Читать книгу The Bandits of the Osage - Emerson Bennett - Страница 11

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WEBBER'S—SINGULAR CONDUCT OF RUFUS—ARRIVAL OF BERNARD AND TYRONE WITH THEIR PRISONER— ILLNESS OF RUFUS—RETURN OF EDWARD AND EMILY—MORE MYSTERY.

At the time of which we write, the unsettled state of the country required every settler to be as much as possible on his guard, and for this purpose Webber had provided his house with a heavy oaken door, strengthened still more by cross bars of iron, through which passed bolts of the same solid material. The windows were protected by shutters similar to the door, and when closed, which could be done almost at a moment's notice, the house, manned by a few within, seemed of sufficient strength to withstand a regular seige. A few loop-holes, cut here and there, would enable those within to fire on an attacking party, with but little danger to themselves. The main, in fact the only entrance to the house, was by the door already mentioned, which opened into a hall running through the centre of the building, on either side of which was a door, opening in turn into other apartments. To the right of the entrance was a room of good dimensions, comfortably furnished, containing an old fashioned fire-place, where the meals were cooked and served, and where the family generally assembled. From this apartment was a stair-case leading to a floor above, which ran along under the roof, forming a place of deposit for old rubbish, and which, if necessary, could be used as a sleeping room. The cottage was well furnished throughout, better than could reasonably have been expected in this part of the country—Webber having brought much of the furniture with him from the East.

In the apartment to the right, just spoken of, on the evening of the day which opens our tale, were assembled Webber, his wife and younger son. In the middle of the floor stood a table, covered with a clean white cloth, on which were ranged various dishes, some evidently used, while others remained untouched in their places, indicating that a part of the family, and a part only, had partaken of the evening's repast. A candle placed on the table, served to light the apartment and exhibit the features of the occupants, all of whom seemed to wear an air of gloomy apprehension.— The doors and windows being thrown open, admitted the breeze, which came with a cool and invigorating effect. For some minutes the silence remained unbroken, while Webber arose from his seat, and paced with anxious strides the floor of the apartment.

"I wonder they do not arrive!" at length he exclaimed; "they surely have had time enough since the shower!" and as he spoke he strode to the door.

The moon had sufficiently risen to throw light upon a scene, where the work of devastation had been carried on to a remarkable degree. As Webber gazed around him, he beheld in every direction tall, lofty trees torn from their foundations— limbs torn from the trunks of others—fences leveled to the ground, and the crops, the toil of a season, beat to the earth as though trampled by a caravan. But with this it was evident his mind was but little occupied; for after casting a hasty glance over the scene, he turned in another direction, and his eye followed the road, which at some little distance to the east wound over the brow of a hill. Here he gazed intently for a few moments, while the gloom which had been settling over his features, gradually deepened. As he stood gazing thus, a sigh, which seemed to come from the heart, caused him to turn his head, when he beheld Rufus—who had noiselessly followed him to the door—with his eyes fixed in the same direction, his features pale, almost ghastly—while the workings of his countenance, and the quivering of his lips, denoted a strange nervous excitability.

"Rufus! Rufus!" cried Webber, taking hold of his arm; "what means this, my son?—why are you so agitated?"

The young man started, passed his hand across his eyes, looked hurriedly around, as one suddenly awakened from a dream; and then, while a slight flush tinged his handsome features, quietly withdrew without deigning a reply.

At another time such singularity of conduct on the part of his son, would have attracted the attention of Webber to know the cause; but under the present circumstances, his own mind was too much occupied to give it heed. For a moment longer, he stood, his eyes fixed in the direction mentioned, and then, as if sadly disappointed, with slow and musing pace returned to the apartment.

"Strange!" said he, "that they do not return. I fear they have met with some serious accident; for this storm has been most alarming in its consequences."

"Had we not better go in search?" enquired Rufus, his voice trembling with emotion.

"True, my son, we must!" replied Webber, with decision. "Can the horses be found conveniently?"

"I observed two, but a few paces distant," rejoined Rufus.

"But you will not both leave?" said Mrs. Webber, enquiringly.

"Why, no," answered Webber, thoughtfully; "one I think will be sufficient."

"Then I will go," said Rufus, with energy.

"Why so, my son?"

"Ask me not, father; I have reasons," replied he, confusedly.

"Well, be it so; but be speedy." As he spoke, he started, for he fancied he heard voices in conversation; and moving quickly to the door, both father and son listened attentively.

"Ha! they come!" exclaimed Webber, as some figures were descried descending the hill.

"She is not there!" cried Rufus, quickly.

"How know you that?" enquired Webber! "With my eyes I cannot distinguish individuals at that distance. How know you Emily is not there, Rufus?"

But Rufus was gone; and his father discerned his figure, at some little distance, gliding swiftly on in the direction of the horses. A moment or two later, he heard the clattering of hoofs, and his son rode quickly past. He called to him, but in vain. He heard not, heeded not, but urged his horse to his utmost speed.

"Why the youth is insane!" remarked Webber, to himself. "Ha! he stops!—he has met them returning. But no! on he goes again!— now he dashes over the hill!—surely, something has happened, or he would have returned;" and with an agitated step, he moved on in the same direction.

The voices of the approaching party were, in the meanwhile, growing louder as they neared him, and Webber was soon enabled to hear their conversation. He paused to listen, for he fancied he heard a voice with which he was not unfamiliar.

"Now jest keep right on, Mr. Jack; you haint got a great ways furder to go, no how; and I kind o' guess you'll git rested by the time you'll be wanted to travel agin. Now ye needn't look so tarnal cross about it;—I don't much like the idea o' bragging over a chap that's hampered, but I'll jest tell ye what 'tis, Mr. Jack Curdish, I jest think I could lick you in a fair rough and tumble fight in about two minutes; I do, I swow!"

"Hush!" said another voice. "Be not too over-bearing— remember the man is your prisoner."

"Wal so I do, Mark; but the feller won't say nothing. He's as stuffey as a mule, and I's jest trying to see if I could'nt brag something out o' him."

"Why, Harvey Bernard!" cried Webber, springing forward, as he fully recognised the speaker, and grasping his hand,—"welcome, most welcome, friend Harvey."

"Jest the same old Webber yit," returned Bernard, giving his hand a hearty shake. "Why you look jest as naternal as life. This ere's Marcus Tyrone, a friend o' mine."

"Welcome, Tyrone," said Webber, cordially extending his hand.

"This other chap's name's Jack Curdish. You needn't shake hands with him; for he's jest as big a rascal as ever run."

"Why, what mean you?" enquired Webber, in surprise.

"Tell him, Mark; you can git at it a great deal quicker than I can."

Tyrone accordingly explained, in as few words as possible, how matters stood.

"Gods!" exclaimed Webber, as he heard of Emily's capture, his features working with the most powerful emotion; and for a moment he buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook convulsively. Again resuming his outward calmness, he walked close to the side of Curdish, who glanced uneasily about him, and in a voice of suppressed passion, between his clenched teeth, said: "Curdish, by the living God above us! if that girl come to harm, I will make such an example of you, that it shall find a place on history's page for its atrocity! Tell me, where is the girl? and if I succeed in finding her, unharmed, it shall go much better with you."

"I'll tell you nothing to-night," growled Curdish; who fearful of consequences, if they went in pursuit, thought he would gain time by delaying the search.

"Why not to-night?"

"'Cause I won't—that's why!—hang me, if I'm goin' to give ye any more explanations."

"Then your blood be on your own head!" rejoined Webber, sternly. "To the house with him, as fast as possible! I will hurry forward and prepare a place for his reception."

In a few minutes Curdish was placed in the room on the left of the hall, the door and windows made fast, and there left to pass the remainder of the night, in communion with his own dark thoughts. And dark and dreadful are the thoughts of the guilty!—for their conscience is a hell, from which there is no escape.

After a brief consultation, Webber and his friends concluded it were better to wait till morning, ere they set out in search of Emily; the more so, as both Edward and Rufus had already gone in pursuit, and perchance, by awaiting, tidings might be gained of her. But little was said, for all felt a heaviness of heart; and wearied by traveling, Bernard and Tyrone partook of the food set before them, in gloomy silence.

"This is a sad meeting!" began Webber, after a long pause, in a voice so changed that both Bernard and Tyrone involuntarily started. "A sad meeting! If this girl comes to harm, I fear my reason will desert me."

"Why, William!" cried his wife; "are your thoughts more bound up in the child of a stranger, than in your own flesh and blood?"

"Yes, Sarah, I confess it is even so. I have struggled hard against it—I have sought to share my affection alike with each member of my family; but why, I know not—perhaps by her angel disposition—the gentle forsaken has been the idol of my secret thoughts. But enough of this, Sarah; the subject is painful to me;" and he pressed his hands against his heated temples, as though to still their throbbing.

"What course do you intend to pursue with your prisoner?" enquired Tyrone, anxious to draw his thoughts into another channel.

"Death!" exclaimed Webber, quickly and fiercely, while his teeth clenched, and his brow contracted into a frown of unshaken resolve.

"Death!" cried all at once.

"Ay, death! there must be an example made!" said Webber, in a deep, stern tone.

"William!" cried his wife, rushing to him:— "You are not yourself,—do not talk thus!"

"Sarah," returned Webber, gently pushing her from him, while the frown grew darker on his brow, "seek not to alter it; I have said."

"But why not appeal to the law for redress?" asked Tyrone.

"You overlook, Tyrone, that our laws here are almost ineffective, and force us, in a measure, to make our own."

"True! I did not think of that."

"Now, Bill Webber, I'll jest tell you what 'tis," began Bernard: "I know my opinion aint o' no great account, any how; but I've known you ever since I was a leetle boy, and somehow I kind o' feel I have a right to say something; and I'm jest agoing to say, if you could manage to punish this ere infernal scoundrel some way, without taking his life, you'll feel a great deal better when you come to die yourself. I haint the least doubt but the feller oughter die, to get his deserts; but ye see, the Almighty made him, and has kept him alive, so far, and will undoubtedly punish him, some day or other; and now the question is, whether you hadn't better let the Almighty take his own way about it, instead of taking all o' the responsibility yourself?"

"I know your honest heart, Bernard," said Webber, approaching and grasping his hand; "I know in all you say, you aim for my own good; but in this I am resolved, and must have my own way, therefore seek not to alter me."

"Wal, if your mind's made up," rejoined Bernard, "I aint the chap to say anything furder; only if you want any help, Harvey Bernard's right here, and he haint never been known to refuse a friend assistance yit. I jest spoke, 'cause I kind o' considered it a duty to do it, and bein' as how I've eased my mind, I haint nothing furder to say about the matter."

Just at this instant was heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and all sprang eagerly to the door. "What news, my son?" cried Webber, as Rufus, pale and breathless, leaped from his panting steed.

"She—they are safe and coming!" replied he, almost wildly.

"Thank God, and you!" exclaimed Webber, clasping him in his arms, as though he were a child. "You have relieved my brain of a weight of anguish. But what is the matter, my son?"— added he in alarm, as he became aware of an increasing languor on the part of Rufus.

"Father, I am ill!" sighed Rufus, faintly.

"You are indeed, my son!" and he bore him into the house.

Cordials, such as they had, were administered, but to no effect. He grew wild, delirious, and was finally placed in bed, in a high state of fever. His mother, whose whole soul seemed bound up in him, paced the room, wringing her hands in an agony of grief, and crying: "Oh, my God! my God! spare me this!"

There are some people so constituted by nature, that they possess no feelings in common with the rest of mankind. With those around them they have no kindred ties, no sympathetic chord that vibrates at the slightest touch, linking soul with soul in the holy bond of friendship. They live in, yet separate as it were, from the world; and are thought by the rest of mankind to be cold, unsocial, unfeeling. Perhaps in a great measure they are so; yet notwithstanding, they have their objects of affection, for the heart must cling to something, and in proportion as they isolate themselves from the many, so does their soul embrace the few, or the one, with a violence of passion others deem not they possess. Such was, in part, the case with Mrs. Webber. 'Tis true she liked her husband, she liked her family, her friends, but Rufus was the idol, the only idol of her soul. In him were her hopes, fears and joys centered. A woman that said very little, she was not one to make an outward show of affection, by a thousand little demonstrations that count so much in the eyes of the world, and a stranger might have thought she felt alike toward all. She would steal away unseen, and hour by hour watch, concentrating her very soul on him, with all the deep, holy devotion of a mother's love. And well was he worthy—for within his breast beat a pure, a high-minded, noble heart. What then were her feelings when she saw him stretched on a bed of sickness—pain—with reason, the immortal endowment of God, tottering upon its throne? Who shall tell—who describe a mother's anguish in a scene like this? when she beholds the beloved of her soul in the jaws of earth's mightiest foe, Death! Words fail, the pen droops, and we veil the feelings from the eyes of all but imagination.

An hour or two later Merton and Emily arrived. They were warmly greeted, but there was no rejoicing. Over all hung the cold icy gloom which pervades the house of mourning.— Words were said in whispers, and each glided stealthily about, with that mysterious air which reminds one of the fabled spectres of tradition.— Emily, like a ministering spirit, immediately took her place at the bedside of the sufferer. She felt grieved to the heart, for she loved him with a sister's love. Both herself and Merton were surprised to learn he had been in pursuit of them.— They had never seen him. Once they had fancied they heard the sound of a horse somewhat distant, but nothing further. This annunciation surprised all, for it was evident that he had seen them, as he had told of their coming. Webber mused on the singular conduct of Rufus, prior to his departure, which now struck him with force, shook his head gravely, but said nothing. As soon as Merton had partaken of some refreshment, he mounted another horse and rode swiftly to St. Louis for a physician, who arrived toward night of the following day. He felt of the sufferer's pulse—looked grave—felt of his pulse again—shook his head, and pronounced it a severe case of intermittent fever.

On opening the door of the apartment where Curdish had been confined, to the astonishment of all it was found empty, which was the more unaccountable, as everything was fast just as it had been left the evening before. Webber was both vexed and perplexed that the villain had thus escaped; but after reasoning awhile with himself, he came to the conclusion that under the present circumstances it was all for the best; and his thoughts of vengeance gradually emerged into fears for the life of his youngest born.

We must now leave all for the present, and turn to another scene.