The Last of the Foresters - John Esten Cooke
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Redbud and Verty entered; and then the young man held out his hand.
"Are you going?" said the girl.
"Yes," he said, smiling, "unless you will sing me something. Oh, yes!
let me go away with music in my ears. Sing '_Dulce Domum_' for me,
Redbud."
The young girl assented, with a smile; and sitting down at the
harpsichord, sang the fine old ditty in her soft, tender voice, which
was the very echo of joy and kindness. The gentle carol floated on
the evening air, and seemed to make the autumn twilight brighter,
everything more lovely--and Verty listened with a look more dreamy
than before.
Then, as she sung, his eye was turned to the picture on the wall,
which looked down with its loving eyes upon them.
Redbud ceased, and turned and saw the object of his regard.
"Mamma," she said, in a low, thoughtful voice,--"I love to think of
her."
And rising, she stood beside Verty, who was still looking at the
portrait.
"She must have been very good," he murmured; "I think her face is full
of kindness."
Redbud gazed softly at the portrait, and, as she mused, the dews of
love and memory suffused her tender eyes, and she turned away.
"I love the face," said Verty, softly; "and I think she must have been
a kind, good mother, Redbud. I thought just now that she was listening
to you as you sang."
And Verty gazed at the young girl, with a tenderness which filled her
eyes with delight.
"She will bless you out of Heaven," he continued, timidly; "for you
are so beautiful and good--so very beautiful!"
And a slight tremor passed over the young man's frame as he spoke.
Redbud did not reply; a deep blush suffused her face, and she murmured
something. Then the young head drooped, and the face turned away.
The last ray of sunlight gleamed upon her hair and pure white
forehead, and then fled away--the day was ended.
Verty saw it, and held out his hand.
"We have had a happy evening, at least I have," he said, in a low
voice; "the autumn is so beautiful, and you are so kind and good."
She did not speak; but a faint wistful smile came to her lips as she
placed her hand softly in his own.
"Look! the picture is smiling on you now!" said Verty; "you are just
alike--both so beautiful!"
"Oh!" murmured Redbud, blushing; "like mamma?"
"Yes," said Verty, "and I saw the lips smile when I spoke."
They stood thus hand in hand--the tender mother-eyes upon them: then
he turned and went away, looking back tenderly to the last.
Had the dim canvas smiled upon them, as they stood there hand in
hand--a blessing on them from the far other world?
CHAPTER LX.
THE LODGE IN THE HILLS.
Sitting by the crackling twigs which drove away the cool airs of the
autumn night with their inspiring warmth, the young man, whose early
fortunes we have thus far endeavored to narrate, leaned his head upon
his hand, and mused and dreamed.
Overhead the shadows played upon the rafters; around him, the
firelight lit up the wild and uncouth interior, with its sleeping
hounds, and guns, and fishing-rods, and chests; on the opposite side
of the fire-place, the old Indian woman was indulging, like Verty, in
a reverie.
From time to time, Longears or Wolf would stir in their sleep, and
growl, engaged in dreaming of some forest adventure which concerned
itself with deer or other game; or the far cry of the whip-poor-will
would echo through the forest; or the laughter of the owl suddenly
come floating on, borne on the chill autumn wind.
This, with the crackle of the twigs, was all which disturbed the
silence of the solitary lodge.
The silence lasted for half an hour, at the end of which time Verty
changed his position, and sighed. Then looking at the old woman with
great affection, the young man said:
"I was thinking who I was; and I wanted to ask you, _ma mere_--tell
me."
The old woman looked startled at this address, but concealing her
emotion with the marvellous skill of her people, replied in her
guttural accent--
"My son wants to know something?"
"Yes, _ma mere_, that is it. I want to know if I really am your son."
The old woman turned her eyes from Verty.
"The fawn knows the deer, and the bear's cub knows his fellows,"
continued Verty, gazing into the fire; "but they laugh at me. I don't
know my tribe."
"Our tribe is the Delaware," said the old Indian woman evasively--"
they came from the great woods like a river."
"Like a river? Yes, they know their source. But where did I spring
from, _ma mere_?"
"Where was my son born?"
"Yes, tell me everything," said Verty; "tell me if I am your son.
Do not tell me that you love me as a son, or that I love you as my
mother. I know that--but am I a Delaware?"
"Why does my son ask?"
"Because a bird of the air whispered to me--'You are not a Delaware,
nor a Tuscarora, nor a Dacotah; you are a pale face.' Did the bird
lie!"
The old woman did not answer.
"_Ma mere_," said Verty, tenderly taking the old woman's hand and
sitting at her feet, "the Great Spirit has made me honest and open--I
cannot conceal anything. I cannot pry and search. I might find out
this from some other person--who knows? But I will not try. Come!
speak with a straight tongue. Am I the son of a brave; am I a
Delaware; or am I what my face makes me out--a Long-knife?"
"Ough! ough! ough!" groaned the old woman; "he wants to go, away from
the nest where he was warmed, and nursed, and brought up. The Great
Spirit has put evil into his heart--it is cold."
"No, no," said Verty, earnestly--"my heart is red, not white; every
drop of my life-blood is yours, _ma mere_; you have loved me,
cherished me: when my muscles were soft and hot with fever, you laid
my head upon your bosom, and rocked me to sleep as softly as the
topmost bough of the oak rocks the oriole; you loved me always. My
heart shall run out of my breast and soak the ground, before it turns
white; yet, I love you, and you love me. But, _ma mere_, I have grown
well nigh to manhood; the bird's song is changed, and the dove has
flown to me--the dove yonder at Apple Orchard--"
"Ough!" groaned the old woman, rocking to and fro; "she is black! She
has made you bad!"
"No, no! she is white--she is good. She told me about the Great
Spirit, and makes me pure."
"Ough! ough!"
"She is as pure as the bow in the cloud," continued Verty; "and I
did not mean that the dove was the bird who whispered, that I was no
Delaware. No--my own heart says, 'know--find out.'"
"And why should the heart say 'know?'" said the old woman, still
rocking about, and looking at Verty with anxious affection. "Why
should my son seek to find?"
"Because the winds are changed and sing new songs; the leaves whisper,
as I pass, with a new voice; and even the clouds are not what they
were to me when I ran after the shadows floating along the hills, and
across the hollows. I have changed, _ma mere_, and the streams talk no
more with the same tongue. I hear the flags and water-lilies muttering
as I pass, and the world opens on me with a new, strange light. They
talked to me once; now they laugh at me as I pass. Hear the trees,
yonder! Don't you hear them? They are saying, 'The Delaware paleface!
look at him! look at him!'"
And crouching, with dreamy eyes, Verty for a moment listened to the
strange sob of the pines, swaying in the chill winds of the autumn
night.
"I am not what I was!" he continued; the world is open now, and I must
be a part of it. The bear and deer speak to me with tongues I do not
understand. _Ma mere! ma mere_! I must know whether I am a Delaware or
pale face!--whether one or the other, I am still yours--yours always!
Speak! speak with a straight tongue to your child!"
"Ough! ough! ough!" groaned the old woman, looking at him wistfully,
and plainly struggling with herself--hesitating between two courses.
"Speak!" said Verty, with a glow in his eye, which made him resemble
a young leopard of the wild--"speak, _ma mere_!--I am no longer a
child! I go into a new land now, and how shall it be? As a red face,
or a long knife--which am I? Speak, _ma mere_--say if I am a Delaware,
whose place is the woods, or a white, whose life must take him from
the deer forever!"
The struggle was ended; Verty could not have uttered words more fatal
to his discovering anything. He raised an insuperable barrier to
any revelations--if, indeed, there existed any mystery--by his
alternative. Was he a Delaware, and thus doomed to live in the forest
with his old Indian mother--or was he a white, in which case, he would
leave her? Pride, cunning, above all, deep and pure affection, sealed
the old woman's lips, if she had thought of opening them. She looked
for sometime at Verty, then, taking his head between her hands, she
said, with eyes full of tears:
"You are my own dear son--my young, beautiful hawk of the woods--who
said you were not a true Delaware!"
And the old woman bent down, and with a look of profound affection,
pressed her lips to Verty's forehead.
The young man's face assumed an expression of mingled gloom and doubt,
and he sighed. Then he was an Indian--a Delaware--the son of the
Indian woman--he was not a paleface. All the talk about it was thrown
away; he was born in the woods--would live and die in the woods!
For a moment the image of Redbud rose before him, and he sighed. He
knew not why, but he wished that he was not an Indian--he wished that
his blood had been that of the whites.
His sad face drooped; then his eyes ware raised, and he saw the old
woman weeping.
The sight removed from Verty's mind all personal considerations, and
he leaned his head upon her knee, and pressed her hand to his lips.
"Did the child make his mother weep," he said; "did his idle words
bring rain to her eyes, and make her heart heavy? But he is her child
still, and all the world is nothing to him."
Verty rose, and taking the old, withered hand, placed it respectfully
on his breast.
"Never again, _ma mere_" he said, "will the wind talk to me, or the
birds whisper. I will not listen. Have I made your eyes dark? Let it
pass away--I am your son--I love you--more than all the whole wide
world."
And Verty sat down, and gazed tenderly at the old woman, whose face
had assumed an expression of extraordinary delight.
"Listen," said Verty, taking down his old violin, with a smile,
"I will play one of the old tunes, which blow like a wind from my
childhood--happy childhood."
And the young man gazed for a moment, silent and motionless, into the
fire. Then he raised his old, battered instrument, and began to play
one of the wild madrigals of the border.
The music aroused Longears, who sat up, so to speak, upon his
forepaws, and with his head bent upon one side, gazed with dignified
and solemn interest at his master.
The young man smiled, and continued playing; and as the rude border
music floated from the instrument, the Verty of old days came back,
and he was once again the forest hunter.
The old woman gazed at him with thoughtful affection, and returned his
smile. He went on playing, and the long hours of the autumn night went
by like birds into the cloudland of the past.
When the forest boy ceased playing, it was nearly midnight, and the
brands were flickering and dying.
Waked by the silence, Longears, who had gone to sleep again, rose up,
and came and licked his master's hand, and whined. Verty caressed his
head, and laying down his violin, looked at the old Indian woman with
affectionate smiles, and murmured:
"We are happy still, _ma mere_!"
CHAPTER LXI.
MISTRESS O'CALLIGAN'S WOOERS.
It will be remembered that Mr. Jinks had summed up the probable
results of his deep laid schemes that morning when he returned from
Mistress O'Calligan's, in the strong and emphatic word-picture, "there
will be gory blood, sir!"
Now, while these words, strictly construed, are, perhaps, ambiguous,
from a certain redundancy in the arrangement, still, there is little
difficulty in determining what Mr. Jinks meant. Death and destruction
dwelt in his imagination, and held there a riotous carnival; and to
such a pitch of delight was our friend elevated by the triumphant
anticipation of revenge upon O'Brallaghan, that he stalked about
during the remaining portion of the day, talking to himself in the
heroic vein, and presenting the appearance of an imperial grasshopper,
arrived at the summit of felicity.
But Mr. Jinks was not idle; no one knew better than himself that
vigilance was the price paid for success; and to vigilance our
conspirator added cunning--in which noble trait he was by no means
deficient.
We have seen how, on returning from the heroic attack upon the
peace-bound O'Brallaghan, Mr. Jinks threw out a series of observations
which attracted the attention of the landlord at the tavern; and
we have further seen these two gentlemen retire together into the
hostelry, with significant looks and mutterings. Of the exact nature
of that interview we cannot speak, having nowhere discovered any
memoranda to guide us, in the authentic documents from which this
history is compiled.
But results define causes; and from after events it is not improbable
that Mr. Jinks made an eloquent and stirring oration, addressed after
the manner of all great orators to the prejudices of the auditor,
and indicative of Mr. Jinks' intention to overwhelm, with defeat and
destruction, the anti-Germanic league and pageant, on St. Michael's
day.
That day was very near, as we have seen; but twenty-four hours
remained for the conspirators to act in; and Mr. Jinks determined not
to lose the opportunity to perfect and render satisfactory his bloody
revenge.
Many things conspired to put him in high spirits, and arouse that
heroic confidence felt by all great men in undertaking arduous
affairs. The landlord had been so much pleased with Mr. Jinks'
patriotic ardor in the German cause, that he generously hinted at an
entire obliteration of any little score chalked up against the name
of Jinks for board and lodging at the hostelry; this was one of the
circumstances which inspirited Mr. Jinks. Another was the possession
of a steed--a donkey, it is true, but a donkey out of a thousand, _nee
pluribus impar_, and not unworthy of a knight in a great and exciting
contest.
Thus it happened that when, upon the following morning, Mr. Jinks
arose, assumed his garments, and descended, his face was radiant with
anticipated triumph, his sword clattered against his slender legs with
martial significance, and his brows were corrugated into a frown,
which indicated ruin to all those opposed to him.
Mounted upon Fodder, who was sleek and in high spirits, owing to a
good night's rest and a plentiful supply of his favorite provender,
Mr. Jinks remained for a moment irresolute before the door of the
hostelry, revolving in his mind various and conflicting thoughts of
love and war.
Should he go on his handsome animal, and enact the little drama, which
he had arranged in his mind, with Miss Sallianna at the Bower of
Nature? Should he, on this morning, advance to victory and revenge in
that direction? Or should he go and challenge his enemy, Verty, and
make his name glorious forever?
These conflicting ideas chased themselves through Mr. Jinks' mind, and
rendered him irresolute.
He was interrupted in the midst of them by a voice, laughing and
sonorous, which cried from the direction of the gateway:
"Hey, there! What now, Jinks'? What thoughts occupy your mind, my dear
fellow?"
And Ralph came out from the yard of the tavern, mounted upon his
handsome animal, as fresh and bright-looking as himself.
"I was reflecting, sir," said Mr. Jinks, "I have much to occupy me
to-day."
"Ah? Well, set about it--set about it! Don't you know that the great
element of success in life, from killing a mosquito to winning an
empress, is to strike at once, and at the right moment? Go on, Jinks,
my boy, and luck to you!"
"Thanks, sir," replied Mr. Jinks--"I hope I shall have luck."
"Of course, because you have genius! What is luck?" cried Ralph,
bending down to smooth the glossy neck of his animal, and laughing
gaily,--"why, nothing but a word! Luck, sir, is nothing--genius
everything. Luck throws her old shoe after, as says the proverb; but
genius catches it, and conquers. Come, you are good at everything, let
us have a race!"
"No, I thank you," said Mr. Jinks, drawing back; "I have business,
sir--important business, sir!"
"Have you?" said Ralph, restraining his desire to lay the lash of his
whip over Fodder's back, and so inaugurate a new Iliad of woes for Mr.
Jinks. "Then go on in your course, my dear fellow. I am going to see a
young lady, who really is beginning to annoy me."
And the mercurial young fellow passed from laughter to smiles, and
even to something suspiciously resembling a sigh.
"Farewell, my dear Jinks," he added, becoming gay again; "fortune
favors the brave, recollect. I wish I could believe it," he added,
laughing.
And touching his horse, Ralph set forward toward the Bower of Nature,
and consequently toward Miss Fanny.
"There goes a young man who is in love," said Mr. Jinks, with
philosophic dignity; "regularly caught by a pair of black eyes. Boy!"
added Mr. Jinks, after the manner of Coriolanus, "he don't know 'em as
I do. He's looking out for happiness--I for revenge!"
And Mr. Jinks scowled at a stable-boy until the terrified urchin hung
his head in awe, respect, and admiration. The great militaire was not
superior to humanity, and even this triumph elated him. He set forth,
therefore, on Fodder, feeling like a conqueror.
If this veracious history were a narrative of the life and adventures
of Mr. Jinks alone, we might follow the great conspirator in his
various movements on this eventful day. We might show how he
perambulated the town of Winchester on his noble steed, like a second
Don Quixote, mounted for the nonce upon the courser of Sancho Panza,
while Rosinante recovered from his bruises. Though the illustration
might fail if carried further, inasmuch as Mr. Jinks encountered no
windmills, and indeed met with no adventures worth relating, still
we might speak of his prying inquisition into every movement of the
hostile Irish--detail his smiling visits, in the character of spy,
to numerous domicils, and relate at length the manner in which he
procured the information which the noble knight desired. All this we
might do; but is it necessary? Not always does the great historic muse
fill up the flaws of story, leaving rather much to the imagination.
And in the present instance, we might justly be accused of undue
partiality. We are not sure that some of our kind readers might not go
further still, and declare in general terms, that none of Mr. Jinks'
adventures were worth telling--Mr. Jinks himself being a personage
wholly unworthy of attention.
To critics of this last description, we would say in deprecation of
their strictures--Friends, the world is made up of a number of odd
personages, as the animal kingdom is of singular, and not wholly
pleasant creatures. Just as the scarabaeus and the ugly insect are as
much a part of animated nature as the golden-winged butterfly, and
humming-bird, and noble eagle, so are the classes, represented
partly by our friend, as human as the greatest and the best. As the
naturalist, with laborious care, defines the characteristics of the
ugly insect, buzzing, and stinging, and preying on the weaker, so must
the writer give a portion of his attention to the microscopic bully,
braggart, and boasting coward of the human species. In the one case,
it is _science_--in the other, _art_.
But still we shall not give too much space to Mr. Jinks, and shall
proceed to detail very briefly the result of his explorations.
The great conspirator had, by the hour of eventide, procured all the
information he wished. That information led Mr. Jinks to believe that,
on the following day, the opposing races would turn out in numbers,
far exceeding those on any previous occasion. They would have a grand
pageant:--St. Patrick would meet St. Michael in deadly conflict, and
the result would undoubtedly overwhelm one of the combatants with
defeat, elevating the other to the summit of joy and victory.
It was Mr. Jinks' object to ensure the success of the worthy St.
Michael, and prostrate the great St. Patrick in the dust. But this was
not all. Mr. Jinks further desired to procure an adequate revenge upon
his friend O'Brallaghan. To overwhelm with defeat and dismay the party
to which his enemy belonged, was not enough--any common man could
invent so plain a course as that. It was Mr. Jinks' boast, privately,
and to himself be it understood, that he would arrange the details
of an original and refined revenge--a revenge which should, in equal
degree, break down the strength and spirit of his enemy, and elevate
the inventor to the niche of a great creative genius.
By the hour of nine that night all was arranged; and, after laboring
for an hour or more at some mysterious employment, in the secresy of
his apartment, Mr. Jinks descended, and ordered Fodder to be saddled.
Under his arm he carried a bundle of some size; and this bundle was
placed carefully before him on the animal.
This done, Mr. Jinks went forth cautiously into the night.
Let us follow him.
He proceeds carefully toward the western portion of the town; then
suddenly turns a corner, and goes northward; then changes his course,
and takes his way eastward. This is to throw enemies off the track.
Half an hour's ride brings him in the neighborhood of Mistress
O'Calligan's.
What does he hear? A voice singing;--the voice of no less a personage
than Mr. O'Brallaghan.
The conspirator retraces his steps for some distance--dismounts--ties
Fodder to a tree-trunk; and then, with his bundle under his arm,
creeps along in the shadow toward the cabin.
At Mrs. O'Calligan's door, sitting upon the railing, he perceives the
portly figure of Mr. O'Brallaghan, who is singing a song of his
own composition; not the ditty which has come down to modern times
connected with this gentleman's name--but another and more original
madrigal. The popular ditty, we have every reason to believe, was
afterwards written by Mr. Jinks, in derision and contempt of Mr.
O'Brallaghan.
Mr. Jinks creeps up; diabolical and gloomy thoughts agitate his soul;
and when a night-cap appears at an opening in the shutter, and a
fluttering voice exclaims, "Oh, now--really! Mr. O'Brallaghan," the
hidden spectator trembles with jealousy and rage.
A colloquy then ensues between the manly singer and the maiden,
which we need not repeat. It is enough to say, that Mr. O'Brallaghan
expresses disapprobation at the coldness of the lady.
The lady replies, that she respects and esteems Mr. O'Brallaghan, but
never, never can be his, owing to the fact that she is another's.
Mr. Jinks starts with joy, and shakes his fist--from the protecting
shadow--triumphantly at the poor defeated wooer.
The wooer, in turn, grows cold and defiant; he upbraids the lady; he
charges her with entertaining a passion for the rascal and coward
Jinks.
This causes the lady to repel the insulting accusation with hauteur.
Mr. O'Brallaghan thinks, and says, thereupon, that she is a cruel and
unnatural woman, and unworthy of affection or respect.
Mistress O'Calligan wishes, in reply, to know if Mr. O'Brallaghan
means to call her a woman.
Mr. O'Brallaghan replies that he does, and that if Mr. Jinks were
present, he would exterminate that gentleman, as some small exhibition
of the state of his feelings at being thus insulted by the worst and
most hard-hearted of her sex.
After which, Mr. O'Brallaghan clenches his hands with threatening
vehemence, and brushing by the concealed Jinks, who makes himself as
small as possible, disappears, muttering vengeance.
Mr. Jinks is happy, radiant, triumphant, and as he watches the
retreating wooer, his frame shakes with sombre merriment. Then he
turns toward the window, and laughs with cautious dignity.
The lady, who is just closing the window, starts and utters an
exclamation of affright. This, however, is disregarded by Mr. Jinks,
who draws near, and stands beneath the window.
Mistress O'Calligan considers it necessary to state that she is in
such a taking, and to ask who could have thought it. Mr. Jinks does
not directly reply to this question, but, reaching up, hands in the
bundle, and commences a whispered conversation. The lady is doubtful,
fearful--Mr. Jinks grows more eloquent. Finally, the lady melts, and
when Mr. Jinks clasps, rapturously, the red hand hanging out, he has
triumphed.
In fifteen minutes he is on his way back to the tavern, chuckling,
shaking, and triumphant.
All is prepared.
CHAPTER LXII.
VERTY MUSES.
Let us now leave the good old town of Winchester, and go into the
hills, where the brilliant autumn morning reigns, splendid and
vigorous.
In the hills! Happy is the man who knows what those words mean; for
only the mountain-born can understand them. Happy, then, let us say,
are the mountain-born! We will not underrate the glories of the
lowland and the Atlantic shore, or close our eyes to the wealth of the
sea. The man is blind who does not catch the subtle charm of the wild
waves glittering in the sun, or brooded over by the sullen storm; but
"nigh gravel blind" is that other, whose eyes are not open to the
grand beauty of the mountains. Let us not rhapsodize, or with this
little bit of yellow ore, venture to speak of the great piles of
grandeur from whose heart it was dug up. There is that about the
mountains, with their roaring diapason of the noble pines, their
rugged summits and far dying tints, purple, and gold, and azure, which
no painter could express, had the genius of Titian and Watteau, and
the atmosphere of Poussin, to speak over its creations. No! let them
speak for themselves as all great things must--happy is he, who, by
right of birth, can understand their noble voices!