Ralph Raymond's Heir

CHAPTER XIX.

CATO

Such was the suddenness with which Robert had been hurled into the water that he had no chance to defend himself. He was scarcely conscious of having been attacked until he found himself in the water struggling for life. He knew nothing of swimming from actual experience, yet under the stress of necessity, and with death staring him in the face, he instinctively struck out, and managed temporarily to keep his head above water. But the shore was a hundred yards distant, and to reach it would have been beyond his unskilled strength to accomplish, if he had not luckily happened to receive assistance.

Unknown to James Cromwell, there had been a spectator of his dastardly attempt to drown the boy who had been placed in his charge.

The spectator was an odd character; an old negro, who years ago had built for himself a rude cabin in the shadow of the woods. He had formerly been a slave in Kentucky, but had managed to escape from servitude, and built himself this cabin, where he lived by himself. He supported himself by working for any one who needed help on the farm or in the garden, and cooked his own food in his simple dwelling.

When he saw the boy flung into the water he was standing on the bank, unobserved on account of his color. He recognized Cromwell, for he had been to the drug store only a day or two previous to buy some medicament for the rheumatism which he occasionally suffered from. He knew Robert also.

"What debble's work is dis?" he said to himself. "What's he goin' to kill de boy for? Can't let de poor boy drown, no way."

As he spoke, he flung himself into the water and swam with vigorous strokes toward the place where Robert was struggling.

"Hold up a minute, young massa," he cried, for in his freedom he preserved the language of former days, "hold up a minute, and I'll save yer."

Robert heard this, and it gave him courage to struggle longer. In a short time the negro was at his side and seizing him by the arm, turned and headed for the shore. It was soon reached, and the two stood side by side, both dripping with moisture. Had James Cromwell turned back he might have discovered the rescue, but he did not dare to do so until he reached the opposite side, and then there was nothing to be seen.

"What's all this mean, young massa?" asked Cato, for this was the name of the negro. He had brought no other with him, but one was quite sufficient for his modest requirements.

"I don't know," said Robert. "The man that was with me suddenly seized me round the waist, and flung me into the pond."

"I saw him do it," said Cato. "What made him?"

"That's more than I can tell, unless he is crazy," said Robert.

"Is dis de fust time he try to drown you?" asked Cato.

Robert started as the force of this question dawned upon him. He recalled the scene at Niagara Falls, and the narrow escape he had from a horrible death at that time. He remembered that he had been forcibly pushed by James Cromwell on that occasion, and only saved himself by clutching hold of him, while the latter did not pull him back till his own danger seemed imminent. At the time he accepted Cromwell's explanation, but now, since this second attempt had been made, he could not shut his eyes from the fact that Cromwell had sought his destruction. What could have been his motive was to him a profound mystery.

"No," he answered, "he tried to push me over Niagara Falls once, but I thought it was an accident then. I don't think so now."

"You lib with him?"

"Yes; my guardian placed me with him."

"He's a wicked man. Don't you go nigh him again."

"I won't," said Robert. "I shouldn't feel safe with him. But I don't know where to go to-night."

"Come to my cabin!" said Cato. "It's a poor place for the likes of you, young massa, but it's better dan sleepin' out in de woods."

"Thanks, Cato," said Robert, for he knew who it was that had saved him. "I will accept your invitation, gladly. Lead the way, and I will follow."

The negro's hut was near by. It was small enough, being only about ten feet square. On the floor was spread a blanket over some straw, and Cato signed to Robert to lie down. But first he advised him to take off his wet clothes. He gathered some sticks and made a fire for the purpose of drying these.

Robert lay down on the rude bed, and though excited by the peril through which he had passed, and by the thought that James Cromwell had been guilty of such an atrocious attempt, nature at last asserted her supremacy, and he sank to sleep. When he woke the sun had already risen. The first sight upon which his eyes rested was the black face of his companion bending over him. He did not immediately remember where he was, and cried, raising his head, "Where am I?"

"Here, young massa, in Cato's cabin," said the negro.

"Yes, I remember now," said Robert.

"Did you sleep well, young massa?"

"Yes, Cato. I slept soundly. Only don't call me young master, for I am not likely to be any body's master, except, perhaps, my own."

"Just as young massa says," said Cato, rather inconsistently. "Here's your clothes, just as dry as can be; only don't get up till you get rested. There's plenty of time."

"I'm rested now, Cato, thank you," said Robert.

He sprang from his couch and hastily put on his clothes. He found that through the kind services of the negro they were quite dry, though his shirt-bosom and cuffs presented rather a limp appearance, the starch having soaked out of them. This was, however, a minor calamity, to which he paid but little attention.

When he was dressed he turned to go away, though he hardly knew where to direct his course.

"Stop," said Cato. "Cato have breakfast ready in a minute."

"Do you mean that I am to take breakfast with you, Cato?"

"Yes; young massa will be so kind."

"I think the kindness is all on the other side," said Robert, laughing. "Yes, I will accept your invitation with much pleasure; particularly as I don't know where else to go for any."

Cato appeared to consider that a great favor had been granted to him in acceptance of the invitation, and he set to work zealously to prepare a meal of which his young guest might partake.

He had a small stove in his cabin in which he generally kept a fire, for being used to a warm climate, it was easy for him to stand a degree of heat which would have baked a white man. Nor was he a mean cook. Indeed, while in Kentucky, he had officiated for a considerable time in his master's kitchen, and had not wholly forgotten his ancient skill.

In the course of an hour, Cato produced a breakfast consisting of hot hoe cakes and fried eggs, which not only had a very appetizing flavor, but stood the test of eating, remarkably well. Robert's peril of the previous night had by no means injured his appetite, and he did full justice to the breakfast provided. Cato gazed with much satisfaction at the evidences of his young guest's relishing the repast provided, and appeared to regard it as a personal compliment to himself.

While Robert was eating he was considering his future plans. As to going back to James Cromwell, he decided that this was out of the question. His life would not be safe. He determined that it would be his proper course to return to New York, and report to his guardian the character of the man in whose care he had placed him. He hoped then to be allowed to go back to school, and resume the studies which had recently been interrupted. Had he known that his guardian was at the bottom of the plot which had so nearly culminated in his death, he would have decided differently; but of this he had no suspicion.

He had in his pocket the sum of ten dollars, which, though soaked in water, he was able to dry; and this, though insufficient to defray his expenses, would at least start him on his journey. As to what he might do, after this was exhausted, he did not know, but he was buoyant in hope, and he felt that it was no use to anticipate trouble. Enough to meet it when it came.

His course would be to reach the bank of the Ohio, and get conveyance on its waters as far East as he could. To this end he obtained directions from Cato, and shortly after breakfast, after shaking the kind negro by the hand and thanking him heartily for his kindness, which he meant some day to reward substantially, he set out on his way.

CHAPTER XX.

THE DAY AFTER

James Cromwell came down to breakfast on the morning succeeding his attempt to drown our young hero, with as composed a manner as his nervous agitation permitted him to assume.

"Where is your young friend?" inquired the landlady, for Cromwell and Robert usually came in together.

"I have not seen him since supper," said Cromwell. "I was about to ask you if you had seen anything of him."

"Was he not here last night?"

"No, I went into his room just now, and find that his bed is untouched."

"That is strange," said Mr. Manton.

"I have felt quite troubled about him," continued Cromwell, hypocritically.

"Do you think anything has befallen him?" asked the landlady.

"I think it more likely that he has run away," said Cromwell.

"He seemed to be very quiet and gentlemanly," said Mr. Manton.

"No doubt he seemed so," said Cromwell, "but his guardian when he confided him to my charge, informed me that he was a hard case, but exceedingly artful, so that no one would suspect it. He was opposed to coming west with me, and my impression is, that he has started for New York secretly. I shall put up a notice calling for information. If I receive none I shall be compelled to go on to New York myself and give information to his guardian of his sudden disappearance."

"You will be compelled to leave your business. I should think that would be inconvenient," said Mr. Manton.

"It will be inconvenient," said Cromwell, "and probably a pecuniary loss, but I feel it my duty, and money is a secondary consideration."

"Perhaps Mr. Raymond may appear in the course of the forenoon," suggested the landlady. "It may be only a boy's adventure."

"I hope you may be right," said Cromwell, "but I hardly think it will prove so."

He did not eat much breakfast. The thought of Robert Raymond lying at the bottom of the pond kept continually recurring to him. He wondered whether he would be found and when. He would like to have set out for New York at once; but if immediately after his departure the body should be found, it would look bad, and possibly excite suspicion. He thought it would be better for him to wait two or three days, and then he would feel at liberty to start on his journey.

If during that time he attended to his business as usual, there would be no chance for suspecting him of having had anything to do with Robert's disappearance.

This course, then, he resolved to adopt, but in spite of all he could do, he was tormented by a constant, nervous anxiety. Every moment he thought of the liability that Robert's body might be discovered, and he braced himself to stand the shock.

He thought it best, however, to write a letter at once to Paul Morton, announcing the mysterious disappearance of Robert.

It ran thus:

"Paul Morton, Esq.:

"Dear Sir:—It is with great regret that I take my pen, having only bad news to communicate. Your ward, Robert Raymond, whom you placed in my charge, has mysteriously disappeared. I have seen nothing of him since yesterday at supper. He went out after that, and did not return to pass the night at his boarding house. I do not know what to think, whether he has met with any accident, perhaps of a fatal nature, or has only run away. If the latter, I suppose he would make his way to New York and present himself before you. I shall take every means of ascertaining which of these is the true explanation of his mysterious disappearance. I think of starting for New York in a couple of days, in order to see you personally, and let you know all that I can learn about this unfortunate affair, as I know that you will be deeply interested in all that concerns your ward. Your obedient servant,

"I think that will do," said Cromwell, after reading his letter over when finished. "It tells nothing to an ordinary reader, but Mr. Morton will understand it well enough, especially when he reads the words which I have underlined. On the whole, I don't know but it will be well that the body should be found before I go, as he may need absolute proof of the boy's death before he is willing to pay me the ten thousand dollars. I wish it were well over, and the boy was buried. I can't bear to look at him; I am afraid I should get nervous, and so excite suspicion. Still it might be attributed to my sorrow for his loss."

With this idea he thought it best to look troubled, and express a considerable degree of anxiety about the lost boy, so that one who was not in the secret might have supposed that his emotion was real.

Leaving Cromwell, for a time, we will follow the course of Robert Raymond, who after receiving directions from Cato, had shaped his course for the Ohio river. Madison, as has already been stated, was situated in the southern part of Indiana. The distance between it and the Ohio river, which separates that State from Kentucky, was about fifty miles. It was Robert's intention to reach the river, and then get on board a boat, and proceed as far East as his limited funds would admit. The extent of these was but ten dollars, and ten dollars would not go a great way, unless extreme economy was practiced. Robert was willing to be economical, and when he learned that the river was but fifty miles distant, he determined to walk the whole way.

It was important that he should not be recognized. He wished James Cromwell to believe that he had succeeded in his design, and that he was drowned. Then there would be some chance of ascertaining what had been his motive in perpetrating so dark a deed. Besides, it would save him from the risk of pursuit, and he wished to make his way unmolested to the presence of his guardian, where he intended to expose the unprincipled conduct of the man to whose care he had been confided.

On the first day Robert walked about twenty miles, resting in the middle of the day. He was unaccustomed to walking and it made him footsore and weary. At four o'clock in the afternoon, he desisted and went up to a farm-house, for he was at the time passing through a sparsely settled town; he asked for accommodations for the night.

Fortunately the occupant of the farm-house was a hospitable and kind-hearted farmer, who did not, as some might have done, view him with suspicion.

"So you want to be took care of for the night, youngster," he said.

"Yes, sir," said Robert.

"Well, I guess the old woman can accommodate you. Our house is big enough, and you won't take up much room. Are you a-travelin' far?"

"Yes, I am going to New York."

"To York. That's a pretty long journey for a lad like you. It's over a thousand miles."

"Yes, it's a good ways, but I guess I can get there."

"Where are you a travelin' from?" was the next question.

"I came from the North," said Robert, evading a direct answer.

"I understand," said the farmer, shrewdly, "you don't want to tell. Well, maybe you've a good reason, and maybe not. That's not my business, only if you're running away from your father or mother, I advise you to go back again. It isn't a good thing to run away from home."

"If I had a father or mother," said Robert, earnestly, "I should be the last one to run away from them. I have neither father nor mother living."

"Have you no sisters nor brothers?"

"No."

"And you've got to make your own way in the world?" said the sympathizing farmer. "Well, I'm sorry for you."

"If you mean that I am poor, that is not the case," Robert answered. "I have been unfortunate in other ways, but my father left me a fortune, and I am going to my guardian who is in New York."

"Then how comes it that you are out here all alone?"

"I'd rather not tell now," said Robert, frankly. "The time may come when I shall return this way, and shall feel at liberty to tell you all."

"Well, well, my lad, I won't pry into your secrets. I shall be glad to have you stay with me to-night and to-morrow you can go on your way, and no questions asked."

"Thank you," said Robert.

"Now, we'll be goin' into the house, and see if supper isn't most ready. If you've been travelin' it's likely you're hungry, and I reckon the old woman will give us something we can relish."

Robert did not refuse the invitation, for in truth he was hungry. Indeed he had never felt hungrier in his life. He was soon seated at the farmer's plain board, on which was spread a homely but abundant repast, to which he did full justice.

In the morning, after a refreshing sleep, he started anew on his journey. He tried to make the farmer accept payment for his hospitality, but without success, and with his scanty funds still entire, he resumed his walk.

CHAPTER XXI.

MAJOR WOODLEY AND HIS DAUGHTER

On the third day Robert reached the Ohio river, and was fortunate enough to intercept a steamer bound East. He went to the office, and found that his money would suffice to pay his fare to Wheeling, but would leave him nothing. This did not trouble him much. He had the sanguine and elastic temperament of youth, and he did not doubt that something would turn up.

"If I can't do any better," he resolved, "I will obtain work of some kind till I have laid by enough money to pay my passage for the remainder of the way. Or I can write to my guardian, and ask him to send me money enough to bring me to New York."

He had no idea how unwelcome this communication would be to his guardian, nor that by this time that guardian, having received James Cromwell's letter, supposed him dead.

On board the steamer he looked about him with a boy's curiosity, and as the boat proceeded he surveyed with interest the towns on either shore, at most of which the boat stopped.

Among the passengers his attention was drawn to a tall gentleman of bronzed complexion who had as a companion a young girl of about thirteen, whom he addressed as Edith. The young lady had a very sweet face, and Robert caught himself more than once wishing he had such a sister. Had he been older that is perhaps the last thing he would have desired. But he was only a boy of fourteen, and was of course too young to experience the sensation of being in love.

The gentleman's name he learned was Major Woodley, and the young lady's, of course, Edith Woodley.

Robert wished that he might have an opportunity of making the acquaintance of Major Woodley and his daughter, but while on their trip up the river chance did not favor him. The opportunity, however, was only deferred. It came at the end of the voyage.

At length they reached Wheeling, and the passengers generally disembarked. Major Woodley and his daughter were among these.

Arrived on the pier, while Major Woodley was looking out for his baggage, a horse, maddened by a blow from his brutal driver, started suddenly forward, and in an instant would have trampled Edith Woodley under his feet, had not Robert sprung forward, and clasping her round the waist, drawn her quickly out of danger.

Her father was at some distance. He happened to look up just in time to see his child's danger, but not in time to rescue her.

To his great relief he saw Robert's prompt action, and he realized that but for this, his daughter would probably have lost her life.

Filled with gratitude he hurriedly advanced, and seized Robert by the hand.

"Well done, my brave boy! You have probably saved my daughter's life. From my heart, I thank you."

"I am glad it was in my power to do her a service," said Robert, modestly.

"You exposed your own life to danger," said the Major.

"I did not think of that," said Robert, simply. "I only thought of the young lady's danger."

"That shows you are a brave boy. If you had not been so cool and prompt, it would have been too late. If you had hesitated a moment, I shudder to think what would have been the result."

"I am very glad, indeed, that I was standing by," said Robert, "but I think anyone would have done the same."

Major Woodley shook his head.

"I know men better than you, my lad," he said, "and I know that coolness and self-possession in the hour of danger are not so common as they might be. Let me know the name of my daughter's preserver."

"Robert Raymond."

"Are you going further East?"

"Yes, sir, as soon as I can. I am bound for New York."

"So am I. But I shall stop at the hotel till to-morrow. Why won't you stop over also and go on with us?"

This was an embarrassing question for Robert. The fact is, that his entire worldly wealth, so far as he carried it with him, consisted of twenty-five cents, and this, so far from enabling him from going on to New York, would not even pay for his breakfast, unless he confined himself to a very frugal one. He felt a little shame at confessing this to Major Woodley, who had the air of a man of large means, yet he could not help confessing to himself that it would be very agreeable for him to pursue his journey in company with the Major and his daughter to New York. Of course he would become very well acquainted with the daughter, and this he thought he should like very much.

He had never had a sister, and he felt that she would be one to him.

So he hesitated, and did not immediately answer the question asked.

"If this would interfere with any of your arrangements, or if you have other friends to travel with," proceeded Major Woodley, observing his hesitation, "don't hesitate to say so."

"It is not that," said Robert, "I am traveling alone."

"So I supposed, as I saw no one with you on the boat. Why then will you not join us?"

"I will tell you," said Robert, making up his mind to tell the truth. "I find myself out of money, and I shall be obliged to wait here until I can receive money enough from my guardian to pay my fare to New York."

"Does your guardian, then, live in New York?" asked the major.

"Yes, sir."

"May I ask his name? I have some considerable acquaintance in New York, and perhaps I may know him."

"His name is Paul Morton. He is a merchant, I believe."

"Paul Morton!" repeated Major Woodley, in surprise. "Is he your guardian?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long has he been?"

"Only a few weeks. My father was an early friend of his, and he died in his house. He left me to the charge of Mr. Morton."

"What was your father's name?" asked Major Woodley, quickly.

"Ralph Raymond."

"Was he an India merchant?"

"Yes, sir. Did you know him?" asked Robert, eagerly.

"Intimately. I passed some time in India, and there I made your father's acquaintance. I valued him for his high honor, and excellent qualities, and I am truly glad to have met his son. I did not know of his death. But of that and other things you must inform me at the hotel. You need not trouble yourself about want of money. Go with me, and I will see you safely in New York."

Major Woodley ordered a carriage, and the party at once proceeded to the best hotel in the place. Breakfast was ordered, for the boat had arrived in the morning. After this meal was over, Major Woodley said: "Now, my young friend, tell me about your father's death."

Robert recounted the circumstances which are already familiar to the reader, except as to the wicked means by which his father's life was shortened. Of this he was himself ignorant, as we know.