The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Reid Mayne
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 dégout 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 congé 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.
Chapter Three
The Lovers’ Rendezvous
Glance into the forest-glade! It is an opening in the woods – a clearing, not made by the labour of human hands, but a work of Nature herself: a spot of earth where the great timber grows not, but in its place shrubs and tender grass, plants and perfumed flowers.
About a mile distant from the cabin of Hickman Holt just such an opening is found – in superficial extent about equal to the squatter’s corn-patch. It lies in the midst of a forest of tall trees – among which are conspicuous the tulip-tree, the white magnolia, cotton-woods, and giant oaks. Those that immediately encircle it are of less stature: graduating inward to its edge, like the seats in an amphitheatre – as if the forest trees stooped downward to kiss the fair flowers that sparkle over the glade.
These lesser trees are of various species. They are the sassafras laurel, famed for its sanitary sap; the noble Carolina bay, with its aromatic leaves; the red mulberry: and the singular Osage orange-tree (Maclura aurantica), the “bow-wood” of the Indians. The pawpaw also is present, to attest the extreme richness of the soil; but the flowering plants, that flourish in profuse luxuriance over the glade, are sufficient evidence of its fertility. Why the trees grow not there, is one of Nature’s secrets, not yet revealed to man.
It is easier to say why a squatter’s cabin is not there. There