University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

We must now go back in our narrative, to a
short time previous to its opening in the first
chapter. On the same road already mentioned as
leading on through the ravine, about ten miles to
the northeast of the place described in the foregoing
chapter, and on the same day the events
just recorded took place, were two personages,
well mounted on a couple of beautiful horses,
riding along at a leisure pace. Of the two, one was
a young man, apparently about twenty years of
age, of a fine form and manly bearing. His countenance
was well shaped, open, frank and noble,
and of a high intellectual cast; while his bright,
hazel eye sparkled with a true poetic expression.
His forehead was smooth, broad and high, surmounted
by dark brown hair, which hung in
graceful curls far down his neck, giving to him
a somewhat feminine, though not unpleasing, appearance.
He was well dressed—uncommonly so
for this section of the country—in a fine suit of
black; the lower extremity of his pantaloons being
encased in fine buckskin leggins, while his
head was covered by a beautiful cap of dark silk
velvet, on either side of which a couple of gold
mounted buttons shone conspicuously. He rode
his high mettled steed in that easy, graceful, dignified
manner, which sets forth the rider to so
much advantage, and which is only acquired by
constant practice, together with a knowledge of
the rules of horsemanship.

His companion was a female, elegantly attired
in a riding suit, and likewise rode very gracefully.
Of years she had seen some eighteen, was medium
in stature, and beautifully formed. Her countenance,
strictly speaking, could scarce be account
ed handsome, for her features were not entirely
regular; yet there was something so noble, so intelligent
in the expression, her dark blue eyes
were so lit up with the fires of an earnest soul,
that ten to one you would pronounce her beautiful,
ere the form of her features was distinctly
recognised; thus unconsciously awarding another
proof of the mind's immortal triumph over matter.
Her hair was a glossy auburn, the front of
which was neatly braided, brought down with a
graceful curve below her ears, and fastened behind.
Her checks were slightly dimpled, and
around her mouth lingered one of those pleasing
expressions—a sort of half smile—which, combined
with a bright flashing eye, invariably wins
upon the beholder in spite of himself, and leads
us to fancy there is an influence of a Mesmeric
nature connected therewith.

The country through which the two were
traveling, was mostly level, and heavily shaded
by thick, dark woods, stretching far away on
either hand, occasionally broken a little in places
by the clearing up of some settler, whereby the
beams of the sun poured gently in, refreshing to
the eyes of civilization, as the cool springs of water
to the thirsty traveler of the Arabian Desert.

It was an exceedingly warm day, and the travelers
would have suffered much, had they not
been so well protected from the rays of the sun,
which already far advanced toward the western
horizon, threw the shade of the lofty trees directly
across their path. Still the air was hot and
sultry, unaccompanied by any cooling breeze, and
although jogging along at a very moderate pace,
both horse and rider perspired freely.

“Ah! how refreshing!” exclaimed the lady, as
a cool breeze fanned for an instant her heated
brow, rustling the leaves with that pleasing sound
so delightful in a forest. “See, even my noble
Fanny pricks up her ears, and seems greatly
rejoiced.”

“Ay, and so does Sir Harry,” returned her
companion. “It is delightful truly, after this intense
and almost suffocating heat. Ah! it dies
away again; I would it were to continue.”

“Well, Edward, let us be thankful for a little,
you know that is my motto.”

“True, Emily, and I agree with all my heart.”

“All?” enquired Emily with emphasis, casting
her head a little one side, and throwing on him
one of her peculiar, fascinating glances; “with all
your heart, Edward?”

“That is, all there is left me,” replied Edward,
with a meaning smile, gracefully bowing to the
lady.

“Ay, that indeed! well put in, Sir Knight! but
a little late withal. However, better late than
never, says the adage, and I trust you will be a
little more circumspect of speech hereafter.”

“I will do any thing you require, Emily,” returned
Edward gallantly; “you have only to command
to be obeyed.”

“Indeed, Sir Knight! you are very proficient in
promises; you have yielded to a hard task-master,
and I fear me if put to the test, your actions
would much belie your words.”

“Nay, indeed, Emily, you are in error; only
give me the trial, and see if I do not produce the
proof.”

“Well, sir, since you require it, please ride forward
and announce to the good inhabitants—if
you should chance to meet any—that a lady is approaching,
in the person of Emily Novance, whose
gallant by her orders goes before as a herall.—

What? you hesitate! is this the way I am to be
obeyed? Go, sir! it is my command!”

“Nay, but Emily, this is unfair.”

“So, then, you question my orders, do you?
Ah! I fear you are like all the rest of your sex—
full of promises, which doubtless you all fulfil,
when the fulfilment proves agreeable to yourselves;
but when otherwise, ah me! for our sex;”
and the speaker shook her head with an arch
look.

“Now, now, Emily; but I see you are determined
to carry the point your own way, so I
will fain give in, lest I get worsted by argument.”

“Ay, do if you please, Sir Knight! and you
will oblige me much, very much.”

For some minutes after this both rode along in
silence, when the conversation was again opened
by Edward.

“I say, Emily,” began he, at length, “to one of
your refined taste, does not this country life, so
tone, so solitary, in the woods as it were, seem
very irksome? Methinks to one of your light
turn of mind, that had been used to the gay crowds
which throng the city, it must be very tiresome,
full of sameness, causing ennvi and discontent.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the lady, a slight flush
singing her fair noble features, while her eyes
sparkled with more than wonted brilliancy. “Indeed!
think you so? then have I given you more
credit for discernment than you really possess, if
thus you judge the heart of Emily Nevance!
What are the gay crowds of the city, of which
you speak? Of what are they composed, but
of fops and fools—apes of fashion—walking
advertisements for tailors and milliners—whose
mirrors are their prophets, and themselves the
only God they worship!—whose very souls are
confined within the trappings of dress, and know
as little of what human beings should be, as the
insects that crawl beneath our feet! And do you
think I sigh for their society? No! give me Nature
in her wildest, grandest, seul-inspiring moods!
—away from the haunts of men, let me contemplate
her in silence, and in awe! 'Tis then, far
from loncliness, I feel I hold communion with the
All Pervading Spirit! I look around me, and behold
the works of One, compared with whom, I
sink into utter insignificance. Ay! away with
dusty cities! Give me the hills, the dales, the
rocky steeps, the level plains, the tall, majestic,
sighing forests, with the music of their creating—
the laughing, rippling, sunay streams, that dance
along in childish glee—and with a soul pure, sinless
in the sight of God, I will rest content to
spend my days in holy contemplation.”

“Spoken like yourself, Emily!—my sentiments,
for the world!” exclaimed Edward, with a bright,
enthusiastic animation of countenance that told
the feelings within more eloquently far than words
“I was but jesting, dear Emily.”

“Well, I am glad to hear you say that, at all
events. I should be sorry to have you form such
an opinion of me as you first expressed.” This
was said in a sad, almost mournful tone of voice,
while the speaker bent her head forward, and appeared
to be examining some of the trappings of
the saddle.

“Nay, never fear, dear Emily, that I will think
aught of you but what is most worthy,” replied
Edward, in that deep, earnest tone of voice which
invariably carries conviction with it the speaker is
sincere. “But why,” continued he, after a pause
of some moments, during which each seemed
buried in some deep study, “why, dearest Emily,
when every thing concurs to prove us so fitly
adapted to each other, why will you withhold
your consent to be mine? O, if you did but
know the deep, ardent passion I possess for you,
methinks you would not turn so deaf an ear to
all my pleadings!”

“There, Edward, you do me wrong,” replied
Emily; “I am not deaf to your pleadings, far from
it; nor do I in the least doubt the passion of which
you speak; but Edward, as I told you before, we
are both as yet young, and I would rather, ere you
bind yourself by a solemn promise, that you look
more about you, lest by too hasty nuptials you do
an act which you may repent the remainder of
your days. Besides, you know you are wealthy;
I am not; and your parents will, perchance, object
to your wedding one so far beneath you.”

“Ah! Emily,” sighed Edward, “that is the unkindest
word of all. Beneath me,” cried he suddenly,
“by heavens! it were not well for any to
utter that in my presence, save Emily Nevance!
Beneath me, indeed! and in what am I your superior?
In gold! And did not you yourself despise
it but now, and all its idle votaries?”

“But then, Edward, you know the world—”

“Pshaw! what care I for the world? The world
—nonsense! I am a man, and I stand on my own
opinions, in matters of my own concern! Surely
I would be mad, or worse than mad, to sacrifice
my own happiness to please the world!”

“But then, Edward, you know your parents
may think differently in regard to the opinions of
the world.”

For some minutes Edward, mused thoughtfully,
before making a reply. He knew that Emily was
correct in her surmises, for his parents were both
rich and proud—his father more especially—and
he knew too that the latter, in his own mind, had
already disposed of his hand, to one he had never
seem, simply because she was a personage of
wealth; and consequently, that it would be a difficult
matter, even if done at all, to gain their
consent to his union with another, and furthermore
too, when that other was poor; but still he
loved Emily sincerely, deeply, and was fully determined
not to sacrifice his own happiness to gratify
the caprices of others, even were those others
his parents.

“Well, Emily,” he at length replied, “depend
upon it, whatever my parents may think, my
views and sentiments shall, at least, ever remain
unaltered; and since you will not now sacredly
promise to become mine, I will live on the
joyful hope of some day winning your consent—
some day calling you so, with the sanction of the
laws of both God and man.”

“And I,” rejoined Emily, in a low sweet tone,
with her eyes cast down, “I will live on in the
sincere hope, that should that day ever come, I
may be worthy of you.”

“Ah, then you admit—”

“No! for the present I admit nothing. But see!
the sun is already nearing the western horizon,
where black clouds are looming up in sullen majesty,
and we have a goocly distance yet to ride.
Let us put our horses to the spur.”

“Ay, you are right,” returned Edward; “time
flies so rapidly when with those we love we scarcely
head it. But we must make amends for our delay
in this instance, as I like not the looks of yonder
claud, and methought but now I heard the
distant sound of thunder.”

Accordingly putting spurs to the noble animals,
they rode forward at a fast gallop. Half an hour

of good riding brought them to an humble cottage,
where, finding the storm was likely to prove detrimental
if they continued their journey, they
concluded to await its termination. Alighting,
Edward secured the horses under a sort of shed,
and then led the way into the hovel, which was a
rough, homely fabric, composed of logs, put together
in the rude, half-civilized manner common to the
first settlers of the West. At the door, or entrance,
they were met by a female—the hostess—a woman
somewhat past the middle age, of rather an unprepossessing
appearance, who gave them a cold salutation,
and learning the object of their visit, civilly
bade them enter. She was dressed in the
simplest, coarsest garb of the day, and wore a stern,
haughty, or rather an angry look, which made her
person appear to her guests anything but agreeable.
The room which they entered waslow, dark,
and dirty; the ground—for it could not boast of a
floor—being strewed with damp, filthy straw. In
one corner was some of a fresher, cleanlier
appearance; used, undoubtedly, as a place of rest
for the occupants. Several rough benches promiscuously
standing about, together with a plain
deal table, a few pots and kettles, apparently completed
the stock of furniture.

“You're jest in time,” remarked the hostess, retreating
within, and pointing our travelers to
one of the benches; “you haint bin a minnet
too quick; for sich a guster as we're goin' to
have, arn't seen in these diggins often.”

“Do you think, madam, we shall have a severe
shower?” enquired Edward, casually.

“Think!” cried she contemptuously, drawing
herself up, her small black eyes flashing angrily,
“I arn't one to think, sir! I knows! Thar's goin'
to happen one of the greatest gusters as ever was
knowd on, sir! The tall big trees ar' going to
snap like pipe stems! Listen! The thunder growls
like a savarageous lion! The lightning dances
like mad! Think, indeed! Hetty Brogan what
tells fortunes, arn't one as thinks much, I reckon
Thar! d'ye hear that?” screamed she, as a tremendous
crash of thunder broke over their heads.
“That ar's the speret o' the storm, cheering it on!
Hist! d'ye hear that ar' roarin? I tell ye its comin'.
Young folks, bewar'! thar's danger in your
way! I see it—the storm—the woods!” and she
strode to and fro the apartment, her eyes turned
upward, apparently fixed on some distant object,
gesticulating, the while, in that wild manner,
which led our travelers to believe her touched with
insanity. Suddenly stretching out her long bony
arm, pausing, and pointing with her finger in the
direction she was gazing, while with the other she
seemed to brush a mist from before her eyes, she
exclaimed with vehemence, “I see it again! the
woods!—the ambush—all—all! Young folks bewar'!
thar's danger in your way!—be—” a vivid
flash of lightning, followed instantaneously by
another crash of thunder, that made the old cabin
tremble, here cut her speech short. “Well,
enough,” muttered she to herself, “if Jack and
Bill only manage to play their parts, I'll git more
credit for witcheraft.”

The storm now howled in all its fury, making
the rough old timbers of the cabin creak and
tremble, as though about to be demolished, while
a thick, heavy darkness shut in every object, save
when relieved by the lurid glare of lightaing.
Edward and Emily sat mute, gazing upon the
scene with that sense of awe, which intelligent
and sensitive minds ever experience, when brought
by the fierce combat of the elements into the
presence of the Almighty Spirit of the Universe.

Something less than two hours served to clear
away the storm, when our travelers prepared to
leave. The horses were found safe, though the saddles
were rendered disagreeable from being saturated
with the rain. This, however, being of minor
importance, they mounted, thanked the hostess
for her accommodation, and rode away—she the
while repeating: “Bewar', thar's danger on yer
way!” so long as they were within hearing.

“What think you of that old woman?” enquired
Emily, as they rode along, carefully picleing
their way, it still being dark, while here and
there a tree felled directly across their path, warned
them to move cautiously.

“Why, I scarcely gave her a thought, except
to think her a little deranged,” answered Edward.

“But if what she vaguely hinted should prove
true—”

“Poh! Emily,” interrupted Edward, “do not
give it a thought. Surely, you are not frightened
at the idle outpourings of such an illiterate old
woman as that?”

“I scarcely know, Edward, whether I am or
not. But something weighs heavily on my spirits,
and I feel a strange foreboding of some coming
ill.”

“O, the effect of the storm no doubt; it will
soon pass away; come, come, do not be down-hearted,
the moon will be up presently, and then
we can move forward with greater facility.”

They now rode on for some time in silence, occasionally
venturing their horses into a trot, whenever
the road appeared a little more open, until they
entered the ravine, where the trees being of much
smaller growth, of a swampy nature, had made
little or no obstruction to their progress, when
giving their steeds the reins, they moved forward
at a much faster pace. The Maramee, running
along to their left, being much swolen by the late
rains, now rolled on with that sullen, gloomy, monotonous
sound, which the turbulent waters of a
flood will invariably produce.

“Oh, how gloomy!” began Emily, breaking the
silence they had for some time maintained; “I
shall feel much relieved when we pass this lonely
place, for here every sound seems to send a chill
to my heart.”

“And my spirits,” returned Edward, “from
some cause, are less buoyant than is common with
me. I wonder if that old woman could have any
secret meaning in what she said? But no! pshaw!
what a foolish idea;” and he tried to laugh, as if to
shake off his thoughts, but the attempt ended in
a hollow tone, that sounded strange and unnatural.

“I fear, Edward, there was more in her words
than you are willing to eredence. But here we
are, thank Heaven! at the foot of the hill: now
then, we shall leave this—” what more she would
have added was interrupted by a scream, as two
figures, springing from either side of the path,
grasped the bridles of both Edward's horse and
her own. The next moment Emily felt herself
seized by one of the raffians, who instantly mounted
behind her—saw her companion felled to the
ground—saw two more figures rush forward—
heard the report of a pistol—a groan, and uttering
another wild scream of fear and despair, she
was rapidly borne away into the dark ravine.

In the execution of this nefarious design, Curdish
was less successful than Riley; for having

struck Edward from his horse, and just as his foot
was placed in the stirrup to mount, a shot from
the pistol of Bernard disabled him, and he was
immediately taken prisoner. At this juncture
Edward, recovering from the stunning effects of
the blow, sprang to his feet, and learning from
Tyrone how matters were, in an agitated voice of
deep emotion, said:

“Gentlemen, you are both strangers to me, but
you have acted like men, and from my heart I
thank you. Some five miles from here, on this
road, you will find a cottage occupied by one
Webber, where you can confine this villain, and
take such measures as you may think proper.
Inform Webber of the circumstances, and say
that Edward Merton has gone in pursuit of his
ward.”

“His ward!” echoed Bernard and Tyrone in a
breath.

“Even so; adieu!” and mounting his horse,
which stood by him, while speaking, he drove the
spurs into his sides, and dashed on in pursuit of
the kidnapper, with that wild, reckless daring,
that uncertainty of purpose, which hot-brained
youth ever exhibits, ere subdued by the stern,
calm teachings of experience.

“Heavens!” exclaimed Tyrone, as Merton rode
away, ere he was fully aware of his purpose; “his
rashness may spoil all. But come, Bernard, let us
take this cut-throat along, and forward to Webber's
as soon as possible.”

“Wal, that's to my notion exactly,” returned
Bernard. “So, Mr. Jack Curdish, you didn't
quite come it this ere time, I guess, did ye? Pre'aps
you'll have better luck agin you git another
such a chance. If I's you, I wouldn't holler and
laugh quite so loud next time; I'd du it all a great
deal more stiller like; I would, I swow, that's a
fact.”

“Curses on ye!” growled Curdish between his
clenched teeth. “I'll pay ye some day, hang me
if I don't!”

“O, you needn't cuss and squirm, 'cause 't wont
be o' no use, not a darned bit. I guess I've seen
chaps afore to-day git cured, when they got a little
obstropulous, mighty tarnal quick too; so come
along with ye;” and taking hold of one arm,
while Tyrone walked on the other side, the arm
of which was broken by the shot of Bernard, they
proceeded in the direction of Webber's, where
they arrived in about an hour and a half, and
where for the present we shall leave them.