I can make but one atonement—I must at once leave St. Germain.
Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant repression has been.
Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note, addressed in pencil.
No answer was required.
The few lines were in Stella’s handwriting:
“You must not leave us too suddenly, or you may excite my mother’s suspicions.
Wait until you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext for your departure.—S.”
I never thought of her mother.
She is right.
Even if she were wrong, I must obey her.
September 14.—The letters from England have arrived.
One of them presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready made.
My proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted.
The sailing-master and crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for my orders.
Here is an absolute necessity for my return to England.
The newspaper arrived with the letters.
My anticipations have been realized.
Yesterday’s paragraph has produced another volunteer contributor.
An Englishman just returned from Central America, after traveling in Arizona, writes to the Times. He publishes his name and address—and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive priests.
The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it.
He is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite—the well-known traveler in India, who discovered the lost diamond called “the Moonstone,” set in the forehead of a Hindoo idol.
He writes to the editor as follows:
“Sir—I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the sole survivors of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four months since.
“I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an Apache chief, bribed to show me his country and his nation (instead of cutting my throat and tearing off my scalp) by a present tribute of whisky and gunpowder, and by the promise of more when our association came to an end.
“About twelve miles northward of the little silver-mining town of Tubac we came upon an Apache encampment.
I at once discovered two white men among the Indians.
These were the captive priests.
“One of them was a Frenchman, named L’Herbier. The other was an Englishman, named Penrose.
They owed their lives to the influence of two powerful considerations among the Indians.
Unhappy L’Herbier lost his senses under the horror of the night massacre.
Insanity, as you may have heard, is a sacred thing in the estimation of the American savages; they regard this poor madman as a mysteriously inspired person The other priest, Penrose, had been in charge of the mission medicine-chest, and had successfully treated cases of illness among the Apaches.
As a ‘great medicine-man,’ he too is a privileged person—under the strong protection of their interest in their own health.
The lives of the prisoners are in no danger, provided they can endure the hardship of their wandering existence among the Indians.
Penrose spoke to me with the resignation of a true hero.
‘I am in the hands of God,’ he said; ‘and if I die, I die in God’s service.’
“I was entirely unprovided with the means of ransoming the missionaries—and nothing that I could say, or that I could promise, had the smallest effect on the savages.
But for severe and tedious illness, I should long since have been on my way back to Arizona with the necessary ransom.
As it is, I am barely strong enough to write this letter. But I can head a subscription to pay expenses; and I can give instructions to any person who is willing to attempt the deliverance of the priests.”
So the letter ended.
Before I had read it, I was at a loss to know where to go, or what to do, when I leave St. Germain.
I am now at no loss.
I have found an object in life, and a means of making atonement to Stella for my own ungracious and unworthy words.
Already I have communicated by telegraph with Mr. Murthwaite and with my sailing-master.
The first is informed that I hope to be with him, in London, to-morrow morning.
The second is instructed to have the yacht fitted out immediately for a long voyage.
If I can save these men—especially Penrose—I shall not have lived in vain.
London, September 15.—No.
I have resolution enough to go to Arizona, but I have no courage to record the parting scene when it was time to say good-by.
I had intended to keep the coming enterprise a secret, and only to make the disclosure in writing when the vessel was ready to sail.
But, after reading the letter to the Times, Stella saw something in my face (as I suppose) that betrayed me.