a convention behind the tree, I suppose. At least, I left them there."
"And did not Mr. Stubb dare the fatal leap?"
"He tried, and was thrown into a mud puddle."
"No bodily harm, I hope."
"No; beaver and broadcloth were the principal sufferers. But his conceit is shaken out of him for twenty-four hours, at least."
"Then I have wrought a miracle, and can claim to be canonized on the strength of it."
"I hope you may be; but I never expected to see your name in the calendar of saints."
"As you will not allow me to be a saint, I suppose you consider me as mad. Sanctity and madness, they say, are of kin."
"A hair's breadth, or so, on this side madness."
"Then I am entitled to great credit for keeping my wits at all. What reasonable girl would not be driven mad with Mrs. Primrose to watch her, and disapprove of her, and correct her? Strange—is it not?—that some people—if Mrs. Primrose will allow me to use so inelegant an expression—are always rubbing one against the grain."
"To give you your due, I think you have paid off handsomely any grudge you may owe in that quarter."
"There is consolation in that. Tell me—you are of the out-spoken sort—are you not of my opinion? Let me know your mind. Mr. Stubb is——"
"A puppy."
"And the Primroses are——"
"Uninteresting."
"For uninteresting, say insufferable. If Lucifer wishes to gain me over to his side, let Mrs. Primrose be made my guardian angel, and his work is done."
"Your horse has cast a shoe," said Morton, abruptly—"yes; and he is lame besides."
"It is this broken, stony road. I wish we were at the end of it."
"So do I. If the clouds would break for a moment, and show us the sun, I could form some idea of the direction we are following."
"Why," said Fanny, in alarm, looking at her watch, "the sun must be very near setting."
Morton began to be very anxious, for his companion's sake, when, a moment after, they came upon a broader track, which intersected the other, and seemed a main thoroughfare of the woodcutters.
"This looks more promising," said Morton; and turning to the left, they pushed their horses to their best pace. Twilight came on, and it was quite dark when they emerged at length upon the broad and dusty highway. In a few minutes they saw a countryman, with his hands in his pockets, and a long nine between his lips, lounging by the roadside.
"How far is it to New Baden?"
"Wal," replied the man, after studying his querist in silence for about half a minute, "it's fifteen mile strong."
Morton looked at Fanny, whose horse was very lame, and who, in spite of her spirit, began to show unmistakable signs of fatigue.
"Is there a public house any where near?"
"Yas; it ain't far ahead to Mashum's."
"How far?"
"Rather better nor a mile."
On coming to the inn, Morton commended Fanny to the care of the landlady, an honest New Hampshire woman, remounted without delay, and urged his tired horse to such speed that he reached the hotel before half past nine. His arrival relieved the anxieties, or silenced the tattle of the inmates; and in the morning Fanny's uncle drove to the inn, and brought back the adventurous damsel to New Baden.
CHAPTER XIII.
| Men will woo the tempest, And wed it, to their cost.—Passion Flowers. Then fly betimes, for only they Conquer love that run away.—Carew. |
Morton had been for some time of opinion that he had better leave New Baden; yet still the philosophic youth staid on—a week longer—a fortnight longer—and still he lingered. It would be too much to say that he was in love with his handsome, dare-devil cousin; but his mind was greatly troubled in regard to her—shaken and tossed with a variety of conflicting emotions. The multiplied and constantly changing phases of her character, its strong but utterly ungoverned resources, its frankness, enthusiasm, detestation of all deceit or pretension, and, in spite of her wildness, a deep vein of womanly tenderness which now and then betrayed itself, all conspired to keep his interest somewhat painfully excited.
One evening he left the crowded piazza of the hotel, and, intending to flirt with solitude and a cigar, walked towards a rustic arbor, overgrown with a wild grape vine, and standing among a cluster of young elms at the foot of the garden. As he drew near, he saw the gleam of ladies' dresses, and found the seats already occupied by Miss Fanny Euston and two companions. Morton knew them well, and joined the party. As neither the affected graces of the one companion nor the voluble emptiness of the other had much interest in his eyes, he directed his conversation chiefly to Fanny. In a few minutes the two girls exchanged glances, rose, and alleging some pretended engagement, returned to the hotel, bent on making this casual interview assume the air of a flirtation.
Morton and his companion sat for a moment in silence.
"We are cousins—are we not?" said the former, at length.
"At least they would call us so in the Highlands."
"Then give me a cousin's privilege, and allow me to be personal. Are you not out of spirits to-night?"
"Why do you think me so?"
"From your look and manner."
"Are you not tired to death of New Baden?"
"Not yet."
"I am. What is it all worth?—weary, and vapid, and flat, and stale, and unprofitable! I have had enough of it."
"Then why not change it?"
"To find the same thing in a new shape!"
"Pardon me if I call that a freak of the moment. You are the gayest of the gay."
"No, I am not."
"You are a belle here; a centre light. The moths flutter about you, though you do, now and then, singe their wings. You frighten them, and they repay you with fine speeches."
"I am weary of them. For Heaven's sake, abuse me a little. I know you have it often in your heart."
"Abuse is sometimes nothing but flattery in disguise."
"Why do you smile? That smile was at my expense."
"Why should you imagine so?"
