of energy but
little in keeping with the pathos of her last broken speech.
“A white, one of my own race, came to the forest stealthily, like a
thief, and with our Indian forms, which he taught her to believe were a
bond of marriage among his people, also lured the heart of my child from
her mother. Now, I beseech you, for I see that you are kind and
feeling—I was wrong to command—come to the camp at nine to-night, for
then and there shall my child be lawfully wedded.”
“I will be there at the hour,” replied the missionary, in a voice of
deep sympathy. “Heaven forbid that I should refuse to aid in righting
the wronged, even at the peril of life.”
“My own head shall not be more sacred in the Shawnee camp than yours,”
said Catharine, with energy.
“I do not doubt it; and were it otherwise I should not shrink from a
duty. I owe an atonement for the evil opinion I had of you. A heart
which feels dishonor so keenly cannot delight in carnage and blood.”
“Can they repeat these things of me?” inquired Catharine, with a painful
smile; “they do me deep wrong. Fear not; I appear before you with clean
hands. If the heart is less pure it has sufficiently avenged itself; if
it has wronged others, they have retribution; has not the love of my
child gone forth to another? Am I not alone?”
“Lady,” said the missionary, with deep commiseration in his look and
voice, for he was moved by her energetic grief, “this is not the
language of a savage. Your speech is refined, your manner noble. Lady,
what are you?”
There are seasons when the heart will claim sympathy, spite of all
control which a will of iron may place upon it. This power was upon the
heart of Catharine Montour.
“Yes, I _will_ speak,” she muttered, raising her hand and pressing it
heavily to her eyes. The motion flung back the drapery of the sleeve,
and the light flashed full on the jewelled serpent coiled around her
arm. The missionary’s eyes fell upon it, and he sallied back against the
logs of the hut, with a death-like agony in his face.
Catharine Montour was too deeply engrossed by her own feelings to
observe the strange agitation which had so suddenly come upon the
missionary. She seated herself on the stool, and with her face buried in
her robe remained minute after minute in deep silence, gathering
strength to unlock the tumultuous secrets of her heart once more to a
mortal’s knowledge.
When she raised her face there was nothing in the appearance of her
auditor to excite attention. He still leaned against the rude wall, a
little paler than before, but otherwise betraying no emotion, save that
which a good man might be supposed to feel in the presence of a sinful
and highly gifted fellow-creature.
She caught his pitying and mournful look fixed so earnestly upon her
face as she raised it from the folds of her robe, and her eyes wavered
and sunk beneath its sorrowful intensity. There was a yearning sympathy
in his glance, which fell upon her heart like sunshine on the icy
fetters of a rivulet; it awed her proud spirit, and yet encouraged
confidence; but it was not till after his mild voice had repeated the
question—“Lady, confide in me; who and what are you?”—that she spoke.
When she did find voice it was sharp, and thrilled painfully on the ear
of the listener. The question aroused a thousand recollections that had
long slumbered in the life of this wretched woman. She writhed under it,
as if a knot of scorpions had suddenly begun to uncoil in her heart.
“What am I? It is a useless question. Who on earth can tell what he is,
or what a moment shall make him? I am that which fate has ordained for
me: Catharine Montour, the wife of Gi-en-gwa-tah, a great chief among
his people. If at any time I have known another character, it matters
little. Why should you arouse remembrances which may not be forced back
to their lethargy again? I ask no sympathy, nor seek counsel; let me
depart in peace.”
With a sorrowful and deliberate motion she arose and would have left the
cabin, but the missionary laid his hand gently on her arm and drew her
back.
“We cannot part thus,” he said. “The sinful have need of counsel, the
sorrowing of sympathy. The heart which has been long astray requires an
intercessor with the Most High.”
“And does the God whom you serve suffer any human heart to become so
depraved that it may not approach his footstool in its own behalf? Is
the immaculate purity of Jehovah endangered by the petition of the
sinful or the penitent that you offer to mediate between me and my
Creator? No! if I have sinned, the penalty has been dearly paid. If I
have sorrowed, the tears shed in solitude have fallen back on my own
heart and frozen there! I ask not intercession with the being you
worship; and I myself lack the faith which might avail me, were I weak
enough to repine over the irredeemable past. I have no hope, no
God—wherefore should I pray?”
“This hardiness and impiety is unreal. There is a God, and despite of
your haughty will and daring intellect you believe in him; aye, at this
moment, when there is denial on your lips!”
“Believe—aye, as the devils, perchance; but I do not tremble!” replied
the daring woman, with an air and voice of defiance.
The missionary fixed his eyes with stern and reproving steadiness on the
impious woman. She did not shrink from his glance, but stood up, her
eyes braving his with a forced determination, her brow locked in
defiance beneath its gorgeous coronet, and a smile of scornful
bitterness writhing her mouth. Her arms were folded over her bosom,
flushed by the reflection of her robe, and the jewelled serpent
glittered just over her heart, as if to guard it from all good
influences. She seemed like a beautiful and rebellious spirit thrust out
forever from the sanctuary of heaven.
A man less deeply read in the human heart, or less persevering in his
Christian charities, would have turned away and left her, as one utterly
irreclaimable, but the missionary was both too wise and too good thus to
relinquish the influence he had gained. There was something artificial
in the daring front and reckless impiety of the being before him, which
betrayed a strange, but not uncommon, desire to be supposed worse than
she really was.
With the ready tact of a man who has made character a study, he saw that
words of reproof or authority were unlikely to soften a heart so stern
in its mental pride, and his own kind feelings taught him the method of
reaching hers. This keen desire to learn something of her secret history
would have been surprising in a man of less comprehensive benevolence,
and even in him there was a restless anxiety of manner but little in
accordance with his usual quiet demeanor. His voice was like the
breaking up of a fountain when he spoke again.
“Catharine,” he said.
She started at the name—her arms dropped—she looked wildly in his eyes:
“Oh! I mentioned the name,” she muttered, refolding her arms and drawing
a deep breath.
“Catharine Montour, this hardihood is unreal; you are not thus
unbelieving. Has the sweet trustfulness of your childhood departed
forever? Have you no thought of those hours when the young heart is made
up of faith and dependence—when prayer and helpless love break out from
the soul, naturally as moisture exhales when the sun touches it? Nay,”
he continued, with more powerful earnestness, as he saw her eyes waver
and grow dim beneath the influence of his voice, “resist not the good
spirit, which even now is hovering about your heart, as the ring-dove
broods over its desolated nest. Hoarded thoughts of evil beget evil.
Open your heart to confidence and counsel. Confide in one who never yet
betrayed trust—one who is no stranger to sorrow, and who is too frail
himself to lack charity for the sins of others. I beseech you to tell
me, are you not of English birth?”
Tears, large and mournful tears, stood in Catharine Montour’s eyes. She
was once more subdued and humble as an infant. A golden chord had been
touched in her memory, and every heart-string vibrated to the music of
other years. She sat down and opened her history to that strange man
abruptly, and as one under the influence of a dream.
“Yes, I _was_ born in England,” she said; “born in a place so beautiful
that any human being might be happy from the mere influence of its
verdant and tranquil quietness. No traveller ever passed through that
village without stopping to admire its verdant and secluded
tranquillity. Back from the church stood the parsonage, an irregular old
building, surrounded by a grove of magnificent oaks, through which its
pointed roof and tall chimneys alone could be seen from the village. A
tribe of rooks dwelt in the oaks, and a whole bevy of wrens came and
built their nests in the vines. With my earliest recollection comes the
soft chirp of the nestlings under my window, and the carolling song
which broke up from the larks when they left the long grass in the
graveyard, where they nested during the summer nights.
“My father was rector of the parish, the younger son of a noble family.
He had a small, independent fortune, which allowed him to distribute the
income from his living among the poor of the village. My mother was a
gentle creature, of refined and delicate, but not comprehensive, mind.
She loved my father, and next to him, or rather as a portion of himself,
me. As a child, I was passionate and wayward, but warm of heart,
forgiving and generous. My spirit brooked no control; but my indulgent
father and sweet mother could see nothing more dangerous than a quick
intellect and over-abundant healthfulness in the capricious tyranny of
my disposition. I was passionately fond of my mother, and when she
sometimes stole to my bedside and hushed me to sleep with her soft
kisses and pleasant voice I would promise in my innermost heart never to
grieve her again; yet the next day I experienced a kind of pleasure in
bringing the tears to her gentle eyes by some wayward expression of
obstinacy or dislike.”