The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

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 éclaircissement?

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!”