MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
We must leave our three valiant champions for a few moments in their
present critical position, to speak of one of the important persons of
this story, whom we have neglected too long.
Immediately after the departure of the Indians, John Black, with
that American activity equalled in no other country, set to work,
beginning his clearing. The peril he had incurred, and which he had
only escaped by a miracle incomprehensible to him, had caused him to
make very earnest reflections. He understood that in the isolated spot
where he was, he could not expect assistance from anyone; that he
must alone confront the danger that would doubtlessly menace him; and
that, consequently, he must, before all else, think about defending
the settlement against a _coup de main_, Major Melville had heard,
through his _engagés_ and trappers, of the colonist; but the latter was
perfectly ignorant that he was only ten miles from Fort Mackenzie. His
resolution once formed, John Black carried it out immediately.
To those people who have not seen American clearings, the processes
employed by the squatters, and the skill with which they cut down
the largest trees in a few moments, would appear as prodigies. Black
considered that he had not a moment to lose, and, aided by his son
and servants, set to work. The temporary camp, as we have seen, was
situated on a rather high mound, which commanded the plain for a
long distance. It was here that the colonist determined to build his
house. He began by planting all round the platform of the hill a row
of enormous stakes, twelve feet high, and fastened together by large
bolts. This first enceinte finished, he dug behind it a trench about
eight feet wide and fifteen deep, throwing up the earth on the edge,
so as to form a second line of defence. Then, in the interior of this
improvised fortress, which, if defended by a resolute garrison, was
impregnable, unless cannon were brought up to form a breach--for the
abrupt slope of the hill rendered any assault impossible--he laid the
foundation of his family's future abode. The temporary arrangements
he had made allowed him to continue his further labours less hastily;
through his prodigious activity, he could defy the attacks of all the
prowlers on the prairie.
His wife and daughter had actively helped him, for they understood,
better than the rest of the family, the utility of these defensive
works. The poor ladies, little used to the rude toil they had been
engaged in, needed rest. Black had not spared himself more than the
rest. He understood the justice of his wife and daughter's entreaties,
and as he had nothing to fear for the present, he generously granted a
whole day's rest to the little colony.
The events that marked the squatter's arrival in the province had left
a profound impression on the hearts of Mrs. Black and her daughter.
Diana, especially, had maintained a recollection of the Count, which
time, far from weakening, rendered only the more vivid. The Count's
chivalrous character, the noble way in which he had acted, and--let us
speak the truth--his physical qualities, all combined to render him
dear to the young girl, whose life had hitherto passed away calmly,
nothing happening to cast a cloud over her heart. Many times since the
young man's departure she stopped in her work, raised her head, looked
anxiously around her, and then resumed her toil, while stifling a sigh.
Mothers are quick-sighted, especially those who, like Mrs. Black,
really love their daughters. What her husband and son did not suspect,
then, she guessed merely by looking for a few minutes at the poor
girl's pale face, her eyes surrounded by a dark ring, her pensive look,
and inattention.
Diana was in love.
Mrs. Black looked around her. No one could be the object of that love.
So far back as she could remember, she called to mind no one her
daughter had appeared to distinguish before their departure from the
clearing, where she had passed her youth. Besides, when the little
party set out in search of a fresh home, Diana seemed joyful, she
prattled gaily as a bird, and appeared to trouble herself about none of
those she left behind.
After these reflections, the mother sighed in her turn; for, if she had
divined her daughter's love, she had been unable to discover the man
who was the object of that love. Mrs. Black resolved to cross-question
her daughter as soon as she happened to be alone with her; till then
she feigned to be in perfect ignorance. The day of rest granted by John
Black to his family would probably offer her the favourable opportunity
she awaited so impatiently. Hence she joyfully received the news which
her husband gave her in the evening after prayers, which, according to
the custom of the family, were said in common before going to bed.
The next morning, at sunrise, according to their daily habit, the two
ladies prepared the breakfast, while the servants led the cattle down
to the river.
"Wife," the squatter said, at breakfast, "William and I intend, as
work is suspended for today, to mount our horses, and go and visit the
neighbourhood, which we have not seen yet."
"Do not go too far, my friend, and be well armed; you know that in the
desert dangerous meetings are not rare."
"Yes; so be at ease. Although I believe that we have nothing to fear
for the present, I will be prudent. Would you not feel inclined to
accompany us, as well as Diana, and take a look at your new domain?"
The girl's eyes glistened with joy at this proposition; she opened her
lips to reply; but her mother laid her hand on her mouth, and spoke
instead of her.
"You must excuse us, my dear," she said, with a certain degree of
vivacity, "but women, as you know, have always something to do. Diana
and I will put everything in order during your absence, which our busy
labours of the last few days have prevented us doing."
"As you please, wife."
"Besides," she continued, with a smile; "as we shall probably remain a
long time here--"
"I fancy so," the squatter interrupted.
"Well, I shall not lack opportunity of visiting our domains, as you
call them, another day."
"Excellently argued, ma'am, and I am quite of your opinion; William
and I will therefore take our ride alone; I would ask you not to feel
alarmed if we do not come home till rather late."
"No; but on condition that you return before night."
"Agreed."
They spoke of something else; still, towards the end of the meal, Sam,
without suspecting it, brought the conversation back nearly to the same
subject.
"I am certain, James," he said to his comrade, "that the young man was
not a Canadian, as you fancy, but a Frenchman."
"Who are you talking about?" the squatter asked.
"The gentleman who accompanied the Redskins, and made them give us back
our cattle."
"Yes, without counting the other obligations we are under to him, for
if I am now the owner of a clearing, it was through him."
"He is a worthy gentleman," Mrs. Black said, with a purpose.
"Yes, yes," Diana murmured, in an indistinct voice.
"He is a Frenchman," Black asserted. "There cannot be a doubt of that:
those Canadian scoundrels are incapable of acting in the way he did to
us."
Like all the North Americans, Black heartily detested the Canadians;
why he did so, he could not have said, but this hatred was innate in
his heart.
"Bah!" William said, "what matter his country, he has a fine heart,
and is a true gentleman. For my part, father, I know a certain William
Black, who is ready to die for him."
"By heaven!" the squatter exclaimed, as he struck the table with his
fist, "you would be only doing your duty, and discharging a sacred
debt: I would give anything to see him again, and prove to him that I
am not ungrateful."
"Well spoken, father," William said joyously; "honest men are too rare
in the world for us not to cling to those we know; if we should meet
again, I will show him what sort of man I am."
During this rapid interchange of words, Diana said nothing; she
listened, with outstretched neck, beaming face, and a smile on her
lips, happy to hear a man thus spoken of, whom she unconsciously loved
since she first saw him. Mrs. Black thought it prudent to turn the
conversation.
"There is another person to whom we owe great obligations; for if
Heaven had not sent her at the right moment to our help, we should have
been pitilessly massacred by the Indians; have you already forgotten
that person?"
"God forbid!" the squatter exclaimed, quickly, "the poor creature did
me too great a service for me to forget her."
"But who on earth can she be?" William said.
"I should be much puzzled to say; I believe even that the Indians and
trappers, who cross the prairies, could give us no information about
her."
"She only appeared and disappeared," James observed.
"Yes, but her passage, so rapid as it was, left deep traces," Mrs.
Black said.
"Her mere presence was enough to terrify the Indians. That woman I
shall always regard as a good genius, whatever opinion may be expressed
about her in my presence."
"We owe it to her that we did not suffer atrocious torture."
"May God bless the worthy creature!" the squatter exclaimed; "if ever
she have need of us, she can come in all certainty; I and all I possess
are at her disposal."
The meal was over, and they rose from the table. Sam had saddled two
horses. John Black and his son took their pistols, bowie knives, and
rifles, mounted their horses, and after promising once again not to be
late, they cautiously descended the winding path leading into the plain.
Diana and her mother then began putting things to rights, as had been
arranged. When Mrs. Black had watched the couple out of sight on the
prairie, and assured herself that the two servants were engaged outside
in mending some harness, she took her needlework, and requested her
daughter to come and sit by her side. Diana obeyed with a certain
inward apprehension, for never had her mother behaved to her so
mysteriously. For a few minutes the two ladies worked silently opposite
each other. At length Mrs. Black stopped her needle, and looked at her
daughter; the latter continued her sewing, without appearing to notice
this intermission.
"Diana," she asked her, "have you nothing to say to me?"
"I, mother?" the young girl said, raising her head with amazement.
"Yes, you, my child."
"Pardon me, mother," she went on, with a certain tremor in her voice,
"but I do not understand you."
Mrs. Black sighed.
"Yes," she murmured, "and so it ever must be; a moment arrives when
young girls have unconsciously a secret from their mothers."
The poor lady wiped away a tear; Diana rose quickly, and throwing her
arms tenderly round her mother--
"A secret? I, a secret from you, mother? Oh, how could you suppose such
a thing?"
"Child!" Mrs. Black replied, with a smile of ineffable kindness, "a
mother's eye cannot be deceived;" and putting her finger on her
daughter's palpitating heart, she said, "your secret is there."
Diana blushed, and drew back, confused.
"Alas!" the good lady continued, "I do not address reproaches to you,
poor dear and well-beloved child. You unconsciously submit to the laws
of nature; I too, at your age, was as you are at this moment, and when
my mother asked my secret, like you, I replied that I had none, for I
was myself ignorant of that secret."
The girl hid her face, all bathed in tears, in her mother's breast. The
latter gently moved the flowing locks of light hair which covered her
daughter's brow, and giving her a kiss, said, with that accent which
mothers alone possess--
"Come, my dear Diana, dry your tears, do not trouble yourself so; only
tell me your feelings during the last few days."
"Alas! my kind mother," the girl replied, smiling through her tears,
"I understand nothing myself, and suffer without knowing why; I am
restless, languid; everything disgusts and wearies me, and yet I fancy
there has been no change in my life."
"You are mistaken, child," Mrs. Black answered, gravely, "your heart
has spoken without your knowledge; thus, instead of the careless,
laughing girl you were, you have become a woman, you have thought, your
forehead has turned pale, and you suffer."
"Alas!" Diana murmured.
"Come, how long have you been so sad?"
"I know not, mother."
"Think again."
"I fancy it is--."
Mrs. Black, understanding her daughter's hesitation, finished the
sentence for her.
"Since the day after our arrival here, is it not?"
Diana raised to her mother her large blue eyes, in which profound
amazement could be read.
"It is true," she murmured.
"Your sorrow began at the moment when the strangers, who so nobly aided
us, took their leave?"
"Yes," the girl said, in a low voice, with downcast eyes and blushing
forehead.
Mrs. Black continued smilingly her interesting interrogatory.
"On seeing them depart, your heart was contracted, your cheeks turned
pale, you shuddered involuntarily, and, if I had not held you--I who
watched you carefully, poor darling--you would have fallen. Is not all
this true?"
"It is true, mother," the girl said, with a more assured voice.
"Good; and the man from whom you regret being separated--he who causes
your present sorrow and suffering, is--?"
"Mother!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into her arms, and hiding her
shamed face in her bosom.
"It is--?" she continued.
"Edward!" the girl said, in an inarticulate voice, and melting into
tears.
Mrs. Black directed on her daughter a glance of supreme pity, embraced
her ardently several times, and said, in a soft voice,--
"You see that you had a secret, my child, since you love him."
"Alas!" she murmured, naively, "I do not know it, mother."
The good lady nodded her head with satisfaction, led her daughter back
to her chair, and herself sitting down, said to her,--
"And now that we have had a thorough explanation, and there is no
longer a secret between us, suppose we have a little talk, Diana."
"I am quite willing, mother."
"Listen to me, then; my age and experience, leaving out of sight the
position in which I stand to you, authorize me in giving you advice.
Will you hear it?"
"Oh, mother! you know I respect and love you."
"I know it, dear child; I know too, as I have never left you since your
birth, and have incessantly watched over you, how generous your mind
is, how noble your heart, and how capable of self-devotion. I must
cause you great pain, poor girl; but it is better to attend to the
green wound, than allow time to render the evil incurable."
"Alas!"
"This raging love, which has unconsciously entered your heart, cannot
be very great; it is rather the awakening of the mind to those
gentle feelings and noble instincts, which embellish existence and
characterize the woman, than a passion; your love is only in reality
a momentary exaltation of the brain's feverish imagination; like all
young girls, you aspire to the unknown, you seek an ideal, the reality
of which does not exist for you; but you do not love. Nay, more, you
cannot love; the feeling you experience at the moment is entirely in
the head, and the heart goes for nothing."
"Mother!" the young girl interrupted.
"Dear Diana," she continued, taking her hand, and pressing it, "let
me make you suffer a little now, to spare you at a later date the
horrible pangs which would produce the despair of your whole existence.
The man you fancy you love you will probably never see again; he is
ignorant of your attachment, and does not share it. I am speaking cold
and implacable reason; it is logical, and spares us much grief, while
passion is never so, and always produces pain; but supposing for a
moment that this young man loved you, you could never be his."
"But if he love me, mother," she said, timidly.
"Poor babe!" the mother continued, with an accent of sublime pity.
"Do you know even whether he be free? Who has told you that he is not
married? But I will allow it for a moment: this young man is noble;
he belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in Europe;
his fortune is immense. Do you believe that he will ever consent to
abandon all the social advantages his position guarantees him?--that he
will bow his family pride to give his hand to the daughter of a poor
American squatter?"
"It is true," she murmured, letting her head fall in her hands.
"And even if he did so, though it is impossible, would you consent to
follow him, and leave in the desert a father and mother, who have only
you, and who would die of despair ere your departure? Come, Diana,
answer, would you consent?"
"Oh, never, never, mother!" she exclaimed, madly "Oh, I love you most
of all!"
"Good, my darling; that is how I wished to see you. I am happy that my
words have found the road to your heart. This man is kind; he has done
us immense service; we owe him gratitude, but nothing more."
"Yes, yes, mother," she murmured, with a sob.
"You must only see in him a friend, a brother," she continued, firmly.
"I will try, mother."
"You promise it me?"
The girl hesitated for a moment. Suddenly she raised her head, and
said, bravely,--
"I thank you, mother. I swear to you not to forget him, that would
be impossible, but so thoroughly to conceal my love, that, with the
exception of yourself, no one shall suspect it."
"Come to my arms, my child; you understand your duty; you are noble and
good."
At this moment James entered.
"Mistress," he said, "the master is coming back, but there are several
persons with him."
"Wipe your eyes, and follow me, dear; let us go and see what has
happened."
And, stooping down to her daughter's ear, she whispered,--
"When we are alone, we will speak of him."
"Yes, mother," Diana said, almost joyfully, "Oh, how good you are, and
how I love you."
They went out, and looked in the direction of the plain. At a
considerable distance from the fort, they noticed a party of four or
five persons, at the head of whom were John Black and his son William.
"What is the meaning of this?" Mrs. Black said, anxiously.
"We shall soon know, mother; calm yourself; they seem to be riding too
gently for us to feel any alarm."