A cynical writer somewhere observes, that no man is too rich not to
be glad to get a thousand pounds; and we may therefore assume the joy
of an individual who possesses about as many pence, in prospect of
obtaining possession of that sum. It was with this kind of joy—not,
however, quite free from incredulity—that Edgar, when he met Mr Slimm
by appointment at his hotel next day, listened to that gentleman’s
renewed asseverations that there were thousands of pounds somewhere
in that bit of paper which had been such a mystery to Edgar and his
friends. Mr Slimm was this morning more enthusiastic than ever on
the subject; but Edgar only smiled in reply, and eyed his cigar with
the air of a connoisseur in the weed. The notion of his possessing
such a sum was decidedly puzzling. His coolness attracted Mr Slimm’s
admiration.
‘I’ve seen a man hanged in the middle of a comic song,’ that gentleman
observed, with an air of studious reflection; ‘and I guess he was
somewhat frigid. I once saw a man meet a long-lost brother whom he had
given up for dead, and ask him for a borrowed sovereign, by way of
salutation, and I calculate that was cool; but for pure solid stoical
calmness, you are right there and blooming.’
‘Had I expressed any perturbation, it would have been on account of
my doubting your sanity,’ Edgar replied. ‘Does it not strike you as
a little strange that a casual acquaintance should discover a puzzle
worth ten thousand pounds to me?’
‘The onexpected always happens; and blessed things happen swiftly, as
great and good things always do,’ said Slimm sententiously. ‘I haven’t
quite got the touch of them quotations, but the essence is about
consolidated, I calculate.’
‘What a fund of philosophy you have!’
‘You may say that,’ said the American with some little pride. ‘You
see, some years ago I was down to New Orleans, and I had considerable
fever—fact, I wasn’t out of the house for months. Reading ain’t much in
my line; but I had to put up with it then. There was a good library in
the house, and at first I used to pick out the plums; but that wouldn’t
do, so I took ’em in alphabetical order. It was a large assortment of
experience to me. First, I’d get Blair on the _Grave_, and read that
till I was oncertain whether I was an or’nary man or a desperate bad
one. Then I would hitch on to _British Battles_, and get the taste out
of my mouth. I reckon I stored up enough knowledge to ruin an or’nary
digestion. I read a cookery-book once, followed by a chemistry work. I
got mixed there.—But to return to our muttons, as the Mo’sieus say. I
ain’t joking about that letter, and that’s a fact.’
‘But what can you know about it?’ Edgar queried, becoming interested,
in spite of himself and his better judgment.
‘Well, you listen, and I’ll tell you.’
Edgar composed himself to listen, excited more than he cared to show
by the impressive air of his companion, and the absence of that
quaint smile which usually distinguished him; nor could the younger
man fail to notice not only the change of manner but the change of
voice. Mr Slimm was no longer a rough miner; and his accent, if not of
refinement, was that of cultivation. Carefully choosing another cigar,
and lighting it with deliberate slowness, each moment served to raise
his companion’s impatience, a consummation which the astute American
doubtless desired.
‘When I first knew your uncle,’ he said at length, ‘we were both much
younger men, and, as I have before told you, I saved his life. That was
in the mines. Well, after a time I lost sight of him, as is generally
the case with such wanderers. After he left the mines, I did not stay
long; for a kind of home-sickness came over me, and I concluded to
get away. I determined to get back and settle down; and for the first
time in my life, the notion of marriage came into my head. I had not
returned long when I met my fate. Mr Seaton, I will not weary you with
a description of my wife. If ever there was an angel upon earth—— But
no matter; still, it is always a mystery to my mind what she could see
in a rough uncouth fellow like me. Well, in course of time we married.
I had some money then; but we decided before the year was out that it
would be best to get some business for occupation for me. So, after
little Amy was born, we moved West.
‘For five years we lived there in our little paradise, and two more
children came to brighten our Western home. I was rapidly growing a
rich man, for the country was good, and the fear of Indians kept more
timorous people away. As for us, we were the best of friends; and the
old chief used to come to my framehouse and nurse little Amy for hours.
I shall never forget that sight. The dear little one, with her blue
eyes and fair curls, sitting on that stern old man’s knee, playing with
his beads, and not the least afraid; while the old fellow used to grunt
and laugh and get as near a smile as it is possible for an Indian to
do. But this was not to last. The old chief died, and a half-breed was
appointed in his place. I never liked that man. There was something so
truculent and vicious in his face, that it was impossible to like the
ruffian. Well, one day he insulted my wife; she screamed, and I ran to
her assistance. I took in the situation at a glance, and gave him there
and then about the soundest thrashing a man ever had in his life. He
went away threatening dire vengeance and looking the deadliest hate;
but next morning he came and apologised in such humble terms—for the
scoundrel spoke English as well as his own tongue—that I was fain to
forget it. Another peaceful year passed away, and then I was summoned
to New York on business. Without a single care or anxiety, I left my
precious ones behind. I had done it before, and they were not the least
afraid.
‘One night, when I had completed my business, and had prepared
everything for my start in the morning, I was strolling aimlessly along
Broadway, when I was hailed by a shout, accompanied by a hearty slap on
the back. I turned round, and there I saw Charlie Morton. Mind, I am
talking of over twenty years ago, and I think of him as the dashing,
good-natured, weak Charlie Morton I used to know.—Well, to resume. Over
a quiet smoke, he arranged to accompany me.
‘It was a glorious morning when we set out, and our hearts were light
and gladsome, and our spirits as bright as the weather. Was not I
returning to my darlings! We rode on mile after mile and day after
day, till we were within twelve hours of my house. Then we found, by
unmistakable signs, that the Indians were on the war-path. This was
uncomfortable news for us; but still I never had an uneasy thought for
the people at home.
‘When the following morning dawned, I rose with a strange presentiment
of coming evil; but I shook it off, thinking it was the excitement of
returning, for I had never been away from my wife so long before.
It was just about noon when I thought I saw a solitary figure in the
distance. It was a strange thing to meet a stray Indian there, and
judge of my surprise when I saw him making towards us! It turned out
to be a deaf and dumb Sioux I employed about the clearing, and one
of the same tribe we were so friendly with. By his excited state and
jaded appearance, he had travelled far and hurriedly. When we came up
to him, a horrible fear came over me, for then I saw he was in his
war-paint. Hurriedly, I made signs to him to know if all was well at
home. He shook his head sadly; and with that composure which always
characterises his race, proceeded to search for something in his
deerskin vest. You can imagine the eagerness with which I watched him;
and when he produced a note, with what eagerness did I snatch it out of
his hand! Hastily, I read it, and sank back in my saddle with a sense
of almost painful relief. Apparently, all was well. The missive was
half a sheet of note-paper, or, more properly, half of half a sheet of
paper, containing some twelve lines, written right across the paper,
with no signature or heading, saying how anxious she was for my return.
I handed it to Morton with a feeling of delight and thankfulness; but,
to my surprise, as he read it, he became graver and graver. At last he
burst forth: “Slimm, have you any secret cipher between yourselves?”
“No,” I replied, somewhat startled at the question. “Why?”
“Because there is something more here than meets the eye. You will not
mind my saying so; but the body of this note is almost cold, not to say
frivolous, while words, burning words, catch my eye here and there. Can
you explain it?”
“Go on!”
‘I hardly knew my own voice, it sounded so hard and strained.
“Yes,” he mused, twisting the paper in his supple fingers, “there is
more here than meets the eye. This old messenger is a Sioux; that tribe
is on the war-path, and the chief thoroughly understands English. An
ordinary appeal for help would be worse than useless, if it fell into
his hands. I perceive this paper is creased, and creased with method,
and the most touching words are always confined within certain creases.
Now, I will fold this longways, and turn the paper so; and then fold it
thus, and thus. We are coming to the enigma. Now thus.—No; this way,
and—— Merciful powers!”
‘He almost reeled from his saddle, and I leant over him with straining
eyes and read: “For God’s sake, hasten. On the war-path. White Cloud
[the chief] has declared.... Hasten to us.” I stopped to see no more.
Mechanically thrusting the paper into his saddle-bag, Morton urged me
forward; and for some hours we rode like madmen, spurring our horses
till the poor creatures almost dropped. At last, in the distance I saw
what was my home—a smoking mass of ruins. In the garden lay my three
children—dead; and not a quarter of a mile away my wife—also dead!’
The American here stopped, and threw himself on his face upon the couch
where he had been reclining, his huge frame shaking with the violence
of his emotion. Edgar watched him with an infinite pity in his eyes for
some moments, not daring to intrude upon his grief. Presently, Slimm
calmed himself, and raising his face, said: ‘Wall, my friend, I guess
them statistics are sorter calculated to blight what the poet calls
“love’s young dream.”—Pass the brandy,’ he continued, with an air of
ghastly cheerfulness.
‘Why did you tell me this?’ Edgar said, pained and shocked at the
recital and its horrible climax.
‘Well, you see I wanted to convince you of the truth of my words. I
shall never allude to my story again, and I hope you never will either;
though I dream of it at times.—Your wife’s uncle kept that paper,
and I have not the slightest doubt that the same plan has been taken
as regards his wealth. I can’t explain it to you at this moment; but
from the description you have given of his last letter, I have not the
smallest hesitation in saying that it is formed on the same lines as
the fatal note I have told you of. Charlie Morton was a good fellow,
but he had not the slightest imagination or originality.’
‘And you really think that paper contains a secret of importance?’
‘Never doubted it for a moment. Look at the whole circumstances. Fancy
your meeting me; fancy my knowing your uncle; fancy—— Bah! It’s clear as
mud.’
‘The coincidences are certainly wonderful.’
‘Well, they are a few.—And now,’ said Mr Slimm, dropping into his most
pronounced Yankee style, ‘let this Adonis truss his points, freeze onto
a clean biled rag, and don his plug-hat, and we’ll go and interview
that inter_es_tin’ epistle—yes, sir.’