Tom Thorne was a bachelor, who lived in one of the best houses, had the best horses, and gave the best dinners and suppers, of any merchant in Buenos Ayres. The head of the “house,” or firm, he was his own master; and this privilege he used to the utmost. Wherever a ball was to be held in that dancing city, there be sure you find Tom; and few dinner parties, pic-nics, or country excursions, were complete without him. Little mattered it to him, whether he were invited or not—he knew every body, and everybody knew him; and his jovial good humour, his hearty laugh and frank address, won him the good graces of any party upon which the whim of the moment induced him to intrude. Tom was a restless, rattling blade, and delighted in excitement of every kind. He could no more have sat still on a chair for half an hour than he could have passed over an entire day without drinking champagne, where it was to be had, or brandy and water where it was not.

Courteous and gallant to the ladies, he was noisy and jovial with the men; and although he was well known to boast of his liberty as a bachelor, yet this probably only made him more of a favourite with the fair. There could be no harm in flirting and coquetting with one who openly defied their attractions. The shy and timid could be pert and playful with Tom Thorne the bachelor, without any feelings of indelicacy; while those who were less reserved, considered it fair play to entangle him in the nets of their raillery—probably not without a distant hope that the gay flutterer might yet singe his wings in making his circuit round the flame of their attractions.

It will be thought surprising how our hero, with such roving and unsteady habits, could transact business as the head of a mercantile house. But in South America, business is not conducted in the same systematic way that it is in London or Liverpool; and probably more hides or bullocks, gin or ginghams, are bought and sold at the dinner or billiard table than at the desk or exchange.

For such irregular kind of trade, Tom was peculiarly adapted. His was not the character to plod at a desk over intricate speculations, nor was it necessary in a trade confined within narrow compass and certain seasons. Trade would sometimes be brisk, vessels would require to be loaded and discharged; then Tom would write night and day, with desperate energy, and then, as if he had earned a holiday, he would idle away for weeks. What was the use of clerks if not to write? or, according to an old proverb, what is the use of keeping a dog, and barking yourself?

Tom Thorne, when sent out to South America, in the first instance, came under great advantages. He was the son of the head of one of the richest firms in Europe, and with an ill-judged liberality was allowed lots of pocket-money; and more consideration was paid to him than to other clerks by the managers of the house in Buenos Ayres. Thus he had both more time and money to spend than other “young men” with more limited prospects. Tom was not one to throw away these advantages; and so his horse was the swiftest, his coat the tippiest, his cigar the longest, his gloves were ever the whitest, and his bouquet the richest of all the riding, smoking, flower-giving youths of Buenos Ayres; and it may be conceived, that with all “these appliances, and means to boot,” he was more an adept in the ways of gallantry than scriveny. In the course of time Mr Thorne, in spite of all his failings, arrived at the dignity of representative in Buenos Ayres of the rich firm of Thorne, Flower, & Co.

Once established as his own master, Tom’s natural levity of character was not long of displaying itself, pleasure was his business, and business his pastime. The lute or the piano (he was a splendid musician) occupied him more than the pen; he was more in the camp or in the streets, than in his house—and more in other people’s houses than his own. And yet with all this, his business went on most swimmingly—he was an indulgent master, paid his clerks well, and fed them like princes: this they requited by paying more attention to his business than he did himself, and thus Tom, almost in spite of himself, was, as we have formerly said, one of the richest merchants in the city.

Some of our fair readers may say—This is all very well, but why does he not marry? and then he might rest happy at home, instead of being so dependent on others for enjoyment. But it was this very dependence on others for excitement and the means of enjoyment, that made Tom shirk marriage. It would have been a thraldom to him. Was it, could it be possible for him to stop all night at home, reading a book, and looking at his wife? Oh no! Could you drink brandy and water, and smoke cigars in a parlour? Oh no! Tea and toast at seven, was tame work in comparison with toddy and devilled kidneys at eleven. It was very agreeable, certainly, to see ladies dressed out in smiles and silks; but he had heard or read that husbands might sometimes see them in sulks and slippers. It was more pleasant for Tom to be knight-errant to the fair in general. There could be little romance about a husband, little poetry about a wife, and very little Jollity about a nursery. So thought Tom; but as we shall see, The best laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft a-gley.

CHAPTER II.

In Buenos Ayres, though a town of fully sixty thousand inhabitants, nearly every body of any pretensions knows every other body, either by sight, by report, or nodding acquaintanceship. Society may be divided into English, French, and native, or Spanish. Among the English we comprise the British, Americans, Germans, Danes, and Swedes—in fact, all the Anglo-Saxon family, (without excluding therefrom the Irish,) as they can all speak English, and are somewhat allied in character, pursuits, and political relationship. The French and Italians, again, resemble each other more than they do the above.

The visiting and visitable part of the native community, form a most interesting and agreeable feature in Buenos-Ayrean society. Thanks to civil wars, and to Rosas, the females vastly preponderate in numbers over the males. You may visit five or six families, and meet five or six ladies in each, and not a single gentleman; partly from the reasons we have given above, and partly because to ladies appear exclusively to be allotted the duties of ceremonial reception—husbands and brothers, if there be any, remaining in their studies, or back rooms, even when the sala, or reception room, is crowded with visitors or a small evening party. Oh, how pleasant and agreeable are these Senoras, and Senoritas! how sweetly they help you out with a sentence when you are at a loss! how freely they suggest subjects of conversation! how good-humouredly they smile at your awkward mistakes, and make you fancy that you will soon be a perfect proficient in Spanish—as indeed you soon would be under their tuition; how soon you forget that you have never seen them before! how soon you learn to suck matte, and to pay compliments! and when you are about to leave, and a flower is agreeably presented to you by a smiling Senorita, with an assurance that the house and every thing in it is entirely at your disposal, you bow your way out with a profusion of promises to return, with a rose at your button-hole, a smile on the face, and an elasticity of step that will last half the day. Oh, Tom Thorne! Tom Thorne! how could you resist so many dimpling smiles and sweet compliments? How could you flirt away the forenoons in the circles of beauty, look the language, breathe the gay atmosphere, reflect the glad glances, enjoy the warm enlivening glow of youthful feelings, bask in the sunshine of favour streaming upon you from the eyes of youth, innocence, and beauty, and then cool down your feelings with cigars and brandy?

But we are forgetting our subject. Among each of the great national families we have classed together, there were particular sets and circles, out of which many would seldom or never move, while some would be nearly equally familiar with all: and this mixture of different nations, tinctured with a dash of republicanism, gives a tone of metropolitan urbanity and courtesy to Buenos-Ayrean society, which is very agreeable. All being dependent on their own exertions, there can be little affectation of superiority; and all being occupied through the day, they are the more inclined to relax into the agreeable in the evening: and perhaps there are few places under the sun where there are more or merrier evening reunions than there were in the city of Buenos Ayres before the blasting tyranny of Rosas decimated the natives, made fathers suspicious of sons, brothers spies upon brothers, Frenchmen arm themselves for mutual protection, Englishmen almost afraid of the name, and banished wealth and security from the province.

The sala of Senora Tertulia was brilliantly lighted up and brilliantly filled with youth and beauty; the atmosphere was loaded with rich perfumes from the gay and gaudy festoons that adorned the massy chandeliers, and from the sweet little bouquets that heaved on the bosoms of the fair dancers. Knights of every order of chivalry were strutting through the room. Priests were listening to innocent confessions. Don Juans were whispering sweet compliments into willing ears. Dominoes were playing at cards with Italian Counts. Turks were drinking the firewaters of the Franks at side-tables. Gauchos were there rigged out in all the finery of the Pampas; and every masquerade-shop in the town had been ransacked by those whose wit could not supply, or whose means could not afford new or appropriate costumes. And so there was a fair proportion of clowns, harlequins, starved apothecaries, and Highlanders with cotton drawers. Many old gentlemen with the long ruffles, the broad skirts, powdered wigs, and jockey looking waistcoats of the sixteenth century, were seen bowing, scraping, and taking snuff: in fine, every one either was or ought to have been enjoying himself. The music struck up, and off they went.

A quadrille had just finished. Lords wore handing dames and ladies fair to their seats, which the polite old gentlemen of the sixteenth century vacated for them; that short interregnum was commencing in which young ladies study attitudes and young gentlemen compliments, when a scream of surprise and a loud roar of laughter at one of the doors of entrance attracted the attention of all. There appeared to be a struggle for admission on one part and a dubious attempt at exclusion on the other. The lady of the house hurried to the spot; a card was secretly shown to her; and the cloud of doubt that hung over her brow at the first sight of the strange spectacle before her was exchanged in a moment for the warm sunshine of a kindly welcome. “Walk in, pray—walk in, Mr Bruin,” and a tall slim figure in a strange dress, the front of which was buttoned behind, with a mask on the back of his head, and long hair streaming all over his face so as completely to conceal his features, led into the room a great white bear. The conductor carried a huge high baton, surmounted by a garland of flowers; and the neck of Bruin was attached to the baton by a chain of the same materials. The Bear and his conductor soon became the centre of attraction.

“Now, Mr Brain, show the ladies how you can dance, sir;” and the shaggy hero stumped on his huge hind paws, shook his head and his tail, and dangled his fore flippers, to the admiration of all.

“Now for a waltz, Mr Bruin.”

“Bur wur hough,” growled the bear in guttural accents, very like German.

“Mr Bruin says he must have a partner,” drawled the conductor from the back of his head; and Bruin, clutching the garland of flowers from the top of the pole, stumped round the circle of fair by-standers, with the view apparently of suiting his fancy.

“I presume, Mr Bruin, you are dazzled with such a galaxy of bright star-like eyes,” said a wag.

“Bur wur hur ough,” growled Bruin.

“They remind him of the Aurora Borealis, in the North Seas,” was the interpretation given out from the back of the head.

“I suppose you are a great traveller, Bruin,” demanded another querist.

“Wur bur ough hur.”

“He accompanied Sir John Ross in his polar expeditions,” was the response.

By this time every one enjoyed the humour of the conceit; and when Bruin placed the garland of flowers on the brow of Anita Mendoza, the belle of the ball-room, it was not ungraciously received by the blushing beauty, and raptures of applause approved the selection.

“You show a very fair taste, Mr Bruin,” said the smiling landlady.

“We represent Beauty and the Beast of the nursery tale,” was the meaning of the bur wur of the response.

“Can I offer you any thing to eat or drink?” demanded the landlady.

“Mr Bruin will trouble you for an ice and a young sea unicorn,” replied the transposed conductor.

“I hope you won’t eat any of us, Mr Bruin,” said one of the ring.

“He would rather hug his partner than worry puppies,” was the ready rejoinder.

“When did you meet your great father-in-law, Dr Johnson, ursa major?” asked a would-be wit.

“Mr Bruin desires me to give you a pot of his grease to make your whiskers grow,” said the conductor, handing an elegant little bear’s grease pot out of the pouch that hung by Bruin’s side.

“Give me one! give me one!” shouted a number of ladies at the same time.

“For a hug a-piece,” shouted the bear in propria persona, forgetting his disguise.

“It is Tom Thorne! ’tis Mr Thorne!” shouted out a number of voices; and the bear was soon patted, caressed, and rifled of all the contents of his pouch by the fair triflers, no longer afraid of a hug from bear like Tom Thorne. Amid the fun and merriment created by this incident, a smart explosion was heard, followed by wreaths of aromatic smoke from pastiles ignited by the explosion caused by opening the elegant little grease pot given to the beardless youth. The proprietress of every one of Bruin’s little presents now became a heroine.

Great was the curiosity displayed to know the contents, and great was the glee and satisfaction as curious little devices or bonbons, wrapped up in love-verses, were extracted from the elegant little receptacles; and not till the music struck up, and Bruin led Anita Mendoza as his partner to the head of the country-dance, was the usual routine of the ball room resumed. All pretensions to etiquette had vanished; and good-humour, mirth, and jollity reigned triumphant throughout the evening. Many thought Bruin’s lot not only bearable but even enviable, judging from the easy and smiling reception with which his attentions were welcomed by courtly lady and stately dame. The supper that followed was as merry as the dance; and our hero, divesting himself of his bearish accoutrements, was as much the source of amusement in the supper-room by his jokes as in the ball-room by his tricks. Refreshing himself with copious draughts of champagne, he appeared to find no difficulty whatever in allaying hunger in the absence of young unicorns.

But the merriest night must have a close, and the clearest head will get dizzy under the influence of champagne; and Tom, finding himself unusually excited, and unwilling to detract from the Éclat of his previous debout, slid unperceived out of the room.

CHAPTER III.

About the time our story commences, 1841, Rosas was beginning that system of terrorism, espionage, confiscation, and secret assassination, which has since made his government so notorious abroad and so dreaded at home. The Monte Videans were in his province of Santa FÉ, in the north; and his political opponents, the Unitarians,6 were supposed to be plotting in the capital: but Rosas not a man to stick to the common modes of war. If he could not inspire confidence among friends, he could at least inspire terror among his foes. A club, calling themselves the friends of public security, the sons of liberty, or some such name, but called by others “Masorcheros,” was established, and many enrolled themselves in this murderous body to save themselves. Rosas betook himself to the encampment he called the “sacros Ingares,” holy places; and thence issued secret orders to his myrmidons, to whose fury the town was completely abandoned.

There are few darker pages in the modern annals of South America than the record of the months of October 1841, and April 1842, in the devoted town of Buenos Ayres. Rosas, himself secure amid his savage soldiery, issued his secret death-roll. The chiefs of the Masorcheros, anxious to secure their own safety, rivalled each other in their zeal to capture; and the work of death itself was intrusted to hands whose trade was blood. Without trial7 for offences, without warrants for apprehension, without even a knowledge of danger, houses were openly entered, men massacred, women flogged, and property destroyed; victims were decoyed out, by friends, from theatres and ball-rooms; men were followed in the streets, and stabbed at their own doors; and concerted signals were arranged to tell the police carts, that wandered about the streets at night, where to find out the victims. We shall not give any more harassing details here. There is no doubt that there were more massacres committed than ever were ordered by authority: the machinery of murder, once set agoing, revolved of itself, and knives were sometimes made to settle old quarrels and long accounts; Rosas, when he found things going on too far, easily put a stop to them by disposing of some of the Masorcheros themselves, among others, the chief, who was thus for ever prevented from telling any tales against his master.

Such unheard-of and unexpected scenes suddenly occurring in the midst of a happy, prosperous, and orderly city, were accompanied by strange anomalies. Foreigners could scarcely conceive the existence of a regular organised body of assassins. Natives, not yet schooled into distrust of their best friends, and perhaps not even conscious of guilt, could not, all at once, throw aside their habits of social conviviality. The churches were open for their usual services, the markets still crowded; there was no rioting in the streets, which the police paraded as usual. Ministers and consuls still displayed their flags, and balls and dinners were as numerously attended as ever; and those who had not seen or suffered were unwilling to believe the horrid reports that circulated in secret whispers; and many who knew, or had seen some of the fearful goings-on around them, probably deemed an affectation of ignorance or indifference their best policy. Such was the state of the city until the frequency of outrages forced the natives to keep their houses, take refuge under the roofs of foreigners, smuggle themselves on board merchant vessels or men-of-war, or sneak through the deserted streets like doomed men, shunning the contact of their fellows as if it had been a city of the plague.

It was at the beginning of this reign of terrorism, and the morning after the ball at SeÑora Tertulia’s, that our friend Tom Thorne awoke in a room by no means so snug, airy, or odorous as his own well-appointed bed-chamber in the Calle Derecho. Close beside, him, busily engaged in brushing his clothes with his hands, and alternately muttering maledictions against sanguinary Spaniards, and mumbling over odds and ends of old songs, was a strong-built ruddy-looking gentleman of about twenty-eight or thirty.

“Holla, Griffin!” cried Tom, “where the deuce is this, and how came you here?”

“Faith, Mr Thorne. I came here for much the same reason as you did; and, though not in a very creditable place, I can thank my stars I’m in good company any how.”

“But how came we here, Griffin?”

“Faith, Thorne, except your nerves are very steady—and in virtue of SeÑora Tertulia’s champagne, mine are not—I think it might be as well to defer that same story until you have shaved, or you may run the risk of having some of the cuts in your face which were intended for your throat last night. You see, sir, I left La SeÑora’s about the same time you did. They say the cool air is refreshing, but I never found it so after drinking champagne. Well, as I was stumbling along, I fell over a body, stretched across the pavement. ‘You have taken mighty convenient quarters for a cold night,’ thought I, ‘bad luck to you;’ and, intending to do him a good turn, as I might require it myself soon, I was trying to raise him up, when two men, who were standing in the shadow of a door-way, within a few feet of me, cried, ‘Hist, hist, passa adelante, amigo.’ ‘Come and help me with this poor devil here,’ said I. ‘Pass a-head, friend, if you do not wish the same accommodation,’ said they, throwing the light of a dark lantern suddenly, and only for a moment, on the object of my attention. I required no second bidding, Thorne. The pavement was soft and warm enough for a corpse! My first thought was for a pistol or a stick, but I had neither. I looked at the men,—there they stood as cool and careless as the door-posts, and me fixed and staring at them as if they had been Gog and Magog. ‘Passa adelante,’ growled out one of them, drawing a knife, at the same time. This brought me to my senses, and I passed on—and, mark me, Thorne, as sober as a judge.

“Well, sir, off I started, leaving Gog and Magog to keep their watch at the door-post, when who should I overtake but yourself, walking as proud as a prince and as bold as a lion. We did not walk far, till three men met us, one of whom threw the light of his dark-lantern full into your face, scanning it for a few seconds with more freedom than manners. Although dazzled and stupefied by the light, I saw you grasping your stick, and beginning to break out, when I interposed. ‘Gentlemen,’ said I, in my best Spanish—for it’s always best to be civil—‘Gentlemen,’ said I, ‘we are gentlemen who have lost our way. I’ll give you fifty dollars,8 and thanks to boot, if you please to take us to the police office.’ You appeared inclined to show fight at the mention of the police office, but I passed it off as if you had more money than sense, and promised them fifty from you too; so after a slight struggle we secured you, and here we are, without any solutions of continuity, as surgeons say, except in our raiment.”

“But why did you not tell them to take us to my house?” said Thorne.

“Why, in the first place,” said Griffin, “I have not the honour of knowing where you live; and, by Castor and Pollux! I would not have left you with these ruffians for a world of coppers.”

“But then the disgrace of being lodged in the prison all night!”

“As for that,” said the imperturbable Griffin, “in my opinion the prisons will soon be fuller than the hotels in this city; and wherever you and I condescend to take up our quarters becomes de ipso facto respectable.”

“Well, well, Griffin, it’s no use telling you to keep it quiet, but don’t tell the ladies of it at any rate.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Thorne,—I won’t be such a bear as that. But by the way, Gog and Magog, as I’m a sinner, were standing either at or close by Mendoza’s door: they could not be watching for any of them, could they?”

“Never fear,” said Thorne; “Mendoza is very thick with the Government; at all events he was not at the party, and the ladies are sure to be well convoyed.”

Just as they were talking, a messenger came from the Commissary of Police, to summon them to the presence of the Functionary, into whose dread presence they were immediately ushered.

The Commissary—a stout, healthy-looking man about middle age—sat smoking a cigarito, dressed in a red waistcoat, a braided jacket, and a slouching cap with a broad gilt band; from the button-hole of his jacket was the usual red ribbon with the head of Rosas upon it, and the favourite motto which he has caused to be inscribed on the national colours, and over every proclamation, “Vivan los Federales—mucran los salvages imundos ascherosas Unitarios.”9 He was listening attentively to the information given by a very precise, trim, well-dressed looking youth, if we might call him so, for his dress betokened youth more than his face, which at that moment appeared particularly pale. The conversation, whatever was its nature, appeared to be taken notes of by a clerk, who was sitting near them, and it dropped the moment they entered; whether it was that Thorne, who was the first to enter, had still the sound of Mendoza buzzing in his ears, or that, in the excited state of his nervous system, he was thinking of the frightful scene committed at his doors, certain it is, that on his appearance, Don Felipe Le Brun started and appeared agitated for a moment, and our friend thought he heard the name of Mendoza.

“Sorry to meet you here,” exclaimed Don Felipe, suddenly recovering from his start. “Can I be of any service, sir? If so, command me.”

“I am sorry to meet you here, sir,” said Thorne in German, so as not to be understood by the Commissary, and viewing Le Brun with a keen and inquisitive look—“I am sorry to find that you have such private business in these quarters. Pray, seÑor,” he continued to the magistrate, who appeared on the point of interrupting him, “do not allow me or my friend to disturb your correspondence with Don Felipe Le Brun.”

“My business with you, SeÑor Thorne,” said the magistrate, “is confined to giving you the advice, which you may find of use, to keep more orderly hours, and thus you will save the police the trouble of providing you with night-quarters. I have no complaint against you—you may go.”

Most men living in a community where a magistrate is not only the instrument but the interpreter of the law, and where there is no free press or public opinion to expose the injustice or temper the insolence of power, would have gladly and immediately availed themselves of the magisterial permission to withdraw, with thanks for the leniency extended to them. But Mr Thorne was neither a selfish man nor a timid; and his was not the disposition humbly to accept that as a favour which he did not conceive could be withheld from him as a right. He knew that the most arrogant and imperative of the natives were only so to those who cringed to them as they themselves cringed to their superiors. As a proud and independent man, and a good citizen, he resolved to let the proud official know of the scene witnessed by his friend the preceding night; and he had hopes, by so doing, either to confirm or allay his suspicions of the nature of Bruin’s communication with the Juez de Paz. He therefore answered with a bold front—

“I thank the Senor Juez de Paz for his counsel, and I beg to inform him, that the officers of the police could scarcely be better, and have been much worse employed than in affording protection to those who demanded it on a night like the last.”

The official started up—his eye sparkling, his face suffused with passion. Before he could speak, Mr Thorne pursued—

“Sir, as a respectable citizen of this city, as an accredited consular agent to this government, I think it my duty to report to you, as one of its chief magistrates, that last night a man was found murdered on the pavement in front of Luis Mendoza’s house, and two men standing close beside him; and these men, Signor Juez de Paz, were dressed the same as those who brought us here last night. Probably, Signor Le Brun, this may be the same information you were conveying to his honour.”

Signor Le Brun with great energy protested that it was the first he had heard of the affair.

By this time the juez de paz had recovered his command of temper. He was, in fact, somewhat cowed by the bold and manly bearing of Thorne, who, as an Englishman, and in a kind of official capacity, was, in some respects, beyond his jurisdiction. Moreover, he was aware that Thorne had, in one instance, for some petty grievance, demanded and obtained redress from the “Illustrious Restorer of Laws” in person; and thus, though he felt indignant at being bearded in his own hall—I had almost said hell; he rather considered Thorne as a person whose officious information was to be got rid of than as a culprit to be bullied. He therefore contented himself by saying, “Don Thomas, this is not an affair that comes under my cognisance, or yours; and let me assure you, the less you trouble yourself with the affairs of others the better.”

“But, sir, with respect to the man on the pavement,” commenced Griffin.

“Officers, take the fool away!” roared the magistrate, with his hand on the bell.

But the worthy Radamanthus and his myrmidons were saved the trouble; for Tom Thorne, with a bow to the exasperated official, and a kind of dubious glance at Le Brun, hurried Griffin out of the Sala of Justice without any extraneous assistance.

“By the powers of Moll Kelly and the bean-stalk of Jack the Giant-Killer!” said Griffin, when once they were out of sight and hearing, “but that justice cares no more about the finding of dead men in the street than I would care when I am hungry for a chop from the Brother of the Sun and Moon interdicting pork.”

“Why, of course, he knew all about it before,” said Thorne.

“Then, I should think, you might as well have kept the information to yourself.”

“No,” said Tom; “I thought there could be no harm in letting them see that there might be some suspicions of who did it, if any thing out of the way did happen to old Mendoza.”

“If you have a twinkling of suspicion that that square-shaved sinner in the corner is in your way at all, I’ll let day-light shine through him in the presence of his friends before you call say hair-trigger.”

“Griffin, dine with me to-day, will you, and we will have a scamper into the Camp after.”

“I shall be delighted,” said Griffin.

“Hasta luego, then—at three precisely,” and each took a different route.

“He is a jolly, frank fellow that,” said Thorne to himself. “I wonder what he is!”

“That’s the very man I wanted,” said Griffin. “Faith, I may know every body I care about now, and dine every day of the week for nothing.”

Griffin was one of those genteel adventurers that you find in every large community hanging on to the outskirts of society, who come from nobody knows where, and live nobody knows how; who have no profession except that of an idler, and no occupation except paying off their debts with promises; they never lose a bet; they often, very often, lose one game of billiards or ecarte, but never a rub; they never can remember to carry small change in their pockets; and they never do forget an invitation to dinner. They probably answer some good purpose in society—perhaps, that of teaching flats the sweet lessons of experience, and preparing them for the wiles and stratagems of the world: be this as it may, they fulfil, at least, one maxim of the word of Wisdom, for they neither toil nor spin; and they steadfastly practise the principle, that sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

CHAPTER IV.

A scamper into the Camp of Buenos Ayres is one of the greatest treats that the citizens of that town can enjoy. True, there is nothing to interest you in the scenery, nothing to admire in the goodness of the roads, and nothing to guide you in your journey but trees; still there is an indefinable charm in galloping with a good horse and a lively companion over the boundless green plain. With “the blue above” and “the green below” you rove free and unconfined—the fresh balmy air revivifying the blood which the rapid and easy motion sends thrilling through the whole frame. You feel etherialized. Without bounds to your progress or your prospects, away you go. No trace of art here to mar the simplicity of nature. The Arabs never were and never will be slaves, and now you are the Arabs of the plains—hurrah! hurrah!

Tom Thorne and Richard Griffin appeared to consider themselves as Arabs of the plain, calculating from the rapidity with which they were scampering over the ground, clearing their way through herds of oxen, sheep, and horses, with long whips and loud huzzas.

“Where, in the name of Nimrod, are we tearing to, Thorne?” said Griffin after a pause. “Sure we are out-stripping the wind; for a moment ago it was in our face, and now it is on our back.”

“We are going to Mendoza’s country-house,” said Thorne, “to have some bantering with the ladies after our canter, and to let that awkward scrape of last night blow over, and be laughed at before I go back.—You have never been in the Camp before?” inquired Thorne.

“Never.”

“Then you have a great pleasure before you. A few days in the Camp refreshes one like a month’s sea-bathing. The air is so fresh, and every thing wears such a simple holiday aspect that it almost makes you forget that you are a sinner, and throw off bad habits, rise with the lark, drink milk, marry a wife, and become a patriarch.”

“Well done, Thorne! and so it may yet.”

“Then, you can ride and dance without getting weary, drink without getting seedy, and eat innumerable beef-steaks for breakfast without mustard; nay, you can even relish water without brandy, and sleep without cigars.”

“Love and beef, Thorne, versus cigars and brandy. You alternate between town and country till you resemble a rich rowley-powley pudding, solids and sweets, revolving round and round each other, making a most delicious tout-en-semble.”

While our friends thus talk and canter to the place of their destination, let us take the liberty of introducing ourselves.

The house of Louis Mendoza was situated on a rising ground on the banks of the “River,” of which it commanded a beautiful prospect. There was a large garden attached to it, adorned with all the flowers which the country produced, most of them at that season in the full bloom and vigour of spring. Fruit-trees, both of the northern and southern hemisphere, from the tropic and temperate zones, diffused sweet perfumes from their blossoms; and vines, peaches, and orange trees were already decked with the budding promises of a rich harvest. Summer-houses were there, woven into shape with creepers and ever-greens. Birds of the tropics, in large aviaries, nearly invisible from being formed of green-painted wire, lent the splendour of their plumage to enrich a scene which the songsters of the air delighted to enliven with their music.

Beware of that garden, Tom Thorne, in the evenings when your heart is soft. Ride not with the ladies over that velvet lawn when the flush of the morning’s sun is reflected from their lovely faces, Tom Thorne. You are lost to the bachelor world for ever, Tom, if you be seduced to wander through these lovely woods with the ringlets of Anita Mendoza playing round your manly shoulder; and as for the summer-houses, if ever you enter them let it be with a book or a cigar only; mind that, Tom, mind that. Anita Mendoza might be sixteen or seventeen, Mariquita eighteen or nineteen; both were beautiful, and possessed of all the graces and accomplishments of the country. The contour of the features, of Mariquita might be more regularly beautiful than that of Anita. She was more of a blonde, too; her eye was beautiful and bright, her figure graceful and elegant, but still it would strike you that you had seen others as fair and graceful. She was a beauty; of that there was no doubt, but a beauty too much resembling the style of her sister, to bear a favourable contrast with her, and yet not sufficiently distinct to establish a separate and independent claim. But how shall we describe Anita Mendoza? She was the mistress of grace and elegance, for they followed her every step and attended her every movement; you were a slave at her mercy the moment you saw that dark black liquid eye, whether it beamed in kindness, flashed in raillery, melted in sympathy, or sparkled with delight from under its long dark dangerous eyelashes. To be in the presence of Anita Mendoza was to be in an enchanted circle. When that eye was upon you, your own identity was lost; your soul was lit up by the beams that flashed from that magic eye, and rays of love or envy, mirth or folly, were reflected back to the source from which they sprang. Let none despise the theory of animal magnetism; beside Anita Mendoza, your heart throbbed, your pulse played, and your soul thought in unison with hers. Such were your feelings when under the influence of the syren, but only then; for well you knew that that eye flashed or melted, and that smile played and that lip pouted, as brightly and pertly, for others, one and all, as for your own dear envious self. Beside her, she was your queen and empress; away, she was a little minx, a sweet little flirt. To sum up, in dancing she was a fairy, in singing a cherub, and far or near an enchanting, bewitching creature.

Luis Mendoza, the father of these ladies, was a rare old Spaniard. He had travelled a good deal in Europe, especially in England, where he had acquired not only some knowledge of the language but also a predilection for its convivial habits; and brandy and water had more charms for him in a cool evening, than matte or eau sucrÉe. He had early lost his helpmate, and, freed from this check on his convivial habits, it required little encouragement on his part to keep his house constantly full of bon vivants to assist him at the duties of the table, and gallants to amuse his daughters in the sala; and more of his gallants and bon vivants were to be found among the Anglo-Saxons than among the natives. Thus were Mariquita and Anita Mendoza accustomed from their earliest years to the language of adulation; and from having the duties of a household thus early thrust upon each, there was less of maidenly reserve, a little more of maidenly coquetry, with a dash more of masculine character, than in other circumstances would have been becoming at such tender years.

These ladies were seated alone in an elegantly fitted up sala, the elder busy with her needle at some fancy work, and the other idly and listlessly hurrying her soft white little dimpled fingers over the keys of a rich-toned piano—to a well-known air in South America, the words of which imply that the singer never, never, never will get married—

“Well, Mariquita,” said the young lady, throwing aside the music, “I admire the patience you can bestow upon that endless sampler, when you must feel as tired and exhausted as I am.”

“Of course, Anita, after that ball, sampler work is rather tame and tedious; but what shall we do?”

“I am afraid we shall have nobody out here to-day,” said Anita, with a kind of suppressed yawn.

“I see how it is, Anita; you are wearying already for even a languid compliment to those flashing eyes of yours.”

“Depend upon it, Mariquita, that my eyes could stand no comparison to your lips with any man of taste.”

“How did you relish Bruin’s hugs last night?” retorted the elder.

“Oh, the dear Bruin! I could not forbear hugging him now in return, were he here to enliven us. And gracias a Dios, here he is!”

Scarcely were the words uttered, when the portly person and beaming face of Tom Thorne stood before them.

“Welcome, welcome! Mr Thorne,” said Mariquita. “Anita has just been stating that Mr Bruin’s attentions last night were so very pressing that she considers herself indebted to him a hug in return.”

“Miss Anita shall find Mr Bruin a very pressing creditor for the liquidation of that debt,” said our hero, advancing towards her; and in the full playfulness of their character, both girls seized the gratified bachelor by the hands as if he had been an overgrown playmate. At this moment Mr Griffin presented himself, and the ladies hastily, but without agitation, assumed the attitude of polite and attentive hostesses.

“Permit me, ladies,” said Thorne, “to introduce my friend Mr Griffin, who I have no doubt regrets not being yet entitled to the warm and frank reception extended to old friends in the Camp of Buenos Ayres.”

“We are happy to see you in the Camp, Mr Griffin,” replied the elder sister with great courtesy. “We have been longing for some company all day, and consider ourselves very fortunate in being favoured with a visit from Mr Thorne, and any friend of his.”

“I consider myself fortunate in being introduced to you by Mr Thorne at a time when our company promises to be agreeable to you.”

“I hope you are accustomed to our long, and rather fatiguing rides in the Camp.”

“I assure you, I am amply repaid already, miss, for the fatigue we have undergone, by the beauty and richness of every thing I see near and around me,” said Griffin giving a kind of circuitous bow.

“As you are accustomed to the beauty and freshness of the scenery,” said Mariquita with an arch smile, “may I offer you a glass of your favourite champagne, Mr Thorne?”

“You are very kind, SeÑorita, to be so attentive to my favourite tastes. A glass of champagne will be very refreshing after the ride.”

“Or shall it be your favourite brandy and water?” edged in the little wicked Anita, with a twinkle in the eye which took away every vestige of satire that the question might otherwise have implied when addressed to our hero.

“The brandy and water will be fully as good, Miss Anita,” replied Tom, “if you would brisk it up with a few sparkles from these eyes of yours.”

“A truce to such bubbles of fancy,” said Mariquita. “Which shall it be, gentlemen?”

“Mr Thorne or I could be happy with either,” said Griffin; “but pray let it be champagne, and then we may hope that you will partake.”

“Bravo, bravo, Griffin! champagne be it.”

“Pray, ladies, is not the ‘Patron’ here?”

“Oh yes!” replied Anita, “but he is not likely to be back till late; he is taking a ride over the chacra with SeÑor Le Brun.”

An involuntary start escaped Thorne at the mention of that name.

“What ails you, Mr Thorne?” cried Anita.

“Nothing, Anita—nothing. Why, I have had the pleasure of meeting him this morning already. But I see we have interrupted your amusements at the piano, which I trust will be renewed after our refreshment.”

That start was not lost upon Anita, though she affected not to notice it.

Refreshments, music, and gay conversation passed off the time most pleasantly, until the arrival of Luis Mendoza and his companion.

And now let us leave the merry party to enjoy themselves, and sally out to introduce ourselves to the old gentleman and his companion.

Felipe Le Brun was a Creole, of about six or eight-and-twenty: his father a Jerseyman, his mother a native of Buenos Ayres. He was what may be called a respectable merchant broker, who bought and sold for others as well as for himself. His knowledge of most European languages, his activity, intelligence, and business habits were great advantages to him as a broker, and as such he was extensively employed. Luis Mendoza was in every respect a different character from Le Brun: the one social to a fault, the other temperate to a degree. Frankness, honesty, stout good-heartedness, and aversion to business, were the characteristics of Mendoza. Le Brun was one of the new-school men of business—sharp, acute, and active. Mendoza was an extensive landed proprietor, and Le Brun was the agent through whom all his sales of produce were effected. It was under Le Brun’s guidance that Mendoza entered into those investments in which he delighted to believe that he was growing rich; and so he was, too, as long as Le Brun’s speculations were successful also. A more acute and careful man of business might perhaps have had some doubts as to whether or not Le Brun was not trading on Mendoza’s capital. This, however, was enough to satisfy the old gentleman, that, whenever his accounts were presented to him, they were always very flattering, especially in the perspective, and that when he wanted money, he could have it to any amount from Le Brun, who was thus in a manner both his agent and his banker: and why should he not be? since it was all but arranged that he should be his son-in-law. Le Brun had long paid court to Anita Mendoza; and a more accomplished suitor there was not to be found within the range of the city. Polite, attentive, and gallant—scrupulously neat in attire—a perfect master of all the petits soins of the drawing-room—and expert in all elegant triflings permissible in the laisser aller of the sala, Don Felipe Le Brun would have been a formidable rival against any worshipper of kid or eau de Cologne, that ever smirked and simpered over a Brussels carpet, and whose accomplishments were confined to carving a merry-thought, sighing on a flute, or tenderly composing a sonnet to the shadow or the shoe-tie of his lady-love. Add to all these accomplishments the recommendation of a father,10 and none need be surprised that he was a favoured suitor of Anita Mendoza.

Such was Don Felipe Le Brun. We have given every characteristic except that of honesty of principle; and yet there could not have been more upright, honourable principles than those with which Le Brun first commenced and flourished in business. He had every requisite, and all the knowledge necessary for business on the largest and most extensive scale, and every accomplishment that could adorn the active, and solace the retired life of a gentleman. And in such uprightness of conduct Le Brun might, and most probably would, have continued under any ordinary circumstances. But, alas! his very accomplishments proved his ruin. He lived under one of the most suspicious, inquisitive, corrupt, and tyrannical governments that ever existed. The suspicious tyranny of Buenos Ayres extended even into the private and domestic relationship of life; and to effect this, spies of every grade and quality were employed. Now Le Brun, being of foreign extraction, and yet a native born and bred, moving in good society, being a respectable merchant, and in a line of business that brought him in daily contact with every moneyed man in the city, and even made him more or less acquainted with their means, resources, and transactions, was in every way suited to be an admirable agent of Rosas; and it was determined that he should be so, cost what it might in time, money, and political influence. And well the secret agents of Rosas knew how to lure the ambitious, tempt the effeminate, force the timid, bribe the sordid, and flatter the vain.

Slow and insidious were the approaches made to undermine the honour of Le Brun. No difficulty was ever experienced by him in shipping gold or silver without permits. A passport for a friend in trouble was always at his command; his goods were the first to pass through the custom-house, and the first intelligence that could affect paper currency and exchange was always communicated to Le Brun. Such were some of the substantial proofs of favour, and still more numerous were the polite attentions showered on the intended agent of tyranny.

Now, when an individual finds himself thus highly favoured, without any exertion used, or any return required on his part, he becomes naturally disinclined to believe any reports to the prejudice of those who treat him so well; and disposed to attribute the blame more to the complainant than the party complained of; or, wrapping himself up in his own selfishness and self-security, to go upon the maxim of “praising the ford as he finds it.” So it was with Le Brun: from being a passive supporter of Rosas, he was led on to be his justifier. He had so often been indebted to the good services of government officials, that he considered himself indebted to them personally, and then politically—and then—facilis descensus—poor Le Brun!

Luis Mendoza had long been an object of avaricious suspicion to the government. He was rich, fond of foreigners—intelligent. All these were crimes; and it was known that he held correspondence with the friends of the enemy, if not with Rivera himself. Be this as it may, he was no partisan of the government; and the maxim of Rosas is, “those that are not for me are against me.” Mendoza was a marked man, and Le Brun was set to mark him; and, observe this, others marked Le Brun. Oh, how he now loathed his position! the suitor of his intended victim’s daughter—the friend, the private friend, of the very man whose every motion he was to watch and report—to betray the friend who reposed in him implicit trust. Can the ingenuity of tyranny go further than this? Le Brun knew well that Mendoza had held correspondence with the Unitarian party, who were opposed to Rosas, but this he never reported. He knew well that Mendoza hated the tyranny and policy of the Federals, and that the Unitarians expected to find in him a rich and influential supporter, if ever their party predominated; and this he did report, because he knew full well the government were aware of it. Thus did Le Brun seek a middle course, until he almost began to fancy that he was suspected himself; and thus, thoroughly disgusted with his position, he determined at last to free himself from his ignominious espionage, give Mendoza warning of his perilous situation, and, when every thing was arranged for his escape from the country, he would then take the credit for giving information, when it would be too late. Thus he would gain time to arrange his own complicated affairs, seek out Mendoza in his exile, and fulfil his dearest hopes by marrying Anita Mendoza.

Such was the scheme which Le Brun had formed to extricate himself from the troubled waters in which he perceived himself beginning to founder; and in this scheme he would no doubt have succeeded, had not the accidental incarceration of our honest friend Tom Thorne, and the bold freedom of his speech before the magistrate, forced him to commence his scheme at once and prematurely, if he wished to avoid the suspicion of friends whom he wished to save, or employers whom he wished to deceive. And with this view, the moment he was free from the presence of the juez de paz, he flew to the chacra of Mendoza.

“And how came you to know of the body that was found opposite my door?” said Mendoza to Le Brun, as they were riding together.

“Why, sir, Mr Thorne with a friend encountered it on coming from a party in the evening. They encountered some of—of the ‘Masorcheros,’” said Le Brun, (looking all round him, and whispering the phrase;) “and taking fright, I suppose, they requested to be taken to the police office for security; and before the magistrate he told what he had seen.”

“And how happened you to be there?” urged Mendoza.

“Sir,” replied the other, mingling truth and falsehood with great tact, “I had heard, nay knew, that the government were suspicious of you: the number of massacres the preceding night alarmed me for your safety. Making an excuse of a criminal complaint against a servant, I repaired to the juez de paz, to find out, if possible, upon what grounds their suspicious were founded. Thus we were engaged when Thorne entered. Whether he heard your name mentioned I know not, but Mr Thorne, sir, is suspicious of me. Yes, sir, I verily believe that Mr Thorne, in his jealousy—yes, it must be jealousy of my favour in the eyes of your daughter, that makes Thorne suspect me. Good God! Mendoza, to what have I fallen when I should be suspected by an idle, champagne-swilling babbler, of betraying the man to whom I am so much indebted, who, I may say, has made me what I am, and who has it in his power to make me happy or miserable for life. Oh, sir, sir! what a wretched country this is, when one learns to distrust even their best friends.”

“Come, come, Le Brun, not so bad as that yet. But, Don Felipe, have I not often told you that you were in too high favour with these hypocritical cut-throat miscreants in office?”

“And if I have found favour, which I never sought for, have not you reaped the benefit more than me? What have I to fear from them? I, who am supposed to be of their party, rat them! Should your skins have passed the custom-house? Could Mendoza’s gold in Mendoza’s name have been shipped to invest abroad? Could Mendoza, the Unitarian, have procured passports for the Unitarian brothers or compadres? And now, sir, at this very moment I am seeking to do for you what you have often asked me to do for others. That remark of yours, Mendoza, has nearly driven me distracted.”

“Don Felipe, forgive me! we are too much bound up together for me to suspect you now. Have you not the promise of my daughter’s hand? have you not the command of all my means? I believe, I know that I am an object of suspicion. I know that, at the present time, the miscreants stand at no obstacles; that my money would be instruments to strengthen their hands. I know you have saved my friends, and I believe you are anxious to save me. Forgive me for expressing my sentiments of horror against those who render it necessary that honest men and quiet citizens should seek of security at the hands of others.”

“Ay, sir, and these others not only thereby risk their own safety, but may be branded as traitors for so doing.”

“So, Don Felipe, you think that body on my pavement was a warning for me?”

“No, Don Luis, it was not intended as a warning for you, but you are intended for the same fate.”

“You can have no proof of that, Don Felipe.”

“No, Don Luis, I have no proof of that; but those who ordered such deeds only to inspire terror, will not scruple at higher victims for greater advantages. Thorne’s bold accusation, I may call it of indifference or neglect on the part of the magistrate, and the way your name was alluded to, will protect you from open attack. The prison will be your first doom—I shudder to think of what may follow. Thorne is a brave fellow, but he was mad to brave them as he did. There is not a Masorchero in the city who does not thirst for his blood. Thorne knows this and defies them. I hate him for his suspicions, but yet, Mendoza, I admire him—with a hundred men like him, this city would not now be a nest of cut-throats. Yes,” continued Le Brun, who felt pungently the whole truth of what he said, “their spies would be ashamed to show their degraded heads, Masorcheros afraid, ay, afraid to execute the hated commissions intrusted to them, and an end put to the whole brutal cowardly system, which none can more detest and deplore than I do. But to business. To-morrow morning you must come to town; to avoid suspicion, let there be a small party at the house in the evening. I return to town to-night I shall busy myself to-night and to-morrow in having every penny of your capital and debts secured, transferred, or in some way rendered intangible to your persecutors, and recoverable in better times to yourself. Stop, stop—don’t interrupt me. As soon as possible I will arrange my own affairs, and then, my dear sir, I shall bid adieu to this city, which is now doomed, and join you in your exile, there to claim the reward of all my exertions in the hand of Anita. Shall it not be so?—yes or no!—time is precious, time flies?”

“It shall, Le Brun—my hand upon it. Arrange my affairs as best you may, I rely upon you for every thing.”

“Now, then, let us proceed to the house, and talk slowly over the details.”

The gay inmates of the house were disturbed in the midst of their mirth and music by the entrance of a servant, announcing that her father desired to speak to SeÑorita Anita.

“Daughter,” said Luis Mendoza, as she entered his presence with a smiling face, and a courteous bow to Le Brun; “my dearest daughter, I am sorry to be the bearer of intelligence which will throw a shade of gloom over your happy face. Are you prepared to hear of sad truths and dismal forebodings?”

“Yes, dearest father, I am prepared. We are now surrounded by our best friends, keep me no longer in dark suspense—I am prepared to hear every misfortune which I may share with you.”

“The cloud of misfortune,” interrupted Le Brun, “now hovering over our heads, Anita, will, I predict, only prove a summer thunder-storm, which may sweep every thing exposed and unprotected before it, during its first burst, but pass harmless by those who have watched its coming and prepared for its approach.”

“Daughter—I have long been suspected by the government of disaffection to their cause; they are now hard pressed, and no means which terror, tyranny, avarice, or suspicion can suggest, are left untried to support their failing cause, and crush that of their rivals; and now they seek my life and fortune.”

“Merciful heaven! And what harm, have you done the government, that they should single you out for a victim?”

“The question,” said Le Brun, “is not what harm your father has done; he is guiltless of any active opposition to the government, but much may be effected for their cause by confiscation of his property, much terror may be struck into dubious adherents by—by disposing of his person. Dearest Anita, I do not wish to terrify you unnecessarily. Pray lean on your father’s arm, love; you look pale and exhausted.”

“Alas! alas! this old arm, Anita, will soon be no longer able to shelter and support the dear girls who now cling to it for protection. Midnight assassins prowl round the city for victims. Emboldened by impunity, higher prey will be fixed upon, and then—”

“No, no, father, you shall never suffer. I will seek the tyrant’s den myself, throw myself on my knees before him, and implore him by his hopes of salvation, by the memory of the departed wife of his bosom. I will take his own daughter with me, to join our united prayers for mercy on the innocent head of a gray-haired father. We will give him your money, father, let him have your lands, and houses; we, have many friends in other parts, we will rid him of our presence; Mariquita, you, and I, father, will seek some other country, and save him from the crime of dishonouring gray hairs. No, father, he shall not, dare not touch you.”

“My noble girl,” said Le Brun, with a feeling of self-reproach at an instance of energy and decision so superior to his own, “I admire your heroic resolution; I pay honour to the purity and elevation of your sentiment; but let me, who unfortunately know too much of their villany, assure you that the tears and prayers of youth, innocence, and beauty, would draw down the scoffs of a brutal soldiery, and would have no other effect on their master than to set his quick wits at work how to deceive you, and hold you forth as a bait, yes, as a bribe, to reward the treachery of a foe, or retain the services of an ally.”

“Alas! that is too true, my dearest child—let me perish sooner than risk the honour of my children. Felipe Le Brun, Anita, is I believe the only man who can save us. He has influence with the government, all my floating capital is in his hands: I have long known, and placed confidence in him: it is he who has informed us of our present danger, and is prepared to assist us out of it. He has long loved you, Anita, and I believe he is not indifferent to you. I have this day promised him your hand in marriage, and given him the right as my intended son-in-law, and the heir of half my fortune, to secure what of my property he can on such short notice. Have I not done right, my love?”

“Stop, father! stop!” cried Anita, labouring under the utmost agitation, “we have other friends as well as SeÑor Le Brun, and God knows we will need them all. What if the man who disregards the petitions of innocence for mercy, and despises the rights of property and laws of justice, with respect to the old and harmless, should as suddenly turn round on the young and active, should he become afraid of its power, or jealous of its exercise? Mr Thorne, who is bold, generous, and a foreigner, is here in the next room, let us ask his advice and assistance. What say you, SeÑor Le Brun?”

“Certainly, let Mr Thorne be called in for advice, if SeÑor Mendoza has no objections.”

“I do object, my dear child. Mr Thorne has been the cause—unwittingly, I allow, but still he has been the cause—of hurrying on our fate. He has already,” said the old man, echoing the sentiments of Le Brun, “rendered himself obnoxious to the whole body of Masorcheros. None, my dear child, can save our property if it be not Le Brun: if the government be resolved to push things to extremities, Le Brun is the man whom I would trust.”

“Anita,” said Le Brun, earnestly laying her hand in his, “cheer up, my brave girl—better days await us all yet. I flatter myself that I have influence with the government—how acquired it boots not now to state: that influence shall be exerted to the utmost to secure you father’s interests and safety. This is a strange time, Anita, to talk of love; often—often have I longed for a more favourable opportunity. I seek not to urge my suit by my power to save your father’s life—I protest against thus bargaining for your priceless affections. I am struggling to merit your love, not to buy it. When your father’s life and property are secured, I shall be in misery till I join you in your exile, and lay my fate and fortune at your feet. Say, dearest, shall we then forget all our past misfortunes, and seek for future happiness in the society of each other?”

“Say yes, my child—give him your promise.”

“When my father’s life is saved by YOU, I will,” and she sunk exhausted in her father’s arms.

“Adieu, then, dearest. Adieu, Mendoza, for the present—hasta manana. I now hurry to town to arrange your affairs as I best may.” And Don Felipe Le Brun withdrew, a happier man than he had long been, ay and a better.

It may well be conceived that the evening, which on this occasion might have passed off in a lively manner, was dull in the extreme. Every one felt embarrassed: they soon retired, and next morning they all found their way back to the city.

CHAPTER V.

On the evening succeeding to the day at the chacra, a small evening party—or tertulia, as it is called—was held at the town residence of Luis Mendoza. Our friends Thorne and Griffin were there, two midshipmen belonging to an English man-of-war lying in the roads, with such a sprinkling of young ladies and gentlemen as could be called on such a short notice. Mendoza and Le Brun were closeted hard at work by themselves in an adjoining room. The daughters of the former strove to keep up an appearance of gaiety which they could not feel; even Thorne himself was more silent than was his wont, and it seemed as if the gloomy prospect of the times had its effect in diffusing a shade of sadness over the countenances of those who had met to be gay.

The midshipmen were the only parties who appeared really to enjoy themselves. They feared their first-lieutenant more than Rosas, and him they had left on board: they had come on shore in quest of amusement, and like birds free from the cage, they fluttered about in the full hey-day of enjoyment. Happy themselves, they conceived all around them to be the same, and at last diffused a little of their light-heartedness to others.

“Come, Mr Thorne, we have had plenty of singing and music,” said Anita Mendoza, forcing herself to exertion: “I make you the ‘bastonero.’ What say you to dancing now?”

“A fair challenge! Gentlemen, choose your partners for a quadrille. Miss Anita, will you favour me with your hand. Gentlemen, please hand round refreshments to the ladies to give them a little life before we begin. Griffin, the pleasure of a glass of champagne with you. Here, my young captains, you come and wet your mustaches. Vive la bagatelle. Now, then, gentlemen.” Thus rattled on Tom Thorne, seeking to rouse up the flagging spirits of the company; but he himself had seldom been in worse spirits—he scarce knew how.

“I have strange forebodings this night,” said Mr Thorne to Anita Mendoza, as he stood beside her during an interval in the dance. “I see both you and your sisters are dull, too; your father and Le Brun are as busy as if this were to be the last night of their existence. Anita, I suspect that man—I wish to God your father would trust some foreigner—one native is not better than another, that is, not more secure.”

“Por dios, tell me, Mr Thorne, what do you suspect in Mr Le Brun? Tell me at once; tell me without reserve—it may not be too late yet?”

“I suspect him of being more intimate with the authorities than an honest man can be.”

“He allows he has influence with them, Mr Thorne; my father has the utmost confidence in him—their interests are bound up together; may he not honestly exert what influence he has for my father’s safety?”

“How can he have influence with them except he lends himself to their schemes and plots? Even were he honest in his intentions to secure Mendoza’s interests—and God forbid that he be not!—who can say that his influence will outweigh the value of Mendoza’s doubloons and lands?”

“Mr Thorne,” said Anita, during another interval in the dance, “I know that SeÑor Le Brun will now use every effort in his power to secure my father and his interests. Have you—I beg you—I beg you most earnestly to answer me distinctly and at once, for we have not one moment to spare—have you any positive knowledge of Le Brun’s acting a dishonourable part, of his being a spy in fact?”

“I have not.”

“Is he suspected of being so in the town?”

“As far as I know, he is not.”

“What are your reasons for suspecting him in respect to my father?”

“I met him in close and secret communication with the notorious ——.”

“My dear Mr Thorne, excuse me, I have heard all that explained by my father. His confidence must go further with me than the suspicion of another, even if that other be——Oh, Mr Thorne, you can scarcely fancy how much I am relieved, how much I am indebted to you for your frankness; but I must trust Le Brun. And now, as the dance is finished—which, by the way,” said she with a smile, “you appear to have forgotten—I shall feel obliged to you for a glass of wine, for indeed I feel very faint.”

In spite of every exertion of our hero, the small party went off very stiffly, and at an early hour the whole company had disappeared except the two midshipmen, Thorne, and Griffin; when Mendoza and Le Brun entered the sala with the air of men who had just escaped from a long, troublesome, and anxious job, and who rub their hands with delight at having finished it.

“Come, Le Brun,” said Mendoza, “after our long sederunt, let us have a glass of the best the girls can give us. Ha! Thorne, how are you? wherever you are there is sure to be champagne—so champagne be it.” But Le Brun declined, and bidding an affectionate adieu to the ladies, and making a formal bow to Thorne, he withdrew.

“Hang me if I like that man!” said Thorne.

“I never knew a man who flinched from his liquor stand by his friend; and I shall make a point of telling him so,” said Griffin, following up Thomas’s resentment.

“That may be the case in Ireland, friend, but cannot apply here,” said Mendoza. “But come, we can finish a bottle of champagne without any assistance. I leave you to-morrow, Thorne,” he said in a whisper: “the blood-hounds are on the qui vive, but you will see me double them.”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when a rap was heard at the door. A servant entered pale and trembling, to inform his master that two of the “friends of liberty” were at the door, and wished to speak to the Patron.

Had a thunderbolt fallen at their feet, the whole party could not have stood more aghast. Of the object of their visit at twelve o’clock at night, there could be no mistake. The ladies threw themselves upon their father and wept aloud; protesting with tears and sobs that they should never tear him from them. “Thorne, Griffin, young gentlemen, you will defend my father, will you not? They shall tear us in pieces before they separate us,” sobbed Anita, franticly. The midshipmen, in their enthusiasm, drew their swords. Thorne produced two small pistols from a great-coat pocket; but Griffin,—he was the most collected of the whole.

“Be cool, ladies; I will save your father. Thorne, give me your pistols. Servant, go to the door—say Mr Mendoza will be there in a moment—say he is putting on his cloak. Now, Mendoza, be a man—no time for acting the father or crying now. Ladies, one of you get me your father’s cloak and hat. Now, Mendoza, are you listening to me?”

“I am.”

“Well, then, come to the door with me—ask the gentlemen very politely what they want; of course they will invite you to accompany them to prison or somewhere or other—answer without hesitation you will be with them in one moment. This you will do with your cloak and hat on: give me then your cloak and hat—bid them advance;—I follow, with your cloak and hat on, as Don Luis Mendoza, and damn all consequences—pistols versus knives,—hurrah!”

“But, sir,” commenced Mendoza.

“Not a word, sir, I have no family, and I would die to serve an honest man or bonny lassie: and, Thorne, you look after the ladies—never mind me, I have two pistols for their two knives.”

The thing was arranged as quickly as this has been told. And away went Griffin followed by the “friends of liberty.”

“Now, Mendoza, you must out at once,—it’s all Le Brun’s doings,—cut for your life,—cut,” said Thorne, “and run for my house. Ladies, this is no safe place for you—excuse me, will you honour my house. There is no time for ceremony, rather on with your cloaks. Young gentlemen, you’re escort—servant, your master’s pistols—Now then, ladies, are you ready?—Anita, my arm—friend, give Mariquita yours—you for the look-out, now heave a-head.” “Patricio,” cried Anita, “secure my father’s papers, and then look out for yourselves.” And the whole house was clear in less than ten minutes from the first rap at the door.

Mr Thorne and his interesting convoy arrived safe at the Calle Derecho without any interruption; but great was their dismay as time passed on and no Mendoza made his appearance. Early next morning Thorne was on foot to make his inquiries, but not a word could he hear of his whereabouts. The only consolation he could hold out to his fair and trembling guests was the probability that he might be concealed in some friend’s house, or might find his way on board of some vessel. “But cheer up, ladies, you at least are safe, both from Rosas and Le Brun; and what a comfort that would be to your old father if he knew it! Ladies, you are the mistresses of the house. I must send for a female servant to attend you, and you may send for some lady friend to keep you in countenance, if you can find one, or think it proper.—You will see the propriety of not moving out of doors for a few days. The only restriction I impose upon both of you is, that you never drive me away from your presence by even whispering a word about thanks. And now, ladies, excuse me—I am going to sally out on another voyage of inquiry,” and, before a word could be said in reply, he hurried from the room.

After running about till he was almost exhausted, Thorne repaired to the Sala de los Estrangeros residentes, or club-room of resident foreigners, for a little refreshment; and scarcely had he entered when Le Brun stood before him, pale, breathless, and wo-begone.

“Le Brun,” cried Thorne, “you are a spy, a traitor;—you are worse than I even conceived you to be. Leave me—fly this moment, or you meet your deserts from my hands and in this very place.”

“Thorne,” cried Le Brun with the most abject air, “I am the most miserable man in existence. I swear to you, by every thing that binds man to man, I was not the cause of Mendoza’s capture last night;—my life, sir, is in more peril than his. At this moment the emissaries of the police are at my heels, and ere sunset, I shall be in prison,—ere sunrise probably a corpse;—where is Mendoza?”

“He is not in prison?” demanded Thorne.

“No, no—he is not.”

“Then thank God he is in safer hands than yours or your friends,—he is safe. Confess, Le Brun, that you seek him to save yourself?”

“He is safe, you say;—did you say he was safe?”

“I did,” said Thorne, who had no idea of Mendoza running any risk, except that of his falling into the hands of Rosas. “But begone, sir. I see your object;—you would now sell his life to save your own little miserable existence.”

“Mr Thorne,” said Le Brun, “I am too abject now to resent insults or injuries. Thanks be to Heaven! Mendoza is now safe;—my course is now clear. I can prove to you now that, however base you may think me, I have his interest at heart.”

“Yes, after your own weak truckling schemes have failed. Go on, sir.”

“Thorne, my steps were tracked out to Mendoza’s chacra; my steps were watched to Mendoza’s house last night, he was seized, but, Thorne, not by my information—no, thank God! not by mine. After this confession, I ask you if I am not more to be pitied than despised. I may be upbraided as a spy and traitor, but I have always struggled to befriend Mendoza.”

“And why, Le Brun, are you so anxious to know of Mendoza?”

“If I find him not by sunset, I myself suffer the punishment intended for him.”

“I foresaw that, wretch.”

“Press me not too hard, Thorne; I thank Heaven that I alone shall be the victim; and yet, how I shudder at the thought, with all my sins upon me—no, I cannot bear to dream of it. Save me, Thorne!—save me! save me! I throw myself on my knees before you. I never wronged you—I have admired your firmness when I have cursed my own weakness. Save me! save me!”

“Confess, then, did you not mean to sell Mendoza to save yourself?”

“I know not my own motives, Thorne. I am entirely unmanned—ask me not to what lengths despair might have driven a guilty man. Believe me, I laboured anxiously and keenly for his safety to the neglect and danger of my own; for then my thoughts were ennobled by my aspirations for his daughter. I am too mean and degraded now to dream of matching myself with such purity; and I have sunk into mean grovelling selfishness. Thank God! he has escaped. I would not—no, it is impossible I could have betrayed Mendoza, the father of Anita, to have saved my own worthless self. The first sight of that old man’s honest self must have driven such demon thoughts from my mind. I sought Mendoza, Thorne, to give him these papers. Nay, do not frown so upon me: they are papers signed by himself last night disposing of the half of his property to me in the anticipation of my being his son-in-law; if he escapes his property may be disembargoed—mine never can be. Some papers of my own are there too; some of these claims of mine, Thorne, will be recoverable. I have not a relative in the world; pray give them when—oh, I shudder to think of it—give them to the family of Mendoza, give them to Anita.”

“Silence, wretched pettifogger! think not that Anita Mendoza can ever stoop to accept the wages of treachery. I may, I will try to save your own mean life. Sit down there, take advantage of the short time yet spared you to arrange your affairs. I am off to see what may be done to save you from Rosas, whom I despise more than I pity you!” and he rushed out of the room before the trembling Le Brun could thank him for his offered assistance.

Thorne was the creature of impulse. Possessed of a generous heart and warm temperament, he often conferred favours at the same time that he showered reproaches. He had known Le Brun as a respected and honoured member of society: he had never liked him—he was too prim, sober, and methodical, for his errant and jovial disposition. Le Brun’s steady, plodding business habits Tom Thorne had sometimes considered a kind of reproach to his own careless, hap-hazard way of conducting his affairs; and though he had never made regular approaches to gain the favour of Anita Mendoza, his vanity was offended to see the advances that the quiet, easy, insinuating address of Le Brun made, in gaining the affections of the only woman who ever interested him. For all these reasons he had ever disliked Le Brun, and now he despised him: but still, however dangerous it might be, he resolved, if possible, to save him; and while in this state of mind he fell in with the captain of an English man-of-war. It was usual for the English and French vessels-of-war in those dismal times to receive all fugitives who claimed their protection; and the Frenchmen even went so far as to walk through the streets in armed bodies, and receive among their number those whom persecution induced to claim their assistance. Thorne had little difficulty in persuading the captain to lend his assistance in carrying off an intended victim. His vessel was to sail that evening; many of his boats were on shore; and it was arranged that at four o’clock, when they were ready to start, a number of the seamen should find their way to the Sala by different routes; and as the Sala was not far from the beach, they anticipated no difficulty in carrying off Le Brun.

This being arranged, Thorne hurried to inform and prepare the fugitive. Le Brun was still there, and another was there also, heaping every term of opprobrium that could be fancied on that hapless and miserable individual.

“You scum of the sea, you! Will nothing I can say to you persuade you to be a gentleman? By the powers of Moll Kelly! I’ll bring in the marker to dust your hair with chalk powder—the only powder you know any thing about, you black-faced sheep! Faith! a sheep is innocent, and a ram will stand to its own defence: so the only resemblance you have to a sheep is the chance you have of——”

“Hallo there, Griffin!” cried Thorne, “don’t abuse Le Brun now: our friends with the lanterns are after him, and here we come to the rescue. Le Brun, there is not one moment to spare. English seamen are now at the door—they will take you safe to their ship in spite of the friends who are dodging you outside—and so good-bye. God forgive you!”

“Oh, Thorne, how can I?”

“Come, come, no blarney!” cried Griffin interrupting Le Brun. “By St Patrick, if he go, I go too—this place has become too hot for me—Thorne, I did not know the poor devil was in such trouble. There is my address, Thorne, please forward my luggage. Let us have a bottle of champagne before we start. I will recommend Le Brun to a warm half-deck passage to the captain; and when we land, wherever it may be, if he do not give me satisfaction, by the powers! I’ll take it. What say you, Thorne?”

“Now, Le Brun, all ready?” demanded Thorne.

“All ready, sir.”

“Here’s to you then, Griffin,” as Le Brun crept cautiously out of the room. “Spare his life, Griffin—he is not worth the risk of your exposing yourself for him: spare his life for the sake of the black-eyed girl; but don’t forget that he spoiled a merry evening for us out at the chacra. By the way, your hurried departure must be rather inconvenient to you; please take this, (offering him some money)—nay, friend, take it; your intended caning match may cost you as much for damages. Now hurry off, for I must not appear in this affair.” And so Le Brun the spy was hurried down to the beach amid a party of English seamen, to the great disappointment of two gentlemen with long cloaks, who were waiting to attend upon him until sunset, and who followed them still, with the view, probably of seeing him safely embarked, in spite of repeated adieus bowed to them by our friend Griffin, who begged of them not to trouble themselves any further.

All hands arrived safely on board; but whether Griffin had to refund any of Tom Thorne’s money for damages, or whether he pinked his friend, or was pinked himself, we have never heard.

Return we to Tom Thorne and his fair guests. Their rage at Le Brun’s treachery was modified by the news that their father had escaped—for that he was not in prison was an escape; and to all parties it appeared best, that they should wait in their present quarters until they should hear from him.

In the mean time, Tom Thorne’s position was a most singular one. A bachelor, we may say, by profession, he was harbouring two lovely girls—one of whom had often roused feelings in his breast that he could not easily account for: he was, moreover, their protector, he had been partly the cause of their misfortunes; they were, it might be said, fatherless and portionless; they interested every best feeling of his heart. Need we work out the progress of results? Tom found more attractions in their mild, subdued, but lively conversation than in the loud rolicsome sports in which he had hitherto been a leader; smiles banished or supplanted cigars, and the sparkle of fair eyes were more often in Tom’s thoughts than the sparkles of champagne. During this state of transmutation, Tom received a message that a friend wished to see him: the messenger was none to be relied on, but he brought a password—ipso facto. Tom went, and it was Mendoza he found. The old man had concealed himself in the house of a friend, until he thought all danger past. With prudent care he had concealed his retreat, even from his best friends; and well it was he had done so, for Thorne’s house was watched for several days.

“I have heard,” said the old man, “the care you have taken of my daughters: God reward you for it, I never can.”

“Excuse me, sir, you may,” said Thorne. “Give me the hand of Anita, and I shall be more than repaid. We will smuggle you off to Rio, or Monte Video; this storm will blow over—your political back-holdings will soon be forgotten in the greater criminality of others: your estates will yet be restored to you; and if they be not, I have sufficient to maintain you and your family, without even missing the resources of the chacra or mourning over the ruined speculations of Don Felipe Le Brun.”

“Thorne, you are a man after my own heart. I have ever given you credit for stainless honesty of purpose: if my daughter accepts of you as her protector you shall have my blessing.”

Mendoza, with his daughters, sought temporary exile, the embargo was soon taken off their property, and Tom Thorne afterwards sought, in the sweet smiles and flashing eye of Anita Mendoza, an exchange for the idle luxuries of cigars and champagne. Let us hope that he found them.

A. M.