ORIANNA’S FAITH.
Long had the old square table, with its cloth of snowy whiteness and its
load of eatables, waited the coming of the bridal party. Many times had
Mrs. Wilder stood in the doorway, and strained her eyes to catch a sight
of the expected company, and more than many times had old Dillah
declared “that the corn cake which riz so nice would be fell as flat as
a pewter platter, if they did not come along.”
At length, from the top of a large old maple, in whose boughs several
young Africans were safely ensconced, there came the joyful cry of
“There, they’s comin’. That’s the new miss with the tail of her dress
floppin’ round the horses’ heels. Jimminy! ain’t she a tall one!” and
the youngsters dropped to the ground, and perched themselves, some on
the fence and others on the gate, with eyes and mouth open to whatever
might happen.
In the doorway Mrs. Wilder received the bride, and the ready tears
gushed forth as for the first time in her life she folded to her heart a
daughter. From his stool in the corner, Charlie came, and throwing his
arms around Marian’s neck, he said, “I know I shall love you, for you
look so much like Orianna!”
Old Dillah, who was pressing forward to offer her congratulations, was
so much surprised that she forgot the bow and fine speech which, for
more than a week, she had been practising. Her command of language,
however, did not wholly desert her, for she said, somewhat warmly, “Clar
for ’t, Master Charles, young miss won’t feel much sot up to be told she
favours a black Injun.”
George, too, was evidently piqued at having his bride likened to an
Indian, but Robert came to Charlie’s relief, saying that “he had often
noticed how wholly unlike an Indian were the features of Orianna, and
that were her skin a few shades lighter, she would be far more beautiful
than many pale-cheeked belles, with their golden curls and snowy brows.”
The conversation now turned upon Orianna, and the strong affection which
existed between her and Charlie, whom Robert teased unmercifully about
his “dark-eyed ladye love.”
Charlie bore it manfully, and ere the evening was spent, he had promised
to take Marian with him next time he visited his Indian friend. This
promise he fulfilled, and the meeting between the two girls was
perfectly simple and natural. Both were prepared to like each other, and
both looked curiously, one at the other, although Marian at last became
uneasy at the deep, earnest gaze which those full, black eyes bent upon
her, while their owner occasionally whispered, “Marian, Marian.”
Visions of sorcery and witchcraft passed before her mind, and still,
turn which way she would, she felt that the dark girl’s eyes were fixed
upon her with a strangely fascinating look. But fear not, young Marian,
for though she strokes your silken curls, and caressingly touches your
soft cheek, the forest maiden will do you no harm. At length Marian’s
timidity gave way, and when she arose to go, she did not refuse her hand
to Orianna, who for a time kept it between her own, as if admiring its
whiteness; then suddenly throwing it from her, she said, “Oh, why can’t
Orianna be white and handsome, too?”
“You are handsome,” answered Marian. “Only two evenings since I heard
Robert Hunting say that you were far more beautiful than half the white
girls.”
“Who takes my name in vain?” said a musical voice, as Robert himself
appeared before them, and laid his hand gently upon Orianna’s glossy
hair.
If Marian had any doubts of her beauty before, they were now dispelled
by the rich colour which mounted to her olive cheek, and the joy which
danced in her large eye. Yet ’twas not Robert’s presence alone which so
delighted Orianna. A ray of hope had entered her heart. “He thought her
beautiful, and perhaps—perhaps—”
Ah, Orianna, think not that Robert Hunting will ever wed an Indian, for
Robert is no Rolfe, and you no Pocahontas!
As if divining and giving words to her thoughts, Robert, while seating
himself between the two girls, and placing an arm around each, said,
playfully, “Hang it all, Orianna, why were you not white!”
“Don’t, Bob,” whispered Marian, who with woman’s quick perception half
suspected the nature of Orianna’s feelings for one whose life she twice
had saved.
“Don’t what, my little Puritan?” asked Robert.
“Don’t raise hopes which you _know_ can never be realized,” answered
Marian.
Robert was silent for a while, and then said, “I reckon my orthodox
cousin is right;” then turning to Orianna, he asked how her reading
progressed.
Charlie answered for her, saying that she could read in words of one
syllable as well as any one, and that she knew a great deal besides!
Robert was about testing her powers of scholarship, when they were
joined by George Wilder, before whom Orianna absolutely refused to open
her mouth, and in a few moments she arose and left them, saying, “I
shall come again to-morrow.”
That night, by the wigwam fire, Narretta was listening to her daughter’s
account of the “white dove,” as she called Marian. Suddenly a light
seemed to dawn on Orianna’s mind, and clasping her hands together she
said, “Mother, do you remember when I was sick, many, many moons ago?”
“Yes, child,” answered Narretta, and Orianna continued: “I slept a long
time, I knew, but when I woke, I remember that you, or some one else,
said, “She is getting white; it will never do.” Then I looked at my
hands, and they were almost as fair as Marian’s, but you washed me with
something, and I was dark again. Tell me, mother, was I turning white?”
“_Turning white!_ No child,” said Narretta; “now shut up and get to
bed.”
Orianna obeyed, but she could not sleep, and about midnight she stole
out at the door, and going to the spring, for more than half an hour she
bathed her face and hands, hoping to wash off the offensive colour. But
all her efforts were vain, and then on the withered leaves she knelt,
and prayed to the white man’s God,—the God who, Charlie had said, could
do everything. “Make Orianna white, make her white,” were the only words
she uttered, but around her heart there gathered confidence that her
prayer would be answered, and impatiently she waited for the morrow’s
light.
“Mother, am I white?” aroused Narretta from her slumbers, just as the
first sunlight fell across the floor.
“White! No; blacker than ever,” was the gruff answer, and Orianna’s
faith in “Charlie’s God” was shaken.