 | CHAPTER XIV. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
“Il me semble qu'il y a des friponneries si heureuses que tout
le monde les pardonne.”
Voltaire.
Pedrillo deviated from his best policy when he
communicated the secret of his conspiracy to his
man Denis, and permitted him to extend it to Justine.
Denis, it is true, was a well tried tool of his master,
who had never been betrayed into infidelity by
any impulses or meltings of nature. But Justine
was of a softer temper—a woman, with a woman's
sympathies and affections. All these Denis had artfully
enlisted in his master's cause, by making her
believe they were only righting the wrongs of true
love, and inflicting on Miss Emilie the penalty of her
broken faith. The present violence being thus adjusted
in Justine's feminine scales, her imagination
was easily seduced by the brilliant perspective of
honors and wealth that awaited her young lady, and
of which she, the satellite and lesser light, would
partake in liberal measure.
Her conscience was thus made tolerably quiet,
but she had another anxiety that she could not so
easily put to rest. She had, as has been seen, secured
a sum for her parents which was more than an
equivalent for the avails of her services; but she loved
the old people with a true, filial love, and though,
`it was according to the course of nature to leave
father and mother, and cleave to the husband,' yet
it was most unnatural and brutish to quit them, and
perhaps for ever, without their consent and blessing.
She revolved this in her mind, till it was filled with
sad misgivings and superstitious presages; and at
last, to quiet her heart, she stole to her mother, and
poured all its secrets into her bosom.
Her painful but affectionate confidence—nothing
melts a woman's heart like a voluntary confidence—
her confessed and true love for Denis—was there
ever woman, young or old, who had not a chord to
vibrate to the `ringing of the true metal?'—her disclosure
of her lover's and his master's almost incredible
liberality all swayed the mother to a passive acquiescence
in Justine's wishes. She gave the asked
consent, and the craved blessing, and promised to reconcile
her father, who was old and in his dotage,
to her departure.
Success and happiness had a common effect. Justine
became communicative to excess. At first, she
had only sketched the outlines of the conspiracy—
she now went on to detail all, to the minutest particulars,
including in these the magnificent dress Mr.
Pedrillo was to wear to the masquerade, and even
the name of the humble artisan who was to be its
fabricator.
Justine's mother listened to this plot with a strong
and natural curiosity, and in her interest in its contrivance
and result, and in her daughter's part in
the drama, she lost every other consideration. But
solitary reflection has a marvellous efficacy in adjusting
a sense of Miss Layton's violated rights dawned
upon her—and being an upright and kind-hearted
creature, she found that her previous knowledge of
the affair was a participation in its guilt, that was
like to prove an intolerable burden to her conscience.
What was to be done? She was pledged to Justine
—she had given her consent—that she might retract;
but she had given her blessing—that was
an appeal to Heaven; and according to her simple
faith, as she afterwards expressed it to Gertrude,
`what was once sent up there, could not be taken
back again.' She knew Miss Clarence, and was
bound to her by ties of gratitude; and after much
painful deliberation, she determined to obtain a private
interview with her, and disclose the whole affair.
This she immediately effected; first binding Miss
Clarence, by a solemn promise, that whatever measures
were taken to counteract the plot, they should
not be such as would prevent Justine's peaceable
departure with her lover, nor, if possible to avoid it,
such as would publicly disgrace Pedrillo.
Miss Clarence listened to the tale with horror.
That Pedrillo, a man unfettered by principle, without
ties or responsibilities to the country, and stimulated
by love, disappointment, and resentment,
should contrive this abduction, did not surprise her;
but that Emilie's father should be an accessory to
the crime, implied a degree of iniquity beyond her
belief. A little reflection, however, convinced her that
the tale `was o'er true.' She recollected expressions
that had escaped Layton, which indicated that he was
in Pedrillo's power, in a more alarming sense than
old woman's story explained his absenting himself
from the house since her memorable interview with
him in the library, and accounted for his wild and
haggard appearance on the only occasion on which
she had since seen him, and when he had studiously
avoided her. Her own good sense, and preference of
straight forward proceedings, would have led her at
once to disclose her knowledge of the affair to all
the parties concerned, and to counsel Emilie to
give Marion, without delay, a legal right to protect
her. But she was hampered by her promise to
the old woman; and knowing that Pedrillo was under
the inevitable necessity of leaving the country on Monday
night, she hoped it was possible, as it certainly
was most desirable, so to manage his relations with
Layton, that there should be no explosion between
them. She determined to communicate with Marion,
assured that she might trust to his zeal whatever
plan they adopted to secure safety to Emilie.
Marion came at her summons, and never did two
gray-headed counsellors deliberate more cautiously
on the means to preserve a nation, than they on the
best plan to be adopted; but they were many years
from gray hairs, and it was not strange that a little
romance should have mingled in their project.
They agreed that Layton must no longer be allowed
the custody of his daughter, and Marion eloquently
pleaded his right to assume the trust, and
urged various and cogent reasons in favor of conveying
Emilie to his mother's dignified protection.
This might be effected, if Miss Clarence would give
the sanction of her presence to their elopement.
York; but she sacrificed unhesitatingly her own inclinations,
and acquiesced cordially in his proposition.
After discussing and dismissing various plans, it
was at last decided that Marion should employ the
person who already had Pedrillo's order, to make
for him a fac simile of the dress directed by
Pedrillo; that farther, this person should be induced,
by an adequate reward, to delay sending
home Pedrillo's dress an hour beyond the stipulated
time. It would perhaps be more accurate to say,
that the punctuality to Marion was paid for—the
breach of that virtue being in the common course
of things, and therefore not liable to awaken Pedrillo's
suspicions.
The precious hour thus secured was to allow the
parties time enough to meet at the masquerade, and
to escape from it far beyond (as they, presumptuously
trusted) any further pursuit or annoyance
from Pedrillo. They would fain have hit upon
some scheme that would have saved the miserable
parent from proceeding to an overt act in this
guilty combination, but this seemed the only one by
which Emilie's safety could be compatible with his
preservation from the fatal consequences of a rupture
with Pedrillo. Every particular was arranged
before a disclosure was made to Emilie.
As soon as she recovered from her first shock
of grief, and alarm, she remonstrated. Anxious
as she was to escape from the toils set for her, she
shrunk from being even the passive instrument of
dyeing her father more deeply in sin. To the last,
and notwithstanding her lover's previous and earnest
injunctions, when she saw her father's struggles,
her tender heart was melted; and like all timid
animals, feeling her courage rise in extremity of
danger, she had, as has been seen, entreated him
not to go to the masquerade, nobly willing to encounter
danger herself, to save her parent from
crime. But whichever way he turned, there was no
possible redemption for him, and he pursued the
path marked out by his evil genius to his own destruction.
After he had parted from his child, as his agonized
conscience truly whispered, for ever, he experienced
for a little time a horrible species of relief.
The last and worst act was done. Resistance was
over. Like the angels expelled from heaven, he
no longer contended with good spirits; he was no
longer solicited by the pleadings of nature—the
voice of God. A sort of torpor stole over him, and
scarcely conscious of any motion of his will or body,
he turned his steps towards his old haunt at the
club-room. A disordered countenance was no novelty
there, and attracted no attention. His associates
were engaged in a game of desperate chances.
He joined them. Fortune smiled upon him, but he
was far beyond her influence. He looked upon the
monstrous winnings he was accumulating, with the
glazed unnoticing eye with which a man, walking
in his sleep, regards outward objects; but the
sleeper awakened on the brink of a precipice hanging
over an unfathomable abyss, would not more
suddenly have changed his aspect, than did Layton;
livid in an instant, as the door opened, and Pedrillo
appeared before him, the same Spanish knight,
as he believed, to whom he had one hour before
resigned his daughter. Layton started up and
grasped Pedrillo's arm, and would have said,
“Where is she?” but the words choked him. Pedrillo
shook him off as if he were a reptile. He
staggered back and leaned against the wall, while
Pedrillo, with the coolness of a savage who can
torture and be tortured without a sign of emotion,
turned to the gamblers, whose interest in their game
was for the moment suspended, and detailed to them
with clearness and precision the history of his relations
with Layton, from their first meeting to this
moment. Layton stood with his eyes fixed, motionless,
almost senseless. He did not hear the but
half-smothered execrations of his associates, when
they were told how he had duped and defrauded
them. That tale, that exposure—so dreaded—
avoided at such horrible cost, fell now unheeded as
household words. He did not hear the outcries at
his parental treachery. He stood like a man upon
a wreck, deaf to the last groans and struggles of the
sinking ship; but as that man might strain his eye
after a little boat in which he had embarked his
child, so did his soul cling to that one treasure that
might still ride out the storm that was engulfing
himself. He made no denial, no protestation, no appeal;
he was perfectly silent, till Pedrillo stated that
Layton had finally crowned all his other treacheries
with perfidy to him. “I deny it,” he exclaimed,
“by all that's holy, I deny it—I gave her into
—where is she?—in Heaven's name, Pedrillo, tell
me where she is?”
Pedrillo's passions now burst forth with tenfold
fury for his previous calmness. He exhausted every
name of infamy, every form of anathema upon Layton,
“Tell you where she is!” he concluded, “did
I not, after waiting an eternity for my cursed tailor,
go to the masquerade, and look and wait in vain for
you?—did I not then go to your house, and receive
from your servants the tale you had prepared? I
returned to the masquerade and again sought you,
in vain. I spoke to your wife—she professed ignorance
of every thing; she dared to sport, and laugh
at my demands; but I have spoken a word in her
ear that has ended her sport for ever. I understand
ye—you believed that at the last you might deceive
me with impunity. You flattered yourself that I
could not stay in the country after to-night—but I
will stay—I will have revenge, if I perish in the fire
I kindle.”
Layton was at first confounded and bewildered
by the appearance of Pedrillo. He firmly believed
that Emilie was in his power, for that he had the
testimony of his senses. He was confused by the
horror of some new and unthought of form of misery
or dishonor to his daughter; and it was not till
after Pedrillo's repeated declarations that the truth
stole upon him. “I too have been deceived!” he
exclaimed, and added, in a faltering voice, “thank
God!—thank God!” He attempted to raise his
hand to his throbbing head, but his mind and body
were exhausted. He had no strength to resist a
at Pedrillo's feet.
Pedrillo spurned him as if he were a dead dog,
and without replying to the exclamations that burst
from every tongue, he rushed out of the house, and
returned to Mrs. Layton's.
He found Mrs. Layton in the parlor, stretched on
the sofa, in violent hysterics. Roscoe, who had attended
her home, and whom she had entreated not
to leave her, was walking up and down the room,
meditating, as it might be, for such reflections are
natural to a man in his position, on the singular
channels in which some women's sensibilities flow;
or, we rather suspect, if it could be known, and
might be told, that he was thinking no more of Mrs.
layton nor of her concerns, than if she belonged to
another planet.
At the sound of Pedrillo's footsteps she started
from her women, who were chafing her temples and
hands, and taking up an open letter that lay beside
her, she threw it to him, saying, with a terrified
look, “Read that, Mr. Pedrillo—you will then be
convinced that I have had no concern in this unhappy
affair.”
The letter was from Emilie, and contained a brief
communication of her intentions, and an explanation
of the reasons for her clandestine departure.
She had left the letter with one of the maids, with
an express order that it should not be given to her
mother till the next day. The girl was terrified by
her mistress's nervous convulsions, and fancying
that she must die if she had not present relief, and
hoping the letter might prove the panacea, she produced
caused by anxieties more immediately selfish than
any thing that concerned her child.
Pedrillo glanced his eye over the letter—“On
the southern road”—he murmured, “by Heaven,
I'll follow them!” He rushed out of the house, reinvigorated
by a new purpose, which he conceived
and executed with the rapidity of a man accustomed
to the sudden vicissitudes of a desperate life. His
men, men of proof, were still awaiting him at their
assigned post. He selected the two cleverest and
most daring, and mounting them and himself upon
the three fleetest and strongest horses to be procured,
he crossed the ferry to Powles Hook, and followed
on the track of our travellers. They were
two or three hours ahead of him, but he calculated
rightly that after the first stage they would have no
apprehensions of being pursued, and would either
proceed leisurely, or stop for the night.
Pedrillo's companions did not at all relish their
partnership in this wild affair. Their passions were
not stimulated, nor their judgments obscured by
any personal interest, and they saw clearly the rashness
and folly of the enterprise. But they dared
not speak out boldly. “What, captain,” asked
one of them, “is your plan, if we overtake these
runaways? this is no country for our trade. It will
be an awkward business. Have you thought how
we are to manage?”
“Yes; I have thought of every thing.”
“That we have to traverse a settled country, and
pass a ferry?”
“Yes; and if the country were settled with legions
it should not stop me—listen to my plan.
We shall probably overtake them on the road—
one of you can do with a drivelling, unarmed coachman—if
there is time, and convenient place, bind
him to a tree—if not, despatch him, we have no time
to waste. The fellow in the carriage will make a
stout resistance, but short—he is not likely to be
armed, such precautions are rare, and rarely needed
in this country. When he is done for”—Pedrillo
paused, `I will not,' he thought, give her this
excuse for hating me,'—“No, my men; if it can
be helped, we will shed no blood; I think ye have
no appetite for that—bind him too,—maim him, if
necessary, to secure us from pursuit.”
“And is there not an extra lady to be disposed
of?”
“Yes; we must take her with us.”
“But, is it prudent to encumber our flying retreat
with any superfluous baggage?”
“She will not encumber us—we must go in the
carriage. If we leave her, she will release the men,
and contrive some means to overcome us at last, for
she is as ingenious as the devil.”
“Well, we shall have a merry company of them,
if we ever get to our good ship again. We left the
priest tying Denis to a neat little damsel he brought
on board this evening. But the carriage, captain;
how are we to navigate a land vessel?”
This questioning and demurring was quite new
to Pedrillo, used to absolute command, and implicit
obedience, and he began to grow restive under it;
but he prudently smothered his rising wrath, and replied,
I can manage four or six in hand, as well as the
ropes of a ship. I shall put on the coachman's
coat, and mount the box. And more, since you are
terrified with the spectre of a ferry—know that we
shall not retrace our steps, but strike across to
Perth Amboy; I have ordered the boat to come
through the Kills and meet us there—are you content?”
“If we were sure not to find the horses jaded?”
“And if we do! have we not here three first
rates, that we could drive to Philadelphia before we
should be overtaken?”
“But three are not four, captain.”
“The devil, man! do you think to stop me with
straws? shall we not find one of all their four, sea-worthy?”
“Well then, captain, if we overhaul them on the
road, in a solitary place, before day-light, we may
capture them; but supposing they are hauled up,
in a snug harbor, where there are perhaps twice or
thrice our number of men to aid them; will you
not then tack about?”
“No, by my soul! if they are protected by a regiment
of men and devils, I will not tack about—I
have staked my life on this die.”
“But we have not ours,” muttered one of the
men.
“Then stop, both of ye,” cried Pedrillo, reining
in his horse. They halted theirs, and he rode in front
of them. “Go back,” he said, “but not to the ship;
you share neither danger nor spoil with me more—
I promised ye, and you know I never yet have broke
your souls are worth—but go—seek another service,
and a more generous master. I can do my work
alone—a thousand cowards could not help me. I
feel the strength of twenty good men in my right
arm—come Triton.” His little dog leaped up at his
call, and received a caress. “My brave Triton! I
have still one faithful follower. Let them go—better
alone, than with those who fear to follow us.”
He rode forward; the men fell into earnest debate;
they had, at bottom, a superstitious faith in
Pedrillo's invincibility. The first act of cowardice
is as painful to men of daring, as an act of courage
to a coward; timid as they proved in a landservice,
they could not endure the thought of returning
no more to the exciting dangers, and merry revels
of their good ship; the reward, the gold glittered
as they were relaxing their grasp of it; and
finally, they spurred on their horses, overtook Pedrillo,
and stammering out their apologies, they
assured him they would `do or die' in his service.
He received their proffers rather as a favor to them,
than important to himself; but he understood his
art too well, not to keep their courage up to the
sticking point, by fixing their eyes on the success
and reward of their enterprise.
They had travelled more than three hours; had
passed the road that strikes from the main route to
Amboy, and were not very far from Brunswick,
when Pedrillo began to manifest great anxiety.
Their dangers multiplied, every mile they receded
from Amboy. The moon was rising. He looked
at his watch. “It is four o'clock;” he said, “in
horses, my men; our fate must be decided before
the morning—ha! stop! Is not that a carriage
standing before an inn?” They strained their
eyes to define the distant object, and slowly approaching,
they all pronounced it to be a carriage.
“Were the horses attached to it?” was the next
query; they were not.
“By my soul!” said Pedrillo, “I believe we
have them!—softly, my men, we'll dismount and
reconnoitre—here is a ruined shed, we will leave
our horses here. We must approach cautiously—
there are lights glimmering about the tavern—I will
precede you a few yards. I can ascertain at a
glance, if the persons whom I seek are here. If
you hear me whistle, join me instantly—obey whatever
order I shall give you—be up to your own
mark, my good fellows—I ask no more.”
Pedrillo slowly proceeded. In his eagerness he
had forgotten that his little spaniel who, as usual, followed
him, might betray him by the tinkling of his
bells, and he took him in his arms, and kept his
hand on them. Many a scene of danger and blood
had he encountered without a variation of his pulse—
many a peril imminent and desperate, without a
shrinking or foreboding—but now his stout heart
throbbed like a coward's—he felt that it was the
moment of fate to him; almost unconsciously he
slackened his pace, and midway between his companions
and the inn he stopped. The fretted vault
of heaven hung over him in its clear and inexpressible
beauty. The moon was unobscured. If there
be a religious light, it is that she casts over the
stillness. The sleep of winter reigned over nature;
and yet to Pedrillo's startled conscience there was
in this deep silence a loud accusing voice; on the
beautiful arch of Heaven a hand-writing against
him. “I am a wretch,” he murmured, “an outcast—a
solitary vagrant on earth, working mischief
to the only being I love—and loved myself by
none.” The little spaniel, as if in intelligent reply
to his master's words, reared his head from his bosom,
and laid it fondly to his cheek—the tears gushed
from Pedrillo's eye, the spontaneous response of
nature to the touch of true affection. “You love
me, Triton—poor fellow! if I perish, one creature
on God's earth will cry over the moulds that cover
me.” The dog whimpered. He understood the
feeling, if not the words, expressed in the broken
tones of his master's voice—“hush, Triton, hush—
we are both turning drivellers—our work waits for
us;” and repressing his gracious feeling, he pressed
on to the execution of his diabolical purpose.
As soon as he was near enough to the house accurately
to distinguish objects, he perceived that the
inn was a small edifice, which could only supply
accommodation to very few persons, and therefore
that he had no reason to apprehend the opposition
of numbers; and on approaching nearer, he saw the
figures of two females, or rather their shadows, defined
on the slight curtains that obscured the windows
of a small upper apartment, which was lighted
by a brilliant pine fire. These persons might be,
he was sure, after a moment's intense observation,
they were, Emilie Layton and Miss Clarence. The
its windows, and then all uncertainty ended, for there
sat Marion before a comfortable fire, the relics of a
supper on a table behind him, and he lost in a lover's
reveries. His face expressed the glowing satisfaction
of a man who has just secured his dearest object
in life. A little blue silk hood of Emilie, and
a pink silk handkerchief, that Pedrillo had often
seen tied around her throat, hung over a chair beside
her lover. Marion took the hood in his hand,
held it before him, looked at it fondly, turned it
round and round, rolled the strings over his finger,
laid it down—took up the pink handkerchief—kissed
it—folded it most accurately—kissed it again,
and laid it next his heart. Young men will forgive
him, and old men too, if they remember the
fantastic manifestations of their youthful tenderness—
but so did not Pedrillo—he wanted but this to stimulate
his jealousy, and all his fearful passions to
the overt act.
Our travellers had arrived at the inn, after a rapid
and incessant drive, about an hour before. Marion
believed they were beyond the least chance of pursuit,
and fearful the ladies would be exhausted by
fatigue, he had decided to stop for a few hours' repose.
The inn was kept by a widow and her
daughters, whose reluctance to be disturbed at so
unseasonable an hour, was overcome by an extraordinary
compensation, and the assurance, in answer
to their objection that the only man in the establishment
was absent, that the coachman would perform
all the services the horses required. Accordingly,
he did so; and after doing justice to a cold sparerib
curiosity, in regard to the travellers, to the keenest
edge by his oracular answers to their queries, he retired,
to the only lodging that could be afforded
him, in the hay-loft over his horses.
The ladies withdrew to their apartment, after first
talking over their plan for the next day; the probable
hour of their arrival at Philadelphia; and
whether, as Marion urged, Emilie should permit
him to lead her to the altar there, or as Emilie wished,
and Gertrude counselled, the marriage should
be deferred till their arrival at his mother's.
Marion was obliged to content himself with a
rocking-chair in the parlor, as the only other unoccupied
apartment was a little bed-room, to which
there was no access but through the ladies' apartment.
When Gertrude and Emilie were in their own
room, they seated themselves to warm their feet, and
curl their hair; offices that heroines perform in common
with baser metal. Gertrude had her own treasure
of sweet recollections, and bright hopes, and
for a moment she forgot there was any shade over
Emilie's destiny. Poor Emilie sat looking intently
in the fire, abstracted, and anxious. “Why so sad?”
said Gertrude, kissing her.
Emilie dropped her head on her friend's lap, and
burst into tears. “Oh Gertrude, I have such a load
at my heart!”
“But why, now when we are beyond all danger—and
you have been so tranquil and cheerful
till now?”
“I know it, Gertrude; but when I am with Randolph,
the present moment seems all enough and for
me—I do not think of any thing absent, or past, or
to come.”
“And your friend has no such power over
you?”
“Forgive me, dearest Gertrude—you are the very
best friend in the world, and you whose friendship is
so much stronger than any one's else, when you
come to feel what love is, then you will understand
me—I am sure I can't explain it. But now I am away
from Randolph, my thoughts turn back to my poor
father—to his distracted look—and at the last he
was so tender to me. He must have been desperately
involved with Pedrillo, or he never would
have consented to sacrifice me. And my mother!
Only think, Gertrude, how gay she was! how little
she thought of what the morrow might bring to her!
Oh Gertrude, I know—I know that evil and sorrow
are before me—Hark! did you not hear a whistle?”
“Pshaw!—no, Emilie—you can fancy you hear
any sound when your imagination is excited.”
Emilie did not listen to Gertrude; her head was
advanced like a startled fawn's—her hand on Gertrude's
arm. She pressed it. “There—again—
hush—low tinkling bells like Triton's.” She
started to her feet—“It is Pedrillo!”
“Gracious God, save us!” screamed Gertrude,
and springing to the door, she turned the key, and
secured a momentary protection. The sound of
the bells had been immediately succeeded by the
bursting open of the entry-door, and a loud, rapid
who had heard the previous sounds, and was advancing
to the door.
Three women, from the kitchen, rushed into the
entry. Pedrillo presented a pistol, and they fled
like scared pigeons. At a step he mounted the stairs,
and while he was standing beating against the
door, Gertrude forced Emilie, who was nearly lifeless,
into the inner room, and bade her turn the
lock, which she had just time to do before Pedrillo
burst into the apartment. His eye glanced wildly
around. “Where is she?” he exclaimed; and instantly
he felt that his question was answered by
Gertrude's erect figure standing like a statue, as
pale and as fixed, against the door of the inner
apartment. Pedrillo was struck by her lofty glance
and determined air. He had never coped with heroism
in such a shape, and he shrunk as he would
not have done from an armed enemy. But the homage
was momentary. “Suffer me to pass, Miss
Clarence,” he said, “compel me not to further violence.”
“I would prevent you from further violence—
have you forgotten every thing gentlemanly, manly,
that you dare, like a common ruffian, to force yourself
into our apartment?”
“I did not come here to reason or palter with
you, Gertrude Clarence. I came here to right my
wrongs—to have revenge for treachery; stand back,
I command you, on peril of your life!”
“I will not move one inch, till you promise
me”—
“Promise you!” he cried, interrupting her with
a scornful shout; “do you think me a child, or
fool, to be resisted by a woman!” and holding her
off with one arm, he thrust his shoulder against the
door, and burst it open with a single effort. Emilie
was on her knees, her hands clasped, and her eyes
fixed. He seized her arm. “Traitress! I have you
now, and for ever!” Her hands relaxed, her arms
fell, and every sign of life vanished. Gertrude received
her lifeless form in her arms. “Monster!
you have killed her,” she shrieked.
Pedrillo laid his hand on her heart. “It beats,”
he said, “she will recover presently. Holloa there!
my men! find the coachman instantly—order him
to put to the horses; if he resists, put your pistols
to his head—no delay!”
The sound of the contest below with Marion had
just ceased. Surprised and unarmed as he was, he
had made a brave resistance. The men, according
to Pedrillo's order, had forborne to fire on him. He
opposed their weapons with such implements of defence
as the apartment supplied; and though repeatedly
wounded, and drenched in blood, he had
forced his way to the stair-case, when a new uproar
broke out. Pedrillo's last command to his men was
answered by the discharge of two pistols, and the
instant appearance of Roscoe before him.
Pedrillo drew a dirk, and sprang towards him.
Roscoe was well armed, and they met in desperate
encounter. But the strife was unequal. What was
Roscoe, who had never handled any weapon but the
guarded foil, and that in the holiday exercise of the
fencing-school, against an adversary practised and
and accustomed to sudden assaults and desperate defences?
Roscoe fought, it is true, with the impulse
of a good cause—and so have many others, brave
and noble, fought and fell. But he fought in a presence
that was inspiration. His eye had met Gertrude's—had
met her glance of tenderness, horror,
and dread. She still supported Emilie in her
arms, Emilie looking like a victim to be avenged,
rather than a living creature to be saved. Pedrillo
made repeated thrusts, vigorous and skilful. Roscoe
parried them all; neither gained any perceptible
advantage, till by a sudden turn Pedrillo disarmed
him. Gertrude's eye fell, and she uttered a cry that
pierced Roscoe's soul. Again she looked, and Pedrillo
too was disarmed, and they had grappled.
Another instant, and Pedrillo was conscious that
Roscoe was gaining the ascendancy. “Here, my
men!” he cried.
“There are more here!” was the answer.
“Ha!—stab them—shoot them down—spare
none!” A death-cry and a heavy fall immediately
followed.”
“Randolph is killed!” shrieked Gertrude. The
name, the words, roused Emilie like one awakened
from the dead. She opened her eyes, gazed wildly
around, clasped her arms around Gertrude's neck,
and hid her face on her bosom. Roscoe's eye involuntarily
turned towards them. Pedrillo profited
by this impulse of treacherous tenderness, extricated
his right arm, and drew a Spanish knife from
beneath his vest—another breath, and he would have
buried it in Roscoe's bosom, but his arm was palsied;
blood in his swollen veins curdled, his crimson face
changed to a livid paleness, for at that instant his
father—his father, wounded and pressed by one of
his men, fell across the threshold of the door. The
ruffian stepped back to give force to a blow he was
aiming with the muzzle of his pistol, at the old man's
head, when Pedrillo shouted—“hold! stop! on
your life do not harm him!”
Roscoe saw the sudden change, and felt that Pedrillo
had become as impotent as a sick child in his
grasp. He released him. Pedrillo staggered towards
his accomplice. The fellow stared at him, as
if the curse of heaven were visible on his pallid brow.
“Where is your comrade?” demanded Pedrillo.
“Dead!”
“Fly then, to Amboy. Tell our good fellows
that I died no coward death. Tell them I fell by
the hand of a brave man.”—He plunged the knife
into his own bosom, and fell at his father's feet. The
man did not wait to see the issue, but unopposed,
obeyed his master's last command.
The younger Flint was of the rescuing party,
and had done his part bravely. When Pedrillo
gave the command to shoot down the assailants, one
of the ruffians aimed his pistol at the old man. Flint
struck the wretch's arm. The pistol went off; but
the bullet, instead of reaching its destined aim,
passed through his comrade's head. The poor creature,
in his dying agony extended his arms, clasped
Flint and fell with him; Flint under, and nearly
strangled in his death-grasp. As soon as he
could extricate himself, he flew up stairs.
The work was done there. His father, regardless
of his own slight wound, was assisting Roscoe
to remove Pedrillo to the bed. There they laid
him. His eyes were closed, and he appeared senseless.
They tried in vain to staunch his wound.
His little dog jumped on the bed, whimpered,
cried most piteously, and alternately looked in his
master's face and licked his wound.
The old man reverently clasped his hands, “Oh
God,” he ejaculated, “have mercy on his soul!—
Forgive him, who has had no mercy on himself!”
He paused, laid his hand on Pedrillo's brow, already
covered with the dews of death. “Oh, my son,
my son!” he continued, would that I had died for
thee! Through grace, I am ready to meet my
Judge; I have an honest account to render; poor
fellow, you've a fearful reckoning—robbery and
murder, on land, and on sea!—Oh, God have mercy
on you!”
“Father of mercies!” exclaimed the younger
Flint, whose senses, till now, had been confounded,
“this is not Isaac—is it?”
“Even so, Duty. I did not mean you should
have known it, but I forgot myself. It is a grievous
task to see a son and brother sinking into the
grave with such a load of guilt upon him.” The
old man again clasped his hands, and raised his
eyes in silent prayer. Pedrillo unclosed his eyes,
glared wildly around, then fixed them on his father,
and murmured faintly, “it is too late!”
At this manifestation of life from his master, the
little spaniel became louder and more earnest in his
expressions of love and distress. “Poor fellow!—poor
for the love of Heaven, give me a sharp pen-knife?—
there is a chord that I would loosen.” Young Flint
opened his knife, and gave it to him. “Hold up
your head, my poor fellow,”—he continued to Triton.
The dog fixed his eye on his master's, and stretched
his head towards him, and Pedrillo, with a sudden
convulsive effort, drew the knife under his ear,
and separated the carotid artery. The animal
gasped, extended his tongue to lick his master's
hand, and expired.
Exclamations of horror and pity burst forth. Pedrillo
replied to them, with a ghastly smile, and
stroking the dog, “poor Triton,” he said, “you
shall never be kicked nor caressed by another master—bury
us in the same grave, if ye would do
grace to the only prayer of a dyiug man.”
“The only prayer!—oh, my son, my son!” cried
the old man, “now—now while you have reason
and breath—now implore your Maker's forgiveness!”
“And what good would it do? Is not the decree
written against me, `ye shall be judged according
to your deeds?' Can I restore innocence to
the tempted?—can I give back the spoils to the spoiled?—can
I fill again the veins of the murdered?—
Oh no.” His voice became choaked and hollow,
his features ghastly and distorted. “One word to
you, sir,” he continued to his father, but father he
did not call him, his lips did not attempt that sacred
name. “In my pocket-book are papers that will
acquaint you with my affairs—you will have countless
gold.”
“Gold!—poor creature! I do not want it—
God forbid I should ever touch your ill-gotten
gold!”
“Build hospitals and churches, then—they may—
hereafter—get my soul out of torment—some good
men say so—but now, when revenge and hate, and
passions I have not breath to name, are raging within
me”—he laid his father's hand over his fluttering
heart—“when hell is here, oh, how shall I escape!”
The convulsions of death spread through his
frame. In his fearful struggle, he rose almost erect,
and the last involuntary prayer of helpless man,
burst from lips, that one moment before, refused to
utter it—“Oh God! mercy! mercy!”
| CHAPTER XIV. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times | |