University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

The impatient Saxon, impatient for his revenge,
vainly looked out that night for the coming of his
followers, to whom Vernon had been given in
charge. His arrangements had been so made as to
put his plans, seemingly, beyond the reach of disappointment;
and, resolved effectually to arrest the
farther efforts of an individual, whose courage and
conduct gave him some reason for apprehension,
he had prepared himself and his accessories in the
swamp, for the summary and terrible punishment of
one, whom they considered a spy and had destined
to those cruel severities which, under their laws,
had been decreed for such an offender. The evils
which had followed the successful attempt of Richard
Hurdis, had mortified the vanity of Saxon—or
Clement Foster—and rendered him unforgiving.
From the moment when he became convinced that
Vernon was an enemy, he had solemnly sworn to destroy
him. His plot for this purpose was a good one
—his officers were true—the justice was his willing
creature; and, Mr. Augustus Mortimer and Major

Marcus Montmorenci, were, he well knew, the most
trustworthy witnesses that were ever yet suborned
to carry a crooked character straight through the
sessions. How then should he account for the delay
of his agents in bringing their prisoner to punishment?

“Should it be that d—d actor, Jones—should he
have spoiled the matter? Would you had put your
knife and bullet through his carcass as well as
through his clothes. I fear he will work us evil.”

Such were his muttered doubts, at midnight, to
his wily companion, who could say little to relieve
them.

“And this proud girl! She, too!—but it cannot
be very long. She shall submit, if it be only to
save the life of her lover. I shall obtain my conquest
over her, though, as a condition, I am compelled
to forego my vengeance upon him.”

“But his life is forfeit to the law!” said Jones.

“I am the law!” returned the other, haughtily.
Then, softening his tones, he added—“but, I am too
feverish, Jones, to be just or reasonable now. Forgive
me if I speak hastily or harshly. Go you now,
and see if there be any tidings of these fellows.”

Meanwhile, Richard Stillyards, the dwarf, was
already on his way to the upper ferry, as fast as he
could go; and Vernon had reached Lucchesa in
safety. His purpose in returning to Lucchesa was
to declare himself in private to William Maitland;
to reveal his whole connexion with Carter; to unfold
the favourable terms which he was commissioned
to grant, and, finally, to crown the work of
peace and good will, by offering himself in marriage
to Virginia, whose own consent, it has been already
seen, he was happy to secure at an early period.
But the misery of the father, and the deep feeling of
interest which he too had in the matter, which

seemed almost to deprive the former of his reason,
struck the lover dumb:
And then his resolution returned to him as he
witnessed the old man's despair. The natural and
nobler feelings of old Maitland's heart recovered all
their strength at this moment of his greatest privation.
Virginia was the apple of his eye—the solace
of his bitter cup—the very light that relieved the
otherwise groping darkness which had environed
his affections. Bitterly did he now accuse himself
of neglect, of cruelty, of crime—of all things and all
thoughts evil,—while, as the anguished words poured
from his lips, the big, burning tears rolled down his
cheeks, on which, the consciousness of evil thoughts
and deeds, had placed many a premature line and
wrinkle. The younger daughter, wild and frightened
rather than grieved, as she beheld these ebullitions
of a nature which had never shown itself to
her under such an aspect before, stood beside the
old man, with one hand round his neck and one
resting on his head. He himself sat upon the floor
in a state of utter abandonment.

“Cheer up and rouse yourself, sir,” exclaimed
Vernon, as he looked upon the melancholy spectacle,
with a sentiment of pity that became painful—
“rouse up, sir, I will give her back to you though I
perish.”

“Will you? Oh! will you, Mr. Vernon?—God
bless you if you will:—but I fear—I fear you cannot.
She's gone—I've looked for her every where.
It was I that left her for that accursed tavern, and
those thrice accursed cards. I am not worthy of
my child—my poor child. Oh! where can she be
now—in what danger—what villains. Oh! God,

keep me from that thought—God in mercy keep her
from that danger.”

And the miserable father threw himself forward
upon the floor—the blood gushing from his nostrils,
while his hands tore the scattered white hairs from
his venerable head and strewed them around him.
The screams of the trembling child mingled with
his moans, making a discord which, while it filled
the ears of Vernon, did not now so much annoy
him. There were some evident fears, not so evidently
expressed in the last speech of the father,
which made the blood recede from the heart of
Vernon, leaving a painful coldness and vacancy behind
it. In what danger was Virginia now? What
villain held her in his embraces—scorning her prayers,
her tears, her trembling entreaties—her wild
but feeble efforts at release? What brutal violence,
sickening to chaste ears, assailed her gasping innocence:
and none nigh to save by equal violence
from that worse violence that defied the imploring
service of every sweet, and soothing, and pure human
affection? Vernon felt, as these dreadful doubts
and apprehensions rushed through his mind, that he
too could throw himself in utter abandonment upon
the ground and mingle his groans also with those
of the miserable father. But other feelings, strengthened
by the blood-giving energies of youth, came to
his aid. A fiercer power rose up in his heart, and
with accents of recovered might, he repeated his
assurance to the old man, that he would rescue and
restore his daughter at the peril of his life. While
he made this assurance, the pitiable prostration of
the father struck him as not less discreditable to
manhood, than it was grateful to his paternal love.
Maitland was still a vigorous man—not too old for
exertion—not too feeble at such a time, to seek for
his child, and strike a desperate blow in her behalf.

Besides, men were wanting now to prosecute the
enterprise against the robbers in the Chitta Loosa,
with whom Vernon could not fail to connect the
outlaw by whom Virginia had been torn away from
her dwelling. Circumstances had sufficiently shown
the father that her absence arose from an abduction,
which the whole tenor of Virginia's life and
virtuous deportment conclusively convinced all parties,
must have been forcible. A sudden resolution
filled the mind of Vernon. He saw that no better
mode remained of arousing the father to his duty,
than by awakening other fears in his bosom. This
was, indeed, the fitting moment to declare to him
the full extent and powers of his own commission.
To ordinary minds it might have seemed cruel, while
the father so keenly suffered, to vex his spirit with the
terrors of discovery and punishment; but the more
correct philosophy of Vernon convinced him that
the prostration and infirmity of Maitland could
receive provocation and stimulant from no other
source.

“Mr. Wilson,” said he, “rise—send your daughter
to her chamber for awhile, while I unfold to you
some business of great importance. I am the bearer
of other evil tidings which you have not yet heard,
but which, sooner or later, must reach your ears.
There can be no better season than the present.”

The solemnity of these preliminaries had the effect
of commanding the attention of the criminal. The
daughter was sent from their presence, and the
father rose slowly to his chair, with eyes full of
a most painful anxiety. Vernon did not delay his
communication with any idle formulæ—humanity
forbade all such. It will be understood, however,
that he omitted nothing which might soften the natural
severity of truth, and maintain for himself the
proper deportment of a gentleman, and one, too,

so closely allied by the tenderest promises to the
daughter of the person he addressed.

“You are known to me, sir—you are William
Maitland, late cashier of the — Bank.”

The miserable old man shrieked in insuppressible
terror at the words, while his hands clasped and
covered his face. His daughter's fate was in an
instant forgotten in his own. The selfishness of his
nature preponderated in an instant.

“Spare me, spare me, Mr. Vernon!—for God's
sake—for my children's sake—spare me! I am a
miserable old man—spare my gray hairs; and I
will bless you for ever—they will bless you. Spare
me!”

Vernon took his hand kindly.

“Be not alarmed, Mr. Maitland—though I come
commissioned to recover this money from you, I
yet come as your friend, and from one who has
ever been your friend.”

“Who! who!” exclaimed the wretched man,
with as much eagerness of hope in his face as it
had lately expressed of fear. But when the lips of
Vernon uttered the name of “Carter,” his countenance
fell—he sunk back in his chair with a deep
groan, and again covered his face with his hands.

“Do not doubt the friendship which has ever
served you, even when the noble person whom I
have mentioned has been suffering most from your
injustice. I know your story, and I know his. I
know how much you owe to his friendship, and
I know how ill you have repaid it. But I am not
sent to reproach you, and well I know, were he
himself present, his own reproaches would be
spared at such a moment as this. My mission
brings you safety, Mr. Maitland, though I come as
the messenger of justice. Hear me with patience,
then, while I communicate to you the benevolent

designs of my friend—your friend, still, Mr. Maitland—in
behalf of yourself and children.”

This communication was soon delivered. The
reader is already familiar with its purport. We
need not repeat it here. As little necessary would
it seem to say, that it was listened to by the undeserving
criminal with some such feelings as those of
the culprit under judicial sentence, suddenly relieved
by an unlooked for respite from the supreme authority
while standing on the very precipice of
death. Vernon did not stop here, though the frequent
groans and ejaculations of Maitland, now of
remorse and self-reproach, and now of gratitude
and exultation, subjected him to frequent interruptions.
He at once unveiled to the old man the relation
in which he stood to his lovely but lost daughter.
Alas! for the long diseased heart, and the
pampered and prevailing sin which possessed it!
Even in that hour of his greatest privation, and pain,
and humiliation—that hour of his partial relief from
the fear of punishment—an hour distinguished alike
by the keen sorrows of the father at the loss of the
beloved child, and the abased feelings of the felon
who suddenly finds himself convicted before man,
without escape, and with his mouth choked with the
bitter dust of his own degradation—in that very
hour the shape of his old sin once more stood up
triumphant and audacious as ever. The latter part
of Vernon's communication, which declared the
nature of the tie which now united his feelings and
interests with those of Virginia Maitland, suggested
to the miserable old man a new resource for his
crime; and he eagerly insinuated proposals to Vernon
that, instead of restoring the vast amount of
moneys which he had purloined, and which he admitted
himself still to have in great part in his own
possession, to the rightful owners, they should retain

it among themselves, and, by a timely and far retreat,
secure themselves and it from the grasp of all
pursuers. The infatuated gambler, whose moral
sense, by a tendency as certain as death, had gone
down, step by step, with rapid but self-unnoted
transitions, to the lowest sink of depravation,
vainly imagined that, to a lover, and one so young,
the charms of a mistress, and the splendid bribe
which formed her dowry, must prove irresistible
temptations. Vernon shrank back with an apparent
shudder from the grasp which the eager fingers of
Maitland had taken upon his arm; while his eye regarded
the stolid criminal with an expression quite
as full of sorrow as of scorn.

“Mr. Maitland, for your daughter's sake, I implore
you to suffer me to respect her father if I can.
Let me hear no more on this subject. I will strive,
for my own sake, to forget this most humiliating
offer—an offer no less insulting to me than it is degrading
to yourself. You have heard me state
what were Mr. Carter's propositions. You perceive
that he is willing to provide—that he pledges himself
to provide amply—for your children, on the restoration
of the sums in your possession. Circumstances
have favoured you, and have spared me the
necessity of proceeding harshly. I count myself as
singularly fortunate as yourself in being the messenger
of such benevolent intentions on the part of
one upon whom you have no claims of kindness.
Carter, indeed, is a ruined man. Having carried
out his designs, and secured your children in the
sums specified, he will have no more left him than
will barely suffice to make his friend Gamage secure
against all losses. Let me know at once what
is your resolution; for we have little time to lose.
The safety of one who is now no less dear to me
than to you, requires our instant pursuit.”

Doubly humbled, though, perhaps, not yet contrite,
Maitland acceded to all the requisitions of the
youth, and, with a hurried consent, he would have
dismissed the subject, while he proceeded to bustle
forward to command the horses. But Vernon was
one of those men who do their work thoroughly.

“Mr. Maitland,” said he, “this matter must be
settled to-night, and the money delivered. I have
my credentials ready, and will prepare your guarantee,
while you are getting things in readiness. If
you are resolved to go with me in pursuit of Virginia,
it will be your better course to order your
barouche, and take Julia with us. The night is
pleasant, and she can be wrapped up carefully. It
will be better than to leave her here, in the care of
servants only, and in a place which has already
proved itself to be so very insecure. You can
have no reason to dread returning now, and at Mr.
Badger's she will be in perfect safety, while we
traverse the swamp in search of her sister. I know
no better course either for safety or propriety.”

Briefly, Vernon had his own way in all respects.
His firmness, mingled with that becoming deference
of manner which youth always owes to age, even
when it is criminal and debased, cowed the spirit
and commanded the respect of Maitland. The
money was restored, and in one hour more the cottage
was deserted. The poor Julia, trembling and
wondering, confused at all things, and almost totally
inapprehensive of any, was wrapped away in the
barouche, with her father beside her, sad, ashamed,
and silent; while Vernon, mounted on horseback,
and once more armed, after a long interval, with
the weapons of which the sturdy Alabamian had
taken such excellent charge during his arrest and
sickness—with spirits unconsciously heightened by
the sense of liberty and strength—rode alongside,

and strove to cheer the miserable father and the
innocent and unconscious child. Though his anxieties
and apprehensions were in no respects lessened
in regard to the lost Virginia, yet the conviction
that he was now able to strike in her behalf, made
him sanguine with hope, and rendered him elastic
in movement. He suffered no unnecessary delays
to restrain his progress, and by his voice and example,
he urged the driver of the vehicle to a corresponding
action with his own sinewy steed.

The reader, if he be not more dull

will be pleased to spare us some unnecessary narration,
and readily imagine a few things in our story
which are quite as easy to conceive as to write.
He will take it for granted that the progress of our
night travellers was uninterrupted—and that a
union was safely effected the next morning at a
tolerably early hour between themselves and their
friends Jamison and Horsey. He will farther learn
that, shortly after the meeting of these with Vernon,
they were joined by Walter Rawlins and
Master Edward Mabry. The eyes of the latter,
which the adroit fists of Horsey had sealed up for
a season, were now in tolerably good condition—
they wore less of the plethoric form and rainbow
aspect, than they did a week past; but, though restored,
they did not seem to regard the actor with
any more favour than before. Some mutual efforts
were made by Rawlins and Vernon to bring the
parties to friendly offices; but they were partly ineffectual.
Still, there was no open show of hostility
between them. Horsey, certainly, preserved none.
He was a generous fellow at heart; and would have
scorned to have fostered any feeling of malice at an
enemy. Besides, he had been successful, and as those
always laugh who win, his good humour was in no
wise diminished, because the hand which he offered
with frankness to his foe was taken with reluctance.
He disarmed the active rancour of Mabry, by making
some concessions—without which it might have been
that the operations of the party would have been exposed
to conflicting feelings and divided counsels—
which he was neither bound by courtesy nor expected
by his opponent to make. As for Rawlins, his
delight at seeing Vernon was excruciating. He
hugged him to his breast with what seemed to the
latter quite a superfluous degree of affection, and in
the same breath, though in a whisper, told him that
Rachel had at length yielded to his persuasions, and
had consented to name the day. Another matter of
far more gratifying import to Vernon at this moment,
was the information which he received of a
new ally in the person of Stillyards, the dwarf.
That elegant young person, elated with the boon
with which Florence Marbois had consented to
reward his industry in promoting her purposes of
vengeance, had made his appearance at the door of
Rawlins, a little after daylight that very morning;
and his communications had quickened the preparations
of the latter for the pursuit of that enterprise
to which the counsels of Vernon had before impelled
him. He had not been idle, it may be said here,
during the interval which had passed. He had secured
the co-operation of nearly twenty men—all
stout fellows—good men and true—whom the blast
of a horn would bring together in half an hour,
from a circuit of five miles. The revelations of
Stillyards had much more effect upon Vernon than
they could possibly have had upon Rawlins. The
abduction of Virginia Maitland was now known
with certainty; and it was with no less certainty
that he knew where she was hidden by Saxon. It
was no small addition to his desire for immediate
enterprise, when he found that her ravisher, and the
consummate chief of the Beagles of the Border,
were one and the same person. These discoveries
he kept from the father. He had come to the conclusion
that William Maitland could be of little service
in the adventure—and he counselled him to
proceed at once with Julia to the security of Zion's
Hill. He particularly cautioned him against suffering
his own near neighbourhood to be known to the
venerable and dogmatical head of the establishment;
still less to suffer it to be suspected that any enterprise
was on foot, by which to rout the outlaws. To
render the old man more cautious in this and every
other respect, the doubtful character of young
Badger was revealed to him, and the danger fully
shown of any premature development of a project
which could only be successful through perfect
secrecy. Having sent the unhappy and criminal
father upon his way, Vernon proceeded to the examination
of Stillyards, whom Rawlins had kept
under close watch in the neighbouring wood.