The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

An old hunter no longer, clad in dirty buckskin, and dwelling in a hovel, but a respectable-looking citizen of the semi-planter type, habited in decent broadcloth, wearing clean linen, living in a neat farm-house, surrounded by fenced fields, and kept by black domestics.

The old scarred dog was no longer to be seen; but, in his place, some three or four hounds, lounging lazily about, and looking as if they had plenty to eat and nothing to do.

But, in the personnel of the establishment, there was, perhaps, no transformation more striking than that which had taken place in Jerry Rook’s daughter. There was no change in her beauty; that was still the same, only more womanly – more developed. But the sun-tanned, barefoot girl, in loose homespun frock, with unkempt hair sweeping over her shoulders, was now, six years after, scarce recognisable in the young lady in white muslin dress, fine thread stockings, and tresses plaited, perfumed, and kept from straying by the teeth of a tortoiseshell comb.

And this was Lena Rook, lovely as ever, and more than ever the theme of man’s admiration.

Despite all this, despite her father’s prosperity, and the comfort, almost luxury, surrounding her, few failed to remark an expression of melancholy constantly pervading her countenance, though none could tell its cause.

Some dread souvenir must have become fixed in the mind of that young girl – some dark cloud had descended over her heart, perhaps, to shadow it for ever!

Story 1-Chapter XIV.

Stealing upon a Shanty

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.

Story 1-Chapter XV.

Lena’s Recognition

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.