His course would be to reach the bank of the Ohio, and get conveyance on its waters as far East as he could. To this end he obtained directions from Cato, and shortly after breakfast, after shaking the kind negro by the hand and thanking him heartily for his kindness, which he meant some day to reward substantially, he set out on his way.
James Cromwell came down to breakfast on the morning succeeding his attempt to drown our young hero, with as composed a manner as his nervous agitation permitted him to assume.
"Where is your young friend?" inquired the landlady, for Cromwell and Robert usually came in together.
"I have not seen him since supper," said Cromwell. "I was about to ask you if you had seen anything of him."
"Was he not here last night?"
"No, I went into his room just now, and find that his bed is untouched."
"That is strange," said Mr. Manton.
"I have felt quite troubled about him," continued Cromwell, hypocritically.
"Do you think anything has befallen him?" asked the landlady.
"I think it more likely that he has run away," said Cromwell.
"He seemed to be very quiet and gentlemanly," said Mr. Manton.
"No doubt heseemedso," said Cromwell, "but his guardian when he confided him to my charge, informed me that he was a hard case, but exceedingly artful, so that no one would suspect it. He was opposed to coming west with me, and my impression is, that he has started for New York secretly. I shall put up a notice calling for information. If I receive none I shall be compelled to go on to New York myself and give information to his guardian of his sudden disappearance."
"You will be compelled to leave your business. I should think that would be inconvenient," said Mr. Manton.
"It will be inconvenient," said Cromwell, "and probably a pecuniary loss, but I feel it my duty, and money is a secondary consideration."
"Perhaps Mr. Raymond may appear in the course of the forenoon," suggested the landlady. "It may be only a boy's adventure."
"I hope you may be right," said Cromwell, "but I hardly think it will prove so."
He did not eat much breakfast. The thought of Robert Raymond lying at the bottom of the pond kept continually recurring to him. Hewondered whether he would be found and when. He would like to have set out for New York at once; but if immediately after his departure the body should be found, it would look bad, and possibly excite suspicion. He thought it would be better for him to wait two or three days, and then he would feel at liberty to start on his journey.
If during that time he attended to his business as usual, there would be no chance for suspecting him of having had anything to do with Robert's disappearance.
This course, then, he resolved to adopt, but in spite of all he could do, he was tormented by a constant, nervous anxiety. Every moment he thought of the liability that Robert's body might be discovered, and he braced himself to stand the shock.
He thought it best, however, to write a letter at once to Paul Morton, announcing the mysterious disappearance of Robert.
It ran thus:
"Paul Morton, Esq.:"Dear Sir:—It is with great regret that I take my pen, having only bad news to communicate. Your ward, Robert Raymond, whom you placed in my charge, has mysteriously disappeared. Ihave seen nothing of him since yesterday at supper. He went out after that, and did not return to pass the night at his boarding house. I do not know what to think, whether he has met with any accident,perhaps of a fatal nature, or has only run away. If the latter, I suppose he would make his way to New York and present himself before you. I shall take every means of ascertaining which of these is the true explanation of his mysterious disappearance. I think of starting for New York in a couple of days, in order to see you personally, and let you know all that I can learn about this unfortunate affair, as I know that you will bedeeplyinterested in all that concerns your ward. Your obedient servant,"James Cromwell."
"Paul Morton, Esq.:
"Dear Sir:—It is with great regret that I take my pen, having only bad news to communicate. Your ward, Robert Raymond, whom you placed in my charge, has mysteriously disappeared. Ihave seen nothing of him since yesterday at supper. He went out after that, and did not return to pass the night at his boarding house. I do not know what to think, whether he has met with any accident,perhaps of a fatal nature, or has only run away. If the latter, I suppose he would make his way to New York and present himself before you. I shall take every means of ascertaining which of these is the true explanation of his mysterious disappearance. I think of starting for New York in a couple of days, in order to see you personally, and let you know all that I can learn about this unfortunate affair, as I know that you will bedeeplyinterested in all that concerns your ward. Your obedient servant,
"James Cromwell."
"I think that will do," said Cromwell, after reading his letter over when finished. "It tells nothing to an ordinary reader, but Mr. Morton will understand it well enough, especially when he reads the words which I have underlined. On the whole, I don't know but it will be well that the body should be found before I go, as he may need absolute proof of the boy's death before he is willing to pay me the ten thousand dollars. I wish it were well over, and the boy was buried. I can't bear to look at him; I am afraid I should getnervous, and so excite suspicion. Still it might be attributed to my sorrow for his loss."
With this idea he thought it best to look troubled, and express a considerable degree of anxiety about the lost boy, so that one who was not in the secret might have supposed that his emotion was real.
Leaving Cromwell, for a time, we will follow the course of Robert Raymond, who after receiving directions from Cato, had shaped his course for the Ohio river. Madison, as has already been stated, was situated in the southern part of Indiana. The distance between it and the Ohio river, which separates that State from Kentucky, was about fifty miles. It was Robert's intention to reach the river, and then get on board a boat, and proceed as far East as his limited funds would admit. The extent of these was but ten dollars, and ten dollars would not go a great way, unless extreme economy was practiced. Robert was willing to be economical, and when he learned that the river was but fifty miles distant, he determined to walk the whole way.
It was important that he should not be recognized. He wished James Cromwell to believe that he had succeeded in his design, and that he wasdrowned. Then there would be some chance of ascertaining what had been his motive in perpetrating so dark a deed. Besides, it would save him from the risk of pursuit, and he wished to make his way unmolested to the presence of his guardian, where he intended to expose the unprincipled conduct of the man to whose care he had been confided.
On the first day Robert walked about twenty miles, resting in the middle of the day. He was unaccustomed to walking and it made him footsore and weary. At four o'clock in the afternoon, he desisted and went up to a farm-house, for he was at the time passing through a sparsely settled town; he asked for accommodations for the night.
Fortunately the occupant of the farm-house was a hospitable and kind-hearted farmer, who did not, as some might have done, view him with suspicion.
"So you want to be took care of for the night, youngster," he said.
"Yes, sir," said Robert.
"Well, I guess the old woman can accommodate you. Our house is big enough, and you won't take up much room. Are you a-travelin' far?"
"Yes, I am going to New York."
"To York. That's a pretty long journey for a lad like you. It's over a thousand miles."
"Yes, it's a good ways, but I guess I can get there."
"Where are you a travelin' from?" was the next question.
"I came from the North," said Robert, evading a direct answer.
"I understand," said the farmer, shrewdly, "you don't want to tell. Well, maybe you've a good reason, and maybe not. That's not my business, only if you're running away from your father or mother, I advise you to go back again. It isn't a good thing to run away from home."
"If I had a father or mother," said Robert, earnestly, "I should be the last one to run away from them. I have neither father nor mother living."
"Have you no sisters nor brothers?"
"No."
"And you've got to make your own way in the world?" said the sympathizing farmer. "Well, I'm sorry for you."
"If you mean that I am poor, that is not the case," Robert answered. "I have been unfortunate in other ways, but my father left me afortune, and I am going to my guardian who is in New York."
"Then how comes it that you are out here all alone?"
"I'd rather not tell now," said Robert, frankly. "The time may come when I shall return this way, and shall feel at liberty to tell you all."
"Well, well, my lad, I won't pry into your secrets. I shall be glad to have you stay with me to-night and to-morrow you can go on your way, and no questions asked."
"Thank you," said Robert.
"Now, we'll be goin' into the house, and see if supper isn't most ready. If you've been travelin' it's likely you're hungry, and I reckon the old woman will give us something we can relish."
Robert did not refuse the invitation, for in truth he was hungry. Indeed he had never felt hungrier in his life. He was soon seated at the farmer's plain board, on which was spread a homely but abundant repast, to which he did full justice.
In the morning, after a refreshing sleep, he started anew on his journey. He tried to make the farmer accept payment for his hospitality, but without success, and with his scanty funds still entire, he resumed his walk.
On the third day Robert reached the Ohio river, and was fortunate enough to intercept a steamer bound East. He went to the office, and found that his money would suffice to pay his fare to Wheeling, but would leave him nothing. This did not trouble him much. He had the sanguine and elastic temperament of youth, and he did not doubt that something would turn up.
"If I can't do any better," he resolved, "I will obtain work of some kind till I have laid by enough money to pay my passage for the remainder of the way. Or I can write to my guardian, and ask him to send me money enough to bring me to New York."
He had no idea how unwelcome this communication would be to his guardian, nor that by this time that guardian, having received James Cromwell's letter, supposed him dead.
On board the steamer he looked about him with a boy's curiosity, and as the boat proceeded hesurveyed with interest the towns on either shore, at most of which the boat stopped.
Among the passengers his attention was drawn to a tall gentleman of bronzed complexion who had as a companion a young girl of about thirteen, whom he addressed as Edith. The young lady had a very sweet face, and Robert caught himself more than once wishing he had such a sister. Had he been older that is perhaps the last thing he would have desired. But he was only a boy of fourteen, and was of course too young to experience the sensation of being in love.
The gentleman's name he learned was Major Woodley, and the young lady's, of course, Edith Woodley.
Robert wished that he might have an opportunity of making the acquaintance of Major Woodley and his daughter, but while on their trip up the river chance did not favor him. The opportunity, however, was only deferred. It came at the end of the voyage.
At length they reached Wheeling, and the passengers generally disembarked. Major Woodley and his daughter were among these.
Arrived on the pier, while Major Woodley was looking out for his baggage, a horse, maddened bya blow from his brutal driver, started suddenly forward, and in an instant would have trampled Edith Woodley under his feet, had not Robert sprung forward, and clasping her round the waist, drawn her quickly out of danger.
Her father was at some distance. He happened to look up just in time to see his child's danger, but not in time to rescue her.
To his great relief he saw Robert's prompt action, and he realized that but for this, his daughter would probably have lost her life.
Filled with gratitude he hurriedly advanced, and seized Robert by the hand.
"Well done, my brave boy! You have probably saved my daughter's life. From my heart, I thank you."
"I am glad it was in my power to do her a service," said Robert, modestly.
"You exposed your own life to danger," said the Major.
"I did not think of that," said Robert, simply. "I only thought of the young lady's danger."
"That shows you are a brave boy. If you had not been so cool and prompt, it would have been too late. If you had hesitated a moment, I shudder to think what would have been the result."
"I am very glad, indeed, that I was standing by," said Robert, "but I think anyone would have done the same."
Major Woodley shook his head.
"I know men better than you, my lad," he said, "and I know that coolness and self-possession in the hour of danger are not so common as they might be. Let me know the name of my daughter's preserver."
"Robert Raymond."
"Are you going further East?"
"Yes, sir, as soon as I can. I am bound for New York."
"So am I. But I shall stop at the hotel till to-morrow. Why won't you stop over also and go on with us?"
This was an embarrassing question for Robert. The fact is, that his entire worldly wealth, so far as he carried it with him, consisted of twenty-five cents, and this, so far from enabling him from going on to New York, would not even pay for his breakfast, unless he confined himself to a very frugal one. He felt a little shame at confessing this to Major Woodley, who had the air of a man of large means, yet he could not help confessing to himself that it would be very agreeable for himto pursue his journey in company with the Major and his daughter to New York. Of course he would become very well acquainted with the daughter, and this he thought he should like very much.
He had never had a sister, and he felt that she would be one to him.
So he hesitated, and did not immediately answer the question asked.
"If this would interfere with any of your arrangements, or if you have other friends to travel with," proceeded Major Woodley, observing his hesitation, "don't hesitate to say so."
"It is not that," said Robert, "I am traveling alone."
"So I supposed, as I saw no one with you on the boat. Why then will you not join us?"
"I will tell you," said Robert, making up his mind to tell the truth. "I find myself out of money, and I shall be obliged to wait here until I can receive money enough from my guardian to pay my fare to New York."
"Does your guardian, then, live in New York?" asked the major.
"Yes, sir."
"May I ask his name? I have someconsiderable acquaintance in New York, and perhaps I may know him."
"His name is Paul Morton. He is a merchant, I believe."
"Paul Morton!" repeated Major Woodley, in surprise. "Is he your guardian?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long has he been?"
"Only a few weeks. My father was an early friend of his, and he died in his house. He left me to the charge of Mr. Morton."
"What was your father's name?" asked Major Woodley, quickly.
"Ralph Raymond."
"Was he an India merchant?"
"Yes, sir. Did you know him?" asked Robert, eagerly.
"Intimately. I passed some time in India, and there I made your father's acquaintance. I valued him for his high honor, and excellent qualities, and I am truly glad to have met his son. I did not know of his death. But of that and other things you must inform me at the hotel. You need not trouble yourself about want of money. Go with me, and I will see you safely in New York."
Major Woodley ordered a carriage, and theparty at once proceeded to the best hotel in the place. Breakfast was ordered, for the boat had arrived in the morning. After this meal was over, Major Woodley said: "Now, my young friend, tell me about your father's death."
Robert recounted the circumstances which are already familiar to the reader, except as to the wicked means by which his father's life was shortened. Of this he was himself ignorant, as we know.
"Now," said the Major, "how does it happen that you are traveling alone, and almost friendless in this region? I confess it surprises me. I cannot understand why your guardian should allow it."
"It is a strange story," said Robert. "I do not understand it myself."
Therefore he gave an account of the manner in which he had been consigned to the care of James Cromwell, and the events that followed, his auditor listening with strong interest.
"So he intrusted you to the charge of a druggist! That is certainly strange. He removed you from your school, and sent you to an inferior school in a Western village. There is something remarkable about this."
When Robert gave an account of James Cromwell's attempt to put him out of the way, Major Woodley's eyes flashed, and Edith, placing her hand on Robert's arm, said, "What a horrid, wicked man he must have been!"
"I sometimes think he is not in his right mind," said Robert. "What do you think, sir?" he continued, appealing to the Major.
"I am not so charitable," said the Major. "I think he was quite aware of what he was doing and that he had a motive in what he did."
"What motive could he have had, sir?"
"I will keep that to myself at present. I have my suspicions, but they may be groundless."
In fact Major Woodley suspected that Cromwell was acting under instructions from Paul Morton, of whom he had a bad opinion, and he determined to satisfy himself on this point when they reached New York. But he felt that it would not be of any service to impart this to Robert until he should have ascertained definitely.
After waiting two days, during which no tidings were received of Robert, James Cromwell determined to go to New York. He had hoped that the body might be found in order that he might carry with him the proof that would entitle him to the reward of ten thousand dollars. But he did not venture to suggest that the pond should be dragged, lest it might appear that he was too well informed about the matter.
He announced his determination to Mr. Manton and Clara the evening previous. He thought it politic to assign a double motive for his departure.
"You may remember," he said, "that I referred to a relative in delicate health from whom I expected a legacy."
"Yes," said Mr. Manton.
"I have received intelligence that he is very low and wishes to see me. So, although it will beinconvenient for me to leave my business, I find it necessary to go."
"Perhaps you may be rewarded for going," suggested Mr. Manton.
"Yes, I have no reason to doubt that I shall be well remembered in my relative's will. I think that when I return there will be nothing to prevent my complying with the conditions you named, and that I may be able to claim your daughter's hand."
"Perhaps I may change my mind," said Clara, energetically; but she saw fit to devote herself to her suitor through the entire evening, displaying an affability and assumed interest which quite captivated him. The thoughts of her favor even drove away the memories of the dark deed which, as he fully believed, had consigned to a watery grave the boy who had been committed to his charge.
"There seems some chance of his story proving true," said Mr. Manton, when the two were alone.
"Yes, it may be. On that chance I've been trying to make myself agreeable to-night. He evidently thinks I'm dead in love with him. As if anybody could fancy such a stupid lout. I declare I wish it was somebody else who was going to getthe money. The exertions I've made have quite wearied me," and fair Clara yawned excessively.
"If you think you can't like him, it is not too late to withdraw," said the father, who had a little more heart than his daughter.
"Oh, as to that, it isn't of much consequence," said Clara. "I haven't got much sentiment, and if he can show the cash, I'll marry him."
"I presume you won't throw away your fascinations upon him after marriage," said her father.
"You may be sure of that. He'll soon have a realizing sense of my motives in marrying him."
"Suppose he resents it, and treats you badly?" suggested Mr. Manton, with a little paternal solicitude.
"I can protect myself," said Clara, with nonchalance. "He's a weak fool and I can twist him round my finger."
"He may not be as manageable as you think, Clara."
"Oh, I know him thoroughly. He hasn't much spirit. I should be ashamed if I could not manage him."
"You remember Catharine in 'Taming the Shrew'?"
"Very polite, upon my word, to compare me toa shrew. Yes, I remember her; but I shall have a different man to deal with from Petruchio. You needn't trouble yourself about me. I know what I'm about."
"Well, it's your own affair," said Mr. Manton, philosophically. "We shall know in a short time whether I am to welcome a son-in-law."
"Or whether your daughter is to remain a while longer 'an impatient rose on the ancestral tree.'"
"And use her thorns on her father instead of a husband," supplemented Mr. Manton.
"But you are getting bright in your old age, papa. Be careful or the rose may show its thorns."
The conversation just recorded indicates the pleasant prospect which James Cromwell had of domestic happiness in case his wishes were gratified, and he gained the hand of the young lady. But he had no conception of her real disposition, or he might have hesitated to go farther. She had tact enough to veil her faults from the scrutiny of her lover, and present to him only an amiable and agreeable side.
In the morning, James Cromwell started for New York, going by Wheeling. It so chanced that he arrived in the evening at the same hotelwhere Robert and Major Woodley had rooms. He was fatigued by his long journey, and retired at nine o'clock, or soon after his arrival. He did not think to look over the books of the hotel, or he might have made the discovery that Robert was still alive, and that his journey was likely to prove fruitless. Neither did he meet Major Woodley or Robert, for they were sitting together in the major's room until half-past ten, chatting cosily.
But James Cromwell was destined to meet with an adventure, which tormented his soul with guilty fear, and gave him a great shock.
It chanced that the room assigned to him was No. 41. The room occupied by Robert was No. 43, just beyond in the same corridor.
As has been said, Cromwell retired to bed at half-past nine; but, though fatigued, he was unable to go to sleep—he was haunted by the thoughts of the pond and the body that lay beneath, deprived of life through his most wicked agency, and as he lay he became nervous and restless, and not even his physical fatigue could induce the coveted slumber to visit him.
When Robert, coming from the room of Major Woodley, sought his own room, he could not at first remember whether it was No. 41 or 43. Hehad the impression that it was No. 41 that had been assigned him. He accordingly opened the door of the room and stood just within the door.
At the sound of the opening door James Cromwell rose in bed, and gazed with horror at the face and figure of the boy whom he supposed that he had murdered. The moonlight entering through the windows fell upon Robert's face and gave it a ghastly look, or at least seemed to do so to the excited imagination of the guilty Cromwell. He gazed spell-bound, and cowering with fear at the apparition, with difficulty ejaculated:
"Who are you?"
Of course Robert recognized Cromwell and he at once guessed the truth, that he was going to New York to give his own version of his disappearance to his uncle. He saw at once that he was mistaken for a ghost, and the desire seized him to carry out this deception. Certainly, if one were justifiable in frightening another by exciting his superstitious fears Robert was justified in terrifying the man who had so basely sought his life.
When, therefore, with faltering lips, James Cromwell put the question, "Who are you?" Robert answered in a low, guttural voice:
"I am the spirit of the boy you murdered!" Ashe uttered the words, he waved one hand aloft, and made a step forward toward the bed.
Excited to the wildest pitch, Cromwell trembled convulsively, then opened his lips to utter a piercing shriek, and flinging the bed-clothes over his head, cowered beneath them in craven terror.
Robert thought this a good chance to make his exit. He noiselessly retreated, closing the door behind him, and entered his own room before the servants, aroused by Cromwell's shriek, could reach the door of his apartment.
"What's the matter here?" demanded a waiter, opening the door of No. 41.
The only answer was a groan from beneath the bed-clothes.
"What's the matter, I say?" he repeated, rather sharply.
The voice was so decidedly earthly that James Cromwell, somewhat relieved of his fear, removed the clothes from his head, and looked up.
"I—I don't know," he said, "I think I had the night-mare."
"Well," uttered the servant, "I hope you won't have it again. You'll wake up all that are asleep, and make them think that somebody is being murdered."
James Cromwell recoiled at the last word, and he said, hastily, for he feared a return of the supposed spirit:
"My friend, if you'll come in here and stop till I've gone to sleep, I'll pay you for your trouble. I'm afraid of having the night-mare again."
"Can't do it; I haven't got the time. Besides, what's the use? You won't have the night-mare when you're awake."
He shut the door, and James Cromwell lay for a long time in a state of nervous terror, trying to go to sleep, but unable to do so. At last, from sheer fatigue, he fell into a troubled slumber, which was disturbed by terrifying dreams.
He woke, at an early hour unrefreshed, and going below ordered a breakfast which he did not relish.
Thence he went to the depot and took the early morning train bound eastward. He was already speeding on his way rapidly before Robert Raymond arose. The door of No. 41 was open, and he looked in. But the occupant had disappeared. Going to the office he saw the name of James Cromwell on the books of the hotel, and learned from the clerk that he had already gone.
"He's a queer chap," said the clerk; "he hada terrible night-mare last night, and shrieked loud enough to take the roof off. You must have heard him, as your room adjoined his!"
"Yes, I heard him," said Robert, but he said no more.
Paul Morton was sitting in his library, carelessly scanning the daily paper. He no longer wore the troubled expression of a few weeks before. He had succeeded in weathering the storm that threatened his business prospects by the timely aid afforded by a portion of his ward's property, and now his affairs were proceeding prosperously.
It may be asked how with such a crime upon his soul he could experience any degree of comfort or satisfaction. But this is a problem we cannot explain. Probably his soul was so blunted to all the best feelings of our common nature that he was effected only by that which selfishly affected his own interest.
"At last I am in a secure position," he said to himself. "Then the opportune death of my ward, of which I am advised by Cromwell, gives me his large estate. With this to fall back upon, and my business righted, I do not see why I should not look forward in a few years to half-a-million."
He was indulging in these satisfactory reflections when the door opened, and a servant entered.
"A gentleman to see you," she said.
"Who is it?" asked Mr. Morton.
"I think it is the same one that called several times about the time of Mr. Raymond's funeral."
"Cromwell!" repeated Mr. Morton. "Show him up," he said.
A moment afterward James Cromwell entered the room.
The two looked at each other with a kind of guilty intelligence. Each saw in the other a murderer. One had put to death his intimate friend, for the sake of his money. The other had sent to death (so both supposed) an innocent boy, confided to his charge, and his crime, too, was instigated by the same sordid motive.
"Well," said Paul Morton, slowly.
"Did you receive a letter from me a day or two since?" asked James Cromwell.
"Yes."
"About the boy?"
"Yes, but I did not quite understand it. You wrote that he had disappeared. Has he returned to you?"
"No," said Cromwell.
"How do you account for his disappearance?" asked Paul Morton.
"I think he must have gone out in a boat on the pond and got drowned," said Cromwell.
"Has the body been found?" questioned the merchant.
"Not yet."
"Was not the pond searched, then?"
"No."
"Then how do you know that he was drowned there?"
James Cromwell moved uneasily in his chair. It was not a pleasant question for him to answer.
"I cannot, of course, say positively," he stammered, "but I have every reason to feel satisfied that the boy is dead."
"And yet, come away from Madison without ascertaining definitely."
"I thought there was no need," said Cromwell.
"No need! Do you think I am willing to remain in uncertainty as to whether or not my ward is dead? What faith am I to put in your statement since it appears that you have no satisfactory evidence to offer?"
James Cromwell began to perceive his mistake. He saw that he ought to have had the ponddragged, and personally superintended the funeral ceremonies of his victim, in order that he might have brought to the merchant the most indubitable proof of the reality of his death.
"Why need he be so particular?" he thought. Then, with a suspicious feeling, he began to think that Mr. Morton was making all this unnecessary trouble in order to evade the payment of the sum which he had promised him. This thought irritated him, and to satisfy himself whether his suspicions were correct, he determined to broach the subject at once.
"I need not remind you," he said, "of the promise you made me in case the boy should not live."
"To what promise do you refer?" demanded Paul Morton.
"You promised me the sum of ten thousand dollars as a reward for my care of your ward."
"It would be a handsome reward for a few weeks' care," said the merchant, sneering.
"I can't help that," said Cromwell, angrily. "Handsome or not, it is what you promised me. Do you mean to say you did not?" he added, defiantly.
"Softly, my friend. I have said nothing of the sort. But you will do me the favor to rememberthat it was only to be given in case the boy died."
"Well, he is dead."
"How am I to know that?"
"Because I say so."
"You only say you think he is dead. You bring me no proof. When I ask you how you can know it positively, you offer me no explanation."
"I saw his ghost Thursday night," said James Cromwell, shuddering.
"His ghost! What ridiculous nonsense is this?" demanded the merchant.
"I saw his ghost as plain as I see you," said Cromwell, in a subdued voice.
"And where was it that this precious apparition came to you?" asked Mr. Morton, with contempt.
"It was in a hotel at Wheeling," said James Cromwell. "I was lying awake when the door of my chamber suddenly opened, and his person entered."
"Did he speak?" asked Paul Morton, impressed in spite of himself, by the tone of conviction with which the other spoke.
"Yes," said Cromwell.
"What did he say?"
"I—cannot tell," he said, with a shudder.
"Pooh, man! you had a night-mare, nothingmore and nothing less," said the merchant. "You must be crazy if you expect me to believe that the boy is dead on any such absurd testimony as this. I dare say you had eaten a heavy dinner, or perhaps drank too much, and so the supposed ghost was only the offspring of your own distempered fancy, and that proceeded from a disordered stomach."
James Cromwell shook his head.
"You are wrong," he said. "I was as wide awake as I am now."
"Well, that is your affair—if you choose to believe in the reality of this visitation, well and good. That is nothing to me. But if you want me to credit the story of the boy's death, you must bring a certified statement from the coroner in your town—Madison is the name, I believe—then there will be no room for doubt."
"To do that, I shall be obliged to return to the West," said Cromwell, disconcerted.
"Then you have only yourself to blame for the extra trouble you are obliged to take. You ought not to have come away at all until you could bring with you satisfactory evidence of the boy's death."
James Cromwell looked down in dismay. This did not suit his views at all. Besides, he saw thatit would be awkward to go back, and institute such proceedings so late. But Paul Morton evidently meant to keep him to it.
"Perhaps it would have been better," he said, at last.
"Of course it would. You can see for yourself that until I have satisfactory proof of my ward's decease I cannot take possession of the property, nor of course can I give you any portion of it while I am not sure whether it is mine to give. I should think that was plain enough."
It was plain enough. James Cromwell saw that now, and he was provoked at his mistake.
"Then," he said, disappointed, "I suppose I must go back."
"No, that will not be necessary. You can telegraph to some person to institute a search of the pond, if you have reason to think the body will be found there, and request information to be sent at once of any discovery that may be made."
"I will do so," said Cromwell, relieved.
While they were speaking, the doorbell had rung, though neither had heard it, and Major Woodley, instructing the servant to usher him in without previous announcement, entered the presence of the guilty employer and his equallyguilty confederate; close behind him followed Robert Raymond.
At the sight of him Cromwell staggered to his feet, and gazed upon him with distended eyes, and Paul Morton sat as if rooted to the chair.
It was an effective tableau.
The merchant was the first to recover his self-possession.
"I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir," he said to Major Woodley.
"My name is Woodley," said the latter. "I was a friend of this boy's father," and he laid his hand on the shoulder of Robert.
"May I ask how you fell in with him? I confess I am puzzled at his unexpected appearance, having just received intelligence from this person (indicating Cromwell) that he had disappeared."
"May I ask, as his father's friend, why you should have committed Robert to the care of a man, who is, to say the least, wholly unfitted by education or experience, to have the charge of him?"
"I do not choose to be called to account," said Mr. Morton, haughtily. "His father made me his guardian, and confided in my judgment."
"Then, sir, you should have shown yourself worthy of the confidence he reposed in you," said Major Woodley.
"Sir, you assume an extraordinary tone," said Paul Morton, angrily.
"Are you aware of the manner in which the boy has been treated by the person to whom you committed him?"
"Yes, I presume so. You perhaps have credited the boy's story, which probably is wholly unreliable. Of course, I don't know what he has told you."
"Then, sir, I have to inform you that it is only by a miracle that the boy stands here to-day in health. This wretch made two distinct attempts to murder him!" and he pointed his finger at James Cromwell.
"Impossible!" exclaimed Paul Morton, nervously.
"It is not only possible, but true. On the first occasion he attempted to hurl him over Niagara Falls, but the boy's quick grasp saved him from the fearful fate."
"I cannot believe this," muttered Mr. Morton.
"On the second occasion he seized him unawares while both were in a boat on a pond, andthrew him into the water to drown. Fortunately, he was rescued by one who witnessed the attempt."
"These are fables," said Paul Morton. "The boy has grossly deceived you."
"We can send for evidence, if necessary," said Major Woodley, coolly, "but that will hardly be necessary. If you look at that man's face, you will read upon it the proof that the story is no invention, and is the literal truth."
He pointed to Cromwell, who was livid with terror, and stricken with the confusion of conscious guilt. He staggered to his feet, and in his wild terror attempted to rush out of the apartment.
In this he was unsuccessful. Woodley coolly stepped in front of him, and said, "Not so fast, Mr. Cromwell. We cannot dispense with you yet."
Cromwell glanced at the stalwart figure of the Major, and saw that resistance would be useless. Hoping to make better terms for himself, he said, "Promise not to harm me, and I will tell you all."
"Are you mad?" said Paul Morton, sharply, filled with terror lest his confederate should betray him. "Do you never plead guilty to this atrocious charge!"
"Why should he not, if he is guilty?" demandedMajor Woodley. "It appears that you desire to shield him."
Paul Morton saw his imprudence, and determined to adopt a different course.
"If he is guilty, I do not wish to shield him. But I thought you meant to terrify him into confessing what was not true."
"There is no need of that. We can prove the charge on the testimony of the boy, and the man who witnessed the attempt to drown him. I will not engage to screen him from punishment, but if he confesses it, he will stand a better chance of mercy."
"Then," said Cromwell, clutching at this promise, "I will tell you all. I did try to drown the boy."
"And what could have been your motive for such a dastardly deed?"
"Mr. Morton promised me ten thousand dollars when the boy was dead."
"It's a lie!" ejaculated Paul Morton, hoarsely. "He has told an atrocious falsehood!"
But, though he spoke thus, his face became livid and the truth was patent in his look.
"Can this be true?" demanded Major Woodley, shocked and startled, "What motive could Mr.Morton have for conniving at such a crime? How would the boy's death benefit him?"
"Read his father's will, and you will know," said Cromwell. "At the boy's death the whole property goes to Mr. Morton."
"Is this true, Mr. Morton?" said Major Woodley, sternly.
"So much is true, but the other is a base lie," said the merchant.
"I could wish it were so. What evidence can you give of the truth of your statement? Have you the offer in writing?"
"No, he was too careful to write it, but he hinted at it in terms which only I could understand."
"He is a miserable liar," said the merchant.
"I can hardly believe him capable of such atrocity."
"You cannot?" said Cromwell, glancing at Paul Morton, spitefully. "Then I will tell you what he is capable of. I accuse him of poisoning the boy's father."
"Good heavens! are you mad?" exclaimed Major Woodley, starting.
"I am perfectly aware of what I am saying, and I can prove it. He bought the poison of me, ata time when I was employed in a drug store on the Bowery. It was a slow poison which accomplished its work without leaving any perceptible traces."
Robert listened to the revelations with pale face, horror-stricken, and for a moment no word was spoken.
"Mr. Morton," said Major Woodley, "this is an extraordinary charge, which, whether you are innocent or guilty, must be investigated. I brought a policeman here with the view of arresting this man Cromwell, but I feel it is my duty to direct your arrest also." As he spoke, he opened the door communicating with the hall, and a policeman entered.
"Arrest these two men," he said.
Paul Morton's face wore the look of one brought to bay, and he exclaimed, "Never will I submit to the indignity. Here is one means of escape."
He pulled a drawer beside him open, and drew forth a revolver.
"I must die," he said, "but I will not die alone."
As he spoke he pointed the revolver at Cromwell, and there was a sharp report.
The unhappy druggist bounded from his chairwith a shrill cry, then sank lifeless on the carpet, the life-blood welling from his heart.
There was a cry of horror from all who witnessed the tragic scene.
Major Woodley sprang forward to seize the revolver, but too late. Paul Morton turned it, and pressing it to his forehead, drew the trigger.
There was another report, and he fell forward, his brains being scattered over the floor.
"This is most terrible!" exclaimed Major Woodley, in a tone of horror. "May it never be my lot to be witness to such a scene again!"
Robert, over-excited by the revelation of his father's fate, and the horrible scene which had been enacted before him, fainted.
Major Woodley raised him gently, and carried him from the room.
"I leave you in charge, sir," he said to the policeman. "It is fortunate that you were a witness to what has occurred."
The tragical end of Paul Morton was a nine-days' wonder in the city, and then some other startling event surpassed it in the popular thought. It was found on examination of the late merchant's affairs that his ward's fortune was intact. This would not have been the case, but that his ownaffairs had taken a fortunate turn, and he had redeemed his losses by a fortunate rise in some securities which had been for a while depressed, and had at last advanced rapidly in price.
Robert Raymond selected Major Woodley as his guardian, and was fortunate in doing so, for the Major was a man of the utmost probity, and of excellent judgment in business affairs. He was at once returned to his former school, where he continued his studies. In due time he entered college, where he acquitted himself with credit. On his graduation he went to Europe, where he traveled for two years. Returning last year, he found that he had wholly mistaken the feeling which he supposed he entertained toward the fair Edith. He was no longer willing to look upon her as a sister, but aspired to a nearer relation. Major Woodley was not slow in giving his sanction to a suit which received his entire approbation, and the wedding took place.
In a beautiful country seat on the Hudson, Robert Raymond lives with his fair young wife. They are happy in each other and in the gifts of fortune. Long may they remain so!
The reader may be interested to learn that Clara Manton has not yet found a husband, nordoes she desire it. Her father's death put her in possession of his property, and she prefers to maintain a selfish independence to risking her money in a husband's charge. Cato was handsomely rewarded for the signal service he had rendered our young hero, and was made comfortable for life.
A STORY OF PINE-TREE GULCH.
How Pine-tree Gulch got its name no one knew, for in the early days every ravine and hillside was thickly covered with pines. It may be that a tree of exceptional size caught the eye of the first explorer, that he camped under it, and named the place in its honor; or, may be, some fallen giant lay in the bottom and hindered the work of the first prospectors. At any rate, Pine-tree Gulch it was, and the name was as good as any other. The pine-trees were gone now. Cut up for firing, or for the erection of huts, or the construction of sluices, but the hillside was ragged with their stumps.
The principal camp was at the mouth of the Gulch, where the little stream, which scarceafforded water sufficient for the cradles in the dry season, but which was a rushing torrent in winter, joined the Yuba. The best ground was at the junction of the streams, and lay, indeed, in the Yuba valley rather than in the Gulch. At first most gold had been found higher up, but there was here comparatively little depth down to the bed-rock, and as the ground became exhausted the miners moved down towards the mouth of the Gulch. They were doing well as a whole, how well no one knew, for miners are chary of giving information as to what they are making; still, it was certain they were doing well, for the bars were doing a roaring trade, and the store-keepers never refused credit—a proof in itself that the prospects were good.
The flat at the mouth of the Gulch was a busy scene, every foot was good paying stuff, for in the eddy, where the torrents in winter rushed down into the Yuba, the gold had settled down and lay thick among the gravel. But most of the parties were sinking, and it was a long way down to the bed-rock; for the hills on both sides sloped steeply, and the Yuba must here at one time have rushed through a narrow gorge, until, in some wild freak, it brought down millions of tons of gravel, andresumed its course seventy feet above its former level.
A quarter of a mile higher up a ledge of rock ran across the valley, and over it in the old time the Yuba had poured in a cascade seventy feet deep into the ravine. But the rock now was level with the gravel, only showing its jagged points here and there above it. This ledge had been invaluable to the diggers: without it they could only have sunk their shafts with the greatest difficulty, for the gravel would have been full of water, and even with the greatest pains in puddling and timber-work the pumps would scarcely have sufficed to keep it down as it rose in the bottom of the shafts. But the miners had made common cause together, and giving each so many ounces of gold or so many days' work had erected a dam thirty feet high along the ledge of rock, and had cut a channel for the Yuba along the lower slopes of the valley. Of course, when the rain set in, as everybody knew, the dam would go, and the river diggings must be abandoned till the water subsided and a fresh dam was made; but there were two months before them yet, and every one hoped to be down to the bed-rock before the water interrupted their work.
The hillside, both in the Yuba Valley and for some distance along Pine-tree Gulch, was dotted by shanties and tents; the former constructed for the most part of logs roughly squared, the walls being some three feet in height, on which the sharp sloping roof was placed, thatched in the first place with boughs, and made all snug, perhaps, with an old sail stretched over all. The camp was quiet enough during the day. The few women were away with their washing at the pools, a quarter of a mile up the Gulch, and the only persons to be seen about were the men told off for cooking for their respective parties.
But in the evening the camp was lively. Groups of men in red shirts and corded trousers tied at the knee, in high boots, sat round blazing fires, and talked of their prospects or discussed the news of the luck at other camps. The sound of music came from two or three plank erections which rose conspicuously above the huts of the diggers, and were bright externally with the glories of white and colored paints. To and from these men were always sauntering, and it needed not the clink of glasses and the sound of music to tell that they were the bars of the camp.
Here, standing at the counter, or seated atnumerous small tables, men were drinking villainous liquor, smoking and talking, and paying but scant attention to the strains of the fiddle or the accordion, save when some well-known air was played, when all would join in a boisterous chorus. Some were always passing in or out of a door which led into a room behind. Here there was comparative quiet, for men were gambling, and gambling high.
Going backwards and forwards with liquors into the gambling-room of the Imperial Saloon, which stood just where Pine-tree Gulch opened into Yuba valley, was a lad, whose appearance had earned for him the name of White-faced Dick.
White-faced Dick was not one of those who had done well at Pine-tree Gulch; he had come across the plains with his father, who had died when half-way over, and Dick had been thrown on the world to shift for himself. Nature had not intended him for the work, for he was a delicate, timid lad; what spirits he originally had having been years before beaten out of him by a brutal father. So far, indeed, Dick was the better rather than the worse for the event which had left him an orphan.
They had been traveling with a large party for mutual security against Indians and Mormons, and so long as the journey lasted Dick had got on fairly well. He was always ready to do odd jobs, and as the draught cattle were growing weaker and weaker, and every pound of weight was of importance, no one grudged him his rations in return for his services; but when the company began to descend the slopes of the Sierra Nevada they began to break up, going off by twos and threes to the diggings, of which they heard such glowing accounts. Some, however, kept straight on to Sacramento, determining there to obtain news as to the doings at all the different places, and then to choose that which seemed to offer the best prospects of success.
Dick proceeded with them to the town, and there found himself alone. His companions were absorbed in the busy rush of population, and each had so much to provide and arrange for, that none gave a thought to the solitary boy. However, at that time no one who had a pair of hands, however feeble, to work need starve in Sacramento; and for some weeks Dick hung around the town doing odd jobs, and then, having saved a few dollars, determined to try his luck at the diggings,and started on foot with a shovel on his shoulder and a few days' provisions slung across it.
Arrived at his destination, the lad soon discovered that gold-digging was hard work for brawny and seasoned men, and after a few feeble attempts in spots abandoned as worthless he gave up the effort, and again began to drift; and even in Pine-tree Gulch it was not difficult to get a living. At first he tried rocking cradles, but the work was far harder than it appeared. He was standing ankle deep in water from morning till night, and his cheeks grew paler, and his strength, instead of increasing, seemed to fade away. Still, there were jobs within his strength. He could keep a fire alight and watch a cooking-pot, he could carry up buckets of water or wash a flannel shirt, and so he struggled on, until at last some kind-hearted man suggested to him that he should try to get a place at the new saloon which was about to be opened.
"You are not fit for this work, young 'un, and you ought to be at home with your mother; if you like I will go up with you this evening to Jeffries. I knew him down on the flats, and I dare say he will take you on. I don't say as a saloon is a good place for a boy, still you will always getyour bellyful of victuals and a dry place to sleep in, if it's only under a table. What do you say?"
Dick thankfully accepted the offer, and on Red George's recommendation was that evening engaged. His work was not hard now, for till the miners knocked off there was little doing in the saloon; a few men would come in for a drink at dinner-time, but it was not until the lamps were lit that business began in earnest, and then for four or five hours Dick was busy.
A rougher or healthier lad would not have minded the work, but to Dick it was torture; every nerve in his body thrilled whenever rough miners cursed him for not carrying out their orders more quickly, or for bringing them the wrong liquors, which, as his brain was in a whirl with the noise, the shouting, and the multiplicity of orders, happened frequently. He might have fared worse had not Red George always stood his friend, and Red George was an authority in Pine-tree Gulch—powerful in frame, reckless in bearing and temper, he had been in a score of fights and had come off them, if not unscathed, at least victorious. He was notoriously a lucky digger, but his earnings went as fast as they were made, and he wasalways ready to open his belt and give a bountiful pinch of dust to any mate down on his luck.
One evening Dick was more helpless and confused than usual. The saloon was full, and he had been shouted at and badgered and cursed until he scarcely knew what he was doing. High play was going on in the saloon, and a good many men were clustered round the table. Red George was having a run of luck, and there was a big pile of gold dust on the table before him. One of the gamblers who was losing had ordered old rye, and instead of bringing it to him, Dick brought a tumbler of hot liquor which some one else had called for. With an oath the man took it up and threw it in his face.
"You cowardly hound!" Red George exclaimed. "Are you man enough to do that to a man?"
"You bet," the gambler, who was a new arrival at Pine-tree Gulch, replied; and picking up an empty glass, he hurled it at Red George. The by-standers sprang aside, and in a moment the two men were facing each other with outstretched pistols. The two reports rung out simultaneously: Red George sat down unconcernedly with a streak of blood flowing down his face, where the bullet had cut a furrow in his cheek; the stranger fellback with a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead.
The body was carried outside, and the play continued as if no interruption had taken place. They were accustomed to such occurrences in Pine-tree Gulch, and the piece of ground at the top of the hill, that had been set aside as a burial place, was already dotted thickly with graves, filled in almost every instance by men who had died, in the local phraseology, "with their boots on."
Neither then nor afterwards did Red George allude to the subject to Dick, whose life after this signal instance of his championship was easier than it had hitherto been, for there were few in Pine-tree Gulch who cared to excite Red George's anger; and strangers going to the place were sure to receive a friendly warning that it was best for their health to keep their tempers over any shortcomings on the part of White-faced Dick.
Grateful as he was for Red George's interference on his behalf, Dick felt the circumstance which had ensued more than anyone else in the camp. With others it was the subject of five minutes' talk, but Dick could not get out of his head the thought of the dead man's face as he fell back. He had seen many such frays before, but he was too fullof his own troubles for them to make much impression upon him. But in the present case he felt as if he himself was responsible for the death of the gambler; if he had not blundered this would not have happened. He wondered whether the dead man had a wife and children, and, if so, were they expecting his return? Would they ever hear where he had died, and how?
But this feeling, which, tired out as he was when the time came for closing the bar, often prevented him from sleeping for hours, in no way lessened his gratitude and devotion towards Red George, and he felt that he could die willingly if his life would benefit his champion. Sometimes he thought, too, that his life would not be much to give, for in spite of shelter and food, the cough which he had caught while working in the water still clung to him, and, as his employer said to him angrily one day:
"Your victuals don't do you no good, Dick; you get thinner and thinner, and folks will think as I starve you. Darned if you ain't a disgrace to the establishment."
The wind was whistling down the gorges, and the clouds hung among the pine-woods which still clothed the upper slopes of the hills, and thediggers, as they turned out one morning, looked up apprehensively.
"But it could not be," they assured each other. Every one knew that the rains were not due for another month yet; it could only be a passing shower if it rained at all.
But as the morning went on, men came in from camps higher up the river, and reports were current that it had been raining for the last two days among the upper hills; while those who took the trouble to walk across to the new channel could see for themselves at noon that it was filled very nigh to the brim, the water rushing along with thick and turbid current. But those who repeated the rumors, or who reported that the channel was full, were summarily put down. Men would not believe that such a calamity as a flood and the destruction of all their season's work could be impending. There had been some showers, no doubt, as there had often been before, but it was ridiculous to talk of anything like rain a month before its time. Still, in spite of these assertions, there was uneasiness at Pine-tree Gulch, and men looked at the driving clouds above and shook their heads before they went down to the shafts to work after dinner.
When the last customer had left and the bar was closed, Dick had nothing to do till evening, and he wandered outside and sat down on a stump, at first looking at the work going on in the valley, then so absorbed in his own thoughts that he noticed nothing, not even the driving mist which presently set in. He was calculating that he had, with his savings from his wages and what had been given him by the miners, laid by eighty dollars. When he got another hundred and twenty he would go; he would make his way down to San Francisco, and then by ship to Panama and up to New York, and then west again to the village where he was born. There would be people there who would know him, and who would give him work, for his mother's sake. He did not care what it was; anything would be better than this.
Then his thoughts came back to Pine-tree Gulch, and he started to his feet. Could he be mistaken? Were his eyes deceiving him? No; among the stones and boulders of the old bed of the Yuba there was the gleam of water, and even as he watched it he could see it widening out. He started to run down the hill to give the alarm, but before he was half-way he paused, for there wereloud shouts, and a scene of bustle and confusion instantly arose.
The cradles were deserted, and the men working on the surface loaded themselves with their tools and made for the high ground, while those at the windlasses worked their hardest to draw up their comrades below. A man coming down from above stopped close to Dick, with a low cry, and stood gazing with a white, scared face. Dick had worked with him; he was one of the company to which Red George belonged.
"What is it, Saunders?"
"My God! they are lost," the man replied. "I was at the windlass when they shouted up to me to go up and fetch them a bottle of rum. They had just struck it rich, and wanted a drink on the strength of it."
Dick understood at once. Red George and his mates were still in the bottom of the shaft, ignorant of the danger which was threatening them.
"Come on," he cried; "we shall be in time yet," and at the top of his speed dashed down the hill, followed by Saunders.
"What is it, what is it?" asked parties of men mounting the hill.
"Red George's gang are still below."
Dick's eyes were fixed on the water. There was a broad band now of yellow with a white edge down the centre of the stony flat, and it was widening with terrible rapidity. It was scarce ten yards from the windlass at the top of Red George's shaft when Dick, followed closely by Saunders, reached it.
"Come up, mates; quick, for your lives! The river is rising; you will be flooded out directly. Every one else has gone!"
As he spoke he pulled at the rope by which the bucket was hanging, and the handles of the windlass flew round rapidly as it descended. When it had run out, Dick and he grasped the handles.
"All right below?"
An answering call came up, and the two began their work, throwing their whole strength into it. Quickly as the windlass revolved, it seemed an endless time to Dick before the bucket came up, and the first man stepped out. It was not Red George. Dick had hardly expected it would be. Red George would be sure to see his two mates up before him, and the man uttered a cry of alarm as he saw the water, now within a few feet of the mouth of the shaft.
It was a torrent now, for not only was itcoming through the dam, but it was rushing down in cascades from the new channel. Without a word the miner placed himself facing Dick and the moment the bucket was again down, the three grasped the handles. But quickly as they worked, the edge of the water was within a few inches of the shaft when the next man reached the surface, but again the bucket descended before the rope tightened. However, the water had begun to run over the lip—at first in a mere trickle, and then, almost instantaneously, in a cascade, which grew larger and larger.