10. X.
THE MYSTERIES OF THE WILDERNESS.
I PASSED from one enchantment to another. I had seen a mysterious
bride. I now found myself vis-a-vis to a young beauty
of seventeen, whose appearance was sufficiently attractive to
monopolize my whole attention.
Let the reader figure to himself an oval face exceedingly sweet
and winning; large blue eyes full of unclouded serenity; and a
delicate mouth, which expressed at once extreme modesty and
very great earnestnes. Around this countenance, at once feminine
and full of character, fell a profusion of auburn ringlets—
not curls—reaching scarcely to the neck. The figure, clad in a
light spring dress, was slender and graceful—the hand small and
white as snow. In the depths of the tranquil blue eyes, I thought
I could discern unknown treasures of goodness, and great was
my surprise at finding this aristocratic girl buried in an obscure
abode of the wilderness.
She welcomed me with an air of simplicity and ease which no
princess could have surpassed; and under the influence of this
manner, so firm yet unassuming, even the morose woman, who
now reappeared upon the scene, seemed to grow less harsh.
She placed some supper on the table—muttered a promise to see
to my servant and horses—and then withdrew.
The young lady, who had calmly introduced herself as “Miss
Grafton,” took her seat at the tea-tray, and conversed during
the meal with the same unaffected tranquillity. She spoke of
the lady in white without being urged; but simply said that her
mind was disordered—especially upon “a certain anniversary in
April,” which had chanced to be the night of my arrival. Then
she glided to other topics, and finally suggested that I must be
weary. My bed was ready—would I retire?
So I retired to a small, neat chamber above—to lie awake for
hours thinking of her.
At last I fell asleep, but I had a singular dream. I thought I
heard in my chamber low, cautious footsteps, as though a woman
were walking with bare feet upon the floor. Tip!—tip!—tip!—
I could have sworn the sound was real. As I listened, too, with
a quick beating of the heart, I thought I saw a dusky figure flit
before me—something rustled—then the whole disappeared, and
silence reigned in the chamber.
Was it all a dream? I asked myself as I opened my eyes at
dawn. For the life of me I could not decide, and I finally dismissed
the subject from my mind.
At that moment I heard the hoof-strokes of a horse beneath
my window, and a long acquaintance with the indolent character
of my servant convinced me that the horse was not my own.
Going quietly to the window, I raised a corner of the white
curtain, and, looking out, saw a horse standing, ready saddled for
a journey, before the door.
On the steps the woman Parkins was conversing with a man
wrapped closely in a dark cloak, and wearing a drooping hat.
In spite of this disguise, however, I recognized one of the participants
in the duel at Hollywood—the person called Fenwick.
He was thinner and paler, no doubt from his recent wound;
but I saw before me the same dark and sinister face; the same
bold yet lurking glance; the same lips, thin, compressed, and
full of cunning.
I heard only the last words which passed between these
worthies.
“This officer must not see me,” muttered Fenwick, “and I am
going. Curse that girl! how I love her and hate her!”
The woman uttered a harsh and grating laugh, which sounded
strangely from those morose lips.
“That's her feeling for you, except the love,” she said; “she
don't seem to like you, sir.”
“And why!” exclaimed Fenwick in a sort of rage, “because
I have told her I love her!—because I cannot live away from
her!—because I would give up all for her!—therefore she hates
me!”
And I could hear the speaker grind his teeth.
“Well, it is not my fault, is it?” came in harsh tones from the
woman, “I do what I am paid for——”
“And you would sell your soul for gold!” interrupted Fenwick,
with a bitter sneer
“Suppose I would!” was the reply; “but I can't make the
young lady care for you. You had better give her up, and pursue
her no longer.”
“Give up the pursuit!—do you think I will do that? to be
foiled and beaten by a simple girl!—No! I swear by all the
devils in hell she shall not escape me!”
He spoke so loudly and violently that the woman growled in
a low voice:
“You will be overheard. After hiding all last night, you will
be seen by the officer—I hear him stirring in his room.”
Fenwick hesitated a moment; ground his teeth; glanced at
my window; and then, shaking his clenched hand, leaped upon
his horse.
“What is delayed is not lost!” he exclaimed bitterly.
And putting spur to the animal, he disappeared at full gallop
in the thicket.
Such was my third meeting with this personage, who went
and came on secret errands, fought duels with nameless adversaries,
and had loves or hatreds to gratify wherever
he went. While musing upon the singular chance which had
again thrown him in my way, I was summoned to breakfast,
at which Miss Grafton presided. The lady in white did not
reappear.
“My cousin is sick, and I hope you will excuse her, sir,” was
the calm explanation of the young girl; and with this I was
obliged to remain content.
When the meal was ended I ordered my horses, and at my
request Miss Grafton walked out with me upon the knoll before
the house, where I repeated to her the conversation I had overheard
between Fenwick and Mrs. Parkins.
It seemed to excite no surprise in her whatever, and I observed
no exhibition of emotion in her countenance.
“I owe you many thanks for your friendly warning, sir,” she
said tranquilly; “but this is not the first intimation I have had of
these designs.”
“But I am sincerely uneasy, Miss Grafton,” I replied; “this
man is dangerous and perfectly unscrupulous.”
“I do not fear him, sir,” she said. “God will defend me.”
Her voice was so brave and firm that I could not restrain a
glance of admiration.
“You have witnessed some singular things in this house, sir,”
the young lady added, “and I am sorry that they attracted your
attention. In regard to Mr. Fenwick, I shall say nothing; but I
trust that you will not speak of the condition of my unfortunate
relative, whose derangement is very painful to me.”
“Most assuredly I shall not, if you wish it.”
“She is quite ill this morning, in consequence of the excitement
last night, and I should feel no surprise if she died at any
moment. Her life is a sad one; and it will gratify those who
love her—I am almost the only one—if her condition is not made
the subject of speculation or remark. She has long been buried
here, and if she is to die, it is better that no notice should be
taken of the event. She is not happy!”
And deep silence veiled the eyes of the fair girl as she slowly
returned to the house.
A few minutes afterward I bade her farewell, and got into
the saddle. A bow, a motion of the hand, which she responded
to by an inclination of her head—and we parted.
