While the inmates of the lodge remained waiting in silent anxiety, a shadow fell across the opening, and Butler appeared before them with his clothes in much disorder, and evidently fatigued from his long walk through the forest.
Tahmeroo sprang impulsively to meet him; the wild joy of her Indian blood revelled in her cheek, and sparkled in her dark eyes, till they met her mother’s reproving look, and felt the pitying gaze which the missionary fixed upon her. Then she shrunk back to her seat, blushing and trembling as if her natural joy at seeing the man she loved were something to be reproached for.
“Ha, my jewel of a red skin, have they made you afraid of me already?” said Butler, approaching her with a reckless kind of gaiety in his demeanor, and without appearing to observe the presence of any one except herself—“but why the deuce did you allow them to trick you out in this manner? You were a thousand times more piquant in the old dress. Come, don’t look frightened, you are beautiful enough in anything. Pray, what are these good people waiting for?”
Then turning to Catharine Montour, who had risen at his bold approach, he said, with insolent familiarity:
“Thank you, my stately madam, for sending away your nest of Shawnee friends, though you have made me expend a great deal of fierce courage for nothing. I had prepared myself to run the gantlet bravely among the red devils. Thank you again—but I hope my solemn father-in-law is to be present, I left him camped around a burning circle of pitch and hemlock, settling all creation over his calumet.”
Catharine listened with a frowning brow to his flippant speech, without deigning to answer.
“Upon my soul, this is pleasant,” said the young man, turning to the missionary. “I am invited to my own wedding, but find only faces that would make tears unnecessary at a funeral. Faith, if this is considered a cordial reception into the wigwam of one’s father-in-law, I’ll retire.”
The missionary looked gravely in his face, but did not speak; while Catharine arose with a frowning brow, and thrusting her hand under the pillows of the couch, drew forth a crimson-velvet casket, encrusted with gold, and set with three or four exquisitely painted medallions, each in itself a gem. She then drew an ebony box from under the couch, and unlocked it with some difficulty, for the spring turned heavily from disuse. This box she proceeded to open, though her hands looked cold as death, and her face was like marble as she lifted the lid.
Butler kept his eyes fixed on her movements, while he continued his unbecoming freedom of speech.
“Upon my honor,” he whispered, glancing at the happy face of Tahmeroo, and drawing her towards him, “that smile is refreshing after the gloomy brow of your august mother. Pray, my dear——”