The ambiguous nature of the situation and character of Mr. Edwards had rendered him an object of peculiar suspicion to the lawyer, and the youth was consequently too much accustomed to similar equivocal and guarded speeches to feel any unusual disgust at the present dialogue.
He saw at once that it was the intention of the practitioner to conceal the nature of his business, even from the private secretary of Judge Temple; and he knew too well the difficulty of comprehending the meaning of Mr. Van der School, when the gentleman most wished to be luminous in his discourse, not to abandon all thoughts of a discovery, when he perceived that the attorney was endeavoring to avoid anything like an approach to a cross-examination.
They parted at the gate, the lawyer walking with an important and hurried air toward his office, keeping his right hand firmly clinched on the bundle of papers.
It must have been obvious to all our readers, that the youth entertained an unusual and deeply seated prejudice against the character of the Judge; but owing to some counteracting cause, his sensations were now those of powerful interest in the state of his patron’s present feelings, and in the cause of his secret uneasiness.
He remained gazing after the lawyer until the door closed on both the bearer and the mysterious packet, when he returned slowly to the dwelling, and endeavored to forget his curiosity in the usual avocations of his office.
When the Judge made his reappearance in the circles of his family, his cheerfulness was tempered by a shade of melancholy that lingered for many days around his manly brow; but the magical progression of the season aroused him from his temporary apathy, and his smiles returned with the summer.
The heats of the days, and the frequent occurrence of balmy showers, had completed in an incredibly short period the growth of plants which the lingering spring had so long retarded in the germ; and the woods presented every shade of green that the American forests know.
The stumps in the cleared fields were already hidden beneath the wheat that was waving with every breath of the sum mer air, shining and changing its hues like velvet.
During the continuance of his cousin’s dejection, Mr. Jones forebore, with much consideration, to press on his attention a business that each hour was drawing nearer to the heart of the sheriff, and which, if any opinion could be formed by his frequent private conferences with the man who was introduced in these pages by the name of Jotham, at the bar-room of the Bold Dragoon, was becoming also of great importance.
At length the sheriff ventured to allude again to the subject; and one evening, in the beginning of July, Marmaduke made him a promise of devoting the following day to the desired excursion.
CHAPTER XXVI.
“Speak on, my dearest father!
Thy words are like the breezes of the west.”
—Milman.
It was a mild and soft morning, when Marmaduke and Richard mounted their horses and proceeded on the expedition that had so long been uppermost in the thoughts of the latter; and Elizabeth and Louisa appeared at the same instant in the hall, attired for an excursion on foot.
The head of Miss Grant was covered by a neat little hat of green silk, and her modest eyes peered from under its shade, with the soft languor that characterized her whole appearance; but Miss Temple trod her father’s wide apartments with the step of their mistress, holding in her hands, dangling by one of its ribbons, the gypsy that was to conceal the glossy locks that curled around her polished fore head in rich profusion.
“What? are you for a walk, Bess?” cried the Judge, suspending his movements for a moment to smile, with a father’s fondness, at the display of womanly grace and beauty that his child presented.
“Remember the heats of July, my daughter; nor venture further than thou canst retrace before the meridian.
Where is thy parasol, girl? thou wilt lose tine polish of that brow, under this sun and southern breeze, unless thou guard it with unusual care.”
“I shall then do more honor to my connections,” returned the smiling daughter.
“Cousin Richard has a bloom that any lady might envy.
At present the resemblance between us is so trifling that no stranger would know us to be ‘sisters’ children.”
“Grandchildren, you mean, Cousin Bess,” said the sheriff.
“But on, Judge Temple; time and tide wait for no man; and if you take my counsel, sir, in twelve months from this day you may make an umbrella for your daughter of her camel’s-hair shawl, and have its frame of solid silver.
I ask nothing for myself,
‘Duke; you have been a good friend to me already; besides, all that I have will go to Bess there, one of these melancholy days, so it’s as long as it’s short, whether I or you leave it. But we have a day’s ride before us, sir; so move forward, or dismount, and say you won’t go at once.”
“Patience, patience, Dickon,” returned the Judge, checking his horse and turning again to his daughter.
“If thou art for the mountains, love, stray not too deep into the forest.
I entreat thee; for, though it is done often with impunity, there is sometimes danger.”
“Not at this season, I believe, sir,” said Elizabeth; “for, I will confess, it is the intention of Louisa and myself to stroll among the hills.”
“Less at this season than in the winter, dear; but still there may be danger in venturing too far.
But though thou art resolute, Elizabeth, thou art too much like thy mother not to be prudent.”
The eyes of the parent turned reluctantly from his child, and the Judge and sheriff rode slowly through the gateway, and disappeared among the buildings of the village.
During this short dialogue, young Edwards stood, an attentive listener, holding in his hand a fishing-rod, the day and the season having tempted him also to desert the house for the pleasure of exercise in the air.
As the equestrians turned through the gate, he approached the young females, who were already moving toward the street, and was about to address them, as Louisa paused, and said quickly:
“Mr. Edwards would speak to us, Elizabeth.”
The other stopped also, and turned to the youth, politely but with a slight coldness in her air, that sensibly checked the freedom with which he had approached them,
“Your father is not pleased that you should walk unattended in the hills, Miss Temple.
If I might offer my self as a protector—”
“Does my father select Mr. Oliver Edwards as the organ of his displeasure?” interrupted the lady.
“Good Heaven! you misunderstood my meaning; I should have said uneasy or not pleased.
I am his servant, madam, and in consequence yours. I repeat that, with your consent, I will change my rod for a fowling-piece, and keep nigh you on the mountain.”
“I thank you, Mr. Edwards; but where there is no danger, no protection is required.
We are not yet reduced to wandering among these free hills accompanied by a body guard.
If such a one is necessary there he is, however.—Here, Brave—Brave——my noble Brave!”
The huge mastif that has been already mentioned, appeared from his kennel, gaping and stretching himself with pampered laziness; but as his mistress again called:
“Come, dear Brave; once you have served your master well; let us see how you can do your duty by his daughter”—the dog wagged his tail, as if he understood her language, walked with a stately gait to her side, where he seated himself, and looked up at her face, with an intelligence but little inferior to that which beamed in her own lovely countenance.
She resumed her walk, but again paused, after a few steps, and added, in tones of conciliation:
“You can be serving us equally, and, I presume, more agreeably to yourself, Mr. Edwards, by bringing us a string of your favorite perch for the dinner-table.”
When they again began to walk Miss Temple did not look back to see how the youth bore this repulse; but the head of Louisa was turned several times before they reached the gate on that considerate errand.