The setting sun, which hung over the forest sea of Canada Creek, poured
its purple beams over the travelers. They had just emerged from the
woods through which they had been going the whole day by solitary,
narrow Indian trails. At their feet lay the valley, filled with roseate
evening mist, following the windings of the creek.
Lambert stopped the strong-limbed horse which he was leading by the
bridle as they were ascending the valley, and said to his companion:
"This is Canada Creek, and that is our house."
"Where?" asked Catherine.
Leaning over the saddle and protecting her eyes from the sun with her
hand she eagerly looked in the direction which the young man had
indicated.
"There," said he, "toward the north, where the creek appears. Do you
see it?"
"Now I do," said Catherine.
At this moment the horse, with expanded nostrils, snorted, and suddenly
leapt sideways. The unprepared rider lost her balance and would have
fallen off had not her companion, by a quick spring, caught her in his
arms.
"It is nothing," said he, as she slid down to the ground. "Old Hans
acts as if he had never before seen a snake. Are you not ashamed of
yourself, old fellow? So--keep quiet, so!" He patted the frightened
horse on his short, thick neck, stripped off the bridle and tied him to
a sapling.
"You must have been terribly frightened," said he. His voice and hands
shook while he buckled on the pillion which had become displaced.
"Oh, no," said Catherine.
She had seated herself on the root of a tree, and looked over the
valley where now, over the luxuriant meadow which followed the course
of the stream, a fog began to rise. Yonder the sun was just dipping
into the emerald, forest sea, and the golden flames on the trunks,
boughs and tops of the great trees were gradually fading away.
From above, the cloudless, greenish-blue evening sky looked down, while
a flock of wild swans was flying northward up the valley. From time to
time they uttered their peculiar, melancholy cry, melodiously softened
by the distance. A deep, quiet stillness brooded over the primitive
forest.
The young man stood leaning against the shoulder of the horse. There
rested on his brown face a deep, sad anxiety. Often a shadow of
restlessness and fear passed over it, widely differing from the usual
expression of the smooth, manly features, and obscuring the light that
commonly danced in the large blue eyes. He looked now at the swans,
which shone as silver stars in the distant, rosy horizon--now at the
maiden who sat there, partly turned away from him. At length, drawing a
deep breath a couple of times, he approached her.
"Catherine," said he.
She raised her handsome face. Her large brown eyes were filled with
tears.
"Are you sorry that you have come with me?" said the young man.
Catherine shook her head.
"No," said she; "how unthankful I should then be."
"And yet, you are weeping."
"I am not weeping," said Catherine, as she drew her hands across her
eyes and tried to smile. "I was just thinking how happy my father would
have been, had he, at the end of his wanderings, found this still
place. Ah! just so had he wished and dreamed. Still it could not be so.
How your parents will rejoice to see you again."
She was about to rise. Lambert touched her shoulder.
"Stay yet a moment, Catherine, I have--I must ask you something."
The anxiety that had already before showed itself in his face become
still greater. His brows were contracted. His eyes had a stern, severe
look.
Catherine looked up at him with astonishment.
"Had my parents meanwhile died and you and I, Catherine, must dwell
alone in yonder house--"
"You must not speak so, Lambert Sternberg," said Catherine. "It is our
duty to trust the Lord. They are doubtless alive and well--they and
your brother. Why do we lose time? The evening is passing and I am
fully rested."
Lambert wished to make a reply, but the words refused to pass his lips.
He stared before him as if in uncertainty, and at length turned to the
horse, and with a degree of violence thrust the bit between his teeth.
Then he threw the rifle, which stood leaning against the trunk of a
tree, on his shoulder and, leading his horse by the bridle, began to
descend the rocky declivity. Silently Catherine followed, carefully
looking where she could with confidence set her foot, casting many a
glance at those going before. The path was very steep and the horse
often slid. Lambert needed all his strength and carefulness, and it was
manifest that he did not once look back, nor did he ask Catherine how
she was getting along. Meanwhile Catherine's heart palpitated. It
seemed as though the restlessness, the anxiety about his home that
spoke in Lambert's words and looks, had also seized her. "Were they
indeed dead--were they all dead--and were we two, he and I, to dwell in
yonder house!"
They had reached the valley. Here, along the creek, which flowed in
many windings between the meadow banks, there was an easier though
narrower path. The horse thrust forward his ears, neighed and stepped
along quicker. Lambert had to hold him by the bridle. Catherine walked
a little to one side. It did not tire the slim, vigorous girl to come
along. It was not the exertion that caused her to breathe with
difficulty. The silence which Lambert had not broken for a long time
pressed upon her more and more. She was not accustomed to it. On the
other hand--this she now for the first time thought of--he had toyed
with her during the journey of weeks, he had always talked with her in
a way so kind and good. Now, however, in view of his nearer
responsibilities he had become silent. He did not speak of those
belonging to him. Indeed she would not have known that his parents were
living had he not, when she asked him whether he thought that his
mother would be satisfied with her, replied that she should give
herself no uneasiness on that account. Had he not even now expressed a
fear that he should not find his parents alive?
"The kind man," said she to herself, "did not wish to make the heart of
the poor orphan heavy by telling me about his parents, and now he
cannot wait for the time of meeting them."
"Catherine," said he at that moment.
"Lambert," replied she, coming to his side, glad that he had at last
broken silence. As he said no more to her as she waited, she added,
"You wished to say something?"
"We shall not live there alone," indicating the block-house with his
eyes, standing but a few steps from them.
"No, surely not," she replied.
He gave her an unusual look.
"Do not be so anxious, kind Lambert, we are in God's care."
"No, certainly not," replied he.
He had not observed what she had last said, and only recalled her
former words. But it affected her painfully when, through
misapprehension, she had heard denied that which she believed, with all
her heart, as her old father had believed in all need and trouble. "We
are in God's care!" That was the text of his last sermon which, already
himself dying, he had delivered between decks to his unhappy fellow
sufferers. That was his last word as, a few hours later, he breathed
out, in their arms, his pure spirit. Did not her pious childhood-faith
approve itself to her in a wonderful manner? When all human help seemed
impossible, did not a kind man, God-sent, come, and with a strong hand
lead her out of the labyrinth, and carefully conduct her over hills and
mountains, creeks and rivers, through endless forests and immeasurable
prairies? Never, never, by the side of the good and strong one, had
there come to her a feeling of anxiety or fear. Now, as she was nearing
the end of her pilgrimage, should doubt find sly entrance? "I will
protect and help you as a brother does his sister!" Had he promised too
much? Why did he walk so self-absorbed, so still and dumb at her side,
now that he was so near his own hearth and that of his parents? Did he,
perhaps, fear that he would not be kindly received on account of the
stranger he was bringing home? Why was the house there before them so
still? No barking of dogs. No sign of those who at the next moment
might be expected to rush into the arms of the home-comer. The solitary
house on the little hillock, gently descending from it on all sides,
and standing near the creek which, like a snake through the grass, was
quietly winding among the rushes, was perfectly silent. Silent and
still were the dark woods which here and there overlooked the valley
from the heights along the shore.
As she now reached the house Catherine felt as though her heart would
leap forth as she observed that the lower story, built of immense logs,
had no windows but narrow slits like the portholes in the walls of a
fortress, and that the upper story was surrounded by a low, massive
breastwork, and that the shingle roof was quite high. Lambert tied the
horse to a heavy ring which was near the door, cast searching glances
about the house and surroundings, murmured something that she did not
understand, and finally pushed slowly against the heavy door which
opened inward.
He disappeared in the house, came out after a few moments and said:
"There is nobody here. We are entirely alone. Will you go with me?"
They were the very same words that he had addressed to her on the deck
of the emigrant ship, and she again answered him as then:
"I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg." She grasped the hand which he
had extended to her and followed him into the forsaken house.