Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 218 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ean insult the Indian maiden at your pleasure? You dare not take such liberty with one of your own color?”’ “T assure you I bad no such intention; my object was very different. I was prompted to speak to you, knowing something of your affair of the other night with my friend Wingrove — which you re- member I was witness of. could not help over- _hearing—’’ I was interrupted by another quick contemptuous xclamation, that accompanied a glance of mingled eexation and scorn: “You may know too much, and too little, my brave'slayer of red panthers! Su-wa-nee does not thank you for interforing in her affairs. She can romise you sufiicient occupation with your own. o! See to them!” *“*How? What mean you?" I hurriedly asked, i ceiving a certain significance in her looks, as well as words that produced within me a sudden feeling of inguietude, ‘What mean you?” I repeated, too anxious to wait hér reply; “* has anyt ‘appened?”’ “Go, see yourself! squaw, as you call us. Haste! or your bell-flower lbe plucked and crushed, like thet which you wear so proudly upon your breast. The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer; the yellow fawn will be his victim! Su-wa-nee joys at it; ha, ha, ha! Hers will not be the only heart wrung by the vil- lainy of the false pale-face. Ha, ha, ha! Go, brave slayer of red panthers! Ah! you may go, but only to grieve; you will be too late—too late—too Jate!”” Finishing her speech with another peal of half- maniac laughter, she snatched her pannier from the log, flang it over her shoulder, and hurried away from the spot! Her words, though ill understood, were full of fearful significance, and acted upon me like a shock —for a moment paralyzing my powers both of speech and action, In my anxiety to ascertain their full meaning I would have intercepted her retreat; but before I could recover from my unpleasant sur- | rise, she had glided in among the shrubbery, and disappeared from my sight. CHAPTER XX. A STORM WITHOUT AND WITHIN. Heaprnea my horse to the path, I rode out of the lade; but with very different feelings from those I ad ou entering it. The words of this ill-starred maiden—attainted with that sibylline cunning pe- euliar to her race—had filled my heart with most dire forebodings. Her speech could not be mere conjecture, put forth to vex and annoy me? She bad scarcely metive enough for this; besides, her display of a positive foreknowledge was proof against the supposition, that she was deceiving me? “Slayer of red panthers! You may G0, but only to grieve. Your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed like that you wear so proudly upon your breast.”’ ™ 286, and other like innuendoes, could not be conjectural? However obtained, they betokened a knowledge of the , with an implied forecast of the future—probable as it was painful. The “ yel- low fawn," too. The reference was clear; Holt was the yellow fawn. But the wolf that had ‘slept in its lair?” Who was the wolf? Who was to mate her a vieyim? and hoW? These unpleasant interrogatories passed rapioly ] through my mind, and Without obtaining reply. TI was unable to answer them, even by conjecture. Enough that there was a wolf; and that Lilian Holt was in danger of becoming his victim! This brought me to the consideration of the last words, still ringing in my ears: ‘‘ You will be too late—too late!’ Prompted by their im; lied meaning, I drove the spurs into my horse, and galloped forward—as fast und would permit. as tne nature of the A storm-cloud had sud: enly obscured the sun —black as the wing of the buzzard-vulture. Red shafts were shooting athwart the sky—threatening to scathe the trees of the forest: thundef rolled con- poet along their ond and huge isolated rain- drops, like gouts of blood, came patteri down upon the leaves—soon to fall thick and continuous! I heeded not these indications. I pressed on and soon reached the clearing. The bars were down, but it wattered not; I would have leaped the fence, had there been no gateway; but the entrance to the inclosure was free; and, galloping through it, I drew bridle in front of the ut, The door was open—wide open, as was its-~wont; and T could see most of the interior. No one ap- peared within! No one came forth to greet me! Inside, Lobserved some pieces o” rude furniture— several chairs and a rough table. I had noticed them on my first visit. They were now in the same place—just as Ihad seen them before. One of my apprehensions was allayed by the sight; the fumily was still there. “Strange t ne one hears me; that no one comes out to receive me!” I made these reflections, after having waited a considerable while. ‘“ Surely I was e ted? It was the time named by Holt himseif + The day and hour! Was I again unwelcotne? and had the uatter relapsed into his uncourteous mood?" Be certainly had the appearance; more especially, since it was raining at the Moment—as if the very clouds were coming down—and I stoov’ in need of shelter. But that grievance was little thought of. I was suffering a chagrin, far more intolerable than the tempest. Where was Lilian? Such cool reeap- jon, on he cae I had not expected. It was indeed a surprise. ad I mistaken the character of this Idyllian damsel? Was she, too, an arch creature— acoquette? Had she bestowed the blossom only to betray me? I had looked down at the crushed corolla borne upon my breast. I had promised myself a triumph by its presence there. had formed pleasant anti- elpations of its being recognized—fond hopes of its creating an effect in m — The = og reer drenched and dreey . Its carmine color turned to a dull dark crimson; it was the color of blood! I could bear the suspense no longer. TI would have hailed the house: but by this time I had become convinced that there was no one inside. | After a short survey, I had remarked a change in the appearance of the cabin. ee You lose time in talking to a | The Wild Huntress. a formerly been covered with skins—were now open. The draping had been removed; and a closer seru- tiny enabled me to perceive, that, so far as human occupants were concerned, the house was empty! I rode up to the door; and, leaning over from my saddle, looked in. My conjecture was correct. Only the chairs and table, with one or two similar pieces of “‘plenishing,”” remained. Everything else had been removed; end some worthless delris strewed over the floor sidered complete. They were gon. It was no use harboring a hope that they might still be on the premises—outside or clsewhere near. The pouring rain forbade such asupposition, There was nowhere else—the horse-shed excepted—where they could have sheltered themselves from its tor- rent; and they were not in the shed, Rosinante was told that the removal was to be con- | absent from his rude stall; saddle and bridle had | alike disappeared. I needed no further assurance. They were gone. With a heavy heart, I slid out of my saddle; Jed | my steed under the sched; and then entered the de- serted dwelling. My footfall upon the plank floor sounded heavy and harsh, as I strode over it, mak- ing a survey of the premises—my future home, might have observed with ludicrous surprise the queer character of the building, and how sadly it needed repair. either with the house or its furniture; and, tottering into one of the odd-looking chairs, I gave way to gloomy reflections. Any one, seeing me at that moment, would have observed me in an attitude, more befitting a man about to be turned out of his estate, than one just entering upon possession. CHAPTER XXT. A VIRIGN HEART IN CIPHER. “Gone! and whither gone?” Half aloud, I solilo- uized the interrogatory. There was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. The affair was alto- gether unexpected. Not anticipating that the squat- ter would leave his cabin before my return, I had made no ing either about his destination or fu- ture designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest clew as to whither he had gone. _ Beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with Lilian—chagrin enough after such high-raised expectations—I should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. It wouki have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbor's house—perhaps that up the creex where lived the ‘friend of Lilian’s father *’—in all likelihood, the saint I had seen. Such would have been my reflections, no doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. But her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into another channel—" You may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late!” Figurative as was her specc™s and undefined its meaning, it produced withth m¢ a presenttmeént suf- ficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some tem shelter under a neighbor's roof but a Séeurtnre or a distant point. Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief—a conviction. Around me were circumstances corroborative of is view, The articles of furnit left behind, > rude, were still of 4 certain value, ally to a householder of Holt’s condition; and had the squatter d ed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighborh he would no doubt have taken them with him. Otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration. Fernane hé intended to return for them? If so— but no, there was no probability of his doing so. I reed not have tried to comfort myself with the re- fection. The innuendoes of the Indian had already neratived the “oy Stil vaguely indulging in it, however, I cast a glance around the room in search of some object that might guide my conjectures to a more definite conclusion. While so employed m Suen fell upon a piece of r carelessly folded. It lay upon the rough table—the only object there, with the exception of some crumbs of corn bread and the debris of a to- bacco-pipe. I recognized the piece of paper. It was an old acquaintance—the leaf from my memorandum book —upcon which was written that laconic “ last will and i Raatetedl jointly signed by the squatter and my- Be On observing this paper upon the table it did not occur to me that it had been left there with any de- ‘ reflection was that the squatter had taken it from the stump and carried it into the house— erhaps to show it to his clerical vi itor. No doubt ties had enjoyed a good laugh overit, as the souve- nir of a ludicrous incident; aud for this very reason I resolved upon preserving it. Ihad taken the doeument in my hand and was about depositing it in my pocket-book when my eye was attracted by some fresh writing on the paper. A slight scrutiny of the recent cipher secured for the torn leaf a deeper interest than I had before felt init. Isaw that it was the chirography of a female hand. What other than the hand of Lijian? I thought of no other. Beyond doubt her fingers had guided the pencil— for it was pencil-writing—and guided it so deftly as to impress me with surprise and admiration, As- tonished was I that she, the child of a rude squat- ter, should be able to set down her ideas in so fair a hand—thougbts thrilling, though simply expressed, Ah! sweet, simple words! Trembled my own | hand as I read them—trembled as from a spell of delirium—a delirium produced by the antagonistic emotions of grief and joy! Yes! both were pres- ent. In that simple inscript I had fcund cue for both, for there I learned the ecstatic truth that I was beloved, and alone with it the bitter intelligence that my love was lost to me for ever! Words of welcome and words of woe! how oould they be thus commingled? Read them and ljearn: “ To Edward Warfeid : ‘ STRANGER—It is to say farewell, but lam very sad as | write these words, When you asked me to promise to meet you again I was happy. 1 said Yes.’ Oh, sir! itcan never be! We are going to some far place, and shall be rone before here, and I shall never see you again. 5 ou come t is very But I was in no mood to be merry, | ! a _ is why I have written it. : | 9 Cistant, and I do not know the name of the country, fur it is not in Tennessee, nor in the United States, but somewhere in the West, a long way beyond the Mississippi river and the great prairies; but itis a country where they dig gold out of the sand. Per haps you have heard of it and might know it. I tried to know its name, but father is angry with me for speaking of you, and will not tell me: and our friend, that you saw, who is arg | us with him, will not teli me either. But I shall find out soon, and if I thought you might like to know where we are gone I would write to ‘her ‘“*T am glad that mother taught me to write, though Ido not compose very well; but if you will allow me I will send a letter to Swampville from the first lace we come to, to tell you the name of the coun- ry where we are going. know your name, for it is upon this paper, and I hope you will not think I have done wrong, forI have written my own name beside it, **Oh, sir! Iam very sad that Iam not to see you any more, for I am afraid father will never come back. Icould cry all night and all day, and I have cried a deal, but I am afraid of their seeing me, for both father and his friend have scolded me, and said a many things against you. I do not like to hear them say things against you; and for that reason I try not to let them know how very sorry I am that. I am never to meet you any more. ‘* Brave stranger! you saved my life; but.it is not that, I think, that makes me so unhappy now, but something else. You are so different from the others I have seen; and what you said to me was not like anyth'»zI ever heard before; your words sounded so sweet, and I could have listened to them forever. I remember every one of them. And then I was so proud when you took the flower from me, and held it to your Hips, for it made me think that you would be my friend. ; ‘“‘I have been very lonely since my sister Marian went away; she went with the man you saw, 1 hope to see her soon now, as she is somewhere out in the country where we are going to, but that will bot make me happy, if I can never see you again. “Oh, sir! forgive me for writing all that I have written; but I thought from what you said to me ‘ou would not be displeased with me for it, and that But I must write no more, ma ee a tee ee The interstices between the logs—where they had» | for my eyes are full of tears and I cannot see the paper. Ihope you will not burn it, but keep it, to remember Lian Hour.” Yes, Lilian! to the last hour of my life! Close to my bosom shall it lie—that simple souvenir of your maiden iove. Sacred page anscript of sweet truth—hallowed by the first offerings of a virgin heart! Over, and over, and over again, I read the ee me more touching than the wildest tale of romance, Alas! it was not all joy. There was more than a eames of sadness, constantly increas- ing its measure, another moment the sadness overcame the joy. I tottered toward the chair and dropped into it—my spirit completely prostrated by the conflicting emotions, CHAPTER XXIV, ANOTHER DUEL DETERMINED ON. InTO my saddle—off out of the clearing—aw through t pgp co. forest—on through the swel ering swamp, I hurried. Up the creek was my route —my destination, the dwelling of the hunter, Win- rove. | I found him at home. My arrival scarcely roused him from a mh gare that, I could perceive, was habitual to him. knew its cause; and could see that be was struggling against it—lest it should hinder him from the fulfill- ment of his duties asa host. It did not. There was something mig & noble in this conquest of courtesy over the heart heavily laden—charged and engrossed. with selfish gare. Not without admiration, did I observe the conflict. I hesitated not to confide my.secret to such @ man: I felt convinced that under the buckskin coat beat the heart of a gentleman. I told him the whole story of my love—beginning with the hour in which T had left him. The tale aroused him from his apathy—more es- cially the episode, which related to my first meet- with Lilian, and the encounter that followed. As a hunter, this last would have secured his atten- tion; but it was not altogether that. The scene touched a chord in unison with his own memories: for by some such incident had he first won the favor of Marian. As I approached the finale of the duel scene—that point where the stranger had appeared upon the stage—I could perceive the interest of my listener culminating to a pitch of excitement; and, before I had pronounced ten words in description of the clerical visitor, the young hunter sprung to his feet, exclaiming as he did so— ** Josh Stebbins!” I continued the narrative: but I saw I was no longer jistened to with attention. Wingrove was on his feet, and pacing the floor with nervous irregular strides. Every now and then, I saw him glance toward his rifie—that rested above the fireplace; while the angry flash of his eyes was meditating some serious de . As soon as I bad described the winding up of the duel, and what followed—including my departure from Swampville—I was again interrupted by the young hunter- this time not by his speech but: y an action equally significant. Hastily anproaching the fireplace, he lifted his rifie from the cleets; and, dropping the piece upon its butt, commenced loading it! It was not the movement itself, so much as the time and manner, that arrested my attention; and these declared the object of the act. Neither for juirrel nor coon—deer, bear, nor panther—was that rifle being loaded! ‘“‘Where are you going?’ I inquired, seeing that he had taken down his coon-skin cap, and slung on his pouch and powder-horn. “Only a bit down the crik. You'll excuse me, stranger, for leavin’ 0° ye; but Vil be back in the twinklin’ 0’ aneye. Thar’s a bit o’ dinner for ye, if you can eat cold deer-meat; an’ you'll find some- thin’ in the old bottle thar. I won't be gone more’n ahour. /—reckon I won't.” The emphasis expressed a certain indecision, CORNICE OOOKS