University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Fragments of clouds, leaden and black and ashen,
ran under and over each other along the sky, now
totally and now only in part obscuring the half
moon, whose white and chilly rays might not penetrate
the rustic bower within which sat two persons,
conversing in low and earnest tones. But, notwithstanding
the faintness of the moonlight, enough of
their dresses and features were discernible to mark
them male and female, for the dull skirts of night
had now scarcely overswept the golden borders of

twlight. The long and dense bar that lay across
the west, retained still some touch of its lately
crimson fires.

It was about the middle of autumn, and the stir
of the stiffening leaves, spotted, and dun, and yellow,
were like a sorrowful prophecy. How different
from the voice of the wind that shook loose the
sunny tresses of May, or the sigh that followed,
when the rosy bands were stripped from her arms,
and hidden beneath the ampler robe of summer.
But the dreary monotone did not hush the voices
within that quiet recess. I know not if it were that
which subdued them into such tender whispers—
whispers, seeming, indeed, like the utterances of
love.

The retreat they had chosen was quite secure from
observation, not for its remoteness from men's habitations,
for at the distance of a mile, or a little less,
perhaps, to the north, the two or three slim spires
of a quiet village whitened against the sky, and just
across the meadow shone the light of a cottage
window, and about its low eaves, like a purple
wreath, curled the smoke of pine logs aglow on its
hearth; while along the opposite way ran a gray
streak of dust, winding in among steep hills on the
one side, and sloping upward to the village on the
other. From this highway the clatter of hoofs, or

the rumble of wheels, was now and then heard, but
it was in the direction of the cottage that the girl
looked oftenest.

The field lying between the road and the house
was divided by a hollow, or trough, as it might very
properly be called, so narrow and deep was it, along
the bottom of which ran a small rivulet, in spring
and summer like a soft skein, catching the sunlight
in its silver tangles, now, however, shrunken and
dried almost away, here and there making a faint
ripple over the pink and white pebbles, or around
the dull, red sandstones, but settled mostly into
stagnant pools.

At some distance from where the deeply worn
path, leading from the cottage to the highway,
crossed the brook, the steep sides of the hollow had
been pushed back, as it were, forming as pretty a
basin as ever held blue violets, or yellow primroses,
or screened lovers from prying eyes. In this
little nook, or close against one edge of it, grew a
clump of dwarfish elms, with their pendulous boughs
almost touching the ground, so covered and weighed
down were they with the twining and intertwining
vines of the wild grape. A sylvan shelter was
thus formed, within which, as the reader will have
guessed, the two persons who have been referred to
were seated.

“Then I may certainly expect you?” said the

girl, clasping close between her rosy fingers the pale
and slender ones of the man beside her.

“Yes, certainly,” he replied. But there was no
fervor in his tone; indeed, he seemed scarcely thinking
of what he said.

Perhaps the girl thought so, for after a moment's
silence she repeated the inquiry, adding, “I am
afraid, Nattie, I shall wait, and wait, until the
shadows grow heavy and still, and the star, that
used to mark your coming, sinks in the seawaves.”

“The foolish distrust of a woman,” he said, and
the arm which had encircled the delicate form sunk
carelessly away.

“But your last promise failed, and how can I
trust, as I used, when you always came before the
hour, and chid me for tardiness, though I was never
so little behind you?” As she spoke, she held
closely the hand he seemed intent on withdrawing
from hers, adding, as she finally released it, “Do
my fears offend you, dearest?”

“No, I only wanted to look at my watch,” replied
the lover, if lover he were, feeling that he owed her
some apology for his rudeness.

The moonlight glanced on the precious metal, but
not with sufficient strength to reveal the time; and
unlocking the case, as one not to be baffled by the
failure of ordinary means, he placed his fingers
delicately on the hands to ascertain by such means

their position, saying: “It grows late, Elsie, and
your mother will miss you.”

He arose from the wooden bench on which they
had been sitting, and seemed only to wait the sanction
of his suggestion. But the girl moved not, and
saying, simply, she had staid later, pulled the wreath
of myrtle from her yellow curls, and drew them
between her fingers, till they lay in silken bands
against her cheek. But such trifling had no power
to soothe the turbulence of her thought, or quiet the
uneasy moanings of her gentle heart, and, one after
another, the tears, large and bright, came to her
blue eyes, and dropped silently into her bosom,
while her lips trembled with unspoken prayers.
God pity thee, poor maiden! if they were breathed
too late.

“This is foolish, Elsie,” said the young man, and
seating himself beside her, he drew her to his bosom
with some real or affected tenderness. The poor
child sobbed aloud as she murmured, “Then you
do love me, Nathan—you do love me a little, after
all.”

“Never doubt it again, dear,” said he; and, pushing
away the yellow bands, wet and heavy with
tears, he kissed her forehead, but calmly as a brother
would kiss a sister.

She seemed soothed and encouraged; for what a
little reed will woman lean her heart upon, and,

even though she feels it breaking, rest satisfied and
happy till it fails.

Who can define the fascination whereby the dove
nestles itself in the very coil of the serpent?

The tears of Elsie dried in the sunshine of even
that faint assurance, and as she lifted her head from
its resting-place, a smile parted her lips, and something
of confidence was in her tone as she affirmed
what she would have asked, “You will come, I
know you will come.”

“I will come,” repeated the young man, rising,
“and now, Elsie, go home and employ your thoughts
with other things, and be happy till then.”

“Till then, and what then?”

“Do not vex yourself, nor me, any farther;” and
seeing her mournful look, he added, “we will devise
something then; but now we must not linger a moment;
I never saw a woman with so little caution.”

“Do not speak so,” replied the girl. “I will go
if you think it best. But if I am not cautious, it is
because my love overshadows every thing else.”

“Nonsense!” was the contemptuous reply.

“Oh, Nathan,” she cried, folding her arms on her
bosom, and stepping back from him, “I see it all: I
only wish I were dead.”

“What is it you would have?” asked the man;
“I have said that I love you, and that I will come.
Why do you torment us both?”

“You have said that you would come. Yes, you
have said so,” replied the girl; “but not as you once
said it; not with a thousand kisses and entreaties
that I would not fail you; not with the impassioned
tenderness of a lover. Well, I might have known
that such would be the end.”

“If you think,” he exclaimed with harsh quickness,
“that I will stand here to listen to your reproaches,
you have mistaken my character.” He
was turning to leave her, but, pausing, said, “If
you are afraid, I will go with you a part of the
way.”

“Afraid!” she answered, sinking down on the
rude seat they had quitted, “what have I to be
afraid of?”

“Very well, have your pleasure;” and, hastily
passing down the hollow, and without once turning,
or speaking again, the young man struck into the
path leading to the main road, and was soon out of
sight.

And the girl—with hands fallen helplessly beside
her, her countenance pale as death, and her large,
melancholy eyes, tearless now—seemed as one who
had come to the edge of doom, and had neither will
nor power to struggle any more. The clouds which,
in the early evening had flown so swiftly, appearing
by their motion to make the steadfast stars quick
runners too, had settled into a dull, sober mass,

quite shutting out the chilly light of the half moon,
and a drizzling rain began to fall on the shriveled
grape-leaves that were over her.

But what was the withdrawal of the moon, pale
huntress of shadows, and what the dismal fall of the
rain, or the wind, piteously moaning, as some good
angel above a ruined soul, to the maiden upon whose
heart there was a great burden, which, she might
have thought, nor time, nor eternity, might put
aside?

The lights were gone from the village windows,
save here and there, where some poor sewer, or sad
watcher with the sick, kept her weary place, when
the sound of a hurrying footstep stirred the silence,
and nothing more, for only by the attentive ear
would it have been remarked at all, so glidingly,
almost stealthily, it moved. Presently the lantern
illumining the broad face of the sign indicating the
principal inn, shone down upon a strange gentleman,
who had arrived in the evening coach, called for
lodging and supper, which the landlady said he
scarcely tasted, and then, having drank a glass of
wine, had gone out, stating that he should return
before midnight.

“Ah, parson,” remarked the good-natured landlord,
familiarly, as he entered the sitting-room, “you
are home betimes to-night.”

The stranger seemed not to relish the observation,

but, without making any reply, or removing either
cloak or hat, he seated himself at some distance
from the talkative host, and having directed a fire
to be lighted in his own apartment, relapsed into
silence, only answering in monosyllables to the
questions of the host about the weather, the number
of passengers in the coach, &c. But, though
he seemed little inclined to talk, his voice was singularly
low and placid, and his whole manner that
of one accustomed to all the usages of polite society,
however much he might choose to neglect them.
On the other inmates of the room he bestowed not
a glance; indeed he seemed not aware of their presence,
although their conversation was in a high key,
and in part evidently intended for his benefit.

“Well, Fred, you give up beat, do you?” said the
elder of two persons, seated by a deal table, over
which were strewn some torn and soiled cards. “I
have beaten you ten games out of twelve, haven't I?”

“Yes, just about ten games out of twelve;” and,
lazily shuffling the cards, the man addressed as Fred
began the performance of some small trick, apparently
for his own special amusement.

“I wish I had a fresh hand,” continued the first
speaker, “I believe I could beat the wisest parson
in the country to-night.”

Here the landlord made a great shuffling with his
feet, glancing uneasily from the card-player to the

gentleman in the cloak, touching his fore-finger to
the black string about his own neck, by way of reference
to the white neckcloth. But, as if not seeing
the sign so adroitly made, the player continued,
“Yes, I only wish I had one of the reverend clergy
opposite, and I'd rake down every thing he dared
to put on the board.”

“Ahem,” said the landlord, looking all confusion,
“what a terrible storm; bad night for religious
meetings, and some of my family out for devotional
exercises, too. You, sir, of the city, are not so annoyed
by a storm.”

The young man smiled maliciously, stroking his
beard silently with one hand, and as soon as the
landlord had ended his artful speech, went on to say
that he would even put up his best black setter
against the catechism; or he would go farther, and
risk his favorite hunter, Lightfoot, against the flim-siest
cloak that ever covered a hypocritical sinner.

“I think, my reverend friend, your room must
be comfortable,” said the host, trying to drown the
voice of the obtrusive braggart; and, taking a small
lamp from the top of the stove, about which the
leaking oil was smoking, he acted as chamberlain to
his cloaked visitor, whom he evidently thought a
person of consideration.

“Really, Arnold, you were a little too hard on
our clerical neighbor,” said the younger of the

players, throwing down his cards, and stretching
lazily.

“No, I wasn't hard enough, for I am on the track
of a lame fox,” replied Arnold; “and if the scent
hold good, I shall have rare sport on being in at the
death. And so, you think I was hard?” A contemptuous
chuckle followed, upon which the young
man answered, dallying with the heavy links of
gold that crossed his vest: “After all, I believe you
were just about hard enough—just about hard
enough, Jo Arnold.”

“Devilish good night for a buffalo hunt. I should
like to be on the prairie, forty miles from human
habitation, with a mad bull or two at bay.”

“I guess one would do,” said Fred, laughing.

But Arnold drew himself up, and buttoning his
coat, as though about to go forth, rejoined, “No, I
say I should like just now to have two mad bulls
before my dogs.”

“You are right, Jo—two would just make good
sport before your dogs.” In a moment, he added,
“I wonder how Catharine does to-night?”