University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

It was sunset. To this hour we had lingered
by the little hillock, which had shut in from our
eyes forever, the thing that was so precious in
our sight. I had given myself up to the feeling
of desolation which took possession of me. I lay
beside the grave, my fingers penetrated the soft
mould, which was soon to become enriched by
hers. My brow lay upon the damp earth. A
sort of stupor seemed to overcome me. But the
voice of the old man aroused me to my duties.

“Henry, my son! It is time to depart. Farther
delay may endanger your safety. Come!
It needs not that we should remain above the
grave to mourn. The sorrow of the living attends
him and cannot be shut out. Happy, indeed,
are we,—did we but know it—that this is
the case. How soon would the feeling of our
griefs, did we not strive so recklessly to get rid
of them, bring us that perfect peace of the regenerated
soul, brought home to God, which we all
so much require. We must go, my son—you
will not forget!”

“Forget, my father,—no! She was too precious
for that. Never! Never!”

“Yet the memory of the perished dear one
should be a sweet, not a distressing memory. It

should strengthen our hearts, while it subdues
our passions. Suffering is meant for this. We
should grow strong in the prosecution of those
duties which are set for us as tasks—duties
whether of endurance or of performance,—the
reward of which, when done, is life eternal in
communion with the beloved ones! Fortunately
for me, my son, the duties before me are not of
long duration. I shall soon meet with my innocent
child. I shall see her first!”

We took our way to the boat in silence. There
we found a basket which Helen had brought with
her, and which I had not seen before. The provident
girl had filled it with cakes, which she had
prepared against our journey. We had not eaten
all the day,—for that matter, I had scarcely eaten
anything the day before. I had no appetite. I
could not partake of the cakes of Helen—nay,
the basket in my eyes gave me a painful feeling.
I thought of her thoughts, her hopes and feelings,
as she prepared these little necessaries!—how
sweet would have been our feast together, gliding
down, night and noon-day, along that lonely
river. Now! Oh! that now!—I pushed the
basket from my sight.

The old man knew the river well. We glided
by raft and snag and sawyer in perfect safety.
Night came on, and we were once more silent
voyagers by the dim light of the stars,—those
ever-twiring ministers of night, those numerous
herds of eyes, that spread themselves out or shrink

and cover themselves within her cloudy fold, at
the slightest symptoms of her anger. I leaned
back and watched them, and wept silently beneath
their glance. How much is the love of the
young heart associated with, and awakened by,
those uncertain periods of time, when twilight,
the moon or the stars, are in the ascendant. The
affections do not seem to flourish in the noon-day.
There is something in the intense passionateness
of the sun's glare, that seems to offend the delicacy
of youthful sentiment. But the fainter light,
the subdued beauties of evening and night, the
pale, insinuating charms of moon and stars,—win
their way to the young affections, without startling,
and link themselves to all their dearest emotions.
Looking up to those bright, pale watchers,
I could not well believe that I was alone. I
sometimes fancied that two of them, looking more
like eyes than stars, drew nigher to me; and, at
such moments, the breeze, which came from the
woods along the waters, seemed to whisper in the
very accents of a beloved one. I was young,—I
could still dream—but that poor old man—who
still plied his paddle, now right and now left, with
a vigor of stroke that was really wonderful—he
had long since ceased to dream!

I offered to relieve him of his labor, but he
would not. Indeed, as I knew nothing of the
river, and as our dug-out depended for its direction
upon the paddle, not upon the tiller—for it
had none—any attempt of mine would, in all

probability, during the night, have ended in mischief.
Thus we went—both silent—both absorbed
in thoughts, which, as we mutually understood
them, called for no utterance. Sometimes the
silence was broken by the bowl of the wolf, the
scream of the eagle, or the melancholy hooting
of the owl, from one or other of the shores between
which we stole, like some fairy vessel.
At other times we could catch a moaning sound
from the woods, like the far cry of one in distress,
which was yet only the effect of the wind, rushing
in currents through unlooked-for openings of
cane, by which, in some places, the banks were
lined—regions of the bear, presenting at times,
along the shore, a dense barrier, fully a mile in
depth. How melancholy sweet are thy numerous
voices, oh, solemn and mysterious night!

I slept! How long I know not, but I was
wakened by the boat striking against the shore.
I started and looked up. The old man was standing
on the land, upon which he had already drawn
one half of the canoe.

“Where are we, sir?” I asked. “What time
is it?”

“It is nearly daylight.”

“I have slept, then?”

“Yes,—very soundly! You needed it, my
son.”

“But you, sir?”

“Ah! I need very little,—old people need less
than young. The work of renovation is not so
necessary in them.”

“Do you know where we are, sir?”

“I think I do; but I may have erred in my
calculations, as I was anxious not to go too far.
We are, I think, about a mile above Baker's
Landing. There is a saw-mill somewhere about,
which we shall probably see by daylight. I wait
for that, to be certain. Here begin the settlements,
and here I propose to leave you.”

“How, sir, leave me? Will you not go with
me, and live with me—my father, mother, all,
will be glad to have you?”

“No! Henry, I return to the Swamp.”

“Return! Return to the Swamp?”

“Yes! I have nothing now to take me into
the world—much to keep me out of it—and
here!”

I strove vainly to shake his determination, and
finally ceased to attempt it. I could not but
think he was right. What had he to do in the
world—what was the world to him—or he to
it? His world was in the forest, there, with his
child. At that moment, I half believed that my
world was there also. Certainly, the more I
thought of leaving it forever, the more difficult it
became to subdue my emotions.

Day at length dawned upon us. The saw-mill
was in sight, and a cluster of cabins running
down to the very brink of the stream. The old
man pointed them out, and, taking from his breast
a purse of half-eagles, forced it into my hand. I
did not scruple at receiving it. I had no money.
What I had when I came into the Swamp, had

been taken from me, and never returned, when
the myrmidons of Bud Halsey took me into custody.

“With this, Henry, you can easily procure a
good horse at any of the settlements along the
river—most probably at this. There, God bless
you, my son—go—go, and be happy!”

We parted—good old man—but not without a
hope,—and not forever!