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Wild Huntress

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<SPAN name="chap85"></SPAN> <h3>Chapter Eighty Five.</h3> <h4>Further Reflections.</h4> <p>I might, without blame, have envied them those sweet throbbings of the heart, so different from my own. Widely different, since mine beat with the most painful pulsations. The cloud which had fallen upon it through the revelations of the Mexican, had been further darkened by the details that confirmed them; and now that the excitement, of the conflict was over, and I had an opportunity to reflect upon the future with comparative coolness, the agony of my soul became more concentrated and keen. I scarcely felt joy that my life was saved; I almost wished that I had perished by the hands of the Indians!</p> <p>The strange story of the trapper, now fully corroborated by its own heroine—with the additional facts obtained from herself—were only partially the cause of the horrid fancies that now shaped themselves in my imagination. I could have but one belief about the intention of Stebbins. That was, that the base wretch was playing procurator to his despot master, doubtless to serve some ends of self-advancement: since I well knew that such were the titles to promotion in the Mormon hierarchy. With the experience of her sister fresh before my eyes, I could have no other belief than that Lilian, too, was being led to a like sacrifice. And how was this sacrifice to be stayed? How was the sad catastrophe to be averted? It was in the endeavour to answer these interrogatories that I felt my feebleness—the utter absence of strength. Had it been a mere question of overtaking the caravan, there would have been no need for the slightest uneasiness. It would still be many days—weeks, indeed—before the north-going train could, arrive at its destination; and if my apprehensions about the designs of Stebbins were well founded, Lilian would be in no danger until after her arrival in the so-called “Mormon city.” It was there—within the walls of that modern Gomorrah—upon a shrine consecrated to the mockery of every moral sentiment, that the sacrifice of virtue was to be offered up—there was it that the wolf awaited the lamb for his victim-bride!</p> <p>I knew, if no obstacle should be encountered—such as that which had just delayed us—that we could easily come up with the Mormon emigrants. We had no longer a similar obstacle to dread. The whole country beyond the mountains was Utah territory; and we could count upon these Indians as friends. From that quarter we had nothing to apprehend; and the caravan might easily be overtaken. But what then? Even though in company with it, for my purpose I should be as powerless as ever. By what right should I interfere with either the squatter or his child? No doubt it was their determination to proceed with the Mormons, and to the Mormon city—at least the father’s determination. This was no longer a matter of doubt; and what could I urge to prevent his carrying it out? I had no argument—not the colour of a claim—for interference in any way! Nay, it was more than probable that to the migrating Mormons I should be a most unwelcome apparition—to Stebbins I certainly should, and perhaps to Holt himself. I might expect no very courteous treatment at their hands. With Stebbins for their leader—and that fact was now ascertained—I might find myself in danger from his <i>Danites</i>—of whom no doubt there would be a party “policing” the train.</p> <p>Such considerations were not to be disregarded. I knew the hostility which, even under ordinary circumstances, these fanatics are accustomed to feel towards outsiders to their faith; but I had also heard of their <i>display</i> of it, when in possession of the power. The “Sectary” who sets foot in the city of Latter-day Saints, or travels with a Mormon train, will be prudent to keep his dissent to himself. Woe to him if he proclaim it too boastingly!</p> <p>Not only with difficulties then, but with dangers was my purpose beset; though the difficulties caused me far more concern than the actual dangers. Had Holt been upon my side—had I been certain of his consent—I should have cared little for the dangers of an <i>abduction</i>: for this was the plan to which my thoughts now pointed. Even had I been sure that Lilian herself would agree to such a thing, I should have deemed all danger light, and still have entertained a hope of its accomplishment. The contingencies appeared fearfully unfavourable: the father <i>would not</i> consent—the daughter <i>might not</i>? It was this last doubt that gave the darkest hue to my reflections. I continued them—turning the subject over and over—viewing it from every point. Surely Holt would not contribute to the ruin of his daughter—for in no other light did I regard her introduction to the society of the Mormon city? There was manhood in the man—somewhere down near the bottom of his heart—perhaps some remnants of rough virtue. This I had myself proved; and, if filial testimony were to be trusted, he was not so abandoned a character as he appeared. Was it possible he could be aware of the real intentions of the churl who was leading him and his to ruin? After all, he <i>might</i> not. It is true he was aware that Stebbins was a Mormon; but as Marian had suggested—in her efforts to justify him, poor girl—he might be ignorant of the true character of these sanctified <i>forbans</i>.</p> <p>The story that Marian had died on her way out, showed that Holt was being grossly deceived in relation to that matter. It also gave colour to the idea, that he might be equally the victim of deception about the other. It was in the hope of being able to hold him guiltless I had so closely questioned Marian: for instinct had already whispered me that in his hands, more than in aught else, rested my hope or my ruin. For that reason had I been so eager to ascertain his inclinings.</p> <p>That he was under some obligation to the pseudo-apostle was perfectly clear. More than a mere obligation; something that produced a condition of awe: as I had myself been a witness. Some dark secret, no doubt, was shared between them. But were it ever so dark even were it black murder—it might not be, on the part of Holt, a voluntary endurance: and Marian had hinted at something of this sort. Here—out in the midst of the wild desert—far from justice and from judges—punishment for an old offence might be less dreaded; and a man of the bold stamp of this Tennesseean squatter might hopefully dream of escaping from the ties of terror by which his spirit had so long been enthralled? Conjectures of this nature were chasing one another through my brain; and not without the effect of once more giving a brighter tinge to the colour of my mental horizon. I naturally turned my eyes upon Marian. In her I beheld an ally of no ordinary kind—one whose motive for aiding me to rescue her sister, could be scarce less powerful than my own.</p> <p>Poor girl! she was still in the enjoyment of those moments of bliss! She knew not the misery that was yet in store for her. Wingrove had my directions to be silent upon that theme—the more easily obeyed in the fulness of his own happiness. It was no pleasant task to dash from their lips, the cup of sweet joy; but the time was pressing, and as the sacrifice must come, it might as well come at once. I saw that the Utahs had given up the pursuit. Most of them had returned to the scene of their short conflict; while others, singly or in squads, were moving towards the butte. The women, too, were approaching—some with the wounded—some carrying the bodies of the slain warriors—chaunting the dismal death-song as they marched solemnly along. Casting a glance at the wailing multitude, I leaped down from the rock, and rapidly descended to the plain.</p> <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />

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