Passing outward from the door, the two young girls pause in their steps:
an object has attracted their attention. A large dog is seen running
out from the shed--a gaunt fierce-looking animal, that answers to the
very appropriate name of "Wolf." He approaches the sisters, and salutes
them with an unwilling wag of his tail. It seems as though he could not
look pleased, even while seeking a favour--for this is evidently the
purpose that has brought him forth from his lair.
He appeals more especially to the older of the girls--Marian.
"Ho, Wolf! I see your sides are thin, old fellow: you want your
breakfast! What can we give him, Lil?"
"Indeed, sister, I know not: there is nothing for the poor dog."
"There is some deer-meat inside?"
"Ah! I fear father will not allow Wolf to have that. I heard him say
he expected one to take dinner with him to-day? You know who?"
An arch smile accompanies this half-interrogatory; but, for all that,
the words do not appear to produce a pleasant effect. On the contrary,
a shade is observable on the brow of her to whom they are addressed.
"Yes, I _do_ know. Well, he shall not dine with _me_. 'Tis just for
that I've brought out my rifle. To-day, I intend to make my dinner in
the woods, or go without, and that's more likely. Never fear, Wolf! you
shall have your breakfast; whether I get my dinner or not. Now, for the
life of me, Lil, I don't know what we can give the poor brute. Those
buzzards are just within range. I could bring one of _them_ down; but
the filthy creatures, ugh! even a dog won't eat them."
"See, sister! yonder is a squirrel. Wolf will eat squirrels, I know:
but, ah! it's a pity to kill the little creature."
"Not a bit. Yon little creature is a precious little thief; it's just
been at our corn-crib. By killing it, I do justice in a double sense: I
punish the thief, and reward the good dog. Here goes!"
The squirrel, scared from its depredation on the corn, sweeps nimbly
over the ground towards the nearest tree. Wolf having espied it, rushes
after in headlong pursuit. But it is a rare chance indeed when a dog
captures one of these animals upon the ground; and Wolf, as usual, is
unsuccessful.
He has "treed" the squirrel; but what of that? The nimble creature,
having swooped up to a high limb, seats itself there, and looks down
upon its impotent pursuer with a nonchalant defiance--at intervals more
emphatically expressing the sentiment by a saucy jerk of its tail. But
this false security proves the squirrel's ruin. Deceived by it, the
silly animal makes no effort to conceal its body behind the branch; but,
sitting upright in a fork, presents a fair mark to the rifle. The girl
raises the piece to her shoulder, takes aim, and fires.
The shot tells; and the tiny victim, hurled from its high perch--after
making several somersaults in the air--falls right into the jaws of that
hungry savage at the bottom of the tree. Wolf makes his breakfast upon
the squirrel.
This young Diana of the backwoods appears in no way astonished at the
feat she has performed; nor yet Lilian. Doubtless, it is an everyday
deed.
"You must learn to shoot, Lil."
"O sister, for what purpose? You know I have neither the taste for it,
nor the skill that you have."
"The skill you will acquire by practice. It worth knowing how, I can
assure you. Besides it is an accomplishment one might stand in need of
some day. Why, do you know, sister, in the times of the Indians, every
girl understood how to handle a rifle--so father says. True, the
fighting Indians are gone away from here; but what if you were to meet a
great hear in the woods?"
"Surely I should run away from him."
"And surely I shouldn't, Lil. I have never met a bear, but I'd just
like to try one."
"Dear sister, you frighten me. Oh, do not think of such a thing!
Indeed, Marian, I am never happy when you are away in the woods. I am
always afraid of your meeting with some great wild beast, which may
devour you. Tell me, why do you go? I am sure I cannot see what
pleasure you can have in wandering through the woods alone."
"Alone! Perhaps I am not _always alone_."
These words are uttered in a low voice--not loud enough for Lilian to
hear, though she observes the smile that accompanies them.
"You see, sister Lil," continues Marian in a louder tone our tastes
differ. You are young, and like better to read the story-books your
mother left you, and look at the pictures in them. My mother left me no
story-books, nor pictures. She had none; and did not care for them, I
fancy. She was half-Indian, you know; and I suppose I am like her: for
I too, prefer realities to pictures. I love to roam about the woods;
and as for the danger--pooh, pooh--I have no fear of that. I fear
neither bear nor panther, nor any other quadruped. Ha! I have more
fear of a two-legged creature I know of; and I should be in greater
danger of meeting with that dreaded biped by _staying at home_?
The speech appears to give rise to a train of reflections in which there
is bitterness. The heroine of the rifle remains silent while in the act
of reloading; and the tinge of melancholy that pervades her countenance
tells that her thoughts are abstracted. While priming the piece, she is
even _maladroit_ enough to spill a quantity of the powder--though
evidently not from any lack of practice or dexterity.
Lilian has heard the concluding words of her sister's speech with some
surprise, and also noticed the abstracted air. She is about to ask for
an explanation, when the dialogue is interrupted. Wolf rushes past with
a fierce growl: some one approaches the clearing.
A horseman--a man of about thirty years of age, of spare form and
somewhat sinister aspect--a face to be hated on sight. And at sight of
it the shadow deepens on the brow of Marian. Her sister exhibits no
particular emotion. The new-comer is no stranger: it is only Josh
Stebbins, the schoolmaster of Swampville. He is their father's friend,
and comes often to visit them: moreover, he is that day expected, as
Lilian knows. Only in one way does she show any interest in his
arrival; and that is, on observing that he is better dressed than usual.
The _cut_ of his dress too, is different.
"See, sister Marian!" cries she in a tone of raillery, "how fine Mister
Josh is! black coat and waistcoat: a standing collar too! Why, he is
exactly like the Methody minister of Swampville! Perhaps he has turned
one. I shouldn't wonder: for they say he is very learnt. Oh, if that
be, we may hear him preach at the next camp-meeting. How I should like
to hear him hold forth!--ha, ha, ha!"
The young creature laughs heartily at her own fantastic conceits; and
her clear silvery voice for a moment silences the birds--as if they
paused to listen to a music more melodious than their own. The
mock-bird echoes back the laugh: but not so Marian. She has observed
the novelty as well as her sister; but it appears to impress her in a
very different manner. She does not even smile at the approach of the
stranger; but, on the contrary, the cloud upon her brow becomes a shade
darker.
Marian is some years older than her sister--old enough to know that
there is _evil_ in the world: for neither is the "backwoods" the home of
an Arcadian innocence. She knows the schoolmaster sufficiently to
dislike him; and, judging by his appearance, one might give her credit
for having formed a correct estimate of his character. She suspects the
object of his visit; more than that, she knows it: _she is herself its
object_. With indifferent grace, therefore, does she receive him:
scarcely concealing her aversion as she bids him the customary welcome.
Without being gifted with any very acute perception, the new-comer might
observe this _degout_ on the part of the young girl. He takes no notice
of it however--either by word, or the movement of a feature. On the
contrary, he appears perfectly indifferent to the character of the
reception given him. Not that his manner betrays anything like
swagger--for he is evidently not one of the swaggering sort. Rather is
his behaviour characterised by a cool, quiet effrontery--a sort of
sarcastic assurance--ten times more irritating. This is displayed in
the laconic style of his salutation: "Morning girls! father at home?"--
in the fact of his dismounting without waiting to be invited--in sharply
scolding the dog out of his way as he leads his horse to the shed; and,
finally, in his throwing the saddle-bags over his arm, and stepping
inside the cabin-door, with the air of one who is not only master of the
house, but of the "situation."
Inside the door he is received by the squatter himself; and in the
exchange of salutations, even a casual observer might note a remarkable
difference in the manner of the two men; the guest cool, cynical,
confident--the host agitated, with eye unsteady, and heart evidently ill
at ease. There is a strange significance in the salutation, as also in
the little incident that follows. Before a dozen words have passed
between the two men, the schoolmaster turns quietly upon his heel, and
closes the door behind him--the squatter making no objection to the act,
either by word or gesture! The incident may appear of trifling
importance; but not so to Marian, who stands near, watching every
movement, and listening to every word. Why is the door closed, and by
Josh Stebbins?--that rude door, that, throughout the long summer-day, is
accustomed to hang open on its raw-hide hinges? All day, and often all
night--except during the cold wintry winds, or when rain-storms blow
from the west? Why is it now closed, and thus unceremoniously? No
wonder that Marian attaches a significance to the act.
Neither has she failed to note the agitated mien of her father while
receiving his visitor--that father, at all other times, and in the
presence of all other people, so bold, fierce, and impassible! She
observes all this with a feeling of pain. For such strange conduct
there must be a cause, and a serious one: that is her reflection.
The young girl stands for some moments in the attitude she has assumed.
Her sister has gone aside to pluck some flowers growing by the bank of
the stream, and Marian is now alone. Her eye is bent upon the door; and
she appears to hesitate between two thoughts. Shall she approach and
listen? She knows _a little_--she desires to know _more_.
She has not merely conjectured the object of the schoolmaster's visit;
she is _certain_ it concerns herself. It is not simply that which
troubles her spirits. Left to herself, she would make light of such a
suitor, and give him his _conge_ with a brusque promptitude. But her
father--why does _he_ yield to the solicitations of this man? This is
the mystery she desires to unravel.
Can it be a _debt_? Scarcely that. In the lawless circle of backwoods'
Society, the screw of the creditor has but little power over the victim
of debt--certainly not enough to enslave such a free fearless spirit as
that of Hickman Holt. The girl knows this, and hence her painful
suspicion that points to some _other cause_. What cause? She would
know.
She makes one step towards the house, as if bent upon espionage. Again
she pauses, and appears undecided. The chinks between the logs are open
all round the hut--so, too, the interstices between the hewn planks of
the door. No one can approach near to the walls without being seen from
the inside; and a listener would be sure of being discovered. Is it
this reflection that stays her in her steps? that causes her to turn
back? Or does the action spring from a nobler motive? Whichever it be,
it seems to bring about a change in her determination. Suddenly turning
away, she stands facing to the forest--as if with the intention of
launching herself into its sombre depths. A call of adieu to her
sister--a signal to Wolf to follow--and she is gone.
Whither, and for what purpose? Why loves she these lone rambles under
the wild-wood shade? She has declared that she delights in them; but
can we trust her declaration? True, hers a strange spirit--tinged, no
doubt, with the moral tendencies of her mother's race--in which the love
of solitude is almost an idiosyncrasy. But with her this forest-ranging
is almost a new practice: only for a month or so has she been indulging
in this romantic habit--so incomprehensible to the home-loving Lilian.
Her father puts no check upon such inclinations: on the contrary, he
encourages them, as if proud of his daughter's _penchant_ for the chase.
Though purely a white man, his nature has been Indianised by the habits
of his life: and in his eyes, the chase is the noblest accomplishment--
even for a woman? Does the fair Marian think so? Or has she another
motive for absenting herself so frequently from her home? Let us follow
her into the forest. There, perhaps, we may find an answer to the
enigma.