HOUSEHOLD TALK
The brightness of a sunset in early May settled on Monockonok Island. It
was now the spring of 1778—that year so eventful in the annals of
Wyoming—but as yet there was no warning of the fell tragedy which
afterwards desolated that beautiful spot.
In the tidy kitchen of their little cabin Mother Derwent was seated at
her work, while her two granddaughters sat by. The old lady’s wheel was
flying round with a pleasant hum, and the placid expression of her
wrinkled face betrayed thoughts that had gone back to pleasant memories
of the past. Mary Derwent sat by the window, a Bible lay open on her
lap, from which she had been reading loud; and the spring breeze
fluttered through the casement, making restless lights on her golden
hair, and rustling with a musical sound among the worn leaves of the
sacred volume. The past year had somewhat changed Mary; her look of
patient sorrow had given place to one of undisturbed resignation; those
soft blue eyes had cleared themselves from every mist, and if there was
no joyousness in their depths, neither was there a trace of human
grief—they were pure and serene as violets that have caught their hue by
looking up to heaven.
On a low stool at her feet sat her sister Jane, occupied with some
feminine needlework; but her skill seemed often at fault, and she would
put her work on Mary’s lap, with pretty childish petulance, asking for
help. Mary would look up from her reading, take the work, and by a few
dexterous touches of her nimble fingers, set it once more in order; then
restore it with a kind smile to the beautiful girl, whose mind seemed
diverted by pleasant fancies from her task oftener than was at all
compatible with its progress.
Jane, too, looked happier and more quiet, the loveliness of her face was
no longer disfigured by the discontent which had formerly brooded over
it. The holy influence of Mary’s life had wrought its effect on her
wavering character. The pure soul of one sister had buoyed up the weak
girlishness of the other; from the calm strength of her sister’s mind
Jane caught rays of light, full of serenity and trustfulness. With no
tempter by, and good influences all around her, Jane had thrown off much
that had been reprehensible in her character, and was now more
reasonable and considerate than she had ever been in her life.
The afternoon wore on, and Jane hovered restlessly over her work, like a
bird longing to forsake its nest for the free air, ever and again
glancing towards the winding road of the Kingston shore, which was
visible from the window.
“There, Mary,” she said, at length, unable longer to control her
impatience, “I have almost finished it. Don’t you think I might as well
leave off till to-morrow—my fingers do ache so?”
“You have been very industrious this afternoon,” Mary said smiling. “I
really think you have earned your liberty.”
“Besides,” said Jane, “it is almost sundown.”
“And then?”
The color spread over Jane’s forehead, and she laid her head on Mary’s
knee, twisting her apron-strings with girlish modesty, born of real
love, which she now really felt for her affianced husband, though she
replied as if her sister had spoken plainly.
“Yes; Edward Clark is coming. Oh, Mary——” She broke off abruptly, and
turned her face still more away, while the color deepened on her cheek.
“What is it, Janey?”
“He is coming, because—that is, I promised——”
“Well—tell me what you promised.”
Grandmother Derwent’s wheel hummed on, and she heard nothing of their
conversation.
“When he was here Sunday,” continued Jane, with that desperate haste
with which one rushes into a difficult revelation, “he made me promise
to name the day the very next time he came, and he will be here in an
hour.”
The pulses of Mary Derwent’s heart grew faint and tremulous, but she
forced back the rising emotion, her face grew clear as moonlight, and
when she answered, her voice was soft, but with a touch of sadness in
it.
“And is that so difficult?” she asked. “Have you not learned by this
time what will make your chief happiness?”
“Yes, yes, and I have to thank you for it, Mary. You have taught me to
be a better girl; I never will be wayward again—indeed I won’t. But I
can’t make up my mind to set the time—I know I can’t.”
Mary laid her hand caressingly upon her white forehead, and brushed back
the long tresses from it.
“When can you be ready—how long will it take?”
“Oh, I can be all ready by July,” returned Jane, eagerly; then checking
herself, she added, “at least I think so. I want to whiten another web
of cloth, and Aunt Polly Carter has promised me a rag carpet, though,
when it comes to the point, I don’t believe she can find it in her heart
to give one away.”
“Then you must tell Edward that you will be ready in July,” Mary said,
seriously, not heeding the petty details to which her sister’s mind had
wandered. “And oh, remember, Jane, this is one of the most serious
moments in your life. Do not leave a single consideration unweighed
before you make this decision. It is an important thing to do, my
sister.”
“Don’t look so sober and talk so gravely—please don’t! I have thought
about it a great deal—I know I shall be happy as—as——”
She paused again, but this time Mary made no effort to urge her
completion of the sentence. She sat in dreamy silence, with her eyes
bent upon the rushing waters. Jane went on with an effort, and a great
seriousness came over her, when she added:
“As Edward Clark’s wife.”
Even her volatile nature was moved by the enunciation of those solemn
words which fell—oh, with such desolation—on Mary’s ear. For many
moments Jane sat in silence, hiding her face in the folds of her
sister’s dress.
Suddenly the sound of oars broke up through the stillness, and Jane
started to her feet with a bustle that roused Grandmother Derwent from
her reverie.
“I know who’s coming,” she said; “there’s only one pair of oars on the
river that can make Janey jump so.”
Jane was hastening out of the room, but she upset her basket, and was
forced to pause and collect its scattered contents, so that, blushing
crimson, she had the full benefit of the old lady’s speech.
“It was rather different when Walter Butler used to come. Jane ain’t the
same creetur she was in them days.”
“Oh, Grandmother, you are too bad!” exclaimed the poor girl, letting her
basket fall, fairly running out of her room, though not quick enough to
escape the audible tone in which the good woman continued her
reflections.
“Well, it’s the truth; she’s worth a hundred times what she was then,
and does double the work. I like Edward Clark; nobody need be any more
industrious than he is, and if his wife ain’t as happy as the day is
long, it’ll be her own fault, I am sure of that.”
Jane had escaped, and Mary, after quietly putting aside the disordered
work, threw a light shawl over her head, and went out. She was in no
mood to witness the oppressive happiness of those two young beings, so
full of life, and strength, and hope. She felt the need of solitude, and
stole quietly out to the humble grave beneath the cedar-tree, which had
been from childhood her favorite haunt for thought and prayer when these
melancholy feelings came over her.
The gorgeousness of the sunset fell around her, and sitting down by her
father’s grave, Mary’s heart went up in a silent prayer for strength and
resignation. When she lifted her head again, she saw the missionary
standing a little way off, regarding her with the beaming affection
which his face always wore when he looked upon her.
Mary went towards him without the slightest surprise or embarrassment,
and laid her hand in his, which closed over it with a mute caress.
“I thought you would come yesterday,” she said, leading him to their
accustomed seat under the shadow of the trees, “but I was disappointed.”
“I was occupied, my child, and had not a moment to spare, but I thought
of you a great deal, and felt that you would be expecting me. Have you
been well—is all at rest within? You were praying, I think, child, when
I came up.”
“But not in grief,” Mary replied, with heavenly sadness; “only I am a
weak creature and need to pray more than other people; if I don’t,
strange thoughts are sure to crowd into my heart and I get quite
frightened at myself.”
“Poor child!” returned the missionary; “poor chosen lamb, how little you
know of yourself! And is all well at home—Janey?”
“She is well—oh, sir, she is going to be married very soon.” Mary
uttered the words untremulously, and if the missionary noted the flutter
at her heart he made no comment.
“I am glad,” he said; “I never felt that she was really safe; young
Butler may return at any time, but, once married to Edward, we need have
no fear.”
“She will be happy,” said Mary, “very happy; he loves her and she loves
him, you do not know how much! She is not so childish now—she grows
quite womanly in her ways, and works till grandma does nothing but boast
of her industry. This is all very pleasant and our home is so quiet now,
one can rest in it.”
“And you, Mary, what are you going to do?”
Mary looked startled—what was she to do? The thought had so seldom
presented itself that she was astonished by its strangeness.
“Do?” she repeated. “Live with grandma; what else can I do?”
“But the time will come when she will no longer need your care, or feel
your affection.”
“Then I shall stay with Jane—no, I think that could never be, at any
rate, for a long time; but I have you; perhaps, if grandmother left me,
you would not mind it if I came to live with you.”
“What! in the wilderness?”
“Yes, I love the woods best.”
“An angel might love you for a companion,” murmured the missionary; then
he added, aloud, “but have you never thought of a more extended field of
usefulness? Is there nothing higher for which your mind and acquirements
fit you?”
“No, never; but it was wrong of me,” she said, reproachfully. “I am
afraid I have been very idle—what must I do? Is there anything I can
do?”
“You have left nothing undone, my child; you have been everything to
your grandmother, a guardian angel to your sister. But the time may come
when they will not need you.”
“Then I shall come and ask what I am to do—you will teach me and help
me, I know that well enough.”
“Always, child, darling, always!”
Mary clasped her hand over his again, and they stood, side by side,
looking across the waters into the fading glory of the sunset. The
crimson and gold died slowly away, the sombre tints of twilight
struggled with the clear blue of the evening sky, a few stars came out
and trembled on the horizon, as if eager to wing their flight towards
the pale moon that had been riding the heavens a full hour, looking like
a faded cloud amid the brightness of the setting sun.
The plash of oars disturbed them as they stood there. Mary looked
quickly around.
“It cannot be Edward going so soon,” she said; “I did not know that any
one else was on the island.”
There was the soft tread of moccasins on the grass, and before either
could move, Tahmeroo, the Shawnee chief’s daughter, was standing before
them.
Mary uttered an exclamation of joy and surprise; the Indian girl threw
herself forward, as if to kneel at Mary’s feet, but the gentle girl
stretched forth her arms and drew the young Indian to her bosom with a
fervent embrace. The missionary stood silent and pale during that
prolonged caress, his hand extended almost as if he would have repulsed
the savage and forced Mary from her clinging arms.
“I began to think you would never return,” murmured the deformed, when
the Indian girl raised her head; “I am so glad to see you once more!”
“Yes, it is many, many moons; but Tahmeroo has never forgotten the young
pale face. Tahmeroo has great trouble, and she comes to you for help, to
you and this good prophet,” she continued, turning toward the
missionary.
“What can we do for you?” Mary asked.
“Much—the white medicine is very powerful; he will help me, and you,
too, you will not send Tahmeroo away miserable, and without some hope of
seeing her lord again.”
The missionary looked at her earnestly, and the stern pallor of his face
softened. That short year had wrought a great change in the poor girl.
The habitual brown of her cheek had given place to a sickly pallor, her
temples were hollow and sunken, and her black eyes blazed with a strange
brilliancy, which betrayed the consuming fever within. Her dress looked
travel-stained, and there was a carelessness about her attire widely at
variance with the picturesque neatness which had formerly characterized
her.
The unrest of the heart was in her face, painful always to remark in the
young, doubly painful when breaking through the wild beauty of that
youthful savage. She understood the impression which her altered
lineaments made upon her observers, and said, with a forced smile:
“Tahmeroo is a girl no longer; sorrow has forced the freshness out of
her heart, as the thunder tempest beats the breath out of the wild
rose.”
“What has happened to you?” questioned Mary. “Your mother, your noble
mother?”
The missionary started, and echoed the words “Your mother?”
“Catharine Montour is well, though she may be pining for her child; but
he, my husband, they have taken him prisoner; Tahmeroo has not seen him
for months; they will kill him, perhaps, before she can reach the spot.
No one would help save him, not even my mother, so I fled hither.”
“I had heard of this,” whispered the missionary; “he was taken nearly a
year since, and put in prison as a spy.”
“A spy!” repeated Tahmeroo, overhearing the last word; “he serves his
king. Those that have captured him are miserable rebels. But let them
beware—it is Gi-en-gwa-tah’s son that they have imprisoned; the children
of Queen Esther never forget nor forgive.”
Her face darkened with passion, and would have been absolutely
forbidding, had not womanly tenderness for her husband softened its
hardness.
“Shame, Tahmeroo!” exclaimed the missionary. “You must know that such
thoughts are wrong; your mother has taught you that they offend the
Great Spirit.”
“Forgive me, oh forgive Tahmeroo!” she cried, throwing herself on the
ground at his feet, and clasping his knees with her wasted arms. The
missionary struggled for an instant, as if her touch were unpleasant to
him, but she held him firmly. “Tahmeroo is very wretched, oh speak some
comfort to her—a good prophet finds consolation for every one, Catharine
Montour says—oh, take pity on her child.”
The missionary raised her gently, and for the first time held her hand
firmly in his clasp, though his form shook with emotion. Mary’s tears
were falling like gentle rain as she bent over the suffering girl, and
the missionary placed Tahmeroo’s head upon her bosom, saying, softly:
“Ay, comfort her, little one; it is but right!”
Tahmeroo remained motionless for many moments; at length she raised her
head, and wiping away the teardrops with her long black hair, strove to
relate her story more connectedly.
“I came all the way from Seneca Lake to find you,” she said. “No one
could help me—our great medicine men could only pity me when asked for
counsel. My father had power to revenge his loss, but that did not bring
him back. Catharine, my mother, who was once brave as a lion when
Tahmeroo was wronged, even in a little thing, now looked on with heavy
eyes, and when I pleaded with her, said—oh, with such cruel stillness:
‘It is better thus, my child; his presence here must ever be a curse to
me and mine.’ Such words stung me like wasps—my heart burned—I
remembered you, a sweet medicine spirit, whom even our enemies love. I
left my grandmother’s lodge in the night, caught a horse, and fled.”
“And you will,” she said in conclusion, while the tears of her spent
gust of passion rolled slowly down her cheeks; “you will help the Indian
girl, for you are good and powerful. When you ask, his enemies will give
him up.”
“My poor child!” returned the missionary; “I can see no way to help
you.”
“If they will only let her see her husband once more, Tahmeroo would be
a slave to his enemies.”
“But he is in prison; you cannot get near him.”
“But the white prophet will ask, and the prison door will be left open,
that Tahmeroo may steal in.”
“Yes, I will write to General Schuyler; he will hardly refuse to let a
wife see her husband.”
Tahmeroo fell to kissing his hands, while the tears in her eyes flashed
like diamonds.
“You will write. They will take pity on me, and let me hear him speak.”
“But they will not let you remain with him.”
“But I will stay in sight of his prison; I will sell myself as a
slave—do anything, if they will only let me stay near him.”
The missionary sat down upon the ground, and taking from his coat the
little case of writing materials which he always carried about him wrote
a few lines and gave them to Tahmeroo.
“Read them,” he said; “I can do nothing more.”
“It is enough, enough! Bless you, bless you!” exclaimed Tahmeroo,
seizing his hand and pressing it to her lips. The missionary withdrew it
gently and rose to his feet.
“And when do you start?” Mary asked.
“Before the evening stars look into the water Tahmeroo will be far
away.”
“Come home with me first, and get some food and rest,” Mary urged,
taking her hand.
“Tahmeroo has no need of food and rest.” She laid one hand on her heart,
and finished the sentence with a mournful bend of the head.
“Do not go to-night—stay with me.”
“The pale medicine is very kind, and Tahmeroo loves her, but she must
go; some of her father’s warriors wait near the old camping-ground, and
will show her the way.”
“But you must not seek your husband in that dress. The Shawnees are
enemies to the people you seek; to go in their costume would be
dangerous. Mary, see to this; one of your sister Jane’s dresses will
answer. Take the poor stranger into the cabin and prepare her for the
journey.”
With gentle hospitality Mary led the young Indian away. Fortunately, the
old lady had gone down to the spring to dampen some cloth she was
whitening there, and, as we have seen, Jane was rambling upon the
opposite shore with her lover.
The missionary was right, Jane’s dresses fitted Tahmeroo very neatly,
and fifteen minutes after she entered the little bedroom, arrayed in her
own gorgeous raiment, she came forth as pretty a country girl as one
would wish to see; carrying her own clothes tied up in a little bundle,
for she could not be persuaded to leave them behind.
“But you will come back again,” said Mary, with tears in her eyes, as
they once more stood by the missionary under the cedars.
“Or sleep,” said Tahmeroo, pointing to the earth with a significant
gesture; “for when the corn shoots green you will call for help, and
Tahmeroo will keep her ears open.”
“But the distance is great—you will perish on the way.”
“Farewell! Tahmeroo must follow her heart. She has her rifle, and knows
how to shoot. Son of the Great Spirit, lay your hand once more upon her
head; it will give me courage.”
She bowed her head before the missionary, and he lifted his eyes to
heaven, full of devout pity for that poor creature, who had been so
hardly tried.
“Farewell!”
Without a word more, Tahmeroo turned from the spot, sprang into her
canoe, and pushed it out of the cove, a few vigorous strokes of her
lithe arms sending it far up the river.
Once she looked back and waved her hand; Mary saw the signal through her
blinding tears, and waved her shawl in return. The Indian girl did not
cast another glance towards them; but bending all her energies to the
task kept her little craft on its course up the stream.
Mary and the missionary stood watching her until a bend in the shore
shut the canoe from sight; then they turned and walked slowly towards
the house, inexpressibly moved by the sight of that poor girl’s
wretchedness and fortitude.