University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

It is not to be supposed that a lawsuit, or prosecution, in so
new and remote a settlement, especially one that involved so
many interests, and whose result must have so many and complicated
bearings, as the one described in the last chapter, would
be suffered to pass away like any ordinary occurrence and be
forgotten. With the settlers, besides the novelty of having a
court held among them, for any cause, it was an extraordinary
occurrence that there should be any grounds for a prosecution
or lawsuit of this character, — extraordinary that any one
should be found base enough to violate the common faith and
honesty which the trappers and hunters had, up to that time, so
implicitly reposed in, and observed with each other, — and
doubly extraordinary that the perpetrator could not be detected
and brought to punishment. To them, such a flagitious betrayal
of trust was a new and startling event. They felt it deeply
concerned them all; and the sensation it produced was accordingly
as profound as it was general, in all that region of the
country.

But, if such was the effect of the unfortunate occurrence in
question, on the community at large, how much more deeply
would the effect be naturally felt by the parties immediately
concerned? By the loss of their stock of furs, three families,
at least, were deprived of the means on which they had relied

for supplying them with a large part of the necessaries of life,
through the ensuing winter; while, besides this, many a wife
and child were doomed to sad disappointment, in being thus
deprived of the fondly-anticipated purchases of articles of dress,
books, and various other little comforts, which had been promised
them on the division and sale of the peltries. Nor were
these the only interests and feelings affected by the event and
its concomitants. Friendships were broken, and even more
tender relations were disturbed, if, indeed, their further existence
were not to be terminated. By the open, and as was
supposed irreconcilable, quarrel between Mark Elwood and the
terribly vindictive Gaut Gurley, their children, Claud and Avis,
who were understood to be under mutual engagement of marriage,
were placed in a position at once painful and embarrassing
in the extreme. And Claud, especially, although he had
carefully abstained from all accusations of Gaut, had taken no
part in getting up the prosecution, and purposely absented himself
from the trial, yet felt very keenly the perplexing dilemma
into which he would be thrown, by continuing the connecting
link between two such deadly foes as he now found his
father, whom he could not desert, and Gaut Gurley, whom
he felt conscious he could not defend. And for this reason he
had, from time to time, deferred the visit to Avis, which he had
designed, and which she would naturally expect on his return
from the expedition. But still he could not see how a quarrel
between the fathers discharged him from his obligations to her;
and he grew more and more doubtful and uneasy in the position
he found himself occupying. He was soon, however, to be relieved.
One day, a short time after the trial, while he was
anxiously revolving the subject in mind, a boy, who had come
as a special messenger from the Magalloway settlement (for the
purpose, as it appeared), brought him the following letter:

Claud felt greatly relieved, in some respects, by this unexpected
missive; in others, the contents caused him uneasiness
and self-condemnation. It relieved him from the sense of obligation

he had entertained, to make the dreaded visit to the
house of Gaut Gurley, — who, with every desire to arrive at a
different conclusion, he could no longer believe guiltless of the
basest of frauds, and the basest of means to conceal it. It
relieved him, indeed, on this point; but, as we have said, made
him sad and thoughtful on others. The great grief and distress
under which the fair writer was so evidently laboring, and the
deep-rooted love for him which was revealed in almost every
line, but which her pride, in the bright hours of their courtship,
had never permitted her to disclose, keenly touched his feelings,
and rose in condemnation of the comparative indifference,
which, in spite of all his efforts to correct its waywardness, he
felt conscious had been gradually stealing over his heart, since his
admiration, to say the least, had been raised by a rival vision
of loveliness. In the newly-awakened feeling of the moment,
however, he bitterly upbraided himself for his tergiversations in
suffering his thoughts to vacillate between the Star of the
Magalloway, who had his plighted faith, and Flower of the
Lakes, who had no claims to his special consideration. But
still, when his thoughts wandered over the scenes of the past
summer, which now, since trial and hardship had brought his
mind back within the dominion of reason and judgment, seemed
much more like dreams than realities, — when he thought of
the manner in which he became acquainted with Avis Gurley;
how he persisted in gaining her affections, and kindling into an
over-mastering flame his own fancy-lit love; and finally, how,
against the known wishes of his family, and the dictates of his
own sober judgment, he had urged her into an engagement of
marriage, which he could now see had, as his mother predicted,
in all probability led to a renewal of the intimacy between his
father and Gaut Gurley, and that last intimacy to the present
disaster, and a new quarrel, whose consequences might yet well
be looked for with uneasiness and apprehension, — when he
thought of all this, he deeply condemned his own indiscretion,
and could not help wishing himself clear from an engagement,
which, like every thing connected with the schemes of that dark
and dreaded man, who was now an object of suspicion through
the whole settlement, seemed destined to lead only to trouble
and disaster. Such was the maze of perplexity by which the
young man, now too late for an honorable retreat, found himself
on every side thickly environed. Yet, for all this, and in
despite of all these perplexities and misgivings, he resolved he
would not cease to play the man, but honorably fulfil all his
obligations in such manner as should be required of him.

So much for the love and its hapless entanglements, which
had been so deeply but so unsatisfactorily occupying, for the
last few weeks, the thoughts of Claud Elwood, who then little
suspected that there was another heart, besides that of the pure,
proud, and impassioned Avis Gurley, whose every pulse, in the
great unseen system of intermingling sympathies, beat in trembling
vibration to his own, — a heart that had been won uncourted
and unknown, — a heart that had secretly nursed, in
the favoring solitudes of these wild lakes, and brooded over, a
passion more deep and intense than words could well be found
to describe. There was such a heart; and that heart was now
wildly beating, in the agonizing uncertainties of a hoped reciprocation,
in the bosom of that peerless child of the forest, the
beautiful Fluella; and all the more intense were its workings,
because confined to its own deep recesses, where the hidden
flame was laboring constantly for an outlet to its pride-walled
prison, but as constantly shrinking in terror from the disclosure.
She had once, however, through the violence of emotions
which she could not control, accidentally betrayed the state of
her feelings; but it was to one in whose discretion and friendship
she was soon made to repose undoubting confidence, and
with whom, therefore, she at length became reconciled to let
her secret remain. The person who had thus become the
depositary of that secret was, as the reader may remember,
Mrs. Elwood. The consciousness that this lady knew all,
coupled as it was with the thought of the relation in which the

latter stood to the object of her secret idolatry, had irresistibly
drawn to her the yearning heart of the guileless maiden. She
had longed for another interview, but dare not seek it; longed
for some excuse for opening a communication with her, but
could not find one. At length, however, fortune opened the desired
avenue; and, after much hesitation and trembling, she
summoned up the courage to avail herself of the offered opportunity.
Phillips, in his determination to ferret out the outrage
which had been committed on him and his companions, and of
the author of which he still entertained no doubt, had, immediately
after the trial, commenced a series of rapid journeys to all
the nearest villages or trading towns in Maine and New Hampshire,
to ascertain if any lot of furs, answering to those caught
by his company, had been sold in those places. And one of
these journeys, for that and other purposes, he had extended
to the seaboard. On his return home, he immediately repaired
to his neighbor Elwood's, and, unperceived, slipped into the
hands of Mrs. Elwood a letter, which the wondering matron
soon took to a private room, curiously opened, and, with a deep,
undefined interest and varying emotions, commenced reading.
It ran thus:

On perusing this unexpected communication, Mrs. Elwood felt
— she scarcely knew herself what she felt, except a keenly appreciating

sense of the writer's embarrassed feelings, and except,
also, the pleasurable emotions which this timid and tender outpouring
of an unsophisticated heart somehow afforded her.
Ever since her singular interview with this remarkable girl, as
described in a former chapter, Mrs. Elwood had not ceased to
think of her as of some good angel, sent by an interposing
Providence, in answer to the agonizing supplications which immediately
preceded her unexpected appearance at the time, —
sent to be the means, in some unforeseen way, of extricating
her family from the fatal influences, as she viewed them, under
which they had insidiously been brought by their different connections
with the Gurleys. Especially had she been impressed
that this would prove the case, in all that related to her idolized
son, Claud; whom, in her disregard to all considerations of lineage,
when relieved by such excellence of beauty and character,
she would a thousand times rather have seen united to the
Indian girl than to the one he appeared to have chosen. She
was, therefore, besides being touched by the broken pathos of
the letter, gratified by its reception; for it seemed to come as a
sort of confirmation of her grateful presentiment, that her son,
at least, was to be happily disenthralled. Nor was she, at this
time, without the evidence which led her to hope that her husband,
also, had now finally escaped from the toils that had, once
and again, caused him such calamity and suffering. The sudden
and terrible outbreak of indignation, which, with equal surprise
and gratification, she had seen him exhibit against Gaut,
and the quarrel in court, which followed in consequence, must,
she thought, now forever keep them separate. If so, poorly
as her family could afford to suffer their part of the loss of the
avails of the fall's work, she would cheerfully bear it, and even
look upon the event in the light of a Heaven-sent mercy. But
even of this poor comfort she was destined soon to be deprived.
After the trial, Mark Elwood — who, however bravely
he bore himself at first, on that occasion, was finally seen to
quail under the terrible glances of Gaut — soon became strangely
silent respecting the prosecution and supposed perpetration of
the offence about which he had before manifested so much zeal
and indignation. And, in the active exertions which Phillips
and Codman, in the vain search for evidence or some clue to the
robbery of the furs, perseveringly kept up during the whole of
the long and dreary winter that followed, he could not be induced
to take any decided part. Nor would he, when they met him
at his own house, or that of Phillips, as they several times did,
that winter, to compare the discoveries and observations they
had made, and discuss the subject, any longer maintain the position
he at first so boldly took, respecting Gaut's guilt, or say
any thing in aid of their deliberations. He, indeed, as they
grew more decided and convinced, seemed to grow more wavering
and doubtful. Such was his demeanor and conduct in
company of his late companions; while, with his own family, he
appeared moody, irresolute, and restless, and even, at length, he
began to throw out occasional hints tending to defend or extenuate
the conduct of the very man whom, a few weeks before,
he had so confidently denounced as a thief and a robber.
Alarmed at these indications of returning weakness and fatuity
in her husband, Mrs. Elwood soon put herself on inquiry, to
ascertain the cause; and she was not long in making discoveries
that more than justified her worst fears and suspicions.

It appeared that Gaut Gurley, after his arrest, and after his
escape from the punishment of the law, through the means, as
was now generally believed, which he had cunningly provided
before he entered on the commission of the offence charged,
remained almost constantly at home, during nearly the whole
winter, brooding, in savage mood, over his own dark thoughts
and varying schemes for advantage and revenge, keeping his
family in continual awe of him, and causing all who approached
him to recoil, shuddering, from his presence, and mark
him as a dangerous man in the community. Towards spring,
however, he appeared suddenly to change his tactics, or, at
least, to undergo a great change in his deportment and conduct.

All at once, he came round in his usual manner. The dark
cloud had been banished from his brow. He civilly accosted
every acquaintance he met, appeared cheerful and good-humored,
and desirous of prolonging the conversation with all
with whom he came in contact, without seeming to notice, in
the least, the evident inclination of most of the settlers to avoid
his company. He came down, every few days, to the little
village before named as the place where the court was held,
and lounged for hours about the tavern; which, during the
winter season, was the common resort of the settlers. Here
he soon encountered his old companions, Phillips, Codman, and
the Elwoods, all of whom, notwithstanding the cold and demure
manner with which the two former, at least, turned away from
him, he saluted with careless ease, and as if nothing had happened
to disturb their former social relations. And, having thus
surmounted the somewhat difficult task of breaking the ice with
them, without receiving the open and absolute repulse which,
however disposed, they did not deem it wise to give him, he, at
the next meeting, ventured to broach the subject of their late
quarrel, affecting to laugh at their mutual exhibitions of folly in
getting so angry with each other in court, under the belief, on
his part, that they had got the furs, and, on their part, that he
had made way with them; when neither of them were guilty,
and ought not to be charged with the offence. For himself, he
said, he was now satisfied, on thinking the matter over, who
were the real culprits. They were a couple of “cussed runagate
Indians,” that had strolled over from Canada, and, having
discovered his camp, had laid in wait for his absence. He had
seen the tracks of two different-sized moccasins in the sand on
the lake-shore, but two days before he left; but the circumstance
was forgotten, or he should not have left the camp unguarded.
It was a great loss for them all; but it would not
help the matter to mourn now. It must be borne; and he
knew of no way to make it up but to try their luck in another
expedition. He should, for his part; for he had no notion of
giving up so.

Such was the drift of his conversation at this interview;
and, seeming to think he had ventured far enough for one experiment
on their credulity, he dropped that subject and struck
off on to others. But the next time he met them he contrived
to turn the conversation upon the same theme; when, telling
them with a confidential air that, a few days before he left
camp, he discovered, on a stream coming in at the upper end
of the Megantic, a succession of freshly-constructed beaver
dams, which, from the number of houses and other indications
around each, he thought must be occupied by one of the largest
colonies of beavers ever collected on one stream in that part of
the country, he directly proposed to them to join him, when the
spring opened, in an expedition to secure this extraordinary
collection of the valuable animals that were, unquestionably,
still all there, and as unquestionably might be captured.

This story, with the accompanying proposal, presented, as
Gaut well knew, the most tempting inducement that could be
offered, to trappers. But it made no impression on Phillips
and Codman. They deeply distrusted the man, his whole story,
and the motives which they believed moved him to concoct it.
Spurning in their hearts, therefore, the bait that had been so
artfully laid for them, they would have nothing to do with him
or his proposal. And, both then and thereafter, they remained
unmoved, and stood proof against all the arguments his taxed
ingenuity and devilish cunning could invent and bring to bear
upon them.

With the infatuated Mark Elwood, however, the case
seemed to be almost wholly reversed. He again listened, —
was again lost. He, restless, uneasy, and evidently apprehensive
of something he did not disclose, from continuing under
the terrible displeasure which Gaut had so significantly manifested
towards him, — he had appeared, from the first, to hail
with pleasure the indications of the relenting mood of the other,

and seemed but too glad to be again noticed with favor. He
could see no reason to distrust the man's sincerity, he said,
when others raised the question; and he was much inclined to
adopt his version of the robbery and burning of their camp.
When, therefore, the proposal of a new expedition was made,
under the circumstances we have named, the blinded Elwood
seemed fully prepared to accept it; and he would have openly
and without reserve done so, but for the restraining presence
of his companions, who, he felt conscious, would disapprove and
deprecate his conduct. Gaut had noticed all this, and was not
long in bringing about a private interview with his dupe and
victim, which resulted, as might be supposed, in settling the
matter in just the way he intended.

From that time, the conduct of Mark Elwood became wholly
inexplicable to all his friends and acquaintances in the settlement.
He commenced with defending Gaut Gurley, thus
giving the lie to all he had said, and ended with declaring an
intention of accompanying him in another trapping expedition
to the upper lakes, to be entered upon on a given day in
April, then near at hand. And, in spite of all the advice and
warnings of his late associates in the former disastrous campaign;
the remonstrances of his son, who shared in the apprehensions
of the others; and the agonizing tears and entreaties
of his wife, he strangely persisted in his purpose, and, like the
fated one of the Scriptures, steadily “set his face” towards
his contemplated destination.

“The man is hurried!” said Phillips to Codman, as they
left Elwood's on a second and last visit, made with the sole
object of dissuading him from a step which they shrank from
themselves, — that of going into the distant forest with such a
desperate fellow as they now deeply suspected Gaut Gurley to
be, — “the man is evidently hurried. When I saw that look
Gaut gave Elwood in court, I knew he was marked for destruction,
more especially than the rest of us, who are doubtless
both placed on the same list. And Elwood would see it himself,

if he was right-minded. Yes, he is hurried, and can't help
it. He will go, and God grant my fears may not be realized.”

And he did go, but not alone. As soon as Claud became
fully satisfied that his father's purpose was not to be shaken,
he began earnestly to debate in mind the question whether he
himself should not, as a filial duty, become a participant in the
expedition, with the view of making his presence instrumental
in averting the apprehended danger. And, although he perceived
that his mother's distress, all troubled and doubtful as
she was in deciding between her conflicting duties of affection,
would be enhanced by the step; and, although his mind had
been still more staggered by a brief confidential note from
Avis Gurley, advising him, if not too late, to find means to
break up the project of the expedition entirely, yet he finally
made up his mind in the affirmative. And, accordingly, on the
morning of the appointed day, both father and son, after a
leave-taking with the despondent wife and mother, more ominously
sad and mournful than had ever before marked their
family trials, set forth again for the wild wastes of the lakes,
with their now doubly questionable companion.