stranger; and it was rumored that you had been attacked by
thieves, who, however, failed to get possession of your
treasure. A great chest of gold and silver, labelled, ‘R.
Lawrence,’ to be retained till your friends or relatives could
be found, was brought and deposited in our magazine. It was a
most romantic story, a man travelling through the country with
a vast sum of money in a strong-box!
“The demon entered into me, and I resolved to make it still
more mysterious. In a word, I resolved to appropriate your
fortune to my own use; and in order to do so the more easily
and safely, I set about destroying every clue to your identity.
All papers found on your person, which might lead to discovery,
I carefully burned. It was I who wrote an account of the affair
to the journals, and I purposely distorted your name beyond
recognition. This, of course, was considered a mere printer’s
blunder, and the ‘mistake’ was never rectified.
“Here was a great step taken. I now flattered myself that none
of your friends could possibly trace you to our hospital, and
that all I had to do was to wait a short time, and then quietly
slip away with my ill-gotten riches.
“But many difficulties lay in my way. Your bodily health
and strength gradually improved, though you still remained
disordered in intellect. Then, in order the better to work
out my plans, I caused myself to be appointed your especial
attendant, or keeper; and I made you to understand that you had
a large sum of money, of which your enemies sought to rob you,
deposited, for safe-keeping, in our vaults. With all a madman’s
pertinacity, you took hold of this idea, and eagerly listened
to all that I said. You ordered the chest of treasure to be
brought into your own apartment, and you became suspicious of
every one but me.
“Here was another great point gained; and I now matured my plot
to get the money. I induced you to believe that you were soon
to be robbed, and that we must flee, as you were now strong
enough to quit the hospital at any time. I obtained leave
from the superintendent to go on a flying visit to a friend
of mine in another state, and I made all my arrangements to
depart openly. You were to have another keeper, of course; but
I plotted with you to return at night, and we would escape
together. I believed that the superintendent would never
suspect me,--at least, not till too late,--but would think that
you had eluded your new keeper’s vigilance in the night.
“That afternoon I set out ostensibly for Frankfort in
Kentucky; but I remained in the neighborhood, and at night I
returned to keep my appointment with you. As I was perfectly
familiar with all the entrances into the hospital, as well
as with all their regulations, and as I had given you your
instructions prior to my feigned departure, we easily made our
escape with the chest of treasure.
“And now I had you and all your money wholly in my power; I
could do what I pleased with you. But, to do myself justice,
I must add--no, I affirm positively--that I had no intention
of harming _you_. My design, matured beforehand, was to reach
a certain cave, establish you in it, make provision for your
subsistence and comfort, and then slip away with the hoards I
coveted.
“I do not know whether we were pursued or not; but, if so,
we eluded the pursuers, and in due time arrived at the
cave, which, as I had supposed, would serve my purpose
admirably. Yes, it was an excellent place to desert you so
treacherously--an excellent place.
“But we had barely arrived when you seemed to grow suspicious
of me. That must be stopped immediately, and I hastened to
make preparations for departure. I left you alone for a time,
went to the neighboring city, and engaged a trader to take
necessaries to a certain man who purposed living in ‘The
Cave,’ as it was called. I represented you as being deranged
and idiotic, but quite harmless, and charged him to deal
fairly with you, and keep his own counsel for a short time,
in which case all would be well. Then I returned to the cave,
and acquainted you with such of these facts as you might know.
That night I gathered up my own effects, as well as the stolen
money, and fled.
“I did not suppose that you would remain long in the cave. On
the contrary, I supposed that through the trader, or by some
other means, your identity would soon be established. But I
wished to place myself beyond the reach of pursuit before that
should happen. To that end I had compacted with the trader; to
that end I now fled precipitantly.
“My better nature returned for a moment, and I thought of
advertising your retreat, or even of calling upon your kinsmen.
But I was dissuaded from this by fears of incurring danger of
being apprehended by the superintendent of the hospital, whose
suspicions must, by this time, have been aroused. May I enquire
how long you remained in ‘The Cave,’ Mr. Lawrence?”
“Ten years.”
“Ten years! Then, indeed, I deserve the severest penalties that
the law can inflict! Ten years! I could not believe that from
other lips than yours! And that man knew you were there all
that time, and yet took no action to set you at liberty! But
no; I had told him that it was better so, and I suppose he took
it for granted that it was. Yes, he is guiltless in the matter.
“To resume my confession. I escaped with the money intact, as
I imagined; but when I came to open the receptacle, far away
from you and the cave, I found, to my consternation, that more
than half of it was missing, and its room taken up with stones
and earth! You had evidently grown so suspicious of me as to
abstract the money and conceal it in the cave during my absence
in the city. That was the only solution of the mystery that
occurred to me.
“How I raged! My punishment was beginning already. But I was
not softened; if I had dared, I should have returned to the
cave, and dug up every foot of ground within it. But I feared
that detectives were already on my track, and I hurried on, a
baulked and furious man.
“Greater misfortune was yet to overtake me. The box containing
the stolen treasure was torn asunder in a steamboat explosion
on the Mississippi, and the treasure was scattered and lost
beyond recovery in the muddy waters. Thus I lost what remained
to me of the treasure, and was left, penniless, friendless,
homeless; a fugitive, an outcast. Since that time, I have lived
I know not how; at one time stricken with fever in the tropics;
at another time languishing in prison for some petty crime;
sick, persecuted, longing for death. Minions of the law often
pursued me for minor irregularities; but the secret of my one
great crime never came to light. In my distress I joined the
army, and hoped to find relief in fighting the battles of my
country--my country, to which I was an odious reproach! I often
thought of returning to the cave, to discover what had become
of you, and to make such restitution as lay in my power; but
I never had the moral courage to do so. For the last year, I
have lived in this forest, in fellowship with this man, James
Horniss.
“I now surrender myself to outraged justice,--voluntarily, even
gladly,--for I can endure this way of life no longer. Forgive
me, if you can, Mr. Lawrence, for I have been tortured with
remorse in all these years.”
The villain’s story was ended; and Uncle Dick, Henry, the officer of the
law, and Jim Horniss, fetched a sigh of relief.
They felt extremely sorry for the sick man who had confessed so
eloquently and prolixly; but Mr. Lawrence was not so “tortured” with pity
as to plead for his release from punishment. In fact, he had nothing
to say against the law’s taking its course with him. However, he spoke
kindly.
“Mr. Monk,” he said, “I forgive you freely, for it was my own foolishness
that led me into your power. As for the money, it seemed fated that it
should melt away, and to-day not one cent of it remains. I am glad to see
you in a better frame of mind, sir; but I must leave you now to see how
it fares with my nephew. Come, Henry.”
“And _your_ story?” asked the confessor, with a curious and eager air.
“Excuse me, Mr. Monk,” said Uncle Dick; “but _my_ story would seem
prosaic, exceedingly prosaic, after _yours_. Good day.”
And he and Henry brutally strode out of the hut, leaving the ex-villain
“tortured” with curiosity.
Thus those two villains, Hiram Monk and Jim Horniss, pass out of this
tale.
If the reader thinks it worth while, he can turn back to the
twenty-second chapter, and compare the story which Mr. Lawrence told Mr.
Mortimer with the story narrated by Monk in this chapter. But seriously,
gentle reader, it is hardly worth while to compare the two. Time is
too precious to be fooled away in trying to comprehend the plots and
mysteries put forth in certain romances.
Mr. Lawrence and Henry hurried on in the direction taken by their
fellow-hunters an hour before.
“Mr. Lawrence,” said Henry, “I think I shall never go hunting again; I
consider it a wicked waste of gunpowder and shoe-leather.”
“Yes, for a company of heedless innocents, who know little or nothing
about fire-arms, and still less about the habits of animals, it is all a
piece of foolishness;” Mr. Lawrence replied. “For those who are prudent
enough to keep out of danger, who can understand and enjoy hunting and
trapping, and go about it systematically, it is all very well.”
Parents and guardians, accept this as a warning--not that your sons,
or wards, will clear up any appalling mystery by going hunting, but
that they will be far more likely to destroy themselves than to return
burdened with game.
_Chapter XLV._
THE LAST BLUNDER.--A LAST CONVERSATION.
To the heart-felt joy of the entire party, the surgeon declared that, by
taking great care, Steve would not lose his thumb and fingers, though
they might be stiff and mis-shaped for life.
As to Will’s knee, that was really a serious matter, and he would
probably suffer more or less with it to his dying day. This was appalling
to poor Will, who was so fond of physical exertion, but he bore it as
bravely as he could.
As for the cuts made by the flying pieces, the surgeon regarded them
with unutterable disdain. “A schoolboy,” he said, “would chuckle over
such hurts, and make the most of them while they lasted; but he wouldn’t
degrade himself by bellowing--unless his sister happened to dress them
with vitriol. But if a piece had entered an eye, now, there would have
been a tale to tell.”
And yet those hurts, slight as they were, had frightened Will so much
that he had injured himself for life.
After all their wounds had been dressed, the Nimrods wended their way
back to their humble cabin, still carrying Will, of course. As they
went along they naturally conversed. Seeing that it is their last
conversation, we deliberately inflict the whole of it on the hapless
reader. However, the hapless reader cannot be forced to read it all.
“Let us have a little light on the subject, as the bloody-minded king
said when he dropped a blazing lucifer on the head of a disorderly noble
of his,” Steve observed, as they left the surgeon’s.
“What are you driving at now, Steve?” Charles inquired.
“The confession made by Monk, if Mr. Lawrence has no objections.”
“Certainly;” said uncle Dick. “Henry, you can give it better than I can;
do so.”
“I wish, with all my heart, that I had taken it down,” said Henry, “for I
consider it the best thing I ever heard. That man is a born romancer; but
he wasted his talents keeping the records of his hospital, and afterwards
dodging the ‘minions’ and his own conscience. However, I’ll give it as
well as I can.”
The six, who had not heard it, listened attentively--even Will ceased to
moan, in his eagerness to hear every word.
“What an extraordinary story!” cried Steve. “I hope he didn’t devise it
for our amusement, as he devised his fiction about the small-pox!” he
added grimly.
“Oh, he was very solemn about it,” Henry asserted.
“Didn’t Mr. Lawrence get back any of his lost fortune?” Marmaduke asked.
“Surely he should have! Why, there is no moral at all in such a story as
that!”
“Even so, Marmaduke; Hiram Monk made a grave mistake when he suffered
the remainder of the fortune to be ingulfed in the ‘muddy waters’ of
the Mississippi. He should have swelled it to millions, and then buried
it near the first parallel of latitude, so many degrees northeast by
southwest. When he confessed to Mr. Lawrence to-day, he should have
given him a chart of the hiding-place, and in three months from this
date we should have set out on the war-trail. After having annihilated
several boat-loads of cannibals, and scuttled a pirate or so by way of
recreation, we should have found the treasure just ten minutes after
somebody else had lugged it off. But of course we should have come up
with this somebody, had a sharp struggle, and lugged off the treasure
in our turn. Then we should have returned, worth seven millions, a tame
native, and an ugly monkey, apiece. But, alas! I don’t take kindly to
that kind of romance any more, Marmaduke; I don’t pine to shed the blood
of villains, cannibals, and pirates.”
So spoke Charles. A few hours before, and Steve would have said it, or
something like it; but now Steve was looking very grave, and seemed
already to pounce on Charles for speaking so.
“Charley,” he growled, “you talk as if we read Dime Novels; and I’m sure
_I_ don’t, if you do.”
Charley winced, but could not hit upon a cutting retort.
“What Charley says is very good,” Marmaduke, unmoved, replied; “but
I don’t see why a whole fortune should be utterly lost, nor why Mr.
Lawrence should spend ten years in idleness without some compensation. I
hope you haven’t let Monk escape!” he cried, turning to Henry with such
genuine alarm that the whole party broke into a laugh.
Even Steve forgot himself and joined in the laugh, Marmaduke’s expression
of horror being so very ludicrous.
But he checked himself in a moment, and turned fiercely upon Charles:
“Charles Growler, I am astonished at you! We do not know Marmaduke’s
thoughts; we cannot judge him by ourselves. By nature, he is of a finer
organism than we, and he sees things in a different light. Some day,
when he is a poet among poets, he will hold us poor shallow creatures up
to ridicule in some majestic and spirit-stirring satire.”
Stephen was in earnest now, but the others were not accustomed to this
sort of thing from him, and thinking he meant to be only unusually
sarcastic, their laughter broke forth again; and while Charles laughed
uproariously, Henry said severely--so severely that Steve was almost
desperate: “You ought not to be so personal in your remarks; you ought to
have a _little_ respect for another’s feelings.”
Marmaduke remembered the promise Stephen had made on the log, and he now
looked at him reproachfully, thinking, with the rest, that Steve was
jeering at him.
Poor misunderstood boy! He knew not how to explain himself. This was the
first time he had had occasion to play the champion to Marmaduke, and he
was making an egregious fool of himself.
“Oh, you stupid fellows!” he roared. “I’m taking his part; and I mean to
take it after this, for he is the best fellow in the world.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” Henry said heartily. “As for Hiram Monk,
like all worn out villains, he is anxious that the LAW should care for
him; and the officer who secured Jim Horniss will secure him, also. As
for the confession, let us make the most of it as it is; for we can’t
make it either better or worse if we stay here till we shoot another
deer.”
“Well, boys, what about going home?” George asked.
“If _you_ are ready to go, I’m morally certain _I_ am,” said Steve.
Now that the subject was broached, the others were willing to acknowledge
that they had had enough of hunting, and would gladly go home. Charles,
however, thought it would be more decorous to offer some plausible
excuse for returning so quickly, and so he said, “Yes, boys, I must go
immediately; I have business that calls me home imperatively.”
“‘Business?’ _What_ ‘business?’” Steve asked in great perplexity.
He knew that Charley did not yet earn his own living at home; he knew,
also, that Charley was not learning to play on the violin; hence his
curiosity.
Charles was not prepared for such a question. He wanted, actually, craved
for, a glass of lemonade and one of his mother’s pumpkin pies; but this
seemed so flimsy an excuse that he hesitated to say so. He stammered; his
cheeks flushed; and at last he said, desperately, “Well, boys, I should
like to see how these cuts look in the mirror!”
Will, who shrewdly suspected what Charles was thinking of, said softly,
in French--which he understood better now than he did six years
before--with a faint attempt at a smile, “And in the eyes of that dear
little girl.”
“This is a great change in our plans,” Henry observed. “We intended to
stay three weeks; and now, at the end of three days, we are disgusted and
homesick.”
It was evident that Steve had something on his mind, and he now asked,
inquisitively: “Should _you_ like to go home, Henry?”
“Stephen, I am going home immediately--even if Will and I have to go
alone.”
Stephen was about to make a sententious observation; but he checked
himself abruptly, and his voice died away in one long, guttural, and
untranslatable interjection.
The day before, Stephen had come upon Henry alone in the depths of
the forest, leaning against a tree, and whistling as though his heart
would break--whistling passionately, yet tenderly--whistling as only a
lover can whistle a love-song. Yet it was not a love-song that Henry
was whistling, but a piece of instrumental music,--“La Fille de Madame
Angot,” by Charles Godfrey,--the first piece that, some three or four
years before, he had ever heard his blue-eyed sweetheart play; and the
last piece that, in memory of those old days, she had played for him
before he set out to go hunting.
Steve had stolen softly away, feeling that the person who could whistle
that waltz as Henry whistled it, did not wish to be disturbed. He now
refrained from making his observation, and said to himself: “Well, now,
I feel just about as happy as if I had said what I wanted to say! Only,
it was _so_ good!”
“Of course; that’s just what we should have thought of first,” said
Charles, beginning where Henry left off. “Will must be taken home this
very night--that is, a start for home must be made this very night. We
will go with him, of course; for we don’t want to stay and hunt alone.”
“Of course,” chorused the others, not wishing to hunt “alone.”
“Shall we buy some deer of regular hunters?” Jim meekly suggested. “Every
one will laugh at us if we go home without even a bird.”
Steve answered him: “No! If we can’t shoot a deer to take home, we had
better go empty-handed. And besides, we can buy deer nearer home than
this. As for _birds_, I didn’t know that amateur hunters take home birds
as an evidence of their skill--unless they happen to shoot an eagle.
As for the _laugh_, why, I tell you, we shall be worshipped as wounded
heroes!”
“Perhaps, as stupid blunderers!” George said, testily.
For the first time, George’s whole skin troubled him. He had not received
even a scratch; while all the others had some hurt, bruise, or mark, as a
memento of this hunt. Even Jim had not escaped, a vicious hornet having
inhumanly stung his nose.
They were now drawing near the place where they supposed their cabin
stood. But everything seemed strange--very strange.
“Are we lost again?” was the cry that burst from Will’s lips.
“Not _lost_, but _burnt out_!” Steve exclaimed. “Yes, boys, we are burnt
out of house and home! Now, in such a case, who is going to stay here and
hunt? Why, our bitterest enemies wouldn’t expect it of us! Hurrah! But,”
he added, gravely, “I’m afraid I’m reconciled to this disaster!”
“I think we all are,” Charles said, with a hideous grin.
“Now, I want to know how and why that shanty caught fire?” Will
ejaculated.
By this time the hunters had reached the spot lately occupied by their
cabin, and they now stood around the pile of still smoking ruins, with
probably “mingled emotions.”
“You cooked the few morsels we had for breakfast, Will; therefore you
ought to be responsible for this,” Henry observed.
“O--h!” groaned Will, “so I am! I didn’t put the fire entirely out this
morning, and I forgot a box of matches on the hearth--the homemade
hearth. They have met!”
“At first I grieved that our hovel was so small,” said Charles; “but now
I’m glad it was, or else the fire might have gone into the forest.”
“And burnt us alive!” Steve said, with a shudder. Then he left Marmaduke,
bent over the sufferer on the litter, and whispered in his ear: “Will,
as soon as ever we reach home, I intend to deliver you over to Mr. B. F.
Stolz!”
Having discharged this horrible threat, Steve returned to Marmaduke,
muttering: “A hunter has no business to build a shanty to live in; he
ought to pitch a tent, if it’s nothing but a parasol on a fish-pole.”
“What about this fellow’s bumps?” chuckles the reader.
It is very ungracious in the reader, after all our kindness towards him,
to throw out such insinuations, and we refuse to give him any other
explanation or satisfaction than this: Will’s bumps were not so prominent
as usual that day.
George now spoke. “Look here, boys; stop your foolishness and listen to
me. Didn’t we leave some valuables in that building? Where are they now?”
“Oh!” gasped the others, in one breath.
“Where are they now?” George roared again.
As no one seemed to know, he continued: “Well, I’m going to look for
the wreck of my fowling-piece.” And he set his feet together, and
deliberately leaped into the midst of the smouldering ruins.
He alighted on his feet, but they gave way beneath him; he staggered, and
then fell heavily, at full length.
The hunters were alarmed. Was he hurt?
“George!--George!” they shrieked. “Oh, George!”
“Well, what’s the matter?” he growled, as he struggled to his feet.
“Oh, George, come out,” Charles pleaded. “You must be hurt.”
“Am I?” George cried, wildly, hopefully. “Am I hurt, I say?”
“You will probably have a black eye,” Mr. Lawrence sorrowfully observed,
as the explorer emerged from the cinders.
“Am I much bruised?” he asked, turning to Stephen, certain that that
worthy would do him justice. “Am I, Steve? I don’t feel hurt or bruised a
bit.”
Quick-witted Steve saw what was going on in the questioner’s mind, and
replied, promptly: “Bruised? Why, you’re a frightful object--a vagabond
scare-crow! You must be wounded from your Scotch cap to the toe of your
left boot. You’ve secured _not only_ an exceedingly black eye, _but also_
a swelled cheek, a protuberant forehead, a stiff neck, a singed chin, a
sprained wrist, and, for all I know, a cracked skull! Why, George, you’re
a total wreck! The folks at home will think that we took you for some
wild beast, and that each of us fired at you and hit you.”
The Sage turned away with a happy smile on his lips.
“Surely,” he soliloquised, “Steve wouldn’t go so far if there isn’t
something wrong. But I hope there is no danger of a black eye!”
Then aloud, and cheerfully: “Yes, boys, let us go home.”
Do not imagine, gentle reader, that this hunter fell purposely. He was
not so foolish as that; but when he did have a fall, he wished to profit
by it. Still, he could see neither romance nor poetry in gaining nothing
but a black eye.
It is worse than useless to prolong their conversation, so here it closes.
The hunters felt somewhat crest-fallen when they found that the fire had
consumed almost everything left in the cabin. However, they packed their
remaining effects in some new boxes, and then set out for home in pretty
good spirits. They arrived safe, and were welcomed as wounded heroes, as
Steve had foretold.
For the consolation of those readers who have an antipathy to mutilated
heroes, it may be stated that Stephen’s hurts healed, leaving no other
bad effects than ugly scars.
For the consolation of conscientious readers, it may be stated that Hiram
Monk and Jim Horniss were tried by law, and _sentenced_ to the punishment
they deserved. If a learned lawyer should be beguiled into reading this
story, he might know what punishment those wretches _deserved_--he might
even guess at what punishment they _received_.
But the majesty of the law is possessed of a fickle mind.
_Chapter XLVI._
THE STORY CLOSED.