Mr. Heywood's history may be told in a few words. He was the son of an officer who had served in one of the American partizan corps, during the Revolution, and had been killed at the attack made by General Green upon the stronghold of Ninety-Six, in the South. At that time he was a mere youth, and found himself a few years after, and at the age of eighteen, without fortune, and wholly dependent upon his own resources. The war being soon ended, his naturally enterprising disposition, added to great physical strength, induced him to unite himself with one of the many bands of adventurers that poured into the then, wilds of Kentucky, where, within five years, and by dint of mere exertion and industry, he amassed money enough to enable him to repair to Charleston, in South Carolina, and espouse a lady of considerable landed property, with whom he had formed a partial engagement, prior to his entering on that adventurous life. The only fruit of this union was a daughter, and here, as far as fortune was concerned, they might have enjoyed every comfort in life, for Mrs. Heywood's property was principally situated in the neighborhood, but her husband was of too restless a nature to content himself with a sedentary life. He had at the outset embarked in commerce—the experience of a few years, however, convincing him that he was quite unsuited to such pursuits, he had the good sense to abandon them before his affairs could be involved. He next attempted the cultivation of the estate, but this failing to afford him the excitement he craved, he suddenly took leave of his family, and placing every thing under the control of a manager, once more obeyed the strong impulse, which urged him again to Kentucky. Here, following as a passion the occupation of his earlier years, he passed several seasons, scarcely communicating during that period, with his amiable and gentle wife, for whom, however, as well as for his daughter—now fifteen years of age, and growing rapidly into womanhood—he was by no means wanting in affection. Nor was his return home THEN purely a matter of choice. Although neither quarrelsome nor dissipated in his habits, he had had the misfortune to kill, in a duel, a young lawyer of good family who had accompanied him to Kentucky, and had consequently fled. Great exertions were made by the relatives of the deceased to have him arrested on the plea that the duel, the result of a tavern dispute, had been unfair on the part of the survivor. As there was some slight ground for this charge, the fact of Mr. Heywood's flight afforded increased presumption of his guilt, and such was the publicity given to the matter by his enemies, that the rumor soon reached Charleston, and finally, the ears of his family.
Revealing, in this extremity, his true position to his wife, Mr. Heywood declared it to be his intention either to cross the sea, or to bury himself forever in the remotest civilized portion of their own continent, leaving her however, to the undisturbed possession of the property she had brought him, which would of course descend to their child.
But Mrs. Heywood would not listen to the proposal. Although she had much to complain of, and to pain her, all recollection of the past faded from her memory, when she beheld her husband in a position of danger, and even in some degree of humiliation, for she was not ignorant that even in the eyes of people not over scrupulous, ineffaceable infamy attaches to the man, who, in a duel, aims with unfair deliberation at the life of his opponent; and anxious to satisfy herself that such a stain rested not on the father of her child, she conjured him to tell her if such really was the case. He solemnly denied the fact, although he admitted there were certain appearances against him, which, slight as they were, his enemies had sought to deepen into proofs—and in the difficulty of disproving these lay his chief embarrassment.
The tone—the manner—the whole demeanor of Mr. Heywood carried conviction with his denial, and his wife at once expressed her determination to renounce for his sake, all those local ties and associations by which she had been surrounded from childhood, and follow his fortunes, whithersoever they might lead. This, she persisted, she was the more ready and willing to do, because her daughter's education having been some months completed, under the best masters, there was now no anxiety on her account, other than what might arise from her own sense of the contemplated change.
Maria Heywood was accordingly summoned to the consultation—made acquainted with her father's position, and the necessity for his instant departure from that section of the country—and finally told that with her it rested to decide, not only whether he should go alone, but if they accompanied him, whether it should be to Europe, or to the Far West.
“Rest with me to decide!” exclaimed the warm-hearted girl as she threw herself into her mother's arms. “Oh, how good of you both thus to consult me, whose duty it is to obey. But do not think that it is any privation for me to leave this. I cannot claim the poor merit of the sacrifice. I have no enjoyment in cities. Give me the solitude of nature, books, and music, and I will live in a wigwam without regret.”
“Dear enthusiast,” said Mrs. Heywood, pressing her fondly to her heart; “I knew well in what spirit would be your answer. You decide then for the Far West?”
“Oh, yes, dear mamma! the Far West for me—no Europe. Give me the tall, dense forests of our own noble land! I desire no other home—long have I pictured to myself the vast lakes—the trackless woods and the boundless prairies of that region of which I have read so much, and now,” she concluded, with exaltation, “my fondest wishes will be realized, and I shall pass my life in the midst of them. But, dear papa, to what particular spot do we go?”
“To Chicago, my noble girl! It is the remotest of our Western possessions, and quite a new country. There I may hope to pass unheeded, but how will you, dear Maria, endure being buried alive there, when so many advantages await you here?”
“Only figuratively, papa,” she replied with a pensive smile stealing over her fine intellectual features. “Have no fear for me on that score, for depend upon it, with so much natural beauty to interest, it will be my own fault, if I suffer myself to be buried alive. What think you, dear mamma?”
“I think with you, my child,” replied Mrs. Heywood, looking approvingly at her daughter, “that it is our duty, as it assuredly will be our pleasure to accompany your father wherever he may go.”
It was now arranged that Mr. Heywood, furnished with a considerable sum of money in gold, should set out alone on the following night for their new destination, and make the necessary preparations for their reception, while his wife, through her agent, should endeavor to dispose of the estate. As it would require some time for this, and as the arrangements at Chicago could not well be completed within several months, it was settled that they should meet at Albany, early in the following autumn, where they should proceed to take possession of their new abode. For his better security and freedom from interruption, Mr. Heywood, while travelling, was to assume a feigned name, but his own was to be resumed immediately after his arrival at Chicago, for neither he nor his family could for a moment think of increasing the suspicion of guilt, by continuing a name that was not their own; and, finally, as a last measure of precaution, the free servants of the establishment, had, with the exception of Catharine, whom they were to take with them, been discharged, while a purchaser having fortunately been found, the slaves, with the estate, were handed over to a new master, proverbial for his kindness to that usually oppressed race. By these means they found themselves provided with funds more than adequate to all their future wants, the great bulk of the sum arising from the sale of the estate being vested in two of the most stable banks of the Union.
With the money he took with him, carefully deposited in his saddlebags, for he performed the whole of the journey on horseback, Mr. Heywood had caused the cottage already described, to be built and furnished from Detroit, in what, at that period, and so completely at the ultima thule of American civilization, was considered a style of great luxury. He had, however, shortly prior to his setting out for Albany, purchased several hundred acres of land, about two miles up the Southern branch of the Chicago, leaving instructions with Le Noir, whom he had engaged for a long term of service, to erect upon it a log building and outhouses. This he had been induced to do from that aching desire for physical exertion which had been familiar to him from boyhood, and which he felt could never be sufficiently indulged within the limited compass of the little village itself—subjected as he must be to the observation of the curious and the impertinent. He returned from Albany after a few months' absence, in the autumn of 1809, bringing with him his friends who occupied the cottage, while he himself obtained their assent that he should inhabit the farm house, completed soon after his return. Here he cut with his own hands, many a cord of the wood that his servants floated down in rafts, not only for his own family, but to supply the far more extensive wants of the garrison, with which, however, he had little or no intercourse, beyond that resulting from his business relations.
Such was the condition of things at the period at which our narrative has opened. Maria Heywood had now been three years an occupant of the cottage, and within that time solitude and habits of reflection had greatly matured her mind, as years had given every womanly grace to her person. The past had also tended much to form her character, upon which the development of physical beauty so often depends. At her first debut into society at Charleston, in her fourteenth year—an age that would have been considered premature, but for the rapidity with which form and intellect are known to ripen in that precocious climate—she had received, but listened with indifference to the vapid compliments of men whose shallowness she was not slow to detect, and whose homage conveyed rather a fulsome tribute to her mere personal beauty, than a correct appreciation of her heart and understanding. Not that it is to be inferred that she prided herself unduly upon this latter, but because it was by that standard of conduct chiefly, that she was enabled to judge of the minds of those who evinced so imperfect a knowledge of the female heart, when, emerging from the gaiety of girlhood, it passes into the earnestness of womanly feeling.
But although cold—almost repellant to all who had poured their ephemeral and seldom varying homage in her ear—no woman's heart ever beat with more kind—more generous—more devoted sentiments, than her own. Possessed of a vivid imagination, which the general quietude of her demeanor in a great degree disowned, she had already sketched within her glowing mind her own beau ideal, whose image was a talisman to deaden her heart against the influence of these soulless realities.
With such sentiments as these had Maria Heywood cheerfully consented to accompany her parents to that secluded spot, from which there was little probability of a speedy return; but solitude, so far from weakening the strong impressions that had entwined themselves around her heart, from the moment of her emancipation from childhood, only served to invest them with new power. The more her feelings repined—the more expanded her intellect—the stronger became the sense of absence of one who could enter into, and in some degree, give a direction to all her thoughts and emotions—sharing with her the rich fruit that springs from the consciousness of kindred associations of mind. But this was the secret of her own heart—of the heart of one whose personal attractions were well suited to the rich and overflowing character of her soul, and who had now attained that age which gives eloquent expression to every movement of the ripely moulded form.
Above the middle size, the figure of Maria Heywood was at once gracefully and nobly formed. Her face, of a chiselled oval, was of a delicate olive tint, which well harmonized with eyes of a lustrous hazel, and hair of glossy raven black. A small mouth, bordered by lips of coral fulness, disclosed, when she smiled, teeth white and even; while a forehead, high for her sex, combined with a nose, somewhat more aquiline than Grecian, to give dignity to a countenance that might, otherwise, have exhibited a character of voluptuous beauty. Yet, although her features, when lighted up by vivacity or emotion, were radiant with intelligence; their expression when in repose was of a pensive cast, that, contrasted with her general appearance, gave to it a charm, addressed at once to sense and sentiment, of which it is impossible, by description, to give an adequate idea. A dimpled cheek, an arm, hand and foot, that might have served the statuary as a model, completed a person which, without exaggeration, might be deemed almost, if not wholly faultless.
The habits of Mr. Heywood were of that peculiar nature—his desire of isolation from every thing that could be called society was so obvious, that for the first year of the residence of the family at Chicago, scarcely any intercourse had been maintained between the inmates of the cottage and the officers' wives; and it was only on the occasion of the commanding officer giving a party, to celebrate the anniversary of American Independence on the following year, that the first approach to an acquaintance had been made. It had been deemed by him a matter of duty to invite all of the few American families that were settled in the neighborhood, and of course the Heywoods were of the number. On the same principle of conventionalism the invitation was accepted, and not slight was the surprise of the ladies of the garrison, when they found in the secluded occupants of the cottage, to whom they had assigned a doubtful position in society, those to whom no effort of their own prejudice could refuse that correct estimate, which quiet dignity without ostentation, is ever certain to command.
At the announcement of the names of Mrs. and Miss Heywood, the somewhat stately Mrs. Headley was disposed to receive with hauteur the inmates of the cottage, but no sooner had Maria Heywood, accompanied by her gentle mother, entered the apartment with the easy and composed air of one to whom the drawing-room is familiar, than all her prejudices vanished, and with a heart warming towards her, as though she, had been the cherished sister of her love, she arose, pressed her hand affectionately and welcomed her to the Fort with the sincerity of a generous and elevated nature, anxious to repair its own wrong.
From that period, both by the wife of the commandant, and by Mrs. Elmsley—the only two ladies in the garrison, Maria Heywood was as much liked and courted, as she had previously been disregarded. To deny that the noble girl did in some measure exult in this change, would be to do wrong to the commendable pride of a woman, who feels that the unjust prejudice which had cast a false shadow over her recent life, has at last been removed, and that the value, of which she was modestly conscious, began to be appreciated.
It was at this party that her acquaintance with the young Southerner had commenced, and it is needless to trace the gradual rise of an attachment which similarity of tastes had engendered. Naturally of an ardent disposition, the youth had, as we have remarked on a previous occasion, hitherto loved to indulge in the excitement of the wild sports of the forest and the prairie, as the only present means of giving freedom to that spirit of enterprise, so usually wedded to the generous and unoccupied mind; but, from the period of his acquaintance with Maria Heywood, a total change had come over his manner of life. The hunt—the chase—and the cup that so often succeeded, were now almost wholly abandoned, and his only delight NOW in excursions was to ride with her across the prairie, or to pull her in his light skiff either along the shores of the Michigan, or through the various branches of the river, contemplating the beautiful Heavens by moonlight, and indulging in speculations, which were not more the fruit of romantic temperament, than of the intensity of Love. He had, moreover, four dogs trained to draw her in a light sledge of his own device and construction, in winter. In these rambles she was usually accompanied either by Mrs. Headley, or by the wife of his friend and brother subaltern, and after the invigorating exercise of the day, his evenings, whenever he could absent himself from the Fort, were devoted within the cottage to books, magic, and the far more endearing interchange of the resources of their gifted minds. In summer there were other employments of a domestic character, for in addition to their rides, walks, and excursions on the water, both found ample scope for the indulgence of their partiality for flowers, in the taste for practical horticulture possessed by Ronayne, under whose care had grown the luxuriant beauty which every where pervaded the little garden, and made it to the grateful girl a paradise in miniature.
Thus had passed nearly two years, and insensibly, without a word of love having been breathed, each felt all the security which a consciousness of being beloved alone could yield, and that assurance imparted to their manner and address when alone a confiding air, the more endearing from the silence of their lips. But although no word uttered by themselves proclaimed the existence of the secret and holy compact, not only were they fully sensible of it themselves, but it was obvious to all—even to the least observant of the garrison, and many were there, both among the soldiers and their wives—by all of whom the young ensign was liked for his openness and manliness of character—who expressed a fervent hope that the beautiful and amiable Miss Heywood would soon become the bride of their favorite officer. This it was, which had led the men of the fishing-party to express in their way, their sorrow for the young lady, when she should hear of the events at the farm-house, even while passing their rude encomiums on the sweetness of disposition of her, whom they already regarded as the wife of their young officer.
It was nearly noon, and Lieutenant Elmsley had not yet made his appearance with the promised report. Maria Heywood had, after passing an hour with her mother, returned to the breakfast-room, which it will be recollected opened immediately upon the barrack-square. Her friend being engaged with her domestic affairs, which every lady was at that period in a measure compelled to superintend, she had thrown herself (still in her morning dishabille) on a couch with a book in her hand, but with a mind wholly distracted from the subject of its pages. After continuing some time thus, a prey to nervous anxiety, as much the result of Elmsley's long absence as of her former fears, the sound of the fifes and drums fell startlingly, she knew not wherefore, upon her ear and drew her to the door. The men were falling in, and in the course of a few minutes the little line was formed a few yards to her left, with its flanks resting on either range of building, so that the mess-room door, then open, was distinctly visible in front. At the same moment, Captain Headley and the lieutenant, followed by Corporal Nixon and the other men of the fishing-party—Green only excepted—passed out of the orderly room on her right, moved across, and took up their position in front of the parade.
“God bless me, Maria, what is that, or is it his ghost!” suddenly and unguardedly exclaimed Mrs. Elmsley, who had that moment joined her friend—placing her arm at the same time round her waist.
“What do you mean, Mar—” but before Maria Heywood could complete her sentence, all power of speech was taken from her in the emotion with which she regarded what, after a momentary glance, met her view.
It was her lover, fully equipped for parade, and walking towards the men with a calm and deliberate step, which seemed to evince total unconsciousness that any thing unusual had happened.
“Here is a chair, my love—you really tremble as if the man was a ghost. Now then, we shall have a scene between him and our amiable commandant.”
“God forbid!” tremulously answered the almost bewildered girl; “I am the cause of all.”
“You! Stuff, Maria. What nonsense you talk, for a sensible girl. How should you be the cause? but, positively, Ronayne can never have been away from the Fort.”
“Do you think so, Margaret?”
“I am sure of it. Only look at him. He is as spruce as if he had only just come out of a band-box. But hush, not a word. There, that's a dear. Lean your head against my shoulder. Don Bombastes speaks!”
“No sign of Mr. Ronayne yet?” demanded Captain Headley, his back turned to the slowly advancing officer, whose proximity not one of the men seemed inclined to announce, possibly because they feared rebuke for insubordination. Mr. Elmsley, he pursued to that officer, who, acting on a significant half-glance from his friend, was silent also as to his approach. “Let a formal report of his absence without leave, be made to me immediately after the parade has been dismissed.”
“Nay, sir,” said the ensign, in his ordinary voice and close in the ear of the speaker, “not as having been absent from duty, I trust. I am not aware that I have ever missed a guard or a parade yet, without your leave.”
At the first sound of his voice, the surprised commandant had turned quickly round, and there encountered the usual deferential salute of his subordinate.
“But, Mr. Ronayne, what means this? Where, sir, have you been? and, if not absent, why thus late? Do you know that the men have already been paraded, and that when required for your guard, you were not to be found?”
“The fatigues of the night, Captain Headley,” returned the young officer, with some hesitation of manner; “the incessant watching—surely there—”
“I knew he had not been out of the Fort. Courage, Maria! was audible to the men who were nearest to the speaker, from Elmsley's doorway.
“I know what you would urge, Mr. Ronayne,” remarked the captain; “you would offer this in plea for your late appearance. I make all due allowance in the matter; but, let me tell you, sir, that an officer who thoroughly understands his duty, and consults the interests of the service, would make light of these matters, in cases of strong emergency.”
“Poor Ronayne!” sighed Maria, to her friend. “This is terrible to his proud spirit. In presence of the whole of the men, too!”
“I told you, my dear, there would be a row, but never fear—Elmsley be there. See, he is looking significantly at us, as if to call our attention to what is passing.”
The lieutenant had been no less astonished than the captain, at the unexpected appearance of Ronayne—even more so, indeed—because he had observed, without, however, remarking on it, the cool and unhastened pace at which he moved along the square, from the direction of the mess-room. “Now it is coming,” he thought, and half-murmured to himself, as he saw the crimson gathering on his brow, during the last harsh address of his superior.
“Captain Headley,” said the young man, drawing himself up to his full height, and somewhat elevating his voice, for he had remarked there were other and dearer eyes upon him, than those immediately around. “I WILL NOT be spoken to in this manner, before the men. If you think I have been guilty of a breach of duty or of discipline, I am prepared to meet your charges before the proper tribunal, but you shall not take the liberty of thus addressing me in public parade. My sword, sir,” and he unbuckled it, and offered the handle, “is at, your disposal, but I deny your further right.”
“No, no, no!” shouted several men from the ranks
“No, no, no!” repeated almost every man of the fishing-party, in even more energetic tones, while the commanding officer was glancing his eye keenly and rapidly along the little line, to detect those who had set the example of insubordination.
“Ugh! wah! good soger!” came from one of a small party of Indians in the rear, as the disconcerted captain turned, frowningly, from the men in front to those who had followed him from the orderly room, and now stood grouped on the inner flank.
“What is the meaning of all this?” he cried, in a loud and angry voice.
“Am I braved in my own command, and by my own men? Mr. Elmsley, who are these Indians, and how came they in?”
“They are a part of the encampment without, sir. There was no order given against their admission this morning, besides it is Winnebeg, and you have said that the gates of the Fort was to be open to him at all hours.”
“Ah! Winnebeg, my friend, how do you do. I did not know it was you or your people. You know you are always welcome.”
“How do, gubbernor,” answered the chief, coming round from the rear of the line, and taking the proffered hand—“'Spose not very angry now—him good warrior—him good soger,” and he pointed to the young subaltern.
“Ensign Ronayne is, no doubt, very sensible to your good opinion,” remarked the captain, with evident pique; “but, Winnebeg, as I am sure you never allow a white man to interfere with you, when you find fault with your young chiefs, you must let me do the same.”
“What find him fault for?” asked the chief, with some surprise; “brave like a devil!”
“Captain Headley,” interposed the ensign, with some impatience, “am I to surrender my sword, or resume my duty?”
But the captain either could not, or would not give a direct answer. “Can you give me a good reason, Mr. Ronayne, why I should not receive your sword? Do you deny that you have been guilty of neglect of duty?”
“In what?” was the brief demand.
“In being absent from the Fort, without leave, sir.”
“Indeed! To substantiate that, you must bring proofs, Captain Headley. Who,” and he looked around him, as if challenging his accuser, “pretends to have seen me beyond these defences?”
The commandant was for some moments at a loss, for he had not anticipated this difficulty. At length he resumed. “Was it not to be absent without leave, that, when the guard was all ready to be marched off, you were not to be found?”
“Had the guard been marched off, or the parade even formed, I should of course, have come justly under your censure, Captain Headley; but it was not so—you ordered the parade and guard-mounting for a later hour. I am here at that hour.”
“Hem!” returned the commandant, who was in some degree obliged to admit the justice of the remark; “you defend yourself more in the spirit of a lawyer, than of a soldier, Mr. Ronayne, but all this difficulty is soon set at rest. I require but your simple denial that you have been absent from the Fort, within the last twenty-four hours. That given, I shall be satisfied.”
“And that, sir,” was the firm reply of the youth, “I am not disposed to give. I am not much versed in military prudence, Captain Headley,” he pursued, after a few moments' pause, and in a tone of slight irony, which that officer did not seem to perceive, “but at least sufficient to induce me to reserve what I have to say for my defence. You have charged me, sir, with having been absent from the Fort without leave; and it is for you to prove that fact before a competent authority.”
“March off your guard, Mr. Ronayne,” was the abrupt rejoinder of the commandant, for he liked not the continuation of a scene in which the advantage seemed not to rest with him, but with the very party whom he had sought to chasten; “Mr. Elmsley dismiss the parade. I had intended promoting on the spot, Corporal Nixon and private Collins for their conduct yesterday, but the gross insubordination I have just seen, has caused me to change my mind. Neither shall have the rank intended, until the guilty parties are named. I give until the hour of parade to-morrow for their production, and if, by that time, their names are not laid before me, no such promotion shall take place while I command the garrison. Dismiss the men, sir. Here, Winnebeg, my good fellow, you have come at a good moment. I have dispatches to send to Detroit this very evening, and I know no one I can trust so well as yourself.”
“Good,” was the answer, “Winnebeg always ready to do him order—no angry more, gubbernor, with young chief,” pointing to the ensign, as he moved off with his small guard. “Dam good soger—you see dis?” and he touched his scalping-knife with his left hand, and looked very significantly.
“No, Winnebeg, not angry any more,” was the reply; “but how do you know him to be good soger? What has your scalping-knife to do with it?”
“Winnebeg know all,” said the chief gravely, as he laid his heavy hand upon the shoulder of the commandant, “but can't tell. Young chief say no, and Winnebeg love young chief.”
This remark forcibly struck Captain Headley, and brought back to his mind, certain recollections. He, however, asked no further question, but pointed, as they moved in the direction of his own apartments, towards the sun, showing by his gesture that it was not too early to take the mid-day dram.
“Where the devil have you been, man, and with what confounded impudence you got through the scrape,” was remarked at a distant part of the same ground, and at the same moment with the conversation just given.
“How is Maria?” eagerly asked Ronayne. “When shall I see her?”
“Well enough to hear all that passed between you and Military Prudence,” returned his friend; “but that is no answer to my question.”
“There was nothing like braving it,” answered the other evasively; “but I say, Elmsley, I am devilish hungry, that breakfast you invited me to last night is over long ago, of course.” This last sentence was uttered in a mock piteous tone.
“Just what I was going to speak about, my dear boy. We have had number ONE, but before half an hour, we shall be seated at number TWO. When your sergeant has relieved his sentries, come over and you will find a piping hot breakfast.”
“Will it be quite consistent with military prudence to leave my guard so soon, after the lecture I have had?” remarked the ensign, with a smile—“but, ah! I had nearly forgotten. Elmsley, I must say a few words to you before I go in, and a better opportunity cannot be afforded than while we are walking from this to your place. Just go then, and order the breakfast as you propose, and return here. I shall have completed the arrangements of the guard by that time, and all that I have to ask of you, can be answered as we go along.”
“I hope it is no great secret you have to impart,” returned the lieutenant, “for I am a sad hand at the mysterious, and shall be sure to tell my wife, if I do not tell Maria.”
“Not you—you will tell neither, but au revoir.”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg