43. XLIII.
HOW AN ANIMAL CHANGED THE DESTINIES OF THREE HUMAN BEINGS.
THE day was spent happily by all. That confidence
which soon springs up between persons of
sincere and truthful natures, made the hours
glide away without constraint or ceremony.
The Indian and Falconbridge were not regarded in the
light of strangers by the old man or his daughter; and as
to George, we already know that he was on a footing of the
most perfect familiarity and friendship. As they sat on
the little porch, and looked forth on the beautiful scene of
the forest and mountain, dancing streamlet and moss-clad
rocks, a cheerful and inspiring influence seemed to fill every
bosom, and Falconbridge was no exception. The shadows
which had lain upon his brow slowly passed away. His equanimity
returned. From the little mountain cottage, nestling
in a gash of the great lofty range, he looked down as it
were upon the events of the morning, there in the Lowland,
and regarded them in a different and more hopeful light.
Had he not suffered himself to be carried away by a mere
rush of jealous and irrational suspicion—by a fit of angry
disappointment at not meeting the young lady? What reason
was there to find fault with her for accompanying her
father on a ride across the prairie, when he doubtless had
some business matters to transact with Lord Fairfax?
Could he blame her—was there any, the least, ground for
complaint or dissatisfaction? Indeed, ought he not to feel
some shame at having charged her with unworthy motives
even in his imagination?
When his reflections brought him to this point, the whole
matter was ended. A noble nature always suffers deeply
from the consciousness that it has committed an injustice;
with such the recoil is always powerful; the longing to
make amendsis irresistible. Falconbridge determined to be,
in future, more kind and unsuspicious than he had ever been
before!—and thus having banished his absorbing thought,
he became cheerful and even joyous again.
Every object around him increased this sentiment. The
fresh bracing air caressed his cheeks and forehead, and filled
his pulses with buoyant life. He inhaled it with delight, and
felt the last traces of his gloomy thought disappear. His companions
were not unsuited to the scenes, nor to his change of
mood—Cannie looked up into his face with her bright smile,
her tender eyes, and air of confiding affection. She had not
forgotten how he came to the side of her grandfather on the
day of the trial, and greeted him in his sincere voice, full of
sympathy and kindness—how he had held his hand out
to herself, and said she was a little countess, and a good
daughter. She had recalled his tones and looks and words,
on her return, with strange pleasure; and now met him as
a friend whom she had known and loved. And Falconbridge
derived no less pleasure from the countenance of Cannie.
He thought many times during the day that there was something
in the clear eyes and innocent lips strangely familiar
—he seemed to have met with the girl far away in some
other land, of which he retained only a shadowy recollection.
Unable to define or explain this emotion, he at last
yielded himself up to the charm, and was happy at her
side.
If he turned from Cannie or the old man, or George, who
was a favorite with him, it was to gaze with much interest
on the graceful young Indian. Lightfoot evidently excited
his curiosity and admiration. There was something simple
and majestic about the Indian—the evidence of the possession
of those traits which Falconbridge had been taught to
love and reverence all his life; true native dignity, simplicity
and goodness. A close observer would have said, indeed,
that these two youths of different race and training had
come of the same blood. Both bore themselves with an
unconscious pride,—both had the native truth and honesty
of the forest, in eye and lip and tone of voice.
“You are from the Lowland, I believe, sir?” said the old
man in his calm, collected voice, “the Tide-water region?”
“Yes, sir,” returned Falconbridge; “from the banks of
Chesapeake—and I seem to have met with you, or some one
nearly resembling you, somewhere”——
And the young man seemed to reflect.
“Yes,” he added suddenly, “it was in Williamsburg one
day! You were conversing with his Excellency the Governor,
on Gloucester Street—were you not, sir?”
The old man smiled, but replied guardedly.
“I have visited Williamsburg, sir, and I am acquainted
with his Excellency.”
“I was sure of it, Mr. Powell—I was there at College, and
was walking out that evening with a friend, when I saw you.
Did you live near the town?”
“No, sir,” returned the other, “higher up the country.
You see I have come up still further into the mountains, and
perhaps I shall spend all my days here. There is something
strangely noble to my eye in these bristling ranges, and I
should like to sleep my last sleep on the summit of one of
those peaks.”
“And I, too,” said Falconbridge musing: “true, it is a
matter of small importance where the poor body rests when
the spirit has left it—in the depths of the ocean, in the desert,
in the air as the Indian race prefer—in the lowland or the
mountains. But something of the old preferences govern
us even in this. For my part I would like my grave to be
on the summit of this very mountain—on the forehead itself
of the sleeping giant, if I may call it such—yonder,
where that great eagle is swooping toward the immense pine
against the sky, full in the sinking sun. And that reminds
me, George,” added the speaker, turning to his companion,
“that we should set out for home unless we wish to be
benighted. I have had a happy day, sir, and thank you all
for it.”
With these words Falconbridge rose.
“I have something to give you for Lord Fairfax, sir,” said
the old man, “as you no doubt will see him. I will procure
it, and request you to take charge of it.”
He retired as he spoke, and soon returned with a small
package, secured with a heavy wax seal, which he handed to
Falconbridge. The young man thought it somewhat singular
that it had not been entrusted to George, who was going
straight to Greenway, but said nothing, and bade all farewell.
George, however, was not ready: a circumstance which
he explained by saying that he wished to discover if the
stories about carrier-pigeons were true—and especially if
Cannie's favorite one “would carry a message” from Greenway
to the mountain. He accordingly proceeded to coax
the pigeon to descend by scattering some crumbs, and gradually
approach it, as it tipped about, picking them up.
Cannie had meanwhile called Falconbridge's attention to her
prince's feathers, cardinal flowers, and primroses in a bed
near the fence, and the young man bent down and examined
them with a pleasure and interest which was rather on account
of their mistress than their own, but no less delighted
the smiling girl.
As he did so, he did not observe that in turning round he
had dropped from the breast pocket of his doublet the
package which the old man had entrusted to him.
George soon secured the pigeon, and imprisoning it carefully
in his bosom, announced his readiness to depart. With
many cordial pressures of the hand, and kind words, the
two young men then mounted their horses, and were rapidly
proceeding on the way to their respective abodes.
They parted at a point where they encountered the road
leading from Greenway to the Ordinary—George turning to
the right, Falconbridge to the left—with friendly smiles, and
a promise on George's part to come soon and see his friend,
at Mynheer Van Doring's.
Falconbridge rode on, busy with his own thoughts, and
had nearly reached the Ordinary, when suddenly he remembered
the package entrusted to him by the old man, which
he had intended to deliver to George for the hands of the
Earl. He put his hand into his doublet—it was gone!
Greatly annoyed at the circumstance, and wondering how
he had lost it, he thought at first of retracing his steps, but
gave up the intention, as the setting sun preluded night,
and he would not be able to find it.
Promising himself to search for it on the succeeding morning,
he continued his way.
The search on the next day proved useless.
Ten minutes after the departure of the young men from
the mountain cottage, and soon after Cannie and her grandfather
had entered the house, the bear Bruin descried the
glittering object, and either attracted by the color, or liking
the flavor of the wax, bore it off to a spot in the forest, and
amused himself in mouthing and tearing it. Unimportant
as it seemed, the circumstance had an influence almost
fatal upon the destinies of three persons.
