THE WESTERN CLEARING.
It was a wild clearing in the heart of a Western forest. A stout,
athletic man was at work in one corner, and each lusty stroke of his
axe, as it was swung into the heart of a giant chestnut, reverberated
cheerfully through the woods. The morning was bright, and the air rich
with the commingled perfume of mosses, flowers and foliage gathered up
from the wilderness. The early sunshine danced among the boughs over our
woodman’s head, and every blow of his axe brought a storm of dew down to
the daisies and strawberry vines which he was treading to death beneath
his heavy shoes.
Though the morning was deliciously cool and breezy, the workman stopped
now and then to inhale a deep breath and wipe the perspiration from his
forehead, and at each time he cast a glance of good-natured anxiety over
the logs rolled together in heaps, and the forest of newly-made stumps
that stood glistening in the sunshine, yet full of sap and with tufts of
green still clinging to their broken bark. But though his eye took in
every object which lay between him and the double log-cabin that stood
on the opposite verge of the clearing, it invariably lingered last and
longest on the thong of newly-cut leather which, from the distance, he
could just see dangling through a gimlet-hole in the door from the
wooden latch which secured it within.
There was hunger and some little desire for rest in those frequent
glances toward the slender cloud of smoke that went curling up from the
stick-chimney of his dwelling. At last he planted his axe against the
massive trunk which it had half-cut away, and was rolling down his shirt
sleeves, when the latch-string began to vibrate before his eye. After a
moment the cabin door opened, and a young man came out with a rifle in
his hand, and dressed in a green hunting-shirt.
“Halloa!” exclaimed Daniel Hart, with a sort of half whistle, as he
buttoned his wristband; “arly and late that chap is always a-hanging
round our premises. I calculate that it ain’t very difficult to guess
why the gal was so long a-getting breakfast.”
Daniel had scarcely buttoned his second wristband when a young girl in a
plain calico-dress appeared in the cabin door with a napkin in her hand,
which she flung up as a signal for breakfast.
“Oh, yes, she can call me now,” said Daniel, taking up his old straw-hat
from the grass, “but before I eat or drink I must know what brings that
John Downs into these diggins so often: when foxes begin to prowl round
a hen-coop in the daytime, it looks dangerous.”
“I say, John Downs, halloa, this way a minute!” and as Daniel Hart
uttered this shout he swung his hat in the air—an unnecessary signal,
for his voice might have been heard far into the woods.
The young hunter turned and came across the clearing, and though he
swung his rifle about with a dashing air, Daniel could see that his face
was crimson as he drew near; but a fine, handsome face it was, Daniel
could not deny that, though he did exert himself to look ferocious, and
got up a frown, as he approached, that seemed much out of place on that
broad, frank forehead.
“Well, John, what brings you in these parts so soon again?” inquired
Daniel Hart, putting on his old straw hat and folding his arms over his
broad chest. “Don’t think of settling out-west, nor any thing, do you?”
“Well,” said John Downs, blushing still more deeply, “I don’t know how
it will be. A chap can’t always make his home in the woods, you’ll agree
to that, I suppose?”
Daniel nodded his head, and replied,
“Just so, John.”
“Well,” continued John, gathering courage from his companion’s assent,
“I have a sort of fancy to settle down before long, and clear up a farm
for myself. Game is getting scarce, and I begin to feel rather lonesome
camping out at nights so much.”
“And how are you a-going to pay for the land?” inquired Daniel, folding
his arms more tightly over his chest; “wild lands are cheap out here,
true enough; but yet government won’t be satisfied with any thing less
than cash on the nail.”
“I know that,” replied the young man with a brightening eye; “but I’ve
got three hundred dollars let out to Judge Church, down on The Bend.”
“Well, but you haven’t taken a notion to my property here, have you?”
inquired Daniel, with a shrewd smile. “You don’t want me to sell out,
nor nothing?”
“No,” stammered the young hunter, crushing a tuft of wild pinks beneath
the butt of his rifle to hide his embarrassment, “but I’ve been
thinking——”
“Well, there isn’t nothing very uncommon in that, is there?” said
Daniel, laughing as the young man hesitated and blushed like a girl.
“No, Mr. Hart, no, I may as well out with it,” cried Downs, setting down
his rifle hard, and speaking with desperate rapidity; “I meant to talk
with you about it in a day or two, any way: but as we are on the
subject, supposing we finish it at once. There is Martha, your daughter:
we have been acquainted three years come fall, in Rockland county and
out here, and if you ain’t willing to let her keep house for me, it
don’t make much odds whether I have a farm or take to the woods again.
One thing is certain—I shan’t be very contented anywhere.”
“There, now, you’ve spoken up like a man!” replied Daniel, frankly
extending his hand; “I _cannot_ spare the gal, for she’s all I have to
depend on; but don’t look so down in the mouth about it. I’ll tell you
what we can do: take up your three hundred dollars and buy the lot that
lies next ag’in mine and her Uncle Bentley’s farm. There is our cabin
already built, and a housekeeper in it. Martha won’t make a worse
daughter for me because she is your wife,” and Daniel Hart pointed to
his dwelling with a smile on his face, yet a single tear brightened in
his eye; for the love which he bore his daughter was the most holy
feeling of his life.
“I never _was_ so happy!” exclaimed Downs, grasping the rough hand of
his father-in-law and giving it a vigorous shake. “And Martha, dear
girl—she thought you must miss her help, and would not consent to go
away. I left her with tears in her eyes.”
“She is a nice gal,” replied Daniel, drawing the back of his rough hand
across his eyes. “I only hope she will make you as good a wife as her
mother was to me.”
“I know that Martha loves me; she told me as much this morning, and I’m
not afraid of the rest,” said Downs.
“Of course,” said Hart; “what is there to fear? But see, Martha is at
the door; the breakfast will get cold; come in and we will talk it all
over.”
Downs took up his rifle, and the two went toward the house together.
Scarcely had Daniel Hart and his companion closed the cabin-door after
them, when a horseman came from a cart path leading through the woods,
and dismounted near the chestnut. He looked cautiously around, saw the
great gap cut in the trunk of the tree, and driving his horse back into
the woods again, tied it to a sapling down in an abrupt hollow which
concealed them from the clearing.
When the man appeared once more in the open space, he took up Daniel’s
axe, examined it closely while he dislodged the tiny chips that clung to
its edge, and tried its sharpness with the ball of his thumb.
“The chips are moist and green yet; the helve is warm with the old man’s
handling. I may as well make myself scarce at once, for the crusty
fellow will be hanging round home till night: I am certain of that from
the way he has begun his day’s work.”
As the young man muttered these discontented words to himself, he set
down the axe and moved away as if to seek the woods again; but as he
turned his head and cast a look toward the cabin, he gave a start; his
eyebrows worked and knit themselves over his flashing eyes, and with a
half-suppressed oath he looked around as if to ascertain some means of
reaching the cabin which might not expose his person to the inmates.
“There were two. I saw them through the window. Who is he? Let me make
him out—let me but fasten an eye on him and he is done for. Woodworth,
nor any other man, shall cross my path now and live!”
Once more he sent an oath through his grinding teeth, and plunged into
the hollow where his horse was tied. The fine animal turned his head and
greeted his coming with a low neigh; but his master lifted his heavy
boot and gave the poor creature a kick that made him wheel and run back
with a violence that almost tore the sapling up by the roots.
“By Jove, you had better stop that!” exclaimed the man, infuriated by
the noise, and giving the bridle a savage jerk.
“Stand still, stand still, or I’ll bleed you with a new-fashioned
lancet!” he exclaimed, through his shut teeth, and drawing a bowie-knife
from beneath his hunting-shirt, he plunged his arm back to drive it into
the heart of the rearing animal. But, as if comprehending his danger,
the beast leaped back with a fierce impetuosity that broke the sapling
sheer in twain, and plunged down the hollow just time enough to escape
the fearful blow launched at his chest. So fierce had been his attempt
upon the horse that Hurst lost his balance and fell forward to the
ground, ploughing the rich earth up with his knife for half a yard
before he could recover himself. The furious man started up, gazed after
the horse an instant, then shaking the soil from his knife, he thrust it
back to his bosom with a low, savage laugh.
“You have saved me a hundred dollars by that plunge, old fellow,” he
said, still gasping with passion. “I was a double fool to let you break
loose, though. Mike, Mike, easy, boy, easy! Come back, so-ho—so-so!”
It was surprising that a voice so fearfully savage the moment before
could have been modulated on the instant to the low, silky, and
wheedling tones which this man adopted in persuading the horse back to
his keeping again. It sounded through the woods like the mellow tone of
a bird calling for his mate. But the horse plunged on till the call
terminated in a low, sweet whistle. He had leaped across a rivulet which
ran gurgling along the depths of the hollow, and his front hoofs were
buried deep in the opposite ascent when that whistle came sighing
through the bushes. He stopped suddenly, with his ears still laid back
and his hoofs on high. A shiver ran through his limbs. His ears began to
tremble as they arose to their natural position—his forefeet sunk slowly
down, and, wheeling gently round, he crossed the brook and crept up the
hill, like a hound called back from the chase.
“So, old fellow, you have come back, have you?” muttered Hurst, tying
the broken bridle and tightening the knot across his knee with both
hands; “it’s well for you that I have no other horse to carry me to The
Bend—now see if you can stand quiet, will you?”
This speech terminated with another oath, while Hurst knotted the bridle
to the splintered trunk of the sapling and moved away. He crept
stealthily around the edge of the clearing, taking care to conceal his
progress by the underbrush that grew thickly in that portion of the
wood. At length he reached the little patch of vegetables which lay
between the forest and the back windows of the cabin; here he paused a
moment, peered anxiously through the thick foliage to the right and the
left, then parting the branches with his hands, he stole softly forth,
and, darting across the garden, crouched down beneath one of the
windows, where he lay for two or three minutes holding his breath and
afraid to stir a limb, lest he should agitate the creeping plants that
clung around the window, and thus give notice of his presence.
At length he arose cautiously, first to one knee, then to a stooping,
and, at last, to an upright, position, which brought his face to a level
with the window. He lifted his hands, and parted the network of
convolvules and flowering beans that draped the sash, with a cat-like
caution that scarcely shook a drop of dew from the host of purple-bells
that clustered around him. Having thus made an opening which commanded
the interior of the cabin, he remained motionless, except that now and
then his fingers clutched themselves together, and once he unconsciously
crushed a cluster of the scarlet beanflowers which fell against his palm
with a violence that shook the whole vine.
What a tranquil and happy scene it was that the bad man gazed upon! In
the centre of the cabin stood a small table, covered with a coarse cloth
of snow-white linen, a plate of savory ham—the ruddy color of each slice
relieved by the pearly and golden circle of an egg, which formed a
tempting mound upon it—stood in the centre, warm corn-bread, a plate of
potatoes, with their dark coats torn just enough to reveal a tempting
and mealy richness at heart, a saucer of wild honey, and another of
golden butter, composed the wholesome repast, of which Daniel Hart and
his guest were partaking.
The farmer had filled his plate a second time. Hard labor and the
morning air had given him a keen appetite, and his thirst seemed in
proportion, for Martha was holding forth, but without lifting her eyes
to his face, his third cup of rye coffee, on which the heavy cream was
mounting like a foam, when Hurst looked in upon the peaceful group.
Downs ate but little, and Martha—pretty, warm-hearted Martha Hart——did
nothing but blush every time she lifted her eyes from the bright tin
coffee-pot, and deluge every cup she filled with a double quantity of
cream, that little brown hand of hers was so very unsteady. It seemed so
strange for her to sit there, with her father directly opposite, and
John Downs lifting those bright, saucy eyes to her face every other
minute, and then dropping them as if he knew perfectly well that he
ought to be ashamed of himself there before her father. It was as much
as Martha could manage to sit still and wait on the table. It seemed a
marvel that her dear old father could eat so heartily. Every thing
seemed looking at her with peculiar meaning. The old house-dog there on
the hearth, the cat, as she moved demurely across the room, the purple
morning-glories trembling around the windows, all appeared perfectly
aware that every thing was settled between her and John Downs, but
rather astonished that the old man should take it all so quietly, when
they had every one of them heard him protest a thousand times that it
would be the death of him if she were ever to think of getting married.
Martha tried to act as if nothing particular had happened. She was
frightened to death at the idea of meeting her father’s eyes, and as for
John Downs, it really was too bad! Why on earth did he keep looking at
her from under those long eyelashes! She was perfectly certain in her
own heart that she had never once looked at him since they sat down to
breakfast: nothing in the world would tempt her to do any thing so
forward! Dear, pretty Matty Hart! how did she know that the young man at
her left, in the green hunting-shirt, was looking at her, if she never
turned her eyes that way? The conical-shaped coffee-pot, with its
streaming contents shut in by a lid marvellously like an overgown
extinguisher, was bright as hands could make it, but not quite brilliant
enough to reject the motions of her lover. Still Martha Hart was very
positive that she had given Downs no sort of encouragement to look at
her in that way, and, of course, she knew best, for the flowers that
trembled and shook off their dew, and seemed laughing at her through the
window, were not more modest or innocent than Martha Hart with all her
coquettish ways.
At length, when Daniel Hart had transferred the last morsel of ham from
the plate to his lips, and drained his coffee-cup for the third time, he
drew back his chair and looked at Downs.
“Well, now, John, I am ready to talk over the business as soon as you’ve
a mind to——”
Daniel Hart was here interrupted in his speech, for Martha recollected
that moment that she had no spring-water in the house, and the haste
which she made to get her sun-bonnet and lift the pail to her arm quite
disconcerted the whole party, but it was only for a moment. Daniel
settled back in his chair again, after giving a glance at her burning
face as she lifted the wooden door-latch, and muttering to himself,
“Well, well, it’s only human nature: I was young once myself,” he
addressed Downs again.
And there was that vile man listening to every word which passed between
the honest farmer and his son-in-law—he heard it all—how John Downs had
taken a fancy to Martha long ago in Rockland county—how he had sold out
all his possessions, consisting of a span of horses, a yoke of oxen, and
some young cattle, and started off West, in less than a month after the
Hart family left the county. He had deposited his money with Judge
Church, and was determined to buy land, and settle down in the
neighborhood; but Martha had put him off and off, till he was almost
discouraged—or had been till half an hour ago: now he was just the
happiest fellow on earth. Just as if it made any difference about the
Bentleys: he was as ready to work for that noble man and handsome girl,
as if they were his own blood relations—only give him a chance, that was
all.
Hurst saw the brown hands of these honest men grasp over the table, and
knew that he had another strong spirit to contend against.
Hurst was crouching amid the vines as Martha passed him, with the water
pail on her arm, and the love-light brightening her eyes and sending its
red to her cheeks. Her garments almost touched him as she turned a
corner of the cabin, but he held his breath and shrunk close to the
logs, listening to the conversation within, even while his kindling eyes
followed the young and happy creature as she passed with a light step
into the woods. When she had entirely disappeared he turned his eyes
inward again, bent his ear, like a hound, and pressed his face close to
the matted foliage, that no word passing between the two men at the
table might escape him. He learned from their conversation that Gillian
and her father had ridden forth at daylight to explore a tract of land,
which they all thought of adding to the farm, and that Mr. Woodworth was
expected soon, when he might carry Gillian away, and all must be settled
before then. If they liked the land, it would be paid for to-morrow; the
money lay ready at the Bend. As for Gillian, she was expecting her lover
every moment. Then there would be a wedding in the settlement, and one
bright face less in the cabin. After some ten minutes, Hurst drew
stealthily back, darted into a patch of early corn that came up almost
to one end of the cabin, and winding noiselessly through it, cautious as
a serpent, not to shake a single silken tuft that streamed from the
half-ripened ears, he entered the woods again.
“So soon! so soon! quick work, but I am ready—the job pleases me—it
pleases me—so—so, fool—stand still. What, afraid of the knife yet? It
has better fare on hand—so—so!”
These words were uttered after Hurst entered the hollow where his horse
was tied. He had been fingering the haft of his knife while muttering to
himself, and partly drew it from his bosom as he came up. The still
restive animal started at the gleam of the blade, which gave rise to the
half-savage, half-soothing words which his master uttered as he
unknotted the bridle. After looking cautiously over his shoulder, Hurst
mounted to his saddle, and crossing the cart-path rode leisurely toward
the spring where Martha Hart had gone a few minutes before.
A happy girl was Martha, as she passed through those thick woods down to
the little spring which supplied the household with water! Every object
around her bore a thrice pleasant look. When she turned down the little
footpath and came in sight of the fountain, it was gushing up quick and
bright, with a sweet impetuosity, like the sensations of her own pure
heart. It seemed rejoicing with her, smiling on her. How sweetly it
flashed up from its mossy basin, dimpling and laughing as the arrowy
sunshine darted through the heavy mass of foliage overhead and broke in
a golden shower on the rivulet that danced down through the rich turf
carpeting the earth all around. It fell athwart the roots of that
gnarled old oak that twisted in and out among the rocks just above, like
a knot of huge serpents charmed to sleep by the soft lullaby of the
waters—and on the little hollow, choked up with fern-leaves, where the
pretty stream lost itself and plunged into the earth again.
Martha came along the path, smiling unconsciously. She sat down beneath
the shadow of the rock, with the water almost kissing her feet. A bird
was overhead, and it began to sing till the leaves around its
hiding-place shivered again, but she did not listen to the bird. Why
should she? There was music enough in her own heart! She had trodden
upon a tuft of wild blossoms, and the air was perfumed with their dying
breath, but she only knew that every thing was very lovely and tranquil
around her. The very foliage and the glimpses of sky shining through,
seemed rejoicing over her head like old friends, longing to come nearer
and bless her. Her heart was brimming with joy; tears, the highest and
most blissful drops that ever fell from the blossoms of a young heart,
sparkled in those soft eyes; and there she sat, so quiet and motionless,
bending a little forward like a wood-lily on its stalk, and none but the
Almighty, who loves the joy of an innocent heart, knew how pure and
entire that happiness was.
All at once a shadow fell on the spirit of that young girl. One of those
strange, intuitive feelings, which seem like spirit-tones in the heart,
came over her. There was no unusual noise in the forest, and yet she
bent her ear to listen; still no sound, save the soft hum of summer
insects, and such beautiful things as love the solitude, arose to
startle her; but the feeling of dread was in her heart, she put back the
mass of curls that had fallen over her shoulder, and listened still more
intently. It _was_ a sound, the tramp of a horse mellowed and broken by
the forest turf. Certain that it was the approach of an enemy, Martha
snatched her sun-bonnet from the ground, and, hastily filling her pail
from the spring, turned breathlessly into the path. It was too late for
escape! scarcely had she advanced half a dozen paces, when Hurst
appeared in a curve of the path. She turned into the wood, though the
undergrowth was so thickly tangled there that it seemed almost
impossible to force a passage through. Hurst sprang from his horse and
left it standing across the path, as he came quickly towards the
breathless and startled girl.
“What, Martha, you are determined to fight shy yet?” exclaimed the vile
man, pressing close to the struggling girl, and attempting to take the
pail from her hand. “Come, come, give it up; it’s too heavy; you bend
under it like a sugar-cane in the wind. Let me carry it, I say.”
He took the pail forcibly from her hand as he spoke, and dashed half the
water to the ground.
“Never mind,” he said, with a disagreeable laugh; “we can go down to the
spring and fill it again. I want to talk with you. Where is Gillian?”
“Gone out to ride. What do you wish to say?” faltered the terrified
girl. “I thought you would not come again. I must go home—my father is
waiting.”
“Thought I should not come again? A pretty fellow I should be to take
that proud girl at her first word. No, no, Miss Martha, I do not so
easily give up an idea when it once gets into my head. Such girls as
Gillian are scarce here in the bush.”
While he spoke, Hurst swung the half-empty pail on one arm, and forcing
Martha’s hand through the other, dragged her toward the path.
“I do not wish to go down there—I _will_ not, unless you drag me from
the spot by force,” said Martha, wringing her hand suddenly from the
hold he had fixed upon it, and darting up the hill with the speed of a
deer. She rushed through the cabin-door and pulled the latch-string in.
Hurst made one bound after her, then paused and listened. He saw Daniel
Hart and Downs going toward the clearing, and heard the sound of hoofs
coming softly over the forest sward close by. There was but one horse,
and he trod daintily as if guided by a lady.
It is Gillian, and she has left her father behind, was Hurst’s thought.
What did he care for Martha Hart then? His sole object in detaining her
had been to gain some intelligence of Gillian—and there she was alone in
the woods. His heart stood still; thoughts flashed through his brain
like lightning; there was his opportunity. Gillian once in his power,
what force could ever rescue her? One bold dash, and the fortune for
which he had dared perdition, and the woman whom he adored and hated in
the same breath would be his. Woodworth might come to find his promised
bride another man’s wife.
Hurst turned sharply, and went down to the woods. Gillian was riding
quietly under the trees, enjoying the grateful shade. A crimson scarf,
which was twisted round her neck, seemed to light up the path her horse
was taking. She had left her father a mile back. There was a fresh
clearing to be made, and he had turned aside to examine the timber,
leaving Gillian to loiter on her way home and enjoy the shadowy repose
of the woods. She had paused a dozen times within the last half mile—now
to gather a handful of berries from the smaller growth of trees, and
again to trace the delicate green vines as they trailed their scarlet
berries along the forest moss and embroidered it with an exquisite woof
of tiny leaves and fruit-drops. Then she came to a half-decayed stump,
frosted all over with pale apple-gum moss, woven in thickly, as it were,
with coral. Gillian’s love of the beautiful in nature was intense. She
could not traverse a path in the woods without stopping every ten
minutes to examine some object of interest. When she saw this stump
frosted with a rich overgrowth she sprang from her horse and began to
gather some of the finest tufts in her hand. The horse, accustomed to
these delays, turned aside, browsing lazily on a young birch thicket
that grew near.
“Beautiful! oh, how very beautiful it is!” she said, holding up her
red-beaded moss in a beam of sunshine that slanted through the trees.
“What a world of lovely things I shall have to show him when he comes!”
“Miss Bentley!”
Gillian started, and dropped the moss from her hand; for there, on the
other side of the stump, stood Michael Hurst.
“Miss Bentley, fortune has for once been in my favor. I have another
opportunity to urge my suit,” he said, holding out his hand.
Gillian turned away in haughty silence. Twice before, within a
fortnight, this man had persecuted her with his unwelcome importunities,
and she was weary of repulsing him. Besides, she was alone in the woods,
and his presence always struck her with a sort of terror.
He saw this, and a smile crept over his white lips.
“Lady, this is hard,” he said.
She turned upon him like a young eagle.
“Sir, three times I have given you an answer to proposals which offend
me! The property that I solemnly think belongs to my father, you have
got; we gave it up without contest. Be content with that, and spare me
farther importunity.”
“Gillian, you will not understand me. The property which you surrender
is nothing unless you share it. The very possession drives me mad. I
have followed you here into the wilderness, praying, beseeching you to
share this wealth. I love you, Gillian. God only knows how wildly I love
you.”
Gillian would not listen, but turned away in proud silence, looking
anxiously toward her horse.
Hurst followed close.
“You will not listen—you will not answer?” he said, fiercely.
“No, I will not listen—I will not answer!” she replied. “How often shall
I tell you that my hand is pledged—my faith given? Step aside, sir, and
let me pass!”
Hurst got between her and the horse. She turned desperately and ran
along the path.
Hurst sprang after her. A hound in full cry could not have leaped more
fiercely forward. He grasped her arm, turned her round with a jerk, and
when her pale face was close to his he laughed; not, as might have been
expected, a coarse, ruffianly laugh; but low and sweet, with a tone that
frightened the heart it thrilled.
“Come, girl, come! I do not want to frighten you. Go down to the
spring—I have a great many things to talk over. How can you tremble so,
close by the man that loves you better than any thing on earth?”
And, with a reed-like bend of his fine form, Hurst threw his arm around
Gillian’s waist, and attempted rather to persuade than force her toward
the spring.
“I will not move a step. I cannot. Oh, Mr. Hurst, pray let me go! you
frighten me almost to death!” cried the poor girl, trembling in every
limb, while her ashy lips quivered with terror.
“How foolish you are, Gillian, to fear from one man—an old lover and
true friend—that which pleases you in a fellow like one I could
mention,” said Hurst, girding her waist more firmly with his arm,
speaking in a mellow and persuasive voice—a voice which sounded so like
that of Woodworth that Gillian raised her large eyes to his face in
wonder and new dread, but they sunk to the earth again, shocked by the
conflicting passions which met their gaze in that handsome but evil
face.
“Come, have done with all this childish nonsense,” continued Hurst, “I
only want a fair hearing. You were too hasty the other day, when I came
like an honest man and asked you to marry me, and I, like a fool, went
off with my cause half argued. Stop, stop, there is no getting off now:
I must be heard.”
But Gillian writhed in the clasp of his strong arm, and looked wildly
over his shoulder in hopes of aid from the house.
“Say what you wish, here, then,” she said, wild with terror; “I will
listen—take your arm away, and let me sit down—I will hear all that you
have to say, if you do this.”
“What, you would get a little nearer the house, and scream if I only
lifted my eyes to that pretty white face of yours? No, no, Miss Gillian,
I am not to be cheated in this way;” and, flinging his disengaged arm
also around her person, Hurst lifted her from the ground and moved
rapidly toward his horse. The poor girl struggled, her head fell back on
his shoulder, and her terror found voice in a single sharp cry.
“Hush!” said Hurst, turning his face till she could feel the warm breath
as it poured from his clenched teeth. “Hush, I say, or I shall be forced
to quiet you with my handkerchief.”
He moved toward his horse as he spoke, set her on the ground, still
grasping her arm with one iron hand, as he sprang to his saddle and
attempted to drag her up after him.
Another cry, sharp with terrible agony, broke from the lips of that poor
girl. It was followed by a rushing sound in the path above—the crash of
branches, the leap of a strong man, and the shout of a fierce voice in
its rage.
“Villain!—Villain!” With this fierce cry Daniel Hart plunged like a lion
down to the spot where his niece was lying, pale and senseless on the
earth. He sprang over her body with his arms outstretched and his eyes
on fire—for one instant his iron hand clutched the folds of Hurst’s
hunting-shirt, but it was wrested from him by the violent leap taken
that instant by the goaded horse, as he wheeled and darted up the path
and out of sight, it seemed, with a single bound.
“Oh, if I had my rifle!” exclaimed Daniel Hart, in a hoarse whisper, as
he lifted Gillian from the earth and laid her down again, for the stout
man shook with rage, and that moment he was weak as an infant—“if I but
had my rifle!”