University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
PERPLEXITY AND MYSTERY.

It was on a fine, beautiful morning,
that we landed at Galveston, and had
our luggage transferred to one of its
most flourishing hotels. The place
seemed lively; and there were two or
three companies of soldiers parading the
streets, prior to their departure to join
the Army of Occupation, at Corpus
Christi, under Taylor. Citizens were
abroad in large numbers, and a good deal
of enthusiasm prevailed, as was natural
there should, considering that Texas,

after a hard, bloody, and lonely struggle
of years, had recently been annexed to
our great American Republic, and these
soldiers were on the eve of joining Taylor's
gallant band, now on her Southern
frontier, to protect her against the hostile
invasion of her bitter foes, the Mexicans.

On our way hither, much of the conversation
between Harley and myself
had been concerning Viola; in fact, she
was the subject which ever lay uppermost
in his mind; and now, the ice
being broken, he spoke with unreserved
freedom, made me his confidant
in every thing, sought my advice, and I
became a participator in all his hopes
and fears. But one thing troubled both
of us. If she had come to Galveston,
as he inferred from her broken language
on the boat she intended to do,
how were we to find her? Had she relations
here? She might have, but Harley
knew of none, and therefore was at
a total loss for any clue to her present
whereabouts. The more we pondered
upon the matter of finding her, the more
perplexing it grew, till at last Harley declared
it was useless to spend our breath
in mere conjecture, and that we must
leave all to Fate, in which, as I have
shown, he was a firm believer.

“Well, my friend,” said I, as we arrived
at the hotel alluded to, “we are
here at last; and now what do you
propose? Shall we sit quietly down,
and trust to Fate to accomplish our desires?
Or shall we begin an active
search for the object of our solicitude?”

“Ay, Harry, there is the difficulty;
how, where, or in what manner can we
begin a search for her?”

“Well, an idea has struck me. It is
not improbable that, if Viola and her
father have come hither at all, they have
put up at some of the hotels; and it
would perhaps be as well to begin with
the registers, and make inquiries.”

“By Jove! Harry, you are right,”
cried Harley, grasping my hand; “how
dull I am not to have thought of it before.
Come let us begin at once;” and
we did so accordingly.

Our first inquiry, of course, was at
the hotel where we were stopping. The
clerk remembered no such persons, and
there was no St. Auburn on the register.
We repaired to another, and met
with like success. At the third, to our
great joy, we found recorded Henry St.
Auburn and daughter.

“Harry,” said Harley, grasping my
arm, his face pale with emotion, “you
must find out if they are now here; and
if not, whither they have gone. I will
sit down—I feel faint.”

A few minutes sufficed to get all the
knowledge concerning the St. Auburns
the obliging landlord possessed. Such
persons had been there, stopped one day,
and had gone North, but whither he
could not say. I reported to Harley.

“So, being gone, I am a man again,”
he replied, in the language of Macbeth.
“Harry,” he continued, starting up almost
wildly, “I feared they were here;
and now that they are not, I would give
a handsome sum they were—so incon-sistent
are we human puppets. Well,
we must follow them; it is something
to be on their trail, as the hunters say;
and see Viola again, I must; and,
Heaven help me! I will.”

“But how are we to follow,” I rejoined,
“when we know not which way
they went?”

“Man, we do know they went to the
North—did not the landlord tell you so?
and by my hopes of earthly happiness!
I will search the North, though it be to
the ice-bound pole, but I will find
Viola!”

“Now, Harley, you are getting excited
again. I pray you be calm.”

“Well, and so I am—but what would
you have me do? Sit quietly here,
when, for aught I know, she needs my
protecting arm? She bade me come to
this city: I have done so: and by that
same token, she bids me follow till I
find her.”

“But what do you propose to do?”

“Set off Northward, and use my
tongue. Zounds! Harry, what were
tongues made for but to ask questions?
legs but to run? and arms but to fight?
all of which I will use in the cause of
her I love, if necessary, so help me
Heaven! Why, my dear fellow, you,

who not an hour since counselled me to
activity, would surely not gainsay your
advice now?”

“By no means; but I counselled you
to begin systematically; you did so, and
the result is that we have found a trace
of her we seek.”

“Well?”

“Well, let us continue as we have begun.”

“What have I asked for else?”

“Why, from your manner, I inferred
you were about to set off, madman like,
to hunt the country over, as if in search
of a lost animal.”

“Come, come,” replied Harley, good
humoredly, “a joke is a joke, `but no
more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me.'
Now to begin seriously. They left for
the North—good—consequently have
gone up the Bay, or crossed over to the
mainland by ferry. Now I wager you
what you dare, that I find out which ere
I quit this hotel.”

“Well, now at least you are talking
rationally, and conducting yourself in a
sensible manner. Come, here is the
landlord, let us settle the matter.”

The latter, on being requestioned, replied
that, at the time the parties left he
was absent, but the porter, who had the
handling of the luggage, would probably
know something of them. The porter
was called; and from him we learned
that persons answering the description
Harley gave of Viola and her father, had
left two days before, in a private carriage,
and crossed over to the mainland;
but what direction they had taken thence,
or what place was to be their destina-tion,
he could not say.

“You see,” said Harley to me, triumphantly,
“we have the right starting
point, and that is everything in a case
like this. Of what color were the
horses and carriage porter?”

“Well, sir, the horses was sorrel, sir,
with two white stars right in front of
their foreheads, sir.”

“And the carriage?”

“Was a big, lumbering thing, so'thing
like a hackney, sir, only it wasn't a
hackney.”

“But the color?”

“It was painted dark green, and had
yaller streaks round it, and on the doors
was painted two picters.”

“What were the pictures like?”

“Well, they wasn't like anything I
ever seen afore, sir; there was a heap
o' things all kind o' jumbled up together.”

“Were the pictures alike?”

“Yes, sir, I reckon they was.”

“Should you judge them to be a
coat-of-arms?”

“Well, they mought be—though I
don't exactly know how a coat-of-arms
looks.”

“It was a private carriage, then?”

“Yes, sir, I said so; and the owner
was with it, I reckon: leastways there
was a gentleman inside, as got out and
helped the lady in, and then got in agin
with the tother gentleman.”

“The lady, you say, was young?”

“Yes, sir, and so handsome! I've
seed a good many handsome ladies, one
time and another, but she beat 'em all.
Poor thing! I pitied her, I did.”

“Pitied her? why so?”

“'Cause she looked so sad and troubled,
and seemed to feel so bad.”

“Indeed?” exclaimed Harley, beginning
to grow very much excited.
“Indeed? say you that? Did she not
seem pleased at leaving with the strange
gentleman?”

“Oh, dear, no, sir—quite the contrary:
she kept looking all round, as if
she was thinking about gitting away—
leastways I thought so; and arter she'd
got in, I seen her cover her face with
her handkercher.”

“By my hopes! this is strange!”
exclaimed Harley. “What do you
think of it, Harry?”

“I do not know what to think,” I
replied.

“Perhaps her father is about forcing
her to marry some one she detests,”
returned my friend, uneasily. “Let
him, if he dare!” he pursued, setting
his teeth hard, and hissing out the
words, while his eyes shone with a
wild light. “Ay, sir, let him! he shall
find another Harley as implacable a foe
as the first. If he wrong her, though
he be her father, he shall answer for it
with his heart's blood!”

“Morton!” cried I, perceiving that
my friend was fast working himself
into a frenzy; “remember where you
are, and control your passion! You
may be all wrong in your conjectures.”

“More likely right, Harry; though
I will take your advice, and be calm
now, for it is necessary to my purpose.
But only let me know he has misused
her, and he will find that he who
bore his insults for her sake once, will
remember old scores in the final settlement.
Well, porter, this carriage—
have you no idea to whom it belongs,
and where it came from?”

“No, sir—never saw it afore.”

“Did it stop here any time?”

“Not more'n ten or fifteen minutes,
sir. It was driv up by a white chap
in livery; and the gentleman as had
the young lady, 'pear'd to be looking
for't; for he went right up to the door,
and spoke to him that was inside; then
he hurried back into the house; and a
little arter the young lady came down
stairs, and got in, as I told you; while
I put on the baggage, two trunks and a
carpet-bag.”

But little more of importance was
elicited from the porter; and Harley,
putting a half-dollar in his hand, dismissed
him.

“Harry,” said my friend, grasping
my hand, as we gained the street—
“can I depend on you?”

“To the death.”

“Again I repeat, God bless you!
You know I promised you adventure,
and now methinks we are about to have
it, though of a different kind to that I
then anticipated. Hark you! I am
satisfied there is some dark plot against
Viola; I am convinced her father is
base enough for anything; and I am
determined to find and bear her off, in
spite of him, or aught human.”

“And you may count on my assistance,”
replied I, already taking a deep
interest in one I had never seen. “But,
Morton, we have much to do, I think,
and something must be done first—
what shall it be?”

“The first thing to be done, Harry,
is to find Viola.”

“True—but how shall we set about
it?”

“We must trace that carriage by
inquiry.”

“True again; but shall we ride,
or set off afoot?”

“Well, as to that, give me your
advice.”

“Then,” said I, “I think we had
better leave our luggage where it is for
the present, and take only such things
as can be put into a valise or carpet-bag,
which Tom can carry, and begin our
search on foot. We shall thus be more
likely to get the information we want;
and when obtained, if direct and important,
we can always hasten our progress,
by hiring such conveyance on the road
as will best accelerate it—and this plan
will leave us without other care than for
ourselves.”

“You are right, Harry; your advice
is good, and I will act upon it. But
when shall we set out? I am impatient,
you see.”

“In an hour, if you like. I am
ready, and, truth said, impatient also to
be on the road.”

My friend grasped my hand again,
and wrung it heartily.

“Harry,” he said, tears starting into
his eyes, “it was a blessed day for me
on which Fate brought us together.
I am not ungrateful—as, if we both
live, I will sometime prove to you.
Oh, Viola! if I could have received
one word from her relative to this mystery!
But I will solve it, or die in
the attempt. How unfortunate, Harry,
there was no way of getting here sooner
than we did; but perhaps it is all for
the best; though, could I have had
one minute's uninterrupted conversation
with her—”

My friend stopped suddenly; his
eyes dilated, grew wild, and became
fixed on some distant object; a singular
look of hope and fear lighted his
pale countenance; and merely adding,
“Wait for me!” He bounded away
down the street, as if life and death
depended on his fleetness.

As much as I had seen of his strange
manner, this proceeding, I must confess

startled me, while it excited my curiosity;
and I started after him—not to
overtake him—but if possible to keep
him in sight. I soon lost trace of him
in a crowd that was collected before a
public building, which I ascertained was
the post-office. After vainly searching
for him some ten or fifteen minutes,
I concluded to return to our hotel,
thinking I should be likely to find him
there sooner than elsewhere. On reaching
the steps that led up to the portico,
what was my surprise, to see Harley
come bounding down to meet me. His
eyes glared like a madman's, and his
features were distorted with excitement.

“Quick, Harry,” he cried, grasping
my arm—“I have been nearly wild to
see you. Why did you not stay where
I left you? Up stairs, quick! to a private
chamber.”

“In Heaven's name! what has happened?
what is the matter?” exclaimed
I, as I rushed up stairs with him,
two at a time, leaving a crowd behind
to stare after us, and wonder at our
excitement.

“In here!” cried Harley, darting
into a bed-chamber; and as I crossed
the threshold, he shut the door and
locked it.

“Are you really mad, Harley?”
cried I, growing alarmed in earnest.

“No, no, Harry—not mad—but terribly
excited. I can hardly contain myself.
Joy and rage are strange feelings
to clash in one's breast. Ah, fate!
fate! triumphant to the last! It was a
happy thought—blessed thought! and
I could shout for joy, and at the same
time say, `Let him beware!' But I
am keeping you wondering, when this,
this, this, will explain the mystery;”
and Harley thrust into my hand a letter,
and throwing himself upon the bed,
added: “Read! read!”

I was not long in following his injunctions,
as the reader will readily
believe. One glance at the epistle, and
I comprehended all. It ran thus:

This letter was written in a neat, but
trembling hand, and it seemed as if the
writer had often paused to give vent in
tears to the grief of her overcharged
soul. In fact, in more than one place,
there was a slight stain, as if tears had
fallen on the paper. Poor Viola! from
my soul I pitied her; and I silently
vowed I would save her or perish in the
attempt.

“Well,” cried Harley, the moment I
had finished its perusal—“what think
you now? You see my conjecture was
right. Ah, sir, the heart is often before
reason in its own affairs. Well, Harry,
do you blame me now for being excited?”

“No,” said I; “but how came you
by this letter?”

“I will tell you in a word. While
I stood talking with you, my eye chanced
to light upon the post-office; and,
blessed idea! I thought it possible Viola
had written. That thought was almost
maddening; I could not stop to explain;
I rushed away, and you know the rest.
But come! come! we waste time here.
We now have a clue to Viola's whereabouts;
and I solemnly swear to set her
free, or leave my bones upon the soil
of Texas! Poor Viola! what has she
not suffered? And such a father!
'Sdeath, Harry, I must not think, or I
shall unfit myself to act. Come, now
to the purpose. We must change our
first plan of travelling as gentlemen, and
take to an humble calling. What say
you to an itinerant occupation? what
say you to that of a pedler?”

“I agree to anything, Harley, that
will enable us to accomplish our design.
As to turning pedler, I like the idea;
for in this capacity, our real motives
will not only be effectually concealed,
but we can travel in what manner we
please, without exciting impertinent curiosity,
and can force ourselves among
rich and poor, high and low, and see
society exactly as it is.”

“You are right in that, Harry; and I
have often thought that but for the name
of it, I should like the calling; for instead
of beholding society continually from one
point of view, as one beholds the representations
of the stage, we could thus, as
it were, step behind the scenes, and see
the actors as they really are. Of all men
to understand human nature, give me the
humble itinerants; for where we, as gentlemen,
see society already made up, they
see the making up; and what from our
point of observation looks gold and silver,
they, from a closer inspection, know
to be only tinsel. The man or woman
who would greet us with smiles and
flattery, in our proper characters, would
perhaps turn from us with scorn, should
we present ourselves to them as pedlers;
and yet we and they would be the same
individuals, with the same souls, the
same thoughts and feelings, hopes and
fears—the only difference being in position—to
them the all important consideration
of life; and as you observe, we
should see them as they are, for the
simple reason that before objects so
humble there would be no necessity of

wearing masks. Oh, the mockeries,
mummeries, trickeries, and deceits of
mankind, Harry, would make misanthropes
of such as you and I, when
once initiated into the secret extent of
hypocrisy, were it not that in finding
out the bad, where we looked for something
better, we discover by the same
means so much that is good and deserving,
which else had remained unknown,
like flowers that struggle upward among
weeds, but never reach the sunshine.
But come! come! we must not stop
now to indite homilies or moralize. We
have work before us—let us be up and
doing.”

And forthwith we set about preparing
for our new vocation.