University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER SIXTH.
Wayaniko.

In the darkness of the summer house, Rose awaited the coming
of the Astrologer, who was to disclose her brother's fate.

The windows of the solitary room were closed, not the ray of
a star, or the gleam of a taper, found entrance there. From the
moment that she passed the threshold, closing the only door as
she entered, the darkness of the place had not been broken by a
ray, nor its death-like silence disturbed by a sound.

Yet the carpet which her footstep pressed was soft and luxurious;
the wall which her fingers touched, was shrouded in hangings
of satin; the chair in which she sank was cushioned in
softest velvet, that yielded like a pillow to her form.

Attired in that hunter's garb, she laid her head on one shoulder,
and resigned herself to her thoughts.

The strange story of Lady Marion, how in all its hues of sunshine
and cloud, in all its thrilling words of blood and tears, it
rose once more upon her soul!

“Within these wild solitudes, dwells an old man, who has
made the future his study for seventy years, and wrung supernatural
truth, even from the grasp of death. Go to the pavilion,
he will meet you there! Your lost brother shall be revealed to
you; you shall behold him, even as he is, whether in health or
sickness, poverty or wealth!”

How could she doubt words so kind, spoken with beaming
eyes and soft hands gently pressed with her own? Perchance,
in that moment, Lady Marion spoke but the sincere feèling of her
heart; perchance it was but a dear surprise that she intended;
perchance from the very shadow of that pavilion the brother
would start, and gather the sister to his breast, perchance—

But those words spoken to Gerald Moynton in her bower?

Rose was thinking of her lost brother, when she fell asleep.
Such a beautiful dream! A winding path, leading from a summer
valley, green with trees and beautiful with flowers along the
ascent of a hill among the trunks of centuried oaks. A garden

so wild and deserted, its scanty flowers choked by weeds.
Then, through the tangled paths, she beheld a blackened wall,
with the blue sky gleaming through its desolate windows. Fearfully
across that threshold she passed—O, what sight of horror
was here! The half bared form of a beautiful woman lay extended
on the hearth, her bosom rent by a hideous gash, and a
little babe stretched out its tiny hands, and played with the long
dark hair, dabbled in its mother's blood.

As though a hand was at her throat, pressing the breath from
her bosom with its iron clutch, Rose struggled, and after a moment
like the agony of death, awoke. As she glanced around
the park pavilion, a voice unnaturally deep and hollow thrilled
on her soul.

“Maiden! would'st thou behold thy brother's form.”

Was it but a continuation of her dream? Scarce knowing
what she said, Rose gasped, “I would!”

From the darkness of that chamber, as from the vault of a
midnight sky, a faint light struggled into birth, and played upon
the maiden's face. Her form is dark, but do you see that face
bathed in a pale crimson glow, the eyes dilating, the lips slowly
parting, the hair waving back from the white brow! It stands
out from the gloom, like a cherub face, painted among misty
clouds.

“The brother comes!” said that voice, whose source was
invisible.

Rose bent forward with hushed breath, and beheld a mirror
glimmering in that pale crimson light. A mirror that now was
lost in clouds of light golden mist, and now seemed like a midnight
sky, gleaming with a single star. From its centre shone
that light, the solitary star!

“Ah! I hear his step—he comes through the wood—his foot
is on the threshold—he is here!”

As Rose gasped these words, her whole frame quivering with
an emotion almost supernatural, a sudden light flashed from the
darkness, bathed her face in darkness, and revealed the form of
a young man, who, with his arms folded, stood gazing upon her
with a sneering lip, and dull, leaden eyes.

Gerald Moynton and his victim!

“Sister, I have come!” he said, and extended his arms. At
the same moment a mass of perfumed vapor, rolling in soft
clouds, fills the pavilion, and penetrates the veins of the unprotected
girl. She felt all power over her limbs or motions gliding
from her, while her mind shone out in renewed vigor. A
lulling sensation pervaded every nerve, a dreamy languor, the
result of the pungent vapor, which filled the place, possessed
her form; she had not power to move a hand or foot, while her
very soul shrank within her at the sight of this man, with the
pale face and leaden eyes.

“You! my brother! N-o-o-o! she faintly gasped.

Her form, thrown helplessly on the chair, one limb crossed over

the other, her arms resting by her side, as though deprived of
all the power of motion; her head laid on the right shoulder;
the features perfectly calm and statue-like, while the cheek
glows with a faint flush, and her eyes emit a soft fire, diffused
like luminous moisture over their surface, between the half
closed lids.

She was very beautiful, the helpless Rose of Wissahikon!

But Gerald Moynton had no pity.

His jaded countenance faintly glowed, his lip was compressed,
but his cold, stony eyes—from which the lowest vice had
stolen forever the fire of youth—emitted no flashing light.

“I am your brother!” he said, and took her hand. She quivered
faintly, made a motion like one oppressed by a nightmare,
and moved her lips, but could not utter a sound. O, she shrank
from his polluted touch with all her soul, but the misty vapor
which filled the room, rendered her helpless as though she had
been chained with cords of iron.

“You see, my pretty one, and I am your brother, and I love
you!”

Bending languidly forward, he kissed her with his colorless
lips;—yes, pressed those lips which resembled a rose-bud torn
in twain—and at the same moment fell like a weight to the
floor. Fell, stunned by a sudden blow; fell, trampled by a firm
foot!

There, before the motionless maiden, towered a tall form,
clad in a many colored blanket, whose rich dyes swept from his
broad shoulders to the ground, while his bronzed forehead was
surmounted by a solitary plume. He stood there, like a king
upon his throne; the tiger's skin, which enveloped his form beneath
the blanket, relieved by the gleam of a hunting knife. In
one arm a rifle; his limbs cased in leggings of buckskin; moccassins
upon his feet, he stood before her, his neck rising proudly
from his broad shoulders, while his dark red face, with its
aquiline nose, firm mouth and prominent chin, was strangely
relieved by clear blue eyes.

An Indian of the forest, with clear blue eyes!

“Sister, I have come at last!” he said, that stern red man, and
stretched forth his arms.

“Brother!” she cried, and felt herself drawn toward his
breast.

“We parted many years ago”—said that voice, speaking
clearly with a strong Indian accent—“Beside the body of the
dead woman, our mother. Many suns, many moons, have
gone since then. Sixteen times since that hour, there have
been flowers and snows. We meet again! You the Rose of
the Valley, the flower of Wissahikon! I, the White Indian
Wayaniko!”

Rose heard the voice, and felt her senses glide from her like
the dew from the flower before the morning sun.

When she again unclosed her eyes, an old man bent over

her—she felt his tears upon her face, his grey hairs touch her
cheek; she heard him whisper “Daughter!”

By her side, that tall Indian form gazing upon her, with those
clear blue eyes, shining from his dark red face.

Rose, still wrapt in a kind of half consciousness, hears them
converse together; hears with blood now burning like lava,
now freezing like death, the dark story, in which the names of
Walter, Arthur, Reginald are mingled with the name of Lady
Marion. She beholds the credentials in her father's hand; even
now her lover goes to do a work of treason, perchance murder.

It is a strange, a stormy history!

All she knows, all she feels, is that her lover is in danger.

Darting from the chair, she seizes those credentials, dashes
through the door, and clad as she is, in her hunter's garb, hurries
toward the lane where the carriage waits for her.

The father, the son, stand gazing in each other's face, as
though stricken dumb, by this sudden energy of the brave girl.

On, brave Rose, on! The glen is past, then the cliff is won,
and last of all, the wood of pines is threaded by your frenzied
steps.

In the shadiest nook of the sequestered lane, the faithful negro
in his gay livery, sitting on the box of the carriage, beholds a
slender form dart from the bushes, and in a moment glide within
the carriage door.

Away, mettled steeds, away! Through the shadows of the
night, you see the carriage ascend the steep of yonder distant
hill.

“Ask me not now, father, the cause of my sudden appearance!—the
explanation of these mysteries. Be it enough to
say, I know all! I must away to the city to save my sister—
save your brother, who now goes to do violence to the chief
of your nation's council—and save this Reginald, who wears
my sister's peace within his breast!”

And as the noble Indian form left the pavilion, Martin Landsdowne
sank on his knees, and thanked God for the recovery of
these children, whom he had never seen, since that moment
when they were torn by rude hands from the bosom of the dead
mother.

Tossed by contending passions, her brow disfigured by a
frown, her eyes glaring in her livid face, Lady Marion gazed on
her discomfitted brother, paced hurriedly along her chamber,
and with that muttering of low-toned words, scattered her dark
hair by the roots.

“Foiled, and now! Now, when the triumph was ours! Ah,
it is too much! Rise, Sir—do not crouch pale and thunder-stricken
there, but saddle my horse, and get me some arms.
The night is but half spent!”