Friday morning was ushered in amid clouds and storm. The heavens were shrouded in a pall of darkness and the rain came down in torrents. Mr.

Mandeville had spent most of the night with his daughter, and did not retire until some hours past midnight. Having been deprived of so much rest, during the previous two weeks and more, his slumbers were unusually heavy, and it was a late hour in the morning when he awoke, and the dismal weather adding to his drowsiness, he continued to lay and rest after consciousness had returned. His half-waking, half-dreaming meditations were broken in upon by a gentle tap at his bed-room door. In a moment he was wide awake, care for his child having quickened his senses, and demanded if Eveline was any worse.

"No, sir," was the reply, "it is only Mr. Duffel, who has called and inquired for you."

"Tell him I will be down in a few minutes."

Wondering what could bring his visitor at such an early hour, Mr.

Mandeville hastily dressed and went into the parlor, where he met and was saluted by Duffel in the most cordial manner.

"I reached home at a late hour last night," said the hypocrite, "and felt so great an anxiety to hear from you and your daughter, I could not wait for the storm to abate, but hastened at this unseasonable hour to inquire after her welfare and yours. I hope I have not intruded so far but that you will pardon my unfashionable call and seeming impatience. How is Eveline?"

"You are always welcome, come at what hour you may. I can hardly answer your last question; I think Eveline is better in some respects, but she is greatly reduced, and when the fever leaves, will, doubtless, be very weak.--I both hope and fear for her. The fever will run its course, and if she has const.i.tution enough to outlive it and recuperate, she will recover; otherwise the result will be fatal."

"It is impossible, then, for the most skillful and far-seeing to foretell the issue?"

"Quite impossible. Will you now excuse me for a short time? I have not looked after my stock this morning."

"With pleasure."

Mr. Mandeville left his guest around whose mouth a peculiar smile was playing as he pa.s.sed out at the door. That smile had a meaning.

After a brief absence the host returned, and in some consternation announced that his best horse had been stolen during the night.

"Is it possible!" said Duffel, feigning the utmost surprise. "What villain could take advantage of the sickness of your daughter, to plan and execute such a cowardly act?"

"I am persuaded there are more than one connected with these thefts; indeed, I may say, I know there are numbers of thieves infesting the country. They are regularly banded together; and, would you believe it, that Hadley, of whom we were once speaking, is an officer in the band, as I have every reason to believe."

"That will exactly correspond with what I told you in the interview to which you allude."

"True."

"Have you seen him lately?"

"I have not."

"Can he be found this morning?"

"Ah, I perceive your thoughts are running in the same direction as my own.

We will inquire after him."

The inquiries were inst.i.tuted, but no Hadley was to be found; he had left the day previous, but no one could tell whither he had gone, or what had called him away. When these facts were ascertained, Mandeville and Duffel exchanged a significant glance, as much as to say: "Just as we expected!"

The horse stolen was one of great value, and Mr. Mandeville was resolved to make a desperate effort to recover him; and he was the more fixed in this determination, because the horse was intended as a gift to Eveline on her recovery, in case she _did_ recover, and, also, because, as he believed, the detection of the culprit would expose the baseness of her lover to his daughter, and cause her to discard him at once from her thoughts.--Full of these thoughts, he offered a handsome reward for the horse, and a very large one for the apprehension of the thief. In prospect of obtaining these rewards, as well as to render a service to community, some six individuals banded themselves together with the avowed intention of ferreting out the matter, and immediately set out for that purpose.

CHAPTER VII.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER--DUFFEL.

A few days after the transactions recorded in the preceding chapter, the fever left Eveline, and consciousness was restored to its empire and reason to its throne. But alas! what a wreck of her former self she was! Mr.

Mandeville could scarcely restrain his tears while gazing upon her pallid countenance and wasted form. She was helpless as a child, and so weak it was feared the recuperative powers were exhausted, and she must die from prostration; but a day or two of careful nursing, aided by cordials and tonics, produced a change for the better, and in the course of ten days, she was able to walk in the open air and happy sunshine, supported by her father. How lightly his heart beat in his bosom, as the child of his pride and affection leaned upon his arm, as he gently led her whither she desired to go.

She had a little arbor in the garden, the vines about which had been carefully trained by her own hands; it had always been a favorite resort, and of late had become a thousand times more dear, because it was there that she and Hadley had spent most of their happy hours. So soon as she had sufficient strength to bear the fatigue, she requested to be taken there, and her wish was granted. What a throng of memories came crowding through her mind as she once more sat in that verdant bower! Every flower had a tongue and a reminiscence, and the entire place and scene spoke of the past in language mute but eloquent. How her heart beat with excitement, as the many a.s.sociations of other days rushed over her spirit with the lightening wings of thought, and awakened emotions of joy and grief. While with the past she was happy; but when the cheerless present occupied her mind, sadness filled her heart, while shadows gathered upon her brow, and tears in her eyes.

The father saw all this, for he watched the changes of her countenance with the deepest solicitude. When he noted the saddened expression that came over it, his heart was heavy, for he divined the cause. How his feeling of bitterness toward Hadley increased, as he saw the wreck of happiness he had made; and how he longed to expose the blackness of his character to his infatuated daughter! He felt certain that his child would cease to regard him as she had done, the moment she was put in possession of the facts which so clearly established his guilt. But it would cost her a severe struggle, and he feared she was yet too weak to sustain the shock.

At length, however, as he perceived that internal grief was preying upon her spirits, it occurred to him that the evil resulting from this eating sorrow, which was brooded over in secret, would be greater in the end than the quick pang, though it should be sharp and powerful for an hour or a day. Approaching her affectionately, and with great tenderness of manner, he said:

"You are sad, Eveline; you are not happy, I know you are not; and yet you do not confide your sorrow to me. Is this kind, my dear?"

"Oh, father!" and she burst into tears. He drew her head upon his bosom, and for a short period permitted sorrow to have its way, then inquired:

"May I share my daughter's grief?"

"Father, father, do not wound my heart afresh! I fear me now it will never heal!"

"Eveline, child, you misunderstand me. G.o.d forbid that I should add to your sorrow; my only desire is to relieve and heal!"

"May I indeed trust in my father? Oh, what a question to ask myself! Yet--"

"Yet what? Speak fully, and let us for once open our hearts to each other without reserve."

"Yet I fear I have had cause to make the inquiry."

"I fear so too, my dear; but let us now understand each other. I hope much from such an understanding."

"What would you draw from me?"

"The secret of your unhappiness."

"Do you not know it already?"

"I surmise the cause."

"And you think--"

"I _fear_ it is because you love Charles Hadley."

"Why do you _fear_ that is the cause?"

"Because he is unworthy of your love."

"Oh, do not say so! Is poverty a mark of unworthiness?"

"No, it is not; if he was only poor I would give my consent to your union to-day; but I am sorry to say he is wicked as well as poor."