 | CHAPTER XII. The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
It was, as I have already said in the
preceding chapter, late when they returned
to the village; but this excited no
attention on the part of those whom they
met at the village, or on the part of the
parents of Coquese, for she was their
eldest child, and a great favorite, and was
accustomed to go and come when she
pleased. She was indulged in all her
fancies, and moreover, she was in the
habit of spending much time at her little
arbor, by herself. Often did she sail
alone in her fairy canoe, on that silent,
beautiful stream. When she returned,
therefore, this evening to her home, she
met the accustomed welcome that greeted
her, and was left without any question
as to her afternoon's walk, or where she
had spent the time; questions which
now for the first time in her life, she
would have blushed to answer, and would
rather have avoided.
Such are the first fruits of secret love.
True, she seemed different from usual
to-night; she was very light-hearted, and
happy, and the sparkle of her dark eyes
might have been a shade brighter; the
tones of her merry, sweet laugh, might
have been a touch freer, and more musical.
She was indeed, very happy, and
like a child of nature, she showed her
feelings in her every movement and act.
The watchful eye of a mother perceived
this unusual flow of spirits, but supposing
it to proceed simply from the effects of
her walk, and the attendant excitement,
only noticed it by saying.
“You seem very gay, and in excellent
spirits to-night, Coquese.”
Her daughter blushed, and looked a
little disconcerted for a moment, thinking
that her long interview with the handsome
stranger had been discovered; but
quickly recovered herself, as she reflected
that such a thing was impossible, and in
her pleasantest manner, replied that she
did feel very happy; and this concluded
the whole matter.
Had, however, her mother watched her
carefully, when M. Boilean spoke of the
guests who had arrived amongst them
that day, and praised anew his old friend
Le Beaux, who held the highest place in
his regard, for his honest, sterling worth,
and also enlarged upon the fine, imposing
appearance of our hero, and applauded
his conduct and bearing at the
council, then might she have seen
Coquese paying the closest attention,
drinking in eagerly the words of her
father, and blushing and looking pleased
at these words. He said that he should
take every opportunity to cultivate his
acquaintance and friendship, while he
remained amongst them; for it was not
often, as Le Beaux said, that such as
Charles were to be found traveling in
these wilds. And M. Boileau declared
his intention of inviting him, for a part
of the time, to become his guest at their
own lodge. While he was saying this,
Coquese could hardly command her feelings.
Was he, indeed, to become her
daily companion, for some time to come,
and lodge beneath the same roof, where
she should see, and be with him much of
the time, and where she could show
those attentions, and bestow that love in
various acts upon him to whom her heart
was given?
Such were the reflections his words
awakened. This made her happiness
greater. That night she laid her head
upon a pillow, around which visions of
the future came clustering in her fond
anticipations, with happy days, and pleasures
richer than ever before she had
even dared to hope. A thousand plans
were formed, and in them all, Charles
had a conspicuous part to play, and this
dear girl was to be his only partner; she
would take him all to herself, she would
have him alone where none could steal
away a moment of his loved presence
from her, or warm beneath his sweet,
enchanting smile, or catch the soft, delightful
tones of his dear voice. All, all
must be given to her, and yet she did
not deem herself selfish. Was not that
strange, think you, for one whose
thoughts and efforts had always been so
freely, so cheerfully given to the happiness
of others, even before her own happiness
was cared for? It would have
been, had she not been in love. Not
now was it; this omnipotent passion
transforms its subjects, as if they were
children in its hand, and sweeps away
at a single stroke, the old habits, the old
feelings, that held undisputed empire
over them, up to the time of its rule.—
Man and woman unresistingly, and without
dispute, bow to the little rosy god.
Coquese had many dreams that night,
after the teeming fancies that had held
her long awake had yielded to sleep
her due, and when she had closed her
bright eyes in slumber, they came in
happier visions than her waking musings.
They heaped up joys and bliss mountain
high to yield to the idol that so
lately had usurped her whole soul. And
now she dreamed that he was again by
her side; like an angel he was sleeping
near her, in all his rich, attractive beauty.
Again she delighted to look upon his fair,
youthful form; again did she watch by
his side, and as she touched with tenderest
care his snowy forehead with her
pretty hand, again did she feel run
through all her form that thrilling sensation,
so new, so blissful; and as in her
bower, so now in her dream, upon her
happy couch, she saw the long, silken
lashes tremble over his eyes, and knew
that the unconscious sleeper was waking.
Foolish little thing, what makes her
tremble to see those eyes she so wished
would look upon her? Now how radiantly
beautiful he seems, as in startled
confusion and wonder, he first sees her
at his side, and what a sweet voice comes
to her listening ears.
All this her faithful and enamored
memory brings back upon her sleeping
couch, with truthful image, and stirs her
heart, as if it were indeed reality. All
one after another came across her busy
brain, and till the morning song of her
pet robin, that from his perch by the
door, awaked the dreaming maid, did she
in fancy sport with these bright visions.
But the faithful favorite knew not what
joy his mistress in sleep was taking,
and at his accustomed hour at her door
poured forth from swelling throat his
sweet lay. The sound awoke her, and
gradually fled away those visions, so
vivid that they at first held her in forgetfulness,
and cheated her into the belief
that they were not shadows, dreams,
flitting fancies, that would vanish at the
approach of morn and light. But not
long was it before all that had occurred
passed in review before her awakened
mind, and now she gave her thoughts
by day to him to whom by night they
stole away in fancy.
But where is Charles, all this time?
and how fares it with him? We left
him just entering his lodge, full of tender
feelings towards the Indian maid, that
was almost a stranger to him, and whom,
a few short hours before, he had never
seen. Le Beaux was waiting his return,
and Charles thought he could detect a
knowing look in his honest face, as he
entered; but if so, there was no other
sign that he had a knowledge of the use
Charles had made of his time, since he
went out: for he, in a careless, good-humored
tone, asked him if he had enjoyed
his walk, and what he thought of the
country about the village. He said there
was a very pretty stream a short distance
south of the village, where an abundance
of excellent fish were to be found, and it
was, moreover, a favorite retreat for M.
Boileau's family, and some others of the
tribe.
Charles, perhaps, might have had a
slight suspicion that Le Beaux knew a
good deal about that stream, and farther,
that he knew what was done there sometimes,
and especially this afternoon; he
in turn, therefore, sought to discover
what the sharp-witted guide did know,
and with an indifferent air, asked him if
he had been walking since dinner.
“No,” said Le Beaux, “not far, at
least. I have spent the time in the lodge
of that chief you admired so much, and
in fact, had but just returned, when you
came in.”
This was satisfactory to Charles, who
was anxious to question Le Beaux about
Coquese and her family, and he thought
this afforded an excellent opportunity to
do so, without exciting the curiosity of
Le Beaux. Charles asked him how long
he had known the family of M. Boileau,
and whether their eldest daughter, Coquese,
had ever been to the white settlements.
Le Beaux replied that he had
known that beautiful girl from a child.—
It was quite early in life that he made
the acquaintance of her father, when he
was first on his way to join the Delawares,
and they had remained friends
ever since, and that nothing had ever
occurred to disturb, or interrupt their
friendly intercourse. Although often
their wandering life had separated them
for long periods of time, yet had they
met quite often, two or three times at
least, every year, when he paid his
visits to the family, and usually was their
guest for some weeks at a time. “And,”
said he, “the more I see of the family,
and the better I know them, the stronger
grows my attachment to them. As to
their daughter Coquese, she is indeed, a
fair flower, and as good as beautiful;
she is a ministering angel to those about
her, and never was any mortal more beloved
than is she by the whole tribe.
Her alms and charity are freely bestowed
on all who want, and she administers
with her own hands to the sick and afflicted.
She has acquired much skill in
the treatment and knowledge of the diseases
which prevail amongst the tribe,
and treats them with great success; for
which she is looked upon by them with
great reverence and almost awe, I might
add.”
“But to answer your question, which
I almost forgot while speaking of her, (for
I love her as well as I could if she were
my own child, and regard her happiness
with the greatest solicitude and interest,
and also watch over her with careful vigilance),—she
has ever lived with her
parents, and has never contracted any of
those false notions and customs which
intercourse with the whites so often
She is a pure, simple-hearted child
of nature, with all its winning loveliness,
and artless grace, and truth about her.
She is indeed, a gem worthy of the noblest
and best of earth's lords.”
Le Beaux was not talking idle, empty
words, paying mere compliments, such
as often come from the lips and flattering
tongues of those polished, and refined,
and very fashionable members of society.
No, they came straight from his heart,
and were the real, true feelings of his
soul. Truth was stamped upon his face,
and in his tone, while he spoke, which
convinced Charles that he was in earnest;
and while he was somewhat surprised at
what he heard, he was not the less
pleased to hear her praises from the
mouth of one who had his entire confidence,
for his honesty and integrity, and
whom he highly respected for his sense
and intelligence.
Charles was pleased to hear their new
acquaintance so highly spoken of, and
continued to ask such questions as would
give him a farther knowledge of her
character, and life, and education. To
all these questions, he found Le Beaux
an interested listener, and a ready respondent.
His close acquaintance and
intimacy with the family, and his fatherly
affection for Coquese herself, had given
him the most ample means of acquiring
information, and becoming thoroughly
acquainted with her; and now, that this
young man, who had at first acquaintance
so strangely, yet, nevertheless, so strongly
interested him, and who had constantly
from that date, grown more and more in
his favor, asked him with an ill-disguised
interest and feeling, of her who was his
darling, he took more than usual delight
in proclaiming her virtues and her
well-deserved merits, and beauties of
character.
He was a skillful reader of character,
and a quick scholar at this task. And
now in his own mind, although he did
not utter such a sentiment, he still was
fully persuaded that he had found the
man who was worthy to make his idol
child a happy partner, and one whom
he felt persuaded she would love. With
these feelings in his mind, then, the
reader will not wonder that he spoke so
fluently, and often made long digressions
in his answers to Charles, that he might
give him a better idea of the treasure
that any man who should obtain her,
would possess in Coquese. And did
Charles fret and grumble at this round
about way of answering his questions?
No, on the contrary he listened with the
most pleasurable interest, and encouraged
him by his manner and words to
proceed.
In this conversation the evening
passed rapidly away, and it was rather
late at night before they retired to rest,
both well pleased with the evening's entertainment,
and Charles more in love
than ever with the subject of their conversation.
It was Le Beaux's purpose
that our hero should fall in love with and
marry Coquese, and he resolved to help
on an event which would so perfectly
satisfy his own wishes, and which he felt
convinced would result in the happiness
of his young friends. He had learned
from Charles, since they had been together,
what his views were in relation
to the society he had left behind him,
and also in what light he held the character
of the better portion of the wild Indian
tribes; and from this he was almost
certain that when he did meet, as he
meant that he should, with Coquese, he
would at once become attached to her.
She possessed a mind of no ordinary
powers, and these had been developed
and expanded under the faithful and
careful tuition of her father, who, in early
life, had received the best education his
country could afford, and was esteemed
one of the most promising among his
fellow students; and now, although he
had left the learned world behind him,
and exiled himself from them, yet did he
not neglect his mental training. In his
lodge was a handsome and large library.
Large, I say. Perhaps, that is speaking
extravagantly. It, however, contained
more volumes and a better selection than
could be found in the houses of many
educated gentlemen who lived in the
white settlements of the West. And it
was his pleasure to direct his beautiful
and darling child in her perusal of such
works as he thought best for her; and,
he, in explaining and inculcating the
truths contained in them, often draw from
his well informed mind such information
as would best tend to form her character
in that mould of purity, and virtue, and
feminine delicacy which would best and
most adorn a refined and virtuous society;
and such was the interest and attraction
he would clothe his teachings with,
that he never failed to gain the attention
and impress the mind of his child.
In all the ordinary branches of learning
she was an adept, and far surpassed
those who have enjoyed tenfold her advantages.
In many of the walks of literature
she was studied and showed
herself conversant with them. The science
and practice, too, of the healing
art, from the circumstances in which
she was placed, she found it necessary
to learn somewhat; and her efforts had
been successful, so that now she had
made no mean progress in the art.
The most beloved branch, and the one
which so well suited her natural endowments
in the ornamental studies, as they
are frequently called, was music. In
this she could not be excelled. Her
soft, sweet voice, so full of feeling and
melody, in the strains she had learned,
would fall upon the ear with ravishing
sweetness and mingled tenderness.—
There was a depth, a feeling in her manner
of singing that appealed at once to,
and kindled the heart, and melted the
feelings. Clear as a bird the notes of
her voice sounded in those different passages
which perplex and defy a voice
which is possessed of but ordinary compass.
Her voice seemed to have no
limit in its stretch, gliding as smoothly
and softly along the highest notes as the
birds which sung around her door, whose
songs she learned to sing with an exactness
and truthful imitation that would
confound the listener.
Such was the character and such the
accomplishments of our dusky maid, with
whom Charles had scarcely contracted
an acquaintance ere he had given her his
first—his ardent love; and from whom,
at the close of their first interview, he
had parted with such reluctance; whose
image had floated before his vision in
dreams of bliss and happiness that night.
He was early up the next morning, and
impatient of the delay which held him
waiting for breakfast; for he could not,
without offence, neglect his host, who
was all attention and kindness towards
him. Le Beaux asked him at breakfast
what he intended to do to-day; whether
he desired to hunt, or would visit the
lodges and see the Indians at their own
firesides?
Charles replied that he would remain
at home that day; that he did not yet
wish to commence hunting there, but
should like to become better acquainted
with the tribe. “But,” said he, “before
doing what you propose, I shall take a
short walk.”
Le Beaux listened to him with satisfaction,
and, as he closed and spoke of a
walk, gave him a look similar to that
which greeted him on his return to the
lodge the evening before. Now, the
fact was, he more than half suspected,
when he left Mr. Boileau, and Coquese
had not returned, and Charles also was
absent, that they had met, but it was only
a suspicion. He knew nothing further.
The evening's conversation confirmed,
his suspicion, and, now that Charles so,
readily gave up the plan of visiting the
lodges, so quickly, too, or rather delayed
it, when he had left the camp almost for
the express purpose of learning by actual
observation, more than otherwise he
could do, of the Indian character and
habits. He felt he was right in his conjecture,
and the conviction that he was
so showed itself in the way we have
mentioned.
He, of course, made no opposition to
such an arrangement, but said he would
wait for him, and he supposed he would
not be gone long, unless he should accidentally
meet Mr. Boileau's pretty daughter,
who had interested him so much
when he should certainly forgive him if
he took the liberty to stay all day;
“for,” said he, not appearing to notice
Charles' confusion, “she is a most beautiful
girl as you ever saw, as I believe I
have already told you several times before.”
With this they parted. Charles
to take the path which yesterday had led
him to such a strange, but pleasant encounter;
mention made of revisiting it to-day, he
did so with the hope—nay, the feeling
that he should meet Coquese there
again. Le Beaux walked over to the
lodge of an old friend to talk and smoke
with him; and, leaving him seated there
in contentment with a brave old warrior,
we will follow the footsteps of the enamored
pale-face youth.
Quick though they be, and will soon
leave us behind if we are not in haste,
love gives wings to its children, says
some one, and I should think this might
be the case by the way Charles went
down the winding path to the bower by
the little silver stream. It was early in
the forenoon when he came to the spot
where he stood the day before, when he
first discovered the little canoe. The
scene seemed to smile upon him in its
solitary loveliness. There lay the same
little fairy skiff floating on the still water
close by the bank; the green trees were
rustling in a gentle breeze that stirred
their tops. He stood still a moment,
while he looked around him, and then
with a beating heart and slower pace he
turned his steps to seek the bower where
he had first seen her by accident, who
was now so eagerly sought after by him.
As he approached in view of the spot,
he looked quickly to see her there, but
the view was obstructed by intervening
trees, and showed but a part of the little
retreat. And, now, his path winding
around in another direction, brought him
opposite the side of the little tent, so
that the front, which alone was open,
and could give him a view of the inside,
was hid from his gaze, and it was not
until he had fairly reached it, and stood
at the entrance, that he could know
whether Coquese was there or not; but
the first look that he cast within put his
doubts to flight at once. There, seated
upon one of those little stools, sat the
happy girl. She had heard his step,
and her first impulse had been to fly and
meet him, but she, at the instant, checked
herself; a feeling of modesty stopped
her, and kept her to her seat.
As he appeared at the entrance, however,
she quietly rose to meet him, and
gave him her hand as he greeted her
with the morning salutation. She blushed
deeply in spite of herself, and stood
with her hand resting in his for a few
minutes, while he inquired after her
health, and spoke of the happiness it
gave him to meet her again. In a few
minutes she withdrew her hand from its
willing prison and, smiling, she invited
him to take a seat by her, which, as a
matter of course, he very readily did.—
She had a book in her hand when he
entered, and still continued to hold it, but
of course it was shut; and she, turning
to him, did not attempt, as our city
young ladies would have done under
such circumstances, to have been astonished
and surprised to see him there,
although they might have gone there for
the express purpose of meeting the very
individual whom they spoke to; and
would in reality have been surprised and
disappointed too, had he not come. No,
she was perfectly artless; free from all
foolish affectation; and in her looks and
in her voice there was written the pleasure
she felt in seeing him; had she not
told him, as she quickly did, with sweet
grace, in a low voice, that she knew he
would come again, this morning, and she
ran down to meet him; it was so delightful
to be with him. She had left
her mother and little sisters at home, she
said, but she was afraid he would be disappointed
if he did not find her there.
Charles was filled with joy as she
spoke to him in this artless manner. It
was so unlike the cold, formal intercourse
of the refined world. There was
so much heart and feeling in it too; and
then she looked so beautiful, so fresh, so
like a creature born for happiness and
sunshine. He took her hand again; he
could not help it; it lay so close to him;
it looked so enticing too; and gazing
fondly into her face, “my dear Coquese,”
said he, “I owe you a thousand
thanks for thinking so kindly of me, and
greeting me so smilingly, and for coming
down to the stream, that I might not be
disappointed. I should, indeed, have
been disappointed had I not met you
here. It was to see you, and only to
see you, that I came. But you often,
every day, come here, do you not? It
is so beautiful a spot.”
“Oh, yes,” replied the fond girl, “I
love my little arbor very much, but how
much more dearly since I have met you
here. I shall always love it now; I
shall always think of you when I am
here, and,” said she, blushing and sinking
her voice the while, as if supplicating
him, “I shall often meet you here,
too, shall I not?” As she spoke this, she
leaned her head towards him.
How charming she is, thought Charles,
and what a fond, loving heart she has,
too. Then, speaking aloud, he said,
“You make me happy, indeed, Coquese,
by what you say. I shall hold you to
your words, and shall seek you here
every day. I, too, shall always love
this quiet spot, and remember that here
I found an angel.”
Coquese smiled at his words, which
he spoke with ardor. “Why, you do
still believe me the nymph of the stream,
as you called me yesterday, when you
first opened your eyes and saw me, do
you?” said she, laughing.
“Oh! no,—you are far too beautiful
for even such a creature, and I can hear
you talk to me with your own sweet
voice, and see your bright eyes bent upon
me, and hold your little hand in my own.
No, no, I am thankful you are not a
nymph,” said he, “so long as I can see
you and be with you. But indeed, I
was so confused, when I awoke and saw
you, that I did not know at first, whether
you were mortal or a spirit. I heard
you not when you came, and when I laid
down, there was no one near me,—but
was you not afraid of my hounds,
Coquese?”
“No,” said she, “they looked so
gentle, that I had no fear of them, even
at first sight; and when I saw you sleeping
so soundly there, I did not notice
anything afterwards but you, and was it
not strange,” she added, “that I should
feel so?”
Charles smiled at her simplicity, but
could not help wondering more at the
mixed character she possessed. He saw
already she was better informed than
many of the city belles, but then she was
so simple in many things.
“No, Coquese, it was perfectly natural
that you should be interested to know
who it was that had the boldness to enter
your bower and appropriate it to his
own use, thus unceremoniously and uninvited;
it would have been strange if
you had not felt an interest in him. But
did you find out the name of the intruder,
Coquese, or did you try to do so?” he
added sportively.
“No,” said she “I thought only of
him, not caring for anything else; but do
tell me your name, it must be a sweet
name, I know. I desired to ask you
before, something prevented me when
was about to do it. I should so like to
speak your name, and your sister's, and
father's and mother's. I wish to know
them all. Does your sister look like
you?—ah! how I should like to see
her.”
Charles could hardly keep from laughing
as Coquese, in the same breath
almost, and with all the ardor of a curious
child, asked these several questions.
“Well, my dear Coquese, I am afraid
you will be disappointed in my name; it
is not a very uncommon one, that is certain,
and has, I think, no very strong
claims to be considered pretty, but I must
tell you, I suppose, for I cannot refuse
you anything since you have been so
kind as to allow me to visit you. My
name is Charles Stanley; my sister's
Isabella, and we both have the same
names that our respective parents bear.
How do you like it?”
“Oh! I knew it must be a very pretty
name, I was sure of it,” and she repeated
it again and again, “and now I shall call
you Charles, shall I not, I like it so
much? But you must tell me all about
your home. I suppose you live in a fine
house in a great city, and have everything
about you that you can wish. I heard
Le Beaux say you was a very rich man
and lived far away by the side of the
great ocean, in a very mighty city. I
have read oftentimes, descriptions of cities
and fine houses, in books, but my home
is in the little lodge. Do you love to
live in the Indian wigwam, Charles?”
“Yes, Coquese, I love the wild wood
and the snug little lodge, and longed to
come away from the crowded city to
this quiet life, and now since I have seen
you I love it better still, you are so good
you know the city is not green like the
forest? it is crowded with buildings, and
dusty streets wider than the path of your
little village run throughout the length
and breadth of it; and besides, it is very
noisy and full of tumult. I shall always
love such a delightful, quiet spot as this,
Coquese.”
Her bright eyes sparkled and her face
beamed with pleasure as he said this, and
he felt the little hand he held gently press
his own. Then she added,
“I love to hear you say so, Charles.
I love my home dearly, I love to wake
in the morning and hear the sweet songs
of the birds, as they commence again
their daily task, and I love to walk in the
bright day through these shady woods.
I love to sail over the quiet stream in my
light canoe, to watch the fish as they
swim gracefully in the clear water, or
dart swiftly to seize their prey. Then
there are the blooming flowers that laugh
in the sunshine, and open their pretty
mouths to catch the dew drops that come
to them from the sweet sky. I love
them all, oh! how dearly, and all these you
cannot have in your city home, Charles.”
“You are right, Coquese,” replied he,
“we cannot have these beautiful gifts of
our bountiful Creator, but men seek to
supply their place by introducing dead,
and lifeless imitations of them. Their
painted walls would imitate a forest scene,
their artificial flowers are woven into a
wreath to look like that you are wearing,
and the free, sweet, singing birds that
love to hop among the boughs of the
trees, or soar on fearless wing above the
clouds, are caught and held in little
prison-cages, to sing about the houses of
their captors. As to the pretty golden
fish, it is taken from the running stream
and kept in globes of glass, where he has
scarce room to turn himself about, or
water to give him air to breathe. Do
you think you would love these things as
well as those about your village, Coquese?”
“Ah! no,” said she, “it is so hard to
bind the poor birds and fishes captives.
Do they not die of broken hearts sometimes,
or pine away their lives in wishing
in vain for their freedom?”
“Yes, often, but man heeds it not, it
is but a bird, or a fish, says he, what
cares he for them.”
“It is a cruel world, Charles; I do not
love it, now that you have told me this.
But the white man is very learned, and
has many books about, and many advantages
which the Indian knows not, and
he makes a thousand comforts for his
home the simple Indian never knew. I
wish to know all about your own home,
Charles.”
And Charles did tell the curious Coquese
much that was strange and new to
her of his own home, and of the customs
and habits of the white man. She expressed
a good deal of interest with
regard to the women of his people. She
asked if their complexion was like his
own, so white, and begged him to describe
their dress, and the occupations
which employed their time. When
Charles told her that there were many
ladies in the cities that had no other occupation
but that of preparing and procuring
their dresses, nay, even many whose
whole lives were spent in barely arraying
themselves in fashionable dresses which
were prepared for them, that they might
be elegant and beautiful, she could not
restrain her surprise and wonder. How
it could be possible to sacrifice all those
high and elevating pleasures which are
placed before our race, for such a purpose,
was beyond her comprehension;
but when he spoke of those whose lives
were spent in bestowing blessings on all
about them, in acts of benevolence and
charity, in relieving the poor and destitute,
and administering comfort to the
sick and suffering, in contrast to the vain,
giddy, empty crowd that flutter through
life on idle wing to show their gaudy
trappings, like butterflies that sport in
the summer air; how did her true and
generous heart sympathize with them,
and yield to them the ready tribute and
respect which a noble and generous heart
always feels in contemplation of what is
truly elevating and worthy in human
conduct.
But we will not attempt to follow them
through a conversation which kept them
seated in the little bower for more than
two hours; time, that glided swiftly by
closely to each other. As on the preceding
day, they left the bower together, and
took the path Coquese had chosen the
evening before.
Coquese invited Charles to visit her
father's lodge and become acquainted
with the family; and though it would
have delighted him to have done so, and
satisfied a strong curiosity he felt concerning
them, still he felt that it would not
be in accordance with the customs of the
tribe, who always left to the men both
the introduction and reception of guests.
They parted at her door, to which Charles
had accompanied her; when he immediately
joined Le Beaux, whom he found
sitting at the door of Wahalla's lodge,
looking out upon them.
“Well,” said he, as Charles approached,
“I see you have discovered
the lodge of the Flower of the Valley,
what do you think of her?”
“She is an angel,” said Charles, “your
description fell far short of her sweet
perfection. She does indeed merit all
the praises you have bestowed upon
her.”
Le Beaux smiled at the warmth and
feeling with which he spoke of his favorite,
but said nothing further. Charles,
however, had too much in his teeming
brain to keep silent long, and in a few
minutes he said, “I wonder, Le Beaux,
that so fair a maid has not many lovers
from the young men of the tribe. Do
they not consider her beautiful? She
must be now quite old enough to have
suitors, I should think.”
“She is but seventeen,” replied Le
Beaux, “and yet there is not a young
man in the tribe who would not give
everything he had to call her his wife.—
She is beloved by all, and all pay homage
to her worth and beauty.”
“And is there no favored suitor among
so many brave warriors and Indians?”
asked Charles, although he was well
persuaded, from the intercourse he had
had with her, that her heart was not
another's, but even believed that she felt
towards him as he was now aware he
did with regard to her.
“No,” said Le Beaux, “there is
none to mate with her in all the tribe.—
Her spirit is of a different mould. She
loves the habits, the studies that are unknown
to them. They cannot share her
feelings, although there is many a brave
and honest heart among them. See you
yonder three lodges that sit apart by
themselves? They belong to the Black
Feet. A renowned chief, with a select
band of his chosen braves, dwells there.
He has visited this tribe ostensibly with
the purpose of hunting with them, but if
I am not much mistaken, the dog has
come here to carry off the Flower of the
Valley, to make her his squaw.”
Charles was taken by surprise at this
information, so suddenly and unexpectedly
given. His blood boiled at the
thought of the fair and lovely girl becoming
the slave of any chief, and more
especially the slave of the coarse, brutal
being mentioned, whose only claim to
respect or regard was founded upon his
brute, physical strength. “Why then is
he suffered to remain amongst them?”
said he quickly. “Is his purpose
known to her family, to herself? And
what do they intend to do? Surely
they will not force her to marry him
against her will; and I know that she
will never consent freely.”
“No,” said Le Beaux, “if she ever
marries him, it will be by her own free
choice. Although the women are contracted
in marriage among the Indians
without their own consent very often,
yet will it never be the fate of Coquese.”
“But do you mean to say that she
favors that huge giant chief, who is the
leader of the Black Feet?” asked
Charles, eagerly, the blood running
quickly back to his heart.
“By no means,” said Le Beaux, “but
he is determined to have her, I see that,
and will attempt to accomplish his purpose
by any and all means.”
“By heavens,” said our hero, “if he
dares to lift a finger against her, I will
send a bullet through his heart.”
Le Beaux laughed at the angry heat
Charles displayed, but, at the same time,
cautioned him about Cilagu, called by
his tribe the Red Hand; and told him
he was the first chief of the Black Feet.
Charles said no more, but suddenly
became thoughtful; the information Le
respecting Red Hand's intentions upon
Coquese, in spite of his firm belief that
she already loved him, and in spite of the
impossibility arising out of the difference
that existed between them in feeling, in
education, in habits; in fine, in every
point of character, rendered it utterly impossible
there should ever be any sympathy,
in thought or feeling, between them.
He knew what a pure and gentle nature
she possessed; and tortured his heart
with the suspicion that, should her parents
insist or urge her to an alliance with this
detested creature, her love for them, and
the strict, constant obedience she observed
to all their requests and wishes,
might lead her even to sacrifice herself
in this cruel and dreadful manner. And
was it not possible that her father might
listen to the Black Feet chief's suit for
his daughter? He was a renowned chief.
None of all his tribe could equal him in
feats of strength; none could boast such
deeds of arms, such conquests achieved
in single combat. Never, in the many
and fierce struggles of his people with
their enemies, had he met his equal.—
Before the might of his strong arm his
foes fell like weak and puny boys; their
hearts quailed and they fled on every
side of him. The trophies of his victories
were hung around his lodge in thick,
close rows. He could show more scalps
that were the mute witnesses of his
boasted valor, than the bravest chief of
his tribe. His temper, too, was violent
and hasty; his will inflexible; his cunning
and shrewdness more than a match
for his brother chiefs. Hence, he came
to exercise an almost despotic influence
over the tribe.
In oratory his efforts were well suited
to wield and sway the minds of the
warriors. His voice was loud and deep;
his manner bold and haughty; his words
cunning and deceitful. He forced from
his people their consent to his measures
by the awe and fear which they felt towards
him, rather than by any good
qualities he possessed, or wisdom he
displayed. His wonted bearing to those
about him was supercilious and domineering,
and often amounted almost to
insolence.
He had been with the Delawares but
a short time, and had been received
kindly by them, and treated hospitably.
The two tribes were at peace with each
other, but yet never had they been
friends. At most they were indifferent,
and chose rather to live by themselves,
with only such intercourse as was necessary
and unavoidable. Hence, some
surprise was felt by the Delawares when
Red Hand presented himself at their
hunting ground, with a request to be allowed
to hunt with them. And, although
they would have wished him
any where else but in their midst, and
felt suspicion and distrust at the presence
of this wily chief, yet they could not refuse
him without arousing his anger and
hate, which, they well knew, was sufficient
(such was his power over his people)
to involve them in a bloody war.—
And then, too, it must be owned, his terrible
fame led them more earnestly to
desire a continuance of the peaceful relations
they now maintained with his
people. They did not fear him. Great
warrior as he was, he had never encountered
a Delaware in battle, and, therefore,
could boast no superiority over them.
Many were the brave warriors in their
tribe, who would fearlessly have met
him in single combat. And one there
was, in their midst, whose strength and
valor had rendered him more renowned
in war than even Red Hand. This warrior
was the father of Coquese, whose
daughter Red Hand now sought in marriage.
Charles knew all this—knew the
weighty reasons that existed to force the
Delawares to keep peace with this chief,
and he trembled, lest these should rule
the mind of M. Boileau.
Little did he know of the elevated
character, and strong, tender feelings of
the brave heart of this great chief; and
as little did he understand the strength of
character which was possessed by his
fair daughter. Both detested the character
of Red Hand; and both alike would
a thousand times sooner have died ere
they had granted his request.
The Black Feet had shown an evident
and marked dislike to our hero from the
first, and had taken no pains to conceal
it. Red Hand had even affected a contempt
feared and hated him as a rival for his
mistress' favor. And our hero was not
so dull and unobservant as to have not
observed it, though he was at a loss to
account for it. The haughty, insolent
air of Red Hand had engendered a dislike
to him in his mind; and, although
he felt too much real contempt for him
to resent it, yet had it grown into almost
hate of him before he knew it. His
conduct had led Charles to inquire his
character of Le Beaux, and in answer to
his inquiries he had gained the information
we have just given, with this exception,
that the guide had not before said
anything of his love for Coquese. Now,
that he knew this, he hated him with a
good will, and determined to punish the
first insolence he offered to him in a way
that he should remember.
Charles sat until he was aroused from
his reflection by a summons to dinner.—
He had revolved all the circumstances
which surrounded him again and again.
He had questioned himself as to his feelings
towards Coquese. How was it;
how did it happen that he had so suddenly
and so warmly conceived such an interest
in this girl? and what were his intentions
towards her? What would the
result be? These questions he put to
himself, and the conclusion to which he
arrived was worthy of his noble, high-minded
character. He could but acknowledge
to himself that he was more
deeply interested and attracted to this
obscure maiden, than he had ever been
before in his life to any of the many females
he had met. The difference in
their education, and rank in life he did
think of; but, thought he to himself, if I
can win her heart she shall be mine.—
She is a priceless treasure—so pure—so
gentle—so lovely. The deceitful and
detested forms, and empty ceremonies;
the practiced disguise, and tricky arts of
fashionable life had never entered here to
disfigure, and deface, and degrade her
mind and body, and destroy her heart.—
She is fresh as a rose from the parent
stock; and the image of her Creator is
full upon her as when she came fresh
from His creating hand. I will, I must
love her.
Such was the result of Charles' long
deliberations. He did not know that he
had, even when he first saw her, given
himself to her; but such, nevertheless,
was the case, and had the same circumstances
surrounded him then as now,
his heart would as promptly have vindicated
its power and control over him.
With this resolution he determined to
seek her society as much as possible,
and use his efforts to gain her affections,
which he more than half believed were
already given to him. This resolution
quieted his disturbed and excited mind,
and when he joined Le Beaux, and his
host at table, he entered freely, and
with interest into the schemes and proposals
they were discussing for a bear hunt.
This topic, hunting, is always a favorite
with the Indian. He can give you
much strange and surprising information
with regard to the method of conducting
the hunt, which the white man knows
not. The well-managed arts and tricks,
with which he blinds the watchful and
timid animals to his approach, the skillful
and perfect disguise with which he
lures them from their hiding-places, and
inapproachable dwellings; the sagacity
with which he seeks their path and pursues
it when found, all go to make up a
science of hunting in which he is schooled,
and which he studies with long and
patient labor.
He is obliged to resort to this course
to make up the want of those more sure,
and better prepared weapons that his
white brother uses; at least, was so
obliged not many years ago; of late years
the rifle and gun have been introduced to
some, but yet limited extent, amongst
them.
They talked long upon the hunt, and
our hero received many valuable hints
from Wahalla and Le Beaux, who had
followed this business many years with
success. After dinner, Charles accompanied
Le Beaux to several lodges; all
their doors were open to their guest, and
by all whom he visited he was kindly
treated. He found the squaws in almost
every instance, at work, in a great variety
of tasks. It is with the Indians, as
with many of the eastern people, customary
to require the females to perform
only attend to all within doors, performing
all the offices of house-keeping,
but also do all that is accomplished in
cultivating the soil, planting the seed, and
gathering the crops. Their life is a life
of toil and labor, while their lordly husbands,
in time of peace, either follow
the chase, or give themselves up to lounging
idleness, or do both by turns; and in
time of war, it is their duty to fight the
battles of the tribe, and it cannot be denied,
they do it bravely.
Charles saw much that he was pleased
with, as he passed from lodge to lodge.
Happiness and contentment was written
on every face, and all joined together in
their employments on equal footing;
there was no distinction of families, no
grades and distinct classes; for with them
distinction is strictly personal, and attaches
exclusively to the honored individual,
and it is acknowledged in him
only so long as he continues to deserve
it. His friends, and even his own family,
gain nothing from his fame.
The afternoon was spent in this way,
almost, when Charles managed to extricate
himself from any further visits, at
that time, though he was pleased with
them, and away he turned to seek the
little bower, more eager than ever to
meet Coquese. He had something to
tell her, something to ask her, and some
cautious hints to give her; all which had
arisen since he parted from her. Quietly
seated in the little bower, with her book
in her hand, this beautiful girl awaited
him. Although her book was open before
her, yet its words were not her
study; her bosom was full of mingled
feelings of love and anxious expectation,
which produced a sweet confusion, so
graceful, so charming in a lover's eyes.
He had delayed long to-night, she thought,
what could keep him, would he not come?
he could not have forgotten her; she
knew he would come, yes, she felt he
would. Hark! a sound of hurried steps
meets her ear, and they approach, a rosy
blush steals over her face; in a moment
he is by her side, his face glowing with
excitement from his hasty walk, and
thoughts of her. She springs forward to
meet him, and her little hand is clasped
in his own, in a warm, affectionate embrace.
They met as lovers only meet,
with a fond, contented happiness; it was
enough to fill their loving hearts with
pleasure, to enjoy each other's company.
Charles led the willing girl to her little
seat, and sitting down beside her, ere she
could have time to open her pretty lips to
chide him for his lateness, he commenced
a recital of his visits to her people, and
all that had struck him as remarkable, or
new and strange in their habits or conduct;
and what he did not understand, he
brought to her for an explanation, it was
so charming to hear her sweet voice and
listen to her truthful and natural, artless
words. And then he told her how he
managed old Le Beaux, to extricate himself
from his company, and this explained
his absence for so long. He questioned
her as to how long she had waited for
him, and if she was anxious to see him.
She was perfectly satisfied with his excuse;
she did not for a moment doubt
that he was as well pleased and as happy
to meet her, as was she to see him.
Charles for a time forgot the information
that Le Beaux had communicated to
him in the morning, but now it came
back to his mind, and he resolved to
mention these facts to her; and with this
view, he asked her if she admired, as
other females about her did, the hunter's
bold and stirring life? and if she did not
honor and love the character of the brave
and successful warrior, who led his
tribe in battle? She replied that indeed,
there was much of excitement and pleasure
in the daring deeds of the chase; that
the successful hunter was the pride of
his tribe; that the brave chief who led
his people to victory, was crowned with
the praises of the tribe; “but,” said she,
“I love better the quiet walks of home,
the pursuits of peace. I love to read of
the countries where the white man
dwells, and which teach me the great
truths they have discovered concerning
his immortal mind, and never-dying soul.
I love not the bloody chiefs that delight
in war and plunder; no, my soul is sick
of those cruel sights, and savage deeds.”
“Does Coquese know the great chief
of the Black Feet, who is the guest of her
people, and whose lodge is in their village?
his fame is great, and all the tribe speak
of his great deeds.”
“Yes,” she replied, “I know him,
and of late, he has often by chance, met
me in my walks, and offered me many
presents, but I have refused his gifts. I
do not like his manners, and he seeks to
be familiar with me. There is something
in his heart which I cannot see,
but which leads him to seek me; but his
presence is annoying to me, and I believe
he would make love to me if I gave him
an opportunity,” said she, laughing, “and
therefore, I have avoided him as much
as possible, and I see that he is revolving
some mischief by himself. Sometimes
he regards me with angry looks, and
though I know not what his purposes
are, I feel convinced that he is plotting
some evil towards me.” This she spoke
in a serious manner.
“I can solve the mystery for you,
dear Coquese; you are too pure, too good
to understand the wiles and deceit of
such an one as Red Hand. He loves
you and is seeking to marry you. It is
for this that he watches your steps so
closely, and follows you so often in your
walks.”
Coquese, as Charles uttered these
words, looked full into his face. The
blood at first mounted to her face and
neck, dying them with a purple tinge,
then suddenly fled back to her heart,
causing paleness to overspread her countenance;
she trembled as if some sudden
and great danger had overtaken her.
Charles was surprised at the effect his
words had produced, and bent an anxious,
inquiring look upon her, as he ceased
speaking. In a few moments she recovered
herself, and turning again to him,
(for she had bent down her face when he
had spoken, and hid it in her hands), in a
calm voice, with a still pale face, though
full of expression, she said to him,—
“I believe you are right, Charles;
though it never occurred to me before,
that such, in earnest, was his object. I
never saw him but a few times before,
and that only for a moment, as we passed
through his district on our way to this
spot. I fear if this is indeed true, that
some great calamity or misfortune will
befall me. Oh! Charles, you know not
what a terrible enemy he is, when he
hates. I have heard my father often
speak of him, and he says he never relinquishes
his wishes, or is thwarted in
his desires, without taking cruel vengeance
on whoever had been the means
of thwarting him; and he is a great warrior,
and rules his people as if they were
children. You have told me that which
will fill me with constant dread and fear,
so long as he continues near us.”
“Do not alarm yourself, dear girl,”
said Charles, “he cannot harm you. If
he would, you have many trusty friends
as brave of heart as he, as strong of arm,
that will die willingly, if necessary, to
protect you. If he dares offer insult to
you, I will punish his insolence with my
own hand, or die in the attempt.”
Charles was full of feeling, as he spoke
his eye glared and his brow was knit as
with firm resolve, his small lips were
compressed; he looked like one who
would dare to undertake what he promised.
Coquese gazed at him with eyes
of love, she pressed his hand slightly for
a minute, then withdrawing it, she hastily
exclaimed,
“No! Charles, you must not seek to
quarrel with him. I pray you do not,”
and she looked beseechingly to him.
“I will seek no quarrel with him,
Coquese, but he has already showed his
bold insolence towards me, which has
rendered him an object of dislike and disgust
to me. I will not, mean not to notice
his conduct towards myself, but should
he dare to treat you in any other way
but that of respect becoming your station
and sex, I swear to you that I will punish
the black-hearted villain, should it
cost me my life.”
With such assertions did Charles endeavor
to re-assure the mind of Coquese;
but now a greater fear than any that
could arise for herself, took possession of
her, and this in an instant revealed to her
how much she loved Charles. She was
more alarmed for him than for herself;
she feared that he would be slain by the
savage, giant chief; she knew how powerful
he was, how unequal in strength
Charles was to him. And in this new
fear, like a loving, true-hearted woman,
other old friends. She begged him to
avoid Red Hand, and if he met him to
treat him kindly.
Whatever might have been his supicions
before, he had no fears now, that
she would ever love this chief after this;
he felt certain that her affections were
his; he had watched her closely during
the conversation, and every word, every
look told him he was dearer to her than
all else. And in spite of the dangers
which stood in their way, the feelings
which each tacitly, but, nevertheless,
fully entertained that they were dear to
each other, made them soon banish these
thoughts, and abandon themselves to the
sweet emotions of their loving hearts.
All around was bright and joyous, and
were they not right in forgetting all else
save the pleasure they experienced from
each other's company?
| CHAPTER XII. The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure | |