THE DOUBLE WEDDING
In a few hours after Aunt Polly’s return home, the missionary came to
the tavern, looking more haggard than he had ever appeared before. He
inquired in a tremulous voice after Mary, and when he found her lying
pale and exhausted on Aunt Polly’s bed, but with an expression of
sublime thankfulness on her face, the tears absolutely swelled into his
eyes.
“Are you ill—are you hurt?” inquired the young girl, reaching forth her
hand.
He shook his head mournfully.
“And the lady—that beautiful white queen—did you find her at last? I was
almost sure that she passed me as I ran towards the river; but you could
not believe it. Oh, tell me, did you hear nothing about her or the
Indian girl?”
“I saw them both; one is unhurt, the other——”
“The other—not her, not her! Oh, do not tell me that she has come to
harm!”
“I found her wounded—not mortally, I hope and believe; but she was
forced from me while insensible, and carried away by the savages; but
God is merciful, my child, and she has learned to trust in Him.”
Mary had turned her face on the pillow, and was weeping bitterly.
“Mary, my child, be comforted.”
His voice thrilled her soul with its sorrowful tenderness.
“My child! Oh, that is a sweet, holy word. She called me her child in
the same way, and my heart trembled within me, as it does now.”
The missionary stretched forth his arms, as if to gather the gentle girl
to his bosom, but checked himself with an effort that shook his whole
frame, and seating himself by the bed, began to talk hopefully to her.
“You are safe here, at least for the present,” he said. “Young Butler
has taken this house under his protection from some kindness to the
landlady; but your sister Jane will endanger everything. Clark has
escaped to Wilkesbarre; he must not rest there—Butler would burn every
house in the village to reach him. Tell your sister to be in readiness
for instant flight. I will seek for Edward Clark, bring him here, and
perform the marriage ceremony, that they can depart in company, and join
the unhappy fugitives that are now in the mountains.”
Mary arose at once.
“We will be ready,” she said, with quiet firmness.
“No, not you, or the old lady; for you, there is no danger.”
“But my sister?”
“She will be with her husband, and I have need of you.”
A faint flush rose to Mary’s cheek. Spite of danger and death, her heart
would betray its secret in that delicate color.
“I have great need of you, for we must seek out that strange lady
together.”
Her eyes brightened.
“Seek her? can we ever hope to know who she is, and why she affects
every one so strangely?”
“Yes. You shall learn everything soon, Mary—only be patient and trust in
me a little longer. Now, farewell for an hour or so. Tell Jane to have
all things in readiness against my return.”
“We will obey you,” she replied; and without speaking to the rest, he
left the house.
When Aunt Polly heard the object of his visit she was greatly excited.
If it were dangerous for an individual to remain single in such perilous
times, she thought, for her part, that one person was just as much to be
considered as another.
She wasn’t so certain of her house being kept over her head, and if her
visitors couldn’t feel safe without getting married, she certainly
should be scared out of her seven senses. Just as if Butler wouldn’t
have as much spite against any other single woman as Jane
Derwent—indeed!
Sim, who had just come from the barn, where he had bountifully provided
for General Washington, heard the latter part of this speech with some
dismay, but recovered himself immediately, and signified that he was
ready to stand up to the mark whenever Miss Carter spoke the word.
Directly there was such a rummaging in the old chest of drawers,
upstairs, as hadn’t been known since they first held that setting out.
Half a dozen old silk dresses were taken out and tried on; a new pair of
morocco shoes were fitted over the fine homespun stockings, provided for
this interesting occasion thirty years before, and, after a reasonable
delay, the energetic spinster made her appearance clothed in a light
green silk, with a waist three inches long under the arms, and a skirt
gored like an umbrella cover. The dainty fashion with which she entered
the room where Jane Derwent sat, in her soiled and dreary-looking white
dress, would have made even the missionary smile, had he been there,
heavy as his heart was.
“I calkerlate they won’t find us back’ards in getting ready, Jane,” she
observed, seating herself with great dignity; “you don’t happen to know
if Mr. White has gone upstairs—do ye?”
Here Sim appeared at the door, with his best homespun coat on, and a
broad ruffle, plaited by Miss Polly’s own fingers, fluttering from his
bosom like a fan.
Aunt Polly rewarded this prompt devotion with an approving nod, settled
the skirt of her dress, and observed to Jane that the minister seemed to
be a long time in coming.
Jane answered with a faint smile that deepened to a look of sorrowful
delight as she saw Edward Clark and the missionary coming through the
door-yard gate. Mrs. Derwent and Mary came in, and a brief ceremony
united the couple whose wedding had been so fearfully disturbed the day
before.
Then Aunt Polly arose, and observed to the minister that, seeing as
everything was so unsartin in wartime, he might as well kill two birds
with one stone.
The missionary was too much troubled for a smile, but gravely performed
the required ceremony which made Miss Polly Carter Mrs. Simon White, and
placed that inestimable lady on the pinnacle of human felicity, even in
that region of death and sorrow.
Two horses had been provided for Clark and his bride, and within half an
hour after their marriage they were on their route to the mountains,
over which half the inhabitants of the valley were wandering, houseless,
wretched, and desolate, soul and body.
Aunt Polly, whose fears had entirely left her after she became Mrs.
White, insisted upon supplying Jane with a warm shawl and a homespun
dress, with a pillow-case full of biscuits, dried beef, and doughnuts.
Indeed, that little ceremony had so completely opened her heart that she
made no objections when the missionary proposed to fill a flour-bag with
similar food, which he would place upon the back of General Washington,
and himself convey to the mountains, for without such help he knew well
that starvation must fall upon the unhappy fugitives.
A few hours after, the newly married couple and the missionary were deep
in the Pocono Mountains—the young people flying for their lives, the
minister eager to carry help to those who were ready to perish. It was
after dark when they came upon the great body of fugitives, and oh! it
was a terrible sight! More than a hundred women and children, with but
one man to guide them, were struggling up the steep ascent of the hills,
some pausing to look upon the valley they had left, which their burning
homes made a wilderness of fire, others rushing wildly forward towards
the gloomy swamp where so many were to perish, afraid to look behind
them lest some savage might spring from the thicket and snatch the
little children from their arms. Women, so young in widowhood that they
could not yet realize their loneliness, would turn with vague hope to
see if the beloved one was not following them into the wilderness. Old
women, more helpless than the little ones, would toil up those steep
ascents with uncomplaining patience.
Among the group came a mother carrying a lifeless infant in her arms,
where it had died against her bosom. She could not stay behind long
enough to dig a grave for the little one, and so folded the precious
clay to her heart and toiled onward. These wretched women had fled from
their burning homes without time for preparation; most of them were
without food, and now the pangs of hunger gnawed away the little
strength that terror had left to them. One by one the faint and the
feeble dropped off and were left to perish. Children wandered away into
the swampy grounds, and never came forth again. Old people sat down
patiently on the rocks and fallen trees, and saw themselves abandoned
without complaint.
As the missionary and his companions penetrated the mountains, they
found these wretched beings perishing in their path. The minister raised
them up, fed them from his stores of food, and let them ride, by turns,
upon the horses, from which the young and strong dismounted.
When they came up with the main body, it had halted, for rest. The
little ones were clamoring for food, while the widowed mothers had
nothing but tears to give in answer to their cries.
Into this scene of misery the minister brought his horse, laden with
food, and while the tears stood in his eyes, distributed it. This
kindness gave life and hope to them all.
At midnight the whole company lay down to rest, and the sleep of
exhaustion fell upon them. Then, in the stillness of the woods, rose a
wail, the faint, faint voice of a human soul born in the midnight of the
wilderness, amid tears and desolation. It was a mournful sound, the
first cry of human innocence trembling along that track of human guilt.
When the weary sleepers awoke, and prepared to move on, that pale mother
folded this blessed sorrow to her bosom, and prepared to keep her place
with the rest, but Jane gave up her horse to the sufferer, and toiled
on, side by side with her young husband, made happy, almost for the
first time in her life, by conferring help on others.
At daybreak the missionary, having distributed his last morsel of food,
bade the unhappy wanderers farewell, and returned, with a heavy heart,
to the valley.
At last the Tories, accompanied by their leaders and a greater part of
the Indians under the command of Gi-en-gwa-tah and Queen Esther, marched
out of the valley. Mingling with the mournful savageness of the scene
there was much that was droll and ludicrous. The squaws who followed the
retiring invaders were decked with the spoils taken from the burning
houses, the more fortunate wearing five or six silk and chintz dresses,
one over the other, and above these dropped the scalps taken from their
victims, which served as hideous fringes to their new costume. Many of
them were mounted on stolen horses, and one old woman rode proudly in
advance upon the identical side-saddle which had so long been the chief
treasure of Aunt Polly’s mansion; upon her head were perched half a
dozen head-dresses of every size and hue, the old maid’s immense bonnet
crowning the whole, its yellow streamers floating out on the wind with
every movement of the delighted wearer.
Catharine Montour, still in the dull delirium of fever, was carried on a
litter in their midst, but neither the chief nor Queen Esther ever
approached it. The old queen, from time to time, cast glances of
malignant passion towards the unconscious victim of their cruelty, while
Gi-en-gwa-tah rode on in stern impassibility.
Tahmeroo rode by her husband’s side, and as he smiled upon her, she
forgot all the suffering and horror of the past days, looking up into
his face with proud affection, and bending to catch each passing glance.
Butler treated her kindly now, and her love for him had recovered its
first bewildering intensity; but at length her presence wearied him—he
wished to converse with the chief and Queen Esther. Before the discovery
of the secret which made her so precious to him, Butler would have sent
her rudely away; but now he employed art instead of cruelty.
“You ought not to leave your mother so long,” he said; “she may rouse up
and require something.”
“I have been cruel,” said Tahmeroo, with a pang of self-reproach. “Will
you ride back with me?”
“I will join you very soon, my red bird; but now I must talk with the
chief.”
Tahmeroo looked disappointed, but he patted her cheek and smiled so
kindly, that she would have gone to the ends of the earth at his
bidding. Without a word she rode back to the side of her mother’s
litter, and kept her station there.
Butler’s eyes followed her, and his glance rested with malignant cruelty
upon the litter.
“They say she is better,” he muttered; “why didn’t she die, and make an
end of it? Then Tahmeroo would have been Lady Granby, and I an English
landholder, with an income that dukes might envy. She shall not stand
between me and this fortune; I’ll pay her off, too, for all her scorn
and hatred!”
He galloped up to Queen Esther as she rode, in gloomy silence, at the
head of her warriors. The fury still smoldering in her eyes showed that
her vengeance was not yet satisfied. Bloodshed only made her crave more,
and she awaited a new opportunity to wreak her hate upon the people who
had deprived her of a son.
“They tell me Catharine Montour is better,” Butler said, abruptly, as he
drew his horse close to hers, that their conversation could not be
overheard.
Queen Esther did not reply, but her lips compressed until the hooked
nose and projecting chin almost met.
“You must be satisfied now that my suspicions are true—she is a
traitress, and was from the beginning.”
“And will meet the fate of all traitors!” returned Esther, in a voice of
terrible composure.
“But the chief is so blindly attached to his wife that he will not allow
you to punish her as she deserves.”
“Allow me!” The gladiator rushed into the woman’s eyes. “I am Queen
Esther; who dares dispute my will? I would drive Gi-en-gwa-tah himself
out of the tribe if he opposed me!”
“Pleasant old devil!” muttered Butler; “I think I shan’t have much
trouble in waking her up!” He bowed his head, saying aloud: “I know that
Queen Esther is all-powerful.”
“You leave us soon?” she asked, without heeding his flattery.
“Yes. I must accompany my father and his men to Niagara—we shall find
work enough there.”
“Go; if you return with new victories, you will be welcome.”
“Never fear; I shall do my best. Tahmeroo stays behind; she would only
be in my way. I hope when I get back I shan’t find Catharine Montour
with all her old insolence and power opposed to you.”
Queen Esther laid her hand on his arm; her lips moved, but she checked
her utterance, though the light in her eyes revealed the murderess in
her soul. Making a gesture to Butler, signifying that their conference
had ended, she rode on, followed by her troops.
On the fifth day the armies separated; the Tories, under the command of
the two Butlers, marching in the direction of Niagara, while the Indians
continued their course towards Seneca Lake.
Tahmeroo was wild with grief at parting from her husband, but he
promised a speedy return, and quieted her with elaborate kindness. After
he had left them, Catharine required all her care, and she had little
time to brood over her loneliness.
Catharine Montour’s condition was a most critical one, and for days she
hovered between life and death; but the chief never inquired after her,
or paused, except for their accustomed rest. When Catharine came back to
consciousness, she was far away from Wyoming. For a while she believed
that all had been a dream; but at length thought came more clearly back,
and with it remembrance. She started feebly up, with a faint cry for her
child.
Tahmeroo heard the voice, and parting the curtains of the litter, said:
“I am here, mother.”
“Not you,” murmured the sufferer—“it is not you I call for.”
She fell back on the pillows, too weak for words, powerless even to
think collectedly. Day after day she remained thus, with life struggling
feebly for supremacy, listening to Tahmeroo’s conversation, or the
hollow tramp of the savages who bore her swiftly on. She only remembered
that Murray was dead, his cold face seemed lying forever on the pillow
close to hers. She had a child—a husband—both lived, and she was
separated from them, perhaps to all eternity. It was better thus, she
felt almost a sense of relief in that rapid retreat—another meeting with
husband or child, or even a clear thought of one who had been so closely
linked with her past history, would have brought back the madness which
a free life in the forest had so long kept at bay.
What mournful hours she spent thus! Unable to wrestle with her anguish,
it lay like a weight upon her heart—every beautiful hope that had
brightened her other life was dead, eternally dead, now. It was well
that she could look upon her early years almost as another existence,
and the broad ocean which rolled between her and that distant home as
the tideless sea that separates time from eternity. When her fever would
return and fill her mind with strange fancies, she believed that it was
indeed eternity in which she groped; that the darkness must be
everlasting. At such times she would call aloud upon Mary, her angel
child, and, as that face seemed to rise before her in its loveliness,
she would grow calm again, and fall asleep, taking those features into
her dreams to brighten their dreariness. A fortnight elapsed before they
reached the settlement at Seneca Lake. Catharine was borne to her house,
accompanied by Tahmeroo; but Queen Esther went directly up to her gloomy
palace, and the chief joined the general encampment of his tribe.
The summer months waned and deepened into the gorgeous brightness of
autumn before Catharine Montour was able to leave her house. After that,
accompanied by Tahmeroo, she would take short rambles in the forest, or
the Indian girl would pile a bed of skins in her canoe, and row her
about the lake for hours, seeming by instinct to understand her mood,
talking to her in that pleasant young voice, or bending over her oars in
silence, and allowing Catharine to recline in thought upon her couch
whenever she saw her disinclined for conversation.
The girl became dearer than ever to the chastened woman, but Catharine
would not think of her as her daughter—with that name rose the image of
the pale girl far away, and her heart yearned towards her with all its
remaining life. Tahmeroo was henceforth her friend, her young sister,
but never again her child. To her, the thought was sacrilege.
Catharine’s strength came slowly back, but her hard, proud nature was
gone forever. She had grown meek and humble as a child; grateful for
affection, almost timid in her new womanliness. Gi-en-gwa-tah was
absent, and Queen Esther kept aloof. This was a great relief, for in the
silence of her home she could sometimes forget the reality around her.
She suffered continually, but it was no longer the stern, bitter
conflict of former days—her heart bowed beneath the rod of the chastener
and found solace in new and holier aspirations.
Keen self-reproach she was also forced to endure, though her marriage
with the chief had been an innocent one, for she had solemnly believed
her husband dead, it pressed upon her soul like a premeditated sin.
Besides, Murray’s terrible death tortured her continually. In the
stillness of that awful night he had told her of his regrets, his broken
life and loveless age. His wife and child were dead, and with the curse
of unrest upon him, he had come a second time to America, accepting a
commission from the ministry, but with no belief that she was yet alive.
Since the day of his marriage he had never seen her, and when the fact
of her existence, and of the terrible sacrifice she had made for his
sake, was so coarsely revealed to him at the table of Sir John Johnson,
he had started at once to find her and crave the forgiveness without
which he could never hope for rest.
He had reached Seneca Lake two days after the tribe set forth for
Wyoming, and following rapidly as possible met her there; but only to
die.
With mournful distinctness Catharine remembered every word those dying
lips had uttered. She knew that her husband had appeared with the first
dawn, and that they three were together again, sitting silently in the
valley of the shadow of death. These terrible memories kept back her
strength. Queen Esther’s poniard seemed still in her bosom, rusting
closer to her heart each day. She had but one wish on earth, an
unquenchable thirst for the company of her child. To accomplish this,
she would go on her knees to Varnham, and then die.
Late in the fall, while Catharine was yet very feeble, she was startled
by the sudden presence of Butler in the settlement. He had come with a
troop of soldiers to convey his wife into Canada, where she was to be
left under the care of Sir John Johnson and his lady, while his father’s
troop lay on the frontier.
Butler did not deign to soften this cruel blow to the woman whose child,
and sole companion, he was tearing away; but sent for Tahmeroo to meet
him at her grandmother’s mansion. The young wife, selfish in her joy,
ran eagerly to Catharine’s chamber.
“Oh, mother, he has come; I shall see him this very hour—he loves me, he
loves me—and will take me with him now.”
Catharine listened in pale silence. Was nothing on earth to be left for
her? Must she be utterly deserted and alone with her sorrow?
Tahmeroo’s better nature arose at once.
“But my mother; how can I leave you, so ill, so sorrowful? Tahmeroo will
not forsake her mother.”
“You will start to-night!” said Queen Esther, abruptly entering the
lodge.
“It is sudden—I am not prepared to part with Tahmeroo at an hour’s
warning,” said Catharine.
“You go to-night,” repeated Esther, addressing Tahmeroo as if her mother
were not in the room.
Tahmeroo’s proud spirit revolted at this tyranny, and she replied with
flashing eyes:
“Tahmeroo is the chief’s daughter. Queen Esther has no power to drive
her out of her father’s tribe; she will not go if Catharine Montour
wishes her to remain.”
“Traitor, and child of a traitor,” muttered Esther; but Tahmeroo turned
to her mother.
“Shall I go or stay, mother? I will do as you bid me.”
Catharine looked at her with sad affection; she saw the wild hope
breaking through all the anger in those flashing eyes, and would not
quench it.
“Go where your heart is,” she replied, “and be happy.”
“But you will miss me?”
“I shall know that you are happy; it will not be for long—you will soon
come back again.”
Queen Esther turned abruptly and left the lodge.
An hour passed in sorrowful conversation. Then they were disturbed by
the appearance of Butler’s soldiers, leading Tahmeroo’s horse in their
midst. The girl clung, weeping, to her mother.
Catharine pressed her once more to her bosom.
“Go,” she murmured; “and if we never meet again, remember how fondly I
have loved you, and all that I have said.”
Tahmeroo sprang on to her horse with a burst of tears, and rode away.
Catharine stood watching her from the door of her lodge. As the train
reached a turn in the path, Tahmeroo checked her courser, and looked
back, waving her hand in a last farewell. Catharine returned the signal,
and the band disappeared, leaving the childless woman gazing sorrowfully
after them through the windings of the forest.
Still Gi-en-gwa-tah was absent with the body of his warriors, which, at
Colonel Butler’s request, were active on the frontier of Canada. For the
time Queen Esther was supreme in the settlement.