“Let the White Eagle send the stranger aside. Su-wa-nee must speak to him alone.”
“Thar’s no need o’ that: it’s a friend that’s wi’ me.”
“Would the White Eagle have his secrets known? There are some he may not wish even a friend to hear. Su-wa-nee can tell him one that will crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple.”
“I have no saycrets, girl – none as I’m afraid o’ bein’ heerd by anybody.”
“What of the half-blood?”
“I don’t care to hear o’ her.”
“The White Eagle speaks falsely! He does care to hear. He longs to know what has become of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell him.”
The last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the young hunter. Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto observed towards the Indian girl, I saw him bend eagerly forward – as if desirous of hearing what she had to say. Seeing that she had drawn his attention, the Indian again pointed to me, and inquired: “Is the pale-faced stranger to know the love-secrets of the White Eagle?”
I saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener. Without waiting for his reply, I drew my horse’s head in the opposite direction, and was riding away. In the turning, I came face to face with him; and by the moonlight shining full over his countenance, I fancied I could detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it. My fancy was not at fault: for, on brushing close past him, he leaned over towards me, and, in an earnest manner, muttered: “Please, stranger! don’t go fur – thar’s danger in this girl. She’s been arter me before.” I nodded assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that formed the embouchure of the path, I pulled up under the shadow of the trees.
At this point I was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him; but a little clump of white magnolias prevented me from seeing the girl – at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from her sight. The chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what was said; but many words reached my ear, and with sufficient distinctness, to give me a clue to the subject of the promised revelation. Delicacy would have prompted me to retire a little farther off; but the singular caution I had received from my companion, prevented me from obeying its impulse.
I could make out that a certain Marian was the subject of the conversation; and then more distinctively, that it was Marian Holt. Just as I expected, the daughter of my squatter: that other and older one, of whom mention had been already made. This part of the revelation was easily understood: since I was already better than half prepared for it. Equally easy of comprehension was the fact, that this Marian was the sweetheart of my travelling companion —had been, I should rather say; for, from what followed, I could gather that she was no longer in the neighbourhood; that some months before she had left it, or been carried away – spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces of the why or whither she had gone. Nearly all this I had conjectured before: since the young hunter had half revealed it to me by his manner, if not by words. Now, however, a point or two was added to my previous information relating to the fair Marian. She was married. Married – and to some odd sort of man, of whom the Indian appeared to speak slightingly. His name I could make out to be Steevens, or Steebins, or something of the sort – not very intelligible by the Indian’s mode of pronouncing it – and, furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster in Swampville.
During the progress of the dialogue, I had my eye fixed on the young hunter. I could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was quite new to him; and its effect was as that of a sudden blow. Of course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his conjectures.
“O God!” he exclaimed, “I thort so – the very man to a’ done it. Lord ha’ mercy on her!” All this was uttered with a voice hoarse with emotion. “Tell me!” continued he, “whar are they gone? Ye say ye know!”
The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment, hindered me from hearing the reply. The more emphatic words only reached me, and these appeared to be “Utah” and “Great Salt Lake.” They were enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt and her husband.
“One question more!” said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid to ask it. “Can ye tell me – whether – she went willingly, or whether – thar wan’t some force used? – by her father, or some un else? Can ye tell me that, girl?”
I listened eagerly for the response. Its importance can be easily understood by one who has sued in vain – one who has wooed without winning. The silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian.
“Answer me, Su-wa-nee!” repeated the young man in a more appealing tone. “Tell me that, and I promise – ”
“Will the White Eagle promise to forget his lost love? Will he promise – ”
“No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I can niver forget her.”
“The heart can hate without forgetting.”
“Hate her? hate Marian? No! no!”
“Not if she be false?”
“How do I know that she war false? You haven’t told me whether she went willin’ly or agin her consent.”
“The White Eagle shall know then. His gentle doe went willingly to the covert of the wolf —willingly, I repeat. Su-wa-nee can give proof of her words.”
This was the most terrible stroke of all. I could see the hunter shrink in his saddle, a death-like pallor over-spreading his cheeks, while his eyes presented the glassy aspect of despair.
“Now!” continued the Indian, as if taking advantage of the blow she had struck, “will the White Eagle promise to sigh no more after his false mistress? Will he promise to love one that can be true?”
There was an earnestness in the tone in which these interrogatories were uttered – an appealing earnestness – evidently prompted by a burning headlong passion. It was now the turn of her who uttered them, to wait with anxiety for a response. It came at length – perhaps to the laceration of that proud heart: for it was a negative to its dearest desire.
“No, no!” exclaimed the hunter confusedly. “Impossible eyther to hate or forget her. She may a been false, an’ no doubt are so; but it’s too late for me: I can niver love agin.”
A half-suppressed scream followed this declaration, succeeded by some words that appeared to be uttered in a tone of menace or reproach. But the words were in the Chicasaw tongue, and I could not comprehend their import.
Almost at the same instant, I saw the young hunter hurriedly draw back his horse – as if to get out of the way. I fancied that the crisis had arrived, when my presence might be required. Under this belief, I touched my steed with the spur, and trotted out into the open ground. To my astonishment, I perceived that the hunter was alone. Su-wa-nee had disappeared from the glade!
Chapter Fifteen
Making a Clean Breast of it
“Where is she? – gone?” I mechanically asked, in a tone that must have betrayed my surprise.
“Yes – gone! gone! an’ wi’ a Mormon!”
“A Mormon?”
“Ay, stranger, a Mormon – a man wi’ twenty wives! God forgi’ her! I’d rather heerd o’ her death!”
“Was there a man with her? I saw no one.”
“O stranger, excuse my talk – you’re thinkin’ o’ that ere Injun girl. ’Taint her I’m speakin’ about.”
“Who then?”
The young hunter hesitated: he was not aware that I was already in possession of his secret; but he knew that I had been witness of