University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

The afternoon of that day was one of those clear,
sweet, balmy afternoons, such as make of the spring
season in the south, a holyday term of nature. All
was life, animated life and freshness. The month of
April, in that region, is, indeed,

The day had been gratefully warm; and, promising
an early summer, there was a prolific show of foliage
throughout the forest. The twittering of a thousand

various birds, and the occasional warble of that Puck
of the American forests, the mocker—the Coonee-latee,
or Trick-tongue of the Yemassees—together
with the gleesome murmur of zephyr and brook, gave
to the scene an aspect of wooing and seductive
repose, that could not fail to win the sense into a
most happy unconsciousness. The old oaken grove
which Bess Matthews, in compliance with the prayer
of her lover, now approached, was delightfully conceived
for such an occasion. All things within it
seemed to breathe of love. The murmur of the
brooklet, the song of the bird, the hum of the zephyr
in the tree-top, had each a corresponding burden. The
Providence surely has its purpose in associating only
with the woods those gentle and beautiful influences
which are without use or object to the obtuse sense,
and can only be felt and valued by a spirit of corresponding
gentleness and beauty. The scene itself, to
the eye, was of like character. The rich green of the
leaves—the deep crimson of the wild flower—the
gemmed and floral-knotted long grass that carpeted the
path—the deep, solemn shadows of evening, and the
trees through which the now declining sun was enabled
only here and there to sprinkle a few drops from his
golden censer—all gave power to that spell of quiet,
which, by divesting the mind of its associations of every-day
and busy life, throws it back upon its early and
unsophisticated nature—restoring that time in the elder
and better condition of humanity, when, unchanged by
conventional influences, the whole business of life
seems to have been the worship of high spirits, and
the exercise of living, holy, and generous affections.

The scene and time had a strong influence over the
maiden, as she slowly took her way to the place of
meeting. Bess Matthews, indeed, was singularly
susceptible of such influences. She was a girl of
heart, a wild heart—a thing of the forest,—gentle as
its innocentest flowers, quite as lovely, and if, unlike
them, the creature of a less fleeting life, one, at least,
whose youth and freshness might almost persuade us

to regard her as never having been in existence for a
longer season. She was also a girl of thought and
intellect—something too, of a dreamer:—one to whom
a song brought a sentiment—the sentiment an emotion,
and that in turn seeking an altar which called for all
the worship of her spirit. She had in her own heart
a far sweeter song than that which she occasionally
murmured from her lips. She felt all the poetry, all
the truth of the scene—its passion, its inspiration,
and, with a holy sympathy for all of nature's beautiful,
the associated feeling of admiration for all that was
noble, awakened in her mind a sentiment, and in her
heart an emotion, that led her, not less to the most careful
forbearance to tread upon the humblest flower, than
to a feeling little short of reverence in the contemplation
of the gigantic tree. It was her faith with one
of the greatest of modern poets, that the daisy enjoyed
its existence; and that, too, in a degree of exquisite
perception, duly according with its loveliness
of look and delicacy of structure. This innate principle
of regard for the beautiful forest idiots, as we may
call its leaves and flowers, was duly heightened, we
may add, by the soft passion of love then prevailing
in her bosom for Gabriel Harrison. She loved him
as she found in him the strength of the tree well
combined with the softness of the flower. Her heart
and fancy at once united in the recognition of his claims
upon her affections; and, however unknown in other
respects, she loved him deeply and devotedly for
what she knew. Beyond what she saw—beyond
the knowledge gathered from his uttered sentiments,
and the free grace of his manner—his manliness, and,
at the same time, his forbearance,—he was scarcely
less a mystery to her than to her father, to whom mystery
had far less of recommendation. But the secret,
so he had assured her, would be soon explained; and
she was satisfied to believe in the assurance. She certainly
longed for the time to come; and we shall be
doing no discredit to her sense of maidenly delicacy
when we say, that she longed for the development not
so much because she desired the satisfaction of her
curiosity, as because the objections of her sire, so
Harrison had assured her, would then certainly be removed,
and their union would immediately follow.

“He is not come,” she murmured, half disappointed,
as the old grove of oaks with all its religious solemnity
of shadow lay before her. She took her seat at the
foot of a tree, the growth of a century, whose thick
and knotted roots, started from their sheltering earth,
shot even above the long grass around them, and
ran in irregular sweeps for a considerable distance
upon the surface. Here she sat not long, for her
mind grew impatient and confused with the various
thoughts crowding upon it—sweet thoughts it may be,
for she thought of him—almost of him, only, whom
she loved, and of the long hours of happy enjoyment
which the future had in store. Then came the fears,
following fast upon the hopes, as the shadows follow
the sunlight. The doubts of existence—the brevity
and the fluctuations of life; these are the contemplations
even of happy love, and these beset and saddened
her; till, starting up in that dreamy confusion which
the scene not less than the subject of her musings had
inspired, she glided among the old trees, scarce conscious
of her movement.

“He does not come—he does not come,” she murmured,
as she stood contemplating the thick copse
spreading before her, and forming the barrier which
terminated the beautiful range of oaks which constituted
the grove. How beautiful was the green and garniture
of that little copse of wood. The leaves were
thick, and the grass around lay folded over and over in
bunches, with here and there a wild flower, gleaming
from its green and making of it a beautiful carpet of
the richest and most various texture. A small tree
rose from the centre of a clump around which a wild
grape gadded luxuriantly; and, with an incoherent
sense of what she saw, she lingered before the little
cluster, seeming to survey that which she had no
thought for at the moment. Things grew indistinct to

her wandering eye—the thought was turned inward
—and the musing spirit denying the governing sense
to the external agents and conductors, they failed duly
to appreciate the forms that rose, and floated, and glided
before them. In this way, the leaf detached made no
impression upon the sight that was yet bent upon it;
she saw not the bird, though it whirled, untroubled by a
fear, in wanton circles around her head—and the
black-snake, with the rapidity of an arrow, darted over
her path without arousing a single terror in the form
that otherwise would have shivered but at its appearance.
And yet, though thus indistinct were all things
around her to the musing mind of the maiden, her eye
was singularly impressed with one object, peering out
at intervals from the little bush beneath it. She saw
or thought she saw, at moments, through the bright
green of the leaves, a star-like glance, a small bright
ray, subtile, sharp, beautiful—an eye of the leaf itself,
darting the most searching looks into her own. Now
the leaves shook and the vines waved elastically and
in beautiful forms before her, but the star-like eye was
there, bright and gorgeous, and still glancing up to her
own. How beautiful—how strange, did it appear to
the maiden. She watched it still with a dreaming
sense, but with a spirit strangely attracted by its beauty
—with a feeling in which awe and admiration were
equally commingled. She could have bent forward to
pluck the gem-like thing from the bosom of the leaf in
which it seemed to grow, and from which it gleamed
so brilliantly; but once, as she approached, she heard
a shrill scream from the tree above her—such a scream
as the mock-bird makes, when, angrily, it raises its
dusky crest, and flaps its wings furiously against its
slender sides. Such a scream seemed like a warning,
and though yet unawakened to full consciousness, it
repelled her approach. More than once, in her survey
of this strange object, had she heard that shrill note,
and still had it carried to her ear the same note of
warning, and to her mind the same vague consciousness
of an evil presence. But the star-like eye was yet
upon her own—a small, bright eye, quick like that of a
bird, now steady in its place and observant seemingly
only of hers, now darting forward with all the clustering
leaves about it, and shooting up towards her, as if
wooing her to seize. At another moment, riveted
to the vine which lay around it, it would whirl round
and round, dazzlingly bright and beautiful, even as a
torch, waving hurriedly by night in the hands of some
playful boy;—but, in all this time, the glance was never
taken from her own—there it grew, fixed—a very principle
of light,—and such a light—a subtile, burning,
piercing, fascinating light, such as gathers in vapour
above the old grave, and binds us as we look—shooting,
darting directly into her own, dazzling her gaze, defeating
its sense of discrimination, and confusing strangely
that of perception. She felt dizzy, for, as she looked,
a cloud of colours, bright, gay, various colours, floated
and hung like so much drapery around the single
object that had so secured her attention and spellbound
her feet. Her limbs felt momently more and
more insecure—her blood grew cold, and she seemed
to feel the gradual freeze of vein by vein, throughout
her person. At that moment a rustling was heard in
the branches of the tree beside her, and the bird, which
had repeatedly uttered a single cry, as it were of
warning, above her, flew away from his station with a
scream more piercing than ever. This movement had
the effect, for which it really seemed intended, of bringing
back to her a portion of the consciousness she
seemed so totally to have been deprived of before. She
strove to move from before the beautiful but terrible
presence, but for a while she strove in vain. The
rich, star-like glance still riveted her own, and the
subtle fascination kept her bound. The mental energies,
however, with the moment of their greatest trial,
now gathered suddenly to her aid; and, with a desperate
effort, but with a feeling still of most annoying uncertainty
and dread, she succeeded partially in the attempt,
and leaned backward against the neighbouring tree,
feeble, tottering, and depending upon it for that support
which her own limbs almost entirely denied her. With
her movement, however, came the full development
of the powerful spell and dreadful mystery before her.
As her feet receded, though but a single pace, to the
tree against which she now rested, the audibly articulated
ring, like that of a watch when wound up
with the verge broken, announced the nature of that
splendid yet dangerous presence, in the form of the
monstrous rattlesnake, now, but a few feet before her,
lying coiled at the bottom of a beautiful shrub, with
which, to her dreaming eye, many of its own glorious
hues had been associated. She was conscious enough
to discriminate and to perceive, but terror had denied
her the strength necessary to fly from her dreadful
enemy. There still the eye glared beautifully bright
and piercing upon her own; and, seemingly in a
spirit of sport, he slowly unwound himself from his
coil, then immediately, the next moment, again gathered
himself into its muscular masses—the rattle still
slightly ringing at intervals, and giving forth that paralyzing
sound, which, once heard, is remembered for
ever. The reptile all this while appeared to be conscious
of, and to sport with, while seeking to excite
her terrors. Now, with its flat head, distended mouth,
and curving neck, would it dart forward its long
form towards her,—its fatal teeth, unfolding on either
side of its jaws, seeming to threaten her with instantaneous
death, while its powerful eye shot forth
glances of that fatal power of fascination, malignantly
bright, which, by paralyzing with a novel form of
terror and of beauty, may readily account for the
spell it possesses of binding the feet of the timid, and
denying to fear even the privilege of flight. Then,
the next moment, recovering quickly, it would resume
its folds, and with arching neck, which now glittered
like a bar of brazed copper, and fixed eye, continue,
calmly as it were, to contemplate the victim of its
secreted venom—the pendulous rattle still ringing the
death-note as if to prepare the conscious mind for the
fate which is at hand. Its various folds were now
complete—the coil forming a series of knots—the
muscles, now and then, rising rigidly into a hill, now
corded down by the pressure of another of its folds
into a valley. Thesesuddenly unclasping, in the general
effort to strike its enemy, give it that degree of impetus
which enables it to make its stroke as fatal,
at the full extent of its own length, as when, suddenly
invaded, its head is simply elevated and the blow given.

The glance of Bess Matthews at this moment upon
her enemy, assured her that the sport of the deadly
reptile was about to cease. She could not now mistake
the fearful expression of its eye. She strove to
scream, but her voice died away in her throat. Her
lips were sealed—she sought to fly, but her limbs were
palsied—she had nothing left of life but its consciousness;
and in despair of escape, with a single scream,
forced from her by the accumulated agony, she sunk
down upon the grass before her enemy—her eyes,
however, still open, and still looking upon those
which he directed for ever upon them. She saw him
approach—now advancing, now receding—now swelling
in every part with something of anger, while his
neck was arched beautifully like that of a wild horse
underthe curb; until, at length, tired as it were of play,
like the cat with its victim, she saw the neck growing
larger and becoming completely bronzed when about
to strike—the huge jaws unclosing almost directly
above her, the long tubulated fang, charged with venom,
protruding from the cavernous mouth—and she saw no
more! Insensibility came to her aid, and she lay
almost lifeless under the very folds of the monster. In
that moment the copse parted—and an arrow, piercing
him through and through the neck, bore his head forward
to the ground, alongside of the maiden, while his
spiral extremities, now unfolding in his own agony,
were actually, in part, resting upon her person. The
arrow came from the fugitive Occonestoga, who had
fortunately reached the spot, in season, on his way to
the Block House. He rushed from the copse, as the
snake fell, and, with a stick, fearlessly approached him

where he lay writhing upon the grass. Seeing him
advance, the courageous reptile made an effort to
regain his coil, while shaking the fearful rattle violently
at every evolution which he took for that purpose;
but the arrow, completely passing through his
neck, opposed an unyielding obstacle to the endeavour;
and finding it hopeless, and seeing the new enemy
about to assault him, with something of the spirit of
the white man under like circumstances, he turned
recklessly round, and striking his charged fangs, so
that they were riveted in the wound they made, into
a susceptible part of his own body, he threw himself
over upon his back with a single convulsion, and,
a moment after, lay dead upon the person of the
maiden.[1]