Silent Struggles Part 15

CHAPTER XIII.

THE BROTHER AND SISTER.

In the night-time Abigail had never before visited her mother's grave.

Indeed, she had seldom been there alone, in her whole life. Now the grave-yard was very dim and shadowy, for it lay on the verge of the forest, and a few stray moonbeams only pierced through the pine boughs that drooped over it. She was almost afraid to advance close, for the periwinkles that crept over the two graves had grown luxuriantly thick, spreading over them like a torn pall. Even their flowers, so exquisitely blue in the day-time, seemed black among the darkness of their leaves.

Beyond the two graves--now linked into one by those dusky creepers--the forest was black as midnight. Here and there a fire-fly shone out in the depths of the wood; here and there a branch caught the moonlight, that fringed the edges of its dewy leaves with silver; but this only made the darkness beyond more complete. She crept towards the graves, holding her breath, afraid of the solitude and darkness, afraid and yet fascinated.

All at once she stretched forth her hand, and seized hold of a pine branch which shivered in all its slender leaves, and gave forth those low, melancholy sighs, which sound so like human grief.

The young girl held on to the branch and, stooping forward with gleaming eyes and parted lips, peered into the gloom of the forest, looking straight over her mother's grave.

All at once she drew a sharp breath and let go of the pine bough, that fell back to its place with a rustle that shook all the neighboring branches, and covered the grave below with a storm of dew. Then, with her head turned back and her eyes bright with new terror, she attempted to flee. A crash--a rush amid the forest boughs, and a voice coming out of the darkness!

Her lifted foot fell like lead upon the gra.s.s, a cry broke from her lips, and, still maintaining the first att.i.tude of flight, she seemed frozen into stone.

"Mahaska!"

Out from the dim forest stole that name. When she had heard it the young girl could not think, nor why it fell with such sweet mournfulness on her ear. But she knew that the name had been hers; in some previous existence perhaps, for she never remembered hearing it before with mortal ears. It thrilled through and through her.

"Mahaska!"

"Who speaks?"

"Mahaska!"

As the name was uttered a third time, a figure came out from the blackness, rustling through the foliage as it pa.s.sed, and stood in the moonlight.

Abigail was no longer afraid, but, dropping into her old position, stood with one hand leaning on the gray stone at the head of her mother's grave.

It was a savage, and yet a white man, who stood before her--a savage, in all the pomp of his war garments, with hostile weapons at his girdle, and a rifle in his right hand. The crest of feathers, with which his hair was knotted, fluttered in the night wind proudly as if it had surmounted a helmet. The warm crimson, that lined his robe of dressed deer-skin, and the many colored wampum that bordered and fringed it, glowed richly in the moonlight. It was a n.o.ble figure, and the young girl's face kindled as she measured him with her eyes.

"Whom do you seek, with a tomahawk at your girdle, and a scalping-knife within reach of your hand? I am alone, and there is only an old woman at the house--no help within reach of my voice--but you see I stand still--I am not afraid."

"No--not afraid," answered the savage, with a proud motion of the hand.

"Even the women of your race should be brave. Mahaska, step forth, that the moon may look upon your face."

Fearlessly, as if she had obeyed that voice all her life, Abigail stepped out of the pine shadow, and stood face to face with the savage.

"Your hand does not shake--you look into my face--your lip keeps its red--the blood starts to your cheek like sunset upon the snow mountains--you are not afraid of the Indian?"

"No, not afraid."

"The grasp of my hand does not make you tremble?"

"No, it sends the fire back to my heart."

"What brought you to the forest--to this grave?"

"I do not know--stay, the old woman t.i.tuba was muttering a death-chant.

It must have been that."

"A death-chant in the Indian tongue--a chant of the Wampanoags?"

"A chant in the Indian tongue--but I cannot tell of what tribe."

"And you understand it?"

"Yes!"

"How--who taught you the meaning of our death-chants?"

Abigail was astonished. She had never thought of this before. How, indeed, had she learned the meaning of these words? Not from the minister, nor at school; nor, so far as she could remember, from the old Indian woman. How then had that strange language become so familiar to her ear and her tongue? This thought, so suddenly aroused, bewildered her. She had no answer to give.

The young savage grasped her hand in his, and she felt that his limbs quivered; slowly, very slowly, he drew her to the grave, and, pointing downward, said--

"It was of her you learned the tongue of the Wampanoags!"

"My mother," said Abigail, mournfully, "my poor mother, who lies here so still--how could she teach me a savage language? She, the sister of my uncle's wife?"

"How did she know--how could she teach you the language of our tribe?

Ask how deep the wrongs must be which made her forswear her own tongue as if it had been a curse?"

"Hold, hold!" cried Abigail, shaking off his clasp and gazing wildly into his face. "Your speech is like my own--English is native to you, rather than the savage tongue--your cheek is without paint--your forehead too white--your air proud like an Indian, but gentle withal.

Who are you? Why is it that you lay wait for me in this holy place, talking of my mother as if you knew her?"

"Knew her, Mahaska? The Great Spirit knows how well! Knew her?"

"My mother--you--"

The young man fell on his knees, and, leaning his head upon the grave stone, remained silent a while, subduing the emotion that seemed to sweep away his strength. At last he looked up; the fire had left his eyes; deep, solemn resolution filled its place.

Abigail could not speak. Bewilderment and awe kept her dumb. For a moment the young Indian gazed upon her, then his voice broke forth in a gush of tenderness.

"Mahaska!"

"Why do you call me by that name?" cried the young girl.

"Because your mother--your beautiful, unhappy mother--whispered it faintly as a dying wind in the pine branches, when her lord and your father bent thankfully over her couch of fern leaves, in the deep forest, to look upon his last-born child. Because his brave kiss pressed your forehead in baptism, as that name left her pale lips. Because the word has a terrible significance."

"What significance?" asked Abigail, beginning to tremble beneath those burning glances.

"Mahaska, the Avenger."

"The avenger! Alas! alas! it is a fearful name; but what signifies that?

The consecrated waters of baptism have washed it away."

The young Indian sprang to his feet.

"Washed it away? Washed the name of our fathers from your forehead? I tell you, girl, it is burning there in the red blood of a kingly sire--in the flames which devoured the old men and little children of our tribe--rusted in by the iron that held a king's son in bondage under the hot sky of the tropics. Look, maiden, look where the ocean heaves and rolls beneath the moon: there is not enough water in all that to wash the name from your brow. Look upward, where the Great Spirit hath kindled his camp-fires in the sky: you will not find flame enough to burn it out. Look yonder, where the thick forest covers the earth--roll all its shadows together, and through their blackness all the world would read that name!"