29. XXIX.
THE THREADS OF THE WOOF.
HOURS, days and weeks have fled away since the
scenes and events which we have endeavored to
place before the reader's eyes. The year wanes
fast. The brilliant sunlight of October has
yielded to the hazy influences of November. The sky is no
longer blue: the trees are dismantled of their splendid
trappings. Under the chill heaven of a leaden color, the
broad face of nature resembles some great hall, from which
the gorgeous hangings have been torn, the trophies of banners
removed—in which the lights are slowly going out, as
after a great revel, when the guests have all departed.
The plover cries and the partridge whistles on the windswept
hills—the wild geese wing their way toward the
south—the crane stalks with a sombre and weird air among
the shallows of the water-courses, dreaming, you would say,
of other lands—and from the northwest wander cutting
blasts, preluding the approach of winter.
But the human hearts beneath the chilly sky beat as before.
The personages of our drama follow still, the bent of
their diverse passions, humors, and desires. The hot blood
in their veins pulsates, and hastens to and fro, as strongly.
Lord Fairfax and Captain Wagner hold interminable discussions
on the state of the border, and the best means of
defence, now that the Indian inroad may be soon expected.
The worthy soldier is content to pass his time thus—alternately
debating with his lordship, and pursuing his own
special campaign against the enemy at Van Doring's Ordinary:
he sleeps, and eats, and drinks, and philosophizes, not
without many camp expletives, uttered in a jovial and sonorous
voice, the sound of which seems encouraging to the
Earl, for he greets these outbreaks on the part of the Captain,
with his uniform grim smile.
Meanwhile George is occupied by his own affairs also.
He surveys the surrounding lands assiduously for the Earl;
sleeps often in the woods, his head resting on his knapsack;
and it happens that the direction of his toils is often toward
the south.
There the great Fort Mountain raises its double wall, blue
against the dun heaven, and within the embraces of the
shaggy arms—perched like an eagle's nest in the declivity
of the mountain—he sees the cottage in which Cannie lives.
He loves the little maiden now with the fondest devotion.
She has become all the world to him, and dwells in his
thoughts wherever his footsteps turn—in the prairie, and
the forest, by night and by day; it is always Cannie of whom
the youth is dreaming; around her he weaves that tissue of
romance and fancy which the bounding heart of youth
adorns with such resplendent gems. George goes often to
the mountain dwelling, and there all the outer world disappears.
He is alone in the great universe with one whose
grave, sweet smile lights up his life—whose frank, open
brow is the mirror of truth and goodness—in whose eyes he
finds the charm which only exists for the youthful lover.
And Cannie now no longer looks upon him as a stranger.
He has become day by day, more an influence upon her life
—her innocent heart beats fast when his tall and erect figure
enters the doorway—when his sunny smile, lighting up
the firm lips, and frank, true face, beams on her. She does
not disguise her affection now, for she knows it is returned
—but her fondness for her youthful companion never betrays
itself in a manner repugnant to the most delicate
maiden modesty. It is Cannie's nature to be honest and
true—but she is ripening into a “young lady” now; and so
George can only guess from the serious smile, and kindly
eyes, her secret.
Their lives glide on thus, and no incident breaks the spell
which is woven day by day more closely around the young
hearts of the maiden and the youth. The old grandfather
alone with his books, his chemical machines, or with whatever
occupies his attention; they are by themselves in the world
of reverie and fancy. It is true, that from time to time, as
they wander like happy children along the mountain side,
or to the lofty brow of the sleeping giant, that a shadowy
figure follows and marks the way they take—but this figure
is unseen by them. It is the young Indian whom the reader
has once looked upon, on that beautiful day of October—
hidden among the leafy branches of the great oak, and descending
to follow, then, as now, the footsteps of the pair.
He still preserves his air of grave and lofty dignity—his eyes
have the same expression of mild truth and honesty—his
lips move as before, and utter the sad murmur which seems
to indicate a possessing thought. His eyes never wander
from the form of Cannie when she is in the circle of his vision—he
seldom betrays any other emotion than a jealous,
watchful guardianship over her; if his features contract
slightly, and his broad bosom heaves, when she bestows
upon her companion some little mark of her affection, this
exhibition of feeling is soon suppressed; the old gravity returns;
and the young chief glides into the deep woods, and
disappears, as lightly and silently as a shadow.
And Falconbridge—what of him? Has the darkness
which enveloped all his life upon that awful evening, when
he read the letter of the suicide, been dissipated?
Wholly.
A few days afterwards he encountered Captain Wagner at
the Ordinary; the soldier, who had been informed by Mrs.
Butterton of the step which she had taken, almost feared to
meet the young man, or witness his agony. He expected to
find Falconbridge bowed to the earth with anguish—to hear
only groans and stifled sighs—to see, in the pale cheek, the
lack-lustre eye, the drooping form, those evidences of suffering
which betray the victim of despair. Instead of
such a figure, he saw Falconbridge happy, smiling, buoyant.
His head rose proudly erect; his eyes shone with a joyous
light; his lips were wreathed with smiles; he was the picture
of one across whose brow a cloud has never passed. The
worthy Captain started, and looked with unfeigned astonishment
upon his companion. The quick eye of Falconbridge
discerned at once the meaning of this expression. He
laughed gaily, and then said, with earnest simplicity:
“I know why you start so, comrade—why you are astounded
at seeing me thus happy-looking. That well-meaning
lady, your friend, has doubtless told you of her warning
to me. It was honest and kind in her—but it made me
very miserable.”
“And then,” said Captain Wagner gloomily, “what happened
afterwards?”
“What happened? Why what could happen, comrade?
I went to the person charged with this awful duplicity and
heartlessness. I asked her to say what was the real truth—
and I heard it. She raged at the accusation; vainly attempted
to extort from me the author—and then giving way
to her feelings, burst into tears, and told me all, explained
everything.”
“Oh! she explained everything, did she?” said Captain
Wagner, with gloomy irony; “no doubt she made all quite
clear.”
“Oh, perfectly! How could your friend have seriously
thought that paper written by the poor unfortunate youth
who killed himself, an actual narrative of facts?”
“It was all a romance then?” said the Captain, with the
same sardonic contortion of his lip, “it was only a little imaginary
story which he amused himself in writing, to wile
away the time before he blew his brains out!'
“Captain, Captain!” said Falconbridge earnestly, “your
voice has a terrible sneer in it; your curling lip betrays scorn
and incredulity!”
“Well, it betrays what I feel,” returned the soldier, looking
at the young man with wistful and gloomy eyes; “it
talks plainly, does this curling lip you speak of, or I'm a
dandy! But I'll uneurl it; I'll sneer no more; I'll not
wound you Falconbridge—and have only to say that 'twas
truly unfortunate that this mad youth made up such a horrible
story.”
“Mad!” said Falconbridge, with a quick glance at his
companion, “then you heard of his madness!”
“No,” said Captain Wagner, “but I have no doubt that is
the fair young lady's explanation.”
“Yes, assuredly! who could have doubted it? The truth
is that the unhappy lover's tale was only the sick fancy of a
diseased mind. He did pay his addresses to Miss Argal—he
did love her passionately—but she told him frankly a hundred
times that she could not respond to his affection. She
tried to do this as kindly and tenderly as possible, but her
reply only enraged him. There was a tendency to madness
in his family, and this made her peculiarly anxious to soothe
him. He would not be soothed however; in their last interview
he yielded to a crazy fit of wrath—he rushed
furiously away with his hand upon his forehead, and
three days afterwards Miss Argal heard with inexpressible
astonishment and horror that he had put an end to his life.
The statements of the paper were the mere fabrications of
his rage and madness—the creations of a diseased intellect,
aiming at revenge. That is all. Is not the explanation perfect?”
“Yes,” said Captain Wagner, as calm and cold as ice,
“perfect. I have rarely heard anything so simple. And
what did you do with the dead man's letter?”
“I begged it of Mrs. Butterton, she yielded—it is ashes.”
Captain Wagner moved his head up and down with the
same icy expression; set his teeth firmly together; and,
after a moment's silence, said in a low voice:
“Falconbridge, are you a fatalist?”
“A fatalist?” said the young man, looking curiously at
his companion, “surely not, comrade. God rules us and
directs our lives—all issues rest in his merciful hands, and
we are told that not even a sparrow falls without the knowlege
of the kind Father of the Universe. I trust in all to
him—as I pray to him night and morning as my mother
taught me at her knee. No, I am not a fatalist.”
“Well, from this moment I am,” said the soldier, with a
sombre glance; “I don't deny your religious views—but I
am none the less, from this day, a fatalist!”
With these words the Captain entered the Ordinary, and
Falconbridge, with a serious expression, mounted his horse
to go to Mr. Argal's.
This was the state of things, in connection with the main
personages of our narrative, at the moment when we again
take up the thread of events. From this time forth, each day
and hour, everything ripened and advanced toward the
catastrophe of the drama.
