CHAPTER XXXIII.

We must now return to the scene in which this narrative commenced. But oh, how changed was the aspect of all things from that which the house of Mr. Prevost presented but five short months before! The father and the daughter were there alone. The brother no longer glanced about the house with his blithesome air and active energies; and the thought of him and of his fate hung continually like a dark shadow over those to whom he was so dear. They were not wholly without comfort, they were not wholly without hope; for, from time to time, renewed assurances came to them from many a quarter that Walter would still be saved. Yet time wore on, and he was not delivered.

When one speaks of five months of uncertainty, it seems a long and tedious period, and it would be so if it were all one blank; but there are a thousand little incidents--incidents external and internal--that fill up the time, and make it pass wonderfully soon, especially if fear predominates over hope.

Didst thou ever sit up, reader, with the sick or dying through the livelong night? In contemplation, it seems an awful task of long endurance to watch there with the eternal battle going on in your breast between the only two deathless passions--the only two which may be called the immortal passions of the soul--from the fading of the evening light till the breaking of another day. And yet it is wonderful how soon, how very soon, one sees the faint blue light of dawn mingling with the sickly yellow glare of the watcher's lamp. Every thought, every expectation, is an incident. The change of breathing, the restless movement, the muttered word, the whispered comfort, the moistening of the parched lip, the smoothing of the pillow,--all are events that hurry on the time.

And so it was in the house of Mr. Prevost. Each day had its something; each hour; and although the object was always the same, or rarely varied, yet the rapid changes of thought and feeling made the time fly far more rapidly than might have been expected.

During the winter, Lord H---- visited the house very frequently; and it is probable that, had no dark cloud overshadowed the hopes as well as the happiness of all, he would have pressed for the prize of Edith's hand without delay; but he loved not the mingling of joy and sorrow. In that, at least, his view of the world, and life, and fate, was deceitful. He was not yet convinced, although he had some experience, that such a thing as unalloyed happiness, even for a few short days, is not to be found on earth--that the only mine of gold without dross lies beneath the grave.

Once, indeed, he hinted, rather than asked, that an early day might be fixed for his union with her he loved; but a tear rose in Edith's eye, and she bent down her head. Her father would have made no objection, although he still thought her very, very young to take upon her the duties of a wife. In that respect his feelings were not changed; but the loss of his son weighed heavily upon him, and, calling him away from the present, had projected his thoughts into the future. What might be Edith's fate, he asked himself, if he too should be taken from her? Any of the many accidents of life might leave her alone, and an orphan; and there is nothing which brings home so sensibly to our thoughts the unstable hold which we have upon all earthly things, so much as our tenderness for those we love.

But Lord H---- saw that it would be painful to Edith herself to become his bride as long as Walter's late was uncertain; and he said no more.

In the meantime the gathering together of the British soldiers on the Hudson and the Mohawk had, like one wave meeting another, somewhat repelled the Indian tribes. A runner, a half-breed, or one or two red men together--more frequently from the nation of the Mohawks than from any other tribe--would be seen occasionally wandering through the woods or crossing the open ground near the settler's dwelling; but they seldom approached the house; and their appearance caused no apprehension. Relations of the greatest amity had been re-established between the British authorities and the chiefs of the Five Nations; and several of the tribes were preparing to take part in the coming strife upon the side of England.

Three times during the winter the house of Mr. Prevost was visited by a single Indian of the Oneida tribe. On two occasions it was a man who presented himself; and his stay was very short. On the first occasion, Edith was alone; when, without the sound of a footfall, he glided in like a dark shadow. His look was friendly, though for a moment he said nothing. Edith, well knowing Indian habits, asked if he would take food. He answered "Yes," in his own language; and she called some of the servants to supply him; but, before he ate he looked up in her face, saying--

"I am bidden to tell thee that thy brother shall be safe."

"Whose words do you bear?" asked Edith. "Is it the Black Eagle who speaks?"

"Nay, it is Otaitsa," replied the man.

This was all Edith could learn; for the messenger was either ignorant of more, or affected to be so; yet still it was a comfort to her. The next who came was a woman somewhat past the middle age, and by no means beautiful. She stayed long; and, with good-humoured volubility, related all that had happened immediately after Edith's visit to the Oneida castle. She dwelt upon the attempt of the Blossom to deliver her lover as she would have expatiated upon some feat of daring courage in a warrior; and though in the end she had to tell how the maiden's bold attempt had been frustrated, she concluded by saying--

"Yet he shall be safe. They shall not slay our brother."

The third time the man returned, hearing the same assurance; but, as hour after hour and day after day went by without the lad's return, or any definite news of him, hope sickened and grew faint. By this time it was known that the efforts of the Mohawks and Onondagas had been frustrated; and, moreover, it was plainly intimated by the chiefs of those two nations that they would interfere no more.

"The Oneidas have reproved us," they said, "and we had no reply. We must not make the children of the Stone hiss at our children; neither must we break the bands of our alliance for the sake of one man."

The scouts who had been put under the order of Woodchuck were recalled to the army early in the spring without having effected anything. All that had been heard at the forts showed that the young prisoner had been removed to the very farthest part of the Oneida territory, where it was impossible for any one Englishman to penetrate without being discovered by the Indians.

If, in civilized times, with a country cleared in a great degree of its forests, and with a regular organization ensuring rapid intercourse between place and place, it is possible for a man to be hidden for weeks and months from the most diligent search; how much more easy was concealment in those days, when, with the exception of a few patches of maize or other grain, the whole land was one wild tangled wood, crossed, it is true, with innumerable Indian trails, but with no direct means of communication, except by one large road, and the lakes and rivers. Search would have been in vain, even if in the political state of the country it could have been attempted; but the attempt was impossible, without rendering the whole country hostile; for the Mohawks themselves showed no inclination to suffer any considerable body of men to cross their territory, except indeed a small party of soldiers, now and then, destined to strengthen the garrisons at Oswego, or any of the regular British posts.

Of Woodchuck himself, nothing was heard, till the flowers began to spring up close upon the footsteps of the snow. It was believed that he was still in the forest; but even of this, no one was assured; and all that could with any accuracy be divined, was, that he had not fallen into the hands of the Oneidas, inasmuch as there was every reason to believe that, had such been the case, Walter's liberation would immediately have followed.

Thus matters had gone on in the household of Mr. Prevost, till about a month before the period at which I have thought best to present to the reader the three Indians seated on the hill. The snow had melted, except in a few places, where it still lay in white patches, under shelter of the darker and thicker-leaved evergreens; here and there, too, it might be seen in the shade of a steep bank; but the general surface of the country was free, and, despite, the variable character of the American spring--one day as soft as summer, and then two or three following, with the icy fang of winter in the wind, and the sky covered with low lurid clouds--the flowers were peeping out in every covert, and mingling themselves thickly with fern, and ground-pine, and hemlock, varying with many a brilliant hue the green carpet of the earth.

The day had been one of exceeding loveliness, and not without its activity too; for a party of soldiers had been thrown forward, for some object, to a spot within a mile and a half of the house; and Lord H---- had been twice there, making Edith's heart thrill, each time he appeared, with emotions so new and strange as to set her dreaming for an hour after he was gone. The evening had come, bringing with it some clouds in the western sky; and Edith, as she sat with her father, looked out from the window, with her head resting on her hand.

No one knows the full weight of a great predominant idea, till he has had to bear one up for weeks or months--no one can tell how it crushes one down, seems to resolve all other things into itself, and almost, like the giant in the child's fable, to grind one's bones to make its bread. The sweet reverie of a lover's visit had passed away, and the beautiful girl's thoughts had reverted to the subject of her brother's fate, which took hold of her the moment her mind was free from some temporary relaxation, and again chained the slave to the accustomed task.

As she gazed, she perceived a figure slowly crossing between the gardener-boy and old Agrippa, who were working in the gardens, and apparently taking its course to the door of the house. At first she did not recognise it, for it was more like an Indian than a European, and more like a bear than either. It had a human face, however; and, as it came forward, an impression, first faint, but increasing with every step it advanced, took possession of her, that it must be the man whose fatal act had brought so much wretchedness upon her family. He was very much--very sadly--changed; and, although the bear-skins in which he was dressed hid the emaciation of his form, the meagreness of his face was very evident as he came near.

Edith lifted her head from her hand, saying, "I think, my father, here is Captain Brooks approaching. Poor man! he seems terribly changed!"

Mr. Prevost started up, gazed for a moment from the window, and then hurried forth to meet him. Edith felt some doubt as to how her father would receive him; for, in the purest and the highest hearts, there is--there ever will be--one small drop of selfishness much to be guarded against. It may not poison our acts, but it too often poisons our feelings; it mingles even with candour itself, diminishing the efficacy of that most noble of virtues; and if it do not make us detract from the merit of others, it still gives some slight colouring to their acts when they are painful or disadvantageous to ourselves.

She had the happiness, however, to see her father take the wanderer kindly by the hand, and lead him towards the door. Whatever had been Mr. Prevost's feelings, the sight of Woodchuck's altered face was enough to soften them entirely. The next moment they entered the room together, and Edith extended her hand kindly to him.

"Ah, Miss Prevost, you are very good," he said, "and so is your father, too. I have not been to see you for a long time."

"That was not right of Woodchuck," said Edith; "you should have come to see us. We know all you have been trying to do for my poor brother. If you cannot succeed, it is not your fault, and we should have been glad to see you, both for your own sake, and for the sake of hearing all your proceedings as they occurred."

"Ah, but I have been far away," he answered. "I first tried to get at the poor boy from this side, and, finding that would not do, I took a long round, and came upon them from the west, but I got nothing except some information, and then I made up my mind. Them Ingians are as cunning as Satan. I have circumvented them once; but they won't let a man do it twice."

Mr. Prevost had stood listening, eager to hear anything that related to his son; but now he interrupted, saying: "We will hear more of this by-and-by, Brooks. Come into the hall and have some food; you must be hungry and tired--both, I am sure."

"No," replied Woodchuck, "I am not hungry. Tired, a little, I am, I guess, though I hav'n't walked more than forty miles; but I met a young Ingian two or three hours ago, who gave me a venison-steak off his own fire. Some rest will set all to rights."

"Take some wine, at least," said Mr. Prevost; "that will do you good; you look quite faint."

"Faint in limb, but not in heart," replied Woodchuck, stoutly. "However, I won't refuse the wine; for it was given to cheer the heart of man--as the Bible says; and mine wants cheering, though it does not want strengthening, for I'll do what I say, as I am a living man."

They took him into the hall, and persuaded him both to eat and to drink, evidently much to his benefit; for, though he did not lose the sad tone with which he spoke, his voice was stronger, and his features seemed to grow less sharp.

"And where have you been ever since this snow has been on the ground?" asked Edith, when he seemed a little revived; "you cannot, surely, have been wandering in the woods during the terribly severe weather we had in January."

"I hutted myself down," he said, "like an Ingian, or a beaver, and covered the lodge all over with snow. I planted it upon a ledge of rock, with its mouth close behind an old hemlock-tree, and made it white all over, so that they would have been worse than devils to find me; for life is sweet, Miss Prevost, even in winter time, and I did not wish to be tomahawked so long as I could help it."

"You must have had a sad, desolate time, I fear," said Mr. Prevost; "at least, till the spring came round."

"I guess it warn't very cheerful," answered Woodchuck; "but that's the best way to teach one's-self not to care for what's coming. At least, I used to think so once, and to believe that if a man could only make himself very miserable in this world, he would not much care how soon he went out of it. But I've changed my opinion on that matter a little; for up there, on the side of the hill, after four or five weeks, half famished and half frozen, I did not feel a bit more inclined to die than I did a year ago, when there were few lighter-hearted men than myself. So I thought, before I did anything of the kind, knowing that there was no need of it just yet, I would just go and take a ramble among the mountains in the fine weather, like Jephtha's daughter."

His words would have been enigmas to Edith, had she not somewhat misunderstood even their obvious meaning; for Lord H----, not fully knowing the character of the man, and unwilling to excite anything like confident hope, that might ultimately be disappointed by some change of Woodchuck's feelings, had forborne to mention more of his purposes than the mere fact of his intention to peril his own life to save that of Walter Prevost. To Edith, then, the words used by Brooks seemed but to imply that he still contemplated some daring attempt to set her brother at liberty; and, in the hope, if she could learn the particulars of his scheme, to be able to procure the co-operation of Otaitsa and others in the Oneida Castle, she said,--

"You are, indeed, a good kind friend, Woodchuck; and you have, I know, already undergone great risks for poor Walter's sake. There are others labouring for him, too; and, perhaps, if we knew what you intended to do next--"

"To do next!" echoed the man, interrupting her. "Why, ha'n't I told you? I said, when I found I couldn't git in from the west, I made up my mind."

"To do what, my good friend?" said Mr. Prevost. "You certainly implied you intended to do something; but what you did not state. Now I easily understand Edith's anxiety to know your intentions; for we have obtained friends in the Oneida camp, who might give great assistance to your efforts, if we knew what they are to be. But I should tell you, my dear daughter ventured across the Mohawk country to see our dear little Otaitsa, who, like you, risked her own life to save my poor boy--God's blessing be upon her!"

The tears rose in his eyes, and he paused for a moment. But Woodchuck waved his hand, saying--

"I know all about it. I war on the bank of the creek, Miss Edith, when the Ingian woman paddled you back; and I guessed how it had all been. I said to myself, when I heard more of it two days arter. 'Her father will be mighty angry;' and so he war, I guess."

"You are mistaken, my friend," said Mr. Prevost, laying his hand on Edith's with a tender pressure. "I was not angry, though I was much alarmed; but that alarm was not of long endurance, for I was detained much more than I expected at Sir William Johnson's, and my anxiety was only protracted two days after my return. Still you have not told us your plans. If that dear girl, Otaitsa, can help us, she will do it, though it cost her life."

Woodchuck paused a moment or two in deep, absent thought, and over his rough countenance the trace of many strong emotions flitted. At length, he said, in a low, distinct voice, "She can do nothing. Black Eagle has the boy under his keen eye. He loves him well, Mr. Prevost; and he will treat him kindly. But just inasmuch as he _does_ love him, he will make it a point to keep him safely, and to kill him too, if he haven't got another victim. That man should ha' been one of them old Romans I have heard talk of, who killed their sons and daughters, rather than not do what they thought right. He'd not spare his own flesh and blood--not he; and the more-he loves him, the surer he'll kill him."

Edith wept, and Mr. Prevost covered his eyes with his hands; but Woodchuck, who had been gazing down upon the table, and saw not the powerful emotions which his words had produced, proceeded, after a gloomy pause--

"He'll watch his daughter sharply too. Yet they say he praised her daring; and I guess he did, for that's just the sort of thing to strike his fancy; but he'll take care she shan't do it again. No, no. There's but one way with Black Eagle. I know him well, and he knows me, and there is but one way with him."

"What is that?" asked Mr. Prevost, in a tone of deep melancholy.

"Just to do what I intend," returned Woodchuck, with a very calm manner. "Mr. Prevost, I love my life as well as any man--a little too much, mayhap; and I intend to keep it as long as I rightly can, for there are always things wrote in that chapter of accidents that none on us can see. But I don't intend to let your son Walter--he's a good boy--be put to death for a thing of my doing. You don't suppose it. At first, when the thing came fresh upon me at Albany, I felt mighty like a fool and a coward; and I would ha' skulked away into any hole just to save myself from myself. But I soon took thought, and made up my mind. Now, here you and Miss Edith have been praising and thanking me for trying to save poor Walter's life. I didn't deserve praise, or thanks either. It was my own life I was trying to save; for, if I could get him out secretly, we should both be secure enough. But I've given that up. It can't be done, and Black Eagle knows it. He knows me, too; and he's just as sure, at this blessed moment, that before the day he has appointed for Walter to die, Woodchuck will walk in and say, 'Here I am!' as he is that he's in his own lodge. Then he will have got the right man, and all will be settled. Now, Mr. Prevost--and you, Miss Edith--you know what I intend to do. To-morrow, when I'm a bit rested, I shall set out again, and take my ramble in the mountains, like Jephtha's daughter, as I said. Then, this day month, I will be here again to bid you all good-bye. Walter will have to tell you the rest. Don't cry so, there's a good girl. You're like to set me a' crying too. There's one thing more I have to ask you both, and that is, never speak another word to me about this matter--not even when I come back again. I try not to think of it at all myself, and I don't much now. If I can screw myself up, like them Ingians, I shall just walk quietly in among them as if nothing were going to happen, and say, 'Set the boy free! Here is Woodchuck himself,' and then die--not like an Ingian, but like a Christian, I trust, and one that knows he's a' doing of his duty anyhow. So now not a word more--but let us talk of something else."