I was rewarded, for days of research, by ascertaining, finally, and beyond doubt, that a gentleman of respectability, a Spaniard, still residing in the city, had offered the bill to be discounted at the time it had been accepted by the company. I made the acquaintance of the Spanish gentleman, and, with a delicacy of address upon which I flattered myself, I managed to learn, without being too impertinent, that he had obliged a fellow-passenger, two years previously, who was getting off at Acapulco, and who desired gold for his paper money, with the specie, and had taken of him some two or three thousand dollars of New York currency, which he had disposed of to the Express Company.
Burton was right, then! My heart leaped to my throat as the gentleman mentioned Acapulco. From that moment I felt less fear of failure, but more, if possible, intense curiosity and anxiety.
It had been my intention to proceed to Sacramento in search of the haunting face which was forever gliding before my mind’s eye; but, after this revelation, I gladly yielded to the belief that Mr. Burton would find the face before I did; and, in the relief consequent upon this hope, I began to give more heed to his injunction, to do my part of the duty by taking good care of his child.
Lenore was in rising health and spirits, and when I began to exert myself to help her pass away the time, she grew very happy. The confiding dependence of childhood is its most affecting trait. It was enough for her that her father had given her to me for the present; she felt safe and joyous, and made all those little demands upon my attention which a sister asks of an older brother. I could hardly realize that she was nearly thirteen years of age, she remained so small and slender, and was so innocently childlike in her manners and feelings. Her attendant was one of those active women who like nothing so much as plenty of business responsibility; the trip, to her, was full of the kind of excitement she preferred; the entire charge of the little maiden entrusted to her care, was one of the most delightful accidents that ever happened to her; I believe she rejoiced daily in the absence of Mr. Burton, simply because it added to the importance of her duties.
But I was glad when the fortnight’s long delay was over, and we were reembarked upon our journey. My mind lived in advance of the hour, dwelling upon the moment when I should either see, awaiting us on the dock, where he had promised to meet us, at the isthmus, the familiar form of the good genius of our party, or—that blank which would announce tidings of fatal evil.
We glided prosperously over the rounded swells of the Pacific, through sunshiny days, and nights of brilliant moonlight. Through the soft evenings, Lenore, well wrapped in shawls and hood by her faithful woman, remained with me upon deck, sometimes until quite late, singing, one after another, those delicious melodies never more subtly, understandingly rendered, than by this small spirit of song. Rapt crowds would gather, at respectful distances, to listen; but she sung for my sake, and for the music’s, unheeding who came or went. Sometimes, even now, I wake at night from a dream of that voyage, with the long wake of glittering silver following the ship, as if a million Peris, in their boats of pearl, were sailing after us, drawn on by the enchantment of the pure voice which rose and fell between stars and sea.
The last twenty-four hours before reaching the isthmus witnessed a change in the long stretch of brilliant weather common at that season of the year. Torrents of rain began to fall, and continued hour after hour, shutting us in the cabin, and surrounding us with a gray wall, which was as if some solid world had closed us in, and we were nevermore to see blue sky, thin air, or the sharp rays of the sun.
Lenore, wearied of the monotony, at length fell asleep on one of the sofas; and I was glad to have her quiet, for she had been restless at the prospect of seeing her father early the next morning. It was expected the steamer would reach her dock some time after midnight. As the hours of the day and evening wore on, I grew so impatient as to feel suffocated by the narrow bounds of the ship, and the close, gray tent of clouds. Lenore went early to her stateroom. I then borrowed a waterproof cloak from one of the officers of the vessel, and walked the decks the whole night, in the driving rain, for I could not breathe in my little room. It was so possible, so probable, that harm had befallen the solitary detective, setting forth, “a stranger in a strange land,” upon his dangerous errand, that I blamed myself bitterly for yielding to his wishes, and allowing him to remain at Acapulco. In order to comfort myself, I recalled his ability to cope with danger—his physical strength, his unshaken coolness of nerve and mind, his calmness of purpose and indomitable will, before which the wills of other men were broken like reeds by a strong wind. The incessant rain recalled two other memorable nights to me; and the association did not serve to make me more cheerful. There was no wind whatever, with the rain; the captain assured me, after I had asked him often enough to vex a less question-inured officer, for the twentieth time, that we were “all right”—“not a half-hour after time”—“would arrive at the isthmus at two o’clock a.m., precisely, and I might go to bed in peace, and be ready to get up early in the morning.”
I had no idea of
