Wacousta (53 page)

SEVEN

With the general position of the encampment of the investing Indians, the reader has been made acquainted through the narrative of Captain de Haldimar. It was, as has been shown, situate in a sort of oasis close within the verge of the forest, and (girt by an intervening underwood which Nature, in her caprice, had fashioned after the manner of a defensive barrier) embraced a space sufficient to contain the tents of the fighting men, together with their women and children. This, however, included only the warriors and inferior chiefs. The tents of the leaders were without the belt of underwood, and principally distributed at long intervals on that side of the forest which skirted the open country towards the river; forming, as it were, a chain of external defences, and sweeping in a semicircular direction round the more dense encampment of their followers. At its highest elevation the forest shot out suddenly into a point, naturally enough rendered an object of attraction from whatever part it was commanded.

Darkness was already beginning to spread her mantle over the intervening space, and the night fires of the Indians
were kindling into brightness, glimmering occasionally through the wood with that pale and lambent light peculiar to the fire-fly, of which they offered a not inapt representation, when suddenly a lofty tent, the brilliant whiteness of which was thrown into strong relief by the dark field on which it reposed, was seen to rise at a few paces from the abrupt point in the forest just described, and on the extreme summit of a ridge, beyond which lay only the western horizon in golden perspective.

The opening of this tent looked eastward and towards the fort; and on its extreme summit floated a dark flag, which at intervals spread itself before the slight evening breeze, but oftener hung drooping and heavily over the glittering canvass. One solitary pine, whose trunk exceeded not the ordinary thickness of a man’s waist, and standing out as a landmark on the ridge, rose at the distance of a few feet from the spot on which the tent had been erected; and to this was bound the tall and elegant figure of one dressed in the coarse garb of a sailor. The arms and legs of this individual were perfectly free; but a strong rope, rendered doubly secure after the manner of what is termed “whipping” among seamen, after having been tightly drawn several times around his waist, and then firmly knotted behind, was again passed round the tree, to which the back of the prisoner was closely lashed; thus enabling, or rather compelling, him to be a spectator of every object within the tent.

Layers of bark, over which were spread the dressed skins of the bear and the buffalo, formed the floor and carpet of the latter; and on these, in various parts, and in characteristic attitudes, reposed the forms of three human beings;–one, the formidable warrior of the Fleur de lis. Attired in the garb in which we first introduced him to our readers, and with the same weapons reposing at his side, the haughty savage lay at his lazy length; his feet reaching beyond the opening of the
tent, and his head reposing on a rude pillow formed of a closely compressed pack of skins of wild animals, over which was spread a sort of mantle or blanket. One hand was introduced between the pillow and his head, the other grasped the pipe tomahawk he was smoking; and while the mechanical play of his right foot indicated pre-occupation of thought, his quick and meaning eye glanced frequently and alternately upon the furthest of his companions, the prisoner without, and the distant fort.

Within a few feet of the warrior lay, extended on a buffalo skin, the delicate figure of a female, whose hair, complexion, and hands, denoted her European extraction. Her dress was entirely Indian, however; consisting of a machecoti with leggings, moccasins, and shirt of printed cotton studded with silver brooches,–all of which were of a quality and texture to mark the wearer as the wife of a chief; and her fair hair, done up in a club behind, reposed on a neck of dazzling whiteness. Her eyes were large, blue, but wild and unmeaning; her countenance vacant; and her movements altogether mechanical. A wooden bowl filled with hominy,–a preparation of Indian corn,–was at her side; and from this she was now in the act of feeding herself with a spoon of the same material, but with a negligence and slovenliness that betrayed her almost utter unconsciousness of the action.

At the further side of the tent there was another woman, even more delicate in appearance than the one last mentioned. She, too, was blue-eyed, and of surpassing fairness of skin. Her attitude denoted a mind too powerfully absorbed in grief to be heedful of appearances; for she sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, and rocking her body to and fro with an undulating motion that seemed to have its origin in no effort of volition of her own. Her long fair hair hung negligently over
her shoulders; and a blanket drawn over the top of her head like a veil, and extending partly over the person, disclosed here and there portions of an apparel which was strictly European, although rent, and exhibiting in various places stains of blood. A bowl similar to that of her companion, and filled with the same food, was at her side; but this was untasted.

“Why does the girl refuse to eat?” asked the warrior of her next him, as he fiercely rolled a volume of smoke from his lips. “Make her eat, for I would speak to her afterwards.”

“Why does the girl refuse to eat?” responded the woman in the same tone, dropping her spoon as she spoke, and turning to the object of remark with a vacant look. “It is good,” she pursued, as she rudely shook the arm of the heedless sufferer. “Come girl, eat.”

A shriek burst from the lips of the unhappy girl, as, apparently roused from her abstraction, she suffered the blanket to fall from her head, and staring wildly at her questioner, faintly demanded,–

“Who, in the name of mercy, are you, who address me in this horrid place in my own tongue? Speak; who are you? Surely I should know that voice for that of Ellen, the wife of Frank Halloway!”

A maniac laugh was uttered by the wretched woman. This continued offensively for a moment; and she observed, in an infuriated tone and with a searching eye,–“No, I am not the wife of Halloway. It is false. I am the wife of Wacousta. This is my husband!” and as she spoke she sprang nimbly to her feet, and was in the next instant lying prostrate on the form of the warrior; her arms thrown wildly around him, and her lips imprinting kisses on his cheek.

But Wacousta was in no mood to suffer her endearments. He for the first time seemed alive to the presence of her who
lay beyond, and to whose whole appearance a character of animation had been imparted by the temporary excitement of her feelings. He gazed at her a moment, with the air of one endeavouring to recal the memory of days long gone by; and as he continued to do so, his eye dilated, his chest heaved, and his countenance alternately flushed and paled. At length he threw the form that reposed upon his own, violently, and even savagely, from him; sprang eagerly to his feet; and clearing the space that divided him from the object of his attention at a single step, bore her from the earth in his arms with as much ease as if she had been an infant, and then returning to his own rude couch, placed his horror-stricken victim at his side.

“Nay, nay,” he urged sarcastically, as she vainly struggled to free herself, “let the De Haldimar portion of your blood rise up in anger if it will; but that of Clara Beverley, at least ____”

“Gracious Providence! where am I, that I hear the name of my sainted mother thus familiarly pronounced?” interrupted the startled girl; “and who are you,”–turning her eyes wildly on the swarthy countenance of the warrior,–“who are you, I ask, who, with the mien and in the garb of a savage of these forests, appear thus acquainted with her name?”

The warrior passed his hand across his brow for a moment, as if some painful and intolerable reflection had been called up by the question; but he speedily recovered his self-possession, and, with an expression of feature that almost petrified his auditor, vehemently observed,–

“You ask who I am! One who knew your mother long before the accursed name of De Haldimar had even been whispered in her ear; and whom love for the one and hatred for the other has rendered the savage you now behold! But,” he continued, while a fierce and hideous smile lighted up every feature, “I overlook my past sufferings in my present
happiness. The image of Clara Beverley, even such as my soul loved her in its youth, is once more before me in her child;
that
child shall be my wife!”

“Your wife! monster;–never!” shrieked the unhappy girl, again vainly attempting to disengage herself from the encircling arm of the savage. “But,” she pursued, in a tone of supplication, while the tears coursed each other down her cheek, “if you ever loved my mother, as you say you have, restore her children to their home; and, if saints may be permitted to look down from heaven in approval of the acts of men, she whom you have loved will bless you for the deed.”

A deep groan burst from the vast chest of Wacousta; but, for a moment, he answered not. At length he observed, pointing at the same time with his finger towards the cloudless vault above their heads,–“Do you behold yon blue sky, Clara de Haldimar?”

“I do;–what mean you?” demanded the trembling girl, in whom a momentary hope had been excited by the subdued manner of the savage.

“Nothing,” he coolly rejoined; “only that were your mother to appear there at this moment, clad in all the attributes ascribed to angels, her prayer would not alter the destiny that awaits you. Nay, nay; look not thus sorrowfully,” he pursued, as, in despite of her efforts to prevent him, he imprinted a burning kiss upon her lips. “Even thus was I once wont to linger on the lips of your mother; but hers ever pouted to be pressed by mine; and not with tears, but with sunniest smiles, did she court them.” He paused; bent his head over the face of the shuddering girl; and gazing fixedly for a few minutes on her countenance, while he pressed her struggling form more closely to his own, exultingly pursued, as if to himself,–“Even as her mother was, so is she. Ye powers of hell! who would have ever
thought a time would come when both my vengeance and my love would be gratified to the utmost? How strange it never should have occurred to me he had a daughter!”

“What mean you, fierce, unpitying man?” exclaimed the terrified Clara, to whom a full sense of the horror of her position had lent unusual energy of character. “Surely you will not detain a poor defenceless woman in your hands,–the child of her you say you have loved. But it is false!–you never knew her, or you would not now reject my prayer.”

“Never knew her!” fiercely repeated Wacousta. Again he paused. “Would I had never known her! and I should not now be the outcast wretch I am,” he added, slowly and impressively. Then once more elevating his voice,–“Clara de Haldimar, I have loved your mother as man never loved woman; and I have hated your father” (grinding his teeth with fury as he spoke) “as man never hated man. That love, that hatred are unquenched–unquenchable. Before me I see at once the image of her who, even in death, has lived enshrined in my heart, and the child of him who is my bitterest foe. Clara de Haldimar, do you understand me now?”

“Almighty Providence! is there no one to save me?–can nothing touch your stubborn heart?” exclaimed the affrighted girl; and she turned her swimming eyes on those of the warrior, in appeal; but his glance caused her own to sink in confusion. “Ellen Halloway,” she pursued, after a moment’s pause, and in the wild accents of despair, “if you are indeed the wife of this man, as you say you are, oh! plead for me with him; and in the name of that kindness, which I once extended to yourself, prevail on him to restore me to my father!”

“Ellen Halloway!–who calls Ellen Halloway?” said the wretched woman, who had again resumed her slovenly meal on the rude couch, apparently without consciousness of the
scene enacting at her side. “I am not Ellen Halloway: they said so; but it is not true. My husband was Reginald Morton: but he went for a soldier, and was killed; and I never saw him more.”

“Reginald Morton! What mean you, woman?–What know you of Reginald Morton?” demanded Wacousta, with frightful energy, as, leaning over the shrinking form of Clara, he violently grasped and shook the shoulder of the unhappy maniac.

“Stop; do not hurt me, and I will tell you all, sir,” she almost screamed. “Oh, sir, Reginald Morton was my husband once; but he was kinder than you are. He did not look so fiercely at me; nor did he pinch me so.”

“What of him?–who was he?” furiously repeated Wacousta, as he again impatiently shook the arm of the wretched Ellen. “Where did you know him?–Whence came he?”

“Nay, you must not be jealous of poor Reginald:” and, as she uttered these words in a softening and conciliating tone, her eye was turned upon those of the warrior with a mingled expression of fear and cunning. “But he was very good and very handsome, and generous; and we lived near each other, and we loved each other at first sight. But his family were very proud, and they quarrelled with him because he married me; and then we became very poor, and Reginald went for a soldier, and ____; but I forget the rest, it is so long ago.” She pressed her hand to her brow, and sank her head upon her chest.

“Ellen, woman, again I ask you where he came from? this Reginald Morton that you have named. To what country did he belong?”

“Oh, we were both Cornish,” she answered, with a vivacity singularly in contrast with her recent low and monotonous tone; “but, as I said before, he was of a great family, and I only a poor clergyman’s daughter.”

“Cornish!–Cornish, did you say?” fiercely repeated the dark Wacousta, while an expression of loathing and disgust seemed for a moment to convulse his features; “then is it as I had feared. One word more. Was the family seat called Morton Castle?”

“It was,” unhesitatingly returned the poor woman, yet with the air of one wondering to hear a name repeated, long forgotten even by herself. “It was a beautiful castle too, on a lovely ridge of hills; and it commanded such a nice view of the sea, close to the little port of ____; and the parsonage stood in such a sweet valley, close under the castle; and we were all so happy.” She paused, again put her hand to her brow, and pressed it with force, as if endeavouring to pursue the chain of connection in her memory, but evidently without success.