The first impulse of the young man was to spring forth from his ambush,
leap over the creek, a mere rivulet, and rush into the presence of the
fair creature who had shown herself in the doorway.
He was restrained by a crowd of thoughts that came surging up at the
moment--doubts and memories--both painful. Her father might be still
alive and inside the house. The stranger had serious reasons for not
wishing to see _him_. Or he might be dead and she now under the control
of another!
The last thought was agonising, and he gazed intently upon the girl as
if searching for some sign that would release him from the torture of
suspense. Scarce twenty yards from where she stood, he could see the
sparkle of jewellery upon the fingers of her left hand. Did one of them
carry that thin circlet of gold to show she was lost to him for ever?
His glance, instinctively directed to her hand, now traced the contour
of her person, and once more mounted to her face. Form and features
were alike scrutinised--the colour of her cheeks--the expression in her
eyes--the air that pervaded all.
It was that of one still single, whose fresh virginal charms had not
given place to the staid demeanour produced by the solicitudes of wedded
life. It pleased him to fancy so.
And she, too, noted the melancholy air, and wondered at its meaning.
There was much besides to wonder at in the changes that had taken place.
How had Jerry Rook, a poor white, become a proprietor? He must be so
if the house were his. And if not, then back again comes the painful
thought that it, and she, too, might be the property of another.
What had he best do? Retire without showing himself, and seek
information elsewhere--some one living near who could tell him all? Or
he might learn what he wanted from the landlord of the tavern where he
had stopped. Should he return to it and stay till circumstances
favoured him with an _eclaircissement_?
Why not have it at once; and from her? Maid or married she would not be
likely to remember him. A skin changed from the soft smoothness of
boyhood's day--a complexion deeply bronzed--the downy cheek and lips now
roughly bearded--stature increased by at least six inches, and a dress
altogether different from that in which she had been accustomed to see
him.
"No; she will not recognise me," muttered the young man, as he completed
this self-examination. "I will go round by the gate, make some excuse
for a call; get into conversation with her; and then--"
He was about turning, to make the circuit unobserved, when he saw that
she had stepped out of the porch, and was coming towards the creek. It
was for this that the kerchief had been spread over her crown, as a
shade against the sun.
He could not safely retreat without having his ambush discovered. He
resolved to keep his place.
She came on down the walk, and turned in among the trees of the orchard.
Most of them were peach trees, laden with their luscious fruit, now
ripe and falling. The ground was strewed with these golden globes,
affording food to the honey-bee and hornet.
She was now out of his sight, or seen only at intervals, her white dress
gleaming through the leaves, as she moved through the orchard.
The young man was thinking how he might present himself without seeming
rude, when, all at once, a cry came from the lips of the young lady. It
was a short, sharp exclamation, apparently called forth by some
impending danger. It seemed a sufficient apology for intruding.
Accepting it as such, the stranger sprang across the creek, and rushed
direct to the orchard.
In a few seconds he stood confronting the girl, who had turned towards
the house.
"I heard you cry out," he said; "was there any danger. May I ask--"
But, before he had finished the interrogatory, he saw what had elicited
the exclamation.
A huge snake lay coiled under one of the trees!
It had been feasting on the fallen fruit, and, nearly trodden upon, had
thrown itself into the defensive attitude.
The "skirr" caused by the vibration of its tail told it to be a
rattle-snake.
Without inquiring further, the young man raised his rifle, and sent a
bullet through its head. Its coils flew out, and, after struggling a
few seconds on the grass the reptile lay dead.
"Thanks, sir," said the lady, as soon as she had recovered from her
surprise. "I came near setting my foot upon it, and, perhaps, would
have done so, if I'd not heard the rattle. You're a good shot, sir;
you've killed it outright!"
"I've had a deal of practice, _Miss_," he replied, laying a marked
emphasis on the last word.
His heart throbbed audibly, as he awaited the rejoinder. Would she
accept the title, or correct it?
He had already glanced at her left hand, holding a peach she had
plucked. There were rings; but among them he saw not the plain circlet
nor its keeper. Their absence inspired him with hope.
"One can easily see that," she rejoined. "Besides, I am not
unacquainted with the way of the woods. My father is a hunter, or was."
"You say _was_, _Miss_. Is your father still living?"
The question was asked with a double design. Would she still permit
herself to be called "Miss?" Was Jerry Rook the owner of the pretty
house that had supplanted his rude sheiling?
"My father living? Certainly, sir; but he does not go hunting any
more--or only at times. He has enough to keep him occupied about home--
clearing the ground and planting the crops."
"Is he at home now?"
"To-day, no. He has ridden over to Helena. I expect he will be back
soon. Do you wish to see him, sir. You have some business, perhaps?"
"No, no. I was merely wandering through the woods, squirrel shooting.
I had strayed to the other side of the creek, when I heard you cry."
"It was very kind of you to come to my assistance," said the young girl,
giving to the stranger a glance, in which she did not fail to note his
graceful bearing. Then, observing the dust upon his garments, she
added, "If I mistake not, you're a stranger to this part of the
country?"
"I once knew it well, especially around this place."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. If I remember right, there was a cabin here--upon the very spot
on which your house is now standing. It was inhabited by an old hunter
by the name of Rook--Jeremiah or Jerry Rook."
"That is my father's name."
"Then it must have been he. What a change! It was all standing timber
around--scarce an acre of clearing."
"That is true. It is only lately that my father bought the land, and
cleared it as you see. We are better off than we were then."
"Has your father any family besides yourself--a son, or _son-in-law_?"
"Not any, sir," replied the young girl, turning upon the questioner a
look of some surprise; "I am the only one--his only daughter. Why do
you ask?"
"I thought I remembered--or had heard--something--"
"Heard what, sir?" asked she, cutting short the stammering speech.
"Of a young man--a boy, rather--who lived in your father's cabin. Was
he not your brother?"
"I never had one. He you speak of was no relative to us."
"There was some one, then?"
"Yes. He is gone away--gone years ago."
The serious tone in which these words were spoken--something like a sigh
that accompanied them, with a shadow that made its appearance on the
countenance of the speaker--were signs pleasing to the interrogator.
His heart beat joyfully as he put upon them his own interpretation.
Before he could question her further, the young girl, as if stirred by a
sudden thought, looked inquiringly in his face.
"You say you knew this place well, sir? When did you leave it? Was it
a long time ago?"
"Not so long either; but, alas! long enough for you to have forgotten
me, Lena."
"_Pierre, it is you_!"