CHAPTER II
"Who can he be?" said Walter Prevost, when they had reached the littlesitting-room. "Sir William called him 'My Lord.'"
Edith smiled at her brother's curiosity. Oh, how much older womenalways are than men!
"Lords are small things here, Walter," she said.
"I do not think that lords are small things anywhere," answered herbrother, who had not imbibed any of the republican spirit which waseven then silently creeping over the American people. "Lords are madeby kings for great deeds or great virtues."
"Then they are lords of their own making," answered Edith. "Kings onlyseal the patent nature has bestowed. That great red oak, Walter, wasgrowing before the family of any man now living was ennobled by thehand of royalty."
"Pooh, nonsense!" answered her brother. "You are indulging in one ofyour day dreams. What has that oak to do with nobility?"
"I hardly know," replied his sister, "but yet something linked themtogether in my mind. It seemed as if the oak asked me, 'What is theirantiquity to mine?' And yet the antiquity of their families is theirgreatest claim to our reverence."
"No! no!" cried Walter Prevost, eagerly. "Their antiquity is nothing,for we are all of as ancient a family as they are. But it is that theycan show a line from generation to generation, displaying some highqualities, ennobled by some great acts. Granted that here or there asluggard, a coward, or a fool may have intervened, or that the actswhich have won praise in other days may not be reverenced now. Yet Ihave often heard my father say that, in looking back through recordsof noble houses, we shall find a sum of deeds and qualities suited toand honored by succeeding ages, which, tried by the standard of thetimes of the men, shows that hereditary nobility is not merely anhonor won by a worthy father for unworthy children, but a bond togreat endeavors, signed by a noble ancestor on behalf of all hisdescendants. Edith, you are not saying what you think."
"Perhaps not," answered Edith, with a quiet smile; "but let us havesome lights, Walter, for I am well nigh in darkness."
The lights were brought, and Walter and his sister sat down to museover books--I can hardly say to read--till their father reappeared;for the evening prayer and the parting kiss had never been omitted intheir solitude ere they lay down to rest. The conference in the hall,however, was long, and more than an hour elapsed before the threegentlemen entered the room. Then a few minutes were passed in quietconversation, and then, all standing round the table, Mr. Prevostraised his voice, saying: "Protect us, O Father Almighty, in the hoursof darkness and unconsciousness. Give us thy blessing of sleep torefresh our minds and bodies; and if it be thy will, let us wake againto serve and praise thee through another day more perfectly than inthe days past, for Christ's sake."
The Lord's Prayer succeeded, and then they separated to their rest.
Before daylight in the morning Sir William Johnson was on foot and inthe stable. Some three or four negro slaves--for there were slavesthen on all parts of the continent--lay sleeping soundly in a smallsort of barrack hard by; and as soon as one of them could be roused,his horse was saddled, and he rode away without stopping to eat or sayfarewell. He bent his course direct toward the banks of the Mohawk,flowing at some twenty miles distance from the cottage of Mr. Prevost;and before he had been five minutes in the saddle was in the midst ofthe deep woods which surrounded the little well cultivated spot wherethe English wanderer had settled.
About a mile from the house a bright and beautiful stream crossed theroad, flowing onward toward the greater river; but bridge there wasnone, and in the middle of the stream Sir William suffered his horseto stop and bend its head to drink. He gazed to the eastward, but allthere was dark and gloomy under the thick overhanging branches. Heturned his eyes to the westward, and they rested on a figure standingin the midst of the stream, with rod in hand, and his back turnedtoward him. He thought he saw another figure, too, amidst the treesupon the bank; but it was shadowy there, and the form seemed shadowy,too.
After gazing for a moment or two, he raised his voice and exclaimed:"Walter! Walter Prevost!"
The lad heard him, and laying his rod upon the bank, hastened alongover the green turf to join him; but at the same moment the figureamong the trees--if really figure it was--disappeared from sight.
"Thou art out early, Walter," said Sir William. "What do you at thishour?"
"I am catching trout for the stranger's breakfast," said the lad, witha gay laugh. "You should have had your share, had you but waited."
"Who was that speaking to you on the bank above?" asked the other,gravely.
"Merely an Indian girl, watching me fishing," replied Walter Prevost.
"I hope your talk was discreet," rejoined Sir William. "These aredangerous times, when trifles are of import, Walter."
"There was no indiscretion," replied the lad, with the color mountingslightly in his cheek. "She was noticing the feather flies with whichI caught the fish, and blamed me for using them. She said it was ashame to catch anything with false pretences."
"She is wise," answered the other, with a faint smile, "but yet thatis hardly the wisdom of her people. An Indian maiden!" he added,thoughtfully. "Of what tribe is she? One of the Five Nations, Itrust."
"Oh, yes; an Oneida," replied Walter. "One of the daughters of theStone, the child of a sachem who often lodges at our house."
"Well, be she who she may," said Sir William, "be careful of yourspeech, especially regarding your father's guest. I say not, toconceal that there is a stranger with you, for that cannot be; butwhatever you see or guess of his station, or his errand, keep it toyourself, and let not a woman be the sharer of your thoughts till youhave tried her with many a trial."
"She would not betray them, I am sure," answered the lad, warmly, andthen added, with some slight embarrassment, as if he felt that he hadin a degree betrayed himself, "but she has nothing to reveal or toconceal. Our talk was all of the river and the fish. We met byaccident, and she is gone."
"Perhaps you may meet by accident again," said the other, "and then becareful. But now to more serious things. Perchance your father mayhave to send you to Albany--perchance to my castle. You can find yourway speedily to either. Is it not so?"
"Further than either," replied the lad, gayly.
"But you may have a heavy burden to carry," rejoined Sir William. "Doyou think you can bear it--I mean the burden of a secret?"
"I will not drop it by the way," answered Walter, gravely.
"Not if the sachem's daughter offer to divide the load?" asked hiscompanion.
"Doubt me not," said Walter.
"I do not," said Sir William. "I do not; but I would have you warned.And now farewell. You are very young to meet maidens in the wood. Becareful. Farewell."
He rode on, and the boy tarried by the roadside and meditated.
In about two minutes he took his way up the stream again, stillmusing, toward the place where he had laid down his rod.
He sprang up the bank, and in amongst the maples; and some ten minutesafter, the sun rising higher, poured its light through the stems upona boy and girl seated at the foot of an old tree; he with his armsaround her, and his hand resting on the soft, brown, velvety skin, andshe with her head upon his bosom, and her warm lips within the reachof his.
Her skin was brown, I have said, yes, very brown, but still hardlybrowner than his own. Her eyes were dark and bright, of the trueIndian hue, but larger and more open than is at all common in many ofthe tribes of Iroquois. Her lips, too, were rosy, and as pure of alltinge of brown as those of any child of Europe; and her fingers, also,were stained of Aurora's own hue. But her long, silky black hair wouldhave spoken her race at once had not each tress terminated in a wavycurl. The lines of the form and of the face were all wonderfullylovely, too, and yet were hardly those which characterize sopeculiarly the Indian nations. The nose was straighter, the cheekbones less prominent, the head more beautifully set upon theshoulders. The expression, too, as she rested there with her cheekleaning on his breast, was not t
hat of the usual Indian countenance.It was softer, more tender, more impassioned; for though romance andpoetry have done all they could to spiritualize the character ofIndian love, I fear, from what I have seen and heard and known, it israrely what it has been portrayed. Her face, however, was full of loveand tenderness and emotion; and the picture of the two as they satthere told at once of a tale of love just spoken to a willing ear.