A MOTHER'S LOVE.
As we have said, Madame Guillois was installed by her son at the winter
village of the Comanches, and the Indians gladly welcomed the mother of
the adopted son of their tribe. The most commodious lodge was
immediately placed at her service, and the most delicate attentions were
lavished on her.
The redskins are incontestably superior to the whites in all that
relates to hospitality. A guest is sacred to them to such an extent,
that they become his slaves, so to speak, so anxious are they to satisfy
all his desires, and even his slightest caprices.
After Father Seraphin had warned Red Cedar to be on his guard, he
returned to Madame Guillois in order to watch more directly over it. The
worthy missionary was an old acquaintance and friend of the Comanches,
to whom he had been useful on several occasions, and who respected in
him not the priest, whose sublime mission they could not understand, but
the good and generous man, ever ready to devote himself to his fellow
men.
Several weeks passed without producing any great change in the old
lady's life. Sunbeam, on her own private authority, had constituted
herself her handmaiden, amusing her with her medley of Indian-Spanish
and French, attending to her like a mother, and trying, by all the means
in her power, to help her to kill time. So long as Father Seraphin
remained near her, Madame Guillois endured her son's absence very
patiently. The missionary's gentle and paternal exhortations made
her--not forget, because a mother never does that--but deceive herself
as to the cruelty of this separation.
Unhappily, Father Seraphin had imperious duties to attend to which he
could no longer neglect; to her great regret he must recommence his
wandering life, and his mission of self-denial and suffering, while
carrying to the Indian tribes, the light of the gospel, and the succour
of religion. Father Seraphin was in Madame Guillois's sight a link of
the chain that attached her to her son; she could speak about him with
the missionary, who knew the most secret thoughts of her heart, and
could by one word calm her alarm, and restore her courage. But when he
left her for the first time since her arrival in America, she really
felt alone, and lost her son once again, as it were. Thus the separation
was cruel; and she needed all her Christian resignation and long habit
of suffering to bear meekly the fresh blow that struck her.
Indian life is very dull and monotonous, especially in winter, in the
heart of the forest, in badly built huts, open to all the winds, when
the leafless trees are covered with hoar-frost; the villages are half
buried beneath the snow, the sky is gloomy, and during the long nights
the hurricane may be heard howling, and a deluge of rain falling.
Alone, deprived of a friend in whose bosom she could deposit the
overflowing of her heart, Madame Guillois gradually fell into a gloomy
melancholy, from which nothing could arouse her. A woman of the age of
the hunter's mother does not easily break through all her habits to
undertake a journey like that she had made across the American desert.
However simple and frugal the life of a certain class of society may be
in Europe, they still enjoy a certain relative comfort, far superior to
what they may expect to find in Indian villages, where objects of
primary necessity are absent, and life is reduced to its simplest
expression.
Thus, for instance, a person accustomed to work in the evening in a
comfortable chair, in the chimney corner, by the light of a lamp, in a
well-closed room, would never grow used to sit on the beaten ground,
crouching over a fire, whose smoke blinds her, in a windowless hut, only
illumined by the flickering flame of a smoky torch.
When Madame Guillois left Havre, she had only one object, one desire, to
see her son again; every other consideration must yield to that: she
gladly sacrificed the comfort she enjoyed to find the son whom she
believed she had lost, and who filled her heart.
Still, in spite of her powerful constitution and the masculine energy of
her character, when she had endured the fatigue of a three months'
voyage, and the no less rude toil of several weeks' travelling through
forests and over prairies, sleeping in the open air, her health had
gradually broken down, her strength was worn out in this daily and
hourly struggle, and wounded, both physically and morally, she had been
at length forced to confess herself beaten, and to allow that she was
too weak to endure such an existence longer.
She grew thin and haggard visibly; her cheeks were sunken, her eyes
buried more and more deeply in their orbits, her face was pale, her look
languishing--in short, all the symptoms revealed that the nature which
had hitherto so valiantly resisted, was rapidly giving way, and was
undermined by an illness which had been secretly wasting her for a long
time, and now displayed itself in its fell proportions.
Madame Guillois did not deceive herself as to her condition, she
calculated coolly and exactly all the probable incidents, followed step
by step the different phases of her illness, and when Sunbeam anxiously
enquired what was the matter with her, and what she suffered from, she
answered her with that calm and heart-breaking smile which the man
condemned to death puts on when no hope is left him--a smile more
affecting than a sob--
"It is nothing, my child,--I am dying."
These words were uttered with so strange an accent of gentleness and
resignation that the young Indian felt her eyes fill with tears, and hid
herself to weep.
One morning a bright sun shone on the village, the sky was blue, and the
air mild. Madame Guillois, seated in front of her calli, was warming
herself in this last smile of autumn, while mechanically watching the
yellow leaves, which a light breeze turned round. Not far from her the
children were sporting, chasing each other with merry bursts of
laughter. Unicorn's squaw presently sat down by the old lady's side,
took her hand, and looked at her sympathisingly.
"Does my mother feel better?" she asked her in her voice which was soft
as the note of the Mexican nightingale.
"Thanks, my dear little one," the old lady answered, affectionately, "I
am better."
"That is well," Sunbeam replied, with a charming smile; "for I have good
news to tell my mother."
"Good news?" she said, hurriedly, as she gave her a piercing glance;
"has my son arrived?"
"My mother would have seen him before this," the squaw said, with a
tinge of gentle reproach in her voice.
"That is true," she muttered; "my poor Valentine!"
She let her head sink sadly on her bosom. Sunbeam looked at her for a
moment with an expression of tender pity.
"Does not my mother wish to hear the news I have to tell her?" she went
on.
Madame Guillois sighed.
"Speak, my child," she said.
"One of the great warriors of the tribe has just entered the village,"
the young woman continued; "Spider left the chief two days ago."
"Ah!" the old lady said, carelessly, seeing that Sunbeam stopped; "and
where is the chief at this moment?"
"Spider says that Unicorn is in the mountains, with his warriors; he has
seen Koutonepi."
"He has seen my son?" Madame Guillois exclaimed.
"He has seen him," Sunbeam repeated; "the hunter is pursuing Red Cedar
with his friends."
"And--he is not wounded?" she asked anxiously.
The young Indian pouted her lips.
"Red Cedar is a dog and cowardly old woman," she said; "his arm is not
strong enough, or his eye sure enough to wound the great pale hunter.
Koutonepi is a terrible warrior, he despises the barkings of the
coyote."
Madame Guillois had lived long enough among the Indians to understand
their figurative expressions; she gratefully pressed the young squaw's
hand.
"Your great warrior has seen my son?" she said eagerly.
"Yes," Sunbeam quickly answered, "Spider saw the pale hunter, and spoke.
Koutonepi gave him a necklace for my mother."
"A necklace?" she repeated, in surprise, not understanding what the
woman meant; "What am I to do with it?"
Sunbeam's face assumed a serious expression.
"The white men are great sorcerers," she said, "they know how to make
powerful medicines; by figures traced on birch bark communicate their
thoughts at great distances; space does not exist for them. Will not my
mother receive the necklace her son sends her?"
"Give it me, my dear child," she eagerly answered; "everything that
comes from him is precious to me."
The young squaw drew from under her striped calico dress a square piece
of bark of the size of her hand, and gave it to her. Madame Guillois
took it curiously, not knowing what this present meant. She turned it
over and over, while Sunbeam watched her attentively. All at once the
old lady's features brightened, and she uttered a cry of joy; she had
perceived a few words traced on the inside of the bark with the point of
a knife.
"Is my mother satisfied?" Sunbeam asked.
"Oh, yes," she answered.
She eagerly perused the note; it was short, contained indeed but a few
words, yet they filled the mother with delight; for they gave her
certain news of her son. This is what Valentine wrote--
"My dear mother, be of good cheer, my health is excellent, I shall see
you soon: your loving son, Valentine."
It was impossible to write a more laconic letter; but on the desert,
where communication is so difficult, a son may be thanked for giving
news of himself, if only in a word. Madame Guillois was delighted, and
when she had read the note again, she turned to the young squaw.
"Is Spider a chief?" she asked.
"Spider is one of the great warriors of the tribe," Sunbeam answered
proudly; "Unicorn places great confidence in him."
"Good; I understand. He has come here on a particular mission?"
"Unicorn ordered his friend to choose twenty picked warriors from the
tribe, and lead them to him."
A sudden idea crossed Madame Guillois's mind.
"Does Sunbeam love me?" she asked her.
"I love my mother," the squaw replied, feelingly; "her son saved my
life."
"Does not my daughter feel grieved at being away from her husband?" the
old lady continued.
"Unicorn is a great chief; when he commands, Sunbeam bows and obeys
without a murmur; the warrior is the strong and courageous eagle, the
squaw is the timid dove."
There was a long silence, which Sunbeam at last broke by saying, with a
meaning smile--
"My mother had something to ask of me?"
"What use is it, dear child?" she answered hesitatingly, "As you will
not grant my request."
"My mother thinks so, but is not sure," she said, maliciously.
The old lady smiled.
"Have you guessed, then, what I was about to ask of you?" she said.
"Perhaps so; my mother will explain, so that I may see whether I was
mistaken."
"No, it is useless; I know that my daughter will refuse."
Sunbeam broke into a fresh and joyous laugh as she clapped her little
hands.
"My mother knows the contrary," she said; "why does she not place
confidence in me? Has she ever found me unkind?"
"Never; you have always been kind and attentive to me, trying to calm my
grief, and dissipate my fears."
"My mother can speak then, as the ears of a friend are open," Sunbeam
said to her quietly.
"In truth," the old lady remarked, after some thought, "what I desire is
just. Is Sunbeam a mother?" she said, meaningly.
"Yes," she quickly replied.
"Does my daughter love her child?"
The Indian looked at her in surprise.
"Are there mothers in the great island of the whites who do not love
their child?" she asked; "My child is myself, is it not my flesh and
blood? What is there dearer to a mother than her child?"
"Nothing, that is true." Madame Guillois sighed. "If my daughter were
separated from her child, what Would she do?"
"What would I do?" the Indian exclaimed, with a flash in her black eye;
"I would go and join him, no matter when, no matter how."
"Good," the old lady remarked, eagerly; "I, too, love my child, and my
daughter knows it. Well, I wish to join him, for my heart is lacerated
at the thought of remaining any longer away from him."
"I know it, that is natural, it cannot be opposed. The flower fades when
separated from the stem, the mother suffers when away from the son she
nourished with her milk. What does my mother wish to do?"
"Alas! I wish to start as soon as possible to embrace my son."
"That is right: I will help my mother."
"What shall I do?"
"That is my business. Spider is about to assemble the council in order
to explain his mission to the chiefs. Many of our young men are
scattered through the forest, setting traps and hunting the elk to
support their family. Spider will want two days to collect the warriors
he needs, and he will not start till the third day. My mother can be at
rest; I will speak to Spider, and in three days we will set out."
She embraced the old lady, who tenderly responded, then rose and went
away, after giving her a final sign of encouragement. Madame Guillois
returned to her calli, her heart relieved of a heavy weight; for a long
time she had not felt so happy. She forgot her sufferings and the sharp
pangs of illness that undermined her, in order to think only of the
approaching moment when she would embrace her son.
All happened as Sunbeam had foreseen. An hour later, the hachesto
convened the chiefs to the great medicine lodge. The council lasted a
long time, and was prolonged to the end of the day. Spider's demand was
granted, and twenty warriors were selected to go and join the sachem of
the tribe. But, as the squaw had foretold, most of the warriors were
absent, and their return had to be awaited.
During the two succeeding days Sunbeam held frequent conferences with
Spider, but did not exchange a word with Madame Guillois, contenting
herself, when the mother's glance became too inquiring, by laying her
finger on her lip with a smile. The poor lady sustained by factitious
strength, a prey to a burning fever, sadly counted the hours while
forming the most ardent vows for the success of her plan. At length, on
the evening of the second day, Sunbeam, who had hitherto seemed to avoid
the old lady, boldly approached her.
"Well?" the mother asked.
"We are going."
"When?"
"Tomorrow, at daybreak."
"Has Spider pledged his word to my daughter?"
"He has; so my mother will hold herself in readiness to start."
"I am so now."
The Indian woman smiled.
"No, tomorrow."
At daybreak, as was agreed on the previous evening, Madame Guillois and
Sunbeam set out under the escort of Spider and his twenty warriors to
join Unicorn.