Back Aa

Wild Huntress

Close

<SPAN name="chap31"></SPAN> <h3>Chapter Thirty One.</h3> <h4>A virgin Heart in Cipher.</h4> <p>“Gone! and whither gone?” Half aloud, I soliloquised the interrogatory. There was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. The affair was altogether unexpected. Not anticipating that the squatter would leave his cabin before my return, I had made no inquiry either about his destination or future designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest clue as to whither he had gone. Nor should I have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance, but for the words of the Indian sibyl. Beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with Lilian—chagrin enough after such high-raised expectation—I should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. It would have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbour’s house—perhaps to that up the creek, where lived the “friend of Lilian’s father”—in all likelihood, the saint I had seen—or some other within a five-mile circuit. Or, if even ten miles distant, what would it matter to me? A ride of ten miles twice a day would be nothing—only an airing for my Arab. I should soon scent out the whereabouts of that sweet-smelling rose. Not all the forests in Tennessee could hide from me my fair blooming flower.</p> <p>Such <i>would have been</i> my reflections, no doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. But her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into a ruder channel—“You may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late.”</p> <p>Figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced within me a presentiment sufficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some temporary shelter under a neighbour’s roof, but a departure for a distant point. Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief—a conviction. Around me were circumstances corroborative of this view. The articles of furniture left behind, though rude, were still of a certain value—especially to a householder of Holt’s condition; and had the squatter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken them with him. Otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration.</p> <p>Perhaps he intended to return for them? If so—but no: there was no probability of his doing so. I need not have tried to comfort myself with the reflection. The innuendoes of the Indian had already negatived the hope. Still vaguely indulging in it, however, I cast a glance around the room in search of some object that might guide my conjectures to a more definite conclusion.</p> <p>While so employed, my eyes fell upon a piece of paper carelessly folded. It lay upon the rough table—the only object there, with the exception of some crumbs of corn-bread, and the <i>débris</i> of a tobacco-pipe. I <i>recognised</i> the piece of paper. It was an old acquaintance—the leaf from my memorandum-book—upon which was written that laconic “last will and testament,” jointly signed by the squatter and myself. On observing this paper upon the table, it did not occur to me, that it had been left there with any design. My reflection was, that the squatter had taken it from the stump, and carried it into the house—perhaps to shew it to his clerical visitor. No doubt, they had enjoyed a good laugh over it—as the souvenir of a ludicrous incident; and for this very reason I resolved upon preserving it.</p> <p>I had taken the document in my hand, and was about depositing it in my pocket-book, when my eye was attracted by some fresh writing on the paper. A slight scrutiny of the recent cipher secured for the torn leaf a deeper interest than I had before felt in it: I saw that it was the chirography of a female hand. What other than the hand of Lilian? I thought of no other. Beyond doubt, her fingers had guided the pencil—for it was pencil-writing—and guided it so deftly, as to impress me with surprise and admiration. Astonished was I, that she—the child of a rude squatter—should be able to set down her ideas in so fair a hand—thoughts thrilling, though simply expressed.</p> <p>Ah! sweet simple words! Trembled my own hand as I read them—trembled as from a spell of delirium—a delirium produced by the antagonistic emotions of grief and joy! Yes! both were present. In that simple inscript I had found cue for both: for there I learnt the ecstatic truth that I was beloved, and along with it the bitter intelligence, that my love was lost to me for ever! Words of welcome, and words of woe! how could they be thus commingled? Read them, and learn:</p> <p>“To Edward Warfield,—</p> <p>“Stranger!—It is to say farewell, but I am very sad as I write these words. When you asked me to promise to meet you again, I was happy, I said, Yes. O sir! it can never be! We are going to some far place, and shall be gone before you come here, and I shall never see you again. It is very distant, and I do not know the name of the country, for it is not in Tennessee, nor in the United States, but somewhere in the west, a long way beyond the Mississippi river and the great prairies; but it is a country where they dig gold out of the sand—perhaps you have heard of it, and might know it. I tried to know its name, but father is angry with me for speaking of you, and will not tell me; and our friend, that you saw, who is taking us with him, will not tell me either. But I shall find out soon, and if I thought you might like to know where we are gone, I would write to you. I am glad that mother taught me to write, though I do not compose very well; but if you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, from the first place we come to, to tell you the name of the country where we are going. I know your name, for it is upon this paper, and I hope you will not think I have done wrong, for I have written my own name beside it. O sir! I am very sad that I am not to see you any more, for I am afraid father will never come back. I could cry all night and all day, and I have cried a deal, but I am afraid of their seeing me, for both father and his friend have scolded me, and said a many things against you. I do not like to hear them say things against you; and for that reason I try not to let them know how very sorry I am that I am never to meet you any more. Brave stranger! you saved my life; but it is not that, I think, that makes me so unhappy now, but something else. You are so different from the others I have seen; and what you said to me was not like anything I ever heard before; your words sounded so sweet, and I could have listened to them for ever. I remember every one of them. And then I was so proud when you took the flower from me, and held it to your lips, for it made me think that you would be my friend. I have been very lonely since my sister Marian went away—she went with the man you saw. I hope to see her soon now, as she is somewhere out in the country where we are going to, but that will not make me happy, if I can never see you again.</p> <p>“O sir! forgive me for writing all that I have written; but I thought from what you said to me you would not be displeased with me for it, and that is why I have written it. But I must write no more, for my eyes are full of tears, and I cannot see the paper. I hope you will not burn it, but keep it, to remember—</p> <p>“Lilian Holt.”</p> <p>Yes, Lilian! to the last hour of my life! Close to my bosom shall it lie—that simple souvenir of your maiden love. Sacred page! Transcript of sweet truth—hallowed by the first offerings of a virgin heart! Over, and over, and over again, I read the cipher—to me more touching than the wildest tale of romance. Alas! it was not all joy. There was more than a moiety of sadness, constantly increasing its measure. In another moment, the sadness overcame the joy. I tottered towards the chair, and dropped into it—my spirit completely prostrated by the conflicting emotions.</p> <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />

1 of 2

2 of 2