University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
SUSPICIONS AND CERTAINTIES.

In the small hours of the morning, I
was awakened by my friend, who said
that if I would watch the remainder of
the night, he would try and get some
rest. I did so. Nothing, however,
occurred to alarm us; and a little after
day-light we rose, dressed, and went
below. As we passed through the
larger chamber, I saw that the majority
of the beds were occupied—but we
passed on, disturbing no one, and without
being ourselves disturbed.

In the bar-room we found the landlord,
who met us with a cheerful countenance.

“Hope you slept well,” he said.

“Like logs,” was my answer; and
Tom, who was yawning and rubbing
his eyes, seemed confirmation of the assertion.

“Rayther poor country this for your
business,” said the host.

“Why, it seems rather thinly peopled
along here,” I rejoined.

“By-the bye, what have you got to
sell?”

“Jewelry.”

“Umph! not much of them trinkets
wanted round here: we rough, backwood's
fellows go in for things more
useful.”

“How far is it to the next tavern?”

“Wall, ef you turn up on to the
main road—But which way are you
travelling?”

“West.”

“Wall, on the main road—which
you must have left back here 'bout
three or four mile—you'll come to a
tavern in about ten mile; but along
this, you'll have to travel 'bout twenty-five.”

“Any houses on this road?”

“None to speak on—leastways none
whar you'll be likely to sell much.”

“I was want to find one Monsieur
D'Estang,” now chimed in Harley.
“Somebody was tell me he was leeve
in zis contree—but I was coome several
mile, and I no see him.”

“Ha! do ye know him?” queried
the host, quickly, with awakened interest,
looking at us more keenly.

“I was hear of him,” replied Harley,
with a significant shrug: “him one
contreeman.”

“Yes, both French.”

“You was know him, eh!”

“I didn't say so—but the name's
French.”

“Oui, monsieur—one grande nam'
Francaise.”

“You want to see him on pertickler
business.”

Harley answered by another significant
shrug.

“A little in the”—and the landlord
made a peculiar sign.

Harley smiled, with another shrug.

“So, aha! why didn't you make
this known last night?”

“I mak' noting known, monsieur—
not I—aha!”

“I see—very shrewd: sell jewelry—
capital. Take so'thing?” and the host
nodded toward the bar.

“You was be one, eh?” and Harley
winked knowingly, and gave another
shrug, which in a Frenchman
always says so much.

“You shall see;” and the landlord
seized the hand of my friend, squeezed
it in a peculiar way, pressing his thumb
strongly on one of the knuckles.

“Aha! was convince—oui—varree
rejoice I learn you: I was drink you
health.”

“You should have made yourselves
known last night,” pursued the host,
as he entered the bar, and set a bottle of
brandy on the counter. “You mought
hev got into trouble.”

We drank to each other's future success;
and then Harley said;

“But you was not tell me where
Monsieur D'Estang?”

“True, thar, gents;” and the communicative
host proceeded to put us in
possession of the very important fact,
with such particulars as left us no
doubt about finding our way thither.
“Ef I'd only known you last night,”
he said, in conclusion, “I mought perhaps
have saved you a journey.”

“How so?” inquired I.

“Why, the Cap'en was here.”

“Indeed! here?” echoed I, with a
look of amazement; “how unfortunate
we did not know it!”

“All your own fault; you oughter
known Mike Brose, anyhow. By-the-bye,
I forgot to ax who sent you
here.”

“We was coome accidental,” an
swered Harley, quickly, lest I should
get confused—a very timely precaution.
“We was just in zis contree
from Nouvelle Orlean.”

“From New Orleans?” repeated
the other, musingly. Then suddenly:
“Surely, you are not the—”

“Oui,” replied Harley, at a venture,
as he paused.

“Give us your hand again,” cried
the landlord, joyfully. “Glad to see
you, as ef I'd trod on a nail. I know'd
he'd send some one—but I mistook
your business. The Cap'en 'll be
glad to see you, too—though he's got a
good workman since he writ; but that's
no matter; al'ays plenty to do in our
perfession—ha, ha, ha!”

Where, when, and how, will this
mystification end? thought I. I knew
Harley must be as much perplexed as
myself—though his air and look was
that of one who understood the whole
matter perfectly.

Happening to glance at Tom, who
stood back, with a box under each arm,
the host continued, knowingly, nodding
toward the black:

“Have the tools thar, expect?”

“Oui,” said Harley; “some jewelry,
and de tool.”

“Could I just look at them?”

“I was like oblige—but, pardonnez
moi! it was with me one grande secrete?”

“Yes, I understand. Well, come in
and take breakfast; and as I hear our
friends stirring overhead, I'll introduce
you to some good fellows.”

“Pardonnez moi!” returned Harley:
“I was like to mak' acquaint
with gentilhomme—but I was not speak
to only Capitaine. I was maybe do
wrong speak to you, I do assure: you
see, eh!”

“Oh, never mind, then—mum—you
shall eat private.”

During our meal, the landlord continued
his mysterious inquiries; but
Harley, by a peculiar run of good luck,
answered each to his satisfaction; and
while my friend and I were puzzling
our brains to know what it all meant,
the host seemed to pride himself on

the valuable discovery he had made.
When we came to settle our bill, he
refused to take a cent; and on leaving,
he whispered in our ears the pass-word,
as he called it.

“Well, what does all this mean?”
said I, when we were once more alone
upon the road.

“Really, I felt like asking that question
myself,” replied Harley. “But it
means something—there is no doubt
about that.”

“These men are banded together for
some secret purpose, and at the head
of them is Monsieur D'Estang,” said I;
“so much we know—the only question
being as regards the purpose.”

“What say you to counterfeiters,
Harry?”

“Faith! you might have been more
unlikely in your surmise—for supposing
them such, I can see a meaning in
nearly everything that was said.”

“Can you not in quite everything,
Harry?”

“Why, the tools—what could he
mean by them?”

“Can dies and plates be made without
tools?”

“Ha! true: and so he believes us—”

“Perhaps die-sinkers or engravers.”

“But not knowing this, how dared
you venture to answer his questions in
the way you did?”

“Why, I knew I must venture something,
after the conversation had opened
as you know how; and I thought I
might as well risk much as little: the
result proved me right; besides, I was
anxious to draw him on, in order to get
some special information concerning
D'Estang. So then I was not wrong
in my surmise; and it was he, the
scoundrel, that was here last night,
boasting of his power over his prisoner,
who of course is none other than Viola.
Oh, it is well I no more than suspected
him last night! for had I been certain of
his identity, I do not know what rash
thing, under a sudden, wild impulse, I
might not have done. I verily believe
I should have attempted his life; and
whether I succeeded or failed, I should
have got myself and you into most se
rious difficulty. I am rejoiced all has
happened as it has; for now I know
where to look for him, and am prepared
to fight him invisibly, with the subtle
weapons of cunning and stratagem.
And now, Harry, we must make our
way, as fast as possible, to the inn on
the main road, where, if horses can be
procured, we will set forward at such
speed as money can purchase. I feel
there is no time to delay; in the hands
of such a villain, Viola is not safe a day.
Oh, that I had wings to fly to her rescue!
What if he should force her into
a marriage, Harry?”

“He will not venture so much, so
soon, I think, Morton.”

“I pray he may not!” said Harley,
in a tone of suppressed passion, his
eyes gleaming with a wild, fearful light;
“I pray he may not! earnestly pray
he may not! for her sake, his sake,
my own;—but if he do thus wrong her,
Harry, by that awful, dread eternity to
which we are hastening! I solemnly
swear, not to rest, day or night, till
she is avenged—terribly, bloodily avenged.”

About a mile beyond the inn where
we had spent the night, the narrow road
we were pursuing, forked. We took
the right, and were glad to perceive the
carriage of D'Estang had done the same.
A mile, or perhaps a little more than a
mile, still further on, we again struck
the main road, much to our delight—for
though neither of us were cowards, to
fear each bush and shadow, yet there
was something extremely unpleasant in
travelling a solitary path, through a
dense, dark wood, in a section of country
which we had good reason for believing
was infested by those who would
stop at no crime which might stand between
them and the object they sought,
whatever that might be.

Some two hours after reaching the
main road, we arrived at a very genteel
way-side inn, where we succeeded in
procuring a conveyance to the next village
some ten miles distant. Here we
fortunately secured fast horses and a
guide, which set us forward some
twenty-five miles in three hours. Our

next and last stage was performed in
a four-wheeled vehicle. We crossed
the Brazos about dark, and an hour
later had arrived at our destination for
the day.

We were now within three miles of
D'Estang Ville; and at the inn where
we put up for the night, we made casual
inquiries about the surrounding country
—the general character of the inhabitants—and
of course, among the rest,
did not neglect to question concerning
him with whom we expected to have
most to do. What we gathered of the
latter, was in substance, that Captain—
or as he was here generally termed,
Count D'Estang—was a French nobleman,
of great wealth, who owned and
worked one of the largest cotton plantations
on the Brazos. D'Estang Ville,
his private residence, was said to be the
most charming and magnificent in all
Texas; and here when at home, for he
was much abroad, he lived in a style of
sumptuous splendor. He not unfrequently
held revels at his mansion; but
only here and there a neighbor attended
—most of the guests being from a distance,
and strangers to all but the host.
When questioned as to the moral character
of Count D'Estang, our informants
shook their heads significantly, and said
that there were strange reports abroad
that his gains were not all honestly
come by, though none dared accuse him
of crime. He was considered a roue;
and some hinted that tales might be told
of innocence wronged, hopes blasted,
and hearts broken—only that those who
could speak, had their lips sealed by
self-interest and fear. He was regarded
as a dark man, rich and powerful, and
more to be feared than loved. At
present, rumor was busy concerning a
new victim, who had mysteriously
arrived in the night, in a close carriage;
but further than this, no one knew
anything; and even this was rather
guessed at, we found, than positively
known.

Such was the substance of what we
learned from the citizens of—. But
the place shall be nameless. When
alone with me, Harley groaned in an
guish of spirit, and then knit his brows
and ground his teeth with rage.

“Oh! Harry,” he said, “think of
the latest victim—who can it be but
Viola? Oh! it is terrible! terrible!
The monster fiend! May the sure justice
of Heaven speedily overtake him!
One night more of miserable suspense,
and then to know the worst; and if
the worst has befallen her—then in the
presence of the Omnipotent, do I con-secrate
this life to avenge her.”

I endeavored to tranquilize him, but
for a long time in vain. At last he grew
calmer, and we discussed our plans for
the morrow.

Though greatly fatigued, we slept but
little that night.