Just as these thoughts were printing themselves in letters of fire upon his blank mind, the breath which he caught with a gasp from his breast fluttered his wife's light tresses, and she sprung to her feet, with only a passing look of embarrassment. The next instant she laughed her girlish laugh, and threw her arms about his neck, kissing him twice or thrice without waiting to find if he kissed her in return. The locket at which she had been gazing had disappeared within the folds of her dress, slipped into her pocket, or, perhaps, into the bosom beating against his own.
Dr. Carollyn endured her embraces, but he did not return them; he stood like one in a dream—past, present and future swept over him like the storm-sand over a desert, obliterating all traces of what has been—changing the landscape so that he who had lived there a lifetime can not recognize a familiar feature.It was Annie's arms that he felt about him, and Annie's words of welcome sounding in his ears. But who was Annie? Was she the wife in whose utter absence of guile of every kind he trusted as he trusted in God and immortality? or was it Annie, suddenly revealed to him in a character so different, that he felt toward her as toward a disliked and suspected stranger? His wife—yet his lip could not frame the word—his heart revolted at it.
"What is the matter, Leger? Are you ill?"
"No; only hungry."
She laughed; she was too accustomed to his affection to take offense now at some little passing cloud of ill-temper.
"I believe you are, and weary, too. But you needn't be cross about it. Come, tea has been waiting some time, I believe."
She led him by the hand into the cheerful supper-room, seating herself at the head of the table, and pouring out his tea with that air of dignity so pretty in youthful matrons.
"You said you were hungry, Leger, and yet you eat nothing."
"I meant that I was thirsty;" and he handed back the cup which he had emptied at a draught.
As she prepared his tea he watched every graceful movement—he looked intently into the face beaming with happiness, searching for undiscovered lines about the temples and lips which might betray the guilty secrets hidden in her heart. That face still looked to him as pure as the unclouded heaven at noonday. If he could only believe it! if he could only give himself up to his past confidence again! Oh, God! if hecould, he would resign at that moment every dollar of his wealth, every throb of his ambition, and stand with her, outcast from the world, on any remotest island of the sea.
"I was detained a few moments in the street," he observed, presently. "I met an old friend, just returning from abroad."
"Indeed?"
Her voice was pleasant—she showed interest, as she always did when he addressed her, but no agitation.
"Perhaps you can guess who it was?"
"I don't remember who of our friends are away, except Maurice Gurnell."
His keen look did not disconcert her; she seemed only a trifle surprised at his own manner. He exerted himself to appear natural; to force not only calmness but lightness—he did not speak nor look like a man on whose soul happiness was poising herself, ready to take flight forever.
"Perhaps you expected him?"
"Me? Not so soon—that is, not until—why, Leger, what do I know of your friend Maurice's proceedings?"
Her husband's eyes, with a strange and deadly glitter in them,were fixed upon her face. She blushed, she stammered, she admitted that she was expecting him, and then attempted to withdraw from the admission. Pushing his chair back from the table, he said:
"I'm going out, Annie, to spend the evening. Don't sit up for me," and before she could spring to give him a good-by, or to help him with his muffler and gloves, he had seized his hat and coat, and the hall-door rung behind him.
Leger Carollyn bore a reputation for an unblemished moral character which added to the luster of his professional fame, and gave grace to his great mental accomplishments. But from boyhood he had been marked by two great faults, one of which, his unbending pride, was patent to every observer; but the other of which few understood, being one which his pride would enable him to conceal, and which had but few opportunities for making even himself aware of its existence. This second defect, in his otherwise noble nature, was jealousy—a jealousy, strong and terrible, of others, who shared the right of, or who gained by favor, the love of those selected by himself for his devotion.
This peculiarity had been betrayed, when a child, in his family, and had been the subject of the wisest and gentlest treatment from his excellent mother. His only brother, two years younger than himself, had been a thorn in his side—not because he did not himself love him, nor because he was ungenerous toward him in any other respect—but because he was jealous of every token of affection bestowed on another by the parents he so passionately adored. The proud, reserved and thoughtful child could not call forth those little endearments which the more vivacious nature of his brother provoked, but he longed for them none the less.
However, the gay, handsome boy died—died in his twelfth year—and left Leger the sole idol of his parents. He mourned for his brother deeply, he reproached himself secretly with every unkind thought he had ever entertained—and yet, as the months rolled on, he was conscious that he was happier now that his path was no longer crossed by a rival in the love of his parents. So the fault lay in his nature, undeveloped but not exterminated. It was not a mean jealousy—that is, it never stooped to trouble itself about rivals in fame or position—he never did a dishonorable act toward a rival schoolmate—nor, in later days, threw obstacles in the way of, or judged selfishly, those striving for success in his own profession. It was only that when he loved, he wanted, in return for his own almost startling passion, the whole interest and devotion of its object.
A man of such character would not be apt to flutter among the young ladies of his circle of society, or to fix his choice lightly upon the woman whom he should select to become his wife. So it chanced that at twenty-five he was still unmarried.At this time Dr. Carollyn, his father, passed away, leaving his son inheritor of the family-mansion, of the wealth which a long and lucrative practice had amassed, and of that practice itself, made valuable by the prestige of the parent's name. The mother had died nearly six years before, so that Leger Carollyn stood alone, with no relations either near or dear to him.
He had one friend, Maurice Gurnell, his classmate in college and his equal in society, a member of an old New York family of French extraction, and, as might be expected, the opposite in temperament of the young physician, possessing all the grace and gayety, the fluency of speech, and the love of the world which distinguishes his progenitors. Leger admired and loved his fascinating and brilliant companion, who esteemed and admired him in return; each being best pleased with those traits in the other most contrasted with his own.
While yet weighed down with deep melancholy by the loss of his father, Leger Carollyn was called, one night, to the bedside of a dying woman. The house to which he was summoned stood in a respectable, though not the most fashionable part of the city; the name he recognized as that of a family once well known to his father and always highly regarded by him, although much reduced from former affluence, and not mingling at all with general society for the past few years.
Leger himself had never been to the house, and knew nothing in particular of its inmates. His father had been their physician, and he was now summoned to fill the place of the departed. Upon entering the chamber of the sick lady, he saw at once that she was beyond the aid of humanity; she seemed, herself, to be aware of it, for she said, as he approached her bed:
"I am sensible that you can do nothing for me, Doctor. I would not have troubled you, if my child had not insisted upon it. Annie?"
At the call of that dying voice, strangely thrilling and clear, a young girl upon the opposite side of the bed raised her head from where it had been hidden in the pillow, and looked at him with eyes which asked the question her grieving lips refused to utter. She was the only relative by the bed of death—an old nurse dozing in a chair, and the servant who had admitted him, lingering by the door, as loth to go, being her only attendants.
As he looked at the forlorn young creature and met her despairing eyes, a feeling of pity, that was absolute anguish, seized upon the heart of Dr. Carollyn. The circumstances reminded him so vividly of his own recent bereavement, when he stood sole mourner by a parent's dying bed, that his deepest sympathies were aroused. He passed around to her side, and lifting her nerveless hand pressed it in his own, as he said, in answer to her mute appeal:
"You must resign your mother, my dear child; but God will still be with you."
The dying woman detected the tremble in his tone—it seemed as if some glimpse of the future revealed itself to her in that moment; she said, in the same clear voice:
"You are like your father, Dr. Carollyn. He was always one of my best friends. I hope that you will be a friend to my child, for she has not many. I am willing to trust her to you. She has neither father or brother. She will not be dependent, except for friendship. She is so young, so unused to doing for herself—ah, it is hard to leave you alone, my Annie, but I leave you with God. Annie—Annie—be calm. I am."
The Doctor saw that the final moment would soon arrive, and felt as if he ought not to leave that fragile young thing to bear the shock alone. He remained, until, in the gray dawn, the spirit left earth, and the desolate child sunk fainting into his arms.
When he had revived her, and restored her to the nurse, and to the female servant, who seemed much attached to her, he asked if there were no friends for whom he could send.
"Ah, botheration," said the weeping servant, "there's nobody nigher'n cousins, and they're far away. But there's friends and neighbors enough, as will come if they're wanted. I'll go for 'em meself."
That morning Dr. Carollyn was aroused from the slumber into which he had dropped, after his night's unrest, by the entrance of his friend, whom the servants had orders to admit at all seasons.
"In bed yet? Were you up last night? I'm glad I'm not a physician—I like my ease too well."
"Yes, Maurice, I attended a dying lady last night. I've been dreaming about it. It was so sad. She left a daughter not more than sixteen, and without a relative in the world."
"Was it any one we knew?"
"It was Mrs. St. John—her husband was a scientific man, and wasted much of their property in experiments. So I've heard my father say, who liked him very much—their tastes were similar."
"St. John? and the daughter's name is Annie? I know the family. Paul St. John has displayed many a chemical wonder to me, in days gone by, when I was a boy and used to steal visits to his laboratory. Annie was a wee thing, then, golden-headed and blue-eyed. I've met her occasionally of late days—she's one of the sweetest flowers that e'er the sun shone on—and dark blue is her e'e, and for bonnie Annie St. John, I'd lay me down and dee. That is, I wouldn't—for I'm not given to such things—but you would, Leger, after you've known her awhile. Yes," he resumed after a pause, during which he had stood by the window in a reverie unusually long for his butterfly nature,"Annie St John is the girl for you, Leger. You are so exacting—you want the whole heart and soul of some woman, and she's just the one. She is situated like yourself—not a near relative to dispute your place in her affections. She'd worship you, I know she would—it's in her! By George, but she's beautiful; and she must be accomplished, for her mother was one of the rarest women I ever knew. Ha! ha! Leger, wouldn't it disappoint some of our brilliant belles, if you should go outside the conservatory and gather such a dainty flower?"
"Hush, Maurice, don't talk in this manner, while that poor young thing is breaking her heart beside her mother's corpse."
"It's not because I'm not sorry for her," said Maurice, more soberly. "But I saw such a pretty romance developing."
"As usual, you're building your castles out of nothing but air," responded his friend, gravely, and began talking of other subjects; and this one was never again resumed between them.
It was not many months after this that Maurice Gurnell resolved upon spending a year or more in Paris—his mother had relatives there, and the prospect was pleasing to one of his tastes. He tried hard to persuade Dr. Carollyn to go with him, urging that the benefit and pleasure he would derive from a study of his science in Paris would amply repay him. But the doctor had, in his father's lifetime, spent a year in that city, and did not now feel like deserting his large circle of patients for so long a time.
There was, also, a dearer interest binding him; but of this, in the reticence of his proud nature, he as yet said nothing.
He was following up his acquaintance with Annie St. John. Under the sanction of that friendship which her dying mother had desired and which his universal reputation upheld, he was studying the mind and heart of the child-woman, and drawing her on, first to respect and confide in him, then to feel his strong nature a help and a necessity, then to fully and unreservedly love, to passionately adore him—even as he already fully loved and trusted her.
It was not until he felt certain that her soul was absorbed in his, that he spoke of his love to its object. The response he got was such as to satisfy his exacting nature. He had indeed no rivals, not even in the admiration of general society; for Annie, though fitted to shine among the fairest, a woman of whom he knew he should be proud, had lived a secluded life, owing to the tastes of her father, and the necessity of economy which he had occasioned even before his death. Her few friends were all among refined and cultivated people, who loved and appreciated her, but these were few and of the quiet kind. The small property left her kept her independently as a boarder with one of her mother's friends, and furnished her with a handsometrousseauwhen she came to prepare for her marriage.
When Dr. Carollyn was known to be repairing and refurnishingthe family mansion, fitting it up richly with more than its pristine splendor, report said, of course, that it was for a bride. But who the bride was to be, not half-a-dozen persons knew, until she was presented to his friends in the drawing-room of her new home as Mrs. Dr. Carollyn.
Her beauty and accomplishments could not be caviled at by the most envious of disappointed belles—her family was unexceptionable, if not wealthy and as for those lovely traits of character which made her what she was, the husband cared not to have the world guess at half her worth. It was enough for his pride that when in society she received the most distinguished consideration; and enough for his love, that at home she made him the happiest man in the world. The three months of their wedded life had been all that we like to imagine for youth and beauty, hightened by every favoring circumstance of worldly prosperity.
CHAPTER IV.
JEALOUSY.
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven—'Tis gone!Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell!Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throneTo tyrannous hate!————Of one, whose hand,Like the base Judean, threw a pearl awayRicher than all his tribe.—Shakspeare's Othello.
Itwould seem to have been the plainest duty of Dr. Carollyn to have asked his wife, at once, how the miniature of his friend chanced to be in her possession, and to have received from her such explanations as she had to give, from which he might judge for himself. But when men are beside themselves with anger, love, jealousy, or any other mastering passion, they rush away from the simple, straight-forward dictates of common sense, striking blindly at whatever impedes them.
When he left the house his heart was on fire. He walked distractedly up one street and down another. No sooner would the vision of his wife, all purity, rise before him in its matchless beauty, than the memory of her hesitation, her blushes, and all the suspicious incidents of this evening would rush before it. A jealousy, before which all previous developments of it had been like the breath of morning before the midnight whirlwind, swept through him, leaving every thing joyful in his nature a prostrate ruin.
Yet he would be calm! He would not misjudge his friend,much less would he misjudge his own wife! He would be calm—as cool and dispassionate as if he were a juryman on trial of a stranger. He would wait, watch, and not in any manner change his usual ways, so as to excite the surprise of the interested parties. Oh no! he would not distrust his Annie, until the certainty of her deception made further trust in her impossible! And with feelings the gall of whose bitterness proved that he had already prejudged her, he set to himself the task of spy upon his wife.
It was midnight when he returned from his tramp through the chilly streets. Annie was sitting up for him, in their chamber, a loose robe thrown about her, and her bright hair, all unbound, rippling over her shoulders. His melting heart was hardened again, as he observed that her writing desk had just been pushed away from her, and that the locket lay in a half-closed drawer, with a letter she had just sealed. He had not known of her having any correspondents, aside from occasional complimentary notes to and from friends in the city. The face of the envelope lay up, and his lightning glance devoured the address—Mademoiselle Victoire Gurnell.
"There is no Gurnell of that name," he cried to himself. "Maurice's sisters are both married, and he has no cousins in this country. Of course I should know of them. What a flimsy disguise! A secret correspondence under an assumed name! Was ever man so betrayed?"
"I have been so lonely," said the young wife, closing the drawer with one hand, as she laid the other on his own. "It's the first evening you have left me so long; but I presume you and Maurice were talking over old times—so I excuse you. Why, Leger, your hand is as cold as ice!"
"Your constancy will warm it," he said, with a laugh.
It was a hollow laugh, with a strange ring to it; but the pretty wife was sleepy, though she would not have owned it possible, and she did not observe its peculiarity. In ten minutes she was slumbering peacefully. Her husband had laid himself by her side; as soon as her regular breathing announced that she was sleeping, he slipped from the bed. Twice and thrice he paced the room, approaching the little writing-desk at every turn, and again shrinking away. Never in his life had Dr. Carollyn done a dishonorable act; yet now he was hesitating about a deed from which his honor recoiled. The jealousy which mastered him soon put an end to the mental contest; he softly opened the unlocked drawer, drew forth the letter, carefully broke the seal, took out the folded sheet, and read:
"Dear Victoire—Be patient and hopeful. All is going well. You will soon be the happiest of the happy. I will meet you to-morrow afternoon at the place we appointed.
"Annie."
He returned the note to the envelope and resealed it with such caution as to leave no trace of what had occurred to it.
Mrs. Carollyn would certainly have noticed the haggard appearance of her husband, carefully as he strove to appear well and happy, if her own mind had not been unusually preoccupied. When they came to the breakfast-table, she forgot to put sugar in his coffee, and made several little mistakes about which he should have rallied her, if they, also, in his mind had not been "trifles light as air," which were, to him, "confirmation strong as proofs of Holy Writ."
"I've been thinking," she said, as she followed him into the study, where he usually spent an hour after breakfast before going to his office, "that it would be pleasant and proper to give a party in honor of Maurice Gurnell. We expected to give one soon, in return for the abundance showered upon us, and this appears to me a charming occasion. What do you say, Leger?"
"I say so too, Annie. Give him a party, by all means!"
"Shall we have it a splendid affair, darling? Do you give mecarte blanche? Sit down here, and tell me something of how you would like it to be, for I'd like to get out my invitations to-day—we ought to have it as soon as possible."
"I've no time to spend on such matters. There are the sick and dying waiting for my advice. Arrange your festival as you please. Only have it as magnificent as it should be—don't fail to have it magnificent! When the burning building crushes to its fall it always gives out the brightest blaze of splendor." And he left his paper unread, hurrying from the house.
"Leger is certainly a littledistraitthis morning. He's worried to death with his practice; he doesn't get rest enough. Oh dear, I wish he were not so good a physician—or else that so many people wouldn't get sick," and the young wife knitted her fair brow, perplexed to think people would fall ill in this bright, beautiful world, and wondering what she should first set on foot to bring affairs out right in the briefest time.
"If Leger only knew my object in giving this party! But Maurice wishes to surprise him as well as the rest of the world. I don't wonder they accuse women of being unable to keep a secret; I'm sure it's hard for me to keep mine away from my darling. Ah, if he only knew—I'vetwosecrets—but I shan't tell him the dearest one until all this confusion of the party is over," and with a blush too lovely to have been wasted in that solitude, she lost herself in a smiling reverie.
"I've beensobusy," she cried, as she flew to meet her husband, as he came home to tea—he had not been in since morning—"and have accomplished so much! I had the notes all written by four o'clock, with a lady friend to help me. I sent Stephen out at noon with the first half of them, and theothers are delivered by this time I presume. I was glad Mr. Gurnell did not come in until that part of the work was done, as I wished to get them out to-day. He's just gone, five minutes ago. It's set for Thursday evening—only two days; but I've ordered the refreshments from Thompson's, and we've nothing to do but arrange the rooms. Shall we have real flowers?"
"Real flowers? Oh, yes; nothing false about our entertainment—no mockery of pleasure! I believe in having things what they seem to be; don't you, Annie St. John? These snow-white lilies and japonicas—they will be most appropriate."
"Yes, for a bride, they will be," was the innocent answer. "How like old times it sounded to hear you call me by my maiden name!" guessing little that he had called her that, because he had denied her the name he had bestowed upon her.
As she leaned her head against his breast, he smoothed the hair which glittered beneath his hand. If every separate shining strand had thrilled him with electric fire, he could not have been more profoundly moved. He loved this woman—this wife of his—loved her more desperately than before he doubted her; he could not refrain his hand from that caress if he had known that she was steeped in falsehood. The next moment he tore it away, as if the touch of that silken head had burned him.
"Then you did not go out this afternoon?" he asked, presently.
"No; I was intending to, but I had not time. I sent for Thompson to come here for my orders."
"It would be better for your health if you went out every day."
He was glad when company came in, after tea. It prevented Annie from noticing his mood—it freed him from her distracting endearments. Maurice Gurnell was among the visitors. He staid until the others had all gone, giving his friend a vivid and eloquent account of what had befallen him, what he had seen, done and heard in the last year-and-a half. Dr. Carollyn's manner was always so quiet, that the young man noticed nothing unusual about him; but when he had nearly exhausted his resources of foreign gossip, he rose, with a gay laugh.
"You look tired, Leger, and I don't wonder, the way I've rattled on. I must beg Mrs. Carollyn's pardon for engrossing you so long. It seemed so pleasant to be talking away at you again. I say talkingathim, Mrs. Carollyn, for I always had to do all the active part of our conversations."
How easy and graceful was his manner—how free from any appearance of acting a part! Leger looked at the radiant face, the enchanting smile of his handsome friend, so bright, so changeful, so fitted to win the admiration of women, and cursed himself as a dark, severe, repelling man, whom the fickle sex could find nothing in to really love.
As Maurice gave his hand to Mrs. Carollyn in saying good-night, Leger, standing apart, and seeming to be arranging a book on the table, was certain that he heard a whispered sentence, though he could not make out its import.
We need not dwell minutely upon the two days of intolerable torture which intervened between this and the evening of the party. Dr. Carollyn had wrestled with himself, and had almost thrown the demon of jealousy which was invisibly tearing him. The last few hours he had enjoyed comparative peace. He could have gone down on his knees and begged pardon of the wife he had been wronging in his thoughts, when she came into the study to look for him, to get his opinion of her dress, and to tell him it was time to take his place beside her in the front saloon, to receive their guests.
Whether it was because her apparel was really so becoming, or whether the intensity of his feelings hightened every effect, certain it is that she had never appeared so beautiful to him—not even on the wedding-day. She wore a blue velvet dress, with the pearls which had been his bridal gift. A wreath of matchless japonicas circled the golden coils of hair at the back of her head, while a few glimmering ringlets shadowed her cheeks and throat, exquisite in contour and color.
He had reason to remember every minutest detail of dress, looks and action, for the picture at that moment stamped upon his heart was destined to glow there during long and desolate years, unobscured by any more recent impressions. He sprung to his feet and kissed her.
"You admire me, then?" she said, with a happy smile.
"You are looking beautifully, Annie."
The bell rung, and they hurried through the glittering and perfumed vista of rooms, to take their place at the upper end. For a couple of hours a stream of gay people poured into the saloons. It was destined to be a brilliant party; for, in addition to the luxury of the apartments, the host and hostess were in just that mood which made their guests most delightful.
"A wife improves Dr. Carollyn. I never saw him so brilliant," remarked everybody.
When the tide of pleasure was at its hight; when all had arrived and the music was loudest, the dancers whirling; when the heat and light had called out the full perfume of the flowers not yet beginning to wither, a shadow fell upon Dr. Carollyn. His wife had disappeared; so had Maurice Gurnell, who had been flashing his wit and mirth amidst the company collected in his honor. Striving to conquer his uneasiness, Leger waited, while moment after moment rolled away, to him like hours.
"Perhaps they have gone to look at the supper-table;" and unable to resist his maddening suspicions, but trying to believe that he was not suspicious, he descended to the supper-room,where the last touches were being given by skillful servants to the elegant table.
Again he passed through the thronged apartments, through the dancing saloons, into the conservatory, the little study, out upon a little balcony, chill with the winter twilight. They were in none of these. He ascended to the dressing-rooms, passing on until he reached his wife's chamber—that sacred, secluded room, into which he never entered unbidden. He paused before the door with an icy heart and hand. He heard voices—hisvoice andhersin earnest conversation; he heard him say:
"And now, Annie, before we go, let me thank you again and again for all you have done for me."
"Let us hasten," was the low reply, "before Leger misses us. Oh, dear! he will be so surprised."
The chill left the listening husband, and a hot fever of rage took its place. Flinging the door wide open, he stepped in.
"Not so surprised, madam, as you may think. I have guessed at your secret days ago."
Annie was about to make some answer to this; but when she met his eyes, she grew white and said nothing.
"As for you, Maurice Gurnell, I will not kill so mean a man as you. I will not even strike so base a thing. Only takeherwith you, and get out of my presence forever;" and with a slight, contemptuous gesture toward his wife, he turned upon his heel.
"Stay!" cried Maurice; "you are mad, Leger. Let us explain;" but he continued down the hall, till Annie, with a faint cry, sprung to his side, grasping his arm.
"Leger Carollyn!"
He flung off her hand, and she shrunk back into her chamber; but before he had reached the turn in the hall which led to the dressing-rooms, a slight figure, robed in white, with a long vail sweeping about the floating drapery, sprung before him, seized both his hands, and commenced talking rapidly in French—so rapidly, that he, not of late days very familiar with the sounds, hardly understood her, but he was compelled to hear enough to rivet his attention.
"Ah! you do not understand," she cried, half-laughing, half in tears. "I am Victoire. Maurice is not a bad man—no, no, you must not call him so. He is my husband—ah me, this very day. Your sweet, angel wife, she help us—it was her own good pastor marry us this day. It was your wife who kept it secret—because, you see, I was in the convent—and I run away. I run away and came across the sea to wait for Maurice—that is it, because we love each other so. He was my cousin. Come; your sweet, pretty wife said we should have a wedding-party, and surprise them all. Come; we must go down. Ah me! I tremble so, to think of it!"
The pretty creature, all childish animation, pushed him backwith eager gesture, to the chamber he had left in such a tumult. An infant could have led him, the reaction had left him so unresisting. Maurice met him at the threshold, saying, gravely:
"I forgive your too hasty words, Leger. It was foolish of me to try to keep my little plan a secret from you; but I thought the surprise would be pleasant. In five moments I can tell you all that is now necessary with regard to Victoire. She is my cousin once removed. Her mother's family live in Paris. When I went to see them, Victoire was at school in a convent. Her mother was extremely religious, and, having married two daughters comfortably, had resolved that this one should enter a nunnery. She gave me permission to call upon my cousin at the convent. I did so. Notwithstanding the icy presence of the lady-superior, we contrived to fall in love with each other. Look at her, Leger, and you will not wonder! I went back and proposed to my aunt for her daughter's hand. She rejected the idea. I could not soften her. Of course, the more I was opposed, the more passionate became my resolution. I contrived to correspond with Victoire; I laid a plan for her to escape from the convent, and take passage in the vessel which was to sail the month before I left. This I did to avert suspicion and pursuit. Of course if they saw me still in Paris, they would know she had not fled with me; and if they looked for her in connection with me at all, they would confine their search to the city. She accomplished her flight in safety; the captain of the vessel, a friend of mine, took her in charge. Not wishing to send her to my own family (knowing they would oppose the match bitterly, and probably return her to her mother), I bethought me of Annie St. John, the woman of all my acquaintance I most respected and admired, and I gave Victoire letters to her in which I begged her to take charge of my poor little blossom and keep our secret in her own breast until I arrived, and our marriage was safely consummated. She found the lady married, but she had heard me speak of you too often not to feel the same confidence in her as before. She came to your house with her letters, and her poor little lonely heart frightened and trembling; but she was not willing Mrs. Carollyn should even tell you her story, which was a little foolish. Mrs. Carollyn obtained board for her with the same lady in whose family she herself resided before her marriage, keeping watch and ward over her until I arrived to relieve her of the charge. She thought it a pretty plan to give us a wedding-party. With the sanction of her presence and approval, your pastor married us privately this afternoon. And now we are ready to face the whole curious, condemnatory, applaudatory and astonished world, are we not, little girl?" And with a look of tender fondness Maurice turned to the young creature, shy but happy, clinging to his arm. "Come, Dr. and Mrs. Carollyn, give us the support of your countenance through this trying ordeal."
Leger offered his arm to his wife. She did not take it, but walked by his side, with a strange luster in her pale face—a fixed, resolute expression, that did not change through the evening. With admirable dignity she introduced the bride and bridegroom to the surprised assemblage, his own relatives included.
The supper was a marvel of costly luxury. It was late when the dancers tired, the music faltered, and the house was gradually left to solitude. Mr. and Mrs. Gurnell had been previously invited to spend a week with their hostess, and their chamber awaited them. Mrs. Carollyn left them at its door with a pleasant good-night.
When the Doctor knocked at his wife's door, his heart drenched in tears of humble regret, she did not respond to the summons, and he retired to await the subsiding of her just displeasure.
But when she was summoned to the late breakfast, her room was found empty. Nothing was disturbed. The blue velvet dress lay on the bed. A traveling-dress and bonnet was gone from the wardrobe. The casket of pearls was on the bureau. Of all her wealth she had taken nothing but a sum of money—amounting to a few hundred dollars, which had come in from her property—and her wedding-ring. Since she was a wife, and might possibly some time become a mother, she had kept her wedding-ring—and, yes, her marriage-certificate. One of the servants said he had heard the door open and close, very early in the morning, but he was very sleepy, from having been up so late, and had paid no attention to it.
And from that time, for weary, heart-withering years, Dr. Carollyn obtained no clue to the fate of his wife.
CHAPTER V.
THE HUNTER AND THE MAIDEN.
And still thy mane streams backwardAt every thrilling bound,And still thy measured hoof-strokeBeats with its morning sound!—Bayard Taylor.Now he shivers, head and hoof, and the flakes of foam fall off,And his face grows fierce and thin!And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go.Mrs. Browning.
Foronce Nat Wolfe was disappointed in his best friend—his long-tried, much-lamented steed, Kit Carson. All the long afternoon he pursued the northerly course which the bison had taken, and which, he knew, led to more fragrant streams andbetter pasturage. The same moon toward which Elizabeth, riding merrily in the ox-drawn wagon, was looking with such longing eyes, found him still striding on, throwing keen glances in every direction, but without having met a living thing of any kind in his six hours' journey. He was certain that he was on the track of the herd; and, more than that, frequently, before it grew too dark for such observations, he detected the print of horse-shoes here and there along the way. As long as the moon shone he continued to walk; but when it set, there was nothing to do but to eat his dry biscuit, take a draught from his canteen and lie down to sleep with a tuft of grass for a pillow. This he did, still feeling confident that when he awoke it would be to find Kit grazing quietly by his side.
The first rays of the morning roused him. He had slumbered heavily, for he was fatigued; and as he tried to shake off the chill and stiffness of his night's exposure by running swiftly, he remarked to himself:
"Well, I may as well run in the right direction, and that is, toward the point I started from. Poor Kit's gone forever, I fear. I must get back to the trail, in order to follow the route to Denver. I'll have to foot it all the way, unless I overtake some train that'll be willing to sell me some kind of an animal. I wouldn't have taken a thousand dollars for Kit Carson! Confound me if I think the girl was worth it!"
Yet, at the recollection of the maiden in whose behalf he had sacrificed his horse, a sudden warmth thrilled through his veins, very beneficial in dispelling the effects of the night air; he slackened his speed insensibly, forgetting his breakfast for some time in visions of a young, wistful face, with eyes so lustrous and yet melancholy that they made his heart yearn to fill them with smiles instead of tears to which they seemed more accustomed.
"It's a burning shame in that shiftless farmer to be dragging that kind of a child out to Pike's Peak—an infernal hole for men, at the best. She don't feel at home, poor thing, that's evident! Her place is with the ladies of the land—instead of being set down in a shanty among a crowd of rough, swearing miners. She needs a protector, that child does—blast me if she don't." Here a thought rushed through his mind which deepened the flush of his sun-burned cheek. Presently he shook his head, continuing, "No! no! it's too late for that with Nat Wolfe. A man that's been fooled by a woman as I was, would be a double fool to trust one of the kind again."
Coming to a pool of water in a deep gully, Nat refreshed himself with the remains of his dried meat and biscuit, filled his canteen with water, and pushed on. It was noon when he reached Pike's Peak trail—at almost the spot where he left it. There were no travelers in sight.
"I must overtake that train again. It's going my way, and—and—I shan't just feel easy without seeing that girl again. I'm a good match for an ox-team; but when it has at least twenty miles the start, that makes it harder. I'll be likely to be hungry before I reach the next station, if I don't come across a stray buffalo or antelope, and we're about out of their range now. However, it's too early in the day to borrow trouble. I've been fifty hours without food, more than once."
With long, steady, gliding steps, which took him over the ground with surprising rapidity, yet which had not the appearance of haste or effort, he continued his march, reaching the place at which the emigrants had stayed the previous night, before sundown. Here he was fortunate enough to find, among other relics of their encampment, some of the remains of their breakfasts. He did not pause to scrupulously examine the nicety of these fragments; for he had eaten nothing since early morning, and was very glad of these providential crumbs. Having somewhat rested and refreshed himself, he had about concluded to push on, until nine or ten in the evening, so as to come up with the train by evening of the next day. It was now after sunset. As he arose to resume his journey, he perceived, afar, against the northern hemisphere of the horizon, a party of horsemen sweeping on; he knew them, even at that distance, by their attitudes and manner of riding, as a band of Indians.
"They'd like right well to know I was here, alone and on foot," soliloquized Nat, "though I doubt then if they'd care to approach me, when I was wide-awake and looking out for them. Let 'em come! the whole snaky set! I suppose it would be just as prudent not to show myself until they are out of sight; though if they come where I am, I'm agreeable! I'd like to dislodge a red-skin from one of those horses, and take his place. Perhaps they'll camp here for the night. Ha! here they come; I'd better be looking out for a covert."
He crept along the ground and dropped down the embankment into the river-bed. Here he could conceal himself from observation, unless the party stopped for the night, or came for water. In case he was discovered before the twilight enabled him to escape, he had only to depend upon his weapons, and the dauntless courage which had made him so famous.
It was true that most of these vagrant bands of red-skins were not at war with the whites; but their natural cruelty and covetousness would lead them to murder any solitary traveler they might chance upon; and toward Nat Wolfe they all felt the fury of revenge for the frequent losses they had sustained from him.
As the tramp of the approaching horses drew nearer, he raised his head cautiously and reconnoitered. "They're a well-mounted set of devils—plenty of 'em, too, I'll swear!" he muttered; and seeing a bush hanging over the bank a little furtherdown, which would afford him a better chance to make observations, he crawled on his hands and knees along the yellow clay until he came to the spot over which it grew. This new position was a safer one in this respect—it was around a bend of the stream; so that if the Indians came to dip water from the half-dried pool above him, they would not observe him where he lay, sheltered by the bend; the ground above, also, shelved over, so that he stood a good chance of escaping their keen eyes. Looking well to his trusty rifle, and mechanically feeling the knife and revolvers in his belt, he pressed as closely as possible under the bank and listened until the party drew rein, as he had anticipated they would, and dismounting made preparations for encamping for the night. Nat's trail was so mixed up with that of the company who had occupied the ground the previous day that the new-comers perceived nothing to arouse their suspicions.
It was extremely irksome to Golden Arrow to lie crouched under the bank all the time the new-comers were kindling their fires, broiling their venison and feeding their horses such forage as they had; he had rather have darted upon them like the weapon after which they had named him; but, brave as he was, he knew that one white man was a poor match for thirty Indians, and he restrained his hatred and impatience as best he could; varying the tedium with the rather dangerous amusement of raising himself to watch them behind the shelter of the bush. The two hours which they spent, before they finally stretched themselves in a ring with their feet to the ashes of the fire they had made, seemed to him endless. They had secured their horses by tying a knot in the end of the ropes about their necks, and burying these knots in the earth of the prairie, in lieu of trees to tie them to. Twilight had deepened into the wan moonlight of a chilly night before all was so quiet as to warrant Nat's attempt to escape from his present unfriendly proximity. Quietly creeping along the river-bed, until out of hearing distance of any wakeful ear, he finally stood up, climbed the bank, and struck across the desert—as the stream took him away from instead of toward the track he intended to find and follow.
Nothing interfered with his intentions, and he was soon traveling briskly along the trail, which the descending moon enabled him to follow. For an hour he made good progress; but as the moon went down the wind arose, and soon that terrible tempest which was working such destruction in the camp of the emigrants came upon him also, defying his utmost efforts to hold his own against it. Not a rock to shelter him, not a shrub to cling to, and wrapped in impenetrable darkness, all he could do was to fling himself flat upon the ground, shut his eyes, and let the winds trample him at their pleasure. During all the first fury of the tornado he lay thus; when it hadsomewhat abated he arose and struggled on against it. His only guide was the fact that the wind had come from the direction in which he wished to go; so he now set his face against it, feeling his way through the starless night. But the wind has the reputation of being fickle, and it is not surprising, therefore, that when the wished-for morning began to break, Nat Wolfe found himself, instead of several miles on the way toward friends, back in the camp of the enemy.
The Indians were already stirring, on the alert to discover what losses they had sustained by the storm. Nat, fearing discovery on the open plain, again took to his hands and knees, creeping along to seek for some shelter in the bed of the stream until the party should have mounted and ridden off. Scarcely had he gained a secure position, with a friendly shrub again giving him an opportunity to reconnoiter, when he perceived another band of mounted men swiftly approaching from the west, along the Denver trail. That these, too, were red-skins, and a part of the former party, he at once decided; but great was his surprise to perceive that one of the savages rode his own lost steed, Kit Carson.
His astonishment was swallowed up in a still greater emotion the next instant; trained as he was to the suppression of all outward signs of excitement, he could scarcely repress a cry, at perceiving, bound to a pony, which was led by the rider of his own horse, a white captive whom he recognized as the very young girl whom he had rescued from the bisons. The east was now golden with the coming sunrise, and as the party drew nearer he plainly observed the face of the captive—that young, beautiful face—now so pale with terror and fatigue, as to excite his deepest pity. The storm had blown the polished braids of her hair into streaming tresses which rippled about her form in dark waves. She was quiet, for her hands were tied, and effort was hopeless; but her features had an expression of dread and anguish impossible to depict. Nat remembered her pitiful avowal to him of her extreme horror of Indians, and his stern heart shook with sympathy, as he noted the still despair—aversion of her look. The one who led her pony Nat recognized too—a dirty, repulsive savage upon whose face he had once inflicted a wound, in a battle between the settlers and red-skins years ago, and who had since concealed the marks of his disgrace with a bandage. This fellow evidently knew that he was riding Golden Arrow's horse; he was in high spirits, as he galloped along, forcing the smaller pony which he led, into doing its best to keep up with him. As the party swept by within two rods of where he crouched, Nat's eyes almost met those of Elizabeth, who turned an eager piercing gaze at the bush, as if her mind or senses had detected the presence of a friend. The two companies now met; the new arrivals would not dismount, making such gestures toward thegirl, and the path they had come over, that Nat easily understood they were afraid of pursuit, and were resolved to press on to some more distant ground, before pausing for rest. The others, acquiescing in this, mounted their horses, only pausing to water them at the stream. During this brief interval of grace Nat Wolfe had to make up his mind whether or not there was any thing to be done for the salvation of that poor child whose beauty and distress alike appealed to all the bravery, all the daring and chivalry of his nature.
It was one man, on foot, against forty mounted devils, who, however cowardly some of them might be under equal chances, would be fired with exultant ferocity by the advantages of the occasion. And, however willing he might be to throw away his own life in the effort to preserve the maiden, he felt that any failure on his part would only hasten her fate. All these thoughts rushed through his brain in the brief time he was given for reflection; but his pulse remained as steady, his eyes as cool and quick as ever in his life; indeed, all his faculties, while they intensified in power, gathered to his aid like soldiers rushing to the call of their leader.
If he could have given Elizabeth warning of his proximity, so that she would have been prepared to take advantage of any momentary opportunity, it would have been increasing the chances of success, but she was too lost in dread and too hopeless of succor, to be on the look-out for friends in this unlikely spot. She did frequently turn her head and gaze off over the track they had passed, as if with some hope of the emigrants sending aid, and after such a fruitless search over the desert road, would drop her head despairingly. Once, while all the Indians were busy among themselves, and she seemed to be looking toward the bush behind which he knelt, he ventured to raise his hand an instant. Whether she perceived the signal he could not decide; she certainly started, lifting her head with so eager a motion that her savage captor turned toward her sharply, when she immediately resumed her drooping attitude.
The one narrow chance which Nat saw, was to kill the rider and secure his horse, who, he knew, would bound to him at the first call. If he could do this before they wreaked a sudden revenge upon the girl, he hoped to seize her and to fight his way free of the band. It would be as good as a miracle if they should indeed get away without injury from the shower of shot which would be poured upon them, as the Indians, more than half of them, had guns.
"Kit knows I'm somewhere about," muttered the hunter, as his horse began to grow restive—so restive that the red robber could hardly retain his seat in the saddle. "I wouldn't give that horse for all the human friends you could give standing-room on this prairie."
That instant the animal made a plunge which compelled his rider to loosen his hold upon the pony's rein or lose his own equilibrium—he dropped his hold upon the captive, and in three seconds Nat had pulled trigger upon him. Simultaneously with the crack of his rifle the shriek of the dying savage rung upon the air as he leaped from the saddle, and fell headlong to the earth. Before the astonished enemy could comprehend what had happened, with a sharp, low cry to his steed, Golden Arrow sprung full into sight, appearing to their superstitious gaze to have dropped from the sky. Kit needed no second signal. With a joyous whining he bounded to meet his master, who was upon his back before one of the savages had presence of mind to attempt retaliation. In half a moment more he had snatched the girl from the rope which bound her to the pony, flung her across his horse's neck, to whom he gave an encouraging whistle, and turned to fly, with the whole pack, now yelling with hate and fury, upon his track. Into the bed of the stream Nat guided his horse, whose immense leaps, doubly burdened as he was, showed his almost human sagacity in the consciousness of deadly peril. More than twenty bullets whistled above and around them. Nat felt one cut the rim of his cap, while another grazed his leg as it plowed through his leather breeches. Whether any struck the frail form hanging over his saddle-bow, he had no time to see—only there was neither motion or cry. A few rods more placed them under the protection of a rise in the bank, from whence he could act upon the defensive; here, sheltered from their aim, he wheeled in the saddle and shot down his nearest pursuer. Three or four more came recklessly on, but as many shots from his revolver sent them dead to the earth, or wounded and yelling back again. Finally the whole troop paused and backed out of rifle-range, where they seemed to be holding a consultation. With all possible speed Nat reloaded his rifle—he had yet two charges in his revolver—then, patting his horse, gave him rein, and with a shout of triumph, flew off over the plain in the direction of the trail to the West. He feared nothing now, for he had a little the start, and there was no animal in the group behind that could distance Kit Carson. Of this the red-skins were as well aware as he; looking back, he perceived they were not attempting pursuit, but were sullenly gathering about their killed and wounded companions.
It was well for the escaped whites that this was the result. For a while, Kit galloped on with fierce energy; but suddenly, and while they were yet almost within sight of the enemy, he began to fail and stagger.
"What is it, Kit? What is it, my beauty?" questioned his owner, stroking his neck, and speaking as softly as to a lady. "He is hurt—bleeding—poor Kit!" he cried, as, stooping, he perceived for the first time the life-blood flowing from a woundin the chest received by the noble animal. "We must dismount and see what we can do for him."
The slackened speed and the voice of her preserver aroused Elizabeth; she lifted herself from the neck to which she was clinging, and comprehending what had happened, slid to the ground. Nat, with evident distress, dismounted and examined the wound.
"Poor Kit, we can do nothing for you," he cried.
"Take this—perhaps you can stanch the blood," said his companion, taking off her apron.
He tried to bind up the wound, but his efforts were of no avail—he had only time to relieve him of the saddle before the faithful steed sunk shivering upon his knees and rolled over upon his side.
"We have not even a drop of water for him," said Nat, in despair.
With a most pitiful, touching look of affection, the dying eyes of the horse were fixed upon those of his master, who knelt beside him, caressing and talking fondly to him. In a few moments all was over—Kit Carson was dead.
The grief of his master was such as Elizabeth had not expected in so hardy and self-possessed a character. With his face bowed upon the proudly-arched neck now stiffening in death, Nat Wolfe remained silent, lost in sorrow, not even looking back to be sure of his own safety from lurking enemies. She saw how manfully he strove to restrain himself, but how, in despite of his efforts, the breath came harder and more labored until great sobs shook the breast of the brave stranger who had twice periled life in her defense, and whose loss and trouble now had been occasioned by his rescue of herself.
A little while Nat's face was hidden, ashamed of the tears which flowed as a tribute to the memory of a friend the noblest and truest, whose life had been given a sacrifice to crown years of faithful and intelligent servitude—a little while, and then his face was lifted up by a pair of small, soft hands; eyes glistening with tears of sympathy met his, and a kiss fell upon his forehead. As she would have comforted her uncle had she seen him in distress, the innocent child, moved by pity, remorse and gratitude, strove to comfort the person she had brought into this trouble—only the shyness, the sweet modesty which she herself scarcely understood, made her actions the more lovely. The timid touch and kiss, the sight of the fair face full of womanly solicitude, thrilled the hunter's heart with a fire which his companion little dreamed of kindling. It was a propitious moment for a new feeling to steal in and usurp the place of the desolate, friendless sense of loss which afflicted him. The little brown hand crept into his.
"It is all my fault. If it had not been for me, he would nothave been killed," said Elizabeth, sadly. "I am so sorry—so sorry—and yet—ah, sir, if you had not come what would have been my—" she could not finish the sentence—a shudder shook every fiber of her frame.
"He could not have died in a better cause. I would have sacrificed Kit twice over to save you, so you must not blame yourself," he said, becoming in his turn the comforter. "We are hardly safe yet," he added, looking uneasily to the east. "If those prowling scoundrels should discover our loss, they would be after us with a vengeance. I will look well to my arms, and then we will take up our march without delay. Poor child! how do you think you can stand thirst, hunger and fatigue? I will try to shoot some stray game before night; but it's scarce here, I can tell you, and we may not find a drop of water till we get to the next station."
"I do not fear any thing in the world but those hateful Indians," was the reply. "I had rather starve to death in the desert, than to ever see one again. Oh, sir, let us get as far from them as we can."
He laughed at the beautiful, frightened eyes, lifted so confidingly and appealingly to his own.
"I don't wonder they make you nervous, little girl. Wait until I cut a lock of hair from Kit Carson's mane, and we will speed along. Poor Kit, good-by!"
"Cut a lock for me, too," whispered Elizabeth.
Tears were in the eyes of both as they took their last look at their murdered friend; but the presence of still imminent danger, and the necessity of losing no time in seeking their party before their strength should be exhausted, admonished them to linger no longer. Under a burning sky, across the desolate, hot, unsheltered desert, without food or water to refresh them, they took up their march.
CHAPTER VI.
FOR LIFE OR DEATH.
Before his swimming sightDoes not a figure bound,And a soft voice, with wild delight,Proclaim the lost is found?No, hunter no!—Alfred Street.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,Between the sun and moon upon the plain.—Lotus-Eaters.
Itwas noon of the second day since Buckskin Joe and the sallow stranger of the other train left their respective companies in search of the missing girl.
"It's no use, Mister; we may as well put back in time tosave our own skins. We'll never set eyes on that gal ag'in. Vittals is scarce and water scarcer; we may as well put back to the train. If we start now we can overhaul 'em before morning—the way back is more direct than the one we've took, and the moon'll be up so we can travel a'most all night."
They had been trotting along at a languid pace, their horses panting with heat and thirst, for some time before Joe made this remark. He made it now in a tone which told how reluctant he was to come to such a conclusion.
The stranger, who had not spoken for two hours, reined up his animal with a jerk; his eyes flashed fire as they met those of the guide.
"So you abandon her to her fate, do you?"
"Wal, I reckon there's no use of you curlin' up your nose at me if I do," responded Joe, angered by the fierce sneer of his companion's face. "What man kin do to save that child I'm willin' to do, though she's no kith or kin of mine. But there's no use keepin' on this way—'twon't save her and 'twon't do no good. We'vegotto give up for the present—she's dead or out of our reach 'fore this. But this I say—if them pesky red-skins has had any thing to do with carrying her off, we'll find it out sooner or later. I'll track her, dead or alive, if it takes ten years—and I'll have my revenge on 'em—for I took a fancy to that little critter." He drew his sleeve across his eyes, and then, ashamed of the weakness, looked as if about to whip his companion, as a more natural way of giving vent to his emotions.
"I will not, Ican notgive her up!" said Mr. Carollyn. "I will perish here in the effort to find her. Friend, do not leave me yet. I will cheerfully give you a thousand dollars if we are successful."
"I'd do more for Miss 'Lizabeth than I would for a thousand dollars, stranger. Buckskin Joe'd never give up while thar' was as much hope left as thar' is white on a black cat. But gold won't water our horses nor bring game to our feet in this cussed desert. We're on the trail now, and our only chance for ourselves is to keep it, and catch up with our company. If it would doherany good, the Lord knows I'd starve to death in welcome."
A repressed groan was the only reply of the other, whose eyes roved restlessly over the broad and burning expanse. There was a look of wildness and misery in his face which caused Joe to mutter to himself:
"The sun on his head is onsettlin' his brain."
The next moment the flash of something against the light dazzled him; looking to see what it was, he perceived the stranger, as if oblivious of his presence, holding a ring in his hand and utterly absorbed in gazing upon it. He knew it in an instant—itwas Elizabeth Wright's! Indignation and astonishment struggled in the honest mind of the guide. His acquaintance with Mr. Carollyn, developed as it had been by the intimacy of the last two days, had increased his respect for the courage, endurance, the great learning and the real manliness of his companion, whom he both respected and admired.
The matter of the ring had been almost driven from his mind by greater anxieties. Now he recalled the young girl's suspicions, and his promise that he would restore the lost jewel to her if he should discover it, even upon the person of the haughty gentleman. Resolved to risk the consequences of giving offense, he at once inquired:
"Where did you get that, Mr. Carollyn?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because it belongs to the gal we're after. She felt mighty bad at losing it. I promised to help her find it. I s'pose it lost off her finger and you picked it up?" The half-suspicious, half-inquiring tone in which this last sentence was put brought a faint smile to the haggard countenance of his hearer.
"It shall be returned to her—be sure of that, friend—that is, if she be not lost forever! My God, I can not give up! After so many years—and now—is my punishment never to cease? Man! man!" he cried, catching and wringing Joe's hand, all the pride vanished from his manner, "she is mine, my child! my only child! I have found her only to lose her. Oh, say, is there not something yet to be tried? I can not go back!"
"Wal, that beats all," muttered Joe, looking curiously to see some token of insanity in his companion's eyes.
"I'm telling you the plain, simple truth; that girl is my own daughter; this ring is mine as well as hers—her mother's wedding-ring. Say that you will not give up, friend," he persisted.
"I s'pose there's water about five or ten miles easterly, and we mought possibly find some kind of game near it, to make a supper on. If it'll relieve your mind any, stranger, we'll camp thar' to-night, and let the train go on without us. It's risky, and it won't do no good—but it shan't be said that Buckskin Joe ever give up, while any body else held out—so thar'!"
Their hands met in a strong grip which sealed the promise; again their horses were started on, and for the next hour they rode along the sultry plain silently, with sharp, attentive glances, discovering nothing to stimulate their sinking hopes.
"What's that! what in thunder?" suddenly spoke Joe, stopping his horse, and pointing to a dark object lying in a little heap nearly a mile away on the yellow plain.
"It looks like an antelope," said Mr. Carollyn, looking in the direction indicated.
"It looks like a human critter," said Joe, and without further parley, the two struck off at full speed for the little dark spot which had attracted their curiosity. "It looks like two on 'em!" was his next remark.
"A man and a woman!" he added presently.
"White!" was his next observation.
"Nat Wolfe, I'll be dogged!"—a moment later.
"And 'Lizabeth Wright," he shouted, exultantly, bounding forward.
In ten seconds more he sprung from his horse, ran up to the hunter—who had risen to his feet and waved one arm while with the other he supported the slender form of a female—and shook his fist in his face.
"Thunder and blazes! Nat Wolfe, if you hain't went and gone and been the first in the field ag'in! You're a mean, impertinent, sneaking fellow—what business, I say, have you with this gal? Didn't you knowIwas after her? Couldn't you let her be? You might a' known I'd been all right, in the course of time. This is the second time you've stepped in between me and her—and, by hokey, ef you do it ag'in, I'll consider it a personal matter."
"You must be a little faster on your pegs, then, my boy," said Nat, a little faintly, but trying to laugh. "You've come in very good time now, though, and if you've got something for the girl to eat and drink I'll give you all the credit of saving her."
In the meantime, Dr. Carollyn, with the eye of a physician, had detected at one glance the state of the case; he, too, sprung from his horse, and snatching the maiden from Nat's arm, poured between her lips a spoonful of brandy from a flask in his belt. The liquid ran through her veins like pleasant fire; she opened her eyes, smiled, and made an effort to sit up unassisted. Hope and joy equally with the more material stimulus revived her from the state of almost insensibility in which she had been lying for some time.
"She's about beat out," muttered Joe, "that's sartain. If I hadn't a' come just as I did, she'd been a goner. Here, Miss 'Lizabeth, here's a biscuit—eat it, every crumb of it, for you're starved, I know."
She caught at the food eagerly but the firm hand of the stranger withdrew it.
"Cautiously, at first," he said, breaking off little bits, and feeding her as he would a baby.
"I'll be danged if anybody'll let me do any thing fer that gal," scolded Joe. "Everybody meddles."
"Do something for me, then," said Nat. "I shouldn't object to a bit of bread and meat, if you've got it to spare."
Joe, who was only discontented when he could not be usefulto somebody, turned his wallet inside out in his generous search for provisions.
"Be careful," again said the calm voice of the Doctor, "do not waste any thing. We have got to make our way to the train on that limited supply. Joe, you have water in your canteen? Mix a little of this brandy with it and give him."
The hunter ate and drank sparingly, for he was well aware of the necessity of prudence; it was a feast to him to see the light and color coming back into the maiden's face. Although he had fasted much longer than she, he was inured to just such hardships, and was much the least exhausted of the two. Their sufferings had been chiefly from thirst, increased by the heat and the necessity for constant exertion.
They had been disappointed in finding the stream which Nat had been certain was within marching distance on their route, the previous day. They had walked all day, and far into the night, in hopes of reaching it, and finding perhaps an antelope or even a stray prairie-dog upon which they might sup.
Of course the hunter was obliged to shorten his steps to those of his little friend; and she, tasking her energies to the utmost, would not say that she must pause for rest, until she finally sunk down in the darkness, unable to proceed further.
That was a strange night in the experience of both. The young girl, clinging to him like a child to its mother, was cherished as sacredly. She complained neither of hunger or thirst, nor of her fear of prowling savages and animals, but as the wild wind of midnight grew more chilly, she shrunk closer to him; he took her to his breast, wrapped about her his own leather jacket, and she slept away all memory of danger and fatigue. We can not protect and shelter any helpless thing without softening toward it, even if it be troublesome and stupid—how, then, could Nat Wolfe care for this most beautiful and innocent maiden, as circumstances obliged him to do, without feeling the growing of a golden chord binding their interests together in bands never more to be broken? The soft cheek upon his shoulder, the softer bosom close to his own, returned the sacrifice of his jacket, by kindling a warmth in his heart which bid defiance to the cold wind.
As soon as the deep darkness preceding the dawn began to lighten, he aroused his slumbering companion.
"You can walk better now than in the heat of the day," he said; "poor child, I wish I had food to offer you."