Thinkest thou that I could bear to part
From thee and learn to halve my heart?
Years have not seen, time shall not see,
The hour that tears my soul from thee.
BRIDE OF ABYDOS.
It was early on the morning of the next day when Arundel started on
his way to Boston, whither the message delivered by the soldier had
somewhat hastened his return. There was, indeed, to one not in love,
nothing in it to require such haste, and the explanation of his
departure is to be found only in the natural desire of a lover to be
near his mistress. Something might happen; he would seek an occasion
to see her; perhaps a plan might be devised; at least, his wishes
could not be promoted by keeping himself at a distance. While the
young man, musing on sweet hopes and vague unformed designs, is
threading his way through the forest, we will take advantage of the
opportunity to explain in a few words what the reader, as yet, only
imperfectly suspects.
Two years previous to the time when our story commences, Edmund
Dunning, a landholder and gentleman of consideration, in the county of
Devon, in England, having recently adopted the creed and practice of
the Puritans, (as a sect dissenting from the Church of England,
somewhat in doctrine, and wholly in outward observances, was called;
from asserting, as it was thought, pretentions to superior purity of
belief and strictness of living,) left the shores of his native island
with an only child, a daughter, then between seventeen and eighteen
years of age, to seek that freedom for his faith in the new world,
which, as he conceived, was denied him in the old. His whole family
consisted of this daughter, Eveline, his wife having deceased several
years previously. His departure was hastened by a circumstance which
had for some time occasioned him no little uneasiness, and the evil
consequences of which he could think of no other means so effectually
to avoid. This circumstance was an intimacy between the beautiful
Eveline and a young gentleman in the neighboring town more tender than
the father approved, who looked upon the hopes of the suitor as
presumptuous, and was, besides, opposed to an union, on account of a
diversity of religious sentiment betwixt himself and the aspirant.
This young man was Miles Arundel. A year before Master Dunning and his
daughter left England, he had come to the town of Exeter, near to
which the Dunnings lived on their estate, and opened a studio as a
landscape painter. It was not, however, until a month after his
arrival, that he seemed at all decided as to his intentions, the time
being spent in wandering over the beautiful country, and making
occasionally a sketch; nor after he had offered his services to the
public in a professional capacity did he work very diligently. Yet was
it remarked that he was never in want of money; and the citizens of
Exeter thought that he must get high prices for his pictures in London
to warrant his expenditure.
Among the families to which he was introduced as an artist, was that
of Edmund Dunning. Eveline was no indifferent sketcher herself, and
accompanied her father one day on a visit to the rooms of Master
Arundel. It is said that the young people blushed at the meeting, but
however that may be, the blush was unobserved by Master Dunning.
So agreeable did the young artist make himself, that one visit led on
to another, and he was invited to the house of Dunning, and soon found
himself, he hardly knew how, on a familiar footing in his family, and
giving lessons in painting to his daughter. Edmund Dunning had no
intentions that any other lessons should be given, and it accordingly
grieved him when he discovered the terms on which the young people
stood to one another, and which their ingenuousness could not conceal.
With this relation he had made himself acquainted as soon as he
suspected it, by inquiring of Eveline, who frankly told him the whole
truth. Arundel loved her, but dared not, on account of the distance
that separated him from her father, make known his feelings. The
father demanded of his child why she did not, at the beginning, check
such aspiring thoughts, and whether it was proper to allow of the
continuance of such a state of things. Poor Eveline could only reply
with tears, and that she could not prevent Miles loving her, but
confessed that she had done wrong, and promised to break off the
intimacy.
"I am unacquainted with his family, which is probably obscure," said
Edmund Dunning; "but were the blood of Alfred in his veins, he should
have no daughter of mine so long as he favors the persecuting Church
of England, which I know he does, notwithstanding his constant
attendance at the meetings of the congregation, the reason whereof I
now understand."
The promise which Eveline made to her father she kept, nor from that
moment would she consent to see Arundel. He pleaded hard for a single
interview, if only to take leave, and though her heart strongly took
his part, she replied that she would not increase the reproaches of
her conscience by advancing a step further in an intimacy which she
had wrongly concealed from her father, and was disapproved by him. All
intercourse between the lovers ceased from this time, and shortly
after Arundel disappeared from the neighborhood.
But it was at the risk of her health that Eveline obeyed her parent.
The rounded form began to become thin; the cheeks, in which red roses
were accustomed to bloom, faded, and the lovely blue eyes lost their
lustre. The anxious father noticed these signs with apprehension, and
in the hope that new scenes and a change of climate might improve his
daughter's health, hastened their departure.
Almost immediately on his arrival in the new world he formed an
acquaintance with Spikeman, who used every effort to ingratiate
himself into his confidence. So successful was Spikeman, that he
persuaded Master Dunning to embark a considerable portion of his
property in the business wherein Spikeman was engaged, and on the
death of Dunning, which happened only six months thereafter, to
appoint him the guardian of Eveline. But as the shadows of this world
were settling on the eyelids of the dying man, the light of another
and a better dawned upon his mind. The differences of opinion which
had separated him from the friends of his youth and manhood, and the
distinctions of rank, assumed less and less importance. He regarded
with pity the sadness of his daughter, and determined that he would be
no obstacle in the way of her happiness. He called her and his friend
to his bed-side, and after kissing her pale cheek, gave his full
consent to her union with Arundel, and made Spikeman promise to favor
her wishes in all things. Having thus settled his worldly affairs,
Edmund Dunning turned his face to the wall and gave up the ghost.
The tears of Eveline, left an orphan far away from the only spot which
she considered her home, flowed bitterly at the loss of her father. He
had been a gentle and sweet-tempered man, and an indulgent parent, and
she thought of him with a grief and yearning affection, the pain of
which the removal of the interdiction to her marriage with one whom
she loved, served at first, but in a slight degree, to mitigate. But
time had its usual effect. The swollen eyes of poor Eveline at last
resumed their brightness; the color returned to her cheeks; her step
became lighter, and she looked forward wish pleasure to the time when
she should give her hand to one who already had her heart.
But Spikeman was far from sympathizing with her views, nor had he any
intention to keep his promise. At the time when he inveigled Edmund
Dunning into entrusting property to his hands, his affairs were in an
embarrassed condition, and he needed then and now the funds to save
him from ruin. And again, hypocrite though he was in some respects, he
was not altogether so. A man of violent passions, and unscrupulous in
their gratification, deluding himself with the idea that having once
tasted the sweets of justification, (as he fancied,) his condition was
one of safety, and that the sins which reigned in the members of his
body could not reach his soul, he was yet zealous for the faith which
he had adopted, and devoted to the interests of the colony. It was to
this devotion mainly that he owed his dignity of Assistant. As a
Puritan, he was, or at least believed himself to be, opposed to a
marriage between Eveline and Arundel on the same principle which had
at first influenced her father, and been corrected only by the dawning
light of eternity. Shortly before the decease of his friend, Spikeman
had frequently, though never in the presence of Eveline, combated
Dunning's resolution with which he had been made acquainted, but in
vain. Had he dared, he would have resorted to one or more of the
elders to exert their potent influence, but this would have been to
betray the secret, and in case of their failure, might have placed
himself in an unpleasant predicament. He concluded it was better to
lock it up in his own breast, and so remain master of his actions and
of her destiny, at least till her majority, which lacked two years
before attainment. During that time, his circumstances might
change--she might decease--no one knew what was in the future.
It is not, therefore, surprising that the Assistant did not write to
England to inform Edmund Dunning's relatives of his death; much less
that he did not inform Arundel of the fact. Months slowly dragged by,
and yet the expecting girl received no word from home. At first
Spikeman accounted for it by the length of time required to make the
passage between the countries; afterwards by the supposition that the
letters might have failed, or intimating that Arundel had probably
changed his mind. A cold pang, as if she had been stabbed by an
icicle, pierced the bosom of Eveline at this cruel suggestion, and she
felt utterly desolute. What, however, frightened and depressed her
spirit, only roused the indignation of Prudence Rix, her attendant
from England, who even then had a sharper insight into the character
of the Assistant than her mistress.
"Hey-day!" she exclaimed; "to think that Master Miles, the handsomest
and darlingest young gentleman in Devonshire, and who, if he was only
a painter, looked grander and gave away more gold pieces than many a
lord she'd known, and who worshipped Mistress Eveline like some pagans
she'd heard of did the sun, should think of forgetting her! It was
precious nonsense. For her part, if she was Mistress Eveline, she
would write to him herself, without letting old vinegar-face know
anything about it."
The advice was not thrown away on the young lady, though with an
instinctive delicacy she did not follow it literally. Instead of
addressing Arundel directly, she wrote to a female friend, and
communicated the change in her circumstances, and the relenting of her
deceased father, rightly judging that the information would not long
remain unknown to her lover. She did this without the knowledge of
Spikeman, else it is probable that the letter would never have reached
its destination. The event answered her expectations, and with the
arrival of the first ship after her epistle was received, she had the
gratification of greeting Arundel. But what was her astonishment,
when, upon the demand of the young man that her guardian should carry
into effect the wishes of his deceased friend, Spikeman denied that
any obligation was imposed upon him. He would not admit that there had
been any change of opinion in the dying man, but insisted, on the
contrary, that he had remained steadfast in his purpose to the last.
He affected surprise at the declarations of Eveline, and while not
pretending to say what might have taken place in his absence,
persisted in asserting that nothing of the kind had occurred in his
presence. The young lady was surely in error. The bewilderment
occasioned by excessive grief on account of her father's condition,
and partiality for her lover, had caused her to mistake the meaning of
the former. He could not, however much desirous to please his ward,
violate the instructions of his deceased friend.
The remonstrances of Arundel, and gentle expostulations and entreaties
of Eveline, were without effect; and when once the young man, in a
moment of anger, threatened Spikeman with an appeal to justice and
punishment by the government in England, the latter grimly sneered at
his threats, and bade him beware lest he himself might be sent, as a
malcontent, out of the country. It was, indeed, far more probable that
such would be the result of Arundel's persistency, than that he should
succeed in carrying off his mistress; and, blinded as he was by love,
he could not conceal from himself the danger. To this was to be added
another peril, which the Assistant, in one of their conversations, had
hinted at, and of which we have also made mention, viz: that he might
incur the punishment provided for those who paid court to maidens
without the consent of the guardian or magistrate.
But the young couple had, besides Prudence, a powerful friend, Whose
kind heart pitied their misfortunes, and by whose means, assisted by
the faithful serving-maid, they had many stolen meetings, unknown to
their persecutor, and this was no other than dame Spikeman herself.
Destitute of children, she had been early attracted by the beautiful
orphan, for whom she soon learned to feel the affection of a mother.
Into her tender bosom the unprotected girl poured her griefs, and
always met with sympathy and good counsel. At first, the good dame
attempted to alter the determination of her husband, but finding her
efforts in vain, she finally abandoned them, and contented herself
with favoring the lovers by every means in her power, without his
knowledge, trusting to the chapter of accidents for the result.
Perhaps a few pieces of coin, distributed by Arundel now and then
among the servants, contributed to preserve the knowledge of their
meetings from the Assistant, who, whatever he might suspect, found it
difficult, engaged in his business, to detect them.
While we have been making this tedious but necessary explanation, the
young man has had time to reach the thickest part of the forest, lying
midway betwixt the residence of the knight and his place of
destination. He followed a narrow path made originally by the Indians,
as they traversed the woods in the manner peculiar to themselves,
known by the name of Indian file, now skirting the edge of a morass,
now penetrating through a thick undergrowth, and now walking in more
open spaces and under the shade of enormous trees.
Arundel, as he walked along with his piece in his hand, had kept
watchfully looking round to discern any game within range, when, as he
reached one of these open spaces, his eyes fell upon a dark object
crouched upon a lower limb of a tree immediately over the path before
him, and he instantly recognised the animal as the cougar or American
panther. It is the habit of the creature thus to conceal itself in
trees, waiting till its prey passes along, when, with one bound, it
springs upon its back, and quickly succeeds, by its own weight, and by
tearing the veins and arteries of the neck, in bringing it to the
ground.
The youth stopped, and gazed upon the motionless beast, whose
half-shut eyes he could see winking at him. He lay extended upon the
limb, his forward feet spread out at full length, on which rested his
small round head, with little ears falling back almost flat, his hind
legs drawn up under his body, and his flexible tail hanging a short
distance beneath the bough. The dark reddish color of the hair of his
skin, dashed with blackish tints, harmonized and blended well with the
hue of the bark, so that at a distance, to an unpracticed eye, he
appeared like a huge excrescence on the tree, or a large butt of a
branch that had lodged in its fall.
The young man did not hesitate what to do. He had come prepared for
meeting with wild animals, and felt too much confidence in himself to
fear the encounter. He approached so as to be just without reach of
the spring of the creature, and levelling his piece, while he could
see the cougar shut its eyes and cling closer to the limb, fired. The
sound of the gun rang through the ancient forest, and in an instant
the beast, jumping from the limb, fell at his feet. So sudden was
this, that Arundel had hardly time to withdraw the weapon from his
shoulder, before the animal had made the spring. The first impulse of
the youth on finding the ferocious brute thus near, was to club his
gun and strike it on the head; and now he discovered that it was
wounded in one of the forward legs, which hung helplessly down. But
the wound, instead of disabling or intimidating, only inflamed the
ferocity of the creature. It made repeated attempts to jump upon its
foe, which, in spite of the crippled condition of its leg and the loss
of blood, Arundel found it difficult to elude. Active as he was, and
though he succeeded occasionally in inflicting with his hunting-knife
a wound upon the beast, he soon began to suspect that, notwithstanding
he had thus far escaped with some inconsiderable scratches, the powers
of endurance of the formidable forest denizen were likely to exceed
his own. The combat had lasted some time, when, as the young man
endeavored to avoid the leap of the panther by jumping to one side,
his feet struck against some obstacle and he fell upon his back. In an
instant the enraged beast, bleeding from its many wounds, was upon his
prostrate person, and his destruction appeared inevitable. With a
desperate effort, he struck with the hunting-knife at the panther, who
caught it in its mouth, the blade passing between its jaws and
inflicting a slight wound at the sides, so slight as not to be felt,
and stood with its unhurt paw upon his breast, powerless to do
mischief with the other, and glaring with eyes of flame upon its
victim. At the instant when the panther, shaking the knife out of its
mouth, was about to gripe, with open jaws, the throat of the young
man, it suddenly bounded with a cry into the air, almost crushing the
breath out of the body of its antagonist, and giving him an
opportunity to rise. When Arundel stood upon his feet, he beheld the
panther in the agonies of death--an arrow sticking in one eye and an
Indian striking it with a tomahawk upon the head, for which great
agility and quickness were necessary in order to avoid the paw and
teeth of the creature in its dying struggles. These soon became less
violent, until, with a shudder, the limbs relaxed, and it lay
motionless and harmless,
Arundel now advanced to thank for his timely succor the Indian, who
stood quite still looking at him. He was apparently less than thirty
years of age, tall and well formed, with a countenance expressive of
nobleness and generosity. His attire consisted only of breech-cloth
and leggins, with no covering for the upper part of his person--a garb
offering fewest obstructions to his movements through the forest. In
his hand he held a bow; a quiver full of arrows was slung across his
back; the tomahawk was returned to the girdle around his loins, and a
knife hung by a deer-sinew from his neck.
"The arrow was well aimed," said Arundel, "that saved my life. How can
I thank my brother?" "Waqua is satisfied," replied the Indian, in very
imperfect English, which we shall not attempt to imitate.
"You are my preserver," said Arundel, "and shall not find the white
man ungrateful."
"Enough," answered the Indian. "Let wild beasts find some other food
than men."
"It was a strong hand as well as true aim that sent this arrow," said
the young man, drawing the shaft out of the animal's brain, in which
the barbed point, coming off, remained behind, "and I must furnish you
at least another arrow."
"Waqua has plenty of arrows in his quiver, and can get more."
"Thou art an independent fellow," exclaimed Arundel; "but there is one
thing I have to offer thee which thou must accept--that is, my hand,
and it is a sign that I will be thy brother."
There was something in the action and expression of Arundel's face
that was irresistibly attractive to the Indian. He took the offered
hand into both of his and replied, "Waqua gives his two hands to the
white man. He loves the white man, and the Great Spirit sent Waqua to
protect his brother."
"Thou hast established a claim to, my friendship stronger than often
exists. Be sure we will be friends. My brother is on a hunting path.
What success has he?"
"A deer," replied Waqua, stepping into a bush, returning with the
carcass on his shoulder, and throwing it upon the ground.
"Is my brother's lodge distant?"
"It would not tire a new born fawn to run the distance. My white
brother shall see the wigwam of Waqua, and rest his limbs, and then
Waqua will go with him to the lodges of the white men at Shawmut."
It was yet early in the day. There was no need of hurry, and the wish
of the Indian of itself was enough. It would have been indeed
ungracious to deny acquiescence to one who had just saved his life,
and Arundel therefore at once signified his assent. But before they
started, the Indian with the knife which he took from his neck,
despoiled the panther of its skin. Throwing it then across his
shoulders on top of the deer's carcass, he led the way out of the path
in a direction different from that in which Arundel had been
travelling.
It was truly as Waqua had said, and a few moments sufficed to reach
his habitation. It stood by itself, near the margin of the Charles
river, which empties into Massachusetts Bay, and was merely a rough
hunting lodge, made of bark, yet so constructed as effectually to
answer the purpose for which it was designed during the milder months.
Doubtless in winter it was deserted for the more comfortable wigwam in
the village.
Arrived at his dwelling, Waqua took down some skins suspended on one
side, and spreading them upon the ground, courteously invited his
companion to a seat. Arundel was glad to rest after his late violent
conflict, and availed himself of the opportunity to brush off the
dirt, and re-arrange his torn and disordered dress. Meanwhile, Waqua
kindled a fire, and cutting off some bear steaks, threw them on the
glowing coals. The exercise and danger of Arundel had given him an
appetite, and with no little interest he watched the process. The meal
was soon ready, and justice done to it by both; and upon its
conclusion, it became apparent that it was not on its account only
that Waqua had desired to return to his wigwam. It was also to make
some alteration in his toilette, therein betraying that fondness for
ornament which is equally active in the savage and in the civilized
exquisite. For the garments he had worn, others were substituted of
finer quality, and more showy appearance. Over his shoulders was
thrown a robe of beaver skins; in his hair were stuck some red
feathers, and from his ears hung pendants carved out of bone, into a
rude imitation of birds. Belts of wampompeag encircled the arms above
the elbow, and fell over the robe, hanging down the shoulders. The
preparation was completed by painting the cheeks and forehead
vermillion. Thus decorated, with bow in hand, an ornamented quiver on
his back, and tomahawk in girdle, Waqua considered himself fit to be
presented at any court in the world.
Nor when he advanced, conscious of the improvement in his appearance,
and stepping as though he were lord of the unbounded wilderness, did
Arundel attempt to conceal his admiration of the forest Apollo. Waqua
remarked it in the other's eyes, and a gleam of satisfaction lighted
up his face. Throwing the deer he had killed over his shoulder, and
taking a small bundle of skins in his hand, the Indian preceded his
companion on their way to the settlement.