Wyandotte; or, the Hutted Knoll . . . Volume 2 Read online

  THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER; Price 25 cents.

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  SELECT WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING, WITH A MEMOIR OF HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS, BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, AND AN ESSAY ON HIS LIFE AND GENIUS, BY ARTHUR MURPHY, ESQ.

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  LEA & BLANCHARD, FOR ALL BOOKSELLERS AND NEWS AGENTS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1843.

  PUBLISHED IN WEEKLY PARTS.

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  WYANDOTTÉ, OR THE HUTTED KNOLL. A TALE, BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE PATHFINDER,” “DEERSLAYER,” “LAST OF THE MOHICANS,” “PIONEERS,” “PRAIRIE,” &c., &c. “I venerate the Pilgrim’s cause.

  Yet for the red man dare to plead--

  We how to Heaven’s recorded laws,

  He turns to nature for his creod.”

  Sprague IN TWO VOLUMES, VOL. II. PHILADELPHIA: LEA AND BLANCHARD. 1843.

  Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by J. FENIMORE COOPER, in the clerk’s office of the district court of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.

  J. FAGAN, STEREOTYPER.

  T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS.

  CHAPTER I.

  Anxious, she hovers o’er the web the while,

  Reads, as it grows, thy figured story there;

  Now she explains the texture with a smile,

  And now the woof interprets with a tear.

  Fawcett All Maud’s feelings were healthful and natural. She had no exaggerated sentiments, and scarcely art enough to control or to conceal any of the ordinary impulses of her heart. We are not about to relate a scene, therefore, in which a long-cherished but hidden miniature of the young man is to play a conspicuous part, and to be the means of revealing to two lovers the state of their respective hearts; but one of a very different character. It is true, Maud had endeavoured to make, from memory, one or two sketches of “Bob’s” face; but she had done it openly, and under the cognizance of the whole family. This she might very well do, indeed, in her usual character of a sister, and excite no comments. In these efforts, her father and mother, and Beulah, had uniformly pronounced her success to be far beyond their hopes; but Maud, herself, had thrown them all aside, half-finished, dissatisfied with her own labours. Like the author, whose fertile imagination fancies pictures that defy his powers of description, her pencil ever fell far short of the face that her memory kept so constantly in view. This sketch wanted animation, that gentleness, another fire, and a fourth candour; in short, had Maud begun a thousand, all would have been deficient, in her eyes, in some great essential of perfection. Still, she had no secret about her efforts, and half-a-dozen of these very sketches lay uppermost in her portfolio, when she spread it, and its contents, before the eyes of the original.

  Major Willoughby thought Maud had never appeared more beautiful than as she moved about making her little preparations for the exhibition. Pleasure heightened her colour; and there was such a mixture of frank, sisterly regard, in every glance of her eye, blended, however, with sensitive feeling, and conscious womanly reserve, as made her a thousand times -- measuring amounts by the young man’s sensations -- more interesting than he had ever seen her. The lamp gave but an indifferent light for a gallery, but it was sufficient to betray Maud’s smiles, and blushes, and each varying emotion of her charming countenance.

  “Now, Bob,” she said, opening her portfolio, with all her youthful frankness and confidence, “you know well enough I am not one of those old masters of whom you used to talk so much, but your own pupil--the work of your own hands; and if you find more faults than you have expected, you will have the goodness to remember that the master has deserted his peaceful pursuits to go a campaigning--there-- that is a caricature of your own countenance, staring you in the face, as a preface!”

  “This is like, I should think--was it done from memory, dear Maud?”

  “How else should it be done? All our entreaties have never been able to persuade you to send us even a miniature. You are wrong in this, Bob” -- by no accident did Maud now ever call the major, Robert, though Beulah often did. There was a desperate sort of familiarity in the Bob, that she could easily adopt; but the ‘Robert’ had a family sound that she disliked; and yet a more truly feminine creature than Maud Meredith did not exist--“You are wrong, Bob; for mother actually pines to possess your picture, in some shape or other. It was this wish that induced me to attempt these things.”

  “And why has no one of them ever been finished?--Here are six or eight beginnings, and all, more or less, like, I should think, and not one of them more than half done. Why have I been treated so cavalierly, Miss Maud?”

  The fair artist’s colour deepened a little; but her smile was quite as sweet as it was saucy, as she replied--

  “Girlish caprice, I suppose. I like neither of them; and of that which a woman dislikes, she will have none. To be candid, however, I hardly think there is one of them all that does you justice.”

  “No?--what fault have you to find with this? This might be worked up to something very natural.”

  “It would be a natural, then -- it wants expression, fearfully.”

  “And this, which is still better. That might be finished while I am here, and I will give you some sittings.”

  “Even mother dislikes that -- there is too much of the Major of Foot in it. Mr. Woods says it is a martial picture.”

  “And ought not a soldier to look like a soldier? To me, now, that seems a capital beginning.”

  “It is not what mother, or Beulah -- or father -- or even any of us wants. It is too full of Bunker’s Hill. Your friends desire to see you as you appear to them; not as you appear to your enemies.”

  “Upon my word, Maud, you have made great advances in the art! This is a view of the Knoll, and the dam--and here is another of the mill, and the water-fall -- all beautifully done, and in water-colours, too. What is this? -- Have you been attempting a sketch of yourself! -- The glass must have been closely consulted, my fair coquette, to enable you to do this!”

  The blood had rushed into Maud’s face, covering it with a rich tell-tale mantle, when her companion first alluded to the half-finished miniature he held in his hand; then her features resembled ivory, as the revulsion of feeling, that overcame her confusion, followed. For some little time she sate, in breathless stillness, with her looks cast upon the floor, conscious that Robert Willoughby was glancing from her own face to the miniature, and from the miniature to her face again, making his observations and comparisons. Then she ventured to raise her eyes timidly towards his, half-imploringly, as if to beseech him to proceed to something else. But the young man was too much engrossed with the exceedingly pretty sketch he held in his hand, to understand her meaning, or to
comply with her wishes.

  “This is yourself, Maud!” he cried--“though in a strange sort of dress--why have you spoilt so beautiful a thing, by putting it in this masquerade?”

  “It is not myself -- it is a copy of -- a miniature I possess.”

  “A miniature you possess! -- Of whom can you possess so lovely a miniature, and I never see it?”

  A faint smile illumined the countenance of Maud, and the blood began to return to her cheeks. She stretched her hand over to the sketch, and gazed on it, with intense feeling, until the tears began to stream from her eyes.

  “Maud--dear, dearest Maud -- have I said that which pains you?--I do not understand all this, but I confess there are secrets to which I can have no claim to be admitted--”

  “Nay, Bob, this is making too much of what, after all, must sooner or later be spoken of openly among us. I believe that to be a copy of a miniature of my mother.”

  “Of mother, Maud -- you are beside yourself -- it has neither her features, expression, nor the colour of her eyes. It is the picture of a far handsomer woman, though mother is still pretty; and it is perfection!”

  “I mean of my mother--of Maud Yeardley; the wife of my father, Major Meredith.”

  This was said with a steadiness that surprised our heroine herself, when she came to think over all that had passed, and it brought the blood to her companion’s heart, in a torrent.

  “This is strange!” exclaimed Willoughby, after a short pause. “And my mother--our mother has given you the original, and told you this? I did not believe she could muster the resolution necessary to such an act.”

  “She has not. You know, Bob, I am now of age; and my father, a month since, put some papers in my hand, with a request that I would read them. They contain a marriage settlement and other things of that sort, which show I am mistress of more money than I should know what to do with, if it were not for dear little Evert--but, with such a precious being to love, one never can have too much of anything. With the papers were many trinkets, which I suppose father never looked at. This beautiful miniature was among the last; and I feel certain, from some remarks I ventured to make, mother does not know of its existence.”

  As Maud spoke, she drew the original from her bosom, and placed it in Robert Willoughby’s hands. When this simple act was performed, her mind seemed relieved; and she waited, with strong natural interest, to hear Robert Willoughby’s comments.

  “This, then, Maud, was your own--your real mother!” the young man said, after studying the miniature, with a thoughtful countenance, for near a minute. “It is like her-- like you.”

  “Like her, Bob?--How can you know anything of that? --I suppose it to be my mother, because I think it like myself, and because it is not easy to say who else it can be. But you cannot know anything of this?”

  “You are mistaken, Maud -- I remember both your parents well -- it could not be otherwise, as they were the bosom friends of my own. You will remember that I am now eight-and-twenty, and that I had seen seven of these years when you were born. Was my first effort in arms never spoken of in your presence?”

  “Never--perhaps it was not a subject for me to hear, if it were in any manner connected with my parents.”

  “You are right--that must be the reason it has been kept from your ears.”

  “Surely, surely, I am old enough to hear it now -- you will conceal nothing from me, Bob?”

  “If I would, I could not, now. It is too late, Maud. You know the manner in which Major Meredith died?--”

  “He fell in battle, I have suspected,” answered the daughter, in a suppressed, doubtful tone -- “for no one has ever directly told me even that.”

  “He did, and I was at his side. The French and savages made an assault on us, about an hour earlier than this, and our two fathers rushed to the pickets to repel it -- I was a reckless boy, anxious even at that tender age to see a fray, and was at their side. Your father was one of the first that fell; but Joyce and our father beat the Indians back from his body, and saved it from mutilation. Your mother was buried in the same grave, and then you came to us, where our have been ever since.”

  Maud’s tears flowed fast, and yet it was not so much in grief as in a gush of tenderness she could hardly explain to herself. Robert Willoughby understood her emotions, and perceived that he might proceed.

  “I was old enough to remember both your parents well-- I was a favourite, I believe, with, certainly was much petted by, both--I remember your birth, Maud, and was suffered to carry you in my arms, ere you were a week old.”

  “Then you have known me for an impostor from the beginning, Bob--must have often thought of me as such!”

  “I have known you for the daughter of Lewellen Meredith, certainly; and not for a world would I have you the real child of Hugh Willoughby--”

  “Bob!” exclaimed Maud, her heart beating violently, a rush of feeling nearly overcoming her, in which alarm, consciousness, her own secret, dread of something wrong, and a confused glimpse of the truth, were all so blended, as nearly to deprive her, for the moment, of the use of her senses.

  It is not easy to say precisely what would have followed this tolerably explicit insight into the state of the young man’s feelings, had not an outcry on the lawn given the major notice that his presence was needed below. With a few words of encouragement to Maud, first taking the precaution to extinguish the lamp, lest its light should expose her to a shot in passing some of the open loops, he sprang towards the stairs, and was at his post again, literally within a minute. Nor was he a moment too soon. The alarm was general, and it was understood an assault was momentarily expected.

  The situation of Robert Willoughby was now tantalizing in the extreme. Ignorant of what was going on in front, he saw no enemy in the rear to oppose, and was condemned to inaction, at a moment when he felt that, by training, years, affinity to the master of the place, and all the usual considerations, he ought to be in front, opposed to the enemy. It is probable he would have forgotten his many cautions to keep close, had not Maud appeared in the library, and implored him to remain concealed, at least until there was the certainty his presence was necessary elsewhere.

  At that instant, every feeling but those connected with the danger, was in a degree forgotten. Still, Willoughby had enough consideration for Maud to insist on her joining her mother and Beulah, in the portion of the building where the absence of external windows rendered their security complete, so long as the foe could be kept without the palisades. In this he succeeded, but not until he had promised, again and again, to be cautious in not exposing himself at any of the windows, the day having now fairly dawned, and particularly not to let it be known in the Hut that he was present until it became indispensable.

  The major felt relieved when Maud had left him. For her, he had no longer any immediate apprehensions, and he turned all his faculties to the sounds of the assault which he supposed to be going on in front. To his surprise, however, no discharges of fire-arms succeeded; and even the cries, and orders, and calling from point to point, that are a little apt to succeed an alarm in an irregular garrison, had entirely ceased; and it became doubtful whether the whole commotion did not proceed from a false alarm. The Smashes, in particular, whose vociferations for the first few minutes had been of a very decided kind, were now mute; and the exclamations of the women and children had ceased.

  Major Willoughby was too good a soldier to abandon his post without orders, though bitterly did he regret the facility with which he had consented to accept so inconsiderable a command. He so far disregarded his instructions, however, as to place his whole person before a window, in order to reconnoitre; for it was now broad day-light, though the sun had not yet risen. Nothing rewarded this careless exposure; and then it flashed upon his mind that, as the commander of a separate detachment, he had a perfect right to employ any of his immediate subordinates, either as messengers or scouts. His choice of an agent was somewhat limited, it is true, lying between Mike and the P
linys; after a moment of reflection, he determined to choose the former.

  Mike was duly relieved from his station at the door, the younger Pliny being substituted for him, and he was led into the library. Here he received hasty but clear orders from the major how he was to proceed, and was thrust, rather than conducted from the room, in his superior’s haste to hear the tidings. Three or four minutes might have elapsed, when an irregular volley of musketry was heard in front; then succeeded an answering discharge, which sounded smothered and distant. A single musket came from the garrison a minute later, and then Mike rushed into the library, his eyes dilated with a sort of wild delight, dragging rather than carrying his piece after him.

  “The news!” exclaimed the major, as soon as he got a glimpse of his messenger. “What mean these volleys, and how comes on my father in front?”

  “Is it what do they mane?” answered Mike. “Well, there’s but one maning to powther and ball, and that’s far more sarious than shillelah wor-r-k. If the rapscallions didn’t fire a whole plathoon, as serjeant Joyce calls it, right at the Knoll, my name is not Michael O’Hearn, or my nature one that dales in giving back as good as I get.”

  “But the volley came first from the house--why did my father order his people to make the first discharge?”

  “For the same r’ason that he didn’t. Och! there was a big frown on his f’atures, when he heard the rifles and muskets; and Mr. Woods never pr’ached more to the purpose than the serjeant himself, ag’in that same. But to think of them rapscallions answering a fire that was ag’in orders! Not a word did his honour say about shooting any of them, and they just pulled their triggers on the house all the same as if it had been logs growing in senseless and uninhabited trees, instead of a rational and well p’apled abode. Och! ar’n’t they vagabonds!”

  “If you do not wish to drive me mad, man, tell me clearly what has past, that I may understand you.”