Читать книгу Ella Barnwell - Emerson Bennett - Страница 6

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NEW CHARACTERS.

When young Reynolds again regained his senses, it was some minutes before he could sufficiently recover from the confusion of ideas consequent upon his mishap, to follow up the train of events that had occurred to place him in his present situation. His first recollection was of the attack made upon him by the Indians; and it required considerable argument with himself, to prove conclusively, to his own mind, that he was not even now a captive to the savage foe. Gradually, one by one, each event recurred to his mind, until he had traced himself to the moment of his swooning in the arms of a tall, ungainly young man, called Isaac; but of what, had taken place since—where he now was—or what length of time had intervened—he had not the remotest idea. He was lying on his back, upon a rude, though by no means uncomfortable, bed; and, to the best of his judgment, within the four walls of some cabin—though to him but two of the walls were visible—owing to the quantity of skins of the buffalo, bear, and deer, which were suspended around the foot and front of his pallet. He was undressed; and, as he judged, upon applying his hand to the wounded part, had been treated with care; for it came in contact with a nicely arranged bandage of cloth, which was even now moist with some spirituous liquid. But what perplexed him most, was the peculiar light, with the aid of which, though dim, he could discern every object so distinctly. It could not proceed from a candle—it was too generally diffused; nor from the fire—it was too gray, and did not flicker; nor from the moon—it was not silvery enough: from what then did it proceed? It appeared the most like daylight; but this it could not be, he reasoned, from the fact that he was wounded just before night-fall—unless—and the idea seemed to startle him—unless he had lain in a senseless state for many hours, and it was indeed again morning. Determined, however, to satisfy himself on this point, he attempted to rise for the purpose; but found, to his no small surprise and regret, that he had not even strength sufficient to lift his body from the bed; and, therefore, that nothing was left him, but to surmise whatever he chose, until some one should appear to solve the riddle; which, he doubted not, would be ere long.

While these reflections and surmises were rapidly passing through the mind of our hero—for such we must acknowledge him to be—he heard no sound indicating the immediate vicinity of any other human being; and turning his thoughts upon this latter, he was beginning to doubt whether, at the moment, he was not the only individual beneath the roof; when he heard a step, as of some one entering another apartment; and, directly following, a female voice addressed to some person within.

"Have ye looked to the stranger agin, Ella, and moisted his bandage?"

"I have, mother," was the answer, in a sweet and silvery voice, which caused our wounded hero to start with a thrill of pleasing astonishment.

"And how appeared he, Ella?" continued the first speaker.

"Why, I thought a little better," answered the same soft, musical voice; "he seemed asleep, and entirely tranquil."

"God send it, gal, for he's had a tougher, sartin. Three days, now, nater's bin tugging away for him; and I'd hate to see him die now, arter all; and being the colonel's recommind, too; for Isaac says the colonel injuncted him strongly to take car o' him; and I'd do any thing to oblege sech a man as him. He didn't appear to have his senses, I reckon?"

"I judged not," answered Ella; "though, from his tranquil sleep, I argued favorably of his case."

"Well," rejoined the other, "it's my opine the crisis is at hand; and that he'll ayther come out o' this lethargick—as they calls it—a rational, or die straight off. 'Spose you look at him agin, Ella; or, stay, I'll look myself. Poor feller! how he did rave and run on 'bout his troubles at home, that's away off, until I all but cried, in reckoning how I'd feel ef it war Isaac as war going on so.".

As the speaker concluded, she advanced to where the object of her remarks was lying; and, drawing aside in a gentle manner, some of the skins near his head, gazed upon him.

As will be surmised by the reader, not a syllable of the foregoing colloquy had been lost upon Reynolds; who heard, with unbounded astonishment, of his narrow escape from that dark valley whence none who enter again return, and that three days had elapsed since he had fallen into an unconscious state. He learned, too, with regret, that he had been communicating matters—to what extent he knew not—to others, which he wished safely locked in his own breast; and judging it best, in the present instance, to dissemble a little, that his informant might not be aware of his having overheard her, he feigned to be asleep on her approach.

"He's sleeping yit, poor creater," continued the hostess, as she bent over the bed of our hero, until he felt her breath upon his face. "I hope it arn't a going to be his final sleep—so young, and so handsome too! but, O dear, thar's no telling what them Injen bullets will do, for folks does say as how they have a knack o' pizening them, that's orful to tell on! O Lord o' marcy, Ella, child, do come here!" cried the dame suddenly: "I do believe he's coming to, for sartin."

This latter speech was occasioned by a movement of the pretended sleeper, and the gradual opening of his eyes, with the rude stare of bewildered surprise natural to one in his supposed situation, and such as he would have exhibited without feigning, had the hostess been present some ten minutes sooner. Discovering, as already intimated, a returning consciousness on the part of her guest, the good woman drew back her head, but still kept her position by the bed, and her eyes fixed upon him, with an expression which betrayed a fear lest her hopes of this important event should prove entirely fallacious. Behind her, with timid step, stole up Ella, and, peeping over her shoulders, encountered the eyes of the young man beaming upon her, with a look which her acute perception told her was any thing but insane; and instantly starting back, the blood rushed upward, crimsoning her neck and face with a beautiful glow. As for Reynolds—in whom, as already stated, the voice of Ella alone was sufficient to awaken a thrill of pleasure—no sooner did he behold her, though but for an instant, than he felt that thrill revived with a sensation, which, in spite of himself, he knew was expressed in his own countenance; and he hastened to speak, in order as much as possible to conceal it.

"Will you have the goodness, madam, to inform me where I am?"

"Thar, thar, Ella, child!" exclaimed the matron, joyously; "I told ye so—I know'd it—he's come to, for sartin—the Lord be praised!" Then addressing herself to Reynolds, she continued: "Whar are you, stranger, do you ax? Why you're in the cabin o' Ben Younker—as honest a man as ever shot a painter—who's my husband, and father of Isaac Younker, what brought ye here, according to the directions of Colonel Boone, arter you war shot by the Injens, the varmints, three days ago; and uncle of Ella Barnwell here, as I calls daughter, 'cause her parents is dead, poor creaters, and she hadn't a home to go to, but come'd to live with us, that are fetching her up in a a dutiful way;" and the good woman concluded her lucid account of family matters with a sound that much resembled a person taking breath after some laborious exertion.

"And is it possible," answered Reynolds, who hastened to reply, in order to conceal a strong inclination he felt for laughing, "that I have lain here three whole days?"

"Three days, and four nights, and part o' another day, jest as true as buffaloes run in cane-brakes, and Injen varmints shoot white folks whensomever they git a chance," replied Mrs. Younker, with great volubility. "And Ella, the darling, has tended on ye like you war her own nateral born brother; and Isaac, and Ben, and myself ha' tended on ye too, while you war raving and running on at an orful rate, though you've had the best bed, and best o' every thing we've got in the house."

"For all of which I am at a loss for terms to express my gratitude," returned Reynolds, coloring slightly as he thought of the assiduous attentions he had unconsciously received from Ella Barnwell, who already began to be an object in his eyes of no little importance.

"Don't mention about gratitude," rejoined the kind hearted Mrs. Younker; "don't talk about gratitude, for a lettle favor sech as every body's got a right to, what comes into this country and gits shot by savages. We havn't done no more for you than we'd a done for any body else in like sarcumstances; and, la, sir, the pleasure o' knowing you're a going to git well agin, arter being shot by Injen's pizen bullets,[3] is enough to pay us twenty times over—Eh! Ella, child—don't you say so?"

"No one, save the gentleman himself, or his dearest friends, can be more rejoiced at his favorable symptoms than myself," responded Ella, timidly, in a voice so low, sweet and touching, that Reynolds, who heard without seeing her—for she kept the rude curtain of skins between them—felt his heart beat strangely, while his eyes involuntarily grew moist.

"That's truly said, gal—truly said, I do believe," rejoined Mrs. Younker; "for she's hung over you, sir, (turning to the wounded man) night and day, like a mother over her child, until we've had to use right smart authority to make her go to bed, for fear as how she'd be sick too."

"And if I live," answered Reynolds, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "and it is ever in my power to repay such disinterested attention and kindness, I will do it, even to the sacrificing that life which she, together with you and your family, good woman, has been the means, under God, of preserving."

"Under God," repeated the matron; "that's true; I like the way you said that, stranger; it sounds reverential—it's just—and it raises my respect for you a good deal; for all our doings is under God's permit;" and she turned her eyes upward, with a devout look, in which position she remained several seconds; while Ella, with her fair hands clasped, followed her example, and seemed, with her moving lips, engaged in prayer.

"But come," resumed the dame, "it won't do for you, stranger, to be disturbed too much jest now; for you arn't any too strong, I reckon; and so you'll jest take my advice, and go to sleep awhile, and you'll feel all the better for't agin Ben and Isaac come home, which'll be in two or three hours."

Saying this, Mrs. Younker again disposed the curtains so as to conceal from Reynolds all external objects; and, together with Ella, withdrew, leaving him to repose. Whether he profited by her advice immediately, or whether he meditated for some time on other matters, not excluding Ella, we shall leave to the imagination of the reader; while we proceed, by way of episode, to give a general, though brief account, of the Younker family.

Benjamin Younker was a man about fifty-five years of age—tall, raw-boned and very muscular—and although now past the prime, even the meridian of life, was still possessed of uncommon strength. His form, never handsome, even in youth, was now disfigured by a stoop in the shoulders, caused by hard labor and rheumatism. His face corresponded with his body—being long and thin, with hollow cheeks, and high cheek bones—his eyes were small and gray, with heavy eye-brows; his nose long and pointed; his mouth large and homely, though expressive; and his forehead medium, surmounted by a sprinkling of brown-gray hair. In speech he was deliberate, generally pointed, and seldom spoke when not absolutely necessary. He was a good farmer—such being his occupation; a keen hunter, whenever he chose to amuse himself in that way; a sure marksman; and, although ignorant in book learning, possessed a sound judgment, and a common-sense understanding on all subjects of general utility. He was a native of Eastern Virginia, where the greater portion of his life had been spent in hunting and agricultural pursuits—where he was married and had been blessed with two children—a son and a daughter—of whom the former only was now living, and has already been introduced to the reader as Isaac—and whence, at the instance of his wife and son, he removed, in the spring of 1779, into the borders of Kentucky—finally purchased and settled where he now resided; and where, although somewhat exposed, he and his family had thus far remained unmolested.

The dame, Mrs. Younker, was a large, corpulent woman of forty-five, with features rather coarse and masculine, yet expressive of shrewdness and courage, and, withal, a goodly share of benevolence. She was one of that peculiar class of females, who, if there is any thing to be said, always claim the privilege of saying it; in other words, an inveterate talker; and who, if we may be allowed the phrase, managed her husband, and all around her, with the length of her tongue. In the country where she was brought up and known, to say of another, that he or she could compete with Ben Younker's wife in talking, was considered the extreme of comparison; and it is not recorded that any individual ever presumed on the credulity of the public sufficient to assert that the vocal powers of the said Mrs. Younker were ever surpassed. Unlike most great talkers, she was rarely heard to speak ill of any, and then only such as were really deserving of censure; while her rough kind of piety—if we may so term it—and her genuine goodness of heart, known to all with whom she came in contact, served to procure her a long list of friends. She possessed, as the reader has doubtless judged from the specimen we have given, little or no education; but this deficiency, in her eyes, as well as in most of those who lived on the frontiers, was of minor consequence—the knowledge of hunting, farming, spinning and weaving, being considered by far the more necessary qualifications for discharging the social duties of life.

Of Isaac, with whom the reader is already, acquainted, we shall not now speak, other than to say, he could barely read and write—rather preferring that he develop his character in his own peculiar way. But there is another, and though last, we trust will not prove least in point of interest to the reader, with whom we shall close, this episodical history—namely—Ella Barnwell.

The mother of Ella—a half sister to the elder-Younker—died when she was very young, leaving her to the care of a kind and indulgent father, who, having no other child, lavished on her his whole affections. At the demise of his wife, Barnwell was a prosperous, if not wealthy merchant, in one of the eastern cities of Virginia; and knowing the instability of wealth, together with his desire to fit his daughter for any station in society, he spared no expense necessary to educate her in all the different branches of English usually studied by a female. To this was added drawing, needle-work, music and dancing; and as Ella proved by no means a backward scholar in whatever she undertook, she was, at the age of fifteen, to use a familiar phrase, turned out an accomplished young lady. But alas! she had been qualified for a station which fate seemed determined not to let her occupy; for just at this important period of her life, her father became involved in an unfortunate speculation, that ended in ruin, dishonor, and his own bodily confinement in prison for debts he could never discharge. Naturally high spirited and proud, this misfortune and persecution proved too much for his philosophy—and what was more, his reason—and in a state of mental derangement, he one night hung himself to the bars of his prison window—leaving his daughter at the age we have named, a poor, unprotected, we might almost add friendless, orphan; for moneyless and friendless are too often synonymous terms, as poor Ella soon learned to her mortification and sorrow.

Ella Barnwell, the young, the beautiful, and accomplished heiress, was a very different personage from poor Ella Barnwell the bankrupt's daughter; and those who had fawned upon and flattered and courted the one, now saw proper to pass the other by in silent contempt. It was a hard, a very hard lesson for one at the tender age of Ella, who had been petted and pampered all her life, and taught by her own simplicity of heart to look upon all pretenders as real friends—it was a hard lesson, we say, for one of her years, to be forced at one bold stroke to learn the world, and see her happy, artless dreams vanish like froth from the foaming cup; but if hard, it was salutary—at least with her; and instead of blasting in the bud, as it might have done a frailer flower, it set her reason to work, destroyed the romantic sentimentalism usually attached to females of that excitable age, taught her to rely more upon herself, and less upon others, more upon actions and less upon words, and, in short, made a strong minded woman of her at once. Yet this was not accomplished without many a heart-rending pang, as the briny tears of chagrin, disappointment, and almost hopeless destitution, that nightly chased each other down the pale cheeks of Ella Barnwell to the pillow which supported her feverish head, for weeks, and even months after the death of her father, could well attest.

The father of Ella was an Englishman, who had emigrated to this country a few years previous to his marriage; and as none of his near relations had seen proper to follow his example, Ella, on his side, was left entirely destitute of any to whom she could apply for assistance and protection. On her mother's side, she knew of none who would be likely to assist her so readily as her half uncle, Benjamin Younker, whom she remembered as having seen at the funeral of her mother; and who then, taking her in his brawny arms, while the tears dimmed his eyes, in a solemn, impressive manner told her, that, in the ups and downs of life, should she ever stand in need of another's strong arm or purse, to call on him, and that, while blest with either himself, she should not want. This at the time had made a deep impression on her youthful mind, but subsequently had been nearly or quite obliterated, until retouched by feeling the want of that aid then so solemnly and generously tendered. Accordingly, after trying some of her supposed true-hearted friends—who had more than once been sharers in her generosity; and who, in return, had professed the most devoted attachment; but who now, in her distress, unkindly treated her urgent requests with cold neglect—Ella hastened to make her situation known to her uncle; the result of which had been her adoption into a family, who, if not graced with that refinement and education to which she had been accustomed, at least possessed virtues that many of the refined and learned were strangers to—namely—truth, honesty, benevolence, and fidelity.

Ella, in her new situation, with her altered views of society in general, soon grew to love her benefactor and his family, and take that sincere pleasure in their rude ways, which, at one time, she would have considered as next to impossible. With a happy faculty, belonging only to the few, she managed to work herself into their affections, by little and little, almost imperceptibly, until, ere they were aware of the fact themselves, she was looked upon rather as a daughter and sister, than a more distant relation. In sooth, the former appellation the reader has already seen applied to her during the recorded conversation of the voluble Mrs. Younker—an appellation which Ella ever took good care to acknowledge by the corresponding title of mother.

About a year from the period of Ella's becoming a member of the family, the Younkers had removed, as already stated, to what was then considered the "Far West," and had finally purchased and settled where we find them in the opening of our story. In this expedition, Ella, though somewhat reluctantly, had accompanied them—had remained with them ever since—and was now, notwithstanding her former lady-like mode of life, through the tuition of Mrs. Younker, regularly installed into all the mysteries of milking, churning, sewing, baking, spinning and weaving. With this brief outline of her past history, we shall proceed to describe her personal appearance, at the time of her introduction to the reader, and then leave her to speak and act for herself during the progress of this drama of life.

Eighteen years of sunshine and cloud, had served to mould the form of Ella Barnwell into one of peculiar beauty and grace. In height she was a little above five feet, had a full round bust, and limbs of that beautiful and airy symmetry, which ever give to their possessor an appearance of etherial lightness. Her complexion was sufficiently dark to entitle her to the appellation of brunette; though by many it would have been thought too light, perhaps, owing to the soft, rich transparency of her skin; through which, by a crimson tint, could be traced the "tell-tale-blood," on the slightest provocation tending to excitement. Her features, if examined closely, could not be put down as entirely regular, owing to a very slight defect in the mouth, which otherwise was very handsome, and which was graced with two plump, pretty, half pouting lips. This defect, however, was only apparent when the countenance was in stern repose; and, as this was seldom, when in company with others, it was of course seldom observed. The remainder of her features were decidedly good, and, seen in profile, really beautiful. Her eye was a full, soft, animated hazel, that could beam tenderly with love, sparkle brilliantly with wit, or flash scornfully with anger; but inclining more to the first and second qualities than the last. Her eye-brows were well defined, and just sufficiently arched to correspond with the eyes themselves. Her forehead was prominent, of a noble cast, and added dignity to her whole appearance. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, fine and glossy, and although neatly arranged about the head, evidently required but little training to enable it to fall gracefully about her neck in beautiful ringlets. The general expression of her face, was a soft, bewitching playfulness, which, combined with the half timid, benevolent look, beaming from her large, mild, hazel eye, invariably won upon the beholder at the first glance, and increased upon acquaintance. Her voice we have already spoken of as possessing a silvery sweetness; and if one could be moved at merely seeing her, it only required this addition to complete the charm. To all of the foregoing, let us add an ardent temperament—capable of the most tender, lasting and devoted attachment, when once the affections were placed on an object—a sweet disposition, modest deportment, and graceful manners—and you have the portrait in full of Ella Barnwell, the orphan, the model of her sex, and the admiration of all who knew her.

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