CHAPTER II.
THE GYPSY CAMP.
The clear, unshadowed sun, as it declined towards the western verge of the horizon, shone brightly upon the gypsy encampment, a few miles from Redwood. The wandering tribe had displayed their proverbial taste, in their selection of a spot wherein to pitch their tents. A green and glossy pasture was partly surrounded by a luxuriant forest of ancient oaks, which supplied the crew with firewood; while a beautiful and clear stream, the pride and boast of the county, curved into the waving grass land, and kept it ever fresh and verdant. Here and there its silvery bosom reflected a small tent, or the figure of an idler, bending over the bank, with fishing rod in hand, a perfect picture of patience and philosophy. Half a dozen tents served to accommodate the gregarious fraternity; and though the sail cloths which composed them were worn and weather-beaten, yet their brown hues harmonized well with the rich tints of the landscape, and showed distinct enough against the dark background of the forest. As the shades of the evening darkened the ancestral trees, a line of fire was lit up, the flames of which glared ruddily against the huge trunks of the woodland, and played and flickered in the rippling stream. Huge kettles, suspended on forked sticks, were beginning to send up a savory steam; and several swarthy beings, lounging round the fires, occasionally fed them, or basking in the blaze, watched the bubbling of the caldrons with intense anxiety. Even the king of the gypsies observed the preparations for supper with an eager air, which ill assorted with his lofty forehead and reverend white beard. Every moment some stroller would come in with a pilfered fowl, or a basket of eggs; and each addition to the feast was hailed with shouts of applause by the swarthy crew.
Somewhat remote from this scene of bustle and noise, at the door of a small tent, sat two female gypsies. One of these was the queen, an aged crone, who, though bent with age and care, and wrinkled by time and the indulgence of vehement passions, yet prided herself upon the unfrosted darkness of her raven tresses, which fell over her shoulders in profusion. A turban of rich crimson cloth crowned her head, and a shawl of the same color and material was wrapped around her shoulders. Her skinny hands were supported by a silver-headed staff, which was covered with quaint carvings. Her gown was of dark serge, and her shoes were pointed, and turned up in the Oriental fashion, and garnished with broad silver buckles. She sat apart, and the rising moon shone down upon her dusky figure, and threw her wild features into bold relief. At her feet sat a beautiful girl, with dark Grecian features, and a full, voluptuous form. She, too, had long, flowing, raven tresses, into which were twisted strings of pearl. From a necklace of topaz hung a little silver crucifix, resting upon a full and heaving bust, to which was fitted a close jacket, made of deep-blue cloth, and fastened together with loops and silver buttons. Her soft and round arms were naked, save at the shoulders, and her wrists were encircled with tarnished gold bracelets. Her white petticoat was short enough to display a well-turned ankle, and a small foot, encased in neat black slippers. Her features, dark and sun-browned, showed to more advantage in the pale moonlight than they would have done in the broad blaze of day. The gypsy girl sat at the feet of the queen, and looking up in her face, listened attentively to her discourse.
"Myra," said the queen of the gypsies, "do you love him yet?"
"Love him!" repeated the girl. "Yes, mother—passionately. To obtain his hand—his heart, I would peril every thing!"
"Strange and mysterious passion!" said the crone, "which defies reason and law. Many years agone I loved with the same intense devotion. The same fiery blood courses in your veins; the same contempt of obstacles. Yet the man I loved was nobler and prouder than the sexton of St. Hubert's. We lived among the Gitanos of Spain, when we were wedded. Five sons I bore to the partner of my cares. Where are they? One followed his father to the gibbet; a second hurled defiance at his enemies, as he perished in the flames of an auto da fe; the third and fourth died in the galleys; the fifth—the fifth, Myra—my best beloved, my brave, my beautiful, received his death wound in defending me from outrage. You are his child! Judge, then, how I love you, my daughter. You love the sexton of St. Hubert's—he shall marry you."
"Ah, mother!" said the gypsy girl, "I fear me he is lost. He is the accepted lover of Margaret Ellis. She did love a young stranger; but the sexton of St. Hubert's has Farmer Ellis in his debt, and threatened to throw him in jail, if the latter did not grant him the hand of his daughter. He has done so, and the wedding day is fixed. Alas! before he saw his May-day queen, he loved me, and promised to marry me. Often beneath that very moon, mother, has he sat and told me his love. When I smiled at his protestations, he would speak of his wealth, and tell me of hidden stores of gold, for a thrifty and a rich man is the sexton of St. Hubert's. I do not love him less because he does not frown upon our wandering tribe, but has lax principles that suit the fiery passions of our race. I know not in what consists the art by which he won me; it is enough for me to know that I am devoted to him. Alas! that knowledge is too much, since he has owned the fascination of the Queen of the May."
"Enough said, daughter!" cried the crone. "Before the altar he shall marry you. He shall love you better than he loves the May queen. What are her attractions when compared to yours? Praise from the old is little to the young; yet let me say that I have wandered east and west, north and south; have seen the Georgian and Sicilian maids, have seen the dark-haired girls of Naples, and the donnas of Madrid; yet never did these aged eyes rest on a finer form or face than yours, my daughter."
The gypsy girl smiled.
"Ay," said the old woman, "now you look lovelier than ever. That smile is like a sunbeam to my heart; it thaws the frost of age. Believe me, Myra, the sexton of St. Hubert's shall adore you."
"Then you must have love charms," said the gypsy girl, blushing.
"Love charms I have," said the old woman, "and those of wondrous potency. We are a favored race, Myra. Descended from the old Egyptians, we inherit their mysterious learning. To a few among us, the queens and magi of our tribes, there has come down a knowledge of charms and medicine, and some of the secrets of astrology. Go, Myra; leave me. I will provide for your peace. Yes, yes, I have love charms. I have them!"
The gypsy girl smiled, rose, kissed the hand of her grandmother, and then bounded away like a fawn.
"Poor child!" muttered the old woman, when alone; "she must not die of a broken heart. Love charms, did she say! Yes—I have them for fools; but the love charm I shall use to give her joy is poison. The betrothed bride of the sexton of St. Hubert's lies ill of an unknown malady. The physicians cannot do her good, for she is sick of a wounded heart. To-night the sexton of St. Hubert's, who has faith in my skill, comes to seek a remedy. He shall have one. Does he think to spurn the poor gypsy girl? He is mistaken. He plighted his troth to her in the silence of the forest; they broke a piece of gold across a running brook; they swore truth and fidelity! One has broken the oath, but it shall be sworn anew. None but Myra shall wed the sexton of St. Hubert's!"
CHAPTER III.
RETRIBUTION.
It was a fierce and stormy night. The wind howled around the houses of Redwood, and wherever a shutter had lost its fastening, it flapped to and fro with a frequent and alarming sound. The rain, too, descended in torrents, and flooded the streets of the village, while ever and anon heavy peals of thunder and vivid flashes of lightning increased the terror of the night. In the house of Farmer Ellis a few persons were assembled to witness the bridal of the sexton of St. Hubert's. The bridegroom was as one excited by wine, for there was a wild radiance in his eyes and an unwonted smile upon his lips, and he occasionally gave utterance to some jest, and when it failed of producing the expected mirth, his own laugh sounded hollow and strange. The bride, too, so pearly pale, in her white dress, with white roses in her hair, seemed like the bride of Corinth in the German tale. A few of the guests, huddled anxiously together, whispered among themselves, "It is a churchyard bridal."
Still the cake and wine went round, and the strange laugh of the bridegroom was more frequent. The night wore on, and the arrival of the clergyman was prolonged far beyond the expected time. At length he came, and the ceremony was about to take place, when the bride suddenly sank in the arms of her companions. They raised her, and applied the usual remedies resorted to in cases of fainting, but the vital spark itself had fled.
In the depth of a stormy night, the sexton of St. Hubert's sought the queen of the gypsies. He was mounted on an active horse, and accompanied by the sheriff of the county and a few resolute men, well mounted and armed to the teeth. As he approached the river which bounded the gypsy camp upon one side, the sexton looked in vain for a guiding light—no fires blazed upon the green, no hidden glare was reflected in the mirror of the stream. Still he spurred on his horse, and followed hard by his companions, gallantly forded the stream and crossed the open meadows. The tents had all been struck, and no sound was heard in that deserted place, except the rushing of the boisterous wind and the tinkling of the raindrops as they fell upon the river. The parties reined up their horses, and the sexton and the sheriff held a brief conference together. While they were yet conversing, a broad and brilliant blaze shot up from the centre of the forest, illuminating a wide and well-trodden path which led directly to the light. The first flash of radiance dazzled the eyes of the horsemen, but when they became accustomed to the glare, they beheld distinctly several wild forms lounging around the fire, evidently unconscious of the approach of danger.
"Now is our time, my lads," said the sheriff, in a low tone. "Forward, and we shall have them all."
Every rowel was instantly employed, and the party pushed forward at a gallop. Bowing their heads to avoid the swaying branches, they bent over their horses' necks in the intense ardor of pursuit. The sheriff and the sexton rode side by side, and had nearly attained their object, when their horses fell suddenly, and threw them to the ground with violence. In fine, the whole party had stumbled upon pitfalls dug for them, and not a horseman of the troop escaped an overthrow. While they were rolling on the ground, entangled in the stirrups, and receiving severe injuries from the struggling horses, a shrill cry arose from the depth of the woods, and a dozen stout ruffians set upon them, seized, and pinioned them. The sexton and the sheriff were conducted by two of the gang to the presence of the gypsy queen, who sat upon a rude form raised upon the trunk of a huge oak, and sheltered by an ample awning of oiled cloth. The sheriff's followers were borne away in another direction. The wild woman and her wilder attendants were perfectly distinct in the ruddy firelight, though the whole scene had, to the eyes of the victims, the appearance of a vision of night.
"Well, sirs," said the queen, "you came to see us, and you have found us. Have you not some message for us? You myrmidon of the law, have you no greeting for the queen of the gypsies?"
The sheriff looked at the queen and then at her attendants. They were fierce-looking, unshorn fellows, with butchers' knives stuck in their rope girdles, and seemed but to await a nod from her tawny majesty to employ their formidable weapons.
"Have you nothing for us?" asked the dark lady.
"Nothing," said the sheriff, faintly.
"Ho, ho!" laughed the wrinkled crone. "The man of law is forgetful. You, Dommerar, search him, and see if he speaks the truth."
A sandy-haired little fellow advanced at the summons, and rifled the pockets of the sheriff with a dexterity which proved him an adept in the business. A teacher of music would have envied his fingering. Having caused the pockets of the sheriff to disgorge, he thus, in the canting language, enumerated their contents:—
"The moabite's ribbin runs thin, (the sheriff's cash runs low.) He has no mint, (gold,) and only a mopus or two."
"Fool!" said the queen, "has he no paper?"
"Ay, ay, missus, here's his fiddle," (writ,) was the answer.
"Give it me," cried the queen. "Here, you patrico, our eyes are bad. Read this scrawl, and acquaint us with the contents."
The patrico, or hedge priest, a fellow in a rusty, black suit, with a beard of three weeks' growth, bleared eyes, and a red, Bardolph nose, took the writ, which he had more difficulty in reading than Tony Lumpkin, when he received the letter of Hastings. At first, he held it upside down, then reversed it, looking at it at arm's length, and then gave it a closer scrutiny. He finally gave it as his opinion, that it empowered the queer-cuffin (so he termed the sheriff) to seize upon the so called queen of the gypsies, accused of the crime of murder, and also to apprehend her followers. When he had concluded, the old crone snatched the writ from his hand, and, tearing it to pieces, flung the fragments into the face of the sheriff.
"Take him away," said she, "and leave us alone with the sexton of St. Hubert's. Guard him well, for we wish to show him how we administer justice among us. We will be judge and jury, and our upright man shall be the executioner."
She waved her tawny hand with the air of a princess dismissing her courtiers, and her mandate was obeyed. She was left alone with the sexton of St. Hubert's. Looking him steadily in the face, she said,—
"John Pembroke, I give you joy of your marriage."
"Wretched woman!" said the sexton, "you poisoned her. By your hand she died."
"You are mistaken," answered the old woman, with a bitter smile. "She is not dead, but sleepeth. You see the devil can quote Scripture. It was my first intention to have poisoned her; but my second thoughts were better. So, instead of the medicine you sought, I gave you a powerful narcotic, which has thrown her into a deep sleep. She lies, at this moment, you know, in the chapel of St. Hubert's. There are flowers on her coffin, and there is a shroud around her. If I am not very much mistaken, about this hour she awakes."
"And perishes! Fiend in human shape, how you have deceived me! At this hour, remote from help, my Margaret is dying."
"She is not your Margaret, neither is she dying," said the crone. "Listen to me. I sent a trusty messenger to him that Margaret loves—to him who loves her fondly and faithfully—and if all things have gone as well as I anticipate, by this time she is in his arms. The draught she drank is harmless."
"Cursed deceiver!" cried the sexton, struggling frantically to free himself from the ligatures which bound him. "You have done an accursed deed. You have deprived me of my betrothed bride."
"Your betrothed bride!" said the queen of the gypsies. "Behold her!" She waved her hand, and Myra stood before the sexton of St. Hubert's. "There she stands," said the gypsy. "Have you forgotten that your troth is plighted to her? The bride and the priest are ready. Man of guilt and passion, wed her you may, wed her you must!"
"Never!" cried the sexton. "When I sought your lawless crew to indulge my love of revelling and pleasure, the person of Myra lighted a fire in my breast. But it was an unholy flame. I will never marry her. Let her live—live to be branded with infamy and disgrace!"
"Ha!" cried the crone, rising from her seat. "Is it so? Speak, Myra! child of my heart, is it so?"
The gypsy girl clasped her hands together, and hung her head in shame. Her cheeks were suffused with crimson; then they became deadly pale, and she sank lifeless on the ground.
"You have killed her!" shrieked the gypsy queen, "and dearly shall you rue it."
She placed a whistle to her lips, and blew a shrill blast. But she received a far different answer than she had anticipated; for one of the sheriff's men had succeeded in escaping from the hands of the gypsy crew, and galloped to the neighboring town, where a troop of horse was quartered. The commanding officer instantly repaired to the gypsy camp, where he arrived in time to apprehend the crew before they had committed any act of violence. The sexton of St. Hubert's did not long survive this night, and Myra became a maniac. The fate of the lovers we shall next describe.
When the lover of Margaret received the message of the queen of the gypsies, he repaired to the spot where his mistress lay, to all appearance, in the arms of death. But life had not departed; and even as he hung gazing over her, a faint color mounted to her cheek, and her bosom began to heave beneath her white garment. He raised her in his arms, bore her to the air, and she revived. When her senses were fully restored, she consented to guard against another separation by marrying her lover and savior. William had provided a humble post-chaise to convey his bride far from the scene of her past perils and temptations. They journeyed by slow stages to the north, and at the close of a few days entered a romantic village. The lover bridegroom pointed out a gray and noble old pile, the turrets of which rose lofty above the waving trees of an ancient park. He asked if she should like to visit it. She replied in the affirmative, and they drove, unchallenged, through the gateway and along a noble avenue shaded by huge oaks. When they reached the portals of the building, the post-boy stopped the horses, dismounted, threw open the door of the chaise, and let down the steps. William lifted his companion from her seat in his arms.
"Margaret," said he, "look up. This is Woodley Castle, and you are Lady Armitage."
JACK WITHERS.
Every body liked Jack Withers. He was a handsome, active young fellow of five-and-twenty, of a good family, an orphan, who came into possession of thirty thousand dollars when he came of age. In this age of California gold, when fortunes are made by shovelling dust, and the wonders of Aladdin's treasure house are realized by men of no capital but pickaxes and muscles, thirty thousand dollars does not seem a prodigious sum. Yet our great-grandfathers retired from business on that amount, and were thought, at least, comfortably well off; and even nowadays, thirty thousand dollars, judiciously managed, will keep a man out of the poorhouse, and give him a clean shirt and a leg of mutton for his lifetime. But poor Jack was not a judicious manager, and a tandem team and champagne suppers, with a shooting-box and turf speculations, soon made ducks and drakes of a little fortune. Thus at twenty-five, our friend Jack was minus; or, in the elegant phraseology of the day, "a gentleman at large with pockets to let."
When a man's riches have taken wings and vamosed, when all his old uncles are used up, and he has no prospective legacy to fall back upon, he is generally cut by the acquaintances of his prosperous days. The memory of "what he used to was" is seldom cherished, and the unhappy victim of prodigality discovers to his sorrow, that
"'Tis a very good world that we live in,
To lend, or to spend, or to give in;
But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own,
'Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known."
Jack, however, was not destined to drink the cup of this bitter experience. He was just as popular and just as much courted without a penny in his pocket, as he was when he possessed the means to be extravagant, when he
"Spread to the liberal air his silken sails,
And lavished guineas like a Prince of Wales."
The secret of his prodigious popularity was his obliging disposition. His time and talents—and he had plenty of the former, and no lack of the latter—were always at the service of his friends; and though the idlest dog in the world when his own affairs were in question, in the cause of his friends he was the busiest man alive. Thus he fairly won his dinners, his rides, his drives, and his opera tickets—they were trifling commissions on his benevolent transactions.
"Jack," one fellow would say, "my horse is too confoundedly high strung, and only half broke. He threw me yesterday."
"I'll ride him for you, Bill," would be the ready reply; "give me your spurs, and I'll give him a lesson."
And away he would go, without a thought of his neck, to mount a restive rascal that had half killed the rough rider of a cavalry regiment.
"Jack," another would say, "I've got an awkward affair on hand with Lieutenant ——; he fancies I've insulted him, and has thrown out dark hints about coffee and pistols."
"Make yourself perfectly easy, my boy; I'll bring him to reason or fight him myself."
So Jack had his hands full of business. Well, one dreary, desolate afternoon in March, when the barbs of all the vanes in the city were looking pertinaciously eastward, and people were shivering over anthracite grates, Jack Withers "might have been seen," as James would say, seated in the little back parlor of the coffee room in School Street, sipping Mocha with his particular friend Bill Bliffins, who had an especial claim upon his kindness, from the fact that he had already extricated Bill from scrapes innumerable.
Mocha is a great prompter of social and kindly feelings, and prompts, in tête-à-têtes, to that unreserved confidence on one part, and that obliging interest on the other, which unite two congenial and kindred spirits in adamantine bonds.
"Jack," said Bill, smiting the marble table emphatically, "you are my best friend."
"Pooh, pooh! you flatter me," said Jack, blushing like a peony; "I've never done any thing for you."
"Yes, you have, and you know it," persisted Bliffins. "Didn't you fight Lieutenant Jenkins, of the Salamander, when I ought to have fought him myself? Haven't you endorsed my notes when nobody else would back my paper?"
"I'll do it again, my boy," said Jack, with a gush of enthusiastic feeling.
"Ahem! your name on short or long paper isn't exactly what it used to be," said Bill, rather unfeelingly, perhaps.
"True, true," returned Jack, in a more subdued tone; "I haven't got many friends left in the synagogues."
"But what you have done, Jack," continued Bliffins, with enthusiasm, "emboldens me to trespass yet further on your patience."
"With all my heart," said Jack; and there was no reservation implied in the hearty tone in which the words were uttered.
"Then listen to my story, as the postilion of Longjumeau sings. Hear me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear."
"I'll be mute as the codfish in the House of Representatives."
"Well, then," said Bill, in a solemn tone, "I'm dead broke."
"Dead broke?"
"Yes; I'm running on my last hundred."
"Impossible!"
"True, though, for all that. Yet my circumstances are not so desperate, either. There's a vacant clerkship in the secretary of state's office; and the governor has been sounded, and I think he might be disposed to give it to me."
"Go to him at once, then, my dear boy. If he wants any reference, send him to me. I'll endorse your character, as I used to your paper when my name was worth something on 'change. Go to him at once."
"It's easy to say it, Jack; but the fact is, that I have such a confounded hesitating address that I fear I should make an unfavorable impression, and ruin my cause; whereas, if a plausible, voluble fellow like yourself could get his ear and plead for me, my appointment would be certain. Now will you——"
"Call on the governor? With all my heart—consider the thing settled."
"That's not all; you must be my advocate in another quarter. I'm over head and ears in love with Juliet Trevor—Trapp & Trevor—W. I. Goods, wholesale. You know the firm?"
"I want you to see the girl and the old people; I haven't confidence to propose in person. You can do it for me?"
"With all my heart. I give you joy of the clerkship and the girl—they're yours."
"I'm eternally obliged, Jack."
"Not the least, my boy—always ready to serve my friends. By the way, have you got any money about your clothes? I invited you to take coffee, but I forgot my purse in my other trousers—no change, you know."
"There, get this V changed," said Bliffins, handing him a bank note.
Jack took the note and walked up to the counter.
"Coffee and pie for two, my dear" said he to the attendant. "It's all right—you know me—pay next time—Withers and friend. Come, Bill, I've fixed it."
"But the change!" said Bill.
"Never mind the change—morrow do as well. By, by,—au revoir."
"Remember the governor!"
"All right, my boy."
"And Juliet!"
"Make yourself easy."
So they parted. The next day, Jack sent in his card to the governor at the Adams House, and followed the pasteboard before the message could be returned. The governor received his visitor with his usual urbanity.
"Good quarters, governor!" said Jack, looking round him as he dropped into a rocking chair, and tapped his boot with his walking stick. "Chief magistrate of the commonwealth—well lodged—people pay—all right."
The governor was much amused at the coolness of his guest, and waited patiently to learn his business. He was not kept long in suspense.
"Governor," said Jack, "I come to solicit your favor not on my behalf, but in the cause of friendship—sacred friendship—holy bond of two congenial hearts, &c.—but you know all that. My friend, sir, William Bliffins—unfortunate young man—reduced in circumstances—good family—good blood—grandfather in the revolution—soil of Bunker Hill irrigated with the blood of Bliffins—but you know all that—run through his fortune—on the town—not a penny—hard case."
"Do you solicit charity, sir, for your friend?"
"Not exactly—official favor—vacant clerkship—secretary's office—make him comfortable—but you know all that."
"Really, sir, you run on at such a rate——"
"Way I've got—few leading points all you want—time precious—money (old saw)—Bliffins—clerkship—don't you take?"
"I think I recollect the name, now. But I must inquire into the character of the applicant. How did he lose his fortune?"
"Unbounded benevolence—heart like an ox—bigger—endorsing notes for friends—founding hospitals for indigent Africans—temperance movement—philanthropy expensive—but you know all that."
"The office in question requires a good penman. Can your friend write well?"
"Splendid hand—copperplate—currente calamo—shine in your eyes."
"Have you a specimen of his penmanship?"
"Cords at home—some in pocket. Here you have it! no, that's my washerwoman's bill. Ah, here it is!" and Jack pulled out a crumpled note, and placed it before the governor.
The governor scanned the document curiously, and with great difficulty deciphered the following words, which he read silently:—
"Dear Jack,—Fashion has been beaten, and I lost on the mare. I shall back Tom Hyer to the extent of my pile. He is training finely. Bricks has a couple of Santa Anna's game cocks for me, on board the Raritan, at Lewis's wharf. Can you run down and get 'em from the steward? Yrs, &c."
The governor smiled as he handed back the note, but made no remark.
"Where can I communicate with you, sir?" he asked.
"Dog and Thistle, Blackstone Street. I'll write my address."
So Jack wrote his address card, (by the way, he wrote a splendid hand,) and took his leave of the governor.
From the Adams House he posted to Louisburg Square, where the Trevors were living in great style. Slightly acquainted with Miss Trevor, he found no difficulty in being admitted to her presence. After rattling over a few commonplace topics, he came to the object of his mission.
"Have you seen Bliffins lately?"
"Not very," replied the fair one, languidly.
"Dying, ma'am, dying."
"Is it possible? What's the matter, sir?"
"Love—desperation—patience on a monument couldn't sit there forever—heart ache—only one thing to save him."
"Indeed! and what is that?"
"He loves you, madam, passionately, devotedly, enormously—Petrarch, Abelard, lukewarm lovers in comparison. Throws himself at your feet—save him!—marry him quick! or you'll lose him!—say yes."
"Sir, my father will communicate with you," said the lady, rising to terminate the interview.
"Dog and Thistle, Blackstone Street," said Jack, and bowed himself away.
The next day Jack and Bill were again seated together in a small room at the Dog and Thistle, waiting the result of the obliging operations of the former. In a few moments a waiter brought in a note, superscribed John Withers, Esq. Jack tore it open, and read as follows:—
"Sir,—In answer to your application yesterday, I am sorry to return you an unfavorable reply; but the chirography of the person you recommended, to say nothing of other considerations, unfits him for the vacancy in question. Having made inquiries with regard to yourself, and finding that you are in circumstances which might render employment acceptable, while your conduct proves that you have sincerely repented of the follies of your early years, I have concluded to request your acceptance of the office yourself. If you accept the offer, please report yourself to-morrow.
"Yours, respectfully,
—— ——,
"Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."
"You're an impostor!" shouted Bliffins. "Is this your friendship?"
"I can't help it," said Jack, ruefully. "I'm innocent—I did the best I could for you."
"How did he know any thing about my penmanship?"
"I showed him this note," said the unhappy Jack, producing the document.
"That note? You've ruined me! Do you know what it was about?"
"I'd forgotten."
"Why, it was all about horseracing, pugilism, and cock fighting, you jackass!"
"Letter for Mr. Bliffins!" said the waiter, entering with another epistle. Bliffins read it aloud.
"Mr. William Bliffins.
"Sir: In answer to application of your friend, yesterday, for daughter's hand, have to reply for daughter, and say that the honor is respectfully declined. Had you obtained the office you applied for, might have treated with you. Daughter requests me to say that she could not have done so in any case.
"Your ob't servant,
J. Trevor."
"P.S. Please hand the enclosed to Mr. Withers."
The "enclosed" was an invitation to a grand ball given by the Trevors on the ensuing night.
After overwhelming his friend with anathemas, Bliffins rushed wildly from the Dog and Thistle, and enlisted in the second dragoons.
Jack Withers, who had never before looked out for number one, now became so "obliging" as to take care of that neglected personage. He became a praiseworthy clerk, and a steady man of business. He went to the ball and polked himself into the good graces of Miss Juliet Trevor. The old gentleman and lady smiled upon their loves, and in due time he was united to the object of his affections, securing thereby a handsome and amiable wife, and an independent fortune, which she insisted on settling upon her husband on the wedding day. There is no fear of Jack's relapsing into his old habits of extravagance; and while he is still as popular as ever, he never neglects his own affairs for those of other people.
THE SILVER HAMMER.
The sun was sinking in the west, and gilding with its slant beams a pastoral landscape, as a young soldier, weary and footsore, slowly toiled along a lonely road that ran parallel with the course of the bright and winding Seine. A dusty foraging cap rested on his dark locks, and his youthful form bent beneath the weight of a well-filled knapsack. Pierre Lacour had served with honor in that glorious little band of heroes, which, under the leadership of the youthful Bonaparte, had crossed the snow-clad Alps, and fallen like an avalanche upon the plains of Lombardy, sweeping before it the veteran troops of Austria, and astonishing all Europe by unparalleled audacity and unexampled success. Pierre had marched farther on that day than he had ever done while following the colors of his regiment—but he was on his way home, and he longed to see his mother, his fair young sister Maria, and a lovely maiden, named Estelle, dearer to his heart than all beside. They had news of his coming,—at least, Maria and his mother had,—and he had sent them in advance, by a sure hand, a large amount of money, his share of the spoils of battle honorably won—enough, in short, to give a dowry to his sister, and enable him to demand the reward of all his toils and dangers—the hand of his betrothed.
His heart beat quick as he climbed the last vine-clad hill which separated him from his native valley. A few steps more would bring him to the summit, whence his eye would rest on the neat whitewashed cottage, with its surrounding palings, and trim garden; and there, perhaps, at the rustic gate, he should see the well-known figures of his mother and sister. Far as he had travelled, he sprang up the ascent with a buoyant step, and soon gained the eminence. The cottage lay full in view, but though it was the usual hour for preparing the evening meal, no blue smoke wreath curled upward from the chimney. A vague presentiment of evil weighed upon his heart. Hastening to dispel the dark and chilling fears that came thick upon him, he hurried down the slope, and soon passed through the garden and stood within the cottage. He called aloud—no voice responded to his cry. He rushed into the little room, which served at once for kitchen and parlor. It was empty—no fire burned upon the hearth. The humble furniture was in strange disarray. The casement, which looked out upon the garden was shattered. The walls and floor were charred and blackened with smoke, as if the house had taken fire and been saved with difficulty. Pierre sprang up stairs. In neither of the chambers could he find the loved ones whom he sought—only the same scene of confusion and desolation. Turning in dismay from the spectacle, he rushed out of the cottage to make his way to the nearest neighbors, and inquire into this appalling mystery. As he hurried along—his brain whirling, his footsteps uncertain and unsteady—he stumbled against an aged man of venerable appearance, who was coming in the opposite direction. The young soldier halted, and touching his cap, begged pardon for his involuntary rudeness.
"My poor Pierre," said the old man, "I know too well the cause of your forgetfulness."
The soldier looked up and recognized the familiar and benevolent features of the good priest of the village, his old tutor and pastor.
"Father," he said, pointing to the cottage, "you have been there—you know all—tell me—where are they?"
The old man's eyes filled with tears, as he shook his head, and laid his hand kindly on the young man's shoulder.
"Pierre," said he, "you have read 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth?'"
The soldier bowed his head.
"Pierre," exclaimed the good priest, "let us sit down on this bank. You are a good and brave boy. You can face danger, and I have sought to furnish you weapons to wage war against sorrow and trial."
"You have been a father to me, sir," replied the young soldier, complying with the invitation of his pastor, and taking a seat beside him. "I will endeavor to listen calmly to all you have to communicate. Where are my mother and sister?"
"Pierre," said the old man, "arm yourself with all your fortitude. You will never see your mother more till you meet her in that happier world, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."
Pierre groaned deeply, and covering his face with his hands, rocked his body to and fro as he burst into an agony of tears. The priest sought not to interrupt him, but turned away his own weeping countenance, for the anguish of the youth was too painful to contemplate.
At last the poor soldier looked up and spoke again: "What of my poor sister?"
"I know nothing," replied the priest; "she is gone whither, none can tell. A great crime has been committed. By whom, none knows, save God and the perpetrator thereof. You sent home a large sum of money to your mother. She was so overjoyed at your good fortune, that she made no secret of its reception, though I cautioned her against speaking of it. A fortnight ago, the village was alarmed by the cry of fire. Your cottage was seen to be in flames. The neighbors hastened thither and extinguished the blaze. In the smoke and confusion it was not perceived at first that murder, as well as incendiarism, had done its foul work." The priest paused, overcome with agitation.
"On! on!" shouted Pierre, "I can bear it all now!"
"Your poor mother was the victim," continued the priest; "she lay on the hearthstone dead and bleeding. Her bureau had been broken open and rifled of its contents."
"My sister! my sister!" cried the soldier.
"She was gone. The whole surrounding country was searched, but nothing was discovered."
"Maria! Maria! could gold have tempted you? No! no!—dog that I am, to suspect you! Misery has driven me mad!" cried the soldier, dashing his hand against his forehead.
"The whole dreadful crime," said the old priest, "is shrouded in a mystery as appalling as death itself. But God does not permit such deeds to slumber undetected or unavenged. Sooner or later they are brought to light."
"May I prove the instrument of detection!" said the soldier. "Some of the coins that I sent my poor murdered mother were marked—I could recognize them again. Father, you shall take me to my mother's grave. One prayer there—one word with Estelle—and then I will go to Paris; it is the resort of every criminal, and thence it sends forth its crime-blackened ruffians to desecrate this fair earth with horror. Come, father, come—my mother's grave—lead me there at once!"
Years passed away. Save by two or three persons, the crime which had desecrated the hearthstone of a humble village home was forgotten in those great historical events, of which Europe and France were then the theatres. In those days of bloodshed and battle, of victory and triumph, Pierre Lacour, who had commenced his military career as a brave young soldier, might have risen to the highest honors, had he followed the victorious eagles of his emperor. Why might not he rise as well as Murat, Ney, Lannes, or a hundred others? The epaulets of a colonel, nay, the baton of a marshal of France, were prizes within the reach of the lowliest, provided he had the head to plan and the heart to execute daring and chivalric deeds. But his heart no longer bounded like a war horse to the charge of the trumpet and the roll of the drum. He lived for one purpose—to discover the assassin of his mother and the sister, of whom nothing had been heard since the dreadful night of murder and conflagration. To facilitate his purposes, he had procured himself to be enrolled in the unrivalled police force of Fouché. That wily minister had no more able assistant under his command, and none in that fraternity (of which many were miscreants, who had purchased impunity for crime by selling the lives and liberties of former accomplices and comrades) who could compare with him for purity of life and elevation of motive. To punish evil for the sake of society, was the aim of the young police officer. None more untiring or intelligent than he in ferreting out the perpetrators of deeds of violence. In the criminals whose arrest he effected, and whose conviction he secured, he expected, constantly, to find some cognizant of the offence which had thrown so black a shadow over his life. He read with eager avidity the dying confessions of the condemned. He caught eagerly every syllable that fell from the lips of men, who, standing on the brink of eternity, seemed to be impressed with the necessity of revealing truth. But for years his expectations were baffled.
At last, all Paris was thrown into commotion by the murder of a Colonel Belleville, an officer who had served with distinction in the grand army, and who was found dead, one morning, in a room at house number 96 Rue La Harpe. The only mark of violence discovered by the surgeons was a dark, purple spot, about the size of a five-franc piece, on the left temple. The police were apprised that, on the morning of the day before, a slight young man, with fair hair and polished address, giving his name as Adolph Belmont, had hired the room at number 96 Rue La Harpe, and paid a week's rent in advance. It further appeared that, in the evening, just after the close of the performances at the opera, this young man had come home in company with an officer of the army. After the lapse of about an hour, the young man, Belmont, left the house, telling the porter he should return in a few minutes. But he never reappeared. About ten o'clock in the morning, the porter went up to his room, and found the door locked. He knocked and called, without receiving any answer. Looking through the keyhole, he saw the feet and legs of a man, in military boots and pantaloons, lying on the floor. Much alarmed and disturbed, he sought out a commissary of police, and that functionary, breaking open the door, discovered the body of Colonel Belleville. This tragedy excited an unusual sensation. Even the emperor heard of it, and, from his private purse provided a large sum of money to be paid as a reward to the discoverer of the perpetrator of this fearful crime.
Not many days after this occurrence, and while it yet remained shrouded in mystery, another murder roused the excitable population of Paris to a frenzy of anxiety and horror. An army commissary, named Captain Eugene Descartes, was found dead in his lodgings, in the Rue Richelieu, with the same fatal purple mark on the left temple.
Yet a third murder was perpetrated in the Boulevard des Italiens. A banker, named Monval, was, in this instance, the victim. His left temple bore the fatal discoloration of the size of a five-franc piece; but, although he had a large sum of money on his person, and wore a costly watch and many valuable trinkets, and though articles of high price abounded in his sumptuously-furnished apartment, not an article, as his steward testified, was missing.
On the morning of the announcement of this last crime in the Moniteur, the minister of police received a summons from the emperor to attend him. He found him in his private cabinet, pacing to and fro in high excitement. His face was more colorless than ever, except that an angry hectic spot burned upon each cheek. As the minister entered, the emperor turned upon him, and exclaimed,—
"Fouché, what is the meaning of all this? Is this Paris, and are we living in the nineteenth century? It appears that there is no security for life in our capital. Mr. Fouché, if such crimes can be committed with impunity, there is an end of all things; and if you cannot ferret out the perpetrators of such atrocities as these, it is time for you to vacate your position. I must appoint a new minister of police."
"Sire," replied the minister, "how much time will you give me to discover the assassin?"
"One week," replied the emperor.
"I thank your majesty," replied the minister, bowing. "In one week, you shall have the assassin's head, or my resignation."
"Good," said the emperor; "and to stimulate the activity of your people, I hereby authorize you to offer a reward of twenty thousand francs, for the detection of the assassin of the Rue La Harpe, the Rue Richelieu, and the Boulevard, if it prove, as I imagine, that one individual perpetrated these crimes, or five thousand francs each, if there were three criminals. Good day, Mr. Fouché; let me have a report of your doings without delay."
The secret of Mr. Fouché's confident promise to detect the assassin was the reliance he placed in the activity, daring, and intelligence of Pierre Lacour. He sent for him, and related his conversation with the emperor, enlarging on the munificent reward promised by Napoleon.
"I am poor," said Lacour, "but higher motives than hopes of reward stimulate me to perform this duty. Yet, should I be successful, a sum of money like this would enable me to wed one, who, though I voluntarily offered to release her from her engagement has loved me as well in my misfortunes as in happier times. In one week, therefore, Mr. Fouché, I will enable you to redeem your pledge to the emperor."
Four days passed away, and yet the minister of police heard nothing from Lacour. But the young man had not been inactive; and once or twice he had obtained, what he considered, traces of the person calling himself Belmont, the supposed assassin of the Rue la Harpe, and, by presumption, of the other murders; but these traces led to no result.
Whether in search of diversion, or that a vague hope whispered to him that he might obtain some intelligence by so doing, Lacour, on the fifth night after his interview with the minister, went to a masked ball at the grand opera house, in the costume of an officer of the Fusilier Guard, which chance led him to select. Weary of the noise and confusion, sad and discouraged, he had withdrawn from the crowded circle of dancers, when some one touched him on the shoulder.
"Captain Lassalle," said a sweet musical voice, "you are known, though the uniform you wear is not that of your own corps."
Lacour turned with the intention of correcting the mistake, when a secret impulse restrained the disavowal. The person who addressed him was a slight young man, fashionably dressed, with no other disguise than a half-mask of black velvet, which did not conceal his light hair.
"I perceive you know me," said Lacour, favoring the mistake; "though you have the advantage of me. I cannot possibly conjecture whom I am addressing."
The masked laughed lightly.
"Perhaps it would be of no use for me to unmask," was the reply; "but if I tell you I have something of importance to communicate to you—something in reference to your application to the emperor for preferment, you may be disposed to listen to me."
"With all my heart."
"I see you are tired of this noisy scene," said the mask, "and so in faith am I. Besides, this is no place to talk of business. What say you to a moonlight walk to my lodgings, in the Rue Montmartre? There we can discuss our affairs over a glass of champagne."
"I will willingly accompany you," said Lacour, "if you will give me a few minutes to speak to a friend, with whom I had a previous appointment."
"Make haste, then," said the mask; "you will find me here for fifteen minutes."
Lacour hastened to the nearest post, and made himself known to the commandant.
"Quick!" said he, "I want a sergeant and a dozen gens d'armes. In fifteen minutes I shall leave the opera house, in company with a young man, for the Rue Montmartre. Let the squad follow us without appearing to do so. Keep in the shadow of the houses. We shall enter a house. As soon as the door has closed, demand instant admittance of the porter. Let the sergeant follow hard upon my heels, and wait outside the door of whatever room I enter. At a call from me, let him be ready to burst in and secure the person with whom I am in company."
As soon as he had given these directions, the police officer hastened back to the opera house, where the mask was still awaiting him. Arm in arm they left the hall, and chatting familiarly, entered the Rue Montmartre, and soon arrived at an old house of seven stories, to which they were admitted by the porter. Lacour's heart beat as he accompanied his guide, in the dark, up three pairs of stairs—but before he had reached the head of the third flight, he heard the street door open and shut below, and knew that the sergeant had obeyed his directions, and that help was at hand in case his suspicions proved true.
The mask opened the door of a room, and ushered in his guest. It was a small, boudoir-like apartment, and exquisitely furnished. Silken hangings fell over gold arrows, from the ceiling to the floor. Tapestry carpets, soft as velvet, covered the floor. Rich ottomans, superb mirrors, marble tables, and pictures, were crowded together. A soft light was diffused through the apartment by an alabaster shade-lamp. An intoxicating perfume loaded the atmosphere, and even oppressed the senses. Lacour, as he sank upon the sofa, felt overcome by a strange languor. The mask sat close beside him.
"Captain," said the mask, in a musical, insinuating voice, "have you ever loved?"
"Before I answer this question," replied Lacour, "I must first know what prompts you thus to catechize me."
"Because," replied the unknown, "I have deceived you—because I am a woman—one who has long known and loved you, till an uncontrollable desire to make this confession has compelled her to a step that you will blame, and, perhaps, despise her for."
Lacour was puzzled, and remained silent for a few moments.
"I see," said the mask, with a sigh, "you despise me for my very boldness. Yet, I am a lady of rank and reputation, and my affection for you is as pure as that of maiden can be."
"Fair lady," said Lacour, "if such you be indeed, you must permit me to request you to remove that envious mask."
"It may not be," replied the stranger, with a laugh. "Ask that, or presume to remove this shield, and I vanish like a fairy or a phantom. But if you promise to be very obedient, I may give you hopes of disclosing my face—perhaps my name—at our next interview. But in reward for your submission to my behest, I will allow you, like a benignant sovereign, to do homage to my ungloved hand."
She withdrew her kid glove, and presented, playfully, a hand so white, so delicately veined, and small, that Lacour could no longer doubt that he was addressing a lady. He raised the hand respectfully to his lips. But he felt now that his suspicions were groundless, and that he did wrong in deceiving a person, who, however romantic and unjustifiable her behavior might seem, was still one entitled to respect and honor. But as he was framing an apology for taking advantage of her mistaking him, the stranger suddenly sprang upon him like a tigress. The delicate hand he had just kissed now compressed his throat like an iron vice; the other suddenly brandished in the air a small silver hammer, while a fierce voice hissed in his ear, "Lassalle! your hour has come! Belleville, Descartes, and Monval, have gone before you to answer for their crimes. You are the fourth, and last. Die, villain!"
But Lacour struggled free, and shouted for help. The door fell with a crash; the soldiers poured in, and the female assassin was secured and disarmed. Eager to unravel the mystery, the police officer tore the mask from the face of the unknown, and recognized in the wild and inflamed features of the assassin of the Rue La Harpe, the Rue Richelieu, and the Boulevard des Italiens, his sister, Maria Lacour!
But Maria Lacour died not on the scaffold. She was saved from that doom by unquestionable proofs of insanity. Her sad story was learned afterwards from various sources, and corroborated, in the most important particulars, by Captain Lassalle, who was arrested for a criminal offence shortly after the above incident, and made a full confession of his guilt. It appeared, then, that the house of the widow Lacour, a short time before the opening of our story, had been broken into by four villains, named Belleville, Descartes, Monval, and Lassalle. They were all men of bad habits, and urgently necessitous, but yet of decent education and family. Hearing a noise in the kitchen, Maria descended only in time to witness the death pangs of the mother. The three first-named ruffians, demons who had murdered to rob, wished to destroy this witness of their guilt, but the fourth interceded, and her life was spared. But the horror of the deed overthrew her reason. She fled from the house that night a maniac; whither she wandered, how she was cared for, for a long time was and must ever remain a mystery. She finally, it seems, became in a degree tranquillized, found her way to Paris, and there she supported herself by her extraordinary skill as an embroideress.
But it was conjectured that her memory of early events had gone. The casual sight of one of the assassins, all of whom had prospered and risen in the world, revived the recollection of that one fearful night of horror, and with it came to her disordered brain the thirst of vengeance. It did not appear that for a moment she had dreamed of appealing to the interposition of the law. To execute a summary vengeance, personally, was her terrible resolve. With a cunning that often supplies the loss of reason with the insane, she contrived snares, into which three of the assassins fell, and, with the singular implement her fancy had suggested, was the means of their death. Chance led to the failure of her plan for punishing the last of the assassins, Lassalle, and to her discovery by her brother.
Immediately after her arrest and examination, on proof of the condition of her mind, she was conveyed to a private asylum, and carefully attended to. Fortunately, her madness here assumed a happier phase. She took great pleasure in seeing her brother, and appeared to have forgotten that her mother was no more, asking him every day how soon their mother would come and take her back to the country. But the trials she had undergone had undermined her health. She sank very rapidly, and soon breathed her last.
Lacour only remained long enough in the service of the police to effect the arrest, and witness the condemnation of Lassalle, the last of the four assassins, who escaped the silver hammer of the maniac girl, to die by the hand of the executioner.
The sorrows he had experienced would have blighted the heart and sapped the life of Pierre Lacour, but for the love of one who had proved true to him through all his trials. Some months after the death of his sister, he married his faithful Estelle, and retired to a small and well-stocked farm, for which he was indebted to the generosity of the emperor; and he lived long enough, if not to forget his sorrows, at least to find consolation in the bosom of his family.
THE CHRIST CHURCH CHIMES.
It was a cold winter evening. The chill blast came sweeping from the chain of hills that guard our city on the north, laden with the cold breath of a thousand leagues of ice and snow. There was a sharp, polar glitter in the myriad stars that wheeled on their appointed course through the dark blue heaven, in whose expanse no single cloud was visible. Howling through the icy streets came the strong, wild north wind, tearing in its fierce frenzy the sailcloth awnings into tatters, swinging the public-house signs, and shaking the window shutters, like a bold burglar bent on the perpetration of crime. Then onward, onward it sped over the dark steel-colored bay, and out to the wild, wide, open sea, to do battle with the sails of the stanch barks that were struggling towards a haven.
But within, the good people of Boston were stoutly waging battle against the common enemy on this bitter Christmas eve. In some of the old-fashioned houses at the North End, inhabited by old-fashioned people, the ruddy light that streamed through the parlor windows on the street announced that huge fires of oak and hickory were blazing on the ample hearths. But in far the greater number of dwellings, the less genial, but more powerful anthracite was contending with the wintry elements.
In an upper room of an old, crazy, wooden house, a poor woman, thinly clad, sat sewing beside a rusty, sheet-iron stove, poorly supplied with chips. She had been once eminently handsome, and but for the wanness and hollowness of her face, would have appeared so still.
Two little boys, of eight and nine years of age, were warming themselves, or seeking to warm themselves, at the stove, before retiring to their little bed in a small room adjoining.
"Isn't this nice, mother?" said the younger, a bright, black-eyed boy. "Didn't I get a nice lot of chips to-day?"
"Yes, dearest, you are always a good and industrious boy," said the mother, snatching a moment from her work to imprint a kiss upon his forehead.
"Poor pa' will have a nice fire to warm him when he comes home," said the elder boy.
At this allusion to the child's father, the mother burst into tears. The countenances of both the children fell. They knew too well the cause of their mother's bitter sorrow—the same cause had blighted their own young hearts and clouded their innocent lives—their father was a drunkard! Hence it was that, bright and intelligent as they were, they could not go to school—they were too ragged for that—and their time was required on the wharves to pick up fuel and such scraps of provision as are scattered from the sheaves of the prosperous and prodigal. For this reason, too, the mother had carefully forborne to remind the children that this was Christmas eve. But they knew it too well, and they contrasted its gloominess and sorrow with the well-remembered anniversaries when this was a season of delight—the eve of promised pleasures, of feasts, of dances, and of presents. With this thought in their hearts they silently kissed their mother, and retired to their little bed, committing themselves to "Our Father who art in heaven," while the poor mother toiled on, listening with dread for the returning footsteps of her husband.
The husband and father, whose return was thus dreaded, had worked late at night in the shop of the carpenter who had given him temporary employment, and who was to pay him this evening. Five or six dollars were coming to him, more than he had earned honestly for a long while, and his hand shook with eagerness as his employer counted out his wages. As he put on his hat to leave the shop, he observed his fellow-workmen, who were all sober and steady men, eying him with sad, inquiring looks; he almost ran out of the shop.
"I know what they mean," he said to himself. "But what is it to them how I spend my money—the prying busy-bodies! I'm not a slave—I have a right to do what I please with my own. Whew! how cutting the wind is! A glass or two of hot whiskey toddy will be just the thing!"
Without one thought of his toiling wife and neglected children, the poor, infatuated man hastened towards a grocery with the intention of slaking his morbid thirst. At the moment his foot was on the threshold, out from the belfry of Christ Church, ringing clear in the frosty air, streamed a tide of sweet and solemn music. Simple, yet touching, was the melody of those sacred bells, chiming forth the advent of the blessed Christmas time. And as the song of the bells fell upon his ear, it awakened in the drunkard a thousand memories of happier, because better days. The comfortable dwelling, the quiet, neat parlor, with its Christmas dressings, the sweet face of his wife, the merry laugh of his bright-eyed children—all flashed back vividly upon his mind. He recked not of the bitter blast—he forgot his late purpose—he could wish those sweet bells to play on forever. But they ceased.
"It was a voice from heaven!" said the man, as the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Surely God has blessed those Christ Church chimes. I'll never more drink one drop. This money shall go to my family, every cent of it. It is not too late yet to buy provision for to-morrow, and some comfortable things for the children."
It was late that night when the watching wife heard the step of her husband on the staircase. It was as slow and heavy as usual; but how relieved, how astonished, how grateful she felt, when the door opened, and he came in, happy, sober, bearing a huge basket filled with provisions, and threw down a parcel containing stockings, comforters, and mittens for the children, not forgetting some simple Christmas wreaths, and some of those condiments which children love.
The next day was a happy one indeed for the mother and the little boys—a merry Christmas that reminded them of old times, and gave them assurance of a happy future. May we not hope that the effect we have attributed to the Christ Church chimes is not a solitary instance of the power of music?
THE POLISH SLAVE.
Gayly opened the bright summer morning on the gray feudal turrets of Castle Tekeli, the residence of the old Count Alexis Tekeli, that crowned a rocky eminence, and was embosomed in the deep secular forests of Lithuania. The court yard was a scene of joyous noise and gay confusion; for the whole household was mustering for the chase. Half a dozen horses, gaily caparisoned, were neighing, snorting, and pawing the ground with hot impatience; a pack of stanch hounds, with difficulty restrained by the huntsmen, mingled their voices with the neighing of the steeds, while the slaves and relatives of the family were all busy in preparation for the day's sport.
Count Alexis was the first in the saddle; aged, but hale and vigorous, he was alert and active as a young man of five-and-twenty.
"Where are my daughters?" he exclaimed, impatiently, as he drew on his buff gantlets. "The sun is mounting apace, and we should not lose the best portion of the day."
As if in reply to his question, a tall, dark-haired girl, of elegant figure and stately bearing, appeared by his side, and with the assistance of a groom, mounted her prancing gray palfrey.
"This is well, Anna," said the count. "But where is Eudocia? She must not keep us waiting."
"Eudocia declines to be of our party, father," replied the girl.
"Pshaw!" said the old man; "she will never have your color in her cheeks, if she persist in moping in her chamber, reading old legends and missals, and the rhymes of worthless minnesingers. But let her go; I have one daughter who can live with the hunt, and see the boar at bay without flinching. Sound, bugle, and forward!"
Amid the ringing of silver curb chains, the baying of hounds, and the enlivening notes of the bugle, the cavalcade and the train of footmen swept out of the court yard, and descending the winding path, plunged into the heart of the primeval forest. The dogs and the beaters darted into the thick copsewood, and soon the shouts of the huntsmen and the fierce bay of the dogs announced that a wild boar had been found and started. On dashed the merry company, Count Alexis leading on the spur. The lady Anna soon found herself alone, but she pressed her palfrey in the direction of the sounds of the chase as they receded in the distance. Suddenly she found herself in a small clearing, and drew her rein to rest her panting steed. She had not remained long in her position, when she heard, opposite to her, a crashing among the branches, and the next moment a huge wild boar, maddened with pursuit, and foaming with rage, broke into the opening and sprang directly towards her. Her horse, terrified at the apparition, reared so suddenly that he fell backwards, throwing his rider heavily, and narrowly missing crushing her. Springing to his feet, he dashed wildly away with flying mane and rein, while the lady lay at the mercy of the infuriated animal, faint and incapable of exertion.
At that critical moment, a young man, in the livery of the count, dashed before the prostrate form of the lady, and dropping on one knee, levelled his short spear, and sternly received the charge of the boar. Though the weapon was well directed, it shivered in the grasp of the young huntsman; and though he drew his short sword with the rapidity of thought, the boar was upon him. The struggle was short and fierce, and the young huntsman succeeded in slaying the monster, but not until he had received a severe wound in the arm from the tusks of the boar. Heedless of his sufferings, however, he ran to a neighboring rivulet, and filling his cap with water, returned and sprinkled the face of the fainting girl. In a few moments she revived.
Her first words, uttered with a trembling voice, were,—
"Where—where is the wild boar?"
"There, lady," said the huntsman, pointing to the grizzly monster. "His career is ended."
"And it is you who have saved my life," exclaimed Anna, with a grateful smile.
"I did my duty, lady," answered the huntsman.
"But who are you, sir? Let me, at least, know your name that I may remember you in my prayers."
"My name is Michael Erlitz; though your eyes, lady, may never have dwelt on one so lowly as myself, I am ever in your father's train when he goes to the chase. I am Count Tekeli's slave," he added, casting his eyes on the ground.
"A slave? and so brave—so handsome!" thought the lady Anna; but she gave no utterance to the thought.
At this moment the count rode up, followed by two or three of his retainers, and throwing himself from his horse, clasped his daughter in his arms.
"My child, my child!" he exclaimed; "thank God, you are alive! I saw your horse dash past me riderless, and flew to your assistance. But there is blood upon your dress."
"It is my blood!" said the slave, calmly.
"Yours, Michael?" cried the count, looking round him. "Now I see it all—the dead boar, the broken spear, your bleeding arm. You saved my daughter's life at the risk of your own!"
"The life of a slave belongs to his master and his master's family," answered Michael, calmly. "Of what value is the existence of a serf? He belongs not to himself. He is of no more account than a horse or a hound."
"Say not so," said Count Alexis, warmly. "Michael, you are a slave no longer. I will directly make out your manumission papers. In the mean time you shall do no menial service; you shall sit at my board, if you will; and be my friend, if you will accept my friendship."
The eagle eye of the young huntsman kindled with rapture. He essayed to speak, but the words died upon his tongue. Falling on his knees, he seized the count's hand, and pressed it to his lips and heart. Tekeli raised him from his humble posture.
"Michael," said he, "henceforth kneel only to your Maker. And now to the castle; your hurt needs care."
"Willingly," said the young man, "would I shed the best blood in my body to obtain my freedom."
"Ho, there!" said the count to his squire; "dismount, and let Michael have your horse; and bring after us Michael's dearly-earned hunting trophy. He has eclipsed us all to-day."
Michael was soon in the saddle, riding next to the lady Anna, who, from time to time, turned her countenance, beaming with gratitude, upon him, and addressed him words of encouragement and kindness; for her proud and imperious nature was entirely subdued and changed, for the time, by the service he had rendered her.
When the cavalcade reached the castle, they found the lady Eudocia, the count's eldest daughter, waiting to receive them. She heard the recital of the morning's adventure with deep interest; but a keen observer would have noticed that she seemed less moved by the recollection of her sister's danger, than by the present condition of the wounded huntsman. It was to her care that he was committed, as she was skilled in the healing art, having inherited the knowledge from her mother. She compelled Michael to give up all active employment, and, in the course of a few weeks, succeeded in effecting a complete restoration of the wounded arm.
Count Tekeli treated the young man with the kindness of a father, losing all his aristocratic prejudices in a generous sense of gratitude. Splendidly attired, promised an honorable career in arms, if he chose to adopt the military profession, his whole future changed by a fortunate accident, Michael was happy in the intimacy of the two sisters. He now dared to aspire to the hand of her whom he had saved, and whom he loved with all the intensity of a passionate nature. Thus weeks and months rolled on like minutes, and he only awaited the delivery of his manumission papers to join the banner of his sovereign.
One day—an eventful day, indeed, for him—he received from Eudocia, the elder sister, a message, inviting him to meet her in a summer house that stood in a small garden connected with the castle. Punctual to the hour named, he presented himself before her.
"Michael," said she, extending her hand to him, "I sent for you to tell you a secret."
Her voice was so tremulous and broken, that the young man gazed earnestly into her face, and saw that she had been weeping, and now with difficulty suppressed her tears.
"Nay," said she, smiling feebly; "it will not be a secret long, for I must tell it to my father as soon as he returns from court with the royal endorsement to your manumission. I am going to leave you all."
"To leave us, lady?"
"Yes; I am going to take the veil."
"You, so beautiful, so young! It cannot be."
"Alas! youth, beauty, are insufficient to secure happiness. The world may be a lonely place, even to the young and beautiful; the cloister is a still and sacred haven on the road to a better world."
"And what has induced you to take this step? I have not noticed hitherto any trace of sorrow or weariness in your countenance."
"You were studying a brighter page—the fair face of my sister. Start not, Michael; I have divined your secret. She loves you, Michael; she loves you with her whole soul. You will wed her and be happy; while I——" She turned away her face to conceal her tears.
The young man heard only the blissful prediction that concerned himself; he noted not the pangs of her who uttered it.
"Dearest lady!" he exclaimed, "you have rendered me the happiest of men;" and dropping on his knees, he seized her hand and covered it with kisses.
"Hark!" said Eudocia, in alarm; "footsteps! We are surprised; I must not be seen here!" and with these words she fled.
Michael sprang to his feet. Before him stood the younger daughter of Count Alexis, her eyes flashing fire, her whole frame quivering with passion. He advanced and took her hand, but she flung it from him fiercely.
"Slave!" she exclaimed, "dare you pollute with your vile touch the hand of a high-born dame—the daughter of your master?"
"Anna, what means this passion?" cried Michael, in astonishment.
"Silence, slave!" cried the imperious woman. "What ho, there!" she added, stamping her foot; "who waits?"
Half a dozen menials sprang to her call.
"Take me this slave to the court yard!" she cried vehemently; "he has been guilty of misbehavior. Let him taste the knout; and woe be to you if you spare him. Away with him! Rid me of his hateful presence!"
While Michael was subjected to this hateful punishment, the vindictive girl, still burning with passion, sought her sister. What passed between them may be conjectured from what follows.
Michael, released from the hands of the menials, stood, with swelling heart and burning brow, in one of the lofty apartments of the castle. He had felt no pain from the lash, but the ignominy of the punishment burned in his very soul, consuming the image that had been in his inner heart for years. The scales had fallen from his eyes, and he now beheld the younger daughter of the count in all the deformity of her moral nature—proud, imperious, passionate, and cruel.
A door opened—a female, with dishevelled hair, and a countenance of agony, rushed forward and threw herself at his feet, embracing his knees convulsively. It was Anna!
"O Michael!" she cried, "forgive me, forgive me! I shall never forgive myself for the pain I inflicted upon you."
"I have suffered no pain," replied Michael, coldly. "Or if I did, it is the duty of a slave to suffer pain. You reminded me this morning that I was still a slave."
"No, no! It is I that am your slave!" cried the lady. "Your slave—body and soul. Behold! I kiss your feet in token of submission, my lord and master! Michael, I love you—I adore you! I would follow you barefoot to the end of the world. Let me kiss your burning wounds; and O, forgive—forgive me!"
Michael raised her to her feet, and gazed steadily in her countenance.
"Lady," said he, "I loved you years ago, when, as a boy, I was only permitted to gaze on you, as we gaze upon the stars, that we may worship, but never possess. It was this high adoration that refined and ennobled my nature; that, in the mire of thraldom, taught me to aspire—taught me that, though a slave, I was yet a man. Through your silent influence, I was enabled to refine my manners, to cultivate my mind, and to fit myself for the freedom which bounteous Heaven had in store for me."
"Yes, yes!" replied Anna. "You have made yourself all that can render a woman happy. There is not a noble in the land who can boast of accomplishments like yours; and you are beautiful as a virgin's dream of angels."
"These are flattering words, lady."
"They come from the heart, Michael."
"You have told me what I am, lady. Now hear what I require in the woman I would wed. She must be beautiful, for beauty should ever mate with beauty; high born, for the lowly of birth are aspiring, and never wed their equals; yet above all, gentle, womanly, kind, forgiving, affectionate. No unsexed Semiramis or Zenobia for me."
"I will make myself all that you desire, Michael."
"We cannot change our natures," replied Michael, coldly.
"But you will forgive me?"
"I am not now in a condition to answer you. Smarting with indignation I can ill suppress, I cannot command the calmness requisite to reply in fit terms to the generous confidence of a high-born lady. Retire to your apartment, lady, for your father is expected momently, and I must see him first alone."
Anna kissed the hand of the slave, and retired slowly. A few moments afterwards the gallop of a horse was heard entering the court yard, and this sound was followed by the appearance of Count Alexis, who threw himself into the arms of Michael, and pressed him to his heart.
"Joy, joy, Michael!" he exclaimed. "You are now free—as free as air! Here are the documents; my slave no longer—my friend always. And as soon as you choose to join the service, you can lead a troop of the royal cavaliers."
Michael poured out his thanks to his generous master.
"And now," said the count, "to touch upon a matter nearer still to my heart. Since the adventure in the forest, I have loved you as a son. To make you such in reality would be to crown my old age with happiness. My daughters are acknowledged to be beautiful, fitting mates for the proudest of the land. I offer you the hand of her you can love the best; make your election, and I doubt not her heart will second my wishes and yours."
"My noble friend," said Michael, "I accept your offer gratefully. You have made me the happiest of men. You will pardon me, I know, when I confess that I have dared to raise my eyes to one of your daughters. Without your consent the secret should have been hidden forever in my own heart, even had it consumed it."
Count Tekeli shook the hand of the young man warmly, and then summoned his two daughters. They obeyed promptly. Both were agitated, and bent their eyes upon the floor.
"Count Tekeli," said Michael, speaking in a calm, clear voice, "I have a word to say to this your younger daughter, the lady Anna."
As her name was uttered, the young girl raised her eyes, inquiringly, to the face of the speaker.
"Lady, but now," said Michael, "you solicited my forgiveness on your knees."
"What!" cried the count, the blood mounting to his temples; "a daughter of mine solicit on her knees forgiveness of one so late my more than vassal—my slave! What is the meaning of this?"
"It means," cried Michael, kindling as he spoke, "that this morning, during your absence, count,—nay, a half hour before your return, this, your younger daughter, in a moment of ill-founded jealousy and rage, usurping your virtual rights,—rights you had yourself annulled,—doomed me to the knout!—yea, had me scourged by menials in the court yard of your castle!"
"How," cried the count, addressing his daughter, "dared you commit this infamy on the person of my friend—the savior of your life?"
"I did, I did!" cried Anna, wringing her hands.
"And you asked me to forgive you," said Michael. "You offered me your hand, and begged me to accept it. My answer is, Never, never, never! The moment you laid the bloody scourge upon my back, you lost your hold upon my heart forever! I were less than a man could I forgive this outrage on my manhood. I saved your life—you repaid it with the lash. It is not the lash that wounds, it is the shame. The one eats into the living flesh, the other into the living heart. Were you ten times more lovely than you are, you would ever be a monster in my eyes."
The tears that coursed freely down the cheeks of the lady Anna ceased to fall as Michael ceased to speak. A deep red flush mounted to her temples, and her eyes, so lately humid, shot forth glances like those of an angry tigress. She turned to the count.
"Father," said she, "will you permit a base-born slave to use such language to your daughter?"
"Silence!" said the old man. "His heart is nobler than yours. More measured terms could not have passed his lips. I should have despised him had he felt and said less. Get thee to thy chamber, and in penitence and prayer relieve thy conscience of the sin thou hast committed."
The lady Anna retired from the apartment with a haughty air and measured step.
"Lady," said Michael, approaching Eudocia, "between your sister and myself there is a gulf impassable. If ever I can forgive her, it must be when those sweet and tender eyes, that speak a heart all steeped in gentleness and love, have smiled upon my hopes, and made me at peace with all the world. Dearest Eudocia, will you accept the devotion of my heart and life?"
He took her hand; it trembled in his grasp, but was not withdrawn. She struggled for composure a moment, and then, resting her head upon his shoulder, wept for joy.
The nuptials of Michael and Eudocia were soon celebrated. A brilliant assemblage graced the old castle on the occasion; but long before the solemnization, the count's younger daughter had fled to a convent to conceal her anger and despair.
OBEYING ORDERS.
The "oldest inhabitant" perfectly remembers the Widow Trotter, who used, many years ago, to inhabit a small wooden house away down in Hanover Street, in somewhat close proximity to Salutation Alley. Well, this widow was blessed with a son, who, like Goldsmith, and many other men distinguished in after life, was the dunce of his class. Numerous were the floggings which his stupidity brought upon him, and the road to knowledge was with him truly a "wale of tears."
One day he came home, as usual, with red eyes and hands.
"O, you blockhead!" screamed his mother,—she was a bit of a virago, Mrs. Trotter was,—"you've ben gettin' another lickin', I know."
"O, yes," replied young Mr. Trotter; "that's one uv the reg'lar exercises—lickin' me. 'Arter I've licked Trotter,' sez the master, 'I'll hear the 'rithmetic class.' But, mother, to change the subject, as the criminal said, when he found the judge was getting personal, is there enny arrand I can do for you?"
"Yes," grumbled the widow; "only you're so eternal slow about every thing you undertake—go get a pitcher of water, and be four years about it, will ye?"
Bob Trotter took the pitcher, and wended his way in the direction of the street pump; but he hadn't got far when he encountered his friend, Joe Buffer, the mate of a vessel, issuing from his house, dragging a heavy sea chest after him.
"Come Bob," said Joe, "bear a hand, and help us down to Long Wharf with this."
"Well, so I would," answered Bob, "only you see mother sent me arter a pitcher o' water."
"What do you care about your mother—she don't care for you? Come along."
"Well," said Bob, "first let me hide the pitcher where I can find it again."
With these words he stowed away his earthenware under a flight of stone steps, and accompanied his friend aboard his ship. The pilot was urging the captain to cast off, and take advantage of the tide and wind, but the latter was awaiting the arrival of a boy who had shipped the day before, wishing no good to his eyes for the delay he had occasioned.
At last he turned to Bob, and said,—
"What do you say, youngster, to shipping with me? I'll treat you well, and give you ten dollars a month."
"I should like to go," said Bob, hesitatingly. "But my mother——"
"Hang your mother!" interrupted the captain. "She'll be glad to get rid of you. Come—will you go?"
"I hain't got no clothes."
"Here's a chestfull. That other chap was just your size; they'll fit you to a T."
"I'll go."
"Cast off that line there!" shouted the captain; and the ship fell off with the tide, and was soon standing down the bay with a fair wind, and every stitch of canvas set. She was bound for the northwest coast, via Canton, and back again, which was then called the "double voyage," and usually occupied about four years.
In the mean while, the non-appearance of Bob seriously alarmed his mother. A night passed, and the town crier was called into requisition a week, when she gave him up, had a note read for her in meeting, and went into mourning.
Just four years after these occurrences the ship returned to port, and Bob and his friend were paid off. The wages of the widow's son amounted to just four hundred and eighty dollars, and he found, on squaring his accounts with the captain, that his advances had amounted to the odd tens, and four hundred dollars clear were the fruits of his long cruise.
As he walked in the direction of his mother's house, in company with Joe, he scanned with a curious eye the houses, the shops, and the people that he passed. Nothing appeared changed; the same signs indicated an unchanging hospitality on the part of the same landlords, the same lumpers were standing at the same corners—it seemed as if he had been gone only a day. With the old sights and sounds, Bob's old feelings revived, and he almost dreaded to see, debouching from some alley, a detachment of boys sent by his ancient enemy, the schoolmaster, to know why he had been playing truant, and to carry him back to receive the customary walloping.
When he was quite near home, he said,—
"Joe, I wonder if any body's found that old pitcher."
He stooped down, thrust his arm under the stone steps, and withdrew the identical piece of earthenware he had deposited there just four years ago.
Having rinsed and filled it at the pump, he walked into his mother's house, and found her seated in her accustomed arm chair. She looked at him for a minute, recognized him, screamed, and exclaimed,—
"Why, Bob! where have you been? What have you been doing?"
"Gettin' that pitcher o' water," answered Bob, setting it upon the table. "I always obey orders—you told me to be four years about it, and I was."
THE DEACON'S HORSE.
As you turn a corner of the road, passing the base of a huge hill of granite all overgrown with ivy and scrub oak, the deacon's house comes full in sight. It is a quaint old edifice of wood, whose architecture proclaims it as belonging to the ante-revolutionary period. Innocent of paint, its dingy shingles and moss-grown roof assimilated with the gray tint of the old stone fences and the granite boulders that rise from the surrounding pasture land. The upper story projects over the lower one, and in the huge double door that gives entrance to the hall there are traces of Indian bullets and tomahawks, reminiscences of that period when it was used as a blockhouse and served as a fortalice to protect the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who fled hither for protection from the vengeful steel and lead of the aborigines. On one side of the mansion is an extensive apple orchard of great antiquity, through which runs a living stream, whose babble in the summer solstice, mingled with the hum of insects, is the most refreshing sound to which the ear can listen. On the other side is one of those old-fashioned wells, whose "old oaken bucket" rises to the action of a "sweep." Two immemorial elm trees, in a green old age, shadow the trim shaven lawn in front. Opposite the house, on the other side of the road, is a vast barn, whose open doors, in the latter part of July, afford a glimpse of a compact mass of English hay, destined for the sustenance of the cattle in the dreary months of winter. We must not forget the huge wood pile, suggestive of a cheerful fireside in the long winter evenings.
But where is the deacon's horse? Last year, and for the past twenty years preceding, you could hardly pass of a summer evening, without noticing an old gray quietly feeding by the roadside, lazily brushing off, with his long switch tail, the hungry flies that fastened on his flanks. The landscape is nothing without the old horse. The deacon reared him on the homestead. When a yearling he used to come regularly to the back door and there receive crusts of bread, crumbs of cake, and other delicacies, the free gifts of the children to their pet. He was the most wonderful colt that ever was—as docile as the house dog. When stray poultry trespassed on the grounds, he would lay his little ears back, and putting his nose close to the ground, curling up his lips and showing his white teeth, drive the marauders from the premises with such a "scare," that they would refrain from their incursions for a week to come. But he was incapable of injuring a living thing.
When old enough for use, he submitted to the discipline of bit and bridle without a single opposing effort. And what a fine figure he made in harness! How smartly he trotted off to church carrying the whole family behind him in a Dearborn wagon! How proud was his carriage when he bore the deacon on his back!
The old man once made a long journey on horseback, to visit a brother who lived in the northern part of New England. A great portion of the way there was only a bridle path to follow through the woods, and this was frequently obstructed by fallen trees. When the impediment was merely a bare trunk, the gallant gray cleared it gayly at a flying leap; when the tree was encumbered with branches, he clambered over it like a wild cat. Once the deacon was obliged to dismount, and crawl on his hands and knees through the dense branches; the sagacious horse imitated his example, and worked his way through like a panther.
But age came upon the good gray. His sight began to fail—his knees to falter. His teeth were entirely worn away.
After a bitter struggle the deacon concluded to replace him by a younger horse. Life had become a burden to the old family servant, of which it was a mercy to relieve him. Yet, even then, the deacon was reluctant to give a positive order for his execution.
One day he called his eldest son to him.
"Abijah," said he, "I'm going over to W., to get that colt I was speaking about. While I am gone I want you to dispose of the poor old gray. I shouldn't like to sell him to any body that would abuse him."
He could say no more—but Abijah understood him. When his father had gone, he went into the meadow, and dug a deep pit, beside which he placed the sods at first removed by the spade. He then carefully loaded his rifle and called to the old gray. The poor animal, who was accustomed to obey the voice of every member of the family, feebly neighed and tottered to the brink of the pit. The young man threw a handkerchief over the horse's eyes, and placing the muzzle of the rifle to his ear, fired. The poor old horse fell, without a groan, into the grave which had been prepared for him. With streaming eyes, Abijah threw the earth over the remains of his playmate, and then carefully replaced the sod.
When the deacon returned with his fine new horse, he manifested no elation at his purchase, nor, though he perceived that the stall was empty, did he trust himself to make any inquiries respecting the old gray. Only the family noticed, that in the course of the afternoon, in wandering through the meadow, he came upon the new-made grave, and though the sods had been carefully replaced, he evidently noticed traces of the spade, and suspected the cause, for he tried the soil with his foot, and was also observed to pass the back of his hand across his eyes. But he never alluded to his old servant.
If there be men who can smile at the grief of a family for the loss of an animal who has been long endeared to them by service and association, be assured that their hearts are not in the right place; and that they are individuals who would exhibit a like callousness to the loss of human friends.