The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

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!

Chapter Thirty One

A virgin Heart in Cipher

“Gone! and whither gone?” Half aloud, I soliloquised the interrogatory. There was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. The affair was altogether unexpected. Not anticipating that the squatter would leave his cabin before my return, I had made no inquiry either about his destination or future designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest clue as to whither he had gone. Nor should I have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance, but for the words of the Indian sibyl. Beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with Lilian – chagrin enough after such high-raised expectation – I should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. It would have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbour’s house – perhaps to that up the creek, where lived the “friend of Lilian’s father” – in all likelihood, the saint I had seen – or some other within a five-mile circuit. Or, if even ten miles distant, what would it matter to me? A ride of ten miles twice a day would be nothing – only an airing for my Arab. I should soon scent out the whereabouts of that sweet-smelling rose. Not all the forests in Tennessee could hide from me my fair blooming flower.

Such would have been my reflections, no doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. But her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into a ruder channel – “You may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late.”

Figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced within me a presentiment sufficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some temporary shelter under a neighbour’s roof, but a departure for a distant point. Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief – a conviction. Around me were circumstances corroborative of this view. The articles of furniture left behind, though rude, were still of a certain value – especially to a householder of Holt’s condition; and had the squatter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken them with him. Otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration.

Perhaps he intended to return for them? If so – but no: there was no probability of his doing so. I need not have tried to comfort myself with the reflection. The innuendoes of the Indian had already negatived the hope. Still vaguely indulging in it, however, I cast a glance around the room in search of some object that might guide my conjectures to a more definite conclusion.

While so employed, my eyes fell upon a piece of paper carelessly folded. It lay upon the rough table – the only object there, with the exception of some crumbs of corn-bread, and the débris of a tobacco-pipe. I recognised the piece of paper. It was an old acquaintance – the leaf from my memorandum-book – upon which was written that laconic “last will and testament,” jointly signed by the squatter and myself. On observing this paper upon the table, it did not occur to me, that it had been left there with any design. My reflection was, that the squatter had taken it from the stump, and carried it into the house – perhaps to shew it to his clerical visitor. No doubt, they had enjoyed a good laugh over it – as the souvenir of a ludicrous incident; and for this very reason I resolved upon preserving it.

I had taken the document in my hand, and was about depositing it in my pocket-book, when my eye was attracted by some fresh writing on the paper. A slight scrutiny of the recent cipher secured for the torn leaf a deeper interest than I had before felt in it: I saw that it was the chirography of a female hand. What other than the hand of Lilian? I thought of no other. Beyond doubt, her fingers had guided the pencil – for it was pencil-writing – and guided it so deftly, as to impress me with surprise and admiration. Astonished was I, that she – the child of a rude squatter – should be able to set down her ideas in so fair a hand – thoughts thrilling, though simply expressed.

Ah! sweet simple words! Trembled my own hand as I read them – trembled as from a spell of delirium – a delirium produced by the antagonistic emotions of grief and joy! Yes! both were present. In that simple inscript I had found cue for both: for there I learnt the ecstatic truth that I was beloved, and along with it the bitter intelligence, that my love was lost to me for ever! Words of welcome, and words of woe! how could they be thus commingled? Read them, and learn:

“To Edward Warfield, —

“Stranger! – It is to say farewell, but I am very sad as I write these words. When you asked me to promise to meet you again, I was happy, I said, Yes. O sir! it can never be! We are going to some far place, and shall be gone before you come here, and I shall never see you again. It is very distant, and I do not know the name of the country, for it is not in Tennessee, nor in the United States, but somewhere in the west, a long way beyond the Mississippi river and the great prairies; but it is a country where they dig gold out of the sand – perhaps you have heard of it, and might know it. I tried to know its name, but father is angry with me for speaking of you, and will not tell me; and our friend, that you saw, who is taking us with him, will not tell me either. But I shall find out soon, and if I thought you might like to know where we are gone, I would write to you. I am glad that mother taught me to write, though I do not compose very well; but if you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, from the first place we come to, to tell you the name of the country where we are going. I know your name, for it is upon this paper, and I hope you will not think I have done wrong, for I have written my own name beside it. O sir! I am very sad that I am not to see you any more, for I am afraid father will never come back. I could cry all night and all day, and I have cried a deal, but I am afraid of their seeing me, for both father and his friend have scolded me, and said a many things against you. I do not like to hear them say things against you; and for that reason I try not to let them know how very sorry I am that I am never to meet you any more. Brave stranger! you saved my life; but it is not that, I think, that makes me so unhappy now, but something else. You are so different from the others I have seen; and what you said to me was not like anything I ever heard before; your words sounded so sweet, and I could have listened to them for ever. I remember every one of them. And then I was so proud when you took the flower from me, and held it to your lips, for it made me think that you would be my friend. I have been very lonely since my sister Marian went away – she went with the man you saw. I hope to see her soon now, as she is somewhere out in the country where we are going to, but that will not make me happy, if I can never see you again.

“O sir! forgive me for writing all that I have written; but I thought from what you said to me you would not be displeased with me for it, and that is why I have written it. But I must write no more, for my eyes are full of tears, and I cannot see the paper. I hope you will not burn it, but keep it, to remember —

“Lilian Holt.”

Yes, Lilian! to the last hour of my life! Close to my bosom shall it lie – that simple souvenir of your maiden love. Sacred page! Transcript of sweet truth – hallowed by the first offerings of a virgin heart! Over, and over, and over again, I read the cipher – to me more touching than the wildest tale of romance. Alas! it was not all joy. There was more than a moiety of sadness, constantly increasing its measure. In another moment, the sadness overcame the joy. I tottered towards the chair, and dropped into it – my spirit completely prostrated by the conflicting emotions.

Chapter Thirty Two

A Word about Mormon Monsters

Not long did I remain under the mental paralysis. There was no time for idle repining. The intelligence, derived from the torn leaf, had given me a cue for action; and my spirit struggled to free itself from the lethargy of grief. Hope whispered the watchword, “Up and be doing!” and I arose to obey its mandate.

My heart was on fire – wildly, madly on fire. The contents of that epistle, while it imbued my spirit with the sweetest of all earthly pleasures, revealed to it the deadliest of dangers – imparting to it an anguish beyond expression. It told me far more than the writer herself knew – both of her love and what she had need to fear: for, in her guileless innocence, was she alike unconscious of the passion and the peril. Not so I. She had opened her heart before me. As on a printed page, I could trace its tender inclinings. Had this been all, I should have been happy – supremely happy. But, alas! that writing told me more: that she who had pencilled it was in deadly peril. No – not deadly: it was not of life; but of something fur dearer – to me a thousand times more dear – her virgin honour. Now comprehended I, in all their diabolical significance, those wild weird words: “The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer – the yellow fawn will be his victim!” Now knew I the wolf – a wolf disguised in the clothing of the lamb? It needed no remarkable acumen to tell to whom the figure referred. The writing itself revealed him – all but the name; and that was manifest by implication. The man with whom “Marian went away” – he whom I had seen in clerical garb and guise, was the wolf of the metaphor; and that man was Stebbins, the Mormon! With him, too, Lilian had gone away!

Not with words can I express the suggestive hideousness of this thought. To understand it in all its cruel significance, the reader should be acquainted with that peculiar sect – known as the “Church of Latter-Day Saints” – should have read its history and its chronicles. Without this knowledge, he will be ill able to comprehend the peculiar bitterness, that in that hour, wrapped and wrung my soul. Accident had made me acquainted with the Mormon religion; not with its tenets – for it has none – but with the moral idiosyncrasy of its most eminent “apostles,” as well as that of its humbler devotees – two very different classes of “Saints.”