 | CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
We pass over much of the minor matter in this history. We
forbear the various details, the visitings and wanderings, the doings
of the several parties, and the scandal which necessarily kept
all tongues busy for a season. The hope so confidently expressed
by Barnacle Sam, that the head of his beauty, which had been
turned by the stranger, would recover its former sensible position after
certain days, did not promise to be soon realized. On the contrary,
every succeeding week seemed to bring the maiden and her
city lover more frequently together; to strengthen his assurance,
and increase his influence over her heart. All his leisure time
was consumed either at her dwelling or in rambles with her
alone, hither and thither, to the equal disquieting of maid and
bachelor. They, however, had eyes for nobody but one another
—lived, as it were, only in each other's regards, and, after a
month of the busiest idleness in which he had ever been engaged,
Barnacle Sam, in very despair, resumed his labours on the river
by taking charge of a very large fleet of rafts. The previous interval
had been spent in a sort of gentlemanly watch upon the heart
and proceedings of the fair Margaret. The result was such as to
put the coup de grace to all his own fond aspirations. But this effect
was not brought about but at great expense of pride and feeling.
His heart was sore and soured. His temper underwent a change.
He was moody and irritable—kept aloof from his companions,
and discouraged and repulsed them when they approached him.
It was a mutual relief to them and himself when he launched upon
the river in his old vocation. But his vocation, like that of
Othello, was fairly gone. He performed his duties punctually,
carried his charge in safety to the city, and evinced, in its management,
quite as much skill and courage as before. But his
performances were now mechanical—therefore carried on doggedly,
and with no portion of his former spirit. There was now
no catch of song, no famous shout or whistle, to be heard by the farmer
the headlands. There was no more friendly chat with the
wayfarer—no more kind, queer word, such as had made him the
favourite of all parties before. His eye was now averted—his
countenance troubled—his words few—his whole deportment, as
well as his nature, had undergone a change; and folks pointed
to the caprice of Margaret Cole as the true source of all his misfortunes.
It is, perhaps, her worst reproach that she seemed to
behold them with little concern or commiseration, and, exulting in
the consciousness of a new conquest over a person who seemed to
rate himself very much above his country neighbours, she suffered
herself to speak of the melancholy which had seized upon the
soul of her former lover with a degree of scorn and irreverence
which tended very much to wean from her the regard of the most
intimate and friendly among her own sex.
Months passed away in this manner, and but little of our raftsman
was to be seen. Meanwhile, the manner of Wilson Hurst
became more assured and confident. In his deportment toward
Margaret Cole there was now something of a lordly condescension,
while, in hers, people were struck with a new expression of
timidity and dependence, amounting almost to suffering and grief.
Her face became pale, her eye restless and anxious, and her step
less buoyant. In her father's house she no longer seemed at
home. Her time, when not passed with her lover, was wasted
in the woods, and at her return the traces of tears were still to be
seen upon her cheeks. Suspicion grew active, scandal busied
herself, and the young women, her former associates, were the
first to declare themselves not satisfied with the existing condition
of things. Their interest in the case soon superseded their
charity;
Except an erring sister's shame.”
the bruit reached the ears of her simple, unsuspecting parents.
The father was, when roused, a coarse and harsh old man. Margaret
was his favourite, but it was Margaret in her glory, not
Margaret in her shame. His vanity was stung, and in the interview
soon discovered sufficient cause of provocation, was totally without
the restraints of policy or humanity.
A traditionary account—over which we confess there hangs
some doubt—is given of the events that followed. There were
guests in the dwelling of the farmer, and the poor girl was conducted
to a neighbouring outhouse, probably the barn. There,
amid the denunciations of the father, the reproaches of the mother,
and the sobs, tears and agonies of the victim, a full acknowledgment
was extorted of her wretched state. But she preserved
one secret, which no violence could make her deliver. She
withheld the name of him to whom she owed all her misfortunes.
It is true, this name was not wanting to inform any to whom her
history was known, by whom the injury was done; but of all
certainty on this head, derived from her own confession, they
were wholly deprived. Sitting on the bare floor, in a state of
comparative stupor, which might have tended somewhat to blunt
and disarm the nicer sensibilities, she bore, in silence, the torrent
of bitter and brutal invective which followed her developments.
With a head drooping to the ground, eyes now tearless, hands
folded upon her lap—self-abandoned, as it were—she was suffered
to remain. Her parents left her and returned to the dwelling,
having closed the door, without locking it, behind them. What
were their plans may not be said; but, whatever they were, they
were defeated by the subsequent steps taken, in her desperation
of soul, by the deserted and dishonoured damsel.
| CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin | |