Lost Lenore Part 17

Having completed my melancholy task, I started afoot to rejoin my partners on the Yuba--where I arrived--after several days spent in toilsome wandering--footsore and dispirited.

The adventure had taught me two lessons. Never to refuse any one a drink of water when I could give it; and to be ever after careful in interpreting the language of others--lest some wrong might be fancied, where none was intended.

Volume One, Chapter XX.

RICHARD GUINANE.

On my return to the Yuba, with the sad tale of my comrade's death--and the consequent unfortunate termination of our prospecting scheme-- Hiram's partners made search for his gold, in every place where it was likely to have been buried.

Their search proved fruitless. The precious treasure could not be found. Unfortunately, none of us knew where his family resided. He had been incidentally heard to say, that he came from the state of Delaware; but this was not sufficient clue, to enable any of us to communicate with his relatives.

His wife has probably watched long for his return; and may yet believe him guilty of that faithlessness--too common to men who have left their homes on a similar errand.

As our claim on the Yuba was well nigh exhausted, we dissolved partnership--each intending to proceed somewhere else on his own account. Young Johnson--who had been my companion across the plains-- never before having been so long away from his parents, determined upon going home to them, and there remaining all the winter.

I had heard good accounts of the southern "placers," which, being of the sort known as "dry diggings," were best worked during the rainy season.

Three or four men, from the same "bar" where we had been engaged, were about starting for the Mocolumne; and, after bidding James Johnson and my other mates a friendly farewell, I set out along with this party.

After reaching our destination, I joined partnership with two of my travelling companions; and, during the greater part of the winter, we worked upon Red Gulch--all three of us doing well.

Having exhausted our claim, my two partners left me both to return home to New York. Being thus left once more alone, I determined upon proceeding still farther south--to the Tuolumne river, there to try my fortune during the summer.

On my way to the Tuolumne, I fell in with a man named Richard Guinane, who had just come up from San Francisco City. He was also _en route_ for the diggings at Tuolumne; and we arranged to travel together.

He was going to try his luck in gold seeking for the second time; and, finding him an agreeable companion, I proposed that we should become partners. My proposal was accepted--on the condition that we should stop awhile on the Stanislaus--a river of whose auriferous deposits my new partner had formed a very high opinion.

To this I made no objection; and, on reaching the Stanislaus, we pitched our tents upon its northern bank.

When I became a little acquainted with the past history of my companion, I might reasonably have been expected to object to the partnership.

From his own account, he was born to ill-luck: and, such being the case, I could scarce hope that fortune would favour me--so long as I was in his company. a.s.suredly was Richard Guinane the victim of unfortunate circ.u.mstances. There are many such in the world, though few whom Fortune will not sometimes favour with her smiles--when they are deserved; and, ofttimes, when they are not.

Richard Guinane, according to his own account of himself, was one of these few. Circ.u.mstances seemed to have been always against him. Each benevolent, or praiseworthy action he might perform, appeared to the world as dictated by some base and selfish feeling! Whenever he attempted to confer a favour, the effort resulted in an injury, to those whom he meant to benefit. Whenever he tried to win a friend, it ended by his making an enemy!

His hopes of happiness had ever proved delusive--his antic.i.p.ations of misery were always realised!

Pride, honour, in short, every n.o.ble feeling that man should possess, appeared to be his; and yet fate so controlled those sentiments, that each manifestation of them seemed, to the world, the reverse of the true motive that inspired it. Such was Guinane's character--partly drawn from statements furnished by himself, and partly from facts that came under my own observation.

Certain circ.u.mstances of his life, which he made known to me, had produced an impression on my memory; but more especially those of which I was myself a spectator, and which brought his unhappy existence to an abrupt and tragical termination. The history of his life is too strange to be left unrecorded.

Richard Guinane was a native of New York State, where his father died before he was quite five years of age--leaving a wife and three children, of whom d.i.c.k was the eldest.

So early had d.i.c.k's ill-fortune made its appearance, that before he had reached his fourteenth year, he had established the reputation of being the greatest thief and liar in his native village!

When once this character became attached to him, no church window could be broken, nor any other mischief occur, that was not attributed to d.i.c.k Guinane, although, according to his own account, he was really the best behaved boy in the place!

Near the residence of his mother, lived the widow of a merchant, who had left a small fortune to his only child, a daughter--the widow having the sole charge both of the fortune and the heiress--already a half grown girl.

With a charming voice, this young lady would answer to the name of Amanda Milne. She had seen d.i.c.k every day, since her earliest childhood; and she had formed a better opinion of him than of any other lad in the village. She was the only one in the place, except his own mother, who felt any regard for d.i.c.k Guinane. All his other neighbours looked upon him, as a living evidence of G.o.d's amazing mercy!

Like most young ladies, Amanda was learning some accomplishments--to enable her to kill time in a genteel, and useless manner.

The first great work achieved by her fingers, and to her own entire satisfaction, was a silk purse--which it had not taken her quite two months to knit. This purse, on a favourable opportunity having offered itself, was presented to d.i.c.k.

Not long after, her mother wished to exhibit her needle-work to some friends--as a proof of the skill and industry of her daughter, who was requested to produce the purse.

Amanda knew that d.i.c.k was not liked by the inhabitants of the village; and that her own mother had an especially bad opinion of him. Moreover, the Guinane family was not so wealthy as the widow Milne; and in the opinion of many, there was no equality whatever between the young people representing each.

Though Amanda was well aware of all this, had she been alone with her mother, in all likelihood she would have told the truth; but, in the presence of strangers, she acted as most other girls would have done under similar circ.u.mstances. She said she had lost the purse; and had searched for it everywhere without finding it. About that time, d.i.c.k was seen in possession of a purse; and would give no account, of how he came by it. The two facts that Amanda Milne had lost a purse, and that d.i.c.k Guinane had one in his possession, soon became the subject of a comparison; and the acquaintances of both arrived at the conclusion: that Amanda, as she had stated, must have lost her purse, and that d.i.c.k must have stolen it!

Time pa.s.sed on--each month producing some additional evidence to condemn poor d.i.c.k in the estimation of his acquaintances.

Mrs Guinane was a member of the Methodist Church, over which presided the Reverend Joseph Grievous. This gentleman was in the habit of holding frequent conversations with Mrs Guinane, on the growing sinfulness of her son. Notwithstanding her great reverence for her spiritual instructor, she could not perceive d.i.c.k's terrible faults.

Withal, the complaints made to her--of his killing cats, dogs, and geese, stealing fruit, and breaking windows--were so frequent, and apparently so true, that she used to take d.i.c.k to task, and in a kindly way read long maternal lectures to him.

d.i.c.k always avowed his innocence--even in the presence of Mr Grievous-- and would use the best of arguments to prove himself as "not guilty."

This pretence of innocence, in the opinion of the Reverend Grievous, was a wickedness exceeding all his other misdeeds; and the sanctimonious gentleman suggested the remedy, of having d.i.c.k beaten into confession and repentance! To this course of treatment, however, Mrs Guinane firmly refused to give her consent.

One day, d.i.c.k had been to a neighbouring town; and when returning, had pa.s.sed a house--to the gate of which the old and well known horse of the Reverend Grievous stood tied. Simply noticing the horse, and reflecting that his reverend owner must be inside the house, d.i.c.k continued on.

When near his mother's house, he was overtaken by the horse, that bad come trotting along the road after him. The horse was without a rider, which proved that not being properly secured, he had got loose.

d.i.c.k caught the horse, mounted him, and commenced riding back--for the purpose of delivering him to the minister, for he could not permit, that so pious a person should have to walk home through the mud.

The road was bad--like most of the country roads in the United States-- and d.i.c.k was already fatigued with a long walk. To take the horse to the house where his owner was visiting, would give him more than a mile to walk back; but no personal consideration could deter the lad from doing what he thought to be his duty.

On coming out of the house--where he had been visiting one of the members of his church--Mr Grievous was surprised not to find his horse; but the mystery was fully explained when, after proceeding a short distance, he saw d.i.c.k Guinane on the horse's back.

Here was evidence welcome to Mr Grievous. d.i.c.k was at one of his old games--caught in the very act--riding another man's horse--and that horse the property of his own minister!

The Reverend Joseph was rejoiced, as he had long been looking for an opportunity like this. He attributed all d.i.c.k's misdeeds to the want of proper chastis.e.m.e.nt; and here was a good reason for administering it to him. d.i.c.k had no father to correct his faults; and, in the opinion of Mr Grievous, his mother was too lenient with the lad.

He had long promised, that if ever he caught d.i.c.k in any misdemeanour, he would himself administer a lesson that would not only benefit the boy, but the community in which he dwelt. He would be only fulfilling a duty, which his sacred office imposed upon him; and the present opportunity was too good a one to be lost.

d.i.c.k rode up to the minister, dismounted, and accosted him in a manner that should have been proof of innocence. Perhaps it would have been, by any other person; but to the Reverend Grievous, d.i.c.k's confident deportment--inspired by the consciousness of having acted rightly--only aggravated the offence of which he was supposed to be guilty. His bold effrontery was but the bearing of a person long accustomed to crime. So reasoned Mr Grievous!

Without giving d.i.c.k time to finish his explanation, the minister seized him by the collar; and, with his riding whip, commenced administering to him a vigorous chastis.e.m.e.nt.

d.i.c.k was at the time over sixteen years of age; and was, moreover, a strong, active youth for his years.

So great was his respect, for all persons, whom he thought superior to himself, that for some time he bore the chastis.e.m.e.nt--unresistingly permitting the minister to proceed in the execution of his fancied duty.

Human nature could not stand such treatment long; and d.i.c.k's temper at length giving way, he picked up a stone, hurled it at the head of the reverend horsewhipper--who, on receiving the blow, fell heavily to the earth.

He rose again; and in all probability would have returned to a more vigorous use of his horsewhip, had his victim been still within reach; but d.i.c.k had secured himself against farther punishment, by taking to his heels, and placing a wide distance between himself and his irate pastor.

Next day, d.i.c.k was brought before a magistrate, the Reverend Grievous, upon oath, being compelled to make a somewhat true statement of the affair. The justice had no other course than to discharge the prisoner, which he did with reluctance--expressing regret that the strict letter of the law did not allow him to deal with the offence in the manner it so justly merited!

His native village no longer afforded a peaceful home for d.i.c.k Guinane.