One can easily imagine how the peace of the bosom of this good-natured unoffending lady was broken up by the abrupt way of the “Strong Wind,” and how unhappy might have been the few days she was to spend in the country, and which she could not then fail to do, as she had made a promise to friends, that she could not break. By her absence from the exhibition-room for a week or more, it was evident that she was accomplishing her visit to the country; and, though her little archer was unemployed in her absence, it would seem as if the very show of so many bows and arrows in the great city of London had suddenly called into existence, or into service, a reinforcement of those little marksmen, who were concentrating their forces about this time, and seemed to be all aiming their shafts at the breast of the “Strong Wind.” There were several fair damsels who nightly paid their shillings, and took their positions near the platform, in a less conspicuous way, though not less known to the “Strong Wind,” than our friend who had “gone for a while to the country.” From the fair hands of these he had received, unobserved, many precious and sly gifts, and amongst them several little billets of the most sentimental nature, containing enclosures of beautiful little stanzas, and cards of address, &c.
Among this jealous group of inveterate gazers and admirers was always, though most coy and least noticed, the sweet little “black-eyed maiden” of whom I have said Daniel gave some account to the good lady who has gone to the country, as having “kissed her hand and thrown bouquets of flowers” to the “Strong Wind” from the back windows of her father’s house in George-street. The whole soul of the “Strong Wind,” which, until now, had been unchained and as free as the mountain breeze, was completely enveloped in the soft and silken web which the languishing black eyes, the cherry and pulpy lips, and rosy cheeks of this devouring little maid had spun and entwined about it. He trembled when he straightened his tall and elegant figure above the platform, not that he was before the gazing world, but because her soft black eyes were upon him. His voice faltered and his throat was not clear when he brandished his glistening tomahawk and sounded the shrill war-whoop. This was not that the ears of hundreds, but that the ears of ONE, were open to catch the sound.
His heart was now free, for a few days at least, from the dangers of the first siege, the guns of which for the time were all silent. The glances of his eyes and his occasional smiles were less scrupulously watched; and now and then they could be welcomed by sweet returns. He had now but one real enemy in the field, and his shafts, though they went to his inmost soul, were every one of them welcome messengers of peace and love.
Thus besieged, thus pierced and transfixed, the “Strong Wind” did as much as he could to continue his natural existence, to eat his accustomed meals, and to act his customary parts in the dance; but efforts all seemed in vain. The sweet and balmy-sleep that had been the pleasure of his untaught youth had fled; roast beef and plum-puddings, his favourite bits, had ceased to please him; sighs and long breaths had taken all the place of peaceful and equal respiration; the paleness of his face showed there was trouble within; his noble frame and giant strength were giving way; and save the devouring pleasure that was consuming him, nothing was acceptable to him but seclusion and his occasional mugs of chickabobboo.
All things at the Egyptian Hall went on as usual for several days, the Indians giving their nightly entertainments, but without the aid of the “Strong Wind,” and consequently without the presence of the “languishing little black eyes” that used to be seen peeping over the corner of the platform. The reader (who has heard already that the “Strong Wind” loved to ride home with this sweet little creature—that he took his dishes of tea in her father’s house, which was next door—and that he often stayed there until twelve and one o’clock at night) can easily understand how the time now passed with the “Strong Wind,” and how hopeless were to be the chances of the good dame who had “gone to the country but for a few days, where she had promised to go, but from which she was soon to return.” The reader who is old enough will easily understand also why the “Strong Wind” grew pale; how it was that everything ceased to taste good—beautiful things to look pretty; and why I had to translate, as well as I could, the speeches of the Indians, who now had no better interpreter.
The exhibition-room continued to be filled night after night without the presence of the “Strong Wind;” and at length, on one of these occasions, the “jolly fat dame,” who had gone to the country for a few days, presented herself at the door as usual before the audience had assembled. She was admitted by Daniel’s kindness; and as she got into the passage, the party of Indians came in from their omnibus, and, passing her, gave her their hands, and as they passed on each one gave a hideous yell. She seemed delighted at this, and, turning to Daniel, said, “Oh, did you hear the poor fellows rejoicing? they are delighted to see me back again.” “Why, madam,” said Daniel, “that was the war-whoop; and when that is given, the tomahawk always follows.” She seemed a little startled at this; “But,” said she, “the good fellows, I have lots of fine presents here for them to-night; I can make it all right with them I think. But I don’t see Cadotte—I hope he’s not sick—he’s a splendid fellow—I have not seen a man like him in all my travels in the country, and I have been a great way. I have a nice present for him, d’ye see?—is’nt that a fine brooch? I know he’ll like it.” “But I fear you are too late, madam—I believe it is all over with him.” “What! you don’t mean to say that he is dead?” “No, he’s not dead, but he’s nearly as bad—he don’t come here at all—he don’t eat or drink—he’s pining away for that pretty little girl I told you of. It’s been all her doing: the foolish girl fell in love with him, and is determined to have him, and I believe he will marry her.” “Oh, pshaw! fie on it! I don’t believe a word of it;—they will get over it all in a day or two.” The kind lady after this took her position in the Hall as usual, and during the exhibition smiled on all the group, and dealt out her presents to them, and went home as usual well pleased.
Most curiously, all this affair of Cadotte’s and the sweet-mouthed, black-eyed little girl, had passed unnoticed by me, and I had of course entirely mistaken his malady, having sent my physician to attend him. His symptoms and the nature of his disease were consequently fully understood by examinations of the patient and others who had watched closely all the appearances from the commencement of his attack. Getting thus a full report of the case, I held a conversation with Mr. Rankin, who at once told me that it had been well understood by him for some time, and that Cadotte had asked for his consent to marry the young lady, and that he had frankly given it to him. I told him I thought such a step should be taken with great caution, for the young lady was an exceedingly pretty and interesting girl, and, I had learned, of a respectable family, and certainly no step whatever should be taken in the affair by him or me without the strictest respect to their feelings and wishes. He replied that the mother and sisters were in favour of the marriage, and had been the promoters of it from the beginning; that the father was opposed to it, but he thought that all together would bring him over. I told him that I did not know either the father or the mother, but that, as long as there was an objection to it on the part of the father, I thought it would be cruel to do anything to promote it; and that, much as I thought of Cadotte, I did not feel authorized to countenance an union of that kind, which would result in his spending his life in London, where his caste and colour would always be against him, and defeat the happiness of his life; or she must follow him to the wilderness of America, to be totally lost to the society of her family, and to lead a life of semi-barbarism, which would in all probability be filled with excitements enough for a while, but must result in her distress and misery at last. To these remarks his replies were very short, evidently having made up his mind to let them raise an excitement in London if they wished, and (as I afterwards learned) if he could possibly bring it about.
CHAPTER XVI.
Mr. Rankin resolves to take the Indians to the provincial towns—Exhibition advertised to close—The wedding in St. Martin’s church—Great excitement—Its object—Grand parade through the streets in omnibuses—Rankin advertises “the beautiful and interesting bride” to appear on the platform at the Indians’ exhibitions—Public disgust and indignation—Condemned by the Press—Rankin begins his exhibition—Denies Cadotte admission to the Indians’ rooms, and dismisses him from his service—Rankin leaves London with the Indians—Author getting out his large work—The Indian portfolio—The “jolly fat dame” makes a visit to Daniel in the exhibition rooms—A long dialogue—Illustrious subscribers to the Author’s large work—Emperor of Russia and Duke of Wellington review 10,000 troops at Windsor—The Emperor presents the Author a gold box—Author takes out a patent for “disengaging and floating quarter-decks, to save lives on vessels sinking or burning at sea.”