 | CHAPTER I.
THE BROTHER. Clara Moreland, or, Adventures in the far
South-west |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
THE BROTHER.
The first of October, of the year of our Lord 1845,
found me a guest of the Tremont House, in the goodly city
of Galveston, Texas. An invalid guest, I may add—for I
had been confined to my room for some days, suffering
much pain from a couple of flesh wounds received in a
recent skirmish with a party of Texan brigands, somewhere
between my present abode and the river Brazos,
while in the act of making my escape with some friends
from the head-quarters of a notorious villain, counterfeiter,
etcetera, known as Count D'Estang. The reader
who has been so fortunate, or unfortunate, (I leave him to
decide which,) as to peruse a portion of my narrative, under
the title of “Viola,” will readily understand to what I
allude; but in order to refresh his memory with the past
events of my career, and also give those before whom I
may now appear for the first time an inkling of what has
already been recorded of my adventures, I will here transcribe
a letter, which about this period I wrote home to
my worthy parent in Virginia:
“In my last, dated at New Orleans, you will recollect I
made some mention of a very eccentric travelling companion,
by the name of Harley, who, having been introduced
to me one night at a ball in Swansdown, renewed acquaintance
on the boat at Louisville, and kept me company down
the river; and I think I also added, that we had in contemplation
a trip to Mexico, merely to gratify curiosity and
have some adventures. Well, we have not been to Mexico
as yet—but we have had some adventures notwithstanding.
If memory serves me right, I told you there was a certain
mystery about my friend—for even then I regarded him as
such—which I had not been able to fathom; but this has
since been explained away, and I now know his whole
history.
“It seems that he is the son of a wealthy Georgian
planter, residing in or near Macon, and a graduate of one of
our Northern colleges. Some three years since, soon after
completing his course of studies, and while on a visit to a
relative in Virginia, he accidentally, and in a very romantic
manner, formed acquaintance with a young lady (or perhaps
I should rather say girl) in her teens, called Viola
St. Auburn, who chanced to be there at a seminary, and
between whom and himself at once sprung up a very warm
attachment. Now the reputed father of Viola, and the
father of my friend, were sworn enemies; and in consequence
of this the lovers were torn asunder, and each
forbid by an indignant parent ever seeing the other again.
But `man proposes and God disposes,' as you will see by
what follows.
“Harley and St. Auburn, the parents of my hero and
heroine, had in early life been rivals—had quarreled and
fought; and the former had been worsted in more senses
than one—having received the ball of his antagonist, and,
had shed his blood, had become the wife of his enemy.
This latter blow had been high finishing what the former
had left undone; but he lived to marry and rear a family;
though his reason, it is still contended, has never been
entirely sound since the date of the aforementioned events:
and to this day, the bare mention of the name of St.
Auburn is enough to drive him frantic.
“Not long after his marriage, St. Auburn removed to
the city of Mexico, where he became a merchant, and
continued in business till recently. Viola he put to school
in this country; and by this means the children of the
rivals and foes met, as previously stated. After the separation
of the lovers, they had only seen each other once
prior to the date of my last letter; and my friend Harley,
having received his portion from his father, had become an
eccentric wanderer, travelling with no other purpose than
to kill time and drive unpleasant thoughts from his mind.
“I now come to speak of events which have, for aught
I know to the contrary, brought this romantic affaire de
cœur to a happy termination—events in which your dutiful
son has had the honor to figure somewhat conspicuously.
“While in New Orleans, as fate would have it, my friend
saw Viola pass him in a carriage. Wild with conflicting
emotions, he followed it at the risk of his neck, and brought
up on board a steamer bound for this city. He saw Viola but
a moment, but in that moment learned that her first destination
was Galveston, Texas. Thither he followed her, a
day or two afterward, accompanied by myself and Tom.
In the post-office here, he found a letter from her, in which
she stated that her father had sold her to a French Count
D'Estang—that shortly she expected to be on her way to
his residence, D'Estang Ville, somewhere near the river
disguise.
“We accordingly disguised ourselves as pedlars, and
set off in quest of her; and after a day or two of adventures—some
ludicrous and some thrilling—we succeeded in
finding D'Estang Ville and gaining admittance. I cannot
here recount one tithe of what followed. Suffice it to say,
that Viola and St. Auburn were both confined here as
prisoners; that we discovered the Count to be a base
counterfeiter; and that we succeeded in securing him in
his own stronghold and liberating his victims.
“While escaping across the country to Galveston, we
were assailed in the night—by the Count's cut-throats as
we suppose—St. Auburn was mortally wounded, and I was
stabbed in the arm and thigh, and am slightly indisposed
in consequence. After being mortally wounded, St. Auburn
lived long enough to make a confession; by which it
appears that Viola was not his daughter, but the stolen
child of a distinguished Spanish gentleman of great wealth,
and at present a resident of the city of Mexico. By the
death-bed of St. Auburn, at his particular request, Viola
and Harley were married, and are now gone to New Orleans
to procure proofs of her identity with the lost daughter of
Don Alverda, her reputed father. These obtained, it is
their intention to return to this city and take me with them
thence to Mexico. Whether I shall go or not, remains to
be seen.
“Thus you see, dear father, I have been favored with
not a little of living romance already—what remains in
store for me, Heaven only knows: I hope something better
than sabre stabs.
“I have neglected to record, by the way, another little
affair of my own, which may grow into something serious,
or may not. You will recollect I mentioned the death of a
the Mississippi, the victim of a gambler. I learned that
his name was Thomas Moreland, and that he was the
son of a Widow Moreland, residing at an inland village of
Texas. Now mark how curiously things turn up! While
travelling on foot in the disguise of a pedlar, I came to a
house from which issued the most melodious strains of the
human voice I had ever heard. Well, I was anxious to see
the singer, and I went in. I found her to be a very beautiful
young lady, who was momentarily expecting her
brother, who had been absent two years in Europe. She
mistook me for her brother, whom I suppose I very much
resemble, rushed into my arms, and we had quite a time
of it, I assure you. Well, to be brief, she turned out to
be a cousin of the gambler's victim, and her name is Clara
Moreland. She was very much affected to hear of his
death; and putting one thing with another, we got very
well acquainted in a short time. She is very lovely; and
her father, Colonel Moreland, is a gentleman of political
distinction. In short, I became very much interested in
her, and have had some serious thoughts about calling on
her again. That is all.
“Give my love to sisters, Old Moll, and the negroes
generally; and tell the latter Tom is well. By the by, I
owe my life to Tom—but I will tell you more another time.
How do you all come on? I ask the question, but have
no idea how, where, or when, I shall get an answer.
“You shall hear from me again soon. Meantime, I am,
dear father,
Swansdown, Va.
they would not trouble me now, only that I exposed myself
and took cold.”
This letter I sent to the post-office by Tom, who on his
return handed me the subjoined:
“I have just received a letter from home, which requires
my presence there immediately. My poor father has been
taken suddenly ill, and is not expected to recover. I shall
leave to-day for Macon, via Savannah, taking Viola with
me, to whom I now expect my friends to be reconciled,
since the blood of the St. Auburns is not in her veins. As
I cannot fix on any time for my return, you had better not
wait for me; but write to Macon, and keep me advised of
your whereabouts. It grieves me to part with so dear a
friend—but necessity compels me. Can you not come to
Macon? Think of it seriously—I will assure you of a
cordial reception. Dear Viola, with tearful eyes, sends
her love to you. Do not fail to write, and keep me
advised of your doings; and believe me, my dear Harry,
I read this, seated in a large arm chair, swayed with
bandages and propped with pillows, and was pondering on
the uncertainty of human life, and the many accidents
which flesh is heir to, when Tom, who had gone out after
handing me the foregoing, re-entered my apartment, and
said, hurriedly:
“Dar's a gemman below 'quiring about you, Massa Hal,
sartin.”
“Ah! indeed,” returned I, with no small degree of
interest, for I more than suspected who he was: “Show
him up, Tom!”
Some five minutes later Tom ushered into my chamber
a fine, noble-looking, handsome stranger, to be mistaken
for whom, so far as personal appearance might be concerned,
I could consider in no other light than a compliment.
He was nearly six feet in stature, finely proportioned,
with bright hazel eyes, a high, smooth forehead, a
nose just sufficiently Roman to give a character to the
face, a well-formed mouth, and a finely turned chin. The
countenance was altogether highly intellectual, and his
manner had all the graceful ease and dignity of a true-bred
gentleman.
“Mr. Walton,” he said, in a frank, off-hand way, advancing
to me, and extending his hand, “I am very sorry
to find you an invalid. But I beg your pardon! I have
not yet introduced myself: My name is Walter Moreland.”
“So I anticipated,” I replied, “when Tom informed me
that there was a gentleman below inquiring for me, who
was the very counterpart of myself, as I had the honor of
once being taken for just such an individual.”
“Ah! yes,” said my new acqnaintance, laughing: “my
sister Clara told me all about it; and I have had my
own sport with her since, concerning it, I assure you.”
“I hope she is well,” I rejoined; and though I affected
a genteel indifference, I felt the blood mount to my
temples, and knew my companion noticed it.
“Yes, Clara is well,” he answered; “and had she
dreamed that I should be so fortunate as to meet with you,
I doubt not she would have sent her special regards.”
As Moreland said this, I fancied he gave me a very
“I am greatly obliged to her,” I hastened to rejoin,
“for so kindly remembering one who can lay so little claim
to the honor. Our meeting was certainly a rather romantic
one; and was owing, I believe, to a species of impudence on
my part, for which I can only forgive myself by recollecting
of what pleasure I must otherwise have been deprived.”
“Well, you did meet, and that meeting has led to our
meeting, and this I sincerely trust neither of us may
have cause to regret. I have just arrived in town; and
seeing your name on the register, I was making some
inquiries concerning you, when your servant, who I suppose
had overheard a portion of the conversation, informed
me he had orders to show me to your chamber. They tell
me you were wounded in a skirmish with a party of
brigands between here and the Brazos?”
“Yes! and I thank Heaven the result has proved no
worse than you see. We all had a very narrow escape;”
and I proceeded, at his request, to give him the particulars
of the whole affair, and the causes which led to it.
“Truly romantic!” he rejoined. “And so you think
this Count D'Estang at the head of a band of desperadoes,
eh?”
“Such is my honest conviction.”
“I must acquaint my father with this. If I am not
mistaken, he knows the man, and suspects his occupation.
We must clear the country of such villains, now that we
are getting into good society. Too long has Texas been
the resort of the outlaws of all nations, and it is time for
them to be seeking some new Australia.”
“The war—if, as some predict, we come to a brush with
Mexico—will be likely to take off many of them,” I
replied.
“Yes,” returned Moreland; “and in so much, war will
be a blessing rather than a curse.”
“By-the-by,” said I, “I have neglected to inquire where
your sister is now?”
“Home, at my father's, in Houston. And apropos—
shall we not have the pleasure of seeing you there before
long?”
“Why, to tell you the truth, I have had some very
serious thoughts of making myself visible up that way—
though, being so much of a stranger in this country, I
have been almost afraid to venture without a letter of
introduction.”
“Sir,” returned Walter, “I am not in the habit of complimenting
a man to his face; but in this case, I will say,
that your own countenance would have been quite sufficient
to convince us of your right to the title of gentleman—
and that alone would have given you a claim to our hospitality—to
say nothing of your generous endeavors to
befriend a relative who is now no more, and for an account
of whose death we are indebted to you.”
“Well,” returned I, laughing; “as to the marks of a
gentleman being so conspicuous in my countenance, I
have only to reply, that, as we look so much alike, even
modesty will not require me to deny the `soft impeachment.'
But you spoke of your cousin, Thomas Moreland,
whom I saw fall a victim to that ruinous vice, gambling—
how did his poor mother receive the news of his death?”
“Very hard, indeed,—in fact she will not long survive
him.”
“Your sister feared as much. Poor woman! hers has
been a life of sore affliction.”
“It has, indeed,” sighed my companion; “and the
expectation of a speedy death now appears to be her only
consolation.”
“The fate of her son was a sad but salutary lesson to
me,” I rejoined. “I had before heard of the dire consequences
which oft-times ensue from gaming; but here
was a case in which the evils of it were so forcibly brought
home to me, that over his solitary grave I vowed a solemn
vow to Heaven, that I would never play again!”
“Keep that vow, sir! sacredly keep it!” cried my new
friend, with almost startling energy, as he took a quick
turn or two up and down the room. “For,” he added,
after a thoughtful pause, “the man who gambles, perils
body and soul. Ay, beware of it, my friend!” he continued;
“for he who enters the gambler's den, passes the
portals of hell. I—” He was evidently on the point of
making some confession; but stopped, and with some confusion
in his manner, added, changing the subject: “I
am on my way to Corpus Christi, Taylor's head-quarters,
where I have some business to transact for my father.
The next steamer for that place goes out in a couple of
hours, and my passage on her is already engaged. I shall
not, I trust, be absent many days; and on my return
hither, may I not hope to have the pleasure of your company
to Houston?”
I assured him that nothing would afford me more
delight; and that if I found myself able to travel by that
time, he might count on my accepting his kind invitation.
After some further conversation, he took his leave, and
I fell into a delightful reverie on love and Clara!
| CHAPTER I.
THE BROTHER. Clara Moreland, or, Adventures in the far
South-west | |