THE ABDUCTION.
Let us return to New Orleans and to the Villa Moraquitos. An hour after
Augustus Horton left the boudoir of Camillia, the Spanish heiress and
her companion Pauline Corsi were seated, side by side, in a deep recess
of a window, looking out upon the shining waters of the Mississippi.
"So you have rejected him, Camillia?" said Pauline.
"Rejected him!" repeated the Spanish girl, contemptuously, "Could you
ever dream that I should do otherwise?"
"And yet Augustus Horton is rich, young, handsome, distinguished--"
"He may be all that," interrupted Camillia. "Yet I have no feeling for
him but indifference--nay, contempt."
"Shall I tell you the secret of that indifference?" said Pauline, with
a smile.
"If you please," answered Camillia, carelessly.
"The secret is your love for another. Ay, that start and blush would
betray you had naught else already done so. My foolish Camillia,
did you think to conceal the truth from one who had known you from
childhood? On the day of Paul Lisimon's apprehension I told him that I
had long known all."
"Forgive me, dear Pauline, if I have seemed wanting in candor," said
Camillia: "but it was Paul who bade me be silent."
"Yes, Paul, who feared that the governess might betray her pupil. Now,
listen to me, Camillia. The story of my life is a strange one. The day
may come when I may choose to reveal it, but that day has not arrived.
The history of the past may have done much to embitter a heart that was
not once all base. I am ambitious--proud--though policy has taught me
to conceal my pride--dependence, even on those I like, is painful to
me; all this I have learnt to hide beneath a gay exterior."
"Pauline, you terrify me!" exclaimed Camillia, "This power of
concealing your feelings--"
"Is akin to falsehood, is it not, Camillia? No matter. For the first
time I speak the truth to you about myself. You have been kind,
generous, affectionate. I should be worse than a murderess could I
break your heart, for to break your heart would be to kill you--and
yet, Camillia, three days ago I should have been capable of that
infamy."
"Pauline--Pauline!"
"Ah, well may you open those large black eyes with that gaze of horror
and amazement. Yes, I repeat, three days ago I should have been capable
of this; because I am ambitious, and the ambitious will trample on
the most sacred ties to attain the golden goal of their wishes. But
this is past. Another road has opened to me, and henceforth, Camillia
Moraquitos, I will be your friend. Say, will you trust me?"
Pauline Corsi fixed her large, limpid blue eyes upon the face of her
pupil, with an earnest glance of inquiry.
"Will you trust me, Camillia?"
"Yes, Pauline! Your words have terrified and bewildered me, but I feel
that, whatever you may be, you are not deceiving me now."
"I am not, indeed!" answered Pauline; "It is agreed then--you will
trust me?"
"I will!"
"Tell me, then, do you love Paul Lisimon?"
"True, eternally!"
"And for that love you are prepared to sacrifice all ambitious hopes?
You, who have much of your father's haughty nature can reconcile
yourself to a life of comparative poverty and obscurity for the sake of
him you love?"
"It would be no sacrifice," answered Camillia; "poverty would have no
trials if shared with him."
"But, remember, Camillia Moraquitos, think of his unknown birth--low
and obscure no doubt as are all mysterious lineages--would not that
cause you to blush for your lover--your husband?"
"I could never blush for him while I knew him to be honest and
honorable."
"Ay, but even then how bitter would be your trial! Do not forget that
his honor has been sullied by a foul suspicion--that he has been
branded as a thief!"
"I forget nothing. I know that I love him and trust him. We cannot love
those we do not trust."
"Enough," answered Pauline, "now listen to me. I tell you a new road
has opened to my ambitious hopes. I shall win wealth and station,
without sacrificing you or your lover. Nay, more, I promise you that
the day that sees the fulfillment of my wishes, shall also see you the
bride of Paul Lisimon."
"Pauline, what do you mean?"
"Seek to know nothing--only trust me. There are dark obscurities in
the pathway of guilt, which I would not have you to penetrate. I have
promised to befriend you in all things. What if the foul plot, which,
as I believe, has been hatched by that villainous attorney, Silas
Craig, were brought to light by my agency? Would you thank me for that,
Camillia?"
"Thank you, Pauline? Oh, if you could but clear him I love from the
vile accusations brought against him, I would be your grateful slave to
the end of life."
"I do not ask that--I only ask patience and confidence. I hold a power
over Silas Craig, which none other possesses, and on the day which
crowns my hopes, he shall be made to confess his infamy, and withdraw
the charge against Paul Lisimon."
"Pauline, Pauline," exclaimed Camillia; "my benefactress, my preserver."
"Hush!" said the Frenchwoman, laying her finger on her lips, "Remember,
patience and caution."
As she spoke, Pepita, Camillia's old nurse, entered the room. "Oh,
missy," said the faithful mulattress, "there is a sailorman below,
who has fine silks and laces to show you, if you'll only look at his
merchandise. Such bargains, he says, missy."
"But I don't want to see them," replied Camillia, indifferently; "tell
the man to take his goods somewhere else, Pepita."
"Stay," interrupted Pauline; "we may as well look at these bargains."
"Ay, do, ma'moselle," said Pepita; "it will amuse poor missy. Poor
missy very ill lately."
"Why do you wish to see this man?" asked Camillia, when the mulattress
had left the apartment.
"Because I have an idea that we should do wrong in refusing to admit
him. We shall see whether I am right or not."
Pepita ushered the sailor into her mistress's presence. He was a
black-eyed, dark-haired fellow, with a complexion that had grown
copper-colored by exposure to the wind and sun. He opened a bale of
silks and spread its contents at the feet of the Spanish girl.
Camillia glanced at them with listless indifference.
"They are handsome," she said; "but I have no occasion for them."
"But you will not refuse to buy something of a poor sailor, kind lady?"
said the man, in an insinuating tone; "even if you do not wish for a
silk dress, there may be something else among my stores that may tempt
you to bid for it; see here!" he added, feeling in one of the pockets
of his loose trousers, "I've something here that perhaps you may take a
fancy to."
He produced a red morocco case, large enough to contain a chain or
bracelet.
"Look here," he said, opening it and holding it toward Camillia, so
that she alone could see its contents. "You won't refuse me a dollar or
two for that, eh, lady?"
Camillia could not repress a start of surprise. The case contained an
imitation gold chain of the commonest workmanship, coiled round in a
circle, in the center of which was a note folded into the smallest
possible compass. Upon the uppermost side of this note was written the
word "Fidelity," in a handwriting which was well known to the Spanish
girl.
"Will you buy the chain, lady?" asked the sailor.
Camillia opened an ormolu casket on a table near her, and took out a
handful of dollars, which she dropped into the ample palm of the sailor.
"Will that requite you for your trouble, my good friend?" she asked.
"Right nobly, lady."
"If you can come again to-morrow, I may purchase something more of you."
The sailor grinned; "I'll come if I can, my lady," he answered, and
with a rough salute he left the room, followed by Pepita.
"Was I right, Camillia?" asked Mademoiselle Corsi.
"You were, dear Pauline; see, a note in Paul's hand!"
"Shall I leave you to devour its contents?"
"No, Pauline, I have no secrets from you henceforth," answered
Camillia, unfolding the precious scrap of paper.
It contained these words:
"Fear not, dearest, and do not think it is guilt which has prompted
my flight. Be faithful and trust me that all will yet be well; and
remember that I may be near you when least you look for me. Affect
an utter indifference to my fate, and mingle in the gay world as
you have ever done. This is necessary to disarm suspicion. Above
all, throw Augustus Horton off the scent, and let him believe that
I have left America forever.
"Ever and ever yours,
"Paul."
Camillia Moraquitos obeyed the instructions contained in this brief
epistle; and when Don Juan entered her boudoir half an hour afterward,
he found his daughter apparently in her usual spirits.
Delighted at this change, he proposed that Camillia and Pauline should
go to the opera that evening, attended by himself, and the ladies
assented with every semblance of gratitude.
The Opera-House was thronged that night with all the rank and fashion
of New Orleans. It was the occasion of the re-appearance of a brilliant
Parisian actress and singer who had lately returned to Louisiana after
a twelve-months' absence in France.
The box occupied by Don Juan was one of the best in the house, and
amongst all assembled, there was none lovelier or more admired than
Camillia Moraquitos.
The Spanish girl wore a dress of rich amber silk, flounced with the
costliest black lace.
Her classically molded head was encircled by a simple band of gold,
studded with diamonds.
She waved a perfumed fan of ebony and gold in her small gloved hand.
They had not long been seated in the box when they were joined by
Augustus Horton, who placed himself at the back of the chair occupied
by Camillia.
She was not a little surprised at this, after the interview of that
morning, and the terrible and insulting repulse which the young planter
had received.
While she was wondering what could have induced him to forget this, he
bent his head and whispered in her ear--
"Let us forget all that passed this morning, Donna Camillia," he said;
"forget and forgive my presumption as I forgive your cruelty! Let us be
what we were before to-day, friends and friends only."
Camillia raised her eyes to his face with a glance of surprise. Was
this the man whose words that morning had breathed rage and vengeance?
Had she wronged him in imagining him vindictive and treacherous?
Don Juan knew nothing of his daughter's rejection of Augustus Horton.
He imagined, therefore, from the planter's presence in the box, that
his suit had prospered.
About half an hour after the rising of the curtain, a letter was
brought by one of the boxkeepers addressed to Don Juan Moraquitos.
"Who gave you this?" asked the Spaniard.
"A colored lad, sir, who said he was to wait for an answer," replied
the boxkeeper.
"Tell him I will see to it."
The man left the box and Don Juan opened the letter.
It was from Silas Craig, and contained only a couple of lines,
requesting to see his employer without delay, on business of importance.
Don Juan rose to leave the box.
"I am never permitted to enjoy the society of my only daughter for a
few hours without interruption," he said, bending gently over Camillia.
"I am summoned away on some annoying business, but I will not be gone
long, darling."
"But how long, dearest father?"
"An hour at most. Meanwhile I leave you in the care of Mr. Horton."
"I accept the trust," answered Augustus, with enthusiasm.
In spite of the letter she had that morning received, Camillia, found
it impossible to simulate a gayety which she did not feel.
She was silent and absent-minded, and replied in monosyllables to the
gallant speeches of her admirer. She was thinking of the events of the
day--Pauline Corsi's promise and the letter from Paul Lisimon.
Once in looking downward at the crowd of faces in the pit of the
theatre, she recognized one which was turned to the box in which she
was seated, instead of to the stage.
It was the copper-colored visage of the sailor who had that morning
brought her Paul's letter.
She knew not why, but she felt a thrill of pleasurable emotion
vibrating through her breast as she beheld the rough face of this man.
He knew, and was known to Paul. He could not then be other than a
friend to her.
The watchful eye of Augustus Horton perceived her start of surprise as
she beheld this man.
"One would think," he said, with something of a sneer, "that the lovely
Donna Camillia Moraquitos had recognized an acquaintance in the pit of
the theatre."
Camillia did not reply to this remark. It was growing late and Don
Juan had not returned. His daughter was unable to repress a feeling of
uneasiness at his lengthened absence. The Spaniard's affection for his
only child was the one strong passion of his heart. No lover could have
been more attentive than he to his daughter's slightest wish.
"Strange," murmured Camillia, as the after-piece drew to a close, "my
father never fails to keep his word, yet it is now three hours since he
left us."
The curtain fell, and the audience rose to leave the house.
"I will go and look for your carriage, Donna Camillia," said Augustus;
"perhaps I may find your father waiting for you in the corridor
without."
He left the box and returned in about three minutes to say that the
carriage was at the door. Camillia's anxious eye detected something of
agitation in his manner.
"My father," she said; "did you see him?"
"No, no," he answered, in rather a confused manner, offering his arm to
Camillia, "I have not seen him yet. But pray let me lead you to your
carriage, the corridors and lobbies are terribly crowded."
He took no notice whatever of Pauline Corsi, who followed as she best
could, but who was speedily separated from them by the crowd, and by
the rapidity with which Augustus hurried Camillia through the passages
and down the staircase.
By the time they had reached the portico of the theater, they had
completely lost sight of the French governess.
Augustus handed the Spanish girl so quickly into a carriage that she
was not able to take any particular notice of the vehicle; but when
seated inside, she saw, from the gleam of the lamps without, that the
cushions and linings were of a different color to those of her own
equipage.
"Mr. Horton," she exclaimed, "this is not my carriage." Augustus was
standing at the door as she spoke.
"No matter!" he said; "we have no time to lose, drive on," he added,
addressing the negro on the box, and at the same moment he sprang into
the carriage and drew up the window.
Camillia was bewildered and alarmed by his conduct.
"You have forgotten Pauline," she exclaimed; "we are leaving her behind
us."
"Mademoiselle Corsi must shift for herself," answered the planter, as
the carriage drove rapidly away, and turning out of the brilliantly
lighted thoroughfare, plunged into one of the darkest streets in New
Orleans. "I have wished to spare you all anxiety, Donna Camillia, but
concealment can no longer prevail. Your father has been taken ill, and
has sent for you."
"My father ill! dangerously ill?"
"I do not say that."
"But perhaps it is so. Oh, Heaven, my beloved and honored father--that
noble and generous friend who never denied a wish of my heart--tell
them to drive faster, for pity's sake! Let us lose no time in reaching
him!"
She turned to Augustus Horton with clasped hands raised in supplication.
At the very moment when she thus appealed to him, the carriage passed a
corner of a street at which there was a lamp.
The light of this lamp flashed upon the face of the planter as they
drove rapidly by.
Brief as the moment was, Camillia fancied she detected a smile of
triumph upon the countenance of Augustus Horton.
A thrill of horror crept through her veins as she thought that perhaps
this alarm about her father was some vile subterfuge of her rejected
lover.
She had often heard--heard with a careless and unheeding ear, of deeds
of darkness done in the city of her birth.
She knew that the wealthy members of New Orleans society were not over
scrupulous in their gratification of their viler passions--and she
trembled as she thought of her helplessness--but she had the brave
spirit of her father's race, and she had sufficient presence of mind to
conceal her terror.
She determined upon testing her companion.
"Why did not my father send his own carriage for me?" she asked.
"Because Don Juan was not taken ill at the Villa Moraquitos. He was
attacked in a gaming-house at the other end of the city, and it is
thither I'm taking you."
"My father stricken with illness in a gaming-house!" said Camillia. "My
father a gambler?"
"Ay, that surprises you no doubt. There are many secrets in this city
of ours, Donna Camillia, and your father knows how to keep his. It
was to avoid all scandal that I brought you away from the Opera-House
by a species of stratagem. It would not have done for that brilliant
assembly to know whither I was bringing you."
"It is to some infamous haunt then?" said Camillia.
"All vices are infamous," answered the planter. "It is to the haunt of
the rich and idle--the aristocratic and dissipated. But perhaps your
womanly nature shrinks from this ordeal. If it be so, I will drive you
home without delay. There is no absolute necessity for your seeing your
father to-night. To-morrow he may be well enough to return to the Villa
Moraquitos, and in the meantime I do not think there is any serious
danger."
These last words were uttered slowly and hesitatingly, as if the
speaker felt them to be untrue, and only spoke them in the desire to
comfort his companion.
Camillia's suspicions were completely dispelled.
"You do not think he is in danger?" she exclaimed. "Can you imagine
Camillia Moraquitos so poor a coward as to shrink from visiting her
beloved father because he lies in a gambling-house? Had he been
stricken in the most infamous den in New Orleans, I would enter it
alone to comfort and succor him."
Had there been a lamp near to illumine the planter's face at this
moment, Camillia might have again beheld the triumphant smile which had
before alarmed her.
Five minutes after this the carriage stopped at a low door, in a dark
but highly respectable-looking street.
The negro coachman kept his seat, but Augustus sprang on to the
pavement and handed Camillia out of the vehicle.
The door before which they had stopped appeared to be closed so
securely as to defy all the burglars in New Orleans.
Yet Augustus Horton neither knocked nor rang for admission; there was
a brass-plate upon the door; he simply pressed his finger against one
of the letters engraved upon this plate, and the door opened slowly and
noiselessly.
The passage within was illumined by one ray of light. "Give me your
hand, Donna Camillia," whispered the planter. The brave-hearted girl
obeyed, and Augustus led her cautiously onward.
As he did so she heard the door close behind her with a muffled sound.
They ascended a narrow winding staircase, at the top of which they
entered a long corridor, lighted by shaded gas-lamps, which emitted a
subdued radiance.
At the end of the corridor Augustus Horton opened the door of a room,
into which he led Camillia.
In this room she expected to find her father; but she was cruelly
disappointed.
The apartment was handsomely furnished, and lighted with a lamp which
hung from the ceiling, and which like those in the corridor, shed a
subdued and shadowy light; but it was empty.
Camillia looked hurriedly around her. All her suspicions had returned
at the aspect of the place to which the planter had brought her.
The door opening by its mysterious spring, the dark passage and winding
stair, the strange silence of the place in which their footsteps
sounded as if they had been shod with felt--all combined to inspire
terror.
"My father! my father!" she exclaimed. "Where is he?"
"Heaven knows," answered Augustus, "perhaps searching for you in the
portico of the Opera-House. Camillia Moraquitos, you are young and new
to a world in which men have passionate and revengeful hearts. You have
much to learn, but you will take a lesson, it may be, ere long. This
morning you insulted me; to-night you are in my power!"