University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
SOMETHING OF HARLEY, VIOLA, AND LANGEE.

All the events I have described as taking place after
my entrance into the Council House, had occupied but a
very few minutes in reality; and as one scene of horror
had been closely followed by another, since my return from
the mountain, the effect of the whole had been in some
degree to stupefy my mental faculties and dull the keener
feelings, as blows repeated upon the body gradually benumb
it and render it less sensible to pain.

It is impossible for me to describe the strange and
mingled emotions which I experienced as I stood and
gazed around me. On the one hand I had cause for
rejoicing—on the other for anger, vexation, and sorrow.
I had just been deploring the hard fate which consigned
both Clara and myself to Indian captivity, far away from
our friends, whom we could not reasonably hope ever to
see again; and now we both stood liberated, unharmed,
and she was with her father and brother, and I had one
beside me whom an hour before I would almost have sacrificed
my right hand to behold; but then again, I had
also in a measure been liberated by my worst enemy—my
rival; a foul aspersion had been cast upon my honor, by
one in whose eyes I had hoped at least to stand well; I
had been insulted in a gross manner, and my life actually
attempted in a spirit of revenge; and to crown all, she
who had both now and heretofore saved my life at the

peril of her own, had been shot down like a dog, and lay
weltering in her gore at my very feet.

Yes, here lay poor Dundenah, and yonder Langee—
both having died violent and bloody deaths within a few
moments of each other—and to both of whom, had they
lived, I should have felt myself under deep obligations: to
the one for having rescued me from a horrible death—to
the other for having been the means of rescuing me from
a scaree less horrible captivity. True, Langee, in his
mad passion, had sought to take my life; but this I knew
was owing to my Indian costume and savage appearance,
and not to any ill-will which he bore me personally. No,
so far from the latter being the case, he might be said to
have lost his life from a too rash zeal in my cause—for
had he not gone to the friends of Clara, as I requested
and urged him to do, and returned to guide them hither,
he might even now have been in the enjoyment of life,
peace, and safety.

While reflections like these were passing through my
mind, Harley took hold of my arm, and said:

“Come, my friend, let me conduct you to the other end
of the building—for here you are in danger of being mistaken
for an Indian by the different parties that will soon
return from the bloody chase, and you know how narrowly
you have several times escaped with your life already.”

“My friend,” returned I, grasping his hand—“for you
are my friend, and have proved it in adversity—God bless
you!” and so overcome was I with various contending
emotions, that I burst into tears, and wept like a child.

“Cheer up, Harry! cheer up, my dear friend! do not
be cast down!” he said, his own voice thick and choked;
while tears, that he in vain tried to suppress, swam in his
eyes.

“Let me weep!” I rejoined; “let me weep! it may

appear childish, but it will relieve my aching heart;” and
impulsively I threw my arms around his neck, and sobbed
upon his breast.

This flow of tears indeed proved a great relief to my
overcharged soul; and in a short time I became quite
calm, and accompanied Harley to the other end of the
building.

On our way, we passed the corpse of Langee—who was
lying where he had fallen—and also Colonel Moreland,
Clara, and Walter, who were grouped together at no great
distance, conversing earnestly in low tones. The eye of
Clara, as I passed, rested upon me with mournful tenderness,
and I could see that she had been weeping; but the
faces of the Colonel and Walter were turned from me;
whether intentionally or not, I did not know. I waved
my hand to Clara, and turning to Harley, said:

“It is hard to be suspected of wrong by those whom
we most desire should esteem us well!”

“I understand to what you allude,” returned my friend;
“but you have an advocate in that fair girl that will set
you right, depend upon it. She loves you, Harry—I can
see that; and I am well pleased that your choice has
fallen upon one so lovely, so sweet and amiable, and so
every way calculated to render you happy.”

“Ah! Morton, do you know that she is betrothed to this
villain Warneliff? and that her father is one not likely to
let her forego the fulfillment of the pledge thus made, in
favor of another to whom he has taken a dislike?”

“I have heard something of this; but do you know, in
return, my dear Harry, that the plans of fathers are not
always carried out? and that I, at least, have good reason
for saying so?”

“My dear Morton,” cried I, seizing his hand, “I crave
a thousand pardons, for having in my own selfish griefs

and vexations forgotten to inquire after your dear partner,
Viola! I trust she is well?”

“May Heaven grant it to be not otherwise!” replied
my friend, solemnly. “I left her well—but that was
some weeks since.”

“And where did you leave her?”

“In Galveston.”

“Indeed? alone with strangers?”

“No, her parents were with her.”

“Ah! then she has seen her parents since her marriage?
and you have been to Mexico and returned?” said I,
quickly.

“She has seen her parents since her marriage—but we
have not been to Mexico,” replied Harley. “Listen! and
you shall hear how it happened. After parting from you
at Galveston, we went to New Orleans, as you know, for
the purpose of procuring further proofs to establish Viola
as the lost daughter of Don Alverda, intending to return
immediately and have you accompany us to the city of
Mexico. There, as you also know, I received a letter from
home, stating that my father was very ill and not expected
to live. Having procured the proofs—which we did without
difficulty—we set out for Macon, Georgia. I found
my father alive, but in a very feeble state; and as it was
altogether probable that he would not recover, we thought
it better to remain at home a few weeks.”

“And did he recover?” interrupted I.

“No,” said Harley, sadly; “he lingered along till
winter set in, and then paid the great debt of nature.
Meantime, I had introduced Viola to my friends, giving
them a brief account of her history. On learning she was
not the daughter of St. Auburn, they gave her a cordial
reception, and her attractive manners soon made her a
favorite. My father blessed the union, and received her

as his daughter; and she so won upon his affections, that
toward the last he could not bear to have her out of his
sight; and declared, with the peevishness of sickness, that
no one could wait upon him so well as she.”

“But her parents?” again interrupted I.

“Ay, ay—I am coming to them—only have a little
patience. Well, when I found my stay in Macon was
likely to be prolonged to an indefinite point of time, I
wrote a letter to Don Juan Gomez Alverda, enclosing one
from Viola, wherein we gave the statement made by the
dying St. Auburn, together with several other important
matters, and requested an answer as to whether he felt
disposed, from the proofs which we could produce, to
acknowledge Viola as his daughter?

“In due course of time a letter arrived, from both the
Don and his lady, in which they expressed their joy in the
most extravagant terms, and declared themselves ready to
receive her with open arms without any proof whatever.
My father-in-law's letter—for so I may now safely call
him—further stated, that having some business at New
Orleans, he and his lady should set out immediately for
that city, and hoped to meet us there.

“To cut my story short, we did meet there; but you
must imagine the joyful emotions produced by that meeting,
of which words are inadequate to convey any thing
more than a cold idea. Such embracing—such shedding
of tears—such transports of joy you never saw; and my
only regret was, that you, my dear friend, were not there
to witness it.”

“Thank you!” said I; and the words came from my
heart.

“I was delighted with my new parents. Don Alverda
is a fine, noble-looking man, and a true Spanish gentleman;
and Donna Clarinda is a most lovely, sweet-tempered,

estimable lady, of whom I can convey no better idea than
to say there is a marked resemblance between her and
Viola—so much so, that it is almost a wonder the relationship
was not discovered sooner.

“The parents of Viola insisting that we should return
with them, we prepared accordingly, and set out on our
journey, going by the way of Galveston, in the hope of
finding and prevailing on you to accompany us. I had
not heard from you for a long time, and wondered at your
silence; and twice, within as many weeks, I wrote to
Galveston, begging you to inform me of your whereabouts.
Of course I got no answer; and when I arrived there, I
found, by inquiry, that my letters to your address had not
been taken from the post-office.

“In your letter to me, dated at the Tremont House—
and the only one, in fact, I have ever received from you—
you stated that you had met the brother of Clara, was
much pleased with him, and that you had accepted an
invitation to pay a visit to his father's residence in
Houston. This then was the only clue for tracing you;
and feeling deeply anxious to learn what had become of
you, I prevailed upon my father-in-law to delay his journey
for a few days; and leaving Viola and her parents at the
hotel, I took a steamer for Houston.

“I found the family of Colonel Moreland in a state of
great excitement. They had just received a mysterious
note, in which the writer stated that their daughter, and a
young man in her company, together with himself, had
been captured by the Indians, from whom he had recently
made his escape; that he had reason to think the girl was
still alive—a prisoner—though he feared her companion
had been put to death; and he concluded by saying, that
in exactly four weeks from the date of the note, he would
personally appear; and that if a large party, well armed

and mounted, were in readiness to go in search of the girl,
he would accompany them as guide.

“As I said, I found the family in great agitation on
account of this mysterious note, which bore date without
signature, and had been properly addressed through the
city post-office, indicating that the writer had placed it
there with his own hand. It was the first news, direct or
indirect, which they had received of one they had already
mourned as lost to them forever; and they were in a state
of the most intense excitement, not knowing whether to
credit the statement of the writer or not.

“Why, when he was so near, had he not appeared to
give his account orally, instead of adopting a mode of communication
so likely to be disbelieved and disregarded?
But then again, would any one who intended it as a piece
of deception, be likely to adopt so flimsy an invention?

“Thus was the matter argued pro and con; but hope,
which is ever ready to take root in uncertainty, sprung up
in the minds of all; and it was finally resolved that a
party should be in readiness to set out with the Unknown,
in the event of his making his appearance at the time
specified.

“To this measure I lent my counsel, and determined to
be one of the party; for though the unknown writer
intimated the probability of your having been put to death,
yet the whole rested on uncertainty; and something
whispered me that you might still be living; and affection
and duty both urged me to go in search of a friend who
had done so much for me.

“I accordingly returned to Galveston, and communicated
the whole affair to Viola and her parents, at the
same time stating my intention of going in quest of you.
Viola shed many tears, both at the thought of your hard
fate, and the idea of parting with me for so long a period;

but, like the noble woman she is, she said that it was cer
tainly my duty to go—that you had saved her life at the
peril of your own, and that I owed this effort on your
behalf to the unselfish friendship of the past.”

“God bless her!” said I, fervently; “she is indeed a
noble woman, and an ornament to her sex.”

Tears filled the eyes of my friend; but hastily brushing
them away, as if ashamed of such weakness, he resumed:

“I now found that our parting must indeed be for a
considerable period; for my father-in-law said that business
of importance would require his immediate return to
the city of Mexico; besides which, each day's delay
would probably render the journey more difficult, owing to
the unsettled state of the country, which is on the very
eve of an open rupture with the United States.”

“Ha!” said I; “then the war fever has not died
away?”

“So far from it,” replied Harley, “that each account
received is of a more warlike character; and General
Taylor, when last heard from, was on the point of removing
his army and head-quarters to the Rio Grande,
where it is expected the Mexicans will give him battle.
In fact, the bloody contest may have begun already, for any
thing I know to the contrary. But to return to my story,
which I must make as brief as possible; for I perceive
that the different parties, who have been in chase of the
fugitives, are beginning to gather at the door yonder, and
we may soon be interrupted.

“Well, I took leave of Viola and her parents—and a
hard parting it was—and returned to Houston. When I
got back to Colonel Moreland's, I was informed that
one Warncliff—who, to my surprise, I learned was an
accepted suitor of Clara's—wishing to have the honor of
rescuing his affianced bride, had volunteered to raise a

party to go in quest of her, and was now absent for this
purpose—the Colonel giving as a reason for his going
away from home, that most of the men in that vicinity,
who might have been enlisted in such an expedition at any
time previous to the present, had gone off to join Taylor
as volunteers in the approaching struggle, and that
Warncliff had friends away on whom he could depend.

“On the day appointed by the Unknown, Warncliff
appeared at an early hour in the morning, at the head of
some thirty cut-throat looking fellows, all well mounted
and armed to the teeth; and about an hour later, a tall,
lank, cadaverous, big-boned personage was seen approaching
the mansion. On coming up to where we were standing,
he merely said, in an indifferent tone:

“ `Well, I see you are ready—so am I.'

“That personage was the one who is now lying there,
and whom you, if I remember rightly, called Langee.

“Well, after some very close questioning on our part,
it was decided that we should set off with this mysterious
being—though I had my misgivings about his sanity, and
I think the others had also. However, as events have
turned out, it is certain he was no impostor; though I must
say that the following of such a guide for three weeks,
in an unknown country, not knowing at what moment we
might be betrayed into the hands of an overwhelming
body of savages, has been no very pleasant task on my
part, whatever it may have been to the others.”

“And have you been three weeks on this journey?”
inquired I.

“Nearly so—this is the eighteenth day since our leaving
Houston. However, it can scarcely be said that we
travelled yesterday; for after a three hours' ride, our
guide led us into a thicket, where we encamped and
remained in concealment, while he went forward on foot

to reconnoitre. About midnight last night he returned,
and reported that he had penetrated the village of the
Wepecoolahs; that the chief and most of his warriors
were away on some distant expedition; and that the girl
we were seeking was living, and would be found in the
lodge of the chief; but that the young man he feared had
been put to death.

“After a brief consultation, it was decided that we
should leave our horses where they were, and set off
on foot. We did so—the distance being about ten miles.
It is needless to add more—you know the rest—at least
enough of it.”

“I do,” said I. “Such hellish vindictiveness as has
been here displayed, is more worthy of the savages themselves
than of men born in a Christian land.”

“You must not look to find sympathy for the savage
among those who, living on the frontiers, have only to
recall some bloody encroachment of their painted neighbors,
to steel their hearts against any thing like compassion.”

“Well, let them take bloody retribution on the aggressors—on
the warriors themselves,” said I; “but not deliberately
murder defenceless women and children.”

“Ay, it is easy for us to say this, who have been
brought up in a country so remote from border warfare
that we think rather of the wrongs the Indian has suffered
than of his aggressions; but only let us live where the
tomahawk and scalping-knife are yearly made red with the
blood of some of our dearest friends—imagine such friends
a wife and children—and we might soon become as callous
to pity as any, and only desire to see the red-race exterminated,
root and branch. Do not understand me, my dear
Harry, as seeking to defend this atrocious slaughter; but
rather as showing the causes which lead to an approval

of bloody cruelty. But aside from this, I think the present
party would be cruel under any circumstances; and
if these are the friends of Warncliff, as the Colonel intimated,
it is my private opinion he keeps the very worst
company in the world. I have my suspicions, too,” added
Harley, in a low tone.

“Ha! what?” inquired I, eagerly.

“Hush! here comes the Colonel.”

“Mr. Walton,” said Colonel Moreland, advancing to
me, and speaking in a dry, stiff, formal manner, “I have
been holding some conversation with my daughter, and,
in consequence, am led to believe that I wrongly accused
you of betraying the trust I reposed in you, and therefore
do hereby retract my words, and offer you a further
apology for my rudeness.”

“Which I gladly accept,” returned I, “and sincerely
rejoice that I no longer stand dishonored in your esteem.”

“I would say further,” resumed the Colonel, with a
freezing air, that instantly chilled all the warmth of feeling
on my part, which the prospect of reconciliation had at
first produced; “I would say further, Mr. Walton, that
your negro Tom (I started at the mention of the name,
and felt a twinge of conscience that I should have neglected
all this while to inquire after the poor fellow, whom
I loved almost as a brother,) remained at my house some
two months, during which time I wrote to your father—”

“Ha! then he knows of my misfortune?” interrupted I.

“And in due course of time received an answer,” continued
the Colonel, as though I had not spoken, “which
caused Tom to pack up your things, and, with your
baggage, set off for home.”

“Then Tom has gone home with my baggage?” said I.
“This is unlucky—for now I have neither money nor
clothes.”

“I have enough for both, Harry—never mind,” inter
posed Harley.

“I was about to add,” pursued the Colonel, in the same
frigid tone, “that having been much inconvenienced—
and, as I may safely say, on my account, since at my request
you set off with Clara—any thing that I can do in
the way of compensation, command me.”

“All that I would ask in return, Colonel Moreland,”
said I, “is that I may be esteemed a friend of your
family.”

The Colonel hesitated, hemmed, and replied:

“As a friend of the family, Mr. Walton, I see no particular
objection; but to be brief, as I am a plain man of
few words, I think it best it should be understood that
there is to be no relationship.”

I felt the blood mount to my very temples, and was
about to make a reply that I might afterward have
regretted, when the voice of Warncliff was heard calling
Colonel Moreland, who, glad to escape probably, made a
stiff bow and strode away.

“Be calm, my friend,” said Harley, taking my hand;
“be calm, Harry; he has apologized, that is something;
keep quiet, and let events take their course. Fate will do
its work, do what you may.”