The rein dropped from her fingers--the rifle fell upon the neck of her
horse, and she sat gazing at me in speechless surprise. At length, in a
low murmur, and as if mechanically, she repeated the words:
"My sister Lilian?"
"Yes, Marian Holt--your sister."
"My name! how can you have become acquainted with it? You know my
sister?"
"Know her, and love her--I have given her my whole heart."
"And she--has she returned your love?"
"Would that I could say surely yes! Alas! I am still in doubt."
"Your words are strange. O sir, tell me who you are! I need not
question what you have said. I perceive that you know my sister--and
who I am. It is true: I am Marian Holt--and you? you are from
Tennessee?"
"I have come direct from it."
"From the Obion? perhaps from--"
"From your father's clearing on Mud Creek, Marian."
"Oh! this is unexpected--what fortune to have met you, sir! You have
seen my sister then?"
"I have."
"And spoken with her? How long ago?"
"Scarcely a month."
"So lately! And how looks she? She was well!"
"How looks she?--Beautiful, Marian, like yourself. She was well, too,
when I last saw her."
"Dear Lilian!--O sir! how glad I am to hear from her! Beautiful I know
she is--very, very beautiful. Ah me!--they said I was so too, but my
good looks have been lost in the wilderness. A life like that I have
been leading soon takes the softness from a girl's cheeks. But, Lilian!
O stranger! tell me of her! I long to hear of her--to see her. It is
but six months, and yet I think it six years, since I saw her. Oh! how
I long to throw my arms around her! to twine her beautiful golden-hair
around my fingers, to gaze into her blue innocent eyes!" My heart
echoed the longings.
"Sweet little Lilian! Ah--little--perhaps not, sir? She will be grown
by this? A woman like myself?"
"Almost a woman."
"Tell me, sir--did she speak of me? Oh, tell me--what said she of her
sister Marian?"
The question was put in a tone that betrayed anxiety. I did not leave
her to the torture of suspense; but hastily repeated the affectionate
expressions which Lilian had uttered in her behalf.
"Good kind Lil! I know she loves me as I love her--we had no other
companions--none I may say for years, only father himself. And father--
is he well?"
There was a certain reservation in the tone of this interrogatory, that
contrasted strangely with that used when speaking of her sister. I well
knew why.
"Yes," I replied, "your father was also in good health when I saw him."
There was a pause that promised embarrassment--a short interval of
silence. A question occurred to me that ended it. "Is there no one
else about whom you would desire to hear?"
I looked into her eyes as I put the question. The colour upon her
cheeks went and came, like the changing hues of the chameleon. Her
bosom rose and fell in short convulsive breathings; and, despite an
evident effort to stifle it, an audible sigh escaped her. The signs
were sufficient. I needed no further confirmation of my belief. Within
that breast was a souvenir, that in interest far exceeded the memories
of either sister or father. The crimson flush upon her cheek, the quick
heaving of the chest, the half-hindered sigh, were evidences palpable
and pronounced. Upon the heart of Marian Holt was the image of the
handsome hunter--Frank Wingrove--graven there, deeply and never to be
effaced.
"Why do you ask that question?" at length she inquired, in a voice of
assumed calmness. "Know you anything of my history? You appear to know
all. Has any one spoken of me?"
"Yes--often--one who thinks only of you."
"And who, may I ask, takes this single interest in a poor outcast
maiden?"
"Ask your own heart, Marian! or do you wish me to name him?"
"Name him!"
"Frank Wingrove."
She did not start. She must have expected that name: since there was no
other to be mentioned. She did not start, though a sensible change was
observable in the expression of her countenance. A slight darkling upon
her brow, accompanied by a pallor and compression of the lips, indicated
pain.
"Frank Wingrove," I repeated, seeing that she remained silent. "I know
not why I should have challenged you to name him," said she, still
preserving the austere look. "Now that you have done so, I regret it.
I had hoped never to hear his name again. In truth, I had well-nigh
forgotten it."
I did not believe in the sincerity of the assertion. There was a slight
tincture of pretence in the tone that belied the words. It was the lips
alone that were speaking, and not the heart. It was fortunate that
Wingrove was not within earshot. The speech would have slain him.
"Ah, Marian!" I said, appealingly, "he has not forgotten yours."
"No--I suppose he mentions it--with boasting!"
"Say rather with bewailing."
"Bewailing? Indeed! And why? That he did not succeed in betraying
me?"
"Far otherwise--he has been true to you!"
"It is false, sir. You know not, perhaps, that I was myself witness of
his base treachery. I saw him--"
"What you saw was a mere accidental circumstance; nor was it of his
seeking. It was the fault of the Chicasaw, I can assure you."
"Ha! ha! ha! An accidental circumstance!" rejoined she, with a
contemptuous laugh; "truly a rare accident! It was guilt, sir. I saw
him with his arms around her--with my own eyes I saw this. What farther
proof needed I of his perfidy?"
"All that you saw, I admit, but--"
"More than saw it: I heard of his faithlessness. Did not she herself
declare it--in Swampville? elsewhere!--boasted of it even to my own
sister! More still: another was witness to his vile conduct--had often
seen him in her company. Ha! little dreamed he, while dallying in the
woods with his red-skinned squaw, that the earth has ears and the trees
have tongues. The deceiver did not think of that!"
"Fair Marian, they are foul calumnies; and whoever has given utterance
to them did so to deceive you. Who, may I ask, was that other witness
who has so misled you!"
"Oh! it matters not now--another villain like himself--one who--O God!
I cannot tell you the horrid history--it is too black to be believed."
"Nay, you may tell it me. I half know it already; but there are some
points I wish explained--for your sake--for Wingrove's--for the sake of
your sister--"
"My sister! how can it concern her? Surely it does not? Explain your
meaning, sir."
I endeavoured to avoid the look of earnest inquiry that was turned upon
me. I was not yet prepared to enter upon the explanation. "Presently,"
I said, "you shall know all that has transpired since your departure
from Tennessee. But first tell me of yourself. You have promised me?
I ask it not from motives of idle curiosity. I have freely confessed to
you my love for your sister Lilian. It is that which has brought me
here--it is that which impels me to question you."
"All this is mystery to me," replied the huntress, with a look of
extreme bewilderment. "Indeed, sir, you appear to know all--more than
I--but in regard to myself, I believe you are disinterested, and I shall
willingly answer any question you may think proper to ask me. Go on! I
shall conceal nothing."
"Thanks!" said I. "I think I can promise that you shall have no reason
to regret your confidence."