 | CHAPTER II. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
The revels were kept up pretty late. What with the ceremony,
the supper, the dancing, and the sundry by-plays which are common
to all such proceedings, time passed away without the proper
consciousness of any of the parties. But all persons present
were not equally successful or equally happy. It was found, after
a while, that though Margaret Cole smiled, and talked, and played,
and danced with every body, there was yet one young fellow
who got rather the largest share of her favours. What rendered
this discovery particularly distressing was the fact that he was a
stranger and a citizen. His name was Wilson Hurst, a genteel
looking youth, who had recently made his appearance in the
neighbourhood, and was engaged in the very respectable business
of a country store. He sold calicoes and ribbons, and combs,
and dimity, and the thousand other neat, nice matters, in which
the thoughts and affections of young damsels are supposed to be
quite too much interested. He was no hobnail, no coarse unmannered
clown; but carried himself with an air of decided ton, as
if he knew his position, and was resolute to make it known to
all around him. His manner was calculated to offend the more
rustic of the assembly, who are always, in every country, rather
jealous of the citizen; and the high head which he carried, the
petty airs of fashion which he assumed, and his singular success
with the belle of the Forks, all combined to render the conceited
young fellow decidedly odious among the male part of the assembly.
A little knot of these might have been seen, toward the
small hours, in earnest discussion of this subject, while sitting in
the piazza they observed the movements of the unconscious pair,
through a half opened window. We will not listen at present to
their remarks, which we may take for granted were sufficiently
bitter; but turn with them to the entrance, where they have discovered
a new arrival. This was a large man, seemingly rather
the narrow avenue which led to the house.
“It's Barnacle Sam!” said one.
“I reckon,” was the reply of another.
“It's he, by thunder!” said a third, “wonder what he'll say
to see Margaret and this city chap? He's just in time for it.
They're mighty close.”
“Reckon he'll bile up again. Jest be quiet now, till he comes.”
From all this we may gather that the person approaching is an
admirer of the fair Margaret. His proximity prevented all further
discussion of this delicate subject, and the speakers at once
surrounded the new comer.
“Well, my lads, how goes it?” demanded this person, in a
clear, manly accent, as he extended a hand to each. “Not too
late, I reckon, for a fling on the floor; but I had to work hard for
it, I reckon. Left Charleston yesterday when the sun was on the
turn; but I swore I'd be in time for one dash with Margaret.”
“Reckon you've walked for nothing, then,” said one with a
significant shake of the head to his fellows.
“For nothing! and why do you think so?”
“Well, I don't know, but I reckon Margaret's better satisfied
to sit down jest now. She don't seem much inclined to foot it
with any of us.”
“That's strange for Margaret,” said the new comer; “but I'll
see how my chance stands, if so be the fiddle has a word to say
in my behalf. She aint sick, fellows?”
“Never was better—but go in and try your luck.”
“To be sure I will. It'll be bad luck, indeed, when I set my
heart on a thing, and walk a matter of seventy miles after it, if I
couldn't get it then, and for no reason that I can see; so here
goes.”
With these words, the speaker passed into the house, and was
soon seen by his companions—who now resumed their places by
the window—in conversation with the damsel. There was a
frank, manly something in the appearance, the face, carriage and
language of this fellow, that, in spite of a somewhat rude exterior
and coarse clothing, insensibly commanded one's respect. It was
very evident that those with whom he had spoken, had accorded
may say, in this place, that he was a very general favourite. He
was generous and good natured, bold, yet inoffensive, and so
liberal that, though one of the most industrious fellows in the
world, and constantly busy, he had long since found that his
resources never enabled him to lay by a copper against a rainy
day. Add to these moral qualities, that he was really a fine
looking fellow, large and well made, with a deep florid complexion,
black hair, good forehead and fine teeth, and we shall wonder to
find that he was not entirely successful with the sex. That he
was not an economist, and was a little over the frontier line of
forty, were perhaps objections, and then he had a plain, direct
way of speaking out his mind, which was calculated, sometimes,
to disturb the equanimity of the very smoothest temper.
It was perceived by his companions that Margaret answered
him with some evident annoyance and embarrassment, while they
beheld, with increasing aversion, the supercilious air of the
stranger youth, the curl of his lips, the simpering, half-scornful
smile which they wore, while their comrade was urging his
claims to the hand of the capricious beauty. The application of
the worthy raftsman—for such was the business of Barnacle Sam
—proved unavailing. The maiden declined dancing, pleading
fatigue. The poor fellow said that he too was fatigued, “tired
down, Miss Margaret, with a walk of seventy miles, only to have
the pleasure of dancing with you.” The maiden was inexorable,
and he turned off to rejoin his companions. The immoderate
laughter in which Margaret and the stranger youth indulged,
immediately after Barnacle Sam's withdrawal, was assumed by
his companions to be at his expense. This was also the secret
feeling of the disappointed suitor, but the generous fellow disclaimed
any such conviction, and, though mortified to the very
heart, he studiously said every thing in his power to excuse the
capricious girl to those around him. She had danced with several
of them, the hour was late, and her fatigue was natural enough.
But the malice of his comrades determined upon a test which
should invalidate all these pleas and excuses. The fiddle was
again put in requisition, and a Virginia reel was resolved upon.
Scarcely were the parties summoned to the floor, before Margaret
walked out into the woods, with his big heart ready to break.
It was generally understood that he was fond of Margaret, but
how fond, nobody but himself could know. She, too, had been
supposed willing to encourage him, and, though by no means a
vain fellow, he was yet very strongly impressed with the belief
that he was quite as near to her affections as any man he knew.
His chagrin and disappointment may be imagined; but a lonely
walk in the woods enabled him to come back to the cottage, to
which he was drawn by a painful sort of fascination, with a face
somewhat calmed, and with feelings, which, if not subdued, were
kept in proper silence and subjection. He was a strong-souled
fellow, who had no small passions. He did not flare up and make
a fuss, as is the wont of a peevish nature, but the feeling and
the pain were the deeper in due proportion to the degree of
restraint which he put upon them. His return to the cottage was
the signal to his companions to renew their assaults upon his temper.
They found a singular satisfaction in making a hitherto
successful suitor partake of their own frequent mortifications.
But they did not confine their efforts to this single object. They
were anxious that Barnacle Sam should be brought to pluck a
quarrel with the stranger, whose conceited airs had so ruffled the
feathers of self-esteem in all of their crests. They dilated accordingly
on all the real or supposed insolences of the new comer
—his obvious triumph—his certain success—and that unbearable
volley of merriment, which, in conjunction with Margaret Cole,
he had discharged at the retreating and baffled applicant for her
hand. Poor Barnacle bore with all these attempts with great
difficulty. He felt the force of their suggestions the more readily,
because the same thoughts and fancies had already been traversing
his own brain. He was not insensible to the seeming indignity
which the unbecoming mirth of the parties had betrayed on
his retiring from the field, and more than once a struggling devil
in his heart rose up to encourage and enforce the suggestions
made by his companions. But love was stronger in his soul than
hate, and served to keep down the suggestions of anger. He
truly loved the girl, and though he felt very much like trouncing the
account.
“No! no! my lads,” said he, finally, “Margaret's her own
mistress, and may do as she pleases. She's a good girl and
a kind one, and if her head's turned just now by this stranger,
let's give her time to get it back in the right place. She'll come
right, I reckon, before long. As for him, I see no fun in licking
him, for that's a thing to be done just as soon as said. If he
crosses me, it'll do then—but so long as she seems to have a liking
for him, so long I'll keep my hands off him, if so be he'll
let me.”
“Well,” said one of his comrades, “I never thought the time
would come when Barnacle Sam would take so much from any
man.”
“Oh hush! Peter Stahlen; you know I take nothing that I
don't choose to take. All that know me, know what I am, and
they'll all think rightly in the matter; and those that don't know
me may think just what they please. So good night, my lads.
I'll take another turn in the woods to freshen me.”
| CHAPTER II. The wigwam and the cabin | |