The log on which the young hunter had seated himself is some paces
distant from the path. He has a slight knowledge of this Indian family,
and simply nods to them as they pass. He does not speak, lest a word
should bring on a conversation--for the avoidance of which he has a
powerful motive.
The Indian makes no halt, but strides silently onward, followed by his
pannier-laden squaw. The girl, however, pauses in her steps--as if
struck by some sudden thought. The action quickly follows the thought;
and, turning out of the path, she approaches the spot where the hunter
is seated.
What wants she with him? Can this be the _she_ he has been expecting
with such impatience? Surely not! And yet the maiden is by no means
ill-looking. In her gleaming oblique eyes there is a certain sweetness
of expression; and a tinge of purple-red, bursting through the bronze of
her cheeks, lends to her countenance a peculiar charm. Add to this,
luxuriant black hair, with a bosom of bold outlines--which the sparse
savage costume but half conceals--and you have a portrait something more
than pretty. Many a time and oft, in the history of backwoods life, has
the heart of the proud pale-face offered sacrifice at such a shrine. Is
this, then, the expected one? No. Her actions answer the question; and
his too. He does not even rise to receive her, but keeps his seat upon
the log--regarding her approach with a glance of indifference, not
unmingled with a slight expression of displeasure.
_Her_ object is presently apparent. A bullet-pouch of white buckskin,
richly worked with porcupine quills, is hanging over her arm. On
arriving before the hunter she holds it out, as if about to present it
to him. One might fancy that such is her intention; and that the pouch
is designed as a _gage d'amour_; but the word "dollar," which
accompanies the offer, precludes the possibility of such a supposition.
It is not thus that an Indian girl makes love. She is simply soliciting
the pale-face to purchase. In this design she is almost certain to be
successful. The pouch proclaims its value, and promises to sell itself.
Certainly it is a beautiful object--with its quills of brilliant dye,
and richly-embroidered shoulder-strap. Perhaps no object could be held
up before the eyes of Frank Wingrove more likely to elicit his
admiration.
He sees and admires. He knows its value. It is cheap at a dollar;
besides, he was just thinking of treating himself to such a one. His
old catskin is worn and greasy. He has grown fastidious of late--for
reasons that may be guessed. This beautiful pouch would sit well over
his new hunting-shirt, and trick him out to a T. In the eyes of
Marian--
His desire to become the possessor of the coveted article hinders him
from continuing the reflection. Fortunately his old pouch contains the
required coin; and, in another instant, a silver dollar glances in the
palm of the Indian girl.
But the "goods" are not delivered over in the ordinary manner. A
thought seems to strike the fair huckster; and she stands for a moment
gazing upon the face of the handsome purchaser. Is it curiosity? Or is
it, perhaps, some softer emotion that has suddenly germinated in her
soul? Her hesitation lasts only for an instant. With a smile that
seems to solicit, she approaches nearer to the hunter. The pouch is
held aloft, with the strap extended between her hands. Her design is
evident--she purposes to adjust it upon his shoulders.
The young hunter does not repel the proffered service--how could he? It
would not be Frank Wingrove to do so. On the contrary, he leans his
body forward to aid in the action. The attitude brings their faces
almost close together: their lips are within two inches of touching!
For a moment the girl appears to have forgotten her purpose, or else she
executes it in a manner sufficiently _maladroit_. In passing the strap
over the high coon-skin cap, her fingers become entangled in the brown
curls beneath. Her eyes are not directed that way: they are gazing with
a basilisk glance into the eyes of the hunter.
The attitude of Wingrove is at first shrinking; but a slight smile
curling upon his lip, betokens that there is not much pain in the
situation. A reflection, however, made at the moment, chases away the
smile. It is this:--"'Tarnal earthquakes! were Marian to see me now!
She'd never believe but that I'm in love with this young squaw: she's
been jealous o' her already."
But the reflection passes; and with it, for an instant, the remembrance
of "Marian." The sweetest smelling flower is that which is nearest--so
sings the honey-bee. Human blood cannot bear the proximity of those
pretty lips; and the kindness of the Indian maiden must be recompensed
by a kiss. She makes no resistance. She utters no cry. Their lips
meet; but the kiss is interrupted ere it can be achieved. The bark of a
dog--followed by a half-suppressed scream in a female voice--causes the
interruption. The hunter starts back, looking aghast. The Indian
exhibits only surprise. Both together glance across the glade. Marian
Holt is standing upon its opposite edge!
Wingrove's cheek has turned red. Fear and shame are depicted upon his
face. In his confusion he pushes the Indian aside--more rudely than
gently. "Go!" he exclaims in an under voice. "For God's sake go!--you
have ruined me!"
The girl obeys the request and gesture--both sufficiently rude after
such sweet complaisance. She obeys, however; and moves off from the
spot--not without reproach in her glance, and reluctance in her steps.
Before reaching the path she pauses, turns in her track, and glides
swiftly back towards the hunter.
Wingrove stands astonished--half afrighted. Before he can recover
himself, or divine her intent, the Indian is once more by his side. She
snatches the pouch from his shoulders--the place where her own hands had
suspended it--then flinging the silver coin at his feet, and uttering in
a loud angry tone the words, "False pale-face!" she turns from the spot,
and glides rapidly away. In another moment she has entered the
forest-path, and is lost to the sight.
The scene has been short--of only a few seconds' duration. Marian has
not moved since the moment she uttered that wild, half-suppressed
scream. She stands silent and transfixed, as if its utterance had
deprived her of speech and motion. Her fine form picturesquely draped
with bodice and skirt; the moccasin buskins upon her feet; the coiled
coronet of shining hair surmounting her head; the rifle in her hand,
resting on its butt, as it had been dashed mechanically down; the huge
gaunt dog by her side--all these outlined upon the green background of
the forest leaves, impart to the maiden an appearance at once majestic
and imposing. Standing thus immobile, she suggests the idea of some
rival huntress, whom Diana, from jealousy, has suddenly transformed into
stone. But her countenance betrays that she is no statue. The colour
of her cheeks--alternately flushing red and pale--and the indignant
flash of that fiery eye, tell you that you look upon a living woman--one
who breathes and burns under the influence of a terrible emotion.
Wingrove is half frantic. He scarce knows what to say, or what to do.
In his confusion he advances towards the young girl, calling her by
name; but before he has half crossed the glade, her words fall upon his
ear, causing him to hesitate and falter in his steps. "Frank Wingrove!"
she cries, "come not near me. Your road lies the other way. Go! follow
your Indian damsel. You will find her at Swampville, no doubt, selling
her cheap kisses to triflers like yourself. Traitor! we meet no more!"
Without waiting for a reply, or even to note the effect of her words,
Marian Holt steps back into the forest, and disappears. The young
hunter is too stupefied to follow. With "false pale-face" ringing in
one ear, and "traitor" in the other, he knows not in what direction to
turn. At length the log falls under his eye; and striding mechanically
towards it, he sits down--to reflect upon the levity of his conduct, and
the unpleasant consequences of an unhallowed kiss.