University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
ADELE AND MYSTERY.

I have, in the course of my adventurous life, passed
through many trying scenes—scenes of horror, scenes
of peril, and scenes of acute physical and mental
suffering; but I do not think I have ever experienced
more real soul-torture in the same time, than during
the first two hours succeeding the announcement of
the venerable Captain Hillyard, that Gaspard Loyola
had received from my hands what was supposed to
be a mortal wound. It was in vain that persons of
both sexes gathered around, and strove to console me,

by declaring that I was not to blame—that the act
was one of self-defence—and that I must have been
more than human, or an arrant coward, to have done
otherwise than I did. I knew in my own heart that
I could have avoided taking a fellow-creature's life;
that I could have borne an insult, and walked quietly
away from the insulter; and my conscience condemned
me for allowing my passions and impulses to
prevail over my reason, judgment, and education. I
had begun my career of manhood by deliberately
thwarting the wishes of my father—and here was one
early and awful result of the first wrong step. I had
been brought up to regard the life of man as the gift
of God, which no human being had a right to destroy;
I had not yet been long enough beyond the reach of
law to have my keen sensibilities dulled; and consequently
I felt that the deed I had done, however justifiable
in the eyes of man, was a heinous sin in the
sight of Him who had given the stern decree, amid
the smoke, the lightnings, and the thunders of Mount
Sinai—“Thou shalt not kill!”

For two hours, I say, I sat buried in the most
intense agony of mind—with remorse and despair,
like an incubus, upon my heart—the most wretched
of all wretched beings—when word was brought me
that the ball had been extracted from the breast of
Loyola, and that, though dangerous, the wound was
thought not necessarily mortal. The parched traveller
in the desert, when his eye falls upon the cool waters
of a spring; the lost mariner, drifting for days on the

great deep, when he finds himself discovered by a
friendly sail; or the drowning man, when he beholds
a rope within his grasp; leaps not more suddenly
from despair to hope—from misery to joy—than did
I at this unexpected announcement.

“Great God, let him live!” was my first ejaculation;
and if ever a sincere prayer came from the heart, that
came from mine. “Can I be permitted to see him?”
I inquired.

There was some consultation among three or four
leading members of the party, and then I was answered
in the affirmative. I hastened to the wounded
man, and found him lying upon his back, on a rude
bed, in his own wagon, his eyes closed, his face pale
from loss of blood, and his respiration somewhat
difficult and irregular. By his side knelt the beautiful
Adele, with a green bush in her hand, which she was
slowly waving to and fro, to keep off the musquitoes,
and other night insects, which had already, in this
part of the country, become very troublesome. I saw
them both by the light of a glass lantern, which
depended from one of the ribs of the covered vehicle;
and its pale gleams, falling upon their pale faces, and
upon the rough, uncouth surroundings, and only faintly
revealing the sober features of others peering in at
the opposite end, presented a picture of death-like
solemnity, which haunted me for days, and even now
rises vividly before the eye of the mind. I drew back
with a shudder, and addressed myself to a person
standing near.

“Can I be permitted to speak a word with the
daughter of Loyola?” I inquired.

“I think so; but do not speak too loud, for I reckon
Loyola is asleep.”

“No! not there, my friend: do me the favor to ask
her to step outside.”

He did as I requested; and getting some one to
take her place, Adele descended from the wagon.

“This way!” said I, in a tremulous voice: “let us
step aside! I wish to speak a few words with you
privately.”

She seemed not a little agitated; but silently, and
with downcast eyes, complied with my request. I
led her toward the centre of the camp, that she might
have no fear; and the moment I thought we could
converse without being overheard, I stopped, and
gently taking her hand, said:

“Adele—for so I understand you are called—this
is a terrible affair to both of us; and no one can know
what agonies I have suffered, in consequence, during
the last two hours; and yet, properly considered, I
know not that I am to blame. I did not come here
with the intention of quarreling, but because I had
lost my way; you yourself were the first with whom
I spoke; and God knows, Adele, I had anything but
a wicked design in my heart at that moment. Your
singular beauty—nay, start not, and think I am passing
unmeaning compliments, for my soul is too heavy
to deal in frivolities!—your singular beauty, I say,
united, as it is, with a melancholy expression of sorrow,

demanding sympathy, arrested my attention, and
attracted me to your side; and what followed you
know. My life was menaced; and, but for your interposition,
would undoubtedly have been taken. I saw
you foully struck to the earth; I knew that blow was
given on my account; and excited to that point where
reason is lost in frenzy, I darted forward and shot
down the aggressor. Can you forgive me for an act
done as much upon your account as my own, Adele?”

She drooped her head, and sobbingly replied:

“Oh, yes, I forgive you—because, as you say, you
did not intend anything wrong when you came and
spoke to me; and my father—God and the Saints forgive
him also!—forced you to quarrel, and would
certainly have killed you, in his rage, had you not
disabled him. He is a very passionate man, sir; and
when he has been drinking freely, as he had to-day,
is very much disposed to quarrel, even with his
friends; but I trust you will forgive him, too, sir!”

The voice of the fair speaker was low and silvery,
and had a melancholy sweetness which touched my
heart. Her accent was slightly foreign; but she
spoke my native language with an ease and fluency
that argued a long familiarity with it; and, from
various causes, I found myself most deep'y interested
in her and her hard fortune.

“For your sake, Adele,” I replied, “I will and do
forgive him—though through him I have been led to
the commission of a deed which may render the rest
of my life unhappy; for should he die, the awful remembrance,

that my hand had sent a fellow-being to
eternity, would ever haunt me.”

“And should he recover,” rejoined my fair companion,
with a shudder, “I hope and pray you may never
meet again! for if he found the opportunity, he would
certainly take your life.”

“Is he then so revengeful?”

“Alas! yes: he never forgives any one that he has
ever looked upon as an enemy.”

“And is it possible that he can be your father?
that the blood of a man of such vindictive passions
flows in the veins of one so fair and pure, forgiving
and gentle, as yourself?”

“Really,” said Adele, with some agitation, withdrawing
her hand—which till this moment had, with
seeming unconsciousness on her part, rested in mine:
“Really, I must go back! I am afraid he will wake
and ask for me; and then he will get excited, seeing
others about, and excitement now might prove fatal
to him.”

“You must not go yet!” said I, detaining her.
“Stay a few minutes longer, I pray you! I am about
to leave you, and may never see you again; and I
would like very much to have you answer me a few
questions.”

“Are you going away to-night?” she timidly inquired,
but in a tone that indicated surprise; and
looking up as she spoke, I saw, by a gleam of firelight
that fell upon her pale face, that a deeper shade

of sorrow rested upon it, and that her dark, dreamy
eyes were swimming in tears.

“I must leave to-night, Adele, or very early in the
morning, to search for my friends.”

And then, in as few words as I could, I told her who
I was, and what chance, accident, or Providence, had
brought me to the camp. She listened attentively,
earnestly, sadly.

“And now,” continued I, “will you not so far confide
in me, as to say whether or not Gaspard Loyola
is your father?”

“Why do you ask?” she said, quickly.

“Because I take more than a passing interest in
you, and much desire to know something of your
history; and because, as I said before, I cannot bring
myself to believe that his blood flows in your veins.”

“Well,” sighed Adele, “I do not know. I have
been told that he is my father, and I have been told
that he is not.”

“If there is any doubt, Adele, in the name of
humanity, give it for the negative—do not consider
such a brutal wretch the author of your existence!
Excuse me for speaking plainly and boldly! I saw
him strike you to the earth, with the blow of a cowardly
ruffian, when your only offence was an attempt
to withhold him from the commission of murder; and
it was that brutal act, I think, rather than fear for my
own safety, that impulsively urged me on to a deed
which I have since repented of in the deepest agonies
of remorse and despair. But mark you! I had no

sympathy for him; nor have I now—strange and
anomalous as it may seem; my contrition was for
having shot down, and probably killed, a fellow-being,
when I might either have avoided the quarrel, or beat
him down, and severely punished him, without taking
life. If God spares him, I shall not regret being the
cause of his retributive sufferings; and though, for
your sake, and on account of those sufferings, I will
pardon his design upon my life, yet my sympathies
will be with you only. Do you understand me?”

“I think I do, sir!” she timidly replied, casting
down her eyes.

“So far as you are concerned, mark me—in so
much as his sufferings may cause you pain—shall I
sympathize—no more. I would have him live; but
live to repentance; live to know and feel that life is
not given for the mere gratification of hellish desires
and passions; not given to the strong to be used
against the weak; not given for the purpose of making
all around him miserable. And now tell me, Adele,
can I be of any service to you? I have been the unfortunate
cause of bringing fresh trouble upon one
who has seen much sorrow; and if I can in any manner
serve you, I am in honor and duty bound to do
so.”

“I thank you, for your kind offer!” half sobbed
the afflicted girl; “but I do not know of anything
you can do for me.”

“I pray you to have no hesitation in answering
frankly; for though I am a stranger, whose brief

acquaintance you have made under circumstances the
most painful, not to say horrible—under circumstances
rather calculated to excite your antipathy than regard
—yet I solemnly assure you, I would peril my life to
do you a favor.”

Adele burst into tears, but made no reply.

“Why do you weep?” I said, taking her hand
again, and impulsively drawing her to me. “There
is something you wish to tell me. Speak out, I pray
you!”

But she only wept and sobbed the more.

“Adele,” I continued, “you are young; I am
several years your senior; do not be afraid to confide
in me; speak as to a brother; and I solemnly assure
you, you shall not find your confidence misplaced!
Tell me, Adele—why do you weep?”

“Because,” she sobbed, “you speak so kindly to
me—so like a true friend; and I am not used to kindness;
and I never had a friend—or if I ever had, it
was a long, long time ago.”

“Poor girl!” said I; “no wonder your features are
stamped with sorrow! But you shall not want a friend
again, while I live and have the power to serve you.
Let me be your brother! Will you let me be your
brother, Adele?”

“Oh, no! I dare not! my father would kill us
both!” she said, wringing her hands. “He does not
allow me to speak to any one but himself; and it was
because you came and spoke to me, that he became so
angry with you.”

“But you need not fear him now, Adele,” I said,
with something like secret exultation—for the more I
learned of the base character of Loyola, the less I regretted
my hasty deed: “you need not fear him now;
it will be a long time, should he eventually recover,
before he will regain sufficient strength to interfere
with us, or again misuse you; and should he ever attempt
the latter again, in my presence, he must again
abide the consequences!”

“Oh! you do not know him!” cried Adele: “and
you must avoid him; for should he recover, and ever
see you again, he would find some way to take your
life! But you said you were going away!”

“True, so I am. I have a friend, who is even now
miserable because of my absence; and I must find
him as soon as I can; but the party to which I belong
cannot be far from yours; and as you will necessarily
travel slow, on account of this dark man, whom you
call your father, I shall endeavor to overtake you.
Will you permit me to be your brother, and befriend
you as a brother should?”

“I do not know; I am afraid; and yet I have often
wished I had a brother,” she sighed.

“Say no more then—it is settled; have no fear; I
will be prudent; but I must see you, for I feel myself
drawn to you in an unaccountable manner. And
now, before we part, will you not confide in me, and
tell me what you know of your history?”

“What shall I tell you?” she inquired, with a

[OMITTED] air, looking cautiously around, as if fearful
[OMITTED] interruption.

“Tell me what you remember of your history,
Adele! Tell me where you were born; what has
become of your mother; how long you have known
this man you call father; how you became separated
from your friends; and how long you have been
engaged in this hard, perilous life, so unsuited to one
of your years and delicate organization!”

“I could not answer all your questions if I would,”
she replied; “and even those I can answer, would
take more time than can now be spared; and besides,
I am afraid to tell what little I do know.”

“Fear not, my poor Adele! I will protect you;
and if wrong has been done you, as I have reason to
believe, I will see you righted, or perish in the
attempt. There is something mysterious in your past
history, I feel assured—is it not so?”

“Yes! yes!” she answered, quickly; “there is
something mysterious in my past life; I do not myself
understand it; but —”

“Speak, I pray you!” I urged, as she hesitated;
“tell me all you know; and, rely upon it, you are
confiding in a friend, who will not only keep your
secret sacred, but will, so far as lies in his power,
guard you from further oppression and wrong.
Where were you born?”

“I do not know, sir!”

“Did no one ever tell you?”

“Not that I remember, sir!”

“What are your earliest recollections?”

“I have a confused recollection—it is like a dream
—of being in a place of splendor, where there were
a great many persons coming and going, and where
kind words were always spoken to me.”

“Do you refer to a dwelling, or a city?”

“I think it must have been a dwelling—and it
might have been in a city—but I do not know. I
remember walking over a marble floor, and seeing
beautiful flowers, and fountains, and paintings; and
one, more than all the rest, dear, sweet face, which I
think was my mother's; but all the rest is confused,
and perhaps it was all a dream.”

“I think not,” said I, most deeply interested:
“Children, too young to distinguish the real from the
ideal, are not apt to dream of such realities and
retain the impression for years. Does your memory
connect this place with a southern climate?”

“I have no recollection concerning the climate, sir!”

“Have you any remembrance of feeling cold there?
of seeing any thing like snow?”

“Oh, no, sir! it seems as if it were summer-time; for
the trees were always green, and the flowers were
always bright—at least I cannot recall them as being
otherwise.”

“And do you remember leaving this beautiful
place?”

“No, sir! I have often tried to do so, but I cannot;
and that leads me to think it might have been a dream.”

“Well, what next do you remember?”

“Something dark and awful!” said Adele, with a
perceptible shudder. “It seems as if I were in a
dark place, like a prison, and was rolling about, and
felt very sick, and heard the roar of winds and the
rush of waters.”

“For how long a time were you in this dark and
awful place?”

“I do not know, sir! but it seems as if it were a
long time.”

“Does it seem as if you were in a ship on the
ocean?”

“I cannot say: I only remember what I have told
you.”

“Well, what is your next impression, or recollection?”

“I remember being in a convent, and having certain
lessons to recite to a tall, stern, austere woman;
and likewise having a good many religious duties to
perform. I learned to read and write there, in Spanish,
Latin and English.”

“Which language did you use in common conversation?”

“Oh, the Spanish.”

“Was that your native language?”

“I think so.”

“How long did you remain at this convent?”

“'Till I was ten years of age.”

“And what were you called while there?”

“Adele.”

“And did no one tell you anything of your history?”

“No, sir! I one day inquired of the abbess who I
was; but she only frowned, and said she knew nothing
of worldly affairs; and that it mattered not who I was,
so I conducted myself properly.”

“Well, you were in the convent, you say, till you
were ten years of age—how came you to leave?”

“My father came and took me away.”

“Had you ever seen him before that time?”

“I did not remember his face.”

“How did you know he was your father?”

“He and the abbess both said so.”

“And was he the same person now in yonder
wagon?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you said, a few minutes since, you had
been told he is not your father—who told you so?”

“Sister Agnes—one of the nuns.”

“Did she know anything of him? or of your history?”

“No! but she saw him at the convent, and heard
the abbess speak of him as my father; and she said
to me, before I left, that she knew he could not be my
father, for there was no resemblance between us; and
that one like myself could never have had being from
so dark and wicked-looking a man!”

“And depend upon it, my poor Adele, Sister Agnes
was right!” said I. “Nature could not so falsify, as

to produce, from such a cause, such an effect—so totally
at variance, in person, mind, and innate principle.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Adele, again looking hurriedly
around—“I must go! I must not remain here another
moment. Suppose he should wake, and find me
absent? and suppose any one should inform him of
my interview with you, here, alone? He might, in a
moment of passion, do me a serious injury!”

“He shall not,” said I; “for I am going to take
your case in hand: you shall not remain with him to
be maltreated!”

“Oh, sir! I could not leave him!”

“Why not? You do not, you cannot, have any
regard for him?”

“I do not know; perhaps he is my father; he says
he is.”

“And even grant that he is—he has sundered every
tie, human and divine, that should bind a child to a
parent. You do not feel any affection for him, do
you, Adele?”

“Sometimes, sir, I think I do, when he speaks
pleasantly to me.”

“That is not properly affection, my poor Adele;
but is rather a grateful sense, arising from the absence
of fear. You know that you are in his power—that
he is generally harsh and cruel; you fear him in consequence;
and when, for a time, he gives you cause
not to fear him, you feel so grateful, that it seems as
if you almost loved him: is it not so?”

“I think, perhaps, that is it, sir!” she replied.

“It is your nature to love, Adele; your heart is
warm; you feel the want of that iron strength and
will which can give adversity strong battle; and, like
the tender, drooping vine, you must needs twine
around the hardy, storm-enduring oak for support.
It has never been my fortune to meet another of so
sweet, so gentle, so loving, so forbearing, and so forgiving
a disposition as yourself. Nay, do not think I
am paying unmeaning compliments for an evil purpose;
I mean what I say; and what I say, I know to
be true; for it is all stamped on your soul, and your
soul is seen in your face. Your countenance is an
open book, easily read by one who has made human
nature a study. But time is precious, and I would
know more of your history. What was the name of
the convent where you received your education?”

“Santa Maria.”

“Where was it located?”

“I am not certain about the location, but I think it
was in the interior of Mexico.”

“And where did you go after leaving there?”

Just at this moment a voice called Adele.

“There!” she exclaimed, hurriedly, and in a tone
of alarm; “I feared it would be so; he has awakened;
good-bye!” and she darted away to the wagon.

I followed more leisurely, and cautiously looked in
at one end of the vehicle, keeping my features in the
shade, so that I might not be seen and recognised by
Loyola, who was not only awake, but giving evidence
of some strength, and a devilish disposition, by scolding

Adele in Spanish. I could not understand what
he said; but the tone in which he spoke, and the
manner of the poor girl, who was trembling and
weeping, were enough to assure me that he was playing
the base tyrant, and wounding her gentle, sensitive
soul, by using harsh and vicious language. He was
lying upon his left side, his head supported by his left
hand, while his right clasped and pressed the bandage
over the wound. I could just dimly see his features—
dark, scowling, and malignant—the muscles contorting
with anger and pain—the black, beetling brows
knitted, and the small, black, sunken eyes emitting
gleams of malice; and I thought that Satan, if not
more wicked than he has been represented, might
have had his likeness taken by proxy. Adele, as I
have said, who was crouching, trembling and weeping
by his side, suddenly hastened, as if by an order, to
hand him a cup of water from a bucket near; and no
sooner had he drank, than the cup was hurled at her
head, barely missing it by an inch.

I could bear to see no more; I dared not longer
trust myself in such a presence; and I quietly hastened
away—feeling, after what I had just witnessed,
that my conscience would no longer condemn me,
even should my deed result in ridding the world of a
demon incarnate.