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WYNADOTTÉ (Unabridged). Джеймс Фенимор Купер
Читать онлайн.Название WYNADOTTÉ (Unabridged)
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isbn 9788075832481
Автор произведения Джеймс Фенимор Купер
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
Nick made another gesture, and then he endeavoured to reflect, like one who had a grave business in contemplation. The Santa Cruz confused his brain, but the Indian never entirely lost his presence of mind; or never, at least, so long as he could either see or walk.
“Don’t like him”—rejoined Nick. “Like anybody?”
“To be sure I does—I like the capt’in—och, he‘s a jontleman—and I likes the missus; she’s a laddy—and I likes Miss Beuly, who’s a swate young woman—and then there’s Miss Maud, who’s the delight of my eyes. Fegs, but isn’t she a crathure to relish!”
Mike spoke like a good honest fellow, as he was at the bottom, with all his heart and soul. The Indian did not seem pleased, but he made no answer.
“You’ve been in the wars then, Nick!” asked the Irishman, after a short pause.
“Yes—Nick been chief ag’in—take scalps.”
“Ach! That’s a mighty ugly thrade! If you’d tell ‘em that in Ireland, they’d not think it a possibility.”
“No like fight in Ireland, hah?”
“I’ll not say that—no, I’ll not say that; for many’s the jollification at which the fighting is the chafe amusement. But we likes thumping on the head—not skinning it.”
“That your fashion—my fashion take scalp. You thump; I skin—which best?”
“Augh! skinnin’ is a dreadthful operation; but shillaleh-work comes nately and nat’rally. How many of these said scalps, now, may ye have picked up, Nick, in yer last journey?”
“T’ree—all man and woman—no pappoose. One big enough make two; so call him four.”
“Oh! Divil burn ye, Nick; but there’s a spice of your namesake in ye, afther all. T’ree human crathures skinned, and you not satisfied, and so ye’ll chait a bit to make ‘em four! D’ye never think, now, of yer latther ind? D’ye never confess?”
“T’ink every day of dat. Hope to find more, before last day come. Plenty scalp here; ha, Mike?”
This was said a little incautiously, perhaps, but it was said under a strong native impulse. The Irishman, however, was never very logical or clear-headed; and three gills of rum had, by no means, helped to purify his brain. He heard the word “plenty,” knew he was well fed and warmly clad, and just now, that Santa Cruz so much abounded, the term seemed peculiarly applicable.
“It’s a plinthiful place it is, is this very manor. There’s all sorts of things in it that’s wanted. There’s food and raiment, and cattle, and grain, and porkers, and praiching—yes, divil burn it, Nick, but there’s what goes for praiching, though it’s no more like what we calls praiching than yer’e like Miss Maud in comeliness, and ye’ll own, yourself, Nick, yer’e no beauty.”
“Got handsome hair,” said Nick, surlily—“How she look widout scalp?”
“The likes of her, is it! Who ever saw one of her beauthy without the finest hair that ever was! What do you get for your scalps?—are they of any use when you find ‘em?”
“Bring plenty bye’m-by. Whole country glad to see him before long—den beavers get pond ag’in.”
“How’s that—how’s that, Indian? Baiver get pounded? There’s no pound, hereabouts, and baivers is not an animal to be shut up like a hog!”
Nick perceived that his friend was past argumentation, and as he himself was approaching the state when the drunkard receives delight from he knows not what, it is unnecessary to relate any more of the dialogue. The jug was finished, each man very honestly drinking his pint, and as naturally submitting to its consequences; and this so much the more because the two were so engrossed with the rum that both forgot to pay that attention to the spring that might have been expected from its proximity.
Chapter V
The soul, my lord, is fashioned—like the lyre.
Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate.
Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion,
Suffused her cheek, call’d to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre, made her pulse
Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate.
—Hillhouse
The approach of night, at sea and in a wilderness, has always something more solemn in it, than on land in the centre of civilization. As the curtain is drawn before his eyes, the solitude of the mariner is increased, while even his sleepless vigilance seems, in a measure, baffled, by the manner in which he is cut off from the signs of the hour. Thus, too, in the forest, or in an isolated clearing, the mysteries of the woods are deepened, and danger is robbed of its forethought and customary guards. That evening, Major Willoughby stood at a window with an arm round the slender waist of Beulah, Maud standing a little aloof; and, as the twilight retired, leaving the shadows of evening to thicken on the forest that lay within a few hundred feet of that side of the Hut, and casting a gloom over the whole of the quiet solitude, he felt the force of the feeling just mentioned, in a degree he had never before experienced.
“This is a very retired abode, my sisters,” he said, thoughtfully. “Do my father and mother never speak of bringing you out more into the world?”
“They take us to New York every winter, now father is in the Assembly,” quietly answered Beulah. “We expected to meet you there, last season, and were greatly disappointed that you did not come.”
“My regiment was sent to the eastward, as you know, and having just received my new rank of major, it would not do to be absent at the moment. Do you ever see any one here, besides those who belong to the manor?”
“Oh! yes”—exclaimed Maud eagerly—then she paused, as if sorry she had said anything; continuing, after a little pause, in a much more moderated vein—“I mean occasionally. No doubt the place is very retired.”
“Of what characters are your visiters?—hunters, trappers, settlers—savages or travellers?”
Maud did not answer; but, Beulah, after waiting a moment for her sister to reply, took that office on herself.
“Some of all,” she said, “though few certainly of the latter class. The hunters are often here; one or two a month, in the mild season; settlers rarely, as you may suppose, since my father will not sell, and there are not many about, I believe; the Indians come more frequently, though I think we have seen less of them, during Nick’s absence than while he was more with us. Still we have as many as a hundred in a year, perhaps, counting the women. They come in parties, you know, and five or six of these will make that number. As for travellers, they are rare; being generally surveyors, land-hunters, or perhaps a proprietor who is looking up his estate. We had two of the last in the fall, before we went below.”
“That is singular; and yet one might well look for an estate in a wilderness like this. Who were your proprietors?”
“An elderly man, and a young one. The first was a sort of partner of the late Sir William’s, I believe, who has a grant somewhere near us, for which he was searching. His name was Fonda. The other was one of the Beekmans, who has lately succeeded his father in a property of considerable extent, somewhere at no great distance from us, and came to take a look at it.