Won by Crime Page 4

  Placing this in her pocket, she softly left the house, and scarcely knowing what instinct prompted her, she hurried towards a small hotel not far from the sea.

  "Can you tell me," she began breathlessly to a sunburnt man standing near, "if there are any ships leaving here to-morrow?"

  "I don't know, senora. I will inquire," he answered politely, and after an absence of about ten minutes, he returned to say "that Captain Moriz, of the Eagle, was even then preparing for departure on the morrow."

  "Where does he live?" Miriam said, eagerly.

  "He is staying at this hotel at present."

  "Do you think I could see him? It is very important."

  "I dare say. You can at least try," smilingly.

  The Jewess thanked her good-natured commissioner, and lightly ascended the steps.

  "I wish to see Captain Moriz. Is he in?"

  "I think so," the man answered after one quick glance at Miriam; "I will inquire."

  Miriam waited with growing impatience until the man returned, and was relieved when she heard that the captain was not only there, but would see her.

  With wildly beating heart the girl followed her conductor to a large, darkly-furnished room, where, by a table scattered with papers, sat a tall, bronzed seaman.

  "I believe you are leaving India to-morrow? Would you mind telling me where you are going?"

  "To Africa," a look of surprise crossing his face.

  "Are you going to take passengers?"

  "That was not my intention."

  "But if any one asked you, would you refuse?"

  "I don't know. I did not want any one on board," Moriz answered uneasily.

  "If you knew it would do some one a great service? I am rich, and would pay you well; so do not hesitate on that account."

  "Is it you who wish to go?"

  Miriam blushed, and bit her lip angrily. She had not intended to betray her secret so soon.

  "Yes, it is I, and two other people. Will you take us, and set us down on one of those small islands on the coast, where no one would find us?"

  Moriz hesitated; but he could not withstand the eager pleading in the slumbrous eyes, the intense pathos in the sweet voice.

  "Yes," he said at last, very slowly, "I will take you on board; but you must be ready by tomorrow night. I cannot wait for stragglers," trying to force much severity into his tones.

  "Oh, thank you! I am content now. Do not fear; we shall be in time. Until then adieu," she said softly.

  And, with a graceful bow, she departed.

  Her next step was in the direction where Phenee was confined.

  She found no difficulty in finding the jailer, a hard-looking man enough, though Miriam thought she could see a gentle expression in his eyes when they rested on two young children, whose pale, wasted features gave evidence of close confinement in that dreary place.

  "I may win him yet by those little ones," she murmured; "gold will have power to touch his heart for their sakes."

  "You wished to see me, senora?"

  "Yes. I want you to answer a few questions. First, have you not got Phenee, the Jew, and Diniz Sampayo here?"

  "Yes, senora."

  "Are they together?"

  "No, senora."

  "Could it be possible for you to set them free, without fear of detection?" eagerly.

  "Yes, senora; but I am not a traitor."

  "But think, Vincent: my poor grandfather has done no harm, and he will perish in that horrible place, though innocent. And the Senor Sampayo, as I have proof, bought the poignard himself from my grandfather. Why, then, should you say he stole it?" indignantly.

  "It is not I who accused him; my duty here is to guard the prisoners— not to try them."

  "Vincent," Miriam continued, in a low, pleading voice, "you are poor; your little children are pining for want of fresh, pure air. I am rich, and can give you enough money to live in comfort away from this close den. Release my friends, and the power of saving your children shall be yours. Look!" drawing one of the wondering girls to her side, "see how pale and thin she is! Can you refuse my offer when the lives of those you love depend upon it?"

  Vincent felt the truth of her words, and knew the only things he cherished on earth, those innocent children, were slowly fading and pining away for want of fresh air.

  The man raised his head, and glanced earnestly at the moved expressive face, then in a low, hoarse voice he muttered:

  "Be it so. I will help the prisoners to escape. I cannot see my little ones dying before my eyes, when an opportunity is given me to save them."

  "Then to-morrow at sunset you will bring them to the Golden Lion, I will be there, ready with the money."

  "I will not fail, senora. May Heaven forgive me if I am doing wrong!"

  After a few instructions, the happy girl went swiftly away, but ere she had moved far, she returned, and paused before Vincent.

  "I forgot to ask you about that poor man, Jarima," she said, gravely.

  "He did not live long, senora, after he was brought here."

  "And his wife—children?"

  "Of them I know nothing," he answered quietly.

  Ere she continued her homeward way, Miriam sped swiftly toward Jarima's poor home, and knocked gently at the door. It was opened by the eldest of the three children, and forcing a purse of money into his brown hand, the girl whispered sweetly:

  "For your mother, little one; from a friend," then moved silently away, hurrying homeward to await patiently for the long hours to pass, ere her grandfather would be released.

  Vincent, true to his word, gathered his few belongings together, and when the evening came, went softly to the cells in which his prisoners lay, and, setting them free, told them to follow him.

  Wondering, yet glad, Phenee, leaning on Diniz's arm for support, slowly obeyed the jailer, who, accompanied by his two children, led them toward the hotel Miriam had named.

  There, sure enough, the young Jewess was waiting, and after tenderly embracing Phenee, and smiling softly at Diniz, she turned to Vincent and placed a bag of gold in his hand.

  "This is your reward. May you and your little ones live in happiness!" she said earnestly.

  "We leave Goa to-night, senora. My life would be worth nothing if I stayed here after this. Good-by, and thank you for your generosity."

  Miriam hastened her grandfather to the ship, shocked at his feebleness; but for Sampayo he would scarcely have been able to get there.

  Only once he spoke to the girl ere he retired to his cabin for the night.

  "The money and jewels, Miriam—what have you done with them?"

  "They are here, grandfather. I brought everything of value away with me."

  "That is right, child. You are a good girl!"

  Miriam stood rather sadly beside the bulwarks, gazing at the land in which she had been born, and which she was now leaving forever.

  A low sigh broke from her lips.

  "Why do you sigh? Are you sorry to quit your native land?" a voice whispered in her ear.

  "Yes; though for my grandfather's sake I cannot deeply regret it," Miriam answered, gazing at Diniz with tear-dimmed eyes.

  "I have not thanked you yet for having released me from that dreadful place, or even a worse doom. I am still scarcely able to realize my good fortune. What made you, a stranger, think of one whom all others had forgotten?"

  "Not all. It was Donna Lianor who told me where you were, and asked me to help you," Miriam said, blushing beneath his tender, grateful gaze. "Besides, I looked upon you as a friend," almost inaudibly.

  "That is what I want to be—your friend. And Lianor—how is she?— well?"

  "As well as it is possible to be under the heavy trial she went through this morning. She was married to Manuel Tonza," sadly.

  'Poor girl! Poor Lianor! Hers is indeed an unhappy lot!" Diniz murmured pityingly.

  Chapter V.

  In a large, handsome room, overlooking a shining river, now ablaze with sunshine
, sat a beautiful woman, wearing on her face unmistakable signs of sadness.

  She scarcely heeded the opening door, until two pretty children came bounding to her side, clambering onto her chair and lap.

  Then her face changed, and a sweet, tender smile chased away all gloom; the idle hands were busy now stroking the curly heads pressed so close against her.

  "I would have brought them to you before, but their father wished to keep them; he is always so happy when they are near," a little, dark-eyed woman, clad in picturesque robes of brilliant crimson and gold, said rapidly, as she threw herself down on a pile of soft cushions opposite the sweet, pale mother.

  Lianor sighed, but she could not look sad long with those loved children clasped in her arms.

  "I cannot understand Manuel," she said, with a puzzled expression in her eyes; "he is so strange, sometimes gay—almost too gay; then he relapses into a gloomy, brooding apathy, from which even the children have no power to rouse him."

  "But you have. He is never too morose to have a smile for you. I think, sometimes, he feels lonely. You are bound to him, yet your heart is as unresponsive to his passionate love as if you were strangers," Savitre said, thoughtfully.

  "Do you think so, Savitre? I am indeed sorry; but you know how impossible it is to forget my first love. I like Manuel, but beyond that, affection—except for my darlings—is dead; buried in Luiz's grave."

  "Hush! here comes Manuel," Savitre whispered, warningly.

  It was indeed Manuel, older and graver-looking than of yore, with a deep melancholy in his eyes, brought there only by intense suffering.

  Savitre, on his entrance, softly glided from the room, leaving husband and wife alone.

  "Lianor," he began, a bright smile lighting up his face as he bent to kiss her fair brow, "I have been thinking, and am resolved to quit India and return to Portugal. I have been here long enough. Don't you think that will be pleasant, dearest?"

  "Nothing would please me more," Lianor cried, delightedly. "The greatest wish of my life is to see Portugal once more, to show our country to our children," bending to kiss her tiny daughter's face.

  "Then it will be granted. Prepare to start as soon as possible. Now, I am determined to leave here. Something seems to urge me to go at once."

  Only too anxious, Lianor began her arrangements.

  Savitre, who had never cared to leave her friend before, even to become Panteleone's bride, entered into the preparations with unconcealed eagerness.

  She had faithfully promised her lover that, once in Portugal, she would, with his father's approval, marry him.

  Lianor felt no regret at leaving India, except for a loved grave—her father's—which she had so carefully tended.

  Not many days after, Manuel Tonza, his wife, children, Panteleone, and Savitre, accompanied by several faithful servants, including Lalli and Tolla, embarked in a fine stately ship, which was to bear them in safety to their home.

  Tonza seemed full of joy as he saw the last lines of the Indian coast disappear. He had rarely appeared so happy since his marriage with Lianor five years before.

  For several days the good ship went steadily on her way, until one night a terrific storm arose, and the vessel, heedless of the human cargo it was bearing, drifted onward at the mercy of the tempest.

  Tonza, holding Lianor and his children closely to him, stood silently dismayed, scarcely able to realize the awful danger which lay before him and those he loved.

  Still onward, through the almost impenetrable darkness, went the doomed ship, until, as the dense shadows began to clear and the storm to cease, a sudden shock was felt by all—she had struck against some rocks and was slowly sinking!

  "We must be somewhere near land," the captain cried, his voice sounding above the roaring waters.

  By aid of the fast-breaking dawn, they could see the line of high, dark rocks, upon which the ship had met her fate.

  With much difficulty and peril, under the captain's cool directions, the crew managed at last to leave the sinking vessel, not without much loss of life. Out of nearly five hundred only a few arrived in safety, amongst whom were Tonza, his wife, children, Savitre, and Panteleone.

  When the day broke in calm splendor, the sun shown upon a mournful sight—a group of shipwrecked men and women.

  No sign of habitation met their view; only a weary waste of bare land, sheltered by a few trees, from whose branches hung a goodly supply of fruit.

  "If we go farther inland, we are sure to find some natives, if only savages," Tonza remarked gravely; and followed by the men, he commenced the long, weary way.

  Lianor, pale but firm, holding in her arms her little daughter, walked beside him, heedless of the fatigue which oppressed her and made her long to sink upon the sandy ground to rest.

  Onward they went, never pausing to rest their tired feet until, as the day was about to decline, they came to a deep waterfall, over which they had to cross. No easy task, as the only means of doing so was by an uneven path, made from a line of rocks, on either side of which the boiling waters poured in terrific fury.

  Tonza—who, now the captain had perished, placed himself at the head of the crew—was the first to put his foot upon the crossing; then, turning to the people, he said:

  "Be careful, and not glance behind or down, or you will lose your balance and fall."

  Lianor, who, by her husband's wish, had given her child to one of the men, followed closely behind Manuel, who held his boy in his arms.

  Silently, without daring to murmur one word, the men walked bravely onward.

  They were nearly half way across.

  Manuel had indeed touched firm ground, when a sudden cry from her little girl made Lianor turn in affright to see what ailed her.

  That move was fatal; the next instant she had lost her footing and fallen into the dashing torrent.

  With a despairing shriek Manuel stopped, and had not some one held him back, would have dashed in after his wife. Panteleone, who saw a chance of saving her, quickly slipped over the side, caught her in his aims as she was about to sink, then bore her to land.

  Forgetful of all others, Manuel threw himself beside her still form, from which all life seemed to have fled, calling wildly on her name, pressing passionate kisses on her cold face, hoping by the warmth of his caresses to bring back the color to her cheeks.

  But it was useless; Lianor was dead; her head having struck against a rock, caused instant unconsciousness, from which they could not rouse her.

  When Tonza realized the awful truth he rose to his feet, pale and haggard, his eyes full of despairing anguish.

  "It is just; my sin is punished. My wife, the only thing I loved on earth, for whose sake I committed crime, is taken from me! She alone had power to make me happy; without her I cannot live. It is time I confessed all, and you shall be my judges. It was I who caused the death of Luiz Falcam, that I might win his betrothed; and when I heard that Diniz Sampayo had discovered partly the truth, I had him thrown into prison on suspicion of having stolen the very poignard with which Luiz had met his death—one that I myself had placed in the assassin's hand! You all know how he escaped, but he is an exile for my fault. If ever you should see him, tell him his innocence is established; he can return to India in peace. You have heard my story, now judge me;" and with arms crossed over his breast, his head bowed in deepest grief and humility, he waited his sentence.

  A dead hush fell over the group, broken only by the suppressed sobs of Savitre, who was crouching beside Lianor, and the pitiful moans of the little girl dying in one of the rough seamen's arms.

  At last Pantaleone, a look of compassion on his face, went towards his friend, and, laying his head on Tonza's shoulder, said gently:

  "My cousin, you have sinned, but God has sent your punishment; that is sufficient. Live to devote your life to bringing up the little motherless children left to you. Restore Sampayo to his own again; then try, by true repentance, to atone for the wrong you did him."

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sp; Tonza raised his head, and glanced gratefully at Panteleone; but his eyes were full of firm resolution none could understand.

  "You are good, but my life is worth nothing, now she has gone. See, this poor babe will soon follow her mother. Garcia I leave to you; he is too young to realize his loss; but never let him know his father's sin!" he exclaimed hoarsely; and, after pressing his boy tightly to his breast, kissed the dying child; then softly lifting Lianor in his arms, he first pressed his lips reverently on her pale brow, and, before any one could prevent him, or realize what he was about to do, he had sprang from the rock into the deep torrent, and disappeared with his precious burden from their view.

  A cry of horror burst from the lips of all present, and many efforts were made to find their bodies; but in vain.

  With saddened hearts the people turned away, and continued their journey, praying they might ere long find help and shelter.

  Before the day had closed another soul had winged its flight to Heaven, and the tiny waxen form of Lianor's baby-girl left in its last resting-place in the golden sand.

  A small wooden house, surrounded by sweet-scented flowers of brightest hue, amongst which a beautiful, dark-eyed woman was softly gliding, culling large clusters of the delicate blossoms.

  As she stopped to gather a few rich carnations, singing in a low, musical voice, a man, young and handsome, slipped from beneath the pretty porch, and walking noiselessly behind her, suddenly lifted her in his strong arms, pressing the slight form tenderly to his breast.

  "Take care, Diniz," she cried, warningly, a ring of deepest joy thrilling her clear voice. "You will spoil all my flowers!"

  "Except the fairest of all—yourself. Ah, Miriam, my darling! how happy we have been since that day when you so generously saved me from a felon's doom!" rapturously kissing the beautiful, dark face so near his own.

  Their bliss was broken by a crowd of brown-skinned people, moving toward the cottage, seemingly acting under some emotion.

  "What has happened? What is it?" husband and wife cried simultaneously.

  "We have seen a party of white men, doubtlessly shipwrecked on the coast, coming in this direction. They are even now in sight," one man said quickly.