CHAPTER XVIII

The Lone Hut—The Torture!

Return we now to Monteagle. The ruthless gang of fellows who had made

him prisoner rode on in almost total silence over the vast treeless,

shrubless, sand bank which lies between the bluff headlands and the

little laguna, where the pig-eyed votaries of Confucius perform the

scrubbing, dipping and pounding of linen, dignified with the misnomer of

_washing_. As if anything immersed in that chocolate-hued fluid could

emerge purer than it entered. Skirting the shore of the laguna, the

party soon reached a tolerably good road. This they followed for about

half a mile. One of the party riding some distance in advance in order

to give notice of the approach of any unwelcome intruder. No person

appeared, however, to interfere with their plans and they soon struck

off into the sand hills, where their persons were hidden from view by

the scrub oaks and wild lilac bushes that covered these lonely spots,

since dotted with neat little cottages and smiling gardens. Heaven grant

that they may ever be the abode of prosperity and happiness, as they

have always been of open-hearted hospitality.

Half an hour’s more riding brought them to the place of their

destination. It was a rude hut or cabin, such as ‘squatters’ put up when

taking possession—peaceably if they can, forcibly if they must. This hut

was erected at the bottom of a deep dell, surrounded on all sides by

hills so abrupt that they were forced to leave the horses tied above,

while they made the descent on foot.

Both externally and internally this looked like the ordinary abode of a

new settler. But no sooner had the gang entered with their prisoner,

than a light was procured, and one of the party, moving a mattress,

lifted a trap door that gave entrance to a subterraneous apartment of

some extent. It was probably a natural cavern, the entrance to which had

been accidentally discovered by these desperadoes. Its isolated

situation suggested its usefulness to them as a secret place of

rendezvous, and a receptacle for plunder. One of them had accordingly

squatted on the place and put up the hut.

Monteagle was handed down into this apartment, his eyes still

blindfolded—but the close, damp air informed his senses that he was in

an underground apartment of some kind. The more he reflected the more he

became mystified in his endeavors to ascertain the motives that had

prompted these ruffians to take him prisoner in this most unaccountable

manner. He had recognized the voice of the man called ‘Jimmy’ as that of

the villian found asleep in Vandewater’s store, and who had been

arrested for murder, and afterwards escaped from justice. But this

discovery did not explain why he had been thus kidnapped. His suspense

was, however, soon ended, as shall presently be shown.

The cavern was of large dimensions, yet was more than half filled with

silks, broadcloths, laces, and velvets of the costliest descriptions

piled promiscuously together. Upon these heaps lay goblets, salvers and

ladles of gold and silver ware, some showing signs of use, but most

appearing bright and untarnished as when they glittered on the

jeweller’s shelves. These things were evidently the result of successful

robberies and explained why the neighboring city had been swept by so

many conflagrations.

In one corner of the cavern a small, thin, sharp-visaged man bent over a

large crucible, the flickering flames beneath which shed a red glow upon

his swarthy, anxious countenance. At the first glance this individual

might have been mistaken for one of those alchemists who, in the dark

ages, sought to transmute the baser metals into gold, or discover an

elixir that would give to mortal man eternal vigor and immortal youth.

He of the crucible was engaged in no such visionary employment. Beside

him stood dies and other mechanical contrivances for the manufacture of

coin, while a large box full of glittering ‘octagons’ showed that he was

busy ‘augmenting the currency,’ by fabricating spurious ‘slugs.’

Monteagle now once more demanded the cause of his detention.

‘Your employer, Vandewater, lately sold a vessel on account of a New

York merchant, for thirty thousand dollars, which sum he received in

gold. That money was placed in your safe—’

‘Then you are the robbers!’

‘Silence, and listen! When we opened the safe, it only held a few

thousands belonging to the firm. You know where the thirty thousand is

placed. Inform us, and you shall be liberated, and if we obtain the

money, you shall have five thousand dollars for your share.’

‘I’ll die first,’ indignantly cried Monteagle.

‘No—you’ll confess first, and maybe die soon after,’ said a voice which

Monteagle to his surprise and joy recognized as that of Blodget.

‘What, Blodget, my friend, you here? Then this is all a joke. But it has

been carried much too far,’ said Monteagle, his cheek flushing as he

thought of the violence he had been subjected to.

‘If it’s a joke, youngster, you’ll think its a d—d poor one before we

get through with it. But enough of this fooling! Tell where the money’s

to be found, or by h-ll we’ll make you!’

‘Never—so help me heaven!’ said Monteagle, determinedly.

‘Just hand me that little vice,’ said Blodget, in a cool, business-like,

tone.

‘Is it this?’ said Jimmy, bringing over a small, portable iron vice,

from among the tools by the furnace.

‘That’s right,’ said Blodget. ‘Now, lads, hold him fast.’ Monteagle was

suddenly prostrated upon the damp floor, and firmly held there by the

ruffians, although he put forth lion-like strength in his struggles to

shake off his enemies. ‘Now, then, we’ll try his nerves,’ said Blodget,

and immediately proceeded to adjust the vice on one of Monteagle’s

thumbs. ‘Will you tell where the money can be found?’ said Blodget.

Monteagle made no reply.

Blodget gave the vice a couple of turns but Monteagle gave no signs of

feeling except an involuntary shudder and a heavy sigh.

Again his heartless tormentor gave the vice a turn. Still the brave

youth remained silent, although the pain was fearful, and he could feel

the hot blood gushing from under his nail.

‘Knock out the stubborn divil’s brains,’ cried Jimmy, waxing impatient

at the delay.

‘Keep cool, Jimmy,’ said Blodget. ‘It is money we want, not brains.’

Another turn of the vice—but Monteagle, save by a low, involuntary

groan, gave no token of the agony he suffered.

‘Curse the fellow, it’s as hard to extract gold from him as to crush it

out of quartz rocks. He’s so devilish stubborn, I see he will die, as he

says, before he’ll tell where the gold is placed. Now, boys, what’s to

be done?’ continued Blodget, looking around inquiringly into the

villainous faces of his companions.

They were all silent, for some seconds. At length the man that we have

described as being employed over the furnace, broke silence, saying,

‘Let me manage him, and I’ll promise to make him tell, not only where we

may find this gold, but reveal far weightier secrets, if such he knows.’

‘Go a-head! Signor Maretzo,’ said Blodget, ‘but remember that we have no

racks and wheels, or any of those other ingenious contrivances so common

in your precious country.’

‘My country is what tyrants and priests have made it;’ returned the

Italian. ‘Even the accursed act I am now about to practice I learned in

the dungeons of the _holy_ inquisition. There my heart was turned to

marble, and every drop of pity congealed forever.’

‘Let the blessid church alone, or you and me’ll have a row, old

black-beard,’ said Jimmy, quite fiercely.

‘That ‘Sazerac’ brandy has awakened Jimmy’s religious feelings. But,

come, come—there’s been too much of this fooling. Maretzo, if you can

make this stubborn devil talk, do so at once!’

Maretzo made some arrangements about his furnace, and joined the party

gathered around Monteagle—who still lay, bound and blind-folded, upon

the dungeon floor.

The Italian then took up a piece of linen from one of the piles of dry

goods, and placed it smoothly and tightly over Monteagle’s lips and

nostrils. He then took a glass of water, and poured a few drops upon the

linen. The poor youth could draw breath with difficulty through the dry

linen, but when its threads became swollen by absorbing the water his

respiration was almost entirely prevented. His breast heaved by

involuntary muscular expansion—great drops of sweat started from every

pore, while the veins of his neck and forehead grew swollen and purple.

It required the united force of all the scoundrels that surrounded him

to retain his writhing body on the earth.

Poor Monteagle’s convulsive and spasmodic efforts, however, soon

subsided, and it appeared as if his tormentors had gone too far, and

that death had stepped in and snatched their helpless victim from

further cruelties.

Maretzo removed the cloth, and after a few heavy and painful attempts at

breathing, Monteagle’s low groans and sighs told how dreadful had been

his sufferings.

‘Now, G—d d—n your stubborn soul will you tell us where to find the

money,’ said Blodget.

Heavy, deep-drawn sighs, were the poor youth’s sole reply.

‘Give him another dose,’ said one of the heartless ruffians, ‘he likes

the medicine so well.’

At this instant the trap door was lifted, and one of the gang, who had

been stationed on the neighboring hill as a look-out, cried:

‘I see a party of horsemen making right for the hut, at full gallop. We

must have been followed. Let’s be off, at once, or we’re sure to be

taken!’

‘Sure an’ let’s have a brush wid ’em,’ said Jimmy.

‘Never fight till you’re obliged to,’ said Blodget.

‘Lay hold of this fellow,’ said Maretzo, ‘and carry him to a horse, then

let’s all start down towards the Heads. I know of a cave there, that has

never had any dwellers except seals. There we can keep this youth, and

wring the secret from him, or, failing that, put him where he’ll tell no

tales.’

No more words were wasted; this striking the whole party as the best

plan they could pursue under the circumstances. Accordingly, a couple of

men seized hold of Monteagle, and bore him up the stairs, through the

hut, and then to the summit of the acclivity where the horses were

tethered. The rest of the party followed, bearing with them all the most

valuable and portable articles they could get hold of in their haste.

By the time the whole gang were in the saddle and ready for a start, the

approaching party of riders had got to within a quarter of a mile of the

hut. They were coming from the direction of the Mission.

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CHAPTER IX

The Maid—the Robber—the Race.

The reader will remember that we left Sanchez at the house of Signor

Castro, whither he had ridden with speed, upon hearing the directions

given to convey Monteagle to the solitary hut, with the whereabouts of

which he was well acquainted.

Leaping from his horse, Sanchez merely cast the reins upon his neck, and

the well trained animal stood almost motionless awaiting the return of

his rider.

Upon entering the house the first inquire of Sanchez was for his young

mistress, Donna Inez. She had gone to the Mission Church, to attend the

vesper services, and had not yet returned.

Again Sanchez was in the saddle, and in a few moments reached the square

fronting the rude antique edifice in which many generations of

Californians have been christened, wedded and buried. Here he again

dismounted, entered the church, and catching the eye of his mistress,

motioned her to follow him, and then withdrew from the church. No sooner

had they passed from beneath the sacred roof, than Sanchez related to

her all that he had witnessed on the beach, when Monteagle was seized.

The youthful maiden’s lovely cheek now paled till it was white as

alabaster, then crimsoned till its flush rivalled the ruddiest rose, as

she listened to the rude but graphic description given by Sanchez of the

violent seizure of the gallant youth who had bravely rushed into the

flames and saved her from a dreadful death.

Donna Inez directed Sanchez to go to a small hotel, on a road that leads

into the Mission Plaza, and inquire for one Joaquin. If he saw him, he

was to say the lady desired to meet him instantly, at her father’s

residence.

Sanchez did the bidding of his young mistress with due diligence. He

found Joaquin busy at a game of billiards; but no sooner did he receive

the message than throwing down his cue he rushed to the door, and leaped

into the saddle of a splendid looking horse, which was quietly standing

untied at the door. Bidding Sanchez to follow, Joaquin struck the spurs

deep into the flanks of his fiery steed, and proceeded at a gallop

towards the dwelling of Signor Castro.

When Joaquin arrived in front of the mansion, he found the young and

lovely lady standing in the portico. She was attired in the rich garb of

a Mexican cavalier. But neither the large topped boots, nor the ample

poncho could disguise the matchless symmetry of that perfect form: rich

in every grace that renders woman resistless. Her rounded bosom heaved

wildly beneath the folds of her poncho as Joaquin lifted his hat before

her, at the same moment reining in his foaming steed with such a sudden

and powerful effort, that the spirited animal was forced down almost on

his haunches.

‘_Buenos noches_, Donna Inez,’ said the robber, for such he was,

respectfully.

‘Thank you—thank you, Joaquin, for your promptness. You are indeed

grateful,’ said Donna Inez.

‘My dear lady,’ replied Joaquin, ‘give me I beg of you, an opportunity

to prove my gratitude in some more difficult shape than in riding a

short distance on a fine evening.’

‘I will Joaquin. I desire this night, to have your aid in an enterprise

full of difficulty; nay, of absolute danger,’ said Inez.

‘Danger!’ cried the robber, and his bright black eyes dilated and

sparkled like those of a war-horse when the clangor of trumpets smites

his ear. ‘Let the enterprise be full of danger and I will execute it for

the danger’s sake—much more willingly however, if I also serve you, my

dear, my noble young lady. Oh, never can be effaced from my heart your

kindness to my poor, darling Carmencitto, after those fiends had—’ the

robber paused, his swarthy visage became of ashy hue, and his strong

frame trembled with some violent emotion. ‘Enough of this—I live but for

two purposes—gratitude to you, and revenge on them hell-born

villains—then welcome death in any shape; for what have I more to do in

this world, when my poor Carmencitto lies in her cold grave?’

Inez, who knew how cruelly this man had been treated, waited ere she

again addressed him. When he became somewhat calmer, she said:

‘Joaquin, some villains have seized the brave young man who saved my

life, and carried him to the lone hut over among the sand-hills. I am

determined to rescue him, and need your aid, and that of some of your

friends.’

‘Most willingly,’ replied Joaquin, and placing a small silver bugle to

his lips he blew two notes, so sharp and loud that their echoes could be

heard reverberating from the distant hills. But awakening the echoes

were not the only effect. In a few moments, coming from different

directions, nearly a dozen horsemen could be seen drawing towards the

spot where the sounds proceeded.

Meanwhile, Sanchez, in obedience to the directions of his mistress had

saddled her favorite horse, and led him to the front of the house; when

Inez, declining assistance, vaulted lightly into the richly mounted

saddle _en cavalier_, and as the fiery animal bounded and curvetted, her

full but exquisitely moulded limbs yielded gracefully to each movement

of the animal she bestrode, while she tried to check his impatience by

patting his coal black neck with her little hand, whiter than the pearls

that zoned her taper fingers, and speaking to him in those soft

endearing expressions of which the Spanish is so full.

No sooner had the horsemen, summoned by the bugle of Joaquin, all

assembled, than they started at a brisk pace, led by Sanchez, through

the bridle-path that led in the direction of the hut.

It was the approach of this party which induced the gang who had

captured Monteagle, to leave the hut in such haste.

Monteagle was so exceeding weak when he reached the spot where the

horses of the thieves were tied, that, even had he wished to do so, he

could not have retained his seat, in the saddle a moment. So, after

placing him astride a horse, they lashed him in his seat with one of

those ever-present and ever-useful lariats.

No sooner was this done than away they started in the direction of the

Presidio Road, the pursuing foe, being less then a third of a mile

behind them.

‘Who the deuce can they be?’ said Blodget, who rode on one side of

Monteagle, to Jimmy, who rode on the other side.

‘It’s more nor I can conceive,’ replied Jimmy.

‘They can’t be police, nor even the vigilance committee, or why come

from the Mission instead of the city?’ said Blodget.

‘They surely can’t be a pleasure party,’ replied Jimmy. ‘For the

huntsman of Howth, that followed a hare to h—l, wouldn’t gallop over

those sand-hills for fun.’

‘And most certainly not at such an hour,’ said Blodget. ‘’Tis very, very

strange. They still follow us,’ he continued, as he turned in the

saddle, and looked back at the approaching party.

By this time they had gained the road that—running almost parallel with

the shore of the Bay—passed the Presidio, and went on toward the rugged

promontory which forms one side of the famous Golden Gate.

For a few moments they proceeded on in silence; occasionally glancing

back to see if the party that so alarmed them, continued the pursuit.

What they had thus far feared was soon turned to certainty, for they saw

the whole party, numbering nearly a dozen, emerge from the shrubbery,

turn into the road, and follow after them at a good round pace.

‘As long as we keep this distance from them, don’t force your horses,

and we may yet contrive to escape them. Their nags must be pretty well

blown, as they had a long ride before they reached the hut; and ours

started fresh, after a good long rest,’ said Blodget to his companions.

Leaving the gang of thieves to pursue their way, let us return to Inez

and the party accompanying her.

‘They have all left the hut,’ said Sanchez, as they drew near it, ‘and I

think that is the young American, between the two that ride in advance

of the party.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, let us spur on, and save him. Who knows what

bloody purpose is in their cruel hearts!’ cried Inez.

‘We must spare our horses over this uneven ground, if we hope to catch

the villains,’ replied Joaquin.

‘Be it as you say,’ rejoined the maiden, reluctantly checking her eager

steed who seemed impatient to leap forward.

While these conversations were proceeding, both parties had reached a

fine piece of level ground that stretched away before them in the

direction of the Presidio.

‘Now,’ cried Joaquin, ‘urge your horses to the utmost!’ and suiting the

action to the words, his long spurs were buried into the side of his

charger, who bounded forward like lightning.

Keeping leap for leap with his fleet steed was the gallant animal that

bore Inez on his back, while the rest of the party were but a few rods

in the rear. The vigilant Blodget soon observed that the pursuers had

increased their speed, and were fast lessening the distance between

them.

‘Let your horses do their d—est!’ cried the profane fellow, as he struck

the rowels deep into the already bleeding sides of his courser.

His followers quickly obeyed his commands, and the pursuers and the

pursued were soon scouring over the plain, at the very utmost speed of

their respective horses.

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CHAPTER X

The Chase Continued.

Inez and Joaquin had now arrived almost within pistol-shot of the gang,

which had concentrated around Monteagle.

‘They’ll catch us sure, if we don’t cast this fellow adrift,’ said one

of the party.

‘He’ll never live to see one of us hung, at any rate,’ said Jimmy,

drawing a revolver, and raising it towards Monteagle’s head.

‘Liar!’ shouted Joaquin, as he raised himself in his stirrups, and cast

his lasso, which had been for some seconds whirling round his head.

Before Jimmy had time to touch the trigger the unerring noose was fast

around his neck. Joaquin’s horse halted suddenly, bringing Jimmy to the

earth with such violence, as to break his neck.

‘Don’t mind, Jimmy, but spur for your lives,’ cried Blodget, as he urged

on his own steed, and that to which Monteagle was lashed. Maretzo

instantly taking the place just before occupied by Jimmy.

The lassoing of Jimmy necessarily caused some delay to the pursuing

party, which the pursued made good use of to increase the distance

between them.

Joaquin sprang from his horse to disengage his lasso from the neck of

the fallen man, and in turning the body for that purpose, brought the

face of the villain into the full light of the moon.

‘Holy Virgin. Thanks, thanks. A golden candlestick shall grace your

shrine,’ and his eye sparkled, and a gleam of joy shot over his swarthy

visage.

‘Gracious Heavens!’ exclaimed Inez. ‘Why Joaquin, though the holy saints

know how thankful I am that your skilful arm saved the life of my dear

preserver, still I cannot conceive why you can take such pleasure in

looking upon such an awful sight as the face of that wretched man,’ and

Inez turned her face aside sickened to the very heart.

‘My gracious young donna,’ replied the robber, ‘too seldom have I prayed

to the holy saints, and to the still holier ones. But of late I have

thrown myself before every crucifix I saw and with tears begged that the

ravishers of Carmencitto should fall by this hand, and this hand only.

And the holy saints have heard my prayers.’ As he spoke, he drew a long

sharp blade from its sheath, and plunged it to the hilt in the still

warm breast of his prostrate foe. ‘And now, fair lady,’ he exclaimed,

‘once again I am at your service.’

‘Let us ride like the wind, Joaquin,’ said Inez impatiently.

Joaquin was in his saddle, and his horse at full speed in an instant.

But the few moments that had elapsed had sufficed for Blodget and his

troop to be almost out of sight.

‘They will surely escape us,’ cried the maiden.

‘No donna,’ said Sanchez respectfully. ‘They have turned down to the

beach, and before they ride a quarter of a mile they will reach a rock

that runs out into the sea, round which they cannot pass but at low

tide, and even then with great risk.’

While Sanchez was speaking, Blodget and his comrades had reached the

point alluded to.

‘By G—d,’ cried Blodget, ‘here we are, brought up, all standing,’ as he

reined his horse, and gazed angrily upon the white breakers that dashed

against the base of the high and jagged rock.

‘This that you fear will ruin us, will prove our safety,’ said Maretzo.

‘I know this spot well. Though close at the foot of the cliff the water

is deep, a little way farther out, it is comparatively shoal, and the

blue water will hardly reach our horses’ girths, though the foam and

spray of the breakers may dash over our heads. Follow me closely,

deviate not a single inch right or left, and my life for it, I’ll bring

you safely through.’

So speaking, Maretzo, taking the horse of Monteagle by the bridle, rode

fearlessly into the seething and foaming cauldron that roared around the

projecting rocks.

He was followed by Blodget and the rest of the party, and though the

stoutest of them quailed when the tumbling waves reached their knees,

and the cold spray dashed blindingly in their eyes, yet they continued

on, seeing that the steeds of Maretzo and Monteagle kept their footing

in the yeasty waves.

When Inez and her friends reached the point around which Monteagle had

disappeared with his capturers, their first impulse was to follow, but

Joaquin commanded his party to halt, till he first attempted the

dangerous passage. Inez, however, refusing to let him risk the attempt

alone, spurred her steed and dashed boldly into the roaring and foaming

waters with him.

They naturally kept as close to the face of the cliff as possible,

supposing they would there find the shoalest water, but before they had

proceeded many paces the horse rode by Inez began to plunge and rear

frantically, frightened by the noise and dash of the waves. The maiden

lost all control of the terrified animal, when Joaquin, seeing her peril

seized the rein of her steed, and by a sudden and powerful jerk turned

his head in the direction of the shore they had just left, where he

quickly regained sure footing.

‘Donna Inez,’ said the robber, ‘to pass here is impossible. Either those

fellows know some secret ford around this rock, or else the tide has

risen unusually fast since they passed. At all events we cannot follow

them. The tide is rising and it will be many hours before it will be

possible to pass here. Before that time they will be beyond our reach.’

‘Cannot we ascend these cliffs, and thus cut them off,’ said Inez.

‘No, donna,’ replied Sanchez, ‘we must go back for a long distance

before we meet with a place which even a rabbit could get up.’

Reluctantly Inez admitted the force of these remarks, and slowly turned

her horse’s head in the direction of the city.

‘They have some motive, beside murder, in going to all this trouble,

else had they killed him when they first met him.’

‘What motive could they have?’ asked Inez.

‘Perhaps, to keep him concealed, until they could obtain a heavy ransom

for his release.’

‘But from whom could they expect such a ransom; for the youth is neither

rich himself nor has he rich relatives, at least not in this country.’

‘May not some of the desperadoes with which the city abounds, have heard

of the gallant manner in which the youth rescued you from the flames,

and trust to obtain from the generosity of your father a round sum for

the ransom of the savior of his daughter.’

Inez admitted the plausibility of this supposition, and inwardly

resolving that all her own and her father’s wealth should be expended,

if necessary, to release Monteagle, she silently rode towards home.

When Maretzo, leading the horse of Monteagle, and his comrades, had

safely passed around the cliff, they found themselves on a clear,

crescent-shaped beach of some extent, the opposite end of which was

bounded by a rocky headland, similar somewhat to the one they had just

rounded, but still farther overhanging the flood that dashed into foam

against the huge fragments strewed at its base.

‘We are now safe from pursuit,’ said Maretzo. ‘Even I, would not venture

to retrace our steps, now that the tide has risen so much.’

‘Well, old fellow, we had a d—d tight squeeze of it, that’s a fact. I

thought at one time we were all going to a place where you wouldn’t have

to spend much for fuel for your furnace, eh, Maretzo?’

The Italian merely made some stale joke about the improbability of

Blodget’s ever dying by water while there was any rope in the world.

‘How far yet to this cavern?’ inquired Blodget.

‘It’s under yonder head,’ was the reply of the Italian, as the party

moved forward.

‘But, deuce take it,’ said Blodget, ‘we shall perish of cold and hunger

before morning. I’ve got a touch of the ‘chills’ already.’

‘As to the cold, the beach is strewn with drift wood, and we can soon

have a fire,’ said Maretzo.

‘But is the beach strewn with provisions?’ asked Blodget.

‘I have provisions for a month in the cave,’ said Maretzo.

‘Come, come, old hoss,—none of that Robinson Crusoe gammon. It’s bad

fooling with a hungry man.’

‘I’ll explain to you. During the last great fire, I happened to be near

the end of Long Wharf. A lighter full of goods had just been made fast.

All the hands rushed up the wharf, probably to assist in putting out the

fire. They hadn’t stopped even to lower the sail of their boat. The

temptation was too strong. I leaped on board, set the sail, and was

flying before a stiff breeze right for this cove, where I beached her.

Her cargo, instead of rich goods, as I had hoped, proved to be

provisions of different kinds, packed in tins. These I carried to the

cave. That night it blew hard, and the lighter went to pieces. But, here

we are at our journey’s end.’ So saying, Maretzo, again taking the lead,

went boldly in among the breakers.—Blodget followed, leading the horse

of the young man, and the remainder of the party brought up the rear.

For a few moments, they proceeded on; now turning to the right hand, now

to the left, to avoid some vast rock that blocked their way, or to

escape falling into some hole in the bottom. The water meanwhile was at

times so deep that the horses barely kept their footing, and their

riders found great difficulty in making them proceed amid the dashing

breakers and the horrid din.

Maretzo, at length, turned sharply to the left, and the next moment the

whole party were in utter darkness, in a vast cave, through which they

could hear the wind soughing and the roar of the sea reverberating.

‘Stand fast, where you are, till I get a light,’ said Maretzo, and

dismounting, he groped about until his hand rested upon a box of

candles, part of the cargo of the lighter. Half a dozen of them were

soon burning, and by their glimmer the party fastened their jaded

horses.

Monteagle was released from his Mazeppa-like bonds, and placed on the

floor of the cave, more dead than alive from the cruel way in which he

had been tortured and afterwards lashed to the horse.

A roaring fire was soon kindled, and by its lurid flames the party could

see the vast size of the cavern. Maretzo pointed out where the

provisions were stowed, and each man bountifully helped himself, and

then they all assembled around the blazing fire.

One of the gang less unfeeling than the others, gave Monteagle a

biscuit, and a drink out of his flask, which tended to relieve him

somewhat.

‘What think you, Maretzo,’ said Blodget, drawing the Italian aside,

after they had recovered from their fatigue, ‘is there any more use

wasting our time with this chap?’

‘I fear not,’ replied Maretzo. ‘He is now so weak that he would probably

faint under any fresh torture, and insensibility would baffle us.’

‘Then we must be off. Brown was to try to find out, by some other means,

where the money was placed, and if he has succeeded, we must be on hand

before daylight to get hold of it. For the absence of Monteagle may

excite suspicion, and our sport be spoiled.’

‘What shall we do with our prisoner? Knock him on the head, and give the

crabs a feast?’

‘No. Brown has some old scores to settle with him. You had better stay

here to-night with him, and in the morning I’ll ride out here and report

progress.’

‘Be it as you say. I shall not be sorry to have a few hours rest,’ said

Maretzo.

‘But how are we to get out of this trap?’

‘You can easily get out of here on the side opposite to that by which we

entered. By following the beach awhile you will strike a road that leads

over the hills to the City. By that road return in the morning. I’ll be

on the look out for you!’

‘Pick up, boys,’ cried Blodget, and in short time they had departed,

piloted by Maretzo, leaving Monteagle alone in the cavern.

While taking him from the horse the bandage had been partially removed

from his eyes, and he had been a witness of all that went on.

No sooner had they all quitted the place than he at once determined to

make a desperate attempt to escape before their return, as he felt that

that was his only chance.

Approaching the fire, he seized a piece of wood with his teeth and

applied the blazing end to the cords that bound his arms. For some

seconds it resisted the action of the fire, but at length it blazed, and

was soon so weakened that with the energy of despair the youth snapped

it, and had his hands again at liberty. He next looked around for some

weapon, and luckily found a hatchet which Maretzo had used to open the

cases. Thus armed, he stationed himself at the entrance of the cavern

with the determination to fell the ruffians to the earth as they

attempted to enter, and then endeavor to make his escape. In a few

moments Maretzo appeared and received a blow that sent him reeling and

senseless to the ground. Monteagle waited a few moments, but no one else

appearing he stepped out of the cavern, and fortunately took the

direction in which the gang had just proceeded. At times the waves

reached his arm-pits but by moving forward cautiously he at length

reached the beach safely.

--------------

CHAPTER XI

The Robbery.

It was about two o’clock of the morning following the night in which so

many events were crowded. The moon had gone down, and great masses of

black clouds completely hid the stars. The wind blew violently from

seawards, and the waves dashed furiously against the massive piers which

the enterprise of the San Franciscans have carried far into the bosom of

their glorious Bay.

‘Well, if this ain’t a hell of a night, I’m d—d,’ said a powerfully

built man, who might have been recognized as Montgomery had it not been

so dark that a negro could not have been discerned from an albino.

‘By Vere in ’ell is Blodget a keepin’ hisself,’ said his companion,

whose unmerciful treatment of the v’s and w’s announced him to be a

genuine Cockney, and such he was; but previous to visiting California,

he had paid Botany Bay a flying visit, his wrists graced with these

bracelets, so much more useful than ornamental.

These two men were in a large yawl, under a wharf near Davis street.

‘Boat a-hoy!’ cried Blodget, on the wharf.

‘All right!’ responded Montgomery from beneath it.

‘Vere’ve you been this jolly long vile,’ said the cockney, as he opened

the slide of a dark lantern, while Montgomery drew the boat along to a

place where an opening in the planking admitted Blodget’s dropping into

the boat.

‘Hold her steady,’ said Blodget, as he leaped square into the centre of

the boat.

‘Who else is vith ye?’ said Jobson, the Londoner.

‘Step down here, Belcher,’ said Blodget.

As he spoke a man leaped lightly into the boat. To the casual observer

there was nothing in the appearance of this individual to attract

particular attention, but one accustomed to gauge men’s figures by the

eye, could not have failed to be struck by the broad shoulders, the full

rounded chest, the muscular limbs, and the easy grace of every movement.

Pity that a form so full of manliness should hold so black a heart.

‘Pull straight for the big wooden store, at the foot of Sacramento

street. Old Vandewater, thinking he was d—d sharp, had the kegs of

specie, packed in barrels of mackerel by Monteagle and put in the old

store, thinking some of us might hear of the sale of the steamer, and

break into his store. Brown, to-day, accidentally overheard the carman

speak of moving some mackerel, and as it tallied with the day the money

was moved, guessed the rest. We can easily get into the store,’

continued Blodget.

‘Give way!’ said the man we have called Belcher, and at the same moment

he dipped the blades of a pair of oars into the water and the yawl flew

forward.

Few words were spoken, although there was small chance of their being

overheard, so loudly howled the gale.

When they reached the wharf upon which stood the store, they proceeded

between the piles until all chance of their light being observed was

destroyed. An auger was now produced, a hole bored in the planking, then

a sharp well greased key-hole saw was introduced and in less than a

quarter of an hour a hole sufficiently large to admit a man, was made.

Belcher Kay easily raised himself by his muscular arms into the store;

he then assisted Blodget up. The others remained in the boat.

A very few moments sufficed for Blodget and his companion to saw the

hoops of the mackerel barrels, and thus get possession of the boxes of

gold.

They were quickly lowered into the boat, and the thieves got safely off

with their booty.

‘Vell if old Wandevater don’t svear in the morning, I hopes I may never

see old Hingland again,’ cried the patriotic Briton as he saw the Golden

ballast stowed in the bottom of the boat.

‘Pull for Mission creek,’ said Blodget, ‘they’ll give Sydney Valley an

awful searching to-morrow.’

The robbers made good their escape, with the thirty thousand dollars in

specie, that had been so ingeniously hidden as Mr. Vandewater supposed.

Great was the surprise of the worthy merchant, when summoned, early in

the morning, by the storekeeper and informed that the store had been

entered.—‘But,’ said his informant, ‘they gained nothing by all their

trouble, and out of spite destroyed the few barrels of mackerel that

were brought to the store the other day.’

‘Then they have got all the money.—Where’s Monteagle?’ cried Mr.

Vandewater.

‘I tried to find him at his lodgings,’ said the man, ‘but he had not

been at home all night, I was told.’

At this moment Brown, Mr. V’s partner, entered, and expressed great

surprise at the fact of the money being in the store of which he had not

been informed. ‘’Tis very remarkable that Monteagle should be out all

night, the very time of the robbery. Was Monteagle aware of it being

concealed in the barrels, and placed in the store?’ continued Brown

interrogatively, to Vandewater.

‘He is the only person to whom I entrusted the matter. As it was funds

with which the firm had nothing to do, I did not deem it necessary to

trouble you about the affair. Indeed, it was Monteagle that suggested

the mode and place of concealing the money,’ said Mr. Vandewater.

‘Why this is the most remarkable set of coincidences I ever heard of. A

letter addressed to him, evidently brought by that fellow who afterwards

stabbed a man—he proposes a way and place of hiding the money—the money

is stolen, and on the very night of its being taken, he, Monteagle, is

absent all night. Yet, he _may_ clear himself,’ said Brown.

‘It is too clear,’ said Mr. Vandewater sorrowfully. ‘I would have

trusted that youth with my life, and feel at this moment far less regret

for the loss of the money than losing all faith in the integrity of my

fellow-men.’

‘We have both, I fear, been greatly deceived in Monteagle. Within the

last few days I have heard that he gambled heavily, and was in the

constant habit of visiting houses of ill-fame,’ remarked Brown.

‘Well, what steps had we best take in regard to this unfortunate

affair,’ said the merchant.

‘There are suspicious circumstances sufficient to warrant the arrest of

Monteagle,’ replied Brown.

‘No—no—I cannot think of that.—He has been misled by others, and though

I never wish to employ, or even see him again, I would not wish him to

be arrested. So justly indignant are the citizens at the numerous

robberies and fires that have lately taken place, that his conviction

would be closely followed by his execution. The respectability of his

position would be no bar to this, for the Vigilance Committee have

determined to make an example of the first man that is fairly proven

guilty.’

‘Be it as you will, sir,’ said Brown, inwardly congratulating himself

that in this manner all inquiry would be stopped with respect to the

robbery.

‘Let nothing more be said about this unfortunate affair, Mr. Brown. Let

the store-keepers version pass as the true one—that thieves finding no

booty in the store, departed after destroying some of the goods which

were of too little value for them to remove.’

Leaving Mr. Vandewater to make arrangements for replacing the stolen

money, let us return to Monteagle, who, the reader will recollect, we

left safe on the beach after his escape from the cavern of the robbers.

It was with the greatest difficulty, that he continued to drag his

wearied limbs along over the hills and through the valleys that lay

between him and the city, and it was late in the morning before he

appeared at the counting house of his employer, who was conversing with

his partner at the moment.

‘And this you think is Monteagle’s cap,’ said Vandewater.

‘I know it to be his, and saw it on his head last evening, as he passed

up Pacific street,’ responded Brown.

‘Ah, yes—yes. Too true—too true! Here are his initials, under the

lining, in his own writing. This destroys my last hope of his innocence.

And you say it was found close by the hole by which the robbers effected

an entrance to the store.’

‘Yes; it was handed me by the storekeeper. It was evidently dropped in

the hurry and forgotten when too late. But here is the young gentleman

himself,’ said Brown, not a little surprised and alarmed at the

appearance of Monteagle, whom he had supposed safely secured in the

cavern.

‘Mr. Monteagle,’ said Vandewater, in a stern voice, slightly tremulous,

however, with regret, ‘Your services are no longer needed in this

establishment, nor do I ever wish you to tread upon the threshold of my

house again. Great God! what an escape poor Julia has had. It was to

this man I wished to entrust the keeping of your happiness!’

Before Monteagle could recover from his surprise, Brown broke in: ‘But

perhaps, after all, Mr. Monteagle will explain from whom he received the

note the other day, and what was the nature of the appointment it made.’

Monteagle blushed, hesitated, stammered but knew not how to

reply.—‘This, then,’ thought he, ‘is the cause of my dismissal. Mr.

Vandewater has learned of my associating with wantons, and justly

dismisses me from his confidence.’

Meanwhile, Mr. Vandewater who had been closely watching him, and with

sorrow saw what he supposed were convincing evidences of Monteagle’s

complicity in the robbery. Not giving the youth time to recover from his

confusion, he waved him out of his office with a cool, haughty gesture,

which roused Monteagle’s pride, as he thought that he was not worse than

thousands of other young men. And this feeling of hurt pride was greatly

increased as he reflected upon the manner in which he had suffered, the

previous evening, all but death sooner than divulge the secret of this

man who now treated him so ungenerously. Turning upon his heel he slowly

withdrew from the office, and wended his way to his lodging.

--------------

CHAPTER XI

How Joaquin became a Robber.

It was one of the loveliest mornings of the loveliest of seasons in

California—early summer—when two equestrians might have been seen

cantering over a level plain not far from San Jose.

‘Surely, Joaquin, this is the sweetest country upon earth, and we the

happiest people in it,’ said one of the riders, a young girl of some

seventeen summers. As she spoke the glance of her dark lustrous eyes

rested lovingly upon the face of the noble-looking man that rode beside

her, and whose passionate gaze of admiration told how ardently he loved,

nay, worshipped his beautiful companion.—And worthy, right worthy was

she of all the love of his passionate nature; for seldom has a more

bewitching form graced the earth with its presence, than that of

Carmencitto; who had but a few days before become the wife of the youth.

Joaquin was the proprietor of a small ranch, a portion of which they

were now riding over. He was gifted by nature with a muscular form, and

was reputed to be the most daring rider, and the most skilful herdsman

in the country. Carmencitto was the daughter of a wealthy Californian,

and had been engaged to Joaquin from childhood.

‘You say truly, dearest,’ replied the horseman. ‘Ours is a goodly land,

and it needed not that its rivers should roll over sands of gold to make

us love it.’

They were just passing a clump of dense shrubbery as he spoke, and

hardly had the last word left his lips ere his spirited steed reared,

and had he not been a matchless rider, he must have been hurled headlong

from the saddle. As it was, before he fully recovered his seat, a lariat

was thrown over his head, and his arms firmly secured to his side. While

two men, armed with revolvers, held his horse firmly by the reins—their

weapons pointed at his breast.

‘Make a single attempt to escape, and we’ll riddle your carcase with

bullets,’ shouted one of his assailants.

‘Shoot the d—d greaser, at once’t,’ cried a low-browed, villainous

looking fellow.

‘Curse the yellar skinned devil, I believe he’s glued to the saddle,’

said the first speaker as he tried in vain to pull Joaquin from his

seat, the latter meanwhile urging his horse forward but in vain, so

firmly was he held by the man who had seized his horse by the head.

The assault had been so unexpected that for a brief instant the young

Californian had forgotten Carmencitto, but now a wild piercing shriek

recalled her to his mind, and turning round he beheld her dragged from

her horse to the earth. His arms were bound, but his feet were at

liberty, and he dashed his heavy boots into the face of the men who held

his steed. But the same moment a brace of bullets whizzed through the

air, and after a few convulsive clutches the young man fell heavily to

the earth.

Leaving him, where he had fallen, the men rushed to the assistance of

the fellow who had dragged the lady from her steed.

‘For God’s sake, gentlemen, don’t kill Joaquin. He has never injured

you.’

‘Don’t fret, honey, ’tisn’t Joe Quin we’re after. ‘Tis your own elegant

self,’ said one of the ruffians.

‘So, you d—d stuck-up thing, you wouldn’t dance with me at your

outlandish fandango, the other night. Now, my lady, you shall dance to

other music;’ and as he spoke he seized her brutally, and inflicted

several fierce kisses upon her reluctant lips. Fired by her charms and

her resistance, the villain was proceeding to further outrage, when, all

her woman’s nature flashing from her indignant eyes, she drew a small

thin-bladed stiletto, and sent its bright blade straight to the heart of

the ravisher. For a moment, and but for a moment, the villains were

appalled at this prompt and terrible retribution. But even the thought

of their guilty comrade hurried out of the world in the very act of

perpetrating the most heinous offence, could not make them pause in

their infernal intentions, for seizing the hapless woman, now become

insensible, they bore her into a clump of bushes from which they had

sprung upon Joaquin and his bride.

Hours after, when Joaquin returned to consciousness, he found himself

bound hand and foot, with strips of green hide. His horse and that of

Carmencitto both gone.

Joaquin’s first impulse was to call aloud upon the name of his young

wife. But all was silent. ‘Holy Virgin!’ he exclaimed, as recollection

began fully to return to him. ‘Where art thou, Carmencitto?’ he shouted.

A low, faint moaning was heard in the neighboring shrubbery. Again, and

again, the wretched youth called loudly on Carmencitto. But the only

replies he received were the faint moanings, which his foreboding heart,

rather than his ear, told him came from the lips of Carmencitto. His

suspense became insupportable. He would—he must—learn all. Even though

that all confirmed a horrid suspicion that chilled the blood to his very

heart.

With the fierceness of a starving coyote he gnawed the green hide that

confined his arms, and they once released he soon entirely disengaged

himself. He sprang to his feet, and rushed in the direction from whence

the sounds of distress proceeded. Better had he been smitten with

eternal blindness than ever have gazed upon that sad, sad spectacle.

Carmencitto lay almost senseless upon the grass. Her modest garments

torn to shreds, exposed her fair young bosom, slowly heaving, as if with

the latest sobs of expiring life. Her cheeks were colorless. Her lips

white as chalk, except where they were dabbled with the crimson blood,

that was slowly oozing at every respiration of her heaving breast! In

one of her little pale hands she clutched a small gold crucifix, which

the villains had overlooked in their lust or haste.

As Joaquin burst through the thicket and stood before her, the closed

lids of her black eyes slowly opened, and she cast one look full of love

and sorrow upon her heart-broken husband.

Tearing his black locks he flung himself on his knees by her side, and

tenderly raising her, he pressed her to his heart and while he wiped the

blood from her lips, his tears fell thick and fast upon her upturned

face.

‘Speak to me, oh! speak to me, Carmencitto. My life! My love! Speak! Oh,

God, what have I done to deserve this? Speak, dearest Carmencitto,’ and

he pressed the form of his young wife again and again close to his

heart. But no reply came from those dear lips.

Near at hand ran a babbling rivulet. To this Joaquin rushed, and

scooping out some water in the hollow of his joined hands, laved with it

the face of Carmencitto. But all in vain. Life had forever left that

darling form, dearer to him than all the gold that strews the placers of

his native land.

When Joaquin became certain that she was indeed dead, his grief at first

found vent in the most pathetic lamentations; but suddenly pausing, he

dashed the teardrops from his eyes, and drawing a dagger from its

sheath, he swore upon its cross-hilt eternal vengeance on the ravishers

and murderers of his Carmencitto.

Then decently arranging her disordered garments, he lifted her sacred

form in his arms, and bore it to his home—henceforth forever desolate.

From the hour in which he saw the rude tomb raised over the ashes of his

murdered wife, Joaquin left forever the home that promised to be such a

happy one, and went forth an altered man. The crucifix of poor

Carmencitto _on_ his heart—revenge rankling in it.

From that time strange rumors began to circulate through California of

daring robberies and frequent murders, and although no proofs of the

guilty party could be obtained; yet when men spoke of them their pale

lips almost involuntarily muttered ‘_Joaquin!_’

When Inez returned to her father’s residence at the Mission, her first

resolve was to acquaint her parent with the circumstances, but she found

that he had been hastily summoned to a place at some distance, in

consequence of a dispute between one of his tenants and a squatter.

Joaquin, whose advice she asked, recommended that she should wait the

coming of morning, when if Monteagle was not liberated, the authorities

should be informed of the matter, and by their interference his

liberation would no doubt easily be effected. But Joaquin had his own

private reasons for not visiting the city.

In the morning Inez accordingly rode to the city, and almost the first

person she passed was Monteagle, who was just then repairing to the

store of Mr. Vandewater. Of course there was no occasion for Inez to

interfere farther in the matter. Her first impulse was to ride up to him

and congratulate him on his escape, but maidenly pride checked her, and

she proceeded on, leaving Monteagle in entire ignorance of the deep

interest she felt in his fortunes, and of the efforts she had made to

rescue him the previous evening.

Monteagle, meanwhile, sought his home to take a few hours rest, for both

mind and body were terribly racked by the sufferings he had undergone.

The day after the robbery of Mr. Vandewater’s store, a group of some

half-dozen men were assembled around a fine fire kindled on the ground,

in the midst of a dense thicket, at the foot of the mountains, on the

Contra Costa side of the Bay of San Francisco.

‘He’s a daring young devil, and with pluck, quickness, and a little

science, I’m d—d if I don’t think he could whip any thing of his weight

in the world.’

This remark was made by Belcher Kay to Blodget, as Maretzo, who was one

of the party, finished narration of Monteagle’s assault upon him, and

his consequent escape.

‘Curse his pluck, and your science Belcher. If ever I draw trigger on

either of you all your science wouldn’t save you from a quick trip to

‘kingdom come.’ But, the deuce take it, I dare not show my face in the

city; for Monteagle will surely denounce me to that devilish Vigilance

Committee, and then my fun’s up,’ said Blodget.

‘Well, old fellow,’ said Kay, ‘I’ll see that you’re well supplied with

everything needful, till this thing blows over. You stay out here and

make yourself comfortable. If we could only get this Monteagle out of

the way, all would go right. For from what Maretzo learned in the city,

none of us are suspected except you, and you only because you kept

Monteagle’s company. Well, if that ain’t a good ’un, I’m blowed,’

continued Belcher Kay, laughing heartily at the idea of Monteagle’s

leading Blodget astray.

‘I am this Monteagle’s debtor for that blow he gave me,’ said Maretzo,

and his dark eyes flashed with vindictive hate. ‘I’ll get him out of the

way.’

‘Have a care, Maretzo, that knife of yours will bring us all into

trouble some of those days,’ said Blodget.

‘This time it will not be the knife, but something even surer still,’

and as he spoke, he exhibited a small bottle. ‘A drop from this vial,

and his tongue will never harm us again.’

‘Well,’ said Kay. ‘We’ll think over this matter. But just now let’s

split the swag.’

And forthwith the thieves proceeded to apportion out the thirty thousand

dollars equitably between them, not forgetting a share for some who were

absent but who belonged to the gang, and were entitled by their rules to

a share of the plunder obtained in the course of their marauding

expeditions.

For some days after Monteagle’s dismissal he was too unwell to leave the

house, but when he was sufficiently recovered to walk the street, he was

surprised to find that all his former friends and associates either

passed him with a slight nod of recognition, or gave him the cut direct.

He was entirely at a loss to account for their conduct. Being out of a

situation was not such an unusual thing in San Francisco, as to make a

man’s friends shun him. Nor could it be the fear that he might be

transformed from a lender to a borrower, for no where are men more ready

to assist a friend or even a stranger than in this country. Monteagle

was not aware that from certain vague hints which Brown contrived to set

afloat respecting the robbery that Monteagle’s name was in some manner

mixed up in the affair. The very indefiniteness of the rumor being the

reason of its never reaching Monteagle’s ear.

So that he who was most deeply interested in it, was almost the only one

in the whole city who had not heard of the accusation. Of course his

sudden dismissal from Mr. Vandewater’s employ gave an appearance of

truth to the story, which was more strongly confirmed by Vandewater’s

declining to assign any cause for Monteagle’s dismissal when questioned

on the subject.

Monteagle, whose generous disposition but little fitted him for hoarding

money, was now by his sudden and unexpected loss of employment thrown

entirely destitute on the world.

At first he resolved to depart immediately for the mines. Reflection

however made him abandon this purpose. As he was hourly in expectation

of a letter of credit from his home in the Atlantic States, which would

place him in possession of ample funds, with which it had been his

intention to buy a share of Mr. Vandewater’s business.

There was another and far more powerful motive, however, that prevailed

upon the young man to refrain from leaving San Francisco. In the hurry

of business as in the allurements of pleasure one form was ever present

with him. Need we say it was that of the lovely maiden whom he had borne

in his arms from the devouring flames.

Although he avoided meeting Inez Castro, and her father, it was not that

he did not ardently wish to meet with her; but his delicacy shrank from

seeming to take advantage of the fact that he had conferred so great an

obligation on them, and he feared that gratitude would induce Inez to

betray a preference for him which he would fain owe to love alone.

One evening soon after Monteagle’s discharge from employment, and after

all attempts to procure a situation had proved futile, he wandered about

the streets in that sad, dejected mood which comes over one, when

friendless and moneyless in a great city.

Following a large crowd, he found himself in an extensive bookstore

adjoining the Post Office. This was the general rendezvous of merchants,

and others, while awaiting the tardy operations of Uncle Sam’s

officials. Huge stacks of daily, weekly, and ‘California edition’ papers

were rapidly disappearing in supplying the clamorous demands of the

eager throng anxious to hear from ‘the old folks at home.’

Monteagle moved among them like a perfect stranger. He felt as though a

brand was upon him; but the reason was to him a perfect mystery. Every

eye, however open and direct its glance for others, became cold and

averted when it met his.

He was about turning to leave the store, his sad feeling legibly

expressed on his fine features, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder

and turning quickly he confronted Mr. G—, one of the proprietors.

‘Ah, good night, Monteagle. Here’s your Herald, and the rest of your

papers.’

‘Thank you, Mr. G—, but,’ and Monteagle lowered his tone, while his

cheek was flushed, ‘I’ll come in again—in fact—I’m penniless.’

‘Never mind that,’ replied the bookseller. ‘Here take the papers,’ and

as he spoke, he slipped a twenty dollar piece into his hand.

‘Thank you—thank you,’ cried the grateful youth. ‘I expect a remittance

from home to-morrow, and then I will repay you.’

But had Monteagle seen the expression of the bookseller’s manly face, he

would have known that he was repaid already. His own noble heart

approved the generous, and with him by no means unusual act.

On the morning succeeding, Monteagle had early taken his place in the

Post Office line, (as extensive as that of Banquo’s issue which flitted

before the eyes of the Scottish regicide,) awaiting the delivery of

their letters.

This line is one of the most singular sights in the world, composed not

only of representatives from every section of our own country, but from

almost every nation on the face of the globe.

Monteagle was disappointed. There was no letter for him.

Only those who have been thousands and thousands of miles away from

home, can understand the full effect of this crushing disappointment.

Instantly the mind conjures up many dismal reasons as the cause of the

non-arrival of the expected letters. What can be the matter?—Have our

friends forgotten us, has sickness wasted the hand that used to seize

the pen with such avidity to tell us all the warm feelings the writers

entertained for us? Or has death forever stilled the beatings of those

hearts we dearly loved?

Months we know must elapse ere these questions can have a response, and

in the meanwhile we must experience all the bitterness of hope deferred.

Monteagle left the Office almost envying the lucky ones who were tearing

the envelopes from the missives they had received and with eager eyes

scanning the lines. But could Monteagle have narrowly watched the

different readers, he would have seen that in the majority of instances

the letters brought news that had better never reached the recipients.

Here a splendid looking fellow, the very embodiment of manly beauty,

read a letter that informed him that the girl, in hopes of wedding whom

he had left home to win a fortune in California, had been married to a

man with no other recommendation than a hundred thousand dollars. There

might be seen a stalwart man, his rough cheek blanched and the tears

gushing from his eyes, as he read that his only daughter—the cherished

idol of his affections, had gone to the narrow house, appointed for all

the living. But we need not pursue the theme, any one who has noticed

attentively the ‘line’ we speak of has seen matter for much and

melancholy meditation, even if he has been fortunate enough to

experience none of those bitter disappointments himself.

Belcher Kay and his fellow-rogues soon expended the money they obtained

by the robbery of Vandewater’s store in riotous living. So a new crime

was determined on.

But it was necessary that he should be quick in his plans, for his means

were daily becoming more limited, and he was well aware that success

depended in a great measure upon promptitude. But what was he to do when

his pecuniary resources were entirely exhausted.

This was a troublesome thought, and one which he was unable for some

time to answer satisfactorily in his own mind. Money he must have by

some means or another, or he would not have it in his power to carry on

his nefarious projects with any chance of success, and the bare idea of

being reduced to poverty, after the life of indolence, luxury, and

extravagance he had led, made the villain shrink with dread. No—no—such

a fate must not be his, and he determined to avoid it, even if the means

he should have to adopt in doing so, he should have been compelled to

adopt the most desperate and dangerous schemes.

From any crime, however revolting, it might be, it has been very clearly

shewn to the reader that Kay would not shrink; and, after deliberating

for a short time within himself what was next to be done, he at last

came to the determination of going for a few nights on the highway, and

thus trying his fortune. If in adopting this guilty resolution, the

villain should have to perpetrate murder, he would not have foreborne to

do it, sooner than he would have been disappointed of his object.

Accordingly, on the following night, after he had come to this

resolution, Kay, well armed, secretly quitted the hotel where he was

lodging, and took his way to a lonely road, that led to the Mission,

which was, notwithstanding, much frequented. Here he secreted himself,

and eagerly watched the approach of some traveller who might possess the

means about him of satisfying his wants.

Belcher had taken good care to strengthen his determination by drinking

deeply, before he started on his guilty purpose, and he now felt fully

prepared for whatever might happen. Money he had made up his mind he

would have at all hazards, and therefore it was not a trifle that was at

all likely to move him from his purpose.

The place which Kay had chosen to conceal himself, was just at the

entrance of a dark and dismal lane, which branched off the road, and was

a very convenient place for the perpetration of a deed like that he

contemplated.

Here then he seated himself upon the ground, where he could have a

distinct view of the road for some distance, and every person that

approached.

It was a very fine night; the moon shone brightly in the heavenly arch,

and countless myriads of stars added their twinkling lustre to her

radiant beams.

Kay sat there for some time in a state of apathy, his thoughts wandered

to no particular objects, but still his mind intent upon the desperate

crime he had resolved to perpetrate if the opportunity should be

afforded him.

At last, however, becoming impatient, and feeling rather cold, for the

night air was keen, he arose, and walked for some distance along the

road, taking care to keep close to the bushes, that separated it from

the adjoining fields, and where he was less likely to be observed.

In the course of a conversation which Belcher had overheard between the

landlord of the hotel and his wife after they had retired to bed, (for

they slept in the next chamber to him, and the rooms only being parted

by a very slight partition of canvas, he could hear every word they

uttered,) he had learnt that a drover, who invariably called at their

house, and who usually had a large sum of money about him, was expected

there that day, and he was also enabled to ascertain that this was the

road he always came; but he could not think of making an attempt to

commit a robbery in the open daylight, and when his detection would be

almost certain to follow, and thus his nefarious wishes would be foiled.

But then, as he understood that the drover usually slept at the hotel,

the villain thought there might still be a chance left of his being

enabled to rob him in the night.

This, however, would be attended with considerable danger, for suspicion

would, in all probability, light upon him, and should he abandon the

place, it would, undoubtedly, be a direct confirmation of his guilt, and

would put him to great inconvenience in having to quit the neighborhood.

Reflecting therefore, in this manner, Kay was constrained to give up all

thoughts of plundering the drover, although it was with much reluctance

that he did so, for he had no doubt but that he should from him have

been sure to have got a very rich booty.

The day which succeeded the night on which Kay had overheard the

conversation we have spoken of, was passed by him in a state of great

agitation and uncertainty, and at one time he would determine upon some

daring scheme, which the next moment would make him abandon all idea of.

The drover, however, did not come to the house that day, but Kay

gathered from the conversation of his host, that he would sure to be

there that night, so that he might be in time for the market on the

following morning. Kay caught at this information, and his hopes once

more revived; he resolved to lay wait for him, and make a desperate

attempt to rob him as he had at first designed.

Kay was no coward, as that which has been already related, will fully

prove, and he was, therefore, prepared for any resistance which his

marked victim might make, and he had made up his mind not to be defeated

easily. But from what he could learn, the drover was an old man, and one

who was not very likely to offer much resistance, especially when he saw

that the individual who attacked him was well armed, and a determined

man, and, therefore, Kay calculated that his success was almost certain.

He had taken the precaution to provide himself with a mask and poncho,

so that he might be fully enabled to disguise himself, and these were

the more indispensable for the villain’s safety, as he intended to

return to the hotel after the perpetration of the robbery.

Impatient and gloomy, Kay continued to traverse the road for some time,

but still he saw no signs of the traveller or of any other person, and

he began to despair. The place was sufficiently quiet and lonely to

inspire no very pleasant reflections in the mind of Kay, and so rapidly

did they crowd upon his brain, that he had not strength to endure them,

and he almost made up his mind to abandon his villainous project, and

return to the hotel to seek that society which might alone banish such

fearful thoughts.

At length the solemn booming of the Mission bell vibrated on the air,

tolling the hour of ten, and Kay, whose patience was now quite tired

out, and whose disappointment could only be equalled by chagrin,

resolved to wait no longer but to return to the hotel.

He had just turned round for that purpose, when the low trampling of

horses’ hoofs, at a distance, arrested his purpose and rekindled his

hopes.

The sounds proceeded from behind him, and looking eagerly along the road

as far as his eyes could penetrate, at first he could not perceive

anything, but at length he beheld a horse trotting slowly along the

road, in the direction of the place where he was standing, and bearing

on his back a person who he was unable at present, to observe,

distinctly.

‘It must be him!’ muttered Kay to himself, and hope once more elated and

nerved him. His mind was fully made up; he would have all the money the

grazier had about him, even, if to obtain it he had to embrue his hands

in his blood.

Quickly the miscreant glided cautiously along the darkest and most

overshadowed part of the road, and he once more reached the entrance to

the lane which the traveller must pass; and which appeared to him to be

the most convenient spot for the perpetration of the deed.

‘But—but—’muttered Kay, ‘I will not harm him—no—no—I will not harm him,

if I can avoid it! I do not want his blood, but his money, it will be

his own fault should he lose his life.’

Nearer and nearer the rider approached, and at length he had got to

within a very short distance of the place where Kay was concealed, and

by the bright light of the moon, he was enabled to have a distinct view

of his person.

He was a thickset man, about sixty, and carried with him a short whip

with a very heavy handle. He was whistling merrily along the road,

apparently, quite happy and unsuspicious of any danger, and what Kay

could perceive of his features, he looked like a man who was not likely

to be easily intimidated. Again he muttered to himself,—

‘I hope he will resign his money easily; I hope he will not make any

resistance; I would not have his blood upon my conscience, but his money

_I will_ have.’

The man had now got to within a very short distance of the lane, and Kay

had no doubt from the description which had been given of him, that this

was the grazier.

He clenched his fist nervously, and involuntarily placed his other hand

on one of the pistols which he carried with him.

‘I will let him pass me,’ thought Kay, ‘I will let him pass me before I

pounce out upon him, and then I shall take him more by surprise, and he

will be less likely to offer any resistance.’

The traveller had now left off whistling, and had broke into a negro

melody, which he sang in self-satisfied tones, but which were anything

but harmonious.

‘Your money or your life!’ cried Kay in a disguised voice, rushing up to

the traveller, from his place of concealment, and laying hold of the

horse’s bridle.

The old man, was of course, rather startled, but he collected himself in

a moment, and with the utmost coolness, said:—

‘I tells thee what it is, young man, you’re on a bad errand, and I

advise you let go the bridle, and go about your business, before harm

come to you.’

‘There, there, no nonsense,’ replied Kay, in an impatient tone; ‘I am a

desperate man and must have money.’

‘D—n you, you are a daring rascal,’ cried the traveller, ‘let go of the

bridle, or it may not be long ere I make you repent thy job. Leave go of

the bridle, I again tell you! You won’t, then, d—n me, if I don’t soon

make you, and that’s all about it.’

With these words the traveller flourished his heavy whip, and aimed a

blow at the head of Kay with the butt-end of it, which if he had not

stepped quickly aside and avoided would, in all probability have

deprived him immediately of farther power.

‘Old idiot!’ cried the enraged ruffian, ‘you will urge me to that which

I would rather avoid; will you deliver up your money, I say, once more?’

‘No,’ promptly replied the old man; ‘I’ll see you d—d first, and all

such scoundrels.’

‘Then, by h—ll! you will have to pay for your obstinacy with your life!’

cried Kay, hastily groping about beneath his poncho to get out one of

the pistols.

The old man immediately guessed at what he was about, and sprang from

his horse’s back with the agility of a youth, and the moment that Kay

got out his pistol, and before he could cock it, he closed with him, and

being a strong, powerful man, the struggle threatened to be a determined

one.

Kay, however, was wound up to a pitch of desperation, for it was a

moment of life or death, and he was taken somewhat by surprise, as, from

the age of the traveller, he had not expected such an antagonist.

Kay was a very muscular man, and had youth on his side, and he, of

course, mustered up all his strength for this occasion, and endeavoured

to get his hands at liberty; but the old man had pinned them with such

an iron grip, that all his efforts were ineffectual, and maledictions

the most terrible escaped his lips, as the danger of his situation

became every instant greater; for, as his strength decreased, so did

that of the traveller appear to increase, and he expected nothing less

that he must be overpowered.

The struggle lasted several minutes, the traveller having pinched the

hands of Kay so tightly, that he was compelled to drop the pistol to the

ground, and which the former was afraid to secure, for fear that, in

resigning his hold of the robber, he should lose the advantage he had

gained. But at length the foot of Kay caught in something on the ground,

and he fell, dragging the old man with him.

Fortunately, the traveller did not fall upon him, or his weight would

have quickly decided the combat, and Kay would have been defeated, but

he fell by his side, and consequently was obliged to leave go his hold;

and Kay, seeing the moment of advantage, and probably the only

opportunity of saving his life, jumped to his feet with the speed of

lightning, and snatching the pistol from his bosom, he sprang upon the

old man, knelt upon his chest,—he pressed the fingers of his other hand

tightly in his throat until the old man was nearly strangled, he

presented the pistol at his head as he exclaimed—

‘You deserve to lose your life for your infernal obstinacy, and it is at

this moment in my power; but I do not wish to harm you if I can help it.

Now, then, your money.’

The old man who was quite overpowered by the pressure on his chest, and

the violence with which Kay pressed his knuckles into his throat, he

tried to speak, but could only make a sign to his coat-pocket, which Kay

understanding, released the old man from the hold which he had taken of

his throat; and, putting his hand into his pocket, to which he had

directed his attention, he drew forth a canvas bag apparently well

loaded, and depositing it carefully in his bosom, he secured both the

pistols, and, rising from the ground, he said to the still prostrate

traveller—

‘Beware! you see that I have all the power of your life or death in my

hands; if you move a step to pursue me, until I am out of sight, that

instant you die!’

The old man did not make any reply, for he had not yet recovered from

the effects of the combat, and was unable to utter a word; and Kay,

having satisfied himself that he had secured all the money in his

possession, hastily retreated from the spot, and springing into the

fields, threw away the poncho, and made the best of his way towards the

hotel, which he reached in an almost inconceivable short space of time,

and, without betraying any emotion, entered the bar, as was his usual

custom, and taking his seat called for a mug of ale.

He had not been there long, when he heard a loud shouting and hallooing

outside the house, and he immediately recognized the tones.

‘Why,’ said the landlord, laying down his pipe, ‘that certainly is the

voice of a friend; what the deuce can be the matter with him?’

Kay felt a little alarmed; but he concealed his agitation, and continued

with apparent unconcern, to smoke his pipe, and to be completely

absorbed in the enjoyment of that and his ale. He would have been glad

to have retired to his chamber, so that he might have escaped all

observation, but he was fearful that he might, by so doing, probably

excite suspicion, and he therefore kept his seat and pretended to take

no notice of what was passing.

The landlord having hastened to the door of the house to meet his guest,

and to inquire what was the matter with him was quickly heard returning

accompanied by the old man, who was grumbling, and swearing all the way.

On entering the bar, the drover gazed round upon the different persons

there assembled, but appeared to take little notice of Kay, whose

assumed color, no doubt, removed every idea of his being the robber from

his mind.

‘He was a most desperate scoundrel, whoever he is,’ said the drover,

‘and I feel the effects of his d—d knuckles on my throat, now. I wish I

could only meet with the fellow, and I warrant me he’d not escape from

my clutches again, very easily.’

‘This is a bad job, a terrible bad job,’ said the landlord.

‘Aye, it is indeed a bad job,’ said the drover, ‘two thousand dollars is

no small sum to lose as times go.’

--------------

CHAPTER XII

The Ride—the Midnight Fright—the Corpse—The Secret Burial.

Kay took no part in the conversation which followed, the staple of which

consisted of denunciations of the scoundrels who infested the city of

San Francisco and its vicinity, perpetrating with impunity the most

daring robberies and even more atrocious offences.

Kay was slightly known to several of the ‘crowd’ who had been drawn to

the bar by rumors respecting the robbery, and as Kay sauntered out of

the room one of these persons whispered a few words to the drover, who

turned and closely scrutinized the robber’s person. Kay bore his fixed

gaze apparently unmoved. But he inwardly determined that the drover

should never bear witness against him!

A few evenings after this robbery, Inez had taken a long ride, and on

her return was overtaken by a sudden and violent storm. She immediately

put her horse to the run. Inez was too much accustomed to heavy rains

and violent storms of wind to be much alarmed, as she knew her fleet

steed would soon bear her home in safety. But scarcely had our heroine

proceeded a couple of hundred varas when her horse fell heavily.

Fortunately, however, Inez was but little injured. Her horse she soon

discovered was unable to rise. Of course no alternative was left her but

to proceed homewards on foot.

Notwithstanding, however, she sought all that was in her power to

strengthen this idea, many doubts, fears, misgivings, and apprehensions

would steal into her bosom, and every blast of wind which howled around

her seemed to come fraught with the moanings of despair. She had

travelled about three miles from the place at which she had lost her

horse, and was upon a dreary waste, where there was nothing to protect

her from the fury of the blast and the fast falling rain which drifted

around her. It was a most awful spot, and in spite of her resistance to

fear, she felt the most indescribable sensation of horror creeping

through her veins.

‘Holy Mary!’ she exclaimed, ‘my weary and benumbed limbs will not

support me much further, and yet, if I pause, nothing but death stares

me in the face. How awful is the darkness around, and here am I placed

alone, and fated to endure all this toil and wretchedness. Could I but

hear the sound even of a human voice, methinks it would be transport to

my soul. This silence is appalling. Whenever I have had occasion to

cross this wild spot, I always felt the most irresistible terror; it is,

indeed, a fit place for the perpetration of the bloody crimes which

report says have been committed here, and I do not wonder that people

should shun it after nightfall in dread, my God! do not desert me in

this dreadful moment. Oh! I remember there is an old house not far from

this spot; could I but reach that, it would afford me shelter until my

recruited strength will enable me to proceed. The storm increases; what

will become of me? The rain falls faster than ever; I must proceed.

Protect me, heaven!’

Trembling in every limb, and her knees smiting each other, Inez forced

her way as well she was able, in the direction of the old house, which

she at length perceived at no great distance from her, and so completely

exhausted was she, that had she had to have proceeded many yards further

she must have sunk to the earth. It was an old building, broken in many

parts.

An old story gave the place a kind of fearful interest; and there was

one period when Inez would not have ventured within its precincts, but

now she thought nothing about it; she thought only of her weary and

exhausted state. She reached the wretched place, and found no

obstruction to her entrance, the door having long since been torn off

its hinges, and she, therefore, staggered into the place, and threw

herself, exhausted and breathless, upon a heap of rubbish in one corner,

to rest herself for a few minutes, ere she could see what was best to be

done for her accommodation for the night. The house was divided into two

compartments, and one of these was in much better condition than the

other. There, then, Inez determined to remain till daybreak; and

gathering together some pieces of old boarding which had fallen from

different parts of the building, and a heap of straw, which she found in

one corner, she retired into it, contrived to make herself up some kind

of a rude pallet, piled all the old rubbish she could find against the

door which opened into this division of the house, and then imploring

the protection of Heaven, she wrapped herself closely in her cloak, and

laid down.

Completely wearied out, it was not long ere she was about to sink off to

sleep, when she was suddenly alarmed and astonished by hearing a noise

outside the building, and soon after, a light glimmered between the

crevices, and the horror and amazement of Inez may be easily conjectured

when she caught a glimpse of the shadow of two men, bearing something

which seemed to be very heavy between them. They moved stealthily and

cautiously round by the side of the building towards the entrance, and

Inez had not the least doubt but that they were coming there; in another

second her conjectures were confirmed, and she heard them deposit their

burthen in the adjoining shed to that in which she was.

How shall we attempt to portray the terror of Inez at this circumstance?

She did not venture to breathe scarcely, and screwed herself into the

smallest possible compass in the corner, for fear that the men should

discover her there; but, from a small hole in the boards, she could

perceive what was passing.

‘My God!’ she thought, ‘what can be the purpose of these men? Certainly

no good, at such an hour.’

Inez placed her eye to the hole in the boarding, and perceived that they

were two powerful men, dressed in ponchos, and as the rays of the light

fell upon their countenances, she shuddered at their aspects.

They had placed the sack upon the floor, and began digging up the earth

with a couple of spades which they had brought with them. A deadly chill

fell upon the heart of Inez when she beheld this, and she could scarcely

repress a scream, as a dreadful idea shot through her brain.

‘Horror! horror!’ she reflected, ‘the wretches have surely been

committing murder, and have come hither to bury their unfortunate

victim.’

‘There, we shall soon be able to make a snug lodging for him,’ said one

of the villains, taking up a spade and preparing to begin to dig, ‘and

no one will ever know what has become of him. How nicely we gammoned the

old fool to take up his lodging with us.’

‘You’re right,’ said the other, ‘it was very well done, and I must give

you the credit of doing the best part towards it. If the friends of the

old drover look for his return home, how woefully deceived they will

be.’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed the first villain, ‘indeed they will. Well, we

have got a very tidy booty for this job.’

‘Yes, it will pay us for the trouble we have been at,’ was the answer;

‘but I’ll warrant that we shall circulate the blunt a little more freely

than the old fellow would have done. We must not be in the city many

days.’

‘As soon as the job’s over we will quit the spot,’ returned his

companion, ‘and it will be many a long day ere we shall revisit this

neighborhood again. We couldn’t have fixed a much better place than this

to deposit the old fellow’s remains in; but, I say, there is a door

yonder, which seems to lead to another part of the house; suppose we

examine that, and see whether it will serve better to conceal the body

of the murdered man in than this.’

‘Great God!’ thought Inez, ‘I am lost; they will discover and murder me.

By what horrible fatality were my footsteps guided to this place?’

‘Psha! what’s the use of talking in that manner, Kay?’ said the other

ruffian, to whom this proposition was addressed; ‘we have no time to

spare; besides, we have half dug the grave here, and I dare say the old

chap will lie as contented here as he would a foot or two off. Come,

come, let’s finish the business and begone, for I am almost tired of it,

and if we remain here much longer, there’s no knowing but that we might

be discovered.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Kay, as the other man had called him, ‘it matters

very little, so let’s go to work, and get done as quick as possible.’

‘I think we have given him depth enough,’ remarked the other wretch,

‘and he’ll not pop up again in a hurry by himself. Come, out with him,

and let’s finish the job at once.’

This, as may be imagined, was a moment of unutterable horror to our

heroine, who had watched the proceedings, and listened to the

conversation of the assassins with the most breathless attention; and a

shuddering seized upon her frame which she found it impossible to

resist.—It would, however, be useless to attempt to describe the relief

she felt when she heard the observations of the first ruffian, by which

he was persuaded from entering the place in which she was concealed; but

every moment that they prolonged their stay increased her terror and

anxiety, for fear that her infant should awake, and, crying loud, betray

her.

After having untied the mouth of the sack, they drew it nearer to the

edge of the grave they had been digging, and turned out the body of a

stout but aged man, whose long grey locks were matted together with

large clots of blood that had issued from several deep wounds in the

skull.

Horror enchained all the faculties of Inez, and with distended eyelids,

she fixed her straining eyeballs upon the dreadful spectacle.

Her blood seemed turned to ice, and her heart seemed almost to cease its

pulsation. Should the wretches find out that she was there concealed,

and had been watching them, and overheard the acknowledgement of their

dreadful crime, the death of herself would be certain to follow.

These reflections passed rapidly in the mind of Inez, as she watched, in

a state of the most breathless suspense, the actions of the murderers,

as they, in the most callous manner, tossed the body of their wretched

victim into the grave they had dug for its reception, and commenced

filling it up, occupying the interval during the disgusting scene, with

the most ribald conversation, which smote the heart of our heroine with

horror, as she listened to it.

‘There,’ exclaimed Kay, as he placed the last spade-full of earth on the

grave of their murdered victim, ‘that job’s finished, and a long and

sound rest to the old drover. The business has been performed throughout

in a tradesman-like manner, and no suspicion can ever attach itself to

us.’

‘Suspicion,’ reiterated the other with a laugh, ‘oh no, we might almost

as well imagine that somebody has been watching us all this time in this

lonely place, as to suppose that even the shadow of an idea of we being

the murderers of the old man could attach itself to us.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Kay, ‘your observation have started an idea in my head,

and, had you attended to my suggestion in the first instance, we should

have been secured from any danger of the sort.’

‘What mean you?’

‘What mean I:—why, that door, which, as I before observed, no doubt,

communicates with some other part of the house, and it is not at all

unlikely that some weary traveller may have taken up his lodging there,

or sought shelter from the storm, and been listening to our discourse

all this time. Should such be the case, we shall not go far without

falling into the hands of the Vigilance Committee, depend upon it. I’ll

examine the place.’

‘Bah! why, you are growing worse than a child, Kay,’ said the

miscreant’s companion, ‘I never heard such improbable ideas to strike a

fellow in all my life. Do you think any person could be within here all

this time without betraying some signs of terror?’

‘You may laugh at me as much as you like, Blodget,’ returned Kay, ‘but I

am generally pretty correct in what I fancy, and I don’t think I shall

be far out in this instance. Here goes for to see.’

We must fail here to portray the feelings of our heroine, as the

ruffian, Kay, approached the door, and tried it.

Such was the violence of her agitation, that cold drops of perspiration

stood upon her forehead, and it was only by a complete miracle that she

could prevent herself from screaming.

Kay tried hard to push the door open, and swore when he found the

obstruction; and at that moment, when Inez had nearly given herself up

for lost, some noise on the outside of the building, arrested the

attention of both the villains, and Kay immediately quitted the door,

much to the relief of our heroine.

‘Hist?’ muttered Blodget, in a cautious tone, ‘did you not hear a noise

outside, Belcher?’

‘I fancied I did,’ was the reply.

‘Extinguish the light,’ commanded the other, ‘and I will reconnoitre.’

Kay immediately did as his companion directed him, and Blodget

cautiously opened the door and looked out. As he did so, Inez could hear

that the storm had increased in violence, and immediately afterwards she

heard the voice of Blodget, observing,—

‘Oh, the coast is quite clear, as far as I can see, and, therefore, it

could only have been fancy; but, notwithstanding, Kay, I do not see the

policy of remaining here. We had much better, on the contrary, make our

escape as speedily as possible, while we have the opportunity; for,

should we be discovered here, and the fresh earth upon the new made

grave, we should be bowled out to a dead certainty. It’s madness to

suppose that anybody but ourselves have been here during the time we

have been performing the funeral obsequies for the old man. Come, come,

no more of this foolery, but travel’s the word.—’

And ‘travel’ was not only the word, but the action of the wretches, much

to the relief of our heroine, who had almost given her mind to despair;

and after a short time had elapsed since they had quitted the place, and

Inez, by attentive listening, had assured herself that they were not

near the spot, first, with eyes brimful of tears, having returned her

thanks to Providence for her deliverance from that death which she at

one time imagined inevitable, she removed the rubbish which she had

piled against the door, and left the place in which she had been

concealed.

What an inexpressible feeling of terror smote her breast, when she

passed the grave of the murdered man!—Her limbs trembled so violently

that it is surprising how she was enabled to support herself, and she

mentally offered up an involuntary prayer for the repose of his soul,

and that his barbarous assassins might be brought to punishment for

their inhuman violation of the laws. It was a second or two before she

ventured to quit the place, but having listened at the door, which the

ruffians had closed after them, and hearing no other sounds than those

caused by the fury of the storm, she ventured to open it and look forth.

The scene was awful enough, as a pitchy darkness obscured all around,

save when, at intervals, the flashes of lightning succeeded the

deafening thunder-peals. The rain also descended rapidly, and all around

presented a scene of the most appalling horror. But, awful as it was, to

Inez it presented not half the terrors of the old outhouse, which now

contained the mangled remains of the poor old man, whom the monsters had

buried.

Inez, trembling in every limb, left the place where she had witnessed

such horrors, and with difficulty made her way in what she judged to be

the direction of her father’s house. This she would never have had

strength to reach, had she not fortunately met with a party of her

father’s herdsmen, who had been sent out in quest of her. She was soon

after joined by her father, and being placed on a horse, arrived safely

at home, suffering greatly, however, in both body and mind from the

anguish she had experienced, and the terrible scenes that had been

enacted before her young eyes.

Leaving the maiden safely in the abode of her parent, we will now return

to Monteagle. Day after day, he had called at the Post Office, but the

same brief response ever met his inquiries,—‘None, sir.’ Disappointment

was working a sad change in his appearances, and his broken fortunes

were growing hourly more desperate.

As he was one day leaving the Post Office, and strolling down Clay

street, he overheard a person addressing another, thus: ‘Jake, you

needn’t go to the Post Office, up here, any more for letters. A couple

of cartloads have just been found down under Long Wharf; which it seems,

the Postmaster uses as a place of general delivery.’

Monteagle stayed to hear no more, but hastened to the place indicated.—A

great crowd was assembled, every member of which was justly indignant at

this infamous betrayal of trust in the Post Office officials, and while

some talked of carrying their complaints to Washington; others suggested

the rather less mild but somewhat more effective action of tying the

Postmaster up in one of his mail bags, and dumping him where he had

deposited their letters—in the Bay.

Monteagle sprang down beneath the wharf, the tide having fallen, and

left the sand bare. Here he found a large number of letters, and

newspapers: the directions of many being wholly or in part obliterated.

But among all that number, he could find none addressed to him. While he

was turning over the letters, he saw one addressed to a young lady, whom

he recollected as having been pointed out to him by Blodget when

visiting the house in Dupont street. She was called the ‘English Girl,’

and Monteagle remembered having been particularly struck by the lovely

though pensive expression of her fair face. He took the letter and

immediately proceeded to the house where she resided. As soon as the

usual greetings were over, the young lady opened the letter, but had

scarcely glanced at its contents before she fell heavily to the floor.

Monteagle summoned assistance, and after some time she was sufficiently

restored to converse with our hero; who deeply sympathised with her

evident distress. The poor girl, in answer to Monteagle’s inquiries,

gave him the following account of her previous history:

‘My father was a farmer, in comfortable circumstances, which he gained

by his own industry and exemplary conduct. I will not attempt to

describe him, for I should fail to do justice to his merits, eloquent,

doubtless, as my affection for him would make me. Let it suffice that he

was a man of superior education, having formerly moved in a different

state of life, from which he had been driven by a long series of

misfortunes, and his numerous virtues even by far exceeded his

accomplishments. My mother was a complete counterpart of her husband,

and never were two beings better formed to meet together. I was their

only daughter, myself and a brother being the only offspring they ever

had. Every indulgence that child could wish, or parent could think of,

was bestowed on me;—my every thought seemed to be studied by them, and

there was not a single happiness which they had it in their power to

grant, which they seemed to think too great for me.’

‘Our home was the happiest in the neighborhood, and it was the envy and

admiration of all who knew it. Again, when I think upon it, and how

different my situation is now, I cannot help giving vent to my feelings;

indeed, it is to indulge them that I have sat down to record the events

of my life, although, in all probability, no other eyes but mine may

ever behold it. Home, sweet home; there cannot be a theme upon which the

mind of sensibility pauses with more peculiar delight than this. It is

the cradle of our infancy and our age.’

‘The seaman, amidst storm and tempest, in fair weather and foul, thinks

of his native village; the soldier that fights for kings; the merchant

that dives for gain, are, alternately, stung with the thoughts of home;

while the wanderer, who has followed pleasure, but found it a shade—that

has bartered the humble content for splendid misery, thinks of home with

a self-accusing regret, that renders even a return to its enjoyments

full of bitterness and remorse. Sensibly do I feel the force of these

observations, and, therefore, have I digressed from my simple narrative

for the purpose of indulging in them.’

‘I will pass over the early part of my life, which was passed in almost

uninterrupted happiness, and come at once to that unfortunate

circumstance which was the cause of my indiscretion, and occasioned me

all that anguish I so severely felt afterwards.

‘An accident brought Captain Darian and his friend, the Earl Mansville,

to our house, from which the latter was unable to be removed for several

weeks. Alas! it was a fatal day for me; the earl was young, handsome,

insinuating, and the very first moment I beheld him, my heart felt a

sensation it never before had experienced, and too soon I was compelled

to acknowledge to myself that I had become deeply enamoured of him.

Fatal attachment! had I not been unpardonably thoughtless, I should at

once have seen the folly, the danger, the hopelessness of indulging, or

encouraging a passion for one so far above me, and who would, probably,

not feel for me a mutual sentiment, and have stifled it in its infancy.

But it was not to be: I was to be taught reason by dear-bought

experience. At length, the earl being restored to convalescence, quitted

our house, but I felt convinced it was with reluctance, and I noticed

the looks he fixed on me, with a sentiment of mingled delight and

astonishment. The glances he bestowed on me, were those of admiration—of

love! How my heart bounded at this idea, I need not tell; but, alas! it

should have been its greatest cause of anguish, and my pleasure was

greatly increased when I learned that Mansville having expressed his

delight at the neighborhood, had taken up his abode in it for a short

time; but Captain Darian had made his departure some days previous to

another part of the country. I frequently saw the earl, and he seemed

anxious to say something to me, but had not an opportunity, as I was

mostly in the presence of my parents; but I needed no interpretation of

his thoughts; my own sentiments fully elucidated them, and the warmth of

the glances he bestowed upon me. If it required anything to strengthen

the affection with which Mansville had inspired me, it was the amiable

character he soon acquired in the neighborhood, his chief pleasure

appearing to be the performing of acts of benevolence and philanthropy,

and the blessings of the poor were amply lavished upon him. Rash,

thoughtless, girl that I was. I should have made my parents acquainted

with the real state of my feelings, and sought their advice upon the

subject, but, for the first time in my life, I was anxious to conceal my

thoughts from them, and continued to encourage and strengthen those

passions which reason ought to have convinced me could never have been

requited by the object who had inspired me with them.

It was about a month after the Earl Mansville had quitted our house,

that I arose rather earlier one morning than was my usual custom,

induced by the fineness of the weather. I descended from my chamber, and

entered the garden, which was beautifully and tastefully arranged, and

in which, as well as my father and brother, I took much pleasure. My

attention, however, was particularly devoted to a rose tree, which I had

frequently heard the earl express his admiration of it while he was

remaining at our house. Could I but get him by any means to receive one

how happy should I have been. This day I had resolved to make my father

and mother a little present of some of these roses, which I knew they

would receive with more delight than the most costly gift, coming as

they did from me.

‘How sweetly my roses have opened,’ I soliloquized; ‘they seem to know

that they are destined to be gifts of affection, and to smile with the

delight I shall feel in bestowing them on those I love so dearly. So

this for my father, and this for my mother.’

I plucked two of the most beautiful, and had scarcely done so, when my

father entered from the house, and greeted me with his usual affection.

‘Ah, father,’ I exclaimed, ‘I have such a nice gift for you and my dear

mother.’

‘Indeed, my child,’ returned my father, smiling fondly on me.

‘Yes,’ replied I, placing one of those roses which I had plucked in his

hand, ‘there,—is there a painting in any mansion in the country half so

beautiful? What a name a painter would get who could only give a perfect

copy of these roses, and, you see, I give you the originals for

nothing.’

‘Dear girl, dear girl!’ ejaculated my father, his eyes glittering with

fondness.

‘And yet I do not give them to you for nothing, my dear father,’ I

added; ‘for you give me in exchange those sweet smiles of affection,

which are to me of more value than anything else in the world.’

‘Darling child,’ cried my father, raising his hand above his head, and

invoking a blessing upon me; ‘the look of affection will always reward

innocence.’

‘After having thus spoken he was about to depart, when I ran towards

him, saying:

‘What! leave us so soon, my dear father? Prithee stay till the air grows

cooler.’

‘My child,’ answered my affectionate parent, ‘these locks have withered

in the hot sun. I have passed many years in toiling for others, and have

never shrunk from its beams; and now, when it is partly for my darling

girl I toil, the balm and comfort of my life, I cannot feel fatigue, and

every drop that rolls down my weather-beaten forehead in such a cause,

makes my old heart the lighter.’

I threw myself once more into his arms, and he embraced me fervently,

after which he hastened away. As soon as he had gone, I was joined by my

mother, who, hearing my voice in the garden, had come to summon me to

the morning repast.’

‘So, my dear,’ she remarked, ‘old Mrs. Weston is likely to be better off

than ever; instead of being ruined by the burning of her cottage, the

Earl of Mansville is going to rebuild it at his own expense, and has

made her a handsome present into the bargain.’

At the mention of the earl’s name I blushed, and a sensation filled my

bosom which no other name could have excited.

‘Indeed, my mother,’ I observed, in reply to what she had stated; ‘bless

his kind heart! The whole village rings with his charities; and,

whenever I see him, my heart beats so.’

‘Ah, child,’ said my mother, ‘It is a very bad sign when a young girl’s

heart beats at the sight of a good-looking young man. When that happens,

she ought at once to get out of his way.’

I felt uncommonly confused, and know I must have blushed deeply.

‘Nay, my dear mother,’ I at length answered, ‘to me a warning is

superfluous; your daughter’s affections live in her home. Is it possible

she will find elsewhere what home will yield her?’

As I afterwards learned, the earl and one of his attendants had watched

the departure of my father, and at this moment the former descended from

the bridge, and approached towards us. I started at his presence, and

was much confused, especially as we had just before been talking about

him; but, putting on one of his most affable smiles, he said:—

‘Pray don’t rise. Don’t let me disconcert you. Is Mr. Heywood within?’

‘He is but this moment gone into the fields yonder, my lord,’ answered

my mother.

‘Indeed,’ said the earl, with apparent disappointment, ‘that is

unfortunate, I have just now urgent occasion to speak with him.’

‘Urgent occasion,’ repeated my mother, aside to me; ‘what can it be? My

lord, then I’ll hasten after him; pray have the goodness to wait one

moment.’

‘Nay,’ said Mansville, ‘I am ashamed to give you the trouble; but, being

of importance—’

‘I’ll make the best speed, and bring him to you immediately,’ returned

my mother, hastening away, and leaving me and the earl alone.

Scarcely had my mother disappeared, when the earl, fixing upon me a look

in which admiration and delight were blended, took my hand, and, in a

voice of rapture, exclaimed:—

‘Clara, beauteous Clara! behold before you one who loves you to

distraction.’

Although my own feelings and observations had prepared me for this

scene, I was so flurried and confused, that I could scarcely contain

myself. My bosom heaved—my heart palpitated. Crimson blushes, I am

certain, mantled my cheeks; but yet I was unable to withdraw my hand

from his hold, which he pressed vehemently to his lips and then

continued:—

‘Lovely Clara, pardon this abruptness; often have I longed for this

opportunity, but in vain; never before have I had it in my power to

declare how the first glance of that enchanting face—’

‘Oh, my lord,’ I faltered out, in tremulous accents, ‘I must not listen

to this—leave me, I beseech you.’

‘Leave you, angelic creature!’ replied the earl, emphatically, and still

retaining his hold of my hand; ‘leave you! oh, there is madness in the

bare thought! I cannot, I will not quit your presence till you have

uttered some word of consolation—blessed me with some ray of hope!’

‘I scarcely knew how to answer;—I could not behold the object of my

love, kneeling at my feet, and soliciting my sanction to his vows

unmoved; the cold dictates of prudence would have told me instantly to

give him a decisive answer, and to force myself from his presence, but

my heart pleaded against its rigid rules. The earl noticed my emotion,

and doubtless saw his triumph, for he continued in more fervent and

emboldened terms.

‘But surely the gentle Clara cannot be so cruel as to bid one who is her

devoted slave, despair? No—no—she will impart to him a hope—’

‘Hope, my lord,’ I interrupted, recollecting myself, and the remembrance

of my mother’s words, and my own assurance, rushing upon my mind; ‘I am

a poor girl, the daughter of an humble farmer, and have no right to

listen to a man like you. Even were I no longer the mistress of my

heart, I trust I am not yet so lost to principle, my lord, as to avow it

where it might not be confessed with honor.’

The earl arose from his knee, relinquished my hand, and walked away a

few paces in much apparent agitation; then suddenly returning, he said

in tones of mingled regret and reproach:—

‘Do you deem me capable of deception? Clara, it is to make you my wife,

to give you rank and title, that I came. One word of yours can give

splendor to the home you love, and make the heart that lives but in your

kindness, happy!’

As he spoke thus, his manner became more energetic, and I felt my heart

gradually yielding!—I trembled, and longed, yet dreaded the return of my

parents; while the earl seeing the hesitation of my manner, urged his

suit with redoubled determination.

‘Clara,’ he exclaimed, ‘there is not a moment to be lost!—Can you doubt

the sincerity of my protestations? Think you that I could be the base

villain to deceive one in whom my very soul, my existence is wrapped up.

Say but the blissful word; tell me that you will become my bride, the

empress of my heart and fortune;—give me this sweet assurance, and—’

‘Oh, my lord,’ I interrupted, in a state of confusion, and agitation, I

will not attempt to describe, ‘spare me, I implore you!—I—I—’ and unable

to finish the sentence, I turned away my head, and burst into tears. The

earl again seized my hand rapturously, and encouraged, by the emotion I

evinced, his countenance became lighted up with an expression of

delight, as he exclaimed—

‘Oh, blessed moment! those tears convince me that I am not hated by her

who hath taken possession of my whole affections. Blissful assurance!

Ere another morn, my Clara, my loved, my adored Clara, will be my

bride!—But time passes, we must away from this spot instantly.’

And the earl attempted to place his arm around my waist, but surprised

at his words and demeanour, I recoiled from him, and looking upon him

with astonishment, I demanded:—

‘My lord, what mean you?—Leave this place!—Why, wherefore?’

‘Nay, my dearest Clara,’ returned Mansville, ‘be not surprised, or

alarmed; my proposals are honorable; reasons of rank require that we

retire to my villa; our marriage must be secret and immediate or it may

be prevented. Once mine, I will lead you back in triumph.’

‘What,’ I exclaimed, ‘leave my parents in doubt, in misery?’

‘Banish these childish scruples,’ said the earl, ‘your parents will

applaud you when they know the truth. Come to a lover who adores you!

Come to the altar which will pour forth blessings on those who love so

dearly! Come, Clara, come!’

As the earl thus impatiently urged his suit, he attempted to lead me

towards the bridge;—I felt my resolution getting weaker—I trembled—and

could offer but a faint resistance.

‘Urge me no more, my lord,’ I cried, endeavouring to disengage myself

from him;—‘let me go—I dare not listen to you—farewell!’

‘Still inflexible,’ ejaculated the earl, turning away from me, with a

look of the most inexpressible anguish and despair, ‘then is my doom

sealed. I cannot, will not live without you, and thus I—’

While thus speaking, he snatched a pistol from his bosom, and presented

it towards his head! With a wild shriek of terror, I rushed into his

arms, and arrested his fatal purpose. Some spell, some horrid spell came

over me. I remember the last cloud of smoke curling over our ancient

trees.—I—I’ve no further recollection. When my senses were restored, and

reason was permitted again to resume its sway,—I found myself an inmate

of the earl’s villa, and far away from that home I had rendered

wretched. Oh, God, how dreadful, how agonizing were the thoughts that

first crossed my brain! I upbraided myself for a wretch unfit to live—as

one who had disgraced herself and destroyed the peace of the most

affectionate of parents for ever, and which ever way I turned, a curse

seemed to pursue me.

Mansville tried all his eloquence could effect to console me; renewed

his most tender asseverations, and repeated his promise to make me his

bride. Strange infatuations!—I believed him;—I became tranquil—and if

the thoughts of my parents and the name I had abandoned ever returned to

my memory, they were quickly banished by the soothings, and fond

protestations of the earl. Day after day passed away, and still he

promised, but failed to keep his word. My humble dress was now exchanged

for fashionable finery and Mansville visited me every day, repeating

each time with greater energy the vows of love with which he had at

first seduced from my home. Every luxury—every enjoyment that could be

wished was at my command; but could they yield me real happiness? Oh,

no. The splendour I was now placed in, was purchased with agony; and my

own feelings constantly reproached me for that offence of which I had

been guilty. Some fated spell must have been upon me, or I must have

soon been convinced that St. Clair was not sincere in his promises, or

he would not day after day evade the fulfilment of them. But it was my

fate dearly to purchase experience of my own weakness and of the earl’s

treachery. Several weeks elapsed in this manner, and still did the earl

neglect to fulfil the promises he had made me, while, at the same time,

the ardor of his passion seemed to increase, and the excuses he made for

delaying our nuptials, were so plausible, that I was deceived by them.

Alas! the woman whose heart has been sincerely attached to any

particular object, is made an easy dupe! Let me pass hastily over the

time, until the anniversary of the day of my birth, at once the height

of my misery, and the means of restoring me to reason and to peace. On

that occasion, Mansville had made the most extensive preparations, for

celebrating it in the most spirited manner. Numerous guests were invited

to the villa, and the peasants in the neighborhood were also permitted

to share in the rejoicings. Among other things, for my especial

entertainment, the earl had engaged a troop of itinerant players, who

were in the neighborhood, to perform a play in the grounds of the villa,

which deserves particular mention, as it was the means of restoring me

to reason, and saving me from that gulf of destruction, upon the brink

of which I stood.

Seldom had I felt so melancholy as I did on that occasion; home and all

its tranquil pleasures, came vividly to my recollection, and my heart

was heavy. There was a song which was a great favorite in the village

where I was born, and which described the pleasures of home in simple

yet forcible language, and as it now came fresh upon my recollection, I

could not help repeating the words. When I had concluded, I perceived

that Celia, my waiting-maid, had entered the room, and had apparently

been listening with much attention and admiration to me.

‘Bless me, Miss,’ said the loquacious girl, ‘what a pretty song that

was, and how prettily you sang it. Where might you have learnt it, Miss,

if I might make so bold?’

‘Where I learnt other lessons I ought never have forgotten,’ replied I,

with a deep sigh; ‘it is the song of my native village—the hymn of the

lowly heart which dwells upon every lip there, and, like a spell-word,

brings back to its name affection which e’er has been betrayed to wander

from it. It is the first music heard by infancy in its cradle; and the

villagers blending it with their earliest and tenderest recollections,

never cease to feel its magic power, till they cease to live.’

‘How natural that is,’ returned Celia; ‘just like my nurse used to nurse

me to sleep with a song, which I have never heard since without

nodding.’

‘Has the earl been inquiring for me, Celia?’ I asked.

‘He has been here this morning, and has only just gone,’ replied the

maid; ‘but only see what lovely things he has left you, Miss!’

‘And Celia displayed a costly dress, and several articles of jewellery,

of which I expressed my admiration. But suddenly, gloomy thoughts again

came over me, and while tears trembled in my eyes, I ejaculated:—

‘But can these baubles make me happy? Ah! never! The heart that’s ill at

ease is made more wretched by the splendor which laughs in awful

mockery, around its dreariness.’

‘The presence of Celia embarrassed me; I wished to indulge in melancholy

thought alone, but she seemed determined not to take my hints for her to

leave me, and at last I only got rid of her by requesting that she would

fetch me a book that I had been reading the day previously. When she had

left the room, with much agitation, I unlocked my cabinet, and took out

the plain village dress, I had worn when I quitted my home. The sight of

this tortured my brain, and while deep sobs of anguish almost choked my

voice, I thus soliloquized:—

‘And shall I remain here, dazzled and betrayed by the splendor with

which I am surrounded? Shall I still rack my parent’s hearts, and—I—will

escape! Escape! no, no—I can brave the shocks of fate, but not a

father’s eye: to expose myself to his wrath—no, no! my heart’s not

strong enough for that.’

‘I was interrupted by the return of Celia with the book, who, on seeing

the village dress in the chaise, expressed the utmost astonishment.’

‘Lor’ bless me, Miss!’ ejaculated the girl, ‘what’s this dress doing

here?—Whoever could have put such trumpery in the way?’

As she spoke, she snatched it up, and was going to throw it aside when I

sprang forward emphatically, and hastily took it from her.

‘Give it back!’ I cried, ‘that humble dress was mine;—I cast it off—the

splendor that has replaced it, is the source of the most bitter

misery!—Oh, my forsaken parents;—Come hither, Celia;—I have no one here

of my own sex to talk to—no one to listen to my sorrows. I—’

‘Pray speak freely to me, Miss,’ observed Celia; ‘though humble, you’ll

not find me insincere.’

‘Celia,’ I remarked, ‘if you knew what a home, what parents I had left,

you’d pity me.’

‘I do pity you, Miss,’ replied Celia, ‘indeed I do. Better days will

come; you’ll be as happy as when you left them.’

I sighed, and shook my head with a look of despair, and then detailed to

Celia the particulars of my flight from home, and the promises which the

earl had made, but had hitherto failed to keep his word.

‘Be of good cheer, Miss, I pray,’ said Celia, ‘he will keep it, depend

upon it.’

Celia spoke this with such a tone of confidence, that it forcibly struck

me, and eagerly I exclaimed:—

‘Will he, Celia?—Now, don’t trifle with me—tell me the worst at

once!—Better is present death, than hope deferred; still lingering on,

still doomed to be deceived.’

‘My dearest young Mistress,’ returned Celia, ‘there is plenty of time

before you think of dying; and, as a proof that the earl don’t mean to

deceive you, look here.’

And with these words, Celia presented me with a miniature of the earl,

elegantly set round with diamonds, at the same time, adding:—

‘On a chamber-maid’s penetration, this nothing more or less than an

earnest of the original.’

I took the miniature with transport, and my eyes became riveted upon it

with admiration. Nothing could be more true than the delineation.

‘Ah!’ I observed, ‘precious to the fond one, is the semblance of the

object held most dear. ’Tis the enchanter’s wand, which gathers around

it in a magic circle, sweet recollections and feelings which make memory

a paradise!—No, no!—treachery could never dwell in such a face!—I’ll

trust him still. He cannot mean me false.’

‘Shall I put this away, Miss?’ asked Celia, pointing to the village

dress; ‘I am sure the earl would be hurt to see it here.’

‘Yes, take it away, Celia,’ I replied, ‘I would not, for the world, do

anything to make him uneasy.’

Celia immediately obeyed, and she had not been gone many minutes, when

St. Clair entered the room, and advanced joyfully to meet me.

‘Ah, sir,’ I ejaculated, ‘why overwhelm me with gifts like these?—My

humble habits shrink from such magnificence! This (pointing to the

miniature,) is the only one I prize, the herald of a gift to follow,

which shall restore me to my friends, my self-esteem;—my poor

heart-broken parents.’

The earl turned away his head, doubtless to conceal the embarrassment

which my words occasioned him, and then, in a tone which showed that he

wished to change the subject, said:—

‘This is your birth-day, Clara.’

That word tore my wounds open! Oh! what a joyous day was it when I was

at home! The farm seemed to be one smile of joy;—the sacred halo of a

parent’s blessing descended on me with the morning sun; and even my

birds, my flowers, my young companions,—all seemed to have a livelier

look, and lift their heads rejoicing. These thoughts were too painful

for my feelings, and I burst into tears.

‘Nay, Clara,’ observed the earl, ‘cheer thee, love!—banish that woe;

discard that dread; rely upon my promise.’

‘Heaven’s smile repay that word,’ I exclaimed fervently; ‘the weight

which pressed me to the earth is removed, and all around me breathes

ecstasy.’

‘It delights me to hear thee say so, my dearest Clara,’ replied the

earl, ‘go, sweetest, and put on your richest dress to celebrate this

joyous day.’

‘That day,’ I added, with enthusiasm, ‘that day which gives me back to

honor. It shall be done, my lord.’

The earl kissed me affectionately, and left the room; and once more a

cheering hope brought consolation to my heart, and assured me of future

happiness and joy. Alas! how soon was I to be awakened to the greatest

agony! To more misery than I had ever before experienced.

The festivities of the day passed off most brilliantly until the play

commenced. The gardens in which it took place were brilliantly

illuminated, and the temporary theatre was formed among the trees in the

back. Just as the performances were about to commence, a servant entered

and delivered to the earl a letter, upon perusing the contents of which,

he excused himself to me and the numerous guests, it being necessary

that he should be absent for a short time; but he begged that his

absence might not interrupt their pleasure, as the village actors would

amuse them with their humble efforts; and ere they had ended, he would

return.

When the earl had gone, I beckoned Celia over to me, and the play

immediately commenced; but what were my feelings of intense agony as it

proceeded, when I perceived that the plot, and every incident of the

piece, so corresponded with my own circumstances, that it seemed as if

they had actually chosen me to sketch the heroine from. A nobleman wooed

a peasant girl; he vowed the most unbounded affection for her;—promised

her marriage, if she would but elope with him;—she was persuaded;—she

sunk senseless in his arms, and was conveyed away.

During the time the piece was being played, my anguish was

insupportable, and I was so worked upon by the power of each scene, that

I could scarcely persuade myself but that it was reality.

‘Fatal resemblance,’ I ejaculated, at the passage where the seducer

bears his victim away; ‘has there before been such another deluded

being?’

‘Be calm, dear mistress, be calm,’ said Celia, ‘it is only a play.’

But my thoughts were too intently fixed upon the scene which followed,

to pay any particular attention to her words. The parents of the

betrayed one, as represented in the piece, upon hearing the screams of

their daughter, rushed on to the stage, the father demanding of his wife

the meaning of the alarm, and the cause of the cries he had heard. The

mother looking round, and finding that her daughter was not there,

exclaimed:—

‘My child! my child!—A mere pretence—our darling—lost—escaped! Ah!

there! there! behold the seducer bearing her away!’

‘Ah!’ cried the father, frantically, ‘what fled? given up to shame?—Oh,

art beyond belief! Have all your fond professions come to this? Oh,

well-laid plan!—Lost! lost!—Oh, viper!—hypocrite!—I tear you from my

bosom!—I sweep you from the home you have disgraced!—A father’s curse—’

With a wild shriek, as the actor gave utterance to these words, I rushed

upon the stage, and falling at his feet, I vociferated, in tones that

made the place re-echo again:—

‘Hold! hold!—curse her not! She is not lost! She is innocent!’

At this moment the earl entered, and the whole of the spectators seemed

petrified to the spot with astonishment.

‘Ah!’ cried Mansville, ‘what do I see?—What is the meaning of this?’

Celia raised me from the posture I had assumed, and by the commands of

the earl, whose confusion and chagrin was evident, she led me to my own

chamber, while the guests quickly dispersed, and the entertainments

abruptly ceased.

After I had been taken to my own apartment for a few minutes, by the

kind attention of Celia, I recovered myself, and addressing myself to

her, said:—

‘Thanks! thanks! a thousand thanks!—I grieve to have troubled you

thus—’tis over now; ’tis nothing.’

‘The earl, Miss! the earl!’ exclaimed Celia, and the next moment

Mansville stood before me. There was an expression of sternness upon his

brow which I had never seen before, and he seemed greatly agitated. I

was alarmed, and advancing towards him, said:—

‘Oh, my lord, how shall I apologize for—’

‘No more of that,’ he interrupted; ‘’tis past.’

‘My lord,’ ejaculated I, surprised.

‘Leave us, Celia;’ commanded the earl, and when the former had retired

from the room, he turned to me, and the indignation of his looks seemed

to increase.

‘Oh, Mansville,’ I observed, ‘how have I deserved this indifference? Is

it my fault that my feelings overcame me? Is it my fault that the scene

revived my sense of duty? Oh, my lord, it is those fatal feelings that

have made me what I am.’

‘I am weary of this parade of sensibility,’ replied the earl,

impatiently; ‘you have called up against me the laugh of my tenantry and

domestics—let that content you.’

‘What does the change portend? This freezing look—this language of

reproach?’ I inquired.

‘For your own sake and mine press me no farther, Clara,’ replied the

earl; ‘I would not have had the scene which has just past occur for

millions. If you have placed yourself in unpleasant circumstances,

common policy should at least teach you to shun the sneers of the world;

but it is over and nothing can now be said which will not increase,

instead of diminishing our mutual uneasiness.’

A burning pang shot through my brain as Mansville gave utterance to

these words, and emphatically and hysterically I exclaimed—

‘Am I deceived?’

‘I cannot tell what childish hopes you may have indulged,’ returned the

earl, with the most freezing coldness, ‘and I am only sorry that you

should have been weak enough to deceive yourself.’

‘Oh, no, my agitation has shaken my senses,’ cried I deliriously, and

clasping my temples; ‘he could not—no, no, Mansville! in the name of all

that you have professed, and I have believed, in the name of those vows

that are registered on high, however man may slight them; and in that

holiest name of all, the name of Him, whose bolt hangs o’er the

hypocrite, dispel these doubts and this suspense; restore me at once to

my parents, or at once name the hour for that ceremony to pass, when,

before the world, you acknowledge me as your wife!’

‘Clara,’ replied the earl, ‘since you will force me to be explicit, is

it not strange that a mind so intelligent should fancy for a moment that

it was possible for one in my rank to marry a girl in yours?’

‘The oath!—the oath!’ I cried, almost choking with emotion.

‘My heart is ever yours,’ returned he, ‘but, of my hand, I have no power

to dispose. Nay, you pass not hence.’

‘Are there no pangs, that, like the dagger, kill the heart they pierce,’

ejaculated I; ‘I cast me at your feet in agony! ’Tis Clara kneels and

supplicates! not for herself, but for the racked souls, and the gray

hairs of age! For your honor and eternal peace, restore me to my

parents.’

The earl seemed suffering the most acute mental agony, and for a moment

averted his head.

‘Clara,’ he said, in faltering accents, ‘believe my heart unchanged—my

unceasing love—’

‘Monster!’ I interrupted in delirious tones; ‘darest thou still profane

that sacred word? No, my lord, the mask is torn away,—the attachment

which was my pride is now my disgust; ’tis past! I know myself deceived,

but, thank Heaven, I am not lost! To you, my lord, the bitter hour is

not yet arrived; but, ’tis an hour that never fails to guilt. At some

unexpected moment, the blandishment of pleasure will lose their

force—the power of enjoyment will be palsied in your soul; it will awake

only to remorse. In that hour of retribution think of these words of

warning,—think of the hearts you’ve broken—think, my lord, and tremble.’

Without waiting to give utterance to another syllable, I rushed from the

room, but the voice of the earl, tempted me to stop at the door and

listen. He was apparently pacing the apartment in the most violent state

of agitation, and thus soliloquizing:—

‘The fatal truth curdles my blood like poison! I feel the hell in my

bosom. Oh, what a heart I’ve lost? Why, splendid slavery of rank, must

virtue be thy victim; why must affection be sacrificed to thee? The

peasant mates him where his heart directs, and to his lowly bride brings

happiness; his lord must fret, chained to some high-born fool; or either

pine in vain for humble loveliness, or make its innocence a martyr to

his choice. I was not born to be a betrayer. Wed! I cannot cease to

love!’