WYNADOTTÉ (Unabridged). Джеймс Фенимор Купер

I am to carry away such a stock of linen, without even a horse to ease me of a bundle? My kit would be like that of the commander-in-chief, were I to take away all that these dear relatives design for me. What’s this?—a purse! a handsome silken purse, too, with Beulah’s name on it. Has Maud nothing, here? Why has Maud forgotten me! Ruffles, handkerchiefs, garters—yes, here is a pair of my good mother’s own knitting, but nothing of Maud’s—Ha! what have we here? As I live, a beautiful silken scarf—netted in a way to make a whole regiment envious. Can this have been bought, or has it been the work of a twelvemonth? No name on it, either. Would my father have done this? Perhaps it is one of his old scarfs—if so, it is an old new one, for I do not think it has ever been worn. I must inquire into this, in the morning—I wonder there is nothing of Maud’s!”

      As the major laid aside his presents, he kissed the scarf, and then—I regret to say without saying his prayers—the young man went to bed.

      The scene must now be transferred to the room where the sisters—in affection, if not in blood—were about to seek their pillows also. Maud, ever the quickest and most prompt in her movements, was already in her night-clothes; and, wrapping a shawl about herself, was seated waiting for Beulah to finish her nightly orisons. It was not long before the latter rose from her knees, and then our heroine spoke.

      “The major must have examined the basket by this time,” she cried, her cheek rivalling the tint of a riband it leaned against, on the back of the chair. “I heard his heavy tramp—tramp—tramp—as he went to his room—how differently these men walk from us girls, Beulah!”

      “They do, indeed; and Bob has got to be so large and heavy, now, that he quite frightens me, sometimes. Do you not think he grows wonderfully like papa?”

      “I do not see it. He wears his own hair, and it’s a pity he should ever cut it off, it’s so handsome and curling. Then he is taller, but lighter—has more colour—is so much younger—and everyway so different, I wonder you think so. I do not think him in the least like father.”

      “Well, that is odd, Maud. Both mother and myself were struck with the resemblance, this evening, and we were both delighted to see it. Papa is quite handsome, and so I think is Bob. Mother says he is not quite as handsome as father was, at his age, but so like him, it is surprising!”

      “Men may be handsome and not alike. Father is certainly one of the handsomest elderly men of my acquaintance—and the major is so-so-ish—but, I wonder you can think a man of seven-and-twenty so very like one of sixty odd. Bob tells me he can play the flute quite readily now, Beulah.”

      “I dare say; he does everything he undertakes uncommonly well. Mr. Woods said, a few days since, he had never met with a boy who was quicker at his mathematics.”

      “Oh! All Mr. Wood’s geese are swans. I dare say there have been other boys who were quite as clever. I do not believe in non-pareils, Beulah.”

      “You surprise me, Maud—you, whom I always supposed such a friend of Bob’s! He thinks everything you do, too, so perfect! Now, this very evening, he was looking at the sketch you have made of the Knoll, and he protested he did not know a regular artist in England, even, that would have done it better.”

      Maud stole a glance at her sister, while the latter was speaking, from under her cap, and her cheeks now fairly put the riband to shame; but her smile was still saucy and wilful.

      “Oh nonsense,” she said—“Bob’s no judge of drawings—He scarce knows a tree from a horse!”

      “I’m surprised to hear you say so, Maud,” said the generous-minded and affectionate Beulah, who could see no imperfection in Bob; “and that of your brother. When he taught you to draw, you thought him well skilled as an artist.”

      “Did I?—I dare say I’m a capricious creature—but, somehow, I don’t regard Bob, just as I used to. He has been away from us so much, of late, you know—and the army makes men so formidable—and, they are not like us, you know—and, altogether, I think Bob excessively changed.”

      “Well, I’m glad mamma don’t hear this, Maud. She looks upon her son, now he is a major, and twenty-seven, just as she used to look upon him, when he was in petticoats—nay, I think she considers us all exactly as so many little children.”

      “She is a dear, good mother, I know,” said Maud, with emphasis, tears starting to her eyes, involuntarily, almost impetuously—“whatever she says, does, wishes, hopes, or thinks, is right.”

      “Oh! I knew you would come to, as soon as there was a question about mother! Well, for my part, I have no such horror of men, as not to feel just as much tenderness for father or brother, as I feel for mamma, herself.”

      “Not for Bob, Beulah. Tenderness for Bob! Why, my dear sister, that is feeling tenderness for a Major of Foot, a very different thing from feeling it for one’s mother. As for papa—dear me, he is glorious, and I do so love him!”

      “You ought to, Maud; for you were, and I am not certain that you are not, at this moment, his darling.”

      It was odd that this was said without the least thought, on the part of the speaker, that Maud was not her natural sister—that, in fact, she was not in the least degree related to her by blood. But so closely and judiciously had captain and Mrs. Willoughby managed the affair of their adopted child, that neither they themselves, Beulah, nor the inmates of the family or household, ever thought of her, but as of a real daughter of her nominal parents. As for Beulah, her feelings were so simple and sincere, that they were even beyond the ordinary considerations of delicacy, and she took precisely the same liberties with her titular, as she would have done with a natural sister. Maud alone, of all in the Hut, remembered her birth, and submitted to some of its most obvious consequences. As respects the captain, the idea never crossed her mind, that she was adopted by him; as respects her mother, she filled to her, in every sense, that sacred character; Beulah, too, was a sister, in thought and deed; but, Bob, he had so changed, had been so many years separated from her; had once actually called her Miss Meredith—somehow, she knew not how herself—it was fully six years since she had begun to remember that he was not her brother.

      “As for my father,” said Maud, rising with emotion, and speaking with startling emphasis—“I will not say I love him—I worship him!”

      “Ah! I know that well enough, Maud; and to say the truth, you are a couple of idolaters, between you. Mamma says this, sometimes; though she owns she is not jealous. But it would pain her excessively to hear that you do not feel towards Bob, just as we all feel.”

      “But, ought I?—Beulah, I cannot!”

      “Ought you!—Why not, Maud? Are you in your senses, child?”

      “But—you know—I’m sure—you ought to remember—”

      “What?” demanded Beulah, really frightened at the other’s excessive agitation.

      “That I am not his real—true—born sister!”

      This was the first time in their lives, either had ever alluded to the fact, in the other’s presence. Beulah turned pale; she trembled all over, as if in an ague; then she luckily burst into tears, else she might have fainted.

      “Beulah—my sister—my own sister!” cried Maud, throwing herself into the arms of the distressed girl.

      “Ah! Maud, you are, you shall for ever be, my only, only sister.”

      Chapter VI

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      O! It is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending;

       Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye—

       Glory, that never is dim, shining