It will be remembered, that after his recovery from the wounds inflicted by Bill and Dick, as recorded in a former chapter, Hadley proceeded to Philadelphia. When he reached that city he found his mother and uncle both very sick, and in need of constant care and attention. She had no kind daughter to sit by her couch and smooth her pillow; and he had no affectionate wife to bathe his fevered brow with her soft hand, and by such gentle attentions as no one else can bestow, alleviate his pain. Hadley endeavored, to the best of his ability, to fill the place of daughter to one, and of wife to the other, in his assiduous efforts to watch over, aid and comfort them; and though he did not possess all that sweet softness of manner and voice that belongs especially to woman, and though he could not perceive, with the quick intuition of the other sex, yet by constant attention he was enabled to ease many a pain and throw comfort into many an otherwise sad and lonely hour.
At first his mother was in need of the most attention, and was hardly expected to live from one day to the next; but he soon had the satisfaction of seeing her disease yield to nature and treatment, and she began to grow better. But almost before he could relax anything in his attentions to her, the uncle became much worse; and he shared his time between the two, scarcely taking time to eat or sleep.
Between the uncle and nephew there had existed a coldness for some years, which was caused by the following circumstance:
In his youth the uncle was the companion of an estimable young man, between whom and himself there existed the warmest friendship and sincerest attachment. They were indebted to each other for many kind acts, and thus became mutually endeared one to the other. At length they were separated, by the uncle going to the West Indies on business, expecting to be detained a length of time, perhaps for years, which proved to be the case. While he was away the friend of his younger days met with that fate socommon to mankind—fell in love and got married. The union proved to be a happy one; and when, after years of separation, the uncle returned, he found in the house of his friend a joyful wife and a beautiful, smiling daughter, a child of seven years, with a sweet disposition, and a heart to love everybody.
To this young child, Mr. Scofield—James Scofield was the uncle's name—soon became very deeply and fervently attached, as did also the child to him; He saw that the father had found a nearer and dearer friend than himself, and he was glad in his heart to witness the happiness which reigned in the peaceful home so sweetly cheered by love. Many persons would have been jealous of the wife's ascendency in her husband's affections; but instead of envying the wife, or feeling ill toward her, he came to love her as a friend, not only for her own sake, but, also, because she made his friend such a kind and amiable companion; and in the endearment of their little girl, who soon learned to be his pet, he was repaid for any exclusive companionship from her father that he might have monopolized had he remained, like himself, a bachelor.
Four years after his return from the Indies, Mr. Scofield was called to the bedside of his dying friend. In their last interviews he was charged with the guardianship and care of the young girl, conjointly with the mother, who was also recommended to his friendship, with the injunction ever to be to her as a brother and a counselor. These trusts he accepted, with a promise to be all to the dear ones he left behind that his friend could wish; and this promise he faithfully kept. No friend, brother, father, or husband could have been more attentive to the wants, or more solicitous for the welfare of those entrusted to their protection or dependent upon them than he was. He endeavored to anticipate their desires and necessities—of advice and friendship, not of goods, for the friend was in good circumstances, and had left them with plenty of means to live well and comfortably all their lives—and in all things to be to them the kind friend they needed.
A warm attachment existed between them. Many thought—and idle gossips whispered it about—that the widow was soon to console herself for the great loss she had sustained, by taking Mr. Scofield as a second husband; but no such idea ever enteredtheirminds. Her heart was buried in the grave with her husband; and he—ah, he had a secret. A gentle being, beautiful to him as an angel, had once crossed his path; but before taking her to the altar, the angels came and took her to their homes, beyond the reach of blight or death; and since then his thoughts often wandered away to the regions of perfection; and with the memory of his loved one in heaven, he never coupled a thought of a second love on earth.
It was not long that the widow and her husband's friend remained in ignorance of each other's feelings; the secret he had kept from all others he confided to her; and in mutual explanations and confidences, they soon came to understand each other; and thenceforth their intercourse was unrestrained and cordial. What knew or cared they for the busy tongue of rumor? Nothing. Secure in each other's esteem, with a high rectitude of purpose, they continued their good offices to each other, careless what the world might say, so they gave no cause for vicious tongues to speak evil of them.
We need hardly say that with such intimate association, Mr. Scofield learned to love little Ida as a father loves his own child. Had it not been for the judicious watchfulness and careful training of her excellent mother, she might have been spoiled by his petting. As it was, no child could be gladder to see a parent than she was to see her friend. She would bound away to meet him; and when seated, would climb upon his knee while young, and when older seat herself by him and listen to the stories he would tell her, or play in his locks with her childish fingers.
About a year after his friend's death, Mr. Scofield's only sister lost her husband; and, at his earnest solicitation, she and her little boy came to live with him.
Mrs. Hadley was not wealthy, though she could not be called poor, as her husband had left her a small property, which, by careful management, would school Charles and keep them both until he should arrive at manhood, when, by his own exertions, he could carve out a fortune for himself.
Mr. Scofield soon learned to love Charles very dearly, for he was an amiable and affectionate boy, and always strove to be kind and dutiful to his uncle. It was one of the brother's first acts to introduce his sister to his friend's wife; and they were not long in forming a warm attachment for each other; so much so that Mr. Scofield became almost jealous of each of them for cheating him out of so much of the society of both. He might have become quite jealous had it not been for the fact that while the mothers were entertaining each other, he was left to entertain the children, who, of course, were soon almost constantly together, and were not long in becoming as familiar and affectionate as brother and sister.
It was not long until Mr. Scofield conceived the idea of a marriage between these two children when they should arrive at proper age; and this finally became the darling wish and object of his life.
It does not come within the scope of this sketch, to dwell upon particulars in regard to the affairs of these two happily situated families, and so we pass over the intervening years, until Charles, at seventeen, was sent to College. About the same time Mr. Scofield was called away to the West Indies on business, and by his advice, the two widows were to live together during his absence.
He had never breathed his intentions concerning the young people to any one, and he hoped no interference would be required, but that the constant association of the two would naturally result in an attachment like the one he so anxiously desired to spring up between them.
Charles made rapid progress at college, and in three years graduated with honor. During these three years he had seen his uncle but once, as his India business was much more complicated than he had expected to find it, and detained him, with the exception of a brief visit home, a little over three years in arranging it, which, was finally done by closing it up and removing his funds nearer home.
He was very proud of Charles as a student, and often prophesied great things for him; but he was sorry to be able to perceive no signs of an attachment like that of lovers existing between the young folks. Still he was hopeful. They might love and not know it themselves; if so, it would require something to awaken them to a consciousness of the fact. He resolved on trying an experiment. Meeting Ida alone, he said:
"Do you know, my dear, that I am about to send Charles away?"
"No. Where is he going?"
"Where there is a possibility we may never see him again."
"Oh, don't say so, uncle!" (She had learned to call him uncle.) "What would we do without him? Do send some one else, and let him stay!"
The uncle thought he saw the evidence of a deep affection in her evident distress, and, as this was his object, he replied:
"Oh, I had only thought of sending him to the West Indies; but if you insist so hard, I suppose I shall have to find some one else to go."
"There, that's a good, dear uncle, as you always are. Oh, I am so glad Charles will not be sent away from us!"
With secret delight—for he felt sure she loved his nephew as he wished—Mr. Scofield next sought Charles, to see if an interview with him would result as satisfactorily to his wishes as with Ida. He was disappointed; Charles evidently loved Ida, but it was only with a brotherly affection. He waited a few weeks longer, and then spoke plainly to his nephew on the subject that lay nearest his heart. He told the young man how much he desired to see him and Ida united, and hoped if he did not already love her, that he would try to do so. As Charles had formed no attachment at that time, he readily consented to converse with Ida—ascertain whether her affections were engaged to him, and if so, to reciprocate them, if possible. He did so; but he found that Ida's attachment was like his own, and then he plainly told her of his uncle's wishes.
"I had never thought of that," she said; "but if it is his desire and yours also, that we should be united, I think I could live happily with you."
This was said in a matter-of-fact way, that, more clearly than anything else, showed her want of that peculiar kind of love which sanctifies marriage. Charles saw this, and replied:
"I have no doubt, Ida, but you would make one of the best of wives; but I should fear to wed you, when neither of us loved more ardently than we do."
"Why would youfear?"
"That either or both of us might afterward see some one that we could love as those are expected to, who enter into the solemn obligations of the marriage covenant. The heart is not master of its own emotions; they come and go, regardless of our calls and commands, and we may not count upon being able to control them. How wretched it would cause either of us to be united to each other, while a third party was loved, I leave you to determine for yourself. I have been so accustomed to regard you as a sister, it seems strange to think of you in any other light; and I hope this little passage between us will not mar the freedom of our intercourse."
"I am sure I do not intend that it shall; and I think in consenting to become a nearer companion to you than even a sister, I have given ample assurance of my esteem and regard."
"We will then continue to be friends, and I will go at once and communicate our decision to my uncle."
When Charles related to Mr. Scofield what had transpired between himself and Ida, he saw that his uncle was deeply disappointed and dissatisfied.
"Boy!" he said, in more of a passion than Charles had ever seen him, "Boy, you've made a fool of the matter and of yourself, too!"
"Why, uncle!" replied Charles, in utter astonishment.
"Yes, you have!" continued the old gentleman, "and I am provoked at you. I have always intended to make you my heir, but I shall not do it now, at least, not until you consent to wed Ida."
"Ida does not wish to marry me."
"She'll not object, I know she will not. I have set my heart upon the match, and you must marry her, Charles."
"I am deeply pained to say so, but I cannot."
"Youmust!"
"Nay, then, Iwill not!"
"Boy! do you wish to drive me to disinherit and disown you?"
"Disinherit me if you will, but I beg you will not disown me. I have a conscience in this matter; if it was only a whim, I would yield to your wishes."
"And you utterly refuse to accede to my desires?"
"I do."
"Well, I am sorry for you, but I am resolved, seeing you care so little for me, to substitute Ida's name for yours in my will."
Charles could bear to be treated harshly, but to be accused of want of affection and gratitude toward the benefactor to whom he owed so much, called tears to his eyes.
"You know, uncle, that I love you as I would a father, and it is unjust of you to charge me with a want of affection."
Mr. Scofield was moved by the evident distress his words had caused in his nephew's mind, and relenting a very little, he said:
"I will try you, then; instead of cutting you off at once, I give you a week to consider the matter over; if, in that time, you find you love me well enough to accede to my wishes, well and good; if not, I will surely do as I have said."
Saying this, he abruptly closed the interview, and left Charles in a state of the deepest distress and sorrow. His mother tried to persuade him to yield to his uncle's good pleasure; and, finally, Ida and her mother joined in entreating him not to break all their hearts by suffering himself to be driven from home. He had most difficulty to overcome Ida's pleadings, for she told him no fate could be so bad as for him to be sent away, to wander in the world, and die, perhaps, among strangers, with no kind mother, sister or friend to minister to his wants or smooth his dying pillow.
"Spare me, Ida!" he said with emotion. "You will yet see the day when you will thank me for my firmness. If I did not think so—if I could be convinced that you loved me, as every woman's heart must love some one at some period in life, I would not hesitate to comply with the wishes you all express, and remain on my uncle's terms. As it is, I shall go."
The week expired, and at its close Charles had everything arranged to leave home. He formally told his uncle of his determination to seek his own fortune, as it was impossible for him to comply with his wishes; but that he did not go in anger. For his fortune he cared but little, though it was a great grief to be compelled to go from him bearing his ill-will.
The uncle was much affected, and a word of entreaty from the young man would have induced him to recall thesentence of his doom; but as that word was not spoken, he could not quite unbend enough to voluntarily ask his nephew to remain. Charles left on the morning after the interview, for the west, having, after due reflection, arrived at the conclusion that a competence could be secured there as speedily as anywhere else. Fortune led him to the Mandeville settlement, where he soon became a favorite, and where he was in a fair way to accumulate a reasonable share of this world's goods, when the incidents occurred and the mishaps befel him, which have already been narrated.
With these digressive remarks, thrown in to give the reader a fuller knowledge of the character and position of one of our most interesting characters, as, also, that what follows may be understood, we return to that portion of our story now supposed to be more deeply interesting to those who have followed us thus far, in the perusal of this more than merely romantic tale.
As we said, Hadley's time was taken up first, in waiting upon his mother, and then upon his uncle. In the midst of these trying but cheerfully performed duties, he found but little time to think upon his own prospects, though not an hour passed that the image of Eveline was not called up before his mental vision, and if left to the current of thought for a brief period, his reflections became of the most agonizing character, and the topics upon which he dwelt something like these:
Was she sick? or, worse for his hope, had she passed to that "bourne from whence no traveler returns?" If alive, was she still persecuted by Duffel? was her father still resolved to force her to wed the villain against her will?
As such thoughts rushed through his mind, he almost became impatient of duty and ready to leave his post to fly to the rescue of his love. But a groan from either of the invalids would instantly call back his wandering mind, and in the active labor of kindness and sympathy, he always forgot his own troubles. It was well for him he knew not of the charge preferred against him by his base rival, and still better that he knew nothing of the villain's intentions in regard to the idol of his heart, or he would probably have left the sick ones to care for themselves, and flown to the rescue of her he loved, ere she was stolen and conveyed to the cave.
In the midst of his duties at the bedsides of the afflicted, he had forgotten to inquire after his old friends, Ida and her mother; but so soon as Mrs. Hadley began to mend, she told him they were away from the city on a visit to some friends, but were expected to return in a few days. He was glad to hear this, for as soon as he could leave, he wished to return to the west. He made a confidant of his mother, and told her she must excuse his impatience to learn the fate of his affianced bride. She remembered but too well the days of her youth to chide him, telling him he should go as early as he felt it safe to leave his uncle. They had scarcely finished their little communications, when Charles was called to minister to the other invalid. After making him as comfortable as possible, Mr. Scofield requested him to be seated, and then opened a conversation with him, on this wise:
"I suppose, Charles, you have not forgotten the cause that separated us?"
"No, uncle, I have not?"
"And do you still adhere to your old determination?"
"I do?"
"Well, I have repented of my rashness, and I hope you will forgive me."
"I have nothing to forgive, but much to be thankful for."
"I was very cruel, for I had set my heart on the marriage, and it was a deeper disappointment to me than you could well imagine; but it is over now, and I am satisfied all has turned out for the best, seeing you did not love each other. I have finally arranged my affairs, and my will bequeathes ten thousand dollars to Ida, and the rest, about fifty thousand, to yourself. I may not live long, or I may linger for years; but whether I go soon or remain long, be a friend to Ida and her mother when I am taken from them."
"I could not be otherwise, my dear uncle; it will be truly a pleasure to serve and protect them. But now let me thank you from the bottom of my heart, for your kindness. I am unworthy to become your heir, but if it so please Providence and you to permit me to become the recipient of your bounty, I shall make it my endeavor to use and not abuse your wealth."
"God help you there, my boy! It is a difficult thing to make good use of riches."
We shall not dwell to narrate all that transpired. In a few days Ida and her mother came home, and learning the situation of their friends, immediately installed themselves as nurses to the sick.
Hadley was now relieved from the weight of care and duty he had assumed, and took more rest.
His meeting with Ida was cordial, and it was not many hours till they were mutual confidants, and Ida said:
"So, you see, Idothank you for your firmness. But, oh, I so much wish to see Eveline. You must go back soon. She may need your aid."
And he did go soon. Mr. Scofield soon began to convalesce; his mother was out of danger, and bidding all an affectionate adieu, with the hope soon to meet again, he started in the early dawn of a beautiful morning for the scene of his hopes and fears.
On the second day of his journey, a sad presentiment of impending evil took possession of his mind. Ah! had he known the situation of his beloved at that hour, how his heart would have died within him, and his soul burned to inflict merited retribution on the heads of her enemies. But the dark fate that hung over her at that hour was vailed from his view, and hope mingled with fear in his bosom. Fear, however, kept increasing, and before the close of the third day, a voice seemed to Whisper:
"Haste, Hadley, haste! Wings of lightning can scarcely bear thee swift enough to the rescue of her thou lovest so dearly!"
Eveline continued to indulge in her pleasing reverie of hope, and in the cheering thoughts that came crowding upon her mind in anticipation of a speedy release from her dungeon, and restoration to her father and friends, she forgot that her situation, in the meantime, was one of peril, even if her newly found friends should be able to accomplish their object. Duffel might return at any moment, and, in vindictive fury, bring about her ruin or death. Such dark pictures, however, were, for the moment, driven from her mind by those of a more enlivening nature, and she ceased to search after, or even to bear in mind, the secret passage.
As she sat in peaceful quiet, thinking of home and dear ones, her eye chanced to fall upon a spot in the wall, where, the light striking it to advantage, a clear, crystaline stone, flashed back the rays from her lamp, as it sparkled with a brilliancy scarcely inferior to that of a diamond. Curiosity led her to a more minute examination of this singularly bright object; and approaching, she placed her finger upon it. It seemed to be imbedded firmly in the solid rock, but projected out a very little beyond the surrounding portions of the wall, just far enough to be perceived by the touch. She pressed upon it to ascertain if it was really unmovable, and, as she did so, open flew a small door, barely large enough to admit a single person through its portals. In a twinkling her labors of the past day and night came to remembrance, and she exclaimed:
"The secret passage!"
In a moment all her former feelings returned; and, taking a lamp in her hand, she prepared to explore the mysterious avenue thus opened before her. Before committing herself to the unknown, perhaps tortuous passage, she took the precaution to place an obstruction in the doorway, so that the door could not, by any possibility, swing to and shut her on the outside. She took the forethought, also, to see that her dagger was safely secured about her person, not knowing whither she was going, or into what company she might fall.
Having thus prudently provided against accidents and emergencies, Eveline entered the passage, which was dark, damp, and dismal, with trembling nerves and a timid heart. Slowly, cautiously, step by step, she felt her way, aided by the light of her lamp. It seemed strange that she should have to go so far to get into the other room; yet still she moved on and on without coming to the end of the passage or to any place of egress.
The way was narrow and somewhat zigzag, and in several places she had tostoop in order to proceed. Where did the underground passage terminate? With what did it connect? Was it a natural one? or had it been made by man? Perhaps it was the connecting line between the cave she had left and some other den of wickedness known and occupied by this band of villains? With such and a hundred similar suggestions her mind was occupied, and she began to feel unpleasant. Perhaps she was venturing into the presence of those who would have even less regard for her than Duffel. An undefined terror for a moment seized upon her, and she was about to yield to the dictates of fear, and return to her room, when a kind of murmuring sound, as if of voices in the distance, met her ear. Listening a moment she felt quite sure there were living persons somewhere near; and summoning all her resolution, she boldly pushed forward, determined to solve the mystery in which she was involved, and if human beings were in her vicinity, to ascertain who and what they were.
Advancing with a cautious but firm step, she was not long in doubt as to the nature of the sound; it evidently proceeded from human lips. As she drew nearer words became distinguishable; and then she came to the end of the passage, which abruptly terminated against a solid wall, like those of the cave. But the wall was evidently a thin one, and on the immediate outside—or other side—were the persons, who were engaged in conversation. She stood there but a brief moment when her attention became fixed and all absorbed in the conference going on between the interlocutors, both of whom (she could distinguish but two voices,) seemed to be deeply interested in some matter under consideration.
"I tell you what it is, Bill, I don't like this here bizness of runnin' off that gal a bit. I've been thinkin' the matter over, and the more I think, the more I don't like it."
These were the first words that Eveline heard distinctly and connectedly. Who were they? and who was the girl? There seemed to be something familiar about the voice of the speaker, and yet she could not tell where or when she had heard it before. In a moment came the reply:
"I thought that point was settled. I tell you I'd take her if it was only to spite Duffel."
"Duffel!" ejaculated Eveline in thought, and she came near making the exclamation aloud. "Duffel! then these men know him!" In a moment the truth flashed upon her mind. It was Duffel's friends, her captors, the ones from whose aid she was so soon to be delivered! Yes, now she remembered the voices! And for a moment her heart bounded in gratitude to the last speaker, whose words she understood to express his firm resolution to liberate her. The moment the rejoinder came from the other, however, her mind was perplexed, but as she listened further the whole matter was untangled:
"And wouldn't it spite Duffel just as much if we should take her back?"
"No, I don't think it would. Beside, I want to show him how completely we can beat him at his own game; and then, too, I wish to be revenged on him to the fullest extent; he likes the girl, and to know that she is in the hands of another, who has entirely outwitted him, will be a source of chagrin, and the spark to light the fires of jealousy."
"You don't intend to let him know that you have taken the gal!"
"Certainly I do!"
"And then have the whole League after us! A fine plot, truly!"
"League the h——! I tell you I'm going to blow the whole thing to nothing, cave and all!"
"What!"
"When I leave this region there will be no League here. This cave will be in ruins, and the whole order scattered to the four winds of heaven!"
"Are you crazy, Bill Mitchel!"
"No, I am just coming to my senses. Here we have been these many years, doing all the most dangerous and daring work of the order—work that others were too chicken-hearted to undertake—and what is our reward? We are esteemed as the meanest of the Clan, and as being hardly fit to associate with those who claim to be the gentlemen of the League. Why, I believe the officers would cut our throats at any time to save themselves. See what Duffel is after at this very time. Never was a man served more faithfullythan we have served him, and now that we have rendered him all the aid he needs or desires at our hands, he would cut us off; aye, worse, he would murder us—murder us as we have murdered for him. Do you think I would let an opportunity to be revenged on him pass unimproved?Never!"
"But how are you goin' to do all this mighty work?"
"I'll tell you. The captain is away; I intend that Duffel shall be secured by the officers of the law; the rest of the members I will take measures to frighten; and when they resort to this infernal cave for refuge, counsel, or concert of action, they will find it in ruins."
"How in ruins?"
"Isn't there powder enough in the magazine to blow it to atoms?"
"Powder!"
"Yes,powder! Is there anything in that explosive material that need cause you to look so wild? I thought you were better acquainted with its properties."
"I believe I begin to understand your intentions; but they don't exactly chime with your plans of yesterday."
"Yesterday! I tell you I was only half awake then. I hadn't considered all the sides to the question; and the more I think, the madder I get. I tell you we have been imposed upon; and I am going to pay back the debt with interest. I had another idea yesterday; but my plans were then immature and unsettled, now they are arranged even to the details. I tell you I have been thinking for the last twenty-four hours; and it has been to some purpose, as you and the rest of these fellows, and Duffel in particular, will find out."
"Very well; if the order is to be destroyed, then there is no need of fearing to let the girl go home, as she could do us no harm if shedidreveal our secrets."
"I tell you I have taken a fancy to the girl myself and have set my heart on possessing her,and I will do it. It's true I don't care for the order now. I defy all its members; but that makes no difference about the girl. She goes with us."
"I don't believe any good will come of takin' her, but there is a plaguy good chance for evil to come of it."
"Let it come, then, and we'll face it like men! I tell you I am desperate; I have fixed my stakes and I don't intend to be driven from them. The more I think, the more determined I become."
"But it looks so mean and cowardly to abuse a woman."
"Who said I was going to abuse her?"
"I say so."
"You'd better be a little careful of your speech, my good fellow!"
"I'll say what I please; and you know what I have said is the truth. Haint you goin' to deceive the gal? Didn't you jist tell her that you was her friend? and that we'd liberate her? And don't she expect us to take her home, instead of away off to that cave in Virginny, where she'll be no better off than she is here? And haint it cowardly to lie and deceive them as trust in your word and honor?"
"Honor! a pretty word that for such a fellow as you to use! How long have you entertained such high notions, pray?"
"Allers, sir, allers! Did you ever hear me tell a lie? Did you ever see me betray any one that put themselves under my care? Say, sir, have you?"
"Well, no, I don't know as I have; but what of that?"
"A great deal, sir; a great deal! It means that I'm not a mean, cowardly dog; that I don't go to a woman with a lie in my mouth, and sneakingly deceive her! No, sir, I am above such work."
"That will do, I can't bear everything, even from you, and I warn you not to go too far!"
"Warn away, then; I'm not the man to be skeered by any woman-stealer that ever walked the earth. No, sir, I'm not! And I say ag'in, the man that'll impose on a woman is a coward, and a mean one at that."
"Come, come, Dick, it's no use to be talking in that manner. You know I am no more of a coward than yourself; and so what's the use of such an ado about nothing. Didn't you tell me yesterday you would stand by me in this affair? Come, now, keep your word, and don't prove yourself a liar after such a boast of truthfulness, just a moment ago?"
"Yes, there it is ag'in. You told me it was for our personal safety, and such like stuff, that you were goin' to take the gal along; and now you defy the whole order, and are goin' to blow themall to atoms! I take it that makes quite a difference."
"Didn't I tell you the girl was to go any how? And didn't you say it would hardly be fair to help an enemy and not a friend? Come, where is your honor now?"
"That promise, I tell you, was obtained under false pretenses, and is not binding!"
"A pretty excuse, indeed!—Well to bring the matter to a point at once, I now state distinctly that I am going to take the girl with me, because I wish to do so, and for that reason alone; and I want you to help me. Will you do it? That's the question, and I want a positive answer, yea or nay, and no more palaver on the subject. Say, will you stand by your old friend in this last great hour of need?"
"I s'pose I'll have to; but it goes mightily ag'in' the grain, to be mixed up in these women affairs, and I feel as mean as a kill-sheep dog, when I find myself at such a dirty work.
"Well, that matter is settled, then, and I hope we shall have peace and agreement between us hereafter. I know when you say you'll do a thing, you'll do it, and I want a reliable companion to stand by me just now. Once we get into our new quarters, in old Virginia, I shall feel safe, as we can bid defiance to our enemies."
"Well, let us be off, then, as quick as possible; for, to tell the truth, I don't like this part of the country much; it's gittin' entirely too hot for our bizness, and is by no means as safe as it might be."
"We must be off to-morrow, if we can finish all our arrangements, which I hope we shall be able to do, if we lose no time. We must have our horses ready to-night, at all events; for it may suit to start in the night, if we fail to get away to-morrow. I am not sure but it will be the best plan to leave in the night, any how."
"Certainly, it will be."
"Well, it's settled, then, that we leave to-morrow night; and that being the case, I must hasten away to get the key made. You stay here till the sentinel returns, and then meet me at the usual place this afternoon, and we will have everything arranged in order."
With this the villains parted, Bill going out of the passage, and Dick into the cave.
To all this Eveline was an absorbed, but to them unknown, listener. How the great hope of the morning died in her bosom, as the fearful truth was revealed to her, that another snare was laid to entangle her feet—that her newly found friends were but enemies in disguise. Instead of liberators, who would restore her to home and friends, they were vile miscreants, destining her to a fate no better than that which now surrounded her, and removed still further from the possibility of succor. For a little time she clung to the hope that Dick would hold out in her behalf; but this last prop was taken away, and she felt that there was no help from any quarter, and that self-dependence was her only safeguard.
Ah, how desolate was her heart in that hour! How like a lone reed in the pelting tempest did she feel herself to be! Surrounded by enemies on all hands, a prisoner in a dungeon, with no friendly arm to lean upon, no kind voice of sympathy to encourage and strengthen her, she felt almost like giving over the struggle, and lying down to die where she stood.
But this feeling of despondency was of short duration. Arousing to a lively sense of her situation, this apathy was thrown off, and the native energy of purpose which she had exhibited so strikingly on former occasions, quickened her spirit and restored vigor to her frame. Immediately she began to collect her thoughts, and cast about to see if there was no way of escape from this new danger. At first she thought of making a confidant of Duffel, and throwing herself upon his generosity; but remembering all that he had done, she felt that this would be vain, so far asshewas concerned, while it might savehimfrom merited exposure and punishment; and so she at once abandoned the idea.
In the midst of perplexity and doubt, the thought struck her with the vividness of a flash of intelligence, that the passage she was in might communicate with the outer world! The very suggestion caused her to heave a sigh of relief. What so probable as this supposition? At any rate she had something to do, a definite object to call forth her energies; and this was no small matter, in the state of mind under which she was laboring at that hour.
Raising her lamp to a level with her face, she passed the light close to the wall, scrutinizing every spot, to see if there was no sign indicative of another spring-closed door. But no brilliant fragment of stalactite appeared as a reward for her search, and she turned away with a feeling of disappointment, and heaviness at her heart. As she did so, for the first time her eye fell upon a polished surface, much resembling the face of a mirror, upon the opposite wall. Looking more attentively, she discovered, as it were, trees, shrubs, a running stream of water, and all the accompaniments of a finished landscape painting. Fearful as was her situation, she could not help pausing to admire the beauty, the naturalness, the perfection of the scene. She had never beheld any thing half so vivid, so truthful, from the pencil of the artist. It actually seemed as if water was running over its gravelly bed, as if the bushes moved in the breeze; in a word, the whole looked far more like a reality than a cold painting. As she was gazing in admiration upon this singular appearance, a bird actually flew over the scene! She could hardly believe her senses; but soon another one followed, and she knew there was no deception in her eyes this time.
Philosophy was not universally taught in those days, as it is now, and Eveline did not know how to solve this mystery as well as many a school girl could do at the present day; but she had read of the tricks of the magicians of Egypt and India, and what seeming wonders they could show in their magic mirrors; and she came to the conclusion that the robbers of the cave had learned the same art, and that before her was one of the soothsayers' glasses.
But what was the design had in view in placing it in that obscure and unfrequented place? As this query suggested itself to her mind, a man passed along on the bank of the stream! and in a few minutes another in the opposite direction; and in the last one she recognized one of her captors! She at once comprehended the design of the apparatus; it was to reveal what was passing without to the eye of the individual within, who had doubtless adopted this method of informing himself of passing external events, as a means of personal safety in case of need. It was, she supposed, a device of the captain of the thieves, to save himself, either from the ministers of the law or from the violence of those under him, in case of revolt.
It is not our design to enter into an elaborate description of this piece of mechanism, as every student of philosophy, who is well acquainted with the reflection and refraction of rays of light, will understand how an ingenious contrivance produced the results spoken of. The same principle enters into the arrangement of thecamera obscura. There was an aperture very artfully cut through the wall, and so guarded on the outside as to escape notice; and in this a tube was placed with a set of happily contrived fixtures, by the aid of which the scene without was accurately depicted on the polished surface within. It was the work of the captain, as Eveline supposed.
As this contrivance was evidently intended to give information of danger from without, it must certainly be connected in some manner with the means of escape; else what was it worth? Such was the conclusion to which Eveline arrived, as she philosophized upon the matter. And she reflected further, what other method of escape was there, save a secret medium of communication with the outer world? None at all, except it be a quiet waiting within the passage she now herself occupied, which she could not bring herself to believe was the case; so she renewed her search for the door of egress.
On minutely examining the mirror, she saw at one side of it a small projection, like a ball of ivory, and pressing hard upon it, a door, of which the mirror itself was a section, sprang a little way open. She threw it back wide on its hinges, and holding her lamp in the opening, saw at her feet a flight of stairs leading down into the gloom below. A damp current of air came up from this subterranean cavity, and its clammy coldness sent a chill almost of horror through the frame of the agitated girl. One less resolute than herself would have shrunk at the idea of exploring so dismal a looking place; but not so she. Summoning all her energy, she boldly descended the steps, which had evidently been cut out by the hands of man, and soon found herself at the bottom of the course. In front of her, all was solid earth and rock; but on turning to theright she discovered an opening, following which it was but a little while till she saw light ahead, and a few more steps brought her to the margin of the stream, along the bank of which was the path to the cave. That path, then, was immediately above her! And here she was with the wide world before her! How her heart bounded!
Her first thought was to fly immediately; but prudence dictated a cautious survey of the place before venturing her all in an attempt at flight.
She accordingly ventured out in the most guarded manner, to make explorations. The water was but a little way below where she stood, and when in a high stage must evidently flood the place she occupied and the steps leading up out of it. But as the stream was now very low, she had a fine opportunity for making observations. Stepping down to the edge of the water, she had an excellent view of the stream both ways. The banks were very high on each side, steep, and inaccessible; so much so, indeed, that for a moment she was in despair of getting from her prison, now that she had found the way out. A closer inspection of the bank where she stood showed her the possibility of escape, by following the water's edge to some point below or above, where the high bank receded. This was enough; all she wanted was the bare likelihood or possibility of escape, and she would venture all upon the trial.
Having made these hasty observations, she started back, to make preparations for an immediate departure. When she reached the upper passage and closed the door, she glanced at the mirror to see what was going on without. What was her disappointment and horror, to see Duffel's image passing before her on his way to the cave! She had hoped to get off before his return; but now that hope was gone. She must meet him again; and to what desperate extremities might he not proceed in the interview in which she must now be compelled to take a part! Then she remembered that she had left the door from her room to the passage ajar, and he might reach it before she could get there, and revealing to him her secret, cut off her last and only hope of escape. The thought awoke all her energies, and dashing along the narrow way at the top of her speed, stooping as she ran, to avoid the low places, she reached her room and closed the door of the passage, just as she heard a knock at the other one, opening into the larger room.
Quickly arranging things in her room, and restoring the lamp to its accustomed place, so that every article should appear in usual order and nothing betray her secret, Eveline—the knocking at her door being just then repeated—demanded:
"Who is there?"
"It is hardly worth your while to ask that question, when you know there can be but one person having access to this place."
"Excuse me, sir; but I have understood thatyouwere only here by courtesy, the rooms belonging to another."
"Well, I am here, at any rate, and have the mastery as well as the occupancy of the place. Will you open the door?"
"If I please."
"Well,doyou please?"
"And if I do not?"
"Then I shall enter by another way."
"As I am not overly anxious to see amaster, you may enter as you can."
"Very well."
Eveline chose not to open the door for two reasons: first, she wished to ascertain whether or not therewasa secret passage between the rooms; and, secondly, if Duffel's assertion in regard to the matter should prove true, she wished to know at what point the entrance was situated, that, if need be, in any future movements she might make, obstructions could be placed in the way of ingress. One thing, however, perplexed her a little; she could not keep her eyes on all sides of the room at once, and Duffel might come from some quarter unawares, and take her at advantage, ere she could meet his attack. Thought is very rapid in times of danger, if presence of mind is retained, and the difficulty stated had fixed her attention but a few seconds, ere several plans ofrelease had suggested themselves and been abandoned; but at length it occurred to her, that as it was impossible for the secret door to be in the same place as the other one, she would be perfectly safe, in taking a position against the latter, from any possibility of surprise, and standing there she could seem more at her ease than in any other position, where her continued watchfulness would betray anxiety.
She had scarcely placed herself in the posture desired, before she saw a portion of the wall to her right slowly move from its place, and presently a mass, the size of a small door, stood out fairly into the room, and from behind it stole the villain, in such a manner as to leave no doubt of his intentions to surprise her, if possible. Seeing she was prepared for his reception, and aware of his entrance, he closed the door, and, boldly stepping into the room, addressed her thus:
"So, incredulous fair one, you see I am here, notwithstanding your disbelief in my word."
"Yes; I see you are here."
"Well, that is a very cordial welcome to an old friend, certainly. In what school have you taken lessons in hospitality and politeness?"
"In one where I have learned to treat insolence according to its deserts."
"Indeed! then I think we must have graduated at the same institution. Perhaps we had as well try each other's skill and proficiency, and the one that shall prove the aptest scholar be declared victor in the contest between us. Do you accept the challenge?"
"I accept nothing from you; your pretended friendship I despise; your threats I hold in as much contempt as I do their author; your intended insults I will pay back even to death, sir!" and as she spoke, there was a flashing light in her eye which gave the villain to understand she meant all she said; but assuming not to heed his convictions on that point, here plied, with as much seeming ease as he could command:
"Oh, I have heard such talk before."
"Yes, and like the base coward you are, you sprang from the dagger at your breast, even though it was but a woman's hand that held it."
"Girl! don't presume too far on my forbearance! I warn you in time to beware of that!"
"I presume nothing on any good trait of character or nobleness of soul you may possess, sir, but on yourcowardice!"
"Do you wish to drive me to extremes?"
"You are already on the extremest verge of all that is vile and loathsome."
"By the furies of h——, I'll not endure this longer!"
"Oh, yes, you will; you need not expect any other treatment so long as you continue to force your unwelcome and disgusting presence upon me. I have not taken lessons in the school of which you were talking, in vain: and as you set yourself up as a rival, just exercise your skill; I ask no favors, and fear not your opposition."
"Yes, you do; with all your boasting, you fear me, coward though I be, at this very moment."
"Yes, exactly as I fear the proximity of any other corrupt thing with which it is unpleasant to come in contact. There is a certain small animal of the cat species, bearing, however, another and very significant name, with which it would be about as disagreeable to come in contact as with yourself; as I would fear it, so I fear you; in my estimation you are equally vile and equally to be avoided."
Again Duffel grew red in the face with rage, and he was on the point of seizing and overpowering Eveline; but his eye fell upon the dagger, which she held in her hand, and prudence or cowardice held him back. His response was given with savage malice:
"I'll take the fire out of your temper, ere you are many hours older; mark that! You have gone too far for me longer to continue my gentle dealings toward you. I have endeavored to persuade you, I have expostulated with you, and made all reasonable offers to induce you to acquiesce peaceably in your fate, which I would have made an honorable and enviable one; but you have treated all my kindness with contumely and misconstrued my forbearance into cowardice. Now you must prepare for the worst."
"Sir—villain, rather, every word you have uttered is as false as the pit of night, and you know it! Yes, sir, you know that as you stood there and spoke, unmitigated falsehoods fell from your lips while every declaration! And knowing this, and knowing thatIknow it, also, you have theaudacity and the insolent impudence to say that you have offered me an honorable position in life! Is it possible that you are so fallen as not to know that in a truthful, virtuous, and noble soul there can be nothing so abhorrent as lying, villainy, and cowardice? Talk of honor! Better might Satan take of goodness!"
"Go on! you are only placing thorns in your path, every one of which will pierce you as a pang of agony."
"I have no doubt you would like to intimidate me by such ominous remarks; but I have heard similar ones from the same source before; and knowing the distance which separates their author from truth, you may well rest assured I place implicit confidence in their falsity."
"I'll prove to you how true they are, then; in one thing, at least, you shall be convinced of my veracity; and that is, that I am now in earnest, and mean to remain in earnest until my wishes are accomplished, and you, the victim of my pleasure, become a suppliant for mercy and restoration to an honorable position in society."
"Never!"
"We shall see; I have been talking,—from this time on, Iact!"
Saying this he drew a pistol from his pocket, and holding it before her, went on:
"You see I came prepared this time! I was fully resolved to bring matters to an issue at any rate, and more especially if you persisted in your insulting course of address. You have done so; the cup of your transgressions is full, and the time of your probation expired. Now comes the judgment!"
He had expected to see her turn pale and tremble, and, perhaps, become a suppliant for more time to consider the matter; but with the exception of a little closer compression of the lips, and, if possible, a little more determined expression, he saw no change pass over her countenance. If terror she had, it was kept out of sight. She made no reply, and he proceeded:
"You think because your dagger served you once it will do so again; but it will not. I could execute my plans immediately and at once have you helplessly in my power; but I prefer to give you one more and the last opportunity of deciding for yourself. Know, then, that as soon as I find this offer rejected, I will send the contents of this pistol through your right arm, and if that is not enough I have another in my pocket here, which shall pay the same respects to your left arm. You will then be at my mercy as completely as though you were an infant. I leave your own fancy to picture what will follow, understanding my intentions as you do. With this certain doom before you, will you, Eveline Mandeville, consent to be my wife, now or at some future day?"
"I will not!"
The reply was clear, bold, decided, without a tremor of voice or the quivering of a muscle. The fiendish wretch was awed by her courage, but having, as he said, resolved to bring matters to a crisis, he went on:
"You have chosen your fate, be the consequences upon your own head!" He raised the pistol.
"Will you throw away that dagger and permit me peaceably to approach you?"
"No!"
"I will ask you three times, and with your third refusal I shall fire; so beware! Will you throw away the dagger?"
"No!"
"This is the third and last time I shall ask the question," and he repeated it slowly: "Will you throw away t-h-e d-a-g-g-e-r?" and he brought the weapon to his eye.
"NO!"
There was a pause of a second, and then a flash of fire, a cloud of smoke, and the report of a pistol told that his threat was executed. The brutal monster waited a moment for the smoke to clear away from his vision, not liking to venture upon that ominous looking dagger until assured of a bloodless victory. Poor, despicable coward!
As he kept his eye fixed toward the spot where Eveline stood, eager to see the result of the shot, he felt something strike his breast, and, turning his eyes downward, he beheld the glittering dagger glance along his left side! A button had turned its course and saved his life! He sprang away, uttering an affrighted oath, and grasped for his other pistol. It was not in his pocket! and there he stoodunarmed, before the unhurt but outraged woman he had attempted to destroy!
Eveline, though excited, was unusually self-possessed during all the interview just related. She felt the imminence of her danger, but it only aroused her faculties to a more acute observation of every incident and circumstance that might, by any possible chance, be turned to advantage. When she saw that Duffel was resolved to put his threat in execution, she determined to make him the victim instead of herself, if it were possible to do so. In speaking of this reserved pistol he unconsciously placed his hand in his pocket—a side coat pocket—and drew the weapon up, so that the breech rested upon the upper and outer edge of the receptacle in the garment. Eveline noticed this, and in a moment her plan of action was formed. She did not like the thought of killing a human being, but as Duffel had proceeded to such extremes, she felt that if it was not her duty to slay him under the circumstances, she would, at least, be justifiable in so doing. She, therefore, settled it in her mind to go to this extreme length, much as she shrank from a deed of blood, in case the monster fired at her. She took in the idea at once that a puff of smoke would conceal her movements for a moment, and, under its friendly cover, feeling sure of her ability to avoid the shot, she would smite the villain to the heart and seize the pistol at the same instant, to use in case the thrust should prove ineffectual. Having her mind divided between the two acts, both of which must be done in the same breath, she did not aim the dagger with as much precision as under other circumstances she might have done, and the result was as already stated; the pistol, however, she safely secured; and when she saw Duffel feel for it, and perceived his disappointment and alarm at not finding it, she said:
"Here it is, sir, and for once you are in my power! It is now my turn!"
The miscreant cowered before her determined gaze.
"Prepare for your end!"
"I crave your mercy."
"Mercy!You, vile, unmanly wretch! didyoushow mercy?"
"I was excited,—spare me!"
"Down on your knees, then, and beg for your life!"
He hesitated to demean himself thus, she raised the pistol, and there was a fire in her eye which spoke volumes to the craven soul of the poltroon. He obeyed, fell upon his knees and begged his life at her hands, promising to liberate her if she would grant his prayer. When he ceased pleading, and paused for her reply, she answered:
"Know, base coward, that, woman as I am, I would scorn to take the life of an unarmed enemy. I was only trying you to ascertain how low you would degrade and how debasingly demean yourself to beg for mercy. I would have made you swear to take me from this place, but I knew you would perjure yourself the moment an opportunity afforded, and I did not care to burden your guilty soul with another crime. For the same reason I decline accepting your proffer to take me away. I know you would prove treacherous, and I will not trust myself in your hands. Go, now, and remember that the next time you enter this room in my presence, you die! I will not permit another insult of the kind; no, sir,never! Open that door and leave!"
He obeyed; she followed him with the pistol presented, until he was out of the captain's room. He closed the door into the outer cave with a slam, and locked it, and then called out:
"Madam, you were a fool for not securing the keys while you had me in your power. I now curse and defy you, and swear that I will make you repent this day's work in the dust and ashes of humiliation. I shall not come alone next time, but with fifty men; and youshallbe overpowered and feel the weight of my vengeance! I'll wring your proud heart till it bleeds, and in your degradation will scorn you!"
She did not wait to hear more of his harangue, but hastened back into her room, shut and bolted her door, placed every movable object in the apartment against the one by which Duffel had entered, and then entering the secret passage, ran to the mirror to see if the villain left. She had been there but a few minutes when he passed, cursing as he went, and swearing to be revenged.
The reader may wonder why Eveline did not shoot the wretch when she had him in her power, but the truth was, sheknew nothing about using fire-arms, and feared to make the attempt, lest, failing, she should be again in his hands. She knew, too, that it would not be prudent to trust herself to be led out of the cave by him, as the moment he met one of his followers he would betray her, and she would be again a prisoner. Still she would have made this venture, had not the secret passage held out to her a more hopeful mode of escape.
All these considerations, dangers and probabilities flashed through her mind with the fleetness of thought, and she came to conclusions with the same rapidity. Doubtless, she pursued the best course. She could presume on Duffel's cowardice, but she dare not trust his word or his oath.
So soon as her persecutor passed out from the cave, as shown by the mirror, she hastened back to her room to make preparations for leaving the den of infamy in which she had been confined, feeling well assured that but a few hours would be suffered to elapse, ere Duffel, with as many adherents as he deemed necessary to accomplish his ends, would return, to wreak his pitiless vengeance upon her. Making everything ready for her departure, she awaited the darkness of the approaching night, that in its friendly mantle she might find protection and shelter. But ere the light of day had withdrawn, she again ventured out into the stream for the purpose of more fully reconnoitering the place, and fixing in her mind the relative position of things, obstacles and distance, and to obtain such knowledge in general as might facilitate her escape.
Night came; she left her room, the common door locked and bolted, the secret one clogged with the furniture of the room, so that it would require the united strength of several men to force it open. The door of the secret passage which she had learned to open and shut from both sides, was closed after her, and alone she passed along that damp aisle, paused a moment before the mirror to note whether it reflected the scene without, and seeing upon its face but blank darkness, she opened the last door between herself and the world into which she was going, closed it as she passed through its portals, descended the stairs, reached the outer extremity of the passage, put out her lamp, and the next minute stood on the pebbles at the margin of the stream. A brief survey of the coast in all directions satisfied her that she was not observed, and without more delay she moved down the stream as rapidly as the nature of the ground and her want of experience in such places and mode of travel would permit.
It was about a mile from the starting point before she reached the first recession of the high bank, that afforded an opportunity to leave the stream, which she improved without delay, and after a laborious ascent of an inclined plane, more than a hundred yards in extent and quite steep, she found herself on the high bluff, with the cave in the distance.
But now a new and before unthought of difficulty faced her. She was in a wilderness, with no compass by which to direct her course, and no friendly guide to conduct her to the habitations of men. For a moment she was almost paralyzed by the magnitude of this untried danger, and hope well nigh fled from her breast. But rousing her energies she boldly looked her fate in the face, and committed herself into the hands of that Providence who had so often befriended her in former times of peril, and then shaping her course as well as she could by the stars, she plunged into the dense forest, with her face, as she believed, toward home, which she hoped to reach some time the next day.
Alas for her hopes! in less than an hour she was totally bewildered and lost in the wilderness! She felt her loneliness and helplessness now more than when facing her malignant enemy; and to add to the horrors of her situation, howls of wild beasts soon greeted her ears!