There are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain—when, instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting. I made no attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on by his side, silent as he. Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness in my own reflections to give me occupation. Though troubled by no heart-canker of the past, I had a future before me that was neither brilliant nor attractive. The foreknowledge I had now gained of squatter Holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that I was treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma. Once, or twice, was I on the point of communicating my business to my travelling companion; and why not? With the openness of an honest heart, had he confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret of his life. Why should I withhold my confidence from him on a subject of comparatively little importance? My reason for not making a confidant of him sooner has been already given. It no longer existed. So far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all likelihood I should have him on my die. At all events, I felt certain that I might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of the situation, that might be worth having.
I was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting his counsel thereon, when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards me. In the former movement, I imitated his example.
“The road forks here,” said he. “The path on the left goes straight down to Holt’s Clarin’—the other’s the way to my bit o’ a shanty.”
“I shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered me, and say ‘Good-night.’”
“No—not yet. I ain’t a-goin’ to leave ye, till I’ve put you ’ithin sight o’ Holt’s cabin, tho’ I can’t go wi’ ye to the house. As I told ye, he an’ I ain’t on the best o’ tarms.”
“I cannot think of your coming out of your way—especially at this late hour. I’m some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I can make out the path.”
“No, stranger! Thar’s places whar the trace is a’most blind, and you mout get out o’ it. Thar’ll be no moon on it. It runs through a thick timbered bottom, an’ thar’s an ugly bit o’ swamp. As for the lateness, I’m not very reg’lar in my hours; an’ thar’s a sort o’ road up the crik by which I can get home. ’Twan’t to bid you good-night, that I stopped here.”
“What, then?” thought I, endeavouring to conjecture his purpose, while he was pausing in his speech.
“Stranger!” continued he in an altered tone, “I hope you won’t take offence if I ask you a question?”
“Not much fear of that, I fancy. Ask it freely.”