Dave was naturally of a kind nature, but had been bred among those who were rough and rude; his manners, of course, were more or less tinctured by his education; his associates were such as would be likely to lead him into wild adventures and corrupt practices. The only counteracting influence had been that which the widow exerted over him; and his conduct towards her evinced a kindness of feeling, and a sensibility to better things, which those who saw him among his wild companions would never have imagined. The heart of the widow yearned over him, and she never lost the hope that David Cross would one day rise above his present ways.
And besides all this, there was in his heart a strong and long-enduring attachment for Hettie; he had been fond of her when but a girl; and his interest for her had become an absorbing feeling of his heart. During her long stay at Mr. Rutherford's, he had never lost sight of her; but having either business to attend to for his father in that region, or feigning it for his own ends, he would frequently take small parcels or trifling errands from the mother to the daughter, and many a precious bundle of good things had he brought from Hettie, through the kindness of Mrs. Rutherford, to comfort and cheer the widow. He was, therefore, by no means an unwelcome visitor at either house; his personal appearance was not unpleasant—a manly, open countenance, a kind manner, mingled indeed with some roughness, and a fearless, straightforward, animated way, calculated to make a favorable impression. Hettie seemed always glad to see him; so much so, that many of the family firmly believed that she had other feelings towards him than mere neighborly kindness. Mrs. Rutherford knew her heart in this matter, and was convinced that such was not the case.
Hettie indeed did not love him, nor did she feel that she ever could; and was careful to do nothing that might give him occasion to indulge a false hope in regard to her. David had, as I have said, sympathized with William on his sick bed; he it was who had brought Hettie home, and day and night, with Henry Tracy, had been untiring in doing every thing for their relief.
William's consciousness returned to him long before he had any ability to hold conversation, and the dilemma in which he found himself involved occupied almost constantly his waking thoughts. The desperate character of Cross; the vile plot that had been executed against the unsuspecting and noble-minded Rutherfords; the fate of the trunk for which he had fought so desperately, the least whisper of which had not reached his ear: all these subjects distracted his weak and flickering senses—a terrible secret lay in his breast, which he had not the power to reveal in any way that would be intelligible, and when revealed, must crush to ruin the hopes of the friend who was watching at his side, by bringing the father to an ignominious end. At times, in the agony of his contending thoughts, he would groan aloud, and the large drops would gather on his pale forehead. Hettie or the mother would bend over him, and say some soothing word, and wipe his clammy face, and inquire 'why he groaned? or where the pain was? or what they could do for him?' but he would shake his head, and closing his eyes, give up awhile his troubled thoughts and fall asleep. Thus day after day and week after week stole on, and still he lay in his feebleness, gaining strength, if at all, by a very slow and almost imperceptible progress.
It was at the close of a lowery day; the shadows of night were deepened by a dark canopy of clouds which hung over the barrens. The Widow Brown had lighted her lamp and placed it on the stand by the bed of her son, wishing to sit as close to him as she could, while plying her busy needle. David Cross was reclining on a low cot-bed; he had taken Hettie to Mr. Rutherford's that day, and expecting to watch part of the night, was anticipating a few hours' sleep. A gentle tap was heard, and as the widow opened the door, a woman, clad in somewhat better garments than was usual among the people of that region, stood panting for breath, and looking with great earnestness, and in much apparent agitation—
'Are you alone, Mrs. Brown?'
'There is no one here, Margaret, but David, besides my sick son.'
'Oh, do step out here a moment—do, Mrs. Brown;' and the widow closed the door and followed the woman a few paces from the house. She knew her well—poor Margaret! and she pitied her too; for Margaret she had heard was once a pretty, happy girl; her home had been far from there. In an evil hour, she had listened to the flattering tale of the deceiver, and now she was a miserable dependant on the will of Cross—his slave to do his bidding.
'I have run all the way, Mrs. Brown, from my house, and I want you to go right back with me.'
'Not to-night, Margaret, surely; the weather looks so threatening, and I don't like to leave William, and Hettie gone too. What has happened, Margaret?'