68. CHAPTER LXVIII.
THE END OF THE CHAIN.
We are conscious that the description of the great battle just
given is but a poor and lame delineation, and we can only plead
defective powers in that department of art—the treatment of
battle-pieces.
We cannot describe the appearance of the battle-field after the
combat, any more than the contest.
Wounded and crack-crowned, groaning and muttering heroes
dragging themselves away—this is the resumé which we find it
in our power alone to give.
One hero only seems to be seriously injured.
He is a man of forty-five or fifty, with a heavy black beard,
thick sensual lips, and dog-like face. He is clad roughly; and
the few words which he utters prove that he is a German.
The fight has taken place opposite Mr. Rushton's office, and
thither this man is borne.
Mr. Rushton growls, and demands how he had the audacity to
break the peace. The man mutters. Mr. Rushton observes
that he will have him placed in the stocks, and then sent to jail.
The German groans.
Suddenly Mr. Rushton feels a hand upon his arm. He turns
round: it is Redbud.
“That is the man who sold me the necklace, sir!” she says, in
a hesitating voice. “I recognize him—it is the pedlar.”
Mr. Rushton starts, and catches the pedlar by the arm.
“Come!” he commences.
The pedlar rises without assistance, sullenly, prepared for the
stocks.
“Where did you get this necklace? Speak!”
The lawyer's eyes awe the man, and he stammers. Mr.
Rushton grasps him by the collar, and glares at him ferociously.
“Where?”
In five minutes he has made the pedlar speak—he bought the
necklace from the mother of the young man standing at the
door.
“From the Indian woman?”
“Yes, from her.”
Mr. Rushton turns pale, and falls into a chair.
Verty hastens to him.
The lawyer rises, and gazes at him with pale lips, passes his
hand over his brow with nervous, trembling haste. He holds
the necklace up before Verty there, and says, in a husky voice—
“Where did your mother get this?”
Verty gazes at the necklace, and shakes his head.
“I don't know, sir—I don't know that it is her's—I think I
have seen it though—yes, yes, long, long ago—somewhere!”
And the young hunter's head droops, thoughtfully—his dreamy
eyes seem to wander over other years.
Then he raises his head and says, abruptly:
“I had a strange thought, sir! I thought I saw myself—
only I was a little child—playing with that necklace somewhere
in a garden—oh, how strange! There were walks with box, and
tulip beds, and in the middle, a fountain—strange! I thought
I saw Indians, too—and heard a noise—why, I am dreaming!”
The lawyer looks at Verty with wild eyes, which, slowly, very
slowly, fill with a strange light, which makes the surrounding
personages keep silent—so singular is this rapt expression.
A thought is rising on the troubled and agitated mind of the
lawyer, like a moon soaring above the horizon. He trembles,
and does not take his eyes for a moment from the young man's
face.
“A fountain—Indians?” he mutters, almost inarticulately.
“Yes, yes!” says Verty, with dreamy eyes, and crouching, so
to speak, Indian fashion, until his tangled chestnut curls half
cover his cheeks—“yes, yes!—there again!—why it is magic—
there! I see it all—I remeber it! I must have seen it!
Redbud!” he said, turning to the young girl with a frightened
air, “am I dreaming?”
Redbud would have spoken. Mr. Rushton, with a sign, bade
her be silent. He looked at the young man with the same strange
look, and said in a low tone:
“Must have seen what?”
“Why, this!” said Verty, half extending his arm, and pointing
toward a far imaginary horizon, on which his dreamy eyes
were fixed—“this! don't you see it? My tribe! my Delawares
—there in the woods! They attack the house, and carry off the
child in the garden playing with the necklace. His nurse is
killed—poor thing! her blood is on the fountain! Now they
go into the great woods with the child, and an Indian woman
takes him and will not let them kill him—he is so pretty with
his long curls like the sunshine: you might take him for a girl!
The Indian woman holds before him a bit of looking-glass, stolen
from the house! Look! they will have his life—oh!”
And crouching, with an exclamation of terror, Verty shuddered.
“Give me my rifle!” he cried; “they are coming there!
Back!”
And the young man rose erect, with flashing eyes.
“The woman flies in the night,” he continues, becoming calm
again; “they pursue her—she escapes with the boy—they come
to a deserted lodge—a lodge! a lodge! Why, it is our lodge in
the hills! It's ma mere! and I was that child! Am I mad?”
And Verty raised his head, and looked round him with terror.
His eye fell upon Mr. Rushton, who breathing heavily, his
looks riveted to his face, his lips trembling, seemed to control
some overwhelming emotion by a powerful effort.
The lawyer rose, and laid his hand upon Verty's shoulder—it
trembled.
“You are—dreaming—,” he gasped. Suddenly, a brilliant flash
darted from his eye. With a movement, as rapid as thought, he
tore the clothes from the young man's left shoulder, so as to
leave it bare to the armpit.
Exactly on the rounding of the shoulder, which was white,
and wholly free from the copper-tinge of the Indian blood, the
company descried a burn, apparently inflicted in infancy.
The dazzled eyes of the lawyer almost closed—he fell into the
old leather chair, and sobbing, “my son! my son Arthur!” would
have fainted.
He was revived promptly, and the wondering auditors gathered
around him, listening, while he spoke—the shaggy head, leaning
on the shoulder of Verty, who knelt at his feet, and looked
up in his eyes with joy and wonder.
Yes! there could be no earthly doubt that the strange words uttered
by the boy, were so many broken and yet brilliant memories
shining from the dim past: that this was his son—the original of
the portrait. The now harsh and sombre lawyer, when a young
and happy man, had married a French lady, and lived on the border;
and his little son had, after the French fashion, received, for
middle name, his mother's name, Anne—and this had become his
pet designation. His likeness had been painted by a wandering
artist, and soon after, a band of Delawares had attacked the
homestead and carried him away to the wilderness, and there had
remained little doubt, in his father's mind, that the child had
been treated as the Indians were accustomed to treat such captives—mercilessly
slain. The picture of him was the only treasure
left to the poor broken heart, when heaven had taken his
wife from him, soon afterwards—and in the gloom and misanthropy
these tortures inflicted upon him, this alone had been his
light and solace. Retaining for the boy his old pet name of
Anne, he had cried in presence of the picture, and been hardened
in spite of all, against Providence. In the blind convulsions of
his passionate regret, he had even uttered blasphemy, and scouted
anything like trust in God; and here now was that merciful God
leading his child back to him, and pardoning all his sin of unbelief,
and enmity, and hatred; and saying to him, in words of
marvellous sweetness and goodness, “Poor soured spirit, henceforth
worship and trust in me!”
Yes! his son Arthur, so long wept and mourned, had come
to him again—was there before him, kneeling at his feet!
And with his arms around the boy, the rugged man bent down
and wept, and uttered in his heart a prayer for pardon.
And we may be sure that the man's joy was not unshared by
those around—those kind, friendly eyes, which looked upon the
father and son, and rejoiced in their happiness. The very sunshine
grew more bright, it seemed; and when the picture was
brought forth, and set in his light, he shone full on it, and seemed
to laugh and bless the group with his kind light—even the little
laughing child.
