CHAPTER VII. THE ABDUCTION.
In the afternoon of the same day,
Cicely Vandemore was seated on an old
stool in the doorway of Molly Magore's
cottage, pale and dejected. Old Molly
herself was seated at a little distance,
gazing upon her with a look of sorrowful
anxiety. Years had made but little alteration
in the appearance of Molly, save
that some of her flaxen hairs had changed
to a more silver white, and here and there
a furrow was a little more deepened. For
some moments she sat, watching Cicely
with the tender expression of a mother.
Cicely, different from usual, was sitting
with her head bent a little forward, apparently
gazing on the ground with a
thoughtful look, while her left foot was,
unconsciously, tapping the floor.
“Why are you so sad, dear Cicely?”
inquired Molly, affectionately.
Cicely started, and a crimson flush
sprang quickly over her features.
“Sad, mother?”
Cicely had learned to call old Molly
mother.
“Yes, my child; your head has drooped
all the day, and you often sigh—sigh as
though it came from the heart.”
“Do I?” returned Cicely, simply, in
a musing manner.
“There is something that weighs heavily
on your spirits, my child; will you
not tell me what it is?”
“I do not feel well, mother,” and she
pressed her hands to her temples.
“Ah! my child,” said old Molly, shaking
her head, “your disease, I fear, is not
of the head, but of the heart. You love!”
“Mother!”
“Nay, my child, I have watched you
long, and well; you love Edward Langley.”
Cicely held down her head, in silence.
“I trust he has not abused your confidence?”
said Molly, inquiringly, with a
painful look of apprehension.
“O, no, no, no! mother, dear mother,”
said Cicely, quickly, energetically—her
features glowing with a noble enthusiasm;
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“do not, do not, for a moment, let such
a doubt rest upon him! He is all that
is noble, generous, and manly.”
“Thank God! Cicely, you relieve me
of a painful thought. But why are you
so sad then? Come, dear Cicely, you
should confide in me, will you not, my
child?” and old Molly's voice assumed
the tone of entreating tenderness.
Cicely could not bear this unmoved;
and rising, she approached old Molly—
threw her arms around her neck—buried
her head upon her breast, and burst into
tears.
“Mother, you say truly,” sobbed she,
“I do love, and have rejected him I love.”
“Rejected him, Cicely, and wherefore?”
“Because he is wealthy, and I am
poor.”
Molly mused a moment—passed her
hand across her eyes—and then said,
with a sigh:
“You have done right, my child, very
right; though it is hard, very hard. I
can now perceive your feelings. May
God, in his mercy, aid you to bear it nobly.
But come, had you not better go forth and
take the freshening breeze? The soft
shades of evening are beginning to be felt.
Go, my child, perchance they will inspire
you with a holy calm. It is the hour to
think of love.”
“I will,” said Cicely, with a deep
drawn sigh; and, placing on her head a
light summer bonnet, she disappeared.
Molly watched, and saw her wend her
way to the old log, before spoken of,
where she seated herself in a state of
gloomy abstraction; and then, with a sigh,
Molly seated herself on the chair Cicely
had just vacated.
Cicely had been watched by another—
we premise more than one; but the individual
in question was a man of low stature,
apparently of great strength, with
a face broad, round, and full, and large
gray eyes. He was one of those peculiar
beings we never know where to place;
and of whom, to convey an idea, we shall
designate a man of circumstances. By
this we mean a man who will yield to the
circumstances which surround him, without
seeking or caring to know whether
they are right or wrong; thus honest, or
dishonest, as is best adapted to the time
being.
Gazing at the young girl for a moment
with a look of admiring curiosity, this
personage immediately proceeded to the
cottage of old Molly, and thus accosted
her, in a gruff voice:
“Is your name Molly Magore?”
Molly started from her musing attitude,
with an angry flush on her furrowed
cheek, and gave the other a scrutinizing
look of contempt, without deigning an
answer. The reader will bear in mind
we have before described Molly as being
an eccentric character, and, in the
presence of strangers, inclined to be
boorish.
“Look here, old woman,” said the
other, still more gruffly, “you needn't put
on any of your false airs, nor turn up
your nose any more than nature has done
for you; because, my old darling, you
ain't a beauty no how; and I'm just as
good a man as any other.”
“What do you wish?” inquired
Molly.
“First, answer my question, is your
name Molly Magore?”
“It is.”
“Well, here's something which I'm
commanded to deliver to you;” saying
which he tossed to her a well filled
purse.
Molly caught it, and her features
brightened as she said:
“Who are you? and who is this
from?”
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“I'm not here to answer questions,”
replied the other; and he turned to
go.
“Stay — stay a moment,” said Molly,
as she emptied the purse of some twenty
sovereigns. “Ha!” exclaimed she,
suddenly, as a paper caught her eye,
bearing the single word “Vandemore.”
“Where is he—where is he? O, pray,
good sir, tell me!”
“Whom mean you, woman?”
“Vandemore; whom else should I
mean?”
“I know no such person, madam.”
“How, sir! you do not know him!
Who gave you this purse?”
“I shall not tell; old lady. It was not
Vandemore.”
“Heavens! here is mystery.”
“Then you must solve it,” and the
other walked away.
“Not Vandemore who gave it to him!
not Vandemore!” said Molly, musingly,
as the other disappeared; “strange—
strange—it bears his name,” and she relapsed
into thoughtful silence.
Meanwhile, the other rounded the corner
of the old cottage, and disappeared in
a cluster of bushes, which were growing
in the rear; and, pausing there for a few
minutes, he contemplated the charming
beauty of the lovely Cicely, who could
be seen some hundred paces distant—
seated upon the old log—gazing upon the
waters of the Ohio, apparently unconscious
of everything around her. As old
Molly had before remarked, the shadows
of evening were gathering fast; for the
sun had now sunk behind a thick, dark
cloud, and objects at a short distance
were becoming gloomy, and indistinct;
while, at a greater distance, they were
scarcely perceivable. Occasionally a
flash, with a low, distant rumble of thunder,
announced the approach of a shower;
while a cool, invigorating breeze blew
steadily from the west, stirring light
waves on the bosom of the river, which
rippled against the shore with a pleasing
sound. Still Cicely sat, unconsciously
gazing on the water — unconsciously listening
to the rumbling of the thunder,
and the music of the waves — her whole
thoughts absorbed with one—one whose
name had become to her a sacred relic,
enshrined in the casket of memory.
“Yes,” sighed she at length, “he is
gone—gone; he will never see me more.
Well, well, it is for the best;” and again
she sighed.
At this moment two large, dark figures,
stole cautiously forth from the covert of
bushes below, (which the reader will recollect
as being the place where was
screened the figure of Melven the evening
previous,) while a third person — a
man of small stature — might be seen,
peeping cautiously out. The individual
whom we noticed as having the interview
with Moily, and who still remained in the
position we left him—gazing at Cicely—
seemed to notice the two who first made
their appearance, with evident curiosity;
but when he saw the head of the third,
which he was barely enabled to do, he
ground his teeth together, muttering—
“Hell, to thee, thou perjured wretch!”
while his hand instinctively, as it were,
sought a pistol, which was confined in
the coverings of his breast.
The two dark figures now glided
stealthily forward, until within some two
or three paces of Cicely — who still sat,
in a thoughtful attitude, unaware of their
approach—when, suddenly springing forward,
they threw a heavy mantle over
her; and, ere she could comprehend
what was taking place, or had time for
more than a single scream, they caught
her up in their iron arms — leaped the
bank — and rushed with rapidity to their
boat, which was concealed just below,
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behind a cluster of bushes. All this was
the work of an instant.
“Quick, men, quick — by the holy
hokey!” said the third one, leaping
from the bushes, and joining the kidnappers.
Into the boat with her, by—”
A heavy blow on the head cut his
speech short, and felled him to the earth;
while the others, who had already leaped
into the boat, pushed from the shore
with the rapidity of thought; and, concentrating
all their force on their oars,
rowed swiftly down the stream.
“Too late to save her,” said the deep
voice of the fourth — the one who had
been watching the proceedings—“but, by
the holy virgin! I have got the one I want.”
“Where am I?” said the one on the
ground, recovering his senses, and attempting
to rise.
“Where the powers of hell cannot
save you! in the hands of Jarvis of the
League.”
“Oh! mercy! mercy! dear, kind,
good Jarvis!” said the abject wretch,
clasping him around the legs, and whining
like a dog.
“Up, groveling fool! and follow me!”
said Jarvis, spurning him with his foot.
“Up, I say; or, by the gods! I'll send a
bullet through your head!” and he drew
from his breast a pistol.
The other sprang to his feet, still piteously
whining—“Have mercy, oh! sir,
have mercy!”
“Cease! prating fool!” ejaculated
Jarvis. “I tell you, Arnold Melven, hell
itself could not save you.”
At this instant, to the astonishment of
both, a manly form sprang over the bank,
and stood beside them, exclaiming:
“Where is she? what have you done
with her? Speak! speak! for God sake,
speak!”
“Oh! save me, sir!” cried Melven,
suddenly springing forward; “the rob
bers have got her — the League of the
Miami — and they want to take me too,
oh!—”
He had not time for more; for, quick
as thought, Jarvis rushed forward—
knocked him down — caught him up in
his arms as though he were a child, and,
ere the other was fully aware of his intentions,
he was fast speeding on to a
boat, which was drawn partly on to the
sand, a little distance up the stream.
Langley, for such was the last comer,
darted quickly forward in pursuit; but he
was too late. Jarvis, who was a man of
great strength and fleetness of foot, had
reached the boat and shoved into the
stream, ere the other had arrived at the
spot. A moment more, and he was lost
to view; for the darkness had gathered
thick and sudden, and it was already
night on the bosom of the Ohio, which
was rolling past in sullen grandeur. An
occasional flash of lightning discovered,
to the almost frantic Langley, the form
of Jarvis, standing erect in the boat, and,
with long sweeps of his oar, fast gaining
the opposite shore.
“The League! the League!” cried
Langley, nearly frantic—“Cicely taken
by the League, for some foul end! Oh,
God! it is too much;” and he smote
his head with his clenched fist. “The
League!” continued he, a little more
calmly—“I have heard of these outlaws
before; they infest the valley of the
Miami. Ha! a thought strikes me — a
party is already organized for their extinction!
I will join them; I will have
vengeance on those who dare such deeds.
Hear it, Heaven!” said he, suddenly
kneeling—“witness earth! and record
it, fiery elements! I swear to take not
peaceful rest until I have rescued her I
love, and drank revenge in the heart's
blood of those daring fiends who have
torn her from me!”
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Springing to his feet, he rushed frantically
up the bank, and soon was holding
converse with Molly. A few words sufficed
to explain all. Desirous of gazing
upon her he loved—and rightly divining
she would seek their old retreat—he had,
unknown to Cicely, so stationed himself
that he could see, and not be seen—
until, hearing her scream, he had sprung
forward to divine the cause, (for being
at some distance, it was already so dark
he had not seen the approach of the two
figures)—when, unluckily, his foot became
entangled, and he had fallen to the
earth with a stunning effect. When he
recovered, and had reached the spot, as
has been shown, it was already too late.
Molly, at the recital of this, became
wild, almost insane; pacing the room,
and wringing her hands in an agony
past description. It was a terrible night
to her.
Langley immediately started for his
residence—distant some five miles—to
prepare to fulfill his oath.
In the meantime, the two who had
borne away Cicely, rowed in silence down
the stream; while the lightning flashed,
the thunder roared, and the rain poured
down in torrents. About a mile below,
they were met by another boat, carrying
a dark-lantern, and containing a single
individual; when, by his direction, they
immediately rounded to the shore,
mounted horses which were in waiting,
and rode swiftly away, bearing Cicely
with them.
Bennett, Emerson, 1822-1905 [1851], The league of the Miami. (Lorenzo Stratton, Cincinnati) [word count] [eaf470T].
