At this moment the sharp whiz of an arrow passed the lattice. Hope darted from the room, and seated herself at an upper loop-hole, where she could see without being seen. She watched John Bonyton where hour after hour he traversed the slip of sand which separated the Pool from the ocean, ever and anon sending uneasy glances toward the mansion.
Day after day passed, and Hope went no more abroad, nor did she send any token to her impatient lover. Day after day John Bonyton wandered along the shore, as if its impatient turbulence best responded to the wild passions that consumed him. The dirge of the sea, creeping amid the weeds that cushioned the rocks, and then hurrying from point to point in stifled sobs—anon lifting incoherent voices to storm the ear of night—responded to some unknown depth within, and soothed while it deepened his emotions.
Could the unhappy youth have looked within the bower of Hope, he would have seen her seated upon the floor, her intense eyes following his slightest movement, and she weeping bitterly. She refused food, and nothing could tempt her from her covert.
At length Samoset, chief of the neighboring tribe of Indians, desired to see her. He brought her a beautiful osier basket, in which was hidden a wood-pigeon. Hope lifted the bird from its cluster of leaves and found the blood trickling from its breast, and a small arrow still in the wound. She recoiled with pity, and cast reproachful eyes upon the chief. Samoset pointed to Bonyton pacing the beach, and sternly showed the arrow in the breast of the dove. He whispered a word or two in her ear and turned away, followed by Hope.
No sooner did John Bonyton perceive the figure of Hope moving slowly toward the woods, than he followed in her footsteps. Seating herself upon her favorite ledge of rocks, she awaited his coming. The youth was greatly shocked at the change both in her manner and looks, and he cast himself at her feet and pressed both her hands within his own.
“Poor, dear Hope!” he murmured.
She looked sadly in his face—a look of silent, helpless reproach more emphatic than words. At length she said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper:
“It seems very strange to me, dear John, how people can get along in this world, and why they are put here to be made so miserable. And so you will go away, John Bonyton—go, and we shall never meet again.”
The young man smoothed back the hair which had blown across the face of the speaker, and the passive manner so unlike Hope’s old self, emboldened him to lay her pale cheek upon his shoulder, and he answered:
“I will not be gone long, Hope; the time will soon pass away.”