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 Rooks 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 mans admiration.
Despite all this, despite her fathers 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 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 travellers.
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.