The Wild Huntress Part 42

"Far otherwise--he has been true to you!"

"It is false, sir. You know not, perhaps, that I was myself witness of his base treachery. I saw him--"

"What you saw was a mere accidental circ.u.mstance; nor was it of his seeking. It was the fault of the Chicasaw, I can a.s.sure you."

"Ha! ha! ha! An accidental circ.u.mstance!" rejoined she, with a contemptuous laugh; "truly a rare accident! It was guilt, sir. I saw him with his arms around her--with my own eyes I saw this. What farther proof needed I of his perfidy?"

"All that you saw, I admit, but--"

"More than saw it: I heard of his faithlessness. Did not she herself declare it--in Swampville? elsewhere!--boasted of it even to my own sister! More still: another was witness to his vile conduct--had often seen him in her company. Ha! little dreamed he, while dallying in the woods with his red-skinned squaw, that the earth has ears and the trees have tongues. The deceiver did not think of that!"

"Fair Marian, they are foul calumnies; and whoever has given utterance to them did so to deceive you. Who, may I ask, was that other witness who has so misled you!"

"Oh! it matters not now--another villain like himself--one who--O G.o.d!

I cannot tell you the horrid history--it is too black to be believed."

"Nay, you may tell it me. I half know it already; but there are some points I wish explained--for your sake--for Wingrove's--for the sake of your sister--"

"My sister! how can it concern her? Surely it does not? Explain your meaning, sir."

I endeavoured to avoid the look of earnest inquiry that was turned upon me. I was not yet prepared to enter upon the explanation. "Presently,"

I said, "you shall know all that has transpired since your departure from Tennessee. But first tell me of yourself. You have promised me?

I ask it not from motives of idle curiosity. I have freely confessed to you my love for your sister Lilian. It is that which has brought me here--it is that which impels me to question you."

"All this is mystery to me," replied the huntress, with a look of extreme bewilderment. "Indeed, sir, you appear to know all--more than I--but in regard to myself, I believe you are disinterested, and I shall willingly answer any question you may think proper to ask me. Go on! I shall conceal nothing."

"Thanks!" said I. "I think I can promise that you shall have no reason to regret your confidence."

CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR.

PLAYING CONFESSOR.

I was not without suspicion as to the motive of her _complaisance_: in fact, I understood it. Despite the declamatory denial she had given to its truth, my defence of Wingrove, I saw, had made an impression upon her. It had no doubt produced pleasant reflections; and rendered myself indirectly an object of grat.i.tude. It was natural that such kindness should be reciprocated.

My own intent in "confessing" the girl was twofold. First, on Wingrove's account: for, notwithstanding all that had been said and done, her love for him _might have pa.s.sed_. If so, instead of that happy reunion of two loving hearts, which I had antic.i.p.ated bringing about, I should be the witness of a most painful interview.

Without further delay, I entered upon the theme. My interrogatories were answered with candid freedom. The answers proved that what the Mexican had told me was true to the letter.

"And did your father force you to this marriage?"

The reply was given hesitatingly. It was in the affirmative. "He did."

"For what reason did he so?"

"I could never tell. The man had some power over him; but how or in what way, I knew not then, nor do I now. My father told me it was a debt--a large sum which he owed him, and could not pay. I know not whether it was that. _I hope it was_."

"You think, then, that Stebbins used some such means to force your father's consent?"

"I am sure of it. My father told me as much. He said that by marrying Stebbins I could save him from disgrace, and entreated, rather than forced me to it. You know, sir, I could not ask why: he was my father.

I do think that it was _not_ his wish that I should have that man; but something threatened him."

"Did your father know it was a false marriage?"

"No, no; I can never think so. I am sure the villain deceived him in that, as he did me. Oh! father could never have done so! People, I believe, thought him wicked, because he was short with them, and used rough language. But he was not wicked. Something had crossed him; and he drank. He was at times unhappy, and perhaps ill-tempered with the world; but never with us. He was always kind to sister and myself-- never scolded us. Ah! no, sir; I can never think he knew that."

"He was aware that Stebbins was a Mormon--was he not?"

"I have tried to believe that he was not--though Stebbins afterwards told me so." I well knew that he was aware of it, but said nothing.

"His saying so," continued she, "proves nothing. If father did know of his being a Mormon, I am sure he was ignorant of the wickedness of these people. There were stories about them; but there were others who contradicted these stories, and said they were all scandal--so little does the world know what is true from what is false. I learnt afterwards that the very worst that was said of them was even less than the truth."

"Of course, _you_ knew nothing of Stebbins being a Mormon?"

"Oh! sir, how could I? There was nothing said of that. He pretended he was emigrating to Oregon, where a good many had gone. Had I known the truth, I should have drowned myself rather than have gone with him!"

"After all, you would not have obeyed your father's will in the matter, had not something else arisen. At his solicitation, you gave your consent; but were you not influenced by the incident that had occurred in the forest-glade?"

"Stranger! I have promised you I would conceal nothing; nor shall I.

On discovering the falsehood of him who had told me he loved me, I was more than mad--I was revengeful. I will not deny that I felt spite. I scarcely cared what became of me--else how could I have consented to marry a man for whom I had neither love nor liking? On the contrary, I might almost say that I loathed him."

"And you _loved_ the other? Speak the truth, Marian! you have promised to do so--you loved Frank Wingrove?"

"I did."

A deep-drawn sigh followed the confession.

"Once more speak the truth--you _love him still_?"

"Oh! if he had been true--if he had been true!"

"If true, you could love him still?"

"Yes, yes!" replied she, with an earnestness not to be mistaken.

"Love him, then, Marian! love him still! Frank Wingrove is true!" I detailed the proofs of his loyalty from beginning to end. I had learnt every circ.u.mstance from Wingrove himself, and was able to set them forth with all the circ.u.mstantiality of truth itself. I spoke with as much earnestness as if I had been suing in my own cause; but I was listened to with willing ears, and my suit was successful. I even succeeded in explaining that _sinister kiss_, that had been the cause of so much misfortune.

CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE.

FURTHER REFLECTIONS.

I might, without blame, have envied them those sweet throbbings of the heart, so different from my own. Widely different, since mine beat with the most painful pulsations. The cloud which had fallen upon it through the revelations of the Mexican, had been further darkened by the details that confirmed them; and now that the excitement, of the conflict was over, and I had an opportunity to reflect upon the future with comparative coolness, the agony of my soul became more concentrated and keen. I scarcely felt joy that my life was saved; I almost wished that I had perished by the hands of the Indians!

The strange story of the trapper, now fully corroborated by its own heroine--with the additional facts obtained from herself--were only partially the cause of the horrid fancies that now shaped themselves in my imagination. I could have but one belief about the intention of Stebbins. That was, that the base wretch was playing procurator to his despot master, doubtless to serve some ends of self-advancement: since I well knew that such were the t.i.tles to promotion in the Mormon hierarchy. With the experience of her sister fresh before my eyes, I could have no other belief than that Lilian, too, was being led to a like sacrifice. And how was this sacrifice to be stayed? How was the sad catastrophe to be averted? It was in the endeavour to answer these interrogatories that I felt my feebleness--the utter absence of strength. Had it been a mere question of overtaking the caravan, there would have been no need for the slightest uneasiness. It would still be many days--weeks, indeed--before the north-going train could, arrive at its destination; and if my apprehensions about the designs of Stebbins were well founded, Lilian would be in no danger until after her arrival in the so-called "Mormon city." It was there--within the walls of that modern Gomorrah--upon a shrine consecrated to the mockery of every moral sentiment, that the sacrifice of virtue was to be offered up--there was it that the wolf awaited the lamb for his victim-bride!