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PART I.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.CHAPTER IV.CHAPTER V.CHAPTER VI.CHAPTER VI.CHAPTER VII.PART II.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.CHAPTER IV.PART III.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.PART IV.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.CHAPTER IV.PART V.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.CHAPTER IV.CHAPTER V.CHAPTER VI.
INTRODUCTION—THE TRAVELERS.
A few years since, most of the western States andTerritories—particularly those bordering upon the greatMississippi—were infested with bands of lawless desperadoes,collected from all parts of the globe, who, having become criminals intheir native land, here sought an asylum, either beyond the pale of thelaw entirely, or where stern Justice being weak, was relaxed from thatseverity which she exercised in the more populous sections of thecountry. Here, in many cases, they formed themselves into bands, choosingsome one of the more bold and daring of their party forleader—their purpose, doubtless, being the greater facility ofproceeding in their depredations, as well as firmer security againstapprehension.
But, although, as we have remarked, they formed themselves into bandsor parties, yet rarely, in fact we believe only in extreme cases, didthey openly act in concert; their policy being to conceal from their morehonest neighbors the fact that there was such a regular organizedcombination of men for outlawry purposes in the vicinity. It was theirpolicy, also, to disperse themselves throughout the country; to meet onlyat certain intervals, and then in secret, under cover of night; by whichmeans they would appear as honest citizens; live, many of them,unsuspected, and in all cases be among the first to learn of whatevermovement might chance to be in progress detrimental to their interests asa body, or to any member individually, and thus be enabled to takemeasures to prevent, or lay secret plans to counteract it. This will, wethink, sufficiently account for their, in many cases, long and sometimesundisturbed career of dissipation and crime.
Our story opens a few years subsequent to the close of the last warwith England, and at a period when the interior of Missouri—thetheatre of the scenes, incidents and characters which are about tofollow—was, comparatively, but little known; in fact, we believe wemay with propriety say, there were portions within its territorialboundaries at this time unseen and untrod by the eye and foot of thewhite man. But notwithstanding there were sections of it uninhabited,there was already a tide of emigration setting in from the eastward,which rendered it probable that in the course of a few years, at thefarthest, it would not only be fully explored, but settled, by some ofthe more enterprising and industrious inhabitants of the States lyingeast of the great Mississippi. Even now the eastern portion of it wasbeginning to exhibit signs of settlement and civilization, and alreadythe blue smoke arose from many a cot which here and there dotted the longline of forest bordering on the Mississippi. This forest followed thewindings of the river and extended back some fifteen or twenty miles,opening, in some places, upon the large and beautiful prairie, where thetall grass waved to and fro in the breeze, containing its legions of wildanimals, and where the eye could range uninterruptedly for miles onmiles, as over some vast sea, until finally shut in by the far distanthorizon. In some parts of this forest the ground for miles was nearlylevel, and only required the removal of the underbrush to make it abeautiful grove, while other parts were wild, rocky and mountainous,presenting to the eye of the beholder many grand and romantic scenes, asthough Nature had designed to soothe, awe and display her power by strongand varying contrasts.
As before remarked, that region of country known as Missouri, was fastemerging from savage to civilized life—from a gloomy wilderness tothe abodes of civilization. The axe might now be heard in the forestswhere, but a few years before, echoed the wild war-whoop of the Indian.On the banks of that rapid and mighty stream, from which Missouri takesher name, a few regular settlements had sprung up—among the mostprominent of which we will mention the old town of Franklin, a place thathas long since disappeared, having been literally swept away by theeternal knawings of this river whose bed is continually changing.
The inhabitants of Missouri at the time of which we write, as mustnaturally be the case in every new settlement, were composed of allclasses, from the refined, educated and intellectual, to the coarse,ignorant, demi-savage race, which are ever found to exist as a kind ofmedium between refinement and utter barbarity.
Having made these few preliminary remarks, so that the reader may forman idea of the then existing state of the country, we will now at onceproceed with our story.
It was near the close of a hot sultry day, in the summer of 18—,that two travelers were slowly wending their way over a wild and somewhatmountainous tract of land, some thirty miles distant and in asouth-westerly direction from St. Louis. The elder of the two was a manabout thirty-five years of age, whose height rather exceeded six feet,and although not what might be termed of handsome proportions, yet ofthat close knit and sinewy build which gives evidence of great muscularstrength and a capability of enduring much hardship and fatigue. Hisforehead, which was visible from his hat being partly removed, was ofmedium proportions, on one side of which was carelessly parted his longraven colored hair. His face was long, thin and rather strongly marked.His mouth was large, around which played a peculiar smile which, toconvey an idea of, we shall term a philosophical one. His lips werethick—cheeks somewhat hollow— nose long andpointed—eyes small and grey, with a peculiar twinkle in the latter,when speaking, which led one to fancy there was more meant thansaid—and altogether the whole expression of his features was acombination of cunning, shrewdness and candor, mingled with a quiet,thoughtful and humorous turn of mind. In speech he was very deliberate,and no matter by what circumstances surrounded, would never fail to giveeach word its proper bearing. His dress was a plain home-spun suit ofsheep's grey—an article much worn by the yeomen of that day—and his dialect partook strongly of that peculiarity which distinguishesthe people of New England— particularly those who have littleaccess to society—from almost every other; and was, besides, ofthat uncouth form of speech, which is engendered from habit, when notpolished by the refinement of education.
His companion was a very different personage; in fact, of an entirelyopposite cast. In years he was some five the other's junior—somethree inches less in stature—of a form full of grace andelasticity—a face almost round—a complexionruddy—large, restless grey eyes—with muchhauteur inhis bearing, and of an active and rather irritable temperament. Hisarticulation corresponded with his temperament, being quick andimpetuous, and his language gave evidence of his superiority over theother in point of education. His dress was a plain suit of black, alittle the worse for wear perhaps, but of an excellent fit, which,together with the fine texture of the cloth, the graceful ease with whichit was worn, had been proof sufficient the wearer was no laborer, evenwere not the soft white hand, holding a light fancy cane, to be taken asevidence.
To some, perhaps, it may appear singular that two individuals, sodirectly opposite in personal appearance, manners, dress and temperament,should be companions, and what is more, friends; yet such was the case.Notwithstanding the old adage that "like clings to like," it must beadmitted we have a great many exceptions, and that like clings to unlikemay be said with propriety of the social relations and connections ofmankind in general. It is by this process the great strings of Nature aremade to blend their sounds in harmony.
It was, as we have said, near the close of the day, and the last raysof the setting sun had been intercepted by a thick, black thunder cloud,which, approaching rapidly, threatened our travelers with a heavy shower.For some minutes neither spoke, but silently glancing toward the west,both immediately advanced from a slow to a rapid pace.
The younger was the first to break silence with the exclamation "Ha!"as a flash of lightning, more vivid than any previous, flung its redlurid glare over them, and for a moment seemed to put the forest in ablaze, followed almost instantaneously by a heavy crash of thunder. "Byheavens! Bernard, there is no mistaking that! How far are we now fromWebber's?"
"Wal, I should guess about five miles," replied Bernard.
"Five miles!" echoed the other quickly, with a touch of sarcasm. "Why,Harvey, what are you thinking about? It was only ten miles when we lastenquired, nearly two hours since, and now you think we have only reachedhalf way!— Pshaw!"
"Wal," remarked Bernard, coolly and quietly, "this ere's a freecountry, and every body's got a right to their own opinion any how; andso, as the feller said, if you don't like the distance at five miles, youcan have it for any distance you're a mind to."
For a moment a half angry smile played around the mouth of theyounger, as though he would have laughed, but was checked by someopposite feeling, while he bit his nether lip and tapped his cane in thepalm of his left hand with a quick, nervous motion.
"Well, well," rejoined he, quickly, "if we have yet five miles totravel, our pace must be still increased, for the night gathersfast!"
"I calculate we'd about as well be seeking for a shelter," remarkedBernard, quietly.
"A shelter!" exclaimed the other in surprise; "surely you do not dreamof spending the night in this lonely place?"
"Wal, as to the matter o' that," answered Bernard, "I reckon I don'tdream no how, 'cause I'm awake and its a sartin thing; and when a body'sawake and sartin, ye see he ain't a dreaming; but"—and he lookedcoolly at the other, speaking slowly and impressively—"if you wantto tell your friends of your adventures, and put this 'ere night in asone of 'em, you haint got a minute to lose 'tween this and the time yourhead's under something more powerful to protect it than that arebeaver."
"Why, what mean you?" cried the other, turning somewhat pale.
"D'ye see that are cloud?" said Bernard, elevating his finger to anangle of some forty-five degrees; "now mark all the twists in't, and keeptally for about a minute all them are streaks o' lightning dancing up anddown, and I reckon you'll come to the conclusion that the safest placefor Marcus Tyrone don't lay in the open air by any means."
"Ay! true, true!" returned Tyrone, with a start. "You are right,Bernard, right; for there is something awful in yonder cloud. But what isto be done? We can reach no habitation, and to remain here is, I fear,but to expose ourselves to certain death! Can we not find shelter undersome of these rocks?"
"Why, ye see, Mark, I'll jest tell ye how 'tis," answered Bernard. "Ifwe don't find some place to git our heads under soon, its my opinion theywont be no further use to us; for that are storm aint a going to be nocommon one, or else I aint no judge. Now right away here to the left o'us is a cave; for a feller pointed it out to me when I traveled this wayafore, and said folks kind o' reckened as how it were aren—ren—something, for robbers."
"Rendezvous, doubtless," remarked Tyrone.
"O yes, that's it! I don't see what makes folks use such tarnal hardnames now-a-days; they didn't use to when I got edicated. 'Spect they'regitting a great deal smarter, oh! Mark?"
"Doubtless," replied the other, with a smile. "But of the cave,Harvey?"
"O yes; wal, I calculate we'd about as well be putting our headsinside on't, for we wont no more'n git killed if its got robbers in it,and if we stay out here, I swow we'll git blown clean into a jiffy, forthat are harrycane yonder aint a going to be over nice about what itdoes, that's a fact."
"But where is this cave, Harvey?"
"D'ye see that are rough pile o' stones, right away there, that lookjest as if they'd been playing stone wall all their lives?"
"Ay, ay."
"Wal, that's the place, and I swow we can't git there too soon, forthat are last streak o' lightning fairly felt hot. Come on, Mark, don'tgo to getting skeered now."
"Pshaw!" returned Tyrone, his features becoming a shade more pale; andfollowing Bernard, he proceeded directly towards the spot designated;though, perhaps, with feelings less at ease than he would have hiscompanion imagine.
The cave alluded to, was situated near the brow of a steep, rocky hillor bluff, some several rods distant to the left of the road, which ourtravelers had just quitted, and appeared to have been formed by somegreat convulsion of nature, in the rending and upheaving of rocks, whichhad fallen together so as to leave a cavity sufficiently large to containseveral persons. The mouth of this cave fronted the south, and overlookedthe beautiful Maramee, which rolled sparkling along some fifty yardsbelow, and was surrounded by scenery romantic in the extreme. The hill onwhich it stood was a portion of a ridge which extended in an irregularline far away to the southwest and northeast. Immediately above and belowthis cave were large projecting rocks, which, to all appearance, were soslightly bedded in the earth, that but little force was necessary to sendthem thundering to the bottom. A dwarfish growth of shrub-oaks hadstruggled up between them, and presented their rough, shaggy tops above,as though to give the scene an air of wildness and desolation. Butnotwithstanding this, there was a fine redeeming trait in the surroundingscenery—viewed from the brow of the hill—whose beauty washeightened by contrasts the most pleasing. At its base on the westernside, was a finely timbered forest, stretching far away northward, andfinally opening upon a beautiful strip of meadow or prairie land, overwhich the eye might wander for miles, to rest at last upon a blue hazyridge of mountains in the distance.
The view towards the east and south was not so extensive, but thislikewise had its attractions. A distant perspective was cut off byanother ridge, running almost parallel to the one just described; but theloss was amply compensated, by the wild picturesque scenery presented,and the gentle murmur which stole sweetly upon the ear, as the Marameesent its waters foaming and dashing over its rocky bed between, anon toglance off into a still silvery belt and for a time mirror surroundingobjects ere forever lost in the bosom of the mighty Mississippi.
The road of which mention has already been made—though it would,perhaps, poorly compare with some of the present day—was, for thisperiod and section of country, uncommonly good— being mostly clearof stones, stumps, brush and the like—so that a skilful horsemanmight dash rapidly over it with little danger of life or limb. To theeastward it followed the windings of the Maramee, for some considerabledistance, through a thick, dark ravine, and then branched off through alevel and extensive forest.
As light one horse vehicles were not in use at this period, and moreespecially in this part of the country, the horse was ridden instead bythose who prefered an easier and more speedy locomotion than walking, andin consequence every settler of note was supplied with a number of thesenoble animals, for the use of himself and family.
But we fear the reader will think us digressing, and so let us returnto our travelers.
THE STORM—THE KIDNAPPERS.
Although Bernard approached the cave with a firm step, apparentlyindifferent as to what might be therein concealed, yet it must beadmitted there were feelings within his breast strangely at variance withhis calm, unmoved exterior. Twice he seemed on the point of coming to ahalt, but then, as though actuated by some counteracting feeling, hestrode steadily onward, and was soon standing at the entrance. It was nowfast growing dark, for the coming storm had considerably advanced thenight, and although the sun had barely set, objects at but a littledistance appeared dim and indistinct, save when thrown into bold relief,for a moment, by some vivid flash of lightning, when, as if to repair theerror, they apparently sunk into a deeper gloom than ever.
Casting a hasty glance behind him, and perceiving his companion closeat hand, Bernard motioned him to silence, and had cautiously began hisentrance, when a hurried exclamation from the other caused him to lookaround, and seeing him gazing steadily towards the west, he turned hiseyes in that direction, and soon became transfixed as though by aspell.
We have already remarked it was growing dark, but below the gloom haddeepened into night, which lay like a pall along the valley, into whicheven the lightning, as it played along the tops of the trees with a luridglare, seemed unable to penetrate. But the scene higher up was what hadcaught and riveted the attention of our travelers.
Just over the summit of another hill, towards the west, was a whitemisty streak, which lay spread along the horizon, like in appearance abank of snow seen through a fog, above which awful black clouds wererolling, and tumbling, and twisting themselves into the most angry shapespossible — belching forth their forked tongues oflightning—seeming like some dark and mighty spirits of theetherial, enraged, and charging with all Heaven's artillery against thisnether world. During the intervals between each clap of thunder, aroaring sound, like that of some distant waterfall, was borne to the earsof the travelers with a startling distinctness, gradually increasing eachmoment, until it sounded like the roll of an hundred drums.
During this brief space—for brief indeed it was— not atwig was seen to move—not a leaf to stir— but all, all wasmotionless, us though Nature were holding her breath in awe of some greatand mighty convulsion. The air felt hot, thick and oppressive, as fromthe breath of an evil spirit. Suddenly the trees on the other hill becamedreadfully agitated—bowing their heads, and writhing, and twistingthemselves into all manner of shapes possible, while a dark misty shadowcrept, or rather swept along, and buried them in terrible night.
Thus it appeared to our travelers, who, warned by this and a few heavydrops of rain, now eagerly sought their shelter; Bernard, as previously,taking the precedence. Moving cautiously forward, after entering themouth of the cave— for caution was a part of his nature—hepresently gained the interior, where he was immediately joined by hiscompanion.
A flash of lightning at this moment discovered to our travellers thatthey were the only occupants of the cave, when something like a sigh fromBernard, and the ejaculation of "Thank God!" from Tyrone, attested therelief felt by both.
"I say, Mark," began Bernard, who was the first to speak, "I don'tbelieve this ere cave's a ren— what d'ye call it?"
"Rendezvous," answered Tyrone.
"O yes, rendezvous. I say, I don't believe this ere cave's arendezvous for robbers, for when that are last streak o' lightning dancedaround in here, I could'nt see no traces of its being inhabited."
"But what led you to think inhabited, Harvey?"
"Why, when I's out here afore, I hearn a good deal o' talk about abanditti, which had been skeering people round here, and some feller toldme they used to meet in this ere cave."
"Indeed? But why did not the citizens take measures to apprehendthem?" enquired the other.
"Wal, there was some such kind o' talk, but I don't know how it comeout, for jest about that time I went back to the East, and haint neverheard nothing on't since. But I say, Mark, its lucky we've got in here, Iswow—robbers or not— for that are harrycane's ripping everything afore it. Jest listen how it roars. I never—" the remainderof the sentence, if spoken, was drowned in a terrible crash of thunder,that shook the ground beneath them, and caused both the speaker and hiscompanion to start involuntarily.
During the conversation just recorded, the storm had been rushing onwith all the wild fury of a tornado, and now came sweeping down theopposite hill—tearing along through the valley— up thehill—dashing against the cave, as though to rend itasunder—snapping lofty trees like twigs— tearing them, inmany instances, quite up by the roots--hissing, and foaming, androaring—on, on it went in its mad career, seeking new victims amidthe quiet glades, and making the very earth beneath it tremble in itsfierce carousal! For some half hour our travelers stood mute—awedto silence by the raging of the elements—gazing forth through theaperture, assisted by the incessant flashes of lightning, upon the awfuldevastation going on without.
"A fortunate escape, truly!" remarked Tyrone, at length, drawing along breath.
"Jest what I's a thinking on exactly," returned Bernard. "I knowedwhen I seed it a coming up, that there wouldn't be no child's play aboutit; but its gone clean ahead o' my calculations altogether. How them arestreaks o' lightning did dance around us here, and cut capers 'mong thetrees. I never seed the like on't afore in all my born days. For thematter o' that, they haint done yet," added he, as a bright flash for amoment blinded him, and a peal of thunder shook the cave.
For some minutes his companion made no reply, and then in acomplaining, petulent tone said: "Was there ever any thing so unlucky?Only to think of our being literally forced to pass the night in such aplace as this, and so near our destination too! I declare it vexesme."
"Hello! What's all this ere gammon about now?" cried Bernard. "You'rethe strangest, queerest chap I ever seed in all my life; one minute allthankfulness and the next all grumbles. Why don't ye larn a littlepatience? A body'd think when you'd jest 'scaped with your life, youwould'nt, in all human probability, set up grumbling for half an hour, atleast."
"Well, well, Bernard, say no more," replied Tyrone, in a voice ofcontrition. "You know my hasty, impatient nature, and must overlook mylanguage. I know it was wrong in me to complain; but I had set my heartso much on reaching Webber's to-night, that it seemed hard to relinquishthe design."
"Now you speak a little more sensible like," rejoined Bernard; "and asto gitting to Webber's, I guess we'll be able to do it yit. The moon 'llbe up in about an hour, and I reckon this ere storm will clear away bythat time."
And Bernard was right. In an hour the storm had passed on to the east,leaving behind it a few broken, scattered clouds, sailing lazily throughthe air—above which Heaven's diamonds gleamed andsparkled—now hidden from the sight, now shining outmerrily—while the far off flashes and distant rumble betokened thestorm still speeding on in its fury. Anon the moon arose, slowly andmajestically, to pour her silvery flood of light upon the scene,
While here and there a modest star
Drew back from Luna's ray,
Yet shining in its realm afar,
Perchance the queen of day.
Our travelers, now that the storm was passed and moon risen, deemingit expedient to resume their journey, emerged at once from the cave, andhad advanced a few paces towards the road, when their attention andprogress were arrested by the sound of voices in conversation. At firstthe sounds were indistinct, but gradually they seemed to grow louder,denoting thereby the approach of the speakers. At length they descriedtwo figures descending the hill, and instantly crouching behind a rock,were enabled to overhear a few sentences as they passed.
"I don't believe a word on't," growled a gruff voice, accompanied withan oath. "Its only one of the old fool's freaks; and for my part, I'veserved him long enough, and blast me if I don't slit his wesand, as soonas I find out whar he stows the shiners, and then make off and set up fora gentleman in some foreign part; hey, Bill? ha, ha, ha!"
"Hist!" returned his companion. "Thar's no perticular use in tellingevery body else what you're going to do, as I knows on; and besides, ifthe gal and her lover should happen to hear ye, why ye see its all up atonce. Curses on that ar' storm," he added; "I'm feard as how they'll bunksomewhere and take daylight for't. I wouldn't like 'em to slip me now,for such a chance don't come every day, you know."
"But what can the old fool want of the gal?" growled the other.
"Why I've told ye once, you—but hark! they're coming, andso—" here the conversation became so indistinct that our travelerscould make out nothing further, save the word "pistols," which occuredshortly after; but enough had been gleaned to denote foul play, andsimultaneously grasping their weapons, both advanced cautiously in thedirection taken by the others.
The moon as yet had not risen sufficiently to be of any materialservice in distinguishing objects even on the summit of the hill, and theravine below still lay in the gloomy repose of solitude and darkness.
Gliding quickly forward, but at the same time as stealthily aspossible, our travelers soon gained sufficient on the ruffians to enablethem to see their dusky forms, and overhear their conversation.
At length the foremost two came to a halt, at the foot of the hill,just where you enter the ravine already mentioned, and separating, eachtook his station opposite the other—one on either side of theroad—which being at this point uncommonly narrow, owing to somerocks having been removed and piled up on either hand, made it adesirable place for their attack upon the individuals approaching, whomust necessarily pass within their reach.
Ensconsing themselves behind some bushes, which grew by the way side,Bernard and Tyrone awaited in anxious suspense the moment when theywould, probably—in defence of others—be called into action ofno enviable nature. For some moments all was still, and then the silencewas broken by one of the ruffians.
"I say, Bill Riley!" began he of the gruff voice, "blast me, but yourears is a little over-keen to-night. Per'aps you hears 'em coming now,but hang me if I do, and what's more, haint heard 'em."
"Per'aps I's mistaken," answered the other; "at least I thought Iheard 'em. However, thar's no perticular harm in being ready 'gin they docome, you know."
"You're right thar', my trump. But what d'ye think, croney; is't bestto leave the younker in Heaven?"
"No! no! Curdish," replied the other vehenently; "no murder, if we canhelp it. Tap the feller over, but no killing; that's a perticularly aglybusiness, brings ugly consequences, and a feller's mighty apt to catchhemp fever arter it. No, no, Jack, my boy, we musn't have no killing.Jest knock the younker over gently—mount his horse—I'll mountbehind the gal, and then we'll sort o' travel, you know."
"Why hang me for a green un, but I think— rayther think,Bill—we'll travel then, ha, ha, ha. But 'sposin, my ace o' trumps,the younker happens to take it into his head not to be knocked overgently?"
"Why then, Jack, you must kind o' take it out agin, youknow,—ha, ha, ha."
"Well, well," growled Curdish, don't be gittin' foolish over it."
"No!" returned the other drily; "one fool in a party'll do, Ireckon."
Following this last remark, was a pause of some minutes, when theconversation was again renewed by Curdish.
"I say, Bill, what's yer honest, disinterested, confidential and mostperticular opinion of old Ben, any how?"
"Why that's come at without any study," answered Bill. "I jest thinkhe's an arrant knave."
"A what?"
"A bloody rascal!"
"I'll take yer fist on that, Bill, by —," and the speakeruttered an oath. "What a long hooked nose he's got, haint he? If I'd sucha nose, by St. Christopher! I'd sell myself for a screech owl—ha,ha, ha."
"Hush, Jack! You always laugh as if you wer' a going to split yerjaws."
"Ye-e-s, per'aps so."
"By-the-by, Jack, I couldn't never exactly understand how you and oldBen come to be on such friendly terms? You've said you didn't likehim."
"Like him!" cried Jack. "O yes, I like him— ha, ha, ha! Jestwait, Bill, don't be in a hurry, and I'll show ye how I like him. Hang mefor a dog, if I don't cut his bloody old heart out o' him 'fore I'mdone!"
"Well but Jack, I say, how the dence comes it you've seemed on suchfriendly terms?"
"Why ye see, Bill, I'll tell ye. The old chap kind o' did me a favorone time, in the way of savin' me from the hemp fever, in the case o'that ar' young man as was suddenly missed, when people took theperticular trouble to swear that I— put him out o' the way, youknow; and being's I'm sort o' in his power yit, why I've rather kept upan affectionate feeling, ye see—ha, ha, ha! But I say, old feller,seein' as how I've answered your question, maybe you'll have theperticular goodness to answer mine. What is the old cut-throat goin' todo with the gal?"
"Why's I've told ye afore, I ain't sure, but I 'spect thar's a curiousdesign about it. I've bin kind o' watching round, a pickin' up a littlehere and a little thar, puttin' 'em together and guessin' on the whole,and it looks rayther mysterious, I tell ye. You know the old feller westuck and fleeced a few months back, and how old Ben, not satisfied,stuck him twice more, and then saved his life—a thing he warn'tnever known to do afore; well you know as how he got hold o' some paperstoo, which he said warn't o' no account to us, and so took 'em for hisshare, which looked sort o' curious agin, and which bein' all puttogether, makes me think as how them ar' papers, this gal, and the'tother old feller ar' all kind o' mixed up into a secret; for ever sincehe's bin mighty anxious to git hold o' the gal, and I overhearn him sayone time, when talkin' to himself, that he'd sometime be a great man, andas soon he could get the gal he was goin' to mizzle and set sail on thebig brine."
"Set sail, eh!" growled Curdish. "He said as how he'd set sail, didhe? Well, blast me, if he don't too; but it'll be an ugly voyage he'll begoin', by—! or else Jack Curdish ain't no prophet."
The conversation after this for something over an hour, was carried onin a tone so low, that our travelers were unable to distinguish what wassaid, when the voice of Riley was again heard to articulate:
"I'm afeard this ere storm's knocked our calculations all in the head,Jack."
"Hark!" returned the other; "don't you hear 'em?"
"Ha! yes, 'tis they at last. Now be careful, my boy, and jest do upthe thing safe and genteel, for thar's a few shiners at stake, you know."As he spoke, horses were heard approaching at a quick pace, and presentlythe voices of their riders in conversation.
"Now then, Mark," whispered Bernard, grasping a pistol with one handand his companion's arm with the other, "jest let us show these ere chapsthat there's other folks about."
"Ay!" returned Tyrone, setting his teeth hard, "they need an honestman's lesson."
A thrilling scream aroused them to action, and both sprang forward atonce. Immediately after was heard the sharp report of a pistol—agroan— another scream, and the clatter of a horse's hoofs onthrough the ravine.
THE LOVERS—THE WARNING—THE CAPTURE.
We must now go back in our narrative, to a short time previous to itsopening in the first chapter. On the same road already mentioned asleading on through the ravine, about ten miles to the northeast of theplace described in the foregoing chapter, and on the same day the eventsjust recorded took place, were two personages, well mounted on a coupleof beautiful horses, riding along at a leisure pace. Of the two, one wasa young man, apparently about twenty years of age, of a fine form andmanly bearing. His countenance was well shaped, open, frank and noble,and of a high intellectual cast; while his bright, hazel eye sparkledwith a true poetic expression. His forehead was smooth, broad and high,surmounted by dark brown hair, which hung in graceful curls far down hisneck, giving to him a somewhat feminine, though not unpleasing,appearance. He was well dressed—uncommonly so for this section ofthe country—in a fine suit of black; the lower extremity of hispantaloons being encased in fine buckskin leggins, while his head wascovered by a beautiful cap of dark silk velvet, on either side of which acouple of gold mounted buttons shone conspicuously. He rode his highmettled steed in that easy, graceful, dignified manner, which sets forththe rider to so much advantage, and which is only acquired by constantpractice, together with a knowledge of the rules of horsemanship.
His companion was a female, elegantly attired in a riding suit, andlikewise rode very gracefully. Of years she had seen some eighteen, wasmedium in stature, and beautifully formed. Her countenance, strictlyspeaking, could scarce be account ed handsome, for her features were notentirely regular; yet there was something so noble, so intelligent in theexpression, her dark blue eyes were so lit up with the fires of anearnest soul, that ten to one you would pronounce her beautiful, ere theform of her features was distinctly recognised; thus unconsciouslyawarding another proof of the mind's immortal triumph over matter. Herhair was a glossy auburn, the front of which was neatly braided, broughtdown with a graceful curve below her ears, and fastened behind. Herchecks were slightly dimpled, and around her mouth lingered one of thosepleasing expressions—a sort of half smile—which, combinedwith a bright flashing eye, invariably wins upon the beholder in spite ofhimself, and leads us to fancy there is an influence of a Mesmeric natureconnected therewith.
The country through which the two were traveling, was mostly level,and heavily shaded by thick, dark woods, stretching far away on eitherhand, occasionally broken a little in places by the clearing up of somesettler, whereby the beams of the sun poured gently in, refreshing to theeyes of civilization, as the cool springs of water to the thirstytraveler of the Arabian Desert.
It was an exceedingly warm day, and the travelers would have sufferedmuch, had they not been so well protected from the rays of the sun, whichalready far advanced toward the western horizon, threw the shade of thelofty trees directly across their path. Still the air was hot and sultry,unaccompanied by any cooling breeze, and although jogging along at a verymoderate pace, both horse and rider perspired freely.
"Ah! how refreshing!" exclaimed the lady, as a cool breeze fanned foran instant her heated brow, rustling the leaves with that pleasing soundso delightful in a forest. "See, even my noble Fanny pricks up her ears,and seems greatly rejoiced."
"Ay, and so does Sir Harry," returned her companion. "It is delightfultruly, after this intense and almost suffocating heat. Ah! it dies awayagain; I would it were to continue."
"Well, Edward, let us be thankful for a little, you know that is mymotto."
"True, Emily, and I agree with all my heart."
"All?" enquired Emily with emphasis, casting her head a littleone side, and throwing on him one of her peculiar, fascinating glances;"withall your heart, Edward?"
"That is,all there is left me," replied Edward, with a meaningsmile, gracefully bowing to the lady.
"Ay, that indeed! well put in, Sir Knight! but a little late withal.However, better late than never, says the adage, and I trust you will bea little more circumspect of speech hereafter."
"I will do any thing you require, Emily," returned Edward gallantly;"you have only to command to be obeyed."
"Indeed, Sir Knight! you are very proficient in promises; you haveyielded to a hard task-master, and I fear me if put to the test, youractions would much belie your words."
"Nay, indeed, Emily, you are in error; only give me the trial, and seeif I do not produce the proof."
"Well, sir, since you require it, please ride forward and announce tothe good inhabitants—if you should chance to meet any—that alady is approaching, in the person of Emily Novance, whose gallant by herorders goes before as a herall.— What? you hesitate! is this theway I am to be obeyed? Go, sir! it is my command!"
"Nay, but Emily, this is unfair."
"So, then, you question my orders, do you? Ah! I fear you are like allthe rest of your sex— full of promises, which doubtless you allfulfil, when the fulfilment proves agreeable to yourselves; but whenotherwise, ah me! for our sex;" and the speaker shook her head with anarch look.
"Now, now, Emily; but I see you are determined to carry the point yourown way, so I will fain give in, lest I get worsted by argument."
"Ay, do if you please, Sir Knight! and you will oblige me much, verymuch."
For some minutes after this both rode along in silence, when theconversation was again opened by Edward.
"I say, Emily," began he, at length, "to one of your refined taste,does not this country life, so tone, so solitary, in the woods as itwere, seem very irksome? Methinks to one of your light turn of mind, thathad been used to the gay crowds which throng the city, it must be verytiresome, full of sameness, causingennvi and discontent."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the lady, a slight flush singing her fair noblefeatures, while her eyes sparkled with more than wonted brilliancy."Indeed! think you so? then have I given you more credit for discernmentthan you really possess, if thus you judge the heart of Emily Nevance!What are the gay crowds of the city, of which you speak? Of what are theycomposed, but of fops and fools—apes of fashion—walkingadvertisements for tailors and milliners—whose mirrors are theirprophets, and themselves the only God they worship!—whose verysouls are confined within the trappings of dress, and know as little ofwhat human beings should be, as the insects that crawl beneath our feet!And do you think I sigh for their society? No! give me Nature in herwildest, grandest, seul-inspiring moods!— away from the haunts ofmen, let me contemplate her in silence, and in awe! 'Tis then, far fromloncliness, I feel I hold communion with the All Pervading Spirit! I lookaround me, and behold the works of One, compared with whom, I sink intoutter insignificance. Ay! away with dusty cities! Give me the hills, thedales, the rocky steeps, the level plains, the tall, majestic, sighingforests, with the music of their creating— the laughing, rippling,sunay streams, that dance along in childish glee—and with a soulpure, sinless in the sight of God, I will rest content to spend my daysin holy contemplation."
"Spoken like yourself, Emily!—my sentiments, for the world!"exclaimed Edward, with a bright, enthusiastic animation of countenancethat told the feelings within more eloquently far than words "I was butjesting, dear Emily."
"Well, I am glad to hear you say that, at all events. I should besorry to have you form such an opinion of me as you first expressed."This was said in a sad, almost mournful tone of voice, while the speakerbent her head forward, and appeared to be examining some of the trappingsof the saddle.
"Nay, never fear, dear Emily, that I will think aught of you but whatis most worthy," replied Edward, in that deep, earnest tone of voicewhich invariably carries conviction with it the speaker is sincere. "Butwhy," continued he, after a pause of some moments, during which eachseemed buried in some deep study, "why, dearest Emily, when every thingconcurs to prove us so fitly adapted to each other, why will you withholdyour consent to be mine? O, if you did but know the deep, ardent passionI possess for you, methinks you would not turn so deaf an ear to all mypleadings!"
"There, Edward, you do me wrong," replied Emily; "I am not deaf toyour pleadings, far from it; nor do I in the least doubt the passion ofwhich you speak; but Edward, as I told you before, we are both as yetyoung, and I would rather, ere you bind yourself by a solemn promise,that you look more about you, lest by too hasty nuptials you do an actwhich you may repent the remainder of your days. Besides, you know youare wealthy; I am not; and your parents will, perchance, object to yourwedding one so far beneath you."
"Ah! Emily," sighed Edward, "that is the unkindest word of all.Beneath me," cried he suddenly, "by heavens! it were not well forany to utter that in my presence, save Emily Nevance! Beneath me, indeed!and in what am I your superior? In gold! And did not you yourself despiseit but now, and all its idle votaries?"
"But then, Edward, you know the world—"
"Pshaw! what care I for the world? Theworld — nonsense!I am a man, and I stand on my own opinions, in matters of my own concern!Surely I would be mad, or worse than mad, to sacrifice my own happinessto please the world!"
"But then, Edward, you know your parents may think differently inregard to the opinions of the world."
For some minutes Edward, mused thoughtfully, before making a reply. Heknew that Emily was correct in her surmises, for his parents were bothrich and proud—his father more especially—and he knew toothat the latter, in his own mind, had already disposed of his hand, toone he had never seem, simply because she was a personage of wealth; andconsequently, that it would be a difficult matter, even if done at all,to gain their consent to his union with another, and furthermore too,when that other was poor; but still he loved Emily sincerely, deeply, andwas fully determined not to sacrifice his own happiness to gratify thecaprices of others, even were those others his parents.
"Well, Emily," he at length replied, "depend upon it, whatever myparents may think, my views and sentiments shall, at least, ever remainunaltered; and since you will not now sacredly promise to become mine, Iwill live on the joyful hope of some day winning your consent— someday calling you so, with the sanction of the laws of both God andman."
"And I," rejoined Emily, in a low sweet tone, with her eyes cast down,"I will live on in the sincere hope, that should that day ever come, Imay be worthy of you."
"Ah, then you admit—"
"No! for the present I admit nothing. But see! the sun is alreadynearing the western horizon, where black clouds are looming up in sullenmajesty, and we have a goocly distance yet to ride. Let us put our horsesto the spur."
"Ay, you are right," returned Edward; "time flies so rapidly when withthose we love we scarcely head it. But we must make amends for our delayin this instance, as I like not the looks of yonder claud, and methoughtbut now I heard the distant sound of thunder."
Accordingly putting spurs to the noble animals, they rode forward at afast gallop. Half an hour of good riding brought them to an humblecottage, where, finding the storm was likely to prove detrimental if theycontinued their journey, they concluded to await its termination.Alighting, Edward secured the horses under a sort of shed, and then ledthe way into the hovel, which was a rough, homely fabric, composed oflogs, put together in the rude, half-civilized manner common to the firstsettlers of the West. At the door, or entrance, they were met by afemale—the hostess—a woman somewhat past the middle age, ofrather an unprepossessing appearance, who gave them a cold salutation,and learning the object of their visit, civilly bade them enter. She wasdressed in the simplest, coarsest garb of the day, and wore a stern,haughty, or rather an angry look, which made her person appear to herguests anything but agreeable. The room which they entered waslow, dark,and dirty; the ground—for it could not boast of a floor—beingstrewed with damp, filthy straw. In one corner was some of a fresher,cleanlier appearance; used, undoubtedly, as a place of rest for theoccupants. Several rough benches promiscuously standing about, togetherwith a plain deal table, a few pots and kettles, apparently completed thestock of furniture.
"You're jest in time," remarked the hostess, retreating within, andpointing our travelers to one of the benches; "you haint bin a minnet tooquick; for sich a guster as we're goin' to have, arn't seen in thesediggins often."
"Do you think, madam, we shall have a severe shower?" enquired Edward,casually.
"Think!" cried she contemptuously, drawing herself up, hersmall black eyes flashing angrily, "I arn't one to think, sir!Iknows! Thar's goin' to happen one of the greatest gusters as ever wasknowd on, sir! The tall big trees ar' going to snap like pipe stems!Listen! The thunder growls like a savarageous lion! The lightning danceslike mad!Think, indeed! Hetty Brogan what tells fortunes, arn'tone as thinks much, I reckon Thar! d'ye hear that?" screamed she, as atremendous crash of thunder broke over their heads. "That ar's the spereto' the storm, cheering it on! Hist! d'ye hear that ar' roarin? I tell yeits comin'. Young folks, bewar'! thar's danger in your way! I seeit—the storm—the woods!" and she strode to and fro theapartment, her eyes turned upward, apparently fixed on some distantobject, gesticulating, the while, in that wild manner, which led ourtravelers to believe her touched with insanity. Suddenly stretching outher long bony arm, pausing, and pointing with her finger in the directionshe was gazing, while with the other she seemed to brush a mist frombefore her eyes, she exclaimed with vehemence, "I see it again! thewoods!—the ambush—all—all! Young folks bewar'! thar'sdanger in your way!—be—" a vivid flash of lightning, followedinstantaneously by another crash of thunder, that made the old cabintremble, here cut her speech short. "Well, enough," muttered she toherself, "if Jack and Bill only manage to play their parts, I'll git morecredit for witcheraft."
The storm now howled in all its fury, making the rough old timbers ofthe cabin creak and tremble, as though about to be demolished, while athick, heavy darkness shut in every object, save when relieved by thelurid glare of lightaing. Edward and Emily sat mute, gazing upon thescene with that sense of awe, which intelligent and sensitive minds everexperience, when brought by the fierce combat of the elements into thepresence of the Almighty Spirit of the Universe.
Something less than two hours served to clear away the storm, when ourtravelers prepared to leave. The horses were found safe, though thesaddles were rendered disagreeable from being saturated with the rain.This, however, being of minor importance, they mounted, thanked thehostess for her accommodation, and rode away—she the whilerepeating: "Bewar', thar's danger on yer way!" so long as they werewithin hearing.
"What think you of that old woman?" enquired Emily, as they rodealong, carefully picleing their way, it still being dark, while here andthere a tree felled directly across their path, warned them to movecautiously.
"Why, I scarcely gave her a thought, except to think her a littlederanged," answered Edward.
"But if what she vaguely hinted should prove true—"
"Poh! Emily," interrupted Edward, "do not give it a thought. Surely,you are not frightened at the idle outpourings of such an illiterate oldwoman as that?"
"I scarcely know, Edward, whether I am or not. But something weighsheavily on my spirits, and I feel a strange foreboding of some comingill."
"O, the effect of the storm no doubt; it will soon pass away; come,come, do not be down-hearted, the moon will be up presently, and then wecan move forward with greater facility."
They now rode on for some time in silence, occasionally venturingtheir horses into a trot, whenever the road appeared a little more open,until they entered the ravine, where the trees being of much smallergrowth, of a swampy nature, had made little or no obstruction to theirprogress, when giving their steeds the reins, they moved forward at amuch faster pace. The Maramee, running along to their left, being muchswolen by the late rains, now rolled on with that sullen, gloomy,monotonous sound, which the turbulent waters of a flood will invariablyproduce.
"Oh, how gloomy!" began Emily, breaking the silence they had for sometime maintained; "I shall feel much relieved when we pass this lonelyplace, for here every sound seems to send a chill to my heart."
"And my spirits," returned Edward, "from some cause, are less buoyantthan is common with me. I wonder if that old woman could have any secretmeaning in what she said? But no! pshaw! what a foolish idea;" and hetried to laugh, as if to shake off his thoughts, but the attempt ended ina hollow tone, that sounded strange and unnatural.
"I fear, Edward, there was more in her words than you are willing toeredence. But here we are, thank Heaven! at the foot of the hill: nowthen, we shall leave this—" what more she would have added wasinterrupted by a scream, as two figures, springing from either side ofthe path, grasped the bridles of both Edward's horse and her own. Thenext moment Emily felt herself seized by one of the raffians, whoinstantly mounted behind her—saw her companion felled to theground—saw two more figures rush forward— heard the report ofa pistol—a groan, and uttering another wild scream of fear anddespair, she was rapidly borne away into the dark ravine.
In the execution of this nefarious design, Curdish was less successfulthan Riley; for having struck Edward from his horse, and just as his footwas placed in the stirrup to mount, a shot from the pistol of Bernarddisabled him, and he was immediately taken prisoner. At this junctureEdward, recovering from the stunning effects of the blow, sprang to hisfeet, and learning from Tyrone how matters were, in an agitated voice ofdeep emotion, said:
"Gentlemen, you are both strangers to me, but you have acted likemen, and from my heart I thank you. Some five miles from here, onthis road, you will find a cottage occupied by one Webber, where you canconfine this villain, and take such measures as you may think proper.Inform Webber of the circumstances, and say that Edward Merton has gonein pursuit of his ward."
"His ward!" echoed Bernard and Tyrone in a breath.
"Even so; adieu!" and mounting his horse, which stood by him, whilespeaking, he drove the spurs into his sides, and dashed on in pursuit ofthe kidnapper, with that wild, reckless daring, that uncertainty ofpurpose, which hot-brained youth ever exhibits, ere subdued by the stern,calm teachings of experience.
"Heavens!" exclaimed Tyrone, as Merton rode away, ere he was fullyaware of his purpose; "his rashness may spoil all. But come, Bernard, letus take this cut-throat along, and forward to Webber's as soon aspossible."
"Wal, that's to my notion exactly," returned Bernard. "So, Mr. JackCurdish, you didn't quite come it this ere time, I guess, did ye? Pre'apsyou'll have better luck agin you git another such a chance. If I's you, Iwouldn't holler and laugh quite so loud next time; I'd du it all a greatdeal more stiller like; I would, I swow, that's a fact."
"Curses on ye!" growled Curdish between his clenched teeth. "I'll payye some day, hang me if I don't!"
"O, you needn't cuss and squirm, 'cause 't wont be o' no use, not adarned bit. I guess I've seen chaps afore to-day git cured, when they gota little obstropulous, mighty tarnal quick too; so come along with ye;"and taking hold of one arm, while Tyrone walked on the other side, thearm of which was broken by the shot of Bernard, they proceeded in thedirection of Webber's, where they arrived in about an hour and a half,and where for the present we shall leave them.
THE PURSUIT—THE INFORMATION—THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGERS.
Wild and turbulent as the waters that rushed along by his side, werethe thoughts and feelings crowding the breast of Edward Merton, as hespurred his noble animal on through the ravine. His mind was now aperfect chaos, where hope and fear, love and revenge, were alternatelystruggling for the mastery. One thought, however, was ever uppermost:Emily Nevancemust be rescued; but as to the manner time andplace, he scarcely gave a thought; for amid the whirlwind of ideascrowding his brain, there were none of calm delit ration, so essential tothe effecting of his purpose. As he cleared the ravine and entered theforest, he was very forcibly reminded of his headlong speed, by thestumbling of his horse against a tree that had been blown partly acrossthe road, by which he was nearly thrown to the earth.
Immediately dismounting, and finding his horse not materiallyinjured—having only in one or two places slightly ruptured theskin—Merton seated himself upon the fallen tree, and for a fewminutes seemed to hold a consultation with himself. Whatever thisconsultation was, it probably savored more of reason than his formertransactions; for on remounting he proceeded at a much slower pace, hismind evidently occupied with matters which at first had beenoverlooked.
"Yes, shemust be saved!" exclaimed he, at length, vehemently."But how is this to be done? where can I find her? for what purpose isshe thus taken away? Doubtless for some foul end! Oh God! if she but cometo harm—but no! no! I will not think it—it must not,shall not be!—and yet, and yet, if itshouldbe"—and Edward pressed his hands to his throbbing, burning temples,in an agony of mind almost insupportable. "Oh, the villain! if he do butwrong her, I swear his heart's blood shall answer for it, though I spenda life in search for him! But why do I idle here, when perhaps I mayovertake the ruffian—may save her from death, or what is worse,dishonor? Gods! if he wrong her!" and as he spoke, Merton buried therowels in the flanks of the gallant horse which bore him, and again hewas wildly dashing forward, seemingly forgetful of the former accident.But he remained unharmed, and a few minutes hard riding brought him tothe cot which had protected him from the storm, when, as if struck by asudden thought, he ejaculated, "Ha! I will know," and immediately reinedin his noble beast, already covered with foam, close to the entrance. Aloud hallo not serving to bring any one to the door, he sprang to theground and for some time vigorously applied his fist to it with no bettersuccess. As he was about to remount, however, thinking there was no onewithin, the sound of smothered voices caught his ear and determined himto continue. His efforts were at last rewarded by a somewhat husky voicecalling out:
"Who's thar'?"
"A friend!" replied Merton.
"What d'ye want?"
"To gain an entrance."
"We don't never admit strangers arter night; call to-morrow."
"I cannot delay!—my business is urgent."
"Who d'ye want to see?"
"Hetty Brogan."
Here the smothered conversation was again renewed, which at lengthresulted in the door being unbolted, and a man's head peeping cautiouslyout.
"Ar' ye alone?" enquired the same husky voice.
"I am!" replied Merton.
"What brings ye here?"
"I wish to question Hetty Brogan."
"Consarning fortins?"
"Yes!"
"Come in."
Merton immediately secured his horse and entered. Some half smotheredembers on a rude hearth cast forth a sombrous light, and served torelieve the various objects from total darkness. Hetty immediately cameforward and enquired of Merton his business.
"When I was here a short time since," answered he, "you warned me ofdanger lying on my path, to which I then gave little heed—for, totell you the truth, I thought you deranged; but I have since learned thesad reality. I was felled from my horse by a ruffianly blow, while mycompanion was kidnapped and borne I know not whither. It matters not tome at present how you gained the knowledge you imparted, but I wish toknow more. Tell me, if indeed you can tell, where she is at the presentmoment, or whither her destination, and you shall be richlyrewarded."
"To tell you whar' she is don't lay in my power. Her destinationis—"
"Where? where?—for Heaven's sake speak!" exclaimed Merton, asthe old woman paused.
"Thar', thar', don't git in a passion: you hain't said what you'd giveto know; and I reckon as how Hetty Brogan arn't one as tells fornothing."
"Speak, then! old woman; there is gold to unloose the hinges of yourtongue!" cried Merton, placing in the hands of Hetty a well filled purse,which she grasped with avidity and dropped into a side pocket; thenmotioning him to a seat, she resumed:
"Why, ye see, mister—what's yer name, sir?"
"No matter! go on with your story!" said Merton, sternly.
"Ye see, this ere ar' rather ticklish business; and I don't much likethe idea o' gitting myself into a scrape, which prehaps I might do bytelling a hot-headed younker like you, what you want to know consarningthe gal, without first gitting precautions taken."
"Do you mean to say you are going to refuse me the information forwhich you are already paid?" enquired Merton, angrily.
"Now, now, don't be gitting angry, don't. I only wanted to make youpromise you wont never in no way use this ar' information against me;`cause if some folks should find it out, my head wouldn't be worth that;"and she snapped her fingers.
"Well, well, go on! I promise all you desire, on the honor of agentleman," returned Merton, hastily.
"Well, then, d'ye ever happen to hears o' old Ben David, the Jew, whatlives on the bank of the Mississippi?"
"Ay! heard of him for a cut-throat!"
"Hush! not so loud."
"Well, well!—speak, speak! what of him?"
"Thar's whar' the gal's gone."
"Gracious Heavens!" cried Merton, wildly, springing from his seat andclasping his forehead with his hand; "surely, surely not there! My God!what can be done? I will fly to her instantly!— but how gained youthis information?—yet no matter!—I will fly this instant!"and Edward bounded to the door, where he suddenly recoiled as though metby some repulsive obstacle, while at the same instant the dark figure ofa man filled the entrance, and a deep voice cried, "Hold!" The nextmoment the figure had advanced into the centre of the room and the doorwas again closed.
"Hetty, what means this? who have we here?" asked the same deep, sternvoice.
"A—a—gen—a stranger, sir! as was just enquiring hisway to the river, sir!" stammered Hetty, confusedly, who on the entranceof the last comer had retreated to the farther-side of the apartment,where the darkness screened her from observation.
"Ha! you seem agitated! Beware now you deceive me! A lighthere!—quick—a light!"
The individual whom we first noticed as questioning Merton previous tohis entrance, and who had since remained a silent spectator, advanced tothe fire and placed thereon a pine knot, which immediately sent forth aruddy gleam, lighting the whole cabin and producing a picturesque effect.A momentary pause ensued, during which the gaze of Merton and thestranger met. The latter was tall, commanding in figure, with broadmassive chest and limbs to correspond. The outline of his form wasdecidedly handsome, as was also that of his features, which although of adark, almost dingy hue, were very expressive, and seemed lit up with thefires of a mighty, and but for a certain slight sinister expression, anoble soul. His eyes were dark and brilliant—his forehead broad andhigh, surmounted by jet-black hair, which fell down around his neck inlong glossy ringlets. His face was medium in length, with ratherprominent cheek-bones, cheeks a little dimpled, from which ran two gentlycurved lines, terminating at the corners of his mouth. His lips were thinand generally compressed— though when otherwise, turned up withsomething of a sneer. His chin rose prominently from a graceful curvebelow his mouth, on which was a handsome imperial, and ended with an ovalturn. His dress was fashioned much like a sailor's. He wore a roundaboutof dark blue cloth, richly embroidered with silk and tassel, tastefullyset off by two rows of gold mounted buttons. Underneath of this he wore afine blue shirt, with large open collar, falling negligently back fromthe neck, secured by a dark silk cravat, which was in turn secured byrunning through a plain gold ring. His nether garments were in singularcontrast with his upper. His pantaloons of coarse, dark cloth, werefastened around the waist by a sort of wampum helt, in which wereconfined a knife and two pistols. They came a little below his knees,where they were met by leggins from the skin of deer, which connectingwith moceasins, formed a sort of rough boot. On his head he wore asingular covering of untanned leather, shaped something between a hat andcap. Altogether, his whole appearance bespoke a man of a wild, reckless,yet withal, fanciful disposition.
For a moment he stood gazing on Merton with a severeexpression—his dark eyes gleaming with unusual brightness—hisbroad forehead gradually contracting into a frown, as he found his boldgaze returned by one equally bold and unquailing.
"Who are you, and what is your business here?" demanded he, in thetone of one who deems he has a right to know.
"Ere I answer," replied Merton, somewhat haughtily, without removinghis gaze, "I would know by what right you question."
"By the right of might!" rejoined the other quickly, his dark eyesflashing.
"Indeed!"
"Ay, sir, indeed!" and his lips parted with a sneer. "Come, sir, donot trifle!" he resumed, again compressing his lips. "If you areunfortunate, speak out, and if it is in my power I will assist you; butif you are beat on an evil errand"— and his eyes flashedfiercely—"beware!"
"My errand is truly not one of evil, and I am rather unfortunate,"returned Merton, struck by a singular frankness about the other, andthinking he might perhaps render him assistance. "But whom have I thehonor of addressing?"
"I am called Barton. But go on! go on! I would know your story!" headded hastily.
Merton simply related some of the incidents with which the reader isalready acquainted.
"Ha!" exclaimed Barton—as Edward concluded his account of thekidnapping of Emily—"and you are now in pursuit?"
"I am."
"But where can the villain have borne her? Here, Hetty, you pretend insecond sight, give us the desired information!"
"Why rea-really sir, I—"
"Speak, woman!" interrupted Barton, fiercely. "You know me;" hemuttered in an under tone.
"I-I thinks to-to-David's, sir!" stammered Hetty, turning pale andtrembling.
"What, the Jew!" cried Barton, with a start. "Here, young man;" andturning to Edward, he hastily drew from his finger a curiously wroughtring; "take this, and speed! speed! for there is not a moment to be lost.Do you know the residence of the Jew?"
"I know the vicinity, and can find it," answered Edward.
"Enough, then! away, away! for you have no time to lose. Find the Jew,present this ring, and demand the girl. He will not refuse your demand.He dare not!" added Barton, with strong emphasis, as he saw Edwardlook incredulous.
"But—"
"Nay, young man, no questions now. I will see you anon and explainall. Enough, that I have taken a fancy, and am willing to serve you. Butcome, come—away, away, or you may be too late!" and hurrying Mertonfrom the house, Barton assisted him to mount, and then turned away withan abrupt "adieu!" Once more burying the rowels in his horse, in aninstant Merton was rapidly speeding on to the great river, lost in vagueconjectures concerning this singular individual, and how his own strangeadventure might terminate.
THE JEW—THE KIDNAPPER—THE RESCUE.
On the margin of the Mississippi, some eight or ten miles below St.Louis, stood, at the time of which we write, an old, somewhatdilapidated, and apparently untenanted log hut. Although standing on thebank of the river, it was well screened from observation by thickbranching trees and a dense shrubbery, which completely surrounded it.The ground in the rear of it was mostly level; but in front, it abruptlydescended to the river, which came sweeping along some thirty yardsbelow. The hut itself, on close inspection, presented both externally andinternally a very disagreeable appearance. It contained but oneapartment, if we except a place partitioned off at one end, for whatpurpose may, perhaps, be seen hereafter. However ugly and disagreeablethe matter may prove, dear reader, it now becomes necessary for us tointroduce you within the precints of this old dwelling—for dwellingindeed it was—at an hour not the most agreeable, were you obligedto enter corporeally.
Seated upon an old stool, beside a small table, on which his elbowrested, his head in turn resting upon his hand, was a man over whom somesixty years had made their circling rounds. One hand held a paper, onwhich he was intently gazing, while some few others were scatteredcarelessly over the table. It was near the "witching time of night," anda dim, flickering candle served to show the outline of his form, andbring his features into a more bold relief. His countenance was stronglymarked by several lines which depicted cunning and avarice to aremarkable degree. His eyes were small, dark and piercing, and weresurmounted by heavy beetling brows. His forehead was low, and deeplywrinkled; and his head, though a little bald, was generally covered withlong hair, besprinkled with the silver touches of time. The most strikingfeature of his face, was his nose; being long, pointed and aquiine—denoting him to be one of that often despised race, the Jew. His beardwas suffered to grow, unmolested by the civilizing touches of a razor;was rough, of a dirty brown color; and came below his chin sufficiently,with his head bent forward, to rest on his bosom. His skin was dark andfilthy, deeply wrinkled, and begrimed with dirt. Altogether his wholeappearance betokeued a man full of treachery and deceit; of dark sinistermotives; and one who, to a person of the least refined taste, would proverepugnant in the extreme.
He was seated as before said, intently gazing on a paper held in hishand, which trembling in the light, threw over his swarthy, hideousfeatures a flitting shade; making them, if possible, even more hideous inexpression. Gradually his small, while a sinister smile hovered aroundthe corners of his mouth, as he uttered a low, chuckling laugh.—Suddenly starting, a paleness overspread his countenance, the paperdropped from his hand, and he looked hurriedly around the room, vainlyendeavoring to peer into the darkness, his limbs trembling with cowardlyfear, exclaiming:
"Ha! mine Gott! vot wash dat? O! poh, poh! twas noshings; vot forsshould I pees afraids?— noshings vill hurtish me;" and turning tothe table, he again took up the paper, muttering— "Dis ish von gooddocuments, as shall makes mine fortunes. De old Jew vill von days pe avery great mans, mid a young handsome wifes;" and again he chuckled, witha fiendish glee.
Scanning the papers for a few minutes, he commenced rolling themcarefully together, and ended by securing them with a string. When done,he laid the roll upon the table before him, and gazed upon it long andwistfully:—then rising from his seat, he shuffled slowly across theapartment, to the place already mentioned as being partitioned off, wheredisappearing for a few minutes, he reappeared, returned, reseated himselfon his stool, crossed his arms an the table, bent his head forward, and,judging from his vacant stare, was soon engaged in some deep study.
"Ha! mine Gott! but dey mush succeeds!" exclaimed he, at length, asthough speaking from a train of thought:—"yet I fears dat infernalshowers will make it too mush bad. Ah! vot wash dat!" cried he suddenly,starting up and bending forward in alistening attitude. "Blessed pe FaderAbram! dat ish de signals," continued he, rubbing his hands, chuckling,and advancing towards the door, as a clear, shrill whistle rang throughthe hovel. "Ah, mine Gott! mine Gott! von day nows I shall haves plentyof monish;" and he attempted a feeble imitation at dancing, which, withhis stooped figure and trembling limbs, presented a spectacle disgustingas it was ridiculous.
Advancing to the door, the opened it, gave an answering signal from apiece of ivory which he applied to his mouth, and then leaned against thedoor post, as if in expectation of some visitor.— For some minutesall was silent, and then came the sound of approaching footsteps, withwhich was occasionally mingled a grunt and a deep muttered curse, asthough the comer was toiling with some heavy burthen. Directly the figureof a man was seen struggling through the bushes, bearing a human body inhis arms, and a moment after, entering the hovel, he deposited it on theground.
"Thar,' Mister Jew David, when you want another gal cotched, I reckonsas how you'll have to cotch her yerself—for Bill Riley aint foundon such an errand agin, not afore this scrape's forgot, anyhow."
"Vare ish Mistoor Jacks?" enquired the Jew.
"Why ye see, old feller, that ar's much easier axed, than answered.Most likely he's in a straight jacket by this time, if he arn't alreadybored through the body. I did'nt wait to see how it come out, for Ithought one was about as many as I could tend on, conveniently."
"Vy, vot dosh you means?" cried the Jew, in alarm.
"O, nothing much, only somebody happened to hear what was a goin' on,and come up in a hurry, pistol in hand, which probably went offaccidentally, and ye see Jack arn't here; that's all I know aboutit."
"Oh, mine Gott! mine Gott! do you thinks Jacks vosh kilt?" enquiredthe Jew, his dark eyes gleaming strangely.
"Can't say—most likely he's dead by this time."
A low, half-smothered chuckle escaped the Jew, which Bill overheard,and turning fiercely to him, exclaimed:
"Look ye here, old rough-head! I believe you're a most outrageous, oldvillainous cut-throat! I do upon my honor."
"Vot fors you shays dat?" asked the Jew, with a savage grin.
"Cause I jest think so, and I al'ays like to speak my mind. Here youare now, laughing to yerself, for ye darn't to laugh out like a man,thinking Jack, poor feller's, dead. Well, it's lucky for you if he is:that's my opinion about it."
"Vot for you shays dat?" repeated the Jew, turning a little pale.
"Come, come, old feller, not so fast. Bill Riley don't peach; if hedid"—and he looked keenly at the Jew, drawing his right handobliquely across his throat, making a gurgling sound— "somebodymight get that ar' you know. But come," he added, "I've done the job, andnow I'll trouble you for the chinkers—a cool hundred, youremember."
"Oh, mine Gott! it vosh but fifty!" cried the Jew, starting back.
"Fifty apiece, old covey, and thar's two on us, which jest makes it ahundred. As Jack's not here, I'll jest take his for him, and in case Icum across him, its easily paid over, ye see."
"Oh, mine Gott! I vill not not do so," whimpered the Jew, who inJack's absence thought he might cheat him of his share.
"You won't, eh?" exclaimed Bill, advancing to the table and returningwith the light, which he held close to the features of Emily, who layextended on the ground, pale and motionless, yet even lovely withal:"Look thar,' Jew! d'ye see that ar' innocent young lady, whom God forgiveme, for bringing into harm's way! D'ye see her? Now look at me;" and hedrew himself up to his full height, bringing the light full in front ofhis face, while the Jew stood wondering:—"Look well! d'ye see me?do I look like a feller that can be trifled with?" Then drawing a pistol,he raised it to a level with the head of David, who turned pale,trembled, and threw up his hands in an imploring attitude as hecontinued: "Now mark me, Jew David, if them ar' chinkers arn'tforthcoming in about two minutes, I'll send a bullet through your head,by—!" and he concluded with an oath.
"Oh, Fader Abram!" exclaimed the Jew, trembling like an aspen leaf;"poot down de pishtools, Mistoor Rileys, and you shall haves demonish."
For a moment the other stood gazing on him with a look of ineffablescorn, and as he did so, the trio formed a scene worthy the pencil of anartist.
Near the centre of the room was Riley, his tall straight form drawnproudly up, one foot thrown a little back, his right hand grasping apistol, his left the light, which throwing its gleams upon hiscountenance, exhibited it in strong relief. His features were nothandsome—strictly speaking— and yet they were well formed;the outlines bold and rather prepossessing. Their expression was stern,rather than villainous, and his clear, bold, grey eyes, which were nowfastened with intensity upon the Jew, spoke more the courage of a man,than the braggadocio of a scoundrel. There was something in his lookwhich told you he would do what he said; and one that to trifle withunder circumstances like the present, would prove a dangerous individual.His lips thin, and generally close drawn over his teeth, were now partedand slightly drawn up with a sneer, wherein was concentrated all thescorn which a truly brave man feels at the sight of a whimpering,cowardly ruffian. Some two or three feet in front of Riley, stood theJew; his withered form, blanched cheeks, quivering lips and tremblinglimbs, presenting a striking contrast. Ay, he, the dastardly cutthroat,who would not flinch from burying the murderer's dagger in the heart ofsome poor, unsuspecting victim, now quaked and trembled at only the barethought of death overtaking his shriveled, worthless carcase! A little tothe left of Riley, lay the apparently lifeless form of Emily Nevance; herpale features looking even more pale and death-like, as the dim light ofthe lamp fell faintly upon her lovely, upturned countenance; while nightformed the back-ground, and compietely encircling them, threw a dark veilover surrounding objects.
After gazing a moment on the Jew, Riley advanced to the table,replaced the light, seated himself on the stool, and then bade theIsraelite "make haste with the chinkers."
Old David tottered slowly across the apartment, to the closet beforespoken of, groaning at the very idea of parting with so much money; butpresently he returned, bringing with him a leathern purse, which heemptied on the table, exclaiming;
"Dare, Mistoor Rileys, ish all my monish.— Oh! mine Gott! Ishall always more pe one ruined mans."
Riley deigned no reply, but cooly commenced counting the money andtransferring it to his pockets. Then turning to the Jew, he enquired whathe intended to do with the lady.
The Jew looked at him steadily for a moment, and then as if satisfiedthere was nothing to fear, replied, with a grin, his small black eyestwinkling with savage humor:
"Vy, Mistoor Rileys, I tinks I shall makes her my vife."
"Your what?" cried Bill, half starting up.
"My vife," repeated the Jew, scarcely knowing whether to be alarmed ornot.
"Your wife, eh? ha, ha, ha!—that's capital; a mighty good jokethat, old boy—ha, ha, ha!— You're such a good looking, softeyed, clean faced old beauty, that if the lady don't fall in love with yeat first sight, you'll have the perticular satisfaction o' knowing thefault warn't yours, anyhow— ha, ha, ha!"
"He, he, he!" laughed the Jew, grinning hideously.
"But I say, Jew, what's yer object in throwin' yerself away at such atender age?"
"Vot fors mine objects?" repeated the Jew, enquiringly.
"Yes! what'll ye get by marryin' this ere lady? for in course ye'llgain somethin' or yer wouldn't do it."
"O, mine Gott! I shall marrys for loves, Mistoor Rileys;" replied theJew, with stoical gravity.
"For love, eh?—ha, ha, ha!—ho, ho, ho!" roared Bill,holding his sides:—"For love, eh?" and again he went intoconvulsive fits of laughter. "Why you confounded, stupid old heathen! doyou think as how you can make an ass o' Bill Riley? Do you really thinkthar's anything perticularly verdant about him? Love—paugh! yourshrivelled old carcase never fell in love with anything yet, unless thar'was "monish" attached to't. Now jest mark me!" continued he, lookingsteadily at the Jew, raising the forefinger of his right hand, andassuming a serious tone of voice: "Thar's a mystery connected with thisere business, and per'aps you thinks as how you can blind me, and per'apsyou may; but I tell you one thing, bewar' what you do! for if this eregal comes to harm, through your doings, I, Bill Riley, swear by the honorof a gentleman, to send a bullet through yer loathsome carcase! I do, byheavens! And Jew, I know more consarnin' this, than you're a thinkin' on.Thar's some secret connected with this gal's birth, and you intendcrossin' the big waters."
The Jew started back, exclaiming: "Vy, how you finds dat outs?"
"Ha! then I'm right there," thought Bill.— "No matter how Ifound it out," he replied; "but ye see I know a little what's a goin' on,so have a care friend David. But enough! I'll have to begin to travel; sogood bye, old boy, and jest keep yer eye skinned for squalls;" and risingas he spoke, he moved for the door.
At this juncture, Emily, whom they supposed lay in a swoon, but who inreality bad feigned it, in order to learn as much as possible regardingthe wherefore of her capture; and who, thinking from the foregoingconversation there might be something gained by appealing to the feelingsof Riley; uttered a scream, and sprang into a sitting posture,exclaiming:
"Save me, save me!" But her plan did not succeed. Riley, eitherfearful of being discovered, or that she might work upon his feelings,pushed quickly forward and disappeared.
As the door closed behind the kidnapper, the Jew looked hurriedlyaround, gave a low chuckle, rubbed his hands together, and advancedtowards Emily, who instantly sprang to her feet. Recoiling a step or two,he gazed upon her with undisguised admiration, as well he might. Herbeauful figure drawn gracefully up, the flush of excitement mounting herface and neck with a ruddy glow, her proud lip curling with a look ofscorn, again reflected from her brilliant, dark blue eyes, as she crossedher arms on her breast and stood regarding him; formed a picture whichmight win the admiration of even a miserly cutthroat.
"O, mine Gott! she does looks so mush pooty!" cried the Jew—"Vota fine wifes!"
"Jew," began Emily, in a dignified tone, "what means this? why have Ibeen brought hither?"
For a moment the Jew looked at her steadily, and as he did so, hisugly features contracted into a grin, followed by a low chuckle.
"You ish very mush pootish, gal," he replied, "and Ben David villmakes you his wifes."
"Never!" cried Emily, in a voice so loud, bold and firm, thatthe Jew involuntarily started back "Never, sir!I become yourwife? No! sooner would I die a thousand deaths!"
"O, mine Gott! she does looks so mush pootish!" exclaimed old David,recovering from his surprise as Emily ceased, and gazing upon her with adoting look of exultation. "Come, young ladish, we vill takes a walk,"continued he, approaching and taking hold of her arm, which she threw offwith a contemptuous look,—at the same time drawing a dagger fromthe folds of her dress, while the Jew again started suddenly back, sheexclaimed:
Beware, Jew, beware! It were better for you to beard a lion in hisden, than a woman armed, in my situation. Do not attempt to touch me withyour foul, polluted hands, or your much fouler soul, thrice damned withsin, with all its hideous weight of guilt, shall wing its flight andstand arraigned before the bar of the eternal God! And Jew," continuedshe solemnly, "thereis a God! and one of justice."
So sudden the action, so bold the movement, so solemn the tone ofEmily, all combined, took the Jew completely by surprise; and he stoodfor a moment, gazing upon her dark blue, soul-speaking eyes, with alookwherein was blended all the awe, admiration and respect, which one likehim was capable of expressing. It was but for a moment however. A darkshade suddenly flitted across his forehead; his eyes shot forth strange,savage gleams; his lips quivered, as he attempted to compress them overhis almost toothless gums, and he bent on Emily a look so full of theexpression of a fiend, that she felt her eye quail, while the bloodreceded to her heart and a tremor of secret terror ran throughout hersystem.
Applying the ivory to his lips, the Jew gave a peculiar whistle, whichwas immediately answered from without. A minute later, two figuresentered the doorway; and ere Emily had fairly comprehended what was goingforward, she found herself pinioned in the grasp of two ruffians.
"Oh!" exclaimed she, "all is lost!" and she uttered a heart-piercingscream.
The Jew chuckled merrily, and advancing toward her, until she felt hisvery breath on her face, said:
"You looks very mush more pootish;" and he attempted to press hisloathsome lips against her face. Recoiling as much as lay in herpower— each wrist being grasped by the strong arm of aman—Emily managed to evade what she would have suffered deathsooner than permitted, a kiss from the Jew. At this moment she thought ofEdward, and scarcely knowing why, she called upon his name for help.
"Vot fors you calls?" chuckled the Jew. "Mistoor Edwards vill notcomes!"
"'Tis a lie!" uttered a deep, manly voice, that made Emily scream forjoy, as the figure of a man sprang quickly forward, a pistol in eitherhand, still exclaiming:—"Back, fiends of hell! back! ere I send abullet through your brains!" and the next instant Emily was clasped inthe arms of Edward Merton, who pressed her to his bosom with all the wildfoundness of a first passionate love.
After leaving Merton in the previous chapter, he had ridden quicklyforward, but had been somewhat delayed, as the exact location of the oldhut was unknown to him. He had secured his horse at a short distance, andwas searching along the bank of the river, assisted by the light of themoon, which pouring down her silvery flood of light, gave to each thing acalm and pleasing effect— when the scream of Emily arresting hisattention, effectually enabled him to find the house; which beingcompletely surrounded by trees and bushes, had thus far eluded hisobservation. Instantly springing forward, he reached the entrance just intime to hear the voice of her he loved, in tones that went to his verysoul, calling on him for help, and the taunting reply of the Jew. Mad,almost, with hope, rage and fear combined, he entered as described; butso suddenly, and unexpectedly, that the ruffians relaxed their hold andretreated to the farther side of the apartment; while the Jew, notknowing what he had to fear, stood trembling with very fright. Seeingthere was but one, however, he somewhat recovered, exclaiming:
"Vy you don't sheize him? vot fors you ish afraids?"
"Off, ruffians, off! or by heavens you journey to another world!"cried Merton, springing in front of Emily. "And as for you, old dastardlycutthroat!" continued he, turning to David, as the ruffianspaused—"I have a word to say, which you will do well to heed! Thisgirl I demand by virtue of this ring!" and as he spoke, he presented theone given him by Barton.
Whether Merton expected this to have any effect on the Jew or not,certain it is that he was very much surprised at the singular change itdid effect; for the Jew instantly advanced in a fawning manner, while theruffians slunk quietly away. Content that his purpose was gained, withoutseeking the mysterious cause, Merton, accompanied by Emily, quitted thehovel as soon as possible. The Jew followed them to the door, whisperingthem a good night, pleasant journey and so forth, and even went so far asto offer his service as a guide, which of course was declined. As Mertonentered the bushes, he looked back and saw the Jew standing in thedoorway, his face upturned as though gazing at the stars. At this momenta cloud which had obseured the rays of the moon passed, and the lightstreaming full upon his countenance, exhibited features so wrought up inexpression with all that was dark, treacherous and devilish, that inMerton's estimation the owner was well worthy to become the master fiendof hell itself.
A short walk of a few minutes brought them to the spot where Mertonhad left his horse, when to the surprise of both, they found the oneEmily had ridden standing along side. Merton accounted for this bysupposing that the kidnapper, either forgetting, or not having anyfurther use, had left her at liberty, when attracted by the neighing ofSir Harry she had sought him out. Assisting Emily to mount, he was soononce more astride his own fine steed; and moving away with lightenedhearts, they were shortly traversing a path which led on toward Webber's,engaged in mutual explanations of what had occurred to each in the othersabsence; and if in doing so, Merton did ride a little closer to the sideof Emily than was actually necessary—and if when the moon shonefull on her fair countenance, he did bend forward and gaze thereon with alook of fondness that told of holy love, drinking in the glances of herdark blue eyes—and if in attempting to lay hold of her bridle-rein,to guide her horse in the better path, he sometimes touched her hand,pressing it within his own, and whispered words so soft and low the veryzephyrs could not catch their import, causing her head to droop, while arosy tint sprang brightly o'er her face,— is it anything that thereader should stop to wonder at? We think not. Very few but would havedone the same under like circumstances.
WEBBER AND HIS FAMILY—RETROSPECTION—MYSTERY— EMILYNEVANCE.
About five miles from the place where our tale first opens and in asouthwesterly direction, stood a neat cottage, in size and appearancegreatly the superior of the generality of these buildings, erected inthis part of the country. It was composed of logs it is true, but thenparts of them were hewn and put together with compactness and regularity,while the crevices were neatly filled with a clay-like substance. Theroof was pierced by a chimney built of stone, and was well thatched withstraw. A stranger, after traveling through much of the surroundingcountry, would have been struck with the air of taste and elegantneatness belonging to it, compared with the more slovenly appearance ofmany of its neighbors. The ground round about, was generally level, of afertile order, and exhibited marks of fruitful tillage. In the immediatevicinity of the cottage, grass had sprung up, forming a thick greensward, a sure indicative of civilization. A few fences, rough it is true,but still answering the purpose for which they were designed, marked outthe fields of tillage, and secured the crops from the invasion of cattle.In the rear of the cottage, was formed a garden; back of which, inorchard regularity, were set out various kinds of domestictrees—such as the apple, pear, peach, and so forth. Opposite thehouse, some hundred yards distant, was a barn, built of logs, where thecattle could find shelter from the rough storms of winter. In front ofthe house ran the road before mentioned, which wound over a hill a shortdistance to the right. Altogether, the whole betokened the owner a farmerof the first class, bred in some of the Eastern States, who had come tothe "Far West" with the intention of here passing the remainder of hisdays. Such was the fact; and although in speaking of him and his family,we may digress a little from the main story, we trust the reader willdeem such digression pardonable.
William Webber was a man in size far above the ordinary—standingsix feet one inch, with limbs and body well proportioned. In years henumbered some forty-five, with a robust, healthy look about his face thatwould have set him five years younger. There was nothing remarkable inhis countenance, which was open and frank in expression, wherein waslikewise written a look of honest hospitality. His complexion was light,with light-brown hair, cut close and combed up above a high, intellectualforehead. His eyes were grey, full, and very expressive, as were hisfeatures generally. Around his mouth were a few lines that denotedfirmness, when roused, with courage to act; while his features exhibiteda calm self-possession that would be of very material service to one inthe hour of peril.
He had been born and bred in the good old State of Massachusetts,where he lived in comfortable circumstances, until about five yearsprevious to the opening of our story; when following up a desire he hadfor sometime entertained, he came to the West, purchased the land wherehe now resided, built the cottage, returned, and soon removed his familyhither; which consisted of a wife and two sons—one now aged twenty,the other some three years his elder.
His wife was a robust, healthy looking woman, some five years hisjunior, of the medium height, very fleshy, with a full, round,good-natured-looking countenance, such as we behold almost daily, and oneto whom the adage, "fat, fair and forty," would be truly applicable.
The eldest son, John, in some respects resembled hisfather—tall, well-built, with features of a similar shape, thoughin expression far different. In saying there was a resemblance betweenhim and his father, we wish the reader to distinctly understand it wasonly in the formation of the features— all else being totallydifferent. His complexion was dark, with jet black hair, and eyessomewhat shaded by dark, heavy, overhanging brows. Around his mouth werelines similar to those of his father, yet taking more of a sinister turn.His look generally, was that of a man dark, deep, and treacherous, andone little likely to inspire confidence. But it was when he smiled, whichhe did but seldom, that you would have been the most struck by anexpression from which you would involuntarily recoil, as from the gaze ofa deadly serpent.
From youth up, John had been a being isolated as it were from theworld, wrapped up in his own dark thoughts, communing but seldom withany, and then with those of a disposition like to his own. Already had hecaused his father much anxiety and trouble; and was, in fact, one causeof his removing to the West, where he thought he would be free from thesnares and temptations likely to be thrown around him in the East, andwhere as he supposed he would be free at least from companions in vice,and where, to sum up, he would in all probability spend his days inhonest pursuits. Could the first design of his father have been strictlycarried out, viz: that of removing him from temptation, bad company, andso forth, the latter might perchance have followed. But alas! inselecting the West, and more especially this part of it, he undesignedlyopened a field for the cultivation of his son's natural disposition, bythrowing him among the most depraved villains of which society couldboast. That he was an apt scholar, the sequel of our story will probablyshow.
His brother Rufus, younger by three years, was of a make anddisposition in every respect totally different. In stature he was of themedium size, straight and slim, with light hair, and a fair, sunnycountenance. His features were regular, approaching perhaps a little toomuch the feminine, with such an open, expressive frankness of look, thatyour confidence was immediately won. His disposition was mild andaffable, his voice rich and musical in tone, while his full blue eyes notunfrequently flashed forth gleams of a lofty intellect. Around his mouthalso, were lines similar to those of his father, expressive of firmnessand a determination of character.
There is one other of whom we must speak to complete the family, inorder to do which it will be necessary for us to go back somewhat in ournarrative. About fifteen years prior to the date of our story, astranger, accompanied by a little girl some three years of age, cailedlate one evening at the residence of Webber, and requested permission totarry through the night, which request was granted. He was a dark, sternlooking man, some thirty-five years of age, and of a moody, taciturndisposition. But little was gleaned from his conversation, as to who hewas or whence he came. In the morning he asked permission for the childto remain a few days, stating as a reason that business of importancecalled him away. The permission was granted and he took his leave, sincewhen he had never been heard from. Enquiries were instituted by Webber,but nothing authentic had ever been heard concerning him. A man answeringhis description was seen a short time after in the western part of NewYork, apparently bound for the West; and Webber came to the conclusionthe child had been voluntarily deserted; the more so, as on questioningher, the account she gave was of harsh treatment, and sometimes severechastisement, for asking of home. The child was too young to give even asuccinct detail of her adventures, remembering only some of the moreglaring, such as the dark man carrying her away from home, putting her ina house that floated on the water, and the like—from all of whichWebber drew his conclusions that she had been brought from anothercountry, perhaps across the Atlantic, by an intrigueing design he wasunable to fathom.
It was a riddle too deep for the gossips infesting the neighborhood ofWebber (as what place do they not) to solve, concerning who was thechild, who were her parents, where she came from, and so forth; and aftervarious conjectures, probable and improbable, they finally agreed thather parents were no better than they should be, and that being of thatdoubtful cast, it were better to shun the company of the child, lest byintercourse their prudish decorum should be vielated, and their over-wisevirtuous principles become contaminated.
So much for ye, moth-eaters of reputation colleagues of idleness andbreeders of scandal!— who "strain at a knat and swallow acamel"— blasting all with your polluted breath whom the world hathnot acknowledged above your reach— preying upon society as the wormwill sooner or later prey upon your corrupted flesh!—God send thatthe innocent and harmless wanderer be not caught within your damningtoils!
If the child was shunned by some, she was not by all; for Webber, towhom she soon became an object of affection, determined to rear her asthough she were his own; and as she grew older, he had no cause to regretit; for naturally of a sweet, affectionate disposition, she won friendsamong those who were at first disposed to treat her uncivilly, while toWebber she clung with all the fondness of a child to a parent.
Time in the meanwhile rolled on, and what at first created a greatcommotion among the gossips, gradually wore away, settled down into ashake of the head whenever the object of calumny approached, until atlength, won over in spite of themselves by her angel disposition, eventhe retailers of scandal ceased their persecutions and the unknownwanderer became an object of general regard.
About this period an event took place, which created another mightysensation, although gossip this time ran in a very different channel fromthe previous one. It was a calm summer evening in the month of August.The sun had just retired behind the Western hill, and was yet tipping themountain tops with a rich golden tint; the songsters were singing theirfarewell songs for the night; the breeze came with that gentle, soothingeffect, so delightful on such an eve, making one feel that placid, yetsaddened happiness, which wins our thoughts from the darker things oflife, and directs them into a higher, nobler, holier vein. Around theporch of Webber's dwelling were seated himself, wife, and twochildren— one a fair-haired boy of winning appearance, the other agirl of bright eyes and golden tresses, whose age might be thirteen. Inthe countenance of the latter there was something so noble, sofascinating, combined with such a quiet, thoughtful, almost melancholyair, that ten to one a stranger would have paused to wonder why one soyoung should bear the look of maturer years. As Webber gazed upon her,and mused on her sad, singular fate—torn from home and friends atso early an age—thrown upon the world for protection, and thoughtwhat if such had been the case with one of his own children, heinvoluntarily hove a sigh, and vowed to watch over her with more than aparent's care.
Suddenly the attention of the group, which had been occupied invarious ways, was arrested by the rapid approach of a horseman. A minutelater he was standing among them, his horse foaming and panting from hardriding, while with his own head uncovered he wiped the perspiration fromhis heated brow.
"Is your name Webber?" demanded he of that individual.
"It is."
"William Webber?"
"The same."
"Ten years ago a stranger left with you a little girl: am Iright?"
"You are," answered Webber, wondering what was to be revealed. "Thisis the child;" and he pointed towards her.
The stranger turned an enquiring glance, examined her attentively fromhead to foot, apparently much struck by her appearance, and then saidabruptly: "Enough! I am commanded to deliver you this packet;" sayingwhich he placed a sealed package in Webber's hand—turned—mounted his horse—dashed the spurs into his sides, and ere theastonished group had recovered from their surprise, he was fast speedingout of sight.
"Strange," remarked Webber, breaking the seal; "what new mystery isthis?" As he spoke, he opened the parcel, and was surprised to find tenone hundred dollar notes, accompanied with the following singularepistle:
"To William Webber, greeting:—Ten years since was placedin your charge a child, who bears or bore the name of Emily Nevance. Inthe name of God! treat her well! Educate her for any station in society,and accept the notes enclosed, with the thanks of the
Unknown."
Great was the wonderment among the gossips, when the news went forthof Emily's great fortune,— for rumor soon swelled it into afortune— and the following six months were employed by all theunmarriageable spinsters and old ladies with spectacles, in conjecturesand discussions as to the strange singularity of such an event; and shewho had in her earlier years been considered in birth far beneath them,was now, by this incident, placed far above. Oh! the inconsistency ofhuman beings!
A new epoch was now opened to Emily; for Webber, punctual to what heconsidered a duty, took immediate steps to place her in one of the bestinstitutions in the city of New York, in charge of a distant relative,who, moving in the best circles of society, gave her not only theadvantages of intellectual education, but also that of acquiring theease, grace and dignity belonging to the true etiquette of fashion. Soonafter this disposition of Emily, Webber made a tour to the West,purchased a farm as already shown, and removed thither with hisfamily.
Four years passed, and Emily saw nothing of the Webbers. During thisperiod she had grown to womanhood, and what had promised so well whenyoung, was amply fulfilled in maturer years. She became attractive inperson, graceful in accomplishments, while her intellectual faculties farexceeded ordinary minds. Her temperament was truly poetic, with nothingof affectation or coquetry (which spoils so many) in her manner.—She was a warm patriot and enthusiast; and when conversing on some nobletheme, dull must be the eye that would not flash, or the mind that wouldnot fire, with the inspiration thrown from her speaking eyes and glowingflowery language.
It was in New York that Edward Merton, then a student in theUniversity, first became acquainted with Emily; and struck, we might addfascinated, with manners and appearance so far above the gay flirtingthings with which she was surrounded, he sought, gained an introduction,and almost immediately commenced paying her his addresses. The result ofthose addresses, thus far, the reader has already seen.
Although it was generally believed that Emily was rich, yet she knewto the contrary; and possessed of a pride too noble to take advantage ofsuch a reputation, she, through a sensitive delicacy, repulsed theadvancements often made by those whom she considered her superiors inpoint of wealth. Wealth was certainly a great bar to the progress ofMerton; a bar, in fact, which he found far more difficult to pass than heat first supposed; and although his nobleness of heart, his sincere,ardent passion, inspired within her own breast feelings ofaffection—of love—yet pride prevailed; and Merton, to whomshe revealed her scruples, saw with painful regret that unless there weresome counteracting power, Emily might love, but would never consent to behis.
Tired of city life, and the gay frivolties of the day, Emily longedfor the quiet retreat of her guardian; and having made preparations tothat effect, about six months prior to the opening of our story, she,accompanied by Merton, whose father resided in St. Louis, set out for theWest.
Happy, most happy, was the meeting between Emily and her friends, whohad been to her as parents and brothers. Webber, when he came fairly torecognise the "long lost one," as he termed her, could scarcely restrainhimself for joy.— Even John, as he extended the hand of welcome,seemed to smile with less of deceit and more of earnestness than was hiswont; while Rufus approached her with that bashful timidity, almostamounting to awe, which persons of sensitive minds often exhibit whenthey fancy themselves in the presence of their superiors.
A great change had been wrought in the personal appearance of Emily.She had left them as it were a child, and as such they remembered her;consequently there was surprise mingled with their joy, to behold such afine, graceful, lady-like form, combined with such ease and dignity ofmanner, returned in place of the image on which memory still dwelt. Butas it is not our purpose to enter into details here, therefore let itsuffice, that up to the time of the commencement of our story, things hadrun on smoothly.
Merton, whose collegiate course was finished, was now preparing topractice law in St. Louis; but sometimes finding bright eyes a much morepleasing study, not unfrequently wandered off in the direction ofWebber's; and almost as frequently, through a singular coincidence, heand Emily might be seen mounted on their fine steeds, scouring thecountry in various directions:—in fact, it was on one of theseexcursions, in which they were first introduced to the reader. As theirproceedings since then have been made known, we trust sufficient has beensaid to justify us in proceeding with our tale.
WEBBER'S—SINGULAR CONDUCT OF RUFUS—ARRIVAL OF BERNARD ANDTYRONE WITH THEIR PRISONER— ILLNESS OF RUFUS—RETURN OF EDWARDAND EMILY—MORE MYSTERY.
At the time of which we write, the unsettled state of the countryrequired every settler to be as much as possible on his guard, and forthis purpose Webber had provided his house with a heavy oaken door,strengthened still more by cross bars of iron, through which passed boltsof the same solid material. The windows were protected by shutterssimilar to the door, and when closed, which could be done almost at amoment's notice, the house, manned by a few within, seemed of sufficientstrength to withstand a regular seige. A few loop-holes, cut here andthere, would enable those within to fire on an attacking party, with butlittle danger to themselves. The main, in fact the only entrance to thehouse, was by the door already mentioned, which opened into a hallrunning through the centre of the building, on either side of which was adoor, opening in turn into other apartments. To the right of the entrancewas a room of good dimensions, comfortably furnished, containing an oldfashioned fire-place, where the meals were cooked and served, and wherethe family generally assembled. From this apartment was a stair-caseleading to a floor above, which ran along under the roof, forming a placeof deposit for old rubbish, and which, if necessary, could be used as asleeping room. The cottage was well furnished throughout, better thancould reasonably have been expected in this part of thecountry—Webber having brought much of the furniture with him fromthe East.
In the apartment to the right, just spoken of, on the evening of theday which opens our tale, were assembled Webber, his wife and youngerson. In the middle of the floor stood a table, covered with a clean whitecloth, on which were ranged various dishes, some evidently used, whileothers remained untouched in their places, indicating that a part of thefamily, and a part only, had partaken of the evening's repast. A candleplaced on the table, served to light the apartment and exhibit thefeatures of the occupants, all of whom seemed to wear an air of gloomyapprehension.— The doors and windows being thrown open, admittedthe breeze, which came with a cool and invigorating effect. For someminutes the silence remained unbroken, while Webber arose from his seat,and paced with anxious strides the floor of the apartment.
"I wonder they do not arrive!" at length he exclaimed; "they surelyhave had time enough since the shower!" and as he spoke he strode to thedoor.
The moon had sufficiently risen to throw light upon a scene, where thework of devastation had been carried on to a remarkable degree. As Webbergazed around him, he beheld in every direction tall, lofty trees tornfrom their foundations— limbs torn from the trunks ofothers—fences leveled to the ground, and the crops, the toil of aseason, beat to the earth as though trampled by a caravan. But with thisit was evident his mind was but little occupied; for after casting ahasty glance over the scene, he turned in another direction, and his eyefollowed the road, which at some little distance to the east wound overthe brow of a hill. Here he gazed intently for a few moments, while thegloom which had been settling over his features, gradually deepened. Ashe stood gazing thus, a sigh, which seemed to come from the heart, causedhim to turn his head, when he beheld Rufus—who had noiselesslyfollowed him to the door—with his eyes fixed in the same direction,his features pale, almost ghastly—while the workings of hiscountenance, and the quivering of his lips, denoted a strange nervousexcitability.
"Rufus! Rufus!" cried Webber, taking hold of his arm; "what meansthis, my son?—why are you so agitated?"
The young man started, passed his hand across his eyes, lookedhurriedly around, as one suddenly awakened from a dream; and then, whilea slight flush tinged his handsome features, quietly withdrew withoutdeigning a reply.
At another time such singularity of conduct on the part of his son,would have attracted the attention of Webber to know the cause; but underthe present circumstances, his own mind was too much occupied to give itheed. For a moment longer, he stood, his eyes fixed in the directionmentioned, and then, as if sadly disappointed, with slow and musing pacereturned to the apartment.
"Strange!" said he, "that they do not return. I fear they have metwith some serious accident; for this storm has been most alarming in itsconsequences."
"Had we not better go in search?" enquired Rufus, his voice tremblingwith emotion.
"True, my son, we must!" replied Webber, with decision. "Can thehorses be found conveniently?"
"I observed two, but a few paces distant," rejoined Rufus.
"But you will not both leave?" said Mrs. Webber, enquiringly.
"Why, no," answered Webber, thoughtfully; "one I think will besufficient."
"ThenI will go," said Rufus, with energy.
"Why so, my son?"
"Ask me not, father; I have reasons," replied he, confusedly.
"Well, be it so; but be speedy." As he spoke, he started, for hefancied he heard voices in conversation; and moving quickly to the door,both father and son listened attentively.
"Ha! they come!" exclaimed Webber, as some figures were descrieddescending the hill.
"She is not there!" cried Rufus, quickly.
"How know you that?" enquired Webber! "With my eyes I cannotdistinguish individuals at that distance. How know you Emily is notthere, Rufus?"
But Rufus was gone; and his father discerned his figure, at somelittle distance, gliding swiftly on in the direction of the horses. Amoment or two later, he heard the clattering of hoofs, and his son rodequickly past. He called to him, but in vain. He heard not, heeded not,but urged his horse to his utmost speed.
"Why the youth is insane!" remarked Webber, to himself. "Ha! hestops!—he has met them returning. But no! on he goes again!—now he dashes over the hill!—surely, something has happened, or hewould have returned;" and with an agitated step, he moved on in the samedirection.
The voices of the approaching party were, in the meanwhile, growinglouder as they neared him, and Webber was soon enabled to hear theirconversation. He paused to listen, for he fancied he heard a voice withwhich he was not unfamiliar.
"Now jest keep right on, Mr. Jack; you haint got a great ways furderto go, no how; and I kind o' guess you'll git rested by the time you'llbe wanted to travel agin. Now ye needn't look so tarnal cross aboutit;—I don't much like the idea o' bragging over a chap that'shampered, but I'll jest tell ye what 'tis, Mr. Jack Curdish, I jest thinkI could lick you in a fair rough and tumble fight in about two minutes; Ido, I swow!"
"Hush!" said another voice. "Be not too over-bearing— rememberthe man is your prisoner."
"Wal so I do, Mark; but the feller won't say nothing. He's as stuffeyas a mule, and I's jest trying to see if I could'nt brag something out o'him."
"Why, Harvey Bernard!" cried Webber, springing forward, as he fullyrecognised the speaker, and grasping his hand,—"welcome, mostwelcome, friend Harvey."
"Jest the same old Webber yit," returned Bernard, giving his hand ahearty shake. "Why you look jest as naternal as life. This ere's MarcusTyrone, a friend o' mine."
"Welcome, Tyrone," said Webber, cordially extending his hand.
"This other chap's name's Jack Curdish. You needn't shake hands withhim; for he's jest as big a rascal as ever run."
"Why, what mean you?" enquired Webber, in surprise.
"Tell him, Mark; you can git at it a great deal quicker than Ican."
Tyrone accordingly explained, in as few words as possible, how mattersstood.
"Gods!" exclaimed Webber, as he heard of Emily's capture, his featuresworking with the most powerful emotion; and for a moment he buried hisface in his hands, while his whole frame shook convulsively. Againresuming his outward calmness, he walked close to the side of Curdish,who glanced uneasily about him, and in a voice of suppressed passion,between his clenched teeth, said: "Curdish, by the living God above us!if that girl come to harm, I will make such an example of you, that itshall find a place on history's page for its atrocity! Tell me, where isthe girl? and if I succeed in finding her, unharmed, it shall go muchbetter with you."
"I'll tell you nothing to-night," growled Curdish; who fearful ofconsequences, if they went in pursuit, thought he would gain time bydelaying the search.
"Why not to-night?"
"'Cause I won't—that's why!—hang me, if I'm goin' to giveye any more explanations."
"Then your blood be on your own head!" rejoined Webber, sternly. "Tothe house with him, as fast as possible! I will hurry forward and preparea place for his reception."
In a few minutes Curdish was placed in the room on the left of thehall, the door and windows made fast, and there left to pass theremainder of the night, in communion with his own dark thoughts. And darkand dreadful are the thoughts of the guilty!—for their conscienceis a hell, from which there is no escape.
After a brief consultation, Webber and his friends concluded it werebetter to wait till morning, ere they set out in search of Emily; themore so, as both Edward and Rufus had already gone in pursuit, andperchance, by awaiting, tidings might be gained of her. But little wassaid, for all felt a heaviness of heart; and wearied by traveling,Bernard and Tyrone partook of the food set before them, in gloomysilence.
"This is a sad meeting!" began Webber, after a long pause, in a voiceso changed that both Bernard and Tyrone involuntarily started. "A sadmeeting! If this girl comes to harm, I fear my reason will desertme."
"Why, William!" cried his wife; "are your thoughts more bound up inthe child of a stranger, than in your own flesh and blood?"
"Yes, Sarah, I confess it is even so. I have struggled hard againstit—I have sought to share my affection alike with each member of myfamily; but why, I know not—perhaps by her angeldisposition—the gentle forsaken has been the idol of my secretthoughts. But enough of this, Sarah; the subject is painful to me;" andhe pressed his hands against his heated temples, as though to still theirthrobbing.
"What course do you intend to pursue with your prisoner?" enquiredTyrone, anxious to draw his thoughts into another channel.
"Death!" exclaimed Webber, quickly and fiercely, while histeeth clenched, and his brow contracted into a frown of unshakenresolve.
"Death!" cried all at once.
"Ay, death! there must be an example made!" said Webber, in a deep,stern tone.
"William!" cried his wife, rushing to him:— "You are notyourself,—do not talk thus!"
"Sarah," returned Webber, gently pushing her from him, while the frowngrew darker on his brow, "seek not to alter it; I have said."
"But why not appeal to the law for redress?" asked Tyrone.
"You overlook, Tyrone, that our laws here are almost ineffective, andforce us, in a measure, to make our own."
"True! I did not think of that."
"Now, Bill Webber, I'll jest tell you what 'tis," began Bernard: "Iknow my opinion aint o' no great account, any how; but I've known youever since I was a leetle boy, and somehow I kind o' feel I have a rightto say something; and I'm jest agoing to say, if you could manage topunish this ere infernal scoundrel some way, without taking his life,you'll feel a great deal better when you come to die yourself. I haintthe least doubt but the feller oughter die, to get his deserts; but yesee, the Almighty made him, and has kept him alive, so far, and willundoubtedly punish him, some day or other; and now the question is,whether you hadn't better let the Almighty take his own way about it,instead of taking all o' the responsibility yourself?"
"I know your honest heart, Bernard," said Webber, approaching andgrasping his hand; "I know in all you say, you aim for my own good; butin this I am resolved, and must have my own way, therefore seek not toalter me."
"Wal, if your mind's made up," rejoined Bernard, "I aint the chap tosay anything furder; only if you want any help, Harvey Bernard's righthere, and he haint never been known to refuse a friend assistance yit. Ijest spoke, 'cause I kind o' considered it a duty to do it, and bein' ashow I've eased my mind, I haint nothing furder to say about thematter."
Just at this instant was heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and allsprang eagerly to the door. "What news, my son?" cried Webber, as Rufus,pale and breathless, leaped from his panting steed.
"She—they are safe and coming!" replied he, almostwildly.
"Thank God, and you!" exclaimed Webber, clasping him in his arms, asthough he were a child. "You have relieved my brain of a weight ofanguish. But what is the matter, my son?"— added he in alarm, as hebecame aware of an increasing languor on the part of Rufus.
"Father, I am ill!" sighed Rufus, faintly.
"You are indeed, my son!" and he bore him into the house.
Cordials, such as they had, were administered, but to no effect. Hegrew wild, delirious, and was finally placed in bed, in a high state offever. His mother, whose whole soul seemed bound up in him, paced theroom, wringing her hands in an agony of grief, and crying: "Oh, my God!my God! spare me this!"
There are some people so constituted by nature, that they possess nofeelings in common with the rest of mankind. With those around them theyhave no kindred ties, no sympathetic chord that vibrates at the slightesttouch, linking soul with soul in the holy bond of friendship. They livein, yet separate as it were, from the world; and are thought by the restof mankind to be cold, unsocial, unfeeling. Perhaps in a great measurethey are so; yet notwithstanding, they have their objects of affection,for the heart must cling to something, and in proportion as they isolatethemselves from the many, so does their soul embrace the few, or the one,with a violence of passion others deem not they possess. Such was, inpart, the case with Mrs. Webber. 'Tis true she liked her husband, sheliked her family, her friends, but Rufus was the idol, the only idol ofher soul. In him were her hopes, fears and joys centered. A woman thatsaid very little, she was not one to make an outward show of affection,by a thousand little demonstrations that count so much in the eyes of theworld, and a stranger might have thought she felt alike toward all. Shewould steal away unseen, and hour by hour watch, concentrating her verysoul on him, with all the deep, holy devotion of a mother's love. Andwell was he worthy—for within his breast beat a pure, ahigh-minded, noble heart. What then were her feelings when she saw himstretched on a bed of sickness—pain—with reason, the immortalendowment of God, tottering upon its throne? Who shall tell—whodescribe a mother's anguish in a scene like this? when she beholds thebeloved of her soul in the jaws of earth's mightiest foe, Death! Wordsfail, the pen droops, and we veil the feelings from the eyes of all butimagination.
An hour or two later Merton and Emily arrived. They were warmlygreeted, but there was no rejoicing. Over all hung the cold icy gloomwhich pervades the house of mourning.— Words were said in whispers,and each glided stealthily about, with that mysterious air which remindsone of the fabled spectres of tradition.— Emily, like a ministeringspirit, immediately took her place at the bedside of the sufferer. Shefelt grieved to the heart, for she loved him with a sister's love. Bothherself and Merton were surprised to learn he had been in pursuit ofthem.— They had never seen him. Once they had fancied they heardthe sound of a horse somewhat distant, but nothing further. Thisannunciation surprised all, for it was evident that he had seen them, ashe had told of their coming. Webber mused on the singular conduct ofRufus, prior to his departure, which now struck him with force, shook hishead gravely, but said nothing. As soon as Merton had partaken of somerefreshment, he mounted another horse and rode swiftly to St. Louis for aphysician, who arrived toward night of the following day. He felt of thesufferer's pulse—looked grave—felt of his pulseagain—shook his head, and pronounced it a severe case ofintermittent fever.
On opening the door of the apartment where Curdish had been confined,to the astonishment of all it was found empty, which was the moreunaccountable, as everything was fast just as it had been left theevening before. Webber was both vexed and perplexed that the villain hadthus escaped; but after reasoning awhile with himself, he came to theconclusion that under the present circumstances it was all for the best;and his thoughts of vengeance gradually emerged into fears for the lifeof his youngest born.
We must now leave all for the present, and turn to another scene.
THE GRAND RENDEZVOUS OF THE BANDITTI—THE BANDIT CHIEF AND HISWIFE—THE SONG—THE TALE.
On the banks of the Osage, some several miles from where it emptiesinto the dark and muddy Missouri, is a wild, gloomy and romanticspot.— Even at the present day it has not been reached bycivilization, and still stands alone in the solemn grandeur of nature.Here mountains rear their rugged heads steep and stupendous; therefearful chasms yawn as if awaiting some prey for their mighty jaws; whileanon dashes along some sparkling rivulet, leaping from rock to rock,making music in its devious course, until finally plunging into somelarger stream, its tiny youthful song is forever buried in oblivion.
From the Osage, back for some little distance, flows acreek—reflecting its rugged banks in its silvery bosom as in amirror—and terminates in a semi, or three-quarter circled cove,surrounded by tall, majestic, overhanging cliffs. This water is suppliedfrom the Osage, and passing as it does between such craggy steeps, formsa dark, lonely, silent retreat. The rocks surrounding its termination arehigh and arching, so that their base can only be approached by water.Within this cove, beneath these rocks, at the time of which we write, wasan extensive cavern—known at the present day by the name of "TheRobber's Cave." It was well calculated as a fugitive retreat; fordefended by a few, it would be a risky attack for a combined force, eventhough possessed of overwhelming numbers. It could be approached only byboats coming from the Osage, as the sides of the creek were lined withprecipitous rocks, where descent would be at the imminent peril of thehardy adventurer. It was, in fact, a spot which seemed as it were plannedand fortified by Nature, in one of her wildest moods, for some great anddaring enterprise.
Standing on the summit of one of the surrounding cliffs, the eyeembraced an extensive scope of country, whose ragged, picturesque surfacepresented scenes sublimely beautiful, and as variegated as the wildestconceptions of the most vivid imagination. Here you beheld a stuntedgrowth of trees overhanging some frightful precipice; there rocks piledtopling up, until they seemed ready to fall with a crashing vengeanceupon minor objects below; while winding like a silvery belt between, atsome little distance, was the dark and silent Osage, gliding on to beunited with one of earth's mightiest rivers, and then forever lost in itslast long home of the boundless deep.
There is, in contemplating the beauty and grandeur of Nature,something so fascinating, so holy, so inspiring—we feel so drawnaway from the many petty trifles of common life, that to die amid suchscenes appears to us as it were robbing Death of half his terrors. 'Tisthen we feel purified— elevated; we feel that we are alone in thepresence of God—Almighty God! and when it shall be our fate, assooner or later it must be, (and with all) to pass the bourne whence nonereturn, O! let our body be consigned to dust beside the dashing of somestream, away from the haunts of men, where the soul, the sublime soul ofNature herself pervades!
The cavern of which we have made mention, and to which we must nowturn our attention, was entered from the creek, through a small aperturesome two feet above the water. From this you descended rather abruptlysome ten or fifteen feet, when you found yourself in a large, archingcave of stone, sufficient in size to contain an hundred and fiftypersons. From this was a low arched passage through the rock, leadinginto another apartment, some twenty by thirty feet.
This secret retreat, at the date of our story, was the grandrendezvous of a numerous banditti, of whom mention has been made in theopening.— Along the sides of the cave were ranged pistols, knives,rifles, carbines, powder-flasks, and all the various insignia of warfare.At one end was erected a platform, whereon the chief of the banditti sator stood, when holding public council. Along the sides were ranged oakenbenches, where the members could be seated, and the whole together worean air of comfort and convenience. But of the Inner Cave, or Chieftain'sChamber, as it was generally called, we wish for the present to speakmore particularly. Could one have been introduced into it privately, orwithout knowing where he was, and seen it lighted in all its brilliancy,he would have fancied himself in the gorgeous apartment of some palace,rather than in a robber's cave. Everything in the shape of splendor andluxury was there. A rich damask silk curtain, arranged in graceful folds,extended round and completely screened the walls; against which, fromfloor to ceiling, extended four splendid mirrors, in gilt frames, eachplaced opposite the other, occupying the four sides of the apartment andreflecting every object in it. Much of the intervening space on the wallswas filled with paintings of various and fanciful designs, but allevidently executed by artists of no ordinary talent:—in fact, someof them were from the great masters of Europe. On the floor, which wasdark, of marble polish, stood several sofas, of elegant workmanship,together with a table of solid stone, most beautifully carved, on which,strange as it may seem, were piled books and music. A guitar and violin,evidently in much requisition, were lying carelessly on one of the sofas,beside which, in seeming contrast, lay a brace of pistols, a gold mountedshort sword and a silver handled dirk.— In fact, several of thelast mentioned articles were occupying positions in different parts ofthe Chamber, strangely at variance with its otherwise poetical aspect.There was no outlet to this apartment, save the aperture alreadymentioned as connecting it with the larger cave, and consequently thelight, which must of necessity be artificial, proceeded from a goldmounted chandelier, suspended midway of the ceiling, and gave to eachthing a soft, dreamy, voluptuous appearance. We have said there was nooutlet, save one; but in addition to what the reader has already seen,was a recess, entered by drawing aside the folds of the curtain,sufficiently large for a sleeping apartment, and was doubtless used forthis purpose, as it contained the requisites.
It may perhaps appear strange to the reader, that so much of luxury,civilization, and even refinement, should be found at this period, so farback in the wilds of Missouri, and what is more, in a robber's cave. Butto the very circumstance of its being a robber's cave, let it beattributed; for the access that an organized banditti would have tovarious kinds of plunder, may be said to be almost limitless. That suchthings as we have mentioned could have been procured and brought hither,no one will question—that they were, we assert. There is alsoanother thing to be taken into consideration. That the chief of theseoutlaws was no ordinary individual, that he was a man of some learning,taste and refinement—of a fanciful, poetical temperament—theselection and arrangement of the articles in his private apartment go toprove. But this will doubtless be developed in the progress of our story,therefore we will not anticipate, but turn our attention to the presentoccupants of the Chieftain's Chamber.
On the afternoon of the same day with which we closed the precedingchapter, reclining in an easy, graceful attitude on one of the sofas ofthis elegant apartment, was a beautiful female of some twenty summers. Togive anything like a perfect description of her dress and appearance,will, we fear, be an impossibility; yet we may be able to draw a sketch,from which the imagination of the reader may fill the picture. Herfeatures were cast in nature's finest mould, and though not strictlyclassic, yet possessing an appearance of delicate chiseling, if we may soexpress it, which is never seen save in those whose mental powerpredominates over their physical—or, in other words, whoseintellectual commands our respect, where otherwise the animal wouldexcite our passions. Her skin was dark and spoke her Spanish origin. Herhair was black, and fell in a sort of graceful negligence around abeautiful rounded neck, which was bared low, and gave her a somewhatvoluptuous appearance; nor was this lessened by her round, plump, softarms—bare nearly to her shoulders—one of which was throwngracefully under her head, and ended in a small pretty hand, with gentlytapering fingers,—the latter, by the way, glittering with rings ofgreat value. Her eyes were black—sparkling black—in whoseliquid depths you could see the fire of passion, the jealousy of love andthe revenge of hate. Love was there—wild passionate love—butit was love that must know no rival, else the fawn would be changed tothe tigress. It was love that would dare all,sacrifice all, for theobject on which it was fixed; but that object must love in return, or beitself a sacrifice. There was about her mouth a peculiar expression,which we cannot forbear to notice. It was a smile, but then it was asmile wherein you could read to a certain extent the mind which governedit. Was she sad, it was mournful; was she happy, it was pleasing; was sheangry, it was full of scorn, defiance and revenge; but in all moods, allchanges of feeling, it was ever there, it was ever a smile Her dress wascut low around the neck, leaving the arms also bare, and was fancifullytrimmed with gold lace, which gave it a very singular effect.
The other occupant of the Chamber was a female slave—amulatto—who was standing before one of the mirrors, arranging hercurly hair with great precision, and viewing her comely features with nosmall degree of pride. She was of good proportions, some twenty-fiveyears of age, possessed a rather pleasing countenance, and, for one ofher race, of more than ordinary intellect. She was gaily and somewhatfantastically dressed.
For a few moments the lady on the sofa gazed upon her slave in thatlanguid manner which bespeaks the mind occupied in some pleasing reverie,and then slightly raising herself and altering her position, in a voicepeculiar for its musical tones, said:
"Cyntha, do you hear the dip of oars?"
The other listened a moment, and then made answer: "No, missus."
"I think your ears are a little dull, Cyntha.— Question thesentinel!"
The other instantly disappeared into the larger cave and quicklyreturned. "O yes, missus right, massa coming."
"As I thought," replied the lady, with a pleasing smile. "You see,Cyntha, the ears of love are quick."
"O yesum, missus, I knows 'em berry quick."
"Well, now, arrange my hair, quickly as possible."
The slave sprang to her mistress, with the agility of one accustomedto obey with promptness the slightest command of her superiors, and in afew moments all was arranged in tasteful order.— Scarcely was itcompleted, when a heavy tread was heard in the Outer Cave, and the nextmoment a figure of commanding appearance stood full in the light of theChieftain's Chamber. The lady arose, flew to his arms, and the lips ofboth met: then leading her to a sofa, he seated himself beside her,removing at the same time from his head a cap of very singularconstruction, and exhibiting a forehead broad and high, surmounted byglossy raven hair, which fell in ringlets adown his face and around aneck, whose full, handsome proportions were indicitive of great muscularpower. His complexion was dark, darker even than the lady's. His eyeswere black and brilliant— his features bold, though in outlinerather handsome, and his chin was graced with an imperial. His dress wasof a strange order, and seemed to combine the sailor and theback-woodsman—in fact he was a man that the most casual observerwould not have passed without a second notice.— Turning to the ladywith a look of tender admiration, he threw his arms around her waist,drew her fondly to him, and again pressed his lips to hers, saying at thesame time, in a low tone:
"My Inez looks beautiful to-day!"
"And Inez is proud that Ronald thinks so," replied the lady, with asmile of sweetness, her eyes beaming with love, and fixed earnestly uponhis. "But tell me, Ronald, why have you been thus long away? Oh, wearilythe hours have passed, and methought last night would never bring amorn."
"Business, Inez, business prolonged my absence," answered the othersomewhat hurriedly. "But come," he added, as though to change the theme,"let us have some music! I am sighing for a tender strain, to drown aworld of thought!"
"Thought, Ronald, thought! what makes you think?" enquired Inez,gazing into his face with a look of anxiety.
"Nothing, love, nothing. Ho! Cyntha—the music!" and as the slavebrought forward the guitar, he continued:—"There Inez, my prettyone, come, music, music!—a song, love, a song!"
Inez took the guitar, still eyeing him steadily, as though there wassomething in his humor unnatural and which she could not comprehend.
"Will you not accompany me, Ronald?"
"No, Inez, I will listen."
"What shall I play and sing?"
"Anything! something wild!"
"Wild, Ronald?"
"Wild and sweet, Inez."
"Ronald, you are not yourself;" and Inez ran her fingers over thestrings, paused and gazed tenderly upon him. "Something troubles you,Ronald. Tell me, tell your Inez the secret;" and the smile wasmournful.
"I swear to you it is nothing—I am cheerful;" and he turned toher with a smile. "But the song! the song!"
"Shall it be The Rover?"
"Ay! The Rover."
Inez made no further remark, but tuning her instrument, in a voicerich in melody sang
THE ROVER.
Thoughtful he stood
On the mountain's high brow—
Sadly he gazed
On the valley below;
For there, 'mid a grove, by a silvery stream,
Was the spot of his childhood, his youth's happy dream.
Sadly he mused
As his look wandered o'er
Childhood's bright scenes,
That must know him no more;
And his eyes they grew dim, and his cheeks they grew pale,
For he felt he was gazing his last on the vale.
Slowly he turned
From that sweet quiet spot;
One struggle and all
Life's bright scenes seemed forgot;
And far down the mountain the Rover's voice rang,
As in musical tones thus wildly he sang:
`Ha, ha, ha!—ha, ha, ha!
I'm a Rover and free;
And the wide world is mine—
No shackles for me:
Over mountain and valley,
Over ocean I'll roam;
And the spot that is brightest
Shall give me a home!
`Ha, ha, ha!—ha, ha, ha!
I am free as the air;
But ye who have made me.
I charge ye, beware!
For I'll come like the tempest,
In furious wrath,
And wo to ye, wo,
Who have darkened my path!
`Ha, ha, ha!—ha, ha, ha!
I laugh at thy scorn,
Proud lady, that dared
To call me lowly horn:
But deem not the Rover
Will ever forget;
And I swear to thee, lady,
We meet again yet.
`Ha, ha, ha!—ha, ha, ha!
I will stand by thy side;
Will scoff thee, will taunt thee,
Will humble thy pride!
And loudly I'll laugh,
As on low bended knee,
Thou suest for favor
Of me, lady, me!
`Ha, ha, ha!—I go forth,
And the world shall proclaim
In shuddering wonder
The hold Rover's name!
And ye who have forced me
Thus early to care,
Beware of the Rover,
I charge ye, beware!'
"Well sung, Inez!" exclaimed Ronald, with animation, as the last notesdied away. "Well sung! and apropos: there is something in the song muchin unison with my own feelings; and somehow there seems a connectionbetween the Rover and myself. Where learned you the song?"
"In a southern city, of a traveling minstrel."
"It reminds me forcibly of my boyhood days," returned Ronald, with ahalf-stifled sigh.
"Indeed!" said Inez, gazing earnestly upon him. You have oftenpromised me the story of your birth, Ronald; why not tell it me now?"
"I would have told you ere this, love; but somehow the recalling ofthe golden days of youth, the revival of the past, ever tends to make mesad; and you know I dislike being sad, Inez. But no matter—youshall have the story now; there will perhaps never be a time moreappropriate. Cyntha, you may leave us;" and as the slave departed, hecontinued: "Prepare yourself to listen—so runs the tale:
"England is the land of my nativity. My mother, God rest her soul! Iwell remember. She was one of those sweet, gentle, affectionate,sensitive beings, that occasionally find their way into this world ofsorrow and strife, as though to remind man if the picture be dark, it hasits bright, sunny spots. She was a woman on whom none could gaze withfeelings of indifference. She was herself all soul, all feeling; onewhose eyes would ever grow dim at a tale of sorrow. Oh! how I lovedher!—with what wild, passionate devotion! My very existence seemedcentered in hers; and the very idea of a separation by death would oftenfill my young eyes with tears. I remember we lived in comfortablecircumstances. We occupied a beautiful little cottage, surrounded by alandscape variegated and pleasing, stretching far away in gentleundulations, like the swell of the ocean in a calm, and ending in hills,which to my young fancy seemed rising as guardians to overlook and watchthe valley below. There was a delightful quiet about the spot, which evenas I recall it lends a soothing influence to my restless, turbulentspirit. Near to our cottage was a shady grove, through which slowlymeandered a lovely stream, on whose velvet-like banks I have lingeredmany an hour, angling for the finy tribe in its placid bosom. In the moreimmediate vicinity of the cottage was a garden of flowers, of all kindsand hues, and the walls themselves were shaded by the creeping, clingingivy. The whole scene might be described as a perfect picture of domestichappiness; and to this and my mother's gentle disposition, I have everfelt myself indebted for those finer feelings which are so foreign to mypresent occupation.
"But notwithstanding this seeming happiness (and, alas! reality hastaught me that if we fathom the human heart we shall find in most casesthat what we took for happiness was but the seeming) there was sorroweven in that cottage—in the heart of my own beloved mother. Itoften appeared strange to me, even in my earliest days, that I never sawmy father, that I never heard my mother speak of him; and when curiosityexcited me to enquire of her—as it sometimes would—thereason, she ever grew sad, melancholy, and put me off with the answerthat she would inform me at some future time—that I was not yetenough advanced in years to understand. This of course but added fuel tothe flame; but as I saw the question ever pained her, I finally droppedit altogether, trusting that she would inform me in her own goodtime.
"She was a woman of fine taste and education, and under her owninstructions I was early taught to read and write; and possessing achoice library of poetry and romance, and my mind being naturally bent inthat channel, I took to books with great avidity, and whiled away many along evening, or what would otherwise have been so, in reading to hersuch passages as I fancied most in accordance with her gentle spirit.Thus passed the first twelve and happiest years of my existence.
"Feeling that I had now arrived at the proper age, and that it was aduty she owed me, she determined on sending me to school; and though theidea of parting with me was painful, yet as she felt it was for my ownbenefit she did so, the pleadings of duty became paramount to feeling,and unknown to myself every thing was arranged for my departure. When shefirst broke the news to me, it came like the shock of an unexpectedthunder-bolt; nor could I believe her really in earnest until she hadthrice reiterated it. Never shall I forget the feelings which the thoughtof separation occasioned. Separation had been the one secret dread of mylife; but it had been the separation of death only—voluntaryseparation having never entered my mind. She at once perceived myfeelings—for they found a sad echo in her own heart, and by gentlereasoning sought to convince me of the necessity and benefit of ourparting for a time. She informed me it was in her power to give me aneducation; but beyond that little or nothing; and she felt anxious Ishould gain that, which, whatever misfortunes might befal me in afteryears, would ever be mine. I listened to her,—I saw her mind wasbent upon it, and I acquiesced, without a word of murmur. A few days andwe parted; but sad, most sad, was the parting. Pardon me, Inez, but thethought of it makes me childish," and Ronald passed his hand across hiseyes, and for a few moments remained silent.
"Never," he resumed at length, "shall I forget her sweet, mournfulfeatures, as she stood gazing upon me, on the morning of my departure,with a look wherein was concentrated all the deep yearnings of a mother'sheart, for a son she might never behold again; and doubtless there was apresentiment of this kind at work within her,— for when we came tothe final adieu, she clasped me to her heart, almostconvulsively,—the tears rolled down her cheeks,—and it waswith difficulty she could utter, `God bless you, my son!—farewell!If we never meet again'—she paused— `forget not my memory!'My feelings, Inez, you may imagine; I cannot describe them—wordsare too weak. Thus we parted"—Ronald paused as if struggling withsome deep emotion, and them added, faintly—"forever!"
"Forever!" exclaimed Inez, involuntarily.
"Ay, forever! But—the story:—I must be more brief. Theschool to which I was sent was some hundred miles distant, and was one,if truth must be said, better calculated to learn me in the ways andvices of the world, than in knowledge of books. I was there thrown amongall classes, and left without a guide to choose my companions. Naturallyof a bold, reckless disposition, I unfortunately became a favorite of theworst class; and by degrees was led into scenes of revelry andwickedness, of the existence of which, ere I went there, I had never evendreamed. It is unnecessary for me to dwell in detail; suffice it,therefore, that at the end of three years I left the school in disgrace.An hour after my dismissal, I received the news of the death of mymother, the only friend I had in the world. Oh! what were my feelings! Ihave an indistinct recollection of a pressure—a whirl—a firein my brain, and I knew no more. I was mad—raving mad! Themessenger who bore me the news, bore me home a maniac. Home, no! Oh God!it was home no longer! Ere I recovered my reason, my mother wasmouldering in the dust. I shall not dwell on my feelings of grief andutter desolation, when I again comprehended all:—the subject is toopainful, and other matters press me for narration. The only legacy leftme was a sealed package, which I opened with a trembling hand—thecontents I distinctly remember, for they are engraved upon the verytablets of my heart. A letter within, ran thus:
"`My dear son, God be with you! I am dying, and can never see youagain on earth, but will in the land of spirits. My strength isfailing—I have but a few minutes to live, and will devote them toyou. You have often questioned me of your father. I have delayedanswering you,—but the time has now come when it is necessary youshould know all. God give me strength to pen, and you to read the secretof my life!—and Ronald, dear Ronald, whatever you do, do notreproach, do not curse my memory! I shall enter but little into detail,for time and strength will not permit. At the age of twelve I was left anorphan, and was taken in charge of some distant relatives of my mother,with whom I lived in easy circumstances, until the age of sixteen. Theywere not wealthy, and yet had enough wherewithal to live independent.They treated me with much affection, and life passed pleasantly for fouryears. At the age of sixteen, I accidentally became acquainted withWalter Langdon, only son of Sir Edgar Langdon, whose large estate andresidence—for he was very wealthy— was but a few milesdistant. He found opportunity and declared his attachment, but at thesame time informed me that our relations on either side would be opposedto our union, and begged me to make no mention of it, but to preparemyself and elope with him; that when the ceremony was over, and noalternative, all parties would become reconciled. He was young, handsome,and accomplished—his powers of conversation brilliant. He pleadwith a warmth of passion I could not withstand—for know, Ronald, Iloved him, with the ardent first love of a girl of sixteen, and Iconsented. Alas! Ronald, that I am forced to tell you more: this rash actwas my ruin!
"`My strength is failing so rapidly I cannot enter into particulars,my son,—and yet, why should I?—they would only pain you toread, and me to write. Suffice, Ronald, that he deceived me—Ibecame his victim--and you, Oh God! you are the offspring of ourguilt.
"`Shortly after this I learned, to my horror, that he had unitedhimself with a lady of wealth. He afterward saw me and offered me thereparation of money:—alas! what a reparation to one whose hopeswere ruined! Had it not been for you, my son, I never would have lived tofeel my disgrace. As it was, I accepted his offer, on condition that hewould never see me more. To this he reluctantly consented, and gave me alife lease of the place where you were reared, and settled on me acertain annuity, which ceases at my death. By economy I have been enabledto save a thousand pounds, which is here enclosed. Take it, Ronald, andmay God enable you to live an honest life. Poor boy! you arehomeless—friendless,— for she who has watched over and lovedyou as only a mother can, will, ere this reaches you, be in her grave.God support you, dear Ronald! But for the thought of your grief andsuffering, I could die contented. I have, save you, no friend onearth,—all have thrown me off and treated me with contempt. Well,well, it is all for the best; may God forgive them! It is a justpunishment for my sin; and yet it is hard—very, very hard. Oh!Ronald--dear, dear Ronald!-- that I could see you once again—couldclasp you once more to this broken heart—could feel you close myaching eyes!—but no! no! it cannot be—death is upon me! Ifeel it in my palsying limbs—my leaden eye-lids--my strugglingbreath. I would advise you, but I cannot; I leave you to act as you thinkproper; but, my son, do nothing rash! Oh! Ronald, do not curseme!—will you? Oh! if I but knew you would forgiveme!—but— ah!—God!—I am going. Adieu!adieu!—Ronald, bear your mother's name, and drop a tear upon theearth that covers her. Farewell—farewell!
Clarrisse Bonardi.'
"Oh! Gods! Inez, what think you were my feelings, when I read this? Itseemed as though all the demons of hell itself were at work within myheart! Is this the world? cried I. Do men live and passunpunished—ay! and more!—are they courted by the world, thattrample upon and break the hearts of God's loveliest images? Does societyuphold men in deeds of wickedness that would even blacken the characterof hell's archfiend? Do they drag man before their mock tribunals, andsentence him to rot in prison, because necessity forced him to take amorsel of bread to save himself and offspring from starvation? Is thissociety?—is this the boasted land of justice and religion? Thendeliver me from it!—then let me war against it!—ay! let me bean outlaw from that society, which is itself an outlaw from all that isgood! Such were the thoughts, Inez, that rushed forth from my burningbrain! Boy I was in years, but boy no longer! I felt I was alone in aworld black, with sin, and must choose and act for myself. Nor was Iwithout experience. The last three years of my life, if not in booklearning, had advanced me much in knowledge of the world. A change hadcome over me. Once I thought of nothing but innocent affections and happydreams of the future. Now clouds dark and gloomy rose in wild fantasticshapes before me. And life, what was it?— and what was I? Whathopes had I of brightness? A being of noble birth, but not I galized bythe laws of the land, sent into the world to be the jeer of my fellows!I, son of Sir Walter Langdon— for he had now assumed the title ofhis father, deceased—who by right should claim his affection, to belooked upon by him—by my own father—as a being low-born, andperhaps spurned from his presence, should I seek him out? Oh! how thesethoughts crowded upon me!
"I went abroad, young as I was, and visited the principal cities ofEurope. At the end of three years I returned to England, exhausted infunds, and for the first time determined on visiting my father. I soughthim out and stood before him. He demanded my name and business. My name,I replied, is one you will long remember: Ronald Bonardi, or RonaldLangdon, as circumstances may be. He turned pale and his eye sunk beforemy steady gaze; then recovering his self-possession, he bade me begoneand never enter his presence again—said he knew me not—that Iwas a base imposter! Oh! Inez, that moment had nearly been fatal to him,such a wild passion was aroused within me! I could feel the blood drop bydrop retreating to my heart, and I fairly reeled. Such words from myfather—from the author of my existence—nearly dethroned myreason! By a mighty effort I conquered myself and replied, my lipsquivering with suppressed passion, that I would leave ononecondition and never see him more. He demanded it. Money! was my onlyanswer. He gave me money and I left; but ere I did, I told him theorphan's curse was on him; ay! father though he was, I cursed and lefthim trembling. That curse, Inez, was fulfilled—terribly fulfilled.His wife, then in the bloom of health, shortly after died. His son, nearmy own age, was murdered. His daughter, then some three years of age,disappeared suddenly; and he, to sum up, survived but a fewmonths—dying a maniac—and his estate passed into the hands ofanother. By what singular fatality I was avenged, I know not; but so wasthe termination.
"I came to America, and caring little what became of me, led adissolute life. For twelve years I traveled through the States aprofessional gambler. This course of life tended to harden me to almostany deed whereby I might be the gainer in the shape of gold, thatglittering earth to which all classes bow in humble reverence. By chanceI fell in with a lawless band of desperadoes, who, through a fancy Inever could account for, chose me for their leader. I accepted the officeon condition that I should have absolute sway so long as remained theirchief, and that they would allow me to organize them as I saw proper. Tothis, without a dissenting voice, they consented, and I was electedcaptain for the term of five years. My first proceeding was to find asafe rendezvous and establish such a code of laws as I deemed mostbeneficial to us as a body. This was done, and it is needless to tell youthis was the place chosen for our secret retreat. For two years, Inez,ere I saw you, I led a wild life; and though by my deeds I made myself anoutlaw, yet to this day my hands are free from the stain of blood; stillI fear, if, I remain much longer chief, I shall have to put in force alaw, which, as executioner, will not leave me guiltless."
"What mean you, Ronald?" asked Inez, quickly, who had been listeningto his story with breathless attention.
"There is disaffection creeping into our ranks, which I fear willresult in treachery and mutiny. Some evidences I have already seen. Tothe offender the punishment is death by the hands of the chief."
"God save you from such a crime! dear Ronald," cried Inez, throwingher arms around his neck and gazing tenderly upon him.
"Ah! gentle Inez," said Ronald, with deep emotion, tenderly embracingher, "why should fate doom you to be linked to a bandit chief?— Wasthere no better destiny in store for you?"
"I murmur not, Ronald," replied Inez, sweetly.
"True, you do not; yet am I not blind to your feelings. When first Isaw you, dearest Inez, three years since, I felt what it was tolove—never till then. In disguise I sought your acquaintance; indisguise I won your affections; but my love was deep and true, and indisguise I could not wed you. No! base as I had been—base as I thenwas—a bandit chief—an outlaw from society— I could notfarther deceive the only being I loved on earth. It was painful, verypainful, to think that I must tear myself from you, and perchance neversee you more. Oh! how many sleepless nights it cost me! how much heartrending misery! But my resolution was taken. I loved you, and would notdrag you to perdition. I would tell you all and part forever. I told youall; but O, what was my surprise—my joy—when instead ofspurning me from your sight, you told me with your own sweet lips ourfates were one! For a time, sweet Inez, I could not believe it reality;that there was for the outcast so much joy in store; but the altar provedit true. Since then, Inez, I have never been the same being. Then, forthe first time in my long career of crime, did I feel guilt; for thefirst time sighed to be an honest man. But my oath as bandit chief boundme for five years. I could not break it, and three years had yet toexpire. Those three years, Inez, you have shared with me; have been thesunlight of my existence; have tended to make me a better man. To-day myterm of office expires, and I am released from my oath."
"To-day, Ronald, dear Ronald!" cried Inez, in a transport of joy; "andyou will leave this place then, will you not?"
"Ah! Inez, that is what troubles me. To-night a leader must be chosen.By a law which with us is as unchangeable as those of the Medes andPersians, if one of our band be chosen without a dissenting vote, to theoffice of chief, he is bound to accept. If but one vote be cast againsthim he can act his pleasure—two-thirds of the members present beingsufficient, if in favor, to constitute him duly elected. I fear are-election without a dissenting voice."
"But can you not bribe some one to vote against you?"
"The offer, Inez, is punishable with death. No! I must bide theresult, and that result I fear. I would that I could be released and leftto retire to some secluded spot in quiet to enjoy the company of my owndear Inez. But I am a child of fate and must submit to the decree ofdestiny. If I am again elected, as I said before, I fear I shall, in myofficial capacity, be compelled to act in a manner foreign to my presentfeelings. Besides, we have of late been very inactive, and there has beendissatisfaction expressed in regard to it by some of the members. Alreadypreparations are being made for an attack on a rich planter, whose estatelying in Tennessee, borders on the Mississippi in a manner favorable toour design; and I, as captain of the banditti, must head theexpedition."
"Alas! Ronald," sighed Inez, sorrowfully.
"Alas! Inez," returned Ronald, "that fate should will it. Ah! fate!fate! Without there, ho! who knocks?" This was addressed to some one inthe Outer Cave, who had given the signal for the chief, by three distinctraps on the wall.
"The presence of our captain is needed," was the reply.
"I come," returned Ronald; and pressing his lips once more to those ofInez, he hastily arose and quitted the apartment. Inez gazed after him insilence for a time; and then bending over her guitar, sung a low, sweet,mournful strain.
THE MEETING OF THE BANDITTI—THE ADDRESS—THESUSPICION—THE ELECTION—THE APPOINTMENT THEINITIATION—THE OATH.
The night succeeding the day in which we have introduced the readerinto the grand rendezvous of the banditti, was densely dark. Clouds lowand heavy canopied the heavens and veiled the light of moon and stars. Toadd to the gloom without, was a thick fog and drizzly rain, whichcompletely forbade all objects to the eye, unless aided by artificiallight. Within the larger cave, running through its centre, was a row oftorches, whose red, flickering glare gave each thing a somewhat sombreand fantastical appearance. Near the farther end stood a group of fourfigures, coarsely habited, whose large statures and brawny limbs gaveevidence of great animal power. Their features, by the light of thetorches, were anything but preposessing, and varied in expression only bythe inner workings of fierce passions. They were evidently on someexciting topic, for their gesticulations were quick and fierce, theirlanguage low and energetic, occasionally mingled with a guttural oath,which, like the distant sound of thunder, told of the accumulating stormof passion ere long to burst in fury on some devoted head. Neither ofthem wore coat or vest; but a coarse shirt covered their shoulders, andbeing entirely open in front, left their broad, bronzed bosoms free. Withthe exception of one, their muscular arms were bare; this exception beingdoubtless caused by an accident, as the owner carried his arm in a sling.Around each waist passed a belt, in which, convenient to the hand, wereplaced pistols, knives and daggers, ready for use at any moment. For sometime the conversation, as we have said, was low and hurried; but atlength a voice, as though passion had got the better of prudence,exclaimed somewhat loudly:
"Hang me, but they shall both die! I—"
"Hush, fool!" interrupted another; "would ye spoil all with yourimprudence? We may be overheard," he added, in a lower tone, and againthe voices died away to a murmur. Leaving them to the plotting of theirown dark deeds, we will now turn our attention to another part of thecave.
We have previously mentioned, that to enter this retreat, you mustdescend abruptly some fifteen feet. This was done by means of a ladder,which could be removed at a moment's notice. At the foot of this ladder,day and night, paced a sentinel, whose imperious orders were to admit noone, not even the chief himself, without the password and countersign;and furthermore, should any individual, be he chief or not, persist inadvancing without giving both pass-word and countersign, after beingthree times warned of the consequences, it should be the duty of thesentinel to fire on said person with intent to take life; in failurewhereof, or being found asleep on his post, his own life was the forfeit.For farther safety against a sudden attack, was a trap door exactly underthe entrance, so constructed, that by touching a secret spring it wouldfly open and leave an aperture some fifty feet in depth, at the bottom ofwhich were sharp stones, so placed that no living body could fall on themfrom above and survive the shock.
At the foot of the ladder mentioned, on the evening in question, pacedthe sentinel, with the steady gait and regular wheel of an oldsoldier— bearing on his shoulder a rifle. For some minutes nothingwas heard but the murmur of the voices already spoken of, and his ownmeasured tread. At length a sound, like the plash of an oar, fell uponhis ear. Suddenly pausing, he bent his head forward in a listeningattitude; and then, as if satisfied all was right, resumed his walk. Butlittle time elapsed ere the sound of oars was heard distinctly, and thehum of voices from without. Directly came a sound like the striking of anoar three times flatwise upon the water, when the sentinel paused, and ina quick, sharp voice, sung out:
"Heta benare?"
"Ele lio!" was the answer.
"Come forward and give the pass and countersign!"
A figure instantly stood in the mouth of the cave, crossed his arms onhis breast, drew a dagger from his belt, passed it across his neck,touched the point to his heart, and returned it; all of which was donewith a rapid motion, uttering, at the same time, the pass-word:"Eliona!"
"All right—descend!" returned the sentinel; and as the figurepassed down, another stood in the entrance, went through the sameceremony, and was followed in quick succession by some fifty others. Atlength the signal was given that all had entered, and the last comer tookup his position as sentinel on the outside of the cave, while the otherkept his round within as usual. The group we have mentioned previously,on the entrance of the new comers dispersed and mingled with them. Forsome ten minutes there was a general hum of voices, engaged on differenttopics, when suddenly Ronald came forth from the Chieftain's Chamber, andall was silent. With a dignified step he proceeded to and mounted theplatform or stand, where he was greeted with three loud, hearty cheers.As he listened to this spontaneous tribute to his popularity, his darkeye flashed, a look of pride shot across his stern, dark features, andraising his hand to command silence, he thus addressed theassemblage:
"Gentlemen and brothers:—To me, I must confess, the presentmoment is a proud one; for it revives the time when, with one universalvoice as it were, you proclaimed me your captain—gave me, astranger, your confidence; which you are aware, as well as myself, was noless than placing your lives at my disposal; and shows that yourconfidence in me is still unshaken. Five years ago, this night, I waselected your chief; in doing which you made my simplest word an imperative law. That you should confer at a venture such honor, such absoluterule, on myself, on one you had never even proved, was, and remains tothis day with me a matter of surprise and mystery. What I had donepreviously to merit your confidence, I know not; but I felt at thatmoment, gentlemen, that as you considered me worthy to govern you, Iwould throw the whole strength of my mind, would concentrate my wholethoughts upon one theme, which should be for your prosperity; and toprove, if possible, your confidence not misplaced. That I have succeeded,Ifeel in the welcome sound of your glad voices." He paused, and auniversal shout echoed through the cave.
"For five years," he resumed, "I have been your leader; and by thismeans, as you are well aware, have made myself an outlaw, and a price hasbeen set on the head of the bandit chief. That I do not fear beingbetrayed—that I do not fear, notwithstanding this, to mingle insociety, even where danger is the most apparent—you, gentlemen,from my actions, can bear ample witness: but, gentlemen, in regard tothis matter for the future, I would ask a favor.
"You are aware, at least most of you, that three years ago I marriedInez Orlandi—a lady of noble descent, whose self-sacrificing lovewas such that she chose life with me, a bandit, rather than a higherdestiny—or at least what the world would term a higher—withanother. Since then, gentlemen, as you have doubtless perceived, I havenever been the same being—have never taken the same interest in therough sports of our wild life. To-night you again choose a leader foranother five years; and the favor I would ask of you is, that you willexempt me from your choice. Let a division of all our spoils be made, andlet me, gentlemen, retire into private life. It is the wish, save yourprosperity, nearest my heart; and I await your answer." Again he paused,and the cave was silent as the hall of death; not even so much as awhisper relieved the stillness. Each appeared taken by surprise, andawaiting the answer of his neighbor.
Ronald cast a hurried glance over the assemblage, and read in theirgrave and saddened countenances, as one used to reading the thoughts ofthe heart by the features, that he would meet with opposition in thisrespect, even from those who loved him best; that save him there was noone in whom they would be united; that, in short, he was the man of theirchoice, without whom disorganization must take place. There is, in all,who possess strong feelings, an innate pride in being thought the firstin his profession— even though that profession be to gamble orsteal; a secret satisfaction in knowing that in his line he is popular,and feeling himself that he excels. Such thoughts, such feelings, werebusy in the breast of Ronald, as his eye ran over the group; and prideand regret were struggling within him for the mastery. Pride, that hisservices were held in such high esteem by those who had triedhim—regret, that he could not retire in seclusion to enjoy lifewith his own loved Inez. But the struggle was but momentary. Pride was,perhaps, his ruling passion; and even here pride prevailed. He could notlook upon their earnest, saddened faces, at his loss, unmoved; and withan animated eye, and a flush on his strongly marked features, that gavehim an almost noble look, in a voice of some emotion, he said.
"Gentlemen, you speak not, and yet I am answered; ay, loudly answered,in the silence that reigns around me—in the sad faces of those whowere wont to be joyous in my success;—and, gentlemen, let me tellyou, whatever may have been my feelings in asking, I am truly proud ofyour answer. Yes! gentlemen, you have decided my fate! Henceforth I amwith you—with my life will I serve you!"
It would be impossible to describe the scene of joyous excitement thatfollowed this announcement. We shall not attempt it. Suffice, that neverbefore had the cave echoed such prolonged and deafening cheers; and evenInez, who sat with her head bent forward, in the Inner Cave, raised itwith a look of pride, although she felt her fondest hopes were foreverdestroyed. When the tumult had a little subsided, so that he could beheard, Ronald resumed:
"Gentlemen, let us to business! I pray you be seated, that we mayproceed in order. Piketon, you will call the roll!" As he spoke, eachquietly took his seat on one of the benches before spoken of as rangingalong the walls, with the exception of the one called Piketon, whostepped forward and mounted the platform beside the captain. He was atall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, with tolerably goodfeatures,—an eye black and piercing, dark hair, Roman nose—ofa look rather stern than villainous, and some thirty years of age. Therewas, too, about him an expression of intelligence superior to most ofthose present. As he came upon the stand, Ronald handed him a paper,containing the names of the members, which he called off in a clear,distinct voice, pricking those from whom no answer was returned.
"How many present?" enquired Ronald.
Piketon ran his eye over the list and answered: "Sixty-seven,excluding the sentinels."
"Who stands on duty at the cave?"
"Moorehead and Farrar."
"Morris and Parker guard the Entrance," returned Ronald, "which addsfour, leaving absent twenty-one: am I right?"
Piketon again ran his eye over the list, counting the names pricked,and answered: "You are, captain."
"Four of the absent—Lemly, Davis, Sulton and Vance—you maystrike off altogether," said Ronald, sadly:—"they are written onthe roll of eternity! Alas! poor fellows! they met with untimelyfates—the first two shot, the last two hung—a warning that weshould be prudent, or like fates may be our own. Fourteen of the absent Ican account for;" and he mentioned their names. "They are scatteredthroughout the United States—two in New Orleans, five in New York,one in Boston, two in Philadelphia, two in Baltimore, and two inCincinnati. They are on secret service, acting under my instructions, andwith whom I am holding regular correspondence; by which means I aminformed of every thing that tends to the benefit of oursociety—such as the description of travelers bound for the West,who are supposed to carry money, and the best method of obtaining it;which, as you are aware, gentlemen, we have not unfrequently done bygambling. Many of you have, at different times, expressed wonder that Iknew so well how to choose my victims; and I have deemed it no more thanright, on the present occasion, to explain; for I feel you are allentitled to my confidence."
A murmur of delighted surprise, at their captain's ingenuity, now ranamong the assemblage, and ended in a hearty cheer, with: "Long liveRonald Bonardi!"
"Great astonishment, I ween," continued the captain, with a smile,"would some of the nabobs feel, did they know, when sitting down to aquiet game of cards with me, a fellow-traveler, that they would risecompletely fleeced by Ronald Bonardi, a bandit chief. But come," headded, turning to Piketon, "let us finish our business. There are threenames not yet accounted for: you will call them!"
Again Piketon scanned the list closely, and after a moment's pause,said: "The missing are Garrish, Riley, and David the Jew."
"Ha!" exclaimed Ronald, pressing his nether lip between his teeth, asthough struck by a sudden thought:—"The Jew! not here? I know notwhy, but I half suspect Ben David meditates foul play."
"And I'll swear to 't, cap'en," spoke a gruff voice, from one of thebenches.
An electric thrill appeared to run through the assemblage, and severalof the party sprang to their feet, grasping the handles of their weaponsas though to draw them.
"Pray, be seated, gentlemen," said Ronald, waiving his hand, "and letthe accuser stand forth." The request was immediately obeyed; and theindividual previously mentioned as having his arm in a sling, steppedforward. He was a man of large frame, mostly bone and muscle, having ahead much too large for his body, with features coarse andrepulsive—partly covered by a rough, dirt-brown beard—a largenose, and an eye every way villainous. His hair was of a similar color tohis beard—was long, coarse and matted; and he was, besides,stoop-shouldered and bow-legged; in short, a man where the animal waswholly predominant. His age might be forty.
"Ha! Curdish," continued Ronald, eyeing him steadily, "is it you, hisfriend, that accuse him?"
"I don't exactly reckon myself his friend," growled Curdish, with anoath; "though I have did him some favors."
"By reason of which you have doubtless suffered some of late," addedRonald, pointing to his arm. "How happened it, Jack?"
Curdish glanced at his arm, and his features grew more fierce and hiseye more villainous, as he replied: "Well, yes, I got a little hurtthar', in a scrimmage on his account; but—" and he uttered ahorrible oath—"I'll be even with the rascals yit, or I aint what Iused to be."
"If all I learn is true, Curdish, you deserved what you got, andmore!" returned Ronald, knitting his brows, and eyeing him sternly; "butof this another time. Of what do you accuse the Jew? Beware, now, of youraccusation! for if false, you know the penalty."
"I can't read, and I don't know how the law runs," said Curdish,somewhat doggedly.
"I will inform you then," rejoined Ronald; and stooping down, heunlocked a small trap-door in the floor of the ptatform on which hestood, took therefrom a parchment, turned to the light, examined it amoment, and read as follows:
"Sec. II, Art. IX. If any member shall be known to give anyevidence against another member that is not strictly true, or which maybe proved to be false, he shall suffer death, as provided under the BlackLaw, in Article XV of Section I: which is," added Ronald, "to be publiclyshot by the captain of the band, and his body thrown to wild beasts. Youunderstand the law on this point now, Curdish, so proceed! Of what do youaccuse the Jew?"
Curdish appeared somewhat staggered at the consequences of a falsestatement, and his face grew a shade paler, as he replied: "I'm notexactly ready to prove what I's going to say, cap'en."
"Then you had better not say it," answered Ronald. "You can tell me ofyour suspicions privately, and I will take measures to learn whether orno they be well founded. You may resume your place; and I trust, for thefuture, ere you offer to swear to a thing, you will at least knowyourself of what you intend to swear, or the terminus may not beagreeable. As I said, you may resume your place and take part in thebusiness of the evening; after which you will consider yourself underarrest, as there are other matters of which I wish to question you!"
"But cap'en—"
"No more!" said Ronald, sternly, waiving his hand. Curdish bit hislips and slowly retired.—
`Gentlemen," continued the captain, "trust me, all shall be properlylooked to; and if I find a traitor among us"—he set his teeth closeand laid his hand upon a pistol in his belt—"by Heaven, he dies!But to our business. You will now proceed, gentlemen, to the election ofyour captain. Let each vote for him he deems most capable and worthy ofholding the office. Piketon, you will go to each member present and takedown the name of his choice." Piketon obeyed, and in a few minutesreturned to the stand and said:
"Ronald Bonardi is re-elected captain of this band, for the term offive years, without a dissenting vote." The announcement was followed bythree hearty cheers, and "Long live Ronald Bonardi!"
When the noise had again subsided, Bonardi said: "Contrary to my wish,gentlemen, when I came before you this evening, I find that I have beenunanimously chosen your leader for another term. I shall endeavor tofulfil my duties faithfully; and, gentlemen, let me add, strictly. Ifear, by some evidences which have of late come before me"—and heglanced at Curdish—"that I have been heretofore toolenient—too negligent. I shall make the future atone for the past;and whoever among you breaks a law, though he be my bosom friend, I swearto you he shall suffer the penalty—even though that penalty be hisdeath by my hands! Let each and all of you bear this in mind andseriously reflect upon it."
"We, gentlemen, are outlaws; we war upon society; but, mark me, we waronly upon the rich and avaricious! Most of us have had causes forforsaking that society, those laws which govern the mass. Those causeshave been various; and yet, in the end, they almost invariably resolvethemselves into one cause; which is, that society and its laws did notprotect, did not do us justice. But notwithstanding we separate from themass, we must have laws of our own; and by those laws we must abide.Notwitstanding we are outlaws, warring against the nabobs of the world;against those who, had they the power, would trample us under their feet;let us not forget that we are men, and that we have no right to touch thehumble, the innocent, the defenceless. No! whatever we do, let us bear inmind that they are exempt from our encroachments. But above all,gentlemen, under no circumstances whatever let our hands be raisedagainst women! Let them be sacred in our eyes! Let us remember that whatthey are, so are, or were, our mothers, our sisters and, with many of youI can add, our wives! Gentlemen, I ask this of you as men, as brothers,with whose fate my own is now linked! I ask it of you in formaldeclaration! I ask you to swear it, by rising to your feet!" He paused,and almost simultaneously the assemblage arose. Some few were rathertardy—among whom was Curdish—but all finally stood upon theirfeet.
"Be seated, gentlemen," resumed Ronald; "it is enough; you have allsworn, and it is now become a law; and a law let him break whodares!—for by all I hold sacred, I swear to you, whoever shall dareto violate it, I will slay, so help me God!"— and his close shutteeth, his compressed lips and flashing eyes, as he gazed on hisaudience, told them it was no idle threat.
"As I find, gentlemen," continued he, "in tending to my variousbusiness affairs, that I require some one to fill my place when absent, Ihave concluded to appoint me a lieutenant, whom you will all respect andobey as myself. He is one well known among you, well tried and proved tobe worthy of the responsible office, and I trust you will approve mychoice. Piketon," added he, turning to that individual, "henceforth youare second in command; let your duty be done faithfully!"
A prolonged cheer of satisfaction responded to this announcement.Piketon, much embarrassed, was about to reply, but Ronald stopped himwith:
"Nay, no remarks;" and approaching, he put upon his finger a ring,adding: "This, Piketon, is your badge of office. Gentlemen, you will allremember it, there is but one other like it, and you will all respecteither whenever seen." Turning to Piketon, in a low voice not heard bythe others, he continued: "You will order Garrish, Riley and David underarrest, to meet here as soon as possible. If they dispute your authority,show them the ring. If they refuse then to comply, make their lives thepenalty! If you choose, take with you some trusty followers."
"Your orders, captain, shall be obeyed to the letter," returned thelieutenant, respectfully.
Ronald again turned to the audience. "Gentlemen, the attack we have oflate been planning on the Tennessee planter, I shall not touch uponto-night. It may be advantageous and it may not. I will think more uponit, and mayhap something better will take its place. Is there any otherbusiness before the meeting?"
Piketon whispered in his ear.
"Ah! true, true," he resumed, "I had forgotten; where is he?"
"He waits in a boat on the creek," answered Piketon.
"Gentlemen, John Webber wishes to become a member of our fraternity.You know him, some of you have tried him, know you ought why we shouldnot admit him?"
"We do not," answered several voices.
"Enough! Moorehead, give Farrar the signal to admit Webber!"
The sentinel within made a low peculiar whistle, which was answeredfrom without, and directly a figure stood in the entrance, gave the passand countersign, and descended the ladder. He was very wet, for it stillcontinued raining; and as he came forward, the torches threw their luridglare upon features which a close observer might have seen were pale fromexcitement. Piketon stepped forward and conducted him to the stand.Bonardi addressed him:
"Webber, I understand you wish to join our fraternity. You of courseare not ignorant that in doing so you are joining a band outlawed bysociety; that in doing so you become an outlaw also, and place yourselfin a position not envied by those who have received from society propertreatment. What object may have induced you to this step, it is not mypurpose to enquire; enough that you have desired to take it, knowing thatyou are becoming a brother with those whose deeds by the world areconsidered crimes—crimes too, which are punished with imprisonmentand sometimes death. You are doubtless aware also, that in joining us youare binding yourself to us in a manner that makes your life no longeryour own, but a property of the whole; ready to be sacrificed in defenceof the whole, should necessity require it, at any moment. As you arebound to us, so are we bound to you; and if in difficulty, we are boundas a body, if possible, to rescue you, even at the peril of our ownlives. In joining us you become a partner in all our spoils, in all ourdangers, in all our triumphs, in all our troubles. These matters ofcourse you understand?"
Webber bowed.
"It now only remains, then, for me to administer the oath. You willplease hold up your right hand!"
Webber complied.
"By this token of assent, you, John Webber, in the presence ofAlmighty God, and these witnesses, solemnly swear that you will devoteyour life to us and our cause, so long as we remain a band; that you willabide by all our laws, stand ready to uphold them under all difficulties,under all circumstances whatever; in failure whereof, you ardently prayus to take your life as a sacrifice, and the Author of your being tocondemn you to eternal torments forever and ever!—in furtherconfirmation of which, you will kneel, repeat this oath and sign ourconstitution."
These requisitions being complied with, Ronald continued: "You are nowa brother;" and after a pause, added emphatically: "Forget not youroath! Piketon, you will read our laws and bylaws, that he may notplead ignorance should he transgress, which I pray God he may not do! forI have sworn to inflict the penalty set to each law, on him who breaksit; and I now again swear that I will keep my oath!—and, Piketon,you will add the law of this evening, regarding women, the innocent anddefenceless."
After this had been gone through with—occupying some half hourmore—Ronald said: "Gentlemen, for your attention this evening Ithank you. Our business is now closed. What, ho! Cyntha!—the wine!"and as the slave came forth from the Chieftain's Chamber, he added:"Gentlemen, make yourselves happy; there is wine, and cards for those whowish to play; but I pray you be as quiet as possible, and noquarreling!— When through with your pastime, return peaceably toyour homes, and when anything of importance occurs you shall be dulywarned. I shall now retire. Piketon, you will preside in my place;" andwith a graceful bow, Ronald entered the Chieftain's Chamber and joinedhis own beloved Inez, who was sitting expectant.
All passed off quietly, and ere daylight most of the party were ontheir way to their several places of abode, which were scatteredthroughout the adjoining country—many of them being regularsettlers. Some few, however, remained—having partaken rather toofreely of the wine; but with the exception of Curdish and four othersretained as sentinels, all departed on the following day.
THE CRISIS OF THE INVALID—THE STROLL—THEMEDITATION—THE LANDSCAPE—THE VILLAIN— THE TERRIBLETHREAT.
It may be said and with truth, that the heart in a great measuregoverns the vision, and gives to objects coming before the eye theirlight and dark phases. But few stop to reason and realize how much thisis the case in our every day life. One day every thing we behold isbright and joyous, another day dark and gloomy,—and yet the sameheavens are above us, the same earth at our feet, the same sounds oftuneful nature around us.— One day every person we meet wears acheerful smile, another day all seem to frown; and we are apt to think,like the man, who, becoming intoxicated, regretted that all his friendswere so, and wondered much the very trees should keep them company, whilehe walked perfectly sober; we are apt, we say, to think all others atfault, when in fact the whole change lies with ourself, and the discordarises from our own heart-strings being out of tune.
The transition from gloom to joy is oftentimes rapid; and when so,always exhilerating. It gives elasticity to all our movements, and wefeel running through our whole being a thrill of indiscribable pleasure,almost amounting to intoxication. Such were the feelings pervading thedifferent members, now constituting the family of Webber, some ten daysfrom the preceding events.— The day was beautiful; one of thosethat ever seem to harmonize best with the upreaching poetry of arejoicing heart. One of those days that seem to let Heaven down a littlenearer to us— making us feel as though we could love every thing wesee, rejoice in every sound we hear.— The sun rose in splendor andpoured his bright beams through a deep blue sky, where not a cloudfloated to intercept his rays even for a moment, like a young heart freefrom the cloud-spots of a yet untried world. The air was soft, and as itgently floated along, stirring the leaves and kissing the flowers, itstole the perfume of the latter and bore it on to refresh all who shouldinhale it. The little birds had not forgotten it was a joyous day, andtheir sweet songs went up in gentle chorus to their Maker, filling theair with melody.— In the cottage of Webber we have said there wascheerfulness on every countenance. Each moved with an elastic step andbounding heart, and each in their own way felt happy.
Perhaps we never experience happiness equal to that which succeeds atime of gloom and desponcy; and the reader will remember we left thefamily of Webber in gloom, caused by the sudden illness of one beloved byall. It is natural to infer then, that the change which had taken placein the feelings of all, sprung from the change for the better which hadtaken place in the sufferer. Such was the fact. For nine days Rufus hadlain in a state so critical that life and death might be said to be in anequal contest for the mastery. Night and day a watcher had stood by hisbedside, fearful to turn away for a moment, lest the slightest negligenceshould prove fatal. For several days and nights his mother never quittedhis side—watching him with all the deep anguish a mother's heartcan feel for one she loves, when beholding that one racked by pains shewould give her own life to alleviate—and then leaving only becauseworn out nature forced her to repose.— But her place had beensupplied by one, who, if she did not love him so deeply, at least lovedhim with a tender sister's love. Yes, the noble hearted, gentle EmilyNevance had stood by his side, like some angel of the Spirit Landawaiting to bear him to the abode of the blest; and what is strange too,he had ever seemed more at ease, had ever remained more quiet when shewas present. He had been at times wild and delirious, and for hours wouldrave incoherently when she was absent, occasionally uttering a detachedsentence so as to be understood: "God, it is my doom! Emily— nevermore: 'Tis past—tis past!"—from which those who heard himcould glean nothing, save that there was some deep trouble on his mind,some inward working they could not fathom,—but strange, we say, itwas, that when Emily was present, although he did not seem to recogniseher, he ever remained quiet; and sometimes a wan smile would steal overhis pale, thin features, like a faint ray of sunlight lingering upon somedecaying structure. What was there in her presence that could so effectthe invalid? Could it be that her gentle spirit had action uponhis?—that there was a secret communion, unknown to either, betweenthem? It had been noticed by Emily, had been noticed by others, and hadbeen commented on by the different members of the household— amongwhom we must reckon our former acquaintances, Bernard and Tyrone, whostill remained. It had been noticed too by the physician; but noticedonly as a fact he could not account for. There was a cause for itundoubtedly; and perhaps one, the father of the sick one, had vaguelydivined that cause; but if so, he told it not, and with the rest, evenwith Emily herself, it yet remained a mystery.
The evening previous to the opening of this chapter had been aneventful one. Nine days of anxiety had passed wearily away, when thephysician foresaw that a crisis was at hand which must terminate in lifeor death. He had, as before stated, marked the effect of Emily's presenceon the invalid, and consequently gave orders that in this trial noneshould be present but herself—no, not even the mother. The orderhad been obeyed; but oh! who can tell that mother's feelings, when sheknew that a few hours must decide the fate of her darlingchild—perhaps to terminate in death— and she not be with himto gaze upon his treasured features, nor press her lips again to his inlife? Oh! what years of agony were in those few hours of suspense!
On the evening in question then,—the ninth from hisattack—Emily took her position, alone, by the side of Rufus, andwatched him with painful feelings. He had sunk into a deep sleep, a sleepalmost like death itself, for scarcely was his breathing perceptible. Sheknew from that sleep he would never wake, or wake to life free fromdanger. All was silent, as though death were already there. A dim light,standing some distance back, gave a twilight shade to the wholeapartment; and she could barely discern the outline of his pale,marble-like features, which she sometimes fancied were already stiffeningin death. As she occasionally gazed upon him, an indescribable awe creptover her. Was he dead— had his bright spirit gone forever? shewould sometimes question herself; and then the thought, if such was thecase, what agony would be hers to witness in beholding the anguish of hismother,— who with the rest of the occupants were waiting in gloomysilence the signal from her to weep or rejoice—made her feel moregloomy and depressed.
Thus passed two hours—two long trying hours— and yet nochange; the sufferer had moved not, and she began to fancy his spirit hadpassed quietly away. With a trembling hand she raised the light,approached, and held it near his features.— All was calm—hedid not seem to breathe. She bent down her head, but could hear no soundindicating life. "He is gone," she thought, and tears of anguish filledher eyes; and as she raised her head, a drop fell on his cheek. It wasnothing of itself, and yet, as it had been the Promethean spark, theinvalid started, drew a long breath, opened his eyes, fixing themintently upon Emily, who stood perfectly motionless, fearful lest in hisweak state a sudden move might prove fatal to him. He gazed upon her witha sign of recognition in his intelligent features, and then passed hishand across his eyes, as one assuring himself whether he be dreaming ornot. Again he gazed upon her intently, and a bright flush mounted hischeek, as he said:
"Emily, is it you, or a spirit I behold?"
"Thank God, he is safe!" ejaculated Emily, clasping her hands andlooking upward, while tears of joy stole down her sweet features; andbending over, she pressed her lips to his forehead.
"O, Emily, is this reality!" exclaimed Rufus, with a thrill of joylighting up his countenance.— "O say it is not a dream!"
"It is no dream, Rufus," said she, looking tenderly upon him.
"Then Ihave been dreaming," returned he, gazing slowly aroundthe apartment. "I must have slept long, and yet it is still dark. I donot remember coming into this room. How came I here, and why were youwatching me?"
"You have been ill, Rufus, very ill. For nine days you have stood onthe verge of the grave!"
"Ill—nine days!" repeated he, looking incredulously, and placinghis hand to his head, as though to collect his thoughts: "I do feelweak." As he took his hand down, it caught his eye, and starting at thesight of its thin, bony appearance, he murmured: "I have indeed been ill.But where was I taken, Emily? I remember nothing."
"At the door here, just as you had returned from a search for me."
"Search for you, Emily!" repeated he, earnestly, partly raisinghimself in bed—"a search for you! Then it was no dream, Emily, itwas no dream! Ha!" added he, pressing one hand to his forehead, while alook of mental anguish hovered on his features: "I—I remember now,it was no dream! Oh, God! that it were anything but reality!— Oh!Emily—" he paused and fell back on the pillow with a groan.
"Why, Rufus, what means this?" exclaimed Emily, in alarm.
"I must not tell you—it was nothing—it is over now," hereplied, faintly.
"If you had fears for me, you perceive I have safely returned," saidshe, soothingly.
"But withanother!" added he emphatically.
A sudden thought flashed across her brain, but instantly discardingit, she rejoined: "True, with another; but why should that trouble you,Rufus? I was with a friend, whom you know and esteem. I went forth withEdward Merton and returned with him. What see you wrong in that,Rufus?"
Ero he could reply, the door opened and his mother softly entered. Shehad heard voices in conversation—his voice—and her heartwould let her wait no longer.
"O, mother, dear mother!" cried Rufus, as he saw her approaching.
"God of mercy!—he lives! he lives!" shrieked she; and rushingforward, she clasped him to her bosom, raised her eyes to Heaven, andpoured out her heart in a prayer of thanksgiving to the Supreme Ruler.Webber was next to enter, and with tearful eyes he pressed his lips tothe pale cheek of Rufus and uttered: "God be praised!" The physicianfollowed Webber, accompanied by Bernard and Tyrone; but all three pausedas they entered the apartment—which we should have mentioned wasthe same from which Curdish escaped—and gazed upon the scene withheartfelt emotion.
We shall not dwell longer here; suffice, that that night was one ofrejoicing, and the next morning one, as we have shown, well calculated toadd to the joy of lightened hearts. Each rose refreshed in body and mind;and the invalid, as he gazed forth through the open windows, heard thesong of birds, and felt the soft air upon his wasted features with athrill of delight.
After paying Rufus a morning visit, and finding him graduallyrecovering, Emily,—who on his account had of late closely confinedherself to the house—and as the morning was so fine too—couldnot resist the inclination of walking abroad to taste the fresh air, andview nature in all her loveliness; for she was one whose soul was everopen to such delights. Shortly after, she stole quietly away; and takinga path which led through the farm of Webber to the southward, she madeher way with a light step toward a gentle eminence, some half a miledistant, which overlooked a beautiful portion of the country, and whereshe was wont to spend many a pleasant hour in meditating upon thehandiwork of the Supreme Being. There was a deep, inward joy in her heartas she tripped along the winding path; now beside fields of grain,struggling up as though to regain what they had lost by the devastatingtornado; now through tall, rank grass, where occasionally a flower mightbe seen peeping forth, like a modest maiden from her lattice bower; nowthrough bushes rejoicing in beautiful foliage, where the little birdsmade their nests and sung their songs:—there was deep, inward joyin her heart, we say, as she tripped along; a sweet, dreamy sensation ofdelight, such as she had not felt before for a long time.
The mind of Emily was one of those deep, pure, earnest, sensitiveones, that in a measure take their coloring from those around them, asthe chameleon from the objects with which it comes in contact. Not thatshe was fickle, vacilating, governed only by the opinions of those whosewords fell last upon her ear: no, by no means; for in this respect shecould be swayed only by the best of reasoning; but she was one of thosewho are full of soul and feeling, and she was acted upon by the feelingsof others. Naturally of buoyant spirits, full of vivacity andcheerfulness, she delighted to see every one around her in the samemood—every one happy; and she could not rejoice, could not be gay,where she knew another was in grief, or any way in trouble. Her mind wasquick, energetic, but full of sympathy; and the latter noble virtue was,perhaps, her ruling passion. Hence, while she knew that one of the familywith whom she had been reared,—to whom, for their kindness, shefelt she owed such a debt of gratitude, and one too whom she loved withall the earnest affection of a sister—was lying in such a criticalstate, with death staring him in the face, she could not feelhappy—could not remove the weight of anguish that lay like leadupon her heart. But now the case was altered. With his return to reasonand convalescence, returned her buoyant, joyous spirits,— risingjust in proportion to their long and severe depression. It was a day too,above all others, that she loved, and every thing seemed to conspire tomake her happy.
Thus, for a time, as we have said, she tripped along with a gayair—gazing with delight upon the scene aroundher,—occasionally stopping to pluck a flower that pleased herfancy, to be woven into a garland for the sick one, with whom as yet hergentle thoughts were mostly occupied. Suddenly her mind turned intoanother channel— a shade stole over her sweet features, and herstep grew tardy. The cause was a natural and simple one. By one of thosesudden flashes which an active temperament is subject to, the night ofthe storm and her capture rose up before her; and for a moment all thewild feelings of that terrible time came back with the vividness ofreality; and what seems strange too, this had never occurred before. 'Tistrue she had thought of it at times; but then her thoughts had been vagueand transitory,—for grief was at her heart for the welfare of oneshe too much esteemed to think of herself. But now the case wasdifferent,— there were no strong emotions to throw aside thosescenes of alarm and terror, and they came back with startling force. Shesaw again the old hut, where she and Merton had remained during thatterrific storm; she saw the old woman standing before her, with her wildlooks, rapid gesticulations—heard her prophetic words of warning,and felt a kind of awe creeping over her. She remembered her feelingstoo, while going through that lonely pass—her seizure by Riley, andwild ride to the river—her interview with the old Jew—herdespair, when pinioned in the grasp of his villainous subordinates; and,finnally, the sweet charm of her release by the one of all others whomshe loved.
As her train of thoughts led Emily to think of Edward, she dwelt for atime upon his noble, generous nature—his winning ways, and deep,ardent love for her; love which she felt—might return—andboth be happy, but for the disparity in their positions as viewed by theworld. She saw him an only heir of a rich, aristocratic father, whom shehad every reason to believe would oppose any other than a wealthyalliance for his son. She feared too, even if consent were gained totheir union, the opposition Edward would have to encounter, in thisrespect, would tend to weaken those ties of affection which now bound himso strongly to her, and make him regret, in secret at least—for shebelieved him of too generous and noble a nature to show itopenly—that he had ever sought her hand. Her mind was one of thoseintuitive ones that pierce below the polished surface and read the humanheart as it is, with its good and bad parts commingled; and she felt,however much she might love him,—and love him she certainlydid—she must, as a duty to him, in securing his happiness,discourage his suit. As these thoughts came up before her, with all theforce of her good sense of propriety, her features grew sad, and her headdrooped with a pensive air.
And then Emily's mind reverted to herself— her humblecondition—a dependant upon the charity of others. Who was she? Shehad often heard Webber relate the story of how she became an inmate ofhis house—a member of his family— and there was a mysteryabout it which troubled her. Perhaps she was of low birth, an offspringof guilt, and consequently no mate for Edward Merton, even setting wealthaside; and this reflection but made her feelings more sad and painful.From this her mind again returned to her capture, and the conversationshe had overheard between Riley and the Jew, regarding herself. Sheremembered Riley's assertion that there was some secret connected withher birth, and the answer of the Jew by asking him how he had found thatout; and also Riley's remark that he would make money by marrying her, bywhich a ray of hope sprung up that she might be of good descent, perhapsone of a wealthy family. And then her wonder how the Jew, if such was thecase, should know any thing of this; and if not, why he should wish toseize upon her person. Perhaps he had got hold of proofs—some paperor papers which would establish rights wrongfully wrested from her. Shehad heard of such things happening to others—might they not happento herself? And then the mysterious note Webber had received some fiveyears ago, accompanied with money, charging him to educate her for anystation in society:—what did that mean? Was there not someconnection between that and the knowledge possessed by the Jew? As thesethoughts came to her, overwhelmed as they were by mystery, hope revivedthat some day this mystery would be cleared up, and she perhaps wouldthen stand fair before the world. But then again, how was this to bedone? What probability was there that such, even if her surmises werecorrect, would ever take place? She could not but admit to herself that,at the best, this was but a wild speculation—a vision of thebrain—a sort of castle in the air affair, without form orsubstance; in fact, but little less than an impossibility; and again allhope of such a termination died away, leaving her if any thing more inthe dark, more in gloom, for the faint gleam which had for a moment shoneupon her.
Thus musing to herself upon the various matters recorded, Emily cameto a rough fence, which shut in the field of culture, and ran along atthe base of the hill or eminence previously mentioned. The slightestincident at times is enough to change the current of our thoughts; and asEmily looked up at this interruption to her progress, and marked theloveliness of every thing around, she felt a sweet thrill of pleasuresteal through her veins, and all her gloomy feelings emerged into anintellectual enthusiasm for the beauties of nature. Crossing the fence,she moved at a quickened pace up the hill, whose brow was some hundredyards distant, and there paused to gaze with rapture upon the beautifullandscape spread out before her.
The scene now brought to her view was indeed a delightful one, and oneworthy of a description. The summit of the hill itself was shaded by apleasant grove of trees, underneath which were several large, flatrocks—forming to one weary of walking various tempting seats forrepose. Beside one of these rocks was a large old oak, which, althoughnow fast verging to decay, still bore on its aged limbs a goodly coveringof foliage. This, of all others, was Emily's fa vorite spot; and afterpausing for a moment, she approached and sprang lightly upon the stone.From this her range of vision was somewhat extended; for being on thefarther line of the hill from her approach, she could command a view ofits base to the southward. The hill, in this direction, was unlike itsnorthern aspect—being more rough and precipitous, and more denselyshaded by a growth of shrubby trees; if, in fact, they might be allowedthe appellation of trees at all. Directly at its base, however, were someof a larger kind, which had struggled up among rocks and bushes, likeambitious men to overlook their fellows. Rippling along at the roots ofthese, over a rough bed, was the Maramee—a glimpse and sound ofwhose limpid waters could both be seen and heard from where Emily stood.On the opposite side of this stream rose another hill to about the sameheight—being also similar in appearance to the one just described.Beyond this latter, to the southward, the land was lower for aconsiderable distance, so that the next object which met the eye was thedim outline of a range of mountains far away. To the left, or eastward,the eye could follow the bed of the river between these hills forsomething like a mile, when the view was again cut off by a sudden turnin its course—appearing to the observer as though the two ridgesmet and formed an oval termination. From this all trace of the oppositehill was lost; but the one on which Emily stood could be seen making anangle of some forty-five degrees, and shooting off in a serpentine mannerto the northeast— forming, in fact, the same ridge, a part of whichwe described in the commencement of our story. About half way from whereEmily stood to the angle mentioned, was a smaller elevation, bearing afew points west of north, running past Webber's cottage, some littledistance to the east, and forming the hill from which was first descriedthe approach of Bernard and Tyrone.
Turning to the west and south, the scene presented was by far the mostextended and beautiful. A few hundred yards to the westward, the hills orridges we have been describing made a handsome curve to the left, leavingthe vision free scope over rather a level country for a goodly number ofmiles—now touching on a strip of prairie, now upon a dark, heavywood—relieved here and there by a glimpse of some cottage, whoselight blue smoke curling slowly upward in the morning sun gave a pleasingsensation of domestic happiness, and whose clearings around told thatsettlement and civilization were slowly creeping into the late abodes ofthe savage and wild beast. To the north, passing over the farmer-likeappearance of Webber's fields of grain, mowing lots, pasturegrounds—his orchard, garden, dwelling, stabling—all of whichcaused the eye to linger awhile, and particularly Emily's, with a quietsensation of pleasure,—passing over these, we say, in a northerndirection, some eight or ten miles distant, the eye fell upon whatappeared a long narrow strip of silver; but which a close examinationwould have proved to be neither more nor less than a small portion of thedeep, dark, rapid, muddy Missouri. Occasionally, throughout thelandscape, some smaller streams winding about here and there, appearinglike silver threads thrown carelessly upon a carpet, added their littleto the perfection of the whole. Such, reader, is but an imperfect sketchof the country in the vicinity of Emily's new home, and the scene whichshe now gazed upon with feelings known only to the lovers of nature andthe beautiful.
If we have failed in attempting to bring to the view of the reader apicture of what Emily saw— and we feel we have—for what isdescription after all, but description; and how far short it falls of thereality—of those thousand little things which in themselves arenothing, but which are needful in making up the whole,—if we havefailed, we say, in describing what she saw, we utterly despair of givingthe sounds she heard— the rustling of the leaves, the murmur of thestreamlet, the humming of the insects, the singing of the birds, the tenthousand, in fact, indescribable voices by which nature completes herinimitable song of harmony. But let these pass; suffice that she saw andheard enough to hold her too much enraptured to notice the approach ofanother—a tall dark figure—who, finding her attention so muchoccupied, came to a pause a few feet distant, and deliberately foldinghis arms on his breast, stood for some moments regarding her in silence,but evidently with no ordinary feelings.
We have said he was a tall dark figure; but in the latter adjective,dark, we have reference only to his complexion and the expression of hisfeatures, which were of a sinister cast. His eyes were black, but of thatpeculiar black which is most repulsive, and were shaded by thick,overhanging brows, that gave them at all times a look of sullenfierceness. There was nothing further remarkable in his countenance,unless a few singularly drawn lines near his mouth, indicative of adetermination to carry out whatever design he might attempt, and apeculiar smile, sometimes seen, but a smile so devilish that those whosaw never forgot it. He was young, or at least exceeded not twenty-fouryears, and in person well and even handsomely formed. His dress wasrather careless, consisting of coarse pantaloons fastened around thewaist by a leather belt—a coarse shirt, open about the neck—asailor-like jacket—a light straw hat and heavy boots.
For some moments he stood regarding Emily with a strangelook—the look of one who had resolved upon a certain result, yetwas almost undetermined how to proceed, should all not succeed to hishopes. There was also a look of tenderness mingled with a heavy frown, asthough nature had roused to combat two opposite passions.
Meanwhile Emily stood gazing upon the landscape with a bright eye andpleasing smile; but whether her thoughts were now on what she saw, orappeared to see, or whether they had wandered away to the one she loved,we shall not stop to analyze; though we might, perhaps, true to nature,premise the latter. At length she started, as by some sudden thought, andturning a little, started again on beholding the person we havedescribed. There seemed a sort of revulsion at once in her feelings; forthe blood in her cheeks returned to her heart, leaving them pale, asthough a presentiment of trouble had came over her, and in spite ofherself she trembled. This was but momentary however, for the nextinstant she was calm; and as if half ashamed of thus betraying herself,and the more perfectly to regain her composure, or secrete her realthoughts, she said with laugh:
"Well, I declare, John, I hope you are more successful with the ladiesgenerally, on your first appearance, for I must own you frightenedme."
There was something in the tone of her voice and manner of speaking,notwithstanding her laugh and familiar language, that appeared forced andunnatural, which John Webber—for such the reader has doubtlessdivined him to be—noticed. He had noticed too her sudden start whenshe first beheld him—her paleness—her tremulousagitation—in fact, nothing had escaped him; but he had attributedto all these a very different cause from the real one, and he answeredaccordingly:
"I did not intend to frighten you, Emily; though I presume a pleasantsurprise is not in the end a disagreeable fright?"
"True, it is not," answered Emily, who felt relieved that he had notseen her repugnance to him; for it was against her gentle disposition towound the feelings of any; and although there ever had been in his naturesomething dark and uncongenial with her own, a something to make her feelreserved and oppressed in his presence, yet she had never forgotten hewas the son of her benefactor, and had always striven to keep herfeelings under, to appear if anything more happy than usual that he mightnot detect it. In this she had over acted, as is sometimes the case; orrather, we might say, overreached herself; for had she shown more of herreal feelings, it had doubtless been better for her in the end—hadsaved her many a bitter pang. In a word, to make him think her notdispleased in his company, she had, without intending it, forced him tothink his companymore agreeable to her than others. Perfectlyreckless in all moral principles, careless about searching for cause, hestopped at effect, and looked upon everything as a matter of course.Without any distinct notions of love, congeniality of soul, and the like,he had formed a resolve in his own mind that Emily some day should becomehis wife. A resolve with him was almost the same thing as a certainty,for he never counted on a failure; and having once set it down as a fact,he rarely ever thought again upon it, until the time came round for itsaccomplishment. The resolve concerning Emily he had made some threemonths after her arrival from New York. Her manner and appearance hadstruck him then as belonging to no ordinary person, and from thinking ofthis a fancy had sprung up that she would suit him better than any womanhe had ever seen. This with him was enough; and without intimating it toher, or ascertaining her feelings on the subject, he had dropped it, withthe idea that all was settled.— Had he been of a differenttemperament, he would doubtless have felt uneasy at the attentions whichhe could not avoid seeing were paid her by Merton, and her apparentpleasure while in his company. But this with him was a matter of courseaffair, and he never gave it a thought; or, if he did, it was only tosmile to himself, as much as to say, to use an old proverb, "you arereckoning without your host." Another than him, too, would have feltindignant at her capture, and would have revenged himself perhaps on theactors in that scene; but he never suffered a word to escape himconcerning it. True, he did not know of it till after herrelease—having been out that evening, as was customary with him,till somewhat late. On his return he had found the family up in a stateof agitation, occasioned by the events which had happened, and thesickness of his brother Rufus. He had heard the whole apparently unmoved;and learning that Curdish was a prisoner, and knowing that he belonged tothe banditti, had watched his opportunity and set him at liberty. Nor wasthis done for any love he bore Curdish, but merely for a selfish motive,by which alone he was governed. To gratify self, or to get revenge, whichis only another species of self, he would go to any extreme, do any acthowever devilish. Some months previous to this event, he had come incontact with several rough spirits like himself, and by an intuitivefaculty and close observation, had divined that they were a part of aregular organised band; and so expressed himself to them, accompanied bya request to admit him as a member. This they would not do withoutputting him to the proof; and consequently his liberation of Curdish,knowing him to be one of the band, was only another of the many goodservices he had done them.
Such is but an imperfect insight into the character and motivesgoverning him who now stood before Emily Nevance; and although we mayhave digressed somewhat in imparting this information, yet as he isdestined to bear a conspicuous part in our story, we felt it to be amatter with which the reader should at once be made acquainted.
With John Webber the time had now come wherein he had resolved tocommunicate to Emily his design of making her his partner forlife.— For some days he had been absent from home, and was eventhat very morning returning, pondering this in his mind, and how best toproceed, when on looking up he was both surprised and rejoiced to beholdthe object of his musings before him. This was only so much in his favor,he thought, and too good an opportunity to pass unimproved. Accordinglyhe approached, as we have shown, and stood for some time regarding her insilence, with very curious feelings.— Her surprise and agitation onseeing him he attributed to the deep interest she took in his welfare; orwhat in another, who could have better comprehended the meaning of theword, would have been termed love; hence the answer he made in reply toher remark. But to resume the conversation from which we havedigressed.
For a moment after Emily spoke, there was a silence, and feelingunless something was said it would become very embarrassing, andresolving to change the subject, she resumed:
"But you seem to absent yourself from us lately, John; I have not seenyou for some days."
"Yes, Emily, for some days I have been absent," replied he, stilldrawing from this remark a favorable augury to the success of hisdesign.
"Good news at home—have you learned it?"
"No, I was but now on my way there. Is Rufus dead?"
"Dead!" echoed Emily, with a start. "I trust you would not call thatgood news, John?"
"I beg your pardon," answered he, coloring at the manner in which hewas betraying himself; "perhaps I did not understand you. Did you saygood news?"
"I did. Your brother Rufus is free from danger and recoveringrapidly."
"Ah! yes," returned he, in a careless tone; certainly—yes—free from danger—yes—that is good news."
Emily, notwitstanding she knew him to be a man of self, was bothsurprised and shocked at this unnatural tone of indifference at thewelfare of an only brother; but by a mighty effort she managed to preventher feelings from making themselves manifest, and continued:
"Yes, the crisis in his fever come last night, and thank God, helives! By the orders of the physician I stood by his side and had the joyof seeing him return again to life, almost as one from the dead."
"Joy, Emily," replied John, with one of his devilish smiles, that madeher involuntarily shudder; "was it then such joy to see him return tolife, as you say?"
"Why, John, what mean you?" asked she, quickly. "You surprise me withsuch remarks!"
"Do I?" said John, drily.
"Indeed you do!" exclaimed she, with warmth. "I do not understand suchexpressions!"
"O, as to that," he returned, shrugging his shoulders, "it was merelya question,—that is all— let it pass!"
"But it was an unnatural question," rejoined Emily, with a flushedcheek; "and one I am surprised to hear one brother ask concerninganother!"
"Well!" returned John, with emphasis, contracting his brows andspeaking through his teeth, "I say let it pass! I might have my reasonsfor asking it, you know;" and he fastened his dark eyes keenly upon her."But to the point. I came here to speak on a different subject, and onethat, if truth must be told, interests me more."
"Say on, then!" replied Emily, evidently anxious to finish theconversation as soon as possible: "I listen."
"You know, Emily," resumed John, "I am a man of few words, andconsequently you will pardon me for coming at once to the point."
"Proceed!" said Emily, as he paused.
"Well, then, to be brief, I came here to tell you I love you, and haveresolved to make you my wife."
"Good God!" exclaimed Emily, staggering back at this sudden andaltogether unexpected announcement: "You are not in earnest, John?"
"Certainly I am," replied he, coolly; "why not? I like you better thanany woman I have ever seen."
"But—" gasped she.
"O, never mind," he continued, interrupting her; "spare yourremarks—it is all settled. I know what you would say, maiden-like,that you are unworthy and all that: but I will spare your excuses; it isall settled; we will be married in a month, and then if you choose youknow you can tell me afterward."
His cool impudent manner completely puzzled Emily, at the same timethat it roused her indignation. She could not believe him in earnest, andyet a kind of presentiment whispered her he was so. If he was in earnest,she foresaw there was difficulty in embryo, and how to extricate herselfwas a matter of serious reflection. She saw at once, that in either case,whether he was trifling or not, her best course was to be firm anddecided in her replies, and accordingly she answered:
"But, John, I do not love you."
"Ah! do not, eh? Well, that is a matter of small moment: such thingsare as likely to come after marriage as before."
"But, John, I couldnever love you!"
"May-be, though that can best be proven by the test."
"But, surely, you are not in earnest in this business, John?"
"Am I not!" cried he, somewhat fiercely, with a black look. "Have Inot said I wasin earnest?"
"But you have not consulted my feelings!"
"O, that with me is of minor importance!"
"But not with me, sir!" replied Emily, reddening with vexation.
"Well, well," returned he, sharply, "on that point suit yourself. Isay it is settled!"
"And I say it is settled—" rejoined Emily, firmly.
"Well, what more?" interrupted he.
"But not as you think," continued she, finishing the sentence.
"Not as I think!—what mean you?" asked he, glaring upon her witha fierce look, and knitting his brows.
"I will never marry you!" she replied.
"Never marry me?" repeated he.
"Never! I will give my hand only where I love."
"Ha!" exclaimed he, taking a step backward— his whole frameshaking with fierce passion—his voice trembling so he couldscarcely command it, and hissing from between his clenched teeth:—"Are you in earnest?"
"I am!" replied she, firmly, though inwardly frightened at his fierceaspect.
For some time John did not speak, during which his features underwentcontortions awful to behold and impossible to describe. All the wilddemon of his nature was aroused, and every evil thought and passionseemed struggling for vent. His eyes grew fiery—his face grewlivid—his veins swelled, marking out dark blue lines—hisbrows contracted, forming a black streak across his forehead— hisnostrils expanded—his bosom heaved— his teeth closedtightly—his lips contracted, from which issued a frothysubstance,—while over all, like an ignis-futuus in some dismalswamp, played that dark, sinister, devilish smile. Emily was frightened.Never before had she seen or dreamed of a look so awful. Pale andbreathless she stood and gazed upon him, as one hanging over some mightychasm might be supposed to gaze upon some teriffic monster about tospring and hurl both to destruction. She could not speak nor move. Shewas spell-bound to the rock.— For some moments both stood thus. Atlength he started, threw up both hands, and stamped with one footfiercely on the ground; and then from between his teeth hissed thesewords, which made her blood curdle:
"You have said! you have rejected me! Let your fate save you if itcan! Hear me: By every thing I hold most sacred, I swear youshallbe mine!" and turning away he rushed like a madman down the hill towardthe river, while Emily, whose nerves had been held rigid by fear, as soonas he was gone sank fainting upon the rock.
Poor girl! Her troubles had only begun.
THE CONVERSATION—THE MYSTERY CANVASSED— THE PLAN TOUNRAVEL THE MYSTERY—THE PLOT THICKENS.
The evening succeeding the events just detailed, found Webber, Bernardand Tyrone seated in the room to the right of the entrance of theresidence of the first named, engaged in close conversation. None of theother occupants of the house were present—Emily and Mrs. Webberboth being in the apartment to the left with Rufus,— who by the waywas considered gradually recovering—and John had not yet returned.The conversation of the trio referred to had been carried on for sometime on various topics of little interest to the reader, but just at themoment we have chosen to again introduce them, it had taken another turn,which, as it has a bearing on our story, is necessary for us torelate.
"You ask me," remarked Webber, in reply to some previous question ofTyrone, "what I know of her history? I answer, but little; in fact,absolutely nothing, prior to her being left in my charge, the particularsof which you remember I gave you some day or two since. There issomething very mysterious about the matter, and I would go to any expensewithin my power to have it cleared up. Poor girl! I often grieve for her;for although she in my presence ever appears cheerful and contented, yetI have watched her when she thought herself unseen, and I know ittroubles her. She is a girl of thought—very sensitivewithal—and I know the obscurity of her birth must give her painfulfeelings. Did you not notice how pale she appeared on her return from herwalk in the morning?"
"I did," answered Tyrone. "She looked as one just recovered from aterrible fright."
"I was alarmed myself," continued Webber, "and thought somethingserious had taken place; but when I questioned her, she forced a smileupon her pale features and assured me it was nothing but a littledizziness in the head which would soon pass away. I said no more, butthat she must take care of herself—thought in my own mind thedisease is of a very different nature.— Such a look as she then hadand has since worn, notwithstanding her effort to conceal it, is neverproduced by bodily suffering, when the mind is in the proper state, orall my observations have gone for nothing. As you remarked, she looked asa person who had been frightened; though what should occur to producethat I do not know, unless the recalling of the night of her kidnapping;and I scarcely know how that, at this time, should so effect her. No, no,it was not that; perhaps she saw one of the villains concerned in thatbusiness:—Gods! if that rascal Curdish had not escaped me!" (hereWebber shut his teeth close, while his eyes flashed fiercely) "yet we maymeet again!" he added; and then resuming the conversation where he hadbroken it off, continued:— "But if she had seen any of them shewould have told me so. No! it must have been caused by her own seriousreflections. Ha!" added he again, as if struck by some new thought,"perhaps Merton— but no, no! Merton is an honorable man.Perhaps—" he was about to say something concerning Rufus, butthinking better of it, paused.
"Speaking of that night, Webber," remarked Tyrone, "have you everformed any idea of the design of those ruffians in seizing upon herperson?"
"Why no, unless for sensual gratification."
"That warnt it," put in Bernard, who had for some time been alistener. "I've been a thinking the hull matter over myself, and I tellye for sartain that warnt it. There's something plaguey mysterious aboutit; and since you've been a talking, an idea's popped into my head thatthat are scrape was brought about by a different cause from what youthink."
"Ah!" said Webber; "and pray what cause de you assign for it,Harvey?"
At this moment the door opened and John Webber entered. His featureswere somewhat pale, but in other respects much as usual; though a closeobserver might have detected the previous workings of passion, as littlemarks in a forest tell of the storm that has just swept over it. With asimple nod of recognition to the occupants he took up a chair and seatedhimself some distance from them.
"Why, John," said his father, turning to him, "why do you absentyourself thus of late? and at a time too when you are most wanted athome? You know there is much labor needed on the farm, and I am not ableto accomplish it alone.— Besides, too, your brother has been verysick, but by God's blessing is now better! though he might have been deadand buried without you being the wiser for it. I have not seen you buttwice during his illness. Where have you been?"
"I have had business to keep me absent," replied John, sullenly,evading a direct answer.
"Yes, you always have business!" rejoined Webber, rather sharply; "butI trust you will close your business soon, if you have not already doneso, and be a little more at home!"
"I trust I am of age and can act for myself!" grumbled John.
Webber, who knew too well his son's morose disposition and evil temperto carry the matter farther at present, made no reply, but turning toBernard, said: "I will now hear your answer with regard to what yousuppose the cause."
"Wal, as I was saying," returned Bernard, "while you've been talking,I've been a thinking the matter over, and I remember hearing one o' themare rascals, in his conversation with the tother, say that the old fellerwhat hired 'em, and the gal, and some other feller was all kind o' mixedup into a secret—at least he guessed so, from knowing the first oldfeller'd got hold o' some papers, and had been mighty anxious to git thegal ever since."
"Ah! true, true!" rejoined Tyrone; "I remember now hearing the sameremark; but not knowing then to whom it referred, had quite forgottenit."
"Strange! strange!" said Webber, thoughtfully; "more mystery. Can itbe possible there was some one at the bottom of that affair who knows herhistory? It may be. The more I think of it, the more mysteriouseverything concerning it appears. My mind has been so much occupied withthe uncertain fate of my son since that event, that I have never till nowthought of it so seriously; and have never even questioned Emily orMerton on the subject—what took place—how he foundher—or how she was rescued; but I will do so now, and perhaps shewill be able to throw some light upon the matter." As he spoke, he arose,passed out of the room, and presently returned with the object of theirconversation.
The features of Emily as she entered were very pale, their expressionvery sad; and though she strove to look cheerful, it was evident to allshe was undergoing severe mental suffering. As she came forward and tookher seat, her eye fell upon John, and she gave an involuntary start,while every muscle of her face quivered.
"Good heavens, Emily, you are not well!" exclaimed Webber, as henoticed the change in her appearance. "Tell me, my child, truly, are younot ill?"
"I—I did feel a little unwell, just at this moment," repliedEmily, by a mighty effort recover ing her composure; "but I am betternow. Indeed," she added, seeing Webber looked at her doubtfully, "I feelquite well again."
Webber shook his head gravely; and then, as if fearful of agitatingher, proceeded directly to the matter in point.
"We were talking, Emily, of the events of that night of your seizureby those ruffians, and have sent for you to give us the particulars ofwhat you saw and heard."
Glad of anything that would for a moment relieve her mind of thepainful thoughts now agitating her, Emily proceeded at once to give afull narration of what she had seen and heard herself, and also theparticulars of Edward's adventures, as related by himself on thateventful night, all of which matters being familiar to the reader, weshall not again detail.
"Depend upon't, I's right!" said Bernard, triumphantly, as Emilyconcluded. "That are stingy old Jew warnt doing that are rascallybusiness for nothing."
"True," rejoined Webber, thoughtfully, "there does appear a mysteriousconnection between that and what has gone before. And then that oldwoman's warning—her knowledge of what was taking place—thesudden entrance of the stranger, who gave his name as Barton—thering and its wonderful effect upon the Jew, are matters which look verymysterious, and show a deep laid plot of some kind,—and then thatconversation between the kidnapper and the Jew indicates that the latterhas some, or at least thinks he has some, secret knowledge of Emily. Thisaffair must be looked into at once. But then, again, that counter-plot ofthe ring—what had that to do with it? I do not understand it.Barton, too, Barton," continued he, musingly, "why I know one of thatname—a gentleman that has been some time in these parts—aspeculator in land—can it be that he is the same? Butno—pshaw! what should he know of the Jew? What think you of thewhole affair, Tyrone?"
"Why that is what I hardly know myself," answered the personaddressed. "As you say, it appears like a deep laid scheme in the firstinstance; but then that counter-plot, or whatever it may be, perplexesme. Ha! an idea strikes me: May it not be possible that these ruffiansare a part of an organised band, who were acting without the knowledge oftheir leader, or carrying out some plan of his before it was fully ripefor execution, and so were interrupted by him?"
"Heavens!" exclaimed Webber, starting; "I think you are right. Atleast there has been a band of outlaws in this quarter; for when I firstcame here, it was almost a daily occurence to hear of horse-stealing,robbery, and even murder; and the name of Ronald Bonardi, the bold,reckless leader of this banditti, was passed from ear to ear, among themore timid, with feelings of superstitious awe and horror. In fact, tosuch an alarming extent were his depredations carried on, at one time,that the whole country became aroused, private meetings were held amongthe more peaceable citizens or settlers, and a heavy reward was offeredto any one who should take him dead or alive; but he was never caught. Itwas supposed he got information of their proceedings and left this partof the country; for since that time, with but few exceptions, thesettlers have remained undisturbed—though I have heard of some fewexploits since, that smack of his, but for the most part they happenedeast of the Mississippi."
"I jest recollect hearing the same kind o' yarns told about that arechap when I's out this way afore," said Bernard; "and I told Mark here,when I seed that are harrycane coming up, and knowed we'd have to crawlinto the cave, that like as not we'd get into a robber's nest, and itmade Mark quite skeery like."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Tyrone, with an angry gesture, the color deepeningin his face; "have done with such nonsense, Bernard!"
"Fact, I swow!" returned Bernard, looking slyly at Webber and givinghim the wink. Webber smiled, but made no reply.
"What was the personal appearance of this bandit chief?" enquiredTyrone, not heeding the last remark.
"In size he was rather large and well formed," replied Webber; "atleast that seems the most correct information on the subject; though somewho saw him solemnly declared him to be a monster— a giant; butdoubtless their fears made them exaggerate. His features I believe werenever seen, as he always wore a mask. In some of his exploits—infact I may say all—he exhibited a wild eccentricity of manner, thatdistinguished him from all his followers. He has been described by someas bloodthirsty and utterly ferocious; but then, again, others relateanecdotes which prove him, notwithstanding, to have been a man offeeling; for he has been known to rob an individual and then return himhis money, when he saw he was likely to be distressed by the loss.Occasionally too, a poor man has been surprised at having a purse ofmoney placed in his hand, by a masked stranger, accompanied with thesewords, uttered in a slow, solemn tone: `Remember in turn the needy, andin your prayers forget not Ronald Bonardi. ' "
"A singular being!" remarked Tyrone, musingly. "He had, decidedly,some fine redeeming traits. Do you think him still living?"
"As to that I am undecided," answered Webber. "But if he be living, hehas either reformed or left this part of the country—for of late Ihave heard nothing of him. I am inclined to the opinion, however, that heis living, but has quit his former mode of life. Were he still in thisvicinity, I should be strongly inclined to believe him the person whogave Merton the ring—it being somewhat characteristic of theman—were it not for one or two reasons to the contrary. In thefirst place, Bonardi would not have revealed his features. In the secondplace, this person gave his name as Barton, and Bonardi would have givenhis own."
"But when he gave his name as Bonardi, his features, by your account,were always masked," remarked Tyrone; "consequently, unmasked, no personwould know him as Bonardi; and might he not, under such circumstances,give his name as Barton?"
"Such a thing might be, it is true," replied Webber, thoughtfully,"but I do not think it likely. In sooth, to me the whole affair looksimprobable, from the fact that I do not believe Bonardi to be in thissection, or we should ere this have heard of him. No, now that I think ofit again, Tyrone, your suggestion that these ruffians are a part of anorganised band, does not appear so plausible. I should rather judge themto be some low, desperate characters, employed for the occasion by theJew, whose reputation as a cowardly villain is wide spread. The ringbusiness, as I said before, I do not understand. It might have been thatthis was a signal, understood among themselves as indicating danger, andto forego their design, whatever it was, until a better opportunityshould present itself. If this was the case, their cards were wellplayed. But I must question Merton, when I see him, and get more of theparticulars."
"Speaking of these matters, Webber, did you not feel unsafe here, withyour family, when you first settled, knowing that you were surrounded bysuch a band of desperadoes, and in a country too so thinly populated thatyou would be likely to get no assistance, even if attacked, with no lawsof force sufficient to protect either property or person?" enquiredTyrone.
"Why, such matters did trouble me some at first," replied Webber; "andin consequence of this I built my cottage very strong, and secured mesome dozen of good rifles and plenty of ammunition— which I stillhave on hand—though, thank Heaven! I have never been molested, norhad occasion to use them. The seizure of Emily is the first trouble ofthe kind that has ever happened with any of my family: and somehow I havenever looked on this so seriously as I do now; for since all thecircumstances have been explained, I think there will be more trouble.But do not be alarmed, Emily," continued he, addressing himself moredirectly to her; "you shall be protected; only do not venture out too faralone—at least not for the present."
"Rest assured I shall not!" said Emily, stealing a look at John, whosat perfectly unmoved, apparently heeding nothing that was said.
"What course do you intend to pursue, in regard to this matter?"enquired Tyrone.
"Can I depend upon you to assist me, Tyrone?"
"You can, to all that lies in my power."
"And you, Harvey, I know will stand by an old friend!"
"Wal I guess I will now," answered Bernard, his cheeks flushing andhis eye brightening at this complimentary appeal to his courage: "I guessI will now; jest try me and see if I don't. Stand by ye, BillWebber—you who I've known ever since I was a leetle boy—why,darn me for a sneaking coward, if I wont go it clean to the death, plum!I swow I will, and no backing!"
"Well, then," rejoined Webber, smiling at the enthusiasm of hisfriend, "my course is decided. We will arm ourselves and proceed at onceto the hut of the old woman, who seems to know so much of the matter, andforce her to reveal the full particulars, who were the instigators,actors, and also their whereabouts at the present time. We will then takeher along with us, both as a guide and to prevent her communicating withany of the villains, and proceed next to the hut of the old Jew, whom Ishall take into custody for further examination; and if he has any secretpapers, concerning Emily, I will have them, and know how he obtainedthem. We will then return, and if it be necessary for more help, in orderto secure the others, I will call upon neighbor Winslow—who haslately settled within a mile of me, and has five brave, hardysons—and neighbor Mason, living some half a mile farther on, whohas four more; and between the two families I think I can raisesufficient force to teach these ruffians better manners than meddlingwith me or mine! By heavens! and I will so teach them too, ere I havedone with them, or my name is not William Webber!"
"Jest the same old grit in ye yit!" remarked Bernard, approvingly."Jest the same Bill Webber you used to be! You always had ago-a-head-a-tiveness about ye, when there was any pluck needed. I haintforgot how you gin it to that are tarnal horse-thief, that was so plagueydesperate nobody else dared to touch him, and you only a boy then, as onemay say."
"That was a hard fight," returned Webber. "Perhaps I could not handlemyself so well now, as then; but still I think I could do something, ifforced into a fight, even now."
"But when do you think of proceeding in this business?" askedTyrone.
"Early on to-morrow," replied Webber. "It has been too long delayedalready. Had it not been for the severe illness of Rufus, I should haveenquired into the matter sooner, and long ere this would have been like ablood-hound on the track of the ruffians. Perhaps it is better though, asit is; for they would then, doubtless, have been on theirguard—expecting, as they naturally would, a pursuit. Now I trust totake them unawares."
"But do you not think they have fled the country?" asked Tyrone.
"No! I do not; from the fact, as it appears, that the person of Emilyis what they sought; and they will be likely to hover in the vicinity fora second trial."
"By the way, Webber, a thought strikes me!" said Tyrone, suddenly."Have you ever been able to account for the escape of Curdish?"
"No!" answered Webber, "I have not. That was another very mysteriousaffair, which has perplexed me not a little. No one could have enteredthe house after John came home, for the door was bolted on the inside;and after that I looked into the room, and saw Curdish still there;otherwise I should have supposed he escaped by means of a false key; buthad he done so, the outer door would not have remained bolted on theinside, as was the case in the morning. What think you of it, John?"
"I know nothing about it"—muttered John— "only that I seenothing so very mysterious concerning it. As to the door being bolted onthe inside, I can say, that having occasion to get up in the night, Ifound it standing open, and bolted it myself. Curdy, or Curdish, orwhatever his name may be, might have had a false key for all I know tothe contrary. Such things are too common, I think, to beverymysterious."
"Why, this explains it then!" rejoined Webber. "Why did you notmention this before, John?"
"Because I'm not very talkative," replied John, drily.
"Well," said Webber, with a stern look, "should I be so fortunate asto again have him in my power, it will require something more than falsekeys to save him!" A pause followed this last remark, and each individualappeared absorbed in thought. Webber at length resumed the conversation,by asking Bernard how long he intended to remain in the vicinity.
"Wal, as to that," replied Bernard, "it depends altogether oncircumstances. I jest cum out with friend Mark, here, to look at the landin these ere diggins, and see what sort of a speculation I might make;but as you've got into a bit of a fuss here, I'll jest kind o' keep aneye in this ere quarter, and be ready to do all I can for ye."
"Thank you, Harvey!" returned Webber, warmly. "And you, Tyrone, how isit with you?"
"Why, as Bernard has just remarked, I came out here to examine thestate of the country, and attend to some professional business in St.Louis. By profession, as you are aware, I am a lawyer— though butlately admitted to the bar. I had an opportunity some months since ofpurchasing a section of land—north of, but bordering on theMissouri—which I embraced. Some time after, I received a letterfrom a gentleman in St. Louis, offering me for it four times the amount Ipaid. This excited my curiosity to know what had induced the offer; andas I had a desire of seeing this western country—of which so muchhas been said of late—and as my friend Bernard was desirous ofcoming out here also, I concluded to be his companion for the journey. Ihad heard of you frequently, from various sources, and Bernard being anold schoolmate of yours, I determined on paying you a visit."
"I am right glad you have done so," returned Webber, cordially; "andthere seems almost a Providence in your very conclusion, from the factthat you came so opportune; for without your timely assistance I know notwhat might have been the result of that knavish affair. I trust you willconsider my house your home, so long as you choose to remain in the West;and for the invaluable service both you and Bernard have already renderedme and mine, accept my warmest thanks, and hold me ever gratful."
"As for myself, gentlemen," said Emily, rising, "I cannot express whatI feel; but you may conceive it somewhat, when I say that to both of you,under God, I hold myself indebted—though perhapsindirectly—for the preservation of my honor, which of course isdearer to me than life;" and stepping gracefully forward, she franklyextended a hand to each, her eyes beaming with the grateful emotions ofher heart.
Both Bernard and Tyrone were affected at this unexpected elucidationof feeling—this heart-touching frankness of Webber and Emily, thelatter more especially—and in spite of themselves both felt theireyes growing moist.
"Hang it all!" returned Bernard, at length, drawing his hard, roughhand across his eyes, "you make a feller soft jest for nothing, Emily, Iswow! Why we didn't du a tarnal thing for ye, hardly, and yit you'repraising on us jest as if we'd done some great things. Take it all back,Emily, du, until we've done something worth talking about. I can standfighting putty tolerable well, but a woman's soft talk clean upsets mealtogether."
"I cannot but be affected at your noble frankness, Emily," saidTyrone, gazing tenderly upon her; "but as Bernard has just remarked, Iwould you had waited until we did something more deserving; though Godknows, Emily, I will sacrifice my life for you if necessary!"
"Put me in that are scrape, Mark! put me in that are scrape, tu!"cried Bernard.
It was now Emily's turn to be affected; and without venturing a reply,she pressed their hands, turned away and abruptly left the room. A momentafter, John arose and disappeared also—for what purpose will beseen anon. Half an hour later, a horse, bearing a rider, might have beenheard going swiftly toward the east.
After some further conversation, not essential to our story, Webber,Bernard and Tyrone, together with Mrs. Webber and Emily, retired for thenight, and the outer door was strongly bolted, though John had notreturned.
THE VILLAINS—THE GAME—THE PLAN—THEINTERRUPTION— THE OATH.
The detail of our story now calls us to the old hovel made somewhatconspicuous in the former part of it by the events which thentranspired.— The same evening on which the foregoing conversationoccurred—though perhaps at a later hour— a group of fiverough, villainous looking fellows were assembled within the walls of thehut boasting Hetty Brogan for a hostess. Four of these ruffians were thesame as seen at the cave on the night of the meeting of the banditti,then described as plotting among themselves some deed of wickedness. Theywere seated on rough benches, around a plain deal table, whereon lay asmall pile of money, the owner of which was to be determined by the cardsnow held in their hands.— Near one corner of the table stood afeeble ligbt, seemingly struggling with the surrounding darkness, whileopposite it was a bottle, evidently more for use than ornament, judgingby the reddened eyes and swollen flushed faces of the party.
The fifth person—for there were five besides thehostess—was standing a little back, so much in the shade that hisfeatures were undiscernable, and engaged with the latter in conversation.The game at the table just at this point had become very interesting, ifone were to judge by the earnest expression in each of their faces. Twoof the party had thrown up their cards, and were watching with intenseinterest the proceedings of the other two, who were drawing their moneypreparatory to increasing the stakes.
"Here, Saxton"—said one of the two last mentioned, whose arm wasconfined in a sling, addressing one of the others, and placing at thesame time a well filled purse on the table—"jest unloose that ar' abit; I haint got the use of my fingers enough for such fine work." Theother complied, and at his second request emptied the contents on thetable. "Thar's the shiners for ye, Niles"—he continued—"jestgo ahead, who's afeard?"
"I aint," answered Niles, the very picture of a ruffian and hisopponent for the stakes; "I aint afeard, so here goes five shinersbetter;" and he added a handful of money to the stakes lying on thetable.
"You want to brag, hey! do ye?" returned the other. "Ha, ha,ha!—hang me, but you shall brag for something, then! Thar's yerfive and ten better;" and Curdish—for the reader has doubtlessrecognised him—threw down fifteen dollars.
"You don't blaff me that way, croney," said Niles, at the same timeadding seven half eagles to the pile; "thar's twenty-five dollarsbetter."
"Well," observed Curdish, "all or nothing— thems my sentiments!"and after counting what money still remained, he pushed the whole intothe centre of the table.
"Well, what 've ye got?" asked Niles.
"I reckon it takes a cool ten yit, Mr. Niles, afore you'll be allowedto ask that ar' perticular question;" replied Curdish, rathersarcastically.
"I'm broke, Jack," rejoined the other; "jest draw out that ar' ten ofyourn!"
"No, by Jupiter, I dont!" growled Curdish, sullenly.
"Then we'll jest fight for stakes!" cried Niles, grasping the moneywith one hand, and drawing a pistol with the other.
Curdish sprang to his feet with an oath, and the consequences mighthave been fatal to one or both, had not the others interfered andrestrained them. The matter was finally settled by Saxton loaning Nilesten dollars, which made the stakes even, and a decision was calledfor.
"Three aces and a pair of kings!" said Niles, throwing down his handwith a triumphant look.
"Ha, ha, ha!" roared Curdish, throwing down aflush. "I reckonas how I'll take them ar' stakes, Mr. Niles!"
"Beat by —!" grumbled the other, uttering an oath, while Curdishwith one hand commenced transferring the money to his pocket.
"Hurray, old woman! more of that ar' licher here, d'ye hear?" criedCurdish, whose success made him feel rather elated. "By Jupiter! we'llhave a merry night—ha, ha, ha! Blast me, but we'll have a nighton't—hey, Bill Riley!—ha, ha, ha!" and rising from his seat,he reached forth his brawny hand and gave Riley—whom we havenoticed as the one standing apart in conversation with Hetty—afamiliar slap on the shoulder.
"Hush! Jack," returned Riley; "don't go to bein' so boisterousnow."
"Boisterous!"—ha, ha, ha!—who's a better right! plenty o'money, by Jupiter!" and Curdish brought his hand down with force on hispocket, making the contents jingle.
"Let him laugh as can laugh last, Jack Curdish!" said Niles, somewhatfiercely, who felt vexed and mortified both at his loss and the hilarityof the other. "Saxton, will ye jest lend me another five?"
"No!" answered Saxton; "no more playing to-night! We've got otherbusiness to look to."
"Right, thar', my trump!" cried Curdish, with an oath: "I'd like tohave forgot it. Hurray! here comes Hetty with more licker. Blast me, butshe's an ace o' trumps, is Hetty! Hurray, boys! take another pull allround—jest to steady nerves, you know, ha, ha, ha!— and thenlet's to business." As he spoke, Hetty, who according to Curdish's ordershad taken the bottle to refill, returned and placed it on the table,saying:
"Thar's the rale genewine critter, gintlemen, for them as wants todrink: none better in the United States of Amerecay, although I sez it asshouldn't."
Whether the gentlemen thought so or not, they made no remark, but thebottle went round until its contents had disappeared. As Curdish, who wasthe last to drink, placed it again on the table, he turned to Riley, andin a low voice said:
"That ar' fifty of the old Jew told tolerable well to-night in the wayof interest,—hey, Bill!—ha, ha, ha! So the old villainchuckled did he, to think as how I's dead, and warnt a goin' to pay overthe chinkers? Hang me, but we'll have a settlement some day! I jest kindo' owe him a few"—here Curdish set his teeth hard, and uttered ahorrible oath. "But I say, Bill, how d'ye come out with the cap'en?"
"O, I jest got a little severe talkin' to, and caution about thefuture, that's all," replied Riley.
"But what's the reason you warnt thar' the night of the meetin'?"asked Curdish.
"Why, ye see, arter I got my money of old David, I put off to St.Louis, got on a spree, and forgot all about it till the thing was allover with."
"Did the cap'en want to know anything about that ar' scrape with thegal?"
"Yes, he axed me very perticular about it, and then insiniwated thatanother such a scrape might be likely to injure my health."
"Used me jest the same way," said Curdish, with an oath. "Blast me,but he's gittin' a leetle too perticular! Wonder if he thinks usgentlemen ar' a goin' to be idle all our lives? Since he's got married,hang me if he does anything as he used to do it! He with awife,—ha, ha, ha!— Why four year ago, I'd jest as soonthought of gittin' married myself. Me married hey! Bill— ha, ha,ha!—how'd I look with a woman tied to me?" Here Curdish, excited bythe liquor he had drank, and what he conceived to be the ridiculousnessof such an idea, burst into a hearty roar. "What's yer perticular opinionabout it, gentlemen," said he at length, recovering his gravity, andturning to the rest of the party, who were conversing among themselves:"dont ye think the cap'en's gittin' a leetle too perticular lately?"
"Why that's my opinion," answered Saxton.
"Well them's my sentiments!" returned Curdish, with another oath; "andblast me if I don't—"
"Hush! be careful!" interposed Riley; "remember you're talkin' aboutour cap'en!"
"Well, 'sposin' I am?" growled Curdish, frowning; "he arnt no morethan a man—and I'm a man—and blast me if I dont tell him so,and do jest I please! 'Sposin' he is cap'en, I say, he's no more than aman!—d'ye understand that, gentlemen, hey! d'ye understand that, Isay?"
"Ay, ay!" answered a voice, "we understand, of course."
"Of course we do-does," hiccoughed another of the party, calledBesley, on whom the liquor was taking effect. "Of course we-wedoes,— hur-ray!"
"Well, then, gentlemen," resumed Curdish— who also began to feelquarrelsome from the same canse—"it's all right, by St.Christopher! and blast me, but I'll blow his brains—"
"Hold, rash fool!" cried Riley, interrupting him. "You don't know whatyer talkin' about! Do you perticularly want to get us all shot, hey? Thecap'en's right about the gal! We hadn't no business to be meddling withinnocent women."
"Hang me, but we've a right to meddle with jest who we please!"rejoined Curdish, with an oath; "and who says we haint, is a liar, and nogentleman!"
"Them's strong words, Jack!" returned Riley; "but I aint a-goin' toquarrel with ye to-night."
"Come, come," said Saxton, interposing, "we've enemies enough, withoutquarrelling among ourselves; and what's more, Jack, you ought to be thelast one to raise a fight—seein' as how we come here at yourrequest. You said you'd got a plan to lay afore us, and we'd jest like toknow now what it is."
"Well, I reckon its putty soon got at," returned Curdish, with asavage look. "It's nothing more nor less than what we's talkin' abouttother night. You see that ar' arm, don't ye? Well, that ar' arm was shotby a — Yankee, when him and another feller interfered in a scrapethat perticularly belonged to me and Bill Riley; and what I want'srevenge!—nothing more nor less than their heart's blood, by—!" and he closed with a terrible oath.
"But, Jack, you know that's a perticularly dangerous business!"remarked Riley, who not having been with the others on the night inquestion, now learned of the intentions of Curdish for the firsttime.
"'Sposing 'tis?—by St. Christopher! who's afeared?"
"The-them's it!" hiccoughed Besley—who was already too far goneto understand much of what was said, but who occasionally caught at aphrase and fancied he must say something in return: "The-them'sit!—who's afeared? Hurhur-ray!"
"But," said Saxton, "what's the plan, and what's the pay if wesucceed? Ye see the affair's an ugly one, the best way you can fix it,Jack, and the temptation must be good, you know, for usgentlemen—"
"The-them's it! I-I say the tem-temptation's good—hur-hurray!"interrupted Bosley, who fancied the temptation somehow referred todrinking.
"As to the plan," answered Curdish, "I don't know much about it. Yesee I haint no great head for plans, any how; though John Webber'soffered to give me instruction how to manage, provided I'll jest help himin another scrape, consarnin' that 'ar' same gal what we had to do withafore.He want's to carry her off this time. Blast me, but she'sgittin' quite pop'ler somehow— ha, ha, ha! But about thepay—that's all right. Ye see its 'spected they've got lots ofchinkers about 'em, and them as helps me can divide 'em,—all Iwant's revenge!"
"I'm with ye!" cried Niles, with an oath.
"I'm in!" returned Saxton.
"The-them's it!" hiccoughed Besley: "Hurray!"
"Well, all as goes in this ere business, will have to help in tother;that's the perticular agreement 'tween me and John. What d'ye say,Bill?"
"I'll have nothin' to do with 't!" answered Riley. "That ar' otherscrape did me; besides, you know the cap'en's orders—"
"Hang the cap'en!" interrupted Curdish, fiercesposin' "He needn't knowany thing about it; and sposin' he did, it arnt none o' his business! Ireckon we've got a right to make an honest livin'. without askin' him! Ifwe haint, why blast me we'll make a right!"
"Well, I say I'll have nothin' to do with 'it!" rejoined Riley,firmly.
"Per'aps you wants to peach!" said Curdish, angrily. "You're gittin'altogether over nice, somehow, lately."
"You know me well enough on that score, Jack," answered Riley, "toknow you're insiniwatin' what's base and ungentlemanly; and if I'd anotion to quarrel, you'd have to take back them ar' words, or one or bothon us would be gittin' cold afore five minutes!"
"Some folks ar' perticularly wonderful smart in big talk," retortedCurdish;" but they don't skeer—"
"Come, come, Jack," interrupted Saxton; "I'll answer for Bill'shonesty; and if he don't want to jine us, why jest let him stayaway—the fewer the number the greater the spoil, you know."
"The-them's it!" hiccoughed Besley, again.
"Thar's enough on us, any how," put in Niles; "and I'm of Sax'sopinion, that if Bill don't want to jine, we'd better jest let him stayaway."
"But haint you got no plan how to go to work?" asked Saxton.
"Hist!" exclaimed Riley, suddenly, bending his head forward in alistening attitude: "Don't you hear a noise?"
"The others paused and listened also. "I hear the hoofs of a horse!"said Saxton, shortly.
"Comin' fast!" remarked Riley. "What's the game I wonder?"
The sound which at first was rumbling and distant, now came clear anddistinct, and could not be mistaken. It was a horse urged to his greatestspeed. A moment more the blow of the animal was audible to the listeners,and the clatter of his hoofs had paused at the door.
Curdish and Saxton turned a little pale. "I wonder what's in thewind!" said the latter. "Surely we haint been betrayed?"
"I don't know," answered Curdish, "unless it's John Webber. Nobodyelse knew any thing about our comin' here, unless Hetty"—here hecast a fierce look on the hostess, who catching the expression, quicklymade answer:
"D'ye spose I'd peach, Jack Curdish?"
"Not and live!" growled Curdish, with an oath.
"It's only one, any how," said Saxton, looking to the pistols in hisbelt.
At this moment a knock was heard on the door.
"Who's thar?" demanded Hetty, in a shrill voice.
"Ele lio!" was the answer.
"Blast me, but it's John Webber!" exclaimed Curdish. "I knows thevoice. Ye needn't fear, Hetty; open the door!"
Hetty immediately complied, and true to the suggestion of Curdish,John Webber entered.— There was a lurking devil in his eye, if wemay be allowed an old expression, as he scanned with a rapid glance boththe apartment and its occupants. There was something in that eye too,that forbade familiarity, which each of the party—for all they knewhim to be one of their band, and believed him as great a villian asthemselves—felt; a something that awed them to a certain respect,(a sort of devilish mental superiority) which John— who was nonovice in reading the thoughts of kindred spirits—perceived; andfor a moment that dark smile lingered on his features.
"We's jest talkin' about you," remarked Curdish, who was the first tospeak. "They say talk about the devil—"
"Well?" interupted John, sharply.
"O, nothing," added Curdish, who somehow fancied it would not bepolitic to finish the sentence.
"You were talking about me, then!" said John, with a stern look:"Well?"
"Yes, we's jest mentioning over that ar' business, you know, about how'twas best to git at them ar' fellers, ye see."
"Yes, I know and see!" returned John, quickly; "and will add, that thechance you are looking for will come sooner and in a different mannerthan you expect."
Several of the party started with looks of surprise. "Ha!" exclaimedCurdish—"thar's some meaning in that!"
"I never speak withoutmeaning!" returned John, emphasizing thelast word.
"What's in the wind?" enquired Saxton.
"Hark ye, fellows!" answered John; "before I proceed farther, theremust be an understanding. I am aware, and doubtless you are also—ifnot you should be—that there are no ties of friendship between us.We are drawn together and act together only so far as our separateinterests make it necessary. Whatever those interests are, matters not;suffice that they are enough for our present union. To come to the point.I am willing to serve you, so far as lies in my power, but you must serveme in return! Is this the understanding?"
"Ay! ay!" answered Curdish, Saxton, Niles and Besley—the last ofwhom, by the way, owing doubtless to the turn matters had taken, hadrecovered sufficiently to understand what was going forward.
"But one of your party does not answer," remarked John, glancing atRiley.
"I've told 'em afore, I'd have nothin' to do with't!" said Riley.
John put his mouth to the ear of Curdish, and whispered: "Can he betrusted?"
"I'll answer for him!" replied Curdish, in a whisper also.
"And Hetty?"
"She's right!"
"Enough!" said John, aloud. "Those of you who are willing to enterinto an agreement to serve me, when called upon, for the service I shallrender you, will now swear to do so by kissing this dagger." As he spoke,he drew from his breast a long, polished weapon, of the kind named, andreached it to Curdish, who took and pressed it to his lips. Saxton,Niles, and Besley did the same.
"You have all now deliberately sworn!" resumed John, as he again tookthe weapon. "Now mark me, fellows!" continued he, with a cold, sternlook, compressing his lips and speaking through his clenched teeth: "Inever trifle myself, and will not be trifled with! Whoever among youshall dare wilfully, to break his oath, by that dread eternity before us!I swear he shall stain this steel with his heart's blood!" and giving ita flourish, so that it sparkled in the light, he returned it to itssheath, while the others gazed upon him in silence with an awe they hadseldom or never felt before in the presence of any human being. Villainsthough they were—dark, treacherous villains—they inwardlyacknowledged John Webber their master. Nor did this escape his piercingeyes; and with that devilish smile playing for a moment on his features,he again resumed:
"I see you understand me. 'Tis well. Now to business. I accidentallyoverheard a conversation this evening which concerns you all. A projectis under way to seize upon the person of Hetty, here, early to-morrowmorning."
"What's that?" screamed Hetty, who had been listening attentively,while the others started with looks of alarm.
"Peace, woman!" said John, sternly, "and listen! Their object inseizing her is to force her to tell all she knows concerning thatkidnapping affair, who were the instigators and actors in it, and alsowhere they may be found, which mayhap concerns some of youespecially—I know not but all."
"By St. Christopher!" exclaimed Curdish, springing to his feet:"I—"
"Hold!" cried John, fiercely; "I have no time to dally, so do notinterrupt me again! The party for this business consists ofthree,—two of them are the men you seek, the third is my father. Byknowing their intentions beforehand, you will be able to mature plans toyour liking, with which I shall have nothing to do. This much, however,must be borne in mind! Of the two with my father, I have nothingto say—you will deal with them as you see proper; but with regardto my father himself, understand me:—Not a hair of his head must beharmed! Secure him if you can, from doing you violence, but raise not aweapon against him! Understand me further:—Should he be harmed, Iwillknow who harmed him; and by that Heaven above, and that Hellbeneath us! I swear, him will I pursue till his corse lies cold beneathmy feet!" and the aspect of his features as he spoke, was terrible; somuch so that those very ruffians, bred in crime, felt a sense of secretfear,—even as a wild, savage beast has been known to tremble beforethe awful majesty of the eye and mind of his superior, man.
For a moment after John spoke all was silent, when he again added: "Ithink our business for the present is settled. When your services arerequired, you will be informed. I have no time to tarry, and so goodnight!" Turning away, as he spoke, he abruptly disappeared, mounted hishorse and rode swiftly away, but in an opposite direction whence hecame.
"Blast me, what a look!" was the first exclamation after the departureof John, which proceeded from Curdish.
"Never saw the like on't!" remarked Niles.
"Nor I!" added Saxton.
"Nor I!" repeated Besley.
"'Twarnt human!" put in Hetty.
"Well, comrades," said Riley, who was the last to speak, "it wasdevilish enough, and no mistake; but if I arnt mistaken, you've got othermatters to think on. I've said all along I'd have nothin' to do with't,when you talked about attacking others; but since we're agoin' to beattacked ourselves, I arnt one as will flinch; so you may jest put medown on the defence, though somehow I've got a presentiment it'll be mylast undertakin'!"
"Good!" cried Curdish. "I jest knowed as how you'd come up trump,Bill. More licker, Hetty, and then by St. Christopher we'll lay ourplans!"
Whatever those plans were, our story itself in its progress must alonedevelope.
THE JEW—THE PLAN OF REVENGE—THE PAPERS— THEPRISONER—THE STRANGER—THE SPY.
On that same night old David the Jew sat alone in the hovel wherein wefirst introduced him to the reader. His features bore the same coarse,villainous, repulsive aspect as then, and the apartment the same dirty,gloomy appearance. The Jew, as then, sat by a sort of rough table,whereon stood a pale, sickly light of his own construction— hiselbow inclined downward and resting on it so as to support his head withhis hand.— The light stood some little distance before him, and itspale gleam fell on a countenance where all the worst passions of thehuman heart were manifesting themselves by sudden and sometimes awfulcontortions of the muscles. Now a heavy frown would gather over hisfeatures, like some black, portentous cloud over a dismal swamp, and hissmall black eyes would look cold and devilish, and his shrivelledbloodless lips would compress, and his lower jaw move as though he wereendeavoring to grate his teeth. Now the expression would take a wilder,fiercer and more fiend-like aspect, and his eyes would sparkle with astrange and terrible gleam, and his thin, bony hand would clutch at theair, as though he felt it were at the throat of some victim of hisundying hate. And thus he sat, for an hour, buried to the outer world inthe gloom of his own dark, guilty thoughts, with his eyes fixed onvacancy—motionless, save the nervous agitations we havedescribed—alone—an old, grey headed man—a sad andrevolting picture of humanity. Oh! who would wish to enter to the depthsof such a soul and see its awful workings, where no ray of God's sunshineever entered? Better be in the dark, cold and cheerless charnal house,among the mouldering remnants of mortality!
Thus, as we have said, for an hour sat the Jew. At length he startedto his feet, and with his old frame shaking with age and debility,commenced shuffling to and fro the apartment, with his head bent forward,and his trembling hands locked in each other behind him. Suddenly hepaused, and reaching forth his clenched hand, shook it as it were atvacancy, while his countenance assumed that same fierce, terribleexpression.
"Revenge!" hissed he, at last, through his pale quivering lips:"Revenge! dat ish it—dat ish mine nature—revenge! mine Gott!I vill haves revenge! Dey tinks de Jew ish old and feebles and can'thurtish dem, and dey dares to imposhe upon hims, dey dares to lies abouthims, dey dares to spoils his plans for getting monish; and by FaderAbram! dey shall hangs, dey shall dies, dey shall rots, and old BenDavids shall lives to shee it!"
Here he again commenced shuffling across the apartment, but shortlypaused and again resumed:
"I got de gals, I paid mine monish for her, and den, mine Gott! justas I was to makes mine fortunes mid her, dey sends and takes her away,and mine monish gone too! Oh, mine Gott! mine Gott! And den dey gets upstorish about de old Jew, and hash hims arresteds, and shays he ish goingto betrays 'em; and den de captains shays he shalls pe watched, and if hefinds he hash peen in any more scrapes he shalls pe shots, and dat villpe de ends of de old Jew. Ah, mine Gott! mine Gott! dey doesent knows deold Jew—dey doesent knows de old Jew! Ben Davids shall outvits 'emyet! Ben Davids shall blows de whole partish; and den dey shall pecaughts, and Ben Davids shall gets de monish for telling, and den he villhaves revenge, and den he vill laughs!" Here the old Jew, as though theconsummation of his design had already taken place, chuckled with a gleethat partook more of the nature of a fiend than a human being. Again heresumed:
"Yish, to-morrows I shall takes mine monish and vill go to St. Louis,and dare I shall finds a magistrates, and shall tells him all about departish, and den, mine Gott! ve shall shee who ish arresteds, and whoshall get shots! Ha, ha! Captains Bonardies, den ve shall shee! Ha, ha!Mistoor Rileys, den ve shall shee! Ha, ha!—ha, ha! den ve shallshee who gets aheads of old Ben Davids! Yish, mine Gott! ha, ha! ve shallshee den!" and the old Jew rubbed together his hands, and chuckledmerrily until a severe cough interrupted him.
"Vell, now I shall looks to mine monish," said he, as soon as he hadrecovered sufficiently to speak; "and mine papers too. Ha! mine Gott!"cried he, starting as though some new thought had come over him suddenly:"De papers! yish, de papers!—perhaps I cans sells de papers! Ha!yish, I knows de young mans as loves de gal, and he shall puy de papers,and I shall asks mush for de papers, and den I shall haves plenty ofmonish— ha, ha!—plenty of monish;" and again the old Jewrubbed his bony hands together and chuckled. Glancing cautiously around,as though to assure himself no other being was present, although he knewthe outer door was strongly bolted, and felt perfectly confident he wasalone, (such by the way being the force of habit) he proceeded to thecloset we have before had occasion to notice as occupying one corner ofthe apartment, and for a moment disappeared. It was but for a momenthowever; and when he returned, he bore in one hand a roll of papers, andin the other a bag of money. Approaching with a feeble step he depositedboth on the table, and then reseated himself on the old stool. Untyingthe bag he poured forth its contents, and then for a few minutes sat andgazed upon the pile with the exulting, avaricious look of a miser.Perhaps this in a measure was excusable; for the pile, to say the truth,was by no means an invaluable one, and might have tempted others of aless avaricious nature than the Jew to eye it with delight. It was mostlyof gold—old genuine coins—many of them Spanish doubloons,English guineas, and the like—occasionally interspersed with a fewpieces of silver.
For some minutes, we say, the old Jew sat and gazed upon his treasure,and then commenced handling each piece separately, with a childishdelight— placing each in the palm of his hand, or on the end of hisfingers, and then moving his hand up and down as though to ascertain itsweight. In this manner passed another hour— perhaps more—whenhe returned the money piece by piece to the bag, taking due note of theexact amount that none might be missing. This done, and the whole securedby the string, he laid it gently upon the table, took up the papers,unrolled and examined them attentively for some half hour more; when, asif satisfied with his scrutiny, he rolled them together, and gathering uphis money returned again to the closet. Here, feeling along the side nextto the wall, low down, he came to a kind of panel, when touching a secretspring it immediately flew open, disclosing a small iron door. Touchinganother spring, this door opened, leaving an aperture into a small ironsafe, where the Jew quickly deposited his money and papers, and thenreclosed both the safe door and panel. Scarcely was this completed, whena deep sepulchral groan seemed to issue from beneath him.
"Ha!" exclaimed he starting, "I had forgot mine prisoners. Vell, votfors should I keeps him longers? Vot more use vill he pe now I vonders!No, he will pe no more use. I shall take mine papers, and mine monish,and shall come pack no mores. Vell, den he shall dies! Yish, mine Gott!he shall dies! and den he will tells no storish on de old Jew. Ha! yish,mine Gott! dat ish rights—he shall dies!" As he spoke, the old Jewtottered back to the table, with a savage look on his grim, uglyfeatures—a hellish gleam in his small black eyes—and takingup the light returned once more to the closet. Here he paused, and takingfrom a narrow shelf a somewhat rusty dagger, he examined it attentivelyfor a moment, with a fierce gleam of satisfaction. "Dat shall do minepusiness," he muttered; and raising a trap-door near his feet, he slowlycommenced his descent down a damp, mildewed ladder, into a slimy,nauseous vault, bearing the light with him.
The passage which the Jew descended was very narrow, and was walled upon either hand to prevent the earth from caving in. In depth it mighthave been some fifteen feet, and in extent some thirty more. The air wascold, for both the ground and walls were moist; and on the latter stoodlarge drops, which glistened as the pale gleam of the light fell uponthem, like the eyes of so many serpents. But this was by no means itsworst feature. The air, though cold, was close and heavy; so much so asto be difficult of respiration; and was, besides, filled with a stenchalmost insupportable. At the bottom of the ladder the Jew for a momentpaused—with his feet sliding upon what seemed greasyearth—and then turning slowly around, moved cautiously along thepassage, with the light held before him in one hand, and the dagger inthe other, occasionally resting an arm against the walls to preventhimself from falling, until he came to the terminus, where was revealed aspectacle of the most piteous, revolting, and inhuman nature.
On a bed of damp, filthy straw—ground into the earth until itwas completely coated with a clayey loam, and chained to thewall—lay the thin, sickly, wasted figure of what had once been apowerful man, now passed the middle age of life. He was scarcely morethan a skeleton. His once strongly marked countenance—now of a palelivid, ghastly hue—had wasted away until every bone stoodprominent. His cheeks had fallen in; and his large, dark eyes,—asthey rolled in their hollow, bony sockets, and gleamed out from betweenhis long, grey, matted, dirty hair, which partly screened hisfeatures—were sepulchral and awful to behold. His limbs and bodywere but partially covered by rags of the most filthy description,while—as if to complete the foulest picture of human wretchednessimaginable—rusty iron chains, fastened around his ankles, clankedto the move of his feet.
Such was the prisoner of the Jew. Such was the awfully loathsome,heart sickening sight, which he now gazed upon with a savage joy.—Such was the scene before him; but worse—ay, worse—for wedare not describe it as it was in reality. It would shock thesenses. And who was this man? and how came he there in the power of theJew? Let the sequel of our story answer. As the prisoner saw the Jewapproaching, he partly raised himself on one arm and groaned. As the Jewpaused before him, with a dagger in his hand, and murder in his eye, theprisoner groaned again; and then in a deep, hollow voice, said:
"Oh, or God-sake, give me food! I am dying— I am dying ofstarvation! Days I know have passed since I have seen you—sinceaught has passed these lips!" and the wretched man sunk back upon hiswretched bed with a second groan.
For some time the Jew returned no answer, but stood and gazed upon himwith a fiendish smile. Then he lookod at his dagger, and then hespoke:
"You shall shee me no more nevers. You shall gets no more foods. Ishall kills you. You shall dies mid mine daggers. I am going avays. Ishall needs you no mores. The gal vill not pe mines, and vot for shouldyou lives? No, mine Gott! you shall dies!" The Jew spoke rapidly, inshort sentences, and as he concluded he raised his weapon and bentforward in an attitude to strike.
"Oh, spare me! for God-sake, spare me! release me!" groaned thevictim, glaring wildly upon him: "I am not ready to die now."
"He, he, he! chuckled the Jew, with a hideous grin. "Vot for you tinksI shall spares you?— You haves no monish. I can makes no monish midyou. Shall I spares you to tell storish on de old Jew, ha, ha? No, mineGott! you shall dies! You shall dies now!" and placing one knee on theground as he spoke, he again raised the dagger, bent himself forward, andwith a rapid motion struck at the heart of his victim.
But he failed of his mark. The other, who had been watching himintently, gathered all his remaining strength for a final effort, markedthe blow as it descended, caught his arm with one hand, and with theother wrenched the weapon from him. So sudden and so unexpected was this,that the Jew started to his feet and retreated some paces in absoluteterror. Then, as he comprehended all, and saw how his victim had foiledhim, he uttered a volley of curses at his own stupidity, stamped theearth with his foot, and beat his head with his clenched hand in aparoxysm of rage.
What might have been the result—what dark and inhuman revenge hemight have taken on the unhappy object before him—had nothingoccurred to interrupt and draw off his thoughts—we do not pretendto say; but just at this instant was heard a noise, like the quick trampof a horse, and immediately followed a loud knocking at the door above.As the Jew heard this, he started, turned pale—that is as pale ashis brown, dirt-begrimed features would permit—and trembled inevery limb. Again the knocking was renewed, even louder than before, andnot daring to pause longer he turned and made haste up the ladder. At thetop he paused to reclose the door of the vault, and then tottering intothe larger apartment placed the light upon the table. As he did so, hewas still more startled by hearing a deep, heavy voice say:
"Open this door, or I will burst it from its fastenings!"
"Who ish dare?" cried the Jew, in a trembling voice.
"Ele lio!" was the answer.
The Jew, though still frightened, felt much re lieved by this, as itproved the person, whoever he was, to be one of the banditti; andshuffling to the door, he quickly withdrew the bolts and admitted a tallfigure, whose features were completely concealed under a black mask. Thestranger, without ceremony, walked directly into the middle of theapartment, and then drawing from his breast a long, polished dagger,turned quickly round and abruptly accosted the Jew, who stood with hishand still upon the door, a perfect picture of cowardly fright.
"Come forward, Jew; I have a few words to say, and but little time tosay them in."
The Jew hesitated.
"Must Iforce you to obey me?" said the stranger, with amenacing gesture, stamping his foot fiercely on the ground.
The Jew, too frightened to speak, reluctantly complied.
"You are an old man, Jew," continued the stranger, "and a man ofcrime. The only thing that convinces me there is a Hell in the futureworld, is in gazing upon such a being as you—for who would supposethat you could ever inhabit Heaven? But enough of that: I am no moralist,and only preach what I practice. My business here is of a differentnature, and quickly told.— You have in your possession certainpapers, relating to a certain young lady, whom you know, but whose nameit is unnecessary to mention. I have come for these papers."
"Me haves papers!" exclaimed the Jew, in pretended astonishment: "Ihaves no papers."
"You will oblige me by getting them as soon as possible," returned thestranger, cooly, not heeding the Jew's remark, "as I have but little timeto tarry."
"But I tells you I haves no papers!" repeated the Jew.
"Sorry!" returned the other, carelessly feeling of the point of thedagger still held in his hand. "Sorry you have not got them, Jew, as Ishall be much disappointed."
"Vell, I swears to you I haves not one papers at all!" said the Jew,feeling somewhat reassured at the mild tone in which the other spoke. "IfI did haves papers I should gives thems to you mid pleasures."
"How far below the surface do you think the centre of an honest man'sheart lies?" asked the stranger, abruptly.
"Vell, how you tinks I knows?" replied the Jew, in wonder. "Vot forsyou shays dat?"
"Because I thought it likely you might know, having measured thedistance often with your dagger!" rejoined the other, still toying withhis own.
"You ish vons very strange beings!" remarked the Jew.
"As you do not know," resumed the stranger, "how far the distance tothe centre of an honest man's heart, how far do you judge it to be to thecentre of your own?"
"Eh! vot fors you shays dat?" repeated the Jew in alarm, who now beganto fancy there was an under current to the other's interrogations.
"O, I merely enquired," replied the stranger, "that I might know howmuch of this bright steel it would be necessary for me to stain."
"Oh, mine Gott!" cried the Jew, shaking with fear: "you vills notkills me?"
"Why not?" said the stranger, sternly. "Have you not done such deedsoften, and on younger men—men too whose lives were valuable tosociety? Why should I spare you? You are old, and have lived long enough;besides, would I not be benefitting society by sending you to your lastaccount?"
"Oh! mine Gott! you vills not kills me?" repeated the Jew, sinkingupon his knees, and extending his shrivelled old hands insupplication.
"Kill you!" cried the other fiercely, grasping him by the arm, andraising his long glittering steel: "Kill you! ay, as I would a coppersnake."
"Oh, oh, oh!" shrieked the Jew, who now believed his last hour hadcome. "Spares me— spares me—spares me! and you shall havesmonish— you shall haves gold! Oh, oh! mine Gott! mine Gott!"
"Money!" returned the stranger, contemptuously: "I do not seek yourmoney: your blood stained coins I do not want, for a curse is on them.There is but one consideration for which I would spare your life, andthat is not in your power to grant; at least so you have sworn, and ofcourse you would not swear falsely."
"O, mine Gott! yish, de papers!" exclaimed the Jew, with a ray of hopebreaking in upon him.— "O, yish, Mistoor Strangers, mine Gott!yish, you shall haves de papers."
"O, then you did swear falsely, eh? and you really have the papers?"said the other, releasing his hold of the Jew. "How lucky you thought ofit in time. Up, then, and get them—for I am in haste."
"Oh, you vills not takes—"
"Up, I say!" interrupted the stranger, fiercely, stamping his footviolently. "Up I say, quickly! or by—! you rise no more. Quick now,the papers!" added he, as the Jew started to his feet.
David, who saw there was no middle course, turned away with a groan toobey the order.— Proceeding to the safe, he drew forth the papers,returned and gave them to the stranger, with a sigh and a mental curse.Turning to the light, the figure in the mask examined them for a momentwith evident surprise.
"Ha!" he exclaimed: "there has been foul play here, Jew; but I have notime to enquire into it now—another time will do;" and rolling themtogether as he spoke, without another word he turned and quitted theapartment. A moment later the tramp of a horse was heard speedingwestward.
That horse bore a rider—that rider was John Webber.
We shall not delay to picture the rage of the Jew, when he found hehad again been imposed upon—again been foiled in another of hisschemes; suffice that he cursed, raved, stamped, and beat his head like amadman. Thirsting for revenge on the banditti, whom he now looked upon asenemies, and thinking his movoments less likely to be observed if done inthe night, he determined to start for St. Louis, and early on the morrowbetray the band and seek for protection under the law. Accordingly hetook his money, the only thing valuable he could carry with him, andwithin an hour from the departure of John, set forth on his treacherousmission. Engrossed by his wild thoughts of revenge, his prisoner had beenforgotten.
As the Jew quitted the hovel, a dark, crooked object came out frombeneath the table—straightened itself into the tall figure of aman—opened the door softly, and disappeared after him.
Who was that figure? how came he there? and for what purpose? Did theJew reach St. Louis that night? Did he ever reach St. Louis?
Who reads shall learn.
THE HORSEMEN—THE ATTACK—THE FIGHT—THEDEATH—THE ESCAPE—THE SUSPICION—THE STORY— THESURPRISE—THE SEARCH—THE PRISONER— THE RELEASE.
On the morning following that night of events, the sun rose insplendor, and as his golden rays rested upon the ridge where our storyfirst opened, they occasionally, from between the branches of thesurrounding trees, fell with a mellow gleam upon three figures, wellmounted on three noble steeds. Two of the three were large, powerful men,while the third, well formed, full of grace and activity, was by no meansan inferior individual. Each of the party was well armed, with twopistols, a long hunting knife, and a rifle slung behind him, across hisshoulders, ready for immediate use when necessary. That they had riddenfast was evident from the expanded nostrils and foaming breasts of theanimals beneath them; but at the moment introduced their speed was only afast walk, and they were gazing in various directions upon the beautifulscenery around with seeming delight.
"This ere's a putty considerable kind o' a country of yourn, BillWebber," remarked Bernard, at length—for the reader has doubtlessrecognised the three horsemen as Webber, Bernard and Tyrone:—"aputty considerable kind o' a country, I swow, and no mistake. Its wuth afeller's travel out here jest to look at it like, let alone the chance hehas for gittin' intu a bit o' a fuss now and then. Why a look at the oldMississippi 'd pay the cost, I'm darned if twouldn't, that's a fact,don't you think so Mark? Howsomever, I seed it when I's out hereafore"—continued he, without waiting for a reply from Tyrone—"so twasn't exactly new to me, though I looked on't with jest about thesame satisfaction as I did at first. Mark, here, though, thought he'd gotright on tu the ocean, kerslap."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Tyrone, who was not particularly fond of a joke;"you always exaggerate, Harvey. 'Tis true I thought it a great stream,and in that opinion I am borne out by geographical facts, which prove itone of the first in the world, but I did not mistake it for the ocean,nevertheless."
"O you needn't try to creep out on't now, Mark; it's all fact, Iswow!" said Bernard, casting a side glance at Webber, who smiled andchanged the conversation by saying:
"I suppose we are near the cave you mentioned, Harvey?"
"Right down there's the spot," he replied pointing to theright,—"where you see them are stones all jumbled up together, jestas if they didn't care 'bout how they looked."
"I remember the place now, very well," returned Webber; "for only ashort time since a man was supposed to have been murdered there."
"Ah!" exclaimed Tyrone, with interest: "happened it very lately?"
"About four months since," answered Webber.
"Indeed! Why you did not mention this before, to my recollection."
"In fact I had forgotten it," said Webber, in reply; "such thingsbeing too common in this country to live long in memory, unless theindividual be well known, and this one was a stranger. It is not knownfor a certainty that he was murdered, but circumstances place it beyond adoubt. A man somewhat past the middle age was seen in this vicinityduring the day, and the night succeeding one of my neighbors heard ashriek and cry for help, proceeding as near as he could judge from yondercave; but being unarmed and alone he dared not go to the rescue; the moreso, as he believed there would be more than one to encounter. A searchwasinstituted the day following, but save some marks of blood in andabout the cave, nothing was discovered of importance. As the stranger hasnever been seen since, it is believed that he was attacked by ruffians,murdered for his money, and his body sunk in the Maramee. It was thoughtby many that the old Jew could tell something of the matter if sodisposed; and now I think of it, doubtless these same kidnappers wereconcerned also."
"Such is my opinion from what I can gather by your narration,"observed Tyrone.
"Well," returned Webber, compressing his lips, "a day of retributionis at hand, and an evenger on their trail—let them beware!"
The party had by this time reached the foot of the hill. "Right here'sthe place where I had the satisfaction of trying my science on that arescoundrel, Curdish!" said Bernard, as they rode past where the attack hadbeen made on Edward and Emily.
"Well chosen for their design," returned Webber; "but I trust, Harvey,when you display your science again, you will make a better shot thanbefore."
"I'd jest like to git another chance to display it like," rejoinedBernard.
"Doubtless you will have one ere long," said Webber; "but come, wewaste time; let us to the spur."
Accordingly at the word they set forward at a rapid gallop, throughthe ravine previously mentioned, nor did they loose rein again until theyneared the old hut occupied by Hetty Brogan, when turning aside into somebushes they came to a halt, and Webber said:
"Look well to your weapons, comrades; for somehow I have apresentiment we shall have difficulty ere we have done here. The door isclosed however, and the hut has the appearance of being deserted;nevertheless we are on an ugly mission, and there is nothing lost bybeing cautious. It is possible Hetty may not have arisen, though the sunis already over the hill; and it is possible too there may be some of therascals within, as they doubtless, at times, make this place arendezvous; but I will soon ascertain;" saying which he dismounted andthrew his reins to Bernard.
"Look a here, Bill Webber," returned the latter, "afore you go to workin this ere business, jest listen a minute. Ye see, Bill, you're puttyconsiderable kind o' apt to have every thing jest your own way, but inthis ere perticular case I want mine."
"Well, Harvey, what is it?" asked Webber.
"Why to say it right out and out it's jest this:— You'resomewhat older than I am, and per'aps aint quite so strong, though you'rea putty strong man, that's a fact; but then you've got a family and Ihaint, and what's more, never expect to have; though I did love a galDown East, as the saying is, but then she kind o' took to another feller,and so I jest let her go it, and concluded to punish the hull race bynever gitting married at all."
"Well, well, Harvey, but what has that to do with this affair?" askedWebber, a little impatiently.
"Why jest this: that you'll stay out here with the horses, and let meand Mark venter in; 'cause per'aps there'll be trouble, and like enoughsomebody'll git hurt; and if its me, ye see, why I haint no familydepending on me, and twont matter much."
"Noble, generous fellow!" exclaimed Webber, warmly, approaching andgrasping his hand, while a tear glistened in his eye. "I know you well,Bernard, and I know that you would give your life for a friend at anymoment; still I do not think that I have any more claims on your lifebecause it would be freely given, nor that I should stand back and letyou run all the risks because you are single. 'Tis true I have a family,who would mourn my loss should I meet with a fatal accident; but then Ihave no right to sacrifice a friend on this account, neither will I doit."
"O, as to that," replied Bernard, "you aint a going to sacrifice anybody in that way, so you needn't be afeard; but one thing I'm jest agoing to tell you, and that is, if you don't want to quarrel with me,you'll jest stay here with these ere animals, and let me and Mark goahead." As Bernard spoke, both himself and Tyrone dismounted.
"I shall add my voice," said the latter, "that you take Bernard'sadvice."
"Well, comrades," answered Webber, "since you are both determined onthis point, why of course I must acquiesce; but do not be tooventuresome, and bear in mind I hold the horses here, ready for instantmounting if necessary."
"All right," returned Bernard, drawing his pistols and looking totheir priming, while Tyrone did the same. "All right, I say; and nowMark, we'll jest go ahead;" and at the word both started forward.
The hut was only some hundred yards distant, and but little timeelapsed ere Bernard was knocking on the door. Not receiving an answer tothis, he pressed with considerable force against it, when somewhat to hissurprise it quietly swung back on its hinges.
"I guess the bird's flew," Tyrone, said he, in a low voice, as pistolin hand he entered, followed in like manner by his companion.
"One thing is certain," returned Tyrone, as having entered he glancedaround the gloomy apartment, "and that is that nobody is here butourselves."
"True's preaching, Mark," rejoined Bernard; "but I can tell you onething more, they haint been gone long, and there's been a number on 'emhere too. Don't you see them ere cards scattered all about, and that arebottle on the table, and these ere wet spots, where they've spilt theirlicker; and don't you smell old stinking tobacker smoke too?"
"Right!" answered Tyrone; "these certainly are sure indications of aparty having been here quite lately, and perhaps even now are not faroff-Who knows —"
His speech was here cut short by the sudden entrance of three figures,whose faces were concealed by black masks.
"Ha! by St. Christopher, we've got you now!" cried the foremost, whoseleft arm was bandaged, and whom of course the reader will at oncerecognise as Curdish. "You don't 'scape this ar' perticular time, you— Yankee!" and rushing forward, he fired a pistol directly at thehead of Bernard, who, though taken by surprise, and but a moment left forthought, still had sufficient presence of mind to cast his head aside,just at the instant of the discharge, by which means the ball slightlygrazed his cheek, carried away a small portion of his ear, and lodged inthe wall beyond.
"There's such a thing as being mistaken in this ere world, Mr. JackCurdish," returned Bernard, cooly, following his example, and sending aball through the fleshy portion of the wounded arm of his antagonist,near the shoulder, who staggered back with a howl of rage and pain, andgnashed his teeth together in terrible fury.
Instantly recovering himself, and drawing a long knife from his belt,Curdish again sprang forward, with a horrible oath, and aimed a rapidblow at the heart of the other. But here again Bernard's coolness anddexterity saved him; for watching the movement with a keen, sure eye, hesprang suddenly aside—the blow missed its object—and Curdish,who had thrown his whole force into it, fell heavily against him. Quickas thought Bernard again started back, and ere the other had time toregain his balance, with a tremendous blow he drove the breech of thedischarged pistol full in his face, destroying his mask, and he fellbackward upon the ground--senseless--his features besmeared with blood.This, Bernard was on the point of following up with severer measures,when a cry, and a glance at Tyrone, arresting him, he sprang quickly tohis relief—fortunately just in time to save his life.
Whether the manner of attack on Bernard and Tyrone was preconcerted,or whether the ruffians were governed by circumstances after theirentrance, we do not pretend to say; but certain it is, in either case,there was a grand oversight in their proceedings; for had two attackedBeruard, instead of Tyrone, the result might have been more to theirliking. Doubtless, Curdish, thirsting for revenge, and feeling sure ofhis man, had chosen Bernard for himself—alone—expecting togive him a sudden quietus, while the other two should as easily despatchhis companion. Be this as it may, however, no sooner did Curdish rushtowards Bernard—who was standing near the centre of the room, andthe farthest from the door—than his two followers, Saxton andRiley, turned upon Tyrone. Saxton being the foremost of the two,instantly snapped a pistol at the breast of Tyrone, which fortunatelymissed fire, when Tyrone, seeing how matters stood, and knowing his lifedepended upon his greatest exertions, discharged each of his pistols inquick succession, but with no other effect than that of slightly woundingRiley in the head. Perceiving his failure—owing to hishaste—and knowing there was not a moment to be lost, as his enemieswere close upon him, he took one step backward, and then suddenlybounding into the air, planted both feet against the breast of Saxtonwith such tremendous force that he fell back upon Riley, who, not beingprepared for the shock, was thrown to the ground. Following up thisslight advantage, Tyrone instantly drew his knife and made a pass atSaxton's throat, who caught his arm with a mighty grasp, as the blow wasin progress, and then closing in with, endeavored to wrench the weaponfrom him, or get an opportunity to draw his own. Saxton, although apowerful man, and far superior to Tyrone in size and strength, was yetgreatly his inferior in supleness and science; and taking advantage ofhis knowledge of wrestling, Tyrone had no sooner fairly closed in withhim, than by a dexterous movement he coiled his legs around the other's,took a sudden lock, and threw him upon his back with tremendousviolence— himself falling uppermost. Ere he could make use of thisadvantage, Saxton seized upon the rifle which was still attached toTyrone's shoulder—one hand on either side—and by this meansdrew him down with so close a hug, that his breath was completelysuspended, and all power of action. Riley had by this time regained hisfeet; and on a call from Saxton to release him by killing Tyrone, andsomewhat enraged at his own wound and fall, he drew a pistol, cocked,presented it to his head, and his finger was already pulling upon thetrigger, when Bernard, who had seen the movement in time to reach him,suddenly hurled him backward, by which means the muzzle was elevatedsufficiently, as it went off, to clear the head of Tyrone, and bury theball in the earth a few feet beyond.
"You wont try that are motion again soon, I guess," remarked Bernard,cooly, as he deliberately drew his other pistol, pointed it at the headof Riley, and glanced steadily along the barrel. "Take that for yourpains!" he added, and with the word came a sharp report. Riley boundedfrom the earth, with a shriek, and fell dead at his feet—hisforehead pierced by a ball.
His presentiment had proved too true.
At this moment came the report of a rifle, and a cry from without.Bernard started in alarm.— Webber was evidentlyattacked—perhaps killed. No time was to be lost. Unslinging hisrifle with the rapidity of thought, he dealt Saxton so powerful a blowwith the breech, that his hold instantly relaxed, leaving Tyronefree.
"Up, Mark!" cried Bernard; "I guess there's more work on hand out o'doors;" and without pausing longer he rushed forth, followed by Tyrone,both of whom made all haste possible to where Webber had been left withthe horses.— Here, much to their joy, they found Webber, rifle inhand, in company with Edward Merton, who had just arrived and dismountedfrom his horse, which he still held by the bridle.
"Thank God, friends, you are safe!" exclaimed Webber, joyfully, asthey approached, extending a hand to each, while Merton did the same: "Ifeared you were killed, as I heard the report of several pistols."
"Why we've had a putty considerable rough time on't," said Bernard inreply; "but I guess as how them are chaps have had a rougher—though one on 'em I don't believe knows much about it now, or ever willknow again either."
"Have you killed one, Harvey?" asked Webber, quickly.
"Wal I rather guess as how one on 'em 'll be gitting cold afore long,"he answered; "at least that's my candid opinion about it; but I thoughtthere was a fuss out here, for I heerd a gun go off, and heerd somebodyholler like too, or my ears deceived me."
"Why yes," returned Webber, "there was some trouble here a few minutessince; but thanks to the timely arrival of friend Edward, here, nothingserious has happened on our part, though whether the other side escapedas scatheless is somewhat doubtful."
"Then you were attacked also?" said Tyrone.
"I was," answered Webber. "Scarcely had you entered the hut, and whileI was anxiously looking in that direction, anticipating difficulty foryou, two men crept stealthily behind and instantaneously seized me, onehold of either arm, which they crossed upon my back. I made a suddenspring forward, but I am not what I once was I find, and they were bothstrong men and held me firmly. At that moment I saw three ruffians enterthe hut, and immediately heard several reports of firearms in quicksuccession, and believed that all was over with both of you; for taken asyou were by surprise, I did not deem it possible for you to escape. Imade another attempt to free myself, but in vain; and thinking my owntime had now come, I resigned myself to my fate, expecting every momentto be shot or stabbed in the back. But much to my surpise however,instead of such severe measures, I only felt my captors securing my handswith a cord, and hope revived that they were not perhaps seeking my life.Why they used no other violence is yet a mystery. At this moment ahorseman dashed suddenly into the bushes, and with a thrill of joy Irecognised in the rider the familiar face of friend Merton. At sight ofhim a panic seemed to seize upon my captors, who instantly let go theirhold and fled. Determined not to let them part without a token ofremembrance, I unslung my rifle, which they had left untouched, and witha hasty aim fired at the nearest, just as he was leaving my sight byentering some thick shrubbery. What was the result of the shot I knownot; but he appeared to stumble forward, and uttered a piercing cry as ofpain—which were, I presume, the sounds you heard. I had just timeto grasp Edward by the hand, tell him of your supposed fates, and thenecessity, if living, of our coming speedidy to your assistance, when, tomy astonishment, and I need not add joy, I saw you both issue forth, andawaited your approach. But come, we have already talked too long in atime when decided action is so necessary. Let us reload as speedily aspossible, and follow up our so far good fortune."
"Right!" said Bernard and Tyrone in a breath; and all four instantlycommenced carrying out Webber's suggestion. We wish the reader to bear inmind here, that though we have been somewhat long in describing theevents as they took place—owing to our relating each oneseparately— the whole time occupied, from the entrance of Curdish,Riley and Saxton, to the meeting of Webber, Bernard and Tyrone, did notexceed three minutes.
But a short time elapsed ere our party were again ready for action;and nothing daunted by what had taken place, on a second suggestion fromWebber, they made the bridles of their horses fast to some of theshrubbery, and all four set forward to the old hut, to secure theruffians— not doubting they were still there. But in this they weremistaken; for on arriving at the place, not a trace of either, with theexception of some red spots of blood, could be found,—Curdish andSaxton having recovered in their absence and left, bearing the corpse ofRiley with them.
"Well," remarked Webber, as he glanced around the late scene ofstrife, "they have escaped us I perceive; and perhaps it is better thatit is so, as we still have other very important matters on our hands,which they might have prevented us from attending to in season."
"To what do you allude?" asked Tyrone.
"Have you forgotten the Jew and those papers— that is if he hasany in his possession?"
"Ah! true," rejoined Tyrone:—"But do you think of proceedingupon that business at once?"
"I do," answered Webber, "as soon as may be; for if he is connectedwith these fellows, as I doubt not he is, he will be likely to receivefrom them information of what has happened; and perhaps, expecting a likevisit from us, will decamp— at least for the time being; and by theway too, the more so, as these fellows doubtless—though I cannotfor the life of me imagine where they got it--had knowledge of ourpresent design; for you see they had their plans all laid to attack us,while Hetty herself, whom we came to seek, is absent."
"It does certainly appear singular," observed Tyrone, thoughtfully,after a short pause; "but still I do not see how they could have beeninformed; for it was only last evening we talked the matter over, and ithas been communicated to no one since."
Webber suddenly started, as though some disagreeable thought hadflashed through his mind, and his cheeks grew pale and red, and he hunghis head thoughtfully for some time, but made no answer. Perhaps a vaguesuspicion of his son John— whose disposition he knew toowell—troubled him. But whatever it was, as we have said, hereturned no answer Bernard was the next to speak.
"I've been a thinking it all over, Mark," said he, "and I rather guessI can 'splain it away without making any witchery on't. Ye see its beentarnal hot weather lately, and all the winders has been hysted 'bout ourhouse, so that if any feller was about as chose to listen, he could hearall that was said easy enough. Now this ere was the case last night, whenwe's talking it all over, and like as not one of these ere same chapscome along, and played the spy, and got hold of all twas said; and likeas not too he's done it all along afore, jest to know like how things wasa going on."
"True," rejoined Tyrone, "I did not think of this before; but now itstrikes me very forcibly as being correct. What is your opinion on thesubject, Webber?"
"It may be so," answered the latter; "I hope it is;" and then turningabruptly to Merton, he continued:—"By the way, Edward, you are thevery person I wished to see, to question concerning that stranger whomyou met here, and who gave his name as Barton—the particulars ofwhich I got from Emily." At the mention of the name of Emily, there was abrighter glow on the cheeks of Edward, which Webber apparently heeded notas he continued:—"I wish you to describe the personal appearance ofthis Barton."
Merton did so.
"Do you think Barton is his real name?" asked Webber, as the otherconcluded his description.
"I have no reason to doubt it," answered Merton.
"Did he tell you his occupation?"
"Not at our first interview, but he has since done so."
"Ah! then you have seen him again?"
"I have. I rode in company with him awhile this morning—heovertaking me shortly after my leaving St. Louis, while the day was yetgrey, and parting from me some three miles back, to go and look at someland, which he stated he had lately been purchasing."
"He is then a land speculator?"
"Such he told me was his business."
"'Tis the same then," said Webber. "But what does he know of the Jew,and how did he explain that matter of the ring?"
"O, simply as thus," answered Merton. "He stated that some monthssince he had purchased a large tract of land, at a very low price, fromthe fact that the titles to it were considered very doubtful, on accountof a supposed prior claim; that afterward, examining the land, he hadfound it of great value, by reason of its lead mines; that determining,if possible, to find whether there was a prior claim—and, if so, topurchase it, ere his discovery leaked out—he had advertised thesame in the papers, and posted bills in different sections of thecountry—the result of which had been his receiving a call from theJew, who held the papers of prior right, and who offered to sell, but onhigh terms:—that on asking the Jew to produce his documents, he haddone so; but to his utter astonishment had found that thedeed—though drawn up in proper form—lacked the signatures oftwo persons necessary to make it valid,—said persons names havingonce been there, to all appearance, but since faded out, owing,doubtless, to their having been written with a villainous ink, to renderthe instrument valueless:—that at this discovery the rage anddisappointment of the Jew had been great: and he had declared in piteoustones that he was a ruined man—having exhausted all his funds inthe purchase of this now worthless paper: that thinking perhaps the Jewhad been duped, and taking pity on his grey hairs, he had agreed to payhim a fair price for his papers, notwithstanding, but on condition thathe should grant him any favor in his power, at any moment, upon hispresenting a curious ring, which he wore on his finger, or on its beingpresented by any one he might see proper to deputise:—that to thisthe Jew had sworn most solemnly, by his religion, and by everything heheld sacred—and that the first trial of his oath had been made bymyself, in the release of Emily. Such was his story."
"And a singular one," added Webber, in reply; "though perhaps a trueone."
"Wal now, Bill, I jest don't believe a darned word on't," saidBernard. "If all the stories 'bout that are tarnal old Jew be true, heaint the feller that would mind anything 'bout an oath."
"Unless for his interest to do so," rejoined Webber. "You overlook,Harvey, that it might, for that time, have been more to his interest tolet the girl go than to detain her. Doubtless his intentions were, andstill are, to recapture her. He is a cunning knave. But whether true orfalse, it is the best and only explanation we have of the matter atpresent; and so we will take it for what it is and let it drop—fortime wears fast, and we should even now be on the road;" saying which, heturned and led the way from the cottage.
"Do you need my services?" enquired Merton, as the party retracedtheir steps to their horses.
"No!" answered Webber: "I trust our force is sufficient; and as Ipresume you were on your way to see Emily, you had better ride on; anddoubtless your presence will cheer her, for she seems exceedingly lowspirited."
"Ah!" ejaculated Merton, with a flushed countenance; "I will see herthen, and quickly."
By this time they had reached the bushes, where the animals werestanding, and each selecting his own, all four were presently mounted. Asthey rode out into the path and separated— Merton to go on toWebber's, and the other three to the river—Webber turned in hissaddle, and said:
"Do not mention this little skirmish, Edward, to any of my family, asit would only alarm them needlessly;" and spurring his horse as he spoke,he started off in full gallop, while the others imitated his example.
A good ride of two hours brought the party of Webber to the river, anda few minutes more served to discover the residence of the Jew; foralthough neither of them had seen it before, the exact location had beenclearly pointed out.
Dismounting at a little distance, and fastening their horses, theytogether proceeded to the old hovel. As they neared the entrance, theywere somewhat surprised to see the figure of a man—a littledistance below them, near the water's edge— his face turned fromthem, apparently in a meditative mood. At sight of him all three made ahalt, and Bernard and Tyrone laid their hands on their pistols, thinkingperhaps it was another of the gang with whom they had been contending.Webber thought differently, however, and bidding them stand where theywere, he started cautiously forward to ascertain. At the same time thefigure turned his head to the right and left—as though examiningthe exact location of the banks and stream—by which means Webbercaught a side view of his features, and at once recognised him as Barton.Turning to his friends, heinformed them who he was, and all threeproceeded at once towards him. Hearing footsteps behind him, Bartonstarted, drew a pistol from a wampum belt around his waist, and suddenlyconfronted them; when, perceiving the familiar face of Webber, andnothing in the looks of his companions of a hostile nature, he quicklyreplaced the weapon, and, stepping forward, frankly extended his hand,saying at the same time, in an easy, cordial tone:
"I give you good morning, friend Webber; and you also, gentlemen,"politely bowing to the others; "and a beautiful morning it is,truly."
As we have heretofore, on his first introduction to the reader, takenmuch pains in describing the personal appearance and singular dress ofBarton, we shall not do so now, but refer the curious to that; merelystating, by the way, that his look and dress were now almost exactly asthen—save perhaps a more bland expression of countenance, and achange from his then strange cap to one of silk velvet, from which hung asilver corded tassel.
After the usual salutations were over, Barton said: "I trust you toexcuse me, gentlemen, for drawing an offensive weapon; but I knew not whowere approaching, and this part of the country is not entirely free, asyou are aware, from dangerous individuals."
"You may well say as we are aware," returned Webber; "for scarcely twohours since we were contending for our lives with a party ofvillains."
"Ah!" exclaimed Barton, with a start, his dark eye brightening; "pray,and who were they?"
"I know not," answered Webber, "unless the same gang that kidnapped myward Emily, who through your interference was rescued again, for whichservice hold me ever indebted."
"Nay, that was but my duty!" replied Barton, hastily. "But are yousure that any of these persons are the same as were concerned in thataffair?" asked he, with interest.
"I could not tell, for their faces were concealed by masks," answeredWebber; "though I doubt not two of them are the same—in fact, Ihave never seen but one myself."
"And that are one was there," said Bernard, "for sartin; for when Iknocked him down with the butt of one o' my shooting irons, his tarnalblack thing come off, so as I could see his face; and, besides, I knowedhis voice."
"His name?" demanded Barton, quickly.
"Jack Curdish!"
"Ha!" ejaculated Barton, mentally, with a start: "So, so, as Ifeared!" and then turning to Webber, while his features exhibited greatseverity of expression, he continued: "But how did the fight commence,and how terminate?"
Webber in a few words explained all—telling him of their designof taking Hetty and the Jew prisones, and how it was supposed the partyof Curdish got wind of it, and so laid in wait.
Barton mused for a few moments, with a troubled expression, and thensaid: "And so one was killed, and three others wounded? Truly, you foughtwell, gentlemen! And so Hetty was away? Well, and the Jew is alsoaway."
"How!" exclaimed Webber; "the Jew gone too?"
"So you will find, when you enter you hovel.— I had but justquitted it when you came hither."
"Then our plan has certainly been divulged," returned Webber, gravely,placing his hand to his brow, while a look of mental anguish swept overhis features. "He has got news of our design upon him and fled; and allhope of obtaining the papers, should he have any, is lost."
"To what papers do you allude?" asked Baton.
Webber here informed him of his suspicion in regard to the Jew'sseizure of Emily, and why he supposed the latter held proofs of herparentage.
"Ha! then there is a mystery about her birth?" rejoined Barton,enquiringly.
"There is!" answered Webber; and then in a few words he related themost prominent events of her life.
Barton again reflected some time, seriously, and then said abruptly:"I must see her. If I can assist you in this matter I will. For thepresent adieu!"
"Whither now?" enquired Webber, as he turned to depart; "and why suchhaste?"
"I must immediately to St. Louis," replied Barton, "as I have businessof importance there that will not brook delay. I will see you anon andtalk this matter over."
"By the way, Barton," said Webber, as he again turned to go, "you aremuch about the country, in various sections, and I wish to enquire if youhave heard of late any thing of that strange bandit leader, RonaldBonardi, who created so much excitement here a few years ago?"
At the mention of Bonardi, there was a perceptible start in Barton, alittle palor in his cheek, and a slight quiver of some of the musclesaround his mouth; but all passed instantly—was noticed by Bernardonly—and when he replied, all was again calm.
"I have not," he said, in answer to Webber's question; "but whereforedo you ask?"
"Merely to satisfy a curiosity," replied Webber. "I was relating someanecdotes of him last evening. He was a strange, singular being; but I donot think myself he was so bad as he has been represented. Doubtless youhave heard much of him in your travels?"
For a moment Barton looked Webber steadily in the eye, and thenreplied: "Ihave heard of him; but I have no time to talk of himnow: I will, as I said before, see you again. A happy morning to you all,gentlemen;" and turning away, he strode forward a few yards to where hishorse was standing concealed amid some thick shrubbery, when hastilymounting, he touched him with his spurs, and was quickly out ofsight.
"Barton aint his name!" muttered Bernard, as he watched himdisappear.
"Come," said Webber, "if the Jew has gone, we will search his house,at all events;" and retracing their steps up the hill, all three enteredthe hovel. "A place just fit for such an old villain!" remarked Webber,as he glanced around the dirty apartment. "Ha!" continued he, as henoticed the closet at the farther end, "what have we here?" and passingthrough the door, he examined every part of it minutely; but, save an oldpistol-lock lying on the shelf, with a broken, rusty dagger beside it, hefound nothing; and he was just on the point of leaving, when his footstruck against a ring in the floor. Stooping down, he took hold of it,and pulling gently, was surprised to find it raised a trap-door. "Ho,comrades," cried he, "here is a discovery! Ugh, what a stench!" he added,as having thrown open the door, he attempted to peer into the darknessbelow.
"What means this?" asked Tyrone, as he entered and strove also to lookdown.
"Some of the old Jew's villainy, I presume," replied Webber; "but wemust explore it, at all events, for I see a ladder leading down. Butthen," he added, "we have no light, and it were useless to go downwithout one. Ugh! it smells like a charnal house."
"There is a sort of candle on the table that would serve us," returnedTyrone, "if we only had the means of lighting it."
"O, that is easily done," rejoined Webber; and stepping into thelarger apartment, he drew one of his pistols, applied some fine paper tothe pan, and fired the charge into the ground. The flash ignited thepaper, and lighting the candle, he shortly returned to the mouth of thevault. "You had better stay without, by the horses, Bernard," continuedhe, "as we should not leave our watch too long in a place so every wayvillainous! Will you descend with me, Tyrone?"
"I will!" replied the latter.
Webber carefully placed his feet upon the ladder, and about half ofhis body had disappeared, when there issued from below a deep, sepulchralgroan. Webber was a brave man, and so was his companion; but there wassomething awful in that sound, and both turned pale.
"Heavens!" exclaimed the former, after listening a moment, "what wasthat, Tyrone?" Ere the other could reply, that same hollow sound came upagain. "God of Heaven!" cried Webber, "it is some humanbeing—probably one stabbed by the Jew and thrown down here to die!Follow me!" and quickly descending the ladder, he was immediately joinedby Tyrone. Holding the light before them, they slowly groped their wayalong the passage to where the prisoner lay starving to death in hisrusty chains.
"Oh, my God, what a sight!" exclaimed Webber, turning pale, as thelight gleamed full upon the loathsome spectacle before him, while Tyronewas too deeply affected to speak.
"Food—food!" ejaculated the prisoner, in an unearthly voice,unable to rise for his weakness. "Oh, for God-sake give me food, or killme! Oh, oh! I am dying for food!"
"Great Heaven, and starving to death in this land of plenty!" saidWebber, turning away, and wiping a tear from his eye. "Be quiet, poorman!" resumed he, turning to the prisoner; "be quiet—you shall havefood."
"Ha!" cried the other wildly, partly rising and gazing upon Webber;"who speaks in that kind tone?"
"A friend," replied Webber, "come to release you."
"Friend!" screamed the prisoner; "friend—release— yes,yes—I know you,—ha, ha, ha!" and so overpowered was he withjoy, at the thought of escape from his dungeon, that he fainted and fellback.
"Let us raise him," said Webber, bending down. "Ho! chains here, andno means to cut them—what is to be done?"
"One of us had better speed instantly to St. Louis," replied Tyrone,"and get tools."
"And food, and a blanket to wrap around him, and a physician also,"rejoined Webber, hastily. "Yes, yes; and I will go, for I know whereevery thing can be found. Stay you here, Tyrone, stay you here, and cheerhim when he revives. I will be back presently. My God, what asight— what misery! Oh, Jew, Jew, your cup of iniquity is full! Godforgive you, for I cannot!" saying which, he gave Tyrone the light,darted along the passage, up the ladder, and was soon standing byBernard. Hurriedly explaining what he had seen, Webber mounted thefleetest horse, and, burying the spurs in his flanks, away bounded thenoble animal in the direction of St. Louis, distant some eight or tenmiles.
We shall not dwell longer here, for other and more important mattersare pressing hard upon us. Suffice, that in a couple of hours Webberreturned— his horse dripping water—bringing the necessaryarticles, and a physician with him:— that the prisoner was somewhatrestored, his chains cut, and, wrapped in a blanket, was placed upon ahorse in front of Bernard; and that about noon the whole party—withthe exception of the physician, who returned to St. Louis—set outfor Webber's, where they arrived a little after nightfall, only to feelmore deeply the thrusts of villainy, and pass a sleepless night ofactivity and anguish.
LOVE—THE INVALID—THE CONVERSATION—THEPRESENTIMENT—THE WARNING—THE DEPARTURE.
Love—mighty love—deep, pure, inward, soul-stirring love!Who in journeying through life has not at sometime felt its rapturouspleasures— its mental torturing pains?—for love haspleasures, and love has pains:—pleasures the most deeplythrilling—pains of the deepest anguish. What a powerful thing islove! How it stirs up all the secret springs of our being—rousesinto action energies and passions that we knew not were inus—neutralizing, at the same time, and sometimes almost completelydestroying, others that we deemed were all powerful. All potent love!Monarch of the mental realm; to which all—high or low, rich orpoor,—are forced to bow! Confined to no grade or clime, it sweepsthrough the universe, and is felt in the soft airs of Italy—in thefrozen regions of Lapland. It stalks through the palaces of the mightyones of earth— it lingers in the hovel of the peasant and theoutcast. It softens the hearts of emperors and kings, and bends them toits will—it elevates, tranquilizes, and makes contentment often inthe souls of the lowly born. It abounds in savage, as in civilized life;and the untutored outpourings of the artless Indian of the forest are assweet to the ear of the savage maiden, as the most refined and floweryphrases of the courtly lover to her who is polished by the arts ofcivilization. All conquering love! Who can withstand it? It warms intonew life the heart of the stoic—it destroys the seeming eternalreason raised fallacies of the great philosopher; and as one by one hisself-conquering theories melt away before him, he sighs to own that loveis his master, and thus prove himself a frail piece of mortality. Allpervading love! Who has not felt its presence?
O, it is sweet to love—to gaze upon some gentle or noble being,and feel all the deep emotions, all the secret sympathies of our naturecentered there, as it were a nucleus to our own vitality.— And thento feel that that love is returned; to know, to realize there is aspontaneous unity, a sympathetic yearning of soul for soul; that there isin this cold and selfish world at least one heart in which we may placeconfidence—one being on whom we can rely, to stand by us, let goodor ill betide—one kindred soul that will ever smile when werejoice, weep when we do mourn--O, this, this is sweet—ay, sweetindeed! And who hath not at some time of his or her life felt this? andwho that hath felt, hath not sighed a rejoicing sigh that there was sucha thing as love?
But love without hope—love without a reciprocity offeeling—to love one that you know can never be yours; one that youknow lovesanother; as Shakspeare says:
"Ay, there's the rub."
Oh, love without hope is terrible—terrible! To feel your wholelife and soul centred in a being— a being every way worthy, but onewho is in turn fixed upon another, and sees you not, knows you not, saveas a friend—a friend in the cold, worldly meaning of the term, andperhaps not even that, or, what is worse, loves you as a sister or abrother, and, dreaming not of a warmer feeling in your own breast, makesyou perchance a repository of confidence, and paints in glowing colorsyour rival to your face—oh, how this can wring the heart!—howmake it heave, and palpitate, and burn, and ache; and the brain too, growhot, and seeth, and wither, and strain, and reel with this one mighty,terrible truth—sapping at length all the foundations of anotherwise noble intellect— destroying the system, and ending in thecold and silent grave! But few, comparatively speaking, feel this, thankGod! but oh, to those few, how terrible the feeling! We may talk of therack, and the dumnable inventions of torture for the physical man; butoh! what are they when compared with the rack that rends the soul?
But, says the reader, on with the story! Ay, and on with the story saywe.
It was a beautiful morning--the same with which we opened the chapterpreceeding—and the sun, as he rose in a reddened halo, and peeredgently over the eastern hill, poured his soft mild rays through thedoorway and open casements of Webber's cottage, traced out bright spotsupon the curtains and floor, and seemed striving to give every thingaround, animate and inanimate, a look of gladness to welcome hisapproach. All nature without wore a cheerful smile; and every littlezephyr that passed went loaded with perfume and song; but with thesebright things our task is not; ah, no! ours to peer into the depths ofthat strange thing, the human heart, to decipher the characters on itstablets, and thus trace the cause of outward effects.
Let us now enter the apartment of the invalid, some half hour afterthe departure of Webber, Bernard and Tyrone. But two persons werethere—Emily and Rufus--Mrs. Webber being employed with the morninglabor of the house-wife in the other apartment. Emily was seated by atable—a few feet from the bed on which reclined Rufus—withone soft pearly hand resting upon it, and her now pale, sad, but stillsweet face inclined downwards, and her deep blue eyes gazing upon thefloor, with that peculiar expression which tells the mind is absent. Sadthough she was, and with that touching sadness which goes at once to theheart, yet one in gazing upon her could scarcely wish her otherwise, shelooked so exceedingly lovely. She was dressed plain, but neat; while herbright auburn hair was arranged with that negligent grace which giveseven to beauty another charm; and as the rays of the sun, occasionally,from the swaying of the curtains, streamed in upon it, and deepened itsgolden hue, one could easily fancy hers the head of an angel encircled bya golden halo.
On the bed, with his head slightly raised and supported by hishand—with his pale, wan, but still handsome features turned towardsEmily, and his full blue eyes fastened tenderly but sadly uponher—lay the gentle Rufus, a prey to a disease— a disease ofthe mind—that was destined ere long to bear him to that silenthome,
"That undiscovered country. From whose bourne no travelerreturns."
And what was that disease—that strange disease of themind—that was wearing away one just ripening into the bloom ofmanhood, with apparently everything before him to make life happy? Whatsecret trouble in one so young could be draining the fountains of lifeand making the fertile spot a desert? It is time the reader should know,if he or she (as we doubt not) have not already divined.He was dyingof hopeless love! Ay, and before him sat the being in whom hisvitality, as it were, was centered—totally unconscious of hisconsuming passion. And well was it for her she knew it not; for it wouldhave been another pang—ay, and a terrible one—to a gentleheart already too full of anguish! She could not have returned hispassion, for her own heart was set upon another; and to know him dailywasting away—and to know, too, that she was the cause— wouldhave been a grief almost insupportable. This he knew, from what he hadseen and heard, and had resolved to carry his secret with him to thegrave, which he now felt was not far distant.Thrown together in childhood, from a child up Rufus had lovedEmily—deeply, purely loved her— and his was a soul to lovebut one, and that one with an intensity of passion more powerful thanlife itself. His playmate in youth, he had dreamed bright dreams ofcoming years—had painted beautiful and happy pictures from thefancy wrought scenes of the shaded future; dreams which had proved butdreams—pictures in which there was no reality. His first pang hadbeen on their first separation some years before; but he had been buoyedup and soothed by the charmer Hope. He had thought of her daily, almosthourly, during her absence—had longed for, and yet almost dreadedthe meeting with her again. That meeting had at last taken place, and hehad seen her, after a long absence, blooming in all the graces of arefined, noble, intellectual woman! He had seen her more polished andbeautiful than even an ardent fancy had painted her, and with his ownmind more expanded and matured, he had felt his passion more intense;which, like the pent up waters of a spring, he knew must find vent, or,pressed back into its source, the heart, undermine, and finally destroythe clayey casement around it.
But alas for him! too soon he discovered another had at least fixedher attention, if not already won her affections, and a strongpresentiment had told him the result. Still the presentiment had notproved a certainty, and the sweet voice of the charmer Hope hadoccasionally whispered, "All may yet be well."
Thus six months had rolled away, with him al most wearily; foralthough near the gentle being of his secret love, yet he daily had seennew evidences to prove him farther from her heart than ever; and doubts,and fears, with occasionally a ray of hope, and sleepless nights, anddays of anguish, had already done their work on a constitution never atany time the strongest. Thus, we say, six months had rolled away, whichbrings us to the opening of our story—the night of the storm, andof Emily's capture—in which the reader will remember hisintroduction and singular conduct. And yet that conduct and result, whenwe know the motive power—the state of his constitution, andtemperament—appears perfectly simple and natural. And so it is, wemay add, with every thing in nature—everything around us, that toour limited vision appears mysterious for the time,—no sooner do welearn the cause, than we admit the effect could not have been otherwise,without violating some law of nature.
On the day in question, then, when he had seen Emily ride forth withEdward, a presentiment had come over him of trouble, and sorrow to come;and his steps had been slow, his brow clouded, and his heart heavy; andhence the cause of his wild manner, which had so surprised his father,when it became evident some accident had occurred to prevent theirreturn. Having paused, as the reader will remember, a moment on the hill,he had learned from Tyrone the whole state of the case, and again dashedon with a wildness bordering on insanity. Instinctively—for reasoncould scarcely be deemed paramount with him then—he had shaped hiscourse directly for the Mississippi; but ere he could reach it, his quickear had caught the sound of her sweet voice; and at the same time, by thelight of the moon, he had descried both Edward and Emily approaching.Being completely in the shade, they had not observed him; and instantlyreining his horse to one side, he had waited in a thicket for them topass. And then and there, in that lonely place, with his mind torn on therack of terrible excitement, he had heard soft words from her own sweetlips that went like daggers to his heart, and extinguished the last faintgleam of hope.
For a few minutes after that magical voice had died away in thedistance, Rufus had sat his horse more like a statue than a human being.And then and there a terrible feeling had swept over him; a feeling ofdespair and death—a consciousness of life, but life with heatedirons on his brain, and poisoned arrows in his heart—while reason,like a candle consumed to the stick, was flickering in the socket. For afew minutes he had sat thus; and then, with reason and instinct combined,had come a desire to reach home. Mechauically he had urged hishigh-spirited beast onward, and taking a circuitous route, had come intothe road ahead of Edward and Emily, who, in consequence, had never seenhim. Thus he reached home, as we have previously shown, long in advanceof the others; but the excitement only had supported him; and when thefoaming steed paused at the door, and he had announced their safety, hisnerves relaxed, reason for the time fled, and he had been borne into thehouse in a high state of fever, placed upon a bed, from which he wasdestined never to rise. That there were other causes, besides these wehave mentioned, combined to produce his sickness, we do not deny; butthat these were the only preventatives to his recovery, we assert. Havingthus laid bare the secrets of his heart, and the causes of what mightotherwise seem mysterious actions, let us new turn to him again.
For a few minutes Rufus gazed upon Emily Nevance—who still satas we have described her—with a look of intense sadness; and thenwith a deep drawn sigh, he said:
"Why do you look so sad, Emily? I fear something has gone wrong withyou!"
At the sound of his voice, which was low and musical, Emily started,raised her face—now somewhat flushed—and turning to Rufus,looked at him earnestly a moment, and then replied:
"Sad, Rufus; do I then look sad?"
"Indeed you do, Emily; very, very sad. I noticed it yesterday, afteryour return from a walk; and I have noticed, too, that you have notsmiled since, as you used to do. I fear something troubles you,Emily!"
Emily's face grew a shade paler. "You are right, Rufus," she answered;"something does trouble me—though I did not intend to betray it bymy looks."
"Will you not tell me what it is?" asked he, tenderly.
Emily shook her head sadly, and said: "No, I must not reveal it toyou, Rufus!"
"True," he returned, while a look of anguish swept ever his pale,thin, but still handsome features: "I should have remembered, ere Iasked, that I am not your confident."
"Nor is any one my confident in this matter, Rufus," rejoined Emily,quickly, a little touched at his remark, while the color again tinged herfair features: "I would tell you as soon as another, Rufus!"
"Forgive me, Emily, forgive me!" returned he, sinking back upon thepillow, and placing his hand to his head as though in pain. "I was toohasty, and wronged you. I know you would tell me if it was proper for meto know."
Emily was affected; and approaching the bed, she took one of his thinhands in hers, while a tear glistened in her eye. "Oh, you are sosensitive!" she said; "but do not be troubled so, dear Rufus, or I shallgrow more sad myself. You ask me to forgive you. I would gladly do so,had I any thing to forgive; but the fault was all my own. I should nothave spoken so hastily, knowing your almost too sensitive nature."
For a moment Rufus made no reply, while Emily stood by him, one of hishands pressed in hers, and the other upon his eyes; and then, with agreat effort at composure, in a voice slightly trembling, heenquired:
"Have you seen Edward, of late?"
"But once since that terrible night," answered Emily, casting down hereyes, while an involuntary sigh escape I her, which Rufus noted. "He cameonce, about a week since, while you were lying in that dangerous state,but made only a short stay, as we were all too much engaged to talk withhim."
"Doubtless ere long he will be here again?" said Rufus,enquiringly.
"He mentioned to-day, when he departed," returned Emily, with her eyesstill bent downward. "But you are agitated, Rufus," continued she,suddenly looking up, as she felt his hand tremble in hers: "What troublesyou thus, Rufus?"
"It is passed," he answered, after a moment's silence. "I am somewhatsubject to nervous agitations, and this was one."
"But what is the cause of these?" asked Emily. "I have often noticedsuch before at different periods during your illness."
"Nay, Emily," returned he sadly, "I cannot answer you."
"I fear something lies heavy on your mind," rejoined Emily,soothingly. "Oh, that I had the power to alleviate, and restore you tohealth and cheerfulness!"
Rufus withdrew his hand from his eyes as Emily spoke, and gazed uponher long and earnestly, with an expression which one of Emily'sperception, but less occupied than she with painful thoughts, would neverhave mistaken. "Do not think of me," he said, at length. "You have, it Idivine rightly, trouble enough of your own. As to health andcheerfulness, I shall see them no more."
"Oh, do not—do not talk thus!" returned Emily, quickly. "Banish,Rufus, banish all such gloomy thoughts! You are young, and I see noreason why you should not have before you a long life of happiness."
Rufus shook his head sadly. "Ah, you do not see," he answered,"because you cannot see, Emily; but he not deceived. I have apresentiment that speaks to me in a voice you cannot hear, by which Ifeel certain I shall never recover."
"But why should you think thus, Rufus?— Your physician haspronounced you out of danger, and says that in a few days you will beentirely well again."
"Ah, Emily, I repeat, be not deceived. My physician, doubtless, is avery good and skilful one, but in this he is mistaken, as time willshortly prove. Yes, I feel that I am upon a bed of death. But a littlewhile and I shall pass from among the living—missed and mourned bya few only— and quickly be forgotten."
"Oh no, no—not forgotten, Rufus," exclaimed Emily, vehemently;"not forgotten, while Emily Nevance lives! But come, come," added she,"do not talk of such things; they make me more and more sad!"
"Well, well," rejoined Rufus, gently, "we will talk of them no morethen, Emily; for Heaven knows you are sad enough with matters of yourown, without being burdened with an additional weight from me! We willstrive to be more cheerful, Emily; we will talk of the past. You shalltell me of your life in the city, and how you first became acquaintedwith the noble Edward Merton."
At the mention of the name of Edward, Rufus perceived a gentle glowsuffuse the cheeks of Emily; and a brightening of the eye, with a look ofpleasure, told plainly that the task he had assigned her was by no meansa hard one. And such was the fact. Oppressed by a weight of gloomythoughts of impending evil, since her interview with John the dayprevious, Emily felt glad of anything that would for the time relieveher; and seating herself by the side of Rufus, she immediately compliedwith his request; and began by telling him her first sensations when shearrived in the great metropolis—spoke of the manners and customs ofthe citizens—of the different grades of society—and, finally,touched upon Edward— their first interview—graduallylaunching out upon his noble appearance, manly qualities, and generousnature. As she did so, her very soul appeared to run in her voice, hereyes sparkled, her features became animated, and she seemed for the timecompletely carried away by a noble enthusiasm. Alas, little did she knowthat every word she uttered went like pointed steel to the heart ofRufus! Little did she dream that her narration was placing him upon arack of mental torture! But Rufus knew before the state of her feelings;and he had asked her to speak of the past, and of Edward, merely torelieve her of the gloomy thoughts which he knew must be occupying hermind, to cause her so much sadness. This he did, regardless of the painit occasioned himself, which he bore with a sort of melancholy orsaddened gladness—if the reader will allow us an expression soparadoxical.
Thus passed two hours, when the conversation was interrupted by thearrival of Edward himself. Emily started up with an expression of joy,and sprang to the door to meet him, while Rufus turned his head away, fora few moments, ere his entrance, with a look of deep anguish. When Edwarddid enter, however, all was calm again, and Rufus turned to him with asmile, and friendly greeting. Nor was this forced for appearance sake asone might suppose; for in his heart Rufus cherished for his rival themost friendly feelings— believing him to be a warm hearted, noblefellow— and the cause of his anguish, when Emily spoke of Edward,might be attributed to grief at his own hopeless fate, rather than toenvy or jealousy of the other.
After passing the usual salutations of the day, and some littleconversation on other matters had occurred, Merton proceeded to look tothe condition of his horse; which done, he returned to the house, andpassed the morning in a social way, in company with Emily and Rufus,occasionally joined for a few minutes by Mrs. Webber herself.
After dinner, as the day was so fine, Edward proposed to Emily to takea short ride through the country. "You seem to be somewhat depressed inspirits," he said, "and I think a little healthy exercise in the open airwill prove highly beneficial to you."
Emily hesitated some moments, ere making a reply, while a heavyforeboding of coming ill depressed her even more. At length she answered."I somehow do not think it advisable to go forth to-day; and besides, didI wish to, my Fanny is absent, on an expedition of a different nature, soyou percieve I have no animal to ride."
"Well, you shall take mine then," returned Edward, "while I willcontent myself to walk.— But go you must, most certainly, Emily;for I know it will be for your good—otherwise I would not urgeyou."
After some farther gentle persuasion, Emily consented, on conditionthey should not go far, and return ere nightfall.
"Your distance and time shall be mine," answered Merton; andproceeding at once to the stable, he shifted the saddle, and directly ledforth his noble beast, which seemed to walk as though already consciousof the lovely burden he was about to bear. Emily in the meantime had puton her riding dress, velvet cap, and stood in the door awaiting hisreturn—with her green veil thrown back from her fair features,which now looked more beautiful than ever. As Merton led forth thegraceful animal, Emily marked with an experienced eye his stately step,his full breast, his handsomely curved neck, and, as she did so, a smileof pride lingered around the corners of her mouth, giving an animation toher whole face— pride for the animal of which she was soon tobecome, as 'twere, a part.
While standing thus, and when Edward had approached within a fewpaces, she heard the voice of Rufus, and turned back to know what wasrequired.
"Come hither, Emily," he said, in a low tone, as she entered the room,partly raising himself in bed; "come hither; I have a few words to say toyou." As Emily approached, she perceived he was a good deal agitated, andonce or twice he pressed his hand to his temples as though in pain.
"You seem troubled, Rufus," remarked she, gently. "Are you more illthan usual?"
"I am far from being well," he replied, taking her hand, and gazingupon her with a sad, carnest expression, which she could not account for."I am far from being well, Emily; but I did not call you back to tell youof my ailings."
"What then, Rufus?" asked she mildly, with a tender look, as hepaused; "what then?"
"Perhaps you will laugh at me, Emily, for what I am going to say,"replied he solemnly; "yet I beg of you to heed it well!"
"I shall not laugh, Rufus, say on!" rejoined Emily.
"I see by your dress," he continued; "you are going forth for a ride.Do not ride far, and make sure of your return ere the shadows stretchtheir full length toward the east!"
"Such was my intention, Rufus," returned Emily, surprised at hiscarnest look and tone; "but why this caution from you?"
"I know not why, Emily," answered he sadly, "but something tells me ifwe do not meet again ere the sun has sunk to rest, we meet no more intime."
"Why this is strange imagining, Rufus—very strange!" said Emily,quickly and solemnly, her own foreboding recurring to her. "What reasonhave you for thinking thus, Rufus?"
"I can give no reason, Emily, save that God, who orders all things forthe best, sees proper at times, to warn us of approaching danger anddissolution, by what is called a presentiment; which, in my opinion, isbut the spirit acting for a short period without the physical takingcognizance thereof—and thus pierces and shows us what is directlyimpending behind the veil of the future."
"I too have had some strange forebodings of late," said Emily,thoughtfully; "though I scarcely know to what they tend."
"Ah, that accounts for your sadness, then!" rejoined Rufus; "but ifyou feel any hesitation now, Emily, I beg of you not to go—for Icannot shake off the idea, that if you do, we part for the lasttime!"
"Oh, do not think and say thus!" exclaimed Emily, with emotion, who inspite of herself felt a feeling of awe creeping over her. "Do not saythus, Rufus! You have long years before you yet."
Rufus shook his head with a wan smile.— "You do not know," hesaid, "what I know, or you would not say that. I repeat what I have toldyou before, that from this bed I shall never rise!"
"Are you nearly ready?" enquired the voice of Merton from without.
"I must go, dear Rufus, for I have promised him I would; otherwise Iwould not;" said Emily, hastily. "But I will not go far, Rufus, and willreturn ere sunset; this I promise you."
"Well," returned Rufus, sadly, his eyes filling with tears, "Godenable you to keep your promise, Emily! but for fear of the worst I bidyou farewell!" and he pressed her hand respectfully to his lips. "If wedo not meet again on earth," he added, in a trembling voice, "I trust weshall in Heaven! Farewell."
"But you unnerve me, Rufus," said Emily, bursting into tears. "Surelyyou are making a too solemn affair of this—or are you in realitydying, Rufus?" and the very thought seemed to startle her.
"I do not feel myself to be dying in the literal sense of the term,"answered Rufus. "I may live weeks, even months to come; and I mayscarcely live days—so uncertain do I look upon the time allottedme."
"Nay, then, Rufus," returned Emily, hastily drying her tears, "do notgive way to such gloomy thoughts. I will return again presently; but Isee Edward is getting impatient, and I must not keep him longer waiting.There, good bye!" and bending down as she spoke, she pressed a kiss uponhis forehead, and turned quickly away.
"Farewell!" uttered he again, in a low, trembling voice. "If we shouldnever meet again, Emily, remember I—I cannot tell you," he said, asshe paused near the door—"so farewell!" and he sunk back upon hispillow, and turned his head away; while Emily, her heart beating withstrange emotions, quickly joined Edward.
As Emily approached, Edward could not but perceive that she had beenweeping; but wisely choosing to make no comment thereon, he assisted herto mount, and merely saying, "To the north, Emily," he led her horseforward in that direction a short distance, and then yielding theguidance wholly to her, walked along by her side.
Their departure had been marked with an eager look, by a tall figure,standing a little distance in the rear of the cottage—on whosefeatures, as they passed from his sight, played a strange, dark smile;and muttering, "Now is my time!" he turned quickly round, and abruptlydisappeared.
Who was that figure? and what was the meaning of those singularwords?
THE MEDITATION—THE INTERRUPTION—THE CONVERSATION—THE ARBOR OF LOVE—THE DECLARATION— THE STORM—THEMYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE— THE SEARCH.
For some time Edward and Emily pursued their way slowly and insilence, for in the hearts of both were deep and powerful feelings. WithEmily herself, circumstances had combined to depress her spirits with agloominess seldom or never felt before; for each thing that hadtranspired of late, seemed to rush in upon her now, as if to overwhelmand crush her beneath the gathering weight. A thousand thoughts, blackand portentous as the clouds that herald a terrible storm, came flittinglike evil spirits through her mind—each bearing its own dark andcheerless aspect— enlivened by no ray of hope, no sunshine ofgladness. Even the temporary relief she had found while talking withRufus of the past and of Edward, had, from her after thoughts, and thecontrast, served to produce only a painful reaction; and although the oneshe loved—the one she had extolled in such glowinglanguage—was now by her side, yet that very fact itself, instead ofmaking her joyful, only added to her grief. And wherefore this?
We have, on a previous occasion, attempted to give the reader aninsight into the character of Emily, which, if fully borne in mind, willbe sufficient to show why she was thus actuated. It will be remembered wedescribed her as very sensitive, and self-sacrificing, and one incapableof wounding the feelings of another, when it was possible for her toavoid doing so without in the end making matters still worse. It will beremembered, too, we described her feelings in regard to herself, and herdoubtful parentage, as being very painful; and also her attachment forEdward—which, on this account, she deemed herself compelled by asense of duty to break off—as being no less so. These were enoughto have made her sad, if not gloomy, even now; for she knew the result ofher decision must be very painful both to Edward and herself; but theevents which had since transpired, had added their sombre coloring to thealready dark picture, until not one bright spot remained. The strange andawful appearance of John—as he stood like a demon before her,overpowered by rage—was still present to her vision; and his darkand terrible words of threatening were still ringing in her ears. Whatmight be the result of that interview— to what act of villainy onhis part it might tend—was impossible for her to foresee; but, aswe have shown, a heavy foreboding of coming ill had settled on herspirit—a foreboding she had found impossible to shake off. Had hebeen a stranger who thus accosted her—or any one not directly inthe family with whom she had been reared, and to whom, for a thousandlittle acts of kindness, she felt herself so much indebted— shewould have related at once the whole occurrence, that proper precautionsmight be taken to secure her against violence. But as the case stood, inthe present instance, she did not feel herself at liberty to doso—from the fact that, knowing the strong temperaments of bothfather and son, she foresaw consequences of a disagreeable nature mustnaturally ensue, and that she, however indirectly, would be the movingcause of a rupture, and perhaps a disunion in the family; and besides,too, she vaguely trusted the whole affair would terminate in simply athreat; that John might have uttered it, while in passion, merely tointimidate her; and that when he should come to himself, he would see hisfolly and let it pass. This we say she hoped; but in truth she doubted,and feared, and it troubled her much notwithstanding. She longed to makesome one her confidant, and take advice regarding the proper course forher to pursue; but she knew of none in whose keeping the secret would besafe—no, not even with Edward himself; for in his earnest regardfor her welfare, she knew he would feel himself justified in at oncelaying the matter before Webber, and even confronting John himself, whenprobably a quarrel, and a duel, perhaps, would be the result. No, shemust keep it locked in her own breast, and bear her painful thoughts insilence. All these things, together with the grief she felt for Rufus,and the recollection of their solemn parting, and his seeming propheticwords, were sufficient, as we have said, to cloud Emily's naturallybright spirit with a gloom she had never known before; and ponderingthese all over in her mind, as she rode along, she allowed her head todroop, and gazed upon the ground with an abstracted air.
Edward, as he walked along by her side, was also busy with thoughts ofhis own; and his eyes, too, were bent on the ground, while the expressionof his features, if not sad, was at least solemn. And what was there tocause this? We answer, many things.
As the reader is aware, Edward's first interview with Emily had beenwhile a student in the city of New York; and from that moment he had feltthat his future happiness or misery rested with her; and, in consequence,he had studiously sought to win her affections. In this, as the reader isalso aware, he had succeeded; and twice he had offered her his hand; butalthough not exactly refused, he had been put off with the plea that bothwere yet too young, and that she could not think of wedding him until hehad asked and obtained the consent of his parents. This with him had beena severe drawback; for although he felt he might succeed in gaining theconsent of his mother, yet he knew his father—who was a wealthymerchant in St. Louis, and whose soul was centered on gold—had, foryears, in his own mind, destined him to marry, so soon as both partieswere of the proper age, a distant relation— an heiress of greatwealth. That in this alliance, money was all his father sought or caredfor, he believed; and the very thought that he should thus give his handfor gold, was, to one of his proud, noble spirit, repugnant in theextreme; and he had fully determined in his own mind such an event shouldnever take place; and to such an extreme will prejudice of this kindsometimes carry a person of his temperament, that it is a questionablepoint whether, had Emily herself been the heiress, and he known itpreviously, he had not on this account refused even her.
Convinced, at length, that though Emily ardently loved him, she onthis one point would remain firm in her first decision, he hadresolved— after his interview with her on the night of the openingof our story—to lay the whole affair before his father, tell himexactly how matters were in every particular, the hopelessness of hisexpecting him to form another attachment, and thus endeavor to win hisconsent. This he had done, or rather had attempted to do; for scarcelyhad he broached the subject, so that his father understood the drift ofit, ere the latter, in a terrible passion, bade him begone, and neverspeak to him of the like again—telling him he should never marryone poorer than himself with his consent, and that should he dare tomarry without his consent, he would both disown and disinherit him.
Although Edward had been in part prepared for this, from knowing hisfather's worldly motives and hasty temper, yet the result had been tocause him great pain and despondency. But though he might despond, Edwardwas not one to despair, while there was even the faintest gleam of hoperemaining; and he had determined, as a last resource, to see Emily, tellher all, offer her his hand once more, and abide her decision.—With this intent he had called upon her once since that night; but owingto the severe illness of Rufus, no opportunity had presented itself forconversation on the subject, and he had resolved upon to-day for his nextmeeting—which meeting, as the reader knows, has already takenplace. Not being sufficiently in private in the cottage for his purposeEdward, on this account, partly, and partly on account of her gloomyappearance, had been strenuous in urging Emily to ride forth. Occupied inthinking on this subject, and how best to introduce it, for a goodlydistance kept Edward silent, while Emily, as we have shown, was, fromvarious causes, silent also.
The longest soliloquy or meditation must come to an end; and bothEdward and Emily found themselves suddenly aroused from their reveries bya rather ludicrous circumstance. So intently had their minds been fixedupon the matters just recorded, that no attention whatever had been paidby either to the course of the beast; which having been left entirelyfree, thought, doubtless, he had a perfect right to choose for himself,and accordingly had quitted the path they supposed themselves pursuing,and was, at this moment, quietly endeavoring to force his way throughsome dense shrubbery—the limbs of which coming in rather severecontact with his more reasoning companions, and some what startledthem.
What a strange, vacillating creature is a human being! How changeable,and what an embodied medley of inconsistencies! No sooner did Edward andEmily look up at this interruption, see the predicament in which theywere placed, and fully comprehend the ridiculous appearance of theirsituation, than, in spite of their gloomy thoughts, their darkforebodings, both were forced into a gay laugh.
"Truly, Emily," said Edward, with a smile, as they turned back toretrace their steps, "this little incident should prove warningsufficient that we have both been too gloomy for a day so beautiful.Look—how bright shines the sun! Listen— how sweet and merrilysing the birds!"
"Right, Edward!" exclaimed Emily, with animation, as she cast her eyeover the scene, and felt the poetry in her heart giving a warm glow toher features. "Right, Edward! We have no right to mar so joyful a sceneas this by gloomy thoughts! We, human beings, the noblest creatures ofHim who created all!—creatures endowed with reason, and knowledgeto comprehend the beauty and magnificence of His works! alone, as 'twere,too, with great Nature herself! shouldwe not be as happy as thesesweet warblers that comprehend nothing, and yet sing for very joy? Oh,"she continued, with a sparkling eye, and a deeper glow on her sweetfeatures, while her very form seemed to expand with the upreachings of afull, a noble soul, "Oh, how these very songsters rebuke me with theirsilvery tones, for being east down, and seeing nothing but what is blackand cheerless, when God has placed me in a world so bright and lovely,and given me too an immortal spirit, to soar when done with these into abrighter and more glorious realm of light, where one sad thought cannever come, nor pain, nor aught but joy eternal!"
"Ah, now, now I see my Emily again!" cried Edward, joyfully, whoseeyes, bent on hers, were sparkling with enthusiams, and whose featureswere radiant with delight. "Go on, dear Emily, go on! I could listen tothose sweet tones forever!"
"Do you not think, Edward," resumed Emily, "that we make at leastone-half of our misery by letting imagination paint dark pictures insteadof bright ones?"
"Ay, and in many cases all," answered Merton; "for how often are weprone to imagine dire events that never happen, and in that imaginationundergo more real misery than we would even in the reality itself. Andeven when we are actually suffering, if we look closely into ourselves,we shall find, as a general thing, that that very suffering rests almostentirely in the manner we look upon it. Take as a proof of this, theterrible fate of the ancient martyrs—who, when hooted and reviledat by a barbarous crowd, and dragged in chains to the stake, and thereburnt alive, sung psalms and smiled, until the red flames, more mereifulthan the inhuman monsters around, released them. Did they not feel thepains of corporeal punishment? They were flesh and blood like ourselves,and just as sensitive to the touch; but still they believed they weredying in a holy cause, and hope taught them to look beyond the present,and, aided by their imagination, they already stood on the very thresholdof Heaven and felt happy. Let us then, Emily, if the present seem dark,take a lesson from those martyrs, look forward with bright hope to thefuture, and thus meet our troubles with a smile!"
"Bright hope to the future," repeated Emily, with a sigh, as again theevents of the last few days came crowding upon her; "the future in spiteof me looks dark."
"Again gloomy, Emily," returned Merton, with an earnest, tender look;"you who were wont to be so buoyant and cheerful; there is some deepcause for this, Emily, and I would fain know what it is! But," he addedhastily, "I have somewhat to tell you first, and on your answer perhapswill depend my right to question you."
A slight paleness overspread the features of Emily, as though shealready divined the nature of the communication, her hand grasped therein tightly, and there was a slight nervous agitation apparent in herfeatures. Recovering herself by a strong effort, she at lengtharticulated calmly, "Go on, Edward!"
"Not here," said Edward. "Some half mile, in this direction, is abeautiful spot, you remember, near a murmuring stream, where we oncewhiled away two of the sweetest hours of my life. I will tell you there,Emily, for no other place seems so appropriate."
Emily bowed her head in token of assent, and for some time rode on insilence, while Edward kept his place by her side, but was silentalso.— About a quarter of a mile further on, they ascended a slightelevation, which commanded a fair prospect of the surrounding country,for a goodly distance to the north and west—a prospect every waydelightful, variegated with woods and plains, all clothed in the softgreen robes of summer, with here and there some sparkling stream windingalong with a laughing murmur, like the first outpourings of a young, freeheart. The day was hot and somewhat sultry, yet as their course had beenmostly through a deep wood, it had not been particularly oppressive; butas they gazed over the scene described, each thing seemed fairly reelingin the heat, while the sun now shone bright and clear upon them.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Edward, shading his face with his hand, tolet his eye rest for a moment upon the landscape.
"Very, very beautiful!" returned Emily, drawing rein, and pausing togaze upon it.
"Come, Emily," said Edward, turning to her, "do not tarryhere—the heat is too excessive!— Yonder I see the spot,which, since I rested there with you, has ever lingered in my memory, andoften comes up in my dreams, like a something too bright for reality. Iwould fain be there again with you, even though for the last time."
There was a tender melancholy in the voice of Edward as he spoke, thattouched the heart of his fair hearer, and caused her to turn her headaway with a sad expression—but she returned no answer. Again movingonward, a few minutes served to bring them to the place mentioned, whichwas a delightful one truly, and seemed just fitted for an arbor of love.It was a flat piece of ground, sloping gently to the north, shaded bytall, wide-branching trees, and free from underbrush, through the centreof which glided with a soothing melody, a clear, sparkling streamlet, bywhose side lay the trunk of an old tree, fast crumbling back to that dustfrom which it sprang— a gentle warning, as 'twere, to those youngbeings now approaching, that at the longest but a little time couldelapse ere a similar fate would be theirs. The ground was smooth, andcarpeted with rank grass, interspersed with various kinds of wildflowers, which added a beauty to what must even otherwise have beenaccounted beautiful.— Occasionally throughout the grove might beseen some gay squirrel, bounding merrily away with a ringing chirup,while handsome plumed birds fluttered and sung in the branches of thetrees.— It was not Paradise, and yet Paradise need scarcely havebeen more lovely.
"Yonder, Emily," said Edward, as they entered the grove, "by thatsweet singing streamlet, is the old tree which served us for a seat whenhere before—let us try it again;" and he assisted Emily todismount, who immediately advanced towards it with a trembling step and apalpitating heart, for she felt she was about to experience the mosttrying period of her life. Securing his horse to a neighboring tree,Merton quickly joined her.
"Here," he resumed, in a voice slightly trembling, after pausing a fewmoments to collect his thoughts, and, if truth must be said, gain couragefor the undertaking; "here, Emily, where we are alone—with Naturearound and God above—in a spot that is lovely enough to beconsecrated to love and all things holy—where the voice of man butseldom intrudes—here, where there are no ears to listen but ourown—here have I led you to harken to my tale and decide myfate."
Emily bent down her eyes, her features grew pale, and her handstrembled—but she answered not; and Edward, after gazing upon her amoment in silence, again resumed.
"Two years since, Emily, as you are aware, we met for the first time,in the city of New York. It is almost needless to repeat what I long erethis have told you, and more than once, that then, for the first time, Iknew what it was to love. To praise each particular grace or charm thatcaptivated me, would be too much like the idle flattery of the world;suffice, that I saw enough in you to win my affections, and I lovedyou—loved you purely—as I never more can love another. Ifancied too, and not without cause, that my passion was returned; andwaiting a suitable time and opportunity, I declared my feelings, andoffered you my hand. You did not refuse me, or I should certainly neverhave troubled you again; but you asked if my parents were aware of this;and on my replying in the negative, said that perchance they would refusetheir consent, because you were poor; that we were both too young tofully know our own minds; that in an undertaking like this, thejourneying through life as companions, we should be well assured thatnothing hereafter would cause us to regret having chosen hastily; thattime would be the proper test to prove whether in sincerity we bothloved, or whether it was merely a fancy. This was your reply; andalthough I was then fully satisfied that for one I should never so loveanother, yet I felt the force of your answer, and acquiesced. That,Emily, was fifteen months ago; and though with you after that, almostdaily, until my return to the West, wherein you accompanied me—andvery often in your society since—yet never did I directly speak onthis subject again, till the evening of your capture, when I again askedyou to be mine—again offered you my hand. You did not refuse methen—no, you even told me you loved me; which, although I fullybelieved before, yet hearing from your own sweet lips, made my heartbound with rapture; but at the same time you stated you were poor, andconsequently were not my equal in this; and that you could not consent,unless assured of the consent of my parents.
"'Tis true, Emily, that in many things we should consult and take theadvice of those who have reared us from infancy—but it does notfollow we should in all, particularly in matters of the heart; and when,too, a person like myself has arrived at the age of discretion, and knowswhat is the most conducive to his own happiness.
"Think, dear Emily, think even for a moment seriously upon it, andyour kind heart will tell you it is wrong—very, verywrong—for those who have passed, or are passing, into the declineof life, and have lost in part, or by a rude contact with a selfish worldbenumbed, those fine and holy feelings of love, which entwining aroundthe heart of youth, soften and make it green, even as the ivy around theoak adds beauty and gentleness to its appearance; wrong, I say, for thoseto dictate to the young—who are full of the joys and poetry of themorning of life—where they shall give their hand; and this, too,when mercenary considerations are their ruling motives for so doing; andby this make them unhappy, and destroy all the sweets ofexistence—forcing them to sigh for the final rest of the cold andsilent grave. Think upon it, Emily, and how inconsistent does it appear.What has money to do with the heart? Can it ease one pang? Can it stillone pulsation? Can it make us forget to think upon the past—uponthose we have loved? Can it make us escape ourselves? Can it procure us ahigher seat in Heaven? Can it add to our devotions to an all-seeing God?Can it purchase one really happy moment? No, dear Emily, it can do noneof these. Then wherefore should we make ourselvesmiserable—wherefore throw away the happiness already in our grasp,for its weight of misery, even though a mine of gold be put in thebalance? And then, too, how inconsistent that we should be forced intothese measures by those who should seek our happiness?— who, as Isaid before, are rapidly approaching old age and dissolution, and whom wehave a right to suppose, by the regular order of events, will longprecede us to the tomb,—how inconsistent that we should be madewretched to please them, who will soon leave us alone, to drink deep ofsorrow, and entail it upon our posterity. No, no, dear Emily, this shouldnot be! Parents may advise in such matters, but they have no right, bythe laws of either God or man, to usurp authority, and become dictatorsand tyrants! So soon as they do this, they overstep their proper limits,and sever the tie of consanguinity."
Edward spoke gently, in a calm, earnest, musical tone, with his headturned towards Emily, and his dark hazel eye resting tenderly upon herwhile she, as he went on, becoming deeply interested, gradually raisedher head, and now sat with her soft blue eyes looking with a mournfulsweetness into his, with that peculiar expression which can never bemistaken for other than one of love. Edward noticed these changes with abeating heart—for he fancied in them were favorable augeries to hisfondest hopes—and with a cheek slightly flushed, and a voiceperhaps a little more passionate, he still went on.
"Such, dear Emily, as I have pointed out as most reprehensible inparents, are, I grieve to say, the ruling motives of mine. I would notsay aught to wrong those who gave me birth—who watched over me ininfancy, and reared me in affluence—no, far be it from me to dothis, or willingly wound their feelings; yet as much as I may love andrespect them, I must respect myself, nor allow myself to be sold forgold. Nay, interrupt me not—I see you do not understand, solisten!
"My father is wealthy—very wealthy—and might, were he sodisposed, do much good, and make many a poor being around him, as well ashis own son, happy. But alas and alas, dear Emily, he has made money hisGod—at whose shrine he sacrifices all those high and noblefeelings, which, rightly exercised, almost make a god of man! Withoutseeking to know my feelings on the subject, he has, in his ambitiousdreams, bestowed my hand where my heart is not, upon one whose sufficientmerit in his eyes, is, that she can more than balance the scale with himin gold.— You grow pale, Emily—but fear not, sweet one, andlisten!
"When I parted with you on that eventful night, I did so with thedetermination of telling my father all, and gaining, if possible, hisconsent to our union. To this end I seized upon the first opportunity,when in private, and began my story. But alas, Emily, all hope of thatwas soon over! He heard me but a few moments, and then in rage spurned mefrom his presence, and said that did I marry without his consent, hewould both disown and disinherit me, and that his consent should never begiven to my union with one poorer than himself. I forgot not he was myfather, and quitted his sight without reply—never to speak with himon the like again. And now, dear Emily, my fate rests with you. I havesought you to tell you all, and offer you once more my hand. I am sorry,for your sweet sake, I have not wealth to offer—for my own I carenot. I am young, and strong, and thank God, I have a good education,which, with proper energy, will enable me to go through the world withease, if I but have one sweet being to cheer me on! Wealth I do notseek—I may add, do not want. If you are willing to share with methe struggles of life—the good and ill—'tis all I ask to makeme happy; and to make you so, dear Emily, I will toil early andlate—will be ambitious, and seek to win a name you shall be proudof.
"Ponder well, dear Emily, ere you decide— and let no falsenotions of the world, what it will think or say, sway you now—forby your answer I shall abide. Remember on the words which you are aboutto utter hang the destiny of both; and once said, are registered in God'sbook in Heaven, and beyond recall! You have had time sufficient ere this,to know your own mind, and whether you will be content to be mine, evenwhile dark clouds are lowering around me. If you are poor, remember so amI, and therefore in this shall be your equal; but above all, dear Emily,if you have any hesitation, I charge you think well—thinkwell—ere you pronounce the sentence which shall sever usforever!—for if you reject me now, in this world we shall never,never meet again; and whatever my unhappy fate may be, it shall be yoursto bear with you, even to your bed of death, the solemn reflection thatit wasonce in your power to have elevated and made me happy! Ihave done, dear Emily, and tremblingly listen for your reply."
During the latter part of his remarks, Emily's head had sunk upon herbreast, her eyes were bent down, while her cheeks paled and flushedalternately. For some time after the mournful cadence of his loved voicehad ceased to sound in her ear, she sat mute, and, save now and then aslight tremor, immovable; while Edward, with his eyes intently fastenedupon her, gazed as one who awaits an answer of life or death. At lengthEmily, in a low voice, without raising her head, articulated:
"Have you considered, Edward, that I am almost a homeless wanderer,who knows nothing of my parentage?"
"I have considered all, dear Emily—everything— for thiswith me has been no hasty undertaking."
"Then take me, Edward!" cried Emily, impulsively, suddenly looking up,and turning her soft blue eyes, moist with tears, sweetly uponhim:— "Take me, dear Edward, I am thine, thine forever!"
"Bless you, bless you, my own, dearest Emily, for those sweet, sweetwords!" and bounding forward, Edward caught her in his arms, strained herfor a few moments to his heart in silence, and then bending down,impressed upon her soft lips the first rapturous, hely kiss of love. Itwas a moment of bliss to be felt, but never to be described.
"When I came here, dear Edward," said Emily, at length, gazing up intohis face with a look of love, while she still reclined against hisbreast, "it was to tell you we must part; but you have conquered, andhenceforth and forever I am thine."
Edward, his soul too full to vent itself in idle words, again strainedher to his heart in silence, while the soft voice of the bright streamletthat colled sweetly along at their feet, sent up a quiet melody thatfound an echo in the hearts of both.
Seating themselves once more upon the fallen tree, Edward and Emily,fresh in the mutual and holy confidence of two hearts pledged to onedestiny, passed two bright hours unheeded, in the interchange of thethoughts and feelings awakened in the breasts of each. We say two brighthours unheeded—for when did love take note of time? Had the twohours been four, to them it had been the same, and would have seemed butas many minutes. At the end of the time mentioned, however, they werearoused to a consciousness of the outer world, by hearing the boomingsound of heavy thunder; and on looking up with a start, from aconversation the most happy, they were surprised to find it alreadygrowing dark, from the black heavy clouds of an approaching storm havingalready obscured the rays of the sun. Owing to the density of a woodcovering a hill on the opposite side of the streamlet, our lovers wereunable to obtain a view of the shower, which was approaching from thatdirection.
"Ha, that is near!" exclaimed Merton, starting to his feet, asfollowing not long after a bright flash, came the heavy booming ofanother peal of thunder. "We must make all haste home, Emily, or we shallbe caught in the rain. Ha!" cried he again, pointing to the west, "I seethe point of an angry cloud just rising over the brow of yon hill. Thestorm is nearer than I thought. Come, dear Emily, let us haste—letus haste;" and seizing her by the hand as he spoke, both sprang quicklytowards the horse, which stood some twenty paces distant, with hisbridle-rein made fast to the limb of a tree.
Whether their sudden movements startled him, or whether he was just atthis instant stung by some insect, matters not; but scarcely had ourlovers advanced to within ten paces of the animal, when he threw himselfsuddenly back, and pulled with all his force upon the bridle. Mertoninstantly darted forward, but was too late. The rein broke, and with aroguish shake of the head, and a slight neigh, Sir Harry bounded gailyaway.
"How unfortunate!" exclaimed Merton; "just at this moment too whentime is so precious. But be not alarmed, Emily, he will not go far, and Iwill soon overtake him. Stay you here. In five minutes I will be withyou; and then we must both ride, and ride hard!"
"Be sure you be not long," returned Emily, in a voice that trembledfrom a sudden fear she could not account for, while her cheeks grew palefrom the same cause; "be sure you be not long, Edward!"
As the latter predicted, the beast did not go far; for from the gallopin which he set off, he shortly slackened to a trot, finally pausedaltogether, and amused himself by cropping some herbage until his mastercame up, which, notwithstanding, occupied some minutes. Hastily tyingtogether the broken reins, Edward threw them over Sir Harry's neck,bounded upon the saddle, and rode quickly back to where he had leftEmily; but, strange to say, she was nowhere to be seen.
At first astonishment siezed upon Merton that she should absentherself at such a critical time; but astonishment soon gave way toalarm—alarm to horror—when on calling her name loudly severaltimes no answer was returned but the gloomy echo of his own voice. Whatcould it mean— where had she gone, and what terrible fate hadbefallen her, that she did not return? were questions which he askedhimself with a wildness bordering upon insanity, while he rode up anddown and through the grove, still calling at the extent of his voice herdearly loved name. Could she have been seized by some wild beast? Edwardthought, and shuddered, and felt his brain reel. He sprang from his horseand examined the ground around where she had stood—but no, therewere no marks of blood or violence; besides, had this been the case, hewould have heard her screams. What could it mean? Springing upon hishorse again, for some three quarters of an hour he rode wildly to andfro, calling upon her sweet name—but, alas! in vain—sheanswered not.
In the meantime the shower had been steadily approaching, and alreadynow a few large drops, precursors of what was to follow, fell with arattling sound upon the trees. Night advancing also, had already began torobe objects in her sombre mantle, while the lightning flashed fiercely,and the thunder followed quickly, crash on crash. Merton, forced into thebelief that a longer search was useless, and hurried away by the stormand a faint hope that she might, fearing delay while he was absent, havestarted for home, alone, now buried the rowels in the animal's sides; andalthough the distance was three good miles, in less than fifteen minuteshis horse stood panting at Webber's door. By this time it had become verydark, and the rain was falling in torrents, while the lightning flashedand the thunder roared as incessantly as ever. The party had justreturned, and their horses were still standing in front of the cottage,where they had been left until the storm should abate. Webber wasstanding in the door.
"Has Emily arrived?" cried Edward, breathlessly.
"Good heavens! Edward," exclaimed he, "is she not with you?Speak—speak!"
"Oh God!" ejaculated Merton, wringing his hands in agony, "she islost—she is lost!"
"Lost!" screamed Webber, rushing forth; "great God! what mean you?" Ina few hurried words Merton explained what had chanced, while Bernard,Tyrone and Mrs. Webber, hearing the exclamations, reached the door intime to learn all.
"Mount—mount!" cried Webber, springing upon one of the horses,while Bernard and Tyrone quickly followed his example. "Mount and away,for wemust find her!" A minute later, all four were riding as iffor life—Merton in advance. A groan drew Mrs. Webber's attention toher son. On entering the room she found Rufus had fainted. He had heardenough to know that Emily was lost, and that, as he had predicted, theywould never meet again on earth.
The search of the party proved fruitless, and towards morning theyreturned. It was renewed the next day, and the next, and the next; andyet on the third night they had found no traces— gleaned no tidingsof Emily. It was a severe blow to all—to Webber and Merton inparticular.
Leaving them to their search, however, in ignorance of her fate, wewill turn to the cause of our fair heroine's sudden and mysteriousdisappearance, and the wherefore she did not return.
THE CAPTURE—THE VILLAINS—THE RIDE—THEHOVEL-CAVE—THE INTERVIEW—THE THREAT— THEREPENTANT—THE CONSEQUENCES.
Scarcely had Edward departed, and while Emily stood gazing on hisretreating form, with a secret fear, the cause of which she was unable todivine, when two figures, their faces concealed by masks, approached herstealthily from behind, threw a bandage over her mouth to prevent hercries for help, raised her in their brawny arms, and, without a word,bore her speedily away—directly past the fallen tree, where she hadbut a few minutes before in a happy confidence plighted herself to himshe loved—across the silvery stream that had the while sung itsseeming song of love—up into the dark wood of the hill beyond. Herefor a moment they paused to rest, and then, without speaking, again boreher onward some three hundred yards, still deeper into the wood, andfarther from him who should have been there to protect her. When theypaused again, it was beside two powerful horses, on one of which she wasinstantly mounted in front of one of her captors, while his companion,springing into the sad dle, led the way, as fast as the ground wouldpermit, in a westerly direction. At this moment Emily heard in thedistance the voice of Edward calling upon her name, and a keen pang shotthrough her soul. Her captors heard it also, but with very differentfeelings; for the one in advance, turning to his companion, said:
"We's jest in time Saxton, for if we'd a been a little sooner or alittle later, we'd a have to put a veto on the tune of that ar'gentleman—and you know that was strictly agin orders."
"Right, Niles, we jest hit the proper moment; but isn't that thefeller what frightened you off in the morning, afore you'd got the oldgentleman fairly tied?"
"Why that's the chap that rode up, it's true; but I don't like theidea of your callin' it frightened off—for if it hadn't a bin youknow, that we wasn't to hurt him, I'd a made a different business on'taltogether. As 'twas, I thought I'd run."
"And git shot?"
"Yes, so it turned out it seems—though I only lost two fingersby the operation, and by—! I'll be even for them yit, if I livelong enough.— But you didn't do anything to brag on, in lettin themar' two fellers whip three on ye, and kill one at that!"
The other replied only by uttering a terrible oath, and setting histeeth hard.
"Well," resumed Niles, "it was an ugly business, take it all round,and we got the worst on'tBill was killed—Jack had his face badlybattered, and another ball through his arm, which may be 'll do himtoo—you got a sore head, and I lost two fingers; while Besley,whose legs was a leetle the longest, got off clear. But I say, Sax., jesttie a handkerchief over that ar' gal's eyes, so she can't examinedirections, you know that's orders, and then let's ride—for ye seeits gittin' dark in these ere woods, and a big shower to back it."
In a moment Emily found her eyes bandaged, and then she could feel thehorses urged on to greater speed, while peal on peal, each nearer thanthe last, came to her ear the thunder of the approaching storm. Poorgirl! she felt it was useless to struggle against her destiny, whateverit might be, and commending herself to the care of Him who watches alikeover the powerful and defenceless, she resigned herself to her fate. Hercaptors had again become silent, and on, on they rode for some half hour,as fast as the beasts could carry them. At the end of the time mentioned,they came to a halt by some dwelling, and Emily could hear the low murmurof several other voices in hurried conversation. At length one more loud,and in dictation, struck her ear with a familiar sound, and fairly madeher blood run cold. It was the voice of John Webber.
"You will stop here and refresh until this storm has passed, which itwill have done in less than two hours, and then you must mount and onagain till you reach the point designated, for this side of there it willnot do to remain. I must return this night, or I may be suspected. Jackis too badly wounded to be your company. Between ourselves, I fear hisday is over. Hetty will go with you, and in her charge you can trust her.You know the route, so that you can follow it in the night, do younot?"
"We do," answered the voice of Niles.
"'Tis well. Thus far your parts have been admirably performed.Complete as well, and you shall have a suitable reward. I do not ask yourservices for nothing. But come, come, dismount and enter, for already therain I see approaching. Feed well your horses. I must this moment away."As the voice concluded, Emily heard the tramping of another horse, fastgrowing distant, and felt herself seized and borne under some shelter, onwhich, a few moments after, the rain dashed violently, while she wasalmost stunned by the oft repeated crashing of the thunder.
The storm raged for upwards of an hour, and then ceased. In the courseof two hours, Emily was again mounted, and borne away, while she becameaware of the party being increased by an additional member—awoman—which was at all events some consolation, although she couldneither speak nor see, owing to the bandages being still kept around hermouth and eyes. On, on the party dashed; now up some steep bluff; nowdown into some deep dingle; now through a forest and tangled brushwood;now over a barren, sandy, open plain; now through streams whose watersswollen by the late rain rolled on with a sullen murmur—on, on theywent, heeding no obstruction, rarely ever speaking to each other; on,on—still on—while hour after hour went by, and yet no pause.At length they halted once more to gain some refreshment, and Emily feltherself removed from the horse she had ridden to another, and again theywent on. At last, wearied by excitement and travel, Emily, in spite ofher struggles to the contrary, gradually sunk into the arms of Morpheus,and for the time her trials and troubles were forgotten.
As when we fall asleep in some quiet spot with no sounds near, agentle shake or noise will wake us, so when we sink into slumber amidconfusion, silence will produce the same effect—and Emily wasawakened by the party again coming to a halt. On opening hereyes—for during the latter part of her ride the bandage around themhad fallen off—she found herself in a wild, mountainous region,with nothing cheering around, no habitation and no human beingsnear—save, in the first instance, a kind of half cave and hovel inthe side of a steep mountain, formed of wood, rocks and clay; and, in thelast, the rough, ugly visages of her two captors, and the face of HettyBrogan, whom she recognised with a thrill of joy, from the fact that shewas a woman, and that her face was familiar, although she had never seenit but once before, and then under circumstances by no means pleasant;still it was at least the face of a woman, one too she had seen before,and it gave her joy.
"Well, we're here at last, Saxton," said Niles; "though we've had atolerable tough night on't."
"Ay, we've had all o' that, Niles, and I reckon as how he'll have topay well for't. See, the sun already shines on yonder hill, and we'vetraveled all night. Our poor horses, as well as us, are confoundedlytired, although we've changed once on the way. Well, let's in with thegal and be off— that's all o' our part, you know, for Hetty'll haveto tend to the rest. About five miles from here's a good place forfeedin' and restin', so let's be a movin';" and dismounting whilespeaking, Saxton assisted Emily to do the same, while Hetty, followinghis example, threw her bridle rein to Niles, who still remained in thesaddle. "Thar', Hetty," continued Saxton, turning to her, and pointing toEmily, "you'll be responsible for the rest; so good bye, old woman;" andspringing upon his horse again, he turned away and rode slowly down thehill, followed by Niles, who also led the beast which had borne Hettyhither.
"I'm glad you're gone," said Hetty, gazing after them with no veryamiable expression; "for I can al'ays breathe a great deal easier whenyou don't breathe the same air. Come, lady, you've had a hard ride forone of your tender breeding;" and Hetty turned to Emily with acompassionate look, "and you're pale and troubled, gal; so come, come,let's in; but stop, they shan't keep that ar' thing round your jaws nolonger;" and Hetty removed the bandage from Emily's mouth.
"Oh, Hetty, good Hetty," cried Emily, in an entreating tone, as soonas she could speak, "Oh, good Hetty, where am I, and why was I broughthither? Oh, speak, speak, and tell me, good Hetty!"
"Thar', thar', jest stop now, and don't go to calling me good Hetty,'cause I arn't no such a thing. I haint did nothin' good for more'nsixteen year, so don't call me good! But come, gal, come, let's in;" andtaking Emily by the hand, she led the way into the hovel-cave justmentioned, without giving her a word of explanation.
It was a gloomy place—part natural, part artificial— inone of the wildest and most dismal spots to be found on the mountainslining the banks of the Osage. It had evidently but just been constructedor refitted, for the earth within—the only floor it couldboast—was soft and fresh, as though lately placed there by thespade. The roof was formed of a large projecting rock, partly embedded inthe mountain, and the sides and front of stones, brush and earth throwncompactly together. It could boast a rude door, which was, with theexception of two loop holes, the only place to admit light and air.Within was a rough table, whereon lay a tinder box and candle—oneor two rough benches made of logs—and a rude pen at one end, filledwith straw, which was to answer the purpose of a bed. Such was theapartment into which Hetty and Emily now entered—the latter withfeelings of horror and disgust.
"Oh, Hetty," exclaimed Emily, as she glanced around, "I beseech youtell me what this means, and why I have been stolen from home and broughthither!"
"'Pon my soul, lady," answered Hetty, "I don't know no more'n you do!We poor womens has to obey orders sometimes without asking questions; andall I knows is, that I've got to tend 'pon ye till he comes."
"Who comes?" cried Emily.
"Why that ar' young man as had you stolen."
"Was it John Webber?" asked Emily, breathlessly.
"Why ye see I arn't to mention names, 'cause its agin orders. Youmight guess worse, though, I reckon."
"Oh Heaven, 'tis he!" exclaimed Emily, clasping her hands. "I feared,I feared 'twas so!— Base, base man, he designs to work my ruin! OhGod, Father of the innocent and defenceless, I pray thee protect me inthis trying hour, and deliver me from the hands of those who would do mewrong!"
"I don't think as how he means to hurt you, lady," said Hetty; "though'twixt us I think he's a bad man."
"If he did not wish to do me wrong, why did he tear me away from thoseI love, and bear me beyond the reach of friends?" asked Emily.
"Well, I can't answer ye," replied Hetty; "and besides, I've brokeorders in what I've done already— so you musn't ask me no morequestions, gal, 'cause I'll have to refuse to speak to ye!"
"Heaven help me!" groaned Emily; and casting herself upon one of thebenches, she bowed her face in her hands and wept bitterly.
"I hate to see ye cry, lady," said Hetty, in a softened tone; "I doindeed!" and as she gazed upon Emily, her brown, ugly, weather-beatenfeatures assumed an expression of tender compassion. "Give me your hand,gal! I sometimes tell fortins."
Emily mechanically obeyed, and Hetty, after looking on the palm of ita moment, continued:— "Thar's trouble here, gal, and no mistake. Isee the lines is crossed and cut up badly; but thar's one, the line oflife, as runs out on't smoothly— so don't be afeard, cause it'llall turn out right in the end, depend on't!"
"But when is he to come?" enquired Emily, not heeding the last remarksof Hetty.
"Thar', I shan't answer ye no more!" returned Hetty, who felt offendedthat her fortune telling powers had been thus slighted. "I'll not answerye agin, so don't speak to me!" and true to her word, from that momentEmily could get nothing out of her. Left to herself and her own gloomyreflections—apprehending something terrible to come—withEmily, the day, as might be conjectured, wore wearily away. And what wasto happen? What was to be her fate—away from home and friends, andno voice to whisper in her ear a single word of consolation and hope? AndJohn—a man she believed capable of any act howeverdevilish—what was his design upon her? She remembered his dark,mysterious words of threatening, and shuddered. Oh! why had she not madethem known, and been saved this terrible result? And Edward, what must behis feelings to find her gone so suddenly, and no trace left whereby hecould glean an inkling of her fate? And her guardian too, how must hefeel?—and Rufus, whose prophetic words were sounding like adeath-knell in her ear? She might in truth never see him again on earth.Alas—alas—poor girl! as one by one such thoughts as thesecame rushing through her brain, she felt her head throb and ache, anddeemed but little more would drive her mad. Thus passed one of thelongest days of her life.
Towards night Hetty placed some refreshments on the table, which shehad found in a basket; but Emily refused to eat, and early retired to herrude bed, only to pass a horrible night of feverish anxiety, and todream, whenever she slept, strange fantastic dreams, that awoke her witha shuddering start. The next morning she arose with red, swollen eyes,and a pale, sickly look. She endeavored to eat a little to supportnature, for she felt herself growing weak, but her stomach refused food;and faint, and exhausted, she retired again to her pallet of straw. Fromtime to time Hetty glanced at her with an uneasy, anxious look, but stillsaid nothing. As the day wore on, Emily began to feel more and more thehorrors of her situation—her brain was pressed to bewilderment.What was to be her fate? This silent suspense wasterrible—terrible! It was taking away her reason!—and shefelt that any fate, even death itself, would be preferable to thisbrain-wrought torture. Noon came, but brought no relief; and as theafternoon waned away, Emily felt she was growing mad. At length shestarted up and listened. She fancied she heard a distant footfall. A fewmoments of anxiety confirmed it, and she could hear distinctly the trampof a horse. Then it paused, and Emily's heart beat fast. Presently sheheard a rustling of the bushes. The sound came nearer and nearer.—It was a joyful sound, let what would follow. It was a relief from thatdull, death-like weariness of suspense. Nearer and nearer it came, tillat length the tall, dark figure of John Webber filled the entrance. Emilysunk back upon her pallet with strange, deep feelings. It was the one shewished, yet dreaded to see. He might relieve her from suspense, only toplunge her into more fearful reality. Without ceremony, without evennoticing Hetty, John strode directly towards Emily, and when within a fewfeet of her paused.— As he caught a full view of her features,there was a slight start of surprise apparent in his own. He couldscarcely credit so great a change, in so short a time.
"Well, Emily, and so we meet here!" were the first words he uttered,in a tone somewhat stern.
"Oh, John," said Emily, casting upon him a look of imploring anguish,that would have moved to tears of pity any heart less hard thanhis:— "Oh, John, how could you be so cruel—to take me, whohave been reared in your father's family, taught to look upon you as abrother, and treat you at all times as a friend—how could you takeme away from home, and all I love, by the hands of ruffians, and bring meto this wild, uninhabited region? Oh, what have I ever done, that Ishould receive such treatment at your hands?"
"Refused me!" replied John, contracting his brows.
"Refused you, because I did not, could not love you," returned Emily,"and because I would not perjure myself before God and man, by acceptingyour hand, and swearing to love and cherish you. But is this to excuseyou before high Heaven for an act so base?"
"I seek no excuse for my acts!" answered John, smiling with one of hisdevilish smiles. "Rail on, Emily—rail on!—but when you havedone, please inform me why you think you were brought hither by mycommands!" and he turned his dark eye upon Hetty, who trembled and grewpale.
"I myself heard you giving directions, at the place where my captorsfirst paused," replied Emily, noticing his glance and the agitation ofHetty. "Blame her not for this—for if your commands to her weresilence, I can answer that you have been strictly obeyed. Since yesterdaymorning, not three words has she spoken; and to all my entreaties to thecontrary has turned a deaf ear."
"'Tis well," said John, "that she has not forgotten her duty. And soit seems you recognised my voice. Well, since you know all, perhaps 'tisbetter. I will not disguise that it is by my will and acts you are here.I saw you when you departed with that fellow Merton, and I judged by thecourse you took where you might be found. I knew, too, where were somebold spirits, who would not fail to obey my commands, even were thosecommands to murder; and I immediately informed them of your whereabouts,and what they must perform for me. Their task has been well executed, foryou are here in my power.— What you are here for, I presume youknow; but lest you should feign ignorance, I will inform you. You willremember an interview we had a short time since, during which I offered,and you refused my hand. I then swore you should be mine, and you arehere to fulfil that oath. The matter you perceive is simple, and easilyunderstood."
"But, John, I told you then I could not love you!"
"And I told you then, Emily, it mattered not.Love—pshaw!—what is it? A mere fancy of a brain disordered,or intoxicated—whichever you like--by the silly romance of youth,ere the mind has fully settled upon the realities of life. A strangesomething that afflicts some people in the head, as the nightmare doesothers in the body. Thank Heaven, I was never troubled with eithercomplaint!"
"Even were I to set love aside, I could not be yours!" rejoinedEmily.
"Wherefore?"
"My hand is pledged to another."
"Ha! is it so? Well, then, you must break that pledge."
"But surely, John, there must be some pity in your heart! Oh, donot--do not drive me to hate one I have ever been taught to look upon asa brother! Oh, I beg of you, release me—return me to my home, and Iwill bless you! I know you are a child of passion, and one who in momentsof excitement would be likely to err; but oh! bring calm reflection toyour aid, and retrieve ere too late the wrong you have done me! Do this,John, do this, and you shall never have cause to repent it! I will do allin my power to make you happy; and I solemnly swear to you, from my lipsshall never pass an accusation or reproach! I will strictly conceal, as Ihave concealed your threat, that aught of anything but kind regards everpassed between us. Oh, will you not do this, and make me happy, andothers, and yourself happy also?"
"On one condition, Emily, I will release you."
"Name it!" cried Emily, breathlessly.
"That you will swear to be mine at the altar."
"Oh, you know I cannot do this, John, so wherefore urge me?"
"I know youmust do this, or worse!" returned John, with a darklook.
"No, no, no!" cried Emily; "you cannot, cannot be so cruel, John!"
"I see you do notknow me!" said John, with another devilishsmile.
"But what motive can induce you to destroy the happiness of a poor,nameless, I might add, homeless girl, who never did you wrong? No, no!you cannot—I will believe you cannot be so cruel!"
"I see you do not know me!" repeated John; "no—nor even knowyourself. You say you are a nameless girl—but therein you err.Listen! Six months ago, when you came on from New York, I was struck withyour appearance; and thinking much on you, your kindness to me in daysgone by, and your affability then, I felt for you what some enthusiasticyouth would probably term love; but which I, in a more matter of factway, simply termed a fancy, or an attachment. Thinking much on this, Ifinally resolved you should be mine at a no distant day. A resolve withme is but the precursor of a result— as I do not like to break one,for fear of setting myself a bad example. Well, to cut matters short, Isaw you a few days since—alone—told you of my intention, andyou refused me. That, even that of itself, Emily, had been enough totempt me to almost any extreme, rather than fail in my design—butto that was shortly added another and more important inducement. You ofcourse remember the conversation in my father's house on the evening ofthat day. You will remember, too, it was then suggested that the Jewmight have in his possession proofs of your parentage. The suggestionseemed to me a good one, as I had other reasons for thinking the same.Well, on that same night—while you were probably sleeping anddreaming of love, or some other foolish thing--I saw the Jew and obtainedthose proofs."
"Ah, then he had proofs!" cried Emily, suddenly, a gleam of joypassing over her pale, careworn features.
"Ay, he had proofs," answered John, "which proofs are now in mypossession, and I trust are sufficient to establish you an heiress ofnoble birth."
"O joy—joy!" exclaimed Emily, with a radiant smile upon hercountenance. "At least then I am not of mean parentage. O, have you thepapers with you?"
"They are here;" and John placed his hand upon his breast.
"O, let me behold them, and learn who I am!"
"On the one condition you shall have the full benefit ofthem—without complying with that, you shall never see them. It isnow in your power to choose, wealth and a name, or poverty and disgrace.If you accept my hand, you shall be rich—refuse, and you shall seeof what deeds I am capable! I do not ask your decision now— youshall have a few hours to deliberate. I have business which calls meaway; but ere to-morrow's dawn I shall be here again, and then you mustdecide! Ponder well upon it, girl, and do not force me to extremes!Remember you are here, in my power, and beyond the reach of assistance.If you decide to accept my hand, all shall be well; but if you persist inyour obstinacy, then know, girl"--and his dark eyes fastened upon hergleamed strangely—"then know, girl, thereis a way to makeeven one as proud and high-born as you,glad to accept the handeven of a man as base and low-born as I. I pray you drive me not toextremes! Mine youmust be, by fair means or foul!"
"Oh, God!" groaned Emily, burying her face in her hands, while a coldshudder passed over her.
"Remember your decision!" and John turned upon his heel to depart. Ashe did so, his eye fell upon Hetty, and with a start he advanced rapidlyto her, caught her by the wrist, while she trembled and grew white withfear.
"You have heard what you should not!" he said, in a low, hurried tone,his eyes glaring upon her with an awful expression. "My secret is in yourpossession. Secrets of desperate men are sometimes dangerous.Beware—beware! Breathe but a word, be it never so light, of whatyou have here seen and heard, or shall see and hear henceforth, and thisbright steel (partly drawing a dagger) shall revel in your heart's blood!Remember— remember!" and with this he strode to the door anddisappeared.
For some moments Hetty remained in the position he had left her, paleand trembling; and then proceeding to the door herself, she gazed downthe hill, and saw him mount his horse and ride away, with feelings thatboded him no good. When fully assured he was gone, she glanced cautiouslyaround,—as if to be certain no person was lurking about thepremises—and then closing the door, with a trembling step shehurriedly returned to Emily, whom she found sobbing bitterly.
"Lady," said she, touching her on the arm, casting upon her a wildglance, and speaking in a quick, fearful tone, scarcely above her breath:"Lady, we're in danger, both on us!"
Emily looked up with a start.
"We're in danger, gal," repeated Hetty; "for 'mong all the villainsI've ever known, I've never seed the like of him as has just leftus!"
"We are indeed in danger!" replied Emily, earnestly, grasping Hetty bythe hand. "There is no dark deed of which John Webber, to gain his ends,is incapable."
"I know it, I know it, gal!" returned Hetty, quickly. "I've watchedhim while he were a talkin' to you; I've heard it all—all he'ssaid, and your sweet replies, that moved me, hard as I am, totears—and I know his heart's a rock. Lady, for more'n sixteen yearI've been mixed with bad men. My husband was a robber himself, and gotshot in his business. I've seen men robbed and murdered without crying abit; but looking on you, somehow's made me a child agin, and made methink on my innocent days—for once, gal, I were as innocent as yoube. Oh, lady, believe me, I pities you!"
"Oh then, dear, kind Hetty, assist me to escape!" rejoined Emily,springing from her pallet— where during her interview with John shehad remained—and kneeling at the other's feet. "Oh, assist me toescape, and you shall be rewarded— richly rewarded! You will by sodoing save me from a fate worse than death itself; and the good God, whosees all things, will reward you for it!"
"My will's good enough, gal, but what can I do? You're a great manymiles from home, and you couldn't never reach thar' without beingdiscovered, and then my life wouldn't be worth a button."
"Oh, God! and is it so?" cried Emily, hiding her face in herhands.
"Come, come, lady, don't cry now, don't— cause it makes me feelbad. Rise, gal, rise! It's I that ought to be kneeling to you, that is sogood and pure. Rise, gal, and I promise you all as can be done I'll do,though it costs me my life. Thar's only one way to save you, gal, andthat may fail."
"Ha! one way!" cried Emily, starting to her feet. "Oneway!—well, well!—speak, speak!"
"It's dangerous, gal—pre'aps it 'll fail—but it's the onlyone as I thinks on now."
"Well, well—speak!—what is it?"
"Did ye ever here gal"—and Hetty glanced cautiously around, asif fearful of listeners—"did ye ever hear o' Ronald Bonardi, thegreat bandit cap'en?"
"I have!" replied Emily, with a shudder.
"He lives in this ere quarter."
"Lives in this quarter!" repeated Emily, in astonishment. "What meanyou, Hetty? Surely, Bonardi and his band are not in this country now! Youmean hedid live here?"
"Hush, gal, hush—not so loud!" said Hetty, trembling with fearat the course she was taking. "If we're heerd, it's all up with me. Thegreat cap'en does live here, and it's to him I'll have to go to git yourescued."
"Ha!" exclaimed Emily, with a start. "Hetty, you must be insane!Rescue me by appealing to that terrible man?"
"It's the only way," returned Hetty. "It's your only chance of escape,gal; besides, he aint so terrible towards women; cause I knows him, andknows as how he's made a law too, for I've hearn 'em talk about it, asmakes it death for any of his band to touch womens. It was he that—but 'll you swear to keep it secret, and all I've said?"
"Most solemnly!" replied Emily.
"It was he then, gal, that—" the conclusion of the sentence waswhispered in Emily's ear.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Emily, pausing thoughtfully. "This isstrange—most strange! But why do you think he will interfere inthis instance?"
"To punish them as has broke his law."
"Ha! then my captors were of his band?"
"Yes, and him as holds you!"
"How! what mean you?"
"Hist! John Webber."
"Great Heaven!" cried Emily, throwing up her hands, starting back, andgazing upon Hetty in astonishment. "Can this be true! John Webber abandit?"
"It's true, lady—most true," said Hetty; "though if 'twas knownas how I told, it 'nd cost me my life!"
"Fear not, Hetty; you will find your confidence not misplaced; but nowhow do you intend to proceed?"
"Why's, I said, it's dangerous business," answered Hetty, "and pre'aps'll cost me my life; but for your sweet sake I'll risk it; and if I die,I'll at least have the intention of one good deed to balance agin mywicked acts. I'll hunt out the cave where the great cap'en lives, for Iknows it's somewhere in this ere quarter, and if I can only jest find it,and see him, then all's safe. But pre'aps John 'll come back, and missme, and then hunt me out and murder me. Pre'aps I'll not be able to findit, and git lost, and git torn to death by wild beasts. Thar's a greatdeal o' danger about it, lady—but for your sweet sake I'll risk it;and if I don't never come back, and you don't never hear nothin' more o'Hetty Brogan, and you happen to 'scape some other way, you'll sometimesthink on her, wont you, lady?"
"Indeed, indeed I will!" cried Emily, throwing her arms around Hetty,and bursting into tears. "Indeed I will, Hetty. God bless you! Whateveryour errors may have been, you have a kind heart, and God will forgiveyou! I cannot but love you, although you have been my jailor; and if weboth escape, you shall evermore find a true friend in Emily Nevance!"
"Thar', thar'," said Hetty, wiping her eyes; "don't say no more,don't, 'cause I can't stand so much goodness! I'll go—I'llgo—for it'll be sweet to die for ye anyhow. Keep up your sperets,gal, 'cause I'm in a good cause, and think I'll succeed. Thar', goodbye!" and Hetty turned away.
"Good bye, and may God protect you!" said Emily, fervently; and asHetty disappeared, she bent her knees in a prayer of supplication to Himwho holds the destinies of the weakest and the most mighty in hishands.
THE BANDIT AND HIS WIFE—THE MEETING OF THE BANDITTI—THETRIAL—THE SENTENCE—THE EXECUTION— THE SECRETDESIGN—THE EXTRA SIGNAL.
On the same day of the events immediately preceding, and at the hourof twilight, Ronald Bonardi was seated by the richly carved table in thegorgeous apartment known as the Chieftain's Chamber. His head wasuncovered, and his long, black, curling hair, thrown back from his high,broad, pale forehead, in rough disorder, seemed indicative of a minddisturbed and ill at ease. This was signally apparent in his features.His brows were knit together, and there was a combination of the sad andsullen in his eyes, as though by one thing he was grieved, and by anotherroused to a severe, unshaken determination, the terminus of which wouldbe far from pleasant. There was great severity also exhibited around hismouth, the lips of which were compressed and drawn slightly apart,leaving visible a small portion of his front teeth. He was seated, as wehave said, by the table, and his eyes were resting with the expression wehave described, upon some two or three letters which were lying openthereon. At a little distance in front, on a sofa, sat his wife, thebeautiful Inez, her large dark eyes fastened tenderly upon him, with alook of sorrow, while the smile we have previously described around hermouth, was mournful. Her features were pale, exhibiting tokens of muchanxiety, and one would easily be led to fancy she had been weeping.Behind Inez stood the slave Cyntha, gazing also upon the bandit captain,with an expression little less sad than that of her mistress.
For some five minutes Bonardi sat in the same position, during whichtime not a muscle of his features changed, as though made fast by thespell of some deep revery, while the other two, immoveable as himself,gazed on in silence. At length he started, and with a deep drawn sighrelaxed his rigidity of expression, and his eyes wandered to those ofInez with a softer glance. No sooner did Inez notice the change, thanwith an airy bound she sprang forward, threw her soft arms around hisneck, buried her head upon his shoulder, while her dark curls mingledplayfully with his.
"My Inez, my own dear Inez," said Ronald, in a low, tender voice, farsweeter to her ear than the softest notes of music, "my own dear Inez,you at least are true!" As he spoke, he threw one arm around her waist,drew her fondly to him, and, as she turned her eyes towards him, nowmoist with tears, pressed a kiss of love upon her rosy lips. "Yes, my owndear Inez, you at least are true!"
"True, Ronald," murmured Inez, "ay, true, true, forever, ever true!"and she bowed her head upon his breast and wept. "But why do you saythus, dear Ronald, and why do you look so grieved and angered to-day?"enquired she at length, looking up with a sigh. "Are not all true, dearRonald?"
"No, dearest," replied he, compressing his lips, "all are not true: Iwould to Heaven they were! But they at least shall findme true towhat I have sworn."
"There is trouble then, dear Ronald, and danger perhaps," said Inez,quickly.
"There is trouble, Inez, much trouble; but I apprehend no danger asyet. I have a few treacherous spirits to deal with, and then I trust allwill be well. My letters from abroad bring me bad news. Three of my bestmen, whom I sent forth as spies, are dead, through their own imprudence.One shot in a street fight in Cincinnati; one killed in a duel in NewOrleans; and the third, in New York, for shooting a man on a slightprovocation, has been tried and executed. This is sad news to receive byone post, for they were all tried men and true. Each had in hispossession private papers of great moment, from two of whom they wererecovered by their comrades, immediately after their death; but withregard to the third, the one executed in New York, it has not turned outso well—his papers having been seized upon by the authorities. Ihave some fears how it may terminate; for in those so lost, was a secretplan of extending our band in that quarter; in fact, of establishing aleague, the head quarters of which should be here, throughout differentsections of the United States. However, the secret correspondence waswritten in an invisible ink, which will only show when the paper isheated, while in ordinary ink was written something entirely foreign tothe subject. I do not think it probable they will warm thepapers—if not, all is safe; and even should they do so, I fancy thecontents, by reason of the characters introduced, will prevent them frommaking any thing of them that will lead to our detection: still I wouldthey had them not. In the neighborhood of Cincinnati we have alreadyfound a few bold hearts who are ready and willing to join us. But enoughof this, dear Inez, for it is matter that scarcely concerns, and ofcourse cannot interest you."
"Any thing that concerns or interests you, dear Ronald, I alwayslisten to with delight," said Inez, sweetly.
"Ah, what would life be without you, sweet one;" and again Ronald,bending down, pressed his lips to hers. "But, dear Inez, I must no longerhere, for I have deep matters on my hands. To-night our band meets on aspecial purpose, and already I hear them assembling in the Outer Cave.There, there, dear Inez, I must go;" and pressing his lips again to hers,he arose and gathered up the letters on the table. "Ho! Cyntha,"continued he, turning to the slave, "bring wine!" and as the latterobeyed, he took the cup from her hand and drained it. "Again!" he added,reaching it forth. Again it was filled, and again he emptied it. "Oncemore, Cyntha," said he, with a wild light in his eyes; "once more!" Theslave obeyed, and the third cup was drained.
"Oh, Ronald, dear Ronald, what means this?" cried Inez, who had beengazing upon him with a look of astonishment. "You are not yourself, dearRonald! Something terrible is going to take place! You, who seldom tasteliquor, have drank three cups, and there is an awful look in your eye.Oh, dear Ronald, tell me, tell me what is about to happen!" and she threwher arms around, as though to detain him.
"Nay," said he, gently disengaging himself, "there are things, dearInez, of which one like you should know nothing. Question not, butremember you are a bandit's wife!"
"But one who loves him to whom she pledged her hand no less for that,"returned Inez, sweetly. "I fear you are about to encounter danger, dearRonald, and if — and if —"
"Nay, nay," interrupted he, "fear not. I apprehend no danger. Buthark! there is the signal for me. I must be detained no longer;" andturning hastily away, without further ceremony, he drew aside the crimsoncurtains concealing the passage, and entered the Outer Cave, while Inez,with a sad expression, gazed long upon the spot where she had seen himdisappear.
As Ronald had said, a special meeting of the band had been called forthis evening, and already a large number had assembled when he appearedamong them, with an expression on his features but few had ever seenbefore. With a quick, firm step he mounted the stand, where thelieutenant already was before him.
"Has the roll been called?" demanded he of the latter.
"It has not, captain," answered Piketon. "The time set for the meetinghas not yet expired."
"You may as well call it, however, for I see most of our band arehere; and should the others arrive in due time, they shall be exemptedfrom disobedience."
As the lieutenant proceeded to obey his command, Bonardi stepped downand closed the door of the Inner Cave. It was a massive stone, some teninches in thickness, and swung on heavy iron hinges. Many an eye of thatreckless band of outlaws, was fastened with an enquiring look upon theirleader as he did this, for it was a something done only on rareoccasions, and when matters were of a too private nature for the ears ofwomen.
"Give me the roll!" said Bonardi, as the lieutenant concluded thecall; and taking it in his hand, his eye ran over it hastily, but with akeen, sure glance. "They are all here," he continued in a low tone toPiketon, "that I expected, with the exception of Saxton, Curdish andNiles. You will proceed, as soon as circumstances will admit, to find andorder them under arrest, to meet here; and, mark you! put spies uponthem, that they may not escape. I have my doubts of their fidelity; butnot a word of this to any one—you understand?"
Piketon bowed.
"Gentlemen," said Bonardi, in a louder tone, addressing theassemblage, "you are here met for a special purpose, as of course you areaware, being notified out of your regular time. For your promptness inresponding to the call, I thank you! and by it feel assured that though Imay governsome traitors, most of my band are true. I perceivesurprise on your countenances, by which I know that most of you do notunderstand me. I shall not detain you with any long explanation, butrather let actions speak. In short, gentlemen, you are here met towitness the trial of a traitor!"
At the last words, a sudden start was visible with most of the partypresent, while with some few it was accompanied with a slightpaleness.— Bonardi noticed all, with a quick, searching glance, andturning to Piketon, added: "Bring up the prisoner."
Raising a trap door at the far end of the platform— which by theway was some fifteen feet in length—Piketon immediatelydisappeared, while every eye was bent in that direction, with a look ofanxious wonder, to learn who was the one suspected of a crime in theireyes so degrading, and which, if followed by conviction, must end in amanner the most tragical. They were not long kept in suspense, forPiketon shortly reappeared; and low curses, deep imprecations, horribleoaths, and fierce, angry gestures succeeded, as they recognised in hiscompanion, the ugly, quivering, coward'y features, and the stooped, aged,trembling form of David the Jew. As Piketon led him forward in front ofthe stand, his small black eyes turned with a rapid, sickly glance fromone to the other of the party; but he saw nothing, save such dark, stern,angry looks, as made his very heart shrink within him.
"Oh, good shentlemens —"
"Silence, Jew!" interrupted Bonardi, in a voice of thunder. "You arehere to speak only when called upon!"
"Oh, good Mistoor Captains —"
"Silence, I say!" cried Bonardi, with an angry gesture. "Thisinsolence in the face of my commands is unbearable! Piketon, place apistol to his head; and if he speak again ere spoken to, send a bulletthrough his brain!" Piketon instantly obeyed, and the Jew, knowing thecommand would be promptly executed to the letter, stood mute andtrembling.
"You remember, gentlemen," said Ronald, "that when we met here last,one of our party, Curdish—who I am sorry to say is nowabsent— insinuated in rather strong terms that the Jew intended tobetray us—or to that effect—but at the same time was notwilling to swear to it.— You will also recollect that I ordered himunder arrest, and told you the matter should be looked to. I questionedhim in private, and learned enough to be satisfied that for the presentour safety might depend upon having the Jew closely watched. However, asI wished also to give the latter a fair opportunity to forego any wickeddesign he might have in contemplation, and to talk with him on some othermatters, I ordered him under arrest likewise. During my examination ofhim, I became more than ever convinced that he was meditating treachery;and my last words to him were, `go Jew, but beware, for a sleepless eyewill be upon you!' He made no reply, but there was in his countenance alook of savage cunning, which seemed to say, `I shall outwit and betrayyou.' So I interpreted it; and as soon as he was gone, I called one of mysentinels—a man in whom I had implicit confidence, both as to beingtrusted, and possessing sufficient cunning to overreach theJew—related the whole matter, bade him dog his steps, and takewhatever measures he might see proper to learn if my suspicious werecorrect; and, if so, so soon as he could gather proof sufficient, tobring him hither—which latter you perceive, gentlemen, has beendone. Now for the proof. Hendrick, you will stand forth, so as toconfront the prisoner!"
At the word, a tall, thin faced, intellectual, cunning looking man,with grey eyes, came forward to the stand.
"I suppose you are aware, Hendrick," continued the captain, addressinghim, "of the penalty of giving false evidence?"
"I am!" replied Hendrick, calmly.
"Enough! Now let us hear your testimony in regard to David."
"Shall I relate everything that occurred, captain?"
"No, it is unnecessary for us to waste time.— Relate only thatwhich bears directly on his treasonable design."
"Well, then," began Hendrick, "after following the Jew through all hiscrooks and turns, until he reached his place of abode, on the banks ofthe Mississippi, which he did about dusk on the third day from hisleaving here—having traveled the whole distance on foot—Idetermined, if possible, to secrete myself within his hovel, where Ijudged I should be the better able to learn of his private intentions.Fortunately his own imprudence favored me in the first, as his tongueafterwards did in the last. By great adroitness I managed to keep himwithin sight the whole distance, and remain myself unseen. As I havesaid, he reached his hovel about dusk of the third day; and the shadowsof the coming night favoring me, I was enabled to be close upon him whenhe entered.
"To my surprise he did not close and bolt his door immediately, andavailing myself of this, a moment or two after, I noiselessly followedhim across the threshold, and found him engaged with flint and steel instriking a light. The flash from the steel enabled me to perceive atable, which I succeeded in reaching, and concealing myself under,without alarming him. After having lit a candle, he proceeded to bolt hisdoor, and then, as if he felt himself entirely free from danger, let offa volley of curses and all manner of imprecations on the banditti, itscaptain especially, which he finished by swearing to have revenge on thewhole party. After this, for a time, he became more quiet, and proceedingto a kind of closet, regaled himself with food. This done, he seatedhimself by the table, underneath which I was lying, and for some twohours was silent. At length he began again, by uttering the word revenge,and swearing he would have it on those who had foiled him in a matterconcerning some girl; that to get this revenge, he would, on thefollowing day, proceed to St. Louis, betray the band, and secure thereward offered for our captain's head."
As Hendrick said this, several of the party present, unable longer tosmother their wrath, burst into a yell of rage, with cries of,"Death— death! Away with him! Enough proof! Wretch!Villian!"—while knives and pistols flashed in the light of thetorches, and some few moved forward as if to seize the Jew, who, ghastlyand breathless, was nearly fainting with terror.
"Hold!" exclaimed Bonardi, waiving his hand with dignity. "Justiceshall be done, gentlemen, fear not." In an instant that rough sea ofpassion was calm as a still lake, when Ronald again added, "Go on,Hendrick, but be brief as possible."
"Railing in this manner for awhile," resumed Hendrick, "he finallytouched upon his money, some papers in his possession, and how best hemight dispose of the latter."
"Yes, papers!" said Bonardi, quickly, interrupting the speaker. "Yes,well, what of the papers?"
"Why, as I did not understand the allusion," answered Hendrick, "Ipaid but little regard to his remarks; though I remember his mutteringsomething about disposing of them to some one who loved the girl,probably meaning the same one he had alluded to before."
"The same, doubtless, but continue."
"After going on in this manner sometime, he proceeded to the closet,and brought forth a bag and some papers. The bag contained money, as Icould tell by hearing him empty it on the table; and for a full hour heamused himself, as nigh as I could judge, in counting and handling it,and some half hour more in examining the papers, when he returned them tothe closet. While there, I heard him mutter something about killing someone; then he came for the light, and seemed much agitated. Soon after hewent back, the light disappeared, and curiosity prompting me, I creptforth to learn what had become of him. I entered the closet carefully,and, to my surprise, found a trap-door raised, leading down into a vault,from which issued a stench so disagreeable, that I immediately retired,but not until I had heard some words passed with one below, whom the Jew,as I judged, had gone down to murder."
"Indeed!" remarked Ronald, with interest, "here is mystery, truly. Iwould I had known of this before. Speak, Jew, who had you there?" But theJew, in his fright and astonishment at hearing all these things, which hebelieved known only to himself, so correctly narrated, had lost all powerof speech, and Ronald nodded to Hendrick to proceed.
"How it terminated below, I do not know," continued the witness; "butjust at this moment I was astonished by hearing the approach of a horse,and, following immediately, a knocking on the door, with a demand foradmittance, and I crept under the table, wondering what I was to beholdnext. The Jew shortly appeared, evidently much alarmed, for he enquiredin a trembling voice who was there. The answer was in our phrase, `Elelio.' "
"Ha!" exclaimed Bonardi: "Well?"
"The Jew, out of fear, then opened the door, when a tall figure walkedin, and, after some prevar ication, told him (the Jew) that he had papersconcerning a young girl, for which he (the stranger) had come expressly.This the Jew stoutly denied, when the stranger took another method, andfrightened him into owning the truth. The result was that the Jew broughtforward the papers, and gave them to the other, who immediatelydeparted."
"And do you know that stranger?" asked Ronald.
"I do not, for his face was concealed by a mask."
"That he is one of our band, is evident from his reply to the Jew,"said Ronald. "See you in any person present a figure corresponding withhis?"
Hendrick glanced slowly around upon the assemblage, who were listeningwith breathless interest, until his eye fell upon John Webber, where itrested for a moment, while the latter grew deadly pale. Hendrick noticedthis, and replied:
"I see none, captain, thatbetter corresponds than the personof Webber."
"Ha! how is this, sir?" asked Ronald, quickly, fastening his eyeskeenly upon John, and marking the change in his countenance. "How isthis, sir?"
"I know nothing of it," replied John, firmly, immediately recoveringhimself.
"The voice tallies well," remarked Hendrick.
"Would you insinuate, sir!" began John, with a flashing eye, andfierce expression.
"Hold!" exclaimed Ronald, interrupting him; "this is no place toquarrel. You say you know nothing of it—so let it pass. If I findyou have deceived me, however,—beware, sir, beware! Hendrick, youwill proceed with your evidence concerning the Jew."
"After the stranger had departed," again resumed Hendrick, "the Jewseemed beside himself with rage; and instead of waiting for the morrow,as was his first intention, he swore he would instantly set off for St.Louis, betray the band, and at once seek security from the law. With thisintent he started, and with a very different one I followed. When he hadreached some half way, I touched him on the shoulder, and told him Iarrested him in the name of Ronald Bonardi. He trembled violently, andoffered me his bag of gold to let him go. I answered I was not to bebought, and brought him hither. Thus ends my testimony, which, accordingto our laws, I affirm before God and man is true, and stake my life uponthe oath!"
"You have done well, Hendrick," said Ronald, as the other concluded,"and deserve great praise, with a suitable reward."
"The praise is sufficient, noble captain," returned Hendrick. "Thereward I wish not. I have done but my duty."
"Nevertheless you shall not be forgotten. Promptly to reward, aspromptly to punish, shall henceforth be the justice motto of RonaldBonardi. Gentlemen, you have heard the testimony against the Jew. Ifthere is one or more among you, who doubts the evidence just given, orwho believes the Jew guiltless of the crime with which he ischarged—namely, intentional perjury, and treason against us as abody—he or they will now come forward and make known the same."
Silence reigned throughout the cave. Not a man moved.
"Jew," continued Bonardi, solemnly, with compressed lips, "before thisbody, in the hearts of each, you stand condemned as a traitor. When youjoined us, you took a solemn oath, which in your heart you have broken,as you would have broken by your deeds, had not our interferenceprevented. Your minutes are numbered. You are an old, grey-headed,grey-bearded man, and your soul is black with crimes, which, if notrepented of now, will go with you to another world. You present aspectacle at once pitiable and revolting; and base as you are, I cannotbut regret that it falls to my lot to fulfil the letter of our law, andmake you an example to others; but I have sworn to do my duty faithfully;and were you my own brother, my bosom friend, I would keep my oath.Although appearances were much against you when here before, I deemed itmy duty to warn you, so that if in reality you meditated treachery, youmight have a chance to repent of your base design in season. You heedednot my warning, and now with you rest the consequences. Your sentence isdeath! Have you any request to make ere the fatal moment? If so, speak!we listen."
"Oh, oh! mine Gott! mercys—mercys!" gasped the Jew, sinking uponhis knees.
"Coward!" cried Ronald, fiercely; "base, paltry coward!—you wereunworthyto belong to us! I'll hear no more! Piketon, you will put abandage around his eyes, and lead him forward. If he attempt to cry out,gag him!" But this latter injunction was unnecessary, for the Jew in hisfright had actually fainted.
Piketon instantly passed a kerchief around the Jew's eyes; and then,placing his hands under his armpits, raised and drew him forward, withhis feet trailing on the ground, to within a short distance of wherepaced the sentinel, while every eye followed the movement, and everyheart felt a pressure of awe upon it. As long as they had been a band, anexecution they had never yet witnessed.
"It only remains now," said Bonardi, in a deep, solemn voice, "for meto read the law, that I may not be accused hereafter of actingillegally;" and taking from a desk before him a roll of parchment, heopened it and read as follows:
"Sec. II, Art. X. If any member shall at any time be accused oftreasonable intentions, he shall be duly tried before the captain, andsuch members as the latter may deem advisable to be present, and if foundguilty of betraying the band, or even of an attempt to betray the same,he shall suffer death within an hour from his conviction, as providedunder the Black Law, in Article XV of Section I." Taking up another rollhe continued:
"Black Law, Sec. I, Art. XV. Any member sentenced to punishmentunder this law, shall be shot in the head, unto death, by the hand of thechief, and his body be cast forth in the open air, to be devoured by wildbeasts."
"And now, gentlemen," continued Bonardi, laying down the roll, "am Inot fully justified in all that I have done, and am about to do, inexecuting yonder traitor?"
"You are, you are!" cried a dozen voices.
"Enough!"
Drawing a pistol from his belt, Ronald descended from the stand, andwith a firm step, and compressed lips, walked forward to the Jew, whileeach member rose to his feet, to look on with an expression peculiar tohimself. And strange and varying were those expressions. Some frownedheavily; some smiled darkly; some looked pale, and shut their teeth hard;and some gazed on with seeming indifference. Bonardi himself seemedcomposed and calm, with a look of unshaken determination; but there was,notwithstanding, a slight paleness in his features, an unusualcompression of the lips, as though requiring an effort to keep them firm.As he approached the Jew, who was lying on the ground, the latterappeared suddenly to recover his senses, and with one hand raised himselfinto a sitting posture, while with the other he removed from his eyes thebandage, and with a horror stricken look glared round upon theassembly.
" 'Tis well, Jew!" said Ronald, as he paused by his side, while thecave was as silent as the chamber of death. "You would see once more thefaces of those you would have betrayed. 'Tis well, Jew, 'tis well! Lookwell on each, and bear the impression with you to eternity, for on earthyou will behold them no more. Brothers of you they were—who wouldhave risked life for you, many of them, if necessary—but they areyour brothers no more."
The Jew turned his old eyes upon the speaker, with a strange,bewildered expression. For a moment Ronald ceased, and then saidsolemnly:
"Justice waits. Your time, Jew, has come.— Farewell!" Raisinghis pistol as he spoke, with the last words came a sharp report—ashudder passed through the assembly—and the Jew, with a ghastlycontortion of visage, fell back without a groan.
His soul was with his God.
"So die all traitors!" spoke the voice of Ronald Bonardi, after amoment's pause, in a tone so deep and solemn almost sepulchral, that itthrilled the bosom of every one present. "Comrades," and he moved hiseyes slowly over each, in a most impressive manner, "comrades, whose turnamong you next? 'Tis the first blood upon my hands;" and he held themforth, and gazed sadly upon them; "whose blood is destined to cover thefoul stain? Be warned, be warned in time!" and turning away, he slowlyretraced his steps to the farther end of the cave, and again mounted thestand. "Bear the corpse without the cave until you depart," he continued,"when some of you will take it in a boat to the Osage, row a shortdistance up the stream, and cast it upon the bank, far above high watermark. So ends the career of the Jew."
As he spoke, four men laid hold of the body and bore it up the ladder.In a moment they returned, when Bonardi resumed:
"Here," he said, taking up a well filled bag, "is the money whichbelonged to the deceased.— This will be divided among you, when ourother business for the evening is closed. Piketon will make the division.By our law, I am entitled to one-tenth. Hendrick, besides your share, youwill accept mine."
"But, captain—"
"Nay, Hendrick, no remark: I would have it so. And now, comrades, Ihave something important to communicate. Listen! You will remember thatfor some time past we have held in contemplation an attack on a richplanter living in Tennessee. To speak candidly my own mind, I must saythe design never suited me; and in its place I have one to offer, which Itrust will meet your approbation. Some two or three days since, Ireceived a letter from one of my secret agents in New Orleans, whichinforms me that of late there has been a great run on the banks there forspecie; and that to supply the demand, they will be forced to borrow, fora time, from neighboring cities; and that he believed an order hadalready been sent to St. Louis for a large sum, which doubtless wouldshortly pass down on one of the steamers, and which, should we befortunate enough to capture, would in all probability make our fortunes.As soon as I had read this, I set to work to learn the truth of it; andas I am well known among the merchants and men of wealth in St. Louis, asa speculator in land, under a different cognomen, I was not long infinding it fully corroborated. By dint of perseverence, I have beenenabled to learn that a boat, which leaves within a few days, will carrythis money; of the amount I am yet ignorant, though without question thesum will be large. My plan is this: I will ascertain to a certainty theday of her leaving, and also the hour. I will learn, too, the speed ofthe boat, and calculate the distance, so that we may find a good point tostation ourselves, where the current hugs the western shore, and whereshe will pass about dark. In the meantime I will procure several skiffs,and have them floated down to the rendezvous. These must be manned, andlie concealed under cover of the bank until the given signal. As thesteamer heaves in sight, some two or three of our party must hail herfrom the bank, when she, under the impression that they wish to takepassage, will lay to and send out a boat. As the latter touches theshore, the oarsman must be seized, gagged and bound, quickly and quietly,while some three of our party will instantly leap into the boat and rowback. Instead of approaching the larger boat direct, they will cross herbows, and when on the other side, will seemingly get into a fight, anddischarge several pistols. This of course will attract the attention ofall on board the steamer, and be the signal for the concealed boats toshoot out and approach her on the larboard side—her head being upstream—which must be done with lightning speed, but without noise.These, however, will be commanded by Piketon and myself. The moment wecome along side, some of the boldest and most agile of our party willfollow me in leaping on board, where will be found three of our band, whohave come down from St. Louis, ready to show us where the money isstowed, and assist us in getting it into our boats. The money will befound in small casks, which can be easily handled, and, to succeed, mustbe handled expeditiously. It is not probable that we can remove it all;but in the confusion that will ensue, doubtless enough to enrich us. Ifwe are pressed hard, we must discharge some of our pistols, not with theintention of wounding, but merely to frighten, and thicken the confusion,while at the same time we will add the old cry, which I trust is not yetforgotten: `Yield to the attack of Ronald Bonardi! ' We must keep aplenty of undischarged pistols by us, however, to be used only in casesof extreme necessity, and then not to take life if it can be avoided. Assoon as we have accomplished our design, I will give the signal by ashrill whistle, when each man must spring for his boat, and row as forlife to the shore. We will then knock out the heads of the casks, emptythe money into bags, throw them across our saddles, (for our horses mustbe in waiting, close at hand) mount and away, in various directions, torendezvous here as soon as possible. Such is my plan."
As he concluded, the cave echoed with three tremendous cheers, and"Long live Ronald Bonardi," when he immediately responded:
"I am pleased, gentlemen, to know that my project finds with you somuch favor; but I will not disguise from you, what I cannot from myself,that my plan may fail; and at the best, will be attended with a greatdeal of danger, perhaps loss of life; and, furthermore, that it will inall probability rouse up the country against us, as was done heretofore.In the latter case, each must make his way out of it as quietly aspossible, and remain until the storm has blown over.— And now, aword or two more, and I have done. You will each and all of you holdyourselves in readiness for a moment's warning, with horses well fed andrested for a long journey. When you hear the signal of three blasts on abugle, be it night or day, you will mount and ride to the river. Therendezvous is the hut of the traitor Jew, where you will learn more. Andnow, so soon as Piketon has made a division of the money, you willquietly disperse to your several homes, and hold yourselves, as I saidbefore, prepared for any event. For your kind attention, I thank you!Adieu."
Descending from the stand, Bonardi opened the stone door and enteredthe Chieftain's Chamber, with a clouded brow and heavy heart; for he feltthere was blood upon his hands. An hour later, he was seated by thetable, on which rested his arms, with his head bowed upon them, whileInez, standing by his side, was playing upon her guitar, and singing atender strain. Suddenly he raised his head.
"Ha!" said he; "there is the signal for me again! What can it mean atthis hour?" and rising as he spoke, he entered the larger cave, where hefound the sentinel alone, the remainder of the party having departed.
"A woman awaits you in a boat without, captain," said the sentinel,bowing respectfully.— "She could not give the pass and countersign,and so I could not admit her."
"A woman!" exclaimed Ronald, in astonishment. "To see me—awoman!—what wants she here?" and with a quick step, he movedforward and mounted the ladder. In a few minutes he returned, and seemedmuch agitated.
"Inez," said he, entering the Inner Cave, "it is necessary for me tobe absent now. Ere morning I will return;" and without waiting a reply,he seized upon a brace of pistols lying on the ta ble and withdrew. "DidPiketon leave word where he should rest to-night?" asked he of thesentinel, as he again mounted the ladder.
"Ay, captain; he mentioned the Hollow."
" 'Tis well!" and Ronald disappeared.
THE CAPTIVE—THE TRAITOR—THE AWFUL DESIGN— THEARREST—THE SUSPICION AND CONFIRMATION— THE MURDER ANDESCAPE—THE MESSENGER— THE RESULT.
Never had Emily experienced such loneliness, such utter desolation, asshe did after the disappearance of Hetty, as recorded in a previouschapter. On her she fancied now hung her destiny, life or death. Wouldshe succeed? The very thought of a failure made her shudder with horror.She had felt lonely and desolate while Hetty was with her, but now shefelt doubly so. Then at least she was in the presence of a humanbeing—one of her own sex—but now she was alone,—alone,too, in a wild, mountainous region; not only far from friends, but, foraught she knew to the contrary, far from civilization, with a dark andawful cloud resting upon her mental sight, and weighing down her spirits.She threw herself upon her pallet and tried to be composed; but she onlyrolled to and fro with the more feverish anxiety. She tried to hope forthe best, and in her imagination draw bright pictures of the future; butdark, shadowy forms, like evil phantoms, would come between, and thesunny spots go out in gloom. Thus hour on hour went by— eachincreasing, rather than diminishing, her soul-torturinganxiety—while night crept gradually on, to add its horrors, untilEmily felt herself drawn to the very verge of despair. At last, some twohours later, she heard steps approaching; and then she could almost heartoo the beatings of her own heart, so wildly it palpitated. Were theysteps of friend or foe? A few moments served to decide; for the voice ofhim she feared-too soon heard—was of itself sufficient to announcethe worst. John Webber had entered.
"How is this, Hetty?" said he, pausing in the doorway: "Nolight!—what means it?"
"Hetty is not here," replied Emily, in a faltering voice; "but I amanxiously looking for her return."
"Ha! has she beenlong gone?" enquired John, as a suspicion ofthe cause of her absence flitted through his mind.
"She has been gone some minutes," answered Emily, without adding thewhole truth, that those minutes had already run into hours; but she knew,for Hetty's safety and her own, it was necessary to dissemblesomewhat—though she would not have been guilty of a directfalsehood, even to have prevented the worst.
"I will teach her better when she returns," said John, angrily,proceeding to the table and striking a light. "'Tis as well though,perhaps," he added, a few moments after, "for our conversation will notrequire the ears of a third. You remember, I presume, the conditionsimposed, when last I quitted you?"
"Too well I remember them," answered Emily, in a trembling voice.
"Well, I have come for my answer!"
"But give me more time, John, to deliberate!"
"Time! good heavens! how much time do you women require to answer asimple question?"
"But I have been so distracted since you left, that my mind couldsettle steadily upon nothing."
"Settle it now, then! You have only to decide whether you will be mineby your own free will or no. Mine I have said youmustbe!—but of course I prefer your free consent. Upon this point,Emily, I am determined; and to show you something of the strength of mydetermination, I now swear to you, that I would sacrifice every livingthing that should stand in my way—ay, even my soul'ssalvation—rather than be foiled in my purpose. Emily, I am adesperate man, and I beg of you, for your own sake, force me not toextremes!"
"I cannot answer you now, John," said Emily, anxious to prolong thetime as much as possible, in the hope of receiving assistance: "Give metill to-morrow."
"And to-morrow you will say, give me till to-morrow," returned John,"and so forth, and so on, until you by some means effect your escape. No,by heavens, girl, thisshall not be!—your answermustbe now!" and John grasped her by the arm, and gazed upon her with awicked look.
"Let go your hold, sir!" cried Emily, her indignation fully aroused atthis; and springing from a sitting posture to her feet, she threw off hisgrasp. "Shame on you!" continued she, with a flashing eye; "shame on you,for a villain and coward! Brave deeds these, truly, for a man of yourstrength, to attack an unprotected female! Go, get you hence, and repentof your acts! Go, go, for shame on you, go!"
"When you have done," hissed John, through his clenched teeth, hisface livid with passion, "when you have done, girl, let me know yourdecision!"
"You will have it, then!" replied Emily, firmly, fixing her eyeunquailingly upon his. "Then hear me! Ere I would wed you, I would suffermy limbs to be torn from me one by one! Rather than embrace you, I wouldgo into some old charnel house, and clasp to my bosom the loathsometenant of a half century! Sooner than endure your hateful presence, Iwould seek the wildest spot on these mountains, and make my bed withserpents! You are answered."
Astonishment and rage for a time kept John silent; and after amoment's pause, Emily went on.
"I have entreated you in vain to restore me to my friends and home.You have mocked me by your replies of cowardly threats. You have soughtto intimidate me; but know, sir, I have a spirit, when roused, asunbending as your own! Now hear me! Let me go in peace, and the pastshall be forgotten, and with this adventure your name shall never becoupled. Place but your hand upon me, with foul intent, and if I escape,I will expose, and bring you to that justice you deserve for yourcrimes!"
"Brave girl!" cried John, bursting into a wild, fiendish laugh, thatin spite of her, made Emily's blood run cold, and her heart seem toshrink within her. "You talk well, girl, well; but do you know"—andagain that awful smile lingered upon his features—"do you know, mypretty one, that I think you will never escape to put your threat inexecution. You think, then, that my threats were made to intimidate you?Ha, ha, ha!I said you did not know me! Let me see: You said ereyou would wed me, you would be torn limb from limb. Ha, ha,ha!—that was well said—very well. Again: Rather than embraceme, you would clasp to your innocent bosom some mouldy tenant of acharnel house—ha, ha, ha! Once more: Sooner than endure my hatefulpresence, you would make a bed among serpents. So, so—ha,ha!— all very good in theory; but I presume you were somewhatexcited when you spoke, and did not think of putting them in practice.And then your spirit, when roused, is as unbending as my own. Ha, ha, ha!Well, well, we shall see. If it prove so, girl, there will be raresport—rare sport. But why do you tremble so? Why do you look sopale? Is this the unbending spirit of the one who boasts so boldly aboutdying? I trust you will not falter now. I would not have you for theworld. Why this is not even a commeneement. Now, girl, you must know thatI care as little about life as yourself. Why should I seek to prolongexistence?—it will be death at last; and it is, besides, sweet todie to get revenge; and it will be doubly sweet to die in your sweetcompany, girl!"
"Great God!" gasped Emily, sinking with fright upon a bench, as,having listened to the words of John, she marked the awful light in hisdark, snake-like eyes. "What fearful utterances are these?"
"I was simply talking about dying," answered John; "and thinking howpleasantly we could die together. I regret, on your account, there is nocharnel house near, so that you could have the pleasure of hugging acorpse; but as to the snakes, I think you can be well accommodated inthese mountains!"
"For God-sake speak the worst! what do you mean?" shrieked Emily, whofelt the expressions of John were dethroning her reason.
"Why simply this," replied John. "You have decided to put me toextremes. Extremes with me go far—farther, perhaps, than with manyothers—for they are bounded only by death. I had you stolen andbrought hither, it is true; but no violence was offered you. All Irequired of you, to regain your liberty, was merely a pledge, to theeffect that you would be mine at the altar. This I am sure was honorable,though you saw proper to think otherwise. Well, I waited patiently foryour answer, and at length received it in the negative. In that answeryou decided the fates of both. It now remains for me to fulfil my oath;which was, you remember, that you should be mine; whereby I implicitlymeant you should be mine unto death. Were I to dishonor and leave youhere, you would escape and inform on me. Were I to murder you, doubtlessit would leak out, and I should, sooner or later, have to suffer theconsequence. Therefore, be it known to you, my dear girl, that as I haveresolved upon what the world would term your dishonor and death, I haveconcluded also to die with you; and as you think a nest of serpents anagreeable place of rest, compared to my hateful presence, why I haveconcluded to find one, and rest there with you, until death shall rid usof each other, or bind us more strongly together in another state."
Emily gasped for breath, and placed her hands before her eyes, as ifto shut out the horrid sight imagination had already conjured up.
"To show you I am in earnest," continued John, "my first act shall beone of justice to a certain rich English gentleman, now probably livingin splendor in England. These papers, dearest"—and John drew forththe roll he had received from the Jew—"these papers speak of youexpressly, tell who you are, who were your parents, and how you came tobe stolen away from England and brought to this country. They are veryinteresting documents to peruse, I assure you, and are signed by thegentleman who had the honor of conducting you over here, and leaving youat my father's, some fifteen years ago. They speak well of you, and seemto insinuate your birth is noble. Had you consented to marry me, I shouldhave taken great pleasure in reading them to you; but as matters nowstand, I do not like to waste the time; besides, as you and I are notlong for this world, it were better not to set our minds too much uponworldly things; therefore you will excuse me for putting such temptationsout of the way;" and as he concluded, John deliberately tore the papersinto a thousand pieces, and cast the fragments upon the ground.
"Oh God! John, wherefore this torture?" groaned Emily, in an agony ofmind almost insupportable. "Why not murder me at once— for death tothis is a thousand times preferable!"
"Do you think so? Well, come then and let us seek it!" andapproaching, John grasped her by the arm. "Let us forth, girl, ereHetty's return, into these wild woods; and if we are not devoured by wildbeasts ere morning, we will in company, on the morrow, seek out a reptilenest, and there die quietly together. Come, girl, come!" and quick asthought John raised her in his arms. Emily uttered one wild, thrillingscream, and fainted away. "Screams, girl, will avail you nothing here,"said John, with another fiendish laugh. As he spoke, he started, andEmily slid from his embrace to the ground, in a state of insensibility. Adeep voice sounded in his ear:
"Ho! villain and traitor!" and the next moment a heavy hand laid uponhis shoulder, sent him reeling to the farther side of the apartment. "So,sir, then you are caught in the act!"
John looked up in astonishment and rage, and saw before him thepowerful and commanding form of Ronald Bonardi. By his side stood thelieutenant, and between himself and the door, five more of the band, allpowerful men, all well armed, with pistols and hunting knives in theirhands. John ran his dark eye rapidly over the group, and for a momentseemed to waver—but his resolution was quickly taken. His firstimpulse was to shoot down Bonardi, and trust the rest to chance. A secondthought altered his purpose. Resistance now would be followed by instantdeath—duplicity might save him; and although but a few minutesbefore he had seemed so willing to die, yet now he felt differently; andhad it been necessary, would even have stooped to beg his life, were itonly to get revenge. As we have said, John's resolution was quicklytaken; and that resolution was to effect by duplicity what he could notby resistance. In a moment all traces of anger had passed from hisfeatures, and in a calm voice he said:
"Captain, you have surprised me; and to you, and these gentlemen, Iyield myself a prisoner.— Circumstances, I will admit, are againstme; but all I ask is a fair trial, and no violence. You have disturbed mein an affair of love; and who of you, gentlemen, has not at sometime hadone of his own. I know our laws, captain, and am willing to abide bythem. Let this lady bear witness, and I am content. I crave onlyjustice."
"And that, John Webber, you shall have," replied Ronald, sternly."Justice you shall have— be it liberty or death. On the evidence ofthis lady, and another, shall rest your fate. Have you any thingfurther?"
"Only, most noble captain, that I may be treated as an honorableprisoner."
"Be it so. Piketon, you will conduct him, guarded by these men, to thecave, and there await me. Unless he offer resistance, touch him not.Should he do so, shoot him on the spot!"
"Beware on him, beware on him!" cried Hetty, rushing in, who thus farhad deemed it the most prudent to remain without.
"Silence, woman!" exclaimed Bonardi, sternly: "But one commands here!Piketon, conduct him hence!"
"Ha! treachery, treachery!" ejaculated John, mentally."Fool,—fool that I was to trust in woman!" and surrounded byPiketon, and his five followers, he disappeared through the doorway.
"Poor girl! she has fainted," said Ronald, turning to Emily, who stilllay upon the ground; and carefully raising her in his arms, he laid hergently upon the rude bed. "Hetty, bring the light hither, and some water,quick!" Hetty instantly obeyed, and as the light gleamed full upon herfair, pale, marble-like features, Ronald started, and his brow becameclouded. "Ha!" exclaimed he; "that face—so like! I must think mysuspicions correct. Hetty, sprinkle the water on her face. There, there,that is sufficient. See! she revives. How is she called, Hetty?"
"She's called Emily Nevance," answered Hetty; "but I hearn John Webbersay as how that warn't her name, and that she were a great lady."
"By heavens! 'tis so. How strange—how strange, that we shouldmeet thus, for the first time! Look to her—look to her!" and Ronaldturned away, and walked to and fro the apartment in much agitation.
In the meantime Emily revived, opened her eyes with a shudder, andfastened them upon Hetty, who was bending over her with a compassionatelook. For a moment Emily seemed bewildered; and then, with a scream ofjoy, she sprang up and clasped Hetty around the neck, crying, "God blessyou, Hetty! God bless you! You have saved me, good woman, you have savedme from a fate a thousand times worse than death!" and overcome by herfeelings, she sunk back completely exhausted.
"'Taint me that's done it, gal; it's him!" and Hetty pointed toRonald, who was still pacing to and fro.
"But how, Hetty?" enquired Emily, as soon as she could recoverstrength to speak. "I remember nothing. Where is John Webber?"
"O, they've took him away—they've got him—"
At this moment came the sharp report of two pistols, followedinstantly by two distinct cries of distress, and then, in quicksuccession, several other sharp reports, and louder cries of a differentnature. Emily sprang up and grasped Hetty in terror, while Ronald boundedto the door, and rushed forth down the hill.
"What ho!" he shouted. "Piketon, what ho!" A couple of minutes and hewas joined by his lieutenant, who came running to him out of breath.
"What means this, Piketon?—has he dared to resist?"
"He has escaped, captain!"
"Escaped!" echoed Bonardi, in astonishment, grasping the other by thearm.
"Ay, captain; he shot down the two guards nearest him and fled. Wefired several shots after him, but unluckily all missed."
"What ho! men," shouted Ronald, at the top of his lungs; "fiftyguineas to him who takes John Webber. ere morning, dead or alive!"
"The offer is in vain, captain," said the lieutenant.
"How, vain?"
"We are all on foot. His horse it seems was in waiting below, which hereached in advance of us, and mounted ere we came up. Ere we can get toour horses, he will have full twenty miles between us."
"Oh, the treacherous villain!" ejaculated Bonardi, with a terribleoath. "He will betray, and have the country roused up against us! But bymy mother's soul, he shall not escape punishment— even should itcost me my own life! Piketon, he should have been disarmed!"
"True, captain."
"It was a foolish oversight in me. Well, well, experience is a goodteacher. The smooth-tongued hypocrite! I did not think he would ventureto resist—least of all, escape. Well, well, it is useless whiningnow. Call in your men, Piketon, and look to your wounded comrades.—When done, report matters, and I will give you farther orders. So,so—dark deeds thicken;" and with his hand pressed upon his temples,Ronald slowly retraced his steps up the hill, while Piketon sounded therecall, by applying a piece of ivory to his lips, that gave out a shrillwhistle; and being shortly joined by three of his party, proceeded tolook after the two who were wounded. In the meantime Ronald had returnedand entered the apartment where were Emily and Hetty, both pale and muchfrightened.
"Be not alarmed," said he, in a mild tone; "no harm shall come toyou."
"What has happened, kind sir?" enquired Emily, anxiously.
"John Webber has escaped, after shooting two of my men," answeredRonald, biting his nether lip.
"I knowed it, I knowed it!" cried Hetty.— "He's the greatestvillain as ever run! I told you beware on him!"
"And I should have heeded your warning," returned Ronald; "but it isuseless to repent it now."
"You have much to fear from him," said Emily, respeetfully.
"So I doubt not; and you, Emily—for such I am told is yourname—have had much to fear," rejoined Ronald, approaching her.
"Kind sir," returned Emily, casting upon him a grateful look, andshuddering at the thought of her late narrow escape, "to you, and thisgood woman, I owe my life—ay, more than life—and I lack forwords to express to you both the deep thanks I feel;" and her eyes filledwith tears.
"Your look, Emily, is thanks sufficient," replied Ronald, affected byher earnest manner. "In my heart I already feel more than repaid for whatlittle I have done; and besides, there is another chord touched, Emily,that you dream not of. I regret that it is impossible for me to restoreyou to your anxious friends, immediately—and to one, the dearestfriend of all—but I will do so as soon as practicable. In themeantime I beg of you to put yourself under my guidance, and accept of myhospitality. My wife will be delighted to serve you."
"You are then, married?" said Emily.
"I am," replied Ronald, sadly, "to a lovely being, far too good andgentle for one like me, and of my calling. But let that pass; you shallsee her and judge for yourself. I presume Hetty has already informed youwho I am. Doubtless my name is familiar to your ear, coupled with everything that is wicked and base?"
"I have heard somewhat of you that should have been otherwise,"answered Emily; "though I have also heard of many acts of yourgenerosity, which go to prove you possess, notwithstanding, a kindheart."
"Thank you!" returned Ronald, deeply affected. "I am a man ofcircumstances, Emily, and circumstances have made me what I am. Youlittle dream how closely you are connected with those circumstances."
"Me!" exclaimed Emily, in astonishment.
"Ay! but let it pass now. Anon I will explain all. As in coming here,and by what will follow, I have in a measure placed myself andothers—or at least the secret of our existence andrendezvous— in your power, you will, I trust, think nothing hard ofme, if I exact from you a sacred pledge, that what you have learned, seenand heard, or shall learn, see and hear, you will never—under anycircumstances whatever—divulge while I am living."
"To this most solemnly I pledge me," returned Emily, "and call God towitness the vow! What you have done, has been to save me from an awfulfate; and were I to take advantage of this against you, I should truly bethe most ungrateful of my sex—ay, unworthy the name of woman. Youhave nothing to fear from me, kind sir."
"Enough, enough!—your simple word is enough— I ask nothingfurther. And now, so soon as my lieutenant returns, you will with me tothe cave. But, ha! what have we here, torn into so many fragments?" addedhe, enquiringly, as his eye fell upon the papers destroyed by John a fewminutes before.
"Alas! sir, I suppose them to be proofs of my parentage," answeredEmily, sadly.
"And this too was the work of John Webber?"
"It was."
"The villain! But we shall meet again, ere long; and then there willbe a reckoning—a squaring of accounts," said Ronald, with quiveringlips, while a dark shade rested on his counte nance. "Do you know whatwas written thereon?"
"I do not."
"Did he mention the names of your parents?"
"He did not; and said unless I would consent to marry him, I shouldnever learn them."
"In that he was mistaken—for I will inform you."
"You, sir!" exclaimed Emily, starting in surprise.
"Ay! yet hold a moment! Possibly I may myself be mistaken;" andgathering up several of the pieces, Ronald examined them by the light afew moments, attentively. "Yes, yes," continued he, at length; "I amright; my suspicions were correct."
"Oh then, sir," cried Emily, breathlessly, "I beseech you informme!"
"I will. You are the legitimate daughter, only living child, and trulylegal heir of—"
"Fenton is dead!" cried Piketon, at this moment rushing in andinterrupting him.
"Dead!" echoed Bonardi, staggering back.
"Ay, captain. Webber's ball entered the left breast, near the heart,and he has just this moment expired."
"A thousand curses on the villain! And the other?"
"Is not mortally wounded. His shoulder-blade is broken."
Bonardi pressed his hands hard against his temples, and tried to lookcalm; but there came, notwithstanding, a dark and terrible expressionupon his features.
"This, Piketon," said he, at length, in a deep, heavy voice, "is toomuch—too much! You will return and see to the burial of Fenton,poor fellow, and that the other is well attended to. Better leave him atMosley's, as he is something of a surgeon himself. As soon as all iscomplete, meet me at the cave, with as many of our band as you can easilycollect. Webbermust be punished!— Send hither Kelly."
"Ay, captain!"
As Piketon departed, Bonardi strode to and fro the apartment, in greatagitation, until the arrival of Kelly, when turning to Emily, hesaid:
"Pardon me, Emily, I am too much agitated, just at present, tocontinue the subject on which we were speaking. I will resume it anon,and tell you all. If you are ready now, we will hence as soon aspossible. I regret my gallant steed is not with me, as I fear thedistance will fatigue you—it being some seven miles, and for themost part over a rough country."
"Thank you," returned Emily, "for the generous regard you are pleasedto express in my behalf; but I doubt not I can easily walk it; I havesometimes done as much, and felt it not."
"We will then set forth. Kelly, you will accompany us;" and in a fewminutes the party were on their way to the cave.
Emily, however, had counted too strongly on her own powers; for wornout with excitement, and weakened by loss of rest and food, she soonfound her limbs failing her; and ere they had reached a mile, she sunkdown completely exhausted. Ronald immediately raised her in his arms,without apparent effort, and the party again proceeded. Kellyoccasionally relieved him, and in this manner they reached theirdestination, in something over two hours from their time of starting.
The sentinel looked much surprised, on seeing Ronald descend theladder with a lady in his arms, but as it was no business of his, he madeno remark. As he entered the Chieftain's Chamber, Inez and Cyntha were noless surprised; nor was their surprise lessened by the manner of Ronald,who was laboring under great mental excitement. Placing Emily carefullyupon one of the sofas, he turned abruptly to his wife, and said:
"Inez, as you love me, look well to this lady; for she has been foullydealt with, and has need of your most tender care."
Inez looked at him steadily a moment, and her features assumed astrange expression. Ronald noticed it, and immediately added:
"Nay, love, no jealousy. This woman will explain all;" and he turnedto Hetty, who, having followed him in, now stood gazing around upon thesplendor of the apartment, with a surprised and bewildered look.
"O yes," returned Hetty, who had heard the allusion to herself; "I'lltell this ar' beautiful lady all as I knows."
"But why, dear Ronald, do you leave me?" enquired Inez, sadly, as heturned to depart.
"I have weighty matters to which I must attend immediately," answeredRonald, drawing her fondly to him, and pressing his lips to hers. "Be notuneasy, dear Inez, I shall pass the night in the Outer Cave. But look tothat young lady, for she is faint and sick;" and as Inez turned to Emily,Ronald withdrew, and closed the stone door behind him.
When in the larger cave, and with the exception of the sentinelentirely alone, Bonardi paced to and fro in an excited mood, while themuscles of his face underwent various changes, and his hands clenched andunclenched, as one in deep agony of mind. In this manner he continuedsome hour and a half, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Piketon,with some twenty of the band, whom he had found in the Retreat, as it wascalled—a kind of hostlery, some half mile distant, kept by one ofthe party, where, on the nights of their meetings, the members who hadridden from a distance, generally left their horses to be fed, and notunfrequently spent the night themselves, in drinking, card playing, andthe like; and where the sentinels boarded and slept, and, when not onduty, could generally be found. This Retreat was kept by one Mosley, whowas the one designated by Bonardi, in his directions to Piketonconcerning leaving his wounded comrade. The Hollow, where Bonardi hadfound Piketon, and the five who accompanied him, was another place of asimilar character, some half mile farther on.
"Captain," said Piketon, approaching Bonardi, "I have obeyed yourorders."
"'Tis well. Do these fellows know what has taken place?"
"They know that John Webber has proved treacherous, and shot Fentonand Allen."
"And what say they?"
"They have but one voice: `Death to the traitor!" '
"Ay, and by — he shall not escape it!" cried Bonardi, fiercely,uttering an oath. "To-morrow he or I must die!"
"I trust not you, captain."
"I do not know," said Ronald, gravely. "A something tells me I am notlong for this world.— It may be only a foolish fancy—but letit pass.— At dawn to-morrow we must mount and follow him. Doubtlesswe shall find him at his father's. No matter where, however, when foundhe must die! I hope we may meet him ere he has betrayed us fully, but Ifear not. Ten of these fellows must remain here, to guard thecave—the others will with us. You will divide them, and leave thetruest and most courageous here. How now! what means this?" This lastremark was occasioned by the sudden appearance of a new comer, who,having descended the ladder, approached Bonardi direct. "What news,Ellis?"
"The steamer leaves to-morrow, captain, between the hours of five andseven in the evening."
"Indeed! Are you sure, Ellis?"
"I had it from the officers of the boat."
"So soon! this is unlucky. When got you the information?"
"At noon of yesterday. I started out of St. Louis late last night, andhave scarcely been out of my saddle since. I have fatigued two horses,and am now rather fatigued myself."
"You have done well, Ellis, for 'tis a hard ride— a very hardride. To-morrow night—how unlucky! What could have induced them toalter their time?—for when I saw them, they positively assertedthey would not leave within a week.— Piketon, what can be done? Itis almost impossible for us to reach the rendezvous intime—certainly we cannot without a relay. How unlucky this news didnot arrive sooner, ere the meeting had broken up! Well, well, we must doour best under the circumstances. For the present we must let Webberpass—at least this other business must be attended to first. Ellis,have the small boats been dropped down to old Davids?"
"Ay, captain, that was done last night."
"'Tis well. Piketon, leave ten men here to guard the cave, withdrawthe others, and have them mount and singly ride for the rendezvous. Tellthem they must reach there ere sunset to-morrow, or the prize will belost. By going singly, and separate routes, they will be enabled to getrelays among the settlers, without exciting suspicion. 'Tis a longfatiguing ride of a hundred miles, and I do not count on our band beingthere in full—still I trust there will be enough to capture themoney. You had better yourself give the signal, as soon as possible.Doubtless you will be enabled to overtake some of the band on their wayhome. In every case, tell them theymust reach there ere sunsetto-morrow! Where is Hendrick?"
"He has gone with four comrades to arrest Saxton and Niles, who I havelearned are in this vicinity."
"Right! Tell the men that remain, to have both strictly guarded whenbrought hither. And now to spend an hour with Inez, and then for action.I have a noble steed at the Retreat, and relays on the route, so thatdoubtless I shall be there in advance of you all. By the by, tell thosewho remain here as guards, that if we are successful, they shall shareequally with us. And now, Piketon, speed! speed! for there is not amoment to be lost!" saying which, Bonardi turned abruptly on his heel,and entered the Inner Cave; while the lieutenant, with great rapidity andprecision, set about obeying his commands.
THE RENDEZVOUS—THE ATTACK—THE TERRIBLE FIGHT—THEAWFUL EXPLOSION—THE FLIGHT AND PURSUIT.
In something less than an hour from the close of the events detailedin the preceding chapter, a single horseman was riding swiftly throughthat range of country lying between the Osage and the great "Father ofWaters"—as it is sometimes called—and extending south of theMissouri some thirty miles. Ever and anon this horseman would pausebeside some peace-looking cottage, and sound three clear distinct blastson a bugle; and then a dark figure or two would be seen to glide forthfrom his covert, a few hurried words would be said in a low voice; andthen again the single horseman would dash on, as though riding for life,while shortly after, from the place he had just quitted, anotherhorseman—sometimes two or three—would ride forth with speed,as though in hot pursuit of the one who had gone before.
When the grey dawn of morning had begun to trace the outline of hills,and trees, and streams, in a soft, hazy relief, it revealed too the dimoutline of that same horseman, far to the eastward of where he had beenseen at the hour of midnight, still speeding on as before, yet ever andanon pausing to sound three musical blasts on a bugle, which he bore inhis hand. As the sun rose in beauty over the eastern hills, and pouredhis gentle rays into deep green woods, into pleasant valleys, on tosparkling streams, they occasionally cast back the shadow of thathorseman, still speeding on, and the shadows too of various otherhorsemen—some directly in his trail, some in different points ofcompass from him—all speeding eastward. As the day wore on, he wasseen mounted on a different horse, still urging on the noble animal,which at every step and bound neared him to the great Mississippi. Whenthe sun had far declined toward the western horizon, that horseman drewrein beside an old hovel, which stood on the west bank of the greatriver, and but a short time since inhabited by old David the Jew.Scarcely had he paused, when a tall figure darted out of the hovel, andRonald Bonardi stood beside him.
"Welcome, Piketon, welcome!" cried the latter, joyfully. "I feared youwould be too late. I said I should be here before you; but your task hasbeen much the hardest, as I can perceive by your wearied looks; and yourhorse too hangs his head sadly, and drips water like rain. But what newsof the others? Will the main body of them be here in time?"
"I trust it will, captain. They cannot be far behind."
"By the way, Piketon, ten of them have already arrived, and areconcealed—horses and all— in the bushes just below here. Asthe boat leaves St. Louis at an hour so late, I think this will be ourbest point of attack; and by heavens! since we are here, the attack shallbe made, whether the others arrive or not. But come, go in, go in andrefresh yourself. You will find wine and food on the table; for the onewho came down with the small boats, had the good foresight to provideboth, as well as plenty of grain for the horses. Go in, Piketon, while Ilead your horse into the covert below, when I will immediately joinyou."
"Thank you, captain! I feel that wine and food are every thing to menow;" and Piketon entered the hovel. In a few minutes Bonardi was withhim.
"I hear the tramp of more horses," said the latter, as he entered, "sothat doubtless our party will soon be increased; and in fact it needs besoon, to be of any service to us, for the sun al ready dips in the treesof the western mountains, and the boat will probably pass here at earlydark, though I hope not till a later hour. Hark! they come;" and Bonarditurned back to the door, just as three horseman rode up from differentpoints of compass—their horses dripping water, and themselveslooking much fatigued.
Scarcely had Bonardi given them directions how to dispose ofthemselves, when up rode two more—and then another, and another. Infact they were now gathering fast; and in less time than an hour, theparty of twelve had swelled to upwards of forty, all strong and wellarmed men. The sun, in the meantime, had gone down, and grey twilight wasalready deepening into night, when Bonardi, thinking that longer delaymight prove fatal to his design, now ordered his men to take up theirpositions, and be in readiness for action. Some five or six boats, lyingconcealed in the water below, were instantly manned, while four of theparty were stationed above, at different points, as look-outs orsentinels, ready to give warning in case of danger, and likewisedirections to the new comers, as fast as they should arrive, which theywere continually doing. Three others were to hail the steamer, and,should she send out a small boat, which was probable, six more were to bein attendance to seize and gag the oarsmen. In fact the attack was to bemade precisely according to the plan given out by Bonardi, as detailed ina previous chapter.
Having seen his men disposed of according to his directions, Bonardiwent to each of the sentinels, and charged them to be vigilant, as it wasnot impossible that Webber, in a spirit of revenge, had already blown thescheme, and, by being sharply on the look-out, been enabled to learn oftheir sudden movements, the time of the steamer's departure, and also tocollect a force sufficient to attack them. Should they see or hear anything they might judge indicative of danger, without being positive, theywere to give the signal by a shrill whistle—if positive, bydischarging a pistol. In case of an attack, they were to fight in anymanner they might see proper; but in case they heard a blast from thebugle, they were to make their way, quickly as possible, to the spotwhence it proceeded. Having given these directions to the sentinels,Bonardi repaired to the members whose duty it was to act onland—told them his suspicions—his orders to the sentinelsregarding signals, and an attack—the latter of which referredequally to themselves. This done, he returned to the boats, repeated allhe had said, and took his station in one of them, ready to lead them onwhen the proper moment should arrive.
All now gradually sunk into deep silence, for each one of that band ofoutlaws was busy with thoughts of his own. They were awaiting, undercover of darkness, to make an attack, where, in all probability, more orless lives would be lost; and doubtless many a one felt a secretforeboding that this might be his last night on earth. Although Bonardi,after giving his orders, said nothing, yet he appeared very restless, andseemed greatly disturbed by some inward trouble. In this manner passedsome fifteen minutes, when he leaped suddenly ashore, and merely sayinghe would be with them again presently, strode directly up the hill, andentered the hovel. Here he found a bottle, which he applied to his lips,and, judging by the time he held it there, drank much. He then returnedto the boats with a heavy step.
"Strange," said he, as he approached, "that I hear nothing of her!Piketon, it is possible Ellis may have been mistaken in the time."
"It is possible, captain," answered Piketon, "though but now I fanciedI heard her."
"Hark!" exclaimed Bonardi, suddenly. "You are right, Piketon, you areright; by heavens she comes! Be ready, men, be ready—then besilent!"
A few minutes fully confirmed the approach of a steamer; for althoughnot in sight, yet the puffing sound produced by the escape of steam, wasclearly audible to the anxious listeners. Ere she rounded the point justabove, it became evident by the change of sound, that she was effecting alanding; but presently she was again in motion; and then on she came,like some terrific monster, with great red eyes of fire, and smoke andflame issuing from its nostrils. On, on she came, bearing down apparentlydirectly towards those dark spirits, who were impatiently waiting theirtime for action. Soon she was within speaking distance, when she wasimmediately hailed from the shore, which was answered by the ringing of abell. The steam was next thrown off, and she commenced rounding to,apparently with much difficulty.
"We cannot land," said a voice from on board, "and our boat has beenstove. If you have no boat, we shall be obliged to leave you."
"Ha! this looks suspicious!" ejaculated Ronald, mentally. "But thetrial must be made. Quick, Jeffrey," cried he, leaping ashore, andrunning up to the group of three, who stood as though awaiting furtherorders, "cry back there is a boat here, and a man who will row you tothem! and then hie to it, and do not forget your instructions. You,"continued he, turning to another group of twelve, standing a few feetdistant, six of whom had but lately arrived, "will remain here to coverus. I am suspicious, from various slight causes, that we shall beattacked. If we are, fight, men, fight like devils, and we will soon joinyou!"— Saying this in a low, rapid tone, Bonardi hurried back andsprang into his boat.
In the meantime, Jeffrey had done the captain's bidding, with greatrapidity, and was even now, with his two comrades, shoving off from theshore. It was by this time so dark, that a small boat on the water couldbe seen only at a short distance, save when it crossed the lightsgleaming out from the larger one; consequently the other boats remainedin close obscurity. Scarcely a minute elapsed, ere a boat, containingthree individuals, was seen crossing the bow of the steamer.
"Stand to your oars, men!" said Bonardi, rapidly. "You will hear thesignal in a moment; and then, as you love money, forget not to row! Ha!there it is!" As he spoke, there came several reports of firearms, andthe next instant five boats shot out into the stream, with lightningrapidity. But a few seconds elapsed ere they were alongside the steamer,when, just as Bonardi was on the point of leaping aboard, the engineersuddenly let on a full head of steam, the wheels turned quickly, the boatshot forwad instantly, crushing one of the smaller ones, and at the sametime a murderous fire was directed among the bandits, from a hithertoconcealed enemy, doing terrible execution. Several of them sprang up andfell back dead, against their comrades, or into the water, while otherssank down wounded, amid shrieks, groans, and direful imprecations. To addto the consternation and horror of Ronald and his men, the pistols of thesentinels on the hill were now heard in quick succession, followed by aroar of musketry, rapid discharge of pistols, fierce yells and groans,and the noise of a hand-to-hand combat. By the light of the discharges,Ronald saw the men he had left on shore, hemmed in by overwhelmingnumbers, fighting desperately.
"By all the holy saints!" cried he, "we are betrayed! To shore! Tohorse!"
Scarcely were the words uttered, ere every boat seemed almost to leapfrom the water—so powerfully were the oars applied by desperatemen. But a landing was not to be effected without trouble. As the boatstouched the shore, a party in waiting poured a destructive fire amongthem, and numbers fell.
"Onward!" shouted Bonardi; and leaping on to the bank, pistols inhand, he shot down the two nearest him—dashed out the brains of athird with one of his discharged weapons—seized the fourth asthough he were a child, and threw him over his head into theMississippi—drew his knife, and literally cut his way through them,unharmed, followed by Piketon, and some twenty of his band—allfighting like fiends, neither giving nor asking quarter.
"Sound the bugle, and to horse!" shouted Bonardi.
Instantly a loud, clear blast, rang out upon the air; and followingtheir brave leader, the bandits rushed down the stream some thirty yards,to where their horses stood in waiting—not having as yet beendiscovered by the attacking party.— Bounding into their saddles,with the agility of men well trained to horsemanship, with their knivesstill in their hands, reeking with blood, they cut the reins thatattached them to the small trees of the thicket, in which they wereconcealed, and, plunging their spurs into their sides, rode wildly out,with a fierce yell of triumph, just as their pursuers were coming up.
"Charge, comrades, charge!" again shouted, in thunder tones, the voiceof Bonardi. "Down in your saddles, and knives to their hearts!"
Never was a terrible order obeyed more rapidly. At the word, eachwheeled into a line with his leader—threw himself forward, untilhis head touched his horse's neck—extended his arm, until the bladeof his knife reached beyond the nostrils of the animal he rode—andthen, like a sweeping avalanche, the whole party spurred down upon themain body of their opponents, whom they stabbed and rode over, with ahavoc that, in honorable warfare, would have rendered the chargeimmortal. But all was in vain. The bandits had been surprised and takenat too great a disadvantage to themselves, by nearly double theirnumbers, to cope successfully with their adversaries now; and the moreso, as the latter had discovered the remaining horses, and were alreadymounting them. In the charge just made, five more of his party had gonedown; so that out of all his stout, hardy followers, Bonardi found, onsounding the bugle again, only some fifteen who answered to the summons.The remainder he supposed either killed, wounded, or taken prisoners, asthe firing and noise of combat had ceased.
"We are lost!" said he, sadly, reining in his horse, some hundredyards from the scene of action. "Comrades, our day is over. All that mencould do, under the circumstances, we have done. You, comrades, havefought like men—most bravely—but, alas! to what avail? Oh,treachery, treachery! But, comrades, you may yet escape. If you wish togo, I give you freedom.— For myself, I shall back to the cave, and,if necessary, die defending it. My time I feel is near.— Fortybrave fellows—all lost—all lost! Oh God, what a thought! Whatsay you, comrades; will you leave or follow me?"
"Follow, to the death!" shouted all.
"'Tis well. Let us away then, ere these hellhounds get too close uponour track; for they have mounted our own horses, and are now on the move.Ha!—the steamer—look! Great God, what a sight!"
What a sight indeed! for just as Bonardi spoke, there came atremendous explosion, and the heads, legs and arms of some fifty humanbeings—but a moment before in all the vigor and passion oflife— were now hissing and whizzing through the air, in everydirection, while shrieks and groans were heard, of the most agonizingdescription. To add to the awful spectacle, the boat immediately tookfire, and lay perfectly unmanageable—floating down with thecurrent—while some few, who had escaped the explosion, could beseen running to and fro, calling for help, or plunging into the wateryelement, and thus avoiding one terrible death only to meet with another.The light from the burning wreck now gleamed across the dark, rollingwaters of the Mississippi, upon the banks and trees, with a sicklyeffect—displaying the outlines of a hundred dark figures, on footand on horse, some standing, some running to the small boats, and pushingout from the shore, to the assistance of their fellow creatures, whileothers were lying scattered here and there on the ground, mangled andbloody, dying and dead. It was a sight to be seen but once; but onceseen, never to be forgotten. Had we time and space, we might call up thepicture to the reader's eye far more vividly; but it would only be a sad,heart rending, bloody picture—and 'twere better that it pass.
"So," said Ronald, musingly, gazing upon the scene, with a melancholyair: "So, then; in attempting our destruction, they have sent themselvesto eternity. Well, one God sees all—overrules all—ordersall—at least my mother taught me so when a child Oh, that I were achild again!" and he drew his hand across his eyes, and turned his headaway. Suddenly he started, and the whole aspect of his features changed,from the sad and mild, to the fierce and terrible. "Look!" cried he,rising in his stirrups, and grasping the arm of Piketon, who was sittinghis horse along side him.— "Look! Piketon—look!comrades—yonder, yonder! Gods! do you see nothing?"
"I see nothing but men on horseback, quietly gazing on the burningvessel," answered Piketon.
"But one of those—a tall figure—a little separated fromthe rest—is the accursed traitor, John Webber!" hissed Ronald,rapidly. "He does not see us, and thinks, doubtless, with the others,that we are all taken, killed, or fled." Let us remark here, that Ronaldand his men were now occupying a position on the hill--in athicket—where they could observe all that was taking place below,and remain themselves concealed. "Now, then, comrades," continuedBonardi, "for one more act ere we die. Draw your knives, men, and swearby the mangled corses of your dead comrades, that unto death you willfollow yon traitor, so long as a man of you remain alive!"
"We swear!" cried all, vehemently, touching the blades of their knivesto their lips.
"Enough! Now, Piketon, to cut him off, ere he joins the main body.You, with six men, will defile carefully down on this side; but slowly,so as not to attract attention. I, with the rest, will ride around andsuddenly come in before him, when, to save his life, he will be forced toturn and fly.— If he do so, follow; and Heaven save him if heescape us!"
In a moment the party of Bonardi was in motion. In a few more, hismanoeuvre was successfully executed; and John—who supposed Bonardieither killed or taken, and was now quietly gazing upon the awful sighton the river— suddenly found himself confronted by the only man hefeared, and cut off by his followers from joining those who might renderhim assistance.— His only safety was now in flight; and with a yellof despair, he turned and fled. That yell was echoed by some fifteensturdy horsemen, who immediately joined in pursuit, all eager for hisheart's blood.
The cries of John, and his pursuers, were heard fararound—ringing out upon the night air like those of so many fiends;but they were quickly drowned by still louder shouts of, "The bandits,the bandits!—Bonardi, Bonardi!" and suddenly wheeling theiranimals, some twenty horsemen dashed madly forward, to join in the wildchase. Ere we follow them, however, let us briefly glance at the causeswhich led to these results, take one more look at the scene before us,and then close it forever.
After the escape of John, from Piketon and his companions—asrelated in the chapter preceding— he had ridden directly for home,with dark thoughts of revenge uppermost in his mind. He knew if taken,death would assuredly follow, as he had that evening had ample witness inthe case of the Jew. His only safety he now felt was in the totaloverthrow of Bonardi and the banditti; and to effect this as soon aspossible, was his only theme, as he spurred rapidly on. In doing this, hewould not only secure his own life, but obtain the revenge he sought onthose who had dared to come between him and his victim. But how to effectthis suddenly, was the main object. At first he thought of seeking hisfather, and acquainting him of the whereabouts of Emily, and therendezvous of the bandits—stating that she had been seized, carriedoff, and was now held in durance by them. This he knew would rouse theire of his father—who was as yet ignorant of Bonardi being in thevicinity—and that as soon as possible, he would raise a largecompany from the surrounding country, go forth to rescue Emily, andexterminate the band. But this, even at the best, would consume muchtime, and doubtless prove of no avail; from the fact that most of thebandits themselves were known as settlers, and so scattered through thecountry, that the least stir of this kind would be known to them inseason to effect an escape, or, what was more probable, rally themselvesinto a body, ambush, and slaughter their opponents. This project,therefore, was a hazardous one; the more so, as in the meantime theymight seek him out and kill him; and he knew sufficient of RonaldBonardi, to render this thought a not improbable, and, consequently, astartling one. They might even now be on his trail—such a thing wasnot unlikely— and he urged his beast up hill and down, over hollowand plain, through forest, thicket and stream, at his greatest speed.
At length he found, to his regret and consternation, that the nobleanimal was beginning to falter. There was but one course—his placemust be supplied by another; and in this, chance favored him; for shortlyafter, he rode past a cottage, where he perceived several horses lyingdown. Immediately reining in, he alighted, selected the best, transferredbridle and saddle, and, in less than five minutes, was again speeding on,leaving his own horse behind him. When the sun rose, he was within twentymiles of his father's cottage; and for the first time he slackened hisspeed, to meditate upon the wisest course for him to pursue. A thoughtstruck him! He would ride at once to St. Louis, learn at what time thesteamer was to leave, and possibly he might hear of somethingadvantageous to his foul design.
When he reached home, some two hours later, he found that theparty—consisting of his father, Merton, Bernard andTyrone—had just started on a third day's search for Emily, and thatRufus was lying in a very critical state. This latter, however, troubledhim not; and without heeding anything further, he changed his horse, andimmediately set off for St. Louis, where he arrived about two o'clock thesame day. He knew from Bonardi's plan, that three of the band were to beon board when the boat should leave; and accordingly he at once repairedhither, to learn if anything new had occurred. Two of them he foundwithout difficulty, and learned, to his surprise and joy, that the boatwas to leave that evening; that the third had been gone some thirty-sixhours to inform Bonardi of the fact; and that it was supposed the latterwould get the information in time, by hard riding, to be at the generalrendezvous, where the boat, owing to some slight delays, would probablypass at early dark.
Than this information, nothing could have suited John's purposebetter; and he immediately hastened to a magistrate informed him of thewhole affair, and, to give it an air of truth, stated that he himself wasa member of the band, whose conscience had forced him to betray thewicked course his fraternity were pursuing. This information of coursewas of the most startling character to the magistrate—who believedBonardi and his men had quitted the country some three yearsbefore—and instantly making out warrants, he sent off and had thetwo men on the boat arrested. On confronting them with John, one of thembecame much alarmed, and, on the promise of a pardon, immediatelycorroborated his statement.— The affair resulted in the wholematter being speedily made known to the governor, who promptly orderedtwo companies of militia, consisting of over a hundred men, several ofwhom had served in the late war, to act as a posse to the Sheriff, inarresting or exterminating the outlaws.
The Sheriff himself was a man of extreme measures, who cared littlefor the sacrifice of life, so his ends were by such means accomplished.His plan was, to have the boat start at the given time, as though nothinghad been discovered, and, with his posse, to go down on her himself; thatere fully in sight of the rendezvous, some seventy-five should land, andproceed thence on foot; that the steamer, when hailed, should round to,but manage to avoid sending out a boat— well judging, if thebanditti were there concealed, they would not allow their scheme to befrustrated by a circumstance so trifling,—that the steam should becompressed until the boats came along side, so that the steamer mightstart suddenly, and by this means throw them into confusion; that at thesame time the party concealed on board, should pour among them a welldirected fire, which was also to be a signal to those on shore to beready to intercept their landing. In fact, the attack was carried outexactly as planned, and the reader has already seen the result. The grandoversight was in compressing the steam, and then throwing it suddenlyupon the engine, which shortly after produced the terrible explosion wehave recorded.
Having thus briefly explained the matters most directly connected withour story, and trusting the reader is as anxious to quit this scene ofwholesale slaughter as ourself, we shall, after giving a slight summaryof what followed, leave it at once and forever.
But few of those poor beings on board the ill fated steamer at thetime of her explosion, were saved; and these mostly by the aid of theboats, which had been brought hither by the orders of Bonardi, for a verydifferent purpose. Some two or three of the number who leaped into thestream, swam to the shore—the rest were drowned. In less than anhour, the boat burned to the water's edge and sunk--bearing down with herthe gold and silver coin, the primary cause of the dire mishap and lossof life. In the meantime a messenger was despatched, post haste, to St.Louis; which resulted in the arrival, some three hours later, of anothersteamer. This, ere morning, bore back a strange medley of citizens,soldiers, and bandits; some well, some wounded, some dying, some dead. Ofthe party of Bonardi, some few were taken prisoners; but these, generallyspeaking, consisted of those who were too severely wounded to fight orescape, and who afterwards, with but few exceptions, died of theirwounds—the main body having either fled or been killed. Of thesoldiers, a number were killed in the fight, and many wounded. Theprisoners who survived their injuries, together with some three or fourothers, captured unharmed, were afterwards tried by the authorities, anddisposed of according to the evidence found against them.
On that same night, a steamer, chartered for the purpose, having onboard a large body of armed men, and two six-pound cannon, departed forthe Osage; the object of the expedition being to find the grandrendezvous of the banditti, arrest or exterminate the remainder of theband, and, particularly to secure, living or dead, the body of RonaldBonardi.
THE RETURN—THE DEATH OF THE INVALID—THE ALARM—THEDEATH OF THE TRAITOR—THE FIGHT AND FLIGHT—THE RALLY ANDEXPEDITION.
An hour later than that in which the attack was made on the bandits,through the treachery of John, the party of his father returned from athird days search for Emily, fatigued in body and depressed in spirits.Three days had they traversed the country in every direction, makingdiligent enquiries of every person they met, and yet, of what had becomeof her, not the slightest cue had they gained; and consequently, as wehave said, they returned most sadly depressed in spirits, and worn out inbody. In fact, hope of ever beholding her again had almost becomeextinct; for to them it was probable she had been seized by the Jew andhis accomplices, and taken out of the country. And this latter seemed themore probable, from their having been at the residence of the Jew, on theday she disappeared, and knew him to have been absent.
On Webber and Merton the sad truth fell with a crushing effect; andmen though they were, both wept for grief. In fact, the latter, when hefound all search had been in vain, knew it would have to be relinquished,and felt the sweet being of his soul's adoration—she whose heartand hand in the holy confidence of love, had been pledged tohim—was now gone, forever gone, pressed his hands to his burningtemples, and strove, as a man, but vainly strove to be calm. Life to himnow seemed a lonely path, through a barren waste, where not one brightflower by the wayside grew, to relieve it of utter desolation; where noray of sunlight came, to dispel, even for a moment, the oppressivegloom.
Slowly, sadly, and in silence, the party referred to, reined in theirhorses on the night in question, at the cottage of Webber—litttledreaming that beneath that humble roof, the ingrate, the black heartedvillain, the cause of their present trouble, had been sheltered, and fed;and that there too, their sorrow was soon to find an additional weight.At the door they were met by Mrs. Webber, who was pale and trembling withintense grief and excitement.
"Oh, you have come—you have come, thank God!" uttered she, inthe low, rapid accents of heart touching misery. "I feared, oh God! Ifeared you would be too late. Quick! quick!"
"Sarah, Sarah," gasped Webber, "what, what has happened? Speak, Sarah!for Heaven-sake speak!"
"Alas! William, Rufus —"
"Well, Sarah!"
"Is dying."
"Great Heaven!" and staggering back, Webber would have fallen, had notthe arms of Bernard, who was close behind, supported him.
Like the sudden shock of an earthquake, this startling announcementcame upon those who heard it; for they believed Rufus free of danger, andslowly, yet gradually recovering. He had been pronounced convalescent byhis physician, and the events of the last few days had so engrossed theirattention, that by them he had in a measure been forgotten. From themoment of his fainting, on hearing of the disappearance of Emily, aspreviously mentioned, he had gradually declined. His mother—whosevery existence, as we have before stated, seemed bound up in his—noticed the change, with all a fond mother's feelings of grief and alarm.Night and day since, had she remained almost constantly by his side; andon the evening previous, when the party returned, she had made known toher husband her fears. Wearied by a hard day's ride, and thinking herfears had made her exaggerate, Webber, contrary to his usual custom, hadseemed almost indifferent to his wife's remarks; and merely saying, "Hewill be better anon," retired early to rest, to be in readiness to pursuehis search for Emily on the following day. Several times during the dayon which we have again introduced him, his conscience had reproved himfor neglecting his son; and it was not without considerable anxiety, thathe once more approached home; consequently the powerful effect producedby the sudden and alarming announcement of his wife.
Recovering, somewhat, from the first terrible shock, Webber sprangforward, and in a moment stood by his son, followed by his wife, Merton,Bernard and Tyrone. A light, standing on the table by the bed, cast amournful gleam—if we may so be allowed the expression—on tothe pale, calm features of the dying youth, who, save an unnaturalbreathing, seemed like one asleep.
"Rufus!" gasped his father, grasping his thin hand. "Rufus, myson!"
Slowly the invalid unclosed his eyes, and for a moment looked up witha vacant stare.
"Rufus, my son! Oh, God! do you not know me?"
"Father," said Rufus, calmly, a look of recognition lighting up histhin features, at the same time raising himself on his elbow, andglancing slowly around: "Father—mother—Edward—yes, yes,I know you all; but I am weak, father," and he sunk back on his pillow.Suddenly he started, and a bright flush passed over his wan features."Emily!" cried he, quickly: "Emily! what of her? have you found her?" andhe gazed with an intense look on his father's tearful eye.
"Alas! my son, we have not."
"Too well—too well I knew it," he murmured, clasping his hands,and gazing upward with a solemn, devout look. "Weshall meetagain, but it will be there;" and stretching forth his wasted, bony arm,he pointed above: "It will be there— in Heaven!"
"Oh! dear, dear Rufus," cried his mother, springing forward, unable tocontrol herself longer, and bending on him a look of the most intenseanguish, while every eye in the room filled with water: "Oh! dear, dearRufus, say you will meet again on earth!"
Rufus gazed upon her a moment, and shook his head sadly. "Mother, dearmother, speak not thus! My minutes are all numbered. I—I am dying,mother."
"Oh God, support me!" returned she, sinking into a chair, and coveringher face with her hands.
"Nay, mother—nay, father—nay, friends"— continuedhe, "weep not! We must all die, sooner or later, and death is onlyterrible when we are not prepared to meet it. It is only parting for atime, to meet again in the bright and glorious land of spirits. I feel Ishall be happy when my spirit has thrown off this clayey tenement, andentered upon its second existence. Oh, my dear parents and friends, Ibeseech you, weep not for me! for I was not, could not be happy here.Edward, come hither; I have somewhat to say to you, ere I set out upon mylong journey."
Edward approached with tearful eyes, and took his hand.
"You, my noble friend," continued Rufus, "are sad—almostheart-broken—for the sweet being you love is gone; but be not castdown—be not disheartened—for you will meet again, and seemany happy days on earth. Nay, shake not your head with that despairinglook, for what I tell you is true. My spirit is already on the verge ofeternity, and looks with a prophetic eye into the future. But now I had adream; and in that dream I saw you and Emily meet. There was sadness inthe hearts of both; but it gradually rolled away, as mist from themountain tops, and joy, like sunlight, shone in your faces.Mark thesewords! they are prophetic. You will see her, you will love her, youwill cherish and guard her, with all the pure, deep devotion of a holylove, emanating from a high minded, noble, manly heart. Ere that time,however, these frail limbs will have stiffened in death—this soulwill have flown to the presence of its God; therefore shall I give you mysecret, and request that you bear to her my dying words. Tell her,Edward, that one who is gone, loved her no less deeply, no less purely,no less sacredly than yourself. Tell her that from youth up she was thesole ideal of his longings, the angel visitant of his dreams. Tell herthat Hope, like a star, once rose and shone brightly on the broad fieldof his future imaginings, but that its light went out in the Hope ofanother. Tell her to think sometimes on this, and sometimes cast a glanceupon the lowly grave of Rufus Webber. You will tell her this,Edward?"
"Should we meet again, my gentle friend, I will," replied Edward,pressing the hand of Rufus.
"You will meet again, Edward, and in that thought I diehappy."
"And you loved her so," said Edward, deeply affected; "and I knew itnot."
"And she knew it not," returned Rufus. "I saw she loved another, and Iwould not pain her with the story. But that is now past, and so forgetit. Ah! I—I feel my voice is going: I feel myself growing fainter;and so, dear Edward, farewell!"
Edward pressed his hand, and turned away with a burst of grief.
"Father?"
"My son!"
"I am going fast. Where is John?"
"Alas! he is not here."
"Then bid him farewell for me, and tell him it was the dying requestof his brother, that he shun bad company. Father, farewell!" and hepressed his hand—a hand that shook with the agonies of a father'sheart. "Mother," and the voice of Rufus faltered.
"Oh! my child—my son—my own dear Rufus!" cried she,throwing her arms around his neck, and pressing kiss after kiss upon hisbloodless, quivering lips: "Oh! my son—my son—I cannot,cannot part with you!"
"Mother, dear mother," returned he, in faltering accents: "Mother, becalm—be calm! Remember it is the will of God, who orders all thingsfor the best. We shall soon meet again in another, in a better world. Ah!ah! death is coming. Mother, fare—fare-well!Friends—all—all— fare—farewell! In—inHeaven!" and with these words the lips of the gentle Rufus were sealedforever.
For an hour life remained in his body; but from that moment Rufusspoke no more, nor seemed he conscious of anything that transpiredafterward, although his mother still clung to, and entreated him in themost heart-rending tones to speak to her again. At the expiration of thetime mentioned, his gentle spirit passed away, as one sinking into aquiet sleep.
His mother, when fully convinced that he was gone—that in sadtruth his dearly loved voice she would never hear again—slowlyunclasped her arms from his neck, and, with her eyes fixed steadfastlyupon him, sank into a seat by his side, seemingly unconscious ofeverything around. His father stood and gazed upon him for a few momentswith folded arms, while his features writhed in agony, his chest heaved,and his heart beat fast and almost audibly. In silence, in sorrow, stoodMerton, Bernard and Tyrone, near the foot of the bed, gazing upon thecorpse—forming a most impressive group for a mournful picture.Suddenly each started, and gazed into each others faces enquiringly. Ashrill cry came borne upon the air, and with it a sound like the rushingof waters. Another, and another cry, and nearer and louder came therushing sound. What could it mean? All sprang to the door; and althoughit was dark, yet dashing over the hill to the right, they could trace thedim outline of a horseman; and, following close,another—another— and still, and still another—and morebehind.
"There must be something alarming!" said Webber, quickly. "What can itmean?"
Scarcely were the words uttered, ere the foremost horseman dashed upto the door, leaped from his steed, and rushed in in breathlesshaste.
"John!" cried Webber, in astonishment.
"Quick! quick! father—close the door—or I shall bemurdered! I am pursued by Ronald Bonardi and his men!"
"Ronald Bonardi!" echoed all, in a breath; and springing back, thedoor was bolted just as the other horsemen were beginning to come up.
"Ay, Ronald Bonardi," answered John, rapidly. "He and his band are thekidnappers of Emiily. I know their secret retreat, and for this theywould murder me!"
"Emily!" cried Merton, breathlessly, "Emily!speak—speak!—where is she?"
"In Bonardi's cave, on the Osage river."
"Oh, John, you give me new life!"
"Then use it defending mine, by killing these ruffians, and I willrestore her to you."
"Quick! quick!" said a deep voice from without, "for our time is mostprecious."
The next moment there came a tremendous crash, making the whole housetremble—the door, bolts, bars and all, were splintered and brokeninto a hundred pieces—while a tall, muscular figure leaped forward,into the centre of the astonished group, and the same deep voiceshouted:
"Ho, traitor!"
"'Tis he!" shrieked John, turning to fly.
"Ay, 'tis he!" shouted back the figure; and then there came aflash—a crack—and with a yell of pain John sank to thefloor.
"How!—Barton!" gasped Webber, in astonishment, as he caught aglimpse of the intruder's features.
"Barton and Bonardi are one!"
As he spoke, the figure seized upon the body of John, with thestrength of a giant, and, turning, bounded into the midst of hisfollowers, who stood crowded around the doorway to cover his retreat.
"To horse! to horse!" he shouted; and darting away at the word, in amoment more each man was in his saddle.
So rapidly was this whole movement executed— for it occupied farless time in action, than we have in description—that neitherWebber himself, Merton, Bernard nor Tyrone, recovered from the torpor ofa sudden astonishment, ere the bandits had escaped them—actuallyshooting, seizing, and bearing John from their midst.
"Good God!" exclaimed Webber, "is my house to be broken into, my sonmurdered and borne away, without a hand being raised to rescue or avengehim? Follow, men!" and rushing forth, he was quickly joined by his threecompanions.
By this time the bandits were all mounted, and Bonardi, stillsupporting John, was just balancing himself in his saddle, when heobserved Webber rushing towards him.
"Away!" he shouted to his men; and burying his own spurs in hishorse's flanks, he darted off.
Webber instantly drew a pistol, and taking aim as well as the darknesswould permit, pulled the trigger. A flash—a report—a groansucceeded— and he could perceive Bonardi waver in his saddle; butstill he sat his horse—the animal slackened not his speed—andin a few seconds both horse and rider disappeared, while Webber'sattention was suddenly called to another quarter, where the bandits werebeing attacked by another party of horsemen that had just come up.
From the flight of John from the river, the chase had been adesperate, and an equal one; with the exception, that in the hard run ofthirty miles, the bandits had succeeded in distancing their pursuers somequarter of a mile, so that they had just sufficient time, after Johnentered the cottage, to seize upon a huge stick of timber, break open thedoor, capture the traitor and mount, before the others were upon them. Astheir design was now accomplished, they turned upon their pursuers,headed by Piketon—for Bonardi still kept upon his course—anda terrible fight ensued. Webber and his companions not knowing friendfrom foe, retreated into the house, to be ready to defend it in case ofnecessity.
"I guess they're having a putty hard tussle, by the way them areshooting irons are going off," remarked Bernard. "Hadn't we better assistthem are fellers that come up last, eh, Bill?"
"Gladly, if we could assist them; but to attempt it now would befool-hardy," answered Webber. "As soon as this fight is over, we mustrally as large a company as possible, and start immediately for theOsage, to rescue Emily, and punish the murderers of my son Oh, God! am Ito be made childless in one night!" and Webber leaned against the wall ofhis cottage for support. "And to think, too," continued he, after amoment's pause, "how basely I have been deceived! I can scarcely realizemy having been, more or less, for three years past, the companion of thatnotorious bandit, Ronald Bonardi, under the assumed name of Barton!"
"Wal, when I seed him at the river, and you was a talking to him abouthimself, I guessed then his name wasn't Barton," said Bernard.
"Well, well, he shall not escape again!" replied Webber, sternly. "Heshall be brought to justice, unless he die defending himself; for I willfollow him to the world's end myself, sooner than suffer him to gounpunished. Fool that I was, to let him shoot down my son before my owneyes! And then to actually bear him off! What unheard of daring!"
"The whole affair transpired so suddenly," remarked Tyrone, "that forone I really knew not what was taking place, until he had fled."
"The same with myself," said Edward. "But I am much mistaken, or hesuffers now; for when Webber fired, I heard him groan, and fancied I sawhim reel in the saddle."
"I kind o' thought as how that are shot did him too," rejoinedBernard. "But if it didn't, there's more where that come from, I guess,as will."
"Ay," rejoined Webber, fiercely, "there is!— But hist! Thefighting seems to have ceased, and there is a horseman approaching."
"House, ho!" shouted a voice from without.
"What would you?" answered Webber, interrogatively.
"Rest and food for the night, for our horses and ourselves," repliedthe voice.
"Who are you?" demanded Webber.
"An officer of justice, at the head of a party of soldiers, sent outto arrest or exterminate these accursed bandits, who, with the exceptionof three killed, have again escaped us. We would tarry here untildaylight, ere we pursue them further; for our horses are fatigued, two ofour men are killed, and three or four others wounded. If you canaccommodate us, I will see that you are remunerated, and will also giveyou the full particulars of what has occurred."
"I am in a sad condition to do so," answered Webber, gloomily; "forone son lies a corpse in the house, another has just been shot and borneaway, my wife sits buried in grief, and I am nearly distracted myself;but still, such accommodation as I have, you are most welcome to; and wewill endeavor, ere morning, to increase your party for the pursuit."
As further detail seems unnecessary here, we trust the reader willallow us to substitute a brief summary of what followed. The party inquestion remained at Webber's through the night—all resting, withthe exception of the wounded, in the out-houses. The latter were caredfor, as well as circumstances would permit, and their wounds not being ofa very serious nature, they departed the next morning for St. Louis,bearing their two dead comrades with them. During the night a search wasmade, in the direction taken by Bonardi, for the body of John; it beingthought probable, the former, if wounded, might drop him on the way, andpossibly with life remaining--though for the latter there was littlehope;—but the expedition proved fruitless, and the party returnedsome three hours later, not having discovered the least trace.
Merton, anxious to start early on the morrow to the rescue of her heloved, rode most of the night from farm to farm, among the settlers,giving each a brief account of what had happened, and beseeching them tojoin in ridding the country of the outlaws; the result of which was, theadditional force of some twenty-five, able bodied, determined men, wellmounted and armed, who, with the party at Webber's, set out at daylighton a journey to the Osage, to search for the grand rendezvous, apprehend,disperse, or annihilate the banditti.
In this expedition, Webber and Tyrone did not join; the former,because he did not consider it prudent to leave his house in a totallyunguarded state, with the corpse of his son within, and his wife in avery feeble condition, but little better than a stupid insanity, causedfrom her overwhelming grief; and the latter, because it was deemedadvisable that one at least should remain as a companion for the former.Moreover, Webber had learned, in course of conversation with the officermentioned, the astounding particulars of what had occurred at the river,and the cause of hate against his son, from his having been a member andbetrayed the band, the which had served to completely unnerve, and almostrender him insane also.
Besides Webber, his wife and Tyrone, there was another individualwithin that house of mourning, whom we have, during the excitement of thepast few days, lost sight of altogether; but whom we shall bring oncemore before the reader, ere we close our now nearly completedstory.— We allude to the prisoner of the Jew, who, under thetreatment he had of late received, was fast regaining health andstrength. But leaving each and all for the present, let us precede theparty just departed, to the cave on the Osage.
THE CAVE—THE BANDIT'S WIFE AND HER GUEST— THE BANDIT'SARRIVAL—THE LAST PARTING—THE AMBUSH—THEATTACK—THE FAREWELL VOLLEY— THE AWFUL CATASTROPHE—THEMEETING OF THE LOVERS—THE RETURN.
On the afternoon of the day succeeding the fight, and the second fromthe departure of Bonardi, a rough group of some fifteen outlaws werelounging about the Outer Cave—some talking, some polishing theirweapons, and some playing cards. These consisted of the ten left asguards, with the addition of Hendrick and his four companions, whoreturned the day previous, bringing in Saxton and Niles prisoners, bothof whom were now confined in the dungeon below, the place whence Piketonled forth the Jew on the night of his trial and execution.
In the Inner Cave were four females—consisting of Emily, Inez,Hetty and Cyntha; and to these we shall, for the present, direct ourattention. Inez and Emily, at the moment introduced, were reclining onsofas, but a little distance apart, while the other two, Hetty andCyntha, were occupying one corner of the apartment, conversing togetherin a low tone.
Since the departure of Ronald, Inez had lavished upon Emily the mosttender care, anticipating her every wish, and doing all in her power torestore her strength, and contribute to her happiness. Partly fromRonald, ere his departure, and afterwards from Hetty and Emily herself,she had learned the story of the wrongs of the latter, and all the gentlesympathies of the woman had been elicited in her behalf. From Ronald,too, she had learned a secret, of which Emily and Hetty were as yetignorant, accompanied by a request that she would not reveal it, unlesssome unforeseen accident should prevent his return.
The parting between Ronald and Inez had been affecting and solemn. Hehad not revealed to Inez his design, but she could perceive by his palefeatures, and an agitation which he vainly strove to conceal, that he wasabout setting forth on an unusual, if not dangerous mission. Hence, as wehave said, the parting had been affecting and solemn; and since thattime, Inez, although she strove to be cheerful, and paid the most tenderregards to the wants of Emily, could not banish from her mind thoughtsdark and painful; and in consequence an air of gloomy abstraction wouldnot unfrequently take possession of her. On the day we again introduceher, these painful reveries had become more frequent thanbefore—more prolonged—and in one of them we now find her. Andhere, had we space to devote it, we might moralize upon the causesproducing these results.
It is thought the spirit, in many cases, when approaching the confinesof that vast eternity before it, grows brighter, more etherial, and isless allied to the corporeal substance around it—consequently, ismore sensitive to events about to happen--and by its elevation ordepression, prognosticates, many times, the good or evil that willshortly follow: moreover, too, that with an intuitive sense, it sometimescommunicates to the body what and whom this good or evil will effect, andwhat will be the result. Hence the spiritual, or second sight. Webelieve, too, the spirit is not unfrequently acted upon, when far fromdeath ourselves, with regard to the fate of some dearly beloved friend,(but not so clearly as in the former instance) which is to influence ourseeming destiny; and hence our gloomy forebodings, or presentiments.
But as we presume the reader—who is doubtless anxious for theconclusion of our story—will not thank us for stopping to moralizeor philosophize here, we shall pass on, and leave a subject we mightotherwise be tempted to investigate farther.
Inez, as we have said, was reclining on a sofa, in a mood of gloomyabstraction. Her eyes were bent upon the ground, her features were paleand very sad in expression, and there was a slight quiver of some of thedelicate muscles, as though the mind was laboring with painfulthought.— She had been sitting thus some quarter of an hour,motionless and mute. Emily was also reclining upon a sofa, but a littledistance from her. Her features, too, were pale, and somewhat care-worn;but there was, notwithstanding, a more animated and hopeful look thanwhen we saw her last—and yet, withal, the expression was sad. Underthe kind treatment received from Inez, Emily had gradually recovered fromthe hardships she had undergone, and although still weak, was fastregaining health and strength. At the moment introduced, her eyes wereresting enquiringly, but sadly, upon Inez, as though she sympathizedwith, and wished, yet almost feared to question her of her sorrows. Atlength the strong promptings of her gentle and grateful heart got thebetter of her reserve, and approaching, she bent down, and gently takingthe soft, delicate hand of Inez in her own, in a sweet, touching, musicalvoice, she said:
"You are sad, dear Inez?"
There are words, and ways of saying them, which at times, with asudden and resistless impulse, will stir up all the finer emotions of theheart, and make the eye grow moist and dim.— Such was the effect ofEmily's words upon Inez. She started, a flush mantled her pale features,and she looked up into the sweet countenance of Emily, with tearful eyes.The next moment these two gentle beings were locked in each other'sembrace, and the tears of both mingled.
"Oh, will you not open your heart, dear Inez, and tell me what makesyou so sorrowful?" asked Emily, as, with an arm thrown around the otherswaist, she seated herself by her side.
"I hardly know myself, Emily," answered Inez, with a sigh; "but I feelas though there were a weight upon my heart. I fear something hashappened to him--to Ronald--though why I cannot tell; for he has oftenbeen away, sometimes for a week, and yet I felt not so depressed as now.I fear that dark man you spoke of will betray him, perhaps has done soalready, and he may now be in prison, or dead. Oh, God! if such should bethe case, what, oh! what would become of me?" and Inez shuddered, and hidher face in her hands.
"Do not borrow trouble, dear Inez," said Emily, gently, andsoothingly. "All will turn out for the best, rest assured. We are all inthe hands of a holy, omnipresent God, whose actions cannot err."
"But is not that God a God of justice?" asked Inez, solemnly. "Andwill he not punish man for his misdeeds, his—his—" Inez'voice faltered— "his crimes?"
"Man will doubtless suffer for his misdoings," answered Emily; "butGod will look into the heart and judge him by the motive."
"Oh, Emily, dear Emily," returned Inez, weeping, "to you I will saywhat I have never yet said to human being—for you seem so gentleand pure, my heart yearns for your sympathy. You know the occupation ofmy husband, and that it is criminal in the eyes of the law. His heart isgood and noble; and yet, for his outward acts, I have a long time feared,and of late more than ever, that some terrible calamity, sooner or later,will befal him."
"It is strange," replied Emily, musingly, "that one who possesses somany good and generous qualities as he, should lead such a wild, daringlife— should associate with men so far inferior to himself, both inintellect and education."
"Yet judge him not too harshly, dear Emily," returned Inez,sorrowfully, "for circumstances have made him what he is. He has told mehis early history; how he wept over the death of a beloved mother—amother who was foully, most foully wronged;—how your—how hisown father disowned, treated him with contempt, and spurned him from hispresence, while society could do nought less than point at him with thefinger of shame, because he was a bastard son. Oh, you know not how suchthings can try a proud, restless spirit like his—a spirit that,turned into a different channel, had led him to honor and renown—and make him turn with venomed tooth upon that society, as the viper uponthe foot that tramples it."
"I doubt not there have been strong causes for his deeds," rejoinedEmily; "yet methinks a nature like his should have paused, ere he broughtone so gentle and innocent as you seem to be, into a career the laws ofthe land will hold most criminal."
"You do him wrong there, dear Emily. It is of my own doing. He franklyand nobly told me all; that we must never meet again; and yet I marriedhim, and gave up name and wealth, knowing him to be an outlaw."
"This is strange, very strange, Inez," remarked Emily, insurprise.
"Does it seem strange to you?—to me it is simple. Ilovedhim; and had it been to the gallows direct he would have led me, Icheerfully had gone to die with him."
"I understand," replied Emily. "Oh, woman's love! what will it not do?where can its bounds be set? But strange that he did not then, does notnow, give up this wild, terrible life, and retire to some quiet, thoughhumble spot, where you would both be happy."
"Alas!" sighed Inez, "his oath bound him then—his oath binds himyet."
"Alas, indeed!" sighed Emily; and for some minutes both sat silent,buried in thought. Suddenly Inez started to her feet, and her but nowgloomy countenance became radiant with joy.
"He comes!" she cried, "he comes! I hear his step. I would know itfrom a million—and now his voice!" and tears of joy streamed fromher eyes.
The remark of Inez was correct; for Ronald had already entered theOuter Cave, and was now giving orders in a low, rapid tone.
"Quick!" he said, "quick! All—all is lost. If there are any hereafraid to die, they may now escape. We shall soon be attacked. Those ofyou who are willing to stand the brunt of the peril, will join Piketon,quickly as possible. You will find him at the Entrance. He already hashis orders. You will obey to the letter his commands. Go, men! I amwounded and faint. Should we never meet again, farewell!" and Ronaldextended a hand to each of those bold outlaws, who grasped it in silence,with tearful eyes. Then seizing their weapons, they rushed forth, whileBonardi immediately entered the Chieftain's Chamber, where the brightlight, as it fell upon his features and form, exhibited a sight most sadto behold, and where he was greeted with a wiid, universal shriek ofalarm.
His face was pale—in fact bloody, bloodless, and ghastly. Hisfeatures exhibited the expression of great mental and bodily suffering.His eyes were wild and blood-shot—his hair dishevelled, matted, andin some places stained with blood. His dress was disordered, torn, andbloody also. One hand, bloody likewise, was pressed upon his side, whereappeared to be a wound.
"Ronald! My God, Ronald!" screamed Inez, who was springing forward tomeet him; and throwing up her hands, she staggered back and fell to theground.
"Oh, sir, you are wounded—are killed, perhaps!" cried Emily, inalarm.
"I have my death wound, Emily, but heed it not. You, Inez, Hetty andCyntha, must escape! We shall ere long be attacked. I have time toexplain nothing. I shall die here. How is Inez, Cyntha?" enquired he,turning to the latter, who with Hetty had rushed to her on her fall, andwas now placing her on a sofa.
"Missus dying! She jus gasp um once, massa!" answered the terrifiedCyntha.
"Inez, dear Inez!" cried Ronald, darting forward, placing his armunder her head, and supporting her against his breast.
Inez opened her eyes, and looked up into his face. Then she uttered awild scream, and threw her arms around his neck, where she clung as iffearful of being torn away.
"Oh, God!" groaned Ronald, "this is the most trying moment of all.Inez, Inez,—dear Inez— for God-sake, Inez, lookup!—awake!—look up!—you must escape!"
"Escape!" shrieked Inez, starting back her head, and gazing into hisface in terror.
"Ay, escape! We shall soon be attacked, and you must not be here tofall into the hands of those accursed minions of the law!"
"And you, Ronald?"
"I cannot escape: I am wounded."
"And could you think your Inez would leave you thus, Ronald? Never,never, never! No, no, no! if you die, Inez will die with you!" and againshe threw her arms around his neck, and clung to him wildly. Suddenly shestarted. "Oh, you are wounded!" she cried. "Oh, let me see it! I willstaunch the blood! It shall not, shall not kill you, dear, dearRonald!"
"'Tis vain, Inez, 'tis vain!" groaned he, straining her to his heart."I know the wound is mortal. But come, Inez, you must fly! If I know youare safe, I can die content."
"Never, never, never, Ronald! I will not leave you!"
"But, Inez"—and Ronald whispered the conclusion of the sentencein her ear.
Inez trembled, and grew a shade more pale; but still she answeredfirmly, "I will remain."
"Enough!" and Ronald strained her to his heart again in silence. Theneasing her upon the sofa, he sprang to his feet. "Emily," he exclaimed,"you must fly this moment! Hetty and Cyntha will go with you!" andturning to the latter, he placed in her hand a purse of gold. "There, myfaithful Cyntha, go! and may you escape and be happy."
"And leave missus?"
"I will tend on her, Cyntha, so no more. Emily, here," and he drewforth a letter. "In this you will find the explanation I promised you,regarding your parents. Do not open it until you hear of my death, whichwill not be long. It is brief, but comprehensive. I wrote it in haste,since I saw you, for I feared we should never meet again. At the mouth ofthe cave, a boat awaits you, manned by three trusty followers, who willconduct you to a place of safety. And now, Emily," and his voicefaltered, "it only remains to bid you farewell!" and taking her hand, hepressed it to his lips, respectfully.
"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Emily, weeping bitterly, "how can I thank you foryour generosity?"
"Nay, I need no thanks, Emily. You were a woman, in the hands of ablack-hearted villain, and I did but my duty. You are saved, and thatvillain has paid the penalty."
"Then John is —"
"Dead!" said Ronald, solemnly, concluding the sentence. "But questionno farther; you will learn all in time. Oh haste, Emily, and away, ereany thing happens to endanger you!"
"Inez!" exclaimed Emily; and the next moment they were in each othersarms, both sobbing bitterly. "Inez, sweet lady, it wrings my heart toleave you; but I will not urge you to go, for I can understand yourfeelings. While Emily Nevance lives, Inez and Ronald Bonardi will neverbe forgotten. Farewell, dear Inez; farewell, farewell!" and straining heronce more to her heart, she pressed a kiss upon her lips, sprang away,and disappeared into the Outer Cave. Hetty and Cyntha took anaffectionate leave, and disappeared also, both weeping. In a few minutesall three were seated in a boat without the cave.
"Farewell," uttered Bonardi, who had followed them to the top of theladder, waiving his hand solemnly: "Farewell!" The next moment the boatshot away, and turning, Bonardi descended the ladder with a quick step.Drawing forth a key, attached to his person by a small gold chain, heglided behind the ladder, and opened an iron door, which concealed anaperture in the solid rock.
It was the door of a powder magazine.
Hastily taking thence some eight or ten casks, he gazed on them amoment, with a singular smile, and then proceeded to arrange them alongthe wall, at certain distances from each other, until the two last camewithin the Inner Cave. He then uncorked, and attached a train of towe,soaked in turpentine, to each. This done, he returned to Inez, claspedher in his arms, cast himself upon a sofa, and whispered in her ear:
"Now, dear Inez, let them come."
In the meantime, the boat, bearing Emily, Hetty and Cyntha, reachedthe Entrance, which was the juncture of the creek and river Osage, and socalled from its being the only point whence the cave could be approached.On either hand was a high bluff, which gave the channel running back tothe cave an appearance of being artificial. The bluff on the eastern bankof the Osage, and immediately around the Entrance, was very steep androcky, covered with a stunted growth of trees and underbrush, so that alarge party might be there concealed in ambush. It was here that Emily,and the two females with her, were landed, and then immediately conductedup the steep. As she went up the winding path, she could occasionallyperceive, on either hand, a dark figure, crouched in the bushes, with arifle either resting against his shoulder, or poised and pointed towardthe river, whom she rightly conjectured to be of Bonardi's band, andthat—but why she knew not—they expected an attack from below.When she reached the brow of the hill, she could perceive the sun shiningupon a beautiful and variegated landscape, through a crimson mellow haze,within an hour of the horizon.— At another time perhaps, she wouldhave paused to admire the scenery, and contemplate the rich beauty oflight and shade, as, striking some high point, with a golden sheen, therays of Sol threw a long line of shadow into the quiet valley at itsbase, or glanced off from the smooth surface of many a stream—notexcepting the Osage, and the great Missouri, the latter some severalmiles distant— as from a polished mirror; but now her thoughts weresad and painful; and she turned from this to her conductor—who herecome to a halt, and was looking eagerly in every direction— with anenquiring gaze.
"You'll have to mount and fly, gal," said he, at length, turning toher; "for if I arn't mistaken, it'll be no place for you here shortly.Thar's a body of men coming by land, and another by water;" and hepointed to where the smoke of a steamer indicated its advance up theOsage, some three miles distant. It was this latter, by the way, whichBonardi had discovered from one of the bluffs, that had made him soapprehensive of a sudden attack. "Right round this ere rock," continuedthe man, "is four blooded horses; but as thar' aint but three o' ye, Isuppose the cap'en overrated the number as was to ride 'em, or else hiswife 'scapes another way." As he spoke, the party turned the angle of ahuge rock, where were found four fine horses, well caparisoned forriders. "Mount, gal, and ride hard to the east, and you'll soon be out o'the way of a scrimmage."
In a few minutes all three were mounted, and thanking him kindly forhis services, Emily led the way down the hill, with feelings betterimagined than described, while her conductor, turning short around,speedily rejoined his companions.
The party in ambush was commanded by Piketon, who had orders fromBonardi to annoy the party attacking as much as possible, withoutsacrificing his own men; and, if pressed hard, to escape as best theymight, and leave the rest to him; but, under no consideration, to allow aman of them to return to the cave. As soon as the individual whoconducted Emily up the hill returned, he immediately sought thelieutenant, whom he found leaning against a tree, rifle in hand—forsince their return, the party, in addition to their other weapons, hadarmed themselves with rifles and short swords—and gazing down uponthe dark waters of the Osage, with a gloomy look and clouded brow.
"How!" exclaimed the lieutenant, suddenly starting at a remark theother now whispered in his ear. "By land, too? Are you sure?"
"Sure!" answered the other.
"What distance from us?"
"About five miles, as near as I could reckon.— I jest catched aglimpse on 'em going behind a hill."
"I feared so, I feared so!" returned the lieutenant, biting his netherlip. "There will be time to give these others one good round, however,and then we must escape. What ho!" he shouted: "Listen all! Comrades,there are two parties approaching to attack us. One comes by water, theother by land. The one by water will shortly be here. We must manage togive the latter one deadly round, and then fly to the Retreat, where arehorses in waiting, and thence along the banks of the Osage, following thecourse of the stream, far back into the country; by which means we shallavoid the others, with whom our numbers are too few to engage inconflict, and where we will remain until the excitement has died away,when those who have wives and children can return for them, and thenquietly leave this accursed country forever. Such are the orders of ournoble captain, Ronald Bonardi, who is mortally wounded; and who, for hisown design, chooses to remain in the cave."
After this, Piketon proceeded to dispose of his men, so as for each tolie in perfect concealment to those below, with orders that so soon aspracticable, each was to select his man, and, at the word, to pour aterrible volley of death among them, and then rush up the hill andescape. This being done, all relapsed into silence—a silence to beshortly broken by the awful mandate of death.
The steamer which left St. Louis during the night, was, in themeantime, slowly approaching. The rendezvous of the banditti had been soaccurately described by the traitor John, that there was but littledanger of those in command mistaking the place; still it required acareful examination of the shore, as they approached, and thisexamination they were now making. In about twenty minutes she hove fullin sight of the concealed bandits, who clasped their rifles with thenervous grasp of determined and desperate men. In ten more she had thrownoff her steam, and lay floating,
"Like a thing of life,"
on the dark bosom of the Osage below them."This must be the place," said a deep voice on board. "Yonder is theinlet. Man the boats!"
Instantly a dozen boats suspended to the steamer for the purpose, werelowered into the water, and quickly filled with armed men. And here, erewe proceed, let us give a word or two in explanation.
From the information conveyed by John, it was gathered that theoutlaws, who might chance to escape the attack on the Mississippi, wouldhere rally as their stronghold, and doubtless here make their lastdesperate resistance,—particularly Bonardi, who, he stated, wouldreturn hither to seek his wife, and, from his character, be little likelyto fly,—consequently this was the place to be immediately sought,to give the final blow of extermination to the banditti. On thisinformation the authorities had acted, and hence the arrival of thesteamer for this purpose.
As soon as the boats were manned, a stout figure sprang into theforward one, and stood erect in the bow.
"Six of you," he said, in a low, quick tone, "will remain behind tocover us, and prevent an attack in the rear. The six with myself will nowforward to the cave, which we must enter at all hazards. Row, men, row!Fifty dollars to him who first enters the cave! An hundred to him whocaptures the body of Barton—alias Bonardi— living ordead!"
The words were scarcely out of the speaker's mouth, when six boatsshot out from the rest, and entered the channel, each straining as forlife to be first at the cave.
"Now then, comrades," whispered Piketon, "pick your men on the river,and do not waste powder! One farewell volley, and then for our horses, asthe others must be near."
"But our captain?" said one, enquiringly.
"Fear not for him," answered Piketon. "He has some deep design inview, doubtless, as this was to me his last solemn injunction. Now then,comrades,—ready—fire!"
The last word was drowned in a roar of musketry, that rolled heavilyacross the Osage, and reverberated from cliff to cliff, echoing far awayinto the solitary retreat of many a wild beast, startling him from hislair, while groans, shrieks, and curses, immediately resounded from theboats, where all was consternation and confusion—not less thantwenty having fallen under the fire, most of them dead, and the others,with but three exceptions, mortally wounded.
"Ho! pursue them!" shouted a hoarse voice, from one of the boats; andthe speaker pointed up the hill, where the bandits were seen making theirescape.
Scarcely a minute elapsed, ere the dead and wounded were placed on thedeck of the steamer, and the boats touched the store. Leaping at onceupon the bank, they darted up the steep acelivity, and some of them hadreached within a few yards of the summit, when suddenly all paused, as bycommon consent, and their faces blanched with absolute terror. The groundbeneath them trembled, as by the throes of an earthquake; and then therecame a tremendous, heavy, booming sound, seemingly from the bowels of theearth below. For a moment a dead silence ensued; and then wild shrieks,from distant voices, rent the air.
"The cave!—the cave!—they have blown up the cave!"
Horror stricken at this awful announcement, they turned and rushedback to their boats, in wild dismay, only to find, shortly after, thisterrible intelligence confirmed by their own observation. Of the partythat entered the channel, upwards of fifty in number, some thirty hadreached the cave and disappeared, while the others were eagerly pressingforward, when Bonardi, with Inez clasped to his heart, fired the train,and himself, with every soul within, was, in the twinkling of an eye,launched into eternity. As the explosion took place, and the criesascended from those in the creek, who had escaped, announcing the awfulcalamity, a voice from the brow of the hill shrieked:
"Oh God! oh God! she is lost!" and Edward Merton reeled to and fro,and finally sank to the earth; while the tall, gaunt figure of HarveyBernard stood over him, with a look of the most intense anguish depictedon his honest, open features.
"Poor youth!" he murmured. "Alas! poor Emily;" and kneeling by Edward,he wrung his horny hands, and gave vent to his grief in choking sobs,that made his strong, muscular frame quiver. A quick rustling among thebushes startled him. On looking up, he instantly sprang to his feet,staggered back several paces, and uttered a shout of joy.
"Emily!" he shrieked, "alive?"
At the word Emily, Edward bounded to his feet, and saw her, but a fewpaces distant, rushing toward him.
"Emily!" he gasped, scarcely crediting his senses.
"Edward!" and the next moment they were locked in each others embrace,and so overcome with joy, that for a time all power of utterance waslost; while Bernard, in a delirium of ecstacy, fairly danced about them,and actually so far forgot himself as to kick several stones down thehill, to the no small annoyance of some of the party hurrying up frombelow.
It was a strange wild meeting, that of the lovers, in that wildregion, and at a moment too so awfully terrible, when not less than fortyhuman beings, without a second's warning, had just been ushered into thepresence of their Maker; when groans and shrieks from the dying, on thedeck of the steamer, were mingling with the hoarse shouts and cries ofthose who had escaped their untimely fate. It was a strange wild meeting,that of the lovers, and one that by them would never be forgotten.
As the reader is aware, Merton and Bernard had set out in the morning,with a party rising of forty men, to seek the rendezvous of the banditti,rescue Emily, and punish the offenders. We shall not attempt to describethe thoughts and emotions, the hopes and fears, agitating the breast ofthe former, during that eventful day, (when his mind ran on the perilsseemingly surrounding her he loved,) but leave these to the imaginationof the reader, for our space is already limited. Suffice, that a hardday's ride of bodily fatigue and mental anxiety, had brought him to thespot where we now find him. When within three miles of the place, Edwardhad descried the steamer; and divining at once her purpose, had becomevery much alarmed, lest there should be a fight, wherein, as he thought,Emily must necessarily become involved. Whispering his fears to hiscompanion Bernard, both instantly drove their spurs into their horses'sides, and set rapidly forward, in advance of the others. When theyarrived at the foot of the hill, whereon they now stood, they found ittoo steep for a speedy ascent with their horses, which were already verymuch blown, and leaping from their backs, they darted up on foot. Theyhad proceeded but a few paces, when they heard the report of a volley offire-arms, which caused them to redouble their speed. On their way, theycaught a glimpse of the flying bandits, some distance to the left; butheeding them not, they still pressed on, and at length, pale withexcitement, and breathless with bodily exertion, they reached the summit.As they came in full view of the steamer, the awful explosion at the cavetook place; and Edward, thinking Emily was within, and now lost to himfor ever, uttered the words recorded, and sank to the earth.
As to Emily herself, she had ridden, in company with Hetty and Cyntha,some two miles, when she perceived a body of men, about a mile to theright of her, rapidly advancing toward the spot she had but latelyquitted, and where she knew the bandits were lying in ambush. Some littledistance in advance of the main body, she descried two horsemen, whom hereyes and heart at once told her were Edward and Bernard, Fearful lest theone she loved, with his compan ion, might heedlessly run into an ambush,that would cost both of them their lives, she suddenly wheeled heranimal, and, without a word to the others, darted away to intercept them.But in laying out her line of interception, the angle was too abruptlyformed, and, in consequence, she had fallen somewhat in the rear. Hadthey even for a moment glanced to the right, they must have seen her; butwith their eyes intent upon one point, she had escaped their observation.When they sprang from their horses, at the base of the hill, she was buta few rods distant. Ere they arrived half way to the summit, she haddismounted and was struggling up after them, but too much exhausted togain their ears with her voice. Their meeting the reader has alreadyseen.
And now, leaving Edward and Emily to the holy commune of love, and therelation of such other matters as are already familiar to the reader,with a few brief remarks we shall close this chapter.
The party of which Merton and Bernard formed a portion, on seeing themride forward in such haste, increased their speed, and presently joinedthem on the hill, where they received the sad intelligence of what hadtaken place, and also learned that the bandits had effected their escape,without the loss of a man Of those who were in the cave at the time ofthe explosion, not one could be recognised—so mangled were they,and torn, and blackened with powder. The cave itself, though not utterlydemolished, was so rent and shattered—both apartments being blowninto one—that those who may chance to view it at the present day,will fail, doubtless, to recognise that almost classic beauty belongingto it prior to and at the date of our story; or, what is more, may evenfail to recognise the cave at all. For the benefit of the curious,however, and lest some may deem it a fabulous one, we will here assertthat the cave is still in existence, and can be seen by those who may bedisposed to seek it.
As the party just arrived soon discovered their presence was no longernecessary, and as the sun was already near the line of the westernhorizon, they immediately set out upon their return, accompanied byBernard, Edward and Emily. Hetty and Cyntha soon after joined them, bothof whom, to their no small surprise and terror, were immediately takeninto custody, to be conveyed to St. Louis for examination; andparticularly the latter, who had no papers to show that she was free.About five miles from the Osage, the party found a convenient place, andquartered for the night, during which Cyntha effected her escape, and wasnever afterwards heard from,—she probably having again joined theescaped outlaws.
At daylight on the following morning, each resumed their journey, muchrefreshed by a good night's rest, and for some thirty miles traveled incompany, when they gradually began to separate, as here and there oneafter another turned off to seek their nearest course home. Some threehours after nightfall, Bernard, Edward and Emily arrived at Webber's,having traveled the last five miles entirely by themselves.
The party on the steamer remained at the cave during the night, and onthe day following, after having interred the remains of all those foundin the cave, started upon their return, with what feelings we leave thereader to imagine.
Of the party of Piketon, we can only say they were never again heardof in that country.— What became of them is unknown. Probably theysought some remote place, and perhaps settled down, many of them, intopeaceable citizens— who shall say? No little wonderment was createdamong some of the oldest settlers, to find that here and there an oldneighbor had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared—in many caseswhole families also—and for a long time it was a difficult matterto reconcile their minds to the fact, that in the persons of thoseneighbors had existed many of the most formidable members of the dreadbanditti.
On the night following the one in which Bonardi blew up thecave—wherein Saxton and Niles perished—in a miserable hoved,unfriended and alone, the wretched outcast Curdish breathed his last. Thewound in his shoulder, given by Bernard, having mortified, produced hisdeath.
So perish the guilty.
Thus, one after one, in various ways, have we seen our charactersdisappear, until but a few remain. Well, like to them, one after one,shall we also disappear, and perchance without a friendly hand beingraised to record that we have been.
Let us now turn once more to the living of our drama of life, take afarewell view, and then let the curtain descend and shut them from oursight forever.
THE LOVERS—THE MYSTERY UNRAVELLED—THE LETTER— THEFINALE.
It was a beautiful morning, about a week from the return of Emily, andevery thing in nature looked bright and animated. A gentle rain hadfallen during the night, and the drops were still lingering on leaf andblade and flower, and sparkling in the morning sunlight, like so manydiamonds. The air was clear, soft and invigorating; and the light-footedZephyrs sighed through the forests, rustled the leaves, kissed thebeautiful flowers, and caught a thousand sweet sounds of melody to bearaway to their frolicsome meetings in Fairy Land.
Before Webber's cottage, on the morning in question, stood a gallantsteed, foaming and panting from hard riding; while the rider himself,having entered the cottage, was now standing in the apartment where thegentle Rufus had breathed his last, with one arm thrown lightly aroundthe waist of the graceful Emily Nevance, who, with her soft blue eyesturned sweetly upon him, was gazing with a look of joy, somewhat saddenedby grief.
"Oh, Edward," she exclaimed, with animation, "I joy that you havecome! I have been watching for you since the first streak of morninggilded the east; for I knew you would select the cool of the day, andride long ere daylight. Oh, I have been so sad since we buried poorRufus!" and Emily turned away her head to conceal a tear.
"Well, well, dearest," answered Edward, drawing her fondly to him, andpressing a kiss upon her lips, "let us not forget, while we grieve, thatRufus is happy now. It is a fact that we are prone to grieve too much fordeparted friends, and thereby oppose our selfishness to the Divine Will.Instead of grieving for the death of a friend, we should rather rejoicethat all his troubles are at an end, and that he is now singing immortalsongs in the bright regions of glory. We know that all must die, sooneror late—that we are all wending to the Spirit Land—thenwherefore grieve that one we love has reached the bright goal beforeus?"
"I admit your philosophy is good," rejoined Emily, "but still you willallow philosophy has but little to do with the heart, with theaffections. Philosophy is the cold emanation of the brain—love thewarm offspring of the heart; and the latter, as a general thing, willtriumph over the former."
"Your remarks are true," returned Edward, "for such are the selfishpropensities of human nature. The heart will for a time gain ascendencyover the head: love will triumph over philosophy: such are facts; andyet, as I said before, we should strive to give the latter theasceudency, when we find the former can avail us nothing.— To thisend I would fain bring philosophy to my aid here; and yet withal Ideeply, most deeply grieve, that one so gentle, so noble as Rufus, shouldbe taken from among us, just in the bright flower of manhood. For himselfI deeply grieve, and for his almost heart-broken parents, my heart bleedsin sympathy;" and Edward's voice trembled, and tears filled his eyes.
"Alas!" sighed Emily; "his mother, poor woman, I fear will neverrecover from the shock."
"Is she then no better?" asked Edward.
Emily shook her head mournfully. "No," she sighed. "As you saw her onthe day of the funeral, as you saw her on your departure, three dayssince, you will find her now. She sits in a state of torpor, twirling herfingers, but takes no heed of what is said, or what is passing aroundher.— Alas! I fear she will soon follow him."
"And Webber?" asked Edward, with a sigh.
"He bears up as well as can be expected under the circumstances; butit was a hard blow, a very hard blow, to be made childless in one night,and one son, too, to be murdered before his own eyes, in his own house,and then borne away no one knows whither."
"It was indeed," said Merton, solemnly. "And the body of John hasnever been found?"
"It has not. It is supposed to have been devoured by wild beasts, orthrown into some stream."
"Well," said Merton, somewhat sternly, "he at least deserved his fate.What a black hearted villain!"
"Hush!" exclaimed Emily; "upbraid not the dead! He is gone to bejudged for the deeds done in the body. He has suffered the penalty of hismisdeeds, has paid the last great debt of nature, and so let us becharitable, and say, `Requiescat in pace.' But come, I amdetaining you, and you must be faint with your long ride. Let us enterthe other apartment, where breakfast awaits us."
"A moment," returned Edward, taking her hand. "I have some news, bothgood and bad.— With the steamer which exploded and went down on thenight of that terrible fight on the Mississippi, went my father'sfortune. He had borrowed on securities, a large amount of specie to sendto New Orleans. It was lost, and he is now a ruined man. This is the badnews. The good is, that he has given his consent to our union, which Itrust will ere long be consummated."— As he spoke, Emily bent downher eyes, and a modest blush suffused her features.
"It lightens my heart much, dear Edward," she replied at length, "toknow that his consent is gained; for somehow I have felt as though I weredoing wrong, in accepting your hand contrary to his wishes. For his sake,dear Edward, I regret the loss of his wealth; as it must be a severe blowto one who has labored so long and steadfastly to acquire it."
"The lesson will be a hard, but doubtless beneficial one," returnedEdward, "by showing him the mutability of the fabric on which he hasconcentrated time and talents that might have been used more worthily,not only to the elevation of himself, but of those around him. No one,dear Emily, should set their heart upon gold. Man has nobler duties toperform than the hoarding of wealth. Wealth, properly used, I will admitis a blessing, because by it so many poor human beings can be madecomfortable and happy; and yet how few of the wealthy think of this, oract upon it, but, on the contrary, use their gold to oppress, to grindthe faces of those who are dependent upon them, and by such means maketheir wealth a curse."
"Too true—too true," said Emily, musingly; and then looking upinto Edward's face, after a moment's pause, with a sweet expression, sheadded: "By your father's consent, dear Edward, I feel the only barrier toour union removed—for I have already learned who were myparents!"
"Indeed!" exclaimed Edward: And pray who are you? and how got you theinformation?"
"The latter I received from Ronald Bonardi."
"Ronald Bonardi, Emily? you astonish me!"
"You will doubtless be more astonished, when you peruse the letter hegave me. But come, to breakfast now, and then you shall know all. By theway, you remember the stranger you saw here, whom my guardian found inthe last stages of starvation, in the vault of the Jew."
"I do."
"He stated to my guardian, on last evening, that he had somethingimportant to communicate; and wished all, but myself in particular, to bepresent. As I had retired to rest, it was deferred until this morning.And now, dear Edward," said Emily, playfully, "who knows but what thatcommunication concerns me very particularly?"
"Who knows?" returned Edward, and they passed into the otherapartment.
Some two hours from the foregoing conversation, a group of sixindividuals were seated in the same apartment where this conversationtook place. These consisted of Webber, Bernard and Tyrone, Edward, Emilyand the stranger—Mrs. Webber not being present. The expressions onthe faces of each, were solemn, even mournful; for the events of the lastfew days had been of a nature to give a gloomy cast to theircountenances, not easily to be erased. The features of Webber himselfwere pale, sad, and full of the furrows of intense grief and care. Thoseof the stranger were thin and pale also, but exhibited nothing of thatghastliness so apparent on his first introduction to the reader as theprisoner of the Jew. The expression of his countenance was naturallystern, and there were a few lines in it of a sinister cast. He appearedlike one who, to use an old familiar phrase, had seen better days; butone whose constitution had been somewhat broken by irregular habits anddissipation. He was a little turned the middle age of life, and his hairwas somewhat grey. After the party had become seated, and a momentarysilence elapsed, the stranger, in a voice deep, clear, but slightlyfaltering, said:
"To do an act of justice, and thereby make a partial atonement for mypast crimes, I have requested each and all of you to be present, andlisten to my tale."
Every eye was turned upon him, with an enquiring gaze. The strangernoticed this, and seemed for a moment not a little embarrassed; butsummoning all his resolution to his aid, he proceeded:
"My story I shall make as brief as possible, for one likes not todwell on ones misdeeds. My name is Charles Walton—the place of mynativity, England. I was born rich—entered college at a proper age,with bright prospects—fell into bad company—gambledmuch—drank much— and was finally expelled. My parents shortlyafter died, and I was left a wealthy heir. In horse-racing, drinking, andpetty gambling, I squandered my property; and at the age of thirty, foundmyself a beggar, a vagabond, and a villain— ready to do almost anydeed for money. In this situation I was discovered by one who had knownme in better days—a villain who had helped to fleece me—andknowing my character, habits, and desperate situation, he opened to mehis devilish heart, offered me a large sum to carry out a design he hadin view, which I accepted, and became his tool. This design was no lessthan the murder of the only daughter of Sir Walter Langdon, for which Ireceived in advance the sum of ten thousand pounds."
At the mention of the name of Langdon, Emily started and grew pale,while her eyes, fastened upon Walton, and her head bent a little forward,exhibited the most intense eagerness for what was to follow.
"The girl," continued Walton, "by bribing the nurse, I managed to getin my possession. She was a sweet little creature, of threeyears—my conscience smote me—I could not murder her—and I fled the country, bearing her with me. I took passage for America,and fifteen years ago landed in Boston. I immediately set forth on a tourthrough the States, taking the child with me, determined to abandon her,so soon as a suitable opportunity presented, whereby she would bebettered by the change. Chance favored me. I tarried one night at afarmer's house, the inmates of which pleased me, and in the morning Ideparted, leaving the child in their care, but stating I would return ina few days. That farmer's name was William Webber—the child borethat of Emily Nevance."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Webber, while Merton sprang to his feet, andthere was a look of surprise on the faces of Bernard and Tyrone. Emily,pale and trembling with excitement, leaned back in her chair, unable tospeak. "Go on— go on!" said Webber, quickly; "for I perceive thedeep mystery of fifteen years is being unravelled."
"After leaving your house," resumed Walton, addressing Webber, "I cameto the West, and for ten years led a dissolute life. My conscience,meantime, often upbraided me for the crime I had been guilty of, and atlength I resolved to make at least some slight reparation. My money wasnow nearly exhausted, but still I had some few thousand dollarsremaining, and I returned to the East, with the intent of seeking Emily,proceeding to England, and restoring her to her rights; for I hadlearned, withal, that her family were all dead, and that the villain whoemployed me to murder her, being next akin, was now reveling in the hallsof her father, rioting upon his own ill-gotten gains. For this purpose, Isay, I returned to the East; but alas! when there, my good resolutionfailed me, and I faltered in my purpose.
"It is hard, gentlemen, for one who has made himself a villain, tocome forward and acknowledge it to the world, and be the by-word of jeerin the mouths of his associates. It was this which deterred me, as it hasdeterred many a wretched being before me, from returning to the paths ofhonesty. It is a false pride, I will admit, but it is human nature,nevertheless.
"Determined, however, that my journey should not be all invain—that some good at least should accrue from it—I employeda trusty messenger to convey you a package, (wherein was enclosed the sumof one thousand dollars, and a note explanatory,) with positiveinstructions to the bearer, that it should be placed in no hands butyours, that he should learn if the child was still living and doing well,that he should answer no questions, and return as speedily aspossible."
"Ha!" ejaculated Webber, "this clears up another mysterious event. Butgo on—go on!"
"My main object in this was the education of Emily; for still it wasmy intent at some future day to do her justice. Again I returned to theWest, and during the four years following, squandered or made way withmost of my money. At the end of this period I found my health failingrapidly; and fearful lest death might overtake me, ere the grand error ofmy life should be repaired, I sought a magistrate, in Cincinnati, and hadpapers drawn up, stating the full particulars concerning the abduction ofthe girl, how to prove her identity—in fact, everything essentialto the establishing of her in her rights—which I swore to andsigned, in the presence of two respectable witnesses, who, together withthe magistrate, signed the papers also. These I carried about my person,superscribed to both Emily Nevance and yourself—so that in theevent of my dying suddenly, you would probably receive them. After this,I somewhat recovered, and made another tour to the East, with the fulldetermination, if my life was spared long enough, to return with Emily toEngland. To my surprise and regret, I found you not, and learned you werenow living in the Far West. Resolved to see you at all events, I returnedagain to the West—after having received a full description of thepart of the country where you were located—and had actually reachedwithin a few miles of your residence, when, it being just at dark, I wasset upon by some three or four ruffians, who seized, stabbed me twice,and drew me aside into a rough cave, where they proceeded to rifle myperson; while another—no less a villain than that accursed Jew,from whom you rescued me—perceiving I was still alive,deliberately, in cold blood, grinning upon me the while, stabbed me twicehimself, and I knew no more."
"Ha!" ejaculated Webber, breaking in upon the speaker, "this happenedsome four or five months since?"
"As near as I am able to judge," answered Walton, "it did."
"Then you were the stranger supposed to have been murdered, and whosebody had been sunk in the Maramee—the case alluded to in my remarksa few mornings since, Tyrone. But proceed, proceed, for I am anxious forthe sequel."
"What followed this," resumed Walton, "I am unable to say; for whenconsciousness returned, I was in that loathsome dungeon, where you foundme, with the Jew standing over me, grinning horribly, more like a thingof hell than earth. Why my life had been spared, and wounds dressed, Iknew not then; but afterwards gathered, from different remarks dropped,and hints thrown out by the Jew, that, after his perusal of those papers,the strange and absurd idea of some day marrying Emily, had takenpossession of him; and that my life was preserved to be a living witnessin enabling him to recover her property and rights. In this insane designI encouraged him, in the hope of some day being released. What I suffereduntil that release, is beyond the power of language to describe. I shallnot attempt it. For some days ere you found me, I had not tasted food,nor seen a living being, save the hideous Jew, who came down but a fewhours before to murder me, which something interrupted, and saved mylife. Such, friends," concluded Walton, "for you all seem like triedfriends to me, is my sad, eventful tale; and I throw myself entirely uponyour generosity to pardon me the past, by pledging myself to make all theatonement in my power for the future."
"Your punishment in my opinion, has exceeded your crimes," repliedWebber, mildly; "and were this not the case, I am not one of thoseselfish beings that can withold the right hand of fellowship from him whorepents and seeks to atone for his past errors. Charles Walton, there ismy hand;" and as he spoke, Webber arose and extended his hand, which theother grasped with warmth, while a tear sparkled in his eye.
"And there is mine," said Tyrone, coming forward.
"And mine," said Merton, following his example.
"Wal, old feller," said Bernard, approaching also, "I guess as howI'll have to gin ye a grip on't tu; for darn me, if I don't think there'ssome good streaks about ye anyhow, if they be a little mixed up."
"And Emily?" asked Walton, deeply affected.
"O, sir," answered Emily, with a sweet smile, "I am too happy in thepresent, to bewail the past. If you have done me wrong, from my heart Iforgive you, and trust that He who reigns above will do likewise."
"This is too much," said Walton, drawing his hand across his eyes. "Idid at least expect rebuke from some of you."
"He who can rebuke a repentant man, himself needs a rebuke," rejoinedMerton; "for there must be something wrong, if not base and cowardly inhis own heart."
"Them's jest my sentiments!" cried Bernard; "for the man that wontforgive a feller when he up and acknowledges he's done wrong, aint no manat all, whether he's dressed up in broadcloth finery and talks pious ornot."
"How incomprehensible, how inscrutable are the ways of Providence!"remarked Webber, musingly, after a pause. "How intricately our web offate is woven with that of others; between whom and ourselves, manytimes, there seems not the slightest connection, until a strange order ofevents reveals to us perhaps, that years agone, and miles apart, unknownto each, each was secretly exercising an influence upon the destiny ofthe other."
"Most true, dear guardian," said Emily, in reply; "and in my own case,how strangely and strongly this is verified! Read that, dear guardian;"and she placed in his hands the letter given her by Bonardi.
Webber glanced over it hastily, and, as he did so, there was aperceptible start of surprise on his features. "Strange—strange!"said he, "can it be possible this is so?" and he proceeded to read aloudas follows:
"Dear Emily:—Pardon the liberty I take in thus addressingyou, for it is perhaps the only favor I shall ever ask at the hands ofone whom the ties of consanguinity bid me hold most dear. I fancy I seeyou start with surprise, at the idea of the same blood flowing in theveins of both of us. Such is the fact. Your father and mine were one; butfortune placed a wide disparity between us. You were born to wealth andhonor— I to poverty and disgrace. You were born to be the courtedof society—I to be the outcast. And if we both had one father,what, you ask, made this disparity? I answer, you were bornlegally— I illegally. Or, in other words, your mother was marriedby the laws of the land, in the presence of earthly witnesses—mine,by the laws of honor, in the presence of God only. But enough of this,for my minutes are all numbered. Emily, I am dying of a wound receivedfrom the hands of the father of him whom I have punished for turningtraitor to us, and attempting to wrong you. John Webber is dead. But ha!I am wandering from my subject—my thoughts are almost distracted,and so pardon me.
"Some days since, in a conversation with the father of John, I learnedof you, and that your birth was involved in mystery. Having learned thewhole particulars, and some slight coincidences recurring to my mind, avague suspicion crossed me that you might be the daughter of Sir WalterLangdon,—who, if living, must be of the same age with yourself; andwho, fifteen years ago—about the period when you were brought toWebber's—mysteriously disappeared.
"When I saw you first, in that wild retreat on the mountains of theOsage, I felt my suspicion at once made reality, from your strongresemblance to your father. Gods! Emily, what feelings came over me then!when I thought how that father had spurned me, his own son, from hispresence, and was thus the indirect instrument in making me the outlaw Iam! But a terrible retribution followed, Emily. Your mother soon afterdied—your brother was murdered—you were stolen away, and yourfather and mine died a childless maniac, and his estates passed into thehands of a villain. By those papers destroyed by John, doubtless youmight have proven your identity, and gained possession of what islawfully your own. As matters are now, I fear this cannot bedone—still I think it worth the trial; but, at least, you may restassured your birth is noble and honorable; and this, to one as sensitiveas yourself on the subject, cannot but be joyful tidings.
"And now, dear Emily, my sister, I must bid you farewell,—fortime presses, and my wound grows painful. I write this a few miles fromthe cave, which I shall endeavor to reach alive, and see my own lovedInez once again. If I succeed, I shall probably hand you thismyself,—if not, you will get it from the hands of another. Thereare many things of which I wish to speak with you,—but it is nowtoo late, too late. You will doubtless hear my name a by-word of terror,and my memory cursed; but you at least will be char itable and not curseme; you at least will take into consideration the circumstances that havemade me what I am; you at least may feel the poor despised outlaw was notso bad as he seemed. If you never behold me again, and Inez survives theloss, I pray you, dear Emily, be to her a friend and sister—for sheat least is innocent of crime.
Farewell, farewell!
Ronald Bonardi."
"How strangely wonderful!" remarked Webber, thoughtfully, as heconcluded the letter.— "Were facts like these detailed in a novel,they would be considered wild fancies of the author's brain. But realityoften exceeds romance."
"Well," said Tyrone, "all at least seems tending to prove the hithertounknown Emily Nevance, is henceforth to be known as Lady Langdon; this Iam sure is a sweet romance of reality;" and he glanced at Emily, with asmile.
"At least," returned Walton, "if God spares my life, I shall endeavorto make it so."
"Nay, gentlemen," said Emily, archly, smiling sweetly, rising andextending her hand to Edward: "Not LadyLangdon, and soplease you all."
"Ah!" exclaimed Edward, rapturously, pressing her hand in his, "haveyou forgotton, Emily, that when I was rich you were about to refuse me,because you were poor; and now that the tables are turned, I —"
"Hush!" interrupted Emily, placing her hand upon his mouth.
"That's right, Emily, that's right!" cried Bernard, rubbing his handsand smiling "Don't let him make a fool o' himself now, jest at the winduplike."
Edward made no reply, but drawing the blushing Emily aside, whisperedsomething in her ear, stole a kiss, and both were happy.
Six months from the foregoing events produced a great change in thepositions of our characters. Mrs. Webber had followed her son to thegrave. Bernard had returned to settle in the East--where he afterwardsmarried and lived a happy life. Tyrone had set up in his profession oflawyer, in St. Louis—a profession in which he afterwardsdistinguished himself. Edward had been united to the lovely Emily; andaccompanied by Webber,—who, after the death of his family, haddisposed of his property—and by Hetty, who had been released, andwho begged to accompany Emily in the capacity of a servant—and byWalton, who, true to his promise, determined to restore Emily to herrights,—they had set sail for England, where the latter soon afterobtained possession of what was rightfully her own, and where she andEdward lived in happy affluence, to tell their children many a wild storyof the Backwoods of America, and of their own singular connection withthe Bandits of the Osage.
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