"Did you ever observe this fellow that I'm riding? Do you see how long and straight he is in the back? Well, that's the Arab blood that's in him. His grandfather was a superb Arab, that the Pacha of Egypt gave my uncle when he was travelling there;" and he proceeded to dilate at large on the merits and pedigree of his horse, the truth being that he and his ancestry before him had been born and bred in the State of Vermont. Morton listened with civil incredulity, and wished his companion at the antipodes.
"Ah, there's my cousin's house," exclaimed Wren, pointing to a very pretty cottage and grounds which they were approaching--"Mary Holyoke, you know--Mary Everard that was some three months ago. What a delightful retreat for the honeymoon!"
"Stop there with me, will you? I'm going in for a few minutes, to wish them a pleasant journey. They are going to Niagara to-morrow."
"As you please, my dear fellow. I think they are quite right to travel now; it's a better season than the spring; and a honeymoon journey, after all, isn't _all_ romance, you know. Besides, they are going to have a charming companion--Miss Leslie."
"I thought that she had just lost her mother-in-law."
"That's the very thing. She's almost ill with watching night after night; so Mary,--they used to be friends at school,--has been very anxious that she should make the journey with them, for a change of scene, you know,--and Colonel Leslie has persuaded her to go."
"To-morrow. They mean to spend a few days at Trenton, and then go to the Falls. But here we are; won't you change your mind, and come in?"
"Good evening, then;" and waving his hand again, Wren trotted up the avenue.
"Virtue never goes unrewarded," thought Morton; "if I hadn't joined the fellow, I might not have known about this journey."
On the next day he discovered that they had actually gone, and that, as Wren had said, Niagara was to be the ultimatum of their tour. On the following morning, he himself took the western train, and made all speed for the Falls.
If folly grows romantic, I must paint it.--_Pope_.
On the American side of the Niagara, a few miles below the Falls, is a deep chasm, bearing the inauspicious christening of the Devil's Hole. Near it there is--or perhaps was, for things have changed thereabouts--a path winding far down among rocks and forests, till it leads to the brink of the river. Here, darkened by the beetling cliffs and sombre forests, the Niagara surges on its way, like a compressed ocean, raging to break free. At the verge of this watery convulsion stood Holyoke and his wife, Miss Leslie, and Morton, whom they had chanced to meet that morning.