 | CHAPTER II. The bandits of the Osage |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
THE MEDITATION—THE INTERRUPTION—THE CONVERSATION—THE
ARBOR OF LOVE—THE DECLARATION—THE
STORM—THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE—THE
SEARCH.
For some time Edward and Emily pursued
their way slowly and in silence, for in the hearts
of both were deep and powerful feelings. With
Emily herself, circumstances had combined to
depress her spirits with a gloominess seldom or
never felt before; for each thing that had transpired
of late, seemed to rush in upon her now, as
if to overwhelm and crush her beneath the gathering
weight. A thousand thoughts, black and
portentous as the clouds that herald a terrible
storm, came flitting like evil spirits through her
mind—each bearing its own dark and cheerless aspect—enlivened
by no ray of hope, no sunshine
of gladness. Even the temporary relief she had
found while talking with Rufus of the past and
of Edward, had, from her after thoughts, and the
contrast, served to produce only a painful reaction;
and although the one she loved—the one
she had extolled in such glowing language—was
now by her side, yet that very fact itself, instead
of making her joyful, only added to her grief.
And wherefore this?
We have, on a previous occasion, attempted to
give the reader an insight into the character of
Emily, which, if fully borne in mind, will be
sufficient to show why she was thus actuated. It
will be remembered we described her as very
sensitive, and self-sacrificing, and one incapable
of wounding the feelings of another, when it
was possible for her to avoid doing so without in
the end making matters still worse. It will be
remembered, too, we described her feelings in regard
to herself, and her doubtful parentage, as
being very painful; and also her attachment for
Edward—which, on this account, she deemed
herself compelled by a sense of duty to break
off—as being no less so. These were enough to
have made her sad, if not gloomy, even now;
for she knew the result of her decision must be
very painful both to Edward and herself; but the
events which had since transpired, had added
their sombre coloring to the already dark picture,
until not one bright spot remained. The strange
and awful appearance of John—as he stood like
a demon before her, overpowered by rage—was
still present to her vision; and his dark and terrible
words of threatening were still ringing in
her ears. What might be the result of that interview—to
what act of villainy on his part it
might tend—was impossible for her to foresee;
but, as we have shown, a heavy foreboding of
coming ill had settled on her spirit—a foreboding
she had found impossible to shake off. Had he
been a stranger who thus accosted her—or any
one not directly in the family with whom she had
been reared, and to whom, for a thousand little
acts of kindness, she felt herself so much indebted—she
would have related at once the whole occurrence,
that proper precautions might be taken
to secure her against violence. But as the case
stood, in the present instance, she did not feel
herself at liberty to do so—from the fact that,
knowing the strong temperaments of both father
and son, she foresaw consequences of a disagreeable
nature must naturally ensue, and that she,
however indirectly, would be the moving cause
of a rupture, and perhaps a disunion in the family;
and besides, too, she vaguely trusted the
whole affair would terminate in simply a threat;
that John might have uttered it, while in passion,
merely to intimidate her; and that when he
should come to himself, he would see his folly
and let it pass. This we say she hoped; but in
truth she doubted, and feared, and it troubled her
much notwithstanding. She longed to make
some one her confidant, and take advice regarding
the proper course for her to pursue; but she
knew of none in whose keeping the secret would
be safe—no, not even with Edward himself; for
in his earnest regard for her welfare, she knew
he would feel himself justified in at once laying
the matter before Webber, and even confronting
John himself, when probably a quarrel, and a
duel, perhaps, would be the result. No, she must
keep it locked in her own breast, and bear her
painful thoughts in silence. All these things,
together with the grief she felt for Rufus, and
the recollection of their solemn parting, and his
seeming prophetic words, were sufficient, as we
have said, to cloud Emily's naturally bright spirit
with a gloom she had never known before; and
pondering these all over in her mind, as she rode
along, she allowed her head to droop, and gazed
upon the ground with an abstracted air.
Edward, as he walked along by her side, was
also busy with thoughts of his own; and his eyes,
too, were bent on the ground, while the expression
of his features, if not sad, was at least solemn.
And what was there to cause this? We
answer, many things.
As the reader is aware, Edward's first interview
with Emily had been while a student in the city
of New York; and from that moment he had
felt that his future happiness or misery rested
with her; and, in consequence, he had studiously
sought to win her affections. In this, as the reader
is also aware, he had succeeded; and twice he
had offered her his hand; but although not exactly
refused, he had been put off with the plea
that both were yet too young, and that she could
not think of wedding him until he had asked and
obtained the consent of his parents. This with
him had been a severe drawback; for although
he felt he might succeed in gaining the consent of
his mother, yet he knew his father—who was a
wealthy merchant in St. Louis, and whose soul
was centered on gold—had, for years, in his own
mind, destined him to marry, so soon as both
parties were of the proper age, a distant relation—an
heiress of great wealth. That in this
alliance, money was all his father sought or cared
for, he believed; and the very thought that he
should thus give his hand for gold, was, to one of
his proud, noble spirit, repugnant in the extreme;
and he had fully determined in his own mind
such an event should never take place; and to
such an extreme will prejudice of this kind sometimes
carry a person of his temperament, that it
is a questionable point whether, had Emily herself
been the heiress, and he known it previously,
he had not on this account refused even her.
Convinced, at length, that though Emily ardently
loved him, she on this one point would remain
firm in her first decision, he had resolved—
after his interview with her on the night of the
opening of our story—to lay the whole affair before
his father, tell him exactly how matters were
in every particular, the hopelessness of his expecting
him to form another attachment, and
thus endeavor to win his consent. This he had
done, or rather had attempted to do; for scarcely
had he broached the subject, so that his father understood
the drift of it, ere the latter, in a terrible
passion, bade him begone, and never speak to him
of the like again—telling him he should never
marry one poorer than himself with his consent,
and that should he dare to marry without his consent,
he would both disown and disinherit him.
Although Edward had been in part prepared
for this, from knowing his father's worldly motives
and hasty temper, yet the result had been to
cause him great pain and despondency. But
though he might despond, Edward was not one
to despair, while there was even the faintest gleam
of hope remaining; and he had determined, as a
last resource, to see Emily, tell her all, offer her
his hand once more, and abide her decision.—
With this intent he had called upon her once
since that night; but owing to the severe illness
of Rufus, no opportunity had presented itself for
conversation on the subject, and he had resolved
upon to-day for his next meeting—which meeting,
as the reader knows, has already taken place.
Not being sufficiently in private in the cottage for
his purpose Edward, on this account, partly, and
partly on account of her gloomy appearance, had
been strenuous in urging Emily to ride forth. Occupied
in thinking on this subject, and how best to
introduce it, for a goodly distance kept Edward
silent, while Emily, as we have shown, was, from
various causes, silent also.
The longest soliloquy or meditation must come
to an end; and both Edward and Emily found
themselves suddenly aroused from their reveries
by a rather ludicrous circumstance. So intently
had their minds been fixed upon the matters just
recorded, that no attention whatever had been
paid by either to the course of the beast; which
having been left entirely free, thought, doubtless,
he had a perfect right to choose for himself, and
accordingly had quitted the path they supposed
themselves pursuing, and was, at this moment,
quietly endeavoring to force his way
through some dense shrubbery—the limbs of
which coming in rather severe contact with his
more reasoning companions, and some what startled
them.
What a strange, vacillating creature is a human
being! How changeable, and what an embodied
medley of inconsistencies! No sooner did Edward
and Emily look up at this interruption, see
the predicament in which they were placed, and
fully comprehend the ridiculous appearance of
their situation, than, in spite of their gloomy
thoughts, their dark forebodings, both were forced
into a gay laugh.
“Truly, Emily,” said Edward, with a smile, as
they turned back to retrace their steps, “this little
incident should prove warning sufficient that
we have both been too gloomy for a day so beautiful.
Look—how bright shines the sun! Listen—
how sweet and merrily sing the birds!”
“Right, Edward!” exclaimed Emily, with animation,
as she cast her eye over the scene, and
felt the poetry in her heart giving a warm
glow to her features. “Right, Edward! We
have no right to mar so joyful a scene as this by
gloomy thoughts! We, human beings, the noblest
creatures of Him who created all!—creatures
endowed with reason, and knowledge to comprehend
the beauty and magnificence of His works!
alone, as 'twere, too, with great Nature herself!
should we not be as happy as these sweet warblers
that comprehend nothing, and yet sing for
very joy? Oh,” she continued, with a sparkling
eye, and a deeper glow on her sweet features, while
her very form seemed to expand with the upreachings
of a full, a noble soul, “Oh, how these
very songsters rebuke me with their silvery tones,
for being east down, and seeing nothing but what
is black and cheerless, when God has placed me
in a world so bright and lovely, and given me
too an immortal spirit, to soar when done with
these into a brighter and more glorious realm of
light, where one sad thought can never come, nor
pain, nor aught but joy eternal!”
“Ah, now, now I see my Emily again!” cried
Edward, joyfully, whose eyes, bent on hers, were
sparkling with enthusiams, and whose features
were radiant with delight. “Go on, dear Emily,
go on! I could listen to those sweet tones forever!”
“Do you not think, Edward,” resumed Emily,
“that we make at least one-half of our misery by
letting imagination paint dark pictures instead of
bright ones?”
“Ay, and in many cases all,” answered Merton;
“for how often are we prone to imagine dire events
that never happen, and in that imagination undergo
more real misery than we would even in
the reality itself. And even when we are actually
suffering, if we look closely into ourselves, we
shall find, as a general thing, that that very suffering
look upon it. Take as a proof of this, the terrible
fate of the ancient martyrs—who, when hooted
and reviled at by a barbarous crowd, and dragged
in chains to the stake, and there burnt alive, sung
psalms and smiled, until the red flames, more
mereiful than the inhuman monsters around, released
them. Did they not feel the pains of corporeal
punishment? They were flesh and blood
like ourselves, and just as sensitive to the touch;
but still they believed they were dying in a holy
cause, and hope taught them to look beyond the
present, and, aided by their imagination, they already
stood on the very threshold of Heaven and
felt happy. Let us then, Emily, if the present
seem dark, take a lesson from those martyrs, look
forward with bright hope to the future, and thus
meet our troubles with a smile!”
“Bright hope to the future,” repeated Emily,
with a sigh, as again the events of the last few
days came crowding upon her; “the future in
spite of me looks dark.”
“Again gloomy, Emily,” returned Merton,
with an earnest, tender look; “you who were
wont to be so buoyant and cheerful; there is some
deep cause for this, Emily, and I would fain
know what it is! But,” he added hastily, “I have
somewhat to tell you first, and on your answer
perhaps will depend my right to question you.”
A slight paleness overspread the features of Emily,
as though she already divined the nature of
the communication, her hand grasped the rein
tightly, and there was a slight nervous agitation
apparent in her features. Recovering herself by
a strong effort, she at length articulated calmly,
“Go on, Edward!”
“Not here,” said Edward. “Some half mile,
in this direction, is a beautiful spot, you remember,
near a murmuring stream, where we once
whiled away two of the sweetest hours of my life.
I will tell you there, Emily, for no other place
seems so appropriate.”
Emily bowed her head in token of assent, and
for some time rode on in silence, while Edward
kept his place by her side, but was silent also.—
About a quarter of a mile further on, they ascended
a slight elevation, which commanded a fair
prospect of the surrounding country, for a goodly
distance to the north and west—a prospect every
way delightful, variegated with woods and plains,
all clothed in the soft green robes of summer,
with here and there some sparkling stream winding
along with a laughing murmur, like the first
outpourings of a young, free heart. The day
was hot and somewhat sultry, yet as their course
had been mostly through a deep wood, it had not
been particularly oppressive; but as they gazed
over the scene described, each thing seemed fairly
reeling in the heat, while the sun now shone bright
and clear upon them.
“How beautiful!” exclaimed Edward, shading
his face with his hand, to let his eye rest for a
moment upon the landscape.
“Very, very beautiful!” returned Emily, drawing
rein, and pausing to gaze upon it.
“Come, Emily,” said Edward, turning to her,
“do not tarry here—the heat is too excessive!—
Yonder I see the spot, which, since I rested there
with you, has ever lingered in my memory, and
often comes up in my dreams, like a something
too bright for reality. I would fain be there
again with you, even though for the last time.”
There was a tender melancholy in the voice of
Edward as he spoke, that touched the heart of
his fair hearer, and caused her to turn her head
away with a sad expression—but she returned no
answer. Again moving onward, a few minutes
served to bring them to the place mentioned,
which was a delightful one truly, and seemed just
fitted for an arbor of love. It was a flat piece of
ground, sloping gently to the north, shaded by
tall, wide-branching trees, and free from underbrush,
through the centre of which glided
with a soothing melody, a clear, sparkling streamlet,
by whose side lay the trunk of an old tree, fast
crumbling back to that dust from which it sprang
—a gentle warning, as 'twere, to those young beings
now approaching, that at the longest but a
little time could elapse ere a similar fate would be
theirs. The ground was smooth, and carpeted
with rank grass, interspersed with various kinds of
wild flowers, which added a beauty to what must
even otherwise have been accounted beautiful.—
Occasionally throughout the grove might be seen
some gay squirrel, bounding merrily away with a
ringing chirup, while handsome plumed birds
fluttered and sung in the branches of the trees.—
It was not Paradise, and yet Paradise need scarcely
have been more lovely.
“Yonder, Emily,” said Edward, as they entered
the grove, “by that sweet singing streamlet, is
the old tree which served us for a seat when here
before—let us try it again;” and he assisted Emily
to dismount, who immediately advanced towards
it with a trembling step and a palpitating
heart, for she felt she was about to experience the
most trying period of her life. Securing his
horse to a neighboring tree, Merton quickly joined
her.
“Here,” he resumed, in a voice slightly trembling,
after pausing a few moments to collect his
thoughts, and, if truth must be said, gain courage
for the undertaking; “here, Emily, where we are
alone—with Nature around and God above—in a
spot that is lovely enough to be consecrated to
love and all things holy—where the voice of man
but seldom intrudes—here, where there are no
ears to listen but our own—here have I led you
to harken to my tale and decide my fate.”
Emily bent down her eyes, her features grew
pale, and her hands trembled—but she answered
not; and Edward, after gazing upon her a moment
in silence, again resumed.
“Two years since, Emily, as you are aware,
we met for the first time, in the city of New
York. It is almost needless to repeat what I long
ere this have told you, and more than once, that
then, for the first time, I knew what it was to
love. To praise each particular grace or charm
that captivated me, would be too much like the
idle flattery of the world; suffice, that I saw
enough in you to win my affections, and I loved
you—loved you purely—as I never more can love
another. I fancied too, and not without cause,
that my passion was returned; and waiting a suitable
time and opportunity, I declared my feelings,
and offered you my hand. You did not refuse
me, or I should certainly never have troubled
you again; but you asked if my parents were
aware of this; and on my replying in the negative,
said that perchance they would refuse their
consent, because you were poor; that we were
both too young to fully know our own minds;
that in an undertaking like this, the journeying
through life as companions, we should be well
assured that nothing hereafter would cause us to
regret having chosen hastily; that time would be
the proper test to prove whether in sincerity we
This was your reply; and although I was then
fully satisfied that for one I should never so love
another, yet I felt the force of your answer, and
acquiesced. That, Emily, was fifteen months
ago; and though with you after that, almost daily,
until my return to the West, wherein you accompanied
me—and very often in your society
since—yet never did I directly speak on this subject
again, till the evening of your capture, when
I again asked you to be mine—again offered you
my hand. You did not refuse me then—no, you
even told me you loved me; which, although I
fully believed before, yet hearing from your own
sweet lips, made my heart bound with rapture;
but at the same time you stated you were poor,
and consequently were not my equal in this; and
that you could not consent, unless assured of the
consent of my parents.
“'Tis true, Emily, that in many things we should
consult and take the advice of those who have
reared us from infancy—but it does not follow we
should in all, particularly in matters of the heart;
and when, too, a person like myself has arrived
at the age of discretion, and knows what is the
most conducive to his own happiness.
“Think, dear Emily, think even for a moment
seriously upon it, and your kind heart will tell
you it is wrong—very, very wrong—for those
who have passed, or are passing, into the decline
of life, and have lost in part, or by a rude contact
with a selfish world benumbed, those fine and
holy feelings of love, which entwining around
the heart of youth, soften and make it green, even
as the ivy around the oak adds beauty and gentleness
to its appearance; wrong, I say, for those
to dictate to the young—who are full of the joys
and poetry of the morning of life—where they
shall give their hand; and this, too, when mercenary
considerations are their ruling motives for
so doing; and by this make them unhappy, and
destroy all the sweets of existence—forcing them
to sigh for the final rest of the cold and silent
grave. Think upon it, Emily, and how inconsistent
does it appear. What has money to do
with the heart? Can it ease one pang? Can it
still one pulsation? Can it make us forget to
think upon the past—upon those we have loved?
Can it make us escape ourselves? Can it procure
us a higher seat in Heaven? Can it add to our
devotions to an all-seeing God? Can it purchase
one really happy moment? No, dear Emily, it
can do none of these. Then wherefore should
we make ourselves miserable—wherefore throw
away the happiness already in our grasp, for its
weight of misery, even though a mine of gold be
put in the balance? And then, too, how inconsistent
that we should be forced into these measures
by those who should seek our happiness?—
who, as I said before, are rapidly approaching old
age and dissolution, and whom we have a right to
suppose, by the regular order of events, will long
precede us to the tomb,—how inconsistent that
we should be made wretched to please them, who
will soon leave us alone, to drink deep of sorrow,
and entail it upon our posterity. No, no, dear
Emily, this should not be! Parents may advise
in such matters, but they have no right, by the
laws of either God or man, to usurp authority,
and become dictators and tyrants! So soon as
they do this, they overstep their proper limits, and
sever the tie of consanguinity.”
Edward spoke gently, in a calm, earnest, musical
tone, with his head turned towards Emily, and
his dark hazel eye resting tenderly upon her
while she, as he went on, becoming deeply interested,
gradually raised her head, and now sat with
her soft blue eyes looking with a mournful sweetness
into his, with that peculiar expression which
can never be mistaken for other than one of love.
Edward noticed these changes with a beating
heart—for he fancied in them were favorable augeries
to his fondest hopes—and with a cheek
slightly flushed, and a voice perhaps a little more
passionate, he still went on.
“Such, dear Emily, as I have pointed out as
most reprehensible in parents, are, I grieve to say,
the ruling motives of mine. I would not say
aught to wrong those who gave me birth—who
watched over me in infancy, and reared me in
affluence—no, far be it from me to do this, or
willingly wound their feelings; yet as much as
I may love and respect them, I must respect myself,
nor allow myself to be sold for gold. Nay,
interrupt me not—I see you do not understand,
so listen!
“My father is wealthy—very wealthy—and
might, were he so disposed, do much good, and
make many a poor being around him, as well as
his own son, happy. But alas and alas, dear Emily,
he has made money his God—at whose shrine
he sacrifices all those high and noble feelings,
which, rightly exercised, almost make a god of
man! Without seeking to know my feelings on
the subject, he has, in his ambitious dreams, bestowed
my hand where my heart is not, upon one
whose sufficient merit in his eyes, is, that she can
more than balance the scale with him in gold.—
You grow pale, Emily—but fear not, sweet one,
and listen!
“When I parted with you on that eventful
night, I did so with the determination of telling
my father all, and gaining, if possible, his consent
to our union. To this end I seized upon the first
opportunity, when in private, and began my story.
But alas, Emily, all hope of that was soon
over! He heard me but a few moments, and then
in rage spurned me from his presence, and said
that did I marry without his consent, he would
both disown and disinherit me, and that his consent
should never be given to my union with one
poorer than himself. I forgot not he was my
father, and quitted his sight without reply—never
to speak with him on the like again. And now,
dear Emily, my fate rests with you. I have
sought you to tell you all, and offer you once
more my hand. I am sorry, for your sweet sake,
I have not wealth to offer—for my own I care
not. I am young, and strong, and thank God, I
have a good education, which, with proper energy,
will enable me to go through the world with
ease, if I but have one sweet being to cheer me
on! Wealth I do not seek—I may add, do not
want. If you are willing to share with me the
struggles of life—the good and ill—'tis all I ask
to make me happy; and to make you so, dear Emily,
I will toil early and late—will be ambitious,
and seek to win a name you shall be proud of.
“Ponder well, dear Emily, ere you decide—
and let no false notions of the world, what it will
think or say, sway you now—for by your answer
I shall abide. Remember on the words
which you are about to utter hang the destiny of
both; and once said, are registered in God's book
in Heaven, and beyond recall! You have had
time sufficient ere this, to know your own mind,
and whether you will be content to be mine, even
while dark clouds are lowering around me. If
in this shall be your equal; but above all, dear
Emily, if you have any hesitation, I charge you
think well—think well—ere you pronounce the
sentence which shall sever us forever!—for if you
reject me now, in this world we shall never, never
meet again; and whatever my unhappy fate may
be, it shall be yours to bear with you, even to your
bed of death, the solemn reflection that it was
once in your power to have elevated and made me
happy! I have done, dear Emily, and tremblingly
listen for your reply.”
During the latter part of his remarks, Emily's
head had sunk upon her breast, her eyes were bent
down, while her cheeks paled and flushed alternately.
For some time after the mournful cadence of
his loved voice had ceased to sound in her ear, she
sat mute, and, save now and then a slight tremor,
immovable; while Edward, with his eyes intently
fastened upon her, gazed as one who awaits an
answer of life or death. At length Emily, in a
low voice, without raising her head, articulated:
“Have you considered, Edward, that I am almost
a homeless wanderer, who knows nothing of
my parentage?”
“I have considered all, dear Emily—everything
—for this with me has been no hasty undertaking.”
“Then take me, Edward!” cried Emily, impulsively,
suddenly looking up, and turning her soft
blue eyes, moist with tears, sweetly upon him:—
“Take me, dear Edward, I am thine, thine forever!”
“Bless you, bless you, my own, dearest Emily,
for those sweet, sweet words!” and bounding forward,
Edward caught her in his arms, strained her
for a few moments to his heart in silence, and
then bending down, impressed upon her soft lips
the first rapturous, hely kiss of love. It was a
moment of bliss to be felt, but never to be described.
“When I came here, dear Edward,” said Emily,
at length, gazing up into his face with a look of
love, while she still reclined against his breast,
“it was to tell you we must part; but you have
conquered, and henceforth and forever I am thine.”
Edward, his soul too full to vent itself in idle
words, again strained her to his heart in silence,
while the soft voice of the bright streamlet that
colled sweetly along at their feet, sent up a quiet
melody that found an echo in the hearts of both.
Seating themselves once more upon the fallen
tree, Edward and Emily, fresh in the mutual and
holy confidence of two hearts pledged to one destiny,
passed two bright hours unheeded, in the
interchange of the thoughts and feelings awakened
in the breasts of each. We say two bright
hours unheeded—for when did love take note of
time? Had the two hours been four, to them it
had been the same, and would have seemed but as
many minutes. At the end of the time mentioned,
however, they were aroused to a consciousness
of the outer world, by hearing the booming
sound of heavy thunder; and on looking up with
a start, from a conversation the most happy, they
were surprised to find it already growing dark,
from the black heavy clouds of an approaching
storm having already obscured the rays of the
sun. Owing to the density of a wood covering a
hill on the opposite side of the streamlet, our lovers
were unable to obtain a view of the shower,
which was approaching from that direction.
“Ha, that is near!” exclaimed Merton, starting
to his feet, as following not long after a bright
flash, came the heavy booming of another peal of
thunder. “We must make all haste home, Emily,
or we shall be caught in the rain. Ha!” cried
he again, pointing to the west, “I see the point of
an angry cloud just rising over the brow of yon
hill. The storm is nearer than I thought. Come,
dear Emily, let us haste—let us haste;” and seizing
her by the hand as he spoke, both sprang
quickly towards the horse, which stood some twenty
paces distant, with his bridle-rein made fast to
the limb of a tree.
Whether their sudden movements startled him,
or whether he was just at this instant stung by
some insect, matters not; but scarcely had our
lovers advanced to within ten paces of the animal,
when he threw himself suddenly back, and pulled
with all his force upon the bridle. Merton instantly
darted forward, but was too late. The
rein broke, and with a roguish shake of the head,
and a slight neigh, Sir Harry bounded gaily away.
“How unfortunate!” exclaimed Merton; “just
at this moment too when time is so precious. But
be not alarmed, Emily, he will not go far, and I
will soon overtake him. Stay you here. In five
minutes I will be with you; and then we must
both ride, and ride hard!”
“Be sure you be not long,” returned Emily, in
a voice that trembled from a sudden fear she could
not account for, while her cheeks grew pale from
the same cause; “be sure you be not long, Edward!”
As the latter predicted, the beast did not go
far; for from the gallop in which he set off,
he shortly slackened to a trot, finally paused altogether,
and amused himself by cropping some
herbage until his master came up, which, notwithstanding,
occupied some minutes. Hastily
tying together the broken reins, Edward threw
them over Sir Harry's neck, bounded upon the
saddle, and rode quickly back to where he had left
Emily; but, strange to say, she was nowhere to
be seen.
At first astonishment siezed upon Merton that
she should absent herself at such a critical time;
but astonishment soon gave way to alarm—alarm
to horror—when on calling her name loudly several
times no answer was returned but the gloomy
echo of his own voice. What could it mean—
where had she gone, and what terrible fate
had befallen her, that she did not return? were
questions which he asked himself with a wildness
bordering upon insanity, while he rode up and
down and through the grove, still calling at the extent
of his voice her dearly loved name. Could
she have been seized by some wild beast? Edward
thought, and shuddered, and felt his brain
reel. He sprang from his horse and examined the
ground around where she had stood—but no, there
were no marks of blood or violence; besides, had
this been the case, he would have heard her
screams. What could it mean? Springing upon
his horse again, for some three quarters of an hour
he rode wildly to and fro, calling upon her sweet
name—but, alas! in vain—she answered not.
In the meantime the shower had been steadily
approaching, and already now a few large drops,
precursors of what was to follow, fell with a rattling
sound upon the trees. Night advancing
also, had already began to robe objects in her
sombre mantle, while the lightning flashed fiercely,
and the thunder followed quickly, crash on
crash. Merton, forced into the belief that a longer
search was useless, and hurried away by the storm
and a faint hope that she might, fearing delay
now buried the rowels in the animal's sides; and
although the distance was three good miles, in less
than fifteen minutes his horse stood panting at
Webber's door. By this time it had become very
dark, and the rain was falling in torrents, while
the lightning flashed and the thunder roared as incessantly
as ever. The party had just returned,
and their horses were still standing in front of the
cottage, where they had been left until the storm
should abate. Webber was standing in the door.
“Has Emily arrived?” cried Edward, breathlessly.
“Good heavens! Edward,” exclaimed he, “is she
not with you? Speak—speak!”
“Oh God!” ejaculated Merton, wringing his
hands in agony, “she is lost—she is lost!”
“Lost!” screamed Webber, rushing forth; “great
God! what mean you?” In a few hurried words
Merton explained what had chanced, while Bernard,
Tyrone and Mrs. Webber, hearing the exclamations,
reached the door in time to learn all.
“Mount—mount!” cried Webber, springing
upon one of the horses, while Bernard and Tyrone
quickly followed his example. “Mount and
away, for we must find her!” A minute later,
all four were riding as if for life—Merton in advance.
A groan drew Mrs. Webber's attention
to her son. On entering the room she found Rufus
had fainted. He had heard enough to know
that Emily was lost, and that, as he had predicted,
they would never meet again on earth.
The search of the party proved fruitless, and
towards morning they returned. It was renewed
the next day, and the next, and the next; and yet
on the third night they had found no traces—
gleaned no tidings of Emily. It was a severe blow
to all—to Webber and Merton in particular.
Leaving them to their search, however, in ignorance
of her fate, we will turn to the cause of
our fair heroine's sudden and mysterious disappearance,
and the wherefore she did not return.
| CHAPTER II. The bandits of the Osage | |