The humbled and sorrowful girl could say no more, her voice becoming entirely inaudible in an ungovernable burst of grief.
“How is this?” cried Middleton; “did you not say, Inez, that this excellent young woman was to accompany us, and to live with us for the remainder of her life; or, at least, until she found some more agreeable residence for herself?”
“I did; and I still hope it. She has always given me reason to believe, that after having shown so much commiseration and friendship in my misery, she would not desert me, should happier times return.”
“I cannot—I ought not,” continued Ellen, getting the better of her momentary weakness. “It has pleased God to cast my lot among these people, and I ought not to quit them. It would be adding the appearance of treachery to what will already seem bad enough, with one of his opinions. He has been kind to me, an orphan, after his rough customs, and I cannot steal from him at such a moment.”
“She is just as much a relation of skirting Ishmael as I am a bishop!” said Paul, with a loud hem, as if his throat wanted clearing. “If the old fellow has done the honest thing by her, in giving her a morsel of venison now and then, or a spoon around his homminy dish, hasn’t she pay’d him in teaching the young devils to read their Bible, or in helping old Esther to put her finery in shape and fashion. Tell me that a drone has a sting, and I’ll believe you as easily as I will that this young woman is a debtor to any of the tribe of Bush!”
“It is but little matter who owes me, or where I am in debt. There are none to care for a girl who is fatherless and motherless, and whose nearest kin are the offcasts of all honest people. No, no; go, lady, and Heaven for ever bless you! I am better here, in this desert, where there are none to know my shame.”
“Now, old trapper,” retorted Paul, “this is what I call knowing which way the wind blows! You ar’ a man that has seen life, and you know something of fashions; I put it to your judgment, plainly, isn’t it in the nature of things for the hive to swarm when the young get their growth, and if children will quit their parents, ought one who is of no kith or kin—”
“Hist!” interrupted the man he addressed, “Hector is discontented. Say it out, plainly, pup; what is it dog—what is it?”
The venerable hound had risen, and was scenting the fresh breeze which continued to sweep heavily over the prairie. At the words of his master he growled and contracted the muscles of his lips, as if half disposed to threaten with the remnants of his teeth. The younger dog, who was resting after the chase of the morning, also made some signs that his nose detected a taint in the air, and then the two resumed their slumbers, as if they had done enough.
The trapper seized the bridle of the ass, and cried, urging the beast onward—