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PREPARATIONS FOR DECISIVE ACTION
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Captain Gordon was in command of the first company of the Riverlawn Cavalry. He was an excellent officer, and had been sent down to organize the company, and Major Lyon wished him to take the command of the battalion; but he insisted that the planter should have that position. The wealthy and influential men of the county, among whom the major was honored and respected, persuaded him to accept; and he had finally done so, Captain Gordon being the most strenuous that he should do so.
Tom Belthorpe, the son of a planter residing near Riverlawn, was the first lieutenant. Deck Lyon, as he had always been called by everybody but his father, had proved to be one of "the bravest of the brave," and to have excellent judgment for a young man of eighteen. He was a universal favorite throughout the squadron. In the battles with the guerillas at Greeltop and Plain Hill, Deck had greatly distinguished himself. In the first of these actions, Lieutenant Gilder of the first company had been killed, and his place was vacant. Among themselves the company signed a paper in favor of the promotion of Deck to the grade of lieutenant.
Major Lyon had no knowledge of this movement on the part of the men, or perhaps he would have interfered to prevent its success; but the paper went to higher authority than he, indorsed by Captain Gordon and Lieutenant Belthorpe; and when the commission came it was as much of a surprise to the father as to the son.
Wearing his new uniform, with shoulder-straps, he had fought as bravely as ever at Munfordsville, and had led his platoon with skill and discretion. Though in an attack of cavalry he led his men into action, he was not again charged with recklessness, as he had been in the action at the Cross Roads, as the fight at the other railroad bridge was called. He conducted himself with dignity in his new position, and all of a sudden he seemed to forget that he was only a boy.
The first company had marched down the road towards the South not more than three miles, before the forward movement was arrested by a messenger, coming in through a path from the road to Breedings with the information that a guerilla or foraging party were approaching a hamlet, evidently with the intention of plundering the houses and out-buildings. It was known that the Confederate forces, who had established and fortified themselves in and around Mill Springs, were destitute of supplies. They were in a hungry or half-starved condition, and their food was obtained mostly by foraging parties sent a considerable distance from their camps.
Major Lyon had divided his squadron at Columbia in order to check the operations of these bodies, some of which were said to be regular partisan bands, robbing and plundering for their own benefit, and not authorized to procure supplies for the Southern army. Captain Gordon had been instructed to be on the lookout for these marauders. The messenger said the party approaching the Breedings road consisted of about thirty mounted men. He decided to send Lieutenant Belthorpe's platoon to attack them, accompanying the force himself, for he could not remain inactive when there was fighting to be done.
The captain had not expected to meet an enemy in the direction of Breedings; but he had received an intimation that trouble might be expected in the region between Columbia and Harrison, though nothing was known in regard to such a raid. The country was cut up by cross-roads, not much more than mere paths, on which several plantations were located, making the territory very favorable to the operations of guerillas or foragers.
"Lieutenant Lyon, I am going with Belthorpe's platoon, for I am more likely to be needed where he goes than where you go," said Captain Gordon, riding up to the young officer. "You will continue on this road till you come to Millersville, and wait there until I join you."
"At Millersville," repeated Deck. "I have studied the map, and I know just where it is."
"I talked with a planter just this side of Columbia, who gave me a hint that marauding parties had a fine chance to operate in the country that will be on your left as you proceed," continued the commander of the company. "If you hear firing, or see anything that looks like a fire, you will attend to the matter."
"Of course I should do so," added Deck.
"I want you to hurry up the baggage wagons, for they are what makes our progress so slow. I need hardly warn you to be prudent, and not expose yourself unnecessarily to a superior force. Don't leave your wagons too far in your rear, for they contain just what the enemy want most. Now, relying as much upon your discretion as your bravery, continue on your march to Millersville," the captain concluded, as he galloped after the first platoon, which had left the road a few minutes before.
Lieutenant Lyon saluted his superior, and then, conscious for the first time in his life that he had been assigned to an independent command, though it was likely to be of brief duration, he sent for the two sergeants of his platoon, and sent them forward as scouts, with two privates to assist them.
"Platoon--attention! Forward--march!" called the young officer, when he had sent the scouts ahead with orders to keep a sharp lookout on both sides, especially on the left.
Life Knox obeyed his orders to the letter, and made the left his particular study; and when he saw something like signs of a plantation in the distance, he dismounted, got over the fence, moving in a direction to satisfy himself that no foragers were in sight. As he was advancing towards the plantation, Grace Morgan came out of a bushy knoll and confronted him. After the interview with her, he had carried the treasure-chest to the road. He had sent the two privates to the left; and as Sergeant Fronklyn galloped off to hurry up the platoon, they rode down the road, and halted in front of him. One of these soldiers was Deck's cousin, Alick Lyon.
"Have you seen or heard anything crooked, Lyon?" asked the chief scout.
"Not a thing, Sergeant; I thought I heard voices one time, but I could make nothing of them. I saw this woman walking across a cornfield;" and he pointed at Grace.
"I saw him too; but I was afraid of him," added the young woman.
"Wasn't you afeerd of me?" asked the sergeant, with a smile on his wiry face.
"No, I was not; besides, I was tired out with the load I carried, and I felt as though I could go no farther."
"How far from here does Colonel Halliburn live?" asked Life.
"It is more than a mile from this road."
"I reckon this box will not be very safe with him, for there's more gorillas runnin' loose about this country than there is skippers in an old cheese. Kin you ride horseback, Grace?"
"Every Kentucky girl can ride horseback," replied she, with the first smile he had yet seen on her face, perhaps because she expected to be sent to Colonel Halliburn's mansion.
"But we hain't got no side-saddle," suggested Life.
"I can get along very well on any saddle; and I have ridden a spirited animal without any saddle," said the lady.
"Perhaps you would like to enlist in our company," added the sergeant, with a heavy chuckle.
"I should like it first-rate, if it could be allowed," replied Grace, with energy, while her eyes snapped at the idea.
"I shall have to leave that matter to Major Lyon. But here comes the platoon," said Life, as thirty-five or forty men dashed down the road, led by Lieutenant Lyon.
"Where are the enemy, Sergeant?" demanded the officer, as he reined in his panting steed some distance in advance of his men, and in front of Life and Grace Morgan.
"Half a mile or more to the east of where we stand," replied the scout.
"Is there a road or path over there?" inquired Deck.
"This is Grace Morgan, and she can tell you all about it, for she brought me the news," answered Life, presenting the young woman.
The lieutenant raised his cap and bowed politely to the Kentucky damsel; and he could not help observing that she was a very pretty girl, though he had no time to indulge in the phrases of gallantry, even if his fealty to Miss Kate Belthorpe had permitted him to do so. This fair young lady was the sister of Lieutenant Belthorpe, and Deck had made her acquaintance on the evening of the "Battle of Riverlawn," when he had rescued her from the grasp of a ruffian. He was too young to be absolutely in love with the maiden, though he believed she was the prettiest girl in the State of Kentucky.
Miss Morgan repeated the story she had told the sergeant.
"How did you escape from the ruffians?" asked Deck.
"We saw them coming from the direction of Miltonville; and Mr. Halliburn, who is my guardian, sent me to carry his valuables to the mansion of his brother, about a mile and a half from his own house," replied Grace, by this time quite reassured by the presence of the soldiers.
"Have you the valuables now?"
"They are in a box," she replied, pointing to the treasure-chest. "It contains a good deal of money in gold and silver, and it is so heavy that I could not carry it any farther, for I was faint and tired out."
"I will send two of my men to see you safely to the house where you are going," continued the lieutenant, as he glanced at his platoon, which had halted in the road near the place where the maiden stood. "Life, name two of your trustiest men," he added in a low tone to the sergeant.
"Fronklyn and Sandy Lyon," responded Life promptly. "The lady can ride on an army saddle, or even without any saddle."
"Send the men you mention; as our spare horses are with the baggage-wagons, you can wait till they come up. Is there any road, Miss Morgan, across these fields to your guardian's mansion?" added Deck, willing that his men should rest for a few minutes, for he was not inclined to fight his first battle, while in command, without fully understanding the situation.
"There is a rough road across the fields and through the woods to the mansion; but it is very soft and muddy," replied Grace.
"There comes a man across the field!" exclaimed Life.
"That is Win Milton!" cried the maiden, her face suffused with a blush, as though she supposed all the listeners understood her relations to the young man, who was now running with all the speed of his legs across the field.
He was a stalwart fellow, and the maiden's crimson cheeks betrayed the whole story. He was well dressed, and his face was intelligent and expressive.
"I am so glad you have come, Win," ejaculated the blushing beauty, as the young man grasped her offered hands. "What is the news from the house?"
"The ruffians are guerillas, and they are trying to make Mr. Halliburn give up his money, but he declared that he had not a dollar in the house; yet he found time to tell me that you had taken the chest containing it to his brother's," replied Winfield Milton, which was his full name. "The robbers were ransacking the house in search of the money or other valuables; and Mr. Halliburn insisted that I should follow you, for he was alarmed in regard to your safety."
"Mr. Win--I have not heard your name yet," interposed the lieutenant.
"This is Mr. Winfield Milton, of Miltonville," added Grace, with another blush.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Milton, for you can be of service to me. I suppose you are acquainted with this locality?" replied Deck.
"Born and raised in these parts, Captain."
"Lieutenant Lyon, if you please. I have already detailed two of my men to conduct Miss Morgan to the mansion where she wishes to go, for I desire to employ you as my guide, if the lady will consent," continued Deck.
"Certainly I will consent!" exclaimed Grace. "I would guide you myself, if I had not to take care of the treasure-chest."
"I shall be very glad to serve you, Lieutenant," added Win.
Although not ten minutes had elapsed since the arrival of the officer in command, the baggage wagons were in sight. Men were sent to them for two of the extra horses, saddled for immediate use. One of them was given to Miss Morgan, Sergeant Fronklyn received the treasure-chest on his horse, and Sandy Lyon was sent on ahead to scout the path. The lady seated herself on the army saddle, and the party moved off as rapidly as the muddy road would permit.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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3
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THE LIEUTENANT BAGS HIS GAME
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The Riverlawn Cavalry had lost a number of its men, who had been killed in the several actions in which it had been engaged, and a greater number had been disabled by wounds; though both companies had been recruited up to their full standard. The squadron was so popular that more than twenty had applied to enlist after its ranks were full. Deck had, therefore, his full quota, and two more.
"The other horse is for you, Mr. Milton," said the lieutenant, when he was ready to move on to the mansion invested by the ruffians.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Lyon; I left my horse a mile beyond Mr. Halliburn's, when I learned that the guerillas were going in that direction," replied the guide. "I am satisfied, now that Grace is safe."
"There is another band of guerillas or foragers in the direction of Breedings; but the first platoon of our company has gone over to give them a reception, and I don't believe any of them will get as far south as the house to which Miss Morgan is going," Deck explained.
"I hope not, for I am very anxious about Grace," added the guide.
"She is a very attractive young lady," suggested Deck.
"Which makes her peril all the greater," replied her intended, for such he was, as they entered a forest of black walnut. "We have tried to persuade her to go to her uncle's house in Springfield, Ohio; but she refuses to leave her guardian, who has been a father to her from her childhood. I shall get my horse, if the ruffians have not stolen him, and hasten to Colonel Halliburn's, as soon as you have disposed of these villains."
"I shall try to bag the whole of them," said Deck. "But so many prisoners would be a nuisance to me."
"There is a loyal Home Guard in Millersville, if the Confederates have not scattered them; and they would take care of your prisoners," suggested the guide.
"Now, Mr. Milton,"-- "Call me Win, as everybody else does, and that will save time," interposed the young man.
"As you please, Win; the name is shorter, and perhaps you will recognize it more readily because it is more familiar to you than one with a handle to it. Now, I want to know something more about the surroundings of Mr. Halliburn's mansion. I wonder that this gentleman is not a colonel, like most people of any importance in this State."
"He was formerly a clergyman, and sometimes officiates now on an emergency. That fact saved him from any military infliction. Then his brother is a real colonel, and two of the same title would have made confusion in talking about them," the guide explained.
The mud was so deep that no great speed could be made on the march, and the guerillas were not likely to complete their mission for some hours, for they seldom left a plundered house without requiring a meal to be provided for them. Still, the lieutenant pushed on with all practicable haste.
"How does the land lie about the house?" asked Deck.
"All the land cultivated on the plantation, which contains over a thousand acres, is on the east side of the mansion. Most of the ground on the west of it is in walnut; for in the dry season it is easily hauled to the Cumberland River, and carried to a market during high water. It is a profitable crop to the planter."
"Does the walnut grove reach as far as the mansion?"
"Very nearly. There is a small grove south of the house, and a wooded hill to the north-east of it."
"Very well; I think I have got the idea of it," replied Deck, as he relapsed into silence to study his plan.
Though he had a great deal of confidence in himself, he was fully conscious of the responsibility which rested upon him. Probably if Captain Gordon had suspected that the lieutenant at eighteen would encounter an enemy, he would have come with the platoon himself, though he had quite as much confidence in Deck as in Tom Belthorpe. But the other division was reasonably sure to engage an enemy, and doubtless this consideration had decided the question as to which he should accompany.
"This wood extends around to the north side of the mansion, if I understand the situation," said Deck, when he had arranged the attack in his own mind.
"Precisely so," replied the guide.
"That is on our left; how is it on the right, Win?"
"You come out of the woods into a cornfield; beyond this is a low hill, and beyond it is a grove, where the family walk in warm weather."
"How far are we from the mansion now?"
"Something more than a hundred rods."
"Platoon--halt!" said the lieutenant, suddenly whirling his horse about as on a pivot. "Sergeant Knox!"
Life rode up to him, saluted, and waited for further orders.
"With fifteen men you will move to the left through the woods till you come to the mansion now directly in front of us. Move without noise, and halt your force as near the house as you can without being seen by the enemy, who are too busy to notice anything just now. When the bugle sounds the 'Advance,' you will march at a gallop to the east side of the house. Do you understand me, Life?" said Deck, speaking very clearly, but in a low tone.
"I'll bet I do; shall I repeat the orders?" replied the sergeant.
"It is not necessary."
Deck then directed Corporal Tilford, another non-commissioned officer, to take twelve men and proceed to the right, through the cornfield, concealing himself behind the hill mentioned by Win, and halt in the grove. At the same signal, a second time given, the corporal was to march his men in haste to the front of the mansion. The two detachments went to the left and the right as directed, and the lieutenant continued the march directly to his destination. The stable of the plantation was the first building they saw, for the west side of the mansion was concealed by a dozen lofty trees. If the ruffians were still in the house, they appeared to have taken no precautions to guard against a surprise: for there was no sentinel, and no person could be seen near the mansion.
"Platoon--halt!" said Deck, when he had led his men into the shelter of the trees; but he spoke in a very low tone, for he was not more than fifty feet from the mansion.
Taking the bugler and the guide with him, he crept carefully around the principal building, halting at the corner. From this point he obtained a full view of the ground in front. He counted twenty-two horses, secured to a fence and in other places where it could be done. This he concluded was the force of the enemy. He could hear very loud noises and shouts within the mansion, and the sounds appeared to come from the upper story of the building. It was evident that the marauders had searched the lower part of the house, and were now engaged in going through the upper portion.
"Was it known that Mr. Halliburn had a large sum of money in his house?" asked Deck in a whisper of the guide.
"Probably it was; he kept it in several banks till recently. When he withdrew the money from the banks, the officers of these institutions were incensed against him; for his example would be followed by other influential people, and the banks would be ruined," Win explained in the same low tone.
"Stufton, go to the rear of the house, and send the first six men you come to around to me. Tell them to make no noise," continued the lieutenant, addressing the bugler.
He was not absent more than three minutes, and the men crept around the house as though they had been engaged in a burglarious enterprise, securing their sabres so that they did not rattle. Milton wondered what the cavalryman in command intended to do, but he waited patiently for the outcome. Ordering the men in a whisper to follow him, Deck stole silently to the portico of the mansion on the east side, which was precisely like one on the west.
The front door of the mansion was wide open. Deck stationed his six men on the piazza, close to the building, and then passed into the hall through the open passage. A door on each side opened into as many large apartments. The one on the right was plainly the parlor. On a broad sofa reclined a man with white hair and beard. He lay there, and did not move any more than if the breath had left his body. In the room on the left lay an elderly woman on another sofa, as motionless as the other.
Heavy footsteps could be heard on the floors of the upper story, with the sound of rough voices, from which proceeded a constant flow of profanity. Deck stepped out of the hall to the piazza, and called the men to him one at a time, and then stationed them in the hall surrounding the staircase leading to the second story.
"If any one attempts to descend the stairs, warn him not to do so, and shoot him if he disobeys," said Deck to each of the troopers, who had his carbine in readiness for use.
"Are there any back stairs in the house, Win?" asked Deck in the usual whisper.
"There are, by the dining-room in the rear," replied the guide, who began to understand the method by which the lieutenant meant to operate, but he said nothing.
Deck went to the west door of the mansion, opened it, and called three more men, whom he instructed as he had the others, and stationed them at the foot of the back stairs. Calling a corporal and a private, he sent them to Life and Tilford, with an order to secure all horses, and load their carbines, putting their revolvers in their belts. Then they were to wait for the signal from the bugle.
"Now we will look into the two rooms, and see if the man and woman on the sofas are dead," said Deck to the guide. "Come with me, Win, if you please."
Milton had not entered the house before, and had not seen the persons on the sofas. He followed the lieutenant into the room where the man lay. Going nearer to him than before, he discovered that the gentleman was strapped to the sofa so that he could not move.
"It is Mr. Halliburn!" was the whispered exclamation of Win.
"Hush! Don't speak, sir," said Deck, as he proceeded to remove the straps which bound him, aided by the guide.
"Not a sound, sir!" continued the young officer. "You are safe, and so is Miss Morgan, and also the treasure-chest. Not a word!"
Win assisted him to sit up on the sofa, and then went into the other front room with Deck. The latter warned her as he had the man not to speak, and then asked the guide who she was, while both of them began at once to remove her bonds.
"Mrs. Halliburn," replied Win, who assisted her to rise as soon as she was liberated.
"Now, Win, if you wish to go and find your horse, I can spare you, though I should like very well to have you remain longer."
"I want to see this thing through," answered Milton. "I have seen you pile up all the incidents of this affair, like those in a novel; and now I want to see you pull out the pin in the last chapter, and let everything down in a heap. I suppose Grace is safe with your men to guard her."
"I will vouch for her safety. I am going to pull out the pin now," added Deck, as he beckoned the bugler to follow him to the front or east piazza.
He ordered him to sound the "Advance," and the command was promptly obeyed. The ringing notes of the startling call sounded clearly in the silence of the retired locality, and it could have been heard at least half a mile. Life Knox's force came first, and Deck directed the sergeant to surround the house, and shoot down any guerilla that attempted to escape. The bugle sounded the second call, and Corporal Tilford and his dozen men appeared in front of the mansion. The sergeant continued to station the men till all of them were in position.
The marauders flocked to the windows, and found half a dozen carbines pointed at each opening. It checked their enthusiasm at once. At the staircase those who proposed to descend found as many pieces aimed at them. It looked just then as though Lieutenant Lyon had bagged the twenty-two guerillas in the upper story of the mansion.
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{
"id": "24866"
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4
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A REFRACTORY GUERILLA CHIEF
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The situation did not look hopeful to the ruffians who had taken possession of the mansion. They saw at least forty carbines pointed at them, and the staircase looked like a barred gate to them. Their heavy footsteps could be heard in the lower story as they walked about from one window to another, searching for some avenue of escape. Life Knox was passing around the house, assisted by Corporal Tilford, in readiness to meet the first attempt to resist the fate that was in store for them.
The lieutenant stood at the front door, and occasionally stepped out-doors to assure himself that the house was well covered by his troopers. He was disposed to wait for some movement on the part of the enemy, or to allow them to get accustomed to the situation. He had fought guerillas before; and it was not wise, in his judgment, to force them suddenly into desperation, for they became reckless when pressed too hard.
"You have got them into a tight place," said Win Milton, who was watching the young officer with the most intense interest.
"The circumstances have just fitted the situation for me," replied Deck, who kept his eyes wandering in every direction in search of any demonstration on the part of the ruffians. "Do you know any of the men you have seen about the place, Win?"
"I recognize one of them, and I have seen some of the others," replied the guide. "A fellow who is called Captain Coonly seems to be in command of the gang. He has been the most active Secessionist in Adair County, and the most desperate one. He has an intense hatred of the Union men of the vicinity, and has advocated hanging every one of them. He is a fire-eater of the most pronounced stamp; but the rascal is a coward, I believe, though he has the reputation of being a brave man; yet he is nothing but a bully. You would think, to hear him talk, that he was going to burn up the Cumberland River."
"Is he the long-haired fellow I saw at the head of the stairs, dressed better than the rest of the gang?" asked Deck.
"That is the man. He is well educated, and is a lawyer in Columbia; but the influential and conservative men, who are nearly all Unionists, will have nothing to do with him, and have always looked upon him as a scallawag. He raised a company of Home Guards, but he could enlist only the ruffians of the vicinity," replied Milton, as he drew the picture of the leader of the guerillas; and Deck thought the lawyer was not unlike some of the Secessionists of Butler and Edmonson Counties.
"As you say, we have the ruffians in a tight place, and I want to give them a chance to think over the situation, and take it in," added Deck. "If they want to fight, we can accommodate them at any moment they are ready to open the ball. I suppose they are all armed."
"With old shot-guns, horse-pistols, and antique rifles," replied Win contemptuously.
"But even such weapons will kill; and I don't want to lose my men unless it is absolutely necessary, for they can be put to a better use than in grinding up such blackguards as we have here."
"Don't you think they comprehend the situation by this time?" asked Milton, who seemed to be impatient to see the end of the affair.
"I might as well wait here as at Millersville; for Captain Gordon has gone over to Breedings to settle up a case of this kind, and he may not arrive for several hours yet. I will go into the house and talk with Mr. Halliburn," said Deck, as he suited the action to the word.
"I doubt if he can give you any information you have not already obtained," answered Milton, following the lieutenant into the mansion.
The planter and his wife were found on the sofas where they had been confined; and they seemed to be still paralyzed with terror, for not a few Union men had been hung or shot in the State within the preceding year. Mr. Halliburn was a man of sixty or more. He had been a clergyman during a considerable portion of his life, and he was not at all belligerent in his nature.
"Mr. Halliburn, this is Lieutenant Lyon, of the Riverlawn Cavalry, serving the United States Government," said Win, presenting the young officer.
"I am very glad to see you, Lieutenant Lyon; I may say that I am rejoiced to see you at this time, for I am beset by the children of Satan, who would hang me to the highest walnut in my park," said the venerable gentleman, with a sweetly religious smile on his thin lips, while his eyes lighted up with an expression in keeping with the smile, which excited the reverence of the youthful soldier.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Halliburn, for I hope I shall soon be able to relieve you of your troublesome visitors," replied Deck, taking the hand the planter extended to him.
"I am not a man of war or blood, and I have submitted with what resignation I could command to the outrages of these myrmidons of sin," continued the ex-clergyman. "They learned in some manner that I had money in the house, which belongs mostly to my ward, Miss Morgan."
"I have met her, and sent two of my men to conduct her to the house of your brother," added Deck.
"God bless you for your kindness to the child!" exclaimed Mr. Halliburn, grasping the officer's hand again. "When I saw these foes of God and man coming towards the mansion, I understood their mission; and I sent Grace to my brother's with all the money in the house. I hoped to save it for her use, for nearly all of it belongs to her. But where is my poor wife?"
"She is all right, in the sitting-room," replied Win. "I will bring her in," and he hastened to the other front room for her.
Mr. Halliburn told the lieutenant that the marauders had threatened to hang him if he did not tell where his money was concealed. He had told them the truth, that there was no money in the house; but they refused to believe him, and had been searching the house for the last hour. They had opened every drawer and closet, explored the cellar, examined the chimneys at each end of the house, and then gone up-stairs to continue the hunt.
Mrs. Halliburn came into the room, leaning on the arm of Win Milton, who presented her to the lieutenant. She looked like the twin-sister, rather than the wife, of the planter, and the same pious expression was settled upon her face. But Deck had learned all he cared to know at present, and he thought by this time that the guerillas had come to a realizing sense of their situation. He thought it was time for him to attend to them. As he passed out of the parlor, a soldier saluted him.
"One on 'em wants to speak to the commanding officer," said he, pointing to the head of the stairs, where the marauders were huddled together. "This is the lieutenant in command," added the cavalryman, calling to the man who wished to see him.
"What! that boy?" demanded the ruffian.
"Boy or man, I am in command of this detachment of United States cavalry," replied Deck, elevating his head as high as he could get it; and he was quite as tall as half of his platoon. "If you have anything to say to me, say it with a civil tongue in your head."
"That is Captain Coonly," said Win in a low tone.
"I have come to the conclusion that I had better make terms with you," replied the leader of the ruffians.
"I make no terms with thieves and robbers," answered Deck, with dignity enough for a major-general. "I find you engaged in plundering a citizen of the United States, threatening him, and ransacking his mansion. Soldiers do not engage in such work."
"I am in the service of the Southern Confederacy," replied Captain Coonly, evidently somewhat crestfallen.
"Have you a commission about you?"
"Not yet; but I shall have one."
"I look upon you and your gang as guerillas, and I shall treat you as such. Will you surrender to an officer of the United States?"
"No, I won't surrender! I am willing to make terms with you, and will do the fair thing," blustered the captain without a commission.
"I do not make terms with such as you are. We have talked enough on that subject, and you need not say another word about terms; there is no such word in my book."
"My men are all armed in good shape, and they are fighting characters. All I ask is fair play."
"You shall have it; and according to the civil law of Kentucky, that means the inside of a prison-cell for such fellows as you are!" answered the lieutenant coolly and calmly, with no display of anger; for he was trying with all his might to follow the excellent advice his father had given him for his guidance as an officer.
"No civil law about it!" exclaimed Captain Coonly, his wrath stirred up by the mention of a prison. "I am a soldier, and so are my men. I demand terms such as one military officer should give to another."
"I do not recognize you as a soldier in the service of the Confederacy, which would entitle you to military consideration," Lieutenant Lyon declared with as much solemnity as though he had been presiding over a court-martial.
Win Milton could hardly control his risible muscles; for he was inclined to laugh outright as he heard a young fellow of eighteen talk as though he understood military law as well as he did cavalry tactics. But Deck had studied the needed subjects for his conduct as an officer while others slept, and he had improved every opportunity to converse with Captain Gordon upon the laws and customs of the service.
"I thought you said we should have fair play?" growled Captain Coonly.
"I did; and I explained what fair play was in a case like this. But we have talked enough about terms; and now we will proceed to business, or to fight out this thing, if you so elect," said Deck very calmly but very decidedly.
"But I only ask"-- "You need not ask anything!" interposed the lieutenant. "We have talked enough; now will you oblige me by coming down the stairs?"
"What if I decline to come down the stairs?" demanded Captain Coonly.
"Then I shall interpret your reply to mean that you prefer to fight out this matter."
"But you have us"-- "I have you, and I propose to keep you. No more talk! Come down-stairs, Captain Coonly, or I will order my men to fire!"
The leader of the marauders hesitated, and then took a single step in the descent; he halted there.
"I only want to say"-- "Say nothing more! Come down, or you are a dead man in another second!" added Deck, still calm and resolute.
[Illustration: "COME DOWN, OR YOU ARE A DEAD MAN." _Page 64. _] "Go down, Cap!" said several of his followers as they retired from the dangerous locality at the head of the stairs.
The captain did not hesitate any longer, but descended the steps very slowly, as though he was marching at his own funeral.
"Win, bring all the cords and straps you can find. We shall want a lot of them," said Deck in a low tone to the guide. "Bugler, go with him and help him bring them."
"This is not fair play," said the captain as he landed in the hall.
"No more talk!"
"What are you going to do with me?" demanded Coonly.
"You are my prisoner, and I intend to secure you properly. Give me your sword and pistols."
"I'll see you in"-- "Life!" called Deck, as he saw the stalwart sergeant near the front door.
"Here, Leftenant!" replied Life as he strode into the hall and made the military salute to his officer.
"Disarm this man!" said Deck, pointing to the ruffian leader.
The tall sergeant seized Coonly by the collar of his coat with his left hand, held him out as though he had been a small boy, unbuckled his sword-belt, and took two revolvers from his pockets with his right. The captain was a middling-sized man, and he struggled in the gripe of the powerful Kentuckian; but he might as well have attempted to resist Hercules himself.
"Now bind his arms behind him," continued Deck.
"I protest, Lieutenant, against this brutal treatment!" stormed the prisoner in a loud voice.
"All right; protest as much as you please, but don't make too much noise about it, or I shall be obliged to have you gagged."
This hint quieted him; and with the aid of the bugler he was secured as the officer had ordered.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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5
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LIEUTENANT LYON ENCOUNTERS ANOTHER ENEMY
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Surrounded by double their own number of soldiers, armed with the best weapons, the marauders imprisoned in the upper story of the mansion could not help realizing that their situation was hopeless. They had not offered to come to the assistance of Captain Coonly when he was in the gripe of the stalwart sergeant; for the carbines of the cavalrymen still covered them, and they saw that they would be shot down if they attempted to descend the stairs without orders, or fired upon their assailants in the hall.
The captain was conducted into the sitting-room, and a man was placed at the door to keep watch of him. But he was harmless by this time; as Win expressed it, "the fun had all gone out of him." Deck began to think he had spent time enough over the affair; and he was in a hurry to return to the Millersville Road.
"Up-stairs there!" he called to the ruffians, who remained there because they could not escape without the certainty of being shot whether they attempted to leave by the windows or the stairs. "Is there any officer among you?"
"Lieutenant Billock is here," replied one of them.
"Let him show himself."
"That is my name," responded a fellow nearly as big as Life Knox at the head of the stairs.
"Your commander is a prisoner, and you rank next to him. What do you propose to do, fight or surrender?" Deck inquired of him.
"What can I do?" asked the big fellow; and he had not the air of a fighting-man, in spite of his ample proportions.
"That is for you to decide," answered Deck.
"We are surrounded by double our own number, and caged here like a lot of mules. Give me five minutes to talk to the boys," returned the guerilla lieutenant.
"All right; but not a minute more than five," added the officer of cavalry, as he looked at his watch.
"What are you gwine to do with 'em when you get 'em?" asked Life in a low tone.
"Turn them over to Captain Gordon when I have done my share of the job," answered Deck.
"We have concluded to surrender," said Lieutenant Billock at the head of the stairs. "I don't see 's we kin help ourselves under the sucumstances."
"Very well; I shall hold you as prisoners, and treat you as I did your captain. Call in six more men, Life."
This additional force, carbine in hand, was stationed in the hall by the officer, with orders to shoot any man who resisted or tried to escape; and the orders were given in a loud tone, so that the prisoners on the floor above could hear them.
"Now you will form a line up there, and march down in single file, six feet apart. Each man will deposit all his weapons on the floor, and go into the room on the left, after his arms are tied behind him," continued Deck.
The prisoners said nothing, and obeyed the order in silence. Lieutenant Billock came first. The bugler was ordered to see that every one put all his arms on the floor, and assist him in doing so. Two men tied his arms behind him, and led him to the sitting-room. All the others followed him, and were served in the same manner. Twenty-two men were counted when the ceremony was finished. The bugler was ordered to blow the Assembly, and the whole platoon gathered in front of the mansion, which faced the east.
Lieutenant Lyon appeared to have studied up his plan, for he was ready to take the next step as soon as all the prisoners had been secured. He next formed his men in two ranks, reaching from the mansion to the fence, where the ruffians had hitched their horses, retaining the sergeant and half a dozen soldiers in the hall, where he stood himself. Then he sent half the prisoners out-doors, with their arms still secured behind them, and directed Life in what manner to mount and otherwise dispose of them.
The sergeant called ten men from the ranks to assist him, and each one of them took a ruffian in his charge. Life had Captain Coonly in his own hands. As the prisoners pointed out their own horses, they were conducted to the fence. The cord or strap was then loosened from the left wrist of each, but remained fastened to the right. They were then required to mount their steeds, which were a sorry-looking set of animals.
"Now you are all right," said Life when the captain was in his seat in the saddle.
"Why don't you take this strap from my right wrist?" asked the prisoner.
"Beca'se I kin make a better use on't," replied the sergeant, taking the strap in his hand, and making it fast to the crupper strap behind the rider.
It was drawn back far enough to prevent the prisoner from reaching it with his left hand. This was a device of Deck himself; and he had treated a prisoner in this manner once before, and it had succeeded admirably, though his man was disposed to resist. Life looked over the work the men had done, and changed some of it when necessary. Half of the cavalrymen were then sent for their horses.
They returned mounted in a few minutes, and were placed in charge of the prisoners, under Corporal Tilford. The other half of the ruffians were then mounted in the same manner, and the rest of the platoon went for their steeds in the grove; while orderly Sergeant Life formed the platoon, with the prisoners in the centre, and half a dozen soldiers on their flanks, to check the ambition of any who attempted to escape. All was ready for the march to the Millersville Road, and Deck went in to bid adieu to Mr. Halliburn and his wife.
"I sincerely hope that you will have no more visits from such ruffians," said he as he took the hand of the ex-clergyman. "I am confident this gang will not molest you again. I had my men search them as they laid down their arms, and they found a few trinkets, which I passed over to Mr. Milton."
"All we had of any great value was in the treasure-chest which Grace carried away before the servants of sin entered the mansion. I am under such a load of obligation to you, Lieutenant Lyon, that I shall never be able to repay or reciprocate your kindness to us in our distress; but I thank you with all my heart, and I shall pray daily for you, that you may be saved from peril and temptation in this world, and that we may meet in the happy land beyond the grave."
Mrs. Halliburn expressed herself in the same terms; and the young officer hastened away, attended by Win Milton, who was going to the home of Colonel Halliburn, to assure himself of the safety of Grace Morgan.
"What shall we do with all these guns and pistols, Lieutenant?" asked Win, as he pointed to the pile of them in the hall.
"Anything you like; I don't want them. I advise you to conceal them under the hay in your stable. There must be some servants about this house, though I have not seen one," said Deck.
"There are about thirty of them; but they all fled at the approach of the guerillas. They will all come back now that the danger is over."
The lieutenant mounted his horse, and placed himself at the head of the column, with Win at his side, still acting as guide. Deck then gave the order to march. Milton conducted the platoon to the road by an open field most of the way, and the soil afforded a better footing for the horses.
"What does all that mean, Lieutenant?" asked Win, as they came to a little hill which gave them a view of the road for a considerable distance. "There is a company of cavalry coming down the road at a headlong gallop!"
"Probably the first platoon of our company," replied Deck.
At the same moment Sergeant Fronklyn and Sandy Lyon rode furiously across the field, and halted in front of them, having just returned from their mission to the mansion of Colonel Halliburn.
"Confederate cavalry!" shouted Fronklyn, when he was a considerable distance from the column.
"Battalion--halt!" shouted Deck in his loudest tones.
"It is a small platoon, and perhaps it is a part of the enemy Lieutenant Belthorpe engaged at Breedings. The men look as though they were running away from a force behind them."
"How many of them are there, Fronklyn?" asked Deck hurriedly.
"Not more than thirty, if as many as that," answered the sergeant.
"Life!" called the lieutenant. "Select ten men, and guard the prisoners," he added.
The sergeant took the men from the rear of the column, and Deck ordered the rest of the platoon to march at a gallop. The officer rode at a pace the other horses could not equal, and reached the road far in advance of his command. He wanted a few minutes to examine the situation; but the enemy were within fifty rods of him. At a glance he counted six fours, which made twenty-four men besides the officer.
By the time the lieutenant had made his momentary survey of the approaching force, his platoon reached the road, Win Milton with them. The company's baggage-train had arrived, and had halted about twenty rods to the south of the place where Fronklyn had thrown down the fence when he saw the command were coming. The wagons were guarded by ten men, who had been taken from both companies at Columbia; for Major Lyon had learned there that several counties were overrun with guerillas and foragers, the latter sent out from General Zollicoffer's Confederate force at Mill Springs.
The baggage-guard had been ordered up by Fronklyn, and they were approaching as Deck dashed into the road. If a dozen war-elephants had waddled into the road instead of Deck's command, they could hardly have created more surprise than this force of United States cavalry. The officer in command of the force promptly ordered a halt when he was within twenty rods of his enemy, for he could not help recognizing the uniform of the loyal army.
The young lieutenant had reined in his horse and come to a halt as soon as he reached the road, where he had a full view of the coming detachment. Milton joined him as the men dashed into the road, with Life, who had detailed Corporal Tilford, with the ten men, to guard the prisoners. Deck, profiting by the solemn injunctions of his father when his promotion went into effect, struggled to keep cool and self-possessed. His first impulse was to charge the approaching enemy; and he would have done so if the Confederates had not halted, and given him time to look over his surroundings.
As he took in the situation, he was perfectly satisfied that he could easily defeat the enemy, and the only fear he had was that the detachment would escape. His force was now nearly double that of the Confederates in numbers, and would be more than that if he called in the guard of his prisoners.
"Do you know that force, Win?" he asked as the guide rode up to him.
"I do. They wear the blue and the gray, and they are Tennessee cavalry," replied Milton. "Fronklyn was right."
Deck had a field-glass slung over his shoulder, and he directed it to a point beyond the enemy; for he wished to ascertain if Tom Belthorpe's platoon was in pursuit; but the road was too crooked to enable him to see any distance, for it was bordered in places by walnut forests.
"I don't quite understand this thing," said Deck, musing, as he strained his vision to discover another force at the north. "Captain Gordon was with the detachment that went to Breedings; and if he defeated the Confederates, as he must have done, I don't see how he happened to permit them to escape, for he had better horses than the men in front of us ride, and the captain and Lieutenant Belthorpe are wide-awake officers."
"But both of them are strangers in these counties, while the Tennesseeans are probably well acquainted with the country. Zollicoffer has to feed his army on the supplies gathered from the region around him, and his foragers have learned the geography of this part of the State. At any rate, his officers can obtain plenty of guides," replied Milton; "and this one had a better knowledge of the roads and the paths across the country."
Fearful that the Confederate commander would avail himself of his knowledge, and thus elude him, Deck sent Life with ten men into the field on the left, and Fronklyn with the same number into that on the right. The enemy did not seem to like this movement, though it weakened the force in front of him about one-half. The officer arranged his men so that they extended entirely across the road, and then in a voice that might have been heard half a mile, he ordered a charge.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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6
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A SMART SKIRMISH IN THE ROAD
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The Confederate troopers set up a yell loud and fierce enough to intimidate all the old ladies in the State if they could have heard it; but the Riverlawn Cavalry had heard it before, and its effect was to kindle the wrath of the members of the platoon.
"Unsling your carbines, Life! Unsling your carbines, Fronklyn!" shouted Deck, as the flanking parties dashed into the two fields.
The men had fought hand to hand with the Texan Rangers; and they were roused to the highest pitch of enthusiasm when they found themselves again in front of a regular force of troopers, instead of Home Guards or guerillas. With their sabres in hand they rushed upon the foe with all the speed to which they could spur their horses. The men were fresh; for they had fought no engagement that day, and their work had been easier than the regular marching.
On the other hand, the enemy had perhaps fought with the first platoon, and had been running their horses till the animals were nearly exhausted. But they received the charge like brave men, and stood up to the work. Deck had advanced on the right of his men for the reason that the officer in command of the enemy was on the left of his troopers; for he desired to meet him. He had drawn his sabre; and possibly the remembrance of his meeting on the field with the lieutenant of the Texan Rangers had something to do with his choice of a position.
The squads in charge of Life and Fronklyn had each put in a volley from their carbines as soon as they were abreast of the Confederates, where they could fire diagonally at the enemy so as not to imperil their friends; and two of them had dropped out of their saddles, and doubtless others were wounded. Deck shouted words of encouragement to his soldiers, and almost instantly the conflict became furious. The Confederates fought like demons, and two of the loyal force were seen to drop from their saddles by the men on the flanks.
But the firing ceased as soon as both parties were mingled in the fight; for the two sergeants feared that their bullets might hit the wrong men. At this point the Confederate commander rushed upon the young lieutenant, who was ready for him, though he had not opened the duel. Both of them were skilled swordsmen, and for a minute at least they parried each other's cuts and thrusts. Life realized that his _protégé_, as he regarded him, was in imminent peril; for his antagonist was a heavier and taller man, and the longer reach of his right arm was in his favor.
Deck was hard pressed, and neither officer could even glance at his men, lest he should be caught off his guard. But Deck was still self-possessed, and perhaps the excellent advice of his father saved his life. Life Knox was not afraid of anything, but he trembled for the safety of his lieutenant. He sought a position where he could put a bullet through the brain of the brave Confederate, though he felt that it would be mean to do so. Fortunately for him the sergeant could find no such position.
Ceph, the name of Deck's noble steed, which had been abbreviated from Bucephalus, seemed to Life, whose attention was fixed upon his officer, restive and uneasy: but his rider did not bring him into a leaping posture, as he had done on a former occasion, and had been charged by his superiors with reckless daring; but the charger suddenly stood up on his hind feet, as though he intended to attempt the leap over the Confederate officer's horse on his own responsibility.
But the other steed was too tall for him, and his rider reined him in. At the moment when he was elevated above the head of his opponent, Deck seized his opportunity to deliver a blow upon the head of his foe with his sabre. It struck him on the side of the head, above the ear, cleaving his skull, and he dropped from his horse like a lump of lead. Life was happily relieved at the result of this furious conflict.
He had not been idle during the affair; for he had sent two of his men to remove the fence at the side of the road, and Fronklyn had done the same on the other side. The moment the enemy's brave leader had fallen from his horse, the sergeant ordered his men into the road, leading the way himself, and the other sergeant on the left had followed his example.
"Squad--attention!" shouted the orderly sergeant, after he had formed the troopers in two ranks. "Forward--march!"
He led the charge himself; and they delivered a volley of blows and thrusts, as occasion served them, which ended the strife in less than another moment. Several of the Confederates cried "Quarter!" and not another blow was struck after the word was heard.
"Who is in command of this company now?" asked Deck, as he and his men moved out of the tangle to the sides of the road.
"Leftenant Logan," replied a wounded trooper who had a sabre-cut on the side of his face which was bleeding profusely.
"The fall of Captain Letcher leaves me in command," said this officer, approaching the young lieutenant.
"Do you surrender, Lieutenant Logan?" asked Deck, as he surveyed the fine form and handsome face of the officer, who appeared to be not more than a year or two older than the victor.
"I have no alternative; we are outnumbered, and surrounded by your force," replied the Confederate lieutenant solemnly and sadly.
"I sympathize with you, Lieutenant, though I was compelled to do my duty," replied Deck; and even while he gloried in the success of his command, he was sincerely sorry for the misfortune of the officer, whom he had seen in the road fighting bravely for the cause in this particular field, which was lost from the beginning. "But it is no disgrace or dishonor to you or your brave soldiers to be beaten by double your number."
"I thank you, Lieutenant; and I only regret that we are obliged to be enemies," returned the officer very courteously. "Am I at liberty to attend to my wounded now?"
"Certainly, sir; and I hope your loss is not so great as it appears to be at this moment," answered Deck.
After an action as hotly contested as this skirmish had been, it was surprising how few had been killed outright. Only two of the Riverlawns had fallen never to rise again; but six of the twenty-two Confederates who had gone into the action were past human aid. Four of the blue, and nine of gray, had been disabled by wounds more or less severe, while hardly a single man on either side had escaped without being slightly wounded.
"Have you a surgeon in your detachment, Lieutenant Logan?"
"I have not. He was left with the other platoon near Breedings; but I hope you have one."
"I have not. Ours is with the main body," replied Deck; and the Confederate officer returned to his men.
"Who are the killed in our platoon, Life?" said Deck, when the sergeant came to the lieutenant for further orders.
"I don't like to say so, Leftenant; but your cousin, Orly Lyon, is one of them."
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Deck. "I am sorry he has finished his campaign so soon; but I am glad he did not die among the enemies of the Union."
"But he fought like a hero in the action, for I was near him when he fell under the sabre of the lieutenant yonder," added Sergeant Sluder.
"Who was the other man killed, Life?" asked Deck.
"Barron, another of the new recruits."
"I am sorry to lose him, for he was a very promising soldier, though he had not been sufficiently drilled. Bury the dead in the field on the right," said Deck as he started for the baggage-wagons, where the wounded had been carried.
Life had detailed a burial party, and Logan had done the same for the men he had lost. Shovels and picks had been supplied to both from one of the wagons. Having attended to this duty, the orderly sergeant was sent to the field to ascertain the condition of the prisoners in charge of Corporal Tilford. They still sat upon their horses, with the right hand made fast at the crupper-strap, and doubtless were anxiously awaiting the result of the skirmish in the road.
"How goes it, Sergeant Knox?" asked Captain Coonly when Life came within speaking distance of him.
"All right," replied the big Kentuckian.
"Haven't the regulars of the Confederate army licked you?"
"Not much; but they have been licked out of their boots, with the third part of them killed or badly wounded. You have no show for gittin' out of this scrape yet."
Tilford reported that the prisoners had not made any trouble; for they all declared that the Riverlawns would be beaten, and they were waiting to be set at liberty. The sentinels over them guarded them very closely, and afforded them no opportunity to make a demonstration, even if they had been disposed to do so; for the soldiers with loaded carbines in their hands, and with orders to shoot any one who did not obey orders, or who attempted to escape, was a fact patent to them all. Life was satisfied with his inspection, and hastened back to the wagons.
When he reached the road, he met two well-dressed gentlemen coming out of the field on the left, from the direction of Colonel Halliburn's house. Both of them were mounted, and were provided with saddle-bags. He was a native of Kentucky, and he promptly recognized them as doctors.
"Mornin', gentlemen," said he, riding towards them. "I reckon you uns be doctors?"
"You are not far from right, soldier," replied the elder of the two.
"Be you Secesh or Union?" demanded Life, as though he had the right to put the question.
"Divide the question, and each can answer for himself," replied the one who had spoken before. "I am opposed to making Kentucky the battleground of this war; and if I fought on either side, it would be with the Confederates."
"Be you of the same mind?" asked Life, turning to the other.
"I am sorry to differ from my friend, Dr. McNairy; but I am a Union man," answered the younger doctor, though he appeared to be at least forty years old. "But what has happened here?" he continued, surveying the surroundings, especially the work of the burial parties.
"There's been a bit of a scrimmage between your friends here and them as runs with t'other doctor; but you are both wanted right now," replied Life.
At this moment Mr. Milton arrived at the spot, and had apparently recognized the two gentlemen as they rode across the field. He saluted them both, calling them by name.
"I've told these doctors what we want of them," added the sergeant.
"But what about this battle, Mr. Milton?" inquired Dr. McNairy, the elder one, who appeared to be about sixty years old.
Milton gave a very brief account of the action, and mentioned that Mr. Halliburn's mansion had been ransacked by the prisoners whom he pointed out in the field.
"Why didn't you hang them?" demanded Dr. Barlow, the young doctor.
"The military officer in command of the detachment here managed the business, and I had nothing to do with the matter; though I would have strung up Coonly if I had had my way, for hanging would do him good. But the lieutenant said that one outrage did not mend another," replied Milton impatiently; for he was anxious to have the wounded cared for.
"The lieutenant is a sensible man," added Dr. McNairy.
"Now, Dr. Barlow, your coming is most opportune; and I hope you will attend to the wounded of the Union force, and that Dr. McNairy will do the same for the Confederates," added Milton.
"It is a mere accident that we happen to be here, for we have been over to perform an operation on the wife of General Macklin; but I am glad to be able to serve the Union wounded, and I am quite willing to do the same for the Confederates."
"I will take care of the Confederates," added Dr. McNairy.
"Now, Sergeant Knox, if you will conduct Dr. McNairy to the Confederates, I will take Dr. Barlow to the Union wounded."
"I'll do that; but tell the leftenant there is a cavalry force comin' down the road, and I reckon it's the first platoon of our company."
Both of them departed on their missions, accompanied by the doctors.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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7
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THE BATTLE AT THE BREEDINGS FORT
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Dr. McNairy was introduced to Lieutenant Logan, and the surgeon began his work at once. Both of the professional gentlemen had their instruments with them, for they had performed an operation that forenoon. Life remained but a moment after he had done his errand, and hastened to a point where he could obtain a better view of the approaching cavalry force. His supposition that it was the first platoon of the first company proved to be correct, and he awaited its arrival.
The column was moving leisurely, for there was no occasion for haste; and it appeared later that the men had not been idle during the forenoon. Captain Gordon and Lieutenant Belthorpe were riding at the head of the platoon, and as they came to a turn in the road the scene of the late action came into view; and both of the officers were greatly surprised, for neither of them had supposed that Deck would have anything to do but guard and hurry on the baggage-wagons.
"What does all that mean?" asked the captain, as he opened his eyes very wide to take in the gathering in the road and the fields beside it of men and horses.
"It looks as though Lieutenant Lyon had been doing something there; but I will warrant that Deck has done his duty like a man, whatever he has been at," replied Tom Belthorpe, who had an abundant admiration for the young officer.
"I hope he has not been reckless, as I am afraid he is inclined to be when things get warm around him," returned the captain.
"There comes Sergeant Knox; and things must be quiet in the camp, or he would not have left Deck for a moment," added the lieutenant.
Life had ridden forward to inform the captain what had transpired in the road and at the mansion of Mr. Halliburn; for he believed the officers would be anxious to solve what was now a mystery to them.
"What's going on here, Sergeant?" demanded the captain as soon as Life came within speaking-distance of him.
"We uns have had a bit of a scrimmage here with Confed'rit cavalry," replied the sergeant as he reined in his steed, and saluted the captain.
"A skirmish?" said the captain.
"Well, yes; and it was a rayther lively bout till the enemy surrendered."
"Did they surrender?" asked the commander of the company; for it was not the habit of the Southern troopers to yield, and he had been fighting with a portion of the same company that forenoon.
"They couldn't help theirselves; we outnumbered 'em, and they had to give in or be cut to pieces."
"How is Lieutenant Lyon?" inquired the captain with no little anxiety in his tones and his expression.
"I reckon he's got a sword-cut on the arm; but he's right side up, and don't say nothin' about it."
"What were the losses?"
"We had two killed and four wounded."
"Who were the killed?"
"Orly Lyon and Barron."
"Both new recruits, and one of them is the nephew of Major Lyon."
"The enemy lost six killed, and nine wounded; and the captain in command was in the fust lot, brought down by Leftenant Lyon in a hand-to-hand squabble at the side of the road. Deck fit like a mad rooster. His hoss stood up straight, and gin his rider a chance to git in the cut that finished the officer."
"Lieutenant Lyon was reckless, wasn't he, Sergeant?" asked the captain.
"Not a bit on't! He was as cool as a frozen cowcumber; but he hit hard when his hoss stood up endways," replied Life. "We cleaned out a gang of gorillas afore we had this scrimmage in the road."
"Another affair? Did you have a hard fight with them?"
"No fight at all," answered the tall Kentuckian, with a slight chuckle. "Deck bagged 'em like a flock of wild turkeys in a trap-pen."
"We will hear about that another time," said Captain Gordon as the head of the column arrived at the scene of the fight. "Who are those over on our right?"
"The fust ones is the Confed'rits burin' their dead. The next lot is the doctor fixin' up the enemy's wounded. The surgeon is a Secesh, and we picked up two on 'em as they come across lots from an operation on some woman. T'other is over with our men, and he's a Union man."
"Where is Lieutenant Lyon?"
"I left him over by the baggage-wagons, lookin' out for the wounded. We shall git there in a minute or two."
"What are those men on our left, in the field?" asked the captain as they came to a point where the prisoners could be seen, still in charge of Corporal Tilford.
"Them's the prisoners tooken over at the mansion of Mr. Halliburn, half a mile from here," replied Life, as they approached the location of the wounded Union soldiers.
Dr. Barlow had informed Deck of the coming of the first platoon, and he had mounted his horse to go out and meet them. He was ready to come into the presence of the captain of the company; for he felt that he had done his duty faithfully, and also that he had conducted himself with prudence and discretion.
"What in the world have you been doing over here, Lieutenant Lyon?" asked Captain Gordon, as he rode forward, and grasped the hand of the young officer. "You seem to have been busy here from what Sergeant Knox has told me."
"We haven't had any time to spare, Captain; for in half an hour after we parted events began to thicken upon us, and we have been kept busy ever since," replied Deck.
"I will hear your report later, for my men are tired, and need their dinner. It seems to be all quiet about here now, and we must take a rest here."
"I have ordered our cooks to make coffee, and it will be ready to serve out very soon," replied Deck, as he pointed to the fires in the field behind the temporary hospital; and near them the horses of the troopers and the mules that drew the wagons were eating their oats off the grass. "We shall feed our men on herring and hardtack with the coffee."
Lieutenant Belthorpe ordered his men to picket their horses and feed them; and in another hour the soldiers and their beasts had all been fed. Seated on the grass with his two lieutenants, the captain listened to the report of Deck on the events of the forenoon. When he came to his encounter with Captain Letcher, both of his auditors were intensely interested, though he told his story very modestly.
"I suppose you caused Ceph to stand up on end when you found yourself in a tight place?" suggested Tom Belthorpe.
"I did not," answered Deck very emphatically. "Ceph knows more than some men; but he became restive and uneasy after the captain and I had pegged away at each other for some time, and he stood up of his own accord. I had to hold on with all my might with my left hand; but my horse did not try to leap over the other animal, for he was even taller than Ceph. When I saw the captain's head below mine, I used the opportunity, and made the cut that finished the affair. I was not reckless, as I was once accused of being, but wrongly, Captain Gordon. I have made it a business of mine to-day to keep cool, and not let my impulses run away with me; and I think I succeeded very well."
"Life thinks so too," added the captain.
"I have not said a word to him about it. I have kept my affairs closely in my own head."
"You managed the guerillas admirably, and bagged them very skilfully," said his superior approvingly.
"I think it was largely a matter of luck and chance that I gathered them in without losing a man, or even having a fight," added Deck. "The ruffians were all busy ransacking the mansion in search of the money; and if they had found it, I learned from Mr. Milton that it would have given them over two hundred dollars apiece. I got in without disturbing them, and they did not suspect the presence of my platoon till the bugler sounded the call for my men. Then they were surrounded, and the carbines were pointed at every window, with half a dozen aimed up the staircase. It was easy enough then to bring the affair to a conclusion."
"What are you going to do with your prisoners, Lieutenant?" asked Captain Gordon.
"I turn them over to my superior officer, of course; for I have ceased to be in command now. Mr. Milton informed me that there is a Union Home Guard at Millersville that might take charge of the guerillas," replied Deck, glad to be rid of this responsibility.
"Who is this Mr. Milton?" asked the commander; and Deck told him all he knew about him, and especially that he had been very useful to him as a guide.
"Where is he now?" inquired the captain, as they continued to eat the dinner of hardtack and herring, washed down with hot coffee.
"There he is near the hospital; he has just sat down to lunch with the sergeants," replied Deck, pointing to the group.
"Ask him to join us, Lieutenant," said the captain.
Deck obeyed; and Milton immediately responded to the summons. The lieutenant apologized to him for his want of attention, for he had been very busy every moment of the time. He was introduced to the commander and Lieutenant Belthorpe; and the former thanked him warmly for the service he had rendered, and invited him to join them in the simple repast before them. He freely answered all the questions put to him. He declared that Millersville contained a majority of loyal people, many of whom had enlisted in the Kentucky regiments, while others had formed a Union Home Guard, and were ready to fight to keep the State in the Union.
"I judge that your time has not been wasted this forenoon," said Deck.
"It has not, indeed," replied the commander of the company; and he proceeded to detail his experience with the enemy at Breedings.
He found on his arrival at that place that the marauders were a foraging-party of regular Confederate cavalry, and not guerillas. It consisted of at least a platoon, or half a company. They were coming across the field from the Millersville Road. As soon as they discovered the Riverlawn force, the enemy retreated, as the captain understood it; but they were only hastening to a small fortification of earthworks thrown up by the Confederate Home Guards of the place, who were in the majority in that locality, although there were several rich planters in the district who were Union men.
The fort had been armed with two rusty iron cannons, which had been used for salutes in the time when the Fourth of July had been generally celebrated. But it was not large enough to hold all the cavalrymen, and the second platoon of twenty-five men had been sent to a hill on the other side of the road. The commander sent Lieutenant Belthorpe to attack them there, while he gave his attention to the enemy in the fort.
The two guns, loaded with home-made grape-shot, were discharged; but the gunners were utterly ignorant of the art of handling the pieces, and the scattering bullets all went over the heads of the loyal cavalrymen. The captain did not give them time to repeat the experiment, for he ordered his lieutenant to charge over the earthwork before they had time to load again. The fort had been constructed in a very rude manner, without the help of an engineer; and it was only a sort of windrow of earth, as hay is raked up in a field, and the mounted men had no difficulty in riding over it.
The Confederates had dismounted, turning their horses into a field. This was a fatal mistake on the part of their officer. His men were huddled together with the Home Guards in the small space; and though they fought bravely, they were soon ridden down, and totally defeated. Many of them had been killed or disabled, and the Home Guards had run away as soon as the horses began to ride them down. The officer called for quarter, and surrendered. He and his men were paroled at once.
At the hill Lieutenant Belthorpe had vigorously attacked the second platoon, and soon drove them from their ground. When the victory was won at the fort, Captain Gordon re-enforced Belthorpe with twenty men while the paroling was in process; and the enemy seeing that they were outnumbered more than before, when they were driven from the hill, gave up the fight, and fled at the best speed of their horses by the way they had come. The lieutenant in command pursued them as far as the road, when the recall was sounded near the fort, and they returned to the little village. Captain Letcher was in command of the platoon, and he had continued to retreat, believing that his pursuers were still following him.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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8
|
BEFORE THE BATTLE OF MILL SPRINGS
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Captain Gordon had related the history of the affair at Breedings, and Deck had learned from Lieutenant Logan considerably more that was not within the knowledge of the commander. As they finished their simple dinner, they discovered a gentleman, attended by a couple of men who looked like mechanics, the latter with muskets on their shoulders, and all of them mounted on fine horses, approaching the camp. The two surgeons had finished dressing the wounds of the injured, and had mounted their horses to depart. The soldiers, the prisoners, and the horses had all been fed, and it seemed to be time for the next movement.
"That is Colonel Halliburn coming," said Milton.
"Is his title simply an honorary one, or is he a military man?" inquired the captain.
"He has been the leading man in the militia for thirty years, though he has never been in active service," replied Milton. "He is past the military age now."
The gentleman was introduced to the party, and he gave Deck the most cordial thanks for the service rendered to his brother.
"How is Miss Grace, Colonel?" asked Win.
"She is well and happy now, though she is much concerned about her guardian, and would have returned to him if I had permitted her to do so; but I am going over to my brother's now, and I shall persuade him and his wife to come to my house, for it is not safe for them to be alone there. I have brought a couple of my men with me; and if we can do anything to assist you here, we are at your service."
"Thank you, sir; we have defeated the enemy on all sides, and we are ready to move on now to join the other company of our squadron," replied the captain. "The next question that we have to settle is the disposition of our wounded, some of whom are not in condition to be moved."
"My house is at your service for this purpose. I have twenty-five men who belong to the Home Guard of Millersville residing in my village; and I have called them out since Miss Morgan came to my house, and they will be able to defend us from any ordinary enemies, so that your men will be safe there," said the colonel.
"I thank you with all my heart," answered Captain Gordon. "I shall avail myself of your kind offer."
"I am the captain of the Home Guards, and Dr. Barlow is the surgeon; and we will attend to the removal of the men. I will look after the matter as soon as I return from my brother's. Mr. Milton and the doctor will remain here till I come."
"I am under very great obligations to you, Colonel Halliburn," added the captain, "and I hope I shall be able to render you any service in a time of need which you may require."
The commander of the company paroled the Confederate prisoners, and permitted them to retire with their horses. They carried their wounded with them on stretchers or on horseback, and marched up the road to join the rest of their company. The bugle sounded, and the first company of the Riverlawns formed in the road. It was only about six miles to Millersville, and the captain decided to march the guerilla prisoners to that town. They were placed between the two platoons, with a guard on the flank; but the fun had all gone out of them, and they were as submissive as whipped puppies. The column marched, and in about two hours arrived at their next destination.
They found a company of about fifty Home Guards, armed with muskets, but without uniforms, drawn up to receive them; for the news of the skirmish had reached the place, and a considerable body of citizens were in attendance as spectators.
"I am Lieutenant Ripley, commanding in the absence of Captain Halliburn the Home Guards, all loyal men, and we give you a Kentucky welcome," said the officer of the Guards, saluting the captain. "What can we do for you?"
"You can take these guerilla prisoners off our hands, for they are a nuisance to us," replied Captain Gordon with a smile.
"Do you wish us to hang them to those trees yonder?" asked the lieutenant.
"I do not ask you to do anything of the kind, though it might do them good to hang them; but we don't treat prisoners in that way, even if they are guerillas," replied the commander with considerable energy. "You can confine them in some building, or let them go; but you must not kill, starve, or ill-treat them, for Union soldiers don't do such things."
It was nearly sundown, and the captain decided to bivouac for the night. The camp was laid out in a field, and the tents were pitched. A supper was cooked for the men, though the commissioned officers were invited to a private house; but they declined the invitations to sleep away from the company, though they ate the supper provided for them in the house of a Union magnate, and repeated again the story of the day's events. The commander inquired particularly for the news from the seat of war in this quarter.
"I understand that General Crittenden has joined the army of General Zollicoffer, and, as he ranks him, has the command of the army," replied the host, who seemed to be a very well-informed gentleman. "I believe most of the Confederate troops on the other side of the Cumberland River are Tennesseeans, and that is about all I know in regard to them."
"Do you know where they are located, Mr. Kennedy?" asked the captain.
"We all know that they are on the other side of the Cumberland, about six miles below the point to which steamboats can ascend. Zollicoffer has fortified the hills, three or four hundred feet high, and holds a very strong position; in fact, one of the strongest in the State in the hands of the enemy. It covers the coal-mines and a great many salt-wells beyond the river, and these are of the utmost importance to the Confederacy. But it is well understood in these parts that the army of Zollicoffer is short of supplies, and some say his men are starving in the camps. I know that the Tennessee cavalry are foraging on this side of the river to a considerable extent; and you have met one of these parties to-day, and defeated them. Compared with the guerillas that are operating on their own account in many parts of the State, the foragers are really very mild; for they do not insult women, or take anything from the farmers and planters except provisions; and they treat Federalists and Secessionists just alike, for supplies have become an absolute necessity to their army."
"Troops are constantly arriving from the North; and doubtless they intend to attack Zollicoffer or General Crittenden, whichever it may be, in his position near the Cumberland," suggested Captain Gordon.
"I doubt if Zollicoffer will wait for them to do that; for he must find the Union forces, and beat them, or retreat into Tennessee. Should he stay where he is, he must either surrender or starve."
It appeared subsequently that he decided upon the alternative of crossing the Cumberland, and attacking the Union forces wherever he could find them. He was compelled to do this, as Mr. Kennedy declared, or starve for the want of supplies. Mill Springs, which is the name given to the battle that was fought by Zollicoffer, though it is called Somerset, and also Logan's Cross Roads, is on the south side of the Cumberland River, and is a post-town. But the battle was not fought on that side of the river, and it is the name of the position of the Confederate army before the battle.
The line of defence, or of attack, as might be, chosen by the Confederate army under General Johnston in Kentucky, appeared to extend across the southern part of the State, and included three strongholds, the first of which was Columbus, on the Mississippi River, on the west; Bowling Green in the centre; and around Mill Springs on the east. General Crittenden, the Southern commander-in-chief in this section, had intrenched himself at Beech Grove, in Pulaski County, on the north side of the river, east of Mill Springs.
Zollicoffer commanded under him, and the battle was fought by him. His position was fifteen miles south-west of Somerset. General Buell, at Louisville, then in command of the Union department which included the State of Kentucky, realized the necessity of reducing this stronghold, and sent General George H. Thomas, the ideal soldier of the war, though not then so well known as at a later period, with a considerable force to this region to accomplish this object. This able general had approached his destination, but had not yet concentrated his force for the attack. It was General Crittenden's policy to beat the Union army in detail before the troops for the assault had been massed for the final attack; but Zollicoffer, forced by his need of supplies, crossed the river in a steamer and other craft, with about five thousand men, and moved towards the north, to attack the force that threatened him.
This was the situation in the vicinity of Somerset and Mill Springs when the Riverlawn Cavalry was marching in the direction of the former place; and one company had reached Millersville, while the other was believed to be at Harrison. The raids in the vicinity by foragers and guerillas had been the immediate cause of sending the squadron to the locality. The first company had camped for the night; and the officers had returned from the residence of Mr. Kennedy, where they had been entertained at supper. The officers and soldiers were tired enough to roll themselves up in their blankets in their beds on the grass; and Captain Gordon was preparing to do so when one of the sentinels informed him that a man at the lines wished to see him, and he believed it was the one who had been the guide of the first platoon in the forenoon, for he gave his name as Winfield Milton.
At the sound of this name, Deck, who had lain down, sprang to his feet. He feared that he had come for assistance against another attack of guerillas or foragers. The captain ordered him to be admitted to the tent, and he soon appeared. He had rendered very valuable service, both to Deck's command and to the company after it was united.
"I am sorry to disturb you, Captain, at this hour; but I could not get away any earlier, for we have been busy over at Colonel Halliburn's, moving his brother and his wife, and transporting the wounded to his mansion."
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Milton. It is only eight o'clock, and I had not retired," replied the captain. "But I hope you have not been attacked again."
"No, sir, we have not been attacked; and if we had been, we have force enough at the colonel's to defend ourselves, for we have a part of the Home Guards from this town to re-enforce those of the little village," replied Milton. "I came for another purpose."
"I am glad to see you again, Win," interposed Deck, as he grasped the hand of the late guide.
"Sorry to turn you out of bed, Lieutenant Lyon; but I was afraid you would leave before I could get here in the morning," replied the visitor. "I have been talking with Colonel Halliburn since you left, and I have felt not a little ashamed that I am not in the Union army in its time of need. But I have had to look after Grace and her guardian's family, and that is the best excuse I could give to myself. Now they are all settled at the colonel's, and I have come over here to enlist in your company, Captain Gordon, if you will take me. You have lost some men, and I thought you might want some more."
"We have kept both of our companies full so far, and I shall be glad to have so good a man as you are in our ranks," promptly answered the captain. "When shall you be ready to join us?"
"Right now!" exclaimed Milton.
"Is Miss Morgan willing that you should enlist?" asked Deck with a laugh.
"Grace is as good a girl as ever was raised in Kentucky, and she has always been ready to have me go to the war. She is as full of patriotism as a nut is of meat, and says she should be ashamed to make any objection to my going. I am ready to sign the papers, and take all the steps to get into your company, Captain," continued the would-be recruit.
"Our surgeon is with the other company, and you must be examined by a doctor."
Milton drew a paper from his pocket, which proved to be a certificate to his physical qualifications, signed by Dr. Barlow, who had been regularly appointed as an examining surgeon. The Captain wrote down the particulars in answer to his questions, and Winfield Milton was duly enlisted in the service. Deck was especially pleased with the result of this interview, for he had taken a strong liking to Milton.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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9
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PREPARING FOR ANOTHER BATTLE IN THE ROAD
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The Assembly sounded at five o'clock the next morning; and half an hour later the troopers had their breakfast of coffee, hardtack, and cold beef, the last cooked the night before. Milton was supplied with a uniform and accoutrements from a wagon by the quartermaster-sergeant. He had served in the militia in a company of mounted men raised in his county; and though some of the tactics were new to him, he was at home in most of the duties of the soldier.
At six o'clock, while there was still hardly light enough to recognize a friend twenty feet off, the company was formed; and Life Knox, who was the orderly sergeant, reported the fact to the captain. It was but ten miles to Jamestown, and twenty-five to Harrison, where the two companies were to unite. Life Knox, who had earned the reputation of being the most reliable scout in the company or the squadron, was sent out on this duty with Milton, because the latter was entirely familiar with all the country in Wayne and Pulaski Counties.
They left the camp somewhat in advance of the column. Colonel Halliburn arrived at Millersville just as the company were departing; for he had received important intelligence, brought by a friend who had just come from Robertsport, on the south side of the Cumberland River, where he had been on private business. The colonel rode by the side of the captain for some distance when the company started.
"You must have been up all night, Colonel Halliburn, for you are here in the gray dawn of the morning," said the captain when his visitor joined him. "What is the news from your valley?"
"All is quiet there, though we keep a guard on duty by night and day," replied the colonel. "The doctor, who spent the night at my house, reports that all your wounded are doing well, and that his worst case is likely to recover. But my news is from the other direction."
"From what direction?" asked Captain Gordon, deeply interested by this time in the remarks of his companion.
"From Jamestown, not ten miles from this town. My friend Squire Walcott has just returned from Robertsport, which you know is only a few miles from Mill Springs, and in the midst of Zollicoffer's intrenchments. He belongs to our company, and had some difficulty in getting across the river; but he managed it very well, though he was under suspicion. He walked five miles down the river, and there fell in with a negro who was just landing from a bateau.
"For a silver dollar the negro ferried him across the river. The fellow knew more than the law allows down here, and Walcott contrived to let him understand that he was a Union man; and this won Cuffy's heart, and he told him all the news about the Confederate army posted there. It has been known in these parts that this army has been short of provisions and forage for several weeks, but we did not suppose their supplies were as limited as this negro reported.
"Both the men and the horses are half starved. Bare existence in the camp was a hard struggle; and some of the regiments subsisted on one-third of the ordinary rations, and the horses and mules were hardly in condition for use. The fractional ration consisted of bread alone in many portions of the army. The supplies of the north-east counties had been exhausted; and most of the subsistence had been obtained latterly from Kentucky, gathered in by foragers of the cavalry.
"Cuffy had a son who was the body-servant of a colonel of a Tennessee regiment; and he told his father what he learned in the camp, the most important item of which was that Zollicoffer would soon attack the Federal forces wherever he could find them. He could remain no longer in his intrenchments, with starvation staring him full in the face. Of course I am telling this in my own language, as I translated it from the negro's gibberish.
"But this is not the most vital news to you at this time, though it may be of service to you. Walcott made his way on foot to the cabin where he left his horse, and then rode to Jamestown. At this town he found a full company of the Seventeenth Tennessee Cavalry, who had camped there the night before, living on what was left of the fat of the land; for the place had been raided twice before. They had two wagons with them, and it was evident that they intended to load them with provisions and forage.
"Walcott reached his home at midnight, and immediately called upon me with the news he had gathered. At Jamestown he saw one of the lieutenants flirting with a girl in front of the hotel. This officer was summoned to supper, and his companion hastened up the street. She was the daughter of a storekeeper in the town, which is the county seat of Russell County; and my friend had often traded there in goods he could not find in the towns nearer home.
"The girl was speaking to her father when Walcott went in; but the keeper of the store welcomed him. He had not much to say to the trader; but he saluted the daughter, and engaged her in conversation. He began by warning her to be very discreet in her relations with good-looking officers of the Southern army. Then he asked her what the company were doing in Jamestown; and she told him they were going to Millersville, and that he would call and see her on his return. She was a very pretty girl, and I hope she profited by my friend's advice."
"But when did all this occur?" inquired Captain Gordon, intensely interested when he heard that the company were coming to Millersville.
"I told you that Walcott got home at midnight," answered the colonel.
"But midnight divides any two days in the month of January, and in every other month in every year. What particular midnight was it?"
"Why, the very last one that ever was--last night. My friend rode half the night in order to give me, as the captain of the Home Guards, this news, as soon as he got to the town, less than half an hour ago. I called on Lieutenant Ripley, and ordered him to muster our company, and get as many volunteers to defend the town as he could. The second lieutenant, who lives near me, will march the men on guard in the little village to town at once. I believe I have told you all I know, Captain Gordon."
"I am exceedingly obliged to you for the information you have given me," replied the commander of the company.
"I am inclined to think I had better take the bull by the horns, and march my company, all but a guard for the town, over here, and join you. My men all have horses, and are well armed, though they are not provided with sabres. Most of them have hunting-rifles, and are dead shots," continued the colonel.
"I shall not object to your marching your company over here, though I think I can handle the enemy alone; but you must use your own judgment," added the captain.
"I would rather fight the battle over here than in the town; and I shall bring my men, and put them under your command, Captain Gordon. I think they are all ready by this time," replied the colonel, as he wheeled his horse, and rode back at a gallop.
The commander communicated the intelligence he had just received to his two lieutenants; and it was heard by some of the cavalrymen, from whom it passed along the ranks, till all of them knew that a battle would soon be fought, perhaps within a couple of hours. The captain rode back to the head of the column. He had increased the speed of the company from a walk to a trot while conversing with Colonel Halliburn.
The captain had no doubt that the information he had received was entirely correct; and he hurried his men somewhat, hoping to find a better place for the coming combat than he had yet seen along the road, with woods on each side of the way. But he rode about three miles farther before he came to a location that suited him. It was a hill with a rude farmhouse at the top of it, on the right. The land on this side had been cleared, and the crops had been harvested from it. At the ascent of the hill on the left, about ten acres had been recently cleared, while a continuous forest began at the crest of the hill, and extended as far as he could see.
The captain realized that he could not have found a better location for his purpose in the whole State of Kentucky; and he gave the order to halt and to remain at ease when the company was not more than half-way up the hill. He preferred to make his charge, when it came to that, down the hill; and he had come to a halt where his force could not be seen by an enemy on the other side of the elevation.
Captain Gordon was accounted a skilful strategist; and as he sat on his horse at the head of the column, he matured his plan to meet the attack, or to begin it, as the case might be. He had not waited much more than an hour when the Millersville Home Guard galloped up to the foot of the hill, and halted. The captain rode back to the head of their column, and the colonel in command saluted him. The horses were reeking with foam, and seemed to be well nigh winded, so great was the speed to which they had been urged. It was a horse-raising country, and the animals were of the highest grade.
"My men are now under your command, Captain Gordon, and personally I will obey your orders," said the colonel. "I have explained the matter to my men; and they all understand it, and will recognize you as the commander of the whole force."
"I shall give my orders to you, sir, as the captain of the company, as far as practicable," replied Captain Gordon. "How many men have you?"
"Sixty-four, besides the two lieutenants."
"How many of them are armed with rifles?"
"More than I thought when I spoke to you about them, for there are forty-two of them; and they are skilled in the use of their weapons."
"Call them from the ranks, if you please, and have the first lieutenant march them to the top of the hill," continued the captain. "If you will go with me, I will explain my plan of action."
"I obey your orders, Captain."
The men with rifles were called out at once, and formed in fours by Lieutenant Ripley. The second lieutenant formed the other twenty-two in the same order. They had muskets slung on their backs, and most of them had heavy revolvers in their belts, the only uniform any of the company wore. The captain sent for a quartermaster-sergeant, and ordered him to bring twenty-two sabres from one of the wagons.
Sergeant Fronklyn was sent for, and he was directed to drill these men in the most important cuts and thrusts of the manual until the men were needed for service. The captain, with Colonel Halliburn, returned to the head of the column, when the plan was explained; and his companion declared that it would make short work of the approaching company.
The riflemen were posted in the woods on the left, and their lieutenant was fully informed what was expected of him. They were to dismount, leave their horses farther in the forest, and then station themselves behind the trees. When the enemy came within rifle-shot of them, they were to pick them off, the column being divided among them, so that all might not fire at the same mark. This was to be the greeting of the Confederate company.
The captain explained to his companion in what manner the main body of the company and its re-enforcement were to go into the action. Twenty men were sent to take away the fence on the right hand of the road; and it was soon removed, in spite of the protest of the farmer. The rails and posts were carried far enough to be out of the way. This work was performed under the supervision of the second lieutenant. It was hardly completed before Deck discovered the proprietor stealing to the east, and evidently intending to reach the road on the descent of the hill. He arrested the man, and he was conducted to the head of the column.
The captain ordered him to be tied to a tree in the shelter of his cabin; for it was plain that he meant to inform the enemy of the presence of the Union company. The lieutenants were then instructed what they were to do; and this had hardly been done, before Life and Milton were discovered riding furiously up the road. They reported the enemy approaching very leisurely towards the hill, and not more than half a mile from it. The sergeant was confident they had not been seen, for they had been careful to keep out of sight around a bend in the road.
The company were still too far down the declivity to be seen till the enemy came to the top of the hill, and the riflemen were likely to bring them to a halt before they could reach that point. The captain had taken a position where he could see without being seen. Sooner than he expected he saw the head of the Confederate column, and ten minutes later the riflemen began the discharge of their pieces. The first man to drop from his saddle was the commander of the company, who was the most conspicuous mark at the head of his command.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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10
|
THE SHARPSHOOTERS OF MILLERSVILLE
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The forty-two riflemen of the Home Guard were sharpshooters who had practised for many years with the weapon, both as hunters and by firing at a mark. Some of them were past the military age; and the lieutenant in command of the detachment was sixty years old, and he had won his spurs as the best shot in the town. He was a man of influence, and his skill had procured him his present position in the company.
Lieutenant Ripley was at the right of the line of sharpshooters. He had stationed his men in the woods, and ordered them not to fire till he did so; and they were to load and fire at will after he had given the first discharge. When the captain of the Confederate cavalry dropped from his horse, it was known by whose shot he had fallen. A couple of men were ordered to dismount, and bear him to the side of the roads; and the lieutenant who succeeded to the command ordered a halt.
Captain Gordon and Colonel Halliburn were behind the farmer's house, where they had retired, not to avoid the bullets of the enemy, but to obtain a position where they could see without being seen. The horse of the former stood on a knoll, from which his rider could look over the corner of the low building, and the latter was at his side. Both of them saw the captain of the company fall from his horse.
"Ripley fired that shot," said the colonel. "He was never known to miss his aim when he had fair play."
"That was a good beginning, at any rate," added the captain.
"But why don't the next man in the line fire?" mused the commander of the Home Guard, uttering his thought.
They could not know then the reason; but they learned afterwards that the lieutenant had ordered them not to do so, as he wished to observe the effect of the death of the captain, for he had not moved after he fell. The company seemed to be staggered by the event for the space of a minute. The men all turned their heads towards the woods; and as no shot followed the first one at once, they might have inferred that the fatality to the commander had been the work of an assassin.
This view was immediately confirmed by the captain's successor; for he ordered four troopers to dismount, and go into the woods in search of the murderer. But they did not reach the edge of the forest before fire was opened upon them, and every one of them dropped dead or wounded. The rifle was a terribly effective weapon in the hands of the sharpshooters. The company had certainly fallen into an ambush. The troopers could do nothing on their horses in the woods, and for the moment they were practically helpless.
The fire continued all along the line of riflemen, one discharge at a time, so that no two men should aim at the same soldier or officer; and all along the detachment every one seemed to bring down his man. The lieutenant saw the havoc made in his command; but Captain Gordon did not give the order for his company to advance on the plan he had arranged.
The battle appeared to be fighting itself without any assistance from the summit of the hill, and it was evident that the enemy had no knowledge of any force outside of the forest.
"That lieutenant has just given an order, but I could not make out what he said," observed the colonel. "He is in a tight place, and you have set a very ugly trap for that company to fall into, Captain Gordon."
"The assistance of your company, Colonel, has given me a very decided advantage," replied the captain.
"And you have made excellent use of it. My men are safe in the woods, and the lieutenant seems to be losing his time."
"You can see what his order meant now, for his men are dismounting. They are going into the woods to clean out the enemy, and that is really the only thing he can do," replied Captain Gordon. "It will be time for me to put a finger in the pie very soon, for the protection of your men, if for nothing else."
"You need not trouble your head about the riflemen, for they all have legs; and even Ripley, the oldest man among them, can use his walking-pins as well as any of them. They will retreat through the woods, using their rifles as they retire."
Every alternate man of the company was dismounted, giving the bridle-rein of his horse to one mounted. They double-quicked into the forest; but they began to drop, to cling to the trees for support, or to retire from the field before the observers on the hill lost sight of them. Still Captain Gordon did not give the word to advance.
"Isn't it time for this company to move forward?" asked the colonel.
"Not quite; it is best to wait a short time, till the cavalrymen get a little farther into the woods," answered the captain. "Your men are firing quite rapidly now, and are evidently retiring in good order."
"I am not at all concerned about them. They can keep behind the trees, firing as they retreat. The riflemen have hunted through that forest, which extends five or six miles to the north, and they have known every acre of it for years. They are quite at home there; and they will not fall into any creek or mud-hole, as the enemy would without a guide."
"They are brave men, and they have done good work this morning. But it is now time for my company to make a move; for I will not leave your guards to do all the fighting," added Captain Gordon, as he descended from the knoll, followed by his companion.
He had already explained to his two lieutenants in command of the platoons what they were to do at a signal sounded by the bugler. The captain rode to the top of the hill, though he did not expose himself to the fire of the enemy, who were still unaware of his presence. Stufton was near the head of the column, and he gave him the order to sound the advance. He did it with full lungs. Lieutenant Lyon, commanding the second platoon, gave the order to march, and his men started at a trot, which was immediately changed to a gallop. The farmer's fence had been removed by order of the captain when he had arranged his plan for the action; and Deck, on the right flank of his command, took to the field, where they had plenty of space, though recent rains had turned the soil into soft mud. But the speed was kept up in spite of this impediment till the head of the platoon reached the left, or foot, of the Confederate company.
In response to the bugle signal, Lieutenant Belthorpe advanced upon the head of the enemy's column, deploying to the side of the road, and continuing till they filled up the space to the foot of Deck's force. The enemy had discharged their carbines, or other pieces, at random, and apparently without orders; but they inflicted no injury upon the flying horsemen. Deck was the first to give the order to charge; but he had been prohibited by the captain, to whom some one had reported the young lieutenant's custom of leading his men into action, from placing himself in front of his men when he went in upon a charge, unless in a case of actual emergency.
Deck promised to obey this order, and he did so in the advance of his platoon; and when he ordered the charge upon the left of the enemy's column, he was on its right. Every man of the Confederates was encumbered with an extra horse, though as they confronted the Union cavalrymen he rid himself of his charge; and thus turned loose, the animals were soon wandering wherever they found an opening. Deck had very nearly his full complement of men, and so had Tom Belthorpe; for the soldiers of the Home Guard had been detailed to guard the baggage-wagons, and picket the rear of the column. One-half of the Confederates had been sent into the woods, and by this time they had advanced a considerable distance in pursuit of the riflemen.
The enemy were at present doubly outnumbered; and though they realized the fact, they fought as though they had been contending man for man. Indeed, they contended desperately against the odds before them, and deserved victory for their steady valor. But with them then it was a "lost cause," and through no fault of their own. Before the Union column had reached the position assigned to them, the lieutenant in command had sent his bugler into the forest to sound the retreat for the portion of the company pursuing the riflemen.
As he returned, the officer shouted at him to give the signal for the charge, and his men promptly responded to it. The fighting then became furious on both sides. The second lieutenant in front of Deck's men was a noble-looking young man, who fought like a lion at bay, and defended himself with great skill from the two Union troopers that assailed him in front; but it was an unequal conflict, and presently he was wounded in the sword-arm, so that he could no longer use his sabre with that hand, and grasped it with his left. He struck with it several times; but he could not handle his weapon as he had before, and he was soon cut near the shoulder of his left arm, receiving a wound which entirely disabled him.
Deck, filled with admiration for the brave young officer, ordered one of the men to lead the horse of the wounded soldier out of the crowd, which he did, conducting him to the side of the Union lieutenant. It was soon reported along the line that the first lieutenant of the Confederates had been disabled, and had retired from the field. By this time the crack of the rifles was again heard in the forest, though at a considerable distance from the road. The captain interpreted these sounds as the retreat of the force of the enemy sent into the woods, the riflemen shooting them down as they retired.
Before this force, more than decimated by the sharpshooters, could reach the road, however they hurried, the other half of the company had been driven to the verge of the forest; but they realized that they were thoroughly beaten, and that any further resistance meant nothing but slaughter. The orderly sergeant of the company, who succeeded to the command, shouted to Lieutenant Belthorpe that he was ready to surrender. Tom repeated the words to the captain, and Stufton was ordered to give the proper signal to bring the attack to an end.
"You have fought like a hero, sir, and I am sorry for you; but you are my prisoner," said Deck to the wounded lieutenant when he was conducted to his side.
"I surrender," replied the prisoner faintly; and it was evident to Deck that he was in great pain from the wound in his shoulder.
[Illustration: "THEY LAID HIM ON THE GRASS JUST AS THE RECALL WAS SOUNDED." _Page 141. _] The Union lieutenant called a man to assist him in dismounting the officer. They laid him on the grass just as the recall was sounded, and proceeded to remove his coat. The blood was flowing freely from both of his wounds, and he was quite faint. But Deck saw at once that the wound was not fatal; and he sent word to the Confederate surgeon, who was attending to the men that were brought into the field in the rear of the column, that he was needed for the officer of his command.
In the meantime, Deck tied up the worst wound of the prisoner with his handkerchief, and did what he could to stop the flow of blood. He used some of the rags with which his mother had supplied him; but the surgeon promptly appeared.
"I am sorry to see you wounded, Lieutenant Lawrence," said the doctor, as he observed the pale face of the young officer; and then gave him a medicine glass full of a dark fluid, which was probably brandy.
"It was a hard fight, Doctor," replied the sufferer.
"But Lieutenant Lawrence has fought like the bravest of the brave, and I am sorry for his misfortune," added Deck.
"Who may you be, sir? I see that you wear the uniform of the blue," said the surgeon, looking him in the face.
"He is a Yankee officer; but he has been kind to me, and had me brought out of the fight when I was utterly disabled," said the wounded officer, apparently revived by the stimulant he had taken. "I am grateful to him for his kindness."
"I am Lieutenant Lyon of the Riverlawn Cavalry," replied Deck. "This gentleman's bravery and skill excited my admiration; and I have done the little I could for him."
"I thank you, Lieutenant Lyon, for what you have done for my friend; and if you are an enemy, you are a noble one, and I honor you for your Christianity on the battle-field," replied the surgeon, as he took the hand of Deck and pressed it warmly. "I reckon all the Yankee officers are not like you, Lieutenant."
"Those in my squadron are," answered Deck.
"Your name is Lyon. I have heard of the Riverlawn Cavalry in Edmonson County, where I have an uncle; and I was thinking you were the major in command of it," added the surgeon, still at work on his patient.
"That is my father," replied the lieutenant.
Life Knox came to Deck at this moment, to announce that another force of cavalry was approaching from the direction of Jamestown, though he had not been able to make out what it was, whether friend or foe.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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11
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THE APPROACH OF ANOTHER CAVALRY FORCE
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The soldiers on both sides were already engaged in removing the dead to the side of the road next to the woods, and the wounded to the respective hospitals, which had been established in the fields of the farmer. The riflemen had heard the recall, and followed the defeated cavalrymen, bearing their wounded, and handed them over to the surgeon, who had called in three medical students to his aid. Lieutenant Ripley had handled his sharpshooters so skilfully that not a single man had been killed, and only three had been wounded.
He had kept his force behind the trees, and fought the enemy at long range, in which the carbines and other firearms were not effective; and this policy explained the absence of all fatalities in Ripley's force. The three wounded men were not severely injured, and only one was disabled.
Deck sent Sergeant Knox to Captain Gordon with the information of the approaching cavalry force which was now the great matter of interest. He sent Life and Milton as scouts, to ascertain "their politics," as the sergeant put it. His eyes were very sharp, and always looking about him, like the skilful seaman when he comes on deck. He reported that he had seen the force descending a hill more than a mile distant, disappearing in a few minutes in the valley below. Life and Milton started off at a gallop, and had soon passed out of sight.
"What does that report mean, Captain Gordon?" inquired Colonel Halliburn, as soon as the two scouts had dashed down the column.
"I am sure I don't know; but if I should infer anything from the appearance of a force at this time, it would be that it was another company of Confederate cavalry," replied the captain. "Can any intelligence of our movements have reached the enemy to the eastward of us, Colonel?"
"It is more than possible that some one going across by the private road passing my brother's mansion may have carried the news of what has been going on at Breedings, and on the road from Millersville to Harrison, but not to Jamestown, for the great wood lies in the route, and no one travels that way."
"It is probable, then, that the force approaching is Confederate, on its way either to forage or to retrieve the disasters to that side in the affairs of yesterday; and all we have to do is to prepare to fight another engagement. I believe the dead and wounded have all been removed by this time. I see that the sharpshooters have assisted my men in this work."
"I sent an order to them to that effect," added Colonel Halliburn.
"I thank you for doing so; and all the more that we are threatened by another force of the enemy," continued the captain. "Your men, especially the riflemen, have rendered very important service in this action, and I shall report it to Major Lyon when the squadron is reunited. The rest of your men have been very useful to us, not only in guarding the wagons, but in the fight with the second platoon. I think you had better send an orderly to Lieutenant Ripley with an order that he remain where he is by the woods; for if we engage another company of the enemy, the riflemen will be needed to act as sharpshooters, and to render the same service as before, though they will probably not be driven back again beyond rifle-shot distance from the road."
"As the enemy approach they will see the hospitals on their left, and that will apprise them that a battle has been fought here."
"We have not time to remove these hospitals, and put everything as it was at the beginning of the engagement; but I shall fight this encounter so far as possible on the same plan as before, for it worked admirably; and we owe the result as much to our fortunate position as to anything else, for it enabled me to place your riflemen where they did the most effective work of the morning."
Captain Gordon had already despatched messengers to his two lieutenants, instructing them to move their platoons back to the side of the hill to the positions they had occupied before the action; and this order was now in process of being executed. Dr. Barlow, though he had been a fighting man at the beginning of the engagement, was now attending to the wounded, assisted by some men he had selected from his own company.
"I think you had better take possession of the house of this Secesh farmer for the wounded. He would have spoiled the morning's work if he had escaped, for he would have warned the enemy of their danger from a superior force."
The captain approved the idea, and instructed the colonel to effect the removal with his own force. The riflemen were also directed to remove the dead into the forest until there was time to dispose of them. The ground was still strewn with the dead, as they had fallen under the destructive fire of the sharpshooters. With the exception of the Confederate hospital, which was near the foot of the hill,--for their own surgeon had chosen the location by the side of a flowing brook, in the shadow of some mighty walnuts,--the hill presented the same appearance as when the enemy came in sight of it, and had been lured on to their defeat by the deceptive silence of the locality; for not a sound or a moving thing betrayed the peril that surrounded them.
Life Knox and Milton had run their horses to the utmost extent of their ability for over half a mile. When the tramp of the horses was heard, they halted and concealed themselves at the side of the road, at a bend of it; but they had hardly done so before the sound of the horses' feet ceased to be heard, and it looked as though the force had halted. Life dismounted, and climbed a tree not less than a hundred feet in height, which enabled him to see into the low ground on the other side of a slight elevation.
The cavalry were extended along a brook, watering their horses on both sides of it. The trees overtopped the stream so that it was quite dark on its banks, and the distance was so great that Life could not make out whether the men wore the blue or the gray, especially as he had made up his mind that the force was an enemy, and the trees half hid them from his view. He descended from his perch, and waited on the ground till he heard the clatter of a couple of horses near his hiding-place. He obtained a view of these men, and they wore blue uniforms.
"All right!" exclaimed Life. "They wear the blue."
He waited no longer, but darted into the road, followed by Milton. The two men, who were scouting in advance of the company, brought their carbines to the shoulder.
"I reckon you needn't shoot, Keene," said the sergeant quietly.
"Sergeant Knox!" cried the chief scout. "How came you here? Where is your company?"
"They ain't fur from here. Are you piloting the second company of the Riverlawn Cavalry, Keene?"
"Fox and me are treading down the mud for the company."
"All right; we uns will fall back and report to Major Lyon," said Life, and he galloped back to the main body of the company.
The commander of the squadron was riding at the head of the second company, and appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts. He had learned a great deal about the situation in Pulaski, Russell, and Adair Counties, where the Confederate foragers had raided to secure supplies for the main army, and where, as in many other parts of the State, the independent partisan bands had conducted operations on their own responsibility. A spur of the Cumberland Mountains extended through the eastern part of the first-named county, and most of the region between this range and Virginia was mountainous. It was not so rich in supplies for an army as the territory to the west of it, to which the raiders had confined their depredations.
Major Lyon, like a good soldier, occasionally cast his eyes around him to take in the condition and topography of the country through which he was passing; and he discovered the two scouts as they approached the head of the company. His first supposition was that the first company had fallen into trouble, and that the two scouts had been sent forward to hurry up the other company; for the two, as it had been arranged by the major, were to come together at Harrison, twenty-five miles from Millersville.
Life Knox rode forward in advance of Milton, and the commander of the squadron promptly recognized the tall, gaunt form of the sergeant; and his thoughts dwelt upon the occasion that had brought him this visit. Life approached the major to within a rod of him, when he stopped his horse, and saluted him with his usual deference to his superiors.
"Good-morning, Life," said the commander. "I hope no misfortune has brought you in this direction. Are you escaping from an enemy that has overwhelmed the first company?"
"Nothin' of the sort, Major Lyon," replied Life, a broad smile lighting up his face. "We have met an enemy, and they'd run away if we'd let 'em."
This reply removed the burden of anxiety which had fallen upon the mind of the major when he discovered the scouts, and he smiled in his placid manner with the sergeant.
"Where is your company, Life?" he asked.
"I reckon it ain't more'n half a mile from here," replied the scout.
"I suppose you have news for me," continued the commander.
"Lots on't; but I can say that Captain Gordon, whether he is to meet a friend or an enemy in the cavalry, is comin' down this road. I don't reckon he's worryin' about it; but he may just be a bit anxious to know whether or not he is to fight you. If you don't object, Major Lyon, I'll let Milton ride back and tell the cap'n he won't have to fight no more just yet."
"Send him at once, Life;" and in a minute more the other scout was galloping his horse in the direction of the hill where the first company were posted. "What have you been doing, sergeant?"
"The fust company has fit into three scrimmages, and cleaned out a gang of gorillas," replied Life, as though he realized that he had a good report to make in answer to the question.
"You have been busy; and that explains the reason why I did not find you at Harrison as I expected," replied the major. "Tell me all about it; and as Captain Gordon is not in need of a re-enforcement, we will walk the horses, and listen to your story. Captain Truman, let the men walk the horses."
"Company--attention!" shouted the captain, wheeling his horse. "Walk--March!"
"Place yourself on the left of Sergeant Knox, and listen to his story."
Life saluted the captain, who said he was glad to see him, and took the place to which he was assigned.
"We had not gone two miles from Columbia before a messenger came to us and said that a cavalry force was moving down on Breedings," Life observed. "The captain took the second platoon under Lieutenant Belthorpe, and rushed over to Breedings. Lieutenant Lyon was ordered to march with his platoon and the baggage-wagons towards Millersville," added Life.
"Dexter with an independent command!" exclaimed the young man's father; for he seemed to regard him still as a small boy, and said so.
"He was; but the oldest officer in the squadron couldn't a done it no better," replied Life with enthusiasm; and he proceeded to tell about the appearance of Grace Morgan in the field, and gave a hurried account of the manner in which the guerillas had been trapped and captured.
Then came the battle with the force which had escaped from Breedings, the march to Millersville, the re-enforcement of the Home Guard, and the fight at the hill. The major asked a great many questions, for the sergeant had been obliged to hurry his narrative, and Life answered them.
As they approached the hill, the head of the first company were marching down the descent; for Milton had reported his message to Captain Gordon, who was a little startled when he saw the private returning without the sergeant, fearful that something had happened to him.
The news brought by the new recruit was immediately circulated through the company and that of Colonel Halliburn. The riflemen were called from the forest, and came to the road mounted, with their weapons slung on their backs. The whole force was formed on the slope of the hill; and when the second company marched up the declivity, with Major Lyon at the head of it, they presented arms, and then indulged in a vigorous cheer.
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"id": "24866"
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12
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A NEW COMPANY OF MOUNTED RIFLEMEN
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The troopers were dismissed for dinner, and all the officers of the squadron assembled in front of the farmer's house while their horses were fed; and it was an interesting occasion. The skirmishes were gone over again more in detail than Life had been able to give them. Deck was required to report his affair at the house of Mr. Halliburn, and he went over it as minutely as his father desired.
"It was very well managed, my son," said the major, who was not especially liberal in praise of the young man as a rule. "You captured the entire gang without firing a gun, though if Captain Coonly had conducted his raid with even ordinary prudence, it would have been otherwise; but it is the business of a commanding officer to profit by the blunders of the enemy."
"It was very handsomely done," suggested Captain Gordon.
"I think it was; but Captain Coonly will not be a great military commander," added the major. "But what has become of the prisoners captured in this affair?"
"We marched them to Millersville, and turned them over to Colonel Halliburn," answered Deck.
"We quartered them in a disused tobacco factory; and probably in time we shall let them go," added the colonel. "We have no use for them; and we can use our supply of provisions and forage much better than in feeding these ruffians and their horses."
"I believe there will soon be a change in the sentiments of the people in this vicinity, or at least the guerillas will find it advisable to cease preying upon their neighbors," said the major; but he did not explain in what manner this change would be brought about. "How happened you to fall into the fight in the road after you had brought your prisoners there, Dexter?"
"I think my answer to that question ought to come in after Captain Gordon's report of the action at Breedings," replied the lieutenant.
The commander of the first company reported in detail his affair at the fort.
"Captain Letcher, of the Tennessee cavalry, could not get all his men into the fort, and he stationed a platoon on a hill on the other side of the road. I sent Lieutenant Belthorpe to attack them on the hill, while I assaulted and carried the fort, riding the horses over the breast-work, and upsetting the iron cannon. My lieutenant defeated the force on the hills, and drove them across the country till the recall was sounded for them. I understand now that the detachment followed the road towards Millersville."
"They came down that road just as I reached it with my prisoners from Mr. Halliburn's mansion. He is the brother of Colonel Halliburn, here present. The retreating force was under the command of Captain Letcher, and he attacked us as soon as we dashed into the road. We defeated him, with a loss in killed and wounded of nearly half of his command. When Captain Gordon arrived at the scene of the skirmish with the second platoon, he paroled the prisoners. In the afternoon we marched to Millersville."
"Who is the man that came over to the second company with Sergeant Knox?" asked the major. "He was a stranger to me; and I thought I knew every man in the squadron."
"His name is Winfield Milton, of Miltonville," replied Captain Gordon. "My authority as a recruiting-officer is still in force, and I enlisted him on the recommendation of Lieutenant Lyon."
"He is very useful to me as a guide, and for his knowledge of the country for many miles around us. He is the intended of Grace Morgan, who first informed Life of what was going on at the mansion of her guardian," added Deck.
"You did not make any mistake when you enlisted him," said Colonel Halliburn. "I have known him for many years, and I will vouch for him. When I say that he is worthy of Grace Morgan, one of the noblest girls ever raised in Kentucky, I say more than you can understand."
"He came into our ranks this morning; and he has done his duty faithfully as a guide and a soldier, and fought like a hero in the action this morning," added the captain of the first company.
"He ought to be an officer, for he is a very intelligent and well-educated man; and he will be an honor to the service," continued the colonel.
"I have not yet heard the particulars of the skirmish, which seems by the looks of things about here to have swelled to something like the proportions of a battle," added Major Lyon.
Captain Gordon referred to the colonel; and he repeated the story of Squire Walcott, who had brought news from the other side of the Cumberland, and had informed him of the intention of the company of the Tennessee cavalry to move on Millersville.
The commander of the first company then minutely related the details, beginning with his order of battle. The voluntary offer of his command by Colonel Halliburn had proved to be of the greatest importance; for while the cavalrymen had fought like lions, the burden of the action had fallen on the riflemen acting as sharpshooters in the woods.
"They caused the enemy to divide his force in the road, sending half of them into the woods. We owe a debt of gratitude to Lieutenant Ripley, the oldest man in the line, who commanded the riflemen in the forest. He can report that part of the action better than any other person."
"I understood the captain's plan of action, and I did my best to carry it out," said Lieutenant Ripley. "I had forty-two men under my command, and every one of them could split a rifle-ball on a knife. About every one of them dropped his man in the road. When half the Confederates were sent into the woods dismounted to clean us out, I drew them as far away from the road as possible. I believed I could do the best thing for the captain's plan by leading half the enemy as far as possible from any support. If I was wrong, I am willing to be forgiven, for I had only my general orders."
"You did exactly the right thing, Lieutenant Ripley," added the captain. "I waited until you had led them at least half a mile, and then I ordered my two platoons to advance. They charged into the remainder of the company in the road. The enemy were tangled up with the loose horses; and when the officers had all fallen, the force out of the forest surrendered."
"What were our losses, Captain?" asked the major.
"Three men killed, and seven wounded; only one of the riflemen had a wound of any consequence."
"We fought behind the trees, and at long range," interposed Lieutenant Ripley. "I was ordered to do so."
"Do you know the enemy's loss, Captain Gordon?" inquired his superior officer.
"Fifteen killed, or reported as missing, with no doubt that most of them were killed in the woods, and twenty-one wounded. They fought at a very great disadvantage, and the sharp-shooters probably caused the greater portion of their loss."
"I think I understand what the first company have been doing since we parted company at Columbia," said the major. "As soon as you are ready we shall march back to Jamestown. I left Harrison very early this morning. As I did not find you there, as I expected, day before yesterday, and you did not arrive the following day, I became considerably concerned, for your company had the shortest route from Columbia to Harrison, Captain Gordon. The enemy were foraging in all directions west of the hills, and I was afraid you had been overmatched by some of them, and I concluded to march in search of you.
"When I reached Jamestown about eight, I learned that a company of Tennessee cavalry had camped there over night, and had left at an early hour this morning; but I have found you, and your delay is fully explained."
"Have you met the enemy on your way, Major Lyon?" asked the senior captain.
"The company was compelled, about half a mile from Columbia, to deal with a horde of about thirty guerillas; but their officer was not so stupid as the one with whom my son had to deal, and they ran away as soon as they saw us. We pursued and killed about a dozen of them; but they escaped by fording a swift-running stream, and some of them were drowned there. It was not prudent to lose any of my men by drowning; for that was not a proper death for a soldier to die, though it may be just as creditable to his conduct as to fall from his horse on the field."
As usual, the commander of the squadron kept his own counsel, and he did not say what he intended to do when he reached Jamestown. He had come down from Liberty to Harrison, which was on the road to Somerset, where he had expected to join the other company, and wait for orders. He was in possession of the current news, so far as it had been divulged by those to whom the army operations had been intrusted; and his orders were to halt somewhere in the vicinity of Somerset. He was aware that General Thomas had been sent down with a considerable force, and a portion of it was in the vicinity; but it had not yet been concentrated for the attack upon the intrenched camps of General Crittenden and General Zollicoffer.
The Union general was waiting for the rest of the force detailed to take part in the campaign; and had also been detained by the condition of the roads, which rendered it almost impossible to move the baggage-wagons and the artillery. Friday and Saturday it rained incessantly in torrents, and raised Fishing Creek and other streams so that it was impracticable to cross them. The general had with him the Fourth Kentucky Infantry, and a portion of the First Kentucky Cavalry, to which the two companies of the Riverlawn force nominally belonged, though they had been on detached duty thus far since they were mustered in.
Thomas had also with him, or within call, regiments from Ohio, Indiana, and Minnesota. Major Lyon informed his audience of officers that their regiment was somewhere in the vicinity, though he did not know where; but his officers had never seen this force, and were not greatly interested. The regiment had not yet been filled up, though others enlisted later had their full complement of men and companies.
"Don't you think we had better enlist another company?" asked Captain Gordon, who evidently had in his head a big idea.
"I don't know about that; but I am inclined to think we had better leave that to the proper authorities, or to local leaders where men are available, for we are away from Riverlawn and Bar Creek. I doubt if we could find men enough in that vicinity to form another company."
"That was not my idea," interposed the captain. "How many men have you in your company of Home Guards, Colonel Halliburn?" he asked rather abruptly, as he proceeded to develop his purpose.
"I have sixty-two here, and there are about fifty more from various parts of three counties, many of whom seldom meet with us," replied the colonel, wondering what the captain was driving at.
"We have forty-two riflemen here; are there any more of them?"
"As many more, I should say."
"Don't you think it is a great pity that your company, or a portion of it, are not in actual service in the army, where they are so much needed?"
"Well, it is rather necessary to have some at home to look out for the women and children, and to raise food for the army and the people," replied the colonel with a smile, as he began to fathom the idea of the questioner.
"It seems to me that Colonel Halliburn is right in the main, though he might be able to spare a portion of his men," added the major.
"I might as well let it all out at once as do it in driblets," said Captain Gordon. "I should like to enlist your forty-two sharpshooters as the nucleus of a company of mounted riflemen, to be armed as cavalry, except that the rifle shall take the place of the carbine, the men to serve mounted or dismounted, as occasion may require; not a very radical idea, for cavalry are not infrequently called upon to serve on foot, as we have an instance this very day."
"I like the idea very much," returned the colonel.
"I will talk about the matter with my riflemen, and let you know what they think of it at once," said Ripley; and he hastened to his command, who were still eating their dinner.
The plan was talked over by the riflemen, and Lieutenant Ripley heartily approved the scheme, but thought that he might be too old to enlist, though he was still a healthy and vigorous citizen. The plan was not entirely new; for steps had been taken, and perhaps successfully, to organize "mounted infantry" in various places, and the command of Lieutenant Ripley did not essentially differ from such a force.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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13
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A NIGHT IN A JAIL AT JAMESTOWN
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Lieutenant Ripley returned from the conference with the riflemen, and reported that thirty of them were willing to enlist in such an organization as that proposed; the others were unable to reply until they had been home to their families. The lieutenant was confident that he could raise the sixty proposed as a beginning within a reasonable time, and the colonel had a similar confidence in the patriotism of the loyal Kentuckians in that part of the State.
The men had finished their dinners, the prisoners had been paroled with the approval of Major Lyon, who was beginning to be in a hurry to march back to Jamestown as soon as the first company had rested from the hard work of the day; and there had been much more of it than could be indicated in the narrative of the principal events.
"I am sorry that we cannot take with us even a small company of those riflemen, for I think they would be very useful in the course of a few days," said Captain Gordon, after the major had given the order to form the column for the march. "It is plain to everybody who knows anything about the movements of the army that there will be a battle within a week."
This statement seemed to fire the enthusiasm of the old lieutenant of the Home Guards, and he talked apart with Colonel Halliburn very earnestly for some time. Then he went over to the riflemen, who had mounted their horses in readiness to return to their homes. He appeared to have proposed something to them, and in a few minutes he hastened back to the group of officers.
"Thirty-six of the riflemen desire to go with you as temporary volunteers for immediate service," said Ripley. "Will you accept them, Major Lyon?"
"I will, though I cannot take them as a part of my squadron, for our ranks are now very full," replied the commander.
"I meant to have them go as an addition to your force, to be under your command," replied the lieutenant.
"Of course there can be no objection to your going with us in this manner, and you will bring up the rear of my command," added Major Lyon, as the orderly sergeants reported that the companies were formed.
The officers took their proper places, and the order to march was given to the captains. Life Knox and Milton were again ordered to scout the road and its adjacent fields in advance. The wagons were ready to fall in behind the riflemen, and the column moved. The company officers kept in their places, but the major went where he pleased along the line. When the column reached the foot of the hill, he fell back to the second platoon of the first company, where Deck was riding on the left of the first section.
"I was so busy that I neglected to ask the names of the men who were killed in the action where you met the enemy on the road from Columbia," said the major, as he wheeled his horse, and took his place by the side of his son.
Deck had noticed that he had asked no questions when the report of the killed was given to him; for something had called his attention away from the subject at that moment. The lieutenant was glad to escape the necessity in that presence of informing his father of the death of his cousin; for this was a family matter, aside from military routine.
"I was glad you did not ask that question then," added Deck.
"I understand you, Dexter; for when I saw Sandy in the ranks I looked for Orly Lyon; but I did not see him. Was he badly wounded?" inquired the commander.
"Worse than that, for he was killed in the action. He fought bravely, and he always did his duty faithfully; for, however it was with his father and his brother, Orly's heart was in the work," replied Deck with no little feeling.
The major was silent for a moment. It was evident that he was moved by the news, though he always controlled himself; for the fact that his two sons and two nephews were liable at any time to be struck down in their youth was present to his mind when he had time to think of such things. Orly was only sixteen, and he was the first of either his own or his brother's family to pass over to the other shore.
"I am more sorry for his father and mother than for him; for he died in defence of his country, and that is the death of the hero and patriot. It will be a heavy blow to his poor mother; and, unlike her husband, her heart was on the right side. She told me when her boys enlisted in the Home Guard, a Secessionist body, that it broke her heart to have her sons fight with the enemies of her country, but that she could be even willing to have them sacrificed on the right side."
"Do you know where Uncle Titus is now, father?" asked Deck.
"He is in a prison-camp, the name of which I have in my valise in one of the wagons. I shall write to him as soon as I have time, and to your Aunt Meely."
In another hour the head of the column arrived in the midst of a pouring rain at Jamestown, which is the capital of Russell County. It was the 17th of January. It had been clear in the morning; but the rain began to fall not a quarter of an hour before the column reached the town. It was almost a deluge, and it was likely to continue into the night. The Secessionist element was predominant in the place; but the major took forcible possession of a number of buildings which would afford shelter to his troopers and their horses.
He found several Unionists, who gave him all the information he needed in regard to buildings, and he put some who attempted to prevent him from occupying the buildings under arrest. The county prison was one of the structures occupied; and the prisoners were confined in it, with troopers enough lodging there to keep them in order.
"You'll catch fits when you fall in with Old Zollicoffer," said one of the prisoners, as Life Knox, who was in charge of the jail, locked him into the cell with half a dozen others.
"We uns 'll be very glad to see Old Zolly, and I reckon we shall pay him a visit afore many days," replied the sergeant.
"If you do, you uns 'll git wiped out," added the man.
"Mebbe we shall do the wiping," said Life, as the keeper of the prison came up to him.
"I reckon I needn't stop here no longer," said he. "But I'll show you a room before I go, where you can sleep in a bed. It's where I sleep, though I hain't got no prisoners in the jug just now. There ain't much civil law afloat around here; and a Secesh man can kill a Union man, and nothing said about it."
"I'm much obleeged to you; and I consayt that you ain't much of a Secesh yourself," answered Life, as his conductor unlocked a door near the entrance to the jail.
"I reckon I ain't," replied the keeper as he led the way into the room and closed the door after him; "but it don't do for me to say much about it here. Them fellers you brought in here would hang me to the first tree they found if they knowed it."
The apartment was not a cell. It contained a bed and some furniture, and the sergeant thought he could be very comfortable in it till morning.
"Which way did your troopers come from, Sergeant?" asked the keeper.
"From the west. We left Millersville this morning," answered Life.
"We had a company of Cornfeds in town last night, and they started for Millersville this mornin'. I reckon you hain't seen nothin' on 'em, have you?" continued the keeper, as he seated himself on the bed while the sergeant occupied the only chair in the room.
"Cornfeds is good," laughed Life; "but I cal'late they don't get much of that sort of feed just now."
"Then I reckon you hain't seen 'em."
"I reckon that we uns have seen 'em; and I reckon them Cornfeds wish just now that we hadn't seen 'em."
"Did you meet 'em?"
"I'll bet we did, about five miles from here; and about one-third on 'em got killed before they surrendered."
"Surrendered!" exclaimed the keeper. "I thought, when I heerd 'em talk, that no Cornfeds ever did anything o' that sort."
"They got badly chawed up, and they couldn't help theirselves; that's the whole on't. Is there any news floatin' about round here?" asked Life.
"I reckon there is, lots on't. If Thomas ain't already camped round here somewhere, he ain't fur off. They say he's waiting for some general's brigade to jine 'im afore he goes for Old Zolly's entrenchments," replied the keeper, whose name was Butters, as the sergeant learned from him later.
"I reckon our major will find out where he is," added Life.
"This town is about fifteen miles from Mill Springs; and I consayt that there will be a bigger battle than we have had in these parts, or anywhere in the State, before long. General Thomas is sent down here to clean out Old Zolly, and I reckon he'll do it," replied Butters. "I wish I could have a hand in it."
"So you kin if you are so minded. You don't seem to have nothin' to do here now. Ever been in the mili'try?"
"No; but I kin shoot a rifle nigh on to as good as old Ripley over to Millersville, and he can beat any other man at it in Kaintuck."
"Ripley is here with a party of his riflemen, and I cal'late he'll take you into his company if you want to go."
"Where is he now? I'd like to see him, for I've often been over to his place to shoot with him," said Butters.
"He bunks in the jail with some of his company."
"I know a dozen others here who are in the same boat with me; and two more on us were hanged a month ago for shooting a Cornfed sergeant for killing two good Union men."
"I'll find Ripley for you," said Life, as he left the room, intent upon adding more men to the loyal army.
He went through the jail, calling the name of the lieutenant till he found him, and then conducted him to the room of the keeper. Ripley gave his hand to Butters, and was very glad to see him. The bed was wide enough for two, and Life invited the lieutenant to sleep with him.
"No; I reckon I'll take Lieutenant Ripley up to my house, for he's an old friend of mine," interposed Butters; "and he's the only man that can ever beat me shootin' with a rifle. I'm ready to jine for this campaign under him."
"I have thirty-six men now, serving for a short time till we get things settled, and I should like enough to make up a hundred," replied Ripley, as he left the prison with Butters.
He had not been gone ten minutes before Lieutenant Lyon came in. The sentinel on duty showed him Life's room. The visitor was wet to his bones, as the French say; for he had been looking up some Union men his father wished to see, and he had brought them to the hotel where the officers were quartered. One of them was a captain, and another was his host in the town; and the major had been directed to report to the former.
Deck had been sent out to find him; for it was reported that he was in Jamestown, and not in Harrison, where he had expected to find him, but had not. His room had been taken from him for this officer, as he was the lowest in rank of any commissioned officer. His father had sent him out with directions to take a couple of men from the quarters of Lieutenant Belthorpe, who was the officer of the day, and find a room where he could in the town. But he knew that Life Knox was in command at the jail, and he preferred to go there.
"You are wet to the skin, Leftenant!" exclaimed the sergeant, as he admitted him to the room.
"Not the first time I have been so since we left Riverlawn," replied Deck. "You have got a good room here, Life."
"Good enough; but I cal'late to camp on the floor, and give this bed to you, Leftenant."
"Not at all, Life; the bed is big enough for both of us. I am not afraid to sleep with you, if you are not with me." " 'Tain't quite reg'lar; but it's just as you say, Leftenant."
There was a fireplace in the room, and a pile of wood in the corner; and the sergeant went to work at once to build a fire to dry his officer. There was plenty of light wood, full of pitch, in the pile; and in a few minutes a roaring fire was blazing on the hearth. Without asking any questions he proceeded to remove Deck's coat, and assisted him to take off the rest of his clothes, which had not been done before except when he took his baths in the streams.
"Now jump into bed, Leftenant; give me your shirt, and I will dry the whole of your duds. The room is warm now."
Deck had been so chilled by the rain that he was glad to comply with the sergeant's requests. Life placed the nether garments on the chair before the fire, and then moved up a light table, stretching his sabre from one to the other to form a clothes-horse. At midnight he waked his officer to have him put on the dry shirt, for Deck in the bed had slept like a tired boy. After a look through the corridors of the prison, Life went to bed himself.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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14
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THE AIDE-DE-CAMP OF THE GENERAL
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When Life Knox left his bed at an early hour on the morning of the 18th, Deck was still sleeping, for no bugle had sounded to wake him. The rain was still pouring in torrents when the sergeant looked out of the window; and it was not probable that any military movements would be made that day. Breakfast was served as usual, the cooks having taken possession of an old tobacco dry-house the night before.
About nine o'clock, after Deck had gone to the hotel where the officers were quartered, Butters, Lieutenant Ripley, and about twenty more, marched into the jail. The keeper had been riding nearly all night, and had secured this number of riflemen, though he had been obliged to seek them, in part, miles distant from the town. They came with rifles and belts, with powder and ball in horns and pouches, as those from Millersville had appeared. They were ready for duty, and Butters declared that every one of them could shoot very well with the rifles they had used in their practice.
They were introduced by Lieutenant Ripley to the members of his command lodged in the building, and they fraternized like brothers; for the ability to use the rifle with skill and precision seemed to be the bond which united them. The lieutenant of the sharpshooters now had fifty-six men in his company. When Captain Gordon called at the prison, he promoted Ripley to the rank of captain, and made Butters, who was the second-best shot in the corps, lieutenant, though he could not give them commissions. They were then marched to the tobacco dry-house, only a small portion of which the cooks used, and drilled by the new captain.
At the hotel, Major Lyon and Captain Woodbine, an aide-de-camp of the commanding general, who had been sent to Harrison on account of his intimate knowledge of this locality, and was a man of influence in a neighboring county, were discussing the situation. Deck had found him, after no little difficulty, at the house of one of his friends, and reported to him the arrival of the Riverlawn Cavalry, re-enforced by a company of volunteer sharpshooters from Adair County, under the command of Captain Ripley.
"Ripley is an old man, isn't he?" asked Captain Woodbine.
"Sixty, I heard some one say, Captain; but I can assure you he is a very able officer," replied Deck.
"I dare say he is, for I know him well. Now will you introduce yourself, Lieutenant?" said the aide-de-camp with a smile, as he looked over the wet form of the visitor.
"My name is Dexter Lyon, Captain."
"Any relation to the commander of your squadron?"
"His son; but I was promoted from the ranks on the petition of every member of the first company, and all the officers of the squadron except my father," replied Deck; and there was a blush on his wet cheeks, for he feared that the military official would conclude that he had been raised to his present rank by the influence of his father.
"A very commendable delicacy on the part of Major Lyon, but not always manifested in such cases," added the captain. "I heard that one company of Major Lyon's squadron had arrived at Harrison, and that the other was coming by the way of Jamestown. Your company was late, and the major went in search of it."
"We had several skirmishes with guerillas and foraging parties of the enemy, which delayed us."
"Tell me about them," added Captain Woodbine, whose curiosity was aroused; and he kept his eyes very steadily on the young lieutenant.
As modestly as he could, he related the events on the march of the first company, taking care to call his command the "second platoon." The affair at the house of Mr. Halliburn was mentioned; and the manner in which the guerillas had been bagged excited the attention of the officer, and he asked then who commanded the second platoon.
"I did, Captain," replied Deck, looking on the floor of the parlor.
"It was very adroitly done, and you exhibited very good strategy." Deck bowed, and went on with his narrative. The fight in the road was then mentioned, with its result only.
"This was the same force that captured the brigands, and brought them as prisoners down to the road, was it?"
"The same, Captain."
"And you commanded it in the action that followed?"
"I did, Captain," replied Deck, looking at the ceiling of the room.
The battle of that day on the hill was then described; but in this narration he contrived to keep himself in the shade. He gave the most of the credit for the victory to the riflemen in the woods, though he did not omit to credit Captain Gordon for his plan of battle.
"Where are these sharpshooters now? They appear to have been a very useful body of men," inquired the aide-de-camp.
"Part of them returned to Millersville, where they belong, though thirty-six of them have volunteered to go with us for the present campaign, under the command of Captain Ripley."
"I must see Ripley," mused the official.
"He is at the jail with his men, or he went there with them," added Deck.
"Our carriage is ready," said Captain Woodbine; "and there is room enough in it for you."
It was a covered road-wagon, and Deck judged that the captain had talked with him to pass away the time while he was waiting for the conveyance. They were driven first to the hotel.
"I have heard a great deal about the Riverlawn Cavalry, as you call them, though its two companies belong to the first cavalry regiment," said the captain when they were seated in the vehicle.
"Our men like the name," added the young lieutenant.
"They have rendered most excellent service under that name; and there is nothing to prevent them from retaining it, especially while they are on detached service."
Captain Woodbine was conducted by Major Lyon to the parlor occupied by the officers, where he was presented to them, after which the major, who was disposed to keep his affairs to himself, invited the aide-de-camp to go with him to his room, where he had ordered a fire.
"Lieutenant Lyon, you must excuse me for questioning you so much this evening; but I wanted to know more about you, for I think we shall have use for you," said the captain, as he took the hand of Deck, and drew him aside.
"I was very glad to give you the information you desired," replied Deck, as the visitor followed his father.
"I have to report the arrival of my command, and it is my purpose to move on to Harrison to-morrow," said the major as they entered the room.
"You need not do that, for your command is nearer now where you will be wanted than you would be at Harrison," added the captain as he and the major seated themselves at a table before the fire. "I waited for you till the time you were expected to arrive."
"I was ordered to look out for foragers and guerillas on my way; and I was detained some time near Liberty, in driving off a party of marauders, and I was a few hours late. My first company, which had the shorter route, had not arrived, and I marched in search of it," Major Lyon explained. "I found it about five miles from this town, delayed by several skirmishes with the enemy."
"Your son told me all about them while we were waiting for the vehicle; and he certainly distinguished himself, both by his management of the affair with the guerillas, and by his bravery in the action with the enemy's cavalry," said Captain Woodbine.
"He did very well," replied the major, proud of the good conduct of Deck, though he was not inclined to praise him, preferring to leave that to others. "I suppose the army which is to operate under General Thomas is somewhere in this vicinity."
"A portion of it is at Logan's Cross Roads, as it is called;" and he pointed out the locality on the major's map, which was spread out on the table.
He indicated several other places where bodies of Union troops were, or were supposed to be, located. They had been detained by the almost impassable condition of the roads.
"But the general will attack the enemy in his intrenchments as soon as he can concentrate a sufficient force for the purpose. This heavy rain, I fear, will delay the advance of the troops in the rear; for it will render the streams, especially Fishing Creek, impassable for the baggage-trains."
"It does not usually rain as it does now for any great length of time?" suggested Major Lyon.
"I have known such a rain to continue for several days; for I live over in Whitley County, in the mountains, about thirty-five miles east of Mill Springs."
"The mountains catch the clouds, and empty them, as they move from the east or the west," added the major.
"We have plenty of rain at this season of the year. I have heard all about the Riverlawn Cavalry, as your son says you prefer to call it. I met Colonel Cosgrove at Louisville, and he gave me a full account of what he called the Battle of Riverlawn. Of your fights with the Texan Rangers at the railroad bridge, Munfordsville, and at Greeltop and Plain Hill, I have read your reports. Without mentioning the nature of the service that will be required of you, I will say that, at my suggestion, the general has important duty for you, Major."
"Of course I am ready to obey the orders that come to me," replied the commander.
For several hours longer Captain Woodbine described the topography of the region in three counties, which he thought it very necessary for him to understand.
"In our engagement with a full company of Tennessee cavalry, our first company was aided by the Home Guard of Millersville; and the riflemen of this body rendered very essential service as sharpshooters stationed in the woods. These men volunteered to serve in this campaign, and we have them with us. I hope I shall be permitted to make use of them. They are well mounted, and every one of them is a dead shot. Captain Gordon, commanding our first company, suggested the idea of organizing a force of mounted riflemen, and a considerable number of them volunteered, and came to Jamestown with us."
"They are simply volunteers under your command; and no application need be made at headquarters to use them, and you can do so, Major," replied the captain, who was understood as speaking for the commanding general; and it was evident that he had influence with him.
At the stroke of midnight both of the gentlemen retired. When they looked out of the window in the morning it was still raining; and it was plain to them that no great progress could be made in military movements while the country was inundated, as it appeared to be from the hotel.
In the forenoon Captain Woodbine visited the companies, and looked over the men; for he plainly depended upon the squadron for particular service. He went to the jail and to the dry-house to see the riflemen who were drilling there under the eye of Captain Ripley and several sergeants from the companies.
Military movements on the eve of battle are not ordinarily impeded by rain, for the soldiers march and fight in spite of the weather; but when the flow of water is sufficient to inundate the country, the situation sometimes compels a suspension of activity, owing to the difficulty or impossibility of moving wagons and artillery. But at this time General Thomas was awaiting the arrival of the regiments from points farther north of his camp at Logan's Cross Roads, and nothing could be done for this reason. But on the 18th the rain ceased; and on the next day, which was Saturday, General Schoepf's brigade, a portion of which had been sent forward before, arrived towards night, and was placed in position.
That evening Captain Woodbine, who had been with the general in command all day, called upon Major Lyon, and directed him to have his squadron, with its volunteer riflemen, in column on the Millersville Road at daylight in the morning of Sunday, for a reconnaissance in the direction of the enemy's intrenched camp at Beech Grove. The major reported that the rifle volunteers had been re-enforced to fifty-six men by the efforts of Butters the jailer.
The commander of the squadron promptly issued his orders to his officers to have his men ready to move at four o'clock Sunday morning.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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15
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THE ATTEMPTED ESCAPE OF A WAGON-TRAIN
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The details of the battle of Mill Springs, as it was generally called when the accounts of it were published at the time, or, more properly, Logan's Cross Roads, as General Thomas called it in his report to the chief of staff of the Department of the Ohio, are too voluminous to be given at length; and they have been published so many times in various works that it is unnecessary to repeat them. Only such parts as relate to the career of the "lieutenant at eighteen" will be introduced, though incidentally some of the movements of the army will be included.
The general in his report says: "I reached Logan's Cross Roads, about ten miles north of the intrenched camp of the enemy, on the Cumberland River, on the 17th instant." On the night of his arrival he sent a messenger to Colonel Stedman's camp, ordering him to send forward a long train of wagons, that had halted in the road from the river, under a strong guard, and himself to attack the enemy where they were reported to be.
This train had not arrived at the headquarters of the general; but the reason for its non-arrival was apparent, for the rain had begun to fall in torrents on the afternoon of the 17th, and had continued to pour down for two days. The road was inundated, and the creeks were impassable. On Saturday morning at an early hour the pickets of Wolford's cavalry encountered the enemy advancing upon the Union forces. The Confederates were held in check until General Thomas could order a force forward adequate to give them battle. This was the beginning of the battle of Mill Springs.
The general's camp was on the left of the pike from the river. The Fourth Kentucky, Second Minnesota, and Ninth Ohio were sent forward to hold the enemy, and took positions near Logan's house, while Wetmore's Battery was placed near the Somerset Road. The Confederates advanced on the other side, almost to this road. Three regiments and a battery had moved forward to the north side of a fence which extended east and west on both sides of the pike.
General Crittenden, commanding the army, with his staff, had a position just south of this fence, though Zollicoffer led the attacking brigades. General Thomas immediately ordered an advance of his whole force, and the fighting became general. It was a long and severe battle, with alternate repulses and advances on both sides. The enemy finally retreated to their intrenchments, ten miles distant, but did not reach their works till after dark. As the enemy were marching to the attack, the wagon-train had been discovered mired in a field to which its escort had been driven by the unexpected approach of the Confederates.
It was a long train, and must be loaded with provisions, forage, and ammunition. The famished Southern soldiers, who had nothing but dry bread, and that in small quantities, cast longing eyes at the mired wagons; and a company of Tennessee cavalry was sent to capture them. They were about a mile distant, and were moving a rod or two, in fits and starts, at a time, towards the Jamestown Road, with the escort at the wheels lifting them out of the soft soil. The guard was commanded by a Minnesota lieutenant; and he had kept pickets out in the rear, who had given him early notice of the approach of the enemy.
If the train continued on the pike, it was sure to be captured; but the officer in command determined to make the attempt to escape with his wagons, and with infinite labor and exertion he had made a mile on his way to the road. He was certainly a plucky fellow; but he could not fight a whole brigade of infantry with two companies of cavalry. He had, therefore, taken his chance of reaching the Jamestown Road, and fortunately he had posted himself on the roads and distances of the locality.
The Riverlawn Cavalry, with its riflemen, were in the road some time before Captain Woodbine, mounted on a magnificent steed, arrived at the place of rendezvous. The company were at ease, and the aide-de-camp of the general rode directly to the head of the column and saluted the major.
"I may say now that this was to be a reconnaissance in force, though your command is all the general can send for the purpose," said the captain. "But I have heard of the advance of the enemy, and it may not be necessary to feel of them; so you may send out the platoon under the command of Lieutenant Lyon, in whom the captain appears to have unlimited confidence, by a road I will point out to you, to reconnoitre in the direction of the pike, on which and the road to Somerset the general is encamped."
"Do you expect this force will find an enemy in that direction?" asked the major.
"I do not, though it is possible. That heavy baggage-train must have moved to the north by the pike, if it has not been captured before this time. If Lieutenant Lyon should discover the escort, he will re-enforce it, sending back a messenger to you, Major. If not too late, it is of vital importance that this train be saved, for the general says it has rations enough in its wagons to feed the Confederate army for a week at least," replied the captain.
"How far is it to the pike?" inquired the major.
"It is about five miles; and till the platoon comes to a piece of wood, the lieutenant will have a tolerable road, and through the forest, which is over a half a mile across."
"How far is it to the woods?"
"Two miles, more or less. You had better send two scouts out in advance of the platoon, and do so at once," added the captain; and the major regarded his requests as orders coming directly from the general.
"Send Sergeant Knox and Private Milton to me," said Major Lyon, at the suggestion of Captain Gordon, to Artie, his orderly. "I think Milton knows all about the country in this vicinity."
"So much the better," replied the aide-de-camp, as the two scouts saluted the major. "Milton, are you acquainted about here?"
"As well as in the dooryard of my father's house in Miltonville. I have been to Fishing Creek as man and boy, and fished it for its whole length," replied the new recruit.
"Do you know the road across the country to the Danville Pike? It is nothing but a by-path to the woods."
"I know it very well, for I have ridden my horse over it fifty times," answered Milton.
"He will do, Major. Send them off at once."
"Excuse me for a suggestion. I think Lieutenant Lyon will do better if he has about half of our riflemen with him," interposed Captain Gordon, when the two scouts had galloped up the road on their mission.
"That is a good idea," added the captain.
"Rather too many men for a young man to command," said Deck's father, shaking his head.
"He is the best officer in the squadron for this duty," persisted the captain of the first company.
Major Lyon yielded the point, for the aide-de-camp had practically ordered Deck to the command of the expedition. The lieutenant marched his platoon ahead of the column, while Captain Ripley detailed thirty of his men, under the command of Lieutenant Butters, to which position the jailer had been elected by the company. Life Knox galloped furiously in advance of Milton for half a mile, till the latter called to him to halt.
"Here is the road across the country," shouted the recruit.
There was a fence across the entrance, which Milton removed without dismounting, for it consisted of only two rails, within his reach. Life rode through the opening, and started his horse into a gallop again. The subsoil was of gravel, with a thin coating of loam on it, not more than three inches deep, so that the animals had a good footing.
"Are we uns in a hurry?" asked Life, turning his head back to see his fellow scout.
"I should say so," replied Milton; "for the wagon-train may be captured before we come up with it if we delay, though we don't know that it is in any danger; but the pike must be crowded with the enemy hurrying on to the attack of General Thomas's force."
"Then I reckon we had better keep the hosses' legs moving lively," replied Life, as he hurried his steed to his best paces.
They soon reached the forest, which extended from one of greater extent on the other side of the pike, though the scouts passed through only a projecting corner of it. Beyond the end of the by-road, Milton explained, was a portion of low ground, through which ran a small stream. It was in this soft place that the wagon-train had mired. But it had advanced a mile from the pike; and Milton declared that it was moving by the longest way to hard ground, the shortest being to the road they had used for two miles and a half.
"There they be!" exclaimed Life; and he reined in his foaming steed to take a survey of the surroundings.
"That escort is having a hard time of it," added Milton.
"Thunder and lightning-bugs!" suddenly exclaimed the sergeant. "There's a whole company of Cornfed cavalry after 'em."
"But they are having as hard a time of it as the escort of the wagons, for their horses mire above their knees," added Milton. "But they are getting ahead very slowly in spite of the soft soil."
"But whar be them Cornfeds gwine?" asked Life, who seemed to be enamored of the name into which Butters had tortured the word. "They ain't gwine the shortest way to the wagon-train."
"They are not; and I don't understand their game," answered Milton.
Suddenly, at an order from the commander of the company, the "Cornfeds" dismounted, and proceeded to lead their horses; but the animals still sank deep in the mud, even without the weight of their riders.
"Whar's that stream you spoke on, Milton?" asked Life, as he continued to study the situation.
"Over to the left of you, and I've often fished it."
"I see it; how fur is it from that company?"
"Not more than a hundred rods from the head of the column."
"Is the bottom of the brook mud?"
"Not a bit of it. It is hard gravel below the top soil of mud."
"Then I reckon I know what them fellers are driving at," said Life, apparently pleased with his solution of the question. "How deep is the water?"
"From one to three feet, I should say."
"That's the idee! Them fellers is gwine to take to the stream," said Life. "How wide is it?"
"From twenty to thirty feet in different places."
"Then it is wide enough for them to march in column of fours."
Life dismounted, and climbed a tree, which afforded him a view of the winding stream. It passed within twenty rods of the mired wagons, and probably the mud was not so deep nearer the woods as it was farther from it. Leading their horses, the company got along faster than before, but still had some distance to go before they reached the stream. The escort of the train seemed to be discouraged at the prospect before them; though they still worked hard at the wheels, and their progress seemed to be slower than when first seen.
"I reckon we shall have a fight on this medder, Milton, and you must ride back and report to the leftenant," said Life as he descended from the tree. "Them half-starved Cornfeds won't give it up; for a dozen or more wagins, loaded with rations, is a prize to them, to say nothin' of the army in which they train. Your horse is well rested now, and you must make the gravel fly on your way to the road; for I reckon the re-enforcements will be needed as soon as they can get here."
"All right, Sergeant; I will make the distance as fast as we did coming," replied Milton as he started his horse, and immediately hurried him to a gallop.
Life Knox ascended the tree again, seated himself on a branch, and proceeded to watch the "Cornfeds." In about ten minutes more they reached the stream; but they had some difficulty in making their horses go down the steep bank, for the animals were evidently disgusted with their experience in the soft soil. The troopers stamped down the sods; and after making an inclined plane to the water, they rode down into the flowing current. The horses, perhaps concluding that they had made this movement to be watered, fell to drinking as though they had had no water that day.
Life was rather disappointed when he saw the company making so good progress in this novel road, and they soon reached their nearest point to the coveted wagons. The enemy were now within twenty rods of the train. Half an hour had elapsed since Milton left, and it was about time for the re-enforcement to appear.
The sergeant wanted to do something to retard the advance of the company; and, at the top of his ample lungs, he began to give military commands, as though he had a regiment in charge. The enemy heard his voice, and halted where they were in the stream.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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16
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AN IMAGINARY AND A REAL BATTLE
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"Company--halt!" yelled Sergeant Knox; and he continued to give orders, as though he were in the act of bringing a column into position.
The enemy halted, as if in obedience to the command of the sergeant on the shore. His commands were plainly heard in the still air of the morning by the troopers in the water; for all of them had turned their gaze in the direction of the woods. But the observer was concealed among the branches of a large tree, and the enemy could see nothing.
The guard of the wagon-train still continued to work at the wheels. So far as they could move the vehicles at all, it was in the direction of the Jamestown Road, still three miles from them. As Life regarded the situation, it was a hopeless case for them, being only twenty rods from the enemy. It is no wonder that they were discouraged, though the officers compelled their men to continue their labor.
The only salvation for the train and the guard was in the arrival of the re-enforcement from the Riverlawn Cavalry and its auxiliary force. He was confident that this assistance would come very soon, and he hoped it would come before the enemy left the stream. Life measured with his eye the direction and distances of the edge of the forest, the train, and the cavalry.
His position was in about the centre of a straight portion of the line of the woods, ending at a point nearest to the stream. He had been informed that Lieutenant Lyon would command the detachment that was to move towards the pike. This force could do little or nothing with their horses in the meadow, any more than the Confederate company. The sergeant had arranged in his mind just how the affair should be managed, and believed that Deck would hear his advice, as he often had before, whether he followed it or not.
The enemy remained at a halt in the stream, the officers and most of the troopers watching the woods in the direction from which the commands came; for Life had repeated them at intervals for some time. Like a prudent commander, the captain seemed to be unwilling to continue his fight with the mud until the unseen enemy, if there was one, had been seen, and his strength measured.
The sergeant looked at his great silver watch, and found that fifty minutes had elapsed since the departure of Milton. He had calculated closely that the re-enforcement would be on the ground in about half an hour; but probably his impatience had hurried his reckoning, and he made no allowance for the overhanging branches of the trees, which would to some extent impede the progress of the troopers.
But he had heard the sound of the horses' feet as he returned his watch to his pocket. He descended from the tree in hot haste, and rushed up the road with all the speed that his long legs would carry him. He soon discovered his lieutenant riding at the head of his platoon. Deck, as soon as he saw the sergeant, gave the order to walk the horses; for he desired to ascertain the nature of the situation before he reached the scene of the coming action.
[Illustration: "HE SOON DISCOVERED HIS LIEUTENANT RIDING AT THE HEAD OF HIS PLATOON." _Page 210. _] "None o' my business, Leftenant; but I reckon you'd better halt, and take a look at things ahead," said the sergeant in a very low tone to the commander of the force, which consisted of nearly, or quite, eighty men, or more than three-fourths of the strength of the Confederate company, allowing it to be full, as it appeared to be.
Deck promptly accepted the suggestion, and gave the command; for he had only the meagre information conveyed to him by Milton, and he knew nothing whatever of any changes in the situation since he left his companion; and in the space of an hour it was possible that the condition of things on the meadow was entirely altered.
In the same low tone the sergeant suggested that he had better dismount, and go with him to the boundary line of the forest, where he could see for himself the position of the wagon-train and that of the enemy. This was just what the lieutenant wanted to know, and he at once complied with the suggestion of his faithful friend. They went to the point indicated, keeping behind the trees; for Deck did not wish the Confederates to draw any inference from his appearance so near the scene of action.
It required but a glance for the young officer to take in the field of action, while Life was explaining all that he had seen, and especially the taking to the water, like so many ducks, of the enemy. The escort of the train were still laboriously using their shoulders at the wheels of the wagons; while the mules, six attached to each vehicle, were struggling in the mud, and were most unmercifully beaten by their negro drivers. A snail or a turtle would have beaten in a race with the train.
"They can never get out of that mire," said Deck.
"Never while they travel the way they are going now," replied Life. "They are headed for the Jamestown Road, for I cal'late they don't know nothin' about this road we come by."
"That's a lieutenant in command of the escort," said the commander of the re-enforcement. "I don't think he shows good judgment, for he ought to get out of that mire on hard ground the shortest way he can do so; but I suppose he concluded that he could not get his wagons through the woods without cutting away the trees to make a road."
"This road ain't down on the maps."
"But I see all there is to be seen, Life; and I don't make out why the enemy halts in the water, if they mean to capture that train, and they have force enough to beat the escort twice over."
"I reckon I brought 'em to a halt," said the sergeant, as he described the ruse of his orders to an imaginary force. "I cal'late that cap'n didn't mean to fall into no trap."
"It was well thought of, Life; now I am ready to return to my command," added Deck, as he started for his detachment.
The sergeant wanted to ask the lieutenant what he intended to do, or, in other words, to obtain his plan of battle; for the young officer was about as reticent as his father in matters of this kind. But he had formed his plan, and was thinking it over. The first thing he did was to send Milton, on foot, over to the wagon-train, advising the lieutenant in command of the escort to rest his men, and not exhaust his force with a useless struggle in the mud; for a force was at hand which would assist him in getting the wagons to hard ground.
Deck explained to the sergeant that he had been somewhat delayed, before he left the main road, by Captain Gordon, who had given him precise directions as to his course after he had finished the affair on the meadow, whether he was defeated or successful in his mission; for the rest of the squadron, with the remainder of the riflemen, were to proceed immediately to the south, where the aide-de-camp had work for them in that direction.
"Lieutenant Butters!" called Deck, as he rode to the head of the riflemen's portion of the column.
The late jail-keeper rode to a little opening in the woods, where Deck had halted, and received his orders. He then formed his command in line, probably animated by the drill in which he had been engaged for two days. He then numbered them from one up to thirty. The sharpshooters then dismounted, and secured their horses in the woods. They were again formed in line. The platoon of cavalrymen were at rest, and Life was ordered to dismount them, while Deck marched with Butters and his command in single file into the woods on the left of the road.
On this side of the by-path the dividing-line between the meadow and the woods extended due north about a quarter of a mile to a point beyond which the stream and the low ground reached nearly to the main road.
"I want to see the enemy," said Butters. "I can't station my men till I can see what they are to fire at."
"Then we must go nearer to the meadow," replied Deck, as the lieutenant of the riflemen halted his command, and he led the way, both of them keeping behind the trees.
A change in the situation greeted the vision of Lieutenant Lyon as he reached a position where he could see the stream and the enemy.
"The Confederates have dismounted!" exclaimed Deck, as he pointed to the enemy for the benefit of his companion.
"So much the better!" added Butters.
"Of course they intend to attack the escort of the train on foot," said Deck. "All the men of the company are not yet out of the water; but they are marching by fours, with their carbines unslung, and they will fire as soon as they get near enough. I must leave you now, Lieutenant Butters, to bring my men forward," and the lieutenant hastened back to the road.
Butters ran to the left of his line, and marched his force, with the thirtieth man at his side, or next behind him, nearly to the point of the forest, where he stationed the one with the highest number, and then one in reverse order, about six feet apart, till the first number was stationed within a rod of the by-road. He had measured the distance very well, for the centre of his line was a few rods from opposite to the enemy.
Deck was at the end of the road when Butters reached it. He was ordered to fire as soon as he was ready. He had told the men when they were placed to fire as soon as the one on his right had done so. With this rule, no two or more of the riflemen would aim at the same trooper, as they could not fail to do in a volley. The first four of the enemy, with two officers on their left, were moving toward the mired wagon-train.
Milton had by this time reached the escort, and delivered the commander's message. The force had ceased their labors, and placed themselves behind the wagons, though they had their muskets ready for use. The enemy marched without difficulty, for the sod where it had not been broken was tough enough to bear them up; but in places the wandering cattle had cut it up very badly.
Butters in a low tone gave his orders to the first man in the line to fire, and every one would do the same, down to the thirtieth man, without any further command; but he had his rifle in his hand, and he fired himself before he gave the order to the soldier on his left. The crack of rifles began, and followed each other in rapid succession. With the fourth discharge five men had fallen, including the foremost of the two officers on the flank, whom Butters had brought down himself.
Apparently not one of the sharpshooters missed his aim. They adopted the method used in the battle on the hill, and kept behind the trees, so that the enemy could see only the puff of smoke as each weapon was discharged, and the men were out of sight, or nearly so. Not less than twenty men had dropped, either killed or wounded. The sharpshooters were Kentucky riflemen, whose fame had been celebrated in story and song, and their weapon had been their plaything from their earliest years.
Suddenly a hoarse command was heard; but its meaning could not be made out till the men in column dropped upon the ground, and extended themselves at full length, with their feet directed towards the woods. At the same time another order was given nearer to the stream, and the troopers in the water began to remount their horses. The men in the meadow began to crawl back as hurriedly as possible to the brook. The troopers hurried their horses as much as they could in the water, and their progress was tolerably rapid.
The stream continued to extend at about an equal distance from the forest. The men on the ground continued to drag themselves like snakes on the sod of the meadow till they reached the water, and mounted their horses; but not a few of them were shot in their progress, though their position on the ground was not favorable to the aim of the riflemen. Deck saw that the enemy would soon be out of the reach of the rifles if they continued to follow the creek, and he ordered Butters to move his men to the left.
Butters sent the command down the line from man to man till it reached the thirtieth man, who led the file to the point. The riflemen continued to fire as fast as they could load their weapons, but still in the order designated at first. Butters at his first shot after the change of position had brought down the lieutenant in command near the head of the column; and he believed the captain of the company had been the first to fall by the ball from his rifle on the meadow.
The men dropped rapidly under the fire of the concealed riflemen, and an officer who had taken the place of the one near the head of the column in the water was evidently appalled by the havoc in the command. He shouted an order to his men, which could not be understood in the woods; but it was inferred when the men suddenly dismounted, and began to lead their animals, placing them between themselves and the forest.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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17
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THE OVERWHELMING DEFEAT OF THE ENEMY
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Sergeant Knox had marched the platoon of dismounted cavalry to a position near the end of the road, in readiness to move to the assistance of the train escort, as ordered by Lieutenant Lyon, when he saw the enemy marching over the meadow towards the wagons. When Deck realized the havoc made by the sharpshooters in the ranks of the Confederate company, he suspended the command to move, and watched the flow of events from the woods. He saw the enemy on the meadow drop upon the ground, and those in the water remount their horses.
Leaving Life in command, with orders to move to the train if the enemy approached it, he made his way over to the point where he could obtain a better view of the troopers in the water. He found them wading in the stream, covered by their horses. Butters was a great horse-fancier, as well as a dead shot with his rifle, and had ordered his men by message along his line not to kill the animals if they could help it.
"You are not doing as much execution among the enemy as you were, Lieutenant Butters," said Deck as he came up with the head of the sharpshooters.
"I am not, for the Cornfeds have made breastworks of their horses," replied the volunteer lieutenant. "I ordered my men not to kill the poor beasts if they could help it."
"I think that was a mistake," added Deck.
"The hosses ain't Seceshers," replied Butters, not exactly pleased with his superior's criticism.
"But every one of the horses is doing more soldier work than any of the men; for he is saving his rider from certain death, and the soldiers can't do that for each other," replied Deck, made somewhat earnest by the tone of the commander of the sharpshooters. "I love and respect a good horse as much as you do; and I sometimes think Ceph, the animal I ride, knows as much as I do, and in his way more. Your men are the most skilful with the rifle as a body I ever saw or heard of. But those horses are not such as you raise in this part of Kentucky, or where I came from. They are mean stock, and though I am sorry to do so, I must order you to shoot the horses; for your compassion for the poor beasts has brought the action to a standstill, and we are doing nothing."
"I don't know but you are right, Lieutenant Lyon; at any rate, I obey your orders," replied Butters, mollified by the compliment to his men and himself, to say nothing of the praise of Kentucky horses.
"Your men have ceased firing," added Deck, who did not believe in any stay of a successful action.
"The men have come to the end of the line, and I have not started a new round," Butters explained.
"Then start it by bringing down the first horse at the head of the column," continued the Riverlawn lieutenant. "Tell the next man to bring down the soldier as the horse drops. Do you know the location of the horse's brain?"
"I ought to; I'm a hoss-doctor to home, and I've had to shoot 'em afore now when they got a broken leg, or were too sick to get well. You'll see whether I know where the brains is," replied Butters, as he raised his rifle and fired. "Fire at the man!" he called to the first number in the line as the animal dropped, splashing his former rider with water, which seemed to blind him; for he was stooping forward, more effectually to conceal his head behind the animal.
Number one discharged his piece, and almost instantly the trooper followed the horse. Butters went to the second rifleman, and ordered him to shoot the next horse, telling him the part at which he was to aim. He proceeded along the whole length of the line, instructing the even numbers to shoot the horse, and the odd the man. Not a man failed to hit his mark, and there was soon a gap in the column. Every officer had fallen, and a panic seized the privates as the death-line marched up the stream. They were brave men; but the horses and men seemed to fall as though they had been prostrated by bolts from heaven, and the men could not see their executioners.
Without any orders, unless the sergeants gave them, the men leaped out of the stream, and ran with all the speed the nature of the ground would permit. The deserted horses remained in the brook, and not another one of them was shot. Not only those who had been more nearly exposed to the deadly fire of the sharpshooters, but those who were far in the rear of them, fled from the field. Of course they had leaped out of the water on the farther side of the stream, and were running to the north, or in the direction of the road from Jamestown to Harrison, and were liable to fall in with the outskirts of General Thomas's camp.
Deck witnessed the utter rout of the company of cavalry, and he proceeded to thank Butters and his men for the very effective service they had rendered. They had fought the battle and won it, and the cavalrymen had done nothing to assist them. The lieutenant of the company of Unionists expressed his opinion loud enough to be heard by all the sharpshooters, that there was not another body of men in the whole country that could equal them in the accuracy of their aim. He should commend them in the highest degree to Major Lyon, and his report would be transmitted in due time to the general in command.
"I will leave you and your men here, Lieutenant Butters, to watch the enemy," continued Deck. "In about an hour or two send me a report of anything that happens about here;" and he hastened back to the foot of the by-road.
The battle had been fought and apparently won; for the Confederates were out of rifle-range in a very short time. A vigorous cheer was sent up about the time that Deck came in sight of the train, proving that they realized their own safety and that of the train. But the young lieutenant's brain was busy, though he ordered his command to return the cheer of the escort.
The wagons, over a dozen in number, were safe from the hands of the enemy; for they had enough to do in the vicinity of Logan's Cross Roads, as the roar of the cannon in the battle was heard in the distance. Deck was studying up some way to extricate the wagons from their miry plight. If he could but procure a sufficient quantity of boards or planks, he could get them to the hard ground. He asked Milton if any could be procured, and was assured that none could be obtained short of Jamestown.
He gave the order to march, and directed Life to go ahead, and select the most favorable ground for the passage. The lieutenant followed him at the head of his command, and reached the train in a short time; and though some of the soldiers had sunk in the mud down to their knees, they were pulled out of it. The lieutenant of the escort had renewed his struggle to move the wagons forward when Deck saluted him as he came out to meet him.
"Lieutenant Lyon of the Riverlawn Cavalry," said Deck, as he gave his hand to the officer.
"I need not say that I am exceedingly glad to meet you, for you have saved my men and the wagon-train," was the answer. "Permit me to present myself as Lieutenant Sterling of the Ninth Ohio Infantry."
"You have had a hard march from the pike so far."
"I have; the toughest time I ever had in my life, and I have seen some deep mud before," replied Lieutenant Sterling. "Without your timely aid, my command would all have been prisoners, and the wagons been in possession of the enemy. But I am bewildered at the manner in which you have done this thing. I did not see your force till you marched out on the meadow. I heard a number of rifle-cracks, as I judged they were, but I did not see a man."
"It was wholly done by a volunteer company of riflemen, attached to my platoon for this occasion."
"I saw the enemy fall when they started to march over here, and after they took to the stream; but I could not make out the force that fired the shots. There must have been a hundred of them."
"Only thirty of them; but I believe they did not waste a shot," replied Deck. "Will you oblige me by giving me the date of your commission?"
"Whatever the date of my commission, I shall cheerfully resign the command to you; for you have a larger force than mine, and you have fought the battle here that saved me, though you must have been outnumbered by the enemy. My commission bears date Dec. 27."
"I was commissioned two weeks earlier than that."
"Then you rank me, and I am very glad that it is so," answered Lieutenant Sterling; and he proceeded to inform his command of the fact, for all of them had been ordered to suspend work.
"Do you happen to know what any of your wagons contain?" asked Deck, who was ready to address himself to the task of moving the wagons to the forest road.
"They are loaded for the most part with rations for the troops, and grain for the horses and mules, with some general supplies."
"Do you know if there is any rope among the supplies?"
"The quartermaster-sergeant can answer that question better than I can," replied the officer.
"Plenty of it, Lieutenant," replied this man. "It is in the first wagon in the line."
"Bring out at least a hundred feet of inch-rope," added Deck. "You were not moving the wagons to the nearest hard ground."
"My aim was to get them to a road indicated on the map over in that direction," replied Lieutenant Sterling, pointing over towards the one by which the Riverlawns had come from Jamestown. "According to the scale on my map it is about two miles over there."
"That is very true; but, according to the fact, it is less than a third of a mile to the woods where we came upon the meadow."
"But it would take me longer to cut a road through the woods to the road than it would to wallow through the mud to the road."
"But there is a by-road through the woods to the main road."
"I am a total stranger here, and I did not know there was even a path through the woods," added the lieutenant from Ohio, as the quartermaster-sergeant rolled the rope out of the wagon.
Deck called his men, who had been thoroughly rested by their stay in the woods, whether they needed it or not. The long rope was uncoiled; and Life was directed to make the two ends of it fast to the end of the pole, and pass it out through the three pairs of mules. Sixty men were detailed to man the rope in two lines. This required a part of the escort, and the rest of it were ordered to stand by the wheels. The negro driver of the first wagon was told by Life to go to the rear end and push; but this was done only to get him out of the way, for his brutality had disgusted both the lieutenant and the sergeant, as both of them believed in kindness to animals. They had seen the beatings bestowed on the animals before; and Deck, looking through his glass, was satisfied that the mules did not pull a pound under the beating. Perhaps they were disgusted with the failure of their efforts to move the wagon, as well as by the blows heaped upon them.
Life patted them on the neck, and coaxed them, and he certainly succeeded in bringing them to a good-natured condition of mind.
"Now, boys, straighten out them ropes!" shouted Life to the soldiers who manned them. "Pull steady for all you're wuth! Now, my beauties! Hi! now! Come, my beauties!" said he, taking the nigh head leader by the head, and leading him along.
To the astonishment of the men looking on, this mule made a flying leap nearly out of his harness, and then pulled as steadily as a well-trained horse; and the rest of the team followed his example. Life seemed to have some hypnotic power over a horse, and it appeared that he had the same influence over the mules. The men tugged at the rope, and the wagon was hauled out of the mire.
"Keep it moving!" shouted Deck. "If you stop, it will mire again. Keep it a-going!"
The men seemed to regard the work as a sort of enjoyable farce; and they cheered each other along, and some of them took to singing. They did not seem to be exerting all their strength, but the wagon moved along at quite a lively pace. If they had stopped two minutes, the wheels would have sunk down into the mud.
"John Brown's wagon got stuck in the mud, And we pull it through the black miry flood, As we go marching on," sang the soldiers; and in a few minutes more they landed the first of the wagon-train high and dry in the by-road.
Here one of the riflemen was waiting for the lieutenant, being a messenger from Butters.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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18
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THE FLAG OF TRUCE ON THE MEADOW
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The soldiers thought it was nothing but amusement to drag the wagon out of the mud and haul it to the woods. Sixty men and six mules made comparatively easy work of it. It was nearly dinner-time, and Deck had ordered the meal to be served on the meadow to those that remained there of the escort. During all this time the heavy guns had been thundering in the vicinity of Logan's Cross Roads; and as the day advanced the roar was perceptible nearer, indicating that the enemy had been driven from the first field towards the south.
The men proceeded to eat their dinner from their haversacks, while the quartermaster-sergeant had taken rations from the wagon for the portion of the escort that had come over to the woods. As soon as Lieutenant Lyon had given his attention to the needs of his men and horses, he turned to receive the message of the rifleman. Life gave his personal attention to the six mules that had come over, and they were supplied with a very liberal feed of corn and oats.
"Lieutenant Butters directs me to report to you that the enemy are returning across the meadow, flying a flag of truce at the head of the column," said the rifleman when Deck indicated that he was ready to hear him; and only a few minutes elapsed while he was giving his orders.
"How many men are returning?" asked the lieutenant.
"They were too far off for us to count them; but we guessed there were about sixty of them, for they must have lost at least forty in killed and wounded, to say nothing of the latter who were not disabled. Lieutenant Butters wants to know what to do about the flag of truce."
"How far off are they now?" asked Deck.
"They were some distance beyond the stream when I left, about half an hour ago."
"Return to Lieutenant Butters; tell him I will be with him very soon, and ask him to send half his men, good strong fellows, to assist in getting the wagons out of the mire," replied Deck; and the rifleman left in obedience to the order.
The men and the animals were all busy with their dinner, and the presence of the lieutenant was no longer necessary for a time. He spoke to his orderly sergeant, who was eating his dinner with the mules, and started for the point, eating the contents of his haversack on the way. On his arrival he found Butters engaged in selecting the men to send over to the assistance of the cavalrymen.
"Gittin' wagons out of the mud ain't exactly the work for sharpshooters," growled Butters as Deck approached him. "But I have called for volunteers."
"It is the work of soldiers to do whatever is to be done," replied the cavalry officer, who was not pleased with the growl, or the tone in which it had been made.
"It is not exactly the work of sharpshooters to work in the mud," returned Butters, apparently unwilling to have his men ordered away from his immediate command.
"You are volunteers; and if you object to obeying my orders, you may march your men back to Millersville," replied Lieutenant Lyon with dignity enough for a major-general.
"Do you mean to send us back?" demanded Butters angrily.
Deck saw that, from the first, the lieutenant in command of the riflemen was afflicted with an attack of the "big head," and considered himself as the practical superior of the young officer who was his military superior by the order of the major commanding. The cavalry officer was not "puffed up" by his position, but he felt the necessity of maintaining his dignity as the chief of the entire force on the ground.
"I do not send you back, but I give you permission to retire from the field," added Deck.
"I should like to ask who has done all the work that has been done in this place?" demanded Butters.
"I admit that your men have done the most of it," answered the lieutenant, when the entire thirty riflemen had gathered near to hear the dispute; "but if you are not willing to obey my orders, I can get along better without you than with you. If you desire to retire from the field, I have nothing more to say."
"No! no! no!" shouted half the men.
"You can do as you please, Lieutenant Butters," added Deck, when he realized that a majority of the riflemen were with him.
They had seen Deck in the thickest of the fight at the hill, and heard all about his conduct in other actions from the members of the company with whom they had fraternized at the jail, and it is not stating it too strongly to say, in figurative terms, that he was the idol of the Riverlawn Cavalry.
"I was calling for volunteers, and meant to obey your order, Lieutenant Lyon," said Butters.
"But you objected to it, and there is no emergency in the present situation."
"Volunteers to work in the medder, walk over to my right!" ordered the lieutenant of the riflemen, though with very ill grace.
Deck's ideas of discipline were of the severe order, and it was against his principles to call for volunteers for any ordinary service, though proper enough for that of a desperate nature; for it was his opinion that soldiers should obey orders without any question, and he was on the point of countermanding the call, when every one of the riflemen rushed over to the side indicated.
"Lieutenant Butters, you will detail fifteen men for duty in connection with the cavalry, and send them over to the end of the by-road," said Deck in his usual quiet tones; and turning on his heel without another word, returned to his men, finishing his dinner on the way.
He heard some rather strong talk before he passed out of earshot, and it was plain the riflemen were giving their officer some points in military discipline. Not a word was said about the enemy; for Deck saw that they were still at a considerable distance beyond the creek, and he intended to return as soon as he had started his force for the other wagons. The fifteen volunteers promptly appeared. The removal of the wagons from the meadow was given in charge of Sergeant Knox, and Deck went again to the point where Butters was waiting for him.
"I reckon I was wrong in the little muss we had a while ago; but I'm ready to apologize for it," said the commander of the riflemen. "I hain't got used to strict military discipline; but I shall be all right after this."
"It isn't necessary to say anything more about that matter," replied Deck. "The Confederates that you defeated so handsomely have reached the stream; they are still showing the white flag."
"I reckon they are in a bad way; but I don't see what they come back for," added Butters, pleased to find that the lieutenant had nothing more to say about his insubordination.
"Let your men take their rifles and follow me," added Deck, as he began to descend the slope to the meadow.
"Hallo! Hallo!" shouted a voice in the direction of the by-road.
"That's a man in uniform," said Butters, as he discovered the person.
The cavalry lieutenant reascended the bank, and saw the individual in uniform. Without saying anything he hastened towards him.
"I am exceedingly glad to see you, Captain Woodbine," he said, as the aide-de-camp extended his hand to him. "I am greatly in need of advice from a person of your experience."
"But you seem to have done exceedingly well without any advice so far; for the sentinel in the road informed me that you had saved the wagon-train, had defeated a company of Confederate cavalry, and brought one of the vehicles to the hard ground by an expedient of your own," continued Captain Woodbine, still shaking the hand of the lieutenant. "I see that boys sometimes become men of experience all at once, when an emergency is presented to them."
"I have done what I could here," replied Deck, studying the soil under his feet.
"With twenty years' experience no one could have done better," said the captain heartily; "and not many could have done so well. But I suppose you would like to learn something about the battle which is still in progress, though the enemy have been driven a considerable distance to the southward."
"We have been hearing the heavy guns here since we reached the meadow, and I should be very glad to know the result, for I hope our squadron will have some hand in the fight," replied Deck, looking with interest into the face of the visitor.
"You have already had some hand in it, for you have rendered one company of Confederate cavalry _hors de combat_, and saved that supply-train; and the general has had some anxiety about it, for it would be a godsend to the enemy, half starved as they are. Thus you have rendered a double service to our army. But what are you doing over here?"
"I will show you in a few minutes," answered Deck; and he gave a brief account of the action with the enemy in the meadow and in the creek, and their final flight to the north. "I don't understand why they are coming back under a flag of truce."
"I understand it very well. If they had gone as far as the woods you see about a mile beyond the creek, they would have come on the flank of our army; and very likely they were fired upon, and compelled to retire, for the battle is still raging in and beyond that wood."
"I conclude that they want to surrender; and sixty prisoners of war, with their wounded, would be an encumbrance to me," added Deck, as they reached the border of the meadow.
"What were you about to do when I came, Lieutenant?" inquired the captain.
"I was going out to the spot by the stream where the bearers of the flag have halted."
"Can't the man in command of the riflemen do that?"
"I would not trust him with such business," replied Deck. "He is a good enough sort of man, but he is troubled to some extent with the malady called the 'big head,' and he is an ignorant fellow, and his greatest virtue is his skill with his rifle."
The aide-de-camp went to as open a place as he could find, waved his cap over his head, and then beckoned vigorously for the enemy's cavalrymen to come to the wood. He repeated the sign several times, and then they crossed the stream and moved towards the point.
"That's all right," continued Captain Woodbine, as he took the lieutenant by the arm, and conducted him out of the hearing of the riflemen. "This matter is delaying me; but I think we can manage it. I have received a messenger from the general, who was the bearer of a letter, hastily written with a pencil on the field, to the effect that the enemy has been beaten, and are falling back. He believes that it will be a rout before night; and the First Kentucky Cavalry has been sent over here to harass the defeated army of Zollicoffer, who was killed on the field."
"That is all good news," said Deck.
"But the end has not come yet. I was sent over here on account of my knowledge of the country, to convey the general's orders to such commanders as I might meet; and while I am delaying here I am afraid the Kentucky regiment will pass the head of the by-road, and I shall fail to see the commander."
"But I can send one of these riflemen to the main road, with a written order to await the arrival of the regiment, and direct the force to wait," suggested Deck.
"Call up the messenger," added the captain, as he proceeded to write the order in his memorandum-book; and it was sent by the mounted rifleman.
"The general feared that a flanking force might have been sent over by Zollicoffer by this road; and that is the reason that I asked the general for the use of your squadron. He particularly charged me to help along the wagon-train if it was not already captured, as it certainly would have been if the lieutenant commanding the escort had not taken to the meadow. Now I am in haste to get your squadron and the rest of your regiment, for you belong to it, in a position where this force will be available in checking the retreat of the enemy, and you may have more fighting to do before night, or in the evening."
At this moment Lieutenant Sterling of the train escort touched his cap to his senior in rank, and reported that the wagons had all been hauled to the woods, and were in the by-road.
"How many men have you, Lieutenant?" asked the captain.
The chief of the escort looked at Deck, and did not answer at once.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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19
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THE RIVERLAWN CAVALRY ON THE FLANK
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The aide-de-camp was a stranger to Lieutenant Sterling, who therefore hesitated to answer such a question; but Deck immediately introduced him to the staff-officer, adding that he had saved the wagon-train from the enemy by taking to the meadow, and had brought it over a mile through the mire.
"You have done well, Lieutenant Sterling, and I will mention the matter to the general," said the captain.
"Thank you, Captain Woodbine. I have forty men, besides the quartermaster-sergeant and thirteen mule-drivers," added the chief of the escort very respectfully.
"You are a commissioned officer?"
"I am, Captain."
"You may retire, but remain within call."
"The presence of this officer solves the difficulty," continued the aide-de-camp. "He has to conduct his wagons within our lines, and he can take charge of the prisoners after you have disarmed them. They do not seem to be disposed to fight, and the escort is sufficient. They will be here in a very short time. Lieutenant Sterling!" he called.
This officer hastened back to the point, and saluted the captain; and this time he noticed the gold cord of a staff-officer on the sides of his trousers, which had been concealed before by a clump of bushes in which he stood. He had been an officer in the regular army, a West Pointer, who had resigned in "piping times of peace."
"I have to assign you to an important duty in addition to your present service, and I have no doubt you will perform it as well as you have the conduct of the wagon-train," said Captain Woodbine.
"I should certainly have been captured if Lieutenant Lyon had not fought and beaten the enemy's cavalry," replied the chief of the escort.
"It would not have been your fault if you had been. What is left of the enemy will be placed in your charge, and you will march them to our lines beyond Jamestown. They will be disarmed as soon as they come in," said the captain.
Lieutenant Sterling was then sent over to the road with a message to Life Knox to march the cavalry, dismounted, to the point, and to bring over his own men, except a guard for the wagons and the horses. They were on the ground as soon as the Confederates reached the forest. They came on foot, and left the horses where they had been abandoned.
An orderly sergeant, as he appeared to be from the chevrons on his arm, advanced and asked for the commanding officer; and Deck was pointed out by the riflemen, as his men ascended the bank to the solid ground. He presented himself to the lieutenant, and saluted.
"I am Sergeant Pfeffer, and we desire to surrender, for we can do nothing more," said he.
"Where are all your commissioned officers?" asked Deck.
"They are all killed or badly wounded," answered the sergeant.
"How many men have you now?"
"Fifty-eight; and we started out early this morning with a full company," returned Pfeffer, with no little bitterness in his tones.
"You will march your men in single file along this bank, and deposit your arms of all kinds on the ground," said Lieutenant Lyon.
He directed Life to supervise the ceremony, sending the weapons by his own men and the riflemen to the wagons; and the quartermaster-sergeant was directed to load them in the vehicles. Deck hurried the business, for the aide-de-camp was impatient at the delay. As soon as this duty had been accomplished, and Lieutenant Sterling was thus in condition to handle the prisoners, Deck ordered the cavalrymen and the riflemen to return to the road, mount their horses, and form in the usual order, in column, under the command of Sergeant Knox.
Captain Woodbine instructed Lieutenant Sterling to have the prisoners, under a guard of his own men, bring in the wounded, bury the dead, and lead their horses to the forest. He was told to be very cautious, and to shoot any prisoner who attempted to escape or make any serious trouble. With forty men, armed with muskets of the best quality, the captain declared that he could control the greater number of prisoners.
The aide-de-camp, who may take command of any body of troops in the field if he finds it advisable to so, and Lieutenant Lyon hastened to their horses, and mounted, and the column moved up the road. Lieutenant Sterling proved himself to be a man of energy and determination. He drew up his command around the prisoners, and then addressed them. He told them what they were to do, and warned them that any man who attempted to escape, or offered any opposition to his orders, would be summarily shot.
Forming the remains of the company by fours, with his own men on the flanks, he marched them to the stream. They were first required to dispose of the dead and wounded, who numbered over forty, and to do what they could to aid the latter. Quite a number of them who had not been disabled had been hit and more or less injured, and the lieutenant had excused the worst cases from duty.
The horses were all led to the point, and the wounded who were able to ride them were mounted. It was late in the afternoon when the cumbersome column was ready to move. Lieutenant Sterling's infantry had worked hard all day, and were considerably fatigued by their hard labor at the wheels of the wagons. He mounted the best horse he could find, and gave a steed to each of his men. A horse was also given to each wounded prisoner able to ride him; but the others were required to go on foot, for the officer would not trust them with horses for fear they might attempt to escape.
The prisoners had the head of the column, the mounted ones in their rear, with a file of the mounted infantry on each flank of them. The wagons completed the column, with guards on each side of them, mounted like the others. Each vehicle had a led horse behind it; for there were more of them than of prisoners. The lieutenant, mindful of the instructions of Captain Woodbine, kept a careful watch over his charge, riding up and down the line on both sides. In due time, though not until in the evening, he delivered the wagon-train to the chief quartermaster at the camp, and the prisoners to the provost marshal. He was highly commended later for his efficient service.
It would require a whole volume to give the details of the battle, as it began in the early morning, and continued with more or less intensity till evening, when the enemy were driven back to their intrenchments on the Cumberland River. General Thomas cannonaded till dark, and he intended to storm the works the next morning.
Lieutenant Lyon's command, accompanied by Captain Woodbine, reached the Millersville Road in the middle of the afternoon, where they found a portion of the First Kentucky Cavalry waiting for them, detained there by the written order of the aide-de-camp. The column was reformed, and marched with all haste for a distance of two miles, where the captain turned into another by-road, made by teams hauling out wood from the forest, and running parallel to the one by which the force had reached the meadow, and nearly to the pike.
At a point on this road Captain Woodbine had sent the companies in advance of the First Kentucky, by what looked like a cattle-path, to a position in the woods where they might intercept the retreating enemy, or at least annoy them. The Confederates were moving to the south by the pike and each side of it, the infantry passing through the miry region. The Riverlawn portion continued on the same road till they came in sight of the intrenchments on the north side of the Cumberland, where the rear of Major Lyon's command was drawn up.
At this time in the afternoon no considerable portion of the enemy had advanced near their intrenchments, and there appeared to be nothing for the squadron to do. The major wanted to know what his son had been doing; and Deck gave him a brief account of his operations at the meadow. Not a man had been lost in the affair, which had been fought by the sharpshooters behind the trees near the point. The artillery's guns were still booming on the air in the distance.
Captain Woodbine had chosen the position to be occupied by the squadron; and he had sent the remainder of the regiment to which it nominally belonged to a point farther north, for reasons of his own which he did not explain, but probably he desired to keep the Riverlawns by themselves.
The riflemen were now reunited; and while Deck was telling his story to his father, Captain Woodbine conducted the body, now under the command of Captain Ripley, from the hill behind which the two companies of cavalry were stationed, so that they could not be seen by the enemy, to another hill which commanded the pike and the meadow. Here he posted them, and gave the commander his orders.
From this height the sharpshooters could harass the enemy retreating over the pike, and also the two regiments of infantry retiring over the low ground, the first of which was within twenty rods of the hill. It was evident that it was marching towards ground to the west of the hill, where the ascent was less difficult. They were within range of the riflemen, and the fight in this section of the field was extremely likely to begin here. But the First Kentucky Cavalry was posted near them, and would be obliged to bear the brunt of it.
Captain Woodbine went to these troopers, and moved them to a more favorable position, where they could support the sharpshooters; for they were nearly, if not quite, as efficient as a battery would have been in the same place. Directly in front of the Riverlawn Cavalry was a hill overlooking the intrenchments of the enemy, which sheltered the command from the guns if they were fired in that direction; and the aide-de-camp rode his horse up the declivity, which was partially covered with trees.
Then he dismounted, hitched his horse, and placed himself behind a tree, where he could see all the force he had taken under his command, and all the approaches of the enemy who were hurrying down the pike and on both sides of it. Just then he wished he had half a dozen regiments of troops, for he believed that with a sufficient force he could cut off the retreat of the enemy to his works.
He had five companies of cavalry and fifty-six riflemen, less than a single regiment; and he could only impede, but not check, the retreat. Major Lyon surveyed the country around from all points; and when he saw the captain on the hill, he ascended it in order to make a startling proposition to him.
"We are within half a mile of the enemy's intrenchments, Captain Woodbine," the major began.
"Hardly as near as that, Major," replied the aide-de-camp.
"A quarter of a mile would make no difference with my plan."
"Ah, then you have a plan?" replied the captain with a smile.
"I am not an engineer, as I believe you are; but I have been looking over those earthworks. I see a place where I believe I could ride my squadron over them; and I presume there is not a large force there, for it has the river on one side. We have something less than six hundred men, all mounted, and I fancy we could ride over the artillerymen it contains."
"I don't believe you could get into the works, in the first place," returned the captain with a laugh. "If you did get in, you would find yourself outnumbered two to one."
"I should be willing to feel of them, at any rate," added the major.
"Do you suppose a general with ability enough to command an army of five or six thousand men would be so stupid as to march from his intrenchments, and, going away ten miles to attack another army, would leave his base of retreat insufficiently manned?"
"I supposed they would have been sending up re-enforcements to the battle-field all day; and they could not have done that without reducing greatly the number in the works. However, I am not a very experienced soldier, Captain Woodbine, and I am willing to admit that I should not have undertaken the enterprise on my own responsibility," replied the major.
"Of course it may be possible that the garrison within the fort has been reduced to a number equal, or even less, than your force; but I should say it would be foolhardy in the extreme to make such a venture without a certain knowledge of the extent of the force behind the breastworks. But the riflemen have opened on the regiment nearest to them," added the captain, as the crack of a rifle was heard on the other hill, not more than a quarter of a mile distant.
Other shots followed in rapid succession; but they were fired one at a time, in accordance with Captain Ripley's tactics.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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20
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THE FLOWING TIDE OF THE ENEMY'S RETREAT
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Both of the officers on the hill brought their field-glasses to their eyes, and directed them to the regiment in the meadow, which was having more difficulty in advancing than before; for near the higher ground the cattle had cut up the sod much more than farther off. The men scattered about more in their efforts to avoid the soft places.
"Those men fire with remarkable precision," said Captain Woodbine. "A soldier drops at every shot they fire, and they discharge their rifles at the rate of at least ten shots a minute."
"They can't stand that long," added the major.
As he spoke, the regiment broke into a run for the woods. They gave no further attention to the picking of their way, and struggled in the mire towards the high ground; but the merciless riflemen did not suspend their fire, and the soldiers continued to fall as the regiment advanced. In a few minutes it looked as though half the first company had fallen, either killed or wounded.
The second company, and those in the rear of it, faced about, and retreated; and, having a better sod than those nearer the hill, they ran with all the speed they could command, though some of them sank down in the mire, and were pulled out by their companions. When they had fallen back out of rifle-range, they directed their flight towards the pike.
The regiment in the rear halted when they saw the flight of the one in front of it. It was too far off for accurate firing. The men seemed to be appalled at the flight of the other regiment; and through their glasses the two officers could see that the commanding officer was making a speech to his men, but neither of them could see the extent of the casualties of the retreating command.
Doubtless the colonel of the regiment, ashamed of the conduct of the fleeing infantry, was rallying his men for the advance; for presently it resumed its march. But at that moment a new factor in the contest was presented to the aide-de-camp. The roar of a heavy gun was heard in the direction of the intrenchment, and both of the spectators on the hill looked in that direction. A cloud of smoke rose in the air, and at the same moment, almost, the explosion of a shell was seen on the riflemen's hill. The branches of the trees were cut off and twisted, and the sharpshooters rushed down the declivity as though their own weapons had been turned against them.
"Those riflemen have probably never been in a battle before," said the captain, apparently unmoved by the sight that greeted his eyes.
"I should hardly expect to see them stand up against that sort of thing," added the major. "I never saw a shell explode before, and it must be very trying to the nerves of an inexperienced soldier."
"He gets used to it after a time. But that shell must have killed or wounded some of Captain Ripley's command, though neither shells nor bullets are so destructive to human life as they appear to be at first."
"I don't understand how that shell happened to be fired into the hill, for they could not see into the meadow where so many have fallen," said the major.
"The information was probably sent into the fort by some officer on duty on the pike, near the earthworks, with an order to shell the second hill. But I think you had better return to your command, for your cavalry may be wanted at any time," suggested the captain.
"That colonel has rallied his men, and they are now marching very steadily towards the higher land," said the major, as he rose from the seat on a rock he had occupied.
"Ripley has done better than I expected, and he appears to have placed his men again. No doubt the bursting of the shell so near them startled his force, and the riflemen fled from impulse," continued the staff-officer. "But he is a brave old man, at any rate; for he has mounted to the highest point of the hill, and he is watching the fort with all his eyes. It is a dangerous position, and I am afraid there will be a military funeral soon at Millersville."
But he was shielded by a large tree on the summit of the hill in the direction of the enemy, and was giving his whole attention to the intrenchments. The captain was observing the regiment which was now rapidly approaching high ground, though it had moved much farther from the pike than the first.
The major had mounted his horse, and was about to rejoin his squadron.
Before he started, and when the approaching force was beginning to mount the bank, the rifles were heard again, and the leading men of the first company dropped from the bank. Not more than three or four shots had been fired before a tremendous yell was heard coming from the riflemen's hill, and the sharpshooters fled down the slope. It appeared as though Captain Ripley had watched the fort for a purpose, and, when he saw the flash of the great gun, had ordered his men to run, and they had done so. They had no time to spare, but they had a second to spare before the shell exploded.
[Illustration: "THE SHARPSHOOTERS RUSHED DOWN THE DECLIVITY." _Page 262. _] It did not appear that any one was hurt; at least, no one fell. The captain observed the riflemen with the utmost intensity; and as soon as the missile had spent its power, the men sprang part way up the hill, and placed themselves behind the trees. The first company had obtained a footing on the hard ground, and the first thing they did was to form and march at the double-quick towards the hill from which the death-dealing balls had come.
Major Lyon was a prudent as well as a brave man, and he galloped his horse away from the spot with all decent celerity; for to remain there another minute was almost certain death. The staff-officer was too old a soldier to get excited at such a time, but he kept a tree between himself and the approaching company of Confederates. The riflemen opened before the company could fairly form; and, as the distance for such riflemen was insignificant, a man fell with every rifle that was fired.
The fall of these men in the first rank, every one of whom was dropped, seemed to madden the men behind them, and they rushed forward on the run; but Ripley's policy was most disastrous to them, for the second rank of four soldiers fell, either killed or badly wounded. At this time Major Lyon, in obedience to an order from Captain Woodbine, with his entire squadron galloped upon the scene of action. Captain Gordon charged into the first company of the regiment of infantry.
The first platoon, under Lieutenant Belthorpe, struck the head of the column as it hastened forward to dislodge the sharpshooters, whose fire was so destructive to them; and Lieutenant Lyon, with the second platoon, took the company on the flank. This charge, so far as the first company of the Confederates was concerned, threw the riflemen out of the battle; for their bullets were in danger of bringing down some of the blue as well as the gray.
Captain Ripley perceived this difficulty, and ordered his men, as usual, by passing the word from mouth to mouth along his line, for his men to give their attention to the second company of the enemy's infantry, which had just begun to mount the bank from the low ground. Colonel Wolford, in command of the First Kentucky Cavalry, was in another part of the field, pursuing the retreating regiments in their ten miles of flight from the hills, where the brunt of the action had been fought; and Major Lyon was in charge of the detachment sent to assist in flanking the enemy in this quarter.
The staff-officer had ordered up this cavalry. He had mounted his horse, and given the order in person, going on the field in actual command of the force, leading it to the point where the second company were mounting the bank. Portions of the enemy's army had been well drilled, though this could not be said of all; and General Crittenden in his reports lamented the want of discipline in some of his regiments. General Schoepf was more emphatic and decided in regard to this same want of drill on the part of the Union mounted men. In the report of a skirmish he says:-- "The cavalry under my command, as usual, behaved badly. They are a nuisance, and the sooner they are disbanded the better.... Is there no such thing as obtaining a regiment of _reliable_ cavalry? Such a regiment is indispensable with this brigade at this time. The absence of such troops has kept me in the saddle until I am nearly worn down with fatigue."
Such remarks could not have been made of the Riverlawn Squadron; for its men had been as thoroughly drilled as those in the regular army, and the character of its troopers was much better than the average. It is not strange that there should have been a foundation for the severe comments of the general in the case of men enlisted, and almost immediately hurried into actual service, as was necessary in some parts of the State, though his caustic strictures were not applicable to all the mounted men of Kentucky.
Such ruffians as those against whom the battle of Riverlawn was fought, at an earlier stage of the war, had found their way to a greater or less extent into the Union army. But, whatever might have been truly said of portions of the cavalry, it was not true of the companies of the First Kentucky Cavalry; for in spite of their need of more drill, they were brave and good men, and fought like heroes when they had their chance at the enemy.
Captain Woodbine led them into action himself, though he was ably supported by the regular officers. They made an impetuous charge while the riflemen were picking off the men in the rear of the actual fighting. The havoc was so great that the infantry could not stand it, and they began to fall back to the rear. Then they fled to the west, in spite of the efforts of their officers to rally them, as had been the case on the field in many instances that day.
The fierce charge of the Riverlawns was too much for the first company of the enemy, outnumbered two to one. This was the first time that the squadron had met infantry in the field, and their opponents were well drilled in resisting the attack of mounted men. But they soon began to fall back, and retreated to the hill where Captain Woodbine had observed the first part of the struggle. The cavalry could not operate to advantage here on account of the roughness of the ground, and the trees. They resorted to the carbine, and kept up an effective fire.
The first company passed up the hill; but it did not pause there, but began the descent on the other side, which would bring them to the pike, near the breastworks of Beech Grove. A shell burst on the sharpshooters' eminence; but Captain Ripley resorted to his former expedient, and the way was now clear for his men to retreat to the level ground below for the moment.
The second company of the infantry on the meadow had retreated to the woods, half a mile away, perhaps hoping to find a passage through to their works. At Mill Springs the Cumberland River makes a turn at right angles with its course below, flowing from the north to the south for about two miles. The Confederate breastworks extended across the neck of land formed by the river and a stream on the west for two miles. The camp occupied by the enemy before the battle was protected by water on three sides.
The example of the second company on the meadow was followed by the others, and for the present they were all out of the action. The first company appeared to have lost at least one-fourth of its men; but it had fought all there was of the action. The Riverlawn charge had disordered its men; but they had gone in tolerably good order up the hill, and had begun the descent of it, while the squadron were picking off the men with their carbines.
"Lieutenant Lyon, go around the hill, and take them on the flank as they come down!" shouted Captain Gordon.
Deck obeyed the order promptly; and his men were full of enthusiasm as they followed him. The roughness of the hill had impeded the movement of the enemy's company, and the second platoon of the cavalry was in season to attack them. The foot-soldiers used their bayonets, and for a few minutes there was a terrific struggle. But before any result could be reached, a mob of the enemy's infantry and cavalry rushed into the space between the road and the pike, carrying friends and enemies with it, as before the sweep of a tidal wave on a stormy sea.
This disorderly body, coming from the pike and from the field beyond, carried all before it, and the second platoon of the Riverlawns could not understand the cause of the sudden commotion. The roar of artillery, not distant from them, soon revealed the cause of the stampede. The batteries of the Union army had moved forward just before dark; and volleys of grape or shell would have made a fearful slaughter among the disordered bodies of the retreating enemy, and they had fled in the utmost confusion.
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{
"id": "24866"
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21
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DECK FINDS HIMSELF IN A TIGHT PLACE
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The enemy were utterly demoralized, crazed with terror, devoid of reason and common-sense. The Mississippi, Alabama, and most of the Tennessee regiments of the Southern army were disciplined and steady troops in which such a panic would have been impossible; but there were others even worse than those described by General Schoepf, and the latter were always in the advance during a retreat. It was such as these that formed the rabble seeking to obtain shelter behind the breastworks.
In the mob reason was dethroned, and even common-sense had taken wings; for the fleeing mass were in more danger from each other than from the fire of the artillery, and whole sections of them were borne down by those pressing forward from the rear, and were crushed by the feet of men and horses.
Deck attempted to resist the flow of the tide towards the works; but he might as well have tried to counteract the great bore of the Amazon. His sabre was in his hand; but he had not the heart to use it upon the terrified mass, who had thrown away their muskets and knapsacks on the field, because they impeded their flight. A battery of artillery in retreating had mired one of its guns in one of the soft places in the field, and had abandoned it, as stated by General Crittenden.
With his great strength, assisted by a few others, Sergeant Knox had striven to open a way for the escape of the platoon to their former position; but they struggled in vain against the crazy and senseless mob. A company or platoon of Confederate cavalry had forced its way into the crowd nearly to the ground occupied by Deck's force, though they had used their sabres to accomplish it. Life had pushed his horse forward in the direction he wished to go; but the mob seized the animal's bridle to save themselves, and, by stress of numbers, had crowded him back.
One of the openings in the breastworks was near the spot; and the rabble in front of the cavalrymen pushed forward, and entered the intrenchments, thus making way for those behind them. But that was not the direction Deck and his command wished to go, and they resisted the mob as long as they could.
"I think we shall have to use our cheese-knives," suggested Life, as they were crowded forward in the passage to the fort.
"No, Life! That would be a terrible slaughter of unarmed men, and I will not do it," replied Deck. "I would rather be taken prisoner than murder these helpless and terrified people."
"Threaten them with the pistols if they don't get out of the way," the sergeant proposed. "They are jamming us into the fort."
"You might as well threaten them with the pistols if they don't fly away up into the air, for they can't move," returned the lieutenant. "This is not a battle; only a struggle for life on the part of the retreating enemy."
Life said no more. The space between the platoon and the hill from which the infantry had retreated, and which Deck had attempted to flank, was full of men retreating from the grape of the artillery which had now opened upon them, full of struggling forms intent upon reaching the shelter of the breastworks. There was no passage there.
"Leftenant, the rest of the squadron is formed near the hill, and they are draggin' in squads of prisoners," said Life Knox.
"Are they using their sabres?" asked Deck.
"No; they have sheathed them, and all they do is to shove 'em in like city policemen."
"Neither the staff-officer nor my father would shoot or cut down unarmed and unresisting men; but perhaps they expect to capture the whole army at a later hour. I can't do what they will not do," added the lieutenant. "But"-- He did not say what he intended, for the cavalry company, which had forced its way into the midst of the crowd, began to drive their horses forward, the rabble behind them pressing on in that direction. The pressure was too great for the Riverlawns to withstand, and they were pushed forward in spite of their best efforts to hold their ground.
"We might as well go with the tide, Life," said Deck hopelessly, as he gave way to the pressure.
"No man can help hisself here," replied the sergeant.
"We may as well make way for this rabble," added the lieutenant. "They will shove each other away from the entrance, and when the coast is clear we will take our chance of getting out of the fort."
Life Knox yielded the point; for, if they were not to cut their way through the crowd, this was absolutely the only thing they could do. They were pressed forward into the intrenchment. Deck observed as he gave way to the pressure behind him that the soldiers from the field, or near it,--for not a few had not been in the battle,--hastened from the entrance to the works, towards the middle of it; in fact, they were ordered to do so by the guard in charge of the camp, which extended for over a mile across the tongue of land formed by the Cumberland and the creek that flowed into it near Robertsport.
Lieutenant Lyon did not follow the example of the fugitives, and there was still nothing but a rabble near the entrance; and the guard, with its officers, were a considerable distance from him, and could give his command no orders. Instead of doing as others did, he led his force to the verge of the great river, down to which the high banks, amounting almost to cliffs, descended at an angle of about forty-five degrees.
The lieutenant could do nothing, but he kept up a tremendous thinking all the time. By this time he was conscious that he had been forced into a tight place. He reined in his steed when he had advanced perhaps the third of a mile across the camp, defended by the breastworks, and gave the order for his men to halt; but it was not spoken with his customary vim, for he was somewhat depressed by the situation.
He was in a Confederate camp, and all his powers of mind were directed towards the means of getting out of it; for it would have broken his heart to hand over his fifty men as prisoners to a Southern officer. He looked at the entrance; but that was as crowded as at any time before, and it was impossible for him to march out that way. Then he looked down the steep and lofty banks of the Cumberland. His horses and those of his troopers could swim like fishes; for it had been a part of the drill at Riverlawn to exercise the animals in the water, and they had often crossed Bar Creek with their riders on their backs, and they had even swam them over the Green River, though never in the rapids.
Deck considered a plan for descending the banks to the stream, swimming the horses a mile or two down the river, and then of escaping across the country to the position of the rest of the squadron. He was about to ask Sergeant Knox for his opinion, when the company of Confederate cavalry which had been next to his force outside the works rode over to the side of the camp he had chosen, and halted a few rods from his position.
But this body did not seem to be in a belligerent mood, and did not appear to take much notice of the platoon. Possibly they were ashamed of their conduct on the field; for they had been the first of the enemy's cavalry to arrive at the works, and they must have been among the first to run away. The men did not look like a fair specimen of the cavalry of the other side which the troopers had seen.
"We must get out of this place somehow," said Deck to the orderly sergeant, who had brought up a little behind him.
"I don't believe there is many more outside who want to get into this place," replied Life; "and I reckon the major will be looking this way for us, for he couldn't help seeing that we had been crowded in here."
"I don't see that he can do anything for us, unless he fights the whole force of the enemy outside; and I know they are not all cowards, like some of these fellers what worked harder to get into this fort than they would to git inter the kingdom o' heaven," answered Life.
"I don't look for any help from the rest of the squadron. If we don't get out on our own hook I think we shall have to stay here," replied Deck. "What do you think of escaping by the river? We can easily swim the horses down the stream a mile or two; for there is not much current near the shore, though it is strong in the middle of the river."
The sergeant rode over to the high bank, and looked it over in an apparently careless manner, so as not to attract attention, as far up as the great bend just above Mill Springs. He shook his head significantly as he resumed his former position.
"The swimmin' is all right after you git the hosses inter the water; but you've got to crack the nut afore you kin eat it, Leftenant."
"Is there any difficulty in cracking the nut?" asked Deck.
"I reckon that's whar all the diffikilty comes in. It has rained like Niagery for two days, and it has been doin' not quite so bad all this afternoon. Them banks is as soft as an Injun bannock half baked; and there ain't no foothold for hosses. I wouldn't resk it for two per cent a month," returned Life very decidedly.
Probably the sergeant was correct in his view, though Deck thought still that it was practicable. General Crittenden swam his cavalry over the river in the night, but some of his men and horses were drowned in the attempt. He found the descent of the steep banks a great obstacle to his retreat. But the crowd at the entrance to the intrenchment had diminished considerably, and the lieutenant began to think he could cut his way to it with less peril than he could swim his force in the river, especially as it was beginning to be dark.
Another circumstance came in the way of the execution of the plan. Perhaps the company of cavalry near him had noted the examination of the banks of the river by the lieutenant and the sergeant, and may have had a suspicion of what was passing through their minds. At least, it soon appeared that the captain of the company had other views in regard to the disposal of the Riverlawns. He had moved his command nearer to the platoon, and stretched it across the camp some little distance.
A little later, a mounted Confederate officer rode to this end of the line. He looked over the Southern company first, and asked to what regiment it belonged. Deck could not hear the reply in full, but only that it was a Tennessee regiment. Then he rode a little farther, and seemed to be somewhat astonished when he saw a force wearing the blue.
"What is that force in the corner, Captain?" he asked of the officer to whom he had spoken before, while he continued to observe the body in blue.
"It is a Yankee platoon of fifty men that we captured a mile or more from the breastwork," replied the Confederate captain; and it could be seen that his men smiled when he gave this reply.
"To what regiment do these troopers belong?"
"I don't know certainly, but I reckon it was a Kentucky regiment."
"How happened you to capture half a company, and not the whole of it?"
"Well, you see, Major, the Kentucky regiment had better horses than our Tennessee regiment, and they worried us a heap. We were retreating, for we had been flanked by a force four times as big as ours, and this regiment pursued us. Our regiment turned on them, and whipped them soundly. My company was fighting this platoon, and we surrounded them, and made them prisoners."
"Was that Kentucky regiment of cavalry full?" asked the major, with a frown on his brow.
"It was, Major, for I counted the ten companies," returned the captain without wincing. "This platoon fought like wildcats; but my men stood up to the work like heroes, as they are; and when we had surrounded them, they could not help themselves, and we drove them before us to the camp."
"I have no doubt that you will be promoted to the rank of brigadier-general for your meritorious service; but my information differs somewhat from yours, for I have learned that the only Kentucky cavalry on the field was four companies of the First, four others being on detached duty on the Millersville Road."
"But you see, Major, my informant may have given me incorrect reports," stammered the captain.
"Who was your informant, Captain? You counted the companies of the Kentucky regiment yourself."
"I may have been"-- "Probably you have been; but you have said enough. I have heard from your company before to-day," added the major, as he rode over to Lieutenant Lyon. "Did you surrender to Captain Staggers yonder?"
"I did not!" replied Deck with abundant emphasis.
"Did you hear what passed between him and me?"
"Every word of it."
"Was anything the captain said true?"
"Not a word of it! And you will excuse me, Major, but I intend to cut my way out of this camp!" shouted the lieutenant, loud enough to be heard by all his troopers, and they straightened themselves up for the work.
"Platoon--charge!"
At full gallop the force started for the entrance, now not obstructed.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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22
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A LIEUTENANT AMONG THE "MISSING"
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Major Walthal was very gentlemanly and very polite; but it appeared at once that he was not willing to permit the escape of the platoon, good-looking and well-dressed as were the officer and the men. He could not help observing the contrast between the Riverlawns and the Confederate company near them. Captain Gordon, who had been the principal instructor of the squadron, was very neat and precise about his person, and had always required the troopers to keep their uniforms and arms and their horses, with their equipments, in good condition.
On the contrary, this particular company of the enemy presented a slovenly appearance; quite in contrast, also, with some other regiments of their army. The major was a soldier of the highest type, and he could not fail to see the neatness of the Riverlawns. Very likely he was sorry to prevent the young lieutenant from carrying out his intention to leave the camp; but his ideal as a military officer was to do his duty.
Deck's troopers had drawn their sabres; and, with Life Knox in front, they made an impetuous rush towards the entrance. The sergeant was even more in earnest than usual; his horse was well trained, and when his rider pressed his knees against his flanks, he darted off with fury enough to satisfy the determined horseman.
"Halt!" shouted the major; but he might as well have addressed the wind or the rain. "Surround them, Captain Staggers, as you did on the field! Cut off their retreat if there is any manhood left in you!"
He led the way himself, though he could do nothing more, for he had no sabre; nothing but his dress sword. Perhaps the captain felt the necessity of redeeming himself after the number of lies he had told; and he gave the order to charge the impetuous platoon, leading the onslaught in person. The position of his company was nearer to the entrance than that of Deck's command; but Life had spotted him, and rushed upon him.
In spite of his shouting, there was little vim in the movement of the captain. He made an awkward cut at the sergeant, who easily parried it, and brought the sharp edge of his sabre down upon his shoulder, near the neck, and the officer dropped to the ground as though a bullet had gone through his brain. His horse turned, and had nearly upset the major in his flight, and it was evident that the animal was not accustomed to this kind of business. If the major could have obtained a sabre, he would have done better work, and perhaps the platoon would have been checked in its onward movement.
Deck, mindful of the many lessons in prudence he had received from his father and his captain, had taken a position on the left of his command; but the enemy were not there at that moment, though the Confederate troopers, under the second lieutenant, were surrounding the Riverlawns from the rear as they advanced. Deck realized that whatever was done must be accomplished in a moment or never, and he could not restrain himself, but galloped to the front.
Ceph, his horse, began to put his education into practice, and stood up on his hind feet before the first trooper that came in front of him. At that moment the lieutenant cleaved the skull of the man in twain. The enemy did not fight like the Texan Rangers with whom the young officer had been pitted before. In fact, they fell back, and began to use their pistols. One of the Riverlawns dropped from his steed with his face covered with blood.
The lieutenant saw with intense regret that this man was Sergeant Fronklyn; but he was apparently only stunned partially by the bullet, for he sprang to his feet with the aid of a comrade, though his horse had gone with the forward movement of the platoon, and was out of his reach. At about the same moment the second lieutenant of the Southern company, who was a gigantic Tennesseean, led his platoon to the left of the Riverlawns, and pushed on towards their front.
This big fellow was a brave man, whatever might be said of the greater portion of his comrades, and had his eye on Deck, who had just brought his sabre down upon the trooper whose head he had split in twain. The Southron dashed up to him, and levelled a blow with his weapon at the head of the young officer, just as the latter was turning to confront the enemy in his rear. This movement evidently disturbed the aim of the lieutenant, and turned the sabre in his hand.
But the blow came down with the flat side of the blade upon Deck's head. It stunned him, and his brain whirled. He dropped from Ceph, just as that intelligent animal rose again on his hind feet to confront the new enemy; but there was no one in the saddle to strike the blow that might have killed or disabled the giant who had done the mischief to the intrepid young officer. Corporal Tilford, who was a powerful man, dashed his horse against the Tennessee lieutenant, and struck him in the rear, just as the latter had done to Deck. His aim was better, and he did not permit the hilt to turn in his hand, and the giant finished his earthly career there.
Sergeant Fronklyn, though wounded himself, had strength enough to drag his officer to one side of the platoon, so that his form might not be crushed by the advance of horses' feet. The troopers had seen the fall of the lieutenant, and naturally enough, supposing that he was killed, were excited to new fury by the disaster, and rushed upon the enemy, who were crowding them on both sides. They fought with an impetuosity which the enemy could not withstand, and a large portion of the latter justified their record for that day by running away.
There were individual instances of bravery on the part of the foe; but, as a whole, the attack upon the Riverlawns was feeble and nerveless. It was fortunate for the entrapped platoon that it was not set upon by some other company of the Confederate cavalry, rather than one which had run away from the field of battle; for in that case they might all have been prisoners of war.
Sergeant Knox remained at the head of the platoon, and after he had struck down with his powerful right arm two or three that confronted him, he was avoided by the enemy; but he continued to shout encouraging words to the men, who did not flinch a hair from the troopers that beset them in double their own numbers.
"Now forward, my boys!" he cried, as he saw that the entrance was clear for the passage of the body.
The men pressed on, upsetting the enemy in their path, though most of them had fallen back out of the reach of the sabres of the Riverlawns; and with this renewed effort they passed through the entrance and out of the intrenchments. But they had no sooner reached the outside of the works than they discovered the rest of the squadron in a fight at the foot of the first hill, with a whole regiment of Confederate cavalry. Captain Woodbine had occupied this hill at the beginning of the fight in this section, and on it Captain Ripley and his riflemen had been posted later.
The two companies of the First Kentucky were moving forward; but there was not room enough for them to manoeuvre. As usual, the sharpshooters were making havoc in the ranks of the regiment, and the head of the column was falling back to escape the deadly rifle-balls. Life halted his platoon, and looked them over, puffing like a steam-engine from the violence of his excitement and the fury of his exertions to save the command. The prospect before him was not encouraging, for the enemy had some troops outside of the works.
"Where is Leftenant Lyon?" demanded he of Corporal Tilford, as the latter rode up to him to give him information in regard to the officer in command of the platoon.
"I am sorry to say we left him in the enemy's camp," replied the corporal.
"Left him there!" exclaimed Life, with something like horror in his expression. "Was he wounded?"
"Worse than that, I am afraid," answered his informant.
"You don't mean to say he was killed, Corporal?" asked Life, looking as though he had lost the only friend he had in the world.
"I don't know for certain that he was killed, and should report him with the missing," replied the corporal.
"I don't understand it," continued the sergeant. "The lieutenant was always able to take care of himself."
"I can tell you just how it was, if you want to hear it in this place," returned Tilford, as he looked about him, and discovered a company of infantry coming out of the fort, and another approaching across the field. "We shall soon be surrounded here."
The sergeant looked about him, and the prospect near the fort was not encouraging. He gave the order to march, and led the way. The ground was hard here, and he galloped his horse at his best speed towards the second hill. The main body of the Riverlawns had a favorable position between the first hill and the end of the breastworks. The enemy had come down the pike. Between the two hills the two companies of the First Kentucky Cavalry had been skilfully posted by the senior captain when he found that there was no space between the hill and the intrenchments for his command.
Major Lyon, as it was afterwards stated, had started to the entrance of the fort, for the purpose of aiding the escape of the second platoon of the first company. Before he had advanced more than a few rods, his force had been attacked by the regiment which had just escaped from the field of battle. They had been ordered by some superior officer on the ground to attack the major's command; and the regiment had rushed into the narrow defile, where only a portion of it could be brought into action. The sharpshooters were rapidly reducing the numbers at the head of the column, though the ranks were immediately filled up by the sections behind them.
Life led his platoon, diminished in numbers by only three men besides the lieutenant, to a point in the field abreast of the farther side of the first hill. At this place he could see the riflemen posted behind trees and rocks, plying their deadly office with the utmost diligence, and after the manner the captain had ordered on the hill and at the meadow. He was operating upon the head of the enemy's column. The sergeant found that there was space enough between the hill and the end of the breastworks for him to charge the regiment on the flank, and at least make a demonstration in that quarter.
The Confederate column was losing its men at a fearful rate in its first company, and the second was sent to dislodge the concealed force on the hill. They moved gallantly forward, and began the ascent of the slope; but the ground was rough, and covered with trees and rocks, though the former were scattered just enough to enable the sharpshooters to fire over and between them. The advancing force were nearer the riflemen than the companies on the ground, and they dropped almost as fast as they went forward, and the company was soon recalled.
Sergeant Knox conducted his platoon through the opening, and fell upon the third company just as the second were approaching the position they had occupied before. As usual, his men fought furiously, and very unexpectedly a panic ensued. The Confederates evidently believed that they were flanked by a large force, and began to fall back towards the intrenchments, crowding the companies in the rear before them.
The men in the first company continued to fall in appalling numbers before the riflemen's unerring aim. The Riverlawns pressed them with renewed zeal, and they fell back into the gap made by the flankers. In this manner the second platoon came into their proper position, while the first company, now re-enforced by the two companies of their regiment, marched into the fort; and the fight for the time ended there. By this time it was beginning to be dark, and it was not likely that the battle would be renewed that night. The work of the next morning was to attack and carry the intrenchments.
The battalion had been under the command of Captain Woodbine, the staff-officer, from the time when the two companies in the rear had been brought into the action. He ordered his force to return to the end of the roads by which they had arrived. Major Lyon led his squadron back to the point indicated, and halted his men there. As soon as he had done so he rode back to look over his command. The riflemen were recalled. It was found that they had lost four men in killed, and nine wounded, most of them by the shells from the fort.
Both companies reported their loss in general terms. Dr. Farnwright had established his hospital in the rear, and had a considerable number of patients. Captain Gordon could only report for half of his command, for the other half had been absent. The major passed on to the second platoon, and was startled to see that it was in command of the first sergeant.
"Where is Lieutenant Lyon?" he asked, choking down the emotions that agitated him.
"Missing, Major," replied Life.
"Missing?" repeated the father of the lieutenant. "I will hear your report later;" and he rode back to the head of the column.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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23
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WITHIN THE CONFEDERATE LINES
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The fall of the gigantic Tennessee lieutenant had created something like a panic among his cavalrymen who were pressing forward to flank the Kentuckians; and Sergeant Fronklyn, his face still covered with blood, seized the opportunity of their retirement to the rear to drag the form of Lieutenant Lyon out of the mêlée, and place him on the bank of the creek which bounded the camp on the west.
His first care was to wet his handkerchief from his canteen, and wash the blood from his face, so that he could see better. Then he felt of his wound which was somewhat swollen, and found the scalpskin was torn away from his head just above the temple. The bullet from the pistol of the trooper had glanced across his head with force enough to stun him without making a very bad wound. He washed it with the handkerchief, and then tied it over the top of his head, and under his chin.
He realized that he had had a very narrow escape from death; for if the ball had hit him an inch lower, it would certainly have killed him. He took a long draught of water from his canteen, and felt better. He was very thankful for his escape, and believed he should recover from the wound in a week. He knew that he was a prisoner; but it was probable that the Union army would open fire upon the intrenchments the next morning, and would capture it in the end, be it sooner or later.
He had seated himself by the side of the motionless form of his officer, not doubting that he was dead, though he immediately proceeded to satisfy himself on this question. He placed his hand on his heart. He had been a student in a medical institution at the time of his enlistment, and had made considerable progress in his studies, and had assisted Dr. Farnwright in the hospital when the occasion would permit.
The organ of life was still beating, and he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Thus encouraged, he continued to investigate the condition of the lieutenant. He could find no open wound, but there was a considerable swelling on the top of the head. He was convinced that the case would not be fatal. Taking the patient's handkerchief from the inside of his coat, he wet it thoroughly from his canteen. Then he unloosed the belt, and opened wide his coat.
He sprinkled the face from the wet handkerchief, and then bathed it very patiently for half an hour. At the end of this time the patient opened his eyes, slowly at first, and soon had them wide open. He recovered his consciousness later, and complained of a nausea at his stomach, and he continued to have an increase of the symptom till he had discharged the contents of that member.
"I feel better," said he very faintly, as he looked about him, and seemed to be bewildered. "Who are you?" he inquired; for it was too dark by this time for him to see anything distinctly.
"I am Sergeant Fronklyn," replied his attentive nurse. "Don't you know me, Lieutenant Lyon?"
"I should know you if I could see your face," replied Deck with a stronger voice.
"It is becoming rather dark about here. Have you any pain, Lieutenant?" inquired the sergeant.
"None of any consequence, Fronklyn; but my head aches," answered Deck. "Where do I happen to be just now?"
"Don't you remember what took place an hour ago, or more?"
"I have an idea that I was in a fight; but it all came to an end very suddenly," replied Deck, raising his head, and then sitting up on the ground.
"You were in a sharp fight, and you have lain here like a log for half an hour or more. I was afraid that you had been killed; but I thank God with all my heart and soul that you are still living," said Fronklyn very devoutly.
"Some of it comes back to me now," said the patient, as he looked about him as if to ascertain where he was; for his companion had not informed him on this point. "I had just struck down a trooper with my sabre when I heard the tramp of a horse behind me. I was about to wheel so as to face him, when I felt a blow on my head, and I can remember nothing more."
"You fell on the field, as I had before you."
"Are you wounded, Fronklyn?"
"I am slightly; and my case seems to be something like yours, though it was a pistol-ball that brought me down. I saw the trooper aim a great horse-pistol that might have been a hundred years old, and I have no doubt that the bullet was as big as they fire in those ancient flint-lock muskets. It stunned me for the moment; but I was on my feet at once, and saw you fall," the sergeant explained.
"Are you much hurt, Fronklyn?" asked Deck.
"Only a flesh-wound that will heal up in a week, or less. When I can get at my knapsack I will put a plaster on it."
"But you have not told me where we are, Fronklyn, and I cannot tell for the life of me," continued the lieutenant, looking around him again.
"Don't you remember that we were in the enemy's fortification when the fight went on?"
"I remember that. We had been crowded into the enemy's intrenchments by the crazy mob. A Southern captain claimed our platoon as the prisoners of his company; and that made me so mad that I ordered our men to charge upon them, and fight their way out of the fort," returned the wounded officer, whose mind seemed to be clear enough by this time.
"And that was just what we were doing when both of us went down; though I was on my feet soon enough to drag you out of the fight," replied the sergeant.
"What has become of the platoon?"
"You were on the flank, and Life Knox got in at the head of the men, dropping every Confederate that came in front of him; and the rest of our fellows were not far behind him. None of them were captured; but two were killed, and probably some of them were slightly wounded."
"The men are not prisoners, then?"
"They are not."
"How is it with us?"
"I suppose we are prisoners, for we are within the enemy's lines; but no person has been near us as we lay here. I think the Southerners have all they can attend to at present, and doubtless they are getting ready for a fight to-morrow morning; for General Thomas will certainly clean them out before he has done with them."
"What is to be done with us?" suggested Deck.
"That is a question, Lieutenant."
"Well, the next business in order is to get away, for I have no fancy for being taken to the South, since the Confederates have no provisions for their own men, and as prisoners we would starve with them," said Deck. "I haven't had my supper yet, and I feel a little faint. I have enough to eat in my haversack."
"So have I; for we were so busy at noon, that I did not have time to eat much dinner, though it was served as usual. I think we had better go to supper now, and then we will look about us."
Both of them began to eat from their haversacks, and they made a hearty meal of it. The lieutenant declared that he felt all right then, and his head did not ache half so bad as it had when he first came to himself. In the excitement of the day Deck had eaten very little. He had been careful that his soldiers had their dinner, but he had been too busy to attend to the matter himself. He had become somewhat faint while within the breastworks before the charge. At any rate, he felt a great deal better after he had eaten his supper.
"I wonder what they are doing in here," said he, looking to the middle of the camp, though it was now so dark that he could not make out anything.
"Of course there is going to be another battle in the morning, and the enemy here are getting ready for it," replied Fronklyn. "General Thomas was sent down here to capture these works, and drive the enemy away from this region, and he is going to do it. He is a regular army officer, and he understands his business."
"What do you suppose has become of your horse and mine, Fronklyn?" asked Deck, as he looked about him again. "I wouldn't lose Ceph for everything else I have in the world."
"I saw him pressing forward with the men after you had fallen, and it seemed as though he meant to do some fighting on his own account," replied the sergeant. "I fancy that both our horses went with the men out of the fort, and that they will be cared for, even if they are wandering about in the fields."
"The question just now is how we are to get out of this scrape," said Deck, as he rose from his seat on the wet ground. "I don't like the idea of going South as a prisoner, and not much better being paroled, and tied up in idleness for I don't know how long. We must get out of this place, Fronklyn."
"I am entirely of your opinion, Lieutenant; but I don't see any chance to do so now," replied the sergeant. "They have closed up the entrance by which we were forced in; for it is as dark there as all along the breastworks."
"No men appear to be stirring in this part of the camp, though there are plenty of them not ten rods from us," added Deck.
"But there is a line of sentinels all along the inside of the breastworks. I made out the men before it was as dark as it is now. If it wasn't for them we could climb over it, and go back to our camp," said Fronklyn. "Our men have two or three batteries on the field, and they are firing at intervals. The artillerists inside the fort are standing by their guns, and they fire them once in a while to show that they are awake."
"I think we had better reconnoitre the situation, and we may find some hole we can crawl through," suggested Deck, as he walked towards the creek which bounded the intrenchments on the west.
"Do you expect to get out this way?" inquired the sergeant.
"Perhaps we may possibly do so," replied the lieutenant.
"Impossible; I have looked into that creek before. It is wide near the river, and after the freshet of the last three days it is a rushing torrent, and the great river is not much better out in the middle," protested Fronklyn.
"Well, we must do something," Deck insisted earnestly. "I am going to move over where there is something going on. We can't afford to waste our time while we have any of it on our hands."
"All right, Lieutenant; I will follow you wherever you go," returned the sergeant.
Deck led the way towards the centre of the camp; but he had not gone two rods before he stumbled over the form of a dead trooper, one of the number who had been unhorsed in the charge of the platoon. Half a dozen more of them lay near the spot where the heaviest of the fighting had been done. Probably the wounded had been picked up and borne to the hospital.
"Lie down, Sergeant!" said Deck, as he did so himself.
A mounted officer rode along the line of sentinels as far as the creek, evidently assuring himself that all was safe in this part of the camp. He paused a moment at each of the guards, and finally turned his horse and rode back the way he had come.
"We must get over by the river, and see how it looks there," said Deck when the officer had passed out of hearing.
"Then we had better snake it; for if we stand up it may attract the attention of the sentinel nearest to us," suggested the sergeant, as he began to crawl after the manner of the reptile he had mentioned.
The lieutenant followed his example; for he realized that a moving object could be made out in the darkness. By this slow process of locomotion they reached the bank of the river, and heard the dull flow of the water from the middle of the great stream. The bank was high and steep; and it was soft and wet. From this point they could see a steamboat,--a small affair. It was headed up the river; but the light of the fires in the forward part of the craft enabled them to see her, and to make out her position.
On the shore above her there was a considerable crowd of men; but the observers were too far off to be seen distinctly. They could make out by the light of the steamer's fires two large flatboats, and a much smaller craft was made fast to the stern of the steamer. Deck had an idea, but he did not mention it. Stepping over the bank of the river, he began to descend the steep and slippery declivity; and Fronklyn, with a mental protest, followed him.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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24
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A NIGHT ADVENTURE ON THE CUMBERLAND
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It was walking by the feeling rather than the sight; for the black waters of the great river seemed to make the darkness more dense than in the camp above. Deck's lessons in reasonable caution came to his mind; and he had quite as much need of them as on the field of battle. A misstep might precipitate him into the dark waters of the rushing stream.
He did not "lose his head," which was exceedingly serviceable to him at the present moment. He had said nothing to his companion in regard to this perilous descent in the darkness, for he was sure Fronklyn would protest against the difficult and dangerous enterprise upon which he had entered; but he was willing that he should follow him, or remain in the camp, as he might think best.
The sergeant was a courageous man, as had often been demonstrated on the field of battle. He was not only loyal to the government, but to the lieutenant; and he would have sacrificed his life rather than abandon him in the present emergency. At the same time, he could see but little hope in the present venture, whatever it might be; for the lieutenant had not informed him in regard to his purpose in descending to the stream.
If he had seen the boat that was made fast to the stern of the steamer, it had no significance to him. He had never been a boatman; and the little craft was not suggestive to him as it was to Deck, who had spent much of his time on the waters of Bar Creek and Green River since his father moved from New Hampshire to Kentucky. He had not spoken of his plan to his associate, partly from the force of habit as an officer, and partly from the fear of being overheard by some one on the shore above. They had crawled, "snaked it," nearly half a mile, and had come to a point near the body of the Confederate troops.
It was not easy to stand up on the miry slope of forty-five degrees, and the feet of the leader had a tendency to give way in the mud. He took an angling course, which would require him to move five or six hundred feet up the river before he reached the water. He had left his sabre where his companion had removed it; but he still wore his belt, which he had replaced after he came to his senses; and the small revolver was suspended where the hip pocket would have been if his trousers had been provided with one.
He had nothing on that impeded his movements. Their slow progress in "snaking" it for so long a distance led the lieutenant to believe it must be ten or eleven o'clock in the evening. He continued his march on the diagonal of the slope, but with the greatest difficulty; and he often had to stop and rest from the exertion of the struggle with the mud. At the end of an hour, as Deck judged it might be, he had made about one-third of the distance to the water, and halted to recover his breath. At this pause in the descent Fronklyn came up with him. Both of them were out of breath, and neither of them spoke, though they were out of hearing of the enemy.
"This is a hard road to travel," said Deck, when he was more nearly in possession of his wind.
"That's right; but why we are travelling it I will be hanged if I can see," replied Fronklyn, his tones indicating that he was much disgusted with the present situation. "You did not tell me what you intended to do, Lieutenant."
"Because I did not wish to inform any of the enemy who might be within earshot of us," replied Deck. "I did not go off at half-cock when I started on this tramp. You have a first-class pair of eyes, Sergeant; and I supposed you would use them, and could see for yourself what I was about."
"I have used my eyes for all they are worth; but I will be hanged if I can see what you are driving at through this mud."
"Have you seen a steamboat anywhere on the great river?"
"I reckon I have; but I don't take it that you are going to her."
"That is just where I am going," answered Deck impressively and decidedly.
"Going to the steamboat!" exclaimed the sergeant incredulously.
"Precisely so."
"Then I suppose you expect to procure a passage in her across the river, if that is where she is going; and I can't see what else she is here for."
"I don't know why she is here, for I am not in the counsels of the enemy."
"You seem to be in a fair way to become better acquainted with the Southern army."
"The steamer may have brought supplies for this camp; and according to all accounts the soldiers inside of the breastworks are in need enough of them. I don't know what she is here for, though I have a suspicion that our forces will not find the enemy in their intrenchments in the morning. But, Sergeant Fronklyn, you are disgruntled, as I have never seen you before."
"Because it seems to me you are running as fast as the mud will permit you into the very jaws of the lion; or, if that is too figurative for your plain common-sense, into the hands of the enemy. You are a lieutenant, and they will be glad to get you; for they have not bagged many officers in the last twenty-four hours," replied Fronklyn.
"Sergeant, if you are dissatisfied with my movements, we are not in the camp or in the field, and you are at liberty to retire and look out for yourself."
"I would drown myself in the river before I would do that!" protested the sergeant warmly. "I hope I have not said anything disrespectful, Lieutenant. On the field I have followed you wherever you chose to go, or wherever you chose to send me. I have no doubt you know just where you intend to go, and just what you intend to do; but I am in darkness, and wish for light. I am going it blind; but I will follow you, even if it be into a Confederate prison-camp, Lieutenant!"
"I have no secret to keep from you, my dear fellow," said Deck, reaching out, and grasping for the hand of his companion, which he found, and pressed earnestly. "We have stood together on some fighting ground, and we will not fall out here, though we may fall down this slippery bank. You can see that I could not stop to make explanations within reach of the sound of the enemy's voices. What's that just above you, sergeant?" asked he, pointing to something on which a gleam of light from the steamer's fires fell.
"It looks like a board," replied Fronklyn; "it may be of use to us in making our way along this bank. I will get it;" and he went up the slope about a rod, and returned with it.
It was a board about ten feet long, and not more than six inches wide, and had probably been dropped from the camp above. The sergeant laid it down, and then seated himself upon it, Deck following his example.
"We may come to gullies made by the rain, and this board will help us in crossing them. I had nearly lost my balance in getting over one of them," added Fronklyn.
"I could not explain before, but I am ready to do so now," said Deck, taking up the conversation where he had left it before.
"Perhaps I ought not to ask an explanation; for I have been accustomed to obey your orders without asking a question, or to follow wherever you led the way," returned the sergeant.
"I have given you no order, Fronklyn; and, if I had, you are no longer under my authority. After a ship is wrecked the sailors look out for themselves," continued Deck. "You have seen the steamer; and you can see it better now than at any time before, for the firemen are piling in the wood, and the furnace doors are open."
The blazing fires under the boiler cast their light on the river and the banks, illuminating the scene ahead of her, but not astern, fortunately for the fugitives seated on the board, or they might have been seen, and their uniforms distinguished by the enemy. Some of this light was reflected to the stern of the steamer, through the openings on the main deck.
"I can see the steamer plainly enough now," said Fronklyn. "It looks as though ropes had been passed from the top of the banks down to the vessel."
"Very likely those are to assist the officers and privates to descend to her; and I wish we had a rope here to help us along," added Deck. "But do you see the small boat hitched to the stern of the steamer?"
"I can see it now plainly enough; but I had not noticed it before."
"I saw it when I first discovered the steamboat, and I have been making for it ever since. I was afraid if I said anything that little craft would be placed out of our reach before we got to it."
"I understand it all now!" exclaimed Fronklyn. "I hope you will excuse me for grumbling, Lieutenant, when I could not make head nor tail to your movement."
"That is all right, my dear fellow; only trust me first, and grumble afterwards, the next time. But we must be moving on."
"What about this board? It is rather heavy to lug the rest of the way," said the sergeant, as he lifted one end of it. "Shall we leave it?"
"It may be of use to us. If I had a pole about six feet long it would help me very much, and perhaps save me from sliding down into the river."
"If we could break the board in two in the middle, it would make two staffs for us."
"We can do that," added the lieutenant.
"How?"
"Shoot it in two."
This answer looked like a joke to the sergeant, and he gave his opinion that the board could not be broken in two in the middle without splintering it from one end to the other. Deck declared he could manage the case, and asked his associate to find the middle of the piece of lumber. By the time he had done so the lieutenant had taken out his revolver, loaded with six cartridges.
Placing the muzzle of the barrel on the board where Fronklyn pointed to the middle, he fired, repeating the operation till he had discharged it six times. The holes made by the balls were about an inch apart. The reports from the revolvers were only cracks; and, so far as they knew, no one heard them but themselves. Fronklyn put his foot on the board, and then with his hands hold of one end of it, lifted it till it snapped on the line of the bullet-holes. Each of them took one of the pieces, and renewed their tramp.
Deck kept the lead, as before, and placed the board on the lower side; and the sergeant did the same. The staff was as useful to them as the alpenstock to the mountain climber in Switzerland. It enabled them to double their speed, at least, and with much less labor than they had made their way before. The doors of the furnaces on the steamer were closed now, but they could see men descending by the lines to the gang-plank of the steamer.
In due time they arrived within ten rods of the small boat of which they desired to obtain possession. The furnace-doors were again opened to put in more fuel, and the scene was lighted by the blaze again. As a matter of prudence, the lieutenant lay down on his board, and the sergeant did the same.
"Now, Fronklyn, I will make my way to the boat, and bring it down for you to get in; for both of us need not incur the risk of doing this work."
"All right; I agree with you in regard to the risk, but I will do this instead of you," replied Fronklyn.
"Are you accustomed to handling a boat, and especially to rowing?" asked Deck.
"I never handled a boat at all, and never rowed one in my life," answered the sergeant.
"Then I must do this job;" and the lieutenant started on his mission.
Some of the soldiers had gone aboard the steamer, though he could see none on the after deck. Deck approached the river very cautiously, lying down on his board not less than three times when he thought he was observed. King Fortune favored him, for the current of the stream kept the boat swinging out and in. Watching his opportunity, he caught hold of the stern, and leaped into the boat as though nothing ailed his head, either outside or inside.
He dropped into the bottom of it, and peered over the deck of the steamer. Then he hauled on the painter till he brought the little craft up to the taffrail, where with no little difficulty he cast off the rope. He could see the soldiers on the upper bank, and those on the forward part of the steamboat; but they were all too busy to bestow any attention upon him. The current bore the tender rapidly down the stream.
When it had gone to a safe distance, Deck seated himself in the stern-sheets, and put his board in the scull-hole, and forced the boat to the shore, though not without a great deal of difficulty and labor. Fronklyn was on the lookout for it, and sprang lightly into the fore-sheets, making a spring on his board stick. The current took the boat, and no further exertion was necessary. They had escaped from the fortifications, and they were satisfied.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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25
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A BOAT VOYAGE DOWN THE GREAT RIVER
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The tender in which Deck Lyon and his companion had embarked was a keel-boat such as is usually suspended by two ropes from either end to the upper extremity of a pole, like an ensign staff. It was about twelve feet long, and was not likely to upset, even in the turbulent water at the middle of the river which drained the Cumberland Mountains in the south-eastern part of the State.
Very heavy rains had been falling for several days, overflowing brooks and creeks so as to make many of them impassable; and the great river was swollen, though not to an unusual height in the rainy season. Deck made no effort at first to direct the craft, for he was well-nigh exhausted by the fatigues of the day and his efforts to escape from the fortification.
He kept his seat in the stern-sheets, as Fronklyn did in the forward part of the boat, which was still abreast of the camp, but well under the high bank of the stream. The enterprise was a success so far, and they were so well pleased to escape from the immediate vicinity of the enemy that they were not disposed to do anything but rest themselves. But in a few minutes they had recovered their breath, and ceased to pant from their exertions.
Left to its own guidance, or that of the current, it had whirled about two or three times; but Deck was too tired to be disturbed by this movement. Their uniforms were wet through; for it had rained all the afternoon and evening, and the tender had considerable water in her bottom. Under any other circumstances they would have been very uncomfortable; but their satisfaction at the escape from a prison or prison-camp in the near future was the uppermost thought in their minds, and for a time it banished the annoyance of wet and cold.
"If we whirl round like this it will make us dizzy," said the sergeant as a mild joke. "What makes the boat do so?"
"The tender is so happy to get out of Confederate hands that it wants to dance, and it is indulging in a waltz," replied Deck as another pleasantry.
"I wish it wouldn't do so, for I don't like the motion. I suppose you don't intend to continue this voyage down to New Orleans; for that would not be a more agreeable locality than the Beech Grove intrenchments," added Fronklyn.
"I don't believe we shall care to go as far as that."
"How far down do you mean to go, Lieutenant?"
"That depends; if we can get the craft under control, I don't think we need go much farther," said Deck, as he began to feel about in the bottom of the boat.
"What are you fishing for, Lieutenant?" asked his companion.
"I think you had better not use that word any more at present."
"What word?"
"Lieutenant; for I don't care to have my rank published any more on this cruise, for some one on the shore might hear it. Call me Deck; and as you are not a sergeant here any more than I am a lieutenant, I will not call you so; but I forget your first name, as I have never used it."
"They all call me Ben among my friends."
"Very well; Ben it is."
"I am satisfied, Deck, though it seems a little off now to call you by your given name, cut short, though we used to do so before you were promoted. But what are you feeling for?" asked Ben, as his companion continued to poke about him.
"I was trying to find the oars which belong in this boat," replied Deck. "See if you can find them near the bow."
Both of them made diligent search in every part of the boat; but no oars could be found, and it was evident that they were kept on board of the steamer.
"No oars; that makes it bad for us," added Deck.
"I can make a paddle out of my board," suggested Ben.
"Do so if you can," replied Deck as he picked up his own staff.
By this time, after sitting still for a while, both of them were chilled by the wet and the night air, and they needed exercise of some kind to warm them. Ben had a large and sharp knife in his pocket, and he began to whittle the board like a typical Yankee. Deck put his staff into the scull-hole, and made an effort to steer the tender, and thus prevent her from whirling. As a rudder it was a failure; but as an oar, heaving around the stern, he succeeded with much exertion in making a tolerably straight course.
"That village must be Robertsport," said Deck, who had carefully studied all the localities in this region on his map. "There is a big bend of the river here, and we might as well go ashore there as farther down."
"What has the bend to do with our going ashore there, Deck?"
"The water in the river has a tendency to flow straight ahead, Ben; I learned that at Big Bend, on the Green River, near Riverlawn."
"I know the place very well," added Ben.
"When we come to the bend below the village, the current will be likely to shoot us over near the opposite shore."
"But that will take us to the wrong side of the river, and we shall have to get across it afterwards; and, besides, the enemy will be on that side."
"I don't figure it out in just that way, Ben; for the current will take us to the north side of the stream. The river turns to the left, or south; but the water wants to go straight ahead, and that will cast us on the side where we are now: don't you see?"
"Well, I don't see. I am no boatman, and I won't raise any objection," replied Ben. "Here is your paddle. I had to cut it out in the dark, and work by faith, and not by sight, so that it is not handsome."
"It does first rate, Ben; but we shall have to do some hard work in holding the tender to the shore when the current throws it on the bank; and probably it is just as high as it is at the fort."
"I will do my share of the work if you will tell me how, Deck."
In a few minutes more the boat began to feel the current as it came to the bend, and they could hear the roar of the water as it was dashed against the shore. With the paddle Ben had made, Deck contrived to keep the tender from whirling about, though he had to work very hard to do so. With the bow pointed to the shore, which he could now make out in the gloom of the night, she was going ahead very rapidly, having now the full force of the stream.
"What am I to do, Deck?" demanded Ben, who did not feel at all at home while the craft was in the midst of her gyrations.
"The boat is going head on against the shore; but I don't know what sort of a landing-place it will prove to be. But whatever it is, take the painter in your hand"-- "Who?" cried Ben.
"The painter. The rope made fast at your end of the tender," replied the skipper of the craft impatiently; for the sergeant was entirely ignorant of nautical terms. "Take the end of the rope in your hand, and jump ashore as soon as it touches the land."
"All right; I understand you now," responded Ben, as he seized the painter, and stood up in the fore-sheets as well as the rolling of the boat in the current would permit.
"Now for it!" shouted Deck, as he felt the bottom of the boat strike on its keel.
Ben said nothing, but sprang over the bow of the boat, upon what seemed to be a flat shore, with the rope in his hand.
"Hold on with all your might, or I shall go down stream!" called Deck, as he vigorously plied his paddle in an effort to heave around the stern of the boat so that the current might strike it on the broadside.
The action of the stream helped him, and, assisted by the strength of Ben at the painter, the tender was thrown high and dry on the gentle slope where it had struck. The landing had proved to be a much less difficult task than Deck had anticipated, perhaps because he had skilfully handled the craft so that the current did most of the work.
The leader of the enterprise jumped from the stern-sheets upon the ground, which was a part of the tongue of land formed by the great bend, and extending to the south. Then Deck had a chance to look around him, though it was too dark to make out the situation.
"Where are we now, Deck?" asked Ben.
"I never was here before; but I guess we are not more than six miles below the intrenchments of the enemy on the Cumberland, and they have another breastwork on the south side of the river," replied Deck, as he continued to look about him.
"Where is Robertsport, of which you spoke a while ago?"
"That's on the opposite side of the river, not more than a quarter of a mile higher up. I suppose you are satisfied now that you are on the north side of the stream, and not on the south, as you anticipated, Ben," said Deck.
"Yes; I reasoned that matter out, and found you were right. I suppose you are about used up by this time. I wonder what o'clock it is."
"I have a watch if you have a match."
The sergeant took a tin box from his pocket, and lighted a match from it, and held it under his cap. Deck produced his watch, and found that it was twenty-five minutes past one.
"Later than I supposed," he added.
"We have been on our feet nearly twenty-four hours, and I think you must be about played out," said the sergeant with a gape. "I am tired out; and you are still young, too young to go without your regular sleep."
"But I shall survey this locality before I do anything else."
"I am with you."
"I did not expect to find anything like a flat surface here," continued the lieutenant, as he started to walk towards a high bluff in the direction from which they had come.
It was only a couple of rods from the water, and the flat space where they had come ashore was evidently made by the caving of the earth along the bluff, when the river had been even higher than at present. It was a hill which had possibly turned the river aside from its westerly course to the south at some remote period in the past. There was just such a bluff on the other side of the tongue of land, and possibly a hill there had again changed the river's course to the westward. But Deck's theory explained the presence of the fortunate flat where they had landed.
"Now we must find a way to get up on the hill above the high bluff," said he, as he led the way up the river.
Beyond the bluff the bank of the river was the same as it had been all the way from the fort, and the flat came to a sudden ending.
"Here is a flatboat," said Ben, who was the first to discover it. "Somebody must live near here."
"This looks like a path up the bank," added Deck, who had been studying the river above. "I think this must be a ferry, Ben; though I should suppose the ferryman would find it hard work to get through the current that brought us down."
It was plain that some work had been done on the path leading up the bank, which was diagonal with the steep slope. It had been dug out, and in the steepest parts there was something built for a fence or a hand-rail. On the opposite side of the river from Robertsport there was a road to the one extending from Harrison to Somerset. Doubtless the ferry, if there was one, was for the use of travellers into Wayne County, all of which lay on the south side of the river.
The fugitives were ready to mount the bluff by the path; but first they went back to the boat, which might be of use to them later if they had occasion to renew the voyage down the stream. They drew it back, and concealed it behind a huge rock which the current had laid bare. Then they mounted the path to the top of the bluff. Not ten rods from the shore they found a cabin, around which were some fruit-trees and the dried stalks of corn, showing that the land had been cultivated.
"This is some negro's house," said Ben, as they halted under a tree not two rods from the cabin, which was nothing more than a shanty.
"It looks like one. Very likely the ferryman lives here," replied Deck. "But there is some kind of a row going on in that cabin."
"It seems to be lighted up as though something was happening there at this time of night. We will go up nearer and look into the matter," returned Ben, as he walked towards the cabin, and stationed himself at the only window on that side of the building.
They listened for some time, and heard the voices of four different white men, as they judged from their dialect.
"I done tole you I can't cross de riber to-night. We should all be drownded, shore," replied an unmistakable negro.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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26
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FOUR FUGITIVES FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD
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The whinnying of a horse near the two wanderers attracted their attention, and Fronklyn went over to look at the animal. He found four of them hitched to the trees, all of them wearing cavalry saddles. The sergeant still had his carbine slung at his back. He unslung the firearm, thinking he might have occasion to use it. He knew the lieutenant had reloaded his revolver after making with it the holes across the board which had proved so serviceable to them.
In his report to the Confederate authorities at Richmond, General Crittenden alludes to a battalion of cavalry, of which some officers and privates were absent on furloughs, and of which all but about twenty-five ran away. It is possible that the four troopers who were trying to force the negro to ferry them over the river belonged to the number.
"Cavalry," said the sergeant as he returned to the lieutenant.
"They have threatened to shoot the negro if he don't ferry them over to Robertsport," added Deck, who had remained at the window of the shanty. "They called him Cuffy; and when they threatened to kill him, he rushed out of the house. I saw him go into the barn or outhouse in the rear. The men lost sight of him when they followed him out, and perhaps thinking he had gone to his boat, they went off in that direction. Let us find the negro."
They went to the shanty, which did duty as a barn; but Cuffy had concealed himself, and they could not find him. Deck called him by name several times; and if the ferryman was not extremely stupid, he could understand that neither his voice nor his speech was that of the troopers.
"Who's dar?" responded the negro, after a long delay.
"Come out here, and we will help you out of your trouble," added Deck.
"Who be you uns?" inquired Cuffy, which proved later to be his real surname.
"We are your friends."
"Whar dem sogers now?" asked the terrified ferryman.
"They moved off towards the river."
"Den dey done gone to steal my boat!" groaned the negro, coming out of his hiding-place with a gun in his hand.
As the wanderers followed him out of the barn, they saw in the darkness that his head was thickly covered with white wool, and he must have been well along in years. He evidently kept his gun and ammunition in this out-building, for he had a powder-horn and shot-bag suspended from his shoulders.
"What are you going to do with that gun, Cuffy?" asked Deck, who was rather astonished to see him armed.
"I's gwine to shoot one of dose men if dey try to kill me, as dey done sworn dey would," replied the ferryman.
"Better not do anything of that kind, Cuffy," said Deck. "We will stand by you, and we can fire shots enough to kill the whole of them."
"Who be you uns, Mars'r?" asked the ferryman, gazing at them, and trying to make them out in the darkness.
"We are Union soldiers, just escaped from the enemy," answered Deck.
"Bress de Lo'd!" exclaimed the negro. "Dem men was Seceshers, and is gwine to steal my boat. It's all I have to make a little money for de contribution-box, and ef I lose it I'm done ruinged."
"Never mind the boat, Cuffy," continued Deck, as he led the way to the four horses; for he had seen the Southrons go off on foot, and knew they had not taken them. "Mount one of these animals, Ben."
He led out one of them, and put himself in the saddle, while the sergeant did the same with another.
"Can you ride a horse, Cuffy?" asked the lieutenant.
"I done ride 'em all my life."
"Get one of the others, then. Can we get to the ferry on horseback?"
"For sartin, Mars'r; some folks goes down to de boat on hosses, and we swim 'em ober de riber," replied Cuffy, as he mounted the animal he had chosen. "My son comes ober dat way."
"Now lead the way to the ferry. Do they know where you keep your boat?"
"Dunno, Mars'r; but I reckon dey find it."
Cuffy conducted the wanderers nearly to the Harrison road, and then took a path towards the river, arriving in a few minutes at the head of the descent to the flat below.
"Not too far, Cuffy; fall back a little, where the men cannot see you," said Deck in a low tone.
"But I's gwine to shoot 'em if dey touch my boat," said the owner, his determination indicated in his tones.
"Don't do it, and don't let them see you," added Deck in a low tone, but with energy enough to impress the negro.
"Dey gwine to steal my boat!" groaned Cuffy; and his agony seemed to be intense. "Den whar I git any money for de missions?"
"Never mind your boat, man. I saw it down below; it is not worth much, and I wouldn't give two dollars for it," said Deck somewhat impatiently.
"I takes folks ober de riber in it, and some days I makes twenty cents wid it. Can't affode to lose it, Mars'r," protested Cuffy.
"If you lose it, I will give you another."
"Dat so? Whar's yo' boat?"
"It is down below there, and you will not have to wait a single hour for it."
"Whar you git dat boat, Mars'r?"
"No matter about that now; I will tell you when we have more time," replied Deck, as he rode his horse to a tree, followed by both of his companions, and secured him to the sapling, as did the others.
Returning to the bank, they lay down upon the ground, where they could see the four troopers without being seen. They had found the negro's flatboat, and carried it to the stream. This was done, perhaps, half a mile above where the wanderers had landed, and the current was not so violent as it was where the water concentrated all its force against the lofty bluff.
The Southrons put the boat into the water after they had tipped it over, and emptied out the leakage or the rain which it contained. Then they seated themselves equidistant fore and aft in the rickety craft, and pushed off.
"I knowed dey was gwine to steal my boat," groaned Cuffy again, as the skiff receded from the shore.
"Don't say that again!" said Deck, disgusted with the ferryman. "If you do, I won't give you any boat for the one you lose!"
"I lub dat boat, Mars'r. Berry ole friend ob mine," pleaded Cuffy.
"Say no more about it; perhaps you will get it again, for those men only wish to get across the river," added Deck in a milder tone. "You would not take them over, and they intend to ferry themselves across."
"I can't ferry dem ober in de night, when de riber is ragin' like a roarin' lion seekin' wem he mout devour. No, sar; ef Mars'r looks long enough, he's see dem men all devoured like as ef de ragin' lion had 'em in his gills," said Cuffy very impressively, as though he was within hail of a funeral. "Don't b'lebe dey done been converted."
Two of the troopers had paddles, or something that was a cross between a paddle and an oar; for the wanderers had seen them in the boat in the darkness. They forced the skiff out into the current, headed directly for the opposite shore. They did very well so far; but in a few moments more the full strength of the stream struck them, and the flimsy craft was carried down the stream at a rapid rate. They were farther out than the keel-boat had been; and the rushing water, lifted into waves by its own force, began to tumble about as it would have done in the wilder rapids of Niagara.
None of the four were skilful boatmen, and there seemed to be no one in particular in the skiff to take the lead. As usually happens on such occasions, the two men without paddles were frightened, and stood up, which was the worst possible thing they could do. The two who were managing the boat did not agree as to the method of handling it, and each wanted his own way of doing it. Each of them was sure he could do it, and that the other could not.
The couple with the paddles could not use them; and the skiff whirled as it mounted the waves, and then it heeled over from one side to the other. The two men who were standing up jumped from one side to the other; then one of them lost his balance, and tumbled overboard. The second tried to save him, and one of the two with the paddles went to his assistance, the result of this, throwing the weight nearly over on one side, capsized the boat, and the next instant all four of them were floundering in the uneasy tide.
"De boat done tip over!" exclaimed Cuffy, as though his companions on the bluff could not see for themselves what had happened.
"Perhaps we can save the men!" said Deck, as he rose from the ground and ran with all his might to the path leading down to the landing of the ferry, closely followed by the sergeant.
"Sabe de boat!" shouted Cuffy, trying to keep up with them, though he soon fell far behind them.
The lieutenant was first to reach the foot of the path, and saw the four unfortunates whirling through the agitated current, directly towards the bluff where the keel-boat had been thrown on the flat. They were too far out for him to reach them, and he could do nothing. It was plain that not one of them could swim, and if they had been able to do so at all they could have done nothing in the boiling flow of the rapid current. They were swept down the stream, and being farther out from the shore than the other boat had been they were not dashed upon the flat.
Deck and Fronklyn watched them till they disappeared behind the bend, though one was seen to go down before he reached it, and the others must soon have followed him. The skiff had gone on ahead of them, and was the first to pass beyond the view of the observers. The lieutenant, with the hope that he might save the men if they were thrown on the flat in an exhausted condition, had nearly reached the high bluff. The sergeant had ceased to hurry when he realized that nothing could be done for the doomed troopers. They had to pay the penalty of their own folly.
Fronklyn and Cuffy soon joined Deck, the negro putting all his strength into his lamentations for the loss of his boat. He did not seem to realize that four men had just passed into eternity; but Deck had more charity for him after he said he loved the flimsy craft, and reproached him no more.
"Your boat is gone for the present, but you may find it again," said Deck with an effort to comfort him. "It will be cast ashore by the current, or be drawn into some eddy. When the river gets quiet again, you can go down stream and find it in some place where the logs gather on the shoal places."
"I dunno, Mars'r; how kin I go down de riber when I done lose my boat?" demanded Cuffy.
"Come with me," said Deck, as he led the way to the rock behind which they had left the steamer's tender. "There is a boat you can use till some one claims it."
"Glory Hallelujah!" exclaimed the negro, when he saw the keel-boat; and he was skilled enough to perceive even in the darkness, that it was a vastly better one than the skiff he had lost.
"Whar you git dat boat, Mars'r?" asked Cuffy, disturbed by the suggestion that some one might claim it.
"Can you keep a secret, Cuffy?" asked Deck.
"Kin keep a hund'ed on 'em."
"That's too many for one man to keep," replied the lieutenant, who decided not to admit, as he had before intended to do, in what manner they had escaped from the enemy's camp. "This boat belongs to the steamboat up by Mill Springs; we have no further use for it, and we shall leave it here. But you haven't lost anything of any value to-night. We shall want two of the men's horses, as they have no further use for them, and you can keep the other two, Cuffy. You can sell them for money enough to make you rich."
"Bress de Lo'd!" cried the ferryman.
"Come along now, and we will go back to your shanty," said Deck, as he led the way to the tree where the horses had been secured. They all mounted, and rode back to the cabin, where the tired trooper and his officer went to bed in the barn on some straw they found there.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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27
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THE OWNER OF THE MANSION ON THE HILL
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Cuffy took care of the horses, for two of them were to belong to him, giving them even a feed of corn-meal mixed with water, which was all he had to give them. He hitched them in the barn with the exhausted soldiers of the Riverlawn Cavalry, though it was rather close quarters for them. Deck preferred the out-building to Cuffy's bed, which he offered them.
It was four o'clock in the morning when the lieutenant and the sergeant retired upon their bed of straw, though there was plenty of it, and it was a luxury to men who had been accustomed to lie at night on the ground. They had been fully twenty-four hours on their feet, and had been through a great deal of excitement during the day and the night. They were asleep about as soon as they struck the bed.
Cuffy came to the barn about nine o'clock in the forenoon to attend to the horses. He led them all out to water, and then gave them another feed in tubs. His guests had complained of fatigue, and he allowed them to sleep as long as they desired.
It was noon when Fronklyn awoke, and he had slept his full eight hours. Deck put in another hour; for he was younger than his companion, and needed more sleep. The sergeant had worn his overcoat all the day and night, though he had several times been tempted to throw it away, especially when they were climbing down the steep bank of the river. He was glad he had not done so when he went to bed on the straw.
He had given his blanket to Deck, though it required a great deal of persuasion to induce him to accept it; but Fronklyn had an overcoat. It was not so cold as to interfere with the slumbers of the weary soldiers; and when they woke they felt like new men. They went to a brook that flowed through the negro's farm, and had a thorough wash to freshen them up. The sergeant then renewed the plaster on his head, and examined the wound of his companion. The swelling had nearly all gone down, though there was still a soreness there; but the patient felt well enough for duty.
"Here we are, Ben; what is the next move on the checker-board?" said Deck, as they returned from the brook to the barn.
"Considering what we have been through since the sun went down last night, I think we are very well fixed to-day. We have a couple of horses to go where we please, and all we have to do is to ride back to the outside of the Beech-Grove camp of the enemy; for we have seen enough of the inside of it," replied Fronklyn.
"We can't be many miles from it; and when we get there I think we shall find our army in possession of it. That steamer whose boat we borrowed, and the other craft about there, must have been busy ferrying the enemy across to the Mill Springs fortification," added Deck. "But what do you suppose has become of all those cavalry men, and infantry too, that ran away from the battle-field?"
"I don't imagine that a great many of them went back to the intrenchments, and probably most of them are wandering about the country in this vicinity," replied the sergeant. "The farmers' corncribs, if there is anything left in them, will suffer for the next week. They are not bashful, those fellows; and I have no doubt they will visit the houses, and order meals as they would at a hotel."
"We are liable to meet them on our way back to the camp; and if we have anything they want, they are likely to take it. Your blanket and overcoat would be useful to them, and so would the horses. But I fancy they would move about in small parties, and we may be able to take care of ourselves. You have your carbine, and I have my revolver."
"That looks like a big house on the hill back of us," said Fronklyn, pointing to the mansion.
"Mornin', Mars'rs!" shouted Cuffy, coming from his shanty to meet them. "You done git up; I don't 'sturb you, coz I knowed you was tired out."
"We are glad you didn't, and we feel first-rate this morning. Whose house is that on the hill?" asked Deck.
"Dat's de mansion ob Cun'l Hickman, my ole mars'r," replied Cuffy. "He owns all de land 'bout here, mor'n tousand acres. He let me live on dis corner when he want me to run de ferry, and I stops here eber since."
"Then he must be very rich."
"Rich! Dat ain't no name for't. He's got more money'n de Bank ob London, 'n I reckon he could buy out de State of Kaintuck. He's pow'ful rich, Mars'r." "Is he a Secessionist?" asked Deck.
"Cun'l Hickman! Secesher! No, sar! He's de out-en-outenish Union man in Kaintuck," returned Cuffy, whose politics were not at all in doubt with his guests. "De Seceshers done raided his place fo' times; yesterday was de last time, 'n I reckon dem fellers dat wanted me to ferry 'em ober de riber in de night is de ones dat did it. I done seen 'em on de hill fo' dark. I done see lots o' men wid guns, and some on hossback dis mornin' strollin' 'long de riber an' ober de country."
"Which way did they come from, Cuffy?" inquired Deck.
"Most on 'em com 'd down de Harrison road, an' some on 'em was beat'n' across de farm."
"Have you heard of the great battle that was fought over by Logan's Cross Roads?" asked the sergeant.
"I don't hear ob no battle," replied the negro, opening his eyes wide enough to let them drop out of their sockets. "Gollywhimpers!" suddenly exclaimed Cuffy, turning his gaze towards the mansion on the hill, "dar comes de cun'l on a hoss!"
The lieutenant and the sergeant looked in the direction indicated by the ferryman, and saw a man riding down the hill at a breakneck speed. As he came nearer they saw that he was a person over sixty years of age, with long, flowing white hair, like one of the patriarchs of old. He wore a soft black hat, well back on his head. He looked behind him frequently, as though he expected something to transpire in that direction. As Cuffy said, his mansion had been raided several times, and he might have got used to such events.
"W'a--w'a--w'at's de matter, Cun'l Hickman?" shouted the ferryman, before the gentleman came within ten rods of him.
The rider did not check his speed till he reined in his horse in front of the negro and his guests. He looked at the two officers without giving any attention to Cuffy, and seemed to be astonished to find them there.
"I see that you wear the blue," said the colonel, addressing Deck, whose shoulder-straps apparently excited his attention.
"We belong to the army of the United States, sir," replied Deck.
"Then how do you happen to be here?" demanded the colonel in a tone and with a look of great severity.
"It would take some time, Colonel Hickman, to answer your question in full," returned Deck; "but I will say that we marched and fought yesterday from four o'clock in the morning till dark, and were practically prisoners in the camp of the enemy at the end of the day, but escaped in the night in a boat we took from a steamer alongside the fortifications at Beech Grove."
"Excuse me for speaking somewhat abruptly, Lieutenant, and give me your hand; for I honor every man that fights or works for his country," continued the colonel. "I am somewhat too old to do either, or I should not be at home."
Deck took the proffered hand, and it was warmly pressed by the planter, and he extended the same courtesy to the sergeant.
"My mansion is beset by a band of ruffians, and I have been obliged to flee for my life," pursued the planter, glancing back at his house as though he expected to see the flames rising from it.
"Do they mean to burn the mansion?" asked the lieutenant, misinterpreting the glance of the owner.
"Not at all; I have no fear that they will do that, for they are looking for my money, for I have some concealed on my premises where they will never find it," said the planter with a significant shake of the head, which was as much as to say, "I have euchred them!"
"I suppose the banks in this part of the State are no longer safe repositories for valuables," added Deck.
"They are not, and I keep a comparatively small amount for current expenses at hand. This same band raided me three days ago, and threatened to hang me in front of my mansion if I did not give up my money; but I would burn the bank-bills rather than permit them to fall into the hands of these miscreants. I had a horse ready as soon as I saw the ruffians coming down the private road from Millersville; and I keep several of my negroes on the watch for them. I escaped on my horse before, as I have done this time."
"How many are there in this band, Colonel?" asked Deck.
"My negroes counted ten of them. These raids are not uncommon events; and there were two or three of them within less than ten miles, sometimes by the enemy's foragers, and sometimes by partisan gangs. The mansion of Mr. Halliburn was captured a few days ago; but a very clever young lieutenant, whose name was Lyon, in command of a detachment of cavalry, entrapped the whole gang of ruffians in the house, and made prisoners of every one of them, without the loss of a man."
"Perhaps I know more about that affair than you do, Colonel Hickman; for my name is Lyon, and I happen to be the officer to whom you allude," replied Deck, looking at the ground.
"Lieutenant Lyon! Is it possible?" exclaimed the planter, taking the young man's hand again.
"But we will not talk about things that are passed and gone, Colonel," interposed the young officer. "I wish I had my platoon, or even half of them, here. Now, what can we do to aid you in this trouble, and free you from the annoyance of such enemies?"
"As you have only a sergeant with you, I don't see that you can do anything, my young friend; though I am as much obliged to you for your good intentions as though you had a whole army behind you," said the planter. "I have been a soldier myself, and I was one of the young Kentuckians that fought in the battle of New Orleans under General Jackson."
"Have you any arms at your mansion, sir?" inquired Deck, as though he had some scheme in his head.
"Plenty of them; enough to supply half of your platoon."
"Can you get back to your house without being seen, Colonel?"
"Easily; back of my house is an avenue, planted with trees, by which I once made my escape while they were looking for me. You can see it on the south side of the hill; and it extends down to the river, the last part of it on the tongue of land, so that it has the stream on each side of it," the old soldier explained.
"If you have such a quantity of arms, where do you keep them?"
"In the spring-house, the brick building on the brook, which you cannot see from here. I have five sons and one daughter; two of the boys are in the army, and three are past the military age, though they belong to the Millersville Home Guards, and were called out for duty three days ago. I expect them home soon; but they have been gone four days now. My overseer, his assistant, and two mechanics, went over to see the fight yesterday afternoon, and they have not yet returned."
"Dar dey is, Mars'r Cun'l!" shouted Cuffy, pointing to the Harrison road, down which three mounted riflemen were riding.
"I am glad to see them," added the planter, as the men came up the hill.
The father greeted them heartily, and they began to tell what service they had rendered during the preceding day on the right flank of the field of battle. One of them happened to turn his head, and saw Deck; and, interrupting the conversation that was going on, he shouted,-- "Lieutenant Lyon!"
The other two, who had also been with the riflemen under command of Captain Ripley, repeated the exclamation.
"We fought under the command of Lieutenant Lyon most of the day yesterday, and he is one of the ablest and bravest officers in the service," said one of the sons. "He is"-- "We will hear that another time, Mr. Hickman; and you may have a chance to fight under me to-day, for your father's mansion is beset by a band of ruffians, who threaten to hang him," interposed Deck. "We muster six men now, and I propose to clean them out."
It was talked over for a little while, and the party soon rode off to one of the openings of the avenue by the river.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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28
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THE FIGHT BEGINS AT GROVE-HILL MANSION
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Colonel Hickman led the way; and, like most Kentuckians of good estate, he rode an excellent horse. He hurried the animal beyond the capacity of the two cavalry horses which had come into the possession of Deck and Fronklyn, and he reached the avenue by the river considerably in advance of the others. He rode into the opening, and disappeared behind the trees.
By this time the lieutenant had an opportunity to examine this approach to the mansion. The road was not more than thirty feet wide, with three rows of trees on each side of it, so that it was really a grove consisting of a variety of trees. It had evidently been laid out many years before, for the ground was completely shaded. The mansion faced the Millersville road, and in the rear of it was quite a village of out-buildings.
The planter halted as soon as he was in the avenue, and waited till the others joined him. After all that had been said about him by the sons, he was willing to leave the management of the affair to Lieutenant Lyon; for, young as he was, he had obtained some experience in defeating and capturing such marauders as those who had taken possession of the great house on the hill. The ruffians were after the colonel's money; a gentleman as wealthy as he was reputed to be must have a considerable sum on hand, as he had admitted, for the payment of his ordinary expenses.
Deck had asked but few questions in regard to the situation, preferring to inform himself more fully when he had seen the premises. The avenue, or grove, was as the owner had described it. At the point where the party had passed into it, the mansion could not be seen at all through the dense foliage of the trees; and the approach to it was entirely safe, even if the ruffians had placed some of their number on guard outside of the dwelling. The covered road was not entirely straight, for several bends and curves made it more picturesque than it would otherwise have been.
It was certainly a very pleasant place for a ride on a warm day; and the young lieutenant had taste enough to appreciate and admire it, though under the circumstances he could not use much of his time in examining its beauties, which he would have been pleased to do at a more convenient season. Just then he looked at it as a strategist rather than as a lover of art.
"I don't quite understand, Colonel Hickman, how you succeeded in getting away from your mansion without having a bullet planted somewhere in your head or body," said Deck, as he surveyed the surroundings. "You came directly down the hill, and not through this avenue."
"As I have told you before, I have been on the lookout for these miscreants since their former visit, when they threatened to hang me to one of my trees if I did not give up what money I had on hand," replied the planter. "I was alone on the estate, and of course I could not defend myself against ten men armed with rifles or muskets. I kept half a dozen of my negroes on the watch upon the road, to notify me of their coming. I had my horse saddled and bridled all the time. As soon as I was informed that the ruffians were coming, I hastened to the stable, mounted, and rode down the hill by the shortest way, in the direction of the road to Harrison. I did not expect to obtain assistance before I reached Jamestown, where I thought some of the Federal troops might be posted. I was glad to find you at Cuffy's, and rejoiced to meet my sons again."
"If there are ten of the ruffians, we shall still be outnumbered," added Deck. "But I hope we shall be able to outmanoeuvre them."
"My sons are riflemen, and they are dead shots at a long distance," said the colonel.
"I am aware of that, for I have seen them shoot with the rest of Captain Ripley's men. I think we had better be on the march," added the lieutenant. "We will send out a couple of pickets to feel the way for us. Sergeant Fronklyn shall go for one, and with him one of your sons, to show him the way and explain the situation."
"Warren shall accompany him, and can give him all the information he needs," the planter decided.
The sergeant and the planter's son started the horses, and rode off at full gallop; but they did not continue at this speed for more than half-way to the top of the hill, and they soon disappeared at a bend in the avenue. Deck and the rest of the party followed.
"I think we had better leave our horses here," said Fronklyn, as he reined in his steed. "The sound of the horses' feet may betray us."
"I obey your orders, Sergeant; but the villains will not hear us at this distance," replied Warren Hickman. "I have no doubt they are looking for the money in the house."
At this suggestion they rode some distance farther; and, turning another bend, Fronklyn discovered a three-story building at what appeared to be the end of the avenue. He stopped his horse, and was decidedly opposed to riding any farther. He could not yet see the mansion; but through the trees he saw several other buildings.
"What is the three-story house?" asked the sergeant.
"That is the stable; but it is built on the side of the hill, and there are only two stories on the front," replied Warren.
Both of the riders dismounted; and, after securing the horses to the trees, they walked to the stable. The lower part was a cellar in the side-hill, and appeared to be used as a place for storage. The planter's son led the way into this apartment, and then mounted the stairs leading to the middle story. There were half a dozen horses there, and stalls for as many more. The doors were wide open, and the pickets, or scouts, moved about very carefully.
Warren then looked out of the doors and windows; but not a person could be seen, except some negro men and women, who appeared to be skulking about the premises, apparently ready to run away in case of danger. The sergeant and the rifleman had both unslung their firearms, and were ready for business if they discovered any of the marauders. The planter's son then ascended to the hayloft, and from the windows there surveyed all that could be seen of the premises from them.
"We don't get ahead much," said Warren, as he descended the stairs. "I must get at one of the servants, though they all seem to keep out of harm's way."
"It is time for us to know the situation here," replied Fronklyn, as he followed his companion down the stairs.
As a matter of precaution, Warren closed the great doors, though a smaller one was left open on one side of them. They found that all the horses in the stable were saddled and bridled for use. While he was wondering what this meant, a dozen blacks rushed in through the open door. They seemed to be greatly alarmed.
Adjoining the stable on each side were the carriage-houses; and Warren hastened into one of them, supposing that the marauders were pursuing them; but no enemy followed them. The negroes went into the stalls, and began to lead out the horses.
"What does all that mean, Warren?" asked Fronklyn in a whisper.
"I don't know," replied the planter's son, as he cocked his rifle, and returned to the stable. "What are you about here?" he demanded.
"Mars'r Warren!" exclaimed several of them.
"What are you going to do with the horses, Phil?" asked Warren.
"Who shut the big doors, Mars'r Warren?" asked Phil, who appeared to be an upper servant of some kind.
"What are you going to do with the horses, Phil?" exclaimed the planter's son angrily.
"I thought the robbers had got into the stable, and I wanted to save the horses," replied the servant, breaking down at the tone of the master's son.
"You are lying, Phil! You would not have dared to come into the stable if you had supposed the robbers were here."
"We was gwine to run away on de hosses," added a very black fellow.
"Don't know who shut de big doors, Mars'r, if de robbers don't do it," said another, who was evidently a field-hand.
"I didn't think there was more'n one of them here," added Phil, as he held up a revolver with which he had armed himself after the departure of the planter. "I meant to kill him, and get away with the horses."
"Perhaps you would have done so."
"I do it for sure."
"Now, where are the robbers?" asked Warren.
"In the house. We don't see any for more'n half an hour. I think they looked part of the house over to find the money, and then went up-stairs to hunt for it," replied Phil, who appeared to be an intelligent fellow, far superior to the rest of them.
"Very well; you may get on the horses, and ride down the avenue till you meet the colonel," added the son of the planter. "Now, Sergeant, we will find the condition of things in the house."
The negroes led all the horses down an inclined plane into the cellar. This was not an uncommon device in large cities to economize space; but the planter had caused it to be built for just such an emergency as the present, and he had made his escape in this manner from the estate. The terrified servants mounted the horses in the cellar, and entered the avenue by the way Warren and the sergeant had left it.
The two scouts passed out of the stable by the same door. Keeping behind the outbuildings, they reached the side of the mansion. Passing entirely around it, they looked in at every window very cautiously; but were unable to see a single guerilla on the lower floor. By an outside door they went into the cellar of the dwelling. They found several places where the earth had been dug up, but not a man was to be seen.
"Now, Warren, I am going up-stairs; and I should like to have you return to the avenue, and bring up the rest of our party as quickly as possible," said Fronklyn in a low tone.
"Up-stairs!" exclaimed the planter's son. "Do you mean to throw away your life?"
"Not if I know myself; but I wish the lieutenant was here," replied the sergeant, who had noted the stairs that led to the next floor.
"I will do as you say, Sergeant; but I hardly expect to find you alive when I come back," answered Warren.
"I believe I can take care of myself; and I think these ruffians have put themselves just where we want them," said Fronklyn, recalling the strategy at Mr. Halliburn's mansion.
Warren left the cellar by the same way they had entered, and made his way around the out-buildings to the avenue. Fronklyn stole up the stairs, after he had removed his shoes, and looked into half a dozen rooms on the first floor. The carpets had been partly torn up, the furniture overturned and broken up, the closets ransacked, and abundant other evidence that the search for money or other valuables had been completed in this part of the mansion.
On the floors of the second story he could hear the tramp of shoes, the cracking and snapping of furniture, and the rough speech of coarse men. The search for money was still in progress; and the planter's son was sure the marauders would not find that which they were seeking. The money might be safe, but that was certainly not the case with the mansion and furniture.
In the great hall, in a corner behind the front door, the sergeant found a large steel safe, with its door wide open, and entirely empty. The planter had evidently removed his valuables, including his books and papers, to what he believed was a more secure depository for them. The robbers had drawn it out from the corner, plainly to search behind it for the hidden treasure. Fronklyn opened the front door of the mansion, and then deposited himself behind the safe, the house door concealing him on the open side.
His carbine was in condition for immediate use, and he had taken a revolver from the horse he had ridden belonging to the trooper who had perished in the river. The noise up-stairs continued, and he had become somewhat impatient for the appearance of the rest of the party. He was inclined to "open the ball;" but he concluded that it would be a piece of rashness for him to do so, and he refrained from doing anything. Between the door and the safe he obtained a full view of the head of the staircase.
"There comes the planter!" shouted some one in the hall above.
"Hang him!" yelled another.
"Down-stairs all together!" cried the first speaker, who was perhaps the leader of the ruffians.
He was the first to appear at the landing. Several voices repeated the cry to hang the colonel. At that moment a shot was heard, and the first ruffian came tumbling down the steps. The next instant the one behind him shared his fate, and both of them lay motionless at the foot of the stairs.
A moment later Deck rushed in through the open door, followed by the three riflemen.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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29
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A NEW METHOD OF OPERATIONS
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The fall of the two ruffians evidently created a panic among the robbers, for they all retreated from the head of the staircase. They could not see the person who had fired the shots. Fronklyn had used the heavy revolver of the trooper, reserving his carbine for more difficult practice. There was a pause, for no more victims were in sight.
"You are in a dangerous position, Lieutenant Lyon," said the sergeant, as soon as Deck rushed into the hall.
"Where are you, Sergeant?" asked the officer, as he retired from his exposed situation.
"Behind the safe," replied Fronklyn. "Ask one of the planter's sons if there are any other stairs from above."
"Another staircase at the rear of the hall," answered Warren.
"Go there quick!" said Deck, as soon as he had mastered the situation. "If any one attempts to come down, shoot him on the instant! But let them surrender if they will do so."
"Surrender!" exclaimed Harlan in disgust. "I don't feel exactly like letting one of the men that want to hang my father surrender."
"Let them surrender!" replied Deck very decidedly.
"From my position I could manage the whole of them," interposed the sergeant.
"You are in a safe place to do so," added the lieutenant.
"Some of the party ought to look out for the outside of the house, or the ruffians will escape from the windows," suggested the sergeant.
"Colonel Hickman is out-doors, with his negroes, to keep watch of the windows," answered Deck. "You have begun the fight here on the plan we adopted at Mr. Halliburn's."
"I was thinking of fighting it out alone when one of the ruffians up-stairs shouted that Colonel Hickman was coming; and the cry was to hang him. They started to come down, and I dropped two of them; the others ran away. I can dispose of them as fast as they show themselves," Fronklyn explained.
"Give them a chance to surrender before you kill them, Sergeant."
At that moment a shot was heard from the rear end of the hall, and the lieutenant hastened to ascertain the occasion of it. One of the ruffians had attempted to come down the back stairs, and Warren had put a rifle-ball through his head. There were only seven of the marauders left in the house, and the two parties were equalized.
"Up-stairs!" hailed Deck, when the third ruffian had fallen.
"What's wanted?" shouted some one who was prudent enough to keep out of sight.
"You may surrender if you prefer that to being shot," replied Deck.
"On what terms may we surrender?" demanded the spokesman of the second floor.
"No terms."
"Do you mean to murder us all?"
"It would serve you right. You came here to hang Colonel Hickman, and you would have done so if he had not found friends to assist him in defending his property and his life," added the lieutenant with proper indignation.
"We did not intend to hang him if he gave up his money. He is a rich man, and he could afford to part with some of it," said the spokesman.
"That is the argument of pirates and robbers. If you wish to surrender, say so; and do it quick!"
"We have nothing more to say," returned the spokesman.
For an hour longer the situation remained the same. But it required only Fronklyn at the main staircase, and Warren at the rear one, to keep the seven ruffians where they were. The villains were all armed, the planter said; and the lieutenant was not willing to sacrifice the life of even a single member of the loyal party. But the sergeant was impatient to terminate the affair. Deck had seated himself in the parlor in the midst of the broken furniture, where he could talk with the sergeant.
"This is becoming rather monotonous," said the latter.
"I don't think it is prudent to go up and attack the ruffians," replied Deck.
"But I think that something can be done from the outside," suggested Fronklyn.
"What?" asked Deck.
"I don't know."
"I will go out and see if anything can be done. I should like to return to the camp of the Riverlawns; for I suppose my father and the others still believe that you and I were killed in the fight at the intrenchments," replied Deck, as he passed out of the house at the front door.
He found Colonel Hickman on the end piazza of the mansion, seated in one of the armchairs. But he was astonished to see the display of arms near him; and he concluded that the weapons the planter kept in his spring-house had been brought up by the negroes to the piazza. At least a dozen rifles were standing against the side of the house, and a box of revolvers was near them. On each side of the colonel was a brass field-piece, with several boxes which he supposed contained ammunition for them.
"You seem to be ready for battle, Colonel Hickman," said Deck, as he surveyed the armament.
"I am ready; and I expect to have a use for these rifles and field-pieces before night," replied the planter.
"To-day?" queried Deck.
"I expected three times as many as came this morning; but I suppose the rest of them have cleaned out some other mansion. The ruffians in the house promised to come with thirty men when they were here before. If all the white men belonging on the plantation had not been absent, we should never have let this lot of infernals come near the place."
"But I think we had better get rid of the lot here now before we entertain another horde of them," suggested the lieutenant.
"The sergeant appears to have locked up the ruffians in the second story as though he meant to keep them there the rest of their natural lives," replied the planter. "We have not yet lost a single one of our number."
"It is the policy of war to save your own men while you destroy the enemy," added Deck. "The next thing to be done is to drive the ruffians out of the house."
"That seems to be easier said than done," replied the colonel, with an inquiring look at the young officer. "How do you propose to do it?"
"I don't know that it can be done; but there is nothing like trying. I suppose you are still a rifleman, Colonel Hickman?"
"I am, as I have been since I was a dozen years old. I have my old rifle here," he answered, pointing to the dozen of them resting against the side of the house. "I judge that you have some plan in your busy young head, Lieutenant. I am ready to obey all your orders, without regard to my age."
Deck stated his plan, which he had arranged after a survey of the surroundings of the mansion. It involved a change of position among the men, the most important of which was placing the planter behind the safe in the hall, thus releasing Fronklyn for more active duty. The colonel was willing, and even glad, to take the position assigned to him, and, like a good soldier, asked no questions.
"But what about the attack you expect this afternoon?" asked Deck.
"I have put my servants on picket, as they have been for several days. They are all mounted, just as they came back from the avenue. They are all faithful to me, though I don't expect them to do any fighting; but they can keep watch as well as white men."
"Then, if you are ready, Colonel, we will go to the front hall of the house," said the lieutenant, as he led the way.
At the door he called the sergeant from behind his breastwork, and put the planter in his place. The old soldier had hardly shown himself in the hall before a shot was fired down the stairway. Doubtless one or more of the ruffians had been on the lookout for the appearance of a man in the hall below; and as the planter passed behind the open door, the opportunity had been used.
Fortunately the venerable planter was not hit; for the enemy had only such old flint-lock guns as General Crittenden describes in his report of the battle of Mill Springs, and they were far from being reliable weapons. The bullet shattered the edge of the door, and no other damage was done. The veteran proved that he was still an active man; for as soon as he was behind the steel fortress, he cast a searching glance up the stairs.
On the landing he discovered a head on the floor; for the man who had fired the shot was lying where he could see down into the hall. It would have been better for him if his feet had been where his head was; for the planter raised his rifle, and fired at almost the same instant. His companions drew his body back without exposing themselves to the deadly fire from the hall.
"Flickens is killed!" exclaimed one of them; and the enemy were one less in number.
The planter, with his rifle in position for instant use, fixed his gaze upon the head of the staircase; but no one now was to be seen there. Deck and the sergeant had passed into the parlor, the door of which was next to the safe, after the colonel had discharged his rifle.
"Are you all right, sir?" asked the lieutenant, stopping in a safe place near the door of the apartment.
"I am better off than the fellow I just hit in the top of his head," replied the planter. "I wish another of them would try that experiment again."
"I know you can hold this position, and I will see what can be done elsewhere," returned Deck, as he moved towards the door of the rear room.
"You need not be concerned about me; I can finish the affair if the villains will only show themselves," replied the colonel; and his cheerful tones indicated that he was happy in his new position.
Deck and Fronklyn passed around into the rear of the hall, where they found Warren Hickman standing at the door of the dining-room, where he could not be seen from the head of the back stairs. He was informed that an attempt would be made to drive the enemy from the second story. He was to remain in his present position. The lieutenant and the sergeant passed out at the back door into the kitchen, some distance from the mansion. Here they found the other two sons of the planter, watching the windows on that side of the house.
The end of the cook-room extended back into a grove of trees which surrounded the mansion, and which had given Deck his first suggestion of his method of future operations. Taking the two Hickmans with them, the four went through a window into the grove. The building containing the kitchen concealed them from the view of the ruffians, if any of them went to the windows.
The trees around the mansion, like those in the avenue, were large, and the foliage dense. Deck explained to his companions his plan, and then directed one of them to proceed by the grove to each of the sides of the house, reserving the one by the stable for himself.
"What then?" inquired Fronklyn.
"Each of you will sling his rifle, and then climb a tree commanding all the windows on his side of the mansion," replied Deck. "When you see one of the enemy at a window, use your rifle. I shall be on the stable side."
The lieutenant, who had provided himself with a rifle on the piazza, followed the grove in the direction of the stable, outside of all the out-buildings, while the other three proceeded the opposite way. There were no trees between the mansion and the stable; but Deck made his way to the hayloft, which commanded a view of all the windows of the former. He waited long enough to enable his companions to secure their places in the trees, and then opened a window, which enabled him to obtain a safe position for himself.
While he was waiting, he took a couple of horse-blankets from the harness-room, and fastened them up before the only two windows in the loft. This made the place quite dark, though there was light enough to enable him to find his way. Then he kneeled about ten feet from the open window, darkened to within a foot of the bottom. From this point he discovered, by looking through the window directly opposite his opening, three men sitting on a bed.
He fired his rifle, and saw one of the ruffians drop on the floor.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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30
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THE SURRENDER OF CAPTAIN GRUNDY
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Deck Lyon reloaded his rifle without a moment's delay; then resuming his kneeling posture, he gazed at the window again. The ruffian had fallen forwards from the bed, and his companions had picked him up. The observer could see that he had not been killed. The other two laid him on the bed, and it was evident that he had been severely wounded. They examined him, but of course the result could not be known to the lieutenant.
While one of them was tying a handkerchief around the head of the wounded man, the other went to the window. A pane of glass had been broken, and this must have assured him that the ball had come from outside of the mansion. Then he proceeded to look about the surroundings in search of the person who had fired the shot, confining his gaze to the ground. If he had reasoned at all over the matter, which perhaps his education did not enable him to do, he might have realized that the bullet did not come from the ground.
The man had thrown the window wide open, and was making a very scrutinizing examination of every part of the courtyard. He could see plainly whatever was in front of the window; but this did not seem to satisfy him. He thrust half his body out of the opening, looking both sides of him, as though it had been possible to fire a rifle around a corner. The fellow was certainly stupid enough to be shot, and Deck did not wait any longer to do his work.
The ball struck him in the head as he was stretching his neck to the utmost to enlarge the extent of his vision to a point from which the fatal bullet could not possibly have come. If he could have imagined a line from the round hole in the pane of glass to the point where his comrade's head had been, it would have pointed directly to Deck's locality when he discharged the rifle.
[Illustration: "THE BALL STRUCK HIM IN THE HEAD." _Page 388. _] The ruffian dropped from the window-sill to the ground with a heavy thud, and did not move again. The ball had penetrated his brain, and he was the victim of his unscientific observations. But the lieutenant did not remove his gaze from the open window. It seemed very like slaughter to shoot down the enemy in this manner, and a twinge of conscience disturbed him. But he reasoned that he had given the ruffians a chance to surrender, which they had refused to accept. Then they were pirates, robbers, making war for gain against friend and foe alike.
The third man in the room did not remain there any longer. He could hardly have known what became of the one at the window, unless he had heard the crack of a rifle, and failed to see him again. Under these circumstances it was not difficult for him to reason out the conclusion that the chamber where he was must be a dangerous locality, and he sought a safer place.
The lieutenant continued to watch the window, but no enemy appeared in the room again. It had proved to be a chamber of death. He had hardly lost sight of the foe before he heard the crack of a rifle in the grove. The two Hickmans there were riflemen, and Deck did not believe it would be possible for either of them to fire without killing or wounding his man; but he heard but one shot, and probably four of the land pirates were still living.
Deck waited some time for the sound of another shot, but in vain. He did not believe another ruffian would enter the fatal room commanded by his position, and he decided to seek a more promising place for his operations. Since the shot he had heard, he was confident that none of the enemy would show themselves at the windows. He descended to the cellar of the stable, and then, by the way he had come, reached the kitchen, and then the parlor, at the door of which the planter was fortified.
"Anything new, Colonel Hickman?" he asked.
"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed the sentinel over the staircase. "What have you been doing outside? Something has happened."
"I think we have reduced the enemy by three, and perhaps more," replied the young officer; and he proceeded to explain what he and his companions had been doing.
"You think you have knocked down three or more of the robbers?"
"As many as that."
"Then that explains it!"
"Explains what?" asked Deck, as much puzzled by the exhilarated tones of the planter as by his questions.
"One of them hailed me some time ago, and wanted to see the one in command. I told him the commander was not in the house, but was conducting the fight outside. He asked me to send for him, but I refused to do so. I did not intend to interrupt your operation; for I never take another's command away from him," replied the colonel, indulging at the same time in a chuckle, to which he was somewhat given when pleased.
"Do you know what he wanted?"
"I do; for he shouted down the stairs that he and the rest of them desired to surrender."
"Then we will let them do so," added Deck, who was not disposed to fight after the battle had been won.
"What shall you do with them after they have surrendered, Lieutenant?" asked the planter, plainly much interested in the question.
"I shall do nothing at all with them; I am not the judge or the civil power of Russell County. We have beaten the enemy, and I have nothing further to do with the matter," answered Deck.
The colonel decided not to ask any more questions, though the lieutenant suspected he intended to dispose of the prisoners as he thought best.
"Up-stairs, there!" shouted the planter. "The commander is here now."
"Ask him to come up here, and we will arrange things," returned the ruffian with unblushing effrontery.
"The commander will do nothing of the sort," replied the colonel indignantly. "Do you really believe that he would trust himself with such cutthroats as you are?"
"We will agree not to hurt him, though he has used us very unfairly," said the spokesman. "He has tried to murder all of us!"
"You deserve to be hung; and it would be too merciful to shoot you!" roared the colonel, his wrath getting the better of him.
"Do Union men hang their prisoners?" demanded the ruffian bitterly.
"Prisoners!" exclaimed the planter contemptuously. "You are such prisoners as they shut up in the penitentiary, or hang in the public square."
"Can I see the commander?" asked the spokesman, quite gently by this time.
"I will see him if he comes down into the parlor," said Deck. "I shall make prisoners of them; but I wish to stipulate that neither Sergeant Fronklyn nor myself shall have anything to do with punishing them, either by hanging or shooting after they have surrendered."
"The commander will see you down-stairs; but I will shoot any other that attempts to put his foot on the first stair," shouted Colonel Hickman.
"I will come down," replied the spokesman; and he came to the head of the staircase with a gun in his hand.
"Halt!" cried the planter. "Leave all your arms up-stairs! Have you any pistols about you?"
He passed his musket to one of the others, and did the same with a couple of pistols when the colonel mentioned them. Having complied with the order, he came down the stairs. He was directed to the parlor in which the lieutenant was waiting for him.
"Are you the commander here?" he inquired.
"I am. May I ask what you are?" demanded Deck, without rising from the armchair in which he was seated.
"I am called Captain Grundy."
"Not Mrs. Grundy?"
"Captain Grundy," replied the ruffian, with something of dignity in his looks and manner.
"Have you a captain's commission?"
"Not yet."
"In what service are you?"
"In the service of the Confederate States of America."
"In what regiment?"
"In no regiment; in a company organized by my government."
"A company of Partisan Rangers?"
"But in the service of my country."
"Are you a Kentuckian?"
"I am."
"And your service is to roam over your native State, killing, robbing, plundering your fellow-citizens; a highwayman, a thief, and a murderer," continued the lieutenant very severely. "This is the second time you have visited this mansion for plunder; but you don't come out of it so well as you expected," said Deck with a sneer, evident in his tones as well as his looks.
"Where is the rest of your company, Captain Grundy?"
"On duty in another county."
"But you expect the balance of your command here some time to-day?"
"There will soon be a time when the treatment we have received here will be returned with compound interest," said Grundy with a savage and revengeful look on his ill-favored countenance.
"You wished to see me; what is your business?" demanded the lieutenant.
"I am ready to surrender. You and your gang have murdered nearly all my men here in cold blood. I can do nothing more, and I must yield," replied Grundy.
"Are you a lawyer, Captain?"
"I am not; I am a horse-dealer."
"I should think you might be!" sneered Deck. "Do you think it is right to ride over the State, robbing your fellow-citizens, threatening to hang a planter to a tree for refusing to give up his money?"
"In the service of my country, yes! Kentucky belongs to the Confederacy; and those who fight to keep the State in the exploded Union are traitors, and should be treated as enemies of the State and the Confederacy."
"Suppose I should visit your house, demand your money, and hang you if you did not give it up? Would that be all right?"
"That is another matter," growled Grundy.
"Precisely; the same boot don't fit both feet," returned Deck.
"I am your prisoner; but you need not thorn me with your Union logic."
At this moment the lieutenant heard the voice of Davis Hickman in the hall, talking to his father. He called him into the parlor, and requested him to bring a quantity of cord or straps to him; and he went for them.
"What do you want of cords and straps?" asked Grundy.
"To bind my prisoner."
"Do you mean to hang me?"
"I do not; I leave that job to the regular hangman. He will perform it in due time, I have no doubt," replied Deck, as Davis brought in the cords.
"I don't mean to be tied up like a wildcat," said the captain doggedly.
"Then you do not surrender; and if you wish to do so, you may go up-stairs again."
"I surrender; but I will not be bound like a nigger!" exclaimed Captain Grundy, as he sprang away from the lieutenant, and ran into the back room.
"What's the matter now, Phil?" demanded the colonel, as the mulatto of this name rushed into the hall, panting more from excitement than physical exertion, for his horse was at the door.
Both Deck and Davis pursued the captain; but they were taken off their guard, and neither of them succeeded in getting hold of the ruffian. He fled to a window which some one had left open, leaped out, and ran towards the front of the mansion. Davis fired his rifle at him; but being "on the wing," he failed to bring him down. Deck, believing that the fight was finished, had left his rifle in the parlor.
"The Lord save us, Mars'r Cun'l!" shouted Phil, as he broke into the hall. "The ruffians, more'n twenty of 'em, is coming up the road on hossback, at full gallop!"
It looked like another fight against great odds.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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31
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AN UNEXPECTED RE-ENFORCEMENT
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Captain Grundy's claim that he was in the Confederate service was undoubtedly pure fiction; and he did not even pretend to have a commission of any kind, not even as a Partisan Ranger. The Riverlawn Cavalry had rendered important service to the State in the suppression of guerilla bands, acting under no authority whatever, plundering and killing Union men. Grundy's force consisted of over thirty men. They were mounted, and doubtless had stolen the horses they rode from the plantations they had raided.
They were simply brigands; they wore no uniform beyond a belt, and had taken no part in the battle of the day before. Their leader was an enterprising man, and seemed to be operating at the same time in several places. Their sole mission was to rob the planters; and they were especially eager to obtain money, though it was a very scarce article in the State.
Lieutenant Lyon had talked with Colonel Hickman about the band, and he had gathered much information in regard to their operations in the northern and western counties. The planter was a fighting man, as well as a strong Unionist. He had been aware of the approach of the gang, and while he had seven white men living on his estate he had felt abundantly able to defend his property.
His spring-house was his arsenal; and it was well stored with arms and ammunition, including two field-pieces. He was not a man to be intimidated, as many loyal citizens had been; and he had made his preparations to give the brigands a warm reception when they paid him a visit, as he had no doubt they would.
After the return of the colonel with his re-enforcements from the ferry, Deck Lyon had not had the opportunity to examine minutely the premises, especially outside of the immediate scene of operations. He had followed Captain Grundy from the mansion when he escaped from the parlor in company with Davis. The latter had fired at him; but the density of the grove interfered with his aim, and the ruffian had suddenly disappeared.
Outside of the grove there were no trees, and the lieutenant saw on a hill the mounted gang riding at full speed towards the elevation on which stood the mansion. The road was a private one, and very narrow. Deck counted twenty-four riders in the distance, for they rode two abreast. As he and his companion came out of the grove to the front of the mansion, the officer discovered something that looked like a mound of earth on one side of the road to the mansion.
"What is that, Davis?" asked Deck, pointing at the work.
"That is the governor's fortification," replied the rifleman.
"The governor's?"
"Not the governor of the State, but my father's."
"What is it?" asked the lieutenant curiously; for he had not been able to make out the use of the mound.
"Come in a little nearer to the mansion, and you will see," replied Davis; and he led the way across a corner of the grove.
"It looks like a fort," added Deck as he obtained a view of the inside of the earthwork.
"That is just what it is," said his companion. "The governor has kept a squad of the servants over on the hill you see at the farther end of the valley through which the road passes, as sentinels. They all have horses; and when they discover the approach of an enemy, they gallop to the mansion, and notify the colonel. We are as careful of our lives here as you have been since you came."
"What's coming now?" inquired Deck, as he heard the tramp of footsteps behind him.
"The governor's coming, and I think we will go and meet him," replied the planter's son; and he led the way through the grove towards the great house.
It was quite a procession that advanced at a rapid pace from beyond the building. At the head of it rode Colonel Hickman, mounted on the horse he generally used. Next behind him came his sons Warren and Harlan. Then came Phil, leading a mule harnessed to a wagon, with all the other servants following it. Last of all came the two field-pieces Deck had seen on the piazza, each of them drawn by two mules. About a dozen negroes appeared in the rear and on the flanks of the column; and the lieutenant wondered where they had come from, though there was a village of huts some distance from the stable.
"How many of the robbers are left in the second story of the mansion?" asked Davis, as the procession approached.
"Only two, I think, though I am not sure," replied Deck; and he proceeded to reckon up the number that had been put out of the way. "Only two."
"Enough to burn the house," added Davis.
As he spoke he raised his rifle and fired. The lieutenant looked at the house, and saw one of the ruffians fall at the open window, over the piazza. No doubt he and the other ruffian who remained in the house had heard the commotion on the premises, and Phil had shouted loud enough to be heard in every room. The one who had gone to the window evidently could not control his curiosity, and it had cost him his life.
"Probably the other has looked out the window also, and has seen the approach of the rest of the gang," said Davis, as he reloaded his rifle. "He can leave now if he wants to; for there is no one left in the house to prevent him from going. But I don't like to have another added to the number of the enemy."
The rifleman walked over to a point where he could obtain a better view of the other window. It was open, but no one could be seen in the room. Very likely he had heard the report of the rifle which killed the other, or the noise of his fall. At any rate, he did not show himself.
"No more game here just now," said Davis; and he and Deck walked over to the fort.
They found the two brass guns in position for use, and Warren in charge of them. Four of the servants, including Phil, were his assistants. The dozen rifles Deck had seen on the piazzas, and the heavy revolvers, were leaning against the trees, or hanging from the branches. The mule-wagon was in the grove, containing the ammunition; the mules harnessed to the fore-trucks of the gun-carriages were at a safe distance, and everything seemed to be ready to open fire upon the enemy.
"Colonel Hickman, you are much more familiar with the situation here than I am," said Deck when he met the planter. "You are a veteran soldier, and I am glad to resign the command, and pass it over to you."
"I accept it, for I know the ground, as you say; but I shall be happy to have your counsel," replied the colonel.
"I have none to offer at present. I will take a rifle, and act with your sons, though they are better riflemen than I am."
"All we have to do is to blaze away when the enemy begin to rise the hill, and I shall use the same weapon. Warren is the chief gunner, and he has trained some of the servants to handle the guns," said the planter, looking down the hill.
"Can any of your negroes handle a rifle, Colonel?" asked Deck, recalling the time when his father's servants had been armed with muskets, and had made good use of them at the "Battle of Riverlawn."
"Some of them can; but I have scruples against arming them for fighting purposes."
"So had my father; but when it came to the question of defending himself and the members of his family against a mob of ruffians such as those now approaching your mansion,--for they threatened to burn his house and hang him to a tree,--he did not hesitate," added Deck, recalling the stirring events of that time. "Of course there was no place for them in the army, though the overseer has kept them in training for the defence of the family and the plantation."
"We have no time to discuss that question now, and the negroes are assisting Warren at the guns," replied the colonel. "But who is that man over on the left? He seems to be running with all his might towards the column of the robbers."
"That must be Captain Grundy who surrendered and then ran away," answered Deck. "But he is too far off even for the riflemen."
The chief of the brigands had taken a wide sweep in order to reach the approaching force of mounted men, and was now about as far from them as from the colonel's fort. The face of the country was uneven, and he soon disappeared behind a hill. Lieutenant Lyon had endeavored to obtain some information in regard to the Riverlawn Cavalry of Warren Hickman as soon as he found the time to do so. But the riflemen were quartered apart from the mounted men, and he knew very little about the squadron. In the morning it was ascertained that General Crittenden's forces had evacuated the fort, and crossed the river. The sharpshooters, being no longer needed, had been dismissed, and the planter's sons had gone directly to their home.
"There comes Cuffy the ferryman, riding with all the speed he can get out of his poor horse," said Warren, as he pointed to the negro coming across the field from the Jamestown road. "He is devoted to the governor; and I think he brings news of some sort, good or bad."
Between the mansion and the road there was a hill which prevented them from seeing the road; but the negro soon reached the fort, which was his nearest point. He drew in his rein, and stopped his steed at one end of the breastwork. He was out of breath, apparently from excitement rather than exertion.
"Dar's a whole comp'ny of sodjers on hossback comin' down de road!" shouted Cuffy, as soon as he could collect breath enough to speak.
"What are they, Cuffy?" demanded Warren.
"Sodjers! Mars'r Warren."
"Of course they are soldiers; but on which side do they belong?"
"Dressed in blue, Mars'r Warren. Mus' be Union."
"The force must be one, or both, of your companies, Lieutenant," added Warren. "I heard something said about sending them on a reconnoissance when Captain Woodbine dismissed the riflemen. Where is the company now, Cuffy?"
"Dey done halt behind dat hill, and send two men to de top ob it," replied the ferryman, who was quite cool by this time.
"Here comes the governor; and he will be glad to hear Cuffy's news," added the chief of artillery. "We shall be able to drive the brigands off now."
"Drive them off!" exclaimed Deck. "I hope we shall be able to do something better than that."
"What better than that can we do?" asked Warren.
"Do you want to put them in condition to raid the next plantation, and hang the owner if he won't give up his money by to-morrow?"
Colonel Hickman came into the fort, and his son promptly gave him the welcome news. He added that Lieutenant Lyon had some views of his own in regard to the situation, and did not believe in simply driving the enemy away.
"I should be glad to hear your views, Lieutenant," said the planter, turning to the young officer.
"Of course the major or captain in command of the cavalry does not know the country in this vicinity, though Cuffy says men have been sent to the top of the hill to obtain information," said Deck. "But they can see nothing, for there is another and higher hill between them and the enemy. With your permission, Sergeant Fronklyn and myself will join our company if they are in the road. Perhaps the entire squadron is there."
"What is your plan, Lieutenant?" asked the colonel, a little impatient in his manner.
"We ought to capture every one of that gang; and it can be easily done."
"How?"
"I don't know who is in command of the force; but I should suggest to him to send half of his command to a position under cover of the hill nearest to the road, and the other half around the north end of the same hill," replied Deck earnestly. "We shall have them between the jaws of a vise then!"
"Excellent, Lieutenant!" exclaimed the colonel. "The coming of this force is a godsend to us. You and the sergeant can go at once; but you must both have better horses than those old stags the runaways left."
The planter selected two of his best animals for them; and they galloped across the field to the road. As they approached the Riverlawns they were recognized, and a hearty cheer welcomed them.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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32
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DECK LYON'S PLAN OF BATTLE
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Lieutenant Lyon soon ascertained that the force in the road included the two companies of the squadron. The cheers of those who were on the right of the column brought Major Lyon and Captain Woodbine to the front; and as soon as they learned the cause of the cheering they rode forward to meet the returning wanderers.
"I am glad to see you again, Dexter," said the major, as he extended his hand to his son.
"I am just as glad to see you, father," replied Deck, returning the hearty pressure of the hand.
Sergeant Fronklyn was greeted in the same manner, and heartily welcomed by the commander of the battalion. The staff-officer had halted a couple of rods behind the major, to permit the father and son to meet without being observed.
"You come back as from the grave, or a Confederate prison," said the major, still holding the hand of his son, and betraying more emotion than he was in the habit of manifesting.
"I have been neither in a grave nor a prison," answered the lieutenant very cheerfully.
"We concluded that you had been either killed or captured; and I am rejoiced to see you again alive and apparently well."
"I am as well as I ever was in my life; but we must not stop to talk now, father, for the services of your command are greatly needed in this vicinity," said Deck.
"Where?" demanded the major, releasing his son's hand, and beckoning to the staff-officer, who immediately rode to the spot.
"I am very glad to see you again, Lieutenant Lyon," said Captain Woodbine, grasping the hand of the young officer. "We feared that you were a prisoner, or that something worse had happened to you."
"But Dexter tells me that my force is needed here, Captain Woodbine," interposed the major; "and we must hear his story at some other time. Where are we needed, my son?"
"On a hill a mile from here is the mansion of Colonel Hickman," replied Deck, pointing in the direction of the house. "Part of a gang of guerillas have been in possession of it all the morning, and threatened to hang the owner if he did not give up his money."
"It is the old story," added the major.
"But we have shot all but one or two who were in the mansion; and the rest of the gang, twenty-four of them the servants say, are now approaching the hill," continued Deck.
"Then we will not remain here another moment. I sent Knox and Sluder to the top of the nearest hill to make an observation," said the major.
"They cannot see the ruffians, for there is another hill that conceals them," Deck interposed. "I know the lay of the land here, and if you will allow me to give advice which is not asked for I will do so."
"Certainly!" exclaimed the staff-officer, who was the superior of the major. "State your plan at once, Lieutenant."
"By this time Captain Grundy, the leader of the gang, has joined his force. They are advancing by a private road from Millersville," Deck explained. "Colonel Hickman has two field-pieces behind a breastwork, and a few riflemen; and he is ready to give the ruffians a warm reception, though the enemy are four to his one. My advice is that the second company march towards the mansion, with Sergeant Fronklyn as guide, and halt under cover of the hill nearest to the private road. Let the first company march in the opposite direction, with me as guide, and halt behind another hill near the private road."
"Very good!" exclaimed the major. "That is all clear enough; and the plan is to put the enemy between the jaws of a vise."
"That is just what I said to Colonel Hickman when I explained the plan to him," added Deck.
The major led the way up to the main body of the troopers. While the commander was giving his orders to the two captains of the companies, the two sergeants returned from the hill, and reported that nothing was to be seen in any direction, for the view was obstructed by other hills. When Knox had made his report he happened to see Deck. He rushed upon him, grasped him in his arms, and lifted him from the ground as though he had been a baby, hugging him in a transport of rapture, to the great amusement of officers and soldiers.
"I was afeared you had gone where you couldn't hear the bugle-call, littl' un, and I bless the Lord with all my might that you ain't food for the worms or the crows," said the big Kentuckian fervently. "You oughtn't to gone off without me; but I reckon"-- "That will do for now, Sergeant Knox!" shouted Captain Gordon. "We have no time for long stories. Attention--company!"
As Deck rode to his place at the head of the second platoon, Captain Gordon and Lieutenant Belthorpe grasped his hand, and spoke a word of welcome to him. The men in the ranks greeted him with pleasant words. The first company countermarched; and as the captain came to the position of the second lieutenant, he directed him to march at his side in his capacity as guide. Fronklyn took a similar position at the side of Captain Truman, and both companies moved as the guides directed.
"You have had a hard time of it, Deck," said Captain Gordon as they left the road and entered the field.
"Not very, Captain. Both Fronklyn and myself were knocked from our horses; and it would have been all up with me if the sergeant had not dragged me out of the _mêlée_. But I was only stunned by the flat side of a sabre, as Fronklyn was by a pistol-bullet," Deck explained.
"But you were within the breastworks of the enemy?"
"We were, forced in by the crowd of runaways from the battle-field. We both came to our senses, kept out of sight for a while, then took possession of a boat astern of a steamer, and floated down the Cumberland to Robertsport, or a little farther, and got ashore. I haven't time to tell the whole story. Three sons of Colonel Hickman were with Captain Ripley's riflemen; and with them we met the colonel. We cleaned out the robbers from his mansion. I think we had better halt here, Captain Gordon, and do a little scouting."
The suggestion was promptly adopted, and the company came to a halt just at the foot of the first hill. Deck and Knox were sent to the top of the next hill on foot, both armed with carbines. There were trees and bushes on the summit, but not on the sides, of the elevation. They took a position in the shelter of this growth, but the guerillas were not yet in sight. They must have halted for some time; and Deck conjectured that Captain Grundy must have joined them, and had taken the time to tell his story.
"I see nothing of them yet, Life," said the lieutenant, after he had surveyed the country in all directions.
"Which way they comin', Deck?" asked the sergeant.
"You can see the road across the fields at the foot of this hill. I think the first company is in the right position where it is now," said the lieutenant. "The second company will halt under cover of the same hill. Neither of them can be seen from that road till the enemy have advanced half-way up the hill to the mansion."
"I thought the company was to move to the lower end of the hill, where we uns is," suggested Knox.
"That was my first view of it; but there is no need of going any farther. I did not suppose there was any chance to conceal the position of the force where they could get at the enemy in good season. I have not been over this ground; only seen it from the mansion hill. We are all right as we are. Now, Life, you will return to the company; tell Captain Gordon to remain where he is till I give him a signal with my handkerchief on this carbine."
As he spoke, the lieutenant proceeded to tie the white signal to the weapon.
"Then he will go at a gallop through the valley between these two hills, and fall upon the enemy in the rear, as the second company attacks in front. Do you understand it?" continued Deck.
"I reckon I do; but am I to leave you here alone?" demanded the sergeant.
"Of course you are," replied the lieutenant with a laugh. "Do you think I can't take care of myself?"
"You didn't do it last night."
"I think I did, for here I am. Hold on a minute! I think we can arrange this matter a little better. The second company will not know when to make the attack."
"Are you gwine to lay out the whole battle, Deck?" asked Life.
"I am going to do what I can to make it a success, and to capture every one of those ruffians. If one of them escapes it shall not be my fault," replied the lieutenant in vigorous speech. "Ask Captain Gordon to rig a signal like this one, and send a messenger to Major Lyon, who has gone with the second company, so that he will understand its meaning. When I wave my signal twice, it will be for the second company to attack; when I wave it once it will be for the first company to fall on the enemy's rear. The major is not more than half a mile from the first company. Now go, Life, and don't let the grass grow under your feet."
"All right; but I reckon you are the commander-in-chief of this battalion, Deck."
The long-legged Kentuckian went down the hill with long strides; and in about three minutes he saluted Captain Gordon, and delivered his message. Then he was ordered to mount his horse, and ride over to deliver the instructions to the major.
"That is an excellent plan of Lieutenant Lyon, and it will prevent any confusion," said the captain as the sergeant was mounting his horse.
In a few minutes more Knox came into the presence of Captain Woodbine and Major Lyon. He described the arrangement for the signals.
Sergeant Fronklyn and Bugler Stufton were stationed on a knoll where they could see the signal when it was given by Captain Gordon, and the musician was to sound the advance.
"These signals are a capital idea of your son, Major," said the staff-officer in the hearing of Life Knox, as he was starting on his return to his company.
Deck was left alone; but in spite of the solicitude of the Kentuckian, he did not regard himself as in any danger, for the guerillas were not likely to explore the hills on their way to the mansion, where Captain Grundy doubtless expected to make an easy victory over the force defending it. He was not aware that cannon were to figure in the contest; and with his large force he could easily overcome the small number behind the breastwork. He was confident that there was a large sum of money concealed in the mansion, or in its vicinity; and he was fully determined to hang Colonel Hickman to one of his own trees if he did not disclose the hiding-place of the treasure.
It was fully half an hour before Deck saw anything of the approaching guerillas. Four mounted men were the first indications of the advance of the enemy. They seemed to be the pickets of the main body. They rode in couples, and did not trouble themselves to scout the hills on their left; for they could not have had any suspicion that there was a large force of cavalry anywhere near the mansion. The pickets moved on slowly till they came to the beginning of the ascent of the hill, and there they halted. They had nothing to report, and they awaited the coming of the force.
From his position behind the bushes and trees Deck could see the mansion, and the road leading up to it. The pickets had hardly halted before the main column came into view. They marched by fours, two in the road, and two in the field, and in very irregular order. The lieutenant observed them with intense interest, and counted them as they advanced. Instead of twenty-four, as the negro scouts had reported, there were thirty-eight of them. They had either been re-enforced, or the scouts had not seen them all. They marched very confidently, and began the ascent of the hill.
When they had ascended about half the distance to the summit, one of the cannon pealed, and three men were seen to fall from their horses. The assailants had evidently not expected to encounter artillery, and the result of the first discharge checked them. At this moment Deck twice waved the signal. A minute later the blast of the bugle was heard in the distance, followed immediately by the onslaught of Captain Trueman's company.
Deck observed the impetuous charge. Captain Grundy appeared to have ordered his command to deploy to the right; but they had no time to do so, for the troopers dashed into them in front. The guerillas could not hold their ground for a moment against this fiery charge. They broke, and began to retreat by the way they had come. Deck waved his signal once; and Captain Gordon's company dashed through the valley, and confronted the ruffians in their hot retreat.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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33
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THE DEFEAT AND SURRENDER OF THE GUERILLAS
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The moment Deck Lyon had given the signal for the first company to advance, he ran down the hill with all the speed he could command, to a tree where Life had hitched his horse in readiness for him. It was not the animal he had ridden from Colonel Hickman's mansion, but Ceph, the steed he had trained and used from the beginning of his career as a soldier. He was very intelligent, and seemed to understand precisely what was required of him in action; though he sometimes overdid his part, as when he tried to leap over the horse of his rider's opponent.
The lieutenant did not feel quite at home on any other horse. The baggage-wagons of the squadron had been halted in the road with a sufficient guard, and the spare horses included not a few picked up on the battle-field of Mill Springs. Ceph whinnied vigorously, and pawed the sod with his forefeet when he saw his master running down the hill. These were his expressions of rejoicing to meet his rider again.
But Deck, who was anxious to be at the head of his platoon on the field, could only pat him on the neck and stroke his nose as he unhitched him. Life had attached a sabre to the saddle for his use, for he was sure that he would want one. Mounting hastily, he disengaged the weapon, and started in the direction his company had taken. If the rider had fully informed his steed what he wanted, the animal could not have understood him any better; for he darted away at his swiftest gallop, and bounded through the valley like the flight of an arrow. Deck had slung his carbine over his shoulder, and carried the naked sabre in his hand, with the scabbard attached to his belt.
As the lieutenant advanced he obtained a view of the field, and could measure the progress of the action as far as it had gone. Four shots had been sent from the fort; though after Captain Grundy had scattered his men, the last two were less effective than the first two. Up to this time the guerilla leader evidently believed that he had no enemy except the few men in the vicinity of the mansion. It was after the second gun from the breastwork that Deck had given the signal for the advance of the second company.
At the onslaught of this company, consisting of about eighty troopers, Grundy could not help seeing that he was outnumbered two to one, and that his opponents were trained soldiers, mounted upon excellent horses; and he had no alternative but a hasty retreat. He led them in the direction of the road; but at this time Deck had given his second signal, and the first company were stretching across the field to intercept his flight. It must have been an appalling sight to him, and he saw that he must be ground to powder between the upper and the nether millstone.
Deck had reached his place at the head of his platoon, which Life Knox was glad to yield to him. Captain Gordon was on the flank at the left. His command was stretched across the field, and were a wall of steel against the farther retreat of the enemy. It was about half a mile from the second company, which was driving the guerillas before it upon the point of their sabres. The captain called a halt when the head of his column had reached what appeared to be a swamp, and faced them to the enemy, ready to charge upon the broken ranks of the ruffians.
"This can be nothing but a butchery," said Captain Gordon, as he reined in his horse in front of his second lieutenant; and his tones and his manner indicated his disgust at this sort of warfare.
"When I was in the mansion, Captain Grundy surrendered to me; but when I proposed to secure him with cords and straps, he broke away from us, and we were unable to recapture him," added Deck.
"It is not usual to bind captured prisoners," suggested the captain.
"But we had only half a dozen men, and I would not trust the fellow out of sight," replied Deck. "But I have secured my prisoners when they were guerillas, and not soldiers."
"No doubt you were right in dealing so with these ruffians," added the captain. "I think we have this gang where not one of them can escape, and perhaps we may have to bind them as you did their leader."
"There goes the recall!" exclaimed the lieutenant, as the bugle-notes sounded across the field from the right of the second company, where Major Lyon had taken his place.
"There is a white flag displayed in the centre of the enemy's line," added Captain Gordon. "Your father does not relish a butchery any more than I do."
The commander of the company took his field-glass from its case, and directed it towards the position of the major. The troopers fell back, evidently at the command of their officers, at the signal, stretching nearly across the field.
"Look through my glass, Deck, and tell me what is going on there," said the captain, as he handed the glass to the lieutenant. "There is a tall gentleman there who is a stranger to me; and he seems to be talking and gesticulating very earnestly."
"That is Colonel Hickman, and it is easy enough for me to guess what he is talking about," added Deck.
"But the major seems to be as dignified as he always is, and don't appear to be much moved by what the other is saying. But what is the matter with Colonel Hickman?"
"He believes in hanging these fellows as fast as they are taken, though perhaps he would be satisfied to see them cut down before the sabres of our men. I had to tell him squarely that no prisoner should be hung, or punished in any manner, except by the law of the land," replied Deck.
"Does he believe in firing or charging on a flag of truce?"
"Doubtless he believes that a flag in the hands of these fellows is not entitled to be respected."
"Major Lyon is the right man to settle the question, with the advice of Captain Woodbine," said Captain Gordon. "While they are discussing it, we will move forward;" and in a loud tone he gave the order to march, which was repeated by the subordinate officers.
The long line moved forward, at a walk, about half a mile, and halted forty rods in the rear of the disordered ranks of the enemy. Presently a sergeant rode across the field, passing to the left of the guerillas, and making his way to the centre of the first company. It proved to be Sergeant Fronklyn, who saluted the captain.
"It is the order of Major Lyon, Captain Gordon, that you send Sergeant Knox, with ten men, to the right of your line, to prevent the escape of any of the enemy to the swamp. Also, that you send Lieutenant Lyon to headquarters," said Fronklyn, delivering his message.
On the right of the line four of the ruffians had attempted to flee from the scene of the anticipated surrender; but Lieutenant Gadbury had ordered four of his men to fire upon them. One had been wounded, and the others had returned to the ranks. This was the occasion of the order to send Knox to the border of the swamp. Deck went with Fronklyn to the major by the same way the sergeant had come. On their arrival the lieutenant found Grundy had come over to interview the major, attended by a man bearing the flag of truce.
"You are treating these ruffians as though they were regular soldiers, Major Lyon; and I protest against it!" exclaimed Colonel Hickman, just as Deck saluted the major.
"I can answer you better when I have heard what Captain Grundy has to say," replied the major with his usual dignity and gentleness.
"He is not a captain; he has no commission or authority of any kind from the State or Nation," protested the planter.
"I can understand and appreciate your feelings, Colonel, in the face of the outrages to which you have been subjected; but I shall be greatly obliged to you if you will permit me to discharge my duty without further interruption. I have been the victim of similar indignities; but I cannot order men who probably intend to surrender, to be hung, or to be shot down in cold blood."
Upon this appeal Colonel Hickman was silent, though evidently very much against his will. Captain Grundy approached the major at a signal from him. He was asked to make the communication he sought to offer under the flag of truce.
"My troop are fighting-men; but of course, surrounded by six times their number, we should all be sabred or shot down in a few minutes. Against this odds I do not intend to fight," said the guerilla leader, who was evidently a man of some education, and conducted himself with some degree of dignity.
"Do you propose to surrender?" asked the major.
"I do, if reasonable terms are held out to me," replied Captain Grundy.
"What do you consider reasonable terms?" inquired the commander of the squadron.
"That we should lay down our arms, retain our horses, and retire to our homes, returning to our usual occupations," answered the captain of the ruffians.
"That is better terms than a defeated company of regular troops of the Confederate army would have any right to ask for or expect," added the major with a smile.
"I have named what I consider fair terms under the circumstances; and now I will ask what terms you are willing to make," continued Captain Grundy.
"No terms at all," replied Major Lyon very decidedly. "I do not regard you as soldiers in the service of the Confederacy, but as lawless marauders, cutthroats, and murderers."
"Good!" exclaimed Colonel Hickman. "That is hitting the nail on the head."
"Many gentlemen who support the Confederate side of the question have expressed the same opinions to me. I can make no terms whatever with you, Captain Grundy. The surrender must be unconditional."
"Do you propose to put us in irons, or bind us with ropes and straps, as the young officer at your side did?" demanded the guerilla chief bitterly.
"I should feel entirely justified in doing so if the circumstances required such an extreme measure; but with the ample force under my command I don't think such a step would be necessary, though my men would shoot down any one who attempted to escape."
"Your terms are very unfair and very unchivalrous; and I should judge that you were a Yankee, as I am told that you are," growled the marauder.
"Doubtless you consider the robbing of a private mansion, and threatening to hang the owner if he don't inform you where he has hidden his money, chivalrous deeds; but I do not so regard them. We are wasting time. Do you surrender, or shall I order my men to charge upon your column?" demanded the major.
"What do you intend to do with us after we have laid down our arms?" asked Captain Grundy, after he had glanced at the files of troopers on both sides of his command.
"Though the State of Kentucky is in a very disordered state, the civil law is still in force in most parts of it. I shall deliver you over to the civil government whose laws you have broken."
"Hemmed in as my men are by six times their number, I have no alternative but to surrender, unfair and outrageous as the terms are," replied the marauder, with a despairing look as he glanced again at the loyal troops that surrounded his company.
"The terms are better than you deserve, and if I had my way I would hang you to the nearest tree as a beginning!" shouted Colonel Hickman.
"I may have a chance to do you that favor, Colonel, before many weeks have gone by," added the outlaw.
"You sent for me, Major Lyon," said Deck, stepping forward, and saluting his father. "I am ready for any duty to which I may be assigned."
"Captain Woodbine wants both you and Sergeant Fronklyn as guides; for both of you have become acquainted with this locality," replied the major, as he proceeded to give orders for the conduct of the surrender.
The first company was moved up, and the guerillas marched in single file between the two, laying down their arms, though a couple of sergeants searched them for pistols and knives. Lieutenant Blenks, with the second platoon of the second company, was detailed to march the prisoners to Jamestown, which was the capital of Russell County, where they were to be delivered to the sheriff. It was not a long march, and the platoon rejoined the squadron on the bank of the Cumberland at dark.
The next day a mob took Grundy from the jail, and hung him in the village; and possibly Colonel Hickman knew more about the affair than any other single person.
The colonel was the highest type of a Kentucky gentleman, and no one not in his difficult position could fully comprehend his apparently ferocious views.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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34
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THE GATHERING OF A NEW COMMAND
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The guerillas were disposed of, and it did not appear that there was any other enemy in the vicinity. Major Lyon marched his squadron back to the road where he had left his wagons. Captain Woodbine, at the invitation of Colonel Hickman, visited the mansion, and required Deck to go with him. As they rode up the hill the lieutenant gave the details of his escape from the Beech Grove breastworks, the drowning of the four fugitives, and the defence of the mansion of the planter.
Colonel Hickman rode with them, and listened to the narrative, and stated that the young lieutenant had conducted the defence, and that all the gang who gained admission to the house, with the exception of one or two, had been killed or wounded. On their arrival at the mansion the party visited every room. Those on the lower floor exhibited the havoc made by the ruffians in their search for the planter's money.
Deck pointed to the safe in the hall, and explained in what manner Sergeant Fronklyn had covered the staircase; and the body of the first man who had attempted the descent lay where it had fallen. Then they went up-stairs. The same havoc appeared in all the apartments. The bodies of two men who had been instantly killed at the windows, and several other wounded ruffians, lay on the beds.
"The assault was skilfully and safely managed," said the staff-officer, patting the lieutenant on the back.
"Lieutenant Lyon has been the hero of the day on my premises, and he has placed me under ever-lasting obligations to him," added the colonel. "With a very insignificant force we had cleaned out the ruffians from the house when the approach of the main body of the gang was announced by my servants, who had been scouting beyond the hills. The coming of the cavalry has probably saved my mansion and my life. As the villains supposed, I have a considerable sum of money concealed; for I could not trust it in any bank in the present condition of the State. I should like to reward the lieutenant"-- "I would not accept any reward for simply doing my duty," interposed Deck.
"But I hope it will be in my power to serve you, young man."
"I am too happy to have served you, Colonel Hickman, to need anything more than the approval of my own conscience," replied Deck, moving off.
"I am not without influential friends, Lieutenant Lyon, and you may hear from me when you least expect it," continued Colonel Hickman, as he followed the young officer, and grasped him by the hand.
"I do not ask for any influence in my favor. I am a second lieutenant at eighteen, and I ask for no promotion to which my services do not entitle me," replied Deck proudly. "I have sent the horse you were kind enough to loan me back to your stable; and now I am at your service, Captain Woodbine."
Both of the officers mounted their steeds, and the planter showered benedictions upon them as they rode off. Deck had had some conversation with the three sons of the Colonel, and they had been as hearty in their commendations of the young officer as their father. The staff-officer then informed his companion that the Riverlawn squadron had been sent out on a reconnoissance down the river, and that the battalion was subject to his orders.
"Then you wish to go to the river?" suggested Deck.
"I do; as soon as possible," replied the captain.
"Then we will take the avenue, which is the nearest road;" and Deck led the way into the grove, and they soon reached the great bend of the stream where he and Fronklyn had effected their landing, and near Cuffy's ferry.
At this point Captain Woodbine took his field-glass from its case, and carefully examined the country on the other side of the river. Deck had no idea what he was looking for, and he said nothing. As he had come with the Riverlawns, it was evident that he had a mission to carry out; but so far he had kept his own counsel. Possibly he did not yet know what he should do. The Confederate army, or the greater portion of it, had effected its escape across the river in the steamer the fugitives had seen where they took the boat, and in other craft gathered there.
General Crittenden had abandoned a vast quantity of arms and munitions for which he had not sufficient transportation, and the Union army had taken possession of them in the morning. The cavalry had attempted to swim their horses over the swift-flowing river, but a great number of them had been drowned. The shore for a considerable distance below the breastworks was covered with dead horses, and with the bodies of men who had run the risk of riding their steeds through the angry stream.
"It will be impossible for the army of the enemy to remain in the fortifications they have erected at Mill Springs," said Captain Woodbine, as he closed the field-glass, and returned it to the case. "They were in a starving condition on this side of the river, and they must be worse off on the other side. We will ride up the stream, and see what there is to be seen."
The staff-officer led the way, and Deck followed him in silence. He wondered what the captain was driving at, but he asked no questions. At Cuffy's ferry the captain found the ferryman, and halted to write a note in his memorandum-book, which he tore out, and directed the negro to deliver it to the commanding officer of the squadron when the force arrived.
"It is only an order for your father to wait till we return," said the captain; and then he rode on. "Do you know your way along the river, Lieutenant?" he asked a little later.
"No, sir; Fronklyn and I came down to this bend in a boat, of which the ferryman has taken possession, as I told him to do, for he had lost his own. But you will soon come to a swollen stream that flows into the river; and you cannot get across that, for the banks are very high and steep," replied Deck.
The captain continued on his way at a slow walk, for the horses mired in the soft soil, keeping his gaze fixed on the opposite shore. At the end of half an hour they came to a little hill, at the foot of which the tributary stream discharged itself into the Cumberland. The staff-officer directed his glass to the other shore, and there was nothing to obstruct his vision.
"As I supposed," said he, turning his horse, and starting on the return to the ferry.
"It is pleasant to have your supposition confirmed," Deck ventured to remark.
"My supposition was that the Confederate army would march to the south at once, and I have seen the column moving in that direction on the road that leads to Oak Forest," said Captain Woodbine, revealing his object for the first time, though he said nothing about his purpose in marching the Riverlawns to the river.
Deck asked no questions, but when they had gone half-way to the ferry the sound of several bugles was heard ahead of them.
"Our squadron appears to have arrived," said he.
"Perhaps it has," replied the captain with a smile.
"That is an artillery call!" exclaimed the lieutenant, as he recognized the sounds; and he was not a little astonished.
"I should judge that it was," added the captain.
His companion was not communicative; and Deck said no more, for ten minutes would explain the mystery that bothered him. In less time than he thought he obtained a view of the ground near the ferry; and the first thing that confronted him was a battery of four guns. In the field were plainly to be seen two companies of cavalry, dressed in United States uniform; but they were not the Riverlawn Squadron.
"That is not our battalion, Captain Woodbine," said he, amazed at the appearance of this strange force.
"It certainly is not," answered the staff-officer.
"Two more companies of cavalry comin' down de road, Mars'r," Cuffy volunteered to inform them.
"Those must be the Riverlawns, as you call them, Lieutenant."
The two companies of cavalry near the river and the battery were taking their rations from their haversacks, and Captain Woodbine did not disturb them. By this time Major Lyon's command had halted in the road, the head of the column near Cuffy's house. A trooper, running his horse, was approaching; and Deck saw that it was his brother Artie, who rode up to the staff-officer, saluted him, and reported the arrival of the squadron by order of his father.
As soon as he had delivered his message, he grasped the hand of the lieutenant; for they had not yet come together in the hurry of the events of the afternoon. The meeting was such as two loving brothers could not help making it. Artie congratulated Deck on his escape and his present safety; for the story of his adventure with Fronklyn had been circulated through both companies, and there was no occasion for the lieutenant to repeat it.
"I say, Deck! what is going on here? What is that battery of light artillery and the two companies of cavalry doing here?" inquired Artie very earnestly.
"They seem to be taking a late dinner out of their haversacks," replied Deck, who was not a whit wiser than his brother.
"I could see that for myself," added Artie, laughing.
"That is all I know about it; and if you want to know anything more, you must ask Captain Woodbine, for I fancy he is the only person on the ground who understands the matter."
"I should as soon think of asking General Thomas, if he were here; for I suppose he knows all about it wherever he is."
"No doubt of it; and the captain is his only mouthpiece about this region. But if we wait a while I have no doubt we shall know all about the situation, though I do not expect to be supplied with a copy of the staff-officer's orders."
"Of course not."
"Orderly!" called the officer mentioned.
Artie, who answered to this designation near his father, rode up to the captain, and saluted him with even more than usual deference; for just now he seemed to be a sort of mysterious personage, in whom all power in this locality resided.
"If you have finished your interview with your brother, for I do not wish to hurry you, as we are in no special haste while the three companies are eating their dinner, you will deliver this order to Major Lyon."
"We have finished, Captain," replied Artie, surprised at the kindness of the staff-officer, who had been writing in his memorandum-book, and had torn out the leaf, which he tendered to the orderly.
Artie took the folded paper, and galloped back to the head of the Riverlawn column. Though he was a boy of eighteen, like his brother, but really only his cousin, he was not tempted to read the order he was carrying, greatly as his curiosity was stimulated; for it was a matter of honor with both of the young men to "mind their own business," and especially not to meddle with that of others; and either of them would have been a model postmaster, in whose keeping even postal-cards would have been sacred.
The three companies nearest to the river finished their dinner, and Deck looked the men over as they prepared to resume their places in the ranks. The horses had all been supplied with a feed of oats, poured upon the cleanest spots to be found on the grass, which had been somewhat kicked up by the tramp of horses. The men went to their steeds, and the lieutenant thought they were fine-looking men; and some few of them were as tall and bony as Life Knox. The members of the battery "hitched up" their animals again, and then took their seats on their horses and the gun-carriages and caissons.
Major Lyon, evidently in obedience to the order he had just received, had given his commands to the captains of the two companies, and they were marching them into the field behind the ferry-house; and in a few minutes they had formed in double ranks on the west side of the ground, north and south. Then the two other companies of cavalry formed in the same manner on the north side of the field, east and west. The battery came into line on the south side, and the whole made the three sides of the square.
The formation of the square was completed; and Deck, who had been instructed to accompany Captain Woodbine, was directed to summon the two majors in command of the squadrons into his presence. He shook hands with both of them, calling them by name. Then the order was given by the captains to present arms. The staff-officer raised his cap, and bowed.
"I will now cause my commission to be read to you," he continued, handing the document to Lieutenant Lyon, and directing him to read it, which he did in a voice loud and clear enough to be heard by all on the field.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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35
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A FIRST LIEUTENANT AT EIGHTEEN
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The reading of the commission was an unusual proceeding; but the recipient of it appeared to consider it advisable, especially as several changes in the organization were to be announced. The document was dated back over two months, and made him who had been known as Captain Woodbine on the staff a brigadier-general. A chorus of cheers resounded all along the lines as Deck finished the reading of the commission, especially from the Riverlawn Cavalry.
General Woodbine acknowledged the compliment with dignity. He explained that his commission had been in his keeping since the date appended to it; but he had preferred to retain his position on the staff of General Thomas, who had insisted that morning that he should assume the rank to which he was entitled; for the services of one so well acquainted with the country, both in Kentucky and Tennessee, were needed at this time.
He had been permitted to select the force to form his brigade, and he had chosen those that he regarded as best fitted for the duty to which he expected to be assigned. Major Lyon would retain the command of the Riverlawn Cavalry, and Major Richland that of the other squadron of Kentucky cavalry, while Captain Batterson would remain at the head of the battery on the field, attached to the brigade.
"Lieutenant Lyon, of the first company of the Riverlawn Squadron," continued the general, "is promoted from the rank of second to that of first lieutenant; and I have the pleasure of presenting to him his commission;" and he handed to him the important document.
A spontaneous volley of cheers burst from the ranks of both companies of the Riverlawns, for Deck was as popular in one company as in the other; and it was continued till the general stopped it with a wave of his hand.
"First Lieutenant Lyon is appointed to serve on the staff of the general in command," added the commander of the brigade. "Second Lieutenant Herndon is also promoted to the rank of first lieutenant, and he will come forward to receive his commission. He is also appointed to serve on my staff."
An outburst of cheers followed from the Marion Cavalry, as they had chosen to call themselves, in which both the Riverlawns and the battery joined. Lieutenant Herndon rode forward to the position of the general; and Deck observed him with the most intense interest, for he was likely to be his most intimate companion in future campaigns. He was a young man of not more than twenty-one, but he was six feet in height, well built, and quite muscular. He had a decidedly handsome face, with a very pleasant expression; and Deck was sure that he was popular with the ladies. The general presented his commission to him, which he received with a graceful bow.
"Lieutenant Lyon, let me introduce to you Lieutenant Herndon; and as you are now members of my military family, I hope you will be good friends," said General Woodbine; and the two young men grasped each other's hands, and the meeting was as cordial as it was promising for the future.
"The major, in consultation with the captains of the companies in which the vacancies occur, will fill them by appointing acting second lieutenants; and, if practicable, I will thank them to send me the names of those selected at once," continued the general, as he fell into conversation with his newly appointed staff-officers.
In less than five minutes a messenger came from each of the battalions bearing the names of the appointees; and in both cases they were the orderly sergeants of the companies.
"Eliphalet Knox is appointed acting second lieutenant of the first company of Riverlawn Cavalry, and Thomas Jefferson to the same position in the first company of Marion Cavalry; and they will be obeyed and respected as such," said the general, as he read the names from the papers.
This announcement was received with cheers, as the others had been, and the business of the occasion was finished. The parade was dismissed. The baggage-wagons, each drawn by eight mules on account of the condition of the roads and fields, an abundant supply of which had been collected on the field of battle, and taken from the breastworks at Beech Grove, were in the road.
Deck and Life were heartily congratulated by officers and soldiers; and Captain Gordon expressed his regret at the loss of such a useful lieutenant as the appointee on the staff of the general had been.
The general then gave the order for the brigade to form for a march though it was six o'clock in the afternoon; and the new aids performed their first duty as such in carrying the order to the commanders of the three bodies of troops. It was ascertained that the commission of Major Lyon antedated that of Major Richland, and the right of the column was given to the Riverlawns. Of course there was no end of conjecture as to where the brigade was to march; but the general did not whisper a word in regard to his destination to any one.
The brigade marched but about five miles, and it was after dark when it halted and went into camp. The general had been unusually taciturn on the way, and it was evident to his aids that he was troubled about something. The tents were pitched, and the horses picketed. In his marquee the commander of the expedition placed his maps on the table, and began to study them with an intensity which prevented the other members of his family from saying anything, even between themselves, though he had required them to remain near him.
"Neither of you officers, I believe, has ever been on staff-duty," said he, suddenly whirling about on his stool, and facing them.
Neither of them had ever served except as the officer of a platoon.
"Then you must learn in the beginning that absolute secrecy is required in my family, in regard to all orders and military movements," added the general.
"I have already learned that lesson," replied Deck.
"I have learned it now; and my lips will hereafter be like the shell of an oyster," added Lieutenant Herndon, who was such a pleasant fellow that he had already excited the admiration of his associate on the staff.
"I am exceedingly anxious to learn upon what point the enemy on the other side of the river are moving," continued General Woodbine, speaking in a very low tone so that the sentinel outside the tent could not hear him. "I satisfied myself this morning that they are moving to the southward; but they would be obliged to follow the road to Oak Forest if Crittenden intended to recross the Cumberland, and make a raid into Kentucky to obtain supplies; therefore I am entirely in the dark."
"I should say that it would not be a difficult matter to obtain the information you need, General," suggested Deck.
"How?" demanded the commander, fixing an earnest gaze upon the face of the lieutenant.
"The Confederate army is so crippled for the want of horses and mules that it can move only at a snail's pace," answered Deck. "A company could be sent over"-- "Quite impossible!" exclaimed the general. "We have no boats, though they might be obtained farther down the stream."
"A couple of scouts, then," added the lieutenant.
"Whom could I send on such an errand?" asked the commander with a smile.
"Me for one; and I should be willing to go alone if I knew the country," replied Deck very promptly. "My horse Ceph would take me over the river."
"Have you forgotten the dead horses that strewed the shores of the stream, and the four men who were drowned in trying to cross in a boat?"
"Those men were no boatmen, and I have had some experience in that line. I am willing to take my chances of getting over, sir."
The subject was discussed for a full hour longer, and Deck carried his point; but he concluded that he was unwilling to risk the loss of Ceph, and would go over in Cuffy's boat, and find a horse on the other side. It was decided that he must have some one with him who was acquainted with the region they were to visit, even to a considerable distance into the State of Tennessee. Life Knox was sent for; and he informed the general that he had travelled all over the country mentioned several times when he was buying horses for a trader, though it was many years before. He was willing to go anywhere and do anything with Deck.
"I suppose you know very well, both of you, that if you were caught, and your mission understood, you would be hung or shot without benefit of clergy," said General Woodbine impressively.
"We shall come back, and with the information you want, in forty-eight hours," replied Deck confidently.
"Do you intend to go over in the full uniform of a staff-officer?" inquired the general.
"I think not, sir. If you will leave the matter to Life and me, we will manage all the details."
"Very well; you will perhaps find my command at Burkesville when you return," added the general, rising from his seat at the table; and taking the hands of the scouts, he wished them a safe return, and they left the tent.
They walked back to the shanty of Cuffy, and found him seated in his kitchen. Not a word was said to Major Lyon about the enterprise of his son; and Deck could not bid good-by to his father, his brother, or to the many friends he had in the squadron. Both of them were in uniform, and they had no difficulty in passing the guards.
Cuffy was not only a ferryman, but a river-driver. He made a business of picking up whatever floated down the stream, not excepting the dead bodies of men and horses, the former for their clothing and whatever their pockets contained, and the latter for the saddles and bridles on them. He buried the bodies of the men in a pit he had made for the purpose, drying and storing in his house portions of their clothing.
It required a good deal of talking and a handsome reward to induce the ferryman to exhibit his stock of clothing; but from it the scouts took what they needed; and were soon clothed in rusty and damaged Confederate uniforms of privates. They bargained for the use for two days of Cuffy's boat, and embarked about midnight on their mission. The Cumberland was still in a turbulent condition; but Deck had seen enough of the stream to enable him to avoid the dangerous places. At the point where Deck and Fronklyn had landed, they had a hard battle with the raging current; but the skill of the lieutenant and the strength of Life carried them safely through the peril.
At daylight in the morning, they discovered a creek flowing into the river from the south side. They pulled up this stream five or six miles till the shallow water interrupted their further progress. They concealed the boat very carefully, and then proceeded on foot up the stream till they came to a house, more elaborate than most of the dwellings in this region. They found a negro cutting up wood near the house. He told them that it was the home of Colonel Bickford, who had been very badly wounded in the battle on the other side of the river, and had reached his residence the night before.
"We want some breakfast," said Deck.
"Can't hab it, Mars'r. Missus won't feed no more runaway sodjers," replied the servant.
"Perhaps she will," added Life, as he led the way to the house, and entered the kitchen without an invitation.
He could see in the next room that a table was set, and the cook was putting the food on the table. Without asking any questions, Life entered the room, and seated himself at the table. The cook protested, and then screamed with all her might, which brought the lady of the house to the apartment. Another black woman went to the door, and called to the man they had seen at the woodpile.
"I am sorry to trouble you, madam," said Deck, as politely as the landlord of a summer hotel. "We have been travelling all night, and we are very hungry."
"I can't help that; I won't feed any more runaways. Leave the house this minute, or I will call my servants to eject you!" stormed the lady.
"Call 'em, marm," replied Life, taking one of the pair of revolvers he carried from his pocket, and placing it at the side of his plate, Deck following his example.
[Illustration: "THE UNWELCOME VISITORS POINTED THEIR WEAPONS." _Page 461. _] The lady deemed it prudent to retire; but four stout negroes appeared at the door. The unwelcome visitors pointed their weapons at them, and they fled at the sight of them. The two black women became very tractable, and the wanderers ate their fill of ham and eggs, supplemented with waffles. Deck left his thanks and two dollars for the lady of the house, and they retired. They went to the stable next, where they found four horses. They took from the harness-room a couple of plain saddles and bridles, with which they prepared the two best horses for their own use. Mounting them, they hastened up the road on the bank of the creek.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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36
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SCOUTING IN THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY
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Colonel Bickford was evidently a gentleman of taste, for he had selected a beautiful locality for his residence; but the scouts had not yet learned whether he was a Unionist or a Confederate. They were still in Kentucky, though not more than ten miles from the Tennessee line. When they had ridden a couple of miles, they met half a dozen negroes, with fishing-rods on their shoulders.
"Going a-fishing?" asked Deck, as he reined in his steed.
"Yes, sar. De sodjers done took all de meat in de country, and all de corn. Niggers can't git not'in t'eat 'cept out ob de creeks," replied the foremost of the party, who was a light mulatto.
"Who lives in the house a mile or two down the stream?" continued Deck.
"Cun'l Bickford."
"Oh, yes; he is a Union man," added Deck.
"No, sar!" exclaimed the mulatto vigorously. "Cun'l ob a Tennessee regiment. Whar you git his coach hosses?"
"I'll tell you about that next summer; but we only borrowed them for a couple of days. He is badly wounded I heard."
"Yes, sar; fotched home on a stretcher from Monticello, whar he com'd wid de army."
"Why didn't he come down to Newberry along with the army?" asked Life, who knew precisely where he was when Monticello was mentioned.
"De army don't come dis way, dey foller de road by de Souf Forks."
"Where do they go then?"
"Dunno, Mars'r; dey don't tell whar de go," replied the mulatto, shaking his head.
This man seemed to be intelligent, and know more about the region than most of the negroes. Deck bade them good-by, and resumed his march.
"I dunno's we need go any furder," said Life, after they had gone a few rods.
"I hope we shall be able to obtain more reliable information than from the reports of these darkeys," replied Deck, who was in favor of doing the work thoroughly.
"Jest as you say, Lieutenant; but if they had come down this way we'd 'a' seen some stragglers," answered the Kentuckian. "I reckon I know just whar they are gwine, 'cause I've been over the road myself. They'll foller the South Fork, and strike Jamestown, Fentress County, and from there make for Gainsborough, where they can git steamboats to tote them to Nashville."
"There is a village ahead," said Deck.
"That is Newberry" (as it was then called).
They went into the place, and found a grocery store and post-office. They halted near it, and spent some time in a consultation. At Jamestown they could determine with certainty where the army was going. It was a little over twenty miles, while the road the army had taken was quite thirty, though the roads were better by the latter route. Deck promptly decided to proceed to Jamestown. They deemed it advisable to avoid the towns, especially Albany, the capital of the county; and it seemed to be necessary to provide themselves with a quantity of food, for they might not be able to procure a dinner or a supper as readily as they had a breakfast.
They dismounted, and entered the store. They found the postmaster half asleep behind his counter; and when Deck inquired if he had anything to eat, he replied in a very sulky manner that he had nothing. He had been robbed of about everything he had that was eatable by runaway soldiers like themselves, who had deserted from the army.
"Haven't you got anything?" persisted Deck.
"Not a thing; a dozen of you runaways came here last night, and took everything I had, and never paid me a cent for what they carried off, and threatened to shoot me if I made a row about it. I can't afford to keep store for sech fellers," protested the man, with intense disgust.
"But I have a little money, and I am willing to pay for whatever we obtain," added the lieutenant.
The storekeeper raised his head sharply, and appeared to be wide awake at these words.
"Don't you think you could raise something for us?" asked Deck.
"Provisions is mighty skeece down here, for the army has picked up everything they could find; and we are as poor as starved turkeys."
"Well, if you hain't got nothin', of course we can't git nothin'," added Life.
"If you're gwine to pay for what you have, I might raise somethin' for you," said the storekeeper. "I bought two mighty handsome chickens yesterday, and had to give a dollar apiece for 'em. My wife roasted 'em last night, and hid 'em away for our own use. If you don't mind payin' two dollars apiece for 'em, you shall have 'em."
"All right; bring them along," answered Deck.
The man left the store, and was absent about ten minutes, when he returned with the chickens. They were quite large, and were a toothsome morsel for hungry men. Deck then called for a dollar's worth of crackers, which the storekeeper had to bring from their hiding-place outside the building. General Woodbine had provided him with five gold half-eagles, which the lieutenant had concealed in as many different places about his own and Life's person, and a few dollars' worth of silver.
Deck paid in gold for the provisions. The postmaster, who looked like a happy man since he saw the precious coin, wrapped the chickens in papers, putting a little package of salt with each; and the wanderers stuffed them into their capacious pockets, finding also space enough for the crackers.
"We are all right now," said Deck, as they left the shop, and hastened to the tree where they had left their horses.
"We sha'n't starve, nohow," replied Life.
When they came in sight of the horses, they discovered with surprise and chagrin four men, evidently deserters from the Confederate army, two of whom were untying the bridles of the animals. One of them had succeeded in doing so, and was about to mount the steed.
"What are you about thar?" demanded Life, as he stalked towards the man who had a foot in the stirrup.
The deserter stopped for an instant, and then leaped on the horse.
"I reckon we need those hosses more'n you uns do," replied the fellow coolly and impudently.
"I reckon you won't have 'em," replied Life. Reaching up his long right arm, and grasping the man by the throat, he dragged him from the animal in the twinkling of an eye, pitching him on the ground as though he had been a piece of carrion; and he lay there looking at the stalwart form of the Kentuckian, not much inclined to close with him.
The sergeant held the horse recaptured, which he had ridden so far, and Deck advanced upon the other. But the other two went to his aid, and planted themselves between Deck and his steed. They did not appear to be armed, having doubtless thrown away their heavy flint-lock muskets, though they might have pistols in their pockets.
"I reckon you uns can't have these hosses," said one of the men in front of the other two.
"I reckon we can and will," replied Deck, drawing one of his revolvers from his pocket. "Out of the way!"
The fellow in front made a spring at the lieutenant with the evident intention of wresting the revolver from him; but Deck was too quick for him, and fired. He dropped his right hand, and covered his shoulder with the left.
"Leave that horse!" shouted Deck, aiming at the man who was at work on the bridle.
At this moment Life, who had mounted his horse, rode to his side. The one who had stood near the wounded man was feeling in his pockets, when the tall Kentuckian rode upon him, and seizing him by the collar lifted him clear of the ground, and flung him nearly a rod from him. He struck heavily against a log, and did not move again. Life then rode up to the man at the other horse, and would have served him in the same way if he had not run away into the woods. Deck unhitched the horse, mounted him, and both of them rode off at a gallop.
"We shall be likely to meet more of them carrion," said Life; "for the woods and the roads are full of 'em."
"It is best to avoid them if we can," suggested Deck.
"I reckon we kin; for we're gwine to strike across the country," replied the sergeant, now an acting second lieutenant, as he took from his pocket a small compass, which had served him in the wilds of the far West.
A little farther along, Life turned into a cart-path in the woods, and then halted. Poising the compass, he watched the needle for some time.
"This path is just what we want; for it runs to the south. I went through here somewhere with four horses, and a nigger for a guide, years ago on my way to Nashville. It ain't more'n five miles to Elliott Roads, and then a little more'n twenty to Jamestown. I cal'late we'll git thar to-night."
In about an hour they came to the end of the cart-path. Life used his compass again; and they continued, aided by the position of the sun, till they came to another path, leading to the south. The Kentuckian said they saved about ten miles by taking this cross-cut; and they soon reached the main road. Avoiding the two villages of Elliott's Roads and Pall Mall, as they were called then but not now, by going around them, they returned to the main road again.
It was a hilly region; for the Cumberland Mountains were not more than ten miles from them, covered with forests, and hardly cultivated at all. In a lonely place they turned into the woods to feed the horses. Behind his saddle, Deck had a grain-bag containing half a bushel of oats in each end, provided by the forethought of the Kentuckian at the stable of Colonel Bickford. A liberal feed was emptied on the ground in a clean place, which the horses greedily devoured.
The riders produced the chickens; and one of them soon disappeared with a corresponding quantity of the crackers. A mountain brook rippled near them, and the thirst of both men and horses was slaked in its clear waters. Perhaps each of the scouts had slept an hour in the boat by turns, and they put in another hour at this halt, as much for the benefit of the horses as for that of the men. Refreshed and invigorated by the food and the sleep, they renewed the march. About three miles farther on, as they were descending a hill, they were not a little astonished to see half a dozen men stretch themselves suddenly across the narrow road, blocking their passage.
Like the others they had encountered at Newberry, they were plainly deserters; and two of them had muskets which they pointed at the scouts. Three to one was a large odds. Even Life believed it was more prudent to run than to fight; and wheeling his horse, he bade Deck follow him. The forest was open enough to permit the passage of horses, and a couple of rods back the leader turned into the woods. Deck followed him closely; and they made a sweep around, and then struck out for the road again. But they were checkmated by the deserters, who ran down the highway to intercept them. They formed across the road again, the two armed ones taking aim at them.
The ruffians had got in ahead of them, and again the two muskets stared at them. Both of them drew their revolvers, for they had no idea of being stopped in the execution of their mission.
"Hallo, you uns!" shouted one of the men. "We don't want to hurt you; but we want them hosses, and we must have 'em."
"You can't have 'em!" shouted Life.
"And if you've got any grub we want that!" called another of the ruffians.
"Out of the way!" yelled Life, as he spurred on his horse.
As they started, the armed men fired. Neither of the scouts fell from his horse; but Deck clapped his right hand upon his left arm close to his shoulder. He did not keep it there for more than a moment, but grasped his revolver. The two horsemen rode down the ruffians, firing their weapons with great rapidity. Two of the assailants had fallen in the road, and two more had been hit. The scouts drew their second pistols, and continued to fire. A third fell, and then the others ran into the woods, hiding themselves behind the trees.
The result was decisive enough to satisfy the riders, and they went off at a lively gallop. The work of that day was done; and though they saw other skulkers, they were not again attacked. At five o'clock in the afternoon they reached the vicinity of Jamestown, the capital of Fentress County. They could not help learning, both from sights and sounds, that there was great excitement in the village. A convenient and partially wooded hill lay on their right, which they decided to ascend.
This elevation commanded a complete view of the village and its surroundings; and they witnessed the approach of General Crittenden's army. It did not halt, but proceeded to a more convenient camping-ground. It moved out of the place by the Livingston Road; and this settled the question in the mind of Lieutenant Knox, and they had accomplished their mission.
"We have nothin' to do now but to git back to the brigade," said Life.
"Shall we start back to-night?" asked Deck wearily.
"Does your wound pain you, my boy?" asked the Kentuckian tenderly.
"Not much; but I am willing to admit that I am very tired," answered Deck.
"This is not a good place to stop over night," added Life.
"I could ride all night if it were necessary."
"No; but we will halt somewhere near where we did for dinner to-day."
Life led the way down the hill to the road. Everybody in the village had gone to see the army; but they met a negro half a mile from the place, and the Kentuckian questioned him. He confirmed the conclusion at which they had arrived; and they rode on till they came after dark to the spot where they had halted at dinner-time.
Life had dressed the wound of his companion, which was a slight affair. Deck had brought with him the bandages and salve his mother had given him, and the injury was doing very well. The horses were watered and fed, and half of the remaining chicken was consumed by the riders. The scouts stretched themselves on the ground, where they slept the sleep of the just for five hours.
At one o'clock the horses were saddled, and the march was resumed. In the forenoon of the next day they reached Newberry by the route they had taken the day before. They had eaten the last of the chickens and crackers, and they stopped at the post-office to obtain more. The storekeeper had procured and cooked two more, which he was glad to sell at the same price, with an abundant supply of crackers. He added another half-eagle to his funds, and became very friendly to them. But he asked no troublesome questions, not even to what Confederate regiment they belonged. He wished them a safe and pleasant journey, and they proceeded on their way.
Their boat was not where they left it; and they rode along the creek till they discovered it in the middle of the stream, occupied by two negroes, who were fishing. Life ordered them to bring it to the shore, to which the fishermen objected, for they were having remarkably good luck. But when the Kentuckian pointed his revolver at the speaker, they pulled to the shore at once. Deck noticed that they handled the oars very well; and he offered them five dollars if they would row the boat to Cuffy's ferry. They turned loose their horses, and they made their way back to their own stable.
The offer was a godsend to the negroes, and they promptly accepted it. Without their services the scouts would have been in a bad situation, for Deck's wounded arm rendered him unfit to row against the current of the great river. He had learned the dangerous places, and under his direction the ferry was reached in safety.
"Whar you done been to, Mars'rs?" asked Cuffy as they landed.
"We ask questions, but don't answer them," replied Deck. "Bring out our uniforms, and have two horses ready for us."
The scouts, after they had washed themselves, put on their uniforms, and again they looked like Union officers. Cuffy set the two negroes over the river; and with two dollars and a half in the pockets of each, they were satisfied with their day's work. The brigade with the light battery attached had marched, and were doubtless in Burkesville at the time the scouts arrived at the ferry. Deck and Life, one or both of them, had slept most of the way during the long and hard pull up the river, and they were in tolerable good condition when they landed.
Cuffy had the four horses left at the ferry by the deserters who had been drowned, and the two officers took the two best ones. It was all of forty miles by the roads to Burkesville, where the general said he might be on their return. After the best supper the ferryman could provide for them, they started on their journey, following the river.
On their arrival, about midnight, at Creelsboro', they were agreeably surprised to find the brigade there. The general had given them the countersign, and the lieutenants were promptly recognized by the sentinels. They were conducted to the tent of General Woodbine, who was called by his servant.
"I am very glad to see you, Lieutenant Lyon; and you also," said the commander, as he took them both by the hand. "I did not expect to see you before to-morrow. Have you obtained the information I need?"
"We have, General," replied Deck. "We saw the Confederate army on the march through Jamestown, and on the way to Livingston, which makes it certain that General Crittenden is going to Gainsboro'."
"Where he can obtain steamboats to convey his army to Nashville," supplemented the general. "I am satisfied now. I feared that Crittenden might march from Monticello, when I saw him headed in that direction from Oak Forest, by the way of Seventy-Six to the river, and then cross to Burkesville, and pick up the supplies of which he is in such great need. I must await further orders here. I have no doubt you are very tired, and one of the sentinels will conduct you to your tents."
"I think Lieutenant Lyon had better see Dr. Farnwright before he goes to sleep," said Life.
"Is he wounded?" asked the general, with interest and anxiety.
"Only slightly. We had a skrimmage with half a dozen deserters from the enemy, and licked 'em handsome," added Life.
The officers were shown to their tents, and the surgeon sent for. The wound was carefully dressed, and the doctor said it would be well in three days. He slept soundly after the long and hard journey; and the surgeon had ordered him to remain in his tent if the brigade did not march in the morning, which it did not. The first persons to call upon him were his father and his brother.
"Where have you been, Dexter?" asked Major Lyon, after his wound had been considered. "I did not know you had been absent till this morning, though I missed Lieutenant Knox when I saw Sergeant Fronklyn at the head of his platoon."
"Life and I have been away on secret service; and for further particulars you must apply to General Woodbine," replied Deck with a meaning smile.
"I shall not apply to the general," added the major. "I am glad your wound is no worse; and I hope your new duties on the staff will be agreeable to you."
"I know they will, especially if I get my share of the fighting," answered Deck.
But the story of this campaign of the Riverlawn Cavalry, ending with the decisive battle of Mill Springs, is completed. Deck Lyon has won and obtained his promotion, and has entered upon a new sphere of duty, in which his bravery, skill, and enterprise enabled him to distinguish himself.
Before noon a messenger, escorted by a squad of cavalrymen, arrived at the camp with sealed orders for General Woodbine, and bearing a large bag of letters for the officers and soldiers. There were several for Major Lyon and for his two sons. They were from home; and everything at Riverlawn was quiet and prosperous, with no evidences of war near the family.
Levi Bedford kept a watch every night at the fort named after him, and the fifty-one negroes were as tractable as usual. A number of them had been drilled for service in case of need, but fortunately there had been no occasion for their services. Through his sister Dorcas, Kate Belthorpe sent her regards to Deck, and he had something to think of as he sat in his tent.
Among the major's letters was one which had been forwarded from his brother Titus, then in a prison-camp in the North. He had written before, and the major had replied to his letter. Titus had been informed that his two sons had enlisted in the Riverlawn squadron, and were good soldiers. Titus had no whiskey ration, or the means of obtaining liquor. It was plain from his letter that he was forced to be a sober man; and his sentiments were much more reasonable than they had ever been before. The major wrote to him again, informing him that his son Orly had been killed in action while bravely doing his duty as a soldier.
General Woodbine had his orders; and the information obtained by the scouts showed that he had no mission on this part of the frontier of Tennessee, and he must wait for further instructions. He sent a full account of the situation in this portion of Kentucky, in which there was no Confederate force of any magnitude,--none except guerillas and home banditti. But orders soon came, and the cavalry brigade and light battery were moved to the westward.
Those who are disposed to follow Deck Lyon in his further military career through marches, battles, and adventures, will find it set forth in the succeeding volume of this series, taking its title from the official position of the hero, "ON THE STAFF," though he is now a first lieutenant at eighteen.
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{
"id": "24866"
}
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1
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IN A FOG.
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"Ugh! what a night! And I used to grumble about Hogley Marsh! Why, it's like living in a drain!"
Ramillies Street, W.C., was certainly not attractive at twelve o'clock on that December night, for it had been snowing in the early part of the evening; that snow was suffering from a fall of blacks: and as evil communications corrupt good manners, the evil communication of the London soot was corrupting the good manners of the heavenly snow, which had become smirched by the town's embrace, and was sorrowfully weeping itself away in tears beneath a sky-- No, there was not any sky. For four days there had not been a breath of air to dissipate the heavy mist, and into this mist the smoke of a million chimneys had rolled, mingled, and settled down in the streets in one horrible yellowish-black mirk.
There were gas lamps in Ramillies Street--here and there distinguishing themselves by a faint glow overhead; but John Whyley, policeman on the beat, was hardly aware of their existence till he laid his hand upon each post.
"Now, only that Burglar Bill and Company aren't such fools as to come out on such a night as this, here's their chance. Why, they might burgle every house on one side of the street while the whole division was on the other. Blest if I know hardly where I am!"
J.W. stopped and listened, but it seemed as if utter silence as well as utter darkness had descended upon the great city. But few people were about, and where a vehicle passed along a neighbouring street the patter of hoofs and roll of wheels was hushed by the thick snow.
"It is a puzzler," muttered the man. "Blind man's buff's nothing to it, and no pretty gals to catch. Now, whereabouts am I? I should say I'm just close to the corner by the square, and--well, now, look at that!"
He uttered a low chuckle, and stared up from the curbstone at a dull, red glare that seemed like the eye of some fierce monster swimming in the sea of fog, and watching the man upon his beat.
"And if I didn't think I was t'other side of the street! Ah, how you do 'member me of old times," he continued, apostrophising the red glare; "seems like being back at Hogley, and looking off the station platform to see if you was burning all right after I'd been and lit you up. Red signals for trains--red signals for them as wants help," he muttered as, with his hands within his belt, he stepped slowly up under an arch of iron scroll-work rusting away, a piece of well-forged ornamentation, which had once borne an oil lamp, and at whose sides were iron extinguishers, into which, in the bygone days when Ramillies was a fashionable street, footmen had thrust their smoking links. But fashion had gone afar, and Ichabod was written metaphorically upon the door of that old Queen Anne house, while really there was a tarnished brass plate bearing the inscription "Dr Chartley," with blistered panels above and below. Arched over the doorstep was an architect's idea of a gigantic shell, supported by two stout boys, whom a lively imagination might have thought to be suffering from the doctor's prescriptions, as they glared wildly at the red bull's-eye in the centre of the fanlight above the door.
"Nothing like a red signal to show you where you are," said John Whyley, stepping slowly back on to the pavement, to the very edge of the curbstone, and then keeping to it as his guide for a few yards, till he had passed a second door, also displaying the red light, and beneath it, in letters nearly rubbed away, though certainly not from cleaning, the word "Surgery."
"That's where that young nipper of a buttons lives, him as took a sight at me when I ketched him standing on his head a-top of the dustbin down the area. Hullo!"
John Whyley stood perfectly still and invisible in the fog, as the surgery door was opened; there was a low scuffling noise, and a hurried whispering.
"Get your arm well under him. Hold hard? Shut the door. Mind he don't slip down. It's dark as pitch. Now then, come on."
At that moment a bright light shone upon the scene in front of Dr Chartley's surgery door, for John Whyley gave a turn to the top of the bull's-eye lantern looped on to his belt, and threw up the figures of three men, two of whom were supporting on either side another, whose head hung forward and sidewise, whose legs were bent, and his body in a limp, helpless state, which called forth all the strength of the others to keep him from subsiding in a heap upon the snow. He seemed to be young, heavily bearded, and, as far as his costume could be seen in the yellow glare, he wore high boots and a pea-jacket; while his companions, one of whom was a keen-faced man, with clean-shaved face and a dark moustache, the other rather French-looking from his shortly cropped beard, wore ulsters and close travelling-caps.
As the light flashed upon the group, one of the men drew his breath sharply between his teeth, and for a space no one stirred.
"Acciden', gentlemen?" said John Whyley, giving a sniff as if he smelt a warm sixpence, but it was only caused by the soot-charged fog.
The constable's speech seemed to break the spell, and one of the men spoke out thickly: "Axe'den', constable? Yes, it's all right. Hold him up, Smith. Wants to lie down, constable. Thinks snow is clean sheets."
"Oh, that's it, is it, sir?" said John Whyley, examining each face in turn a little suspiciously. "Thought as it was a patient--" "Yes," said the man with the moustache, speaking in a high-pitched voice, "doctor keeps some good stuff. Not all physic, policeman. Here, hold up." This last to the man he was supporting, and upon whose head he now placed a soft felt hat, which he had held in his hand.
"Gent seems rather on, sir," said John Whyley, going up more closely.
"Ah!" said the first speaker, "you smelt his breath." " 'Nough to knock you down, sir," said the constable. "He'll want to come and see the doctor again to-morrow morning."
There was a very strong odour of spirits, and in the gloom it did not occur to the constable that the two men who seemed most intoxicated were very bright-eyed, and yet ghastly pale. He merely drew back for the group to pass.
"Got to take him far, sir?"
"Far? No, constable. Let him lie down and go to sleep. Dishgusting thing man can't come to see friend without getting drunk. Look at me-- and Shmith."
"Yes, sir; you're all right enough," said the constable. "Shall I lend you a hand?"
"No," said the man with the moustache, "we're all right; get us a cab."
"Where, sir?" said the constable, with a grin; "don't believe such a thing's to be got, sir, a night like this. All gone home."
At that moment from out of the fog there was a sudden jolt and the whish of a whip.
"Hullo?" shouted the policeman.
"Hullo!" came back in a husky voice, as if spoken through layers of flannel, "what street's this?"
"Ramillies. Here's a fare."
There was a muttering, then a bump, jolt, and jangle of a cab heard, and a huge figure slowly seemed to loom up out of the fog in a spectral way, leading a gigantic horse, beyond which was something dark.
"What's the row?" said the husky voice.
"These gents want a cab."
"Oh, but I can't drive nowheres to-night. I drove right into one pub, and then nearly down two areas. Where do you want to go."
"John's Hotel, Surrey Street, old man. Look sharp. Five bob."
"Five what, sir? Why, I wouldn't stir a step under ten. I'm just going to get my old horse into the first mews, shove on his nosebag and then get inside and go to sleep. I can't drive. I shall have to lead him."
"Give him ten," said the man with the sharp voice.
"All right. Here, hold up, old man," said the other. "Look sharp! See never I come out with him again."
"Yes, don't make a noise, or you'll bring out the doctor," said the other man, and the policeman went to the cab door.
The cab evidently objected to the fare, for the door stuck, and only yielded at last with a rattle, and so suddenly that John Whyley nearly went on his back. But he recovered himself, and held his light so that the utterly helpless man, who seemed as if composed of jelly, was pulled by one of his companions, thrust by the other, into the cab, and forced up on the back seat. "There y'are, const'ble," said the man with the thick voice, "there's something to get glass; but don't take too much-- like that chap--my deares' frien', it's s'prising ain't it? Tell cabman John's Hotel."
"All right, sir, he knows. Go ahead, cabby."
He took a few slow steps towards where the cabman stood by the horse's head.
"Think they're all right?" said the cabman, in a husky whisper.
"Give me half-a-crown," said John Whyley.
"Did they? Wish I'd stood out for a sovereign."
As he spoke he started his horse slowly, and the cab went by the constable, whose lamp showed the interior very indistinctly, the cab window being drawn up, and then the sight and sound of the vehicle died out in the fog, and all was once more still.
"Ill wind as blows no one any good!" said the constable, slowly continuing his beat. "Rather have my half-crown than their sick headaches in the morning. Rather rum that no one came out with all that talking."
John Whyley hummed a tune and tried two or three front-doors and area gates, and then he took off his helmet and scratched his head as if puzzled.
"Now, have I done right?" he said suddenly. "Seemed to be square. Smelt of drink horrid. Other two 'peared to be on all but once or twice. I say! Was it acting?"
He gave his helmet a sharp blow with his doubled fist, stuck it on tightly, and took a few quick steps in the direction in which the cab had moved off.
"Tchah!" he ejaculated, stopping short; "that's the worst o' my trade; makes a man suspicious of everything and everybody. Why, I nearly accused the missus of picking my pockets of that sixpence I forgot I spent with a mate. It's all right. They were as tight as tight. Ugh! What a night."
John Whyley's beat took him in another direction, but something--a feeling of dissatisfaction with his late act, or the suspicion engendered by his calling made him turn back and go slowly to the doctor's door.
All was perfectly still; the red lamp burned over the principal door, while over the surgery door the three last letters were more indistinct than ever, and "Surg" somehow looked like a portion of "Resurgam" on a memorial stone.
John Whyley went close up to the latter door, and listened. All was still.
He hesitated a few moments, and then tapped and listened again, when there seemed to be a slight rustling sound within, but he could not be sure.
Turning on his light, there, beside him, was a bell-pull with the hole half-filled with snow.
"Shall I?" he said, hesitating. "People don't like being called up for a cock-and-bull story, and what have I got to say? These gents came away tight."
He paused and removed his helmet for another refreshing scratch.
"Was it acting? I've heerd a chap on the stage drawl just like that one with the thick voice. Now, stop a moment. Let's argufy. Couldn't be burglary. Yes, it could--body burglary!"
John Whyley grew excited as a strange train of thought ran through his head in connection with what he had heard tell about surgeons and their investigations, and purchases delivered in the dead of night.
"I don't care," he said; "wrong or right, I wish I hadn't let that cab go, and I'll get to the bottom of it before I've done."
It might have been connected with visions of another possible half-crown, or it might have been in an honest desire to do his duty as a guardian of the public safety. At any rate, John Whyley gave a vigorous tug at Dr Chartley's night-bell and waited.
"No answer; that's a suspicious fact," he said to himself; and he rang again, listened, waited, and rang again.
Hardly had the wire ceased to grate, when a curious whispering voice, close to his ear, said "What is it?" so strangely that John, who had only been a year in London, bounded back into the snow, and half drew his truncheon.
"What is it? Who's there?" came then.
"What a fool I am! Speaking trumpet!" muttered the man, and directing his light toward the doorpost he saw a raised patch of snow, which upon being removed displayed a hole.
To this, full of confidence now, John Whyley applied his lips.
"Police!" he said. "Anything wrong?" There was a pause, and then the same strange voice came again.
"Wait. I'll come down."
Waiting was cold work, and John Whyley took at trot up, and was returning when he saw a dim light shine through the long glazed slits at the sides of the principal door, and directly after he heard a click a if a candlestick were set down on a marble slab, and one of the narrow windows showed a human shape in a misty way.
The bull's-eye was turned on, and, after the momentary glimpse of a face, the rattling of a chain was heard and the front-door was opened a few inches to reveal a pale, haggard, but very handsome face, with large lustrous eyes, which looked dilated and strange.
"I did not understand you, policeman. Is anything the matter?"
"Well, Miss, that's for you to say;" and he related what he had seen.
"It is very strange. My father's door is locked, and there is no light."
"Yes, Miss--one over the door."
"Yes, but that only shines into the surgery. My brother has not come back."
"But the doctor had company, Miss: that gentleman who had taken too much."
"Oh, no; impossible."
"Then I _have_ been done!" cried the man, striking his left hand a blow with his fist, as if to clinch the thought which had been troubling him.
"I don't understand you."
"Well, Miss, I'm afraid there's something wrong. But the doctor?"
"He is not in his room."
"But how about the speaking trumpet?"
"I heard the night-bell. He is not in his chamber, and the passage door is locked. Perhaps--" a few moments' pause; then in a firm decided tone, "Yes, you had better come in."
The door was closed, so that the chain could be unfastened; and as the door was being reopened, John Whyley pulled himself together, and cleared his throat.
"Don't be alarmed, Miss," he said, as he stood in the large blank hall, and rubbed his shoes upon a very old mat. "I don't like scaring you but its better to make sure than to let anything go wrong. That's partly, you see, Miss, what we're for."
"Yes, yes, but come at once to the surgery."
"One minute, Miss," said the constable, examining carefully the handsome frightened face, and noting that its owner was tall, graceful, rather dark, and about three or four and twenty, while though her hair was in disorder as if from lying down, the lady was fully dressed.
"What do you want?" she said, with the wild look in her eyes intensifying.
"To do everything in order, Miss. First, who lives here?"
"My father, Dr Chartley."
"Who else on the premises?"
"The servant-girl. Our boy. My brother, a medical student, lives here, but he has not yet returned. He is at a friend's house--a little party."
"And you've had a party here, Miss?"
"Oh, no; we never have company."
"That'll do, Miss. Now for the surgery. One moment: your name, please?"
"Richmond Chartley."
"That'll do. Rum name," he muttered; and following the lady, who led the way with a chamber candlestick in past the open door of a gloomy-looking dining-room, constable John Whyley found himself at the end of a passage to the left, in front of a half-glass door, whose panes were covered on the other side by a thick dark blind.
"My father's surgery," said the lady in answer to an inquiring look.
The constable nodded, and tried the door twice before kneeling down and holding his light to the key hole.
"Key in," he said gruffly, "locked inside. Who's likely to be here?"
"My father. He always sits in the consulting-room beyond at night-- studying."
Another short nod, and the constable rapped loudly. No response.
He rapped again, with the same result. Then he drew a long breath, and the man showed that he possessed feeling as well as decision.
"I don't want to alarm you, Miss, but I ought to force open this door."
"But you do alarm me, man. Yes, you are right. No! let me come."
She rapped smartly on the door.
"Father! Father! Are you here?"
Still no reply; and she drew back, looking wildly in the constable's eyes, while her hands seemed as if drawn together to clasp each other and cheek the nervous trembling and be of mutual support.
"Yes," she said, "force it open. Stop! break one of the panes."
The constable leaned his shoulder against the pane nearest the lock, and there was a sharp crackling noise, the splintered glass being caught by the blind inside; but as the man thrust his hand through the great hole he had made, to draw the blind on one side, a fragment or two fell, making a musical tinkling.
The man's next act was to take his lantern from his belt, and pass it through, directing the light in all directions, as he peered through the glass above, and then he withdrew the light with a low "Ha!"
"What can you see?"
"Hold hard, please, Miss, and keep back. This isn't ladies' work. I want some help here."
"Then something has happened?"
"Well, Miss, seeing what I did see to-night, it may be nothing worse than a drop too much, but it looks ugly."
"Who is it? My father?"
"Can't say, Miss. Elderly gent with bald head."
"Oh, what you say is possible! Quick! burst open the door!"
The constable placed his shoulder to the door, but drew back with an angry gesture.
"Of course!" he muttered, and thrusting his arm through, he reached the lock, turned the key, and the door swung open with a dismal creak.
"Now, Miss, I'll see first, and come back and tell you."
"Man! do you think I am a child?" was the sharp reply; and rushing by him, the speaker passed into the room, and went down upon her knees directly beside a figure in a shabby old dressing-gown, lying face downward on the floor.
"Is he--" "Quick! turn on that gas."
The constable took a step to obey, and kicked against something which rattled as it flew forward, and struck the wainscot board, while the next moment a dim, blue spark of light in a ground-glass burst into a flame, and lit up a dingy-looking, old-fashioned surgery just as the kneeling girl uttered a piteous cry.
"That's enough," muttered the constable, stooping and picking up the object he had kicked against--a short whalebone-handled life-preserver, and slipping it into his pocket. "Tells tales. Now, Miss," he continued aloud, bending over the prostrate figure. "Hah! yes! I thought as much."
It was plain enough. A slight thread of blood was trickling slowly from a spot on the smooth glistening bald head of the prostrate man, while as, with a moan of anguish, the girl thrust her arm softly beneath his neck, and raised the head, the mark of another blow was visible above the temple.
"Now, Miss, I can't leave you like this. Let me stay while you go for help. We must have some one here."
These words seemed to rouse the girl into fierce action, and she gently supported the wounded head, her hand sought the injured man's wrist, and seized it in a professional way.
"Man," she cried with angry energy, "while we are seeking help he may-- Yes; still beating. Quick! Open that door. No, no; that's the way into the street! The other door--the consulting-room. Prop it open with a chair. We must get him on to the sofa, and do something at once."
"Yes, Miss; but a doctor."
"I am a doctor's daughter, man, and know what to do. Quick!"
"Well, of all--" muttered the constable, as he proceeded to the door in question; and then, without finishing the sentence, "Well, she is a plucked one!"
He stepped into a shabbily furnished room, in whose grate a fire was just aglow; and as the door swung to, and he cast the light round to seek for a chair, he caught sight of a vacant couch, a table with bottle, glasses, and sugar thereon, and the cover drawn all on one side, so that the glasses were within an ace of being off; and then, drawing in his breath, he stepped to the other side of the table, and held down the light, which fell upon a drawn and ghastly face, while, hidden by the table-cover, there lay the figure of a well-dressed man.
"Fit," muttered the constable, bending lower. "No; I ain't a doctor, but I know what that means."
He stepped back quickly, and shut the door after him.
"No, no! prop it open."
"Let it be, Miss," he replied sternly. "There's something else wrong there."
The girl stared up at him aghast.
"Here's a sofy will do," he continued, pointing to a kind of settee, cushioned, and with a common moreen valance hanging down, while a rough kind of pillow was fastened to one end. "You get up, Miss, and lift a bit. I won't hurt him more than I can help. That's it. Sorry, Miss, I thought what I did."
A low moan escaped the sufferer as he was lifted with difficulty upon the rough settee, and this being done, the constable renewed his request.
"Now, Miss, it's a thing as wants doing at once. Call help."
"Hold up his head," was the quick imperious reply; and as the man obeyed, he saw to his surprise the girl go quickly to the row of shelves at one side of the room, take down a labelled bottle, remove the stopper, and pour some of its contents into a graduated glass. To this she added a portion of the contents of another bottle, taking them down, replacing stoppers, and proceeding in the most matter-of-fact, businesslike way, as if accustomed to the task, and returning to try and trickle a little fluid between the patient's lip, supplementing it by bathing his temples.
This done, she ran to a drawer, to return with a roll and scissors; then getting sponge, water, and basin, and proceeding deftly to bathe and strap up the bleeding wound, before turning to her assistant, who looked dim, as the fog seemed to have filtered into the room. "Now," she said sharply, "is there some one injured in that room?"
"Yes, Miss; but stop. I will have help now," said the constable hoarsely. "You shan't go in there!"
At that moment, as the man stepped before the consulting-room door, there was the quick rattle of a latch-key heard faintly from the front-door, and as the opening door affected that of the surgery, and made it swing slightly and creak, the girl ran to it.
"Here, Hendon! quick!"
There was a heavy step in the passage, and a young man, who looked flushed, hurried into the surgery, hat in hand, his ulster over his arm.
"What's the matter?" he said thickly. The constable directed at him a sharp glance.
"I don't know. Look! My father attacked, and--Oh? Hendon, pray, pray see!"
The young man had evidently been drinking; and the suddenness of this encounter seemed for a moment to confuse him; but as he caught sight of the injured doctor, the policeman peering at him with a sternly inquiring look, and the tall, handsome girl, with wild eyes and parted lips, pointing towards the consulting-room door, he threw back his head, gave it a shake as if to clear it, and spoke more clearly.
"Accident?" he said. "Look?"
"Yes, for pity's sake, look."
He strode to the consulting-room door, stepped in and was turning to come back, but the policeman was following.
"What is it?" he said. "Here! a light."
He snatched the lantern from the constable's hand, and the light fell directly upon the face of the prostrate figure beyond the table.
"Who's this?" he said, going down on one knee. "Why, constable, what's up? This man is dead!"
"Yes, sir, I see that."
"Yes, quite dead. But what does it mean? Has my sister--" "Seen him? No, sir, I wouldn't let her come. Now, then, as you're here, I'll go for a doctor and some of our men."
"One minute. I'm a medical student--bit thick, constable--been at a party--but I know what I'm doing. Yes, this man's dead--shot, I think. But my father? Here, come back. That poor girl must be half wild."
He ran back into the surgery.
"Here, Rich, my girl, this is a terrible business. Yes, yes," he added, slowly examining what his sister had done, and then drawing in his breath, as he passed his hand over the smooth bald head. "How did it happen?"
"I--I don't know," gasped the girl, wildly; and now that the burden was partly shifted from her shoulders, her feminine nature began to reassert itself, and she uttered a low wail.
"But--here, constable, how did this come about?"
The man explained in a few words, all the time gazing searchingly at the inquirer, but shaking his head to himself, as if feeling that the suspicions he harboured were wrong.
"And now, sir, I must have some one in," said the man in conclusion.
"Yes; of course, of course. But my father? We cannot leave him like that. To take him up to his bedroom would not be wise, and we cannot-- here, Rich, I say, where are you? Constable, help me carry out this sofa."
John Whyley followed, and the comfortable couch was carried from its neighbourhood by the ghastly figure lying beyond the table, into the surgery, placed close to the wall, and the wounded man carefully placed upon it in an easier position.
"Now, sir, just one look round," said the constable, as Richmond knelt down, weeping silently by her father's side, "and then I'm off. Got this, sir."
He drew out the life-preserver, and showed it to the young student before going into the consulting-room, and after a glance round, kneeling by the dead man to make a rapid search of his pockets.
"Surely this is not necessary now?"
"Yes, sir, it is. One of the first questions my sergeant will ask me will be about recognitions. That will do, sir. Not a scrap of anything about him after a sooperficial search. Now the other place."
He returned to the surgery, looked round, peered into a closet, and then examined the door.
"No signs of violence," he said; and then the settee caught his attention, and he advanced cautiously, drew up the valance, but only to reveal that it was a great chest, and had not harbour beneath for concealment of person or article connected with the case. "Chest, eh?" he said; and placing his hand to the cushion, he found that it was fastened to the great lid, which he raised with one hand, and directed the light into it with the other; but before it was open many inches he banged it down and started away as if horrified.
"Bah, man! scared by a few bones. Articulations, and preparations used in surgical lectures."
"Yes, I see," said the man, recovering himself, "but coming upon 'em sudden like, they looked rather horrid. Now, sir, I'm off. I shall send on the first of our men I see, and come back with the doctor. One two streets off, ain't there? if I can find him in the fog."
"Yes; Mr Clayton Bell. Be quick."
The man hurried off, and in a remarkably short time, or so it seemed to the brother and sister, who were conversing in whispers as they strove to restore the unconscious man to consciousness, there was a ring at the bell, and the constable had returned with a grave, portly-looking surgeon and a sergeant of police.
"Yes," said the newcomer, after a careful examination, "two heavy blows, given, I should say, the first from behind, the second as Dr Chartley was turning round. As you surmised, Mr Chartley, the skull is fractured, and there is a severe pressure upon the brain. And the other case?"
The surgeon was led into the next room, where a long and careful examination was made.
"No, Mr Chartley, no firearms here; the man has been poisoned."
"Poisoned!" cried Hendon Chartley, turning to the table, and taking up one of the glasses to raise it to his nose, and then touch the liquid in the bottom with the tip of his finger and taste it. "Brandy," he said, "only pure brandy."
He set it down, and took up the second glass, which he smelt.
"Ha! there's something here," he cried; and dipping his finger again, he tasted it, and spat quickly two or three times, before passing the glass to the surgeon, who contented himself with raising it to his nostrils.
"Yes; Mr Chartley; no doubt about that," he said. "How did all this come about?"
He turned to the young student, who looked at the sergeant, and the sergeant at John Whyley, while the latter stared stolidly at the surgeon.
"That's what we're going to see, sir," said Whyley.
"Quite right, my man, quite right. Now, Mr Chartley, I can do no more here. I should like to have in a colleague in consultation over your father's case. Nothing more can be done now. We will be here quite early."
He gave a few directions as he passed through the consulting-room, and then son and daughter were left to their painful vigil, and the thick fog covered all as with a funeral pall.
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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2
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GOING BACKWARDS.
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Breakfast-time in the dull dining-room, with its sombre old furniture, carpet dotted with holes worn by the legs of chairs, and the drab-painted panelled walls, made cheerful by a set of engravings in tarnished gilt, fly-pecked frames of the princes of the blood royal: H.R.H. the Prince Regent, with his brothers the Dukes of York, Clarence, Kent, Cumberland, Sussex, and Cambridge, each with a little square tasselled pillow at the top of the frame, and, reposing thereon, a very shabby coronet; while the two windows, with their faded curtains, looked across a row of rusty spikes at a prospect composed of a gaunt old house, evidently let in lodgings.
Richmond Chartley, looking as charming as a handsome girl will look, in spite of a line of care upon her her head and a twitch of anxiety upon the corners of her lips, was distributing coffee, and alternating the task by cutting bread-and-butter--thin-thick for her brother Hendon, who was reading a sporting paper, and thin-thin for Dr Chartley, who was gazing in an abstracted manner at a paper before him, and making notes from time to time with a gilt pencil-case.
He was a bland-looking, handsome man, with stiff white cravat, and that suave, softly-smiling aspect peculiar to fashionable physicians; but the fashion had gone, though the smile remained, to be shed upon his two children instead of upon the patients who came no more.
The breakfast progressed, with Hendon eagerly taking in the detail of the last Australian boat-race, and the doctor making a calculation for the variation of the compound that was the dream of his life, till, as it was finally ended, he bent forward, and said softly, "Truly thankful, amen!"
Hendon Chartley rustled his paper, and doubled it up, and thrust it into his pocket.
"But no fried bacon," he said bitterly. Dr Chartley turned his beams upon his son, and shook his head slowly.
"Indigestible, Hendon. But never mind. Work as I do. Get to the top of the tree, and then you can keep your carriage, and destroy your liver with Strasburg pie."
"Bah!" said Hendon; but his father's countenance did not change.
"Going to the hospital, my boy?"
"Yes, the old dismal round. But to allay suffering. A great profession."
"Wish it had less profession and more solid satisfaction!" said the young man. "Good-bye, Rich."
He hurried out of the room, and the next minute the door was heard to bang.
"An ornament to the profession some day, Richmond."
"Yes, dear, but--" "Well, my love?" said the doctor, beaming upon her softly.
"Don't think me unkind, dear, now you are so deep in your study; but I do really want a little help."
"Certainly, my darling, certainly. Now, that's what I like; frank confidence on your part. You are the best of housekeepers, my child; but I don't want you to take all the burden on your shoulders."
Richmond Hartley sighed, and the line on her broad handsome forehead; took to itself so many puckers, which, however, did not detract from her beauty.
"Well, my dear; speak out. You want something?"
"Yes, father; money."
"Ah!" said Dr Chartley softly, as he tapped the table with the top of his worn pencil-case. "Money; you want money."
"Yes, father. I am horribly pressed. Poor Hendon has really not enough to pay for his lunch, and--" "Yes, my dear; but Hendon will soon be in a position to provide comfortably for himself," said the doctor blandly.
The old proverb about the growing grass and the starving steed occurred to Richmond, but he only sighed.
"I don't think you need trouble yourself about Hendon, my dear."
"But there is the rent, father," said Richmond desperately, as the full extent of their position flashed upon her; and she felt impelled to speak.
"Ah, yes; the rent. I had forgotten the rent," said the doctor dreamily.
"Final and threatening notices have been left about the rates and taxes."
"Yes," said the doctor musingly. "The idea is Utopian, but I have often thought how pleasant life would be were there no rents or rates and taxes."
"Dear father, I must tell you all my troubles now I have begun," said Richmond, leaving her chair to kneel down before the handsome elderly man, and lay her hand upon his breast.
"Certainly, my darling, certainly," he said, bending down to kiss her brow in the most gentlemanly manner, and then caress her luxuriant hair.
"They have threatened to cut off both the gas and water."
"Tut! tut! how unreasonable, Richmond! Really a severe letter ought to be addressed to the companies' directors."
"And, father dear, the tradespeople are growing not only impatient, but absolutely insulting. What am I to do?"
"Wait, my darling, wait. Little clouds in our existence while we are attending the breaking forth of the sun. Not long, my dear. I am progressing rapidly with my discovery, and while I shall be extent with the fame, you shall be my dear banker, and manage everything as you do now."
"Yes, yes, dear, I will; but it is so sad. No patient seems to come to you now."
"No, my dear, no," he replied calmly; "I'm afraid I neglected several, and they talked about it among themselves. These things will spread."
"Are there any means left of--pray forgive me, dear--of raising a little money?"
"No, my dear, I think not. But don't trouble about it. Any day now I may have my discovery complete, and then--but really, my dear, this is wasting time. I must get on with my work."
He rose, and Richmond sighed as with courtly grace he raised her hand and kissed it, smiling it her sadly and shaking his head.
"So like your dear mother," he said; "even to the tones of your voice. Don't let me be disturbed, Richmond. I am getting to a critical point."
He slowly crossed the room, gazing dreamily before him, and passed out, while his child stood listening to his step along the passage at the back of the side-board till the door of the surgery was heard to close, when, clasping her hands, she gazed up at the Prince Regent, as if he were some kind of a fat idol, and exclaimed passionately, "What shall I do? What shall I do?"
A violent twitch made her raise her hand to her face, which was contracted with pain, and she drew her breath hard; but the pang seemed to pass away, and after ringing the bell she began busily to pack the breakfast-things together.
Before she had half done, the door opened softly, and a rather dirty face was thrust in. It was the face of an old-looking boy with snub-nose, large mouth, and a rough, shock head bristling over his prominent forehead, and all redeemed by as bright and roguish-looking a pair of eyes as ever shone out from beneath a low type of head.
The door was only opened wide enough at first to admit the head, but as soon as its owner had given a glance round, the door opened farther, and the rest of a rather small person appeared, dressed in a well-worn page's button suit, partly hidden by a dirty green-baize bibbed apron.
The boy's sleeves were tucked up, and he was carrying a pair of old-fashioned Wellington boots by the tops, and these boots he held up on high.
"Didn't know, Miss, whether the doctor had gone. Been a-cleaning his boots. Look, Miss, there's a shine!"
"Yes, yes, Bob, they look very nice. Take them, up-stairs, and then come and clear away."
"All right, Miss. I made a whole bottle o' blacking outer half a cake as a chap I knows give me."
"Yes, yes, Bob."
"Stunning blacking it is, too. He's in the Brigade, and I minded his box for him, and took sixpence while he went and had a game of marbles. That's why he give me the cake."
"Now, Bob, my good lad, I don't want to know anything about that. Take those boots up-stairs."
"All right, Miss; but do look how they shines. I polished tops and all. Look, Miss." "Yes, yes, yes; they are beautifully clean."
"I allus thinks about legs, Miss, when I cleans boots; and when I thinks about legs, I think about the doctor making such a good job o' mine arter I was run over. It's stronger than the other; I am glad as it was broke."
"Glad?"
"Yes, Miss. Why, if I hadn't been run over, my leg wouldn't have been broke, and then the doctor wouldn't have mended it, and I shouldn't be here. What's she gone away for?" said the boy to himself, as he stared after Richmond. "She's been a-crying; one of her eyes was wet. What cowards gals are to cry!"
The boy went to the door and listened, but all was perfectly still; so he set down the boots, rolled his apron into what he called a cow's tail, the process consisting in twisting it up very tightly and tucking it round his waist.
This done he listened again, and finding all still, he thrust his arms into the doctor's boots and indulged in a hearty laugh of a silently weird description before going down on all fours, and walking as slowly and solemnly round the table as a tom cat, whose movements he accurately copied, rubbing himself up against the legs of the table, and purring loudly.
This over, he rose to his feet and listened, but all being still, he went down upon all fours again and trotted round the table, leaped on to a chair, leaped down again, and ran out of the room and along the dark passage towards the head of the kitchen stairs, looking in the gloom wonderfully like some large ape.
Active as he was, a descent of the dark stone stairs on all fours was beyond him; so he rose up, and reaching over, glided silently down the balustrade, to the great detriment of his buttons. But, arrived upon the mat at the bottom, he once more resumed his quadrupedal attitude, thrust his hands well into the Wellington boots, and trotted with a soft patter into a dark back kitchen, out of which came a droning noise uttered by some one at work, and apparently under the impression that it was a song.
The boy, more animal-like than ever, disappeared in the gloom, with the boots making a low _pat-pat, pat-pat_, and then there was a loud shriek, and Bob bounded out, skimmed up the stairs, after evidently having alarmed some one, and disappeared with the boots, which he sedately carried up to the bedroom. Then he descended, to listen at the head of the stairs to a complaining voice relating to Richmond Chartley an account of how an "ormuz" great dog had come down the area, run into the back kitchen, and frighted some one almost out of her wits!
Bob's face expressed happiness approaching the sublime, and he hurriedly cleared the breakfast-things, and took them down in time to be sent down by a not over-clean-looking maid-of-all-work to shut that there gate.
The boy was in the act of performing this duty when a neatly-dressed girlish-looking body approached, carrying a large folio under one arm--a folio so bound that the neatly-mended and well-fitting little glove which covered a very small hand could hardly reach to the bottom.
"Is your mistress in?"
"Yes, Miss," said Bob, whose face seemed to reflect the sweet, sunny smile which greeted him. "I'll slip round and let you in."
"Oh!"
This was the utterance of the new arrival, as she saw the boy apparently hurl himself over the iron balustrade of the area-steps, and plunge into the dust-hole region beyond. But Bob had long practiced the keeping of his equilibrium, as the polished slat of the iron rail proved, and, instead of dashing out his brains on the stones, he reached the bottom with a bound, and diving into the house, reappeared in a marvellously short space of time at the front-door.
"She's in the dining-room, Miss," said Bob, making a rush at the folio, and feasting his eyes the while on the natty fur-trimmed jacket and little furry hat, whose hue harmonised admirably with the wavy dark brown hair, neatly braided up beneath; for the visitor was remarkably well-dressed, and her fresh young face set off everything so well that no one thought of noticing that the dress had been turned, and that the jacket's rough exterior had certainly last winter been upon the other side.
Bob hurriedly closed the door, and ran into the chilly dining-room with the folio, which he banged down on the table with-- "Here's Miss Heath, Miss;" and then darted out of the room, leaving the two girls face to face. "They don't like me to see 'em cuddling," he said with a grin; and, urged by the enormous amount of vitality that was in him, Bob bounded to the kitchen stairs to slide down, and, directly after, a gritty rubbing noise, made metrical to accompany the shrill whistling of a tune, arose, the result of the fact that Bob Hartnup, the doctor's boy, who clung to the house with the fidelity of a cat, was cleaning the knives. Bob's facts were correct, if unrefined in expression, for the two girls flew to each other's arms, and as they kissed affectionately, each displayed tears in her eyes, while without relinquishing hands, they sat down together near the window.
"No news, Janet?" whispered Richmond. Her visitor shook her head slowly, gazing wistfully the while into her companion's eyes.
"We must wait, Rich dear. Africa is a horribly great place, and some day we shall hear that he is coming back."
Richmond Chartley made no reply, but sat gazing straight out through the uncleaned window, as if her large clear eyes were looking straight away over the ocean in search of the man she loved.
"Don't, don't, darling; don't look like that," whispered the younger girl. "Don't think all that again. It's cruel, it's wicked of them to have said such things. He was too young, and strong, and brave to die."
"Please God, yes!" said Richmond simply, but with a deep heart-stirring pathos in the tones of her rich voice.
"And one of these days he'll come, dear, like the good prince in the fairy tale, all rich and handsome, as my darling brother always was, and marry my own dear Rich, and make her happy again."
"Please God, yes!" said Richmond once more; and this time there was resignation, and despair so plainly marked that her companion flung her arms about her neck and began to sob.
"Rich, dear Rich, don't, pray don't, or you'll drive me half mad. I've all my lessons to give to-day. And my hand will tremble, and I shall be so unnerved that I can do nothing."
"Janet dear, I try so hard not to despair, but the weary months roll by, and it is two years now since you have had a line."
"Yes, but what of that? Perhaps he is where there are no post-offices, or perhaps he is not getting on; and, poor boy, he is too proud to write till he is doing better. Why, he has only been away four years."
"Four years!" said Richmond sadly; "is it only four years?"
"That's all, dear, though it has seemed like eight, and we will not despair, even though it is so hard to bear. Why, Rich, I feel sometimes when I kneel down at night that if he were dead I should know it; he would not let us go on suffering if it were so."
"Janet dear, I feel sometimes as if it was wrong to have loved him."
"What, dear Mark?"
"Yes."
"Wrong? For shame! How could any girl who knew my darling old Mark as you did help loving him?"
"But it made him dissatisfied. I was the cause of his going away."
"That foolish thought again! You were not, dear. It would have been the same if he had loved any girl. He said that he would not ask any woman to be his wife while he was tied down here without any prospects; and he went off to make his fortune, as many another brave young Englishman has gone before."
"But I made him discontented, dear."
"You made him behave nobly. Why, what other man would have said as he did, `I hold you to no engagement. I ask nothing of you: I only tell you that I love you with all my heart'?" " `And some day I will return,'" said Richmond, in a low deep voice.
"Yes, and some day he will return, dear: I do believe it, I _will_ believe it, and--Oh, Rich, Rich, Rich, why, why are we such unhappy girls?"
It was the elder's turn now to try and comfort the younger, who had burst into a passionate fit of weeping, so full of anguish that, at last, Richmond raised her friend's hand, kissed it, and holding the bonny little head between her hands, she said, with almost motherly tenderness.
"Janet, Hendon has been speaking to you again?"
There was no reply.
"I knew it," said Richmond half angrily. "It was thoughtless and cruel of him!"
"No, no, don't blame him, dear. No one could be more noble and more good. You know how hard he works."
"Yes," said Richmond, with a sigh.
"And if he is impatient with his home and your father, why, you must recollect that he is a man, and men are not meant to be patient and suffering, like women."
"He is too thoughtless, Janet, and--I don't like to say it of my own brother--too selfish."
"No, no!" cried Janet, flushing.
"Yes, dear, yes. Could he have had his way, you two would have been man and wife, and he half living on the earnings of these poor tiny little hands."
"I don't think he would have pressed me to it, Rich; and after all, it was because he loved me so."
"Yes, and would have taken advantage of your loneliness here in this great cruel city, and dragged you down to poverty and misery such as I am bearing now. Janet, Janet dear, I feel sometimes as if I cannot bear this miserable degradation longer, and that all these troubles must be a punishment for my not telling my father about Mark."
"Why, Rich," said Janet, turning comforter once more, "what was there to tell? You made no engagement. And look here, if so much trouble is to come of love, why, you and I will take vows, and be single all our days. There, now, you look more like yourself; and I'm going to tell you my news."
"News?" cried Richmond, starting eagerly, and then looking sadly at her friend.
"Yes, two more pupils. I'm getting along famously now. And it does make me so happy and resigned. There, I must go, but--" "You have something more to say to me?"
"Yes, only--there, I will be firm. Don't be angry with me, Rich dear, for I seem to have no one to care for here but you, and some day you shall pay me again, and I want you to borrow this."
She slipped a tiny little purse into Richmond's hands, and then turned scarlet, as she saw her companion's pallid face.
"No, no, Janet, I could not: your little scraped together earnings. Pray don't speak to me like that again."
"I must. I will!" cried the girl with passionate earnestness. "I don't want it, dear, and it is only a loan. Do, do, pray take it."
"I could not," said Richmond, thrusting the purse into her friend's hand.
"For Mark's sake, dear."
"For Mark's sake!" faltered Richmond hoarsely.
"Yes; how could I look him in the face again, if I had not behaved to you as he bade me when we said good-bye on board the ship?"
"As he bade you?"
"Yes; to be as a sister to you always, and to look to you as a sister for help and comfort when I was in need. Yes, dear, for Mark's sake."
For answer, Richmond Chartley took her friend once more in her arms, and kissed her, but only to press the purse back into her hand before going with her to the door, from which they both shrank on opening it, for a loud voice exclaimed, "Thank you! How do? Ah! Miss Chartley, is the doctor within?"
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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3
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THE DOCTOR AT HOME.
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"Yes, my father is at home, Mr Poynter," said Richmond, speaking calmly, and drawing back for the visitor to enter.
Then to Janet, in a whisper.
"Can you stay with me a few minutes?"
"I daren't, dear; I am late now, and--Yes, I understand. I will."
It was Richmond's turn to display her firmness, and mastering a nervous trepidation which she felt, she bent down, kissed her friend, and, with a meaning pressure of the hand, said "good-bye," and ushered the fresh visitor, who was busily turning a crimson silk handkerchief round a painfully glossy hat, into the dining-room.
"Thankye," he said, sitting down, but jumping up again, and placing another chair, "beg pardon, won't you sit down? I'm in no hurry if the doctor's engaged."
He nervously seized a very thick gold chain, and dragged a great gold watch from his pocket to consult.
"Eleven," he said; "thought I'd come and see him as I went into the City. Nothing the matter, much, but it's as well to see your medical man."
"I'll tell my father you are here, Mr Poynter."
"No, don't hurry. I'm very busy at my place, but plenty of time. How's Hendon?"
"My brother is quite well."
"Is he, now? That's right. Fine thing, good health, ain't it?"
"Of course," said Richmond quietly.
"Yes, of course; so it is, Miss Chartley. Hendon always seems to be a fine strong fellow. I always liked him since I met him at a fellow's rooms. Not at home now?"
"Oh, no; he has gone on to the hospital."
"Ah, yes. Feel sometimes as if I should go to the hospital."
The visitor appeared to be a florid, strongly-built man, in the most robust health, save that probably a love of too many of the good things of this life had made its mark upon him.
"I will tell my father you are here," said Richmond again; and this time she escaped from the room, to come suddenly upon Bob outside, striking an attitude indictive of a determination to crush the glossy hat left upon the table in the hall; and so sudden was Richmond's appearance that the boy stood fast, as if struck with catalepsy, for a few seconds before he bethought himself of a way out of his difficulty, when, pretending to catch a fly which did not exist, he turned upon his heel, and beat an ignominious retreat to the lower regions.
Dr Chartley's patient was no sooner left alone than he started up, and began smoothing his short, carefully-parted hair, took off a second glove to display half a dozen jewelled rings, and wetting fingers and thumbs, he twirled the begummed points of his moustache, and fell into a state of agitation about the cut of his ultra-fashionably made clothes.
He looked round in vain, for there was no looking-glass; still, he had some satisfaction, for he was able to see that his tightly-fitting patent-leather boots were spotless, and that the drab gaiters with pearl buttons were exactly in their places; though the largely-checked trousers he wore did give him trouble as to the exact direction the outer seams should take, whilst his sealskin vest would look spotty in certain lights.
He was in the act of re-smoothing his hair when Richmond returned, and, hard City man as he was, he could not avoid an increase of depth in his colour as he saw that the handsome woman before him was watching him intently.
"My father will come to you directly, Mr Poynter," she said quietly.
"Oh, all right; but don't let me drive you away, Miss Chartley. I don't see much society, and chat's pleasant sometimes, ain't it?"
"Of course," said Richmond quietly; "but I thought my brother said you were fond of society."
"Fond of it? yes, of course," said Poynter hastily; and he smoothed his double fringe over his forehead again, where the hairdresser had cut it into a pattern which he had assured him was in the height of fashion, but only with the result of making him look like butcher turned betting-man. "Yes, fond of it," he said again, "and of course I can get plenty with fellows, but--er--ladies' society is what I like."
James Poynter directed at Richmond a smiling leer, one which had proved very successful at more than one metropolitan bar, where he had paved the way for its success with gifts of flowers and a cheap ring or two; but it was utterly lost here, for its intended recipient was looking another way, and as it faded from its inventor's face there was a blank, inane expression left, bordering upon the grotesque.
"You should go more into ladies' society, then, Mr Poynter, as soon as your health permits," said Richmond, with provoking coolness.
"Oh, I'm not ill," he said hastily; and his forehead grew damp as he floundered about, looking fishy now about the eyes and mouth, which opened and shut at intervals, as if to give passage to words which never came. "Felt I was--er--little out of sorts, you know, and thought I'd see the doctor. Let's see, I said so before, didn't I?"
"Yes, I think you did, Mr Poynter. Here is my father."
There was a slight cough just then, the door opened, and the doctor entered, his bland, aristocratic presence contrasting broadly with that of his patient.
"Ah, Poynter," he said, "good-morning. Don't go, my dear; Mr Poynter will come into my consulting-room, I daresay."
"Yes, of course," cried the patient, shaking hands, and forgetting to leave off. "I shall--shall you? --good-morning, Miss Chartley."
He released the doctor's hand, to turn and shake Richmond's which he pressed desperately, and then followed the bland, calm, stately doctor out of the room, when he caught up his hat savagely and ground his teeth in the dark passage.
"I feel just like a fool when I'm with her!" he said to himself. "I never feel so anywhere else. And I ain't a fool. I should just like to see the man who would say I was."
The doctor led the way through the glazed door into the dim surgery, with its rows of bottles, and stoppered glass jars containing unpleasant looking specimens preserved in spirits, all carefully labelled and inscribed in the doctor's own neat hand, but grown yellow with time; and as he closed the door after his patient, the latter's nostrils distended slightly, and an air of disgust chased the inane look as he breathed the unpleasant medicinal druggy air.
"I was just busy over my discovery," continued the doctor blandly, "and I thought as a friend you would not mind coming here--it is the consulting-room, my dear Poynter; and I could go on, and we could chat over your ailment the while."
"Oh, it's all the same to me," said Poynter; and, once out of Richmond's presence, he seemed another being. Instead of carrying his glossy hat in his hand, he had resumed it, and wore it with a vulgar cock; he walked with the swagger of the low-class City man; and his face shone as he whisked out a second crimson silk handkerchief redolent of perfume, and blew his nose with a loud blast, which sounded defiant.
"Here we are," said the doctor, smiling at his patient, as if after a long search he had found the ill which troubled him, and pulled it up by the roots. "Take that chair, my dear Poynter," he continued, pointing to one by the fire, where a bright copper kettle was on the hob, and closing the door, while his patient took off his hat, glanced round the room, and blew the dust off the top of a side table before depositing thereon his new head-covering.
There was a litter on the table, a chemist's set of weights and scales, divers papers, a spatula, pestle and mortar of glass, toy-like in size, and a book with memoranda, and pen and ink.
"Very busy, you see, Poynter; I've nearly completed my task, and in a few months, perhaps weeks, the medical world will be startled by my discovery."
"What are you going to do with it when you've done?"
"Do with it?"
"Yes. Now, if I was you, I should say to a friend, `Lend me a thou.,' and then take a little shop, put it up in bottles, with three-halfpenny stamps, and advertise it well as the new patent medicine."
"My dear Mr Poynter!"
"Hold hard, doctor, I haven't done," he cried, speaking in a hard, browbeating manner, as if he were giving orders. "Give it a spanking name, `Heal-all,' or `Cure all;' won't do to say Kill-all eh? Haw, haw, haw!"
He burst into a coarse, loud laugh, and the doctor sank back in his chair, with his brows twitching slightly.
"Hold hard, I have it. Nothing like a good name for the fools who swallow everything. Get something out of one of your Greek and Latin physic-books--one of those words like hippocaustus or allegorus, or something they can't understand."
"I do not quite see the force of your argument, my dear Mr Poynter," said the doctor blandly.
"Not see? Why, man, it would be patent medicine then, and no one could take it from you. Look at Hannodyne--good stuff, too, when you've got a headache in the morning--Government stamp, to imitate which is forgery!"
"But still, I--" "Don't see? Nonsense! Make a fortune. You want it. Patients pretty scarce, eh?"
He laughed again offensively, and the doctor winced, but kept up his bland smooth smile.
"And suppose I took your advice, my dear Poynter, where is the friend to lend me a thousand pounds?"
"Ah! where's the friend!" said Poynter, with a meaning look. "P'r'aps I know the friend, if things went as he wanted."
The doctor's face changed slightly, but his visitor was too obtuse to see it.
"And would you suggest that I should--er--preside in the little shop and sell the allegorus?"
"Ah, that ain't a bad name, is it?" said Poynter, giving his head a shake in the stiff collar in which it rested as an egg does in a cup. "No, not you; not businesslike enough. Make Hendon do that."
"Ah," said the doctor slowly, as he took up the bottle, removed the stopper, and smelled the contents before moistening one finger and tasting it.
"You'll end by poisoning yourself with that stuff, doctor," said Poynter, chuckling.
"No," he said blandly, "no, my dear James Poynter, no; it is a life-giver, not a destroyer. Now, if you were to take, say, twenty drops in water--" "With sugar?" said Poynter, grinning.
"Yes, with sugar, if you liked. There's no objection to flavouring the vehicle--water."
"Vehicle--water? Why, I never heard of water being called a vehicle! Thought vehicle meant a carriage or trap."
"In this case the water would be the vehicle, Poynter, and, as I was saying, if you were to take twenty drops of this extract, or rather, compound, you would feel as if a new lease of life were beginning--that everything looked brighter; that nerve and muscle were being strung up; your power of thought greater, and--try a little, my dear sir."
"No, thankye, doctor; but if you've got a drop of brandy in the place and a bottle of soda, you may make it more than twenty drops of that."
"I have some brandy," said the doctor, rising, "but no soda-water. I can mix you a little soda and tartaric acid, though, in a glass of water, and it will have all the effect."
James Poynter showed his great white teeth in a broad grin, threw himself back in the patients' chair, and unhooking his watch-chain, began to swing round the big seal, pencil-case, and sovereign-purse which hung at the end.
"No, thankye, doctor," he said. "Let's have the brandy-and-water, and sugar purissima, as you folks call it now, and you can mix me up a tonic and send it on."
"Certainly, my dear Poynter, certainly," said the doctor, going to a closet, and taking out a spirit decanter, tumbler, and sugar, which he placed upon the stained green-baize table-cover, smilingly looking on afterwards with a little bright copper kettle in his hand as his visitor poured out liberally into his glass.
"All right, eh, doctor?" said the young man, looking up in the bland, smooth face, with a good many wrinkles about his right eye.
"I--er--do not understand you."
"Brandy all right? No pilly-coshy or anything of that sort in it? Fill right up."
"No," said the doctor, smiling. "It's the best brandy, and I'll take a little with you."
He filled up his guest's glass, and then smilingly took a second tumbler from the cupboard, and mixed himself a draught.
"Yes, not bad brandy, doctor, but wants age," said Poynter, rinsing his mouth with the hot spirit and water, as if he had been cleaning his teeth. "Now, I have a few dozen of a fine old cognac in my cellar that would give this fifty in a hundred, and lick it hollow."
Perhaps to be expressive, Mr James Poynter shuffled his shoulders against the cushion of the chair and licked his lips, ending with a fish-like smack.
"Let me send you a dozen, doctor."
"No, no, my dear sir. I did not know you were in the wine and spirit trade."
"Stuff and nonsense!"
"And I could not afford--" "Yah! Who asked you to? I meant as a present. Wine and spirit trade, indeed! Hang it! Do I look like a publican?"
Dr Chartley told an abominable lie, for if ever man, from the crown of his pomatumed head, down over his prominent nubbey forehead, small eyes, prominent cheekbones, unpleasant nose, and heavy jaw, to the toes of his boots, looked like a fast, race-attending licenced victualler, it was James Poynter.
Dr Chartley said, in answer to the indignant question, "No."
"Humph!" ejaculated the visitor, mollifying himself with a large draught of brandy-and-water. "I should think not, indeed. I shall send you a dozen of that brandy."
"No, no, I beg!" said the doctor earnestly; and his white forehead puckered up.
"Yes, I shall. May I smoke?"
"Certainly--certainly."
A very large, well-filled cigar case was already in the visitor's hands.
"Take one."
"No, thanks. I never smoke."
"Never mind, Hendon does. Here, I shall leave those six for him."
"I really would rather you did not, Poynter; indeed I would."
"Get out? What's the good of having these things if some one else don't enjoy 'em too? Make Hendon a bit more civil to me. He is so jolly--so jolly--what do you call it? --soopercilious with me. Because I'm not a doctor, I suppose. There's half a dozen good ones for him when he comes in. Now then, doctor, go ahead. Want to see my tongue?"
"No--no," said the doctor; "the look of your eye is sufficient, Mr Poynter. It is much clearer. Felt any more of the chest symptoms?"
"No, not so much of them; but I don't sleep as I should: feverish and tossy--spend half my nights punching my pillow."
"Have you given up the suppers?"
"Well, not quite. You see a man can't drop everything. I know a lot of men, and one's obliged, you see, to do as they do. But now look here; doctor. You've been treating me these three months."
"Dear me! is it so long as that?"
"More. You've poked my chest about, and listened to my works, and given me all sorts of stuff to take, and told me to eat this and drink that, and now I suppose you think I'm sound, wind and limb?"
"Certainly, my dear sir, certainly. I told you so at the first, and that no treatment was necessary."
"Yes, yes, all right; but I'd got to be a bit nervous doctor, and now, as I say, you think me sound, wind and limb?"
"Quite."
"Then you'll agree, won't you?"
"Agree?" said the doctor, looking over the glasses he had put on when commencing to be professional.
"Yes. I'm as good a man as there is at Mincing Lane over a tea bargain; but a job like this knocks the wind out of me, makes me feel a damaged lot where the sea-water's got in, or a Maloo mixture. Can't do it: but you understand."
"Really, Mr Poynter, I--" "Now don't run away, doctor; don't, please. I'm a warm man, and I'm getting warmer. My house is tip-top. I gave two-fifty for the piano, I did, 'pon my soul, and fifty apiece for the cut-glass chandies in the drawing-room. There ain't a better garden in Sydenham. You're willing, ain't you?"
"Do you mean--" "Yes, that's it. Say the word. There, I've loved her ever since I first saw her. And situated as you are, doctor--" "Mr Poynter."
"No offence meant--far from it; but of course I can't help seeing how things are. Come, you'll give your consent, and get hers, and I'll make settlements--anything you like. You shall come and have a bit o' dinner with us every Sunday, and a glass o' real port wine; and if you'd rather have a cab to come home, why, there you are. Come, there's my hand. Where's yours?"
"Do I understand--" "Stop a moment, doctor. Of course you'll attend us, whether we're ill or whether we ain't. Keep us in order, like; and as to your fees, why, I ask you now, as a man, what is a fee to me?"
"Mr Poynter!"
"One moment, doctor. I don't say anything about a brougham. If Miss Richmond--I say, doctor, what made you call her Richmond and him Hendon?"
"A foolish whim--eccentricity," said the doctor coldly. "One child was born on the North Road, the other at the pretty old place on the south west."
"I see. Well, as I was saying, if Miss Richmond likes it to be a brougham, either the real thing, or on the job, she has only got to speak, and it's lies."
"Am I to understand, Mr Poynter, that this is a formal proposal for my daughter's hand?"
"That's it. How you can put it, doctor! You're right; it is, and there's my hand."
"Mr Poynter," said the doctor, drawing himself up in his chair, and without taking the extended hand, "that is a matter upon which I am not prepared to speak."
"Why, you're her father, ain't you?"
"Does my daughter sanction this?"
"Well--er--yes--no--hardly, because I've never put it to her plump. But you know what women are--sealskins, a carriage, bit o' jewellery, _and_ their own way. Why, of course she does; did you ever know a woman as didn't want to marry? They often say so, but--you know. There, say the word: I'll just go in and see her, and it'll be a good job for all of us, and I shall go away with the day fixed."
"No, Mr Poynter," said the doctor gravely; "I have been a medical man for thirty years--a great student, but I must frankly confess that I do _not_ know what women are. As to my daughter, she is of an age to judge for herself, and when she accepts a man for her husband--" "I say, hold hard; there's nothing on, is there?"
"You have told me that you love my child."
"Like all that, doctor. But you know what I mean: old lover, prior attachment, and that sort of thing."
"As far as I know, there has never been any attachment. Richmond is not like most girls."
"Right doctor. She isn't. That fetched me. Why, in her plain shabby things--" The doctor winced. "She knocks my sister into fits, and Lyddy spends two-fifty a year in dressmaking and millinery, without counting jewellery and scent."
"I may say," continued the doctor, "that my daughter has always devoted herself to her brother and me."
"Oh, yes, doctor, I've spotted that," said the visitor, smoking furiously.
"And I have never seen any sign of an attachment. I once thought that there was a liking between her and young Mark Heath."
"What, brother to that Miss Janet who comes here?" cried Poynter eagerly.
"The same; but that was years ago."
"And he's abroad, isn't he?"
"He went to the Cape--to seek his fortune," said the doctor gravely; "but he has not been heard of now for two years."
"Dead, safe!" said Poynter, drawing a breath full of relief.
"I'm afraid so."
"Afraid?"
"It would be sad if the young man had ended his career like that."
"Of course. But they weren't engaged?"
"Certainly not, Mr Poynter."
"And you've no objection to me, doctor?"
"N-no--I--that is, Mr Poynter, I look upon this as a matter for my daughter to decide."
"Of course, doctor. Well, I'll just finish my cigar and grog, and then I'll go and put it to her, plump and plain; and, as I said before, it'll be a fine day's work for us all."
The doctor sighed.
"I say, you know," continued his visitor, with the wrinkles coming about his eyes, "it was all a dodge of mine."
"I beg your pardon."
"There wasn't anything the matter with me when I came."
"Nothing whatever," said the doctor, nodding acquiescence.
"What! you knew that?"
"Of course I did. I looked upon it as all imaginary."
"But you took the fees, doctor?" said the young man, laughing.
"You took up my time."
"But I say, doctor, isn't that too bad?"
"Not at all. My dear sir, the medical profession. Won't I be a poor one if we had no patients with imaginary ills. We treat them; they think we do them good; and they grow better. Surely we earn our fees."
"Oh, but, doctor," said the young man jocularly, "why not honestly tell them they are all right, instead of taking their coin?"
"Because if we did they would not believe us, and would go to some other medical man."
"Then you knew I was all right?"
"Certainly I did."
"And made me up that wretched physic to take."
"You would not have been satisfied without."
"Ah, well," said the young man, with a chuckle which resulted in his wiping his eyes with his highly scented handkerchief, "I never took a drop."
"I know that too," said the doctor.
"Ah, well; we understand one another now, and I'd better go."
James Poynter, however, seemed to be in no hurry to go, but sipped his brandy-and-water, smoked his cigar down to the throwing-away length, and then brought out from his vest-pocket an amber and meerschaum mouthpiece, tipped with gold, into which he fitted the wet end of the cigar, and smoked till he could smoke no longer, when he rose, flush-faced, and with the dew upon his forehead.
"I suppose I must go and get it done, doctor," he said; "but it's rather a--well, it makes a man feel--I say, doctor, what is there in a pretty woman that makes a man feel half afraid of her, like?"
"I told you, Mr Poynter, a short time back, that I did not understand women," said the doctor gravelly. "I cannot tell. Say Nature's heaven-gift for her defence."
"Humph!" said Poynter, staring. "I say, doctor--cigar, you know. Could you give a fellow a mouthful of something that would take the taste out of one's mouth? Going to see a lady."
"Try cold water," said the doctor, in a tone of voice which sounded like throwing that fluid upon he young man's hopes; but he had so much faith in himself that the verbal water glanced from his fine feathers, and after rinsing his mouth, he shook hands clumsily, intending to leave the doctor's fee within his palm, but managed to drop the more valuable of the two coins on the edge of the fender, when it flew beneath the grate, and had to be fished out with the tongs.
"Dodgy stuff, money, doctor," said Poynter, setting down the fire-iron, and blowing the coin.
"Don't take all that trouble, pray."
"Oh, it's no trouble, doctor. I was never above picking up a sov. There, don't you come. I know my way;" and he left the consulting-room to go into the house and learn his fate.
"Brute!" said the doctor, with a look of disgust, as he sank into his chair. "Why is Fate so unfair with her gold! I thought as much, but Richmond will say _no_."
"Old lunatic!" said James Poynter, with his fat upper lip curling in disgust, as his eyes lit on the row of glass jars with their ghastly contents. "Once I get my lady home, I don't mean to see much of him. Here, boy," he said, as he reached the hall, and so suddenly that there was nearly a serious accident, for Bob was coming down the balustrade from the first floor, gliding upon the central part of his person with arms and legs extended--taking hold having grown common.
The sharp "Here, boy!" so startled him that he overbalanced himself, went right over, but caught at the upright spindly bars, and so far saved himself that he came down upon his feet in a couple of somersaults, recovering himself directly, and coming forward with a grin upon his bloodless face, as if the feat had been intended.
"Ah, you'll break your neck some day. Here's a shilling for you. Take me into Miss Chartley at once."
Bob bit the coin, and slipped it into his pocket before he replied, "Gone out."
"Gone out? Will she be long?"
"Dessay she'll be hours, sir."
James Poynter stamped with his foot, and muttered something unparliamentary.
"Tell Miss Chartley," he said. "No, don't tell her anything. Here, let me out."
Bob ran to the ponderous old door, and stood holding it open with his eyes glittering as he stared at the visitor, till he had hurried out with his hat set very much on one side, and walked sharply away.
"Thought he'd want the bob again," said the boy. "Just do for the old gal. Well, I'm blessed!"
This last consequent upon his catching sight of a shabby-looking figure in black, with a damaged bonnet, and a weirdly dissipated look, rising slowly into sight up the area-steps, and then coming out of the creaking gate to the boy, who grew more serious the nearer the figure came.
It was not a pleasant face to look upon, for it was not over-clean; the black and grey hair was ill-arranged, and the eyes that shone above the flushed cheeks belied the woman sadly if they did not tell the truth about potations.
"Why, Bob, my darling," she said, with an exaggerated fawning smile, "and how is my bonny boy?"
"Here stow that, mother," cried the lad, struggling from an embrace. "Don't! Can't yer see I've been brushing my hair?"
"Yes, and it looks beautiful, ducky. I've been knocking ever so long at the hairy door, and that fine madam saw me, and wouldn't let me in."
"No; she says I ain't never to let you in no more."
"Not let me in no more to see my own boy?"
"No; she says you took some fresh butter last time you was here, and you sha'n't come."
"Then you sha'n't stay, Bob; I'll take you away, my darling. Oh, it's a wicked, cruel world!"
"Here, I say, mother, stow that. Whatcher want?"
"What, my darling? Yes, that's it: want--staring want; but you sha'n't stay here."
"Get out. I shall."
"No, you sha'n't, you ungrateful boy. I won't be separated from my own child. Bob dear, have you got any money?"
"Eh?"
"Anybody give you anything?" whined the woman. "There ain't been nothing pass my lips this blessed day."
"Oho! what a wunner!" cried the boy. "Why, I can smell yer."
"No, no, my dear; that's Mrs Billson as you can smell. I've been talking to her, and she drink 'orrid. Ain'tcher got a few pence for your poor lone mother, who's ready to break her heart sometimes because she's parted from her boy?"
"Will you go away if I give you something?"
"Go away? Oho!" whined the woman, wiping off a maudlin tear with the end of her shawl.
"Here, I say, don't cry on the front-doorsteps. Come down in the hairy, where nobody can't see you."
"Driven away by my own boy! Oho, oho!" " 'Tain't my fault. Doctor said you wasn't to come, and if you did he'd send me away."
"Then come home, Bob, to your poor heartbroken mother."
"Walker!" cried the boy. "Why yer ain't got no home to give a chap."
"No home?"
"Well, I don't call that a home, living up in a hattic along o' old Mother Billson."
"Oh, you ungrateful boy! Ain't it enough for me to have come down so that I'm obliged to see my own son in liveries, without him turning against me."
"Who's a-turning again you? Don't cry, I tell yer," he said, angrily stamping a foot.
"Then you shall come home."
"Sha'n't. I ain't going to leave the doctor and Miss Rich for nobody, so there."
"Ugh, you viper!"
"Here, stow that. Who's a viper? See what they've done for me when I was runned over. Why, if it hadn't been for Miss Rich a-nussing of me when you was allus tipsy, you wouldn't have had no boy at all, only a dead 'un berrid out at Finchley along o' the old man."
"Ah, you wicked ungrateful little serpent! They've been setting you again' your poor suffering mother."
"Stow that, I say. You'll have the doctor hear you if you don't be quiet."
"I won't be quiet, you wicked, wicked--" "Look here! If you don't hold your row, I won't give you the bob and two coppers I've got for you."
"Have you got some money for your poor mother, then?"
"I've got a bob a gent give me, and twopence, my half of what we got for the bones me and 'Lisbeth sold."
"Ah? I'm a poor suffering woman, and I do say things sometimes as I don't mean," whined the wretched creature. "Give me the money, dear, and let me go."
"If I give it to yer, you won't say no more about my coming away?"
"No, dear; I only want to see you happy."
"Well, there, then," he said, giving her the coins; "and, I say--" "Yes, my precious."
"You ain't to spend none of it in gin."
"Gin? Oh, no, my dear."
"Get some pudding out of Holborn, and a saveloy; and, I say, mother, get yourself a bit o' tea."
"Yes, my darling."
"And don't let Mrs Billson gammon you into lending her none of it."
"No, my dear. And there, good-bye, Bob; be a good boy. I won't come wherriting of you no more'n I can help."
The miserable object, from whom out of compassion Richmond Chartley had rescued the boy, shuffled along the street to the nearest public-house, to buy more plus spirit with which to attack her miserable minus spirit, with the result that, as a mathematical problem, one would kill the other as sure as Fate.
Meanwhile Bob stood on the step watching her.
"Wonder whether the old gal does like me? Somehow she allus goes as soon as she gets all a chap's got. Now she'll go and have a drop. She allus does when she says she won't."
"Bob! you Bob!" came in a shrill voice from the kitchen stairs.
"Can't you see I'm a-coming?" cried the boy; and hurriedly closing the door, he returned to his work.
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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4
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PUBLIC OPINION ON CURRENT EVENTS.
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These was a desperate scuffle going on round the corner as Hendon Chartley came by one day, and he would have passed on without seeing it, only that his English blood was stirred at the way in which the odds were all on one side--four boys being engaged in pummelling one who, in spite of the thrashing he was getting, fought on boldly, till, with a couple of sharp cuts of his cane, Hendon settled two of the combatants, when the other two ran away.
"Thankye, sir."
"You young dog, is it you?" cried Hendon.
"Yes, sir; and I should ha' licked all on 'em if you hadn't come."
"Why, you ungrateful young rascal, be off back and wash your face. Look here: I'll have you turned away."
"No, sir; please, sir, don't, sir. I couldn't help it, sir, I was obliged to fight, sir; I was indeed, sir. Oh, don't, sir; you hurts!"
Hendon listened to no remonstrance, but catching the boy by the collar he thrust him back till he reached the door, which he opened with his latch-key, and, bundling the boy in, sent him staggering along the hall as he closed the door, and went on once more.
"Yah! who cares for you?" cried the boy angrily; and then his countenance changed, and he broke into a smile as he found himself face to face with Rich.
"Why, Bob," she exclaimed, "what is the matter?"
"I couldn't help it, Miss. Mr Hendon shoved me in like that. I meant to come in by the area."
"But why did he bring you back like that? Did he know where you had been?"
"Oh, no, Miss! I never tells anybody where I'm going with a note for you; not even Mr Poynter, Miss. Here's the letter; and Miss Heath said I was to give her love to you, and she hadn't been because she was so busy."
Bob drew a letter from his pocket, and as he did so made upon it an ugly mark.
"Why, Bob, your hand's bleeding!"
"Is it, Miss? Oh, ah! so it is. That ain't nothink."
"You are all over mud, too. Have you met with an accident again?"
The boy's lips parted to say "_Yes_," but as he gazed up into the clear searching eyes which looked down so kindly into his, he shook his head.
"No, Miss," he said boldly.
"Why, Bob, you have not been fighting?"
"I didn't want to fight, Miss; but what's a chap to do?"
"Surely not fight when he is sent on an errand," said Rich severely.
"I didn't want to fight," said the boy again: "but I was fighting, and Mr Hendon ketched me."
"I'm afraid, Bob, I shall be obliged to speak to my father, and have you sent away."
"No, no! don't do that, Miss; please don't. I will be so very useful, and I will do everythink 'Lisbeth tells me. Don't send a feller away."
"We cannot keep a boy who behaves so badly," continued Rich, who was trying to hide being amused and pleased at the boy's affectionate earnestness.
"Then I won't fight no more," said Bob. "But you don't know what it is, Miss. You don't know how the fellers tease yer. They're allers at yer. Soon as yer goes down the street, some one shouts `Bottles!' Jest because I takes out the physic. I should jest like to make some on 'em take it. I'd give 'em a dose."
"But, Bob, you ought to be too sensible to take any notice about a rude boy calling you names."
"So I am, Miss," cried the boy, "ever so much. I never did nothing till they began on the doctor."
"Began on the doctor?"
"Yes, Miss; saying all sorts o' things about him. I shouldn't like to tell you what."
"And I should not like to hear, Bob," said Rich gravely, as she went up-stairs; while after waiting till he heard a door close, Bob went cautiously into the surgery, crept to the door of the consulting-room, and listened to find out whether the doctor was there, and finding him absent, the boy went nimbly to the nest of drawers, opened one, and took out a pair of scissors before lifting a tin case from a corner--a case which looked like the holder of a map.
Bob removed the lid, drew out a roll of diachylon, and after cutting off a strip, he replaced the lid and scissors, and descended to the kitchen, where Elizabeth was peeling potatoes, and making the droning noise which she evidently believed to be a song.
"Look ye here!" cried the boy, triumphantly showing his bleeding knuckles.
Elizabeth uttered a faint cry.
"Why, you've been fighting!" she cried. "Oh, you bad wicked boy!"
"So are you," cried Bob tauntingly: "you'd fight if the chaps served you as they did me, and said what they did about the doctor."
"What did they say?" said the girl, giving her nose a rub as if to make it more plastic.
"You bathe them cuts nistely and put some sticking-plaister on, and I'll tell you."
Elizabeth set down the potato basin, wiped her hands, and after filling a tin bowl full of cold water, and fetching a towel, she tenderly bathed the boy's dirty injured hands.
"Now tell me what they said about the doctor," she said coaxingly.
"Why, they gets saying things to try and get me took away. My old woman don't like me stopping."
"She's a dreadful old creature," said Elizabeth angrily, "and I won't have her here."
"So's your old woman a dreadful old creature," retorted Bob, "and I won't have her here."
"My mother's been dead ten years," said Elizabeth, battling with an obstinate bit of mud, "and I won't have you speak to me in that impudent way."
"Then you leave my poor old woman alone."
"You let her stop away instead of always coming down them area-steps, and you encouraging her."
"That I don't, so come now. She's my old woman and I'm very fond on her, but I wish she wouldn't come. She allus comes when I'm busy."
"And she ought to be very glad you are here."
"But she ain't. She says doctors are bad 'uns. And that they do all sorts o' things as they oughtn't to. She was in the orspittle once, and she said it was horrid, and if she hadn't made haste and got well they'd have 'sected her."
"Lor!" said Elizabeth, drying the boy's hands with a series of gentle pats of the towel.
"And she says she knows the doctor does them sort o' things on the sly, and that she shall take me away, and I don't want to go."
"Well, that didn't make you fight, did it?"
"Yes, it did, now. I was going to tell you, on'y you're in such a hurry, I went to take a letter for Miss Rich this morning, and as I was coming back, I meets mother, and she was asking me if I'd got any--" "Money?" said Elizabeth promptly.
"Well, s'pose she did? If your mother warn't dead, and hadn't any money, p'raps if she met you in the street she'd ask you for money. Then how would you like it if four chaps come and said, `Hallo, Bottles, how many dead 'uns have you got in the dust-hole?'"
"Lor! did they say that?" said Elizabeth, squeezing the boy's hand in the interest she took.
"I say don't! You hurt. Here, cut up some o' that dacklum and warm it, and stick it on. Then one on 'em said he looked through the keyhole one day, and saw the doctor sharpening his knife; and that set mother off crying, and she sets down on a doorstep, and goes on till she made me wild; and the more she cried and said she'd take me away the more they danced about, and called me body-snatcher."
"How awful!" said Elizabeth, holding a strip of diachylon at the end of the scissors to warm at the fire.
"But I got the old woman off at last for twopence, and soon as she'd gone I was coming home, and I met them four again, and they began at me once more."
"Did they, though?" said Elizabeth.
"Yes, and I pitched into 'em: and so would any one, I say. Why, it's enough to make the old woman fetch me away. I say, Liz, you don't want me to go, do you?"
"Indeed, but I do, sir."
"No, you don't. I say, Liz, I'm so precious hungry. Got anything to give a fellow?"
"No. You took out two slices of bread and dripping to eat as you went."
Bob nodded.
"Why you never went and give them to that old woman, did you?"
"Ah, your mother's been dead ten years," said Bob sententiously. "S'pose I did give it to her? It was mine, and I wasn't obliged to eat it, was I? Thankye, that'll do."
Bob patted the plaister down on his knuckles, and had reached the kitchen door, when Elizabeth of the smudgy face called him by name, and, with as near an approach to a smile as she could display, showed him a piece of pudding on the cupboard shell.
"And you said you wanted me to go," said Bob, with his mouth full, after a busy pause; "but I know'd you didn't mean it. I say, Liz, is that big gent with the rings and chains and shiny hat going to marry Miss Rich?"
"I don't know," said Elizabeth, suddenly growing deeply interested. "Why?"
"Because he's always coming to see the doctor, and whenever I let him in he asks me where Miss Rich is, and gives me something."
"Lor!"
"Yes, and he looks at her so."
"Do he, now? And what does Miss Rich say?"
"Oh, she only talks to him about its being fine or rainy, and as if she didn't want to stop in the room."
"Then she is," said Elizabeth triumphantly.
"Is? Is what?"
"Going to marry him. That's the proper way to a lady to behave."
"Oh!" said Bob shortly, and a curious frown came over his countenance. "I don't like him, somehow. I wish one didn't want money quite so bad."
Bob went up-stairs, and the place being empty he shut himself up in the surgery, to indulge in a morbid taste for trying flavour or odour of everything in the place, and fortunately so far without fatal or even dangerous results.
After a time he had a fit, and prescribed for himself _Syrup Aurantii_-- so much in cold water, leaving himself in imagination in the chair while he mixed the medicine, and going back to the chair to take it. After recovering from his imaginary fit, he spelled over a number of the _Lancet_, dwelling long over in account of an operation of a novel kind; and ending by standing upon a chair and carefully noting the contents of the doctor's glass jars of preparations, which he turned round and round till he was tired, and came down, to finish the morning by helping himself to about a teaspoonful of chlorate of potassium, which he placed in his trousers-pocket, not from any intention of taking it to purify his blood, but to drop in pinches in the kitchen fire and startle Elizabeth.
"Teach her not to say things agen my old woman," said Bob. "Just as if she can help being old!"
|
{
"id": "24871"
}
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5
|
A SISTER'S TRIAL.
|
"Don't ask questions. There's the money; take it. You don't think I stole it, do you?"
"Stole it, Hendon dear? No, of course. How can you talk so?"
"Then, why don't you take it?"
"Because, as your sister, I think I have a right to know whence it comes."
"And, as your brother, seeing how we live here, in everybody's debt, I don't think you need be so jolly particular."
"However poor we are, Hendon, we need not lose our self-respect."
"Self-respect! How is a man to have self-respect, without a penny in his pocket?"
"You just showed me pounds."
"Yes, now."
"How did you come by it, Hendon?"
"Don't ask," he cried impatiently. "Take it, and pay that poor girl some wages on account, and give young Bob a tightener. Don't be so squeamish, Rich."
"I will not take the money. You deceived me once before."
"Well, if I'd told you I won it at pool you wouldn't have taken it."
"No," said Rich firmly, "I would sooner have lived on dry bread. This money, then, is part of some gambling transaction?"
"It isn't."
"Then how did you come by it?"
"Well, then, if you will have it, Poynter lent it to me."
"Oh, Hendon, Hendon, has it come to this?" cried Richmond piteously.
"Yes, it has. What is a fellow to do? Home's wretched; one never has a shilling. The guvnor's mad over his essence, as he calls it, and I believe, if he saw us starve, he would smile and sigh."
"No, no. He is so intent upon his discovery, that he does not realise our position."
"His discovery! Bah! Lunacy! There isn't a fellow at Guy's who wouldn't laugh at me if I told him what the guvnor does. Rich, old girl, I'm sick of it! It was madness for me to go through all this training, when I might have been earning money as porter or a clerk. Everything has been swallowed up in the fees. Why, if Jem Poynter hadn't come forward like a man, and paid the last--" "What?"
"Well, what are you shouting at?"
"Did Mr Poynter pay your last fees at Guy's?"
"Of course he did. Do you suppose the money was caught at the bottom of a spout after a shower?"
"Hendon, dear Hendon!"
"There, it's no use to be so squeamish. If those last hadn't been paid, it would have been like throwing away all that had been paid before."
"I did not know of this--I did not know of this!"
"Don't, don't, dear! I couldn't help it. I used to feel as bad as you do; but this cursed poverty hardens a man. I fought against it; but Poynter was always after me, tempting me, standing dinners when I was as hungry as a hound; giving me wine and cigars. He has almost forced money on me lots of times; and at--at other times--when I've had a few glasses--I haven't refused it. It's all Janet's fault."
"Hendon!"
"Well, so it is!" cried the young fellow passionately. "If she hadn't thrown me over as she did--" "To save you from additional poverty."
"No, it didn't; it made me desperate, and ready to drink when a chap like Poynter was jolly, and forced champagne on me. I was as proud as you are once, but my pride's about all gone!"
"Hush! I will not hear you speak like that, Hendon, my own darling brother! For Janet's sake--" "She's nothing to me now. I was thrown over for some other fellow."
"How dare you, sir! You know it is not true! Dear Janet! Working daily like a slave, and offering me her hard earnings when we were so pressed."
"Did she--did she?" cried Hendon excitedly, and with his pale face flushing up.
"There," cried Richmond half-laughingly, half-scornfully, "confess, sir, that a lying spirit was on your lips. Say you believe that of Janet and that you do not still love her, if you dare!"
Hendon Chartley let his head fall into his hands, and bent down, with his shoulders heaving with the emotion he could not conceal, while his sister bent over him and laid her hand upon his head.
He started up at her touch, seized and kissed her hand, and then, going to the side of the room, he laid his arm against the panel and his brow upon it, to stand talking there.
"I can't help it, Rich dear," he groaned; "I feel like a brute beast sometimes, and as if I can never look her in the face again. I've drunk; I've gone wild in a kind of despair; and Poynter seems to have been always by me to egg me on, and get me under his thumb."
"My own brother!"
"Don't touch me, dear. I can't stop here. I'll do as Mark Heath did, and if Janet'll wait, perhaps some day I may come back to her a better man, and she may forgive me."
There was a pause.
"I don't believe anything of her but what is good and true; God bless her for a little darling--Why, Rich!"
He turned sharply, for a low moan had escaped his sister, and he found that she had sunk into a chair, and was sobbing bitterly, with her face in her hands.
"Rich darling, I did not mean it. What have I said?"
"Nothing, nothing, dear; only you--you must not leave me."
"But Mark Heath--Ah! what a fool I am!" he cried, catching his sister in his arms. "I did not think what I was saying; and, Rich dear, hold up, I don't believe the dear old boy is dead."
"Hush, Hendon dear," said Richmond, mastering her emotion; "I want--I want to talk to you about Mr Poynter."
"Yes, all right. Sit down, dear, and I won't be such a fool."
"You must not leave me."
"I won't. I'll stop and fight it out like a man. And as for James Poynter, I wish I hadn't let him pay those rates."
"What?"
"I didn't like to tell you, but I let out to him about the gas and water and the rest of it, and next day he gave me all the receipts. It was one night after I'd dined with him at his club, and I was a bit primed. I thought it was very noble of him then, but when I saw it all I did nothing but curse and swear. It was nearly the death of a patient at Guy's, for I forget what I was about. Hang it, Rich dear! don't look so white as that."
"I--I was wondering why we had not been troubled more," she stammered; and then, with her face flushing, she turned fiercely upon her brother.
"Hendon," she cried, "do you know what this means?"
There was utter silence, and Hendon Chartley turned his face away.
"I say, do you know what this means? Hendon, speak?"
"Yes."
It was slowly and unwillingly said.
"And you have encouraged this man to make advances to the woman your best friend--almost your brother--loved?"
"Oh, Rich!"
"Speak."
"No, no! I never encouraged him. I fought against it, and it has made me half mad when the great vulgar boor has sat talking about you, and drinking your health and praising you. Rich, I tell you I've felt sometimes as if I could smash the champagne bottle over his thick skull for even daring to think about you."
"And yet you have let him do all this!" cried Richmond, with her eyes flashing. "Hendon--brother, for the sake of this man's money and the comforts it would bring, do you wish to see me his wife?"
"Damn it, no! I'd sooner see you dead!" cried the young man passionately. "Say the word, old girl, and I'll fight for you as a brother should. I'll half-starve myself but what I'll get on, and pay that thick-skinned City elephant every penny I've had."
"And some day Janet shall put her arms round your neck, and tell you that you are the best and truest boy that ever lived."
"Ah! some day," said Hendon sadly.
"Yes, some day," cried Rich, clasping him in her arms. "Hendon dear, you've made me strong where I felt very, very weak, and now we can join hands and fight the enemy to the very last."
"When old Mark shall come back."
"Hush!"
"No, I'll not hush! When dear old Mark shall come back, and all these troubles be like a dream."
Richmond looked up with a sad smile in her brother's face, and kissed him once again.
"And Janet--" he said hoarsely, after he had returned her caress.
"Is acting as a true woman should. Take her as a pattern, dear, and show some self-denial."
"Why not take you, Rich?" he said kindly as he gazed in the sweet careworn face before him. "There, I won't ask you to have the money. I'm off; if I stop here longer I shall be acting like a girl. As for Poynter, if he comes and pesters you--" "Mr Poynter will not come," said Richmond, drawing herself up proudly. "He has acted like a coward to us both."
"One moment, Rich," said Hendon eagerly: "do you think--the governor--" "Has taken money from him? No."
"Thank God!"
"My father, whatever his weakness, is a true gentleman at heart. He would not do this thing."
Hendon advanced a step to take his sister in his arms, but in his eyes then she wore so much the aspect of an indignant queen that he raised her thin white hand to his lips instead, and hurried from the house.
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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6
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THE SURGERY IMP.
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Dr Chartley sat in his consulting-room, with a glass jar, retort, receiver, and spirit-lamp before him. The lamp was on the table, and made with its shaded light and that of the fire a pleasant glow, which took off some of the desolation of the bare consulting-room on that bitter night.
He had been busy over his discovery, and confessed that it was not so far advanced as he could wish.
"There is a something wanting," he had muttered more than once; and, wearied at last, he was thinking more seriously than usual of his son, of Richmond, and of James Poynter.
"It would place her above the reach of want," he said dreamily; "she would be happy if anything befell me. Yes, money is a power, and we are now so poor, so poor, that life seems to have become one bitter struggle, in which I am too weak to engage."
He sighed, and rose, walked into the miserably cold surgery, where Bob was diligently polishing the front out of the nest of drawers containing drugs, and having threads of cotton from the ragged duster hanging upon the broken knobs.
"Good boy--good industrious boy," said the doctor, patting his head gently, before taking up a little graduated glass, pouring in a small quantity from a bottle at the top of the shelves, and after turning it into a medicine glass, he filled up with water and drank it.
Bob took the glass the doctor handed to him, smiling.
"Good for a weary troubled old man, boy," he said, "but it will kill you. Don't touch--don't touch--don't touch."
He nodded and went back into the consulting-room, to compose himself upon the couch for his evening sleep, which he took according to custom, and from which he awoke refreshed and ready to work for hours, late into the night, at his wearisome chimerical task, with which he grew more infatuated the more his reason suggested that his work was vain.
The boy began to whistle very softly as the doctor disappeared. Then he washed and wiped the glass, and put it back in its place ready for use. After this he threw himself upon the settee, took hold of his right leg with his left hand, by the ankle, dragged it up, and held it across his body rigidly as if it were a banjo, and began to strum imaginary strings with his right hand, while in a whisper he sang a song about a yaller gal somewhere in the south, with close-shut eyes and a long wide mouth, and so on, through seven verses, with a chorus to each, all of which seemed to afford him the greatest gratification, and which he supplemented by leaping up and going round the surgery, holding out the imaginary instrument for contributions.
These were acknowledged with proper darky grimaces and grins, and seemed to be so abundant that Bob returned to the settee, and this time played the bones with a couple of pair saved from a brisket of beef, but without making a sound.
Another collection and another silent solo, this time on the tambourine, which the boy pretended to beat with frantic energy, ending by going on tiptoe to peep through the keyhole, and satisfy himself that the doctor was in a deep sleep.
There was no doubt about that, so the boy's hour or two of indulgence, on which he regularly counted, began.
He dashed at the settee, threw it open, stooped down to take something out, but rose again, closed the lid, and listened as if afraid of being caught.
Then shaking his head, he ran to the door, which opened into the lobby and then into the street, from which place he came, helping himself along by the wall to the settee, upon which he sank, and after lying down and laying his leg out carefully, he began to play double parts, that of surgeon and patient. For, after feeling the leg and shaking his head, he said to himself, "Ah, we'll soon put that right, my man."
Jumping up, he ran to a drawer, from, which he brought splints and bandages, trotted back to the settee, and with ghastly minuteness--the result of having been present at an accident, and studious readings of Dr Chartley's books--he proceeded to set a serious compound fracture, assuring himself that he bore it like a man, and that he need not be under the least apprehension, for in such a healthy subject the joint would knit together before long, and he would be as strong as ever.
All this was in company with the business he was carrying on of applying the splints and bandaging the broken leg; after which, by aid of the doctor's walking-sticks, he limped to the door, as there was no one to carry him, thanked himself for his kindness, and in imagination departed, leaving himself in the character of the doctor, whose walk he imitated as he drew out a large pill-box, opened it, and took a small pinch of magnesia as if it were snuff.
Another peep at the doctor through the keyhole, and a run to the door, to make sure of there being no interruption there, and then the boy's face assumed a very serious expression. He took the cloth from the little table in the corner, rolled up the hearthrug longwise, and tied it in two places with string, and then treating it as a patient, he laid it on the settee, and drew over it the table-cover.
He was not satisfied, though, and getting a square of paper, such as would be used to wrap up a bottle of medicine, he poked his finger through twice for eyes, made a slit for a mouth, and puckered the paper for a nose.
This rough mask he tied at the end of the long roll, drew the table-cover up to the face, and then came to see the patient, carried on an imaginary conversation with a colleague, and ended by going to a cupboard and getting out a long mahogany case.
Bob's reading for the past two years had not been the wholesome and unwholesome literature provided for our youth, but the contents of the doctor's little library, the _Lancet_, and the _Medical Times_. These proceedings were the offspring.
To carry out the next proceedings, Bob took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; informed his colleague that it was a bad case--a diseased heart--and the only hope for the patient's life was to take it out completely.
This Bob proceeded to do with goblin-like delight. He turned the table-cover half down before opening the mahogany case, which contained a set of long amputating knives; and these he tried one after the other, to satisfy himself about the edge before commencing the operation, with great gusto, cutting the string that bound the hearthrug, making an incision, and extracting the heart. Next the place was sewn up, the cover replaced, the knives put away with horrible realism, the patient's pulse felt and a little stimulus administered--the boy taking this himself--to wit, a little ammonia and water.
Next the table-cover was drawn off, the hearthrug restored to its place; and, grinning now hugely, Bob went to a drawer, and got out the doctor's tooth-drawing instruments--for the doctor belonged to the old school, and in distant times had not been above removing a decayed and aching molar from a patient's jaw.
The boy flourished the instruments about with evident enjoyment, going as far as to take a good hold of one of his teeth, but he refrained from pulling, and rubbed his half-numbed hands.
It suddenly seemed to occur to him that he had not put on his jacket, and resuming this, and proving its many buttons to be a sham, for it fastened in a feminine manner by means of a series of hooks and eyes, he made a bound to the settee, grinning with pleasure as he threw it open, dived down, and brought out a glistening white human skull, handling it with a weird kind of delight painted in his face.
He took the ghastly object, and fixed it upon a knob, one of those upon the back of the old-fashioned chair in the middle of the room, draped it round with the table-cover; and drew back to admire his handiwork.
"Oh, if our 'Lisbeth would come in now!" he said, with a chuckle, as he rubbed his hands down his sides before proceeding to the greatest bit of enjoyment he had in his lonely life at the doctor's.
From the very first the doctor's surgery and consulting-room had had a strange fascination for him, and whenever he was missing, the maid-of-all-work, who rarely showed her face out of the dim kitchen, knew that the boy would not be playing truant from his work or playing with other lads of his age, but would be found reading, dusting, or amusing himself in the surgery, smelling bottles, opening drawers, or standing on a chair, gazing at the ghastly preparations in one or other of the row of glass jars.
His pranks he managed to keep secret, arranging to enjoy them when the doctor was asleep, and he was not likely to be disturbed.
The present was his favourite feat from its reality. There was something to go at, he always said, and for the hundredth time, perhaps, after performing the operation, and restoring with the help of a little gum, he took up the doctor's tooth-key, fixed it carefully round a perfectly sound molar in the fine specimen upon whose excellences the doctor had before now lectured to students, and steadying the skull, the boy pretended to engage in a terrible struggle; then gave a quick twitch, and brought out the tooth, which he held with a smile as he struck an attitude before its silent owner.
The boy had seemed goblin-like before, but as he now stood there before the glistening relic of mortality, over which he had partly thrown the corner of the table-cloth, the scene was weird and grim in the extreme; for the one uncovered eye-socket seemed to leer at him in company with a ghastly pride, as if rejoicing at the relief the operation had afforded.
"Now yer better, ain't yer?" said Bob. "Eh? Ah, I thought you would be. He was a tight 'un. Some 'un coming."
Quick as thought, the boy snatched the skull from the back of the chair, slipped it into the long chest, closed the lid, thrust the tooth-key back into the drawer, and had thrown the cover on the table before the door at the end of the house-passage was opened, disclosing him, in spite of all his efforts, looking as if the mischief which lurked in the corners of his mouth, and flashed from his eyes, had been running to the full extent of its chain.
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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7
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AGONY POINT.
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"Is that all? What a fuss over a little pain!" What many would say to a suffering friend when sound and well themselves. What Richmond Chartley was ready to say to herself as she paced the room, with one hand pressed to her face, where the agonising pain seemed to start as a centre, and then ramify in jerks through every nerve.
Toothache, face-ache, neuralgia, according to fashion, but maddening all the same. A pain born of care and anxiety, close confinement, abstinence, the damp unchanging foggy air, and settled in the face of a heroine, to take, as it were, all the romance of her history.
But there it was all the same, fiercely stabbing, jerking, as if some virulent little demon were holding ends of the facial nerves in a pair of pincers, and waiting till the sufferer was a little calm for a few moments before giving the nerve a savage jig.
After the tug a pause of sickening agony, and then that slow, red-hot suffering again, as if a blunt augur was being made to form a channel beneath the teeth, so that the aching pains, as of hot lead, might run round without let or hindrance.
Neuralgia, with sleepless nights; neuralgia, with Hendon Chartley's progress at the hospital; neuralgia, with the trouble about Janet; neuralgia, with James Poynter's coarse vulgar face full of effrontery always before her, flaunting his possessions, his power, and his influence, and staring with parted lips over the words which somehow he had never yet dared to utter, but which sooner or later she knew must come.
Neuralgia, with the constant dread that some day her father would indulge too deeply in the opiate she knew he took every evening; neuralgia, with the constant carking care of the unpaid tradespeople: and, above all, that wearisome agony, mingled with the chilling heartache and those memories of the man from whom she had parted when in his ardent desire he had told her that it was for her sake he was going to leave England, to come back some day a rich man, and ask her to be his wife.
"Dead, dead, dead!" moaned Rich, as she paced the room; "and if I, too, could only be sleeping, for it is more than I can bear!"
But as the words left her lips, she threw her head back, and pressed her long hair from her face.
"What a coward I am!" she cried, "with others looking to me for help, and shrinking from bearing a little pain!"
She hurried to the door, telling herself that there was relief in the surgery for all she suffered; but as she went along the dark passage to the door she felt that there was one only anodyne for the greater pain she bore.
As she slowly approached there was a quick scuffing noise, a dull rattle as of something falling, and the loud closing of a heavy lid; then, as she opened the door, she found Bob turning to meet her with an innocent smile upon his face, while he was uttering a low humming noise, as if he were practising the art of imitating a musical bee.
"What have you been doing, Bob?" said Rich hastily.
"Me, Miss? Doing?" said the boy wonderingly. "I ain't a-been doing nothing. 'Tain't likely, 'mong all these here dangerous thinks;" and Bob waved his hand round the surgery, as if indicating the bottles and specimen jars.
"Because you have been warned frequently, sir, not to meddle."
"Course I have, Miss, and I wouldn't do no harm."
"Is my father asleep?"
"Jist like a top, Miss. He took his drops, and he's lying on the sofy, sleeping beautiful. You can hear him breathe if you come and put your ear to the keyhole."
"No, no," said Rich hastily; but, all the same, she walked quickly to the consulting-room door, and opened it softly, to look in and see across the table, with its chemical apparatus, the light of the shaded lamp thrown upon the calm, placid, handsome face, as the doctor lay back on the couch, taking his drug-bought rest according to his nightly custom.
Rich sighed and walked right in, the door closing behind her as she crossed the room, and stood gazing down, her head bent, and handy clasped, while for the moment she forgot her nerve-pains, and the tears started to her eyes.
"Poor father!" she sighed; "always so kind and gentle in spite of all. How do I know what he may suffer beneath the mask he wears?"
She thought of the prosperity they had once enjoyed, the many patients who came, and how, in this very room, as a child, he used to play with her long curling hair, while she, with childlike delight, emptied the little wooden bowl, and counted how many guineas papa had received that morning.
She recalled, too, the carriage in which she had sat waiting, while he, the handsome young doctor, had made his calls upon rich patients; and then, like a cloud, came creeping up the memories of the gradual decline of his practice, as he had devoted himself more and more to the dream of his life--this discovery of a vital fluid which should repair the waste of all disease, and with the indulgence in his chimera came the poverty and despair.
"Poor father!" she sighed again, bending down and kissing the broad white forehead; "there has never been anything between us but love."
She rose slowly, went to a corner where a faded old dressing-gown hung upon a chair, and this she softly laid over the sleeping man, gazed at the fire, which was burning brightly, and then stole away with the agonising pang, forgotten for the moment, sweeping back, and seeming to drive her mad.
"I see yer a-kissing of him, Miss," said Bob, grinning, as she closed the door.
Rich turned upon him angrily; but the boy was looking dreamily towards the doctor, and rubbing his shock head of hair.
"Don't he look niste when he's asleep like that? There ain't such a good-looking gent nowhere's about here as our master."
There was so much genuine admiration in the boy's tones that the angry look gave place to one of half amusement, half pity.
"I've often wondered whether if ever I'd had a father, he'd ha' been like the doctor, Miss. Ain't yer proud on him?"
"Yes, Bob, yes," she cried, laying her hand upon the boy's shoulder, while a strange sensation of depression, as of impending trouble, came over her, making her forget everything, and hardly notice the next act of the boy.
It is hardly fair to say that Bob's hands were dirty, but they were very coarse in grain, and discoloured, the nails were worn down, and the fingers were blue with chilblains where they were not red with the chaps which roughened them; and those were the hands which took hold of Rich's and held it for a few moments against the boy's cheek; while he rubbed the said cheek softly against the smooth palm, his bright eyes looking up at her as a spaniel might at its mistress. In fact, there was something dog-like and fawning in the ways of the lad, till the hand was drawn away.
"So'm I proud on him, Miss. He is a good 'un. For it's like 'evin being here. Why, I've been here two years now, and he never kicked me once."
"And used you to be kicked before you came here, Bob?" said Rich, feeling amused, in spite of herself, at the boy's estimate of true happiness.
"Kicked, Miss? Ha, ha, ha! Why, it was 'most all kicks when it warn't pots. Old woman never kicked me; but when she'd had a drop, and couldn't get no more, she was allus cross, and then she'd hit you with what come first--pewter pot, poker, anything, if you didn't get out of the way."
Rich's brow contracted, and then for the moment the pain neutralised that of the mind.
"But she didn't often hit me," said Bob, grinning. "I used to get too sharp for her; and she didn't mean no harm. Want me to do anything, Miss?"
"No, Bob, no," said Rich, turning away to the shelves, where the bottles stood as in a chemist's shop. "Poor boy! and the place is to him like heaven!" she thought.
"Want some physic, Miss?" said the boy excitedly; "which on 'em? I knows 'most all on 'em now."
"I want the belladonna," said Rich, with her face contracted once more.
"Why, that's one o' they little bottles up a-top where they're all pisons! Whatcher want that for?" said Bob suspiciously. Then, as he read her countenance. "Whatcher got--toothache?"
Rich nodded.
"Here, hold hard! you can't reach it, Miss. Let me get on a chair. Oh, I say! Let me pull it out."
The boy's eager sympathy and desire to afford relief, grotesque as it was, seemed so genuine, so grateful to the lonely girl, that she smiled at her poor coarse companion's troubled face.
"No, no, Bob," she said gently.
"Wish I could have it instead," he cried. "I do, s'elp me!"
"It will be better soon, Bob," she said, as the boy climbed up and obtained the little stoppered bottle from the top shelf.
"That's good stuff for it, Miss," said the boy. "Bottle's quite clean. I dusted all on 'em yesterday. Here, I know! let me put some on."
"You, Bob?" said Rich.
"Yes, Miss; I know. I've seen the doctor do it twiced to gals as come and wanted him to pull out their teeth, and he wouldn't. I'll show yer."
Bob ran to a drawer and took out a camel-hair pencil, and operated with it dry upon his own face.
"I'll show yer," he cried. "You begins just in front o' the ear and makes a round spot, and then yer goes on right down the cheek and along yer chin, just as if you was trying to paint whiskers. Let me do it, Miss." Rich hesitated for a moment, and then sat down and held her face on one side, while the boy carefully painted the place with the tincture, frowning the while and balancing himself upon the tips of his toes.
"Stop a moment, Miss," cried Bob. "Then he dropped two drops out o' this here blue bottle on a bit o' glass, and finished off with it just as you does with gum when you paint a picture."
Rich watched the boy anxiously as he took down a bottle labelled "Chloroform," but smiled and submitted patiently as the painting operation was completed.
"Feel better, Miss?" said the boy.
"Not yet, Bob; but I daresay this will do it good. Now put back those bottles, and don't meddle with them, mind."
"As if I didn't know, Miss! Why, I'm up to all the doctor's dodges now. There ain't a bottle on any o' them shelves I ain't smelled; and look at them things in sperrits," he continued, pointing to the various preparations standing upon one shelf, the relics of the doctor's lecturing days. "I knows 'em all by heart. I had to fill 'em with fresh sperrit once."
Rich turned and smiled at the boy as she reached the door; and then once more the young student was left alone, to go and peep through the keyhole to see if the doctor was fast asleep, and this being so, he ran to the door by the street, turned suddenly with his head on one side, raised his hands with the helpless, appealing gesture of the sick, and walked feebly to the cushioned chest, upon which he sank, with a low moan.
It was a clever piece of acting, studied from nature, and sinking back, he lay for a moment or two sufficiently long for the supposed patient to compose himself, before he assumed another part.
Leaping up, he went on tiptoe to the consulting-room again, peeped to see that all was right, and then, drawing himself up exactly as he had seen the doctor act scores of times, he slowly approached the settee, his face full of smiling interest, and sitting down in a chair beside the imaginary patient, he went through a magnificent piece of pantomime--so good that it was a pity there was no audience present to admire. For Bob had taken the doctor's glasses from the chimney-piece, put them on, and bent over the patient.
"Put out your tongue," he said. "Hum--ha! yes! a little foul."
Then he felt an imaginary pulse, his head on one side, and an imaginary watch in his hand.
"That will do," he said, returning the imaginary watch to its airy fob. "Now sit up."
Bob's ear was applied for a few moments to the phantom patient's chest.
"Breathe hard. That's it. Now more fully. Yes. Now a very long breath."
So real was the proceeding that a spectator would have filled up the void in his mind as Bob changed his position, holding his head now at the patient's back.
"Hah!" he ejaculated, as he rose. "A little congestion! Stop a moment."
He fetched a stethoscope from the chimney-piece, but instead of using it at once, proceeded to lay his hand here and there upon his imaginary patient's breast, and tap the back over and over again.
"Hah!" he ejaculated once more, as he applied his stethoscope now after a most accurate pantomimic unbuttoning of vest and opening of a shirt-front. "Yes, a little congestion!" he said again; and going back to the chimney-piece, he set the stethoscope on end as if it were a little fancy candlestick, took up a morocco case, and unhooking it, extracted therefrom a tiny thermometer, whose bulb he placed beneath his patient's arm-pit, and he was just about to see to what height the sufferer's temperature had risen, when there were steps again, and the boy had hardly time to hide the little tester, when the door opened, and, with a wild, dilated look in her eyes, Rich appeared again.
"Get me a small bottle," she said hastily. " 'Ain't it no better, Miss?"
"Don't talk to me!" cried Rich; "the pain is maddening. Is my father still asleep?"
"Yes, Miss; shall I wake him?"
"No, no. The bottle--the bottle!"
The boy hastily took a clean bottle from a drawer, and fitted it with a new cork from another, by which time, with the knowledge of one who had before now made up prescriptions for her father, Rich took down the chloral hydrate, and a graduated glass, pouring out a goodly quantity ready to transfer to the bottle the boy handed her, while he still retained the cork.
This done, Rich returned the chloral hydrate to the shelf, and took down another bottle labelled _quin. sulph. sol_. From this she poured out a certain quantity, and by the time the glass had shed its last drop, Bob was ready to hand another and larger bottle, which he had taken down with eager haste, as if fearing she would be first.
Rich glanced at it, saw that it was labelled _aq. dest. _, and filled up the medicine-bottle, the boy handing the cork, and then gazing sympathetically in the pain-drawn face before him.
"Hadn't you better let me take it out, Miss?" he said, but there was no smile in answer--no reply, Rich hurrying away, while the boy listened to her footsteps.
"Ain't she got it!" he muttered, and he stood listening still, for he heard voices at the end of the passage. " 'Lisbeth," he said, and there was a knock.
The boy opened the passage door softly, and a voice said.
"I've cut you some bread and cheese; it's on the kitchen table."
"Goin' to bed, 'Lisbeth?"
There was a grunt, and the sound of departing steps, while the boy stood gazing along the passage.
"So are you?" he exclaimed, closing the door, "Ain't she got a temper! I can't help my old woman coming. 'Tain't my fault. I shouldn't turn sulky if it was hern."
Bob did not go down for a moment, but stood thinking. Then he ran out softly, and down-stairs into the dark kitchen to fetch his supper, which he preferred to eat with the fragrant odours of drugs about him, and seated upon the chest which contained the grisly relics of mortality, and against whose receptacle the boy's heels softly drummed.
The stale bread and hard Dutch cheese rapidly disappeared, the boy looking very stolid during the process of deglutition. Then his face lit up, and for a space he went through his pantomime again, seeing patients, pocketing their fees, dressing wounds, setting limbs, and, above all, prescribing a medicine which he compounded carefully, and, to give realism to the proceedings, himself took.
It was not an objectionable medicine, being composed of small portions of tartaric acid and soda, dropped into a wineglass which contained so much water, into which had been dropped a little syrup of ginger, afterwards flavoured with orange or lemon.
Tiring of this at last, Bob turned to the settee, whose lid he had opened, and he had lifted out certain anatomical specimens for his farther delectation, when there was a sharp ring at the surgery bell, and an unmistakable sound in the consulting-room--a combination which made the boy leap up, and, quick as lightning, turn out the gas, which projected on its bracket just over the settee.
This done, there was a rapid click or two of bones being replaced, the sound of the closing lid in the darkness, and by the time the consulting-room door as thrown open, and a warm glow of light shone across the surgery, Bob had effected his retreat.
"Lights out?" said the doctor going back from the door, to return directly with a burning spill, when the gas once more illumined the gloomy surgery, and to this the doctor added the ruddy glow of the street lamp, as he opened the door of the little fog-filled lobby, which intervened between him and the street.
|
{
"id": "24871"
}
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8
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THE DOCTOR'S GUEST.
|
As Dr Chartley's hand was placed upon the latch the bell-handle creaked, and the wire was sawn to and fro, while the moment the door was opened a man in a soft slouch hat and pea-jacket, with an ulster thrown over his arm, laid his hand upon the doctor's breast, thrusting him back, passing in quickly, and hastily closing and fastening the door.
The doctor stood back more in surprise than alarm, as his visitor seemed to come in with a cloud of yellowish fog, which made him look indistinct and strange, an aspect heightened by his thick beard and moustache being covered with dew-like drops--the condensation of the heavy steaming breath that came from his nostrils as he panted hard, as one pants after a long run.
"May I ask--is any one ill?" exclaimed the doctor, to whom the sudden call at any hour of an excited messenger was little matter of surprise.
"In, quick!" said the visitor hoarsely; and pressing the doctor back once more, he stood listening for a few moments as if for pursuers, and then, wild-eyed and strange, he followed Dr Chartley into the surgery, closing the door and leaning back against it breathing heavily, his eyes staring wildly round, his sun-browned face twisting, while a nervous disposition to start and run seemed to pervade him in every gesture.
The fog and smoke which came in with him added to the strangeness of his aspect as he stood there; his hair rather long, unkempt, and wet with fog; his hands gloveless, and high boots spattered with mud and soaked with half-molten snow. There was more of the brigand in his aspect than of the honest man, and yet his drawn, agitated face was well featured and not unpleasing, besides which his wandering eyes suggested fear suffered, and not a likelihood of inspiring fear; unless it should be, as the doctor surmised, that he was mad, and the pursuit he evidently feared were that of his keepers.
It formed a strange picture--the bland, smooth shining-pated doctor facing this wild excited man standing with his back to the door, his hands outspread as if to keep it fast, and his head half-turned as he listened for the sound of steps in the stillness of the winter night.
"Will you be seated?" said the doctor blandly. "Can I be of any service?"
"Hush! Can you hear anything? There! that!" cried the newcomer, in an excited whisper. "They're coming!"
"Yes; mad," said the doctor to himself. Then aloud, "The sound you hear is the dripping of the melting snow on the pavement."
"Hah! Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes. Quite sure. Sit down, my dear sir. No, not here; come to my consulting-room. There is a fire."
The coolness of a doctor in dealing with ordinary delirium or insanity is in its way as heroic as the manner in which a soldier will face fire. To most men the advent of the strange visitor would have suggested calling in help or taking instant steps for self-preservations; but armed with weapons such as would prostrate his visitor should he prove inimical, the doctor calmly led the way into his consulting-room, poked the fire, turned up the lamp a little, and pointed to a chair, watching his visitor keenly the while to satisfy himself whether his behaviour was the result of fever, drink, or an unbalanced brain.
The man glared at the doctor for a moment, stepped quickly to the room door, opened it, listened, drew back again, closed it, and slipped the bolt on the inside.
Science-armed as he was, however, the doctor displayed no sign of trepidation, but sat down, waiting till his visitor came quickly back, threw his ulster over the back of the chair set for him, sank into it with a groan, dropped his face into his hands, and burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing.
"Hah!" said the doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "You seem overwrought, and--" The stranger started back at the touch, and was about to spring up, a cry of fear escaping his lips; and his slouched hat fell off, showing his wet brow, with the tangled hair clinging to it in a matted mass.
"I thought--" he gasped. "Ah, doctor, it is you!"
"Yes, sir; sit down and let's see. You seem quite exhausted."
"Don't you know me, doctor?"
"Know you? Good heavens!" cried the doctor in astonishment. "Mark Heath?"
"Mark Heath," said the visitor, sinking back with a groan.
"We thought you must be dead," said the doctor.
"You thought I must be dead," said the young man, passing his hand over his brow, and speaking in a strange and laboured way. "Yes, and I thought I must be dead--a dozen times over. I'm half dead now. What's that?"
He almost yelled the last words as he started to his feet again, his eyes wild, his right hand clinched, and his left thrust into the breast, as if in search of a weapon.
"I heard nothing," said the doctor. "Sit down."
"Some one in the street trying to get in."
"No, no, no. Sit down, my dear boy. Come, come: what's the matter?"
"Are you sure you cannot hear any one?"
"Quite, and even if I could, no one could get in without I opened the door."
"Hah!" ejaculated the young man, sinking down; "brandy! for God's sake, brandy!"
The doctor looked at him, hesitated, and ended by laying his hand upon his visitor's pulse, as he sat gazing strangely at the door.
If the doctor's soft touch had been that of white-hot iron the effect could not have been greater, for with a smothered shriek the young man sprang from his chair and stood at bay by the door.
"Why, Mark Heath, my good fellow, this will not do," said the doctor blandly. "There, there, come and sit down. I was only feeling your pulse."
A faint smile came over the young man's face, and he walked back to his chair.
"I thought it was one of those fiends," he said, with a shudder.
The doctor coupled the admission with the mention of the brandy, but he was not satisfied as to the symptoms, though, seeing his visitor's exhaustion, he went to his closet and took out a spirit decanter, with tumblers, poured a little into one glass, and was about to add water to it from the little bright kettle singing on the hob, when the young man snatched at the glass, and tossed off the brandy at a gulp; but even as he was in the act of setting down the glass, he started and stared wildly round towards the door.
"Hist!" he whispered.
"Pooh! there is nothing, my dear sir," said the doctor: "why, any one would think you were being hunted by the police."
"Hunted? Yes," cried the young man thrusting the glass from him, and leaning across and seizing the doctor's wrist, "hunted--always hunted; but there were no police, doctor; why were they not near to protect me?"
"Ah, yes," said the doctor, to humour his patient, as with keen interest he watched every change in his mien. "They are generally absent when wanted. So you have been hunted, eh?"
"Hunted! Yes; like some miserable hare by the hounds. They are on my scent now. Night and day, doctor, night and day, till they have nearly driven me mad."
"Mad? Nonsense! Your brain is as sound as mine."
"Yes, now; but they will drive me mad. Night and day, I tell you--night and day, I have not dared to sleep," continued the young man wildly; "no, I have not dared to sleep, for fear that I should not wake again."
"Indeed, Heath! And who hunted you?"
"Fiends--demons in human form. I have been so that I could not sleep for fear of them. They have always been on my track--on the road through the desert, across the mountains, at the port, on shipboard; they appeared again here in England, at the docks, at the hotel, in the streets; hunted, I tell you, till I have seemed to be hunted to death."
"Be calm, my dear boy, be calm. Come, you must have sleep."
"Sleep? Yes, if I could only sleep; but no, I could not--I could not-- only drink, doctor, drink; and it has never made me drunk, only keep me up--help me to escape from the devils."
"Ah, you have drunk a good deal, then?"
"Yes; brandy--brandy. It has been my only friend and support, doctor. I dared not go to an hotel; I was afraid to trust a bank; I had no friend to whom I could go; and I swore I would trust myself till I could get here safe in England."
"Where you are safe now."
"No, not yet, for they are tracking me. I got to Liverpool yesterday, and tried to throw them off; but they followed me to the hotel, and I dared trust no one there. They might have said I was mad, and claimed me; said I was a thief--a dozen things to get me into their hands."
"Be calm, Heath, be calm."
"Calm? How can a hunted man be calm with the jaws--the wet, hungry jaws--of the hounds on his heels--while he feels that in a moment they may spring upon him and rend him? Oh, doctor, doctor, you never were a hunted man."
"No, no," said the doctor blandly; "but we must master ourselves when we feel that excitement leading us astray."
"Ay, and I have mastered myself till I can do no more," cried the young man wildly; "I escaped from Liverpool."
"Escaped?"
"Yes, and managed to get to the train, as I thought, unseen; but at the first stopping station I saw the demons pass my carriage and look in. They had changed their dress, and disguised themselves, but I knew them at once, and that my attempts were vain. It was growing dark when we reached London, and when they took the tickets I waited till the train went on again, and then leaped for my life."
"You leaped from the train?"
"Yes. I wonder I did not when it was at full speed, faraway in the country."
"Hah!" ejaculated the doctor.
"I leaped from the train; but they were watching me, and they followed down the embankment and into a maze of little streets in North London yonder, where the fog and snow bewildered me; but I kept on all the evening, fearing to ask help of the police, dreading to go to an hotel for dinner. The dread, the want of sleep, have made me nearly mad. I did not know where to go, and at last, after struggling wildly to escape, I knew that my brain was going, that before long the dogs would drag me down. Then in my despair I thought of you."
"And came here?"
"Yes, for sanctuary, doctor. Save me from these devils--save me from myself. Doctor, is this to be the end of it all? I am alone--helpless: they may be listening even now. Doctor, for God's sake save me; I can do no more!"
Trembling in every limb, wildly excited, and with his despair written in every lineament of his face, Mark Heath dropped from his chair, and crept upon his knees before the doctor, holding up his clasped hands, and evidently so completely exhausted that he might have been mastered by a child.
"Yes, yes; of course, of course I will," said the doctor kindly. "There, come and lie down here on this couch."
"Lie down?" said the young man, with a suspicious look.
"To be sure; it will rest you. You are quite safe here."
"Safe? Am I safe?"
"Of course," said the doctor, spreading the fallen ulster over the young man's shivering form, as he slowly lay down.
"Stop! where are you going?"
"Only into the next room--the surgery," said the doctor, turning to face his visitor's fierce eyes as he started up from the couch.
"What for? Is it to admit those devils."
Mark Heath, in a fit of impotent rage, made a dash to reach the fireplace, but his feet were hampered by the ulster, and he would have fallen heavily had not the doctor caught him in his arms.
"Why, man," he said, "I was going to get you something to take-- something to calm you. It is impossible for you to go on like this."
The young man looked at him wildly.
"I can't help it," he said, calming down. "I have been hunted till I am afraid of everybody. Save me, doctor, for you can."
"Lie down, then; there: that's better."
"Yes. I am so helpless and so weak," the poor fellow moaned. "The brandy kept me up, but it makes me wild."
"Then you shall have something that will calm you, and not make you wild," said the doctor; and he went out of the room, leaving his visitor lying down with his eyes closed.
But the moment he was alone, Mark Heath started up on one arm, listening, and thrust his hand into his breast. He was listening for the unlocking of a door; but he heard the chink of a glass and the faint gurgle of some fluid, and he sank back with a sigh of relief.
"Rich--my darling," he said softly; "it is for you, sweet--for you!"
"There," said the doctor, re-entering with a glass; "drink that, and you must have some sleep. We shall soon get you right."
"Heaven bless you, doctor!" cried the young man, hysterically pressing his hand after draining the glass. "I feel in sanctuary here. Ah," he sighed, as he sank back, "to be at rest once more, and safe! Doctor, you must guard over me and what I have here."
"Oh, yes," said the doctor, sitting down after replenishing the fire. "Did you have a rough passage back?"
"I don't know--I know nothing but that those fiends were after me to get it, and I knew that they would kill me if they could only get a chance. A heated hare sees nothing but the hounds."
"No, of course not," said the doctor, speaking softly to keep his patient's attention, but watching him intently the while, to see the effect of his medicine. "Let's see, you have been away four years."
"Yes, four years," said Mark, speaking more calmly now. "Lost every penny, farming, doctor. No good."
"I am sorry to hear that."
"Then I tried--wagon-driving, and made a respectable living--doing regular carter's work till I had a team and wagon of my own; but I went one bad time--right across the desert, and found myself at last--seated on the last bullock of my team of twenty--by the wreck of my wagon-- doctor dying--for want of water."
"Ah! that was bad."
"Yes, but I was picked up by a party who came in the nick of time. They were going by across journey to the diamond-fields."
"Ah! you went there?"
"Yes, I went there," said the young man drowsily, and speaking in a restful manner and with many pauses. "Rough life, and for six months-- no good. Then luck turned. I went on. At last found--self rich man. Rather absurd, doctor--handful of stones--stones, crystals--handful in a leather bag. Soon nothing. I often laughed. Seemed so much trash, but the right thing. Very large some of them, and I worked on--digging--and picking. Knew I was a wealthy man."
"You were very fortunate, then?"
"Yes," was the drowsy reply. "Then began the curse of it. Couldn't keep it--secret. Found out that it was dangerous. Ought to have banked, but they were--were so hard to get. 'Fraid of everybody. Felt--felt should be murdered. Nearly drove--drove me wild. Made secret--secret plans--escape--get home--old England. To bring--to bring--bag of diamonds--leather bag--worth a deal--bring home myself. Followed--followed me. Three men--part of gang out there--gamble and cheat men--at play. Always--always--on my track--hunted--at bay--sea-- always watching--like tigers--Ah!"
He sprang up from his drowsy muttering state, in which he had been incoherently piercing together his imaginary or real adventures, and gazed wildly round.
"Who's that?"
"It is only I--Doctor Chartley. Lie down again."
"I thought they'd come, and I--I was telling them. Bag of diamonds. No. Nonsense! All rubbish! Poor man. Going home. 'Nough to pay his passage. All nonsense. No diamonds; no nothing."
He had sunk back once more, and went on muttering as he dropped asleep.
The doctor sat watching him, and then rose and tapped the fire together, picking up a few fresh pieces of coal to augment the blaze, which seemed to send some of the fog out of the room.
"Wild dissipation--gambling with Nature for treasure," said the doctor softly. "Imagination, poor wretch!"
The doctor bent down over his patient, who was now sleeping deeply, but had tossed the ulster aside, so that it was gliding down.
"Curious, this wild delirium," said the doctor, rearranging the improvised cover. "I often wonder that I have not made it a study and-- Good heavens!"
He started back from the couch, and stood staring at his patient for a few minutes before advancing again, and laying his hand upon his breast gently, and then thrusting it beneath the fold of the thick pea-jacket.
"It is not delirium; they--" The doctor hesitated a few moments after drawing back from the couch once more. Then, with his whole manner changed, he thrust his hand into the sleeping man's breast, glanced round, and, satisfied that he was not overlooked, drew forth a good-sized wash-leather bag, simply tied round the neck with a strip of the same skin.
"Stones," muttered the doctor, with his face agitated and his eyes glittering; and after balancing the bag in his hand and glancing at the sleeping man, he placed it upon the table, where the light of the lamp was upon it full.
Then ensued a period of hesitation, the doctor's fingers worked as he stood gazing down at the little yellowish-drab bag, and anon at his patient.
Then the newly awakened curiosity prevailed, and, unable to contain himself, he rapidly untied the string, drew open the bag, and saw that it was nearly full of large rough crystals, which sparkled in a feeble way in the light.
"Why, they must be worth a large sum," muttered the doctor, pouring out some of the stones into his hand, but pouring them back with a shudder. "How horrible!"
He did not say what was horrible, but hastily retied the bag and placed it back in the sleeping man's breast, before hurrying out into the surgery, and pacing to and fro in an agitated way.
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{
"id": "24871"
}
|
9
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THE STRANGE ACCIDENT.
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A change seemed to have come over Doctor Chartley. A short time before he was calm and placid, his movements were slow, and a pleasant stereotyped professional smile made his handsome face beam. But now all was changed; the smile had gone, and, as he had passed to and fro, the light from the gas bracket displayed a countenance puckered with curious lines and frowns, while the variations of shadow caused by his constantly-changing position seemed to have altered him into another man.
He went back into the consulting-room, and looked at his patient, to find him breathing more easily and plunged into a deep sleep; and as he bent over him his hand stole toward the prostrate man's breast.
He snatched it away angrily, and returned to the surgery, to resume his hurried walk, muttering to himself, his thoughts finding utterance in sound, till he started and looked about him, as if in dread of being overheard.
Stealing back to the consulting-room, he went to the closet, and took out the bottle which contained the result of his studies, and looked at it with a sigh. Then he raised the retort and its stand from the shelf, shook his head, and replaced it.
"And if I only had money," he thought, "I could carry out my experiments at my ease, and succeed. This miserable poverty would be no more; my children would be happy; and I should win a name which would become immortal."
He shook his head, his brow grew darker, and a terrible temptation attacked him.
"No one saw him come here. It is his fancy that he has been followed. One life. What is one life in this vast world? One life. Why, my discovery perfected would be the saving of the lives of thousands, hundreds of thousands, of generations of human beings in this teeming earth. Suppose he slept and waked no more? Ah!"
The doctor stood gazing down at the sleeping man.
"Such temptations come to all," he said softly; "and I have seen so many die that the passing away of one--well, what is it but the deep long sleep into which I could make him glide without pain?
"Ah, and afterwards? Poor lad! He came to me for sanctuary, and I had betrayed my trust. How could I look in the face of my son again--in the eye of my girl? Those clear eyes would read my secret, and I should be as one accurst."
He bent down over the sleeping man again, and in spite of himself his hand stole gently towards his heart, trembling.
"They are worth thousands," he said, "and they lie there as if of the value of a few pence. He came to me for refuge. Well, he shall not find that I have failed."
There was no tremor in his hand now as he re-arranged the cover over Mark Heath's breast, to stand afterwards calmly watching his guest; and then to go out into the surgery, turn down the gas, and slowly pace the floor, thinking deeply.
Every inch of the surgery was so familiar that the darkness was the same to him as the light, and the bitter coldness of the place seemed to refresh him.
At the end of a few minutes he stood perfectly still, thinking; and then going to one of the shelves, he ran his hand softly along the top row of small bottles, took one, and turned down the gas.
As he entered the consulting-room again, he glanced at the label, nodded his head in a satisfied manner, and after a glance at his patient he seemed to make up his mind what to do.
"Perhaps I shall sleep," he thought, "and if I do he may wake. It will be a simple way."
He smiled as he took the glass into which he had previously poured the brandy, and poured in a little more, to which he added sugar, and half-filled the glass with hot water from the kettle.
"He will be sure to drink that," he said, as he replaced the glass within easy reach of the sofa; and then removing the stopper from the blue bottle he held, replaced it partly in the neck, rested it upon the edge of the steaming glass, and began to count the drops which fell.
One--two--three.
Each drop at an interval after the one which had preceded it, while with his left hand he steadied the tumbler.
As the third drop fell into the glass there was a strange noise outside--a dull scuffling of feet, mutterings of voices, and then a low imperious tapping on the panel of the door.
At the first sound the doctor turned his head sharply and gazed in the direction of the door, while the rest of his body seemed to have become fixed in a cataleptic state, save that his eyes dilated and his jaw dropped.
And meanwhile, slowly and steadily, drip--drip--drip--drip, the globules of fluid fell from the tip of the blue bottle into the steaming glass at last in quite a stream.
A strange dread had overcome the doctor. His patient's words about his diamonds had proved to be true; were the rest, then, true--that he had been pursued by men whose aim it was to plunder, perhaps murder him, and they had really traced him down here?
"Bah! am I turning childish?" said the doctor, starting up, and letting the stopper fall back into its place in the bottle, just as his patient moaned slightly, turned impatiently in his sleep, and the ulster glided to the floor.
The doctor stooped quickly, raised it, and threw it over his patient, and, as he bent over him, listened intently to the repetition of the tapping.
"It might be," he said softly. "Pish! absurd! The wanderings of a diseased mind."
Catching up the bottle from where he had placed it on the table, he walked quickly towards the door, paused, returned, and stooped as if to pick up the poker. Then smiled at his folly.
He passed softly out of the door, and closed it after him, to go to the shelves in the dark, where he made a clicking noise among the bottles, as he reached up; for there in the darkness the feeling once more assailed him that his patient might be right, while for the third time, more plainly heard now, there came a sharp tapping.
The doctor crossed to the gas bracket, turned it up, and as its light filled the surgery, he walked boldly to the lobby-door, opened it, and the dull red glare from the fanlight over the outer door shone upon his handsome placid face.
The next moment he had opened the outer door, and was gazing at a group of three men.
Mark Heath's announcement flashed through his brain once more, and then gave place to the ideas furnished by his visitors.
"Thought you were a-bed. Couldn't find the bell. This cursed fog, sir. Our friend here knocked down by a cab, and we saw your red light as we were trying to get him to our hotel."
"Tut, tut, tut!" ejaculated the doctor. "Bring him in, gentlemen."
He glanced at his visitors. Saw that they were well-dressed men in ulsters and low-crowned hats, and that the speaker was a well-built fellow with a closely-cut beard; while another was a rather Mephistophelean-looking man, with cheeks closely shaven, and upper lip bearing a bristly moustache.
Between them they supported a slight, young-looking companion, who was moaning slightly, but evidently making an effort to be firm.
"Mind, Harry--Rogers," he said, in a high-pitched voice, "it's as if something red-hot was running through my chest! Ah-h-h!"
"Support him, gentlemen," said the doctor. "Mind he doesn't faint. Here, quick! Here!"
He spoke in sharp, decided tones, as he directed and helped them to lay the injured man upon the settee, where he subsided with a querulous cry, grinding his teeth the while, and compressing his lips.
"Kindly shut both doors," said the doctor; and the man who had first spoken, and who looked very pale, obeyed.
"So cursedly unlucky!" he said excitedly. "I never saw such a fog. They've no business to allow men to drive fast on a night like this."
"Don't talk, old chap. Not serious, I hope, doctor?" said the Mephistophelean man. "Cab seemed to come out of the fog, and he was knocked down. I got an ugly blow on the shoulder."
"Get me some brandy," said the injured man faintly. "My chest's crushed."
"No, no, not so bad as that," said the doctor kindly. "You shall have a stimulus soon. Now, then, suppose we see what the damage is. A broken rib, I expect, and that will only mean a little pain. Now, then."
His busy fingers were rapidly and tenderly unbuttoning the injured man's coat, while a gasping moan came from his lips.
"Hurts me horribly--to breathe, doctor."
There was a gasping sound, and the Mephistophelean man reeled, tried to save himself, and fell against the consulting-room door, which somehow flew open, revealing the sleeping figure of Mark Heath on the couch.
"My dear sir--faint?"
"I beg your pardon, doctor," said the sinister-looking man. "Sick as a great girl. I can bear pain, but to see him like that turned me over. No, no, see to him; I'm better now."
The doctor continued his task, while the door swung to once more.
"Still feel faint?" said the doctor, without looking up.
"Oh, no; it's all gone now. I really am ashamed."
"Nothing to be ashamed of, my dear sir. It is a man's nature. Now I shall be obliged to ask one of you to lend me a little assistance here."
The bearded man stood ready, and exchanged a glance with his Mephistophelean companion, who was behind the doctor now.
"Ah!"
Dr Chartley uttered a quick ejaculation, for, as he bent over his patient, the man behind struck him a heavy blow with a short thick life-preserver, and, quick almost as lightning, delivered another crashing stroke on the back of the head.
Without so much as a groan, merely a catching at the air, the doctor fell forward upon his supposed patient, and then rolled with a dull heavy sound upon the carpet, to lie motionless--to all appearance dead.
"Yah! what a butcher you are, Rogers!" said the sham patient, in a querulous high-pitched tone.
"Hold your row! Quick! Listen at that door."
The sham patient sprang to the door at the end of the passage, opened it softly, and stood listening.
"All right," he whispered, "still as death."
"Curse you! hold your row about death," whispered the other as the door was closed. "Lock it."
"I was going to," said the younger man, turning the key softly. "Is he there, Harry?"
"Yes; all right," came in a whisper from the bearded man, who had softly opened the consulting-room door and peered in at the sleeping figure upon the couch. "Quick! come on."
The man addressed as Rogers had stooped down and then gone on one knee, thrusting the life-preserver into his pocket while he examined the doctor, and not noticing that it slipped out onto the skirt of his coat, and rolled aside as he finished his examination, and satisfied himself that there was nothing to be apprehended there.
He started up, and followed his companion on tiptoe, and the next minute they were gazing down at the man they had tracked from the diamond-fields and run to earth at last.
"Hah!" exclaimed the Mephistopheles of the party; "that's right. Give him one if he moves."
This to his bearded companion, who had drawn a life-preserver similar to that his companion had used, as he bent over the sleeping man.
"He has had a dose," was whispered back. "You can smell his breath."
"Brandy. All right!" cried the youngest of the three, catching up the decanter, smelling it, tasting it with a loud smack of the lips, and pouring out a goodly portion in the empty glass, he handed it to his first companion. "Here, Harry."
"Sure it's all right?" was whispered back.
"Swear it. Now, Rogers."
"Here's mine," said the man, with a grin. "Hot with. Quick, lads!"
"Don't touch that," was on the younger man's lips; but his companion raised the glass with a laugh, and as he followed his example by putting the decanter to his mouth, the doctor's assailant literally poured the contents of the tumbler down his throat, and then stood still, put the glass back on the table, gasping and staring straight before him.
His companions were not heeding him, for each drank eagerly of the brandy, and were setting down the decanter and glass, when the younger man spoke: "Why, Rogers, old chap!"
The man addressed turned his wild staring eyes at him for a moment, as if to answer, and then walked blindly between the sofa and the table, as if to go straight to the wall, reeled and fell, catching at the cloth, which he dragged aside, nearly causing the lamp to go crashing on the floor.
For a few moments the others stood aghast, staring at their prostrate companion, who writhed slightly for a brief period, uttering a curious sound, and then lay upon his back, stretched out motionless.
The younger man was the first to recover himself.
"Help!" he gasped, in a hoarse whisper.
"Hush!" cried his companion; "are you mad?"
He raised his life-preserver threateningly, and the other gazed at him with ghastly face and staring eyes.
"What shall we do?" he whispered.
"Keep your head, and don't be a fool," was the reply.
As the bearded man spoke he went down on one knee, thrust his hand into his comrade's breast, and then rose quickly.
"What is it, Harry--poison?"
"Yes, grim death, lad."
"Then, we've got it, too."
"No--all right. The fool! Smell that glass."
He took up and held the tumbler to his nose, and then passed it to his companion, who smelt it, and put it down with a shudder.
"Come on," he panted; "let's get away."
"Without the diamonds--now?"
"I'm no use," groaned the younger man.
"Hold up, curse you! It's fortune of war. One man down. Prize-money to divide between two instead of three."
"Hah!" ejaculated the other, upon whom his comrade's words acted like magic. "I'm all sight, now. Quick! let's have 'em!"
The elder man had already thrust his hand into Mark's breast.
"Well?"
"All right."
"Are they there?"
"Yes; safe enough."
"Get 'em out, then, and let's go. Curse it! Look at old Roger's eyes."
There was a dull heavy sound of a door banged, and the two men started up in an agony of dread that the spoil for which they had toiled so patiently and long, never getting it within their clutch till now, was about to be snatched away.
It was a door that had been banged, and in their ignorance of the configuration of the place they did not realise that it was in the next house.
"Keep your head," said the elder man.
"Right. I'm cool enough," was the reply. "Quick! get 'em out, and let's go!"
"It would take half an hour to get at them. He has a belt buckled round his waist under everything, and there'll be stones sewn into his clothes all over."
"Curse it all!"
"Hush! Quick! Take hold of that ulster, and there's his hat."
"What are you going to do?"
"We've got him. He's drugged, and we can do what we like."
"What! bring him away?"
"Yes. Quick! take hold of that arm!"
"But if he wakes?"
"Send him to sleep, as we did the doctor. Now, held your row, do as I do, and keep your head."
The younger man obeyed, and catching Mark Heath's arm, as his companion had done on the other side, they placed his hat upon his head, and in a half-conscious way he made an effort to walk, so that they had no difficulty in getting him into the surgery.
"Now, then, button-up. I'll hold him," said the elder man.
"But when we get him in the street?" whispered the other.
"Well--what? He's drunk. We'll get him in a cab. No one will interfere. Leave it to me, and back me up. Quick! shut that door; and then turn on the light."
The orders were obeyed; and as soon as they stood in the darkness the lobby-door was opened, where the red light gave them sufficient illumination to finish their proceedings.
Another minute, and, their victim's arm well gripped on either side, the elder man said hoarsely, "Ready?"
"Yes; but are you sure that he had the stuff on him?"
"Trust me for that. Now, be cool, and the diamonds are ours. Off!"
The outer door was opened, and with very little difficulty Mark Heath was half-lifted, half-led outside, in an inert, helpless condition, his brain steeped in sleep, and his mind a blank. Then the two men stood in the snow, listening for a sound within the house.
It was the elder who spoke then: "Get your arm well under him. Hold hard! Shut the door. Mind he don't slip down. It's dark as pitch. Now, then, come on."
At that moment John Whyley turned on his lamp.
|
{
"id": "24871"
}
|
10
|
"AY, MARRY IS'T; CROWNER'S QUEST LAW."
|
A jury of men, chosen with the careful selection always made by the coroner's officer, and with such extraordinary happy results, sat solemnly and listened to the evidence, after hearing the coroner's preliminary address, and viewing the body of the deceased.
Witness by witness, all were examined. John Whyley told all he knew, and produced the life-preserver; Richmond Chartley, brought from her father's bedside, where he lay perfectly insensible, gave her account of the proceedings, and directly after joined Janet Heath, who was her companion, and sat down to try once more to disentangle her thoughts, which, from the time she had left the surgery with the bottle of chloral till she was alarmed by the persistent ringing of the doctor's night-bell, had been in a state of wild confusion.
Hendon Chartley gave his evidence. How he had been spending the evening with a gentleman of his acquaintance, and on letting himself in with his latch-key he had heard voices in the surgery, and gone there.
Mr James Poynter, the gentleman with whom Hendon Chartley had been dining corroborated the last witness, and seemed disgusted that he had not a better part to play, especially after his announcement to the coroner that he was a great friend of the family.
For some reason of their own, the sapient jurymen exchanged glances several times during the evidence of the last two witnesses, and shook their heads, while one man began to make notes on the sheet of paper before him with a very scratchy pen, whereupon two more immediately caught the complaint, and the foreman regretted to himself that he wasn't as handy with ink as he could wish.
The surgeon was of course a very important witness, and he told how the man upon whose body the inquest was being held had undoubtedly died of an excessive dose of hydrocyanic acid, of which poison there was, naturally enough, a bottle in the doctor's surgery; but how it had been administered, whether by accident, purposely, or with suicidal intent, it was impossible to say; and apparently the only man who could throw any light upon the subject was Doctor Chartley himself, who was now lying in a precarious state, perfectly insensible from the pressure of bone upon the brain, and too feeble for an operation to be performed.
"Not the only man," said one of the jury; "three men were seen by the policeman to leave the surgery."
The coroner said "Exactly;" and there was a murmur of assent; while, after stating that it was impossible to say how long Dr Chartley would be before he could appear, and that it was quite possible that he would never be able to give evidence at all, the surgeon's evidence came to an end.
Elizabeth Gundry was called; and a frightened-looking smudgy woman came forward, trembling and fighting hard not to burst into tears, hysterical sobbing having filled up so much of her time since the foggy night that her voice had degenerated into an appealing whine. She was smudgy-looking, but undoubtedly clean; only life in underground kitchens, and the ingraining of London blacks with the baking process of cookery, had given her skin an unwholesome tinge, which her reddened eyes did not improve.
Questioned, she knew nothing but that she thought she had heard the doctor's bell ring; but that she always put her head under the clothes if she did hear it, and she did so that night. Further questioned why, she said with sobs that it was a very large house, and nobody was kept but her and Bob; and she was "that tired when she went to bed that she thought it weren't fair to expect her to get up and answer the night-bell, and so she never would hear it if it rang. It warn't her place; for though she did housemaid's work, and there was two sets of front-doorsteps, she considered herself a cook."
Here there was a furious burst of sobbing, and the foreman of the jury wanted to know why.
Now he, being a pleasant-looking man, won upon Elizabeth Gundry more than the coroner did, that gentleman being suggestive of an extremely sharp ratting terrier grown fat. So Elizabeth informed the foreman that her grief was, of course, partly on account of master, and she thought it very shocking for there to be a murder in "our house;" but what she wanted to know was what had become of Bob, whom she was sure one of those bad men had smuggled away under his coat.
Of course, this brought Bob to the front, and, growing garrulous now, Elizabeth informed everybody that Bob was a regular limb, but evidently a favourite; and since Bob had answered her out of the surgery regarding his supper, Bob had not been seen or heard of, and it was her opinion that he had been killed, so as not to tell all he knew.
Bob's bed had not been slept in; Bob's hat was hanging in the pantry, and the police had not been able to discover where Bob had gone.
The mystery seemed to thicken, and Elizabeth was questioned till she broke down sobbing once more, after declaring that Bob was the mischievousest young imp as ever lived, but she was very fond of him; and if it hadn't been for his wicked old tipsy mother, who was no better than a thief, there weren't a dearer, more lovable boy in the "old world."
The sergeant of police and John Whyley made notes, afterwards compared, about Bob and his mother, and Elizabeth went off crying and refusing to be comforted because of Bob.
Then the sergeant stated perspiringly in the hot room, buttoned up in his coat, that the cabman had been found; and in due course a red-nosed, prominent-eyed member of the four-wheeled fraternity corroborated John Whyley's evidence as to the three men whom he took in his cab. He reiterated the statement that "one on 'em was very tight;" told that he drove them to an hotel in Surrey Street, close to the Embankment, and corrected himself as to the driving, because "You see, gents, it was like this here: the fog was that thick, if you sat on the box you couldn't see the 'oss's tail, let alone his ears, and you had to lead him all the way."
Did the men go into the hotel?
He couldn't say; they helped out the one as was so very tight, and they gave him arf-suffrin--first money he'd took that night, and the last, on account of the fog.
And where did the three men go--into the hotel?
He didn't know; they seemed to him to go into the fog. Everythink went into the fog that night or come out on it. It was all fog as you might 'most ha' cut with a knife; and when he had a wash next morning, his face was that black with the sut you might ha' took him for a sweep.
But the man who seemed to be drunk, did he say anything?
Not a word.
"Would he know the men again?"
Not likely; and besides, if he took notice of all parties as was very tight, and as he took home in his keb, he'd have enough to do. That there fog was so thick that-- The coroner said that would do, and after the people at the hotel had been called to prove that no one had entered their place after eleven o'clock that night, and that the bell had not been rung, the coroner said that the case would have for the present to be left in the hands of the police, who would, he hoped, elucidate what was at present one of the mysteries of our great city. He did not think he was justified in starting a theory of his own as to the causes of the dramatic scene that must have taken place in Dr Chartley's surgery. They were met to investigate the causes of the death of this man, who was at present unknown. No doubt the police would be able to trace the three men who left the surgery that night, and during the adjournment Dr Chartley would probably recover; and so on, and so on; a long harangue in which it seemed as if the fog, of which so much mention had been made, had got into the evidence.
Finally the coroner said that he did not think he should be doing his duty if he did not mark the feeling he had with respect to the conduct of the police-constable John Whyley.
The gentleman in question glowed, for he felt that he had suddenly become a prominent personage, with chevrons upon his arm to denote his rise in rank. Then he froze, and his face assumed a terribly blank expression, for the coroner went on to say that never in the whole course of his experience, which now extended over a quarter of a century, had he been cognisant of such utterly crass stupidity as that of this policeman--a man who, in his opinion, ought to be dismissed from the force.
John Whyley wished a wicked wish after the jury had been dismissed, and orders given for the burial of the Mephistophelean-looking man, lying so stiff and ghastly in the parish shell--and John Whyley's wish was that it had been the coroner instead of Doctor Chartley who had got "that one--two on the nob."
|
{
"id": "24871"
}
|
11
|
MR POYNTER POLISHES HIS HAT.
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James Poynter rang four times at Dr Chartley's door-bell, and rapped as many at the great grinning knocker tied in flannel, before he heard the chain put up and the lock shot back, to display the smudgy unwholesome countenance of Elizabeth Gundry, who always blinked like a night-bird when forced to leave her dark kitchen.
"There, hang it, woman, open the door!" cried Poynter. "Do you take me for a thief?"
"No, sir, I didn't know it was you; but I am so scared, sir, and they ain't found Bob yet."
Elizabeth did not hear what James Poynter said about Bob, for she closed the door, took down the chain, opened slowly and grudgingly, and the visitor entered.
"How's the doctor?"
"Awful, please, sir, just; he's there with his eyes shut, as if he was going to die, and Miss Rich and Miss Janet taking it in turns to sit up night and day."
"Ask Miss Chartley to come down and see me."
"Which, please, sir, she said as she couldn't see nobody now."
"You go and do as I tell you."
"Which it ain't my place, sir, to answer the front-door-bell at all. Poor Bob!"
She ended with a sob, and put her apron to her eyes.
"I say," said Poynter, giving her apron a twitch and dragging it down, "look here."
"Well, I'm sure!" began Elizabeth indignantly.
"Look here; have your wages been paid?"
"Lor', no, sir, not for ever so long," said Elizabeth, with an air of surprise at the absurdity of the question.
"Then look here, Elizabeth: you know what I come here for, don't you?"
"I think I can guess, sir," said the woman, suddenly becoming interested and smiling weakly.
"Of course you can. You're a sharp 'un, that's what you are. So look here: the day I'm married I'll pay your wages, and I'll give you a fi'-pun note to buy yourself a new bonnet and gown. Now go up and say I'm waiting to see Miss Richmond on particular business."
Elizabeth's eyes opened widely, and there was a peculiar look of satisfaction therein, as she closed the door, led the way into the dining-room, and then, after giving the visitor a nod of intelligence, she left him to go up-stairs and deliver her message.
"Pah! how the place smells!" muttered Poynter. "Any one would think that chap was here now. A nasty, damp, fusty hole!"
He listened eagerly, but the step he hoped to hear was not coming, and he began to walk up and down, twisting his silk handkerchief round, and polishing his glossy hat the while.
"I'm screwed up now," he muttered. "I'm not afraid of her. She can't say no, but if she does, she's got to learn something. Perhaps she don't know what putting on the screw means, and I shall have to teach her. All for her good. Hah!"
There was no mistake now; a step was descending the stairs, and James Poynter once more looked round for a mirror for a final glance; but there was nothing of the kind on the blank walls, and he had to face Richmond unfurbished.
She entered the room, looking quite calm, but very pale, and the blue rings about her eyes told of her sufferings and anxiety. There was a slight heightening of her colour, though, for a few moments, as the visitor advanced with extended hand, in which she placed hers for a few moments before motioning him to a seat.
"How's the doctor?" he said huskily, and then coughed to clear his throat.
"Very, very ill, Mr Poynter," was the reply. "I am sorry, but I must ask you to please see Doctor Maurice, who has promised to attend any of my father's patients if they called."
"Oh! bother Doctor Maurice! I'm better now. Quite well."
James Poynter had partaken of the greater portion of a bottle of champagne before he came, so as to screw himself up, as he termed it; and there was plenty of decision of a rude and vulgar type as he spoke.
"I beg your pardon; I thought you had come to consult my father. You have come to see how he was?"
"No, I didn't? You know what I've come for."
Richmond did know, and perfectly well; but as she scorned to make use of farther subterfuge, she remained silent.
"I'm a plain fellow, Miss Rich, and I know what's what," he said, "Hendon and I've had lots of chats together about money matters, and you want money now."
"Mr Poynter!"
"Now, now, now! sit down, and don't get in a wax, my dear, with a man who has come as a friend. I'm well enough off now, but I know the time when a half-crown seemed riches, and if a friend had come to me, I'd ha' said `Bless yer!'"
"If you have come as a friend of my brother, Mr Poynter, I am grateful."
"Now, don't put me on one side like that, Miss Rich--don't. I have come as a friend--the best of friends. I know what things are, and that you're pushed for money."
"Mr Poynter!" indignantly.
"Yes, I know what you are going to say. 'Tain't put delicate. Can't help that. I'm a City man of business; but if it ain't put delicately it's put honest. We don't put things delicately in the City."
"I have no doubt of your intentions, Mr Poynter, and I am grateful."
"Thank you, and that's right. Now, don't kick at what I'm going to say, and let it hurt your pride, because it is only between you and your best friend--the man as loves you. There, I came to say that, and I'm glad it's out."
"Mr Poynter," said Rich hastily, "I am worn out. I am ill. I have that terrible trouble in the house. It is not the time to speak to me like this."
"That's where you're wrong, my dear; for when should your best friend come if it isn't when you're sick, and so pushed for money that you don't know where to turn?"
"Oh, the shame of it!" moaned Rich to herself, as her eyes flashed with mortification, while Poynter went on polishing his hat.
"You see I know all about it, and I want to show you that I'm no fine-weather friend."
"Mr Poynter I have told you that I am ill; will you please to bring this visit to an end? I--I cannot bear it."
"Yes, you can," he said, in what was meant to be a soothing tone; "let's have it over at once, and have done with it. I won't hurry you. I only want to feel that it will be some day before long; and till then here's my hand, and it don't come to you empty. Say what's troubling you, and what you want to pay, and there's my cheque for it. I don't care how much it is."
"Mr Poynter," cried Rich, "you force me to speak out. I cannot take your help, and what you wish is impossible."
"Oh, no, it isn't!" he said, smiling, and leaving his handkerchief hanging on his hat as he tried to take her hand, which she withdrew; "I saw the doctor the other day, before this upset. We had a long chat over it, and he was willing."
"What! my father willing?"
"To give his consent? Yes."
"It is impossible!" cried Rich.
"Oh, no, it isn't, and what's more, Hendon and I have often chatted this over together, and he's willing, too. Now, I say, what is the use of making a fuss over it? There, we understand one another, and I want to help you at once."
"Mr Poynter," cried Rich, "I now calmly and firmly tell you that what you wish can never take place. Will you allow me to pass?"
"No," said Poynter, flushing angrily, "I won't. Now, don't put me in a temper over this by being foolish. What's the good of it? You know it's for the best, and that as my wife you can help the old man, and get your brother on. See what a practise you could buy Hendon by and by."
"Mr Poynter, I have already told you, I can say no more."
"Don't say any more, then," he cried, barring her way of exit, as he gave his hat a final polish, and pocketed his handkerchief. "I respect you--no, I love you all the more for holding out; but there's been enough of it now, so let's talk sensibly. Come, I say. Why, after this upset some men would have fought shy of the place, even if you'd had a fortune. I don't: I come to you quite humble, and say what shall I do for you first?"
Rich stood before him pale, and with her eyes flashing in a way that penetrated even the thick hide of his vanity, and was unmistakable.
"Look here," he said angrily, "don't go on like that. It makes a fellow feel put out."
Richmond once more essayed to leave the room, but Poynter stayed her.
"Look here," he said, "I'm a City man, I am. I began life with nothing, but I said to myself I'd make my fortune, and I've made it. While other fellows were fooling about, I worked till I could afford to do as they did, and then, perhaps, I had my turn. Then I saw you, and when I had seen you I said to myself that's the woman for my wife."
"Mr Poynter!"
"Yes, and some day it shall be Mrs Poynter. I said it should, and so it shall!"
"Mr Poynter, will you leave this house?"
"No, I won't," he replied bitterly, "not till you've thrown all this nonsense aside, and made friends. What a temper! Now, look here, Rich, I've been afraid of you. I've come here to see the doctor, and I've shivered when I've seen you. I've wanted to speak to you, but my tongue has seemed to stick to the roof of my mouth; but that's all over now, and we're going to understand one another before I go."
"Sir, this is insolence!"
"Insolence!" he said, with the champagne effervescing as it were, in his veins. "No, it's love."
Richmond rang the bell.
"Bah!" he said, "what of that? When the girl comes--if she does--I shall tell her to go, for I mean to be master here now."
"Coward!"
"No, not a coward now," he replied, laughing. "Rich, do you know what I can do if I like? I can come down on brother Hendon for all he owes me, and how would it be then?"
Richmond winced, and the flush in her cheeks paled away, while Poynter saw it, and went on: "What should you say if I was to act like a business man would, and come down on your father!"
"What? My father! He does not owe you money?"
"Doesn't he!" said Poynter, with a mocking laugh. "You see you don't know everything, my dear. Come, what's it going to be--peace or war?"
"War!" said Richmond firmly. "My father cannot owe you money, and as to my brother, he would sooner die than see his sister sold as a slave to pay his debts."
"Would he?" snarled Poynter. "Why he's as weak as water; I can turn him around my thumb. You tried to keep him away. He wouldn't own it; but I know. He came, though, all the same, when I asked him; and he will come, too, as often as I like, and he'll help me to make you--Bah! nonsense! Come, don't let's talk like this: you're out of sorts, and no wonder, and I've come at a bad time. To-morrow you'll be cool, and you'll put that little hand in mine, and say, `James Poynter, you've acted like a man and my best friend, and I won't say no.'"
He tried to take her hand, but she shrank from him.
"Sir, I beg that you will not come here again," she said, drawing herself up. "I am not blind to your position with my brother, but--" "Your brother's a weak-minded young fool!" cried Poynter, who had now thoroughly become roused, so withering was the contempt written in Rich's eyes; "and--" He stopped short, for in the heat of the encounter neither had heard the latch-key in the front-door, nor the opening of that of the room, to admit Hendon Chartley, who stood still for a few moments, and then strode to his sister's side and put his arm round her.
"Yes," he said hoarsely, "I have been a weak young fool, James Poynter, to let you play with me as you pleased; but please God, with my sister's help, I'm going to be strong now, and if you don't leave this house I'll kick you out."
"You kick me out!" snarled Poynter, snatching his handkerchief from his pocket and polishing his hat savagely; "not you! So it's going to be war, is it? Why, if I liked--There, you needn't threaten. I'm not going to quarrel with you, my lad, because we're going to be brothers."
"Brothers!" cried Hendon, in tones of contempt.
"Yes, my lad, brothers. I've gone the right way to work, and you know it, too. There, we're all peppery now. Rich, my dear, you know what I've said. I'm not angry. It was only a flash, and you won't make me any the worse for speaking out like a man. Next time I come we shall be better friends."
He gave his hat a final polish, flourished his handkerchief, and left the room.
"Hendon, Hendon, what have you done?" cried Richmond, as soon as they were alone. "Had we not trouble enough without this?"
"The cad!" cried Hendon angrily.
"And after what had passed you went to him again!"
"How could I help it?" said the young man, with a groan. "I owe him money, and it's like a chain about my neck. He tugs it, and I'm obliged to go."
"And he hinted that our poor father was in his debt."
"The governor? Oh, Rich!"
Richmond said nothing, but returned to her watching by her father's pillow, asking herself whether the chain was being fitted to her own limbs, and whether, to save those she loved, she was to become this man's slave.
|
{
"id": "24871"
}
|
12
|
THE DREAMS OF A FEVER.
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A dreamy sensation of cold and thick darkness and stumbling on and on, with a dull light glowing about his head and fading away directly, then more darkness and stumbling on, and once more a dull yellow glow, and this fading away, with the darkness increasing. Then a slight struggle, and a few petulant remonstrances.
Why wouldn't the doctor let him sleep?
Then another feeble struggle, a sensation of passing through the air, a sudden plunge into the icy water, and then utter darkness, and a noise, as if of thunder, in his ears.
But the sudden immersion was electric in its effect, sending a thrill through nerve and muscle, though the brain remained still drowsily inert, while the natural instinct of desire for life chased away the helpless state of collapse; and Mark Heath, old athlete, expert swimmer, man hardened by his life in the southern colony, rose to the surface, and struck out, swimming slowly and mechanically, as if it were the natural action of his muscles. On and on, breasting the icy water, keeping just afloat, but progressing blindly where the tide willed; on and on through the darkness, with the yellow fog hanging like a solid bank a few feet above his head, as if the rushing of the water were cutting the lower stratum away.
Now a yellow light shone weirdly through the mist, came into sight, and after glowing for a moment on the murky current, died away.
On still, as if it were the tide--that last tide which sweeps away the parting spirit--stroke after stroke, given mechanically; and then there was another light--a dull red light, then an angry glow--a stain as of blood upon the black water; and it, too, died away, but not till it had bathed the upturned face with its crimson hue.
Onward still, the icy water thrilling the swimmer through and through, but seeming to bring with it no dread, no sense of horror, no recollection of the past, no fear of what was to come: the sensation was that he was swimming as one swims without effort in a dream.
A blow from some dark slimy object along whose side he glided, and then on once more.
Another blow against something which checked him for a time, and turned him face downward, so that the thundering recommenced in his ears; there was the sense of strangulation; and then he was steadily swimming on once more, past moored barge with its lights, past steamboat pontoon; and then with a rush he was driven against a stone pier; his hands grasped at the slimy stones without avail, he was turned in an eddy around and around, sucked under, and rose again, to swim on and on, till at last, in the darkness, his hands touched the muddy pebbles of the river shore, his knees struck heavily, and he crawled through a pool, and then staggered to his feet, with the water streaming from him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ What next? It was all as in a dream, in which, in the gloom of the thick night, he stumbled upon a flight of slippery steps, and walked up and up, and then along a road which he crossed again and again, and always walking on and on.
At times he guided himself by mechanically touching a cold rough stony wall, till somehow it was different and felt slippery, and his hand glided over the side.
Then darkness, and a sense of wandering. How long? Where? Why was he wandering on?
------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was all a dream, but changed to a time when his head was as it were on fire, and he was climbing mountains where diamonds glistened at the top, but which he could not reach, though he was ever climbing, with the sun burning into his brain, and the diamonds that he must find farther and farther away.
And so on, and so on, in one long weary journey, to reach that which he could not attain, and at last oblivion--soft, sweet, restful oblivion-- with nothing wrong, nothing a trouble, no weariness or care: it was rest, sweet rest, after that toilsome climb.
The next sensation was of a cool soft hand upon his brow, and Mark Heath opened his eyes, to gaze into those of a pale, grave-looking woman in white, curiously-shaped cap; and she smiled at the look of intelligence in his face as he said softly.
"Who are you?"
"Your nurse," was the reply.
"Nurse?"
One word only, but a chapter in its inquiring tone. "Yes," she said gently; "you have been ill. Don't try to talk. Take this, and lie quite still."
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Another long, dreamy time, during which there were noises about his head--the gentle, pleasant voice of his nurse, and the firm, decisive voice of the doctor. It might have been hours, it might have been days or weeks, he did not know; and then came the morning when he seemed to awaken from a long disturbed sleep, full of terrible dreams, with a full realisation of his position.
He looked about him, and there were people in beds on either side, while a row of windows started from opposite to him, and went on right and left.
At last he saw the face of the woman whom he felt that he had seen leaning over him in his dream.
She came to his bedside.
"Well?" she said, with a pleasant smile.
"Is this a hospital?" he said eagerly.
"Yes."
"And I have met with some accident--hurt?"
"No," was the reply; "not an accident. You have been ill."
"Ill? How came I here?"
He looked wildly in the calm soft face before him, and behind it there seemed to be a dense mental mist which he could not penetrate. There was the nurse; and as he lay, it seemed to him that he could think as far as their presence there, and no further.
"You had better wait till the doctor has been round."
"If you don't tell me what all this means," he said impetuously, "you will make me worse."
She laid her hand upon his forehead, to find that it was perfectly cool, and he caught her fingers in his as she was drawing them away. "Don't keep me in suspense," he said piteously.
"Well, I will tell you. The police brought you here a fortnight ago. They found you lying in a doorway, drenched with water and fast asleep. You were quite delirious, and you have been very ill."
"Ill? Yes, I feel so weak," he muttered, as he struggled to penetrate the mist which seemed to shut him in, till the nurse's next words gave him a clue to the way out.
"We do not even know who you are; only that they suppose you to be a sailor who has just left his ship."
"Heath--Mark Heath," he said quickly.
"Ah! And your friends? We want to communicate with them."
"My friends! No; it would frighten her, poor little girl!"
"The cause for alarm is passed," said the nurse gravely.
"Yes. Ah! I begin to recollect now," he said. "Send to Miss Heath--my sister--19 Upper Brunswick Avenue, Bloomsbury."
"Yes; and now lie still."
The nurse left him, and he lay thinking, and gradually finding in the mist the pieces of the puzzle of his past adventure, till he seemed to have them nearly all there.
Then came the doctor with a few words of encouragement.
"You'll do now," he said. "Narrow escape of losing your hair, young fellow. Next time you come from sea don't touch the drink."
Mark Heath lay back thinking, and with the puzzle pretty well fitted together now all but what had happened since, half wild with exhaustion and excitement, he had taken refuge at Doctor Chartley's.
"Don't touch the drink!" he muttered. "He thinks I have had D.T. Well, I did drink--brandy. I had some. Yes; I remember now--at the doctor's, and--Great Heavens!"
He paused, with his hands pressed to his forehead; and now the light had come back clearly.
He lay waiting till the nurse passed round again, and he signed to her to come to his side.
"You have sent to my sister?"
"Yes; a messenger has been sent."
"My clothes?" he said, in an eager whisper. "Where are they?"
"They have been taken care of quite safely."
"And the bag, and the belt--the cash-belt I had strapped round my waist?"
"I will make inquiries."
The nurse went away, and Mark Heath lay in an agony of spirit which he could hardly control till her return, to announce that he had nothing whatever upon him in the way of bag or money when found by the police.
Mark lay as if stunned till the messenger returned with the intelligence that Miss Heath had left the lodgings indicated; that the people there were new, and could give no information whatever.
"But you have other friends," said the nurse, as she looked down pityingly in the patient's agitated face.
"Yes," he said, "I have friends. Write for me to--" He paused for a few moments, with a hysterical sob rising to his lips as he recalled how he had struggled to return to her wealthy, and had come back a beggar.
"Yes, to--" The gently-spoken inquiry roused him, and he went on. "To Miss Richmond--" "Richmond?" said the nurse, looking up inquiringly as she took down the name in a little memorandum-book.
"Miss Richmond Chartley, 27 Ramillies Street, Queen's Square, Bloomsbury, to beg her to find and send my sister here."
The nurse smiled, and left him to his thoughts, which now came freely enough--too freely to help him to convalescence.
It was late in the evening when the nurse came to announce that there were visitors; and after a few grave firm words, bidding him be calm, she left him, and returned with Janet and Richmond, both trembling and agitated, to grasp his hands, and fight hard against the desire to throw themselves sobbing upon his breast.
The nurse remained, not from curiosity, but to watch over her patient, whom she had literally dragged from the grasp of death, while, after the first loving words, Mark Heath gazed at Richmond in a troubled way, and proceeded to tell of his adventures.
"But did you really bring back a bag of diamonds, Mark, or is it--" "Fancy," he said bitterly. "No; it is no fancy. I have been delirious, Jenny; but I am sane enough now. I had the bag of diamonds, and over a hundred pounds in gold, in a belt about my waist. Rich, darling, I was silent during these past two years; for I vowed that I would not write again till I could come back to you and say I have fulfilled my promise, and now I have come to you a beggar."
"Yes," said Richmond, laying her hand in his, as an ineffably sweet look of content beamed from her eyes in his, and there was tender yearning love in every tone of her sweet deep voice; "but you have come back alive after we had long mourned you as dead."
"Better that I had been," he said bitterly. "Better that that dark night's work had been completed than I should have come back a beggar."
Janet and Richmond exchanged glances; which with a sick man's suspicion he noted, and his brow contracted.
"They doubt me," he thought.
"But you have come back, Mark. We are young; and there is our life before us. I do not complain," said Richmond gently. "We must wait."
"Wait!" he said bitterly; and he uttered a low groan, which made the nurse approach. "No, no," he said, "I will be quite calm." The nurse drew back.
"Tell me, Mark," said Janet, with her pretty little earnest face puckered up. "Why did you not come straight to me? How stupid? Of course you didn't know where, as you did not get my last letters?"
"No, I have had no letters for a year. How could I, out in that desert?"
"But, Mark, you recollect being pursued by those men!"
"Yes, yes."
"You are sure it was not a dream?"
He looked at her almost fiercely.
"Dream? Could a man dream a thing like that?"
"Don't be cross with me, dear Mark," she said, laying her cheek against his. "It seems so strange, and you have been very, very ill. My own darling brother!"
It was not jealousy, but something very near akin, that troubled Rich as she stood there, with an intense longing to take her friend's place, after the long parting. But there was the recollection that their parting had not been the warm passionate embracing of lovers, only calm and full of the hope of what might be.
Janet continued: "And you went late at night through a dreadful fog, and took refuge with a friend?"
"Yes," he said, with his features contracting, and a shudder passing through him, as he gazed furtively at Rich.
"And what can you recollect besides? Are you sure you had what you say--diamonds and money?"
"Yes, I am certain."
"I never wore diamonds," said Janet, with her pretty white forehead growing more puckered, "and I don't want any; but after being so poor, and with one's dearest friends so poor, and when it would make every one so happy, I should like you to find them again."
Mark uttered a low groan.
"But tell me, Mark, what else can you recollect?"
"Very little," he said. "It all seems misty; but I recollect drinking something."
"Brandy, Mark?"
"Yes; and afterwards a medicine that was to calm him, for I was half mad with excitement."
"Yes; go on."
"Then everything is confused: I seemed to fall asleep--a long restful sleep, that was broken by my taking a long journey."
"Yes, but that was dreaming, dear."
"Maybe," he said, "and then I was swimming--swimming for life--and then toiling on and on, a long weary journey under a hot sun to get my diamonds."
"Yes, dear, fever," said Janet, with the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, Mark, what you have suffered! Rich, love, do you hear?"
"Yes--yes," cried Rich, who seemed to be roused from a strange dream, in which she was fighting to recall another of which she had a misty recollection--a dream that troubled her on the night she took the chloral, when half mad with pain.
"You have seen and borne so much, dear," said Janet piteously. "Was not all this about the bag of diamonds and those people a feverish dream?"
"Jenny, do you want to drive me mad?"
"My own dear old darling brother, no," she whispered caressingly; and once more that strange half-jealous feeling swept like a hot breath of wind across Rich, making her pale face flush. "I only want to make you see things rightly, and not fret about a fancy."
"I tell you it was no fancy," he said angrily; and then, as the nurse held up a warning hand. "All right," he added, "I'll be calm."
"Say something to him, Rich," said Janet piteously.
Rich started, and then took Mark's hand. "You say that you went to the house of a friend?" she whispered.
"Ye-es," he replied hesitatingly.
"And that you partook of some medicine that was to make you sleep?"
He bowed his head slowly.
"And that your next clear recollection is of lying here, where you were brought after being found delirious by the police?"
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.
"Robbed?"
"Stripped of everything," he said bitterly.
"It could not have been a friend, then, with whom you took refuge," said Rich.
Mark was silent.
"Must it not have been a dream?" said Janet in a whisper to her companion.
"No," said Rich aloud. "I think that all Mark recollects before he took this medicine must be true, and that this friend must have drugged him."
Mark drew a long, catching breath between his teeth.
"And robbed him while he slept."
Mark's breast rose and fell as if he were suffering some great emotion, and he stared at Rich wildly, his hand twitching and his lip quivering as he waited for her next speech, which seemed to crush him, as she asked in a clear firm voice.
"Who was the friend to whose house you went?"
He looked at her wildly, with the thoughts of the consequences of telling her that which he believed to be the truth--that Dr Chartley-- her father--the father of the woman he passionately loved--had drugged him--taken the treasure for which he had fought so hard, and then cast him forth feverish and delirious into the river to die. For he realised it now: he had been swimming; he could even recall the very plunge; he had been cast into the river to drown, and somehow he must have struggled out.
"Who was the friend, Mark?" she said again, in her calm firm way.
"Yes, who was it?" cried Janet, with her little lips compressed. "You are right, Rich. Some one did do this dreadful thing. Who was it, Mark?"
The sick man turned from her with a shudder, while she, all excitement now, pressed his hard hand.
"Tell us, Mark dear, that he may be punished, and made to restore what he has stolen."
"No, no!" he said excitedly; "I cannot tell you--I do not know."
"Try and recollect, Mark," said Rich gently; and she looked in his face with an appealing smile.
"No, no!" he gasped, as he shuddered again; "it is impossible. I--I do not know. And Heaven forgive me for my lie!" he muttered, as he sharply withdrew his hands, sank back upon his pillow, and covered his face.
"He must be left now," said the nurse firmly, "He is very weak, and your visit is proving painful. Say good-night to him. You can come to-morrow. He will be stronger after a night's rest."
"But--there is no danger?" whispered Rich, as she caught the sister's hand.
"No; the danger is past, but he must be kept quiet. Say good-night."
Janet bent down and kissed her brother lovingly; and as she drew back from his pallid drawn face, Rich took her place and held out her hand.
Mark caught it in both his, and there was an agonised look in his eyes.
"Rich," he whispered passionately, "I have come back to you a beggar, after fighting so hard. Heaven knows how hard, and what I am suffering for your sake. I cannot tell you more. I only say, believe in me and trust in me. Kiss me, my love--my love."
Richmond Chartley's pale face deepened, but she did not hesitate. There were patients here and there who lay witnessing the scene, and there were others present; but at that moment the world seemed very small, and they two the only living creatures it contained, as she bent down, passed her arm beneath his neck, and for the first time her lips met his.
"Rich--poor--what does it matter, Mark?" she whispered, with her warm breath seeming to caress his cheek. "You have come back to me, as it were, from the dead."
She drew down her veil as she rose from the parting, and the nurse's quick experienced eyes noted the restful happy look that had come over her patient's face.
"Good-bye," she said to the two visitors. "May I?"
Rich leaned forward, and the two women kissed.
"I had some one once whom I dearly loved. It pleased God that he should die--for his country--trying to save a brother officer's life. Good-bye, dear. You are the best physician for him now. Come back soon."
Janet impulsively threw her arms about the sister's neck and kissed her.
"And I never thanked you for your care of my poor brother," she said. "But tell me, he is still a little wandering, is he not?"
"I could not help hearing all that passed," was the reply. "It was my duty to be present. I have, of course, had some experience of such cases, and I fear that he must have been drinking heavily in riotous company, and these ideas have become impressed upon his brain."
"And they are fancies?"
"I think so, but as he grows stronger these ideas will weaken, and you, his sister--and you--Ah, men are sometimes very weak, but to whom should they come for forgiveness when weak and repentant, if not to us?"
"But I won't believe my Mark has been going on as she hinted," said Janet, through her tears, as she walked away, weeping bitterly, and clinging tightly to Rich's arm.
"No; it is impossible," replied Rich; and with the feeling upon her that it was her duty to suffer for all in turn, and be calm and patient, she fought down her own longing to burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and walked on to resume her watch by her father's side, where he lay still insensible, as if in a sleep which must end in death.
"Rich dear, if it is true, and poor Mark was drugged and robbed, the wretch who did it shall be brought to justice, shall he not?"
"Yes," said Rich, as she clasped the weeping girl to her breast.
And as she sat there in the silent chamber, through the dark watches of the night, at times a feeling of exultation and joy filled her breast, while at others a hot pang of rage shot through her, and she felt that she could slay the wretch who had raised a hand against him who had returned to her as from the dead.
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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13
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JANET IS HAUNTED.
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A fortnight passed, and Mark was able to join his sister at her lodging, from which she was out all day.
It was very hard work, that lesson-giving at different houses, but little Janet trudged on from place to place, rarely ever travelling by omnibus unless absolutely obliged, so that she might economise and make her earnings help out her income of twenty-one pounds per annum.
Rather a small sum in London, but it was safe. Seven hundred pounds' worth of stock in the Three per Cents., and bringing in ten pounds ten shillings every half-year.
One evening, as she was returning on foot, walking very rapidly, so as to get back as soon as possible to Mark, her heart sank, and she felt faint in spirit as she thought of her future and its prospects. To go on teach, teach, teach, and try to make stupid girls achieve something approaching skill in handling their brushes, so that parents might be satisfied. For, poor girl, she found what most teachers do, that when a child does not progress, it is always the instructor's fault, not that of the disciple.
"I shall be better when I've had some tea," she said to herself, as the tears gathered in her eyes. "Why do I murmur so? Rich never complains, and her troubles are as great as mine. I ought to be glad and rejoice that poor Mark has come back safely, and--there he is again."
Janet's little heart beat wildly with fear as a tall muffled-up figure appeared from a doorway in the sombre-looking square into which she had turned from the street where she gave lessons three afternoons a week, and followed her at a short distance behind. For two months past, evening after evening, that figure had been there, making her heart palpitate as she thought of what a weak, helpless little creature she was, and how unprotected in this busy world.
It was hard work to keep steadily on without looking round, without starting off at a run. Her breast seemed filled with that wild scream which she longed to utter, but dared not, telling herself that to seem afraid or to notice the figure was to invite assault.
"Oh, if Mark would only get well," she thought, "or if Rich could come and meet me!"
Then she called herself a coward, and stepped daintily on along the muddy street, wondering whether it would be possible to go by some other way, and so avoid this shadow which dogged her steps.
There was one way to get over it--to mention if to Rich, and ask her to bid Hendon wait for her and see her home. But that, she said, she would sooner die than do; so she had tried four different ways of reaching home, and always with the figure following her to the door of the house where she lodged, and where Mark sat waiting for her to come.
It was always the same: the muffled-up figure followed her closely, and kept on the same side of the way till he reached her door, when it crossed over, and waited till she went in, breathless and trembling.
Over and over again the little frightened girl tried to devise some plan, but all in vain; till this night of the foggy winter she was crossing the street, rejoicing that he was so near home, when there was a shout, a horse's hot breath was upon her cheek, and she was sent staggering sideways, and would have fallen had not the muffled-up figure been at hand, caught her in his arms, and borne her to the pavement, while the cab disappeared in the yellow mist.
"My own darling! Are you hurt?" he cried passionately.
"Hendon! You!" she panted.
"Yes, I," he said. "You are hurt!"
"No, no," she cried; "only frightened. The horse struck my shoulder. But--but was it you who followed every night all the way home?"
"Yes," he said, coldly now, "you knew it was."
"I did not," she retorted angrily; and then in half hysterical terms, "how dare you go on frightening me night after night like this? It has been horrible. You have made me ill."
"Made you ill?" he said. "How could I let you go about all alone these dark evenings? I was forbidden to talk to you as I wished, but there was no reason why I should not watch over you. How's Mark?"
"Getting better," said Janet, drawing a breath of relief at her companion's sudden change in the conversation; for she felt that had he continued in that same sad reproachful strain she must have hung upon his arm, and sobbed and thanked him for his chivalrous conduct. There was something, too, so sweet in the feeling that he must love her very dearly in spite of all the rebuffs he had received; and somehow as they walked on, a gleam of sunny yellow came through the misty greys and dingy drabs with which from her mental colour-box she had been tingeing her future life. There was even a dash of ultramarine, too--a brighter blue than her eyes--and her heart began to beat quite another tune.
"May I come and walk home with you every night?" said Hendon at last, as, after repeated assurances that she was not hurt, they stopped at last at the street door.
"No," she said decidedly; and her little lips were tightly compressed, so that they should not give vent to a sob.
"How cruel you are, Janet!"
"For trying to do what is right," she said firmly. "What would your sister say if, after all that has passed, I were to be so weak?"
"May I follow you at a distance, as I have done all this time?" he pleaded.
"No. You have only frightened me almost to death," she replied. "Will you come up and see poor Mark?"
"Not to-night," he said bitterly; "I couldn't bear it now. Janet, if I go to the bad, it won't be all my fault. I know I'm a weak fellow, but with something to act as ballast, I should be all right. What have I done that you should be so cold?"
For answer, Janet held out her hand.
"Good-night, Mr Chartley," she said quietly; but he did not take the hand, only turned away, walking rapidly along the street, while, fighting hard to keep from bursting into a violent fit of sobbing, Janet hurried up to her room, to find her brother looking haggard and wild as he slowly paced the floor.
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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14
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MARK HEATH IN THE DARK.
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"No--no--no!" Always the same determined answer to the declarations of Janet that some steps should be taken to investigate the affairs of the night on which her brother had first reached London.
"No," he said; "I will have nothing done. Let me get well, and away from here. I've escaped with my life."
"And what will you do, Mark?" asked Janet, as she sat by his side.
"Try again," he said. "But I must first get well."
He had heard that the doctor was ill, but everything else had been kept from him, till one evening, as he was seated by the fire at Janet's neat little lodgings, and his sister was called down to see a visitor.
She had a suspicion of who it was, and found Richmond waiting.
"Come up and see him."
Richmond hesitated.
"I must not stay long," she said. "My father frets for me if I am away."
"And I am situated almost the same. Mark does not like to be left. Come up, dear, and help me to persuade him that he ought to employ the police."
"No, no! don't talk of them," said Richmond, with a shudder. "I want the horror at our house forgotten, and they keep reminding me that the law does not sleep."
"Why, Rich, how strangely you talk!"
"Strangely, dear! No. Only it comes back like a nightmare ever since that terrible affair, so soon as it is mentioned. I seem to be wandering about the house in misery, fever, and pain, trying to see through a mist that I cannot penetrate. I don't know how it is or what it means, but I have this horrible thought troubling me, that I came down that night to go to the surgery, and that I saw something."
"Saw something! Saw what?"
"Ah! that is what I cannot tell," said Rich with a shudder. "I was better this morning, and more hopeful. My poor father seemed a little clearer in his mind, but the past is all a blank to him."
"He knew me, dear, when I came yesterday."
"Oh, yes! and he knows me well enough. He talks sensibly about what is going on around him. But that night when he was struck down, the blows seemed to break away the connection between the present and the past. The physician, who has seen him, says very little, but I can see that he considers the case hopeless."
"Oh, don't say that, dear! We must all hope. I hope to be something better some day than a poor teacher. Come up now, and help me to persuade Mark to have in the police."
"No, no!" cried Rich hastily.
"Why not, dear? Think what it means if it is true about the diamonds, and we could get them back."
"But it cannot be true, Janet; and as to the police, they make me shudder. They were at our house this morning to see Hendon, and with him my father, to try whether they could revive his memory, and get hold of a clue to those men who came to our house that night, and they have found out nothing. They say they are straining every nerve now to find that poor boy. They think he must hold the clue."
"I think I could find it all out if I tried," said Janet. "Had your father any enemies?"
Richmond shook her head.
"Any one to whom he owed money?"
Richmond started, and her thoughts reverted to Poynter.
"No, no, no--impossible! Let it rest, dear. I have thought over it, till it nearly drives me mad!" she cried excitedly.
"It is very strange;" continued Janet musingly. "I don't like to let it rest, and there is our trouble, too. Rich dear, has it ever occurred to you that it must have been the same night when poor Mark was found wandering about?"
"Yes, dear. I have calculated it out from what the hospital sister told me. It was the same night."
Rich looked at her wonderingly.
"It was, dear," continued Janet. "While you had that horror at home, I was sleeping here comfortably, and poor Mark was wandering about the cruel streets half wild."
Rich made a gesture to her friend to be silent, and Janet passed her arm about her waist, to lead her up-stairs, but with the full determination to try and make some investigation. For though there were times when the thought of her brother having brought home a bag of diamonds seemed mythical, and the birth of his diseased imagination--especially as he never named them now--at other times visions of comparative wealth had come to her, in the midst of which she seemed to see herself with Hendon, and her old companion and her brother happily looking on.
Mark was seated gazing moodily at the fire as Richmond entered with his sister, and he rose to take her hands, and lead her to a chair.
But somehow both seemed constrained and troubled by thoughts which they kept from each other.
"I know," said Janet to herself, "it's that dreadful money which is keeping them apart, and if I don't do something, Mark will be going off again to seek his fortune, and it is like condemning poor Rich and himself to a life of misery and waiting."
She sat working, but furtively watching the others all the while.
"This poverty is killing us all," she said to herself at last, "and I will speak. It may be true, and he shall do something to find out."
"Mark dear," she said aloud, "I have something to say."
"Indeed! Well, what is it?"
"I've come to the conclusion that, now you are better, you ought to speak out like a man, and--" "Stop!" he said hoarsely.
"No, Mark, I shall not stop," cried Janet decidedly. "You say that you went to a friend's house that night with all your money and--and treasure."
"Girl! will you be silent?" he cried savagely.
"No," said Janet, laughing. "I want you to see this matter as I do. Whoever this man is, he ought to be forced to give up what he must have stolen from you. If you will not stir, I shall."
"You will?"
"Yes, I shall take counsel with Hendon again."
"Again?" almost yelled Mark.
"Yes, sir, again. We have spoken over the matter together, and he agrees that the police ought to be seen, and that you must make this friend give up what he has taken."
"You'll drive me mad, Janet. Hendon thinks this?"
"Yes; and we are going to do it at once, for the sake of you and Rich."
"You shall not stir!" cried Mark fiercely.
"Why not?" interposed Rich, taking his hand. "I think with my brother and Janet now, much as I dislike these investigations."
"You think so--you?" cried Mark wildly.
"Yes. Why not?" said Rich. "Mark dear, why should you flinch from speaking out? You have no unworthy motive."
"Unworthy motive? No," he said bitterly, "I give up everything to spare another."
"Then you shall not," said Janet firmly. "Your duty is to Richmond here; your promised wife."
"Yes," said Mark moodily; "my duty is to Rich here, my promised wife."
"And yet for the sake of some unworthy wretch, you make her suffer--yes, sir, and me too. Why, Rich, dear Rich, what is the matter?"
She flew to her friend's side, and caught her hands; for Rich had started from her chair, looking wildly from one to the other, as, struggling as it were from out of a confused mist, how revived she could not tell, there came back to her, memory by memory, the scenes of that terrible night. Yes: she remembered now, though it still seemed like a dream--a fragmentary, misty dream.
Yes, that was the clue! Janet had said it was upon that same night that Mark had returned--had been found senseless in the streets.
"Don't, don't speak to me for a minute!" she cried, as she fought hard to recall everything--the maddening pain that night, the visit to the surgery, the chloral she had obtained and taken, and then that strange wild sleep.
Yes; she recalled it now. She dreamed she had come down to fetch something else from the surgery to allay the agony she suffered, and that the door was locked, and that she had heard voices--her father's voice, Mark's voice--yes, it was Mark's voice; and she had stood there trembling till it died away; and that formed part of her dream.
But now the voice was here in this room, and he caught her hand with a wildly suspicious look in his eye.
"What are you thinking?" he said.
She turned upon him sharply.
"The name of your friend with whom you took refuge that night?" she said; and her eyes flashed as she gazed searchingly in his.
He dropped her hand, and turned away, with his lips compressed and face contracted.
"Mark," she cried, "why do you not speak? Where did you go that night when you returned?"
He looked at her for a moment, and then turned away again. "I do not know," he said hoarsely.
"It is not true," cried Rich. "You must speak now. It was to our house you came."
"What!"
"I remember now. I heard your voice. You were with my father--in the surgery."
"Rich," he said, almost savagely, as he caught her wrist, "think of what you are saying!"
"Rich dear, don't say that!" cried Janet piteously.
"I know what I am saying," she said excitedly; and though her face was calm, it was evident that she was suffering terribly.
"No, no," he cried; "no, dear, you are wrong."
"No, Mark, I am right: you told us you took refuge with a friend--that friend was my father."
"What! Rich, do you know what you are saying--do you know what this means if the police should hear?"
"Yes," she cried; "the clearing up of a terrible mystery; perhaps the restoration of all that you have lost."
"Janet, is she mad?" cried Mark. "Do you not see what all this means?"
Janet shook her head with a helpless look on her face.
"Then I will tell you," he thundered: "it means ruin--misery to us all. Girl, for pity's sake, be silent! Rich, dear Rich, I love you with a man's first strong love. Have I not slaved for you all these years, to win you for my own true wife? Don't--don't raise this up between us. What is poverty to such a shadow as this?"
"I do not understand you," she cried; "but it is true. You did come to my father's house that night."
He gazed at her in blank despair.
"Why do you look at me like that? Do you not see the light?"
"The light!" he cried, with a bitter laugh. "I see you--the woman I love--trying to force me into a position which I would sooner die than hold. Hush, for mercy's sake! No, no, no!" he muttered; and then aloud, "Call it a lie, or a desperate man's last cry for help. I did not come to your father's house that night."
Rich gazed at him in blank astonishment for the moment, and then she flung her arms about his neck, and with her eyes close to his, she cried.
"What are you thinking--that it was my father who drugged and robbed you, or my brother? Oh, Mark?"
She seemed to throw him off as she stepped back, her pale face flushing, and a look of indignant anger in her eyes.
"What does this mean?" cried Janet; but her words fell unheeded.
"Shame on you! You are silent. How could you think this thing?"
"Heaven help me!" groaned Mark. "And I fought so hard!"
By a sudden revulsion of feeling, Rich turned to him again, and with her sweet rich voice, fall of the agony of her heart, she caught his hands.
"How could you think it of him, Mark! My poor gentle-hearted father! Do you not see? Did you not tell us that you were hunted from place to place by those men?"
"Rich, my darling," groaned Mark, as he strained her to his breast, "do you not see that you are digging a gulf between us, and that you will soon be standing on the other side, shrinking from me in abhorrence as the man who has brought this charge against your father? And God knows how I have striven to bear all in silence!"
"But, Mark--" "Rich, it is your doing, not mine!" he cried wildly. "What are the diamonds to the loss of you?"
"But, Mark," she cried impetuously, "this is madness. You suspect him. You shall speak now--you shall. You have thought my father did this thing?"
"You drag it from me," he groaned. "I do."
"Oh, shame!" cried Richmond, shrinking from him; "to suspect the poor old man, who nearly died in your defence."
"What!" cried Mark.
"Whom we found struck down bleeding, and whom I am neglecting now, when he is hovering almost between life and death--neglecting that I might come to him whom I thought the soul of chivalry and faith."
"Stop!" cried Mark, in a harsh voice, as he released Rich, who straggled from him, and stood with his hands pressed to his eyes. "Janet, I have been off my head. I seem to think wildly now and then. Do I hear her aright, or am I still confused? What does she say?"
"I--I don't quite know myself," faltered Janet, bursting into tears.
"And yet I seem to understand," cried Mark excitedly. "Rich dearest, speak to me again. Your father found--struck down--in my defence?"
"Yes, that is what I said," replied Rich coldly.
"Struck down in my defence. I did not know of this."
"You--you knew he was very ill," sobbed Janet.
"Yes; but I knew no more."
"How could we tell you when you were nearly dead?" sobbed Janet; "and the doctor said you were not to be troubled in any way."
Mark Heath stood as if dazed for a few minutes, striving to think coherently, and master the delusion, under which he had been suffering.
"Rich," he cried at last, "for God's sake, tell me all!"
|
{
"id": "24871"
}
|
15
|
A PHYSICIAN UNHEALED.
|
James Poynter sat polishing his hat with his handkerchief, and staring at Hendon with a contraction, half smile, half grin, upon his face.
"I tell you I can't pay you. You forced the money upon me."
"I forced it on you! Come, that's a good one! Now, are you going to pay?"
"You know I can't, Poynter. You must wait."
"Not likely. Well, I must have my money, and what your father owes me too."
"I have only your word that he does owe you money, James Poynter."
"All right, Mr Hendon; go on. Insult me. The more patient I am the more advantage you take. Ask him if he don't."
"Ask him?" said the young man bitterly; "you know his mind is as good as gone."
"Is it as bad as that?" said Poynter, with assumed pity, but his eyes twinkling with eagerness, as he wound the handkerchief round and round.
"Bad? Yes. Millington, our best man, saw him yesterday, and he says nothing but an operation and raising the bone pressing on the brain will relieve him; and at his age he would not be responsible for the result."
Poynter drew a breath fall of satisfaction, and smiled at his polished hat.
"Well, I think the operation ought to be performed, so as to bring him to his senses again. Poor old boy! He does seem queer. I asked him--" "What, you spoke to that poor old man about your cursed debt!" cried Hendon furiously.
"Of course I did. Cursed debt, indeed! Why, I've behaved as well as a man could behave. Lookye here, do you want me to sell you up?"
Hendon uttered an ejaculation, and, writhing under his impotence, he began pacing the old dining-room, while with a show of proprietorship James Poynter set down his hat, put his handkerchief therein, took out his case, and selected a cigar.
"Have a weed?" he said, nipping the end of the one he was about to smoke.
"Damn you, and your cigars too!" cried the young man furiously.
"Thank ye, cub!" said Poynter, lighting up. "There, you won't make me waxy. I'm a true friend in disguise. Ah, this is one of a noo lot I bought. Have one, old man."
Hendon made a fierce gesticulation, and scowled in the grinning face.
"How long are you going to stop here?" he said.
"Long as I like. P'raps I shall have the house done up, and come and live here."
"What?"
"Ah! what indeed! Suppose I bought the lease of the governor? What have you got to say to that?"
Hendon glared at him wildly.
"How's the little angel--Janet?"
Hendon's hands clenched, and he ground his teeth, while Poynter laughed at him.
"So the big brother's out of the hospital; got over his D.T., and lodging with his sister, eh?"
Hendon made no reply.
"Come, old chap," continued Poynter, "have a cigar, and do try and be sensible. I don't want to do nothing hard, but of course a man must fight for his own hand. I haven't come here to sell you up, but to bring you to your senses, like the friend I always was. Now look here, Hendon, this brother seems to be as loose a fish as a girl could have for a relation; but Miss Heath's as smart a little lass as e'er stepped--" "Have the goodness to leave Miss Heath's name alone, sir."
"Waxy again. Now look here, Hendon, I'm a rich man. Suppose I say to you, my lad, look out for a snug little practice; I'll lend you the money--can't afford to give it--buy the practice, and marry Janet. Isn't that being a friend?"
Hendon went on pacing the room.
"Sulky, eh? All right: answer me this, then. Shouldn't I make your sister a better husband than this Mark Heath? Come, be sensible; take me up-stairs to see her. Now, at once. Let me make things pleasant for all of you. What's the good of being enemies, when we might be friends?"
"Friends!"
"Better than being master and slave, eh, Hendon, my lad? Borrower slave to the lender, eh?"
"Ah!" ejaculated Hendon.
"Come, come, you're sensible now. Take me up-stairs, and let's have it out with Rich."
"With Rich!" cried Hendon passionately.
"There, don't you be so cocky, young man. I don't call your Janet, Jenny. Yes, with Rich; my own dear darling Rich. There! How do you like that? Now then, let's get it over."
"My sister is not at home."
"Then we'll go up and see the old man; and let's hear what he'll say to it all. He won't deny that he's in my debt."
"Poor old fellow, no," groaned Hendon to himself.
"I say," said Poynter, turning grave, "where's Rich? She hasn't gone to see that sailor chap?"
"I don't know whom you mean by `sailor chap,'" said Hendon bitterly.
"Then I'll tell you," he said. "I mean Mark Heath, and I've got a theory of my own about him."
"Curse you and your theories!" cried Hendon fiercely.
"Yes, and bless me and my money," said Poynter, laughingly.
"Stop! Where are you going?"
"This is my house, or as good as mine," said Poynter; "and I'm going up to see my poor old father-in-law to be. I don't think he's properly seen to, and I mean to have him off down to the seaside, to try and pull him round. Coming?"
Hendon was so much staggered by his visitor's cool insolence that Poynter was at the foot of the staircase before he thought to follow; and then, feeling that this man had a hold upon him that he dared not shake off, he followed him up-stairs, and into the sparely-furnished front drawing-room in which the doctor had been lying all through his illness.
He was seated where he could see the window, and his handsome face looked vacant and strange as he turned his head to Elizabeth, who was waiting on him in her mistress's absence.
"Is that Rich?" he said feebly.
"No, doctor, it's me, come for a bit of advice," cried Poynter. "Here," he said, turning to the maid, as he whisked his handkerchief round his hat, "you be off."
Elizabeth left the room, wiping her eyes, and Poynter sat down beside the doctor, and shook hands.
"Why, I ought to feel your pulse now, and not you mine," he said boisterously.
"Glad to see you, Mr Poynter. Pretty well, thank you. Is my Rich coming?"
"To be sure she is, old boy. Now I just want a cosy chat with you about Rich."
"About Rich? Yes, yes."
"You remember how I proposed for her?"
The doctor looked at him blankly; and shook his head. "Is Rich coming, Hendon?" he said.
"Yes, father; she is here," he cried; for there was the sound of wheels; and running to the window, he smiled grimly as he saw who descended from the cab.
"Might have stopped a little longer," grumbled Poynter to himself. "It don't matter; the game's mine now. Damn!"
He started from his seat as he saw Rich enter the room, closely followed by Mark Heath and Janet, to whom Hendon hurried with outstretched hands, and after a little hesitation, two little dark well-mended gloves and their contents were placed in his strong grasp.
"Dearest father," said Rich softly, as she hurried to the old man's side.
"Ah," he said, taking her hands, and fondling them, while a brighter smile came into his pleasant vacant face; "that's better--that's better. Here's Mr--Mr--Mr--" "Poynter, doctor," said that individual, glad of an opportunity to remove his eyes from Mark's, which were gazing at him rather inimically.
"Yes, yes, Mr Poynter come to see us, Rich."
"And I have come to see you too, doctor," said Mark. "You remember me?"
The doctor looked up at him keenly, and then shook his head, and, with a troubled look in his eyes.
"No," he said. "No--no--no."
"Hah!" ejaculated Poynter, with a smile of satisfaction.
"Mark Heath, father dear," said Rich gently, "Don't you remember Mr Heath, who went to the Cape?"
"Heath?" said the doctor; "Heath--Heath? No--no," he added thoughtfully. "Glad to see Mr Heath. Friend of Hendon's?" His words were calm, but he seemed to wince.
"No, doctor: I'm Hendon's friend," said Poynter, with a laugh; and he gave his hat a loving wipe.
"Yes, Mr Poynter. You came to see me the day before yesterday. I remember--remember. I prescribed--" "That's right, sir; that's right," cried Poynter, with one of his horse laughs.
"Is this man going, Hendon?" whispered Mark impatiently.
"No, Mr Mark Heath, he ain't," said Poynter fiercely. "Speak lower if you don't want people to hear; we've got sharp ears in the City, and I'm not going."
"No, no; Mr Poynter has come to see me," said the doctor, gazing in a frightened way at Mark. "Don't go, Mr Poynter. It's very dull here."
"I'm not going, doctor. It's all right," said the unwelcome visitor. "You're going to set me right."
"You'll excuse me--Mr Poynter, I think," said Mark; "but I have some private business to transact with Dr Chartley."
"Yes, I'll excuse you as much as you like. I've got private business with Doctor Chartley, too."
"Why, Mark," cried Hendon, "have you found out anything about your loss?"
"Yes. No. Well, yes; I have learned something," cried Mark excitedly, and he glanced again angrily at Poynter.
But the latter's unwelcome presence seemed to be ignored by all, in the intense excitement of the moment. For Rich threw herself upon her knees at her father's feet, and took his hands.
"Father dear," she said gently, "I want you to try and remember something."
"Yes, my dear, yes--certainly, certainly," said the old man, bending down to kiss her tenderly.
"That night, you know, when--when you were taken ill."
"Yes, my love, that night I was taken ill? Was I taken ill?"
"Yes, dear; but you are nearly well now. Do you remember Mr Heath coming? Try and remember, dear."
Poynter's face grew convulsed and angry, and he seemed to be looking about for some moral weapon with which to attack his enemy, but contented himself with a whisk of his handkerchief across his hat.
"Heath, dear? This is Mr Heath, you say--Heath?" and the doctor's face grew troubled.
"Yes, yes. Do you remember his coming to see you?"
The doctor looked from one to the other, and shook his head.
"Oh, father, dear father, for my sake try!" cried Rich. "Do you not remember his coming to you?"
The doctor put his hand to his head, and looked wildly round.
"No," he said at last. "No, I don't think I have seen Mr Heath before;" but the wild look was still in his eyes.
"Don't say that, doctor," said Mark, taking his hand. "You have forgotten. Don't you remember? That dreadful foggy night. I came to you, and you let me into the surgery?"
"Yes, dear, you recollect," cried Rich, piteously.
"I was utterly exhausted, and worn out--very much excited," continued Mark. "You took me into the consulting-room, and I lay down upon the sofa. You gave me brandy, and some narcotic."
"Brandy and a narcotic," said the doctor, smiling; "rather a strange mixture. Did I?"
"Yes; you recollect now?" said Mark eagerly.
The doctor looked at him intently, and then at Rich; but ended by shaking his head slowly.
"No," he said, "I do not recollect."
"All this is maddening!" muttered Mark, "just when one's hopes were reviving, and there was a chance of discovering something. Doctor," he continued excitedly, "try and recollect."
"Yes, dear, for Mark Heath's sake try," continued Rich; and Poynter ground his teeth, as he felt what he would give to evoke the same interest for himself.
"I will try, my love," said the doctor blandly. "Of course."
"Then you remember I told you I had just come from the Cape; that I had a bag of diamonds in my breast?"
Poynter uttered a sneering laugh, which made Heath wince, and turn upon him wrathfully.
"Diamonds? did you say a bag of diamonds?" said the doctor.
"Yes, yes; you remember."
"Was it not a very unsafe place to carry diamonds?"
"Yes, of course it was; but I could trust no one but myself! You remember then, doctor?"
Dr Chartley paused for a few moments, and shook his head again.
"No," he said blandly, "I do not remember. Diamonds, you say?"
"Yes, yes, diamonds!"
"I hope they were not lost," said the doctor simply.
"Yes; lost, lost!" cried Mark frantically. "The night you were struck down!"
"Here, hold hard!" cried Poynter sharply. "Look here, Mr Mark Heath, you came here that night?"
"Why do you interfere, sir?"
"Never mind. P'r'aps I know something."
"You know something?"
"P'r'aps so. You say you came here--late?"
"Yes, very late."
"That night the doctor was struck down?"
"Yes; but why do you ask?"
"Because, you scoundrel, we've got the clue at last. You were the man!"
So sudden was the charge that Mark literally staggered back, and, weak from his illness, he gasped, and looked to a superficial observer as much like a guilty man as ever recoiled from a sudden denunciation. But as a wave of the advancing tide merely retires to gain fresh force, Mark Heath recovered himself.
"You scoundrel!" he cried; and he would have sprung at Poynter's throat, but for the restraining arm of Janet and Hendon.
"Scoundrel yourself!" cried Poynter savagely. "Look at his face! Here--the police!"
He strode towards the door, upon which at that moment there was a loud tapping; and before he could reach it, Bob stood in the opening, very rough of head, very ragged, and looking as if he had not been washed since he was missed.
|
{
"id": "24871"
}
|
16
|
BOB IS EXPLANATORY.
|
"Here, boy," cried Poynter, "quick! Fetch a policeman. Half-a-crown."
He thrust his hand into his pocket, but at that moment even that outrageously large sum had not the slightest effect upon the boy, who looked quickly round from one to the other till his eyes lit upon Mark, at whom he rushed with the notion of a well-trained dog, seizing him by the arm and breast of his coat, and clinging tightly.
"I've got him," he said shrilly. "Fetch the perlice. I've got him, Miss Rich; I see him come that night."
Poynter raised his fist, and struck it into his open hand.
"I knew it!" he cried. "I knew I was right! Now, Mr Mark Heath, what have you got to say?"
"Hendon, lad, lay hold of this boy. He's mad."
"No, I ain't," cried Bob. "Had 'nuff to make me, though."
"Let go, you dog!" roared Mark.
"All right, I'm a-going to," said the boy, shrinking away as Rich came to him.
"Bob," she cried, "what is this you're saying?"
"Well, I d'know, Miss," he said, scratching his head; "and I don't think now it weer him. But I'll sweer he come and told the doctor as the perlice or some one was after him."
"Yes, boy, yes; I did come, but you were not there."
"Worn't I? Yes, I was," said the boy, grinning. "I see you come, and you'd got one o' them, long-tail ulcers and a broad-brimmed hat; and the doctor--I say, Miss, is he better?"
"Yes, yes, Bob; but pray go on."
"I am glad the guvner's better. It scared me. I thought he was a dead 'un."
The boy looked round, and gave everybody a confidential nod, including "'Lisbeth," who was standing at the door, crying, and smiling with satisfaction by turns.
"But you say you saw me come!" cried Mark, while Poynter stood looking on in triumph.
"See you come? Course I did. I know'd you d'reckly, but I don't think it was you as did it."
"No, boy, it was not I. But where were you?"
"Wheer was I? Ah! you wouldn't know, I was afraid o' the doctor dropping onto me for being there, and I skipped into the bone box."
"What!" cried Hendon.
"I did, sir, 'strue as goodness. There's lot's o' room, and I could just lift up the lid and peep, and that's how I see him come."
"You young rascal?" muttered Hendon; while the doctor sat quietly smiling, as if it were something got up for his special amusement.
"Then the doctor he took you into his room, and you had some bran'-water hot. I smelt it. And when he come and got down one o' the bottles, and misked you up a dollop o' physic; and I heared you both a-buzzing away, and talking about wheer you'd been. The doctor kep' coaxing of you, like, to go to sleep, and somehow that sent me off."
"What! in that box with those--" "Oh, yes, I don't mind them. I often nips in there when any one's coming."
"Did you hear anything else, Bob?" said Rich excitedly, as she held the boy's hand.
"Not till some one else come, and knocked two or three times; and I was going to answer the door, when the doctor come and turned down the gas, and then I lay still, and heard him putting the physic bottles away afore he'd let 'em in; didn't you, sir?"
The doctor smiled, and shook his head.
"Why, I heared you!" said the boy reproachfully; "and then you turns up the gas again, and I lifts the lid a bit, and sees it was two men and an accident."
"An accident?"
"Yes, Miss, a chap as they said had been run over; and they brings him in, and puts him on the cushion a-top o' the box I was in; and I lay still and listens, for I says as it was a good chance to hear a operation if I couldn't see one."
"Go on, boy; go on."
"All right, sir. Well, as I listens--oh, it was good! The chap groans and hollers about his chest, and then he makes no end of fuss, and the doctor says he'll soon be all right; and then--_whoosh! --croosh_! I hears as if some one had been hit, and a big fall--_quelch_! Then I lay very still, for I was scared. I heard some one get off the box, and a lot o' whispering and I dursn't move, for fear they should know I was there. But when I did peep, and lifted the lid softly, there was the doctor lying close to the box, on his face, and I thought he was dead.
"That give me a turn, Miss," continued the boy, after moistening his lips, for his voice had become husky, "and I don't think I knowed what happened till I heerd a skeary kind o' noise, and a loud sort o' whop in the 'sulting-room; and then the door was opened, and I see the light shining on you a-lying on the sofa--you, sir--sleep or shamming, and a man in there too, a-lying down, and--and--I--I can't help it, Miss--I ain't had much to eat lately, and I--" Poor Bob let himself sink in a heap upon the floor, covered his face with his hands, and burst into a fit of sobbing.
There was another fit of sobbing heard, for grimy-faced Elizabeth rushed forward, plumped down beside the boy, and took his head to her breast, to rock him to and fro.
"Poor boy!" said Rich softly, and she took his hand.
The touch was like magic; for Bob lifted up his dirty tearful face, all smiles.
"It's all right, Miss; I'm on'y a bit upset. Only let me get into the surgery again, and I knows what to take to put me right."
"Can you tell us any more, my lad?" said Mark kindly.
"Course I can, sir; not much, though, for I dunno what come over me. I see them two a-lying about, and as something horrid was the matter, and I come over all wet and sick; and then I don't remember any more till I seemed to wake up with a headache, and couldn't make out what it all meant; and when I could I lifted up the box-lid, and put out my hand, and felt to try if it was fancy. But there was the doctor lying on his face, and though all was very quiet, I knowed the other dead un must be in the 'sulting-room, and I lay there 'fraid to move, and all of a pruspiration."
"Did you hear anything else?" said Rich eagerly.
"Yes, Miss; I heared the window broke, and you come, and the perliceman, and I heared all you said; but I dursn't move, for fear the perlicemen should think I did it--the perlice is such wunners, you know; and last of all, I hears the perliceman begin hunting about, and I got scared again, and tried to hide; and jus' as I picks up that there white skull, and was trying whether I couldn't get lower, he opens the lid, and bangs it down."
"Should you know the men again?" asked Mark eagerly.
"Dunno, sir. You see it was all foggy like, and they was wropped up; but I should know 'em if I heerd 'em speak."
Mark uttered an ejaculation full of disappointment, and signed to the boy to go on.
"Well, sir, that's all; only I waited till no one was there; and then I lifted the lid and crep out of the box; and it was very horrid, for there was the dead chap in the nex' room, and I kep' thinking he'd come after me, or them others would; and I was that scared, I crawled along the passage, and down-stairs, and then sat and shivered, list'ning to you folks talking, and something in my head going buzz."
"Why did you not come to us?" said Rich kindly.
"I did want to, Miss, but I dursn't. I was 'fraid 'bout what you'd say; and there was the perliceman too, and I'd no business to be there. I d'know, only I was very frightened, and didn't hardly know what I did. I never see anybody dead afore."
"Well, what did you do then?"
"Waited a bit, Miss, and then I got out in the area, nipped over the rails, and went home and told mother."
"But one minute," cried Mark, pressing his hand to his breast; "did you--did you hear anything said about--about diamonds?"
"Yes," cried the boy. "I heared one on 'em say, `Be cool, and the diamonds are ours.'"
Mark uttered a groan. His last hope was crushed; and the boy went on: "Mother said she know'd no good ud come of my being at a doctor's, and that it all meant body-snatching and 'section, and that I shouldn't get into trouble for no one. She said if I stopped I should be took up by the perlice; and I was scared enough, and did as she said, and she took me with her down in the country."
"In the country?" cried Hendon. "Where did you go?"
"I d'know," said the boy. "Everywhere's, I think. Tramping about, and sleeping in workusses; and it's been very cold and mis'able, and I'm very fond o' the old woman; only somehow--" "Well, Bob, why do you stop?" said Hendon.
"Dunno, sir," said the boy, looking very hard at Rich's white hand. "I wouldn't ha' done it, on'y she was took bad, and they put her in one of the workas 'firmaries, and wouldn't let me stop along with her. They shoved me in a school as was all whitewash, with a lot more boys; and I got in a row with some on 'em, and we had a fight, and the master caned me, and I hooked it; and please, Miss, mayn't I stay?"
|
{
"id": "24871"
}
|
17
|
A JAR WRONGLY LABELLED.
|
James Poynter blustered and threatened; but the only proceedings he took were the sending of threatening letters to Hendon--letters which Mark advised him to throw into the fire.
"Wait," said the latter one evening, "and let him develop his attack; we should only weaken ourselves by going out to meet him."
"But if he really has claims on my father, and seizes this place?"
"Then, my lad, you and I must set to, and see if it is not possible for us to join hands and get together another home for your father and sister--one, perhaps, that, if small, might be made happy till I came back."
"Came back?" said Janet, who had accompanied her brother to the doctor's that evening.
"Yes, dear," said Mark. "I have not said a word to a soul; but I'm going back to the Cape by the next boat."
"To try your luck again?" said Hendon quickly.
"To try my luck again," replied Mark; and he glanced at Rich, who was seated at work with Janet, while the doctor looked on, and smiled placidly at both in turn.
Rich turned very pale; but she did not speak.
"I have no prospects here," continued Mark; "and out yonder I have faith in making some progress. I shall tempt my fate again."
"And if I could only feel sure that those we left behind would be safe," cried Hendon, "I'd go with you."
Janet's eyes lit up, and it was a look more of encouragement than blame which she directed at her lover.
"You, Hendon?" said Mark, smiling.
"Yes; I want to get away, and begin differently. I'm--there, look here, Mark Heath; with a strong-minded chap like you, I know I could get on, doctoring or diamond-digging, or something of that kind. Hallo, what is it?"
"Letter, sir."
"Letter? Why didn't the boy bring it up?"
"He's a-dusting the surgery, sir," replied the maid, who seemed to have been engaged upon some cleansing business in which she had been worsted.
"For you, Hendon," said Rich, who had taken the letter. "Is it from the hospital?"
"No, it isn't from the hospital," said Hendon quietly, as he knit his brow over the correctly-written formal letter, in which a firm of solicitors respectfully informed him that unless certain sums due on dishonoured bills were paid to them in a specified time, they were instructed by their client, Mr James Poynter, to take immediate proceedings for the recovery of the debt.
"Mark, old chap, the attack has begun;" and Hendon handed the letter to the former, who read it through.
"Let's go down-stairs," he said. "I want to talk to you."
"Is anything wrong?" said Janet anxiously.
"Nothing fresh, my dear," replied Mark: "Hendon and I are going to chat over matters. We shall be up again soon."
"But is the news very bad?" said Rich.
"No: on the whole good," replied Mark; and he and Hendon went down-stairs, and were going into the dining-room, but the gas was lit in the surgery, and they went there, to find Bob going over the bottles, and, after a careful polish, putting them back.
"Be off for a bit, my boy," said Hendon; "or--no; go on with your work."
He took a match from a box on a shelf, and lit the consulting-room lamp.
"Here," he said, "room's chilly; we may as well have a pipe over it."
Mark nodded, and they smoked for a few minutes in silence.
"Why did you say that was good news?" said Hendon at last.
"Because the enemy shows his hand."
"Shows his hand? How?"
"If he had any claim upon your father, he would have attacked him first. He has no claim. It was an empty boast."
"So much the better," cried Hendon. "Well, that settles it. I shall go off with you."
Mark smoked in silence.
"If you'll have me. But I say, old fellow, do you quite give up the diamonds?"
"Quite."
"You said you had been to the police again, yesterday."
"Yes, and they say they think they can lay their hands upon the men when they try to sell."
"Well, then, there is hope."
"Not a bit. They are cooling down. I don't think they have much faith in my story; and, besides, the matter is growing stale. They have a dozen more things on the way. Hendon, my lad, you love my sister?"
"On my--" "That will do. I believe it; but neither you nor I can marry for years to come. You shall go with me, and we will come back well enough off to make those two our wives."
"But Poynter's debt? He'll have me arrested before I can leave the country."
"His debt shall be paid."
"Paid?"
"Not in full, but as much as is honestly due to him. I shall set a sensible solicitor to work to make a compromise."
"But the money? No, no; he will not give up. This is putting on the screw so as to move my sister."
"Whom he will not move," said Mark, smiling with content. "I suppose you are not likely to take up your father's invention?"
"Good gracious, no! Millington, our big swell, told me, when I mentioned it, that it was a craze, and that it was contrary to nature. You can't arrest ordinary decay."
"No, of course not; life must go on till it reaches its highest pitch, and then decline."
"Of course."
"Well, look here, Hendon, Janet and I have a little money between us in Consols, and, as we are going to make a fresh start together, we'll do so clearly, and your debt shall be paid."
"What, with Janet's money? Hang it, no!" cried Hendon fiercely; "I'm not such a cad as that."
"You are going to be my brother," said Mark, smiling as he slapped him on the shoulder, "my younger brother, and you'll do exactly what I bid you."
"Yes, but--" "That will do. I see my way clearly now, so let's go up-stairs and have a chat with the girls."
Hendon put down his pipe very slowly, and glanced up at a shelf, upon which some of the apparatus connected with his father's dreams was standing; but it offered him no solution of his difficulties, and he followed Mark Heath into the surgery just as Janet and Rich, who were unable longer to bear the suspense, came down to press for an explanation.
"Here, I say," saluted the party, from Bob, "who's been a-meddlin' with these here preparations?"
"What preparations?" said Hendon sharply.
"These here," cried Bob, who had just taken down a large glass jar to dust. "The doctor will be in a way. He don't like no one to meddle with them."
The jar was labelled, like the row from which it had been taken, with a gummed-on slip of letter paper, the contents being written in the doctor's own bold hand, the ink now yellow with age, and the gummed-on label beginning to peel off.
"Put the horrible thing away!" cried Hendon angrily.
"But some 'un's been a-stuffing something else in here as don't belong," cried the boy. "I knows 'em all by heart. Look here!"
He thrust his hand into the glass jar, after removing the great stopper.
"What are you doing, boy?" cried Hendon, stepping forward to arrest the lad's action, as he drew out, all dripping with the spirit, a disgusting-looking swollen object, evidently a portion of the digestive viscera of a calf or sheep; but before he could reach him, Mark uttered a wild cry, thrust him aside; and, as he snatched the hideous-looking object from Bob's hand, the glass jar fell upon the surgery floor, was smashed to atoms, and a strong odour of methylated spirit filled the place.
"You've done it now!" cried the boy piteously; and then he stared as Mark dragged from his pocket a knife, and cut the string of what, in place of an anatomical preparation, was a soaked and swollen wash-leather bag.
"Look, Rich, look!" cried Mark, dropping the knife, his hands trembling with excitement, and his voice so husky and changed that it was hardly recognisable.
As he spoke, he thrust Rich back upon the settee, and, with one quick motion, poured a couple of handfuls of rough diamonds into her lap.
"Mark!" she cried, as he sank upon his knees before her, and clasped her hands; while, in his excitement, Hendon caught Janet in his arms, from which she might have extricated herself a little more quickly than she did.
"Now just look at that!" said Bob, picking up the bag, which had fallen upon the floor. "Why, it's just like one o' them things as the doctor's got saved up. I say," he continued excitedly, "lookye here, sir, there's another one inside."
He drew out of the swollen leather bag a stone as big as a small marble, and held it out.
"Yes; and that's yours, my boy," cried Mark excitedly; "whatever it fetches shall be for you."
"What! my own?" cried Bob.
"Yes--yes!"
"To do what I like with, sir?"
"Well, it shall be applied for your benefit, my lad."
"Then I wants some on it now!" cried the boy excitedly.
"What for?" said Rich.
"To get my old ooman home."
"And I want one, Mark," cried Hendon.
"Yes," said Mark; "to pay James Poynter's debt."
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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18
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KNOTTING UP LOOSE THREADS.
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It had been the doctor's last act before he admitted his assailants. As if inspired by a fear that his patient's excited utterances might be true, and urged by the risk of leaving so valuable a treasure unprotected, he had taken the bag, and slipped it in a place not likely to be examined, though he never recovered sufficiently to recall what he had done.
As to the two men who had visited the surgery that night, by a strange want of scent on the part of the sleuth-hounds of the law they were never found; one reason being that, with the cash they found in the belt Mark Heath wore, they had made their way back to the Cape.
The house in Ramillies Street remained unchanged in aspect so that after a time, under the old doctor's name, a new plate was affixed, bearing that of his son.
The red light shone out every night, and the plate upon the door glistened in the sunshine, such little as came into the street, after Bob had been over the said plates with rotten-stone and oil, prior to "cleaning hisself," as he called it, and donning his new smart livery, ready to admit the patients who came; but though James Poynter was often really sick, he sought advice there no more.
That red light shone out every night with a dull glare across the road; but whenever as ordinary constable, or later on as sergeant, John Whyley's duties took him round that way, he always stopped, and rolled his head in his stock with a sapient shake.
"Ah!" he invariably said; "that there just was fog!"
THE END.
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{
"id": "24871"
}
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1
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None
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Where the San Leandro turnpike stretches its dusty, hot, and interminable length along the valley, at a point where the heat and dust have become intolerable, the monotonous expanse of wild oats on either side illimitable, and the distant horizon apparently remoter than ever, it suddenly slips between a stunted thicket or hedge of “scrub oaks,” which until that moment had been undistinguishable above the long, misty, quivering level of the grain. The thicket rising gradually in height, but with a regular slope whose gradient had been determined by centuries of western trade winds, presently becomes a fair wood of live-oak, and a few hundred yards further at last assumes the aspect of a primeval forest. A delicious coolness fills the air; the long, shadowy aisles greet the aching eye with a soothing twilight; the murmur of unseen brooks is heard, and, by a strange irony, the enormous, widely-spaced stacks of wild oats are replaced by a carpet of tiny-leaved mosses and chickweed at the roots of trees, and the minutest clover in more open spaces. The baked and cracked adobe soil of the now vanished plains is exchanged for a heavy red mineral dust and gravel, rocks and boulders make their appearance, and at times the road is crossed by the white veins of quartz. It is still the San Leandro turnpike,--a few miles later to rise from this canada into the upper plains again,--but it is also the actual gateway and avenue to the Robles Rancho. When the departing visitors of Judge Peyton, now owner of the rancho, reach the outer plains again, after twenty minutes' drive from the house, the canada, rancho, and avenue have as completely disappeared from view as if they had been swallowed up in the plain.
A cross road from the turnpike is the usual approach to the casa or mansion,--a long, low quadrangle of brown adobe wall in a bare but gently sloping eminence. And here a second surprise meets the stranger. He seems to have emerged from the forest upon another illimitable plain, but one utterly trackless, wild, and desolate. It is, however, only a lower terrace of the same valley, and, in fact, comprises the three square leagues of the Robles Rancho. Uncultivated and savage as it appears, given over to wild cattle and horses that sometimes sweep in frightened bands around the very casa itself, the long south wall of the corral embraces an orchard of gnarled pear-trees, an old vineyard, and a venerable garden of olives and oranges. A manor, formerly granted by Charles V. to Don Vincente Robles, of Andalusia, of pious and ascetic memory, it had commended itself to Judge Peyton, of Kentucky, a modern heretic pioneer of bookish tastes and secluded habits, who had bought it of Don Vincente's descendants. Here Judge Peyton seemed to have realized his idea of a perfect climate, and a retirement, half-studious, half-active, with something of the seignioralty of the old slaveholder that he had been. Here, too, he had seen the hope of restoring his wife's health--for which he had undertaken the overland emigration--more than fulfilled in Mrs. Peyton's improved physical condition, albeit at the expense, perhaps, of some of the languorous graces of ailing American wifehood.
It was with a curious recognition of this latter fact that Judge Peyton watched his wife crossing the patio or courtyard with her arm around the neck of her adopted daughter “Suzette.” A sudden memory crossed his mind of the first day that he had seen them together,--the day that he had brought the child and her boy-companion--two estrays from an emigrant train on the plains--to his wife in camp. Certainly Mrs. Peyton was stouter and stronger fibred; the wonderful Californian climate had materialized her figure, as it had their Eastern fruits and flowers, but it was stranger that “Susy”--the child of homelier frontier blood and parentage, whose wholesome peasant plumpness had at first attracted them--should have grown thinner and more graceful, and even seemed to have gained the delicacy his wife had lost. Six years had imperceptibly wrought this change; it had never struck him before so forcibly as on this day of Susy's return from the convent school at Santa Clara for the holidays.
The woman and child had reached the broad veranda which, on one side of the patio, replaced the old Spanish corridor. It was the single modern innovation that Peyton had allowed himself when he had broken the quadrangular symmetry of the old house with a wooden “annexe” or addition beyond the walls. It made a pleasant lounging-place, shadowed from the hot midday sun by sloping roofs and awnings, and sheltered from the boisterous afternoon trade winds by the opposite side of the court. But Susy did not seem inclined to linger there long that morning, in spite of Mrs. Peyton's evident desire for a maternal tete-a-tete. The nervous preoccupation and capricious ennui of an indulged child showed in her pretty but discontented face, and knit her curved eyebrows, and Peyton saw a look of pain pass over his wife's face as the young girl suddenly and half-laughingly broke away and fluttered off towards the old garden.
Mrs. Peyton looked up and caught her husband's eye.
“I am afraid Susy finds it more dull here every time she returns,” she said, with an apologetic smile. “I am glad she has invited one of her school friends to come for a visit to-morrow. You know, yourself, John,” she added, with a slight partisan attitude, “that the lonely old house and wild plain are not particularly lively for young people, however much they may suit YOUR ways.”
“It certainly must be dull if she can't stand it for three weeks in the year,” said her husband dryly. “But we really cannot open the San Francisco house for her summer vacation, nor can we move from the rancho to a more fashionable locality. Besides, it will do her good to run wild here. I can remember when she wasn't so fastidious. In fact, I was thinking just now how changed she was from the day when we picked her up”-- “How often am I to remind you, John,” interrupted the lady, with some impatience, “that we agreed never to speak of her past, or even to think of her as anything but our own child. You know how it pains me! And the poor dear herself has forgotten it, and thinks of us only as her own parents. I really believe that if that wretched father and mother of hers had not been killed by the Indians, or were to come to life again, she would neither know them nor care for them. I mean, of course, John,” she said, averting her eyes from a slightly cynical smile on her husband's face, “that it's only natural for young children to be forgetful, and ready to take new impressions.”
“And as long, dear, as WE are not the subjects of this youthful forgetfulness, and she isn't really finding US as stupid as the rancho,” replied her husband cheerfully, “I suppose we mustn't complain.”
“John, how can you talk such nonsense?” said Mrs. Peyton impatiently. “But I have no fear of that,” she added, with a slightly ostentatious confidence. “I only wish I was as sure”-- “Of what?”
“Of nothing happening that could take her from us. I do not mean death, John,--like our first little one. That does not happen to one twice; but I sometimes dread”-- “What? She's only fifteen, and it's rather early to think about the only other inevitable separation,--marriage. Come, Ally, this is mere fancy. She has been given up to us by her family,--at least, by all that we know are left of them. I have legally adopted her. If I have not made her my heiress, it is because I prefer to leave everything to YOU, and I would rather she should know that she was dependent upon you for the future than upon me.”
“And I can make a will in her favor if I want to?” said Mrs. Peyton quickly.
“Always,” responded her husband smilingly; “but you have ample time to think of that, I trust. Meanwhile I have some news for you which may make Susy's visit to the rancho this time less dull to her. You remember Clarence Brant, the boy who was with her when we picked her up, and who really saved her life?”
“No, I don't,” said Mrs. Peyton pettishly, “nor do I want to! You know, John, how distasteful and unpleasant it is for me to have those dreary, petty, and vulgar details of the poor child's past life recalled, and, thank Heaven, I have forgotten them except when you choose to drag them before me. You agreed, long ago, that we were never to talk of the Indian massacre of her parents, so that we could also ignore it before her; then why do you talk of her vulgar friends, who are just as unpleasant? Please let us drop the past.”
“Willingly, my dear; but, unfortunately, we cannot make others do it. And this is a case in point. It appears that this boy, whom we brought to Sacramento to deliver to a relative”-- “And who was a wicked little impostor,--you remember that yourself, John, for he said that he was the son of Colonel Brant, and that he was dead; and you know, and my brother Harry knew, that Colonel Brant was alive all the time, and that he was lying, and Colonel Brant was not his father,” broke in Mrs. Peyton impatiently.
“As it seems you do remember that much,” said Peyton dryly, “it is only just to him that I should tell you that it appears that he was not an impostor. His story was TRUE. I have just learned that Colonel Brant WAS actually his father, but had concealed his lawless life here, as well as his identity, from the boy. He was really that vague relative to whom Clarence was confided, and under that disguise he afterwards protected the boy, had him carefully educated at the Jesuit College of San Jose, and, dying two years ago in that filibuster raid in Mexico, left him a considerable fortune.”
“And what has he to do with Susy's holidays?” said Mrs. Peyton, with uneasy quickness. “John, you surely cannot expect her ever to meet this common creature again, with his vulgar ways. His wretched associates like that Jim Hooker, and, as you yourself admit, the blood of an assassin, duelist, and--Heaven knows what kind of a pirate his father wasn't at the last--in his veins! You don't believe that a lad of this type, however much of his father's ill-gotten money he may have, can be fit company for your daughter? You never could have thought of inviting him here?”
“I'm afraid that's exactly what I have done, Ally,” said the smiling but unmoved Peyton; “but I'm still more afraid that your conception of his present condition is an unfair one, like your remembrance of his past. Father Sobriente, whom I met at San Jose yesterday, says he is very intelligent, and thoroughly educated, with charming manners and refined tastes. His father's money, which they say was an investment for him in Carson's Bank five years ago, is as good as any one's, and his father's blood won't hurt him in California or the Southwest. At least, he is received everywhere, and Don Juan Robinson was his guardian. Indeed, as far as social status goes, it might be a serious question if the actual daughter of the late John Silsbee, of Pike County, and the adopted child of John Peyton was in the least his superior. As Father Sobriente evidently knew Clarence's former companionship with Susy and her parents, it would be hardly politic for us to ignore it or seem to be ashamed of it. So I intrusted Sobriente with an invitation to young Brant on the spot.”
Mrs. Peyton's impatience, indignation, and opposition, which had successively given way before her husband's quiet, masterful good humor, here took the form of a neurotic fatalism. She shook her head with superstitious resignation.
“Didn't I tell you, John, that I always had a dread of something coming”-- “But if it comes in the shape of a shy young lad, I see nothing singularly portentous in it. They have not met since they were quite small; their tastes have changed; if they don't quarrel and fight they may be equally bored with each other. Yet until then, in one way or another, Clarence will occupy the young lady's vacant caprice, and her school friend, Mary Rogers, will be here, you know, to divide his attentions, and,” added Peyton, with mock solemnity, “preserve the interest of strict propriety. Shall I break it to her,--or will you?”
“No,--yes,” hesitated Mrs. Peyton; “perhaps I had better.”
“Very well, I leave his character in your hands; only don't prejudice her into a romantic fancy for him.” And Judge Peyton lounged smilingly away.
Then two little tears forced themselves from Mrs. Peyton's eyes. Again she saw that prospect of uninterrupted companionship with Susy, upon which each successive year she had built so many maternal hopes and confidences, fade away before her. She dreaded the coming of Susy's school friend, who shared her daughter's present thoughts and intimacy, although she had herself invited her in a more desperate dread of the child's abstracted, discontented eyes; she dreaded the advent of the boy who had shared Susy's early life before she knew her; she dreaded the ordeal of breaking the news and perhaps seeing that pretty animation spring into her eyes, which she had begun to believe no solicitude or tenderness of her own ever again awakened,--and yet she dreaded still more that her husband should see it too. For the love of this recreated woman, although not entirely materialized with her changed fibre, had nevertheless become a coarser selfishness fostered by her loneliness and limited experience. The maternal yearning left unsatisfied by the loss of her first-born had never been filled by Susy's thoughtless acceptance of it; she had been led astray by the child's easy transference of dependence and the forgetfulness of youth, and was only now dimly conscious of finding herself face to face with an alien nature.
She started to her feet and followed the direction that Susy had taken. For a moment she had to front the afternoon trade wind which chilled her as it swept the plain beyond the gateway, but was stopped by the adobe wall, above whose shelter the stunted treetops--through years of exposure--slanted as if trimmed by gigantic shears. At first, looking down the venerable alley of fantastic, knotted shapes, she saw no trace of Susy. But half way down the gleam of a white skirt against a thicket of dark olives showed her the young girl sitting on a bench in a neglected arbor. In the midst of this formal and faded pageantry she looked charmingly fresh, youthful, and pretty; and yet the unfortunate woman thought that her attitude and expression at that moment suggested more than her fifteen years of girlhood. Her golden hair still hung unfettered over her straight, boy-like back and shoulders; her short skirt still showed her childish feet and ankles; yet there seemed to be some undefined maturity or a vague womanliness about her that stung Mrs. Peyton's heart. The child was growing away from her, too!
“Susy!”
The young girl raised her head quickly; her deep violet eyes seemed also to leap with a sudden suspicion, and with a half-mechanical, secretive movement, that might have been only a schoolgirl's instinct, her right hand had slipped a paper on which she was scribbling between the leaves of her book. Yet the next moment, even while looking interrogatively at her mother, she withdrew the paper quietly, tore it up into small pieces, and threw them on the ground.
But Mrs. Peyton was too preoccupied with her news to notice the circumstance, and too nervous in her haste to be tactful. “Susy, your father has invited that boy, Clarence Brant,--you know that creature we picked up and assisted on the plains, when you were a mere baby,--to come down here and make us a visit.”
Her heart seemed to stop beating as she gazed breathlessly at the girl. But Susy's face, unchanged except for the alert, questioning eyes, remained fixed for a moment; then a childish smile of wonder opened her small red mouth, expanded it slightly as she said simply:-- “Lor, mar! He hasn't, really!”
Inexpressibly, yet unreasonably reassured, Mrs. Peyton hurriedly recounted her husband's story of Clarence's fortune, and was even joyfully surprised into some fairness of statement.
“But you don't remember him much, do you, dear? It was so long ago, and--you are quite a young lady now,” she added eagerly.
The open mouth was still fixed; the wondering smile would have been idiotic in any face less dimpled, rosy, and piquant than Susy's. After a slight gasp, as if in still incredulous and partly reminiscent preoccupation, she said without replying:-- “How funny! When is he coming?”
“Day after to-morrow,” returned Mrs. Peyton, with a contented smile.
“And Mary Rogers will be here, too. It will be real fun for her.”
Mrs. Peyton was more than reassured. Half ashamed of her jealous fears, she drew Susy's golden head towards her and kissed it. And the young girl, still reminiscent, with smilingly abstracted toleration, returned the caress.
|
{
"id": "2495"
}
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2
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None
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It was not thought inconsistent with Susy's capriciousness that she should declare her intention the next morning of driving her pony buggy to Santa Inez to anticipate the stage-coach and fetch Mary Rogers from the station. Mrs. Peyton, as usual, supported the young lady's whim and opposed her husband's objections.
“Because the stage-coach happens to pass our gate, John, it is no reason why Susy shouldn't drive her friend from Santa Inez if she prefers it. It's only seven miles, and you can send Pedro to follow her on horseback to see that she comes to no harm.”
“But that isn't Pedro's business,” said Peyton.
“He ought to be proud of the privilege,” returned the lady, with a toss of her head.
Peyton smiled grimly, but yielded; and when the stage-coach drew up the next afternoon at the Santa Inez Hotel, Susy was already waiting in her pony carriage before it. Although the susceptible driver, expressman, and passengers generally, charmed with this golden-haired vision, would have gladly protracted the meeting of the two young friends, the transfer of Mary Rogers from the coach to the carriage was effected with considerable hauteur and youthful dignity by Susy. Even Mary Rogers, two years Susy's senior, a serious brunette, whose good-humor did not, however, impair her capacity for sentiment, was impressed and even embarrassed by her demeanor; but only for a moment. When they had driven from the hotel and were fairly hidden again in the dust of the outlying plain, with the discreet Pedro hovering in the distance, Susy dropped the reins, and, grasping her companion's arm, gasped, in tones of dramatic intensity:-- “He's been heard from, and is coming HERE!”
“Who?”
A sickening sense that her old confidante had already lost touch with her--they had been separated for nearly two weeks--might have passed through Susy's mind.
“Who?” she repeated, with a vicious shake of Mary's arm, “why, Clarence Brant, of course.”
“No!” said Mary, vaguely.
Nevertheless, Susy went on rapidly, as if to neutralize the effect of her comrade's vacuity.
“You never could have imagined it! Never! Even I, when mother told me, I thought I should have fainted, and ALL would have been revealed!”
“But,” hesitated the still wondering confidante, “I thought that was all over long ago. You haven't seen him nor heard from him since that day you met accidentally at Santa Clara, two years ago, have you?”
Susy's eyes shot a blue ray of dark but unutterable significance into Mary's, and then were carefully averted. Mary Rogers, although perfectly satisfied that Susy had never seen Clarence since, nevertheless instantly accepted and was even thrilled with this artful suggestion of a clandestine correspondence. Such was the simple faith of youthful friendship.
“Mother knows nothing of it, of course, and a word from you or him would ruin everything,” continued the breathless Susy. “That's why I came to fetch you and warn you. You must see him first, and warn him at any cost. If I hadn't run every risk to come here to-day, Heaven knows what might have happened! What do you think of the ponies, dear? They're my own, and the sweetest! This one's Susy, that one Clarence,--but privately, you know. Before the world and in the stables he's only Birdie.”
“But I thought you wrote to me that you called them 'Paul and Virginie,'” said Mary doubtfully.
“I do, sometimes,” said Susy calmly. “But one has to learn to suppress one's feelings, dear!” Then quickly, “I do so hate deceit, don't you? Tell me, don't you think deceit perfectly hateful?”
Without waiting for her friend's loyal assent, she continued rapidly: “And he's just rolling in wealth! and educated, papa says, to the highest degree!”
“Then,” began Mary, “if he's coming with your mother's consent, and if you haven't quarreled, and it is not broken off, I should think you'd be just delighted.”
But another quick flash from Susy's eyes dispersed these beatific visions of the future. “Hush!” she said, with suppressed dramatic intensity. “You know not what you say! There's an awful mystery hangs over him. Mary Rogers,” continued the young girl, approaching her small mouth to her confidante's ear in an appalling whisper. “His father was--a PIRATE! Yes--lived a pirate and was killed a pirate!”
The statement, however, seemed to be partly ineffective. Mary Rogers was startled but not alarmed, and even protested feebly. “But,” she said, “if the father's dead, what's that to do with Clarence? He was always with your papa--so you told me, dear--or other people, and couldn't catch anything from his own father. And I'm sure, dearest, he always seemed nice and quiet.”
“Yes, SEEMED,” returned Susy darkly, “but that's all you know! It was in his BLOOD. You know it always is,--you read it in the books,--you could see it in his eye. There were times, my dear, when he was thwarted,--when the slightest attention from another person to me revealed it! I have kept it to myself,--but think, dearest, of the effects of jealousy on that passionate nature! Sometimes I tremble to look back upon it.”
Nevertheless, she raised her hands and threw back her lovely golden mane from her childish shoulders with an easy, untroubled gesture. It was singular that Mary Rogers, leaning back comfortably in the buggy, also accepted these heart-rending revelations with comfortably knitted brows and luxuriously contented concern. If she found it difficult to recognize in the picture just drawn by Susy the quiet, gentle, and sadly reserved youth she had known, she said nothing. After a silence, lazily watching the distant wheeling vacquero, she said:-- “And your father always sends an outrider like that with you? How nice! So picturesque--and like the old Spanish days.”
“Hush!” said Susy, with another unutterable glance.
But this time Mary was in full sympathetic communion with her friend, and equal to any incoherent hiatus of revelation.
“No!” she said promptly, “you don't mean it!”
“Don't ask me, I daren't say anything to papa, for he'd be simply furious. But there are times when we're alone, and Pedro wheels down so near with SUCH a look in his black eyes, that I'm all in a tremble. It's dreadful! They say he's a real Briones,--and he sometimes says something in Spanish, ending with 'senorita,' but I pretend I don't understand.”
“And I suppose that if anything should happen to the ponies, he'd just risk his life to save you.”
“Yes,--and it would be so awful,--for I just hate him!”
“But if I was with you, dear, he couldn't expect you to be as grateful as if you were alone. Susy!” she continued after a pause, “if you just stirred up the ponies a little so as to make 'em go fast, perhaps he might think they'd got away from you, and come dashing down here. It would be so funny to see him,--wouldn't it?”
The two girls looked at each other; their eyes sparkled already with a fearful joy,--they drew a long breath of guilty anticipation. For a moment Susy even believed in her imaginary sketch of Pedro's devotion.
“Papa said I wasn't to use the whip except in a case of necessity,” she said, reaching for the slender silver-handled toy, and setting her pretty lips together with the added determination of disobedience. “G'long!” --and she laid the lash smartly on the shining backs of the animals.
They were wiry, slender brutes of Mojave Indian blood, only lately broken to harness, and still undisciplined in temper. The lash sent them rearing into the air, where, forgetting themselves in the slackened traces and loose reins, they came down with a succession of bounds that brought the light buggy leaping after them with its wheels scarcely touching the ground. That unlucky lash had knocked away the bonds of a few months' servitude and sent the half-broken brutes instinctively careering with arched backs and kicking heels into the field towards the nearest cover.
Mary Rogers cast a hurried glance over her shoulder. Alas, they had not calculated on the insidious levels of the terraced plain, and the faithful Pedro had suddenly disappeared; the intervention of six inches of rising wild oats had wiped him out of the prospect and their possible salvation as completely as if he had been miles away. Nevertheless, the girls were not frightened; perhaps they had not time. There was, however, the briefest interval for the most dominant of feminine emotions, and it was taken advantage of by Susy.
“It was all YOUR fault, dear!” she gasped, as the forewheels of the buggy, dropping into a gopher rut, suddenly tilted up the back of the vehicle and shot its fair occupants into the yielding palisades of dusty grain. The shock detached the whiffletree from the splinter-bar, snapped the light pole, and, turning the now thoroughly frightened animals again from their course, sent them, goaded by the clattering fragments, flying down the turnpike. Half a mile farther on they overtook the gleaming white canvas hood of a slowly moving wagon drawn by two oxen, and, swerving again, the nearer pony stepped upon a trailing trace and ingloriously ended their career by rolling himself and his companion in the dust at the very feet of the peacefully plodding team.
Equally harmless and inglorious was the catastrophe of Susy and her friend. The strong, elastic stalks of the tall grain broke their fall and enabled them to scramble to their feet, dusty, disheveled, but unhurt, and even unstunned by the shock. Their first instinctive cries over a damaged hat or ripped skirt were followed by the quick reaction of childish laughter. They were alone; the very defection of Pedro consoled them, in its absence of any witness to their disaster; even their previous slight attitude to each other was forgotten. They groped their way, pushing and panting, to the road again, where, beholding the overset buggy with its wheels ludicrously in the air, they suddenly seized and shook each other, and in an outburst of hilarious ecstasy, fairly laughed until the tears came into their eyes.
Then there was a breathless silence.
“The stage will be coming by in a moment,” composedly said Susy. “Fix me, dear.”
Mary Rogers calmly walked around her friend, bestowing a practical shake there, a pluck here, completely retying one bow and restoring an engaging fullness to another, yet critically examining, with her head on one side, the fascinating result. Then Susy performed the same function for Mary with equal deliberation and deftness. Suddenly Mary started and looked up.
“It's coming,” she said quickly, “and they've SEEN US.”
The expression of the faces of the two girls instantly changed. A pained dignity and resignation, apparently born of the most harrowing experiences and controlled only by perfect good breeding, was distinctly suggested in their features and attitude as they stood patiently by the wreck of their overturned buggy awaiting the oncoming coach. In sharp contrast was the evident excitement among the passengers. A few rose from their seats in their eagerness; as the stage pulled up in the road beside the buggy four or five of the younger men leaped to the ground.
“Are you hurt, miss?” they gasped sympathetically.
Susy did not immediately reply, but ominously knitted her pretty eyebrows as if repressing a spasm of pain. Then she said, “Not at all,” coldly, with the suggestion of stoically concealing some lasting or perhaps fatal injury, and took the arm of Mary Rogers, who had, in the mean time, established a touching yet graceful limp.
Declining the proffered assistance of the passengers, they helped each other into the coach, and freezingly requesting the driver to stop at Mr. Peyton's gate, maintained a statuesque and impressive silence. At the gates they got down, followed by the sympathetic glances of the others.
To all appearance their escapade, albeit fraught with dangerous possibilities, had happily ended. But in the economy of human affairs, as in nature, forces are not suddenly let loose without more or less sympathetic disturbance which is apt to linger after the impelling cause is harmlessly spent. The fright which the girls had unsuccessfully attempted to produce in the heart of their escort had passed him to become a panic elsewhere. Judge Peyton, riding near the gateway of his rancho, was suddenly confronted by the spectacle of one of his vacqueros driving on before him the two lassoed and dusty ponies, with a face that broke into violent gesticulating at his master's quick interrogation.
“Ah! Mother of God! It was an evil day! For the bronchos had run away, upset the buggy, and had only been stopped by a brave Americano of an ox-team, whose lasso was even now around their necks, to prove it, and who had been dragged a matter of a hundred varas, like a calf, at their heels. The senoritas,--ah! had he not already said they were safe, by the mercy of Jesus! --picked up by the coach, and would be here at this moment.”
“But where was Pedro all the time? What was he doing?” demanded Peyton, with a darkened face and gathering anger.
The vacquero looked at his master, and shrugged his shoulders significantly. At any other time Peyton would have remembered that Pedro, as the reputed scion of a decayed Spanish family, and claiming superiority, was not a favorite with his fellow-retainers. But the gesture, half of suggestion, half of depreciation, irritated Peyton still more.
“Well, where is this American who DID something when there wasn't a man among you all able to stop a child's runaway ponies?” he said sarcastically. “Let me see him.”
The vacquero became still more deprecatory.
“Ah! He had driven on with his team towards San Antonio. He would not stop to be thanked. But that was the whole truth. He, Incarnacion, could swear to it as to the Creed. There was nothing more.”
“Take those beasts around the back way to the corral,” said Peyton, thoroughly enraged, “and not a word of this to any one at the casa, do you hear? Not a word to Mrs. Peyton or the servants, or, by Heaven, I'll clear the rancho of the whole lazy crew of you at once. Out of the way there, and be off!”
He spurred his horse past the frightened menial, and dashed down the narrow lane that led to the gate. But, as Incarnacion had truly said, “It was an evil day,” for at the bottom of the lane, ambling slowly along as he lazily puffed a yellow cigarette, appeared the figure of the erring Pedro. Utterly unconscious of the accident, attributing the disappearance of his charges to the inequalities of the plain, and, in truth, little interested in what he firmly believed was his purely artificial function, he had even made a larger circuit to stop at a wayside fonda for refreshments.
Unfortunately, there is no more illogical sequence of human emotion than the exasperation produced by the bland manner of the unfortunate object who has excited it, although that very unconcern may be the convincing proof of innocence of intention. Judge Peyton, already influenced, was furious at the comfortable obliviousness of his careless henchman, and rode angrily towards him. Only a quick turn of Pedro's wrist kept the two men from coming into collision.
“Is this the way you attend to your duty?” demanded Peyton, in a thick, suppressed voice, “Where is the buggy? Where is my daughter?”
There was no mistaking Judge Peyton's manner, even if the reason of it was not so clear to Pedro's mind, and his hot Latin blood flew instinctively to his face. But for that, he might have shown some concern or asked an explanation. As it was, he at once retorted with the national shrug and the national half-scornful, half-lazy “Quien sabe?”
“Who knows?” repeated Peyton, hotly. “I do! She was thrown out of her buggy through your negligence and infernal laziness! The ponies ran away, and were stopped by a stranger who wasn't afraid of risking his bones, while you were limping around somewhere like a slouching, cowardly coyote.”
The vacquero struggled a moment between blank astonishment and inarticulate rage. At last he burst out:-- “I am no coyote! I was there! I saw no runaway!”
“Don't lie to me, sir!” roared Peyton. “I tell you the buggy was smashed, the girls were thrown out and nearly killed”--He stopped suddenly. The sound of youthful laughter had come from the bottom of the lane, where Susy Peyton and Mary Rogers, just alighted from the coach, in the reaction of their previous constrained attitude, were flying hilariously into view. A slight embarrassment crossed Peyton's face; a still deeper flush of anger overspread Pedro's sullen cheek.
Then Pedro found tongue again, his native one, rapidly, violently, half incoherently. “Ah, yes! It had come to this. It seems he was not a vacquero, a companion of the padrone on lands that had been his own before the Americanos robbed him of it, but a servant, a lackey of muchachas, an attendant on children to amuse them, or--why not? --an appendage to his daughter's state! Ah, Jesus Maria! such a state! such a muchacha! A picked-up foundling--a swineherd's daughter--to be ennobled by his, Pedro's, attendance, and for whose vulgar, clownish tricks,--tricks of a swineherd's daughter,--he, Pedro, was to be brought to book and insulted as if she were of Hidalgo blood! Ah, Caramba! Don Juan Peyton would find he could no more make a servant of him than he could make a lady of her!”
The two young girls were rapidly approaching. Judge Peyton spurred his horse beside the vacquero's, and, swinging the long thong of his bridle ominously in his clenched fingers, said, with a white face:-- “Vamos!”
Pedro's hand slid towards his sash. Peyton only looked at him with a rigid smile of scorn.
“Or I'll lash you here before them both,” he added in a lower voice.
The vacquero met Peyton's relentless eyes with a yellow flash of hate, drew his reins sharply, until his mustang, galled by the cruel bit, reared suddenly as if to strike at the immovable American, then, apparently with the same action, he swung it around on its hind legs, as on a pivot, and dashed towards the corral at a furious gallop.
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Meantime the heroic proprietor of the peaceful ox-team, whose valor Incarnacion had so infelicitously celebrated, was walking listlessly in the dust beside his wagon. At a first glance his slouching figure, taken in connection with his bucolic conveyance, did not immediately suggest a hero. As he emerged from the dusty cloud it could be seen that he was wearing a belt from which a large dragoon revolver and hunting knife were slung, and placed somewhat ostentatiously across the wagon seat was a rifle. Yet the other contents of the wagon were of a singularly inoffensive character, and even suggested articles of homely barter. Culinary utensils of all sizes, tubs, scullery brushes, and clocks, with several rolls of cheap carpeting and calico, might have been the wares of some traveling vender. Yet, as they were only visible through a flap of the drawn curtains of the canvas hood, they did not mitigate the general aggressive effect of their owner's appearance. A red bandanna handkerchief knotted and thrown loosely over his shoulders, a slouched hat pulled darkly over a head of long tangled hair, which, however, shadowed a round, comfortable face, scantily and youthfully bearded, were part of these confusing inconsistencies.
The shadows of the team wagon were already lengthening grotesquely over the flat, cultivated fields, which for some time had taken the place of the plains of wild oats in the branch road into which they had turned. The gigantic shadow of the proprietor, occasionally projected before it, was in characteristic exaggeration, and was often obliterated by a puff of dust, stirred by the plodding hoofs of the peaceful oxen, and swept across the field by the strong afternoon trades. The sun sank lower, although a still potent presence above the horizon line; the creaking wagon lumbered still heavily along. Yet at intervals its belligerent proprietor would start up from his slouching, silent march, break out into violent, disproportionate, but utterly ineffective objurgation of his cattle, jump into the air and kick his heels together in some paroxysm of indignation against them,--an act, however, which was received always with heavy bovine indifference, the dogged scorn of swaying, repudiating heads, or the dull contempt of lazily flicking tails.
Towards sunset one or two straggling barns and cottages indicated their approach to the outskirts of a country town or settlement. Here the team halted, as if the belligerent-looking teamster had felt his appearance was inconsistent with an effeminate civilization, and the oxen were turned into an open waste opposite a nondescript wooden tenement, half farmhouse and half cabin, evidently of the rudest Western origin. He may have recognized the fact that these “shanties” were not, as the ordinary traveler might infer, the first rude shelter of the original pioneers or settlers, but the later makeshifts of some recent Western immigrants who, like himself, probably found themselves unequal to the settled habits of the village, and who still retained their nomadic instincts. It chanced, however, that the cabin at present was occupied by a New England mechanic and his family, who had emigrated by ship around Cape Horn, and who had no experience of the West, the plains, or its people. It was therefore with some curiosity and a certain amount of fascinated awe that the mechanic's only daughter regarded from the open door of her dwelling the arrival of this wild and lawless-looking stranger.
Meantime he had opened the curtains of the wagon and taken from its interior a number of pots, pans, and culinary utensils, which he proceeded to hang upon certain hooks that were placed on the outer ribs of the board and the sides of the vehicle. To this he added a roll of rag carpet, the end of which hung from the tailboard, and a roll of pink calico temptingly displayed on the seat. The mystification and curiosity of the young girl grew more intense at these proceedings. It looked like the ordinary exhibition of a traveling peddler, but the gloomy and embattled appearance of the man himself scouted so peaceful and commonplace a suggestion. Under the pretense of chasing away a marauding hen, she sallied out upon the waste near the wagon. It then became evident that the traveler had seen her, and was not averse to her interest in his movements, although he had not changed his attitude of savage retrospection. An occasional ejaculation of suppressed passion, as if the memory of some past conflict was too much for him, escaped him even in this peaceful occupation. As this possibly caused the young girl to still hover timidly in the distance, he suddenly entered the wagon and reappeared carrying a tin bucket, with which he somewhat ostentatiously crossed her path, his eyes darkly wandering as if seeking something.
“If you're lookin' for the spring, it's a spell furder on--by the willows.”
It was a pleasant voice, the teamster thought, albeit with a dry, crisp, New England accent unfamiliar to his ears. He looked into the depths of an unlovely blue-check sunbonnet, and saw certain small, irregular features and a sallow check, lit up by a pair of perfectly innocent, trustful, and wondering brown eyes. Their timid possessor seemed to be a girl of seventeen, whose figure, although apparently clad in one of her mother's gowns, was still undeveloped and repressed by rustic hardship and innutrition. As her eyes met his she saw that the face of this gloomy stranger was still youthful, by no means implacable, and, even at that moment, was actually suffused by a brick-colored blush! In matters of mere intuition, the sex, even in its most rustic phase, is still our superior; and this unsophisticated girl, as the trespasser stammered, “Thank ye, miss,” was instinctively emboldened to greater freedom.
“Dad ain't tu hum, but ye kin have a drink o' milk if ye keer for it.”
She motioned shyly towards the cabin, and then led the way. The stranger, with an inarticulate murmur, afterwards disguised as a cough, followed her meekly. Nevertheless, by the time they had reached the cabin he had shaken his long hair over his eyes again, and a dark abstraction gathered chiefly in his eyebrows. But it did not efface from the girl's mind the previous concession of a blush, and, although it added to her curiosity, did not alarm her. He drank the milk awkwardly. But by the laws of courtesy, even among the most savage tribes, she felt he was, at that moment at least, harmless. A timid smile fluttered around her mouth as she said:-- “When ye hung up them things I thought ye might be havin' suthing to swap or sell. That is,”--with tactful politeness,--“mother was wantin' a new skillet, and it would have been handy if you'd had one. But”--with an apologetic glance at his equipments--“if it ain't your business, it's all right, and no offense.”
“I've got a lot o' skillets,” said the strange teamster, with marked condescension, “and she can have one. They're all that's left outer a heap o' trader's stuff captured by Injuns t'other side of Laramie. We had a big fight to get 'em back. Lost two of our best men,--scalped at Bloody Creek,--and had to drop a dozen redskins in their tracks,--me and another man,--lyin' flat in er wagon and firin' under the flaps o' the canvas. I don't know ez they waz wuth it,” he added in gloomy retrospect; “but I've got to get rid of 'em, I reckon, somehow, afore I work over to Deadman's Gulch again.”
The young girl's eyes brightened timidly with a feminine mingling of imaginative awe and personal, pitying interest. He was, after all, so young and amiable looking for such hardships and adventures. And with all this, he--this Indian fighter--was a little afraid of HER!
“Then that's why you carry that knife and six-shooter?” she said. “But you won't want 'em now, here in the settlement.”
“That's ez mebbe,” said the stranger darkly. He paused, and then suddenly, as if recklessly accepting a dangerous risk, unbuckled his revolver and handed it abstractedly to the young girl. But the sheath of the bowie-knife was a fixture in his body-belt, and he was obliged to withdraw the glittering blade by itself, and to hand it to her in all its naked terrors. The young girl received the weapons with a smiling complacency. Upon such altars as these the skeptical reader will remember that Mars had once hung his “battered shield,” his lance, and “uncontrolled crest.”
Nevertheless, the warlike teamster was not without embarrassment. Muttering something about the necessity of “looking after his stock,” he achieved a hesitating bow, backed awkwardly out of the door, and receiving from the conquering hands of the young girl his weapons again, was obliged to carry them somewhat ingloriously in his hands across the road, and put them on the wagon seat, where, in company with the culinary articles, they seemed to lose their distinctively aggressive character. Here, although his cheek was still flushed from his peaceful encounter, his voice regained some of its hoarse severity as he drove the oxen from the muddy pool into which they had luxuriantly wandered, and brought their fodder from the wagon. Later, as the sun was setting, he lit a corn-cob pipe, and somewhat ostentatiously strolled down the road, with a furtive eye lingering upon the still open door of the farmhouse. Presently two angular figures appeared from it, the farmer and his wife, intent on barter.
These he received with his previous gloomy preoccupation, and a slight variation of the story he had told their daughter. It is possible that his suggestive indifference piqued and heightened the bargaining instincts of the woman, for she not only bought the skillet, but purchased a clock and a roll of carpeting. Still more, in some effusion of rustic courtesy, she extended an invitation to him to sup with them, which he declined and accepted in the same embarrassed breath, returning the proffered hospitality by confidentially showing them a couple of dried scalps, presumably of Indian origin. It was in the same moment of human weakness that he answered their polite query as to “what they might call him,” by intimating that his name was “Red Jim,”--a title of achievement by which he was generally known, which for the present must suffice them. But during the repast that followed this was shortened to “Mister Jim,” and even familiarly by the elders to plain “Jim.” Only the young girl habitually used the formal prefix in return for the “Miss Phoebe” that he called her.
With three such sympathetic and unexperienced auditors the gloomy embarrassment of Red Jim was soon dissipated, although it could hardly be said that he was generally communicative. Dark tales of Indian warfare, of night attacks and wild stampedes, in which he had always taken a prominent part, flowed freely from his lips, but little else of his past history or present prospects. And even his narratives of adventure were more or less fragmentary and imperfect in detail.
“You woz saying,” said the farmer, with slow, matter of fact, New England deliberation, “ez how you guessed you woz beguiled amongst the Injins by your Mexican partner, a pow'ful influential man, and yet you woz the only one escaped the gen'ral slarterin'. How came the Injins to kill HIM,--their friend?”
“They didn't,” returned Jim, with ominously averted eyes.
“What became of him?” continued the farmer.
Red Jim shadowed his eyes with his hand, and cast a dark glance of scrutiny out of the doors and windows. The young girl perceived it with timid, fascinated concern, and said hurriedly:-- “Don't ask him, father! Don't you see he mustn't tell?”
“Not when spies may be hangin' round, and doggin' me at every step,” said Red Jim, as if reflecting, with another furtive glance towards the already fading prospect without. “They've sworn to revenge him,” he added moodily.
A momentary silence followed. The farmer coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at his wife. But the two women had already exchanged feminine glances of sympathy for this evident slayer of traitors, and were apparently inclined to stop any adverse criticism.
In the midst of which a shout was heard from the road. The farmer and his family instinctively started. Red Jim alone remained unmoved,--a fact which did not lessen the admiration of his feminine audience. The host rose quickly, and went out. The figure of a horseman had halted in the road, but after a few moments' conversation with the farmer they both moved towards the house and disappeared. When the farmer returned, it was to say that “one of them 'Frisco dandies, who didn't keer about stoppin' at the hotel in the settlement,” had halted to give his “critter” a feed and drink that he might continue his journey. He had asked him to come in while the horse was feeding, but the stranger had “guessed he'd stretch his legs outside and smoke his cigar;” he might have thought the company “not fine enough for him,” but he was “civil spoken enough, and had an all-fired smart hoss, and seemed to know how to run him.” To the anxious inquiries of his wife and daughter he added that the stranger didn't seem like a spy or a Mexican; was “as young as HIM,” pointing to the moody Red Jim, “and a darned sight more peaceful-like in style.”
Perhaps owing to the criticism of the farmer, perhaps from some still lurking suspicion of being overheard by eavesdroppers, or possibly from a humane desire to relieve the strained apprehension of the women, Red Jim, as the farmer disappeared to rejoin the stranger, again dropped into a lighter and gentler vein of reminiscence. He told them how, when a mere boy, he had been lost from an emigrant train in company with a little girl some years his junior. How, when they found themselves alone on the desolate plain, with the vanished train beyond their reach, he endeavored to keep the child from a knowledge of the real danger of their position, and to soothe and comfort her. How he carried her on his back, until, exhausted, he sank in a heap of sage-brush. How he was surrounded by Indians, who, however, never suspected his hiding-place; and how he remained motionless and breathless with the sleeping child for three hours, until they departed. How, at the last moment, he had perceived a train in the distance, and had staggered with her thither, although shot at and wounded by the trainmen in the belief that he was an Indian. How it was afterwards discovered that the child was the long-lost daughter of a millionaire; how he had resolutely refused any gratuity for saving her, and she was now a peerless young heiress, famous in California. Whether this lighter tone of narrative suited him better, or whether the active feminine sympathy of his auditors helped him along, certain it was that his story was more coherent and intelligible and his voice less hoarse and constrained than in his previous belligerent reminiscences; his expression changed, and even his features worked into something like gentler emotion. The bright eyes of Phoebe, fastened upon him, turned dim with a faint moisture, and her pale cheek took upon itself a little color. The mother, after interjecting “Du tell,” and “I wanter know,” remained open-mouthed, staring at her visitor. And in the silence that followed, a pleasant, but somewhat melancholy voice came from the open door.
“I beg your pardon, but I thought I couldn't be mistaken. It IS my old friend, Jim Hooker!”
Everybody started. Red Jim stumbled to his feet with an inarticulate and hysteric exclamation. Yet the apparition that now stood in the doorway was far from being terrifying or discomposing. It was evidently the stranger,--a slender, elegantly-knit figure, whose upper lip was faintly shadowed by a soft, dark mustache indicating early manhood, and whose unstudied ease in his well-fitting garments bespoke the dweller of cities. Good-looking and well-dressed, without the consciousness of being either; self-possessed through easy circumstances, yet without self-assertion; courteous by nature and instinct as well as from an experience of granting favors, he might have been a welcome addition to even a more critical company. But Red Jim, hurriedly seizing his outstretched hand, instantly dragged him away from the doorway into the road and out of hearing of his audience.
“Did you hear what I was saying?” he asked hoarsely.
“Well, yes,--I think so,” returned the stranger, with a quiet smile.
“Ye ain't goin' back on me, Clarence, are ye,--ain't goin' to gimme away afore them, old pard, are ye?” said Jim, with a sudden change to almost pathetic pleading.
“No,” returned the stranger, smiling. “And certainly not before that interested young lady, Jim. But stop. Let me look at you.”
He held out both hands, took Jim's, spread them apart for a moment with a boyish gesture, and, looking in his face, said half mischievously, half sadly, “Yes, it's the same old Jim Hooker,--unchanged.”
“But YOU'RE changed,--reg'lar war paint, Big Injin style!” said Hooker, looking up at him with an awkward mingling of admiration and envy. “Heard you struck it rich with the old man, and was Mister Brant now!”
“Yes,” said Clarence gently, yet with a smile that had not only a tinge of weariness but even of sadness in it.
Unfortunately, the act, which was quite natural to Clarence's sensitiveness, and indeed partly sprang from some concern in his old companion's fortunes, translated itself by a very human process to Hooker's consciousness as a piece of rank affectation. HE would have been exalted and exultant in Clarence's place, consequently any other exhibition was only “airs.” Nevertheless, at the present moment Clarence was to be placated.
“You didn't mind my telling that story about your savin' Susy as my own, did ye?” he said, with a hasty glance over his shoulder. “I only did it to fool the old man and women-folks, and make talk. You won't blow on me? Ye ain't mad about it?”
It had crossed Clarence's memory that when they were both younger Jim Hooker had once not only borrowed his story, but his name and personality as well. Yet in his loyalty to old memories there was mingled no resentment for past injury. “Of course not,” he said, with a smile that was, however, still thoughtful. “Why should I? Only I ought to tell you that Susy Peyton is living with her adopted parents not ten miles from here, and it might reach their ears. She's quite a young lady now, and if I wouldn't tell her story to strangers, I don't think YOU ought to, Jim.”
He said this so pleasantly that even the skeptical Jim forgot what he believed were the “airs and graces” of self-abnegation, and said, “Let's go inside, and I'll introduce you,” and turned to the house. But Clarence Brant drew back. “I'm going on as soon as my horse is fed, for I'm on a visit to Peyton, and I intend to push as far as Santa Inez still to-night. I want to talk with you about yourself, Jim,” he added gently; “your prospects and your future. I heard,” he went on hesitatingly, “that you were--at work--in a restaurant in San Francisco. I'm glad to see that you are at least your own master here,”--he glanced at the wagon. “You are selling things, I suppose? For yourself, or another? Is that team yours? Come,” he added, still pleasantly, but in an older and graver voice, with perhaps the least touch of experienced authority, “be frank, Jim. Which is it? Never mind what things you've told IN THERE, tell ME the truth about yourself. Can I help you in any way? Believe me, I should like to. We have been old friends, whatever difference in our luck, I am yours still.”
Thus adjured, the redoubtable Jim, in a hoarse whisper, with a furtive eye on the house, admitted that he was traveling for an itinerant peddler, whom he expected to join later in the settlement; that he had his own methods of disposing of his wares, and (darkly) that his proprietor and the world generally had better not interfere with him; that (with a return to more confidential lightness) he had already “worked the Wild West Injin” business so successfully as to dispose of his wares, particularly in yonder house, and might do even more if not prematurely and wantonly “blown upon,” “gone back on,” or “given away.”
“But wouldn't you like to settle down on some bit of land like this, and improve it for yourself?” said Clarence. “All these valley terraces are bound to rise in value, and meantime you would be independent. It could be managed, Jim. I think I could arrange it for you,” he went on, with a slight glow of youthful enthusiasm. “Write to me at Peyton's ranch, and I'll see you when I come back, and we'll hunt up something for you together.” As Jim received the proposition with a kind of gloomy embarrassment, he added lightly, with a glance at the farmhouse, “It might be near HERE, you know; and you'd have pleasant neighbors, and even eager listeners to your old adventures.”
“You'd better come in a minit before you go,” said Jim, clumsily evading a direct reply. Clarence hesitated a moment, and then yielded. For an equal moment Jim Hooker was torn between secret jealousy of his old comrade's graces and a desire to present them as familiar associations of his own. But his vanity was quickly appeased.
Need it be said that the two women received this fleck and foam of a super-civilization they knew little of as almost an impertinence compared to the rugged, gloomy, pathetic, and equally youthful hero of an adventurous wilderness of which they knew still less? What availed the courtesy and gentle melancholy of Clarence Brant beside the mysterious gloom and dark savagery of Red Jim? Yet they received him patronizingly, as one who was, like themselves, an admirer of manly grace and power, and the recipient of Jim's friendship. The farmer alone seemed to prefer Clarence, and yet the latter's tacit indorsement of Red Jim, through his evident previous intimacy with him, impressed the man in Jim's favor. All of which Clarence saw with that sensitive perception which had given him an early insight into human weakness, yet still had never shaken his youthful optimism. He smiled a little thoughtfully, but was openly fraternal to Jim, courteous to his host and family, and, as he rode away in the faint moonlight, magnificently opulent in his largess to the farmer,--his first and only assertion of his position.
The farmhouse, straggling barn, and fringe of dusty willows, the white dome of the motionless wagon, with the hanging frying pans and kettles showing in the moonlight like black silhouettes against the staring canvas, all presently sank behind Clarence like the details of a dream, and he was alone with the moon, the hazy mystery of the level, grassy plain, and the monotony of the unending road. As he rode slowly along he thought of that other dreary plain, white with alkali patches and brown with rings of deserted camp-fires, known to his boyhood of deprivation, dependency, danger, and adventure, oddly enough, with a strange delight; and his later years of study, monastic seclusion, and final ease and independence, with an easy sense of wasted existence and useless waiting. He remembered his homeless childhood in the South, where servants and slaves took the place of the father he had never known, and the mother that he rarely saw; he remembered his abandonment to a mysterious female relation, where his natural guardians seemed to have overlooked and forgotten him, until he was sent, an all too young adventurer, to work his passage on an overland emigrant train across the plains; he remembered, as yesterday, the fears, the hopes, the dreams and dangers of that momentous journey. He recalled his little playmate, Susy, and their strange adventures--the whole incident that the imaginative Jim Hooker had translated and rehearsed as his own--rose vividly before him. He thought of the cruel end of that pilgrimage, which again left him homeless and forgotten by even the relative he was seeking in a strange land. He remembered his solitary journey to the gold mines, taken with a boy's trust and a boy's fearlessness, and the strange protector he had found there, who had news of his missing kinsman; he remembered how this protector--whom he had at once instinctively loved--transferred him to the house of this new-found relation, who treated him kindly and sent him to the Jesuit school, but who never awakened in him a feeling of kinship. He dreamed again of his life at school, his accidental meeting with Susy at Santa Clara, the keen revival of his boyish love for his old playmate, now a pretty schoolgirl, the petted adopted child of wealthy parents. He recalled the terrible shock that interrupted this boyish episode: the news of the death of his protector, and the revelation that this hard, silent, and mysterious man was his own father, whose reckless life and desperate reputation had impelled him to assume a disguise.
He remembered how his sudden accession to wealth and independence had half frightened him, and had always left a lurking sensitiveness that he was unfairly favored, by some mere accident, above his less lucky companions. The rude vices of his old associates had made him impatient of the feebler sensual indulgences of the later companions of his luxury, and exposed their hollow fascinations; his sensitive fastidiousness kept him clean among vulgar temptations; his clear perceptions were never blinded by selfish sophistry. Meantime his feeling for Susy remained unchanged. Pride had kept him from seeking the Peytons. His present visit was as unpremeditated as Peyton's invitation had been unlooked for by him. Yet he had not allowed himself to be deceived. He knew that this courtesy was probably due to the change in his fortune, although he had hoped it might have been some change in their opinion brought about by Susy. But he would at least see her again, not in the pretty, half-clandestine way she had thought necessary, but openly and as her equal.
In his rapid ride he seemed to have suddenly penetrated the peaceful calm of the night. The restless irritation of the afternoon trade winds had subsided; the tender moonlight had hushed and tranquilly possessed the worried plain; the unending files of wild oats, far spaced and distinct, stood erect and motionless as trees; something of the sedate solemnity of a great forest seemed to have fallen upon their giant stalks. There was no dew. In that light, dry air, the heavier dust no longer rose beneath the heels of his horse, whose flying shadow passed over the field like a cloud, leaving no trail or track behind it. In the preoccupation of his thought and his breathless retrospect, the young man had ridden faster than he intended, and he now checked his panting horse. The influence of the night and the hushed landscape stole over him; his thoughts took a gentler turn; in that dim, mysterious horizon line before him, his future seemed to be dreamily peopled with airy, graceful shapes that more or less took the likeness of Susy. She was bright, coquettish, romantic, as he had last seen her; she was older, graver, and thoughtfully welcome of him; or she was cold, distant, and severely forgetful of the past. How would her adopted father and mother receive him? Would they ever look upon him in the light of a suitor to the young girl? He had no fear of Peyton,--he understood his own sex, and, young as he was, knew already how to make himself respected; but how could he overcome that instinctive aversion which Mrs. Peyton had so often made him feel he had provoked? Yet in this dreamy hush of earth and sky, what was not possible? His boyish heart beat high with daring visions.
He saw Mrs. Peyton in the porch, welcoming him with that maternal smile which his childish longing had so often craved to share with Susy. Peyton would be there, too,--Peyton, who had once pushed back his torn straw hat to look approvingly in his boyish eyes; and Peyton, perhaps, might be proud of him.
Suddenly he started. A voice in his very ear!
“Bah! A yoke of vulgar cattle grazing on lands that were thine by right and law. Neither more nor less than that. And I tell thee, Pancho, like cattle, to be driven off or caught and branded for one's own. Ha! There are those who could swear to the truth of this on the Creed. Ay! and bring papers stamped and signed by the governor's rubric to prove it. And not that I hate them,--bah! what are those heretic swine to me? But thou dost comprehend me? It galls and pricks me to see them swelling themselves with stolen husks, and men like thee, Pancho, ousted from their own land.”
Clarence had halted in utter bewilderment. No one was visible before him, behind him, on either side. The words, in Spanish, came from the air, the sky, the distant horizon, he knew not which. Was he still dreaming? A strange shiver crept over his skin as if the air had grown suddenly chill. Then another mysterious voice arose, incredulous, half mocking, but equally distinct and clear.
“Caramba! What is this? You are wandering, friend Pancho. You are still smarting from his tongue. He has the grant confirmed by his brigand government; he has the POSSESSION, stolen by a thief like himself; and he has the Corregidors with him. For is he not one of them himself, this Judge Peyton?”
Peyton! Clarence felt the blood rush back to his face in astonishment and indignation. His heels mechanically pressed his horse's flanks, and the animal sprang forward.
“Guarda! Mira!” said the voice again in a quicker, lower tone. But this time it was evidently in the field beside him, and the heads and shoulders of two horsemen emerged at the same moment from the tall ranks of wild oats. The mystery was solved. The strangers had been making their way along a lower level of the terraced plain, hidden by the grain, not twenty yards away, and parallel with the road they were now ascending to join. Their figures were alike formless in long striped serapes, and their features undistinguishable under stiff black sombreros.
“Buenas noches, senor,” said the second voice, in formal and cautious deliberation.
A sudden inspiration made Clarence respond in English, as if he had not comprehended the stranger's words, “Eh?”
“Gooda-nighta,” repeated the stranger.
“Oh, good-night,” returned Clarence. They passed him. Their spurs tinkled twice or thrice, their mustangs sprang forward, and the next moment the loose folds of their serapes were fluttering at their sides like wings in their flight.
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{
"id": "2495"
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After the chill of a dewless night the morning sun was apt to look ardently upon the Robles Rancho, if so strong an expression could describe the dry, oven-like heat of a Californian coast-range valley. Before ten o'clock the adobe wall of the patio was warm enough to permit lingering vacqueros and idle peons to lean against it, and the exposed annexe was filled with sharp, resinous odors from the oozing sap of unseasoned “redwood” boards, warped and drying in the hot sunshine. Even at that early hour the climbing Castilian roses were drooping against the wooden columns of the new veranda, scarcely older than themselves, and mingling an already faded spice with the aroma of baking wood and the more material fragrance of steaming coffee, that seemed dominant everywhere.
In fact, the pretty breakfast-room, whose three broad windows, always open to the veranda, gave an al fresco effect to every meal, was a pathetic endeavor of the Southern-bred Peyton to emulate the soft, luxurious, and open-air indolence of his native South, in a climate that was not only not tropical, but even austere in its most fervid moments. Yet, although cold draughts invaded it from the rear that morning, Judge Peyton sat alone, between the open doors and windows, awaiting the slow coming of his wife and the young ladies. He was not in an entirely comfortable mood that morning. Things were not going on well at Robles. That truculent vagabond, Pedro, had, the night before, taken himself off with a curse that had frightened even the vacqueros, who most hated him as a companion, but who now seemed inclined to regard his absence as an injury done to their race. Peyton, uneasily conscious that his own anger had been excited by an exaggerated conception of the accident, was now, like most obstinate men, inclined to exaggerate the importance of Pedro's insolence. He was well out of it to get rid of this quarrelsome hanger-on, whose presumption and ill-humor threatened the discipline of the rancho, yet he could not entirely forget that he had employed him on account of his family claims, and from a desire to placate racial jealousy and settle local differences. For the inferior Mexicans and Indian half-breeds still regarded their old masters with affection; were, in fact, more concerned for the integrity of their caste than the masters were themselves, and the old Spanish families who had made alliances with Americans, and shared their land with them, had rarely succeeded in alienating their retainers with their lands. Certain experiences in the proving of his grant before the Land Commission had taught Peyton that they were not to be depended upon. And lately there had been unpleasant rumors of the discovery of some unlooked-for claimants to a division of the grant itself, which might affect his own title.
He looked up quickly as voices and light steps on the veranda at last heralded the approach of his tardy household from the corridor. But, in spite of his preoccupation, he was startled and even awkwardly impressed with a change in Susy's appearance. She was wearing, for the first time, a long skirt, and this sudden maturing of her figure struck him, as a man, much more forcibly than it would probably have impressed a woman, more familiar with details. He had not noticed certain indications of womanhood, as significant, perhaps, in her carriage as her outlines, which had been lately perfectly apparent to her mother and Mary, but which were to him now, for the first time, indicated by a few inches of skirt. She not only looked taller to his masculine eyes, but these few inches had added to the mystery as well as the drapery of the goddess; they were not so much the revelation of maturity as the suggestion that it was HIDDEN. So impressed was he, that a half-serious lecture on her yesterday's childishness, the outcome of his irritated reflections that morning, died upon his lips. He felt he was no longer dealing with a child.
He welcomed them with that smile of bantering approbation, supposed to keep down inordinate vanity, which for some occult reason one always reserves for the members of one's own family. He was quite conscious that Susy was looking very pretty in this new and mature frock, and that as she stood beside his wife, far from ageing Mrs. Peyton's good looks and figure, she appeared like an equal companion, and that they mutually “became” one another. This, and the fact that they were all, including Mary Rogers, in their freshest, gayest morning dresses, awakened a half-humorous, half-real apprehension in his mind, that he was now hopelessly surrounded by a matured sex, and in a weak minority.
“I think I ought to have been prepared,” he began grimly, “for this addition to--to--the skirts of my family.”
“Why, John,” returned Mrs. Peyton quickly; “do you mean to say you haven't noticed that the poor child has for weeks been looking positively indecent?”
“Really, papa, I've been a sight to behold. Haven't I, Mary?” chimed in Susy.
“Yes, dear. Why, Judge, I've been wondering that Susy stood it so well, and never complained.”
Peyton glanced around him at this compact feminine embattlement. It was as he feared. Yet even here he was again at fault.
“And,” said Mrs. Peyton slowly, with the reserved significance of the feminine postscript in her voice, “if that Mr. Brant is coming here to-day, it would be just as well for him to see that SHE IS NO LONGER A CHILD, AS WHEN HE KNEW HER.”
An hour later, good-natured Mary Rogers, in her character of “a dear,”--which was usually indicated by the undertaking of small errands for her friend,--was gathering roses from the old garden for Susy's adornment, when she saw a vision which lingered with her for many a day. She had stopped to look through the iron grille in the adobe wall, across the open wind-swept plain. Miniature waves were passing over the wild oats, with glittering disturbances here and there in the depressions like the sparkling of green foam; the horizon line was sharply defined against the hard, steel-blue sky; everywhere the brand-new morning was shining with almost painted brilliancy; the vigor, spirit, and even crudeness of youth were over all. The young girl was dazzled and bewildered. Suddenly, as if blown out of the waving grain, or an incarnation of the vivid morning, the bright and striking figure of a youthful horseman flashed before the grille. It was Clarence Brant! Mary Rogers had always seen him, in the loyalty of friendship, with Susy's prepossessed eyes, yet she fancied that morning that he had never looked so handsome before. Even the foppish fripperies of his riding-dress and silver trappings seemed as much the natural expression of conquering youth as the invincible morning sunshine. Perhaps it might have been a reaction against Susy's caprice or some latent susceptibility of her own; but a momentary antagonism to her friend stirred even her kindly nature. What right had Susy to trifle with such an opportunity? Who was SHE to hesitate over this gallant prince?
But Prince Charming's quick eyes had detected her, and the next moment his beautiful horse was beside the grating, and his ready hand of greeting extended through the bars.
“I suppose I am early and unexpected, but I slept at Santa Inez last night, that I might ride over in the cool of the morning. My things are coming by the stage-coach, later. It seemed such a slow way of coming one's self.”
Mary Rogers's black eyes intimated that the way he had taken was the right one, but she gallantly recovered herself and remembered her position as confidante. And here was the opportunity of delivering Susy's warning unobserved. She withdrew her hand from Clarence's frank grasp, and passing it through the grating, patted the sleek, shining flanks of his horse, with a discreet division of admiration.
“And such a lovely creature, too! And Susy will be so delighted! and oh, Mr. Brant, please, you're to say nothing of having met her at Santa Clara. It's just as well not to begin with THAT here, for, you see” (with a large, maternal manner), “you were both SO young then.”
Clarence drew a quick breath. It was the first check to his vision of independence and equal footing! Then his invitation was NOT the outcome of a continuous friendship revived by Susy, as he had hoped; the Peytons had known nothing of his meeting with her, or perhaps they would not have invited him. He was here as an impostor,--and all because Susy had chosen to make a mystery of a harmless encounter, which might have been explained, and which they might have even countenanced. He thought bitterly of his old playmate for a brief moment,--as brief as Mary's antagonism. The young girl noticed the change in his face, but misinterpreted it.
“Oh, there's no danger of its coming out if you don't say anything,” she said, quickly. “Ride on to the house, and don't wait for me. You'll find them in the patio on the veranda.”
Clarence moved on, but not as spiritedly as before. Nevertheless there was still dash enough about him and the animal he bestrode to stir into admiration the few lounging vacqueros of a country which was apt to judge the status of a rider by the quality of his horse. Nor was the favorable impression confined to them alone. Peyton's gratification rang out cheerily in his greeting:-- “Bravo, Clarence! You are here in true caballero style. Thanks for the compliment to the rancho.”
For a moment the young man was transported back again to his boyhood, and once more felt Peyton's approving hand pushing back the worn straw hat from his childish forehead. A faint color rose to his cheeks; his eyes momentarily dropped. The highest art could have done no more! The slight aggressiveness of his youthful finery and picturesque good looks was condoned at once; his modesty conquered where self-assertion might have provoked opposition, and even Mrs. Peyton felt herself impelled to come forward with an outstretched hand scarcely less frank than her husband's. Then Clarence lifted his eyes. He saw before him the woman to whom his childish heart had gone out with the inscrutable longing and adoration of a motherless, homeless, companionless boy; the woman who had absorbed the love of his playmate without sharing it with him; who had showered her protecting and maternal caresses on Susy, a waif like himself, yet had not only left his heart lonely and desolate, but had even added to his childish distrust of himself the thought that he had excited her aversion. He saw her more beautiful than ever in her restored health, freshness of coloring, and mature roundness of outline. He was unconsciously touched with a man's admiration for her without losing his boyish yearnings and half-filial affection; in her new materialistic womanhood his youthful imagination had lifted her to a queen and goddess. There was all this appeal in his still boyish eyes,--eyes that had never yet known shame or fear in the expression of their emotions; there was all this in the gesture with which he lifted Mrs. Peyton's fingers to his lips. The little group saw in this act only a Spanish courtesy in keeping with his accepted role. But a thrill of surprise, of embarrassment, of intense gratification passed over her. For he had not even looked at Susy!
Her relenting was graceful. She welcomed him with a winning smile. Then she motioned pleasantly towards Susy.
“But here is an older friend, Mr. Brant, whom you do not seem to recognize,--Susy, whom you have not seen since she was a child.”
A quick flush rose to Clarence's cheek. The group smiled at this evident youthful confession of some boyish admiration. But Clarence knew that his truthful blood was merely resenting the deceit his lips were sealed from divulging. He did not dare to glance at Susy; it added to the general amusement that the young girl was obliged to present herself. But in this interval she had exchanged glances with Mary Rogers, who had rejoined the group, and she knew she was safe. She smiled with gracious condescension at Clarence; observed, with the patronizing superiority of age and established position, that he had GROWN, but had not greatly changed, and, it is needless to say, again filled her mother's heart with joy. Clarence, still intoxicated with Mrs. Peyton's kindliness, and, perhaps, still embarrassed by remorse, had not time to remark the girl's studied attitude. He shook hands with her cordially, and then, in the quick reaction of youth, accepted with humorous gravity the elaborate introduction to Mary Rogers by Susy, which completed this little comedy. And if, with a woman's quickness, Mrs. Peyton detected a certain lingering glance which passed between Mary Rogers and Clarence, and misinterpreted it, it was only a part of that mystification into which these youthful actors are apt to throw their mature audiences.
“Confess, Ally,” said Peyton, cheerfully, as the three young people suddenly found their tongues with aimless vivacity and inconsequent laughter, and started with unintelligible spirits for an exploration of the garden, “confess now that your bete noir is really a very manly as well as a very presentable young fellow. By Jove! the padres have made a Spanish swell out of him without spoiling the Brant grit, either! Come, now; you're not afraid that Susy's style will suffer from HIS companionship. 'Pon my soul, she might borrow a little of his courtesy to his elders without indelicacy. I only wish she had as sincere a way of showing her respect for you as he has. Did you notice that he really didn't seem to see anybody else but you at first? And yet you never were a friend to him, like Susy.”
The lady tossed her head slightly, but smiled.
“This is the first time he's seen Mary Rogers, isn't it?” she said meditatively.
“I reckon. But what's that to do with his politeness to you?”
“And do her parents know him?” she continued, without replying.
“How do I know? I suppose everybody has heard of him. Why?”
“Because I think they've taken a fancy to each other.”
“What in the name of folly, Ally”--began the despairing Peyton.
“When you invite a handsome, rich, and fascinating young man into the company of young ladies, John,” returned Mrs. Peyton, in her severest manner, “you must not forget you owe a certain responsibility to the parents. I shall certainly look after Miss Rogers.”
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{
"id": "2495"
}
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Although the three young people had left the veranda together, when they reached the old garden Clarence and Susy found themselves considerably in advance of Mary Rogers, who had become suddenly and deeply interested in the beauty of a passion vine near the gate. At the first discovery of their isolation their voluble exchange of information about themselves and their occupations since their last meeting stopped simultaneously. Clarence, who had forgotten his momentary irritation, and had recovered his old happiness in her presence, was nevertheless conscious of some other change in her than that suggested by the lengthened skirt and the later and more delicate accentuation of her prettiness. It was not her affectation of superiority and older social experience, for that was only the outcome of what he had found charming in her as a child, and which he still good-humoredly accepted; nor was it her characteristic exaggeration of speech, which he still pleasantly recognized. It was something else, vague and indefinite,--something that had been unnoticed while Mary was with them, but had now come between them like some unknown presence which had taken the confidante's place. He remained silent, looking at her half-brightening cheek and conscious profile. Then he spoke with awkward directness.
“You are changed, Susy, more than in looks.”
“Hush,” said the girl in a tragic whisper, with a warning gesture towards the blandly unconscious Mary.
“But,” returned Clarence wonderingly, “she's your--our friend, you know.”
“I DON'T know,” said Susy, in a still deeper tone, “that is--oh, don't ask me! But when you're always surrounded by spies, when you can't say your soul is your own, you doubt everybody!” There was such a pretty distress in her violet eyes and curving eyebrows, that Clarence, albeit vague as to its origin and particulars, nevertheless possessed himself of the little hand that was gesticulating dangerously near his own, and pressed it sympathetically. Perhaps preoccupied with her emotions, she did not immediately withdraw it, as she went on rapidly: “And if you were cooped up here, day after day, behind these bars,” pointing to the grille, “you'd know what I suffer.”
“But”--began Clarence.
“Hush!” said Susy, with a stamp of her little foot.
Clarence, who had only wished to point out that the whole lower end of the garden wall was in ruins and the grille really was no prevention, “hushed.”
“And listen! Don't pay me much attention to-day, but talk to HER,” indicating the still discreet and distant Mary, “before father and mother. Not a word to her of this confidence, Clarence. To-morrow ride out alone on your beautiful horse, and come back by way of the woods, beyond our turning, at four o'clock. There's a trail to the right of the big madrono tree. Take that. Be careful and keep a good lookout, for she mustn't see you.”
“Who mustn't see me?” said the puzzled Clarence.
“Why, Mary, of course, you silly boy!” returned the girl impatiently. “She'll be looking for ME. Go now, Clarence! Stop! Look at that lovely big maiden's-blush up there,” pointing to a pink-suffused specimen of rose grandiflora hanging on the wall. “Get it, Clarence,--that one,--I'll show you where,--there!” They had already plunged into the leafy bramble, and, standing on tiptoe, with her hand on his shoulder and head upturned, Susy's cheek had innocently approached Clarence's own. At this moment Clarence, possibly through some confusion of color, fragrance, or softness of contact, seemed to have availed himself of the opportunity, in a way which caused Susy to instantly rejoin Mary Rogers with affected dignity, leaving him to follow a few moments later with the captured flower.
Without trying to understand the reason of to-morrow's rendezvous, and perhaps not altogether convinced of the reality of Susy's troubles, he, however, did not find that difficulty in carrying out her other commands which he had expected. Mrs. Peyton was still gracious, and, with feminine tact, induced him to talk of himself, until she was presently in possession of his whole history, barring the episode of his meeting with Susy, since he had parted with them. He felt a strange satisfaction in familiarly pouring out his confidences to this superior woman, whom he had always held in awe. There was a new delight in her womanly interest in his trials and adventures, and a subtle pleasure even in her half-motherly criticism and admonition of some passages. I am afraid he forgot Susy, who listened with the complacency of an exhibitor; Mary, whose black eyes dilated alternately with sympathy for the performer and deprecation of Mrs. Peyton's critical glances; and Peyton, who, however, seemed lost in thought, and preoccupied. Clarence was happy. The softly shaded lights in the broad, spacious, comfortably furnished drawing-room shone on the group before him. It was a picture of refined domesticity which the homeless Clarence had never known except as a vague, half-painful, boyish remembrance; it was a realization of welcome that far exceeded his wildest boyish vision of the preceding night. With that recollection came another,--a more uneasy one. He remembered how that vision had been interrupted by the strange voices in the road, and their vague but ominous import to his host. A feeling of self-reproach came over him. The threats had impressed him as only mere braggadocio,--he knew the characteristic exaggeration of the race,--but perhaps he ought to privately tell Peyton of the incident at once.
The opportunity came later, when the ladies had retired, and Peyton, wrapped in a poncho in a rocking-chair, on the now chilly veranda, looked up from his reverie and a cigar. Clarence casually introduced the incident, as if only for the sake of describing the supernatural effect of the hidden voices, but he was concerned to see that Peyton was considerably disturbed by their more material import. After questioning him as to the appearance of the two men, his host said: “I don't mind telling you, Clarence, that as far as that fellow's intentions go he is quite sincere, although his threats are only borrowed thunder. He is a man whom I have just dismissed for carelessness and insolence,--two things that run in double harness in this country,--but I should be more afraid to find him at my back on a dark night, alone on the plains; than to confront him in daylight, in the witness box, against me. He was only repeating a silly rumor that the title to this rancho and the nine square leagues beyond would be attacked by some speculators.”
“But I thought your title was confirmed two years ago,” said Clarence.
“The GRANT was confirmed,” returned Peyton, “which means that the conveyance of the Mexican government of these lands to the ancestor of Victor Robles was held to be legally proven by the United States Land Commission, and a patent issued to all those who held under it. I and my neighbors hold under it by purchase from Victor Robles, subject to the confirmation of the Land Commission. But that confirmation was only of Victor's GREAT-GRANDFATHER'S TITLE, and it is now alleged that as Victor's father died without making a will, Victor has claimed and disposed of property which he ought to have divided with his SISTERS. At least, some speculating rascals in San Francisco have set up what they call 'the Sisters' title,' and are selling it to actual settlers on the unoccupied lands beyond. As, by the law, it would hold possession against the mere ordinary squatters, whose only right is based, as you know, on the presumption that there is NO TITLE CLAIMED, it gives the possessor immunity to enjoy the use of the property until the case is decided, and even should the original title hold good against his, the successful litigant would probably be willing to pay for improvements and possession to save the expensive and tedious process of ejectment.”
“But this does not affect YOU, who have already possession?” said Clarence quickly.
“No, not as far as THIS HOUSE and the lands I actually OCCUPY AND CULTIVATE are concerned; and they know that I am safe to fight to the last, and carry the case to the Supreme Court in that case, until the swindle is exposed, or they drop it; but I may have to pay them something to keep the squatters off my UNOCCUPIED land.”
“But you surely wouldn't recognize those rascals in any way?” said the astonished Clarence.
“As against other rascals? Why not?” returned Peyton grimly. “I only pay for the possession which their sham title gives me to my own land. If by accident that title obtains, I am still on the safe side.” After a pause he said, more gravely, “What you overheard, Clarence, shows me that the plan is more forward than I had imagined, and that I may have to fight traitors here.”
“I hope, sir,” said Clarence, with a quick glow in his earnest face, “that you'll let me help you. You thought I did once, you remember,--with the Indians.”
There was so much of the old Clarence in his boyish appeal and eager, questioning face that Peyton, who had been talking to him as a younger but equal man of affairs, was startled into a smile, “You did, Clarence, though the Indians butchered your friends, after all. I don't know, though, but that your experiences with those Spaniards--you must have known a lot of them when you were with Don Juan Robinson and at the college--might be of service in getting at evidence, or smashing their witnesses if it comes to a fight. But just now, MONEY is everything. They must be bought OFF THE LAND if I have to mortgage it for the purpose. That strikes you as a rather heroic remedy, Clarence, eh?” he continued, in his old, half-bantering attitude towards Clarence's inexperienced youth, “don't it?”
But Clarence was not thinking of that. Another more audacious but equally youthful and enthusiastic idea had taken possession of his mind, and he lay awake half that night revolving it. It was true that it was somewhat impractically mixed with his visions of Mrs. Peyton and Susy, and even included his previous scheme of relief for the improvident and incorrigible Hooker. But it gave a wonderful sincerity and happiness to his slumbers that night, which the wiser and elder Peyton might have envied, and I wot not was in the long run as correct and sagacious as Peyton's sleepless cogitations. And in the early morning Mr. Clarence Brant, the young capitalist, sat down to his traveling-desk and wrote two clear-headed, logical, and practical business letters,--one to his banker, and the other to his former guardian, Don Juan Robinson, as his first step in a resolve that was, nevertheless, perhaps as wildly quixotic and enthusiastic as any dream his boyish and unselfish heart had ever indulged.
At breakfast, in the charmed freedom of the domestic circle, Clarence forgot Susy's capricious commands of yesterday, and began to address himself to her in his old earnest fashion, until he was warned by a significant knitting of the young lady's brows and monosyllabic responses. But in his youthful loyalty to Mrs. Peyton, he was more pained to notice Susy's occasional unconscious indifference to her adopted mother's affectionate expression, and a more conscious disregard of her wishes. So uneasy did he become, in his sensitive concern for Mrs. Peyton's half-concealed mortification, that he gladly accepted Peyton's offer to go with him to visit the farm and corral. As the afternoon approached, with another twinge of self-reproach, he was obliged to invent some excuse to decline certain hospitable plans of Mrs. Peyton's for his entertainment, and at half past three stole somewhat guiltily, with his horse, from the stables. But he had to pass before the outer wall of the garden and grille, through which he had seen Mary the day before. Raising his eyes mechanically, he was startled to see Mrs. Peyton standing behind the grating, with her abstracted gaze fixed upon the wind-tossed, level grain beyond her. She smiled as she saw him, but there were traces of tears in her proud, handsome eyes.
“You are going to ride?” she said pleasantly.
“Y-e-es,” stammered the shamefaced Clarence.
She glanced at him wistfully.
“You are right. The girls have gone away by themselves. Mr. Peyton has ridden over to Santa Inez on this dreadful land business, and I suppose you'd have found him a dull riding companion. It is rather stupid here. I quite envy you, Mr. Brant, your horse and your freedom.”
“But, Mrs. Peyton,” broke in Clarence, impulsively, “you have a horse--I saw it, a lovely lady's horse--eating its head off in the stable. Won't you let me run back and order it; and won't you, please, come out with me for a good, long gallop?”
He meant what he said. He had spoken quickly, impulsively, but with the perfect understanding in his own mind that his proposition meant the complete abandonment of his rendezvous with Susy. Mrs. Peyton was astounded and slightly stirred with his earnestness, albeit unaware of all it implied.
“It's a great temptation, Mr. Brant,” she said, with a playful smile, which dazzled Clarence with its first faint suggestion of a refined woman's coquetry; “but I'm afraid that Mr. Peyton would think me going mad in my old age. No. Go on and enjoy your gallop, and if you should see those giddy girls anywhere, send them home early for chocolate, before the cold wind gets up.”
She turned, waved her slim white hand playfully in acknowledgment of Clarence's bared head, and moved away.
For the first few moments the young man tried to find relief in furious riding, and in bullying his spirited horse. Then he pulled quickly up. What was he doing? What was he going to do? What foolish, vapid deceit was this that he was going to practice upon that noble, queenly, confiding, generous woman? (He had already forgotten that she had always distrusted him.) What a fool he was not to tell her half-jokingly that he expected to meet Susy! But would he have dared to talk half-jokingly to such a woman on such a topic? And would it have been honorable without disclosing the WHOLE truth,--that they had met secretly before? And was it fair to Susy? --dear, innocent, childish Susy! Yet something must be done! It was such trivial, purposeless deceit, after all; for this noble woman, Mrs. Peyton, so kind, so gentle, would never object to his loving Susy and marrying her. And they would all live happily together; and Mrs. Peyton would never be separated from them, but always beaming tenderly upon them as she did just now in the garden. Yes, he would have a serious understanding with Susy, and that would excuse the clandestine meeting to-day.
His rapid pace, meantime, had brought him to the imperceptible incline of the terrace, and he was astonished, in turning in the saddle, to find that the casa, corral, and outbuildings had completely vanished, and that behind him rolled only the long sea of grain, which seemed to have swallowed them in its yellowing depths. Before him lay the wooded ravine through which the stagecoach passed, which was also the entrance to the rancho, and there, too, probably, was the turning of which Susy had spoken. But it was still early for the rendezvous; indeed, he was in no hurry to meet her in his present discontented state, and he made a listless circuit of the field, in the hope of discovering the phenomena that had caused the rancho's mysterious disappearance. When he had found that it was the effect of the different levels, his attention was arrested by a multitude of moving objects in a still more distant field, which proved to be a band of wild horses. In and out among them, circling aimlessly, as it seemed to him, appeared two horsemen apparently performing some mystic evolution. To add to their singular performance, from time to time one of the flying herd, driven by the horsemen far beyond the circle of its companions, dropped suddenly and unaccountably in full career. The field closed over it as if it had been swallowed up. In a few moments it appeared again, trotting peacefully behind its former pursuer. It was some time before Clarence grasped the meaning of this strange spectacle. Although the clear, dry atmosphere sharply accented the silhouette-like outlines of the men and horses, so great was the distance that the slender forty-foot lasso, which in the skillful hands of the horsemen had effected these captures, was COMPLETELY INVISIBLE! The horsemen were Peyton's vacqueros, making a selection from the young horses for the market. He remembered now that Peyton had told him that he might be obliged to raise money by sacrificing some of his stock, and the thought brought back Clarence's uneasiness as he turned again to the trail. Indeed, he was hardly in the vein for a gentle tryst, as he entered the wooded ravine to seek the madrono tree which was to serve as a guide to his lady's bower.
A few rods further, under the cool vault filled with woodland spicing, he came upon it. In its summer harlequin dress of scarlet and green, with hanging bells of poly-tinted berries, like some personified sylvan Folly, it seemed a fitting symbol of Susy's childish masquerade of passion. Its bizarre beauty, so opposed to the sober gravity of the sedate pines and hemlocks, made it an unmistakable landmark. Here he dismounted and picketed his horse. And here, beside it, to the right, ran the little trail crawling over mossy boulders; a narrow yellow track through the carpet of pine needles between the closest file of trees; an almost imperceptible streak across pools of chickweed at their roots, and a brown and ragged swath through the ferns. As he went on, the anxiety and uneasiness that had possessed him gave way to a languid intoxication of the senses; the mysterious seclusion of these woodland depths recovered the old influence they had exerted over his boyhood. He was not returning to Susy, as much as to the older love of his youth, of which she was, perhaps, only an incident. It was therefore with an odd boyish thrill again that, coming suddenly upon a little hollow, like a deserted nest, where the lost trail made him hesitate, he heard the crackle of a starched skirt behind him, was conscious of the subtle odor of freshly ironed and scented muslin, and felt the gentle pressure of delicate fingers upon his eyes.
“Susy!”
“You silly boy! Where were you blundering to? Why didn't you look around you?”
“I thought I would hear your voices.”
“Whose voices, idiot?”
“Yours and Mary's,” returned Clarence innocently, looking round for the confidante.
“Oh, indeed! Then you wanted to see MARY? Well, she's looking for me somewhere. Perhaps you'll go and find her, or shall I?”
She was offering to pass him when he laid his hand on hers to detain her. She instantly evaded it, and drew herself up to her full height, incontestably displaying the dignity of the added inches to her skirt. All this was charmingly like the old Susy, but it did not bid fair to help him to a serious interview. And, looking at the pretty, pink, mocking face before him, with the witchery of the woodland still upon him, he began to think that he had better put it off.
“Never mind about Mary,” he said laughingly. “But you said you wanted to see me, Susy; and here I am.”
“Said I wanted to see you?” repeated Susy, with her blue eyes lifted in celestial scorn and wonderment. “Said I wanted to see you? Are you not mistaken, Mr. Brant? Really, I imagined that you came here to see ME.”
With her fair head upturned, and the leaf of her scarlet lip temptingly curled over, Clarence began to think this latest phase of her extravagance the most fascinating. He drew nearer to her as he said gently, “You know what I mean, Susy. You said yesterday you were troubled. I thought you might have something to tell me.”
“I should think it was YOU who might have something to tell me after all these years,” she said poutingly, yet self-possessed. “But I suppose you came here only to see Mary and mother. I'm sure you let them know that plainly enough last evening.”
“But you said”--began the stupefied Clarence.
“Never mind what I said. It's always what I say, never what YOU say; and you don't say anything.”
The woodland influence must have been still very strong upon Clarence that he did not discover in all this that, while Susy's general capriciousness was unchanged, there was a new and singular insincerity in her manifest acting. She was either concealing the existence of some other real emotion, or assuming one that was absent. But he did not notice it, and only replied tenderly:-- “But I want to say a great deal to you, Susy. I want to say that if you still feel as I do, and as I have always felt, and you think you could be happy as I would be if--if--we could be always together, we need not conceal it from your mother and father any longer. I am old enough to speak for myself, and I am my own master. Your mother has been very kind to me,--so kind that it doesn't seem quite right to deceive her,--and when I tell her that I love you, and that I want you to be my wife, I believe she will give us her blessing.”
Susy uttered a strange little laugh, and with an assumption of coyness, that was, however, still affected, stooped to pick a few berries from a manzanita bush.
“I'll tell you what she'll say, Clarence. She'll say you're frightfully young, and so you are!”
The young fellow tried to echo the laugh, but felt as if he had received a blow. For the first time he was conscious of the truth: this girl, whom he had fondly regarded as a child, had already passed him in the race; she had become a woman before he was yet a man, and now stood before him, maturer in her knowledge, and older in her understanding, of herself and of him. This was the change that had perplexed him; this was the presence that had come between them,--a Susy he had never known before.
She laughed at his changed expression, and then swung herself easily to a sitting posture on the low projecting branch of a hemlock. The act was still girlish, but, nevertheless, she looked down upon him in a superior, patronizing way. “Now, Clarence,” she said, with a half-abstracted manner, “don't you be a big fool! If you talk that way to mother, she'll only tell you to wait two or three years until you know your own mind, and she'll pack me off to that horrid school again, besides watching me like a cat every moment you are here. If you want to stay here, and see me sometimes like this, you'll just behave as you have done, and say nothing. Do you see? Perhaps you don't care to come, or are satisfied with Mary and mother. Say so, then. Goodness knows, I don't want to force you to come here.”
Modest and reserved as Clarence was generally, I fear that bashfulness of approach to the other sex was not one of these indications. He walked up to Susy with appalling directness, and passed his arm around her waist. She did not move, but remained looking at him and his intruding arm with a certain critical curiosity, as if awaiting some novel sensation. At which he kissed her. She then slowly disengaged his arm, and said:-- “Really, upon my word, Clarence,” in perfectly level tones, and slipped quietly to the ground.
He again caught her in his arms, encircling her disarranged hair and part of the beribboned hat hanging over her shoulder, and remained for an instant holding her thus silently and tenderly. Then she freed herself with an abstracted air, a half smile, and an unchanged color except where her soft cheek had been abraded by his coat collar.
“You're a bold, rude boy, Clarence,” she said, putting back her hair quietly, and straightening the brim of her hat. “Heaven knows where you learned manners!” and then, from a safer distance, with the same critical look in her violet eyes, “I suppose you think mother would allow THAT if she knew it?”
But Clarence, now completely subjugated, with the memory of the kiss upon him and a heightened color, protested that he only wanted to make their intercourse less constrained, and to have their relations, even their engagement, recognized by her parents; still he would take her advice. Only there was always the danger that if they were discovered she would be sent back to the convent all the same, and his banishment, instead of being the probation of a few years, would be a perpetual separation.
“We could always run away, Clarence,” responded the young girl calmly. “There's nothing the matter with THAT.”
Clarence was startled. The idea of desolating the sad, proud, handsome Mrs. Peyton, whom he worshiped, and her kind husband, whom he was just about to serve, was so grotesque and confusing, that he said hopelessly, “Yes.”
“Of course,” she continued, with the same odd affectation of coyness, which was, however, distinctly uncalled for, as she eyed him from under her broad hat, “you needn't come with me unless you like. I can run away by myself,--if I want to! I've thought of it before. One can't stand everything!”
“But, Susy,” said Clarence, with a swift remorseful recollection of her confidence yesterday, “is there really anything troubles you? Tell me, dear. What is it?”
“Oh, nothing--EVERYTHING! It's no use,--YOU can't understand! YOU like it, I know you do. I can see it; it's your style. But it's stupid, it's awful, Clarence! With mamma snooping over you and around you all day, with her 'dear child,' 'mamma's pet,' and 'What is it, dear?' and 'Tell it all to your own mamma,' as if I would! And 'my own mamma,' indeed! As if I didn't know, Clarence, that she ISN'T. And papa, caring for nothing but this hideous, dreary rancho, and the huge, empty plains. It's worse than school, for there, at least, when you went out, you could see something besides cattle and horses and yellow-faced half-breeds! But here--Lord! it's only a wonder I haven't run away before!”
Startled and shocked as Clarence was at this revelation, accompanied as it was by a hardness of manner that was new to him, the influence of the young girl was still so strong upon him that he tried to evade it as only an extravagance, and said with a faint smile, “But where would you run to?”
She looked at him cunningly, with her head on one side, and then said:-- “I have friends, and”-- She hesitated, pursing up her pretty lips.
“And what?”
“Relations.”
“Relations?”
“Yes,--an aunt by marriage. She lives in Sacramento. She'd be overjoyed to have me come to her. Her second husband has a theatre there.”
“But, Susy, what does Mrs. Peyton know of this?”
“Nothing. Do you think I'd tell her, and have her buy them up as she has my other relations? Do you suppose I don't know that I've been bought up like a nigger?”
She looked indignant, compressing her delicate little nostrils, and yet, somehow, Clarence had the same singular impression that she was only acting.
The calling of a far-off voice came faintly through the wood.
“That's Mary, looking for me,” said Susy composedly. “You must go, now, Clarence. Quick! Remember what I said,--and don't breathe a word of this. Good-by.”
But Clarence was standing still, breathless, hopelessly disturbed, and irresolute. Then he turned away mechanically towards the trail.
“Well, Clarence?”
She was looking at him half reproachfully, half coquettishly, with smiling, parted lips. He hastened to forget himself and his troubles upon them twice and thrice. Then she quickly disengaged herself, whispered, “Go, now,” and, as Mary's call was repeated, Clarence heard her voice, high and clear, answering, “Here, dear,” as he was plunging into the thicket.
He had scarcely reached the madrono tree again and remounted his horse, before he heard the sound of hoofs approaching from the road. In his present uneasiness he did not care to be discovered so near the rendezvous, and drew back into the shadow until the horseman should pass. It was Peyton, with a somewhat disturbed face, riding rapidly. Still less was he inclined to join or immediately follow him, but he was relieved when his host, instead of taking the direct road to the rancho, through the wild oats, turned off in the direction of the corral.
A moment later Clarence wheeled into the direct road, and presently found himself in the long afternoon shadows through the thickest of the grain. He was riding slowly, immersed in thought, when he was suddenly startled by a hissing noise at his ear, and what seemed to be the uncoiling stroke of a leaping serpent at his side. Instinctively he threw himself forward on his horse's neck, and as the animal shied into the grain, felt the crawling scrape and jerk of a horsehair lariat across his back and down his horse's flanks. He reined in indignantly and stood up in his stirrups. Nothing was to be seen above the level of the grain. Beneath him the trailing riata had as noiselessly vanished as if it had been indeed a gliding snake. Had he been the victim of a practical joke, or of the blunder of some stupid vacquero? For he made no doubt that it was the lasso of one of the performers he had watched that afternoon. But his preoccupied mind did not dwell long upon it, and by the time he had reached the wall of the old garden, the incident was forgotten.
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{
"id": "2495"
}
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6
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Relieved of Clarence Brant's embarrassing presence, Jim Hooker did not, however, refuse to avail himself of that opportunity to expound to the farmer and his family the immense wealth, influence, and importance of the friend who had just left him. Although Clarence's plan had suggested reticence, Hooker could not forego the pleasure of informing them that “Clar” Brant had just offered to let him into an extensive land speculation. He had previously declined a large share or original location in a mine of Clarence's, now worth a million, because it was not “his style.” But the land speculation in a country of unsettled titles and lawless men, he need not remind them, required some experience of border warfare. He would not say positively, although he left them to draw their own conclusions with gloomy significance, that this was why Clarence had sought him. With this dark suggestion, he took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins and their daughter Phoebe the next day, not without some natural human emotion, and peacefully drove his team and wagon into the settlement of Fair Plains.
He was not prepared, however, for a sudden realization of his imaginative prospects. A few days after his arrival in Fair Plains, he received a letter from Clarence, explaining that he had not time to return to Hooker to consult him, but had, nevertheless, fulfilled his promise, by taking advantage of an opportunity of purchasing the Spanish “Sisters'” title to certain unoccupied lands near the settlement. As these lands in part joined the section already preempted and occupied by Hopkins, Clarence thought that Jim Hooker would choose that part for the sake of his neighbor's company. He inclosed a draft on San Francisco, for a sum sufficient to enable Jim to put up a cabin and “stock” the property, which he begged he would consider in the light of a loan, to be paid back in installments, only when the property could afford it. At the same time, if Jim was in difficulty, he was to inform him. The letter closed with a characteristic Clarence-like mingling of enthusiasm and older wisdom. “I wish you luck, Jim, but I see no reason why you should trust to it. I don't know of anything that could keep you from making yourself independent of any one, if you go to work with a LONG AIM and don't fritter away your chances on short ones. If I were you, old fellow, I'd drop the Plains and the Indians out of my thoughts, or at least out of my TALK, for a while; they won't help you in the long run. The people who believe you will be jealous of you; those who don't, will look down upon you, and if they get to questioning your little Indian romances, Jim, they'll be apt to question your civilized facts. That won't help you in the ranching business and that's your only real grip now.” For the space of two or three hours after this, Jim was reasonably grateful and even subdued,--so much so that his employer, to whom he confided his good fortune, frankly confessed that he believed him from that unusual fact alone. Unfortunately, neither the practical lesson conveyed in this grim admission, nor the sentiment of gratitude, remained long with Jim. Another idea had taken possession of his fancy. Although the land nominated in his bill of sale had been, except on the occasion of his own temporary halt there, always unoccupied, unsought, and unclaimed, and although he was amply protected by legal certificates, he gravely collected a posse of three or four idlers from Fair Plains, armed them at his own expense, and in the dead of night took belligerent and forcible possession of the peaceful domain which the weak generosity and unheroic dollars of Clarence had purchased for him! A martial camp-fire tempered the chill night winds to the pulses of the invaders, and enabled them to sleep on their arms in the field they had won. The morning sun revealed to the astonished Hopkins family the embattled plain beyond, with its armed sentries. Only then did Jim hooker condescend to explain the reason of his warlike occupation, with dark hints of the outlying “squatters” and “jumpers,” whose incursions their boldness alone had repulsed. The effect of this romantic situation upon the two women, with the slight fascination of danger imported into their quiet lives, may well be imagined. Possibly owing to some incautious questioning by Mr. Hopkins, and some doubts of the discipline and sincerity of his posse, Jim discharged them the next day; but during the erection of his cabin by some peaceful carpenters from the settlement, he returned to his gloomy preoccupation and the ostentatious wearing of his revolvers. As an opulent and powerful neighbor, he took his meals with the family while his house was being built, and generally impressed them with a sense of security they had never missed.
Meantime, Clarence, duly informed of the installation of Jim as his tenant, underwent a severe trial. It was necessary for his plans that this should be kept a secret at present, and this was no easy thing for his habitually frank and open nature. He had once mentioned that he had met Jim at the settlement, but the information was received with such indifference by Susy, and such marked disfavor by Mrs. Peyton, that he said no more. He accompanied Peyton in his rides around the rancho, fully possessed himself of the details of its boundaries, the debatable lands held by the enemy, and listened with beating pulses, but a hushed tongue, to his host's ill-concealed misgivings.
“You see, Clarence, that lower terrace?” he said, pointing to a far-reaching longitudinal plain beyond the corral; “it extends from my corral to Fair Plains. That is claimed by the sisters' title, and, as things appear to be going, if a division of the land is made it will be theirs. It's bad enough to have this best grazing land lying just on the flanks of the corral held by these rascals at an absurd prohibitory price, but I am afraid that it may be made to mean something even worse. According to the old surveys, these terraces on different levels were the natural divisions of the property,--one heir or his tenant taking one, and another taking another,--an easy distinction that saved the necessity of boundary fencing or monuments, and gave no trouble to people who were either kinsmen or lived in lazy patriarchal concord. That is the form of division they are trying to reestablish now. Well,” he continued, suddenly lifting his eyes to the young man's flushed face, in some unconscious, sympathetic response to his earnest breathlessness, “although my boundary line extends half a mile into that field, my house and garden and corral ARE ACTUALLY UPON THAT TERRACE OR LEVEL.” They certainly appeared to Clarence to be on the same line as the long field beyond. “If,” went on Peyton, “such a decision is made, these men will push on and claim the house and everything on the terrace.”
“But,” said Clarence quickly, “you said their title was only valuable where they have got or can give POSSESSION. You already have yours. They can't take it from you except by force.”
“No,” said Peyton grimly, “nor will they dare to do it as long as I live to fight them.”
“But,” persisted Clarence, with the same singular hesitancy of manner, “why didn't you purchase possession of at least that part of the land which lies so dangerously near your own house?”
“Because it was held by squatters, who naturally preferred buying what might prove a legal title to their land from these impostors than to sell out their possession to ME at a fair price.”
“But couldn't you have bought from them both?” continued Clarence.
“My dear Clarence, I am not a Croesus nor a fool. Only a man who was both would attempt to treat with these rascals, who would now, of course, insist that THEIR WHOLE claim should be bought up at their own price, by the man who was most concerned in defeating them.”
He turned away a little impatiently. Fortunately he did not observe that Clarence's averted face was crimson with embarrassment, and that a faint smile hovered nervously about his mouth.
Since his late rendezvous with Susy, Clarence had had no chance to interrogate her further regarding her mysterious relative. That that shadowy presence was more or less exaggerated, if not an absolute myth, he more than half suspected, but of the discontent that had produced it, or the recklessness it might provoke, there was no doubt. She might be tempted to some act of folly. He wondered if Mary Rogers knew it. Yet, with his sensitive ideas of loyalty, he would have shrunk from any confidence with Mary regarding her friend's secrets, although he fancied that Mary's dark eyes sometimes dwelt upon him with mournful consciousness and premonition. He did not imagine the truth, that this romantic contemplation was only the result of Mary's conviction that Susy was utterly unworthy of his love. It so chanced one morning that the vacquero who brought the post from Santa Inez arrived earlier than usual, and so anticipated the two girls, who usually made a youthful point of meeting him first as he passed the garden wall. The letter bag was consequently delivered to Mrs. Peyton in the presence of the others, and a look of consternation passed between the young girls. But Mary quickly seized upon the bag as if with girlish and mischievous impatience, opened it, and glanced within it.
“There are only three letters for you,” she said, handing them to Clarence, with a quick look of significance, which he failed to comprehend, “and nothing for me or Susy.”
“But,” began the innocent Clarence, as his first glance at the letters showed him that one was directed to Susy, “here is”-- A wicked pinch on his arm that was nearest Mary stopped his speech, and he quickly put the letters in his pocket.
“Didn't you understand that Susy don't want her mother to see that letter?” asked Mary impatiently, when they were alone a moment later.
“No,” said Clarence simply, handing her the missive.
Mary took it and turned it over in her hands.
“It's in a man's handwriting,” she said innocently.
“I hadn't noticed it,” returned Clarence with invincible naivete, “but perhaps it is.”
“And you hand it over for me to give to Susy, and ain't a bit curious to know who it's from?”
“No,” returned Clarence, opening his big eyes in smiling and apologetic wonder.
“Well,” responded the young lady, with a long breath of melancholy astonishment, “certainly, of all things you are--you really ARE!” With which incoherency--apparently perfectly intelligible to herself--she left him. She had not herself the slightest idea who the letter was from; she only knew that Susy wanted it concealed.
The incident made little impression on Clarence, except as part of the general uneasiness he felt in regard to his old playmate. It seemed so odd to him that this worry should come from HER,--that she herself should form the one discordant note in the Arcadian dream that he had found so sweet; in his previous imaginings it was the presence of Mrs. Peyton which he had dreaded; she whose propinquity now seemed so full of gentleness, reassurance, and repose. How worthy she seemed of any sacrifice he could make for her! He had seen little of her for the last two or three days, although her smile and greeting were always ready for him. Poor Clarence did not dream that she had found from certain incontestable signs and tokens, both in the young ladies and himself, that he did not require watching, and that becoming more resigned to Susy's indifference, which seemed so general and passive in quality, she was no longer tortured by the sting of jealousy.
Finding himself alone that afternoon, the young man had wandered somewhat listlessly beyond the low adobe gateway. The habits of the siesta obtained in a modified form at the rancho. After luncheon, its masters and employees usually retired, not so much from the torrid heat of the afternoon sun, but from the first harrying of the afternoon trades, whose monotonous whistle swept round the walls. A straggling passion vine near the gate beat and struggled against the wind. Clarence had stopped near it, and was gazing with worried abstraction across the tossing fields, when a soft voice called his name.
It was a pleasant voice,--Mrs. Peyton's. He glanced back at the gateway; it was empty. He looked quickly to the right and left; no one was there.
The voice spoke again with the musical addition of a laugh; it seemed to come from the passion vine. Ah, yes; behind it, and half overgrown by its branches, was a long, narrow embrasured opening in the wall, defended by the usual Spanish grating, and still further back, as in the frame of a picture, the half length figure of Mrs. Peyton, very handsome and striking, too, with a painted picturesqueness from the effect of the checkered light and shade.
“You looked so tired and bored out there,” she said. “I am afraid you are finding it very dull at the rancho. The prospect is certainly not very enlivening from where you stand.”
Clarence protested with a visible pleasure in his eyes, as he held back a spray before the opening.
“If you are not afraid of being worse bored, come in here and talk with me. You have never seen this part of the house, I think,--my own sitting-room. You reach it from the hall in the gallery. But Lola or Anita will show you the way.”
He reentered the gateway, and quickly found the hall,--a narrow, arched passage, whose black, tunnel-like shadows were absolutely unaffected by the vivid, colorless glare of the courtyard without, seen through an opening at the end. The contrast was sharp, blinding, and distinct; even the edges of the opening were black; the outer light halted on the threshold and never penetrated within. The warm odor of verbena and dried rose leaves stole from a half-open door somewhere in the cloistered gloom. Guided by it, Clarence presently found himself on the threshold of a low-vaulted room. Two other narrow embrasured windows like the one he had just seen, and a fourth, wider latticed casement, hung with gauze curtains, suffused the apartment with a clear, yet mysterious twilight that seemed its own. The gloomy walls were warmed by bright-fringed bookshelves, topped with trifles of light feminine coloring and adornment. Low easy-chairs and a lounge, small fanciful tables, a dainty desk, gayly colored baskets of worsteds or mysterious kaleidoscopic fragments, and vases of flowers pervaded the apartment with a mingled sense of grace and comfort. There was a womanly refinement in its careless negligence, and even the delicate wrapper of Japanese silk, gathered at the waist and falling in easy folds to the feet of the graceful mistress of this charming disorder, looked a part of its refined abandonment.
Clarence hesitated as on the threshold of some sacred shrine. But Mrs. Peyton, with her own hands, cleared a space for him on the lounge.
“You will easily suspect from all this disorder, Mr. Brant, that I spend a greater part of my time here, and that I seldom see much company. Mr. Peyton occasionally comes in long enough to stumble over a footstool or upset a vase, and I think Mary and Susy avoid it from a firm conviction that there is work concealed in these baskets. But I have my books here, and in the afternoons, behind these thick walls, one forgets the incessant stir and restlessness of the dreadful winds outside. Just now you were foolish enough to tempt them while you were nervous, or worried, or listless. Take my word for it, it's a great mistake. There is no more use fighting them, as I tell Mr. Peyton, than of fighting the people born under them. I have my own opinion that these winds were sent only to stir this lazy race of mongrels into activity, but they are enough to drive us Anglo-Saxons into nervous frenzy. Don't you think so? But you are young and energetic, and perhaps you are not affected by them.”
She spoke pleasantly and playfully, yet with a certain nervous tension of voice and manner that seemed to illustrate her theory. At least, Clarence, in quick sympathy with her slightest emotion, was touched by it. There is no more insidious attraction in the persons we admire, than the belief that we know and understand their unhappiness, and that our admiration for them is lifted higher than a mere mutual instinctive sympathy with beauty or strength. This adorable woman had suffered. The very thought aroused his chivalry. It loosened, also, I fear, his quick, impulsive tongue.
Oh, yes; he knew it. He had lived under this whip of air and sky for three years, alone in a Spanish rancho, with only the native peons around him, and scarcely speaking his own tongue even to his guardian. He spent his mornings on horseback in fields like these, until the vientos generales, as they called them, sprang up and drove him nearly frantic; and his only relief was to bury himself among the books in his guardian's library, and shut out the world,--just as she did. The smile which hovered around the lady's mouth at that moment arrested Clarence, with a quick remembrance of their former relative positions, and a sudden conviction of his familiarity in suggesting an equality of experience, and he blushed. But Mrs. Peyton diverted his embarrassment with an air of interested absorption in his story, and said:-- “Then you know these people thoroughly, Mr. Brant? I am afraid that WE do not.”
Clarence had already gathered that fact within the last few days, and, with his usual impulsive directness, said so. A slight knitting of Mrs. Peyton's brows passed off, however, as he quickly and earnestly went on to say that it was impossible for the Peytons in their present relations to the natives to judge them, or to be judged by them fairly. How they were a childlike race, credulous and trustful, but, like all credulous and trustful people, given to retaliate when imposed upon with a larger insincerity, exaggeration, and treachery. How they had seen their houses and lands occupied by strangers, their religion scorned, their customs derided, their patriarchal society invaded by hollow civilization or frontier brutality--all this fortified by incident and illustration, the outcome of some youthful experience, and given with the glowing enthusiasm of conviction. Mrs. Peyton listened with the usual divided feminine interest between subject and speaker.
Where did this rough, sullen boy--as she had known him--pick up this delicate and swift perception, this reflective judgment, and this odd felicity of expression? It was not possible that it was in him while he was the companion of her husband's servants or the recognized “chum” of the scamp Hooker. No. But if HE could have changed like this, why not Susy? Mrs. Peyton, in the conservatism of her sex, had never been quite free from fears of her adopted daughter's hereditary instincts; but, with this example before her, she now took heart. Perhaps the change was coming slowly; perhaps even now what she thought was indifference and coldness was only some abnormal preparation or condition. But she only smiled and said:-- “Then, if you think those people have been wronged, you are not on our side, Mr. Brant?”
What to an older and more worldly man would have seemed, and probably was, only a playful reproach, struck Clarence deeply, and brought his pent-up feelings to his lips.
“YOU have never wronged them. You couldn't do it; it isn't in your nature. I am on YOUR side, and for you and yours always, Mrs. Peyton. From the first time I saw you on the plains, when I was brought, a ragged boy, before you by your husband, I think I would gladly have laid down my life for you. I don't mind telling you now that I was even jealous of poor Susy, so anxious was I for the smallest share in your thoughts, if only for a moment. You could have done anything with me you wished, and I should have been happy,--far happier than I have been ever since. I tell you this, Mrs. Peyton, now, because you have just doubted if I might be 'on your side,' but I have been longing to tell it all to you before, and it is that I am ready to do anything you want,--all you want,--to be on YOUR SIDE and at YOUR SIDE, now and forever.”
He was so earnest and hearty, and above all so appallingly and blissfully happy, in this relief of his feelings, smiling as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and so absurdly unconscious of his twenty-two years, his little brown curling mustache, the fire in his wistful, yearning eyes, and, above all, of his clasped hands and lover-like attitude, that Mrs. Peyton--at first rigid as stone, then suffused to the eyes--cast a hasty glance round the apartment, put her handkerchief to her face, and laughed like a girl.
At which Clarence, by no means discomposed, but rather accepting her emotion as perfectly natural, joined her heartily, and added:-- “It's so, Mrs. Peyton; I'm glad I told you. You don't mind it, do you?”
But Mrs. Peyton had resumed her gravity, and perhaps a touch of her previous misgivings.
“I should certainly be very sorry,” she said, looking at him critically, “to object to your sharing your old friendship for your little playmate with her parents and guardians, or to your expressing it to THEM as frankly as to her.”
She saw the quick change in his mobile face and the momentary arrest of its happy expression. She was frightened and yet puzzled. It was not the sensitiveness of a lover at the mention of the loved one's name, and yet it suggested an uneasy consciousness. If his previous impulsive outburst had been prompted honestly, or even artfully, by his passion for Susy, why had he looked so shocked when she spoke of her?
But Clarence, whose emotion had been caused by the sudden recall of his knowledge of Susy's own disloyalty to the woman whose searching eyes were upon him, in his revulsion against the deceit was, for an instant, upon the point of divulging all. Perhaps, if Mrs. Peyton had shown more confidence, he would have done so, and materially altered the evolution of this story. But, happily, it is upon these slight human weaknesses that your romancer depends, and Clarence, with no other reason than the instinctive sympathy of youth with youth in its opposition to wisdom and experience, let the opportunity pass, and took the responsibility of it out of the hands of this chronicler.
Howbeit, to cover his confusion, he seized upon the second idea that was in his mind, and stammered, “Susy! Yes, I wanted to speak to you about her.” Mrs. Peyton held her breath, but the young man went on, although hesitatingly, with evident sincerity. “Have you heard from any of her relations since--since--you adopted her?”
It seemed a natural enough question, although not the sequitur she had expected. “No,” she said carelessly. “It was well understood, after the nearest relation--an aunt by marriage--had signed her consent to Susy's adoption, that there should be no further intercourse with the family. There seemed to us no necessity for reopening the past, and Susy herself expressed no desire.” She stopped, and again fixing her handsome eyes on Clarence, said, “Do you know any of them?”
But Clarence by this time had recovered himself, and was able to answer carelessly and truthfully that he did not. Mrs. Peyton, still regarding him closely, added somewhat deliberately, “It matters little now what relations she has; Mr. Peyton and I have complete legal control over her until she is of age, and we can easily protect her from any folly of her own or others, or from any of the foolish fancies that sometimes overtake girls of her age and inexperience.”
To her utter surprise, however, Clarence uttered a faint sigh of relief, and his face again recovered its expression of boyish happiness. “I'm glad of it, Mrs. Peyton,” he said heartily. “No one could understand better what is for her interest in all things than yourself. Not,” he said, with hasty and equally hearty loyalty to his old playmate, “that I think she would ever go against your wishes, or do anything that she knows to be wrong, but she is very young and innocent,--as much of a child as ever, don't you think so, Mrs. Peyton?”
It was amusing, yet nevertheless puzzling, to hear this boyish young man comment upon Susy's girlishness. And Clarence was serious, for he had quite forgotten in Mrs. Peyton's presence the impression of superiority which Susy had lately made upon him. But Mrs. Peyton returned to the charge, or, rather, to an attack upon what she conceived to be Clarence's old position.
“I suppose she does seem girlish compared to Mary Rogers, who is a much more reserved and quiet nature. But Mary is very charming, Mr. Brant, and I am really delighted to have her here with Susy. She has such lovely dark eyes and such good manners. She has been well brought up, and it is easy to see that her friends are superior people. I must write to them to thank them for her visit, and beg them to let her stay longer. I think you said you didn't know them?”
But Clarence, whose eyes had been thoughtfully and admiringly wandering over every characteristic detail of the charming apartment, here raised them to its handsome mistress, with an apologetic air and a “No” of such unaffected and complete abstraction, that she was again dumbfounded. Certainly, it could not be Mary in whom he was interested.
Abandoning any further inquisition for the present, she let the talk naturally fall upon the books scattered about the tables. The young man knew them all far better than she did, with a cognate knowledge of others of which she had never heard. She found herself in the attitude of receiving information from this boy, whose boyishness, however, seemed to have evaporated, whose tone had changed with the subject, and who now spoke with the conscious reserve of knowledge. Decidedly, she must have grown rusty in her seclusion. This came, she thought bitterly, of living alone; of her husband's preoccupation with the property; of Susy's frivolous caprices. At the end of eight years to be outstripped by a former cattle-boy of her husband's, and to have her French corrected in a matter of fact way by this recent pupil of the priests, was really too bad! Perhaps he even looked down upon Susy! She smiled dangerously but suavely.
“You must have worked so hard to educate yourself from nothing, Mr. Brant. You couldn't read, I think, when you first came to us. No? Could you really? I know it has been very difficult for Susy to get on with her studies in proportion. We had so much to first eradicate in the way of manners, style, and habits of thought which the poor child had picked up from her companions, and for which SHE was not responsible. Of course, with a boy that does not signify,” she added, with feline gentleness.
But the barbed speech glanced from the young man's smoothly smiling abstraction.
“Ah, yes. But those were happy days, Mrs. Peyton,” he answered, with an exasperating return of his previous boyish enthusiasm, “perhaps because of our ignorance. I don't think that Susy and I are any happier for knowing that the plains are not as flat as we believed they were, and that the sun doesn't have to burn a hole in them every night when it sets. But I know I believed that YOU knew everything. When I once saw you smiling over a book in your hand, I thought it must be a different one from any that I had ever seen, and perhaps made expressly for you. I can see you there still. Do you know,” quite confidentially, “that you reminded me--of course YOU were much younger--of what I remembered of my mother?”
But Mrs. Peyton's reply of “Ah, indeed,” albeit polite, indicated some coldness and lack of animation. Clarence rose quickly, but cast a long and lingering look around him.
“You will come again, Mr. Brant,” said the lady more graciously. “If you are going to ride now, perhaps you would try to meet Mr. Peyton. He is late already, and I am always uneasy when he is out alone,--particularly on one of those half-broken horses, which they consider good enough for riding here. YOU have ridden them before and understand them, but I am afraid that's another thing WE have got to learn.”
When the young man found himself again confronting the glittering light of the courtyard, he remembered the interview and the soft twilight of the boudoir only as part of a pleasant dream. There was a rude awakening in the fierce wind, which had increased with the lengthening shadows. It seemed to sweep away the half-sensuous comfort that had pervaded him, and made him coldly realize that he had done nothing to solve the difficulties of his relations to Susy. He had lost the one chance of confiding to Mrs. Peyton,--if he had ever really intended to do so. It was impossible for him to do it hereafter without a confession of prolonged deceit.
He reached the stables impatiently, where his attention was attracted by the sound of excited voices in the corral. Looking within, he was concerned to see that one of the vacqueros was holding the dragging bridle of a blown, dusty, and foam-covered horse, around whom a dozen idlers were gathered. Even beneath its coating of dust and foam and the half-displaced saddle blanket, Clarence immediately recognized the spirited pinto mustang which Peyton had ridden that morning.
“What's the matter?” said Clarence, from the gateway.
The men fell apart, glancing at each other. One said quickly in Spanish:-- “Say nothing to HIM. It is an affair of the house.”
But this brought Clarence down like a bombshell among them, not to be overlooked in his equal command of their tongue and of them. “Ah! come, now. What drunken piggishness is this? Speak!”
“The padron has been--perhaps--thrown,” stammered the first speaker. “His horse arrives,--but he does not. We go to inform the senora.”
“No, you don't! mules and imbeciles! Do you want to frighten her to death? Mount, every one of you, and follow me!”
The men hesitated, but for only a moment. Clarence had a fine assortment of Spanish epithets, expletives, and objurgations, gathered in his rodeo experience at El Refugio, and laid them about him with such fervor and discrimination that two or three mules, presumably with guilty consciences, mistaking their direction, actually cowered against the stockade of the corral in fear. In another moment the vacqueros had hastily mounted, and, with Clarence at their head, were dashing down the road towards Santa Inez. Here he spread them in open order in the grain, on either side of the track, himself taking the road.
They did not proceed very far. For when they had reached the gradual slope which marked the decline to the second terrace, Clarence, obeying an instinct as irresistible as it was unaccountable, which for the last few moments had been forcing itself upon him, ordered a halt. The casa and corral had already sunk in the plain behind them; it was the spot where the lasso had been thrown at him a few evenings before! Bidding the men converge slowly towards the road, he went on more cautiously, with his eyes upon the track before him. Presently he stopped. There was a ragged displacement of the cracked and crumbling soil and the unmistakable scoop of kicking hoofs. As he stooped to examine them, one of the men at the right uttered a shout. By the same strange instinct Clarence knew that Peyton was found!
He was, indeed, lying there among the wild oats at the right of the road, but without trace of life or scarcely human appearance. His clothes, where not torn and shredded away, were partly turned inside out; his shoulders, neck, and head were a shapeless, undistinguishable mask of dried earth and rags, like a mummy wrapping. His left boot was gone. His large frame seemed boneless, and, except for the cerements of his mud-stiffened clothing, was limp and sodden.
Clarence raised his head suddenly from a quick examination of the body, and looked at the men around him. One of them was already cantering away. Clarence instantly threw himself on his horse, and, putting spurs to the animal, drew a revolver from his holster and fired over the man's head. The rider turned in his saddle, saw his pursuer, and pulled up.
“Go back,” said Clarence, “or my next shot won't MISS you.”
“I was only going to inform the senora,” said the man with a shrug and a forced smile.
“I will do that,” said Clarence grimly, driving him back with him into the waiting circle; then turning to them he said slowly, with deliberate, smileless irony, “And now, my brave gentlemen,--knights of the bull and gallant mustang hunters,--I want to inform YOU that I believe that Mr. Peyton was MURDERED, and if the man who killed him is anywhere this side of hell, I intend to find him. Good! You understand me! Now lift up the body,--you two, by the shoulders; you two, by the feet. Let your horses follow. For I intend that you four shall carry home your master in your arms, on foot. Now forward to the corral by the back trail. Disobey me, or step out of line and”--He raised the revolver ominously.
If the change wrought in the dead man before them was weird and terrifying, no less distinct and ominous was the change that, during the last few minutes, had come over the living speaker. For it was no longer the youthful Clarence who sat there, but a haggard, prematurely worn, desperate-looking avenger, lank of cheek, and injected of eye, whose white teeth glistened under the brown mustache and thin pale lips that parted when his restrained breath now and then hurriedly escaped them.
As the procession moved on, two men slunk behind with the horses.
“Mother of God! Who is this wolf's whelp?” said Manuel.
“Hush!” said his companion in a terrified whisper. “Have you not heard? It is the son of Hamilton Brant, the assassin, the duelist,--he who was fusiladed in Sonora.” He made the sign of the cross quickly. “Jesus Maria! Let them look out who have cause, for the blood of his father is in him!”
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{
"id": "2495"
}
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7
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What other speech passed between Clarence and Peyton's retainers was not known, but not a word of the interview seemed to have been divulged by those present. It was generally believed and accepted that Judge Peyton met his death by being thrown from his half-broken mustang, and dragged at its heels, and medical opinion, hastily summoned from Santa Inez after the body had been borne to the corral, and stripped of its hideous encasings, declared that the neck had been broken, and death had followed instantaneously. An inquest was deemed unnecessary.
Clarence had selected Mary to break the news to Mrs. Peyton, and the frightened young girl was too much struck with the change still visible in his face, and the half authority of his manner, to decline, or even to fully appreciate the calamity that had befallen them. After the first benumbing shock, Mrs. Peyton passed into that strange exaltation of excitement brought on by the immediate necessity for action, followed by a pallid calm, which the average spectator too often unfairly accepts as incongruous, inadequate, or artificial. There had also occurred one of those strange compensations that wait on Death or disrupture by catastrophe: such as the rude shaking down of an unsettled life, the forcible realization of what were vague speculations, the breaking of old habits and traditions, and the unloosing of half-conscious bonds. Mrs. Peyton, without insensibility to her loss or disloyalty to her affections, nevertheless felt a relief to know that she was now really Susy's guardian, free to order her new life wherever and under what conditions she chose as most favorable to it, and that she could dispose of this house that was wearying to her when Susy was away, and which the girl herself had always found insupportable. She could settle this question of Clarence's relations to her daughter out of hand without advice or opposition. She had a brother in the East, who would be summoned to take care of the property. This consideration for the living pursued her, even while the dead man's presence still awed the hushed house; it was in her thoughts as she stood beside his bier and adjusted the flowers on his breast, which no longer moved for or against these vanities; and it stayed with her even in the solitude of her darkened room.
But if Mrs. Peyton was deficient, it was Susy who filled the popular idea of a mourner, and whose emotional attitude of a grief-stricken daughter left nothing to be desired. It was she who, when the house was filled with sympathizing friends from San Francisco and the few near neighbors who had hurried with condolences, was overflowing in her reminiscences of the dead man's goodness to her, and her own undying affection; who recalled ominous things that he had said, and strange premonitions of her own, the result of her ever-present filial anxiety; it was she who had hurried home that afternoon, impelled with vague fears of some impending calamity; it was she who drew a picture of Peyton as a doting and almost too indulgent parent, which Mary Rogers failed to recognize, and which brought back vividly to Clarence's recollection her own childish exaggerations of the Indian massacre. I am far from saying that she was entirely insincere or merely acting at these moments; at times she was taken with a mild hysteria, brought on by the exciting intrusion of this real event in her monotonous life, by the attentions of her friends, the importance of her suffering as an only child, and the advancement of her position as the heiress of the Robles Rancho. If her tears were near the surface, they were at least genuine, and filmed her violet eyes and reddened her pretty eyelids quite as effectually as if they had welled from the depths of her being. Her black frock lent a matured dignity to her figure, and paled her delicate complexion with the refinement of suffering. Even Clarence was moved in that dark and haggard abstraction that had settled upon him since his strange outbreak over the body of his old friend.
The extent of that change had not been noticed by Mrs. Peyton, who had only observed that Clarence had treated her grief with a grave and silent respect. She was grateful for that. A repetition of his boyish impulsiveness would have been distasteful to her at such a moment. She only thought him more mature and more subdued, and as the only man now in her household his services had been invaluable in the emergency.
The funeral had taken place at Santa Inez, where half the county gathered to pay their last respects to their former fellow-citizen and neighbor, whose legal and combative victories they had admired, and whom death had lifted into a public character. The family were returning to the house the same afternoon, Mrs. Peyton and the girls in one carriage, the female house-servants in another, and Clarence on horseback. They had reached the first plateau, and Clarence was riding a little in advance, when an extraordinary figure, rising from the grain beyond, began to gesticulate to him wildly. Checking the driver of the first carriage, Clarence bore down upon the stranger. To his amazement it was Jim Hooker. Mounted on a peaceful, unwieldy plough horse, he was nevertheless accoutred and armed after his most extravagant fashion. In addition to a heavy rifle across his saddle-bow he was weighted down with a knife and revolvers. Clarence was in no mood for trifling, and almost rudely demanded his business.
“Gord, Clarence, it ain't foolin'. The Sisters' title was decided yesterday.”
“I knew it, you fool! It's YOUR title! You were already on your land and in possession. What the devil are you doing HERE?”
“Yes,--but,” stammered Jim, “all the boys holding that title moved up here to 'make the division' and grab all they could. And I followed. And I found out that they were going to grab Judge Peyton's house, because it was on the line, if they could, and findin' you was all away, by Gord THEY DID! and they're in it! And I stoled out and rode down here to warn ye.”
He stopped, looked at Clarence, glanced darkly around him and then down on his accoutrements. Even in that supreme moment of sincerity, he could not resist the possibilities of the situation.
“It's as much as my life's worth,” he said gloomily. “But,” with a dark glance at his weapons, “I'll sell it dearly.”
“Jim!” said Clarence, in a terrible voice, “you're not lying again?”
“No,” said Jim hurriedly. “I swear it, Clarence! No! Honest Injin this time. And look. I'll help you. They ain't expectin' you yet, and they think ye'll come by the road. Ef I raised a scare off there by the corral, while you're creepin' ROUND BY THE BACK, mebbe you could get in while they're all lookin' for ye in front, don't you see? I'll raise a big row, and they needn't know but what ye've got wind of it and brought a party with you from Santa Inez.”
In a flash Clarence had wrought a feasible plan out of Jim's fantasy.
“Good,” he said, wringing his old companion's hand. “Go back quietly now; hang round the corral, and when you see the carriage climbing the last terrace raise your alarm. Don't mind how loud it is, there'll be nobody but the servants in the carriages.”
He rode quickly back to the first carriage, at whose window Mrs. Peyton's calm face was already questioning him. He told her briefly and concisely of the attack, and what he proposed to do.
“You have shown yourself so strong in matters of worse moment than this,” he added quietly, “that I have no fears for your courage. I have only to ask you to trust yourself to me, to put you back at once in your own home. Your presence there, just now, is the one important thing, whatever happens afterwards.”
She recognized his maturer tone and determined manner, and nodded assent. More than that, a faint fire came into her handsome eyes; the two girls kindled their own at that flaming beacon, and sat with flushed checks and suspended, indignant breath. They were Western Americans, and not over much used to imposition.
“You must get down before we raise the hill, and follow me on foot through the grain. I was thinking,” he added, turning to Mrs. Peyton, “of your boudoir window.”
She had been thinking of it, too, and nodded.
“The vine has loosened the bars,” he said.
“If it hasn't, we must squeeze through them,” she returned simply.
At the end of the terrace Clarence dismounted, and helped them from the carriage. He then gave directions to the coachmen to follow the road slowly to the corral in front of the casa, and tied his horse behind the second carriage. Then, with Mrs. Peyton and the two young girls, he plunged into the grain.
It was hot, it was dusty, their thin shoes slipped in the crumbling adobe, and the great blades caught in their crape draperies, but they uttered no complaint. Whatever ulterior thought was in their minds, they were bent only on one thing at that moment,--on entering the house at any hazard. Mrs. Peyton had lived long enough on the frontier to know the magic power of POSSESSION. Susy already was old enough to feel the acute feminine horror of the profanation of her own belongings by alien hands. Clarence, more cognizant of the whole truth than the others, was equally silent and determined; and Mary Rogers was fired with the zeal of loyalty.
Suddenly a series of blood-curdling yells broke from the direction of the corral, and they stopped. But Clarence at once recognized the well-known war-whoop imitation of Jim Hooker,--infinitely more gruesome and appalling than the genuine aboriginal challenge. A half dozen shots fired in quick succession had evidently the same friendly origin.
“Now is our time,” said Clarence eagerly. “We must run for the house.”
They had fortunately reached by this time the angle of the adobe wall of the casa, and the long afternoon shadows of the building were in their favor. They pressed forward eagerly with the sounds of Jim Hooker's sham encounter still in their ears, mingled with answering shouts of defiance from strange voices within the building towards the front.
They rapidly skirted the wall, even passing boldly before the back gateway, which seemed empty and deserted, and the next moment stood beside the narrow window of the boudoir. Clarence's surmises were correct; the iron grating was not only loose, but yielded to a vigorous wrench, the vine itself acting as a lever to pull out the rusty bars. The young man held out his hand, but Mrs. Peyton, with the sudden agility of a young girl, leaped into the window, followed by Mary and Susy. The inner casement yielded to her touch; the next moment they were within the room. Then Mrs. Peyton's flushed and triumphant face reappeared at the window.
“It's all right; the men are all in the courtyard, or in the front of the house. The boudoir door is strong, and we can bolt them out.”
“It won't be necessary,” said Clarence quietly; “you will not be disturbed.”
“But are you not coming in?” she asked timidly, holding the window open.
Clarence looked at her with his first faint smile since Peyton's death.
“Of course I am, but not in THAT way. I am going in by THE FRONT GATE.”
She would have detained him, but, with a quick wave of his hand, he left her, and ran swiftly around the wall of the casa toward the front. The gate was half open; a dozen excited men were gathered before it and in the archway, and among them, whitened with dust, blackened with powder, and apparently glutted with rapine, and still holding a revolver in his hand, was Jim Hooker! As Clarence approached, the men quickly retreated inside the gate and closed it, but not before he had exchanged a meaning glance with Jim. When he reached the gate, a man from within roughly demanded his business.
“I wish to see the leader of this party,” said Clarence quietly.
“I reckon you do,” returned the man, with a short laugh. “But I kalkilate HE don't return the compliment.”
“He probably will when he reads this note to his employer,” continued Clarence still coolly, selecting a paper from his pocketbook. It was addressed to Francisco Robles, Superintendent of the Sisters' Title, and directed him to give Mr. Clarence Brant free access to the property and the fullest information concerning it. The man took it, glanced at it, looked again at Clarence, and then passed the paper to a third man among the group in the courtyard. The latter read it, and approached the gate carelessly.
“Well, what do you want?”
“I am afraid you have the advantage of me in being able to transact business through bars,” said Clarence, with slow but malevolent distinctness, “and as mine is important, I think you had better open the gate to me.”
The slight laugh that his speech had evoked from the bystanders was checked as the leader retorted angrily:-- “That's all very well; but how do I know that you're the man represented in that letter? Pancho Robles may know you, but I don't.”
“That you can find out very easily,” said Clarence. “There is a man among your party who knows me,--Mr. Hooker. Ask him.”
The man turned, with a quick mingling of surprise and suspicion, to the gloomy, imperturbable Hooker. Clarence could not hear the reply of that young gentleman, but it was evidently not wanting in his usual dark, enigmatical exaggeration. The man surlily opened the gate.
“All the same,” he said, still glancing suspiciously at Hooker, “I don't see what HE'S got to do with you.”
“A great deal,” said Clarence, entering the courtyard, and stepping into the veranda; “HE'S ONE OF MY TENANTS.”
“Your WHAT?” said the man, with a coarse laugh of incredulity.
“My tenants,” repeated Clarence, glancing around the courtyard carelessly. Nevertheless, he was relieved to notice that the three or four Mexicans of the party did not seem to be old retainers of the rancho. There was no evidence of the internal treachery he had feared.
“Your TENANTS!” echoed the man, with an uneasy glance at the faces of the others.
“Yes,” said Clarence, with business brevity; “and, for the matter of that, although I have no reason to be particularly proud of it, SO ARE YOU ALL. You ask my business here. It seems to be the same as yours,--to hold possession of this house! With this difference, however,” he continued, taking a document from his pocket. “Here is the certificate, signed by the County Clerk, of the bill of sale of the entire Sisters' title to ME. It includes the whole two leagues from Fair Plains to the old boundary line of this rancho, which you forcibly entered this morning. There is the document; examine it if you like. The only shadow of a claim you could have to this property you would have to derive from ME. The only excuse you could have for this act of lawlessness would be orders from ME. And all that you have done this morning is only the assertion of MY legal right to this house. If I disavow your act, as I might, I leave you as helpless as any tramp that was ever kicked from a doorstep,--as any burglar that was ever collared on the fence by a constable.”
It was the truth. There was no denying the authority of the document, the facts of the situation, or its ultimate power and significance. There was consternation, stupefaction, and even a half-humorous recognition of the absurdity of their position on most of the faces around him. Incongruous as the scene was, it was made still more grotesque by the attitude of Jim Hooker. Ruthlessly abandoning the party of convicted trespassers, he stalked gloomily over to the side of Clarence, with the air of having been all the time scornfully in the secret and a mien of wearied victoriousness, and thus halting, he disdainfully expectorated tobacco juice on the ground between him and his late companions, as if to form a line of demarcation. The few Mexicans began to edge towards the gateway. This defection of his followers recalled the leader, who was no coward, to himself again.
“Shut the gate, there!” he shouted.
As its two sides clashed together again, he turned deliberately to Clarence.
“That's all very well, young man, as regards the TITLE. You may have BOUGHT up the land, and legally own every square inch of howling wilderness between this and San Francisco, and I wish you joy of your d--d fool's bargain; you may have got a whole circus like that,” pointing to the gloomy Jim, “at your back. But with all your money and all your friends you've forgotten one thing. You haven't got possession, and we have.”
“That's just where we differ,” said Clarence coolly, “for if you take the trouble to examine the house, you will see that it is already in possession of Mrs. Peyton,--MY TENANT.”
He paused to give effect to his revelations. But he was, nevertheless, unprepared for an unrehearsed dramatic situation. Mrs. Peyton, who had been tired of waiting, and was listening in the passage, at the mention of her name, entered the gallery, followed by the young ladies. The slight look of surprise upon her face at the revelation she had just heard of Clarence's ownership, only gave the suggestion of her having been unexpectedly disturbed in her peaceful seclusion. One of the Mexicans turned pale, with a frightened glance at the passage, as if he expected the figure of the dead man to follow.
The group fell back. The game was over,--and lost. No one recognized it more quickly than the gamblers themselves. More than that, desperate and lawless as they were, they still retained the chivalry of Western men, and every hat was slowly doffed to the three black figures that stood silently in the gallery. And even apologetic speech began to loosen the clenched teeth of the discomfited leader.
“We--were--told there was no one in the house,” he stammered.
“And it was the truth,” said a pert, youthful, yet slightly affected voice. “For we climbed into the window just as you came in at the gate.”
It was Susy's words that stung their ears again; but it was Susy's pretty figure, suddenly advanced and in a slightly theatrical attitude, that checked their anger. There had been a sudden ominous silence, as the whole plot of rescue seemed to be revealed to them in those audacious words. But a sense of the ludicrous, which too often was the only perception that ever mitigated the passions of such assemblies, here suddenly asserted itself. The leader burst into a loud laugh, which was echoed by the others, and, with waving hats, the whole party swept peacefully out through the gate.
“But what does all this mean about YOUR purchasing the land, Mr. Brant?” said Mrs. Peyton quickly, fixing her eyes intently on Clarence.
A faint color--the useless protest of his truthful blood--came to his cheek.
“The house is YOURS, and yours alone, Mrs. Peyton. The purchase of the sisters' title was a private arrangement between Mr. Peyton and myself, in view of an emergency like this.”
She did not, however, take her proud, searching eyes from his face, and he was forced to turn away.
“It was SO like dear, good, thoughtful papa,” said Susy. “Why, bless me,” in a lower voice, “if that isn't that lying old Jim Hooker standing there by the gate!”
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{
"id": "2495"
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8
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Judge Peyton had bequeathed his entire property unconditionally to his wife. But his affairs were found to be greatly in disorder, and his papers in confusion, and although Mrs. Peyton could discover no actual record of the late transaction with Mr. Brant, which had saved her the possession of the homestead, it was evident that he had spent large sums in speculative attempts to maintain the integrity of his estate. That enormous domain, although perfectly unencumbered, had been nevertheless unremunerative, partly through the costs of litigation and partly through the systematic depredations to which its great size and long line of unprotected boundary had subjected it. It had been invaded by squatters and “jumpers,” who had sown and reaped crops without discovery; its cattle and wild horses had strayed or been driven beyond its ill-defined and hopeless limits. Against these difficulties the widow felt herself unable and unwilling to contend, and with the advice of her friends and her lawyer, she concluded to sell the estate, except that portion covered by the Sisters' title, which, with the homestead, had been reconveyed to her by Clarence. She retired with Susy to the house in San Francisco, leaving Clarence to occupy and hold the casa, with her servants, for her until order was restored. The Robles Rancho thus became the headquarters of the new owner of the Sisters' title, from which he administered its affairs, visited its incumbencies, overlooked and surveyed its lands, and--occasionally--collected its rents. There were not wanting critics who averred that these were scarcely remunerative, and that the young San Francisco fine gentleman, who was only Hamilton Brant's son, after all, yet who wished to ape the dignity and degree of a large landholder, had made a very foolish bargain. I grieve to say that one of his own tenants, namely, Jim Hooker, in his secret heart inclined to that belief, and looked upon Clarence's speculation as an act of far-seeing and inordinate vanity.
Indeed, the belligerent Jim had partly--and of course darkly--intimated something of this to Susy in their brief reunion at the casa during the few days that followed its successful reoccupation. And Clarence, remembering her older caprices, and her remark on her first recognition of him, was quite surprised at the easy familiarity of her reception of this forgotten companion of their childhood. But he was still more concerned in noticing, for the first time, a singular sympathetic understanding of each other, and an odd similarity of occasional action and expression between them. It was a part of this monstrous peculiarity that neither the sympathy nor the likeness suggested any particular friendship or amity in the pair, but rather a mutual antagonism and suspicion. Mrs. Peyton, coldly polite to Clarence's former COMPANION, but condescendingly gracious to his present TENANT and retainer, did not notice it, preoccupied with the annoyance and pain of Susy's frequent references to the old days of their democratic equality.
“You don't remember, Jim, the time that you painted my face in the wagon, and got me up as an Indian papoose?” she said mischievously.
But Jim, who had no desire to recall his previous humble position before Mrs. Peyton or Clarence, was only vaguely responsive. Clarence, although joyfully touched at this seeming evidence of Susy's loyalty to the past, nevertheless found himself even more acutely pained at the distress it caused Mrs. Peyton, and was as relieved as she was by Hooker's reticence. For he had seen little of Susy since Peyton's death, and there had been no repetition of their secret interviews. Neither had he, nor she as far as he could judge, noticed the omission. He had been more than usually kind, gentle, and protecting in his manner towards her, with little reference, however, to any response from her, yet he was vaguely conscious of some change in his feelings. He attributed it, when he thought of it at all, to the exciting experiences through which he had passed; to some sentiment of responsibility to his dead friend; and to another secret preoccupation that was always in his mind. He believed it would pass in time. Yet he felt a certain satisfaction that she was no longer able to trouble him, except, of course, when she pained Mrs. Peyton, and then he was half conscious of taking the old attitude of the dead husband in mediating between them. Yet so great was his inexperience that he believed, with pathetic simplicity of perception, that all this was due to the slow maturing of his love for her, and that he was still able to make her happy. But this was something to be thought of later. Just now Providence seemed to have offered him a vocation and a purpose that his idle adolescence had never known. He did not dream that his capacity for patience was only the slow wasting of his love.
Meantime that more wonderful change and recreation of the Californian landscape, so familiar, yet always so young, had come to the rancho. The league-long terrace that had yellowed, whitened, and wasted for half a year beneath a staring, monotonous sky, now under sailing clouds, flying and broken shafts of light, and sharply defined lines of rain, had taken a faint hue of resurrection. The dust that had muffled the roads and byways, and choked the low oaks that fringed the sunken canada, had long since been laid. The warm, moist breath of the southwest trades had softened the hard, dry lines of the landscape, and restored its color as of a picture over which a damp sponge had been passed. The broad expanse of plateau before the casa glistened and grew dark. The hidden woods of the canada, cleared and strengthened in their solitude, dripped along the trails and hollows that were now transformed into running streams. The distinguishing madrono near the entrance to the rancho had changed its crimson summer suit and masqueraded in buff and green.
Yet there were leaden days, when half the prospect seemed to be seen through palisades of rain; when the slight incline between the terraces became a tumultuous cascade, and the surest hoofs slipped on trails of unctuous mud; when cattle were bogged a few yards from the highway, and the crossing of the turnpike road was a dangerous ford. There were days of gale and tempest, when the shriveled stalks of giant oats were stricken like trees, and lay across each other in rigid angles, and a roar as of the sea came up from the writhing treetops in the sunken valley. There were long weary nights of steady downpour, hammering on the red tiles of the casa, and drumming on the shingles of the new veranda, which was more terrible to be borne. Alone, but for the servants, and an occasional storm-stayed tenant from Fair Plains, Clarence might have, at such times, questioned the effect of this seclusion upon his impassioned nature. But he had already been accustomed to monastic seclusion in his boyish life at El Refugio, and he did not reflect that, for that very reason, its indulgences might have been dangerous. From time to time letters reached him from the outer world of San Francisco,--a few pleasant lines from Mrs. Peyton, in answer to his own chronicle of his half stewardship, giving the news of the family, and briefly recounting their movements. She was afraid that Susy's sensitive nature chafed under the restriction of mourning in the gay city, but she trusted to bring her back for a change to Robles when the rains were over. This was a poor substitute for those brief, happy glimpses of the home circle which had so charmed him, but he accepted it stoically. He wandered over the old house, from which the perfume of domesticity seemed to have evaporated, yet, notwithstanding Mrs. Peyton's playful permission, he never intruded upon the sanctity of the boudoir, and kept it jealously locked.
He was sitting in Peyton's business room one morning, when Incarnacion entered. Clarence had taken a fancy to this Indian, half steward, half vacquero, who had reciprocated it with a certain dog-like fidelity, but also a feline indirectness that was part of his nature. He had been early prepossessed with Clarence through a kinsman at El Refugio, where the young American's generosity had left a romantic record among the common people. He had been pleased to approve of his follies before the knowledge of his profitless and lordly land purchase had commended itself to him as corroborative testimony. “Of true hidalgo blood, mark you,” he had said oracularly. “Wherefore was his father sacrificed by mongrels! As to the others, believe me,--bah!”
He stood there, sombrero in hand, murky and confidential, steaming through his soaked serape and exhaling a blended odor of equine perspiration and cigarette smoke.
“It was, perhaps, as the master had noticed, a brigand's own day! Bullying, treacherous, and wicked! It blew you off your horse if you so much as lifted your arms and let the wind get inside your serape; and as for the mud,--caramba! in fifty varas your forelegs were like bears, and your hoofs were earthen plasters!”
Clarence knew that Incarnacion had not sought him with mere meteorological information, and patiently awaited further developments. The vacquero went on:-- “But one of the things this beast of a weather did was to wash down the stalks of the grain, and to clear out the trough and hollows between, and to make level the fields, and--look you! to uncover the stones and rubbish and whatever the summer dust had buried. Indeed, it was even as a miracle that Jose Mendez one day, after the first showers, came upon a silver button from his calzas, which he had lost in the early summer. And it was only that morning that, remembering how much and with what fire Don Clarencio had sought the missing boot from the foot of the Senor Peyton when his body was found, he, Incarnacion, had thought he would look for it on the falda of the second terrace. And behold, Mother of God it was there! Soaked with mud and rain, but the same as when the senor was alive. To the very spur!”
He drew the boot from beneath his serape and laid it before Clarence. The young man instantly recognized it, in spite of its weather-beaten condition and its air of grotesque and drunken inconsistency to the usually trim and correct appearance of Peyton when alive. “It is the same,” he said, in a low voice.
“Good!” said Incarnacion. “Now, if Don Clarencio will examine the American spur, he will see--what? A few horse-hairs twisted and caught in the sharp points of the rowel. Good! Is it the hair of the horse that Senor rode? Clearly not; and in truth not. It is too long for the flanks and belly of the horse; it is not the same color as the tail and the mane. How comes it there? It comes from the twisted horsehair rope of a riata, and not from the braided cowhide thongs of the regular lasso of a vacquero. The lasso slips not much, but holds; the riata slips much and strangles.”
“But Mr. Peyton was not strangled,” said Clarence quickly.
“No, for the noose of the riata was perhaps large,--who knows? It might have slipped down his arms, pinioned him, and pulled him off. Truly! --such has been known before. Then on the ground it slipped again, or he perhaps worked it off to his feet where it caught on his spur, and then he was dragged until the boot came off, and behold! he was dead.”
This had been Clarence's own theory of the murder, but he had only half confided it to Incarnacion. He silently examined the spur with the accusing horse-hair, and placed it in his desk. Incarnacion continued:-- “There is not a vacquero in the whole rancho who has a horse-hair riata. We use the braided cowhide; it is heavier and stronger; it is for the bull and not the man. The horse-hair riata comes from over the range--south.”
There was a dead silence, broken only by the drumming of the rain upon the roof of the veranda. Incarnacion slightly shrugged his shoulders.
“Don Clarencio does not know the southern county? Francisco Robles, cousin of the 'Sisters,'--he they call 'Pancho,'--comes from the south. Surely when Don Clarencio bought the title he saw Francisco, for he was the steward?”
“I dealt only with the actual owners and through my bankers in San Francisco,” returned Clarence abstractedly.
Incarnacion looked through the yellow corners of his murky eyes at his master.
“Pedro Valdez, who was sent away by Senor Peyton, is the foster-brother of Francisco. They were much together. Now that Francisco is rich from the gold Don Clarencio paid for the title, they come not much together. But Pedro is rich, too. Mother of God! He gambles and is a fine gentleman. He holds his head high,--even over the Americanos he gambles with. Truly, they say he can shoot with the best of them. He boasts and swells himself, this Pedro! He says if all the old families were like him, they would drive those western swine back over the mountains again.”
Clarence raised his eyes, caught a subtle yellow flash from Incarnacion's, gazed at him suddenly, and rose.
“I don't think I have ever seen him,” he said quietly. “Thank you for bringing me the spur. But keep the knowledge of it to yourself, good Nascio, for the present.”
Nascio nevertheless still lingered. Perceiving which, Clarence handed him a cigarette and proceeded to light one himself. He knew that the vacquero would reroll his, and that that always deliberate occupation would cover and be an excuse for further confidence.
“The Senora Peyton does not perhaps meet this Pedro in the society of San Francisco?”
“Surely not. The senora is in mourning and goes not out in society, nor would she probably go anywhere where she would meet a dismissed servant of her husband.”
Incarnacion slowly lit his cigarette, and said between the puffs, “And the senorita--she would not meet him?”
“Assuredly not.”
“And,” continued Incarnacion, throwing down the match and putting his foot on it, “if this boaster, this turkey-cock, says she did, you could put him out like that?”
“Certainly,” said Clarence, with an easy confidence he was, however, far from feeling, “if he really SAID it--which I doubt.”
“Ah, truly,” said Incarnacion; “who knows? It may be another Senorita Silsbee.”
“The senora's adopted daughter is called MISS PEYTON, friend Nascio. You forget yourself,” said Clarence quietly.
“Ah, pardon!” said Incarnacion with effusive apology; “but she was born Silsbee. Everybody knows it; she herself has told it to Pepita. The Senor Peyton bequeathed his estate to the Senora Peyton. He named not the senorita! Eh, what would you? It is the common cackle of the barnyard. But I say 'Mees Silsbee.' For look you. There is a Silsbee of Sacramento, the daughter of her aunt, who writes letters to her. Pepita has seen them! And possibly it is only that Mees of whom the brigand Pedro boasts.”
“Possibly,” said Clarence, “but as far as this rancho is concerned, friend Nascio, thou wilt understand--and I look to thee to make the others understand--that there is no Senorita SILSBEE here, only the Senorita PEYTON, the respected daughter of the senora thy mistress!” He spoke with the quaint mingling of familiarity and paternal gravity of the Spanish master--a faculty he had acquired at El Refugio in a like vicarious position, and which never failed as a sign of authority. “And now,” he added gravely, “get out of this, friend, with God's blessing, and see that thou rememberest what I told thee.”
The retainer, with equal gravity, stepped backwards, saluted with his sombrero until the stiff brim scraped the floor, and then solemnly withdrew.
Left to himself, Clarence remained for an instant silent and thoughtful before the oven-like hearth. So! everybody knew Susy's real relations to the Peytons, and everybody but Mrs. Peyton, perhaps, knew that she was secretly corresponding with some one of her own family. In other circumstances he might have found some excuse for this assertion of her independence and love of her kindred, but in her attitude towards Mrs. Peyton it seemed monstrous. It appeared impossible that Mrs. Peyton should not have heard of it, or suspected the young girl's disaffection. Perhaps she had,--it was another burden laid upon her shoulders,--but the proud woman had kept it to herself. A film of moisture came across his eyes. I fear he thought less of the suggestion of Susy's secret meeting with Pedro, or Incarnacion's implied suspicions that Pedro was concerned in Peyton's death, than of this sentimental possibility. He knew that Pedro had been hated by the others on account of his position; he knew the instinctive jealousies of the race and their predisposition to extravagant misconstruction. From what he had gathered, and particularly from the voices he had overheard on the Fair Plains Road, it seemed to him that Pedro was more capable of mercenary intrigue than physical revenge. He was not aware of the irrevocable affront put upon Pedro by Peyton, and he had consequently attached no importance to Peyton's own half-scornful intimation of the only kind of retaliation that Pedro would be likely to take. The unsuccessful attempt upon himself he had always thought might have been an accident, or if it was really a premeditated assault, it might have been intended actually for HIMSELF and not Peyton, as he had first thought, and his old friend had suffered for HIM, through some mistake of the assailant. The purpose, which alone seemed wanting, might have been to remove Clarence as a possible witness who had overheard their conspiracy--how much of it they did not know--on the Fair Plains Road that night. The only clue he held to the murderer in the spur locked in his desk, merely led him beyond the confines of the rancho, but definitely nowhere else. It was, however, some relief to know that the crime was not committed by one of Peyton's retainers, nor the outcome of domestic treachery.
After some consideration he resolved to seek Jim Hooker, who might be possessed of some information respecting Susy's relations, either from the young girl's own confidences or from Jim's personal knowledge of the old frontier families. From a sense of loyalty to Susy and Mrs. Peyton, he had never alluded to the subject before him, but since the young girl's own indiscretion had made it a matter of common report, however distasteful it was to his own feelings, he felt he could not plead the sense of delicacy for her. He had great hopes in what he had always believed was only her exaggeration of fact as well as feeling. And he had an instinctive reliance on her fellow poseur's ability to detect it. A few days later, when he found he could safely leave the rancho alone, he rode to Fair Plains.
The floods were out along the turnpike road, and even seemed to have increased since his last journey. The face of the landscape had changed again. One of the lower terraces had become a wild mere of sedge and reeds. The dry and dusty bed of a forgotten brook had reappeared, a full-banked river, crossing the turnpike and compelling a long detour before the traveler could ford it. But as he approached the Hopkins farm and the opposite clearing and cabin of Jim Hooker, he was quite unprepared for a still more remarkable transformation. The cabin, a three-roomed structure, and its cattle-shed had entirely disappeared! There were no traces or signs of inundation. The land lay on a gentle acclivity above the farm and secure from the effects of the flood, and a part of the ploughed and cleared land around the site of the cabin showed no evidence of overflow on its black, upturned soil. But the house was gone! Only a few timbers too heavy to be removed, the blighting erasions of a few months of occupation, and the dull, blackened area of the site itself were to be seen. The fence alone was intact.
Clarence halted before it, perplexed and astonished. Scarcely two weeks had elapsed since he had last visited it and sat beneath its roof with Jim, and already its few ruins had taken upon themselves the look of years of abandonment and decay. The wild land seemed to have thrown off its yoke of cultivation in a night, and nature rioted again with all its primal forces over the freed soil. Wild oats and mustard were springing already in the broken furrows, and lank vines were slimily spreading over a few scattered but still unseasoned and sappy shingles. Some battered tin cans and fragments of old clothing looked as remote as if they had been relics of the earliest immigration.
Clarence turned inquiringly towards the Hopkins farmhouse across the road. His arrival, however, had already been noticed, as the door of the kitchen opened in an anticipatory fashion, and he could see the slight figure of Phoebe Hopkins in the doorway, backed by the overlooking heads and shoulders of her parents. The face of the young girl was pale and drawn with anxiety, at which Clarence's simple astonishment took a shade of concern.
“I am looking for Mr. Hooker,” he said uneasily. “And I don't seem to be able to find either him or his house.”
“And you don't know what's gone of him?” said the girl quickly.
“No; I haven't seen him for two weeks.”
“There, I told you so!” said the girl, turning nervously to her parents. “I knew it. He hasn't seen him for two weeks.” Then, looking almost tearfully at Clarence's face, she said, “No more have we.”
“But,” said Clarence impatiently, “something must have happened. Where is his house?”
“Taken away by them jumpers,” interrupted the old farmer; “a lot of roughs that pulled it down and carted it off in a jiffy before our very eyes without answerin' a civil question to me or her. But he wasn't there, nor before, nor since.”
“No,” added the old woman, with flashing eyes, “or he'd let 'em have what ther' was in his six-shooters.”
“No, he wouldn't, mother,” said the girl impatiently, “he'd CHANGED, and was agin all them ideas of force and riotin'. He was for peace and law all the time. Why, the day before we missed him he was tellin' me California never would be decent until people obeyed the laws and the titles were settled. And for that reason, because he wouldn't fight agin the law, or without the consent of the law, they've killed him, or kidnapped him away.”
The girl's lips quivered, and her small brown hands twisted the edges of her blue checked apron. Although this new picture of Jim's peacefulness was as astounding and unsatisfactory as his own disappearance, there was no doubt of the sincerity of poor Phoebe's impression.
In vain did Clarence point out to them there must be some mistake; that the trespassers--the so-called jumpers--really belonged to the same party as Hooker, and would have no reason to dispossess him; that, in fact, they were all HIS, Clarence's, tenants. In vain he assured them of Hooker's perfect security in possession; that he could have driven the intruders away by the simple exhibition of his lease, or that he could have even called a constable from the town of Fair Plains to protect him from mere lawlessness. In vain did he assure them of his intention to find his missing friend, and reinstate him at any cost. The conviction that the unfortunate young man had been foully dealt with was fixed in the minds of the two women. For a moment Clarence himself was staggered by it.
“You see,” said the young girl, with a kindling face, “the day before he came back from Robles, ther' were some queer men hangin' round his cabin, but as they were the same kind that went off with him the day the Sisters' title was confirmed, we thought nothing of it. But when he came back from you he seemed worried and anxious, and wasn't a bit like himself. We thought perhaps he'd got into some trouble there, or been disappointed. He hadn't, had he, Mr. Brant?” continued Phoebe, with an appealing look.
“By no means,” said Clarence warmly. “On the contrary, he was able to do his friends good service there, and was successful in what he attempted. Mrs. Peyton was very grateful. Of course he told you what had happened, and what he did for us,” continued Clarence, with a smile.
He had already amused himself on the way with a fanciful conception of the exaggerated account Jim had given of his exploits. But the bewildered girl shook her head.
“No, he didn't tell us ANYTHING.”
Clarence was really alarmed. This unprecedented abstention of Hooker's was portentous.
“He didn't say anything but what I told you about law and order,” she went on; “but that same night we heard a good deal of talking and shouting in the cabin and around it. And the next day he was talking with father, and wanting to know how HE kept his land without trouble from outsiders.”
“And I said,” broke in Hopkins, “that I guessed folks didn't bother a man with women folks around, and that I kalkilated that I wasn't quite as notorious for fightin' as he was.”
“And he said,” also interrupted Mrs. Hopkins, “and quite in his nat'ral way, too,--gloomy like, you remember, Cyrus,” appealingly to her husband,--“that that was his curse.”
The smile that flickered around Clarence's mouth faded, however, as he caught sight of Phoebe's pleading, interrogating eyes. It was really too bad. Whatever change had come over the rascal it was too evident that his previous belligerent personality had had its full effect upon the simple girl, and that, hereafter, one pair of honest eyes would be wistfully following him.
Perplexed and indignant, Clarence again closely questioned her as to the personnel of the trespassing party who had been seen once or twice since passing over the field. He had at last elicited enough information to identify one of them as Gilroy, the leader of the party that had invaded Robles rancho. His cheek flushed. Even if they had wished to take a theatrical and momentary revenge on Hooker for the passing treachery to them which they had just discovered, although such retaliation was only transitory, and they could not hold the land, it was an insult to Clarence himself, whose tenant Jim was, and subversive of all their legally acquired rights. He would confront this Gilroy at once; his half-wild encampment was only a few miles away, just over the boundaries of the Robles estate. Without stating his intention, he took leave of the Hopkins family with the cheerful assurance that he would probably return with some news of Hooker, and rode away.
The trail became more indistinct and unfrequented as it diverged from the main road, and presently lost itself in the slope towards the east. The horizon grew larger: there were faint bluish lines upon it which he knew were distant mountains; beyond this a still fainter white line--the Sierran snows. Presently he intersected a trail running south, and remarked that it crossed the highway behind him, where he had once met the two mysterious horsemen. They had evidently reached the terrace through the wild oats by that trail. A little farther on were a few groups of sheds and canvas tents in a bare and open space, with scattered cattle and horsemen, exactly like an encampment, or the gathering of a country fair. As Clarence rode down towards them he could see that his approach was instantly observed, and that a simultaneous movement was made as if to anticipate him. For the first time he realized the possible consequences of his visit, single-handed, but it was too late to retrace his steps. With a glance at his holster, he rode boldly forward to the nearest shed. A dozen men hovered near him, but something in his quiet, determined manner held them aloof. Gilroy was on the threshold in his shirtsleeves. A single look showed him that Clarence was alone, and with a careless gesture of his hand he warned away his own followers.
“You've got a sort of easy way of droppin' in whar you ain't invited, Brant,” he said with a grim smile, which was not, however, without a certain air of approval. “Got it from your father, didn't you?”
“I don't know, but I don't believe HE ever thought it necessary to warn twenty men of the approach of ONE,” replied Clarence, in the same tone. “I had no time to stand on ceremony, for I have just come from Hooker's quarter section at Fair Plains.”
Gilroy smiled again, and gazed abstractedly at the sky.
“You know as well as I do,” said Clarence, controlling his voice with an effort, “that what you have done there will have to be undone, if you wish to hold even those lawless men of yours together, or keep yourself and them from being run into the brush like highwaymen. I've no fear for that. Neither do I care to know what was your motive in doing it; but I can only tell you that if it was retaliation, I alone was and still am responsible for Hooker's action at the rancho. I came here to know just what you have done with him, and, if necessary, to take his place.”
“You're just a little too previous in your talk, I reckon, Brant,” returned Gilroy lazily, “and as to legality, I reckon we stand on the same level with yourself, just here. Beginnin' with what you came for: as we don't know where your Jim Hooker is, and as we ain't done anythin' to HIM, we don't exackly see what we could do with YOU in his place. Ez to our motives,--well, we've got a good deal to say about THAT. We reckoned that he wasn't exackly the kind of man we wanted for a neighbor. His pow'ful fightin' style didn't suit us peaceful folks, and we thought it rather worked agin this new 'law and order' racket to have such a man about, to say nuthin' of it prejudicin' quiet settlers. He had too many revolvers for one man to keep his eye on, and was altogether too much steeped in blood, so to speak, for ordinary washin' and domestic purposes! His hull get up was too deathlike and clammy; so we persuaded him to leave. We just went there, all of us, and exhorted him. We stayed round there two days and nights, takin' turns, talkin' with him, nuthin' more, only selecting subjects in his own style to please him, until he left! And then, as we didn't see any use for his house there, we took it away. Them's the cold facts, Brant,” he added, with a certain convincing indifference that left no room for doubt, “and you can stand by 'em. Now, workin' back to the first principle you laid down,--that we'll have to UNDO what we've DONE,--we don't agree with you, for we've taken a leaf outer your own book. We've got it here in black and white. We've got a bill o' sale of Hooker's house and possession, and we're on the land in place of him,--AS YOUR TENANTS.” He reentered the shanty, took a piece of paper from a soap-box on the shell, and held it out to Clarence. “Here it is. It's a fair and square deal, Brant. We gave him, as it says here, a hundred dollars for it! No humbuggin', but the hard cash, by Jiminy! AND HE TOOK THE MONEY.”
The ring of truth in the man's voice was as unmistakable as the signature in Jim's own hand. Hooker had sold out! Clarence turned hastily away.
“We don't know where he went,” continued Gilroy grimly, “but I reckon you ain't over anxious to see him NOW. And I kin tell ye something to ease your mind,--he didn't require much persuadin'. And I kin tell ye another, if ye ain't above takin' advice from folks that don't pertend to give it,” he added, with the same curious look of interest in his face. “You've done well to get shut of him, and if you got shut of a few more of his kind that you trust to, you'd do better.”
As if to avoid noticing any angry reply from the young man, he reentered the cabin and shut the door behind him. Clarence felt the uselessness of further parley, and rode away.
But Gilroy's Parthian arrow rankled as he rode. He was not greatly shocked at Jim's defection, for he was always fully conscious of his vanity and weakness; but he was by no means certain that Jim's extravagance and braggadocio, which he had found only amusing and, perhaps, even pathetic, might not be as provocative and prejudicial to others as Gilroy had said. But, like all sympathetic and unselfish natures, he sought to find some excuse for his old companion's weakness in his own mistaken judgment. He had no business to bring poor Jim on the land, to subject his singular temperament to the temptations of such a life and such surroundings; he should never have made use of his services at the rancho. He had done him harm rather than good in his ill-advised, and, perhaps, SELFISH attempts to help him. I have said that Gilroy's parting warning rankled in his breast, but not ignobly. It wounded the surface of his sensitive nature, but could not taint or corrupt the pure, wholesome blood of the gentleman beneath it. For in Gilroy's warning he saw only his own shortcomings. A strange fatality had marked his friendships. He had been no help to Jim; he had brought no happiness to Susy or Mrs. Peyton, whose disagreement his visit seemed to have accented. Thinking over the mysterious attack upon himself, it now seemed to him possible that, in some obscure way, his presence at the rancho had precipitated the more serious attack on Peyton. If, as it had been said, there was some curse upon his inheritance from his father, he seemed to have made others share it with him. He was riding onward abstractedly, with his head sunk on his breast and his eyes fixed upon some vague point between his horse's sensitive ears, when a sudden, intelligent, forward pricking of them startled him, and an apparition arose from the plain before him that seemed to sweep all other sense away.
It was the figure of a handsome young horseman as abstracted as himself, but evidently on better terms with his own personality. He was dark haired, sallow cheeked, and blue eyed,--the type of the old Spanish Californian. A burnt-out cigarette was in his mouth, and he was riding a roan mustang with the lazy grace of his race. But what arrested Clarence's attention more than his picturesque person was the narrow, flexible, long coil of gray horse-hair riata which hung from his saddle-bow, but whose knotted and silver-beaded terminating lash he was swirling idly in his narrow brown hand. Clarence knew and instantly recognized it as the ordinary fanciful appendage of a gentleman rider, used for tethering his horse on lonely plains, and always made the object of the most lavish expenditure of decoration and artistic skill. But he was as suddenly filled with a blind, unreasoning sense of repulsion and fury, and lifted his eyes to the man as he approached. What the stranger saw in Clarence's blazing eyes no one but himself knew, for his own became fixed and staring; his sallow cheeks grew lanker and livid; his careless, jaunty bearing stiffened into rigidity, and swerving his horse to one side he suddenly passed Clarence at a furious gallop. The young American wheeled quickly, and for an instant his knees convulsively gripped the flanks of his horse to follow. But the next moment he recalled himself, and with an effort began to collect his thoughts. What was he intending to do, and for what reason! He had met hundreds of such horsemen before, and caparisoned and accoutred like this, even to the riata. And he certainly was not dressed like either of the mysterious horsemen whom he had overheard that moonlight evening. He looked back; the stranger had already slackened his pace, and was slowly disappearing. Clarence turned and rode on his way.
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{
"id": "2495"
}
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Without disclosing the full extent of Jim's defection and desertion, Clarence was able to truthfully assure the Hopkins family of his personal safety, and to promise that he would continue his quest, and send them further news of the absentee. He believed it would be found that Jim had been called away on some important business, but that not daring to leave his new shanty exposed and temptingly unprotected, he had made a virtue of necessity by selling it to his neighbors, intending to build a better house on its site after his return. Having comforted Phoebe, and impulsively conceived further plans for restoring Jim to her,--happily without any recurrence of his previous doubts as to his own efficacy as a special Providence,--he returned to the rancho. If he thought again of Jim's defection and Gilroy's warning, it was only to strengthen himself to a clearer perception of his unselfish duty and singleness of purpose. He would give up brooding, apply himself more practically to the management of the property, carry out his plans for the foundation of a Landlords' Protective League for the southern counties, become a candidate for the Legislature, and, in brief, try to fill Peyton's place in the county as he had at the rancho. He would endeavor to become better acquainted with the half-breed laborers on the estate and avoid the friction between them and the Americans; he was conscious that he had not made that use of his early familiarity with their ways and language which he might have done. If, occasionally, the figure of the young Spaniard whom he had met on the lonely road obtruded itself on him, it was always with the instinctive premonition that he would meet him again, and the mystery of the sudden repulsion be in some way explained. Thus Clarence! But the momentary impulse that had driven him to Fair Plains, the eagerness to set his mind at rest regarding Susy and her relatives, he had utterly forgotten.
Howbeit some of the energy and enthusiasm that he breathed into these various essays made their impression. He succeeded in forming the Landlords' League; under a commission suggested by him the straggling boundaries of Robles and the adjacent claims were resurveyed, defined, and mutually protected; even the lawless Gilroy, from extending an amused toleration to the young administrator, grew to recognize and accept him; the peons and vacqueros began to have faith in a man who acknowledged them sufficiently to rebuild the ruined Mission Chapel on the estate, and save them the long pilgrimage to Santa Inez on Sundays and saints' days; the San Francisco priest imported from Clarence's old college at San Jose, and an habitual guest at Clarence's hospitable board, was grateful enough to fill his flock with loyalty to the young padron.
He had returned from a long drive one afternoon, and had just thrown himself into an easy-chair with the comfortable consciousness of a rest fairly earned. The dull embers of a fire occasionally glowed in the oven-like hearth, although the open casement of a window let in the soft breath of the southwest trades. The angelus had just rung from the restored chapel, and, mellowed by distance, seemed to Clarence to lend that repose to the wind-swept landscape that it had always lacked.
Suddenly his quick ear detected the sound of wheels in the ruts of the carriage way. Usually his visitors to the casa came on horseback, and carts and wagons used only the lower road. As the sound approached nearer, an odd fancy filled his heart with unaccountable pleasure. Could it be Mrs. Peyton making an unexpected visit to the rancho? He held his breath. The vehicle was now rolling on into the patio. The clatter of hoofs and a halt were followed by the accents of women's voices. One seemed familiar. He rose quickly, as light footsteps ran along the corridor, and then the door opened impetuously to the laughing face of Susy!
He came towards her hastily, yet with only the simple impulse of astonishment. He had no thought of kissing her, but as he approached, she threw her charming head archly to one side, with a mischievous knitting of her brows and a significant gesture towards the passage, that indicated the proximity of a stranger and the possibility of interruption.
“Hush! Mrs. McClosky's here,” she whispered.
“Mrs. McClosky?” repeated Clarence vaguely.
“Yes, of course,” impatiently. “My Aunt Jane. Silly! We just cut away down here to surprise you. Aunty's never seen the place, and here was a good chance.”
“And your mother--Mrs. Peyton? Has she--does she?” --stammered Clarence.
“Has she--does she?” mimicked Susy, with increasing impatience. “Why, of course she DOESN'T know anything about it. She thinks I'm visiting Mary Rogers at Oakland. And I am--AFTERWARDS,” she laughed. “I just wrote to Aunt Jane to meet me at Alameda, and we took the stage to Santa Inez and drove on here in a buggy. Wasn't it real fun? Tell me, Clarence! You don't say anything! Tell me--wasn't it real fun?”
This was all so like her old, childlike, charming, irresponsible self, that Clarence, troubled and bewildered as he was, took her hands and drew her like a child towards him.
“Of course,” she went on, yet stopping to smell a rosebud in his buttonhole, “I have a perfect right to come to my own home, goodness knows! and if I bring my own aunt, a married woman, with me,--although,” loftily, “there may be a young unmarried gentleman alone there,--still I fail to see any impropriety in it!”
He was still holding her; but in that instant her manner had completely changed again; the old Susy seemed to have slipped away and evaded him, and he was retaining only a conscious actress in his arms.
“Release me, Mr. Brant, please,” she said, with a languid affected glance behind her; “we are not alone.”
Then, as the rustling of a skirt sounded nearer in the passage, she seemed to change back to her old self once more, and with a lightning flash of significance whispered,-- “She knows everything!”
To add to Clarence's confusion, the woman who entered cast a quick glance of playful meaning on the separating youthful pair. She was an ineffective blonde with a certain beauty that seemed to be gradually succumbing to the ravages of paint and powder rather than years; her dress appeared to have suffered from an equally unwise excess of ornamentation and trimming, and she gave the general impression of having been intended for exhibition in almost any other light than the one in which she happened to be. There were two or three mud-stains on the laces of her sleeve and underskirt that were obtrusively incongruous. Her voice, which had, however, a ring of honest intention in it, was somewhat over-strained, and evidently had not yet adjusted itself to the low-ceilinged, conventual-like building.
“There, children, don't mind me! I know I'm not on in this scene, but I got nervous waiting there, in what you call the 'salon,' with only those Greaser servants staring round me in a circle, like a regular chorus. My! but it's anteek here--regular anteek--Spanish.” Then, with a glance at Clarence, “So this is Clarence Brant,--your Clarence? Interduce me, Susy.”
In his confusion of indignation, pain, and even a certain conception of the grim ludicrousness of the situation, Clarence grasped despairingly at the single sentence of Susy's. “In my own home.” Surely, at least, it was HER OWN HOME, and as he was only the business agent of her adopted mother, he had no right to dictate to her under what circumstances she should return to it, or whom she should introduce there. In her independence and caprice Susy might easily have gone elsewhere with this astounding relative, and would Mrs. Peyton like it better? Clinging to this idea, his instinct of hospitality asserted itself. He welcomed Mrs. McClosky with nervous effusion:-- “I am only Mrs. Peyton's major domo here, but any guest of her DAUGHTER'S is welcome.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. McClosky, with ostentatious archness, “I reckon Susy and I understand your position here, and you've got a good berth of it. But we won't trouble you much on Mrs. Peyton's account, will we, Susy? And now she and me will just take a look around the shanty,--it is real old Spanish anteek, ain't it? --and sorter take stock of it, and you young folks will have to tear yourselves apart for a while, and play propriety before me. You've got to be on your good behavior while I'm here, I can tell you! I'm a heavy old 'doo-anna.' Ain't I, Susy? School-ma'ms and mother superiors ain't in the game with ME for discipline.”
She threw her arms around the young girl's waist and drew her towards her affectionately, an action that slightly precipitated some powder upon the black dress of her niece. Susy glanced mischievously at Clarence, but withdrew her eyes presently to let them rest with unmistakable appreciation and admiration on her relative. A pang shot through Clarence's breast. He had never seen her look in that way at Mrs. Peyton. Yet here was this stranger, provincial, overdressed, and extravagant, whose vulgarity was only made tolerable through her good humor, who had awakened that interest which the refined Mrs. Peyton had never yet been able to touch. As Mrs. McClosky swept out of the room with Susy he turned away with a sinking heart.
Yet it was necessary that the Spanish house servants should not suspect this treason to their mistress, and Clarence stopped their childish curiosity about the stranger with a careless and easy acceptance of Susy's sudden visit in the light of an ordinary occurrence, and with a familiarity towards Mrs. McClosky which became the more distasteful to him in proportion as he saw that it was evidently agreeable to her. But, easily responsive, she became speedily confidential. Without a single question from himself, or a contributing remark from Susy, in half an hour she had told him her whole history. How, as Jane Silsbee, an elder sister of Susy's mother, she had early eloped from the paternal home in Kansas with McClosky, a strolling actor. How she had married him and gone on the stage under his stage name, effectively preventing any recognition by her family. How, coming to California, where her husband had become manager of the theatre at Sacramento, she was indignant to find that her only surviving relation, a sister-in-law, living in the same place, had for a money consideration given up all claim to the orphaned Susy, and how she had resolved to find out “if the poor child was happy.” How she succeeded in finding out that she was not happy. How she wrote to her, and even met her secretly at San Francisco and Oakland, and how she had undertaken this journey partly for “a lark,” and partly to see Clarence and the property. There was no doubt of the speaker's sincerity; with this outrageous candor there was an equal obliviousness of any indelicacy in her conduct towards Mrs. Peyton that seemed hopeless. Yet he must talk plainly to her; he must say to her what he could not say to Susy; upon HER Mrs. Peyton's happiness--he believed he was thinking of Susy's also--depended. He must take the first opportunity of speaking to her alone.
That opportunity came sooner than he had expected. After dinner, Mrs. McClosky turned to Susy, and playfully telling her that she had “to talk business” with Mr. Brant, bade her go to the salon and await her. When the young girl left the room, she looked at Clarence, and, with that assumption of curtness with which coarse but kindly natures believe they overcome the difficulty of delicate subjects, said abruptly:-- “Well, young man, now what's all this between you and Susy? I'm looking after her interests--same as if she was my own girl. If you've got anything to say, now's your time. And don't you shilly-shally too long over it, either, for you might as well know that a girl like that can have her pick and choice, and be beholden to no one; and when she don't care to choose, there's me and my husband ready to do for her all the same. We mightn't be able to do the anteek Spanish Squire, but we've got our own line of business, and it's a comfortable one.”
To have this said to him under the roof of Mrs. Peyton, from whom, in his sensitiveness, he had thus far jealously guarded his own secret, was even more than Clarence's gentleness could stand, and fixed his wavering resolution.
“I don't think we quite understand each other, Mrs. McClosky,” he said coldly, but with glittering eyes. “I have certainly something to say to you; if it is not on a subject as pleasant as the one you propose, it is, nevertheless, one that I think you and I are more competent to discuss together.”
Then, with quiet but unrelenting directness, he pointed out to her that Susy was a legally adopted daughter of Mrs. Peyton, and, as a minor, utterly under her control; that Mrs. Peyton had no knowledge of any opposing relatives; and that Susy had not only concealed the fact from her, but that he was satisfied that Mrs. Peyton did not even know of Susy's discontent and alienation; that she had tenderly and carefully brought up the helpless orphan as her own child, and even if she had not gained her affection was at least entitled to her obedience and respect; that while Susy's girlish caprice and inexperience excused HER conduct, Mrs. Peyton and her friends would have a right to expect more consideration from a person of Mrs. McClosky's maturer judgment. That for these reasons, and as the friend of Mrs. Peyton, whom he could alone recognize as Susy's guardian and the arbiter of her affections, he must decline to discuss the young girl with any reference to himself or his own intentions.
An unmistakable flush asserted itself under the lady's powder.
“Suit yourself, young man, suit yourself,” she said, with equally direct resentment and antagonism; “only mebbee you'll let me tell you that Jim McClosky ain't no fool, and mebbee knows what lawyers think of an arrangement with a sister-in-law that leaves a real sister out! Mebbee that's a 'Sister's title' you ain't thought of, Mr. Brant! And mebbee you'll find out that your chance o' gettin' Mrs. Peyton's consent ain't as safe to gamble on as you reckon it is. And mebbee, what's more to the purpose, if you DID get it, it might not be just the trump card to fetch Susy with! And to wind up, Mr. Brant, when you DO have to come down to the bed-rock and me and Jim McClosky, you may find out that him and me have discovered a better match for Susy than the son of old Ham Brant, who is trying to play the Spanish grandee off his father's money on a couple of women. And we mayn't have to go far to do it--or to get THE REAL THING, Mr. Brant!”
Too heartsick and disgusted to even notice the slur upon himself or the import of her last words, Clarence only rose and bowed as she jumped up from the table. But as she reached the door he said, half appealingly:-- “Whatever are your other intentions, Mrs. McClosky, as we are both Susy's guests, I beg you will say nothing of this to her while we are here, and particularly that you will not allow her to think for a moment that I have discussed MY relations to her with anybody.”
She flung herself out of the door without a reply; but on entering the dark low-ceilinged drawing-room she was surprised to find that Susy was not there. She was consequently obliged to return to the veranda, where Clarence had withdrawn, and to somewhat ostentatiously demand of the servants that Susy should be sent to her room at once. But the young girl was not in her own room, and was apparently nowhere to be found. Clarence, who had now fully determined as a last resource to make a direct appeal to Susy herself, listened to this fruitless search with some concern. She could not have gone out in the rain, which was again falling. She might be hiding somewhere to avoid a recurrence of the scene she had perhaps partly overheard. He turned into the corridor that led to Mrs. Peyton's boudoir. As he knew that it was locked, he was surprised to see by the dim light of the hanging lamp that a duplicate key to the one in his desk was in the lock. It must be Susy's, and the young girl had probably taken refuge there. He knocked gently. There was a rustle in the room and the sound of a chair being moved, but no reply. Impelled by a sudden instinct he opened the door, and was met by a cool current of air from some open window. At the same moment the figure of Susy approached him from the semi-darkness of the interior.
“I did not know you were here,” said Clarence, much relieved, he knew not why, “but I am glad, for I wanted to speak with you alone for a few moments.”
She did not reply, but he drew a match from his pocket and lit the two candles which he knew stood on the table. The wick of one was still warm, as if it had been recently extinguished. As the light slowly radiated, he could see that she was regarding him with an air of affected unconcern, but a somewhat heightened color. It was like her, and not inconsistent with his idea that she had come there to avoid an after scene with Mrs. McClosky or himself, or perhaps both. The room was not disarranged in any way. The window that was opened was the casement of the deep embrasured one in the rear wall, and the light curtain before it still swayed occasionally in the night wind.
“I'm afraid I had a row with your aunt, Susy,” he began lightly, in his old familiar way; “but I had to tell her I didn't think her conduct to Mrs. Peyton was exactly the square thing towards one who had been as devoted to you as she has been.”
“Oh, for goodness' sake, don't go over all that again,” said Susy impatiently. “I've had enough of it.”
Clarence flashed, but recovered himself.
“Then you overheard what I said, and know what I think,” he said calmly.
“I knew it BEFORE,” said the young girl, with a slight supercilious toss of the head, and yet a certain abstraction of manner as she went to the window and closed it. “Anybody could see it! I know you always wanted me to stay here with Mrs. Peyton, and be coddled and monitored and catechised and shut up away from any one, until YOU had been coddled and monitored and catechised by somebody else sufficiently to suit her ideas of your being a fit husband for me. I told aunty it was no use our coming here to--to”-- “To do what?” asked Clarence.
“To put some spirit into you,” said the young girl, turning upon him sharply; “to keep you from being tied to that woman's apron-strings. To keep her from making a slave of you as she would of me. But it is of no use. Mary Rogers was right when she said you had no wish to please anybody but Mrs. Peyton, and no eyes for anybody but her. And if it hadn't been too ridiculous, considering her age and yours, she'd say you were dead in love with her.”
For an instant Clarence felt the blood rush to his face and then sink away, leaving him pale and cold. The room, which had seemed to whirl around him, and then fade away, returned with appalling distinctness,--the distinctness of memory,--and a vision of the first day that he had seen Mrs. Peyton sitting there, as he seemed to see her now. For the first time there flashed upon him the conviction that the young girl had spoken the truth, and had brusquely brushed the veil from his foolish eyes. He WAS in love with Mrs. Peyton! That was what his doubts and hesitation regarding Susy meant. That alone was the source, secret, and limit of his vague ambition.
But with the conviction came a singular calm. In the last few moments he seemed to have grown older, to have loosed the bonds of old companionship with Susy, and the later impression she had given him of her mature knowledge, and moved on far beyond her years and experience. And it was with an authority that was half paternal, and in a voice he himself scarcely recognized, that he said:-- “If I did not know you were prejudiced by a foolish and indiscreet woman, I should believe that you were trying to insult me as you have your adopted mother, and would save you the pain of doing both in HER house by leaving it now and forever. But because I believe you are controlled against your best instinct by that woman, I shall remain here with you to frustrate her as best I can, or until I am able to lay everything before Mrs. Peyton except the foolish speech you have just made.”
The young girl laughed. “Why not THAT one too, while you're about it? See what she'll say.”
“I shall tell her,” continued Clarence calmly, “only what YOU yourself have made it necessary for me to tell her to save you from folly and disgrace, and only enough to spare her the mortification of hearing it first from her own servants.”
“Hearing WHAT from her own servants? What do you mean? How dare you?” demanded the young girl sharply.
She was quite real in her anxiety now, although her attitude of virtuous indignation struck him as being like all her emotional expression, namely, acting.
“I mean that the servants know of your correspondence with Mrs. McClosky, and that she claims to be your aunt,” returned Clarence. “They know that you confided to Pepita. They believe that either Mrs. McClosky or you have seen”-- He had stopped suddenly. He was about to say that the servants (particularly Incarnacion) knew that Pedro had boasted of having met Susy, when, for the first time, the tremendous significance of what he had hitherto considered as merely an idle falsehood flashed upon him.
“Seen whom?” repeated Susy in a higher voice, impatiently stamping her foot.
Clarence looked at her, and in her excited, questioning face saw a confirmation of his still half-formed suspicions. In his own abrupt pause and knitted eyebrows she must have read his thoughts also. Their eyes met. Her violet pupils dilated, trembled, and then quickly shifted as she suddenly stiffened into an attitude of scornful indifference, almost grotesque in its unreality. His eyes slowly turned to the window, the door, the candles on the table and the chair before it, and then came back to her face again. Then he drew a deep breath.
“I give no heed to the idle gossip of servants, Susy,” he said slowly. “I have no belief that you have ever contemplated anything worse than an act of girlish folly, or the gratification of a passing caprice. Neither do I want to appeal to you or frighten you, but I must tell you now, that I know certain facts that might make such a simple act of folly monstrous, inconceivable in YOU, and almost accessory to a crime! I can tell you no more. But so satisfied am I of such a possibility, that I shall not scruple to take any means--the strongest--to prevent even the remotest chance of it. Your aunt has been looking for you; you had better go to her now. I will close the room and lock the door. Meantime, I should advise you not to sit so near an open window with a candle at night in this locality. Even if it might not be dangerous for you, it might be fatal to the foolish creatures it might attract.”
He took the key from the door as he held it open for her to pass out. She uttered a shrill little laugh, like a nervous, mischievous child, and, slipping out of her previous artificial attitude as if it had been a mantle, ran out of the room.
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{
"id": "2495"
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As Susy's footsteps died away, Clarence closed the door, walked to the window, and examined it closely. The bars had been restored since he had wrenched them off to give ingress to the family on the day of recapture. He glanced around the room; nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Nevertheless he was uneasy. The suspicions of a frank, trustful nature when once aroused are apt to be more general and far-reaching than the specific distrusts of the disingenuous, for they imply the overthrow of a whole principle and not a mere detail. Clarence's conviction that Susy had seen Pedro recently since his dismissal led him into the wildest surmises of her motives. It was possible that without her having reason to suspect Pedro's greater crime, he might have confided to her his intention of reclaiming the property and installing her as the mistress and chatelaine of the rancho. The idea was one that might have appealed to Susy's theatrical imagination. He recalled Mrs. McClosky's sneer at his own pretensions and her vague threats of a rival of more lineal descent. The possible infidelity of Susy to himself touched him lightly when the first surprise was over; indeed, it scarcely could be called infidelity, if she knew and believed Mary Rogers's discovery; and the conviction that he and she had really never loved each other now enabled him, as he believed, to look at her conduct dispassionately. Yet it was her treachery to Mrs. Peyton and not to himself that impressed him most, and perhaps made him equally unjust, through his affections.
He extinguished the candles, partly from some vague precautions he could not explain, and partly to think over his fears in the abstraction and obscurity of the semi-darkness. The higher windows suffused a faint light on the ceiling, and, assisted by the dark lantern-like glow cast on the opposite wall by the tunnel of the embrasured window, the familiar outlines of the room and its furniture came back to him. Somewhat in this fashion also, in the obscurity and quiet, came back to him the events he had overlooked and forgotten. He recalled now some gossip of the servants, and hints dropped by Susy of a violent quarrel between Peyton and Pedro, which resulted in Pedro's dismissal, but which now seemed clearly attributable to some graver cause than inattention and insolence. He recalled Mary Rogers's playful pleasantries with Susy about Pedro, and Susy's mysterious air, which he had hitherto regarded only as part of her exaggeration. He remembered Mrs. Peyton's unwarrantable uneasiness about Susy, which he had either overlooked or referred entirely to himself; she must have suspected something. To his quickened imagination, in this ruin of his faith and trust, he believed that Hooker's defection was either part of the conspiracy, or that he had run away to avoid being implicated with Susy in its discovery. This, too, was the significance of Gilroy's parting warning. He and Mrs. Peyton alone had been blind and confiding in the midst of this treachery, and even HE had been blind to his own real affections.
The wind had risen again, and the faint light on the opposite wall grew tremulous and shifting with the movement of the foliage without. But presently the glow became quite obliterated, as if by the intervention of some opaque body outside the window. He rose hurriedly and went to the casement. But at the same moment he fancied he heard the jamming of a door or window in quite another direction, and his examination of the casement before him showed him only the silver light of the thinly clouded sky falling uninterruptedly through the bars and foliage on the interior of the whitewashed embrasure. Then a conception of his mistake flashed across him. The line of the casa was long, straggling, and exposed elsewhere; why should the attempt to enter or communicate with any one within be confined only to this single point? And why not satisfy himself at once if any trespassers were lounging around the walls, and then confront them boldly in the open? Their discovery and identification was as important as the defeat of their intentions.
He relit the candle, and, placing it on a small table by the wall beyond the visual range of the window, rearranged the curtain so that, while it permitted the light to pass out, it left the room in shadow. He then opened the door softly, locked it behind him, and passed noiselessly into the hall. Susy's and Mrs. McClosky's rooms were at the further end of the passage, but between them and the boudoir was the open patio, and the low murmur of the voices of servants, who still lingered until he should dismiss them for the night. Turning back, he moved silently down the passage, until he reached the narrow arched door to the garden. This he unlocked and opened with the same stealthy caution. The rain had recommenced. Not daring to risk a return to his room, he took from a peg in the recess an old waterproof cloak and “sou'wester” of Peyton's, which still hung there, and passed out into the night, locking the door behind him. To keep the knowledge of his secret patrol from the stablemen, he did not attempt to take out his own horse, but trusted to find some vacquero's mustang in the corral. By good luck an old “Blue Grass” hack of Peyton's, nearest the stockade as he entered, allowed itself to be quickly caught. Using its rope headstall for a bridle, Clarence vaulted on its bare back, and paced cautiously out into the road. Here he kept the curve of the long line of stockade until he reached the outlying field where, half hidden in the withered, sapless, but still standing stalks of grain, he slowly began a circuit of the casa.
The misty gray dome above him, which an invisible moon seemed to have quicksilvered over, alternately lightened and darkened with passing gusts of fine rain. Nevertheless he could see the outline of the broad quadrangle of the house quite distinctly, except on the west side, where a fringe of writhing willows beat the brown adobe walls with their imploring arms at every gust. Elsewhere nothing moved; the view was uninterrupted to where the shining, watery sky met the equally shining, watery plain. He had already made a half circuit of the house, and was still noiselessly picking his way along the furrows, muffled with soaked and broken-down blades, and the velvety upspringing of the “volunteer” growth, when suddenly, not fifty yards before him, without sound or warning, a figure rode out of the grain upon the open crossroad, and deliberately halted with a listless, abstracted, waiting air. Clarence instantly recognized one of his own vacqueros, an undersized half-breed, but he as instantly divined that he was only an outpost or confederate, stationed to give the alarm. The same precaution had prevented each hearing the other, and the lesser height of the vacquero had rendered him indistinguishable as he preceded Clarence among the grain. As the young man made no doubt that the real trespasser was nearer the casa, along the line of willows, he wheeled to intercept him without alarming his sentry. Unfortunately, his horse answered the rope bridle clumsily, and splashed in striking out. The watcher quickly raised his head, and Clarence knew that his only chance was now to suppress him. Determined to do this at any hazard, with a threatening gesture he charged boldly down upon him.
But he had not crossed half the distance between them when the man uttered an appalling cry, so wild and despairing that it seemed to chill even the hot blood in Clarence's veins, and dashed frenziedly down the cross-road into the interminable plain. Before Clarence could determine if that cry was a signal or an involuntary outburst, it was followed instantly by the sound of frightened and struggling hoofs clattering against the wall of the casa, and a swaying of the shrubbery near the back gate of the patio. Here was his real quarry! Without hesitation he dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and rode furiously towards it. As he approached, a long tremor seemed to pass through the shrubbery, with the retreating sound of horse hoofs. The unseen trespasser had evidently taken the alarm and was fleeing, and Clarence dashed in pursuit. Following the sound, for the shrubbery hid the fugitive from view, he passed the last wall of the casa; but it soon became evident that the unknown had the better horse. The hoof-beats grew fainter and fainter, and at times appeared even to cease, until his own approach started them again, eventually to fade away in the distance. In vain Clarence dug his heels into the flanks of his heavier steed, and regretted his own mustang; and when at last he reached the edge of the thicket he had lost both sight and sound of the fugitive. The descent to the lower terrace lay before him empty and desolate. The man had escaped!
He turned slowly back with baffled anger and vindictiveness. However, he had prevented something, although he knew not what. The principal had got away, but he had identified his confederate, and for the first time held a clue to his mysterious visitant. There was no use to alarm the household, which did not seem to have been disturbed. The trespassers were far away by this time, and the attempt would hardly be repeated that night. He made his way quietly back to the corral, let loose his horse, and regained the casa unobserved. He unlocked the arched door in the wall, reentered the darkened passage, stopped a moment to open the door of the boudoir, glance at the closely fastened casement, and extinguish the still burning candle, and, relocking the door securely, made his way to his own room.
But he could not sleep. The whole incident, over so quickly, had nevertheless impressed him deeply, and yet like a dream. The strange yell of the vacquero still rang in his ears, but with an unearthly and superstitious significance that was even more dreamlike in its meaning. He awakened from a fitful slumber to find the light of morning in the room, and Incarnacion standing by his bedside.
The yellow face of the steward was greenish with terror, and his lips were dry.
“Get up, Senor Clarencio; get up at once, my master. Strange things have happened. Mother of God protect us!”
Clarence rolled to his feet, with the events of the past night struggling back upon his consciousness.
“What mean you, Nascio?” he said, grasping the man's arm, which was still mechanically making the sign of the cross, as he muttered incoherently. “Speak, I command you!”
“It is Jose, the little vacquero, who is even now at the padre's house, raving as a lunatic, stricken as a madman with terror! He has seen him,--the dead alive! Save us!”
“Are you mad yourself, Nascio?” said Clarence. “Whom has he seen?”
“Whom? God help us! the old padron--Senor Peyton himself! He rushed towards him here, in the patio, last night--out of the air, the sky, the ground, he knew not,--his own self, wrapped in his old storm cloak and hat, and riding his own horse,--erect, terrible, and menacing, with an awful hand upholding a rope--so! He saw him with these eyes, as I see you. What HE said to him, God knows! The priest, perhaps, for he has made confession!”
In a flash of intelligence Clarence comprehended all. He rose grimly and began to dress himself.
“Not a word of this to the women,--to any one, Nascio, dost thou understand?” he said curtly. “It may be that Jose has been partaking too freely of aguardiente,--it is possible. I will see the priest myself. But what possesses thee? Collect thyself, good Nascio.”
But the man was still trembling.
“It is not all,--Mother of God! it is not all, master!” he stammered, dropping to his knees and still crossing himself. “This morning, beside the corral, they find the horse of Pedro Valdez splashed and spattered on saddle and bridle, and in the stirrup,--dost thou hear? the STIRRUP,--hanging, the torn-off boot of Valdez! Ah, God! The same as HIS! Now do you understand? It is HIS vengeance. No! Jesu forgive me! it is the vengeance of God!”
Clarence was staggered.
“And you have not found Valdez? You have looked for him?” he said, hurriedly throwing on his clothes.
“Everywhere,--all over the plain. The whole rancho has been out since sunrise,--here and there and everywhere. And there is nothing! Of course not. What would you?” He pointed solemnly to the ground.
“Nonsense!” said Clarence, buttoning his coat and seizing his hat. “Follow me.”
He ran down the passage, followed by Incarnacion, through the excited, gesticulating crowd of servants in the patio, and out of the back gate. He turned first along the wall of the casa towards the barred window of the boudoir. Then a cry came from Incarnacion.
They ran quickly forward. Hanging from the grating of the window, like a mass of limp and saturated clothes, was the body of Pedro Valdez, with one unbooted foot dangling within an inch of the ground. His head was passed inside the grating and fixed as at that moment when the first spring of the frightened horse had broken his neck between the bars as in a garrote, and the second plunge of the terrified animal had carried off his boot in the caught stirrup when it escaped.
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{
"id": "2495"
}
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11
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None
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The winter rains were over and gone, and the whole long line of Californian coast was dashed with color. There were miles of yellow and red poppies, leagues of lupines that painted the gently rounded hills with soft primary hues, and long continuous slopes, like low mountain systems, of daisies and dandelions. At Sacramento it was already summer; the yellow river was flashing and intolerable; the tule and marsh grasses were lush and long; the bloom of cottonwood and sycamore whitened the outskirts of the city, and as Cyrus Hopkins and his daughter Phoebe looked from the veranda of the Placer Hotel, accustomed as they were to the cool trade winds of the coast valleys, they felt homesick from the memory of eastern heats.
Later, when they were surveying the long dinner tables at the table d'hote with something of the uncomfortable and shamefaced loneliness of the provincial, Phoebe uttered a slight cry and clutched her father's arm. Mr. Hopkins stayed the play of his squared elbows and glanced inquiringly at his daughter's face. There was a pretty animation in it, as she pointed to a figure that had just entered. It was that of a young man attired in the extravagance rather than the taste of the prevailing fashion, which did not, however, in the least conceal a decided rusticity of limb and movement. A long mustache, which looked unkempt, even in its pomatumed stiffness, and lank, dark hair that had bent but never curled under the barber's iron, made him notable even in that heterogeneous assembly.
“That's he,” whispered Phoebe.
“Who?” said her father.
Alas for the inconsistencies of love! The blush came with the name and not the vision.
“Mr. Hooker,” she stammered.
It was, indeed, Jim Hooker. But the role of his exaggeration was no longer the same; the remorseful gloom in which he had been habitually steeped had changed into a fatigued, yet haughty, fastidiousness more in keeping with his fashionable garments. He was more peaceful, yet not entirely placable, and, as he sat down at a side table and pulled down his striped cuffs with his clasped fingers, he cast a glance of critical disapproval on the general company. Nevertheless, he seemed to be furtively watchful of his effect upon them, and as one or two whispered and looked towards him, his consciousness became darkly manifest.
All of which might have intimidated the gentle Phoebe, but did not discompose her father. He rose, and crossing over to Hooker's table, clapped him heartily on the back.
“How do, Hooker? I didn't recognize you in them fine clothes, but Phoebe guessed as how it was you.”
Flushed, disconcerted, irritated, but always in wholesome awe of Mr. Hopkins, Jim returned his greeting awkwardly and half hysterically. How he would have received the more timid Phoebe is another question. But Mr. Hopkins, without apparently noticing these symptoms, went on:-- “We're only just down, Phoebe and me, and as I guess we'll want to talk over old times, we'll come alongside o' you. Hold on, and I'll fetch her.”
The interval gave the unhappy Jim a chance to recover himself, to regain his vanished cuffs, display his heavy watch-chain, curl his mustache, and otherwise reassume his air of blase fastidiousness. But the transfer made, Phoebe, after shaking hands, became speechless under these perfections. Not so her father.
“If there's anything in looks, you seem to be prospering,” he said grimly; “unless you're in the tailorin' line, and you're only showin' off stock. What mout ye be doing?”
“Ye ain't bin long in Sacramento, I reckon?” suggested Jim, with patronizing pity.
“No, we only came this morning,” returned Hopkins.
“And you ain't bin to the theatre?” continued Jim.
“No.”
“Nor moved much in--in--gin'ral fash'nable sassiety?”
“Not yet,” interposed Phoebe, with an air of faint apology.
“Nor seen any of them large posters on the fences, of 'The Prairie Flower; or, Red-handed Dick,'--three-act play with five tableaux,--just the biggest sensation out,--runnin' for forty nights,--money turned away every night,--standin' room only?” continued Jim, with prolonged toleration.
“No.”
“Well, I play Red-handed Dick. I thought you might have seen it and recognized me. All those people over there,” darkly indicating the long table, “know me. A fellow can't stand it, you know, being stared at by such a vulgar, low-bred lot. It's gettin' too fresh here. I'll have to give the landlord notice and cut the whole hotel. They don't seem to have ever seen a gentleman and a professional before.”
“Then you're a play-actor now?” said the farmer, in a tone which did not, however, exhibit the exact degree of admiration which shone in Phoebe's eyes.
“For the present,” said Jim, with lofty indifference. “You see I was in--in partnership with McClosky, the manager, and I didn't like the style of the chump that was doin' Red-handed Dick, so I offered to take his place one night to show him how. And by Jinks! the audience, after that night, wouldn't let anybody else play it,--wouldn't stand even the biggest, highest-priced stars in it! I reckon,” he added gloomily, “I'll have to run the darned thing in all the big towns in Californy,--if I don't have to go East with it after all, just for the business. But it's an awful grind on a man,--leaves him no time, along of the invitations he gets, and what with being run after in the streets and stared at in the hotels he don't get no privacy. There's men, and women, too, over at that table, that just lie in wait for me here till I come, and don't lift their eyes off me. I wonder they don't bring their opery-glasses with them.”
Concerned, sympathizing, and indignant, poor Phoebe turned her brown head and honest eyes in that direction. But because they were honest, they could not help observing that the other table did not seem to be paying the slightest attention to the distinguished impersonator of Red-handed Dick. Perhaps he had been overheard.
“Then that was the reason ye didn't come back to your location. I always guessed it was because you'd got wind of the smash-up down there, afore we did,” said Hopkins grimly.
“What smash-up?” asked Jim, with slightly resentful quickness.
“Why, the smash-up of the Sisters' title,--didn't you hear that?”
There was a slight movement of relief and a return of gloomy hauteur in Jim's manner.
“No, we don't know much of what goes on in the cow counties, up here.”
“Ye mout, considerin' it concerns some o' your friends,” returned Hopkins dryly. “For the Sisters' title went smash as soon as it was known that Pedro Valdez--the man as started it--had his neck broken outside the walls o' Robles Rancho; and they do say as this yer Brant, YOUR friend, had suthin' to do with the breaking of it, though it was laid to the ghost of old Peyton. Anyhow, there was such a big skeer that one of the Greaser gang, who thought he'd seen the ghost, being a Papist, to save his everlasting soul went to the priest and confessed. But the priest wouldn't give him absolution until he'd blown the hull thing, and made it public. And then it turned out that all the dockyments for the title, and even the custom-house paper, were FORGED by Pedro Valdez, and put on the market by his confederates. And that's just where YOUR friend, Clarence Brant, comes in, for HE had bought up the whole title from them fellers. Now, either, as some say, he was in the fraud from the beginnin', and never paid anything, or else he was an all-fired fool, and had parted with his money like one. Some allow that the reason was that he was awfully sweet on Mrs. Peyton's adopted daughter, and ez the parents didn't approve of him, he did THIS so as to get a holt over them by the property. But he's a ruined man, anyway, now; for they say he's such a darned fool that he's goin' to pay for all the improvements that the folks who bought under him put into the land, and that'll take his last cent. I thought I'd tell you that, for I suppose YOU'VE lost a heap in your improvements, and will put in your claim?”
“I reckon I put nearly as much into it as Clar Brant did,” said Jim gloomily, “but I ain't goin' to take a cent from him, or go back on him now.”
The rascal could not resist this last mendacious opportunity, although he was perfectly sincere in his renunciation, touched in his sympathy, and there was even a film of moisture in his shifting eyes.
Phoebe was thrilled with the generosity of this noble being, who could be unselfish even in his superior condition. She added softly:-- “And they say that the girl did not care for him at all, but was actually going to run off with Pedro, when he stopped her and sent for Mrs. Peyton.”
To her surprise, Jim's face flushed violently.
“It's all a dod-blasted lie,” he said, in a thick stage whisper. “It's only the hogwash them Greasers and Pike County galoots ladle out to each other around the stove in a county grocery. But,” recalling himself loftily, and with a tolerant wave of his be-diamonded hand, “wot kin you expect from one of them cow counties? They ain't satisfied till they drive every gentleman out of the darned gopher-holes they call their 'kentry.'”
In her admiration of what she believed to be a loyal outburst for his friend, Phoebe overlooked the implied sneer at her provincial home. But her father went on with a perfunctory, exasperating, dusty aridity:-- “That mebbee ez mebbee, Mr. Hooker, but the story down in our precinct goes that she gave Mrs. Peyton the slip,--chucked up her situation as adopted darter, and went off with a queer sort of a cirkiss woman,--one of her own KIN, and I reckon one of her own KIND.”
To this Mr. Hooker offered no further reply than a withering rebuke of the waiter, a genteel abstraction, and a lofty change of subject. He pressed upon them two tickets for the performance, of which he seemed to have a number neatly clasped in an india-rubber band, and advised them to come early. They would see him after the performance and sup together. He must leave them now, as he had to be punctually at the theatre, and if he lingered he should be pestered by interviewers. He withdrew under a dazzling display of cuff and white handkerchief, and with that inward swing of the arm and slight bowiness of the leg generally recognized in his profession as the lounging exit of high comedy.
The mingling of awe and an uneasy sense of changed relations which that meeting with Jim had brought to Phoebe was not lessened when she entered the theatre with her father that evening, and even Mr. Hopkins seemed to share her feelings. The theatre was large, and brilliant in decoration, the seats were well filled with the same heterogeneous mingling she had seen in the dining-room at the Placer Hotel, but in the parquet were some fashionable costumes and cultivated faces. Mr. Hopkins was not altogether so sure that Jim had been “only gassing.” But the gorgeous drop curtain, representing an allegory of Californian prosperity and abundance, presently uprolled upon a scene of Western life almost as striking in its glaring unreality. From a rose-clad English cottage in a subtropical landscape skipped “Rosalie, the Prairie Flower.” The briefest of skirts, the most unsullied of stockings, the tiniest of slippers, and the few diamonds that glittered on her fair neck and fingers, revealed at once the simple and unpretending daughter of the American backwoodsman. A tumult of delighted greeting broke from the audience. The bright color came to the pink, girlish cheeks, gratified vanity danced in her violet eyes, and as she piquantly bowed her acknowledgments, this great breath of praise seemed to transfigure and possess her. A very young actor who represented the giddy world in a straw hat and with an effeminate manner was alternately petted and girded at by her during the opening exposition of the plot, until the statement that a “dark destiny” obliged her to follow her uncle in an emigrant train across the plains closed the act, apparently extinguished him, and left HER the central figure. So far, she evidently was the favorite. A singular aversion to her crept into the heart of Phoebe.
But the second act brought an Indian attack upon the emigrant train, and here “Rosalie” displayed the archest heroism and the pinkest and most distracting self-possession, in marked contrast to the giddy worldling who, having accompanied her apparently for comic purposes best known to himself, cowered abjectly under wagons, and was pulled ignominiously out of straw, until Red Dick swept out of the wings with a chosen band and a burst of revolvers and turned the tide of victory. Attired as a picturesque combination of the Neapolitan smuggler, river-bar miner, and Mexican vacquero, Jim Hooker instantly began to justify the plaudits that greeted him and the most sanguinary hopes of the audience. A gloomy but fascinating cloud of gunpowder and dark intrigue from that moment hung about the stage.
Yet in this sombre obscuration Rosalie had passed a happy six months, coming out with her character and stockings equally unchanged and unblemished, to be rewarded with the hand of Red Dick and the discovery of her father, the governor of New Mexico, as a white-haired, but objectionable vacquero, at the fall of the curtain.
Through this exciting performance Phoebe sat with a vague and increasing sense of loneliness and distrust. She did not know that Hooker had added to his ordinary inventive exaggeration the form of dramatic composition. But she had early detected the singular fact that such shadowy outlines of plot as the piece possessed were evidently based on his previous narrative of his OWN experiences, and the saving of Susy Peyton--by himself! There was the episode of their being lost on the plains, as he had already related it to her, with the addition of a few years to Susy's age and some vivid picturesqueness to himself as Red Dick. She was not, of course, aware that the part of the giddy worldling was Jim's own conception of the character of Clarence. But what, even to her provincial taste, seemed the extravagance of the piece, she felt, in some way, reflected upon the truthfulness of the story she had heard. It seemed to be a parody on himself, and in the laughter which some of the most thrilling points produced in certain of the audience, she heard an echo of her own doubts. But even this she could have borne if Jim's confidence had not been given to the general public; it was no longer HERS alone, she shared it with them. And this strange, bold girl, who acted with him,--the “Blanche Belville” of the bills,--how often he must have told HER the story, and yet how badly she had learned it! It was not her own idea of it, nor of HIM. In the last extravagant scene she turned her weary and half-shamed eyes from the stage and looked around the theatre. Among a group of loungers by the wall a face that seemed familiar was turned towards her own with a look of kindly and sympathetic recognition. It was the face of Clarence Brant. When the curtain fell, and she and her father rose to go, he was at their side. He seemed older and more superior looking than she had ever thought him before, and there was a gentle yet sad wisdom in his eyes and voice that comforted her even while it made her feel like crying.
“You are satisfied that no harm has come to our friend,” he said pleasantly. “Of course you recognized him?”
“Oh, yes; we met him to-day,” said Phoebe. Her provincial pride impelled her to keep up a show of security and indifference. “We are going to supper with him.”
Clarence slightly lifted his brows.
“You are more fortunate than I am,” he said smilingly. “I only arrived here at seven, and I must leave at midnight.”
Phoebe hesitated a moment, then said with affected carelessness:-- “What do you think of the young girl who plays with him? Do you know her? Who is she?”
He looked at her quickly, and then said, with some surprise:-- “Did he not tell you?”
“She WAS the adopted daughter of Mrs. Peyton,--Miss Susan Silsbee,” he said gravely.
“Then she DID run away from home as they said,” said Phoebe impulsively.
“Not EXACTLY as they said,” said Clarence gently. “She elected to make her home with her aunt, Mrs. McClosky, who is the wife of the manager of this theatre, and she adopted the profession a month ago. As it now appears that there was some informality in the old articles of guardianship, Mrs. Peyton would have been powerless to prevent her from doing either, even if she had wished to.”
The infelicity of questioning Clarence regarding Susy suddenly flashed upon the forgetful Phoebe, and she colored. Yet, although sad, he did not look like a rejected lover.
“Of course, if she is here with her own relatives, that makes all the difference,” she said gently. “It is protection.”
“Certainly,” said Clarence.
“And,” continued Phoebe hesitatingly, “she is playing with--with--an old friend--Mr. Hooker!”
“That is quite proper, too, considering their relations,” said Clarence tolerantly.
“I--don't--understand,” stammered Phoebe.
The slightly cynical smile on Clarence's face changed as he looked into Phoebe's eyes.
“I've just heard that they are married,” he returned gently.
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{
"id": "2495"
}
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12
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Nowhere had the long season of flowers brought such glory as to the broad plains and slopes of Robles Rancho. By some fortuitous chance of soil, or flood, or drifting pollen, the three terraces had each taken a distinct and separate blossom and tint of color. The straggling line of corral, the crumbling wall of the old garden, the outlying chapel, and even the brown walls of the casa itself, were half sunken in the tall racemes of crowding lupines, until from the distance they seemed to be slowly settling in the profundity of a dark-blue sea. The second terrace was a league-long flow of gray and gold daisies, in which the cattle dazedly wandered mid-leg deep. A perpetual sunshine of yellow dandelions lay upon the third. The gentle slope to the dark-green canada was a broad cataract of crimson poppies. Everywhere where water had stood, great patches of color had taken its place. It seemed as if the rains had ceased only that the broken heavens might drop flowers.
Never before had its beauty--a beauty that seemed built upon a cruel, youthful, obliterating forgetfulness of the past--struck Clarence as keenly as when he had made up his mind that he must leave the place forever. For the tale of his mischance and ill-fortune, as told by Hopkins, was unfortunately true. When he discovered that in his desire to save Peyton's house by the purchase of the Sisters' title he himself had been the victim of a gigantic fraud, he accepted the loss of the greater part of his fortune with resignation, and was even satisfied by the thought that he had at least effected the possession of the property for Mrs. Peyton. But when he found that those of his tenants who had bought under him had acquired only a dubious possession of their lands and no title, he had unhesitatingly reimbursed them for their improvements with the last of his capital. Only the lawless Gilroy had good-humoredly declined. The quiet acceptance of the others did not, unfortunately, preclude their settled belief that Clarence had participated in the fraud, and that even now his restitution was making a dangerous precedent, subversive of the best interests of the State, and discouraging to immigration. Some doubted his sanity. Only one, struck with the sincerity of his motive, hesitated to take his money, with a look of commiseration on his face.
“Are you not satisfied?” asked Clarence, smiling.
“Yes, but”-- “But what?”
“Nothin'. Only I was thinkin' that a man like you must feel awful lonesome in Calforny!”
Lonely he was, indeed; but his loneliness was not the loss of fortune nor what it might bring. Perhaps he had never fully realized his wealth; it had been an accident rather than a custom of his life, and when it had failed in the only test he had made of its power, it is to be feared that he only sentimentally regretted it. It was too early yet for him to comprehend the veiled blessings of the catastrophe in its merciful disruption of habits and ways of life; his loneliness was still the hopeless solitude left by vanished ideals and overthrown idols. He was satisfied that he had never cared for Susy, but he still cared for the belief that he had.
After the discovery of Pedro's body that fatal morning, a brief but emphatic interview between himself and Mrs. McClosky had followed. He had insisted upon her immediately accompanying Susy and himself to Mrs. Peyton in San Francisco. Horror-stricken and terrified at the catastrophe, and frightened by the strange looks of the excited servants, they did not dare to disobey him. He had left them with Mrs. Peyton in the briefest preliminary interview, during which he spoke only of the catastrophe, shielding the woman from the presumption of having provoked it, and urging only the importance of settling the question of guardianship at once. It was odd that Mrs. Peyton had been less disturbed than he imagined she would be at even his charitable version of Susy's unfaithfulness to her; it even seemed to him that she had already suspected it. But as he was about to withdraw to leave her to meet them alone, she had stopped him suddenly.
“What would you advise me to do?”
It was his first interview with her since the revelation of his own feelings. He looked into the pleading, troubled eyes of the woman he now knew he had loved, and stammered:-- “You alone can judge. Only you must remember that one cannot force an affection any more than one can prevent it.”
He felt himself blushing, and, conscious of the construction of his words, he even fancied that she was displeased.
“Then you have no preference?” she said, a little impatiently.
“None.”
She made a slight gesture with her handsome shoulders, but she only said, “I should have liked to have pleased you in this,” and turned coldly away. He had left without knowing the result of the interview; but a few days later he received a letter from her stating that she had allowed Susy to return to her aunt, and that she had resigned all claims to her guardianship.
“It seemed to be a foregone conclusion,” she wrote; “and although I cannot think such a change will be for her permanent welfare, it is her present WISH, and who knows, indeed, if the change will be permanent? I have not allowed the legal question to interfere with my judgment, although her friends must know that she forfeits any claim upon the estate by her action; but at the same time, in the event of her suitable marriage, I should try to carry out what I believe would have been Mr. Peyton's wishes.”
There were a few lines of postscript: “It seems to me that the change would leave you more free to consult your own wishes in regard to continuing your friendship with Susy, and upon such a footing as may please you. I judge from Mrs. McClosky's conversation that she believed you thought you were only doing your duty in reporting to me, and that the circumstances had not altered the good terms in which you all three formerly stood.”
Clarence had dropped the letter with a burning indignation that seemed to sting his eyes until a scalding moisture hid the words before him. What might not Susy have said? What exaggeration of his affection was she not capable of suggesting? He recalled Mrs. McClosky, and remembered her easy acceptance of him as Susy's lover. What had they told Mrs. Peyton? What must be her opinion of his deceit towards herself? It was hard enough to bear this before he knew he loved her. It was intolerable now! And this is what she meant when she suggested that he should renew his old terms with Susy; it was for HIM that this ill-disguised, scornful generosity in regard to Susy's pecuniary expectations was intended. What should he do? He would write to her, and indignantly deny any clandestine affection for Susy. But could he do that, in honor, in truthfulness? Would it not be better to write and confess all? Yes,--EVERYTHING.
Fortunately for his still boyish impulsiveness, it was at this time that the discovery of his own financial ruin came to him. The inquest on the body of Pedro Valdez and the confession of his confidant had revealed the facts of the fraudulent title and forged testamentary documents. Although it was correctly believed that Pedro had met his death in an escapade of gallantry or intrigue, the coroner's jury had returned a verdict of “accidental death,” and the lesser scandal was lost in the wider, far-spreading disclosure of fraud. When he had resolved to assume all the liabilities of his purchase, he was obliged to write to Mrs. Peyton and confess his ruin. But he was glad to remind her that it did not alter HER status or security; he had only given her the possession, and she would revert to her original and now uncontested title. But as there was now no reason for his continuing the stewardship, and as he must adopt some profession and seek his fortune elsewhere, he begged her to relieve him of his duty. Albeit written with a throbbing heart and suffused eyes, it was a plain, business-like, and practical letter. Her reply was equally cool and matter of fact. She was sorry to hear of his losses, although she could not agree with him that they could logically sever his present connection with the rancho, or that, placed upon another and distinctly business footing, the occupation would not be as remunerative to him as any other. But, of course, if he had a preference for some more independent position, that was another question, although he would forgive her for using the privilege of her years to remind him that his financial and business success had not yet justified his independence. She would also advise him not to decide hastily, or, at least, to wait until she had again thoroughly gone over her husband's papers with her lawyer, in reference to the old purchase of the Sisters' title, and the conditions under which it was bought. She knew that Mr. Brant would not refuse this as a matter of business, nor would that friendship, which she valued so highly, allow him to imperil the possession of the rancho by leaving it at such a moment. As soon as she had finished the examination of the papers, she would write again. Her letter seemed to leave him no hope, if, indeed, he had ever indulged in any. It was the practical kindliness of a woman of business, nothing more. As to the examination of her husband's papers, that was a natural precaution. He alone knew that they would give no record of a transaction which had never occurred. He briefly replied that his intention to seek another situation was unchanged, but that he would cheerfully await the arrival of his successor. Two weeks passed. Then Mr. Sanderson, Mrs. Peyton's lawyer, arrived, bringing an apologetic note from Mrs. Peyton. She was so sorry her business was still delayed, but as she had felt that she had no right to detain him entirely at Robles, she had sent to Mr. Sanderson to TEMPORARILY relieve him, that he might be free to look around him or visit San Francisco in reference to his own business, only extracting a promise from him that he would return to Robles to meet her at the end of the week, before settling upon anything.
The bitter smile with which Clarence had read thus far suddenly changed. Some mysterious touch of unbusiness-like but womanly hesitation, that he had never noticed in her previous letters, gave him a faint sense of pleasure, as if her note had been perfumed. He had availed himself of the offer. It was on this visit to Sacramento that he had accidentally discovered the marriage of Susy and Hooker.
“It's a great deal better business for her to have a husband in the 'profesh' if she's agoin' to stick to it,” said his informant, Mrs. McClosky, “and she's nothing if she ain't business and profesh, Mr. Brant. I never see a girl that was born for the stage--yes, you might say jess cut out o' the boards of the stage--as that girl Susy is! And that's jest what's the matter; and YOU know it, and I know it, and there you are!”
It was with these experiences that Clarence was to-day reentering the wooded and rocky gateway of the rancho from the high road of the canada; but as he cantered up the first slope, through the drift of scarlet poppies that almost obliterated the track, and the blue and yellow blooms of the terraces again broke upon his view, he thought only of Mrs. Peyton's pleasure in this changed aspect of her old home. She had told him of it once before, and of her delight in it; and he had once thought how happy he should be to see it with her.
The servant who took his horse told him that the senora had arrived that morning from Santa Inez, bringing with her the two Senoritas Hernandez from the rancho of Los Canejos, and that other guests were expected. And there was the Senor Sanderson and his Reverence Padre Esteban. Truly an affair of hospitality, the first since the padron died. Whatever dream Clarence might have had of opportunities for confidential interview was rudely dispelled. Yet Mrs. Peyton had left orders to be informed at once of Don Clarencio's arrival.
As he crossed the patio and stepped upon the corridor he fancied he already detected in the internal arrangements the subtle influence of Mrs. Peyton's taste and the indefinable domination of the mistress. For an instant he thought of anticipating the servant and seeking her in the boudoir, but some instinct withheld him, and he turned into the study which he had used as an office. It was empty; a few embers glimmered on the hearth. At the same moment there was a light step behind him, and Mrs. Peyton entered and closed the door behind her. She was very beautiful. Although paler and thinner, there was an odd sort of animation about her, so unlike her usual repose that it seemed almost feverish.
“I thought we could talk together a few moments before the guests arrive. The house will be presently so full, and my duties as hostess commence.”
“I was--about to seek you--in--in the boudoir,” hesitated Clarence.
She gave an impatient shiver.
“Good heavens, not there! I shall never go there again. I should fancy every time I looked out of the window that I saw the head of that man between the bars. No! I am only thankful that I wasn't here at the time, and that I can keep my remembrance of the dear old place unchanged.” She checked herself a little abruptly, and then added somewhat irrelevantly but cheerfully, “Well, you have been away? What have you done?”
“Nothing,” said Clarence.
“Then you have kept your promise,” she said, with the same nervous hilarity.
“I have returned here without making any other engagement,” he said gravely; “but I have not altered my determination.”
She shrugged her shoulders again, or, as it seemed, the skin of her tightly fitting black dress above them, with the sensitive shiver of a highly groomed horse, and moved to the hearth as if for warmth; put her slim, slippered foot upon the low fender, drawing, with a quick hand, the whole width of her skirt behind her until it clingingly accented the long, graceful curve from her hip to her feet. All this was so unlike her usual fastidiousness and repose that he was struck by it. With her eyes on the glowing embers of the hearth, and tentatively advancing her toe to its warmth and drawing it away, she said:-- “Of course, you must please yourself. I am afraid I have no right except that of habit and custom to keep you here; and you know,” she added, with an only half-withheld bitterness, “that they are not always very effective with young people who prefer to have the ordering of their own lives. But I have something still to tell you before you finally decide. I have, as you know, been looking over my--over Mr. Peyton's papers very carefully. Well, as a result, I find, Mr. Brant, that there is no record whatever of his wonderfully providential purchase of the Sisters' title from you; that he never entered into any written agreement with you, and never paid you a cent; and that, furthermore, his papers show me that he never even contemplated it; nor, indeed, even knew of YOUR owning the title when he died. Yes, Mr. Brant, it was all to YOUR foresight and prudence, and YOUR generosity alone, that we owe our present possession of the rancho. When you helped us into that awful window, it was YOUR house we were entering; and if it had been YOU, and not those wretches, who had chosen to shut the doors on us after the funeral, we could never have entered here again. Don't deny it, Mr. Brant. I have suspected it a long time, and when you spoke of changing YOUR position, I determined to find out if it wasn't I who had to leave the house rather than you. One moment, please. And I did find out, and it WAS I. Don't speak, please, yet. And now,” she said, with a quick return to her previous nervous hilarity, “knowing this, as you did, and knowing, too, that I would know it when I examined the papers,--don't speak, I'm not through yet,--don't you think that it was just a LITTLE cruel for you to try to hurry me, and make me come here instead of your coming to ME in San Francisco, when I gave you leave for that purpose?”
“But, Mrs. Peyton,” gasped Clarence.
“Please don't interrupt me,” said the lady, with a touch of her old imperiousness, “for in a moment I must join my guests. When I found you wouldn't tell me, and left it to me to find out, I could only go away as I did, and really leave you to control what I believed was your own property. And I thought, too, that I understood your motives, and, to be frank with you, that worried me; for I believed I knew the disposition and feelings of a certain person better than yourself.”
“One moment,” broke out Clarence, “you MUST hear me, now. Foolish and misguided as that purchase may have been, I swear to you I had only one motive in making it,--to save the homestead for you and your husband, who had been my first and earliest benefactors. What the result of it was, you, as a business woman, know; your friends know; your lawyer will tell you the same. You owe me nothing. I have given you nothing but the repossession of this property, which any other man could have done, and perhaps less stupidly than I did. I would not have forced you to come here to hear this if I had dreamed of your suspicions, or even if I had simply understood that you would see me in San Francisco as I passed through.”
“Passed through? Where were you going?” she said quickly.
“To Sacramento.”
The abrupt change in her manner startled him to a recollection of Susy, and he blushed. She bit her lips, and moved towards the window.
“Then you saw her?” she said, turning suddenly towards him. The inquiry of her beautiful eyes was more imperative than her speech.
Clarence recognized quickly what he thought was his cruel blunder in touching the half-healed wound of separation. But he had gone too far to be other than perfectly truthful now.
“Yes; I saw her on the stage,” he said, with a return of his boyish earnestness; “and I learned something which I wanted you to first hear from me. She is MARRIED,--and to Mr. Hooker, who is in the same theatrical company with her. But I want you to think, as I honestly do, that it is the best for her. She has married in her profession, which is a great protection and a help to her success, and she has married a man who can look lightly upon certain qualities in her that others might not be so lenient to. His worst faults are on the surface, and will wear away in contact with the world, and he looks up to her as his superior. I gathered this from her friend, for I did not speak with her myself; I did not go there to see her. But as I expected to be leaving you soon, I thought it only right that as I was the humble means of first bringing her into your life, I should bring you this last news, which I suppose takes her out of it forever. Only I want you to believe that YOU have nothing to regret, and that SHE is neither lost nor unhappy.”
The expression of suspicious inquiry on her face when he began changed gradually to perplexity as he continued, and then relaxed into a faint, peculiar smile. But there was not the slightest trace of that pain, wounded pride, indignation, or anger, that he had expected to see upon it.
“That means, I suppose, Mr. Brant, that YOU no longer care for her?”
The smile had passed, yet she spoke now with a half-real, half-affected archness that was also unlike her.
“It means,” said Clarence with a white face, but a steady voice, “that I care for her now as much as I ever cared for her, no matter to what folly it once might have led me. But it means, also, that there was no time when I was not able to tell it to YOU as frankly as I do now”-- “One moment, please,” she interrupted, and turned quickly towards the door. She opened it and looked out. “I thought they were calling me,--and--I--I--MUST go now, Mr. Brant. And without finishing my business either, or saying half I had intended to say. But wait”--she put her hand to her head in a pretty perplexity, “it's a moonlight night, and I'll propose after dinner a stroll in the gardens, and you can manage to walk a little with me.” She stopped again, returned, said, “It was very kind of you to think of me at Sacramento,” held out her hand, allowed it to remain for an instant, cool but acquiescent, in his warmer grasp, and with the same odd youthfulness of movement and gesture slipped out of the door.
An hour later she was at the head of her dinner table, serene, beautiful, and calm, in her elegant mourning, provokingly inaccessible in the sweet deliberation of her widowed years; Padre Esteban was at her side with a local magnate, who had known Peyton and his wife, while Donna Rosita and a pair of liquid-tongued, childlike senoritas were near Clarence and Sanderson. To the priest Mrs. Peyton spoke admiringly of the changes in the rancho and the restoration of the Mission Chapel, and together they had commended Clarence from the level of their superior passionless reserve and years. Clarence felt hopelessly young and hopelessly lonely; the naive prattle of the young girls beside him appeared infantine. In his abstraction, he heard Mrs. Peyton allude to the beauty of the night, and propose that after coffee and chocolate the ladies should put on their wraps and go with her to the old garden. Clarence raised his eyes; she was not looking at him, but there was a slight consciousness in her face that was not there before, and the faintest color in her cheek, still lingering, no doubt, from the excitement of conversation.
It was a cool, tranquil, dewless night when they at last straggled out, mere black and white patches in the colorless moonlight. The brilliancy of the flower-hued landscape was subdued under its passive, pale austerity; even the gray and gold of the second terrace seemed dulled and confused. At any other time Clarence might have lingered over this strange effect, but his eyes followed only a tall figure, in a long striped burnous, that moved gracefully beside the soutaned priest. As he approached, it turned towards him.
“Ah! here you are. I just told Father Esteban that you talked of leaving to-morrow, and that he would have to excuse me a few moments while you showed me what you had done to the old garden.”
She moved beside him, and, with a hesitation that was not unlike a more youthful timidity, slipped her hand through his arm. It was for the first time, and, without thinking, he pressed it impulsively to his side. I have already intimated that Clarence's reserve was at times qualified by singular directness.
A few steps carried them out of hearing; a few more, and they seemed alone in the world. The long adobe wall glanced away emptily beside them, and was lost; the black shadows of the knotted pear-trees were beneath their feet. They began to walk with the slight affectation of treading the shadows as if they were patterns on a carpet. Clarence was voiceless, and yet he seemed to be moving beside a spirit that must be first addressed.
But it was flesh and blood nevertheless.
“I interrupted you in something you were saying when I left the office,” she said quietly.
“I was speaking of Susy,” returned Clarence eagerly; “and”-- “Then you needn't go on,” interrupted Mrs. Peyton quickly. “I understand you, and believe you. I would rather talk of something else. We have not yet arranged how I can make restitution to you for the capital you sank in saving this place. You will be reasonable, Mr. Brant, and not leave me with the shame and pain of knowing that you ruined yourself for the sake of your old friends. For it is no more a sentimental idea of mine to feel in this way than it is a fair and sensible one for you to imply that a mere quibble of construction absolves me from responsibility. Mr. Sanderson himself admits that the repossession you gave us is a fair and legal basis for any arrangement of sharing or division of the property with you, that might enable you to remain here and continue the work you have so well begun. Have you no suggestion, or must it come from ME, Mr. Brant?”
“Neither. Let us not talk of that now.”
She did not seem to notice the boyish doggedness of his speech, except so far as it might have increased her inconsequent and nervously pitched levity.
“Then suppose we speak of the Misses Hernandez, with whom you scarcely exchanged a word at dinner, and whom I invited for you and your fluent Spanish. They are charming girls, even if they are a little stupid. But what can I do? If I am to live here, I must have a few young people around me, if only to make the place cheerful for others. Do you know I have taken a great fancy to Miss Rogers, and have asked her to visit me. I think she is a good friend of yours, although perhaps she is a little shy. What's the matter? You have nothing against her, have you?”
Clarence had stopped short. They had reached the end of the pear-tree shadows. A few steps more would bring them to the fallen south wall of the garden and the open moonlight beyond, but to the right an olive alley of deeper shadow diverged.
“No,” he said, with slow deliberation; “I have to thank Mary Rogers for having discovered something in me that I have been blindly, foolishly, and hopelessly struggling with.”
“And, pray, what was that?” said Mrs. Peyton sharply.
“That I love you!”
Mrs. Peyton was fairly startled. The embarrassment of any truth is apt to be in its eternal abruptness, which no deviousness of tact or circumlocution of diplomacy has ever yet surmounted. Whatever had been in her heart, or mind, she was unprepared for this directness. The bolt had dropped from the sky; they were alone; there was nothing between the stars and the earth but herself and this man and this truth; it could not be overlooked, surmounted, or escaped from. A step or two more would take her out of the garden into the moonlight, but always into this awful frankness of blunt and outspoken nature. She hesitated, and turned the corner into the olive shadows. It was, perhaps, more dangerous; but less shameless, and less like truckling. And the appallingly direct Clarence instantly followed.
“I know you will despise me, hate me; and, perhaps, worst of all, disbelieve me; but I swear to you, now, that I have always loved you,--yes, ALWAYS! When first I came here, it was not to see my old playmate, but YOU, for I had kept the memory of you as I first saw you when a boy, and you have always been my ideal. I have thought of, dreamed of, worshiped, and lived for no other woman. Even when I found Susy again, grown up here at your side; even when I thought that I might, with your consent, marry her, it was that I might be with YOU always; that I might be a part of YOUR home, your family, and have a place with her in YOUR heart; for it was you I loved, and YOU only. Don't laugh at me, Mrs. Peyton, it is the truth, the whole truth, I am telling you. God help me!”
If she only COULD have laughed,--harshly, ironically, or even mercifully and kindly! But it would not come. And she burst out:-- “I am not laughing. Good heavens, don't you see? It is ME you are making ridiculous.”
“YOU ridiculous?” he said in a momentarily choked, half-stupefied voice. “You--a beautiful woman, my superior in everything, the mistress of these lands where I am only steward--made ridiculous, not by my presumption, but by my confession? Was the saint you just now admired in Father Esteban's chapel ridiculous because of the peon clowns who were kneeling before it?”
“Hush! This is wicked! Stop!”
She felt she was now on firm ground, and made the most of it in voice and manner. She must draw the line somewhere, and she would draw it between passion and impiety.
“Not until I have told you all, and I MUST before I leave you. I loved you when I came here,--even when your husband was alive. Don't be angry, Mrs. Peyton; HE would not, and need not, have been angry; he would have pitied the foolish boy, who, in the very innocence and ignorance of his passion, might have revealed it to him as he did to everybody but ONE. And yet, I sometimes think you might have guessed it, had you thought of me at all. It must have been on my lips that day I sat with you in the boudoir. I know that I was filled with it; with it and with you; with your presence, with your beauty, your grace of heart and mind,--yes, Mrs. Peyton, even with your own unrequited love for Susy. Only, then, I knew not what it was.”
“But I think I can tell you what it was then, and now,” said Mrs. Peyton, recovering her nervous little laugh, though it died a moment after on her lips. “I remember it very well. You told me then that I REMINDED YOU OF YOUR MOTHER. Well, I am not old enough to be your mother, Mr. Brant, but I am old enough to have been, and might have been, the mother of your wife. That was what you meant then; that is what you mean now. I was wrong to accuse you of trying to make me ridiculous. I ask your pardon. Let us leave it as it was that day in the boudoir, as it is NOW. Let me still remind you of your mother,--I know she must have been a good woman to have had so good a son,--and when you have found some sweet young girl to make you happy, come to me for a mother's blessing, and we will laugh at the recollection and misunderstanding of this evening.”
Her voice did not, however, exhibit that exquisite maternal tenderness which the beatific vision ought to have called up, and the persistent voice of Clarence could not be evaded in the shadow.
“I said you reminded me of my mother,” he went on at her side, “because I knew her and lost her only as a child. She never was anything to me but a memory, and yet an ideal of all that was sweet and lovable in woman. Perhaps it was a dream of what she might have been when she was as young in years as you. If it pleases you still to misunderstand me, it may please you also to know that there is a reminder of her even in this. I have no remembrance of a word of affection from her, nor a caress; I have been as hopeless in my love for her who was my mother, as of the woman I would make my wife.”
“But you have seen no one, you know no one, you are young, you scarcely know your own self! You will forget this, you will forget ME! And if--if--I should--listen to you, what would the world say, what would YOU yourself say a few years hence? Oh, be reasonable. Think of it,--it would be so wild,--so mad! so--so--utterly ridiculous!”
In proof of its ludicrous quality, two tears escaped her eyes in the darkness. But Clarence caught the white flash of her withdrawn handkerchief in the shadow, and captured her returning hand. It was trembling, but did not struggle, and presently hushed itself to rest in his.
“I'm not only a fool but a brute,” he said in a lower voice. “Forgive me. I have given you pain,--you, for whom I would have died.”
They had both stopped. He was still holding her sleeping hand. His arm had stolen around the burnous so softly that it followed the curves of her figure as lightly as a fold of the garment, and was presumably unfelt. Grief has its privileges, and suffering exonerates a questionable situation. In another moment her fair head MIGHT have dropped upon his shoulder. But an approaching voice uprose in the adjoining broad allee. It might have been the world speaking through the voice of the lawyer Sanderson.
“Yes, he is a good fellow, and an intelligent fellow, too, but a perfect child in his experience of mankind.”
They both started, but Mrs. Peyton's hand suddenly woke up and grasped his firmly. Then she said in a higher, but perfectly level tone:-- “Yes, I think with you we had better look at it again in the sunlight to-morrow. But here come our friends; they have probably been waiting for us to join them and go in.”
* * * * * The wholesome freshness of early morning was in the room when Clarence awoke, cleared and strengthened. His resolution had been made. He would leave the rancho that morning, to enter the world again and seek his fortune elsewhere. This was only right to HER, whose future it should never be said he had imperiled by his folly and inexperience; and if, in a year or two of struggle he could prove his right to address her again, he would return. He had not spoken to her since they had parted in the garden, with the grim truths of the lawyer ringing in his ears, but he had written a few lines of farewell, to be given to her after he had left. He was calm in his resolution, albeit a little pale and hollow-eyed for it.
He crept downstairs in the gray twilight of the scarce-awakened house, and made his way to the stables. Saddling his horse, and mounting, he paced forth into the crisp morning air. The sun, just risen, was everywhere bringing out the fresh color of the flower-strewn terraces, as the last night's shadows, which had hidden them, were slowly beaten back. He cast a last look at the brown adobe quadrangle of the quiet house, just touched with the bronzing of the sun, and then turned his face towards the highway. As he passed the angle of the old garden he hesitated, but, strong in his resolution, he put the recollection of last night behind him, and rode by without raising his eyes.
“Clarence!”
It was HER voice. He wheeled his horse. She was standing behind the grille in the old wall as he had seen her standing on the day he had ridden to his rendezvous with Susy. A Spanish manta was thrown over her head and shoulders, as if she had dressed hastily, and had run out to intercept him while he was still in the stable. Her beautiful face was pale in its black-hooded recess, and there were faint circles around her lovely eyes.
“You were going without saying 'goodby'!” she said softly.
She passed her slim white hand between the grating. Clarence leaped to the ground, caught it, and pressed it to his lips. But he did not let it go.
“No! no!” she said, struggling to withdraw it. “It is better as it is--as--as you have decided it to be. Only I could not let you go thus,--without a word. There now,--go, Clarence, go. Please! Don't you see I am behind these bars? Think of them as the years that separate us, my poor, dear, foolish boy. Think of them as standing between us, growing closer, heavier, and more cruel and hopeless as the years go on.”
Ah, well! they had been good bars a hundred and fifty years ago, when it was thought as necessary to repress the innocence that was behind them as the wickedness that was without. They had done duty in the convent at Santa Inez, and the monastery of Santa Barbara, and had been brought hither in Governor Micheltorrenas' time to keep the daughters of Robles from the insidious contact of the outer world, when they took the air in their cloistered pleasance. Guitars had tinkled against them in vain, and they had withstood the stress and storm of love tokens. But, like many other things which have had their day and time, they had retained their semblance of power, even while rattling loosely in their sockets, only because no one had ever thought of putting them to the test, and, in the strong hand of Clarence, assisted, perhaps, by the leaning figure of Mrs. Peyton, I grieve to say that the whole grille suddenly collapsed, became a frame of tinkling iron, and then clanked, bar by bar, into the road. Mrs. Peyton uttered a little cry and drew back, and Clarence, leaping the ruins, caught her in his arms.
For a moment only, for she quickly withdrew from them, and although the morning sunlight was quite rosy on her cheeks, she said gravely, pointing to the dismantled opening:-- “I suppose you MUST stay now, for you never could leave me here alone and defenseless.”
He stayed. And with this fulfillment of his youthful dreams the romance of his young manhood seemed to be completed, and so closed the second volume of this trilogy. But what effect that fulfillment of youth had upon his maturer years, or the fortunes of those who were nearly concerned in it, may be told in a later and final chronicle.
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{
"id": "2495"
}
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1
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~ THE “STARLIGHT”
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As the rising sun had just begun to pierce the misty tropic haze of early dawn, a small, white-painted schooner of ninety or a hundred tons burden was bearing down upon the low, densely-wooded island of Mayou, which lies between the coast of south-east New Guinea and the murderous Solomon Group--the grave of the white man in Melanesia.
The white population of Mayou was not large, for it consisted only of an English missionary and his wife--who was, of course, a white woman--a German trader named Peter Schwartzkoff and his native wife; an English trader named Charlie Blount, with his two half-caste sons and daughters; and an American trader and ex-whaler, named Nathaniel Burrowes, with his wives.
Although the island is of large extent, and of amazing fertility, the native population was at this time comparatively small, numbering only some three thousand souls. They nearly all lived at the south-west end of the island, the rendezvous of the few trading ships that visited the place. Occasionally a surveying vessel, and, at longer intervals still, a labour-recruiting ship from Hawaii or Fiji, would call. At such times the monotony of the lives of the white residents of Mayou was pleasantly broken. Once a year, too, a missionary vessel would drop anchor in the little reef-bound port, but her visit was of moment only to the Rev. Mr. Deighton, his wife, and their native converts, and the mission ship's presence in the harbour was taken no notice of by the three white traders; for a missionary ship is not always regarded by the average trader in the South Seas as a welcome visitor.
Almost with the rising of the sun the vessel had been sighted from the shore by a party of natives, who were fishing off the south end of the island, and in a few minutes their loud cries reached other natives on shore, and by them was passed on from house to house along the beach till it reached the town itself. From there, presently, came a deep sonorous shout, “_Evaka! Evaka! _” (“A ship! A ship!”) , and then they swarmed out of their thatched dwellings like bees from a hive and ran, laughing and shouting together, down to the beach in front of the village.
As the clamour increased, the Rev. Wilfrid Deighton opened the door of his study and stepped out upon the shady verandah of the mission house, which stood upon a gentle, palm-covered rise about five hundred yards from the thickly clustering houses of the native village. He was a tall, thin man with a scanty brown beard, and his face wore a wearied, anxious expression. His long, lean body, coarse, toil-worn hands, and shabby clothing indicated, too, that the lines of the Rev. Wilfrid had not been cast in a pleasant place when he chose the wild, unhealthy island of Mayou as the field of his labours. But if he showed bodily traces of the hard, continuous toil he had undergone during the seven years' residence among the people of Mayou, his eye was still full of the fire of that noble missionary spirit which animated the souls of such earnest men as Moffat and Livingstone, and Williams of Erromanga, and Gordon of Khartoum. For he was an enthusiast, who believed in his work; and so did his wife, a pretty, faded little woman of thirty, with a great yearning to save souls, though at times she longed to return to the comforts and good dinners of semi-civilisation in other island groups nearer the outside world she had been away from so long.
The missionary stepped out on the verandah, and shaded his eyes from the glare with his rough, sun-tanned hands, as he looked seaward at the advancing vessel. Soon his wife followed him and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“What is it, Wilfrid? Surely not the _John Hunt_. She is not due for months yet.”
“Not her, certainly, Alice,” he answered, “and not a trading vessel either, I should think. She looks more like a yacht Perhaps she may be a new man-of-war schooner. However, we will soon see. Put on your hat, my dear, and let us go down to the beach. Already Blount, Schwartzkoff, and Burrowes have gone; and it certainly would not do for me to remain in the background when the newcomers land.”
Mrs. Deighton, her pale face flushing with gentle excitement at the prospect of meeting Europeans, quickly retired to her room, and making a rapid toilette, rejoined her husband, who, white umbrella in hand, awaited her at the gate.
* * * * * “Good morning, gentlemen,” said the reverend gentleman, a few minutes later, as, accompanied by Mrs. Deighton, he joined the three white traders, “what vessel is it? Have you any idea?”
“None at all,” answered Blount, with a short nod to Mr. Deighton, but lifting his leaf hat to his wife, “we were just wondering ourselves. Doesn't look like a trader--more like a gunboat.”
Meantime the schooner had worked her way in through the passage, and, surrounded by a fleet of canoes, soon brought up and anchored. Her sails were very quickly handled, then almost as soon as she swung to her anchor a smart, white-painted boat was lowered, and the people on shore saw the crew haul her up to the gangway ladder.
Presently a white man, who, by his dress, was an officer of the ship, followed by another person in a light tweed suit and straw hat, entered the boat, which then pushed off and was headed for the shore. As she approached nearer, the traders and the missionary could see that the crew were light-skinned Polynesians, dressed in blue cotton jumpers, white duck pants, and straw hats. The officer--who steered with a steer-oar--wore a brass-bound cap and brass-buttoned jacket, and every now and then turned to speak to the man in the tweed suit, who sat smoking a cigar beside him.
“By jingo! she's a yacht, I believe,” said Charlie Blount, who had been keenly watching the approaching boat; “I'm off. I don't want to be bothered with people of that sort--glorified London drapers, who ask 'Have you--ah--got good shooting heah?'”
Then turning on his heel, he raised his hat to Mrs. Deighton, nodded to the other white men, and sauntered along the beach to his house.
“I guess Blount's kinder set again meetin' people like these,” said Burrowes, nodding in the direction of the boat and addressing himself to Mr. and Mrs. Deighton. “Reckon they might be some all-powerful British swells he knew when he was one himself. Guess they won't scare _me_ a cent's worth.”
“Id was brober dadt he should veel so,” remarked the German; “if some Yerman shentle-mans vas to come here und zee me dresd like vom dirty sailor mans, den I too vould get me home to mein house und say nodings.”
“My friends,” said Mr. Deighton, speaking reproachfully, yet secretly pleased at Blount's departure, “no man need feel ashamed at meeting his countrymen on account of the poverty of his attire; I am sure that the sight of an English gentleman is a very welcome one to me and Mrs. Deighton.”
“Wal,” said Burrowes with easy but not offensive familiarity, “I guess, parson, thet you and Mrs. Deighton hed better form yourselves inter a committee of welcome, and tell them so; I ain't much in the polite speechifying line myself, neither is 'Schneider' here,” nodding at the German, “and you can sling in somethin' ornymental 'bout me bein' the representative of the United States--a gentleman a-recrootin' of his health in the South Sea Islands doorin' a perlitercal crisis in Washington.”
By this time the boat had run her bows up on to the white, sandy beach, and the straw-hatted, tweed-suited gentleman jumped lightly out Taking off his hat with a graceful, circular sweep, which included every one on the beach, white and native, he said with languid politeness-- “Good-day, gentlemen; I scarcely hoped to have the pleasure of meeting Europeans at this place--and certainly never imagined that pleasure would be enhanced by the presence of a lady,” he added as he caught sight of Mrs. Deighton standing apart some little distance from the others.
“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” said the missionary, constituting himself spokesman for the others; “you are welcome, sir, very welcome to Mayou, and to anything that it lies in our power to furnish you with for your--schooner, or should I say yacht, for such, by her handsome appearance, I presume she is.”
The visitor, who was a handsome, fair-haired man, with a blonde moustache and blue eyes, bowed his thanks, and then said, “May I have the honour to introduce myself. My name is De Vere.”
“And I am the Rev. Wilfrid Deighton, missionary in charge of this island. My two----” (here he hesitated a moment before the next word) “friends are Mr. Peter Schwartzkoff and Mr. Nathaniel Burrowes.”
“Delighted to meet you,” said Mr. de Vere, bowing politely to the lady, but extending a white, shapely hand to the men; “and now I must tell you that I shall be very glad to avail myself, Mr. Deighton, of your kind offer. We are in want of water, and anything in the way of vegetables, etcetera, that we can get. We intend, however, to stay here a few days and refit. Having been in very bad weather coming through the southern part of the Solomon Group we must effect repairs.”
“Might I inquire, mister,” asked Burrowes, “ef your vessel is a trader, or jest a pleasure schooner, as the parson here says?”
“Mr. Deighton is quite correct,” said Mr. de Vere, with another graceful bow; “the _Starlight_ is a yacht I can quite understand your not being able to make her out She was originally built for the navy as a gunboat, but was sold in Sydney, after some years' service. I bought her and had her altered into a yacht to cruise about these delightful and beautiful South Sea Islands. My friend, the Honourable John Morcombe-Lycett, accompanies me. Our English yachting experience had much to do with our determination to make a cruise down here. In fact,” and here Mr. de Vere showed his white, even teeth in a smile, and stroked his drooping blonde moustache, “we left London with the intention of chartering a vessel in Sydney for a cruise among the islands. Mr. Morcombe-Lycett is, however, very unwell to-day, and so has not landed, but here am I; and I am very happy indeed to make your acquaintance.”
Then, turning towards the boat, he called out to the officer who had brought him, “Come ashore for me at dinner-time, Captain Sykes.”
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{
"id": "24996"
}
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2
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~ A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION
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A few hours later Mr. de Vere was on very friendly terms with Mr. and Mrs. Deighton, who had carried him off to the mission house, after the boat returned to the schooner. Before he accompanied them, however, he told Messrs. Burrowes and Schwartzkoff, as he shook hands, that he would not fail to visit them later on in the day at their respective houses. And both Peter, and the American, who on any other occasion would have been justly indignant at any white visitor not a missionary himself foregoing, even for a short time, the pleasure of their society for that of a “blarsted missionary,” shook hands with him most vigorously, and said they would be proud to see him. Then they hurried off homewards.
Peter's house and trading station lay midway between that of Charlie Blount and the American's, but instead of making for his own place, Peter, to the surprise of Blount, who was now standing at his door watching them, went inside Burrowes' house.
“That's d----d curious, now,” said Blount, in English, to one of his half-caste daughters, a girl of eighteen; “those two fellows hate each other like poison. I've never known the Dutchman go into the Yankee's house, or the Yankee go into his, for the past two years, and here they are now as thick as thieves! I wonder what infernal roguery they are up to?”
Charlie Blount's amazement was perfectly natural, The German and American did dislike each other most intensely. Neither of them had lived so long on Mayou as Blount, but each was trying hard to work the other man off the island by accusing him to the natives of cheating them. As a matter of fact they were both scoundrels, but Banderah, the chief of Mayou, who was fond of white men, managed to keep a hollow peace between them. _He_ was perfectly well aware that both of them cheated himself and his people, but as long as their cheating was practised moderately he did not mind. In Blount, however, he had the fullest confidence, and this good feeling was shared with him by every native on the island.
* * * * * Perhaps, had Blount been a witness of what occurred when the boat landed, his suspicion of his fellow-traders' honesty would have been considerably augmented. For while the missionary and Mr. de Vere were bandying compliments, the German and American were exchanging signs with the officer who was in charge of the boat, and whom De Vere addressed as “Captain Sykes.” The American, indeed, had started down the beach to speak to him, when Mr. de Vere called out to him to return to the ship, and Captain Sykes, with a gesture signifying that he would see Burrowes later on, swung round the boat's head and gave the word to his Kanaka crew to give way. As if quite satisfied with this dumb promise, the American returned to the group he had just left, and then the moment the missionary, Mrs. Deighton, and De Vere had gone, he and the German started off together.
The moment they entered the American's house, Burrowes sat down on the table and the German on a gin case.
“Wal, Dutchy,” said Burrowes, looking keenly at his companion, “I reckon you know who the almighty swell in the brass-bound suit is, hey?”
“Yaw,” replied Schwartzkoff, “it is Bilker, und I thought he was in brison for ten years mit.”
“Wal, that's true enough that he did get ten years. But that's six years ago, an' I reckon they've let him out. Public feelin' in Australia agin nigger catchin' ain't very strong; an' I reckon he's got out after doin' five or six years.”
“Dot is so,” asserted the German; and then he leaned forward, “but vat vas he doing here in dis fine, swell schooner mit?”
“That's jest what you and me is goin' to find out, Dutchy. An' I guess that you an' me _can_ find out darned easy. Bilker ain't going to fool _me_; if he's on to anything good, I guess I'm going to have a cut in.”
“Veil, ve see by und by, ven he comes ashore. Von ding, I dells you, mine friend. Dot fine shentleman don't know vat you und me knows about Captain Bilker.”
The American gave an affirmative wink, and then going to a rude cupboard he took out a bottle of gin and a couple of tin mugs.
“Look hyar, Peter, I guess you and me's goin' to do some business together over this schooner, so let's make friends.”
“I vas agreeable,” said the German with alacrity, rising from his seat and accepting the peace-offering. He nodded to Burrowes and tossed it off.
***** By lunch-time Mr. Morcombe-Lycett had been brought ashore and had accepted Mr. Deighton's invitation to remain for the night He was a well-dressed, good-looking man of about thirty-five, and was, so Mr. Deighton sympathisingly announced to his wife, suffering from a touch of malarial fever, which a little quinine and nursing would soon put right Mr. Deighton himself, by the way, was suffering from the same complaint.
At noon, as Charlie Blount was walking past Burrowes' house, he was surprised to see that the German was still there. He was about to pass on--for although on fairly friendly terms with the two men, he did not care for either of them sufficiently well to enter their houses often, although they did his--when the American came to the door and asked him to come in and take a nip.
“Are you going to board the schooner?” asked Burrowes, as Blount came in and sat down.
“No, I'm going down to Lak-a-lak. I've got some natives cutting timber for me there, and thought I would just walk along the beach and see how they are getting on. Besides that, my little girl Nellie is there with her uncle.”
“Why,” said Burrowes, with genuine surprise, “won't you go aboard and see if they have any provisions to sell? I heard you say the other day that you had quite run out of tinned meats and nearly out of coffee.”
“So I have; but I don't care about going on board for all that” Then looking the two men straight in the face, he drank off the gin, set the mug down on the table, and resumed, “I saw by my glass that that damned, cut-throat blackbirder, Bilker, is her skipper. That's enough for me. I heard that the infernal scoundrel got ten years in gaol. Sorry he wasn't hanged.”
“Vy,” said the German, whose face was considerably flushed by the liquor he had been drinking, “you vas in der plackpird drade yourselves von dime.”
“So I was, Peter,” said Blount quietly, “but _we_ did the thing honestly, fairly and squarely. I, and those with me, when I was in the labour trade, never stole a nigger, nor killed one. This fellow Bilker was a disgrace to every white man in the trade. He is a notorious, cold-blooded murderer.”
The conversation fell a bit flat after this, for Mr. Burrowes and Mr. Schwartzkoff began to feel uncomfortable. Six or seven years before, although then unknown to each other and living on different islands, they each had had business relations with Captain Bilker in the matter of supplying him with “cargo” during his cruises for “blackbirds,” and each of them had so carried on the trade that both were ultimately compelled to leave the scene of their operations with great haste, and take up their residence elsewhere, particularly as the commander of the cruiser which arrested Captain Bilker expressed a strong desire to make their acquaintance and let them keep him company to the gallows.
“Wal,” resumed the American, “I guess every man hez got his own opinions on such things. I hev mine---- Why, here's Mr. de Vere. Walk right in, sir, an' set down; and Mister Deighton, too. Howdy do, parson? I'm real glad to see you.”
The moment the visitors entered Blount rose to go, but the missionary, with good-natured, blundering persistency, pressed him back, holding his hand the while.
“Mr. de Vere, this is Mr. Blount, a most excellent man, I do assure you.”
“How do you do?” said Blount, taking the smiling Englishman's hand in his, but quickly dropping it. There was something in De Vere's set smile and cold, watery-blue eyes that he positively resented, although he knew not why.
However, as the somewhat dull-minded Deighton seemed very anxious for him to stay and engage in “doing the polite” to his guest, Blount resumed his seat, but did so with restraint and impatience showing strongly in his sun-burnt, resolute face. For some ten minutes or so he remained, speaking only when he was spoken to; and then he rose, and nodding a cool “good-day” to the handsome Mr. de Vere and the two traders, he strode to the door and walked out.
Before he was half-way from Burrowes' house to the mission station, he was overtaken by the Rev. Mr. Deighton.
“Mr. de Vere has gone on board again,” he said in his slow, solemn way, “gone on board to get me some English papers. A most estimable and kind gentleman, Mr. Blount, an aristocrat to the backbone, but a gentleman, Mr. Blount, a gentleman above all. His visit has given me the most unalloyed----” “He may be very kind,” said Blount, “but my judgment has gone very much astray if he is what he represents himself to be.”
“Mr. Blount!” and the missionary looked genuinely shocked. “You are very unjust, as well as very much in error. Mr. de Vere is a scion of one of the noblest of our many noble English families. He told me so himself.”
“Ah, did he! That just confirms me in my opinion of him. Now, look here, Mr. Deighton,” and his tone became slightly irritated, “I'm not surprised that this Mr. de Vere--who, whatever he is, is _not_ a scion of any noble English family--should impose upon men like Burrowes and the German, but that he should impose on you does rather surprise me. And yet I don't know. It is always the way, or nearly always the way, that those whose education and intelligence should be a safeguard to them against imposture, are as often imposed upon as the ignorant and uncultured.”
“Imposture, Mr. Blount! Do you mean to say----” “I mean to say that this man De Vere with his flashy get-up and imposing name is _not_ an English gentleman. He may deceive you and the men we have just left, but he doesn't deceive me. I once lived in England a long time ago, Mr. Deighton,” here Blount turned his face away, and then added dreamily, “a long time, a very long time ago, and met some fairly decent people. And I no more believe that Mr. de Vere comes from a good family than I do that Nathaniel Burrowes, a low, broken-down New Orleans wharf-loafer, comes from one of the 'first families in Virginia' that American newspapers are always blathering about” “What is wrong with him, Mr. Blount?” “Nothing from your point of view--everything from mine. And, so far as I am concerned, I don't mean to have anything to do with these two English gentlemen and the yacht _Starlight_. Well, here we are at the mission. Good-day, Mr. Deighton; I'm going to Lak-a-lak to see how my timber-getters are doing.” And with a kindly nod at the troubled missionary, the big, dark-faced trader strode along the beach alone.
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{
"id": "24996"
}
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3
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~ BANDERAH
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Banderah, the supreme chief of Mayou, was, _vide_ Mr. Deighton's report to his clerical superiors, “a man of much intelligence, favourably disposed to the spread of the Gospel, but, alas! of a worldly nature, and clinging for worldly reasons to the darkness.” In other words, Banderah, although by no means averse to the poorer natives of the island adopting Christianity in a very free and modified form, and contributing a certain amount of their possessions to the missionary cause, was yet a heathen, and intended to remain one. For Mr. Deighton he had conceived a personal liking, mingled with a wondering and contemptuous pity. During an intertribal war he had received a bullet in his thigh, which the missionary had succeeded, after much difficulty, in extracting. Consequently, his gratitude was unlimited, and he evinced it in a very practical manner, by commanding some hundreds of his subjects to become Christians under pain of death. And, being aware that polygamy would not be tolerated by Mr. Deighton, he went a step further, and ordered all those of these forced converts who had more than one wife to send them to his own harem. This addition to his family duties, was, however, amply compensated for by the labour of the surplus wives proving useful to him on his yam and taro plantations.
In his younger days Banderah had once made a voyage to Sydney, in the service of a trading captain, one Lannigan, whose name, in those days, was a name to conjure with from one end of Melanesia to the other, and for whose valour as a fighter and killer of men Banderah had acquired a respect he could never entertain for a missionary. This captain, however, died in Sydney, full of years and strong drink, and left the chief almost broken-hearted, to return a year later to Mayou.
In his curious, semi-savage character there were some good points, and one was that in compliance with the oft-expressed wishes and earnest entreaties of Blount and Mr. Deighton, he had agreed to put down the last remnants of cannibalism which had lingered among the coast tribes on the island down to the time of this story. And although the older men, and some of the priests of the heathen faith, had struggled against his drastic legislation, they finally gave in when Mr. Deighton, weeping tears of honest joy at such a marvellous and wholesale conversion, presented each convert with a new print shirt and a highly coloured picture of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea.
An hour after Blount had walked along the beach to Lak-a-lak, Banderah saw the captain of the schooner come ashore and walk up the path to Nathaniel Burrowes' house, where he was warmly greeted by Burrowes and the German. He remained there for nearly an hour, and then came out again, and looking about him for a few moments, made direct for Banderah's house, which stood about three hundred yards back from that of the American trader.
When close to the chiefs house the captain of the _Starlight_ raised his head, and Banderah caught sight of his features and recognised him.
“How are you, Bandy?” said the seaman, walking smartly up to the chief, who was sitting on a mat inside his doorway, surrounded by a part of his harem and family, “you haven't forgotten me, have you?”
“Oh, no, sir. I no forget you,” said the native, civilly enough, but without warmth. “How are you, Cap'en Bilker?”
“Sh', don't call me that, Bandy. I'm Captain Sykes now.”
“Yes?” and Banderah's face at once assumed an expression of the most hopeless stupidity. “All right, Cap'en Sike. Come inside an' sit down.”
“Right, my boy,” said Bilker genially, fumbling in his coat pocket, and producing a large flask of rum, “I've brought you a drink, Bandy; and I want to have a yarn with you.”
“All right,” and taking the flask from the captain's hand without deigning to look at it, he passed it on to one of his wives. “What you want talk me about, Cap'en? You want me to get you some native for work on plantation?” and he smiled slily.
“No, no, Bandy. Nothing like that I don't run a labour ship now. I'm a big fellow gentleman now. I'm captain of that yacht.”
The chief nodded, but said nothing. He knew Captain “Sykes” of old, and knew him to be an undoubted rascal. Indeed, about ten years before the cunning blackbirder captain had managed to take thirty of Banderah's people away in his ship without paying for them; and the moment the chief recognised the sailor he set his keen native brain to work to devise a plan for getting square with him. And he meant to take deadly vengeance.
“Banderah, old man,” and the captain laid one hand on the chiefs naked knee, “I meant to pay you for those men when I came back next trip. But I was taken by a man-of-war,” here Bilker crossed his wrists to signify that he had been handcuffed; “taken to Sydney, put me in calaboose--ten years.”
“You lie,” said Banderah quietly, but with a danger spark in his eye, “man-o'-war no make you fas' for a long time after you steal my men. Plenty people tell me you make two more voyage; then man-o'-war catch you an' make you fas'.”
“Don't you believe 'em, Banderah,” began the ex-blackbirder, when the chief interrupted him-- “What you do with my brother?” he said suddenly; “he die too, in Fiji?”
The white man's face paled. “I don't know, Banderah. I didn't know your brother was aboard when my mate put the hatches on. I thought he had gone ashore. I never meant to take him away to Fiji anyway.”
“All right; never mind that. But what you want talk to me about?” And then, as if to put his visitor at his ease, he added, “You dam rogue, me dam rogue.”
“Yes, yes,” assented Captain Bilker cheerfully; “but look here now, Bandy, I'm not only going to pay you for those men I took, but give you a lot of money as well--any amount of money; make you a big, rich chief; big as Maafu Tonga. {*} But I want you to help me.”
* Maafu of Tonga, the once dreaded rival of King Cacobau of Fiji. He died in 1877.
“You speak me true?” inquired the chief.
“I swear it,” answered the captain promptly, extending his hand, which, however, Banderah did not appear to see.
“All right,” he said presently, after a silence of a few moments; then making a sign for his women and slaves to withdraw to the further end of the room, so that their muttered talk might not disturb the white man and himself, he lit his pipe and said, “Go on, tell me what you want me to do, Cap'en.”
“Look,” said the ex-blackbirder, laying a finger on the chiefs arm and speaking in a low voice, “these two white men on board the yacht have got any amount of money, gold, sovereigns--boxes and boxes of it They stole it; I know they stole it, although I didn't see them do it.”
Banderah nodded his huge, frizzy head. “I savee. These two fellow rogue, all same you an' me.”
“See, now, look here, Banderah. I mean to have that gold, and I want you to help me to get it. As soon as these men on board are dead I will give you a thousand golden sovereigns--five thousand dollar. Then I'll go away in the schooner. Now, listen, and I'll tell you how to do it. The Yankee and Peter are going to help.”
Then Captain Bilker, _alias_ Sykes, unfolded his plan as follows: Banderah was to entice De Vere and his friend some miles into the interior, where there was a large swamp covered with wild-fowl. Here they were to be clubbed by Banderah and his people, and the bodies thrown into the swamp. Then Bilker, accompanied by Schwartzkoff and Burrowes, were to go on board the schooner and settle the mate and the white steward.
“How much sovereign you goin' to give Peter and Missa Burrowes?” asked Banderah.
“Five hundred,” answered Bilker; “five hundred between them. But I will give you a thousand.”
“You no 'fraid man-o'-war catch you by and by?” inquired Banderah.
“No. Who's going to tell about it? You and your people won't.”
“What 'bout Missa Blount? What 'bout mission'ry?”
Bilker grinned savagely. “Peter and Burrowes say they will kill Blount if I give them another five hundred sovereigns.”
“What 'bout mission'ry and mission'ry woman?”
For a moment or two Bilker, crime-hardened villain as he was, hesitated. Then he raised his head and looked into the dark face of the native chief. Its set, savage expression gave him confidence.
“Plenty missionaries get killed. And, all the man-o'-war captains know that the Mayou bush-men{*} are very savage. Some day--in about a week after I have gone away in the schooner, you will take the missionary and his wife to the little bush town, that Peter and Burrowes tell me he goes to sometimes. They will sleep there that night. You and some of your people will go with them and sleep in the same house with them. You do that sometimes, Banderah, eh?”
* “Bushmen,” a term applied to natives living in the interior of the Melanesian Islands.
“Yes, sometimes.”
This was perfectly true. The bush tribes on Mayou, although at war with Banderah and his coast tribes, yet occasionally met their foes in an amicable manner at a bush village called Rogga, which had been for many decades a neutral ground. Here Banderah and his people, carrying fish, tobacco, and bamboos filled with salt water,{*} would meet small parties of bush people, who, in exchange for the commodities brought by Banderah, would give him yams, hogs, and wild pigeons. At several of these meetings Mr. Deighton had been present, in the vain hope that he might establish friendly relations with the savage and cannibal people of the interior.
* Having no salt, the bush tribes of Melanesia, who dare not visit the coast, buy salt water from the coast tribes. They meet a a spot which is always sacredly kept as a neutral ground.
“Well,” resumed the ruffian, “you will sleep at Rogga with the missionary and his wife. In the morning, when you and your people awake, the missionary and his wife will be dead. Then you will hurry to this place; you will go on board the man-of-war and tell the captain that the bad bushmen killed them when they were asleep.”
“I savee. Everybody savee Mayou man-a-bush like kill white men.”
“That's it, Bandy. No one will say you did it.”
“What 'bout Peter an' Burrowes? Perhaps by and by those two fellow get mad with me some day, and tell man-o'-war I bin kill three white man and one white woman.”
“Banderah,” and Bilker slapped him on the shoulder, “you're a damned smart fellow! There's no mistake about that. Now look here, I want you to get another thousand sovereigns--the thousand I am going to give to Burrowes and Peter. And after the man-a-bush have killed the missionary and his wife, they are coming down to the beach one night soon after, and will kill the two white men. Then there will be no more white men left, and you'll be the biggest chief in the world--as big as Maafu Tonga.”
A curious smile stole over the grim features of the chief.
“By God! Cap'en, you savee too much; you dam fine man altogether.”
“Well, look here now, Banderah. Are you going to do it?”
“Yes, I do it right enough.”
“When?”
“To-mollow.”
“To-morrow will do. And, look here, Bandy, I'm going to give you ten sovereigns each for the men I took away from you.”
“All right,” answered the chief, “now you go away. I want go and look out for some good men come along me to-mollow.”
“Right you are, Banderah. Take plenty good men. You know what to do--white men walk along swamp to shoot duck, then _one, two,_” and Captain Bilker made a motion with his right hand that was perfectly comprehensible to the chief.
Banderah sat perfectly quiet on his mat and watched the captain return to Burrowes' house, from where a short time after he emerged, accompanied by his two fellow-conspirators. Then the three of them hailed the schooner. A boat put off and took them on board.
***** An hour or two later Blount returned along the beach from Lak-a-lak, and walked slowly up the path to his house. Just as he entered the door the sounds of revelry came over to him from the schooner, whose lights were beginning to glimmer through the quick-falling darkness of the tropic night. Some one on board was playing an accordion, and presently he caught the words of a song-- “Remember, too, the patriots' gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore; Maryland, my Maryland.”
“Burrowes only sings that when he's very drunk,” he said to himself, as he sat down to drink a cup of coffee brought to him by his eldest daughter Taya. “No doubt he and that anointed sweep Bilker are having a very happy time together.”
“Father,” said the girl in the native tongue, as he put down his cup, “Banderah is here. He came but now, and will not come inside, but waits for thee in the copra-house, lest he be seen talking to thee.”
“What the devil is wrong?” muttered Blount, as without waiting to touch the coffee prepared for him he went outside to the copra-house.
In half an hour he and the native chief came out together, and as they stood for a minute in the broad streak of light that streamed out from the lamp on the table in the big room, Taya, who sat in the doorway, saw her father's face was set and stern-looking.
“Shed thou no blood, Banderah,” he said in the native tongue, “not even that of these two dogs who have eaten and drunk in my house for four years.”
“Challi,{*} that is hard. Already are my people thirsty for the blood of this dog of a captain--he who stole thirty and one of my people. And because of my brother, who was stolen with them, have I promised them vengeance. But the other two who are with him on the ship I will spare.”
* Charlie.
“As you will. And as for these two dogs who have planned to kill me, with them I shall deal myself. If, when the schooner saileth away from here, these men go not with her, then shall I shoot them dead.”
“Good,” and then grasping the white man's hand, the chief pressed his nose to his, and vanished in the darkness.
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{
"id": "24996"
}
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4
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~ “DEATH TO THEM BOTH!”
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Early on the following morning Messrs. de Vere and Morcombe-Lycett--the latter being now quite recovered--informed Mr. and Mrs. Deighton that, having heard from the two traders there was good shooting at the big swamp, they were going there under the guidance of Banderah and a party of natives; and shortly after breakfast the chief, accompanied by a number of his people, appeared.
“I will send with you two of my best men,” said Mr. Deighton, indicating a couple of his pet converts, who stood by dressed for the occasion in white starched shirts and black coats, but minus trousers, of which garments the pet converts had divested themselves, knowing that they should have to wade through the swamp.
But suddenly, to the missionary's astonishment, Banderah, with a savage look, bade them stay where they were. He had, he said, plenty of men, and did not need Mr. Deighton's servants.
Presently the two yachting gentlemen, arrayed in a very stylish sporting get-up, appeared with their breach-loaders and cartridge-belts, and waving their hands gracefully to the missionary and his wife, disappeared with Banderah and his dark-skinned companions into the dense tropical jungle, the edge of which was within a very short distance of the mission station.
For about an hour the Honourable Morcombe-Lycett and Mr. de Vere, with Banderah leading the way, walked steadily onward through the jungle. Not a word was spoken among the natives who followed close at their heels, and Banderah himself, in answer to their frequent questions, replied only by monosyllables. .
At last they came out of the stifling heat of the thick jungle, and saw before them a great reedy swamp, the margin fringed by a scanty growth of cocoanut and pandanus palms. Out upon the open patches of water, here and there showing upon the broad expanse of the swamp, they saw large flocks of wild duck feeding and swimming about, betraying not the slightest fear at their approach.
“By Jove, Baxter,” said Mr. de Vere to his friend, “looks good enough, doesn't it? I wonder if these blasted niggers will go in for us.”
“Of course they will. But let us have a drink first. Here, you, bring us that basket. I wonder what sort of tucker old Godliness has given us. He's not a bad sort of an ass. His wife, too, isn't bad.”
“Bah,” and Mr. de Vere twirled his long, yellow moustache, “you're always finding out something nice in the face of every woman you come across. Wait until we get up to Japan; then you can amuse yourself with a new type of woman. Be a bit of a change for you after the Melbourne and Sydney peroxided-hair beauties. Here, nigger, give me that corkscrew.”
“I say, Dalton,” suddenly remarked his friend, “'pon my soul I believe we are making a mistake in going to Japan. You may be sure that we'll have a lot of trouble awaiting us there.”
“Not a bit of it Before we get there every one will have read the cable news that we have been seen in Callao, and no one in Yokohama will ever think of associating Mr. Herbert de Vere and the Honourable Morcombe-Lycett--just arrived from Manila _via_ Singapore in the Spanish mail-steamer--with--er--hum--the two gentlemen who arrived at Callao from Tahiti, after successfully diddling the Australian financial public of thirty thousand quid.”
“But what are we going to do with the schooner at Manila?”
“Sell her, my innocent! Sell her to our esteemed friend, Mr. Moses Steinberg, who has assisted me in previous financial transactions--before I had the pleasure of meeting my present valued colleague, the Honourable Mr. Morcombe-Lycett--and who is now taking care to inform the world that we are living in South America.”
“And how are we going to account for our boxes of sovereigns? Two mining speculators don't usually carry about heavy sums in gold.”
“All managed, my boy. My friend, Mr. Moses Steinberg, will see to that. The ten thousand sovereigns will be valuable gold specimens from Queensland, and will be placed on board the North German Lloyd's steamer at Singapore for safe conveyance to London, where you and I, my dear boy, will follow it And there also we shall find, I trust, an additional sum of fifteen thousand lying to our credit--the proceeds of our honest toil.”
“What are you going to do with Sykes?”
“Give him £500 and tell him to hold his tongue. He's a thundering rascal, and we must pay to shut his mouth.”
Then the two proceeded to discuss their lunch, and as they ate and drank and talked and laughed, Banderah and three or four of his men whispered together.
“Seize them from behind and bind them tightly,” said the chief, “but kill them not, for that I have promised to Challi.”
The Honourable Morcombe-Lycett had just finished his last glass of bottled beer and wanted to smoke. He had taken out his cigar-case, and, wondering at the sudden silence which had fallen upon their native guides, turned round to see where they were, and saw swiftly advancing upon himself and his companion some half a dozen stalwart natives. In that momentary glance he read danger, and quick as lightning--for he was no coward--he seized his loaded gun, which lay beside him, and fired both barrels one after another, at not ten yards' range.
A chorus of savage yells answered the shots, as two of the natives fell, but ere he could reload or Dalton could fire there came a fierce rush of all the dark-skinned men upon them, and, struggling madly for their lives, they were borne down.
And then the lust of slaughter overcame their fierce assailants, and despite Banderah and two or three of his most trusted men, a club was raised and fell swiftly upon the white, fair forehead of “Mr. de Vere” as he sought to tear away his hands from the vice-like grasp of two huge natives who held them.
“Death to them both!” cried a thin-faced, wrinkled old man named Toka; “_hutu_:{*} for the lives of the thirty and one.” Then springing out from the rest, he swung a short-handled, keen-bladed hatchet over his head, and sank it into the brain of the wretched Baxter.
* Synonymous with Maori _utu_--revenge.
“Stand thou aside, Banderah, son of Paylap,” screamed the old man, waving the bloody hatchet fiercely at him. “I, old Toka, the priest, will to-day again show the men of Mayou how to drink the blood and eat the flesh of the long pigs the gods have given into our hands,” and again he buried the weapon in Baxter's breathless body. And as Banderah looked at the old man's working face, and saw the savage mouth, flecked with foam, writhing and twisting in horrible contortions, and then saw the almost equally dreadful visages of the rest of his men, he knew that the old, old lust for human flesh had come upon them.
So, with the one idea of saving Blount and the missionary and his wife, he turned and fled through the forest towards the beach.
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{
"id": "24996"
}
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5
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~ THE TAPU OF BANDERAH
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The Rev. Wilfrid and Mrs. Deighton were at lunch, talking about the genial manners and other qualifications of their guests, when suddenly they heard a rapid step on the verandah, and Blount dashed into the room.
His face was white with excitement, and they saw that he carried his revolver in his hand.
“What in heaven's name is wrong, Mr. Blount? Why are you armed----” “For God's sake don't ask me now! Our lives are in danger--deadly, imminent danger. Follow me to my house!”
“But, my dear sir,” began Mr. Deighton, “I do not see--I fail----” “Man, don't talk! Do you think I do not know what I am saying? Your two friends are both murdered. Banderah is now at my house, too exhausted to tell me more than to come and save you.”
“Dear, dear me! Oh, this is dreadful! Let us, Alice, my dear, seek Divine----” “You fool!” and the trader seized the missionary by the arm as he was about to sink upon his knees. “Stay here and pray if you like--and get your throat cut In ten--in five minutes more, every native except Banderah will be here ready to burn and murder. I tell you, man, that our only chance of safety is to reach my house first, and then the schooner. Come, Mrs. Deighton. For God's sake, come!”
Pushing past the missionary, he seized Mrs. Deighton by the hand and descended the steps. They had scarcely gone two hundred yards when they heard a strange, awful cry peal through the woods; and Mr. Deighton shuddered. Only once before had he heard such a cry, and that was when, during the early days of the mission, he had seen a native priest tear out the heart of a victim destined for a cannibal feast, and hold it up to the people.
Suddenly little Mrs. Deighton gasped and tottered as they hurried her along; she was already exhausted. Then Deighton stopped.
“Mr. Blount... go on by yourself. We have not your strength to run at this speed. I will help my wife along in a minute or two. Some of the mission people will surely come to our aid.”
“Will they?” said Blount grimly. “Look for yourself and see; there's not a soul in the whole village. They have gone to see----” and he made an expressive gesture.
Mr. Deighton groaned. “My God, it is terrible! --” then suddenly, as he saw his wife's deathly features, his real nature came out “Mr. Blount, you are a brave man. For God's sake save my dear wife! I am too exhausted to run any further. I am too weak from my last attack of the fever. But we are only a quarter of a mile away from your house now. Take her on with you, but give me your revolver. I can at least cover your retreat for a time.”
Blount hesitated, then giving the weapon to the missionary, he lifted the fainting woman in his arms, and said-- “Try and come on a little; as soon as I am in sight of the house your wife will be safe; you must at least keep me in sight.”
As the trader strode along, carrying the unconscious woman in his strong arms, the missionary looked at the weapon in his hand, and shuddered again.
“May God forgive me if I have done wrong,” he muttered. “But take the life of one of His creatures to save my own I never will. Yet to save hers I must do it.”
Then with trembling feet but brave heart he walked unsteadily along after the trader and his burden. So far, no sound had reached him since that one dreadful cry smote upon his ear, and a hope began to rise in his breast that no immediate danger threatened. A short distance away, embowered among the trees, was the house of Burrowes. The door was closed, and not a sign of life was discernible about the place.
“Heavens, were they asleep?” He had heard that Burrowes and the German had been carousing all the morning with the captain of the _Starlight_. Likely enough they were all lying in a drunken slumber. “God, give me strength to warn them,” he said to himself; and then with a last glance at Blount and his wife, he resolutely turned aside and began to ascend the hill.
But before he gained the summit, Blount had reached the fence surrounding his house, and Banderah and Taya and her two young brothers, rifles in hand, met the trader.
“Quick, take her!” and he pushed Mrs. Deighton into Taya's arms and looked back.
“My God! he's going up to Burrowes' house! Come, Banderah,” and he started back again, “he'll be speared or shot before he gets there.”
Just as the missionary reached the door and began in feeble, exhausted tones to call out, Blount and the chief caught up to him, and seizing his hands dragged him away again down the hill.
“Don't bother about them, they are all on board,” was all Blount said. And there was no time to talk, for now fierce cries were heard in the direction of the mission house, and Blount and Banderah, looking back, saw black, naked figures leap over the low stone wall enclosing the missionary's dwelling and disappear inside.
“Just in time,” muttered the trader, as dragging Mr. Deighton between them they gained the house, and sat the missionary down beside his wife, who with a cry of thankfulness threw her arms about his neck and then quietly fainted.
* * * * * For nearly half an hour Blount, with Banderah and the missionary by his side, looked out through the windows and saw the natives plundering and wrecking the mission house and the dwellings of Schwartzkoff and Burrowes. A mile away, motionless upon the glassy waters of the harbour, lay the schooner, with her boat astern, and every now and then Blount would take a look at her through his glass.
“I can't see a soul on deck,” he said to Mr. Deighton. “I heard that Peter and Burrowes went off this morning with the captain, all pretty well drunk. Would to God I knew what is best to do! To go on board would perhaps mean that those ruffians would shoot us down before we were alongside. No, we'll stay here and take our chance. Banderah says he feels pretty sure that he can protect us from his own people. They'd never dare to hurt him; and I think _that_ will steady them a bit,” and he pointed to the fence, upon which, at intervals, were tied green cocoanut boughs. These had just been placed there by Banderah himself, and meant that the house was _tapu_--it and all in it were sacred.
“God grant it may!” said Mr. Deighton, and looking at the mystic sign, the use of which he had so often tried to put down as a silly, heathenish practice, he felt a twinge of conscience.
At last the work of plunder was over, and then Blount saw a swarm of black, excited savages, led by two or three “devil-doctors” or priests, advance towards the house. At the same moment Banderah, looking seaward, saw that the boat had left the schooner and was pulling ashore. He was just about to point her out to the trader when, for some reason, he changed his mind, turned away, and joined his white friends at the other end of the room.
Following the lead of the “devil-doctors,” who, stripped to the waist, and with their heads covered with the hideous masks used in their incantations, looked like demons newly arisen from the pit, the yelling swarm of natives at last reached the fence outside Blount's house; and Mr. Deighton, with an inward groan, saw among them some of his pet converts, stark naked and armed with spears and clubs.
Leaping and dancing with mad gyrations, and uttering curious grunting sounds as their feet struck the ground, the devil-doctors at last came within a few feet of the gate in the trader's fence. Then, suddenly, as they caught sight of a branch of cocoanut leaf twisted in and around the woodwork of the gate, they stopped their maddened whirl as if by magic; and upon those behind them fell the silence of fear.
“Thank God!” muttered Blount, “we are safe. They will not break Banderah's _tapu_.”
Then, rifle in hand, and with quiet, unmoved face, Banderah opened the trader's door and came out before them all.
“Who among ye desires the life of Banderah and those to whom he has given his _tapu? _” he said.
The smaller of the two priests dashed aside his mask, and revealed the face of the old man Toka, who had struck Baxter his death-blow.
“Who indeed, O chief? If it be to thy mind to make _tapu_ this house and all in it, who is there dare break it? To the white man Challi and his sons and daughters we meant no harm, though sweet to our bellies will be the flesh of those whom we have slain and who now roast for the feast. But more are yet to come; for I, Toka, lost my son, when thou, Banderah, lost thy brother; and the gods have told me that I shall eat my fill of those who stole him.”
The savage, bitter hatred that rang through the old man's voice, and the deep, approving murmur of those who stood about him, warned both Banderah and Blount that the lust for slaughter was not yet appeased; so it was with a feeling of intense surprise and relief that he and the missionary saw them suddenly withdraw, and move rapidly away to the rear of the house among the thick jungle.
“That's d----d curious!” said Blount, turning to Banderah and speaking in English; and then the chief took him by the arm and pointed towards the shore--the boat, pulled by Schwartzkoff and Bur-rowes, with Captain Bilker sitting in the stern, had just touched the beach. Then it flashed across his mind in an instant why the natives had left so suddenly--they were lying in ambush for the three men!
“By God! bad as they are, I can't let them walk to their deaths,” said Blount, jumping outside, so as to hail and warn them. But before he could utter a sound, Banderah sprang upon him and clapped his hand to his mouth.
“Challi,” he said, “they must die. Try to save them, and we all perish. For the sake of thy daughters and of thy sons, raise not thy voice nor thy hand. Must all our blood run because of these three dogs' lives?”
Even as he spoke the end came. Staggering up the beach in drunken hilarity, the three whites did not notice, as they headed for the path, a file of natives, armed with spears and clubs, walk quietly along between them and the water's edge. There they sat down and waited. But not for long, for presently from out the thick, tangled jungle in front came a humming whirr of deadly arrows and in a few seconds the three white men were wallowing in their blood. Then came that bloodcurdling shout of savage triumph, telling those who heard it that all was over. Before its echoes died away the bleeding bodies were carried to where a thick, heavy smoke rising from the jungle told the shuddering missionary that the awful feast was preparing. When he looked again not a native was in sight.
Standing apart in the room from the others, Blount and Banderah spoke hurriedly together, and then the trader came to the missionary.
“Mr. Deighton, if you wish to save your wife's and your own life, and escape from this slaughterhouse, now is your time. As God is my judge I believe we shall never be safe again, and I would gladly go with you if I could. But my daughter Nelly is at Lak-a-lak, and--well, that settles it. Banderah here will tell you that he dreads your staying, as the priests may plot your death at any moment. I implore you, sir, to think of your wife. See, there is the boat, drifting along the beach with the tide. For God's sake be advised and get on board the schooner, and whatever port you do reach, send a vessel to take me away!”
Then, before the missionary and his wife could realise what was happening, Banderah had run to the beach, swam to the boat, seized the painter, gained the shore again, and pulled her along till opposite the trader's house, just as Blount and Taya, supporting Mrs. Deighton between them, were leaving the house to meet him.
In twenty minutes more they were close to the _Starlight_, and saw that her crew were weighing the anchor. On the after deck stood the mate and steward with rifles in their hands.
“What in the name of God is wrong?” said the mate, as the boat ranged up alongside, and the missionary and his wife were assisted on deck.
“Don't ask now, man. Get your anchor up as quick as you can and put to sea. Your captain and the two passengers are all dead. Clear out at once if you don't want the ship to be taken.”
“I thought something was wrong when I saw the native dragging the boat along. Lend us a hand to get under weigh, will you?” and the mate sprang forward.
In another five minutes the _Starlight's_ anchor was up, and then Blount and Banderah, with a hurried farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Deighton, sprang into the boat and pushed off.
“May God bless and keep you,” called out the missionary to Blount, “and may we meet again soon;” then sinking on his knees beside his wife, he raised his face to heaven, and the trader saw that tears were streaming down his worn and rugged cheeks.
Blount never heard of the missionary and his wife again. Long, long afterwards he did hear that some wreckage of a vessel like the _Starlight_ had been found on Rennel Island, and that sovereigns were discovered among the pools and crevices of the reef for many years after. Whether she ran ashore or drifted there dismasted--for a heavy gale set in a week after she left Mayou--is one of those mysteries of the sea that will never be solved.
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{
"id": "24996"
}
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1
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None
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"BULLY" HAYES! Oh, halcyon days of the sixties and seventies, when the Pacific was not, as now, patrolled by men-of-war from lonely Pylstaart, in the Friendlies, to the low-lying far-away Marshalls and the coral lagoons of the north-west; when the Queensland schooners ran full "nigger" cargoes to Bundaberg, Maryborough, and Port Mackay; when the Government agents, drunk nine days out of ten, did as much recruiting as the recruiters themselves, and drew--even as they may draw to-day--thumping bonuses from the planters _sub rosa! _ In those days the nigger-catching fleet from the Hawaiian Islands cruised right away south to palm-clad Arorai, in the Line Islands, and ran the Queensland ships close in the business. They came down from Honolulu in ballast-trim, save for the liquor and firearms, and went back full of a sweating mass of black-haired, copper-coloured Line Islanders, driven below at dark to take their chance of being smothered if it came on to blow. Better for them had it so happened, as befel the _Tahiti_ a few years ago when four hundred of these poor people went to the bottom on their way to slavery in San José de Guatemala.
Merry times, indeed, had those who ran the labour vessels then in the trade, when Queensland rivalled the Hawaiian Islands in the exciting business of "black-birding," and when Captain William Henry Hayes, of Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.--vulgarly called "Bully" Hayes--came twice a year to fair Samoa with full cargoes of oil, copra, and brown-skinned kanakas, all obtained on the stalwart captain's peculiar time-payment system.
* * * * * One hardly ever hears the name of the redoubtable Bully mentioned nowadays, yet it is scarcely thirty years ago since his name was a power all over the wide Pacific, from Manila to Valparaiso. In those days did a German trading-vessel in the Islands sight a white-painted brig with yacht-like lines and carrying Cunningham's patent topsails, the Teutonic skipper cracked on all his ship could stagger under, and thanked heaven when he saw the stranger hull-down; for Bully, with his _fidus achates_, the almost equally notorious Captain Ben Peese, had a penchant for boarding Dutchmen and asking for a look at their chronometers, and in his absent-minded way, taking these latter away with him.
And in Sydney, and Melbourne especially, people will remember the gay, dashing, black-whiskered Yankee captain who, in the sixties, came to these ports in a flash clipper ship, where he spent his money royally, flirting--alas! if he had but stopped at that--with every accessible woman of high or low degree--provided she was fair to look upon--and playing the devil generally in every known and unknown manner, and who then sailed gaily away to China, neglecting to attend to many little financial matters in connection with the refitting of his ship, and leaving the affections of a number of disconsolate beauties in a very bad state of repair.
The writer happened to know the gentleman well, and although it is now sixteen years since his body was thrown to the sharks among the lagoons of the Marshall Group, it is not too late to rescue his memory from much undeserved obloquy. Many a fancifully embroidered tale has been told and printed of the terrible "massacres" he perpetrated among the inhabitants of the South Seas. These massacres were purely apocryphal and only worthy of appearing--as they did in the first place--in an unreliable daily paper in San Francisco.
A man's true character is generally revealed by sudden misfortune. The writer sailed with Hayes for nearly two years, and was with him when, perhaps, the heaviest stroke of ill-luck he ever experienced befell him. In March of 1874 his brig _Leonora_ ground herself to death on the jagged coral of Strong's Island, in the Caroline Group, and "Bully" seemed for the nonce a broken man. But few people knew that beneath that gay, laughing, devil-may-care exterior there lay a whole world of dauntless courage and iron resolution; that six months after the brig was destroyed he would, by unwearying toil and the wonderful fascination he exercised over his fierce and ruffianly crew, find himself a wealthier man than when he trod his brig's deck with a full cargo of oil beneath his feet and ten thousand dollars in his cabin.
* * * * * Let me first of all, though, before relating all that befell us during our sojourn on Strong's Island, where I, at least, spent many long, happy months, speak of the _Leonora_, once the _Waterlily_, and _alias_ the _Luna_, the _Leonie_, and the _Racinga_. As the _Waterlily_ she was first known, and under that name sailed her maiden voyage in the opium-trade, and beat the record. At this time Hayes made his appearance at one of the Treaty Ports in a ship named the _Old Dominion_. On the way out from New York his crew had mutinied, headed by the steward, a Greek. In the fight that ensued Hayes killed the Greek outright by a blow of his fist, and threw another with such violence against a deck-house that he died in a few hours. An inquiry was held, and Hayes, so it was stated, came out of it well. The _Old Dominion_ was sold, and Hayes entered the Imperial Chinese service as commander of a gunboat. Another gunboat was commanded by one Ben Peese. Of this period of his life Hayes never cared to speak, but the story of Peese and himself was given as follows:-- The two became friends, and in conjunction with some mandarins of high rank, levied a system of blackmail upon the Chinese coasting junks that brought them--_not_ the junks--in money very rapidly, and Hayes's daring attack on and capture of a nest of other and real pirates procured for him a good standing with the Chinese authorities. Peese soon got into trouble, however, and when a number of merchants who had been despoiled had succeeded in proving that his gunboat was a worse terror to them than the pirates whom he worried, he disappeared for a time. The _Waterlily_, which was then on the point of sailing for Calcutta, was, at this time, chartered at a big figure by some rich merchants to take a cargo of provisions to Rangoon. Shortly after her departure Hayes resigned and went to Macao. Here he was joined by his colleague, in command of the _Waterlily_. How Peese had got possession of her was not known. Hayes told people that his friend had bought her, but those intimate with Peese knew a great deal better. Anyhow, some months later, the merchants who chartered her said that Peese, who had been given command after his forced resignation from the Imperial service, had landed them somewhere in the Straits, taken all their dollars, sold the cargo to the Dutch military authorities, and cleared out.
And then with a new ship, a new crew--many of whom were Hayes's and Peese's former Chinese naval service pirates--the partners sailed for the Bonin Islands, where Peese was well known, and had lived before. Two days ere making the Bonins a ship was sighted ashore on a reef. It was a gunboat from Macao with an official on board, bound to the Bonin Islands to investigate the murder of a Portuguese captain and mate. A boat was lowered from the _Waterlily_, and Peese, who spoke Spanish well, learned from the captain that the gunboat, which was then hard and fast, had run ashore in the night and bumped a big hole in herself just amidships. For a thousand dollars Peese agreed to stand by them and save all he could, including her four guns. The guns were rafted to the _Waterlily_, then the small arms and stores followed in the boats belonging to the gunboat. At dusk Hayes went aboard the wrecked ship and took the brig's Chinese carpenter with him. On examination he said the ship could be got off again if she could be canted over and a sail "fothered" over the hole temporarily. This the gunboat captain agreed to try, and signalled for his boats to return from the _Waterlily_. After working all night the thing was done, and the captain and officers were profuse in their expression of admiration at Hayes's skill. As the tide fell the carpenters got to work, and the gunboat was made watertight. Under Hayes's direction, at flood-tide, she was then kedged over the reef into the lagoon, and anchored in smooth water. Peese and Hayes then arranged to bring in the _Waterlily_ at next tide, lay her alongside the gunboat, and put the guns and stores aboard again, agreeing to take the captain's order on Macao for 700 dollars and 800 dollars in cash. But next morning the brig was nowhere to be seen, and although the captain had his ship he was minus his big guns, many small arms, and stores to the value of 2,000 or 8,000 dollars. In attempting to get under way he again ran ashore, and remained hard and fast for a week.
Meanwhile Hayes and Peese had gone off on a southerly course to the Pelew Group where the cannons were sold to the chiefs, and the two captains gave a feast, and made merry generally, and got rid of nearly all their crew, taking Pelew men and seven Japanese in their places.
For a week or so all went well, and then Hayes and Peese fell out--over a woman, of course. Peese had bought a very beautiful girl from one of the chiefs for 250 dollars, which sum, he told Hayes privately, he did not intend to pay. Hayes insisted on his comrade either paying the sum agreed on or giving her up. Peese, declaring he would do as he liked, drew his pistol and ordered the girl into the boat. Hayes tore the weapon from him, and seizing the girl with one hand, pointed the pistol at Peese and told him to go on board. Peese was no coward, but he knew his man, and sulkily retired. With all Hayes's wickedness he was not entirely heartless. He asked the girl to tell him if she was afraid of Peese. She said "No!" and then Bully quietly told her to follow his fellow-captain aboard. But Peese never forgave him, and from that day the two mutually distrusted each other.
After cruising about the Western Carolines for two or three months, and in some mysterious way filling up the brig, now named the _Leonora_, with a cargo of coco-nut oil, and getting a ton of hawk-bill turtle-shell, worth 6 dollars a pound, the two worthies appeared in Apia Harbour, Samoa. Here they sold the cargo and obtained a commission from the firm of Johann Caesar Godeffroy and Sons, of Hamburg--a firm that in Polynesia rivalled, in a small way, old John Company--to procure for them two hundred or three hundred Line Island labourers at 100 dollars per head.
In those days the most respected storekeeper in Apia was a retired mariner--a Captain Turnbull--a stout old man, slow of speech, and profoundly, but not obtrusively, religious. People used to wonder how it was that "Misi Pulu," the shrewdest business man in the group, would supply Hayes with 1,000 or 2,000 dollars' worth of trade, and merely take his I O U, while refusing to give credit to any other soul. Spoken to on the matter, the gruff old man replied, "That's my business, but I'll tell you why I trust a man like Hayes and won't trust any one here. I know the man, and I've told him what none of you would dare to tell him, that I looked upon his course of life with horror. He laughed at me and said, with a dreadful oath, that if ever he could do me a 'good turn' he would. That pleased me, and when he came to me a week afterwards and said that he wanted new canvas and running gear, but the Dutchmen wouldn't sell him any on credit, I said I would--and did, and he paid me, and I'll give him a few thousand dollars' credit any day."
Bully and Peese sailed for the Ellice and Gilbert groups, and soon news reached Sydney that they had been playing havoc with the traders there. With the traders of Captain Eury, and those of Captain Daly, of the Sydney brig _Lady Alicia_, they were very rough, appropriating all their oil and other native produce and giving them sarcastically written receipts. Hayes stated that this was in retaliation for Daly having visited his (Hayes's) stations in some of the Kingsmill Islands, and having been too friendly with some of the local fair.
When the brig returned to Samoa, Hayes alone was in command; the voluble, bearded Peese had, he said, sold him his interest in the ship and gone to China again. People talked and said that Hayes had killed him, but as the strength of the big captain's right arm was well known in Samoa, nobody talked too loud. It was on this occasion that Hayes "had" the German firm for some thousands of dollars. It seems that in returning through the Kingsmill and Gilbert Groups he found a number of the German firm's traders in terror of their lives, the natives having warned them to clear out or be killed, they would have no white men on their islands. Hayes consented to give them all passages to Samoa--for a consideration, of course, and they agreed on behalf of their firm to pay him each 50 dollars passage money--a reasonable enough sum. Most of them had large quantities of oil and copra--this also was shipped. After the last island had been visited, Hayes called them together in the cabin and addressed them: "Now, boys, I've promised to give you all passages to Samoa, and I will--if you do what I want. Now you've all got money belonging to the German firm. Well, each of you must give me 50 dollars, and if you take my advice you'll stick to the remainder. One thing you all know as well as I do, and that is, that the Dutchmen will take your souls out of their cases if you owe them anything. As for the oil and copra _I'll_ see to that. That's all I've got to say, and if any of you won't agree to this let him come on deck and try and convince me." The traders grinned and consented to take the offer of a passage and the privilege of annexing the firm's dollars, and each paid his 50 dollars. When Hayes got to Samoa, Weber, the German manager, interviewed Bully, who detailed the dangers the traders had escaped, and genially said, "I hardly like to make you pay for your traders' passages, but as I have such a heavy cargo for you, you won't object to pay me a trifle--say 50 dollars each. They've all got money for you as well as oil and copra." Weber paid, Hayes giving an acknowledgment. Then Weber sent his cargo-boats to unload the brig. He was rather surprised when Hayes sent him a note:-- Brig _Leonora_, Apia. "Dear Sir,--You have forgotten that you have not yet made any arrangements with me about the freight of your oil and copra. I now demand freight on 200,000 lbs. copra at 1 cent per lb., 2,000 dollars; for the oil, a lump sum of 600 dollars; in all, 2,500 dollars. Unless the freight is paid at once, and delivery taken forthwith, I will proceed to New Zealand and sell to recoup myself. --W. H. Hayes."
The German firm was furious at this trick, but knowing what Hayes was and fearing to lose everything, they paid and took delivery, and Hayes, as he paid over, told Weber that he would always have a good opinion of him in future for his prompt manner in settling up. Weber gasped, but said nothing.
Just about this time the American corvette _Narrangansett_ steamed into Apia Harbour. It had been rumoured around Polynesia for some time previously that certain charges had been made against Bully by American citizens. What the exact nature of these charges were has never been known. Anyhow, the captain of the corvette heard that Hayes was at anchor in Apia, and came down full speed from Pago Pago in Tutuila. Captain Edward Hamilton was then pilot, and brought the _Narrangansett_ in. The moment the anchor was down, an armed boat's crew dashed aboard the _Leonora_ and took possession. The officer in command had a surprise in store for him, when, entering the brig's cabin, he saw seated at the table not the truculent, piratical ruffian he expected to see, but a quiet, stout man of herculean proportions, who bowed politely and said, "Welcome on board the _Leonora_, sir. Have you come to seize my ship and myself? Well now, don't apologise, but sit down a while until my steward brings you a glass of wine, and then I'll go and see what all this is about." This officer afterwards told Hamilton that he was so struck with Bully's cool effrontery, and his equally genial smile, that he did sit down and take a drink, and then Hayes accompanied him to the corvette. As the boat ran alongside, the officers and bluejackets not on duty thronged the side to see the famous pirate, who walked calmly to the quarter-deck, and, singling out the captain (Maude, I believe, was his name), said, "How do you do, sir? I am happy to see my country's flag again in these seas; but what the hell do you mean, sir, by putting an armed crew on my deck? By God, sir, if you don't give me good reasons I'll make you repent it." The corvette captain stood quite unmoved, although there was a suppressed titter heard amongst his officers.
"I pardon you your offensive language, Captain Hayes, as I daresay you feel excited. If you will come below I will show you good authority for my action. I have orders to arrest you and investigate serious charges against you. I trust, however, that you will be able to clear yourself."
The quiet, gentlemanly manner of the naval officer acted like a charm upon Hayes. The fierce glitter in his bright blue eyes died out, and bowing to the corvette captain he turned to the group of officers, and in a bluff sincere manner, said: "Gentlemen, I apologise to your captain and to you for my insulting manner. I see that I have acted in an unbecoming way; but I am a hasty man, yet quick to make amends when I am in the wrong."
The officers returned his salute, and then Bully went below and listened with an unmoved face to the warrant for his arrest. He was allowed to write a letter to the shore, and given the liberty of the ship whilst the captain of the _Narrangesett_ was preparing for the trial. A notification was sent to the three Consuls of his seizure, and asking them to attend and verify the charges made to them by various persons against Hayes. None but the German Consul responded, and his witnesses (traders whose stations had been cleaned out by Hayes) utterly broke down. One look at those steady, steel-blue eyes was enough for them. They knew what was in store for them if any of them ever crossed Bully's path again, and slunk away to their German protectors. After two hours' investigation, the captain broke up the court, and formally told those present that he would announce his decision in writing.
Two hours afterwards the commander of the _Narrangansett_ wrote a brief note to the Consuls, stating that he would not--from the unreliable and contradictory evidence--be justified in taking Hayes to the United States, and added some severe remarks about the skulking and terrified manner of the witnesses.
Then Hayes was told he was a free man, and straightway the prisoner became the guest, and Bully made a neat little speech.
"Gentlemen, I thank you for your kindness and courtesy to me. You have done me a good service. If I went to the States now and told how I had been seized by a tyrannical American officer, it would make me a rich man. I could run for President. I could get in, too. I could paint you all as a crew of piratical ruffians disgracing the uniform of the greatest country in the world, and the papers would back me up. They would make me President of a big bank, and the Secretary of the Navy would keep the _Narrangansett_ at sea for another two years--to save you from getting lynched by an indignant nation. But I am just going to be good and generous and remain in obscurity; and to-morrow night I shall be proud and happy if you will honour me by coming to my house and see the pirate in his lair."
In the afternoon Bully "dressed ship" and gave his crew liberty. They went into Matafele, the German quarter of Apia, and made a hideous disturbance; the _Narrangansett_ sailors joined in, and, only for some officers being present, the German residents would have had a bad night of it. Hayes's crew were all gloriously drunk, so were some of the _Narrangansett_ men, and a lot of flash Samoan _manaia, i.e._, "bucks," lent a hand in the proceedings; for even in those days the Germans were as much hated by the natives as they are at the present time.
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Before detailing my own experiences of the lamented "Bully," I must mention some other incidents in his career which will give a fair illustration of the notoriety he had acquired, and of his keen sense of humour. Long before these two gentlemen (Bully Hayes and Ben Peese) had commenced to exploit the Ellice, Gilbert, Kingsmill, Marshall and Caroline Groups, Bully, then owner of a small, fast-sailing schooner, had made unto himself a name--particularly as a connoisseur of Island beauty--among the Marquesas, Society, Hervey and Paumotu Groups, from Nuka-hiva to Rapa-nui (Easter Island), that ethnographical mystery of the Southern Seas, whose gentle and amiable people, thirty years ago, met with so dreadful a fate at the murderous hands of the Peruvian slavers.
***** Soon after the slavers had gone from the South Seas a story was current in Eastern Polynesia that Bully had landed armed boats' crews at Aana, in the Paumotu Archipelago, and seized a number of girls whom he sold to Chilian and Peruvian buyers. But, as a matter of fact, Hayes never _sold_ a native girl, though he was always willing to barter for a new charmer any member of his harem who had palled upon his fastidious tastes. And if the other man in these little matters evinced the slightest want of trade-reciprocity, he generally regretted it, for he would lose the household chattel, and getting nothing for her, save perhaps lumps and excoriations, or perhaps a sarcastic note informing him that the writer could not afford to waste time haggling over so trifling a matter as the price of a native Venus.
While two of the fleet of Peruvian slavers appeared among the Ellice Group, the other two remained to "work" Easter Island, the which they did successfully, carrying away all the able-bodied men and comely women they could seize (three hundred), to die miserably in guano-pits of the Chincha Islands. The vessels which "worked" the Ellice Group were a barque and a brig. The brig was commanded by a big Irishman, and simply because he was a big man and spoke in English to the natives, it was reported in the Hawaiian missionary press that the slaver captain was Bully. The natives of Nukulaelae, an island which suffered severely from the slavers' visit, always maintained for long afterward that it was Hayes (whom they had never actually seen), because the _ihi vaka_ (captain) was a tall, bearded man, who kept knocking his sailors down every minute if they were not quick in their movements; and this was the commonly accepted description of Bully and one of his habits.
But at the time the two Peruvians were cruising through the Ellices, Bully was exploiting the Paumotu Archipelago, and arousing the anger of the French authorities, by his irregular business methods. For instance, he would "buy" pearl-shell from the traders and kick them over the side if they had the audacity to ask for payment. In accordance with his custom, Bully, on this cruise, devoted a good deal of time to studying the soft-eyed Paumotuan _vahine_; and after filling his schooner with a fair amount of plunder, he did, it is stated, take away some ten or fourteen young Paumotu women--not to Chili or Peru, but merely on an extended and indefinite pleasure trip. Most of these young ladies were desirous of getting to Tahiti, where they believed their charms would be better appreciated than in their own island homes. In his characteristic way _Il capitano galantuomo_ offered them free passages. Passing through the Society Group and not entering Papeite Harbour (possibly on account of his strained relations with the French naval authorities) he made his way to the Marquesas. Here some four or five of his lady passengers elected to remain with newly-found lovers, either white or native; and Bully always blessed the union of two happy hearts by recording the affair in his humorously-kept log and giving a spree. If the bridegroom was a white man, Bully would also "buy" his oil, fungus and cotton, make him very drunk, place his laughing and blushing bride in his arms, and then, in his absent-minded way, see him over the side into his boat and sail away without paying. Bully used to say that his defective memory was the cause of all the malignant slanders set afloat about him. And, as regarded women, he used to remark he also suffered from the curious complaint of "moral astigmatism." The rest of the girls reached home somehow, after undergoing a pleasant and varied experience, each being the happy possessor of one of his peculiar and characteristically written testimonials.
It was Bully's humour to give these precious documents to the time-expired members of his harem, in the same manner as an English mistress would give a certificate of character and efficiency to a departing maid. Some of these papers are still extant in Tahiti and Mangareva. Many years ago when buying turtle at the little island of Rurutu, I saw one pasted on a doorpost in a native house. In the Western Carolines and the Pelew Group, when whale ships were plentiful and prosperous, the native girls preserved these "characters" by gumming the paper (often upside down) on a piece of pandanus leaf bordered with devices in bead-work. When a fresh ship arrived, the damsels would bind these around their pretty little foreheads after the manner of phylacteries--and they were always read with deep interest by the blubber-hunting skippers and mates and the after-guard generally. Bully's "characters" ran somewhat in this wise:-- TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.
I, William H. Hayes, hereby certify that the bearer of this, Marutahina of Vahitahi, was with me for four or five months, and I can confidently say that I can recommend her to any one in need of an active young wife, general help, or to do chores. She is a very good girl, and the sole support of her mother--an old thief with a tattooed back who lives on Beka Beka.
***** About 1871, the newspapers on the Pacific slope had a good deal to say of Bully's doings. The _Daily Alta_ of San Francisco used to speak of him as a venturesome and high-spirited American gentleman, upholding the honour of his flag in the South Seas by disregarding the hateful tyranny of petty British Consuls; while the San Francisco _Bulletin_ called him a vile and brutal miscreant who should be hanged on the same gallows with _Alabama_ Sommes and _Shenandoah_ Wardell. (Apropos of the latter gentleman, it is interesting to remember that the Melbourne (Victoria) Club gave a ball at which the adoring women cut off as souvenirs the uniform buttons of the gallant pirate and his officers.) The spitfire _Chronicle_ "claimed" that Captain William Henry Hayes was one of Nature's gentlemen, and "was certainly not the cause of a terrible affliction that had befallen the editor of a certain esteemed morning contemporary." (The wife of the editor referred to had eloped with some one.)
* * * * * During a trading cruise in the Gambier Islands, the captain of our ship saw some young girls whom Hayes had bought from the King of Aana (one of the Chain Islands). They were very young, very scantily dressed, and without doubt very beautiful. They were always chaperoned, day and night, by two old women. One of these ancient dames named Tuna (the Eel) told our captain that, by and by, the "big captain" would come and take them. Tuna had quite a fund of anecdotes about Bully, whom she regarded as immeasurably superior to any white man she had ever seen. When she was a young and giddy girl of sixteen, she had been much admired, so she said, by Lord John--and the officers of His Majesty's ship --------. Bully Hayes, she believed, was Lord John's spirit returned in another and much stronger body and better shape; and just as she had fallen in love with the man-of-war captain, so had all the Aana girls with his latter-day double.
* * * * * At this time, the only white man on the island was a young American lad of about nineteen, and Tuna, and her long-haired, dark-eyed "boarding-school" came to his house, where they sat on an upturned canoe and drank stone-gin (Tuna took hers neat) while teaching him to pronounce properly the Paumotu language. Heavens! what eyes those girls possessed! Like stars they glowed with slumbering liquid fire--the fire of a quick-blooded and passionate race. Any one of these five island girls, our chief mate used to say, would have utterly demoralised even a Trappist monastery, had the holy brothers seen her face peeping in during their devotions. This island, Nukutavake, had but few inhabitants, most of whom had been brought there by Hayes, who, they said, would come again in a year or so, and take them back to Aana and Maga-Beva. They were all political offenders, and to escape death they besought Bully to take them to Nukutavake until "the wrath of the chiefs was dead." Bully, who had an idea that there was a lot of pearl-shell on Nukutavake, gave them all a passage, and also the two old women and the girls before mentioned. One of the latter, Talalua, told the young trader that Kapeni Hesi (Hayes) would have taken her with him but the ship was too small, and he had no more room, and there were two girls from Huaheine--"dogs with much gold in their ears "--with him, who threatened to give her to the sharks if she came aboard. During our stay at this island a schooner from Tahiti came to an anchor, and we learnt from the young American that he was to be removed to another island called Vairaatea. He sailed the following morning, and his departure was marked by the tearful farewells of Bully's beauties and old Tuna, who embraced him and rubbed noses, and wept gin-odorous tears of unalloyed gratitude when he gave her three bottles of liquor. To each of Hayes's nymphs he also presented a piece of book muslin (twelve yards each) and a bottle of musk valued at 2 dollars a bottle. Talalua and Marami each gave him some splendid pieces of hawk-bill shell, and the others contributed among them a silver ring. Poor girls! they had no more to give--a grass _titi_ round their shapely loins and a few silver or gold rings, and ear pendants, being all their worldly wealth and clothing combined. Our young friend was solemnly cautioned never to let Kapeni Hesi know about the turtle-shell and other gifts, or his anger would "eat them up."
On hearing of this farewell testimonial business, the skipper of the schooner that was taking the young fellow away became greatly excited--Hayes, he said, would put his own construction on the gifts. To this, in his youthful innocence, the youth replied that he didn't care, as it was his business to make a present if he chose; whereupon the skipper, a jolly old sea-dog named Tom English, told him that that was all very well, but that he (English) would be looked upon as an accessory, and Hayes would make him suffer for it when they met again.
"Accessory to what?" said the wondering youth.
"D---- your thick skull, you young ass, why, accessory to makin' love to his girls."
This amused us immensely, but as the lad saw that English was serious, and was equally determined not to take the presents back, he wrote a note as follows and showed it to the old fellow, who said it might possibly pass with Bully:-- [Illustration: Accounts 296] Below this he added:-- Capt. Hayes, Dear ------ The above-mentioned I have supplied as per bill. I will feel obliged if you will pay the 120.00 to any of our firm's vessels on my account, I hope that, as I have not charged you native prices, you will pay me soon, Yours, Ac.
He then handed the bill to old Tuna, and told her that she must give it to the captain when he reached Nukutavake. When he did meet Bully a long time afterwards in Samoa, Hayes paid up like a man. But long before this old Tuna had given the trader's bill and letter to Hayes. Two years later the young trader found awaiting him at the American Consulate at Tahiti, the following letter:-- Mr. ------ Dear Sir,--I received your note and bill for supplying some of my household with some rotten cheese-cloth out of your store, which you have the infernal impertinence to call muslin; also, five bottles of stinking bilge-water, labelled musk. I don't know who you are, but you can tell your employers from me, that I will see them roasted before I will give my good money for their filthy and disgusting Sydney trade goods, and when I drop across you, you will get a head put on you that will teach you not to again presume to interfere in my domestic affairs.
Yours very sincerely, Wm. Henry Hayes.
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Three or four years passed by, during which time the writer cruised about from island to island in the North and South Pacific--sometimes living ashore as a trader, sometimes voyaging to and fro among the many groups as supercargo or recruiter in the labour trader; and then one day the schooner, in which I then served as supercargo, reached Samoa, and there I accepted the dignified but unsatisfactory financial position of inter-island supercargo to a firm of merchants doing business in Apia, the distracted little capital of the Navigator's Island. At this time, the late Earl of Pembroke, the joint author with Dr. Kingsley of "South Sea Bubbles," was in Apia Harbour in his schooner yacht _Albatross_, and every day we expected to see the French Pacific Squadron steam into the port and capture the numerous German ships then laying at anchor there. But the gallant Admiral Clouet, who commanded, disdained such work as this--he was willing and eager to fight any German warships that he could come across, but had no inclination for the inglorious task of seizing unarmed merchantmen.
For two years or so I remained in the employ of the trading firm. Hayes then lived in Apia--or rather at Matautu, on the east side of Apia Harbour. When I say lived there, I mean that Samoa was his headquarters, for he was absent six months out of the twelve, cruising away in the North West Pacific among the Caroline and Marshall Groups. His house at Matautu Point was sweetly embowered in a grove of coco-nut and breadfruit trees, and here the so-called pirate exercised the most unbounded hospitality to the residents and to any captains (not Germans) visiting Samoa. Sometimes we would meet, and whenever we did he would urge me to come away with him on a cruise to the north-west; but duty tied me down to my own miserable little craft, a wretched little ketch of sixty tons register, that leaked like a basket and swarmed with myriads of cockroaches and quite a respectable number of centipedes and scorpions.
But it so came about that that cruise with Bully Hayes was to eventuate after all; for one day he returned to Samoa from one of his periodical cruises and told the owners of the aforesaid basket that he could sell her for them to the King of Arhnu--one of the Marshall Islands--for quite a nice sum. And the owners, being properly anxious to get rid of such a dangerous and unprofitable craft before she fell to pieces, at once consented.
Hayes sailed in the _Leonora_ in the month of November, and it was agreed that I was to follow in _The Williams_ (that being the name of my semi-floating abode of misery) in the following month, and meet him at Milli Lagoon, in the Marshall Islands. Here we were to doctor up the wretched little vessel as well as we possibly could, and then send her over to the Island of Arhnu in the same group, and defraud the monarch of that place of £1,000 by handing over the vessel to him.
Of the miseries and hardships of that voyage from Samoa to the Marshall Islands, I shall not speak. After a passage of forty-three days we reached Milli Lagoon, where we found Hayes awaiting us in the _Leonora_. The moment our anchor had touched bottom, I packed up my traps and told Hayes I had done with _The Williams_, and refused to go any further in her unless she was carried on the deck of another vessel. With his carpenter--a pig-eyed Chinaman--he made a survey of the vessel, and then told me that she was so rotten and unseaworthy that he would not take delivery of her. The captain, a gin-sodden little Dutchman, and the crew were given quarters on shore at the house of Hayes's local trader, where they were to remain till some passing ship gave them a passage back to Samoa. The ketch was then beached, as Hayes considered that she might eventually be patched up sufficiently to sell to the King of Arhnu, when the _Leonora_ returned from her cruise to the islands of the North-west Pacific, in six months' time. As I had received no salary from my employers for nearly twelve months (and did not expect any), I consented very cheerfully to this arrangement, and then agreed to sail with Hayes as supercargo.
We sailed from Milli Lagoon for the Kingsmill Group a week later, and visited nearly every island in the cluster, buying coco-nut oil and other produce from the natives and the few scattered white traders. At Arorai, the southernmost island of the group, we found the natives in a state of famine owing to a long and disastrous drought. The condition of these poor people was truly pitiable to see, and the tears came to my eyes when I saw them, scarcely able to stand, crawling over our bulwarks, and eagerly seizing the biscuits and dishes of boiled rice that Hayes gave them with an unstinting hand. They begged us most piteously to take them away somewhere--they cared not where, Samoa, Fiji or Queensland--where they could work on the plantations and at least get food. Five of them ate so voraciously, despite all our endeavours to prevent it, that they died the following day. On the following morning, Hayes called several of the head men of the island into his cabin, and told them that if they were willing, he would take one hundred of the people--men, women, and children--to the German trading station and plantation at Ponapé in the Caroline Islands. Here, he told them, they would have to work for three years for 5 dollars per month each. If, at the end of six months, they found that the Germans did not treat them well, he would bring them back again to their own island on his next voyage to Ponapé. They accepted his offer with the strongest protestations of gratitude, and before noon we sailed with over a hundred of the poor people on board. Before we left, however, Hayes gave the remainder of the population nearly a ton of rice and several casks of biscuits. "You can pay me when the sky of brass has broken and the rain falls, and the land is fertile once more," said the so-called pirate.
We made a quick passage to the Caroline Islands, touching at Kusaie or Strong's Island on our way, and on a Sunday evening swept into Jakoits Harbour on the island of Ponapé before a strong trade-wind. Here we made engagements for our passengers with a German planter, and two days later we again were at sea, bound for the western portion of the Carolines.
For the following three or four months, the brig cruised among the other islands of the Western Carolines, buying copra and turtle-shell in considerable quantities; for the much-maligned "Bully," despite his moral obliquity of vision in his commercial dealings with the merchants of Tahiti and other Polynesian ports, yet possessed the confidence of the wild Caroline Islanders to a remarkable degree. Then we returned to Ponapé, where we remained a month, wooding and watering and cleaning the ship's bottom by the aid of native divers of both sexes.
Leaving Ponapé we drifted rather than sailed back to the eastward, and one morning in March we again saw the verdant heights of beautiful Kusaie or Strong's Island, about ten miles away. On our first visit we had anchored at Coquille Harbour, a lovely lake of deepest blue, on the lee side of the island, where the king had supplied us with all the provisions we wanted; and Hayes had promised to return again in six months and buy a large quantity of coco-nut oil that his Majesty was keeping for him: and in pursuance of that promise the _Leonora_ had now returned to the island.
As the breeze freshened we worked up to Lelé, the principal harbour of the island, where Togusâ, the king, resided, and in a few hours we were boarded by a number of white men, whom we had last seen at two lonely spots near the equator called Pleasant and Ocean Islands. In a few minutes we learnt that in consequence of their lives being in imminent danger from the natives, they, accompanied by their native wives, families, and over one hundred natives connected with them by marriage, had escaped from the islands in two whaleships, and landed at Kusaie, where they were at that moment causing old King Togusà a terrible amount of trouble by their wild and insolent demeanour. Their leader was a white-haired old ex-man-of-war's man, named Harry Terry. He was the doyen of the hardy, adventurous class among whom he had lived for over fifty years, and though exceedingly fond of square gin, was a thoroughly decent old fellow, and tried to restrain his own and his comrades' native followers as much as possible. Harry, when he came on board, was accompanied by about half a dozen other white men, all armed with revolvers, and all half-seas over. After a brief consultation with Hayes, they agreed to pay him a thousand dollars to take them and their belongings to Eniwetok (or Brown's Range) and Arrecifos (Providence Island) two large atolls situated about 10 degrees North. Both of these places were very thinly populated, and Arrecifos was Hayes's secret rendezvous in the North Pacific. His was the first ship that had ever sailed into its lagoon, and the vast groves of coco-nuts that clothed the low-lying island had decided him to return there at some future time with native labourers and turn the coco-nuts into oil. The traders were highly delighted at the prospect of securing homes in two such places to themselves, and agreed to sell Hayes all the oil they produced during the next five years, and give him one barrel out of every five as a tribute of recognition of his ownership of Providence Island and Eniwetok.
On the following day the whole lot came on board, and we left Lelé Harbour to proceed down the coast to a little harbour named Utwe, where Hayes intended to water the ship and buy fresh provisions for the voyage to Providence Island. Just before we sailed, the King and Queen--the latter a very pretty and charming little woman about five-and-twenty years of age--came on board to make some purchases from my trade-room, and I had the distinguished honour of fitting on and selling to Queen Se a yellow silk blouse and two pairs of patent leather shoes. His Majesty, who was a curious combination of piety and inborn wickedness, and spoke whaler's English with great facility, bought about 200 dollar's worth of prints and cutlery, and then proceeded to get drunk. He said that he was very glad the _Leonora_ was taking all the white men away from Kusaie, as he was afraid of their Pleasant Island retinue killing him and all his people, and taking possession of the island.
By the time Queen Se had finished and paid for her purchases her royal husband fell in a heap upon the cabin floor, and a number of twenty-dollar gold pieces, which he carried in a leather pouch at his waist, fell out and rolled all over the cabin. The Queen at once picked them up, and concealed them in the bosom of her dress, telling me with a smile that she would come on board again when we returned from Arrecifos, or as she called it, Ujilong, and spend them. Shortly afterward, her women attendants carried his Majesty up on deck, and Hayes sent him ashore in one of our boats; and then, with our decks filled with the noisy, excitable Pleasant and Ocean Islanders, and the white traders rolling about among them in a state of noisy intoxication, we got under way, and, with our yards squared, ran down the coast within a cable length of the reef.
***** Three days later we were driven ashore in a fierce north-westerly gale and the trim little _Leonora_ sank in Utwe Harbour in fourteen fathoms of water.
The story of the wreck of the _Leonora_ in Utwe Harbour has been told by the writer in another work, so I will now merely describe some incidents of our stay on the island. First of all, however, let me make some brief mention of the island and its people. Kusaie is about thirty-five miles in circumference and of basaltic formation, and from the coast to the lofty summit of Mount Buache, 2,200 feet high, is clothed with the richest verdure imaginable. The northern part of the island rises precipitously from the sea, and has no outlying barrier reef, but from the centre the land trends westward and southward in a graceful slope towards the beautiful shores of Coquille Harbour. The southern portion is enclosed by a chain of palm-clad coral islets, connected at low water by reefs, forming a long, deep lagoon, the waters of which teem with fish and turtle. This lagoon was used as a means of communication between the village of Utwe Harbour, where the _Leonora_ was wrecked, and the village at Coquille, and all day long one might see the red-painted canoes of the natives passing to and fro over its glassy waters, which were, from their enclosed position, seldom raffled by any wind, except daring the rainy or westerly wind season. There were but three villages of any size on the island--that at Lelé, where the King and his principal chiefs lived, Utwe or Port Lottin, and Moût or Leasee, on the shores of Coquille Harbour. At this latter place I lived most of the time during my stay on the island.
We were enabled to save a considerable amount of stores from the wreck, as well as some arms and ammunition. There were also a bull and two cows, which formed the remainder of a herd of cattle that Hayes had running on the island of Ponapé; the rest--some forty head or so--had been stolen from there by his one-time bosom friend and colleague, the notorious Captain Ben Peese.
The natives of Strong's Island were but few in number--about four hundred all told--and although a very handsome race and possessed of the very greatest intelligence, were dying out rapidly. In 1825, when Duperrey, the French navigator, visited the island he estimated the population at eleven thousand, and Don Felipe Tompson, an Englishman in the Spanish Navy, who was there long before Duperrey, relates that the houses of the people formed an almost continuous line around the southern and western coasts. The introduction of European diseases made terrible ravages among them in 1828, and then about the year 1856, when the whole of the population were converted by American missionaries and adopted European clothing, pulmonary disease made its appearance and swept them away literally in hundreds.
Within a week after the loss of the brig Hayes and our passengers came to an agreement to build a town on the south shore of Utwe. They were to give Hayes the services of their native followers and help him to build dwelling-houses and store-houses for the manufacture of coco-nut oil. Hayes had accused--and with perfect truth--the Strong's Islanders of stealing a number of articles from the wreck, and demanded compensation from the King, who agreed to pay him an indemnity of a million coco-nuts. These were to be collected by our crew and the Ocean and Pleasant Islanders belonging to the traders. It was Hayes's intention to remain on the island till a passing sperm-whaler called there, and then charter her to take the ship's company and all the rest of the traders and natives to either Providence Island or Samoa.
In a month quite a town had been built, and a great sea wall of coral stones built to keep the sea from encroaching on the northern side. Standing apart from the rest of the houses was Captain Hayes's dwelling-house--an enormous structure, a hundred and fifty feet long and fifty wide. Here he ruled in state, and from his door watched his boats, manned by their savage crews, pulling to and fro on their mission of collecting coco-nuts. These, as soon as the boats touched the stone wharf he had built on the west side of the sea-wall, were carried up to the "Plaza" of the town, where they were quickly husked by women, who threw them to others to break open and scrape the white flesh into a pulp. This was then placed in slanting troughs to rot and let the oil percolate down into casks placed at the lower end. On the other side of the "plaza" were the forge, carpenter's shop, and boat-builder's sheds, all of which bustled with activity, especially when the dreaded eye of the captain looked over toward them. Two hundred yards away was the Kusaiean village of Utwe, a collection of about twenty handsomely built houses, and all day long the pale olive-faced Kusaiean men and women would sit gazing in wondering fear at the fierce Pleasant Island women, who, clothed in short girdles of grass called "aireere," sang a savage chant as they husked the nuts. In front of Hayes's house was hung the _Leonora's_ bell, and at noon and at six in the evening, when it was struck, the whole of the people who toiled at the oil-making and boat-building would hurry away with loud clamour for their meals. It was a truly exciting scene to witness, and were it not for the continual drunkenness of most of the white traders, who could be seen staggering about the "plaza" almost at any time, a pleasant one.
After a while, however, Hayes and the white traders began to quarrel, and dreadful bloodshed would have followed; for the Pleasant Islanders, who were all devotedly attached to their white masters and were all armed with Snider rifles and cutlasses, were eager for their white men to make an assault upon Hayes and the crew of the _Leonora_. One night they gathered in front of their houses and danced a war-dance, but their white leaders discreetly kept in the background when Hayes appeared coming over toward them. He walked through the throng of natives, and in a very few minutes, although he was unarmed, picked out the biggest man of the lot and gave him a bad mauling about in the presence of every one in the village. One of the traders, a young American of thirty or so, named "Harry," at once declared that he was not going back on the captain, and would stand by him to the last, whereupon the others sullenly withdrew to their respective houses, and the trouble ended for the time.
This "Harry" was formerly a boat steerer on an American whaleship, from which he had deserted, and had been living on Pleasant Island for some years. He had four wives, whom he described as "the three Graces, with another chucked in," and though a rough, dare-devil fellow, he was, with the exception of old Harry Terry, the only one of the lot that was not a hopeless drunkard and ruffian. By one of his wives, a native of Sikaiana or Stewart's Island, he had two children, both girls. They were then about eight and ten years of age respectively, and were, I often thought, the loveliest specimens of childish beauty imaginable, and at the moment when their father stepped out from among the other traders and declared his intention of standing by Captain Hayes, each had a heavy navy revolver which their father had given them to carry in case he needed the weapons.
In the course of a month or so I had a serious disagreement with Captain Hayes over his treatment of a deputation of Strong's Islanders, and I left the settlement at Utwe, and removed to Leassé, the village at Coquille Harbour. The principal man in the place was a native named Kusis, with whom, and his wife Tulpe and daughter Kinié, I lived during the remainder of my stay on the island. And, although more than twenty-five years have passed and gone since then, I can never forget the kindness, warm-hearted hospitality, and amiability that filled their simple hearts to overflowing.
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When Hayes and I quarrelled, the American trader, "Harry," who had hitherto stood by "Bully" sided with me, with the result that Hayes passionately declared that both of us were at the bottom of a conspiracy to lower his prestige and lessen his authority, not only with the other white men but with the natives as well. This was an utterly unfounded accusation, for we liked the man, but did not like the way in which he had treated the deputation of Strong's Islanders, who protested against his permitting the continual abduction of young Kusaiean girls by members of his crew.
I had brought the deputation to him, for Harry and myself were _persona grata_ with the natives, who all knew that Hayes had a great liking for us. But to my astonishment and indignation, "Bully" turned on me furiously, called me a meddlesome young fool, prefixing the "fool" with some very strong adjectives, and then, losing all control of himself, he sprang at one of the members of the deputation--the youngest and strongest--and lifting him up in his arms, literally forced the unfortunate young man out of the house--not by the door, but through the side, tearing a hole in the thin lattice woodwork big enough to admit a bollock. The remainder of the deputation at once retired, and, as I have mentioned in the previous chapter, "Bully" and myself parted, each deeply incensed.
Harry, who had a large following of wild, intractable Pleasant Islanders, all of whom were armed with Snider rifles, moved over to the opposite shore of Utwe Harbour with "the three Graces and the fourth chucked in," promising to come and see me at Leassé after he had "settled down a bit."
My reason for removing to Leassé was that I knew the place very well through frequent visits there, and Eusis, the head man or chief, had constantly pressed me to come there and live; so a few hours after my quarrel with Hayes I made a start, accompanied by two Strong's Islanders named Sru and Nana, both of whom came from Leassé, and were delighted that I was leaving Utwe to come to their own village.
They assured me that I was doing wisely in leaving the captain, that the people of Leassé would gladly receive me, and that I would find great pig-hunting and pigeon-shooting among the dense forests that lay at the back of the village.
Our way lay over the waters of a deep but winding lagoon, which from Utwe to Coquille Harbour is bounded on the ocean side by a chain of narrow, thickly wooded, and fertile islets, the haunt of myriads of sea-birds and giant robber crabs. This chain of islets lay on our left hand; on our right the steep, forest-clad mountains of Strong's Island rose abruptly from the still waters of the lagoon. The lagoon itself averaged about a mile in width, and here and there, dotted upon its placid, glassy surface, were tiny isolated islets of perhaps not more than an acre in extent, but covered with a dense mass of the loveliest verdure imaginable, from the centre of which rose a group of half a dozen or so of stately coco-nut palms. Each islet was encircled by a snow-white beach, descending abruptly to the water, the great depth of which enabled us to paddle within a foot or so of the shore.
We had left Utwe just after daylight, and though the trade-wind was blowing freshly outside and we could hear the thunder of the ocean rollers pounding on the outside reef beyond the encircling chain of islets half a mile away, scarcely the faintest breath of air disturbed the blue depths of the lagoon. The canoe was light and our three paddles sent her over the waters at a great rate. My two companions were both young men, and, unlike most of the people of Strong's Island, who are a reserved and melancholy race, they laughed and sang merrily to the strokes of their red-stained paddles.
Here and there, as we skimmed along the shore of the forest-clad mountains of the mainland, we would pass a village of six or seven houses, and the small-made, light-complexioned folk would, as they heard the sound of our voices, come out and eagerly beseech us to come in "and eat and rest awhile."
But pleased as I would have been to have landed and accepted their hospitality--for I was known to every native on the island--my crew urged me not to delay so early on our journey. Sometimes, however, these kindly-hearted people would not be denied, and boys and girls would run parallel to our canoe along the beach and implore Sru and Nana and the "white man" to stay "just a little, just a very, very little time, and tell them the news from Utwe."
And then, as we rested on our paddles and talked, under pretence of getting closer to us they would dash into the water and seizing the gunwales of the canoe laughingly insist upon our coming ashore and entering their cool houses, and indeed it was hard to resist their blandishments. Then, once we were inside, they would tell us that they would not let us go till we had eaten and drunk a little.
A little! Basket after basket of cooked fish, crayfish, pigeons, baked pork, bunches of bananas and kits of oranges and heaps of luscious pineapples would be placed before us, and they seemed absolutely pained at my inability to eat more than a few mouthfuls. All the men at these isolated villages were away at Leassé or elsewhere in the vicinity of Coquille Harbour, and the women and young girls pretended to be very much frightened at being left by themselves for a couple of days. They were afraid, they said, that Captain Hayes's wild Pleasant Island natives might come up the lagoon and harry their villages--wouldn't we stay with them till their husbands and brothers came back?
Now, we knew all this was nonsense. There was no fear of the Pleasant Islanders' boats coming up the lagoon to these little villages when there was richer prey nearer at hand, so we only laughed. Many of the young boys and girls were of great personal beauty, and, indeed, so were many of the young unmarried women, but their light skins were stained and disfigured by the application of turmeric. At one of these places our pretty tormentors played us a trick. While we were in a house and having kava prepared in the Micronesian fashion, by pounding the green root into a hollowed stone, the girls carried our canoe up bodily from the beach and hid it in a clump of breadfruit trees about two hundred yards away. When we bade goodbye to the elder women, who had given us the kava, and walked down to the beach the canoe was gone.
"Here, you girls," said Nana, "where is our canoe? Don't play these foolish tricks; the white man must get to Leassé before darkness sets in."
But the imps only laughed at us, and for some minutes we had a great game with them, chasing them about. At last we tired of this, and, lighting our pipes, sat down to smoke under a great banyan, whose branches reached far out over the white beaches. One of the children, a merry-eyed girl of ten, with long hair that almost touched her knees, was a bit of a humorist, and told us that we might as well stay for the night, as the canoe was gone for ever.
"Where to?" we asked.
"Up there," she answered, with the gravest countenance imaginable, pointing skyward. "A big kanapu (fish eagle) was soaring overhead, and suddenly swooped down and seized it in his claws and flew away into the blue with it."
At last, however, they came back, carrying the canoe among them, and with much laughter dropped it into the water. Then they filled it with as many young drinking coco-nuts and as much fruit as we could stow, and bade us farewell, running along the beach with us till a high, steep bluff shut them off from following us any further.
By and by, as we paddled along, the sun began to get pretty hot, and we kept in as close as possible under the shade of the steep shores of the mainland. Overhead was a sky of matchless, cloudless blue, and sailing to and fro on motionless wing were numbers of tropic birds, their long scarlet retrices showing in startling contrast to their snow-white body plumage. All round about us turtle would rise every now and then, and taking a look at us, sink out of sight again. From the dense mountain forest, that earlier in the morning had resounded with the heavy booming note of the great grey pigeons and the cooing note of the little purple doves, not a sound now came forth, for the birds were roosting in the shade from the heat of the sun. Half a mile or so away, through a break in the chain of low islets, we could see the tumbling blue of the ocean, and over the tree-tops the white spume of the breakers as they leapt upon the iron-bound coast.
We made fast our canoe to a jutting point of rock and rested awhile and smoked. The tide was on the flow, and as the water came swirling and eddying in from the great passage in the reef five miles away, there came with it countless thousands of fish of the mullet species, seeking their food among the mangrove creeks and flats that lay behind us. They did not swim in an orderly, methodical fashion, but leapt and spun and danced about as if thrown up out of the water by some invisible power beneath. Sometimes they would rise simultaneously, thousands at a time, and, taking a leap, descend again with an extraordinary noise. Then, quick as lightning, they would make three or four such leaps in succession with the regularity and precision of machinery. Hovering and fluttering above them on tireless wing were numbers of sea-birds, which ever and again darted down amongst them and rose with hoarse, triumphant note, prey in mouth.
We lay resting quietly till the incoming tide had spent its strength, and then once more pushed out into the transparent depths of the lagoon. Bight ahead of us, after another hour's paddling, lay a long, gleaming point of sand covered with a grove of palms; beyond that a wide sweep of pale green shallow water; beyond that again the wild tumble and fret of the surf on the barrier reef.
Laying down our paddles--for we were now in shallow water--we took up our three long canoe poles, and striking them on the hard, sandy bottom in unison we sent the canoe spinning round to the point, and as we rounded it there lay before us the brown roofs of the village of Leassé nestling under the shade of its groves. This was, as I have said, to be my home for many long but happy months.
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The moment we came in sight of the village, Nana, the native who was for'ard, stood up and gave a loud cry, which was immediately answered by some invisible person near us; and then the cry was taken up by some one else nearer the village. In a few minutes we saw the people coming out of their queer-looking, saddle-backed dwellings and running down to the beach, where, by the time we shot the canoe up on the sand, the whole population was gathered to welcome us.
Standing a little in front of the rest of the villagers was the head man, swarthy-faced, clean-shaved Kusis; beside him Tulpe, his wife, a graceful young woman of about five-and-twenty, and her husband's little daughter by a former wife. This child was named Kinié, a merry-faced, laughing-voiced sprite, ten years of age, with long, wavy, and somewhat unkempt hair hanging down over her shining copper-coloured shoulders.
Kusis spoke English well, and the moment I got out of the canoe he shook hands with me, his wife and daughter following suit, and said he was glad that I had left the settlement at Utwe; that King Togusâ and Queen Se had sent him word that I intended leaving the other white men, and that if I came to Leassé or any other Tillage on the lee side of the island I was to be well cared for; "but," he added, "you an' me will talk 'bout this by and by. Come first to my house, and eat and smoke."
Here an old man, renowned as a great wild boar hunter, thrust himself through the surrounding crowd, and asked my name. His keen, wrinkled visage was all but enshrouded by a mass of snowy-white hair that made him present a very curious appearance--much like that of a Poland fowl. He shook hands with me vigorously, and then made a speech to the others, pointing his finger alternately at myself and then to his own breast. Knowing but little of the difficult Strong's Island language, I was at first under the impression that the old man was not pleased at the advent of a white man; but I was soon pleasantly undeceived, for at the conclusion of his speech every man, woman, and child came up in turn and solemnly shook hands with me.
Motioning to Sru and Nana--my crew--to hand my few little effects, which consisted of clothing, tobacco, and a Winchester rifle and ammunition, out of the canoe, the whole party of us started off for Kusis's house, the old pig-hunter proudly carrying the Winchester in advance, and Kusis and his wife each holding one of my hands.
Not one of them now spoke a word, and only that it would have given serious offence, the temptation to laugh at being led about like a child was very great. In another minute or two we reached the head man's house, a handsome, well-built structure of coral stone, with a thatched roof and cane-work floor raised some two feet or so off the ground. Here all the males in the company sat down to eat, while the women waited upon them.
In the whole village there were but a hundred people, and, with the exception of two or three young men who were away turtle-catching, they were now all present. After we had finished eating, Kusis repeated the King's message to me, and wanted to know what I intended to do--to live at Leassé, or "go and look at the other places along the coast, and see if there was a better place than Leassé?"
Leassé, I said, should be my home. I knew him and some others besides in Leassé, and liked the place and the people, etcetera. They appeared very pleased at this, and Eusis at once desired me to point out the spot whereon my house was to be built--meanwhile I was to live with him till it was completed. I chose a site about thirty yards away from where we stood; and then, to show that no time would be lost, Eusis at once sent five or six men into the bush to cut posts, and ordered all the women and girls to begin making the thatch for the roof and cutting cane for the walls and floor.
I must ask my readers to bear in mind that the friendship of these people for an almost unknown white man was inspired by no unworthy motive. Kusis and his people, as well as the King and Queen, knew that when the brig was lost I had saved nothing whatever from the wreck. Such little clothing as I had with me had been given to me by the young American trader before mentioned, and old Harry Terry had given me half a small tierce of tobacco and the Winchester rifle and cartridges. And shortly after the wreck of the brig it had been my fortunate lot to prevent a number of Strong's Islanders from serious ill-treatment by some of my white companions, and for this their gratitude knew no bounds. I found that the old King, as soon as he heard that young Harry and myself had separated from the other white men, had sent messengers to every place on the island telling them to treat us well. He was, however, terribly afraid of Harry's Pleasant Island natives, and anxious that he should keep them under control and disarm them. I told Kusis that the King had no reason to fear any harm coming to his people from Harry's followers, who would be kept well in hand by their master, furthermore that I had heard Harry threaten to shoot dead the first man that either robbed or offered violence to any Strong's Islander. They seemed much pleased at this, and told me that in the old days they were afraid of no one, and were a great fighting people, but since their conversion to Christianity all the fight had gone out of them; and, indeed, I found them, although a generous and amiable race, very cowardly.
During the time my house was being built I made friends with every boy and girl in the village; they took an especial delight in taking me about shooting and fishing. At the rear of Leassé the forest-clad mountains rise in a gradual but magnificent sweep to a height of two thousand feet, and on the second day after my arrival we set out to try and shoot some wild pigs, with which the dense mountain jungle abounded. The only adult beside myself with the party was the old boar hunter Rii. He was armed with a very heavy wooden spear, with a keen steel head, shaped like a whaler's lance, whilst the rest of the party, who were composed of boys and girls ranging in years from ten to fifteen, carried lighter spears. Every girl had two or three mongrel curs held in a leash. These animals were, however, well trained in pig-hunting and never barked until the prey was either being run down or was brought to bay. Amongst the children were two half-castes--brother and sister. The boy was about twelve, the girl a couple of years older. I learnt that their father, who was dead, was an Englishman, a deserter from a man-of-war. He had married a girl at Coquille Harbour, and, after living on Strong's Island for a few years, had gone with his wife and children to the Western Carolines, where he was killed in an attack on a native fortress, and the woman and boy and girl had returned to their native land in a whaleship. The girl spoke English very well, and although she was naked to the waist when we first started out, a feeling of modesty made her return to the village and don a man's singlet. Old Rii, our leader, who could not speak a word of English, called the pair up to me, and, pointing to the boy, said "Te-o" (Joe), and to the girl, "Lit-si" (Lizzie). Although they were much lighter in colour than the rest of our company, I had no idea they had white blood in their veins till the girl said shyly, "This is my brother; my father belong to England." I afterwards found from her that she only knew her father as "Bob"--his surname was never known.
For the first mile or two we walked along the banks of a noisy mountain stream, which here and there formed into deep pools, with a bottom of bright blue stones. These pools contained many fish, as well as vast numbers of crayfish. One of the girls with us carried fishing-tackle, and in a few minutes some rods were cut, the hooks baited with small crayfish, and several fine fish landed. These were at once cooked, the fires being kindled on some large, flat basalt stones, which were lying scattered about on the bank. On inquiring how these stones came to be there, I was told by "Lizzie" that they were the remains of an old wall that once enclosed one of the ancient villages. Afterwards we came across many similar sites, which seemed to bear out the statements of Duperrey and other navigators, that Strong's Island was once inhabited by over twenty thousand people. At the present time the population does not reach five hundred. One of these places was situated on the summit of a spur of the great mountain range that traverses the island. The top of the mountain had been levelled as flat as a table, and a space of about an acre was covered with what appeared to be a floor of huge basaltic prisms, laid closely together. What the purpose of such gigantic labour was none of my companions had any idea, and on my inquiring from Lizzie how these stones, many of which weighed several tons, were carried to such an extraordinary height up such a steep ascent, she shook her head, and said, "You ask Rii. He is a very old man, and not a Christian, and knows all about the old times. But please don' ask me. The missionaries don' let us talk of the bad days (i.e., heathen times)." This put an end to all inquiry on my part, as old Rii could not speak a word of English, save a few vigorous expressions he had acquired from whale-ships and which he was very fond of using, and I was only just learning the Kusaie language.
As we travelled up along the sides of the mountain we saw numbers of large, fat pigeons. They seemed to feel no alarm whatever at our presence. Their note, which is very deep and resonant, filled the air with strange, weird echoes that reverberated amongst the silence of the mountain forest. On reaching a little plateau on the side of a spur, old Rii stopped, and beckoned to us to keep silence, at the same time sending all the boys below the plateau. Peering cautiously through the jungle, we saw, lying down on the moss-covered ground at the butt of a tree, a sow with her litter. We lay very quiet till the boys had formed a cordon at the lower edge of the plateau, so as to cut off escape in that direction, and then Rii whispered to me to shoot the sow in the belly, but not to hit any of her litter if I could help it, as we could easily take them alive with the dogs. Just as I was about to fire the old sow raised her head, and I fired at her shoulder. At the same moment our twenty curs were let go, and the sow, although the bullet had smashed her shoulder, at once tore down the plateau, followed by her progeny, but catching sight of the cordon of boys below, at once turned, and, injured as she was, made up towards the summit of the mountain with incredible speed. Then began the fan, the dogs yelping and howling, and the boys and girls screaming with excitement, as they plunged through the undergrowth and vines in pursuit. Nearly on the summit was a huge tree, with foliage like an Australian white cedar, and here was the old pig's lair, for the soil at its buttressed foot was scooped out into deep holes.
When we had succeeded in gaining the top the dogs were running round and round the tree, making the most horrible din imaginable, but not daring to venture into the hole where the old sow was. Suddenly we saw a huge black head, with two great curved tusks, protrude out of one of the dark recesses, and the next instant a great black boar burst out and charged at the dogs, followed by the wounded sow and five little black-and-yellow suckers. Old as he Was, Rii showed his prowess, for, calling out to the boys and girls to see that none of the young pigs got down the spur, he advanced spear in hand towards the boar, which, after his first charge, had backed up to the tree again, and now stood surrounded by dogs and frothing his savage jaws. Already he had two or three light spears sticking into his stomach and rump.
Followed by a couple of girls who carried baskets of wood ashes, old Rii got to within a dozen feet of the great brute, and, taking a basket of ashes, threw it at the boar. It struck him fair in the face, and the contents smothered his head and forequarters, blinding him for a second or two; and then, at the same moment, Rii sprang forward and plunged his heavy spear deep into the creature's bowels. But even then the boar was game, and, with a terrific snort of rage, made another charge, only to meet half a dozen spear-thrusts.
A bullet through his head soon finished him, and then began the chase after the young suckers, every one of which was caught. Small as they were, they fought and snapped and bit viciously, and acted generally like little fiends. As for the old sow, she was killed by the dogs; she was very poor and mangy, but the suckers were as round as balls.
Slinging the huge carcase of the boar from a stout pole, we returned to the village at nightfall. On the way down my two young half-caste friends told me that it is a habit peculiar to the wild sows of Strong's Island, when rearing their young, to flee to the lair of the boar when alarmed, and that sometimes the boar will kill every one of her young when harassed by dogs, and then, bursting through them, leave his partner to her fate.
***** Month after month passed away in the quiet little village of Leassé without the writer seeing anything of his former shipmates in the _Leonora_. Sometimes Hayes's boats would come to within a mile or so of the entrance to Coquille Harbour in their quests for coco-nuts, but, fortunately for the peace of the villagers, their crews never ventured so far as the village itself. Perhaps, indeed, they did not know where it was, for the high-peaked, saddle-backed houses were embowered in a thick grove of breadfruit and durian-trees about half a mile from the beach; and only the white curling smoke arising from the fires as the women cooked the morning and evening meals would have revealed its presence.
One peaceful, monotonously happy day followed another till at last, in the first flush of one bright tropic sunrise, a stately British man-of-war rounded the north end of the island, and furling her snow-white canvas--for she made the land under sail--steamed into Lelé Harbour. And the next day Hayes fled from the island in an open boat, and I, with three others of the _Leonora's_ company, saw from the decks of the corvette the blue peaks of Kusaie sink into the sea.
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{
"id": "24998"
}
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1
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. A Face.
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Although the sun was approaching the horizon, its slanting rays found a young artist still bending over his easel. That his shoulders are broad is apparent at a glance; that upon them is placed a shapely head, well thatched with crisp black hair, is also seen at once; that the head is not an empty one is proved by the picture on the easel, which is sufficiently advanced to show correct and spirited drawing. A brain that can direct the hand how to do one thing well, is like a general who has occupied a strategic point which will give him the victory if he follows up his advantage.
A knock at the door is not answered at once by the intent and preoccupied artist, but its sharp and impatient repetition secures the rather reluctant invitation, "Come in," and even as he spoke he bent forward to give another stroke.
"Six o'clock, and working still!" cried the intruder. "You will keep the paint market active, if you achieve nothing else as an artist."
"Heigho! Ik, is that you?" said he of the palette, good-naturedly; and rising slowly he gave a lingering look at his work, then turned and greeted his friend with the quiet cordiality of long and familiar acquaintance. "What a marplot you are with your idle ways!" he added. "Sit down here and make yourself useful for once by doing nothing nothing for ten minutes. I am in just the mood and have just the light for a bit of work which perhaps I can never do as well again," and the artist returned promptly to his picture.
In greeting his friend he had revealed that he was above middle height, that he had full black eyes that were not only good for seeing, but could also, if he chose, give great emphasis to his words, and at times be even more expressive. A thick mustache covered his lip, but the rest of his face was cleanly shaven, and was strong and decided in its outlines rather than handsome.
"They say a woman's work is never done," remarked Ik Stanton, dropping into the easiest chair in the studio, "and for this reason, were there no other, your muse is evidently of the feminine persuasion. I also admit that she is a lady of great antiquity. Indeed I would place her nearer to the time when 'Adam delved and Eve span' than to the classic age."
"My dear Ik," responded the artist, "I am often at a loss to know whether I love or despise you most. If a little of the whirr of our great grandam's spinning wheel would only get into your brain the world might hear from you. You are a man of unbounded stomach and unbounded heart, and so you have won all there is of me except my head, and that disapproves of you."
"A fig for the world! what good will it do me or it to have it hear from me? you ambitious fellows are already making such a din that the poor old world is half ready for Bedlam; and would go stark mad were it not for us quiet, easy-going people, who have time for a good dinner and a snack between meals. You've got a genius that's like a windmill in a trade wind, always in motion; you are worth more money than I shall ever have, but you are the greatest drudge in the studio building, and work as many hours as a house-painter."
"When your brain once gets in motion, Ik, fiction will be its natural product. You must admit that I have not painted many pictures."
"That is one of the things I complain of; I, your bosom friend and familiar, your, I might add, guardian angel--I, who have so often saved your life by quenching the flame of your consuming genius with a hearty dinner, have been able to obtain one picture only from you, and as one might draw a tooth. Your pictures are like old maid's children--they must be so perfect that they can't exist at all. But come, the ten minutes are up. Here's the programme for the evening--a drive in the Park and a little dinner at a cool restaurant near Thomas's Garden, and then the concert. That prince of musical caterers has made a fine selection for to-night, and, with the cigar stand on one side of us and the orchestra on the other, we are certain to kill a couple of hours that will die like swans."
"You mention the cigar-stand first."
"Why not? Smoke is more real than empty sound."
"Are you not equally empty, Ik, save after dinner? How have the preceding hours of this long day been killed?"
"Like boas. They have enfolded me with a weary weight."
"The snakes in your comparison are larger than your pun, and the pun, rather than yourself, suggests a constrictor's squeeze."
"Come, you are only abusing me to gain time, and you may gain too much. My horses have more mettle than their master, and may carry off my trap and groom to parts unknown, while you are wasting paint and words. You are like the animals at the Park, that are good-natured only after they are fed. So shut up your old paint shop, and come along; we will shorten our ride and lengthen our dinner."
With mutual chaffing and laughter the young men at last went down to where a liveried coachman and a pair of handsome bays were in waiting. Taking the high front seat and gathering up the reins, Ik Stanton, with his friend Harold Van Berg at his side, bowled away towards the Park at a rapid pace.
Harold Van Berg was, in truth, something of a paradox. He was an artist, and yet was rich; he had inherited large wealth, and yet had formed habits of careful industry. The majority of his young acquaintances, who had been launched from homes like his own, were known only as sons of their fathers, and degenerate sons at that. Van Berg was already winning a place among men on the ground of what he was and could do himself.
It were hard to say which was the stronger motive, his ambition or the love of his art; but it seemed certain that between the two, such talent as he had been endowed with would be developed quite thoroughly. And he did possess decided talent, if not genius. But his artistic gift accorded with his character, and was controlled by judgement, correct taste, and intellectuality rather than by strong and erratic impulses. His aims were definite and decided rather than vague and diffusive; but his standards were so high that, thus far, he had scarcely attempted more than studies that were like the musician's scales by which he seeks to acquire a skill in touch that shall enable him to render justly the works of the great composers.
His family had praised his work unstintedly, and honestly thought it wonderful; he had also been deluged with that kind of flattery which relaxes the rules of criticism in favor of the wealthy. Thus it was not strange that the young fellow, at one time, believed that he was born to greatness by a kindly decree of fate. But as his horizon widened he was taught better. His mind, fortunately, grew faster than his vanity, and as he compared his crude but promising work with that of mature genius, he was not stricken with that most helpless phase of blindness--the inability to see the superiority of others to one's self. Every day, therefore, of study and observation was now chastening Harold Van Berg and preparing him to build his future success on the solid ground of positive merit as compared with that of other and gifted artists.
Van Berg's taste and talent led him to select, as his specialty, the human form and countenance, and he chiefly delighted in those faces which were expressive of some striking or subtle characteristic of the indwelling mind. He would never be content to paint surfaces correctly, giving to features merely their exact proportions. Whether the face were historical, ideal, or a portrait, the controlling trait or traits of the spirit within must shine through, or else he regarded the picture as scarcely half finished.
A more sincere idolator than Van Berg, in his worship of beauty, never existed; but it was the beauty of a complete man or a complete woman. Even in his early youth he had not been so sensuous as to be captivated by that opaque fragment of a woman--an attractive form devoid of a mind. Indeed with the exception of a few boyish follies, his art had been his mistress thus far, and it was beginning to absorb both heart and brain.
With what a quiet pulse--with what a complacent sense of security we often meet those seemingly trivial events which may change the whole character of our lives! The ride had been taken, the dinner enjoyed, and the two friends were seated in the large cool hallway off the concert garden, where they could smoke without offence. The unrivalled leader, Thomas, had just lifted his baton--that magic wand whose graceful yet mysterious motion evokes with equal ease, seemingly, the thunder of a storm, the song of a bird, the horrid din of an inferno, or a harmony so pure and lofty as to suggest heavenly strains. One of Beethoven's exquisite symphonies was to be rendered, and Van Berg threw away his half-burned cigar, settled himself in his chair and glanced around with a congratulatory air, as if to say, "Now we are to have one of those pleasures which fills the cup of life to overflowing."
Oh, that casual glance! It was one of those things that we might justly call "little." Could anything have been more trivial, slight, and apparently inconsequential than this half involuntary act? Indeed it was too aimless even to have been prompted by a conscious effort of the will. But this book is one of the least results of that momentary sweep of the eye. Another was, that Van Berg did not enjoy the symphony at all, and was soon in a very bad humor. That casual glance had revealed, not far away, a face that with his passion for beauty, at once riveted his attention. His slight start and faint exclamation, caused Ik Stanton to look around also, and then, with a mischievous and observant twinkle in his eyes, the bon vivant resumed his cigar, which no symphony could exorcise from his mouth.
At a table just within the main audience room, there sat a young lady and gentleman. Even Van berg, who made it his business to discover and study beauty, was soon compelled to admit to himself that he had never seen finer features than were possessed by this fair young stranger. Her nose was straight, her upper lip was short, and might have been modelled from Cupid's bow; her chin did not form a perfect oval after the cold and severe Grecian type, but was slightly firm and prominent, receding with decided yet exquisite curves to the full white throat. Her cheeks had a transparent fairness, in which the color came and went instead of lingering in any conventional place and manner; her hair was too light to be called brown and too dark to be golden, but was shaded like that on which the sunlight falls in one of Bougereau's pictures of "Mother and Child;" and it rippled away from a broad low brow in natural waves, half hiding the small, shell-like ears.
Van Berg at first though her eyes to be her finest feature, but he soon regarded them as the worst, and for the same reason, as he speedily discovered, that the face, each feature of which seemed perfect, became, after brief study, so unsatisfactory as to cause positive annoyance. To a passing glance they were large, dark, beautiful eyes, but they lost steadily under thoughtful scrutiny. A flashing gem may seem real at first, but as its meretricious rays are analyzed, they lose their charm because revealing a stone not only worthless worse than worthless, since it mocks us with a false resemblance, thus raising hopes only to disappoint them. The other features remained beautiful and satisfactory to Van Berg's furtive observation because further removed from the informing mind, and therefore more justly capable of admiration upon their own merits; but the eyes are too near akin to the animating spirit not to suffer from the relationship, should the spirit be essentially defective.
That the beautiful face was but a transparent mask of a deformed, dwarfed, contemptible little soul was speedily made evident. The cream and a silly flirtation with her empty-headed attendant--a pallid youth who parted his hair like a girl and had not other parts worth naming--absorbed her wholly, and the exquisite symphony was no more to her than an annoying din which made it difficult to hear her companion's compliments that were as sweet, heavy, and stale as Mailard's chocolates, left a year on the shelves. Their mutual giggle and chatter at last became so obtrusive that an old and music-loving German turned his broad face towards them, and hissed out the word "Hist!" with such vindictive force as to suggest that all the winds had suddenly broken lose from the cave of Aeolus.
Ik Stanton, who had been watching Van Berg's perturbed, lowering face, and the weak comedy at the adjacent table, was obviously much amused, although he took pains to appear blind to it all and kept his back, as far as possible, towards the young lady.
The German's "hist" had been so fierce as to be almost like a rap from a policeman's club, and there was an enforced and temporary suspension of the inane chatter. The attendant youth tried to assume the incensed and threatening look with which an ancient gallant would have laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. But some animals and men only become absurd when they try to appear formidable. It was ludicrous to see him weakly frowning at the sturdy Teuton who had already forgotten his existence as completely as he might that of a buzzing mosquito he had exterminated with a slap.
They young girl's face grew even less satisfactory as it became more quiet. A muddy pool, rippled by a breeze, will sparkle quite brilliantly while in motion; but when quiet it is seen the more plainly to be only a shallow pool. At first the beautiful features expressed only petty resentment at the public rebuke. As this faintly lurid light faded out and left the countenance in its normal state it became more heavy and earthy in its expression than Van Berg would have deemed possible, and it ever remained a mystery to him how features so delicate, beautiful, and essentially feminine could combine to show so clearly that the indwelling nature was largely alloyed with clay. there was not that dewy freshness in the fair young face which one might expect to see in the early morning of existence. The Lord from heaven breathed the breath of life into the first fair woman; but this girl might seem to have been the natural product of evolution, and her soul to be as truly of the earth as her body.
It was evident that she had been made familiar too early and thoroughly with conventional and fashionable society, and, although this fraction of the world is seldom without its gloves, its touch nevertheless had soiled her nature. Her face did not express any active or malignant principle of evil; but a close observer, like Van Berg, in whom the man was in the ascendant over the animal, could detect the absence of the serene, maidenly purity of expression, characteristic of those girls who have obtained their ideas of life from good mothers, rather than from French novels, French plays, and a phase of society that borrows its inspiration from fashionable Paris.
With the ending of the symphony the chatting and flirting at the table began again, to Van Berg's increased disgust. Indeed, he was so irritated that he could no longer control himself, and rose abruptly, saying to his companion: "Come, let us walk outside."
His sudden movement drew the young lady's attention, but by this time he had only his broad shoulders turned towards her. She saw Ik Stanton looking at her, however, with a face full of mischief, and she recognized him with a nod and a smile.
He, with the familiarity that indicated relationship, but with a motion too slight to be noticed by others, threw her a kiss from the tips of his fingers, as one might toss a sugar-plum to a child, and then followed his friend.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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2
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Ida Mayhew.
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What is the matter, Van? You remind me of a certain horned beast that has seen a red flag," said Ik Stanton, linking his arm in that of Van Berg's.
"An apt illustration. I have been baited and irritated for the last twenty minutes."
"I thought you enjoyed Beethoven's music, and surely Thomas rendered it divinely to-night."
"That is one of the chief of my grievances. I haven't been able to hear a note," was the wrathful response.
"That's strange," said Stanton with mock gravity. "Were I not afraid you would take it amiss I would hint that your ears are of goodly size. How comes it that they have so suddenly failed you?"
"Having seen your dinner you have no eyes for anything else. If you had, you would have seen a face near us."
"I saw a score of faces near us. A German had one with the area of an acre."
"Was he the one who said, 'hist,' like a blast from the North?"
"From a porpoise rather."
"Did you observe the girl towards whom his gusty rebuke was directed?"
"Yes, an inoffensive young lady."
"Inoffensive, indeed!" interrupted Van Berg. "She has put me into purgatory."
"You do seem quite ablaze. Well, you are not the first one that she has put there. But really, Van, I did not know that you were so inflammable."
"If you had any of the instincts of an artist you would know that I am inflamed with no gentler feeling than anger."
"Why! what has the poor child done to you?"
"She is not a child. She knows too much about some things."
"I've no doubt she is better than either you or I," said Stanton, sharply.
"That fact would be far from proving her a saint."
"What the dickens makes you so vindictive against the girl?"
"Because she has the features of an angel and the face of a fool. What business has a woman to mock and disappoint one so! When I first saw her I thought I had discovered a prize--a new revelation of beauty; but a moment later she looked so ineffably silly that I felt as if I had bitten into an apple of Sodom. Of course the girl is nothing to me. I never saw her before and hope I may never see her again; but her features were so perfect that I could not help looking at them, and the more I looked the more annoyed I became to find that, instead of being blended together into a divine face by the mind within, they were the reluctant slaves of as picayune a soul as ever maintained its microscopic existence in a human body. It is exasperating to think what that face might be, and to see what it is. How can nature make such absurd blunders? The idea of building so fair a temple for such an ugly little divinity!"
"I thought you artists were satisfied with flesh and blood women, if only put together in a way pleasing to your fastidious eyes."
"If nature had designed that women should consist only of flesh and blood women, if only put together in a way pleasing to your fastidious eyes."
"If nature had designed that women should consist only of flesh and blood, one would have to be content; but no one save the 'unspeakable Turk,' believes in such a woman, or wants her. Who admires such a fragment of a woman save the man that is as yet undeveloped beyond the animal? My mother is my friend, my companion, my inspiration. The idea of yonder silly creature being the companion of a MAN."
"Good evening, Coz," said a voice that was a trifle shrill and loud for a public place, and looking up, the friends saw the subject of their conversation, who, with her spindling attendant was also taking a promenade.
Stanton raised his hat with a smile, while Van Berg touched his but coldly.
"I wish to speak with you," she said in passing.
"I will join you soon," Stanton answered.
"So this lady is your cousin?" remarked Van Berg.
"She is," said Stanton laughing.
"You will do me the justice to remember that I spoke in ignorance of the fact. If I were you I would give her some cousinly advice."
"Bless you! I have, but it's like pouring water on a duck's back. For one sensible word I can say to her she gets a thousand compliments from rich and empty-headed young fools, like the one now with her, who will eventually be worth half a million in his own name. I was interested to see how her face would strike you, and I imagine that your estimate has hit pretty close upon the truth, for in my judgment she is the prettiest and silliest girl in New York. She has recently returned from a year's absence abroad, and I was in hopes that she would find something to remember besides her own handsome face, but I imagine she has seen little else than it and the admiring glances which everywhere follow her. Take us as we average, Van, Mr. Darwin has not go us very far along yet, and if the face of a woman suits us we are apt to stare at it as far as such politeness as we possess permits, without giving much thought to her intellectual endowments. When it comes to companionship, however, I agree with you. Heaven help the man who is tied to such a woman for life. Still, in the fashionable crowd my cousin trains with, this makes little difference. The husband goes his way and the wife hers, and they are not long in getting a good ways apart. But come, let me introduce you, I have always thought the little fool had some fine gold mingled with her dross, and you are such a skilful analyst that perhaps you will discover it."
"No, I thank you," said Van Berg, with a slight expression of disgust. "I could not speak civilly to a lady that I had just seen giggling and flirting through one of Beethoven's finest symphonies."
"Well well," said Stanton laughing, "I am rather glad to find one man who is not drawn to her pretty face like a moth to a candle. I will join you again by and by."
Van Berg sat down in one of the little stalls that stood open to the main promenade, and saw his friend thread his way among the moving figures, and address his cousin. As she turned to speak with Stanton, the artist received again that vivid impression of beauty, which her face ever caused before time was given for closer scrutiny. Indeed from his somewhat distant point of observation, and in the less searching light, the fatal flaw could scarcely be detected. Her affected tones and silly words could not be heard, and he saw only dark lustrous eyes lighting up features that were almost a revelation even to him with his artistic familiarity with beauty.
"If I could always keep her at about that distance," he muttered, "and arrange the lights and shadows in which to view her face, I could not ask for a better study, for she would give me a basis of perfect beauty, and I could add any expression of characteristic that I desired." And now he feasted his eyes as a compensation, in part, for the annoyance she had caused him in the glare of the audience room.
He soon saw a frown lower upon her hitherto laughing face like the shadow of a passing cloud, and it was evident that something had been said that was not agreeable to her vanity.
A moment or two after Stanton had joined the young lady her escort for the evening had excused himself for a brief time, and had left the cousins together. She had then asked, "I say, Ik, who was that gentleman you were talking with?"
"He's an old friend of mine."
"He's not an OLD friend of any one. He is young and quite good-looking, or rather he has a certain 'distingue' air that makes one look at him twice. Who is he?"
"He is an artist, and if he lives and works as he is now doing, through an ordinary lifetime, he will indeed by distinguished. In fact, he stands high already."
"How nice," she exclaimed.
"He has another characteristic, which you will appreciate far more than anything he will ever accomplish with his brush--he is very rich."
"Why! he's perfectly splendid. Whoever heard of such a strange, rare creature! I've flirted with lots of poor artists, but never with a rich one. Bring him to me, and introduce him at once."
"He is not one that you can flirt with, like the attenuated youth who has just meandered to the barroom."
"Why not?"
"If you had eyes for anything save your own pretty face, and the public stare, you would have seen that my friend is not a 'creature,' but a man."
"Come, Cousin Ik," she replied in more natural tones, "too much of your house is made of glass for you to throw stones. Flirting and frolicking are as good any day as eating, smoking, and dawdling."
Stanton bit his lip, but retorted, "I don't profess to be a bit better than you are, Coz; but I at least have the sense to appreciate those who are my superiors."
"So have I, when I find them; I am beginning to think, however, that you men are very much alike. All you ask is a pretty face, for you all think that you have brains enough for two. But bring your paragon and introduce him, that I may share in your gaping admiration."
"You would, indeed, my dear Coz, yawn over his conversation, for you couldn't understand half of it. I think we had better remain where we are till your shadow returns with his eyes and nose slightly inflamed. He is aware of at least one method of becoming a spirited youth, it seems."
"A man who is worth half a million is usually regarded as rather substantial," she retorted.
"Yes, but in this case the money-bags outweigh the man too ridiculously. For heaven's sake, Coz, do not make a spectacle of yourself by marrying this attenuation, or society will assert there was a regularly drawn bill of sale."
"I assure you that I do not intend to put myself under any man's thumb for a long time to come. I am having too good a time; and that reminds me that I would enjoy meeting your friend much more than listening to your cynical speeches. Did I not know that you were like my little King Charles--all bark rather than bite--I wouldn't stand them; and I won't any longer, to-night. So go and bring your great embryo artist, or he will become one of the old masters before I see him."
"I fear I must give you a wee bit of bite this time. I have offered to introduce him and he declines the honor."
"How is that?" she asked, flushing with anger.
"I will quote his words exactly, and then you can interpret them as you think best. He said, 'I could not speak civilly to a lady that I had just seen giggling and flirting through one of Beethoven's finest symphonies.'"
The young girl's face looked anything but amiable in response to this speech; but, after a moment, she tossed her head, and replied: "'N'importe'--there are plenty who can use not only civil words but complimentary ones."
"Yes, and the mischief of it is that you will listen to them and to no others. What sort of muscle can one make who lives only on sugar-plums?"
"They agree with me better than the vinegar drops you and your unmannerly friend delight in. I don't believe he ever painted anything better than a wooden squaw for one of your beloved cigar-shops--welcome back Mr. Minty. You have been away an unconscionably long time."
"Thanks for the compliment of being missed. I have tried to make amends by ordering a 'petit souper' for three, for I was sure your cousin would join us. It will be brought to one of yonder stalls, where, while we enjoy it, we can both see and hear."
Surmising that the viands would consist of the choicest delicacies of the season, Stanton readily accepted the invitation, and it so happened that the cloth was laid for the party in the stall next to that in which Van Berg was quietly enjoying a cigar and a frugal glass of lager. They took their places quite unaware of his proximity, and he listened with considerable interest to the tones and words of the fair stranger who had so unexpectedly taken possession of his thoughts. Were it not for a slight shrillness and loudness at times, and the fashionable affectation of the day, her voice would have been sweet and girlish enough. As it was, it suggested an instrument tuned to a false key and consequently discordant with all true and womanly harmonies. Her conversation with young Minty was as insipid as himself, but occasionally Stanton's cynical banter evoked something like repartee and wit.
In the course of her talk she said: "By the way, Ik, mother and I start for the country next week. We are to spend the summer at the Lake House, which is up the Hudson somewhere--you know where better than I. If you will bring your bays and a light wagon I shall be very glad to see you there; otherwise I shall welcome you--well--as my cousin."
"If I come I will surely bring my bays, and possibly may invite you to drive with me."
"Oh, I will save you all trouble in that respect by inviting myself, when so inclined."
The orchestra was now about to give a selection that Van Berg wished to hear to better advantage than he could in his present position; therefore, unobserved by the party on the other side of the thin partition, he returned to his old seat in the main hallway. Not very long after, Stanton, with his cousin and Mr. Minty, entered from the promenade, and again Van Berg received the same vivid impression of beauty, and, with many others, could not withdraw his eyes from the exquisite features that were slightly flushed with champagne and excitement. But, as before, this impression passed quickly, and the face again became as exasperating to the artist as the visage of the Venus of Milo would be should some vandal hand pencil upon it a leer or a smirk. A heavy frown was gathering upon his brow when the young lady, happening to turn suddenly, caught and fully recognized his lowering expression. It accorded only too well with her cousin's words in regard to Van Berg's estimate of herself, and greatly increased her resentment towards the one who had already wounded her vanity--the most vulnerable and sensitive trait in her character. The flush that deepened so suddenly upon her face was unmistakably that of anger. She promptly turned her back upon her critic, nor did she look towards him again until the close of the evening. That his words and manner rankled in her memory, however, was proved by a slightly preoccupied manner, followed by fits of gayety not altogether natural, and chiefly by the fact that she could not leave the place without a swift glance at the disturbing cause of her wonted self-approval. But Van Berg took pains to manifest his indifference by standing with his back towards her when she knew that he must be aware of her departure, from her slightly ostentatious leave-taking of her cousin, in which, of course, the spoiled beauty had no other object than to attract attention to herself.
As Van Berg, with his friend, was passing out a few minutes later, he asked rather abruptly, showing that he also was not so indifferent as he had pretended to be: "What is your cousin's name, Stanton?"
"Her name is as pretty as herself--Ida Mayhew, and it is worse than a disquieting ghost in a good many heads and hearts that I know of. Indeed its owner has robbed men that I thought sensible, not only of their peace, but, I should say, of their wits also. I had one friend of whom I thought a great deal, and it was pitiable to see the abject state to which the heartless little minx reduced him. I am glad to find that her witchery has no spell for you, and that you detect just what she is through her disguise of beauty. 'Entre nous,' Van, I will tell you a secret. I was once over ears in love with her myself, but my cousinly relationship enabled me to see her so often and intimately that she cured me of my folly on homeopathic principles. 'Similia similibus curantur.' Even the blindness of love could not fail to discover that when one subtracted vanity, coquetry, and her striking external beauty from Ida Mayhew, but little was left, and that little not a heavenly compound. Those who know her least, and who add to her beauty many ideal perfections, are the ones that rave about her most. I doubt whether she ever had a heart; if so, it was frittered away long ago in her numberless flirtations. But with all her folly she has ever had the sense to keep within the conventionalities of her own fashionable 'coterie,' which is the only world she knows anything about, and whose unwritten laws are her only creed and religion. Her disappointed suitors can justly charge her with cruelty, silliness, ignorance, and immeasurable vanity, but never with indiscretion. She has to perfection the American girl's ability to take care of herself, and no man will see twice to take a liberty beyond that which etiquette permits. I have now given you in brief the true character of Ida Mayhew. It is no secret, for all who come to know her well, arrive at the same opinion. When I saw you had observed her this evening for the first time, I was quite interested in watching the impression she would make upon you, and I am very glad that your judgment has been both good and prompt; for I slightly feared that your love of beauty might make you blind to everything else."
Stanton's concluding words were as incense to Van Berg, for he prided himself in no slight degree on his even pulse and sensible heart, that, thus far, had given him so little trouble; and he therefore replied, with a certain tinge of complacency and consciousness of security: "You know me well enough, Ik, to be aware that I am becoming almost a monomaniac in my art. A woman's face is to me little more than a picture which I analyze from an artistic stand-point. A MERELY PRETTY face is like a line of verse of musical rhythm, but without sense or meaning. This is bad and provoking enough; but when the most exquisite features give expression only to some of the meanest and unworthiest qualities that can infest a woman's soul, one is exasperated almost beyond endurance. At least I am, for I am offended in my strongest instincts. Think of employing stately Homeric words and measure in describing a belle's toilet table with its rouge-pots, false hair, and other abominations! Much worse is it, in my estimation, that the features of a goddess should tell us only of such moral vermin as vanity, silliness, and the egotism of a poor little self that thinks of nothing, and knows nothing save its own small cravings. Pardon me, Ik; I am not speaking of your cousin but in the abstract. In regard to that young lady, as you saw, I was very much struck with the face. Indeed, to tell the honest truth, I never saw so much beauty spoiled before, and the fact has put me in so bad a humor that you, no doubt, are glad I have reached my corner and so must say good-night."
"Ida Mayhew can realize all such abstractions," muttered Ik Stanton, as he walked on alone.
The reader will be apt to surmise, however, that some resentment, resulting from his former and unrequited sentiment towards the girl, gave an unjust bias to his judgement.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
|
3
|
An Artist's Freak.
|
Van Berg's night-key admitted him to a beautiful home, which he now had wholly to himself, since his parents and sister had sailed for Europe early in the spring, intending to spend the summer abroad. The young man had already travelled and studied for years in the lands naturally attractive to an artist, and it was now his purpose to familiarize himself more thoroughly with the scenery of his own country.
On reaching his own apartment he took down a prosy book, that he might read himself into that condition of drowsiness which would render sleep possible; but sleep would not come, and the sentences were like the passers-by in the street, whom we see but do not note, and for whose coming and going we know not the reasons. Between himself and the page he saw continually the exquisite features and the exasperating face of Ida Mayhew. At last he threw aside the book, lighted a cigar, and gave himself up to the reveries to which this beautiful, but discordant visage so strongly predisposed him. Its perfection in one respect, its strongly marked imperfection in another, both appealed equally to his artistic and thoughtful mind. At one moment it would appear before him with an ideal loveliness such as had never blessed the eye of his fancy even; but while he yet looked the features would distort themselves into the vivid expression of some contemptible trait, so like what he had seen in reality, during the evening, that, in uncontrollable irritation, he would start up and pace the floor.
His uncurbed imagination conjured up all kinds of weird and grotesque imagery. He found himself commiserating the girl's features as if they were high-toned captives held in degrading bondage by a spiteful little monster, that delighted to put them to low and menial uses. To one of his temperament such beauty as he had just witnessed, controlled by, and ministering to, some of the meanest and pettiest of human vices, was like Mary Magdalene when held in thraldom by seven devils.
A cool and matter-of-fact person could scarcely understand Van Berg's annoyance and perturbation. If a true artist were compelled to see before him a portrait that required only a few skillful touches in order to become a perfect likeness, and yet could not give those touches, the picture would become a constant vexation; and the better the picture, the nearer it approached the truth, the deeper would be the irritation that all should be spoiled through defects for which there was no necessity.
In the face that persistently haunted him Van Berg saw a beauty that might fulfil his best ideal; and he also saw just why it did not and never could, until its defects were remedied. He felt a sense of personal loss that he should have discovered a gem so nearly perfect and yet marred by so fatal a flaw.
The next day it was still the same. The face of Ida Mayhew interposed itself before everything that he sought to do or see. Whether it were true or not, it appeared to him that in all his wanderings and observations he had never seen features so capable of fulfilling his highest conception of beauty did they but express the higher qualities and emotions of the soul. He also felt that never before had he seen a face that would seem to him so hideous in its perversion.
He threw down his brush and palette in despair and again gave himself up to his fancies. He then sketched in outline the beautiful face as expressing joy, hope, courage, thought or love, but was provoked to find that he ever obtained the best likeness when portraying the vanity, silliness, or petulance which had been the only characteristics he had seen.
He now grew metaphysical and tried to analyze the girl's mind. He sought to grope mentally his way back into the recesses of the soul, which had looked, acted, and spoken the previous evening. A strange little place he imagined it, and oddly furnished. It occurred to him that it bore a resemblance to her dressing room, and was full of queer feminine mysteries and artificial ideas that had been created by conventional society rather than inspired by nature.
He asked himself, "Can it be that here is a character in which the elements of a true and good woman do not exist? Has she no heart, no mind, no conscience worthy of the name? At her age she cannot have lost these qualities. Have they never been awakened? Do they exist to that degree that they can be aroused into controlling activity? I suppose there can be pretty idiots. As people are born blind or scrofulous, so I suppose others can be born devoid of heart or conscience, inheriting from a degenerate ancestry sundry mean and vile propensities in their places. Human nature is a scale that runs both up and down, and it is astonishing how far the extremes can be apart."
"How high is it possible for the same individual to rise in this scale? I imagine we are all prone to judge of people as if they were finished pictures, and to think that the defects our first scrutiny discovers will remain for all time. It is in real life much as in fiction. From first to last a villain is a villain, as if he had been created one. The heroine is a moss rose-bud by equal and unchanging necessity. Is this girl a fool, and will she remain one by any innate compulsion? By Jove! I would like to see her again in the searching light of day. I would like to follow her career sufficiently long, to discover whether nature has been guilty of the grotesque crime of associating inseparably with that fine form and those exquisite features, a hideous little mind that must go on intensifying its dwarfed deformity, until death snuffs it out. If this be true, the beautiful little monster that is bothering me so suggests a knotty problem to wiser heads than mine."
Somewhat later his musings led him to indulge in a broad laugh.
"Possibly," he said aloud, "she is a modern and fashionable Undine, and has never yet received a woman's soul. The good Lord deliver me from trying to awaken it, as did the knight of old in the story, by swelling the long list of her victims. I can scarcely imagine a more pitiable and abject creature than a man (once sane and sensible) in thraldom to such a tantalizing semblance of a woman. She would no more appreciate his devotion than the jackdaw the pearl necklace it pecked at.
"I fear my Undine theory won't answer. Stanton says she has no heart, and her face and manner confirm his words. But now I think of it, the original Undine lived a long time ago--in the age of primeval simplicity, when even cool-blooded water nymphs had hearts. One is induced to think, in our age, that this organ will eventually disappear with the other characteristics of ancient and undeveloped man, and that the brain, or what stands for it, will become all in all. In the first instance the woman's soul came in through the heart; but I suppose that in the case of a modern Undine it could enter most readily through the head. I wonder if there is something like an unawakened mind, sleeping under that broad low brow that mocks one with its fair intellectual outline. I wonder if it would be possible to set her thinking, and so eventually render her capable of receiving a woman's soul. As it is now she seems to possess only certain disagreeable feminine propensities. One might engage in such an experiment as a philosopher rather than a lover; or, what is more to my purpose, as an artist.
"By Jove! I would half like to make the attempt; it would give zest to one's summer vacation. Well, what is to hinder? Now I think of it she remarked that she was to spend the season at the Lake House, not far from the Hudson, a place well suited to my purposes. There are the wild highlands on one side, and a soft pastoral country on the other. I could there find abundant opportunity for varied studies in scenery, and at the same time beguile my idle hours at the hotel with this face of marvellous capabilities and possibilities. The features already exist, and would be beautiful if the girl were dead, and they could be no longer distorted by the small vices of the spirit back of them. They might become transcendently beautiful, could she in very truth receive the soul of a true and thoughtful woman--a soul such as makes my mother beautiful in her plain old age.
"I'm inclined to follow this odd fancy. That girl is a 'rara avis' such as has never flown across my path before. I shall have a quarrel with nature all my life if I must believe she can fashion a face capable of meaning so much and yet actually meaning so little, and that little disgusting."
After a few moments of deep thought, he again started to his feet and commenced pacing his studio.
"Suppose," he soliloquized, "I attempt a novel bit of artistic work as my summer recreation. Suppose I take the face of this stranger instead of a piece of canvas and try to illumine it with thought, with womanly character and intelligence. If I fail, as I probably shall, no harm will be done. If her silliness and vanity are ingrained and essential parts of her nature, she shall learn that there is at least one man who can see her as she is, and whose heart is not wax on which to stamp her pretty and senseless image. If I only partially succeed, if I discern she has a mind, but so feeble that it can only half reclaim her from her weakness and folly, still something will be accomplished. Her features are so beautiful, that should they come to express even the glimmerings of that which is admirable, the face will be in part redeemed. But if by some happy miracle, as in the instance of the original Undine, a mind can be awakened that will gradually prepare a place for the soul of a true woman, I shall accomplish the best work of my life, even estimated from an artistic point of view. Possibly, for my reward, she will permit me to paint her portrait as a souvenir of our summer's acquaintance."
It did not take Van Berg long to complete his arrangements for leaving town. He wrote a line to his friend Stanton, saying that he proposed spending a few weeks in the vicinity of the Highlands on the Hudson, and that he could not say when he would be at his rooms or at home again. The afternoon of the following day found him a passenger on a fleet steamboat, and fully bent upon carrying out his odd artistic freak.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
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4
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A Parthian Arrow.
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As, in the quiet June evening, Harold Van Berg glided through the shadows of the Highlands, there came a slight change over his spirit of philosophical and artistic experiment. The season comported with his early manhood, and the witching hour and the scenery were not conducive to cold philosophy. He who prided himself on his steady pulse and a devotion to art so absorbing that it even prompted his impulses and gave character to his recreation, was led to feel, on this occasion, that his mistress was vague and shadowy, and to half wish for that companionship which the most self-reliant natures have craved at times, ever since man first felt, and God knew, that it was "not good for him to be alone." If he could turn from the beauty of the sun-tipped hills and rocks and the gloaming shadows to an appreciative and sympathetic face, such as he could at least imagine the visage of Ida Mayhew might become, would not his enjoyment of the beauty he saw be doubly enhanced? In his deepest consciousness he was compelled to admit that it would. He caught a glimpse of the truth that he would never attain in his highest manhood until he had allied himself to a womanhood which he should come to believe supremely true and beautiful.
The ringing of the bell announced his landing, and in the hurry and bustle of looking after his luggage and obtaining a ticket which he had forgotten to procure, he speedily became again, in the world's estimation, and perhaps in his own, a practical, sensible man. An hour or two's ride among he hills brought him at last to the Lake House, where he selected a room that had a fine prospect of the mountains, the far distant river, and the adjacent open country, engaging it only for a brief time so that he might depart when he chose, in case the object of his pursuit should not appear, or he should weary of the effort, or despair of its success.
A few days passed, but the face which had so haunted his fancy presented no actual appearance. The scenery, however, was beautiful, the weather so perfect, and he enjoyed his rambles among the hills and his excursions on the water so thoroughly that he was already growing slightly forgetful of his purpose and satisfied that he could enjoy himself a few weeks without the zest of artistically redeeming the face of Ida Mayhew. But one day, while at dinner, he overheard some gossip concerning a "great belle" who was to come that evening, and he at once surmised that it was the fair stranger he had seen at the concert.
At the time, therefore, of the arrival of the evening stage he observantly puffed his cigar in a corner of the piazza, and was soon rewarded by seeing the object of his contemplated experiment step out of the vehicle, with the airy grace and confidence of one who regards each new abiding-place as a scene of coming pleasures and conquests, and who feels sure every glance toward her is one of admiration. There were eyes, however, that noted disapprovingly her jaunty self-assurance and self-assertion, and when she met those eyes her complacency seemed disturbed at once, for she flushed and promptly turned her back upon them. In fact, from the time she had first seen Van Berg's frowning face it had been a disagreeable memory, and now here it was again and frowning still. Although he sat at a distance from the landing-place, her eyes seemed drawn towards his as if by some fascination, and she already had the feeling that whenever he was present she would be conscious of his cool, critical observation.
Van Berg had scarcely time to note a rather stout and overdressed person emerge from the stage, how was evidently the young lady's mother, when Ik Stanton, with his bays and a light country wagon, dashed up to the main entrance. Stanton was an element in the artistic problem that Van Berg had not bargained for, and what influence he would have, friendly or adverse, only time could show.
While Stanton was accompanying his aunt and cousin to the register, as the gentleman of the party, the young lady said to him: "That horrid artist friend of yours is here. I wish he hadn't come. Did you tell him we were coming here?"
"No, 'pon my honor."
"I have believe you did. If so I'll never forgive you, for the very sight of him spoils everything."
"Come now, Coz, be reasonable. From all the indications I have seen, Van Berg is the last man to follow you here or anywhere else, even though he knew of your prospective movements. He is here, as scores of others are, for his own pleasure. So follow your mother to your room, smooth your ruffled plumage and come down to supper."
Even Miss Mayhew's egotism could find no fault with so reasonable an explanation, and she went pouting up the stairway in anything but a complacent mood.
Stanton stepped out upon the piazza to greet his friend, saying: "Why, Van, it is an unexpected pleasure to find you here."
"I was equally and quite as agreeably surprised to see you drive to the door. If you cousin had not come I might have helped you exercise your bays. I am doing some sketching in the vicinity."
"My cousin shall not keep you from many an idle hour behind the bays--that is, if you will not carry your antipathy so far as to cut me on account of my relationship."
"I'm not conscious of any antipathy for Miss Mayhew," replied Van Berg, with a slight shrug.
"Oh, only indifference! Well, if you will both maintain that attitude there will be no trouble about the bays or anything else. I'll smoke with you after supper."
"She evidently has an antipathy for me," mused Van Berg. "Stanton, no doubt, has told her of my uncomplimentary remarks, and possibly of the fact that I declined an introduction. That's awkward, for if I should now ask to be presented to her, she would very naturally decline, and so we might drift into something as closely resembling a quarrel as is possible in the case of two people who have never spoken to each other."
He concluded that it would be best to leave to chance the occasion which should place them on speaking terms, and tried to persuade himself that her unpromising attitude towards him was not wholly unfavorable to his purpose. He never could hope to accomplish anything without at first piquing her pride and wounding her vanity. His only fear was that this had been done too effectually, and that from first to last she would simply detest him.
In his preoccupation he forgot that the supper hour was passing, but at last started hastily for his room. As he rapidly turned a sharp corner he nearly ran into two ladies who were coming from an opposite direction, and looking up saw Mrs. Mayhew and the flushed, resentful face of her daughter. In spite of himself our even-pulsed philosopher flushed also, but instantly removing his hat he ejaculated: "I beg your pardon," and passed on.
As Ida joined her cousin at the supper-table she whispered exultantly: "He has spoken to me."
"Who has spoken to you?"
"Your artist-bear."
"How did that happen?"
"Well, he nearly ran over me--horrid thing! I suppose that's another of his peculiar ways."
"Did he embrace you?"
"Embrace me! Good heavens, what an escape I have had! So this too is characteristic of your friend?"
"You said he was a bear. If so, he should have given you a hug on the first opportunity."
"He didn't have an opportunity, and he never will."
"Poor fellow! It will make him sick if I tell him so. Well, since it is another case of beauty and the beast, what did the beast say?"
"He said that it was very proper he should say to me after all his hatefulness. He said, 'I beg your pardon.'"
"And then I suppose you kissed and made up."
"Hush, you horrid thing. I noticed him no more than I would a chair that I might have stumbled over."
"Thus displaying that sweet trait of yours--Charity. But I thought it was he that stumbled over you?"
"A musty, miserable pun! It was he, and I'm delighted it so happened, that the first time he ever spoke to me he had to ask my pardon."
"Well, well! I'm glad it so happened, too, and that the ice is broken between you, for Van Berg is a good friend of mine, and it would be confoundedly disagreeable to have you two lowering at each other across a bloody chasm of dark, revengeful thoughts."
"The ice isn't broken at all. He has begged my pardon as he ought to do a hundred times; but I haven't granted it, and I never will. What's more, I'll never speak to him in all my life; never, never!"
"Swear it by the 'inconstant moon'!"
"Hush, here he comes. Ah, 'peste!' his table is right opposite ours."
"Who is that tall and rather distinguished-looking gentleman that just entered?" asked Mrs. Mayhew, suddenly emerging from a pre-occupation with her supper which a good appetite had induced.
"He IS distinguished, or will be. He's a particular friend of Ida's, and is as rich as Croesus."
"Three items in his favor," said Mrs. Mayhew complacently; "but Ida has so many friends, or beaux, rather, that I can't keep track of them. Her friends speedily become furnace-like lovers, or else escape for their lives into the dim and remote region of mere bowing acquaintanceship. I once tried to keep a list of the various and variegated gentlemen with red whiskers and black whiskers, with whiskers sandy, brown, and occasionally almost white, but borrowing a golden hue from their purses, that appeared and disappeared so rapidly, as to almost make me dizzy. I was about as bewildered as the poor Indian who sought to take the census of London by notching a stick for every passer-by he met. And now before we are through supper on the first evening of our arrival, another appears, who is evidently an eligible 'parti' and twice as good as the minx deserves; but in a few days he, too, will vanish into thin air, and another and different style of man will take his place. Mark my words, Ida, you will be through the woods before long, and I expect you will take up with the crookedest of crooked sticks on the farther side," and the voluble Mrs. Mayhew resumed her supper with a zest which this dismal prospect did not by any means impair.
"If I were in search of a crabbed, crooked stick, I would not have to look farther than yonder table," said the young lady, petulantly. "What you suppose about that dabbler in paint is about as far from the truth as your sketch of those who are my friends. That man never was my friend, and never shall be. I don't want you to get acquainted with him or speak to him. You must not introduce him to me, for if you do, I shall be rude to him."
"Hoity-toity! what's the matter?"
"I don't like him. Only Ik thinks he's wonderful. He has probably blinded our cousin to his faults by painting a flattering likeness of the vain youth here."
"But in suggesting another portrait that was not altogether pleasing, he sinned beyond hope," whispered Stanton.
Ida bit her lip and frowned, recalling the obnoxious artist's portrait of herself as giggling and flirting through one of Beethoven's symphonies; and she said spitefully: "He can never hope for anything from me."
"Poor, hopeless wretch!" groaned Stanton. "How can he sip his tea yonder so complacently oblivious of his doom?"
"Mother, I'm in earnest," resumed the daughter. "I have reasons for disliking that man, and I do not wish the annoyance of his acquaintance."
"Well, well," said Mrs. Mayhew; "as long as the wind blows from that cool quarter, we can keep cool till it changes. If I mistake not, he is the same gentleman who met us in the corridor. I'm sure he has fine manners."
"If it is fine manners in a man to nearly run over two ladies, he is perfect. But I am sick of hearing about him, and especially of seeing him. I insist, Ik, that you have our table changed to yonder corner, and then arrange it so that I can sit with my back towards him."
"I am your Caliban, but would hint, my amiable Coz, that you should not bite off your own pretty nose in spite. Must all your kin join in this bitter feud? May I not smoke with my ancient familiar?"
"Oh, be off, and if you and your friend disappear like your cigars, the world will survive."
"I fear it is because my friend will never dissolve in sighs that you are so willing he should end in smoke."
Having winged this Parthian arrow over his shoulder, Stanton strolled out on the piazza whither Van Berg had preceded him.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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5
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Spite.
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Miss Mayhew apparently had not given a single glance to the artist, as he sat opposite to her and but a little out of earshot. Indeed, so well did she simulate unconsciousness of his presence, that were if not for an occasional glance from Mrs. Mayhew he might have thought himself unnoticed; but something in that lady's manner, as caught by occasional glances, led him to suspect that he was the subject of their conversation.
But Ida's indifference was, in truth, only seeming; for although she never looked directly at him, she subjected his image, which was constantly flitting across the retina of her eye, to the closest scrutiny, and no act or expression of his escaped her. She was piqued by the fact that he showed no disturbed consciousness of her presence, and that his glance was occasionally as free and natural towards her as towards any other guest of the house. His bearing annoyed her excessively, for it seemed an easy and quiet assertion of indifference and superiority--two manifestations that were to her as objectionable as unusual. Neither in looks nor manner did she appear very agreeable during the brief time she spent in the public parlors. The guests of the house, even to the ladies who foresaw an eclipse of their own charms, were compelled to admit that she was very pretty; but it was a general remark that her face did not make or leave a pleasant impression.
Van Berg surmised that Stanton's disposition to teaze and banter would lead him to repeat and, perhaps, distort, anything he might say concerning the young lady, so he made no reference whatever to the Mayhews, but took pains to give the impression that he was deeply interested in the scenery.
"I shall probably be off with my sketch-book before you are up," he said; "for if I remember correctly, you are up with the lark only when you have been up over-night."
"You are the greater sinner of the two," yawned Stanton; "for if I occasionally keep unseasonable hours at night, you do so habitually in the morning. Either you are not as brilliant as usual this evening, or else the country air makes me drowsy. Good-night. We will take a ride to-morrow, and you can sketch five miles of fence if you find that you cannot resist your mania for work."
Perhaps Stanton HAD found his friend slightly preoccupied, for, in spite of the constraint he had put upon himself to appear as usual, this second and closer view of the face which had taken so strong a hold upon his fancy did not dissipate his first impressions. Indeed, they were deepened rather, for he saw again and more clearly the same marvellous capabilities in the features, and also their exasperating failure to make a beautiful face.
He dreamed over his project some little time after his friend had retired, and the conclusion of his revery was: "I must soon make some progress in my experiment or else decamp, for that girl's contradictory face is a constant incentive to profanity."
After seeing Mrs. Mayhew, however, he felt that justice required him to admit that the daughter was a natural and logical sequence; and in the mother he saw an element more hopelessly inartistic and disheartening than anything in the girl herself; for even if the latter could be changed, would not the shadow of the stout and dressy mother ever fall athwart the picture?
Van Berg retired with the feeling that his project of illuminating a face by awakening a mind that, as yet, had slept, did not promise very brilliantly.
Miss Mayhew tried to persuade herself that it was a relief not to see the critical artist at breakfast, nor to meet him as she strolled from the parlors to the piazza and thence to the croquet-ground, where she listlessly declined to take part in a game.
There was, in truth, great need that her mind should be awakened and her whole nature radically changed, if it were a possible thing,--a need shown by the fact the fair June morning, with its fragrance and beauty, could not light up her face with its own freshness and gladness. The various notes of the birds were only sounds; the landscape, seen for the first time, was like the map of Switzerland, that, in the days of her geography lessons, gave her as vivid an idea of the country as a dry sermon does of heaven. Although her ears and eyes were so pretty, she was, in the deepest and truest sense of the word, deaf and blind. The lack of some petty and congenial excitement made time hang heavily on her hands and clouded her face with 'ennui.'"
Even her cousin had failed her, for he was down at the stables, making arrangements for the care of his bays and his carriage. Thus from very idleness she fell to nursing her small spite against the man whose voice had made such harsh discord with the honeyed chorus of flattery to which she was accustomed. She wished that he would appear, and that in some way she might show how little she cared for him or his opinion; but as he did not, she at last lounged to her room and sought to kill a few hours with a novel.
Her wounded pride, however, induced her to dress quite elaborately for dinner; for she had faith in no better way of asserting her personality than that afforded by the toilet. She would teach him, by the admiration she excited in others, how mistaken he had been in his estimate, and her vanity whispered that even he could not look upon her beauty for any length of time without being won by it as so many others had been.
The change of seats having been effected, she scarcely thought it necessary to turn her back upon him while sitting at such a dim distance. Indeed she was inclined to regret the change, for now her toilet and little airs, which she imagined to be so pretty, would be lost upon him.
It would seem that they were, for Van Berg ate his dinner as quietly, and chatted as unconcernedly to those about him as if she had no existence. Never had a man ignored her so completely before, and she felt that she could never forgive him.
After the event of the day was over, and the guests were circling and eddying through the halls and parlors and out on the piazza, Ida still had the annoyance of observing that Van Berg was utterly oblivious of her as far as she could perceive. He spoke here and there with the ease and freedom of one familiar with society, and she saw more eyes following his tall form approvingly than were turned towards herself. Few gentlemen remained at the house during the week, and Miss Mayhew was not a favorite with her own sex. Those who most closely resembled her in character envied rather than admired her, and those who were better endowed and developed found fault even with her beauty from a moral point of view, as Van Berg had on artistic grounds. She consoled herself, however, with the thought that it was Saturday, and that the evening boat and trains would bring a number of gentlemen, among whom she told Stanton, exultantly, that she had "some friends"--moths rather whose wings were in danger of being singed.
As the afternoon was not sultry, Stanton had said to his friend that they could enjoy their cigars and a ride at the same time, and that he would drive around for him in a few minutes. Ida overheard the remark, and, quietly slipping off to her room, returned with her hat and shawl. As her cousin approached she hastened down the steps, past Van Berg, exclaiming: "Oh, thank you, Ik! How good of you! I was dying for a ride. Don't trouble yourself. I can get in without aid," and she sprang lightly into the buggy before her cousin could utter a word.
He turned with a look of comic dismay and deprecation to his friend, who stood laughing on the steps. Ida, also, could not resist her inclination to catch a glimpse of the artist's chagrin and disappointment, but she was provoked beyond measure to find him acting as if Stanton were the victim rather than himself. As the sweep of the road again brought them in view of the piazza, this impression was confirmed by seeing Van Berg stroll carelessly away, complacently puffing his cigar as if he had already dismissed her from his mind.
"Really," grumbled Stanton, "I never had beauty and happiness thrust upon me so unexpectedly before."
"Very well then," retorted Ida; "stop your horses and thrust me out into the road. I'd rather go back, even if I have to walk."
"Oh, no! there is to be no going back for two hours or more. I once cured a horse of running away by making him run long after he wanted to stop."
"You seem to be learning your friend's hateful manners."
"I asked you this morning if you would take a drive, and you declined."
"I changed my mind."
"Very abruptly, indeed, it seemed. Since you took so much touble to annoy my friend, it's a pity you failed."
"I don't believe I failed. He's probably as cross as you are about it, only he can keep it to himself."
"Dove-like creatiah! thanks. Will you please drive while I light a cigar?"
"I don't like any one to smoke as near me as you are."
"If your theory in regard to Van Berg is correct, none of us will enjoy what we like this afternoon. Of course I never smoke without a lady's permission, but unless quieted by a cigar, I am a very reckless driver," and he enforced his words by a sharp crack of the whip, which sent the horses off like the wind.
"Oh, stop them; smoke; do anything hateful you wish, so you don't break my neck. I will never ride with you again, and I wish I had never come to this horrid place; and if your sneering painter does not leave soon, I will."
"I'm afraid Van would survive, and you only suffer from your spite. But come, since you have so sweetly permitted me to smoke, I'll make your penance as light as possible, and then we will consider matters even between us," and away they bowled up breezy hills and down into shady valleys, Stanton stolidly smoking, and Ida nursing her petty wrath. Two flitting ghosts hastening to escape from the light of day, could not have seen less, or have felt less sympathy with the warm beautiful scenes through which they were passing. There is no insulation so perfect as that of small, selfish natures preoccupied with a pique.
When, late in the afternoon, her cousin, with mock politeness, assisted her to alight at the entrance of the hotel, Ida was compelled to feel that she had indeed been the chief victim of her own spite. but, with the usual logic of human nature, she never thought of blaming herself, and her resentment was chiefly directed against the man whose every word and glance, although he was but a stranger, had seemed to possess a power to annoy and wound from the first. She felt an almost venomous desire to retaliate; but he appeared invulnerable in his quiet and easy superiority, while she, who expected, as a matter of course, that all masculine thoughts should follow her admiringly, had been compelled to see that his critical eyes had detected that in her which had awakened his contempt.
"I'll teach him this evening, when my gentlemen friends arrive, how ridiculous are his airs," she muttered, as she went to her room and sought to enhance her beauty by all the arts of which she was the mistress. "I'll show him that there are plenty who can see what he cannot, or will not. Because he is an artist, he need not think he can face me out of the knowledge of my beauty, the existence of which I have been assured of by so many eyes and tongues ever since I can remember."
When she came down to await the arrival of the stages and carriages, she was indeed radiant with all the beauty of which she was then capable. Her neck and shoulders, with their exquisite lines and curves, were more suggestively revealed than hidden by a slight drapery of gauze-like illusion, and her white rounded arms were bare. She trod with the light airy grace of youth, and yet with the assured manner of one who is looking forward to the familiar experiences of a reigning belle.
Van Berg, from his quiet corner of observation, was compelled to admit that, seen at her present distance, she almost embodied his best dreams, and might do so wholly were there less of the fashionable art of the hour, and more of nature in her appearance. But he knew well that if she came nearer, and spoke so as to reveal herself, the fatal defect in her beauty would be as apparent as a black line running athwart the sculptured face of a Greek goddess. The only question with him was, did the ominous deformity lie so near the surface that it could be refined away, or was it ingrained into the very material of her nature, thus forming an essential part of herself? He feared that the latter might be true, or that the remedy was far beyond his skill or power; but every glance he caught of the girl, as with her mother she paced the farther end of the piazza, deepened his regret, as an artist, that so much beauty should be in degrading bondage to a seeming fool.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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6
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Reckless Words and Deeds.
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Light carriages now began to wheel rapidly up to the entrance, and were followed soon by the lumbering and heavily-laden stages. Joyous greetings and merry repartee made the scene pleasant to witness even by one who, like Van Berg, had no part in it. Stanton, who at this moment joined him, drew his special attention to a thin and under-sized gentleman somewhat past middle age, who mounted the steps with a tread that was as inelastic as his face was devoid of animation.
"There is poor Uncle Mayhew," remarked the young man indifferently. "I suppose I must go and speak to him."
"Mr. Mayhew?" said Van Berg, in some surprise. "You have not spoken of him before. I was not aware that there was any such person in existence."
"You are not to blame for that," replied Stanton with a shrug. "You might have been one of the friends of the family and scarcely have learned the fact. Indeed, poor man, he only about half exists, for he has been so long overshadowed by his fashionable wife and daughter, that he is but a sickly plant of a man."
Van Berg saw that the greeting received by Mr. Mayhew from his wife and daughter was very undemonstrative to say the least, and that then the gentleman quickly disappeared, as if fearing that he might be in the way.
"From my very limited means of judging," Van Berg remarked, "I cannot see anything more objectionable in the head of the family than in the other members."
"Your phrase, 'head of the family,' as applied to Mr. Mayhew, makes me smile. His name figures at the head of the large family bills, but scarcely elsewhere with much prominence. You will soon learn, if you remain here, that Mr. Mayhew imbibes rather more than is good for him, so I may as well mention the disagreeable fact at once. But to do the poor man justice, I suppose he drinks to keep his spirits up to the ordinary level, rather than from any hope of becoming a little jolly occasionally. Why my aunt married him I scarcely know; and yet I have often thought that he might be a very different did she not so quench him by a manner all her own. As it is, his life seems to consist of toiling and moiling all the week, and of stolidly and joylessly soaking himself into semi-stupidity on Sunday. It this wretched state of affairs could be kept secret I would not mention it even to you, my intimate friend; but, since it continues no secret wherever they happen to remain for any length of time, I would rather tell you the exact truth at once, than permit you to guess at it through distorted rumors. As you artists occasionally express yourselves concerning pictures, so I suppose you will think that this family, with all its wealth is quite lacking in tone."
"Well, Stanton, I must admit that I find myself chiefly inclined towards the subdued and neutral-tinted Mr. Mayhew. If you have a chance I wish you would introduce me to him."
"Are you in earnest?"
"Certainly."
"Then I'll ask him to smoke with us after supper. Well, Van, I congratulate you again that your correct and cultivated taste enabled you to see the fatal flaw in my cousin's beauty. If you had been bewitched by her, and had insisted on imagining (as so many others have done) that her faultless features were the reflex of what she is or could become in mind and character, I might have had a good deal of trouble with you; for you are a mulish fellow when you get a purpose in your head. I don't care how badly singed the average run of moths become. You may see two or three fluttering around to-night, if you care to look on, but I wish no friend of mine to make sport, at serious cost to himself, for yonder incorrigible coquette, if she is my cousin. But after what you have seen and now know, you would be safe enough, even if predisposed to folly. The little minx! but I punished her well for her spite this afternoon."
"O most prudent Ulysses! you have indeed filled my ears with wax. I thank you all the same as if my danger were greater."
"Well, view them all with such charity as you can. I hope you were not very much annoyed by the loss of your ride. The young lady will not be in a hurry to play such a trick again. I'll join you after supper in this your favorite and out-of-the-way corner."
"Was beauty ever environed within and without by such desperately prosaic and inartistic surroundings?" mused Van Berg. "It glistens like a lost jewel in an ash-barrel; or, more correctly, it is like an exquisite flower that nature has perversely made the outcome of a rank and poisonous vine. Of course the flower is poisonous also, and as soon as its first delicate bloom is over, will grow as rank and repulsive as the vine that bears it. Like produces like; and with such parentage, what hope is there for her? I am glad no one suspects my absurd project; for every hour convinces me of its impracticability. The ancient Undine was a myth, and my modern Undine might be called a white lie, but one that will grow darker every day. At a distance she presents the semblance of a very fair woman, but I have been unable to detect a single element yet that will prevent her from developing into an old and ugly hag, in spite of all that art and costume can do for her."
After supper Stanton brought Mr. Mayhew to Van Berg's retired nook, and the artist gave the hand of the weary, listless man such a cordial pressure as to cause him a slight surprise, but after satisfying his faint interest by a brief glance, he turned the back of his chair towards all the gay company, although it contained his wife and daughter, puffed mechanically at his cigar, and looked vacantly into space. Before the evening was over, however, Van berg had drawn from him several quite animated remarks, and secured the promise that he would join him and Stanton in a ramble immediately after breakfast the following morning.
Nor had the young man been oblivious of the daughter who now seemed in her native element. From his dusky point of observation he caught frequent glimpses of her, now whirling through a waltz in the parlor, now talking and laughing in a rather pronounced way from the midst of a group of gentlemen, and again coquettishly stealing off with one of them through the moonlit walks. Her manner, whether assumed or real, was that of extravagant gaiety. Occasionally she seemed to glance towards their obscure corner, but neither she nor her mother came to seek the man who had been toiling all the week to maintain their idle luxury.
As Mrs. Mayhew and her daughter were preparing for dinner on the following day, Mr. Mayhew entered with a brisker step than usual.
"Why, father, where have you been?" Ida asked, surprised by the fact that he had not been drinking and dozing in his room all the morning.
"I have been shown a glimpse of something that I have not seen for many years."
"Indeed, and what is that?"
"Beauty that seemed beautiful."
"That's a compliment to us," remarked Mrs. Mayhew, acidly.
"I mean the kind of beauty which does one good and makes a man wish that he were a man."
"Do you mean an unmarried man?" said his wife with a discordant laugh.
"Probably your own wishes suggested that speech, madam," replied the husband, bitterly.
"And pray, where did you find so much beauty?" said Mrs. Mayhew, ignoring his last remark.
"On a breezy hill-side. It's a kind of beauty, too, that one can enjoy without paying numberless bills for its enhancement. I refer to that of the scenery."
"Oh," remarked Mrs. Mayhew, indifferently; "it would have been more to your credit if you had gone to church instead of tramping around the fields."
"I think the fields have done more for me than church for you."
"Why so?" was the sharp response.
"They have at least kept me from indulging in one bad habit. I am sober."
"They do not keep you from making ill-natured remarks," said Mrs. Mayhew, sailing out of the room fully bedizened for the solemnity of dinner.
"You say you were 'shown' all this beauty," remarked Ida, who was giving the finishing touches to her toilet before a large mirror, and by whom the frequent bickerings of her parents were scarcely noted. "Who officiated as showman?"
"A man who understands the beauties of a landscape so well that he could make them visible even to my dim eyes, and attractive to my deadened and besotted nature. I'd give all the world if I could be young, strong, and hopeful like him, again. It was good of him--yes, good of him, to try to cheer a stranger with pleasant thoughts and sights. I suppose you are acquainted with Mr. Van Berg, since he is a friend of Ik's?"
"No, I'm not," was the sharp reply; "nor do I wish to be."
"Why not?" asked Mr. Mayhew in some surprise.
"It's sufficient that I don't like him."
"He's not your style, I suppose you mean to say?"
"Indeed he is not."
"So much worse for your style, Ida."
She was sweeping petulantly from the room when her father added with a depth of feeling very unlike his wonted apathy: "O, Ida, it were better that all three of us had never been born than to live as we do! Your life and your mother's is froth, and mine is mud. How I hated it all this bright June morning, as Mr. Van Berg gave me a glimpse into another and better world!"
"Do you mean to say that Mr. Van Berg presumed to criticise my mode of life?" Ida asked with a darkening face.
"Oh, no, no! How small and egotistical all your ideas are! He never mentioned you, and probably never thought of you. He only took a little pains that a tired and dispirited man might see and feel the eternal beauty and freshness of nature, as one might give, in passing, a cup of water to a traveller."
"I don't see what reason you have for feeling and appearing so forlornly, thus asking for sympathy from strangers, as it were, and causing it to seem as if we were making a martyr of you. As for this artist, with his superior airs, I detest him. He never loses a chance to annoy and mortify me. I've no doubt he hoped you would come home and tell us, as you have, how much better he was than---" "There, there, quit that kind of talk or I'll be drunk in half an hour." said her father, harshly. "If you had the heart of a woman, let alone that of a daughter, you would thank the man who had unwittingly kept me from making a beast of myself for one day at least. Go down to your dinner, I'm in no mood for eating."
She went without a word, but with a more severe compunction of conscience than she had ever felt before in her life. Her father's face and words smote her with a keen reproach, piercing the thick armor of her vanity and selfishness. She saw, for a moment, how unnatural and unlovely she must appear to him, in spite of her beauty, and the thought crossed her mind: "Mr. Van Berg despises me because he sees me in the same light. How I hate his cold, critical eyes!"
Even at his far remove Van Berg could see that she was ill at ease during the dinner hour. There would be times of forced and unnatural gayety, followed by a sudden cloud upon the brow and an abstracted air, as if her thoughts had naught to do with the chattering group around her. It would also appear that her appetite was flagging unusually, and once or twice he thought she darted an angry look towards him.
As if something were burdening her mind, she at last left the table hastily, before the others were through with their dessert.
As may be surmised, she sought her father's room. Receiving no response to her knock, she entered and saw at a glance the confirmation of her fears. Her father sat in an arm-chair with his head upon his breast. A brandy bottle stood on the table beside him. At the sound of her step he looked up for a moment with heavy eyes, and mumbled: "He ain't of your style, is he? Nor of mine, either. Froth and mud!"
Ida gave a sudden stamp of rage and disgust, and whirled from the room.
Van Berg happened to see her as she descended to the main hall-way, and her face was so repulsive as to suggest to him the lines from Shakespeare: "In nature there's no blemish, but the mind; None can be called deformed, but the unkind; Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous--evil Are empty trunks, o'er flourished by the devil."
That afternoon and evening her reckless levity and open coquetry secured unfavorable comment not only from the artist, but from others far more indifferent, whose attention she half compelled by a manner that did not suggest spring violets.
Van Berg was disgusted. He was less versed in human nature than art, and did not recognize in the forced and obtrusive gayety the effort to stifle the voice of an aroused conscience. Even to her blunted sense of right it seemed a hateful and disgraceful truth that a stranger had helped her father towards manhood, an that she had destroyed the transient and salutary influence. Her complacency had been disturbed from the time her cousin had repeated Van Berg's remark, "I could not speak civilly to a lady that I had just seen giggling and flirting through one of Beethoven's finest symphonies;" and now, through an unexpected chain of circumstances, she had, for the first time in her life, reached a point of self-disgust and self-loathing. Such a moral condition is evil's opportunity when a disposition towards penitence or reform is either absent or resisted. The thought, therefore, of her father's drunkenness that day, and of herself as the immediate cause, made her so wretched and reckless that she tried to forget her miserable self in excitement, as he had in lethargy. Even her mother chided her, asking if she did not "remember the day."
"Indeed, I shall have occasion to remember it," was her ambiguous answer; "but Mondays in the country are always blue, and I'll do my repenting then. If I were a good Catholic I'd hunt up a priest to-morrow."
"I'll be your father-confessor to-day," said a black-eyed young man, twirling his mustache.
"You, Mr. Sibely? You would lead me into more naughtiness than you would help me out of, twice over. For my confessor I would choose an ancient man who had had his dinner. What a comfortable belief it is, to be sure! All one has to do is to buzz one's sins through a grating (that is like an indefinite number of key-holes) to a dozing old gentleman inside, and then away with a heart like a feather, to load up again. I'd bless the man who could convert me to a Papist."
But she hated the man who had made her feel the need of absolution, and who seemed an inseparable part of all her disagreeable experiences. Although he appeared to avoid any locality in which she remained, she observed his eyes turned towards her more than once before the day closed, and it exasperated her almost beyond all endurance to believe that their expression was only that of contempt.
She might have been a little better pleased, perhaps, if she had known that she made the artist almost as uncomfortable as herself. Never before had there seemed to him so great a contrast between her beauty and herself, her features and her face. The latter could not fail to excite his increased disgust, while the former was so great that he found himself becoming resolutely bent on redeeming them from what seemed a horrid profanation. In accordance with one of his characteristics, the more difficult the project seemed, the more obstinately fixed became his purpose to discover whether she had a mind of sufficient calibre to transform her into what she might be, in contrast with what she was. The more he saw of her the more his interest as an artist, and, indirectly, as a student of character, was deepened. If she had no mind worth naming he would give the problem up to the solution of time, which, however, promised nothing but a gradual fading away of all beauty, and the intensifying of inward deformity until fully reproduced in outward ugliness.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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7
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Another Feminine Problem.
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Early on Monday morning, Mr. Mayhew hastened from the breakfast-table to the stage. His wife and daughter were not down to see him off, and he seemed desirous of shunning all recognition. With the exception that that his eyes were heavy and bloodshot from his debauch, his face had the same dreary, apathetic expression which Van Berg had noted on his arrival. And so he went back to his city office, where, fortunately for him, mechanical routine brought golden rewards, since he was in no state for business enterprise.
From his appearance, Van Berg could not help surmising what had been his condition the previous day. Indeed Stanton, with a contemptuous shrug, had the same as said on Sabbath evening, that his uncle had "dropped into the old slough." Although neither of the young men knew how great an impetus Ida had given her father towards such degradation, they both felt that if his wife and daughter had had the tact to detect and appreciate his better mood, produced by the morning ramble, they might have sustained him, and given him at least one day that he could remember without shame and discouragement.
Van Berg found something pathetic in Mr. Mayhew's weary and disheartened manner. It was like that of a soldier who has suffered defeat, but who goes on with his routine in a mechanical, spiritless manner, because there is nothing else to do. He seemed to have no hope, nor even a thought of retrieving the past and of reasserting his own manhood. Accustomed as the young artist had ever been to a household in which affection, allied to high-bred courtesy and mutual respect, made even homely daily life noble and beautiful, he could not look on the discordant Mayhew family with the charity, or the indifference, of those who have seen more of the wrong side of life. Had there been only poor, besmirched Mr. Mayhew, and stout, dressy, voluble Mrs. Mayhew, he would never have glanced towards them the second time; but his artist's eyes had fallen on the contradictory being that linked them together. Morally and mentally she seemed one with her parent stock; but her beauty, in some of its aspects, was so marvellous, that the desire to redeem it from its hateful and grotesque associations grew stronger every hour.
Instead, therefore, of going off upon solitary rambles, as he had done hitherto, he mingled more frequently in the amusements of the guests of the house, with the hope he would thus be brought so often in contact with the subject of his experiment, that her pique would wear away sufficiently to permit them to meet on something like friendly terms.
As far as the other guests were concerned, he had not trouble. They welcomed him to croquet, to walking and boating excursions, and to their evening games and promenades. Such of the ladies as danced were pleased to secure him as a partner. Indeed, from the dearth of gentlemen during the week, he soon found himself more in demand than he cared to be, and saw that even the landlord was beginning to rely upon him to keep up a state of pleasurable effervescence among his patrons. His languid friend, Stanton, was not a little surprised, and at last remarked: "Why, Van, what has come over you? I never saw you in the role of a society fellow before!"
But his unwonted courtesies seemed wholly in vain. He propitiated and won all save one, and that one was the sole object of his effort. While all others smiled, her face remained cold and averted. Indeed she took such pains to ignore and avoid him, that it was generally recognized that there was a difference between them, and of course there was an endless amount of gossiping surmise. As the hostility seemed wholly on the lady's side, Van Berg appeared to the better advantage, and Ida was all the more provoked as she recognized the fact.
She now began to wish that she had taken a different course. As Van Berg pursued his present tactics, her feminine intuition was not so dull but that she was led to believe he wished to make her acquaintance. Of course there was, to her mind, but one explanation of this fact--he was becoming fascinated, like so many others.
"If I were only on speaking and flirting terms," she thought (the two relations were about synonymous in her estimation), "I might draw him on to a point which would give me a chance of punishing him far more than is now possible by sullenly keeping aloof. As it is, it looks to these people here as if he had jilted me instead of I him, and that I am sulking over it."
But she had entangled herself in the snarl of her own previous words and manner. She had charged her mother and cousin to permit no overtures of peace; and once or twice, when mine host, in his good-natured, off-hand manner, had sought to introduce them, she had been so blind and deaf to his purpose as to appear positively rude. Her repugnance to the artist had become a generally recognized fact; and she had built up such a barrier that she could not break it down without asking for more help than was agreeable to her pride. But she chafed inwardly at her false position, and at the increasing popularity of the object of her spite.
Even her mother at last formed his acquaintance; and, as the artist listened to the garrulous lady for half an hour with scarcely an interruption, she pronounced him one of the most entertaining of men.
As Mrs. Mayhew was chanting his praises that evening, Ida broke out petulantly: "Was there ever such a gad-fly as this artist! He pesters me from morning till night."
"Pesters you! I never saw a lady so severely let alone as you are by him. Whatever is the cause of your spite it seems to harm only yourself, and I should judge from your remark that it disturbs you much more than you would have it appear--certainly far more than it does him."
There was no soothing balm in these words, as may well be supposed; and yet the impression grew upon Ida that the artist would be friendly if he could; and the belief strengthened with him also that she took far too much pains to manifest what she would have others think to be mere indifference and dislike, and he intercepted besides, with increasing frequency, furtive glances towards himself. So much ice had accumulated between them, however that neither knew how it was to be broken.
One day, about the middle of the week, Van Berg found a stranger seated opposite to him at the dinner table. His first impression was, that the lady was not very young and that her features were quite plain; but before the meal was over he concluded that her face was decidedly interesting, and that the suggestion of age had been made by maturity of character and the impress which some real and deep experience gives to the countenance, rather than by the trace of years.
While yet a stranger, the expression of her blue eyes, as she glanced around, was so kindly that she at once won the good-will of all who encountered them. This genial, friendly light in her eyes seemed a marked characteristic. It was so different from the obtrusive, forward manner with which some seek to make acquaintances, that it would not have suggested a departure from modest reserve, even to the most cynical. It rather indicated a heart aglow with gentle feeling and genial good-will, like a maple-wood fire on a hospitality hearth, that warms all who come within the sphere of its influence.
Van Berg was naturally reserved, and slow to make new acquaintances. But before he had stolen many glances of the face opposite him he began to wish for the privilege of speaking to her--a wish that was increased by the fact that they were alone at the table, the other guests who usually occupied the chairs not having returned from their morning drive. she did not look at him in particular, nor appear to be in the least struck by his "distingue" air, as Ida had been before she was blinded by prejudice; but she looked out upon the world at large with such a friendly aspect that he was sure she had something pleasant to say. He was therefore well pleased when at last the landlord bustled up in his brusque way and said: "Mr. Van Berg, permit me to make you acquainted with Miss Burton. She has had the faith to put herself under my charge for a few weeks, and I shall reward her by sharing the responsibility with you, who seem blessed with the benevolent desire of giving us all a good time," and then he bustled off to look after some other matter which required his attention during the critical hour of dinner.
Miss Burton acknowledged the young man's bow without a trace of affectation or reserve.
"I shall try not to prove a burden to either of you," she said, with a smile.
"I have already discovered that you will not be," said Van Berg, "and was wishing for an introduction."
"I hope your wishes may always find so ready a fulfillment."
"That's a kindly wish, Miss Burton, but a vain one."
"Were we misanthropical people, Mr. Van Berg, we might sigh, 'and such are human wishes generally.'"
"One is often tempted to do that anyway, even when not especially prone to look askance at fortune."
"There is an easy way of escaping that temptation."
"How?"
"Do not form many wishes."
"Have you very few wishes?"
With a slight and piquant motion of her head she replied, "I was only giving a bit of trite advice. It's asking a great deal to require that one should both preach and practice."
"I think you are possessed by one wish which swallows up most others," said Van Berg, a little abruptly.
A visible pallor overspread her face, and she drew back perceptibly as one might shrink from a blow.
"You know how strong first impressions are," resumed Van Berg hastily, "and the thought has passed through my mind that you might be so preoccupied in wishing good things for others as to quite forget yourself."
"If one could be completely occupied in that way," she said, with a faint smile which suggested rather than revealed a vista of her past experience, "one might have little occasion to wish for anything for self. But, Mr. Van Berg, only we poor unreasoning women put much faith in first impressions; and you know how often they mislead even us, who are supposed to have safe instincts."
"Do they often mislead you?"
"Indeed, sir," she replied, with a merry twinkle in her eye, "I think you must have learned the questions in the catechism, if not the answers."
Van Berg bit his lip. Here was a suggestion of a thorn in the sweetbrier he believed he had discovered.
"Now see how far I am astray," she resumed with a frankness which had in it no trace of familiarity. "It is my impression you are a lawyer."
At this Van Berg laughed outright and said: "You are indeed mistaken. I have no connection with the influential class whose business it is to make and evade the laws. I am only one among the humble masses who aim to obey them. But perhaps you think your intuition goes deeper than surface facts and that I OUGHT to have been a cross-questioner."
"I am quite sure my intuition is correct in thinking that you would not be very cross about it."
"Perhaps not, if disarmed by so smiling a face as yours."
The others, who had been delayed by a longer ride than usual, now entered and took the vacant chairs around the table. Van Berg felt sufficiently acquainted with them to introduce Miss Burton, for he was curious to observe whether she would make the same impression on them as he had been conscious of himself.
They bowed with the quiet, well-bred manner of society people, but were at first inclined to pay little heed to the plainly dressed and rather plain appearing young stranger. As one and another, however, glanced towards her, something about her seemed to linger in their memories and cause them to look again. The lady next to her offered a commonplace remark, chiefly out of politeness, and received so pleasant a reply in return that she turned her thoughts as well as her eyes to see who it really was that had made it. Then another spoke, and the response led her to speak again and again; and soon the entire party were describing their drive and living over its pleasantest features; and before the meal ended they were all gathered, metaphorically, around the mystical, maple-wood fire that burned on the hearth of a nature that seemed so hospitable and kindly as to have no other mission than to cheer and entertain.
"Who is that little brown thrush of a woman that you were so taken with at dinner?" asked Stanton, as they were enjoying a quiet smoke in their favorite corner of the piazza.
"Good for you, Stanton. I never knew you to be so appreciative before. Your term quite accurately describes her. She is both shy and reserved, but not diffident or awkward in the least. Indeed her manner might strike some as being peculiarly frank. But there is something back of it all; for young as she undoubtedly is, her face suggests to me some deep and unusual experience."
"Jupiter Ammon! What an abyss of mystery, surmise, and metaphysics you fell into while I was eating my dinner! I used the phrase 'brown thrush,' only in reference to her dress and general homeliness."
"Oh, I beg your pardon! I take all back about your nice appreciation of character. I now grasp the whole truth--your attention wandered sufficiently from your dinner to observe that she wore a brown dress, and the one fact about the thrush that has impressed you is that it is brown. 'Here be truths' which leave nothing more to be said."
"You imaginative fellows are often ridiculously astray on the other tack, and see a thousand-fold more than exists. But it's a pity you could not read all there was in this young woman's face, for it was certainly PLAIN enough. At this rate you will be asking our burly landlord to unbosom himself, insisting that he has a 'silent sorrow' tucked away somewhere under his ample waistcoat."
"His troubles, like yours, are banished by the dinner hour. I recognize your feeble witticism about her plain face, and forgive you because I thought it plain also at first, but when she came to speak and smile it ceased to be plain. I do not say she has had trouble, but she has had some experience in her past history which neither you nor I could understand."
"Quite likely; the measles, for instance, which I never had to my knowledge. Possibly she has had a lover who was not long in finding a prettier face, and so left her, but not so disconsolate that she could not smile bewilderingly upon you."
"Come now, Stanton, I'll forewarn and forearm you. I confidently predict that the voice of this brown thrush will lure you out of a life which, to put it mildly, is a trifle matter-of-fact and material. You have glanced at her, but you have not seen her yet. Mark my words; your appetite will flag before many weeks pass."
"I wish I could pin you down to a large wager on this absurdity."
"I agree to paint you a picture if my prediction fails."
"And to finish it within a natural lifetime?" said Stanton, with much animation.
"To finish as promptly as good work can be done."
"Pardon me, Van. You had too much wine for dinner; I don't want to take advantage of you."
"I did not have any."
"In order to carry out this transaction honestly, am I expected to make conscious and patient effort to come under the influence of this maiden in brown, who has had some mysterious complaint in the past, about which 'neither you, nor I, nor anybody knows,' as the poet saith: or, like the ancient mariner, will she 'hold me with her glittering eye?'"
"You have only to jog on in your old ways until she wakes you up and makes a man of you."
"I surely am dreaming; for never did the level-headed Van Berg talk such arrant nonsense before. If she seems to you such a marvel, why don't you open your own mouth and let the ripe cherry drop into it."
"One reason will answer, were there no others--she wouldn't drop. If you ever win her, my boy, you will have to bestir yourself."
"I'd rather win the picture. Let me see--I know the very place in my room where I shall hang it."
"You are a little premature. That chicken is not yet hatched, and you may feel like hanging yourself in the place of the picture before the summer is over."
"Let me wrap your head in ice-water, Van. There's mine host--O, Mr. Burleigh!" he cried to the landlord, who at that moment happened to cross the piazza; "please step here. My friend Mr. Van Berg has been strangely fascinated by the stranger in brown whom you, with some deep and malicious design, placed opposite to him at the table. What are her antecedents, and who are her uncles? I take a friendly interest in this young man. Indeed, I'm sort of a guardian angel to him, having saved his life many a time."
"Saved his life!" ejaculated the landlord. "How?"
"By quenching his consuming genius with good dinners. But come--solve for me this riddle in brown. My friend usually gives but little heed to the feminine conundrums that smilingly ask to be answered, but for some occult reason he is in a state of sleepless interest over this one, and I know that his waistcoat is selling with gratitude to me for having the courage to ask these questions."
"He is speaking several words for himself to one for me," said Van Berg; "and yet I admit that her face and manner struck me very pleasantly."
"Well, she has a pleasant little phiz, now hasn't she, Mr. Van Berg? I don't wonder Mr. Stanton was taken by her, for I was myself. It's but little I can tell you, save that she is a teacher in one of the New England female colleges, and that she brings letters to me from the most respectable parties, who introduce her as a lady in the best sense of the word. Further than that nothing was written, nor do I know anything concerning her. But any one who can't see that she's a perfect lady is no judge of the article."
"I will stake any amount on that, basing my belief only on the first impression of one interview," added Van Berg, decidedly.
"You now see how deeply my friend is impressed," said Stanton, with a satirical smile. "Thanks, Mr. Burleigh; we will not detain you any longer."
When alone again, he resumed, with an expression of disgust: "A 'New England FEMALE college!' How aptly he words it. If there's any region on the face of the earth that I detest, it's New England; and if there is one type of women that I'd shun as I would 'ever angry bears,' it's a New England school-ma'am." " 'But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea' of a restless, all-absorbing passion, 'Thou'dst meet the bear I' the mouth,' as you will try to in this case. You will be ready to barter your ears for a kiss before very long."
"It will be after they have grown prodigiously long and hairy in some transformation scene like that in which the immortal Bottom was the victim."
"Your illustration tells against you, for it was only after his appropriate transformation that Bottom saw the fairy queen; but in your case the desire to 'munch' will be banned."
"Come, Van, we have had enough chaff on this topic, already worn threadbare. I now know all about the mysterious complaint, the impress of which on the face of the school-ma'am has so dazed you. It's a New England female college--a place where they give a razor-like edge to the wits of Yankee women, already too sharp, and develop in attenuated maidens the hatchet faces of their sires. You may as well set about that picture at once, whenever you feel in the mood for work."
"I admit that I have been speaking nonsense, and yet you may find many grains of truth in my chaff, nevertheless."
"But is my picture to end in chaff?"
"I will stand by my promise. If I lose, perhaps I'll paint you the school-ma'am's portrait."
"Then we would both lose, for I would have no earthly use for that."
"Well, I will paint what you wish, within reason."
"I'm content, and with good reason, for never did I have such absurd good luck before."
"Ha! look yonder--quick!"
Both the young men started to their feet, but before they could spring forward, the event, which had so suddenly aroused them, was an accomplished fact.
Both drew a long breath of relief as they looked at each other, and Van Berg remarked, with some emphasis: "Act first, scene first, and it does not open like a comedy either."
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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8
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Glimpses of Tragedy.
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Stanton threw away his half-burned cigar--an act which proved him strongly moved--and strode rapidly towards the main entrance near which a little group had already gathered, and among the others, Ida Mayhew. Not a hair of anybody's head was hurt, but an event had almost occurred which would have more than satisfied Stanton's spite against 'Yankee school-ma'ams,' and would also have made him very miserable for months to come.
He had ordered his bays to the farther end of the piazza where they were smoking, as he proposed to take Van Berg out for a drive. His coachmen liked to wheel around the corner of the hotel and past the main entrance in a dashing showy style, and thus far had suffered no rebuke from his master for this habit. But on this occasion a careless nursery maid, neglectful of her charge, had left a little child to toddle to the centre of the carriage drive and there it had stood, balancing itself with the uncertain footing characteristic of first steps. Even if it could have seen the rapidly approaching carriage that was hidden by the angle of the building, its baby feet could not have carried it out of harm's way in time, and it is more than probable that its inexperience would have prevented any sense of danger.
But help was at hand in the person of one who never seemed so preoccupied with self as to lose an opportunity to serve others.
Two of the ladies, who had casually formed Miss Burton's acquaintance at dinner, still lingered in the door-way to talk with her, wondering in the mean time why they remained so long, and meaning to break away every moment, but the expression of the young lady's eyes was so pleasant, and her manner, more than anything she said, so like spring sunshine that they were still standing in the door-way when the rumble and rush of the carriage was heard. The others did not notice these sounds, but Miss Burton, whose eyes had been following the child with an amused interest, suddenly broke off in the midst of a sentence, listened a second, then swiftly springing down the steps, darted towards the child.
Quick as she had been it seemed as if she would be too late, for, with cries of horror, the startled ladies on the piazza saw the horses coming so rapidly that it appeared that both the maiden and the child must be trampled under their feet. And so they would have been, had Miss Burton sought to snatch up the child and return, but with rare presence of mind she carried the child across the carriage track to its farther side, thus making the most of the impetus with which she had rushed to the rescue.
The exclamations of the ladies drew many eyes to the scene, and all held their breath as the horses dashed past, the driver vainly endeavoring to pull them up in time. Having passed, even Stanton was compelled to admit that the "school-ma'am" appeared to very great advantage as she stood panting, and with heightened color, holding in her arms the laughing child that seemed to think that the whole excitement was created for its amusement. She was about to restore the child to its nurse quietly, who now came bustling up with many protestations, when she was arrested by a loud voice exclaiming: "Don't let that hateful creature touch my child again--give him to me," and a lady, who had been drawn to the scene by the outcry, ran down the steps, and snatching the child, almost devoured him with kisses. Then, turning to the trembling nurse, she said harshly: "Begone; I never wish to see your face again. Had it not been for this lady, my child would have been killed through your carelessness. Excuse me, Miss--Miss--" "Miss Burton," said the young lady quietly.
"Excuse my show of feeling; but you can't realize the service you have done us. Bertie is our only child, and we just idolize him. I'm so agitated, I must go to my room."
When the lady had disappeared, Miss Burton turned to the sobbing nurse and said: "Will you promise me to be careful in the future if I intercede for you?"
"Dade, Miss, an' I will."
"Come to me, then, after supper. In the mean time remain where your mistress can summon you should she need your services, or be inclined to forgive you of her own accord," and leaving the crude and offending jumble of humanity much comforted, she returned to the piazza again.
Of course many pressed around her with congratulations and words of commendation. Van Berg was much interested in observing how she would receive this sudden gush of mingled honest praise and extravagant flattery, for he recognized that the occasion would prove a searching and delicate test of character for which there was no time to prepare. She did not listen to their words with deprecatory smirk, nor with the pained expression of those sensitive souls to whom hearty words and demonstrations are like rough winds; nor was there a trace of exultation and self-complacency in her bearing. Van Berg thought that her manner was peculiarly her own, for she looked into the faces around her with frank gladness, and her unconsciousness of herself can be, perhaps, best suggested by her own words.
"How fortunate it was," she said, "that I stood where I did, and happened to be looking at the child. If somebody had not been at hand it might have gone hard with the little fellow. Not that I think he would have been killed, but he might have been maimed or disfigured in a way that would have caused him pain and mortification all his life."
"Miss Burton, I take my hat to you," said Van Berg, laughing. "Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you all appreciate the force of Miss Burton's phrase, 'somebody,' since it implies that any one of us would have shown like courage and presence of mind if we had only been 'at hand,' or had stood where she did. Really Miss Burton, you are like smiling fortune, and 'thrust upon' us 'greatness' and heroism."
"Mr. Van Berg, you are laughing at me, and your quotation suggests that other Shakespearean words are in your mind--to wit, 'much ado about nothing.' Now if YOU had had the opportunity you would have achieved the rescue in a way that would have been heroic and striking. Instead of scrambling out of the way with the child, like a timid woman, you would have rushed upon the horses, seized them by their heads, thrown them back upon their haunches, and while posing in that masterful attitude, you would have called out in stentorian tones--'Remove the child.'"
All laughed at this unexpected sally, and no one enjoyed it more than Stanton, who, a little before, had been excessively angry at his coachman, and, like the mother of the child, had summarily dismissed the poor fellow from his service. Quite forgetful of his uncomplimentary words concerning "Yankee school-ma'ams" in general, and this one in particular, he now stood near, and was regarding her not only with approval but with admiration. Her ready reply to Van Berg pleased him exceedingly, especially as the rising color in the face of his self-possessed friend indicated a palpable hit. But the artist was equal to the occasion, and quickly replied as one who had felt a slight spur.
"I fear you are in part correct, Miss Burton. Instead of deftly saving the child and taking both it and myself out of harm's way, after your quiet womanly fashion, I should, no doubt, have 'rushed upon the horses and seized them by their heads.' But I fear your striking tableau, in which I appeared to such advantage, would have been wholly wanting. I could not have stopped the horses in time; the child would have been run over and killed; the big, fat coroner would have come and sat on it and have made us all, who witnessed the scene, swear over the matter; the poor mother would have gone to the lunatic asylum; the father would have committed suicide; the nursery maid would have--obtained another place and been the death of an indefinite number of other innocent babies; and last, but not least, I should have been dragged and trampled upon, my legs and arms broken, and perhaps my head, and so you would all have had to take care of me--and you know a cross bear is a pleasanter subject than a sick man."
"Oh, what a chapter of horrors!" exclaimed several ladies in chorus.
"Nevertheless, we would have been equal to the occasion, even if you had been so dreadfully fractured," said Miss Burton. "We all would have become your devoted nurses, and each one of us would have had a separate and infallible remedy, which, out of courtesy, you would have been compelled to use."
"Oh, bless my soul!" exclaimed Van Berg; "I have had a greater escape than the child. In being 'at hand' as you express it, Miss Burton, I am beginning to feel that you have saved me from death by torture."
"What a compliment to us!" said Miss Burton, appealing to the ladies; "he regards our ministrations as equivalent to death by torture."
"Oh, pardon me, I referred to the numberless 'separate and infallible remedies,' the very thought of which curdles my blood."
"I cannot help thinking that my friend's prospects would have been very dismal," put in Stanton; "for with broken legs and arms and head he would have been very badly fractured indeed to begin with, and then some one of his fair nurses might have broken his heart."
"My friend probably thinks, from a direful experience," said Van Berg, "that this would be worse than all the other fractures put together; and perhaps it would. An additional cause for gratitude, Miss Burton, that you, and not I, were 'at hand.'"
"My reasons for gratitude to Miss Burton," said Stanton, "do not rest on what undoubtedly would have happened had my friend attempted the rescue, but on what has happened; and if Mr. Van Berg will introduce me I will cordially express my thanks."
"With all my heart. Miss Burton, permit me to present to you Mr. Stanton, whose only fault is a slight monomania for New England and her institutions."
The lady recognized Stanton with her wonted smiling and pleasant manner, which seemed so frank and open, but behind which some present eventually learned the real woman was hiding, and said: "I am inclined to think that Mr. Van Berg's English, like Hebrew, reads backwards. I warn you Mr. Stanton, not to express any indebtedness to me, or I shall straightway exhibit one of the Yankee traits which you undoubtedly detest, and attempt a bargain."
"Although assured that I shall get the worst of this bargain, I shall nevertheless heartily thank you that you were not only 'at hand,' but that you acted so promptly and courageously that the child was saved. What pleasure could I have taken with my horses if their feet had trampled that little boy?"
"I see my opportunity," replied Miss Burton, with a decisive little nod. "Your afternoon drives might have been marred by unpleasant thoughts as one's sleep is sometimes disturbed by bad dreams. You have no idea what a delight it is to the average New England mind, Mr. Stanton, to secure the vantage ground in a bargain. In view of your own voluntary admissions, you can scarcely do otherwise than let me have my own way."
With the exception of the two or three who had formed Miss Burton's acquaintance at dinner, those who at first had gathered around her had by this time dwindled away. Ida Mayhew sat near in an open window of the parlor, ostensibly reading a novel, but in reality observant of all that occurred. Both she and Van Berg had been amused by the fact that Stanton, usually so languid and nonchalant, had been for once thoroughly aroused. Between anger at his coachmen, alarm for the child, and interest in its preserver, he was quite shaken out of his wonted equanimity, which was composed equally of indolent good-nature, self-complacency, and a disposition to satirize the busy, earnest world around him. It was apparent that he was somewhat nonplussed by Miss Burton's manner and words, and those who knew him well enjoyed his perplexity, although at a loss themselves to imagine what object Miss Burton could have in view. Half unconsciously Van Berg turned his smiling, interested face towards Ida Mayhew, who was regarding her cousin with a similar expression, but the moment she caught the artist's eyes she coldly dropped her own to her book again.
"Well, Miss Burton," said Stanton, with a slightly embarrassed laugh, "I admit that I am cornered, so you can make your own terms."
"They shall be grievous, I assure you. Do you see that rueful face in your carriage yonder?"
"That of my coachman? Bad luck to his ill-omened visage! Yes."
"No need of wishing bad luck to any poor creature--it will come only too soon without. In view of the indebtedness--which you have so gracefully acknowledged--to one of that trading and thrifty race that never loses an opportunity to turn, if not a penny more or less honest, why, something else, to their advantage, I stipulate that you give your dependent there another chance. I heard you dismiss him from your service a short time since, and he evidently does not wish to go. His disconsolate face troubles me; so please banish his dismal looks, and he'll be more careful hereafter."
"And have you had time to see and think about him?" said Stanton, with a little surprise in his tone. "You shall banish his dismal looks yourself. Barney," he called, "drive close to the piazza here. This lady has probably saved you from arrest, and she now intercedes in your behalf. In compliance with her request, I will keep you in my service, but I wish you to thank her and not me."
Barney took off his hat and ejaculated: "May yees shadder niver grow less, me leddy, an' may the Powers grant that yees bright eyes may see no trouble o' their own, bain they're so quick to see a poor man's bad luck."
The smiling manner with which she acknowledged his good wishes seemed to warm the man all over, and he looked as if transformed as he drove back to his stand.
"How is this, Miss Burton?" said Stanton. "I feel as if I had had the best of this bargain."
"That impression is wholly due to my Yankee shrewdness; and now, having gained my point," she added, with a graceful inclination, "I will not keep you from your drive any longer."
"My conscience will not permit me to complete this transaction until I have assured you that my horses and carriage are at your service at any time."
"Be careful; I may take advantage of you again."
"Please do so," replied Stanton, lifting his hat; and then he went to his carriage more surprised at himself than at anything else that had occurred. Miss Burton returned to the doorway and quietly resumed the conversation that had been interrupted by the peril of the child.
Van Berg was about to follow his friend, but an acquaintance coming up the steps, detained him a few moments.
"Oh, Harold, come!" cried Stanton, impatiently.
Miss Burton started violently. The sentence upon her lips was never finished, and her face became ashen in color. She looked at Van Berg with a strange expression as he, unconscious of her agitation, answered: "Yes, I'm coming," and moved away.
"My dear Miss Burton," said the lady with whom she was speaking, "you are ill; you look ready to faint. This excitement has been a greater strain upon you than you have realized."
"Perhaps I had better go to my room," faltered the young lady; and she fled with a precipitancy that her companion could not understand.
Ida Mayhew also witnessed this unexpected bit of mystery, and it puzzled her not a little. She had left the parlor and was standing in the hall-way when her cousin's voice summoned his friend after his familiar fashion. Why should this stranger look at Mr. Van Berg as if the sound of his Christian name were a mortal wound? Or was that a mere coincidence--and in reaction from excitement and unwonted effort had she suddenly taken ill? For a wonder, she thought more about Miss Burton than herself that afternoon. She had decided from the first that she did not like this new-comer. That point had been settled by the fact that the artist's first impressions concerning her had evidently been favorable, and she remembered that his earliest glances and words in regard to herself had been anything but complimentary.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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9
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Unexpectedly Thrown Together.
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"I suppose you are satisfied by this time, Stanton," began Van Berg, as they drove away, "that I was very safe in offering you that picture on the conditions named, and that you have not the ghost of a chance of obtaining it."
"Nonsense," replied Stanton. "The picture is practically won already. I admit that Miss Burton is an exception to all her species; and, now that I have seen her, I prove how little I am under the influence of prejudice by acknowledging the fact, and by giving her credit for her courage and agreeable manners. But how absurd to imagine that this plain little stranger can ever be to me more than she is to-day--a summer acquaintance at a summer resort! She will soon drop from our memories and leave no more trace than these rustling leaves overhead after they have fulfilled their brief purpose."
"Here's a symptom already," cried Van Berg. "My matter-of-fact friend is already in the subtle current, and unconsciously drops into sentiment, and expresses himself in poetic trope. I foresee that the 'rustling leaves' will end in a rustling wedding-robe and gorgeous apparel; for when you cage the 'brown thrush' you will have the bad taste to insist on a change of plumage."
"I begin to understand you at last," retorted Stanton. "You have been smitten yourself, and this is your strategy to conceal the fact. The trouble is that you have overdone the matter, and revealed your transfixed heart long before I should have suspected the wound. Had you not better commence on the picture soon, for this matter may disable you for a season?"
"I won't swear that I will not become your rival, for our little heroine interests me hugely. There is something back of her smiling face. Her manner seems like crystal in its frankness, and yet I think few in the house will ever become better acquainted with her than they are to-day."
"I shall take more than a languid interest in watching you progress with this smiling sphinx," said Stanton, "and in the mean time shall gloat over my picture."
"Well, Barney," said Van Berg, as they drove up to the stables on their return, "you did have a streak of good luck this afternoon. I hope you are grateful to the lady who secured it for you."
"Faix, sur, an' I niver seed the likes o' her afore. The smilin' look she gave me jist warmed the very core o' me heart, and her swate eyes seemed to say, 'Nary a bit o' ill-luck would ye have again, Barney, had I me way.' What's more, she's a goin' to intercade for the nurse-maid. They nadn't tell me that all the heretics will stay in purgatory."
"Look here, Stanton, were I a theologian I'd make a note of that. Miss Burton has discovered a logic that routs superstition."
Van Berg quite longed for the supper hour, that he might resume conversation with the interesting stranger, and he was promptly in his place at the table. But she did not appear. The lady with whom she had been conversing, remarked: "She was taken suddenly ill, just as you and your friend drove away this afternoon. Learning from Mr. Burleigh that she is here alone and without friends, I knocked at her door before I came down, and asked if I could do anything for her. She said that she would be better in the morning, and that all she needed was perfect quiet. It's strange how suddenly she was taken ill! She seemed perfectly well one moment, and then she fled to her room as if the ghost were in pursuit. I suppose it was reaction from excitement; or she may have some form of heart disease."
"Are heart difficulties so serious as that with ladies?" asked Van Berg with a smile.
"I never had acute symptoms of any kind," the lady replied. "Indeed I think I am a trifle cold and matter-of-fact in my disposition, but I began to thaw so perceptibly under Miss Burton's influence that I became quite interested in her. I think I deserve some credit for saving the child also, for it was I who kept her talking in the doorway. Most people are a weariness to me, and I was surprised to find so marked an exception."
It must not be supposed that Van Berg's interest in the new arrival had led him to forget the motive which had brought him to the Lake House. This would not be in accordance with his character, and as far as possible, he had been closely observant of Miss Mayhew during the scenes of the afternoon. He had been rewarded by discovering, for the first time, that she was at least capable of a good and generous impulse, for her face had been expressive of genuine admiration and gladness when she saw Miss Burton with the rescued child in her arms after the carriage swept by. In this expression he obtained a clearer hint than he had ever before received of the beauty that might be her constant possession could the mean and marring traits of her character be exchanged for qualities in harmony with her perfect features. But while this gleam, this flash of ideal beauty increased his desire for success in his experiment, the young lady's bearing towards him was as discouraging as ever. If he had not been at Miss Burton's side, he believed that she would have come forward and offered her congratulations as had several other ladies. It would seem that her vanity had been so severely wounded she would never forgive him, and he determined he would no longer make a martyr of himself by playing the agreeable to all in the hotel in the hope that, by pouring so much oil on the waters, even her asperity might be removed. He half believed that she recognized his effort to form her acquaintance, and found a malicious pleasure in thwarting him. Therefore, he decided to take his sketch-book and go off upon the hills in the morning, thus enjoying a little respite from his apparently philanthropic labors.
Before he left the breakfast table the following day, Miss Burton appeared. He thought he detected an ominous redness about her eyes, as well as the pallor which would be the natural result of illness; but she seemed to have recovered her spirits, and the rather quiet and self-absorbed little group that had hitherto seriously devoted themselves to steak and coffee, speedily brightened up under her pleasantries. Indeed she kept them lingering so long that the Mayhews and Stanton passed out before them, the latter casting a wistful glance at the cheerful party, for he had been having a stupid time.
When, much later than he expected, he started on his brief sketching excursion he found that his mind was kindled and aglow with pleasant thoughts, and that the summer landscape had been made sunnier by the sunny face he had just left.
But as he plodded his way back late in the afternoon, the sunbeams, no longer genial, became oppressive, and he was glad to hail one of the hotel stages that was returning from a neighboring village.
The vehicle already contained two adult passengers. One was a stout, red-faced woman with a baby and an indefinite number of parcels, and the other was--Ida Mayhew, who was returning from a brief shopping excursion.
As the latter saw Van Berg enter she colored, bit her lip, half frowned, and looked steadfastly away from him. Thus the stage lumbered on with its oddly assorted inmates, that, although belonging to the same human family, seemed to have as little in common as if each had come from a different planet. That Miss Mayhew looked so resolutely away from him was rather to Van Berg's advantage, for it gave him a chance to compare her exquisite profile with the expanse, slightly diversified, of the broad red face opposite.
The stout woman held her baby as if it were a bundle, and stared straight before her. As far as Van Berg could observe, not a trace of an idea or a change of expression flitted across the wide area of her sultry visage, and he found himself speculating as to whether the minds of these two women differed as greatly as their outward appearance. Indeed he questioned whether one had any more mind than the other, and was inclined to think that despite their widely separated spheres of life they were equally dwarfed.
While he was thus amusing himself with the contrasts, physical and metaphysical, which the two passengers opposite him presented, the stout woman suddenly looked out of the window at her side, and then, in a tone that would startle the quietest nerves, shouted to the driver: "Hold on!"
Miss Mayhew half rose from her seat and looked around with something like dismay; but as she only encountered Van Berg's slightly humorous expression, she colored more deeply than before, and recalled her eyes to the farther angle of the stage with a fixedness and rigidity as great as if it had contained the head of Medusa.
Meantime the driver drew up to a small cottage by the road-side, and scrambled down from his seat that he might assist the stout woman with her accumulation of bundles. She handed him out the baby, preferring to look after the more precious parcels herself. Van Berg politely held the door open for her; but just as she was squeezing through the stage entrance with her arms full and had her foot on the last step, her cottage door flew open with something to the effect of an explosion, and out burst three or four children with a perfect din of cries and shouts. Two vociferous dogs joined in the sudden uproar; the hitherto drowsy horses started as if a bomb-shell had dropped under their noses, and speedily broke into a mad gallop, leaving the stout woman prostrate upon her bundles in the road, and the driver helplessly holding her baby.
Miss Mayhew's cold rigidity vanished at once. Indeed dignity was impossible in the swaying, bounding vehicle. There was a momentary effort to ignore her companion, and then terror overcame all scruples. Turning her white face towards him, she exclaimed: "Are we not in great danger?"
"I admit I would rather be in my chair on Mr. Burleigh's piazza. With your permission, I will come to your end of the stage and speak to the horses through the open window."
"Oh, come--do anything under heaven to stop these horrid beasts."
Van Berg edged his way up a little past Miss Mayhew, and began speaking to the frightened horses in firm, quiet tones. At first they paid no heed to him, and as the stage made a sudden and desperate lurch, the young lady commenced to scream.
"If you do that you will insure the breaking of both our necks," said Van Berg, sharply. "If you will keep quiet I think I can stop them. See, we have quite a stretch of level road beyond us, before we come to a hill. Give me a chance to quiet them."
The terror-stricken girl kept still for a moment, and then started up, saying "I shall spring out."
"No, Miss Mayhew, you must not do that," said Van Berg, decidedly. "You must be greatly injured, and you would with almost certainty be disfigured for life if you sprang out upon the stony road. You could not help falling on your face."
"Oh, horrible!" she exclaimed.
At the next heavy lurch of the stage she half-rose again to carry out her rash purpose, but the artist seized her hand and held her in her place, at the same time speaking kindly and firmly to the horses. They now began to heed his voice, and to recover from their panic.
"See, Miss Mayhew," he said, "you have only to control yourself a few moments longer, and our danger is over."
"Oh, do stop them, quick," she gasped, clinging to his hand as if he were her only hope, "and I'll never forget your kind--oh, merciful heaven!"
At this favorable moment, when the horses were fast coming under control, a spiteful cur came tearing out after them, renewing their panic with tenfold intensity. As the dog barked on one side they sheered off on the other, until they plunged down the side of the road. The stage was nearly overturned, and then it stopped with a sudden and heavy thump. Miss Mayhew was precipitated into Mr. Van Berg's arms, and she clung to him for a moment in a paroxysm of terror. His wits had not so far deserted him but that he perceived that the stage had struck against a tree, that the horses had broken away, and that he and his companion were perfectly safe. If the whole truth must be told, it cannot be said that he endured the young lady's embrace with only cold and stoical philosophy. He found it wholly novel and not a painful experience. Indeed he was conscious of a temptation to delay the information of their escape, but a second's thought taught him that he must at once employ all his tact in the delicate and difficult task of reconciling the frightened girl to herself and her own conduct; otherwise her pride, and also her sense of delicacy, would now receive a new and far deeper wound, and a more hopeless estrangement follow. He therefore promptly lifted her up, and placed her limp form on the opposite seat.
"I assure you we are now perfectly safe, Miss Mayhew," he said; "and let me congratulate you that your self-control prevented you from leaving the stage, for if you had done so you would undoubtedly have been greatly injured."
"Where--where are--the horses?" she faltered.
"I really do not know! They have disappeared. The stage struck a tree, and the brutes broke away. They will probably gallop home to the alarm and excitement of every one about the hotel. Pray compose yourself. The house is not far away, and we can soon reach it if you are not very much hurt."
"Are you sure the danger is all over?"
"Yes; this is now not the slightest chance of a tragedy."
There must have been a faint twinkle in his eye, for she exclaimed, passionately: "The whole thing has been a comedy to you, and I half believe you brought it all about to annoy me."
"You do me great injustice, Miss Mayhew," said Van Berg, warmly.
"Here we are sitting in this horrid old stage by the roadside," she resumed, in tones of strong vexation. "Was there ever anything more absurd and ridiculous than it has all been! I am mortified beyond expression, and suppose I shall never hear the last of it," and she burst into a hysterical passion of tears.
"Miss Mayhew," said Van Berg hastily, "you certainly must realize that we have passed through very great peril together, and if you think me capable of saying a word about this episode that is not to your credit, you were never more mistaken in your life."
At this assurance she became more calm.
"I know you dislike me most heartily," Van Berg continued; "but you have less reason to do so than you think---" "I have good reason to dislike you. You despise me; and now that I have been such a coward you are comparing me with Miss Burton who acted so differently yesterday."
"I have not even thought of Miss Burton," protested Van Berg, at the same time conscious, now that her name had been recalled to his memory, that she would have acted a much better part. "I am only sincerely glad that our necks were not broken, and I hope that you have not suffered any severe bruises. As to my despising you, if you will honor me with your acquaintance you may discover that you are greatly in error."
"Then you truly think that we have been in danger?" she asked, wiping her eyes.
"Most assuredly. When you come to think the matter over calmly, you will realize that we were in very great danger. I think the affair has ended most happily rather than absurdly."
"Really, sir, when I remember how the 'affair,' as you term it, actually did end, I feel as if I never wished to see you again."
"Miss Mayhew, I appeal to your generosity. Was I to blame for that which was so disagreeable to you? Surely you will not be so unfair as to punish me for what neither you nor I could help. I think fate means we shall be friends, and has employed this unexpected episode to break the ice between us. If you are now sufficiently composed I will assist you to alight, in order that the driver, who is approaching, may be relieved of all fears on our account."
"Oh, certainly. As it is, I suppose he will have a ridiculous story to tell."
"There is nothing that he, or the others who are following him can tell, save that the horses ran away and that we most fortunately escaped all injury. Ah! I see that you are a little lame. Please take my arm; the hotel is but a quarter of a mile away. Or perhaps you would prefer that I should send the driver for a carriage. You could wait in yonder cottage, or here, in the shade of the trees."
"I am not very lame, and if I were I would not mind it. My wish is that the horrid affair may occasion as little remark as possible. I can reach my room by a side entrance, and so come quietly down to dinner. I suppose that I must take your arm since I cannot walk very well without it."
They therefore turned their backs on the breathless driver and his eager questions, and proceeded slowly towards the hotel. After a brief examination of the shattered stage, the man ran panting past them in search of his horses; and they were again left alone.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
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10
|
Phrases too Suggestive.
|
For a few moments Miss Mayhew and Van Berg walked on in silence, each very doubtful of the other. At last the artist began: "I am well aware, Miss Mayhew, that this unexpected episode and this enforced companionship give me no rights whatever. I do not propose to annoy you, after seeing you safely to the hotel, by assuming that we are acquainted, nor do I intend to subject myself to the mortification of being informed publicly, by your manner, that we are not on speaking terms. I would be glad to have this question settled now. I ask your pardon for anything that I may have said or done to hurt your feelings, and having thus gone more than half-way it would be ungenerous on your part not to respond in like spirit."
"You apologize, then?"
"No; I ask your pardon for anything that may have hurt your feelings."
"You have said very disagreeable things about me, Mr. Van Berg."
"I did not know you then."
"I do not think you have changed your opinion of me in the least."
"I evidently have a much higher opinion of you than you of me, and I am seeking your acquaintance with a persistence such as I never manifested in the case of any other lady. Thus the odds are all in your favor. Having been so unexpectedly thrown together---" "'Thrown together,' indeed--Mr. Van Berg, you ARE mocking me," and her eyes again filled with tears of vexation.
"I assure you I am not," said Van Berg earnestly. "I could not be so mean as to twit you with an accident which you could not help, and with an act which was wholly involuntary on your part. Can we not both let by-gones by by-gones and commence anew?"
Miss Mayhew bit her lip and hesitated a few moments.
"I think that will be the better way," she said. "We will both let by-gones, especially this ridiculous episode in the stage. I'll put you on your good behavior."
"Thank you, Miss Mayhew. I would take our late risk twenty times for such a result."
"I would not take it again on any account whatever. Please refer to it no more. I declare, there comes Cousin Ik and Mr. Burleigh to meet us. Was one's fortune ever so exasperating! Ik will teaze me out of all comfort for weeks to come."
"Say little and leave all to my discretion," said Van Berg, reassuringly; "and, by the way, you might limp a little more decidedly," which she immediately did.
"My dear Miss Mayhew, I trust you are not seriously hurt," began Mr. Burleigh while still several yards off.
Stanton's face was a study as he approached. Indeed he seemed half ready to explode with suppressed merriment, but before he could speak a warning glance from Van Berg checked him.
"Miss Mayhew might have been seriously and possibly fatally injured," said the artist gravely, "had it not been for her self-control. Although it seemed that the stage would be dashed to pieces every moment, I told her that in my judgement it would be safer to remain within it than to spring out upon the hard and stony road, and I am very glad that the final event confirmed my opinion."
As they were by this time near to the hotel, others who had been alarmed by seeing the horses tearing up to the stable door, now hastily joined them; and last, but not least, Mrs. Mayhew came panting upon the scene. Van Berg felt the hand of the young lady trembling in nervous apprehension upon his arm, from which, in her embarrassment, she forgot to remove it. But the artist did not fail her, and in answer to Mr. Burleigh's eager questions as to the cause of the accident, explained all so plausibly, and in such a matter-of-fact manner as left little more even to be surmised. His brief and prosaic history of the affair concluded with the following implied tribute to his companion, which still further relieved her from fear of ridicule: "Miss Mayhew," he said, "instead of jumping out, after the frantic terror-blinded manner of most people, remained in the stage and so has escaped, I trust, with nothing worse than a slight lameness caused by the violent motion of the vehicle. I will now resign her to your care, Mr. Stanton, and I am glad to believe that the occasion will require the services of the wheelwright and harness-maker only, and not those of a surgeon," and lifting his hat to Mrs. Mayhew and her daughter he bowed himself off the scene.
Ida, leaning on the arm of her cousin, limped appropriately to her room, whither she had her dinner sent to her, more for the purpose of gaining time to compose her nerves than for any other reason.
The impression that she had behaved courageously in peril was rapidly increased as the story was repeated by one and another, and she received several congratulatory visits in the afternoon from her lady acquaintances; and when she came down to supper she found that she was even a greater heroine than Miss Burton had been. In answer to many sympathetic inquiries, she said that she "felt as well as ever," and she tried to prove it by her gayety and careful toilet.
But she was decidedly ill at ease. Her old self-complacency was ebbing away faster than ever. From the time that it had first been disturbed by the artist's frown in the concert garden, she had been conscious of a secret and growing self-dissatisfaction.
It seemed to be this stranger's mission to break the spell vanity and flattery had woven about her. The congratulations she was now receiving were secured by a fraudulent impression, if not by actual falsehood, and she permitted this impression to remain and grow. The one, who above all others she most feared and disliked, knew this. In smilingly accepting the compliments showered upon her from all sides she felt that she must appear to him as if receiving stolen goods, and she believed that in his heart he despised her more thoroughly than ever.
To the degree that he caused her disquietude and secret humiliation, her desire to retaliate increased, and she resolved, before the day closed, to use her beauty as a weapon to inflict upon him the severest wound possible. If it were within the power of her art she would bring him to her feet and keep him there until she could, in the most decided and public manner, spurn his abject homage. She would have no scruple in doing this in any case, but, in this instance, success would give her the keenest satisfaction.
His very desire for her acquaintance, as she understood it, was humiliating, and, in a certain sense, demoralizing. Her other suitors had imagined that she had good traits back of her beauty, and hitherto she had been carelessly content to believe that she could display such traits in abundance should the occasion require them. Here was one, however, who, while despising the woman, was apparently seeking her for the sake of her beauty merely; and her woman's soul, warped and dwarfed as it was, resented an homage that was seemingly sensuous and superficial, and would, of necessity, be transient. In her ignorance of Van Berg's motives, and in the utter impossibility of surmising them, she could scarcely come to any other conclusion; and she determined to punish him to the utmost extent of her ability.
Thus it came to pass that Miss Mayhew had designs against Van Berg that were not quite as amiable as those of the artist in regard to herself.
Stanton, in a low tone, remarked to her at the supper table, "Now that fate has throw you and Van Berg together in such a remarkable manner" (the young lady colored deeply at this unfortunate expression and looked at him keenly), "I trust that you will yield gracefully to destiny and treat him with ordinary courtesy when you meet. Otherwise you may occasion surmises that will not be agreeable to you."
"Has he been telling you anything about this morning?" she asked quickly.
"Nothing more than he said in your presence. Why, was there anything more to tell?"
"Certainly not, but he made ill-natured remarks about me once--that is, you said he did--and why should he not again?"
"Well, he has not. I think he spoke very handsomely of you this morning. I hope he didn't exaggerate your good behavior."
"If you prefer to believe ill of me you are welcome to do so. For my part, I believe you exaggerate what Mr. Van Berg said at the concert, and that he never meant to be so rude. As far as I can judge, he has shown no such unmannerly disposition since coming here."
"Indeed, you are right. I think his disposition has compared favorably with your own."
"Well," she replied, with a peculiar smile, "we are on speaking terms for the present."
"That smile bodes no good-will towards my friend, but for once you will find a man who will not fall helplessly in love with your mere beauty."
"If you will glance at yonder table you can see that Miss Burton has already so absorbed him that he has eyes for no one else."
"They have jolly good times at that table. I wish we were there."
"Indeed! are you bewitched also? I can't see what it is that people find so attractive in that plain-looking girl."
"Well, for one thing, she has a mind. Beauty without mind is like salad without dressing."
"And do you mean to say that I have no mind?" Ida asked, with a sudden flush.
"My dear Coz, we were speaking solely of Miss Burton. Indeed, I think you have a very decided will of your own."
"I understand you. Well, in what other respects is Miss Burton my superior?"
"I doubt if Miss Burton ever thinks of herself as superior to any one, and that's another very amiable trait in her."
"Can you not sum up her perfections a little more rapidly? Life is short," remarked Ida, acidly.
"Come, Coz, let me get you some sweet-oil before you finish your supper. You know you are the handsomest girl in the State, and that's distinction enough for one woman. To you, Miss Burton is only a plain school-teacher. Why should you envy her?"
"I do not envy her, nor can I see why people are so carried away with her."
"It IS remarkable to see what an impression she has made in two brief days. Of course her courage in saving the child served as a general and favorable introduction, but it does not by any means explain her growing popularity. For some reason or other those about her always seem to be having a good time. See how animated and pleased is the expression of all the faces at her table yonder. It was the same on the croquet-ground this morning. She effervesced like champagne, and before we knew it we were all in a state of exhilaration and the morning had gone."
"I hate these bold, forward women who are quick to become acquainted with every one. A man of this type is bad enough, but a woman is unendurable."
"I agree with you in the abstract most heartily; but the only bold thing that I have seen Miss Burton do was to run under the feet of my horses. You might as well call a ray of sunshine bold and forward; and people like sunshine when it is as nicely tempered as her manner is. I confess that when I first learned who she was, and before I had met her personally, I was greatly prejudiced against her, but one would have to be a churl indeed to remain proof against her genial good-nature. For my part I intend to enjoy it, as I do all the other good things the gods throw in my way."
"The gods would indeed be careless to leave any good things within your reach, unless they were meant for you," snapped Ida.
"Good for you, Coz; your ride with Van Berg has already brightened you up. There is no telling what you might not become if you would only associate with men who had sufficient brains not to grow spooney over your pretty face."
As Ida and her mother passed out on the piazza, Van Berg joined them and said: "I am glad to see that you have so fully recovered, Miss Mayhew. You prove again that you possess good strong nerves."
"Thank you," said the young lady, laconically, and with a sudden accession of color.
"Mr. Van Berg," began Mrs. Mayhew with great animation, "I'm excessively thankful that you happened to be on the road, and that the stage overtook you this morning. It was so fortunate that I almost think it providential. How dreadful it would have been if Ida had been alone in such frightful peril! I cannot tell you also how delighted I am that my daughter behaved so beautifully. Indeed, I must confess that I am agreeably surprised, for Ida was never famous for her courage. Your own manner must have inspired confidence in her; and now that you have been so fortunately THROWN TOGETHER, I trust you may be better friends in the future."
Miss Mayhew's rising color deepened into an intense scarlet, and, as she turned away to hide her confusion, she could not forbear shooting a wrathful glance at the artist. He had sufficient self-control not to change a muscle, or to appear in the slightest degree aware of the embarrassment caused by her mother's words, and especially the use of the phrase--grown to be most hateful from its associations--that so vividly recalled to the incensed maiden the anomalous position in which she found herself at the end of her perilous morning ride.
"You ladies differ favorably from us men," said Van Berg, quietly. "You rise to meet an emergency by an innate quality of your sex, whereas, in our case, if our native strength is not equal to the occasion we fall below it as a matter of course."
"Oh, that accounts for Ida's coming off with such flying colors--she rose to meet the emergency. I hope, however, she will EMBRACE no more such opportunities of showing her courage--why! Ida, what IS the matter? what have I said?" but the young lady, with face inflamed, vanished in the direction of her room.
"Well, this IS strange," remarked the lady with a sharp glance of inquiry at the artist, who still managed to maintain an expression of lamb-like innocence. "I do believe the poor child is ill, and, now I think of it, she has not acted like herself for several days;" and she sought her daughter with hasty steps.
But the young lady did not go to her room, being well aware that her mother would soon follow for the explanation which she could not give. Therefore, taking a side corridor, she joined some acquaintances on another piazza.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
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11
|
A "Tableau Vivant."
|
"Miss Mayhew, will you please step here?" said a very fashionably dressed lady.
Turning, Ida saw near her the mother of the child that had been rescued the previous day. She, with her husband, had been talking very earnestly to Mr. Burleigh, the proprietor of the house, who seemed in rather a dubious state of mind over some proposition of theirs.
"Miss Mayhew, we want your opinion in regard to a certain matter," began the lady volubly. "Of course I and my husband feel very grateful to the young woman who saved our child from your cousin's horses yesterday. Indeed, my husband feels so deeply indebted that he wishes to make some return and I have suggested that he present her with a check for five hundred dollars. I learn from Mr. Burleigh that she is a teacher, and therefore, of course, she must be poor. Now, in my view, if my husband or some other gentleman should present this check in the parlor, with an appropriate little speech, it would be a nice acknowledgment of her act. Don't you think so?"
"I do not think I am qualified to give an opinion," said Ida, "as I have no acquaintance with the lady whatever."
"I'm sure it will be just the thing to do," said the lady, becoming more infatuated with her project every moment. "Do you think your cousin would be willing to make the speech?"
At this suggestion Ida laughed outright. "The idea," she said, "of my cousin making a speech of any kind, or in any circumstances!"
"Now I think of it," persisted the lady, "Miss Burton and Mr. Van Berg sit at the same table, and he seems better acquainted with her than any of the gentlemen. He's the one to make the speech, only I do not feel that I know him well enough to ask him. Do you, Miss Mayhew?"
"Indeed I do not," said the young lady, decisively; "I am the last one in the house to ask any favors of Mr. Van Berg."
"Well, then, Mr. Burleigh can explain everything and ask him."
"Really now, Mrs. Chints"--for such was the lady's name--"I don't quite believe that Mr. Van Berg would approve of giving Miss Burton money in public, and before anything further is done I would like to ask his judgement. It all may be eminently proper, as you say, and I would not like to stand in the way of the young lady's receiving so handsome a present, and would not for the world if I thought it would be agreeable to her; but there is something about her that---" "I have it," interrupted the positive-minded lady, unheeding and scarcely hearing Mr. Burleigh's dubious circumlocution, and she put her finger to her forehead for a moment in an affected stage-like manner, as if her ideas of the "eternal fitness of things" had been obtained from the sensational drama. "I have it: the child himself shall hand her the gift from his own little hand, and you, Mr. Chints, can say all that need be said. It will be a pretty scene, a 'tableau vivant.' Mr. Chints, come with me before the young woman leaves her present favorable position near the parlor door. Mr. Burleigh, your scruples are sentimental and groundless. Of course the young woman will be delighted to receive in one evening as much, and perhaps more, than her whole year's salary amounts to. Come, Mr. Chints, Mr. Burleigh, if you wish, you may group some of your friends near;" and away she rustled, sweeping the floor with her silken train.
Mr. Chints lumbered after her with a perplexed and martyr-like expression. He was a mighty man in Washington Market, but in a matter like this he was as helpless as a stranded whale. The gift of five hundred dollars did not trouble him in the least; he could soon make that up; but taking part in a "tableau vivant" under the auspices of his dramatic wife was like being impaled.
"Well," said Mr. Burleigh, shaking his head, "I wash my hands of the whole matter. Five hundred dollars is a snug sum, but I doubt if that little woman takes it. I'm more afraid she'll be offended and hurt. What do you think, Miss Mayhew?"
"I've no opinion to offer, Mr. Burleigh. These people are all comparative strangers to me. Mrs. Chints is determined to have her own way, and nothing that you or I can say would make any difference. My rule is to let people alone, and if they get into scrapes it sometimes does them good;" and she left him that she might witness the Chints' tableau.
"That's just the difference between you and Miss Burton," muttered Mr. Burleigh, nodding his head significantly after her. "She'd help a fellow out of a scrape and you'd help him into one. Well, if the old saying's true, 'Handsome is that handsome does,' the little school-teacher would be the girl for me were I looking for my mate."
On her way to the entrance of the main parlor, Ida stopped a moment at an open window near the corner where Stanton and Van Berg were smoking.
"Cousin Ik," she said, 'sotto voce.'
He rose and joined her.
"If you wish to see a rich scene, hover near the entrance of the main parlor."
"What do you mean?"
"I've learned that Mr. and Mrs. Chints, and possibly your favorite new performer, Miss Burton, are going to act a little comedy together: come and see;" and she vanished.
"Van," said Stanton in a vexed tone, "there's some mischief on foot;" and he mentioned what his cousin had said, adding: "Can Ida have been putting that brassy Mrs. Chints up to some absurd performance that will hurt Miss Burton's feelings?"
They rose and sauntered down the piazza, Van Berg trying to imagine what was about to take place and how he could shield the young lady from any annoyance.
She sat inside the entrance of the main parlor facing the open windows, and a little group had gathered around her, including the ladies who sat at her table, with whom she had already become a favorite. Ida had demurely entered by one of the open windows and was apparently reading a novel under one of the gas jets not far away. Groups of people were chatting near or were seated around card-tables; others were quietly promenading in the hall-ways and on the piazza. There was not an indication of any expected or unexpected "scene." Only Ida's conscious, observant expression and the absence of Mrs. Chints foreboded mischief.
"What enormity can that odious family be about to perpetrate?" whispered Stanton.
"I cannot surmise," answered Van Berg; "something in reference to the rescue of her child, I suppose. I wish I could thwart them, for Miss Burton's position will place her full in the public eye, and I do not wish her to be the victim of their vulgarity."
After a little further hesitation and thought he stepped in, and approaching Miss Burton, said: "Pardon me for interrupting you, but I wish to show you something on the piazza that will interest you."
She rose to follow him, but before she could take a step Mrs. Chints swept in on the arm of her husband, followed by the nurse--who had been retained at Miss Burton's intercession--bearing in her arms the little boy, that stared at the lights and people with the round eyes of childish wonder.
Every one looked up in surprise at the sudden appearance of the little group, that suggested a christening more than anything else.
Planting themselves before Miss Burton, thus barring all egress, Mr. Chints fumbled a moment in his pocket and drew out an envelope, and with a loud, prefatory "Ahem!" began: "My dear Miss Burton--that is the way Mrs. Chints says I should address you, thought it strikes me as a trifle familiar and affectionate; but I mean no harm--we're under pecul--very great obligations to YOU. We learn--my wife has--that you are engaged--engaged--in--I mean that you--teach. I'm sure that's a lawful calling--I mean a laudable one, and no one can deny that it's useful. In my view it's to your credit that you are engaged--in--that you teach. I work myself, and always mean to. In fact I enjoy it more than making speeches. But feeling that we were under wonderful obligations to YOU, and learning--my wife did--that you were dependent on--on your own labor, we thought that if this little fellow that you saved so handsomely should hand you this check for five hundred dollars it wouldn't be amiss." And here, according to rehearsal, the nurse with great parade handed the child to Mrs. Chints, who now, with much 'empressement,' advanced to a position immediately before Miss Burton; meanwhile the poor, perspiring Mr. Chints put the envelope into the child's chubby hand, saying: "Give it to the lady, Augustus."
But the small Augustus, on the contrary, stared at the lady and put the envelope in his mouth, to the great mortification of Mrs. Chints, who had been so preoccupied with the Chints side of the affair, and the impression they were making on the extemporized audience, that she had no eyes for Miss Burton.
And that young lady's face was, in truth, a study. An expression of surprise was followed quickly by one of resentment. Even Stanton was obliged to admit that for a moment the little "school-ma'am" looked formidable. But as Mr. Chints floundered on in his speech, as some poor wretch who could not swim might struggle to get out of the deep water into which he had been thrown, the expression of her face softened, and one might imagine the thought passing through her mind--"They don't know any better;" and when, at last, the child, instead of carrying out the climax that Mrs. Chints had intended, began vigorously to munch the envelope containing the precious check, there was even a twinkle of humor in the young lady's eyes. But she responded gravely: "Mr. Chints, I was at first inclined to resent this scene, but time has been given me to perceive that neither you nor your wife wish to hurt my feelings, and that you are in part, at least, actuated by feelings of gratitude for the service that I was so fortunate as to render you. But I fear you do not quite understand me. You are right in one respect, however. I do labor for my own livelihood, and it is a source of the deepest satisfaction to me that I can live from my own work and not from gifts. If your hearts prompt this large donation, there are hundreds of poor little waifs in the city to whom this money will bring a little of the care and comfort which blesses your child. As for myself, this is all the reward that I wish or can receive," and she stooped and kissed the child on both cheeks. Then taking Van Berg's arm, she gladly escaped to the cool and dusky piazza.
Mr. Chints looked at Mrs. Chints in dismay. Mrs. Chints handed the baby to the nurse, and beat an undramatic and hasty retreat, her husband following in a dazed sort of manner, treading on her train at every other step.
As Van Berg passed out of the parlor, he saw Ida Mayhew vanishing from its farther side, with Stanton in close pursuit. When Miss Burton ended the disagreeable affair by kissing the child, there had been a slight murmur of applause. Significant smiles and a rising him of voices descanting on the affair in a way not at all complimentary to the crestfallen Chints family, followed the disappearances of all the actors in the unexpected scene.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
|
12
|
Miss Mayhew is Puzzled.
|
"Miss Burton," said Van Berg, as soon as they were alone, "I wish I could have saved you from this disagreeable experience. I tried to do so, but was not quick enough. I much blame my slow wits that I was not more prompt."
"I wish it might have been prevented," she replied, "for their sakes as well as my own."
"I have no compunctions on their account whatever," said Van Berg, "and feel that you let them off much too kindly. I think, however, that they and all others here will understand you much better hereafter. I cannot express too strongly to you how thoroughly our brief acquaintance has taught me to respect you, and if you will permit me to give an earnest meaning to Mr. Burleigh's jesting offer to share with me the responsibility of your care, I will esteem it an honor."
"I sincerely thank you, Mr. Van Berg, and should I ever need the services of a gentleman,"--she laid a slight emphasis upon the term--"I shall, without any hesitancy, turn to you. But I have long since learned to be my own protectress, as, after all, one must be, situated as I am."
"You seem to have the ability, not only to take care of yourself, but of others, Miss Burton. Nevertheless I shall, with your permission, establish a sort of protectorate over you which shall be exceedingly unobtrusive and undemonstrative, and not in the least like that which some powers make the excuse for exactions, until the protected party is ready to cry out in desperation to be delivered from its friends. I hesitated too long this evening from the fear of being forward; and yet I did not know what was coming, and had learned only accidentally but a few moments before that anything was coming."
"Well," replied Miss Burton with a slight laugh, "it's a comfortable thought that there's a fort near, to which one can run should an enemy appear; and a pleasanter thought still, that the fort is strong and staunch. but, to change the figure, I have a great fancy for paddling my own light canoe, and such small craft will often float, you know, where a ship of the line would strike."
"I will admit, Miss Burton, that ships of the line are often unwieldy and clumsily deep in the water; but if you ever do need a gunboat with a howitzer or two on deck, may I hope to be summoned?"
"I could ask for no better champion. I fairly tremble at the broadside that would follow."
"Are you thinking of the discharge or the recoil?"
"Both might involve danger," said Miss Burton, laughing; "but I have concluded to keep on your side through such wars as may rage at the Lake House during my sojourn. I cannot help thinking of poor Mr. and Mrs. Chints. I feel almost as sorry for such people as I do for the blind and deaf. They seem to lack a certain sense which, if possessed, would teach them to avoid such scenes."
"I detest such people and like to snub them unmercifully," said Van Berg, heartily.
"That may be in accordance with a gunboat character; but is it knightly?"
"Why not? What does snobbishness and rich vulgarity deserve at any man's hands?"
"Nothing but sturdy blows. But what do weak, imperfect, half-educated men and women, who have never had a tithe of your advantages, NEED at your hands? Can we not condemn faults, and at the same time pity and help the faulty? The gunboat sends its shot crashing too much at random. It seems to me that true knighthood would spare weakness of any kind."
"I'm glad you have not spared mine. You have demolished me as a gunboat, but I would fain be your knight."
"It is Mrs. Chints who needs a knight at present, and not I. It troubles me to think of her worriment over this foolish little episode, and with your permission I will go and try to banish the cloud."
As she turned she was intercepted by Stanton, who said: "Miss Burton, let my present to you my cousin, Miss Mayhew."
A ray from a parlor lamp fell upon Ida's face, and Van Berg saw at once that it was clouded and unamiable in its expression. Stanton had evidently been reproaching her severely.
Miss Burton held out her hand cordially and said; "I wish to thank you for maintaining the credit of our sex this morning. These superior men are so fond of portraying us as hysterical, clinging creatures whose only instinct in peril is to throw themselves on man's protection, that I always feel a little exultation when one of the 'weaker and gentler sex,' as we are termed, show the courage and presence of mind which they coolly appropriate as masculine qualities."
"Are you an advocate of woman's rights, Miss Burton?" asked Miss Mayhew, stung by the unconscious sarcasm of the lady's words, to reply in almost as resentful a manner as if a wound had been intended.
"Not of woman's, particularly," was the quiet answer; "I would be glad if every one had their rights."
"You philanthropy is very wide, certainly."
"And therefore very thin, perhaps you think, since it covers so much ground. I agree with you, Miss Mayhew, that general good-will is as cold and thin as moonshine. One ray of sunlight that warms some particular thing into life is worth it all."
"Indeed! I think I prefer moonlight."
"There are certain absorbing avocations in life to which moonshine is better adapted then sunlight, is probably the thought in my cousin's mind," said Stanton, satirically.
"And what are they?" asked Miss Burton.
"Flirtation, for instance."
"My cousin is speaking for himself," said Ida, acidly; "and knows better what is in his own mind than in mine."
"If some ladies themselves never know their own minds, how can another know?" Stanton retorted.
"Well," said Miss Burton, with a laugh, "if we accept a practical philosophy much in vogue--that of taking the world as we find it--flirting is one of the commonest pursuits of mankind."
"I'm quite sure, Miss Burton," said Van Berg, "that your philosophy of life is the reverse of taking the world as we find it."
"Indeed, you are mistaken, sir; I am exceedingly prosaic in my views, and cherish no Utopian dreams and theories. I do indeed take the old matter-of-fact world as I find it, and try to make the best of it."
"Ah, your last is a very saving clause. Too many are seemingly trying to make the worst of it, and unfortunately they succeed."
Ida here shot a quick and vengeful glance at the speaker.
"Please do not present me as a general reformer, Mr. Van Berg," protested Miss Burton, with a light laugh; "I have my hands full in mending my own ways."
"And so might we all, no doubt," said Stanton; "only most of us leave our ways unmended. but I am curious to know, Miss Burton, how you would make the best of a flirtation; since this is emphatically a part of the world as we find it, especially at a summer hotel."
"The best that we can do with many things that exist," she replied, "is to leave them alone. Italy is pre-eminently the land of garlic and art; but fortunately we shall not find it necessary to indulge in both and in equal proportions when we are so happy as to go abroad."
"A great many people prefer the garlic," said Stanton.
"Oh, certainly," she answered; "it's a matter of taste."
"So then garlic and flirtation are corresponding terms in your vocabulary?"
"I cannot say which term outranks the other, but it seems to me that if a woman regards her love as a sacred thing, she cannot permit an indefinite number of commonplace people even to attempt to stain it with their soiling touch."
"I think gentlemen show just as much of a disposition to flirt as ladies," said Ida, with resentment in her tone.
"I will not dispute that statement," replied Miss Burton, with a laugh; "indeed, I'm inclined to think they are very human."
"Humane, you mean," interposed Stanton. "Yes, I often wonder at our patient endurance."
"Which shall be taxed no longer to-night by me. Good-evening, Miss Mayhew. Good-evening, patient martyrs."
"Humane, indeed!" said Stanton. "Are you that way inclined, Van?"
"I have no occasion to be otherwise."
"Well, I feel savage enough to scalp some one."
"So I should judge," remarked Ida.
"Perhaps then, as my mood contrasts somewhat favorably with your cousin's, you will venture to walk with me for awhile?" said Van Berg.
"Indeed, sir," she replied, taking his arm, "there are times when any change is a relief."
"I cannot be very greatly elated over that view of the case, certainly," remarked Van Berg, with a laugh.
She did not reply at once, but after a moment said: "I suppose you regard me as a hopeless case at best."
"what suggests that thought to you, Miss Mayhew?"
"You are not so dull as to need to ask that question, and you only ask it to draw me out. For one thing, you probably think that I instigated Mr. and Mrs. Chints to act as they did. This is not true."
"I'm very glad to hear it."
"I'm no more to blame than Mr. Burleigh was. He knew about it as well as I did, but Mrs. Chints was bound to carry out her project."
"Will you permit a suggestion?"
"I suppose you wish to insinuate that I acted like a heathen, instead of saying that I am one plainly, as does Cousin Ik?"
"I think you acted a little thoughtlessly. If Miss Burton had been in your place, she would have tried to prevent the disagreeable scene."
"Oh, certainly! she is perfect."
"No; she is kind."
"Would it be possible to speak upon some agreeable subject, Mr. Van Berg? I have had enough mortifications for one day."
He was puzzled. What topic could he introduce that would interest this spoiled and petulant beauty.
He touched on art, but she was only artful in her small way, and could not follow him. He tried literature, and here they had even less in common. He would not and indeed could not read the thin society novels which reflected modes of life as trivial as her own, and his books might have been written in another language, so slight was her acquaintance with them. The various political, social, or scientific questions of the day had never puzzled her brain. Van Berg cautiously felt his way towards his companion's knowledge of two or three of the most popular of them. Her answers, however, were so superficial and irrelevant, and also so evidently embarrassed, that he saw his only resources to be society chit-chat, gossip about mutual acquaintances, the latest modes, the attractions of pleasure resorts in the city, and of summer resorts in the country. But he gave his mind to these unwonted themes, and labored hard to be entertaining; for now that he had gained the vantage-ground he sought, he was determined to discover whether there was a sleeping mind or a vacuum behind Miss Mayhew's shapely forehead. Granting that there was a womanly intelligence there, as yet unquickened, he was not so irrational as to imagine he could jostle it into illumining activity in one short hour, or day, or week. But it seemed to him that if any mind existed worth the name, it would give such encouraging signs of life before many days passed as would promise success of his experiment. He felt that his first aim must be to establish an intimacy that would permit as full and frank an exchange of thought as was possible between people so dissimilar.
While he tried to bring himself down to the littleness of her daily life, he determined to show his disapproval of every phrase of its meanness as far as he could without offending her. He had made her feel that he condemned her course towards Miss Burton that evening, and he had meant to do so.
She resented this disapproval, and at the same time respected him for it. Indeed he puzzled her. He evidently sought and wished for her society; and yet as they walked back and forth, even though she did not look at him when the light gave her the opportunity to do so, she felt intuitively that he did not enjoy her company. She saw that he was laboring hard to make himself agreeable; but his small talk had not the familiar flippancy and fluency of one speaking in his native tongue; nor was his manner that of one who, infatuated with her beauty, had thrown aside all other considerations.
She felt that the man at her side measured her, and understood her littleness thoroughly.
And she herself had a growing consciousness of insignificance that was as painful as it was novel. Adding to all the humiliations of this day here was a man, not so very much older than herself, trying to come down to her level, as he would accommodate his language to a child. No labored argument could have revealed her ignorance to her so clearly, as her conscious inability to follow him into his ordinary range of thought. Unwittingly he had demonstrated his superiority in a way that she could not deny, however much she might be inclined to resent it. And yet he treated her with a sort of respect, and occasionally she saw that he bent his eyes upon her face as if in search of something.
After a transient effort to ignore everything and talk in her usual superficial manner, she became more and more silent and oppressed, and, at last said, somewhat abruptly: "Mr. Van Berg, I am weary, and I imagine you are too. I think I will say good-night."
"I scarcely wonder that you are fatigued. You have had a trying day."
"It has been a horrid day," she said, emphatically.
"It might have ended much worse, nevertheless."
"Possibly," she admitted with a shrug.
"You have more reason to congratulate yourself than you imagine, Miss Mayhew. Even that disagreeable souvenir of our morning peril, your lameness, has disappeared, and you might have been maimed for life."
"My lameness, like my courage, was chiefly a fraud to begin with, and soon disappeared; but I have other souvenirs of that occasion that I cannot get rid of so easily."
"If I am one of them, you are right, Miss Mayhew; I shall hold you to our agreement this morning. You put me on my good behavior--have I not behaved well?"
"Yes, better than I have. I was not referring to you personally, but to certain memories."
"We agreed to let by-gones be by-gones."
"But others are not parties to this agreement, and every reference to the affair is odious to me."
"I shall make no further reference to it, and you must be fair enough not to punish me for the acts of others."
"You also despise me in your heart of my course towards Miss Burton this evening."
"If I despised you would I have sought your society this evening?"
"I do not know. I don't understand you, if you will permit my bluntness."
"Possibly you don't understand yourself, Miss Mayhew."
"I understand that I have had a miserable day, and I hope I may never see another like it. Good-night, sir."
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
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13
|
Nature's Broken Promise.
|
Van Berg had been left to himself but a little time before Stanton and Mr. Burleigh came out upon the piazza, and the three gentlemen sat down for a quiet chat.
"Well," remarked mine host, with a sigh of relief such as a pilot might heave after taking his ship round a perilous point; "well, thanks to Miss Burton's good sense, the affair has ended without any trouble. In a house like this, 'Satan is finding mischief still' whenever my back is turned, and sometimes he threatens to get up a row right under my nose, as in this instance. I was a 'blarsted fool,' as our English friends have it, not to know that Mrs. Chint's drama, although beginning in comedy, might end in tragedy of my losing some good paying boarders. Still further did I demonstrate the length of my ears by even imagining it possible that Miss Burton would take five hundred, or five hundred thousand dollars in any such circumstances. But the whole thing was done in a jiffy, and Mrs. Chints was possessed to have her 'tableau vivant.' Lively picture wasn't it? Still, if Miss Mayhew, when appealed to by Mrs. Chints, had confirmed my doubts, I would have tried to stop the nonsense at any cost."
"Did Miss Mayhew advise the step?" asked Stanton.
"Oh, no! She was non-committal. She acted as if it were none of her affair, save as it might afford her a little amusement. But these rows are no light matters to us poor publicans, who must please every one and keep the whole menagerie in order. Mr. Chints was swearing up and down his room that he had been made a fool of. Mrs. Chints was for leaving to-morrow morning, declaring that she would not endure such airs from a school-teacher. They are rich and have a number of friends who are coming soon, and so my mind was full of 'strange oaths' also, at my prospective loss, when this blessed little woman appears, taps at their door, enters like the angel into the lion's den, and shuts their mouths by some magic all her own. And now they're going to stay; Mr. Chints will give the five hundred to the Children's Aid Society, all is serene and I'm happy, so much so that I'll smoke another of your good cigars, Mr. Stanton."
"Certainly, half-a-dozen if you wish. How do you imagine she quieted the unruly beasts?"
"Oh, I suppose she got around them through the child--somewhat as she won over my wife this afternoon by means of our cross baby. It's teething, you know--and yet how should you young chaps know anything about babies! No matter, your time will come. This promenading the piazza with lovely creatures who have been half the afternoon at their toilets is all very nice; but wait till you have weathered innumerable squalls in the dead of night--then you'll learn that teething-time in a household is like going around Cape Horn. Well, to return from your future to my present. When so good-natured a man as I am gets into a sympathetic mood with old King Herod, you can imagine what a state the mother's nerves must be in who has to stand it night and day. But as Miss Burton had been commended to my care, I felt that I was in duty bound to introduce her to my wife and show her some attention. So I said to my wife, this afternoon, 'I'm going to bring a young lady in to see you.' 'Do you think I'm in a condition to entertain company?' she asked, with a faint suggestion of hard cider in her tone. 'Well, my dear,' I expostulated, 'it was just the same yesterday, and will be a little more so to-morrow, and I feel that I shall be remiss if I delay any longer.' 'Oh, very well,' she said, as if it were a tooth that must come out sooner or later, 'since the matter must be attended to, let us have it over at once.' But bless you, it wasn't over till supper-time. As I brought the young lady in, the baby waked out of a five-minutes' nap that had cost about an hour's rocking, and I thought the roof would come off. My wife looked cross and worried--well, it was prose, gentlemen, prose--not the poetry of life; and I said to myself, 'I suppose I have about made it certain that this young woman will live and die an old maid by giving her this glimpse behind the scenes. I thought the ladies could get on better without me than with me, so I bowed myself out, glad to escape the din; and I supposed Miss Burton would say a few pleasant things in the direction of Mrs. Burleigh, which she, poor woman, might not be able to hear, and then she would bow herself out, also glad to escape. An hour and a half later I went back to see if I could not coax my wife away for a drive, and what do you suppose I saw?"
"The baby in convulsions," said Stanton.
"Give it up," added Van Berg.
"Sweet transformation scene; deep hush; my wife asleep in her rocking-chair, the baby asleep in the arms of Miss Burton, who held up a warning finger at me to be quiet. But the mischief was done; my wife started up and was mortified beyond measure that she had treated her guest so rudely. The good fairy, however, was so genuinely delighted that she had quieted the baby and given the tired mother a little rest, that we had to come to the conclusion that she found pleasure in ways that are a trifle uncommon. By some miracle or other she kept the baby asleep, and then my wife and I tried to entertain her a little, but we were the ones that were entertained. Before we knew it, the supper-bell rang, and then I'm blessed if the little chap didn't wake up and grin at us all. To think then that I should reward her by letting Mr. Chints slap her face with a five-hundred-dollar check! I guess we'll all know better next time."
"Did she tell you anything further about her history or her connections?" asked Stanton.
Mr. Burleigh stroked his beard and looked rather blank for a moment.
"Now I think of it," he ejaculated, "I be hanged if she said a word about herself. And now I think further of it, she somehow or other got Mrs. Burleigh and myself a-talking, and seemed so interested in us and what we said, that I be hanged again if we didn't tell her all we know about ourselves."
"She impresses every one as being remarkably frank, and yet I think it will be found that she is peculiarly reticent in regard to herself," remarked Van Berg musingly. "Well, it's not often I take people on trust, but I have given this lady my entire respect and confidence."
"I assure you that there is no trust in this business," said Mr. Burleigh, emphatically. "I can't afford to indulge in sentiment, gentlemen; besides, it couldn't be any more becoming in me than in Tom Chints. I wouldn't take an unprotected, unknown female into my house if she came with a pair of wings. But Miss Burton brings letters that establish her character as a lady as truly as that of any other woman in the house. I ought to have prevented this Chints business, but then five hundred is a nice little plum, and before I pulled my slow wits together the thing was done."
"By the way, Mr. Burleigh," remarked Stanton, "I hear that the parties who are now at my friend Van Berg's table are soon to leave for the sea-shore. Can you give me three seats there after their departure?"
"Certainly; put you down right alongside of Miss Burton."
"Perhaps Van Berg feels that he has the first claim to so good a position?"
"No, Stanton, I shall not place a straw in your way."
"You never were a man of straw, Van. If I were seeking more than to enjoy the society of this young lady, who seems to be embodied sunshine, I would be sorry to have you place yourself in the way."
"Sunshine brought to a focus kindles even green wood," remarked Van Berg, with a significant nod at his friend.
"Well," said Mr. Burleigh, rising, "if I had not found my mate, I'd be a burr that that little woman wouldn't get rid of very easily. Good-night, gentlemen. I'll give either one of you my blessing."
"Good-night, Van," said Stanton, also. "I'm not going to stay and listen to your absurd predictions. Neither shall I permit you to enjoy all by yourself the delicate wine of that woman's wit. When good things are passing round, I propose to have my share. My presence can't hurt your prospects."
"And if it did, Ik, do you think me such a churl as to try to crowd you away?"
"That's magnanimous. I suppose you and my cousin can manage to keep the peace between you."
"I think the change will be far more disagreeable to Miss Mayhew than to me."
"You are very polite to say so. Good-night."
"Well," mused Van Berg, when left to himself; "I've made progress to-day after a fashion. We have been quite thoroughly introduced--in fact 'thrown together,' as fate and all her friends will have it. I might have been weeks in gaining as much insight into her character as circumstances have given me in a few brief hours. But what a miserable revelation she has made of herself--cowardice this morning--fraud this afternoon, and cold selfishness, that can amuse itself with the mortification and misfortunes of others, this evening. This is the moral side of the picture. But when I came to 'speer' around to see whether she had any mind or real culture, the exhibition was still more pitiable. Ye gods! that a girl can live to her age and know so little that is worth knowing! She knows how to dress--that is, how to enhance her physical beauty; and that, I admit, is a great deal. As far as it goes it is well. But of the taste of a beautiful and, at the same time, intellectual and highly cultivated woman, she has no conception; with her it is a question of flesh and blood only."
"I wonder if it will ever be otherwise? I wonder if her marvellous beauty, which is now like a budding rose, that partly conceals the worm in its heart, will soon, like the overblown flower, reveal so clearly what mars its life that scarcely anything else will be noticed. What a fate for a man--to be tied for life to a woman who will, with sure gradation, pass from at least outward beauty to utter hideousness! Beauty, in a case like this, is but a mask which time or the loathsome fingers of disease would surely strip off; and then what an object would confront the disenchanted lover! It would be like marrying a disguised death's-head. Never before did I realize how essential is mental and moral culture to give value to mere external beauty.
"And yet she seems to have a kind of quickness and aptness. She is not wanting in womanly intuition. I still am inclined to believe she has been dwarfed by circumstances and her wretched associations. Her mind has been given no better means of development than the knowledge of her beauty, the general and superficial homage that it always receives, the little round of thought that centres about self, and the daily question of dress. That's narrowing the world down to a cage large enough only for a poll-parrot. If the bird within has a parrot's nature, what is the use of opening the door and showing it larks singing in the sky? I fear that's what I'm trying to do, and that I shall go back to my fall work with a meagre portfolio and a grudge against nature, for mocking me with the fairest broken promise ever made."
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
|
14
|
A Revelation.
|
The next day threatened to be a dreary one, for the rain fell so steadily as to make all sunny, out-of-door pleasures impossible. Many looked abroad with faces as dismal and cloudy as the sky; for the number of those who rise above their circumstances with a cheery courage are but few. Human faces can shine, although the sun be clouded; but, as a rule, the shadow falls on the face also, and the regal spirit succumbs like a clod of earth.
The people came straggling down late to breakfast in the dark morning, and, with a childish egotism that considers only self and immediate desires, the lowering weather which meant renewed beauty and wealth to all the land, was berated as if it were a small spite against the handful of people at the Lake House. Van Berg heard Ida Mayhew exclaiming against the clouds as if this spite were aimed at herself only.
"Some of her friends might not venture from the city," she said.
"They youths are not venturesome, then," remarked Stanton, who never lost an opportunity to tease.
"Of course they don't wish to get wet," she pouted.
"And yet I'll wager any amount that they are not of the 'salt of the earth' in any scriptural sense. Well, they had better stay in town, for this would be an instance of 'much ventured, nothing gained.'"
"You remind me of a certain fox who could not say enough hard things about the grapes that were out of reach. But mark my words, Mr. Sibley will come, if it pours."
"He wouldn't risk the spoiling of his clothes for any woman living."
"You judge him by yourself. Oh, dear, how shall I get through this long, horrible day! You men can smoke like bad chimneys through a storm, but for me there is no resource to-day, but a dull novel that I've read once before. Let me see, I'll read an hour and sleep three, and then it will be time to dress for dinner. Oh, good-morning, Mr. Van Berg," she says to the artist who had been listening to her while apparently giving close attention to Mrs. Mayhew's interminable tirade against rainy days; "I have just been envying you gentlemen who can kill stupid hours by smoking."
"I admit that it is almost as bad as sleeping."
"I see that you have a homily prepared on improving the time, so I shall escape at once."
On the stairs she met Miss Burton, who was descending with a breezy swiftness as if she were making a charge on the general gloom and sullenness of the day.
"Good-morning, Miss Mayhew," she said; "I'm glad to see you looking so well after the severe shaking up you had yesterday. You would almost tempt one to believe that rough usage is sometimes good for us."
"I have no such belief, I assure you. Yesterday was bad enough, but to-day promises to be worse. I was going to make up a boating party, but what can one do when the water is overhead instead of under the keel?"
"Scores of things," was the cheery reply. "I'm going to have a good time."
"I'm going to sleep," said Ida, passing on.
"Miss Burton," said Stanton, joining her at the foot of the stairs, "I perceive, even from your manner of descending to our lower world, that you are destined to vanquish the dullness of this rainy day. Don't you wish an ally?"
"Would you be an ally, Mr. Stanton, if you saw I was destined to be vanquished?"
"Of course I would."
"Look in the parlor then. There are at least a dozen ladies already vanquished. They are oppressed by the foul-fiend, 'ennui.' Transfer your chivalric offer to them and deliver them."
"Stanton," laughed Van Berg, "you are in honor bound to devote yourself to those oppressed ladies."
"The prospect is so dark and depressing that I shall at least cheer myself first with the light of a cigar."
"And so your chivalry will end in smoke," she said.
"Yes, Miss Burton, the smoke of battle, where you are concerned."
"I fear your wit is readier than your sword. The soldier that boasts how he would overwhelm some other foe than the one before him loses credit to the degree that he protests."
"You are more exacting, Miss Burton, than the lady who threw her glove down among the lions. What chance would Hercules himself have of lifting those twelve heavy females out of the dumps?"
"It's not what we do, but what we attempt, that shows our spirit."
"Then I shall expect to see you attempt great things."
"I'm only a woman."
"And I'm only a man."
"Only a man! what greater vantage-ground could one have than to be a man?"
"The advantage is not so uncommon that one need be unduly elated," state Stanton with a shrug. "I forget how many hundred millions of us there are. But I'm curious to see how you will set about rendering the hues of this leaden day prismatic."
"Only by being the innocent cause of your highly colored language, I imagine."
"Oh, dear," exclaimed a little boy petulantly, as he strolled through the hall and looked out at the steady downfall of rain. "Oh dear! Why can't it stop raining?"
"There's the philosophy of our time for you in a nutshell," said Van Berg. "When a human atom wants anything, what business has the universe to stand in its way?"
"But you have no better philosophy to offer the disconsolate little fellow, Mr. Ban Berg?" Miss Burton asked.
"Now, Van, it's your turn. Remember, Miss Burton, he has the same vantage-ground that I have. Indeed he's half an inch taller."
"The world long ago learned better than to measure men by inches, Mr. Stanton."
"Alas, Miss Burton," said Van Berg; "the best philosophy I have is this: when it rains, let it rain."
"And thus I'm privileged to meet representatives of those two ancient and honorable schools, the Stoic and Epicurean, and you both think, I fear, that if Xanthippe had founded a school, my philosophy would also be defined. But perhaps you will think better of me if I tell that little fellow a story to pass the time for him. What's the matter, little folk?" she asked, for two or three more small clouded faces had gathered at the door.
"Matter enough," said the boy. "This horrid old rain keeps us in the house, where we can't do anything or stay anywhere. We mustn't play in the parlor, we mustn't make a noise in the halls, we mustn't run on the piazzas. I'd like to live in a world where there was some place for boys."
"Poor child," said Miss Burton; "this rain is as bad for you as the deluge to Noah's dove, it has left you no refuge for the sole of your foot. Will you come with me? No one has said you must not hear a jolly story."
"You won't tell me about any good little boys who died when they were as big as I am?"
"I'll keep my word--it shall be a jolly story."
"May we hear it too?" asked the other children.
"Yes, all of you."
"Where shall we go?"
"We won't disturb any one in the far corner of the parlor by the piano. If you know of any other little people, you can bring them there, too," and they each darted off in search of especial cronies.
"May we not hear the story also?" asked Stanton.
"No, indeed, I may be able to interest children, but not philosophers."
"Then we will go and meditate," said Van Berg.
"Yes," she added, "and in accordance with a New York custom of great antiquity, made familiar to you, no doubt, by that grave historian Diedrich Knickerbocker, who gives several graphic accounts of such cloudy ruminations on the part of your city's great-grandfathers."
"I fear you think that the worshipful Peter Stuyvensant's counsellors indulged in more tobacco than thought, and that the majority of them had as few ideas as one of Mr. Burleigh's chimneys," said Van Berg. "And you regard us as the direct descendants of these men, whose lives were crowned with smoke-wreaths only."
"Now, Mr. Van Berg, you prove yourself to be a philosopher of a modern school, you draw your inductions so far and wide from your diminutive premise."
"Well, Miss Burton, you stand in very favorable contrast with us poor mortals. We are going out to add to the clouds that lower over the world, while you are trying to banish them."
"And if, after helping the children towards the close of this dismal day, your heart should relent towards us," added Stanton, "you will find two worthy objects of your charity."
"Oh what a falling off is here!" she exclaimed, following the impatient children. "Knights at first, then philosophers, and now objects of charity."
Miss Burton evidently kept her word, and told a "jolly story," for the friends saw through the parlor windows that the circle around her grew larger and more hilarious continually. Then would follow moments of rapt and eager attention, showing that the tale gained in excitement and interest what it lost in humor. Young people, who did not like to be classed with children, one by one yielded to the temptation. There was life and enjoyment in that corner and dulness elsewhere, and nothing is so attractive in the world as genuine and joyous life.
Even elderly ladies looked wistfully up at the occasional bursts of contagious merriment, and then sighed that they had lost the power of laughing so easily.
At last the marvelous legend came to an end amid a round of prolonged applause.
"Another, another!" was the general outcry.
But Miss Burton had observed that the ladies and gentlemen present seemed inclined to be friendly towards the young people's fun, and therefore she broached another scheme of pleasure that would vary the entertainment.
"Perhaps," she said, "your papas and mammas and the other good people will not object to an old-fashioned Virginia reel."
A shout of welcome greeted this proposition.
Miss Burton raised her finger so impressively that there was an instant hush. Indeed she seemed to have gained entire control of the large and miscellaneous group which surrounded her.
"We will draw up a petition," she said; "for we best enjoy our own rights and pleasures when respecting those of others. This little boy and girl shall take the petition around to all the ladies and gentlemen in the room, and this shall be the petition: "'Dear lady and kind sir: Please don't object to our dancing a Virginia reel in the parlor.'"
"All who wish to dance can sign it. Now we will go to the office and draw up the petition." And away they all started, the younger children, wild with glee, capering in advance.
Stanton threw away his cigar and met her at the office register.
"Gentle shepherdess," he asked, "whither are you leading your flock?"
"How behind the age you are!" she replied. "Can you not see that the flock is leading me?"
"If I were a wolf I would not trouble the flock but would carry off the shepherdess--to a game of billiards."
"What, then, would become of the flock?"
"that's a question that never troubles a wolf."
"A wolfish answer truly. I think, however, you have reversed the parable, and are but a well-meaning sheep that has donned a wolf's skin, and so we will put you to the test. We young people will give you a chance to draw up our petition, which, if you would save your character, you must do at once with sheep-like docility, asking no questions and causing no delay. There, that will answer; very sheepishly done, but no sheep's eyes, if you please," she added, as Stanton pretended to look up to her for inspiration, while writing. "Now, all sign. I think I can trust you, sir, on the outskirts of the flock. Here, my little man and woman, go to each of the ladies and gentlemen, make a bow and a courtesy, and present the petition."
"May I not gambol with the shepherdess in the coming pastoral?" asked Stanton.
"No, indeed! You are much too old; besides, I am going to play. You may look gravely on."
Every one in the parlor smiling assented to the odd little couple that bobbed up and down before them, and moved out of the way for the dancers. The petitioners therefore soon returned and were welcomed with applause.
"Now go to the inner office and present the petition to Mr. Burleigh," said Miss Burton.
"Hollo!" cried that gentleman, looking around with a great show of savagery, as the little girl pulled the skirt of his coat to attract his attention; "where's King Herod?"
"We wish to try another method with the children," answered Miss Burton. "Will it please you therefore graciously to read the petition. All in the parlor have assented."
"My goodness gracious---" "No swearing, sir, if you please."
"Woman has been too many for man ever since she got him into trouble by eating green apples," ejaculated Mr. Burleigh with a despairing gesture. "Why do you mock me with petitions? THERE is the power behind the throne," pointing to Miss Burton.
"Take your places, small ladies and gentlemen," she cried. "That's Mr. Burleigh's way of saying yes. While you are forming, I'll play a few bars to give you the time."
Did she bewitch the piano that it responded so wonderfully to her touch? Where had she found such quaint, dainty music, simple as the old-fashioned dance itself, so that the little ones could keep time to it, and yet pleasing Van Berg's fastidious ear with its unhackneyed and refined melody. But the marked and marvellous feature in her playing was an airy rolicksomeness that was as irresistible as a panic. Old ladies' heads began to bob over their fancy work most absurdly. Two quartets of elderly gentlemen at whist were evidently beginning to play badly, their feet meantime tapping the floor in a most unwonted manner.
"Were I as dead as Julius Caesar I could not resist that quickstep," cried Stanton; and he rushed over to his aunt, Mrs. Mayhew, and dragged her into line.
"What in the name of all the witches of Salem has got into that piano!" cried Mr. Burleigh, bursting into the parlor from the office, with his pen stuck behind his ear, and his hair brushed up perpendicularly. "There's sorcery in the air. I'm practised upon--Keep still? No, not if I was nailed up in one of the soldier's 'wooden overcoats.' The world is transformed, transfigured, transmogrified, and 'things are not what they seem!' Here's a blooming girl who'll dance with me," and he seized the hand of a white-haired old lady who yielded to the contagion so far as to take a place in the line beside her granddaughter.
Indeed, in a few moments, all who had been familiar with the pastime in their youth, caught the joyous infection, and lengthened out the lines, each new accession being greeted with shouts and laughter.
The scene approached in character that described by Hawthorne as occurring in the grounds of the Villa Borghese when Donatello, with a simple "tambourine," produced music of such "indescribably potency" that sallow, haggard, half-starved peasants, French soldiers, scarlet-costumed contadinas, Swiss guards, German artists, English lords, and herdsmen from the Campagna, all "joined hands in the dance" which the musician himself led with the frisky, frolicsome step of the mythical faun.
In the latter instance it was a contagious, mad excitement easily possible among hot-blooded people and wandering pleasure-seekers, the primal laws of whose being are impulse and passion. That the joyous exhilaration which filled Mr. Burleigh's parlor was akin to the wild, half pagan frenzy that the great master of fiction imagined as seizing upon the loiterers near the Villa Borghese cannot be denied. Both phases of excitement would spring naturally from the universal craving for pleasurable life and activity. The one, however, was a rank growth from a rank soil--the passionate ebullition of passion-swayed natures; the other was inspired by the magnetic spirit of a New England maiden, who, by some law of her nature or consecration of her life, devoted every power of her being to the vivifying of others, and the frolic she had instigated was as free from the grosser elements as the tossing wild flowers of her native hills. With the exception perhaps of Van Berg, she had impressed every one as possessing a peculiarly sunny temperament. Be this as it may, it certainly appeared true that she found her happiness in enlivening others; and it is difficult even to imagine how much a gifted mind can accomplish in this respect when every faculty is devoted to the ministry of kindness.
This view of Miss Burton's character would account in part, but not wholly, for the power she exercised over others. Van Berg thought he at times detected a suppressed excitement in her manner. A light sometimes flickered in her deep blue eyes that might have been caused by a consuming and hidden fire, rather than by genial and joyous thoughts.
As he watched her now through the parlor window, her eyes were burning, her face reminded him of a delicate flame, and her whole being appeared concentrated into the present moment. In its vivid life it seemed one of the most remarkable faces he ever saw; but the thought occurred again and again--"If the features of Ida Mayhew could be lighted up like that I'd give years of my lifetime to be able to paint the beauty that would result."
Just at this moment he saw that young lady approach the parlor entrance with an expression of wonder on her face. He immediately joined her, and she said: "Mr. Van Berg, what miracle has caused this scene?"
"Come with me and I'll show you," he answered and he led her to the window opposite to Miss Burton, where she sat at the piano. "There," he said, "is the miracle,--a gifted, magnetic, unselfish woman devoting herself wholly to the enjoyment of others. She has created more sunshine this dismal day than we have had in the house since I've been here. Is not that face there a revelation?"
"A revelation of what?" she asked with rising color.
"Of the possibilities of the human face to grow in beauty and power, if kindled by a noble and animating mind. Ye gods!" cried the artist, expressing the excitement which he felt in common with others in accordance with the law of his own ruling passion, "but I would give much to reproduce that face on canvas;" and then he added with a despairing gesture, "but who can paint flame and spirit?"
After a moment he exclaimed, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes: "It appears to me that if kindled by such a mind as that which is burning in yonder face, I could attempt anything and accomplish everything. Limitations melt away before a growing sense of power. What an inspiration a woman can be to a man, or what a mill-stone about his neck, according to what she is! Ah! ---" The cause of this exclamation cannot be explained in the brief time that it occurred. Stanton had happened at that moment to catch a glimpse of Van Berg and his cousin, and he called quite loudly: "Harold, bring Miss Mayhew in and join us."
At the same instant Mr. Burleigh's heavy step passing near the piano, jarred down a picture that was hung insecurely, and it fell with a crash at Miss Burton's side. Was it the shock of the falling picture upon unprepared and overstrained nerves, or what was it that produced the instantaneous change in the joyous-appearing maiden? Her hands dropped nerveless from the keys. So great was the pallor that swept over her face that it suggested to he artist the sudden extinguishment of a lamp. She bowed her head and trembled a moment and then escaped by a side door.
Van Berg walked hastily to the main entrance, thinking she was ill, but only saw her vanishing up the stairway with hasty steps. Many of the dancers, in their kindly solicitude, had tried to intercept her, but had been too late. It would seem that all ascribed her indisposition to a nervous shock.
"It is evident," said the lady who had been conversing with her when she had acted in a like manner on the first day of her arrival, "that she possesses a highly sensitive organism, which suddenly gives way when subjected to a strain too severe;" and she remained Van Berg of her former manifestation of weakness.
He accepted this view as the most natural explanation that could be given.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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15
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Contrasts.
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Genuine and genial were the words of sympathy that were expressed on every side for the young lady who had been transforming the dull day into one of exceptional jollity. A deputation of ladies called upon her, but from within her locked door she confirmed the impression that it was a nervous shock, and that a few hours of perfect quiet would restore her.
And it would seem that she was right, for she came down to supper apparently as genial and smiling as ever. Beyond a slight pallor and a little fulness about her eyes, Van Berg could detect no trace of her sudden indisposition.
The remainder of the day was passed more quietly by the guests of the Lake House, but the force of Miss Burton's example did not spend itself at once, and on the part of some there was developed quite a marked disposition to make kindly efforts to promote the enjoyment of others. The unwonted exhilaration with which she had inspired her fellow guests was something they could scarcely account for, and yet the means employed had been so simple and were so plainly within the reach of all, as to suggest that a genial manner and an unselfish regard for others were the only conditions required to enable each one to do something to brighten every cloudy day.
After Miss Burton's departure, the young people had the dance to themselves, their elders resuming the avocations and soberer pleasures from which they had been swept by an impulse evoked from their half-forgotten youth.
When Van Berg joined Miss Mayhew again, he found her mother and Stanton trying to explain how it all came about.
"There is no use of multiplying words," concluded Stanton; "Miss Burton is gifted with a mind, and she uses it for the benefit of others instead of tasking it solely on her own account, which is the general rule."
At this moment a letter was handed to Mrs. Mayhew, which she read with a slight frown and passed to her daughter. It was from Mr. Mayhew, and contained but a brief sentence to the effect that his absence would probably be a relief, and therefore he would not spend the coming Sabbath with them.
Ida did not show the superficial vexation that her mother manifested, and which was more assumed than real. Her cheek paled a little, and she instinctively glanced at Van Berg as if her sudden sense of guilt were apparent to his keen eyes. He was looking at he searchingly, and she turned away with a quick flush, nor did she give him a chance to speak with her again that day; but his words--"what a millstone about a man's neck a woman can be!" --haunted her continually. Still oftener rose before her Miss Burton's flushed and kindled face, and the artist's emphatic assertion of the power of mind and character to add to native beauty. Had she not been a millstone about her father's neck? Was there not a fatal flaw in the beauty of which she was so proud, that spoiled it for eyes that were critical and unblinded?
Oppressed by these thoughts and being in no mood for her cousin's banter, or the artist's society which always seemed to render her more uncomfortable, she was glad to escape to the solitude of her own room.
Another "revelation" was slowly dawning upon her mind, namely--just what she, Ida Mayhew, was. A woman is an "inspiration" or a "millstone according to what she is," this stranger, this disturber of her peace, from whom it seemed she could not escape, had not only asserted but proved by showing her a lady she would have passed as plain and insignificant, but who nevertheless possessed some sweet potency that won and cheered all hearts, and who, she was compelled to admit, was positively beautiful as she sat at the piano, radiant with her purpose to cause gladness in others. Miss Burton had created sunshine enough to enliven the dismal day, and had quickened a hundred pulses with pleasure. She had been a burden even to herself.
Everything, from the artist's first disturbing frown to the present hour, had been preparing the way for the sharp and painful contrast that circumstances had forced upon her attention to-day.
But the thought that troubled her most, was that he saw this contrast more plainly than it was possible for her to see it.
Vaguely, and yet with some approach to the truth, her intuition began to reveal to her the attitude of his mind towards her. She believed that he was attracted, but also saw that he was not blinded by her beauty. She was already beginning to revise her first impression that he was shutting his eyes to every other consideration, as she had seen so many do in their brief infatuation. His manner was not that of one who is taking counsel of passion only. Those ominous words--"according to what she is"--indicated that he was looking into her mind, her character. With a sense of dismay, she was awakening to a knowledge of the dwarfed ugliness her beauty but partially concealed, and she felt that he, from the first, had been discovering those defects of which she had been scarcely conscious herself. She began to fear that her cousin's words would prove true, and that he would not fall helplessly in love with her. Therefore the opportunity to retaliate and to punish him for all the mortifications that he had occasioned her, would never come. On the contrary, he might inflict upon her, any day, the crowning humiliation of declaring, be indifference of manner, that he had found her out so thoroughly, as to entertain for her only feelings of disgust and repugnance.
"Well," she concluded, recklessly, "why should I care what he thinks? I have lived thus far without his good opinion, and I can live a little longer, I imagine. I have had a good time for eighteen years after my own fashion, and I will just ignore him and have a good time still. Indeed I'll shock him to-night and to-morrow so thoroughly, that he won't come near me again; for I'm sick of his superior airs. I'm sick of his learned talk about books, pictures, and politics, as if a young society girl were expected to know about these things; and as for his small talk, it reminded me of an elephant trying to dance a jig;" and she sprang up with a snatch of song from the "opera bouffe," and began her toilet for dinner.
In a few moments, however, she dropped her hairbrush absently, and forgot to look at her fair face in the mirror.
"I wonder," she mused, "if he and Miss Burton ever met before they came here? It has been a strange coincidence that she should have felt such a sudden indisposition in each instance at the same moment that his name was casually mentioned. True, on both occasions, events occurred that might account for the sudden giving way of her nerves, but I cannot help thinking that she has some association with him that the rest of us know nothing about. She certainly seems more interested in him than in any one else in the house, for I have several times noticed peculiar and furtive glances towards him; besides, they are evidently growing to be very good friends. As for Ik, he seems quite inclined to enter upon a serious flirtation with her. But what do I care for either of them! Mr. Sibley will be here to-night, and I'll enable this artist to bring his investigations to a close at once. I am what I am, and that's the end of it, and I won't mope and have a stupid time for anybody, and certainly not for him. Let him marry the school-ma'am. She can talk books, art, and all the 'isms' going, to his heart's content. I, as well as Miss Burton, have my opinion of flirting, and know from some little experience that it is jolly good fun.
"He can go his way, I'll go mine; E'en though he frowns, the sun will shine."
And with a careless gesture she affected to dismiss him from her thoughts.
To judge from her manner that evening and the following day, one might suppose that she succeeded very fully. Sibley, with an unwonted venturesomeness, did risk his one immaculate possession, his clothes, and came from the city through the storm. Ida and himself, between them, brought about the nearest approach to a "ball" possible in the circumstances.
The dancing, under their auspices, differed from that of the morning, not merely in name and form, but in its subtle character. In the one instance it had been an innocent pastime, occasioned by childlike and joyous impulses. The people's manner might have reminded one of a bit of darkened landscape that had been rapidly filled with light, and almost ecstatic life by the advent of a May morning.
In the evening, however, everything was artificial and in keeping with the gaslight. The ladies were conscious of their toilets, conscious of themselves, looking for admiration rather than hearty enjoyment. Even the older boys and girls, who had been joyous children in the morning, were now small parodies of fashionable men and women! A band of hired performers twanged out the hackneyed dancing music then in vogue, going over their small "repertoire" with wearisome repetition. People danced at first because it was the thing to do, and not from any inspiration from the melody. As the evening wore on, Sibley, who had been drinking quite freely, tried to introduce, as far as possible, the excitement of a revel, calling chiefly for swift waltzes and gallops through which he and Ida whirled in a way that made people's heads dizzy.
Miss Burton, after going through a quadrille with Stanton early in the evening, had declined to dance any more. She did not feel very well, she explained to Van Berg as he sought her for the next form; but he imagined that she early foresaw that Sibley and others, and among them even Stanton, were inclined to give the evening a character that was not to her taste.
As Ida had made herself somewhat prominent in inaugurating the "ball," as Sibley took pains to term it on all occasions, Van Berg, as a part of his tactics to win the beauty's good-will, tried at first to make the affair successful. He danced with others, and twice sought her hand; but in each case she rather indifferently told him that she was engaged. He would not have sought her as a partner after his first rebuff had he not imagined, from occasional and furtive glances, that she was not as indifferent as she seemed.
Early in the evening it occurred to him that her slightly reckless manner was assumed, but he saw that she was abandoning herself to the growing excitement of the dance, as Sibley, her most frequent partner, and others, were to the stronger excitement of liquor. Observant mothers called away their daughters. Ladies, in whom the instincts of true refined womanhood were in the ascendancy, looked significantly at each other, and declined further invitations.
Van Berg had also withdrawn, but with his disposition to watch manifestations of character in general, and of one present in particular, he still stood at a parlor window looking on. The band had just struck up a livelier waltz than usual, and Ida and Sibley were whirling through the wide apartment as if treading on air; but when, a few moments later, they circled near where he stood, he saw upon the young man's face an expression of earthiness and grossness that was anything but ethereal. Indeed so unmistakably wanton was the look which Sibley bent upon his companion, whose heaving bosom he clasped against his won, that the artist frowned darkly at him, and felt his hand tingling to strike the fellow a blow.
She, looking up, caught his frown, and in her egotism and excitement, thought it meant only jealousy of the man she had so favored during the evening.
"Perhaps he is more deeply smitten than I imagined, and I can punish him yet," was the hope that entered her mind; and this prospect added to the elation and excitement which had mastered her.
"Can she know how that scoundrel is looking at her? If I believed it I'd leave her marvellous features to their fate," was the thought that passed through his mind.
In his perturbation he walked down the long piazza. Happening to glance into one of the small private parlors, he witnessed a scene that made a very sharp contrast with the one he had just left. An old white-haired, white-bearded man, a well-known guest of the house, reclined in an easy-chair with an expression of real enjoyment on his face. His aged wife sat near, knitting away as tranquilly as if at home, while under the gas-jet was Miss Burton, reading a newspaper, with two or three others upon her lap. She had evidently found the old gentleman trying to glean, with his feeble sight, the evening journals that had been brought from the city, and was lending him her young eyes and mellow voice for an hour. The picture struck him so pleasantly that he took out his notebook and indicated the fortunate grouping within, for a future sketch.
"It would make some difference in a man's future," he muttered, "whether this maiden or the one in yonder roue's embrace were installed as the mistress of his home."
Going back into the main hallway he met Stanton coming down the stairs with his face unusually flushed.
"Oh, Van," he cried, "where have you been keeping yourself? Come with me and have some of the best brandy you ever tasted."
"Where is it?"
"In Sibley's room. He brought up a couple of bottles of the prime old article, and has invited all his friends to make free with it."
"I'm not one of his friends."
"Oh well, you're my friend! What's the odds? A swig of such brandy will do you good, so come along."
"Come out on the piazza, Stanton. I want to show you something."
"Can't you wait a few moments? I want to have a whirl in this jolly waltz before it's over."
"No; then it will be too late. I won't keep you long," and Stanton reluctantly followed him.
Van Berg understood his friend sufficiently well to know that any ordinary remonstrance would have no influence in his present condition, and so sought to use a little strategy. Taking him to the window of the small private parlor, he showed and explained to him the pretty and quiet scene within.
Stanton's manner changed instantly, and he seemed in no haste to return to the waltz.
"I thought it would strike you as a pretty picture, as it did me," remarked Van Berg, quietly; "and I also thought that after seeing it you would not want any more of Sibley's brandy. It would choke me."
"You are right, Van. I fear I've taken too much of it already. I'm glad you showed me this quiet picture--it makes me wish I were a better man."
"I like that, Ik; I always knew you had plenty of good metal in you. Now I don't want to be officious, but I would not let a cousin of mine dance with Sibley any longer if I could prevent it without attracting attention. However generous he may have been with his brandy, he has had more than his share himself."
"Thank you, Van; I understand you. By Jove, I'll try the same tactics with her that you have with me. I'll bring her here and show her a scene that has been to me like a quieting and restraining hand."
A few moments later the waltz ceased, and Miss Mayhew came out on the cool, dusky piazza, leaning on Sibley's arm. Stanton joined her and said: "Ida, come with me; I wish to speak with you a moment. Mr. Sibley, please excuse us."
"Indeed, Mr. Stanton," said Sibley in tones of maudlin sentiment, "you are cruel to deprive me of your cousin's society even for a moment. I'll forgive you this once, but never again." And then he availed himself of the opportunity to pay another visit to his brandy.
"Ida," said Stanton, "I want to show you a little picture that has done me good."
But the young lady was in no mood for pictures or moralizing. Her blood was coursing feverishly through her veins, her spirit had been made reckless by the wilful violence that she was doing her conscience, and also by her deep and growing dissatisfaction with herself, that was like an irritating wound. She was therefore prepared to resent any interruption to the whirl of excitement, which gave her a kind of pleasure in the place of the happiness that was impossible to one in her condition.
"You call that a pretty picture!" she said disdainfully; "Miss Burton reading a newspaper to two stupid old people who ought to be abed! A more humdrum scene I never saw. Truly, both your breath and your words show that you have been drinking too much. But you need not expect me to share in your tipsy sentiment over Miss Burton. Did Mr. Van Berg ask you to show me this matter-of-fact group which, in his artistic jargon, you call a picture?"
"If he had, he showed you a greater kindness than you deserved."
"Yes, and a greater one than I asked or wished from him."
"Then you are going back to dance with Sibley?"
"Yes, I am."
"The prospects are, that you and Mrs. Chints and a couple of half-tipsy men will soon have it all to yourselves. I suppose the old adage about 'birds of a feather' swill still hold good. I was in hopes, however, that even if you had no appreciation of what was beautiful, refined, and unselfish in another woman's action, you still had some self-respect, or at least some fear of ridicule, left. Since you won't listen to me, I shall warn your mother. If Sibley and two or three others drink much more, Burleigh will interfere for the credit of his house."
"You have been drinking as well as Mr. Sibley."
"Well, thanks to Van Berg, I stopped before I lost my head."
"From your maudlin sentiment over Miss Burton, I think you have lost your head and heart both."
"Go; dance with Sibley, then," he said in sudden irritation; "dance with him till you and Mrs. Chints between you have to hold him on his feet. Dance with him till Burleigh sends a couple of colored waiters to take him from your embrace and carry him off to bed."
She made a gesture of rage and disgust, and went straight to her room.
Sibley, in the mean time, paid a lengthened visit to his brandy, and having already passed the point of discretion, drank recklessly. When he descended the stairs again to look for his partner, his step was uncertain and his utterance thick.
Stanton gave Mr. Burleigh a hint that the young man needed looking after, and the adroit host, skilled in managing all kinds of people and in every condition, induced him to return to his room, under the pretence of wishing to taste his fine old brandy, and then kept him there until the lethargic stage set in as the result of his excess. And so an affair, which might have created much scandal, was smuggled out of sight and knowledge as far as possible. Mrs. Mayhew had been so occupied with whist that she had not observed that anything was amiss, and merely remarked that "Mr. Sibley's ball had ended earlier than usual."
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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16
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Out Among Shadows.
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The expression of Ida Mayhew's face was cold and defiant on the following day. She did not attend church with her mother, but remained all the morning in her room. She not only avoided opportunities of speaking to Van Berg when coming down to dinner and during the afternoon, but she would not even look towards him; and her manner towards her cousin also was decidedly icy.
"I don't know what is the matter with Ida," her mother remarked to Stanton; "she has acted so strangely of late."
"It's the old complaint, I imagine," he replied with a shrug.
"What's that?"
"Caprice."
"Oh, well! she's no worse than other pretty, fashionable girls," said Miss Mayhew, carelessly.
Stanton, in his anger on the previous evening, had not spoken of his cousin to Van Berg in a very complimentary way; but the artist remembered that the young man himself was not in a condition to form either a correct or charitable judgment; while the fact that Ida, as a result of his remonstrance, had gone directly to her room, was in her favor. He still resolved to suspend his final opinion and not to give over his project until satisfied that her nature contained too much alloy to permit of its success. He paid no heed therefore to her coldness of manner; and when at last meeting her face to face on the piazza Sunday evening, he lifted his hat as politely as possible.
Sibley did not appear until the arrival of the dinner hour. He was under the impression that he had gone a little too far the night before, and tried to make amends by an immaculate toilet and an urbane yet dignified courtesy towards all whom he knew. Society very readily winks at the indiscretions of wealthy young men. Moreover, he had been inveigled back to his room before his condition had been observed to any extent. There fore he found himself so well received in the main, that he soon fully recovered his wonted self-assurance.
Mrs. Mayhew was particularly gracious; and Ida, who at first had been somewhat distant towards him as well as all others, concluded that she had not sufficient cause to be ashamed of him, and so it came about that they spent much of the afternoon and evening together. She did not fail to note, however, that when he approached Van Berg he received a cold and curt reception. Was jealousy the cause of this? In her elation and excitement on the previous evening, she had been inclined to think so, but now she feared that it was because the artist despised the man; and in her secret soul she was compelled to admit that he had reason to despise him--yes, to despise them both. She felt, with bitter humiliation, that his superiority was not assumed but real.
More than once before the day closed, she found herself contrasting the two men. The one had not had a shred of true worth about him. Stanton, to teaze her and to justify his interference, had told her that Mr. Burleigh had been compelled to take charge of her companion in order to prevent him from disgracing himself and the house. Although too proud to acknowledge it, she still saw plainly that it was her cousin's interference, and indirectly the intervention of the artist that had kept her from being involved in that disgrace.
Even her perverted mind recognized that one was a gentleman, and the other--well, "a fashionable young man," as she would phrase it. The one, as a friend, would shield her from every detracting breath; the other, if given a chance, would inevitably tumble into some slough of infamy himself, and drag her after him with reckless selfishness.
Still, with something like self-loathing, she saw that Sibley was her natural ally and companion, and that she had far more in common with him than with the artist. She could easily maintain with him the inane chatter of their frivolous life, but she could not talk with the artist, nor he with her, without an effort that was as humiliating as it was apparent.
What was more, she saw that all others classed her with Sibley, and that the people in the house who were akin to the artist in character and high breeding, stood courteously but coolly aloof from both herself and her mother. She also felt that she could not lay all the blame of this upon her poor father. Indeed, since the previous miserable Sunday on which Van Berg had tried to win Mr. Mayhew from his evil habit for one day at least, and she had thwarted his kindly intention, she had begun to feel that she and her mother were the chief causes of his increasing degradation. Others, she feared, and especially Van Berg, took the same view.
With such thoughts surging up in her mind and clouding her brow, Sibley did not find her altogether the same girl that she had been the evening before. Still, as has been said, he was her natural ally, and she tried to second his efforts to re-establish a good character and to keep up the appearance of fashionable respect.
Stanton was in something of a dilemma. He did not like Sibley, and was ashamed of his recent excess; but having drank with him, and so, in a sense, having accepted his hospitality, felt himself obliged to be rather affable. He managed the matter by keeping out of the way as far as possible, and was glad to remember that the young man would depart in the morning. While scarcely acknowledging the fact to himself, he was on the alert most of the day to find an opportunity of enjoying a conversation with Miss Burton; but she kept herself very much secluded. After attending church at a neighboring village in the morning, she spent most of the afternoon with Mrs. Burleigh, assisting her in the care of the cross baby.
Van Berg, much to Stanton's envy, found her as genial and cheery as ever when they met at the table. He learned, from her manner more than from anything she said, that the day and its associations were sacred to her. She affected no solemnity and seemed under no constraint, only her thought and bearing had a somewhat soberer coloring, like the shading of a picture. To his mind it was but another example of her entire reticence in regard to herself, while her smiling face seemed as open as the light.
But as she came out from supper the children pounced upon her, clamorous for a story. She assented on condition that Mr. Burleigh would give them the use of one of the private parlors--a stipulation speedily complied with; and soon she had nearly all the small folk in the hotel gathered round her.
"I shall stand without, like the 'Peri at the gate,'" Stanton found a chance to say.
"The resemblance is very striking," was her smiling reply; but for some reason he winced under it and wished he had not spoken.
When she dismissed her little audience there were traces of tears on some of the children's faces, proving that she could tell a pathetic, as well as a jolly story; and Van Berg observed with interest how the power of her magnetism kept them lingering near her even after she entered the parlor and sought a quiet nook near the old gentleman and lady to whom she had been reading the previous evening.
Mrs. Chints, who liked to be prominent on all occasions, very proudly felt that sacred music would be the right thing on Sabbath evening, and, with a few of hew own ilk, was giving a florid and imperfect rendering of that peculiar style of composition that suggests a poor opera while making a rather shocking and irreverent use of words taken from Scriptures.
Van Berg and Stanton, who were out on the piazza, were ready to grate their teeth in anguish, finding the narcotic influence of the strongest cigar no match for Mrs. Chints's voice.
Suddenly that irrepressible lady spied Miss Burton, and she swooped down upon her in a characteristic manner, exclaiming: "You can't decline; you needn't say you don't; I've heard you. If you sing half as well for us as you did to Mrs. Burleigh's baby this afternoon, we'll be more than satisfied. Now come; one sweet solo--just one."
Stanton craned his neck from where he sat to see the result of this onslaught, but Miss Burton shook her head.
"Well, then, won't you join in with us?" persisted Mrs. Chints. "Sacred music is so lovely and appropriate on Sunday night."
"You are right in that respect, Mrs. Chints. If it is the wish of those present I think some simple hymns in which we can all join might be generally enjoyed."
"Now, my dear, you have just hit it," said the old lady at her side. "I, for one, would very much like to hear some simple music like that we had when I was young."
The old lady's preference was taken up and echoed on every side. Indeed the majority were ready for any change from Mrs. Chints's strident tones.
"Well, my dear," said the lady, "it shall be as you say." Then she added, "sotto voce," with a complacent nod, "I suppose the music we were giving is beyond the masses, but if you could once hear Madame Skaronni render it in our choir at the Church of the (something that sounded like 'pica-ninny,' as by Mrs. Chints pronounced) you would wish for no other. Will you play, my dear?"
"Ah, yes, please do," exclaimed some of the children who had gathered around her.
"In mercy to us poor mortals for whom there is no escape save going to bed, please comply," whispered the old lady in her ear.
The light in Miss Burton's eyes was mirthful rather than sacred as she rose and went to the piano, and at once an air of breezy and interested expectancy took the place of the previous bored expression.
"Come, Van," said Stanton, throwing away his cigar, "we'll need your tenor voice. We must stand by that little woman. The Chints tribe have incited to profanity long enough, and shall make the night hideous no more. If we could only drown them instead of their voices, what a mercy it would be!" and the young men went around and stood in the open door near the piano.
"You are to sing," said Miss Burton, with a decided little nod at them.
"We intend to," replied Stanton, "since you are to accompany us."
She started "Coronation," that spirited and always inspiriting battle song of the church--jubilant and militant--a melody that is also admirably adapted for blending rough and inharmonious voices.
For a moment her own voice was like that of a singing lark, mounting from its daisy covert; or rather, like the flow of a silver rill whose music was soon lost, however, in the tumultuous rush of other tributary streams of sound; still, the general effect was good, and the people enjoyed it. By the time the second stanza was reached the majority were singing with hearty good-will, the children gathering near and joining in with delight.
Other familiar and old-fashioned hymns followed, and then one and another began to ask for their favorites. Fortunately Mrs. Chints's knowledge of sacred music was limited, and so she retired on the laurels of having called Miss Burton out, informing half the company of the fact with an important nod; and in remembrance of this fact they were inclined to forgive her the anguish she had personally caused them.
Mrs. Burleigh, who had stolen into the parlor for a little while that she might enjoy the singing, remembered that she had a pile of note-books that had grown dusty on a shelf since the baby had furnished the music of the household. These were brought, and higher and fuller musical themes were attempted, until the singers dwindled to a quartet composed of a lady who had a fair soprano voice, Miss Burton, Stanton and Van Berg. Their selections, however, continued truly sacred in character, thus differing radically from the florid style that Mrs. Chints had introduced.
The sweet and penetrating power of Miss Burton's voice could now be distinguished. For some reason it thrilled and touched its hearers in a way that they could not account for. The majority present at once realized that she was not, and never could become, a great singer. But within the compass of her voice, she could pronounce sacred words in a manner that send them home to the hears of the listeners like rays that could both cheer and melt.
At last she rose from the piano, remarking that there were other musicians present; and no amount of persuasion could induce her to remain there any longer.
"Perhaps you gentlemen play," she said, turning to the young men who were about to depart. "A man's touch and leadership is so much more decisive and vigorous than a lady's!"
"Mr. Van Berg plays very well indeed, considering his youth and diffidence!" remarked Stanton.
"And he has been taking advantage of a defenceless woman all this time! Mr. Van Berg, if you do not wish to lose your character utterly, you must take my place at the piano."
"I admit," he replied, "that I have taken more pleasure than you will believe in your in your contribution to our evening's enjoyment, but rather than lose your good opinion I will attempt to play or sing anything you dictate, even though I put every one in the parlor to flight, with their fingers in their ears."
"And you fear my taste will impose on you some such blood-curdling combination of sounds? Thank you."
"Now, Van, you have taught us what unconditional surrender means. Miss Burton, ask him to play and sing some selections from the Oratorio of the Messiah."
"Are you familiar with that?" she asked, with a sudden lighting up of her face.
"Somewhat so, only as an amateur can be; but I see, from your expression, that you are."
"I've contributed my share this evening," she said, decisively. "Please give us some selections from the Oratorio."
"Lay your command, then, on Stanton also. There's a part that we have sung together as a duet occasionally, although it is not 'so nominated in the bond,' or score, rather."
"If Mr. Stanton does not stand by his friend, then he should be left to stand by himself."
"In the corner, I suppose you mean. But do not leave, Miss Burton. If you do not stand by Mr. Van Berg and sing with him the duet that begins with the words-- 'O death! where is thy sting?'
you will deprive us all of the chief pleasure of the evening, and it's not in your nature to do that."
"Please, please do, Miss Burton," cried a score of voices.
"You know nothing about my nature, sir. I assure you that I can be a veritable dragon. But out of regard for Mr. Van Berg's 'youth and diffidence' I will sustain him."
Van Berg's voice was not strong, but he sang with taste and good expression. It suggested refinement and culture rather than deep, repressed feeling, as had been the case in Miss Burton's singing. His style would be admired, and would not give much occasion for criticism, but, as a general thing, it would not stir and move the heart. Still, the audience gave close and pleased attention.
Ida Mayhew, who all this time had been out on the piazza and but half listening to Mr. Sibley's compliments in her attention to the scenes at the piano, now rose and came to one of the open windows, where, while hidden from the singer, she could hear more distinctly. Her features did not indicate that she shared in the pleasure expressed on the other faces within, and her gathering frown was deepened by the shadow of the window frame.
"You do not enjoy it!" said Mr. Sibley, complacently.
"No," she answered, laconically; but for reasons he little understood.
"Now you show your taste, Miss Mayhew."
"I fear I do. Hush!" But when Van Berg's solo ended, she breathed a deep sigh.
Then Stanton's rich, but uncultivated bass voice joined in the melody. Still the effect was better tahn would have been expected from amateurs. After a few moments, Stanton stood back and Miss Burton and Van Berg sang together; then every one leaned forward and listened with a breathless hush. Her voice seemed to pervade his with sould and feeling that had been lacking hitherto.
As the last rich chords died away, the strongest expression of pleasure were heard on every side; but Ida Mayhew stepped abruptly out into the dusk of the piazza with clenched hands and compressed lips. " 'Peste!'" she exclaimed under her breath. "What a contrast between Sibley and myself last evening and these two people to-night! What a worse contrast there might have been if Ik had not interfered in time! I have a good voice, but the guests of the house have not even thought of me in connection with this evening's entertainment. I am associated only with the Sibley style of amusements."
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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17
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New Forces Developing.
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After Mr. Van Berg and Miss Burton finished the selection from the Oratorio mentioned in the previous chapter, the old white-haired gentleman at whose side the latter had been sitting in the earlier part of the evening rose and said: "I want to thank all the singers, and especially the young lady and gentleman now at the piano, not only for the pleasure they have given us all, but also for the comforting and sustaining thoughts that the sacred words have suggested. My enjoyments in this world are but few, and are fast diminishing; and I know that they will not refuse an old man's request that they close this service of song by each singing along some hymn that will strengthen our faith in the unseen Friend who watches over us all."
Van Berg looked at Miss Burton.
"We cannot refuse such an appeal," she said.
"I fear that I shall seem a hypocrite in complying," Van Berg answered, in a low tone. "How can I make a distinctly recognized effort to strengthen faith in others when lacking faith myself."
Her eyes flashed up to his, in sudden and strong approval. "I like that," she said. "It always gives me a sense of security and safety when I meet downright honesty. In no way can you better strengthen our faith than by being perfectly true. You give me a good example of sincerity," she added slowly, "and perhaps my hymn will teach submission more than faith. While I am singing it you may find something that will not express more than you feel."
In her sweet, low, yet penetrating voice, that now had a pathos which melted every heart, she sang the following words, which, like the perfume of crushed violets, have risen in prayer from many bruised and broken sprits: "My God, my father, while I stray Far from my home on life's rough way, Oh teach me from my heart to say, Thy will be done.
What though in lonely grief I sigh For friends beloved no longer nigh; Submissive still would I reply, Thy will be done.
Renew my will from day to day; Blend it with Thine, and take away Whate'er now makes it hard to say, Thy will be done.
Then when on earth I breathe no more, The prayer oft mixed with tears before, I'll sing upon a happier shore, Thy will be done."
Stanton, warm-hearted and genuine with all his faults, retired well into the shadow of the hallway and looked at the singer through the lenses of sympathetic tears.
"Poor orphan girl," he muttered. "What a villain a man would be who could purpose harm to you!"
Van Berg, in accordance with his cooler and less demonstrative nature, kept his position at her side, but he regarded her with an expression of respect and interest that caused Ida Mayhew, who was watching from her covert near, a sense of pain and envy that surprised her by its keenness.
With a sudden longing which indicated that the wish came direct from from her heart, she sighed: "What would I not give to see him look at me with that expression on his face!"
Then, startled by her own thought, so vivid had it been, she looked around as if in fear it was apparent to her companion.
His eyes were in truth bent upon her, and in the dusk they seemed like livid coals. A moment later, as with a shrinking sense of fear she furtively looked at him again, his eyes suggested those of some animal of prey that is possessed only with the wolfish desire to devour, caring for the victim only as it may gratify the ravenous appetite.
He leaned forward and whispered in her ear: "Miss Ida, you do not know how strangely, how temptingly beautiful you are to-night. One might well peril his soul for such beauty as yours."
"Hush," she said imperiously, and with a repelling gesture, she stepped further into the light towards the singers.
"Then, when on earth I breathe no more," sang Miss Burton.
The thought was to the heart of the unhappy listener like the touch of ice to the hand. There was a kindling light of hope in Miss Burton's face, and something in her tone that indicated the courage of an unfaltering trust as she sang the closing lines: "I'll sing upon a happier shore, Thy will be done."
But the words brought a deeper despondency to Ida Mayhew. In bitterness she asked herself, "What chance is there for me to reach 'that happier shore,' with the tempter at my side and everything in the present and past combining to drag me down?"
"There, thank heaven 'meetin's over,'" whispered Sibley, as Miss Burton rose from the piano. "I'm sick of all this pious twaddle, and would a thousand-fold rather listen to the music of your voice out under the trees."
"You 'thank heaven'!" she repeated with a reckless laugh. "I'm inclined to think, Mr. Sibley, from the nature of your words, you named the wrong locality."
The answering look he gave her indicated that she puzzled him. She had not seemed to-day like the shallow girl who had hitherto accepted of his more innocent compliments as if they were sugar-plums, and merely raised her finger in mock warning at such as contained a spice of wickedness and boldness. There seemed a current of thought in her mind which he could not fathom, and whether it were carrying her away or toward him he was not sure. He understood and welcomed the element of recklessness, but did not like the way in which she looked at Van Berg, nor did it suit his purposes that she should hear so much of what he characterized as "pious twaddle." He whispered again bolder words than he had ever spoken to her before.
"I wish no better heaven than the touch of your hand and the light of your eyes. See, the moon is rising; come with me, for this is the very witching hour for a ramble."
She turned upon him a startled look, for he seemed the very embodiment of temptation. But she only said coldly: "Hush! Mr. Van Berg is about to sing," and she stepped so far into the lighted room that the artist saw her.
When Miss Burton rose from the piano she did not return to her seat in the parlor, but stood in the shadow of the door-way leading into the hall. The thought of her hymn had come so directly from her heart, that her eyes were slightly moist with an emotion that was more plainly manifest on many other faces. The old gentleman who had asked her to sing had taken off his spectacles and was openly wiping his eyes.
Stanton, ashamed to have her see the feeling she had evoked, turned his back upon her and slowly walked down the corridor. She misunderstood his act and thought it caused by indifference or dislike for the sentiment she had expressed. He had seemed to her thus far only a superficial man of the world, and this act struck her as characteristic. But beyond this passing impression she did not give him a thought, and turned, with genuine interest, to listen to Van Berg who had said to her: "I remember a few simple verses which have no merit save that they express what I wish rather than what I am."
With much more feeling, and therefore power, than was his custom, he sang as follows: "I would I knew Thee better-- That trust could banish doubt; I wish that from 'the letter' Thy Spirit might shine out.
I wish that heaven were nearer-- That earth were more akin To the home that should be dearer Than the one so marred by sin.
I wish that deserts dreary Might blossom as the rose, That souls, despairing, weary, Might smile and find repose."
Before singing the next stanza he could not forbear looking to see if Miss Mayhew were listening, and thus it happened that his glance gave peculiar emphasis to the thought expressed. She was looking at him with an intensity of expression that he did not understand. Nothing that he did escaped her, and the quick flash of his eyes in her direction unintentionally gave the following words the force and pointedness of an open rebuke; "I wish that outward beauty Were the mirror of the heart, That purity and duty Supplanted wily art."
He did not see that with a sudden flame of scarlet in her face she stepped back on the dusky piazza as abruptly as if she had received a blow. Had he done so, he might not have sung as effectively the remaining verses. After the first confused moment of shame and resentment passed, she paused only long enough to note with a sense of relief that others had not seen or made any such application of his words as she believed he had intended, and then she took Mr. Sibley's arm and walked away, leaving the remaning two verses unheard-- "I wish that all were better And nearer to their God-- That evil's broken fetter Were buried with His rod; That love might last forever, And we, in future, find There is no power to sever The strong and true in mind."
As he sang the last verse there was also a rapid change in the expression of Miss Burton's face. There was something of her old pallor that has been mentioned before. She looked at him questioningly a moment as if to see if he were consciously making an allusion that touched her very nearly, and then, seemingly overcome by some sudden emotion that she would gladly hide, she quickly vanished down the dimly lighted hallway, and was seen no more until she came down to breakfast the following morning, as smiling and cheery as ever.
"Confound you, Van," said Stanton, as the artist escaped from the thanks of the audience into the hall, "What did you put in that last verse for? You made her think of seeing her dead friends again, and so she was in no mood to speak to us poor mortals who are still plodding on in this 'vale of tears.' I'd give my ears for a quiet chat with her to-night. By Jove, I never was so stirred up before, and could turn Christian, Mohammedan, Buddhist, or anything else, if she asked me to."
"In either case, Ik," said Van Berg, "your worship would be the same, I imagine, and would never rise higher than the priestess."
"Curse it all," exclaimed Stanton impetuously, "I feel to-night as if that were higher than I can ever rise. I never was afraid of a woman before; but no 'divinity' ever 'hedged a king' like that which fills me with an indescribable awe when I approach this unassuming little woman who usually seems no more formidable than a flickering sunbeam. I agree with you now. She has evidently had some deep experience in the past that gives to her character a power and depth that we only half understand. I wish I knew her better."
"Good-night," said Van Berg, a little abruptly; "I think that after this evening's experience, neither of us is in the mood for further talk."
Stanton looked after him with a lowering brow and muttered: "Is he so sensitive on this subject? By Jove. I'm sorry! I fear we must become rivals, Van. And yet," he added with a despairing gesture, "what chance would I have with him against me?"
"I could not hear distinctly," Sibley had remarked as Ida took his arm and walked away from her post of observation. "Were you disgusted with his pious wail on general principles, or did something in his theology offend you?"
"It's enough that I was not pleased," she replied briefly.
"Little wonder. I'm surprised you stood it so long. Van Berg and Stanton are nice fellows to lead a conventicle. I think I'll take a hand at it myself next Sunday evening, and certainly would with your support. I'll say nothing of the singer, but if you will go with me to the rustic seat in yonder shady walk, I'll sing you a song that I know will be more to your taste than any you have heard this evening."
"Please excuse me, Mr. Sibley; I'm afraid of the night air."
"You are unusually prudent," he said, a little tauntingly.
"Which proves that I possess at least one good quality," she replied.
"Perhaps if Mr. Van Berg asked you to go you would take the risk."
"Perhaps I might," she admitted, half unconsciously and from the mere force of habit, giving the natural answer of a coquette.
"He had better not cross my path," said Sibley, with sudden vindictiveness.
"Come, come!" replied Miss Mayhew, with a careless laugh, "let's have no high tragedy. I'm in no mood for it to-night, and you have no occasion for alarm. If he crosses your path he will step daintily over it at right angles."
At that moment Van Berg came out on the piazza. Although he could not hear her words, her laugh and tones jarred unpleasantly on his ear.
"Yonder is a genuine affinity," he muttered, "which I was a fool to think I could break up;" and with a slight contemptuous gesture he turned on his heel and went to his room.
"I cannot altogether understand you this evening, Miss Mayhew," said Sibley, with some resentment in his tone.
"You are not to blame for that, Mr. Sibley, for I do not understand myself. I have not felt well to-day, and so had better say good-night."
But before she could leave him he seized her hand and exclaimed, in his soft, insinuating tones: "That then is the only trouble between us. Next Saturday evening I shall find you your old charming self?"
"Perhaps," was her unsatisfactory answer.
With a step that grew slower and heavier every moment, she went to her room, turned up the light, and looked fixedly at herself in the glass, "I wish that outward beauty Were the mirror of the heart," she repeated inaudibly, and the her exquisite lip curled in self-contempt.
"Ida, what IS the matter with you?" drawled her mother, looking through the open door-way of her adjacent room. "You act as if you were demented."
"Why did you make me what I am?" she exclaimed, turning upon her mother in a sudden passion.
"Good gracious! what are you?" ejaculated that matter-of-fact lady.
"I'm as good as you are--as good as our set averages, I suppose," she answered in a weary, careless tone. "Good night;" and she closed and locked her door.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Mrs. Mayhew, petulantly; "those hymns have made her out of sorts with herself and everything. They used to stir me up in the same way. Why can't people learn to perform their religious duties properly and then let the matter rest;" and with a yawn she retired at peace with herself and all the world.
Ida threw herself on a lounge and looked straight before her with that fixed, vacant stare which indicates that nothing is seen save by the eye of the mind.
"Father's drunk to-night," she moaned; "I know it as surely as if I saw him. I also know that I'm in part to blame for it. Could outward beauty mask a blacker heart than mine? It does not mask it from him who sang those words," and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed, until, exhausted and disheartened, she sough such poor rest and respite as a few hours of troubled sleep could bring.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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18
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Love Put to Work.
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On the following day there was the usual bustle of change and departure that is characteristic of a large summer resort on Monday morning. Stanton found Mrs. Mayhew very ready to occupy the seats he had obtained, and all the more so from his statement of the fact that several others had spoken for them.
"Ida, my dear," called her mother; "come here, I've good news for you. Ik has got us out of that odious corner of the dining-room, and secured seats for us at Mr. Van Berg's table."
"I wish no seat there," she said decisively.
"Oh, its all arranged, my dear; and a good many others want the seats, but Ik was too prompt."
"I'll stay where I am," said Ida, sullenly.
"And have every one in the house asking why?" added Stanton, provokingly. "Mr. Van Berg treats you as a gentleman should. Why cannot you act like a lady toward him? If I were you I would not carry my preferences for the Sibley style of fellows so far that I could not be civil to a man like my friend."
"You misjudge me," cried Ida, passionately.
"You have a strange way of proving it. All that is asked of you is to sit at the same table with a gentleman who has won the respect and admiration of every one in the hotel, whose society is peculiarly agreeable to your mother and myself, and who has also shown unusual courtesy towards you ever since he learned who you were. What else can I think--what else can others think, than that your taste leans so decidedly to the Sibley style that you cannot even be polite to a man of high culture and genuine worth?"
"You are too severe, Ik," said Mrs. Mayhew. "For some reason that I cannot fathom, Ida does not like this artist; and yet I think myself that she would subject herself to very unpleasant remarks if she made any trouble about sitting at the same table with him."
"Can you not see," retorted Ida, irritably, "that Ik has not considered us at all, but only himself? He wishes to be near Miss Burton, and without giving us any chance to object, has made all the arrangements so that we must either comply or else be the talk of the house. It's just a piece of his selfishness," she concluded with tears of vexation in her eyes.
"Oh, come Ida!" said her mother coaxingly, "I can see only a mole-hill in this matter, and I wouldn't make a mountain out of it. As far as I am concerned, I should enjoy the change very much, and, as you say, the affair has gone too far now to make objection. I do not intend that either you or myself shall be the subject of unpleasant remark."
And so the matter was settled, but Ida's coldness and constraint, when they all met at dinner, very clearly indicated that the change had been made without her consent. Van Berg addressed her affably two or three times, but received brief and discouraging answers.
"Your cousin evidently is not pleased with the new arrangement you have brought about. I cannot see what I have done of late to vex her."
"I'll tell you the trouble. You offend her by not being the counterpart of Mr. Sibley," said Stanton, irritably.
Van Berg's brow darkened. "Do you think," he asked in a meaning tone, "that she understands what kind of a man he is?"
"Oh, she knows that he can dance, flirt, and talk nonsense, and she asks for nothing more and thinks of nothing further. I'm out of patience with her."
Stanton's words contained the most plausible explanation of Ida's conduct that occurred to Van Berg. The episode in the stage had made them acquainted, and her preconceived prejudice and hostility had been so far removed as to permit a certain degree of social companionship, whose result would now seem only increased dislike and distaste. As he supposed she would express herself, "he was not of her style." Had she not spent the greater part of Sunday afternoon and evening with Sibley? What other conclusion was there save that he was "of her style," congenial both in thought and character! And yet he still refused to entertain the belief that she recognized in him more than a fashionable man of the world.
If only as the result of the pique originating on the evening of the concert, Ida Mayhew had stood aloof from him, he could hope to remove this early prejudice by better acquaintance. But if fuller acquaintance increased her aversion, then he must believe that the defects in her character were radical, inwrought through the whole web and woof of her nature. He could not assume the "Sibley style" if he would, and would not if he could, were her beauty a hundred-fold greater, were that possible.
He was fast coming to the conclusion, therefore, that he must abandon the project which had so fascinated him, and whose success had so strongly kindled his imagination. And yet he did so reluctantly, very regretfully, chafing as only the strong-willed do, when confronted and thwarted by that which is only apparently impossible, and which they still feel might and ought to be accomplished.
"I feel as the old alchemists must have done," he often thought. "Here is a base metal. Why can I not transmute it into gold?"
But as the conviction of his impotence grew upon him he felt something like resentment toward the one who had thwarted his purpose; and so it naturally happened that when they met again at the supper-table, his cool and indifferent manner corresponded with that of Miss Mayhew to a degree that gave her a deeper pain than she could understand.
"Why should she care?" she asked herself a hundred times that evening. But the unpleasant truth hourly grew more plain to her that she did care.
Stanton and her mother quietly ignored her "foolish pique," as they termed it. In truth the former was so preoccupied with Miss Burton, and with jealousy of his friend, that he had few thoughts for anything else.
He admitted to himself that he had never before been so thoroughly fascinated and awakened; and it was in accordance with his pleasure-loving, self-indulgent nature to drift on this shining tide withersoever it might carry him.
But with a growing feeling of disquietude he saw that Van Berg also was deeply interested in Miss Burton, and, what was worse, he thought he detected an answering interest on her part.
Occasionally, when the artist's face was turned away so that she obtained a good profile view of it, Stanton observed her looking at him with an expression which both puzzled and troubled him. She seemed to forget everything and every one, and to gaze for a moment with a wistful, longing intensity that he would give his fortune for were the glance directed toward himself. And yet when Van Berg addressed her, sought her society, met her suddenly, there was no heightening of color, nor a trace of the "sweet confusion" that is usually inseparable from a new and growing affection in a maiden's heart.
Apart from this occasion, furtive, and wistful look during which her cheeks would grow pale and she appear for the moment oblivious of present surroundings, her manner toward the artist was as frank and natural as toward any one else. It was evident that she liked and respected him, but even his jealousy could not detect the certainty of anything more.
But what was the tendency of Van Berg's mind toward her? That was the question which troubled him more and more every day. From the time of their parting on the previous Sabbath evening there had been a growing reluctance on the part of each to speak of one who so largely occupied the thoughts of both. The old jest and banter about the "school ma'am" ceased utterly, and they mentioned her only occasionally as "Miss Burton." The old frank confidence between them diminished daily, and in their secret consciousness they began to recognize the fact that they might soon become open rivals.
The attitude of Van Berg toward the young stranger who had so deeply interested him from the first hour of their meeting, was peculiar but characteristic. His reason approved of her. Never before had he met a woman who had seemed endowed with so many attractive qualities. She was not beautiful,--a cardinal virtue with him--but her face often lighted up with something so near akin to beauty as to leave little cause to regret its absence and the conviction grew upon him that the spirit enshrined within the graceful and fragile form was almost perfection itself.
It became clearer to him every day that some deep experience or sorrow has so thoroughly refined away the dross of her nature as to make her seem the embodiment of truth and purity. What though she still maintained complete reticence as to the past, avoiding in their conversation all allusion to herself, as far as possible; he still, in his inmost soul, knew he could trust her, and that while her smiling face, like the sunlit rippling surface of mountain lakes not far away, might hide dark, silent depths, it concealed nothing impure.
He also felt that there was no occasion to imagine any deep mystery to be part of her past history. The facts that she was poor and orphaned suggested all the explanations needed, and he felt sure that the sorrows she so sacredly and unselfishly shrouded from the general view would be frankly revealed to the man who might win the right to comfort and sustain her.
Could he win that right? Did he wish to win it? As day after day passed he felt this question to be growing more and more vitally important.
He was not one he believed who, like Stanton, could be carried away by a sudden and absorbing passion. In any and every case, reason, judgment, and taste would offer their counsel, and their advice would be carefully weighed. With increasing distinctness, this cabinet within his own breast urged him to observe this maiden well lest the chief opportunity of his life pass beyond recall.
And he did study her character carefully. Stanton, with the keen pain of jealousy, and Ida Mayhew with a disquiet and sinking of heart that she could not understand, noted that he very quietly and unobtrusively sought her society. When she spoke, he listened. When it was possible without attracting attention his eyes followed her, and yet his conduct was governed so thoroughly by good taste and chivalric regard for the lady herself, that only eyes rendered penetrating by the promptings of the heart would have seen anything more than the general friendliness which she inspired on every side.
Stanton, on the contrary, grew more undisguised and demonstrative in his attentions, although he aimed to conceal his feeling under the humorous and bantering style of address that was habitual with him. The guests of the house were not very long in recognizing in him an admirer of Miss Burton, but they imagined that his devotion was caused more by a wish to while away his idle hours than from any other motive; and it was also quite evident that the young lady herself took the same view. She gave a light and humorous aspect to everything she said, and permitted him scarcely an opportunity for a solitary "tete-a-tete." In vain he placed his bays and buggy at her disposal.
"I am social and gregarious in my tastes," she would reply, "and need the exhilaration of a party to enjoy myself."
Thus Stanton was led to a course of action decidedly in contrast with his past tendencies. He would attach his bays to a roomy carriage, giving her a "carte-blanche" in making up the party if she would be one of the number. He would perspire like a hero in any boating excursion or picnic that she would originate; and thus the fastidious and elegant fellow often found himself in unwonted company, for, with an instinct peculiarly her own, she soon found out the comparatively poor and neglected in the hotel, and appeared to derive her chief pleasure in enlivening their dull days. Quick-witted Stanton early learned that the surest way to winning a smile from her was to be polite to people that, hitherto, he had habitually ignored. To Miss Burton herself he made no secret of the fact that his course was prompted only by a desire to please her, but she smiling persisted in ascribing it all to his good-nature and kindness of heart.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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19
|
Man's Highest Honor.
|
Van Berg had not been very long in discovering that Miss Burton had a ruling passion, and it seemed to him a rather unique one. He was familiar with the many forms of self-seeking, common in society; he knew of those who were devoted to literature, science, or some favorite calling, as he was to his art; he had seen a few who apparently so abounded in genial good-nature that they rarely lost an opportunity of performing a kind act; and there were men and women in the world who, he believed, had fully consecrated themselves to the work of doing good from the purest and divinest motives: but he did not remember of ever having met with one whose whole thought appeared bent on disseminating immediate sunshine.
And yet this seemed true of Miss Burton. With admirable tact, with a tireless patience, and an energy out of proportion in one so fragile, she kept herself quietly and unobtrusively busy among the miscellaneous people of the house. Her charity was wide enough for all. Wherever she could discover gloom, despondency, dulness, or pain, there she tried to shine like a sunbeam, as if that were the primal law of her being. She rarely sought to "do good" in the ordinary acceptance of the term; still more rarely did she speak of her own personal faith; to cheer and to brighten appeared to be her one constant impulse. It was evident that this had become a kind of second nature in her now; but the thought occurred more than once to Van Berg that she had adopted this course at first to escape from herself and her own unhappy memories. Every day increased the conviction that sorrow was the black, heavy soil that produced this constant bloom of unselfish deeds.
Before the week was over she gave him special reason to believe that this was true. They were walking up and down the piazza one evening and had been talking with much animation on a subject of mutual interest. But she proved that there was in her mind a deeper and stronger current of thought than that which had been apparent. As the duskiness increased, and as in their promenade their faces were turned away from those who might have observed them, she said a little abruptly and yet with tremulous hesitancy: "Mr. Van Berg, does your philosophy teach you to believe, as you sung, on Sabbath evening, that 'There is no power to sever The strong and true in mind?'"
Before answering he turned to look at her. Her face seemed to stand out from the gloom of the night with a light of its own, and was so white and eager as to be almost spirit-like. His tones were sad as he replied: "I wish I could answer you otherwise than as I must, for the impulse to say some words of comfort, which I feel you need, is very strong. I only sang of what I wished on Sunday evening. I have little philosophy, and still less of definite belief in regard to the future life. While I am not a theoretic skeptic, all questions of faith are to me so vague and incomprehensible that I am a practical materialist, and live only in the present hour."
"But, Mr. Van Berg," she said, in a low tremulous tone, "can you not understand that some people cannot live in the present hour, try as they may? Oh, how desperately hard I try to do so! Can you not imagine that something in one's past may make a future necessary to save from despair? If I lost my hold on that future I should go mad," she added in a whisper. "How can any materialistic philosophy be true when it fails us and so bitterly disappoints us in our need?"
"I do not say it is true," he replied, earnestly. "Indeed your words and manner prove to me, as could no labored argument, what a poor superficial thing it is. I feel, with the force of conviction, that it can no more meet your need than could the husks which the swine did eat."
"Since you were sincere, I will be also," she continued in the same low tone, looking away from him into the dark cloudy sky. "As the hymn I sung may have suggested to you, I have not got very far beyond mere submission and hope. Something in my own soul as well as in revelation tells me that there is a 'happier shore,' and I am trying to reach it; but the way, too often, is like that sky, utterly opaque and rayless."
"I regret more deeply than you can ever know, Miss Burton, that I find nothing in my own knowledge or experience to help you. All I can offer is my honest sympathy, and that you have had from the first; for from the time of our first meeting the impression has been growing upon me that your character had obtained its power and beauty through some deep and sorrowful experience. But while I am unable to give you any help, perhaps I can suggest a pleasant thought from your own illustration. The black clouds yonder which seem to you a true type of the shadows that have fallen across your path, are, after all, but a film in the sky. The sun, and a multitude of other luminous worlds, are shining beyond them in the heavens. I would I had your chances of reaching a 'happier shore.'"
"That's a pretty sentiment," she said, shaking her head slowly; "but those luminous worlds are a great way off, with cold and vast reaches of space between them. Besides, a luminous world would not do me one bit of good. I want---" she stopped abruptly with something like a low sob. "There, there," she resumed hastily dashing away a few tears. "I have occupied your thoughts too long with my forlorn little self. I did not mean to show this weakness, but have been betrayed into doing os, I think, because you impressed me as being honest, and I thought that perhaps--perhaps your man's reason might have thought of some argument or probably conjecture relating to the subject that, for causes obvious to you, would be naturally interesting to one so alone in the world as I am."
"I am sorry indeed that I never used my reason to so good a purpose," he replied; "and yet, as I said at first, these subjects have ever seemed to me so above and beyond my reason that I have carelessly given them the go-by. My profession has wholly absorbed me since I have been capable of anything worth the name of thought, and the world, toward which your mind is turning, is so large and vague that I cannot even follow you, much less guide."
She sighed: "It is indeed 'large and vague.'" Then she added in firm, quiet tones: "Mr. Van Berg, please forget what I have said. The weak must show their weakness at times in spite of themselves, and your kindness and sincerity have beguiled me into inflicting myself upon you."
"You ask that which is impossible, Miss Burton," he replied earnestly. "I cannot forget what you have said, nor do I wish to. I need not assure you, however, that I regard your confidence as sacred as if it came from my own sister. Will you also let me say that I never felt so honored before in my life as I have to-night, in the fact that I seemed to your woman's intuition worthy of your trust."
They were now turned towards the light that streamed dimly from one of the windows. She looked up at him with a bright, grateful smile, but she apparently saw something in his eager face and manner which checked her smile as suddenly as if he had been an apparition.
she gave him her hand, saying hastily, "Good-night, Mr. Van Berg; I thank you. I--I--do not feel very well," and she passed swiftly to a side door and disappeared.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
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20
|
A Wretched Secret that Must be Kept.
|
The interview described in the previous chapter touched Van Berg deeply, but its close puzzled him. Under the influences of his aroused feelings had his face expressed more than mere sympathy? Had her strong intuition, that was like a second sight, interpreted his heart more clearly than he had been able to understand it himself as yet? Reason and judgement, his privy council, had already begun to advise him to win if possible this unselfish maiden, who with a divine alchemy transmuted her shadows into sunshine for others, and often suggested the thought, if she can do this in sorrow, how inexpressibly happy she might make you and your aged father and mother if you could first find out in some way how to make her happy.
Indeed, so clear a case did these counsellors make out, that conscience added her authoritative voice also, and assured him that he would be false to himself and his future did he not, to the utmost, avail himself and his future did he not, to the utmost, avail himself of the opportunity of winning one whose society from the first had been an inspiration to better thoughts and better living.
Until this evening his heart had remained sluggish. Sweet and potent as her voice had been, it had not penetrated to the "holy of holies" within his soul. But had not her low sad tones echoed there to-night in the half involuntary confidence she had given him?
In his deep sympathy, in the answering feeling evoked by her strong but repressed emotion, he thought his heart had been stirred to its depths, and that henceforth its chief desire would be to banish the sorrowful memories typified to her mind by the black clouds above him. Had his face revealed this impulse of his heart before he had been fully conscious of it himself? Was it an unwelcome discovery, that she so hastily fled from it? Or had she been only startled--her maidenly reserve shrinking from the first fore-shadowing of the supreme request that she should unveil the mysteries of her life to one who but now had been a stranger? He did not know. He felt he scarcely understood her or himself; but he was conscious of a hope that both might meet their happy fate in each other.
He leaned thus for a time absorbed in thought against a pillar where she had left him, then sauntered with bowed head and preoccupied manner to the main entrance, down the steps and out into the darkness. He did not even notice that he passed Ida Mayhew, where she stood among a group of gay chattering young people. Still less did he know that she had been furtively watching his interview with Miss Burton, and that when he passed her without a glance her face was as pale as had been that of the object of his thoughts. But he had not strolled very far down a gravelled path before she compelled him to distinguish her reckless laugh and tones above all the others.
With an impatient gesture he muttered, "God made them both, I suppose; and so there's another mystery."
As Van Berg's interest in Miss Burton had deepened, it had naturally flagged toward the one whose marvelously fair features had first caught his attention and now promised to be links in a chain of causes that might produce effects little anticipated. He had virtually abandoned the project of seeking to ennoble and harmonize these features that suggested new possibilities of beauty to almost every glance, for the reason that he not only believed there was no mind to be awakened, but also because he had been led to think the girl so depraved and selfish at heart that the very thought of a larger, purer life was repugnant to her. He believed she disliked and even detested him, not so much on personal grounds as because he represented to her mind a class of ideas and a self-restraint that were hateful. Circumstances had associated her in his mind with Sibley, who thus cast a baleful shadow athwart even her beauty and made it repulsive. Indeed the mocking perfection of her features irritated him, and he began to make a conscious and persistent effort not to look toward her. He now regarded his hope to illumine her face from within, by delicate touches of mind, thought, and motive, as vain as an attempt to carve the Venus of Milo out of mottled pumice-stone. Still he did not regret to-night the freak of fancy that had brought him to the Lake House, since it had led to his meeting a woman who was to him a new and beautiful revelation of the rarest excellence and grace.
But there was no such compensating outlook for poor Ida. To her, his coming promised daily to result in increasing wretchedness. From the miserable Sunday night on which she had sobbed herself to sleep, the consciousness had continually grown clearer that she could never find in her old mode of life any satisfying pleasure. She had caught a glimpse of something so much better, that her former world looked as tawdry as the mimic scenery of a second-rate theatre. A genuine man, such as she had not seen or at least not recognized before, had stepped out before the gilt and tinsel, and the miserable shams were seen in contrast in their rightful character.
But, in bringing the revelation, it happened he had so deeply wounded her pride, that she had assured herself, again and again, she would hate his very name as long as she lived. Did she hate him as she saw him absorbed in conversation with Miss Burton whenever he could obtain the opportunity? Did she hate him as she saw that his eyes consciously avoided her and rested approvingly on another woman? Were hate and love so near akin? Could the belief that he despised her make her so wretched if she only hated him?
During the early part of the present week she had struggled almost fiercely to retain her hold on her old life. Uniting herself to a clique of thoughtless young people, who made amusement and excitement their only pursuit, she seemed to be the gayest and most reckless of them all, while her heart was sinking like lead. Every glance toward the cold, averted face of the artist, inspired her with more than his own scorn toward what she was and the frivolities of her life. She tried to shut her eyes to the truth, and clung desperately to every impeding trifle; but felt all the time that an irresistible tide of events was carrying her toward the revelation that she loved a man who despised her, and always would despise her.
And on this night, when she saw their dim forms and heard their low tones as Miss Burton and Van Berg talked earnestly on the farther end of the piazza; when she saw that they grasped hands in parting, and noted the rapt look upon his face as he passed her by uncaringly and unnotingly--the revelation came. It was as sharply and painfully distinct as if he had stopped and plunged a knife into her heart.
With all her faults and follies, Ida had never been a pale shadowy creature, full of complex psychological moods which neither she nor any one else could untangle. She knew whom and what she liked and disliked, and it was not her nature to do things by halves. There had always been a kind of simplicity and straightforwardness even in her wickedness; and she usually seemed to people quite as bad, and indeed worse, than she really was.
Why of all others she loved this man, and how it all had come about, was a mystery that puzzled her sorely; but she had no labyrinthine heart in which to play hide and seek with her own consciousness. And so vividly conscious was she now of this new and absorbing passion, that she hastily turned her face from her companions toward the cloudy sky, that looked as dark to her as it had to Jennie Burton, and for a moment sought desperately to recover from a dizzy, reeling sense of pain that was well-nigh overwhelming. Then the womanly instinct to hide her secret asserted itself, and a moment later her laugh jarred discordantly on Van Berg's ears, and he interpreted it as wisely as have thousands of others who fail to recognize the truth that often no cry of pain is so bitter as a reckless laugh.
A little later, however, her companions missed her. Later still her mother sought admission to her room in vain.
When she came down to breakfast the next morning, she was very quiet and self-possessed, but her face was so pale and the traces of suffering were so manifest, that her mother insisted that she was not well.
She coldly admitted the fact.
The voluble lady launched out into an indefinite number of questions and suggestions of remedies.
"Mother," said Ida, with a flash of her eyes and an accent which caused not only that lady but several others to look toward her with a little surprise, "if you have anything further to say to me in regard to my health, please say it in my own room."
Van Berg glanced towards her several times after this, and was compelled to admit that whatever fault he might justly find, the face with which she confronted him that morning was anything but weak and trivial in its expression.
But her icy reserve and coldness did not compare favorably with Miss Burton, who had now fully regained her smiling reticence, acting as usual as if the only law of her being was to utter genial words and to bestow with consummate tact little gifts of attention and kindness on every side, as the summer sun without was scattering its vivifying rays.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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21
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A Deliberate Wooer.
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Miss Burton's bearing toward Van Berg was very friendly, but he failed to detect in her manner the slightest proof that she had ever thought of him otherwise than as a friend. There was no sudden drooping of her eyelashes, or heightening of color when he spoke to her, or permitted his eyes to dwell upon her face with an expression that was rather more than friendly. He could detect no furtive glances, nothing to indicate that she had caught a glimpse of that secret so interesting to every woman that she would look again, though cold as ice toward the man cherishing it. Nor was there the slightest trace of the constraint and reserve by which all women who are not coquettes seek to check, as with an early frost, the first growth of an unwelcome regard. Her manner was simply what would be natural toward a gentleman she thoroughly respected and liked, with whom her thoughts, for no hidden cause, were especially preoccupied.
Why then had she looked at him so strangely the preceding evening? Why had she apparently shrunk from the expression of his face, as if she had seen there a revelation so sudden and overwhelming that she trembled at it as a shy, sensitive maiden might in recognizing the fact that a strong, resolute man was seeking entrance to the very citadel of her heart? He felt himself utterly unable to explain her action.
What was more, he was puzzled at himself. The sympathy he felt for Miss Burton the previous evening had not by any means left him, but it was no longer a strong and absorbing emotion. His pulse was as calm and quiet as the breathless summer morning. He was conscious of no premonitory chills and thrills, which, according to his preconceived notions of the "grand passion," ought to be felt even in its incipiency. He even found himself criticising her face, and wondering how features so ordinary in themselves could combine in so winning and happy an effect; and then he mentally cursed his cold-bloodedness, and positively envied Stanton in whose manner, in spite of his efforts at concealment, an ardent affection began to manifest itself.
During the day it occurred to him more than once that her course was changing toward Stanton. There was no less return on her part of his light bantering style of conversation. Indeed, she seemed to take great pains to give a humorous twist to everything he said, as if she regarded even the words in which he tried to unfold his deeper thoughts as mere jests. But Van Berg imagined she began to make herself more inaccessible to Stanton. She entrenched herself among other guests in the parlor; she took pains to be so occupied as to make him feel that his approach would be an interruption; and whenever they did meet at the table and elsewhere, it appeared as if she were trying to teach him by a smiling, friendly indifference that he was not in her thoughts at all.
The positive coldness and aversion Ida sought to manifest toward Van Berg would not have been so disheartening as Miss Burton's device of seeming to be so agreeably preoccupied with other people that she could not or would not see the offering Stanton was eager to lay at her feet.
He felt this keenly, and chafed under it; but her woman's tact made her shining armor invulnerable. She persisted in regarding him as the gay, self-seeking, pleasure-loving man of the world that she had recognized him to be on the fist day of their acquaintance. He imagined that a great and radical change had taken place in his nature, but she gave him no opportunity of telling her so. At first she had, with laughing courtesy, ignored his gallantry, as if it were only a fashion of his towards any woman who for the time happened to take his fancy; but so far from shunning him she had seemed inclined to employ what she regarded as a caprice or a bit of male coquetry, as the means of adding to the enjoyment of as many as possible; and Van Berg had often smiled to see his languid friend of yore seconding Miss Burton's efforts with an apparent zeal that was quite marvellous. To Stanton's infinite relief, Van Berg did not twit him concerning this surprising departure from his old ways. Indeed, Miss Burton had become too delicate and sacred a theme in both of their minds to permit of their old banter. They had been friends and were so still, yet each recognized the fact that events were coming that would sorely test and perhaps destroy their friendship. While they gradually fell aloof, as men will who are learning that their dearest interests are destined to conflict, they each tried nevertheless to maintain an honorable rivalry, and their bearing toward each other, although tinged with a growing reticence and dignity, was genuinely kind and courteous.
As the week drew to a close, however, it gave Van Berg pleasure--though not by any means in the same degree that it caused Stanton pain--to observe that Miss Burton was shunning the latter's society as far as politeness permitted.
At the same time, while she evidently enjoyed his companionship, Van Berg observed that she did not seem to specially crave it; nor in truth did he find himself when away from her "distrait," vacant, and miserable, as was manifestly the case with his friend. He concluded that it was difference of temperament--that it was his nature to be governed by judgment and taste, as it was that of Stanton to be swayed by feeling and passion. All the higher faculties of his mind gave their voice for this woman with increasing emphasis. His heart undoubtedly would slowly and surely gravitate in the same direction.
How to win her therefore was gradually becoming the one interesting and most difficult question he had to solve. Although she was poor and alone in the world, it was evident that mere wealth and position would count but little with her. Stanton was handsome, rich, well-connected, and intelligent; but it seemed clear, as she recognized the sincerity of his suit, she withdrew from it. Some coarse, ill-natured people in the house, who at first, with significant nods, had intimated that "the little school-ma'am" was bent on bettering her fortunes, were soon nonplussed by her course.
Thus far Van Berg's name had not been associated with hers in any such manner as Stanton's. His cooler head, or heart more correctly, had enabled him to act very prudently. He would enjoy a walk or conversation with her, and there it would end. Neither by lingering glances nor steps did he show that he could not interest himself in other people and things. He did not attend the excursions or rides to which Stanton invited her, and others to please her, because he knew his friend "doted on his absence." He felt too that the occasion was Stanton's private property, and that it would be mean not to leave him the full advantage of the device, which might cause him more effort in a forenoon or an evening than he had been accustomed to put forth in a week.
But poor Stanton soon learned that his labors of love were destined to be very promiscuous. He never could manage to carry her off alone in a light skiff upon the lake; he could never inveigle her into the narrow seat of his buggy, nor could his most wily strategy long separate her from their companions on a picnic that had offered to his ardent fancy a chance for a stroll into some favoring solitude by themselves. Had she been a princess of the blood, surrounded by a guard of watchful duennas, she could not have been more unapproachable to lover-like advances. Yet, with a vexation akin to that of old Tantalus himself, he constantly cursed his stupidity for not making better progress toward securing the smiling affable maiden, who by every law of his pas experience ought to second his efforts to win her.
Van Berg, who remained at the hotel, or went off by himself on rambles and sketching expeditions, would watch his opportunity and quietly and naturally join her on the piazza or in the parlor, as he might approach any other lady. As a result they had long animated conversations, and found they had much in common to talk about.
Stanton would gnaw his lip with envy at these interviews and wonder how Van Berg brought them about so easily, but found he could not secure them, save in the immediate presence of others. Thus it came about that Van Berg practically enjoyed much more of Miss Burton's society than the one who made such untiring efforts to obtain it.
In Stanton's too eager suit, Van Berg thought he saw the danger he must avoid, and he complacently congratulated himself that he possessed a temperament which permitted thoughtful and wary approaches. He would not frighten this shy bird by too hasty advances. Through unobtrusive companionship he would first grow familiar to her thoughts; and then, if possible, would make himself inseparable from them.
He reached this conclusion during a ramble on Saturday morning, and with elastic tread returned to the hotel to carry out his well digested policy. As he mounted the steps he saw Miss Burton in the parlor, and at once entered through an open window. She was seated in a corner of the room with two or three little girls around her, and was dressing dolls.
"Do you enjoy that?" he asked, incredulously.
"I'm not a star," she replied looking up with a quiet smile, "but only a planet--one of the smaller asteroids--and shine with borrowed light. These little women enjoy this hugely; and I receive a pale reflection of their pleasure."
"You are certainly happy in your answer, if not in your work," he remarked.
"Mr. Van Berg," said one of the children emphatically, "Miss Burton is the best lady that ever lived."
"I agree with you, my dear," responded the artist, with answering emphasis.
"Yes, children," said Miss Burton, her eyes dancing with mischief, "and I want you to appreciate Mr. Van Berg's genius too. He is the greatest artist that ever lived, and there never were such pictures as he paints."
"Miss Burton, I beg off," interrupted Van Berg, laughing. "You always get the better of one. No, children," he continued in answer to their looks of wonder, "I know less about painting pictures, in comparison, than you do of dressing dolls."
"But Miss Burton always tells us the truth," persisted the child.
"Now you see the result of our folly," said the young lady, shaking her head at him. "We have given this child an example of insincerity. We were jesting, my dear. Mr. Van Berg and I did not mean what we said."
"But I did mean what I said," replied the child, earnestly.
"Since only downright honesty," the artist resumed with a laugh, "is permitted in this little group, so near nature's heart, I think I must follow this small maiden's example, and stick to my original statement. For once, Miss Burton, we have won the advantage over you, and have proved that yours are the only insincere words that have been spoken. But I know that if I stay another moment I shall be worsted. So I shall leave the field before victory is exchanged for another reverse."
As he turned laughingly away he saw--what he had not observed before--that Ida Mayhew was sitting near. She was ostensibly reading; but even his brief glance assured him that her downcast eyes were not following the lines. Her face was so pale, so rigid, so like a sculptured ideal of some kind of suffering he could not understand, that it haunted him.
He had given but little thought to her for the past two days, and indeed had rarely seen her. She had managed to take her meals when he was not present, and on one or two occasions had had them sent to her room, pleading illness as the reason. Indeed her flagging appetite and altered appearance did not make much feigning on her part necessary.
She had evidently heard the conversation just narrated; and she believed that Van Berg had echoed the child's belief in regard to Miss Burton more in truth than in jest.
The ruling passion of the artist was aroused. A plain woman might have looked unutterable things, and he would have passed on with a shrug, or but a thought of commiseration. But that oval, downcast face followed him. Its sadness and pain interested him because conveyed to his eye by a perfect contour.
"Was it a trick?" he thought, "or a fortuitous combination of the features themselves, that enabled them to express so much! It must be so, for surely the shallow coquette had not much to express."
"A plague on the perversity of nature," he exclaimed, "to give the girl such features. If Jennie Burton had them, she would be the ideal woman of the world."
The practical result, however, was that he half forgot during dinner that she was "the best woman that ever lived" in his furtive effort to study Ida's face in its present aspect; and that he also spent most of the afternoon in his room sketching it from memory.
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{
"id": "2501"
}
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22
|
A Vain Wish.
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As the witch-hazel is believed to have the power of indicating springs of water however far beneath the surface, so Miss Burton, by a subtle affinity, seemed to become speedily conscious of the sorrows and troubles of others, even when sedulously hidden from general observation.
She discovered that something was amiss with Ida almost as soon as did the troubled girl herself; but for once her quick perception of causes failed her. She had explained Ida's apparent antipathy to Van Berg on the ground of the natural resentment of a frivolous society girl toward the man who had, by his manner and character, asked her to think and be a woman. It appeared to her, from her limited acquaintance, that Ida was developing into the counterpart of her mother; and for such a person as Mrs. Mayhew, Van Berg could never have anything more than polite toleration.
Miss Burton was aware that the artist's manner toward Ida had indeed been humiliating. During the previous week he had sought her society; but in the emphatic language of his action, he had almost the same as said of late: "Even for the sake of your beauty I cannot endure your shallowness and moral deformity."
Little wonder that the flattered belle should feel hate or at least spite toward the man who had virtually given her such a stinging rebuke.
But while this fact and the differences of character explained Ida's manner toward the artist, it did not account for the expression of pain and perplexity that she occasionally detected in the young girl's face. It did not explain why she should sit for an hour at a time, as she had that morning in the parlor, her eyes fixed on vacancy, and her face full of dread and trouble, as if there were something present to her mind from which she shrank inexpressibly. She tried several times to make advances toward the unhappy girl, but was in every instance repelled, coldly and decidedly.
"What IS preying upon Miss Mayhew's mind?" she queried with increasing frequency. Her experience as a teacher of young girls made her quick to detect the presence of those dangerous thoughts which beset the entrance on mature womanhood. With a frown that formed a marked contrast with her customary gentle and genial expression, she surmised: "Can Sibley, or any one else, be seeking to tempt and lead her astray?"
As the most plausible explanation she finally concluded that Ida was brooding over her father's unhappy tendencies. Mrs. Burleigh had told Miss Burton the whole story; and she had listened, not as to a bit of scandal, but as to another instance of that kind of trouble which ever evoked from her more of sympathy than censure.
Ida might treat her fancied rival, therefore, as coldly as she chose, but the fact of suffering and the shadow resting upon her from her father's course, would bind Jennie Burton to her as a watchful friend with a tie that only returning happiness could sunder.
Stanton and Van Berg were standing together on Saturday evening, when Mrs. Mayhew and her daughter came down to await the arrival of the stage. Ida did not see them at first, and Van Berg was again struck by the pallor and stony apathy of her face. She looked like one wearied by conflict of mind; but the quiet of her face was not that of peace or decision. It was simply the vacancy and languor of one worn out with contending emotions.
"I once said," thought Van Berg, "that she would be beautiful if she were dead, and her frivolous mind could no longer mar the repose of her features with the suggestion of petty thoughts and ignoble vices. By Jove, I never realized how true my words were. As her motionless figure and pallid expression appear in yonder door-way, she would make a good picture of the clay of Eve, before God breathed life into the perfect form. Oh! that I had such power! I would give years to light up that face there with the expressions of which it is capable."
Then Ida saw him, and she turned hastily away, but not before he caught a glimpse of the blood mounting swiftly to her face. She was beginning to puzzle him, and to suggest that possibly his estimate of her character had been superficial.
"Your cousin has not seemed well for the past few days," he remarked to Stanton.
"Oh! Ida is as full of moods as an April day, only they scarcely have a vernal simplicity," was the satirical answer. From some caprice or other she is affecting the pale and interesting style now. See! she has dressed herself this evening with severe simplicity; but the minx knows that thin white drapery is more becoming to her marble cheeks and neck than the richest colors. Besides, she remembers that it is a sultry evening, and so gets herself up as cool as a cucumber. By all the jolly gods! but she is statuesque, isn't she? Say what you please Van, the best of you artists couldn't imagine a much fairer semblance of a woman than you see yonder--but when you come to her mental and moral furniture--the Good Lord deliver us!" " 'Tis pity, 'tis pity," said Van Berg, in a low, regretful tone.
"An' pity 'tis, 'tis true," added Stanton, with a shrug.
"I can't think it is only affection that has made her appear ill the last two or three days," resumed Van Berg, musingly. "Her face suggests trouble and suffering of some kind."
"Touch of dyspepsia, like enough. However, Sibley will be here in a few minutes and he will cheer her up, never fear. I'm disgusted with her that she takes so to that fellow; for although no saint myself, I can't stomach him."
At the mention of Sibley's name, Van Berg frowned, turned on his heel and walked away.
"If Stanton is right about that fellow's power over her," he muttered, "I'll tear up the sketch I made this afternoon and never give her another thought."
The moment Ida became conscious of Van Berg's observant eyes her languor passed away. She had scarcely glanced at him while at dinner, but she had felt, by some subtle power of perception, that he was furtively watching her, and she also felt there was more of curiosity than kindliness in his regard. With an instinct as strong as that of self-preservation, she sought to hide her secret, and when a few moments later the stage was driven to the door, she was prepared to welcome the man she now detested, in order to conceal her heart from the man she loved.
Van Berg, leaning against a pillar near, saw Mr. Mayhew with his sallow, listless face and lifeless tread mount the steps to greet his wife and daughter; but, before he could take Ida's hand, Sibley, in snowy linen and a coat from which the stains and dust of earth seemed ever kept miraculously, brushed past him, and seizing the daughter's hand, exclaimed: "You see I've kept my promise, and am here." And then he whispered in her ear: "By Jupiter, Miss Ida, you look like a houri just from Paradise to-night."
Mr. Mayhew paused a moment and looked from the forward youth to his daughter's scarlet face, frowned heavily, and then gave her and her mother a very cool greeting before passing on to his room.
Ida could not forbear stealing a look at Van Berg, and her face grew pale again as she encountered his scornful glance. Pride was one of her predominant traits, and his manner touched it to the quick. She resolved to return him scorn for scorn, and to show him that in spite of her heart that had turned against her and become his ally, she could still be her old gay self. Therefore she gave Sibley back his badinage in kind; and in repartee that was bright and sharp as well as reckless, she answered the compliments of other gay young fellows who also gathered around her.
"Did I not tell you Sibley would revive her?" Stanton remarked as they went down to supper. "Such humdrum fellows as you and I are not to the taste of one who has been brought up on a diet of cayenne pepper and chocolate cream."
"But what kind of blood does such a diet make?"
"Judge for yourself. It looks well as it comes and goes in a pretty face."
"Look here, Stanton," said Van Berg, pausing at the dining room door; "there is that Sibley at our table."
"Oh, certainly! He claims to be Ida's friend, and you see that Mrs. Mayhew is very gracious to him. He's rich, and will inherit his father's business also; and my sagacious aunt inquires no further."
"Stanton, we both fee that he is not fit to sit at the same table with Miss Burton."
"You are right, Van," Stanton replied with a deep flush; "but I can do nothing without drawing attention to my relatives. After all, it is only a casual and transient association in a public place, over which we have no control. While she seems too near to him there you know that heaven is as near to hell as they are to each other. For the sake of poor Mr. Mayhew, if for no one else, let the matter pass."
"Very well, Stanton; but it must not happen so another week;" and then the young men who had withdrawn into the hall-way entered, but the expression of coldness and displeasure did not wholly pass from their faces.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
|
23
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Jennie Burton's "Remedies."
|
Fortunately Mr. Mayhew had been placed at the supper-table next to Miss Burton, and Van Berg speedily became absorbed in watching the impression made on each other by these two characters that were so utterly diverse. It needed but a glance to see that Mr. Mayhew was a heavy-hearted, broken-spirited man. His shrunken inanimate features, and slight, bent form, looked all the more dim and shadowy in contrast with his stout, florid wife, who even in public scarcely more than tolerated his presence. This evening she devoted herself to Sibley, who sat between her and her daughter.
Mr. Mayhew seemed unusually depressed even for him, and began to make a supper only in form. Jennie Burton stole a few shy glances at his sallow face, and seemed to find an attraction in it she could not resist. Two handsome lovers sat near her, but she evidently forgot them wholly save when they addressed her; and she wooed the elderly man at her side with consummate tact and grace.
At first he was unconscious of her presence. She was but another human atom, and of no more interest to him than the chair on which she sat. Mechanically he declined one or two things she passed to him, and in an absent manner replied to the few casual remarks by which she sought to engage him in conversation. At last she said, in a voice that was indescribably winning and sympathetic: "Mr. Mayhew, your sultry week in town has wearied you. Our country air will do you good."
There was so much more in her tones than in her words that he turned to look at her, and then, for the first time, became aware that he was not sitting at the side of an ordinary, well-bred lady.
"Country air is good as far as it goes," he said slowly, scanning her face as he spoke; "but it does not make much difference with me."
"There are other remedies," she resumed in her low gentle tone, "which, like the air, are not exactly tangible, and yet are more potent."
"Indeed," he said, the dawning interest deepening in his face; "what are they?"
"I do not mean to tell you," she replied with a little piquant nod and smile. "I've learned better than those people who have a dozen infallible medicines at their tongues' end for every trouble under heaven. I never name my remedies; for if I did, people would turn away in contempt for such commonplace simples."
"I can guess one of them already," he said with a pleased light coming into his eyes.
"So quickly, Mr. Mayhew? I doubt it."
"Kindness," he said, in a low tone.
"Well," she replied with a slight flush, "I can stoutly assert that this remedy did me good when all the long-named drugs in the 'Materia Medica' could not have helped me."
He looked at her searchingly a moment, and then said in the same low tone: "And so you are trying to apply your remedy to me? It certainly is very good of you. Most people when they are cured, throw away the medicine, forgetting how many others are sick."
"Perhaps we can never exactly say we are cured in this life; but I think we can all get better."
"It depends a great deal upon the disease," he replied, with a shrug.
"No, Mr. Mayhew," she said; and, although her tone was low, it was almost passionate in its earnestness. "God forbid that there should be a disease without a remedy."
He again looked at her with a peculiar expression, and then slowly turned toward his wife and daughter. Mrs. Mayhew was too preoccupied to heed him, and Sibley was just saying: "Miss Ida, I claim you for the first waltz this evening, and only wish that it would last indefinitely."
"Pardon me for saying it to one so young and hopeful as yourself, Miss Burton," Mr. Mayhew resumed gloomily, "but that which both God and good-sense forbid seems the thing most sure to take place in this world."
Although so dissimilar, deep and sad experiences made them kin, and Miss Burton found she must make an effort not to let their thoughts color their words too darkly for the time and place.
"I shall not let you destroy my faith in my old-fashioned simples," she said in tones that were lighter than her meaning. "You must not be sure that because you are so much my senior, all my complaints have been merely children's troubles. Appearances are often misleading, you know."
"Not in your case, I think, Miss Burton. I have lost faith in almost everything, and most of all in myself; but this unexpected little talk has touched me deeper than you can know, and I cannot help having faith in you."
"I will believe it," she said with a smile, "if you will give me a little of your society before you go back to the city."
He looked at her with sudden suspicion. "Do you mean what you say?"
"I do."
"Why do you wish my society?"
She hesitated.
His face darkened still more, for he remembered what he was, and how little this young and lovely girl had in common with him.
"Answer me truly," he insisted; "why should you wish my society? I've not a particle of vanity. I know what I am, and you undoubtedly know also. If you wish to advise me and preach at me, let me tell you plainly but courteously that your efforts, however, well intentioned, would be in vain, and not altogether welcome. I can conceive of no other reason why you should wish for my society."
Her face became very pale, but she looked him full in his eyes as she replied: "I do not wish to preach or advise at all. Can you not understand that one may ease one's own pain by trying to relieve the suffering of another? Now you see how selfish I am."
His face softened instantly, and he said: "Miss Burton, that is too divine a philosophy for me to grasp at once. As the world goes now, I think you are founding a school of your own. You will find me an eager listener, if not an apt scholar, whenever you will honor me with your company." And smiling his thanks he rose and left the table.
This conversation had been carried on in tones too low and quiet to be heard by others in the crowded and noisy dining-room. Van Berg, who sat opposite, had taken pains not to follow it and to appear oblivious, and yet he could not refrain from observing its general drift and scope in Mr. Mayhew's manner; and his eyes glowed with admiration for her winning tact and kindness. The glance he bent upon her was perhaps more ardent and approving than he was aware, for she, looking up from the abstraction which the recent conversation had occasioned, seemed strangely affected by it, for she trembled and her face blanched with a sudden pallor, while her eyes were riveted to his face.
"You are not well, Miss Burton," said Stanton hastily, but in a low tone. "Let me get you some wine."
She started perceptibly, and then a sudden crimson suffused her face as she became conscious that other eyes were upon her.
In almost a second she recovered herself fully, and replied, with a smile: "No, I think you, Mr. Stanton. A cup of tea is a panacea for all a woman's troubles, and you see I have it here. I did not feel well for a moment, but am better now."
The eyes of Stanton and Ida met. Both had seen this little episode, and each drew from it conclusions that were anything but inspiriting. But Van Berg was thoroughly puzzled. While as he felt hen he would have gladly drawn encouragement from it, and perhaps did so to some extent, he still felt there was something peculiar in her manner, of which he seemed the occasion, but was not the adequate cause.
Miss Burton soon after sought her room, and for a few moments paced it in deep disquiet, and her whole form seemed to become tense and rigid. In low tones she communed with herself: "Is my will so weak? Shall I continue betraying myself at any unexpected moment? Shall I show to strangers something that I would hide from all eyes save those of God? Let me realize it at once, and so maintain self-control henceforth. This is an illusion--a mere trick of my overwrought mind; and yet it seemed so like---" A passion of grief interrupted further words. Such bitter, uncontrollable sorrow in one so young was terrible. She writhed and struggled with this anguish for a time as helplessly as if she were in the grasp of a giant.
At last she grew calm. There were no tears in her eyes. She was beyond such simple and natural expression of sorrow. She had ready tears for the troubles of others, but now her eyes were dry and feverish.
"O God," she gasped, "teach me patience! Keep me submissive. Let me still say, 'Thy will be done.' And yet the time is drawing near when--oh, hush! hush! Let me not think of it--- "There, there, be still," she said more quietly with her hand upon her side. "Hundreds of other hearts besides your own are aching. Forget yourself in relieving them."
She bathed her face, put some brighter flowers in her hair, and went down among the other guests, seemingly the very embodiment of sunshine. All eyes save those of Ida Mayhew welcomed her; the children gathered round her; Stanton and Van Berg were both eager for her society in the dance, or better still, for a promenade; but she saw Mr. Mayhew looking wistfully at her, and she went straight to him.
With unerring tact she found out the subjects that were interesting to him, and reviving his faith in his own intelligence, led his mind through sunny, breezy ranges of thought that made the time he spent with her like an escape from the narrow walls and stifling air and gloom of a prison.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
|
24
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A Hateful, Wretched Life.
|
The advent of half a score of young men from the city naturally made dancing the order of the occasion on Saturday evening. Mr. Burleigh, however, gave Sibley a hint that the features he had introduced the previous week must be omitted tonight, since nothing that would in the slightest degree lower the character of his house would be tolerated. The excitement therefore that Sibley had formerly received from Cognac, he now sought to obtain by pursuing with greater ardor his flirtation with Ida. Indeed, to such a nature as his, her beauty was quite as intoxicating as the "spirit of wine." There was a brilliancy in her appearance to night and a piquancy in her words that struck him as very unusual.
Nor was he alone in his admiration. The young men from the city thronged about her, and her hand was soon engaged for every dance until late in the evening; but on this occasion she had no opportunity, as before, of declining invitations from Van Berg. The solicitations of others went for little, the admiring eyes that she saw following her on every side could not compensate for the lack of all attention from him. He danced several times, but it was with those who seemed to be neglected by others. In his quiet, dignified bearing, in his unselfish affability toward those who otherwise would have had a dull evening, he appeared to her in most favorable contrast to the giddy young fellows who fluttered around her, and whose supreme thoughts were always of themselves, and of her only as she could minister to their pleasure.
"Miss Burton has so plainly won him," she thought, "that he has adopted her tactics of looking after those whom every one neglects. I could soon show him the one he has the greatest power of cheering, and I know that she has the deepest need of cheer of any one in this crowded house, but I'd rather die than give one hint of our first meeting he has humiliated me, and I in return love him! But he shall never know it. My looks can be as cold as his."
And so they were toward him, but for all others she had had the gayest smiles and repartee. Vividly conscious of the secret she would so jealously guard, she sought by every means in her power to mask it from him and all others. She would even permit her name for a time to be associated with a man she detested and despised, since thus the truth could be more effectively concealed.
Sibley's attentions were certainly ardent enough to attract attention, and occasionally there was a boldness in his compliments, which she, even in her reckless mood, sharply resented. His eyes seemed to grow more wolfish every time she encountered them, and more than once the thought crossed her mind: "What a heaven it would be to look up into the eyes of a man I could trust, and who honored me."
What torture it was to see such a man present, and yet to feel that he justly scorned her.
Excitement and her strong will kept her up for a long time, but as the evening advanced despondency and weariness began to gain the mastery. Sibley came to her and said: "Miss Ida, I have your hand for the next waltz, but I see you are worn and tired. Let us go out on the cool piazza instead of dancing."
Listlessly she took his arm and passed through one of the open windows near. Van Berg had disappeared some time before, and there was no longer any motive to keep up the illusion of gayety.
Hardly had she stepped on the piazza before she heard her father say: "Miss Burton, if it will give you any pleasure to know that you have made this evening memorably bright to one whose life is peculiarly clouded, you can certainly enjoy that assurance in the fullest measure. You have kept your word and have not preached at me at all; and yet I feel I ought to be a better man for this interview."
"O, Miss Ida," exclaimed Sibley, "this is the opportunity that I have been wishing for all the evening. I cannot tell you how gladly I exchange the glare of that room for the light of your eyes only. Would that life were but one long summer evening, and your eyes the only starts in my sky."
"Absurd," she carelessly replied; and then they passed out of hearing.
"Good-night, Miss Burton," said Mr. Mayhew abruptly; and he hastily descended the steps and was soon lost from view in the darkness.
His daughter and the man who seemed to be the companion of her choice, brought back at once the old conditions of his life. The prison walls closed around him again, the air seemed all the more foul and stifling in contrast with the pure atmosphere which he had been breathing, and the gloom of the night was light in comparison with his thoughts as he muttered: "If Ida were only like this good angel she might save even me; but after my long absence she leaves me wholly to myself for the sake of a man who ought to be an offence to her. If I tell her and her mother what his reputation in New York is they will not listen to me. Although he is the known slave of every vice, my daughter smiles upon him. Froth and mud we are now and ever will be. After a glimpse into the life of that pure, good woman who has tried to be God's messenger to me to-night, I can find no words to express my loathing of the slough in which I and mine have mired. My only child, by the force of natural selection, bids fair to add to our number a drunkard and a libertine; and I am powerless to prevent it. The mother that should guard and guide her child, is blind to everything save that he is rich. Froth and mud! Froth and mud!"
Unable to endure his thoughts, he went to his room and found oblivion in the stupor of intoxication.
On reaching the end of the long piazza, Sibley led Ida to a veranda little frequented at that hour, saying, as he did so: "Let us get away from prying eyes. I always feel when with you that three is an enormous crowd."
A gentleman who had been smoking rose hastily at this broad hint, which he could not help overhearing, and walked haughtily away.
Ida, with a regret deeper than she could have thought possible, saw that it was Van Berg. Her first impulse was to compel her companion to go back; but that would look like following him. Weary, disheartened by the fate that seemed ever against her, she sank into the chair he had just vacated.
For a time she did not heed or scarcely hear Sibley's characteristic flatteries, but at last he said plainly: "Miss Ida, do you know that you are the one woman of all the world to me?"
"Oh, hush!" she replied, rising. "I know you say that to every pretty woman who will listen to you, as I shall no longer to-night. Come."
Baffled and puzzled also by the moody girl, who of late seemed so different from her former self, he had no resource but to accompany her back to the main entrance. Here, where the eyes of others were upon her, she said abruptly, but with a charming smile: "Good-night, Mr. Sibley," and went directly to her room.
The young man looked rather nonplussed and muttered an oath as he walked away to console himself after the fashion of his kind.
"Is there no escape from this wretched life?" Ida sighed as she wearily threw herself into a chair on reaching her room. "A man whose addresses are an insult is my lover. The only man I can ever love associates me in his mind with this low fellow. My father obtains what little comfort he gets from the charity of a stranger. How can I face this prospect day after day. Oh, that I had never come here!"
"Ida," said her mother entering hastily, "what has happened to put your father out so? I had a headache this evening, and came up early. A little while ago he stalked in with his absurd tragic air. 'What is the matter,' I asked. 'Look to your daughter,' he said. 'What do you mean?' I asked, quite frightened. 'If you were a true mother,' he replied, 'you would no more leave her with that roue Sibley, than with so much pitch. Yet he is courting her openly; and what is worse, she receives his addresses, and permits herself to be identified with him.' 'Oh, pshaw,' I answered carelessly; 'Sibley is about on a par with half the young men in society, and Ida might do a great deal worse. No fear of her; for there isn't a girl living who knows how to take care of herself better than she.' 'Bah!' he said, 'if she knew how to take care of herself, she would permit a snake to touch her sooner than that man. Ida might do worse, might she? God knows how: I don't. A pretty family we shall be when he is added to our charming group. The mud will predominate then;' and with that he opened a bottle of brandy and drank himself stupid."
As Mrs. Mayhew rattled this conversation off in a loud whisper, Ida seemed turning into stone, but at its close she said icily: "In speaking of such a union as possible, my parents have shown their opinion of me. Good-night. I wish to be alone."
"But did anything happen between you to set your father off so?" persisted Mrs. Mayhew.
"Nothing unusual. I suppose father heard one of Mr. Sibley's compliments; and that was enough to disgust any sensible man. Good-night."
"My gracious! You might as well turn me out of your room."
"Mother, I wish to be alone," said Ida, passionately.
"A pretty life I lead of it between you and your father," sobbed Mrs. Mayhew, retreating to her own apartment.
"A hateful, wretched life we all three shall lead to the end of time, for aught that I can see," Ida groaned as she restlessly paced her room; "but I have no better resource than to follow father's example."
She took an opiate, and so escaped from thought for a time in the deep lethargy it brought.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
|
25
|
Half-truths.
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A church bell was ringing in a neighboring village the following morning when Ida awoke. The sunlight streamed in at the open window through the half-closed blinds, flecking the floor with bars of light. Birds were singing in the trees without, and a southern breeze rustled through the foliage as a sweet low accompaniment. Surely it was a bright pleasant world on which her heavy eyes were opening.
Poor child! she was fast learning now that the darkest clouds that shadow our paths are not the vapors that rise from the earth, but the thoughts and memories of an unhappy and a sinful heart.
The sunlight mocked her; and her spirit was so out of tune that the sweet sounds of nature made jarring discord.
But the church bell caught her attention. How natural and almost universal is the instinct which leads us when in trouble to seek the support of some Higher power. No matter how wayward the human child may have been, how hardened by years of wrong, or arrogantly entrenched in some phase of rational philosophy, when the darkness of danger or sorrow blots out the light of earthly hopes, or hides the path which was trodden so confidently, then, with the impulse of frightened children whom night has suddenly overtaken, there is a longing for the Father's hand and the Father's reassuring voice. If there is no God to love and help us, human nature is a lie.
Thus far Ida Mayhew had no more thought of turning Heavenward for help than to the philosophy of Plato. Indeed, religion as a system of truth, and Greek philosophy were almost equally unknown to her. But that church-bell reminded her of the source of hope and help to which burdened hearts have been turning in all the ages, and with the vague thought that she might find some light and cheer that was not in the sunshine, she hastily dressed and went down in time to catch one of the last carriages. When she reached the church, she found her mother had preceded her, and that her cousin Ik Stanton was also there; but she correctly surmised that the only devotion to which he was inclined had been inspired by Miss Burton, who sat not far away. She was soon satisfied that Van Berg was not present.
As a general thing, when at church, Ida had given more consideration to the people and the toilets about her than to either the service or the sermon; but to-day she wistfully turned her thoughts to both, in the hope that they might do her good, although she had as vague an idea as to the mode or process as if both were an Indian incantation.
But she was thoroughly disappointed. Her thoughts wandered continually from the services. With almost the vividness of bodily presence, three faces were looking upon her--her father's with an infinite reproach; Sibley's, with smiling lips and wolfish eyes; and Van Berg's, first coolly questioning and exploring in its expression, and then coldly averted and scornful in consequence of what he had discovered. Not houses, but minds are haunted.
The clergyman, however, was an able, forcible speaker, and held her attention from the first. His sermon was topical rather than textual in its character; that is, he enlarged on what he termed "the irreconcilable enmity between God and the world," taking as his texts the following selections: "The carnal mind is enmity against God."
And again, "Whosoever, therefore, will be a friend of the world, is the enemy of God."
The sermon was chiefly an argument; and the point of it was that there could be no compromise between these contending powers--God on one side, the world on the other--and he insisted that his hearers must be, and were with one party or the other. The trouble was, that in concentrating his thoughts on the single point he meant to make, he took too much for granted--namely, that all his hearers understood sufficiently the character of God, and the sense in which the Bible uses the term "world," not to misapprehend the nature of his "enmity." To seasoned church-goers the sermon was both true and very satisfactory.
But when the minister reached the conclusion of his argument with the words, "So then, they that are in the flesh cannot please God," poor Ida drew a long dreary sigh, and wished she had remained at home. She was certainly "in the flesh," if any one were; and in addition to the fact that she neither pleased herself nor any one else that she respected and loved, she was now given the assurance, apparently fortified by Holy Writ, that she could not "please God." The simple and divine diplomacy by which this "enmity" is removed was unknown to her.
She turned to note how Miss Burton received a message that was so unwelcome to herself, and saw that she was not listening. There was a dreamy far-away look in her eyes that clearly was not inspired by the thought of "enmity."
"She is probably thinking of the artist and the ideal future that he can give her. How foolish it is in poor Ik there to try to rival HIM! It was an unlucky day for us both, cousin of mine, when we came to this place!"
More disheartened and despondent than ever, she rode homeward with her mother, answering questions only in monosyllables. All that religion had said to her that morning was: "Give up the world--all with which you have hitherto been familiar, and have enjoyed." God was an infinite, all-powerful, remote abstraction, and yet for His sake she must resign everything which would enable her to forget, or at least disguise the pain and jealousy which were at times almost unendurable; and she knew of no substitute with which to replace "the world" she was asked to forego.
This religion of mere negation, expulsion, and restraint is too often presented to the mind. Dykes and levees are very useful, and in some places essential; but if low malarial shores could be lifted up into breezy hills and table-lands, this would be better. This is not only possible, but it is the true method in respect to the human soul; and one should seek to grow better not by sedulous effort to keep out an evil world, but rather to fill up his heart with a good pure world such as God made and blessed.
The sermon Ida heard that morning, therefore, only added to the burden that was already too heavy to be carried much longer.
|
{
"id": "2501"
}
|
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