GUY RIVERS. VOL. I. CHAPTER I.

Who's he that o'er this desert country speeds
The sun fast sinking? He would seem a wight
All out of luck, and sadly venturous,
Standing some peril from the ruffian knife,
Or, at the best, a cold and roofless tent,
'Neath the bare sky.”

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In the upper part of the State of Georgia, extending
into the country of the Cherokee Indians—
a region, at this period, fruitful of dispute—lying
at nearly equal distances between the parallel
waters of the Chatahoochie river, and that branch
of it which bears the name of the Chestatee, from a
now almost forgotten but once formidable tribe—
will be found a long reach of comparatively barren
lands, interspersed with hills, which occasionally
aspire to a more elevated title, and garnished only
here and there with a dull, half-withered shrubbery,
relieved at intervals, though even then but imperfectly,
by small clumps of slender pines that fling
out their few and skeleton branches ruggedly and
abruptly against the sky. The entire face of the
scene, if not absolutely desolate, has, at least, a
dreary and melancholy expression, which can

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not fail to elicit, in the bosom of the most indifferent
spectator, a feeling of gravity and even gloom.
The sparse clusters of ragged woods, and thin
undergrowth of shrivelled herbage, gave token of
the generally steril character of that destiny,
which seemed to have taken up its abode immediately
within, while presiding over, the place.
All around, as far as the eye could reach, a continual
recurrence of the same objects and outline
arrested and fatigued the gaze; which finally sickened
of long levels of sand, broken with rude hills
of a dull species of rock, and a low shrubbery from
which all living things had taken their departure.
Though thus barren to the eye, this region was not,
however, utterly deficient in resources; and its possessions
were those of a description not a little
attractive to the great majority of mankind. It
was the immediate outpost—the very threshold of
the gold country, now so famous for the prolific
promise of the precious metal; far exceeding, in
the contemplation of the knowing, the lavish abundance
of Mexico and of Peru, in the days of their
palmiest and most prosperous condition. Nor,
though only the frontier and threshold as it were
to these swollen treasures, was the portion of country
now under our survey, though bleak, steril
and to the eye uninviting, wanting in attractions
of its own; it contained the signs and indications
which denoted the fertile regions, nor was it entirely
deficient in the precious mineral itself. Much gold
had been gathered already, with little labour, and
almost upon its surface; and it was perhaps only
because of the little knowledge then had of its
wealth, and of its close proximity to a more productive
territory, that it had been suffered to remain
unexamined and unexplored. Nature, thus,
we may remark, in a section of the world

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seemingly unblessed with her bounty, and all ungarnished
with her fruits and flowers, appeared desirous,
however, of redeeming it from the curse
of barrenness, by storing its bosom with a product,
which, only of use to the world in its conventional
necessities, has become, in accordance
with the self-creating wants of society, a necessity
itself; and however the bloom and beauty of her
summer decorations may refresh the eye of the
enthusiast, it would here seem, that, with an extended
policy, she had created another, and perhaps
a larger class, which, in the attainment of those
spoils which are of less obvious and easy acquisition,
would even set at nought those which have
at all times been the peculiar delight and felicity
of the former. Nothing is entirely barren in her
dominions; and, to some spirits, her very solitude
and sterility seem as inviting and grateful, as to
others may appear her rich landscapes and voluptuous
flowers.

It is towards the sunset of a fine afternoon in
the month of May, that we would make our reader
more particularly acquainted with the scene we
have endeavoured to place before him. A rich
summer sun—such as is the peculiar property of a
southern region—of sufficient power, even in the
moment of his decline, to convert into tributary
glories the clouds which gathered around him, threw
over all the scene his incomparable splendours, burnishing
the earth with hues more richly golden, if
not so valuable in the estimation of mankind, as the
wealth which lay concealed within its bosom. The
picturesque guise of the solitude, thus gloriously
invested, was beautiful beyond description. Its
charms became duly exaggerated to the mind,
when coupled with the consciousness that the hand

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of the mighty artist had been employed in the
adornment of a prospect of itself totally uninviting
and utterly unlovely. The solitary pine
that, here and there, touched by the sunbeams,
shone up like some burning spire—the undulating
hills, catching in different gradations of shade and
fulness, in a like manner, from the same inimitable
gilder of creation, a similar garment—the dim outlines
of the low and stunted shrubbery, sparingly
distributing its green foliage over the picture, mingled
here and there with a stray beam, dashed
hurriedly, as it were, from the palette of the same
artist—presented to the eye an outline perfectly
unique in itself, and singularly characteristic of
that warm sadness of sentiment (not to adopt too
much of an oriental phraseology) with which, alone,
it could have been properly contemplated.

At this point in our narration, a single traveller
might have been seen emerging from the confines
of the evening horizon, where the forest, such as it
was, terminated the prospect. He travelled on
horseback—the prevailing and preferable mode, in
that region, where bad roads and crazy vehicles
make every other not merely precarious but hazardous.
The animal he rode might have been
considered, even in the south, one of a choice
parentage. He was large, broad-chested, and high—
trod the earth with the firm pace of an elephant;
and, though exhibiting the utmost docility and obedience
to the rein, proceeding on his way with as
much ease and freedom as if he bore not the
slightest burden on his unconscious back. Indeed,
he carried but little weight, for a single and small
portmanteau contained the wardrobe of the rider.
Beyond this he had few incumbrances; and, to
those accustomed only to the modes of travel in a
more settled and civilized country—with bag and

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baggage—the traveller might have appeared—but
for a pair of moderately-sized twisted barrels, which
we see pocketed on the saddle,—rather as a gentleman
of leisure taking his morning ride, than one
already far from home and increasing at every
step the distance between it and himself. From
our privilege we make bold to mention, that, strictly
proportioned to their capacities, the last named
appurtenances carried each a charge, which might
have rendered awkward any interruption; and, it
may not be saying too much if we add, that it is
not improbable, to this portion of his equipage our
traveller was indebted for that security which had
heretofore obviated all necessity for their use.
They were essentials which might or might not, in
that wild region, have been put in requisition; and
the prudence of all experience, in that quarter, is
seldom found to neglect such companionship.

To proceed in our detail—the personage to whom
the reader has just been introduced, was, in appearance,
a mere youth. He had, perhaps, seen some
twenty summers or thereabouts—certainly, but few
more; his person was tall, manly, and symmetrical;
his face, not so round as full, presented a
perfect oval to the eye; his forehead was broad,
high, and intellectual—purely and perfectly white;
and shadowed partially by clustering, but not
thick ringlets of the deepest brown; his eyes
were dark and piercing, but small, and were overhung
by large, projecting, and bushy brows, which
gave a commanding, and at times, a fierce expression
to his countenance; his lips were small but
full—most exquisitely rounded, and of a ripe, rich
colour. He might have been considered a fine
specimen of masculine beauty, but for the smallness
of his eyes, which, though quick and speaking,
failed to sustain, with due proportion, the otherwise

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highly attractive outline of a countenance strongly
marked with mind and character. We have
dwelt thus long upon the person of our new acquaintance,
as it is more than probable he will have
much to perform, in the presence of the reader, during
the progress of our narrative. It may be well
to add, in order to the omission of nothing hereafter
important, that he rode with the ease and
grace common to the people of the southern
states, though with a seeming indolence—not so
much a peculiarity with the same class on horseback
as on foot—which indicated perhaps something
of his usual habit and temper. His habiliments
were strictly suited to the condition and
custom of the country—a variable climate—rough
roads—and, not unfrequently, villanous weather.
They consisted of a blue stuff, not so fine as strong,
well made, happily adjusted to the figure, yet
with sufficient freedom for all the purposes and requisitions
of travel. He was booted and spurred;
and his legs, from above the knee down to the ancle,
were closely wrapped in a thick and somewhat
fantastically-wrought pair of buckskin leggings, a
feature of dress which the early settlers have
borrowed from the Indian habit. A huge cloak,
strapped compactly over his saddle, completes the
outline; and thus caparisoned, with possibly a
fox-skin cap in place of the fashionable beaver, and a
pair of monstrous saddle-bags in lieu of the portmanteau,
the reader has, in most respects, a fair
sample of the traveller generally in the southern
and south-western forests, to whom all the contingencies
of wilderness and weather have been made
familiar by a rugged experience.

Our new acquaintance had, by this time,
emerged from the spot in which we first encountered
him, into one of those circuits of brown, barren,

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ridgy heath, which, interspersed as they are with
waste and forest, in not unequal divisions, may not
improperly be considered a prevailing outline of feature
in the poorer sections of our southern country.
Though broken here and there by an abrupt line
of crags, it was a monotonous and weary waste,
thinly scattered with foliage, and rather saddened
than relieved by the occasional skeleton of some
decayed tree, peeled by the storms of its bark and
verdure, hanging out its ragged and sapless branches
in the air, and giving an added melancholy to a
scene, in the absence of all other associations, sufficiently
so in itself. Here our traveller fell into a
narrow footpath, and being naturally of a musing
and dreamy spirit, pursued unconsciously, and
without seeming observation, the way which it
pointed out. His thoughts were seemingly in full
unison with the almost grave-like stillness and solemn
hush of every thing around him. His spirit
appeared to luxuriate in the mournful barrenness
and uninviting associations from which all but himself,
birds and beasts, and the very insects, seemed
utterly to have departed. The faint hum of a single
woodchuck, which from its confused motions,
appeared to have wandered into an unknown territory,
and by its uneasy action and frequent chirping,
seemed to indicate a perfect knowledge of the
fact, was the only object which at intervals broke
through the spell of silence which hung so heavily
upon the sense. The air of the traveller was that
of one who appeared unable, however desirous he
might be, to avoid the train of sad thought which
such a scene was so eminently calculated to inspire;
and, of consequence, who seemed disposed
for this object to call up some of those internal
resources of one's own mind and memory,
which so mysteriously bear us away from the

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present, whatever its powers, its pains, or its pleasures,
and carry us into a territory of the heart's
own selection. But whether the past, in his case,
was more to be dreaded than the present; or
whether, to the contemplative mind, there was
something in the immediate prospect around him
calculated to afford it a not ungrateful employment,
we may not determine; but the wayfarer,
after a while, appeared disposed to resign himself
wholly to the mood of mind so imperatively demanded
by the nature of the objects which encompassed
him. The bridle fell at length from his
hand upon the neck of his steed; and it was only
when the noble animal, aroused to consciousness
by the seeming stupor of his rider, suddenly and
absolutely came to a stand, that the youth grew
aware of the precise nature of his situation. The
space now began greatly to narrow around him,
and the trees to thicken. The horizon, as well from
the decline of the sun-light as from the increased
vigour of the forest, became more circumscribed.
The trees waved over him more frequently and
freely; and, at length converging to a centre,
brought him within the shadow and shelter of a
thickly umbrageous wood. Here the path, which
he had taken unwittingly at first, and still continued
to pursue, failed him entirely, and was now no longer
discernible; and for the first time, after fruitlessly
seeking for an outlet, our traveller grew apprehensive
that his meditations of the last half hour
had tended in no very great degree, to enlighten
him on the subject of the route he was pursuing.
In sober earnest, he found out that he had mistaken
his route, whatever that might have been; and was
now compelled to hold a council of war with the
good steed he rode, and which appeared just as
well as his master to comprehend their mutual

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predicament. Silently dismounting, therefore, and
leading his horse after him, he put himself at some
trouble to trace, if possible, some human pathway
other than that by which he had been deceived.
In spite of the somewhat reckless air which his
looks wore on this occasion, a close observer might
have beheld in his eye a still, but anxious, expression.
His unconscious wanderings and vacant
glances indicated correctly the doubting and dissatisfied
spirit, lurking under, and poorly concealed
by the careless gesture and rather philosophic
swing of his graceful and manly person, as plying
his way through this or that clump of trees and
bushes, he sought to discover the track which
he had lost, and which now nowhere met his eye.
Though bold of heart, and well aware of the mode
of procedure in such cases, our traveller was in
no mood for a lodge through the night in that “vast
contiguity of shade.” He could have borne the
necessity as well as any other man; but he had no
love for a “grassy couch,” and a “leafy bower,”
and all those rural felicities about which the poets,
who know least, prate most; and persevering in
the search, while a prospect of success remained,
he went on, till utterly fatigued and hopeless, he
remounted his steed, and throwing the bridle upon
his neck, with something of the indifference of despair,
he plied his spurs, suffering the animal to
adopt his own course, which we shall see was
nevertheless interrupted by the appearance of another
party upon the scene, whose introduction
we reserve for another chapter.

CHAPTER II.

“Your purse is something heavy—quite too much
For a fair youth to carry—we'll relieve you!
Are you ungrateful? Would you then deny us?”

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Thus left to himself, the good steed of our traveller
set off, without hesitation, and with a free
step, that promised, at least, to overcome space
hurriedly, if it attained not the desired destination.
The rider did not suffer any of his own doubts to
mar a progress so confidently begun, and a few
minutes carried the twain, horse and man, deeply,
as it were, into the very bowels of the forest. The
path taken by the steed grew every moment more
and more intricate and difficult of access, and, but
for the interruption already referred to, it is not
impossible that a continued course in the same direction
would, in a little time, have brought them
to a full stop, from the sheer impregnability of the
wood. The close overhanging branches called
for continual watchfulness on the part of the rider,
and the broken road, the fallen trees, and frequent
brush interposed so many impediments to the free
passage of the steed, that his course, at the outset,
rather more rapid than comported with the fatigue
of the long day's journey, now sank into a measured
walk, from which, on a sudden, and without
any cause apparent to his rider, he started with
evident alarm; his ears were quickened and erect,
his eye was fixed with almost human intelligence
upon the close copse that stretched itself in front,
and his pace grew more than ever staid and

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deliberate. Our traveller was not unmindful of this
behaviour on the part of his good steed. He well
knew the capacity for observation, and the power
of scenting objects at a distance, possessed by the
brute creation over man, and his own senses were
accordingly and acutely enlisted in the scrutiny
thus begun. The section of the world in which
he journeyed was too sparingly supplied with good
citizens to render unquestionable all those who
might be met in the wild woods; and preparing
himself, as he well might, for any encounter and
every chance, the youth took the reins once more
in hand, and boldly, but slowly, spurred his steed
on the path. Still nothing was apparent—he heard
no stir in the brushwood, and had there been a
movement, the withered bush and broken branch
would have furnished some attestation. Half
doubting the correctness of his alarm, he spoke to
the animal—who still exhibited signs of uneasiness—
while patting his neck familiarly,

“Quietly, old Blucher, quietly.”

But Blucher, though with a tread of marked delay
and caution, exhibited no disposition to be quiet
in the genuine sense of the word. His manner
still showed alarm and restiveness; and just at the
moment when his rider began to feel some impatience
at the dogged watchfulness which he exhibtied,
a shrill whistle which rung through the
forest from the copse in front of him, attested
fully the correctness of that sense in the animal
which had so far outstripped and excelled
his own. He was not left much longer in doubt
as to the cause of the interruption. As the
horse in his advance went onward into the narrow
pathway, now more than ever girdled with
thicket, and having a broken ascent upon a hill, the
cone of which was of some considerable elevation,

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he veered partly round, and, so abruptly, as for an
instant to discompose the seat of our traveller,
which in ordinary circumstances would scarcely
have been the case. The occasion for this alarm was
soon understood, as, suddenly emerging from the
wood, a man who seemed to have been in waiting
abruptly stood before him, and directly on the path
he was pursuing. Our traveller, as we have already
seen, was not altogether unprepared for hostility.
In addition to his pistols, which were well
charged and conveniently at hand, we may now
add that a weapon, in some cases far more certain,
lay concealed in his bosom. The appearance of
the stranger was not, however, so decided a manifestation
of hostility as to permit of his acting with
any haste by the premature use of his defences;
and with a degree of coolness somewhat singular
perhaps in one so young, he simply observed—

“You alarm my horse, my good sir. Please you
to stand from the way.”

“Would you pass free of toll, young stranger,
that you tell me stand from the way?” was the
reply, and with a manner of marked insolence,
which in a moment called the blood hurriedly into
the cheek of the youth, while his teeth were suddenly
clenched together, as he gazed sternly upon
the intruder who thus addressed him in a style so
unfamiliar to his ears. The man appeared nothing
daunted, however, and met the glance of the
traveller with a corresponding haughtiness. He
wore an air of the most composed indifference,
not to say contempt, and resolutely maintained the
position in which he had first placed himself. Still
it did not seem, from appearances, that his designs
were altogether hostile. He wore no arms—none
at least which met the sight. His person was
small, and his limbs slight, yet affording no promise

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of much activity; his face was not ill-favoured,
though a quick, piercing black eye shot forth glances
of a malignant description, which spoke the spirit
within more distinctly than even his outward
manner. His nose was long but not sharp, and
totally fleshless; the skin being drawn with much
tenacity so closely to the bones of the member, as
to occasion some apprehension of their finding their
way at length through the much tried restraints
upon them; his beard had been untrimmed apparently
for many days, and a huge pair of whiskers,
that did not well accord with the diminutive
size of the cheeks on which they had taken up their
resting-place, completed an outline, not calculated
in anywise to inspire in the spectator any large
share of either good feeling or respect, and yet not
exactly provoking a very strong sensation of doubt
or dislike. Our traveller felt at once the difficulty
of deciding upon his pretensions. The untrimmed
beard and ill-adjusted whiskers were not so unfrequent
in the wild woods as to occasion much
suspicion of those who might so wear them; and
although the manners of the intruder were rude
enough, he was not assured that such manners
were not in numberless cases characteristic of persons
who evidently meant well. Thus doubting
and deliberating, the youth determined, while
maintaining a due degree of circumspection, to see
farther into the designs of his new acquaintance,
before taking any decisive step himself. He now
proceeded to reply to the speech, the manner
rather than the matter of which, had been so offensive
to him.

“You ask toll of me—may I know for what I
must pay this toll, and who are you that require
it?”

“I can better ask than answer questions, young

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sir—my education, in the latter respect, having
been most wofully neglected in my boyhood.”

“Ay, and in some other respects not less important,”
retorted the youth, “if I am to judge from
certain points in your bearing. But you mistake
your man, my very good sir. You shall play no
pranks with me, and unless you speak respectfully,
our parley must have as short a life, as, I take
it, our acquaintance will have.”

“It would scarcely be polite to contradict so
promising a gentleman as yourself,” was the response;
“but I am disposed to believe our intimacy
likely to lengthen, rather than diminish. I hate
to part over-soon with company that talks so well,
particularly in these woods, where, unless such a
chance come about as the present, the lungs of the
heartiest youth in the land would not be often apt
to find the echo they seek, though they cried for it
at the uttermost pitch of the pipe.”

The look and the language of the speaker were
alike significant, and the sinister meaning of the
last sentence did not escape the notice of our hero.
His reply was calm, however, and his mind perfectly
at ease and collected.

“You are pleased to be eloquent, worthy sir—
and, on any other occasion, I might not be unwilling
to bestow my ear upon you; but as I have
yet to find my way out of this labyrinth, for the
use of which your facetiousness would have me pay
a tax, I must forego that satisfaction, and leave the
enjoyment for some better day.”

“You are well bred, I see, young sir,” was the
reply, “and this forms an additional reason why I
should not desire so soon to break our acquaintance.
If you have mistaken your road, what do you on
this—why are you in this part of the country,

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which is many miles removed from any public
thoroughfare?”

“By what right do you ask this question?” was
the hurried and unhesitating response of the person
so addressed. “You are impertinent!”

“Softly, softly, young sir. Be not rash, and let
me recommend that you be more choice in the
adoption of your epithets. Impertinent is an ugly
word between gentlemen of our habit. Touching
my right to ask this or that question of young men
who lose the way, that's neither here nor there, and
is important in no way. But, I take it, I shall have
some right in this matter, seeing, young sir, that
you are upon the turnpike, and I am the gatekeeper
who must take the toll.”

A sarcastic smile passed over the lips of the man
as he uttered the sentence, which was as suddenly
succeeded, however, by an expression of gravity,
partaking of an air of the profoundest business.
The traveller surveyed him for a moment before
he replied, as if to ascertain in what point of view
properly to understand his conduct.

“Turnpike! this is something new. I never
heard of a turnpike road and a gate for toll, in a
part of the world in which men, or honest ones at
least, are not yet commonly to be found; and you
think rather too lightly, my good sir, of my claim
to that most vulgar commodity called common
sense, if you suppose me capable of swallowing
this silly story.”

“Oh, doubtless—you are a very sagacious young
man, I make no question,” said the other, with a
sneer—“but you will have to pay the turnpike for
all that.”

“You speak confidently on this point; but, if I
am to pay this turnpike, at least, I may be permitted
to know who is its proprietor.”

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“To be sure you may. I am always well pleased
to satisfy the doubts and curiosity of young travellers
who go abroad for information. I take you
to be one of this class.”

“Confine yourself, if you please, to the matter
in hand, sir—I grow weary of this chat,” said the
youth, with a haughty inclination, that seemed to
have its effect even upon him with whom he
spoke.

“Your question is quickly answered. You
cannot but have heard of the Pony Club—have
you not?”

“I must confess my utter ignorance of such an
institution. I have never heard even the name
before.”

“You have not—then really it is high time to
begin the work of enlightenment. You must know,
then, that the Pony Club is the proprietor of every
thing and every body, throughout the nation, and in
and about this section. It is the king, without let or
limitation of powers, for sixty miles around. Scarce
a man in Georgia but pays in some sort to its support—
and judge and jury alike contribute to its
treasuries. Few dispute its authority, as you will
have reason to discover, without suffering condign
and certain punishment; and, unlike the tributaries
and agents of other powers, its servitors, like myself,
invested with jurisdiction over certain parts
and interests, sleep not in the performance of our
duties; but, day and night, obey its dictates, and
perform the various, always laborious, and sometimes
dangerous functions which it imposes upon
us. It finds us in men, in money, in horses. It
assesses the Cherokees, and they yield a tithe, and
sometimes a greater proportion, of their ponies in
obedience to its requisitions. Hence indeed the
name of the club. It relieves young travellers,

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like yourself, of their small change—their sixpences;
and when they happen to have a good
patent lever, such an one as, it appears to me, a
smart young gentleman like yourself is very apt
to carry about with him, it is not scrupulous, but
helps them of that too, merely by way of pas-time.”
And the ruffian chuckled in a half-covert manner
at his own pun.

“Truly, a well-conceived sort of sovereignty,
and doubtless, sufficiently well served, if I may
infer from the representative before me. You
must do a large business in this way, most worthy
sir.”

“Why, that we do, and your remark reminds
me that I have quite as little time to lose as yourself.
You now understand, young sir, the toll you
have to pay, and the proprietor who claims it.”

“Perfectly—perfectly. You will not suppose
me dull again, most candid keeper of the Pony
Turnpike. But have you made up your mind, in
earnest, to relieve me of such trifling incumbrances
as those you have just mentioned.”

“I should be strangely neglectful of the duties
of my station, not to speak of the discourtesy of
such a neglect to yourself, were I to do otherwise;
always supposing that you were burdened with
such incumbrances. I put it to yourself, whether
such would not be the effect of my omission.”

“It most certainly would, thou most frank and
candid of all the outlaws. Your punctiliousness
on this point of honour entitles you, in my mind,
to an elevation above and beyond all others of your
profession. I admire the grace of your manner,
in the commission of acts which the more tame
and temperate of our kind are apt to look upon as
irregular and unlovely. You, I see, have the true
notion of the thing.”

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The ruffian looked with some doubt upon the
youth—inquiringly, as if to account in some way
for the singular coolness, not to say sarcastic bitterness
of his replies and manner. There was something,
too, of a searching malignity in his glance,
that seemed to recognise in his survey, features
which brought into activity a personal emotion in
his own bosom, not at variance, indeed, with the
craft he was pursuing, but fully above and utterly
beyond it. Dismissing, however, the expression, he
continued in the manner and tone so tacitly
adopted between them,

“I am heartily glad, most travelled young gentleman,
that your opinion so completely coincides
with my own, since it assures me I shall not be
compelled, as is sometimes the case in the performance
of my duties, to offer any rudeness to one
seemingly so well taught as yourself. Knowing
the relationship between us so fully, you can have
no reasonable objection to conform quietly to all my
requisitions, and yield the toll-keeper his dues.”

Our traveller had been long aware of the kind of
relationship between himself and his companion;
but, relying on his defences, and perhaps, somewhat
too much on his own personal capacities of
defence; and, possibly, something curious to see
how far the love of speech in his assailant might
carry him in a dialogue of so artificial a character,
he forbore as yet a resort to violence. He found
it excessively difficult, however, to account for the
strange nature of the transaction so far as it had
gone; and the language of the knight of the road
seemed so inconsistent with his pursuit, that, at intervals,
he was almost led to doubt whether the
whole was not the clever jest of some country
sportsman, who, in the form of a levier of contributions
upon the traveller, would make an

[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]

acquaintance, such as are frequent in the south, and terminating
usually in a ride to a neighbouring plantation,
and pleasant accommodations as long as the stranger
might think proper to avail himself of them. If,
on the other hand, he was in reality the ruffian he
represented himself, he knew not how to account for
his delay in the assault—a delay, to the youth's mind,
without an object—unless attributable to a temper
of mind like Robin Hood, and coupled in the person
before him as in that of the renowned king of the
outlaws, with a peculiar freedom and generosity of
habit, and a gallantry and adroitness which, in a
different field, had made him a knight worthy to
follow and fight for Baldwin and the Holy Cross.
Our hero was a romanticist, and all of these notions
came severally into his thoughts. Whatever might
have been the motives of conduct in the robber who
thus audaciously announced himself the member of
a club notorious on the frontiers of Georgia and
among the Cherokees for its daring outlawries,
our hero determined to keep up the game so long
as it continued such. After a brief pause, he replied
to the above politely-expressed demand in
the following language:

“Your request, most unequivocal sir, would
seem but reasonable; and so considering it at the
outset, I bestowed due reflection upon it. Unhappily,
however, for the Pony Club and its worthy
representative, I am quite too poorly provided with
worldly wealth at this moment to part with much
of it. A few shillings to procure you a cravat—
such a one as you may get of Kentucky manufacture—
I should not object to. Beyond this, however
(and the difficulty grieves me sorely), I am
so perfectly incapacitated from doing any thing,
that I am almost persuaded, in order to the bettering
of my condition, to pay the customary fees, and

[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]

applying to your honourable body for the privilege
of membership, procure those resources of a lavish
generosity which my necessity, and not my will,
prevents me from bestowing upon you.”

“A very pretty idea, young master,” returned
he of the road; “and under such circumstances,
your jest about the cravat from Kentucky is by
no means wanting in proper application. But the
fact is, our numbers are just now complete—our
ranks are full—and the candidates for the honour
are so numerous as to leave little chance for an
applicant. You might be compelled to wait for a
long season, unless the Georgia Penitentiary
and Georgia Guard, which, by-the-way, are not
slow at such things, in order to the due promotion
of your wishes, shall create a vacancy in your
behalf.”

“Truly, the matter is of very serious regret,”
with an air of much solemnity, replied the youth,
who seemed admirably to have caught up the spirit
of the dialogue,—“and it grieves me the more to
know, that, under this view of the case, I can no
more satisfy you than I can serve myself. It is
quite unlucky that your influence is insufficient to
procure me admission into your fraternity; since
it is impossible that I should pay the turnpike, when
the club itself, by refusing me membership, will not
permit me to acquire the means of doing so. So,
most worthy sir, as the woods grow momently
more dull and dark, and as I may have to ride far
for a supper, I am constrained, however unwilling
to leave good company, to bid you a fair evening,
and a long swing of fortune, most worthy knight
of the highway, and trusty representative of the
Pony Club.”

With these words, the youth, gathering up the
bridle of the horse, and slightly touching him with

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

the rowel, would have proceeded on his course, but
the position of the outlaw underwent a corresponding
change, and, grasping the rein of the animal,
he arrested his farther progress.

“I am less willing to separate than yourself from
good company, gentle youth, as you may perceive;
since I so carefully restrain you from a ride over a
road so perilous as this. You have spoken like a
fair and able scholar this afternoon; and talents,
such as you possess, come too seldom into our
forests to suffer them, after so brief a sample, to
leave us so abruptly. You must come to terms
with the turnpike.”

“Take your hands from my horse, sirrah!” was
the only response made by the youth; his tone and
manner changing with the corresponding change
in the situation of the parties. “I would not do
you a harm willingly; for I want no man's blood
on my head, however well he may deserve his fate.
My pistols too, let me assure you, are much more
readily come at than my purse. Tempt me not to
the use of them; but stand from the way.”

“It may not be,” replied the robber, with a composure
and coolness that underwent no change;
“your threats affect me not. I have not taken my
place here without a perfect knowledge of all its
dangers and consequences. You had better come
peaceably to terms; for, were it even the case that
you could escape me, which is very unlikely, you
have only to cast your eye up the path before you,
to be assured of the utter impossibility of escaping
those who aid me. The same glance will also
show you the toll-gate, which you could not see
before. Look ahead, young sir, and be wise in
time; and let me perform my duties without
hinderance.”

Casting a furtive glance on the point indicated

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

by the ruffian, the youth saw, for the first time, a
succession of bars, in the form, and of the material,
usually employed among the farmers for fencing
purposes, completely crossing the narrow pathway
and precluding all passage. Approaching in the
direction of the place of strife, the same glance
assured him of the presence of two men, well
armed, and hurrying towards the scene with an air
of preparation that convinced him they were the
accomplices of the robber who had pointed to them
as such. The prospect grew more and more perilous,
and the youth, whose mind was one of that
make which avails itself of its energies seemingly
only in emergencies, with a moment's reflection,
beheld his true course, and hesitated not a single
moment in its adoption. He saw that something
more was necessary than to rid himself merely of
the ruffian immediately before him, and that an unsuccessful
blow or shot would leave him entirely
at the mercy of the gang. To escape, a free rein
must be given to the steed, on which he felt confident
he could rely; and, though prompted by the
most natural impulse to send a bullet through the
scull of his assailant, he wisely determined on a
course which, as it would be unlooked for, had
therefore a better prospect of success. Without
further pause, drawing suddenly from his bosom
the dirk-knife commonly worn in those regions,
and bending forward, he aimed a blow at the
ruffian, which, as he had anticipated, was expertly
eluded—the assailant, sinking under the
neck of the steed, and relying on the strength
of the rein he still continued to hold to keep
him from falling, while at the same time he
kept the check upon the horse. This movement
was that which the youth had looked for and desired.
The blow was but a feint, for suddenly

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

turning the direction of the knife when his enemy
was out of its reach, he cut the bridle upon which
he hung, and the head of the horse, freed from the
painful restraint, was at once elevated in the air,
the suddenness of his motion whirling the ruffian
to the ground; while the rider, wreathing his hands
in the mane of the noble animal, gave him a free
spur, and plunged at once over the struggling
wretch, in whose cheek a glance of his hoof
effected a deep gash. The steed bounded forward
a few paces, nor did his rider for a moment seek
to restrain him, though advancing full up the hill
and in the teeth of his new enemies. Satisfied
that he was approaching their station, the accomplices
of the foiled ruffian, who had seen the whole
affray, sunk into the covert; but what was their
mortification to perceive the traveller, though without
any true command over his steed, by an adroit
use of the broken bridle, so wheel him round as to
bring him, in a few leaps, over the very ground of
the strife, and before the staggering robber had yet
fully arisen from the path. By this manœ\uvre he
placed himself in advance of the now approaching
banditti. Driving his spurs resolutely and
unsparingly into the flanks of his horse, while encouraging
him with well known words of cheer,
he rushed over the scene of his late struggle with
a velocity that set all restraint at defiance—his
late opponent scarcely being able to put himself in
safety. A couple of shots, that whistled wide of the
mark, announced his extrication so far from his
difficulty—but, to his surprise, his enemies had been
at work behind him, and the edge of the copse
through which he was about to pass, was blockaded
with bars in like manner with the path
in front. He heard the shouts of the ruffians
in the rear—he felt the danger, if not

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

impracticability of his pausing for their removal; and,
in the spirit which had heretofore marked his conduct,
he determined upon the most daring endeavour.
Throwing off all restraint from his steed,
and fixing himself firmly in the stirrup and saddle,
he plunged onwards to the leap, and to the chagrin
of the pursuers, who had relied much upon
the obstruction, and who now appeared in sight,
the noble animal, without a moment's reluctance,
cleared it handsomely. Another volley of pistol
shot rung in the ears of the youth, as he passed
the impediment, and he felt himself wounded in the
side. The wound gave him little concern at the
moment, for under the excitement of the strife, he
felt not even its smart; and turning himself upon
the saddle, he drew one of his own trusty weapons
from its case, and discharging it, by way of taunt,
in the faces of the outlaws, laughed aloud with
the exulting spirit of youth at the successful result
of an adventure, due entirely to his own perfect
coolness, and the warm courage which had been his
predominating feature from childhood. The incident
just narrated had dispersed a crowd of gloomy
reflections, so that the darkness which now overspread
the scene, coupled as it was with the cheerlessness
of prospect before him, had but little influence
upon his spirits. Still, ignorant of his course,
and beginning to be enfeebled by the loss of blood,
he moderated the speed of the noble animal whose
sagacity, not less than prowess, had done so much
towards his master's extrication, and gave up to
him the choice of direction. He did not, however,
relax so greatly in his progress as to permit of
his being overtaken by the desperates whom
he had foiled. He knew the danger and hopelessness
of a second encounter with men sufficiently
odious, in common report, to make him

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

doubly cautious, after the adventure so nearly
fatal. Exiled from society, after having acquired
a large taste for many of its enjoyments, they
found in the frontier impunity for those crimes
and offences, for the punishment of which it had
imposed ineffectual and defrauded penalties; and
conscious of no responsibility to divine or human
laws, a vindictive exacerbation of spirit, the result
of their tacit outlawry, had prompted them to retort
upon men the stern severities of justice.
Without restraining his good steed, therefore, our
young traveller simply gauged his speed to his capacities,
as he entered upon a road which, in the dim
twilight, had something of the appearance of that
from which he had in the first instance so erringly
departed. He had not much time, however, for
observation, when a numbness seized upon his
frame, a strange sickness came over his heart, and
his grasp losing all further tenacity, he fell from his
horse without an effort upon the long grass, in
utter unconsciousness.

CHAPTER III.

“And thus they grew apace, and thus they loved—
How should they else, with every thought alike,
And each emotion? springing, too, at once,
As at a birth, their two hearts knit in one
And grew together; so, from parted stems,
Two trees will link in air their kindred arms,
And have but one life thence for evermore.”

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

Not to go back too greatly in our narrative, let
us change our ground; and leaving our youthful
traveller upon the greensward, as the night gathers
over him, let us endeavour to make the reader
somewhat better acquainted with the history upon
which we have commenced, and of the motive of
that adventurous journey which we have beheld
thus rudely interrupted.

Ralph Colleton, the youth already described, was
the only son of a Carolinian of the same name,
originally of fine fortune, but who, from circumstances,
had been compelled to fly from the place
of his nativity; an adventurer, struggling with a
proud mind and a thousand difficulties, in the less
known but more productive regions of Tennessee.
Born to wealth, seemingly adequate to all reasonable
desires, a fine plantation, numerous slaves, and
the host of friends who necessarily come with
such a condition, his individual improvidence,
thoughtless extravagance, and lavish mode of life—
a habit not uncommon in the South,—had rendered
it necessary, at the age of fifty, when the mind, not
less than the body, requires repose rather than

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

adventure, that he should emigrate from the place of
his birth; and with resources diminished to an existence
almost nominal, break ground once more in
unknown forests, and commence the toils and
troubles of life anew. With an only son (the
youth before us) then a mere boy, and no other
family, Colonel Ralph Colleton did not hesitate at
such an exile. He had found out the worthlessness
of men's professions at a period not very remote from
the general knowledge of his loss of fortune: and
having no other connexion claiming from him either
countenance or support, and but a single relative
from whom separation might be painful, he felt,
comparatively speaking, but few of the privations
usually following such a removal. An elder brother,
like himself a widower, with a single child, a
daughter, formed the whole of his kindred left behind
him in Carolina; and, as between the two
brothers there existed, at all times, some leading
dissimilar points of disposition and character, an
occasional correspondence, due rather to form than
to affection, served all necessary purposes in keeping
up the sentiment of kindred in their bosoms.
There were but few real affinities which could
bring them together. They never could altogether
understand, and certainly had but a limited desire
to appreciate or to approve many of the several
and distinct habits of one another, and thus they
separated with but few sentiments of genuine concern.
William Colleton, the elder brother, was
the proprietor of several thousand highly valuable
and pleasantly situated acres, upon the waters of
the Santee—a river which irrigates a region in the
state of South Carolina, notorious for its wealth,
lofty pride, polished manners, and noble and considerate
hospitality. Affluent equally with his
younger brother by descent, marriage had still

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

further contributed towards the growth of possessions,
which a prudent management had always kept
entire and always improving. Such was the condition
of William Colleton, the uncle of the young
Ralph, then a mere child, when he was taken by
his father into Tennessee.

There the fortune of the adventurer still maintained
its ancient aspect. He had bought lands,
and engaged in trade, and made sundry efforts in
various and honourable ways, but without success.
Vocation after vocation had a common and certain
termination, and after many years of profitless experiment,
the ways of prosperity were as far remote
from his knowledge and as perplexing to his pursuit,
as at the first hour of his adventure. In worldly concerns
he stood just where he started fifteen years
before, with this difference for the worse, however,
that he had grown older in this scope of time, less
equal to the tasks of adventure, and with the moral
energies checked as they had been by continual
disappointments, recoiling in despondency and
gloom with trying emphasis upon a spirit otherwise
noble and sufficiently daring for every legitimate
and not unwonted species of trial and occasion.
Still he had learned little, beyond hauteur and
querulousness, from the lessons of experience.
Economy was not more the inmate of his dwelling
than when he was blessed with the large income
of his birthright; but, extravagantly generous as
ever, his house was the abiding-place of a most
lavish and unwise hospitality.

His brother, William Colleton, on the other hand,
with means hourly increasing, exhibited a disposition
narrowing at times into a selfishness the
most pitiful. He did not, it is true, forego or forget
any of those habits of freedom and intercourse in
his household and with those about him, which

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

forms so large a peculiarity among the people of
the south. He could give a dinner, and furnish an
ostentatious entertainment—lodge his guest in the
style of a prince for weeks together, nor exhibit a
feature likely to induce a thought of intrusion in
the mind of his inmate. In public, the populace
had no complaints to urge of his penuriousness;
and in all outward shows he manifested the same
general features which marked the habit of the
class to which he belonged. But his selfishness
lay in things not so much on the surface. It was
more deep and abiding in its character; and consisted
in the false estimate which he made of the
things around him. He had learned to value wealth
as a substitute for mind, for morals—for all that is
lofty, and all that should be leading, in the consideration
of society. He valued few things beside. He
had different emotions for the rich from those which
he entertained for the poor; and from perceiving
that among men, money could usurp all places—
could defeat virtue, command respect denied to
morality and truth, and secure a real worship,
when the deity must be content with shows and
symbols—he gradually gave it the place in his regard,
which petrified the genuine feeling. He
valued it not for itself, and not with any disposition
simply to procure and to increase the quantities in
his possession. He was by no means a miser or a
mercenary, and his regards were given to it as the
visible embodiment of power little less than divine.
He was, in short, that worst of all possible pretenders,
the exclusive, the aristocrat, on the score of
his property.

In one respect, however,—and this had somewhat
created or revived the sympathies of boyhood between
them—the fortunes of the two brothers had
been by no means dissimilar. After a pleasant

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

union of a few years, they had lost their respective
wives; a single child preserving for each
a miniature and beloved likeness of the parents
whom, though representing, they had never known.
A son, to the younger brother, had concentrated the
affections of that exile, whose chief sorrows on
the subject of his declining fortunes and fruitless
endeavours, grew entirely out of those thoughts
about the future which every look upon his boy was
calculated to provoke; while, to William Colleton,
the elder, the young and beautiful Edith, a few
months older than her cousin Ralph, repaired
greatly the absence of her mother, and neutralized
in part, if in some respects she did not subdue,
some few of the less favourable features in the character
of the father.

Separated by several hundred miles of uncultivated
and seldom travelled forest, the brothers did
not frequently see one another; but they corresponded,
and when Ralph was fifteen, a sudden
humour of amiability on the part of his uncle,
with a reluctant consent wrung with great difficulty
from his father, transferred the youth, with
the view to his education, to the control and
direction of his uncle. The two cousins met in
Georgia for the first time, and after a brief journey
together in the more populous parts of that large,
though at that period, sparsely settled state, Ralph
was despatched to College.

The separation of the son from the father, however
beneficial to the former in some respects, was
fatal to the latter. The privation added to his sufferings,
and his defeats of fortune received additional
influence and exaggerated sting from the
solitude following his departure. He had anticipated
this result; and it was only when his brother,
with a more earnest appeal to his fraternal regard

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

than he had been capable for many long years of
making, urged him not to defeat by a weak selfishness
the parental plan which he had formed for the
benefit of the youth, that he consented to the sacrifice.
The charge of selfishness brought about his resolve,
and his noble heart determined to suffer in silence
for the good of his son. He no longer withheld his
consent, and attending the youth to Georgia where
his brother had engaged to meet him, he delivered
him to his uncle, and after some days' pause, he
parted with, never again to behold, him. A few
months only had elapsed, when the intelligence of
his death was received by the orphan and highlysensitive
boy. He died, like many similar spirits,
of no known disorder.

From fifteen to nineteen is no very long leap in
the history of youth. We will make it now, and
place the young Ralph—now something older, returned
from college, finely formed, intellectual,
handsome, vivacious, manly, spirited, and susceptible,
as such a person should be—once again in
close intimacy with his beautiful cousin. The season
which had done so much for him, had been no
less liberal with her; and we now survey her, the
expanding flower, all bloom and fragrance, a tribute
of the waning spring, in the bosom of the more
forward summer.

Ralph came from college to his uncle's domicile,
now his only home. The circumstances of his
father's fate and fortune, continually acting upon
his mind and sensibilities from boyhood, had made
his character a marked and singular one,—proud,
jealous, and sensitive to an extreme which was painful
not merely to himself, but at times to others.
But he was noble, lofty, sincere, without a touch of
meanness in his composition, above circumlocution,
with a simplicity of character strikingly

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

great, but without any thing like puerility or weakness.

The children,—for such, in reference to their experience,
we may almost call them—had learned to recognise
in the progress of a few seasons but a single
existence. Ralph looked only for Edith, and cared
nothing for other sunlight; while Edith, with scarcely
less reserve than her bolder companion, had speech
and thought for few besides Ralph. Circumstances
contributed not a little to what would appear the
natural growth of this mutual dependance. They
were perpetually left together, and without many of
those tacit and readily understood restraints, unavoidably
accompanying the presence of others
older than themselves. Residing, save at few brief
intervals, at the plantation of Col. Colleton, they
saw little and knew less of society; and the worthy
colonel, not less ambitious than proud, having
become a politician, had still further added to those
opportunities of intimacy which had now become
so important to them both. Half of his time
was taken up in public matters. A leader of his
party in the section of country in which he
lived, he was always busy in the responsibilities
imposed upon him by such a station; and what
with canvassing at election-polls, and mustergrounds,
and dancing attendance as a silent voter at
the halls of the state regislature, to the membership of
which his constituents had returned him, he saw
but little of his family, and they almost as little of
him. His influence grew unimportant with his
wards, in proportion as it obtained vigour with
his faction—was seldom referred to by them,
and, perhaps, such was the rapid growth of their
affections, would have been but little regarded. He
appeared to take it for granted, that having provided
them with all the necessaries called for by

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

life, he had done quite enough for the benefit of its
members; and actually gave far less of his consideration
to his own and only child than he did to
his plantation, and the success of a party measure,
involving possibly the office of door-keeper to the
house, or of tax-collector to the district. The taste
for domestic life, which at one period might have
been held with him exclusive, had been entirely
swallowed up and forgotten in his public relations;
and entirely overlooking the fact, that in the silent
goings-on of time, the infantile will cease to be so,
he saw not that the children he had brought together
but a few years before might not with reason
be considered children any longer. Children indeed!
What years had they not lived—what volumes
of experience in human affections and feelings
had the influence and genial warmth of a Carolina
sun not unfolded to their spirits in the few sweet
and uninterrupted seasons of their intercourse.
How imperious were the dictates of that nature, to
whose immethodical but honest teachings they had
been almost entirely given up. They lived together,
walked together, rode together—read in the same
books, conned the same lessons, studied the same
prospects, saw life through the common medium
of mutual associations; and lived happy, only in
the sweet unison of emotions, gathered at a common
fountain, and equally dear, and equally necessary
to them both. And this is love—they loved!

They loved, but the discovery was yet to be
made by them. Living in its purest luxuries, in
the perpetual communion of the only one necessary
object—having no desire and as little prospect
of change—ignorant of and altogether unlessoned
by the vicissitudes of life—enjoying the sweet association
which had been the parent of that passion,
dependant now entirely upon its continuance—

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

they had been content, and had never given themselves
any concern to analyze its origin, or to find
for it a name. A momentary doubt—the presages
of a dim perspective—would have taught them better.
Had there been a single moment of discontent in their
lives at this period, they had not remained so long
in such ignorance. The fear of its loss can alone
teach us the true value of our treasure. But the
discovery was at hand.

A pleasant summer afternoon in June found the
two young people, Ralph and Edith—the former
something over nineteen years of age, and the latter
in the same neighbourhood, half busied, half
idle, in the long and spacious piazza of the family
mansion. They could not be said to have been
employed, for Edith rarely made much progress
with the embroidering needle and delicate fabric
in her hands, while Ralph, something more absorbed
in a romance of the day, evidently exercised little
concentration of mind in scanning its contents.
He skimmed at first, rather than studied the pages
before him; conversing occasionally with the young
maiden, who, sitting beside him, occasionally glanced
at the volume in his hand, with something of an air of
discontent that it should take even so much of his regard
from herself. As he proceeded, however, in its
perusal, the story grew upon him, and he became
unconscious of her occasional efforts to control his
attention. The needle of Edith seemed also disposed
to avail itself of the aberrations of its mistress
and rise in rebellion; and, having pricked
her finger more than once, in the effort to proceed
with her work, while her eyes wandered to her
companion, she at length threw down the gauzy
fabric upon which she had been so partially employed,
and hastily rising from her seat, passed into
the adjoining apartment. Her departure was not

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

attended to by her companion, who for a time
continued his perusal of the book. No great while,
however, elapsed, before rising also from his seat,
with a hasty exclamation of surprise, he threw down
the volume, and followed her into the room, where
she sat pensively meditating over thoughts and
feelings as vague and inscrutable to her mind as
they were clear and familiar to her heart. With a
degree of warm impetuosity, even exaggerated beyond
his usual manner, which bore, at all times,
this characteristic, he approached her, and seizing
her hand passionately in his, exclaimed hastily—

“Edith, my sweet Edith, how unhappy that
book has made me!”

“How so, Ralph—why should it make you unhappy?”

“It has taught me much, Edith—very much, in
the last half hour. It has spoken of privation and
disappointment as the true elements of life, and
has shown me so many pictures of society in such
various situations, and with so much that I feel
assured must be correct, that I am unable to resist
its impressions. We have been happy—so happy,
Edith, and for so many years, that I could not
bear to think that either of us should be less so;
and yet that volume has taught me, in the story of
parallel fortunes with ours, that it may be so. It
has given me a long lesson in the sometime and
hollow economy of that world which men seek,
and name society. It has told me that we, or I,
at least, may be made and kept miserable for ever.”

“How, Ralph, tell me, I pray you—how should
that book have taught you this strange notion?
speak! What book is it?” was the gasping exclamation
of the astonished girl—astonished no
less by the impetuous manner, than the strong language
of the youth, as with the tenderest concern,

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

she laid her hand upon his arm, while her eyes,
full of the liveliest interest, yet moistened with a
tearful apprehension, were fixed earnestly upon his
own.

“It is a foolish book, a very foolish book—a story
of false sentiment, and of mock and artificial feelings,
of which I know, and care to know, nothing.
But it has told me much that I feel is true, and that
chimes with my own experience. It has told me
much that, as it is true, I am glad to have been
taught. Hear me then, dear Edith, and smile not
carelessly at my words, for I have now learned to
tremble when I speak to you, in fear lest I should
offend you.”

She would have spoken words of assurance—
she would have taught him to think better of her
affections and their strength; but his impetuosity
checked her in her speech.

“I know what you would say, and my heart
thanks you for it, as if its very life had depended upon
the utterance. You would tell me to have no such
fear; but the fear is a portion of myself now—it is
my heart itself. Hear me then, Edith,—my Edith,
if you will so let me name you.”

Her hand rested on his assuringly, with a gentle
pressure. He continued—

“Hitherto we have lived with each other, only
with each other—we have loved each other, and I
have almost only loved you. Neither of us, Edith
(may I believe it of you?) have known much of
any other affection. But how long is this to last?
that book—where is it? but no matter—it has
taught me, that now, when a few months will carry
us both into the world, it is improper that our relationship
should continue. It says we cannot be the
children any longer that we have been—that such

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

intercourse, I can now perceive why, would be injurious
to you. Do you understand me?”

The blush of a first consciousness came over
the cheek of the maiden as she withdrew her hand
from his passionate clasp.

“Ah! I see already,” he exclaimed: “you too
have learned the lesson. And is it thus—and we
are happy no longer!”

“Ralph!”—she endeavoured to speak, but could
proceed no further, and her hand was again, silently
and without objection, taken into the grasp of his.
The youth, after a brief pause, in a tone which
though it had lost much of its impetuousness, was
yet full of stern resolve, proceeded,

“Hear me, Edith—but a word—a single word.
I love you—believe me, my sweet Edith, I love
you.”

The effect of this declaration was scarcely such
as the youth had desired. She had been so much
accustomed to his warm admiration, indicated frequently
in phrases such as these, that it had the
effect of restoring to her much of that self-possession,
of which the nature of the previous dialogue
had not a little deprived her; and in the most
natural manner in the world, she replied—perhaps
too, we may add, with much of the artlessness of
art—“Why, to be sure you do, cousin Ralph,—it
would be something strange indeed if you did not.
I believe you love me, as I am sure you can never
doubt how much you are beloved by me!”

“Cousin Ralph—Cousin Ralph!” exclaimed the
youth with something of his former impetuousness,
emphasizing ironically as he spoke the unfortunate
family epithet—“Ah, Edith, you will not understand
me—nor indeed, an hour ago, should I altogether
have understood myself. Suddenly, dear
Edith, however, as I read the passages of that

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

book, the thought darted through my brain like
lightning, and I saw into my own heart, as I had
never been permitted to see into it before. I there
saw how much I loved you—not as my cousin—
not as my sister, as you sometimes would have
me call you, but as I will not call you again—but
as—as—”

“As what?”

“As my wife—Edith—as my own, own wife!”
He clasped her hand in his, while his head sank,
and his lips were pressed upon the taper and trembling
fingers which grew cold and powerless in his
grasp.

What a volume was at that moment opened,
for the first time, before the gaze and understanding
of the half-affrighted and deep-throbbing heart of
that gentle girl. The veil which had concealed its
burning mysteries was torn away in that instant.
The key to its secret places was in her hands, and
she was bewildered with her own discoveries.
Her cheeks alternated between the pale and crimson
of doubt and hope. Her lips quivered convulsively,
and an unbidden but not painful suffusion
overspread the warm brilliance of her deep
blue eye. She strove, ineffectually, to speak; her
words came forth in broken murmurs; her voice
had sunk into a sigh; she was dumb. The youth
once more took her hand into his, as, speaking with
a suppressed tone, and with a measured slowness
which had something in it of extreme melancholy,
he broke silence:—

“And have I no answer, Edith—and must I believe
that for either of us there should be other
loves than those of childhood—that new affections
may usurp the place of old ones—that there may
come a time, dear Edith, when I shall see an arm,
not my own, about your waist, and the eyes that
would look on no prospect if you were not a part

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

of it, may be doomed to that fearfullest blight of
beholding your lips smiling and pressed beneath
the lips of another?”

“Never, oh never, Ralph; speak no more, I beseech
you, in such language. You do me wrong
in this—I have not thought of this—I shall not
think of it—I will be yours, and yours only, Ralph—
yours only as you have ever known me.”

She spoke with a sweet and life-giving energy;
her head, from which the light brown hair streamed
down in profuse volumes, was settled upon his
shoulder—his arms encircled her waist; and his
lips rested passionately upon her burning cheek,
when a third party entered the room in the person
of Colonel Colleton.