 | CHAPTER VIII. The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Still in harmonious intercourse they liv'd
The rural day, and talked the flowing heart,
Or sigh'd, and looked unutterable things.
Thomson.
That was a somewhat breathless moment. The intensity
with which I listened for any sound that might announce
my discovery, was really painful. I almost fancied I heard
a shout, but none came. Then I gave myself up, actually
believing that footsteps were rushing towards the mill, with
a view to seize me. It was imagination; the rushing of
the waters below being the only real sound that disturbed
the silence of the place. I had time to breathe, and to look
about me.
As might be supposed, the mill was very rudely constructed.
I have spoken of a loft, but there was nothing
that really deserved the term. Some refuse boards were
laid about, here and there, on the beams, making fragments
of rough flooring; and my first care was to draw several
of these boards close together, placing them two or three in
thickness, so as to make a place where, by lying down, I
could not be seen by any one who should happen to enter
the mill. There lay what the millers call a bunch of
cherry-wood boards at no great distance from the spot
where the roof joined the plate of the building, and within
this bunch I arranged my hiding-place. No ostensible
change was necessary to complete it, else the experiment
might have been hazardous among those who were so much
accustomed to note circumstances of that nature. The
manner in which the lumber was arranged when I reached
the spot was so little different from what it was when I had
done with it, as scarcely to attract attention.
No sooner was my hiding-place completed to my mind,
than I looked round to see if there were any means of making
the rain was kept out by placing slabs up and down, as is
often seen in the ruder, rustic, frontier architecture of
America. With the aid of my knife, I soon had a small
hole between two of these slabs, at a place favourable to
such an object; and, though it was no larger than the eye
itself, it answered every purpose. Eagerly enough did I
now commence my survey.
The search was still going on actively. Those experienced
border-men well knew it was not possible for me
to cross the open ground and to reach the woods in the short
interval of time between my disappearance and their discovery
of the fact, and they consequently felt certain that
I was secreted somewhere near the building. Every house
had been searched, though no one thought of entering the
mill, because my movement, as all supposed, was necessarily
in an opposite direction. The fences were examined,
and every thing like a cover on the proper side of the house
was looked into with care and activity. It would seem that,
just as I took my first look through the hole, my pursuers
were at fault. The search had been made, and of course
without effect. Nothing likely to conceal me remained to
be examined. It was necessary to come to a stand, and to
concert measures for a further search.
The family of squatters was too much accustomed to
their situation and its hazards, not to be familiar with all
the expedients necessary to their circumstances. They
placed the younger children on the look-out, at the points
most favourable to my retreat, should I be in a situation to
attempt going off in that quarter of the clearing; and,
then, the father collected his older sons around him, and the
whole cluster of them, seven in number, came slowly walking
towards the mill. The excitement of the first pursuit
had sensibly abated, and these practised woodsmen were
in serious consultation on the measures next to be taken. In
this condition, the whole party entered the mill, taking their
seats, or standing in a circle directly beneath my post, and
within six feet of me. As a matter of course, I heard all
that was said, though completely hid from view.
“Here we shall be safe from the long ears of little folks,”
said the father, as he placed his own large frame on the log
thing, Tobit, and I 'd no idee at all them 'ere city
bred gentry was so expart with their legs. I sometimes
think he can't be a Littlepage, but that he 's one of our hill
folks, tossed out and mannered a'ter the towns' folks, to
take a body in. It seems an onpossibility that the man
should get off, out of the midst on us, and we not see or
hear anything on him!”
“We may as well give up the lumber and the betterments,
at once,” growled Tobit, “as let him get clear.
Should he reach Ravensnest, the first thing he 'd do would
be to swear out warrants ag'in us all, and Newcome is not
the man to stand by squatters in trouble. He 'd no more
dare deny his landlord, than deny his meetin'.”
This expression of Tobit's is worthy of notice. In the
estimation of a certain class of religionists among us, the
“meetin',” as the young squatter called his church, had the
highest place in his estimate of potentates and powers; it is
to be feared, often even higher than the dread being for
whose worship that “meetin”' existed.
“I don't think as hard of the 'squire as all that,” answered
Thousandacres. “He 'll never send out a warrant
ag'in us, without sendin' out a messenger to let us hear of
it, and that in time to get us all out of the way.”
“And who 's to get the boards in the creek out of the
way afore the water rises? And who 's to hide or carry
off all them logs? There 's more than a ton weight of my
blood and bones in them very logs, in the shape of hard labour,
and I 'll fight like a she-bear for her cubs afore I 'll
be driven from them without pay.”
It is very surprising that one who set this desperate value
on the property he deemed his, should have so little regard
for that which belonged to other persons. In this respect,
however, Tobit's feeling was no more than submission to
the general law of our nature, which reverses the images
before our moral vision, precisely as we change our own
relations to them.
“It would go hard with me afore I should give up the
lumber or the clearin', “returned Thousandacres, with emphasis.
“We 've fit King George for liberty, and why
shouldn't we fight for our property? Of what use is liberty
sort? I despise sich liberty, b'ys, and want none on it.”
All the young men muttered their approbation of such a
sentiment, and it was easy enough to understand that the
elevated notion of personal rights entertained by Thousandacres
found an answering echo in the bosom of each of his
heroic sons. I dare say the same sympathy would have
existed between them, had they been a gang of pickpockets
collected in council in a room of the Black Horse, St. Catharine's
lane, Wapping, London.
“But what can we do with the young chap, father, should
we take him ag'in?” asked Zephaniah; a question, as all
will see, of some interest to myself. “He can't be kept a
great while without having a stir made a'ter him, and that
would break us up, sooner or later. We may have a clear
right to the work of our hands; but, on the whull, I rather
conclude the country is ag'in squatters.”
“Who cares for the country?” answered Thousandacres,
fiercely. “If it wants young Littlepage, let it come and
s'arch for him, as we 've been doin'. If that chap falls into
my hands once more, he never quits 'em alive, unless he
gives me a good and sufficient deed to two hundred acres,
includin' the mill, and a receipt in full, on his father's behalf,
for all back claims. On them two principles my mind
is set, and not to be altered.”
A long pause succeeded this bold announcement, and I
began to be afraid that my suppressed breathing might be
overheard in the profound stillness that followed. But Zephaniah
spoke in time to relieve me from this apprehension,
and in a way to satisfy me that the party below, all of
whom were concealed from my sight, had been pondering
on what had been said by their leader, and not listening to
detect any tell-tale sounds from me.
“I 've heern say,” Zephaniah remarked, “that deeds
gi'n in that way won't stand good in law. 'Squire Newcome
was talkin' of sich transactions the very last time I
was out at the Nest.”
“I wish a body could find out what would stand good in
law!” growled Thousandacres. “They make their laws,
and lay great account in havin' 'em obsarved; and then,
when a man comes into court with everything done accordin'
out, `this is ag'in law!' If a deed is to set forth so and so,
and is to have the name writ down in such a place, and is
to have what they call `hand and seal and date' beside; and
sich bein' the law, I want to know why an instrument so
made won't hold good by their confounded laws? Law is
law, all over the world, I s'pose; and though it 's an accursed
thing, if men agree to have it, they ought to stand
by their own rules. I 've thought a good deal of squeezin'
writin's out of this young Littlepage; and just as my
mind 's made up to do 't if I can lay hands on him ag'in,
you come out and tell me sich writin's be good for nothin'.
Zeph, Zeph—you go too often out into them settlements, and
get your mind pervarted by their wickedness and talk.”
“I hope not, father, though I own I do like to go there.
I 've come to a time of life when a man thinks of marryin';
and there bein' no gal here, unless it be one of my own
sisters, it 's nat'ral to look into the next settlement. I 'll
own sich has been my object in going to the Nest.”
“And you 've found the gal you set store by? Out with
the whull truth, like a man. You know I 've always been
set ag'in lyin', and have ever endeavoured to make the whull
of you speak truth. How is it, Zephaniah? have you found
a gal to your mind, and who is 't? Ourn is a family into
which any body can come by askin', you 'll remember.”
“Lord, father! Dus Malbone would no more think of
askin' me to have her, than she 'd think of marryin' you!
I 've offered three times; and she 's told me, as plain as a
woman could speak, that she couldn't no how consent, and
that I hadn't ought to think of her any longer.”
“Who is the gal, in this part of the country, that holds
her head so much higher than one of Thousandacres' sons?”
demanded the old squatter, with some such surprise, real or
affected, as a Bourbon might be supposed to feel at having
his alliance spurned on the score of blood. “I 'd like to
see her, and to convarse with this young woman. What
did you call her name, Zeph?”
“Dus Malbone, father, and the young woman that lives
with Chainbearer. She 's his niece, I b'lieve, or something
of that sort.”
“Ha! Chainbearer's niece, d'ye say? His taken da'ghter?
Isn't there some mistake?”
“Dus Malbone calls old Andries `Uncle Chainbearer,'
and I s'pose from that she 's his niece.”
“And you 've offered to marry the gal three times, d'ye
tell me, Zephaniah?”
“Three times, father; and every time she has given `no'
for her answer.”
“The fourth time, may be, she'll change her mind. I
wonder if we couldn't lay hands on this gal, and bring her
into our settlement? Does she live with Chainbearer, in his
hut, out here in the woods?”
“She doos, father.”
“And doos she set store by her uncle? or is she one of
the flaunty sort that thinks more of herself and gownd, than
she does of her own flesh and blood? Can you tell me that,
Zeph?”
“In my judgment, father, Dus Malbone loves Chainbearer
as much as she would, was he her own father.”
“Ay, some gals haven't half the riverence and love for
their own fathers that they should have. What 's to prevint
your goin', Zephaniah, to Chainbearer's pitch, and tell the
gal that her uncle 's in distress, and that you don't know
what may happen to him, and that she had better come over
and see a'ter him? When we get her here, and she understands
the natur' of the case, and you put on your Sabba'day
clothes, and we send for 'squire Newcome, you may
find yourself a married man sooner than you thought for,
my son, and settle down in life. A'ter that, there 'll not be
much danger of Chainbearer's tellin' on us, or of his great
fri'nd here, this major Littlepage's troublin' the lumber afore
the water rises.”
A murmur of applause followed this notable proposal,
and I fancied I could hear a snigger from the young man,
as if he found the project to his mind, and thought it might
be feasible.
“Father,” said Zephaniah, “I wish you 'd call Lowiny
here, and talk to her a little about Dus Malbone. There
she is, with Tobit's wife and mother, looking round among
the cabbages, as if a man could be hid in such a place.”
Thousandacres called to his daughter in an authoritative
way; and I soon heard the girl's step, as she came, a little
hesitatingly as I fancied, into the mill. As it would be very
natural to one in Lowiny's situation to suppose, that her
connection with my escape occasioned this summons, I could
not but feel for what I presumed was the poor girl's distress
at receiving it.
“Come here, Lowiny,” commenced Thousandacres, in
the stern manner with which it was his wont to speak to his
children; “come nearer, gal. Do you know anything of
one Dus Malbone, Chainbearer's niece?”
“Lord ha' massy! Father, how you did frighten me!
I thought you might have found the gentleman, and s'posed
I 'd a hand in helpin' to hide him!”
Singular as it may seem, this burst of conscience awakened
no suspicion in any of the listeners. When the girl
thus betrayed herself, I very naturally expected that such
an examination would follow as would extort the whole details
from her. Not at all, however; neither the father nor any
of the sons understood the indiscreet remarks of the girl,
but imputed them to the excitement that had just existed,
and the circumstance that her mind had, naturally enough,
been dwelling on its cause. It is probable that the very
accidental manner of my evasion, which precluded the
attaching of suspicious facts to what had really occurred,
favoured Lowiny on this occasion; it being impossible that
she should be suspected from anything of that character.
“Who 's talkin' or thinkin' now of young Littlepage, at
all,” returned Thousandacres a little angrily. “I ask if
you know anything of Chainbearer's niece—one Dus Malbone,
or Malcome?”
“I do know suthin' of her, father,” answered Lowiny,
willing enough to betray one—the lesser—of her secrets, in
order to conceal the other, which, on all accounts, was much
the most important; “though I never laid eyes on her 'till
to-day. Zeph has often talked to me of the gal that carried
chain with her uncle for a whull month; and he has a notion
to marry her if he can get her.”
“Never laid eyes on her 'till to-day! Whereabouts have
you laid eyes on her to-day, gal? Is all creation comin' in
this gal to-day?”
“She come to the edge of the clearin' with her uncle,
and—”
“Well, what next? Why don't you go on, Lowiny?”
I could have told Thousandacres why his daughter hesitated;
but the girl got out of the scrape by her own presence
of mind and ingenuity, a little aided, perhaps, by
some practice in sins of the sort.
“Why, I went a berryin' this forenoon, and up ag'in the
berry lot, just in the edge of the woods, I saw a young
woman, and that was the Malbone gal. So we talked together,
and she told me all about it. She's waitin' for her
uncle to come back.”
“So, so; this is news indeed, b'ys! Do you know where
the gal is now, Lowiny?”
“Not just now, for she told me she should go deeper into
the woods, lest she should be seen; but an hour afore sundown
she's to come to the foot of the great chestnut, just
ag'in the berry lot; and I promised to meet her, and either
bring her in to sleep in one of our housen, or to carry her
out suthin' for supper, and to make a bed on.”
This was said frankly, and with the feeling and sympathy
that females are apt to manifest in behalf of each other. It
was evident Lowiny's audience believed every word she had
said; and the old man, in particular, determined at once to
act. I heard him move from his seat, and his voice sounded
like one who was retiring, as he said:
“Tobit—b'ys—come with me, and we 'll have one more
look for this young chap through the lumber and the housen.
It may be that he 's stolen in there while our eyes have been
turned another way. Lowiny, you needn't come with us,
for the flutterin' way of you gals don't do no good in sich a
s'arch.”
I waited until the last heavy footstep was inaudible, and
then ventured to move far enough on my hands, to find a
crack that I had purposely left, with a view to take through
it an occasional look below. On the log which her father
had just left, Lowiny had seated herself. Her eye was
roaming over the upper part of the mill, as if in quest of
me. At length she said, in a suppressed voice,—
“Be you here, still? Father and the b'ys can't hear us
now, if you speak low.”
“I am here, good Lowiny, thanks to your friendly kindness,
and have overheard all that passed. You saw Ursula
Malbone, and gave her my note?”
“As true as you are there, I did; and she read it over
so often, I guess she must know it by heart.”
“But, what did she say? Had she no message for her
uncle—no answer to what I had written?”
“Oh! she 'd enough to say—gals love to talk, you know,
when they get with one another, and Dus and I talked together
half an hour, or longer. She 'd plenty to say,
though it wunt do for me to sit here and tell it to you, lest
somebody wonder I stay so long in the mill.”
“You can tell me if she sent any message, or answer to
my note?”
“She never breathed a syllable about what you 'd writ.
I warrant you she 's close-mouthed enough, when she gets
a line from a young man. Do you think her so desp'rate
handsome as Zeph says she is?”
This boded ill, but it was a question that it was politic to
answer, and to answer with some little discretion. If I lost
the services of Lowiny, my main stay was gone.
“She is well enough to look at, but I 've seen quite as
handsome young women, lately. But handsome or not,
she is one of your own sex, and is not to be deserted in her
trouble.”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Lowiny, with an expression of
countenance that told me at once, the better feelings of her
sex had all returned again, “and I 'll not desart her, though
father drive me out of the settlement. I am tired of all this
squatting, and think folks ought to live as much in one spot
as they can. What 's best to be done about Dus Malbone
—perhaps she 'd like well enough to marry Zeph?”
“Did you see, or hear, any thing while with her, to
make you think so? I am anxious to know what she
said.”
“La! She said sights of things; but most of her talk
was about old Chainbearer. She never named your name
so much as once!”
“Did she name Zephaniah's? I make no doubt that
are her intentions, and will she remain near that tree until
you come?”
“She stays under a rock not a great way from the tree,
and there she 'll stay till I go to meet her, at the chestnut.
We had our talk under that rock, and it 's easy enough to
find her there.”
“How do things look, around us? Might I descend, slip
down into the bed of the river, and go round to Dus Malbone,
so as to give her notice of the danger she is in?”
Lowiny did not answer me for near a minute, and I
began to fear that I had put another indiscreet question.
The girl seemed thoughtful, but when she raised her face
so high as to allow me to see it, all the expression of the
more generous feminine sympathy was visible.
“'T would be hard to make Dus have Zeph, if she don't
like him, wouldn't it!” she said with emphasis. “I don't
know but t'would be better to let her know what 's coming,
so that she can choose for herself.”
“She told me,” I answered, with perfect truth, “that she
is engaged to another, and it would be worse than cruel—
it would be wicked, to make her marry one man, while she
loves another.”
“She shan't do 't!” cried the girl, with an animation
that I thought dangerous. But she gave me no opportunity
for remonstrance, as, all her energies being aroused, she
went to work in earnest to put me in the way of doing
what I most desired to achieve.
“D'ye see the lower corner of the mill,” she continued,
hurriedly. “That post goes down to the rock over which
the water falls. You can walk to that corner without any
danger of being seen, as the ruff hides you, and when you
get there, you can wait till I tell you to get on the post.
'T will be easy to slide down that post to the rock, and
there 'll be not much of a chance of being seen, as the post
will nearly hide you. When you 're on the rock, you 'll
find a path that leads along the creek till you come to a
foot-bridge. If you cross that log, and take the left-hand
path, 'twill bring you out near the edge of the clearin', up
on the hill again, and then you 'll have only to follow the
edge of the woods a little way, afore you come to the
about fifty rods.”
I took in these directions eagerly, and was at the post
almost as soon as the girl ceased speaking. In order to do
this I had only to walk on the boards that lay scattered
about on the girts of the mill, the roof completely concealing
the movement from any on its outside. I made my arrangements,
and only waited for a signal, or the direction
from Lowiny, to proceed.
“Not yet,” said the girl, looking down and affecting to
be occupied with something near her feet. “Father and
Tobit are walkin' this way, and lookin' right at the mill.
Now—get ready—they've turned their heads, and seem as
if they 'd turn round themselves next. They 've turned
away ag'in; wait one moment—now's a good time—don't
go away altogether without my seein' you once more.”
I heard these last words, but it was while sliding down
the post. Just as my head came so low as to be in a line
with the objects scattered about the floor of the mill, I clung
to the post to catch one glimpse of what was going on without.
Thousandacres and Tobit were about a hundred yards
distant, walking apart from the group of young men, and
apparently in deep consultation together. It was quite evident
no alarm was taken, and down I slid to the rock. At
the next moment I was in the path, descending to the foot-bridge,
a tree that had been felled across the stream. Until
that tree was crossed, and a slight distance of the ascent on
the other side of the stream, along the left-hand path, was
overcome, I was completely exposed to the observation of
any one who might be in a situation to look down into the
glen of the river. At almost any other moment, at that particular
season, my discovery would have been nearly certain,
as some of the men or boys were always at work in
the water; but the events of that morning called them elsewhere,
and I made the critical passage, a distance of two
hundred yards, or more, in safety. As soon as I entered
behind a cover, my speed abated, and, having risen again
to the level of the dwellings, or even a little above them, I
profited by openings among the small pine bushes that
fringed the path, to take a survey of the state of things
among the squatters.
There the cluster of heavy, lounging young men was,
Thousandacres and Tobit walking apart, as when last seen.
Prudence was at the door of a distant cabin, surrounded, as
usual, by a collection of the young fry, and conversing herself,
eagerly, with the wives of two or three of her married
sons. Lowiny had left the mill, and was strolling along
the opposite side of the glen, so near the verge of the rocks
as to have enabled her to see the whole of my passage
across the open space. Perceiving that she was quite alone,
I ventured to hem just loud enough to reach her ear. A
hurried, frightened gesture, assured me that I had been
heard, and, first making a gesture for me to go forward, the
girl turned away, and went skipping off towards the cluster
of females who surrounded her mother.
As for myself, I now thought only of Dus. What cared
I if she did love another? A girl of her education, manners,
sentiments, birth and character, was not to be sacrificed
to one like Zephaniah, let what might happen; and,
could I reach her place of concealment in time, she might
still be saved. These thoughts fairly winged my flight, and
I soon came in sight of the chestnut. Three minutes later
I laid a hand on the trunk of the tree itself. As I had been
a quarter of an hour, at least, in making the circuit of that
side of the clearing, some material change might have occurred
among the squatters, and I determined to advance to
the edge of the bushes, in Lowiny's “berry lot,” which
completely screened the spot, and ascertain the facts, before
I sought Dus at her rock.
The result showed that some measures had been decided
on between Thousandacres and Tobit. Not one of the
males, a lad that stood sentinel at the store-house, and a
few of the smaller boys excepted, was to be seen. I examined
all the visible points with care, but no one was visible.
Even Susquesus, who had been lounging about the
whole day, or since his liberation, had vanished. Prudence
and her daughters, too, were in a great commotion, hurrying
from cabin to cabin, and manifesting all that restlessness
which usually denotes excitement among females. I stopped
but a moment to ascertain these leading circumstances, and
turned to seek the rock. While retiring from among the
bushes, I heard the fallen branch of a tree snap under a
Jaap as we commonly called him, advancing towards me,
carrying a rifle on each shoulder.
“Heaven's blessings on you, my faithful Jaap!” I cried,
holding out an arm to receive one of the weapons. “You
come at a most happy moment, and can lead me to Miss
Malbone.”
“Yes, sah, and glad to do it, too. Miss Dus up here, a
bit, in 'e wood, and can werry soon see her. She keep me
down here to look out, and I carry bot' rifle, Masser Chainbearer's
and my own, 'cause Miss Dus no great hand wid
gun-powder. But, where you cum from, Masser Mordaunt?—and
why you run away so, in night-time?”
“Never mind just now, Jaap—in proper time you shall
know all about it. Now, we must take care of Miss Ursula.
Is she uneasy? has she shown any fear on her uncle's
account?”
“She cry half 'e time, sah—Den she look up bold, and
resolute, just like ole Masser, sah, when he tell he rijjement
`charge baggonet,' and seem as if she want to go right into
T'ousandacres' huts. Lor' bless me, sah, Masser Mordaunt
—if she ask me one question about you to-day, she ask me
a hundred!”
“About me, Jaap!”—But I arrested the impulsive feeling
in good time, so as not to be guilty of pumping my own
servant concerning what others had said of me; a meanness
I could not easily have pardoned in myself. But I
increased my speed, and, having Jaap for my guide, was
soon at the side of Dus. The negro had no sooner pointed
out to me the object of my search, than he had the discretion
to return to the edge of the clearing, carrying with
him both rifles; for I returned to him the one I had taken,
in my eagerness to hurry forward, the instant I beheld
Dus.
I can never forget the look with which that frank, noble-hearted
girl received me! It almost led me to hope that my
ears had deceived me, and that, after all, I was an object
of the highest interest with her. A few tears, half-suppressed,
but suppressed with difficulty, accompanied that
look; and I had the happiness of holding for some time,
—nay, warmly extended to me.
“Let us quit this spot at once, dearest Ursula,” I cried,
the moment I could speak. “It is not safe to remain near
that family of wretches, who live by depredation and violence.”
“And leave uncle Chainbearer in their hands!” answered
Dus, reproachfully. “You, surely, would not advise me to
do that!”
“If your own safety demands it, yes—a thousand times,
yes. We must fly, and there is not a moment to lose. A
design exists among those wretches to seize you, and to
make use of your fears to secure the aid of your uncle in
extricating them from the consequences of this discovery
of their robberies. It is not safe, I repeat, for you to remain
a minute longer here.”
The smile that Dus now bestowed on me was very sweet,
though I found it inexplicable; for it had as much of pain
and suffering in it, as it had of that which was winning.
“Mordaunt Littlepage, have you forgotten the words
spoken by me when we last parted?” she asked, seriously.
“Forgotten! I can never forget them! They drove me
nearly to despair, and were the cause of bringing us all
into this difficulty.”
“I told you that my faith was already plighted—that I
could not accept your noble, frank, generous, manly offer,
because another had my troth.”
“You did—you did—Why renew my misery—”
“It is with a different object that I am now more explicit
—That man to whom I am pledged is in those huts, and I
cannot desert him.”
“Can I believe my senses! Do you—can you—is it
possible that one like Ursula Malbone can love Zephaniah
Thousandacres — a squatter himself, and the son of a
squatter?”
The look with which Dus regarded me, said at once that
her astonishment was quite as great as my own. I could
have bitten off my hasty and indiscreet tongue, the instant
it had spoken; and I am sure the rush of tell-tale blood in
my face must have proclaimed to my companion that I felt
deepened nearly to despair, when I saw the expression of
abased mortification that came over the sweet and usually
happy countenance of Dus, and the difficulty she had in
suppressing her tears.
Neither spoke for a minute, when my companion broke
silence by saying steadily—I might almost add solemnly—
“This, indeed, shows how low my fortune has become!
But I pardon you, Mordaunt; for, humble as that fortune
is, you have spoken nobly and frankly in my behalf, and I
exonerate you from any feeling that is not perfectly natural
for the circumstances. Perhaps”—and a bright blush suffused
the countenance of Dus as she said it—“Perhaps I
may attribute the great mistake into which you have fallen
to a passion that is most apt to accompany strong love, and
insomuch prize it, instead of throwing it away with contempt.
But, between you and me, whatever comes of it,
there must be no more mistakes. The man to whom my
faith is plighted, and to whom my time and services are
devoted, so long as one or both of us live, is uncle Chainbearer,
and no other. Had you not rushed from me in the
manner you did, I might have told you this, Mordaunt, the
evening you were showing so much noble frankness yourself.”
“Dus!—Ursula!—beloved Miss Malbone, have I then no
preferred rival?”
“No man has ever spoken to me of love, but this uncouth
and rude young squatter, and yourself.”
“Is your heart then untouched? Are you still mistress
of your own affections?”
The look I now received from Dus was a little saucy;
but that expression soon changed to one that had more of
the deep feeling and generous sympathy of her precious sex
in it.
“Were I to answer `yes,' many women would think I
was being no more than true to the rights of a girl who has
been so unceremoniously treated; but—”
“But what, charming, most beloved Ursula? But what?”
“I prefer truth to coquetry, and shall not attempt to deny
what it would almost be treason against nature to suppose.
How could a girl, educated as I have been, without any
with a man who has treated her with so much kindness and
devotion, and manly tenderness, and insensible to his merits?
Were we in the world, Mordaunt, I think I should prefer
you to all others; being, as we are, in this forest, I know I
do.”
The reader shall not be let into the sacred confidence that
followed; any further, at least, than to know the main
result. A quarter of an hour passed so swiftly, and so
sweetly, indeed, that I could hardly take it on myself to
record one-half that was said. Dus made no longer any
hesitation in declaring her attachment for me; and, though
she urged her own poverty as a just obstacle to my wishes,
it was faintly, as most Americans of either sex would do.
In this particular, at least, we may fairly boast of a just
superiority over all the countries of the old world. While
it is scarcely possible that either man or woman should not
see how grave a barrier to wedded happiness is interposed
by the opinions and habits of social castes, it is seldom that
any one, in his or her own proper sphere, feels that the
want of money is an insurmountable obstacle to a union—
more especially when one of the parties is provided with the
means of maintaining the household gods. The seniors
may, and do often have scruples on this score; but the
young people rarely. Dus and myself were in the complete
enjoyment of this happy simplicity, with my arms
around her waist, and her head leaning on my shoulder,
when I was aroused from a state that I fancied Elysium, by
the hoarse, raven-throated cry of—
“Here she is! Here she is, father! Here they are
both!”
On springing forward to face the intruders, I saw Tobit
and Zephaniah directly before me, with Lowiny standing at
no great distance behind them. The first looked ferocious.
the second jealous and angry, the third abashed and mortified.
In another minute we were surrounded by Thousandacres,
and all the males of his brood.
| CHAPTER VIII. The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts | |