Читать книгу The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness - Reid Mayne - Страница 20

Slowly and reluctantly, I turned back from the stream, and once more entered amid the wreck of the hurricane. Along the sunny path, the flowers appeared to sparkle with a fresher brilliancy – imbuing the air with sweet odours, wafted from many a perfumed chalice. The birds sang with clearer melody; and the hum of the honey-bee rang through the glades more harmoniously than ever. The “coo-coo-oo” of the doves blending with the love-call of the squirrel, betokened that both were inspired by the tenderest of passions. “Pensando de amor,” as the Spanish phrase finely expresses it; for at that moment, the beautiful words of the southern poet were in my thoughts, and upon my lips:

Even the fierce beasts in their forest lairs become gentle under the influence of this all-pervading passion!

I rode on slowly and in silence – my whole soul absorbed in the contemplation of that fair being, whose image seemed still before my eyes – palpable as if present. My heart quivered under the influence of a gentle joy. The past appeared bright; the present, happiness itself; the future, full of hope. I had found the very “wilderness-home” of my longings; the fair spirit that should be my minister! No doubt rose before my mind to dim the brilliant prospect before me – no shadow hung over the horizon of my hopes. The prospect before me appeared bright and sunny as the sky above my head. Within and without the world was smiling – all nature seemed tinted with the hue of the rose! This delightful reverie lasted for a time – alas! too short a time – only while I was traversing the track, that, but the moment before, I had passed over in such pleasant companionship.

On arriving at the scene of my late adventure, a turn was given to my thoughts. It had been a scene of triumph, and deserved commemoration. The body of the panther lay across the path. His shining skin was a trophy not to be despised; and, dismounting on the spot, with my hunting-knife I secured it. I could point to it with pride – as the first spoil obtained in my new hunting-field; but I should prize it still more, as the memento of a far sweeter sentiment. In a few minutes, it was folded up, and strapped over the cantle of my saddle; and, with this odd addition to my equipage, I once more plunged into the forest-path.

For the next mile, the trace led through heavy bottom-timber, such as we had traversed, after leaving the settlement of Swampville. The black earth, of alluvial origin, was covered deeply with decayed vegetation; and the track of horses and cattle had converted the path into mud. At intervals, it was intersected by embayments of wet morass – the projecting arms of a great swamp, that appeared to run parallel with the creek. Through these, my horse, unused to such footing, passed with difficulty – often floundering up to his flanks in the mud. Though it was but the hour of noon, it more resembled night, or the late gloaming of twilight – so dark were the shadows under this umbrageous wood. As if to strengthen the illusion, I could hear the cry of the bittern, and the screech of the owl, echoing through the aisles of the forest – sounds elsewhere suggestive of night and darkness. Now and then, light shone upon the path – the light that indicates an opening in the forest; but it was not that of a friendly clearing. Only the break caused by some dismal lagoon, amidst whose dank stagnant waters even the cypress cannot grow – the habitat of black water-snakes and mud-turtles – of cranes, herons, and Qua-birds. Hundreds of these I saw perched upon the rotting half-submerged trunks – upon the cypress “knees” that rose like brown obelisks around the edge of the water; or winged their slow flight through the murky gloom, and filling the air with their deafening screams. On both sides of the trace towered gigantic trees, flanked at their bases with huge projections, that appeared like the battlements of a fortress, these singular protuberances rose far above the height of my horse – radiating from the trunks on every side, and often causing the path to take a circuitous direction. In the deep gloom, the track would have been difficult to follow, but for an occasional blaze appearing upon the smooth bark of the sycamores.

The scene was by no means suggestive of pleasant reflections – the less so, since I had ascertained, from my host of yesternight, that the greater portion of Section Number 9 was of just such a character; and that there was scarcely a spot upon it fit for a “homestead,” except the one already occupied! “Such an ‘encumbrance’ on my estate,” reflected I, “is worse than the heaviest mortgage;” and I should have been willing at that moment to part with the timber at a very “low valuation.” But I well knew the value of such a commodity. On the Thames or the Mersey, a mine of wealth – on Mud Creek, it would not have been taken as a gift! My spirits fell as I rode forward – partly influenced by the sombre scenes through which I was passing – partly by the natural reaction which ever follows the hour of sweet enjoyment – and partly, no doubt, from some unpleasant presentiments that were once more shaping themselves in my mind.

Up to this time, I had scarcely given thought to my errand, or its object. First the gay hues of the morning, and then the romantic incidents of the hour, had occupied my thoughts, and hindered me from dwelling on future plans or purposes. Now, however, that I was coming close to the clearing of the squatter, I began to feel, that I was also approaching a crisis.