CHAPTER IV.EMBARKED FOR CALIFORNIA.
We were on our way to California by the next steamer. By the advice of Mr. Burton I purchased my ticket under an assumed name, for he did not wish to excite the curiosity of the Argylls, who might happen to see the passage-list, and who would be sure to suspect something from the contiguity of our names. To his friends, who chanced to know of his sudden intentions, Mr. Burton represented that the health of his daughter demanded a change of climate, and business matters had led him to prefer California.
It was fortunate, since the expenses of such a trip had become so unexpected a necessity, that I had lived in the plain, retiring manner which I had done in Washington. I had wasted no money on white kids, bouquets, nor champagne-suppers; I had paid my board and washing-bills, and a very moderate bill to my tailor; the rest of my salary had been placed in a New York bank to my account. My scorched soul and withered tastes had demanded no luxurious gratification—not even the purchase of new books; so that now, when this sudden demand arose, I had a fund sufficient for the purpose. Mr. Burton bore his own expenses, which, indeed, I could not help, for I had not the means of urging a different course upon him.
We had a very definite object, but no definite plans; these were to be formed according to the circumstances we had to encounter after our arrival in El Dorado. Of course our man was living under an assumed name, and had traveled under an assumed one; we might have every difficulty in getting upon his track. At the time the detective had discovered the return of the five-hundred dollar bill from San Francisco, he had, with great perseverance, gained access to, and “made a note of” the passengers’ lists of all the steamers which sailed at or about the time of the murder, for California. These he had preserved. Out of the names, he had chosen those which his curious sagacity suggested were the most likely to prove fictitious, and, if no quicker method presented itself, he intended to trace out one and all of those passengers, until he came uponthe man. In all this I was his assistant, willing to carry out his directions, but trusting the whole affair to his more experienced hand.
During the long, monotonous days of our voyage, I seemed to have
“Suffered a sea-change”
“Suffered a sea-change”
“Suffered a sea-change”
“Suffered a sea-change”
into something quite different from the wooden sort of being into which I had gradually been hardening. With the dull routine of my office-life were broken up also many of the cynical ways of thinking into which I had fallen. I felt as if the springs of youth were not quite dried up. The real secret of this improvement was in the eager hope I entertained that the real criminals were soon to be brought to light, and the Argylls made to realize the cruel wrong they had done me. Already, in imagination, I had accepted their regret and forgiven them their injustice. It seemed as if every breath of the sea-breeze, and every bound of the sparkling waves, swept away a portion of the bitterness which had mingled with my nature. The old poetry of existence began to warm my chilled pulses and to flush the morning and evening sky. For hours most melancholy, yet most delicious, I would climb to some lonely post of observation—for I was a perfect sailor among the ropes—and there, where the blue of heaven bent down to meet the blue of the ocean, making an azure round in which floated only the ethereal clouds, all the sweetness of the past would come floating to me in fragments, like the odor of flowers blown from some beloved and distant shore.
The most vivid picture in my sea-dreams, was that of the parlor of the old Argyll mansion, as I had seen it last, on the night of my excursion to the oak-tree. Mary, in the rosy bloom of young womanhood, the ideal of beauty to the eye of a young and appreciative man, whose standard of female perfection was high, while his sensitiveness to its charm was intense—Mary, reading her book beneath the rich light of the chandelier—I loved to recall the vision, except always that it was marred by that shadow of James coming too soon between me and the light. But that flitting vision of Eleanor was as if a saint had looked down at me out of its shrine. I saw, then, that she was no longer of this world, as far as her hopes were concerned. My once strong passion had been slowly changing into reverence; I had grieved with her with a grief utterly self-abnegating, and when I saw that her despair had worked itself up to a patient and aspiring resignation, I now felt less of pity and more of affectionate reverence. I would have sacrificed my life for her peace of heart; but I no longer thought of Eleanor Argyll as of a woman to be approached by the loves of this world. Still, as I mused in my sea-reveries, I believed myself to have exhausted my wealth of feeling upon this now dead and hallowed love. I had given my first offering at the feet of a woman, peerless amid her compeers, and since she had chosen before me, I must needs live solitary, too honored by having worshiped a woman like Eleanor, to ever be satisfied with a second choice. For Mary I felt a keen admiration, and a brother’s fondest love. The noble words she had spoken in my favor had thrilled me with gratitude, and increased the tenderness I had always cherished toward her. When I thought of her approaching marriage, it was not with jealousy, but with a certain indefinable pang which came of my dislike to the motives and character of James. I did not believe that he loved her. Eleanor hehadloved; but Mary was to him only the necessary means of securing the name, property, respectability, etc., of his uncle’s family. As I recalled that visit to the gaming-table, I felt, at times, as if Imustget back from this journey in time to interfere, and break up the marriage. I would run the risk of being again treated as before—of being misunderstood and insulted—I would runanyrisk to save her from the unhappiness which must come from such a partnership! So I thought one hour, and the next I would persuade myself that I could not and must not make such a fool of myself; and that, after all, when once “married and settled,” James might make a very good husband and citizen.
Little Lenore was the light and glory of the steamer. People almost fancied that, with such a good angel aboard, no harm could come to the ship. And indeed we had a speedy, prosperous voyage.
Yet it was tedious to Mr. Burton. I had never seen him so restless. I used to tell him that he made the hours a great deal longer by counting them so often. It was evident that he had some anxiety which he did not share with me. A feverish dread of delays was upon him.
After we had crossed the isthmus, and were fairly embarked on the Pacific, his restlessness abated. Yet it was just then that a small delay occurred, which threatened to irritate him into new impatience. It was found that the captain had taken on board quite a company of passengers whom he had promised to land at Acapulco. It was a beautiful, sunny day early in October, that our ship steamed into the little bay. Nearly all the passengers were on deck, to take a look at the country and harbor as we approached. I was upon the hurricane-deck with Lenore, who was delighted with the warm air and green shores, and whose hair streamed on the fresh yet delicious breeze like a golden banner. She observed the distant mountains, the sunny haze, the glimmering water of the bay, with all the intelligence of a woman; while I could not but be more pleased with the roses blowing on her cheeks and the trick the wind was playing with her hair, than with all the scenery about us. The child’s attendant, a steady, careful matron, who had long had the charge of her, was likewise on deck, chatting with some of her new acquaintances, and she could not refrain from coming to us, presently, on the pretext of wrapping Lenore’s shawl closer about her.
“Do look at her, Mr. Redfield,” said the good woman, “did you ever see her looking so bright and healthy, sir? The master was right, sure enough—it was a sea-voyage she needed, above all things. Her cheeks are like pinies, and, if I do say it, who shouldn’t, it’s the opinion of the company that you’re the best-lookin’ couple on the decks. I’ve heard more’n one speak of it this past half-hour.”
“That’s half true, anyhow,” I answered, laughing, and looking at Lenore, whose modest, quiet mind was never on the alert for compliments. She laughed because I did, but remained just as unconscious of her pretty looks as hitherto.
“There’s papa coming,” she said; “something has happened to him.”
With her marvelous quick discernment, so like her father’s, she perceived, before I did, that he was excited, although endeavoring to appear more calm than he really felt.
“Well, Richard, Lenore,” he began, drawing us a little apart from the others, speaking in a low voice, “what do you say to my leaving you?”
“Leaving us!” we both very naturally exclaimed.
“It would be rather sudden, that is true.”
“Where would you go? Walk off on the water, or betake yourself to the valleys and mountains of Mexico?”
“There’s no jest about it, Richard. Information, which has come to me in the strangest, most unexpected manner, renders it imperative that I should stop at Acapulco. I am as much surprised as you are. I have not even time to tell you the story; in twenty minutes the ship will begin to send off her passengers in a small-boat; and if I decide to remain here, I must go to my state-room for some of my clothes.”
“Are you in earnest, father?” asked Lenore, ready to cry.
“Yes, my darling. I am afraid I must let you go on to San Francisco without me; but you will have Marie, and Richard will take as good care of you as I would. I want you to enjoy yourselves, to have no cares, to take the second return steamer, which will give you a fortnight in San Francisco, andI will meet you at the isthmus. As you will have nothing to do, after your arrival, I will advise you to explore the country, ride out every pleasant day, etc. The time will soon pass, and in five weeks, God willing, we shall meet and be happy, my dear little girl. Run, run to Marie, and tell her what I am to do; she will come and get my orders.”
Lenore moved away, rather reluctantly, and Mr. Burton continued to myself, who was standing silent from mere stupidity of astonishment:
“By the merest chance in the world I overheard a conversation between the people about to land, which convinces me that George Thorley, instead of being in California, is not thirty miles from Acapulco. If I were not positive of it, I should not run the risk of experiment, now, when time is worth every thing. But I am so certain of it, that I do not see as there is any thing for you to do in San Francisco but to help little Lenore pass the time pleasantly. I have thought, as calmly as I could under the pressure of much haste, whether you had better stop with me, and await, at some hotel in Acapulco, the result of my visit into the interior, or go on to the end of your journey, and returning, meet me at the isthmus. On the child’s account, I think you had better finish the voyage as expected. The sea-air is benefiting her greatly; and, unless you fret too much, there is nothing to prevent your enjoying the trip.”
“I shall do just as you advise, Mr. Burton; but, of course, I shall be intolerably anxious. For my own part, I would rather keep with you; but that must be done which is best for all.”
“You could do me no good by remaining with me; the only thing to be gained is, that you would be out of your suspense sooner. But, I assure you, you ought to rejoice and feel light-hearted in view of so soon learning the one fact most important to us—the hiding-place of that man. Think you I would wish delay? No. I’m sure of my man, or I should not take this unexpected step. How curious are the ways of Providence! It seems as if I received help outside of myself. I was vexed to hear that we were to be delayed at Acapulco, and now this has proven our salvation.”
“God grant you are in the right, Mr. Burton.”
“God grant it. Do not fear that I shall fail, Richard. You have reason to be doubly cheerful. Don’t you trust me?”
“As much—more, than any person on earth.”
“Be true to your part, then; take good care of my child—meet me at the isthmus—that is your whole duty.”
“But, Mr. Burton, do you not place yourself in danger? Are you not incurring risks which you ought to share with others? Can I go on, idle and prosperous, leaving you to do all the work, and brave all the dangers of a journey like yours?”
“I wish it. There may be a little personal risk; but not more, perhaps, than I incur every day of my life. Perhaps you do not know,” he added, gayly, “that I lead a charmed life. Malice and revenge have followed me in a hundred disguises—six times I have escaped poisoned food prepared for me; several times, infernal machines, packed to resemble elegant presents, have been sent to me; thrice I have turned upon the assassin, whose arm was raised to strike—but I have come unscathed out of all danger, to quietly pursue the path to which a vivid sense of duty calls me. I do not believe that I am going to fail in this, one of the most atrocious cases in which I have ever interested myself. No, no, Richard; I enjoy the work—the sense of danger adds to its importance. I would not have it otherwise. As I said, God willing, I will meet you at the isthmus. If I do not keep my appointment,thenyou may know that harm has come to me; and, after providing for the safe passage home of my little family, you may, if you please, come back to look after the threads of the history which I have dropped. The steamer has cast anchor; I must get my luggage in shape to go ashore.”
He turned away; but presently paused and returned, with an air of perplexity.
“Therewillbe something for you to do, Richard. I had forgotten about that five-hundred-dollar bill, which certainly went to California within a short time after the robbery. If I should be mistaken, after all—but no! my information is too conclusive—Imusttake the course, now, and if I am on the wrong track, it will be a bad business. However, I will not allow myself to think so,” he added, brightening again; “but it will do no harm for you to take a lesson in my art, by exercising your skill in tracing the fortunes of that bank-note. In doing that, you may come upon evidence which, if I fail here, may be turned to use.”
With a foreboding of evil I looked after him as he descended the ladder to the lower deck—form, face and manner expressing the indomitable energy which made him the man he was.
When the sun sunk, that night, into the molten waves of the Pacific, Lenore and I paced the deck alone; and as she quietly wiped away the tears which fell at the sense almost of desertion which her father’s sudden departure caused, I could hardly cheer her, as he had bidden me; for I, too, felt the melancholy isolation of our position—voyaging to a strange land in the wake of an awful mystery.