Mary Derwent

An Indian war-trail lay along the southern bank of Seneca Lake, scarcely discernible now that the snow was deep, and the trees shivering in the wind; but a man accustomed to the woods might have found sure indications of a path in the deep notches cut in the larger trees at equal distances, and in the broken boughs of hemlock and pine that fell here and there like banners over the buried path.

Through the still woods, and across the glittering snow, came a small party on horseback, toiling onward with a dull, patient movement, which was evidently the result of a long journey and severe weather. The party consisted of three men and a female, so muffled in fur, and shielded from the cold that it was impossible to judge of their condition. The female seemed like a little child, she sat so low on the horse; but the face which looked out from its hood of dark blue silk was more like that of a cherub than a human being.

Two men rode in front; one was evidently a guide, the other led a horse on which a canvas tent was packed, while the third, who seemed master of the party, kept close to the female, and every moment or two caught her horse by the bridle when he sank through the snow, or carefully folded the fur mantle about her form, that she might not be chilled by the keen wind which kept the naked trees above them in a continual wail and shiver, inexpressibly saddening.

“Are you very cold, my child?” inquired the man, looking with tender anxiety into that lovely face.

“Cold—no. This fur mantle is warm. I am not near so chilled as I was yesterday, when the storm overtook us,” she replied.

“Do not be discouraged. This stretch of snow is like a desert, but the guide says we cannot be more than twenty miles from the settlement now, and part of the way is along the shore, where the Indians will have beaten a path. If our horses do not break down under all this heavy toil, we shall be there to-night.”

“My father,” said Mary Derwent, with a slight quiver in her voice, for her heart rose painfully with the question, “who is the lady whom we are searching for? Was it her name you called upon when we seemed perishing in the storm? Why is it that my breath comes quick when I think of her, and that I seem so lonesome when you speak as if she might be dead? Who is she, father—what am I to her?”

“She is your mother, Mary.”

“My mother?”

“She is your mother, and was once my wife; for, as truly as there is a God to bless you, Mary, I am your father, not in name alone, but in the sight of Heaven.”

Mary was not even surprised, she could not remember the time when the man supposed to be her father had been half so dear as the one before her. She reached out her hand, took that outstretched by the missionary, and, bending forward, kissed it with tender reverence.

“My father!”

The word never sounded so holy and sweet before; tears swelled to the missionary’s eyes; a drop or two trembled on Mary’s lashes, and froze as they fell away like pearls thrown up by the troubled waters of her heart.

“And now may I talk of my mother?—my mother,” she repeated, with a gush of ineffable tenderness—“that is a new word.”

“It is a holy name, my daughter; when you were born it kept me from thinking if the angels had any music as sweet.”

“But my mother? I cannot understand—Jane—my grandmother?”

“They have been very kind, and Jane believes you to be her sister. The old woman kept my secret faithfully; Derwent was my loyal friend to the last.”

“But why was it a secret—why did this lady, my mother, let me live all these years and never speak to me but once?”

“She did not know that you were alive. She believed you resting in the tomb of her family in England, sent there by her own hand.”

“But why should any one keep a parent from her child—a poor, little girl, so helpless as I am, from the sight of her own mother?”

“I could not find her. For years and years I travelled through these forests, searching for her in every savage tribe, for she was not in her right mind, Mary, when she fled from her home; and I would have given my life to have carried her back to her country, and guarded her helplessness again. But she had taken another name—the name which that terrible Queen Esther had cast off, but by which she was still known among the whites. At first I hoped to find my lost wife in this Catharine Montour, but they spoke of her as a half-breed, already grey with age, and it was not till the council-fire at Wyoming that I found your mother bearing the cast-off name of that terrible woman.”

“But you saw her then?”

“Yes, as the dead might come back and find the living forever lost to them. She had heard of the shipwreck in which I was reported to have been cast away, and believed herself free. Mary, she must have been insane still, wildly insane, for against her own wishes, and fired with terrible magnanimity, she became the wife of Gi-en-gwa-tah, the Shawnee chief—the mother of that wild girl who came to us on the island.”

Mary shuddered. “Oh, this is terrible! My mother, my mother!”

“She believed me dead—she believed that you, my child, had perished by her own hand, for in the wild fancy that you were an angel that could help her up to heaven, she seized you in her arms one day and dropped you from the high window of the room in which we had confined her. We took you up, crushed and senseless, maimed, hopelessly maimed for life.”

“And she—did my own mother do this?” said Mary, looking down at her person. “Was I straight like other children before that?”

“Paradise itself had not a more lovely child. She never saw you again till you lay upon her bosom at the spring on Monockonok Island, without knowing that you were her own child. I did not tell her then—how could I say to the wife of that stern chief—to the mother of that wild forest maiden: ‘Behold! here is the husband and child whom you believed dead, rising up in judgment against you for this unnatural marriage?’ It would have driven her mad again. Still, I would have done it, after prayer and reflection—for it was a solemn duty; but when I sought for her at the foot of Campbell’s Ledge she was gone. Mary, I was ill after that, very ill for a long time, and unable to follow her; but we met face to face in that terrible massacre, and I told her all.”

“Then she knows that I am her child; she will be wondering where I am, waiting for me.”

“Mary,” said the missionary, regarding her excitement with a troubled look, “Mary, your mother was terribly wounded on the island that night—wounded twice—for while the battle was raging she learned that her husband and child lived—then Queen Esther’s poniard struck her down.”

“Oh, my mother—my mother!” cried Mary.

“Let us be calm; I have heard from her twice; she was slowly recovering.”

“Oh, God is very good to us! In a little time I shall see her! we will take her away from these savages; no one shall tend her but myself; I am her oldest child; never till now did I know what a mother was; how pleasant the sound, when you can say father, and know it has a meaning. Father, when I was so lonely, why did you never say: ‘Mary—Mary Derwent, you are my own, own child?’ I could have borne everything after that.”

“I dared not. The love of one being had filled my soul with the sin idolatry; God allowed me to be smitten through my heart and through my pride; but I could neither cast off the love nor the resentment which a wrong that has no name, and which you could never understand, fastened like a viper on my heart. I dared not give up my soul to another worship, and thus offer a feeble service to my God. Besides, but you will not comprehend this, the very sight of you filled me with a tenderness so painful that I had no power to speak. Until I had ceased to hate my enemy I could not love her child without a pang of self-reproach.”

“But you love me now?”

The missionary smiled.

“Love you! I thank my God there is nothing but love in my heart—love and forgiveness. I ask but to place you in her arms, and leave the rest with Him.”

Mary looked eagerly forward; the night was closing in; and through the leafless hickory and beech trees a red sunset streamed along their path.

“It cannot be far off,” she said, with kindling eyes; “let us keep on, father—all night, if it takes so long. I shall never get warm again till her arms fold me. Look, the moon is rising; shall we get off and walk by its light? the snow-crust is strong enough to hold us, though our horses sink through it. Father, I feel as if some one wanted me and I must come.”

Varnham dismounted, and left their horses with the guides. He, too, was stricken with a sudden impulse to press forward and penetrate towards the lake. They walked on at a rapid pace across the gleaming snow-crust, where all the naked branches and innumerable twigs of the forest were pencilled by the moonlight; the hacked oaks guided their way; and the winds in the distant hemlocks moaned after the father and child as they passed.

The first snow of winter had fallen, and lay heavily upon the forest. The lake was frozen, till it shone like a sheet of rock crystal. The Indians left behind by the chief amused themselves in skating, and catching fish through holes cut in the ice. Gi-en-gwa-tah had not yet returned, and Catharine received no tidings of Tahmeroo. Once she sent to Queen Esther’s house to make inquiries, but the old woman vouchsafed no answer; and Catharine was left alone with her feebleness and her weary heart.

One day she sat in her lonely lodge, looking out upon the lake. The wind moaned through the forest; the air was keen and sharp with sparks of frost; flakes of snow came down at intervals, but it was too cold for a heavy fall. Catharine Montour was more oppressed than usual; there was a strange trouble at her heart, and she felt that danger menaced her—or, possibly, her child, in some more terrible form. For herself she did not fear; but the thought of harm to Tahmeroo or Mary wrung her heart with anguish. The day wore on, and the night followed cold, still and icy. The moon was high in heaven, flooding the frozen lake with silver, and turning the snow-wreaths to garlands of pearls. Still Catharine sat looking forth, listening to the dirge-like moan of the pine forest with dreary thoughtfulness.

All was strangely still; the silence had something awful in it. The coldness about the watcher’s heart grew deeper, till it seemed as if the frosty air from without had penetrated to her soul. The silence became insupportable at length; she arose and passed through the different rooms; not an attendant was in sight; she looked out, searching for the guard which always surrounded her lodge; it had disappeared; not an Indian was to be seen.

The stillness seemed to increase—even the low wind died away, and the beating of her own heart sounded to Catharine like the ticking of a clock in the gloom. The fire had died down, and the apartment was lighted only by the moonbeams that crept in at the casement, and poured their ghostly pallor upon the floor.

Catharine could endure it no longer—torment, death, anything, were preferable to that fearful suspense. She folded a fur mantle about her and went out, taking the path which led to the settlement. Midway between the Indian village and Queen Esther’s mansion she saw the flame of a council-fire turning the snow golden with its brightness; seated about it were the old men of the tribe, whom the chief had left behind, with Queen Esther in their midst.

Catharine drew nearer, and from the rise of ground upon which she stood looked fearfully down upon the scene.

It was a strange sight: that blazing council-fire streaming far up in the heavens; that circle of stern warriors gathered about it, silent and motionless, with that grim woman in their midst, evidently speaking, though she made no movement or gesture. In the outskirts of the group hovered some young men and women of the tribe, with signs of awe breaking through the natural impassibility of their features.

Catharine drew closer still, and concealed from view by a massy hemlock, listened to what was passing.

“Drive her forth!” said the old queen, in her low, terrible voice; “a traitress and a craven. She has wronged your chief, and now only waits to sell his tribe to the rebels.”

“She shall die!” exclaimed the prophet of the tribe, who had always been Catharine’s secret enemy; “the great medicine has had a vision—the white woman shall no longer stay in the tribe she wishes to sell!”

“Let her die!” echoed a score of stern voices.

“No,” returned Esther, “sudden death were too sweet; drive her forth into the wilderness; let the cold and the wild beasts destroy her, and leave her bones to bleach without a grave.”

“The queen speaks well,” returned the prophet; “it shall be so.”

“This very night!” exclaimed Esther. “Let the tribe go in a body to her lodge—let her be dragged forth and driven into the forest, followed by the curses of the people whose queen she has braved—whose chief she has betrayed.”

A low murmur of approval ran through the group, and the whole tribe gathered nearer the council-fire, like a pack of wolves on the scent of blood.

The warriors rose in a body and filed into rank; but before they could take a step in advance, Catharine came out of the shelter of the tree and confronted them.

“You need not seek her like wild beasts hunting their prey,” she said; “Catharine Montour is here!”

There was an instant hush as Catharine Montour stepped, with that calm, sad face, into their midst. Even those savage hearts were awed by her fearless dignity; but Queen Esther was less human, and her voice woke again the fierce passion which her artful address had aroused.

“She braves the Shawnee chiefs because they are old!” exclaimed the fiendish woman. “She comes among you with her hands dyed in the blood of your people—Gi-en-gwa-tah’s brother fell by her treachery.”

Catharine lifted her hand. “I have done you much good; my wealth has been freely spent in your service; will the chiefs listen?”

“That gold,” cried Esther, “belongs to Tahmeroo, the daughter of your chief; but while this woman lives she cannot touch it. When she is gone the young white brave will give you all. She has kept it to herself—her lodge is full of bright things, which she shares with no one, not even with the widow of your old chief. Your queen speaks no lie, ask her if Gi-en-gwa-tah’s step has sounded in her lodge since we fought at Wyoming. Let her be driven forth!”

The women took up the cry, crowding about the handful of warriors, and forcing them on. Catharine stood calmly confronting them—nearer gathered those stern faces—horrible eyes glared into her own, but she met them unflinchingly.

“Away with her!” shrieked Esther; “the voice of her agony will be sweet to the murdered brave.”

“Let it come; I have not sought death, but life is a burden to me now; you thought to revenge yourself, but I thank you for this release from heavy trouble; what matters the way? it is brief at best.”

“Drive her forth!” cried the old queen, roused to insane fury by the composure of her victim.

The whole tribe rushed towards Catharine with yells and execrations. She made no effort to fly, but was borne helplessly along by the heaving mass. Balls of snow and ice were hurled at her, the sharp fragments struck her on the temples, but she made no outcry. Her long hair broke loose and streamed on the wind, while the serpent that girded her forehead flashed in the moonlight, the raised head with its open jaws seemed to hiss defiance at her pursuers.

Her silence and her meekness only added to Esther’s rage, though the chiefs began to feel respect for her courage.

“Faster,” shrieked the queen, “faster! drive her deep, deep into the woods, where no trail or path can lead her out again.”

Thus fiercely urged, the savages swept on, dragging their victim rudely over the snow. They passed the outskirts of the settlement, and plunged into the forest, sinking kneedeep into the crusted snow at every step. When all her strength was exhausted, and they were compelled to drag her forward like a corpse, they flung her down upon the white earth and retreated, singing a low death-song as they left her to die.

She had fallen in the depths of a hemlock grove; thick green branches wreathed with snow drooped over her, swayed heavily by the sobbing wind. No moon could penetrate there; even the snow looked inky in those dense shadows.

A savage, less fiendish than the rest, came back, planted his burning torch in the snow, and went away; its red light streamed over her locked features. She felt the warmth, and struggled to get up. The motion shook the jewelled serpent from her head which uncoiled itself from her temple and lay writhing upon the snow like a living reptile creeping away from the flame.

She could not stand erect; she had no strength to cry aloud; but as all the terrors of that lonely death fell upon her, struggled fully, and answered the wind with her sobs. They had torn the fur mantle from her shoulders, and left her wrapped only in that crimson robe. The cold penetrated her to the heart, sharp particles of frost cut across her face. Her blue lips quivered above her chattering teeth. She crept towards the torch, and holding her purple hands on each side of it in piteous helplessness, strove to warm them; but they fell numbly down, and with a faint instinct she drew them under the flowing sleeves of her robe, and lay motionless, with death creeping steadily to her vitals.

“What is that, father? what is that shining like a fallen star through the hemlocks? See how that little column of smoke trembles through the leaves?”

Varnham turned from his path and the two bent their steps to the hemlock woods, following the light. Why did that pale man hold his breath as he moved forward? Why did Mary shiver audibly beneath her warm mantle? They had not yet seen that deathly face, the serpent scattering its mocking brightness on the snow, or the crimson robe that lay in masses over those frozen limbs. But a few steps more, and the torch revealed all this. The father and child looked at each other in mute horror. It lasted but a moment. Varnham swept back the hemlock branches and lifted his wife up from the snow. Mary took off her mantle and folded it around those heavy limbs, while the strong man gathered her to his heart and strove to warm that purple mouth with the life that sobbed and quivered through his own lips.

It was all in vain. The love which possessed no power over her youth, though it shook his soul to the centre, had not force enough to arouse his wife from that numb death-sleep. She opened her eyes once, after he bore her out to the moonlight, and, for an instant, Varnham felt her heart beat against his own. A cry of exquisite pain broke from him, then a tender young voice sobbed out:

“Mother—mother!”

A gleam of light stole over Catharine’s face. It would have been a smile, but those features were frozen into marble, and had lost all power of expression; but the eyes had meaning in them still. They turned upon that angel face, and, filling with lovelight, froze in their sockets.

Mile after mile Varnham carried his marble burden through the forest and across a bend of the lake, till he stood, in the grey of that cold winter’s morning, in the hall of Queen Esther’s dwelling.

A troop of Indians, fresh from the warpath, were drawn up before the entrance, and among them was Gi-en-gwa-tah, mounted on his war-horse. The chief never would wear paint, like meaner men of his tribe, and those who looked on him attentively, saw that his face was haggard and his eagle eyes heavy.

Queen Esther met him at the door.

“Mother,” he said, “you and the young brave have talked with serpent tongues. The Great Spirit has been whispering in my heart, and it beats loud. Gi-en-gwa-tah will be just. Let his white queen speak for herself.”

As he spoke, Varnham glided by him, bearing the dead body of Catharine Montour in his arms. The Indians who had come out of the lodge with Esther sat down and covered their faces with signs of penitence, but the old queen stood up, cold and firm as a rock.

“Gi-en-gwa-tah is weak, like a girl, but Queen Esther can take care of her son’s honor. See, yonder is the woman whose serpent words killed his brother. Last night the Council drove her out to die like a wolf.”

The chief sprang from his horse, and, striding into the hall, fell down before the body of Catharine Montour; the anguish quivering in that stern face struck pity even into those savage bosoms; his chest heaved, his eyes grew large, wandering from the dead to his mother, with such wild sorrow that even she turned away, half-repenting what she had done.

All at once he fell upon his face, and burst into a passion of grief which shook his frame like a thunder gust. Once and again the storm swept over him, then he arose, terrible in the majesty of his grief, and, passing the old queen, mounted his war-horse. A small golden bugle, the gift of Catharine Montour, hung over his bosom; he lifted it and sent forth a blast which brought every warrior in the settlement around him.

“Warriors,” he said, “this is no longer my home. That woman is not my mother, but the murderess of my wife. Let every man who went with her into the forest last night step to her side. Neither they nor their leader are longer of our tribe. I leave her to the Great Spirit, whose curse shall hang about her as lightning strikes an old hemlock dead at the top. Warriors, let us depart.”

The chief wheeled his horse, the tribe fell into order, and while Queen Esther stood like a pillar of stone, with the last human feeling in her bosom struck dead at the root, the whole tribe save those who had partaken of her crime, filed into the war-trail, from which they never returned again.