Before daylight in the morning, Sir William Johnson was on foot, and
in the stable. Some three or four negro-slaves--for there were slaves
then on all parts of the American continent--lay sleeping soundly in a
small sort of barrack hard by; and, as soon as one of them could be
roused, Sir William's horse was saddled, and he rode away, without
pausing to eat, or to say farewell. He bent his course direct towards
the Mohawk, flowing at some twenty miles' distance from the cottage of
Mr. Prevost.
Before Sir William had been five minutes in the saddle, he was in the
midst of the deep woods which surrounded the little well-cultivated
spot where the English wanderer had settled. It was a wild and rather
gloomy scene into which he plunged; for, though something like a
regular road had been cut, along which carts as well as horses could
travel, yet that road was narrow, and the branches nearly met
overhead.
In some places the underwood, nourished by a moist and marshy soil,
was too thick and tangled to be penetrated either by foot or eye. In
others, where the path ascended to higher grounds, or passed amongst
the hard dry rocks, the aspect of the forest changed. Pine after pine,
with now and then an oak, a chestnut, or a locust-tree, covered the
face of the country, with hardly a shrub upon the ground below, which
was carpeted with the brown slippery needles of the resinous trees;
and between the huge trunks poured the grey, mysterious light of the
early dawn, while a thin, whitish vapour hung amongst the boughs
overhead.
About a mile from the house, a bright and beautiful stream crossed the
road, flowing on towards the greater river; but bridge there was none,
and, in the middle of the stream, Sir William suffered his horse to
stop, and bend its head to drink. He gazed to the westward, but all
there was dark and gloomy under the thick overhanging branches. He
turned his eyes to the eastward, where the ground was more open, and
the stream could be seen flowing on for nearly half a mile, with
little cascades, and dancing rapids, and calm lapses of bright,
glistening water, tinted with a rosy hue, where the morning sky
gleamed down upon it through some break in the forest canopy.
While thus gazing, his eye rested on a figure standing in the midst of
the stream, with rod in hand, and the back turned towards him. He
thought he saw another figure also amongst the trees upon the bank;
but it was shadowy there, and the form seemed shadowy too.
After gazing for a minute or so, he raised his voice, and exclaimed--
"Walter!--Walter Prevost!"
The lad heard him, and, laying his rod upon the bank, hastened along
over the green turf to join him; at the same moment the figure amongst
the trees--if really figure it was--disappeared from the sight.
"Thou art out early, Walter," said Sir William. "What do you at this
hour?"
"I am catching trout for the stranger's breakfast," replied the lad,
with a gay laugh. "You should have had your share, had you but
waited."
"Who was that speaking to you on the bank above?" asked the other,
gravely.
"Merely an Indian girl watching me fishing," responded Walter Prevost.
"I hope your talk was discreet," rejoined Sir William. "These are
dangerous times, when trifles are of import, Walter."
"There was no indiscretion," returned the lad, with the colour
mounting slightly in his cheek. "She was remarking the feather-flies
with which I caught the trout, and blamed me for using them. She said
it was a shame to catch anything with false pretences."
"She is wise," observed the other, with a faint smile; "yet that is
hardly the wisdom of her people. An Indian maiden!" he added,
thoughtfully. "Of what tribe is she? One of the Five Nations, I
trust?"
"Oh, yes--an Oneida," replied Walter; "one of the daughters of the
Stone; the child of a Sachem, who often lodges at our house."
"Well, be she whom she may," rejoined Sir William, "be careful of your
speech, Walter, especially regarding your father's guest. I say not,
to conceal that there is a stranger with you, for that cannot be; but,
whatever you see or guess of his station, or his errand, keep it to
yourself, and let not a woman be the sharer of your thoughts, till you
have tried her with many a trial."
"She would not betray them, I am sure," said the lad, warmly; and then
added, with slight embarrassment, as if he felt that he had in a
degree betrayed himself, "but she has nothing to reveal, or to
conceal. Our talk was all of the river, and the fish. We met by
accident, and she is gone."
"Perhaps you may meet again by accident," suggested the other, "and
then be careful. But now, to more serious things. Perchance your
father may have to send you to Albany--perchance, to my castle. You
can find your way speedily to either. Is it not so?"
"Farther than either," replied the lad, gaily.
"But you may have a heavy burden to carry," rejoined Sir William; "do
you think you can bear it?--I mean the burden of a secret."
"I will not drop it by the way," returned Walter, gravely.
"Not if the Sachem's daughter offers to divide the load?" asked his
companion.
"Doubt me not," replied Walter.
"I do not doubt you," said Sir William, "I do not. But I would have
you warned. And now farewell. You are very young to meet maidens in
the wood. Be careful. Farewell."
He rode on, and the boy tarried by the wayside, and meditated. His
were very strange thoughts, and stranger feelings. They were the
feelings that only come to any person once in a lifetime--earlier with
some, later with others--the ecstatic thrill, the joyous emotion, the
dancing of the young bright waters of early life, in the pure morning
sunshine of first love--the dream--the vision--the trance of
indefinite joy--the never-to-be-forgotten, the never-to-be-renewed,
first glance at the world of passion that is within us. Till that
moment, he had been as one climbing a mountain with thick boughs
shading from his eyes the things before him; but his friend's words
had been a hand drawing back the branches on the summit, and showing
him a wondrous and lovely sight beyond.
Was he not very young to learn such things? O yes, he was very, very
young; but it was natural that in that land he should learn them
young. All was young there: all is young: everything is rapid and
precocious; the boy has the feelings of the young man; the young man
the thoughts of maturity. The air, the climate, the atmosphere of the
land and the people, all have their influence. The shrubs grow up in
an hour: the flowers succeed each other with hasty profusion, and even
the alien and the stranger-born feel the infection, and join
unresistingly in the rapid race. Well did the dreamers of the Middle
Ages place the fountain of youth on the shores of the new world.
The boy, who stood there meditating, had lived half a lifetime in the
few short years he had spent upon that soil; and now, at Sir William's
words, as with him of old, the scales fell from his eyes, and he saw
into his own heart.
His reverie lasted not long, indeed; but it was long enough. In about
two minutes, he took his way up the stream again, still musing,
towards the place where he had laid down his rod upon the bank. He
heeded not much where he set his feet. Sometimes it was on the dry
ground, by the side of the stream; sometimes it was in the gurgling
waters, and amongst the glossy pebbles.
He paused, at length, where he had stood fishing a few minutes before,
and looked up to the bank covered with green branches. He could see
nothing there in the dim obscurity; but even the murmur of the waters
and the sighing of the wind did not prevent him from hearing a
sound--a gentle stirring of the boughs. He sprang up the bank, and in
amongst the maples; and, about ten minutes after, the sun, rising
higher, poured its light through the stems upon a boy and girl, seated
at the foot of an old tree: he, with his arms around her, and his hand
resting on the soft, brown, velvety skin, and she, with her head upon
his bosom, and her warm lips within the reach of his. What, though a
sparkling drop or two gemmed her sunny cheek, they were but the dew of
the sweetest emotion that ever refreshes the summer morning of our
youth.
Her skin was brown, I have said--yes, very brown--but, still, hardly
browner than his own. Her eyes were dark and bright, of the true
Indian hue, but larger and more open than is at all common in any of
the tribes of Iroquois. Her lips, too, were as rosy and as pure of all
tinge of brown, as those of any child of Europe; and her fingers,
also, were stained of Aurora's own hue. But her long, silky, black
hair would have spoken her race at once, had not each tress terminated
in a wavy curl. The lines of the form and of the face were all
wonderfully lovely too, and yet were hardly those which characterize
so peculiarly the Indian nations. The nose was straighter, the
cheek-bones less prominent, the head more beautifully set upon the
shoulders. The expression, also, as she rested there, with her cheek
leaning on his breast, was not that of the usual Indian countenance.
It was softer, more tender, more impassioned; for, though romance and
poetry have done all they could to spiritualize the character of
Indian love, I fear, from what I have seen, and heard, and known, it
is rarely what it has been portrayed. Her face, however, was full of
love, and tenderness, and emotion; and the picture of the two, as they
sat there, told, at once, the tale of love just spoken to a willing
ear.
There let us leave them. It was a short hour of joy; a sweet dream in
the dark, stormy night of life. They were happy, with the unalloyed
happiness so seldom known even for an hour, without fear, or doubt, or
guilt, or remorse; and so let them be. What matters it if a snake
should glide through the grass hard by? it may pass on, and not sting
them. What matters it if a cloud should hang over the distant
horizon?--the wind may waft away the storm. Forethought is a curse or
a blessing, as we use it. To guard against evils that we see is wise,
to look forth for those we cannot guard against is folly.