 | CHAPTER VIII. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
In its lone woof began to twine;
But, ah! the golden thread was wove
That bound my sister's heart in mine!”
Willis.
While the captain and Joyce were digesting their plans,
Mike proceeded on an errand of peculiar delicacy with which
he had been entrusted by Robert Willoughby. The report
that he had returned flew through the dwellings, and many
were the hearty greetings and shakings of the hand that the
honest fellow had to undergo from the Plinys and Smashes,
ere he was at liberty to set about the execution of this trust.
The wenches, in particular, having ascertained that Mike
had not broken his fast, insisted on his having a comfortable
meal, in a sort of servants' hall, before they would consent
to his quitting their sight. As the county Leitrim-man was
singularly ready with a knife and fork, he made no very
determined opposition, and, in a few minutes, he was hard
at work, discussing a cold ham, with the other collaterals
of a substantial American breakfast.
The blacks, the Smashes inclusive, had been seriously
alarmed at the appearance of the invading party. Between
them and the whole family of red-men there existed a sort
of innate dislike; an antipathy that originated in colour, and
on the score of scalps.
“How you look, ole Plin, widout wool?” Big Smash had
reproachfully remarked, not five minutes before Mike made
his appearance in the kitchen, in answer to some apologetic
observation of her husband, as to the intentions of the
savages being less hostile than he had at first imagined;
“why you say dey no murder, and steal and set fire, when
you know dey's Injin! Natur' be natur'; and dat I hear
dominie Woods say t'ree time one Sunday. What'e dominie
say often, he mean, and dere no use in saying dey don't
come to do harm.”
As Great Smash was an oracle in her own set, there was
no gainsaying her dogmas, and Pliny the elder was obliged
to succumb. But the presence of Mike, one who was understood
to have been out, near, if not actually in, the enemy's
camp, and a great favourite in the bargain, was a circumstance
likely to revive the discourse. In fact, all the negroes
crowded into the hall, as soon as the Irishman was seated
at table, one or two eager to talk, the rest as eager to listen.
“How near you been to sabbage, Michael?” demanded
Big Smash, her two large coal-black eyes seeming to open
in a degree proportioned to her interest in the answer.
“I wint as nigh as there was occasion, Smash, and that
was nigher than the likes of yer husband there would be
thinking of travelling. Maybe 'twas as far as from my
plate here to you door; maybe not quite so far. They're
a dhirty set, and I wish to go no nearer.”
“What dey look like, in'e dark?” inquired Little Smash
—“Awful as by daylight?”
“It's not meself that stopped to admire'em. Nick and
I had our business forenent us, and when a man is hurried,
it isn't r'asonable to suppose he can kape turning his head
about to see sights.”
“What dey do wid Misser Woods?—What sabbage want
wid dominie?”
“Sure enough, little one; and the question is of yer own
asking. A praist, even though he should be only a heretic,
can have no great call for his sarvices, in sich a congregation.
And, I don't think the fellows are blackguards enough
to scalp a parson.”
Then followed a flood of incoherent questions that were
put by all the blacks in a body, accompanied by divers looks
ominous of the most serious disasters, blended with bursts
of laughter that broke out of their risible natures in a way
to render the medley of sensations as ludicrous as it was
strange. Mike soon found answering a task too difficult to
be attempted, and he philosophically came to a determination
to confine his efforts to masticating.
Notwithstanding the terror that actually prevailed among
the blacks, it was not altogether unmixed with a resolution
to die with arms in their hands, in preference to yielding to
savage clemency. Hatred, in a measure, supplied the place
of courage, though both sexes had insensibly imbibed some
of that resolution which is the result of habit, and of which
a border life is certain to instil more or less into its subjects,
in a form suited to border emergencies. Nor was this feeling
confined to the men; the two Smashes, in particular,
being women capable of achieving acts that would be thought
heroic under circumstances likely to arouse their feelings.
“Now, Smashes,” said Mike, when, by his own calculation,
he had about three minutes to the termination of his
breakfast before him, “ye'll do what I tells ye, and no
questions asked. Ye'll find the laddies, Missus, and Miss
Beuly, and Miss Maud, and ye'll give my humble respects
to'em all—divil the bit, now, will ye be overlooking either
of the t'ree, but ye'll do yer errand genteely and like a
laddy yerself—and ye'll give my jewty and respects to'em
all, I tells ye, and say that Michael O'Hearn asks the honour
of being allowed to wish'em good morning.”
Little Smash screamed at this message; yet she went,
forthwith, and delivered it, making reasonably free with
Michael's manner and gallantry in so doing.
“O'Hearn has something to tell us from Robert” — said
Mrs. Willoughby, who had been made acquainted with the
Irishman's exploits and return; “he must be suffered to
come in as soon as he desires.”
With this reply, Little Smash terminated her mission.
“And now, laddies and gentlemen,” said Mike, with
gravity, as he rose to quit the servants' hall, “my blessing
and good wishes be wid ye. A hearty male have I had at
yer hands and yer cookery, and good thanks it desarves.
ye will be scalp'd the day, seeing that the savages are all to
be forenent the mill this morning, houlding a great council,
as I knows from Nick himself. A comfortable time, then,
ye may all enjoy, wid yer heads on yer shoulters, and yer
wool on yer heads.”
Mike's grin, as he retreated, showed that he meant to be
facetious, having all the pleasantry that attends a full stomach
uppermost in his animal nature at that precise moment.
A shout rewarded this sally, and the parties separated with
mutual good humour and good feeling. In this state of
mind, the county Leitrim-man was ushered into the presence
of the ladies. A few words of preliminary explanations
were sufficient to put Mike in the proper train, when he
came at once to his subject.
“The majjor is no way down-hearted,” he said, “and he
ordered me to give his jewty and riverence, and obligations,
to his honoured mother and his sisters. `Tell'em, Mike,'
says he, says the majjor, `that I feels for'em, all the same
as if I was their own fader; and tell'em,' says he, `to keep
up their spirits, and all will come right in the ind. This is
a throublesome wor-r-ld, but they that does their jewties to
God and man, and the church, will not fail, in the long
run, to wor-r-k their way t'rough purgatory even, into paradise.”'
“Surely my son — my dear Robert — never sent us such
a message as this, Michael?”
“Every syllable of it, and a quantity moor that has slipped
my memory,” answered the Irishman, who was inventing,
but who fancied he was committing a very pious fraud —
“'Twould have done the Missuses heart good to have listened
to the majjor, who spoke more in the charackter of a
praist, like, than in that of a souldier.”
All three of the ladies looked a little abashed, though
there was a gleam of humour about the mouth of Maud,
that showed she was not very far from appreciating the
Irishman's report at its just value. As for Mrs. Willoughby
and Beulah, less acquainted with Mike's habits, they did not
so readily penetrate his manner of substituting his own desultory
thoughts for the ideas of others.
“As I am better acquainted with Mike's language, dear
mother” — whispered Maud — “perhaps it will be well if I
take him into the library and question him a little between
ourselves about what actually passed. Depend on it, I shall
get the truth.”
“Do, my child, for it really pains me to hear Robert so
much misrepresented — and, as Evert must now begin to
have ideas, I really do not like that his uncle should be so
placed before the dear little fellow's mind.”
Maud did not even smile at this proof of a grandmother's
weakness, though she felt and saw all its absurdity. Heart
was ever so much uppermost with the excellent matron,
that it was not easy for those she loved to regard anything
but her virtues; and least of all did her daughter presume
to indulge in even a thought that was ludicrous at her expense.
Profiting by the assent, therefore, Maud quietly
made a motion for Mike to follow, and proceeded at once to
the room she had named.
Not a word was exchanged between the parties until both
were in the library, when Maud carefully closed the door,
her face pale as marble, and stood looking inquiringly at her
companion. The reader will understand that, Mr. Woods and
Joyce excepted, not a soul at the Hut, out of the limits of
the Willoughby connection, knew anything of our heroine's
actual relation to the captain and his family. It is true,
some of the oldest of the blacks had once some vague notions
on the subject; but their recollections had become
obscured by time, and habit was truly second nature with
all of the light-hearted race.
“That was mighty injanious of you, Miss Maud!” Mike
commenced, giving one of his expressive grins again, and
fairly winking. “It shows how fri'nds wants no spache but
their own minds. Barrin' mistakes and crass-accidents, I'm
sartain that Michael O'Hearn can make himself understood
any day by Miss Maud Willoughby, an' niver a word said.”
“Your success then, Mike, will be greater at dumb-show
than it always is with your tongue,” answered the young
lady, the blood slowly returning to her cheek, the accidental
use of the name of Willoughby removing the apprehension
of anything immediately embarrassing; “what have you to
tell me that you suppose I have anticipated?”
“Sure, the like o'yees needn't be tould, Miss Maud, that
the majjor bad me spake to ye by yerself, and say a word
that was not to be overheerd by any one else.”
“This is singular—extraordinary even—but let me know
more, though the messenger be altogether so much out
of the common way!”
“I t'ought ye'd say that, when ye come to know me. Is
it meself that's a messenger? and where is there another
that can carry news widout spilling any by the way? Nick's
a cr'ature, I allows; but the majjor know'd a million times
bhetter than to trust an Injin wid sich a jewty. As for Joel,
and that set of vagabonds, we'll grind'em all in the mill,
before we've done wid'em. Let'em look for no favours,
if they wishes no disapp'intment.”
Maud sickened at the thought of having any of those sacred
feelings connected with Robert Willoughby that she
had so long cherished in her inmost heart, rudely probed by
so unskilful a hand; though her last conversation with the
young soldier had told so much, even while it left so much
unsaid, that she could almost kneel and implore Mike to be
explicit. The reserve of a woman, notwithstanding, taught
her how to preserve her sex's decorum, and to maintain
appearances.
“If major Willoughby desired you to communicate anything
to me, in particular,” she said, with seeming composure,
“I am ready to hear it.”
“Divil the word did he desire, Miss Maud, for everything
was in whispers between us, but jist what I'm about to
repait. And here's my stick, that Nick tould me to kape
as a reminderer; it's far bhetter for me than a book, as I
can't read a syllable. `And now, Mike,' says the majjor,
says he, `conthrive to see phratty Miss Maud by herself—”
“Pretty Miss Maud!” interrupted the young lady, involuntarily.
“Och! it's meself that says that, and sure there's plenty
of r'ason for it; so we'll agree it's all right and proper—
“phratty Miss Maud by herself, letting no mortal else know
what you are about. That was the majjor's.”
“It is very extraordinary! — Perhaps it will be better,
Michael, if you tell me nothing but what is strictly the
words that were actually sent as possible.”
“Wor-r-ds! — And it isn't wor-r-ds at all, that I have to
give ye.”
“If not a message in words, in what else can it be? —
Not in sticks, surely.”
“In that”—cried Mike, exultingly—“and, I'll warrant,
when the trut' comes out, that very little bit of silver will be
found as good as forty Injin scalps.”
Although Mike put a small silver snuff-box that Maud at
once recognised as Robert Willoughby's property into the
young lady's hand, nothing was more apparent than the
circumstance that he was profoundly ignorant of the true
meaning of what he was doing. The box was very beautiful,
and his mother and Beulah had often laughed at the
major for using an article that was then deemed de rigueur
for a man of extreme ton, when all his friends knew he
never touched snuff. So far from using the stimulant,
indeed, he never would show how the box was opened, a
secret spring existing; and he even manifested or betrayed
shyness on the subject of suffering either of his sisters to
search for the means of doing so.
The moment Maud saw the box, her heart beat tumultuously.
She had a presentiment that her fate was about to
be decided. Still, she had sufficient self-command to make
an effort to learn all her companion had to communicate.
“Major Willoughby gave you this box,” she said, her
voice trembling in spite of herself. “Did he send any message
with it? Recollect yourself; the words may be very
important.”
“Is it the wor-r-ds? Well, it's little of them that passed
between us, barrin' that the Injins was so near by, that it
was whisper we did, and not a bit else.”
“Still there must have been some message.”
“Ye are as wise as a sarpent, Miss Maud, as Father
O'Loony used to tell us all of a Sunday! Was it wor-r-ds!—
`Give that to Miss Maud,' says the majjor, says he, `and
tell her she is now misthress of my sacret.”
“Did he say this, Michael? — For heaven's sake, be certain
of what you tell me.”
“Irish Mike — Masser want you in monstrous hurry,”
cried the youngest of the three black men, thrusting his
glistening face into the door, announcing the object of the
intrusion, and disappearing almost in the same instant.
“Do not leave me, O'Hearn,” said Maud, nearly gasping
for breath, “do not leave me without an assurance there is
no mistake.”
“Divil bur-r-n me if I'd brought the box, or the message,
or anything like it, phretty Miss Maud, had I t'ought it would
have done this har-r-m.”
“Michael O'Hearn,” called the serjeant from the court,
in his most authoritative military manner, and that on a key
that would not brook denial.
Mike did not dare delay; in half a minute Maud found
herself standing alone, in the centre of the library, holding
the well-known snuff-box of Robert Willoughby in her little
hand. The renowned caskets of Portia had scarcely excited
more curiosity in their way than this little silver box of the
major's had created in the mind of Maud. In addition to his
playful evasions about letting her and Beulah pry into its
mysteries, he had once said to herself, in a grave and feeling
manner, “When you get at the contents of this box,
dear girl, you will learn the great secret of my life.” These
words had made a deep impression at the time — it was in
his visit of the past year — but they had been temporarily
forgotten in the variety of events and stronger sensations
that had succeeded. Mike's message, accompanied by the
box itself, however, recalled them, and Maud fancied that
the major, considering himself to be in some dangerous
emergency, had sent her the bauble in order that she might
learn what that secret was. Possibly he meant her to communicate
it to others. Persons in our heroine's situation
feel, more than they reason; and it is possible Maud might
have come to some other conclusion had she been at leisure,
or in a state of mind to examine all the circumstances in a
more logical manner.
Now she was in possession of this long-coveted box —
coveted at least so far as a look into its contents were concerned—Maud
not only found herself ignorant of the secret
by which it was opened, but she had scruples about using
the means, even had she been in possession of them. At
asking if she knew any way of getting at the spring; then
she shrunk from the exposure that might possibly attend
such a step. The more she reflected, the more she felt convinced
that Robert Willoughby would not have sent her that
particular box, unless it were connected with herself, in
some way more than common; and ever since the conversation
in the painting-room she had seen glimmerings of the
truth, in relation to his feelings. These glimmerings too,
had aided her in better understanding her own heart, and all
her sentiments revolted at the thought of having a witness
to any explanation that might relate to the subject. In every
event she determined, after a few minutes of thought, not to
speak of the message, or the present, to a living soul.
In this condition of mind, filled with anxiety, pleasing
doubts, apprehensions, shame, and hope, all relieved, however,
by the secret consciousness of perfect innocence, and
motives that angels might avow, Maud stood, in the very
spot where Mike had left her, turning the box in her hands,
when accidentally she touched the spring, and the lid flew
open. To glance at the contents was an act so natural and
involuntary as to anticipate reflection.
Nothing was visible but a piece of white paper, neatly
folded, and compressed into the box in a way to fill its interior.
“Bob has written,” thought Maud — “Yet how
could he do this? He was in the dark, and had not pen or
paper!” Another look rendered this conjecture still more
improbable, as it showed the gilt edge of paper of the quality
used for notes, an article equally unlikely to be found in the
mill and in his own pocket. “Yet it must be a note,” passed
through her mind, “and of course it was written before he
left the Hut — quite likely before he arrived — possibly the
year before, when he spoke of the box as containing the
evidence of the great secret of his life.”
Maud now wished for Mike, incoherent, unintelligible,
and blundering as he was, that she might question him still
further as to the precise words of the message. “Possibly
Bob did not intend me to open the box at all,” she thought,
“and meant merely that I should keep it until he could
return to claim it. It contains a great secret; and, because
he wishes to keep this secret from the Indians, it does not
box again, and guard his secret as I would one of my
own.”
This was no sooner thought than it was done. A pressure
of the lid closed it, and Maud heard the snap of the spring
with a start. Scarcely was the act performed ere she
repented it. “Bob would not have sent the box without
some particular object,” she went on to imagine; “and had
he intended it not to be opened, he would have told as much
to O'Hearn. How easy would it have been for him to say,
and for Mike to repeat, `tell her to keep the box till I ask
for it — it contains a secret, and I wish my captors not to
learn it.' No, he has sent the box with the design that I
should examine its contents. His very life may depend on
my doing so; yes, and on my doing so this minute!”
This last notion no sooner glanced athwart our heroine's
mind, than she began diligently to search for the hidden
spring. Perhaps curiosity had its influence on the eagerness
to arrive at the secret, which she now manifested; possibly
a tenderer and still more natural feeling lay concealed behind
it all. At any rate, her pretty little fingers never were
employed more nimbly, and not a part of the exterior of the
box escaped its pressure. Still, the secret spring eluded her
search. The box had two or three bands of richly chased
work on each side of the place of opening, and amid these
ornaments Maud felt certain that the little projection she
sought must lie concealed. To examine these, then, she
commenced in a regular and connected manner, resolved
that not a single raised point should be neglected. Accident,
however, as before, stood her friend; and, at a moment
when she least expected it, the lid flew back, once more
exposing the paper to view.
Maud had been too seriously alarmed about re-opening
the box, to hesitate a moment now, as to examining its contents.
The paper was removed, and she began to unfold it
slowly, a slight tremor passing through her frame as she
did so. For a single instant she paused to scent the delightful
and delicate perfume that seemed to render the interior
sacred; then her fingers resumed their office. At each instant,
her eyes expected to meet Robert Willoughby's well-known
hand-writing. But the folds of the paper opened on
painful moment, she saw that a lock of hair was all the box
contained, besides the paper in which it was enveloped. Her
look became anxious, and her face pale; then the eyes
brightened, and a blush that might well be likened to the
tiats with which the approach of dawn illumines the sky,
suffused her cheeks, as, holding the hair to the light, the
long ringlets dropped at length, and she recognised one of
those beautiful tresses, of which so many were falling at
that very moment, in rich profusion around her own lovely
face. To unloosen her hair from the comb, and to lay the
secret of Bob Willoughby by its side, in a way to compare
the glossy shades, was the act of only a moment; it sufficed,
however, to bring a perfect conviction of the truth. It was a
memorial of herself, then, that Robert Willoughby so prized,
had so long guarded with care, and which he called the secret
of his life!
It was impossible for Maud not to understand all this.
Robert Willoughby loved her; he had taken this mode of
telling his passion. He had been on the point of doing this
in words the very day before; and now he availed himself
of the only means that offered of completing the tale. A
flood of tenderness gushed to the heart of Maud, as she
passed over all this in her mind; and, from that moment,
she ceased to feel shame at the recollection of her own attachment.
She might still have shrunk a little from avowing
it to her father, and mother, and Beulah; but, as to herself,
the world, and the object of her affections, she now stood
perfectly vindicated in her own eyes.
That was a precious half-hour which succeeded. For the
moment, all present dangers were lost sight of, in the glow
of future hopes. Maud's imagination portrayed scenes of
happiness, in which domestic duties, Bob beloved, almost
worshipped, and her father and mother happy in the felicity
of their children, were the prominent features; while Beulah
and little Evert filled the back-ground of the picture in colours
of pleasing softness. But these were illusions that
could not last for ever, the fearful realities of her situation
returning with the greater consciousness of existence. Still,
Bob might now be loved, without wounding any of the sensitiveness
passionately was he rewarded, for the manner in which he
had thought of letting her know the true state of his heart,
at a moment when he had so much reason to think only of
himself.
It was time for Maud to return to her mother and sister.
The box was carefully concealed, leaving the hair in its old
envelope, and she hurried to the nursery. On entering the
room, she found that her father had just preceded her. The
captain was grave, more thoughtful than usual, and his wife,
accustomed to study his countenance for so much of her
happiness, saw at once that something lay heavy on his
mind.
“Has anything out of the way happened, Hugh?” she
asked, “to give you uneasiness?”
Captain Willoughby drew a chair to the side of that of
his wife, seated himself, and took her hand before he answered.
Little Evert, who sat on her knee, was played
with, for a moment, as if to defer a disagreeable duty; not
till then did he even speak.
“You know, dearest Wilhelmina,” the captain finally
commenced, “that there have never been any concealments
between us, on the score of danger, even when I was a professed
soldier, and might be said to carry my life in my
hand.”
“You have ever found me reasonable, I trust, while feeling
like a woman, mindful of my duty as a wife?”
“I have, love; this is the reason I have always dealt
with you so frankly.”
“We understand each other, Hugh. Now tell me the
worst at once.”
“I am not certain you will think there is any worst about
it, Wilhelmina, as Bob's liberty is the object. I intend to
go out myself, at the head of all the white men that remain,
in order to deliver him from the hands of his enemies. This
will leave you, for a time — six or seven hours, perhaps —
in the Hut, with only the three blacks as a guard, and with
the females. You need have no apprehension of an assault,
however, everything indicating a different intention on the
part of our enemies; on that score you may set your hearts
at rest.”
“All my apprehensions and prayers will be for you, my
husband — for ourselves, we care not.”
“This I expected; it is to lessen these very apprehensions
that I have come to tell you my whole plan.”
Captain Willoughby now related, with some minuteness,
the substance of Mike's report, and his own plan, of the
last of which we have already given an outline. Everything
had been well matured in his mind, and all promised
success. The men were apprised of the service on which
they were to be employed, and every one of them had manifested
the best spirit. They were then busy in equipping
themselves; in half an hour they would be ready to march.
To all this Mrs. Willoughby listened like a soldier's wife,
accustomed to the risks of a frontier warfare, though she
felt like a woman. Beulah pressed little Evert to her heart,
while her pallid countenance was turned to her father with
a look that seemed to devour every syllable. As for Maud,
a strange mixture of dread and wild delight were blended in
her bosom. To have Bob liberated, and restored to them,
was approaching perfect happiness, though it surpassed her
powers not to dread misfortunes. Nevertheless, the captain
was so clear in his explanations, so calm in his manner, and
of a judgment so approved, that his auditors felt far less
concern than might naturally have been expected.
| CHAPTER VIII. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll | |