University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE BY-ROAD.

On quitting my hold of Tom, which
I did the moment I had fairly regained
my senses, I demanded to know what
had become of Harley, who was nowhere
to be seen.

“He gone, Massa Hal—two, four,
seven, ten hours ago,” replied Tom,
who had no very extended knowledge
of numerals.

“Gone?” echoed I.

“Yes, Massa Hal: he wait 'bout
short time, and den he tell me to tole
you you find him at de tabern. I wait,
and wait, and wait—till golly! I tink
mebby you gone to—and den I go and
'quire; bu-bu-but—”

Here Tom stopped, rubbed his head,
looked significantly at me, and concluded
to let the sentence end thus.

“Well, boy, never mind,” I said, “I
abused you without cause, I know, and
you shall be paid for it. Come! take
up the box, and let us hasten forward—
there is no telling in what mood we
shall find Harley.”

In less than half an hour, I stood upon
the piazza of the only inn of a small but
pleasant village.

“Is it possible you have arrived, Harry?”
exclaimed Harley, coming out to
meet me. “Well, this is indeed surprising!
Why, I thought you had married
your unknown nightingale, and had
flown away, to have a honey-moon of
air and melody. How's your stomach?
By-the-bye, some fine cold fricasseed
chicken, ham, venison, steak, and apple-dumplings
in here—would have been
hot, had you come in time. I thought
I might as well order several dishes,
seeing you are to defray the expenses.
No fine old port here, or champaigne; but
never mind—we may find something better
yet. Well, how did you get on, any
how? But, joking aside, I have learned
something important. No one here knows
anything of D'Estang Ville; but a stranger,
who overheard me making inquiry
about the carriage, politely informed me
that he saw such a one stop at a road-side
inn, some five miles from here; and
that two gentlemen, and a very beautiful
lady, alighted from it. I doubt not
they were those we seek; and as soon
as you have eaten, Harry, I am for pushing
on, and learning more about them to-night.
Come what do you say?”

“I am somewhat fatigued, Morton,
with this day's work; but I understand
your anxiety, and will go.”

“Hasten, then, with your dinner—for
I wish to get there before night. The
inn is on a by-road; and though I have
inquired out the way thither, so that I
think I shall have no difficulty in finding
it, yet I would rather do so by daylight.
And now,” he added, “it suddenly
strikes me, as something singular, that
they should take a by-road, and stop at
so obscure a place. Eh! Harry—what
do you think of it?”

“I cannot say that I altogether like it,”
I replied; “though the by-road you
speak of may be the nearest way to D'Estang
Ville; and their simply stopping at
the inn proves nothing sinister.”

“Well, we shall see,” was Harley's
reply.

While engaged with my meal, I gave
him an account of my remarkable adventure
in the way of love and romance;
and laughing heartily at the ludicrous
opening, and still more ludicrous finale,
he said:

“Why, Harry, you begin about as
romantically as I did; but you end—”

“The end is not yet, my dear fellow,”
I interrupted.

“Well success to your affaire de
cœur, since I see it has assumed that importance,
and may it never cost you the
misery mine has me. By Jove! Harry

fate and love seem to be at work for you
as well as me. How singular that, in
the musical unknown, you should find
the cousin of the poor fellow we saw die
on the Neptune! and how little you
thought then, that the unselfish interest
you took in his welfare, would eventually
lead to the happiest, as well as most
important, result of your life!”

“Stop, my dear fellow; you are going
into futurity a little too fast; it has led
to nothing as yet, but a few hours of
very agreeable conversation—and—we
may never meet again.”

Harley burst into a hearty laugh; and
then with a deep sigh, a grave face, and
doleful shake of the head, repeated my
words:

“And—we may never meet again.
Poor fellow! I see it is all over with
you. Cupid has done his work. Well,
come, you must assist me in my project
now—and then if I can do you a good
turn, rest assured I will.”

From the little village where we were
now stopping, which for various reasons
I shall not name, we took the road leading
almost due West; and having pursued
this a couple of miles or so, we
came to a rather obscure by road, which
branched off to the left, into a deep, dark
forest.

“This is our way,” said Harley,
pointing to it.

“You must be mistaken, I think,” I
replied: “that is not a carriage road—it
is only a road for mules and horses.”

“I am right, nevertheless,” rejoined
my friend, “for I made particular inquiry.
And see!” he added, pointing to the
ground; “a carriage has passed along
here, for here are the marks of wheels,”

“Well, then, if you are sure your'e
right, let us push ahead; but truth compels
me to say, I am not pleased with
the route.”

“Nor I,” said Harley, looking troubled.
“Why should they take Viola over
such a lonely way as this? Harry I
repeat, I do not like it; to me there
seems something dark and mysterious
about it; I fear all is not as it should be.”

“Of that you may be certain,” I repled;
“else they would not, in the first
place, have taken Viola away against
her will.”

“Right, Harry—right; they may
prove villains enough for anything.
Heavens! I grow uneasy at the thought;
Not till now have I looked upon the
affair in this startling light. Oh, by my
hopes hereafter! if they do wrong her,
they shall pay dearly for it. Ha! what a
cut-throat looking place!” continued
Harley, as we advanced deeper and
deeper into the woods. “Let us stop
and examine our weapons, Harry;” and
as each drew forth a pair of Colt's revolvers,
and saw that every thing was right,
he added: “Well, after all, we have no
great deal to fear, while we have such
powerful friends as these to stand by us.
And there are three of us,” he continued,
nodding to Tom, who stood respectfully
back, with a box under each arm. “I
suppose we can depend on him—eh!
Harry?”

“To the death,” replied I: “a braver
fellow never lived.”

“Well, he must have one of these instruments
of death. Can you shoot,
Tom?”

“Never tried um, massa,” answered
the black.

“Come here;” and Harley explained
to him how to use the revolver—which,
as most of my readers know, simply
consists, when charged, in pulling the
trigger. “Well, Tom, what do you
think now?”

“Spec' I could do dat, massa,” grinned
Tom.

“Well take it, conceal it about your
person, and mind, boy, you do not lay
a hand on it again till we bid you, or
you find it absolutely necessary to send
a ball through some villain's head! Do
you hear?”

“Yes, massa—I do just as you tell
um;” and Tom transferred the revolver
to a side-pocket, with a feeling of pride
at the confidence reposed in him, which
I had seldom seen expressed in his
honest countenance.

About a mile further on, we came to
a creek, or small stream, which crossed
the narrow road we were travelling.
There being no bridge, we were obliged

to ford it; which we did, without other
inconvenience than wetting our feet—it
being about knee deep in the most shallow
part. Thus far the ground had been
nearly level, but very heavily wooded;
and since turning into this by path—for
it hardly deserved the name of road—
we had seen no trace of a habitation.
Every thing looked sombre and gloomy;
and to add to the dreariness of our journey,
the day was nearly spent, and we
knew that night must soon overtake us.
The marks of wheels were here visible,
and had been all the way hither; but
what was somewhat singular—or perhaps
I should say suspicious—was the
fact, that we could no where discover
the trace of more than one carriage
having passed over this route—thus
showing conclusively, it was not frequented
by conveyances of this description.
From the creek, as small streams
are usually termed here, we ascended a
slight eminence, and beheld, with any
thing but pleasant feelings, the path we
were pursuing descend into a swampy
looking wood, between two walls of
dense undergrowth, whose spreading
branches, meeting overhead, almost shut
out day-light, and made our way appear
dismal enough.

On perceiving this, Harley looked
more troubled and anxious; but compressing
his lips, and knitting his brows,
as one whose mind is made up for the
worst, he merely said:

“Come, Harry, let us quicken our
pace.”

We did so, and pushed forward in
silence—each experiencing that intense,
gloomy depression of spirits, which inclines
one to commune with himself
rather than with another—when one
feels that the human voice, even his own,
must prove discordant with his feelings.

We kept on perhaps a mile further—
our road changing not for the better, and
still without sign of habitation—when
the sun went down, and the shadows of
approaching night fell upon our lonesome
way, making it impossible to distinguish
objects at more than a couple of rods
from the eye. As if to increase the
disagreeableness of our journey, we now
occasionally heard the hideous howl of
some hungry wolf, the hooting of neighboring
owls, the chirping and humming
of night insects, and the whirring, flapping
sound of bats, which began to cross
our path in numbers, before and behind,
whirling round us, sometimes almost
brushing our faces, as if indignant that
human foot should intrude upon a territory
that nature had marked as their
own. Night, too, came down upon us
so fast, that in five minutes more we
found it impossible to keep the path,
only by fixing our eyes upon the narrow
streak of light that was dimly visible
through the meeting branches overhead.

“Well,” spoke Harley, at length,
gloomily, “this is more than I bargained
for. Were it not that—”

“Hello!” said a gruff voice, so close
to us that both involuntarily started, and
laid our hands on our revolvers.

“Who are you?” demanded Harley,
sharply and quickly.

“Wall, stranger, first, who ar' you!”
returned the voice, in that broad, strong
accent, peculiar to the backwoodsmen
of the West and South; and we now
became aware, rather by sound than
sight, that the speaker was directly in
front of us.

“We are travellers,” I hastened to
answer.

“Ha! another voice,” said the unknown;
“how many are ye?”

“By what right do you question, sir?”
I demanded, beginning to grow indignant.

“Wall, no pertikler right,” answered
the other—“only I'm a trav'ler too, and
this arn't the safest place in the world
to run agin strangers.”

“You have nothing to fear from us,
if you are peaceably disposed,” said
Harley.

“Oh, as to that matter, reckon than
arn't much skeer 'bout me,” replied
the voice, in a careless, off-hand tone.
“I'm for peace or fight, just which
happens to be trumps.”

“Well, do you know the country
round here?” inquired Harley.

“Hev seed some on't in my time,
expect,” was the answer.

“Is there a tavern on ahead?”

“Two on 'em ef you like.”

“How far is it to the first?”

“You mean the best?”

“No, the nearest.”

“Well, a good mile'n a half 'll fetch
you thar.”

“Is it a respectable house?”

“Better ax old Mike Browse, the
lan'ord, that thar question—he'll tell
ye, stranger,—ha, ha, ha! But, jokin'
aside, it's a rum place for them as has
the rhino. `Spect you've got the tin,
eh?”

“None to boast of, though perhaps
enough to pay for a night's lodging,”
replied Harley. “But is the road from
here there all the way like this?”

“Why, some'at so—leastways till
you strike a cl'aring, a piece this side.”

“Then there is a clearing in this
part of the world?” rejoined Harley,
ironically.

“Al'ays, stranger, when you come
to 'em,” was the ready and characteristic
reply.

“Thank you—we will now set forward:
good evening, sir.”

“Good-night,” replied the stranger;
and still keeping his place in the centre
of the road, he managed to touch each
of us, as if by accident, as we passed
by him; and then we heard him mutter
to himself, but could not distinguish
what he said.

“I do not like it,” said Harley to
me, in a low tone, when we had got beyond
earshot of the stranger. “There
is something wrong here, depend upon
it; but we are in for it now, and must
take our chance. Keep close, Tom,
and let us all be wary.”

“What do you apprehend?” inquired
I.

“I do not know; we are in a part
of the world where all sorts of crime
abound, and should be on our guard for
the worst.”

Our progress through the wood was
now necessarily slow, by reason of the
darkness; but in less than half-an-hour
we reached the opening, with no other
incident worth recording, than the howl
of one or two wolves a little nearer
than was agreeable. On gaining the
clearing, we could see our way much
better; and soon after we found ourselves
in front of a large, two-story,
rough-looking building, which proved
to be the inn of which we were in
search.

There was a light in the lower room,
and we heard the sound of many voices.

“Is it not singular, Harry,” said
Harley, after listening a short time,
“that there should be so many persons
assembled in this out-of-the-way place?”

“What do you infer from it?” I
inquired.

“Why, to tell you the truth, I am
apprehensive it is a haunt of robbers.”

“I must admit I am much of the
same opinion—at least things look suspicious.”

“Well, we can judge better after
having seen the interior. Let us keep
together, and be civil, and we may meet
with no difficulty; but should they attempt
to molest us, we know who are
our true friends;” and Harley tapped
the butt of a revolver. “I shall assume
my French character while here; and
if you have occasion to address me by
name, remember it is Jacques. Tom,
you will keep ever with us; and mind
you do not allow yourself to get separated.
And, Harry, make no inquiry
about the carriage or its occupants—
leave all that to me.”

Saying this, Harley boldly advanced
to the door, opened it, and entered—I
keeping close to his heels, and Tom
bringing up the rear with the boxes.