 Chapter 56 The Mysterious Maniac Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe. She is not mad, who kneels to thee? For what I am, full well I know. And what I was, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair. My language shall become, though sad. But yet I'll truly, fernly swear, I am not mad, no, no, not mad. M.G. Lewis It was at the close of a beautiful day in early spring that Traverse Rock, accompanying the old doctor and the old sister, reached the grove on the borders of the beautiful lake upon the banks of which was situated the calm retreat. A large, low, white building surrounded with piazzas, and shaded by fragrant and flowering southern trees, it looked like a luxurious country-sea of some wealthy merchant or planter, rather than a prison for the insane. Dr. Su-Jean conducted his young assistant into a broad and cool hall, on each side of which doors opened into spacious rooms, occupied by the proprietor and his household. The cells of the patients, as it appeared, were upstairs. The country doctor and the matron who had been in charge during the absence of the proprietor and his sister, now came forward to welcome the party, and report the state of the institution and its inmates. All were as usual, the country doctor said, except Mademoiselle. And what of her? How is Mademoiselle? A patient most interesting, Dr. Rock, said the old Frenchman, alternately questioning his substitute and addressing Traverse. She has stopped her violent ravings, and seems to me to be sinking into a state of stupid despair, replied the substitute. A patient most interesting, my young friend, a history most pathetic. You shall hear of it some time. But come into the parlor, and you, Angel, my sister, ring and order coffee, said the old Frenchman, leading the way into a pleasant apartment on the right of the hall, furnished with straw matting upon the floor, and bamboos satis and chairs around the walls. Here coffee was presently served to the travellers, who soon after retired for the night. Traverse's room was a large pleasant apartment at the end of a wide long hall, on each side of which were the doors opening into the cells of the patients. Fatigued by his journey, Traverse slept soundly through the night, but early in the morning he was rudely awakened by the sounds of maniac voices from the cells. Some were crying, some laughing aloud, some groaning and howling, and some holding forth in fancied exhortations. He dressed himself quickly, and left his room to walk down the length of the long hall and observe the cells on each side. The doors were at regular intervals, and each door had in its center a small opening to enable the proprietor to look upon the patients. As these were all women, and some of them delicate and refined even in their insanity, Traverse felt shocked at this necessary, if it were necessary, exposure of their sanctuary. The cells were, in fact, small bedrooms, that with their whitewashed walls and white-curtained beds, and windows looking excessively neat, clean and cool, but also it must be confessed, very bare, dreary and cheerless. Even a looking-glass would be a great benefit to those poor girls, for I remember the even Clara in her violent grief and mother in her lifelong sorrow, never neglected their looking-glass and personal appearance, said Traverse to himself, as he passed down the hall, and resolved that this little indulgence should be afforded to the patients. And except those first involuntary glances, he scrupulously avoided looking in through the gratings upon those helpless women who had no means of secluding themselves. But as he turned to go down the stairs, his eyes went full into an opposite cell and fell upon a vision of beauty and sorrow that immediately riveted his gaze. It was a small and graceful female figure, clothed in deep black, seated by the window, with her elbow resting upon the sill, and her chin supported on her hand. Her eyes were cast down until her eyelashes lay like inky lines upon her snow-white cheek. Her face, of classic regularity and marble whiteness, bore a ghastly contrast to the long eyelashes, arched eyebrows, and silken ringlets black as midnight. She might have been a statue or a pitcher, so motionless she sat. Conscious of the wrong of gazing upon the solitary woman, Traverse forced his looks away and passed on downstairs, where he again met the old doctor and met a Moselle Angel at breakfast. After breakfast Dr. Sajan invited his young assistant to accompany him on a round of visits to the patients, and they went immediately up to the hall, at the end of which Traverse had slept. Here are our incurables, but they are not violent, incurables never are. Poor Meselle, she has just been conveyed to this ward, said the doctor, opening the door of the first cell on the right at the head of the stairs, and admitting Traverse at once into the presence of the beautiful, black-haired, snow-faced woman who had so much interest at him. This is my friend Dr. Rock, Meselle, doctor, this is my friend, Meselle, moe de sé pair. Traverse bowed profoundly, and the lady arose, curtsied, and resumed her seat, saying coldly, I have told you, Mizzou, never to address me as Madame Moselle, you persist in doing so, and I shall never notice the insult again. Ten thousand partams, madame, but if madame will always look so young, so beautiful, can I ever remember that she is a widow? The classic lip of the woman curled and scorn, and she disdained reply, I take an appeal to Mizzou Le doctor, is not madame young and beautiful, asked the Frenchman, turning to Traverse, while the splendid black eyes of the stranger passed from the one to the other. Traverse caught the glance of the lady, and bowed gravely. It was the most delicate and proper reply. She smiled almost as gravely, and with a much kinder expression than any she had bestowed upon the Frenchman. And how has madame fared during my absence so long? The servants, have they been respectful? Have they been observant? Have they been obedient to the will of madame? Madame has bet to speak, said the doctor, bowing politely. Why should I speak when every word I utter you believe, or affect to believe, to be the ravings of a maniac? I will speak no more, said the lady, turning away her superb dark eyes and looking out of the window. Madame will not so punish her friend, her servant, her slave. A gesture of fearsome patience and disgust was the only reply deigned by the lady. Come away, she is angry and may become dangerously excited, said the old doctor, leading the way from the cell. Did you tell me this lady is one of the incurable, inquired Traverse, when they had left her apartment? Bah, yes, poor girl, vera incurable, as my sister would say. Yet she appears to me to be perfectly sane, as well as exceedingly beautiful and interesting. Ah, bah, my excellent, my admirable, my inexperienced young friend, that is all you know of lunatics. With more or less violence of assertion, they every one insist upon their sanity, just as criminals protest their innocence. Ah, bah, you shall go into every cell in this world and find not one lunatic among them, sneered the old doctor, as he led the way into the next little room. It was indeed as he had foretold, and Traverse Rock found himself deeply affected by the melancholy, the earnest and sometimes the violent manner in which the poor unfortunates protested their sanity, and implored or demanded to be restored to home and friends. You perceive, said the doctor, with a dry laugh, that they are none of them crazy. I see, said Traverse, but I also detect a very great difference between that lovely woman in the south cell and these other inmates. Bah, bah, bah, she is more beautiful, more accomplished, more refined than the others, and she is in one of her lucid intervals. That is all, but as to a difference between her insanity and that of the other patients, it lies in this, that she is the most hopelessly mad of the whole lot. She has been mad eighteen years. Is it possible? exclaimed Traverse incredulously. She lost her reason at the age of sixteen, and she is now thirty-four. You can calculate. It is amazing and very sorrowful. How beautiful she is! Yes, her beauty was a fatal gift. It is a sad story. Ah, it is a sad story. You shall hear it when we get through. I can connect no idea of woman's frailty with that refined and intellectual face, said Traverse cultly. Ah, bah, you are young. You know not the world. You, my innocent, my pious young friend, said the old doctor, as they crossed the hall to go into the next wing of the building, in which were situated the men's boards. Traverse found nothing that particularly interested him in this department, and when they had concluded their round of visits, and were seated together in the old doctor's study, Traverse asked him for the story of his beautiful patient. The doctor shrugged his shoulders. It is a story miserable, as I told you before. A gentleman, illustrious from Virginia, an officer high in the army, and distinguished in the war, he brought this woman to me nearly three years ago. He informed me that, oh, bien, I had better tell you the story in my own manner. This young lady, Mademoiselle Monde Saint-Père, is of a family noble and distinguished, a relative of this officer, illustrious and brave. At fifteen, Mademoiselle met a man, handsome and without honor. Ah, bah, you understand, at sixteen the child became a fallen angel. She lost her reason through sorrow and shame. This relative, this gentleman, illustrious and noble, tender and compassionate, took her to the seclusion of his country house, where she lived in elegance, luxury, and honor. But as the years passed her melody increased, her presence became dangerous. In a word, the gentleman, distinguished and noble, saw the advertisement of my calm retreat, my institution incomparable, and he wrote to me, in a word, he liked my terms and brought to me his young relative, so lovely and so unfortunate. Ah, he is a good man, this officer, so gallant, so chivalrous, but she is ungrateful. Ungrateful? Ah, bah, yes it is the way of lunatics. They ever imagine their best friends to be their worst enemies. This poor, crazed creature fancies that she is the sister-in-law of this officer illustrious. She thinks that she is the widow of his elder brother, whom she imagines he murdered, and that she is the mother of children, whom she says he has abducted or destroyed, so that he may enjoy the estate that is her widow's dower and their orphan's patrimony. That is the reason why she insists on being called Madame instead of Mademoiselle, and we indulge her when we think of it. But all this is very singular. Ah, bah, who can account for a lunatic's fancies? She is the maddest of the whole lot. Sometimes she used to become so violent that we would have to restrain her. But lately Dr. Wood tells me she is quite still, that we consider a bad sign. There is always hope for a lunatic until they begin to sink into the state, said the doctor, with an air of competency. CHAPTER 57 The Maniac's Story A scheming villain forged the tale that chains me in this dreary cell. My fate unknown, my friends bewail. Oh, Dr. Haste, that fate to tell. Oh, haste my daughter's heart to cheer. Her heart at once, to a grieve and glad. To know, though chaired and captive here, I am not mad, I am not mad. M. G. Lewis There is some advantage in having imagination, since that visionary faculty opens the mental eyes to facts that more practical and duller intellects could never see. Traverse was young and romantic, and deeply interested in the doctor's beautiful patient. He therefore did not yield his full credulity to the tale told by the relative illustrious to the old doctor as to the history and cause of the lady's madness, or even take it for granted that she was mad. He thought it quite possible that the distinguished officer's story might be a wicked fabrication to conceal a crime, and that the lady's crazy fancy might be the pure truth. And Traverse had heard to what heinous uses private madhouses were sometimes put by some unscrupulous men, who wished to get certain women out of their way, yet who shrank from bloodshed. And he thought it not impossible that this gentleman so noble, so compassionate and tender, might be just such a man, and this fallen angel, such a victim. And he determined to watch and observe. And he further resolved to treat the interesting patient with all the studious delicacy and respect due to a refined and accomplished woman in the full possession of her faculties. If she were really mad, this demeanor would not hurt her. And if she were not mad, it was the only proper conduct to be observed toward her, as any other must be equally cruel and offensive. Her bodily health certainly required the attendance of a physician, and Traverse had therefore a fair excuse for his daily visits to herself. His respectful manners, his grave bow, and his referential tone in saying, I hope I find you stronger today, madame, seem to gratify one who had few sources of pleasure. I thank you, she would answer, with a softened tone and look, adding, Yes, or No, as the truth might be. One day, after looking at the young physician some time, she suddenly said, You never forget. You always address me by my proper title of Madame, and without the touch of irony which others indulge in when humoring me, as they call it. Now, pray explain to me why, in sober earnest, you give me this title. Because, madame, I have heard you lay claim to that title, and I think that you yourself, of all the world, have the best right to know how you should be addressed, said Traverse respectfully. The lady looked wistfully at him, and said, But my next-door neighbor asserts that she is a queen. She insists upon being called Your Majesty. Has she, then, the best right to know how she should be addressed? Alas, no, madame, and I am pained that you should do yourself the great wrong to draw such comparisons. Why, am I not I, and the queen, inmates of the same ward of incurables, and the same lunatic asylum? Yes, but not with equal justice of cause. The queen is a hopelessly deranged, but happy lunatic. You, madame, are a lady who has retained the full possession of your faculties amid circumstances and surroundings that must have overwhelmed the reason of a weaker mind. The lady looked at him in wonder, and almost in joy. Ah, it was not the strength of my mind, it was the strength of the Almighty upon whom my mind was stayed, for time and for eternity, that has saved my reason in all these many years. But how did you know that I was not mad? How do you know that this is anything more than a lucid interval of longer duration than usual? She asked. Madame, you will forgive me for having looked at you so closely, and watched you so constantly, but I am your physician, you know. I have nothing to forgive, and much to thank you for, young man. You have an honest, truthful, frank, young face, the only one such that I have seen in eighteen years of sorrow. But why, then, did you not believe the doctor? Why did you not take the fact of my insanity upon trust, as others did, she asked, fixing her glorious dark eyes inquiringly upon his face? Madame, from the first moment in which I saw you, I disbelieved the story of your insanity, and mentioned my doubts to Dr. Sojourn. Heretic healed your doubts, of course. I can readily believe that he did. Dr. Sojourn is not a very bad man, but he is a charlatan and a dullard. He received the story of my reported insanity as he received me, as an advantage to his institution, and he never gave himself the unprofitable trouble to investigate the circumstances. I told him the truth about myself, as calmly as I now speak to you. But somebody else had told him that this truth was a fiction of a deranged imagination, and he found it more convenient and profitable to believe somebody else. But again I ask you, why were not you also so discreetly obtuse? Madame, said Travers, blushing ingenuously, I hope you will forgive me for saying that it is impossible any one could see you without becoming deeply interested in your fate. Your face, madame, speaks equally of profound sorrows and of saintly resignation. I saw no sign of madness there. In the calm depths of those sad eyes, lady, I knew that the fires of insanity never could have burned. Pardon me that I looked at you so closely. I was your physician, and was most deeply anxious concerning my patient. I thank you. May the Lord bless you. Perhaps he has sent you here for my relief. For you are right, young friend. You are altogether right. I have been wild with grief, frantic with despair. But never for one hour in the whole course of my life have I been insane. I believe you, madame, on my sacred honor I do, said Travers fervently, and yet you could get no one about this place to believe you. They have taken my brother-in-law's false story, endorsed as it is by the doctor-proprietor, for granted, and just so long as I persist in telling my true story. They will consider me a monomaniac, and so often as the thought of my many wrongs and sorrows combines with the nervous irritability to which every woman is occasionally subject, and makes me rave with impatience and excitement, they will report me a dangerous lunatic subject to periodical attacks of violent frenzy. But young man, even at my worst, I am no more mad than any other woman, wild with grief, and hysterical through nervous irritation, might at any time become without having her sanity called in question. I am sure that you are not, nor ever could have been, madame. The nervous excitement of which you speak is entirely within the control of medicine, which mania proper is not. You will use the means that I prescribe, and your continued calmness will go far to convince even these dullards that they have been wrong. I will do everything you recommend, indeed, for some weeks before you came I had put a constraint upon myself, and forced myself to be very still. But the effect of that was, that acting upon their theory, they said that I was sinking into the last, or melancholy mad, state of mania, and they put me in here with the incurables. Lady, said Travers, respectfully taking her hand, now that I am acquainted in some slight degree with the story of your heavy wrongs, do not suppose that I will ever leave you until I see you restored to your friends. Friends, ah young man, do you really suppose that if I had had friends I should have been left thus long unsought? I have no friends, Dr. Rock, except yourself, newly sent me by the Lord, nor any relatives, except a young daughter, whom I have seen but twice in my life, once upon the dreadful night when she was born, and torn away from my sight, and once about two years ago, when she must have been sixteen years of age. My little daughter does not know that she has a poor mother living, and I have no friend upon earth but you, whom the Lord has sent. And not in vain, said Travers, fervently, though you have no other friends, yet you have the law to protect you. I will make your case known, and restore you to liberty. Then, lady, listen, I have a good mother, to whom suffering has taught sympathy with the unfortunate, and I have a lovely betrothed bride, whom you will forgive her lover for thinking an angel in women's form, and we have a beautiful home among the hills of Virginia, and you shall add to our happiness by living with us. The lady looked at Travers Rock, with astonishment and incredulity. Boy, she said, do you know what you were promising? To assume the whole burden of the support of a useless woman for her whole life, what would your mother or your promised wife say to such a proposition? Ah, you do not know my dear mother, nor my Clara, no, nor even me. I tell you the truth when I say that your coming among us would make us happier. Oh, madame, I myself owe so much to the Lord and to his instruments, the benevolent of this world, for all that has been done for me. I seize with gratitude the chance to serve in my turn any of his suffering children. Pray, believe me. I do, I do, Dr. Rock. I see that life has not deprived you of a generous, youthful enthusiasm, said the lady, with the tears welling up into her glorious black eyes. After a little, with a smile, she held out her hand to him saying, Young friend, if you should succeed in freeing me from this prison and establishing my sanity before a court of justice, I and my daughter will come into the immediate possession of one of the largest estates in your native Virginia. Sit you down, Dr. Rock, while I tell you my true story, and much, very much more of it than I have ever confided to any human being. Lady, I am very impatient to hear your history, but I am your physician, and must first consider your health. You have been sufficiently excited for one day. It is late. Take your tea, and retire early to bed. Tomorrow morning, after I have visited the wards, and you have taken your breakfast, I will come, and you shall tell me the story of your life. I will do whatever you think best, said the lady. Trevor slifted her hand to his lips, bowed, and retreated from the cell. That same night, Trevor stroked to his friend, Herbert Grayson, in Mexico, and to his mother and Clara, describing his interesting patient, though as yet he could tell but little of her, not even in fact her real name, but promising fuller particulars next time, and declaring his intention of bringing her home for the present to their house. End of CHAPTER XVVIII of the Lady's story. Of the present, gnaw is bright, but in the coming years I see a brilliant and a cheerful light which burns before thee constantly. W. D. Gallagher. At the appointed hour the next morning, Trevor's rock repaired to the cell of his mysterious patient. He was pleased to find her up, dressed with more than usual care and taste, and looking upon the whole, much better in health and spirits than upon the preceding day. Ah, my young hero, it is you. You see that I am ready for you, she said, holding out her hand. You are looking very well this morning, said Trevor's, smiling. Yes, hope is a fine tonic, Dr. Rock. She was seated by the same window, at which Trevor's had first seen her, and she now beckoned to the young doctor to come and take a seat near her. My story is almost as melodramatic as a modern romance, Dr. Rock, she said. Trevor spouted gravely and waited. My father was a French patriot who suffered death in the cause of liberty when I, his only child, was but fourteen years of age. My mother, brokenhearted by his loss, followed him within a few months. I was left an orphan and penniless, for our estate was confiscated. Ah, your sorrows came early and heavily indeed, said Trevor's. Yes, well, a former servant of my father held in humble situation of Porter, on the ground floor of a house, the several floors of which were let out to different lodgers. This poor man and his wife gave me a temporary home with themselves. Among the lodgers of this house there was a young Virginian gentleman of fortune, traveling for pleasure and improvement. His name was Mr. Eugene Lenore. Lenore? cried Trevor's, with a violent start. Yes, what is the matter? It is a familiar Virginian name, madame, that is all. Pray go on. Mr. Lenore was as good and kind as he was wise and cultivated. He used to stop gossip with old clicko every time he stopped at the Porter's drum, to take or to leave his key. There he heard of the poor little orphan of the guillotine, who had no friends in the world but her father's old servant. He pitied me, and after many consultations with father and mother clicko, he assumed the position of guardian to me, and placed me at one of the best schools in Paris. He lingered in the city, and came to see me very often, but always saw me in the presence of madame, the directoress. I clung to him with affection as to a father or an elder brother, and I knew he loved me, with a tender, protecting affection, that he would have given a younger sister had he possessed one. Ah, Dr. Ruck, tell me, besides yourself, are there many other men in your state like him? I knew but one such, but go on, dear madame. When I had been to school some months, he came to me one day, scarcely able to conceal his woe. He told me that his father was ill, and that he should have to sail in the first packet from Avra, and that, in fact, he had then come to take leave of me. I was wild with grief, not only upon his account, but upon my own, at the prospect of losing him, my only friend. I was but a child, and a French child to boot. I knew nothing of the world. I regarded this noble gentleman, who was so much my superior in years as in everything else, as a father, guardian or elder brother, so in an agony of grief I threw myself into his arms, sobbing and weeping bitterly and imploring him not to break my heart by leaving me. It was in vain madame the directoress exclaimed and exposulated at these improprieties. I am sure I did not hear a word until he spoke. Putting me out of his arms, he said, I must go, my child, duty calls me. Then take me with you, take your poor little one with you, and do not pull her out of your warm, good heart, or she will wither and die like a flower torn up by the roots, I cried, between my sobs and tears. He drew me back to his bosom and whispered, There is but one way in which I can take you with me, my child. Will you be my wife, little Capitoli? Capitola cried to Travers with another great start. Yes, why? What is the matter now? Why, it is such an odd name, that is all. Pray proceed, madam. We were married the same day, and sailed the third morning thereafter from Avra for the United States, where we arrived, alas, only to find the noble gentleman, my Eugene's father, laid in his grave. After Mr. Lenore's natural grief was over, we settled down peaceably to our country life at the hidden house. The hidden house? Again exclaimed Travers Rock. Yes, that is another odd name, isn't it? Well, I was very happy. At first when I understood my real position, I had been afraid that my husband had married me, only from compassion, but he soon proved to me that his love was as high, as pure and as noble as himself. I was very happy, but one day, in the midst of my exultant joy, a thunderbolt fell and shattered my peace to destruction for ever. Oh, Dr. Rock, my husband was murdered by some unknown hand in his own woods in open day. I cannot talk of this, cried the widow, breaking down and overwhelmed with the rush of terrible recollections. Travers poured out a glass of water and handed it to her. She drank it, made an effort at self-control, and resumed. Thus, scarcely sixteen years of age, I was a widow, helpless, penniless, and entirely dependent upon my brother-in-law, Colonel Gabriel Lenore, for by the terms of their father's will, if Eugene died without issue, the whole property descended to his younger brother, Gabriel. To speak the truth, Colonel Lenore was exceedingly kind to me after my awful bereavement, until a circumstance was discovered that changed all our relations. It was two months after my husband's death that I discovered, with mingled emotions of joy and sorrow, that heaven had certainly destined me to become a mother. I kept my cherished secret to myself, as long as it was possible, but it could not indeed be long concealed from the household. I believed that my brother-in-law was a first to suspect it. He called me into his study one day, and I obeyed like a child. And there he rudely questioned me upon the subject of my sacred mother-mystery. He learned the truth more from my silence than from my replies, for I could not answer him. The brute, the miserable hound, ejaculated Travers. Oh, Dr. Rock, I could not tell you the avalanche of abuse, insult, and invective that he hurled upon my defenseless head. He accused me of more crimes than I had ever heard talk of. He told me that my condition was an impossible one, unless I had been false to the memory of his brother. That I had dishonored his name, disgraced his house, and brought myself to shame. That I should leave the roof, leave the neighborhood, and die as I deserve to die, in a ditch. I made no reply. I was crushed into silence under the weight of his reproaches. The catif, the paltrune, ah, poor stranger, why did you not leave the house at once, and throw yourself upon the protection of the minister of your parish, or some other kind neighbor? Alas, I was a child, a widow, and a foreigner all in one. I did not know your land, or your laws, or your people. I was not hopeful or confident. I had suffered so cruelly, and I was overwhelmed by his abuse. But did you not know, dear lady, that all his rage was aroused only by the fact that the birth of your child would disinherit him? Ah, no, I was not aware at that time that Gabriel Lenor was a villain. I thought his anger honest, though unjust, and I was as ignorant as a child. I had no mother nor matronly friend to instruct me. I knew that I had broken no command of God or man, that I had been a faithful wife. But when Gabriel Lenor accused me with such bitter earnestness, I feared that some strange departure from the usual course of nature had occurred for my destruction, and I was overwhelmed by mortification, terror, and despair. Ah, the villain exclaimed Travers between his teeth. He told me at last that to save the memory of his dead brother he would hide my dishonor, and he ordered me to seclude myself from the sight of all persons. I obeyed him like a slave, grateful even for the shelter of his own roof. A roof that was your own, as he very well knew. And he knew also that, Catef, that if the circumstance became known, the whole state would have protected you in your rights, and ejected him like a cur. Nay, even in that case no harm should have reached him on my account. He was my husband's brother. And worst enemy, but proceed, dear lady. Well, I secluded myself as he commanded. For four months I never left the attic to which he had ordered me to retreat. At the end of that time I became the mother of twins, a boy and a girl. The boy only opened his eyes on this world to close them again directly. The girl was living and healthy. The old nurse who attended me had an honest and compassionate face. I persuaded her to secrete and save the living child, and to present the dead babe to Colonel Lenore as the only one. For the suspicions that had never been awakened for myself were alarmed for my child. I instinctively felt that he would have destroyed it. The mother's instinct is like inspiration, said Travers. It may be so. Well, the old woman pitied me and did as I desired. She took the dead child to Colonel Lenore, who carried it off, and afterward buried it as a sole heir of his elder brother. The old woman carried off my living child and my wedding ring, concealed under her ample shawl. Anxiety for the fate of my child caused me to do what nothing else on earth would have tempted me to do, to creep about the halls and passages on Tiptoe, and under cover of the night and listen at keyholes, said the lady, blushing deeply at the recollection. You were perfectly right, Mrs. Lenore, and a den of robbers, where your life and honor were always at stake, you could have done no otherwise, exclaimed Travers warmly. I learned by this means that my poor old nurse had paid with her liberty for her kindness to me. She had been abducted and forced from her native country together with a child found in her possession, which they evidently suspected, and I knew, to be mine. Oh, heaven, the agony then of thinking what might be her unknown fate, worse than death, perhaps. I felt that I had only succeeded in saving her life, doubtful good. Here Mrs. Lenore paused and thought for a few moments, and then resumed. It is the memory of a long, dreary, and hopeless imprisonment, my recollection of my residence in that house. In the same manner in which I gained all my information, I learned that it was reported in the neighborhood that I had gone mad with grief for the loss of my husband, and that I was an inmate of a madhouse in the north. It was altogether false. I never left the hidden house and all those years, until about two years ago. My life there was dreary beyond all conception. I was forbidden to go out or to appear at a window. I had the whole attic, containing some eight or ten rooms to rove over, but I was forbidden to descend. An ill-looking woman called Dorcas Knight, between whom and the elder Lenore there seemed to have been some sinful bond, was engaged ostentably as my attendant, but really as my jailer. Nevertheless, when the sense of confinement grew intolerable, I sometimes eluded her vigilance and wandered about the house at night. Ben's no doubt, said Travers, giving rise to the report that the house was haunted. Mrs. Lenore smiled, saying, I believe the Lenore secretly encouraged that report. I'll tell you why. They gave me their chamberlamp, enclosed in an intense blue shade, that cast a strange, unearthly light around. Their ostentable reason was to ensure my safety from fire. Their real reason was that this light might be seen from without, and what was reputed to be an uninhabited portion of the house, and give color to its bad reputation among the ignorant of its being haunted. So much for the origin of one authenticated ghost story, said Travers. Yes, and there was still more circumstantial evidence to support this ghostly reputation of the house. As the years passed I had, even in my confined state, gathered knowledge in one way and another, picking up stray books, and hearing stray conversation. And so, in the end, I learned how gross a deception, and how great a wrong had been practiced upon me. I was not wise or cunning. I betrayed constantly to my attendant my knowledge of these things, and consequence of which my confinement became still more restricted. Yes, they were afraid of you, and fear is always the mother of cruelty, said Travers. Well, from the time that I became enlightened as to my real position. All my faculties were upon the alert to find means of escaping, and making my condition known to the authorities. One night they had a guest, Colonel Eglin of the Army, old Dorcas had her hands full, and forgot her prisoner. My door was left unlocked. So long after Colonel Eglin had retired to rest, and when all the household were buried in repose, I left my attic and crept down to the chamber of the guest, with no other purpose than to make known my wrongs, and appeal to his compassion. I entered his chamber, approached his bed to speak to him. When this hero of a hundred fields started up in a panic, and at the sight of a pale woman who drew his curtains in the dead of the night, he shrieked, violently rang his bell, and fainted dead away. Ha, ha, ha! He could brave an army or march into a cannon's mouth easier than me as opposed denizen of another world. Well, Dr. Johnson believed in ghosts, laughed Travers. It remained for me to retreat as fast as possible to my room to avoid the Lenors, who were hurrying along with headlong speed to their guest chamber. They knew, of course, that I was the ghost, although they affected to treat their visitor's story as a dream. After that my confinement was so strict that for years I had no opportunity of leaving my attic. At last the strict espionage was relaxed. Sometimes my door would be left unlocked. Upon one such occasion, and creeping about in the dark, by overhearing a conversation between Lenor and his housekeeper, that my long-clossed daughter Capitola had been found and was living at Hurricane Hall. This was enough to comfort me for years. About three years ago the surveillance over me was so modified, that I was left again to roam about the upper rooms of the house at will, until I learned that they had a new inmate, young Clara Day, a word of Lenor. Oh, how I longed to warn that child to fly! But I could not. Alas! Again I was restricted to my own room, lest I should be seen by her. But again, upon one occasion, old Dorcas forgot to lock my door at night. I stole forth from my room, and learned that a young girl, caught out in a storm, was to stay all night at the hidden house. Young girls were not plentiful in that neighborhood I knew. Besides, some secret instinct told me that this was my daughter. I knew that she would sleep in the chamber under mine, because that was the only habitable guest-room in the whole house. In the dead of night I left my room, and went below, and entered the chamber of the young girl. I went first to the toilet-table to see if among her little girlish ornaments I could find any clue to her identity. I found it in a plain gold ring, the same that I had entrusted to the old nurse. Some strange impulse caused me to slip the ring upon my finger. Then I went to the bed, and threw aside the curtains to gaze upon the sleeper. My girl, my own girl! With what strange sensations I first looked upon her face. Her eyes were open, and fixed upon mine in a panic of terror. I stooped to press my lips to hers, and she closed her eyes in mortal fear. I carried nothing but terror with me. I withdrew from the room, and went back sobbing to my chamber. My poor girl next morning unconsciously betrayed her mother. It had nearly cost me my life. When the Lenors came home, the first night of their arrival, they entered my room, seized me in my bed, and dragged me shrieking from it. Good heaven! What punishment is sufficient for such wretches? exclaimed Travers, starting up and pacing the narrow limits of the cell. Listen! They soon stopped both my shrieks and my breath at once. I lost consciousness for a time, and when I awoke I found myself in a close carriage, rattling over a mountain road, through the night. Late the next morning we reached an uninhabited country house, where I was again imprisoned, in charge of an old dumb woman, whom Lenora called Mrs. Raven. This I afterward understood to be Willow Heights, the property of the orphan heiress, Clara Day. And here also, for the term of my stay, the presence of the unknown inmate got the house the reputation of being haunted. The old dumb woman was a shade kinder to me than Dorcas Knight had been, but I did not stay in her charge very long. One night the Lenors came in hot haste. The young heiress had been delivered from their charge by a decree of the orphan's court, and they had to give up her house. I was drugged and hurried away. Some narcotic sedative must have been insinuated into all my food, for I was in a state of semisensibility and mild delirium during the whole course of a long journey, by land and sea, which passed to me like a dream, and at the end of which I found myself here. No doubt, from the excessive use of narcotics, there was something wild and stupid in my manner and appearance that justified the charge of madness. And when I found that I was a prisoner in a lunatic asylum, far, far away from the neighborhood where at least I had once been known, I gave way to the wilder grief that further confirmed the story of my madness. I have been here two years, occasionally giving way to outbursts of wild despair that the doctor calls frenzy. I was sinking into an apathy, when one day I opened the little bible that lay upon the table of my cell. I fixed upon the last chapters in the Gospel of John, the narrative of meek patience and divine love. It did for me what no power under that of God could have done. It saved me. It saved me from madness. It saved me from despair. There is a time for the second birth of every soul. That time had come for me. From that hour, this book has been my constant companion and comfort. I have learned from its pages how little it matters how or where this fleeting mortal life is passed so that it answers its purpose of preparing the soul for another. I have learned patience with sinners, forgiveness of enemies, and confidence in God. In a word, I trust I have learned the way of salvation, and in that have learned everything. Your coming and your words, young friend, have stirred within my heart the desire to be free, to mingle again on equal terms with my fellow beings, and above all, to find and embrace my child. But not wildly anxious am I even for these earthly blessings. These, as well as all things else, I desire to leave to the Lord, praying that his will may be mine. Young friend, my story is told. Madame, said Traverse, after a thoughtful pause. Our fates have been more nearly connected than you could have imagined. Those Lenors have been my enemies as they are yours. That young Orphan Arras, who appealed from their cruelty to the Orphan's court, was my own betrothed. Willow Heights was her patrimony, and is now her quiet home, where she lives with my mother, and where in their names I invited you to come. And take this comfort also. Your enemy no longer lives. Months ago I left him ill with a mortal wound. This morning the papers announced his death. There remains, therefore, but little for me to do, but to take legal measures, to free you from this place, and restore you to your home. Within an hour I shall set out for New Orleans, for the purpose of taking the initiatory steps. Until my return, then, dear lady, said Traverse, respectfully taking her hand. Farewell, and be of good cheer. End of chapter fifty-eight. Chapter fifty-nine of The Hidden Hand. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, The Hidden Hand, by E. D. E. N. Southworth. Chapter fifty-nine, Prospects Brighton. Thus far our fortune keeps an onward course, and we are graces with wreaths of victory, Shakespeare. Leaving Mrs. Lenor, Traverse went down to the stable, settled the horse that had been allotted to his use, and set off for a long day's journey to New Orleans, where late at night he arrived and put up at the St. Charles. He slept deeply from fatigue until late the next morning, when he was awakened by the sounds of trumpets, drums and fives, and by general rejoicing. He arose and looked from his windows to assert in the cause, and saw the square full of people in a state of the highest excitement, watching for a military procession coming up the street. It was the United States troops under their gallant commanders, who had landed from the steamboats that morning, and were now marching from the quays up to their quarters at the St. Charles. As they advanced, Traverse, eagerly on the lookout, recognized his own regiment. Traverse withdrew from the window, hurriedly completed his toilet, and hastened downstairs, where he soon found himself face to face with Herbert, who warmly grasping his hand exclaimed, You hear, old friend, why I thought you were down in East Feliciana, with your interesting patient. It is for the interest of that interesting patient that I am here, Herbert. Did I tell you, she was one of the victims of that demon Lenore? No, but I know it from another source. I know as much, or more of her perhaps than you do. Ah! exclaimed Traverse in surprise. Yes, I know, for instance, that she is Capitola's mother, the long lost widow of Eugene Lenore, the mistress of the Hidden House, and the ghost who drew folks' curtains there at night. Then you do know something about her, but how did you arrive at the knowledge? By the last dying speech and confession of Gabriel Lenore confided to me to be used in restitution after his decease. But come, there is the second bell. Our mess are going into breakfast. Join us, and afterwards you and I will retire and compare notes, said Herbert, taking the arm of his friend as they followed the moving crowd into the breakfast parlor. After the morning meal was concluded, the friends withdrew together to the chamber occupied by Traverse Rock, where they sat down for mutual explanations. Herbert first related to Traverse all that had occurred from the time that the latter left the city of Mexico, including the arrival of Craven Lenore at the dying bed of his father, the subsequent death and funeral of Colonel Lenore, and the late emigration of Craven, who, to avoid the shame of the approaching revelation, joined a party of explorers bound for the recently discovered mines in California. The civilized world is then rid of two villains at once, said the uncompromising Travers. Herbert took from his pocket the confession of Colonel Lenore, which he said he was now at liberty to use as he thought proper for the ends of justice. That certain parts of the disclosure intimately concerned Traverse Rock, to whom he should therefore read the whole. The confession may be briefly summed up as follows. The first item was that he had sought to win the affections of Mara Rock, the supposed wife of Major Ira Warfield. He had seduously waylaid and followed her with his suit during the whole summer. She had constantly repulsed and avoided him. He, listening to his own evil passions, had bribed her maid to admit him in the dark to Mara's cabin, upon a certain night when her husband was to be absent. That the unexpected return of Major Warfield, who had tracked him to the house, had prevented the success of his evil purpose, but had not saved the reputation of the innocent wife, whose infuriated husband would not believe her ignorant of the presence of the villain in her house. That he, Gabriel Lenore, in hatred as well as in shame, had foreborn until now to make the explanation, which he hoped might now lay in life as it was, bring the long severed pair together, and establish Mara Rock and her son in their legal and social rights. The second item in the black list of crime was the death of his elder brother, whom he declared he had not intended to kill. He said that, having contracted large debts which he was unable to pay, he had returned secretly from his distant quarters to demand the money from his brother, who had often helped him. That meeting his brother in the woods, he made the request. Eugene reproached him for his extravagance and folly, and refused to aid him, an encounter ensued in which Eugene fell. He, Gabriel Lenore, fled pursued by the curse of Cain, and reached his own quarters before even his absence had been suspected. His agency in the death of his brother was not suspected even by his accomplice in other crimes, the outlaw called Black Donald, who, thinking to gain an ascendancy over one whom he called his patron, actually pretended to have made way with Eugene Lenore for the sake of his younger brother. The third item of confession was the abduction of the nurse and babe of the young widow of Eugene, the circumstances of which are already known to the reader. The fourth in the dreadful list comprised the deceptions, wrongs and persecutions practiced upon Madame Eugene Lenore, and the final false imprisonment of that lady under the charge of insanity, and the private madhouse kept by Dr. Pierre Sajan and East Feliciana. In conclusion he spoke of the wrongs done to Clara Day, whose pardon, with that of others, he begged, and he prayed that in consideration of his son, as little publicity as was possible might be given to these crimes. During the reading of this confession the eyes of Traverse Rock were fixed in wonder and half in credulity upon the face of Herbert, and at its conclusion he said, What a mass of crime! But that we may not dare to question the mercy of the Lord, I should ask if these were sins that he would ever pardon. Herbert, it appails me to think of it. Then after deep thought he added, This, then, was the secret of my dear mother's long unhappiness. She was Major Warfield's forsaken wife. Herbert, I feel as though I never, never could forgive my father. Traverse, if Major Warfield had willfully and wantonly forsaken your mother, I should say that your resentment was natural and right. Who should be an honorable woman's champion, if not her own son? But Major Warfield, as well as his wife, was more sinned against than sinning. Your parents were both victims of a cruel conspiracy, and he suffered as much in his way as she did in hers, said Herbert. I always thought somehow that my dear mother was a forsaken wife. She never told me so, but there was something about her circumstances and manners. Her retired life, her condition, so much below her desserts, never speaking of her husband's death, which would have been natural for her to do, had she been a widow, all somehow went to give me the impression that my father had abandoned us. Lately I had suspected Major Warfield had something to do with the sad affair, though I never once suspected him to be my father. So much for natural instincts, said Travers, with a melancholy smile. Travers, said Herbert, with the design of drawing him off from sad remembrances of his mother's early trials. Travers, this confession, signed and witnessed as it is, will wonderfully simplify your course of action in regard to the deliverance of Madame Lenore. Yes, so it will, said Travers, with animation. There will be no need now of applying to law, especially if you will come down with me to East Feliciana and bring the confession with you. I will set out with you this very morning, if you wish, as I am on leave. What? To hasten to the release of Capitola's mother, I would set out at midnight and ride straight on for a week. Ah, there is no need of such extravagant feats of travel. It is now ten o'clock. If we start within an hour, we can reach the calm retreat by eleven o'clock tonight. En avant, then, exclaimed Herbert, rising and ringing the bell. Travers ordered horses, and in twenty minutes the friends were on the road to East Feliciana. They reached the calm retreat so late that night that there was none but the porter awake to admit them. Travers took his friend up to his own dormitory, saying laughingly, It is an unappreciable distance of time since you and I occupied the same bed, Herbert. Yes, but it is not the first by five hundred times. Do you remember Travers, the low attic where we used to sleep, and how on stormy nights we used to listen to the rain pattering on the roof, within two or three inches of our faces, and how we used to be half afraid to turn over for fear that we should bump our heads against the timbers of the ceiling? Yes, indeed, said Travers. And therefore the two friends launched into a discussion of old times, when the two widows and their sons lived together, the two women occupying one bed, and the two boys the other. And this discussion they kept up until long after they retired, and until sleep overtook them. The next morning Travers conducted his friend down to the breakfast parlor, to introduce him to Dr. Sajjan, who as soon as he perceived his young medical assistant, spraying forward, exclaiming, Grand Siella, is this you then? Have you then returned? What for did you run away with my horse? I went to New Orleans in great haste, upon very important business, sir. Grand you, I should think so, when you ride off on my horse without saying a word. If it had been my ambling pony, I should have been in despair, I. Your business so hasty, and so important was accomplished, I hope. Yes, I did my errand, with less trouble than I had anticipated, owing to the happy circumstance of meeting my friend here, who has come down hither connected with the same business. Ah, very happy to see your friend, in the medical profession, I suppose? No, sir, in the army. Allow me to present him, Major Herbert Grayson, of the Blankth Regiment of Calvary. We, I, Grand Siella, this is the brave that distinguished the illustrious officer, so honorably mentioned in the dispatches of the invincible tailor and the mighty scot, said the little Frenchman, bowing his night-capped head down to his slippery toes. Herbert smiled as he returned the bow, and then the little French doctor, turning to Traverse, said, But your business so important and so hasty, which has brought this officer so illustrious down here. What is it, my friend? We will have the honor of explaining to Major Le Dacteur over our coffee, if he will oblige us by ordering the servant to retire, said Traverse, who sometimes adopted, and speaking to the old Frenchman, his own formal style of politeness. We, we, certain amo, eledonco, John. Go then, John. As soon as the man had gone, Traverse said, I propose to discuss this business over our coffee, because it will save time without interfering with our morning meal, and I know that immediately afterwards you will go your usual round of visits to your patients. Eh bien, proceed, my son, proceed. Traverse immediately commenced and related all that was necessary concerning the fraud practiced upon the institution by introducing into it an unfortunate woman, represented to be mad, but really only sorrowful, nervous, and excitable. And to prove the truth of his words, Traverse desired Herbert to read from the confession, the portion relating to this fraud, and to show the doctor the signature of the principal, and the witness. To have seen the old French doctor then, I rejoice in a Frenchman, for the frank abandon with which he gives himself up to his emotions. Our doctor, after staring at the confession, took hold of the top of his blue tasseled nightcap, pulled it off his head, and threw it violently upon the floor. Then remembering that he was exposing a cranium as bald as a peeled potato, he suddenly caught it up again, clapped it upon his crown, and exclaimed, Sacré, Diable, and other ejaculations dreadful to translate, and others again, which it would be profane to set down in French or English. Gabriel Lenore was no longer an officer illustrious, a gentleman noble and distinguished, compassionate and tender. He was a robber infamous, a villain atrocious, a k-tiff Ruth, and without remorse. After breakfast the doctor consented that his young hero, his little nai errant, his dear son, should go to the distressed lady and open the good news to her. While the great Major Grayson, the warrior invincible, should go around with him to inspect the institution. Traverse immediately repaired to the chamber of Mrs. Lenore, whom he found sitting at the window, engaged in some little trifle of needlework, the same pale, patient woman that she had first appeared to him. Ah, you have come! I read good news upon your smiling face, my friend. Tell it, I have borne the worst of sorrows. Shall I not have strength to bear joy? Traverse told her all, and then ended by saying, Now, dear Madame, it is necessary that we leave this place within two hours, as Major Grayson's regiment leaves New Orleans for Washington to-morrow, and it is advisable that you go under our protection. We can get you a female attendant from the St. Charles. Oh, I can be ready in ten minutes. Bless you, I have no fine lady's wardrobe to pack up, replied Mrs. Lenore, with a smile. Traverse bowed and went out to procure a carriage from the next village. And in half an hour afterwards the whole party took leave of Dr. Pierre Sejean and his institution incomparable, and set forth on their journey to New Orleans, whence in two days afterwards they sailed for the north. And now, dear reader, let you and I take the fast boat and get home before them, to see our little cap, and find out what adventures she is now engaged in, and how she is getting on. End of Chapter 59 How glad I am to get back to my little cap, for I know very well, reader, just as well as if you had told me, that you have been grumbling for some time for the want of cap. But I could not help it, for to tell the truth, I was pining after her myself, which was the reason that I could not do half justice to the scenes of the Mexican war. Well, now let us see what cap has been doing, what oppressors she has punished, what victims she has delivered, in a word, what new heroic adventures she has achieved. Well, the trial of Donald Bain, alias Black Donald, was over. Cap, of course, had been compelled to appear against him. During the whole course of the trial, the courtroom was crowded with a curious multitude, from far and near, eager to get sight of the notorious outlaw. Black Donald, through the whole ordeal, deported himself with a gallant and joyous dignity, that would have better become a triumph than a trial. He was indicted upon several distinct counts, the most serious of which, the murder of the solitary widow and her daughter in the forest cabin, and the assassination of Eugene Lenore in the woods near the hidden house, were sustained only by circumstantial evidence. But the aggregate weight of all these, together with his very bad reputation, was sufficient to convict him, and Black Donald was sentenced to death. This dreadful doom, most solemnly pronounced by the judge, was received by the prisoner with a loud laugh, and the words, You are out of your reckoning now, Cap'n. I never was a saint, the Lord knows, but my hands are free from blood-guiltiness. There's an honest little girl that believes me, don't you, he said, turning laughingly to our little heroine. Yes, I do, said Cap, bursting into tears, and I am sorry for you as ever I can be, Donald Bain. Bother, it was sure to come this first or last, and I knew it. Now, to prove you do not think this rugged hand of mine stained with blood, give it a friendly shake, said the condemned man. And before old Hurricane could prevent her, Capitola had jumped over two or three intervening seats, and climbed up to the side of the dock, and reached up her hand to the prisoner, saying, God help you, Donald Bain, in your great trouble, and I will do all I can to help you in this world. I will go to the governor myself, and tell him I know you never did any murder. Remove the prisoner, said the judge, preemptorily. The constables approached, and led away Black Donald. Old Hurricane rushed upon Cap, seized her, and, shaking her fiercely, exclaimed under his breath. You, you, you, you, New York haraboy, you foundling, you vagabond, you vagrant, you brat, you beggar, will you never be a lady, to go and shake hands with that ruffian? Sure, uncle, that's nothing new. I have shaken hands with you often enough. Demi, you, you, you, New York trash, what do you mean by that? Of course I mean, uncle, that you are as rough a ruffian as ever Donald Bain was. Demi, I'll murder you. Don't, uncle, they have an uncivilized way here of hanging murderers, said Cap, shaking herself free of Old Hurricane's grasp, and hastening out of the courtroom to mount her horse and ride home. One night after tea, Capitola and her uncle occupied their usual seats by the bright little wood fire that the chilly evening and keen mountain air made agreeable, even in May. Old Hurricane was smoking his pipe and reading his paper. Cap was sitting with her slender fingers around her throat, which she, with a shutter, occasionally compressed. Well, that demon Black Donald will be hanged the 26th of July, said Old Hurricane, exultingly, and we shall get rid of one villain, Cap. I pity Black Donald, and I can't bear to think of his being hanged. It quite breaks my heart to think that I was compelled to bring him to such a fate. Oh, that reminds me, the reward offered for the apprehension of Black Donald, to which you were entitled, Cap, was paid over to me for you. I placed it to your account in the agricultural bank. I don't want it. I won't touch it. The price of blood, it would burn my fingers, said Cap. Oh, very well. A thousand dollars won't go a begging, said Old Hurricane. Uncle, it breaks my heart to think of Black Donald's execution. It just does. It must be dreadful, this hanging. I have put my finger around my throat, and squeezed it to know how it feels. And it is awful. Even a little squeeze makes my head feel as if it would burst, and I have to let go. Oh, it is horrible to think of. Well, Cap, it wasn't intended to be as pleasant as tickling, you know. I wish it was twenty times worse. It would serve him right, the villain. I wish it was lawful to break him on the wheel. I do. Uncle, that is very wicked in you. I declare I won't have it. I'll write a petition to the Governor, to commute his sentence, and carry it all around the county myself. You wouldn't get a soul to sign it, to save your life, much less his. I'll go to the Governor myself, and beg him to pardon Donald Bain. Ha, ha, ha! The Governor would not do it to save all our lives, and if he were to do such an outrageous thing, he might whistle for his re-election. I declare Donald Bain shall not be hanged, and so there, said Cap, passionately. Weew! You'll deliver him by the strength of your harm, my little Dona Quixota. I'll save him one way or another. No mind, I tell you. He sinned more against me than against anybody else, and so I have the best ray of anybody in the world to forgive him. And I do forgive him. And he shan't be hanged. I say it. You say it. Ha, ha, ha! Who are you to turn aside the laws? I, Capitola Black, say that Donald Bain, not having deserved to be hanged, shall not be hanged. And in one way or another, I'll keep my word. And Cap did her best to keep it. The next morning, she mounted Jip and rode up to Tip Top, where she employed the village-boyer to draw up a petition to the Governor for the commutation of Donald Bain's sentence, and then she rode all over the county to try to get signatures to the document. But all in vain, people of every age and condition too thoroughly feared and hated the famous outlaw, and too earnestly wished to be entirely and for ever rid of him, to sign any petition for a commutation of his sentence. If a petition for his instant execution had been carried around, it would have stood a much better chance of success. Cap spent many days in her fruitless enterprise. But at last gave it up. But by no means in despair, for, I'll save his life yet by one means or another. I can't change clothes with him as I did with Clara. He's too big. But one way or other, I'll save him, said Cap to herself. She said it to no one else. For the more difficult the enterprise, the more determined she was to succeed, and the more secretive she grew as to her measures. In the meantime the outlaw, double ironed, was confined in the condemned cell, the strongest portion of the county jail. All persons were strictly prohibited from visiting him, except certain of the clergy. They did all they could to bring the outlaw to a sense of his condition, to prepare him to meet his fate, and to induce him to make a confession, and give up the retreat of his band. And Donald listened to them with respect, acknowledged himself a great sinner, and knelt with them when they knelt to pray for him. But he denied that he was guilty of the murders for which he had been doomed to die, and he utterly refused to give up his old companions, replying to the ministers, in something like these words. Poor wretches, they are no more fit to die than I am, and the condemned cell, with the thought of a scaffold before him, are not exactly the most favorable circumstances under which a man may experience sincere repentance, my masters. And so, while the convict listened with dustility to all that the ministers had to say, he steadily persisted in asserting his own innocence of the crimes for which he was condemned, and in his refusal to deliver up his companions. Meantime, Capitola at Hurricane Hall was doing all she could to discover or invent means to save the life of Black Donald. But still she said no more about it, even to Old Hurricane. One evening, while Cap was sitting by the fire, with her thoughts busy with the subject, her uncle came in saying, Cap, I have got some curiosities to show you. What are they? said Cap, languidly. A set of burglar's tools, supposed to belong to some member of Black Donald's band, one of my negroes found them in the woods in the neighborhood of the Devil's Punchbowl. I wrote to the sheriff concerning them, and he requested me to take care of them until he should have occasion to call for them. Look, did you ever see such things? said Old Hurricane, setting down a canvas bag upon the table, and turning out from it all sorts of strange-looking instruments, tiny saws, files, punches, screws, picks, etc., etc., etc. Cap looked at them with the most curious interest, while Old Hurricane explained their supposed uses. It must have been an instrument of this sort, Cap, that that blamed demon Donald gave to the imprisoned men to file their fetters off with, he said, showing a thin file of tempered steel. That, said Cap, hand it here, let me see it, and she examined it with the deepest interest. I wonder what they forced locks with, she inquired. Why, this, and this, and this, said Old Hurricane, producing a burglar's pick, saw, and chisel. Cap took them and scrutinized them so attentively that Old Hurricane burst out into a loud laugh, exclaiming, You'll dream of housebreakers tonight, Cap, and taking the tools, he put them all back in the little canvas bag and put the bag up on a high shelf of the parlor closet. The next morning, while Cap was arranging flowers on the parlor mantelpiece, Old Hurricane burst in upon her with his hands full of letters and newspapers, and his heart full of exultation. Throwing up his hat and cutting an alarming caper for a man of his age, he exclaimed, Hurrah, Cap, hurrah! Pieces at last proclaimed, and our victorious troops are on their way home. It's all in the newspapers, and here are letters from Herbert, dated from New Orleans. Here are letters for you, and here are some for me. I have not opened them yet. Hurrah, Cap, hurrah! Hurrah, Uncle Hurrah! cried Cap, tossing up her flowers and rushing into his arms. Don't squeeze me into an apoplexy, you little bear, said Old Hurricane, turning purple in the face from the savage hug of Cap's joyful arms. Come along and sit down with me at this table, and let us see what the letters have brought us. They took their seats opposite each other at a small table, and Old Hurricane threw the whole mail between them, and began to pick out the letters. That's for you, Cap. This is for me, he said, pitching out to in the handwriting of Herbert Grayson. Cap opened hers and commenced reading. It was, in fact, Herbert's first downright practical proposal of marriage, in which he begged that their union might take place as soon as he should return, and that is he had written to his uncle by the same mail upon another subject, which he did not wish to mix up with his own marriage. She would, upon a proper opportunity, let her uncle know of their plans. Upon my word, he takes my consent very coolly as a matter of course, and even forces upon me the disagreeable duty of asking myself of my own uncle, who ever heard of such proceedings. If he were not coming home from the wars, I declare I should get angry, but I won't get upon my dignity with Herbert, dear, darling, sweet Herbert. If it were anybody else, shouldn't they know the difference between their liege lady and Tom Trotter? However, as it's Herbert, here goes. Now I suppose the best way to ask myself of Uncle for Herbert will be just to hand him over this letter. The dear knows it isn't so over and above affectionate that I should hesitate. Uncle, said Cap, pulling old Hurricanes' coat sleeve. Don't bother me, Cap, exclaimed Major Warfield, who sat there holding a large, closely written document in his hand, with his great round eyes strained from their sockets, as they passed along the lines with devouring interest. Well, I do declare, I do believe he has received a proposal of marriage himself, cried Cap, shooting much nearer the truth than she knew. Old Hurricane did not hear her. Starting up with the document in his hand, he rushed from the room, and went and shut himself up in his own study. I vow, some widow has offered to marry him, said Cap to herself. Old Hurricane did not come to dinner, nor to supper. But after supper, when Capitola's wonder was at its climax, and while she was sitting by the little wood fire that that chilly evening required, Old Hurricane came in, looking very unlike himself, in an humble, confused, deprecating, yet happy manner, like one who had at once a mortifying confession to make, and a happy secret to tell. Cap, he said, trying to suppress a smile, and growing purple in the face. Oh, yes, you've come to tell me, I suppose, that you are going to put a step-in law over my head. Only you don't know how to announce it, answered Capitola, little knowing how closely she had come to the truth. When, to her unbounded astonishment, Old Hurricane answered, Yes, my dear, that's just it. What? My eyes! Oh, creaky! cried Cap, breaking into her news-boy sling, from mere consternation. Yes, my dear, it is perfectly true, replied the old man, growing furiously red, and rubbing his face. Oh, oh, oh, hold me, I'm kilt! cried Cap, falling back in her chair, in an inextinguishable fit of laughter that shook her whole frame. She laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes, and looked at Old Hurricane. And every time she saw his confused and happy face, she burst into a fresh proxism that seemed to threaten her life or her reason. Who is the happy? Oh, I can't speak. Oh, I'm kilt entirely, she cried, breaking off in the midst of her question, and falling into fresh convulsions. It's no new love, Cap. It's my old wife, said Old Hurricane, wiping his face. This brought Capitola up with a jerk. She sat both upright, gazing at him with her eyes fixed as if in death. Cap, said Old Hurricane, growing more and more confused. I've been a married man more years than I like to think of. Cap, I've—I've a wife and a grown-up son. Why do you sit there staring at me, you little demon? Why don't you say something to encourage me, you little wretch? Go on, said Cap, without removing her eyes. Cap, I was a jealous, passionate—demmy, confession isn't in my line. A diabolical villain made me believe that my poor little wife wasn't good. There, I knew you'd lay it on somebody else. Men always do that, said Cap to herself. He was mortally wounded in Mexico. He made a confession and confided it to Herbert, who has just sent me an attested copy. It was Lenore. My poor wife lived under her girlhood's name of Mara Rock. Old Hurricane made a gulp, and his voice broke down. Cap understood all now, as well as if she had known it as long as Old Hurricane had. She comprehended his extreme agitation upon a certain evening, years ago, when Herbert Grayson had mentioned Mara Rock's name, and his later and more lasting disturbance upon accidentally meeting Mara Rock at the orphan's court. This revelation filled her with strange and contradictory emotions. She was glad. She was angry with him. She was sorry for him. She was divided between diverse impulses to hug and kiss him, to cry over him, and to seize him and give him a good shaking. And between them she did nothing at all. Old Hurricane was again the first to speak. What was that you wished to say to me, Cap, when I ran away from you this morning? Why, Uncle, that Herbert wants to follow your example, and, and, and, Cap blushed and broke down. I thought as much, getting married at his age, a boy of twenty-five, said the veteran in contempt. Taking a wife at your age, Uncle, an infant of sixty-five. Bother, Cap, let me see that fellow's letter to you. Cap handed it to him, and the old man read it. If I were to object, you'd get married all the same. Demi, you're both of age. Do as you please. Thank you, sir, said Cap, demerly. And now, Cap, one thing is to be noticed. Herbert says, both in your letter and in mine, that they were to start to return the day after these letters were posted. These letters have been delayed in the mail. Consequently we may expect our hero here every day. But, Cap, my dear, you must receive them. For tomorrow morning, please, the Lord, I shall set out for Stoughton, and Willow Heights, and go and kneel down at the feet of my wife, and ask her pardon on my knees. Cap was no longer divided between the wish to pull Old Hurricane's gray beard, and to cry over him. She threw herself at once into his arms, and exclaimed, Oh, Uncle, God bless you, God bless you, God bless you. It has come very late in life, but may you be happy with her through all the ages of eternity. Old Hurricane was deeply moved by the sympathy of his little madcap, and pressed her to his bosom, saying, Cap, my dear, if you had not set your heart upon Herbert, I would marry you to my son Travers, and you too should inherit all that I have in the world. But never mind, Cap, you have an inheritance of your own. Cap, Cap, my dear, did it ever occur to you that you might have had a father and mother? Yes, often. But I used to think you were my father, and that my mother was dead. I wished to the Lord that I had been your father, Cap, and that Mara Rock had been your mother. But, Cap, your father was a better man than I, and your mother as good a woman as Mara. And, Cap, my dear, you vagabond, you vagrant, you brat, you beggar, you are the sole heiress of the hidden house estate, and all its enormous wealth. What do you think of that now? What do you think of that, you beggar? cried Old Hurricane. A shriek pierced the air, and Capitola starting up, stood before Old Hurricane, crying in an impassioned voice. Uncle, uncle, don't mock me, don't overwhelm me. I do not care for wealth or power. But tell me of the parents who possessing both cast off their unfortunate child, a girl, too, to meet the sufferings and perils of such a life as mine had been, if I had not met you. Cap, my dear Hush, your parents were no more to blame for their seeming abandonment of you than I was to blame for the desertion of my poor wife. We are all the victims of one villain who has now gone to his account, Capitola. I mean Gabriel Lenore. Sit down, my dear, and I will read the copy of his whole confession, and afterwards, in addition, tell you all I know upon the subject. Capitola resumed her seat. Major Warfield read the confession of Gabriel Lenore, and afterwards continued the subject by relating the events of that memorable Halloween when he was called out in a snowstorm to take the dying deposition of the nurse who had been abducted with the infant Capitola. And at the end of his narrative, Cap knew as much of her own history as the reader has known all along. And I have a mother, and I shall even see her soon. You told me she was coming home with a party, did you not, uncle? said Capitola. Yes, my child, only think of it. I saved the daughter from the streets of New York, and my son saved the mother from her prison at the Madhouse. And now, my dear Cap, I must bid you good night and go to bed, for I intend to rise tomorrow morning, long before daylight, to ride to Tip Top to meet the Stoughton Stage, said the old man, kissing Capitola. Just as he was about to leave the room, he was arrested by a loud ringing, and knocking at the door. Wool was heard running along the front hall to answer the summons. Cap, I shouldn't wonder much if that was our party. I wish it may be, for I should like to welcome them before I leave home to fetch my wife, said old Hurricane, in a voice of agitation. And while they were still eagerly listening, the door was thrown open by Wool, who announced, Mars Herbert, which I mean to say, Major Herbert Grayson, and Herbert entered, and was grasped by the two hands of old Hurricane, who exclaimed, Ah, Herbert, my lad, I have got your letters. It is all right, Herbert, or going to be so. You shall marry Cap when you like, and I am going to-morrow morning to throw myself at the feet of my wife. No need of your going so far, dear sir, no need. Let me speak to my own dear girl a moment, and then I shall have something to say to you, said Herbert, leaving the old man in suspense. And going to salute Capitola, who returned his fervent embrace, by an honest, downright frank kiss that made no secret of itself. Capitola, my uncle has told you all? Every single bit, so don't lose time by telling it all over again. Is my mother with you? Yes, and I will bring her in, in one moment. But first I must bring in someone else, said Herbert, kissing the hand of Capitola, and turning to old Hurricane, to whom he said, You need not travel far to find Mara. We took Stoughton in our way, and brought her and Clara along. Traverse, he said going to the door, bring in your mother. And the next instant, Traverse entered with the wife of Major Warfield upon his arm. Old Hurricane started forward to meet her, exclaiming in a broken voice, Mara, my dear Mara, God may forgive me, but can you, can you ever do so? And he would have sunk at her feet, but that she prevented, by meeting him and silently placing both her hands in his. And so quietly Mara's forgiveness was expressed, and the reconciliation sealed. Meanwhile, Herbert went out and brought in Mrs. Lenore and Clara. Mrs. Lenore, with a French woman's impetuosity, hurried to her daughter, and clasped her to her heart. Cap gave one hurried glance at the beautiful pale woman that claimed from her a daughter's love, and then returning the caress, she said, Oh mama, oh mama, if I were only a boy instead of a girl, I would thrash that Lenore within an inch of his life. But I forgot, he has gone to his account. Old Hurricane was at this moment shaking hands with his son Traverse, who presently took occasion to lead up and introduce his betrothed wife, Clara Day, to her destined father-in-law. Major Warfield received her with all a soldier's gallantry, a gentleman's courtesy, and a father's tenderness. He next shook hands with his old acquaintance, Mrs. Lenore. And then supper was ordered, and the evening was passed in general and comparative reminences, and cheerful conversation. End of CHAPTER sixty. CHAPTER sixty-one of the Hidden Hand. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, the Hidden Hand, by E-D-E-N Southworth. CHAPTER sixty-one. There shall be light at the eventide, Holy Bible. They shall be blessed exceedingly, their store grow daily, weekly, more and more, and peace so multiply around, their very hearth seems holy ground. Mary Howett. The marriage of Capitola and of Herbert, and that of Clara and of Traverse, was fixed to take place upon the first of August, which was the twenty-first birthday of the doctor's daughter, and also the twenty-fifth anniversary of the wedding of Ivory Warfield and Mara Rock. German husbands and wives have a beautiful custom of keeping the twenty-fifth anniversary of their marriage by a festival, which they call the Silver Wedding. And thus Major Warfield and Mara resolved to keep this first of August, and further to honor the occasion by uniting the hands of their young people. There was but one cloud upon the happiness of Capitola. This was the approaching execution of Black Donald. No one else seemed to care about the matter, until a circumstance occurred, which painfully aroused their interest. This was the fact that the Governor, through the solicitation of certain ministers of the Gospel, who represented the condemned as utterly unprepared to meet his fate, had respited him until the first of August, at which time he wished the prisoner to be made to understand that his sentence would certainly, without further delay, be carried into effect. This carried a sort of consternation into the heart of every member of the Hurricane Hall household. The idea of Black Donald being hanged in their immediate neighborhood upon their wedding day was appalling. Yet there was no help for it, unless their wedding was postponed to another occasion than that upon which old Hurricane had set his heart. No one knew what to do. Cap fretted herself almost sick. She had cuddled her brains to no purpose. She had not been able to think of any plan by which she could deliver Black Donald. Meantime, the last days of July were rapidly passing away. Black Donald in the condemned cell maintained his firmness, resolutely asserting his innocence of any capital crime, and persistently refusing to give up his band. As a last motive of confession, the paper written by Gabriel de Nor upon his deathbed was shown him. He laughed a loud, crackling laugh, and said that was all true. But that he, for his part, never had intended to harm a hair of Capitola's head, that he had taken a fancy to the girl when he had first seen her, and had only wanted to carry her off and force her into a marriage with himself, that he had pretended to consent to her death only for the purpose of saving her life. When Cap heard this she burst into tears, and said she believed it was true. The night before the wedding of Capitola and Herbert, and Clara and Travers, and of the execution of Black Donald Cain. At Hurricane Hall the two prospective bridegrooms were busy with old Hurricane over some papers that had to be prepared in the library. The two intended brides were engaged under the direction of Mrs. Warfield in her dressing room, consulting over certain proprieties of the approaching festival. But Capitola could give only a half attention to the discussion. Her thoughts were with the poor condemned man who was to die the next day. And suddenly she flew out of the room, summoned her groom, mounted her horse, and rode away. In his condemned cell Black Donald was bitterly realizing how unprepared he was to die, and how utterly impossible it was for him to prepare in the short hours left him. He tried to pray, but could form no other petition than that he might be allowed, if possible, a little longer to fit himself to meet his creator. From his cell he could hear the striking of the great clock in the prison hall, and as every hour struck it seemed a nail driven in his coffin. At eight o'clock that night the warden sat in his little office, consulting the sheriff about some details of the approaching execution. While they were still in discussion a turnkey opened the door, saying, A lady to see the warden. And Capitola stood before them. Miss Black exclaimed both Sheriff and Warden, rising in surprise, gazing upon her heroine, and addressing her by the name under which they had first known her. Yes, gentlemen, it is I. The truth is, I cannot rest tonight without saying a few words of comfort to the poor man who is to die tomorrow. So I came hither, attended by my groom, to know if I may see him for a few minutes. Miss Black, here is the sheriff. It is just as he pleases. My orders were so strict that had you come to me alone I should have been obliged to refuse you. Mr. Keep, you will not refuse me, said Capitola, turning to the sheriff. Miss Black, my rule is to admit no one but the officers of the prison and the ministers of the gospel to see the condemned. This we have been obliged to observe as a measure of safety. This convict, as you are aware, is a man of consummate cunning, so that it is really wonderful he has not found means to make his escape, closely as he has been watched, and strongly as he has been guarded. Ah, but Mr. Keep, his cunning was no match for mine, you know, said Capitola, smiling. Ha, ha, ha! So it was not. You took him very cleverly. Very cleverly indeed. In fact, if it had not been for you, I doubt if ever we should have captured Black Donald at all. The authorities are entirely indebted to you for the capture of this notorious outlaw. And really, that being the case, I do think it would be straining a point to refuse you admittance to see him. So, Miss Black, you have my authority for visiting the condemned man in his cell, and giving him all the comfort you can. I would attend you thither myself, but I have got to go see the captain of a militia company, to be on the scene of action tomorrow, said the sheriff, who soon after took leave of the warden and departed. The warden then called a turnkey and ordered him to attend Miss Black to the condemned cell. The young turnkey took up a lamp and a great key and walked before, leading the way downstairs to a cell in the interior of the basement, occupied by Black Donald. He unlocked the door, admitted Capitola, and then walked off to the extremity of the lobby, as he was accustomed to do when he let in the preachers. Capitola thanked Heaven for this chance, for had he not done so, she would have to invent some excuse for getting rid of him. She entered the cell. It was very dimly lighted from the great lamp that hung in the lobby, nearly opposite the cell door. By its light she saw Black Donald, not only doubly ironed, but confined by a great chain and staple to the wall. He was very pale and haggard, from long imprisonment and great anxiety. Cap's heart bled for the poor band and blighted outlaw, who had not a friend in the world to speak a kind word to him in his trouble. He also recognized her, and rising and coming to meet her, as far as the length of the chain would permit, he held out his hand and said, I am very glad you have come, little one. It is very kind of you to come and see a poor fellow in his extremity. You are the first female that has been in this cell since my imprisonment. Think of that, child. I wanted to see you, too. I wanted to say to you yourself again, that I was never guilty of murder, and that I only seemed to consent to your death to save your life. Do you believe this? On the word of a dying man, it is truth. I do believe you, Donald Bain, said Capitola, in a broken voice. I hear that you have come into your estate. I am glad of it. And they tell me that you are going to be married tomorrow. Well, God bless you, little one. Oh, Donald Bain, can you say God bless me, when it was I who put you here? Tuh, child, we outlaws bear no malice. Spite is a civilized vice. It was a fair contest, child, and you conquered. It's well you did. Give me your hand in good will, since I must die tomorrow. Capitola gave her hand, and whilst he held it, she stooped and said, Donald, I have done everything in the world I could to save your life. I know you have, child. May yours be long and happy. Donald, may your life be longer and better than you think. I have tried all other means of saving you in vain. There is, but one means left. The outlaws started violently, exclaiming, Is there one? Donald, yes, there is. I bring you the means of deliverance and escape. Heaven knows whether I am doing right, for I do not. I know many people would blame me very much. But I hope that he who forgave the thief upon the cross and the sinful woman at his feet will not condemn me for following his own compassionate example. For Donald, as I was the person whom you injured most of all others, so I consider that I of all others have the best right to pardon you and set you free. Oh, Donald, use well the life I am about to give you, else I shall be chargeable with every future sin you commit. In the name of mercy, girl, do not hold out a false hope I had nerfed myself to die. But you were not prepared to meet your maker. Oh, Donald, I hold out no false hope. Listen, for I must speak low and quick. I could never be happy again if on my wedding day you should die a felon's death. Here, here are tools with the use of which you must be acquainted, for they were found in the woods near the hidden house, said Capitola, producing from her pockets a burglar's lockpick, saw, chisel, file, etc. Black Donald seized them, as a famished wolf might seize his prey. Will they do? inquired Capitola in breathless anxiety. Yes, yes, yes, I can file off my irons, pick every lock, drive back every bolt, and dislodge every bar between myself and freedom with these instruments. But, child, there is one thing you have forgotten. Suppose a turnkey or a guard should stop me. You have brought me no revolver. Capitola turned pale. Donald, I could easily have brought you a revolver, but I would not, even to save you from tomorrow's death. No, Donald, no. I give you the means of freeing yourself, if you can do it, as you may without bloodshed. But, Donald, though your life is not justly forfeited, your liberty is, and so I cannot give you the means of taking anyone's life for the sake of saving your own. You are right, said the outlaw. Listen further, Donald, here are a thousand dollars. I thought never to have taken it from the bank, for I would never have used the price of blood. But I drew it today for you. Take it. It will help you to live a better life. When you have picked your way out of this place, go to the great elm tree at the back of the old mill, and you will find my horse, Chip, which I shall have tied there. He is very swift. Mount him, and ride for your life to the nearest seaport, and so escape by a vessel to some foreign country. And oh, try to lead a good life, and may God redeem you, Donald Bain. There, conceal your tools and money quickly, for I hear the guard coming. Goodbye, and again, God redeem you, Donald Bain. God bless you, brave and tender girl. And God forsake me if I do not heed your advice. And the outlaw pressed the hand she gave him, while the tears rushed to his eyes. The guard approached. Capitola turned to meet him. They left the cell together, and Black Donald was locked in for the last time. Oh, I hope I pray that he may get off. Oh, what shall I do if he doesn't? How can I enjoy my wedding tomorrow? How can I bear the music, and the dancing, and the rejoicing, when I know that a fellow creature is in such a strait? Oh, Lord, grant that Black Donald may get clear off to-night, for he isn't fit to die, said Cap to herself, as she hurried out of the prison. Her young groom was waiting for her, and she mounted her horse, and rode until they got to the old haunted church at the end of the village. When drawing rain, she said, Gem, I am very tired. I will wait here, and you must just ride back to the village, to Mr. Castle's livery stable, and get a gig, and put your horse into it, and come back here to drive me home, for I cannot ride. Gem, who never questioned his imperious little mistress's orders, rode off at once to do her bidding. Cap immediately dismounted from her pony, and led him under the deep shadows of the elm tree, where she fastened him. Then taking his face between her hands, and looking him in the eyes, she said, Gem, my son, you and I have had many a frail look together, but we've got to part now. It almost breaks my heart, Gem, but it is to save a fellow creature's life, and it can't be helped. He'll treat you well for my sake, dear Gem. Gem, he'll part with his life sooner than sell you. Good-bye, dear, dear, Jip. Jip took all these caresses in a very nonchalant manner, only snorting and pawing in reply. Presently the boy came back, bringing the gig. Cap once more hugged Jip about the neck, pressed her cheek against his mane, and with a whispered, Good-bye, dear Jip, spring into the gig, and ordered the boy to drive home. And leaped the pony miss? Oh, yes, for the present. Everybody knows Jip. No one will steal him. I have left him length of line enough to move around a little and eat grass, drink from the brook, or lie down. You can come after him early tomorrow morning. The little groom thought this a queer arrangement, but he was not in the habit of criticizing his young mistress's actions. Capitola got home to a late supper, and to the anxious inquiries of her friends, she replied that she had been to the prison to take leave of Black Donald, and begged that they would not pursue so painful a subject. And in respect to Cap's sympathies, they changed the conversation. That night the remnant of Black Donald's band were assembled in their first old haunt, the Old Road Inn. They had met for a twofold purpose—to bury their old matron, Mother Raven, who since the death of her patron and the apprehension of her captain, had returned to the inn to die, and to bewail the fate of their leader, whose execution was expected to come off the next day. The men laid the poor old woman in her woodland grave, and assembled in the kitchen to keep a death-watch in sympathy with their unfortunate captain. They gathered around the table, and foaming mugs of ale were freely quaffed for sorrow's dry, they said. But neither laugh, song, nor jest attended their draughts. They were to keep that night's vigil in honor of their captain, and then were to disband and separate forever. Suddenly, in the midst of their heavy grief and utter silence a familiar sound was heard, a ringing footstep under the back windows, and every man leaped to his feet, with looks of wild delay and questioning. Into the next instant the door was flung wide open, and the outlaw chief stood among them. Hale flung himself around Black Donald's neck, exclaiming, It's you, it's you, it's you, my dear, my darling, my adored, my sweetheart, my prince, my lord, my king, my dear, dear captain. Steve, the lazy mulatto, rolled down upon the floor at his master's feet, and embraced him in silence. While demon Dick growled forth, how the foul fiend did you get out? And the anxious faces of all the other men silently repeated the question. Not by any help of yours, boys, but don't think I reproach you, lads. Well, I know that you could do nothing on earth to save me. No one on earth could have helped me, except the one who really freed me, Capitola. That girl again, exclaimed Hale, in the extremity of wonder. Steve stopped rolling, and curled himself around the feet of his master, and gazed up in stupid astonishment. It's to be hoped, then, you've got her at last, captain, said demon Dick. No, heaven bless her, she's in better hands. Now listen, lads, for I must talk fast. I have already lost a great deal too much time. I went first to the cave in the punch-bowl, and not finding you there came here at a venture, where I am happy to meet you for the last time, for tonight we disband forever. Twas our intention, captain, said Hale, in a melancholy voice. Black Donald then threw himself into a sea at the head of the table, poured out a mug of ale, and invited his band to pledge him. They gathered around the table, filled their mugs, pledged him standing, and then resumed their seats to listen to the last words of their chief. Black Donald commenced and related the manner of his deliverance by Capitola, and then, taking from his bosom a bag of gold, he poured it upon the table, and divided it into two equal portions, one of which he handed to headlong Hale, saying, There, Hale, take that and divide it among your companions, and scatter to distant parts of the country, where you may yet have a chance of earning an honest livelihood. As for me, I shall have to quit the country altogether, and it will take nearly half the sum to enable me to do it. Now I have not a minute more to give you, so once more pledge your captain and away. The men filled their mugs, rose to their feet, and pledged their leader in a parting toast. And then, good luck to you all, exclaimed Black Donald, waving his hat thrice above his head, with a valedictory hurrah, and the next moment he was gone. That night, if any watchman had been on guard near the stables of Hurricane Hale, he might have seen a tall man mounted upon Capitola's pony, ride up in hot haste, dismount, and pick the stable lock, take jip by the bridle, and bleed him in, and presently return, leading out Fleetfoot, old hurricane's racer, upon which he mounted and rode away. The next morning, while Capitola was dressing, her groom wrapped at the door, and in great dismay, begged that he might speak to Miss Cap one minute. Well, what is it, Jem, said Capitola? Oh, Miss Cap, you'll kill me! I done been got up long a four-day, and gone to tip-top, art her jip, but somebody done been stole him away afore I got there. Thank heaven! cried Capitola, two little Jem's unspeakable amazement. For to Capitola, the absence of her horse meant just the escape of Black Donald. The next minute, Cap sighed and said, Poor Jip, I shall never see you again. That was all she knew of the future. That morning, while they were all at breakfast, a groom from the stables came in, with a little canvas bag in his hand, which he laid, with a bow before his master. Major Warfield took it up, it was full of gold, and upon its side was written, in red chalk, three hundred dollars, to pay for Fleetfoot, Black Donald, reformed robber. While old hurricane was reading this inscription, the groom said that Fleetfoot was missing from his stall, and that Miss Cap's pony, that was supposed to have been stolen, was found in his place, with this bag of gold tied around his neck. It is Black Donald, he has escaped, cried old hurricane, about to fling himself into a rage, when his furious eyes encountered the gentle gaze of Mara, that fell like oil on the waves of his rising passion. Let him go, I'll not storm on my silver wedding-day, said Major Warfield. As for Cap, her eyes danced with delight. The only little clouds upon her bright sky were removed. Black Donald had escaped, to commence a better life, and Jip was restored. That evening, a magnificent old-fashioned wedding came off at Hurricane Hall. The double ceremony was performed by the bishop of the diocese, then on a visit to the neighborhood, in the great salon of Hurricane Hall, in the presence of as large and splendid an assembly as could be gathered together from that remote neighborhood. The two brides, of course, were lovely in white satin, honet and lace, pearls and orange flowers. Equally, of course, the bridegrooms were handsome and elegant, proud and happy. To this old-fashioned wedding succeeded a round of dinners and evening parties, given by the wedding guests. And when all these old-time customs had been observed for the satisfaction of old friends, the bridal party went upon a new-fashioned tour for their own delight. They spent a year in traveling over the eastern continent, and then returned home to settle upon their patrimonial estates. Major Warfield and Mara lived at Hurricane Hall, and as his heart is satisfied and at rest, his temper is gradually improving. As the lion shall be led by the little child, old Hurricane is led by the gentlest woman that ever loved or suffered, and she is leading him in his old age to the Savior's feet. Clara and Travers live at Willow Heights, which has been repaired, enlarged and improved, and where Travers has already an extensive practice, and were both endeavour to emulate the enlightened goodness of the sainted Dr. Day. Cap and Herbert, with Mrs. Lenore, live at the hidden house, which has been turned by wealth and taste into a dwelling of light and beauty. As the bravest are always the gentlest, so the most high-spirited are always the most forgiving. And thus, the weak or wicked old dorkest knight finds still a home under the roof of Mrs. Lenore, her only retribution being the very mild one of having her relations changed, and the fact that her temporary prisoner is now her mistress and sovereign lady. I wish I could say they all lived happily ever after, but the truth is, I have reason to suppose that even Clara had sometimes occasioned to administer to Dr. Rock dignified curtain lectures, which no doubt did him good. And I know for a positive fact that our Cap sometimes gives her, dear, darling, sweet Herbert, the benefit of the sharp edge of her tongue, which, of course, he deserves. But notwithstanding all this, I am happy to say that I'll enjoy a fair amount of human felicity.