Майн Рид
The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness
Chapter Twenty Eight
An Errand of Love
This second purchase and payment rendered necessary a communication with my Nashville friend. Fortunately, Swampville had a mail; and, to avail myself of it, I rode direct for the settlement. On my return, I found the river-town, figuratively speaking, on fire. Short as bad been the period of my absence, it had been marked by an incident of no ordinary character. That morning’s mail had conveyed to the settlement the intelligence of a rare and interesting event – the discovery of the gold placers of California. I had heard rumours of this before – only half believed, and not yet reaching to Swampville. Returned emigrants from California were now reported, as having arrived in Saint Louis and other frontier towns – bringing with them, not only the full account of the gold discovery, but its confirmation, in the shape of large “chunks” of gold-bearing quartz, and bags of the yellow dust itself. The marvellous tale was no longer questioned, or doubted. The mail had brought newspapers from New Orleans and Saint Louis, giving detailed accounts of the digging of Sutter’s mill-race by the disbanded soldiers of the “Mormon Battalion;” of the crevasse caused by the water, which had laid open the wonderful auriferous deposits; and describing also the half frantic excitement which the news had produced these populous cities.
In this, Swampville had not been slow to imitate them. I found the little village on the qui vive: not only the idlers showing an interest in the extraordinary intelligence; but the business men of the place being equally startled out of their sobriety. A “company” was already projected, in which many well-to-do men had registered their names; and even Colonel Kipp talked of transporting his penates across the great plains, and swinging the Jackson sign upon the shores of the Pacific. Swampville was smitten with a golden mania, that seemed to promise its speedy depopulation.
Though many of my old camarados of the Mexican campaign found fresh vent for their energies in this new field of enterprise, for me it had no attractions whatever. I therefore resisted the solicitations of the Swampvillians to “jine thar company” – in which I was offered the compliment of a command. On that day, and at that hour, not for all the gold in California would I have forsaken my new home in the forest – under whose “boundless contiguity of shade” sparkled, in my eyes, “a metal more attractive.” Instead of longing for the far shores of the Pacific, I longed only to return to the banks of Mud Creek; and chafed at the necessary delay that hindered me from gratifying my wish. Even the generous hospitality of Colonel Kipp – amiable under the influence of golden dreams – even the smiles of the simpering Alvina, and the more brave coquetry of Car’line – now become a decided admirer of my yellow buttons – were not sufficient to preserve my spirits from ennui. Only at meals did I make my appearance at the hotel – at all other times, seeking to soothe the impassioned pulsations of my heart in the dark depths of the forest. There I would wander for hours, not listing where I went; but ever finding myself, as if by some instinct, upon the path that conducted in the direction of the creek! It was some solace to listen to the notes of the wild-woods – the songs of birds and bee – for these had become associated in my mind with the melodious tones of Lilian’s voice – to look upon the forest flowers; more especially upon the encarmined blossom of the bignonia – now to me a symbol of the sweetest sentiment. The one most prized of all, I had carefully preserved. In a glass I had placed it, on the dressing-table of my chamber, with its peduncle immersed in water.
My zealous care only procured me a chagrin. On returning from one of my rambles, I found the flower upon the floor, crushed by some spiteful heel? Was it thy heel, Caroline Kipp? In its place was a bunch of hideous gilly-flowers and yellow daffodils, of the dimensions of a drum-head cabbage – placed there either to mock my regard, or elicit my admiration! In either case, I resolved upon a revanche. By its wound, the bignonia smelt sweeter than ever; and though I could not restore the pretty blossom to its graceful campanulate shape, from that time forward it appeared in my buttonhole – to the slight torture, I fancied, of the backwoods coquette.
In the two days during which I was denied sight of her my love for Lilian Holt was fast ripening into a passion – which absence only seemed to amplify. No doubt the contrast of common faces – such as those I observed in Swampville – did something towards heightening my admiration. There was another contrast that had at this time an influence on my heart’s inclinings. To an eye, fatigued with dwelling long and continuously on the dark complexions of the south – the olivine hue of Aztec and Iberian skins – there was a relief in the radiance of this carmined blonde, that, apart from her absolute loveliness, was piquant from the novelty and rareness of the characteristic. Additional elements of attraction may have been: the mise en scène that surrounded her; the unexpected discovery of such a precious jewel in so rude a casket; the romantic incident of our first encounter; and the equally peculiar circumstances attending our second and last interview. All these may have combined in weaving around my spirit a spell, that now embraced, and was likely to influence, every act of my future existence. Therefore, on the morning of the third day, as I mounted my horse, and turned his head in the direction of Holt’s clearing, it was not with any design of dispossessing the squatter. Occupied with sweet love-dreams, I had as yet given no thought to the ruder realities of life. I had formed no plan for colonising – neither towards entering upon possession, nor extending the “improvement” I had twice purchased.
Notwithstanding both purchase and payment, the squatter might still continue to hold his cabin and clearing – and share with me the disputed land. Welcome should I make him, on one condition – the condition of becoming his guest – constant or occasional – in either way, so long as I might have the opportunity of enjoying the presence of his fair daughter, and to her demonstrating my heart’s devotion. Some such idea, vaguely conceived, flitted across my mind, as I entered upon my second journey to Mud Creek. My ostensible object was to take formal possession of an estate, and turn out its original owner. But my heart was in no unison with such an end. It recoiled from, or rather had it forgotten, its purpose. Its throbbings were directed to a different object: guiding me on a more joyful and auspicious errand —the errand of love.
Chapter Twenty Nine
A red-skinned Sibyl
Not a sound came from the forest to disturb my sweet musings. Silent was the sky of the Indian summer – soft and balm-laden its breeze. The trees stirred not; the branches seemed extended in the stillness of repose; even the leaves of the tremuloides, hanging on their compressed petioles, were scarcely seen to quiver. The rustling heard at intervals, was but the fluttering of bright wings amid the foliage; or the rushing of some mountebank squirrel in reckless evolution among the branches – sounds harmonising with the scene. Not till I had entered the glade was I aroused from my reverie – at first gently, by the sudden emergence from shade into light; but afterwards in a more sensible manner on sight of a human form – at a glance recognised as that of the Indian maiden. She was seated, or rather reclining, against the blanched log; her brown arm embracing an outstretched limb; half supported on one leg – the other crossed carelessly over it in an attitude of repose. Beside her on the log lay a wicker pannier, filled with odds and ends of Indian manufacture.
Though I had risen close up to the girl, she vouchsafed no acknowledgment of my presence. I observed no motion – not even of the eyes; which, directed downwards, seemed fixed in steadfast gaze upon the ground. Nothing about her appeared to move – save the coruscation of metallic ornaments that glittered in the sun, as though her body were enveloped in scale-armour. Otherwise, she might have been mistaken for a statue in bronze. And one, too, of noble proportions. The attitude was in every way graceful; and displayed to perfection the full bold contour of the maiden’s form. Her well-rounded arm entwining the branch, with her large body and limbs outlined in alto-relievo against the entablature of the white trunk, presented a picture that a sculptor would have loved to copy; and that even the inartistic eye could not look upon without admiration.
Instinctively I checked my horse, and halted in front of this singular apparition. I can scarcely tell why I did so; since neither by look nor gesture was I invited to take such a liberty. On the contrary, I could perceive that my movement was regarded with displeasure. There was no change in the statuesque attitude: even the eyes were not raised from the earth; but a frown was distinctly traceable on the features of the girl. Thus repulsed, I should have ridden on; and would have done so, but for that sense of awkwardness, which one feels in similar situations. By pausing in the marked manner I had done, and gazing so pointedly at the girl, I had committed an act of ill-breeding – of which I now felt sensible. Indian though she was, she was evidently no common squaw; but gifted with certain noble traits, of which many a maiden with white skin might have envied her the possession. Beyond that, I knew she was the victim of a passion – all-absorbing as it was hopeless – and this in my eyes, ennobled and sanctified her.
Just then, I had myself no cause to fear an unrequited love – no need to be ungenerous or selfish – and could, therefore, afford to extend my sympathy to the sufferings of another. It was some vague prompting of this kind, that had caused me to draw up – some idea of offering consolation. The repelling reception was altogether unexpected, and placed me in a predicament. How was I to escape from it? By holding my tongue, and riding on? No; this would be an acknowledgment of having committed an act of gaucherie– to which man’s vanity rarely accedes, or only with extreme reluctance. I had rushed inconsiderately into the mire, and must plunge deeper to get through. “We must become worse to make our title good.”
So reflecting, or rather without reflecting at all, I resolved to “become worse” – with the risk of making a worse of it. “Perhaps,” thought I, “she does not recognise me?” She had not looked at me as yet. “If she would only raise her eyes, she would remember me as the friend of the White Eagle. That might initiate a conversation; and cause her to interpret more kindly my apparent rudeness. I shall speak to her at all hazards. Su-wa-nee!” The dark Indian eye was raised upon me with an angry flash; but no other reply was vouchsafed. “Su-wa-nee!” I repeated in the most conciliatory tone. “Do you not remember me? I am the friend of the White Eagle.”
“And what is that to Su-wa-nee? She has no words for you – you may go on!”
This decided repulse, instead of bettering my position, rendered it still more complicated. Somewhat confusedly, I rejoined: “I am on the way to visit the White Eagle. I thought – perhaps – you might – that possibly you might have some message for him.”
“Su-wa-nee has no message for the White Eagle!” replied she, interrupting me, in the indignant tone, and with a contemptuous toss of her head. “If she had, she would not choose a false pale-face, like himself, to be its bearer. You fancy, white man, you can insult the Indian maiden at your pleasure? You dare not take such liberty with one of your own colour?”
“I assure you I had no such intention: my object was very different. I was prompted to speak to you, knowing something of your affair of the other night with my friend Wingrove – which you remember I was witness of. I could not help overhearing – ”
I was interrupted by another quick contemptuous exclamation, that accompanied a glance of mingled vexation and scorn: – “You may know too much, and too little, my brave slayer of red panthers! Su-wa-nee does not thank you for interfering in her affairs. She can promise you sufficient occupation with your own. Go! See to them!”
“How? What mean you?” I hurriedly asked, perceiving a certain significance in her looks, as well as words, that produced within me a sudden feeling of inquietude. “What mean you?” I repeated, too anxious to wait her reply; “has anything happened?”
“Go, see yourself! You lose time in talking to a squaw, as you call us. Haste! or your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed, like that which you wear so proudly upon your breast. The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer: the yellow fawn will be his victim! Su-wa-nee joys at it: ha, ha, ha! Hers will not be the only heart wrung by the villainy of the false pale-face. Ha, ha, ha! Go, brave slayer of red panthers! Ah! you may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late – too late – too late!”
Finishing her speech with another peal of half-maniac laughter, she snatched her pannier from the log, flung it over her shoulder, and hurried away from the spot! Her words, though ill understood, were full of fearful significance, and acted upon me like a shock – for a moment paralysing my powers both of speech and action. In my anxiety to ascertain their full meaning, I would have intercepted her retreat; but before I could recover from my unpleasant surprise, she had glided in among the shrubbery, and disappeared from my sight.
Chapter Thirty
A Storm without and within
Heading my horse to the path, I rode out of the glade; but with very different feelings from those I had on entering it. The words of this ill-starred maiden – attainted with that sibylline cunning peculiar to her race – had filled my heart with most dire forebodings. Her speech could not be mere conjecture, put forth to vex and annoy me? She had scarcely motive enough for this; besides, her display of a positive foreknowledge was proof against the supposition, that she was deceiving me?
“Slayer of red panthers? You may go, but only to grieve.”
“Your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed like that you wear so proudly upon your breast.”
These, and other like innuendoes, could not be conjectural? However obtained, they betokened a knowledge of the past, with an implied forecast of the future – probable as it was painful. The “yellow fawn,” too. The reference was clear; Lilian Holt was the yellow fawn. But the wolf that had “slept in its lair”? Who was the wolf? Who was to make her a victim? and how? These unpleasant interrogatives passed rapidly through my mind, and without obtaining reply. I was unable to answer them, even by conjecture. Enough that there was a wolf; and that Lilian Holt was in danger of becoming his victim!
This brought me to the consideration of the last words, still ringing in my ears: “You will be too late – too late!” Prompted by their implied meaning, I drove the spurs into my horse, and galloped forward – as fast as the nature of the ground would permit. My mind was in dread confusion – a chaos of doubt and fear. The half-knowledge I had obtained was more painful to endure than a misfortune well ascertained: for I suffered the associated agonies of suspense, and darkly outlined suspicion. A wolf! In what shape and guise? A victim? How, and by what means? What the nature of the predicted danger?
The elements seemed in unison with my spirit: as if they too had taken their cue from the ill-omened bodings of my Indian oracle! A storm-cloud had suddenly obscured the sun – black as the wing of the buzzard-vulture. Red shafts were shooting athwart the sky – threatening to scathe the trees of the forest; thunder rolled continuously along their tops; and huge isolated rain-drops, like gouts of blood, came pattering down upon the leaves – soon to fall thick and continuous! I heeded not these indications. At that moment, what where the elements to me? What cared I for the clouds or rain – lightning, thunder, or the riven forest? There was a cloud on my own heart – an electric rush through my veins – of far more potent spell than the shadows of the sky, or the coruscations of the ethereal fire. “The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer: the yellow fawn will be his victim. You will be too late – too late!” These were clouds to be regarded – the fires to be feared. No heavenly light to guide me along the path, but a flame infernal burning in my breast?
The bars were down, but it mattered not: I would have leaped the fence, had there been no gateway; but the entrance to the enclosure was free; and, galloping through it, I drew bridle in front of the hut. The door was open – wide open, as was its wont; and I could see most of the interior. No one appeared within! no one came forth to greet me!
Inside, I observed some pieces of rude furniture – several chairs and a rough table. I had noticed them on my first visit. They were now in the same place – just as I had seen them before. One of my apprehensions was allayed by the sight: the family was still there. “Strange that no one hears me! that no one comes out to receive me!”
I made these reflections, after having waited a considerable while. “Surely I was expected? It was the time named by Holt himself? The day and hour! Was I again unwelcome? and had the squatter relapsed into his uncourteous mood?”
It certainly had that appearance: more especially, since it was raining at the moment – as if the very clouds were coming down – and I stood in need of shelter. But that grievance was little thought of. I was suffering a chagrin, far more intolerable than the tempest. Where was Lilian? Such cool reception, on her part, I had not expected. It was indeed a surprise. Had I mistaken the character of this Idyllian damsel? Was she, too, an arch creature – a coquette? Had she bestowed the blossom only to betray me?
I had looked down at the crushed corolla borne upon my breast. I had promised myself a triumph by its presence there. I had formed pleasant anticipations of its being recognised – fond hopes of its creating an effect in my favour. The flower looked drenched and draggled. Its carmine colour had turned to a dull dark crimson: it was the colour of blood!
I could bear the suspense no longer. I would have hailed the house; but by this time I had become convinced that there was no one inside. After a short survey, I had remarked a change in the appearance of the cabin. The interstices between the logs – where they had formerly been covered with skins – were now open. The draping had been removed; and a closer scrutiny enabled me to perceive, that, so far as human occupants were concerned, the house was empty! I rode up to the door; and, leaning over from my saddle, looked in. My conjecture was correct. Only the chairs and table with one or two similar pieces of “plenishing,” remained. Everything else had been removed; and some worthless débris strewed over the floor, told that the removal was to be considered complete. They were gone!
It was of no use harbouring a hope that they might still be on the premises – outside or elsewhere near. The pouring rain forbade such, a supposition. There was nowhere else – the horse-shed excepted – where they could have sheltered! themselves from its torrent; and they were not in the shed. Rosinante was absent from his rude stall – saddle and bridle had alike disappeared. I needed no further assurance. They were gone.
With a heavy heart, I slid out of my saddle; led my steed under the shed; and then entered the deserted dwelling. My footfall upon the plank-floor sounded heavy and harsh, as I strode over it, making a survey of the “premises” – my future home. I might have observed with ludicrous surprise the queer character of the building, and how sadly it needed repair. But I was in no mood to be merry, either with the house or its furniture; and, tottering into one of the odd-looking chairs, I gave way to gloomy reflections. Any one, seeing me at that moment, would have observed me in an attitude, more benefiting a man about to be turned out of his estate, than one just entering upon possession!
