I could bear the suspense no longer. I would have hailed the house; but by this time I had become convinced that there was no one inside. After a short survey, I had remarked a change in the appearance of the cabin. The interstices between the logs—where they had formerly been covered with skins—were now open. The draping had been removed; and a closer scrutiny enabled me to perceive, that, so far as human occupants were concerned, the house was empty! I rode up to the door; and, leaning over from my saddle, looked in. My conjecture was correct. Only the chairs and table with one or two similar pieces of “plenishing,” remained. Everything else had been removed; and some worthless débris strewed over the floor, told that the removal was to be considered complete. They were gone!
It was of no use harbouring a hope that they might still be on the premises—outside or elsewhere near. The pouring rain forbade such, a supposition. There was nowhere else—the horse-shed excepted—where they could have sheltered! themselves from its torrent; and they were not in the shed. Rosinante was absent from his rude stall—saddle and bridle had alike disappeared. I needed no further assurance. They were gone.
With a heavy heart, I slid out of my saddle; led my steed under the shed; and then entered the deserted dwelling. My footfall upon the plank-floor sounded heavy and harsh, as I strode over it, making a survey of the “premises”—my future home. I might have observed with ludicrous surprise the queer character of the building, and how sadly it needed repair. But I was in no mood to be merry, either with the house or its furniture; and, tottering into one of the odd-looking chairs, I gave way to gloomy reflections. Any one, seeing me at that moment, would have observed me in an attitude, more benefiting a man about to be turned out of his estate, than one just entering upon possession!
Chapter Thirty One.
A virgin Heart in Cipher.
“Gone! and whither gone?” Half aloud, I soliloquised the interrogatory. There was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. The affair was altogether unexpected. Not anticipating that the squatter would leave his cabin before my return, I had made no inquiry either about his destination or future designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest clue as to whither he had gone. Nor should I have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance, but for the words of the Indian sibyl. Beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with Lilian—chagrin enough after such high-raised expectation—I should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. It would have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbour’s house—perhaps to that up the creek, where lived the “friend of Lilian’s father”—in all likelihood, the saint I had seen—or some other within a five-mile circuit. Or, if even ten miles distant, what would it matter to me? A ride of ten miles twice a day would be nothing—only an airing for my Arab. I should soon scent out the whereabouts of that sweet-smelling rose. Not all the forests in Tennessee could hide from me my fair blooming flower.
Such would have been my reflections, no doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. But her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into a ruder channel—“You may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late.”
Figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced within me a presentiment sufficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some temporary shelter under a neighbour’s roof, but a departure for a distant point. Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief—a conviction. Around me were circumstances corroborative of this view. The articles of furniture left behind, though rude, were still of a certain value—especially to a householder of Holt’s condition; and had the squatter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken them with him. Otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration.