University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The evening meal being concluded, and a few
brief moments devoted to conversation with her
new friends, Edith was glad, when, at a hint from
her kinsman as to the early hour appointed for
setting out on the morrow, she was permitted to
seek the rest of which she stood in need. Her
chamber—and, by a rare exercise of hospitality,
the merit of which she appreciated, since she was
sensible it could not have been made without sacrifice,
she occupied it alone—boasted few of the
luxuries, few even of the comforts, to which she
had been accustomed in her native land, and her
father's house. But misfortune had taught her
spirit humility; and the recollection of nights
passed in the desert, with only a thin mattress betwixt
her and the naked earth, and a little tent-cloth
and the boughs of trees to protect her from
inclement skies, caused her to regard her present
retreat with such feelings of satisfaction as she
might have indulged if in the chamber of a
palace.

She was followed to the apartment by a bevy of
the fair Bruces, all solicitous to render her such
assistance as they could, and all, perhaps, equally
anxious to indulge their admiration, for the second
or third time, over the slender store of finery,
which Edith good-naturedly opened to their inspection.
In this way the time fled amain until
Mrs. Bruce, more considerate than her daughters,

and somewhat scandalized by the loud commendations
which they passed on sundry articles of
dress such as were never before seen in Kentucky,
rushed into the chamber, and drove them
manfully away.

“Poor, ignorant critturs!” said she, by way of
apology, “they knows no better: thar's the mischief
of being raised in the back-woods. They'll
never l'arn to be genteel, thar's so many common
persons comes out here with their daughters. I'm
sure, I do my best to l'arn 'em.”

With these words she tendered her own good
offices to Edith, which the young lady declining
with many thanks, she bade her good night, and,
to Edith's great relief, left her to herself. A few
moments then sufficed to complete her preparations
for slumber, which being effected, she threw
herself on her knees, to implore the further favour
of the orphan's Friend, who had conducted her
so far in safety on her journey.

Whilst thus engaged, her mind absorbed in the
solemn duty, she failed to note that another visiter
had softly stolen into the apartment; and accordingly,
when she rose from her devotions, and beheld
a female figure standing in the distance,
though regarding her with both reverence and
timidity, she could not suppress an exclamation of
alarm.

“Do not be afraid,—it is only Telie Doe,” said
the visiter with a low and trembling voice: “I
thought you would want some one to—to take the
candle.”

“You are very good,” replied Edith, who, having
scarcely before observed the humble and retiring
maid, and supposing her to be one of her
host's children, had little doubt she had stolen in
to indulge her curiosity like the others, although at

so late a moment, as to authorize a little cruelty
on the part of the guest. “I am very tired and
sleepy,” she said, creeping into bed, hoping that
the confession would be understood and accepted
as an apology. She then, seeing that Telie did
not act upon the hint, intimated that she had no
further occasion for the light, and bade her good-night.
But Telie, instead of departing, maintained
her stand at the little rude table, where, besides
the candle, were several articles of apparel that
Edith had laid out in readiness for the morning,
and upon which she thought the girl's eyes were
fixed.

“If you had come a little earlier,” said Edith,
with unfailing good-nature, “I should have been
glad to show you any thing I have. But now, indeed,
it is too late, and all my packages are made
up—”

“It is not that,” interrupted the maiden hastily,
but with trepidation. “No, I did not want to trouble
you. But—”

“But what?” demanded Edith, with surprise,
yet with kindness, for she observed the agitation
of the speaker.

“Lady,” said Telie, mustering resolution, and
stepping to the bed-side, “if you will not be angry
with me, I would,—I would—”

“You would ask a favour, perhaps?” said
Edith, encouraging her with a smile.

“Yes, that is it,” replied the girl, dropping on
her knees, not so much, however, as it appeared,
from abasement of spirit, as to bring her lips
nearer to Edith's ear, that she might speak in a
lower voice. “I know, from what they say, you
are a great lady, and that you once had many
people to wait upon you; and now you are in the
wild woods, among strangers, and none about you

but men.” Edith replied with a sigh, and Telie,
timorously grasping at the hand lying nearest her
own, murmured eagerly, “If you would but take
me with you, I am used to the woods, and I would
be your servant.”

“You!” exclaimed Edith, her surprise getting
the better of her sadness. “Your mother would
surely never consent to your being a servant?”

“My mother?” muttered Telie,—“I have no
mother,—no relations.”

“What! Mr. Bruce is not then your father?”

“No,—I have no father. Yes,—that is, I have
a father; but he has,—he has turned Indian.”

These words were whispered rather than spoken,
yet whispered with a tone of grief and shame
that touched Edith's feelings. Her pity was expressed
in her countenance, and Telie, reading the
gentle sympathy infused into every lovely feature,
bent over the hand she had clasped, and
touched it with her lips.

“I have told you the truth,” she said, mournfully:
“one like me should not be ashamed to be a
servant. And so, lady, if you will take me, I will
go with you and serve you; and poor and ignorant
as I am, I can serve you,—yes, ma'am,” she
added, eagerly, “I can serve you more and better
than you think,—indeed, indeed I can.”

“Alas, poor child,” said Edith, “I am one who
must learn to do without attendance and service.
I have no home to give you.”

“I have heard it all,” said Telie; “but I can
live in the woods with you, till you have a house;
and then I can work for you, and you'll never repent
taking me,—no, indeed, for I know all that's
to be done by a woman in a new land, and you
don't; and indeed, if you have none to help you,
it would kill you, it would indeed: for it is a hard,

hard time in the woods for a woman that has been
brought up tenderly.”

“Alas, child,” said Edith, perhaps a little pettishly,
for she liked not to dwell upon such gloomy
anticipations, “why should you be discontented
with the home you have already? Surely, there
are none here unkind to you?”

“No,” replied the maiden, “they are very good
to me, and Mr. Bruce has been a father to me.
But then I am not his child, and it is wrong of me
to live upon him, who has so many children of his
own. And then my father—all talk of my father;
all the people here hate him, though he has never
done them harm, and I know,—yes, I know it well
enough, though they won't believe it,—that he
keeps the Indians from hurting them; but they
hate him and curse him; and, oh, I wish I was
away, where I should never hear them speak of
him more. Perhaps they don't know any thing
about him at the Falls, and then there will be
nobody to call me the white Indian's daughter.”

“And does Mr. Bruce, or his wife, know of
your desire to leave him?”

“No,” said Telie, her terrors reviving; “but if
you should ask them for me, then they would
agree to let me go. He told the Captain,—that's
Captain Forrester,—he would do any thing for
him; and indeed he would, for he is a good man,
and he will do what he says.”

“How strange, how improper, nay, how ungrateful
then, if he be a good man,” said Edith,
“that you should wish to leave him and his kind
family, to live among persons entirely unknown.
Be content, my poor maid. You have little save
imaginary evils to afflict you. You are happier
here than you can be among strangers.”

Telie clasped her hands in despair; “I shall

never be happy here, nor any where. But take
me,” she added eagerly, “take me for your own
sake;—for it will be good for you to have me
with you in the woods, it will, indeed it will.”

“It cannot be,” said Edith, gently. But the
maiden would scarce take a refusal. Her terrors
had been dissipated by her having ventured so far
on speech, and she now pursued her object with
an imploring and passionate earnestness that both
surprised and embarrassed Edith, while it increased
her sympathy for the poor bereaved
pleader. She endeavoured to convince her, if not
of the utter folly of her desires, at least of the impossibility
there was on her part of granting them.
She succeeded, however, in producing conviction
only on one point: Telie perceived that her suit
was not to be granted: of which as soon as she
was satisfied, she left off entreaty; and rose to her
feet with a saddened and humbled visage, and
then taking up the candle, she left the fair stranger
to her repose.

In the meanwhile, Roland also was preparing
for slumber; and finding, as indeed he could not
avoid seeing, that the hospitality of his host had
placed the males of the family under the necessity
of taking their rest in the open air on the porch,
he insisted upon passing the night in the same
place in their company. In fact, the original habitation
of the back-woodsman seldom boasted
more than two rooms in all, and these none of the
largest; and when emigrants arrived at a Station,
there was little attempt made to find shelter for
any save their women and children, to whom the
men of the settlement readily gave up their own
quarters, to share those of their male visiters under
the blanket-tents which were spread before
the doors. This, to men who had thus passed the

nights for several weeks in succession, was any
thing but hardship; and when the weather was
warm and dry, they could congratulate themselves
on sleeping in greater comfort than their
sheltered companions. Of this Forrester was well
aware, and he took an early period to communicate
his resolution of rejecting the unmanly luxury
of a bed, and sleeping like a soldier, wrapped in
his cloak, with his saddle for a pillow. In this
way, the night proving unexpectedly sultry, he
succeeded in enjoying more delightful and refreshing
slumbers than blessed his kinswoman in her
bed of down. The song of the katydid and the
cry of the whippoorwill came more sweetly to his
cars from the adjacent woods; and the breeze that
had stirred a thousand leagues of forest in its
flight, whispered over his cheek with a more enchanting
music than it made among the chinks
and crannies of the wall by Edith's bed-side. A
few idle dreams,—recollections of home, mingled
with the anticipated scenes of the future, the deep
forest, the wild beast, and the lurking Indian,—
amused, without harassing, his sleeping mind;
and it was not until the first gray of dawn that he
experienced any interruption. He started up suddenly,
his ears still tingling with the soft tones of
an unknown voice, which had whispered in them,
“Cross the river by the Lower Ford,—there is
danger at the Upper.”—He stared around, but
saw nothing; all was silent around him, save the
deep breathing of the sleepers at his side. “Who
spoke?” he demanded in a whisper, but received
no reply. “River,—Upper and Lower Ford;—
danger?—” he muttered: “now I would have
sworn some one spoke to me: and yet I must
have dreamed it. “Strange things, dreams,—
thoughts in freedom, loosed from the chains of association,—temporary
mad-fits undoubtedly: marvellous
impressions they produce on the organs of
sense; see, hear, smell, taste, touch, more exquisitely
without the organs than with them—What's
the use of organs? There's the poser—I think,—
I—” but here he ceased thinking altogether, his
philosophy having served the purpose such philosophy
usually does, and wrapped him a second
time in the arms of Morpheus. He opened his
eyes almost immediately, as he thought; but his
morning nap had lasted half an hour; the dawn
was already purple and violet in the sky, his companions
had left his side, and the hum of voices
and the sound of footsteps in and around the Station,
told him that his fellow exiles were already
preparing to resume their journey.

“A brave morrow to you, captain!” said the
commander of the fortress, the thunder of whose
footsteps, as he approached the house with uncommonly
fierce strides, had perhaps broken his
slumbers. A frown was on his brow, and the
grasp of his hand, in which every finger seemed
doing the duty of a boa-constrictor, spoke of a
spirit up in arms, and wrestling with passion.

“What is the matter?” asked Roland.

“Matter that consarns you and me more than
any other two persons in the etarnal world!” said
Bruce, with such energy of utterance as nothing
but rage could supply. “Thar has been a black wolf
in the pin-fold,—alias, as they used to say at the
court-house, Captain Ralph Stackpole; and the
end of it is, war I never to tell another truth in my
life, that your blooded brown horse has absquotulated!”

“Absquotulated!” echoed Forrester, amazed as
much at the word as at the fierce visage of his
friend,—“what is that? Is the horse hurt?”

“Stolen away, sir, by the etarnal Old Scratch!
Carried off by Roaring Ralph Stackpole, while I,
like a brute, war sound a-sleeping! And h'yar's
the knavery of the thing, sir! the unpronounceable
rascality, sir!—I loaned the brute one of my
own crittur's, just to be rid of him, and have him
out of harm's way; for I had a forewarning, the
brute, that his mouth war a-watering after the new
beasts in the pin-fold, and after the brown horse in
partickelar! And so I loaned him a horse, and
sent him off to Logan's. Well, sir, and what does
the brute do but ride off, for a make-believe, to set
us easy; for he knew, the brute, if he war in sight,
of us, we should have had guards over the cattle
all night long; well, sir, down he sot in ambush,
till all war quiet; and then he stole back, and turning
my own horse among the others, as if to say,
`Thar's the beast that I borrowed,'—it war a wonder
the brute war so honest!—picked the best of the
gathering, your blooded brown horse, sir! and all
the while, I war sleeping like a brute, and leaving
the guest in my own house to be robbed by Captain
Ralph Stackpole, the villian!”

“If it be possible to follow the rascal,” said Roland,
giving way to wrath himself, “I must do so,
and without a moment's delay. I would to heaven
I had known this earlier.”

“Whar war the use,” said Bruce; “whar war
the use of disturbing a tired man in his nap, and
he a guest of mine too?”

“The advantage would have been,” said Roland,
a little testily, “that the pursuit could have
been instantly begun.”

“And war it not?” said the colonel. “Thar
war not two minutes lost after the horse war missing,
afore my son Tom and a dozen more of the
best woodsmen war mounted on the fleetest horses

in the settlement, and galloping after, right on the
brute's trail.”

“Thanks, my friend,” said Roland, with a cordial
grasp of hand. “The horse will be recovered?”

“Thar's no denying it,” said Bruce, “if a fresh
leg can outrun a weary one: and besides, the brute
war not content with the best horse, but he must
have the second best too, that's Major Smalleye's
two-y'ar-old pony. He has an eye for a horse,
the etarnal skirmudgeon! but the pony will be the
death of him; for he's skeary, and will keep
Ralph slow in the path. No, sir; we'll have your
brown horse before you can say Jack Robinson.
But the intolerability of the thing, sir, is that
Ralph Stackpole should steal my guest's horse,
sir! But it's the end of his thieving, the brute, or
thar's no snakes! I told him Lynch war out, the
brute, and I told the boys to take ear' I war not
found lying; and I reckon they won't forget me!
I like the crittur, thar's no denying, for he's a
screamer among Injuns; but thar's no standing a
horse-thief! no, sir, thar's no standing a horse-thief!”

The only evil consequence of this accident
which was apprehended, was that the march of
the exiles must be delayed until the soldier's horse
was recovered, or Roland himself left behind
until the animal was brought in; unless, indeed,
he chose to accept another freely offered him by
his gallant host, and trust to having his own
charger restored on some future occasion. He
was himself unwilling that the progress of more
than a hundred human beings towards the long
sighed for land of promise should be delayed a
moment on his account; and for this reason he
exhorted his nominal superior to hasten the preparations

for departure, without thinking of him.
His first resolution in relation to his own course,
was to proceed with the company, leaving his
horse to be sent after him, when recovered. He
was loath, however, to leave the highly-prized and
long-tried charger behind; and Colonel Bruce
taking advantage of the feeling, and representing
the openness and safety of the road, the shortness
of the day's journey, (for the next Station at
which the exiles: intended lodging was scarce
twenty miles distant,) and above all, promising,
if he remained, to escort him thither with a band
of his young men, to whom the excursion would
be but an agreeable frolic, the soldier changed his
mind, and, in an evil hour, as it afterwards appeared,
consented to remain until Brown Briareus
was brought in,—provided this should happen before
mid-day: at which time, if the horse did not
appear, it was agreed he should set out, trusting
to his good fortune and the friendly zeal of his
host, for the future recovery and restoration of his
charger. Later than mid-day he was resolved
not to remain; for however secure the road, it
was wiser to pursue it in company than alone;
nor would he have consented to remain a moment,
had there appeared the least impediment to his
joining the companions of his exile before nightfall.

His measures were taken accordingly. His
baggage-horses, under the charge of the younger
of the two negroes, were sent on with the band;
the other, an old and faithful slave of his father,
being retained as a useful appendage to a party
containing his kinswoman, from whom he, of
course, saw no reason to be separated. To Edith
herself, the delay was far from being disagreeable.
It promised a gay and cheerful gallop through the

forest, instead of the dull, plodding, funeral-like
march to which she had been day after day monotonously
accustomed. She assented, therefore,
to the arrangement, and, like her kinsman, beheld,
in the fresh light of sun-rise, without a sigh, without
even a single foreboding of evil, the departure
of the train of emigrants, with whom she had
journeyed in safety so many long and weary
leagues through the desert.

They set out in high spirits, after shaking hands
with their hosts, at the gates, and saluting them
with cheers, which they repeated in honour of
their young captain; and, in a few moments, the
whole train had vanished, as if swallowed up by
the dark forest.