 | CHAPTER V. The bandits of the Osage |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
THE LOVERS—THE MYSTERY UNRAVELLED—THE LETTER—THE
FINALE.
It was a beautiful morning, about a week from
the return of Emily, and every thing in nature
looked bright and animated. A gentle rain had
fallen during the night, and the drops were still
lingering on leaf and blade and flower, and sparkling
in the morning sunlight, like so many diamonds.
The air was clear, soft and invigorating;
and the light-footed Zephyrs sighed through the
forests, rustled the leaves, kissed the beautiful
flowers, and caught a thousand sweet sounds of
melody to bear away to their frolicsome meetings
in Fairy Land.
Before Webber's cottage, on the morning in
question, stood a gallant steed, foaming and panting
from hard riding; while the rider himself, having
entered the cottage, was now standing in the
apartment where the gentle Rufus had breathed
his last, with one arm thrown lightly around the
waist of the graceful Emily Nevance, who, with
her soft blue eyes turned sweetly upon him, was
gazing with a look of joy, somewhat saddened by
grief.
“Oh, Edward,” she exclaimed, with animation,
“I joy that you have come! I have been watching
for you since the first streak of morning gilded
the east; for I knew you would select the cool
of the day, and ride long ere daylight. Oh, I
have been so sad since we buried poor Rufus!”
and Emily turned away her head to conceal a tear.
“Well, well, dearest,” answered Edward, drawing
her fondly to him, and pressing a kiss upon
her lips, “let us not forget, while we grieve, that
Rufus is happy now. It is a fact that we are
prone to grieve too much for departed friends,
and thereby oppose our selfishness to the Divine
Will. Instead of grieving for the death of a friend,
we should rather rejoice that all his troubles are
at an end, and that he is now singing immortal
songs in the bright regions of glory. We know
that all must die, sooner or late—that we are all
wending to the Spirit Land—then wherefore
grieve that one we love has reached the bright
goal before us?”
“I admit your philosophy is good,” rejoined
Emily, “but still you will allow philosophy has but
little to do with the heart, with the affections. Philosophy
is the cold emanation of the brain—love the
warm offspring of the heart; and the latter, as a
general thing, will triumph over the former.”
“Your remarks are true,” returned Edward,
“for such are the selfish propensities of human
nature. The heart will for a time gain ascendency
over the head: love will triumph over philosophy:
such are facts; and yet, as I said before, we
should strive to give the latter the asceudency,
when we find the former can avail us nothing.—
To this end I would fain bring philosophy to my
aid here; and yet withal I deeply, most deeply
grieve, that one so gentle, so noble as Rufus,
should be taken from among us, just in the bright
flower of manhood. For himself I deeply grieve,
and for his almost heart-broken parents, my heart
bleeds in sympathy;” and Edward's voice trembled,
and tears filled his eyes.
“Alas!” sighed Emily; “his mother, poor
woman, I fear will never recover from the shock.”
“Is she then no better?” asked Edward.
Emily shook her head mournfully. “No,” she
sighed. “As you saw her on the day of the funeral,
as you saw her on your departure, three days
since, you will find her now. She sits in a state
of torpor, twirling her fingers, but takes no heed
of what is said, or what is passing around her.—
Alas! I fear she will soon follow him.”
“And Webber?” asked Edward, with a sigh.
“He bears up as well as can be expected under
the circumstances; but it was a hard blow, a very
hard blow, to be made childless in one night, and
one son, too, to be murdered before his own eyes,
in his own house, and then borne away no one
knows whither.”
“It was indeed,” said Merton, solemnly. “And
the body of John has never been found?”
“It has not. It is supposed to have been devoured
by wild beasts, or thrown into some
stream.”
“Well,” said Merton, somewhat sternly, “he
at least deserved his fate. What a black hearted
villain!”
“Hush!” exclaimed Emily; “upbraid not the
dead! He is gone to be judged for the deeds done
in the body. He has suffered the penalty of his
misdeeds, has paid the last great debt of nature,
and so let us be charitable, and say, `Requiescat in
pace.' But come, I am detaining you, and you
must be faint with your long ride. Let us enter
the other apartment, where breakfast awaits us.”
“A moment,” returned Edward, taking her
hand. “I have some news, both good and bad.—
With the steamer which exploded and went down
on the night of that terrible fight on the Mississippi,
went my father's fortune. He had borrowed
on securities, a large amount of specie to
send to New Orleans. It was lost, and he is now
a ruined man. This is the bad news. The good
is, that he has given his consent to our union,
which I trust will ere long be consummated.”—
As he spoke, Emily bent down her eyes, and a
modest blush suffused her features.
“It lightens my heart much, dear Edward,”
she replied at length, “to know that his consent is
doing wrong, in accepting your hand contrary to
his wishes. For his sake, dear Edward, I regret
the loss of his wealth; as it must be a severe blow
to one who has labored so long and steadfastly
to acquire it.”
“The lesson will be a hard, but doubtless beneficial
one,” returned Edward, “by showing him
the mutability of the fabric on which he has concentrated
time and talents that might have been
used more worthily, not only to the elevation of
himself, but of those around him. No one, dear
Emily, should set their heart upon gold. Man
has nobler duties to perform than the hoarding of
wealth. Wealth, properly used, I will admit is a
blessing, because by it so many poor human beings
can be made comfortable and happy; and yet how
few of the wealthy think of this, or act upon it, but,
on the contrary, use their gold to oppress, to grind
the faces of those who are dependent upon them,
and by such means make their wealth a curse.”
“Too true—too true,” said Emily, musingly;
and then looking up into Edward's face, after a
moment's pause, with a sweet expression, she
added: “By your father's consent, dear Edward,
I feel the only barrier to our union removed—for
I have already learned who were my parents!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Edward: And pray who
are you? and how got you the information?”
“The latter I received from Ronald Bonardi.”
“Ronald Bonardi, Emily? you astonish me!”
“You will doubtless be more astonished, when
you peruse the letter he gave me. But come, to
breakfast now, and then you shall know all. By
the way, you remember the stranger you saw
here, whom my guardian found in the last stages
of starvation, in the vault of the Jew.”
“I do.”
“He stated to my guardian, on last evening,
that he had something important to communicate;
and wished all, but myself in particular, to be present.
As I had retired to rest, it was deferred until
this morning. And now, dear Edward,” said
Emily, playfully, “who knows but what that
communication concerns me very particularly?”
“Who knows?” returned Edward, and they
passed into the other apartment.
Some two hours from the foregoing conversation,
a group of six individuals were seated in the
same apartment where this conversation took
place. These consisted of Webber, Bernard and
Tyrone, Edward, Emily and the stranger—Mrs.
Webber not being present. The expressions on
the faces of each, were solemn, even mournful;
for the events of the last few days had been of a
nature to give a gloomy cast to their countenances,
not easily to be erased. The features of
Webber himself were pale, sad, and full of the
furrows of intense grief and care. Those of the
stranger were thin and pale also, but exhibited
nothing of that ghastliness so apparent on his
first introduction to the reader as the prisoner of
the Jew. The expression of his countenance
was naturally stern, and there were a few lines in
it of a sinister cast. He appeared like one who,
to use an old familiar phrase, had seen better days;
but one whose constitution had been somewhat
broken by irregular habits and dissipation. He
was a little turned the middle age of life, and his
hair was somewhat grey. After the party had
become seated, and a momentary silence elapsed,
the stranger, in a voice deep, clear, but slightly
faltering, said:
“To do an act of justice, and thereby make a
partial atonement for my past crimes, I have requested
each and all of you to be present, and
listen to my tale.”
Every eye was turned upon him, with an enquiring
gaze. The stranger noticed this, and
seemed for a moment not a little embarrassed;
but summoning all his resolution to his aid, he
proceeded:
“My story I shall make as brief as possible, for
one likes not to dwell on ones misdeeds. My
name is Charles Walton—the place of my nativity,
England. I was born rich—entered college
at a proper age, with bright prospects—fell into
bad company—gambled much—drank much—
and was finally expelled. My parents shortly after
died, and I was left a wealthy heir. In horse-racing,
drinking, and petty gambling, I squandered
my property; and at the age of thirty,
found myself a beggar, a vagabond, and a villain—
ready to do almost any deed for money. In this
situation I was discovered by one who had known
me in better days—a villain who had helped to
fleece me—and knowing my character, habits,
and desperate situation, he opened to me his devilish
heart, offered me a large sum to carry out a
design he had in view, which I accepted, and became
his tool. This design was no less than the
murder of the only daughter of Sir Walter Langdon,
for which I received in advance the sum of
ten thousand pounds.”
At the mention of the name of Langdon, Emily
started and grew pale, while her eyes, fastened
upon Walton, and her head bent a little forward,
exhibited the most intense eagerness for what was
to follow.
“The girl,” continued Walton, “by bribing the
nurse, I managed to get in my possession. She
was a sweet little creature, of three years—my
conscience smote me—I could not murder her—
and I fled the country, bearing her with me. I
took passage for America, and fifteen years ago
landed in Boston. I immediately set forth on a
tour through the States, taking the child with me,
determined to abandon her, so soon as a suitable
opportunity presented, whereby she would be bettered
by the change. Chance favored me. I
tarried one night at a farmer's house, the inmates
of which pleased me, and in the morning I departed,
leaving the child in their care, but stating
I would return in a few days. That farmer's
name was William Webber—the child bore that
of Emily Nevance.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Webber, while
Merton sprang to his feet, and there was a look
of surprise on the faces of Bernard and Tyrone.
Emily, pale and trembling with excitement, leaned
back in her chair, unable to speak. “Go on—
go on!” said Webber, quickly; “for I perceive the
deep mystery of fifteen years is being unravelled.”
“After leaving your house,” resumed Walton,
addressing Webber, “I came to the West, and for
ten years led a dissolute life. My conscience,
meantime, often upbraided me for the crime I had
been guilty of, and at length I resolved to make
at least some slight reparation. My money was
now nearly exhausted, but still I had some few
thousand dollars remaining, and I returned to the
East, with the intent of seeking Emily, proceeding
to England, and restoring her to her rights;
for I had learned, withal, that her family were all
dead, and that the villain who employed me to
murder her, being next akin, was now reveling
in the halls of her father, rioting upon his own
ill-gotten gains. For this purpose, I say, I returned
resolution failed me, and I faltered in my purpose.
“It is hard, gentlemen, for one who has made
himself a villain, to come forward and acknowledge
it to the world, and be the by-word of jeer
in the mouths of his associates. It was this which
deterred me, as it has deterred many a wretched
being before me, from returning to the paths of
honesty. It is a false pride, I will admit, but it is
human nature, nevertheless.
“Determined, however, that my journey should
not be all in vain—that some good at least should
accrue from it—I employed a trusty messenger to
convey you a package, (wherein was enclosed the
sum of one thousand dollars, and a note explanatory,)
with positive instructions to the bearer, that
it should be placed in no hands but yours, that he
should learn if the child was still living and doing
well, that he should answer no questions, and return
as speedily as possible.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Webber, “this clears up another
mysterious event. But go on—go on!”
“My main object in this was the education of
Emily; for still it was my intent at some future
day to do her justice. Again I returned to the
West, and during the four years following, squandered
or made way with most of my money. At
the end of this period I found my health failing
rapidly; and fearful lest death might overtake me,
ere the grand error of my life should be repaired,
I sought a magistrate, in Cincinnati, and had papers
drawn up, stating the full particulars concerning
the abduction of the girl, how to prove
her identity—in fact, everything essential to the
establishing of her in her rights—which I swore to
and signed, in the presence of two respectable
witnesses, who, together with the magistrate,
signed the papers also. These I carried about my
person, superscribed to both Emily Nevance and
yourself—so that in the event of my dying suddenly,
you would probably receive them. After
this, I somewhat recovered, and made another
tour to the East, with the full determination, if
my life was spared long enough, to return with
Emily to England. To my surprise and regret, I
found you not, and learned you were now living
in the Far West. Resolved to see you at all
events, I returned again to the West—after having
received a full description of the part of the
country where you were located—and had actually
reached within a few miles of your residence,
when, it being just at dark, I was set upon by
some three or four ruffians, who seized, stabbed
me twice, and drew me aside into a rough cave,
where they proceeded to rifle my person; while
another—no less a villain than that accursed Jew,
from whom you rescued me—perceiving I was
still alive, deliberately, in cold blood, grinning upon
me the while, stabbed me twice himself, and I
knew no more.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Webber, breaking in upon
the speaker, “this happened some four or five
months since?”
“As near as I am able to judge,” answered
Walton, “it did.”
“Then you were the stranger supposed to have
been murdered, and whose body had been sunk in
the Maramee—the case alluded to in my remarks
a few mornings since, Tyrone. But proceed, proceed,
for I am anxious for the sequel.”
“What followed this,” resumed Walton, “I am
unable to say; for when consciousness returned,
I was in that loathsome dungeon, where you found
me, with the Jew standing over me, grinning horribly,
more like a thing of hell than earth. Why
my life had been spared, and wounds dressed, I
knew not then; but afterwards gathered, from different
remarks dropped, and hints thrown out by
the Jew, that, after his perusal of those papers, the
strange and absurd idea of some day marrying
Emily, had taken possession of him; and that my
life was preserved to be a living witness in enabling
him to recover her property and rights. In
this insane design I encouraged him, in the hope
of some day being released. What I suffered until
that release, is beyond the power of language
to describe. I shall not attempt it. For some
days ere you found me, I had not tasted food, nor
seen a living being, save the hideous Jew, who
came down but a few hours before to murder me,
which something interrupted, and saved my life.
Such, friends,” concluded Walton, “for you all
seem like tried friends to me, is my sad, eventful
tale; and I throw myself entirely upon your generosity
to pardon me the past, by pledging myself
to make all the atonement in my power for the
future.”
“Your punishment in my opinion, has exceeded
your crimes,” replied Webber, mildly;
“and were this not the case, I am not one of
those selfish beings that can withold the right
hand of fellowship from him who repents and
seeks to atone for his past errors. Charles Walton,
there is my hand;” and as he spoke, Webber
arose and extended his hand, which the other
grasped with warmth, while a tear sparkled in his
eye.
“And there is mine,” said Tyrone, coming forward.
“And mine,” said Merton, following his example.
“Wal, old feller,” said Bernard, approaching
also, “I guess as how I'll have to gin ye a grip
on't tu; for darn me, if I don't think there's some
good streaks about ye anyhow, if they be a little
mixed up.”
“And Emily?” asked Walton, deeply affected.
“O, sir,” answered Emily, with a sweet smile, “I
am too happy in the present, to bewail the past.
If you have done me wrong, from my heart I forgive
you, and trust that He who reigns above will
do likewise.”
“This is too much,” said Walton, drawing his
hand across his eyes. “I did at least expect rebuke
from some of you.”
“He who can rebuke a repentant man, himself
needs a rebuke,” rejoined Merton; “for there must
be something wrong, if not base and cowardly in
his own heart.”
“Them's jest my sentiments!” cried Bernard;
“for the man that wont forgive a feller when he
up and acknowledges he's done wrong, aint no
man at all, whether he's dressed up in broadcloth
finery and talks pious or not.”
“How incomprehensible, how inscrutable are
the ways of Providence!” remarked Webber, musingly,
after a pause. “How intricately our web
of fate is woven with that of others; between
whom and ourselves, many times, there seems not
the slightest connection, until a strange order of
events reveals to us perhaps, that years agone,
and miles apart, unknown to each, each was secretly
exercising an influence upon the destiny
of the other.”
“Most true, dear guardian,” said Emily, in reply;
“and in my own case, how strangely and
strongly this is verified! Read that, dear guardian;”
her by Bonardi.
Webber glanced over it hastily, and, as he did
so, there was a perceptible start of surprise on his
features. “Strange—strange!” said he, “can it
be possible this is so?” and he proceeded to read
aloud as follows:
“Dear Emily:—Pardon the liberty I take in
thus addressing you, for it is perhaps the only favor
I shall ever ask at the hands of one whom the
ties of consanguinity bid me hold most dear. I
fancy I see you start with surprise, at the idea
of the same blood flowing in the veins of both of
us. Such is the fact. Your father and mine
were one; but fortune placed a wide disparity between
us. You were born to wealth and honor—
I to poverty and disgrace. You were born to be
the courted of society—I to be the outcast. And
if we both had one father, what, you ask, made
this disparity? I answer, you were born legally—
I illegally. Or, in other words, your mother was
married by the laws of the land, in the presence
of earthly witnesses—mine, by the laws of honor,
in the presence of God only. But enough of this,
for my minutes are all numbered. Emily, I am
dying of a wound received from the hands of
the father of him whom I have punished for turning
traitor to us, and attempting to wrong you.
John Webber is dead. But ha! I am wandering
from my subject—my thoughts are almost distracted,
and so pardon me.
“Some days since, in a conversation with the
father of John, I learned of you, and that your
birth was involved in mystery. Having learned
the whole particulars, and some slight coincidences
recurring to my mind, a vague suspicion
crossed me that you might be the daughter of Sir
Walter Langdon,—who, if living, must be of the
same age with yourself; and who, fifteen years
ago—about the period when you were brought to
Webber's—mysteriously disappeared.
“When I saw you first, in that wild retreat on
the mountains of the Osage, I felt my suspicion
at once made reality, from your strong resemblance
to your father. Gods! Emily, what feelings
came over me then! when I thought how
that father had spurned me, his own son, from his
presence, and was thus the indirect instrument in
making me the outlaw I am! But a terrible retribution
followed, Emily. Your mother soon
after died—your brother was murdered—you were
stolen away, and your father and mine died a
childless maniac, and his estates passed into the
hands of a villain. By those papers destroyed by
John, doubtless you might have proven your
identity, and gained possession of what is lawfully
your own. As matters are now, I fear this cannot
be done—still I think it worth the trial; but,
at least, you may rest assured your birth is noble
and honorable; and this, to one as sensitive as
yourself on the subject, cannot but be joyful tidings.
“And now, dear Emily, my sister, I must bid
you farewell,—for time presses, and my wound
grows painful. I write this a few miles from the
cave, which I shall endeavor to reach alive, and
see my own loved Inez once again. If I succeed,
I shall probably hand you this myself,—if not,
you will get it from the hands of another. There
are many things of which I wish to speak with
you,—but it is now too late, too late. You will
doubtless hear my name a by-word of terror, and
my memory cursed; but you at least will be char
itable and not curse me; you at least will take into
consideration the circumstances that have
made me what I am; you at least may feel the
poor despised outlaw was not so bad as he seemed.
If you never behold me again, and Inez survives
the loss, I pray you, dear Emily, be to her a friend
and sister—for she at least is innocent of crime.
Farewell, farewell!
| CHAPTER V. The bandits of the Osage | |