when the missionary arose from his knees—for to that position he had unconsciously fallen—mary stood beside him, quiet and smiling.
“come, my child,” he said, taking mary by the hand, and leading her up from the ravine. “it is almost night, and you have wandered far from the island; see, the woods are already dusky. the birds and squirrels are settling down in the leaves; you would have been afraid to go home in the dark.”
“i might have been lost, but not afraid,” answered mary, in a sad voice; “after this, darkness will be my best friend.”
“but the forest is full of indians, mary, and now, since the english have excited them against us, no white person is safe after dark; i will go home with you; but, after this, promise me never to come alone to the woods again.”
“the indians will not harm me,” answered mary, with a mournful smile; “they pity me, i think, and love me a little, too. i am not afraid of them; their tomahawks are not so sharp as jason wintermoot’s words were this morning.”
as she spoke there was a rustling among the bushes at their right, and through the purple gloom of the woods they saw a group of indians crouching behind a rock, and glaring at them through the undergrowth. one had his rifle lifted with a dusky hand, creeping towards the rock; the others were poised for a spring. 16mary saw them, and leaped upon a rock close by, protecting the missionary from the aim taken at his life.
“not him—not him!” she cried, flinging up both arms in wild appeal; “shoot me! you don’t know how i long to die.”
the indians looked at each other in dismay. the threatening rifle fell with a clang upon the rock, and instead of an assault the savages crept out from their ambush, lighting up the dusky ravine with their gorgeous war-dresses, and gathered around the young girl, like a flock of tropical birds surrendering themselves to the charms of a serpent.
mary met them fearlessly; a wild, spiritual beauty lighted up her face. the indians lost their ferocity, and looked on her with grave tenderness; one of them reached forth his hand, she laid hers in the swarthy palm, where it rested like a snowdrop on the brown earth; he looked down upon it, and smiled; her courage charmed him.
“the white bird is brave, the great spirit folds his wing over her which is pure like the snow,” he said, addressing his companions in their own language.
mary knew a little of the shawnee tongue, and looking up at the savage said, very gently:
“why harm my father? the great spirit covers him, also, with a wing which is broad and white, like the clouds. look in his face. is he afraid?”
the indians drew back, and looked fiercely at the missionary, gathering up their rifles with menacing gestures.
he understood their language well, and spoke to them with that calm self-possession which gives dignity to courage.
“my children,” he said, “what wrong have i done that you should wish to kill me?”
the leading savage set down his gun with a clang upon the rock.
17“you have sat by the white man’s council-fire down yonder. the great father over the big water is our friend, but you hate the indian, and will help them drive us through the wind gap into strange hunting grounds.”
“i am not your enemy. see, i carry no tomahawk or musket; my bosom is open to your knives. the great spirit has sent me here, and he will keep me free from harm.”
unconsciously the missionary looked at the deformed girl as he spoke. the indians followed his glance, and changed their defiant gestures.
“he speaks well. mineto has sent his beautiful medicine spirit to guard him from our rifles. the medicine father of the shawnees is dead, his lodge is empty. the white bird shall be our prophet. you shall be her brother, live in the great medicine lodge, and dream our dreams for us when we take the warpath. do we speak well?”
the missionary pondered a moment before he spoke. he read more in these words than one not acquainted with indian customs might have understood.
“yes,” he said at last, “i will come to your medicine lodge, and tell you all the dreams which the great spirit sends to me. she, too, will love the indians, and dream holy dreams for them, but not here, not in the medicine lodge. she must stay in monockonok among the broken waters. the great spirit has built her lodge there, under the tall trees, where the indians can seek her in their canoes. go back to your council-fire, my children, before its smoke goes out. i will light the calumet, and smoke with you. now the great spirit tells me to go with this child back to monockonok. farewell.”
he took mary derwent by the hand, turned his back on the menacing rifles without fear, and walked away unmolested.
18mary had wandered miles away from home; nothing but the superior knowledge of her guardian could have found her way back through all that dense and unequal forest. it was now almost nightfall; but a full moon had risen, and by its light this man, accustomed to the woods, guided their way back towards the river. but after the wildest of her excitement had worn away, mary began to feel the toil of her long walk. she did not complain, however, and the missionary was unconscious of this overtax of strength till she sank down on a broken fragment of rock utterly exhausted. he stopped in great distress, and bent over her. she smiled, and attempted to speak, but the pale lids drooped over her eyes, and the strength ebbing completely from her limbs left them pale and limp. she lay before him entirely senseless, with the moonbeams falling over her like a winding-sheet.
nothing but the angels of heaven could see or understand the look of unutterable thankfulness which came to his noble features as the missionary stooped and took the young girl in his arms. a smile luminous as the moonlight that played upon it stole over his whole face, and the words that broke from his lips were sweet and tender, such as the madonna might have whispered to her holy child.
he took no pains to bring her back to life, but when she did come to, soothed her with hushes, and laid her head tenderly upon his shoulder till she fell asleep, smiling like himself.
as he came in sight of monockonok a swell of regretful tenderness swept all his strength away more surely than fatigue could have done. he sat down upon a fallen tree on the bank just opposite the island and looked down into the sweet face with a gaze of heavenly affection. his head drooped slowly down, he folded her closer, and pressed his lips upon the closed eyes, the forehead, the lips, and cheeks of the 19sleeping child with a passion of tenderness that shook his whole frame.
“oh, my god, my god! forgive me if this is sinful! my soul aches under this excess of love; the very fountains of my life are breaking up! father of heaven, i am thine, all thine, but she is here on my breast, and i am but human.”
deep sobs broke away from his heart, almost lifting her from his bosom; tears rained down his face, and dropped thick and fast amid the waves of her hair.
his sobs aroused mary from her slumber. she was not quite awake, but stirred softly and folded her arms about his neck. how the strong man trembled under the clasp of those arms! how he struggled and wrested against the weakness that had almost overpowered him, and not in vain! a canoe was moored under a clump of alders, just below him. it belonged to the island, and in that mary must be borne to her home. he was obliged to row the canoe, and of course must awake her. once more he pressed his lips upon her face, once more he strained her to his heart, and then with loving violence aroused her.
“mary—come, little one, wake up, wake up! see how late it is! grandmother will be frightened.”
“let me alone—oh! please let me alone!” murmured the weary child.
“no, mary, arouse yourself; you and i have slept and dreamed too long. there, there! look around. see how the moonlight ripples upon the river! look at the island; there is a light burning in the cabin. they are anxious no doubt at your long stay. come, child, let us be strong: surely you can walk to the river’s brink.”
yes, mary could walk again; that sweet sleep had given back her strength. she sat down in the canoe, tranquilized and happier than she had ever hoped to be again. the bitterness of the morning had entirely 20passed away. they floated on down the river a few minutes. then the missionary bent to his oars, and the canoe shot across the silvery rapids, and drew up in a little cove below the house.
the missionary stepped on shore. mary followed him.
“are you happier now? are you content to live as god wills it?” he said, extending his hand, while his eyes beamed upon her.
“yes, father, i am content.”
“to live even without earthly love?”
mary shrunk within herself—it takes more than a few words, a struggle, or a single prayer to uproot a desire for human love from a woman’s heart.
he did not reason with her, or upbraid her then, but only said:
“god will find a way—have no fear, all human beings have some road to happiness if they will but let the heavenly father point it out. good-night mary.”
“good-night,” responded the young girl, while her eyes filled with grateful tears; “good-night, my father!”
he turned around, laid his hands on her head, and blessed her, then stepped into the canoe and disappeared along the path of silver cast downward by the moon. the young girl smiled amid her tears. how dark it was when he found her at noontide; how bright when he went away!
mary derwent entered that log-cabin a changed being. she scarcely understood herself, or anything that had filled her life up to that day. her own nature was inexplicable. one great shock had thrust her forward, as it were, to a maturity of suffering; her smile became mournful and sad in its expression, as if the poor creature had become weary of life and of all living things. she never again joined in the childish sports of her companions.
