"Who can he be?" said Walter Prevost, when they had reached the little
sitting-room. "Sir William called him 'My Lord.'"
Edith smiled at her brother's curiosity. Oh, how much older women
always are than men!
"Lords are small things here, Walter," she said.
"I do not think that lords are small things anywhere," answered her
brother, who had not imbibed any of the republican spirit which was
even then silently creeping over the American people. "Lords are made
by kings for great deeds or great virtues."
"Then they are lords of their own making," answered Edith. "Kings only
seal the patent nature has bestowed. That great red oak, Walter, was
growing before the family of any man now living was ennobled by the
hand of royalty."
"Pooh, nonsense!" answered her brother. "You are indulging in one of
your day dreams. What has that oak to do with nobility?"
"I hardly know," replied his sister, "but yet something linked them
together in my mind. It seemed as if the oak asked me, 'What is their
antiquity to mine?' And yet the antiquity of their families is their
greatest claim to our reverence."
"No! no!" cried Walter Prevost, eagerly. "Their antiquity is nothing,
for we are all of as ancient a family as they are. But it is that they
can show a line from generation to generation, displaying some high
qualities, ennobled by some great acts. Granted that here or there a
sluggard, a coward, or a fool may have intervened, or that the acts
which have won praise in other days may not be reverenced now. Yet I
have often heard my father say that, in looking back through records
of noble houses, we shall find a sum of deeds and qualities suited to
and honored by succeeding ages, which, tried by the standard of the
times of the men, shows that hereditary nobility is not merely an
honor won by a worthy father for unworthy children, but a bond to
great endeavors, signed by a noble ancestor on behalf of all his
descendants. Edith, you are not saying what you think."
"Perhaps not," answered Edith, with a quiet smile; "but let us have
some lights, Walter, for I am well nigh in darkness."
The lights were brought, and Walter and his sister sat down to muse
over books--I can hardly say to read--till their father reappeared;
for the evening prayer and the parting kiss had never been omitted in
their solitude ere they lay down to rest. The conference in the hall,
however, was long, and more than an hour elapsed before the three
gentlemen entered the room. Then a few minutes were passed in quiet
conversation, and then, all standing round the table, Mr. Prevost
raised his voice, saying: "Protect us, O Father Almighty, in the hours
of darkness and unconsciousness. Give us thy blessing of sleep to
refresh our minds and bodies; and if it be thy will, let us wake again
to serve and praise thee through another day more perfectly than in
the days past, for Christ's sake."
The Lord's Prayer succeeded, and then they separated to their rest.
Before daylight in the morning Sir William Johnson was on foot and in
the stable. Some three or four negro slaves--for there were slaves
then on all parts of the continent--lay sleeping soundly in a small
sort of barrack hard by; and as soon as one of them could be roused,
his horse was saddled, and he rode away without stopping to eat or say
farewell. He bent his course direct toward the banks of the Mohawk,
flowing at some twenty miles distance from the cottage of Mr. Prevost;
and before he had been five minutes in the saddle was in the midst of
the deep woods which surrounded the little well cultivated spot where
the English wanderer had settled.
About a mile from the house a bright and beautiful stream crossed the
road, flowing onward toward the greater river; but bridge there was
none, and in the middle of the stream Sir William suffered his horse
to stop and bend its head to drink. He gazed to the eastward, but all
there was dark and gloomy under the thick overhanging branches. He
turned his eyes to the westward, and they rested on a figure standing
in the midst of the stream, with rod in hand, and his back turned
toward him. He thought he saw another figure, too, amidst the trees
upon the bank; but it was shadowy there, and the form seemed shadowy,
too.
After gazing for a moment or two, he raised his voice and exclaimed:
"Walter! Walter Prevost!"
The lad heard him, and laying his rod upon the bank, hastened along
over the green turf to join him; but at the same moment the figure
among the trees--if really figure it was--disappeared from sight.
"Thou art out early, Walter," said Sir William. "What do you at this
hour?"
"I am catching trout for the stranger's breakfast," said the lad, with
a gay laugh. "You should have had your share, had you but waited."
"Who was that speaking to you on the bank above?" asked the other,
gravely.
"Merely an Indian girl, watching me fishing," replied Walter Prevost.
"I hope your talk was discreet," rejoined Sir William. "These are
dangerous times, when trifles are of import, Walter."
"There was no indiscretion," replied the lad, with the color mounting
slightly in his cheek. "She was noticing the feather flies with which
I caught the fish, and blamed me for using them. She said it was a
shame to catch anything with false pretences."
"She is wise," answered the other, with a faint smile, "but yet that
is hardly the wisdom of her people. An Indian maiden!" he added,
thoughtfully. "Of what tribe is she? One of the Five Nations, I
trust."
"Oh, yes; an Oneida," replied Walter. "One of the daughters of the
Stone, the child of a sachem who often lodges at our house."
"Well, be she who she may," said Sir William, "be careful of your
speech, especially regarding your father's guest. I say not, to
conceal that there is a stranger with you, for that cannot be; but
whatever you see or guess of his station, or his errand, keep it to
yourself, and let not a woman be the sharer of your thoughts till you
have tried her with many a trial."
"She would not betray them, I am sure," answered the lad, warmly, and
then added, with some slight embarrassment, as if he felt that he had
in a degree betrayed himself, "but she has nothing to reveal or to
conceal. Our talk was all of the river and the fish. We met by
accident, and she is gone."
"Perhaps you may meet by accident again," said the other, "and then be
careful. But now to more serious things. Perchance your father may
have to send you to Albany--perchance to my castle. You can find your
way speedily to either. Is it not so?"
"Further than either," replied the lad, gayly.
"But you may have a heavy burden to carry," rejoined Sir William. "Do
you think you can bear it--I mean the burden of a secret?"
"I will not drop it by the way," answered Walter, gravely.
"Not if the sachem's daughter offer to divide the load?" asked his
companion.
"Doubt me not," said Walter.
"I do not," said Sir William. "I do not; but I would have you warned.
And now farewell. You are very young to meet maidens in the wood. Be
careful. Farewell."
He rode on, and the boy tarried by the roadside and meditated.
In about two minutes he took his way up the stream again, still
musing, toward the place where he had laid down his rod.
He sprang up the bank, and in amongst the maples; and some ten minutes
after, the sun rising higher, poured its light through the stems upon
a boy and girl seated at the foot of an old tree; he with his arms
around her, and his hand resting on the soft, brown, velvety skin, and
she with her head upon his bosom, and her warm lips within the reach
of his.
Her skin was brown, I have said, yes, very brown, but still hardly
browner than his own. Her eyes were dark and bright, of the true
Indian hue, but larger and more open than is at all common in many of
the tribes of Iroquois. Her lips, too, were rosy, and as pure of all
tinge of brown as those of any child of Europe; and her fingers, also,
were stained of Aurora's own hue. But her long, silky black hair would
have spoken her race at once had not each tress terminated in a wavy
curl. The lines of the form and of the face were all wonderfully
lovely, too, and yet were hardly those which characterize so
peculiarly the Indian nations. The nose was straighter, the cheek
bones less prominent, the head more beautifully set upon the
shoulders. The expression, too, as she rested there with her cheek
leaning on his breast, was not that of the usual Indian countenance.
It was softer, more tender, more impassioned; for though romance and
poetry have done all they could to spiritualize the character of
Indian love, I fear, from what I have seen and heard and known, it is
rarely what it has been portrayed. Her face, however, was full of love
and tenderness and emotion; and the picture of the two as they sat
there told at once of a tale of love just spoken to a willing ear.