She had not long continued her melancholy survey, when the two stoutest of the Indians approached; and one of them, after talking apart with her attendants, lifted her female servant in his arms, and walked on. The other, making some uncouth gestures, prepared to raise Laura from the ground. She shrunk back alarmed; but the Indian, in broken French, assured her that he would not hurt her; and, pointing towards the woods, reminded her of the difficulty of passing them on foot. Her valet, too, represented the fatigue she must undergo, if she refused the assistance of the Indian. But Laura preferring a toilsome march to such a mode of conveyance, persevered in her refusal; and, bidding them lead the way, followed into the pathless wild.
They continued their journey for several hours, no object meeting their sight that might mark the stages of their way. No work of man appeared, not even the faintest trace that ever man had toiled through this wilderness; yet Laura perceived that the Indians proceeded without hesitation. The position of the grass, the appearance of the leaves, gave indication sufficient to guide them in their route. One of them carried a bag of provisions; and having reached a spot where the ground was firm and dry, he invited Laura to sit down and take some refreshment. Faint with fatigue, Laura thankfully acceded. Scarcely, however, had she seated herself on the grass, ere her attention was drawn by a slight though unusual noise; and she was told that it was caused by a rattlesnake. At this intelligence her maid, screaming, started up, and was going to dart forward into the wood. The Indians beheld her terror with silent contempt, while Laura calmly detained her with gentle force. 'Stay, Mary,' said she. 'If you tread on the animal you are gone! If we are quiet, we may probably see and avoid it.' The influence which Laura always acquired over those with whom she lived, prevailed over Mary's dread; and in a few moments the serpent was seen by one of the Indians, who killed it with a single blow.
Their hasty meal ended, the party proceeded on their way; but they had not gone far ere Laura, worn out with toil and sorrow, sunk upon the ground. She had now no choice; and the Indian, lifting her with the same ease as she would have done an infant, went on with more speed than before.
Towards the close of the day, the woods suddenly opened into a small field, surrounded by them on every side, which appeared to have been itself imperfectly redeemed from the same state of waste luxuriance. In the centre stood a house, or rather cabin, rudely constructed of the material which nature so lavishly supplied. Around it a small patch, inclosed by a palisade, bore marks of forsaken cultivation. Beyond this inclosure, logs of prodigious size lay scattered through the field, and the roots, which had not been cleared from the ground, were again shooting luxuriantly. With a faint sensation of gladness, Laura beheld traces of humankind. Yet no living creature appeared. Here reigned primeval stillness. The winds had died away. A sultry calm filled the air. The woods were motionless. The birds were silent. All was fixed as in death, save where a dull stream stole under the tall canes that deformed its margin.
Mary's exclamations of grief and surprise first informed Laura that she had reached her home. To Laura the dreariness of the scene was of small concern. No outward circumstances could add to the horrors with which her fears were familiar. While her attendant bewailed aloud that ever thirst of gain had lured her from happy England, Laura was inwardly striving to revive the hope that sudden death might snatch her from the grasp of the oppressor; and renewing her oft repeated prayer,—'Oh that Thou wouldst hide me in the grave.' But no selfish sorrow could make her regardless of the woes of others. 'Courage, Mary,' said she, with a foreboding smile, 'we shall soon be released; and both, I hope, find shelter in our Father's house.'
The cabin was divided into three apartments, each entering from the other. To the innermost Laura was conducted; and she saw that it had been arranged for her. The window was secured with iron. The furniture, unlike that of the other rooms, was new and not inelegant. Laura looked round to observe whether any trace of Hargrave's presence was visible. None appeared. She examined every recess and corner of her new abode, as one who fears the lurking assassin. She ascertained that Hargrave was not its inmate; and thanked Heaven for the prospect of one night of peace. It was in vain, however, that she tried to discover how long this reprieve might last. The servants either could not or would not give her any information. She was too well acquainted with the character of her oppressor to hope that he would long delay his coming. 'To-morrow, perhaps'—thought she; and the cold shivering came over her, which now ever followed her anticipation of the future. 'Yet why do I despair?' said she. 'Is any time too short, are any means too feeble for the Power—for the wisdom in which I trust? But since the hour of trial may be so near, let me not waste the time which should prepare for it,—prepare to cast off this poor clog of earth, and rise beyond its sorrows and its stains.'
Laura's bodily frame, however, could not long keep pace with the efforts of her mind, for her health and strength were failing under the continued influence of grief and fear. The form, once rounded in fair proportion, was wasted to a shadow. The once graceful neck bent mournfully forward. The lily arms hung down in listless melancholy. The cheek, once of form inimitable, was sunk and hollow now. The colour, once quick to tell the modest thought, was fixed in the paleness of the dead. And death was ever present to her thoughts,—sole point to which her hope turned steadily!
One only desire lingered on earth. She wished that some friend should pity her hard fate, and know that the victim had shrunk from it, though in vain. Intending to leave behind her some attestation of her innocence, she besought Mary to procure for her the means of writing. 'Why should you fear to trust me?' said she. 'To whom upon earth can my complaint reach now? You may see all I write, Mary; and perhaps when I am gone you will yourself convey it to my friend. Your master will not prevent you then; for then he will have pity on me, and wish that he had not dealt with me so hardly.' The irresistible sweetness of Laura had won the heart of her attendant, and Mary promised that she would endeavour to gratify her. She said that the writing materials were kept carefully locked up by Robert, the man-servant; that his master's orders on that subject had been peremptory; that she was sure he would not venture to disobey while there remained a possibility of conveying intelligence from the place of their confinement; that two of the Indians were to depart on the following day; that after they were gone, no means of access to the habitable world remaining, Robert might possibly relax his strictness, and permit Laura to amuse herself with writing. Mary's words awakened in Laura's mind an idea that all was not yet lost. The Indians were suspected of favouring her. They might then bear her appeal to human pity, to human justice. If she could find means to speak with them apart, she would plead so earnestly that even savages would be moved to mercy! At these thoughts a ray of hope once more kindled in her breast. It was the last. All day she watched for an opportunity to address one of the Indians. In vain! Robert guarded her with such relentless fidelity, that she found it impossible to effect her purpose. The Indians departed. Mary performed her promise, and the unfortunate Laura wrote the following letter, which was afterwards, with Hargrave's permission, conveyed to Mrs Douglas.
'From this dreary land of exile, to whom shall I address myself save to you, mine own friend, and my father's friend? Where tell my sad fate save to you, who first taught me the hope that lives beyond it? And let it comfort your kind heart to know, that while you are shedding tears over this last memorial of your Laura, I shall be rejoicing in the full consummation of that hope.
'There is indeed another friend! One to whom my last earthly thoughts are due! But I cannot tell him, that she who was almost the wife of his bosom is gone down to a dishonoured grave. I have not time to soften my sad tale to him, nor to study words of comfort; for the moments are precious with me now. A few, a very few, are all that remain for preparation. I must not rob them of their awful right. Tell him my story as he is able to bear it. Tell him my innocence, and he will believe it, for he knew my very soul. But I must hasten, lest the destroyer come, ere, in these lines, I close my connection with this world of trial.'