 | CHAPTER XII. Tales of the good woman |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
On leaving the village of James Town, Fenton
and his party buried themselves in the forest, and
proceeded to search for the lost child. Without
guides, or pathway, or mark of any kind to direct
them, they wandered at random, they knew not
whither, till it became evident that without the aid
of chance or providence, their search would be
where long time ago, the lightning had shattered
a vast pine, which falling to the ground, had left
a space for the sun to waken into luxuriance a little
green sward, that invited them to rest. Here
accordingly they sat down for the purpose.
“Hush!” cried Fenton, after a few minutes had
passed over—“hush! I hear something.”
“'Tis only the squirrel barking,” answered
Percie.
“Hush! again! cried Vere, laying his ear close
to the grass; “there's something alive not far off.
'Tis in a direction towards the right. Follow, and
don't breathe above once in an age. These
red men can hear the grass grow. But what's
here?” cried he, as stooping down he picked up
a little broken branch, and looking farther discovered
others.
“I have it, I have it,” said Layton. “How ingeniously
the poor girl has contrived to give a clue,
in case she should be followed.”
“Well done, Anne Burras!” said Vere; “she's
a brave girl, and he that wont risk his life for her,
let him die the death of a bachelor, hey, Layton!”
“Now sirs,” quoth Percie, “be ready, aye, and
steady too. They can't be far off; the branches
are as fresh as ever. Listen! there were but two
you say?”
“But two,” answered Fenton; “so Arabella
told me.”
“Then two of us will reserve our fire on the
chance of the others missing, should we fall in
with them. Vere and I will try our hands first,
and if we fail, you and Layton will try and do better.”
“Excuse me, Percie,” replied Fenton. “A father's
arm can best guard the life of his child. I
do not doubt your skill; but there are others you
may chance to hit.”
“Thy hand will tremble, Fenton,” said the
other.
“No, you shall see me aim as steady and as true
as the old Swiss Father.”
“And I,” said Layton, “claim the privilege of
drawing the first trigger for Anne Burras.”
“You'll not aim at her heart, Master Layton,”
said Vere, smiling.
“It is but just. The father's and the lover's
privilege shall never be disputed by me,” said
Percie.
“Nor me,” rejoined Vere. “Now let us follow
the broken branches, and my life we find them.”
After this conversation, which passed in low
whispers, the party, guided by the broken branches,
which they found strewed at intervals, proceeded
slowly through a labyrinth, which led them into
the thickest and wildest recesses of the forest, that
covered the whole peninsula, between James and
York rivers. Fortune, or rather the good foresight
of Anne Burras, at length brought them to a little
of which bubbled a clear spring, almost the
only one in that sandy region. Here Fenton,
who led the van, approaching with the silent caution
of a cat, discovered his little lost sheep. The
Indians had kindled a fire to cook a piece of venison,
and sat quietly smoking their long pipes.
Anne Burras was sitting disconsolate, leaning her
cheek on her hand, while the child was amusing
himself with picking berries. When he wandered
too far, the Indians would bring him back, threatening
him with their tomahawks. Ever and anon,
Fenton could hear his boy complain of being tired
and hungry, while Anne soothed him with the
hope she felt not herself, that he would see his father
and mother soon. “Do you think so?” he
at length exclaimed, “well, then I will go to sleep
like a good boy. But, indeed, I'm so hungry,
Anne, that I could bite a piece out of your cheek
and eat it.” He then quietly laid his head in her
lap, but soon declaring himself too hungry to
sleep, continued to skip about and gather berries.
The moment Fenton made the discovery, he motioned
to the rest of the party, who silently as the
grave, disposed themselves at short distances
around the little glen, unobserved by the savages,
although once or twice the rustling of the bushes,
which it was impossible to prevent, alarmed them,
and caused them to look keenly towards the spot.
Fenton and Layton now gained a position whence
were taking aim, the boy passed suddenly between
them and the Indians. Fenton shuddered and
dropped the muzzle of his piece. Again he raised
his deadly rifle, and again just at the actual moment,
the boy glided between the savages and
death. The agitation of Fenton became uncontrollable,
and his aim grew unsteady.
“Why the d—l don't you fire,” said the impatient
Vere, in a whisper so loud that the Indians
started upon their feet and grasped their tomahawks.
At that moment, Fenton and the other
pulled their triggers. The Indians gave a yell of
death; one of them fell stone dead; the other
bounded into the forest, and was not pursued. Anne
Burras fell back in a swoon, and the boy, throwing
himself upon her, wept and screamed with all his
might.
“All's safe, thank God,” cried Fenton, seeing
that Anne had only fainted. “Why Harry, my
boy, my dear boy, don't you know me?”
“Yes, dear father, but I'm so frightened; and
see poor Anne; you've killed her, you bad man,”
turning to Layton. “Wake up Anne, here's your
sweetheart come to marry you.”
By this time the poor girl opened her eyes, and
seeing Layton, held out her hand to him. He
raised her up tenderly, and pressed her to his
heart unperceived, while she, unheard by all but
me, and you shall wear me.”
“Ah! I thought I could bring you to life,” exclaimed
the boy, archly.
“What! my honest little playmate safe and
sound,” cried Vere. “Kiss me you rogue, for old
acquaintance sake.”
“I will; but had'nt you better kiss Anne?”
“I am an older acquaintance than he,” said
Percie; “come hither.”
“Aye, but you can't play blind man's buff half
as well. But my mother says you are not happy,
and so I'll love you.”
“Dear boy,” answered Percie, “had any harm
come to thee, I should have been still more unhappy.”
“Come, let us lose no time,” cried Fenton.
“Our guns may have alarmed some straggling
party of the Indians, for I dare say the woods are
not yet clear of them. And there is one anxiously
waiting for us at home, who shall thank you all.
I cannot. Come, we have only to pursue the path
we came.”
So saying, they bent their course as speedily as
might be to the village. But whether from want
of proper attention, or some other cause, they
missed their way, and remained wandering they
knew not whither, till the sun waned low in the
west, and the twilight of the woods began to deepen
apace. In this perplexity they fired the guns,
which were heard and answered by O`Reilly.
judge, they made their way through the intricacies
of the forest, until again having entirely lost
all clue with which to thread the labyrinth, they
sat down, tired, and almost despairing. After
resting a little while, the boy, with the natural
restlessness and vivacity of youth, began running
about, among the trees, and on one occasion having
made a more distant circuit than usual, was seen
through a little vista of the wood by Master
O`Reilly, who with Newcut, was standing leaning
against a tree in almost equal perplexity with the
other party.
“Tim, Tim, whisht!” quoth O`Reilly, in a suppressed
voice; “by the powers, I saw a fairy capering
in the wood yonder! Whisht, did'nt you
see it—there—there!”
“Where?”
“Yonder, don't you see the pretty little robin-run-away?”
“Pooh, pooh,” said the other; “there are no
fairies in this new world. They've not come over
yet.”
“Be quiet, Tim; hav'nt I seen thousands of
them dancing by moonlight in my own country?
By the powers I could swear I had seen this same
little fellow capering in the old church yard of
Ballyshallygruddery.”
“An odd place to cut capers in,” quoth the
other.
During this whispering dialogue, the child in
playing about, at length came to the tree behind
which O`Reilly and the other had ensconsed
themselves, and was seized by the former.
“Ah hah! my little merry spirit of flesh and
blood, have I caught you? What, you must run
away, and lose yourself in the wood, must you?
By my mother's soul it makes my heart water, to
think how glad Mistress Fenton will be to see you
again.”
During this speech, the child not recognizing
the voice of O`Reilly, screamed and called for
help, which of course brought his father and the
others to his rescue, and a mutual recognition
took place.
“What! honest Phelim, is it you, hunting
shadows of game in the forest; for there's nothing
of substance left,” exclaimed the gay Vere.
“I was brought here by a special providence,
I think,” answered the other. “I've killed a
knight errant, and found this little darling. But
now I think on it, I've lost my way—have any of
you found it?”
Vere in looking about here, at length found
one or two of the branches plucked off by Anne
Burras, and exclaimed—
“Huzza, huzza! I've found it, I've found it!
I know where we are now. By my soul, Mistress
Anne, I've a great mind to write a sonnet to your
discretion.”
“Why not to my beauty sir? I'll promise to
forgive you, if you don't say a word about discretion.”
“Nay, I'm resolved, it shall be discretion.
'Twill be something new, since never damsel was
sung before for discretion, either because you are
the first that ever displayed any, or—”
“Or that you are the first poet that ever had the
sense to find it out; that is what you were going
to say.”
“Harkee, Mistress Anne,” quoth Vere, “could'nt
a man persuade you now to desert an old sweetheart
for a new?”
“No, no,” cried the damsel, shaking her head;
“there's my allegiance. I'll never fight under
any other colours, but those of ensign Layton.”
“Ah, well a day!” replied Vere; “I must incontinently
solace myself with villanous rhymes.”
During this merry talk, the party had advanced
onwards, guided by the broken branches, and at
length safely emerged into the open space which
surrounded the village.
| CHAPTER XII. Tales of the good woman | |