CHAPTER I.
“'Tis night; and from the empyrean the bright moon
Fitfully glances through the clefts, that part
The snowy radiance of the rifted clouds,
Piercing, like glimpses of eternity,
The vaults blue depths, as if to sound the abyss
Of space unfathomable.”
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At length, issuing from the wood, I entered a
prairie, more beautiful than any I had yet seen.
The surface, gently undulating, presented innumerable
swells, on which the eye might rest with
pleasure. Many of these capped with
clumps and groves of trees, thus interrupting the
dull uniformity which generally wearies the traveller
in these vast expanses. I gazed around for
a moment with delight but soon found leisure
to observe that my road had become alarmingly
indistinct. It is easy, indeed, to follow the faintest
trace through a prairie. The beaten track, however
narrow, wears a peculiar aspect, which makes
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it distinguishable even at a distance. But the name
of Arlington, the place of my destination, denoted
at least a village; while the tedious path which I
was travelling seemed more like to terminate in
the midst of the prairie, than to lead to a public
haunt of men. I feared I had missed my way, and
looked eagerly ahead for some traveller, who might
set me right, if astray. But I looked in vain.
The prairie lay before me, a wide waste, without
one moving object. The sun had just gone down;
and as my horse, enlivened by the shade and the
freshness of evening, seemed to recover his mettle,
I determined to push on to such termination as my
path might lead to.
At this moment, a shout from behind reached
my ear. I turned, and saw a man on horseback,
standing between me and the sky, on the top of the
east swell. Though a quarter of a mile off, his
figure stood out in such distinct relief, that every
limb was conspicuous, and well defined on the
bright background. He was stationary, standing
erect in his stirrups, and twisted around, so that
his back and were both towards
me. After repeating a shout, which I found was
a call to a dog, he put his horse in motion, and
advanced at a brisk trot.
I was now in no and he soon overtook
me. Touching his hat, he was passing on at a
gait too rapid for my jaded horse, when I accosted
him. He drew up immediately, and again erecting
himself on the wooden stirrups of his Spanish
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saddle, and resting his left hand on the pommel
and the right on the cantle, brought his horse to a
walk, and faced half round towards me.
I asked if I was on the road to Arlington, and
was answered in the affirmative. The distance?
“Some eight miles.”
“I hope,” said I, “the road grows plainer, or I
shall hardly find it in the night.”
“You will have no difficulty,” said he; “your
horse will keep it instinctively, as there is no fork
in the road. Besides, I am going nearly to the
place, and as the evening is pleasant, I will accommodate
the gait of my horse to the weariness of
yours.”
I made due acknowledgments for this unlookedfor
courtesy, which, however, surprised me less,
than a turn of expression, so little in keeping with
the stranger's appearance. At this moment his
dogs came up—two beautiful greyhounds; one jet
black, the other spotless white. He stopped his
horse, spoke first reproachfully, and then kindly
to them; and as the white dog reared up to his
knee, patted his head, saying, in a tender tone,
“My poor fellow! my poor dog! my poor Gryphon!”
“Gryfin!” thought I. “This fellow, now, is an
illiterate clown, who has seen the word griffin
somewhere, and has given the name to his dog,
without knowing how to pronounce it. He is no
better than he looks to be, after all; though his
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words and tone are those of a cultivated and wellbred
man, he is no better than he looks to be.”
And truly this was not saying much for him. I
could not distinguish his features by the waning
light, but saw that he was a tall, spare man, in his
shirt sleeves, without a cravat, and with a broadbrimmed
straw hat, turned up behind and down
before. A shirt, white enough at the bosom, a
shabby, half-worn Marseilles waistcoat, trousers of
country linen, and a pair of old slip-shod pumps,
constituted his dress. He rode a large, high-formed,
and apparently high-bred mare, of fine
action, but long tailed, bare footed, and in low
order, that seemed as much at cross purposes with
herself as did her rider.
We moved slowly, and in silence. I had no
doubt my companion, after the fashion of the country,
would soon begin to question me; and, as I
had some curiosity concerning him, I was prepared
to be civil and communicative. But I was disappointed.
My name, my residence, my journey
and its object, seemed to be quite indifferent to
him. It appeared as if the first glance had told
him all he wanted to know, and he scarce looked
at me again. I determined to begin.
“You have a beautiful country,” said I.
“Yes,” he replied; “and there are few scenes
more beautiful than that which the darkness is
beginning to hide from your eye.”
“But the night itself is beautiful; and the moon
will shine almost as bright as day.”
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“The night is indeed beautiful,” said he, “but
that is nearly the same everywhere; and moonlight,
however beautiful, shows no distant objects.
Observe my dogs,” continued he; “they wind a
deer. He is near us, on the side of the naked
swell we are ascending; but look as you will, you
cannot see him. Even they do not see him; if
they did, they would give chase. Gryphon! come
in, sir! Back! back!”
A sharp whistling sound was now heard near
us, and the bounding of the deer immediately followed.
The eager dogs were restrained, with
difficulty, by the master's voice; and in a few
seconds the sound ceased.
I now spoke to the white dog, as he trotted by
my side. “Griffin,” said I. The dog took no
notice of me. “Griffin! Griffin! poor fellow!”
“I once knew a gentleman,” said my companion,
“who had a passion for pronouncing words as
they are spelled. In the management of a little
amour, it became necessary that he should acquaint
himself with the name of the house dog. You
know a dog's name is a spell of mighty power to
subdue his fierceness. The dog in question was
named Boatswain. He took great pains to call
him Boat-swain, and was bitten for his trouble.
You might get into a scrape of the same sort with
my dog, sir.”
“How so? Is not his name Griffin?”
“Gryphon, sir.”
“Gryphin?” said I. “Well, if you choose so
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to pronounce the word, it is his name, to be sure.
But give me leave to ask why you so pronounce
it?”
“Because it is so spelled, and always so pronounced.”
“Gri-fin?” said I.
“No,” said he, “Gry-phon,” emphasizing the
last syllable. Then pointing to the dogs alternately,
he added, “Gryphon, the white, and Aquilant,
the black.”
I was taken all aback at once. “I believe,”
said I, “I have seen those names so associated, but
where, I cannot remember. Where is it?”
“In the Orlando Furioso,” said he.
I think I never felt more foolish in my life. I
had tried to play the pedagogue, and I was flogged
with my own birch. I had been trying, too, to
decipher this strange half clown, half gentleman,
but all in vain; while he, as I saw, had read me
through and through, like print. I really felt too
much abashed to say another word for several
minutes. At length it occurred to me, that the
best way to re-establish our intercourse on an
easy footing, was to speak out and make a clean
breast.
“I perceive,” said I, “that, in pretending to correct
a fancied blunder, I have made a very foolish
one. But, as I would not have you think me more
impertinent than I really was, it is well to say
frankly, that I am sensible of having been so.”
“My dear sir,” replied he, in the kindest tone,
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“it is only by blunders that we learn wisdom. You
are too young to have made many as yet. God
forbid, that when you shall have made as many as
I have, you should have profited as little by them.
But it will not be so. You take the right plan to
get the full benefit of all you make. I am not
sure,” continued he, “that we do not purchase all
our good qualities by the exercise of their opposites.
How else does experience of danger make
men brave? If they were not scared at first, then
they were brave at first. If they were scared,
then the effect of fear upon the mind has been to
engender courage. Virtue, indeed, may be formed
by habit. But who has a habit of virtue? very
few. The rest have to arrive at virtue by the
roundabout road of crime and repentance; as if a
man should follow the sun around the earth to
reach a point but a few degrees east of that from
which he started. But it is God's plan of accomplishing
his greatest end, and must be the best
plan.”
It may be readily believed, that such a speech
as this, though it effectually soothed my feelings,
did not dispose me to talk much at random to this
“learned Theban.” Philosophy in shirt sleeves,
taking the air by moonlight, on a prairie in Missouri,
was so strange a phenomenon, that I knew
not what to say, or even to think. But my companion
relieved me at once.
“You are lately from Virginia,” said he, in a
tone between inquiry and affirmation.
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“I am,” said I; “but give me leave to ask why
you thought so?”
“I can hardly tell,” he replied; “I believe I
arrived at the conclusion almost per saltum; but
it may be amusing to endeavour to trace the process.
To begin with small things. Your equipment
is too elaborate for one who has been long
among us. Your whip, your umbrella, your saddlebags
and valise, your martingale and surcingle;
had you been long here, you would have learned
to exchange these for the curt and succinct equipments
which we use on the longest journeys. This
pocket” (pointing to a pouch on the cover of his
saddle, just in front of the right knee) “would hold
two shirts; the opposite, waistcoats and drawers;
behind is another of the same size for socks, handkerchiefs,
&c.; and then there is a fourth for
crackers, cheese, or jerked venison. By-the-way,
will you have a bit?”
Saying this, he handed me something that looked
and felt like a piece of split wood. I took it,
tasted it, found it delicious, and he went on thus:
“Shall I go on with my reasons? Well; your
horse! No horse can be put in his order without
being first made very fat. He is now worked
down, but still in good condition, and his flesh is
as hard and dry as that you are chewing; ergo,
he is from a long journey.”
“You have made it very clear,” said I, “that I
have come from a distance; but why from Virginia?”
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“Because from nowhere else. Not from the
western country, or you would have asked me
more questions in five minutes than I think you
would in a week. Besides, you are a judge of
horseflesh; I see that you admire my mare, and
you would have been beating about me for a trade
before this.
“You are not from the South, or you would
have been on wheels. You are not from the East,
or you would never have made the frank speech
which just preceded my remark, `that you were
lately from Virginia.' And by the same token,
you are from the country below the mountains;
and I should locate you on tide water, and designate
you an alumnus of William and Mary. Am
I right?”
“You are.”
“You see how curiosity whets observation, and
how that is whetted by a residence in this remote
country. Hence the universal propensity to ask
questions. When restrained by delicacy, or self-respect,
or respect for others, curiosity effects its
object by keen observation.”
“I think,” said I, “I may infer from all this that
you too are a Virginian.”
“Of course, I would not suppose you could
doubt it. There is a sort of freemasonry among
us by which we know each other. By-the-by, it
is time I were giving you one of its `due signs
and tokens.' A Virginian, who suffers another,
who is a stranger in the land, to part company
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with him at his own gate, is a cowin, and should
be turned out of the lodge. I would not disparage
my neighbours of the city of Arlington, but I am
afraid your accommodations there would not much
refresh you after a hard day's ride.”
“I suppose there is a public house there.”
“Not exactly. In the first place, there is nobody
there who lays himself out for the entertainment
of travellers; and, in the second place, though
there is a town there, yet, properly speaking, there
is no house.”
“Why, then, was I directed there?”
“Because there is a man there who will take
your money for what you eat, if you can get it,
(and that depends on his gun,) and for what your
horse should eat, whether he gets it or no; and
that, I suspect, depends mainly on the negroes in
the neighbourhood.”
“Your account is rather discouraging.”
“Yes, but I am only showing you the greater
evil. I think my shanty is the less of the two,
and I am the more anxious that you should choose
wisely, because I foresee that you will not travel
to-morrow.”
“Why not?”
“Because `I hear a sound of much rain,' and
see signs of it, too.”
“Hear! I hear nothing in all this vast solitude
but the sound of our voices and our horses' hoofs.”
“Listen a moment. Do you hear nothing
else?”
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“I hear something like the sound of an axe.”
“That axe is more than two miles off.”
“And what of that?”
“Were it not about to rain it could not be heard
half the distance.”
“But I never saw a more beautiful night.”
“Nor I.”
“The wind is in the west, the moon is bright,
the atmosphere is clear, and `the clouds are drifting
east the sky,' at a rate which will soon sweep
them all to the Atlantic. And see how light and
beautiful they are.”
“True! they are beautiful. Do you observe
their milky whiteness?”
“Yes.”
“Do you observe the intense blaze of the sky?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mark the deep, deep chasms between
the clouds? not as if they glided along the surface
of the blue vault, but as if it lay myriads of
miles beyond them. See! it is the moon that is
set in the solid vault. The clouds are here—though
far above us, still comparatively here—is it not
so?”
“It is.”
“Well, whenever you see that appearance, make
up your mind to spend the next day wherever you
spend the night; and so make up your mind to
spend the night where you wish to spend the next
day. Now, if you are what, as a Virginian, I
would have you to be, you will take me at my
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word; if not, you will begin to talk about hating
to give trouble—and so I shall let you go.”
I paused, and was at a loss what to say; so he
went on: “I see I have posed you. So, before
you commit yourself too far, it is but just to add
that I have no house, any more than my neighbour
Dennis at Arlington. But I can keep you dry, and
the weather will keep you warm; and I can give
you something to eat, and a book to read, and, as
you know well enough by this time, I can talk to
you. So, end as you began with me. Speak up
frankly, and say that you will camp with me.”
“Then, frankly,” said I, “I thank you, and I
will.”
“Good,” said he. “And here we are at my
field.”
We were indeed at the corner of an enclosure
along one side of which we rode, until we came
to a rude slipgap in the fence. This my conductor
let down. We led our horses over, and found
ourselves between two black walls of Indian corn
rustling in the night wind. Nothing was visible
before us but the narrow turning row which served
for a road, until we reached an open space in the
field of an acre or two. Here I found myself by
the side of a low log cabin, through the open crevices
of which gleamed the red light of a large fire.
Before the door of this stood the dusky figure of a
negro, who took our horses.
As we alighted, my companion said, “I have
all this time neglected to introduce myself, or to
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qualify myself to introduce you. My name is Balcombe.”
I gave mine in return, and we went
on. As yet I had seen nothing of a dwellinghouse,
or even of the promised shanty; but as we turned
the corner of the cabin a strong light gleamed
upon us. This proceeded from a dwelling, which
I will describe now as I saw it the next day. It
consisted of two pens, each about ten feet square,
made of such timbers as are used for joists, set on
edge, one above another, and dovetailed into each
other at the corners. The two were placed about
ten feet apart, and both were covered by a roof,
which sheltered also the intervening space. The
floors of this passage and of both rooms consisted
of loose rough boards. Into each room was cut a
doorway and window; but there was no door, nor
any means of closing either that or the windows,
but blankets hung up by way of curtain.
In the passage stood a table, covered as for
supper, with a white tablecloth, a neat set of china,
and the necessary accompaniments; and from this
table flamed two large candles, which threw their
light to the spot where we were. The figure of
my companion was in the light, mine in the shade,
as we advanced. In front of the table stood one
of the most striking female forms I ever beheld—
tall and queenlike, and, as I soon found, in the
bloom of youth, and with a countenance corresponding
in expression with the air of her person.
She was plainly, but neatly, and even fashionably
dressed. Looking intently towards us, as soon as
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my companion emerged into the light, she ran to
meet him, and, throwing her arms about his neck,
kissed him affectionately. He returned her caress
with playful fondness, and then said, laughing,
“You do not see who is here.” She instantly disentangled
herself, and, bending her large black eyes
on the darkness in which I was shrouded, stood
covered with blushes. I went forward, and was
introduced to her as Mrs. Balcombe. We now
entered this strange habitation, and my new friend
said, “I need not ask if you have dined. The
carnestness with which you masticated that dried
venison showed that you had not. So, dearest
Bet, if Tom has killed a deer this evening, then a
hot steak; if not, the cold saddle.”
“There,” said she, pointing to the table, “is the
saddle waiting for you, and you shall not wait long
for the steak.”
“In the mean time,” said Balcombe, “here is
some good brandy, and there is sugar on the table,
and here is water, and now here is nutmeg.”
All proved good, and the mixture was hardly
swallowed before two negro girls appeared, bringing
the steak, together with coffee, butter, and all
the etceteras of a good supper. My talkative
host now gave his tongue a holyday, while his
teeth took their turn at work. For my own part, I
never enjoyed in higher perfection that first of all
luxuries, a traveller's supper.
“It is late,” said Mr. Balcombe, as soon as we
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had ended our meal, “and you are weary. To
bed, then, sans ceremonies.”
“Let me look out on the night first” said I,
“for I doubt your augury of the weather.”
“It is indeed a lovely night,” said he, looking up
at the moon; “and the signs I read in this dappled
sky, with its floating islands of light, seem
given to remind us that the fairest appearances
are often falsest. I am not mistaken, for we shall
have a rain that will give me your company for
more than one day, for it will make the streams
impassable.”
“Then I must use the more diligence, and place
them behind me before they rise.”
“And so place yourself in a wilderness between
two impassable streams. Content yourself, my
dear sir. If it does not rain, you shall be called at
daylight. If it does, you shall not deny or grudge
me the pleasure that Providence sends me. Are
you content?”
“I am sorry to require your kindness by saying
I am content per force; but I do say so. I will
abide the event of your prediction, and if it proves
true, stay without a murmur until you tell me the
way is open.”
“Agreed. Here, Tom!” A servant came.
“If it does not rain in the morning have this gentleman's
horse ready at daylight, and call him up.
If it does rain, do not disturb him; but go to
Colonel T—'s and Mr. H—'s, and tell them
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I have a friend with me whom I wish to introduce
to them. If they can slip along between the drops
of rain, I shall be glad of their company to dinner.
Ask Mr. H— to bring P— with him. And
now to bed.”
He accordingly took a candle from the table,
drew aside the curtain from one of the doorways,
and introduced me to my pen.
“I did not promise you a house,” said he; “but
here you will be dry, for the planks that form this
roof cannot leak. So, good-night.”
He left me alone, and, strange to tell, in the
midst of substantial comfort. A dressing table,
water, and glasses, and basin; a neat bed with
clean sheets, and a plank between me and the sky.
What more could a traveller want after a hearty
supper on fat venison? I felt somewhat exposed,
indeed, for I had money about me that I could ill
afford to lose; but there was no mistrusting the
honesty of my host's intentions towards me—so I
was soon asleep.
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CHAPTER II.
“And is a name my sole inheritance?
Is this the sum of all the honours won
By them who bore it? And have time and chance,
Of all their toils have purchased, left alone
This dying echo of their old renown?
Where are all its records? Time has left no trace
On sculptured brass or monumental stone.
What is the name of a forgotten race?
A drop in history's ocean. Who can point its place?”
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“Bless me!” exclaimed I, as I awoke, “it is
broad daylight! I should have been two miles on
the road.”
“Why so? Did he rain get at you in bed?”
“Oh, no!”
“Then you are better where you are. Do you
not hear the rain?”
“I do, indeed. I had not observed it, for it does
not sound like rain. It falls like a heavy soft mass,
as if it would crush the roof.”
“Shall I come in?” said my entertainer, still
speaking from the outside of the curtain.
“Certainly; but what is the hour?”
“Nine.”
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“Nine! I hope you have not waited breakfast
for me.”
“No danger of that. It is not so easy to have
an early breakfast in such weather, when the fire
is half out of doors, and everything else wholly
so. Breakfast has not waited for you, but we
have waited for breakfast. But it is now near at
hand, and will be ready by the time you are.”
I was not long at my toilet, and issuing from my
pen in company with my friend, was conducted
across the passage into the opposite stall of this
curious establishment.
“We are all out of doors here,” said he; “but
there are three degrees of comparison in this as in
most things else. This is the positive, the passage
the comparative, and there” (pointing out into the
column of rain) “is the superlative. In such
weather as this the intus penetralia is exposed
enough; so I must make you free of my lady's
chamber.”
Accordingly in my lady's chamber stood the
breakfast table, loaded with good things, and furnished
in a style in most amusing contrast with the
mansion. The table itself was of rich mahogany;
the bedstead handsomely carved, and room had
been found for a neat bureau. The equipage of
the table was in good taste; and, in short, as
many comforts were there as could be brought together
without rendering the tout ensemble uncomfortable
in so narrow a space. Mine host, too, this
morning, was dressed like a gentleman, and his
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wife was “point device in her accoutrements,” and
every inch a lady of the highest finish.
“Put that other doghole in some sort of order,”
said the master to one of the maids, “and set an
iron pot of burning charcoal in there. You don't
see” (turning to me) “that there is one under the
table, but you will not be sorry to feel it. It is not
easy to be too warm in this raw weather, and
there is no great danger of being stifled by the vapour
in this palace of the elements.”
We now sat down to breakfast with recovered
appetites, but not so keen as to deny Mr. Balcombe
the use of his tongue.
“As soon as you told me your name,” said he,
“I knew that you must belong to a family of that
name on York River. I was half tempted to ask
to what branch of it, and would do so now, but the
question is superfluous. By daylight I see that
you are a son of Mr. Napier of Craiganet.
“You happen to be right,” said I; “but strangely
enough, for I am utterly unlike my father.”
“So I should suppose; but I never saw him.”
“For Heaven's sake, then, how do you come at
my filiation?”
“Very easily. You are very like your mother's
family, and none of your name but your father
married into that family.”
“You are strangely familiar with such things;
but you are wrong. My father's brother married
my mother's sister.”
“But she died, leaving an only daughter.”
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“That is true. Did you know that family?”
“No. But there is nothing strange in my
knowledge. I am myself of one of your oldes
families, and could trace a relationship to you in
more ways than one.”
“You must have a curious fancy for genealogies.
For my part, I only care to know that I am
my father's son.”
“Then you do yourself great wrong. Were
you a Plantagenet, men would hardly blame you
for claiming descent from the Conqueror, though
traced through the treacherous John and his imbecile
son, or any others whose crimes tarnish the
glories of that illustrious line. Is it not a higher
honour to be sprung from a race of men without
fear and without reproach—the ancient cavaliers
of Virginia? Men in whom the spirit of freedom
was so blended with loyalty as to render them
alike incapable of servility and selfishness; and
who, when their sovereign tore himself from his
place in their hearts, transferred their allegiance
to their country, and again poured out their blood
like water, and scattered their wealth like chaff.
Had they fostered this and transmitted it to you,
you would have been careful to make out your
claim to the inheritance. Are you not degenerate,
if you do not prize, even yet more highly, the
name, for the honour of which they gave so freely
that which was, in their estimation, comparatively
but as `the small dust of the balance?' You
wrong yourself. You do not deem lightly of this
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inheritance; nor would you, for all the broad lands
of which you and your fathers have been defrauded,
change your name for the once honourable, but
now dishonoured name of Montague.”
I started at this name, for it touched a chord
that vibrated to my very heart, and laying down
my knife and fork stared in amazement on the
face of this strange being, who seemed to know
all that I knew of myself and my affairs, and might
by possibility know much more that I was anxious
to discover.
He appeared not to heed me, but paused, with
compressed lips and an abstracted but flashing eye,
which told that memory and fancy were both hard
at work.
“Tell me,” said he, “do you know nothing of
the history of a gentleman whose body, after
death, was seized by his creditors, during the latter
part of the revolutionary war, for debts contracted
to feed, and clothe, and pay troops in the
service of his country, and which had already
swallowed up his princely estate? The same
who, with his own hands, pointed the first gun at
his own house, which the soldiers had been careful
not to injure, although occupied by the enemy?
You have heard of him.”
“He was my kinsman.”
“Then you do trace yourself beyond your
father, as well you may. My dear sir, do not disparage
yourself by adopting the cant of a political
fanaticism, that, with a false zeal for liberty, denies
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
those honours which, in a free government, being
open to all, give liberty its greatest value in the
eyes of honourable men. It is not for you to give
into the humours of those who swell and rage at
the word `gentleman,' as if here, as in England, it
was one of the designations of an order in the
state. What does it mean with us, but a man who
scorns what is base, and detests what is brutal,
and whose manners, either by nature or by training,
conform to those sentiments? From this
aristocracy, as they are pleased to call it, none
are shut out but by their own fault. And hence
they rage against it, for their exclusion is a sentence
of condemnation which conscience ratifies.
'Twas but the other day that a good old man, who
lives just west of me, was told, `that if I should
come to live here, the sun would not shine on him
till twelve o'clock.' Truly, my mansion casts a
mighty shadow! But I could forgive the fellow
this malignity for the sake of his originality of
thought. What hinders the author of such a conception
from a place among those he envies?
What but the baseness which prompted him to
poison another's mind against one who had done
him no wrong? Yet they come to me for favours—
they come to me for advice, and try to engender
hatred of me in their own hearts. And why?
Am I rich? No. Do I vaunt my lineage? They
do not know whether I am the son of a king or
a cobbler. Am I ostentatious? I think with all
my Sunday clothes on, my dress should excite no
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
man's envy. What you took me for yesterday,
you know best; certainly not for an aristocrat.
What to think of my establishment, you yourself
don't know. But no matter; it keeps us dry, and,
for my own part, I am not sure that I am not as
well off at this moment as in a palace. So let us
eat our venison, and comfort ourselves with the
thought that, fall as we may, the ground will catch
us, and is not quite so hard as it seems to be. We
are of the race of Antæus. We have been lifted
air, and fell from dizziness; but the touch of
another earth restores us.”
I was not sorry for this turn in a speech, under
some parts of which I felt a little restiff. But I
was fairly talked down. I felt the force, if not the
truth, of what I had just heard; and, though I was
not prepared to assent to it, was well pleased that
I was not called on to refute it. There was something
in the hardiness of thought and freedom of
speech of my new acquaintance quite bewildering.
The rapidity with which he hurried my mind along
look away my breath. I found, too, that I was
beginning to stand in awe of a perspicacity, which
read my thoughts at a glance, and a quickness,
which made it impossible to anticipate what sort
of ideas anything I might say would call forth. I
was amused, but felt something of the same sort of
uneasiness which I once saw manifested by a tame
rackoon when forced into a game of romps by a
otter. In short, I had never seen a man, the
breath of whose mouth held me so much in check,
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
as this anomalous stranger. But he had opened a
peephole for my curiosity, and I indulged it.
“You have, indeed,” said I, “strangely contrived
to secure your present comfort under unpromising
circumstances. My own part in the matter leaves
me no room to regret anything I have left behind
me, at least on this side of the Mississippi. As to
yours, I presume your being here, under such circumstances,
is only a sort of whim.”
“Something like it,” said he. “Twenty miles
off, I might be under a roof bigger than the bonnet
of a tobacco hogshead, and surrounded by brick
walls. But my affairs require me here so often,
(for I am about to build here,) that I had this
shanty put up, to screen me from the sun. Then
I set up a bed, that I might not always have
to go to the house of a neighbour at night; and
then my lady wife made me a visit, and likes the
frolic so well, that she will not go away; and I
cannot leave her, you know. But frost is coming,
and then I shall get rid of her.”
“Indeed you shan't,” said she. “I will make
the workmen build a chimney, and stop the cracks,
and stay here as long as you do.”
“Imitation, or contrast!” said he; “nothing between
the two. Fashion or innovation! Exactly
like everybody else, or totally different from everybody
else; which is best? Neither. First one
and then the other. That's woman. Is it not so,
Bet? When I build, my house must be just like
your father's, furniture and all; until then, a hollow
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
, or a tobacco hogshead with an outside chimney,
is all too good. But come; I see you have
breakfasted. Let us get to our den, and leave my
lady to her housewifery.”
He now turned to a bureau, on which lay several
volumes.
“You must help yourself to a book,” said he;
`for I have some letters to write, which will afford
you a respite from my tediousness.”
I took one accordingly, and we adjourned to the
other side of the passage, where he wrote and I
read for an hour or two. I could hardly be said
to read. The allusion to the wrongs of my family,
and the mention of the name of Montague, coupled
with an imputation of dishonour, tallied so exactly
with my suspicions, that I felt a hope that this
strange being knew the truth of what I had suspected.
I waited, accordingly, with impatience,
until the closing of his letters should again open
the door to conversation. But although he had
volunteered a remark which invited inquiry, I was
at a loss how to make it; and no man, about to
make his decisive love speech to his dulcinea, ever
turned over his thoughts and words in his mind
with more solicitude than I did.
-- 028 --
CHAPTER III.
A glance that took
Their thoughts from others, by a single look.
Byron.
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
As soon as he had sealed his last letter, he tossed
it from him and turned towards me. I closed my
book, and, looking up, saw his eye fixed on mine
with an expression, which, together with a half
smile on his lips, showed that he was about to
speak. I, of course, waited for him.
“I see so much,” said he, “of what other people
are about, (by what faculty I know not,) that I
should feel like a spy, if I did not lay myself as
open to them as they are to me. I flatter myself
this is the reason why I talk so much, and say
whatever comes into my head. We cannot play
the game fairly, if I don't show my hand, when I
know the backs of your cards. The object of your
present journey is to find Edward Montague, and
obtain from him information he will be careful not
to give you. Your emotion, at my mention of his
name this morning, leaves no doubt of this; and
you are now burning with impatience to learn the
drift of what I then said. Is it not so?”
“You are indeed bound, in honour, to be as
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
frank as I find you,” said I. “You are exactly
right; and if you are as successful in unriddling
other people and their affairs, as you have been
with me and mine, I shall have little cause to care
whether Mr. Edward Montague makes a clean
breast or no.”
“But he has more occasion for concealment than
you, and is rather more wary. It would be long
before he would make the acknowledgment you
did, last night, about my dog's name. That acknowledgment
let me into your character; that
brought you here; that interested me in you, and
first disposed me to serve you. As far as I can I
will. But I do but suspect Mr. Montague; and
that I do suspect him he knows; and his alternate
defiance of my suspicions, and attempts to lull
them, do but confirm them. Sometimes he is distant
and reserved, and affects dignity; then he is
gracious and conciliatory, and tries to come over
me.
“It is pleasant to amuse myself with a fellow
who is thus ever acting a part. He always finds
me as inaccessible to his approaches as a hedgehog;
and when he draws himself up in his terrapin
shell of dignity and reserve, I delight to put fire
on his back, and make him show sport for the children.
He hates me, and fears me accordingly,
and would gladly keep out of my way; but we
sometimes meet.”
“I am sorry,” said I, “that you have him so
much on the qui vive with you.”
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
“I would have him so. There is no other way
to find him out. A man habitually cautious is
most apt to betray himself when alarmed. In his
eagerness to draw his blanket over his head, he
uncovers his feet. Do you know him?”
“I never saw him; and had a mind to see him,
without letting him know me.”
“There you are wrong. Let him hear your
name and who you are at once, and unexpectedly.
Yes; he shall hear it, for the first time, with my
eye upon him, and we will see how the compound
works. In the mean time, as you know much that
I do not, you shall tell me your whole story exactly
as you understand it; and when we have put
together all that I already know, and all that you
can tell me, it shall go hard but we find out the
rest. Business should bring him to this neighbourhood
about this time. I can learn to-day if he is
expected; and though the fellow shall never darken
the door of a dog kennel, that calls me master, we
shall meet with him in some of our visits. Come!
tell me all about it.”
I did not answer immediately, and he continued—
“You hesitate, and perhaps you are right. I
dare say, my claim on your confidence is so abrupt
as to alarm suspicion. I shall make no profession
for the purpose of quieting it. I will only suppose
you to ask, as you would do, but for delicacy, what
there can be to excite, in my mind, so earnest an
interest in your affairs. For the present I will
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
give no answer but this. We are both anastomozing
branches of the same rich stream, flowing
direct from the heart of honour, which has not yet
lost its vital energy and warmth. But tell me, is
this distrust a first impression, or a thought just
now suggested by prudence?”
“I can assure you,” said I, “that I have never
distrusted you, since the first five minutes of our
acquaintance. But I have charge of the interests
of others, as well as my own, and I felt a doubt,
whether I had a right to peril them on the sudden
confidence of a raw boy in an acquaintance of
twelve hours.”
“Then your first impressions led you to confide
in me?”
“Entirely.”
“Trust them, then. They are nature's testimony.
Were you not ingenuous, my frankness
would alarm you; for instinct would show you,
that there was something about me uncongenial to
you; and men, the world calls prudent, would
condemn your disposition to confide in me, because,
in your place, they would not do so. Much
good may their prudence do them. But our instincts
are as safe guides as theirs. They get no
advantage of me, for nature makes me shun them;
and I obey her impulses, confident in her guidance.
Your friend Montague would as soon trust Jonathan
Wilde as me. Why? Does he doubt my
honour? Not in the least. He does but feel that
he and I have nothing in common.”
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
“I cannot say,” replied I, “that I exactly understand
your metaphysics. But I am, at least, determined
to act on as much of it as I understand,
for this once, and give you the history of my unfortunate
family.
“You are aware, then, that my mother was one
of two daughters, the only children of a man of
vast wealth. You probably know, too, that, with
a large inheritance of that honour you prize so
highly, my father received from his but a small
remnant of an estate sacrificed in the public service.
You perhaps do not know that the wealth
of my mother's father consisted, mainly, of property
entailed on his male descendants, with remainder
to a distant relative, who, though a native
Virginian, resided, and still lives in England. His
wife died in the year 1770, in giving birth to my
mother, her second daughter.
“In the interval which preceded the revolution,
my grandfather, who disclaimed all thought of
ever marrying again, was strongly urged to take
measures for docking the entail. This he always
refused to think of, not from indifference to his
children, for he devoted his life and all he deemed
his own to them, but because he could not be made
to see the fairness of such a proceeding. Even
when the revolution put an end to entails, he declared
that his children should not profit by, what
he called, a dishonest measure. He accordingly
executed a will, by which he devised the entailed
property to the remainder-man; and this will,
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
properly attested, he transmitted to him in England.
“So matters stood, until his two daughters married
my father and uncle. He was then seen to
take so great an interest in them and their families,
that people began to think that he might be induced
to change his will in favour of a grandson. But
his daughters bore none but daughters for many
years. At last, in 1799, I was born. Then the
delight of the old man's heart, at the prospect of a
male heir, displayed itself. He claimed me from
my mother, as soon as I could walk, and made me
his pet and plaything. About this time, too, he
cold my father that he had made a new will, devising
his whole property to be divided into two
equal parts, of which one half should go to the first
of his grandsons that should attain the age of
twenty-one; and that the other half should be
again divided between his daughters. He added,
that this will was in the hands of a confidential
friend. My father's extreme delicacy made him a
silent listener to this communication; and he did
not even ask the name of this depositary of my
grandfather's confidence and will.
“Up to this time, the old gentleman, having little
that he thought he could honestly give away, besides
his income, had given no fortune with either
daughter; but he paid faithfully and punctually to
the husband of each a handsome annuity. There
was no deed of any sort for this. He had merely
promised it, and it was regularly paid.”
-- 034 --
CHAPTER IV.
“Coward hypocrisy fools but himself;
Shrinks from the eye of him he would observe,
And shuts his own, lest he be seen. He bears
The assassin's lantern, but intent to light
His timid steps, turns the detecting blaze
Full on himself.”
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
“Are you aware,” continued I, “of Montague's
connection with my grandfather?”
“I am,” said Balcombe; “I know that he was
the last remaining scion of a respectable and decayed
family; that he was left a penniless orphan;
that the old gentleman brought him up, educated
him, had him trained to the bar, and gave him all
the benefit of his countenance, and no little
money.”
“Then his obligations were even greater than I
was aware of. Still he was poor, but, by diligence,
and some talent, he got along, though slowly, in
the world. He was much employed by my grandfather,
sometimes as an amanuensis, sometimes as a
man of business; and when the old gentleman died,
suddenly, and without naming the person who had
his will, no one doubted that Montague was the
man. He was accordingly applied to, but in vain.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
In the mean time, the devisee under the former
will brought it forward; none later was produced,
and it was established.
“My grandfather's liberality to his daughters
had somewhat involved his estate; and, when his
debts were paid, there was little left besides the
entailed property. The annuity, of course, ceased;
and my poor father, never an economist, having
lived up to his income before, now tried in vain to
bring his expenses within the compass of his reduced
means. He never could be prevailed on to
take any active measures to recover the lost will,
for he said he had not married for fortune. Whether
the pressure of necessity would have overcome
his scruples, had he lived to this time, I do
not know. But he died before the ruin of his
family was so manifest, though not before it was
inevitable. His death hastened the consummation.
About the time I came of age last April, all he left
was sold; and, from the proceeds of the sale, all
that remained to us were the means of my taking
this journey, and of a scanty subsistence for my
poor mother and sisters till I return.”
“Was no opposition made to the probate of the
will?”
“No further than to summon Montague.”
“And what did he say?”
“Before that time he had professed total ignorance
of the last will; but being on oath, said he
had seen such a paper, and did not know what had
become of it, or where it was.”
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
“Was he asked when he saw it last?”
“Yes. He said he had never seen it since the
day it was acknowledged before him. Now it was
obvious that he did not wish to say anything about
the will; but when thus much was wrung from
him by the power of conscience, many took that as
a proof of the truth of the whole story. For, said
they, it would have been as easy to lie, out and out
as to admit that he had witnessed the paper, but to
say he did not know what had become of it.”
“As easy, to be sure, but not quite so safe.”
“Why so?”
“Because in the one case he cannot be contradicted;
in the other he might have been.”
“Contradicted! By whom?”
“By me.”
“By you?”
“By me. I was there. I witnessed the will as
well as Montague. I saw the old gentleman close
it up in an envelope, and seal it with three seals
and hand it to Montague.”
“Good Heaven! is it possible? But how, there
do you say that Montague's assertion that he
never saw it again could not be contradicted?”
“Because I do not know that he ever saw it
again.”
“How so?”
“I do not know that he ever opened the envelope.”
“But how can he fail to know what has become
of it?”
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“That I cannot tell; but I have no doubt he has
devised some plan by which he has been enabled,
in saying so, to speak the truth literally.”
“Literally! yes. But in so doing he would incur
all the guilt of falsehood.”
“No doubt; but not the penalties.”
“Not in this world, but in the next.”
“Conscience and religion would make no difference,
but superstition might distinguish.”
“But Montague passes for a religious man.”
“He was always absurdly superstitious, even
when an open reprobate. He would not then
have sworn to a literal lie, though he was a great
liar. When did he become religious?”
“I believe in the interval between the death of
my grandfather and the establishment of his will.
Montague was under great obligation to him, and
seemed to take his death very much to heart.
He became gloomy and serious, and joined the
church.”
“There it is! The form of religion and literal
truth as a salvo for wronging the dead, and plundering
the living, by moral perjury.”
“Are you, then, quite sure the will was never
revoked or destroyed by my grandfather?”
“Quite sure. I have a letter from him which
must have been written just before his death, full
of all the fondness of a father's heart for his children,
and especially for you, whom he expected to
uphold the honour of his name.”
“Why, then, did you not come forward?”
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
“I knew nothing of it. I was wandering a
the earth, and did not hear of his death till
controversy was at an end. Even now I
not a word of the contents of the will. Have
any proof on that point?”
“Nothing, but my father's memorandum
what my grandfather told him, written the
day.”
“That's no proof. As to Montague, he
here a few years ago, obviously improved
cumstances, though without much property.
was plain he had a plenty of money, though
followed no business; for he only affected to
tise law.
“As soon as I saw him, I was led to
that all was not right. Of course I expected
advances to me, and I certainly made none
him, for I had always an undisguised a version
him. But the remarkable thing was, that he
desirous not to have it known that we have
seen each other. I cannot learn that he has
given a hint of our former acquaintance to a
person: we have accordingly met as strangers
the houses of our common acquaintance, and
have indulged his fancy for seeming not to
me. Sometimes, indeed, when I have
him to think that he has a little ingratiated
with me, he will make allusions, sotto voce, to I
gone days.
“All this convinced me that there was something
not exactly right in his history since I
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
Virginia. When I heard some vague rumours
about the lost will, my suspicions began to draw
to a point, and I set on foot a system of observation
on his ways and means which confirmed
them.
“I told you, that without business or property
of any consequence, or any known fund to draw
on, he was never without money; not that he ever
displayed large sums, or seemed to have them at
command; but he was the realization of Phillips's
idea, of a man who always has a shilling in his
pocket. He seemed to have found Fortunatus's
purse: a small one, indeed, but always full.
“Happening at last to have need of Eastern
funds, I applied to a merchant for the purpose of
purchasing a bill on New-York. He accordingly
furnished one drawn by Montague on a house
there, for the desired amount of one thousand dollars.
On inquiry, I ascertained that he drew regularly,
at the same time every year, on the same
house, for the same sum.
“A most palpable annuity! Unde derivatur?
That was the question. I had little doubt whence;
and if my suspicions were just, then there was
foul play, and the children of my earliest friend,
my patron and benefactor, were foully wronged.
“Ay, William!—you see I know your name—
you have no idea of my debt of gratitude to that
kind, generous, conscientious, benevolent old man.
You know nothing of me. Your mother was married
and gone before I came under your
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
grandfather's eye; a distant relation, an orphan of scanty
patrimony, insufficient to obtain a proper education.
This deficiency your grandfather made up,
and by his aid I graduated at William and Mary
when you were but a child. Not long afterward
I went into the wide world in quest of fortune, and
here I am. You are not to judge of my success
by this partridge trap. Though not rich, I am not
poor. What I might have been, had I hoarded, I
neither know nor care. I was myself the fosterchild
of charity, and in every deserving object of
it, I see one sent, as it were, by Him whose stewards
we all are, to receive a portion of that unextinguishable
debt I owe your grandfather. I
speak of these things now, because I would not
have you think me an officious intermeddler in
other men's matters, nor imagine an extravagant
disproportion between my inducements and what
I have done, am doing, and propose to do.
“Well, I bought the bill, and sent it to my correspondent
in New-York, with instructions to obtain
English funds in payment. This he did, getting
a draft on a Liverpool house, accompanied
by a letter of advice. The correspondent in Liverpool
was instructed in like manner to take a
draft on Northumberland. This was also obtained,
with a letter of advice, duplicates being furnished
in each instance. Here they are.”
He went out, and presently returned, bringing a
Russia leather portable desk. From this he took
six papers: three of them were the seconds, in
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
common form, of three drafts. One drawn by
Montague on Tompkins and Todd of New-York;
one by that house on Bell and Brothers of Liverpool;
and the third by Bell and Brothers on Mr.
Raby, the possessor of my grandfather's property
in Virginia. The other three ran as follows:—
“To George Balcombe, Esq.
“Dear Sir,
“I wrote you, under date of March tenth, that
the bill remitted by you for one thousand dollars,
drawn by Edward Montague on the house of
Tompkins and Todd of this city, had been paid
by a draft on Bell and Brothers of Liverpool, England.
This draft I remitted, according to your
directions, to my friend John Ferguson, of the
house of Ferguson and Partridge, our correspondents
there, with instructions to obtain, if possible,
from the same house, a draft on the county of
Northumberland. In this he succeeded, by procuring
a draft on Edward Raby, Esq. of that
county, for a like amount.
“Enclosed you have the seconds of the several
bills, and duplicates of the letters of advice accompanying
the same. At my request, Mr. Ferguson
waited on Mr. Raby in person. The money was
promptly paid, but not without a good deal of
grumbling. Nothing very intelligible was said;
but Mr. Ferguson could distinguish in the mutterings
of Mr. Raby such words as, `Harpy!' `Rapacious
scoundrel!' &c.
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
“I begged, as you requested, that my friend Mr.
Ferguson would make a charge, as in the way of
business, for his trouble in this affair. Within you
have his account, showing the net proceeds of the
draft, and the balance in my favour. That balance
is to your credit with me. Hoping that this business
may have been conducted to your satisfaction,
I remain, dear sir,
“Your obedient servant,
“James Langston.
“New-York, June 1, 1820.”
“To Messrs. Bell and Brothers, Merchants, Liverpool.
“Gentlemen,
“A draft drawn by Edward Montague, Esq.,
for one thousand dollars, was this day presented,
and paid by us in pursuance of your standing instructions.
“We have accordingly drawn on you in favour
of Mr. James Langston of this city, for a corresponding
amount.
“We remain, gentlemen,
“Your obedient servants,
“Tompkins & Todd.
“New-York, March 9, 1820.”
“To Edward Raby, Esq., of Raby Hall, Northumberland.
“Sir,
“The draft of Messrs. Tompkins and Todd, on
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
account of Mr. Montague's annuity, is to hand, and
has been duly honoured.
“We have this day drawn on you for the
amount, in favour of Mr. John Ferguson, of this
place. Hoping that it may be quite convenient
to you to meet the draft, and begging a continuance
of your favours, we remain, sir,
“With great respect,
“Your most obedient
“humble servants,
“Bell & Brothers.
“Liverpool, April 10, 1820.”
-- 044 --
CHAPTER V.
The grief assumed compelled her to be kind,
For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,
That she resented first, and then forgave;
And to his grief and penance yielded more
Than his presumption had required before.
Crabbe.
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
“You see,” said Balcombe, “by the dates, that
this is a recent transaction. It is not long since I
received the papers, and I was casting about to
devise some means of opening a communication
with you, when Providence threw you in my way.
I say Providence, because, though I am not quite
so superstitious as Montague, who worships the
devil, and calls him God, I do believe in a special
providence, and look upon such coincidences as
providential and ominous of good. But tell me—
How came Montague to leave Virginia?”
“I cannot answer that question with certainty;
but there were those who could not be
persuaded that all was right, and they looked
coldly on him. His circumstances were certainly
improved; but this, as I understand, was rather
discovered by others than displayed by him. He
was less engaged in business, but had more money,
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
and was more at his ease. He never finessed so
deep, as to affect any embarrassment or difficulty, but
seemed rather desirous to glide into a place among
the first gentlemen of the country. The earliest
manifestation of this disposition was the signal for a
distinct and marked exclusion. He was made to
understand at once that he was not of their order;
and even with the poorer clases, and the very negroes,
(you know their unerring instinct in these
matters,) he could never pass for more than what
Paddy calls `a half-mounted gentleman.”'
“And what became of poor Mary Scott?”
“Ah! were you aware of that matter?”
“Yes, from the first. I could never be said to
be in the fellow's confidence, for I would not have
accepted it: but circumstances made me privy to
it from the very commencement of his amour. Indeed
I did not suppose it had ever become public,
and, in asking the question, thought I might be
giving you a hint of something new to you. But
let me tell you all I know, and you shall give me
the sequel. We must look narrowly into this matter.
Men, as versatile in wickedness as Montague,
sometimes find one crime the avenger of another;
and my knowledge of the parties has inspired me
with a hope, that it is in that very quarter that
light is to break out, and disclose the villany of
which you have been the victim.
“You must understand, then, that when I left
college in 1805, your grandfather, seeking, with
his accustomed delicacy to disguise a benefit,
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
conferred under the semblance of a favour received,
pretended that it would be to his interest for me
to reside a while at his estate on Rappahannock.
There was a fine old house there, somewhat decayed;
there were old supernumerary house servants,
who were never permitted to labour in the
field; there was a tolerable supply of oldfashioned
furniture; and, above all, there were a great many
good old books, which, added to my little modern
library, afforded the means of profitable employment
of my time. In truth, there was nothing for me
to do but to study; and I must have been a dunce
indeed if I had not seen that I was put there for
my good. The place was admirably adapted to
the plan. The vast extent of the estate placed me
in the centre of a wide solitude. I could hardly
be said to have any neighbours; and was, therefore,
not tempted to dissipation. The necessary
exercise with my gun afforded me healthful and
abundant recreation; and, as I had every opportunity,
so I had every disposition to improve myself.
To have done otherwise would have been a
base abuse of unmerited kindness. I was exposed
to one only danger; and from that Montague
saved me. I suppose I ought to thank him, and,
in due season, I will try to show my gratitude in
the proper manner.
“The poor girl, of whom we speak, was the
overseer's daughter. He lived in one of those secondary
houses, which so often form a part of our
old establishments. Drawing his supplies from
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
the estate, he might have saved nearly the whole
of his handsome stipend, had he not lavished so
much on her. She was beautiful and intelligent;
gay, sprightly, and impassioned. As there were
servants, more than enough, she had nothing to
do. She was fond of reading, and read a great
deal; but having access to all sorts of books, and
no one to direct her choice, her reading was, perhaps,
worse than unprofitable. A dangerous turn
for romance, fatally cultivated, was, at once, her
fault and her misfortune; but this did not make
her less attractive to a raw youth just from
college. What might have come of it, I do not
know, but for Montague. I took great pleasure
in her society, for she was cheerful, imaginative,
witty, ardent, and confiding. I have rarely seen a
more agreeable girl, and her beauty was of an
order to make the beholder imagine that the blood
in her veins was right royal. You have seen her?”
“Only in decay.”
“Her person was then majestic; her complexion,
though deficient in the milky whiteness of a
skin which the breath of heaven is never suffered
to visit, was fair, rich, and transparent; her features
were regular, lighted up by an eye of evervarying
expression, to which the tones of her voice
were always in perfect unison. She was gifted,
indeed, with a spontaneous flow of words, which
often gushed forth in streams of fervid eloquence, or
sparkling wit, or bubbling gayety, or deep, lowmurmured
tenderness. In short, she was a glorious
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
creature, formed to fill to overflowing the cup of
bliss of him to whom she might give her heart. If I
ever saw perfect disinterestedness, it was in her. If
I ever saw a woman, whom no consideration could
influence to surrender herself to the embrace of
any but the master of her affections, she was that
woman. I admired her very much; I loved her
very sincerely; I should have loved her, in spite
of myself, with all the fierceness of passion, had she
permitted it.
“It was quite natural that she should take pleasure
in my society; for I was the only person who
could converse with her on the topics which interested
her most. She delighted in poetry. I read
well, and often read to her, while she listened with
rapture. I taught her to read it, and she was grateful
for an acquisition which enabled her to perceive
new beauties in passages, uttered in her own rich,
mellow, and flexible tones. She delighted in knowledge.
I instructed her in such things as she most
desired to know, and enjoyed, for the first time,
that sweetest and purest of all pleaures—that of
imparting to a lovely and beloved female ideas
which are reflected from her eyes and echoed by
her voice; which sink into her mind, and become
a part of it; which refine, and purify, and elevate
her affections; which open to her a new world of
existence, and make her even to herself a new
creature. To do this, is to wield and to brave all
love's artillery. Nothing but pre-engaged affections
can withstand it; and faithful is the heart which
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
even these do not surrender to such an attack.
Such a heart was hers. She already loved—and
loved Montague. She saw the necessity of arming
me against myself, and frankly told me so.
“There was great nobleness and generosity in
this. How many women scruple to make their
sport of the best feelings of the heart of man?—
playing on its chords as on a stringed instrument,
and listening to its wailing tones with a pleasure
hardly less savage than that of Dionysius, at his
artificial ear!! How many women deny themselves
the advantage of playing off a rival against a
favoured lover—alarming his fears, heightening in
his eyes the value of the prize, and thus securing his
fidelity? Had this poor girl done this, she would
have been now the cherished wife of Montague.
“I should have mentioned, that he was a frequent
visiter there. As he attended the court of
that county, where your grandfather's large property
gave him so great an influence, the good old
man invited him always to spend a day at the old
mansion. `It will be of service to you,' said he:
people will see that you are in my intimacy and
confidence; they will think that you are employed
about my business, and will give you theirs.' No
man understood the effect of such things better
than Montague. He had, accordingly, availed
himself of the privilege, even before I went there,
often enough to become attached to Mary Scott,
and to secure her heart. You may suppose, his
visits were not less frequent when he saw one
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
established there who might be a formidable rival
That he loved her as much as his selfish hear
could love, I am sure; at least in the beginning
At first, too, he would have been glad to marry
her. His delay was dictated by proper prudence
for both were poor. But, as his circumstances
improved, he discovered that Scott was even poorer
than he had supposed, having saved nothing. A
certain elderly maiden, too, of tolerable property
and good expectations, was said to look kindly on
him. So it was; his visits became less frequent,
and she was often doomed to the misery of disappointed
expectation. But when he did come, all
was forgotten. Some satisfactory excuse was
found; and he professed to indemnify himself for his
long absence by more protracted visits. In one
of these, I accidentally witnessed a circumstance (no
matter what) which led me to suspect him of dishonourable
designs. The idea that he had accomplished
them did not enter my head. I soon had
cause to fear that he had, and that, but a few hours
earlier, my interference would not have been too
late. I sought a private interview with him.
“`Montague,' said I, `do you love Mary Scott?'
He hesitated, muttering something about the
strangeness of the question. `Understand me, sir,'
said I, `I do not ask your confidence. I would
not accept it. I demand to know the fact, for my
own purposes, and to be used at my own discretion.
Mark me. I do not ask whether you profess
to love her. I know that you do. I have that
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
from her own lips. I demand to know whether
you do love here in very truth.'
“`Oh!' said he, in the mildest tone, `if she has
made you her confidant, I have no need to be secret.
Therefore, I acknowledge to you that I do
love her with all my heart.'
“`Why, then,' said I, `do you not marry her?'
“He paused again. `Speak on,' said I, `and
speak out.'
“`Why, really, Mr. Balcombe, I do not understand
this peremptory tone.'
“`You understand it well,' said I, `and you understand
perfectly that I will have an answer. I
want it for my own purpose, again, and to be used
at my own discretion. Answer you shall. Truly
or falsely, is your own concern. I hardly expect
the truth, and do not care to have it. But I will
know on what footing you place this thing.'
“`Well!' said he, `you know I have a will of
old Mr. Raby's in my hands, in which I am handsomely
provided for by a bequest of valuable lands.
I am, therefore, careful not to offend him; and I
have reason to believe this marriage would not be
agreeable to him. Poor as I am, he would regard
it as a duty I owe to my ancestors not to ally
myself to his overseer.'
“`And is this,' said I, `the reason you assign to
her for your delay to claim her hand?'
“`It is.'
“`Then you have told her what is false.'
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
“`How can you say that?' said he: `I wrote the
will. You never read it.'
“`That is true,' said I, `but I witnessed it.'
“`What of that?'
“`Why, this, sir. It is witnessed only by us
two. What can you claim under it by your own
testimony? Would you, the wary, the crafty, the
selfish, rapacious Edward Montague, have been
content to have a will of lands, under which you
expect to claim, so witnessed? Shame upon you,
sir. Would you palm such a barefaced lie upon
me, as well as on that poor, confiding, generous,
true-hearted girl? I will undeceive her instantly.'
“I shall never forget the grim smile, in which
something like triumph seemed struggling to free
itself from the mire of degradation into which I
was trampling him.
“`You will use your own pleasure about that,'
said he; `I mean to marry her when circumstances
will permit. Before that I cannot.'
“`Marry her you never shall,' said I.
“`Will you take her off my hands?' said he,
with the same incomprehensible smile. I sprung
at him, I know not why. But he darted through
the door, and jerked it after him. I did not pursue
him. I heard him order his horse, and he soon
rode off.”
-- 053 --
CHAPTER VI.
The lovely toy so fiercely sought,
Has lost its charm by being caught:
For every touch that wooed its stay,
Has brushed its brightest hues away.
Byron.
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
“I then went to look for poor Mary. She was
alone; her eyes red, her cheek flushed, her countenance
full of excitement. As I entered, she
brushed away her tears, and tried to assume an
air of playful gayety.
“`Mary,' said I, `will you walk with me?'
“`Certainly; but where, and why?'
“`Where, is a matter of no importance; why,
is what I want to tell you.'
“But I forget myself,” said Balcombe, stopping
short. “Before I go on with my story, I should
ask you, how much of reputation remains to this
poor girl?”
“Of reputation! none. Her fall has been complete
and notorious. Montague's motives for the
concealment of his pretended purpose of marriage,
ceased on my grandfather's death. He then threw
off the mask to her, though he would have been
glad enough to keep the real truth concealed from
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
the world. This he might have done, for their
intercourse proved unfruitful; but when she saw
the whole truth, the fierceness of her long-smothered
passions drove her into a phrensy of despair,
which changed suspicion into certainty. But go
on; I will take up the tale, when you get through,
and tell you all. Indeed, I have no doubt that I
shall understand my own story better, when I
have heard yours. You have already placed it in
a new light, by the view you have given me of her
character. It puts quite another face on her subsequent
history.”
“What! I suppose her conduct, under the influence
of self-reproach and wounded pride, and the
self-abandonment of conscious degradation, has
been mistaken for a total want of delicacy. She
is not a fallen angel, but a born devil. Is it so?”
“Exactly. But go on.”
“Poor girl! poor girl!” said he; “who, that
knew you, can wonder that your native generosity,
and cherished love of virtue and good fame, should
drive you to desperation, when both were lost?
The Spartan boy could suffer in silence, while the
fox was preying on his vitals. But the fox's tooth
is not tipped with fire, like the stings of conscience
to a mind like Mary Scott's. I heard the first
shriek they wrung from her; I never shall forget
it; it told all; and that at a moment when the art
of one hardened in guilt, and practised in self-command,
might have recovered her power over me,
and made me her husband. You shall hear. We
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
went out, and I drew her arm within mine. I
conducted her towards the garden of the family
mansion, abounding in shady walks, bowers, and
grass plats, without speaking.
“`Why do you bring me here, George?' said
she; `and what do you wish to say to me?'
“`That which I was unwilling to say, until we
had reached a spot where any start of emotion
might be unseen by others.'
“`You alarm me,' said she. `For the love of
Heaven! what do you mean?'
“`I did mean,' said I, `to ask a question which
your tears have too plainly answered. I meant
to ask if a time was appointed for your marriage.'
“`That is a most extraordinary question,' said
she, stopping short and letting go my arm. I did
not think it so myself, for I had tried to familiarize
myself with the subject by frequently adverting to
it. My allusions had never before been unwelcome,
and you may judge my surprise, when, after
disengaging herself, she stepped back, and looked
up in my face, pale, trembling, and with eyes starting
from their sockets with a searching eagerness
of expression that seemed to pierce my inmost
soul. She seemed on the point of falling. I took
her hand, and led her to a shaded turf seat on a
plat of grass. For a few minutes she rested her
bowed head upon her hands, and shook convulsively.
I thought she was weeping, but heard no
sob. When at length she raised her head, her
eyes were tearless. The paleness of her face was
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
rendered more striking by one crimson spot on
her left cheek, and her eager gaze had subsided
into a stony glare.
“I now placed myself on the step of her seat, took
her hand, moulded her cold fingers in my own,
kissed them, and tried, by all admissible blandishments
and tenderness of murmured tones, to sooth
her. At length she seemed restored to consciousness.
Her eye, withdrawn from its gaze on vacancy,
looked down kindly on me; a tear suffused
it, gathered to a drop and fell on her hand. Then
came a start, a burning blush, a shudder, and she
was calm again.
“`Mary,' said I, `when, knowing my feelings,
you made me the depositary of the secret of your
love for Montague, you gave me a right to all your
confidence. Have I ever forfeited it?'
“Her eye now turned full upon me with an
expression of the most confiding tenderness.
“`No, George, no!' said she; `in all things you
have shown yourself such a friend, as no man can
be whose friendship does not deserve a better
return than it was mine to make. A better than—'
Again her cheek burned like fire; her voice choked
in her swelling throat, and in a moment more she
was ashy pale, but calm and attentive.
“`I will not repeat my question,' said I; `it is
answered. No time is fixed for your marriage.
And why, Mary? Surely the delay cannot proceed
from you. You are no spoiled child of affluence,
to refuse to share the lot of the man of your
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
heart, however humble. I mistake you much, if
the enjoyment of the wealth which Montague will
one day probably acquire, would be so sweet to
you as the pleasure of cheering and aiding his exertions.
That you love him, I have such proof as
self-love will suffer no man to doubt; nor can he
doubt it.'
“`He doubt my love!' said she, wildly; `oh God!
oh God! No, never! never!' added she, with a
deep sigh, `never can he doubt it.'
“`The obstacle, then, to your union, is suggested
by him. Tell me, then, Mary—you have no brother—
tell me, as to a brother—to one who loves
you with more than a brother's love—what is the
reason he assigns for delaying your nuptials?'
“`I will tell you,' said she; `though perhaps I
am rather betraying his confidence than giving my
own. He has large expectations under a will of
Mr. Raby, now in his custody. The old gentleman
has other views for him; and he fears to offend
his patrician pride by marrying his overseer's
daughter. But the old man is frail, and he thinks
it may not be long before he is master of his own
destiny. He proposes, therefore, to wait one year,
if Mr. Raby should live so long; after that, he
says he will take his own course.'
“`When did he tell you this?'
“`Not an hour ago.'
“`Since your return from the arbour, or while
there?'
“She sprang to her feet, again gazed on me with
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
the same wild eager look that my first question hang
excited; but recovered herself, and sank down on
the step where I had been sitting, while her countenance
assumed the expression of one prepared to
hear the worst. I went on:
“`I, too, have just had a conversation with
Montague. I felt it my duty, as your friend, to
demand one, after what I witnessed this morning.'
“`After what you witnessed!' screamed she
wildly; `what did you witness?—what did you
witness?'
“Again she covered her face with her hands.
“`I witnessed freedoms,' said I, `which, if not
preceded by marriage, should be quickly followed
by it.'
“A wild scream interrupted me, but I continued,
`I saw you as you issued from the arbour. I saw
him take his lips from your's. His arm was
around your waist; and, Mary, to speak out
plainly, I saw him withdraw his hand from your
bosom.'
“I ceased, and she remained for five minutes
with her face buried in her hands. When she
looked up, a bright glow was on her cheek, differing
not more from the marble paleness it succeeded,
than from the burning blush I had witnessed before.
Her eye had recovered its brightness, and her
whole face was radiant with beauty. Her lip,
though she smiled not, was no longer that of one
who had forgotten how to smile. In short, I
ought to have discovered that she was relieved by
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
that I had seen no more. But I was
, or saw nothing but her transcendent
. While I gazed on her, she suddenly
at me, as if trying to recollect something;
, after a moment, fixing her eye on me with all
of a woman's rage, exclaimed,
means this, sir? How have you dared to
into my feelings—to count the pulse of my
and watch its workings?' She suddenly
herself; looked up and down, and around,
a bewildered look; again hid her face, and,
a moment, recovered herself, and said, `For
me, George. Go on.' Here again she be
herself by her obvious fear that she had
so. At this time it appears to me strange
I could have been deceived. But I was not
as I am now. Besides, I had been more in
than I was aware of; and the breath of hope,
in a moment when my sympathy had been
excited, and just when her beauty had
out so intensely, had kindled the stifled fire
bosom into a maddening flame. `My eyes
holden that I could not see.' I accordingly
on:
“`I asked Montague,' said I, `the question I
you, and he gave me the same answer.
answer, Mary, makes it my duty to unde
you. You are deceived. His tale is false.
is no such bequest in that will.'
started as if stung by a scorpion, and with
glowing with indignation, said, `This to me,
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
sir! This to the betrothed wife of Edward Montague!
Why this, indeed, is manly, as well as
kind and generous. But methinks, sir, it might
have been more manly to give the lie to his beard,
than to insult with it a defenceless woman.'
“`Your indignation becomes you, Mary; and
your reproach would be just, were the fact as you
suppose. But I did give him the lie to his beard.'
“`And you live to tell it, and to me!'
“`I live to tell it, and to you, my poor girl. I
convicted him of falsehood, on his own showing,
and he fled from before my face like a guilty
thing.'
“`Fled! Whither?'
“`To hide his shame. He is gone, as I hope
never to return.'
“She made no answer, but sat with a look of
perplexity and amazement, but devoid of the alarm
and horror which her countenance had displayed
before. I resumed my place at her feet, again
took her hand, and moulded and chafed it between
mine for some minutes. At length I said: `I do
not ask you, Mary, to believe what I have said on
my bare word, though when you doubt that you
will believe nothing but your own senses; but you
shall have the evidence of them. I will dog Montague
through the world, and make him give me,
under his own hand, an acknowledgment of the
truth of what I have told you. And when I bring
that, Mary, I will not ask you to give me the hand
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
which he has forfeited; for I know, that, without
your heart, you will never give it, nor without
your heart will I ever receive it. But though I
will not ask this, let me say frankly, that I shall
no longer be withheld by delicacy from endeavouring
to awaken in your bosom the same sentiments
which animate mine. Should I fail, I will
endeavour not to annoy you by a long continuance
of unacceptable assiduities. Should I succeed, it
will then be my pride and delight as my duty, to
make you forget this villain in the devoted affection
of an honourable husband.'
“When I first began to speak she hardly seemed
to hear me. As I went on, her attention was
gradually aroused, and she fixed her large eyes
upon me, which dilated as she gazed till they
looked like moons. As I uttered the last words, a
movement like spasm passed across her face; she
sprung to her feet, exclaiming, `An honourable
husband! and FOR ME!' and with a wild, unearthly
shriek; and tossing her hands on high, she clasped
and wrung them above her head, and fell on her
face on the grass. I tried to raise her, but she
forced herself by convulsive tossings from my
grasp, obstinately burying her face in the high
grass.
“In this position she lay, uttering, at short intervals,
the same fearful shriek. Then she became
calmer, and spoke in snatches, `Honourable!
honourable! and for me! Husband!
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
Honourable husband! and for me! Oh, too late!
late! Oh, to recall but yesterday! But
day! this day! It has swallowed up all my
terdays! All! all! All time past! all
come! All but eternity!”'
-- 063 --
CHAPTER VII.
Pinched are her looks, as one who pines for bread,
Whose cares are growing, and whose hopes are fled;
Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow.
Crabbe.
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
“The blindness of passion itself could not mis
this. The villain had pursued his ob
, with unremitting assiduity, for more than two
, (for I had spent two years there,) and had
length found the unguarded moment in which a
can deny nothing to the man she loves. I
tell you nothing of my feelings. There lay one
the loveliest and most generous of human beings,
by the vile touch which, though it reached
her heart, had rendered all her beauties loath
. Never, surely, had she deserved to stand
in my estimation than at that moment, but
had reached her; the plague was
her breath; and I shrank from her as from a
reptile. Yet I awaited her recovery from
paroxysm of despairing agony, and saw her
home. We entered unobserved. I left her,
to the hall, and immediately prepared to
it for ever.
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
“My preparations were soon made. That
I heard she was ill. The next morning I
to take leave of the family. She heard I was
the house, and sent for me. I found her in
pale, wan, and wasted, as by long disease.
features were sharpened, and she looked as if
age of winters had passed over her. She held
her hand to me, and sent away the servant.
took her hand, not without shuddering, and said,
“`It is kind of you, Mary, to permit me to
you before I go away for ever. I wished to
farewell, and I will not say more. Nay, do
speak. Spare yourself, my poor girl. May
comfort and bless you!'
“She stretched out the other hand, and raised
head as if to kiss me. I turned away.
“`Kiss me, George,' said she, `kiss me,
George. My lip cannot pollute you. Alas!
cannot take away the stain. But I feel as if
touch of lips as pure as yours would sooth
heart. Kiss me, dear George! this once—
once!'
“There was no withstanding this. I turned,
folded her in my arms, never more lovely,
more beloved; never, in my estimation, so
as then. But language has no words for
thoughts and feelings of that moment. We
together, and parted for ever.”
It was now my turn to take up the story,
I did, by telling Balcombe that poor Mary
herself in obscurity from the day on which he
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
A rumour somehow got out that all was not
, and she and her parents alike seemed con
that it was not unfounded. Dejection had
over them all, and they avoided all explana
of the cause. Balcombe was gone; the visits
Montague were discontinued; and a black
seemed to settle on the family.
all this my good old grandfather knew no
. He was not a man to be approached by
; so Scott retained his post, and Montague
confidence. Indeed, he suffered but
in public estimation by the affair. The idea
he had ever presented himself as an honour
suitor to the daughter of a man like Scott, was
current. Those who heard of his amour
that he had but opened his mouth to
the fruit that was ready to drop into it; and
of Mary was rather attributed to his
than to the reproaches of her own con
. But Scott was a man of good feelings.
never knew or suspected the whole
. He only saw that his daughter's peace was
, and that her dejection was immedi
consequent upon the abrupt departure of
. He returned no more, and she was
seen to smile again. She was the object on
all the old man's affections and hopes were
, and his heart sunk and withered under
. He did not long survive it; and
Mary, with her mother and little brother,
to seek another home.
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
They were very poor. The boy was too small
to do more than lighten the household labours of
his mother and sister; and they must have found
it hard to live, even on a reduced scale, and in the
little cottage where they found refuge. Here
Montague was seen to renew his visits. They
were repeated monthly, and filled all the intervals
of leisure between the courts of that county and
the next. No one else visited the house, and nothing
could be inferred of his footing there, but
from the fact, that their purchases of necessaries
from the neighbouring store were larger, and their
payments more punctual. Pecuniary difficulty
did not seem to be one of their troubles, though
there was nothing of extravagance or profusion in
their expenditure.
These things were not of general notoriety
beyond the neighbourhood. In that where I
lived, and where Montague had lived, they were
not known at all. But, when I betook myself to
the task of tracing Montague, I visited all his old
haunts, and sought out all his old associates. In
the course of my investigation I learned the circumstances
I have mentioned. I made two visits to
that neighbourhood: the first before I had learned
where Montague was to be found. I then saw
Mary; but I saw nothing of the charms of which
Balcombe spoke. A black gown, carelessly put
on, disfigured her person; a close cap nearly hid
her face. She was fair, but pale and sallow; delicate,
but her features were sharp; and, though
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
she spoke with great propriety, she said as little
as possible. There was an air of desolation about
her that told her whole story; yet there was that
in her demeanour which bespoke sympathy and respect
for her misfortunes. I did not shock her
with the name of Montague, but I made my inquiries
of the mother, and learned from her that
they knew nothing of his whereabout, and that
Mary was anxious to discover it. When I myself
ascertained it, I called again in passing, and
gave the information.
This was just before I left Virginia. They
would then have been reduced to the most abject
poverty but for the devoted exertions of the son,
who must have been a boy some six or eight years
old when Balcombe left Virginia.
I did not see him, but understood that he was a
spirited, energetic youth, who cheerfully gave all
the fruits of his labour to promote the comfort of
his mother and sister. It seemed to be understood,
that whatever aid the family received from
Montague had ceased when he left the country, or
soon after; and that, but for the exertions of this
boy, they might have wanted bread. As it was,
they had not much more. It may be as well to
add here, that in my visits to that county I did not
make myself known. I might learn, as a stranger,
all that was to be learned, and it might be
desirable not to give any confederate of Montague's
a chance to apprize him that I was searching
for him.
-- 068 --
CHAPTER VIII.
“The gleeful noise of children,
And the glad laugh that from the rosy mouth,
As from a grot inlaid with pearls and coral,
Pours forth its prattling stream, to him were music.”
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
By the time we had got through these reciprocal
communications, Tom made his appearance to
say, that one of the gentlemen to whom he had
been sent had company in his house, and that the
other had been invited to dine with him.
“I am not sorry for that,” said Balcombe, as
soon as the servant withdrew. “Had I known,
last night, who you were, I should not have sent for
them to interrupt our conference; but now all is
safe: we have the evening to ourselves, and may
spare time for a little refreshment. “But, dearest,”
continued he, raising his voice, “will you
send us some wine and fruit? and give us the
light of your countenance too, darling; for the day
is dark, and a charcoal fire gives but a grim fuliginous
glare, uncongenial to wine and friendship.
Bright eyes afford the only light that's fit to drink
by.”
A servant soon appeared, with wine and cake,
and a delicious cantelope, and some rich, mellow,
glowing peaches. The lady soon followed, and
-- 069 --
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we feasted together on these dainties, the appearance
of which seemed hardly less miraculous than
that of the manna in the wilderness.
“I have not thought to ask you yet,” said Balcombe,
“if you remember anything of me.”
“I do not think I have the least recollection of
any such person,” said I.
“That's strange. You were taken to your
grandfather's before you were two years old. His
house was my home until I went to college, and I
spent my vacations there. I left it for the old hall
in 1805. You were then six years old, and I saw
you, for the last time, two years after, when I returned
to take my final leave. Do you remember
the first day you ever put on breeches?”
“As if'twere yesterday.”
“And how you pinned up your hat into a three-cornered
cock, and stuck a feather in it? and how
you mounted a stick horse, and went to take a
ride? and how you would go prancing along the
plank across the mill stream? and how you fell in,
and were fished out? and who fished you out?”
“Was that you? Yes, his name was George;
my George, as we used to call him.”
“Yes, I was your George, and your cousin's
George. Dear little Ann! no doubt she has forgotten
me entirely. She was three years younger
than you. She was my pet, and I was her playfellow,
and her horse, and her dog, and her cat;
in short, I was everything to her, and now, it
is just as if no such being as George Balcombo
-- 070 --
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ever existed. So goes the world! We love, we
toil, we fight, we give our heart, and purse, and
blood for those who presently forget us, and whom
we forget. Of all whose joys and sorrows, whose
strifes, whose defeats and triumphs I have shared,
who is there that cares for me? One, and but
one—Bet. This is a great thing, this marriage,
William. It is the only anchor of the affections
that will hold through the storms of life. Without
this we drift from our moorings, the sport of every
gale of fortune or passion.
`The magnet of our course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which our shivered sail shall never stretch again.'
The harbour of matrimony affords the only safe
anchorage, and he who overshoots that may go
cruise with the `Flying Dutchman.'
“The love of children, too, is the most hallowing
of our affections. We cannot help loving
them if they are good, but to love other people's
children is to sow the seeds of happiness on the
shifting islands of the Missouri. The crop springs
up and flourishes; it is fresh and green over night.
In the morning the land itself is gone. Why do
all mankind detest ingratitude? Because it robs
virtue of her sweetest reward—the pleasure of
doing good, and receiving nothing but affection in
return. Children and dogs alone never disappoint
this hope. They are the proper recipients of that
stream of descending affections which must have
vent. May it not be,” continued he, in a more
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
thoughtful tone, “that they are implanted in our
hearts to enable us to comprehend something of
the love for us which is avowed by God himself,
by the great King above all gods, for us helpless
worms? and how he asks nothing in return but
our hearts?”
He looked up, and after a long pause added, in
a tone of musing enthusiasm, “Like as a father
pitieth his children.”
A tear sprang to his eye, and he remained for
some minutes silent and thoughtful. I said nothing,
for I had never seen a man it was so hard
to talk to. It was impossible to keep pace with
the wild digressions of his mind. By the time I
could frame an observation on any topic he touched
on, he was away to something else; and was most
apt to pause when he had just uttered some thought
that had never entered my head, or perhaps his
own, or that of any other human being until that
moment.
“I wish,” said he at length, “our little Delia
was here. I would let you see how I can love a
child.”
“You have a daughter, then?”
“Yes, a little urchin of three years, now with her
grandmother. Bet, don't you want to see her?”
“To be sure I do.”
“Well, then, let us go to-morrow. By that time,
I think the novelty of this shieling will have worn
out with you, William, and you will not be sorry
to go into snugger quarters. I should be badly
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
off, if I had no better place to welcome a friend to
than this. I am inviting you, indeed, to another
man's house; but I have a right to do so, and can
promise you a cordial reception, on your own account,
as well as mine.”
“You forget,” said I, “that I have other objects
than amusement.”
“Not a whit,” said he. “My proposal is made
in due subordination to that matter, and will be
acted upon, or not, accordingly. Before to-morrow,
I mean to know something of the motions of the
enemy.”
He rang a small hand bell. A servant came.
“Is Henry here?” said he.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then send him to me. God forgive us! this is
Sunday, and but one allusion have I made to him
this day.”
“It would be a good thing,” said I, “if every
sermon preached to-day contained one thought as
well calculated to recommend religion to the heart
as that was.”
“Perhaps! perhaps!” said he, impatiently.
“This Henry belongs to my neighbour H—,
and has a wife here. Here he comes. Henry,
what gentleman was it that came to your house
last night?”
“Mr. Montague, sir.”
“Do you know how long he means to stay?”
“I believe he was going away this morning, if
it had not rained.”
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
“He is in a mighty hurry. Where is he going
to?”
“I hear 'em say, sir, he is going to see Mr.
Jones there, near Colonel Robinson's.”
“How are all at home to-day, Henry?”
“All very well, I thank you, sir.”
“That's all. Bet, my dear, give Henry a dram
if you please. You may add one for the rest of
them, for they have a hard time of it in such
weather as this.”
She left the room, and he went on: “This is
just as I supposed. When I heard there was a
gentleman there, I suspected it was Montague.
Had he been a friend of mine, H— would have
brought him. If a stranger, he would have sent
for us to dine with him, as he could not come.
Business calls Montague this way about this time;
and this visit to Jones may be of some days.”
“Why do you think he will be there so long?”
“Why, to-morrow is court day, and he has
business at court. Jones lives near. He is a really
pious man. Montague is an enthusiast in, what he
calls, religion. A great camp meeting commences
in the neighbourhood on Thursday. Now, Colonel
Robinson is Elizabeth's father; and 'tis to his house
I invite you. So, if we don't scare Montague
away, we are sure of him, for a week at least. So
now to dinner.”
The jingle of plates and dishes had just then announced
the approach of this important meal; so
we recrossed the passage, and found all ready.
-- 074 --
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And such a dinner! It had been prepared, indeed,
for a company twice as large, and it was sufficient
for twenty persons. The saddle of venison
alone would have given eclat to the most sumptuous
feast of a London alderman. The ham of
bacon could not be matched at any table but that
of a Virginian. The etceteras were in proportion;
and then followed a rich plum pudding, with appropriate
accompaniments; and, afterward, walnuts,
peccans, apples, peaches, cantelopes, and
watermelons. To wash down all these, was fine
old cognac, Jamaica rum, and Madeira wine. In
short, it was a feast of fat things spread in the wilderness.
But the great charm was in the welcome. I
seemed to have recovered all my friends. A man,
whom I had not known twenty-four hours, and of
whose existence I had not heard, was now, to me,
the most important personage in the world. There
he sat, full of energy, spirit, sagacity, and penetration,
knowing more of my affairs than any other
person, and prepared to exert to the uttermost all
his extraordinary faculties in my service. All the
difficulties which had encompassed me seemed to
vanish; and I felt as sure of an effectual triumph
over the arts and villanies of Montague as if I had
the will of my grandfather in my pocket. A life of
comfort for my widowed mother, competence for my
sisters, and affluence for myself and my dear Ann,
lay in prospect before me. I was too happy, and the
wine I took, though not much, made the buoyancy
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
my spirits somewhat excessive. My host, who
ate and drank temperately, perceived it, and
from table.
“Come! come! Master William,” said he, “fas
ab hoste doceri. I have learned a lesson from
red neighbours here, which you will do well
profit by.”
“What's that?” said I.
“To keep a cool head in the neighbourhood of
enemy,” said he; “and always to go into
sober. Dutch courage is a poor depend
, especially in a war of wits. We have to do
one who drinks only water.”
He now sent for Tom, and we returned to what
, in courtesy, be called the other room. Tom
.
“Go to Keizer,” said Balcombe, “and tell him,
or no rain, I must see him with the speed of
.”
Tom vanished, and Balcombe went on: “This
,” said he, “is a sort of familiar of mine.
is the only tool of the knave kind I ever work
. Not that I ever use him as a knave. In
service, and in that only, he acts the part of
honest man. I may therefore say, that he is
a friend as few men have; for he will do for
what he will not do for himself. If I wanted
service, there is none so competent, and
would be none so ready. But there are some
actions which a knave is better qualified
for than an honest man can be. `Set a thief
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
to catch a thief,' says the proverb; and this proverb
is true in analogous cases as well as in cases
in point. This fellow has activity, courage, hardihood,
coolness, sagacity, and plausibility. He is
indefatigable as a bloodhound, and never runs a
false scent. Every one knows him to be a knave;
yet, to a certain extent, every one trusts him,
while he trust nobody but me. And the reason is
this: He is bound to me by ties of gratitude. It
is his only virtue. I have done him service, and
he is grateful; the more so, because he has no
cause to be grateful to any one else on earth.
Every man has some good in him. This is his
good quality. It all centres here, and all for my
benefit. Ergo, I have a zealous and devoted
agent, in all things wherein he can serve me. He
will even be true to others at my bidding, and so
long as he considers them as under my special
protection. After that, they may look sharp.
Now, as he knows that I know him, and have no
doubt he would do anything for me, and as I never
require or permit any service that is not honest, he
has set me down as that rara avis, an honest man.
“What I want with him just now, I do not know.
But I may want him; and if I do, I have but to
give him a hint to be on the alert, and, by some
sort of instinct, he will be present at my wish,
whenever the emergency occurs. And, apropos to
the remark, here he is now. Come in, John!
Come in!”
-- 077 --
CHAPTER IX.
The crafty race from Egypt came;
Dark haired, and black browed, swart, and lean;
Of stature small, but sinewy frame,
Active, and little, and shrewd, and keen.
The Zingaro.
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
At the moment I saw a man pass the window.
The curtain was presently lifted, and he entered.
He was a low slight figure, apparently about
twenty-five years of age, with an olive complexion;
, lank, black hair; small, keen, jet-black eyes;
and diminutive and rather handsome features.
He was clothed from head to foot in half-
buckskin; hunting shirt, leggins, and moc
, all glazed with grease and mottled with
. A fillet of bearskin, of three fingers'
, tied around his head, served for a cap.
His long hair partly escaped through this, and hung
his cheeks, and part fell over the top of it.
He carried in his hand a formidable rifle, and wore
knife stuck in a leather case at his belt.
“You are a good fellow, John,” said Balcombe,
holding out his hand without rising; “I sent for
you to come with the speed of light, and you are
here with the speed of thought.”
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
“Why, colonel,” said he, “I went out last night,
just at sunset, and killed an amazing fine buck;
and I heard you had company; so as soon as it
slacked raining, I thought I'd bring you the hind
quarters. So you see I met Tom just at the bars,
and he told me you wanted to see me.”
“Are you going to court to-morrow, John?”
“No, sir.”
“I wish you were. Are you going to the
camp meeting?”
“I did not mean to go; but if you have any
business for me to do I will go to the camp meeting,
and to court too.”
“To tell you the truth, John, I do not know
that I shall have anything for you to do. But I
am going there to-morrow, and I think it likely
enough that things may turn up so, that I would
rather have you by me than any other man in the
world.”
“I should be mighty sorry, colonel, if ever that
should be the case, to be anywhere but right by
you; because, you see, you have stood by me
when nobody else would.”
“We have stood by each other, John, in ticklish
times. A man who will take a turn through the
prairies, from here to Mexico, will have a chance
to know the value of one who will stand by him.
Do you know where Billy John and Black Snake
are camped just now?”
“I fell in with them yesterday, but I did not ask
them where their camp was.”
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
“Could you find them to-morrow?”
“I have not a doubt of it, sir.”
“Well, there's no knowing what may happen,
what sort of men I may want. I shall not
want you sooner, at all events, than Wednesday;
and if you will all be about there, I'll contrive to
you know when I do want you, and what for.”
“We'll be pretty sure to be there, sir; I can
business anywhere, you know, so that my
me is never lost.”
“Well, John, I wish you to understand, that I
not want you to say anything about this matter.
You can keep a still tongue, and so can the Indians;
and with you there, there are few things I'd under
but what I think I could do.”
“If it just depended upon wit, or manhood
,” said John, “I am sure I don't know what
would be we couldn't do.”
“Do you remember that night upon the Ar
, John?”
“Maybe I do,” said John, laughing. “Ah, Lord!
that was a spree.”
“Pray, what was it?” said I.
“Tell it, John,” said Balcombe.
“Why, you see, sir,” said Keizer, “we were
going away out, through the prairies, towards the
Spanish country, the colonel, and I, and them two
devils; and one evening, just towards sunset,
we came down upon the Arkansas. We knew the
were about, because we saw horse tracks
everywhere; and as there were no colt tracks
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
among them, we knew it wasn't wild horses. So,
you see, we took care to march in Indian file.
The colonel, he went ahead, and Billy John was
about one hundred yards behind him, and then
came Snake, about as far behind Billy John, and I
brought up the rear. So when the colonel got in
about a quarter of a mile of the timber of the river,
there they were, sure enough. The Lord knows
how many of them there was: maybe a hundred,
maybe five hundred; all on horseback, with guns,
and bows, and arrows, and shields; and such a
yell they raised as you never heard. So the colonel
pulled up and cocked his rifle, and sat as still upon
his horse as if he had been at a stand for a deer.
“As soon as they came near enough, he let
drive, and downed one of them, that was before
the rest; and that minute he laid whip, and rode
away to the rear, till he got a hundred yards behind
me, and then he stopped and loaded. Indians
do not like to lose a man, especially a chief, and
the fellow the colonel dropped looked like a chief,
for he had a feather in his hair.[1] So, when he
fell, they made a sort of stop, and then rushed on
again. Then Billy John dropped one, and then
Snake took his turn, and then I, and then the colonel
again; and so we had it till we had three shots
apiece. By this time it was getting dark, and they
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
to be rather shy; and after a while they hauled
off, and we came back into the settlements. I do
not know how many we killed; but you may be
sure we did not waste much powder.”
“And were none of you hurt?”
“Lord! no, sir; they cannot shoot. Besides,
their guns were not so good as ours, and would
not bear up so far; and how could they take aim,
when they were just riding helter-skelter, whooping
and hallooing, and trying to scare us. Lord
bless you, sir, a real bush-fighting Shawnee, like
these here, don't mind a hundred such as them. A
man that is half scared, stranger, cannot fight a
man that cannot be scared.”
“Oh John,” said Balcombe, “I beg your pardon
for not introducing Mr. Napier to you. My good
friend Mr. Keizer, William.”
The fellow got up, made an awkward bow, and
extended his hand. I had tact enough to give him
mine, and Balcombe went on:
“My friend Napier must not be a stranger to
you, John. I have often got you to serve my
friends, and now I want to bespeak your good
offices for him, if ever you see occasion. He is a
good man and true, John, and whenever you can
do him a service, charge it to me. If ever he
wants your help, you may just take for granted
that, if I was there, I would help him, and call
upon you to help me; and I know you would not
fail me.”
“You may say that, colonel; if ever I fail you,
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
it will be when I cannot stir hand or foot. You
never said so much to me for anybody else; and
if ever I fail Mr. Napier, it shall be when I forget
you, and that will never be.”
“Thank you, John, thank you,” said Balcom be
with some emotion; “I am sure of that; and now
my good fellow, to business. It is a stirring time
Napier and I have many things to arrange; you
have some of your own matters to fix, and
you have to find the Shawnees. So Tuesday
night, or Wednesday morning at farthest, I shall
expect to hear your whistle. You have not
it?”
“No, sir. I never expected to have any more
use for it, except to call my dog; but it has stood
my friend so often, I should hate to lose it.”
“Well, here is mine,” said Balcombe,
a little rifleman's whistle, made of ivory, about
large as the last joint of a man's thumb. “I always
wear it about my neck, with the same old thong
dressed squirrel's skin. It is better than
or a gold chain. Do you remember that
John?”
“I reckon I do,” said Keizer. “God! the
of that squirrel did me more good than many
herd of buffalo that I have seen.”
“What does that mean?” said I.
“Famine,” said Balcombe, carelessly. “What
does this signify, John?”
He sounded a succession of short toots on the
whistle.
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
“It just means that I am about, sir,” said
.
“And this?”—a long sharp note.
“Danger, sir.”
“Good; you remember the signals. And now,
, another drink, and to business.”
“Thank you, colonel, not another drop; I must
other things in my head now besides
.”
“You see,” said Balcombe, as Keizer left the
, “that he knows the value of the Indian
. The game we play at in this wild region
intricate, and the stake so deep, (for it is
less than life or death, affluence or beggary,
or infamy,) that every man is obliged to
his wits about him. It is like Indian fighting
man to his tree. The eye must never
, the mind must never doubt, the nerves must
shake. The lungs must play freely and
, and the very pulse of the heart must be
in check.”
“Yours,” said I, “must have been a life of high
strange adventure, well worth hearing.”
“Perhaps,” said he; “but not worth telling.
occasionally to stir the blood, but no
strange. Besides, we have other matters
hand just now. I am apt enough to talk about
; and if we are as much together as I hope,
will probably learn all about my adventures
hearing. But I cannot give them to you in
book. You must take the sibyl's leaves
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
as the freakish gusts of fancy or humour bring
them in your way.”
“I observed,” said I, “that Keizer called you
colonel; do you hold a commission of any sort?”
“No; and never did. It is a sort of nom de
guerre, conferred with a corresponding authority
in a time of common danger, by those who sought
safety under my guidance. It is a title I am not
ashamed of.
`A king can make a belted knight,
A lord, a duke, and a' that.'
Honours may descend, and offices may be conferred
on the unworthy; but instinct makes no
such blunders; and men, when environed by peril,
do not put themselves under the command of fools
or cowards. No; I hold no commission of any
sort. I take no part in the scramble for office,
which is now going on at the seat of government,
where they are at this moment enacting the game
of sovereignty, and putting the new state of Missouri
into its first breech. Much such a figure it
will cut as you did. I wish it may get into no
worse scrape. I shall not be the man to help it
out. I am nothing to this people, and they are
nothing to me. I suppose I might have some
office, if I would, and reign a sort of King Cockroach
in this commonwealth of insects. But my
heart is in Virginia, and my home would be there
too, if there were a spot in the state I could call
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
my own. But enough of myself! Let us call
another cause.”
He threw himself back in his chair, and spent
some minutes in silent musing. I did not interrupt
his thoughts, but occupied myself in tracing
their shadows as they flitted across his speaking
countenance. He was a weatherbeaten man, of
about five-and-thirty, who never had been handsome.
A bright gray eye, high sharp features, a
sandy complexion, and sandy hair, were the particulars
that would strike a careless observer. But
the character of the face was in a high prominent
forehead, a flat compressed mouth, and in the
peculiar setting, and varying expression of the eye.
It corresponded with his style of conversation,
which, always serious, but never grave, found a
moral in the most frivolous subjects, and enlivened
his most sober thoughts with whimsical illustrations,
and unexpected combinations of ideas. It
was like
“The smile on the lip and the tear in the eye;”
and, in truth, this association was by no means
rare, either in his face, or in those of his auditors.
But the paradox did not stop there. I had never
seen a man more entertaining, and never listened
to one whose conversation was so fatiguing. My
mind became jaded with continued excitation and
exercise; while his reminded me of a mischievous
romping boy, whose animal spirits will never flag,
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
and who will never let his companions rest. I
was, in truth, not sorry when he ceased to speak.
I wanted an opportunity to fall into my own jogtrot
gait of reflection on the new aspect of my
affairs, and dreaded the recommencement of his
discourse. At length he sat erect, and fixed his
eye on me, as if to speak. I suppose he marked
the lassitude of my countenance, for he suddenly
changed his manner, and said, “Not now—not
now—another time. You are weary, and need
rest of body and mind. So throw the one on your
bed, and the other on a book, and I will not disturb
you.”
I took his advice; the letters presently began
to crawl over the page, and I was soon asleep. I
awoke to coffee, and felt quite refreshed by a cup
or two.
eaf402v1.n1[1] This badge of chieftainship (a single eagle's feather) is common
to the Scotch Highlander and the North American savage.
It is a remarkable coincidence, traceable, no doubt, in both cases,
to the same association of ideas.
-- 087 --
CHAPTER X.
There was a youth, whom I had loved so long,
That when I loved him not I cannot say.
Mid the green mountains many and many a song
We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May.
When we began to tire of childish play,
We seemed still more and more to prize each other.
And I, in truth, did love him like a brother,
For never could I hope to meet with such another.
Wordsworth.
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
“Come, Bet,” said Balcombe, “we ride in the
morning; so to bed. And you, William, back to
your den. You are rested now,” said he, as we
recrossed the passage; “are you ready for another
long talk? I see that I am serving you as the
devil served the old woman of Berkeley, whom he
came after in the shape of a high trotting horse,
and carried off on his back. But I had compassion
on you. I saw that you were weary, and set
you down to rest. Now your time is out, and you
must up and ride. `Needs must,' you know,
`when the devil drives.”'
I expressed my readiness to hear him, and he
went on:—
-- 088 --
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“It is your turn to talk now. I wanted to ask
all about my dear little pet Ann, of whom my own
baby so often reminds me; but I saw you colour
at her name, and would not make the inquiry in
my wife's presence. What of her?”
“She lives with my mother since my grandfather's
death. His house, you know, was her
home, from the time she was left an orphan in
infancy.”
“Has she any patrimony?”
“A trifle of pecuniary income, sufficient to complete
her education at some fashionable seminary.
But she has no turn, she says, for the 'ologies, and
prefers to learn the housewifely duties and plain
oldfashioned sense of a Virginia lady, from my
mother.”
“God bless my dear girl!” said Balcombe; “I
would not have her unlearn that preference, for all
the sciences, and all the accomplishments, and airs,
and graces, ever taught at a boarding-school.”
“I suspect,” said I, “her true motive is, that her
little peculium may go to eke out the scanty resources
of the only mother she has ever known.”
“Better and better!” said Balcombe; “wise,
generous, and delicate. I should like her none the
less if there were a deeper motive still.”
I felt my cheek burn; but replied with all the
composure I could master, that I was not aware of
any other.
“I am sorry for it,” said he; “I was in hopes
there was something more, that I, as her friend and
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
yours, might hear with pleasure. I see you speak
frankly, and therefore conclude that no apology for
my curiosity is necessary.”
“There is certainly no need of any,” said I.
“There is something you shall hear, but not, I
think, with pleasure.”
“No evil of her, I trust?”
“None. She is everything she should be, in
mind, manners, person, and conduct.”
“You grew up together in the same house?”
“We did; and the consequence, on my part at
least, was what might have been expected.”
“And on her's?”
“I hardly know how to answer that question,
without making a long story of the answer.”
“The longer the better. You are refreshed,
and I am never sleepy.”
I began, accordingly, and gave the history of
my early love for my cousin: of her apparent
fondness for me; of the strange alteration in her
feelings, and of the anomalous relation in which
we stood towards each other. But as the reader
does not know this, I may as well again tell the
story to him and Balcombe in the same breath.
“I need not tell you,” said I, “that Ann is beautiful.”
“Of course not. In your eyes she must be so.
But she was a beautiful child; and the character
of her face, her large blue eyes, fair skin, and
flaxen hair, was too marked to leave any doubt as
to her style of beauty. Is she tall or short?”
-- 090 --
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“Neither; her stature is a medium, her figure
slight, and her movements agile.”
“Then I have her before me. Go on.”
“Bred up with her, it was, as you foresaw, of
course, that I should love her. Whether it was of
course that she should love me, was a matter of
which others could judge better than I. I thought
she did. In one sense, I know she did, and does;
but how can I judge of the true quality of her
affection, but by her professions? And how can
she judge of it? We have been always together.
Our feelings must be different from those of persons
who live apart, yet love each other. No
yearning for each other's society, such as I am
sensible of at this distance, could be expected to
arise. I have no idea when any change in my
feelings took place; yet surely children do not
love as I do now. In short, like Paul and Virginia,
we were wedded by circumstances, united
in all the habitudes of domestic intercourse like
man and wife. I still remember how we both
cried, when first separated at night. We saw no
sense in the measure then, and I doubt if she sees
it yet. It curtailed, indeed, our enjoyment of each
other's society; but still we were together all day,
and the day's length was the measure of our happiness,
and the night of our dreams of each other.
We were soon reconciled to the change. We
missed nothing, and looked forward to nothing.
“This could not last, though, but for other
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
people, I see no reason why it might not have lasted
for life. It lasted through her sixteenth and my
nineteenth year. Why not always? What can
the heart know of the fierceness of passion that it
may not know then? But sweet illusions, it seems,
can never be permitted to continue. One year
ago, while my father was yet alive, and before the
family were made sensible of his ruin, by the loss
of the comforts or even elegances of life, young
Howard, the heir of that wealthy family, came to
spend a few weeks at his princely estate in our
neighbourhood. He was accompanied by his
mother and sister, and a gay party of young people
of both sexes. He is a handsome man; gentlemanly,
generous, intelligent, and of good principles
and manly character. His sister is a pretty
girl, sprightly and agreeable, and mistress of a
handsome fortune. Visits were, of course, promptly
interchanged, and the two families were much
together at each other's houses, and at parties of
pleasure in the neighbourhood.
“We young folks were all delighted with each
other's company. Ann and I were particularly
pleased with Howard and his sister, and they apparently
so with us. No thought of jealousy entered
my head. A husband, secure in the affections of
a beautiful wife, could not take more pleasure in
seeing her admired, than I did in witnessing the
respectful attention of Howard to my cousin. I
requited it by a similar attention to his sister,
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
which was well received. At the same time a
cordial intimacy grew up between her and Ann,
and between her brother and me.
“Things went on in this way, until I observed a
sudden change in Ann's manner. She was more
grave and thoughtful, and to me, for the first time
in her life, she showed something of distance and
reserve. This, however, was not so marked as to
call for distinct explanation. At times, indeed, I
could not refrain from some slight expression of
dissatisfaction, and this always called forth such a
display of unaffected tenderness and affection, as
satisfied me for the time that all was right. In her
deportment towards Howard there was a change
of an opposite character. She was sometimes a
little fluttered in his presence, and generally seemed
flattered and obliged by his attentions. I hardly
understood these things then, but am now sure that
I describe them as they really were.
“One day my father called me into his room,
locked the door, and having seated himself, gravely
desired me to do the same. He was silent for
some time, and looked thoughtful and sad.
“`My son,' said he, `you are aware how all my
expectations from your grandfather's estate have
been disappointed. You have been too little acquainted
with my affairs to know how fatal this
disappointment is to the wellbeing of my family.
I thank God that the blow did not come upon me
until your education was so far advanced as to
leave its completion within the compass of my
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
scanty means. They are now spent, and you are
the only hope of my family. The expense incurred,
in qualifying you to uphold the honour of
my name and the sinking fortunes of my house, has
been well bestowed, and you will rejoice at having
it in your power to requite it.'
“`Certainly, sir,' said I, `anything that I can do
will be done with all cheerfulness and zeal. I have
not yet mastered a profession, but this life of pleasure
is little to my taste. Under such circumstances
it is criminal; and I will betake myself at
once to the study of the law or medicine, as you
think most advisable.'
“`There will be no need, William,' said he; `a
pleasanter path leads directly to the object.'
“`What is that, sir?'
“`Marriage.'
“`Marriage!' replied I. `I really am at a loss
to see, sir, how the burden of a family of my own
would help me to aid you in the support of my
mother and sisters.'
“`That is only because your modesty, my dear
boy, prevents you from seeing what is obvious to
everybody else.'
“`What is that, sir?'
“`The manifest partiality of Miss Howard for
you.'
“I do not think any greater surprise can await
me in life, than I experienced on hearing these
words. The multiplicity of ideas that came
thronging to my mind would have rendered any
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
answer impossible; but my father saved me the
necessity of answering by going on thus:
“`I consider the visit of young Howard as singularly
fortunate at this time. It throws a gleam
of sunshine on the evening of my days, which
promises that the fortunes of my family will shine
with renewed brightness under your auspices. My
constitution, my dear boy, as well as my estate, is
in ruins. My days are numbered; and sad and
gloomy have been my anticipations for your mother
and sisters. For you personally I had no
fears. I now see that you can not only make
your way good, but secure your mother's comfort,
and afford your sisters opportunities of forming
respectable and desirable connections. In this
you will be sure of the aid of young Howard,
whose attachment to your cousin cannot have
escaped your observation. He has frankly and
honourably spoken of his wishes to me, and she
has received hints which enable her to understand
attentions which are manifestly not disagreeable
to her.'
“You may believe I had no mind to interrupt
this long speech. He might have talked till doomsday.
I continued silent, confused, bewildered,
thinking of everything and nothing, and looking, I
dare say, enough like a fool, to pass for a man
beside himself with unexpected good fortune. I
suppose my father so understood the matter, for he
added, after a short pause:
“`Let me give you one hint about the conduct of
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
this affair. Your attentions to Miss Howard have
not been so marked as to lead her to expect any
immediate declaration. You should therefore preface
it by a proper course of attention, or she may
perhaps suspect that you speak upon some hint.
The truth is, that one of her young friends has
made herself mistress of her secret, and communicated
it to your sister Jane. Anything abrupt,
therefore, might alarm her pride. And now, my
son, take your horse, and join the young people in
their ride.'
“I did ride out, but without any intention of
joining the party, who had gone out long before.
I purposely took an opposite course from their's,
spurring hard, as if to find, in the excitation of a
brisk gallop, some relief to my feelings. The consequence
was, that, at the distance of several
miles, I met the young people, who, having made
a circuit, were returning by the way I went.
Foremost of the party rode Miss Howard, accompanied
by two young gentlemen; not far behind
was a promiscuous and merry company of both
sexes. Behind all came Ann, attended by Howard.
As a matter of course I turned my horse, and
joined the foremost party. I had little to say, and
was so unmercifully rallied on what my companions
called my dejected looks, that I roused myself,
and rattled away like a madman. The young
men presently drew up, and speaking aloud to
some of those behind, waited for them and joined
them.
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
“I would gladly have done so too, but the lady
moved on, and I had no choice but to keep by
her side. I was impatient to get to the end
my ride, but had no mind to increase the interval
between us and the next party. I accordingly
rode slowly; but, ride as I would, they kept behind,
and rather fell back than gained on us. An
occasional turn of the head showed Ann, far in the
rear, hardly advancing, and in close conversation
with Howard. I felt vexed, I scarce knew why
at what, until then, I had always witnessed with
pride; and, rallying my spirits, made myself as
agreeable as I could to Miss Howard. She be
came more animated than I had ever seen her, and
a brisk and lively conversation, during the rest
the ride, made me half forget my chagrin.
“On reaching home I assisted her to dismount
and handed her into the house. I lingered near
the door, and saw Howard perform the same officer
towards Ann. She entered with a flushed countenance,
and in passing, instead of greeting me as
usual with a smile, turned away her head, and hurried
to her room.”
-- 097 --
CHAPTER XI.
To see thee; hear thee; near thee stay;
And hate the night; I know not why:
Save that we meet not but by day.
With thee to live: with thee to die
I dare not to my hopes deny.
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss
Like this! and this!—no more than this!
Bride of Abydos.
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
“My father's account of the matter, then, was
right throughout. But what was I to do? I had
never thought of marrying Miss Howard; but
could I not bring myself to reciprocate her preference?
The state of my father's affairs and of his
health, certainly made the match eminently advantageous
in a pecuniary light. But I had heard my
father account for his supineness in regard to my
grandfather's will, by protesting indignantly that
he had not married for money. Did he then
expect me to do so? Certainly not; but why
might I not love Miss Howard? This brought
the thought of Ann. But Ann was to marry
Howard. What then was she to me? She was
my cousin; the companion of my childhood; the
friend of my youth; and should I not rejoice at
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
the prospect of her escape from dependance and
poverty, to affluence and splendour? Reason said
yes; but there was something in my heart that
said no; and that something I rebuked as selfish,
envious, and base. But it would not stand rebuked.
What, then, should I do? Address Miss
Howard? My father's plan admitted of delay.
Should I increase my attentions to her? I certainly
felt no inclination to do so; but my father's
wishes were entitled to respect, and some little
feeling of pique came in aid of a sense of duty.
The upshot was, that I threw myself down the
stream of events, and, without precisely intending
to do so, left the result to the chapter of accidents.
“In the evening we walked out; my arm by
some chance fell to Miss Howard, and her brother's
to Ann. How did this happen? I could
not tell. I had then no suspicion that everybody
about us was in a league. If, as there is too much
reason to believe, one half of the misery and crime
in the world springs from unsorted marriages,
what have matchmakers to answer for?”
“All women,” said Balcombe, “are matchmakers.
Marriage is their vocation. Woman is
a marrying animal. Some men live by the law;
some by physic; some by divinity; some by the
labour of their hands. All women live by marriage.
It is their only calling, and they are always
ready to further it. The article might perish on
hand, if the market was not sometimes forced.
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
Anything is better than stagnation in trade. A
bad bargain is better than none. A dead stock
must be got rid of on any terms, that the channels
of commerce may run free.”
“You are satirical,” said I. “You forget that
for every marriage there is a lover less in market.”
“Yes; but there is a rival out of the way, and
the fashion of marriage is kept up. Suppose the
next generation of men did not marry until thirty.
Who would marry the women who were growing
old at the same time? They would come under
the denomination of old shopkeepers; and the
fear of this makes them anxious to keep up a brisk
business. The sexes don't deal on equal terms.
It is like buying fish. If I do not buy to-day,
money will keep till to-morrow. But if the
man do not sell to-day, what becomes of his
A man is none the worse for wear
What he loses in personal appearance he
up in intelligence, wealth, and reputation; to say
nothing of his increased knowledge of the road to
woman's heart. As to her, her personal charms
are ephemeral, and they fix the value of all her
other qualities. While she is young and beautiful,
she may be modest, intelligent, and pious; but
when the roses fade from her cheek, she is a prudish,
pedantic bluestocking. Ah! William,
`Man to man so oft unjust,
Is always so to woman;'
and we must not too severely blame her, if, in
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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
weaving the web of her own destiny, she involves
others in its meshes. But go on—go on.”
“I hardly know how to do so,” said I; “the
whole affair is like a dream to me. A puzzle to
decide between things equally palpable, which is
real, which illusive. Scenes such as I described
were repeated day after day, until, I suppose, the
aggregate of my unavoidable attentions to Miss
Howard was no inconsiderable sum, the whole of
which was set down to the account of voluntary
assiduity. I was of course registered in the chronicles
of neighbourhood gossip as a regular suitor,
as it seemed, favoured, and perhaps accepted. At
the same time Howard's attentions to Ann were
, and apparently received with grati
, if not with pleasure. She was perhaps less
, paler, and thinner than usual, but from
I could infer nothing. I had never spoken of
to her but as to a sister. I had known no
difference, but that I loved her better than the rest.
But this seemed quite natural, for I was brought up
with her, and not with them. I had been happy in
her society, but I never analyzed the elements of
my happiness, nor asked myself which of them I
could least spare. The idea of losing her first
taught me how essential she was to it. The idea
of her union to another explained to me the whole
secret of my heart. Had she discovered a like
secret in her own bosom? I knew not: I had no
means of knowing. I had no right to ask; for
what right had I to prefer the suit which such an
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
inquiry would imply? Should I ask her to share
with me, a beggar, the scanty pittance, saved from
wreck of her father's property, which was
enough for her? You perceive the delicacy
difficulty of my situation?”
“I do,” said Balcombe, “and respect the principles
which restrained you. But did not the pro
ingenuity of love suggest some means of
into her feelings?”
“I would have given the world,” said I, “to
how she stood affected towards Howard;
I could not probe her heart. Could I wound
by an indelicate approach to such a subject?
I subdue my voice and countenance to the
of playful raillery necessary to any allusion to
? I could ask, and did ask, whenever her man
was particularly constrained or cold, whether
had in anything offended her; and, when I did,
answers were so kind, so affectionate, and
in such a tone of gushing tenderness, that
that I was as dear to her as ever. But how
was that? Not so much, it seemed, as to
me necessary to her happiness as she was
mine; for of late I formed no part of it. Yet
was happy.
“In the mean time, the necessity for my atten
to Miss Howard seemed every day more and
inevitable, and they became every day more
more irksome to myself. But what could I
? It always seemed that unless I attended to
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
her she was to be unattended. If we walked or
rode, she alone had no escort. If she wished to
make a visit without a female companion, no one
else was ever ready to wait on her. If I entered
a room, and there was but one vacant seat, it was
sure to be near her. In short, everybody gave
way when I approached her; everybody drew off
when we were engaged in conversation, and I was
frequently left alone with her. She is a gay,
sprightly, witty girl, and he must be very dull indeed
who cannot keep up a lively chitchat with
her. It was easy, therefore, for careless observers
to suppose that I took pleasure in her society;
and, at times when self-love is busiest in finding
favourable explanations of Ann's conduct, I have
supposed that she might have thought me attached
to Miss Howard.”
“No doubt she did,” said Balcombe; “and so
you will find, if things have not already gone too
far, in consequence of this mistake.”
“I am afraid they have,” said I; “but I find
comfort in your remark; for I have somehow
learned to place so much confidence in your sagacity,
that I look to you to help me to unriddle this
enigma.”
“It is easily read,” said he. “You have no
doubt that Ann loved you once better than any
one else on earth?”
“None whatever. My doubt is of the quality
of that affection in her young unpractised mind.”
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
“Look into your own heart, and you will find
it there. A woman's love for the man she loves
best is always the exact reflection of his love for
her.
“This supposes affection of some sort on both
sides, and no previous entanglement. Either or
both may be deceived, but if either loves, both
love. This is that union of the heart which God
effects, and of which he has said, `let no man
sever it.”'
“That thought,” said I, “never occurred to me
before. I hope there is something in it. It sounds
like truth, and is too consoling to be rejected,
though I should be at a loss to establish it by fact
or argument.”
“There is no need,” said he. “Great truths
rarely require the aid of argument. Stated
strongly and plainly, they often vindicate themselves.
The empire of truth would be precarious,
indeed, if she were obliged to display her pedigree
and vindicate her title to the learned and
the unlearned. It is enough to show herself incedit
regina, and the homage of all the faithful is
hers at once.”
“I wish to God,” said I, catching the infection
of his confidence in his own views of every subject,
“that you were there!”
“And will I not be?” said he. “Do not you
see, that unless we are totally baffled in our
attempts to unearth this fox, this Montague, my
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
presence will be indispensable? And do you
think I will permit your happiness and Ann's
suffer shipwreck for want of some one to pilot
But let us have the rest of your story.”
“It is soon told,” said I. “The crisis could
long be delayed. Howard's suit, after a
course of delicate but assiduous attention, was
tinctly preferred. Ann pleaded youth,
ence, ignorance of her own heart, and asked
time, which was frankly allowed. Then
my father's sudden death, and mourning weeds,
gloom, and distress, and unmasked ruin, and
desolation. Amid such scenes Howard could
show himself, nor intrude even by letter. He
returned with his sister to their accustomed
dence, and the state of my affairs made it
strange that I did not follow the lady. Indeed,
would not have been without precedent, if the
ruin of my family had determined Howard to
continue his suit, and rendered a visit from
anything but desirable. But he is an
and disinterested young fellow, and deeply
oured. Accordingly, not long before my
ture from Virginia, I received a letter from him
addressed to me, as the head of the family,
nouncing his intention to be at Oakwood on a
tain day, and expressing a hope that the
of his visits at our house might not be
He begged that he might find an answer at
wood on his arrival there.”
-- 105 --
CHAPTER XII.
Oh, not my brother! Yet unsay!
God! am I left alone on earth?
Bride of Abydos.
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
“Up to this time, strange as it may seem, I had
scarcely had an opportunity of speaking to Ann
alone since Howard's attentions first commenced.
I might, at any time, have taken her hand and led
her apart; but I had no excuse for doing so with
a serious face; and to be playful in any manner,
on such an occasion, was impossible. One or both
of my sisters was always present; and, as they
never rallied either of us, there was no possibility
of gliding into the subject. But now, in my new
character of pater familias, and temporary guardian,
a private interview was not only proper, but
necessary. I accordingly mastered my feelings as
well as I could, and, entering the parlour with the
letter in my hand, took hers, and asked her to accompany
me into another room. I led her to a
sofa, and before seating her folded her gently in
my arms, as I had done a thousand times, (though
not for months before,) and kissing her tenderly,
let her sink into the seat. I drew a small foot
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
stool that stood by, and placed myself at her
feet.
“`My dear cousin,' said I, `I have just received
a letter, the answer to which must be dictated by
you.'
“I put it into her hands; she blushed, turned
pale, trembled violently, and pressing her hand upon
her brow, seemed to make a strong effort to compose
herself. She at last succeeded so far as to
glance her eyes over the letter, and then, slowly
folding it, she returned it to me.
“`What answer shall I give, Ann?' said I.
“`You are the only judge of that,' said she.
“`True,' said I, `as far as I am concerned. But
what shall I give for you?'
“`Is it necessary to say anything on my behalf?
' said she.
“`Perhaps not. But I was so anxious to avail
myself of an opportunity to learn something of
an affair that interests me so deeply, that I had
not thought of that.'
“`What can you be desirous of knowing, William,
that I am not ready to tell you?'
“`That was spoken like yourself, Ann; but it
is long since I have heard you speak so.'
“`Long! how so? What has happened to
change my feelings towards one who has always
been to me as a brother, my only brother? And
wherein has my deportment been changed?'
“`I don't know; I cannot describe the change.
Perhaps there has been none. But for months
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
past there has seemed to be an impassable gulf between
us.'
“`A gulf! a gulf!' said she. `What gulf!
Who has placed a gulf between us?'
“`I don't know,' said I. `But whenever I
would approach you, I find myself intercepted by
an unseen barrier. Our thoughts no longer blend,
and the chord of sympathy, that once vibrated
from heart to heart, is severed.'
“`Is it so?' said she. `I was not aware of it.
I may no longer have your confidence, William;
but have I ever denied you mine?'
“`No, Ann; you never have. It is I that have
shrunk from asking it. But you have encouraged
me to ask whatever I wished to know, and I will
man myself to the task. What answer, then, have
you given to Howard's suit?'
“`I cannot exactly tell you; but enough to justify
him in renewing his visits.'
“`And what answer will you give?'
“She hesitated, changed colour, trembled, and
seemed to restrain her tears with great difficulty.
I continued:
“`Ann, dear Ann! if you knew how deep an
interest I take in this question, you would not
withhold the answer. Our lives from infancy
have been spent together; each, as it were, a part
of the other, `like two twin cherries growing on
one stalk,' and shall we separate now?'
“I saw her bite her lip, and her cheek flushed
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[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
a little, while her countenance assumed an expression
of slight indignation.
“`Would you urge me, then,' said she, `to accept
the hand of Howard?'
“`To accept Howard's hand!' exclaimed I;
`to place any man on earth between you and
me! Oh, Ann! who can be dearer to you than I
have been? And how could I endure that any
other should ever occupy that place in your heart
where I have lived so long; where all I know, all
I can imagine of earthly bliss is centred?'
“The fervour of my manner, I suppose, more
than my words, made her at length perceive my
meaning. She started, drew back, and gazed at
me with a countenance in which amazement and
grief contended for the mastery. The latter presently
prevailed, and exclaiming,
“`Oh, William! this from you!'
“The sluices of her heart seemed to open all at
once; and, with a look and air of utter desolation
and self-abandonment, she threw her face on the
arm of the sofa, and dissolved in a flood of tears. I
was inexpressibly shocked and amazed. I tried to
sooth her, but in vain. She wept, and wept on,
speechless from sobbing, until, exhausted, she sank
down on the sofa; and I saw, by her white lip
and glazing eye, that she had fainted. I screamed
for help, and she was carried to her room.
“I saw her no more that evening. The next
morning Jane handed me this note:—
“`What I would have said yesterday, William,
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could I have found utterance, I say now. My astonishment
and grief at the ungenerous conduct of one
I had deemed faultless; at receiving insult from my
only protector, and wrong from one whose whole
life had been one act of kindness, need not be expressed
in words. But I owe it to myself and all
concerned, to insist that the subject of yesterday's
conversation shall never be resumed. I will try
to forget it, and deport myself towards you as if
that conversation had never taken place. Help
me, dear William, to forget that you have ever,
for a moment, thought of being anything but a
brother to A.N.”'
I handed this note to Balcombe, who read it
over and over again with profound attention.
“I believe,” said I, “I have told you all that
had passed, exactly as it did pass; you will then
judge my astonishment at the language of that
note.
“`For God's sake, what does this mean, Jane?'
said I.
“`You should know better than I do, William,'
said Jane, with cold severity of manner; `but I
presume Ann feels, as might have been expected,
though perhaps too keenly, your strange behaviour
yesterday. After what has passed, William, how
could you—'
“`And what has passed?' said I.
“`Why do you ask? You partly know, and
she has partly told you.'
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“`There is surely some strange misunderstanding
here,' said I. `Can I see her?'
“`Not at this moment, certainly, for she keeps
her bed to-day. But I will know whether she will
think it right to afford you another interview, when
she can sit up.'
“`To afford me another interview!' said I.
`This is indeed strange. Doubtful whether it be
right that I should have an interview with one
with whom my whole life has been spent as with
a sister!'
“`A sister, William!' said Jane. `You forget
that your strange words, yesterday, have put an
end to that relation. But I will let her know of
your wish?'
“She left me, and soon returned with this pencilled
paper:
“`To what purpose, William, offer explanation
of what could not be misunderstood? To what
purpose resume a subject on which, after all that
has passed, I cannot listen with propriety, nor you
speak without offence? No, William, that subject
must never be named between us again. You are
soon to go on a distant journey; and I tell you
distinctly, that nothing but a solemn promise not
to renew it, shall induce me to leave my room until
you are gone. Don't force me to this, dear William.
It would grieve me to have my earliest and
dearest friend part from me, without receiving a
farewell which may be the last.'
“Saw you ever anything like that?” said I, as
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Balcombe sat gazing at the paper with a musing
and abstracted countenance. “Dear William!
Her earliest and dearest friend! Are not those
words there? Was ever anything more affectionate,
more tender? It had been just so all the
time. And when she left her room (for of course
I gave the promise) it was still the same. She was
pale and sad, and I saw that she felt for me. In
all things else, her manner was the same as in the
days of our most cordial intimacy. She had kept
her room some days, and I was dreading the embarrassment
of our first meeting. But she dispelled
it all. She met me, indeed, with a slight
tremour; I saw her lip quiver, but her eye was
steady, and dwelt upon my face with an expression
of holy and confiding affection. She walked directly
up to me, put her arms about my neck, and
kissed me as she had always done on like occasions.
Her manner was graver and more tender; that
was all the difference. She rested her cheek, too,
a moment on my bosom, and murmured,
“`Thank you, dear William; thank you for your
promise.”'
“Was no one present?” said Balcombe.
“Oh, yes! Jane accompanied her into the room;
but that very evening she took my arm, and said,
“`Come, let me show you my confidence in your
word. Come take a walk with me.”'
“And did you go alone?”
“Yes; Jane moved as if to go with us, but Ann
stopped her.”
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“And what did you talk about?”
“Of old times; of the scenes and sports of infancy
and early youth; of blended thoughts; of
mingled feelings; of united hearts. She led the
way herself. I could but listen to the soft tones
of her voice, as she poured forth her feelings in
language which showed how much her heart delighted
in such recollections.
“`Dear, dear William!' she said, in conclusion,
`my own and only brother, let it be always thus.'
“You may believe that my heart responded to
the wish. But is it not strange that while she was
thus uttering words that condemned me to despair,
I was supremely happy? It was no ordinary
pleasure; it was a delirium of bliss. I felt, as she
seemed to feel at the moment, as if all my heart
had ever coveted was mine. I responded to her
sentiments, in a like tone of chastened and refined
tenderness; our hearts overflowed in the contemplation
and actual fruition of this new scheme of
happiness; we revelled in all the luxury of perfect
sympathy and unbounded confidence; we seemed
to have found a source of enjoyment too delicate
to pall, too abounding ever to fail; our spirits rose
as we quaffed the nectared flow of thoughts, and
sentiments, and feelings, all congenial; and we
returned to the house, with faces glowing and
beaming with affection and happiness. Is it not
strange? How can it be that this, the paramount
desire of my heart, by which I know that I love
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her, should be reciprocated by her without a corresponding
sentiment?”
“If your metaphysics can find an answer to
that question,” said Balcombe, “I will consent that
you shall believe that she does not love you. As
it is, I have no doubt that her union with any other
man would be more fatal to her than to you. But
I see nothing unaccountable in what you tell me.
Love, disguise it as you will, is the food that satisfies
the heart of love; and that her conduct was
the fruit of one of those strong delusions, with which
love alone can cheat us, I have no doubt. I know
something, William, of the joys of mutual passion;
but never have I experienced, nor can I conceive
a scene of more thrilling rapture, than you have
described. Such things cannot last, indeed; but
then what can? Illusions are dispelled, but realities
perish. But did you part thus?”
“Even so. I had no mind to await the arrival
of Howard; so I expedited the arrangements for
my journey, and, having despatched to Oakwood a
courteous answer to his letter, apologizing for my
unavoidable absence, I took my leave.”
“And your parting?”
“Was of the same character; marked by the
unreserved expression of tenderest affection. I
know no more, I desire no more of bliss, than to
spend my days in the interchange of such sentiments
as she avows and permits me to express.
To me they are all of love that the heart of man
can live under. She calls it sisterly affection. Be
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it so. Let no other come between us, and I
content.”
Balcombe made no reply, but sat buried in
found thought. At length he spoke musingly.
“Well managed! well managed! It shows
hand of a master.”
“What do you mean?” said I.
“I don't exactly know, but I will know.
William; to bed! to bed, and dream of
You shall not be disappointed. Good-night.”
CHAPTER XIII.
Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale fires blaze no more:
No longer steel-clad warriors ride
Along thy wild and willowed shore.
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill,
All, all is peaceful, all is still;
As if thy waves, since Time was born,
Since first they rolled their way to Tweed,
Had only heard the shepherd's reed,
Nor started at the bugle horn.
Scott.
And I did dream of happiness; for I threw my
self upon my pillow, full of hope. I could
for this in part, but not fully. How it was I knew
not; but I found myself relying on the resources
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of my new ally, as on the instincts of a sagacious
log. They are totally different from any faculty
we possess, and quite incomprehensible to us; but
we trust to them none the less. We watch his
movements; we note the expression of his eye
and action; and, whether we would seek our
game, or shun danger, we are sure that he will
admonish us truly and in time. Thus I found myself
noting all the movements of Balcombe's expressive
countenance, nothing doubting, that, by
he time I had gotten to the end of my tale, he
would know more about it than I did.
We had scarcely done breakfast the next morning
before all things were ready for the road.
“I have mounted you on a fresh horse,” said
Balcombe, after handing his wife into the carriage.
“There is no knowing what need we may have of
him. A man who goes on a warfare in this wild
region should be prepared for anything. Are you
well armed?”
“I have a dirk,” said I.
“That will do for to-day; but you must be
better equipped before we go into action.”
“Why so?”
“Because it may be necessary. A canting
hypocrite, when once necessity drives him to overcome
his scruples, is the most desperate of all villains.
Let Montague see us hedging him around,
and it will soon occur to him that you alone are
interested to detect his villany, and that I know
what is known to no one else. If our lives were
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in his power at this moment, they would not be
worth an hour's purchase. But he shall know
nothing of us until I choose.”
“And what do you propose to do?”
“Reconnoitre, and make my dispositions accordingly.”
“Do you still protest against the incognito?”
“That is as hereafter may be. We might throw
away an advantage by disclosing our hand prematurely.
It may be well to give a false lead at first
by way of feeler. But we shall see. Look around
you; do you admire this scenery?”
“It is beautiful, but too uniform. The monotony
of such an extent of champaign country must be
tedious after a while.”
“It would be so, were it not occasionally exchanged
for views of very opposite character.”
“But I see none such in the country.”
“That is because you keep the high roads, which
follow the windings of the prairie ridges. Look
before and behind. Do you not see how very
crooked the road is?”
“I do; but I see no reason for it.”
“The reason is that nature has made a good
road here. A straighter one would require labour,
and we have none to spare on such objects.”
“But the obstacles must be very trivial.”
“Have you a mind to see some of them? Tom,
we are going the near way; if we get to the fork
of the road before you, we will wait for you. If
not, wait for us.”
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So saying, we struck off to the right, and presently
fell into a dim path, which we had just passed,
and which led directly towards a point of timber
into the prairie. On entering this we presently
began to descend a hollow, the sides of which
became steeper as we went, and soon wound our
way down to the bank of a small brawling stream.
Along this our path led. On the farther side of it
a wooded flat of considerable extent; but our
was fenced in by the stream on the right, and
the left by a lofty precipice, rising perpendicuearly
to the height of a hundred feet, and presenting
an unbroken wall of naked limestone. Presently
hill closed in on the other side, and we followed
stream through a narrow dell, resembling in
rugged wildness the gorges of the Allegany.
“What say you?” said Balcombe. “Is it not
is well to compromise with nature, and take such
roads as she gives us, as to battle with these
rocks?”
“Half an hour ago,” said I, “I should have been
incredulous, had I been told there was such a scene
as this within fifty miles.”
“I am glad I brought you this way. Besides,
I told you last night that I liked sometimes to be
the hero of my own tale, and here is the scene of
one of my adventures. Were you ever on a battle
ground?”
“At little York.”
“In company with any who had fought there?”
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“No. I should delight to traverse the scene of
a battle with one of the combatants.”
“Well, you shall have that pleasure. The
windings of this rill will lead us to the place, and
in the mean time I will give you the preliminaries.
“It was five years ago, just after the treaty of
peace with England. The Indians had not made
peace, but we, anticipating it, had become secure
and supine. A poor fellow in this neighbourhood
was standing near his cabin with his wife and two
little children, when a party of Indians suddenly
appeared. They immediately ran for the house.
The Indians, with characteristic coolness, did not
fire, but took deliberate and steady aim at the
door. As each entered, a rifle went off. The
woman fell dead into the house. The man, badly
wounded, tumbled over her. A girl, who was
within, barred the door. The children were tomahawked
in the yard. The girl fired a random shot
between the logs, and sounded a large tin trumpet,
such as was kept in every house to give signals of
alarm. The Indians made off, and the whole settlement
assembled in arms.
“Besides the inhabitants, there was part of a
company of rangers billeted there, among whom
was their captain, as brave a fellow as ever
breathed. I happened to be hereabout, and joined
the party.
“We were soon ready to pursue, well armed and
well mounted. The captain took command of all.
I had some name in the country, as a man familiar
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with danger, and he requested me to take charge
of the rear. In the pursuit of Indians the centre
is the point of greatest danger. There the captain
placed himself. The rear is next in peril,
and first in importance of the whole. I agreed to
take it, if I could have ten steady men assigned to
my command, who should take their orders from
me. There was something like that number present,
who had faced danger in company with me;
and these gladly joined me. Keizer was one.
The march commenced, and the trail led us into
this valley. You see where it stretches away to
the right towards the Missouri. It extends, in
fact, to the river, and there was a populous settlement.
We knew, therefore, that our right flank
was safe, for the enemy, after alarming the country,
would not venture in that direction. On the
left you see this lofty barrier, which nothing without
wings could pass. Just here we were safe.
Not far beyond us was the point of danger. There
comes down from the left a rapid stream, with
high and steep banks, which cuts through this
wall of rock, and affords an opening into the plain
above. At the mouth of that gorge this path
crosses the stream. The rivulet along which we
have been riding bears away to the right, and
here, you see, leaves a wide plain next the hill.
We are now near the spot. A bend in the hill
just hides the ford of the creek, which is not fifty
yards off. Here I halted my ten men, and commanded
them to secure their horses, and stand
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close under the rock, while I went forward to assist
in reconnoitring the ground about the ford.
Let us ride on to it.”
We turned the corner of the rock, and the stream
was just before us. On the side where we were,
the hill came down close to it, affording no more
than room for a single horseman to pass up the
bank to the stream. On the other side the flat
was a swampy thicket. No hill was to be seen,
though Balcombe told me that at the distance of
fifty yards the same wall of rock again bounded the
valley on the left hand. We stopped our horses on
the bank, just above the deep narrow track by
which alone one horseman could at a time descend.
Just below us, on the opposite side, came in another
stream, with high, steep, and muddy banks,
obviously impassable. This ran alongside the
road as far as we could see, leaving barely room
for it between the bank and the thicket.
“You see,” said Balcombe, “that a body of men
on the other side of this stream, if attacked from
that thicket, must fight it out at a great disadvantage,
or push on up the opposite valley, or recross
this stream here. A small force well posted might
check them in front, and ten good marksmen here
could kill a hundred before one could rise this
bank. Here, then, was the point of danger. We
accordingly examined the ground carefully on this
side, and satisfied ourselves that no one had gone
up that narrow pass along this bank before we
suffered a man to cross. A few experienced
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woodsmen then went over, and skirted the whole
thicket as far as the foot of the hill on the other
side, but found no sign that any person had entered
it. At the same time the trail of the whole party
was traceable with great distinctness leading right
ahead, along the way we were going. Now, would
you believe it? the indefatigable, sagacious, vindictive
devils had actually gone on a mile or more
till they issued into the prairie, had made a circuit
to the left, worked their way to this creek and
along its banks back to this spot, and were, at the
very moment, lying within ten yards of our scouts,
as they were examining the edge of the thicket.
“A part had halted right in front, to stop us there,
and half a dozen were here, on this side, just behind
this rock.”
I could not help starting at this intimation; and
looking round, half expected to see the black eye
of an Indian glaring on me.
“You see,” continued Balcombe, “that my little
party could not be seen by them, nor even by us,
where we stand. I explained their situation to the
captain, telling him I proposed to remain there
until his rear should have passed the point of danger.
If attacked, I could cover his retreat, if not,
I could follow. I accordingly advised him to
order his men, if attacked, to retreat this way.
He did not understand my plan, made some foolish
and rude speech, and in my hearing ordered
his men, if attacked, to push right ahead. It was
no time for quarrel, and he was not a man for
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me to quarrel with, so I let him go on, while I
slipped back to my men. I then ordered them to
advance one by one to the bend of the hill, where
they would come in sight of the ford, and to creep
cautiously from thence to trees commanding the
bank. This was hardly accomplished before one
whole party had crossed. Just as the rear disappeared
I heard a shot, another, another, and then
a general firing. At this moment half a dozen Indians
were seen to steal from behind that rock, and
crawling to trees on the bank, to await the return
of our party. Seeing nothing of us, they were quite
exposed, and their backs were to us. My party
were all near together, and I gave the word in a low
voice, `Take time; every man his man, and all together.
' We all fired; but, several firing at the
same man, one escaped. He sprung immediately
behind the rock, and, as it seems, chose a position secure
from us, but commanding the spot where we
now are. I saw Keizer immediately run to the
foot of the cliff, and tipping lightly along towards
the corner which the Indian had turned, he set
down his rifle, felt for his knife, and drew his tomahawk.
In the next moment the head of one of
our men appeared above the bank; and, by the
time his whole body was in view, the crack of a
rifle was heard from behind the rock, and down he
went into the water. As quick as lightning John
sprung over the low point which just separated him
from the Indian, and was upon him with his tomahawk.
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“It is hard to take any advantage of these fellows.
If any man can do it, Keizer is the man.
But he was not so quick but that the Indian met
him, tomahawk in hand. John is resolute and active
as a wildcat, but you see he is a little fellow.
I feared he might want help, and hastened to his
assistance. It was well I did; the Indian was
slightly wounded, and John had lost his tomahawk
in the scuffle. He caught at his knife with his
right hand, but the Indian seized the wrist with
his left, and with the other lifted his tomahawk to
strike. John returned the compliment by catching
his arm, and when I came up they were then holding
each other; the Indian making awkward half
blows, and John holding his life by no better
tenure than his hold on the Indian's arm. The
odds were against him, for the savage was a powerful
man; but, entangled as he was, he was at
my mercy, and I had none to spare just then. I
have very kind feelings towards these poor devils:
I admire their sagacity, courage, and fortitude, and
lament their wrongs and sufferings; but when the
matter is to kill or be killed, we have no time to
think of these things. Besides, the bodies of that
poor woman and her children were still before my
eyes.
“In the mean time, my little party had manned
the bank, and a shot or two fired by them into the
thicket disclosed to the enemy the failure of that
part of their plan. They immediately drew off,
and gave our party leave to bring off their dead
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and wounded. The captain had fallen at the fir
fire, with two or three more. Those who, according
to his order, had pressed on to the front, were
driven back with the loss of two men. In the
rear, the bodies of the five Indians, each lying
his tree, and that of one poor fellow, who
weltering at the bottom of the bank, told
might have happened had we all crossed.
captain, who was brought over still alive, saw it
and with his voice gurgling with the blood
rose in his mouth, tried to apologize for his rude
ness to me. Poor fellow! he lived but a
minutes. How he was avenged we had no
of knowing, for the enemy had carried off
their dead but those which lay on this side of the
creek.”
We now rode on, and I could not help admiring
the judgment with which the savages had
chosen their position. But for Balcombe's stratagem,
the whites could have had no alternative but
to fight as well as they could an unseen enemy.
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CHAPTER XIV.
Prospero.
Come with a thought.
Ariel.
Thy thoughts I cleave to. What's thy pleasure?
Shakespeare.
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
In a mile or two more we recovered the road, re
the carriage, and soon arrived at Colonel
Robinson's. I found him a fine old gentleman,
frank cordiality of manner told me at once
he was my countryman, bred up in that school
genuine hospitality and manly courtesy which
was so long flourished in the tide-waters of Virginia.
He met us at the gate, and Balcombe introduced
by the name of “Draper.” His wife stared,
he gave her his arm, and as he led her to the
, spoke a few words in an under tone. As
as we entered he said to Colonel Rob
, “My young friend may have reason to
that his presence in this neighbourhood
not be known for a day or two. It is
my own head that I have introduced him by
name not his own. I would tell you the true
, but that you might inadvertently utter it in
presence of the servants. I will do so, as soon
your tongue is familiarized to the name of
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Draper. For my part, I have never known him
but by his Christian name, and give him no
other. I have cautioned Bet, and her habitual
silence will secure her from any blunder. So,
Master William, you must learn to answer to your
alias as soon as you can; and you, colonel, must
take my voucher for my friend by such name as I
choose to give him. He shall be known to all
the world for what he is in a day or two.”
“He is welcome by any name,” said the old
man; “and the more so because I infer that his
affairs are critical, and that you take great interest
in them.”
“You are right,” said Balcombe; “and I would
be the most ungrateful of human beings if I did not
make his wrongs my own.”
The evening passed off pleasantly, and I found
myself in the midst of every comfort and every
luxury. The next day was spent in hunting, and
a fine buck was the prize of our toil. Returning
to dinner, a note was handed to the old gentleman,
which he read and gave to Balcombe.
“A note from Montague,” said he, “requesting
an interview on business. Answer it for me,
Balcombe, and ask him to dine with me to-morrow.”
“Has he ever visited you?”
“Never.”
“Then don't invite him now. He is not a desirable
acquaintance.”
“How so? He stands fair, he is in good
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circumstances, and is about to marry into a most respectable
and wealthy family. What do you
know of him?”
“More than he would have me know. Besides,
though I wish to see him in this house and
in your presence, I have that to say to him that
I should not like to say under your roof to an invited
guest.”
“But you will not forget, Balcombe, that my
roof protects alike the invited and uninvited.”
“Certainly not. I shall say nothing harsh to
him. I only mean to experiment upon his nerves
with a sort of invisible galvanic fluid. I am anxious
to have you note the effect of what will seem
as harmless as a bit of zinc or copper; but, depend
upon it, the battery I shall bring to bear
upon him would drive an alderman from a lord
mayor's feast. But trust me, colonel, I shall observe
all decorum. Do you know what his business
is?”
“I believe he wishes to buy a tract of land.”
“Then he will be as gracious to me as an old
maid at a wedding. That's all as it should be.
The effect of his discomfiture will be the more
manifest.'
A note was accordingly addressed to Montague,
in Colonel Robinson's name, saying that he would
be happy to see him the next morning at ten
o'clock.
Soon after dinner a tap was heard at the door,
which was opened by the master of the house,
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when a strange voice inquired if Mr. Balcoml
was within.
“Yes, sir,” said the colonel; “pray walk in.”
He now entered, ushering in a youth of
my own age, tall, slender, and remarkably
some. He was plainly dressed, and soiled
travel; shy and hesitating in his manner, with
countenance which bespoke anxiety and
pride. But I had seldom seen a finer face.
great fault was too much of feminine beauty
which predominated over all the marks of
and exposure. In spite of these, the large
blue eyes, the well-defined nose, and a budding
hardly covered with down, made a face, which
altogether, would have been beautiful in a woman.
“That's Mr. Balcombe, sir,” said the colonel.
Balcombe started at this announcement,
rose, looking at the stranger with a countenance
which surprise was mingled with an expression
strange and curious interest. The young man approached
him, and said, modestly, that he
to speak with him in private.
“In private?” said Balcombe, with some eagerness
of manner. “Certainly, certainly.”
And so saying, he led the way to another room.
He was absent but a few minutes, when he returned
hastily, holding a large packet in his hand.
His whole air bespoke an excited state of feeling.
His cheek was flushed; his eye was flashing
through the remains of a tear hastily brushed away,
and every feature was working with emotion.
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“My dear sir,” said he, “I must beg you to
extend your hospitality to this poor boy. He has
come far to see me, is among total strangers, and
I am persuaded his means are scanty.”
“Surely, Balcombe, you know that you can
command my house.”
“I do; but he does not. He is in affliction, and
needs to be soothed by that kindness which no man
shows with more effect than you. Will you go
with me and speak to him?”
“Certainly.”
They went into the other room. I heard the
form of introduction, but did not distinguish the
name. Then came the frank, kind, cordial tones
of the old man's voice, and all three returned
together.
“You have not dined, James?” said Balcombe.
“I have not,” said the youth; “but I have little
appetite, and am not hungry.”
But the colonel's hand was to the bell, and some
food was soon brought. The young man took a
little, with a dejected air, and then withdrew to a
seat in the corner. Balcombe immediately placed
himself by his side, and in a kind but low voice
conversed with him a long time. The poor lad
seemed to have but little to say; his eyes frequently
filled, and he appeared to command himself
with difficulty. Meantime I conversed with
Colonel Robinson about indifferent matters, until
night came down.
Presently, the short and oft-repeated note of the
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whistle was heard, and Balcombe, rising, looked
at me with a quiet smile, and said,
“All is right.”
“What does that mean?” said the colonel.
“It is Keizer,” replied Balcombe.
“And what is he doing here?”
“He waits my bidding.”
“To what effect?”
“That I don't know; but I may have need of
him, and he is in waiting.”
“He is a sharp tool, Balcombe. Are your own
fingers in no danger?”
“None at all. There are some lurking remains
of honesty and pride of character about the fellow;
and to be employed in meritorious service by one
he respects, is an honour he prizes too highly to
throw it away.”
“That may be so. But I hope you will never
have occasion to use him, when it may be to his
interest to betray you.”
“I would trust him,” said Balcombe, “with my
purse and life as soon as any man on earth. Anything
but my reputation; of that he knows neither
the nature nor value.”
“Who and what is he?” said I.
“He is a man of all work. A black Dutchman
(as it is called) from the mountains of Virginia. I
suspect the race is tinctured with the gipsy blood.
They have the complexion, the hair, the eye, the
slight figure, the activity and hardiness of the
gipsy; and this fellow has all their qualities. You
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get, colonel, that I have more than once saved
's life and he mine; and you surely need not
how the remembrance of common danger
men to each other. I would not advise
men to trust Keizer. For myself I trust
entirely. He will serve me at a pinch as no
man will, and as few other men can. But,
, you are weary, and should go to rest. I
busy, and must go to work. So good-night.”
CHAPTER XV.
And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon: Seest thou
woman? I entered into thine house: thou gavest me no
for my feet. But she hath washed my feet with her tears,
wiped them with the hairs of her head.
St. Luke.
The next morning, at an early hour, Balcombe
my room, and put into my hands the fol
letter:
“To George Balcombe, Esq.
“Among the crosses of a wayward destiny, it
not the least, that for so many years I have lost
trace of the only man on earth to whom I
look for kindness or sympathy. Since acci
has discovered to me your residence, I have
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felt as if fate might have in store for me some
solace for a life of poverty and disgrace. For the
last, indeed, there is no remedy; for the opinion
of others cannot stifle the voice of self-reproach,
nor deaden the sense of merited dishonour. But,
bad as these are, (and they are enough to poison
all enjoyment, to extinguish all hope, and to turn
the very light of heaven into blackness,) they may
be rendered more intolerable by the cold scorn of
the world, by the unappeased wants of nature, and
by the constant view of sufferings, brought by ourselves
on those we love. This complication of
evil has been my lot; and if one ray of comfort
has ever shot into my benighted mind, it came with
the thought, that he who knew me best knew all
my fault, but did not think me vile. But what
reason have I to think this? Why may not the
misconstruction, which conscience has denied me
power to correct, have reached you uncontradicted?
How can I hope that you have not been
told, that the lip, on which, with your last blessing,
you left the kiss of pure, and generous, and illrequited
love, has not been since steeped in the
pollution of a villain's breath? All this may have
been told you. All this you may believe. But,
whatever else may be credited against me, you
will never doubt my truth. No, George; the fearful
proof I once gave that I am incapable of deception,
is not forgotten. Take, then, my single
word, against all the world can say, that that hallowed
kiss `my lip has virgined' to this hour.
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Except the cold and clammy brow of my dying
, no touch of man has since invaded it; nor
one smile profaned it, since in that moment I
consecrated it to virtue.
“You will not, then, disdain to hear the sad
of the poor girl whom you generously tried
save from destruction. Oh! had you come to
rescue one hour sooner! But God is just, and
, and good. Pride needed to be rebuked. The
by which the angels fell had rendered me inca
of the happiness of heaven, had it not been
punished here. Pride led me to the precipice.
Pride deepened the abyss below. Pride urged my
; and pride prepared the flinty bed of shame,
, and horror, where all hope of recovered
happiness was crushed.
“To go back to that fatal day, up to which my
was open before you as a book. To return to
that blotted page, which mercy may tear from the
records of eternity, but which memory can never
cancel. Montague never returned to Raby Hall.
His dread of you was succeeded by a dread of my
father. The poor old man never knew, and, I
hope, never suspected the truth. But he had
marked the abrupt departure of Montague; he
saw my dejection; he saw me indeed to all appearance
sinking to the grave; he had known of our
engagement and approved it; and he naturally inferred
that Montague had deserted me. I had
sufficient self-command not to undeceive him. My
first struggle with my feelings (though then they
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triumphed over me) had taught me to control them.
Not that I regretted that then they had triumphed.
No, George; I do not now regret it. As your
wife, cherished, beloved, and respected, I should
have had less peace of mind, than in the recollection
that, on that occasion, I was just to you. But
why should I break my poor old father's heart? I
did not undeceive him; and though his resentment
against Montague burned like a volcano in his
bosom, it never blazed forth. He determined to
avoid the wretch; and when, at my request, he
forbade his return to the estate, he gave him warning
never, as he valued his own safety, to cross his
path. The hint was not thrown away. My father
rarely left the estate, and they never met. The
poor old man soon fell into deelining health, and
pined away, and died by inches.
“I could not disguise from myself that he had
received his death blow from my hand. I had been
the object of his tenderest affection; my misfortune
was felt as the direst calamity that had ever
befallen him; solicitude for my future destiny occupied
all his thoughts. I did what I could to
repair my fault, to sooth the wound I had inflicted,
and to postpone the fatal hour. He attributed all
to filial duty, tearing my heart by calling me the
best daughter in the world, and died blessing me.
“Our means of comfort, and even subsistence,
died with him. His death disclosed the fact, that
his fond indulgence of his darling daughter had
consumed all his income, and even involved him in
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debt. This swept away so much of what he
, that we had little more than the means of fur
an humble cottage on the estate, where the
old gentleman permitted us to take shelter.
father had served him faithfully for twenty
, and he could not see us turned out houseless
the wide world. He accordingly gave us the
for our lives rent free. You may remember
It is Martin's former residence. It is humble
; but sufficient for us, and more than we
a right to expect.
“Here Montague, soon after, sought to renew
visits. I refused to see him, and urged my
other to order him from the house. But she was
by his protestations and professions, and
me to meet him. I felt that, without un
her, I could not carry my opposition
further, and consented.
“It was a relief to me that he had stipulated for
private interview. I could not have dared to
my feelings in her presence; and I feared
from an unmasked traitor. We met, and
approached me, but stopped short, apparently
and overawed by my manner. He did
dare to come nearer, but stood trembling like
convicted culprit. I let him stand without invi
him to take a seat, and merely said,
“`Your pleasure, sir?'
“`I wished to see you,' said he, `for the purpose
correcting a mistake into which I feared you
been led by Balcombe.'
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“`What reason have you to suppose, sir, that
Mr. Balcombe had given me any information?'
“`I supposed so, because he told me he would.'
“`You have great confidence in his word; would
you have me doubt it?'
“`No, Mary,' said he. I felt my eye flash at
this approach to familiarity; he saw it, cowered,
and went on:
“`No, Miss Scott; I do not doubt Mr. Balcombe's
word; but what he said to me, at the
moment of our separation, showed that he had misunderstood
me.'
“`Why, then, did you not follow and explain?'
“`After what had just passed,' said he.
“`Wretch!' said I, in a voice smothered by passion,
not less than restrained by a fear of being
overheard, `one other allusion to that topic, and I
would not ensure your life against a woman's
hand.'
“He was now completely subdued. I had made
him know his place, and beyond that place I never
suffered him to advance.
“`I did not dare then,' said he, `in the excited
state of your feelings, to hazard any explanation
in the presence of a third person.'
“`That is plausible,' said I. `But what room
was there for mistake? Have you, or not, expectations
under that will?'
“`I have,' said he. `If things remain as they
are, until Mr. Raby's death, I shall certainly gain
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a competence that might make us comfortable for
life.'
“This was said in a tone so humble and deprecating,
that I repressed my indignation at the use
of the word us, and merely asked, `How, then, do
you deny what Balcombe told me you had said?
for this is the same story.'
“`His mistake was,' said Montague, `that he
supposed me to have said, that lands were devised
to me by that will. This would have been false,
and he would have known it to be false; but as the
bequest is not of lands, the reasoning by which
he arrived at that conclusion did not apply, as I
could have convinced him, had he listened to me.'
“`And why was this explanation deferred till
now?'
“`Because I was forbidden the house by your
father, As no reason was assigned, I was left to
conjecture his motive; what my conjecture was, I
will not say. I certainly did not suspect the true
one; besides, I will frankly acknowledge, that I
was not, at first, sensible how much my happiness
depended on your acceptance of this explanation,
and of my repentance for my past fault. I come
to offer these, and tender the only reparation in my
power.'
“`And what is that? Food and raiment for
her you have made a widow? The means of subsistence
and education to the poor little orphan
boy, whose fine precocious faculties are wasted in
the duties of a household drudge?”
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“`These and all else that a life devoted to you
can give.'
“`Hear me, Montague!' said I. `Nothing will
I ever receive at your hands. For myself nothing.
No; not a cup of cold water at my last gasp.'
“`Not even my hand itself?'
“`No! that, last of all. No, Montague; without
love I will marry no man. What solace have
I for past errors, but the thought that I was beguiled
by the best and purest feelings of the heart?
And shall I falsify that plea, by sinning against the
heart itself? No; I repeat, without love I will
marry no man.'
“`And did you not then love me?'
“`Dare you ask that question?' said I. `Had
you returned promptly, and before the illusion
which dressed you in qualities different from those
of other men had been dispelled, I might have
heard you gladly. Once dissolved, that spell is
gone for ever.'
“`I will hope not,' said he. `For the present,
at least, I will do your will. What you permit
me to do shall be done. My deportment to you
shall be dictated by yourself, and I will see no
more of you than you think proper. I see that I
must leave you now. What is to be done, I will
arrange with your mother.'
“He left me, accordingly, and after conferring
with my mother, took suitable measures for her
comfort, and for the education of poor little
James.
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“It is not true, George, as some have said, that
love can never die. I will not repeat that I had
loved Montague. You know it but too well. But
when he appeared before me that day, he was to
me the most hateful object upon earth. But it is
true that while esteem lasts affection cannot perish.
It is equally true that that—the grossest crime
that man can commit against woman—is one that
love too readily forgives to love. Of all but that,
Montague had satisfactorily acquitted himself;
and when I saw him, with patient assiduity, devoting
himself to the comfort of my family, without
intruding himself on my notice—without presuming
to expect a word or look of gratitude or
approbation—could I doubt his love? I certainly
did not; and though the frosty barrier which I
had placed between us was never thawed, I saw
that he began to hope, and I took no pains to discourage
the hope, that he might one day recover
his place in my heart. You will never see in this
that he had already half regained it. Perhaps it
was so; for, in addition to what I have said, he
was the only man I ever had loved, the only man
I could, in common honesty, permit myself to love,
the only being towards whom the `strong necessity
of loving' could direct its tendencies.
“About this time good old Mr. Raby died. We
saw nothing of Montague for two months. We
heard from him, indeed; and though he did not
express himself distinctly, we inferred from what
he said, that he had not been disappointed in the
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will. At length he came, accompanying the English
gentleman who now owns this property.
gave me to understand that all was right, and requested
a private interview. I remarked a
alteration in his manner. He had become grave
thoughtful, and formal, and let drop some expressions
which showed a change in his religious sentiments.
In fine, he professed deep contrition
repentance, and a hope that his sins had been
given, along with a full purpose of amendment
life. I received this assurance with great satisfaction.
I am not going to give you the history
my own opinions and feelings on this important
subject. But you will readily believe, that, after
having been made to taste the bitterness of death
in disease and pain, in poverty, in degradation, in
self-reproach, and in the destruction of all my
earthly hopes, I am not the giddy creature you
once knew me. I rejoiced in Montague's conversion;
I saw no motive to hypocrisy, and believed
him sincere. I see none yet, but I know there was
one; for I can never believe that the spirit of God
could dwell with one capable of his subsequent
conduct. He now gave me to understand that he
was at length established in a handsome competency,
and hinted, as it seemed, under some apprehension
of offending me, at a hope to share it with
me. I was not prepared to take the hint, or to
encourage him to speak more plainly, though I am
not sure what answer I might have given had he
done so. My heart, indeed, took comfort in the
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thought, that I might at last emerge from the abyss
into which my folly had plunged me, and there was
more of confiding tenderness in my feelings towards
Montague, than I had experienced since
you left me. I suppose he saw this; and, without
laying any stress on his own hopes or wishes, spoke
cheeringly to me, encouraged me to look forward
to happier days, and informed me that he had added
to the provision made for my mother and brother.
Something followed, which seemed intended to
usher in some proposed favour to myself; but I
stopped him by holding up my needle, as the only
thing to which I would owe my bread. He seemed
mortified and perplexed, complained of my obduracy,
and lamented that it debarred him from asking
of me a service that no other could render. I
told him that my situation was already irksome
enough, to make me glad to find any proper opportunity
to serve him, and avowed my readiness and
wish to do so. He then placed in my hand a
packet, as large, perhaps, as a dozen newspapers,
enveloped in strong brown paper, and well secured
with twine and seals. This he asked me to keep,
and I promised to do so.
“`I wish you to promise further,' said he, `that
no eye shall see the contents of that packet.'
“I did so. He mused a while, and then added:
“`It is of great importance to me that that packet
should never see the light.'
“`Then why not destroy it?' said I.
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“`I don't wish to destroy it,' said he; `it may
be of some importance hereafter. Put it away.'
“I took it to my room, and locked it up. On
my return, he again conversed about other matters
until he rose to take leave. He paused at the door
and said, hesitatingly:
“`Perhaps you had better destroy that packet.'
“`I will do so.'
“He turned, paused again, and said,
“`No! maybe better not.'
“`As you please; which shall I do?'
“`I really do not know,' said he, after a thoughtful
pause. `Do as you will with it. If it is in
your way, throw it in the fire. If not, keep it till
I call for it.'
“`Very well,' said I; `I will do so.'
“He turned, as if to go away; came back, and,
standing before me, looked at me earnestly and
doubtingly.
“`Mary,' said he, `will you remember these
promises?'
“`Certainly,' said I, offended at once by the implied
doubt, and the forbidden familiarity with my
name.
“`Were not my confidence as great in your
word as in another's oath, so great is the importance
of that promise, that I would ask you to bind
it with an oath.'
“`Your words,' said I, `imply the very doubt
you disavow. But are you yet to know me, Montague?
My words are all spoken in the presence
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of God. What I aver, and what I promise, is as
an oath. God has heard me, without being invoked.
My promise has been given in his presence.
It is not form that gives an oath its obligation
on the conscience.'
“`You have sworn, then,' said he. `It is enough.
God is witness between us.'
“So saying, and without waiting for an answer,
he left me.
“I looked after him amazed and perplexed.
Was this some new villany? Was his conversion
all pretence? Were my dawning hopes again to
be swallowed up in darkness? There was at
least so much of doubt on these questions, as to
determine me to preserve the packet. On that
point, at least, I was free. As to my promises, I
am not restrained by any blind superstition. I
know that `God hateth a liar;' so do I. I do not
remember that, to this day, the stain of falsehood
is on my lips. But I am no such casuist as to permit
any scruples of that sort to make me the agent
of another's villany.
“I did not see Montague again for two months.
I received him coldly, and he appeared before me
with an anxious and impatient air, as if desirous to
say what he feared to say. I determined to bring
the matter to a point at once.
“`Do you want that packet?' said I.
“He started, and with an alarmed look said,
“`No; nor do I wish to know what you have
done with it.'
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“`But I have no wish to keep it any longer.'
“`Then destroy it if you will. You promised,'
added he, emphatically, `to do so, or keep it till I
called for it. Now I do not call for it, and never
will. So destroy it or not as you please. I never
wish to know what you do with it.'
“Saying this, he left me. From that time forth
I treated him with scorn, and found him always
restless and uneasy. Something of anxiety always
marked his manner, mixed with a double portion
of grimace and sanctimoniousness. But his visits
were now few and hasty, and he always seemed
to go away without doing what he came for.
Whether he wished to resume the subject of marriage,
or to talk about the packet, I could not guess.
In either case my answer was ready. At length
he summoned resolution to ask me what I had
done with the packet.
“`I shall not tell you,' said I.
“`But I really wish to know.'
“`But I have not promised,' said I, `to tell you;
and you promised not to ask.'
“`You don't mean to betray me?' said he, with
an alarmed look.
“`Betray you! I am no traitor, Montague.'
“`Then give me the packet.'
“`You forget that you are not to know whether
I have it.'
“`But I will know!' said he, furiously.
“`What audacity is this?' said I, fixing my eye
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steadily upon him. The look subdued him. He
cowered, and slunk away.
“It was now manifest to me that there was
some wickedness connected with this packet, to
which I was determined not to be accessory.
This unusual explosion, too, made it apparent that
he was becoming desperate, and I was apprehensive
he might resort to violence to carry his point.
The house was small, and easily searched, and I
had no place of security on the premises. But I
found means effectually to put the packet beyond
his reach, and did so. It was well I did. The next
time he came he locked the door, and put the key
in his pocket; examined every hole and corner in
the room; then locked me in, and rummaged the
whole house. All was, of course, in vain; and he
returned to the room, wild with rage and alarm.
After this outrage I saw him no more.
“I soon heard that he had left the country; but
never knew, until lately, where he was. In the
mean time my mother's pension was stopped. I
suppose he thought no new provocatien could
make matters any worse; and that it was better
to escape the consequences of disclosure, than to
make a vain attempt to sooth me. I think, too, he
did me the justice to suppose that his baseness
would not make me regardless of my word. But
had I been so, I have no one to advise with—no
means of conjecturing what may be the nature of
this mysterious packet, or whose interests it may
affect. Thirteen years of perfect seclusion from
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the world, during which our little dwelling has
been avoided as if infected with pestilence, have
rendered me totally ignorant of everybody, and
everybody's affairs. My needle earns my bread;
my books (which, thanks to my poor father's kindness,
are not few) are my companions. Forgetting
the world, I only wish to be forgotten by it.
“But though my lot must be borne, I am bound
to mitigate, if possible, the evils I have brought on
others. The infirmities of age have come upon
my mother; and poor James, taken from school,
where his improvement justified my estimate of
his capacity, has been forced to seek an employment,
the wages of which just supply her with
bare necessaries. These things ought not to be,
and shall not be if I can help it. James is the
bearer of this. You will see him, and judge whether
he is one who should be required to devote to
the drudgery of a country store, faculties which
might be an ornament to his country. I was
going to add, `and a pride to his family.' But what
have I to do with pride?
“But though the thought of what I am checks
every such feeling, it does not forbid me to know
what I was, and might have been. Humility does
not require me to doubt, that but for Montague I
might not only have enjoyed advantages which I
surrender without a murmur, but that I might have
been instrumental to my mother's comfort, and the
advancement of this poor boy. What he has prevented
me from doing he once agreed to do; and
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he shall again agree to do it, and shall perform his
promise.
“I have just learned where he is by means of a
gentleman who, for some purpose of his own, has
been endeavouring to find him out. About the
same time I ascertained, by mere chance, that you,
my only friend, were in the same part of the country.
The coincidence seemed to point the course
I should pursue. I would gladly have your counsel,
and have determined to secure to myself all the
benefits of it, by doing nothing that you do not approve.
I have accordingly directed James to find
you out, and hand you this letter. He carries one
also to Montague, which contains a demand of a
suitable provision for my poor mother, and of such
aid as may enable James to resume his studies and
qualify himself for a profession. Is this exacting
too much? Of that I constitute you sole judge.
If you disapprove the measure altogether, send
James back as he goes. If you approve it, then I
must ask that your justice and honour may preside
over what is done. Your knowledge of the past,
and of Montague's present condition, will make you
the best judge of what it is suitable he should do.
In making this demand, I do not propose to continue
to hold the rod over him. It might seem too
much like retaining the means of future and indefinite
exaction. I have accordingly placed in
James's hands a second communication, the receipt
of which will enable Montague to recover the
packet. This last will be delivered when you
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direct it, and not before; and I have to ask that
you will direct it when that which is right in your
judgment that Montague should do is done, or so
promised as to secure performance. Poor James
knows nothing of the nature of his errand. It is
not right he should. He knows nothing of Montague's
history. If he did, instead of sending him
in quest of the wretch, I would try to put the solid
globe between them. He is mild and gentle, and
softhearted as a girl; but he is sensitive, honourable,
and brave; and the fierceness of his indignation,
when once excited, is fearful.
“Do I, then, ask too much, when I beg that you
will yourself see Montague, and hand him the first
letter, which James will give you; and that, when
he shall have done what is right, you will direct
James to deliver to him the parcel with which he
is charged. You will perceive that it is not my
wish that this poor boy shall understand anything
of what is done, lest by possibility he might come
to the knowledge of what might drive him to acts of
desperate revenge. The least wrong or insult to me
he would repel and punish at the hazard of his life.
“I am sensible that I have asked no ordinary
service. But I ask it of one whom I once knew
as George Balcombe. If that noble and generous
being no longer exists, and another bears his form
and name, this letter is not to him. Let it be given
to the flames, and let the smoke of it ascend to Him
who has promised to hear the cry of the desolate
and oppressed. I have no right to suppose that
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time, which changes all things else, has wrought
no change in you. But of one thing I am sure.
You can never be so far changed as to add to the
wretchedness you cannot relieve. If you cannot
aid, you will neither injure nor betray the unfortunate
“Mary Scott.
“Essex county, Virginia, July 10, 1820.”
CHAPTER XVI.
“The livid toad,
Cased in the bosom of the cold gray stone,
Lives centred all in self. His world the cell
That bears the image of his bloated form.
The breath of heaven, the cheerful light of day,
To him are fatal. The malignant venom,
Distilled in darkness, on himself reacts,
As skulking malice eats the coward heart
Of him who hates and fears.”
While I was reading, Balcombe walked the
room with a noiseless step, as if careful not to
awaken the youth, who in one corner still lay sleeping
off his weariness. At length he awoke; Balcombe
sat down by him, and they conversed in a
low tone. When I got through, I turned to Balcombe,
and said,
“In God's name! how came you by this?”
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“He brought it,” replied my friend, pointing to
the youth; then turning to him,
“It is proper, James, that my young friend
here should see your sister's letter. You must
trust me.”
“I do trust you, sir. I am instructed to put
myself, in all things, under your direction; and
your kindness disposes me to do so without reserve.
My poor sister taught me to expect a
friend in you who would not serve her grudgingly
or by halves; and I see she was right.”
“Serve her!” said Balcombe, with emotion.
“Dear, dear Mary! dear, noble girl! What
would I not do to serve her!”
“Oh, sir!” said James, “what a comfort it is to
hear you speak so of her! My poor sister!”
His voice choked, he buried his face in the
pillow, and sobbed aloud. Recovering himself, he
went on:
“She is indeed the best woman on earth. But
she is unhappy, and the world, for some reason,
looks coldly on her. She is the best of daughters,
and such a sister as no man ever had; and yet she
seems condemned to bury in obscurity not only
these virtues, but talents that might adorn a throne.
I see nothing in her but excellence; and I have
but a vague recollection of having heard language
applied to her, before I understood its meaning,
which no man of feeling or prudence would now
utter in my presence. But you know her well,
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sir; and it comforts me, and will comfort her, that
you speak of her in such terms.”
“I may well do so, James; for to me she has
been the truest and most generous friend on earth.”
“I rejoice to hear that, sir; it will reconcile me,
in some measure, to the trouble I may give you.”
“There will be little trouble. Montague is in
the neighbourhood. I shall see him to-day, and you
to-morrow. Your business shall be soon arranged
to your satisfaction; and in a week you shall be
on your road homeward. It is not certain that I
shall not go with you.”
“Oh, sir!” said the delighted youth, “I shall be
so glad!”
“Come, come!” said Balcombe, “up and dress.
We have no time for rejoicing yet.”
He went out, and we soon followed. After
breakfast, he directed us to retire to our room, and
desired James to remain there all the morning. I
was to stay until Montague was seated and engaged
in conversation. I was then to loiter in
carelessly, and take my seat without being introduced.
He soon appeared, and as Balcombe had predicted,
was exceedingly gracious. When I entered,
Colonel Robinson was in the act of announcing
his price for the land. Montague saw me,
but finding that my entrance attracted no notice
from others, he gave his whole attention to
the business in hand. He was a tall and powerful
man, and had his countenance been good, would
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have been very handsome. Its expression was
saturnine and cold, and indicated, as I thought,
great concentration and tenacity of purpose.
When I observed this, and compared his athletic
frame with the slight figure of Balcombe, I hardly
knew how to credit the history the latter had given
of some scenes between them. But when I turned
to him, and remarked the cheerfulness, alacrity,
and self-confidence of his air, the covert scorn
that played on his lip, and the hawking expression
of his eye, I saw that it was the falcon hovering
over the sluggish and unwieldy bustard.
Montague made some demur to the colonel's
terms, and attempted to beat him down, but the
other stopped him.
“The only way to discuss this matter, Mr.
Montague, is with yourself. Ride over the land,
sir, and if you don't think it worth the money, you
will not give it.”
In this arrangement Montague acquiesced;
when Balcombe, turning to me, said,
“Two dollars an acre for such land as this! It
is strange how the intrinsic value of things is lost
sight of in regarding their relative value. What is
land good for in Virginia that it is not good for
here? But so it is. Value depends on demand
and supply. So say the political economists,
and I suppose they are right, in all things but one.
When truth and honour abound, they are most
prized. They depreciate as they become rare. If
there be a country where money and honour are
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both scarce, that is your true Rogue's Harbour—
the paradise of successful villains; the proper place
for him who `robs the widow, and devours the
orphan's portion,' and fills his pockets with the
plunder of them who trust in him; the place where
the betrayer of confiding innocence may wed with
wealth and beauty. There let him go, and build
up a name illustrious in infamy! In the next generation,
`time, the beautifier,' which changes all
things to suit prevailing tastes, shall bleach it into
honour.”
This was addressed to no one in particular, nor
did a tone or glance point the meaning to its object.
It was just spoken with that careless air
which distinguished Balcombe, when, giving the
reins to fancy, he suffered himself to be borne
along at random. It was the uniform effect of
these capricious starts to put a total stop to conversation
until he himself chose to renew it. He
now threw himself back in his chair, and seemed
for a moment lost in abstraction. Then his voice
was heard again, breathing, as if unconsciously, in
the deep, low tone of solemn imprecation, these
lines:
“If ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect
May fright the hopeful mother at the view!”
There was nothing in this to revive conversation,
and the silence was dead and startling. Colonel
Robinson at length turned to speak to
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Montague, but remained dumb with surprise. I had
been looking at him all the time. The change in
his countenance was fearful to behold. I shall not
attempt to describe its progress; but when he
perceived that we were all looking at him, the
measure of his suffering seemed full. There he
sat, his stony eye downcast, but with expanded
lids, and fixed on vacancy. An ashy paleness
overspread his face; the very flesh seemed to
shrink to the bone, and large beaded drops stood
on his brow. Balcombe did but glance his eye
towards him, smiled, and, throwing back his head,
whistled a few lively notes. Montague seemed
slowly to recover his consciousness at the sound,
when Balcombe again said, with the utmost carelessness,
“Oh, Mr. Montague! I have never asked you
what became of that will of old Mr. Raby which
was witnessed by you and me in 1802, and left in
your hands.”
Montague looked at him in blank dismay, and
made no answer.
“Was it ever cancelled by him or by his order?”
said Balcombe.
“I—I really do not know, sir.”
“Did you ever return it to him?”
“Indeed, sir—I do not—I cannot remember
rightly, sir, that I ever did.”
“Do you remember the purport of that will, Mr.
Montague? You wrote it, I believe.”
“Yes, sir, I wrote it; but I cannot say that I
remember rightly the whole purport of it.”
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“Mr. Napier,” said Balcombe, turning to me
and pronouncing my name with startling emphasis,
“do you remember the substance of the memorandum
taken by your father of what Mr. Raby
told him about that will?”
“Yes, sir; and I have the memorandum itself
in my pocketbook. Here it is.”
The sudden annunciation of my name disclosed
to Montague that he was in the toil, and again the
same overwhelming agony of consternation came
over him. Balcombe took the paper coolly, and
read as follows: “Christmas day, 1802. Visited
my father-in-law, Charles Raby, Esquire. Was
informed by him that he had lately made a will
revoking all former wills, by which he devised his
whole estate to be divided into two equal parts,
one of which is to be again divided between his two
daughters and their heirs for ever, and the other to
go to the first of his grandsons who should attain
the age of twenty-one, and his heirs for ever. He
added that he had left that will in the hands of a
confidential friend.”
“Does this memorandum correspond with your
recollection of that will, Mr. Montague?”
“I really cannot say, sir; I cannot exactly
charge my memory.”
“I am aware of that, sir; but memory will
sometimes carry things without being charged.
Do you perceive any difference between the memorandum
and the substance of the will?”
“Why, really, Mr. Balcombe!” said Montague,
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in a tone of expostulation, and speaking as if, in the
extremity of his distress, he was beginning to find
courage to ward off the attack of his enemy. Balcombe
suddenly shifted his position, and placed himself
directly fronting Montague. In doing this he
turned his back to Colonel Robinson, but was in full
view of me. In his look there was nothing of menace,
but I felt that I saw at that moment the same
glance of power under which Montague had
quailed when questioned concerning his views on
Mary Scott. I saw Montague's spirit sink under
it, and he stopped short. Balcombe slowly repeated
his question. “I ask you now,” said he,
“whether you perceive any difference between
that memorandum and the will, according to your
recollection of it?”
“I cannot say that I do,” faltered Montague.
“Enough,” said Balcombe. “Colonel Robinson,
I beg you to observe, that, to the best of Mr. Montague's
recollection of that will, written by himself,
left in his care, never returned by him to the testator,
and never, to his knowledge, cancelled by him, or
by his order, it corresponds with the memorandum
I have read. Here is the memorandum, sir; I
will thank you to look over it, see that I read it
exactly as it is, and put some mark on the paper
by which you can identify it again. Mr. Montague,
I will trouble you no further.”
These last words broke the spell that bound
Montague to his chair. He rose, muttered something
meant for an adieu, and left the house.
-- 157 --
CHAPTER XVII.
Hear how he clears the points o' faith,
Wi' rattlin' and wi' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin' and he's jumpin'.
His lengthen'd chin and turn'd-up snout,
His eldritch squeal and gestures;
Oh! how they fire the heart devout
Like cantharidian plasters
On sic a day.
Burns.
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
“What upon earth does this mean?” said Colo
Robinson.
“It means,” said Balcombe, “fraud, perjury, and
of a will. It means that my young
here is Mr. Napier, grandson and heir at
of the friend and patron of my youth, Mr.
of Barnard's Castle in the county of Nor
Virginia; and that he has been de
of that splendid inheritance by the knavery
of that scoundrel, in combination with another, by
whom he has been bribed. It means that I am
to see him righted and to restore him
the home of his ancestors, and that I will `nei
give rest to my eyes nor slumber to my eye
,' till I have accomplished this. But come,
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[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
William, the game's afoot, and we must not slacken
our pursuit; let us see what comes next.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that the fierceness of
your assault may put the fellow to flight, and that
we may have to run him down, before we can bring
him to action again.”
“You say true,” said Balcombe; “we must
guard against that.” He reflected a moment, and
then said, “That will do; it will answer a double
purpose. Come, William, we must take a walk.”
We went out, and I asked what he proposed
to do.
“Ascertain whether Montague will take to his
heels; and if he does, pursue him, and bring him
back.”
“Bring him back!” said I. “By what means?”
“By means he cannot resist,” replied Balcombe.
“I do not understand you,” said I.
“Do you not? Have you not seen that with
my eye upon him he is helpless as a charmed
bird? I could lead him to Virginia, and lock him
up in the penitentiary, if I could travel so far without
sleeping. But I forget myself.”
He put his whistle to his mouth and sounded a
succession of notes, as if carelessly. Nothing
could seem less like a signal; but I observed, that,
as he repeated the use of the instrument, several
times during the walk, he uniformly sounded the
same notes.
“What does that mean?” said I.
“It is a hint to Keizer to fall in with me, as if
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by chance. John is not far off, and a ramble of
half an hour will hardly fail to bring us within
hearing.”
As he predicted, so it proved. We soon met
with Keizer, when Balcombe asked if he knew
Mr. Jones.
“Oh yes, sir.”
“Have you any business with him?”
“I can make some, sir.”
“Do you know Montague?”
“Oh, I know him mighty well, sir.”
“Have you any business with him?”
“None just now, sir; but he is always glad to
see me, for he is always getting me to do something
for him.”
“Well, he is at Jones's. I must see him before
he quits the neighbourhood, and you must find out
whether he means to stay to the campmeeting.
If so, I want to know it. If you find out that he
is going away, you must tell me directly, and let
me know which way he is going. Does he know
you to be my friend?”
“I reckon not, sir; he lives too far off.”
“Then don't let him find it out. Now fork off
at the next path. You and I must be strangers
for a while; and mark this, John: if Montague
talks of employing you in any way, you must be
ready to do anything for him; and if he wants you
to cut my throat, you must undertake it.”
“I understand you, sir. Good-morning.”
We now returned to the house, and spent a gay
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[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
and happy evening. Balcombe's spirits were most
exuberant; and he rattled on, from topic to topic,
so amusingly, that bedtime came before I thought
of it. John did not appear; and we inferred that
Montague, fearing to betray himself by precipitate
flight, had determined to remain where he was.
In the morning Keizer came and told us that Montague
had been in the fidgets all the evening; had
talked of going away; and had only been restrained
by the earnest expostulations of Jones.
His pleas of business were all overruled by allusions
to those whose private affairs detained them
from the marriage supper, and he saw that he
might lose character by going away; he had therefore
determined to stay.
About noon we all went to the campmeeting.
Such things were not known in the part of the
country where I lived; and I almost forgot the
interesting condition of my affairs in the novelty of
the scene.
In the bosom of a vast forest, a piece of ground,
nearly an acre in extent, and in form almost a
square, was enclosed on three sides by a sort of
shed, sloping outward, and boarded up on the outside.
This was divided into something like stalls,
separated from each other and closed in front by
counterpanes, blankets, and sheets, disposed as
curtains. Some of these were thrown up, and
within we saw coarse tables, stools, and preparations
for eating and sleeping, such as piles of straw,
beds tied up in bundles with bedclothes, knives and
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forks, plates, porringers, and platters, loaves of
bread, skimmed-milk cheeses, jirked meat, hams,
tongues, and cold fowls. Children and dogs were
nestling in the straw, and mothers sat on stools
nursing their infants. The whole centre of the
area was occupied by hewn logs, placed in extended
parallel lines, with the ends resting on other
transverse logs, so as to form rows of rude benches.
On these were seated a promiscuous multitude, of
every age, sex, condition, and hue; crowded
densely towards the front, and gradually thinning
in the rear, where some seats were nearly vacant,
or partially occupied by lounging youngsters,
chatting, smoking, and giggling, and displaying,
both in dress and manner, a disposition to ape the
foppery and impertinence of fashion. Of this, indeed,
they saw so little in these remote wilds, that
the imitation was of course awkward, but none the
less unequivocal.
At the open end of the area was the stand, as it
is called. This was formed by raising a pen of
logs to a convenient height, over which a platform
of loose planks was laid, surmounted by a shelter
to keep off the sun and rain. The platform was
large enough for a dozen chairs, occupied by as
many preachers. It was surrounded by a strong
enclosure, about twenty yards square, over the
whole of which a deep bed of straw was laid.
This, as I understood, was intended to save the
bones of those who might be unable to keep their
feet, under the eloquence of the preacher, the
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[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
workings of conscience, the conviction of sin, or
the delirious raptures of newborn hope.
The preachers were, for the most part, men,
whose dress and air bespoke a low origin, and narrow
circumstances. Conspicuous among them
was a stout old man, whose gray hair and compressed
lips, ensconced between a long nose and
hooked chin, could hardly have escaped observation
under any circumstances. He alone was on
his feet, and moved about the platform with a
noiseless step, speaking in whispers to one or another
of the preachers. At length he took his
seat, and the officiating minister rose. He was a
tall, slender youth, whose stripling figure lost
nothing of its appearance of immaturity by being
dressed in clothes which he had obviously out-grown.
The bony length of naked wrist and ankle
set off to the best advantage his broad hands and
splay feet, the heels of which were turned out, as
he moved forward to his place in front of the platform.
His nearly beardless face was embrowned
by the sun, his features were diminutive, and only
distinguished by a full round forehead, and a hazel
eye, clear, bright, and imaginative. He gave out
a hymn, which was sung, and then offered up a
prayer, which, though apparently meant to pass
for extemporaneous, was obviously spoken from
memory, and made up, for the most part, of certain
forms of speech, taken from all the prayers
and all the creeds that have ever been published,
and arranged to suit the taste of the speaker, and
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
the peculiar doctrines of his sect. Then came
another hymn, and then the sermon. It was a
doctrinal essay, a good deal after the manner of a
trial sermon, in which not a little acuteness was
displayed. But the voice was untrained, the language
ungrammatical, the style awkward, and the
pronunciation barbarous. The thing went off
heavily, but left on my mind a very favourable
impression of the latent powers of the speaker.
But he was not (to use the slang of the theatre)
“a star.” He was heard with decorous but
drowsy attention, and took his seat, without having
excited a shout or a groan. I could not help suspecting
that the poor young fellow, being put forward
as a foil for some popular declaimer, had had
his discourse pruned of all exuberance of language
or fancy, and reduced to a mere hortus siccus of
theological doctrine. A closing prayer by an old
minister, in which the effort of the “young brother”
was complimented with a patronising air,
was followed by another hymn, and the temporary
dispersion of the assembly.
In the mean time the keen eye of Balcombe had
discovered Montague, seated, with bare and bowed
head, directly in front of the preacher, and listening
with every mark of devout humility. He rose
with the rest, and, with folded arms, walked apart,
as in profound meditation. He joined none of the
parties that flocked to the tents for refreshment,
but, as if unconsciously, strayed into the wood.
There was doubtless little of hypocrisy in his air
-- 164 --
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of abstraction and thoughtfulness. But how few
of those who saw him guessed the nature of his
thoughts?
I saw that Balcombe kept his eye upon him, and
followed him at a cautious distance, accompanied
by James Scott. At length seeing Montague
detached from the crowd, they quickened their
pace and joined him. He made a sudden stop and
drew back, but soon moved on again, and the
three disappeared together in the wood. I was
much inclined to follow; but Balcombe's movements
were all so indicative of some precise plan,
that I feared to thwart it by my presence. Had he
had occasion for me, he would have told me so. I
endeavoured, therefore, to amuse myself with the
strange anomalous scenes around me, until the
service of the day was renewed.
Now came the turn of the old minister I first
described. The audience had been wearied with
a discourse not at all to their taste. They were
now refreshed, and eager for some stimulus to
help digestion. At first, I thought they would be
disappointed; for he talked for a long time in a
dull, prosing way, about himself, and the church,
and was listened to with an air, which led me to
conclude that he had established a sort of understanding
with his hearers, that whatever he might
say must be worth hearing, and taken with thankfulness.
At length, however, he seemed to warm
by slow degrees; his voice became louder, his utterance
more rapid, his gestures more earnest;
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and an occasional groan from the crowd bespoke
their awaking sympathy. Presently he began to
catch his breath, to rant and rave and foam at the
mouth, and to give all the conventional tokens of
enthusiasm and eloquence. The signals were duly
answered by the groans, the sobs, the cries, the
shouts, the yells of the multitude: some sprang to
their feet and clapped their hands; some grasped
the hands of others, with smiles and tears of sympathy
and mutual gratulation; some fell down,
and were hoisted over into the pen, where they
lay tossing among the straw, and uttering the most
appalling shrieks. The discourse was abruptly
closed; and several of the preachers came down
into the enclosure, and kneeling among the prostrate
penitents, poured forth prayer after prayer,
and shouted hymn after hymn, in which the whole
audience joined in one wild burst of discord, broken
down into harmony by the very clashing of jarring
sounds.
The sun went down on this tumultuous scene, of
which I could not foresee the termination; and,
having lost my dinner, I found it high time to
secure my supper by returning to Colonel Robinson's.
-- 166 --
CHAPTER XVIII.
A sordid wretch,
Who but of fears knows no control.
He shamed not, loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash,
And crouch like hound beneath the lash.
Scott.
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
I found Balcombe already at home and in high
spirits. I saw that he had been successful in the
operations of the day, and was impatient to know
particulars.
“How have you sped?” said I, in a low voice.
“Well,” said he; “excellent well. I will tell
you all after supper.”
But supper passed, and he rattled on till bedtime,
talking, as usual, of everything and nothing,
according to the humour of the moment. At length
the ladies withdrew, when he turned to the colonel,
and said,
“Come, sir, we must not keep you up. Napier
and I have matters to talk over; and we must
send James to bed, and have our conference here.
So good-night, my dear boy. Good-night, colonel.”
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[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
They withdrew, the shutters were closed, and
all seemed hushed for the night.
“Was not Scott with you,” said I, “that you
sent him away?”
“A part of the time; not all. I sent him away
when we came to speak of matters that he must
never hear of. A noble fellow he is, William, and
a rare proof he gave me this day of his delicacy
and sense of honour.”
“How was that?” said I. “But belier, mon
ami, commencez par le commencement—begin at
the beginning, and tell me all about it.”
“Well,” said Balcombe, “you saw us follow
Montague and overtake him. “I wish to speak
with you, Mr. Montague,' said I. The fellow has
sold himself to the devil, and how he will look
when old Cloots comes to claim his bargain, I do
not know; but I should think pretty much as he
did when I accosted him. You know how he
looked yesterday. Add to that the expression of
mortal bodily fear, and you may have an idea of
it. He tried to `clap back,' but I had cast the
spell upon him, and he went on. I walked him
away deep into the forest without speaking. I
observed he breathed hard, and looked anxiously
around. The only living thing he saw was
James, following not far behind, and obviously in
attendance on me. Seeing this, his terror increased,
until he could go no farther. Indeed, we
were far enough, in a remote sequestered spot,
where interruption was hardly to be apprehended.
-- 168 --
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
I accordingly stopped, drew forth the letter which
James had put into my hands for him, and delivered
it. He seemed somewhat relieved at the sight
of it. I dare say he would have been less surprised
to see me draw a pistol. It was long, and while
reading it he seemed to recover from his terror.
In the mean time, James approached and stood
near. Montague at length finished the letter, and
slowly folding it, declared himself ready to do and
submit to whatever might be required.
“`In the first place, then, Mr. Montague, I wish
to see that letter.'
“He started in great alarm, and said,
“`Is that one of the conditions?'
“`No, sir,' said I; `it is not one of the conditions.
It is what, as I have told you on other occasions,
I wish to see for my own purposes, and to
be used in my own discretion.'
“He looked at me and at James, and was preparing
to make a virtue of necessity, when the
noble boy spoke:
“`Mr. Balcombe,' said he, `my sister charged
me to see that that letter was delivered to Mr.
Montague; and I am afraid it is not right, sir,
that I should be aiding and abetting to its being
taken from him.'
“`There is no need of your aiding and abetting,
James,' said I; `Mr. Montague will give me the
letter of his own free will and accord. Your sister
conceals nothing from me that she has a right to
disclose. If there is anything in that letter that I
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[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
know not, it is Mr. Montague's secret, and he has
a right to let me into it if he chooses.'
“`But I am afraid he don't choose, Mr. Balcombe;
and if he gives you the letter it may be
because we are two to one against him, and he
cannot help himself.'
“`You say true, James,' said I; `it might have
that appearance. So go to the house, my dear
fellow, and make yourself easy. All will go smooth
between Mr. Montague and me.'
“He left us, and when he was entirely out of
sight and hearing I turned to Montague:
“`Mr. Montague,' said I, `I now repeat, that I
must have a sight of that letter for my own purposes,
and to be used in my own discretion.'
“`Really, Mr. Balcombe—”
“`Hand me the letter, if you please,' said I,
quite mildly. I looked steadily in his face, and
held out my hand until I felt the letter touch my
fingers. I took it, and said,
“`Compose yourself, Mr. Montague. Sit down
on this log and calm your mind, sir. We will talk
the matter over presently.'
“I read the letter over at my leisure, and again
addressed him:
“`It seems that I am made a sort of umpire in
this business, sir.'
“`You are,' said he; `and I submit to your umpirage.
I will do whatever you may think it right
to require of me, on condition that at the same
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[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
moment the parcel there spoken of shall be handed to
me.'
“`I require nothing else,' said I.
“`What, then, am I to do?' inquired he.
“`To come directly to the point, sir, I shall expect
you to advance one thousand dollars in hand
for the relief of this distressed family, and to deliver
me ten bonds, for three hundred dollars each,
payable to James Scott, at the end of each of ten
successive years from this date, with good security
to each bond.'
“`But where am I to get so much money?' said
he.
“`Oh, quite easily. I will advance the thousand
dollars on a draft on Tompkins and Todd of New-York;
or, if you please, directly on Bell and Brothers
of Liverpool; or more directly yet, sir, on
Edward Raby, Esquire, of Raby Hall, in the county
of Northumberland, in England.”'
I here interrupted Balcombe by exclaiming,
“How did he stand that?”
“Exactly as I wished. At first he seemed about
to sink into annihilation; then a sort of reaction
took place, and he showed more spirit than I ever
saw him manifest. His eye glared like that of a
pent-up cat; and I dare say, if he had seen mine
blench, there might have been some danger from
his great strength, at a moment when cowardly
ferocity—the very fierceness of terror and despair—
supplied the place of courage.
“But I looked him down; a collapse came on,
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and he wept and blubbered like a bad boy who is
tied to the bedpost, and, after all his biting and
kicking, finds he cannot get loose.”
“But what motive had you for a taunt which
might drive him to desperation?”
“Precisely that. I wish the advantage over him
which desperation gives.”
“But is there no danger that his desperation
will seek some advantage of you?”
“Why, we must run that risk. It is only in the
game of lives that openness and boldness have the
benefit of their superiority over craft and cowardice.
Let us play for chinquapins, and he will beat
me from morning till night. Make life the stake,
and he won't know one card from another.”
“Well, how did the affair terminate?”
“Oh! very well. He came to himself at length,
and professed all willingness to do the needful.
But he must have time to look for the proper security.
To this I agreed. He then mused awhile,
and looking round with an eye that seemed to note
the privacy of the spot, he said,
“`Meet me here, then, on Saturday evening at
sunset precisely, and I will deliver the money and
bonds, and receive the parcel. But where is
that?'
“`James Scott has it.'
“`He will accompany you, then?'
“`Yes, unless you will authorize me to receive
the parcel from him on your account.'
“He seemed alarmed at the bare thought, and
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exclaimed against it, saying that he wished to see
James. I therefore promised to take him there.
In truth, I should not like to trust myself with such
a temptation as the possession of that parcel might
present. But no matter! I shall catch the villain
in his own snare.”
“Did you return the letter to Montague?”
“Oh, that's true! No, here it is.”
He handed it to me, and we proceeded to make
a copy of it. It was as follows:—
“It is not the purpose of this letter to reproach
you with your crimes, or to degrade myself by
fruitless complaint of the wretchedness they have
brought upon me. My weak voice can add no
terrors to the thunders of conscience. The history
of my sufferings would be superfluous. So
far as you are capable of comprehending them, you
already know them. The want of the necessaries
of life you can appreciate. Of the sting of self-reproach
to a conscience not rendered callous by
crime, of the deep sense of irreparable dishonour,
of the misery of witnessing distress brought by
our fault on those we love, you can form no conception.
“But you once professed to be so far sensible
of these things as to acknowledge an obligation to
repair, as far as practicable, the mischief you had
done. How you since have evaded the effect of
that acknowledgement you know. With that,
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too, I don't mean to reproach you. My business
is with justice—not revenge.
“In demanding justice I will do justice. Of the
nature of the packet you once placed in my hands
I know nothing. That its concealment enables
you to work some iniquity I suspect, but to whom
I know not. The possession of it, unsought by
me, is at this moment only retained as the means
of enforcing what you yourself know and have
acknowledged to be justice. That done, it shall
be restored to you.
“This will be handed to you by one who knows
my wrongs, and can judge of the true measure of
retribution. My brother, who will hand it to him,
carries also a parcel for you, the receipt of which
will enable you to regain the packet.
“It is not in my hands: I put it away out of the
reach of your violence. It is in the hands of one
who will deliver it only on the presentation of a certain
token. That token is contained in the parcel
placed in my brother's hands, and there also is the
name of the depositary of the packet. When you
shall have done that which, in the judgment of Mr.
Balcombe, you ought to do, that parcel will be
handed to you. I commit you to him. You know
that you can confide in his honour, and with him
you will not dare to palter. Having fulfilled his
requisitions, never again, until you stand at the bar
of God, will you hear the name of
“Mary Scott.”
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This letter was addressed, “To Edward Montague,
by the hands of George Balcombe, Esq.”
Having copied it, I returned to Balcombe.
“And now,” said I, “what is next to be done?
That packet, doubtless, contains my grandfather's
will.”
“I think so.”
“And the means of recovering it are now in
this house, and in the possession of young Scott.”
“Even so.”
“Shall we, then, let them go out of his hands?”
“What shall we do? We must not pick Scott's
pockets as he sleeps.”
“Certainly not.”
“I very much doubt whether he will give up the
parcel even to me. He is charged to give it to
no one but Montague; and he showed me plainly
to-day that he is more apt to go beyond the mere
letter of his engagement than to fall short.”
“I admire and honour his scruples. But would
they not give way, if he were made acquainted
with the true character of the transaction. What
if you were to tell him all you have told me?”
“He would cut Montague's throat, which would
be no great matter; but then he would cut his
own too. That boy could not live after hearing
the history of his sister's dishonour.”
“What, then, shall we do?”
“End as we have begun. Do the right thing,
come what will of it. But, if we can make the
wickedness of others give us a right to do what
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might otherwise be wrong, I believe my casuistry
will bear me out.”
“I cannot say that I understand you,” said I;
“but I see you full of confidence, and am sure
that you understand yourself.”
“I do,” said he. “I am now sitting up here to
see Keizer.”
“Do you expect him here?”
“Yes; he has orders to come at midnight. I
expect to hear him every moment.”
The expectation was not disappointed. The
whistle was soon heard, and Balcombe, leaving
the room, went out by a back way, and soon returned,
conducting Keizer in the dark.
“You have seen no one as you came?” said
Balcombe.
“Not a creature, sir.”
“And no one knows of your having any conference
with me?”
“Not a word, sir.”
“Where do you stay?”
“At the camp, with the Indians.”
“That's well. Have you seen Montague
lately?”
“I saw him this evening.”
“Any talk about business?”
“Nothing very particular; only he gave me to
understand he should like to see me to-morrow.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Oh, I told him, sir, that I always liked to do
business for a real gentleman, like him; and that
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he might depend on me to do anything that I
could for him; and I told him, too, that I always
knew where to find men to help me out, and do
such things as I could not do myself.”
“Did you give him any hint about the Indians?”
“Oh yes, sir. He asked me where I staid, and
I told him I was camped out with a couple of
Shawnees, that would do anything in the world I
told them.”
“Did he ask where the camp was?”
“Yes, sir; and I told him. You know where
you and he stopped, this morning, just in the head
of a hollow? it's right down that hollow.”
“What! did you see us?”
“To be sure I did, sir. What else am I here
for? So when you parted, I was pretty sure you
wanted to see me, and so I fell in with you as you
came back.”
“Well, how did he like the encampment?”
“He seemed mightily pleased, and said he
wished for me to stay there, and then he would
know where to find me.”
“When are you to see him next?”
“He is to come there to-morrow, about the time
the meeting breaks up for dinner.”
“Well, John, I told you the other day, in a joke,
that, if he wanted you to cut my throat, you must
agree to do it. I now tell you so in sober earnest;
for, as sure as you are alive, if he does not suspect
your connection with me, he will try to get
you and the Shawnees to do me some mischief.”
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“I am very glad we are here, then, sir; for if
we were not, he would not have much trouble to
find them that would do it.”
“Whom do you mean, John?”
“Oh, nobody in particular; but, just at this time,
there is not a rogue or ruffian in the country but
what's just here.”
“Then, John, you must honey him up, and keep
between him and anybody else. If he does not
make his bargain with you before twelve o'clock
on Saturday, you must be sure to let me know,
because I shall conclude he has employed some
other person, and we must then lay our plans.
But if he does speak out plain, you'd better not
come near me any more lest he might suspect
you.”
“Mustn't I let you know what he wants me to
do?”
“No; there's no need. I know pretty well
what it will be. There's no occasion to fix any
snare for him; for when I touch the trigger he
sets for me, he will be right under his own trap.”
“I don't rightly understand you, colonel; but I
have no doubt it will all work right. You and I
have had to do before now with cunninger folks
than this fellow, and braver ones, too, I think.”
“Well, John, it is time to rest. I would ask
you to stay here, but you must go away under
cloud of night.”
“Thank ye, colonel. I would just as lief walk
to the camp. It's not over two miles off, and all
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hours are the same to me. So good-night, gentlemen.”
Balcombe conducted him out and soon returned.
“Do you understand the game now?” said he.
“Not exactly.”
“Well, here it is. Three hundred dollars per
annum, for ten years, amounts to three thousand,
and one thousand in hand makes four; and for
four thousand dollars Montague would murder
his own father, and dishonour the memory of the
mother that bore him. Now if, instead of paying
this price to possess himself of the token, he can
trepan Scott and myself and take it from him,
there will be so much saved.”
“But will he not fear prosecution?”
“He might if Scott and I should be forthcoming.
But that hollow leads down to the Missouri, which
is not a half mile off, and, if he meets me there,
and I had a mind, I could have him placed beyond
the Rocky Mountains, or buried in the sands of the
Missouri; no doubt he thinks he will have the
same power over me.”
“But would he incur not merely the guilt, but
the penalties of murder?”
“No need of that. What law is there to make
him responsible for the acts of Indians, in their
own country?”
“Then what is your plan?”
“Why, simply this: if he takes the token from
Scott by violence, I will take it from him by the
hands of his own instruments. But if he
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disappoints my calculations on his villany and cunning,
and gets it fairly, I will then be fair with him, and
try whether, for once in his life, he can refuse to
do my bidding. One way or another he shall not
escape me; but the advantage I seek I would
rather obtain by his fault than mine. But come;
the night wears. So to bed.”
CHAPTER XIX.
The father, too—a man,
Who love nor pity knew;
Was all unfeeling as the clod
From whence his riches grew,
Long had he seen the secret flame,
And seen it long unmoved;
Then, with a father's at last,
Had disapproved.
The next was a day of leisure. I had no disposition
to revisit the encampment; and my mind,
for the first time in several days, was left free to
turn to home and distant friends. In giving Balcombe
the history of my love for my cousin, I had
presented a picture which seemed quite flattering
in my own eyes, and the more so, because I saw
that to Balcombe it suggested a favourable prognosis
of my case. I found myself taking
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encouragement to hope that Ann's feelings were just a
counterpart to my own. But how could she bring
her mind to dwell upon the thought of marrying
another man, without being undeceived, as I had
been, by like means? Was it possible that she
had so far merely acquiesced in the attentions of
Howard, without having brought herself to look
distinctly at the question of the acceptance or final
rejection of his hand? Might not this be so? For
some reason, his courtship had been of a very
peculiar character, more marked by delicacy than
ardour. There was never anything urgent in his
manner. His attentions were always ready, but
rather deferential than assiduous, and such as
might leave a delicate and simple-minded girl—
one entirely satisfied with her actual condition, and
not at all on the lookout for a husband—to feel as
if she had her lifetime to make up her mind in.
There certainly was reason to dread the result of
such a course of attention, for it seemed precisely
adapted to the character and temper of its object.
Whether Howard had been led into it by the
native delicacy of his own mind, or by an instinctive
perception of that of the lady, or by the advice
of one who knew her better than he did, I had no
means of judging. In offering his hand, too, I understood
that he did not press for a decisive
answer, but seemed merely to wish permission to
lay his pretensions before her, to be considered of
at her perfect leisure. Might it not then be that
the question had never been so brought home to
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her mind, as to startle her with the thought of
giving to him that place in her intimacy, confidence,
and affection, which I had always occupied.
It appeared to me that Balcombe saw the matter
in this light; but it was plain, too, that he was
puzzled to understand some things that I had told
him.
While I sat meditating on these matters, James
Scott, who seemed a very bookworm, was reading,
and Colonel Robinson, occupied with the business
of his farm, left me in the care of Balcombe,
who set me completely at ease by taking no notice
of me at all. At length, after bustling about for
some hours, he came in, took a seat, and entered
into conversation with me.
“The urgency of our affairs, William,” said he,
“has so engaged me, that I have neglected heretofore
to inquire about your family. You are the
only son?”
“I am.”
“You spoke of sisters.”
“I have two; one younger, and one older than
myself.”
“Married?”
“No; neither of them married.”
“Jane is the eldest, is she not? I think it was
the name of the little girl I saw at your grandfather's,
the last time I was there. She must be
three years older than you. Four-and-twenty, and
yet unmarried!”
“She probably never will marry.”
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“Why so? She was a beautiful little girl.”
“And is a beautiful woman yet, though somewhat
faded. No doubt, fallen as our fortunes are,
she might marry respectably enough; but, with
her, marriage is, as it should be, an affair of the
heart, and she will never marry where she does
not love.”
“But what should prevent her loving?”
“An entanglement of the affections with one
whom she will probably never marry.”
“And who is he?”
“Young Douglas; the son of Mr. Douglas of
Tamworth.”
“What! the brother of Howard's mother?”
“The same. They have been long mutually
attached, even from the boyhood of Douglas, who
is the younger of the two. At first his father
favoured the connection; but soon the ruin of
mine was fully developed, and the secret came out,
that Jane, instead of being an heiress, and the
sister of a man of large fortune, was but one of a
family of beggars, no one of whom could help
another. Old Douglas, who loves money, presently
began to create difficulties. As one obstacle
was removed, another appeared, and, finally, he
declared peremptorily against the match.”
“And what of that?” said Balcombe. “The
authority of a father may forbid an engagement,
but it can never break off one made with his consent.
It is no longer a question between father
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and son only. There are covenanted rights of a
third person to be considered.”
“That is true. But not only is the old gentleman
a man of high and stern authority, whom it
is not easy to disobey, but his son, educated, like
myself, to no profession, is wholly dependant on
his father, who will give him nothing if he does
not marry to please him. Now, as young Douglas
and Jane have both acquired expensive habits,
nothing could be more hopeless than their union.
The young fellow showed some spirit, and a good
deal of constancy; but his visits to our house were
forbidden. He was thrown much in company with
his cousin, Miss Howard, whom his father wished
him to marry, and for a while rumour gave them
to each other. But he accompanied her to Oakwood;
there he and Jane met; and though I am
not sure that their engagement was formally renewed,
yet they seemed to be drawn together very
much, and I thought I saw symptoms of a good
understanding between them. Certain it is, that
Douglas, who, until then, was considered as having
precedence of all who might approach Miss Howard,
distinctly made way for me; and it was into
his vacant place that I was so often thrown, as to
seem to others, and almost to myself, like a favoured
suitor of that lady. Indeed, there was so much of
cordial intimacy between Miss Howard and Jane,
as to make it probable that the former, indifferent
to her cousin, as she plainly was, desired to promote
his union with her friend.
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“To this object I, of course, was not indifferent.
I would not have Jane force herself on the family
of a purse-proud old man. I would not have her
beguile her lover into a marriage which would
beggar him. But when I saw that his affection
had not given way under the rude trials to which
it had been exposed, I began to entertain a vague
hope that time might effect a change in the old
man's disposition, and reward my sister's constancy
with the hand of the only man she had ever
loved. Hence, I found myself more readily giving
in to the occasional arrangements which threw me
in attendance on Miss Howard; and I am not
sure that her wish to transfer her cousin to my
sister was not the feeling, which was interpreted
by others as partiality for me. I would not interrupt
my story the other night by telling you these
things; but you now have all the parties before
you, in all their various relations to each other.”
“And a snug six-handed party it is. Two, and
two, and two. Partners all around. But, as far
as I can see, Douglas and Jane are the only two
that may not wish their partners to lose. They
have one common object. But it is clearly not so
with Miss Howard and you, and, I hope, not so with
her brother and Ann. I should like to have a chance
to walk around the table, and peep into all the
hands. The game is not equal, where some of
the party understand each other, and some do
not.”
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“But surely there can be no foul play between
such parties?”
“Not exactly what they would admit, to themselves
even, to be foul play; but there must be a
strong bias.”
“How so?”
“Suppose Howard to marry Ann. Nay! don't
go into fits at the supposition; to comfort you, let
us suppose, too, that you marry the sister. The
condition of your family would certainly be much
improved. Your mother and sisters would not,
indeed, be richer, but they would retain that position
in society, on which, in affairs of the heart, so
much depends, and which is so important in the
eyes of a man of aristocratic pride, like old Douglas.
The old man would have lost that match for
his son, on which he had set his heart; he would
be shamed, by the example of the proud, highborn,
and wealthy Howards, out of his opposition to a
connection which they had eagerly sought; and
the union of his son and your sister would follow
as a matter of course. Had you thought of all
this?”
“Indeed I had not.”
“Then reverse the supposition. Let Ann
marry you. Let your condition in life be irrevocably
fixed at the low point to which the villany
of Montague has reduced you. What then would
prevent the marriage of Douglas and Miss Howard?
And where would the females of your family
find means to retain their place in that circle in
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which they have hitherto moved? They must
lose caste; a fate as terrible to the worshippers
of fashion, as to those of Brahma. The lot of a
Paria is hardly more deplorable, than that of a
young woman excluded by poverty from the circles
in which she has been accustomed to be
received with attention. Had you thought of
these things?”
“No, indeed; and gladly now would I banish
thoughts so horrible and disgusting from my mind.”
“They are, doubtless, unwelcome. But you
must learn to endure their presence and examine
into their truth. In the mean time, endeavour to
look into the subject philosophically, and you may
find the suggestion I have offered less revolting.
You will see that they who would marry you to
Miss Howard and Ann to her brother are actuated
by all the most powerful considerations that can
present themselves to the human mind. Of these
many are praiseworthy, none base. They may
not be aware of any attachment between you and
Ann, or they may think it a mere childish fancy,
which will easily be dispelled; and may believe
that, in directing your affections to other objects,
they are, in effect, serving both you and her. Can
you think it strange, then, if all about you worked
to the same end? and that being the case, can you
wonder that Howard should always find a vacant
place at the side of Ann, and that the hand of his
sister should be always left for you? Don't let my
suggestions, William, produce any bitterness of
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feeling towards those who love you, and whom
you love. I don't mean to intimate any foul play.
But I can see plainly how all about you must have
wished to establish just such a delusion as, I am
sure, has taken possession of Ann's mind and
yours.”
“I understand all this; and while it awakens
something like hope, it fills me with alarm to think
of what may happen while I am here. On your
hypothesis, the first point in the game would be
Ann's marriage.”
“Or yours.”
“Oh, mine is out of the question; and after what
has passed between Ann and me, they must be
aware of that. Besides, I am here; and my absence,
which renders the one more impracticable,
may favour the other.”
“I am not so sure of that. Ann has never before
been absent from you more than a day or two at a
time. She has been happy, and, as you said of yourself,
has probably never analyzed the elements of her
happiness. If I am right, she will miss something
in your absence which may set her to thinking.
If she once finds out the secret of her own heart,
you have nothing to fear but from injurious misrepresentations.”
“Of them there can be no danger.”
“Of calumny and malicious slander, none, certainly;
but I would not swear that she does not
believe you engaged to Miss Howard.”
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“It is well, then, I did not visit Castle Howard
in my way to the West.”
“That's as it may be. We have no time to lose
here, William. I am impatient to bring matters to
a close with this caitiff; and as soon as that is
done we must be off. My preparations are begun,
and will be easily completed; and if all works
well to-morrow night, why, then, we will take
with us the prayers of the church for all who travel
by land and by water, on Sunday morning.”
It may be readily believed that this conversation
did not leave me in a very comfortable
state of mind. I remembered the disproportionate
distress of Ann at the intimation of my
passion, and the prudish austerity with which
Jane reproved what she seemed to consider a
glaring impropriety, but what was, to me, the exercise
of a natural right. I remembered how the
door of explanation had been shut in my face, and
how I had been denied all access to Ann until
I had bound myself, by a solemn promise, to
seek no explanation. Such had been the effect of
that promise, as I now saw clearly; and I trembled
to think of the irreparable mischief which might
be done in my absence in furtherance of the designs
which I now suspected for the first time.
The suggestions of Balcombe all seemed to stand
before me self-proved. I tried to see the motives
of others in the most favourable light, and I brought
myself to agree that it was my duty to forgive all
that had been attempted; while I felt that it would
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be impossible to do so, unless I should be so fortunate
as to defeat the attempt. My impatience to
return to Virginia hecame excessive, and was the
more restless, because I had no part in what was
doing, although my interest in the affair was
greater than that of any other person.
CHAPTER XX.
“Friendship was never made for me,
Too poor to have a friend.
Give, and I'll take, whate'er it be,
Or borrow, if you'll lend.
And I'll be grateful to the last
While you have aught to give.
Favours to come, not favours past,
Are those by which I live.”
I accordingly determined to urge Balcombe
to reconsider his scruples, and to endeavour
to obtain the token from James Scott at once.
He agreed to make the experiment, and we accordingly
sought James, whom we found in my
room closely engaged with a book. Balcombe
now told him that on the next morning he was
to meet Montague, who would then comply with
the proper conditions, so as to entitle himself,
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according to Mary's instructions, to receive the
parcel intended for him.
“You have it about you?” inquired Balcombe.
“Oh, yes, sir,” said he; showing, at the same
time, a small paper, which looked as if it might
contain such a little casket as is commonly used to
hold a single ring. It was tied up with several
threads of silk, all of which were secured at the
intersection by a seal.
“I will take it, then, James,” said Balcombe,
carelessly, “and deliver it to Mr. Montague, when
he has done the needful on his part.”
The young man hesitated, and said,
“I am afraid that will not be right, sir. My
sister made me promise that I would not give this
to any one upon earth but Montague.”
“But, James, she has committed the whole negotiation
to me; and it is therefore necessary for
me to have this casket, that I may give it to Montague
according to our agreement.”
“He shall have it, sir; my orders are to give it
to him, as soon as you say the word, and not before;
and I will do it. I will go with you, and
when you tell me to give it to him, he shall have
it.”
“Surely,” said I, “you can trust Mr. Balcombe.”
“I certainly can,” replied he; “and I hope Mr.
Balcombe does not suppose that there is any distrust
of him in my conduct.”
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“None at all, my dear boy,” said Balcombe;
“I understand you perfectly.”
“But what if I tell you,” said I, “that that
casket is of more importance to me than to Montague,
and that I have a better right to it than he
or any other person.”
The young man started, stared at me in amazement,
then looked doubtingly at Balcombe, and
said,
“No; I will not believe it. This was no plan
of yours, Mr. Balcombe, to get this deposite into
your hands, in order that any one but Montague
might obtain it.”
“Indeed it was not, James.”
“How is this, then, sir?” said he, turning upon
me with some fierceness. But his manner became
immediately mild, and even tender. “I know
you,” he continued, “as Mr. Balcombe's friend,
but I know you in no other character; and I cannot
take it kindly of you, sir, to wish to beguile me
into a breach of trust. As to any interest you have
in the matter, I don't see it, and if I did I should be
but the more on my guard.”
“He is right, nevertheless, James,” said Balcombe.
“He has a great interest in the matter;
he has been very much wronged by this same
Montague; and the possession of that parcel
would enable him to right himself.”
“I am sorry for it, sir; and, as I am sure my
poor sister would not wrong any man, I wish you
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had it. But my word is passed to her, and I shall
not put it into any hands but Mr. Montague's.”
“Are you satisfied?” said Balcombe to me.
“I am,” said I, holding out my hand to Scott;
“and I respect your scruples, though I suffer by
them.”
“I don't understand how it is, sir,” said he,
taking my hand with quiet indifference. “If you
are wronged, I hope you'll get justice. I only
wish you had not tried to make me break my
word.”
“You would not blame him, James, if you knew
all,” said Balcombe; “and you must be friends.”
“I must forget all my sister has told me about
you, sir, and all I have seen, before I refuse my
friendship to any friend of yours.”
Saying this, he turned to me, and held out his
hand again with an air of frank cordiality. I took
it, and we exchanged a grasp of good-will on his
part and admiration on mine.
I now saw that, for the present at least, it was
best to await the result of Montague's machinations,
and try to turn them against him. I accordingly
calmed myself, and resolved to pass the time
as agreeably as I could. I found that my hospitable
entertainer had invited a party to dine with me,
and it was my duty to rally my spirits. How far
I succeeded, I know not. The day, however,
passed off pleasantly, and I was willing to believe
that I had not made myself unacceptable to my
new acquaintances. In the evening we had a
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dance to the fiddle of an old negro, and separated
with good feelings and high spirits, about midnight.
I had just retired to my room, when I heard
Keizer's whistle giving notice of his presence; and
soon after Balcombe appeared, half dressed, accompanied
by this trusty henchman.
“What news, John?” said he.
“Nothing very good, I'm afraid, sir; but I
thought I'd just come and tell you all about it, and
then you'd be the best judge. You know you told
me I need not come to you, if Montague made me
any direct offer, because you said you'd know
what it was; but then I thought it looked a little
suspicious, and was afraid, maybe, he might be
trying to fool me; so, you see, I'll just tell you the
straight of it all. You know he was to go to see
me at the camp to-day, and, sure enough, he was
there. And so he tells me, first, there was a certain
man that had some of his property, and refused
to give it up, unless he would pay him a power of
money.
“`Then,' says I, `why don't you sue him for it?'
“`Why,' says he, `I cannot prove anything
about it; and he would not let me know anything
of it; only it's worth a great deal to me, and of
little or no use to him.'
“`Well,' says I, `and what do you mean to do
about it?'
“`Why, that's what I don't rightly know,' says
he. `He has promised to meet me at a certain
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place, and give it up to me; but then he says I
must pay him down a large sum of money on the
nail, and give him my bond for three times as much
more.'
“`Well,' says I, `every man knows his own
business best; but, if it was me, I'd see him d—d
before I'd give him one cent.'
“`I'd rather you wouldn't swear about it,' says
he; `but you may be sure I don't like it. But
that is not the worst of it,' says he. `There's two
of them; and they are to meet me together; and
when they get me there, in the woods, by themselves,
I don't think they'd be a bit too good to
take my money and keep my property too.'
“`Then,' says I, `I guess that you want somebody
to go with you.'
“`Something so,' says he. And then he claps
to thinking, and he rolls up the whites of his eyes,
just like he was going to say grace; and says he,
talking mighty serious and solemn, says he, `Would
it not be a righteous deed, in the sight of God, if
they do make such an attempt, to turn the tables
on them, and take my property without paying
for it?'
“Now, you see, colonel,” continued Keizer, “the
minute I heard him talk that way, I knew he was
dubious of me. Because, you see, sir, Mr. Montague
knows me before to-day; and he knows how
to do business with such as me, and he knows that
is not the way.”
“How so, John?” said Balcombe.
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“Why, sir, in such business as this, it will never
do for one man to fool another, nor to tell him anything
but the naked truth; because, when a fellow
has a ticklish job in hand, he ought to know exactly
how the land lies. You see, sir, it's just like what
the lawyer said to the thief. Says he, `If you
don't tell me the truth, how am I to know how to
tell lies for you?”'
“And why did you think he was deceiving you,
John?”
“Because I knew who he was talking about;
and I knew that all that, about your wanting to
make him pay for his own, was a lie. And as to
his thinking that you would want to rob him, Lord
bles you, sir! Mr. Montague knows what an
honest man is; and he has no more notion of that,
than he would have of robbing himself.”
“You reasoned the matter well, John. And
what answer did you make?”
“Oh, I told him nothing in life would be easier
than to turn the tables on the fellows; and, if he
wanted help, why, there was I and the Indians.”
“And what said he?”
“Why, he made believe he had not thought
about it before, and he had no time to stay, but I
must go to see him to-night at Jones's.”
“And did you go?”
“Yes, sir; and then it was that I saw greater
cause to think that maybe he is a little suspicious.
You see I went there about dusk, and they had
been starving at the campmeeting all day, and
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were just getting their dinner. So, as I was not
hungry, I sits down in the porch, at the front door;
and they were in the diningroom; and the door
into the passage was open, and I could hear all
the clash of their knives and forks; but they could
not see me. For a while they were too busy to
talk; but, at last, they seemed to slack eating, and
Montague, says he,
“`Brother Jones, do you know what sort of a
man John Keizer is?'
“`I cannot say I do, brother Montague,' says
Jones; `but many people give him a desperate
bad name. But I rather think he don't deserve it
all; because,' says he, `there's Colonel Balcombe
knows him better than anybody else, and he trusts
him in his business, and seems to have the greatest
confidence in him. And more than that,' says he,
`the colonel has employed him to buy cattle, and
horses, and mules for him; and he has bought of
me, and, so far as I could see, he never offered to
take the least advantage of either of us. There's
worse men than Keizer. There's that Sam Todd,
that was here this morning, and his brother, ten
times as bad.'
“`And how came he and Balcombe so thick?'
says Montague.
“`Oh,' says Jones, `they have been through the
rubbers together, in the war, and in the Indian
country, and in the Spanish country; and whenever
Keizer is in trouble any way, the colonel is
always ready to help him.'
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“So they talked on a while longer,” continued
John; “and by this time it was getting dark, and
they were done their dinner. So, presently, all
was still; and then I heard Jones ask brother Montague
to return thanks. So I steps off a few steps
from the house, and then turns round and walks
right back and meets them in the porch, as they
came out to cool themselves; so they had no
chance to think I had heard a word. So we how-d'yed
all round; and Montague, he had not much
to say for a while, and it was so dark I could not
see how he looked. But after a while Jones went
into the house, and then says Montague to me, in
a sort of a whisper like, says he,
“`Can you stay here to-night?'
“`No,' says I, `I must go back to my camp
about midnight.'
“`Well,' says he, `you can stay till then.
There is a bed in my room, and you can tumble it,
and then go away after everybody's asleep, and
people won't know but what you went off after
light; because,' says he, `I sleep in an outhouse
there, off to itself.'
“`Well,' says I, `I have no objection.'
“So after a while Jones comes out, and Montague
tells him he had business with me, and
wanted me to stay all night, that we might talk it
over in bed.
“`To be sure,' says Jones, `brother Montague,
I shall be glad to accommodate you, and glad of
Mr. Keizer's company too.'
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“So then we talked a while about one thing and
another, and then they had prayers, and we all
went to bed. When we got into our room, he sot
and studied a spell; and at last says he,
“`Do you know Colonel Balcombe?'
“`I guess I do,' says I; `I've known him longer
and better than any man in the whole country.'
“`Then he is a particular friend of your's?'
“`As to the matter of friendship,' says I, `that's
what I don't know so much about. It is not any
great deal I have to do with anybody, except in
the way of business; though I suppose if a poor
fellow like me has any friends, Colonel Balcombe
is as likely to be my friend as anybody else. But
I never calculate on nobody's friendship.'
“`Then, I suppose,' says he, `nobody need calculate
on your's?'
“`Why, no, sir,' says I, `not to say rightly
friendship; because, you see, sir, I cannot afford
it. But I live by my business, Mr. Montague;
and I know,' says I, `the way to do that, is to be
as true as my old rifle, that always puts the ball
right where I hold it; and them that primes and
loads me well,' says I, `sir, has only just to point
me right, and they can give a right good guess
where I'll hit.”'
“That was well said, John,” said Balcombe.
“I, God! sir,” said Keizer, “I was obliged to be
right foxy with him, and I thought that speech
sorter satisfied him; so says he,
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“`Suppose it should be Colonel Balcombe that
I am to meet to-morrow evening?'
“`Damn the odds!' says I.
“With that he looks at me desperate hard, as if
he was going to scold again about my swearing;
but after a while his face brightened up like a bad
dollar rubbed over with quicksilver; and says he,
“`Well, come again at sunrise, and I will walk
out with you, and show you the place where we
are to meet; and then,' says he, `you can fix things
so as to lie close, till you see the time to show
yourself.'
“And with that,” continued Keizer, “I came
away, to let you judge for yourself how the matter
stands.”
“All right, John,” said Balcombe; “all exactly
right. It seems a little strange that he should be
willing to depend on you; but he thinks you as
great a villain as himself, and he would betray his
own father. But all is right, John; and you must
get to rest, and be ready to meet him in the morning.”
“No fear of that, sir; I am not apt to sleep too
sound when Indians are about.”
Balcombe now conducted him out, and returned.
“What think you of that fellow?” said he.
“I think,” said I, “that the twasome of you
would prove a match for the devil, and the best
imp in his dominions.”
“Perhaps so,” said he. “If he is not belied, I
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should have the same advantage over him that I
have over Montague.”
“How so?”
“Being all evil, without any admixture of good,
I could calculate on him. Had not this been such
a villain as is not to be found again out of hell, he
would have foiled me, through fear that John's
gratitude might bind him to me. Good-night.”
CHAPTER XXI.
Some signs of fray
That strand of strife may bear,
And fragments of each shivered brand,
Steps stamped and dashed into the sand,
The print of many a struggling hand,
May there be marked.
Byron.
The result of this conference was entirely satisfactory
to me. I saw my way clear to the recovery
of the lost will, and the re-establishment of the
fortunes of my family. I saw, too, that there was
now no prudential consideration to restrain me
from pressing my suit with Ann, and, at least, satisfying
myself, whether her happiness, as well as
my own, had been endangered by my former
reserve. But my mind only became more restless
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and impatient in view of this aspect of affairs; and,
though the night was far spent, I had no disposition
to sleep. I began to think that it would be
an age to the next evening; but weariness at
length overcame me, and I slept. I dreamed of
home. Ann was before me; Howard was at her
feet; he was ardent and tender; she, pale, agitated,
and alarmed. With an averted and tearful
eye, she permitted him to take her hand; he
pressed it to his lips; his eye searched her countenance
with the eagerness of baffled hope; she
merely raised hers to lift them despairingly to
heaven; they fell on me. She sprung to my embrace,
hung on my neck, and seemed to lose all
consciousness of anything but that she was once
more in my arms.
The next day, Balcombe took pity on my impatience,
and employed me about his preparations
for our journey. At last the evening came, and he
and Scott walked out. Their departure increased
my restlessness. The sun was not long down,
before I sallied forth and took the direction in
which Scott and Balcombe had disappeared. The
old gentleman, seeing I was for a walk, called after
me and joined me. We loitered slowly along, as
I was in no hurry to pass the point at which I had
lost sight of Balcombe. Here I paused, and the
colonel proposed to go back to the house. I lingered
a few moments, and finally expressed my
wish to await the return of Balcombe. He
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acquiesced at first; but, as the night began to close
in upon us, became impatient to go home.
“To tell you the truth,” said I, when he again
suggested this, “I am a little uneasy about Mr.
Balcombe's absence.”
“Uneasy!” said he; “why so? No man on
earth knows better how to take care of himself
than Balcombe.”
“I am aware of that,” said I. “But he had not
far to go, his hour of appointment was sunset, and
the business which carried him could only be done
in daylight. It would not take two minutes. He
ought, therefore, to have been here before now.”
“He might have been. But why should he
hurry back?”
“He knows that I am impatient for the issue of
the adventure; and he would be impatient to disclose
it to me.”
“The adventure!” said Colonel Robinson, with
some surprise. “What does this mean? Whom
has Balcombe gone to meet?”
“Montague,” said I, after some hesitation.
“What!” said the old man; “can Montague
have screwed up his courage to demand satisfaction
for Balcombe's treatment of him on Wednesday?”
“No, indeed; but I am afraid he may have laid
a plot to take it, without demanding it. Indeed,
I know he did lay a plot of that sort, which could
not have failed if his instrument had been true to
him.”
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“What instrument?”
“Keizer.”
“Keizer! Good God! I hope Balcombe's safety
does not depend on the choice Keizer may make
which of the two he may betray, him or Montague.
For God's sake, Mr. Napier, what does
all this mean?”
His obvious alarm increased mine. I had no
time for explanations, but proposed to go in quest
of Balcombe.
“Which way did he go?” said he.
“This way, so far; but beyond this I know
nothing.”
“Beyond this is nothing but one vast forest down
to the river.”
“Then,” said I, “let us go to your neighbour
Jones's.” He assented and led the way.
“Are you acquainted,” said I, “with Mr. Jones's
premises?”
“Perfectly.”
“There is an outhouse in which he lodges his
guests; is there not?”
“There is.”
“Montague lodges there. Will it not be well
to go to that house first? If he is there, we can
see him without troubling the family.”
To this he assented, and a walk of half an hour
brought us to the place. The night was pitchy
dark, and we saw nothing of the low building we
were in quest of, until we were quite near it. It
was a log cabin, of a single room, with a chimney
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of logs at one end; on the side next us was a solitary
window, and, directly opposite, a door. As
we neared it, and began to be aware of its proximity
by the deepening shade of darkness, we
heard the door open; a dim, red spot of light was
seen through the window, and, at the same moment,
the door was again closed. I was within a
few feet of the window at the moment, and saw
that this phenomenon was produced by the entrance
of some one bearing a small brand of fire.
Waving this to and fro, he groped about, and found
a candle, which he soon succeeded in lighting. As
the light blazed up, I saw that it was Montague.
He placed the candle on a small table which stood
between the door and window, took off his hat,
sat down, and wiped his brow, and then leaned
his head on his hands, as if in great agitation.
Presently he recovered himself, and took from his
pocket a small parcel, which I immediately knew
to be the same I had seen in the hands of James
Scott. This he opened, and took out of a small
ring casket a scrap of paper, and something, apparently
very small, which glanced in the light of
the candle with metallic lustre. While he sat
looking at these, I stole round to the door. There
was an opening between the logs, through which
I looked, and saw him in the act of replacing the
things in the casket. Keeping my eye upon him,
I tapped the door, in the light, familiar, household
way. Immediately he closed the casket, and
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opening a small drawer in the table, threw it in; then
rose and opened the door.
I entered, and was followed by Colonel Robinson.
He did not seem at first to recognise me,
for he had scarcely seen me, but the sight of Colonel
Robinson brought him to his recollection.
Nothing could exceed the consternation with
which he regarded us both. I gave him no time to
recover himself, but walking directly up to his table,
placed myself at the end next the drawer. I was
now secure of one point, and informed him that
we were in quest of Mr. Balcombe.
“Mr. Balcombe, sir! Mr. Balcombe has not
been here.”
“So I see, sir; but as Mr. Balcombe went out
to meet you this evening, we thought you might
tell us what had become of him.”
“To meet me, sir! Indeed, sir, I don't know
what has become of him.”
“Nor of my grandfather's will either?” said I,
sternly.
He staggered back at these words, and I at the
same moment opened the drawer, and taking out
the casket, added,
“And how came you by this, sir?”
In all my life I have never witnessed such an
appearance of utter discomfiture and dismay as he
exhibited. He sunk into a chair in such a condition
of body and mind as to make it impossible for a
while to carry on any communication with him.
This appearance by no means relieved our
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apprehensions for Balcombe. I knew that it was no part
of his plan to let Montague carry off the casket.
His possession of it, therefore, showed not only that
they had met, but that Balcombe had been baffled;
and how could that be but by the double treachery
of Keizer? and where would he stop when he had
made up his mind to play the traitor with Balcombe?
He was not a man to do things by
halves; and, having gone so far, would not be less
interested than Montague to put Balcombe for ever
out of the way. I had heard enough, indeed, to
suppose that he was probably yet alive, but that
he might be carried off and never heard of again.
I therefore endeavoured to calm Montague as
much as possible; and, as soon as he seemed capable
of understanding me, told him that I knew Balcombe
and Scott had gone to meet him, that I knew
that they carried that casket with them, and that if
any harm befel them he would answer it with his life.
“You must be aware,” said I, “that I know
how desirable Mr. Balcombe's death would be to
you. If he disappears, I have but to show this
casket, and tell my tale, and no human being will
doubt that he has been murdered, and by your procurement.
I accordingly take you into custody,
and unless you conduct me to Balcombe, I conduct
you to the next magistrate. Take your choice,
and that instantly.”
He now looked at me imploringly, and said, in
a tone of despair, “I don't know where it is!”
“Where what is?” said I.
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“The Rockhouse! the Rockhouse!” screamed
he; “I don't know where it is!”
“But I do,” said Robinson. “Is Balcombe there,
and alive?”
“Oh,” said Montague, “I hope he is there! I
hope they have not done him any harm!”
“Come along with us, sir,” said the colonel,
hastily, and laying hold of the arm of the passive
Montague, he led him along. I followed, and we
groped our way in darkness until we came to the
road which passed near the house. This we
took.
“This is not the most direct way,” said the
colonel, “but we must follow this road to the ferry,
and then keep down the bank.”
“What is the Rockhouse?” said I.
“It is a place on the bank of the river, where a
low projecting rock overhangs the beach, and
makes a sort of cave, or rather a shelter, open to
the sun. The direction in which Balcombe left
the house pointed to the head of a hollow which
leads down directly to it. It stands at the mouth
of that hollow.”
“And in that hollow,” said I, “was the camp of
Keizer and his Indians.”
“Exactly so. By daylight we should go that
way; but the place is too dark and rugged. We
shall have more light along the river bank.”
A walk of an hour brought us to the spot. As
we drew near, Colonel Robinson apprized Montague
of it, and said, “Now, sir, as soon as we
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reach the mouth of the cave you are to speak
and make yourself known. Are you armed, Mr.
Napier?”
“I am; are you?”
“No; but you are, Mr. Montague. Give me
your arms, sir, and speak, as I have told you, to
Keizer or Balcombe, as you please.”
We now examined Montague, and took from
him a pair of pistols and a dirk, with which the
old gentleman armed himself. I was equipped in
like manner.
As it turned out, we had no occasion for our
weapons. We reached the spot, and Montague
said, “Mr. Balcombe! Mr. Balcombe!” All was
still as death. We listened, and heard no breath
or motion. We groped around the wall, looking
out, at the same time, to the light at the mouth.
But we neither felt nor saw anything. Near the
mouth of the cave my foot slipped, and I fell with
my hands in a sort of puddle that felt a little
warmer than I should have expected to find the
ground in that damp place. The idea of blood
occurred to me at once. I mentioned it; and
Colonel Robinson, who had flint, steel, and touchwood
in his pocket, struck a light. We now saw
that I had not been mistaken. On the edge of the
bank, just at the mouth of the cave, lay a quantity
of blood. Near it was a bit of rope, which seemed
to have been tied at each end around something
not larger than a man's arm, and then cut loose;
and, leading directly down from the puddle of
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blood, were steps deeply imprinted in the sand,
and the marks of a heavy body dragged down to
the water's edge. The track could hardly fail to
remind any one who had seen him, of Keizer's
moccasin and diminutive foot. This discovery
was nearly fatal to Montague. Nothing could
exceed the attachment of Colonel Robinson to his
son-in-law; and now, frantic with rage, he drew a
pistol, and commanded Montague to prepare for
death. The poor wretch fell upon his knees in
prayer, not to God, but man, and, eloquent with
terror, declared that if Balcombe had been murdered,
it was contrary to his orders. He had expressly
enjoined his agents to do him and Scott no
harm.
“What, then, were they to do with them?”
“To carry them out of the state.”
“Whither?”
“Into the Indian country.”
“And what then?”
No answer. By this time the colonel recovered
his self-command, and determining to leave Montague
to the fate appointed by the law, we resumed
our march. The moon had just risen, and gave a
little light, and as the head of the hollow, at the
mouth of which we were, was not far from Colonel
Robinson's, we determined to grope our way
through that gorge. We had not gone far before
we saw a light. We approached cautiously, but
seeing no living creature, we went near, and found
the remains of the Indian encampment. A few
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half-extinguished brands gave the light we had
seen. We stirred this up, and, looking about,
found a scrap of paper, on which were some words
in Balcombe's handwriting, and saw in the ashes
the track of shoes or boots mixed up with those of
moccasins. Here, doubtless, our poor friend had
been stopped for the convenience of the light in
rifling his pockets.
We now proceeded with heavy hearts, and as
we approached the house, I shuddered at the
thought of communicating Balcombe's fate to his
bereaved family. I have said little of Mrs. Balcombe.
She was reserved in her manners, so
that it was not easy to see more of her than that
she was a perfect lady, and that she was devoted
to her husband. She was obviously a proud woman,
but her pride rested on him. Her bearing
was high and queenlike, but she was the queen
consort, not a queen in her own right. She seemed
to feel her individuality merged in her husband,
and to rest in undoubting confidence on his wisdom,
his courage, his prowess, and resources—
“his stars, his fortune, and his strength.” Torn
from him, what would she be? She would either
sink into utter and helpless despondency, or rouse
herself to endure her loss by nourishing a spirit of
revenge against the murderer. The phrensy of
her grief in either aspect was appalling to think
of. But there was no remedy.
As we approached the house, I saw that there
was already an appearance of bustle and alarm.
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Lights were glancing about, and heads were frequently
thrust out of the windows. As we entered,
we heard the joyful cry of “Here they are!” My
heart sunk at the disappointment which our appearance
in the parlour must produce; but there
was no stopping. We walked in in silent dread,
when to our utter astonishment, whom should we
see but Balcombe himself in full life, and young
Scott, and Keizer, and the Indians.
CHAPTER XXII.
A fellow by the hand of nature marked,
Quoted, and signed to do a deed of shame.
Shakspeare.
Before we had time to express our astonishment
and delight, Montague dropped upon his
knees, and for once in his life, poured forth a sincere
thanksgiving for this unexpected deliverance.
Not regarding him, we pressed forward to Balcombe.
“My dear fellow!” said the colonel, “how came
you here?”
“It will take some time to answer that,” said he;
“but how comes that fellow here?”
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“As a prisoner, on suspicion of having murdered
you.”
“It is not his fault that I am alive,” said Balcombe;
“but I suppose he must go quit of that
charge. But let us see what else we have against
him; for I don't mean to let him go out of my
fingers until I recover the parcel he robbed me of
this evening.”
“I have secured that,” said I.
“Io triumphe!” cried Balcombe. “Then all is
well, except the mortification of being overreached
by such a fellow.”
He reflected a moment, and then turning to
Montague, said, gravely,
`Mr. Montague, if you will reflect how many
persons are privy to different parts of this affair,
and how easily I, who know all, can make the whole
perfectly plain to everybody, I think you will see
the wisdom of accommodating yourself to what you
cannot help, and accepting such terms as I may
offer you. Now, sir, I tell you that I have no
wish to punish or expose you; and though you
may not understand how that can be, yet you will
believe it because I tell you so. I think, if you
will reflect on your situation, you will see that
you cannot escape, if you provoke me to extremities.
This conspiracy, and other matters of which
you are aware, you must be held to answer for,
unless you merit clemency at my hands by fair
dealing. Now, sir, go home to-night. John will
conduct you safely, and you can get to bed
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without having been missed. Go home. Compose
yourself, and meet me again at ten o'clock to-morrow
morning at the same place, that we may talk
this matter over.”
“To-morrow is the Sabbath,” remonstrated
Montague.
“Well said Jim Rat,” exclaimed Balcombe,
laughing, “that every man has a conscience!
Well, Mr. Montague, your scruples shall be respected.
Let Monday be the day, at the same
hour, and then we will consider the expediency of
your accompanying me and Mr. Napier to Virginia.”
“If that be all, sir,” said Montague, meekly, “I
am prepared to say now, that I will set out with
you on Monday morning.”
“Well said, Mr. Montague. That looks well.
I see, sir, that you understand what's right, Think
the matter over, then, until Monday, and then we'll
talk about it. Good-night, sir!”
Montague now slunk away under the safe conduct
of Keizer, at whom, however, he cast an anxious
and shrinking look. But he had been so thoroughly
frightened, that any distinct and manifest
danger was more tolerable than the vague apprehensions
that would have haunted his path.
As soon as he was gone, I asked Balcombe to
explain the events of the evening.
“Faith!” said he, “I think each of us has had
enough of them to his own share for one night. I
have my curiosity, too, but am tired enough to
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postpone its gratification till morning. I think
fatigue will put me to sleep, though at another time
the sight of blood on your clothes and hands might
keep me awake. But good-night! All's well for
the present, and we will compare notes in the
morning.”
I must confess that, though weary, I was not
enough inured to such things to sleep calmly with
blood upon me, which, I had no doubt, was warm
from the heart of a human creature. Poor Scott
was lost in horror at the scenes he had witnessed,
but seemed more disposed to ruminate on them than
to tell his adventure or to ask mine. All explanation
was accordingly deferred until morning; and
I closed this eventful week by endeavouring to compose
myself to a due sense of gratitude to that good
Providence which had presided over its occurrences.
In truth, I had reason to be thankful. Just one
week before, I had been wandering through the
prairies, without chart or compass, seeking one in
whom I expected, with reason, to find a deadly
and crafty enemy. I did not know that I had a
friend within a thousand miles; and though I was
not actually destitute of money, yet my funds
amounted to little more than the means of returning
home. Home! no, I had no home to return
to. No place where my widowed mother and
sisters could find shelter except by charity. But
how suddenly all this was changed! I was all at
once surrounded by kind and efficient friends, and
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was at last in possession of the means of securing
to myself the noble inheritance of my grandfather.
All this had been effected by causes of the existence
of which I had not dreamed, through the instrumentality
of persons of whom I had never
heard; and yet these causes seemed to have
brought about their effects simply and naturally,
and without any strange coincidences. In the
occurrences of the night there was indeed a mystery,
but that would be explained in the morning.
In short, I found myself by a sudden turn of
affairs sweeping down the stream of cause and
consequence in the natural flow of events, with
the haven of peace and affluence opening before
me: One only subject of solicitude remained.
And would He who was thus guiding me by his
unseen hand to the possession of all the other
blessings of life, deny me that best balm of the
heart, on which the enjoyment of all besides depended?
I found myself becoming strong in Balcombe's
faith, that Providence does nothing by
halves; and I at last sunk to sleep in the comfortable
hope, that on my return to Virginia I should
find Ann still unmarried, and ready to share my
good fortune with me.
In the morning I found Balcombe quite refreshed,
and ready to exchange narratives of the events of
the night.
“There's great truth in old proverbs,” said he.
“Never permit yourself to despise an enemy.
The idea of catching that fellow in his own trap
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had such complete possession of my mind, that,
serious as the business was, I could not refrain
from amusing myself at the thought of his discomfiture,
and endeavouring to heighten the effect of
it. When I reached the place, I saw him approaching
in a direction opposite to that where I
had reason to suppose the ambuscade would be
planted; and I observed that during our conference
he carefully maintained the same relative
position; so that, while conversing with him, my
back should be to his confederates. Now, as my
plan was to let him get possession of the casket, so
as to take it from him without involving poor
James in any breach of faith, it suited me to retain
the very position in which I saw it was his wish
to place me. I wished, too, to make him show his
hand, and was desirous to hear what he would say
after he had fairly got me into the clutches of his
myrmidons. I had little doubt that, in the exultation
of his imaginary victory, he would utter language
that would increase my power over him.
It adds to my vexation to think how the bungling
coward betrayed himself by the eager and anxious
glances he cast beyond me towards those who
were approaching from behind. And they, too—a
set of clumsy awakward villains—I heard them so
plainly, that I never should have believed it to be
Keizer and his Indians, but that I knew they were
willing to be heard. James might have heard
them, too; but he suspected nothing, and his ear
was listening only to our conversation.”
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“It was not Keizer, then, and his Indians?”
said I.
“No, indeed. I had another sort of customers
to deal with. I do suppose, as John said, that
Montague had the pick and wale of all the rogues
and ruffians in the country; for a more remorseless
set of villains the devil never sent to aid one of his
allies. But to give you the scene as it occurred.
We howd'yed, as John says, and he began the conference
by saying that he had come prepared to
pay the money and hand me the bonds, but that he
first wished to see the parcel that James had for
him. It was shown, accordingly, and he held out
his hand as if to receive it. James drew back.
`Let him have it, James,' said I, carelessly. It
was given him, and he affected to look at it with
great earnestness, and began a sort of palaver
manifestly intended to gain time. It was my
game to indulge him, and never was I more
amused at any scene. Suddenly, James and I
were both seized from behind. He struggled manfully,
but was soon drawn back and secured. I
made a feint of resistance, taking care all the time
not to look behind me. I was soon secured by a
rope, fastening my arms above the elbows; and
then my assailant proceeded to tie my wrists.
This brought him before me; and you may judge
how I felt when I saw myself in the hands of a
perfect stranger, on whose face was every mark
of the fiend. He was a man of gigantic strength,
and, as I was held behind at the same time, the
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momentary struggle I made was unavailing, and I
was soon effectually manacled.
“`I think you are a little surprised, Mr. Balcombe,
' said Montague, with a sneer. `You
thought to palm one of your own myrmidons upon
me, sir, and to make me myself the contriver of
your plan for robbing me. I think I have turned
the tables upon you, sir, except that I don't mean
to rob you. This little parcel has my name on it,
and is my own. Having found its way to the
hands of its right owner, I think I may as well
keep it, without paying the price you wished to
exact.'
“I made no reply, for I had none to make. I
think I was never in my life caught so completely
without an answer. I was, indeed, curious to
know more; but I knew that asking was not the
way to find it out. So I held my peace, and
looked calmly at him. Not that I actually felt
calm, for I had some awkward misgivings; and
your warning of the danger of driving him to desperation
rung awfully in my ears.
“`You are wondering, sir,' said he, `what has
become of your familiar Keizer; as if you did not
know that the enemy of man'—and here the rascal
tried to look sanctimonious—`is apt to fail his
friends at a pinch. But your imp is faithful to
you, sir; and is, at this moment, proving his fidelity,
by waiting your bidding at a different place of
assignation, about two miles off, which I showed
him this morning. I watched him last night, when
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he pretended to go to his camp, and went, in the
opposite direction, to you; and I heard his
signal.'
“The fellow now exchanged his sneer for a
chuckling laugh, which made the malignant scowl
with which he regarded me more disgusting, and,
to say the truth, more alarming. He now addressed
himself to the ruffians, who still held us,
and said,
“`You know what to do.' Then, turning to
me, he added, `A pleasant journey to you, Mr.
Balcombe. The next time you have the feelings
of a fellow-creature at your mercy, you may remember
that a day of retribution may come.'
“Saying this, he left me. It was now nearly
dark; and as we were hurried down the gloomy
dingle, we had not travelled far before the light
left us entirely. Presently we came to Keizer's
camp, where there was a little fire, and by the light
of this the ruffians soon stripped James and me of
what little we had about us worth taking. That
was not much, and they showed symptoms of angry
disappointment which boded us no good.
“They now dragged us rudely along to the Rockhouse,
and during the whole time heard in silence
all that I could say to lead them to a negotiation
for my ransom. One of them at last spoke.
“`It is no use talking, colonel,' said he; `and I
reckon if you know my voice you'll think so too.'
“I did know the voice. It was that of one
whom I had once detected in an act of treachery,
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which endangered the lives of myself and a large
party under my command. I had had him whipped,
and turned adrift in the wilderness to find his way
home as he could. From that time I had never
heard his ill-omened croak till then. He was a
desperate vagabond ruffian, to whom all countries
were alike.
“`What are you going to do with me, Ramsay?'
said I.
“`I guess,' replied he, `by the time you find
your way back by yourself from the Kickapoo
country, you'll know what it is to serve a poor
fellow as you served me; that is, if the Indians let
you bring your scalp away.'
“This explained their whole plan. The mouth
of the Osage river is just above us on the other
side of the Missouri. The Kickapoo country lies
on that river, three hundred miles above its mouth.
The country across the Missouri is just here quite
poor, with only a few straggling inhabitants on the
very bank. As soon as a boat enters the mouth of
the Osage, it leaves all the settlements behind; and
two hours brisk paddling would therefore place us
out of the reach of human aid. As to my being
turned loose to find my way back, I did not hope
for any such good luck. I had no doubt that Montague
merely wished to lay the scene of my murder
beyond the limits of any jurisdiction to which he
would be amenable.
“Arrived at the Rockhouse, one of the party
was despatched for a boat. The rest remained
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with us, couched under the rock, as close to the
wall as we could lie.
“We had not long lain there, when my ear was
unexpectedly cheered by Keizer's whistle giving
notice that he was near. Though my hands were
tied, it was easy to get them to my bosom, and I
immediately sounded the signal of danger. It was
answered by the warwhoop, which, though to me
the sweetest sound I ever heard, no doubt rung
fearfully in the assassins' ears, under that rocky
vault. They instantly, and I suppose instinctively,
sprung forward, so as to place themselves between
the light and the assailants, who kept along the
wall, till, guided by my whistle, they reached me.
The springing of triggers instantly made the enemy
sensible of this disadvantage, and two of them
threw themselves down the bank and fled; the
third spoke a word or two, as if to rally them,
when a rifle went off, and he fell dead. I recognised
the voice as Ramsay's, and told John who it
was.
“`Good enough for him,' said he. `And the
fellow's a stranger hereabouts; nobody knows
there is any such man, and he won't be missed.
So here goes.'
“Suiting the action to the word, he dragged the
body down the bank, and threw it into the river.
My bonds were then cut, and here I am.”
“I God!” said Keizer, “I do think, that for a
fellow that has no more sense when he is scared
than a rabbit, that Montague is about the
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cunningest chap when he's rightly at himself that ever I
came across. I thought I was tolerably sharp, but
he just used me up like nothing. Only to think
that I should be fooled so, when I partly knew
where he and the colonel were to meet.”
“How did you know that?” said I.
“Why, Lord bless you, sir! I saw them the first
time, and I ought to have known they would agree
to meet at the same place again; and I never
thought of nothing else till he carried me off right
away the other course. And then he told me I
was to be there by sunset, and stay there till they
came; and so I staid and staid, and kept wondering
why they did not come. You see the colonel
had told me they were to meet as well as Montague,
so I knew there could be no mistake, unless
it was about the place, and the minute I thought
of that I saw it all. I was sure that he had carried
me and the Indians away off there to be out
of the way, and that he had got Sam Todd, that
Jones had told him about, and some of his gang, at
the other place. You may be sure I was not long
guessing what to do; so I gives the word to Snake
and Billy John, and we dashed down to the river,
and so along the bank to the Pockhouse. When
I got most there, I told the Indians what to do, and
then we crawled right to the corner of the rock,
and I sounded my whistle, and the minute we
heard the colonel's we dashed right in, and drove
them out from the wall to where we could see
them, and they could not see us. So, you see, sir,
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we had them right safe, and there wasn't no use to
shoot one of them; but then that fellow would not
run, and a rifle will go off sometimes.”
“I hope,” said I, “John, it was not your rifle.”
“No, sir, it wasn't mine; but it makes no odds
whose it was. As to the Todds, you may be sure
they won't say nothing about it, and I don't suppose
anybody else in the county knows there was
such a man, except the colonel and me.”
“But won't the body float, John?”
“Lord! no, sir. The Missouri never lets go a
man it gets hold of with his clothes on, and he has
made a right smart sandbar by this time.”
“How is that?” said I.
“Why, sir, a man's pockets and his clothes all
get full of sand in a minute or two, and that sinks
him down, and the minute he touches bottom the
sand gathers on him, and makes a bar.”
There was something horrible in the idea of
such a grave even for the ruffian who so well deserved
it, and it was rendered more so by the nonchalance,
and even glee, with which Keizer spoke
of it. But I was in no humour then to find fault
with his moral code.
The day was one of the happiest of my life;
and, next to Balcombe's generous zeal and cool
sagacity, I felt most indebted for my happiness
to the acuteness and unhesitating intrepidity of
Keizer. Well did Balcombe say that John could
serve him at a pinch as few others could, and as
none would.
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“Well, colonel,” said Balcombe, when John was
gone, “what say you to my sharp tool now?”
“It reminds me,” said the colonel, “of a saying
that I have heard, `that this is God's world, and
that he has put nothing into it that is not necessary
to make up the complete whole.' As long as there
are such beings as Montague in the world there
should be such as Keizer.”
“And as long as there is need of men in the
world,” said Balcombe, “there is need for such
creatures as Montague to harden and sharpen their
faculties. Here's my friend William, that, but for
him, would have been now drowsing away his
existence on the banks of the Potomac, a lazy,
luxurious, country gentleman. Montague has
made a man of him; and a wiser, and better, and
more efficient man he will be for last night's work
as long as he lives.”
It was now high time to look into that mysterious
casket, on the possession of which so much
depended. On doing so, we were amused at the
simplicity and efficiency of the contrivance. It
contained nothing but the fragment of a plain gold
ring, which appeared to have been twisted off,
and a slip of paper, on which was written,
“Mammy Amy, the old housekeeper at Raby
Hall.” As soon as Balcombe read the name, he
exclaimed,
“Ah! Mary's old nurse; I remember her.
Mary was born on the estate, and this old woman's
youngest child was her foster-brother. No doubt
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she has the packet secured in some snug hidingplace
in the old hall, and holds the other part of
the ring as a means of identifying this.”
Having come to this conclusion, I deposited the
casket with my baggage and returned to my
friends.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Knew you of this fair work?
Shakspeare.
This day being Sunday, was the great day of
the campmeeting. I had some curiosity to witness
the scene, to which the protracted excitement of
the past week and the increased multitude might
give rise. But I had no mind to look on such a
profanation of sacred things, and really shuddered
at the thought of seeing Montague enacting the
saint, with all the guilt of premeditated murder on
his conscience. The feelings of the rest of our
party were like my own. We staid within doors;
and Balcombe, who was an eloquent reader, read
us a sermon. The day was to me one of pure
and holy pleasure; and never had I felt so much
disposed to pour out my heart in thankfulness to
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the gracious Being, of whose fatherly care I had
just received such striking proofs.
At supper a note was handed to Balcombe, who
was told the bearer waited for an answer. He
read it and passed it to me. It ran thus:—
“Edward Montague presents his best respects
to Mr. Balcombe, and begs leave to suggest that
his affairs render it of great importance to him to
spend one day at least at his own house, before his
departure for Virginia. To do this, he would be
necessarily absent five days, as his residence is
two days' journey from hence. But, urgent as the
necessity is, E. M. assures Mr. B. that if the delay
will be at all inconvenient to him, the thought of
this journey will be at once relinquished, and he
will be in readiness to accompany Mr. B. to-morrow
morning. If, on the other hand, it should entirely
suit Mr. B.'s convenience, E. M. begs leave
to add, that, as five days will leave only one day
of this week, and as E. M. would dislike to commence,
or even to continue a journey on the Sabbath,
he hopes Mr. B. may, on reflection, find it
quite convenient to delay his departure until the
following Monday. E. M. would have laid this
subject before Mr. B. at an earlier hour, but he
did not think it right to devote to temporal concerns
any portion of the Lord's day. He now
awaits Mr. B.'s answer, and, with his entire approbation,
proposes to set out at daylight.
“September 24, nine o'clock at night.”
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“What say you, Bet?” said Balcombe. “Could
you be ready to go with us to Virginia by to-morrow
week?”
Mrs. Balcombe's eyes sparkled at the question,
and I now discovered that such a journey had
been already in contemplation, and relinquished in
consequence of the sudden emergency of my affairs.
I, of course, smothered my impatience and made
no objection. The servant who brought the note
was accordingly called in.
“There's no occasion to write, Jim,” said Balcombe.
“Tell Mr. Montague to-morrow week
will do just as well.”
The next day was ushered in with joyful note
of preparation for our journey. At breakfast, the
ladies showed manifest impatience to be left to
their own occupations. We accordingly adjourned
to the drawingroom, and sat chatting over the
past, present, and future, until ten o'clock. About
that hour Mr. Jones was announced. He was a
grave, quiet, sedate old man, with a countenance
betokening great meekness of spirit, Christian
benevolence, and heartfelt piety. In short, he
seemed in all things the very reverse of his friend
Montague. He was accompanied by a coarse,
rough-looking fellow, in his shirt sleeves, with uncombed
hair and unwashed face, and a countenance
which, bearing the marks neither of intelligence or
intrepidity, hovered between knave and ruffian.
He was introduced to me, after the fashion of the
country, by some name, I forget what, and took
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his seat in silence near the door. A short and
somewhat dull conversation ensued. The old
man's feelings were obviously too serious and
solemn for Balcombe's sportive style of talk, and
none of the rest of us had the art of carrying on a
conversation alone.
At length Mr. Jones, after fumbling in his bosom,
drew forth a small rifle-barrelled pistol of exquisite
workmanship, which he handed to Balcombe,
saying, gravely,
“That is yours, I believe, Mr. Balcombe.”
“Indeed it is,” exclaimed he; “and glad I am
to get it again.”
“Then,” continued Jones, “I am in hopes you
will be able to tell who this belongs to.”
Saying this, he presented a large miniature set
in gold, and representing a female. James glanced
at it, and immediately claimed it, saying it was his
sister's picture.
“Indeed it is,” said Balcombe, gazing earnestly
at it. “Poor dear Mary,” continued he, as a tear
swelled in his eye, “how well do I remember the
day when the partial fondness of your poor father
led him to this extravagance. See, William! I
told you she was beautiful. You can now judge
for yourself.”
I bent over him as he held the picture; and
surely never had I seen a more lovely and intellectual
face. It spoke her whole character, and
explained the secret of that infatuation which,
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when her beauty blazed out in all its brightness,
had made Balcombe insensible to everything else.
He at length handed the picture to James, and
Mr. Jones again addressed him.
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Balcombe, that I have
come on an unpleasant business. My respect for
you and Colonel Robinson, and for the feelings of
the ladies, made me come with the constable—”
here he made an embarrassed pause, and sat puzzling
how to go on, until Balcombe relieved him
by saying,
“The constable, sir! and what have I to do
with the constable?”
“He has a warrant against you, sir.”
“A warrant!” exclaimed Balcombe. “And for
what, in God's name?”
“Let him see the warrant, if you please,” said
Jones, turning to the officer.
It was accordingly handed to Balcombe, and
proved to be a warrant for the arrest of George
Balcombe, charged with the murder of Andrew
Ramsay. He read it patiently through, and
seemed for a while perplexed to know what it
could mean. At length the cloud seemed to pass
off his mind, his eye brightened, and he said, with
a careless though indignant laugh,
“Well! these rascals have really carried their
audacity to a pitch I could not have anticipated.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Balcombe?” said Colonel
Robinson, with an anxious look.
“Mean!” said Balcombe. “I mean that those
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ruffians, balked of their prey, have the effrontery
to claim it at the hands of the law.”
“I don't know what ruffians you mean, sir,”
said Mr. Jones, mildly. “You certainly cannot
mean me, and I am the person that gave the information
in this case.”
“You, sir! why, what upon earth do you know
about it?”
“Perhaps we had better not talk it over here,”
said Jones. “It may get to the ears of the ladies,
and make them uneasy. I have a very high respect
for you, Mr. Balcombe, and am in good hopes
you'll be able to clear the matter up; so, if you'll
just walk with us to the justice close by, you'll
hear all about it.”
Balcombe assented instantly; and the old gentleman,
turning to Scott, remarked that it might
be proper for him to go too, as he had recognised
the picture as his. Nothing could be more superfluous
than this suggestion. The tear was hardly
yet dry which Balcombe had shed while gazing on
poor Mary's picture, and, though it was to dishonour
or death itself, James would have followed
him.
A walk of half a mile brought us to the house of
the justice. A good many people were in waiting,
and, among the rest, I remarked a tall young man,
whose dress denoted some pretensions to gentility,
and who pressed to meet Balcombe with a fawning
smile, obviously meant to be received as encouraging
and patronising. Balcombe passed him
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coldly, not seeming to observe his offered hand,
and walked into the house. We found the justice
seated behind a small table, on which lay pen, ink,
and paper, a powderhorn, and a single volume,
which proved to be a digest of statute laws, with
sundry forms by way of appendix. He was a
quiet-looking, simple old man, who seemed to have
discharged himself of all his knowledge of law,
when he had copied the form of a warrant for
murder. He now looked anxious and perplexed;
and, on our entrance, returned Balcombe's salutation
with an air of deep respect, and a flush of
sympathy that slightly reddened the old man's
eye.
CHAPTER XXIV.
It cannot be, but he was murdered here.
The least of all these signs are probable.
Shakespeare.
Balcombe now seated himself quietly, and
awaited the movements of the law; but soon a
bustle was observed, and, elbowing his way through
the crowd, the constable reappeared, conducting
Keizer strongly ironed. At the sight of Balcombe
the poor fellow's face brightened, and he exclaimed,
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“Ah! colonel, I am glad to see you. Now you
are come, I hope these fools will learn to have a
little more sense. For my part I cannot make
them hear a word.”
“Be quiet, John,” said Balcombe. “It is our
turn to hear what they have to say. But, no!”
continued he, rising to his feet, “I believe it is
right that I should at once speak out plainly, and
tell all I know about the matter.”
He accordingly went on, and with great distinctness
and simplicity told the whole story as I
have given it to the reader.
When he had gone through, the testimony on
behalf of the prosecution was called for.
Mr. Jones was now sworn, and deposed, that on
Sunday evening he and Montague had both walked
out from the campmeeting, in a pause of the exercises,
to mediate, and had accidentally fallen together.
That they were much in the habit of
intercommunication of thoughts on religious subjects,
and that their conversation took a turn which
they both felt to be edifying and profitable. They
accordingly prolonged their walk, and wandered
down the glen that led to the Rockhouse.
“We were often in the habit,” continued the
good old man, “when we had been taking sweet
counsel together, of uniting in prayer to the throne
of grace; and we took particular pleasure in praying
together in such places, where no eye but
God's could see us, and no ear but God's could
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hear us. When we got near the river, says he,
`Brother Jones—”'
“Stop, sir,” said the young fellow I have mentioned,
who had bustled in, and taken his seat at
the table; “nobody wants to hear what Mr. Montague
said.” Then turning to the justice, he added,
“This is hearsay, may it please the court, which
is not evidence. If Mr. Montague knows anything
about the matter he ought to be here, sir.”
“Is it on my behalf, Mr. Perkins,” said Balcombe,
quietly, “or on behalf of the state, that
you make this objection?”
“On your behalf, certainly, sir.”
“Then, sir, I will thank you to let Mr. Jones go
on. I want to hear what Mr. Montague said.”
The witness continued,
“Mr. Montague said, `Brother Jones, is not
there a cave somewhere near this?'
“`Yes, says I; `there is a sort of a cave close
by on the river bank.'
“`I love,' says he, `to go into such places, and
there, in God's own temples, not made with hands,
to meditate upon his mighty works and worship in
secret.'
“`Well,' says I, `Brother Montague, suppose
we go there now, and unite in prayer.'
“So he agreed, and we went on. As soon as
we got to the mouth of the cave, the first thing we
saw was that pistol. I picked it up, and as soon as
I looked at it I was sure I had seen Mr. Balcombe
with a pair just like it, and I told Brother
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Montague so. Well, we both thought it mighty
strange; and presently we came to a place where
there was an amazing quantity of blood, just like
as if a hog had been stuck there. You may be
sure this made me feel mighty queer, and so we
began to look about on the ground, and we found
that picture. And then we took notice of a power
of tracks, some shoes and some moccasins, and
they were all mightily mixed up, and looked like
as if people had been scuffling and fighting. Then
we went back to the blood, and there was a mark
from the edge of the bank, where the blood was,
down to the water, like as if a hog or something
heavy had been dragged down the bank, and part
of the way the blood was smeared along the track,
just as if the thing, whatever it was, had been
lying in it, and had dragged the blood along with
it; and alongside of that mark of blood there were
tracks of a small foot with a moccasin on, dug
deep in the sand, like as if a man had been pulling
hard at something.
“`Brother Jones,' says Brother Montague—”
“Stop, sir,” said Perkins, “until we know
whether Mr. Balcombe is willing to hear what
Brother Montague said.”
“Mr. Perkins,” said Balcombe, “I will thank
you to let Mr. Jones go on; and I beg, sir, you
will not prejudice my case by leading people to
suppose that I have deemed it necessary to avail
myself of the captious quibbles of a pettifogging
attorney. Go on, if you please, Mr. Jones.”
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Jones went on:
“`Brother Jones,' says Brother Montague,
`this looks mighty like there had been some foul
play here.'
“`I am afraid so,' says I.
“`Suppose,' said he, `we take a pole, and feel
if there's anything in the water.'
“So I agreed, and we cut a pole and felt, but the
water was deep just there, and we could not touch
bottom. And so, sir, as I drew the pole out, just
at the water's edge I felt it strike something that
felt hard and sounded hollow like; and I stoops
down and gets hold of it, and I found it was a
powderhorn. That's the same powderhorn,” continued
he, pointing to that on the table. “So then
we looked about, sir, and not far below, just at the
mouth of the branch, was a little sand bar, and we
saw something on the upper edge of it that looked
as if it might be a man. So we got as near as we
could, and looked good at it, and then we were
right sure it was a man. By this time the sun
was about down, and we had not time to go for a
boat, and we concluded the body would not wash
away, and we'd get help in the morning, and come
down and take it away. So we started home, and
as we went, just about the head of the hollow we
meets Keizer. I had the horn in my hand, and I
saw him look mighty hard at it, but he said nothing.
And he had his rifle in his hand, for all it was Sunday,
and his shot pouch, and belt, and knife, and
all, but he had no horn. So says I,
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“`Mr. Keizer, you seem to have lost your powderhorn,
and I have just found one: maybe this is
yours.'
“`I dare say it may be,' says he. `Let me look
at it.'
“So he takes it and looks at it, and he looked
mighty queer, and says he, `I believe it is mine;'
and with that he takes out the stopper, and turns
like he was going to pour some powder in his
hand, and the water run out; and then he started
and looked confused, and says he, `No, it cannot
be mine—I don't think it's mine.'
“`Well,' says I, `Mr. Keizer, if you were going
this way to look for yours, you need not go any
farther, for Mr. Montague and I have been all the
way down to the Rockhouse, and have not seen
anything of it; and so you'd as well turn back with
us.' Well, sir, he look'd mightily as if he did not
know what to do, and that is not a common thing
with him; so he turned back, and went on with
us towards the camp, and as soon as he got there
he left us, and got into the crowd. I kept my
eye upon him, though, and presently I got a chance
to speak to one or two, and they seized him without
making any disturbance more than could not
be helped. But we could not be so quiet about it
but what there was some little rumpus, and there
was a couple of Indians came up, that looked as if
they were friendly to Keizer; but he spoke a word
or two to them in Indian, and they went off. So
we took him to my house and secured him, and
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early in the morning a party went down and
brought up the body.”
The old gentleman here closed his testimony.
He was asked a few questions, but the answers
were nothing more than iterations of such parts of
his story as appeared not to have been understood
or remembered.
The name of Thomas Johnson was now called,
and a fellow came forward of an aspect and dress
more hideously savage than anything I had ever beheld.
His features were flushed and bloated by
intemperance, his eyes bloodshot, his hair and
beard staring and sunburnt, stuck full of bits of
straw, and matted with filth; his dress of leather
from head to foot, and for blood, and dirt, and
grease, that in which I had first seen Keizer might
in comparison have become a ballroom. His moccasins
were of raw deer skin. Patches of that
material were rudely stuck, by means of thongs
of the same, on different parts of his garments,
and in some places the sowing having given way,
the horny edges were curled upward disclosing
the holes they were meant to hide. The tout ensemble
of ferocity and beastliness was horrible to
look upon. So degraded and hateful a specimen
of humanity I had never conceived of. He advanced
to the table, and from his red eye scowled
a look of malignity upon Balcombe that would have
become the features of the arch-fiend himself.
When the oath was tendered to him, he clutched
the book with his huge fist in a way which showed
that he was an utter stranger to the ceremony.
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Having blundered through the form, he proceeded
to identify the body of the deceased as that
of Andrew Ramsay. He had known him from his
childhood; they had been boys together, and were
both natives of the county of Tazewell, in Virginia.
They had been together ten years before in an expedition
towards the Spanish country with a company
that put themselves under the command of
Balcombe. He stated that while in the wilderness
they had fallen in with a party of Spaniards and
Indians, and camped near them for a day or
two. That suddenly Balcombe's party were put
under marching orders, and moved off to a distance
from the other company; that on the march
Ramsay was seized, and accused of having conspired
to betray his companions to be plundered
and murdered by the Spaniards. On hearing the
particulars of the charge, the witness said he knew
it to be false of his own knowledge, but did not
dare to say a word, for he saw that Ramsay was
prejudged, and feared lest he himself might be
charged as an accomplice. That Ramsay was
condemned to receive one hundred lashes, which
were administered by the hand of Keizer, and
then turned out into the wilderness to take his
chance to starve or be scalped. That he made
his way into the Spanish country, and that the
witness, in a subsequent expedition to that country,
had fallen in with him. That they had not long
since returned together; and that Ramsay, meeting
with Balcombe and Keizer, had avowed a
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determination to prosecute them for reparation.
That he had on Saturday evening seen Balcombe
and Scott walking in the wood near the head of
the hollow; that they had there met Ramsay, and
that all three went together down the glen towards
the Rockhouse a little after sunset; that not seeing
Ramsay again that night or next day, he suspected
something as soon as he heard of the dead body.
That he had gone with the party that brought it
up, and knew it to be the body of Ramsay.
I will not detain the reader with the shuffling
and prevarications of this fellow when questioned
whether Ramsay was alone when he met Scott
and Balcombe. They could not do much to deepen
the impression on the minds of all who saw him,
that his testimony could answer no end but to supply
any link in a chain of evidence which it might
be technically necessary to establish, but which no
one could think of impeaching. I do not suppose
that his evidence, in fact, proved anything but the
dead man's name. Being asked if he had seen
Montague that evening, he said that he had never
heard of any person of the name of Montague.
This was probably true enough according to
Madge Wildfire's theory, that rogues should never
know each other's names.
Another fellow of the same kidney was then called,
who swore that he had seen Keizer that evening
about dusk walk down the river at the ferry, and
turn down the bank towards the Rockhouse. As
he said nothing about the Indians, it was obvious
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that although John had done so, he had not seen
him. Several other persons were called, who
recognised the powderhorn as Keizer's. It appeared,
also, that the measure of his remarkably
small foot had been taken, and found to agree with
the track on the shore. It was further identified
by a patch on one of his moccasins. As to the
picture and the pistols, Balcombe and Scott
avowed the ownership of them.
I was now called upon, and without any interruption
told my story, in which, as it regarded the
interview with Montague, I was supported by
Colonel Robinson, which tallied so exactly with
Balcombe's distinct and perspicuous narrative as
to leave no doubt that he had been the party assailed,
and to make it probable that the death of
Ramsay had been made necessary by his own conduct.
The result was, that though the importance of
the case made further investigation indispensable,
yet the accused parties were all, without difficulty,
admitted to bail, and bound to appear at the next
court.
Balcombe now inquired where the body was,
and being told it was in the next room, expressed
a wish to see it. He recognised it at once as the
body of Ramsay, and coolly examined the wound.
It appeared that the ball had entered close under
the left arm without touching the limb, and ranging
backward, had broken the backbone between the
shoulderblades. Balcombe, without calling the
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attention of others to this, merely remarked to me
that this confirmed the impression on his mind,
that Ramsay was in the act of firing when he was
shot. It was too dark to see anything distinctly,
but the shadowy figure imperfectly sketched on
the dim sky beyond showed some such attitude.
He now had no doubt but that at a venture the
wretch was determined to throw a ball in the
direction whence his whistle had just proceeded.
I was pleased to observe that what he said was
overheard by others, and favourably received;
the more so, perhaps, because he had not seemed
to intend to make any such impression, or to remark
that he had made it.
CHAPTER XXV.
Dogberry.
Masters, it is proved already that you are little better
than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly.
How answer you for yourselves?
—Shakspeare.
We now returned to Colonel Robinson's to dinner.
It was not our intention to give the ladies
any intimation of the occurrences of the day; but
such things cannot be kept from servants, and it
appeared that they had been apprized of what had
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passed. We found the poor old lady full of anxious
trepidation, and much relieved by our appearance.
With Mrs. Balcombe the case was widely
different: with cheeks glowing, and eyes flashing
indignantly through sparkling tears, she advanced
steadily to meet her husband, and stretching out
her arms, said, in a firm enthusiastic tone,
“My noble husband! who has dared to cast
suspicion on your name?”
He folded her gently to his bosom, kissed her,
and supporting her on his left arm, parted the curls
from her brow, which he again kissed, and looking
at her with a tender and admiring eye, said, “You
should be the wife of a hero, Bet.”
“And am I not?” said she. “Oh, my unpretending
husband! Generous, brave, and wise!
The pride of your wife's heart needs but to see
you in your own light, and asks nothing from the
praises of others. But when, for the first time in
your life, your name has been aspersed, even I
may be allowed to praise you. And yet I sometimes
wish that others could see you just as I do.”
“And so they do, dear,” said he; “and hence I
have the ill-will of those who hate the qualities
you love. But who has truer friends than I?”
“And who deserves them better?” said she, involuntarily
glancing at me a look, the indelicacy of
which a blush instantly acknowledged and rebuked.
“I can answer that question, my dear madam,”
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said I, “with an acknowledgment of obligations
which my whole life can never repay.”
“Enough, enough!” said Balcombe. “My wife,
who has a charter to extol her husband, when she
does praise me grieves me. My dear William,”
continued he, “I should prove recreant to the
most sacred duty that ever benevolence imposed
on gratitude, if I did not hold my life cheap in the
service of any in whose veins flows one drop of
your noble grandfather's blood. But come, come!
My appetite and yours both require a stronger
diet than praise or profession. Let's to dinner.
Come, John, you must not go away. We must
hold a cabinet council presently, and have the benefit
of your quick wit.”
As soon as we had dined we drew together in another
room. “And now,” said Balcombe, “what
part had Montague in this fair work?”
“He is at the bottom of it, you may depend,”
said Keizer. “Just give him one hour to get over
his scare, and he is the cunningest devil in the
world.”
“His hand is in it, I am afraid,” said I.
“It looks like it,” said Balcombe. “But when I
have him so completely in my power—stay—did
you not say, William, that he had opened the casket
and looked into it?”
“Certainly.”
“Then as sure as you're alive he's off to Virginia,
and has cast this noose over us to keep us
here. He knows where the packet is, and if he
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can lay his hand upon it, he will not stop till he
puts the Atlantic between him and us. You are
free, and must follow him.”
“Never,” said I. “My testimony is of too
much importance to you.”
“Pho! pho!” said Balcombe; “the prosecution
is all smoke, and ought not to give you the
least concern.”
“Pardon me, my dear sir, I must be governed
herein by my own feelings. And if the wealth of
the world depended on it I would not leave you, if
I did not know a single fact in the case.”
“What is to be done?” said Balcombe.
“I can hear in three hours,” said Keizer, “which
way he went.”
“How so?” said Balcombe.
“Why, sir, there's only one road from this to
St. Louis, and only one house he could have
stopped at for breakfast. If he went that way, I
can hear of him there.”
“And how then?”
“Why, if once I strike his trail, sir, and I don't
have him back, my name is not John Keizer.”
Saying this, he sprang to his feet. Balcombe
rang the bell, and ordered a fleet horse to be in
readiness; and, having handed Keizer some money,
he was in the saddle in a few minutes.
“If he has not been there, John,” said Balcombe,
“return immediately.”
“I'll just stop to feed my horse, sir,” and away
he rode.
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Midnight came, and Keizer did not return.
There was now no question that Montague was
gone for Virginia. I hoped, indeed, that Keizer
would overtake him at St. Louis; but of his
power to bring him back I had my doubts. That
Balcombe could do so, I was sure; but who else
could exercise the same absolute control over his
craven spirit? Perhaps I might. I now felt that
I myself ought to have gone. Was it too late?
Was not the attempt worth making? When once
the idea had entered my mind I found it impossible
to compose myself. I mentioned the matter to
Balcombe. He remonstrated, but finally acquiesced.
My horse was saddled, and, with a servant for
a guide, I sallied forth by the light of a waning
moon which had just risen. At daylight I dismissed
the servant, and pushed on for breakfast at
the next house. I had now ridden nine hours.
My horse was weary, and I expressed a wish to
get a fresh one. In this I succeeded, and the horse
which Keizer had ridden was produced. He had
left him there, and hired one which it appeared
Montague had given for a fresh one, paying a difference
for the advantage, although his horse was
the best. I thus found that we all travelled at the
same rate; and being about nine hours apart, we
used each other's horses as relays. This state of
things allowed no relaxation. I had no hope of
overtaking Montague short of St. Louis, but he
might be delayed there for want of a boat. If he
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went on horseback, he would probably slacken
his speed in Illinois, and I should overtake him.
As I advanced, I had the mortification to find that
Montague and Keizer had both travelled faster
than I could. They both rode so hard, that the
horses were but imperfectly rested when they
came into my hands. To make the matter worse,
I reached the ferry at St. Charles in the night, and
had to wait for daylight. Here I learned that
Montague had crossed under the same circumstances
the morning before, and Keizer about three
o'clock in the evening. I had some satisfaction in
the thought that he had reached St. Louis on the
same day with Montague, and expected to get
there myself to breakfast. I had now ridden a
hundred miles; and, except my stops to change
horses, and my enforced delay at the river, I had
kept the saddle for thirty hours. But I pressed
on, losing all consciousness of fatigue in the eagerness
of the pursuit.
About half-way between St. Louis and St.
Charles I met a party of men, in advance of
which, at a distance of fifty yards, rode two well-dressed,
well-mounted, and gentlemanly-looking
men, who seemed closely engaged in animated
conversation. Behind were five others, four of
whom carried firearms. The fifth rode in the
midst, and, as I approached, exhibited the features
and figure of John Keizer. I immediately rode
up to him, exclaiming,
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“Bless me, John! what means this? Where is
Montague?”
“Gone.”
“Gone! Where, and how?”
“To Virginia, two hours ago in a steamboat.”
“Is there any other boat at St. Louis?”
“None at all. He is off. The rascal has been
too cunning for me, and has got me in a hockly
again.”
“How so?” said I.
“I God!” said he, “don't you see they've got
me tied hard and fast here on this horse?”
I now looked down, and saw that the poor fellow's
feet were tied together with a rope that
passed under the horse's belly. In my life I had
never felt myself so perfectly baffled and disheartened.
It now seemed that Montague's triumph
was complete, and the ultimate success of his machinations
inevitable. I turned back and rode in
silence, wondering at what I saw, and impatient to
ask Keizer, but was rudely prevented by the guard
from riding near enough for conversation. In the
mean time, seeing the gentlemen before us rein up
their horses, I joined them.
As I approached, one of them, a man about
thirty years of age, of a shrewd and sprightly
countenance, accosted me with a cheerful and
courteous air.
“I suspect, sir,” said he, “that we are saving
you some trouble.”
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“If you allude to the prisoner,” said I, “you
have indeed curtailed my ride.”
“You were in pursuit of him, then?” said he.
“I was,” replied I; and, not knowing how to
break my request to be permitted to converse with
him, I said no more. Indeed, I was never more
perplexed or indisposed for conversation in my
life; and, in spite of all my endeavours to be courteous,
I have no doubt I answered the remarks and
met the advances of the stranger in a manner
which seemed to him repulsive.
It is probable, too, that he imputed them in part
to my concern for the fate of the deceased. Seeing
me in pursuit of Keizer, he might naturally
suppose the murdered man to be a relative or
friend of mine. At all events, he seemed determined
to break down the barrier of my reserve,
and closing up to me, said, in that sort of tone
which solicits confidence by seeming to give it,
that he was accompanying the sheriff with his
prisoner, having been employed to aid the counsel
for the state in the prosecution of the murderers.
“Employed!” said I. “By whom?”
“By a Mr. Montague,” said he; “who seems to
take a deep interest in the deceased, and is anxious
to secure the most effectual vengeance for his
death.”
Though I had been accustomed to associate
with the name of Montague the idea of every mode
of villany, there was something in this communication
for which I was unprepared; and I uttered
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my abhorrence and detestation of the wretch in
terms which completely undeceived my companion.
He heard me, however, with great complacency;
and, as the disclosure of my sentiments produced
no reserve on his part, and opened a vent for the
smothered excitement of my feelings, we began to
converse on the subject very freely. I gave him
the true history of the affair, for I had nothing to
conceal, and he, on his part, told me all he knew
of Keizer's arrest. It seemed that Montague had
seen him the night before in St. Louis, and, having
already engaged the services of Mr. Shaler, acquainted
him with the fact. By his advice, an
affidavit sufficient for the purpose was prepared
and sworn to by Montague; a warrant was procured;
Keizer was taken; and, preparation for
his removal being made in the night, he was hurried
off at sunrise. No doubt was entertained
that Keizer was flying from justice, though Mr.
Shaler remarked, that, strangely enough, he had
seemed to throw himself into Montague's way.
“But,” said he, “I think you said he had been
already arrested and was discharged on bail.”
“Certainly.”
“Then our meeting may have the effect of curtailing
our journey as well as yours. There is no
law, Mr. Green,” continued he, addressing the
sheriff, “for arresting a man on a charge for
which he has been already arrested and bailed.”
“So I understand,” replied the other, a tall,
strong, middle-aged man, of a serious but
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benevolent and intelligent countenance—“so I understand,
sir; but the difficulty is to discharge myself
of the duty required of me by my warrant.”
“That is easily done. This gentleman has only
to apply for a habeas corpus, when we stop at St.
Charles, and make affidavit to the facts he states
here, and the fellow will be discharged. Your
return to that effect will exonerate you.”
“I thank you, sir,” said I, “for the frankness of
this information, which I had no right to expect.”
“You have no occasion to thank me. Such
would be the result at all events, and I do but
save myself a fruitless journey. I dare say Montague
would not thank me, but I am not bound to
cater for his petty malice. My engagements with
him will make it my duty to prosecute with unsparing
rigour when the case comes to trial; but
I am under no obligation to harass the accused
beforehand. You see, sir,” continued he, “that I
place undoubting confidence in the fairness of
your intentions. This may seem strange to you,
as you have probably little idea of the keen insight
into character, which the practice of our profession
imparts. There is indeed a point beyond which
we must not rely upon it; and you must not therefore
be surprised, if, when this matter is inquired
into on the habeas corpus, I cross-examine you as
closely as if I did not believe a word you say.”
I was pleased with the manly frankness of my
new acquaintance, and especially with the delicate
compliment to myself, which I requited in my best
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way by acknowledging his candour, by hinting
that none but a gentleman could be expected to
recognise a gentleman, jaded, haggard, and travelsoiled
as I was.
“We have to do with all sorts of people, sir,”
said he; “and, in this new country, inhabited by
insulated individuals, no one of whom can stand
sponsor for another, we must learn to know all
sorts of people. Now there are some marks of
the gentleman which he can never lose under any
circumstances. The tones, the modulations and
inflections of his voice, never can be mistaken.
As to the candour you are pleased to compliment,
I would not advise you to trust too much to that.
A lawyer's eyes are like those of a cat. He is not
obliged to keep his mouth shut; because he sees
plainly, and knows that he is not seen.”
This curious remark made me turn and fix my
eye upon him with, no doubt, a perplexed look.
He observed it, and added, laughing, “See, now!
at this moment you are at fault. You don't know
whether to adhere to the favourable opinion you
just now intimated, or to reverse it.”
“It is really so much more agreeable,” said I,
“to adhere, that I must see much more cause to
change it before I give it up.”
“Thank you, sir,” said he, more seriously.
“We are not so hardened by our commerce with
the base, as not to know how to prize the approbation
and confidence of honourable men. Your
enthusiasm on behalf of your friends is not to be
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mistaken; and as to Mr. Montague, I assure you
his grimace and sanctimonious deportment did not
deceive me. So far as he is my client, I shall be
true to him. His character I have not taken under
my charge, though if I had I should try to whitewash
him as well as I could.”
By this time we reached the river, and having
crossed it, I took the necessary steps for procuring
poor John's discharge, which was soon effected.
In the mean time I took copies of Montague's
affidavit and of the warrant. I found that this last
embraced the names of Balcombe and Scott.
Montague doubtless supposed, when he saw Keizer
in St. Louis, that Balcombe was there too, and
was particularly anxious to secure him. To effect
this object, he spoke of the pistol as one “known
to be Balcombe's.” I mention this as a specimen
of his art, in so swearing to the truth as to make
others believe what is false. It confirmed me in
my opinion of Mr. Montague's conscientiousness,
leaving no doubt that he was the last man in the
world to swear to a literal falsehood.
Having procured John's discharge, we found
leisure for the rest we both so much needed. I
say both; for of course he must have been weary.
But his eye was as bright, and his air as cheerful,
and his whole appearance as fresh as if nothing
had happened. For my own part, I was not in
condition to resume my journey until the next
morning. Indeed, my impatience was effectually
subdued. I was baffled, beaten, overwhelmed by
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the utter ruin of all the golden hopes that had
shone so bright but two days before. I had no
hope even in Balcombe's resources; and the
thought of the difficulties in which he was involved
on my account, made me look forward to our
meeting with anything but pleasure.
CHAPTER XXVI.
“Why should I tremble?
You know not woman's love: that spell of power,
That guards her husband's heart. It hangs about him,
An amulet, a charm, a talisman.
It wards the blow that's levelled at his life.
It nerves his arm, and makes his trenchant blade
A wand of power, within whose magic sweep
No foe can live. Then wherefore should I tremble?
For the kind friend whose tenderness has soothed
My sickness, dried my tears, and cheered my sorrows:
For the protector of these helpless babes
I well might fear, were not my heart instinct
With woman's love. But for my lord! my master!
The master of my person and my fate!
How can I tremble?”
The next morning we resumed our journey, and
I now sought to beguile the time by asking the
history of Keizer's adventure.
“Just about dusk,” said he, “I got to St. Louis,
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and as I went along into the town I heard a bell.
So I asked the boy that took my horse at the tavern
what was the meaning of it, and he told me it
was for meeting. As soon as I heard that, I was
pretty sure that Montague would be there. So I
took notice where the noise came from, and as I
was pretty sharp set I thought I would get my
supper, and then go to look for him. I knew well
enough if I could catch him out in the night by
himself he would never get away from me. So
after supper I walks up to the meetinghouse, and
I stands by the door till they all comes out. And
sure enough, presently the meeting breaks up and
out they come. I just stood to one side, so as the
light should not shine upon me, and presently here
comes Montague. But there was another man
with him, and they two walked down the street
together till they got to a tavern, but it was not
the same house where I put up; and Montague he
stopped, and the other one wished him good-night
and went on. So I follows, and looks through the
window to see whether Montague stopped in the
room before I would go in. But I did not see him
at all, and good reason for it, for just at that minute
he turned round and came out to speak to the
other man, and there was I standing with the light
shining right in my face. I noticed that he saw
me, for he started right back, and through the barroom
he went as fast as he could. Then I did not
know what to do; so just to get time to think
about it, I goes right across the street to a sort
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of a dark corner, to consider. And while I stood
there I could see into the door, and I saw Montague
come into the room after a while and look
all around, and then he goes back. So I concluded
I would just stay where I was till bedtime, in
hopes that maybe after a while he would venture
out, and if he meant to do me any mischief he
should not know where I was. I suppose I staid
there better than an hour, and I saw a heap of
people going in and coming out, and at last Montague
comes to the door and looks out, and the
night was dark and sort of drizzly like, and he
buttons up his coat and looks out again. Then he
goes back and gets his hat, and again he comes to
the door and looks out, and then he goes back and
gets his greatcoat, and stands right before the door
and puts it on. So I did not see anybody else that
looked like going out, and I made sure I had him.
So I starts across the street, and got pretty near
the other side in a dark place, where I knew he
could not see me just coming out of the light, and
sure enough here he comes by himself and passes
along right by me, and so round the corner. So
just as he turned the corner I was right behind him,
and I spoke sorter low: `Mr. Montague, Mr. Montague,
' says I. With that he turns and speaks up,
right loud, and says he,
“`Oh! is that you, Mr. Keizer?'
“`Yes,' says I, `this is me, and you must go
back with me,' says I.
“`Why, Mr. Keizer?' says he; and the word
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was hardly out of his mouth before they had me—
four of them. So they carried me right in, and
into a back room; and there was the justice, and
the sheriff, and this same lawyer Shaler, and they
had the warrant and the affidavit all fixed and
sworn to, just waiting there till Montague should
step out and make me show myself. So you see,
sir, they had me fast enough. So the next morning
about sunrise they started me off, and just as we
started, the steamboat started too, with Montague,
for Virginia.”
Here ended John's story; and thus ended all
our schemes for entrapping the most artful villain
that ever breathed.
“There's one thing I forgot to tell you,” said
Keizer. “That sheriff is a clever fellow, and he
was as kind and tender with me as if I had been
his own brother. And says he to me,
“`Mr. Keizer, it may be of some service to you
to know that I heard you last night tell Mr. Montague
he must go back with you.'
“`I am much obliged to you, sir,' says I; `but I
don't see what good that's going to do me.'
“`Why,' says he, `they'll want to make it appear
that you were flying from justice, and that
shows it was not so.”'
“As to that, John,” said I, “I can explain that
matter to the satisfaction of everybody.”
“Oh yes,” replied John, “I know that, and the
whole affair is not of no consequence only as it
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keeps you and the colonel here, but it was civil
and fair in him, sir.”
The next evening brought us to Colonel Robinson's,
where I found such consolation for fatigue
and disappointment as a kind and cordial welcome
could afford. I now discovered that Balcombe
had not expected a very different result. He was
too well aware of the ever ready craft of Montague
to expect it to fail him, but under the influence
of feelings which Keizer would not know how
to excite. Expecting little, therefore, his disappointment
was proportionate. His excitement
was calmed down, and I found him cheerful, tranquil,
and philosophical, eccentric and discursive as
ever, but more disposed to give a romantic and
tender turn to his thoughts than formerly. His
wife had undergone a change of an opposite character.
Her high spirit seemed called fully into
action, and displayed itself not only in her words,
but in the tones of her voice and the flash of her
eye. Her extreme modesty had not forsaken her,
but did not prevent occasional manifestations of a
spirit which looked with scorn upon the generality
of mankind, yet bowed itself with a yet deeper
prostration in admiration and deference of her husband.
When he was silent, her eye dwelt upon
him. When he spoke, her ear seemed to drink in
greedily all his words. She seemed impatient
that any one should differ from him in opinion, and
indignant that all did not reverence him as she did.
The colonel would sometimes amuse himself with
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rallying her enthusiastic devotion for a man, old
enough, as he said, to be her father. This she
sometimes parried playfully, at others she seized
on it as a pretext for venting her impassioned
admiration.
“What has age to do with it?” said she. “What
has age to do with one, in whom
`All things wear
An aspect of eternity; whose thoughts,
Whose feelings, passions, good or evil, all
Have nothing of old age; and whose bold brow
Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years,
Not their decrepitude.'
My dear father, you make me speak proudly, but
only as George Balcombe's wife should speak,
when his name is stained with the imputation of
base, dishonourable crime. When mind can perish,
when virtue can die, he may grow old. But
don't you know the poet says,
`To things immortal time can do no wrong,
And that which never is to die, for ever must be young?'
“I, too, wonder sometimes, but it is at his love
for me, and of that I should doubt, were it possible
to doubt his truth. Let me feel worthy of that,
and I shall be the proudest woman on earth. But
how can I deserve it but by loving him? And
this insolent aspersion, which makes me feel that
I love him more than ever, and gives me a right
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to speak of his virtues and my love, makes me
speak proudly.”
This impassioned burst may be taken as a specimen
of the change wrought in one who until now
had been one of the most reserved and shrinking
females I had ever seen.
“Would it not be as well,” said Colonel Robinson
one day to Balcombe, “to employ a lawyer?”
“Employ a lawyer!” exclaimed Mrs. Balcombe;
“for what? To set the stain on his name? To
deepen the soiled spot by an attempt to wash it
out with dirty water? To pick flaws? To start
quibbles? Or to build up a reputation for eloquence
on the ruins of his honour, that his daughter
may hear it said that her father owed his escape
from an ignominious death to the address and ingenuity
of Mr. Such-a-one? Never! never!”
“Bless you, my dear girl!” said Balcombe, playfully,
laying his head in her lap. “Why, Bet, I
never thought to be so much indebted to Montague
as I am for letting me see what a wife I
have.”
She looked down fondly on him, and passing
her hand through his grizzled hair smiled proudly
and affectionately, while a large tear fell on his
cheek. I doubted if either ever felt happier than
at that moment.
-- 260 --
CHAPTER XXVII.
Philosophy, baptized
In the pure fountain of eternal love,
Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees,
As meant to indicate a god to man,
Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own.
Cowper.
[figure description] Page 260.[end figure description]
A day or two after my return Balcombe and I
walked out, and he took me over the ground which
had been the scene of the adventures of the preceding
Saturday night. The tracks of different
persons moving violently to and fro, were fresh
and distinct under the shelter of the rock, and may
be so to this day. The stain of blood, too, was
still there; but all traces without had been obliterated
by recent rain. We were curious to observe,
that, just at the point where the body had been
thrown in, the water swept the shore in a deep
and strong current, and just below lay a fallen
tree, making a small bar on which the stream
broke violently. This explained the rare phenomenon
of the body of a man with his clothes on
being cast up by the Missouri. The leather dress,
too, of Ramsay, was not so readily clogged with
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sand as cloth would have been. I mentioned these
things to Balcombe.
“All that is so,” said he; “but you overlook
the main cause of all. It was the will of God it
should be so.”
“I see,” said I, “that you are as observant of
the ways of Providence as ever; though it would
seem that your confidence in your last prognostics
begins to fail you. Do you then consider Providence
as having declared against us?”
“By no means,” said he. “But I am admonished
not to think of knowing more of the book of fate
than the page which is open before me. We can
always see enough to keep us in mind that God
rules over the events of every passing hour. We
know that his general purpose is just, benevolent,
and wise. But we do not always reflect that there
may be that about ourselves which, for the very
attainment of this ultimate end, may require to be
rebuked by seeming departure from the line of
justice. Look back upon your former self, the
pampered child of indulgence, the overweening
inheritor in anticipation of unpurchased and unmerited
affluence. You have not told me that you
were such as I describe. But were you not something
like this?”
“Indeed I was.”
“How say you, then? The rich, we are told,
are the stewards of God's benevolence. And
surely so it should be; for how else shall we reconcile
to the principles of universal justice any
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claim that you could set up to the possession of
more than you want, while the necessaries of life
are denied to others? And can it be that the ends
of a plan of justice thus comprehensive can be accomplished,
if, in every instance, all the power over
the happiness of others incident to a princely patrimony
should be permitted to descend with unvarying
certainty, on such a spoiled child of fortune
as you admit yourself to have been? You may
parry this question by recalling the innumerable
instances in which things have been suffered to
take their course, in favour of men more likely to
abuse the bounties of Providence than yourself.
But will you murmur at having been selected as
a fit subject for a discipline that might but have
been wasted upon them? or will you take merit
to yourself for being a more hopeful pupil than
they? Who made you to differ? Who endowed
you with those qualities, which might have been
spoiled by unchecked prosperity, but which, matured
by the training of the last (and it may be of
the next) five years, may qualify you to resume
the rights of your fathers, with the capacity and
disposition to be the protector, and guide, and
comforter of your dependants, and not their luxurious,
insolent, and heartless oppressor? My
dear William, in the armory of God's displeasure
against the vices and follies of mankind, there is
not one shaft too many, nor is one of them misdirected.
In this instance, I fear, you are suffering
rather for my faults than yours.”
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“For your faults,” interrupted I. “What have
you done that was not praiseworthy? What have
you omitted, that ingenuity, address, and courage
could accomplish?”
“To that question, on Monday morning, in the
exultation of a proud heart, I should have answered,
`Nothing.' Did not that presumption
need rebuke? I should have so answered, and I
should have answered falsely. Did not that error
need correction? I had given myself credit for
motives altogether pure, and for plans laid in wisdom.
I now see that my motives were vicious
and my schemes childish. Can I murmur at my
own share, or will you, William, at yours, in the
mortifications that have undeceived me?”
“Pray undeceive me too,” said I. “I will not
offend your delicacy by saying what I did think;
but certainly I did not impute to your conduct any
defect of wisdom or virtue.”
“I dare say not,” replied Balcombe. “On the
contrary, I am sure the exhibition was calculated
to call forth the admiration of an unpractised young
man. And hence, in part, my error. It is not my
wife alone—God bless her!—who has an overweening
pride in her husband's real or fancied endowments.
Her husband, I am afraid, is not far
behind her in this. Hence the pleasure I took in
drawing Montague into a controversy of craft
against boldness. Had this pleasure a virtuous
source? And the further and higher gratification
I promised myself, in taking this imbecile wretch
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in his own snare, and looking on the agonies of his
terror and shame. Was this virtuous or fiendlike?
And when the eagerness with which I pursued
these objects blinded me to the obvious course of
turning James back without holding any communication
with Montague, and relying on my influence
with Mary Scott to recover the will, did I
show my wisdom? It is true that we should want
Montague's testimony to establish the will; and
to get that it was necessary to involve him here in
difficulties from which he would have been glad to
be released by doing my bidding. In that point of
view I dare say my plan was well laid; for, but
for Ramsay's death, it would not have been in his
power to escape punishment, either here or in Virginia,
but by my forbearance. But I am not sure
that we might not have got along without his testimony;
but still I don't despair. My self-love and
presumption have been undeceived and rebuked,
and that end accomplished, all may yet go well.
I rememer old Amy. She must detest Montague
as the destroyer of the peace of her dear child, for
so she considered Mary. She had a hard head, a
loud tongue, and a bold spirit thirteen years ago;
and the continued experience of indulgence, and
the habit of authority among her fellow-servants
have hardly abated these. I am, therefore, not
without hopes that she will hold Montague up to
the production of the ring which we have here. In
that case there will be a war of wits between him
on one side and the old woman and Mary on
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the other. He may resort to violence; but in defence
of his foster sister I'll put Charles, if he's
alive, against him at that game. If he seeks the aid
of the law, why, then we shall have the benefit of
the law's delay as well as he. So, one way or
the other, I am in hopes we may reach the field of
action before the battle is fairly over.”
“You are still my good angel,” said I; “and
gloomy as things look, I find I cannot despair
while I have your energy and sagacity on my
side.”
“Oh, no more of that! `Put not thy trust in
princes nor in the sons of men.' `The race is not
to the swift nor the battle to the strong.' Let us
take care that each event has its due influence upon
our own hearts, and if we do not suffer them to
deceive us, our trust in Providence will not deceive
us.”
“Yours is a curious philosophy, Mr. Balcombe,”
said I.
“It is such philosophy,” said he, “as an educated
man, brought up in a Christian society, learns
in a life of solitary danger, where he must think
his own thoughts, supply his own wants, and make
his hand guard his head; while his naked and unhoused
condition, battling with the elements, which
are God's immediate ministers, continually reminds
him of his helpless dependence. How can he but
feel that his strength is but weakness, when daily
grappling with such giant foes as the tempest or
the mountain torrent? Depend upon it, men learn,
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from the impertinent prate of what is called philosophy,
few things more true or more profound
than the thoughts that throng the mind of the solitary
savage as he sits at night by his little fire,
with the stars above him, and the wild waste of
untamed nature around him. Hence the peculiar
character of our Indians. It is born and nurtured
in solitude. They are indeed an intellectual race;
but mind must have materials for thought, and
they find them in a condition which nourishes at
once a sense of dependence upon God, and an independence
of all things else. Mutatis mutandis,
you will find few old sachems whose philosophy is
not analogous to mine.”
While he spoke thus I looked up to the rock
above us, and felt how appropriate such discourse
was to what the hypocrite Montague called “one
of God's own temples, not made with hands.” In
my mind I could not help comparing his formal
cant and false profession with the unpretending
piety of the extraordinary being from whose lips
I had just heard a discourse which impressed me
with a deeper sense of God's providence than all I
had ever read or listened to. I thought this, but
I did not express it. I saw that Balcombe was
in no humour to hear with pleasure even an allusion
to the faults of any but himself, or the praise
of any but God. I was silent, and we bent our
steps homeward.
On reaching the house we found Keizer there,
and a small cigar box, such as is commonly called
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a quarter box, was handed to Balcombe by a servant.
On the top was awakwardly scrawled with
chalk what seemed intended for these words, “For
Kurnal Balkum.” Opening it, it was found to
contain the fellow to the pistol which had been discovered
at the cave.
“Who brought this, Tom?” said Balcombe.
“A woman, sir, that I never saw before. She
said she had orders to leave it here.”
Balcombe looked musingly at it. “Whence
comes this?” said he; “from friend or foe? If I
had not distinctly avowed the ownership of the fellow
to it, I should suspect this was sent here that
some one might come to search for it, and by finding
it fix on me the property of the other. But
there can be no such purpose. I was robbed of it.
Has the thief repented and returned it? Or has
some other person robbed the thief to make restitution?
What say you, John? What do you
make of it?”
“I could give a pretty good guess, sir, if I could
see the woman that brought it. How long ago
was it, Tom?”
“About half an hour, sir.”
“Which way did she go?”
Tom showed the direction.
“I met her,” said John, “as I came here, but I
cannot say that I ever saw her before. But I will
try and see if I cannot find her out.” He took up
his rifle and disappeared.
I find I have omitted to mention, in the proper
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place, that while at St. Charles I had written to a
friend in Virginia, explaining my situation, and
the nature of Montague's errand, and urging him,
if possible, to anticipate the villain, by going to
Raby Hall and seeing Mary Scott before he should
get there. Should he fail in this, he might yet be
in time to put her on her guard against his art, or
to defend her against his violence. I now apprized
Balcombe of this; and being satisfied that we had
done all that could be done, we composed ourselves,
and committed the event to Providence.
The time for the meeting of the court was now
at hand. We had not seen Keizer since the day
when the pistol was returned, and, on inquiry,
we could hear nothing of him. As the time wore
away, I could not help suspecting that he was too
doubtful of his own character to be willing to try
conclusions with the law, in a case of so much moment.
To make his escape, and leave his securities
to pay the forfeiture of his recognisance, was
the measure which I feared he had adopted. For
that, had I been able to pay it, I should have cared
nothing, as his peril had been incurred on my account.
The same consideration would doubtless
have reconciled Colonel Robinson (who was his
security) to the loss, as John's devotion to Balcombe
had completely won his heart. Indeed, he
had acted under the orders of Balcombe, who would
never have permitted him to come by any loss if
he could help it. But there was another aspect of
the case. John's disappearance would wear the
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air of conscious guilt; and if he was guilty, Balcombe's
tale was false, and all were guilty. This
thought gave me great uneasiness. I did not like
to mention it to Balcombe, but he had adverted to
it, and assured me of his confidence in John.
“He was not idle,” he said. “He could not be
idle. I rather think,” continued he, “that John
(with too much reason, perhaps) has not so much
faith in Providence as I have; and my great fear
is, that he may be engaged in some scheme of his
own devising which he knows I would not approve.”
As he said this, his wife entered the room. I
would have changed the conversation, but seeing
her, he went on:
“No, William; have no fear that Keizer will
betray or desert me. I know him for exactly what
he is, and I feel that it is impossible he should ever
fail me.”
“You are right, my husband,” said Mrs. Balcombe.
“Bad as human nature is, there is no
depth of baseness so great as that of the wretch
who would betray your noble confidence.”
“You forget Montague,” said Balcombe.
“No, I do not. Did you ever trust Montague?
Even he, the vilest of the vile, could not betray
you, if it were possible you should ever trust
him.”
“But did I not trust him, on his promise to go
with me to Virginia?”
“No; you did not trust him; you trusted to
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your power over him. If he could evade that, he
was as free to go as a prisoner to break jail.”
“You are a nice casuist, Bet.”
“You have taught me to distinguish. Montague's
fault was not in giving you the slip, but in
the crimes which made that step necessary, and
his endeavour to fix a charge of guilt on you.
But could John Keizer be false to you, he must be
a baser wretch than Montague himself. No, my
husband! confidence like yours cannot be betrayed.
I know the power of that spell too well to doubt
it.”
“How say you, William?” said Balcombe.
“She is right, sir,” said I; “and I shall never
again have faith in the instinct of woman's love if
it do not prove so. But tell me, I pray you, the
secret of this strange power of commanding
the fidelity of those who are faithful to none besides?”
“It is very simple. To go, if possible, beyond
the letter of my own engagements, and to trust
entirely, or not at all.”
-- 271 --
CHAPTER XXVIII.
But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be dragg'd
To yonder ignominious tree,
Thou shalt not want one constant friend
To share thy better fate with thee.
Oh, then her mourning coach she called,
The sledge moved slowly on before;
Though borne on a triumphal car,
She had not loved her favourite more.
Shenstone.
[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
At length the day of trial came, and Keizer had
not yet made his appearance. Yet I saw no sign
that either Balcombe or his wife at all doubted that
he would be forthcoming in due time. I had not
expected to see the ladies at breakfast on the
morning of that day, but they were both present.
Mrs. Robinson commanded herself, but her pale
lip and unsteady eye showed that she did so with
difficulty. But Mrs. Balcombe appeared with a
firm step and erect countenance, her cheek flushed,
her eye flashing with unusual brightness, but it
was slightly reddened, and the veins of her forehead
and temples were full and corded. She was
silent, and I observed that she ate little, but her
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deportment was steady and majestic. Balcombe
was composed and calm as a spring morning. He
said little, for the subject of his thoughts was not
a fit subject for conversation; but his whole air
betokened the same cheerful confidence in himself
which I had always seen him manifest, chastened
and subdued by a sense of decorum, and respect
for the feelings of others. Young Scott, whose
faith in him seemed greater even than my own,
and who had spent the last few weeks with a book
in his hand, as if nothing had happened, now
seemed to reflect his feelings. He looked on Balcombe's
face, and read there that all was well, and
he was satisfied. At length we rose to depart.
Balcombe now tenderly took his wife by the arm
to lead her out; but she stopped short, and said,
firmly,
“No, my husband, we part here; I have no
woman's weakness to hide.”
“Bless you, my child!” said Balcombe, tenderly
folding her in his arms. “May God bless you and
be with you, my noble girl!”
“God is with you,” said she. “Then go, my
husband, go; and in his strength and in the strength
of innocence and courage, and the resources of
your own mind, baffle and confound your enemies,
as you have always done.”
We set out, and whether it were accident, or
that I was drawn towards Balcombe by admiration
and sympathy, we fell together in the narrow road
where only two could ride abreast. We rode in
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profound silence for some time. At length Balcombe
turned to me, and with a face beaming with
a degree of animation which showed that its
spirit had shaken off its load, he said,
“I cannot help it; my wife has infected me with
the contagion of her own feelings. It is not, I
know, selon les regles; but she has talked about me
until I must talk about her.”
“If you will give me leave to do so too,” said I,
“I will say that a worthier theme of praise could
not be found.”
“You say true, William. She is a noble creature.
The noblest of God's works—a right woman—
a genuine unsophisticated woman. You may be
inclined, perhaps, to think differently, and regard
the strength of mind and firmness she displays as
rather unfeminine.”
“I acknowledge,” said I, “that I was unprepared
for an exhibition of character so much at
variance with the shrinking reserve which marked
her deportment until this prosecution commenced.
Both are admirable; but the union of both in the
same person puzzles me.”
“They are but different phases of the same object,”
replied he. “The moon has not lost her
brightness because the side next you is dark. It
is so because the other is full of light. There is
good philosophy in that mythology which makes
the sun a man and the moon a woman. Man
should always shine by his own light, woman by
that which is cast upon her. In the heart of
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woman, uncorrupted by a false philosophy which
would unfit her for her proper sphere, the proudest
feeling is that of admiration of her husband.
Her strength is in her reliance on his prowess;
her hope is in her confidence in his fortunes. The
master of her heart and person is, in her eyes, the
master of her destiny and his own. This is as
God meant it should be. To this state the natural
feelings of a woman's heart will tend, let quacks
in education do what they will. While woman
remains what she is, in this relation she will settle
down. That is no fiction of municipal law which
merges the existence of a woman in her husband.
It is the fiat of nature. Generous, devoted, trusting,
tender, and weak, she registers this decree in
her heart, and executes it on herself. Take from
her these qualities, make her something that God
did not make her, nor mean that she should be,
and she will struggle for supremacy, and contend
for distinction with her husband. But leave her
heart uncorrupt, and she will put from her, as a
deadly bane, whatever may tempt it to insubordination
to him she loves. Respect for him is so
essential to her comfort, that, if she cannot raise
him above herself, she will sink herself below him.
What he does not know she will try to forget, or
learn to undervalue. This is woman's nature,
William, and war against it as you will, thank
God you cannot destroy it. `Naturam expellas
furca tamen usque recurret.'
“Now what have you seen in Elizabeth? A
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woman who while her husband's light was above
the horizon, hid herself beneath it, or if she appeared
at all, modestly paled her lustre in his presence.
But let him sink, and she rises, in all her
glory, to show the world that his beams, though
hidden, are not extinguished.
“When you told me that Ann said `that she had
no turn for the 'ologies,' my heart warmed towards
her. I see by what you say of her that she
is gentle as a dove. Cherish her indisposition for
those useless acquirements, that rather dazzle than
enlighten, and she will nestle in your bosom, and
only look out with her meek eyes upon the world,
seeing without caring to be seen. But let her
sanctuary be invaded, let a blow be aimed at your
honour or your heart, and she will guard her nest
with the beak and talons of an eagle.”
“Do you mean, then, to say,” asked I, “that the
faculties of the female mind should not be cultivated?”
“I mean to say,” he replied, “that woman ought
not to be made ambitious of intellectual distinction,
or distinction of any kind. Such a feeling unsexes
her. The feeling which disposes a woman to see
her name in print, is hardly less meretricious than
that which makes her show her ankles. If woman
should insist that her limbs were as shapely as
ours, and complain of the custom which condemns
their symmetry to concealment, should we hearken
to the plea? If she can add to the light that is in
the world let her do so. But there is no need that
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she should show herself. If she will do it, let her,
like Mrs. Hannah More, renounce her sex, disclaim
all thoughts of matrimonial connection, for which
she is unfit, and make herself a sort of working bee
in the hive, neither male nor female. I have no objection
to that; but in this country, where husbands
are plenty and few women are in danger of being
driven to such a pis aller, I suspect they would
not accede to the terms. Be it so. Let them
figure in the world, and make themselves conspicuous
as lady patronesses and lady presidents of
societies, and put their names to prize essays and
prize poems if they will. Let such a woman still
hold herself out to society as a marrying character,
and let her marry. Of one thing she may be sure.
A man of delicacy will not marry her. He will
require that she be not only chaste but intact.
Fanned by the sweet breath of heaven, but not
blown upon by the corrupting gale of public praise.
He will never consent that the `tender bloom of
the heart' shall have been rubbed off by other
hands. He will never consent, that, glutted with
popular applause, the delicate hint of admiration
shall be valueless, and a husband's love and a husband's
calm discriminating approbation be rejected
as flat and insipid, to an appetite already palled by
the loud acclaim of the world. A wealthy or
titled libertine will marry an actress from the theatre.
Would you? Would I? `Be she as chaste
as ice, as pure as snow,' would either of us marry
her? Why not? Because she has been pawed
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and mouthed by the nauseous wretches that caricature
love upon the stage! Not that alone; but
because
`Being daily swallowed by men's eyes,
We could not look upon her with that gaze
Such as is bent on queenlike beauty,
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes:
But sick and blunted with community
And surfeited with honey, would begin
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much.'
Now I can tell those learned ladies that `there are
secrets in heaven and earth not dreamed of in their
philosophy.' That whether it be their personal or
intellectual charms which are made
`So common hackneyed in the eyes of men,
So stale and cheap to vulgar company,'
such men as they would choose to marry, will not
be very eager to appropriate the leavings of the
public.”
“But,” said I, “will not a general standard of
female education, more elevated than heretofore
adopted, have a tendency to raise that of the men,
by stimulating them to improvement, that they
may win the favour of intellectual women?”
“Yes,” said he, “whenever marriage is more
necessary to men than to women. But when will
that be? Do not you see that marriage is an invention
of civilized society for the benefit of women
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and the protection of children? Woman must
marry. `Wo is me! if I do not marry,' she may
well say. And she must and will marry man as
she finds him. It is their fate to take such husbands
as Heaven sends. Suppose there was not a
woman in the community fit to be the wife of a
fool. What then? Would the fools go without
wives? No such thing. But the women would
be unqualified for happiness with such husbands as
they must put up with.”
“But should we not afford such means of education
as may qualify women to be the wives of
men of sense?”
“By all means.”
“Would you not then educate highly at least as
many as practicable for their benefit?”
“Yes, when I see that men of sense want highly
educated wives. But if I can understand the run
of the market, such women are commonly left to
men of cultivated but effeminate minds, of pretty
talents, not of masculine sense; while they whose
names live in the mouths of men, prefer the plain
housewifely girl, who reads her Bible, works her
sampler, darns her stockings, and boils her bacon
and greens together.”
“But is not that a perverted taste?”
“Does it become us to sit in judgment on the
tastes of such men as we speak of? Is it not
rather the part of wisdom to inquire whether this
thing has not its foundation in truth and nature?
How shall we try this? By experience. If such
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women make the homes of their husbands happy,
is that no proof? If such women train up their
sons to walk in the paths of science, honour, and
virtue, is that no proof? What more would you
have? That they should train up their daughters
to be such as themselves. But that the modern
inventions in education will not allow. A girl of
fifteen, who does not think her mother a fool, will
not pass an examination now. The whole is in
order. Let her grow up in contempt of her mother,
and spend her days in contempt of her husband,
and let God's commandment and God's
established order of domestic society be exploded
as an antiquated fashion.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that I shall find you an
uncompromising opponent of what I had regarded
as one of the greatest improvements of the age.”
“What is that?”
“Female education.”
“Female education! I know nothing more important.”
“Then, to be more precise, the degree of attention
paid to it.”
“That can never be too great. There is no
object which requires such unremitting attention.
The heart of woman is the fabled garden of the
Hesperides. Its golden fruits require all the vigilance
of the sleepless dragon that guards them for
the rightful owners, her husband and her God. It
is you who would break up the privacy of its imbowered
recesses, and let in the gaudy glare of
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day, and the common eye, and the foot of the multitude,
where I would have shade and quiet, and
the dewy freshness of the morning.”
“Still you misapprehend me. It is not the
degree of attention of which I speak, but the subjects
of instruction—science and literature.”
“I understand you perfectly; but I choose to
make you state accurately the point of difference
between us. This is one of those controversies in
which, from its nature, nearly all that is written is
on your side. You are the bookmakers, not we.
You are of the allies of the trade, as it is called,
and from the printer's devil to the great bookselling
capitalist, all the fellows of the craft are on
your side. Let you state the question your own
way, and impute to us the maintenance of an absurd
proposition, and you have nothing to do but
to refute it. But state your own, and prove that.”
“But the reductio ad absurdum is sometimes the
only mode of proof.”
“What are the proper subjects of it? Cases
where you can put two things together and show
that they don't fit. I am willing to abide that
test.”
“What, then, is your proposition?”
“I have none to make. Sto bene. I am very
well as I am, and wish to be let alone.”
“You maintain, then, that female education is
as good already as it can be.”
“It is as good as anything that is no better.
Show me what you think better and I will choose.
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You are terribly afraid of that reductio ad absurdum
that you wish to use against me.”
“You seem to fear it too; for you refuse to
state what you contend for.”
“I contend for nothing. I am merely satisfied
with woman as she is. And how do I shrink from
the reductio ad absurdum? Nothing can be more
definite than my proposition. I show you woman
as she is. Look at her. Now find her place in
society, and if she does not fit it, then my proposition
is condemned; and if you can make her fit it
better you shall be my Apollo.”
“But what is her place in society?”
“That which must be filled, and which she
alone can fill. My dear William, you propose to
be a husband and a father. In this relation, on
which the whole happiness of your life will depend,
what you want is a wife and a mother. This is
woman's place in society. What more exalted
would you have for her than that compound relation
in which she constitutes the chief happiness of
man.”
“But will she not be more or less qualified to
fill that place according to her education?”
“Assuredly. And if I be asked what education
fits her best for it, I will take the practical wisdom
of the wise and good for my guide, and choose that
as my standard, which I find to be, in point of fact,
the education of the sort of women they choose for
wives. As I remarked a while ago, instead of
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wondering at or censuring their choice, I make it
my business to look for the reason of it?”
“And have you found one?”
“I think I have. The education I speak of prepares
a woman to receive instruction from her
husband, and does not impair the natural and
healthy disposition of her mind to receive his instructions
as the teachings of truth and wisdom.
You have never married, William; but you have
been brought up in the house with her you loved.
You are her senior, and have had means of instruction
denied to her. I will not ask if you have been
in the habit of communicating their benefits to her.
I know you have; and I know that that occupation
has afforded you the sweetest, the purest, the most
refined and delicate enjoyment of your life. Would
you have been willing to be forestalled in this?
You will not say `yes;' and unless you do, I need
not continue the argument.”
I could not say “yes;” and though I will not
admit that I was convinced, yet this argumentum
ad hominem fairly knocked my heels from under
me, and silenced me for the time.
END OF VOL. I.
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Tucker, Nathaniel [1836], George Balcombe, volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf402v1].
