It was near midnight, on one of the beautiful summer evenings that brood over our Western Land, as some fair spirit hovers near to Paradise—and which can be realized only by those who have witnessed them—that one of the numerous strangers that throng the waters of “La Belle Rivière,” paused on its upward course before a small town which lay upon the banks of the aforesaid stream. When the boat had effected a landing, a few passengers, who either blind to the charms of Morpheus, or more allied to those of sundry packs of cards, that strewed the tables of the “social hall,” stepped upon shore to enjoy a moonlight view of the village. Among the number, was a group of three individuals, who, withdrawing from the rest, strolled carelessly along one of the principal streets, until they arrived at a cross, turning down whose short but secluded walk, several large buildings, evidently the residences of the most wealthy portion of the inhabitants, were situated. As they passed into this beautiful and peaceful retreat, a slight whispering, which presently broke forth into loud and angry words, disturbed the slumbering echoes of the night.
“I tell you, Layton, it is impossible! I will not—cannot do it!”
“Spoken like a fool, and a milksop, as you are; there is a way to stop your whining scruples, and curse me if I’ll not show it you.”
Quick as thought, the first speaker turned, and confronting his companion, exclaimed in a voice trembling with passion,—“Ay, there is a way to rouse the sleeping devil, even in my coward frame; but your threats fall regardless on my ear, while I have this good blade to protect me,”—and a long glittering Bowie-knife flashed beneath the soft rays of the harvest moon.
“By Heavens! I believe you both to be mad! Put up your knife, Bradley, and you, Layton, keep your infernal tongue within your teeth, unless you want to have this goodly town about our ears.” This soothing speech was spoken by the third, and hitherto silent companion; and while the altercation is progressing in lower tones, you, my gentle reader, shall have a Daguerreotype sketch of at least one of the party.
Bradley Spencer was the son of one of the most wealthy and aristocratic planters in Louisiana, but maternal affection he never knew, at least was not conscious of it, his mother having been snatched away in his childhood, by one of the fearful epidemics peculiar to that portion of the South. His father, a high-principled, noble-minded man, richly endowed with the warm blood and chivalrous feelings of the Southerner, having thus lost that which he considered as the better part of life, gave his undivided heart to this “sole scion of his stock,” and for his boy’s sake, no second lady darkened his halls, or cast a shadow over the golden sunlight of the young heir’s youthful existence. Thus fondly nurtured and cherished, every wish indulged to the utmost, the young Bradley grew apace; but, with all his paternal prejudice, the elder Spencer could not but note the wavering acts and vacillating mind of his darling boy, betokening, even in youth, the indecision of the man. With prophetic sorrow, he saw the consequences entailed on one, who, ever willing to follow, had no projects to offer, or will of his own, to oppose those of others. To eradicate this “crying evil,” the boy was sent, at the age of fifteen, to college. There, at least, argued the parent, he will learn independence of thought and expression. But how widely was he mistaken! An universal favorite among his class-mates, winning “golden opinions” from all, by his pliant disposition, and suavity of manners, and being allowed an unlimited sum for his passing expenditures, he bore the palm, and reigned any thing but a despot, over his more firmly-minded companions. It is not our intention to follow him through the mazes of college life, and we pass in silence over the four succeeding years, when at the age of nineteen, he was re-called, to receive the last blessing and injunctions of a dying father. Still true to his erroneous system of indulgence, Mr. Spencer left his property to the undivided control of his son, fondly imagining, that unlimited sway would overcome the imbecile principles of youth, and teach him that firmness of mind, and stability of purpose, so essential to manhood.
Youth is the season of luxury and enjoyment. Joy is evanescent; and grief, in the young bosom, is but the sudden o’ercasting of a summer sky; the cloud passes away, and the bow of promise is bent in the now smiling heavens. Thus was it with Bradley’s grief; a few short weeks in New Orleans did wonders; they initiated him in the mysteries and delights of the gaming table; they did more: they introduced him to the lowest haunts of vice and infamy, cloaked, indeed, for the decoy of this rich windfall; but so thin and flimsy was the protecting veil of decency and morality, that any other than Bradley Spencer’s eyes would have pierced the wily folds, and laid bare the monsters lurking behind them. Thus early possessed with the fatal passion of gaming, night after night saw the infatuated youth wound deeper and deeper in the toils of his betrayers. Mortgage after mortgage was given,—though not having a shadow of legality about them, they were accepted as eagerly by these human leeches, as the red gold for which they had sold their souls to perdition. The men with whom it was Spencer’s fate to become connected, were most of them from thirty to forty years of age; wily, unprincipled villains, well calculated to govern the simple youth, whom they remorselessly plundered of all at his present command, and accepted his honor as pledge for the rest, when he should become of age. Nor were the months tardy in their flight. At the end of two short years, his property was formally yielded by his passive guardian, and the day that gave him house and land, stock and slave, saw him resign it to the fiends who had possessed him with a love of all that was degrading to human nature, and taught him to scoff at all who were truly poor and virtuous.
It is the same Bradley Spencer, kind reader, whose brief career we have endeavored to trace, that we left in the little village, with his knavish companions, who, fresh from the hiding places of loathsome vice, were intent on drawing the young man into yet greater depths of wickedness. But they struck upon the wrong chord—Spencer had been culpable, most culpable, it is true, but he was to himself his worst foe; he had not willingly injured others, but had been the dupe, in every instance. Thus, when his brutal comrade expressed his determination to rob one of the habitations before them, and urged his assistance, his nobler spirit that had slept so long, was aroused, and he gave vent to his feelings in the manner we have described.
Brief was their consultation, and the arguments they held with him bade fair to be of no avail, until the elder and more polite villain, declared that Bradley could not now withdraw in honor, as they should suspect he meant to betray them; that they would not require his assistance, if he had any foolish prejudice to the contrary; but he should accompany them, as a mere looker-on. Without pausing for an answer, he passed his arm in that of the young man’s, and followed by Layton, they stepped into a small yard, at the gable end of one of the mansions. There, a window had been left open by the unsuspecting inmates, for the benefit of the air. Springing lightly in, he was followed by the others. Groping their way by the light of a dark lantern, which Layton pulled from the bosom of his coat—thus showing himself perfectly au fait in such proceedings—they ascended a staircase, and pausing in a long passage, bade Bradley be watchful, and give a low whistle upon the slightest alarm. The two less scrupulous ruffians then pursued their way down the passage. What Spencer’s reflections would have been, he had not leisure to ascertain, for, fancying he heard a low breathing, like one in deep slumber, he turned and discovered, by the light of the moon, which was streaming in a window near, a door, the which, on applying his hand, yielded to the impulse. Impelled by curiosity, or some more definable feeling, he stepped softly into the room. A night-lamp was burning dimly upon a table, near a small couch, where, in her bright and youthful loveliness, slept a fair girl. Scarce had the breath of sixteen summers passed over the clear brow that lay upturned in its marble whiteness, for
“Death’s twin-sister, sleep,”