Kitabı oku: «The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales», sayfa 12
Story 2, Chapter XI
The Cheque
De Hauteroche stood before me in an appealing attitude, and with wild impatience in his looks. I felt that I was going to give him supreme happiness – to fill his cup of bliss to the very brim. I had long ere this fathomed the secret of his heart, and I knew that he loved Olympe with a passionate ardour that he could scarcely conceal. His last visit to Saint Louis had settled that point, and though it was doubtful whether the young girl was, at the time, sufficiently forward to have felt the passion of love, I had discovered some traces of a certain tender regard she had exhibited towards him I had no doubt that she would love him – almost at sight: for to say nothing of the direction which had been given to her thoughts – both parents carefully guiding her affections in the one particular channel – there were other circumstances that would favour this result. Luis De Hauteroche was by far the handsomest gentleman she had ever seen – handsome as well as highly accomplished – and I knew that no pains had been spared to impress Olympe with this idea. He was almost certain to be beloved by her.
Concealment of what I knew, was no longer required of me. My promise to Madame Dardonville was simply to keep silent, until the letter had spoken for itself. It was clear, however, that the letter had miscarried; and it therefore became a necessity that I should declare its contents. I rather joyed at thus having it in my power to make my friend happy; and I hastened to perform the pleasant duty.
In brief detail I made known to him the nature of the ex-merchant’s will – that part of it relating to his daughter and to Luis himself.
Joy overspread the young man’s countenance as he listened; and my repetition of those interesting conditions was interrupted only by expressions of gratitude and delight.
For the rest, I knew not the precise contents of Madame Dardonville’s letter. These could only be guessed at; but the communication just now received was a good key to that which had been lost.
“What matter,” added I, “about the other having gone astray? It is certainly not very agreeable that some post-office peeper should get such an insight into one’s family affairs; but after all, it’s only a copy of the will that has been lost.”
“Oh! the will; I care nothing for that, Monsieur – not even if it were the original – the will of Olympe alone concerns me.”
“And that I promise will be also in your favour.”
“Merci, Monsieur, what a true friend you have proved! How fortunate I should have resembled Monsieur Despard! Ha! ha!”
I almost echoed the reflection – for that resemblance had been the means of introducing me to Adele.
“But come, Monsieur De Hauteroche! the letter of Madame Dardonville requires attention. You must answer the demand. You are expected in Saint Louis, to bring the ladies down to New Orleans. If I mistake not the Sultana leaves here this very evening; you must go by her.”
“And you will go with me? You perceive, Monsieur, you are invited.”
“And M’amselle De Hauteroche?”
“Oh! certainly. Adele will go too. In truth, my sister has not travelled much of late. She has only been once to Saint Louis since papa’s death. I am sure she will enjoy the trip exceedingly. And you will go, then?”
“Willingly. Your sister will need time for preparation. Shall we proceed to the Rue de Bourgogne?”
“Allons! on our way we can call at the post-office. Perhaps the missing letter is still lying there – we may yet recover it.”
“It can matter little now, I fancy; but there is no harm in trying.”
I had not much hope of success. Something whispered to me that the document was gone from the post-office, and had fallen into other hands: though of what use could it be to any one? Perhaps it had been detained by some one, in the expectation that it contained an enclosure of money – an occurrence which the loose arrangements of the American post-office rendered by no means uncommon.
I was now more than ever convinced of the correctness of my first impressions. On that morning when I visited the post-office, a letter for De Hauteroche had been asked for and taken out; and as he now informed me that he had received no letter, nor did he remember having sent any one to the office on that particular day – there was but one conclusion to be drawn. Some one, unauthorised by him, had obtained the letter – no doubt the very one in question.
The coincidence of Despard’s presence – for it must have been he whom I had mistaken for De Hauteroche – led me to other misgivings. I had not seen the person who made inquiry for the letter – the files of men in front preventing me – but judging by the time at which the spoilsman passed out at the exit end of the slip, he must have been near the delivery-window when the inquiry was made. These circumstances, taken in connection with what I already knew of this person, naturally led me to the conclusion that De Hauteroche’s letter had fallen into his hands. His motive for such a vile act I could only guess at. The hope of obtaining money, perhaps – though there might appear but slight probability of that. In truth, the affair was sufficiently inexplicable; and neither De Hauteroche nor I could arrive at any definite resolution of it at the time.
On our arriving at the post-office, a gleam of light was thrown upon the transaction.
“Has there been any letter addressed to Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche?”
The inquiry referred to a date of some days anterior.
The clerk could not answer that – indeed the question was rather an idle one. Of course, amidst the thousands of letters delivered by the official, it would have been miraculous in him to have remembered a particular one. He had no recollection of such a letter being delivered; and there was none for the address lying in the office.
“Stay – there is a letter that has just come in by an extra mail, for ‘Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche.’”
My friend eagerly grasped the document – the more eagerly that he saw upon it the stamp of the Saint Louis post-office! It was scarcely large enough to contain the copy of a will. It could hardly be that of which we were in search.
It proved not to be that, but a document of a very different character. It read thus:
“Monsieur, – The 1,000 dolls, cheque transmitted to you upon the Planters’ Bank of New Orleans, by a mistake of one of our clerics, was not crossed. It has been paid by the Bank and returned. We are anxious to know if it reached your hands safely. Please state by return mail.
“Gardette and Co,
“Bankers,
“Saint Louis,
“Mi.”
“Mystery of mysteries, Monsieur!” exclaimed De Hauteroche, gasping for breath, as he thrust the letter into my hands. “What can all this mean? I know of no thousand dollars. Never received a cheque – never expected one – know of no one in Saint Louis who should have sent it, nor for what purpose! Ho! there must be a mistake. This is not for me.”
And the speaker once more referred to the envelope. But the address was full and complete: —
“Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche,
“Avocat,
“16, Rue Royale,
“New Orleans.”
There was no other Luis De Hauteroche – no other avocat of the name. Undoubtedly the letter was for him – however little he understood its contents.
I was less puzzled than he. A gleam, or rather a flood of light, was let in upon the mysterious transaction, which to me was no longer a mystery. Whence had come the cheque I could not tell I could only surmise; and my surmise pointed to the hand of the generous widow of Dardonville. Where it had gone was unfortunately less doubtful, – for the fingers of the chevalier d’industrie were easily recognisable here. Beyond a doubt, Monsieur Despard had got the cheque; and this would account for his after inquiry at the post-office, that led to his obtaining the letter with the will. He had watched the arrival of the mails from Saint Louis, and obtained such letters as were addressed to De Hauteroche. Why he had done this at first, it would be difficult to say; but afterwards – after obtaining the money – his object would be to prevent the young lawyer from knowing it, until he could get out of the way.
In all likelihood he was now beyond reach either of accusation or conviction. The two letters which had just come to hand were of themselves evidence, that in all likelihood he was no longer near.
De Hauteroche was furious – half frantic when I imparted to him my convictions; for, although the source whence the 1,000 dollars had come, was still a mystery to him, yet there was the proof of its having been sent, and the presumption of its having been stolen.
The New Orleans police were at once put in charge of the matter; and, as no communication could possibly reach Saint Louis sooner than by the Sultana, it was resolved that we ourselves should be the bearers of the answer, and call upon the banking-house of Gardette and Co, the moment we arrived in that city.
Detectives were set upon the search for Despard, but of course only as spies – since as yet we could allege nothing stronger than suspicion against him. The espionage, however, was likely to prove unsuccessful: for up to the hour of the Sultana’s leaving – which occurred just at sunset – the sportsman’s whereabouts had not been ascertained; and the detectives, in quaint phraseology, declared their belief that the “gentleman was G.T.T.” (Gone To Texas).
Story 2, Chapter XII
The Missouri Belle
The traveller who ascends the mighty Mississippi, will see neither hill nor mountain – nothing that can he called highland – until he has attained a thousand miles from its mouth. Only the bold headland on which stands the town of Natchez, and those very similar projections known as the “Chickasaw Bluffs,” one of which forms the site of the flourishing city of Memphis. All the rest, on both sides of the river, as far as the eye can reach, is low alluvion, rising only a few feet above the surface of the stream, and often, for hundreds of miles, periodically drowned by inundation, or covered continuously by a stagnant marsh. The forest hides all this from the eye; and frequently the banks of the river have the appearance of dry land, when there is not a spot of earth upon which you may rest your foot.
This character continues till you have passed the mouth of the Ohio, and have entered upon the regions of Missouri and the Illinois. There the scene changes as if by magic. The river no more appears wandering over a flat country; but runs in the bottom of a deep gorge or valley, whose sides are nearly precipitous – often rising to the height of hundreds of feet above the surface of the water.
We had been six days steaming up the river; and on the seventh at sunset, the Sultana reached the highland region, entering the gorge-like valley, just as night was closing over it.
It was the period of a full moon, and as yet the fair queen was low in the heavens – so low that her light fell upon the water, only in those reaches where the river trended in an easterly or westerly direction.
Whenever the course was north or south – and this was the general direction – the high bluffs completely overshadowed the stream; and then only the glare of the fires lit up the dark water ravine through which we were passing.
The sudden changes from light to darkness, and from darkness back to brilliant moonlight, had an effect that was curious and interesting. They resembled the transformations in a theatre. One moment we were steaming along in the most sombre shadow – the crest of the bluffy with its crowning trees and shot towers, dimly outlined above us – the next, we would shoot out under the white fulness of the moonlight, that rendered even minute objects along the façade of the banks, almost as visible as by day.
This ever-shifting panorama appeared more the work of magic, than the effect of natural causes, and I had lingered upon the hurricane-deck to observe its changes long after my companions had gone below.
While thus engaged, my ear caught the peculiar sound produced by the ’scape pipe of a high-pressure boat; and which is easily distinguished from all other explosive noises. At first it seemed the echo from our own – for I had already noticed the reverberations which the cliffs sent back at different points on our passage. I soon became convinced that the sounds I now heard were not echoes; but that another boat was making its way through the dark gorges, apparently coming down stream. This was made certain by the sudden appearance of a brilliant lamp directly in front of us, find more conspicuous still was the red glare of the fires burning in the furnaces – which are always placed in the forward part of the boat.
It was one of the darkest ravines of the river, where the two boats came in sight of each other; but the lights of each guided the pilot of the other, and there was neither danger nor difficulty in passing. Each held to the larboard – as two carriages would have done upon an ordinary road – and a wide space was left between them: for the channel, though narrower here than elsewhere, still afforded a sufficiency of room.
It was quick work, however, and the pilot of each boat adroitly performed his duty. The bend was of short reach; and, from the time I caught sight of the descending steamer, I could scarcely have counted two hundred till she had met and was overlapping the Sultana. Like two fiery meteors they brushed past one another – each bearing onward in her own direction, without hail or the exchange of a single word I had just time, as the stranger glided by, to make out upon her wheel-house the name Missouri Belle; but, before I could have counted another hundred, she had forged round a projection of the bluffs, and her lights were no longer visible.
I stood gazing after her with emotions vivid and singular. What was there that caused me to do so! The incident of meeting a steamboat on the Mississippi? There was nothing extraordinary in that – an occurrence so common as scarcely to deserve being regarded an incident. Was it the name of the boat, which I had been enabled to decipher? Some old remembrance connected with her?
No, nothing of the kind. The emotions that had suddenly arisen in my mind, were springing from a very different cause; and I may at once declare it.
Abaft of the Missouri Belle, and in the little gangway that encircles the ladies’ cabin, I had caught sight of a group of three persons, standing outside one of the state-room doors. Of the identity of these persons I could not be mistaken – though the sight was sufficient to stagger my belief. Of two I was sure: for the light shone more fairly upon them. The third only remained unrecognised – the darkness hindering my view of this individual – and, but for a horrid suspicion that flashed into my brain at the moment, I should not have thought of even guessing at his identity.
The two that I had recognised were women – ladies. They were Madame Dardonville and her daughter Olympe. The third was a man, who stood sufficiently near them to come under the same light – the glare of the Sultana’s fires – but the unexpected presence of the ladies so astounded me, that I did not see him till too late to distinguish either his form or face. I only saw that it was a man – nothing more; but, for all that, a painful suspicion – a presentiment of some horrid evil – took immediate possession of my soul; and I became at once imbued with the idea that my friends were in danger.
Gladly would I have adopted the belief that there was some error; and that what I had seen was a fancy – a vision of the brain. Certainly the glimpse I had of those fair faces – especially of the beautiful countenance of Olympe – was short and evanescent as any dream could have been; but it was too real. I saw her face well enough to recognise it – well enough even to note its expression, which I fancied to be more sad than smiling. Beyond a doubt the widow and her daughter had passed us in the Missouri Belle– strange though the circumstance might and did appear to me at the moment.
And what, after all, was there strange in it? Could it not be easily explained? Her affairs may have been set tied earlier than she expected – they should have been arranged by that time – and, without waiting for De Hauteroche, she may have formed the resolution to travel without him. The journey from Saint Louis to New Orleans is accounted nothing; and in all parts of the States ladies are accustomed to travel alone, and may do so with perfect safety and convenience.
But, then, they were not alone – at least they did not appear to be. There was the man —the man!
Some friend, perhaps, of the family? Some distant relative or retainer? Perhaps, only a domestic?
Could I have believed this, I should have escaped that feeling of uneasiness that was every moment growing upon me; but I could not. Something seemed to tell me, that the man I had seen was neither relative nor friend – but an enemy. Something seemed to whisper his name —Monsieur Jacques Despard.
Story 2, Chapter XIII
The Two Pilots
My suspicions were only vague and ill-defined. I had the presentiment of an evil – but what evil? Even admitting that the man who accompanied Madame Dardonville and her daughter, was the swindler Despard – what injury could they receive from his presence? But what reason had I to think it was he? Not the least. Indeed, upon reflection, I could not myself imagine what had brought this man into my mind: though that might be accounted for – since the forgery, of which we more than suspected him, was one of the first things to be inquired into, on our arrival in Saint Louis – and there we should be in the morning.
There was little reason, however, in all this, to connect him with the presence of the ladies on board the Missouri Belle; and the more I reflected on the matter, the more improbable did it appear.
The circumstance of meeting Madame Dardonville on her way downward, was certainly strange enough – especially when I remembered her letter. In that she had distinctly arranged that we should come up for her; and had stated her intention to travel back by the Sultana. Had she written again, and once more altered the arrangement? It had been her original design, as appeared by her second letter – to have gone to New Orleans at an earlier date; but some business, connected with the administration of her estate, had delayed her. Was this cause of detention unexpectedly removed? and had she, in consequence, started southward, without waiting for the Sultana? Perhaps she had written a third letter, which had not reached New Orleans at the time of our leaving it?
All these were probabilities – or rather possibilities – that passed through my mind; but, viewing them in their most favourable aspect, they failed to satisfy me. I could not help suspecting that there was a mystery – that there was something wrong.
The pilot was at his post inside his little cabin of glass, silent as is his wont. I would have entered into conversation with him; but just at that moment his second appeared, coming out of the pilot’s cabin, and rubbing his eyes to get them open for his work. A bell had just announced the hour of change, and the second was about to enter on his turn of duty. The ceremony was simple; and consisted in the old pilot handing over the spokes to the one that relieved him, and then squeezing himself out of the glass house. A little conversation followed before the relieved officer retired to his “bunk.” Seated within ear-shot, I could not help overhearing it. “Durnation dark – whar are we anyhow?”
“Jest below Shirt-tail bend – thar’s the bluff.”
“Durn me! if I can see a steim. I couldn’t see a white hoss at the eend of my nose this minnit. I reckon I’ll be runnin’ the old boat into the bank, if it don’t clear a bit.”
It certainly was a dark night. Some heavy clouds had drifted over the moon, and she was no longer visible.
“Oh, no fear,” rejoined the other, “you ain’t got the sleep out of your eyes, you’ll see clearer by-’n-bye.”
“Wal – it’s to be hoped. Much dirt in the water?”
“A few – there’s a putty considerable drift comin’ down. That last spell o’ wet has done it, I reckon. I han’t seed many sawyers, but you’d better keep a sharp look-out. Thar’s bound to be some o’ ’em settled in the bend.”
“I’ll watch ’em – say, what boat was that?”
“Massoury Belle.”
“Oh! she’s in the Ohio trade now?”
“So I’ve heerd.”
“I thought they wouldn’t run her to Orleans agin. She aint the style for below.”
“No, she wa’nt big enough. Old What’s-his-name has bought her, and’s goin’ to run her reg’larly ’tween Saint Louis and Cinc’natti. She’s jest the thing for that trade. Good night!”
Thus ended the dialogue; and, in a few seconds after, the retiring officer had entered one of the little boxes adjacent to the wheel-house, and shut himself up for the night.
Up to a certain point I had listened to this conversation with but little attention, and might not have noticed it at all, but for its quaint oddity. All at once, however, it became deeply interesting to me – at that point when it turned upon the Missouri Belle.
What could the man mean by the boat no longer running to Orleans? New Orleans, of course, he meant – for these men are perfect Lacons in conversation, and I understood the curtailment of the name. Was it possible the boat was not then on her way to New Orleans? and was she bound round to Cincinatti?
If such were the case, the presence of Madame Dardonville on board of her, would indeed be a mysterious circumstance! For what purpose could she be going to Cincinatti? and, least of all, at such a crisis – when she should be expecting her friends from the south?
Had I heard aright? Or had I properly interpreted what I had heard?
Beyond doubt the pilot’s words were to the effect, that the boat was no longer to run to New Orleans, but from Saint Louis to Cincinatti, and of course vice versâ. Perhaps he might mean prospectively? Was it some new arrangement of ownership, not yet completed?
The boat might be hereafter intended for the Ohio trade, but had not yet commenced running to Cincinatti: she might be making her final trip to New Orleans? Only this hypothesis could explain the puzzle.
It occurred to me that I might arrive at a more lucid understanding by an application to the occupant of the wheel-house – at all events he could interpret what I had just heard. I addressed myself him accordingly.
I had no fear of being snubbed. These Mississippi pilots are fine fellows, sometimes a little dry with curious intruders, but never rude, never impolite to a gentleman.
“Did I understand you to say that the boat we have just met – the Missouri Belle– is in the Ohio trade?”
“Wal, stranger, that’s what I’ve heerd.”
“That means that she is to run between Saint Louis and Cincinatti.”
“Course it do.”
“And do you think she is on her way to Cincinatti now?”
“Why, stranger, whar else ’ud she be goin’?”
“I thought she might be going down to New Orleans.”
“Wal, she did run thar form’lly; but she’s off that now. She’s changed hands lately, and’s been put on the other line, ’tween Saint Louis and Cinc’natti, which air a trade she’ll suit for better. She wa’nt big enough for below; but bein’ a light draught critter, she’s jest the thing to get over the Falls.”
“And you are certain she is now on the way to Cincinatti?”
“No, that I aint, stranger. She may be on top o’ a durnation snag, or chuck up on a sand-bar at this minnit, for what I can tell. All I know for sartin is that she’s boun’ for Cinc’natti; and if nothin’ happens her, she’ll be thar in less ’n four days from now. Whether she breaks down, howsomever, air a question beyont my calkerlationa. She mout an’ she mout not.”
With this sublime resignation to probabilities, the tall speaker in the glass house, evidently intended that the conversation should come to a close, for I observed that he bent his gaze more eagerly ahead, and seemed to direct his attention exclusively to the tiller. Perhaps the idea of the Missouri Belle resting upon a snag or sand-bar, had suggested the probability of the Sultana getting into a similar predicament, and stimulated him to increased caution in the performance of his duty.
Though I had succeeded in concealing my emotions from the steersman, it was not without an effort. The information he imparted was full of serious meaning; and augmented the feeling of uneasiness, from which I already suffered. Stronger than ever did I feel that presentiment of evil.
The statement of the pilot admitted of no interpretation but one. It was direct and point blank: that the Missouri Belle was bound for Cincinatti. The man could have no motive for misleading me. Why should he? I had asked a simple question, without much show of interest or curiosity; he had answered it from pure politeness. There was not the slightest reason why he should make a misstatement; and I accepted what he had said as the truth.
The riddle had assumed a new character, and had become altogether more difficult of solution. “What,” I repeated to myself, “can Madame Dardonville have to do on a Cincinatti boat? Surely there is something astray?”
It did not appear exactly en règle, for the lady to leave Saint Louis in the expectation of a visit from her New Orleans friends; but I presumed she had sent a second despatch, which had not been received. Moreover, she was going down to them, and it mattered less about their coming up for her. These were my first reflections after seeing her upon the down-river boat, and until I had heard the talk of the two pilots. Now, however, circumstances had a different appearance. On the Missouri Belle she could not be going to New Orleans, but to Cincinatti. Did she expect us to follow her there? and for what end? Perhaps she would only go as far as the Ohio mouth, in this boat, and there wait for another, coming down the Ohio river? This method of getting from Saint Louis to New Orleans was common enough, when there did not chance to be a boat going direct. The large hotel at Cairo offered a temporary sojourn for such passengers. But why should Madame Dardonville adopt this roundabout method, and especially at such a time?
A score of conjectures passed through my mind, all ending idly. The only one at all satisfactory, was that, perhaps, I had been in an error from the very beginning. Perhaps, after all, I had neither seen Madame Dardonville nor her daughter; but two ladies who very much resembled them! It was not the first equivoque I had experienced; and this should have rendered me less confident of the evidence of my senses. Notwithstanding these reflections, however, I could not convince myself that I was in error.
So long, therefore, as there was the slightest doubt, I felt that it would be imprudent to communicate my suspicions to my travelling companions. It could serve no good purpose; and would only render them uneasy, as I was myself, – in all likelihood, much more so. Ere long we should all know the truth; and should it prove that I was mistaken, I would have the satisfaction of having saved my friends from unnecessary pain, and myself from ridicule.
Though I joined them the moment after, I gave neither of them the slightest hint of what I had seen or suspected.
