THE DEAD HEART
While the lonely, heart-broken girl sat in that tainted room, her whole
being bowed with grief, the drunken revellers shouting before her, many
thoughts passed and flashed across the highly-strung mind.
Position, before that brutal assault, was as nothing. It mattered not at
all that she looked on others enjoying themselves in the manner to them
most congenial, that she was outside all this, barred by the law of race
from having any part in their festivities, even had she wished it.
But why should men be cruel to her, she who had harmed no one? Why,
because she was Indian, should she be treated as animal? She knew she
was beautiful--once that knowledge had been the chief joy of the heart;
she had, to the ruin of that joy, succeeded in attracting the desire of
a handsome white; he had told her she was perfect in face and form, that
she was in fact the divine woman of Nature. Yet he had taken her, under
the seal of a false love, but to while away a few careless hours of
leisure.
He would not so have treated the woman of his own race. Had he ventured
to, others would have risen to prevent the insult Yet the same
justice-mongers would have raised no bar to the ruin of the poor girl,
more perfect, more trusting, infinitely more loving than her white
sister. She might be trampled on, despised, destroyed. And why? Because
she was merely the girl of the forest, the Indian, not a human being in
their sense of the word.
Her brain could not unravel this paradox.
The tears of blood dripped forth silently. Once had she been Menotah,
now time and treachery had changed that happy heart into dead fruit. The
lively girl had grown to a revengeful woman. In such a state, sympathy
would have been gall. True, there were none who would offer pity. Had
there been, what balm of healing could their compassion bring to that
diseased mind? Every incident in the bright past had faded, each hope
and warm pleasure had been shrivelled up like a dry leaf and swept away
For the one hour of deepest misery drives into oblivion all memory of
the lapsed years, when joy was ever present, into forgetfulness each day
of laughing sunshine, each hour of unburdened delight.
Each man or woman in the last despair can live upon the dreary phrase,
'There was a time.' All, whether in poverty, in death, or time of lost
honour, may repeat the sad and mocking words for what consolation they
contain. There was a time of youth, when sorrow was unknown, when the
mind was always a butterfly with its light hope, when the heart was hot
and large with love. It was summer then. Now it is winter--all is
coldness and desolation.
Yet the hour of vengeance approached, when that terrible life duty must
be discharged. She felt the substance warming in its poison by her
bosom, and, in the bitterness of her grief, smiled. She must make
entrance into her husband's room and find him alone. This drug had no
internal effect, though its commingling with the human blood meant a
death lingering and terrible in its slow wasting. She would place a
portion in her mouth, then approach the destroyer with tears and bitter
protestations of yet living love. As a last favour she would beg
permission to kiss the hand which so often had fondled her. This he
could not refuse. Then she would bite deeply with her poisoned teeth
into the flesh, and watch him, as he fell away from her, with the
fearful greyness spreading over his features, as the racking cold seized
every limb and made each muscle shiver. Afterwards she might go away and
look for peace.
Yet, supposing that he relented at the sight of her, that he renewed the
vow of love, that he swore again to be constant. Should she grant
pardon, if only for the sake of healing her own deep wound?
Never! Take again that which had been given in pure confidence, the gift
which had been despised? She had given him her best, her all. He had
broken it with scorn, had cast it down, and trampled on it with his
feet. Perhaps he might even now offer to return it as a proof of his
manly affection. What would be the value of such a gift? What would be
the true feeling at the heart of such a man?
Then forget the wronger, and search for the true-hearted. If some men
are faithless, there are others, and many, who are honourable. If there
is one enemy, there are others who are friends. Surely such a vile man
is not worthy of remembrance. Forget that black clouds of treachery have
ever darkened the sunshine happiness of a past.
Forget! This, alas, is the ever-present impossibility of life. None may
forget death, when its grim power lies across the body, nor may the
wound be disregarded, while the red blood pours therefrom. Can the heart
forget when it has been robbed of life, of health, of joy, of hope, of
all that makes the world beautiful? There is but one thing that in such
case may be brought as food for oblivion--the vanished happiness of the
past.
For this wound was deep as death itself. There was nothing left but
vengeance, and after that--after that--Rest comes only after duty.
How mighty were these white men in their creations! How weak were they
in themselves! For, in the lust after power, they had cast aside Nature
and her works. They knew nothing of the sacred fire, of the beauty of
life. Across the mighty water they came in great vessels to seize upon
the territories of the weak Indian. With might they had driven out
right, and made the former owners slaves in their own land. But when
these conquerors lay beneath the cold shadow of death, whom would they
call upon for aid? The Indian, with his deep knowledge of healing
medicines. When food was desired for the body, to whom would they turn
for assistance? To the Indian, who alone could lead them to the spot
where the animals lay concealed. When it was their wish to feast the
sight upon things of wonder, whom would they summon? The Indian, with
his inscrutable knowledge of Nature's inner secrets. Finally, when they
wished to learn the power of love, it were useless to search for it
among their own habitations. They must turn to the tents of the despised
race, then depart with knowledge gained. Yet, by the law of justice, the
white ruled the world. The Indian lay beneath his feet and looked to him
for life.
Stranger than all this was the story of the white man's God. If the old
mentor had not been advised wrongly, this God had walked the earth for
years, to teach His children the lesson of life and death. This God must
have taught them that women were of no account. One was to be taken and
sported with, then cast aside for another. Their tears and their sorrow
were to be laughed at and counted as nothing. This was strange teaching,
for why should the woman be held so inferior to the man?
But perchance the white man had many gods, who gave each a different
teaching. Yet no, it could not be. From all sides came the same
unvarying tale of treachery and desertion. There were many white men in
the country, yet they were all the same. All treated the women with
cruelty, all were inconstant. Some there were who married, then deserted
their wives for other women. The faith of the white God must be a cruel
one. She would have none of it.
Yet, in obeying the prompting of her own mind, the will of the Spirit
had been disobeyed. She had allied herself to one outside the tribe, and
now but suffered the penalty of wrong-doing. A man who could not love
joined to a woman with a heart. The result of such union meant misery to
one, death to both. The heart continued its musings on the mystery of
love.
Man is man, and woman, woman, whatever race or colour. They mingle
together and pass daily, until one is strangely stopped by power of
attraction for another. The man looks upon the woman, and sees that she
is beautiful. She regards him with the growing thought that he is good
and strong. Then, as the time passes, he comes to know that here is the
life being whom the Great Spirit has brought into creation and led
across his track, that he may take her to his home and call her his. For
she was brought into life for him, and he for her. So he takes her by
the hand in the evening time, and whispers in her ear, 'Let me twine my
life with yours. Let us live as one, with soul to soul, having one mind,
one wish.' Then she will agree, and the solemn compact is made, with the
Great Spirit as witness. He has promised to shelter and clothe her, to
care for her in time of sickness, to rejoice with her in happiness, to
grieve with her in sorrow. She, also, promises to lighten his burden of
daily toil with her soft love touch, to devote herself to him alone, to
prepare his comforts, to make his home the centre of heart joy. But what
shall be done to that man, who has fallen away from the great oath, by
her who has remained true and faithful?
Let him be forgotten and forgiven? It were impossible. The heart, when
it stirred into faint life, prompted otherwise. The teaching of the God
was different. What justice was there in treating the apostate as though
he had remained constant? Nor could it bring satisfaction to the
stricken mind to see the God performing the work of vengeance.
Was there strength at the heart? Resolution for the meeting and the
work? Doubtless, yet the strain and tension would be well nigh
unbearable. There would be the journey, the watching for the
opportunity, the anticipating of others, then the dread discovery before
the once loved. After that must come the actual bitterness of the
struggle. To look upon that face, which had been so indelibly stamped
upon the memory; to behold again that well-remembered form; to speak and
plead, with a love assumed, while hatred burnt within; to hold that
hand, which had so often caressed her in the days of innocence. All such
must be endured before commission of the act. The poison would be
dissolving and stirring within her mouth, mingling with the breath,
lying upon the tongue which had softly spoken to his ear the sounds of
love. Another moment of strength, one more wave of feeling, and the work
would be accomplished. The hand would be seized within hers, the touch
electrifying each subtle sense current in her body. She would raise it
to her lips, and she would kiss--yes, she would kiss first, then bite,
burying her white teeth in the flesh with the mad intensity of the
passion hatred, feeling his blood dripping and surging hotly across her
mouth, mingling with the poison, which must then commence a deathly
revelry along his veins. If the heart strength lasted for so long, all
would be well. She might then crawl away to a place of quietness, cast
down the aching body, and suffer the final pangs of ebbing life.
Was the heart of joy entirely dead? Had the single ice-stroke deprived
it of all consciousness, blotting out the warm love and flowing vitality
in a breath? The limb, frozen by the rigours of Arctic cold, is
wax-like, cold, and dead to feeling. Yet it may perhaps be gradually
revived and restored again to use and animation by assiduous attention.
Was there not then some sensitive fibre of the heart, at present numbed
by the intense frost of sorrow, yet which might be re-animated into at
least a portion of the old happiness by tender nurture? The heart is so
great in its far-reaching sympathies, so diversified in its range of
feeling. Was there not a spot, as yet untouched by the mortification,
one slight nerve which could yet respond to the anxious voice of
friend--more, to the soft sound of lover's voice? Assuredly not. The
heart was dead to feeling of human passion, alive only to its ice-cold
determination of duty. Nothing could stir its sluggish pulsations as it
lay within the flesh tomb. Not the excitement of her mission, nor the
taunts of those who should have been men enough to have protected her
from insult, not even the contemplation of again facing him she had so
wildly and so foolishly loved, could awake that heavy, torturing burden
within to a semblance of its past activity, to a shadow of the former
brightness. All light and colour had been stripped from life. Even the
body was cold, shrunken and debilitated. The mind had no resource to
lean upon, the body no satisfaction to hope for. For the latter there
remained death; the former looked only for silence.
A faint colour crawled into her thin cheeks and became constant,
increasing in intensity of shade. The remainder of her face and the dull
eyes became ghastly by contrast. Such a bright colour had once marked
the rich stain of health; then it had altered to the pure heart blush;
now it was the slow spreading fever of the mind. It seemed, indeed, as
though the fire which had long been consuming her heart, after burning
away the vitals, had spread to the exterior, there to consummate its
work and consume the poor remnants of life.
There was one more thought at the dead heart, one doubting and
perplexing query. Well might it trouble her, for none could have given
answer to that constant cry--what is the rest that comes to the mind of
sorrow after death?