Her skin was brown, I have said--yes, very brown--but, still, hardly browner than his own. Her eyes were dark and bright, of the true Indian hue, but larger and more open than is at all common in any of the tribes of Iroquois. Her lips, too, were as rosy and as pure of all tinge 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 would have spoken her race at once, had not each tress terminated in a wavy curl. The lines of the form and of the face were all wonderfully lovely too, and yet were hardly those which characterize so peculiarly the Indian nations. The nose was straighter, the cheek-bones less prominent, the head more beautifully set upon the shoulders. The expression, also, as she rested there, with her cheek leaning on his breast, was not that of the usual Indian countenance. It was softer, more tender, more impassioned; for, though romance and poetry have done all they could to spiritualize the character of Indian love, I fear, from what I have seen, and heard, and known, it is rarely what it has been portrayed. Her face, however, was full of love, and tenderness, and emotion; and the picture of the two, as they sat there, told, at once, the tale of love just spoken to a willing ear.
There let us leave them. It was a short hour of joy; a sweet dream in the dark, stormy night of life. They were happy, with the unalloyed happiness so seldom known even for an hour, without fear, or doubt, or guilt, or remorse; and so let them be. What matters it if a snake should glide through the grass hard by? it may pass on, and not sting them. What matters it if a cloud should hang over the distant horizon?--the wind may waft away the storm. Forethought is a curse or a blessing, as we use it. To guard against evils that we see is wise, to look forth for those we cannot guard against is folly.
CHAPTER V.
The hour of breakfast had arrived, when Walter Prevost returned with his river spoil; but the party at the house had not yet sat down to table. The guest who had arrived on the preceding night was standing at the door, talking with Edith, while Mr. Prevost himself was within, in conference with some of the slaves. Shaded by the little rustic porch, Edith was leaning against the doorpost in an attitude of exquisite grace; and the stranger, with his arms crossed upon his broad, manly chest, now raising his eyes to her face, now dropping them to the ground, seemed to watch with interest the effect his words produced, as it was written on that beautiful countenance. I have said with interest, rather than with admiration; for although it is hardly possible to suppose that the latter had no share in his sensations, yet it seemed, as far as outward manner could indicate inward thought, that he was reading a lesson from her looks, instead of gazing upon a beautiful picture. The glance, too, was so calm, and so soon withdrawn, that there could be nothing offensive in it--nothing that could even say to herself, "I am studying you," although a looker-on might so divine.
His words were gay and light indeed, and his whole manner very different from the day before. A cloud seemed to have passed away--a cloud rather of reflection than of care; and Walter, as he came up, and heard his cheerful tones, wondered at the change; for he knew not how speedily men accustomed to action and decision cast from them the burden of weighty thought, when the necessity for thought is past.
"I know not," said the stranger, speaking as the young man approached--"I know not how I should endure it myself for any length of time. The mere abstract beauty of nature would soon pall upon my taste, I fear, without occupation."
"But you would make occupation," answered Edith, earnestly; "you would find it. Occupation for the body is never wanting, where you have to improve, and cultivate, and ornament; and occupation for the mind flows in from a thousand gushing sources in God's universe--even were one deprived of books and music."
"Ay, but companionship, and social converse, and the interchange of thought with thought," said the stranger,--"where could one find those?" And he raised his eyes to her face.
"Have I not my brother and my father?" she asked.
"True," said the other; "but I should have no such resource."
He had seen a slight hesitation in her last reply. He thought that he had touched the point where the yoke of solitude galled the spirit. He was not one to plant or to nourish discontent in any one; and he turned at once to her brother, saying, "What, at the stream so early, my young friend? Have you had sport?"
"Not very great," answered Walter; "my fish are few, but they are large. Look here."
"I call such sport excellent," observed the stranger, looking into the basket. "I must have you take me with you some fair morning, for I am a great lover of the angle."
The lad hesitated, and turned somewhat redder in the cheek than he had been the moment before; but his sister saved him from reply, saying in a musing tone,--
"I cannot imagine what delight men find in what they call the sports of the field. To inflict death may be a necessity, but surely should not be an amusement."
"Man is born a hunter, Miss Prevost," replied the stranger, with a smile: "he must chase something. It was at first a necessity, and it is still a pleasure when it is no longer a need. But the enjoyment is not truly in the infliction of death, but in the accessories. The eagerness of pursuit; the active exercise of the faculties, mental and corporeal; the excitement of expectation, and of success,--nay, even of delay; the putting forth of skill and dexterity, all form part of the enjoyment. But there are, especially in angling, a thousand accidental pleasures. It leads one through lovely scenes; we meditate upon many things as we wander on; we gaze upon the dancing brook, or the still pool, and catch light from the light amidst the waters; all that we see is suggestive of thought,--I might almost say of poetry. Ah, my dear young lady! few can tell the enjoyment, in the midst of busy, active, troublous life, of one calm day's angling by the side of a fair stream, with quiet beauty all around us, and no adversary but the speckled trout."
"And why should they be your foes?" asked Edith. "Why should you drag them from their cool, clear element, to pant and die in the dry upper air?"
"'Cause we want to eat 'em," uttered a voice from the door behind her: "they eats everything. Why shouldn't we eat them? Darn this world! it is but a place for eating, and being eaten. The bivers that I trap eat fish; and many a cunning trick the crafty critters use to catch 'em: the minkes eat birds, and birds' eggs. Men talk about beasts of prey. Why, everything is a beast of prey, bating the oxen and the sheep, and such-like; and sometimes I've thought it hard to kill them who never do harm to no one, and a great deal of good sometimes. But, as I was saying, everything's a beast of prey. It's not lions, and tigers, and painters, and such; but from the fox to the emmet, from the beetle to the bear, they're all alike, and man at the top o' them. Darn them all! I kill 'em when I can catch 'em, ma'am, and always will. But come, Master Walter, don't ye keep them fish in the sun. Give 'em to black Rosie, the cook, and let us have some on 'em for breakfast afore they're all wilted up."
The types of American character are very few--much fewer than the American people imagine. There are three or four original types very difficult to distinguish from their varieties; and all the rest are mere modifications--variations on the same air. It is thus somewhat difficult to portray any character purely American, without the risk of displaying characteristics which have been sketched by more skilful hands. The outside of the man, however, affords greater scope than the inside; for Americans are by no means always long, thin, sinewy fellows, as they are too frequently represented; and the man who now spoke was a specimen of a very different kind. He might be five feet five or six in height, and was anything but corpulent;