They were also most kindly invited by the members of the St. George’s Archery Club to witness their bow-and-arrow shooting on one of their prize-days. This was calculated to engage their closest attention; and at night they returned home in great glee. They had been treated with the greatest kindness by the gentlemen of that club. They had put up a gold medal for the Indians to shoot for, which was won by Sah-mah (Tobacco), and other prizes were taken by others of the party.[12] The first shot made by the young man who bore off the golden prize was said to have been one of the most extraordinary ever made on their grounds; but in their subsequent shooting they fell a great way short of it, and also of that of the young gentlemen belonging to the club. After the shooting of the Indians, and also of the members of the club, contending for their valuable prizes, the Indians were invited to their table, where a sumptuous dinner was partaken of. Many toasts were drunk, and many speeches made; and, to their agreeable surprise, as they said, they had plenty of the Queen’s chickabobboo!
They continued their amusements nightly, much in the same way as I have above described, with full houses and similar excitements, all of which and their effects we will imagine, as I pass over a week or two of them without other notice than merely to say that the “jolly fat dame” still continued to visit them, as she had promised, and nightly to strengthen the spell she seemed to be working upon the heart of poor Cadotte. She was elegant, but rather fat. She rode in a good carriage. She bestowed her presents liberally, and on all; and insisted the whole time that “it was the most interesting exhibition she ever saw,” and that “Cadotte was almost a giant!” “She could not keep away, nor could she keep the Indians out of her mind.” All were inquiring who she could be, and nobody could tell. She had delivered three or four letters into Cadotte’s hand in the time; and, though “her carriage could put him down at his door quite easy,” she had driven him home but one night, and then he was landed quite quick and quite safe. The Indians talked and joked much about her, but Cadotte said little. He was young, and his youth had had a giant growth in the timid shade of the woods. He was strong; but he knew not the strength that was in him, for he had not tried it. He was like a mountain torrent—dammed up but to burst its barriers and overflow. The glow of this fair dame upon him was a sunshine that he had never felt, and, like the snow under a summer’s sun, he was about to have melted away. In the simplicity of his native ambition, he had never aspired to anything brighter than his own colour; and few were dreaming till just now that the warrior Cupid was throwing his fatal arrows across the line. Nor did those who suspected them (or even saw them), from the source that has been named, know more than half of the shafts that were launched at the “Strong-wind” at this time, nor appreciate more than half the perplexities that were wearing away his body and his mind. He knew them, poor fellow, and had felt them for some time; but the world saw no symptom of them until his treatment of this fair dame on one night set them inquiring, when they found that she, with her little archer, was not alone in the field.
Reader, we are now entering upon a drama that requires an abler pen than mine, which has been used only to record the dry realities of Indian life, stripped of the delicious admixture which is sometimes presented when Cupid and civilization open their way into it.
I regret exceedingly that I cannot do justice to the subject that is now before us; but, knowing the facts, I will simply give them, and not aspire to the picture, which the reader’s imagination will better paint than my black lead can possibly draw.
On the unlucky evening above alluded to the “jolly fat dame” had made her appearance at the rooms half an hour before the doors were to open; and, with Daniel’s usual indulgence, she passed into the room, in the hope, as she said, to have a few words with the Indians, and shake hands with them all, and bid the good fellows good by, as she was going into the country for a few days. She loitered around the room until it began to fill with its visitors for the evening, without the good luck to meet the “Strong-wind,” as she had been in the habit of doing, before the chandelier was in full blaze, and while the Indians were in their adjoining room, putting on their paint and ornaments. This disappointment, for reasons that she probably understood better than we can, seemed to embarrass her very much, and most likely, even at that early stage, carried forebodings of troubles that were “brewing.” In the embarrassment of these painful moments, not being able to spend the evening in the exhibition, as usual, but under the necessity of returning to pack her things and complete her preparations for her journey, she was retreating towards the door as fast as the audience filled in in front, determined to hold a position in the passage where she could shake hands with the Indians as they passed in, and drop a little billet into the hands of the “Strong-wind,” which, if received, was intended only to stop a sort of palpitation there would be in the side of her breast, in case she should have gone off to the country without informing the “Strong-wind” of it, and that she was to return again in a very few days.
Unlucky device! The Indians all passed by, excepting the “Strong Wind,” and, as each one shook her hand, he saluted her with a yelp and a smile. All this was gratifying to her, but added to the evident fever that was now coming on her. She paced the hall forward and back for some time, living yet (and thriving) upon the hope at that moment raised in her mind, that he (“noble fellow!”) was hanging back in order to have a moment of bliss alone with her in the hall, after the gazing visitors had all passed by. This hope sustained her a while, and she many times more walked the length of the passage, but in vain. At this moment the sound of the drum and the echoing of the war-whoop through the hall announced their exhibition as commenced; and the liberal dame, advancing to the door, and standing on tiptoe, that she might take a peep once more at the good fellows over the heads of the audience, beheld, to her great astonishment, the noble figure of the “Strong-wind,” swinging his tomahawk, as he was leading the dance! Unhappy dame! the room was closely stowed, and not the possibility left of her getting half way to her old stand by the end of the platform, if she tried.
This dilemma was most awful. The thought of actually “going off to the country, as she had promised, for several days, without the chance to say even good bye, or to shake hands, was too bad,—it was cruel!” She went to the door to see Daniel, and said, “Well, this is very curious; I wanted to have seen Cadotte for a moment before I went away, and I can’t stay to-night. I shook hands with all the rest as they went in, but I did not see Cadotte. I don’t understand it.” “Why,” said Daniel, “the poor fellow is not here to-night; he’s getting sick: he was here when you first came in, but he shot out a few moments afterwards, and told me to tell you, if you came, that he was too unwell to be here to-night. He is looking very pale and losing flesh very fast, and his appetite is going. He has only danced once or twice in the last week.” “Poor fellow! I am sorry. What a pity if he should get sick! I don’t see what they would do without him; he is worth more than the whole party besides. He’s a fine young man. What an immense fellow he is! Did you examine his hand? What a grip he has got—ha! I may not go to-morrow, but if I do, it will only be for a few days. I have promised to go, and you know it is wrong to break promises, Daniel. If anything should prevent me from going to-morrow I shall certainly be here again to-morrow night. Poor fellow! I hope he won’t get sick: I think a little ride in the country would do him good. Mr. Catlin ought to send him into the country for a while. That’s what he should do, shouldn’t he? I won’t stand here too long, Daniel; it’s rather a cold place: so good night.”
It was a fact that the “Strong Wind” was getting sick; and a fact also that Daniel thought he had gone home, as he told the good lady; and two other facts followed the next day—the one was, that the journey to the country was not made that morning; and the other, that the “jolly fat dame” was at the Hall at an early hour of the evening as usual. Her visit was carefully timed, so as to allow her a little time for gossip with Daniel at the door, and to subject her to the delightful possibility of accidentally meeting the “Strong Wind” as she had sometimes done, in the half-lighted hall.
“You see, Daniel, that I didn’t get off this morning; and when I am in London I cannot keep away from those curious fellows, the Indians. They are here, I suppose, before this?” “Yes, madam, they have just come in in their bus.” “Well, how is Cadotte? he is my favourite, you know.” “Well,” said Daniel, “I don’t think he’s any better: I believe there is but one thing that will cure him.” “Bless me, you don’t say so! What do you think is the matter with him?” “Why, I think he is in love, madam; and I don’t believe there is anything under heaven else that ails him.” “Oh! now, but you don’t think so, do you, really?” “I do, indeed, madam; and I don’t wonder at it, for there are charms that are lavished upon him that are enough to——” “Oh! come, come, now, Daniel, don’t give us any of your dry compliments. He’s a fine man, certainly—that I know, and I should be sorry if he should get sick. He will be in the exhibition, I suppose, to-night?” “No, madam, I saw him a few minutes since, and he had lain down on his buffalo robe on the floor, and I heard him tell Mr. Rankin that he should not go into the room to-night; that he did not feel well enough.” “So, you cruel man, you think the poor fellow is in love, do you?” “I am sure of it, madam: in the next house to where the Indians lodge there is one of the most beautiful black-eyed little girls that I have seen since I have been in London, and, by putting her head out of the back window to look at the Indians, and by playing in the back yard, she long since showed to everybody who saw her that she was fascinated with Cadotte. She used to kiss her hand to him, and throw him bouquets of flowers, and, at last, letters.” “Pshaw!” “It’s true! And, finally, she and her sisters got in the habit of coming in to see the Indians, and, at last, the father, and mother, and brother; and they all became attached to Cadotte, and invited him to their house to take tea with them and spend the evenings; and he has at last become so perfectly smitten with the girl that he is getting sick: that is the reason why he is not at the Hall more than three evenings in the week; he spends his evenings with her, and often don’t get home before twelve and one o’clock.” “Oh, but you shock me, you shock me, Daniel—but I don’t believe it—I can’t believe it—he couldn’t be led away in that silly manner—I don’t believe a word of it. You say he is in the dressing-room?” “Yes, madam, I know he is there.” “You don’t think he’ll come into the exhibition-room to-night?” “No, I know he will not.” “You don’t think he would come out a minute? I can’t stay to-night, and I shall certainly go in the morning. I must go—you don’t think he would come out?” “I don’t know, madam; I will ask him if you wish.” “Well, do, Daniel; come, that’s a good fellow—or, stop!—look here—just hand him this note; it is merely to say good bye: give it to him, and only tell him I am here, will you, and going out of town to-morrow morning?”
Daniel took in the note to the “Strong Wind,” who was lying on his robe, and in a minute returned with the note and this awful message:—“Tell her she may go out of town—I don’t wish to see her.” This was as much of his ungallant message as Daniel could venture to bear to the good lady, though the “Strong Wind” continued to say, “Take the note back to her: she is making too free with me, and all the people see it. She wants a husband too bad, and I hope she will soon get one.” Daniel returned the note, and apologized for being the bearer of such a message to her; but he said, as he had carried her message to Cadotte, he felt bound to bring his message back. “Certainly, certainly,” said she; “I can’t blame you, Daniel; but this is strange—all this is strange to me; it’s quite incomprehensible, I assure you. The crowd is coming in, I see, Daniel; and I can’t possibly be here through the evening, I’ll be here as soon as I come back. Good night.”