Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

I answered not a word. How could I? Not one word had I heard. The soft tones of her voice fell upon my ear like the harmony of distant music, of which you can scarcely distinguish a single note. I attempted a reply. I stammered-I hesitated-I bent down to conceal my confusion, in examining the drawing; as I did so, my cheek touched hers, and for a moment I thought she did not recoil. She turned her head, and that eye, that beaming eye, met mine. The crimson of her face grew deeper; the eye more "beautifully shy." It did not last long. She sprang from the seat, and pointing her pretty finger at me, in a threatening manner, said:

"Now I am positively convinced of your insanity. First talk of a ride as though it were a matter of life and death; and then when asked a plain, simple question, blush and hesitate as though -but, there, some one calls; so good morning, my crazy cousin." "But stay, Ellen, do you consent to the ride?"

"Why y-es." And off she darted to the open door.

There are many delightful rides about R- - Seven miles to the north is Ontario, lake of lakes, for the purity and transparency of his waves, and the road hither on the eastern shore of the Genesee, the old Indian's favorite river, is sufficiently romantic and picturesque. Immense rocks, to the height of forty or fifty feet, stretch along the banks of the dark and rushing stream. Here, in the green valley, herds of cattle are grazing, and beyond, you can scarcely discern the cars, rapidly passing above the level of the water, some hundred feet or more. Then there is Mount Hope, name so appropriate to its object-the depository of the dead. It is elegantly described in a late number of the Knickerbocker; the writer of that article is a poet, I am sure: his conceptions are vivid, yet not extravagant is the eulogy. Reader, would'st thou realize the charms and beauties of the old Athenian burial-grounds, of Pére La Chaise, wend thy way to the sweet solitudes of Mount Hope. From this gentle eminence you may behold far to the south, the lofty ridges of the Alleghany, bounding the horizon; and this sacred mount, too, commands a view of the distant lake, and the light craft studding its blue expanse, and you may trace to its bosom the turbid waters of the river, rolling along through bog, morass and flowery meadow. Irondiquoit Bay! name dear to my heart-dear from association-beautiful in itself! A few centuries hence, and these Indian names, harsh, guttural sounds may be, but musical withall will be the last memorials of those who framed them. What we have, then, let us preserve; in this respect, at least, we may be just. The bay I have named is much frequented by those who find delight in the sports of the flood and the forest; for the woods around abound in game of all kinds, and the waters reward the labor of the fisherman with the most delicious product.

Breakfast done, nine-ten o'clock, and the horses were at the door. I stood at the gate impatiently tapping my boot with the riding whip, and eyeing the graceful animals, champing their bits. and pawing the dust, as eager for action as myself. At last I got impatient.

"Ellen, Ellen, are you ready?"

"I'll be down in a moment," was her answer. And soon she appeared. If she was lovely before, now she was divine. Halfshrouded from view, with Turkish cap and plumes, the luxuriant tresses of a girl with sparkling, jetty eyes; so that the remaining locks fall about the shoulders, in charming confusion, and expose the chaste whiteness of the forehead to contrast with the soft carnation of the cheek, and you have the likeness of the Oriental beauty-just such a one as I could fancy-moving among the delights and enchantments of an Ottoman seraglio.

I don't doubt that there is such a thing as humility. I think I have felt it, especially when every thing cheerful and comfortable around me, I have been taking extensive views of philosophy and human nature in general. It is the case with most men. But take a young man of twenty, in sound health, fearless, and possessed of moderate sensibility-place him astride of a spirited horse, and a beautiful girl by his side; her natural charms enhanced a thousand times by the exertion of her skill in guiding the movements of a "horse that knows its rider," and, Lucifer! there's pride for you.

The day was auspicious: a slight shower in the morning had settled the dust, and given an agreeable coolness to the atmosphere it was determined that we should ride in the direction of the bay, that route being most protected from the heat by the foliage. I had another reason, too, which determined this choice. In this solitary portion of the town, and buried among the trees, was an old mansion, commonly called "the haunted house." had three stories, and was built of stone. For years none had inhabited it; for the tradition connected with its desertion rendered it desolate, and a source of superstitious terror to the people of this. district. This legend, I knew, would interest my fair companion, and serve to beguile the monotony of the excursion, if weariness with her were possible.

We passed leisurely along the eastern bank of the river, enjoying the various scenery beneath and around us: every where something of interest was found; and it was almost with regret, that we beheld the lonely white walls, conspicuous through the trees; for these we had decided should limit our ride.

"Now, Ellen," I began, "prepare yourself for the tale. We are fast approaching this dreaded mansion. You would scarcely suppose that joy ever crossed its threshhold; yet these neglected grounds have witnessed many a scene of boisterous merriment,

and these old halls have echoed oft and again the glee of hearts as light and free from sorrow as our own."

We dismounted, and leaving our horses to crop the fresh herbage, strolled through the walks until we were fairly under the windows of the deserted building.

"Here is a delightful recess," said I, "let us sit down under the spreading branches of this old oak, and I will tell you all I can recall of the history of the dwelling, and its former inmates."

THE LEGEND.

'Fifteen years ago, this house was built and tenanted by an Englishman, named Thomas Pierce he was accredited as good a sailor as plied upon the lakes, and though not of a mirthful temperament, was universally liked for his honesty and upright dealing. Deserting the water, he resolved to invest his earnings in a substantial dwelling-house, and enjoy the rest of life in the cultivation of the soil. His family consisted of three sons, almost arrived at manhood, and a daughter, in whom his affections centered with the more intensity on account of her motherless condition. She inherited from her deceased parent extraordinary beauty of face and figure, and being also uncommonly modest and retiring, won the love and esteem of all her acquaintance. Thomas Pierce, as we have said, was naturally a morose man. Hard labor and grief, also, did much to blunt the kindlier feelings of his nature, yet for his daughter's sake would he allow his house to become the scene of many merry-makings, and whenever he saw Fanny's face lighted up with smiles, his own stern features relaxed, and he seemed to partake of her enjoyment. So sweet a flower could not bloom long undisturbed. The eldest son had been absent some months from home and was soon expected to return. He came but not alone. He brought with him a friend. Alas! better that he had never been known. He was welcomed, and invited to spend his time with the family. He soon became a favorite-for who could manage a boat against wind and tide better than Henry Steele? Who was the most generous and kind hearted? All acknowledged that Henry Steele was the prince of good fellows-such a frank, easy way he had. And Fanny thought so too. No wonder she did so, for his praises were in every body's mouth-and some would slily wonder how long the young man would stay, and whether pretty Fanny had any thing to do with his protracted visit. Time passed on, and what might have been foreseen, happened. Predilection ripened into love, and vows of changeless affection were exchanged. Anxious only for the happiness of his daughter, and himself pleased with the manly bearing of the young lover, the father consented, after the lapse of a few months, during which Henry

[blocks in formation]

was to visit his own friends and arrange affairs for the change in his prospects, to bestow his daughter upon him who had won her first love. The day for Henry's departure came, and though the separation, of course, was painful, many remarked the strange gloom which overspread his countenance as a mystery they could not solve.

"Never mind, Fanny," said he to the weeping girl, "I'll be back again in time. So cheer up, my love, and look like yourself once more."

"Oh! come, come soon, Henry," she answered, "I fear some mishap. It seems as though I should never see you again."

He kissed away the tears, and was gone. The time for his return came and passed by. Months and months coursed round and no Henry. What the cause could be none could divine. Poor Fanny Pierce! from that hour she faded; the rose forsook her cheek-how changed now from the blithe and bonny maiden of one year before! But her father-ah! there was grief, and bitter, bitter agony. Not a word he said, not a murmur-but the furrows on his brow grew deeper-the frown became habitual. At last a letter came from him who was the cause of all this misery; alas! not the involuntary cause. His story was soon told; his melancholy and gloom were now explained. He was an outlaw, and had for years been engaged in contraband traffic, with a band of desperate men. In one encounter, an officer of the customs had died by his own hand, and for this a price was set upon his head. This changed not her love-but the mingled anguish and rage of the father amounted almost to a paroxysm of madness. Another year elapsed, and on a bright, moonlit night in autumn, a man stole from the bushes behind the house, and cautiously approached the window of the room occupied by the unhappy maiden. Several times he called, "Fanny, Fanny Pierce," but receiving no answer, emerged from the shadow of the foliage, which had hitherto concealed his person. Then the pale light of the moon exposed the worn and haggard features of Henry Steele. Scarcely, however, had he done so, when a stern voice from the building warned him to retire. He raised his eyes and beheld the changed countenance of the man he had so deeply wronged. But when he was himself recognized, it was terrible to mark the effect which his presence produced. "Away, villain," shouted the father, "pollute not this spot with your hateful presence, or this moment may be your last in life."

The young man stood for a moment in silence, and then throwing himself upon his knees, earnestly prayed that he might for one last, short moment look upon his betrothed. But it was all in vain.

Thomas Pierce, seizing the fowling-piece which always hung near the door, presented it at the intruder, swearing that as there

was a God in heaven, if he did not instantly leave the place, he would shoot him dead, upon the spot.

Then a change passed over the face of the suppliant. His form became erect, and fierce indignation shot from his dark eye.

"I will see her once more," he said, "though all the devils in hell should seek to stay me."

"One step farther, and you die," was the stern answer.

He advanced towards the door, and quicker than thought the gun poured forth its fatal contents. A bound-a shrill cry of agony and the unfortunate young man lay lifeless on the green sward.

The loud report awoke the sleeping girl, and raising the window of her apartment, she cried out,

do

"Father, father, is it you? What was that noise? and why you stand there so still in the cold air ?"

"Yes, it is I-I, the avenger of our wrongs. Come down, my daughter," said he, in a voice dreadfully calm, "come down, and look for the last time upon the face of your betrayer!"

A moment, and she was at the door. Explanation she asked none; it was needless, indeed. A few feet from her lay the cold corpse of him who was her first, her only love. She did not shriek-she did not faint; but she stood, speechless, breathless, statue-like.'

"But, Ellen, dearest Ellen, does the recital pain you? Look up, my sweet cousin-what, tears?"

Yes! there were the crystal drops of sympathy glistening on the cheek of the gentle girl.

"I could not help it, Frank," said she, smiling through the tears. "Poor, poor Fanny !-did she survive this last, worst stroke of all ?"

'She lived, indeed, but she drooped away, and madness came at last to relieve her from the curse of conscious memory. The house was sold, and the family left these parts for a new home in the far West. For two or three years after, the building was universally shunned, for the neighbors said that at times they saw a light shining from the room formerly belonging to the unhappy Fanny, and that a frail, spirit-like form sometimes glided among the trees and walks.'

"And now, Ellen, the tale is told-but look! do you see? the sun is high in the heavens. We must haste, or they will think us lost, and what is worse, we shall lose our dinner."

"Oh! Frank, how can you trifle after the sad story you have been telling?"

"Fudge it happened long ago; so long, that I had almost forgotten it. I am really glad you mentioned it; it has made our ride quite romantic."

« ForrigeFortsæt »