Border beagles a tale of Mississippi |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. | CHAPTER XIV. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
 | CHAPTER XIV. Border beagles |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
The bating of affection soon will follow.”
Ben Jonson.
Though the shadows were thick around her, and
the evening light of the moon imperfect, the keen
eyes of love soon discovered the difference between
the man she met, and he whom she expected. She
recoiled with a natural emotion of surprise, but did
not feel any suspicions that the appearance of
Saxon in that spot was the result of any sinister design.
He might be the trusted friend of Vernon on
this occasion, as he had always appeared hitherto—
but where was Vernon? She looked round anxiously,
but without a single doubt of his near neighbourhood,
until the outlaw approached and addressed her—
“You look for Mr. Vernon, Miss Wilson—but I
come from him. He has told me all—I am his friend
—he has sent me to bring you to him.”
“But where is he, sir? He should have met me
here—here—it was so written in the note.”
“Did not the note also tell you, Miss Wilson, that
he is a fugitive? He has need, let me assure you,
of every precaution. He is in danger—he dare not
show himself.”
“You alarm me, sir. What may this mean—
what is his danger?”
“He has escaped from the officers—they are even
now in pursuit of him!”
“Escaped!—Can it be? But why should he escape,
if innocent?—Why? But he is here!—Here!
At hand—within hearing. You are his friend—and
I!—What can he fear from me?—Why should he
not come forward? My voice shall re-assure him—
when he hears me, he will know that there is no
danger here. Vernon! Vernon!”
Twice she called aloud, and waited for the answering
sounds that she desired. But her summons
was made in vain. A faint echo of her own accents
alone reached her ears. The outlaw stood patiently
and smiled, but did not speak until her eyes were
turned inquiringly upon him again.
“He does not hear you, Miss Wilson—he cannot
hear you at this distance; yet it is not far where he
hides. I can guide you to the spot in a few minutes.”
“And why should he not come here, Mr. Saxon?
Who, beside ourselves, know that he is near us?—
But, perhaps, you can tell me more, but you will not.
He has been pursued—he is hurt—wounded in escaping!—Speak,
sir—speak—fear not my strength
—l can listen—I can bear it all.”
“You have guessed rightly, Miss Wilson, though
I feared to tell you,” replied the outlaw, promptly
availing himself of the suggestion which her fears
had made; “he is hurt, but not seriously—he awaits
you at a little distance, and I am ready to guide you
to him.”
There was a moment's hesitation about the
maiden; not that she doubted as to what should be
her duty—not that she had any doubt of the truth of
Saxon's narrative; but the requisition had been so
sudden, the event so unexpected, which required her
presence, that her sense of propriety had been
startled—her thoughts were all in confusion. The
“Am I to think you indifferent to his fate, Miss
Wilson? His hurts require—”
“Indifferent! Oh, no! no! no!—but these woods
look so wild—and you, Mr. Saxon, are a stranger.”
“But if he confides, Miss Wilson.”
“It should be—it is enough for me. I will confide
also. I will go with you. Lead me to him, Mr.
Saxon, I have no scruples now.”
He took her arm within his own, and led her
along a little Indian foot-trail, which carried them
over the hill, and still deeper into the shadows of
the forest. The heart of Virginia Wilson beat with
momently rising, but unexpressed emotions, as the
way became more intricate, and as she perceived
that every step carried her still farther from the cottage.
Still she went on, anxiously expecting to hear
the sounds of that voice which alone could re-assure
her. But the woods were silent, and the only murmur
which reached her ears, was that of the melancholy
pilgrim, the wind, pursuing his sleepless way
among the branches. At length they emerged into
a little opening, and Saxon paused, as if to listen.
“Is he not here, Mr. Saxon? We are far from
the cottage.”
“Not here—a few steps farther;” and he would
have advanced, as he spoke, to a dark and dense
grove in front of them, but the maiden hung back.
There was something in the reserve of Saxon—
something in his manner—which made her reluctant
to commit herself longer to his charge, and inclined
her to regret that she had already trusted him. Besides,
the reflection was so natural to a mind conscious
of its own good faith, why had he deceived
her, when she had declared her willingness to go
with him? They had now been walking full fifteen
been described as immediately at hand.
“I will go no farther, sir—I dare not. If Mr. Vernon
be not within hearing now, I can advance no
farther. I am afraid I have already erred in leaving
home.”
“It is too late now to think of this, Virginia—too
late to retreat,” exclaimed the outlaw, throwing off
his disguises, and grasping her wrist firmly as he
spoke—“you must go with me.”
“Ha, sir!—will you dare?”
“Ay, much—every thing, where I love—where
there is a prize to be won so lovely as yourself. You
must go with me—you must be mine, Virginia.”
As he spoke, his arms encircled her waist, and she
felt herself lifted from the ground.
“Monster—villain—release me!” screamed the
maiden, with a voice of equal indignation and terror—“Vernon!
Vernon! come to me! Save me!”
“You scream in vain, Virginia. I have deceived
you. Vernon is not near—not within hearing—the
billet which brought you to my arms was a forged
one. But be not angry. You have found a lover
who will be no less true—no less devoted than himself—one
who is no less willing, and far more able
to serve you with his love. The life of Vernon is
forfeit to the laws.”
“God help me! God help him! Villain! I believe
you not. He will soon be here. He will follow—he
will save me. Beware of his anger, and
his vengeance!”
“Ah! Virginia, if you but knew how little I regard
these threatenings, and of how little value they
really are, you would surely forbear them. Why
should you thus afflict yourself and me. I suffer
only as I see you give yourself fatigue and pain.
Your screams are idle. In these pathless forests,
who, if the humour suits, will give you scream for
scream.”
“Yes, villain—there are others nigh to save me.
Men are nigh. I hear the tread of a horse—I hear
the voices of men. They come—they come! It
is Vernon—it is my father. They come to save me.
They will avenge this insult. Set me down, and fly!
Do this! Release me on the instant, and I will tell
them nothing of the outrage.”
The outlaw laughed aloud as he listened to this
language.
“The men you hear are those whom I have commanded
here to assist me. The horses they bring
will help to bear us away together. They will carry
us, sweet Virginia, to a place of retreat which neither
father nor lover can find out. Do you hear
that sound?—it is that of the beagle—when I have
answered it in like manner, they will be here.
Hark!”
And, as he finished, the outlaw replied to the signal
in a clear, ringing note, which rose triumphant
even above the piercing shriek of despair and terror
with which she accompanied it. In a few moments
after, the agents of the outlaw, guided by his
answer, approached the spot, where the maiden, still
struggling and shrieking, was held by the firm grasp
of the ravisher. His assistants were three in number.
One was mounted—the other two on foot.
“Where is the jersey?” demanded the outlaw.
“On the edge of the wood—we couldn't get it
through the brush,” was the answer.
“Enough—lead the way.”
“Shall I help you, captain?”
“No, no! Clear the way only,” replied the
powerful ruffian, lifting the maiden, while he spoke,
as if she were a child, and bearing her forward, indifferent
entreaties, until he reached the spot where the vehicle
had been left. Into this she was placed, with
all tenderness, but no little difficulty, and leaping in
beside her, Saxon secured her within his arms,
while one of his emissaries, occupying the front
seat, assumed the office of Jehu on the occasion,
and drove off with as reckless and rapid a speed,
as ever did that renowned whip of ancient days.
Their course was for Cane Castle, in the swamp of
Chitta-Loosa. They drove round Lucchesa, avoiding
the thoroughfare with some caution at the first.
After a little while, they turned into it, and before
midnight, the carriage came to a halt with the
thickening ooze of the swamp plashing clammily
about its wheels. Before this time, exhaustion had
come to the relief of the unhappy maiden, and when
she was lifted from the vehicle, she was in a state of
utter unconsciousness and stupor. Jones, the wary
coadjutor of the outlaw, was at hand ready to receive
him.
“Well, Jones, we are here in safety, and all is as
we could wish it. What of Florence? We must
have her help here.”
“Can you think of it, sir?” demanded the other,
with some astonishment. “Can you hope for such
a thing from her?”
“Ay, this or any thing as I please, my good fellow.
I command her—she is mine—my slave, as
thoroughly bound to my service as if the bond were
written with her blood. Her love for me—the very
passion which works her jealousy to madness—is
my best security for her devotion and her service.
Think nothing of her grumbling, Jones—I have
heard it too often to hearken to it now. A kind
word—a soothing entreaty,—and all's over. She
“I hardly think it, sir, with Florence. There's
something I don't like in her eyes, and the way she
speaks. She's changed very much these three days.”
“Jones, you're a fool. You know nothing of women,
my good fellow, or you'd not give yourself
such troublesome notions; certainly you would not
afflict me with them. Florence is not different from
all the rest. She will have her own way if she can,
and when she finds that impossible, she will content
herself with all that you are willing to allow her.”
“But the two in the same house,” said Jones, in
a tone of farther expostulation.
“And with one man between 'em!” continued the
outlaw, with a laugh. “But let this not trouble you,
Jones. They shall be kept apart. There's the
squatter's cabin by the Little Bend—to that I will
carry Virginia. Florence shall see her there—she
will need some assistance.”
“Better keep them entirely apart. If the young
lady needs help—female help—there's Brown Bess
you know.”
“What is she here—and Yarbers? How's this?”
“Your orders, I hear. There's a warrant out
against John Yarbers from old Badger. Ned Mabry's
sworn against him about that horse business.”
“True, true—I had forgotten that. Bess is the
very person to be with her. Let us have help now,
Jones, so that we may carry her safely through the
swamp. The river's rising—is it not?”
“Considerably—there must have been a heavy
fall of rain among the hills above.”
“And when did Yarbers arrive?”
“It's been four days now and better. He got in
on Monday.”
“Not pursued?”
“Not that he told me.”
“Cane Castle, must look a little livelier than ever;
—and how does your Shakspearean reconcile himself
to his bondage. What of the actor-fellow—
have you been able to keep up the ball?”
There was some hesitation in the reply of Jones,
and his accents were those of a man conscious, perhaps,
of some fault of commission or neglect.
“I'm sorry to say, sir—he's off.”
“Off! How off? You don't mean to say escaped,
heh?”
“Fact, sir—and how, there's no saying at present.
I had him well watched, as I thought.”
The tidings had the effect of making the outlaw
instantly grave. His accents became stern.
“This is a bad business, Jones. Can there be
traitors among us? Another Hurdis affair! This
must be seen to, man. We are not secure an instant
if we cannot see our prisoner. But you pursued—
you have beagles on the track. What have you
done—how was it? Speak! By heavens, you are
a duller fellow than I counted you.”
“I can really say nothing, sir, as to the manner
of the escape. The chap was safe enough so late
as this morning.”
“The d—l, and so he got off in broad daylight?”
Jones gave a mortified assent, and was compelled
to submit in silence to the severe upbraidings of his
principal, whose reproaches did not lack sarcasm to
heighten their severity.
“By heavens, Jones, but I thought you more of a
man than this speaks for. With five active fellows
in the swamp—all at your summons—with nothing
to do but this—you suffer yourself to sleep in your
watch, and neglect every thing. Did the fellow go
off on foot?”
Here Jones was compelled to make another confession
watch. Horsey had contrived to resume possession
of old Bowline—his worthy father's venerable “dot-and-go-one.”
“Worse and worse!” exclaimed the other. “There's
treachery somewhere. We must sift the matter
closely. Yarbers, you say is here—his wife and
daughter. Ha! Jones—that woman—that wife of
his—Brown Bess is at the bottom of it all. She is
shameless enough to be more honest than her husband,
and will no doubt think it a moral duty to
hang us all if she can, and him, for distinction sake,
at the head of the string. Well—we must use her
now. Away, and let Yarbers bring her to Little
Bend at once. I will meet you at Cane Castle in
half an hour. Say nothing to Florence of my arrival—nay,
do you avoid seeing her. I will tell her
all myself. Away!”
But Florence had not been left uninformed on
any of these subjects. She had, as we have seen,
her own emissaries at work, and the dwarf had not
only beheld the transfer of the captive maiden from
the wagon to the squatter's house at Little Bend, but
he had listened to every word of the dialogue between
the outlaw and his agent, which had accompanied
and followed her removal, and which we
have endeavoured in the preceding passages to
abridge to our own limits. He delivered his information
to his jealous mistress some time before Saxon
made his appearance.
“She's here,” said he to Florence, as he stood
suddenly before her where she sat in the gloom and
silence of that lonely chamber, looking out upon the
solemn swamp. It was in the same chamber that
we found her first, when far other thoughts filled
her mind, and far other feelings dwelt in her bosom,
than those which rule over them now—making the
heard his accents—she rose from her chair and approached
him.
“You do not say it, Richard!” she said, with a
solemn tremulousness of accent. “You do not tell
me, that she is indeed here—that he has dared!”
The dwarf nodded his head ere he spoke, then
answered her.
“At the squatter's old cabin, by the Little Bend.”
“So near!” was the exclamation of the unhappy
Florence, as she walked to the window and looked
out—though, through the dense woods, her eyes
could distinguish nothing in the direction of the
designated hovel. She turned again, after lingering
a moment, and approached the emissary.
“Richard—you have served me faithfully, and
one of the last acts of my life shall be to reward
you. But tell me—have you seen her. Is she so
very beautiful?”
“Very beautiful they say—though I don't care
much to see beautiful people, and didn't look much
at her.”
“But you saw her?”
“Couldn't help it—saw her a'most every day since
I left you. I always followed him, and he went to
her every day, and they walked out sometimes in
the woods.”
“Ha! ha! They walked out in the woods, did
they; and she is very fond of him, I suppose? They
are well matched—very well matched—a loving
couple, Richard? Did you not think them so? But,
do not answer me now. Go, Richard—leave me
now—I would rather be alone.”
“Look you, ma'am—there's one thing,” said the
dwarf, lingering—“If you think this strange gal's
fond of Saxon, you're altogether out. She aint
fond of him no how. She don't like him. He put her
made a mighty fuss.”
“Ha! Is this true?” demanded Florence, with
considerable interest.
“P'int blank truth. I saw her fighting him, and
you might hear her screech for more than a mile—
that you might—afore she fainted.”
“What!—she fainted?”
“Died off, like 'twas all over with her, and didn't
move ag'in, till they lifted her to carry her to the
squatter's house.”
“Richard, are you sure of this? Speak nothing
but the truth—you know not how much depends on
this,” said Florence, with solemnity.
“I'll take Bible oath to it, ma'am. I'll kiss the
book to it. There's no mistake in me this time, I
tell you.”
“Enough!” she said, waving him, with her hand,
to depart. “Enough! I thank you, Richard—I will
reward you in the morning. Leave me now.”
When he had gone, she returned to the window.
“This makes a difference,” she said, musingly—
“a great difference. If true, she is already a
wretched victim, and no blow of mine would do her
harm. Yet, even if she be a willing creature of his
lust—if he find in her, what he found in me—a weak
heart, a yielding nature, a confiding faith, that loved
blindly and weakly, and was lost, before it became
conscious that there was any thing to lose—still, why
should she be the victim even then? She knows not
that she wrongs another—she does not—but he—he
who knows all—who wilfully wrongs, and scornfully
defies, he—but he is here—it is he who should feel
the blow. It is his heart, and his only, which my
hand should strike. And it shall strike. I am sworn
to this. Lost—an outcast from all hope, all life, all
love—I am not so base, so worthless, or so weak,
Saxon—you have dared to scorn the heart which
you once implored—to insult that womanly pride
which you once solicited!—and yet, it lives—it lives
to strengthen my arm and resolution—it lives, and
will not cease to live, until you are humbled in the
dust. For this triumph, and in this hope, I live only.
Besides this, what is there in life to live for now;—
and when he falls, there is nothing then that I shall
even care to hate! God of Heaven, how strange it
is to me now, that I once should have loved this
man—and so loved him—he, who stood over me
but a few days ago, and mocked me with the story
of his devotion to another; and bade me do her
bidding, and commanded me not as a slave only, but
as a slave whom he despised! Ha!—It is his footstep—he
comes—he comes to renew his mockery. I
should not meet him unprepared.”
She went, as she spoke, to a little dressing-case,
and, lifting the upper compartment, drew from beneath
it a small silver-hilted dagger, which she concealed
in her bosom, then, turning to the entrance of
the chamber, encountered her betrayer with a smile.
| CHAPTER XIV. Border beagles | |