Mayne Reid - The Wild Huntress - Love in the Wilderness

The attitude of Wingrove is at first shrinking; but a slight smile curling upon his lip, betokens that there is not much pain in the situation. A reflection, however, made at the moment, chases away the smile. It is this: – “’Tarnal earthquakes! were Marian to see me now! She’d never believe but that I’m in love with this young squaw: she’s been jealous o’ her already.”

But the reflection passes; and with it, for an instant, the remembrance of “Marian.” The sweetest smelling flower is that which is nearest – so sings the honey-bee. Human blood cannot bear the proximity of those pretty lips; and the kindness of the Indian maiden must be recompensed by a kiss. She makes no resistance. She utters no cry. Their lips meet; but the kiss is interrupted ere it can be achieved. The bark of a dog – followed by a half-suppressed scream in a female voice – causes the interruption. The hunter starts back, looking aghast. The Indian exhibits only surprise. Both together glance across the glade. Marian Holt is standing upon its opposite edge!

Wingrove’s cheek has turned red. Fear and shame are depicted upon his face. In his confusion he pushes the Indian aside – more rudely than gently. “Go!” he exclaims in an under voice. “For God’s sake go! – you have ruined me!”

The girl obeys the request and gesture – both sufficiently rude after such sweet complaisance. She obeys, however; and moves off from the spot – not without reproach in her glance, and reluctance in her steps. Before reaching the path she pauses, turns in her track, and glides swiftly back towards the hunter.

Wingrove stands astonished – half afrighted. Before he can recover himself, or divine her intent, the Indian is once more by his side. She snatches the pouch from his shoulders – the place where her own hands had suspended it – then flinging the silver coin at his feet, and uttering in a loud angry tone the words, “False pale-face!” she turns from the spot, and glides rapidly away. In another moment she has entered the forest-path, and is lost to the sight.

The scene has been short – of only a few seconds’ duration. Marian has not moved since the moment she uttered that wild, half-suppressed scream. She stands silent and transfixed, as if its utterance had deprived her of speech and motion. Her fine form picturesquely draped with bodice and skirt; the moccasin buskins upon her feet; the coiled coronet of shining hair surmounting her head; the rifle in her hand, resting on its butt, as it had been dashed mechanically down; the huge gaunt dog by her side – all these outlined upon the green background of the forest leaves, impart to the maiden an appearance at once majestic and imposing. Standing thus immobile, she suggests the idea of some rival huntress, whom Diana, from jealousy, has suddenly transformed into stone. But her countenance betrays that she is no statue. The colour of her cheeks – alternately flushing red and pale – and the indignant flash of that fiery eye, tell you that you look upon a living woman – one who breathes and burns under the influence of a terrible emotion.

Wingrove is half frantic. He scarce knows what to say, or what to do. In his confusion he advances towards the young girl, calling her by name; but before he has half crossed the glade, her words fall upon his ear, causing him to hesitate and falter in his steps. “Frank Wingrove!” she cries, “come not near me. Your road lies the other way. Go! follow your Indian damsel. You will find her at Swampville, no doubt, selling her cheap kisses to triflers like yourself. Traitor! we meet no more!”

Without waiting for a reply, or even to note the effect of her words, Marian Holt steps back into the forest, and disappears. The young hunter is too stupefied to follow. With “false pale-face” ringing in one ear, and “traitor” in the other, he knows not in what direction to turn. At length the log falls under his eye; and striding mechanically towards it, he sits down – to reflect upon the levity of his conduct, and the unpleasant consequences of an unhallowed kiss.

Return we to the squatter’s cabin – this time to enter it. Inside, there is not much to be seen or described. The interior consists of a single room – of which the log-walls are the sides, and the clapboard roof the ceiling. In one corner there is a little partition or screen – the materials composing it being skins or the black bear and fallow deer. It is pleasant to look upon this little chamber: it is the shrine of modesty and virgin innocence. Its presence proves that the squatter is not altogether a savage.

Rude as is the interior of the sheiling, it contains a few relics of bygone, better days – not spent there, but elsewhere. Some books are seen upon a little shelf – the library of Lilian’s mother – and two or three pieces of furniture, that have once been decent, if not stylish. But chattels of this land are scarce in the backwoods – even in the houses of more pretentious people than a squatter; and a log-stool or two, a table of split poplar planks, an iron pot, some pans and pails of tin, a few plates and pannikins of the same material, a gourd “dipper” or drinking-cup, and half-a-dozen common knives, forks, and spoons, constitute the whole “plenishing” of the hut. The skin of a cougar, not long killed, hangs against the wall. Beside it are the pelts of other wild animals – as the grey fox, the racoon, the rufous lynx, musk-rats, and minks. These, draping the roughly-hewn logs, rob them to some extent of their rigidity. By the door is suspended an old saddle, of the fashion known as American – a sort of cross between the high-peaked silla of the Mexicans, and the flat pad-like English saddle. On the adjacent peg hangs a bridle to match – its reins black with age, and its bit reddened with rust. Some light articles of female apparel are seen hanging against the wall, near that sacred precinct where, during the the night-hours, repose the fair daughters of the squatter.

The cabin is a rude dwelling indeed – a rough casket to contain a pair of jewels so sparkling and priceless. Just now, it is occupied by two individuals of a very different character – two men already mentioned – the hunter Hickman Holt, and his visitor Joshua Stebbins, the schoolmaster of Swampville. The personal appearance of the latter has been already half described. It deserves a more detailed delineation. His probable age has been stated – about thirty. His spare figure and ill-omened aspect have been alluded to. Add to this, low stature, a tripe-coloured skin, a beardless face, a shrinking chin, a nose sharp-pointed and peckish, lank black hair falling over the forehead, and hanging down almost low enough to shadow a pair of deep-set weazel-like eyes: give to this combination of features a slightly sinister aspect, and you have the portrait of Joshua Stebbins. It is not easy to tell the cause of this sinister expression: for the features are not irregular; and, but for its bilious colour, the face could scarcely be termed ill-looking. The eyes do not squint; and the thin lips appear making a constant effort to look smiling and saint-like. Perhaps it is this outward affectation of the saintly character – belying, as it evidently does, the spirit within, that produces the unfavourable impression. In earlier youth, the face may have been better favoured; but a career, spent in the exercise of evil passions, has left more than one “blaze” upon it.

It is difficult to reconcile such a career with the demeanour of the man, and especially with his present occupation. But Joshua Stebbins has not always been a schoolmaster; and the pedagogue of a border settlement is not necessarily, expected to be a model of morality. Even if it were so, this lord of the hickory-switch is comparatively a stranger in Swampville; and, perhaps, only the best side of his character has been exhibited to the parents and guardians of the settlement. This is of the saintly order; and, as if to strengthen the illusion, a dress of clerical cut has been assumed, as also a white cravat and black boat-brimmed hat. The coat, waistcoat, and trousers are of broad-cloth – though not of the finest quality. It is just such a costume as might be worn by one of the humbler class of Methodist border Ministers, or by a Catholic priest – a somewhat rarer bird in the backwoods.