THE CHERRY-TREE SPRING
Mary Derwent returned home with a mournful determination to seek the
confidence of her sister—to inform her frankly of the knowledge she had
obtained, and, if possible, to save her from, the consequences of her
unprincipled encouragement of Walter Butler, when her faith was pledged
to another.
She found Edward Clark and her sister seated by the only glazed window
of the cabin, conversing cordially as usual. But, as the evening wore
on, she observed that Jane grew petulant and restless. Two or three
times she went to the door, looked out hurriedly, and returned without
any obvious reason. She would not sit down by Clark again, but when he
addressed her, answered him impatiently, as if his society had all at
once become irksome.
Once Edward made some allusion to a farm which his father had promised
to give him when he settled for life, and spoke of the kind of house he
intended to build, asking Jane’s opinion.
She answered abruptly that she was tired of farming and hard work of all
kinds; indeed, she hoped the time would come when she need not be
obliged to live in a log-house, and spoil her hands by washing dishes
from morning till night.
Young Clark looked a little surprised at this sudden outbreak of
discontent, but laughingly told the spoiled beauty that she should have
a two-story frame house, with glass windows in every room when his ship
came in from the moon, and the Indians were all driven from Wyoming.
Jane was about to return some saucy reply, but that instant a shrill
whistle came up from the river, which brought a torrent of crimson into
her face, and she looked wistfully at the door without daring to
approach it.
Mary understood it all, and her pure heart ached within her. She blushed
even more deeply than her sister; and when Jane attempted to speak
carelessly of night birds which roosted on the island, her face grew
troubled, like that of an angel who sees a beloved companion ready to
fall.
Clark observed this embarrassment without suspecting its cause, while
Mother Derwent droned on with her flax-wheel, and talked about the
comfort of living upon an island where the wolves could only bark at you
from the opposite shore, thus unconsciously aiding in her
granddaughter’s deception.
After a time, Clark mentioned Walter Butler, and observed that he had
seen him on the river that day; something in Jane’s manner seemed to
excite his attention that moment, for he asked, a little suspiciously,
if the young Tory had landed on the island.
Jane crimsoned to the temples again, but answered promptly, that she had
not seen Mr. Butler in a week—that was, since her birthday.
This direct falsehood smote Mary to the heart; tears swelled to her eyes
till she could hardly discern the beautiful face of her sister through
the mist.
Filled with these unquiet thoughts, Mary went to her little bedroom,
that she might weep and pray alone. As she closed the door, her sister
was asking Edward Clark how far it was from Wyoming to Canada, and if
all the handsome ladies there wore silk dresses and had hired people to
wait on them?
Mary closed the door and went to bed, but she could not sleep; for the
first time, the sweet voice of her sister, as it sounded through the
thin partition, brought disquiet to her affectionate heart. She heard
Edward Clark leave the house about ten o’clock, but it was more than an
hour before Jane came to bed. When, at length, she felt the familiar
touch of her cheek, it was heated with feverish thought. The deformed
lay within her sister’s arms, apparently asleep, but deliberating on the
most effectual method of opening the subject which lay so heavily on her
heart, when that whistle which had haunted her footsteps continually
since the night before again sounded from the cove with a shrillness
that cut to her heart like a dagger.
Jane caught her breath, rose suddenly to her elbow, and listened, while
her frame trembled till it shook the bed. After a few minutes, during
which the whistle sounded sharply again, she crept softly from the bed,
put on her clothes, and stole from the house. Mary was so shocked and
confounded that it was several minutes before she could collect her
thoughts sufficiently to decide what course to pursue. At last she
arose, and hastily dressing herself, ran down to the cove.
The trees hung in leafy quiet over the green sward, and the moonbeams
shed their radiance on the waters as they rippled against the bank; no
human being was in sight, but a strange canoe lay rocking at its mooring
by the side of her own, and the murmur of distant voices came faintly
from the direction of a spring which supplied the household with water.
The moonlight lay full on the overhanging trees as Mary approached, and,
in the stillness, the voices she had heard became each moment more
distinct. She paused in the shadow which fell across the footpath where
it curved down into the little hollow. Her sister. Jane, was sitting on
a rock just within the moonlight, which flickered through the boughs
above, and by her side, with her hand in his, was Walter Butler.
He was speaking, and Mary’s heart swelled with indignation as she
listened to his words.
“Take your choice,” he said, “remain here and become the wife, the
drudge, of Edward Clark—condemn these beautiful hands to perpetual toil;
milk his cows, cook for his workmen, be content with the reward of a
homespun dress, now and then, to set off this form, which a king might
look upon with admiration; accept this miserable life if you choose. But
do not pass by the offer I make, without thought; for it is wealth,
ease, luxury, in fact everything that beauty craves, against neglect and
drudgery. I offer the heart of a man who knows how to estimate your
beauty—who will deck it in gold and robe it in silks—who will provide
servants to do your bidding, and surround you with such elegance as you
never dreamed of. It is no idle promise, Jane, for I have become rich,
very rich, independent of my father. What are you crying for? can I
offer more than this?”
“Oh, no,” replied the infatuated girl; “I was thinking of poor old
grandma—dear, dear Mary; what will they do when I am gone—what will
Edward Clark think of me?”
“Edward Clark again! and that old woman and selfish girl who have made
you a slave. Will you never stop whimpering about them?—have I not
promised that you shall send them money?”
“They would not take it; I am sure they would not touch a cent of your
money. Indeed, I cannot help feeling bad when I think of leaving them in
this manner. When we are married you will bring me back sometimes, won’t
you?”
“Yes, when we are married I will certainly bring you to see them; have
no fear of that. It is now past twelve, and we must be many miles hence
before daybreak. Come, dry these tears and go with me to the canoe—we
are losing time—what good is there in all these tears? they only spoil
your beauty; come, come.”
As Butler spoke, he placed his arm round the weeping girl and drew her,
with some violence, along the footpath; but they had scarcely reached
the bend which led into the open moonlight when Mary Derwent stood in
the way.
“The little Hunchback, by all the furies!” exclaimed Butler, girding the
waist of his companion with a firm arm and attempting to drag her
forward, though she struggled in his embrace, and with tears and sobs
entreated him to free her.
“Jane—sister! you will not go with this wicked man; listen to me before
you take this dreadful step! Ask him where he obtained the money which
he but now boasted of. Jane, I have never, in the whole course of my
life, told you a falsehood. Believe me now—this wicked man dares not
deny what I say. He is another woman’s husband! I heard him make the
promise—I saw him on his way to perform that promise! Jane, it is a
married man for whom you were about to forsake us. Let him deny it if he
dare.”
“Out of my path, lying imp! before I trample your shapeless carcass
under my feet!” cried Butler, through his shut teeth.
But the undaunted girl kept her station, and her stately voice told how
little effect his taunt on her deformity had made.
“I have told no lie,” she exclaimed boldly, “and you dare not accuse me
of it. Last evening I heard all that passed between you and the strange
white woman who lives among the Shawnees. Jane, look in that face. Is
there no guilt there?”
“You do not believe this,” said Butler, still attempting to draw the
wretched girl away.
“Yes, I do!” cried Jane, with sudden vehemence, and leaping from his
grasp she flung her arms around Mary where she stood, and urged his
departure with a degree of energy that he could no longer contend
against. Baffled and full of rage, he loaded them both with bitter
imprecations, and pushed out into the stream. Locked in each other’s
arms, the sisters saw him depart; one shedding tears of penitence and
shame, the other full of thanksgiving.
As they stood thus, unable to speak from excess of feeling, the young
vines were torn apart just above them, a pair of glittering eyes looked
through, and a voice that made them cling closer to each other broke
upon the night, sharp and wild as the cry of an angry bird.
“Look up, that I may see the pale face that comes between Tahmeroo and
her love!”
With a wild bound that tore the vines before her into shreds, Tahmeroo
leaped down among the loose rocks, and seizing Jane Derwent by the
shoulder, dragged her up the path into the moonlight; for the clouds
that had tented her wedding with their gloom were swept away now,
leaving the sky clear, full of stars, and pearly with the glow of a full
moon.
Jane Derwent shrunk and cowered under those flashing eyes. She was
forced to her knees among the stones, and held there, while Tahmeroo
perused her face, lineament by lineament, as if it had been a book in
which her own destiny was written. A fierce, angry fire burned in those
black eyes, and that mouth, so beautiful when it smiled, writhed and
trembled with terror, scorn, and bitter, bitter hate. She clutched her
hand on the poor girl’s shoulder till its nails penetrated the skin;
with the other hand she groped at her girdle, and drew a knife from its
glittering sheath at her side; for this remnant of her savage dress she
still retained.
Jane crouched down to the earth, shielding herself with both uplifted
hands; her shrieks rang out, one upon another, till the opposite rocks
echoed them back like demons.
This terror exasperated the young Indian to still keener madness. She
drew back the knife with a force that lifted her clear of the form
grovelling at her feet, the next instant it would have been buried in
the white neck—but Mary Derwent sprang upon her, seized the uplifted arm
and dragged it downward.
“Would you kill her? This is murder—she has never wronged you!”
Tahmeroo’s rage broke fearfully over the gentle girl as she clung to her
arm; for one instant it seemed checked by the agony of that lovely face;
but another cry from Jane brought the fury back; her eyes rained fire;
she tore her arm from the grasp of those poor little hands; again the
knife quivered on high—again she drew back to give a sure blow.
But a stronger arm than Mary’s grasped her now. The knife was torn from
her with a force that sent her reeling down the bank—its blade flashed
over her, struck with a sharp clink against the stones, rebounded and
plunged into the spring, sending up a storm of diamonds as it fell.
“Tahmeroo—woman—squaw—how dare you touch this girl!”
Butler lifted Jane from the earth as he spoke, and holding her with one
arm, thus confronted his young wife, as she rose from the stones-where
he had dashed her.
She could not speak; her face was blanched; specks of foam settled on
her marble lips; her eyes were lurid with smouldering fire, and all her
limbs quivered like those of a dying animal.
At last her voice broke forth.
“You have struck Tahmeroo, and for her.”
[Illustration: “Tahmeroo—woman—squaw—how dare you touch this girl!” said
Butler.]
Something more than anger spoke in that voice—it had the dull hollow
sound of desolation.
“Squaw—traitoress—half-breed!—go back to your wigwam before I lay you
dead at the girl’s feet!”
The Indian girl withered under this fiendish speech; she fell forward,
grovelling, with her face to the earth, and lay there like a drift of
autumn leaves, through which the wind is moaning. Her lamentations broke
forth in the Indian tongue, but the tones were enough to win tears from
marble.
Mary Derwent knelt down and took the drooping head upon her lap; the
anguish in that face as it was turned to the moonlight went to her
gentle soul.
“Oh, me! you have killed her; cruel, cruel man!” she said, lifting her
eyes to the lowering face of Butler, who was striving to reassure Jane
Derwent, passing by the sufferings of his wife with reckless scorn. “She
cannot speak; every breath is a moan.”
“Let her rest, then; no one wants her to speak, the young tigress! My
poor Jane, the dagger was quivering over you when I came up. I shudder
to think what might have happened but for your cries; had I been a
little farther off, your cries could not have reached me, and I should
have lost you eternally. Look up, dear one, now that I have saved your
life it is mine, all mine.”
Tahmeroo evidently heard these words; she struggled to get up, but sank
back again, moaning out: “No, no, Tahmeroo is his wife!”
“You hear,” said Mary Derwent, looking up at her sister, who, still
trembling with terror, clung to young Butler with all her strength, and
seemed soothed by his expressions of tender interest. “This poor girl is
his wife, his cruel words are killing her. Leave his arms, sister; stand
up alone, and look upon the woman you have both wronged, asking God to
forgive you!”
“Come, come, with me now. Let the crooked little witch preach on. You
are not safe here—the moment I leave you, this pretty fiend will find
her knife again. She will not let you live a week. See how your sister
tends her as if she, not you, had been hurt! Leave them together, sweet
one; we can reach the canoe before they miss us. I shall leave Wyoming
at once. Horses are ready for us down at Aunt Polly’s tavern; before
daylight we shall reach the Blue Mountains.”
Butler whispered these words into Jane Derwent’s ear, drawing her down
to his side as he spoke, and enforcing his entreaties with covert
caresses.
Half overcome with terror, half with these entreaties, the unhappy girl
yielded herself to the power of his arm, and they both fled towards the
shore.