Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/59

 Mr. Bentley named a sum so liberal, that the man forgot even curiosity in his haste to secure it: In less time than that appointed, he came dashing down to the wharf in a stout wagon, with a couple of chairs rattling inside and a piece of rough board answering for his own seat, A pair of beautiful iron-grey horses, that might have befitted a queen’s carriage, gave promise of a quick if not comfortable journey.

Into this wagon the luggage which had been brought from the sloop was placed, and in a fit of extra politeness the countryman threw a buffalo robe over the two chairs, forming a  rather imposing seat, of which Mr. Bentley and his daughter took possession.

Away they drove over the hills, and along the beautiful lakes, that render the basin of Rockland county scarcely less than a wild paradise. Everything was strange and new to Gillian. The forest trees, grouped in masses of red, yellow, maroon, green, and brown, all relieving and brightening each other; the broken hollows choked up with hemlocks and pines; the ferns and mosses creeping down to the wayside! each sending out some new fragrance that soothed while it invigorated the beholder.

As they approached the western hills, that bound the county, Mr. Bentley grew silent and anxious, so silent and pale that Gillian ceased to  talk, and grew lonely, as checked spirits always must. The driver, who had amused her with his blunt questions and shrewd remarks, now i began to be a little curious about their destination. Hitherto Mr. Bentley had told him what road to take, and where to turn. But now the sun was on the verge of the horizon; the western outline was one glow of gold; and the gorgeous trees swayed to and fro in its light, blending sky and earth together in rioh harmony.

“Wall, now, if I maybe so bold, where on earth are we a driving to?” inquired the man, leaning back, with one hand on his seat, and checking his horses with the other.

Mr. Bentley, whose eyes had been fixed on one point, with a strained gaze, now directed the man’s attention to a distant dwelling, which stood upon the slope of the hills, and answered in a husky voice,

“To that house.”

There was something in his voice that impressed the man, who merely answered, “Jest  eyes so,” and prepared to drive on. But one of the horses had got a pebble in the hollow of his hoof, and he was obliged to dismount from his seat and remedy the accident. As he stood in the road, with the horse’s foot bent back between these two persons, after a mutual recognition, his knees, striving to beat the pebble out with a stone, a hearty voice came out of a side road, and directly a man appeared, riding on a heavy farm horse, and mounted on two plethoric ﬂour bags, which were ﬂung across the saddle. “Hello, there. What’s the difﬁculty? Lamed your hoss or broke a linch-pin?"

“Nothing to speak on,” answered the driver. “One of these varmints has got a stone in his huff, and limps a triﬂe. I’m obleeged to you all the same."

The farmer rode up to the wagon, looked down at the horse, who held his hoof daintily, with the edge to the ground, and then took a friendly survey of the travelers.

“Strangers, I reckon?” he muttered. Then turning to the driver he commenced an acquaintance in the usual way. “Any news stirrin’ from where you come from, neighbor?” “Nothing to speak on." “Just from the river?"

“Started from the point today.”

“Crops good in that vicinity?"

"From fair to middling.”

All this time, the farmer kept his eyes on Mr. Bentley, who ﬁxed uneasy glances on his face, while he was speaking, but turned away, perplexed and uncertain in the end. As the driver mounted to his seat again, the farmer prepared to ride on, but with evident hesitation, for he laid the bridle down on his horse‘s neck twice, as if about to address the travelers, but took it up again and urged his horse into a slow jog. But now Mr. Bentley seemed to shake off his uncertainty. He bent forward, in nervous haste, and bade the driver call that man back The sound of a voice made the farmer turn, and he come trotting up to the wagon, evidently glad to be recalled.

“Tell me," said Bentley, leaning toward him, “is your name Hart? And do you live in the stone house on the slope of the hill yonder?"

“My name is Hart, sir; and that stone house is my home, till the owner claims it," answered the farmer, proudly.

“Daniel," said Mr. Bentley, reaching forth his hand, “have you entirely forgotten me?”

The farmer took the slender hand in his hard palm, grasped it, and was silent for a moment. But his broad features worked; and, at last his eyes ﬁlled, and while shaking Mr. Bentley's hand, he turned his head aside, ashamed of his weakness.

It is strange how little people have to say, who meet for the ﬁrst time, after years of separation! The first words that passed between these two persons, after a mutual recognition, were simple enough: