We must now return to the scene in which this narrative commenced. But
oh, how changed was the aspect of all things from that which the house
of Mr. Prevost presented but five short months before! The father and
the daughter were there alone. The brother no longer glanced about the
house with his blithesome air and active energies; and the thought of
him and of his fate hung continually like a dark shadow over those to
whom he was so dear. They were not wholly without comfort, they were
not wholly without hope; for, from time to time, renewed assurances
came to them from many a quarter that Walter would still be saved. Yet
time wore on, and he was not delivered.
When one speaks of five months of uncertainty, it seems a long and
tedious period, and it would be so if it were all one blank; but there
are a thousand little incidents--incidents external and internal--that
fill up the time, and make it pass wonderfully soon, especially if
fear predominates over hope.
Didst thou ever sit up, reader, with the sick or dying through the
livelong night? In contemplation, it seems an awful task of long
endurance to watch there with the eternal battle going on in your
breast between the only two deathless passions--the only two which may
be called the immortal passions of the soul--from the fading of the
evening light till the breaking of another day. And yet it is
wonderful how soon, how very soon, one sees the faint blue light of
dawn mingling with the sickly yellow glare of the watcher's lamp.
Every thought, every expectation, is an incident. The change of
breathing, the restless movement, the muttered word, the whispered
comfort, the moistening of the parched lip, the smoothing of the
pillow,--all are events that hurry on the time.
And so it was in the house of Mr. Prevost. Each day had its something;
each hour; and although the object was always the same, or rarely
varied, yet the rapid changes of thought and feeling made the time fly
far more rapidly than might have been expected.
During the winter, Lord H---- visited the house very frequently; and
it is probable that, had no dark cloud overshadowed the hopes as well
as the happiness of all, he would have pressed for the prize of
Edith's hand without delay; but he loved not the mingling of joy and
sorrow. In that, at least, his view of the world, and life, and fate,
was deceitful. He was not yet convinced, although he had some
experience, that such a thing as unalloyed happiness, even for a few
short days, is not to be found on earth--that the only mine of gold
without dross lies beneath the grave.
Once, indeed, he hinted, rather than asked, that an early day might be
fixed for his union with her he loved; but a tear rose in Edith's eye,
and she bent down her head. Her father would have made no objection,
although he still thought her very, very young to take upon her the
duties of a wife. In that respect his feelings were not changed; but
the loss of his son weighed heavily upon him, and, calling him away
from the present, had projected his thoughts into the future. What
might be Edith's fate, he asked himself, if he too should be taken
from her? Any of the many accidents of life might leave her alone, and
an orphan; and there is nothing which brings home so sensibly to our
thoughts the unstable hold which we have upon all earthly things, so
much as our tenderness for those we love.
But Lord H---- saw that it would be painful to Edith herself to become
his bride as long as Walter's late was uncertain; and he said no more.
In the meantime the gathering together of the British soldiers on the
Hudson and the Mohawk had, like one wave meeting another, somewhat
repelled the Indian tribes. A runner, a half-breed, or one or two red
men together--more frequently from the nation of the Mohawks than from
any other tribe--would be seen occasionally wandering through the
woods or crossing the open ground near the settler's dwelling; but
they seldom approached the house; and their appearance caused no
apprehension. Relations of the greatest amity had been re-established
between the British authorities and the chiefs of the Five Nations;
and several of the tribes were preparing to take part in the coming
strife upon the side of England.
Three times during the winter the house of Mr. Prevost was visited by
a single Indian of the Oneida tribe. On two occasions it was a man who
presented himself; and his stay was very short. On the first occasion,
Edith was alone; when, without the sound of a footfall, he glided in
like a dark shadow. His look was friendly, though for a moment he said
nothing. Edith, well knowing Indian habits, asked if he would take
food. He answered "Yes," in his own language; and she called some of
the servants to supply him; but, before he ate he looked up in her
face, saying--
"I am bidden to tell thee that thy brother shall be safe."
"Whose words do you bear?" asked Edith. "Is it the Black Eagle who
speaks?"
"Nay, it is Otaitsa," replied the man.
This was all Edith could learn; for the messenger was either ignorant
of more, or affected to be so; yet still it was a comfort to her. The
next who came was a woman somewhat past the middle age, and by no
means beautiful. She stayed long; and, with good-humoured volubility,
related all that had happened immediately after Edith's visit to the
Oneida castle. She dwelt upon the attempt of the Blossom to deliver
her lover as she would have expatiated upon some feat of daring
courage in a warrior; and though in the end she had to tell how the
maiden's bold attempt had been frustrated, she concluded by saying--
"Yet he shall be safe. They shall not slay our brother."
The third time the man returned, hearing the same assurance; but, as
hour after hour and day after day went by without the lad's return, or
any definite news of him, hope sickened and grew faint. By this time
it was known that the efforts of the Mohawks and Onondagas had been
frustrated; and, moreover, it was plainly intimated by the chiefs of
those two nations that they would interfere no more.
"The Oneidas have reproved us," they said, "and we had no reply. We
must not make the children of the Stone hiss at our children; neither
must we break the bands of our alliance for the sake of one man."
The scouts who had been put under the order of Woodchuck were recalled
to the army early in the spring without having effected anything. All
that had been heard at the forts showed that the young prisoner had
been removed to the very farthest part of the Oneida territory, where
it was impossible for any one Englishman to penetrate without being
discovered by the Indians.
If, in civilized times, with a country cleared in a great degree of
its forests, and with a regular organization ensuring rapid
intercourse between place and place, it is possible for a man to be
hidden for weeks and months from the most diligent search; how much
more easy was concealment in those days, when, with the exception of a
few patches of maize or other grain, the whole land was one wild
tangled wood, crossed, it is true, with innumerable Indian trails, but
with no direct means of communication, except by one large road, and
the lakes and rivers. Search would have been in vain, even if in the
political state of the country it could have been attempted; but the
attempt was impossible, without rendering the whole country hostile;
for the Mohawks themselves showed no inclination to suffer any
considerable body of men to cross their territory, except indeed a
small party of soldiers, now and then, destined to strengthen the
garrisons at Oswego, or any of the regular British posts.
Of Woodchuck himself, nothing was heard, till the flowers began to
spring up close upon the footsteps of the snow. It was believed that
he was still in the forest; but even of this, no one was assured; and
all that could with any accuracy be divined, was, that he had not
fallen into the hands of the Oneidas, inasmuch as there was every
reason to believe that, had such been the case, Walter's liberation
would immediately have followed.
Thus matters had gone on in the household of Mr. Prevost, till about a
month before the period at which I have thought best to present to the
reader the three Indians seated on the hill. The snow had melted,
except in a few places, where it still lay in white patches, under
shelter of the darker and thicker-leaved evergreens; here and there,
too, it might be seen in the shade of a steep bank; but the general
surface of the country was free, and, despite, the variable character
of the American spring--one day as soft as summer, and then two or
three following, with the icy fang of winter in the wind, and the sky
covered with low lurid clouds--the flowers were peeping out in every
covert, and mingling themselves thickly with fern, and ground-pine,
and hemlock, varying with many a brilliant hue the green carpet of the
earth.
The day had been one of exceeding loveliness, and not without its
activity too; for a party of soldiers had been thrown forward, for
some object, to a spot within a mile and a half of the house; and Lord
H---- had been twice there, making Edith's heart thrill, each time he
appeared, with emotions so new and strange as to set her dreaming for
an hour after he was gone. The evening had come, bringing with it some
clouds in the western sky; and Edith, as she sat with her father,
looked out from the window, with her head resting on her hand.
No one knows the full weight of a great predominant idea, till he has
had to bear one up for weeks or months--no one can tell how it crushes
one down, seems to resolve all other things into itself, and almost,
like the giant in the child's fable, to grind one's bones to make its
bread. The sweet reverie of a lover's visit had passed away, and the
beautiful girl's thoughts had reverted to the subject of her brother's
fate, which took hold of her the moment her mind was free from some
temporary relaxation, and again chained the slave to the accustomed
task.
As she gazed, she perceived a figure slowly crossing between the
gardener-boy and old Agrippa, who were working in the gardens, and
apparently taking its course to the door of the house. At first she
did not recognise it, for it was more like an Indian than a European,
and more like a bear than either. It had a human face, however; and,
as it came forward, an impression, first faint, but increasing with
every step it advanced, took possession of her, that it must be the
man whose fatal act had brought so much wretchedness upon her family.
He was very much--very sadly--changed; and, although the bear-skins in
which he was dressed hid the emaciation of his form, the meagreness of
his face was very evident as he came near.
Edith lifted her head from her hand, saying, "I think, my father, here
is Captain Brooks approaching. Poor man! he seems terribly changed!"
Mr. Prevost started up, gazed for a moment from the window, and then
hurried forth to meet him. Edith felt some doubt as to how her father
would receive him; for, in the purest and the highest hearts, there
is--there ever will be--one small drop of selfishness much to be
guarded against. It may not poison our acts, but it too often poisons
our feelings; it mingles even with candour itself, diminishing the
efficacy of that most noble of virtues; and if it do not make us
detract from the merit of others, it still gives some slight colouring
to their acts when they are painful or disadvantageous to ourselves.
She had the happiness, however, to see her father take the wanderer
kindly by the hand, and lead him towards the door. Whatever had been
Mr. Prevost's feelings, the sight of Woodchuck's altered face was
enough to soften them entirely. The next moment they entered the room
together, and Edith extended her hand kindly to him.
"Ah, Miss Prevost, you are very good," he said, "and so is your
father, too. I have not been to see you for a long time."
"That was not right of Woodchuck," said Edith; "you should have come
to see us. We know all you have been trying to do for my poor brother.
If you cannot succeed, it is not your fault, and we should have been
glad to see you, both for your own sake, and for the sake of hearing
all your proceedings as they occurred."
"Ah, but I have been far away," he answered. "I first tried to get at
the poor boy from this side, and, finding that would not do, I took a
long round, and came upon them from the west, but I got nothing except
some information, and then I made up my mind. Them Ingians are as
cunning as Satan. I have circumvented them once; but they won't let a
man do it twice."
Mr. Prevost had stood listening, eager to hear anything that related
to his son; but now he interrupted, saying: "We will hear more of this
by-and-by, Brooks. Come into the hall and have some food; you must be
hungry and tired--both, I am sure."
"No," replied Woodchuck, "I am not hungry. Tired, a little, I am, I
guess, though I hav'n't walked more than forty miles; but I met a
young Ingian two or three hours ago, who gave me a venison-steak off
his own fire. Some rest will set all to rights."
"Take some wine, at least," said Mr. Prevost; "that will do you good;
you look quite faint."
"Faint in limb, but not in heart," replied Woodchuck, stoutly.
"However, I won't refuse the wine; for it was given to cheer the heart
of man--as the Bible says; and mine wants cheering, though it does not
want strengthening, for I'll do what I say, as I am a living man."
They took him into the hall, and persuaded him both to eat and to
drink, evidently much to his benefit; for, though he did not lose the
sad tone with which he spoke, his voice was stronger, and his features
seemed to grow less sharp.
"And where have you been ever since this snow has been on the ground?"
asked Edith, when he seemed a little revived; "you cannot, surely,
have been wandering in the woods during the terribly severe weather we
had in January."
"I hutted myself down," he said, "like an Ingian, or a beaver, and
covered the lodge all over with snow. I planted it upon a ledge of
rock, with its mouth close behind an old hemlock-tree, and made it
white all over, so that they would have been worse than devils to find
me; for life is sweet, Miss Prevost, even in winter time, and I did
not wish to be tomahawked so long as I could help it."
"You must have had a sad, desolate time, I fear," said Mr. Prevost;
"at least, till the spring came round."
"I guess it warn't very cheerful," answered Woodchuck; "but that's the
best way to teach one's-self not to care for what's coming. At least,
I used to think so once, and to believe that if a man could only make
himself very miserable in this world, he would not much care how soon
he went out of it. But I've changed my opinion on that matter a
little; for up there, on the side of the hill, after four or five
weeks, half famished and half frozen, I did not feel a bit more
inclined to die than I did a year ago, when there were few
lighter-hearted men than myself. So I thought, before I did anything
of the kind, knowing that there was no need of it just yet, I would
just go and take a ramble among the mountains in the fine weather,
like Jephtha's daughter."
His words would have been enigmas to Edith, had she not somewhat
misunderstood even their obvious meaning; for Lord H----, not fully
knowing the character of the man, and unwilling to excite anything
like confident hope, that might ultimately be disappointed by some
change of Woodchuck's feelings, had forborne to mention more of his
purposes than the mere fact of his intention to peril his own life to
save that of Walter Prevost. To Edith, then, the words used by Brooks
seemed but to imply that he still contemplated some daring attempt to
set her brother at liberty; and, in the hope, if she could learn the
particulars of his scheme, to be able to procure the co-operation of
Otaitsa and others in the Oneida Castle, she said,--
"You are, indeed, a good kind friend, Woodchuck; and you have, I know,
already undergone great risks for poor Walter's sake. There are others
labouring for him, too; and, perhaps, if we knew what you intended to
do next--"
"To do next!" echoed the man, interrupting her. "Why, ha'n't I told
you? I said, when I found I couldn't git in from the west, I made up
my mind."
"To do what, my good friend?" said Mr. Prevost. "You certainly implied
you intended to do something; but what you did not state. Now I easily
understand Edith's anxiety to know your intentions; for we have
obtained friends in the Oneida camp, who might give great assistance
to your efforts, if we knew what they are to be. But I should tell
you, my dear daughter ventured across the Mohawk country to see our
dear little Otaitsa, who, like you, risked her own life to save my
poor boy--God's blessing be upon her!"
The tears rose in his eyes, and he paused for a moment. But Woodchuck
waved his hand, saying--
"I know all about it. I war on the bank of the creek, Miss Edith, when
the Ingian woman paddled you back; and I guessed how it had all been.
I said to myself, when I heard more of it two days arter. 'Her father
will be mighty angry;' and so he war, I guess."
"You are mistaken, my friend," said Mr. Prevost, laying his hand on
Edith's with a tender pressure. "I was not angry, though I was much
alarmed; but that alarm was not of long endurance, for I was detained
much more than I expected at Sir William Johnson's, and my anxiety was
only protracted two days after my return. Still you have not told us
your plans. If that dear girl, Otaitsa, can help us, she will do it,
though it cost her life."
Woodchuck paused a moment or two in deep, absent thought, and over his
rough countenance the trace of many strong emotions flitted. At
length, he said, in a low, distinct voice, "She can do nothing. Black
Eagle has the boy under his keen eye. He loves him well, Mr. Prevost;
and he will treat him kindly. But just inasmuch as he _does_ love him,
he will make it a point to keep him safely, and to kill him too, if he
haven't got another victim. That man should ha' been one of them old
Romans I have heard talk of, who killed their sons and daughters,
rather than not do what they thought right. He'd not spare his own
flesh and blood--not he; and the more-he loves him, the surer he'll
kill him."
Edith wept, and Mr. Prevost covered his eyes with his hands; but
Woodchuck, who had been gazing down upon the table, and saw not the
powerful emotions which his words had produced, proceeded, after a
gloomy pause--
"He'll watch his daughter sharply too. Yet they say he praised her
daring; and I guess he did, for that's just the sort of thing to
strike his fancy; but he'll take care she shan't do it again. No, no.
There's but one way with Black Eagle. I know him well, and he knows
me, and there is but one way with him."
"What is that?" asked Mr. Prevost, in a tone of deep melancholy.
"Just to do what I intend," returned Woodchuck, with a very calm
manner. "Mr. Prevost, I love my life as well as any man--a little too
much, mayhap; and I intend to keep it as long as I rightly can, for
there are always things wrote in that chapter of accidents that none
on us can see. But I don't intend to let your son Walter--he's a good
boy--be put to death for a thing of my doing. You don't suppose it. At
first, when the thing came fresh upon me at Albany, I felt mighty like
a fool and a coward; and I would ha' skulked away into any hole just
to save myself from myself. But I soon took thought, and made up my
mind. Now, here you and Miss Edith have been praising and thanking me
for trying to save poor Walter's life. I didn't deserve praise, or
thanks either. It was my own life I was trying to save; for, if I
could get him out secretly, we should both be secure enough. But I've
given that up. It can't be done, and Black Eagle knows it. He knows
me, too; and he's just as sure, at this blessed moment, that before
the day he has appointed for Walter to die, Woodchuck will walk in and
say, 'Here I am!' as he is that he's in his own lodge. Then he will
have got the right man, and all will be settled. Now, Mr. Prevost--and
you, Miss Edith--you know what I intend to do. To-morrow, when I'm a
bit rested, I shall set out again, and take my ramble in the
mountains, like Jephtha's daughter, as I said. Then, this day month, I
will be here again to bid you all good-bye. Walter will have to tell
you the rest. Don't cry so, there's a good girl. You're like to set me
a' crying too. There's one thing more I have to ask you both, and that
is, never speak another word to me about this matter--not even when I
come back again. I try not to think of it at all myself, and I don't
much now. If I can screw myself up, like them Ingians, I shall just
walk quietly in among them as if nothing were going to happen, and
say, 'Set the boy free! Here is Woodchuck himself,' and then die--not
like an Ingian, but like a Christian, I trust, and one that knows he's
a' doing of his duty anyhow. So now not a word more--but let us talk
of something else."