“Dear sister, you frighten me. Oh, do not think of such a thing! Indeed, Marian, I am never happy when you are away in the woods. I am always afraid of your meeting with some great wild beast, which may devour you. Tell me, why do you go? I am sure I cannot see what pleasure you can have in wandering through the woods alone.”
“Alone! Perhaps I am not always alone.”
These words are uttered in a low voice—not loud enough for Lilian to hear, though she observes the smile that accompanies them.
“You see, sister Lil,” continues Marian in a louder tone our tastes differ. You are young, and like better to read the story-books your mother left you, and look at the pictures in them. My mother left me no story-books, nor pictures. She had none; and did not care for them, I fancy. She was half-Indian, you know; and I suppose I am like her: for I too, prefer realities to pictures. I love to roam about the woods; and as for the danger—pooh, pooh—I have no fear of that. I fear neither bear nor panther, nor any other quadruped. Ha! I have more fear of a two-legged creature I know of; and I should be in greater danger of meeting with that dreaded biped by staying at home?
The speech appears to give rise to a train of reflections in which there is bitterness. The heroine of the rifle remains silent while in the act of reloading; and the tinge of melancholy that pervades her countenance tells that her thoughts are abstracted. While priming the piece, she is even maladroit enough to spill a quantity of the powder—though evidently not from any lack of practice or dexterity.
Lilian has heard the concluding words of her sister’s speech with some surprise, and also noticed the abstracted air. She is about to ask for an explanation, when the dialogue is interrupted. Wolf rushes past with a fierce growl: some one approaches the clearing.
A horseman—a man of about thirty years of age, of spare form and somewhat sinister aspect—a face to be hated on sight. And at sight of it the shadow deepens on the brow of Marian. Her sister exhibits no particular emotion. The new-comer is no stranger: it is only Josh Stebbins, the schoolmaster of Swampville. He is their father’s friend, and comes often to visit them: moreover, he is that day expected, as Lilian knows. Only in one way does she show any interest in his arrival; and that is, on observing that he is better dressed than usual. The cut of his dress too, is different.
“See, sister Marian!” cries she in a tone of raillery, “how fine Mister Josh is! black coat and waistcoat: a standing collar too! Why, he is exactly like the Methody minister of Swampville! Perhaps he has turned one. I shouldn’t wonder: for they say he is very learnt. Oh, if that be, we may hear him preach at the next camp-meeting. How I should like to hear him hold forth!—ha, ha, ha!”
The young creature laughs heartily at her own fantastic conceits; and her clear silvery voice for a moment silences the birds—as if they paused to listen to a music more melodious than their own. The mock-bird echoes back the laugh: but not so Marian. She has observed the novelty as well as her sister; but it appears to impress her in a very different manner. She does not even smile at the approach of the stranger; but, on the contrary, the cloud upon her brow becomes a shade darker.
Marian is some years older than her sister—old enough to know that there is evil in the world: for neither is the “backwoods” the home of an Arcadian innocence. She knows the schoolmaster sufficiently to dislike him; and, judging by his appearance, one might give her credit for having formed a correct estimate of his character. She suspects the object of his visit; more than that, she knows it: she is herself its object. With indifferent grace, therefore, does she receive him: scarcely concealing her aversion as she bids him the customary welcome. Without being gifted with any very acute perception, the new-comer might observe this dégout on the part of the young girl. He takes no notice of it however—either by word, or the movement of a feature. On the contrary, he appears perfectly indifferent to the character of the reception given him. Not that his manner betrays anything like swagger—for he is evidently not one of the swaggering sort. Rather is his behaviour characterised by a cool, quiet effrontery—a sort of sarcastic assurance—ten times more irritating. This is displayed in the laconic style of his salutation: “Morning girls! father at home?”—in the fact of his dismounting without waiting to be invited—in sharply scolding the dog out of his way as he leads his horse to the shed; and, finally, in his throwing the saddle-bags over his arm, and stepping inside the cabin-door, with the air of one who is not only master of the house, but of the “situation.”