University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

It may be said and with truth, that the heart in
a great measure governs the vision, and gives to
objects coming before the eye their light and dark
phases. But few stop to reason and realize how
much this is the case in our every day life. One
day every thing we behold is bright and joyous,
another day dark and gloomy,—and yet the same
heavens are above us, the same earth at our feet,
the same sounds of tuneful nature around us.—
One day every person we meet wears a cheerful
smile, another day all seem to frown; and we are
apt to think, like the man, who, becoming intoxicated,
regretted that all his friends were so, and
wondered much the very trees should keep them
company, while he walked perfectly sober; we
are apt, we say, to think all others at fault, when
in fact the whole change lies with ourself, and
the discord arises from our own heart-strings being
out of tune.

The transition from gloom to joy is oftentimes
rapid; and when so, always exhilerating. It
gives elasticity to all our movements, and we feel
running through our whole being a thrill of indiscribable
pleasure, almost amounting to intoxication.
Such were the feelings pervading the different
members, now constituting the family of Webber,
some ten days from the preceding events.—
The day was beautiful; one of those that ever
seem to harmonize best with the upreaching poetry
of a rejoicing heart. One of those days that
seem to let Heaven down a little nearer to us—
making us feel as though we could love every
thing we see, rejoice in every sound we hear.—
The sun rose in splendor and poured his bright
beams through a deep blue sky, where not a cloud
floated to intercept his rays even for a moment,
like a young heart free from the cloud-spots of
a yet untried world. The air was soft, and as it
gently floated along, stirring the leaves and kissing
the flowers, it stole the perfume of the latter
and bore it on to refresh all who should inhale it.
The little birds had not forgotten it was a joyous
day, and their sweet songs went up in gentle chorus
to their Maker, filling the air with melody.—
In the cottage of Webber we have said there was
cheerfulness on every countenance. Each moved
with an elastic step and bounding heart, and each
in their own way felt happy.

Perhaps we never experience happiness equal to
that which succeeds a time of gloom and desponcy;
and the reader will remember we left the family
of Webber in gloom, caused by the sudden
illness of one beloved by all. It is natural to infer
then, that the change which had taken place
in the feelings of all, sprung from the change for
the better which had taken place in the sufferer.
Such was the fact. For nine days Rufus had
lain in a state so critical that life and death might
be said to be in an equal contest for the mastery.
Night and day a watcher had stood by his bedside,
fearful to turn away for a moment, lest the
slightest negligence should prove fatal. For several
days and nights his mother never quitted his
side—watching him with all the deep anguish a
mother's heart can feel for one she loves, when
beholding that one racked by pains she would give
her own life to alleviate—and then leaving only
because worn out nature forced her to repose.—

But her place had been supplied by one, who, if
she did not love him so deeply, at least loved him
with a tender sister's love. Yes, the noble hearted,
gentle Emily Nevance had stood by his side,
like some angel of the Spirit Land awaiting to
bear him to the abode of the blest; and what is
strange too, he had ever seemed more at ease, had
ever remained more quiet when she was present.
He had been at times wild and delirious, and for
hours would rave incoherently when she was absent,
occasionally uttering a detached sentence so
as to be understood: “God, it is my doom! Emily
—never more: 'Tis past—tis past!”—from which
those who heard him could glean nothing, save
that there was some deep trouble on his mind, some
inward working they could not fathom,—but
strange, we say, it was, that when Emily was
present, although he did not seem to recognise
her, he ever remained quiet; and sometimes a
wan smile would steal over his pale, thin features,
like a faint ray of sunlight lingering upon some
decaying structure. What was there in her presence
that could so effect the invalid? Could it be
that her gentle spirit had action upon his?—that
there was a secret communion, unknown to either,
between them? It had been noticed by Emily,
had been noticed by others, and had been commented
on by the different members of the household—among
whom we must reckon our former
acquaintances, Bernard and Tyrone, who still remained.
It had been noticed too by the physician;
but noticed only as a fact he could not account
for. There was a cause for it undoubtedly;
and perhaps one, the father of the sick one, had
vaguely divined that cause; but if so, he told it not,
and with the rest, even with Emily herself, it yet
remained a mystery.

The evening previous to the opening of this
chapter had been an eventful one. Nine days of
anxiety had passed wearily away, when the physician
foresaw that a crisis was at hand which
must terminate in life or death. He had, as before
stated, marked the effect of Emily's presence
on the invalid, and consequently gave orders that in
this trial none should be present but herself—no,
not even the mother. The order had been obeyed;
but oh! who can tell that mother's feelings, when
she knew that a few hours must decide the fate
of her darling child—perhaps to terminate in death
—and she not be with him to gaze upon his treasured
features, nor press her lips again to his in
life? Oh! what years of agony were in those few
hours of suspense!

On the evening in question then,—the ninth
from his attack—Emily took her position, alone,
by the side of Rufus, and watched him with painful
feelings. He had sunk into a deep sleep, a
sleep almost like death itself, for scarcely was his
breathing perceptible. She knew from that
sleep he would never wake, or wake to life free
from danger. All was silent, as though death
were already there. A dim light, standing some
distance back, gave a twilight shade to the whole
apartment; and she could barely discern the outline
of his pale, marble-like features, which she
sometimes fancied were already stiffening in
death. As she occasionally gazed upon him, an
indescribable awe crept over her. Was he dead—
had his bright spirit gone forever? she would
sometimes question herself; and then the thought,
if such was the case, what agony would be hers to
witness in beholding the anguish of his mother,—
who with the rest of the occupants were waiting
in gloomy silence the signal from her to weep or
rejoice—made her feel more gloomy and depressed.

Thus passed two hours—two long trying hours
—and yet no change; the sufferer had moved not,
and she began to fancy his spirit had passed quietly
away. With a trembling hand she raised the
light, approached, and held it near his features.—
All was calm—he did not seem to breathe. She
bent down her head, but could hear no sound indicating
life. “He is gone,” she thought, and
tears of anguish filled her eyes; and as she raised
her head, a drop fell on his cheek. It was nothing
of itself, and yet, as it had been the Promethean
spark, the invalid started, drew a long breath,
opened his eyes, fixing them intently upon Emily,
who stood perfectly motionless, fearful lest in his
weak state a sudden move might prove fatal to
him. He gazed upon her with a sign of recognition
in his intelligent features, and then passed his
hand across his eyes, as one assuring himself
whether he be dreaming or not. Again he gazed
upon her intently, and a bright flush mounted his
cheek, as he said:

“Emily, is it you, or a spirit I behold?”

“Thank God, he is safe!” ejaculated Emily,
clasping her hands and looking upward, while tears
of joy stole down her sweet features; and bending
over, she pressed her lips to his forehead.

“O, Emily, is this reality!” exclaimed Rufus,
with a thrill of joy lighting up his countenance.—
“O say it is not a dream!”

“It is no dream, Rufus,” said she, looking tenderly
upon him.

“Then I have been dreaming,” returned he, gazing
slowly around the apartment. “I must have
slept long, and yet it is still dark. I do not remember
coming into this room. How came I
here, and why were you watching me?”

“You have been ill, Rufus, very ill. For nine
days you have stood on the verge of the grave!”

“Ill—nine days!” repeated he, looking incredulously,
and placing his hand to his head, as though
to collect his thoughts: “I do feel weak.” As he
took his hand down, it caught his eye, and starting
at the sight of its thin, bony appearance, he murmured:
“I have indeed been ill. But where was
I taken, Emily? I remember nothing.”

“At the door here, just as you had returned
from a search for me.”

“Search for you, Emily!” repeated he, earnestly,
partly raising himself in bed—“a search for
you! Then it was no dream, Emily, it was no
dream! Ha!” added he, pressing one hand to his
forehead, while a look of mental anguish hovered
on his features: “I—I remember now, it was no
dream! Oh, God! that it were anything but reality!—Oh!
Emily—” he paused and fell back
on the pillow with a groan.

“Why, Rufus, what means this?” exclaimed
Emily, in alarm.

“I must not tell you—it was nothing—it is
over now,” he replied, faintly.

“If you had fears for me, you perceive I have
safely returned,” said she, soothingly.

“But with another!” added he emphatically.

A sudden thought flashed across her brain, but
instantly discarding it, she rejoined: “True, with
another; but why should that trouble you, Rufus?
I was with a friend, whom you know and
esteem. I went forth with Edward Merton and
returned with him. What see you wrong in that,
Rufus?”

Ero he could reply, the door opened and his
mother softly entered. She had heard voices in

conversation—his voice—and her heart would let
her wait no longer.

“O, mother, dear mother!” cried Rufus, as he
saw her approaching.

“God of mercy!—he lives! he lives!” shrieked
she; and rushing forward, she clasped him to her
bosom, raised her eyes to Heaven, and poured out
her heart in a prayer of thanksgiving to the Supreme
Ruler. Webber was next to enter, and
with tearful eyes he pressed his lips to the pale
cheek of Rufus and uttered: “God be praised!”
The physician followed Webber, accompanied by
Bernard and Tyrone; but all three paused as they
entered the apartment—which we should have
mentioned was the same from which Curdish
escaped—and gazed upon the scene with heartfelt
emotion.

We shall not dwell longer here; suffice, that
that night was one of rejoicing, and the next
morning one, as we have shown, well calculated
to add to the joy of lightened hearts. Each rose
refreshed in body and mind; and the invalid, as
he gazed forth through the open windows, heard
the song of birds, and felt the soft air upon his
wasted features with a thrill of delight.

After paying Rufus a morning visit, and finding
him gradually recovering, Emily,—who on
his account had of late closely confined herself
to the house—and as the morning was so fine
too—could not resist the inclination of walking
abroad to taste the fresh air, and view nature in
all her loveliness; for she was one whose soul
was ever open to such delights. Shortly after,
she stole quietly away; and taking a path which
led through the farm of Webber to the southward,
she made her way with a light step toward
a gentle eminence, some half a mile distant,
which overlooked a beautiful portion of the country,
and where she was wont to spend many a
pleasant hour in meditating upon the handiwork
of the Supreme Being. There was a deep, inward
joy in her heart as she tripped along the
winding path; now beside fields of grain, struggling
up as though to regain what they had lost
by the devastating tornado; now through tall,
rank grass, where occasionally a flower might be
seen peeping forth, like a modest maiden from her
lattice bower; now through bushes rejoicing in
beautiful foliage, where the little birds made their
nests and sung their songs:—there was deep, inward
joy in her heart, we say, as she tripped
along; a sweet, dreamy sensation of delight, such
as she had not felt before for a long time.

The mind of Emily was one of those deep, pure,
earnest, sensitive ones, that in a measure take their
coloring from those around them, as the chameleon
from the objects with which it comes in contact.
Not that she was fickle, vacilating, governed
only by the opinions of those whose words
fell last upon her ear: no, by no means; for in
this respect she could be swayed only by the best
of reasoning; but she was one of those who are
full of soul and feeling, and she was acted upon
by the feelings of others. Naturally of buoyant
spirits, full of vivacity and cheerfulness, she delighted
to see every one around her in the same
mood—every one happy; and she could not rejoice,
could not be gay, where she knew another
was in grief, or any way in trouble. Her mind
was quick, energetic, but full of sympathy; and
the latter noble virtue was, perhaps, her ruling
passion. Hence, while she knew that one of the
family with whom she had been reared,—to
whom, for their kindness, she felt she owed such
a debt of gratitude, and one too whom she loved
with all the earnest affection of a sister—was
lying in such a critical state, with death staring
him in the face, she could not feel happy—could
not remove the weight of anguish that lay like
lead upon her heart. But now the case was altered.
With his return to reason and convalescence,
returned her buoyant, joyous spirits,—
rising just in proportion to their long and severe
depression. It was a day too, above all others,
that she loved, and every thing seemed to conspire
to make her happy.

Thus, for a time, as we have said, she tripped
along with a gay air—gazing with delight upon
the scene around her,—occasionally stopping to
pluck a flower that pleased her fancy, to be woven
into a garland for the sick one, with whom as
yet her gentle thoughts were mostly occupied.
Suddenly her mind turned into another channel—a
shade stole over her sweet features, and
her step grew tardy. The cause was a natural
and simple one. By one of those sudden flashes
which an active temperament is subject to, the
night of the storm and her capture rose up before
her; and for a moment all the wild feelings of
that terrible time came back with the vividness
of reality; and what seems strange too, this had
never occurred before. 'Tis true she had thought
of it at times; but then her thoughts had been
vague and transitory,—for grief was at her heart
for the welfare of one she too much esteemed to
think of herself. But now the case was different,—there
were no strong emotions to throw
aside those scenes of alarm and terror, and they
came back with startling force. She saw again
the old hut, where she and Merton had remained
during that terrific storm; she saw the old woman
standing before her, with her wild looks,
rapid gesticulations—heard her prophetic words
of warning, and felt a kind of awe creeping over
her. She remembered her feelings too, while going
through that lonely pass—her seizure by Riley,
and wild ride to the river—her interview with
the old Jew—her despair, when pinioned in the
grasp of his villainous subordinates; and, finnally,
the sweet charm of her release by the one of all
others whom she loved.

As her train of thoughts led Emily to think of
Edward, she dwelt for a time upon his noble,
generous nature—his winning ways, and deep,
ardent love for her; love which she felt—might
return—and both be happy, but for the disparity
in their positions as viewed by the world. She
saw him an only heir of a rich, aristocratic father,
whom she had every reason to believe would oppose
any other than a wealthy alliance for his
son. She feared too, even if consent were gained
to their union, the opposition Edward would have
to encounter, in this respect, would tend to weaken
those ties of affection which now bound him
so strongly to her, and make him regret, in secret
at least—for she believed him of too generous and
noble a nature to show it openly—that he had ever
sought her hand. Her mind was one of those
intuitive ones that pierce below the polished surface
and read the human heart as it is, with its
good and bad parts commingled; and she felt,
however much she might love him,—and love
him she certainly did—she must, as a duty to him,
in securing his happiness, discourage his suit. As
these thoughts came up before her, with all the
force of her good sense of propriety, her features
grew sad, and her head drooped with a pensive
air.

And then Emily's mind reverted to herself—
her humble condition—a dependant upon the
charity of others. Who was she? She had often
heard Webber relate the story of how she became
an inmate of his house—a member of his family—
and there was a mystery about it which troubled
her. Perhaps she was of low birth, an offspring
of guilt, and consequently no mate for Edward
Merton, even setting wealth aside; and this
reflection but made her feelings more sad and painful.
From this her mind again returned to her
capture, and the conversation she had overheard
between Riley and the Jew, regarding herself.
She remembered Riley's assertion that there was
some secret connected with her birth, and the
answer of the Jew by asking him how he had
found that out; and also Riley's remark that he
would make money by marrying her, by which a
ray of hope sprung up that she might be of good
descent, perhaps one of a wealthy family. And
then her wonder how the Jew, if such was the
case, should know any thing of this; and if not,
why he should wish to seize upon her person.
Perhaps he had got hold of proofs—some paper or
papers which would establish rights wrongfully
wrested from her. She had heard of such things
happening to others—might they not happen to
herself? And then the mysterious note Webber
had received some five years ago, accompanied
with money, charging him to educate her for any
station in society:—what did that mean? Was
there not some connection between that and the
knowledge possessed by the Jew? As these
thoughts came to her, overwhelmed as they were
by mystery, hope revived that some day this mystery
would be cleared up, and she perhaps would
then stand fair before the world. But then again,
how was this to be done? What probability was
there that such, even if her surmises were correct,
would ever take place? She could not but
admit to herself that, at the best, this was but a
wild speculation—a vision of the brain—a sort of
castle in the air affair, without form or substance;
in fact, but little less than an impossibility; and
again all hope of such a termination died away,
leaving her if any thing more in the dark, more
in gloom, for the faint gleam which had for a
moment shone upon her.

Thus musing to herself upon the various matters
recorded, Emily came to a rough fence,
which shut in the field of culture, and ran along
at the base of the hill or eminence previously
mentioned. The slightest incident at times is
enough to change the current of our thoughts;
and as Emily looked up at this interruption to her
progress, and marked the loveliness of every thing
around, she felt a sweet thrill of pleasure steal
through her veins, and all her gloomy feelings
emerged into an intellectual enthusiasm for the
beauties of nature. Crossing the fence, she
moved at a quickened pace up the hill, whose
brow was some hundred yards distant, and there
paused to gaze with rapture upon the beautiful
landscape spread out before her.

The scene now brought to her view was indeed
a delightful one, and one worthy of a description.
The summit of the hill itself was
shaded by a pleasant grove of trees, underneath
which were several large, flat rocks—forming to
one weary of walking various tempting seats for
repose. Beside one of these rocks was a large
old oak, which, although now fast verging to decay,
still bore on its aged limbs a goodly covering
of foliage. This, of all others, was Emily's fa
vorite spot; and after pausing for a moment, she
approached and sprang lightly upon the stone.
From this her range of vision was somewhat extended;
for being on the farther line of the hill
from her approach, she could command a view of
its base to the southward. The hill, in this direction,
was unlike its northern aspect—being more
rough and precipitous, and more densely shaded
by a growth of shrubby trees; if, in fact, they
might be allowed the appellation of trees at all.
Directly at its base, however, were some of a
larger kind, which had struggled up among rocks
and bushes, like ambitious men to overlook their
fellows. Rippling along at the roots of these,
over a rough bed, was the Maramee—a glimpse
and sound of whose limpid waters could both be
seen and heard from where Emily stood. On the
opposite side of this stream rose another hill to
about the same height—being also similar in appearance
to the one just described. Beyond this
latter, to the southward, the land was lower for a
considerable distance, so that the next object
which met the eye was the dim outline of a range
of mountains far away. To the left, or eastward,
the eye could follow the bed of the river between
these hills for something like a mile, when the
view was again cut off by a sudden turn in its
course—appearing to the observer as though the
two ridges met and formed an oval termination.
From this all trace of the opposite hill was lost;
but the one on which Emily stood could be seen
making an angle of some forty-five degrees, and
shooting off in a serpentine manner to the northeast—forming,
in fact, the same ridge, a part of
which we described in the commencement of our
story. About half way from where Emily stood
to the angle mentioned, was a smaller elevation,
bearing a few points west of north, running past
Webber's cottage, some little distance to the east,
and forming the hill from which was first descried
the approach of Bernard and Tyrone.

Turning to the west and south, the scene presented
was by far the most extended and beautiful.
A few hundred yards to the westward, the hills
or ridges we have been describing made a handsome
curve to the left, leaving the vision free
scope over rather a level country for a goodly
number of miles—now touching on a strip of
prairie, now upon a dark, heavy wood—relieved
here and there by a glimpse of some cottage,
whose light blue smoke curling slowly upward
in the morning sun gave a pleasing sensation of
domestic happiness, and whose clearings around
told that settlement and civilization were slowly
creeping into the late abodes of the savage and
wild beast. To the north, passing over the farmer-like
appearance of Webber's fields of grain,
mowing lots, pasture grounds—his orchard, garden,
dwelling, stabling—all of which caused the
eye to linger awhile, and particularly Emily's,
with a quiet sensation of pleasure,—passing over
these, we say, in a northern direction, some eight
or ten miles distant, the eye fell upon what appeared
a long narrow strip of silver; but which a close
examination would have proved to be neither
more nor less than a small portion of the deep,
dark, rapid, muddy Missouri. Occasionally,
throughout the landscape, some smaller streams
winding about here and there, appearing like
silver threads thrown carelessly upon a carpet,
added their little to the perfection of the whole.
Such, reader, is but an imperfect sketch of the
country in the vicinity of Emily's new home,
and the scene which she now gazed upon with

feelings known only to the lovers of nature and
the beautiful.

If we have failed in attempting to bring to the
view of the reader a picture of what Emily saw—
and we feel we have—for what is description after
all, but description; and how far short it falls
of the reality—of those thousand little things
which in themselves are nothing, but which are
needful in making up the whole,—if we have
failed, we say, in describing what she saw, we
utterly despair of giving the sounds she heard—
the rustling of the leaves, the murmur of the
streamlet, the humming of the insects, the singing
of the birds, the ten thousand, in fact, indescribable
voices by which nature completes her inimitable
song of harmony. But let these pass;
suffice that she saw and heard enough to hold
her too much enraptured to notice the approach
of another—a tall dark figure—who, finding her
attention so much occupied, came to a pause a few
feet distant, and deliberately folding his arms on
his breast, stood for some moments regarding her
in silence, but evidently with no ordinary feelings.

We have said he was a tall dark figure; but in
the latter adjective, dark, we have reference only
to his complexion and the expression of his features,
which were of a sinister cast. His eyes
were black, but of that peculiar black which is
most repulsive, and were shaded by thick, overhanging
brows, that gave them at all times a look
of sullen fierceness. There was nothing further
remarkable in his countenance, unless a few singularly
drawn lines near his mouth, indicative of
a determination to carry out whatever design he
might attempt, and a peculiar smile, sometimes
seen, but a smile so devilish that those who saw
never forgot it. He was young, or at least exceeded
not twenty-four years, and in person well
and even handsomely formed. His dress was
rather careless, consisting of coarse pantaloons
fastened around the waist by a leather belt—a
coarse shirt, open about the neck—a sailor-like
jacket—a light straw hat and heavy boots.

For some moments he stood regarding Emily
with a strange look—the look of one who had resolved
upon a certain result, yet was almost undetermined
how to proceed, should all not succeed
to his hopes. There was also a look of tenderness
mingled with a heavy frown, as though nature
had roused to combat two opposite passions.

Meanwhile Emily stood gazing upon the landscape
with a bright eye and pleasing smile; but
whether her thoughts were now on what she saw,
or appeared to see, or whether they had wandered
away to the one she loved, we shall not stop to
analyze; though we might, perhaps, true to nature,
premise the latter. At length she started,
as by some sudden thought, and turning a little,
started again on beholding the person we have
described. There seemed a sort of revulsion at
once in her feelings; for the blood in her cheeks
returned to her heart, leaving them pale, as though
a presentiment of trouble had came over her, and
in spite of herself she trembled. This was but
momentary however, for the next instant she was
calm; and as if half ashamed of thus betraying
herself, and the more perfectly to regain her composure,
or secrete her real thoughts, she said with
laugh:

“Well, I declare, John, I hope you are more
successful with the ladies generally, on your first
appearance, for I must own you frightened me.”

There was something in the tone of her voice
and manner of speaking, notwithstanding her
laugh and familiar language, that appeared forced
and unnatural, which John Webber—for such
the reader has doubtless divined him to be—noticed.
He had noticed too her sudden start when
she first beheld him—her paleness—her tremulous
agitation—in fact, nothing had escaped him;
but he had attributed to all these a very different
cause from the real one, and he answered accordingly:

“I did not intend to frighten you, Emily;
though I presume a pleasant surprise is not in
the end a disagreeable fright?”

“True, it is not,” answered Emily, who felt relieved
that he had not seen her repugnance to
him; for it was against her gentle disposition to
wound the feelings of any; and although there
ever had been in his nature something dark and
uncongenial with her own, a something to make
her feel reserved and oppressed in his presence,
yet she had never forgotten he was the son of her
benefactor, and had always striven to keep her
feelings under, to appear if anything more happy
than usual that he might not detect it. In
this she had over acted, as is sometimes the case;
or rather, we might say, overreached herself; for
had she shown more of her real feelings, it had
doubtless been better for her in the end—had
saved her many a bitter pang. In a word, to
make him think her not displeased in his company,
she had, without intending it, forced him to
think his company more agreeable to her than
others. Perfectly reckless in all moral principles,
careless about searching for cause, he stopped at
effect, and looked upon everything as a matter of
course. Without any distinct notions of love,
congeniality of soul, and the like, he had formed a
resolve in his own mind that Emily some day
should become his wife. A resolve with him
was almost the same thing as a certainty, for he
never counted on a failure; and having once set it
down as a fact, he rarely ever thought again upon
it, until the time came round for its accomplishment.
The resolve concerning Emily he had
made some three months after her arrival from
New York. Her manner and appearance had
struck him then as belonging to no ordinary person,
and from thinking of this a fancy had sprung
up that she would suit him better than any
woman he had ever seen. This with him was
enough; and without intimating it to her, or ascertaining
her feelings on the subject, he had
dropped it, with the idea that all was settled.—
Had he been of a different temperament, he would
doubtless have felt uneasy at the attentions which
he could not avoid seeing were paid her by Merton,
and her apparent pleasure while in his company.
But this with him was a matter of course
affair, and he never gave it a thought; or, if he
did, it was only to smile to himself, as much as
to say, to use an old proverb, “you are reckoning
without your host.” Another than him, too,
would have felt indignant at her capture, and
would have revenged himself perhaps on the actors
in that scene; but he never suffered a word to
escape him concerning it. True, he did not know
of it till after her release—having been out that
evening, as was customary with him, till somewhat
late. On his return he had found the family
up in a state of agitation, occasioned by the
events which had happened, and the sickness of
his brother Rufus. He had heard the whole apparently
unmoved; and learning that Curdish
was a prisoner, and knowing that he belonged to
the banditti, had watched his opportunity and set

him at liberty. Nor was this done for any love
he bore Curdish, but merely for a selfish motive,
by which alone he was governed. To gratify
self, or to get revenge, which is only another species
of self, he would go to any extreme, do any
act however devilish. Some months previous to
this event, he had come in contact with several
rough spirits like himself, and by an intuitive
faculty and close observation, had divined that
they were a part of a regular organised band; and
so expressed himself to them, accompanied by a
request to admit him as a member. This they
would not do without putting him to the proof;
and consequently his liberation of Curdish, knowing
him to be one of the band, was only another
of the many good services he had done them.

Such is but an imperfect insight into the character
and motives governing him who now stood
before Emily Nevance; and although we may
have digressed somewhat in imparting this information,
yet as he is destined to bear a conspicuous
part in our story, we felt it to be a matter
with which the reader should at once be made
acquainted.

With John Webber the time had now come
wherein he had resolved to communicate to Emily
his design of making her his partner for life.—
For some days he had been absent from home,
and was even that very morning returning, pondering
this in his mind, and how best to proceed,
when on looking up he was both surprised and rejoiced
to behold the object of his musings before
him. This was only so much in his favor, he
thought, and too good an opportunity to pass
unimproved. Accordingly he approached, as
we have shown, and stood for some time regarding
her in silence, with very curious feelings.—
Her surprise and agitation on seeing him he attributed
to the deep interest she took in his welfare;
or what in another, who could have better
comprehended the meaning of the word, would
have been termed love; hence the answer he
made in reply to her remark. But to resume the
conversation from which we have digressed.

For a moment after Emily spoke, there was a
silence, and feeling unless something was said it
would become very embarrassing, and resolving
to change the subject, she resumed:

“But you seem to absent yourself from us lately,
John; I have not seen you for some days.”

“Yes, Emily, for some days I have been absent,”
replied he, still drawing from this remark
a favorable augury to the success of his design.

“Good news at home—have you learned it?”

“No, I was but now on my way there. Is Rufus
dead?”

“Dead!” echoed Emily, with a start. “I trust
you would not call that good news, John?”

“I beg your pardon,” answered he, coloring at
the manner in which he was betraying himself;
“perhaps I did not understand you. Did you say
good news?”

“I did. Your brother Rufus is free from danger
and recovering rapidly.”

“Ah! yes,” returned he, in a careless tone; certainly—yes—free
from danger—yes—that is good
news.”

Emily, notwitstanding she knew him to be a
man of self, was both surprised and shocked at
this unnatural tone of indifference at the welfare
of an only brother; but by a mighty effort she
managed to prevent her feelings from making
themselves manifest, and continued:

“Yes, the crisis in his fever come last night, and
thank God, he lives! By the orders of the physician
I stood by his side and had the joy of seeing
him return again to life, almost as one from the
dead.”

“Joy, Emily,” replied John, with one of his
devilish smiles, that made her involuntarily shudder;
“was it then such joy to see him return to
life, as you say?”

“Why, John, what mean you?” asked she,
quickly. “You surprise me with such remarks!”

“Do I?” said John, drily.

“Indeed you do!” exclaimed she, with warmth.
“I do not understand such expressions!”

“O, as to that,” he returned, shrugging his
shoulders, “it was merely a question,—that is all
—let it pass!”

“But it was an unnatural question,” rejoined
Emily, with a flushed cheek; “and one I am surprised
to hear one brother ask concerning another!”

“Well!” returned John, with emphasis, contracting
his brows and speaking through his
teeth, “I say let it pass! I might have my reasons
for asking it, you know;” and he fastened
his dark eyes keenly upon her. “But to the
point. I came here to speak on a different subject,
and one that, if truth must be told, interests
me more.”

“Say on, then!” replied Emily, evidently anxious
to finish the conversation as soon as possible:
“I listen.”

“You know, Emily,” resumed John, “I am a
man of few words, and consequently you will
pardon me for coming at once to the point.”

“Proceed!” said Emily, as he paused.

“Well, then, to be brief, I came here to tell you
I love you, and have resolved to make you my
wife.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, staggering
back at this sudden and altogether unexpected announcement:
“You are not in earnest, John?”

“Certainly I am,” replied he, coolly; “why
not? I like you better than any woman I have
ever seen.”

“But—” gasped she.

“O, never mind,” he continued, interrupting
her; “spare your remarks—it is all settled. I
know what you would say, maiden-like, that you
are unworthy and all that: but I will spare your
excuses; it is all settled; we will be married in a
month, and then if you choose you know you can
tell me afterward.”

His cool impudent manner completely puzzled
Emily, at the same time that it roused her indignation.
She could not believe him in earnest,
and yet a kind of presentiment whispered her he
was so. If he was in earnest, she foresaw there
was difficulty in embryo, and how to extricate
herself was a matter of serious reflection. She
saw at once, that in either case, whether he was
trifling or not, her best course was to be firm and
decided in her replies, and accordingly she answered:

“But, John, I do not love you.”

“Ah! do not, eh? Well, that is a matter of
small moment: such things are as likely to come
after marriage as before.”

“But, John, I could never love you!”

“May-be, though that can best be proven by
the test.”

“But, surely, you are not in earnest in this
business, John?”

“Am I not!” cried he, somewhat fiercely, with
a black look. “Have I not said I wasin earnest?”

“But you have not consulted my feelings!”

“O, that with me is of minor importance!”

“But not with me, sir!” replied Emily, reddening
with vexation.

“Well, well,” returned he, sharply, “on that
point suit yourself. I say it is settled!”

“And I say it is settled—” rejoined Emily,
firmly.

“Well, what more?” interrupted he.

“But not as you think,” continued she, finishing
the sentence.

“Not as I think!—what mean you?” asked he,
glaring upon her with a fierce look, and knitting
his brows.

“I will never marry you!” she replied.

“Never marry me?” repeated he.

“Never! I will give my hand only where I
love.”

“Ha!” exclaimed he, taking a step backward—
his whole frame shaking with fierce passion—his
voice trembling so he could scarcely command it,
and hissing from between his clenched teeth:—
“Are you in earnest?”

“I am!” replied she, firmly, though inwardly
frightened at his fierce aspect.

For some time John did not speak, during
which his features underwent contortions awful
to behold and impossible to describe. All the wild
demon of his nature was aroused, and every evil
thought and passion seemed struggling for vent.
His eyes grew fiery—his face grew livid—his veins
swelled, marking out dark blue lines—his brows
contracted, forming a black streak across his forehead—his
nostrils expanded—his bosom heaved—
his teeth closed tightly—his lips contracted, from
which issued a frothy substance,—while over all,
like an ignis-futuus in some dismal swamp, played
that dark, sinister, devilish smile. Emily was
frightened. Never before had she seen or dreamed
of a look so awful. Pale and breathless she
stood and gazed upon him, as one hanging over
some mighty chasm might be supposed to gaze
upon some teriffic monster about to spring and
hurl both to destruction. She could not speak
nor move. She was spell-bound to the rock.—
For some moments both stood thus. At length
he started, threw up both hands, and stamped with
one foot fiercely on the ground; and then from
between his teeth hissed these words, which made
her blood curdle:

“You have said! you have rejected me! Let
your fate save you if it can! Hear me: By every
thing I hold most sacred, I swear you shall be
mine!” and turning away he rushed like a madman
down the hill toward the river, while Emily,
whose nerves had been held rigid by fear, as soon
as he was gone sank fainting upon the rock.

Poor girl! Her troubles had only begun.