The breath of autumn had blown over the woods of Arkansas, and the first
frost of November, followed by the beautiful Indian summer, had imparted
to the foliage those rich tints of red and gold known only to the
forests of America.
The squirrel, down among the dead leaves, actively engaged in garnishing
its winter store, scarce heeds the footstep of the hunter heard near by
among the trees.
There is one making his way through the woods at no great distance from
the dwelling of Jerry Rook. He was approaching from the west, with his
face in the direction of the house. But although he carried a gun, and
was not travelling upon either trace or path, he did not appear to be in
pursuit of game.
Squirrels scampered off before him unmolested, and, once or twice,
turkeys ran across his track without tempting him to draw trigger or
even take the gun from his shoulder.
In appearance he would have scarce have passed for a hunter, nor was he
dressed after this fashion. His costume was more that of a traveller.
Moreover, he had just come from a stand some three miles back, where he
had left a horse and a pair of well-filled saddle-bags.
The "stand," a solitary tavern, was not far from the crossing of White
River, on the road leading from Little Rock to the settlements on the
Mississippi. He had approached the tavern from the west as if coming
from the former, and now on foot he was still advancing eastward, though
not along the road which ran through the forest at some distance to his
right, screened from view by thick timber standing between.
By the dust still clinging to his garments, he appeared to have come a
long way. It was gradually getting brushed off by the leaves of the
underwood and the thick cane-brakes through which he was compelled to
pass.
Why was he avoiding the road? Was he a stranger who had taken the wrong
fork that had conducted him to a blind trace now run out? No. It could
not be that. The main road was not to be mistaken. Besides, he had
left it at right angles after getting out of sight of the stand, and had
since been keeping parallel to it as if acquainted with its direction.
If a stranger, he was evidently one who had been over the ground before.
He had the appearance of being twenty-five years of age, with a
complexion naturally dark, still further shaded either by exposure to a
tropical sun or a protracted spell of travelling. His hair was jetty
black and curly, his upper lip bearded, with a dark, well-defined
whisker on the cheek. The chin was clean shaven, showing a protrusion
indicative of great firmness, while the profile was of true Roman type.
His eyes were dark, lustrous, and piercing. In stature, he was full six
feet, with a figure of fine proportions, knit as if for strength. Its
activity was displayed by his light, lithe step, as he made his way
through the tangle of trees.
As already stated, the dress was not that of a hunter, either amateur or
professed. The coat was of broadcloth, dark-coloured, and of good
quality, cut frock-fashion. It was worn buttoned, though showing
underneath a vest of Marsala, with striped shirt-bosom and sparkling
breast-pin. The hat was of the kind known as grey felt. This, with the
green-baize "wrappers" around the legs, showing the chafe of the
stirrup-leather gave the costume somewhat of the character of a
traveller's.
The jaded horse and heavy saddle-bags, with a thick coating of dust over
all, had told the tavern people as he reined up, of a long road left
behind him--perhaps from the far prairies.
The keeper of the lone hostelry had thought it strange his starting off
the moment his horse was stabled. But the horse and saddle-bags were
earnest of his coming back; and Boniface had continued to chew his quid
without being inquisitive.
As the young man threaded his way through the trees, it was evident he
was not straying. His face was continually in one direction; while his
glance, directed forward, seemed to search for some object expected to
appear before him.
All at once he made a stop, at sight of a break among the trees. It
indicated a tract of open ground, or clearing, that extended athwart the
path he was pursuing.
He seemed surprised at this, and glanced quickly to the right and left,
as if to assure himself that he had been going right.
"Yes," he muttered, apparently satisfied on this head. "Right before me
was the spot--the creek and the cabin. I can't be mistaken. These old
trees I remember well--every one of them. But there's a clearing now--
perhaps a plantation,--and the old shanty gone altogether."
Without finishing the reflection he kept onward, though slowly, and with
greater caution, increasing as he drew nearer to the open ground. He
appeared to approach it stealthily, step by step, as if stalking a herd
of deer.
He was soon on the edge of the opening, though still under cover of
thick woods.
A stream made the line of demarcation between them.
On its opposite side, about twenty yards from the bank, he saw a neat
farm-house, with a spacious porch in front, and surrounded by fields.
There were outbuildings at the back, with sheds and corn-cribs; while in
front a fenced enclosure, half garden half orchard, extended down to the
stream, which formed its bottom boundary.
Just opposite this enclosure the stranger had stopped, the moment he
caught sight of the house.
"As I anticipated;" he muttered to himself.
Changed--everything changed!--the cabin cleared away, and the trees.
Jerry Rook gone--perhaps dead. Some stranger in his place;--and she
gone too--grown up--and--and--
A choking sigh forbade the pronunciation of some word that struggled for
utterance--the expression of some painful thought, made manifest by the
dark shadow that swept across the countenance of the speaker.
"Oh! what an unfortunate fate. Fool that I was to go away and leave
her. Fool to have listened to the counsels of her wicked father. When
I learnt what he had done I should have come back, if not for love, for
revenge. It may not be too late for the last; but, for the first--O
God!--the girl I have loved for long years, to come back and find her--
perhaps in the arms of another--O God!"
For some moments the young man stood with clouded, lace, his strong
frame quivering under the shock of some painful emotion.
"Shall I cross over and make inquiry?" was the reflection that followed,
as he became calmer.
"The people can, no doubt, give me some information, whether he be dead,
and if she be still in the neighbourhood. No--no; I will not ask. I
dread the answer to be given me.
"But, why not? I may as well know now the worst, whatever it be. I
must learn it in time. Why not at once?
"There is no danger of my being recognised--even she would not know me,
and these people are, perhaps, strange to the settlement. The country
shows a change--clearings everywhere around, where I remember only
trees. I wonder who they are? Some of them should, soon come out by
that door. The day is inviting; I shall hold back awhile and see."
During all this time the young man had been standing among thick
underwood that screened his person from view.
He only changed position so that his face should be also invisible to
any one upon the other side of the creek, and thus stood with eyes fixed
intently upon the house.
He had not been many minutes in this attitude of expectation, when the
front door, which stood open, was filled by a form, the sight of which
sent the blood in a lava current through his veins, and caused his heart
to bound audibly in his breast.
The apparition that had produced this effect was a young girl--a lady
she might be called--in light summer dress, with a white kerchief thrown
loosely over her head, only partially concealing the thick coil of
shining hair held by the tortoiseshell comb underneath it.
Standing on the step of the door, with the dark background behind her,
she appeared like some fair portrait suddenly set in its frame.
Changed as she was since he had last seen her--a young girl in coarse,
copperas-dyed gown of homespun stuff, bareheaded, stockingless and
shoeless--he who stood among the trees might not so readily have
recognised her had he met her elsewhere; but there, upon that spot where
stood the old cabin, under whose roof he had lived and loved--loved
her--recognition came at the first glance. He knew that the fair vision
before him was Lena Rook, still living, still lovely as ever.