Fort Lafayette | Page 5

fact the danger was imminent, for the lawn at that spot merged into a
rocky space, forming a little bluff which overhung the stream some
fifteen, feet. Oriana's hand was laid instinctively upon Arthur's shoulder,
and with the other she pointed, with a gesture of bewildered anxiety, at
the approaching vehicle. Arthur paused only long enough to understand
the situation, and then stepping calmly a few paces to the left, stood
directly in the path of the rushing steeds.
"Oh, Mr. Wayne! no, no!" cried Oriana, in a tone half of fear and half
supplication; but he stood there unmoved, with the same quiet,
mournful expression that he habitually wore. The horses faltered
somewhat when they became conscious of this fixed, calm figure
directly in their course. They would have turned, but their impetus was
too great, and they swerved only enough to bring the head of the off
horse in a line with Arthur's body. As coolly as if he was taking up a
favorite book, but with a rapid movement, he grasped the rein below
the bit with both hands firmly, and swung upon it with his whole
weight. The frightened animal turned half round, stumbled, and rolled
upon his side, his mate falling upon his knees beside him; the carriage
was overturned with a crash, and little Pompey pitched out upon the
greensward, unhurt.
By this time, Beverly, followed by a crowd of excited negroes, had
reached the spot.
"How is it, Arthur," said Beverly, placing his hand affectionately on his
friend's shoulder, "are you hurt?"
"No," he replied, the melancholy look softening into a pleasant smile;

but as he rose and adjusted his disordered dress, he coughed
painfully--the same dry, hacking cough that had often made those who
loved him turn to him with an anxious look. It was evident that his
delicate frame was ill suited to such rough exercise.
"We shall be cheated out of our ride this morning," said Beverly, "for
that axle has been less fortunate than you, Arthur; it is seriously hurt."
They moved slowly toward the house, Oriana looking silently at the
grass as she walked mechanically at her brother's side. When Arthur
descended into the drawing-room, after having changed his soiled
apparel, he found her seated there alone, by the casement, with her
brow upon her hand. He sat down at the table and glanced abstractedly
over the leaves of a scrap-book. Thus they sat silently for a quarter hour,
when she arose, and stood beside him.
"Will you forgive me, Mr. Wayne?"
He looked up and saw that she had been weeping. The haughty curl of
the lip and proud look from the eye were all gone, and her expression
was of humility and sorrow. She held out her hand to him with an air
almost of entreaty. He raised it respectfully to his lips, and with the low,
musical voice, sadder than ever before, he said:
"I am sorry that you should grieve about anything. There is nothing to
forgive. Let us forget it."
"Oh, Mr. Wayne, how unkind I have been, and how cruelly I have
wronged you!"
She pressed his hand between both her palms for a moment, and looked
into his face, as if studying to read if some trace of resentment were not
visible. But the blue eyes looked down kindly and mournfully upon her,
and bursting into tears, she turned from him, and hurriedly left the
room.
CHAPTER III.

The incident related in the preceding chapter seemed to have effected a
marked change in the demeanor of Oriana toward her brother's guest.
She realized with painful force the wrong that her thoughtlessness,
more than her malice, had inflicted on a noble character, and it required
all of Arthur's winning sweetness of disposition to remove from her
mind the impression that she stood, while in his presence, in the light of
an unforgiven culprit. They were necessarily much in each other's
company, in the course of the many rambles and excursions that were
devised to relieve the monotony of the old manor house, and Oriana
was surprised to feel herself insensibly attracted toward the shy and
pensive man, whose character, so far as it was betrayed by outward
sign, was the very reverse of her own impassioned temperament. She
discovered that the unruffled surface covered an under-current of pure
thought and exquisite feeling, and when, on the bosom of the river, or
in the solitudes of the forest, his spirit threw off its reserve under the
spell of nature's inspiration, she felt her own impetuous organization
rebuked and held in awe by the simple and quiet grandeur that his
eloquence revealed.
One afternoon, some two weeks after his arrival at the Riverside manor,
while returning from a canter in the neighborhood, they paused upon an