Osceola the Seminole Part 13

The leaves sheltered them no longer from our view: behold my father--my mother!

Virginia and I were startled by their appearance. We felt some apprehension of evil--arising no doubt, from our own convictions that we had not been acting aright. We observed that the brows of both were clouded. They appeared vexed and angry.

My mother approached first. There was scorn upon her lips. She was proud of her ancestry, even more than the descendant of the Randolphs.

"What!" exclaimed she--"what, my children, these your companions?

Indians?"

Young Powell rose to his feet, but said nothing in reply. His looks betrayed what he felt; and that he perfectly understood the slight.

With a haughty glance towards my father and mother, he beckoned to his sister to follow him, and walked proudly away.

Virginia and I were alarmed and speechless. We dared not say adieu.

We were hurried from the spot; and homeward Virginia went with my father and mother. There were others in the boat that had brought them to the island. There were blacks who rowed; but I saw white men there too.

The Ringgolds--both father and son--were of the party.

I returned alone in the skiff. While crossing the lake, I looked up.

The canoe was just entering the creek. I could see that the faces of the half-blood and his sister were turned towards us. I was watched, and dared not wave an adieu, although there was a sad feeling upon my heart--a presentiment that we were parting for long--perhaps for ever!

Alas! the presentiment proved a just one. In three days from that time I was on my way to the far north, where I was entered as a cadet in the military academy of West Point. My sister, too, was sent to one of those seminaries, in which the cities of the Puritan people abound. It was long, long before either of us again set eyes upon the flowery land.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

WEST POINT.

The military college of West Point is the finest school in the world.

Princes and priests have there no power; true knowledge is taught, and must be learned, under penalty of banishment from the place. The graduate comes forth a scholar, not, as from Oxford and Cambridge, the pert parrot of a dead language, smooth prosodian, mechanic rhymster of Idyllic verse; but a linguist of living tongues--one who has studied science, and not neglected art--a botanist, draughtsman, geologist, astronomer, engineer, soldier--all; in short, a man fitted for the higher duties of social life--capable of supervision and command-- equally so of obedience and execution.

Had I been ever so much disinclined to books, in this inst.i.tution I could not have indulged in idleness. There is no "dunce" in West Point.

There is no favour to family and fortune: the son of the President would be ejected, if not able to dress up with the rank; and under the dread of disgrace, I became, perforce, a diligent student--in time a creditable scholar.

The details of a cadet's experience possess but little interest--a routine of monotonous duties--only at West Point a little harder than elsewhere--at times but slightly differing from the slave-life of a common soldier. I bore them bravely--not that I was inspired by any great military ambition, but simply from a feeling of rivalry: I scorned to be the laggard of my cla.s.s.

There were times, however, when I felt weariness from so much restraint.

It contrasted unfavourably with the free life I had been accustomed to; and often did I feel a longing for home--for the forest and the savanna--and far more, for the a.s.sociates I had left behind.

Long lingered in my heart the love of Maumee--long time unaffected by absence. I thought the void caused by that sad parting would never be filled up. No other object could replace in my mind, or banish from my memory the sweet souvenirs of my youthful love. Morning, noon, and night, was that image of picturesque beauty outlined upon the retina of my mental eye--by day in thoughts, by night in dreams.

Thus was it for a long while--I thought it would never be otherwise! No other could ever interest me, as she had done. No new joy could win me to wander--no Lethe could bring oblivion. Had I been told so by an angel, I would not, I could not, have believed it.

Ah! it was a misconception of human nature. I was but sharing it in common with others, for most mortals have, at some period of life, laboured under a similar mistake. Alas! it is too true--love _is_ affected by time and absence. It will not live upon memory alone. The capricious soul, however delighting in the ideal, prefers the real and positive. Though there are but few _lovely_ women in the world, there is no one lovelier than all the rest--no man handsomer than all his fellows. Of two pictures equally beautiful, that is the more beautiful upon which the eye is gazing. It is not without reason that lovers dread the parting hour.

Was it books that spoke of lines and angles, of bastions and embrasures--was it drill, drill, drill by day, or the hard couch and harder guard _tour_ by night--was it any or all of these that began to infringe upon the exclusivism of that one idea, and at intervals drive it from my thoughts? Or was it the pretty faces that now and then made their appearance at the "Point"--the excursionary belles from Saratoga and b.a.l.l.ston, who came to visit us--or the blonde daughters of the patroons, our nearer neighbours--who came more frequently, and who saw in each coa.r.s.e-clad cadet the chrysalis of a hero--the embryo of a general?

Which of all these was driving Maumee out of my mind?

It imports little what cause--such was the effect. The impression of my young love became less vivid on the page of memory. Each day it grew fainter and fainter, until it was attenuated to a slim retrospect.

Ah! Maumee! in truth it was long before this came to pa.s.s. Those bright smiling faces danced long before my eyes ere thine became eclipsed. Long while withstood I the flattery of those siren tongues; but my nature was human, and my heart yielded too easily to the seduction of sweet blandishments.

It would not be true to say that my first love was altogether gone: it was cold, but not dead. Despite the fashionable flirtations of the hour, it had its seasons of remembrance and return. Oft upon the still night's guard, home-scenes came flitting before me; and then the brightest object in the vision-picture was Maumee. My love for her was cold, not dead. Her presence would have re-kindled it--I am sure it would. Even to have heard from her--of her--would have produced a certain effect. To have heard that she had forgotten me, and given her heart to another, would have restored my boyish pa.s.sion in its full vigour and entirety; I am sure it would.

I could not have been indifferent then? I must still have been in love with Maumee.

One key pushes out the other; but the fair daughters of the north had not yet obliterated from my heart this dark-skinned damsel of the south.

During all my cadetship, I never saw her--never even heard of her. For five years I was an exile from home--and so was my sister. At intervals during that time we were visited by our father and mother, who made an annual trip to the fashionable resorts of the north--b.a.l.l.ston Spa, Saratoga, and Newport. There, during our holidays, we joined them; and though I longed to spend a vacation at home--I believe so did Virginia-- the "mother was steel and the father was stone," and our desires were not gratified.

I suspected the cause of this stern denial. Our proud parents dreaded the danger of a _mesalliance_. They had not forgotten the tableau on the island.

The Ringgolds met us at the watering-places; and Arens was still a.s.siduous in his attentions to Virginia. He had become a fashionable exquisite, and spent his gold freely--not to be outdone by the _ci-devant_ tailors and stock-brokers, who const.i.tute the "upper ten" of New York. I liked him no better than ever, though my mother was still his backer.

How he sped with Virginia, I could not tell. My sister was now quite a woman--a fashionable dame, a belle--and had learnt much of the world, among other things, how to conceal her emotions--one of the distinguished accomplishments of the day. She was at times merry to an extreme degree; though her mirth appeared to me a little artificial, and often ended abruptly. Sometimes she was thoughtful--not unfrequently cold and disdainful. I fancied that in gaining so many graces, she had lost much of what was in my eyes more valuable than all, her gentleness of heart. Perhaps I was wronging her.

There were many questions I would have asked her, but our childish confidence was at an end, and delicacy forbade me to probe her heart.

Of the past we never spoke: I mean of _that_ past--those wild wanderings in the woods, the sailings over the lake, the scenes in the palm-shaded island.

I often wondered whether she had cause to remember them, whether her souvenirs bore any resemblance to mine!

On these points, I had never felt a definite conviction. Though suspicious, at one time even apprehensive--I had been but a blind watcher, a too careless guardian.

Surely my conjectures had been just, else why was she now silent upon themes and scenes that had so delighted us both? was her tongue tied by the after-knowledge that we had been doing wrong--only known to us by the disapproval of our parents? Or, was it that in her present sphere of fashion, she disdained to remember the humble a.s.sociates of earlier days?

Often did I conjecture whether there had ever existed such a sentiment in her bosom; and, if so, whether it still lingered there? These were points about which I might never be satisfied. The time for such confidences had gone past.

"It is not likely," reasoned I; "or, if there ever was a feeling of tender regard for the young Indian, it is now forgotten--obliterated from her heart, perhaps from her memory. It is not likely it should survive in the midst of her present a.s.sociations--in the midst of that _entourage_ of perfumed beaux who are hourly pouring into her ears the incense of flattery. Far less probable _she_ would remember than I; and have not I forgotten?"

Strange, that of the four hearts I knew only my own. Whether young Powell had ever looked upon my sister with admiring eyes, or she on him, I was still ignorant, or rather unconvinced. All I knew was by mere conjecture--suspicion--apprehension. What may appear stranger, I never knew the sentiment of that other heart, the one which interested me more than all. It is true, I had chosen to fancy it in my own favour.

Trusting to glances, to gestures, to slight actions, never to words, I had hoped fondly; but often too had I been the victim of doubt.

Perhaps, after all, Maumee had never loved me!

Many a sore heart had I suffered from this reflection. I could now bear it with more complacency; and yet, singular to say, it was this very reflection that awakened the memory of Maumee; and, whenever I dwelt upon it, produced the strongest revulsions of my own spasmodic love!

Wounded vanity! powerful as pa.s.sion itself! thy throes are as strong as love. Under their influence, the chandeliers grow dim, and the fair forms flitting beneath lose half their brilliant beauty. My thoughts go back to the flowery land--to the lake--to the island--to Maumee.

Five years soon flitted past, and the period of my cadetship was fulfilled. With some credit, I went through the ordeal of the final examination. A high number rewarded my application, and gave me the choice of whatever arm of the service was most to my liking. I had a penchant for the rifles, though I might have pitched higher into the artillery, the cavalry, or engineers. I chose the first, however, and was gazetted brevet-lieutenant, and appointed to a rifle regiment, with leave of absence to revisit my native home.

At this time, my sister had also "graduated" at the Ladies' Academy, and carried off her "diploma" with credit; and together we journeyed home.

There was no father to greet us on our return: a weeping and widowed mother alone spoke the melancholy welcome.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.