Lost Lenore: The Adventures of a Rolling Stone Read online

his hand--its muzzle touchinghis temples!

  I rushed forward; but to use his own last words, I was "too late."

  There were three distinct sounds; a snap, the report of a pistol, andthe concussion of a body falling upon the floor.

  I stooped to raise him up. It was too late. He was dead!

  Can the reader comprehend the thought that dictated this act ofself-destruction? If not, I must leave him in ignorance.

  In preparing the remains of my comrade for the grave, a silk purse,containing a piece of paper, was found concealed beneath his clothing.There was writing upon the paper, in a female hand. It was asfollows:--

  "Dick,

  "I do not believe the stories people tell of you; and think you are too good to do anything wrong I am sorry you have gone away. Good bye.

  "Amanda."

  It was, no doubt, the note he had received from Amanda, after his firstparting with her--enclosed in the letter of his mother, sent after himto New York. It was replaced in the purse, and both were buried alongwith his body.

  Poor Amanda! She may never learn his sad fate--unless chance may directher to the reading of this narrative.

  Volume One, Chapter XXIV.

  AN IMPATIENT MAN.

  I have not much fault to find with this world--although the people in itdo some strange things, and often act in a manner that puzzles me tocomprehend. The man of whom Guinane had borrowed the mule, was himselfan original character. After my comrade's death, I became slightlyacquainted with this individual; and was much amused, though also alittle pained, at what I thought to be his eccentric behaviour.

  Original types of mankind are, perhaps, more frequently met with on goldfields than elsewhere. Men without a certain spirit and character oftheir own, are less likely to adopt a life of so many perils andhardships, as gold diggers must needs encounter.

  But there are also men who can _appear_ eccentric--even amongst golddiggers; and the individual to whom I have alluded was one of these.His name was Foster.

  The mail from the Atlantic States was due in San Francisco everyfortnight; and, of course, at about the same interval of time, in thedifferent diggings to which the letters were forwarded--the Stanislausamong the rest. Three days, before its arrival, at the last mentionedplace, Foster used to leave his work, and go to the post-office--whichstood at a considerable distance from his claim--for letters. He wouldreturn to his tent, as a matter of course, disappointed; but this didnot prevent him from going again to the post-office, about six hoursafter.

  "Has the mail arrived yet?" he would inquire of the post-master.

  "No. I told you a few hours ago, that I did not expect it in less thanthree days."

  "Yes, I know; but the mail is uncertain. It is possible for it toarrive two or three days earlier than usual; and I want my letters assoon as they get in."

  "No doubt," the post-master would say, "no doubt you do; and I adviseyou to call again in about three days."

  "Thank you; I will do so," Foster would answer; and six hours after hewould call again!

  "As soon as the mail arrives," the post-master would then tell him, "Iwill _send_ your letters to you. It will be less trouble for me to dothat, than to be so often unnecessarily annoyed."

  "No, no!" Foster would earnestly exclaim, "pray don't trust them intothe hands of any one. They might be lost. It is no trouble for me tocall."

  "I can easily believe that," the post-master would rejoin. "If it wasany trouble, you would not come so often. I must, therefore, adopt someplan to save me from this annoyance. As soon as the mail arrives I willput up a notice outside the window here, and that will save you thetrouble of coming in, and me of being bothered with your questions.Whenever you come in front of the house, and do not see that notice, youmay be sure that the mail has not arrived. You understand?"

  "Yes, thank you; but I don't wish to give any unnecessary trouble. Idare say the mail will be here by the time I come again. Good-day!"

  Six hours after, Foster would be at the post-office again!

  "Any news of the mail?" he would ask.

  "Are you working a good claim?" inquired the post-master once--in answerto this perpetual dunning.

  "Yes," replied Foster. "Tolerably good."

  "I am sorry to hear it."

  "Why?"

  "Because if you were not doing well, you might be willing to go intosome other business--the post-office for instance--and buy me out. Ifyou were here yourself, you would have your letters as soon as theyarrived. Since getting _them_ seems to be your principal business, youshould be on the spot to attend to it. Such an arrangement wouldrelieve me, from a world of annoyance. You worry me, more than all therest of the several hundred people who come here for letters. I can'tstand it much longer. You will drive me mad. I shall commit suicide.I don't wish to be uncivil in a public capacity; but I can't helpexpressing a wish that you would go to Hell, and never let me see yourface again."

  Foster's chagrin, at not getting his letters, would be so great, thatthe post-master's peculiar wish would pass unheeded; and theletter-seeker would only go away to return again, a few hours after.

  Usually about the tenth time he called, the mail would be in; and in thegeneral scramble of the delivery, Foster would get _two letters_--nevermore, and never less.

  One evening, near mail time, he was, as usual on a visit to thepost-office after his letters; and his mate--whose name was Farrell--having got weary of sitting alone in his tent, came over to mine--topass an hour or two in miner's gossip. He told me, that Foster had beenfor his letters seven times during the two days that had passed!

  "He will have to go about three times more," said Farrell, "and then hewill probably get them. The mail should be in this evening."

  "Forster appears to think very much of his family?" I remarked to hispartner. "I never saw a person so impatient for news from home."

  "He is certainly very anxious to hear from home," said Farrell, "but notexactly for the reasons you may be supposing. Foster and I are from thesame neighbourhood, and have known each other for many years. We cameto California together; and I am well acquainted with all thecircumstances under which he is acting. Now, if you hailed fromanywhere near that part of the world to which we belong, I should saynothing about him; but as you don't, and it's not likely you'll everdrift in that direction, there can be no more harm in my telling youwhat I know, than there would be in talking about some one of whom wehave read, and who has been dead a thousand years ago."

  "Foster married when he was very young--his wife being a woman about tenyears older than himself. She was worse than old--she was plain; andbesides had but very little sense. Add to this, that she was alwaysill; and ill-tempered, and you have a woman, whom you will admit couldnot be very agreeable for a wife.

  "He had not been married over a week, before he discovered that he hadbeen making a fool of himself.

  "You have noticed his anxiety about the letters. Well--I shall explainit. By every mail, he expects news of the death of his wife; and it ishis impatience to hear _that_ which makes him so uneasy about thearrival of the post. If he should get a letter to-night containing thenews of her death, he would be the happiest man in California; and Idare say would start for home, within an hour after receiving it."

  I expressed some surprise, that one man should intrust another with sucha disgraceful secret; and plainly proclaimed my disapprobation ofFoster's conduct.

  "You are wrong, my friend," rejoined his partner. "For my part, Iadmire his frank and manly spirit. What is the use of one's pretendingthat he wishes his wife to live, if he really desires her to die? Ihate a hypocrite, or a person who will, in any way, deceive another. Idon't suppose that Foster can help disliking his wife--any more than hecan keep from sleeping. The feeling may be resisted for a while; but itwill conquer in the end. Foster is a man, in whom I cannot be deceived;and I respect him for the plain straightforward manner, in which heavows his sentiments."

&
nbsp; "This indecent impatience to hear of the death of his wife," said I,"cannot wholly arise from hatred. There is probably some other womanwith whom he is anxious to be united?"

  "That is very, very likely," answered Farrell, "and the second letter healways receives along with the one from his wife may serve as anaffirmative answer to your conjecture. Well! he is one of the mostopen-hearted honourable fellows I ever met; and I don't care how soonhis hopes are realised. Because a man has been foolish a little in hisyouth, is no reason why he should always be punished for it."

  Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Foster himself--whoappeared in a high state of pleasant excitement.

  "Come on, Farrell!" cried he, "let us go to the tent,