CHAPTER I.
When the whole host of Hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou didst stand
With a sedate and all-enduring eye.
Byron.
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We now approached the seat of justice for—
county, and as we mingled in the crowd of
countrymen flocking to the same point, our conversation
was necessarily interrupted. I soon saw
that Balcombe was distinguished, and that he was
an object of interest and curiosity, which was
painful to me. By it seemed to be unmarked,
and on a countenance of
quiet serenity, man familiar with notoriety,
and secure of himself
“In all that he would do or should endure.”
The county having been newly laid off, there
was no courthouse. The place was called a
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town, though there was but a single rude dwelling,
in one room of which the court was already sitting.
We entered just as the grand jury had been
sent out. Many of the bystanders had followed,
so that at the moment the crowd was thinned, and
there was a pause in business. In one corner, behind
a small table, over which his leg was thrown,
sat a good-looking man, of a sleepy eye and sluggish
air, puffing lazily at the stump of a cigar.
This, I learned, was the judge. At another table
was the clerk, and clustered around were several
persons, various in air, dress, and aspect, whose
bustling manner indicated that they were lawyers.
A little apart sat two gentlemen, whose intelligent
countenances, as they glanced with a cool
inquiring look on all that passed, at times exchanging
whispers, sometimes serious, sometimes playful,
marked them as the master minds of the place.
In one of these I recognised my acquaintance Shaler.
The other was a man of striking appearance.
Though apparently not more than thirty years of
age, he was quite gray; but his complexion was
fresh and ruddy, his features regular and bold, his
forehead broad and , dark gray eye,
quietly moving around the dwelt a moment
on each individual, as if reading and thoroughly understanding
all in turn. There was something in
the flush of his cheek that might betoken dissipation,
and a recklessness in his roving eye not compatible
with a very strict code of moral principles;
but the tout ensemble bespoke a man of quick and
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clear perceptions, and a bold and vigorous thinker.
Observing me, Mr. Shaler bowed with polite recognition,
and approaching, accosted me with a
courtesy so little like his former careless manner,
as to convince me that he had learned the character
of the parties implicated, and regarded the prosecution
of a man like Balcombe as a very different
affair from that of a poor devil like Keizer. He
was now grave, considerate, and delicate in his
manner of approaching the subject, and inquiring
whether my friend was prepared to take his trial.
He seemed desirous to let me know that he had
restrained the officers of the court from calling the
parties, thinking it would be more agreeable to a
gentleman like Mr. Balcombe to appear uncalled.
In short, I saw plainly that he found himself involved
in a disagreeable business, and would gladly
escape from it; though I had no doubt that when
once fairly pitted, he would do his best to accomplish
the destruction of a man who had never
wronged him, and whom, if he knew anything of
him, he must esteem and admire.
Such is the lot of the intellectual prizefighters of
the bar. Their hearts may sink, like that of Boisguilbert
when battling against the champion of her
he loved best on earth; their powers may fail
them under the crushing weight of sympathy for
their victim, but while their powers remain they
must be exerted.
“Can it be true, as I am told,” said Shaler,
“that Mr. Balcombe has retained no counsel?”
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“None,” said I.
“He will at least indirectly have the benefit of
the talents of the other prisoner's counsel.”
“They have none.”
“Poor devils! I suppose they are too poor.
But the court will assign them counsel, and in that
case they will have the best the country affords, as
my friend Whitehead from St. Louis is here and
disengaged.”
“They have no wish nor need for counsel,”
said I.
He looked really distressed when I said this.
“Surely,” said he, “they are not aware of the serious
aspect of the case. Besides,” continued he,
“though we don't deal in the maxims of chivalry,
it really seems ungenerous, that I should come in
aid of the counsel for the prosecution against an
undefended man.”
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Balcombe?” I
asked.
“I am not. I know him by character, and
should be glad to know him personally, if it were
proper or delicate to seek an introduction.”
“I merely asked,” said I, “because I thought if
you had known him, you would think him no contemptible
adversary.”
“I know he is far from it; common fame testifies
of that, as well as of his high honour and unexceptionable
character; and I sincerely hope that he
may `outlive the envy of this day,' and not be
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induced by anything that may pass to deny me the
pleasure of his acquaintace.”
“Yours must be a strange and painful situation,”
said I.
“It is anything but pleasant,” he replied; “and
so impatient of it am I, that I trust I do not break
faith with my client when I hint to you, that Mr.
Balcombe will have more need of the aid of counsel
learned in the law than he is aware of.”
“I believe,” said I, “he would as soon lose his
life, as save it at the expense of honour, as it would
be, if saved by legal quibbles.”
“I am easily persuaded, my dear sir,” said Shaler,
with earnest kindness, “that he has no need of
any defence of that sort; but he will need the aid
of professional skill to protect himself against legal
quibbles.”
“Who will use them?” said I, somewhat
alarmed.
“I shall,” said he. “It is strange how it can be
any man's duty to do so; but it is my duty. The
functions of a lawyer are peculiar, and his duty to
`smite and spare not' is ascertained by considerations
which I have no time to detail, but the soundness
of which cannot be questioned. But this
duty does not commence until the trial, except
that I am not at liberty to disclose the point or
mode of attack. But though I am bound to strike
unsparingly, at the head and at the heart, I am not
bound to beguile my adversary into fancied security,
or to let him rest in it. It would relieve me
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from an unpleasant feeling if you would mention
this matter to Mr. Balcombe.”
I did so. He heard me with composed attention,
and then said,
“No, William; I have set my life upon the cast.
I was at one time intended for the bar, and have
some little knowledge of the law; and I am aware
that there are difficulties in the way of which I
have not spoken to you. Such a prosecution as
this in itself is a reproach upon my name, which
can only be wiped off by meeting it with no armour
but that of innocence. An acquittal procured
by the aid of counsel would not remove the stigma;
and sooner than bear that home to the pure bosom
of her that awaits my return, I will peril that utter
destruction which she, I know, will not long survive.
Think of her as she is, William, and you
will not wonder at what I do.”
In uttering these last words, his voice faltered for
the first time, and he seemed more deeply moved
than I had ever seen him. He presently recovered
himself, and added, “Will you do me the favour
to say to the gentleman, that if he apprehends
no very decided impropriety in an introduction to
me, I shall be glad to have an opportunity of acknowledging,
personally, my sense of his kindness.”
I mentioned his wish to Shaler, who immediately
approached, and was introduced to Balcombe.
“I owe you my acknowledgments, sir,”
said he, “for the interest you express in me, and
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the reluctance with which you enter on a duty,
rendered painful by the kindness of your feelings
towards a stranger. It gives me pleasure to be
thus guarded against misconstruction of what you
may do to-day, and to say that I hope hereafter to
find occasions to show my sense of your honourable
frankness.”
Shaler tried to say something in reply, but his
words stuck in his throat. He turned away, and
threw himself into a chair by his companion, and I
heard him say, “By God! Whitehead, you must help
these poor fellows out, if you find that damned fool
going to decide any important point against them.”
Whitehead made no reply, but turned his head,
and twisting his tobacco in his mouth, fixed an eye
of cold and heartless scrutiny upon Balcombe; then
rising, he squirted a mouthful of tobacco juice
through his teeth, thrust his hands into his breeches
pockets, and walked away.
The grand jury now appeared, and returned
true bills against George Balcombe, James Scott,
and John Keizer for the murder of Andrew Ramsay.
After some conversation between Shaler and
the circuit attorney, it was asked whether the accused
were ready for trial. Balcombe promptly
answered that he and Scott were, but that Keizer
had not appeared. He was accordingly called,
when, to my great relief, he answered, and bustled
into court. He was more soiled and shabby than
I had ever seen him, with a double portion of blood
and grease on his leather clothes, and his thin beard
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seemed to have been for weeks a stranger to the razor.
I had never before seen him exhibit any signs
of weariness. Now he looked fagged and jaded,
and though the fire of his keen black eye was not
quenched, it showed the want of sleep. As it fell
on Balcombe it resumed its expression of cheerful
confidence, and he approached his patron with an
outstretched hand.
“Where upon earth have you been, John?” said
Balcombe.
“Why, you see, colonel, I was just tired of doing
nothing, and as the hunting season was come, I
thought I'd just take a turn a while in the prairies,
and be back to court.”
“Well, are you ready for trial?”
“Oh, yes! if you say so, sir.”
Balcombe accordingly informed the court that
all were ready; and being asked whether the accused
wished to be tried separately, he replied that
they did not. An offer to assign counsel was also
respectfully and modestly declined. Copies were
now handed to Balcombe of the panels of jurors
to be examined, while they were called into court.
Glancing his eye over that which belonged to his
own case, he rose, and said,
“Before we proceed to swear the jury, sir, I
have one word to say, which will stand instead of
all those cavilling exceptions to the qualifications
of jurors, which I have no wish to make. I am
not a man to pass through life without enemies.
Now, sir, the name of the gentleman who has
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subscribed this panel as returning officer is new to
me. I cannot, therefore, be understood as ascribing
to him any improper bias; but it somehow so
happens, that there is not a man in the county of
whose enmity I have cause to be proud, or whose
unkind feelings I have occasion to lament, but I
find his name on this paper. I thank God they are
not many; but their array looks somewhat formidable,
at the very head of this list, where they
seem to require of me to commence the preparations
for the trial by exhibiting the unfavourable
symptom of a captious disposition. If any such
expectation is entertained, it shall be disappointed.
I am not so uncandid as to deny that I see here the
names of men, from whom, notwithstanding private
hostility, I should expect nothing but justice.
But if there be any who are conscious to themselves
of a malignity which would delight in the
ignominious death of an innocent man, I shall rest
in the hope that they will first sit in judgment on
themselves, and voluntarily declare their own disqualification.
I shall pry into the secret of no
man's heart. There is One to whom all are open,
and he will judge between them and me.”
As Balcombe said this, I saw marks of emotion
on almost every face in the room. In no two, perhaps,
precisely the same; it varied in degree and
character in each individual. Respect, sympathy,
admiration, or malignity was displayed in every
countenance, two only excepted. The stolid apathy
of the judge was unmoved. Whitehead, who
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had resumed his seat near Shaler, turned his head
again as Balcombe began to speak, and fixing on
him a look of intense but undefinable interest, continued
his scrutiny until long after he had finished
his remarks.
The jury were now successively called to the
book. The first who appeared, a fine-looking man
of good address and an intellectual countenance,
unhesitatingly declared his hostility to Balcombe.
“I am perfectly aware of it, sir,” said Balcombe;
“it has been shown openly as becomes a man;
but I make no objection on that account.”
“Perhaps,” said Shaler, “the gentleman has
formed or delivered an opinion in the case. If so,
I shall challenge him.”
“I have not,” replied the juror, quietly, and took
his seat.
Another, another, and another were called, and
making the same objection, were permitted to withdraw.
The influence of Balcombe's appeal, and of
the example of the first juror, was such, that I am
persuaded it effectually purged the panel of all Balcombe's
enemies but two or three by whom he chose
to be tried. Having got through them, he quietly
went on, rejecting none but men whose appearance
and manner indicated a low intellect or degraded
and vicious minds. In the end a jury was
obtained, on which it was impossible to look without
seeing that they were men to whom innocence
might safely trust for a defence against anything
but perjury.
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CHAPTER II.
Never any man acted such a part on such a theatre with more
wisdom, constancy, and eloquence; with greater reason, judgment,
and temper, and with a better grace in all his words and
actions.
Whitlocke.
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The witnesses were now called, and good old
Mr. Jones repeated very accurately what he had
said before the justice. When he came to speak
of the return of the pistol, he was stopped by Shaler,
who said that he did not mean to inquire whether
Balcombe had acknowledged it to be his or
no; he therefore requested nothing might be said
of that matter. Then, addressing the court, he
added, “As I do not mean at all to avail myself
of any admissions of Mr. Balcombe, I wish to be
understood as objecting to all evidence which may
be offered of words spoken by him.”
Then turning to the witness, he asked whether
Scott had recognised the picture. I had observed,
as he spoke, a slight flush on the pale and withered
cheek of the old man, and a gleam of light in his
dim eye, as if he had a glimmering and unpleasant
perception of the effect of this course of examination.
He now replied that Scott claimed the
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picture eagerly, and that neither he nor Balcombe
seemed at all disconcerted, but that the latter
appeared to forget everything in the thought of the
original of the picture. This was said in the
hurried way of a man fearful of being interrupted,
and I was pleased to see that as the toils of the law
were drawn around Balcombe, the sympathies of
good men were awakened in his favour.
Notwithstanding this, I was now, for the first
time, filled with consternation; for I could not be
insensible how much the candid and perspicuous
narrative of Balcombe had done to impress the
justice and the bystanders favourably on the former
occasion. This advantage was now to be
denied him, and I saw the necessity of making it
up, if possible, by the fulness and clearness of my
own testimony.
Johnson now came forward and repeated the
tale of his adventures in the wilderness. When he
came to tell that Balcombe and Scott, as it would
seem, decoyed Ramsay to the scene of his assassination,
I observed that the foreman of the jury
cast on him a glance of indignation, and turning
his eye on Balcombe, rested it there with a calm
expression of respect and confidence. Here again
was ground of hope, and I admired the sagacity of
Balcombe in trusting his fate to a man who, though
an enemy, knew him to be incapable of seeking a
base and cowardly advantage. Having told his
tale, Johnson was now turned over to Balcombe,
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who, addressing him in an easy conversational
style, said,
“Mr. Johnson, I don't think I had seen you before
that evening since we parted on the frontier ten
years ago, and I did not know you at all. I am
surprised that you knew me.”
“Oh! I know'd you well enough, for I had reason
to remember you.”
“Why, what harm had I ever done you?” said
Balcombe, mildly.
“What,” said Johnson, “I suppose you don't remember
how you served me away out upon the
Simmirone!”
“Indeed I do not,” said Balcombe; “and I am
sorry you should bear malice so long. And was
that the reason you took part against me that night?
I remember now—it was you that tied my hands.
But the fellow that held me behind, and never spoke
a word, nor let me see his face; I suppose he
thought I would know him. I wish you would tell
me who that was.”
The witness hesitated and looked perplexed.
Balcombe went on:
“Mr. Johnson, you and Ramsay went there together—
why did you not go with him down the
hollow?”
“Nobody asked me to go,” said Johnson.
“And are you very sure you did not go?
Well, did Scott and I carry Ramsay, or did he and
the rest of you carry us?”
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“No, you just walked along together friendly
like.”
“I am glad to hear we were so friendly; I
thought you said a while ago that Ramsay vowed
vengeance against me.”
The witness looked a little disconcerted, and
Balcombe struck at the opening his confusion
afforded, by saying,
“Why, Ramsay must have got more than his
share of the plunder that night; I suppose he
dropped the picture and pistol when he was shot.”
“Ramsay never had the pistol nor the picture
neither,” said Johnson.
“You are very sure, then, that I did not give them
to him after we parted from you.”
The witness looked as if he did not know how
to take or answer this remark, and remained silent.
“I will not trouble you any further, sir,” said
Balcombe; “and you, gentlemen of the jury, will
be governed by your own sagacity and knowledge
of mankind in deciding whether this witness has
displayed either the indignation or surprise that
my questions might have occasioned to a man to
whom such suggestions were new, or merely a
dogged resolution to adhere to his first story.”
The rest of the testimony on behalf of the
prosecution was pretty much what it had been
before; with the additional fact of Keizer's attempt
to escape from the state. In bringing forward the
evidence on the part of the accused, it was thought
advisable to explain this last matter at once, by
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calling Mr. Green, the sheriff of St. Louis county,
to prove that Keizer went in quest of Montague,
and wished to take him back. This was objected
to as an attempt of Keizer to make evidence for
himself, and excluded by the judge, in a half sentence,
lazily uttered between two puffs of his cigar.
The circumstances of the arrest were, however,
detailed, and the fact that Keizer had dogged
Montague instead of avoiding him, could not be
disguised. It was now my turn to testify, and as
I had arranged my history of the transaction in my
own mind, I began far enough back to enable the
jury to see it in all its bearings. But objections on
the score of what was called irrelevancy were at
hand, when no other occurred, and were all sustained.
Of all that I had to say of events antecedent
to the death of Ramsay, I was not permitted
to tell more than that, on that evening Balcombe
and Scott had walked out towards the spot where
Johnson said he had seen them. The only effect,
then, of this part of my story, was to confirm the
testimony of that wretch. I then proceeded to
speak of the interview with Montague. I was
permitted to tell what I had seen, but as soon as I
began to detail the conversation with Montague, I
was again stopped, and told to confine myself to
what I knew, and to bear in mind that hearsay
testimony was not admissible.
Balcombe now arose, “I would thank the gentleman
who makes the objection to favour me with
a definition of hearsay testimony.”
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“Hearsay testimony,” said Shaler, “is testimony
of anything that any other person but a party or
witness present in court has been heard to say.”
“I think,” replied Balcombe, “that I could supply
the gentleman with a better definition.”
“I will hear it with pleasure, sir,” said Shaler.
“Hearsay testimony,” continued Balcombe, “is
that by which one would prove a fact by proving
that some person not a party had asserted that
fact.”
“I see no difference,” drawled the judge.
“This case, sir,” said Balcombe, “illustrates the
difference. I propose to prove by the witness that
Mr. Montague being asked where I was, said that
I was at the Rockhouse. Do I offer this in proof
of the fact that I was there? Is that a fact for me
to prove? Does not the success of the prosecution
depend on the establishment of that very fact?
Why else is that pistol here? Why else was
Johnson sworn to prove that he saw me go that
way? Take away these proofs, and wary as the
gentleman is not to permit a word that I have said
to be repeated, he would gladly receive proof that
even I had said that I was there. I now say that
I was there. Will the gentleman be hardy enough
to allege that in saying this I am making testimony
for myself? Evidence of the words of
Montague, then, is not offered in proof that the
words were true. The gentleman may have it that
they were false if he can afford to put the matter
on that footing. It is offered solely and simply in
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proof that the words were spoken. The speaking
of those words is a fact on which I rely, in connection
with his trepidation, and his possession of
an article which must have been just before taken
from Scott or me, in proof not of the fact asserted
by him, but of another fact, of the fact that he knew
that I was there; from which I shall argue that I
was there against my will, and in the power of
persons acting under his orders.”
He ceased, and Shaler, evidently pleased though
baffled, rose to reply, but was stopped by the judge,
who repeated that he saw no difference, and
that the only definition of hearsay evidence was
that given by Shaler. Had he looked at that gentleman
as he said this, he would have seen an expression
of disappointment and disgust which even
he could not have mistaken.
While Balcombe was speaking, I observed
Whitehead a third time turn in his chair, and look
at him earnestly. His countenance now wore a
less equivocal expression than formerly. It bore
marks of approbation, intelligent attention, and a
kind of sympathy. He rose, and placing himself
so that, with a slight change of position, he could
face either Balcombe or the court, he said, “I
have watched the progress of this case, sir, with a
mind passing from a state of profound indifference
to one of the highest interest. I should have more
cause than I have to regret a course of life which
has hardened my heart and made it callous to the
misfortunes of others, if I could look with
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composure to the possible fate of a brave and honourable
man, involved in the snare of a base conspiracy,
and hunted to destruction by the best
talents which could be employed against him. I
have so far been silent out of respect for that delicate
sense of honour, that noble confidence of
innocence, which was unwilling to accept an acquittal
rendered equivocal by professional aid.
Nor would I now offend those generous feelings by
an offer of aid, except in strict subordination to the
pleasure of one who has so far conducted his defence
with ability not less distinguished than its
delicacy and propriety. On behalf of such a man,
sir, I would not presume to make a point which
his judgment and his feelings did not alike approve.
But having himself made one, I trust he will pardon
me for asking his permission to offer a few remarks
in furtherance of his own.”
He paused; and turning to Balcombe, awaited
his reply with an air of lofty deference, which imposed
silence and awe on all present.
“You have my thanks, sir,” said Balcombe, resuming
his quiet air and tone, though with a countenance
not void of emotion—“you have my
thanks, sir, for the offer of your assistance, and yet
more for the manner of it, and under the restrictions
suggested by yourself, I accept it.”
“I am flattered by the acceptance, sir,” said
Whitehead. Then turning to the court, “I do not
propose,” said he, “to call upon the court to reconsider
the question just now decided, I will not
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say hastily, but without thought. Not having been
heard by counsel, as he has a right to be, Mr. Balcombe
might not only ask, but demand a reconsideration.
But it would require a reach of presumption
of which I am incapable to flatter myself
that I can add anything to the clearness and
conclusiveness of the argument you have just
heard from himself. He who cannot understand
it will never understand the simplest rule of grammar
or arithmetic. He who is unconvinced by it
will yield to no conviction that does not lead him
to the gratification of his own wishes. He who is
not moved by the exhibition we have seen this day
of the quiet dignity of innocence, of honour, candour,
sagacity, and ability, struggling in the toils
of art, or crushed beneath the dead fall of dulness,
will never shake off the torpor of his selfish apathy
until the last trump shall rouse him from his last
sleep.
“My purpose in rising, sir, is to call the attention
of the jury to what has just passed, and to prepare
their minds to assign it its due place, and its due
weight. You, gentlemen, are judges of law and
of fact. The facts you obtain by testimony, and
that is made up of what is sworn by witnesses
which you hear, and of the deportment of the
witnesses under examination, and of the defendant
under trial, which you see with your own eyes. It
is for this reason that the accused has a right to be
confronted with the witnesses, and the jury, and
to confront them with each other. Truths are thus
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made manifest to the senses which no language can
communicate. And shall you believe that the
wisdom of the law which requires that these sources
of truth shall be opened to you, forbids you to drink
of them? Shall you be told that the exhibition of
character which has this day borne to the mind of
every other person a conviction of the defendant's
innocence, is testimony to all but you? Is it required
of you to condemn as a felon a man of
whom all that we have seen and heard here has
left no doubt in the mind of me, a stranger, and
can leave no doubt in your minds, that if unerring
wisdom should designate the man of all in this
presence most worthy to sit in judgment on all
the rest, the prisoner at the bar would be that man.
Gentlemen, the whole deportment of the prisoner
is in evidence before you; and as it is the most
interesting, so it is the most satisfactory evidence
laid before you this day.
“I do not propose to argue before you the question
just now decided, were it admissible. I am here
without books, and could only add my testimony
that the law is as was stated by Mr. Balcombe.
To his argument I could add nothing. Nothing
can deepen your conviction of its truth. Nothing
can ever make you doubt that the testimony
offered was not only lawful, but the only testimony
by which this mystery of iniquity can ever be unravelled.
Nothing can ever make you doubt that
Mr. Balcombe was prepared to give such testimony.
My only purpose now is to premonish
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you that there is nothing in the law requiring you to
reject these convictions, derived from that which is
testimony in the eyes of the law. I beg you to
bear these things in mind, and to hold yourselves
prepared to assign them their due weight, when
the proper time shall come for the last appeal to
you, the final judges of law and fact. That appeal
will be confidently made; for I shall always
appeal with confidence to honour and intelligence,
even in an enemy, from the stolid indifference of
apathy and dulness.”
He ceased, but continued standing, and having
with the last words glanced his eye from the foreman
to the judge, it remained fixed on him with an
expression of cool scorn.
“Why—really—Mr. Whitehead,” said that worthy,
“this is a—most extraordinary—” He paused
and looked around. As soon as he began to speak
Whitehead threw himself into his chair, and giving
his shoulder to the judge, fixed his eye steadily on
Balcombe. His honour looked to Shaler for encouragement,
but found none. In every other
countenance he must have sought in vain for any
expression but that of contempt. He remained
silent, lay back in his chair, and puffed his cigar.
A momentary feeling of triumph passed across
my mind at this instant, but it soon gave place to
the thought of the aspect of the case, as seen in the
facts proved before the jury. The dead body of a
man slaughtered in this obscure place, and thrown
into the river, as no one could doubt, by the hand
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of Keizer; Balcombe's pistol, and Scott's picture
found at the spot; the enmity between Balcombe
and Ramsay, and the fact that the latter had fallen
in with the former accompanied by Scott, and that
the three were seen going together towards the
place about the time the deed must have been
done; these facts made up the case on the part of
the prosecution. The exculpatory evidence was
frittered down to the single circumstance of the
possession of the casket by Montague, which
merely showed that he and Balcombe had met.
What hope remained but that the jury, with the
sturdy independence on which the men of the
West pride themselves, should stand out in the belief
that there was a something in the business not
yet understood? On this slender thread hung the
destiny of my noble friend, and into this peril he
had been brought by his zeal in my service. I
could not look at him, especially after I had told
the only other fact I was permitted to mention;
the damning fact that the blood of Ramsay was
yet warm when I saw it.
Balcombe was now asked if he had anything
farther to offer, and replied in the negative. At
this moment an Indian came forward, who proved
to be our old acquaintance Billy John. He looked
around him with an undisturbed countenance; but
as his cold eye fell on Balcombe, it rested there
for a moment with an appearance of satisfaction,
and he immediately said, striking his breast with
the point of his finger, “Me, me kill him man.” He
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He then folded his arms, and stood patiently
waiting what might be required of him.
“What does the fellow want?” said Shaler.
“He wants to be sworn,” said Keizer. “Swear
him.”
“Does he speak English?” asked Shaler.
“Oh yes; me 'peak 'Merican.”
“Do you understand the nature of an oath?”
inquired Shaler. No answer. The question was
repeated.
“Not know—not unnestan',” said the Indian,
shaking his head.
“It appears,” said Shaler to the court, “that he
does not understand the nature of an oath.”
“Or the meaning of your question—which?”
said Balcombe.
Then, after speaking a few words in a foreign
tongue, he added,
“If you repeat your question now, sir, you will
probably obtain an answer.”
“I suppose so, sir,” said Shaler, sarcastically,
“after—” Then, suddenly checking himself, he
added, in a tone of deep respect, “I beg pardon,
sir; I was going to make a remark which even
my situation would not justify.”
He then repeated the question, to which the
Indian replied,
“Great Spirit hate liar. Me call him hear—me
tell lie—he very mad.”
“And what do you think he will do with you if
you tell a lie?”
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“Oh, he do me very bad,” replied Billy John.
“But what will he do?”
“Not know,” said the simple savage.
“And what will become of you when you die?”
“Oh, good man go to fine country. Plenty
deer—plenty buffalo—plenty elk—plenty bear:
shoot—good rifle—never miss.”
“But what will become of you?”
“Not know,” said the Indian.
“He has no idea of a future state of rewards and
punishments, sir, and cannot be sworn,” said Shaler
to the court.
The judge then began to echo this remark, when
Balcombe said,
“Give me leave, if you please, sir, to ask if he
believes the Great Spirit will do him bad, as he calls
it, after he dies.”
“Oh, yes,” said the Indian, “very much—very
bad.”
“But what do you think he will do?” said
Shaler.
“Not know,” said he.
Shaler looked at Balcombe, who said, quietly,
“Do you?”
The matter was now left to the court, and it
was decided that he might be sworn.
After taking the oath, he was asked if he knew
who killed Andrew Ramsay, to which he replied
in the negative. If he knew anything of his death:
no.
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“Then what does he know about the matter?”
said Shaler.
“Everything but the man's name,” said Balcombe;
who now asked him if he knew who killed
a man at the Rockhouse on a certain night, whose
body was thrown into the river. To this he answered,
“Me, me, me kill him.”
“And where was I at the time?”
“Oh, you there too. He lie close to the rock—
him hand tied.”
“Another accomplice, sir,” said Shaler. “I
submit, sir, that we might as well have examined
Keizer, while we believed him to have been the
perpetrator of the murder, as examine this fellow
who declares that he did the deed. We had only
mistaken the instrument, it seems, sir; and this
disclosure just makes such a change in the case as
if we had found that a different weapon had been
used from that supposed.”
“Such a weapon,” said Balcombe, dryly, “as a
man may use with his hands tied.”
Affecting not to heed the interruption, Shaler
was going on to propose to cut short the testimony
of the witness by committing him, when Keizer
spoke:
“It is not worth while,” said he, “to be putting
the poor fellow to trouble when there's no use for
him. Nobody wanted him here; but then he's a
truehearted fellow, that would not let the colonel
suffer for what he had done. Sheriff, call Sam
Todd.”
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I started at this name, which I remembered to
have heard before as that of one of Montague's confederates.
It was repeated by the sheriff; and a
man dressed a good deal after the same fashion with
John himself, but tall, gaunt, and wolfish in his aspect,
made his appearance. He stepped boldly forward
at once and was sworn.
CHAPTER III.
I'll be no longer guilty of this sin.
Shakspeare.
John, who now acted as spokesman, asked the
witness to tell what he knew about Andrew Ramsay's
death.
“Why, gentlemen,” said he, “I know pretty
much all about it from first to last; but nobody
knew that I did but them that would never tell;
and I would not have been here, only I could not
bear the thoughts of a good man coming to the
gallows, when he wasn't no more to blame than a
child.”
“Well, well, sir,” said Shaler, “we want none
of your reasons or opinions; give us your facts if
you please, and as you know all about it, tell us all
about it.”
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“Well, that's what I'm a going to do, stranger,
and you may as well let me do it my own way.
First and last you'll get it all, whether you like it
or no, and you won't get it no faster than it
comes.”
He then reflected a moment and went on:
“It was a Saturday morning of the great campmeeting
there near the village, I was standing
sorter out upon the edge of the crowd, about eleven
o'clock maybe, when this same Ramsay (least
ways, that's what he called his name—anyhow,
the man that was killed that night) he comes along
by me. And he stands and studies a while, and
then says he,
“`Ain't your name Sam Todd?'
“`I passes for him,' says I.
“`Well,' says he, `I want to speak with you.'
“So with that we walks out, and says he,
“`What I want to speak to you about is another
man's business, and he told me about you, and told
me to find you, and for us to go to him together.'
“`Who is he?' says I.
“`I'm a stranger in these parts,' says he, `and
I cannot say I know his name; only I have seen
him here mighty busy, and mighty great among
the preachers, ever since the meeting began.'
“`Is he here now?' says I.
“`No,' says he, `and it wasn't here we were to
meet; but if you'll go with me, I'll carry you to
the place.'
“So we started off together, and as we went I
-- 030 --
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asked him if he knew what sort of business it was.
And says he,
“`No; I can't say rightly as I do know; only
it's something in our line, sorter ruffianlike.'
“`Well,' says I, `I don't know that I have any
objection to that, so as he pays me for it well.'
'Cause you see, gentlemen, if any man gets me
into danger, and maybe into trouble, and I have to
get out of it as I can, he must pay me for it; and
if he saves his skin, why his purse must suffer.
So we goes along until we gets almost to the head
of the hollow that leads down to the Rockhouse,
and I sees a man setting upon a stump, with a
book in his hand reading mighty seriouslike. And
when we came up to him I saw it was the man I
hear them call Mr. Montague. So when we came
to where he was, he just raised his eyes from his
book, and then he looks at it again and turns down
a corner of the leaf and shuts it; and then he looks
at Ramsay and then at me, and we howd'yed; and
he looks down again and studies a while, and then
he looks at me, and says he—”
“Stop, sir, if you please,” said Shaler.
The witness did stop, but it was only to square
himself around to Shaler, on whom he looked with
a countenance of displeased surprise.
“I perceive, sir,” said Shaler, addressing the
court, “that here is to be another attempt to palm
upon us the words of this everlasting Mr. Montague
as evidence. Now, sir, as the decision of
the court upon that subject has been already
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
expressed, I hope the witness may be admonished
not to repeat anything that Mr. Montague said.”
I never saw Balcombe so much disconcerted as
at the cool effrontery of this objection. He remained
silent a moment, as I thought, chiding
down his impatience, and endeavouring to recover
the calm self-command which he had hitherto displayed.
Before he could accomplish this, the
judge (who doubtless considered the point as identical
with that he had already decided) had time
to rouse himself, and to drawl out to the witness,
“The court has already decided, that nothing
that Mr. Montague has said is evidence in this
case.”
As soon as he began to speak, the witness went
to the right-about and faced him, the expression of
his savage countenance changing, as he listened, to
one made up of ferocity and amazement. Whitehead,
at the same moment, sprung to his feet, bent
on the judge a look of withering scorn and indignation,
and seemed about to speak, when the calm
voice of Balcombe was heard, replying to what
had been said with this question:
“Is it the pleasure of the court to say that the
words of Montague, spoken in conversation with
the deceased, are not to be received?”
Whitehead, who had turned to Balcombe at the
sound of his voice, now again set his eye upon the
judge with an expression of derision and curiosity,
as if he would have said, “I wonder what the fool
will say to that?” The apathy of the judge
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
seemed to be somewhat moved by his vexation, at
being thus called to what was to him a task of
thought, and he began a sort of puzzling attempt
to say something, when the circuit attorney requested
to be heard.
I have said nothing as yet of this gentleman.
He seemed a plain, unpretending, quiet man, who
appeared to think his duty required of him nothing
more than a proper attention to the formalities of
the prosecution. What else I wish to say of him,
may be given in his own words.
“Heretofore, may it please the court,” said he,
“I have acted but a secondary part in this prosecution.
I hope my reasons have not been misunderstood.
While the testimony in this case pointed
to the accused, and to them alone, as the perpetrators
of the murder of Ramsay, it was my duty
to accept of any aid in furtherance of the prosecution.
I was therefore glad to avail myself of the
distinguished abilities of the gentleman, who has
been employed, as I understand, by this same Mr.
Montague, to assist in conducting it. It became
me, sir, in this state of things, to postpone myself
to him, and to permit him to take that lead in the
examination of witnesses, to which his readiness,
dexterity, and address entitled him. I saw, indeed,
but I trust I saw it without envy, that his
conspicuous display of these qualities has thrown
me quite in the shade; but I hope it will not be
imputed to me as a fault, that I have not permitted
any petty vanity of mine, or childish impatience of
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
his manifest superiority, to embarrass the prosecution
by interfering with him. But the aspect of
this case is suddenly changed, and I am reminded
by what I have just heard, that while I represent
the state, Mr. Shaler does but represent Mr. Montague.
He represents a man, who, for some cause
which I do not presume to inquire into, vehemently
desires the punishment of the defendants, whether
guilty or no.
“I represent the state, which desires the punishment
of the guilty only, and yet more earnestly
desires the acquittal of the innocent. Now, sir,
as the testimony now offered seems like to throw
new light upon this subject, as it may probably
show Mr. Montague to me in a light which may
change the relation of an ally into that of an antagonist,
by making it my duty to prosecute him for
this or some other offence, and as I have no doubt
that the testimony offered is not only such as the
law permits, but requires, I find it my duty to
withdraw the objection to it, made by my friend
Mr. Shaler. My right to do so, sir, he will not
question. He will see that the alliance between
myself as the representative of the state and him
as the representative of Mr. Montague, must terminate.
If, on his own behalf, as a friend of justice,
as a curious and skilful investigator of truth,
he feels at liberty to give me his aid in unravelling
this mystery, such aid, guided and controlled by
his own sense of honour and love of virtue, I will
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
thankfully receive. His further co-operation as
counsel for Mr. Montague I must reject.”
Shaler now said, in a few words, that the right
of the circuit attorney to disclaim his further interference
as an ally was unquestionable. “As to
interfering in any other character,” continued he,
“I have no call to do it. I am functus officio. I
am here by contract to prosecute, not to defend.
Should a further investigation of this matter implicate
Mr. Montague, that will be a new case,
and the subject of a new bargain. As to aiding
the circuit attorney in the further investigation of
the case, as an individual, though no man likes to
work at his trade without wages, I would gladly
do so, were it necessary. But, sir, that gentleman
needs no aid; and if he did, I much mistake if he
should ask any more efficient than he has. Let
him give Mr. Balcombe a fair field and a clear sky,
unembarrassed by technical quibbles, and my life
upon it he will get at the whole truth.”
He sat down, and the witness was directed to
proceed.
“I suppose,” said he, “I am to tell all about it.”
“Oh yes,” said the circuit attorney; “tell all.”
“It's well you give me leave,” said the witness,
“because I came here to do it, and flesh and blood
should not have kept me from it. Well, I believe
that gentleman stopped me, the minute I began to
talk about what Montague said; so there's where
I left off. Well, says he, `Is your name Samuel
Todd?' So I told him it was.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
“`Well,' says he, `I have heard of you, and you
are the sort of man I want.'
“Says I, `It depends upon your business,' says
I, `whether I'll suit you or no, 'cause I hain't got
no book larning.'
“`No,' says he, `but you are a brave man.'
“`If any man disputes that,' says I, `maybe he'd
better try me.'
“`Well,' says he, `a brave man is the sort I
want.'
“So, gentlemen, he goes on and tells us that he
had a tract of land in Virginia, and there was a
fellow that had got hold of the deed, and would not
let him have it, and there was another that backed
him in it; and they wanted to make him pay four
thousand dollars, I think it was, before they'd give
it up. So he said he had seen them and agreed to
pay the money, and they had appointed to meet
him at that same place about sunset, and he was
to give them his bond for the money, and they were
to give him the deed.
“`So,' says he, `what I want is for you two to
be lying about here, and to hide yourselves, and
after you see me get the deed I want you to creep
up, and seize them, and keep them until I can get
away.'
“`Oh,' says I, `that's easy done.'
“`And more than that,' says he, `I cannot start
to Virginia before Monday,' (that was Saturday,
you see, gentlemen,) `and if I don't get at least a
week's start of them, they'll be after me, and put
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
me to trouble before I can get the deed recorded.
So,' says he, `I want them kept somewhere out of
the way for a week or ten days.'
“`Well,' says I, `I think we can manage that
matter handy too. Because,' says I, `here's the
Rockhouse right down here on the river bank, and
we can keep them there till we get a boat; and
then there's the mouth of the Osage most just
across the river, and we can run up that, and be
outside of the settlements before day.'
“`Well,' says he, `that will do exactly; but
I'm a thinking,' says he, `you'll want more help.'
“`That depends,' says I, `on what sort of men
they are; though I have a notion,' says I, `that
this man and I ought to be enough for any two
common men, when they wasn't a looking for us
before we got hold of them.'
“`Well,' says he, `one of them is little more
than a boy, just come from Virginia, but I know
his blood, and I reckon he's right good pluck, and
the other man is George Balcombe.'
“`That makes a difference,' says I, `'cause, you
see, Colonel Balcombe is equal to any two common
men, take him any way you will; and more
than that,' says I, `it's right hard to catch him with
both eyes shut at once.'
“`I think,' says he, `the best way will be to
have force enough to master them at once, 'cause,'
says he, `I don't want nobody to be hurt in the
scuffle.'
“`I'm mighty glad to hear that,' says I, `
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
because Colonel Balcombe is a good man, for all he
don't like me, and I should not like to do him any
harm.'
“And with that I sees Ramsay look right hard
at me, and then he and Montague looks at one
another, but they never said nothing, nor I neither.
So, thinks I, maybe there's more between these
fellows than they want me to know. So I speaks
up, and says I, `Maybe you are right enough, so
I'll just speak to my brother to help us,' says I,
`for he's a man I can depend on to do anything
that's got manhood in it.'
“So to make a long story short, gentlemen, he
agreed to give Ramsay and me a hundred dollars
a piece, and I was to make the best bargain I could
for him with Jim, and if nothing else would do, he
was to have a hundred dollars too. So with that
we parted, and I went one way, and he and Ramsay
went towards the campmeeting.
“So that evening, gentlemen, an hour by sun or
so, Jim and I goes there, and we looked about and
fixed ourselves to hide, and after a while here
comes Ramsay and another fellow with him. And
I did not so much like that, 'cause we three was
enough for any two men, and they had not said
nothing about nobody else, and I sorter misdoubted
that maybe they wanted to do Colonel Balcombe
some mischief. And I looked at the fellow, and
an ill-looking devil (axing the court's pardon, gentlemen)
he was.”
-- 038 --
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“Did you know him?” said the commonwealth's
attorney.
“I never seed him before, to my knowing, sir,
and he wasn't a man to forget easy; but it was the
same fellow that swore he seed Ramsay, and Colonel
Balcombe, and Mr. Scott together.”
“Was that the man?” said the commonwealth's
attorney, pointing to Johnson, who, having thoroughly
besotted himself since his examination,
had now blundered into court.
“That's the very fellow,” said Todd. “Well,
sir, he was there too, and as I said I did not much
like it, but we had not much time to talk, and then
again I thought that Jim and I, with Colonel Balcombe
to plan for us, was more than a match for
them two fellows anyhow. So I made myself
easy, and we all hid ourselves; and after a while
here comes the colonel and another man with him.
And when they got to the place, Montague he
comes from right t'other way from where we
were, and the colonel and the other man stood
right facing him, so their backs were to us.
“So when they come up, after a while the
strange man hands Montague something, and he
holds it out before him to look at it, sorter like
making a sign to us, and with that we starts and
crawls up and seizes them. And Ramsay and Jim
gets hold of the stranger, and Johnson and I gets
hold of the colonel, 'cause you see, gentlemen, our
plan was, if we saw any signs of mischief, to let go
all holds and take their part. So I holds the
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
colonel's arms behind him, for I did not want him to
see me, and I slips a rope round his arms, and
made a sort of half knot, and so I held on like as if
I had tied him fast, till Johnson went before him
and tied his hands. And by this time I saw that
they did not mean to hurt him, then, nohow, and
then I ties my knot too. And when we had him
fast, then Montague began, and such a saucing he
gave him you never heard. And after he had
jawed at him a spell, (and the colonel he never said
a word,) says he,
“`Boys, you know what to do with them; and,
Mr. Balcombe,' says he, `I wish you a pleasant
journey.'
“So with that, gentlemen, he goes away, and we
takes the men down the hollow towards the Rockhouse.
And when we got about halfway, we
comes to a fire at a sort of a camp where John
Keizer and some Indians had been staying, and by
this time it was almost dark, and says Ramsay,
“`Suppose we stop here a while; 'cause,' says
he, `I want to see what these fellows have got in
their pockets.'
“And so, gentlemen, I thought it wasn't no time
then to make a fuss with the fellows, and I did not
want the colonel to hear my voice; so I says nothing,
'cause, gentlemen, you see I thought after
all was done, it would not be too late to rob them
villains again; and, anyhow, what I got the colonel
could get it again, my share and Jim's too.
“So they both had some money, and the colonel
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
he had a pair of first-rate pistols, and a capital
dirk. So Jim and I knew the dirk and pistols, and
that the colonel had had them with him in places
where a man learns to love his fighting-irons; and
I seed the picture was a mighty pretty girl, and I
thought the boy would hate to lose that; so I takes
the picture and one pistol for my share, and Jim he
takes the other and the dirk for his, and we let the
other fellows have the money. And after that was
done, we went along down to the Rockhouse, and
Jim he starts off a little way down the river for a
boat, and the rest of us staid there.
“So we sets down pretty close to the rock, and
the colonel was next to me, and the young man
next to him, and the others were the other side;
for you see, gentlemen, I chose to keep near the
colonel for fear.
“So we had not been there long before we hears
a whistle like a rifleman's whistle, and I guessed
that minute it was John Keizer and his Indians.
And I knew they wasn't men to fool with, and I
did not want to hurt nobody, especially John; and
so, gentlemen, I just determined if they fell in with
us to clear out and be off. But before I had time
to think as much, the colonel he blows his whistle,
and with that here they come with a right Indian
warwhoop. So I was next to them, and as I seed
them coming along the wall, I could have stopped
one of them mighty easy with a bullet; but I did
not want to do that. So I jumps from the wall
and halloos to the others to run, and with that they
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
jumps out too. So I just stopped to listen a minute,
for all was dark there, and I heard the cocking of
rifles and setting of triggers, and I jumped down
the bank. And Ramsay he made a stop, and says
he, `Stand your ground, men,' and that minute a
rifle went off. And Ramsay was a top the bank
right over me, where I could see him right plain
against the sky, and he had his rifle pointed in
under the rock, when the other went off and down
he came.
“So by this time the thing was pretty well over,
and I went off and crossed the branch, and lay by
till I heard them throw the dead man in the river;
and then the colonel and them went off, and after
a while Jim comes along with the boat, and I hails
him and tells him about it. So he carried the boat
back, and then I went to look for Montague to tell
him. So I knew where he staid, and I went there,
but all was dark, and he wasn't there. So I
stopped a while, and presently I hears him coming
along talking, and John Keizer with him. So I
guessed by that he knew all about it, and that we
wasn't to blame. So John Keizer he goes away,
and Montague he goes in the house in the dark.
Then I goes to the door and knocks, and he asked
who was there, mighty scaredlike; and I tells him,
and he lets me in. So there we sot a talking in
the dark, and I tells him all, and how Ramsay was
killed and thrown in the river. And when he
heard that, he started up, and said something I did
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
not hear rightly, and then he sets down agin and
considers. So after a while says he,
“`Did you rob them men?'
“`That's none of your business,' says I.
“`Yes it is,' says he; `because if you have got
anything of theirs about you, I'll give you any
money for it.'
“`You'd better pay me,' says I, `what you owe
me already.'
“`And so I would,' says he, mighty civillike,
`but I cannot tell one bank note from another here
in the dark.'
“`It's mighty easy to get a light from the
kitchen,' says I.
“So, with that, he goes to the kitchen and fetches
a light, and then he pays me a hundred dollars,
and says he,
“`Now, here's another hundred; and let me see
what you have got to give me for it.'
“So I showed him the pistol and picture; and
as soon as he saw the picture, gentlemen, he started
and dropped it on the table, and he clapped his
hands to his head and walked across the room,
and such a groan as he gave I don't reckon nobody
ever heard, unless they have seen a man shot down
and scalped before he was dead. And then he
comes back and sits down, and leans his head upon
his hands, and he was pale and gashly-like, and his
eyes glassy like as if he was dead. After a while
he comes to himself, and says he,
“`Now, here's another hundred dollars for you,
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
if you'll take these things down to the Rockhouse
and leave them there.'
“`What's that for?' says I.
“`Why,' says he, `they'll be found there, and
the blood and all, and then them men will be taken
up, and I can get away to Virginia and they cannot
follow me.'
“`But,' says I, `I don't want to bring Colonel
Balcombe into any trouble.'
“`He won't be in any danger,' says he, `because
you can keep out of the way, and your brother and
that other man, and the dead body's gone, and
they'll only just think it something strange, and
they'll be just taken up, but nobody can hurt them;
and more than that,' said he, `they'll get their things
again.'
“`Well,' says I, `if that's to be all, I have no
objection, and Jim and I can go out a hunting, and
take that other fellow with us.'
“So, with that I left him and went straight to the
Rockhouse, and there I left the pistol and picture as
I had promised, and I saw that the body was gone
sure enough, so that I felt right easy in my mind
about the colonel. Then, next day, Jim and I got
ready to go out and take our fall hunt, and we
hunted up Johnson, but the fellow was drunk, and
such a beast we could not make him understand
anything; and then I thought nobody would ever
mind a word he'd say, and besides, he would not
want to talk about it. So we concluded there was
no danger, and we went off away out on the heads
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of the Osage; and after a while Keizer comes to
us, and so one night, sitting down at the camp fire,
says he to me—”
“It is not proper,” said the circuit attorney, “to
repeat what he said.”
“Why, I just wanted,” said Todd, “to tell how
I come to come in.”
“I suppose,” said the circuit attorney, “you
mean to say you came in in consequence of what
he told you.”
“To be sure,” said Todd; “that's it.”
“That is enough,” said the attorney, “without
telling what it was.”
“Ah! well,” said Todd, “I suppose it makes no
such mighty odds, for I reckon you have heard
enough, and you have got the truth this time, anyhow.”
CHAPTER IV.
And woman's pure kiss—sweet and long,
Welcomed her warrior home.
Halleck.
The perfect verisimilitude of this story could
leave no doubt on the minds of any person. Even
the judge seemed to have had his attention
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awakened; and having smoked out the cigar he was
puffing at when the witness began, forgot to light
another. He now asked if there were any more
witnesses, and being told there were none, requested
the circuit attorney to go on.
“I have nothing to say, sir,” replied that gentleman,
“but what, perhaps, were better deferred
till the jury have rendered their verdict. You, I
presume, sir,” addressing Balcombe with great
respect, “do not feel it necessary to say anything.”
“Nothing at all, sir,” was the quiet reply of
Balcombe.
“Gentlemen,” said the attorney, “you may retire.”
“There can be no occasion, sir,” said the foreman,
glancing on the rest, who all nodded assent.
“How say you, gentlemen?” said the attorney.
“Are the defendants guilty, or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” was the answer uttered, with acclamation,
by every voice.
“Before the accused are discharged,” said the
attorney, “I beg leave to say what I just now expressed
a wish to say—that the testimony has left
not a shadow of doubt on my mind of the perfect
innocence of all these gentlemen.”
They were now discharged, and Balcombe, advancing
to Whitehead, said, “I owe you many
thanks, sir, for the generous and delicate manner
in which you came to my aid to-day. You will
add to the favour if you will show me how otherwise
than by words I shall express them.”
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“You owe me nothing, sir,” said Whitehead,
with the same reckless, heartless air I had first remarked
in him. “Not even thanks. What I did,
sir, was done to please myself.”
Balcombe looked mortified and amazed, and said,
“The debt is the more onerous, sir, that I am only
allowed to discharge it by thanks, and that they
are not valued.”
“You mistake me, sir,” said Whitehead, “if you
suppose I should not value them if they were due.
But I neither served you nor wished to serve you.
I said what I did, because my admiration of you,
and my indignation at that stupid beast, disposed
me to say it, but I did you no service, and you
needed no aid from me;” saying this, he turned
away.
The foreman of the jury now approached. “Mr.
Balcombe,” said he, “you have had an opportunity
to-day of doing me justice, and you have done
it nobly. Had not the appearance of the last
witness deprived me of the opportunity, I beg
leave to say that I was prepared to requite it by
giving my recorded opinion, that testimony, however
strong, which should charge you with a dishonourable
and cowardly act, must be false, as
proving too much. Let me hope, sir, that hereafter
we may meet as friends.”
“I shall rejoice at it,” said Balcombe, extending
his hand; “and I beg you to believe that it has
never been by my wish or by my fault that we
have met otherwise.”
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“I will believe anything you can say, sir,” replied
the other.
It was now nearly dark. We hurried out, and
at the door met the good old colonel, who had
left the house as soon as he had heard enough to
see that the danger was past. He advanced to
Balcombe with an extended hand, and without
speaking walked with us to our horses. He at
length mastered his emotion, and we began to converse
on the events of the day. A brisk ride
brought us to Colonel Robinson's before midnight.
I saw a light at the window of Balcombe's chamber,
and a female figure leaned out of it.
“All well!” he exclaimed, leaping from his
horse. The window was closed, and he ran up
stairs.
The next morning Balcombe appeared at brealfast,
no otherwise changed in his deportment than
that he now conversed freely on indifferent subjects,
though not exactly with as much gayety as
formerly. Indeed, the wide discursive range of
his thoughts seemed more restricted, and his whole
manner was more sobered than at any time before
the death of Ramsay. The countenance of his
wife still glowed with a sense of indignant honour
and insulted pride, which, perhaps, shone out
more conspicuously, because whatever of gloom
had overshadowed it was entirely dissipated. The
fire of her eye was less lurid, but brighter; the
flush of her cheek was no longer the deep crimson
of choked excitement, but the healthy glow which
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rises from a heart that beats freely. She was relieved,
but not satisfied; and still incensed, though
the fierceness of her resentment was much appeased.
As she was about to leave the room
after breakfast, she turned, and said to her father,
“My dear father, my husband will never tell me
all about himself, except when he thinks he has
done something wrong or foolish. You and Mr.
Napier must tell me all about what passed yesterday.”
“I can tell you no more at this moment, my dear
child,” said the old gentleman, kissing her tenderly,
and holding her in his arms, with her face turned up
to his as he spoke, “I can tell you no more than that
hereafter you may be as proud of your husband as
you will, and I will never laugh at you about it.”
“And I, my dear madam,” said I, “can only
say, that had you been there yesterday, you would
have been a thousand times prouder of him than
you ever were before, and none present would
have thought you as proud of him as he deserved.”
As I spoke, she quietly disengaged herself from
her father's arms, and looked at her husband with
more emotion than I had ever seen her display.
At length all a woman's softness rose to her eyes;
her features worked, her whole frame shook, and
stretching her hands to heaven, she exclaimed,
“Oh, thank God! thank God!” and fell upon his
neck. There she hung, as if unconscious of our
presence, shedding, during the whole time, a continued
flood of tears. In that torrent the fire that
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had burned her heart was quenched. She withdrew
herself from his embrace an altered woman.
From that time forth she was the same reserved,
silent, modest, though dignified lady that I had first
seen her. The sun of her husband's honour (to
use Balcombe's figure) once more shone clear and
bright above the horizon, and she modestly paled
her beams in his presence.
I need not say how we were all affected.
Even Balcombe's nerves, which seemed formed to
endure the rack without shrinking, were shaken
like a child's. But he recovered himself before
she did, and as she was about to withdraw he said,
“You must take your share of praise, my dear
Elizabeth. If there be any justice in what my
partial friends have just said, I owe all the honour
to you. I committed myself, dearest, to be guided
by what Napier would call `the confident, unerring
instinct of woman's love,' and it pointed the path
that led to victory over my enemies. Had not
you been my wife I should have been safe, but not
triumphant.”
She again clung to him, and hid her blushing
and beaming countenance in his bosom. She was
about to leave us, but he detained her, and added,
“You must stay and hear me tell all. I was
not unapprized,” continued he, addressing us, “of
the nature of my situation. I knew the professional
character of Mr. Shaler, and was prepared
for all that took place, except the exclusion of Napier's
account of his conversation with Montague.
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But even with that testimony, had it been admitted,
my main dependence was on my character;
and to act out that character fully, so as to give
the lie to any testimony which should charge me
with dishonourable and cowardly assassination,
was the part, not of magnanimity, as you, William,
would say, but of true policy. I said nothing
of these things to you, but with my wife I had no
reserve. The part I acted was rather the suggestion
of my own mind than hers, but it was her
noble confidence that inspired me to possess my
soul in patience, and to look calmly on my danger,
when it was most appalling. If you remember
what was said by Mr. Roberts, the foreman of the
jury, you will see that I was not mistaken.”
“Good God!” said Mrs. Balcombe, “was Mr.
Roberts on your jury? The bitterest enemy you
have in the world.”
“Yes, dear, he was, and by my choice; for
though my enemy, he is brave and honourable, and
knew me to be so too.”
“Oh my husband!” exclaimed she, looking at
him with tender admiration, “that choice was
doubtless wise, but I could never have advised
it.”
“I know that,” said he; “it is not the part of
woman to meet danger in person, but to buckle on
the armour of her husband's heart, and fortify it
for the encounter. Go now, dear. You will see
Mr. Roberts in a few days. Yesterday's work
has made him my fast friend.”
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Saying this he kissed her, and she left the room,
the proudest and happiest woman upon earth.
She presently returned, leading her little girl.
“You have not seen your child,” said she; “she
was dressed and at play before you awoke.”
He stooped down and held out his arms; the
little thing ran into them; and for a few moments
he forgot everything else in her caresses and artless
prattle. Her mother then took her away, and
turning to me he said,
“How say you, William? I wish to train up
that child to be the wife of a great and good man.
What model would you propose to me?”
“Her own mother, assuredly,” said I.
“I am afraid, then,” said he, “we must educate
her ourselves; lest, at a boarding-school, she might
choose another model.”
“But if she is endowed by nature with the same
primitive qualities which I most admire in her
mother, then, learn what she may, she cannot help
adopting and acting on her generous sentiments
and noble principles.”
“I shall expect her mind to bear the same fruit
if the same seed is planted.”
“What is that?”
“An habitual subordination of the heart and
mind, not to the authority, but to the wisdom, real
or fancied, of her parents.”
“And how will that have such an effect?”
“It will prepare and dispose her to enthrone, as
the master feeling of her heart, a cherished sense
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of her husband's superiority, from which will spring
an assurance of his virtue, a reliance on his wisdom,
a zeal for his honour, a pride in his distinction,
and an undoubting confidence in his fortunes
and his prowess, which will make her to her husband
what her mother is to me. What else she is
to be let it depend on him. If he is her superior
at first, as he should be, he will raise her to his own
level, or as near it as comports with the happiness
of both. Even should her faculties be superior to
his, he cannot raise her so high but that she will
still feel herself the creature of his hands. His
confidence will result back to her, and she will be
his best adviser, because she will always encourage
him to put his trust in himself and in God. This
last is a necessary effect of a woman's natural confidence
in her husband's fortunes. The master of
her heart and person is, in her eyes, the master of
her destiny and his own. This connects her confidence
in him with her confidence in the great Disposer
of events, whose favour she would never
have him forfeit. Did ever woman's love incite to
a vicious act? Did ever the chance of war, to a
loving woman, seem equal between her husband
and another? If so, what peace of mind to one
whose husband is abroad in a campaign in which
it is foreseen that one half will perish? With an
equal chance that she may never see him again,
how could she endure his absence? Yet she
sleeps soundly and feeds kindly. She prays, indeed,
fervently; but her prayer is full of hope, for
-- 053 --
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she is his alter ego. She fears for him only as a
brave man confident in himself fears for himself.
“I know the authority of Shakspeare is against
me here. But I must read human nature for myself.
It is the wife, and not the mother of Coriolanus
who should have been made to say,
`He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee,
And tread upon his neck.'
Had I been the friend, the brother, the son of Elizabeth,
she would have trembled for me. For her
husband she had no fears. This comfortable condition
of woman's mind, which reason cannot justify,
reason can yet trace to its causes. I may err
in my judgment of these; but I must be very sure
that I am wrong, before I will consent to peril this
invaluable quality in woman, for the sake of experimenting
on the intellectual capabilities of a being
who, after all, must, and of choice will spend more
than half her life in nursing children.”
I have already said that Balcombe was the hardest
man to talk with that I had ever seen. I made
no reply; but I was still unconvinced. With all
the advantage of a striking example at hand, I saw
that he rested his case, after all, on a beautiful but
romantic theory, which might be fallacious. Indeed,
I was rather more inclined to adhere to my
former opinions, because I was satisfied I had
heard all that could be urged against them, and
still saw no sufficient reason to reject the
-- 054 --
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arguments, with which all are familiar, in favour of
that system of education which would place the
mind of woman fully on a level with that of the
companion of her life.
CHAPTER V.
His gallant bearing won my heart.
Scott.
About midday we were surprised by a visit
from Mr. Shaler, who called on his way home to
say, that he could not leave the county without
doing himself the pleasure of offering his respects
to Mr. Balcombe. He was desirous, too, he said,
to obtain the assurance of what his experience of
Mr. Balcombe's candour would hardly permit him
to doubt, that the manner in which he had been
constrained, on the preceding day, to perform a
disgusting and painful duty, had not been taken
amiss. To this Balcombe replied, by assuring him
that he had perfectly understood his situation, and
added some remarks, showing that he had well
weighed all the considerations, which are regarded
in ascertaining the duty of the lawyer to his
client.
“I am perfectly aware,” said he, “that the
-- 055 --
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nature of the human mind disqualifies any man
for investigating both sides of any question at
once. Yet no decision can be properly made, until
all that can be said on both sides (right or wrong)
is duly considered; and the wisdom of the law is
in nothing more manifest, than in the designation
of a set of men, qualified by nature, education, and
experience, for such investigations, to seek out and
lay before the judge or jury, everything worthy to
be taken into view. To do this, the counsel on
each side must have a single object, and to the
pursuit of this object he must be stimulated by interest,
without being withheld by any consideration
of the rights or interests of the other party, which
are committed to the guardianship of his adversary.
I say this, my dear sir,” continued he, “not
by way of showing that I do or do not understand
what I am talking about, but that you may see that
I speak advisedly, and not mere words of course,
when I assure you that all you have done has been
taken in good part.”
We found Mr. Shaler the same pleasant, intelligent
gentleman that he had shown himself in our
ride together, with a vein of mingled humour and
sarcasm. He seemed to take the highest pleasure
in his profession, and exulted with the spirit of a
keen sportsman, in the exercise of the talents appropriate
to it. With these he was eminently
gifted, and possessed, moreover, some literature, a
good taste, and the manners of a gentleman. He
seemed to be a man of kind feelings, somewhat
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blunted by professional exercise. He spoke of
Montague with playful scorn, and promised himself
a full feast of revenge should he ever return
to Missouri, for the trick he had played him in
drawing him in to aid in such a scheme of
iniquity.
“I would gladly,” he said, “ride from St. Louis
to prosecute him for the conspiracy, and as accessory
to the robbery of Mr. Balcombe and Scott.”
After sitting an hour he rose to take his departure.
He was pressed to remain, but said that
Whitehead, who had refused to call, was waiting
for him at the next house. Balcombe then took
him aside, and spoke a few words to him in private.
In answer, he said aloud,
“I will hand it to you, sir, as you pass through
St. Louis so authenticated as to pass unquestioned
anywhere. And I hope,” added he, “that I shall
then not only have the pleasure of seeing more of
you and Mrs. Balcombe, and Mr. Napier, but that
you will also permit me to communicate to my
friends there a part of the satisfaction I have enjoyed
in your acquaintance.”
Having said this, he took his leave. About dinner
time poor John came limping along on foot,
completely broken down in everything but mind
and spirits. He brought the pistol and picture,
which in our hurry we had left behind. James
took the latter, and gazed on it with tearful eyes,
and kissing it, was about to return it to his bosom,
when Mrs. Balcombe begged leave to look at it.
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She took it, expressed her admiration of its surpassing
beauty, and stepping out, returned with a
riband, with which she tied it about James's neck.
It was delightful to look upon the grateful expression
of the poor boy's countenance as he looked up at
her while performing this office of delicate respect
fr his poor sister. I have never seen anything
like his affectionate devotion to her. It was not
merely love to her as a sister, nor gratitude to the
instructress of his youth, nor compassion for a
friendless and unfortunate woman. It amounted
to absolute idolatry to one who seemed to him a
perfectly faultless being. The interest in her
manifested by Balcombe had bound the gentle
youth to him. His gratitude, admiration, and
confidence appeared to have no bounds. It was
plain he knew nothing of Montague, and had no
idea of the cause or nature of the cloud that rested
upon her. Indeed, after the manifestations I had
seen of his quick feelings, delicate sense of honour,
and high spirit, I had no doubt that the least intimation
of her wrongs would be fatal to her betrayer.
The propriety and gentleness of his demeanour
had endeared him to us all, and the
utmost caution was uniformly observed to save
his feelings, and to say nothing from which he
could possibly suspect the truth. Balcombe now
asked John how he had been so fortunate as to fall
in with Todd.
“I God, colonel!” said he, “I went after him,
and that's the way I fell in with him.”
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“But,” said Balcombe, “what put it into your
head to go after him?”
“Why,” said he, “it's a long story, colonel; but
I reckon you'd like to know all about it, so I'd as
well begin at once and tell you. You see, the day
before I went away I happened to be at a warrant
trying, and who should be there but that same fellow
Perkins, that wanted to put in his jaw that day
before the justice. A nasty, tallow-faced, greasy,
bloated, long-legged, water-jointed rascal, that looks
for all the world like a hound puppy, that's got fat
by stealing pot liquor out of the kitchen. Well, he
was there, and I heard him say, `I God,' says he,
`'twas pretty cunning in Balcombe to make no objection
to hearsay testimony, when all he wanted
was to get in all that long rigmarole about what
Montague should have said to that fellow Napier,
and then tell the story his own way besides. But
I guess,' says he, `he'll find the difference when
Lawyer Shaler gets him before the judge; for when
all that loose jaw comes to be left out, his case will
look d—d slim, I can tell him. And then,' says
he, `I guess he'll be glad enough to get a lawyer
to plead for him—a pettifogger, as he calls it. But
I'll see him d—d before I say a word for him,
unless he pays me, and that well too,' says he.
“So you see that sets me to considering, colonel;
and I sees plain enough that it was just as
he said. So the next day I starts a way to tell you,
and when I got there you wasn't at home, and when
you come in, the madam, she was there, and I did
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not want to say nothing before her. So then the
talk riz about the pistol, and thinks I, I'll just go
and try to see that woman, and tell the colonel
about it another time. So I starts after her the
way she went, and I remembered how she was
dressed, and I sort o' guessed who she was. So
after a while I comes up with her, and she had a
sort of sun bonnet on, so that I could not see her
face; and I speaks to her, and she answers me,
and looked up, I seed it was a woman that lives
with Sam Todd when he's at home—or rather Sam
lives with her, for he aint got no home of his own
rightly; and you see, gentlemen, if she aint his
wife, she ought to be, anyhow. So says I,
“`Why, is that you, Jenny? Why, I met you
a while ago, and I did not know you no more than
if I never had seed you! And,' says I, `did Sam
Todd send that pistol to Colonel Balcombe that
you carried there a while ago?'
“Says she, `I don't know nothing about no
pistol.'
“`Well,' says I, `maybe you don't; but you
carried a box there, anyhow.'
“`Well,' says she, `and what if I did?'
“`'Cause,' says I, `I want to know if Sam Todd
sent it. 'Cause,' says I, `the colonel takes it mighty
friendly-like of Sam.'
“`Ay, ay, John,' says she, `you aint a going to
come over me that way.”
“`Well,' says I, `but, Jenny, I don't mean you
no harm in the 'versal world, nor Sam neither,'
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says I; `'cause you know Sam and I was always
good friends; and you know he and I is going out
hunting together this fall.'
“`I reckon,' said she, `you won't hunt much
with him this fall, 'cause he's gone out already.'
“`Gone!' says I; `how come he to go without
me, after he and I agreed to go together?'
“You see, gentlemen, I sort o' suspicioned as
much as that Sam was gone to get out of the way.
'Cause you know, colonel, there was four of them
villains, and Ramsay was one of them, and Johnson
was one; and then I remembered I had heard
old Jones tell Montague about Sam Todd and his
brother; so I made sure partly Sam and Jim were
the other two; and I knew where to find Sam,
and I thought if he was anyways friendly, I could
not do better than to go right after him. So I just
talked so with the woman to try to find out how
that was. So when I axed her how come Sam to
go away and leave me, says she,
“`He did not think it worth while,' says she,
`to wait for you after you were tooken up about
that scrape of Ramsay's.'
“`When did he go?' says I.
“`Sunday morning,' says she.
“`Why,' says I, `that was before I was tooken
up.'
“`Well,' says she, `if you wasn't tooken up then,
Sam could give a right good guess you would be.'
“So by that, gentlemen, I made sure Sam was
in the scrape, and 'twas he that sent the pistol, and
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I did not much doubt but he was friendly. So I
speaks right up, and says I, `Well, I don't want
so much to know who sent the pistol, but I just
want to know whether Sam is friendly to the colonel
or not. 'Cause,' says I, `the colonel is in a
sort o' ticklish fix just now, and he wants friends,
and I know,' says I, `that if Sam is a friend anyhow,
he is a good friend.' And with that says she,
“`I won't tell you nothing at all, John, about
the pistol nor the box, nor who sent it; but you
may be sure of one thing,' says she, `Sam Todd
don't mean no harm by Colonel Balcombe nor
you neither. 'Cause,' says she, `the colonel is a
brave soldier and a good man, for all Sam knows
he don't like him.'
“`Well,' says I, `Jenny, where's Sam now?'
“`I shan't tell you that neither,' says she; `and
I'm not sure as I know; but I reckon you know
where you and he was to hunt.'
“So, gentlemen, I had got all I wanted, and I
considered a while; and it was a desperate long
way to the head of Sac River, where I expected
to find Sam; and I had my rifle with me, and it
wasn't no use saying nothing about it to the colonel,
nohow, so I starts right off.
“Well, I went out upon Sac River, and I hunts
a long time before I could light upon Sam's trail.
At last I falls in with him, and from that we camped
together. So that night, setting by the fire, says
I, `Colonel Balcombe was mightily obliged to you,
Sam,' says I, `for sending him that pistol, 'cause
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it looked friendly-like; and besides, though you
and I is a couple of sort o' ruffianlike fellows, and
likes to make money by taking the part of them
that has not got the pluck to take their own part,
yet as to taking what don't belong to us, or robbing,
or anything in that way, it's what we don't
hold with. So I suppose while them other fellows,
Ramsay and Johnson, was a robbing the colonel,
you just took your share to keep for him, and sent
it back like an honest man.'
“`Did not Squire Montague make him pay nothing
for it?' says he.
“And the minute Todd said that, I begun to
think of something I had not thought of before,
and says I, `I never suspicioned it came from him,
and how was Squire Montague to know anything
about it?'
“`Why, he knowed where I left it,' says he.
“`And where was that?' said I.
“`At the Rockhouse,' says he.
“`And the picture too?' says I.
“`Yes,' says he.
“And with that he ups and tells me all about it,
just the same as he did yesterday, how he managed
to save what the colonel and Mr. Scott would hate
to lose the most. And when he was done telling,
says I,
“`Well, I am mighty sorry to tell you, Sam,'
says I, `that that pistol is a going to get the colonel
into a sight of trouble.'
“`Oh,' says he, `it cannot be of no great force
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
nohow, 'cause,' says he, `there wasn't nothing there
but the blood, and nobody knows whose blood it
was; and as to Ramsay, the catfish have done
eating him long ago, and he won't be missed.'
“`There's where you are mistaken,' says I, `for
Ramsay's body washed up on a sand bar right by;
and when Squire Montague and old man Jones
went there and found the picture and the pistol,
by the time they could say, `Eh, what's this?' there
was the corpse to tell them all about it, as plain as
a live man could talk.'
“When Sam heard this he studied and looked
mighty uneasy-like, and then says he, `Squire
Montague had not ought to have carried old man
Jones there right away. He'd ought to have gone
there by himself first,' says he, `and seen how the
land lay; 'cause,' says he, `that wasn't doing the
right thing by me; 'cause you see, John, when he
give me the hundred dollars for the things, to make
my mind easy, he tells me the men should get
their things again; and he'd just fix so as to fling
a running noose, like, over the colonel in the start
of the race, and so sort o' trip him, and then he'd
get to Virginia first. And,' says he, `I tell'd him
right straight that he should not have the things
nohow, if the colonel was to be brought into any
serious trouble about the business.'
“`Well,' says I, `it's a slim chance to depend
upon what almost anybody says; but as to such a
natural born devil as that Montague, you could
not look for anything from him. Do you think,'
-- 064 --
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says I, `he didn't carry Mr. Jones down there Sunday
evening, and then a Monday morning he was
off by crack of day? and he puts that fellow Johnson
up to tell it all just right to hang the colonel;
and then when he gets to St. Louis, he employs a
first-rate lawyer there, (one Shaler, I think they
call his name,) that they say is a right roarer, to
come up to prosecute the colonel, right or wrong.'
“And while I was a saying this, gentlemen, Jim,
he looks straight at me right through the fire, and
if he did not look like the devil in his own ilement,
I don't know. And with that he jumps right up,
and such a cursing as Montague got, it did not do
his soul no good, now mind I tell you. So after a
while, when his steam was pretty well blowed off,
he just said he'd start off next day, and come right
in and tell all about it. And you see, gentlemen,
all the time I never said a word about myself,
'cause that was part of the story he did not know
nothing about; and more than that, 'twasn't no use;
for you see, for all Sam know'd the colonel didn't
like him, 'cause he was a hardheaded devil out
upon the Spanish frontier, that wouldn't neither
lead nor drive, and he and I was right good friends,
yet I know'd he would not so much mind my
coming to a bad end, as such a man as the colonel.
'Cause you see,” added John, with a knowing
look, “maybe he thought if I did not deserve it
now, I did another time, and maybe he wasn't so
mighty far wrong either; though as to taking
life,” (and here he spoke with great gravity,) “
-- 065 --
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except of an Indian, or them that wasn't no better,
and that in the way of fair manhood, it's what I
never did do, and never will. And besides, if such
a poor fellow as I was put out of the way, there's
plenty more just like me; leastways, maybe Sam
thinks so; and I aint so sure but what he thinks
he'd do just as well in my place, for all the good
I'll ever do, or harm either. But then, if Colonel
Balcombe was gone, where would we find anybody
to pay a poor fellow sometimes for doing
what an't agin his conscience? For a man may
be pretty well up to all sorts of devilment, and yet
maybe he won't like to be always at it. So you
see, gentlemen, Sam never know'd a word about
my part in the scrape more than he know'd before
till he got in the courthouse, and I an't so mighty
sure he know'd it then. So, gentlemen, to make
a long story short, the next day we cached our
skins, and started in, and a tough time we had of
it to save our distance.”
“And where did Billy John come from?” said
Balcombe; “and what brought him?”
“I had not a chance to ask him,” said John.
“I suppose he just staid long enough to see that
you was out of the scrape, and then slipped away
to his hunting ground again. You see, that day
they took me at the camp meeting he and Snake
was there, and the minute they seed me in trouble,
they came up and waited for orders. And so I
tells them to be off if they did not want to be
hanged: so they put right off. How they got the
-- 066 --
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news of your being in trouble, the Lord knows.
But as to his coming in after he heard that! Bless
your soul, colonel! why, that fellow, before he'd let
you come to any harm, especially for what he had
done, he'd let 'em roast him before a slow fire, and
cut slices off, and eat 'em before his face.”
“And did Todd know nothing about the other
pistol?” said Balcombe. “Because I should like
to get the dirk that was in company with it. It's
an old friend that I should not like to lose.”
“I reckon so, sir,” said John, “and so did Sam;
for we both seed it stand your friend once, when
nothing else could have helped you. But he could
not tell rightly about that. Only just when I told
him how it come, he seemed pleased, and said it
must be Jim's work. And he said he was mighty
glad Jim sent it. `'Cause,' says he, `I'm sorter
jubus Jim an't so mighty partickler about holding
fast what he gets.' And then he axed me about
the dirk, and he said Jim ought to have sent that
too; but maybe he had just carried it out with him
for a hunting-knife, and would give it back to the
colonel when he come in. And, anyhow, he said
it should be forthcoming.”
“I am afraid,” said Balcombe, “it will come too
late; for I must be off to Virginia immediately.”
“Do you still propose going?” said I, delighted.
“Yes,” said he, “and I shall take my wife with
me. We shall lose no time by taking her. She
has relations in Fauquier whom she wishes to see.
We take the steamboat to Wheeling, the stage to
-- 067 --
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Baltimore, Washington, and Fredericksburg, which
last will pass near her destination; and after leaving
her, to touch at your mother's in King and
Queen, and fall down into Essex to Raby Hall.
How would you like the trip, John?”
“Of all things in the world, if you'd any use for
me.”
“Well, John, Colonel Robinson says whenever
there are such men as Montague there's use for
such as you. So here's my hand. We must go
to the tailor, and have ourselves made decent, and
be off.”
“I God,” said John, laughing, and looking at his
tattered buckskins, “I don't think a set of new rigging
would do me any harm; but don't you think,
colonel, that a new suit of leather would answer
me best?”
“That will never do, John, where we are going.
You must shed that dress, or the boys will all run
after you in the streets.”
“Why, colonel,” said John, “in the part of Virginia
where I was raised, nobody hardly wears
nothing else; and I should think a man wasn't such
a strange sight where you come from. But maybe
it's away down towards Norfolk you are going,
and then I know it won't do. So I must try and
learn to wear breeches and shoes.”
He went out, and Balcombe, looking after him
with a good-humoured smile, turned to me and
said,
-- 068 --
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“Well, William, what do you think of my man
John?”
“The fellow's worth his weight in gold,” said I.
“He's an extraordinary animal,” continued Balcombe;
“and I hardly know a more curious study
than to follow him in such a detail as he has just
given us, and note the process of his mind in `putting
that and that together,' as he sometimes says.
His quickness in tracing actions to their motives,
and determining the influence which the motive
thus ascertained will have on other actions, is even
less remarkable than his accuracy in defining the
extent to which they may be depended on. Did
you observe, that though he had no doubt that that
sort of attachment, which, in spite of individual
grievances, men will form for those who have led
them safely through danger, would dispose Todd
to save me, he was careful not to tell him too much.
He was not so very sure of the wisdom of letting
the fellow know, that by holding his tongue he
might get him out of his way, and so establish himself
in that pre-eminence among the rogues and
ruffians of the region, to which John's title is incontestible;
though, after him, no man has a better
claim to it than Todd. John's place among such
fellows is something like that of Bamfylde Moore
Carew among the beggars. Indeed he often reminds
me of the gipsies and suchlike sapient vagabonds
that we meet with in modern romances. I
don't mean to speak of such marvellous creatures
as Edie Ochiltree or Meg Merrilies. I allude to
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
the innumerable paltry imitations which the popularity
of these characters has produced. But Scott
himself might have profited by a personal knowledge
of such a man as John Keizer. He would
have seen that it was not necessary to endow these
creatures of his fancy with powers bordering on
the supernatural, so that they sometimes seem to
have the faculty of ubiquity, and sometimes preternatural
means of knowledge. The spell which this
`wizard of the north' casts on us, disqualifies us for
observing this while we read. We are ourselves
bewitched, and magic seems nature. But there is
no witchcraft about John. We know whence and
how he comes; he does nothing that other people
cannot do, and as to his information of all that concerns
him, we know he comes by it by what he
would call `a knack of knowing by a little what a
great deal means.' He makes no mystery of the
matter, and is always ready to explain his means
of knowledge. It is impossible to tell the fellow
any three facts, from which he will not instantly
infer a fourth; and this, with courage, address, and
activity, makes up the sum total of his efficiency.
“His manner of telling his story,” continued
Balcombe, “characterizes the operations of his
mind. You may perceive that his language is not
now that which you first heard from him. You
were then a stranger, and he was on his p's and q's
before you, and trying to talk `high larnt' as he
would call it. He now talks to you as he would
to me, in the dialect of his native mountains. It
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
is one which we often see put into the mouths of
men who are made to spin out their narratives
with digressions and wanderings, and `says he's'
and `says I's' innumerable. But John's narratives
are not spun out. If you have caught the run of
his slang, amuse yourself with writing down what
he has just told us in his own words; and then try
whether you can by any means express the same
facts and ideas in good gentlemanly English, as
perspicuously or in the same compass. It will be
an amusing exercise.”
I thought so, and tried it. The reader has the
result of the first part of the experiment. What I
have given as John's narrative is a copy from what
I then wrote down. I shall be excused from giving
my paraphrase. It turned out to be such an
improvement as paraphrases of the Bible generally
are. If, instead of telling John's story for him, I
could have gotten him to tell mine for me, we
should have been through it long ago, and much
more agreeably. Different as they were, John
and Balcombe had much in common. In describing
the operations of John's mind, Balcombe had
described his own. Their principles and modes
of action made the difference. It was the possession
of these faculties that had enabled them to
extricate themselves from the deep-laid schemes
of the most artful villain under the sun. That Balcombe
would have ultimately achieved his deliverance
without the aid of Keizer was rendered probable
by what Roberts had said. Indeed John may
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
have anticipated his commands by his journey into
the wilderness, for they had both interpreted the
appearance of the pistol in the same way. It is
possible that a part of Balcombe's astonishing composure,
under the very eye of danger, may have
proceeded from his confidence in the other's sagacity
and activity. The two together certainly
constituted a league of offence and defence, the
most efficient imaginable. They called to my
mind a remark I had seen, that his alliance with
the dog had given to man his mastery over other
animals. John, in Balcombe's hands, was the
wild dog, retaining his courage, his rapacity, and
his hardihood, but fitted to the uses of his master
by having his ferocity subdued, his sagacity trained,
and his courage directed against the denizens of
his native forest.
-- 072 --
CHAPTER VI.
There's wit there, ye'll get there
Ye'll find nae ither where.
Burns.
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
I now found that the preparations for our journey
had never been entirely discontinued, and they
were soon completed. A steamboat appeared
passing up the river, and we put ourselves in
readiness for her return. I was amused at the
appearance of John, when he presented himself to
go on board. As had been arranged with Balcombe,
he was fully equipped in a suit of decent
blue, with hat and shoes. He did not look like a
little boy when first breeched, for there was no
mixture of pride or satisfaction with his sheepishness.
It was more like that same urchin when
mounted on a high dunce stool, with a fool's cap
on his head. He thought everybody was looking
at him, and that none looked but to laugh. And
really he looked queer enough; for he still carried
his pouch, and horn, and butcher knife, and charger,
all slung across his shoulders in their greasy belts;
and in his hand he still bore his heavy rifle, the
barrel looking like a crowbar, and the stock seeming
as if fashioned with a hatchet.
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
“What are you going to do with the rifle, John?”
said I.
“Ah! Lord, sir,” replied John, “that's more
than you or I knows. You see, Mr. Napier, just
to pleasure the colonel I made out to shed my leather
and put on these drotted things; and it puts
me in mind of the colonel's spaniel dog he got me
to shear last summer. When I seed the poor
thing looking round and trying to run away from
himself, it made me laugh, and now you've all got
me in the same fix, I suppose you'll laugh at me.
But as to my rifle and me, sir, we never parts in
this life.”
We went on board in the evening, after taking
an affectionate and grateful farewell of Colonel
Robinson and his lady. I have said little of these.
They have had no part in my story, and it is not
my purpose to detain the reader with descriptions
of character. So far as the narrative develops
this, I owe no apology for the detail of any circumstances
that may illustrate it. I love these good
people, and have reason to love them. But if their
chance to be remembered in the world depends on
my inserting their panegyric here, they must die
without their fame. I will only add, that the kind
old gentleman had high as well as good qualities,
of which, under another name, the history of his
country bears testimony.
An early hour the next day brought us to St.
Louis. Here we landed, and learned that there
was a boat bound for Louisville, which would go
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[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
the next day. In the mean time Mrs. Balcombe,
to whom the novelty of her situation had not
allowed much sleep the night before, was glad to repair
the loss at a public house. It was curious to observe
the effect of this untried danger on the nerves
of this high-spirited and intrepid woman. I have
rarely seen one more alarmed, though she did not
go into hysterics, nor say nor do anything to call
the attention of others to her fears. She overmastered
them with the spirit of George Balcombe's
wife, but could not triumph over them. Perhaps
the thought of dangers in which even her husband
would be no more than a common man, left her
without the support she generally found in her reliance
upon his resources. I am more inclined to
this opinion, because in the progress of our journey
I did not find that use removed her fears.
As soon as we were established in our lodging,
Balcombe despatched a note to Shaler, who soon
called, excusing himself for not bringing his wife
to wait on Mrs. Balcombe, on account of the weather.
He seemed delighted to see Balcombe, and
his feelings were wrought into quite a tumult of
pleasure, at the thought of introducing him to his
friends. For this purpose, he invited us to spend
the evening with him, proposing to have a number
of gentlemen to meet us. This courtesy was
frankly declined by Balcombe, on account of his
wife, who could not go, and whom he did not wish
to leave in solitude.
“But,” said he, “to show you that I am not
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
insensible to your kindness, nor to the value of the
favour you propose to do me, I will avail myself
of your good offices for a purpose but slightly different.
I think I know who the friends must be
to whom you propose to introduce me. If I am
right, they are gentlemen of whose acquaintance I
am ambitious. Such, for example, as H—, and
B—, and B—, and W—, and G—.”
“They are the very men I was thinking of,”
said Shaler.
“Well,” said Balcombe, “would it be asking
too much of them to give an evening to a stranger,
or of you, to beg you to use your influence to bring
them here?”
Shaler hesitated a moment; at length,
“If it cannot be managed otherwise,” said he,
“I will do so with great pleasure.”
“I would also name Whitehead,” said Balcombe,
“but I dislike to ask anything of a man, who, having
already served me, will neither receive money
nor thanks, and cares nothing for my gratitude.”
“He is a strange fellow,” said Shaler; “a man
of wonderful powers; but of irregular education,
irregular feelings, appetites, impulses, and principles.
Sometimes these pull against each other,
and then he is a kind of amphisbœna. There is no
knowing which end will go foremost. But sometimes
they all tend the same way, and then he
moves like a rocket, with an energy and brilliancy
truly astonishing. I think I can foresee that they
will coincide to bring him here; and if they should
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
prompt him to show off, you will discover that he
is an extraordinary man. If you will give me
leave, I will bring Mr. Napier's acquaintance, Mr.
Green, our worthy sheriff. I propose this, not so
much for your sake as his. The interest he has
expressed in you is my warrant that it would give
him great pleasure to see you. You will find him
somewhat formal in his manners, and precise in his
notions; but his honour and truth, his strict principles
and good sense, make him a desirable acquaintance
and inestimable friend.”
Having received Balcombe's cheerful assent to
this proposal, he left us. Wine, cigars, &c., were
now ordered to our room. Shaler returned, accompanied
by two gentlemen. One by one, the
rest dropped in, each wearing an air of empressement
and respect in approaching Balcombe. Whitehead
alone came in with something like the careless
movement between a swagger and a lounge,
which I had seen him assume when requested by
Shaler to watch the interests of Balcombe in the
trial. I was offended, too, at the glance he cast
at Mrs. Balcombe, and glad her husband did not
see it. She did; and Whitehead must have had
very little tact if he had not discovered that it was
not well received. His manner underwent an instantaneous
change, and he was from that moment
polite, circumspect, and regardful of all the decorums
of polished society.
The evening passed off delightfully; and I was
filled with amazement at finding myself, in that
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
remote region, in company, not only with polished
gentlemen, but men whose extent of information
was great, and whose reach of thought is rarely
surpassed. The names of some of them since occupy
places in the history of the Union, and of the
different states, which fully justify the estimate I
then formed of them.
I remember no particulars of that evening, and
regret it. There was not much display of wit,
and none of learning, but there were sprightliness,
readiness, good sense, vividness of thought and
force of language, such as I had rarely found.
Balcombe talked little. He was too polite to take
the lead in such a company of his own guests, and
he could not talk without doing so. I do not mean
to say that he was the first man there; but such
was his style of talk. He conversed rather with
his own thoughts than with those of others. Was
this habit formed in solitude? Perhaps so. And
from long association with those who looked to
him alone for light. To all such it was poured
out as a spontaneous emanation. But I now saw
plainly that in a drawingroom he might seem dull.
The give and take of flippant chitchat he had no
talent for. Once or twice he threw off in his own
peculiar style, and I then saw that he justified in
the estimation of his hearers, the favourable representations
which Shaler had doubtless made of
him.
When we were alone, I expressed to Balcombe
my surprise at seeing an amount of talent in that
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
remote country, so vastly disproportioned to its
total population.
“The remoteness of the country,” said he, “explains
the phenomenon. There is no article of
value so easy of transportation as talent. Hence
we have more of it than of more bulky and less
valuable articles. I asked for herrings for supper,
and was told they are never brought here; but
here, you see, are raisins, almonds, and olives, to
our Madeira and Champagne. To have come
here, too, as early as these gentlemen did, implies
energy, and energy is talent, and the parent of
talent. Few fools have sense enough to lose their
way to such a distance from home. But that is
not all. Men's minds are whetted against each
other, `as iron sharpeneth iron;' and though men
here are fewer, their collisions are more frequent,
of more importance and violence. Hence a man
learns here what he will learn nowhere else so
well. He learns to take care of himself and to
think for himself. One of the gentlemen who has
just left us is about to return to his native state,
having found this theatre, I presume, too narrow
for him. And so it undoubtedly is for the performance
of his part in the drama of life, but not
for the study and rehearsal of it. Nor does he
think so.
“I have been here,” said he, “five years, and
am five thousand dollars poorer than I came; but
I have wasted neither time nor money. How
comes it I know not, but
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
`There's wit here, ye'll get here
You'll find nae ither where.'
“He said rightly, and I make no doubt that that
gentleman carries with him powers acquired here
by which he will at once break down the barriers
that formerly obstructed the path of his ambition.
And there is another cause of the phenomenon you
observe. Talent is ambitious. It is impatient of
a second place in society. Talent of the very first
order stands its ground and fights its way up to
the first place on a lofty theatre. It aspires to be
great among the great. Inferior talent, but still
respectable, is often driven by this impatience to
seek easier triumphs, and is content to be great
among the little. Hence you find here many very
efficient men, many men of very considerable powers
and acquirements. But you will see few of
the very first order; for if such, mistaking themselves,
should come here in youth, they will go
away as soon as they discover their mistake.”
We were at length afloat on the Mississippi,
which, below St. Louis, retains all the turbulent
appearance of the Missouri, enlarging itself in
breadth and depth. As I looked down from the
deck of the boat on the turbid thick water, boiling
up continually from the bottom in surges that
break the surface, and spread like the head of a
cauliflower, I was awfully reminded of John's saying
that the Missouri never lets go a man that falls
in with his clothes on. I felt all the force of Byron's
expression, “a hell of waters,” applied by him
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
to a different appearance, but surely never more
applicable than to this. I was impatient to be on
the tranquil bosom of the Ohio, and felt a good
deal of the awe that displayed itself in Mrs. Balcombe's
countenance.
The first evening was chiefly occupied in making
ourselves at home. The captain, a manly
and civil man, was particularly polite to Balcombe
and myself. Every arrangement was made to our
satisfaction; and we went to our berths in health,
spirits, and comfort, and full of hope.
On waking in the morning I had the mortification
to find that we had lain all night at St. Genevieve.
Leaving that place, there seemed no end
to the occasions which offered for touching at different
points on the Missouri side of the river. I
was vexed, too, at a change in the captain's deportment.
I could obtain no answer to any inquiry,
and to Balcombe his manner was yet more repulsive.
The passengers, I thought, treated us with
scant courtesy, and my situation on the whole was
quite uncomfortable. I saw that Balcombe remarked
the same things, and that they only drew
from him a quiet and somewhat humorous smile.
My impatience, however, was not to be governed;
and seeing the boat rounding-to at the little village
of Bainbridge, I expressed my vexation in the hearing
of the captain, who said significantly,
“You and your friends, sir, seem in a great hurry
to get out of Missouri.”
I looked at Balcombe, who heard this, and was
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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
surprised to see the same smile still on his face.
He took me to the table, and opening the register
which lay there, turned to the list of passengers in
a trip made about a month before, and pointed to
the name of Edward Montague.
“Good God!” said I, “is it possible that wretch
has prepared any trouble for us here?”
“It would be perfectly in character,” said Balcombe,
and turned away.
We stopped but a few moments, and presently
touched again at Cape Girardeau.
“I don't think,” said the captain, “you'll have
to complain of any more stops after this.”
“As he said this, passing me to go on shore, I
thought I saw something like a sneer on his countenance.
He was gone half an hour, and came
back accompanied by several men. Pointing to
Balcombe and Keizer, he said, “These are the
men;” and they were instantly arrested. Balcombe
asked for the warrant. It was shown him.
The affidavit. It was presented, and proved to be
a duplicate of that affidavit of Montague's of which
I had a copy.
“Is the justice who issued this warrant present?”
said Balcombe.
“He is,” said the constable, pointing to one of
the new comers.
“I will thank you to read that paper, sir,” said
Balcombe, handing a record of his acquittal, duly
authenticated.
The justice, the constable, and the captain, all
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
looked at it with an air of dissatisfaction. At last
the justice said,
“Well, I suppose it must be so. As to how the
jury got over the facts mentioned in that affidavit,
it's no business of mine. So I suppose I must
withdraw the warrant.”
“Will you have the goodness,” said Balcombe,
“to look over this other paper?”
The justice did so, and his countenance changed
instantly.
“This is all right,” said he. “I know Shaler;
this is his handwriting; and he's never the man to
think a case against him unless its very clear.”
The captain now looked over the paper, and
turning to Balcombe, apologized with great earnestness
for the indignity offered him. Then addressing
himself to the company, he explained that
Montague, on coming aboard, had placed the affidavit
in his hands, to be used, as he said, if necessary,
in preventing the escape of two of the most
artful men on earth.
He had made a merit, it seems, of his reluctance
to appear against Balcombe, who had been a friend
in early youth; but said that the appearance of
Keizer in St. Louis, flying from justice, had awakened
him to a juster sense of his duty to his country.
The captain now, by Balcombe's permission,
read aloud the record of the verdict, and Shaler's
affidavit, certified by the clerk of St. Louis county,
setting forth the whole affair, and his late relation
to the parties, in their true light. Having gone
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
through with the papers, the captain said that he
had taken that office on himself as a proof of his
concern at what had passed, and expressed a hope
that it was forgiven. Balcombe assured him that
it was, and that he had not been at all surprised at
what had passed, as was manifested by his precaution
in procuring those papers. His knowledge
of Montague had taught him, he said, that there
could be no safety but in believing of him all sorts
of evil, and guarding against all sorts of mischief.
I now expressed my concern at this new outrage
to the feelings of Mrs. Balcombe; but he said he
had put her on her guard. He had seen Montague's
name, and marked the changed demeanour
of the captain and company on finding ours. He
knew that a proper occasion for explanation would
offer, though he had not anticipated the nature of
it. He had awaited it patiently, and charged his
wife to keep her cabin till all was over.
He now went to her, and I was asked to give
the history of his adventure. This I did to the
whole assembled company. Its effect was to make
Balcombe the lion of the day; and even John, who
had been slinking about in his inconvenient broadcloth,
and looking as sheepish as if he thought
everybody was observing his dress, became a man
of consequence. It was soon found that he had
been where few had been, and seen what few had
seen; and he was a perfect oracle among the
younger passengers, on the subject of bears, and
buffaloes, and wolves, and wild horses, and salt
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mountains, and, above all, of Indians. He had
killed his man, he had taken scalps, and nothing
but the loss of his own could have made him a
man of more consequence than he was. I was
afraid so much attention might make him foolishly
vain; but there was no such danger. John had
not enough respect for those to whom tales of
manhood, as he called it, were new and strange, to
be flattered by their notice.
CHAPTER VII.
Of all men, saving Sylla the manslayer,
Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names that in our faces stare,
The General Boon, backwoodsman of Kentucky,
Was happiest among mortals anywhere.
Byron.
The character of Balcombe's adventure was
such as to make him a favourite with the ladies,
and to give him the entreé of their cabin. In this
arrangement I was easily included, and we passed
many of the hours of our long voyage in pleasant
conversation with them. Frequently, too, we
used our privilege as the means of securing us a
pleasant seat on the stern gallery of the boat, where
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we could converse without interruption. Here
Balcombe occasionally entertained me with histories
of his wild adventures on the Spanish frontier,
during the tumultuous occurrences of Taledo's insurrection,
in which he had taken a part. I could
not help remarking my surprise that he had ever
returned to peaceful life, instead of ending his
days in scenes so rife with pleasurable excitement,
and to which his peculiar talents so well fitted
him.
“You are mistaken there, William,” said he; “I
have little doubt I should have been now roaming
the wilderness in quest of adventures, had I not
been deficient in an indispensable faculty.”
“What is that?” said I.
“I believe,” he replied, “the phrenologists call
it the organ of locality. I have no recollection of
place. It was this defect that caused the loss of
life in the action I detailed to you in Missouri.
Had I seen the ground, which I had traversed
times without number, with the mind's eye, as I saw
it on the spot, I have little doubt I should have given
the captain such timely advice as would have
saved him and his men. All that I can do is to
look with a soldier's eye on what is actually before
me. But to remember places exactly as they are,
and to recognise them when I see them, is not
given to me. That is the faculty of these pilots.
When their watch comes, they rouse themselves,
look out, and know at once where they are. Keizer
has it. Turn him into the hills here, and he
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would come back to the river as certainly and
directly as a stone falls to the earth. On reaching
it, too, he would know at a glance whether he had
ever been there before.
“It was this that made Daniel Boon so remarkable
a man. He was otherwise distinguished for
nothing but a strange compound of quiet and restlessness.
He loved solitude, and was one of the
mildest and most peaceable men I ever knew.”
“You knew him, then?”
“Oh yes; very well. He is now living not very
far from me in Missouri. I could tell you instances
in which this faculty has displayed itself in a manner
that really seemed miraculous.”
He went on to speak of these, and mentioned
one which I hope the reader will pardon me for
detailing. Coming to me from the lips of an eyewitness,
I regard it as authentic enough to deserve
a place in my story.
“Forty years ago,” said Balcombe, “Daniel
Boon was much employed to make locations of
land in Kentucky. Being in the midst of danger,
he was obliged to devise means to fix the locality
of each tract without marking lines around it. His
plan was to mark a corner, declare the quantity,
and that it was laid off in a square, the diagonal
of which was in a given direction. Nothing could
be more precise than this; it identified the land as
certainly as a mathematical point. The difficulty
was to find the corner tree, where its place was
not indicated by notorious natural objects.
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“This difficulty brought many of Boon's locations
into dispute. He had made some such in a
part of the country in which ten years ago there
were still but few inhabitants, and which he had
not visited for thirty years. About that time they
became a subject of litigation. I had purchased
one of them. Colonel Boon lived at a distance,
and was very old. Joining with those circumstanced
like myself, we raised a sum of money
sufficient to compensate him for his long journey.
Our title to something was indisputable—but what
was it? Our locations were the oldest in the country,
and all others must give way to them—but
where were they? These questions he alone
could answer.
“Having drawn him from his distant home, all
concerned travelled with him to the part of the
country where the lands were said to lie. Our
first object was to find the corner of a friend of
mine. The old man went to the nearest of the
old stations, as they were called, and from thence
set out, followed by the rest of us. Our care was
to observe, but not to interrupt him. We trusted
him as the sportsman trusts his pointer. He took
his course, and travelled many miles into the wilderness,
apparently musing, and closely observing
every object. Towards the close of the day he
was seen to stop, look around, and meditate with
an air of long abstraction. At length, speaking
rather to himself than to us, he said, in short sentences,
pausing and musing between,
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“`I know this place. The night before I established
that corner I camped here. It rained that
day, and two of my men, when they shot off their
rifles to clean them, fired them at a mark on a
beech tree, somewhere there.'
“He pointed as he said this, and we, following
the direction of his hand, found a beech, on the
bark of which were two small round swelling
spots, near enough to each other to have been
made by shots fired at the same mark. We cut
into the tree, and found two balls. The rings in
the wood showed that the wounds had been given
in the same year in which the location was made.
Now, I assure you I saw nothing in that spot by
which I could have distinguished it from a hundred
I had passed that day.
“At length we moved on, and in half a mile
reached a little open space, perhaps twenty or
thirty yards across. Here again Boon stopped,
and again speaking as before, said,
“`I know this place. We stopped here to dry
our blankets and get our breakfasts. John Henderson
marked his name on one of these trees.
While we staid here Andrew Jones went out and
shot a deer close by. The corner is about two
miles from here.'
“As soon as this was said we began to look for
Henderson's name, but we looked in vain. We
then took the course indicated by the old man, to
see if we could find any trace of Jones; and we
actually found his initials A. J. on a tree. We
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now resumed our search for the other name.
There stood, on the margin of the open space, the
remains of a tree, the top of which had been
broken off, ten or twelve feet from the ground.
The trunk was decayed and covered with moss.
This was now stripped off, and beneath was the
name of John Henderson, at full length. The old
man now resumed his course, and, plunging into
the forest, brought us, in two or three miles, to a
tree, answering, point by point, to the description
in his entry of location.[1]
“It is this faculty,” continued Balcombe, “which
makes the boundless waste of forest or prairie
familiar as the home of his childhood, that qualifies
a man to excel in the wild enterprises to which
I was too prone. Wanting it, I was forced to use
those who possessed it. There is my man John,
whom I caught young, (for he was a boy at the
time,) and tamed to my uses. He was to me, in
this respect, what the horse is to the man. But I
could not always have him with me; and alone I
was a fool, and no match for a native centaur of
the wild.”
I could fill a volume with strange and interesting
narratives with which Balcombe amused me, during
our long though rapid journey. The journey
itself was not without incident, but only such as
can hardly fail to happen to every traveller in a
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route of a thousand miles. But every one may
make the same trip for himself; and, among our
people, roaming like Tartars over this vast continent,
there are few who have not made or will not
make it. But the adventures I have detailed, and
those which yet remain to be told, are such as do
not happen to every man; and no man would encounter
them by choice.
eaf402v2.n1[1] The reader is assured that this account is given, (excepting
names, which are not remembered,) exactly as the writer received
it from an eyewitness of unquestioned veracity.
CHAPTER VIII.
The toils are pitched and the stakes are set;
Ever sing merrily, merrily;
The bows they bend and the knives they whet,
Hunters live so cheerily.
It was a stag, a stag of ten,
Bearing his branches sturdily;
He came stately down the glen,
Ever sing hardily, hardily.
He had an eye and he could heed.
Scott.
On our arrival at Wheeling we lost no time in
securing our seats in the stage, and prepared to
proceed on our journey the same evening. It was
amusing to see how John, who never in his life
had been so long pent up before, crawled out of his
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confinement, looking for all the world like a bagged
fox. Not even when he came in from his forced
march to the Sac River, had I seen him so completely
worn out and divested of his energy. He
yawned and stretched his limbs, and looked around
on the houses and people, as on things of no interest
to him. At last he lazily raised his rifle, and
fixing his eye on the head of a nail in the wreck of
an old flat boat, drove it through the plank. He
said nothing, and did not even smile, but I saw by
a twinkle of his black eye that he was waking up.
“If that had been a squirrel's eye, John!”
said I.
“Ah, Lord! Mr. Napier, if I could only take a
turn through these hills for a day or two, I'd show
you something better than squirrels.”
“What would that be?”
“Bear meat,” he replied.
“Would you expect to find bears in a country
so populous as this?”
“It's mighty hard to drive the bear out of such
a rough country as this; and as to the people, that
makes no odds if they an't of the right sort. I
dare say they don't know there's a bear in the
country.”
“And why do you think there is?”
“I see plenty of sign, sir, along the river where
we stop to get wood, and there's a fine beech
mast this year, and the bears are busy lapping
now, as boys in a cherry tree.”
“Lapping!” said I; “what's that?”
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“Why, you see, sir, a bear has got hands almost
like a man, and when he gets up in a tree he's so
heavy he can't go out on the branches, and the
creature's amazing strong, so he gets hold of them
and pulls them in, or maybe breaks them off; and
that's what we call lapping. So you see, sir, when
we find the branches lying about in the woods, we
know there's bears about; and when we see the
marks of their nails on the smooth bark of the
beech trees, then we stop and listen every now and
then; and presently we hear snap, snap, and it's
sure to be a bear up a tree.”
“I suppose you have him safe enough,” said I,
“when you catch him there.”
“Not always, sir; if he sees you or hears you
coming before you get a shoot at him, he's mighty
apt to be off, unless you have a dog to stop him.”
“I have been told,” said I, “that they climb like
sailors, but are awkward in coming down.”
“I God!” said John, “they don't stand on climbing
at such times. If the tree is one hundred feet
high, the fellow just lets go all holds, and claps his
head between his arms and rolls himself as round
as a hoop, and down he comes like a hairy worm.
Lord! if I have not seen them fall on a steep hillside,
and roll away to the bottom just the same as
a wagon wheel.”
“Does it never kill them?” asked I.
“Lord! no, sir. It does not even bruise them.
You see, sir, the fleece saves them.”
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“But their fleece is not so thick as that of a
sheep, and such a fall would kill a sheep.”
John looked at me a moment in some perplexity,
and then laughing said,
“Oh, you are thinking about the fur, but I don't
mean that. What we call the fleece is the hard
coat of fat outside like a hog, maybe three or four
inches thick. You cannot hurt a fat hog if you hit
him in the body; and the fleece of a bear will stop
a ball if your powder and all are not very good.
And you see, sir, when we are away out of the
settlements, and bears are plenty, we cannot bring
in all we kill, so we just take the skins and
fleeces.”
When we took our places in the stage, John,
whose rifle would have been in the way in the
body of the coach, gladly seated himself beside the
driver; and as he was perfectly at home with such
characters, they were soon well acquainted. I
could hear their voices and frequently a laugh, but
that was all; but when we stopped to change
horses, I saw that they were as intimate as brothers.
John, glad of employment, soon learned to
lend a hand in gearing, and commenced the next
stage, more than half acquainted with his new
companion. In the body of the coach we had an
intelligent company of communicative men, and
were soon too much engaged in conversation to
feel the want of him; so that we hardly heard a
word from him for a day or more.
On reaching the Alleghany Mountain, we were
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to pass the night (from ten to three) at a public
house on the top. On our arrival we found supper
ready, and having swallowed a few mouthfuls,
were hurrying to bed, when John caught Balcombe's
eye, and coming near said,
“I want to talk with you, gentlemen, where
nobody can see us.”
“Go out, then,” said Balcombe, “and we will
follow you.”
He did so; and we saw him walk off in a direction
opposite to that to the stables, where we saw
the gleaming of lanterns, and the figures of men
moving about. John soon stopped, and we came
up with him.
“Colonel,” said he, “all isn't right here, I'm a
thinking. Maybe you'd better not go on in the
morning. But I'll just tell you all, and you'll know
best.”
“Go on, John,” said Balcombe, “and then we'll
consult about it.”
“Well, sir,” continued John, “you see I'm
mighty thick with all these drivers, and I tell 'em
strange things about hunting, and Indians, and the
like; and I have my fun out of them, 'cause, you
see, it an't no use to be always sticking to the
truth, when a fellow wants to hear something sorter
miraculous. So you see I'm a mighty man among
them, and as it happens, I haven't never said nothing
about you, and they don't know as I knows you.
So to-night, sir, when we stopped to change horses
last time, I was setting on the dickey (I think they
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call it) and you was in the tavern. So when the
driver takes his seat, he opens a tin box I see them
carry, and he takes up a paper, and holds it to the
lantern and looks at it, and says he,
“`Balcombe! Balcombe! Is there a gentleman
of the name of Balcombe in the stage?'
“`Yes,' says I; `do you know such a man?'
“`No,' says he; `only it's a strange sort of a
name. Which is the man?'
“`That one as wears the blanket capot,' says I.
“So then he blows his trumpet, and the colonel
comes out, and just stops under the lantern at the
door, and I sees the fellow look mighty hard at
him. And then I hears him talking to himself, and
says he,
“`Balcombe! Balcombe! that's the very name.'
“So I gets to considering, and we starts off, and
after a while says he,
“`An't this Mr. Balcombe from Missouri?'
“`I believe he is,' says I.
“So he says no more just then; and he hadn't
much to say nohow, but just kept a studyinglike,
and at last says he,
“`Do you know which way a man would go
from here down into Essex county in Virginia?'
“I didn't know no more than a child, and I told
him so; but then, thinks I, an't that where they
say Montague's gone? So I was glad that I did
not let him know that I knew the colonel, and then
I begins and talks about the mountains, and where
I was raised in Virginia; and I never lets on that
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I had ever been in Missouri in my life. And then
I tells a heap of stories I had heard about robbing
people on the road, and the like, and I made out as
if I didn't think so mighty much harm of the like
of that; and I tells him of a friend of mine that
was sent to the penitentiary for robbing a stranger,
how 'twas a pity of him, because he was such a
clever fellow. And he didn't say much, but sorter
let on that it was a ticklish business, but a smart
fellow might do pretty well at it anywhere close
to the state line, where he could dodge the law. I
cannot tell you rightly all he said, but something
like as if a man might do a worse business sometimes
than just to keep still and say nothing.
“ `How's that?' says I.
“ `Why,” says he, `suppose any of my friends
was to meet us now, and want to rob the mail or
the passengers, and you there with your rifle. Do
you think they could not afford to give you something
handsome to keep quiet?'
“ `That would depend upon what they got,' says
I. `'Cause I thinks I ought to share and share
alike with them.'
“ `No,' says he, `that would not be fair; 'cause
you wouldn't run no risk.'
“ `Maybe so,' says I; `but I reckon any of them
would be glad to give me his share and mine too,
before he'd let me take a crack at him.'
“You see I didn't want to seem too anxious,
'cause I thought he would not be so apt to suspicion
me, if I held out for a good bargain. But
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he didn't say no more; and when we gets here I
sees him and the other driver that is to go on from
here in the morning, get together, and they had a
heap of whispering, and I thought I heard your
name and Montague's, and I sees 'em look right
hard at me, and says t'other one,
“ `No, damn it, let him alone; I can manage
him.'
“So I just sets my rifle down in the stall, and I
goes away and stays a while, and when I comes
back I takes it up and comes to the house. And I
looks at the rifle, and the priming was wet, and I
puts down the wiping stick, and when I draws it
out that was wet too. So I put that and that together,
sir, and then I thought I'd tell you all about
it.”
“Well, John,” said Balcombe, “a little rest
won't hurt us; so I'll just stop here to-morrow,
and find out how the land lies. But how are we
to manage this? If we all stop, they'll find out
that we are all travelling together, and then they'll
be cautious before you.”
“Oh,” said John, “you can just stop because the
madam is tired; and as to me, I can be the sickest
man in half an hour that ever you seed.”
“That will do, John,” said Balcombe. “Steal
away, then, and let us to bed.”
To bed we went, and presently we heard a great
bustle of people running to and fro, ministering, as
I found, to poor John, whose illness had taken a
most alarming aspect. In the midst of the uproar
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I went to sleep, and was roused by the driver with
his lantern. He knocked at the door of Balcombe,
who asked the hour.
“Two o'clock,” was the reply.
“Is not that earlier than common?” asked he.
“It's none too soon,” said the fellow, in a sulky
tone; “the drivers at the next stage say I am
always too late.”
“I cannot help that,” said Balcombe; “I will
not go until three. So take yourself off, and don't
disturb my family.”
“I shall have to leave you,” said the driver, in
a tone of expostulation.
“I suppose,” said Balcombe, “that your employer
will explain why I am left.”
The man was silent for a minute, and then said,
“I'll wait half an hour for you, sir.”
No answer.
“I'll wait three quarters of an hour.”
No answer.
“I'll wait an hour.”
“Harkee, friend,” said Balcombe; “I mean to
ask your employer by what right I have been disturbed
at this hour of the night. Do you want me
to get up and discuss the matter with you? Depend
on it, if I do, I shall use rougher arguments
than you like.”
This was spoken in a dry tone that was not to
be mistaken, and the driver moved off.
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CHAPTER IX.
The lion preys not on carcasses.
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
A quiet night and a day of rest ensued, which
would have been delightful but for my impatience
to reach home. Yet that feeling had begun to
give way to one of an opposite, but more painful
character. The critical posture in which I had
left affairs there, made me dread my return almost
as much as I desired it. I felt myself borne on
and on to my fate, by an impulse irresistible
fate itself, and the very sense of which
on my spirits as ominous of a fearful doom.
a feeling in its deep strong current, sweeps
along like the suck of a cataract. We listen
vain for the roar of the water, but though we
derstand not the impulse, a dread presentiment
evil accompanies it. We would turn and fly, we
know not whither or from what, but are powerless.
We sink down and close our eyes, and yield to the
current that may bear us to bliss or to destruction.
I was now near enough my journey's end to experience
all the wretchedness of this condition. I
was impatient of rest, incapable of repose. But
whether to move onward or backward was most
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dreaded or most desired I did not know. Had I
yielded to every impulse, I might have traversed
and retraversed the same ground a hundred
times.
In the morning, John made the most of a sick
man's privilege, and lay in bed perhaps later than
he had ever done in his life. At last he made his
appearance, trying to assume an air of languor,
which the shrewd twinkle of his keen black eye
strongly belied, and contrived to limit himself to a
moderate breakfast, by which, however, he professed
to be mightily refreshed. Soon after, a rudelooking
fellow stepped in, and sitting down to the
table, began to eat of what was left on it. At the
moment the landlord (who was also the contractor's
agent) entered, and expressed surprise at seeing
there. I soon discovered that he was the
who had driven us the night before, and
have returned that morning. I had ob
him cast an inquisitive look at John, who
it with an answering glance of intelli
; but neither spoke, and John left the room,
looking at Balcombe, and cutting his eye at
the other with an expression not to be misunderstood.
“Tom,” said the landlord, “how is this? Why
are you not with your horses?”
“I had business the other end of the road,” said
Tom; “and I got Bill to drive for me.”
“You're a pretty fellow,” said the landlord, “to
get such a chap as that to manage your team. Do
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think we would give you fifteen dollars a
, if a fellow we could get for eight would do
well? You are getting above your business,
, and such another trick will throw you out of
service.”
“For the matter of that,” said the fellow, “I don't
how soon you discharge me.”
“Don't you?” replied the landlord; “then, sir,
will drive one more trip, and by to-morrow I
get another in your place.”
“Not another whip do I crack in your service,”
Tom. “You talk about discharging me to
, and I'll discharge myself to-day; and
must do the best you can.”
“Well,” said the landlord, “I suppose Bill will
to drive to-morrow as well as to-day.”
“Oh yes,” said the ruffian, “he'll do well enough,
just when you want to find fault with me.”
“None of your insolence,” said the landlord;
you are discharged, and your board is out; so
yourself off.”
“I guess this is a tavern,” said the fellow, “and
stay here just as long as I please, and call for
I want. You've got money enough of mine
pay for it.”
There was no gainsaying this, and the fellow
his seat in all the triumph of brutal insolence.
make it more complete, he adjourned from the
table to the bar, to enjoy the privilege of
without responsibility to any one.
In the mean time, Balcombe, turning over the
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leaves of the register, asked of the landlord careless
questions concerning persons whose names he
saw, and with whom he was acquainted. At last
he came to that of Montague. The landlord remembered
him well. He had been there a month
before; arrived Saturday night, and lay by for
the Sabbath, being unwilling to travel on that day.
He was a mighty quiet, good sort of a man; had
spent the day in reading, and had very little to
say, except when he heard the drivers swearing;
and then he talked to them so reasonably, and with
so much benevolence, that they seemed to take to
him, and he to them.
“I don't think this fellow profited much by his
lecture,” said Balcombe.
“No,” said the landlord; “but he was the very
one that he had most to say to, for the fellow
played me the same trick then, and staid here all
day; and ever since he will check himself in his
oaths at times, and speak of Mr. Montague's good
advice.”
Balcombe now proposed to me and James, that
we should amuse ourselves with shooting our pistols
at a mark. So said so done. A target was
set up. James fired with such precision as belongs
to a good eye and a steady though unpractised
hand; and I, in the martinet style of one
who has learned to fire at the word, as part of the
education of a man of honour. Both were pretty
good shots. As to Balcombe, his ball obeyed his
will. He did but look at the mark; and raising
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his arm as carelessly as Locksley himself, the bullet
was lodged in the mark.
Meantime John and the driver had come to the
place, the former leaning on his rifle, the latter
flourishing his long whip, and blurting out an occasional
oath, as if to show that he felt his independence
and his grog. His attention was soon
attracted to what was going on, which seemed to
have a sobering effect upon him. I observed a
growing uneasiness in his manner, and he began
to draw up to John, who took little notice of him,
but seemed lost in admiration at the skill of Balcombe.
Addressing him at length he said,
“I say, stranger, it an't no match at all between
you and these gentlemen; suppose you let me try
you a shot.”
“Agreed,” said Balcombe; “will you take a
pistol or your rifle?”
“I don't much care which,” said John; “but I
should like to try my rifle against your pistol,
sixty yards to twenty, for a drink of grog.”
The match was soon made. Balcombe fired
with his usual success. John snapped; and examining
his pan, found the powder wet. He now
put down the wiping stick, and, withdrawing that,
pronounced it to be wet too. The driver was near
him at the moment, and some words passed between
them which I could not hear. I only saw
that John's countenance was accusing, and the
other's deprecatory. The rifle was soon put in
order, and then the match began. The trial of
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skill was wonderful. Which beat I don't remember,
except that once when Balcombe's pistol made
long fire, he left room for John's ball between his
and the mark, so that John was proclaimed victor.
We now returned to the house and dined, when
Balcombe, going to his room, ordered up the forfeited
liquor, and sent for John to join us in drinking
it. As soon as we were seated,
“Well, John,” said Balcombe, “how did the
physic work?”
“Oh, prime sir!” said John. “That fellow
don't think there's your match upon earth, except
it be me.”
“Well, what does he say to it?”
“Oh, I've been honeying him up all the morning,
and talking about what business he'll go at next,
and I sorter put him in mind of what he was talking
about last night; and he seemed sorter so, and
sorter not so; like he wanted to talk and was
afraid. So when he seed you a shooting, maybe
it didn't make him open his eyes; and every now
and then I could see him scringe, like he thought
the bullet was in him. And when I told him I
could shoot as well as you, he pretended to make
light of it, but then he followed me and looked
mighty anxiouslike. The creature had forgot about
wetting the powder, and when the rifle snapped he
looked right innocent till I found out what was the
matter. And with that I looks right hard at him,
and says I,
“ `I'll tell you what it is, stranger; you don't
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start me from here to-morrow morning with a wet
load in my gun.' Lord! if he didn't look guilty I
don't know. `And I reckon,' says I, `you think I
don't know what you were after down the road
before day this morning.'
“ `Hush! hush!' says he, `don't say a word and
I'll tell you all about it.'
“So with that I cracks away, and he thought I
beat you, 'cause you did not say your pistol blowed,
and just gave it up so. So then we goes to the
stable together, and says I,
“ `What is that you are going to tell me?'
“And he sorter hummed and hawed about it,
and says I,
“ `Stranger, you see it's just so: if you've anything
to tell me, tell it; if not, its all one to me.
I can take care of myself I reckon.'
“Then he looks right dubious, and says he,
“ `Did you hear me and Joe talking last night?'
“Says I,
“ `If I didn't, I reckon my gun did when I set
it there in the stall. And I reckon,' says I, `it will
take a smarter fellow than Joe to manage me, and
I with both eyes wide open.'
“And with that says he,
“ `I wish Joe was here, 'cause I haven't got no
right to speak too plain without his leave, especially
after he told me not; but,' says he, `you
come down to the stable after supper and we'll
see about it.'
“So I agreed, and then I come away.”
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“Well, John,” said Balcombe, “now go to sleep
if you can, and sleep till supper, and I'll do so too,
because we must not sleep any more afterward.
When everybody else is asleep, come to my room,
and then you can tell me all about it. As to you,
boys, new flints and dry powder, and wait for the
word of command. I don't want to weary you,
and you can trust me.”
I heard no more of the matter until next morning.
There happened to be no one in the stage
but our party and one other, whom I could not
distinguish in the dark. He had already taken his
place on the back seat, when Balcombe handed in
his wife.
“As we are going down the mountain,” said she,
“I will sit in front.”
She did so; and Balcombe placing himself by
her side, I took the opposite corner on the same
seat. The stranger fronted me, and James was
vis a vis to Mrs. Balcombe. John, as usual, rode
with the driver. We went off at a rapid rate, but
presently slackened our speed at a moderate rise.
Balcombe now said,
“Are your arms in order, James? and your's,
William? Is your powder dry?”
We both replied that we had examined all a few
minutes before, and all was right.
“Then,” continued Balcombe, “take each of
you a pistol in one hand and a dirk in the other.
Now if the carriage stops before we reach the end
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of our stage, do both of you both shoot and stab
the fellow that sits in that corner.”
Then dropping the little window at the driver's
back, which was just behind his own head, he
said,
“You can drive, John, and must be in readiness
to catch the reins if the driver falls from his seat.
And you, driver, take notice: I have a pistol
pointed at your back that never misses fire. If
any ruffians attack the stage, as was done yesterday
morning, and you suffer the horses to stop a
moment, I will shoot you through the body; and
do you, John, shoot down any man that attempts
to stop the horses, and drive on. And now, boys,
all of you remember the watchword, `Deliberate
promptitude.' ”
This formidable arrangement, which gave me
for the first time a precise view of our situation,
was heard in silence by the driver and his confederate.
“Move on quietly,” said Balcombe; “keep your
horses hard in hand until we come to the point of
attack, for your life depends on their having mettle
enough to break away from anybody who may
try to stop them.”
He was obeyed to the letter; and we descended
the mountain at a moderate trot. At one of those
short sharp rises, which everywhere break the
slope of the Alleghany, we fell into a walk, and
had not ascended a hundred yards before we heard
the driver say,
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“Get away, you damned fools; will you never
quit trying to scare people?”
At the same moment the lash rung loud and
sharp, and the horses, after a momentary check,
dashed away up the hill at a gallop. We now
moved on with speed to the next stage, where
Balcombe, with a sharp reprimand, dismissed the
ruffians.
“I will not take the trouble,” said he, “to prosecute
you for conspiring against my life. I don't
belong to your state, nor care not for offences
against her laws, and I have no malice against you.
But tell me, before we part, what was that scoundrel
to have given you?”
The men looked at each other, and at last Tom
answered,
“I suppose it an't no use to try and keep it a
secret now. It was a thousand dollars a piece.”
“And did he agree to take your word?”
“No, sir; we were to carry the waybill, with
your name upon it. He said the newspapers would
tell him all the rest of the story.”
“Where to?”
“To Essex county, sir.”
“Enough,” said Balcombe. “I never thought
that wretch could make himself so formidable as
to be an object of anything but contempt. But his
craft and indefatigable malignity begin to entitle
him to my resentment. I hope it may have time
to cool before I meet him. I should hardly allow
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the canting hypocrite time to say his prayers just
now.”
As we pursued our journey, Balcombe told me
that Joe, at Tom's instance, had consented to take
John into the plot. Tom was to take his place by
Balcombe's side, and at a proper moment stab him
in the bustle, and escape. John was to wet our
powder; and Balcombe being out of the way, the
rest were to be robbed, and taken on to the end of
the stage.
“But what,” said I, “did you mean by what
you said about the stopping of the stage yesterday
morning?”
“I forgot,” said Balcombe, “that you did not
know that. The eastern stage came in after you
went to bed, and I learned that the passengers had
heard from those who went down yesterday, that
they had been stopped, as I suppose, at the place
where we were beset.”
This was the last adventure of our journey
worth recording. Passing by all minor occurrences,
I hasten to the scene of those events on
which the happiness of my future life depended.
-- 110 --
CHAPTER X.
“The sinking of the heart,
The failing sight, in which the light of heaven
Turns all to blackness, whose disastrous gloom
O'ershadows nature's face! Oh! this it is to love;
To hope; the sickening hope that lives in fear;
The fear that paints a rival throned in bliss,
And tells of charms profaned, and plighted faith
Irrevocable.”
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
We reached Baltimore and Washington in safety
without any other adventure. At Alexandria Balcombe
hired a carriage, in which he conveyed his
wife to the house of her friends in Fauquier. I
passed on to Fredericksburg, and thence to my
mother's residence in King and Queen, where
Balcombe promised to join me the day after my
arrival.
I shall not endeavour to paint my feelings during
this solitary journey. Solitary it was; for though
in the public stage, my mind, missing the excitement
of Balcombe's conversation, sunk into a sort
of collapse, which made me alike incapable of conversing
with strangers, and sustaining my own
spirits under the crushing weight of my forebodings.
I had now been absent from home more
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than three months. Not knowing where to direct,
my friends had never written to me, and I knew
nothing of what had passed in the mean time. But
I had ground for fearful apprehensions. Ann had
forbidden me to think of her except as a sister.
Howard, after a long course of well directed and
not unacceptable attention, had given notice that
he was about to return for the purpose of pressing
his suit, which had been neither accepted nor rejected;
and with all the advantages of birth and
fortune, a handsome person, fine manners, and a
high character for talent and honour, had been
doubtless urging it during my absence. My heart
sickened at these thoughts; and as I approached
the place where I was to learn definitely whether
my fears were well founded, I was half tempted
to turn my back on my friends, to find my way
again to the wilderness from which I had just
emerged, and lose in a life of adventure a sense
of the insufferable wretchedness that oppressed
me.
Between twenty and thirty miles south of Fredericksburg,
I left the stage, and hiring a horse,
turned down eastwardly into King and Queen.
Here, in the house which had once been my father's,
lived my poor mother, in virtue of an arrangement
with the creditors, which authorized her to retain
possession until the end of the year. Here were
my sisters, and here, unless she had already become
the mistress of Howard's affluent fortune,
was my meek and gentle Ann. In the
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neighbourhood was Oakwood, one only of the princely habitations
of which Howard was master; and here
my phrensied imagination saw Ann presiding over
the hospitalities of a season of nuptial festivities.
If a solitary seaman, shipwrecked on a desolate
and barren coast, could envy the feelings with
which I now approached the scenes of my youth,
there must be a misery in exile which I have never
conceived.
I was now but a few miles from home, when I
met a negro whom I had known from my boyhood
as the body servant of one of the neighbours. He
stopped his horse as soon as he came up to me,
and looking me in the face exclaimed,
“Why, Lord bless my soul! Mass William, is
that you? I mighty glad to see you, sir; and they
been looking and waiting for you at home ever so
long.”
“How are they all, Jack?” said I, in a tone that
sounded fearfully in my own ears. It was the
voice of anticipated desolation and wretchedness,
which seemed ominous of the fulfilment of my
fears.
“All mighty well, sir,” said Jack, “and been
looking for you every day. Master sent me there
yesterday, sir, and I seed 'em all; Mrs. Napier,
and the young ladies, and Mr. Howard and all.”
When I recollect the feeling that came over me
as I heard these last words, I only wonder that I
did not fall to the earth and die. They who have
experienced the same will understand me. They
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who have not, never will, until they feel their own
hearts withering under such an intimation as the
name of Howard, thus used, conveyed to my mind.
I could not repeat it.
“Mr. Howard!” said I, faintly.
“Yes, sir; Mr. Howard. Don't you know,”
said Jack, with a knowing grin, “Miss Margaret
Howard's brother, sir. The gentleman they say
is going to marry Miss Ann. He there, sir, and
Miss Margaret too; but lady's me! Mass William,
travelling don't agree with you. You look
mighty badly, sir. You been sick, sir?”
“No, Jack, no,” said I, recovering myself, relieved
as I was by words which, had they been
spoken first instead of last, would have hardly been
less appalling than those which had blanched my
cheek. “The gentleman they say is going to marry
Miss Ann.” Had any man uttered these words
five minutes before, I should have felt inclined to
kill him. As it was, I was ready to hug the good-hearted
greasy blackamoor to my heart.
I passed on, elate with hope. Such hope as could
be found in the realization of the worst fears I
had ever permitted to enter into my mind, until
the moment before I met the negro. Yet it was
hope, at least for a few moments; but presently
subsided again, not into despair, but despondency.
At length I reached the end of my journey. I
approached the house unnoticed. I saw no one.
I secured my horse, and slowly and sadly walked
to the open door. As I entered, “all things reeled
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around me.” All was still. I heard no voice; I
heard no step. The nearest door was that of the
drawingroom. I entered. On a sofa sat Ann,
and by her side was Howard. He held her hand,
and bent over her with an air of earnest tenderness.
Her head hung down, and her eyes seemed
fixed in the same direction. She did not look up;
perhaps she did not hear me. He did. He raised
his head with an exclamation of pleased surprise;
he uttered my name, and with extended hand he
advanced towards me. I gave him mine, and in
doing so took my eyes from Ann. Before I could
turn them again she was in my arms. A wild
scream of delight was all I heard. All I felt was
that I once more held her to my bosom, and that
her very heart was poured into it in a torrent of
tears. I was conscious of nothing else till she disengaged
herself, and, recovering her recollection,
drew back, and with a timid glance at Howard,
sank into a chair, while alternate blushes and paleness
chased each other over her quivering features.
At this moment Jane entered. I could not
help perceiving that her joy at seeing me did not
so entirely occupy her mind as to prevent a glance
which seemed to cast rebuke upon Ann. Indeed
her manner to me was constrained; but I presently
forgot it in the long embrace of maternal
tenderness, and in the artless endearments of my
younger sister Laura. I now looked around for
Howard; but with the delicacy of a perfect gentleman,
as he was, he had left the room. I turned
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my eyes again on Ann. She sat with her's fixed
on her handkerchief, at the edge of which she was
pulling. Her blushes had passed away, except
one long line of brightness, extending like the track
of a meteor across her cheek to her ear, which still
glowed with the fervour of her feelings. I gazed
on her. She looked up. Her eye met mine, and
glanced timidly to Jane. I followed it, and met
the same cold look of inexorable decorum, which
had rebuked what she called the glaring impropriety
of my declaration of love to Ann.
A half hour passed speedily in the rapid interchange
of those inquiries which always attend the
meetings of long-absent friends. At the end of
this time, Howard reappeared, leading his sister,
bonneted and cloaked. He had ordered his carriage,
and came in to take leave, saying he would
see us again when the fervour of our mutual greetings
should have subsided. His sister welcomed
me with cordial dignity, while a slight blush mantled
her cheek. Again involuntarily I looked to
Jane. Her eye was bent on Miss Howard, with
an expression of searching eagerness, which suddenly
quailed, and she looked down embarrassed
and vexed. I turned, and saw the cause in some
slight indignation which displayed itself in Miss
Howard's countenance as she withdrew her glance
from my sister. A few inquiries followed after
my health and adventures, and the young people
took leave.
In this scene I found ample food for conjecture
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and meditation. It now seemed to me that my
intercourse with Balcombe, and the habitual excitement
of whatever faculty of observation I possessed,
during the scenes of the last two months,
had endued me with a perspicacity to which I had
before been a stranger. No doubt such things had
passed in my presence before; but I had marked
them not. But I had marked enough to remember
that on no former occasion had any tenderness or
caress of mine tinged with the slightest flush the
marble whiteness of Ann's cheek. Never before
in my presence, and while I spoke, had her eyes
sought the ground. No. They had always dwelt
in calm tranquillity upon my face, with an expression
differing from that of my sisters only because
she was much more gentle, more tender than they.
But I had no time to prosecute such trains of
thought; yet I was cheered and revived under
their influence. My despondency was so far dissipated
as to enable me to converse freely, and I
lost no time in giving my friends a hasty outline of
my adventures. When I came to speak of Balcombe,
my mother recollected the name as that of
one she had heard of but never seen; of whom she
had not thought for many years, but of whom she
was sure she had heard my grandfather speak in
the highest terms. While I told of his prompt
and efficient kindness, his high endowments, and
the generous devotion with which he had periled
life and honour in my service, the gratitude of my
mother and Laura knew no bounds. Jane, too,
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expressed the same sentiment in the strongest
terms; but her look was often abstracted, as that
of one calculating consequences, and estimating
the influence of every occurrence on some preconceived
scheme. Ann by degrees withdrew her
eyes from the figures on the carpet, and a tear
stole from them as I told of the tender interest
he had expressed in her who had been his pet and
plaything. I taught them to expect to see him the
next day, and proposed to fill up the interval with
a more detailed narrative of the events which I
now hastily sketched.
I was anxious to prepare Ann to meet him as a
friend worthy of all her confidence. I trusted to
him to detect the secret of her heart. I depended
on his address to make her acquainted with it. In
her present defenceless condition, having no male
friend, no protector but myself, nothing could excuse
me for again addressing her on the subject of
my love, until I should feel a reasonable assurance
that my addresses would not be unacceptable. But
I knew that he would need no hint from me, and I
felt assured that he would manage his inquisition
into the state of her heart so as not to shock, to
alarm, or offend. When we separated for the
night, I perceived that she again manifested some
feeling which I had never observed before, as she
held up her lip for the brother's kiss, with which
from childhood we had always parted at that hour.
-- 118 --
CHAPTER XI.
In that deep midnight of the mind
And that internal strife of heart,
When, dreading to be deemed too kind,
The weak despair, the cold depart.
When fortune changed, and love fled far,
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert the solitary star,
That rose, and set not to the last.
Byron.
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
In the morning I resumed my narrative, and
successfully accomplished my purpose of impressing
her mind with admiration for Balcombe, and
confidence in his friendship. In the afternoon
Balcombe came, accompanied by Keizer and
James. He had dissuaded the latter from hurrying
directly home, because he had been unwilling
to trust so raw a youth to cope alone with Montague,
and because he wished to come upon him
unexpectedly. The time lost was of little consequence.
If Mary held him at bay, she would still
await the appearance of her brother. If he had
already carried his point, James's presence there
could do no good. But we had no doubt that the
approach of Balcombe (should Montague be apprized
of it) would hurry him to some or any act
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of desperation; and, being now so near the scene
of action, we determined to hasten to it without
further loss of time.
We would gladly have remained a day or two
where we were, but Balcombe's eagerness in pursuit
of his prey made him insensible to fatigue.
For my own part, all other considerations seemed
of little consequence in my eyes in comparison with
my desire to be near Ann, and to hear how Howard's
suit had sped. Balcombe, by going alone,
might have accomplished all that I could. But
how contemptible must I appear in the eyes of
Ann, if, after his past hazards in my behalf, I should
again leave him alone to do what was most properly
my own work. It was determined, therefore,
that we should both go the next day to Raby Hall,
accompanied by James and Keizer.
Soon after this resolution was taken, a servant
came from the postoffice, and handed Balcombe
a letter. After receiving it he left us to read it in
his own room. Presently the servant came to
inform James that Balcombe wished to speak to
him. They remained together some time, and
then I saw Balcombe walk into the park with the
letter in his hand, which he read as he went. He
did not return until nearly dark. At supper,
James did not make his appearance. My mother
directed a servant to find him, when Balcombe
said,
“I beg he may not be called. He is in his
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room. The poor boy has just heard of the loss of
his mother.”
To the rest of the company these words sufficiently
explained a something of gloom which had
hung on Balcombe's brow since he returned from
his walk, and imparted a tone of tender sadness to
his voice. But to me they gave a further intimation
that the letter was from Mary Scott, and I
turned on him a look of eager inquiry. To this
he only answered by a quiet smile, and then began
to speak of James; of his fine intellect, of his
scrupulous honour and fidelity, and his gentle and
amiable deportment. When he rose from table he
approached Ann, and gently taking her hand, said
in the kindest tone,
“You can have no recollection of me, my
dear.”
“None at all,” said she; “and I regret it, for,
from what I have learned, none ever better deserved
to live in the memory of his friends.”
“You can never fade from mine, while it
pleases God to preserve to me my own little
daughter, whose blue eyes and fair hair always
remind me of you. You were very dear to me.
I was then but a boy, and the only return I could
make for the unmerited bounty of your grandfather,
was in acts of playful kindness to the children
on whom he doted. I thus won the hearts
of you and William; and I trust mine will never
be so hard, as not to love those who love me.”
“William has told me,” said Ann, “that we
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used to call you our George. I think that sound
comes to my ear like the voice of an old friend.
My George! my George!” she repeated, with the
look of one trying to recall a half-remembered
tune.
“Say that again,” said Balcombe, gently passing
his arm around her waist and drawing her to him.
“Say that again. You cannot think how sweet
to me is a sound that reminds me that I once was
young and lived in the paradise of domestic peace,
so ill exchanged for the thorny wilderness of strife
where my manhood has been spent. I am still
your George, my dear child; and I hope you will
soon know me well enough to call me so again.
In the mean time,” continued he, with a mild solemnity
of manner, “accustom yourself to whisper
those words to your own heart, that they may be
echoed back to you, if, at any time, you feel the
want of a friend.”
As he said this, he gently turned up to his own
her face, beaming with a tearful smile, and after
gazing on her tenderly for a moment, kissed her
forehead, and placed her softly in a chair. In the
whole action there was something so quiet, so
bland, so soothing, so exactly adapted alike to the
delicacy and warmth of Ann's feelings, that I saw
that his place in her confidence was at once immoveably
established. Balcombe, though not a
handsome man, was not ugly; though not young,
he was yet in the prime of manhood; the unexampled
devotion of his young wife showed his power
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over the female heart; and here I had seen his
manner of exercising it. I could not have endured
to see Ann's cheek resting on the bosom of any
other man; but in his whole action there was a
holy calmness, and a soft breathing of paternal
tenderness, with which my whole heart sympathized.
As he withdrew his lips from her white
brow, I felt as if he had left a blessing there. Had
I any part in it? I was not selfish enough to ask
the question.
When the ladies had retired, Balcombe proposed
to accompany me to my room. On reaching it,
he produced and handed me the letter he had just
received. It proved, as I suspected, to be from
Mary Scott, and ran as follows:—
“When I wrote the letter which I sent you by
James, I hardly hoped that time, which has left me
nothing by which I can recognise my former self,
had made so little change in you. That you could
not be ungenerous or unkind I knew. But that
you would at once address yourself, with all the
energy and vivacity of youth, to the service of a
distant and dishonoured, though unfortunate woman,
was more than I had a right to expect. Still
less had I hoped that the history of my wrongs and
wretchedness would draw from you a letter so full
of kindness and sympathy as that I have just received.
Thank God! you at least are unchanged.
I rejoice at it more for your own sake than my
own. Remaining what you were when I first
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[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
knew you, I know that you have been, are, and
must be happy. Fate does not do her work by
halves, and thus leave a fountain of bliss pouring
its perennial freshness through the hearts of those
she has doomed as the victims of her malice.
“I have hardly more cause to be thankful for
your kindness, than to rejoice that your letter did
not reach me a few days sooner. Had it done so,
I might have been the dupe of that artful villain, in
whom the guile, the malignity, the venom, and
the grovelling baseness of the serpent are all
blended. For once he overreached himself. The
rapidity of his journey defeated his own object.
Not seeing James, nor hearing from you, I was
suspicious of him; and his eagerness to accomplish
his end had, before the arrival of your letter, confirmed
my suspicions into a determination not to
trust him. But let me begin and tell my story. I
shall address this to the care of Mrs. Napier of
Craiganet, where you informed me you proposed
to be ere this. Later information satisfies me you
cannot be there for some weeks, and I shall have
time enough to detail to you all the machinations
of the wretch. Could you conceive the comfort
which it affords to a being desolate as I am, that
there is one worthy of all esteem and confidence,
who takes an interest in her, and will listen without
disgust to whatever tones the agony of remorse,
the bitterness of grief, the gloom of despair,
or the hope that dawns from beyond the tomb may
draw from her heart, you would not wonder that
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[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
I am disposed to fill the interval between this and
your expected return with a history of the events
that have befallen me since James left home. I go
to it as to a `pleasant task,' which, like the poet's
dream, beguiled his dungeon's solitude, scarce less
lonely, less weary, less desolate than mine. The
light which Heaven sheds upon the mind, is mine
as it was his. All other is shut out. The sun may
shine. I see him not.
“A few days after poor James left me, a paralytic
stroke brought my mother to the grave. I
need not describe my situation, thus left alone on
earth. The solitude of my cottage, before dreary,
was now frightful. It was a relief to me that the
only other being in Virginia who cared for my
existence, required my presence and aid. My old
nurse was taken ill. You remember she was the
housekeeper at Raby Hall. I hastened to see her,
and found her so ill that I passed the night by her
side. In the morning I threw myself on a pallet,
and slept a few hours. I was awakened by a
strange voice, and saw a venerable and benevolent-looking
old gentleman standing by the
bed. I immediately conjectured that it was the
steward, whom I had never seen. It seems
that Mr. Raby had been imposed on by his overseers
and agents, and lately determined to engage
the service of some reputable man in moderate circumstances
to live on one of his estates, and exercise
a supervisory control over all of them. The
gentleman selected was one whose fortunes were
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[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
decayed, and whose family had all left him. He
and his wife, both old, had been reduced to poverty.
But I need not tell you more than this. He
is Major Swann, whose character you know; for
I learn that in his better days he was a neighbour
and friend of Mr. Charles Raby, and knew you
when a youth. I rose on seeing him, and his attention
being drawn to me, Mammy Amy told
him who I was. He said something very kind,
and took occasion to speak feelingly of that strong
tie which binds the nursling to its foster-mother,
and which goes so far to mitigate the evils of slavery
in Virginia. Leaving the room, he sent the
old woman her breakfast, and I found that something
was added for me, prepared with a delicate
care that was more grateful to my heart than the
food to my palate. Not long after his wife appeared.
She, too, was very kind, and sat and conversed
with me a long time. While she was there
servants came in, bringing a small cot bed, which
was set up silently in one corner of the room. The
old lady now left it, saying, that if I should have
occasion to stay all night I would be more comfortably
lodged. I felt that there was great sincerity
and delicacy in this kindness, and made no
scruple to remain. I staid by my good old nurse
night and day, and she got better. I began to feel
some yearning for my solitary home, but my heart
shrunk from its desolate loneliness, and I would
gladly have staid where I was. Yet I had no
longer any excuse to remain, and was about to go
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away, when the old gentleman told me that he
understood my situation, and begged me to consider
whether I could not be more comfortable
where I was. You remember the housekeeper's
room. It is quite snug; and there was a little
girl to do for me many offices which, at home, I
must have done for myself. I could not afford a
servant. I could hardly afford myself bread. I
was much obliged, but said that I could not consent
to remain unemployed. This objection was
easily removed. The keys were put into my
hands; and knowing of old all the fixtures and
arrangements of the house, I had no difficulty in
fulfilling the duties of housekeeper during my
nurse's illness. In this new vocation I was so fortunate
as to give entire satisfaction, and as the
poor old woman has never recovered her activity,
I was invited to consider Raby Hall my home in
future, and to take on myself the office she could
no longer fill. I was told that I should have the
benefit of such aid and advice as she could give,
but that her day of service was past; that she had
reached that age at which she was entitled to
spend her remaining years in repose and comfort;
and that my services would deserve a higher remuneration
than mere subsistence. This last
idea I rejected, and insisted on even giving up
my lease, which was at last accepted. The few
articles I no longer needed were sold, and I was
duly installed as housekeeper at Raby Hall.
“I was now invited to a seat at Major Swann's
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table. This I declined. It was pressed upon me
until I was obliged to speak of my unfitness (my
pride would not let me say unworthiness) for society
such as that of Mrs. Swann. The kind old
gentleman said something very civil about the
place to which my manners and conversation entitled
me, but acquiesced. Here I have been ever
since, dividing my time between my books and
household cares, and quietly eating my humble
but comfortable meals with Mammy Amy by her
little fire.
“Can you forgive the egotism of this preamble?
I know you will; and I will not aggravate my fault
by excusing it.”
CHAPTER XII.
“Look on this withered rose. Canst thou renew
Its bloomy freshness?—the torn leaf repair?—
Restore it to the stalk where once it grew,
To shed again its fragrance on the air,
And with its balmy breath repay thy fostering care?”
“Things remained in this state, when one day
coming in from the dairy, I saw a man enter the
house. I supposed his visit to be to the major, and
quietly entered by the private door and went to
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my room. As I approached the door, I heard the
voice of the old woman, saying,
“`Sit down if you please, master. Did you say
you wanted to see me, sir?'
“`Yes,' was the answer, in a voice that did not
sound entirely new to me. `I have a message for
you.'
“`A message, sir! And who's it from, master?'
“`It is from a lady.'
“`A lady! I'm sure I don't know what lady
it can be, unless it's Miss Ann, poor thing! and
I reckon she don't hardly remember the old
woman.'
“`It is a lady,' said the voice, now sounding
husky and choking, `who put something in your
hands to keep a long time ago, and she has sent me
for it.'
“I now perceived that the speaker was Montague,
and nothing but my abhorrence of him prevented
my rushing into the room to ask him about
my brother. I restrained myself, and the old woman
made no answer.
“`You don't understand me, I believe,' said
Montague.
“`Maybe I don't,' said she, with some sharpness
of tone.
“`You know,' said he, `that the thing I speak
of was a bundle of papers, and that you were to
keep it until she came or sent for them.'
“No answer.
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“`I suppose you are waiting to see the token
that she sent.'
“`I don't know what you call a token,' said the
old woman.
“`Well,' said Montague, `you know you and
she broke a ring in two, and you have one half and
she the other. Whoever she sent for the bundle
was to bring it.'
“`You talk like you got something to show me,
master,' said the wary old woman. `Will you let
me see what it is, sir?'
“`I have lost it,' was the reply.
“`Well, I reckon it don't make no odds,' said
she, carelessly.
“Startled at this answer, which, however, I
totally misunderstood, I entered the room. Montague
was sitting opposite the door. He obviously
did not recollect me at first, and rose with a slight
salutation, such as he doubtless deemed appropriate
to my humble apparel. Before he resumed his
seat, however, his eye met mine, and he sunk into
it overwhelmed with trepidation and dismay. My
own agitation was scarcely less than his. I first
found my voice, and inquired for James. He hesitated,
faltered, and stammered out that he had
parted with him on the way, and expected him in
a few days.
“`Where did they separate?'
“`In Missouri.'
“I inquired for you, and was told that you and
James would come together.
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“The manner in which this was said, indeed,
his whole deportment, would have filled me with
distrust, even if I had never known him. But when
I reflected on his habitual baseness, and remembered
his uneasy tone while speaking with the old
woman, and then the utter discomfiture with which
my appearance overwhelmed him, I had no doubt
that he had been guilty of some new villany. My
alarm was excessive, and I could scarcely command
it so far as to continue the conversation.
He now turned to the old woman, who told him
with great composure, that if his message was
from me, I was present to speak for myself. Having
taken up this position, she remained perfectly
impracticable to all his attempts to draw her into
a discussion. With me he saw that his case was
hopeless for the present. Still he could not at
once desist from endeavouring to get me to talk of
the packet, but I had taken my cue from the old
woman, and resolutely imitated her obstinate silence.
At length he went away, and left me in a
state of anxiety and alarm for my poor boy which
I have no words to express.
“The next day he again made his appearance,
and, suppressing his impatience to get hold of the
packet, made a display of great interest in my
welfare, was full of concern for the humble and
dependant situation in which he saw me, and
hoped that James's return would place me in a
more desirable and suitable condition. To all
this I only answered that in my condition James's
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return could make no difference. This baffled him
again by showing that I was not to be approached
on the side of pecuniary interest.
“He now lamented in pathetic terms his misfortune
in not being permitted to contribute, in any
way, to the happiness of one whose happiness
was so dear to him; and he dropped many distant
hints which made me see that there was no depth
of hypocrisy, at least, perhaps no sacrifice, to
which he would not descend to carry his point. I
was therefore but the more resolved to maintain
mine, and at all events to hold the packet as a hostage
for the safe appearance of James. Accordingly,
when, after speaking me fair during a long
glozing conversation, he concluded with expressing
a hope that I would give up the packet, seeing
that he had complied to the letter with all your requirements,
I coldly said that I should await the
return of James.
“`But,' said he, `you may assure yourself that
your brother will certainly be here in a few days.'
“`There can be the less inconvenience, then,'
said I, `in waiting for him.'
“This disconcerted him excessively: he muttered
something about the urgency of his affairs,
to which I answered,
“`I know nothing about your affairs, sir, and am
resolved to know nothing about your business with
me until I see my brother.'
“He now became silent, mused a while, and
again began to talk in a strain of great respect,
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with distant and guarded expressions of kindness.
I saw his drift, and let him go away without obtaining
any further satisfaction, or giving him more
insight into my thoughts than I had already done.
“The next day he appeared again with a handsome
equipage, and dressed with studied care.
The topics of the preceding day were resumed.
He spoke of his departure from Virginia, of losses
and difficulties, which had embarrassed his affairs,
and rendered that measure necessary; of the pain
it had cost him to think of the situation in which I
had been left, and of his inability to afford me relief;
of his subsequent successful enterprises, and
of the prosperous condition of his affairs at this
time; of his respect for my mother, his sorrow for
her death; and his deep regret that he had not
been so fortunate as to effect the arrangements
designed to provide for her comfort before she
was beyond the reach of human aid. My poor
mother! You will hardly wonder that this allusion
to her wretched life and recent death brought
tears into my eyes. The hypocrite saw and misunderstood
them. He had found me, as he supposed,
in melting mood, and closed his long discourse
of protestation and profession with an offer
of marriage.
“Humiliation has subdued my spirit, George; and
the duty of bearing myself meekly under the scorn
and scoffs of the world, (of which, though unjust, I
have no right to complain, for the world's injustice
is but a rod in the hands of Him whose
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chastenings I have so well deserved,) has taught me
self-command. But though you will see that
such is the natural effect of past events upon my
character, you will hardly believe that I bore this
insult calmly. But I did. I quietly turned to the
little negro girl, and said,
“`Go to Major Swann, and ask him if he pleases
to come here.'
“She went out, and he remained completely
disconcerted. I have neglected to mention that
the old woman was out. As to the girl, she was
a mere child, to whom all she had heard was without
meaning. I now turned to Montague, and
said, with perfect composure,
“`After what has passed between us formerly,
sir, you cannot wonder that I should deem it necessary
to ask you to repeat, in the presence of a
witness, what you have just said.'
“This added to his perplexity. The struggle
of contending passions was dreadful. I saw that
he deemed himself taken in a trap; that his first
thought was to break away by retracting what he
had said, and escaping before the major's appearance,
and that he finally determined to yield to
necessity, and go through with what he had begun.
I did not interrupt his cogitations, but amused myself
in silence with tracing in his countenance those
workings of his mind. At length the major appeared.
He looked surprised at the sight of a
well-dressed man in the housekeeper's room, and
stood a moment as if waiting for an introduction.
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But waiving this ceremony, I respectfully begged
him to be seated, saying that I had sent for him to
be a witness of what should pass between that
gentleman and myself. Then turning to Montague,
I said, `I will trouble you now, Mr. Montague,
to repeat precisely and distinctly the proposition
which you just now made me.'
“He looked every way, and turned all colours,
and at length made out to say, that he had just
made me, and now repeated an offer of his hand in
marriage.
“It was sinful, George, the triumph of my feelings
at that moment. What had I to do with insolent
exultation, even over the wretch to whom I
owed all the miseries of my wretched life? But I
did not then ask myself that question. All my
overmastered feelings broke loose from my control.
I felt my frame dilate, and my features
swell with abhorrence and disdain, as I fixed my
eye upon him, and said,
“`And I spit my scorn at you, vile betrayer of
trusting innocence!'
“I never in my life expected to behold such a
tumult of rage, perplexity, and dismay as Montague's
countenance now exhibited. I cannot describe
anything that he did, or repeat anything that
he said. It was all spasm, tumult, and interjection,
horrible to behold or hear.
“At length he went away, leaving the kind old
gentleman lost in amazement. He now spoke to
me, and with a good deal of hesitancy and
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embarrassment intimated to me that the words I had
used to Montague required explanation.
“`I am sensible of it, my dear sir,' said I; `and
if the disclosure of what those words imported has
been delayed to this day, it has not been the effect
of duplicity, or a wish to deceive, but of a feeling
of delicacy. I beg you to remember that I cautiously
declined all those proposals which might
have given me more of the countenance and society
of your kind lady than I had a right to expect.
Even in my present humble condition I fear I may
be deemed a furtive intruder, and have long wished
to make known the whole truth. To you I cannot
speak it. Will you give me an opportunity of
conversing with Mrs. Swann, that she may have
it in her power to judge whether I am a proper inmate
of this family?'
“`I will send her to you,' said he.
“`I thank you sir, and beg that you will prepare
her for what I have to say by telling her what has
just passed.'
“He did so. The good old lady came; and I
disclosed to her what, until then, was known to
none on earth but Montague and you. I did not
expect any harshness from her; but I was unprepared
for her kindness. She wept over me, she
comforted me, she even praised me. Oh, what a
relief! To find myself in the presence of a highminded
and delicate matron, who, knowing the
worst of me that I knew of myself, yet did not
spurn me, nor look on me with loathing, but
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regarding me as one `more sinned against than sinning,
' gave me her sympathy, and with all a mother's
tenderness poured the balm of consolation
into my heart. Since the day that you so far
overcame the repugnance of outraged love, as to
let me feel that, though fallen, I was neither hateful
nor despicable to you, I have experienced no
such comfort as in that interview. The gratitude
I have owed you ever since has now a second
object. But not the less are my acknowledgments,
my thanks, my prayers, due to the generous effort
you then made, to spare the heart of her who had
placed a dagger in your own.”
CHAPTER XIII.
A fox, full fraught with seeming sanctity,
That feared an oath, but like the devil would lie;
Who looked like Lent, and had the holy leer,
And durst not sin before he said his prayer.
Dryden.
“I now found the full benefit of the advantage
Montague had given me over him. It entitled me
to entire credence in the history I gave, and I received
it. The kind old lady left me in tears, and
presently her husband returned with features
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working with emotion, to say what he could not say.
He could but take my hand, press it in silence, and
leave me.
“I tell you these things because you will know
how I was affected by them, and your kind heart
will rejoice that comfort has found its way to mine,
But to my tale.
“The next day Montague reappeared. As
soon as he was announced I sent for Major Swann,
and when that gentleman came admitted him. I
had not yet sufficiently rebuked the insolence of
triumph to repress something of a sneer, as I told
him that after what had passed the day before,
he would see the impropriety of my meeting him
again except in the presence of a witness.
“`I have no objection, madam,' said he; `I
don't care how many witnesses are present. I
am come to demand my property, and I am glad
Mr. Swann is here, because if you don't give it up
I shall appeal to him.'
“`I am not conscious that I have anything of
yours, sir. The only article that I ever received
at your hands you gave me to do with as I pleased.
Is it your purpose to reclaim that?'
“`It is my purpose,' said he, `to reclaim the
packet you have kept from me so long.'
“`Be pleased,' said, I, `to say how long, and
how I came by it.'
“`It makes no difference,' he replied. `It is a
packet of valuable papers belonging to the estate
of Mr. Raby, and if Mr. Swann has a proper care
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of the interest of his employer, he will not suffer
them to be secreted in this very house.'
“`When I need to be instructed, sir,' said the
spirited old gentleman, `in my duty to my employer,
I shall be glad to learn of you. In the
mean time, Miss Mary, I have no doubt you will
inform me what all this means.'
“`I will tell you,' said I, `all I know.'
“Accordingly, I gave him an account of so much
of the affair as it was necessary he should know.
He heard me through, and then said that it seemed
that the papers must be of small value, as it appeared
that Montague had been totally indifferent
to their destruction. To this he remarked that he
had not then known their value.
“`If you did not then know what they were,'
asked the major, `how have you found out since?'
“`I did know what they were,' said he, `but it is
only of late that I have been made acquainted with
their importance.'
“`And where do you suppose them now to be?'
“`In this house. In her possession, or in that of
old Amy.'
“`What reason have you for thinking so?'
“`Her own letter.'
“`Where is that?'
“`I have been robbed of it,' said Montague,
after hesitating a while.
“`This is a strange affair,' said the major.
“`Strange or not strange,' said Montague, `I
tell you it is so, and that the secreting of those
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papers is of the utmost importance to the interest
of Mr. Raby. Now, sir, if you do not choose,'
added he, petulantly, `to use your authority for his
benefit, so far as to search his own house for his
stolen property, I shall be under the necessity—'
“He paused as he caught the eye of the major,
who said coldly,
“`To do what, sir?'
“`To get a search warrant, sir,' said Montague,
after taking a second thought.
“`You shall have one, sir, on making the proper
affidavit. I am a justice of the peace. I will send
for the constable to-night; and though I have no
right, as master here for the time being, to outrage
Miss Scott's feelings by searching her apartment,
on your bare suggestion, yet, as an officer of the
law, I am no respecter of persons. Call in the
morning, sir,' added he, with an air of lofty politeness,
`and you will find it so.' Montague took
the hint and disappeared.
“The next morning I felt somewhat indisposed.
I had been the day before invited to consult my
ease more than I had done; and as Mammy Amy
was now well enough to attend to some trifling
duties, I kept my bed until ten o'clock. Before I
left it I was told a gentleman wished to see me.
“`Was it Montague?'
“`No.'
“I described you. No. It was a young man
of dark complexion; a stranger. I excused myself
to him, and he went away, leaving a packet
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hastily folded up, and directed, in pencil, `To Miss
Scott, with the compliments of James Brown.' I
opened it, and found a letter to him, the seal of
which was broken. Of course it was meant that
I should read it. It proved to be from a gentleman
of the name of Napier, and contained the history
of the machinations of Montague against you and
James. I was somewhat relieved, because it explained
the poor boy's absence; and though it
showed that the arts of Montague had placed you
both in an unpleasant predicament, I saw that no
danger was apprehended. But I need not tell you
what you know. I now for the first time understood
the nature of this mysterious packet, and the
drift of Montague's strange conduct regarding it.
Knowing him as I do, it was all made plain to me.
He is at once the wickedest and the most superstitious
wretch on earth, and I doubt whether avarice
itself, or even mortal fear (his two master passions)
could make him swear to a literal falsehood.
I remember, too, that at the critical moment when
his work of fraud was to be accomplished, he was
overtaken by one of those visitations which such
as he are apt to mistake for the workings of the
spirit of God. I remember the awful writhings of
his remorse; and that his mind ran much on the
subject of perjury; though he always spoke of it
with abhorrence, and seemed to seek consolation
in the thought that of that crime he was free. I
now see that at that very time the wretch was
contriving a scheme to cheat not only man but
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God. I suppose he was unwilling to trust any one
capable of becoming a knowing accomplice in his
villany, and I see the motive of the pains he took
to establish such an intercourse with me, as would
give countenance to his request that I would take
charge of the packet. His strange behaviour on
the occasion, and the art he used after having got
it lodged in my custody, to beguile me of what I
should deem equivalent to an oath, left no doubt
of this.
“My first thought was to hand the letter and
packet to Major Swann, but it presently occurred
to me that, by doing so, I might place him in a
delicate situation between his duty to his employer
and his duty as a man. I resolved, therefore, to
let things take their course, but at the same time
to use effectual measures to keep the packet from
falling into Montague's hands.
“Before I gave it to Mammy Amy, I had put
it into a small toy trunk, which I locked, keeping
the key myself. Near the hearth was a place
where a hole had been burned in the floor, and
here a short plank had been laid down. This was
loose. I took it up, put down the trunk, and, with
the broom handle, pushed it away to the wall. I
had taken the precuation to tie a bit of tape to the
handle, the end of which I left in reach, but too
far under to be seen without stooping low and
putting the face to the hole. I did this while my
nurse was out, so that I alone knew where it was.
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Having thus completed my arrangements, I awaited
patiently the approach of the enemy.
“About noon Montague arrived. The constable
was already there. Montague was a long time
closeted with the major, I supposed engaged in
coining a suitable affidavit. At length they all
came together to my room. The kind old gentleman
apologized with the utmost courtesy and
deference to my feelings for what he was about to
do, and handed me Montague's affidavit. This
testified that six years ago he had left at my mother's
a packet which he described by external
marks and seals; that he had reason to believe
and did believe that I had got possession of it, and
that it was secreted somewhere in the house. The
search was now commenced, and every corner of
the room was ransacked. Montague took little part
in it, but kept his eyes on me, and pointed out suspected
places. I became at last impatient of his
insolent gaze, I felt my spirit rise, and was conscious
of that flash of the eye before which his
always quails, even when he sees it in the face of
a woman. I now kept my eye on him, and his
avoided it, though he occasionally stole a furtive
glance. At length, walking across the floor, he
felt the loose plank move under his feet. He
stooped and raised it. I felt my courage give way,
and as he lifted himself up after his short and fruitless
search, our eyes met, and I was conscious that
mine had blenched. I felt that thick throbbing of
the heart which always displays itself in the
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countenance, and again stole a look at him to see if he
had observed me. He had replaced the plank,
and looked on the protracted search with less apparent
interest than before. I saw, indeed, that
he was weary of its continuance, and he soon expressed
himself satisfied. They now left the room;
Montague last of all. There is no fastening to the
door, but a large bar inconveniently heavy, and a
slight latch. This caught as he closed the door
after him, and I was once more alone. I listened
a moment, and heard the trampling of many feet,
and the sound of many voices die away along the
passage. My uneasiness now took its natural
course. I ran to the hole and lifted the plank. At
the moment the door opened, and Montague reappeared.
The sagacity of the cunning wretch had
taught him to expect what I would do under the
influence of my alarmed and excited feelings. He
had stopped at the door while the rest went on,
and came in suddenly as soon as he had allowed
time for nature to do her work. He now sprang
forward, while I, powerless with alarm, sank into
a chair. He stooped down, and looked eagerly
along the dark hole, and finally, groping, got hold
of the end of the string. He drew it out, and I
heard the little trunk come grating along over the
laths below. I screamed and sprang to him. He
pushed me back, drew out the trunk, crushed it
with his heel, and seizing the packet flung it into
the fire.
“It was a mild October day, and there was just
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so much fire as an old woman needs to comfort her
rheumatic limbs. I rushed to it to rescue the
packet. He seized and held me back, and I struggled,
still screaming. The major, who had missed
Montague, and was returning to look for him,
alarmed at my cries, hurried back. As soon as I
saw him I exclaimed,
“`In the fire! In the fire!'
“He understood me and approached the hearth.
Montague flung me across the room to my bed,
on which I fell half insensible. But I saw Montague
rudely seize the major around the waist, and
jerk him back, when, at the moment, Charles, my
foster-brother, entered. He darted at Montague,
and with one blow of his fist felled him to the
floor. The major, disengaged, rescued the packet
from the fire, where its surface only was scorched,
and turned to confront Montague, who slowly
recovered his feet.
“`What means this, Mr. Montague?' said he.
`Is this the way you treat valuable papers belonging
to your employer and mine?'
“The stunning blow that Montague had received
gave him an excuse for not answering immediately,
and he stood the picture of rage, alarm,
and perplexity. At length he replied that he knew
his duty to Mr. Raby, and that gentleman's wishes,
and had therefore sought to destroy the packet.
He added that he was not accountable to any one
but his principal, and demanded to have the papers
delivered up.
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“`You forget that he is my principal, too, sir,'
rejoined the major. `I am not sure that I am at
liberty to permit the destruction of anything I find
under this roof.'
“Montague puzzled a while, and then said, that
having obtained the packet under a search warrant,
he had a right to demand it.
“`Pardon me, sir,' said the major; `having
been found under a search warrant, it is in the
custody of the law until the title is proved.'
“`Is it not proof enough,' said Montague, `that
I have described it in my affidavit? Look at it,
sir, and you will see that I have given an accurate
account of the impressions of the seals, from a
memorandum made when it was sealed up.'
“`It may have been so, sir,' said the major;
`but I should rather suspect the impressions to
have been different from those described, judging
by your impatience to obliterate them. There is
nothing here, sir, but melted wax, with no impressions
at all.'
“You, who know Montague, need not be told
how he looked at the discovery of this effect of his
own impatience. I do think the keenest selfreproach
he ever feels is when his villany is baffled
by his own blunders. After a short pause the
major added,
“`There is a simple test of property here, Mr.
Montague. Describe the papers in this packet—
you say you know what they are—I will then
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open it, and if they answer the description, you
shall have them.'
“To this Montague replied, that he was not at
liberty to disclose his patron's secrets.
“`Perhaps not,' said the major; `I have no wish
to pry into them. But the papers are, I presume,
endorsed, and I only ask such a description as is
commonly found in an endorsement.'
“This proposition also being declined by Montague,
the major said,
“`Well, sir, the only remaining doubt in this
case is, whether there is enough proved to entitle
me to detain this parcel from Miss Scott another
moment. There is certainly not enough to justify
me in putting it out of the custody of the law into
any hand but hers. But as I may be better able
than she to secure it against ruffian violence, I
will with her approbation get rid of this difficulty,
by keeping it for her, or you, or Mr. Raby, or any
person who may show title to demand it.'
“To this proposition I joyfully assented. At
this moment Charles caught the major's eye.
“`Charles, my good boy,' said he, `you have
done me good service, and I thank you. And you,
sir,' turning to Montague, `having received the
chastisement of your insolence from a hand more
fit to touch your person than mine, may be thankful
that I dismiss you without any further punishment.
Go, sir. If you have occasion to call on
me in the way of business, I will attend you at
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some other place. Here you come no more while
I retain authority here.'
“This put an end to the scene and to Montague's
visit. I have neither seen nor heard of him
since. I suppose it often happens that there are
men who seize upon such occasions as that of a
constable's search, to thrust themselves where
they have no business. This was the case in this
instance. My room was invaded by a promiscuous
rabble of men and boys, some of whom,
judging by their dress, should have had more
respect for decorum. But there they were during
the search; and having heard the uproar which
afterward took place, they had all returned.
Among the number, I now remarked a very genteel-looking
young man, who, approaching me with
great courtesy, asked if I had that morning received
a packet. On my answering in the affirmative,
he informed me that he was the bearer. The
recollection of his manner, which was marked by
the most delicate respect, reminds me to thank
you, George, for the kind terms, in which, as I
gathered from Mr. Napier's letter, you had spoken
of me to him. Oh! is it possible that I am yet to
be permitted to show myself among the good and
wise, to enjoy their society, to witness their virtues,
and even be blessed with their friendship,
after having so long been a `hissing and a byword,'
even for the low and vile? Can I be ever grateful
enough to you, George? Yet how little do I show
my gratitude, when I have forgotten, in the hurry
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of my own story, to express the pleasure with
which I also learned that you are blessed with a
wife every way worthy to bear your name and to
share your fortune. Dear George, may you both
be happy.
“But to return to Mr. Brown. He said as soon
as he heard what was passing, he had hastened to
afford me any aid in his power, but arrived only in
time to witness the closing scene. I now returned
him his letter, and he was about to go away when
Major Swann said,
“`I perceive, sir, you are an acquaintance of
Miss Scott's. I shall always be happy to see her
friends here, and hope you will not think of leaving
us before dinner.'
“The invitation was pressed and accepted, and
they left the room. Was it possible that I had
heard aright? Was my friendship a passport to
the notice of a gentleman, who, though fallen in his
fortunes, possessed as much delicacy, refinement,
and honour as any man on earth? Judge my surprise,
when, as I asked myself this, he turned back,
and coming up to me, took my hand, and said, in
the gentlest tone of entreaty,
“`Won't you dine with us to-day? Pray do.
It will so much oblige us.'
“What could I do, George, but burst into tears,
and weep like a child? He seated me, and stood
by me until I found words to say, `I will—I will.'
It was all I could say.
“I went to dinner, and behaved as well as I
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could after thirteen years of banishment from society.
This movement was followed up. I was
beguiled by kindness from my resolution, and since,
except that I am privileged to breakfast in my
room, I take my meals at the table of this highly
finished specimen of that most honourable race of
men, the ancient gentry of Virginia. I find, too,
that my keys are wiled away from me, and by
degrees I have been made to feel that no service
of any kind is expected of me. On my expressing
my unwillingness to be thus a tax on Mr. Raby,
whom I did not know, I was told that Major Swann
had stipulated for the right to introduce into his
family a companion for his wife, and that they
would be delighted to entertain me in that character.
My objections thus overcome, I was transferred
to a neat and well-furnished apartment, my
mammy's bed placed in a little room adjoining, and
a new housekeeper being fixed on, the good old
woman was discharged from all duty but that of
attending on me. Hence my leisure to inflict on
you this tedious narrative.
“The day after the search, the major, returning
from the post office, brought me your letter. It
may have been there a week. I had no one to
send, and it was a new thing to have a friend to
think of me when asking for his own letters. The
kind old gentleman had observed the postmark,
and, having understood that James was in Missouri,
supposing it to be from him, inquired of his
health, &c. I answered that he was well, but that
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the letter was from you. He immediately recollected
the name, and spoke of you with the kindness
of an old and partial friend. I was delighted
to hear this, and told him you had given me reason
to expect that you would be at Craiganet in a few
weeks. He expressed a great desire to see you,
and requested that I would write to you there and
beg you to visit him as soon as practicable. He
added, that he would at once have a room prepared
for you and your friend Mr. Napier, and
one for James; and charged me to say that as the
days are short, and the distance almost too long
for a day's ride, and no convenient stopping-place
by the way, you must not mind coming at any
hour of the night as if to your own home. You
cannot have forgotten the ways about this neighbourhood;
the approach and grounds around the
house are all unchanged, and the handle of the
door bell is just where it was when Raby Hall was
your home. Then, too, it was mine!
`Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain.'
Oh, that I could add,
`I feel the gales that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow;
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to sooth,
And redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.'
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But this can never be. All on which memory
could delight to dwell is shut out by that which
`eternity forbids me to forget.' But why do I
speak thus repiningly? By comparison, my present
condition is one of bliss. And does not hope
now dawn on me, even on this side of the grave?
The hope of such pleasures as my heart has ever
yearned after; the pleasure springing from the
approbation of the good, the conversation of the
wise, the society of the refined and polite? Oh!
how my heart, at the thought of seeing you again,
leaps up, and then falls humbled in the dust, at the
recollections with which your name is associated.
But I will not offend you by prating about my
feelings. One only you must give me leave to
express in such language as I can command: the
devoted, heartfelt gratitude of—will you permit
me to say?—your friend,
“M. S.”
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CHAPTER XIV.
Joy shall be in heaven, over one sinner that repenteth, more
than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance.
St. Luke.
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
While I read this long letter, Balcombe amused
himself with a book. When I had got through I
did not immediately interrupt him, for I was glad
to steal a moment for my own thoughts. At
length I remarked, that it appeared to me as if the
present posture of our affairs rendered hurry unnecessary,
and that we might safely indulge ourselves
with a day or two of rest.
“Take care, William,” said Balcombe. “Remember
we have to do with one who never sleeps.
I know it is not sloth that would keep you here;
but I am much mistaken if your absence has not
already served you better than your presence
could have done. You will lose nothing by a display
of energy and hope of success. Make that
sure, and I deceive myself if you don't find influences
exerted in your favour which have been
heretofore exerted against you.”
“You don't mean,” said I, “to impute mercenary
feelings to Ann?”
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“By no means. I am not exactly sure of my
own meaning, nor will I permit myself to be so,
unless I become convinced that my thoughts do
no wrong to others. But we must betake ourselves
to rest, for the way is long to Raby Hall,
and we must sleep there to-morrow night.”
He now left me and went to his room. At an
early hour the next morning we were in the saddle.
The day was pleasant for the season, but the roads
were deep, and we got on but slowly. Night
overtook us when we were yet ten miles from the
place of our destination. But Balcombe knew the
road, and we had a new moon, which promised to
give light until we should be within the compass
of his former daily walks. We therefore patiently
toiled along over ground roughened by a partial
thaw, which made it difficult for our weary
horses to pick their way. It was not very far
from midnight when we reached the stables, which
were perhaps a quarter of a mile from the house.
In passing these we met a negro man, of whom
Balcombe inquired if Major Swann was at home.
Being answered in the affirmative, he asked the
negro's name.
“Charles, sir,” was the reply.
“What, old Amy's son Charles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how is your mother, Charles?”
“I thank you, sir. She been mighty low; but
Miss Mary take such good care of her, she right
well again; only just she mighty old, master.”
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[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
“And are you hostler here still, Charles?”
“Yes, master. But, master, I don't know who
you, for all you seems to know all about us.”
“Don't you know my voice, Charles? I think I
should know your's. Don't you remember George
Balcombe?”
The negro clapped his hands, and springing into
the air, alighted with Balcombe's hand in both of
his. To one not accustomed to the negro character,
their strong attachments and grotesque manner
of displaying their feelings, the contortions of his
dusky figure, bowing himself on Balcombe's hand,
then swaying his body back, and writhing from
side to side like a wounded serpent, would have
been amusing.
“Oh, Mass George,” said he, “I so glad to see
you. And poor Miss Mary, she be so glad to see
you too, sir.”
“And how is she, Charles?”
“Oh, thank God! she right well, sir, and mighty
comfortable. Old master and missis here, sir,
mighty good to her. But who this you got here
with you, master?”
“This is Mr. Napier, Charles; your old master's
grandson.”
“What!” exclaimed the negro, “Mass William!
my Miss Fanny's son! Oh, bless God I live to see
him.”
Then turning to me he added, in a plaintive tone,
“Master, I been afraid you never was coming to
see your poor negroes, now we don't belong to
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you no more, but all gone to strange man that
lives away there in England, and don't care nothing
at all about us. I was mightily in hopes we'd
all have gone to you, sir; but you's my master for
all that.”
As he spoke this in a tone of reverential affection,
I held out my hand to him. He took it, and
drawing it strongly downward to accommodate it
to the lowliness of his prostration, bowed himself
upon it, and pressed it to his lips. I felt a tear
upon it; and if an answering tear had not sprung
to my eye, I should have little deserved to be the
object of a loyalty as ardent and devoted as it was
hopeless.
“If you are as tired of the saddle as I am, William,”
said Balcombe, “you will not be sorry to
leave our horses with Charles, and walk to the
house.”
I gladly assented to this; and Balcombe, addressing
the negro, added,
“Charles, my good fellow, take care of our little
baggage, and bring it up to the house.”
Saying this, he alighted, and we walked on, both
too busy with our own thoughts for conversation.
As we approached the house, we saw a dusky red
light glimmer fitfully from between the bars of a
cellar window. Just as we were about to enter,
it flashed up brighter than before, and we saw that
it came from the wall beneath a window at the
end of the house. Balcombe instantly turned
aside and dashed around the corner. Immediately
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I heard a rush, and the noise of feet clattering over
the frozen ground. I followed, and saw a man
leap the enclosure of the yard, and Balcombe, who
was almost near enough to touch him, drew a
pistol and fired it.
Without stopping to see the effect of his shot, he
returned hastily, and running to the door, rang the
bell violently. The shot had alarmed the family,
and the door was presently opened. He immediately
gave the alarm of fire in the cellar, and
snatching a can of water which stood, as he well
remembered, on a three cornered shelf just within
the door, ran to the window and poured it in. The
light went down immediately, and servants going
into the cellar presently extinguished the fire. We
now saw that it was a wood cellar, with a quantity
of wood directly under the window. On this,
burning coals had been thrown, and some shavings
and splinters of dry pine wood had been added.
A part of these combustibles still lay in a pile on
the outside of the window.
Mr. Swann now appeared in his nightgown, and
Balcombe made himself known. He was a fine-looking
old gentleman, venerable, dignified, and
courteous. We were received with great cordiality,
and ushered into a parlour, yet comfortable
with the glowing embers of the evening fire. Here
the old gentleman, having ordered some refreshments,
left us to dress himself. He soon returned,
accompanied by his wife, who seemed to be among
ladies just what he was among gentlemen. She
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added her welcome to his; and we would have
gone at once to bed, but supper was pressed on
us so earnestly, and so strongly recommended by
our own appetites, that we could not decline it.
In the mean time, James, having inquired for his
sister, had been conducted to her room. She had
been reading, and was not yet gone to bed. Their
meeting no one witnessed; but she soon left him
alone to his grief and came to see Balcombe. We
were all standing when she entered. She looked
hastily around, and then approached him with an
eagerness of manner which, for the moment, restored
something of the brilliancy of countenance
I had remarked in the picture. He advanced to
meet her, when she suddenly stopped short, and
with a look of utter abasement fell on her knees,
and bowed her head to his very feet. Her action
was characterized by her own words. Her heart
had leaped up, and then fell prostrate in the dust.
Balcombe raised her with some difficulty, and
rather lifted than led her to a sofa, against the arm
of which she hid her face and wept in silence.
Balcombe bent over her tenderly, and holding her
hand, said soothingly, “Dear Mary! My dear,
good girl!” and continued thus to utter tones and
words which spoke comfort to her heart, until she
became more composed. She then looked up, and
gazing on him with an expression of timid affection,
pressed his hand to her lips, and having disengaged
her own, cast down her eyes and remained
silent.
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If ever Divine mercy forgave a single error to
deep repentance and contrition; if ever the voice
of God spoke audibly to the sinner's heart, saying,
“Neither do I condemn thee;” surely at that moment
such consolation was not withheld from
hers.
In the mean time, the field through which the
incendiary had escaped was searched, to ascertain
the effect of Balcombe's shot. Nothing was found,
and we concluded that he had got off unhurt.
“I don't think I struck him,” said Balcombe.
“If I did, it was somewhere about the right shoulder.
Firing over the wall, I could not well bring
my pistol to bear.”
“It was well for the fellow,” said John, “that
something hindered you, for it an't often that you
miss.”
Much conversation now ensued between Major
and Mrs. Swann about the attempt to burn the
house, and they seemed quite at a loss to guess
who the incendiary could be. At length we
retired for the night. As the ladies were about
to leave the room, Balcombe took Mary's hand,
and drawing her gently to him, passed his arm
around her waist and was about to kiss her. At
first she turned up her lips to him; and then
suddenly averting her face and interposing her
hand, said,
“No, George, no! let that remain. I would die
with that on my lips.”
He only answered by pressing her tenderly to
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his bosom and kissing her forehead. I think I
never saw any man so affected as Major Swann
was, when, after she had left the room, Balcombe
told him the meaning of her words.
As soon as the servant had left us in our chamber,
Balcombe said to me,
“That was Montague.”
“What do you mean?” said I.
“I mean,” he replied, “that it was Montague
who attempted to burn the house down. The
stature and figure were his, and an exclamation
uttered as I laid my hand upon the fugitive was in
his voice.”
“Did you seize him?” said I.
“No; I did but touch him, and at the moment
stumbled and fell. He was near the wall and
over it before I could well recover. But I think I
have disabled him for mischief for a few days.”
“How so?”
“Firing hastily,” said he, “the trigger may give
way too soon. But I seldom fail to know where
my ball goes. I am deceived if he has it not in
his right arm or shoulder.”
“But what could be his motive?”
“Motive! Don't you see that had we not
arrived the fire must have advanced so far before
it was discovered as to make it impossible to save
anything; and his worthy employer would doubtless
be willing to forgive the destruction of the
house for the destruction of the will. As to Montague's
conscience, arson is not mentioned in the
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decalogue; and if this good old man and his wife,
and Mary and old Amy had been burned alive, why,
that would have been chargeable to Providence,
not to him. He would calm himself by saying it
was no part of his plan, and would not have happened
had not God so willed it. However, I think
the rascal has had a taste of my pistol; and if he
is not disabled for the time, he will hardly come
about the premises while he knows that I am
here.”
The next day we took some pains to learn what
had become of Montague, but could hear nothing
of him since the day that the room of Mary Scott
was searched.
CHAPTER XV.
“Shall I not love her,
When disease has pressed my wasted form, and bowed
My fainting head, who has supported it?
Who has kindly bound my aching brow,
And wooed my loathing taste with dainty food?
And when fierce fever dried the springs of life,
And my parched breast gave to my wailing babe
No nourishment, who fed him from her own?”
This day happened to be Sunday. About noon
I observed that the yard was full of negroes, each
“clad in his Sunday's best.” The old gentleman
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observed it, and expressing some surprise at it,
went out to inquire the cause. Returning, he
said,
“I find that they are assembled to see you, Mr.
Napier, and you will gratify the poor creatures by
going out among them.”
I did so, and every eye was fixed upon me.
Some saw a likeness to my grandfather, some to
my mother. One by one they approached me;
and as I extended my hand to each, each bowed
himself with reverence and affection before me;
the expression only varying in each, as it seemed,
with the character of the individual. The few
words they uttered corresponded with those sentiments.
They obviously restrained themselves in
the presence of Mr. Edward Raby's steward,
though the old gentleman was much moved at the
quiet expression of their feelings of hereditary
loyalty. When we returned into the house, he remarked
on the universality of that sentiment
among them, saying he had no doubt they would
be worth twenty per cent. more to me than to
any other person.
“Nothing is more certain,” said Balcombe,
“and nothing more natural than the prevalence of
this feeling. Here is a race of men in capable of
tracing themselves beyond ancestors who, a hundred
years ago, came out of a slave ship into the
family of Mr. Raby. They know nothing of themselves
but in connection with that family, and that
connection has become, by tradtion and use, to be
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[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
regarded as one of the conditions of their very
existence. Meantime, under the influence of the
kindly affections growing out of this connection,
there has been a gradual though steady improvement
in their situation. Every old negro can tell
the young how much has been added to the comforts
of their common lot, and even those of a middle
age can remember a change in their own.
Here is cause of gratitude; and to man uncorrupted
by unpurchased prosperity, gratitude is a
natural sentiment. Benefits conferred sparingly,
and in requital of merit and exertion, never fail to
excite it. This is God's plan for securing the hearts
of his creatures. They who win their bread, though
scanty, with the sweat of their brow, eat it and
give thanks. They on whom the good things of
this world descend in showers of abundance,
sicken over their full meal, and murmur at the
Being who gave the food without the appetite
which toil should purchase.
“Individual attachments, too, spring up. The
negro woman loves the child she nursed; he loves
his foster-brother and is beloved in turn; and all
the little woolly-headed urchins love the young
master, whose favours they continually experience.
These things produce a feeling not unlike that of
Scottish clanship. The tie of blood, indeed, is wanting
in this case, but so it often is in that. But long
habitude supplies the place. These negroes are
accustomed to consider themselves of the Raby
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[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
family, and William, the head of the house, is their
Vich Ian Vohr.
“A little anecdote,” continued Balcombe, “will
well illustrate the inextinguishable affection of the
negro for his master. A young friend of mine,
whose father lived on James River, was called by
business to St. Domingo. Walking along the
streets of Port-au-Prince, his hand was suddenly
caught between both hands of a well-dressed negro.
You know the grotesque attitude with which
a negro, when much delighted, accompanies this
action—springing into the air, alighting with his
feet a yard apart, and squatting nearly to the
ground. So it was in this instance, while he exclaimed,
“`Lord God Almighty! Mass' Ned! this you?'
“My friend immediately recognised him as one
who had run away from his father a few years
before, and was sincerely glad to see him. The
negro insisted on taking him home—would hear
of no refusal—and entertained him sumptuously
during his stay at Port-au-Prince. During the
whole time the negro had no name for him but
`Mass' Ned.' He was a merry and vain fellow.
Just before he ran away his young master had received
an ensign's commission in the militia, and
bought a splendid uniform. This had taken Cuffy's
fancy, and one of the first aspirations of his
recovered freedom was a like distinction. In this
he had been so successful as to have the right to
wear two epaulets. Of these he was very proud;
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[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
and recollecting the commencement of Mass' Ned's
military career, he suddenly asked,
“`Mass' Ned, what rank you now?'
“`I am a captain,' said my friend.
“`Oh Lord!' cried the negro, exultingly, `I rank
you all to hell!—I major.'
“It seems strange, too,” said I, “that a natural
impatience of inferiority does not exacerbate the
feelings of these poor creatures, and especially
against the particular individuals by whom they
are kept under.”
“It would be so,” said Balcombe, “if that inferiority
were in condition only. But, right or wrong,
they feel themselves inferior in point of fact, and
there is therefore nothing to prevent the formation
of that strong tie which is spun out of the interchange
of service and protection. This, apart
from the instinct of blood, is the rationale of the
filial and parental bond. So long as the inferiority
is actual, and felt to be so, none but affectionate
and loyal feelings grow out of it. Whether
the negro race is inferior to the white is not the
question. The inferiority of the individual is the
thing, and this inferiority, left to himself, he will
never question. What may be the result if the
amis des noirs succeed in eradicating their sense
of this, and substituting in place of it a theory of
equality which is to abolish all distinctions, natural
as well as artificial, actual as well as imaginary, is
a question which their philanthropy might do well
to consider. That it will make them better or
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[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
wiser I must be permitted to doubt. That it will
make them miserable is sure. For my part I
am well pleased with the established order of the
universe. I see gradations in everything. I see
subordination everywhere. And when I find the
subordinate content with his actual condition, and
recognising his place in the scale of being as that
to which he properly belongs, I am content to
leave him there. If I raise him from his place,
some other must fall into it, and I cannot be sure
that the other will be equally fitted for its duties,
or equally happy in their performance. The difficulty
you have, William, in conceiving how a man
can sit down contented in established inferiority,
shows that the lesson is hard to learn. Yet, to be
happy in this condition, which some must submit to,
this lesson must have been learned, hard as it is.
Now, I don't see the wisdom of making this learning
useless to those who have been acquiring it
from infancy, and setting others to the same lesson
who are too old to go to school. Would it be possible,
at this time of day, to imbue your mind with
the feeling which last night bowed the head of
Charles upon your hand? By no means. Yet,
do you doubt the sincerity of that feeling? and do
you not see how highly conducive to his happiness
it would be if you were his master? Will you
shut your eyes to this because you cannot conceive
of that state of mind. Do you wonder that
you cannot conceive what sort of an animal you
would have been, if you had been born a slave?”
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“But,” said I, “is it not worth while to risk
something for the sake of elevating this race in a
moral point of view?”
“Yes,” said he. “The only question is, what
is moral elevation. Do you find it in the burning
crown of Lucifer, or in the humility of the angels
who cast their crowns at the feet of God? Is
there nothing analogous to this last in the prostration
of that poor negro's spirit last night before
you, from whom he can neither expect harm nor
good, and whom he did but identify with the authors
of bygone benefits magnified by his gratitude
to a debt which his spirit years to discharge to
you. Is gratitude abject? Is self-abandoning,
zealous devotion abject? If the duties of heaven
require these sentiments, and its happiness consist
in their exercise, which of us is it that is but
a little lower than the angels—the negro or the
white man? No, William. Let women and negroes
alone, and instead of quacking with them,
physic your own diseases. Leave them in their
humility, their grateful affection, their self-renouncing
loyalty, their subordination of the heart, and
let it be your study to become worthy to be the
object of these sentiments.”
“My own observation,” said Major Swann,
“corresponds with your ideas. When you knew
me, George, I was or seemed to be wealthy and
had many slaves. All have been taken from me.
Yet while I remained in the same neighbourhood,
they never missed an opportunity to serve me in
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any way in their power. There was hardly one
among them who did not force favours of some
sort on me, when I could make no return; and, if
I would have suffered it, they would have devoted
to me at least half their waking hours not spent
in labouring for their master. The world, I believe,
gave me credit for hospitality and benevolence.
I am not going to quarrel with these things,
or to begin, as too many do, by repenting of my
few good qualities; but how much better would I
have shown my benevolence, by husbanding the
means of keeping these poor creatures together,
under the light and easy yoke of a master whom
they loved to serve. There, as you suggest, is the
point in which we fail. Instead of initiating them
in the code of a false and spurious philosophy, did
we look into our own hearts and watch narrowly
our own actions, we should effectually preserve
that superiority over them, on a deep and abiding
sense of which their happiness depends; and, by
a prudent management of our affairs, we might
give permanency and efficiency to that protection,
for which their labour is, as they feel it to be, a fair
equivalent.”
Here, again, I would not have the reader to
believe that I was convinced because I did not take
up the argument with so sturdy a disputant as Balcombe,
or contest the inferences drawn by a venerable
old man from his own experience. I have
set down here the thoughts of these gentlemen, because
they were new to me, and I have never yet
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seen them in print. I do not add my own, partly
because I am not writing essays, and partly because
all I could say on my side of the question,
has been better said by others, and is before the
world.
CHAPTER XVI.
“Such is the game of life. The fox's craft,
And the fierce instinct of the patient hound,
Are both from Him whose works inscrutable
Show not to which he leans.”
Balcombe's tongue was now loosened, and he
talked with all his wonted spirit and animation,
but restraining himself so far as to make the major
a fair partaker in the conversation. James and
Mary sat by in silence, the latter swallowing his
words with a greediness surpassing even that of
Mrs. Balcombe herself. Her excited feelings and
greater readiness of apprehension, made, as I supposed,
this difference. It was only in her countenance
that I saw any token of the powers of mind
of which Balcombe had spoken, and which her
letters displayed. She seemed restrained rather
by humility than by diffidence or modesty. She
scarcely ever spoke that a blush did not suffuse her
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whole face immediately after. It seemed as if a
feeling within rebuked her presumption, and what
she feared might be an abuse of the forbearance of
her friends. The day passed rationally and pleasantly,
and was to us weary travellers a day of
welcome rest.
There was no longer anything to agitate or excite
in the difficulties with which we had to contend.
We therefore passed that subject by for the
day, and though my thoughts would wander to
Ann at times, and again would pry into the possible
contents of that mysterious packet, I trust the
day was passed essentially as the Sabbath should
be. I found myself again restored to a trusting
confidence in Providence, and a thorough convert
to Balcombe's doctrine that the difficulties which
we encounter in life are so much unrecompensed
evil, if we do not lay them to heart and study out
the hidden wisdom with which they are fraught.
I was sure I was a wiser, and I trust a better man
for the use he had taught me to make of my trials.
The next day was spent in consulting about our
ulterior measures, and the result of our consultation
was that I should go to Fredericksburg and
take the advice of a lawyer on the subject of the
supposed will. I would gladly have had Balcombe's
company, which now began to seem a
necessary of life to me, but he suggested that
Montague's late attempt made it necessary to keep
an eye upon him. If in the neighbourhood, he
would know that Balcombe and Keizer were there,
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and his habitual dread of them would keep him in
check more effectually than anything else.
“This last attempt,” said Balcombe, “shows
that he is becoming desperate. Nothing but
phrensy would make him risk the halter.”
I therefore determined to go alone. Indeed it
was time I should act the man once more, and
attend to my own affairs; but Balcombe's quickness,
perspicacity, and resources, had given me
such a habit of depending on him, that I found
myself hardly able to walk without leadingstrings.
This rendered the effort the more necessary, and
I resolved to make it.
“Before you go,” said Balcombe, “it may be as
well to try if we cannot come at our object by a
shorter road. Montague cannot be far off, and if
by any chance I can once lay my eye upon him,
I should know how to manage the matter at
once.”
“What would you do?” said I.
“Cast a spell upon him,” replied Balcombe,
“and bring him here; give him the packet, and
make him open it with his own hands, and put the
will into mine.”
“This is a strange power you exercise over
him.”
“It is partly habit,” said Balcombe, “and partly
the power of circumstances. He can hardly have
heard of my arrival. He had no means of recognising
me on Saturday night. He probably thinks
me hanged by this time in Missouri, and would
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take me for my own ghost. Recollecting his attempts
against me, his fears would hardly be
relieved (superstitious as he is) by finding me a
being of flesh and blood; and a braver man than
he would cower under my eye at such a moment.
Besides, I have but to hint at the fire, and he would
have no doubt that I was prepared to swear to his
identity and bring him to the gallows. Indeed, if,
as I suspect, I have set my mark upon him, I should
have little scruple to speak so decisively as to put
his neck in some jeopardy. To escape this he
would not hesitate to give up the will. It may
perhaps be as well therefore to defer your journey
for a day or two, and let us see if John cannot
strike his trail. Mr. Raby bears your grandfather's
name, William; we must not dishonour
that, if it can be avoided. Let us recover the will,
and we shall have no occasion to go to law for the
purpose of obtaining justice; and no one here or
in England will suspect how we came by it. He
will take care not to ask, and to hush inquiry by
expressing himself to be entirely satisfied.”
John was now summoned, and asked if he saw
which way the incendiary ran.
“Oh, yes, sir,” said he. “You see I hadn't no
notion the house was afire, and I wasn't thinking
of nothing but him. So I run just because I seed
you run, and the minute you fired I jumped on the
wall, and there I sot and looked at him till I heard
the cry of `fire.' I seed him just as plain as I see
you, and I had my rifle, and could have fetched
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him down mighty handy, but then I did not know
who he was nor what he had done. I seed which
way he went plain enough.”
“And have you any notion who it was, John?”
“Lord! no, sir. I don't know nobody in these
parts.”
“Yes you do, John. What do you think of
Montague?”
“The dear Lord!” said John, with a start.
“You don't think it was him, colonel? I God! if
I had thought that I'd have fixed him for slow travelling.”
“I do suspect it was he, John,” said Balcombe;
“and I want you to find out what has become of
him.”
“He's got two days start,” said John; “and if
he has any notion we are here, he's a good way off
before now.”
“I dare say,” replied Balcombe; “but he has
no chance to know that; and besides I suspect
that I fixed him for slow travelling, as you call it,
myself, though not so effectually as you would
have done.”
“Why, you don't think you hit him, colonel?”
“Yes, I do. My pistol went off too soon, but
the ball did not go far from his right shoulder.”
“I God! colonel, if you think you hit him, I'm
pretty sure you did; 'cause you an't apt to send
a ball and not know where it's gone to. If he's
got a slug of lead in him just to stop his headway,
I an't so sure but what I could run him down.”
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“I am sure you can,” said Balcombe. “And as
there are neither deer nor Indians here to amuse
you, you may as well take a turn to hunt for this
fellow.”
“That I will,” said John; “but it's well for the
folks in our country that the deer an't half so scary
and the Indians an't half so cunning as he is. I
only wish I had him in the prairie or a cane brake,
I'd know what to do him there. But here in the
settlements I am mightily afraid he'll dodge me.
Anyhow, I can but take my rifle, and if I can't
do nothing else, I can burst the heads of a few
squirrels.”
“Well, John,” said Balcombe, “remember by
all means not to let him see you.”
“I'll take care of that, sir; but if he was to see
me, with these things on, I reckon he'd hardly
know me, unless he was near enough to look me
right in the eye. If I know myself it's as much.”
John went off, and did not return till night. As
soon as we retired he came to our room.
“Well, John,” said Balcombe, “what luck?”
“Pretty good, I'm a thinking,” replied the
other.
“Did you see Montague?”
“No, sir. I didn't want to see him, because I
didn't want him to see me; but I think I've found
out where he is.”
“Well, come, John,” said Balcombe, “tell us all
about it.”
“Well, sir, you see I went in the field, and I
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took my course just the way I saw him running;
and I looked for a track, but the ground was too
hard frozen that night. Well, I kept on, and I
thought maybe I might see some sign where he got
over the fence. So when I got to the fence, sir, I
looked all along at every pannel as close as if I
had been looking for Indian sign; and at last I
comes to the place where he got over.”
“How did you know it, John?”
“By the blood, sir. There was a good many
drops of blood on the fence, and there was a large
flat rail at top, and there was the mark of his whole
hand as he got over, all bloody; all the four fingers
and the thumb too. And sure enough, as you say,
it was the right hand. So I gets over the fence,
and looks sharp t'other side, where the briers looked
mashed down, almost as if he had fallen on them;
and I do suppose he had, for just there right close
to the fence there was a smart chance of blood,
that looked as if he had laid there some time. So
you see I made pretty sure that he wasn't gone
far. So I keeps right on pretty much the same
course, and looked sharp for blood, but I couldn't
see none; and after a while I comes to a right big
road. So then you see, colonel, I did not know
rightly which end of the road to take, 'cause I
come into it right square. If I had come into it
sorter slantindickler like, I'd have known what to
do. But it wasn't no use standing there, so I starts
on the way my head happened to stand. There
wasn't no occasion to be in any hurry, 'cause, you
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see, I knowed if Montague wasn't clean off before
then he must be pretty close by, and could not get
away directly. So I sees a squirrel, and I downs
him, and picks him up and goes along. Lord! I
could hardly help laughing to think of me going
along with a squirrel in my hand, like he was worth
taking home; and I reckon if all the carcasses of
deer, and elk, and buffalo, that I have left in the
prairies after I took their jackets off, were here,
some of these tallow-faced poor devils that I see
about would get right fat. But I hear 'em say
that everything that has life will do to keep life,
and I thought somebody would be glad of the
squirrel in this scarce country, so I just walks
along the road with him in my hand.
“So I walked a good smart bit, and seed nothing
but poor land and pine woods, till at last I meets a
man. And he had a string of wild ducks in his
hand, and a monstrous great gun on his shoulder,
big enough to swallow my rifle, stock, lock, and
barrel. So I stops him for a talk, and I axed
where he killed so many ducks. And he tells me
down in a place I most think he called it a Pocoson.
(I never heard of any such place before.) And
with that he looks at the squirrel, and he sees his
head all smashed, and he just thought I had done
it with a rock; and he axed me what I did that
for, `'cause,' said he, `the brains is amazing good.'
And then I tell'd him how 'twas, and that I never
hit 'em anywhere else, and he looks at my rifle,
and maybe it did not astonish him. So then he
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looks at his ducks, and he finds one little bit of a
thing, it wasn't much bigger than a partridge, and
he looks at it, and then he looks at the squirrel, and
then at the duck again, and at last says he,
“`I'll give you this here teal for that squirrel.'
“`You are heartily welcome to the squirrel,'
says I.
“Then he looked sorter shamed and sheepishlike,
and says he,
“`I don't want your squirrel for nothing.'
“`Well,' says I, `that's all fair, but your duck is
worth two squirrels.'
“`I dare say it is,' says he; `but I have a particular
use for the squirrel.'
“`Well, then,' says I, `here he is, for I an't got
no use for him at all, and was just looking for
somebody to give him to.'
“So with that he takes it, and looks at it mighty
pleased and smilinglike, and says he,
“`Well, this will do. This is better than throwing
away a whole handful of powder and shot out
of this drotted old gun of mine that takes half a
pound at a load. I an't sorry,' says he, `that I
didn't find one myself.'
“Says I, `You must have wanted a squirrel
mighty bad. But maybe some of your folks is
sick.'
“`Not rightly one of my own family,' says he.
`But I was going out a ducking, and I promised to
kill a squirrel or a partridge if I could see one,
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and I don't make no doubt I'd have got more for
it than would have paid me for my ammunition.'
“So the minute I heard that, says I,
“`Well, if there an't no game this way, it's no
use of my going any further, so I'll just turn back
with you.'
“So we keeps talking as we goes along, and at
last says I,
“`What gentleman is that you say is sick at
your house?'
“With that he started and looked sorter wildlike,
and says he,
“`Sick gentleman! I didn't say there was any
sick gentleman at my house.'
“`Well, maybe you didn't,' says I; for I seed
how it was, colonel, and I didn't want to give the
fellow any scare. So I says no more about that,
and we walks on till I seed where his house was,
and he stops, and I goes on till I was out of sight,
and then I takes the woods and comes home.”
“Did you ask the fellow's name?” said Balcombe.
“No, sir,” replied Keizer; “I hear 'em say it
an't the fashion in this country to ask people's
names; but I reckon I could find out mighty
handy.”
“It's not worth while,” said Balcombe. “Was
he a long-legged, parrot-toed fellow, with a scar on
his right cheek?”
“That's the very fellow,” said John.
“Jim Porter,” said Balcombe. “He is about
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my age, and when I lived here his father paid fifty
pairs of canvass-back ducks annually for the exclusive
privilege of hunting ducks and muskrats in
Mr. Raby's marshes. The good old gentleman
gave me the whole benefit of this rent for my table.
I used sometimes to hunt with Jim; and often
when he has come with his weekly tribute, without
hat or shoes, I have made him happy by telling
him to sell the ducks for his own benefit. I see
that he is somehow bound to Montague, but I think
my hold on him will prove the stronger.”
In the morning Balcombe led the conversation
from a fine brandered duck which smoked on the
table to the marsh from which it had been taken;
and soon learned that Jim Porter had fallen heir to
his father's cottage and occupation. He therefore
needed no guide, and he could never want aid in
a conflict with Montague face to face. I felt it,
however, to be my duty to accompany him, and
as he made no objection, we walked out together
soon after breakfast. Balcombe, who had worn
arms until they were as familiar to him as his
garments, had no occasion to add anything to his
equipment, so that we did nothing to attract observation.
A walk of two or three miles brought us
to Porter's cottage.
He was in act to go out to the marsh, the tide
being then at the proper stage. Balcombe gave
him to understand that his visit was to the gentleman
who was sick there, and was at once told that
there was no such gentleman.
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“Gone!” said Balcombe, quietly. “Well, I have
not lost my labour, Jim, for I am right glad to see
you again. I suppose the poor old man is gone,
and you are just living here in the old place, and
at the old business.”
While he said this, the poor fellow gazed at him
with intense curiosity, and at length exclaimed,
“Why, good Lord! To be sure now! This
an't Mr. Balcombe?”
“Yes it is, Jim,” said Balcombe, extending his
hand. “Your old friend George Balcombe come
back again once more.”
The man seemed much moved, and exhibited an
amusing struggle between habitual respect and
the desire to give free utterance to his pleasure at
seeing Balcombe. After some few kind inquiries,
Balcombe asked Jim when his guest had left him.
The fellow looked a little queer, but at last said,
“I suppose it don't make no difference talking
to you, Mr. Balcombe; but he didn't want anybody
to know he was here, or where he was
gone.”
“He is gone, then?” said Balcombe.
“Oh, yes, sir. He started this morning at daylight.”
“How did he travel?” said Balcombe. “I
thought he had been badly hurt.”
“I don't know about that, sir,” said Jim. “He
did keep a mighty moaning, and he didn't seem to
have the use of his right arm; but he just said he
was sick, and kept his bed.”
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“How long has he been sick?” asked Balcombe.
“Only since Sunday morning. He came in
after I was gone to bed, and in the morning he
said he had caught a mighty bad cold the overnight;
and sure enough he did look desperate
bad.”
“And how long had he been here?”
“He came here little more than a week ago,
sir, and said he wanted to stay with me a while
just to see how things was going on. You know,
sir, he was mighty fond of the old man of all, and
the old man of him. Ah, Lord! I wish we had
him back here again. If you please to believe me,
Mr. Balcombe, they make me pay more now for
hunting in the Pocoson than I used to do when there
were ten times as many ducks; and the devil a
one do they give me back again, but send them all
away to Fredericksburg and them places. Well,
sir, you see Mr. Montague gave me sort of a hint
that maybe all wasn't right, and if every one had
their own, he wasn't sure that poor Miss Fanny
that married Mr. Napier, and has not got a house
over her head, they say, would not be right well
off. So he said he had come here to see if he could
not find out something, and when he went to the
hall they sorter suspicioned him and drove him
away. So he went away a while, and then come
back and staid here so with me.”
“And what made him go away in such a
hurry?”
“Why that's what I cannot find out rightly,”
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said Jim. “I don't believe he had any notion of
it yesterday morning; but when I went out a ducking
he said he would be glad to get a squirrel, and
axed me to kill one for him. So I went, sir, but
never saw one; and as I come back I meets a man
with one, and I wanted to buy it, but he gave it to
me. And he had a gun that he called a rifle. I
never saw one before; and he talked about putting
a ball into a squirrel's eye just as if he had put it
there with his finger and thumb. And sure enough
he had hit the poor thing right in the eye, and scattered
all its brains. So he turned back with me,
and we had a heap of talk, and when we got here
he went on, and I don't know what became of him.
So when I went in says Mr. Montague,
“`Well, Jim, did you kill me a squirrel?'
“`No,' said I, `but I have brought you one I got
from another man.'
“And with that I showed him the squirrel, and
how the fellow had hit him just where he pleased
with a single ball. And as soon as he seed it I
thought he looked uneasy, and says he,
“`That was the very rifle I heard two hours
ago.'
“`Why,' says I, `there's been a good many
people out to-day, and I have heard guns myself
where by good rights nobody ought to shoot but
me.'
“`I reckon they were shot guns,' said he; `but
that I heard was a rifle.'
“`And what's the difference?' says I.
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“Oh,' says he, `they an't no more alike than the
bark of a dog and the howl of a wolf.' And says
he, `Does not anybody about here use a rifle?'
“`No,' says I; `and I never seen or heard of
one before to-day.'
“`Then the man that shot the squirrel had a
rifle?' says he.
“`To be sure,' says I, `else he never could
have done that,' says I, pointing to the squirrel's
head.
“`Did you see it?' says he.
“`Yes,' says I, `and the sorriest, rustiest looking
old thing it was I ever saw. My old gun's a beauty
to it,' says I. `But then the man said she was the
real stuff, and he would give her, he said, for ne'er
a shooting iron in the whole country.'
“And with that, sir, I seed Mr. Montague begin
to look worse than he did, and I thought maybe he
talked too much, and so I told him, and was going
away.
“`No,' says he, `Jim, talking don't do me no
harm, only the light hurts my eyes.'
“And so, sir, he laid back his head upon the
pillow, and puts his hand over his eyes, and then
says he,
“`What sort of a looking man was that, that
had the rifle?'
“So I tells him, sir, he was a little dark-skinned
man, with black eyes.
“`Did he look like a gentleman?' says he.
“`I can't say he did,' says I, `for all he had on
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pretty good clothes, but he didn't look like he was
used to them; and as to his talk,' says I, `sir, he
didn't talk no better than me, nor so well neither.'
“And while I was talking, Mr. Balcombe, I
could not see Mr. Montague's eyes, but the lower
part of his face was as pale as a corpse, and he got
right black about the mouth, and I was scared, and
asked him what was the matter, but he just motioned
me to go away. So after a while he calls
me back, and says he,
“`Jim, is there any chance to hire any sort of a
carriage in the neighbourhood?'
“`No,' says I, `sir, except it be old Tom that
old Mr. Raby set free, and he has got just an old
rattletrap of a gig that he sometimes rides in when
he carries cakes to musters and the like.'
“`Well,' says he, `that must do, if there's no
better to be had. And I have no doubt,' says he,
`old Tom would be glad to oblige me by taking me
as far as Tapahannock.'
“`Why, Lord!' says I, `Mr. Montague, you are
too sick to go.'
“`That's the very reason,' says he. `Besides,
my business wants me at Fredericksburg, and
there I can see a doctor and get help; and,' says
he, `it an't so far to Tapahannock, and there I can
get a carriage. So now, Jim,' says he, `I want to
get to Fredericksburg to-morrow night, and old
Tom must be here before light, and I must be at
Tapahannock a little after sunrise.'
“`Won't that be too much of a journey?' says I.
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“`I cannot help it,' says he; `it's better than
stopping on the road.'
“So with that, sir, I speaks to old Tom, and sure
enough he was here by a little after light, and off
they went.”
CHAPTER XVII.
The bird that sings within the brake,
The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.
Byron.
After some little more conversation we returned
to the hall.
“What is to be done now?” said I.
“Boot and saddle,” said Balcombe, cheerily; “to
horse and pursue.”
Accordingly, we hurried back, and were presently
on the road, after a word of apology and a
promise of explanation to our host. We had not
ridden two miles, before we came to a little grogshop
on the confines of the estate, established, I
have no doubt, for the especial benefit of Mr.
Raby's negroes. Here stood a genuine rattletrap
of a gig, and a sorry old horse, apparently spent
with fatigue, his hair all matted and crusted with
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the sweat that had dried on him as he stood in the
cold air. An old negro was just staggering from
the house, and was in the act of clambering up into
the gig, when Balcombe inquired what he had done
with the gentleman he had taken to Tapahannock.
Tom, who was too drunk to remember any caution
if he had received one, said he had gone on
with his own carriage and servant. This was
poor encouragement; but we pressed on. At Port
Royal we obtained fresh horses, and having learned
that Montague had passed only two hours before,
we made a race from thence to Fredericksburg.
But all in vain. He was there and housed before
we arrived. We tried in vain to find where. At
the principal tavern he had not stopped. So much
we learned with certainty, and this was all that
we could learn, for it was already bedtime when
we arrived.
The next morning John was on the scent betimes,
and ascertained that Montague had stopped
at Falmouth for the night, and had at an early hour
left that place for Baltimore. Here, then, we were
fairly beaten in a straight race; but being at Fredericksburg,
it was as well to execute the business
for which I had proposed to come there, if it should
prove necessary. I accordingly laid my case at
large before an eminent attorney. As there was
no doubt of the result if the papers could be secured,
he determined to take such a course as would
at once put them safely in the custody of the law.
With that view he drafted a bill, to which Mr.
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Edward Raby was made defendant, setting forth the
whole transaction, as I believed it to have taken
place. Mr. Swann was also made defendant, and
was charged with the possession of the will, and
called on to produce it. It was anticipated that in
his answer he would disclaim the possession of any
such paper, unless such a one might be concealed
in the packet, and that he would file that along with
his answer.
Having arranged this matter we returned to our
lodging, where we spent a pleasant evening. In
the morning we called again on the attorney to
obtain the proper process along with a copy of my
bill. He was out at the time, but soon came in
provided with the necessary papers. After some
little conversation, he said he had been called on
the night before by a gentleman whose business he
had declined, because he apprehended that his engagement
with me did not leave him at liberty to
undertake it. On further inquiry, we ascertained
that Montague, on leaving Falmouth, must have
come around by Chatham, and back into Fredericksburg.
We were, of course, eager to learn
where he was; but Mr. L. (the attorney) observing
this, told us he was not at liberty to inform us. I
therefore remonstrated against any concealment
on the part of one whose professional services I
had engaged; but he stopped me short at once, by
saying that it was only professionally that he had
become acquainted with Montague's whereabout,
and though not free to engage in his service, he
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was alike prohibited by the duties of his profession
from disclosing anything which Montague wished
to conceal, and which, in any other character,
would not have been made known to him. To the
scrupulous delicacy of this reserve we could object
nothing, and even felt some hesitancy about acting
so far on what we had learned as to renew our
search for Montague. From this difficulty we were
however relieved by Mr. L., who assured us that
Montague had at an early hour that morning set
out for Baltimore. We had therefore nothing left
for it but to return to Raby Hall.
We returned, accordingly, and I committed to
Balcombe the task of breaking the matter to the
major. There was no occasion to offend him by
taking an officer with us, as his acknowledgment
of the process would answer every purpose. He
was much surprised, but saw at once the solution
of Montague's strange behaviour. He expressed
himself obliged, too, at our having refrained from
giving him any hint of our suspicions, until we had
taken such measures as made the line of duty plain
to him. This was to answer that he had no such
paper as the supposed will unless it was contained
in the packet; to tell how he came by that, and
deliver it into court as a part of his answer.
We were now secure from everything but violence,
unless our conjectures (of the truth of which
we had no doubt) should prove false. As the major
was now effectually on his guard, and Montague
fairly chased off, we ventured to return to
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Craiganet, leaving John at Raby Hall, with instructions
to keep a sharp lookout, and notify us if he saw
any signs of the reappearance of Montague in the
neighbourhood.
Our return was welcomed by the undissembled
pleasure of our friends, which was enhanced by the
history of our late adventures. My confidence
in the ultimate success of our endeavours to recover
my property, seemed now to communicate itself
to my mother and sisters. To Ann the subject
seemed one of less exciting interest, though she
expressed and doubtless felt a quiet pleasure, but
not less deep than theirs, in the prospect of affluence
for herself, and of all the comforts of life for
one who had been to her a second mother. The
day after our return had been appropriated for a
visit to Oakwood, where it was proposed to spend
a few days. As the custom of the country included
in such invitations all chance comers in the invited
family, the arrival of Balcombe and myself made
no difference but the addition of two to the party.
The mother of Howard, as formerly, presided over
the hospitalities of the household, of which he did
the honours in the frank and courteous spirit of a
Virginia gentleman of the old school. I went
with a predetermination to take whatever part
might be assigned me by circumstances; while
Balcombe, who was but a looker-on, promised to
aid me by his observation to ascertain how matters
stood between the several parties. I was agreeably
surprised to find myself, in a good measure,
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discharged from the necessity of giving a very
marked attention to Miss Howard. Whenever I
approached her I found myself received as formerly
with a manner that showed that my person was
respected and my conversation not unacceptable.
But, contrary to his former habit, young Douglas
was seldom absent from his cousin's side, and
always ready to strike into any chitchat in which
she might be engaged. Howard was, as usual,
respectfully and delicately attentive to Ann, still
approaching and addressing her with the same
guarded consideration for all her wishes and feelings,
which displayed not more a desire to please
than a fear of alarming her. I thought, too, that
his attentions were not received with the same
placid satisfaction as formerly. Whether the
pleasure was more or less I could not determine;
but it was not the same.
There was more excitement, more flutter in her
manner, and occasionally I thought I saw a stolen
glance directed towards me, and that her ear
was sometimes listening to catch my words addressed
to others. In this change of partners Jane
and I seemed thrown out of the game, for it was
one we could not play at altogether; and but for
the presence of some other lads and lasses, whose
characters form no part of my history, we should
have been absolute supernumeraries. To this I
had no objection. I had little wish to be attentive
to Ann in company; and the rest, just then, were
more than indifferent to me. I accordingly joined
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myself to Balcombe, and with him mixed in the
conversation, now of one party, now of another,
while he occasionally threw off remarks that
arrested the attention of all.
I was curious, on my sister's account, to discover
whether the attention of Douglas to his
cousin was the spontaneous result of his own feelings,
or the effect of some effort on her part to keep
him near her. I suspected the last, and felt
obliged by finding myself by her own act emancipated
from the necessity of paying constant though
unmeaning attention to her. But was there anything
of coquetry or pique in this? I thought not.
I was always welcomed as a third party in their
dialogues, and not unfrequently appeals were made
to me by which I seemed purposely drawn into
them. But no effort was made to detain me; no
attempt, after engaging me in conversation, to
shake him off. In short, no lady could carry herself
towards any gentleman in a manner more clearly
indicative of every favourable sentiment but
that of love.
Poor Jane I saw was in a state of great uneasiness.
She received as a matter of course from the
young men of the party such attentions as were
paid her; but she took no interest in them. Her
eye wandered continually towards Douglas and
Margaret Howard, and sometimes, as I thought,
looked imploringly at me, and sometimes glanced
reproachfully at Ann. The courtesy of Howard
at length provided her with a temporary relief, by
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seating her at the piano. She played well and sung
in fine taste, so that she appeared to more advantage
at the instrument than in any other situation.
Most of the young men clustered around her,
while Balcombe and I stood aloof.
After playing one or two overtures, she suddenly
struck into that beautiful song of Moore's,
in which he characterizes the constancy of a faithful
heart by likening it to the fancied devotion of
the sunflower to the god of day. This she sung
with a pathos which arrested the attention of the
whole company, and, having closed the strain,
folded her hands in her lap, and sat silent and with
downcast eyes. Immediately some conversation
arose, which I did not at first hear, but to which
my attention was presently drawn by an appeal
from Miss Howard.
“Do, Mr. Napier,” said she, “come here and
talk a little reason to your sister. She is not content
that we shall beguile ourselves, with the aid of
poetry and music, into such pretty fancies as Moore
has expressed in that beautiful song, but she insists
in sober-spoken prose that undying constancy
is the only test of truth in love. She would not
only persuade herself, but others, that neither man
nor woman ever can love more than once with
genuine passion. How say you?”
“I can only say,” replied I, “that her opinion
shows that she has had no proof to the contrary
in her own feelings; and as I have had none, I
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cannot take upon myself to condemn her notion
on the subject. But if we give credence either to
the words or actions of others, we must suspect
her of error.”
“And what,” said Jane, “do the words and actions
of others prove, but that they who are incapable
of that imperishable devotion which alone
deserves the name of love, may feel a hundred
times that which passes with them for it? It will
still be a question whether they ever felt it once.”
“I have never learned to chop logic,” said Miss
Howard, “but I have heard of something which is
called `begging the question.' Is not this something
like it, Mr. Balcombe?”
“I cannot say,” said Balcombe, laughing; “but
if a lady condescends to be a beggar, no gentleman
would deny her suit. Therefore either way
Miss Nepier's argument is unanswerable.”
“Why, really, you gentlemen are so insufferably
polite and acquiescing,” said the lady, “that one
might as well expect truth from a love ditty. So
I suppose we must take Mr. Moore's word for all
that sort of nonsense, because it is in vain to hope
for anything better. Certainly not from Mr. Napier;
but as to you, Mr. Balcombe, I supposed that
you had spent so much time among the unsophisticated
sons and daughters of nature, that the habit
of speaking frankly had overcome the fear of offending.
Now, I do beseech you, if you can compliment
us so highly, imagine us a company of squaws,
and tell us what you think of this matter.”
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“I think of love,” said Balcombe,” as I do of a
fever. He who dies of the first attack will never
have another.”
“But suppose,” said Miss Howard, “he don't
die of it.”
“Then he will get well.”
“And what then?”
“According to Miss Napier, he may be immortal.”
“Pshaw!” said Miss Howard, “you are too
provoking. But what do you say to his case while
he is yet alive, though badly in love?”
“That if he expects to die of it, he never expects
to be in love again.”
“Still you evade the question,” said Miss Howard.
“On the contrary,” said Balcombe, “I offer a
solution to which no one can object. If Miss Napier
expects to die of love, it ought to be satisfactory
to her, and equally so to you, who manifestly
have no such expectation.”
“At least,” said Jane, “I will not affect to misunderstand
you. You clearly are against me.
No one, thinking as I do, could jest with the subject.”
If those who don't think love a jest, Miss Napier,
agree with you,” said Balcombe; “I certainly
am on your side.”
“What, then, seriously speaking,” asked Jane,
“would you admit as a sufficient cause for loving
a second time?”
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“Accident, blind contact, or the strong necessity
of loving,” said Balcombe, carelessly.
“I declare, Mr. Balcombe,” said Jane, “I shall
hate you if you talk so.”
“You must think more favourably of hate than
love, Miss Napier,” replied Balcombe, “if you can
hate on so slight a cause, and yet will not allow
that love shall spring from the habits of social intercourse,
from an interchange of good offices,
from a common destiny, or from that law of our
nature which makes us incapable of happiness
which there is none to share.”
“Well,” said Jane, “for my part, I would not
give a straw for the love of any man who had ever
loved another.”
“Take care, Jane,” said Margaret; “your own
maxim may be turned against you. The time
may come when you would be glad to get a better
market for what is left of your heart, after having
loved more than one.”
“Oh, Margaret!” said Jane, reproachfully.
“Nay,” said Margaret, “I mean no insinuation,
dear; I only mean to say that I have such an
opinion of the indestructible good qualities of your
heart as to believe they can stand the fire of love,
and be none the worse. Now, if you can pay me
as high a compliment, I certainly shall not take
offence at it.”
“I am sure you mean no offence,” said Jane;
“but, really, the idea of having one's heart burned
to a cinder is shocking.”
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“That's your idea,” said Margaret, “not mine.
I only hope the cinder may yet answer to kindle
the fire of love in another bosom. But come, Mr.
Balcombe, let us have one of your oracular responses
on the subject.”
“The ancient sibyl,” answered Balcombe, with
much solemnity, “is the type of her sex. Her
books are the type of woman's heart. They were
a treasure beyond price, containing all that was
necessary to happiness and virtue. This was
alike in all and in every part; and when more than
half were burned, the great arcanum was still
there.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Margaret, dropping a
courtesy. “The compliment deserves my best
courtesy; but I feel interested to have your sex
included in it, because, as I am not quite young
enough for a boy of fifteen, I expect I shall have
to content myself with such small remnant of a
heart as some good man may offer me after having
been in love half a dozen times.”
“It would not become me,” said Balcombe, “to
praise my own sex; but if you will return the
compliment, I will not deny its justice.”
“Then, sir,” said the lady, bowing graciously,
“I pray you to consider it reciprocated in your
own words. And so, my dear Jane, for all that's
come and gone yet, I may hope to pick up of the
rejected leavings of you and Ann, and all the other
belles, a piece of a heart worth having.”
This was said with an arch glance at Douglas
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and myself. He laughed, Jane bit her lip, and
Ann coloured to the tips of her ears. How I
looked I know not; as little can I tell how I felt,
except my delight at observing that some not unpleasant
feeling seemed to mingle with Ann's confusion.
She did not raise her eyes, but I fancied
that they tried to peep through their half transparent
snowy lids at me. She was standing behind
Jane's chair, between Howard and Balcombe.
The latter now turned to her, and said,
“You give no opinion on this subject, my
dear.”
“I cannot,” said she. “William said he could
not condemn Jane's opinion, because he had no
experience to the contrary, and I can neither
condemn nor adopt it, because I have no experience
at all.”
“What a sweet innocent!” said Miss Howard,
with an arch and playful frankness which
showed that what she said did not touch her own
feelings. “Sisterly affection is the warmest feeling
she has ever experienced, and such as it is, I
dare swear it is the warmest she ever will feel.”
“Oh, Margaret!” said Howard, observing that
Ann was overwhelmed with confusion.
“Never mind, Henry,” said his sister; “you
have no need to guard Ann's sensibilities from me.
She knows I love her,” continued she, gliding between
her brother and Ann, and kindly taking her
hand. She knows I love her, and I love her
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because I understand her better than she understands
herself.”
Ann looked up timidly and affectionately in her
face, and meeting her half-tender, half-playful
glance, bowed her head on her friend's shoulder,
and hid her blushes there. Balcombe turned his
quick eye inquiringly on Miss Howard, and she
answered it with a look at me so full of encouragement,
that I could no longer misunderstand her
hint. Howard, with a moody and uneasy countenance,
fell back behind the circle. Jane tore her
handkerchief in the eager vexation with which she
pulled the edge of it, and rising abruptly, broke up
the conversation. There was little disposition to
renew it. Every one seemed thoughtful, and all
but Balcombe and Margaret Howard rather grave.
His eye sparkled as it always did when he saw
his way clearly, and she wore an air of high and
generous excitement, which made her look more
noble in my eyes than any being I had ever seen.
We soon separated for the night, when, holding
out her hand to me, she pressed mine cordially and
unreservedly, and said, “Good-night, Mr. William;”
and then added, in a lower tone, “You have
acted delicately and nobly. You deserve to be
happy, and you will be.”
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CHAPTER XVIII.
“Her sex's dignity is woman's care.”
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For almost the first time in her life Ann had
stolen away without bidding me good-night; and
for the very first time the omission gave me no
pain. I now began to flatter myself that Balcombe's
conjectures were right, and that she was
at length beginning to discover the secret of her
heart. That Howard's attention had at first given
her great pleasure was certain; but it was like the
pleasure of an ingenuous child at any expression of
approbation from one highly esteemed. To the
admiration of such a man as Howard no woman
could be insensible; for none could be indifferent
to the possession of such qualities as alone could
command it. His attentions, too, were so tempered
by respect and delicacy, and managed with
such address, that they could not be unacceptable
in themselves, though he should be an object of
indifference. But now they were not received
exactly as before. Though flattered and gratified,
there was a sort of restlessness in the manner of
the receiver which showed that they awakened
thoughts in which he had no part. These things
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had occurred to me; and Miss Howard's dexterous
hint that what Ann had been accustomed to
consider as sisterly affection was in fact the warmest
feeling of which her warm heart was capable,
could not be misunderstood.
There was something, indeed, in the conduct of
that young lady which I could not comprehend.
Could she have any objection to the success of her
brother's suit? Certainly not. For Ann she expressed
and unequivocally displayed the most cordial
friendship. Towards her brother she manifestly
felt the most devoted affection, and enthusiastic
admiration. It was impossible to doubt that
his happiness was dear to her. One thing at least
was clear; that her imputed partiality to me either
never had existed, or had settled down into sentiments
such as do not often survive a preference
which is not reciprocated. I therefore began to
suspect some mistake in the matter from the first.
In these ideas I found that Balcombe fully concurred.
It may be well supposed, therefore, that
I was impatient to obtain their full confirmation.
My first step would, of course, have been to seek
an interview with Ann; but from this I was restrained
by a solemn promise, the more binding
because she had no security for it but my word.
Not only had I no right to take a step which might
wound her, but I knew that scrupulous regard to
that and all other pledges was indispensable to her
favour. I felt myself, therefore, condemned to
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silence, of which I could not help complaining to
Balcombe.
“You forget,” said he, “that enforced silence is
the most eloquent of all pleaders. She who has
imposed it is all the time speaking to her heart on
your behalf; not indeed to awaken love, (that were
superfluous,) but gratitude and admiration. Under
such circumstances esteem it a privilege to be
silent. If, as I suspect, Margaret Howard is
aware of the interdict, she has left little for you to
say, and will soon obtain leave for you to say that
little.”
“But what motive can she have,” asked I, “to
interest herself in my behalf?”
“I cannot tell,” said Balcombe, “what there may
be besides the manifest generosity of her temper,
and something, perhaps, of that disposition, which
so many women have, to take a part in such matters.
But I suspect some nearer motive besides.
Perhaps a desire to rescue herself from some misconstruction.
But go to sleep, William; and this
time be sure you mingle thanksgivings with your
prayers, for I think I see the dawn of happiness
opening such as may well deserve your thanks.”
The next day I saw, and not without concern,
that Howard's spirits were depressed. His duties
to his guests were obviously a burden upon him.
The excitement of his sister's feelings, too, seemed
painful; and, though she carried herself with the
cheerful air of one sure of the right and bent to do
it, yet it was plain that her mind needed an
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opportunity for that guidance and support which are best
sought in retirement. As our visit was for no determinate
time, we accommodated it to these symptoms,
and in the evening of a somewhat dull day
returned to Craiganet.
The next day, while Balcombe and I were out
with our guns, Howard and his sister drove over.
We returned to the house just as he was about to
leave it.
“I shall ride the servant's horse, Margaret,” said
he; “and you will command him and the barouche
until you choose to go home.”
He said this with polite kindness; but I thought
I saw some little pique in his manner. His brow,
too, was flushed, and his eye wandering; his address
to Balcombe was hurried, and towards myself
there was something quite different from his accustomed
cordiality. In this mood he took his leave;
and our party, after an interchange of sundry
blank looks, separated to dress for dinner. Until
we met at table, Ann did not make her appearance.
As soon as she entered the room, I was struck with
her excited countenance. Her eye swam in light,
her cheek glowed, and, though she manifestly
shrank from the gaze of others, there was an air of
individuality and resolve about her which contrasted
strongly with her accustomed timidity.
Her whole manner was that of one who sees an
object distinctly, with a fixed purpose of pursuing
it. She leaned on the arm of Miss Howard, from
whose countenance every shade of embarrassment
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and perplexity was banished. She was full of animation,
and, with the aid of Balcombe, roused up
the spirit of conversation once more among us. As
soon as dinner was over she called for her carriage,
and I, ordering a horse for the servant, offered to
accompany her.
“No, no, Mr. William,” said she; “you are not
the beau for my money. You belong to the sunflower
school. Mr. Balcombe's versatile notions
of love and gallantry give me better hopes of
him; and if, like Major Dalgetty, he'll take service
with me, I shall be glad to enlist him for the campaign.”
“Under what prouder banner than that of the
white lion,” said Balcombe, “could a soldier
serve? Command me, Lady Margaret; and believe
that, if I have been less prompt to offer service
than you to demand it, it was but because I
thought that younger knights might be more
acceptable.”
“Younger, indeed!” said the lady, “and why
younger? Time was when men did not give themselves
up to selfishness till they grew old; but now
they are so carefully trained to it, that, if a lady
should have need to find a champion fitted to deeds
of chivalrous emprize, she must take one whose
beard is gray. But we have no right to expect
anything better. When woman sets up for herself,
and contends for the mastery with man, she
makes him her rival, not her protector. But come,
Mr. Balcombe; these notions are too oldfashioned
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for our friends here. Let us be off, and discourse
at will of the degeneracy of the men and women
of modern days.”
So saying, she kissed Ann, courtesied to the
rest, and giving her hand to Balcombe, tripped
away to her carriage.
The evening was pleasant, and I proposed a
walk to Ann. She coloured slightly, but assented,
when a glance from Jane brought the blood again
to her face, and she seemed to hesitate.
“Do you doubt my promise?” said I, in a low
voice.
“No, I do not,” said she, firmly; adding, after a
short pause, “and I will walk with you.”
“I have never seen your friend Miss Howard in
so attractive a light before,” said I, as soon as we
had left the house.
“She is a noble creature,” said Ann. “She has
as little of selfishness, and as much zealous devotion
to her friends as human nature is capable of.
You have never seen this before, because you
have heretofore seen her through a discolouring
medium.”
“I do not understand you,” said I.
“I suppose not,” replied Ann; “but I can
assure you that she has as much in common with
your generous friend Mr. Balcombe as befits her
sex.”
“I am glad,” said I, “to hear the approbation of
him which your remark implies.”
“Of him! Surely approbation is quite too cold
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a word for such a character, even in the mouth of
one never benefited by him. But I must be dead
to gratitude if I did not already feel a warm affection
for a man who has perilled his life in our service,
and whose heart seems to cleave to me with
a father's affection. I feel as if I had known him
all my life, and am already disposed to give him
all my confidence, as to a father or elder brother.”
“You will find it well placed,” said I. “A truer
friend cannot be; and his sagacity and wisdom
make him the safest adviser I ever knew. The
qualities that glitter on the surface of his character,
brilliant as they are, are of little value compared
to his intrinsic worth.”
“Poor Margaret!” said Ann. “She said true,
that the cultivated selfishness of the young men of
this day unfits them to mate with a woman capable
of genuine feminine devotion. It is almost a pity
Mr. Balcombe is married.”
“You would not think so if you knew his wife,”
said I. “I have no mind to disparage your friend,
but I am not sure that I know any woman worthy
to be the wife of George Balcombe, but her who
is so.”
I now gave some of the details of our late adventures
for the purpose of illustrating Mrs. Balcombe's
character.
“She is certainly a noble woman,” said Ann;
“but she can hardly be a very agreeable acquaintance.”
“I found her very much so,” said I, “as soon as
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I became an acquaintance. But whether I ever
should have known her, but for the circumstances
which broke down her reserve, is uncertain. As
to your solicitude for Miss Howard,” continued I,
“there seems no great call for that, as from appearances,
she and her cousin Angus are at last
disposed to fulfil the anxious wish of his father.
He is certainly a fine young man, and well worthy
of any woman.”
“That may be,” said Ann; “but old Mr. Douglas
will never see the accomplishment of that
wish.”
“There seems to be a perfect understanding
between them,” said I.
“I believe there is,” she replied, “but not such
as you suppose. They have a great affection for
each other, and the utmost mutual confidence; but
that is all. I profess no skill in such matters; but
knowing Margaret Howard as I now do, it appears
to me that any one may discover that her heart is
yet untouched.”
“Knowing her as you now do,” said I, marking
her emphasis on the word. “You have then
thought otherwise?”
She coloured deeply at this question, and at last
replied simply that she had.
“And whom,” said I, “did you suppose to be
the happy man?”
I felt her relax her hold on my arm as if to withdraw
her's; but she commanded herself, and answered,
with an effort at firmness,
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“I cannot tell you that. It is enough to say that
I now know that I was deceived.”
I did not know what to say to this. I was conscious
that I had rather kept my promise in the
letter than in the spirit; for Ann could not suppose
me to be ignorant that I was the person alluded
to, and that I had wiled from her an admission that
she had been under a delusion concerning me
which was now removed. I felt that I had been
guilty of a breach of faith; but acknowledgment
or apology would but make the matter worse.
But though I reproached myself, I did not fail to
enjoy the discovery of a fact which might explain
her former conduct. I wished to ask if she also
supposed the attachment of Miss Howard reciprocated,
but did not dare to go so far. But of that I
could hardly entertain a doubt. She at length
broke the embarrassing silence by some question
about James Scott, and this led to a conversation
of indifferent matters, in which she got rid of
the slight reserve that had shown itself for the
moment.
Balcombe returned late, and with a mind obviously
full of something; but showed no disposition
to talk. As soon as we went to our room he
began.
“Well, William; I have had a long and interesting
conversation with Miss Howard.”
“And what have you learned?” asked I.
“Much that concerns you,” was the reply.
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“And nothing that has not increased my admiration
of her.”
“For Heaven's sake,” said I, “unbuckle your
mail, then, and give us the news.”
“Softly, softly, my dear fellow. I must begin
at the beginning, if I can find where it is, and tell
my story as she did, so as to do justice to all
parties.”
“Then tell it in your own way,” said I. “Let
me have your conversation.”
“Well, then,” said Balcombe, “we were hardly
seated before she began.
“`Mr. Balcombe,' said she, `you don't deserve
half the credit for sagacity that your friend Napier
gives you, if you haven't found out that I had a
design in thus laying violent hands upon you.'
“`To say the truth,' said I, `I had some suspicion
of the sort; but, as I feared no ill, I was willing
to let time make proof.'
“`I mean nothing but good,' said she, `to you
and your's; but I have that to say which I would
have to reach the ears of your friend Mr. Napier,
just as I say it. But there would be an impropriety
in speaking or writing to him. A third person is
the proper filter to take off any indelicacy from
my communication.'
“She began then by telling me just what I have
heard from you about Douglas and your sister.
“`Angus and I,' said she, `are first cousins; we
have been brought up almost together, and our
intimacy has never been interrupted. I was soon
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apprised of what had been proposed, and he and
I soon came to a perfect understanding. He is a
fine, noble spirited youth, in whose happiness I take
a deep interest, and I saw that his union with Jane
was essential to it. My brother, on a visit to Oakwood,
became enamoured of Ann. My confidence
in his taste and judgment disposed me to think
favourably of any woman whom he might select
as a wife, and I was eager to make an acquaintance
with her. I therefore readily acquiesced in
his proposal to transfer our residence to Oakwood
for a season, and my mother was easily drawn into
the measure. Angus immediately struck at the
opening; and, having taken Henry into our confidence,
it was arranged that my cousin should, with
my connivance, commence such a course of attention
to me, as should make his father wish him to
become one of our party. He was impatient to
see Jane, to show her that he had not changed,
and to assure himself of her constancy. Besides,
he was not without a hope, that Henry's success,
of which (admiring him as we do) we had little
doubt, would reconcile his father to his own marriage
with Jane; so that on every account we
were desirous to do what we might in support of
my brother's suit. Accordingly, after a little delicate
and well-managed flirtation, of which we
took care to have but few witnesses besides my
uncle Douglas, the scheme was proposed by him,
and we all came together to Oakwood.
“`I at once set myself to study the character of
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Ann. I saw that she experienced a pure and childlike
pleasure in Henry's attentions, but that as yet
love entered not into it. I was sure that if her
heart were ripe for love, she had not yet found it
out, and I admonished my brother to make his approaches
with great caution. This he did, and
displayed so much address and delicacy in the
midst of all his tenderness, that, partiality aside,
I had no idea that any disengaged heart could
withstand him. At length he declared his wishes,
but was careful not to press for a peremptory answer.
The poor little flattered thing was so relieved
by this, that I wondered she did not love him
for very gratitude. This feeling did indeed operate
so far as to make her receive his attentions
with as much kindness, and very little more embarrassment
than before. In the mean time, my surprise
at Henry's want of success set me to looking
about for a cause, and I soon saw enough of Mr.
Napier to suspect that I had found one. The devotion
of Henry to Ann, and of Angus to Jane,
had thrown us much together. I found him one
that a girl brought up in the house with could
hardly fail to love, and yet might well love without
knowing it.'
“I will not tell you, William, the points in your
character which led Miss Howard to this conclusion.
“`But I saw,' said she, `that Ann had not found
out her own secret. She was pleased and satisfied
with Henry's attentions; and I was not sorry
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that circumstances put it in my power to prevent
much interruption from Mr. Napier. I soon found
that he was ill at ease. His wandering glances
presently told me that if Ann did not know her
own secret, he had at length discovered his; and
being sure of this, I did not apprehend that I could
do him any injury by receiving, as if from choice,
his enforced attentions. In doing this I did not
dream of anything more than to leave Henry
without interruption to pursue his well-managed
course of attention to Ann, and to give her time to
wean herself from a habit of admiring and leaning
on her cousin, which might in time give birth
to love. As to Douglas, I had discharged him
from all attendance on me as soon as we arrived
at Oakwood; but still it was well the gallantry of
Napier should always be at hand to excuse him to
others for neglecting me. Having established
things on this footing, I quietly awaited what
seemed to me the inevitable result of Henry's
attentions to Ann. In this, however, I was disappointed.
The interruption in our intercourse occasioned
by the death of Mr. Napier may have had
a disastrous influence. But I was led to look further
back for the cause of his failure, and at length
suspected that the place which her cousin occupied
in Ann's heart, seeming as it did to her but that of
a brother, was in truth that of a favoured lover.
On our return to Oakwood, her manifest anxiety
concerning Mr. Napier exceeding that of his sisters,
and at the same time expressed more
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guardedly; the unusual flush of her cold cheek produced
by any allusion to him; her frequent abstraction,
and occasional unconsciousness of my brother's
presence, left little doubt in my mind that my conjecture
had been right.
“`At first I saw this with no feeling but that of
regret on Henry's account. But a circumstance
soon occurred which showed that it touched me
on a more delicate point. I had of late observed
that that amiable, ingenuous girl Laura Napier
had become very much attached to me. She was
always hanging about me, and always ready to
perform the little offices of a younger sister, with a
zeal which showed that she found great pleasure
in them. Not long ago she begged me to let her
take down my hair and comb it, and while thus
employed she kept me amused with her playful
rattle. At length she ventured to say something
of the pleasure with which she looked forward to
the time when I was to be her sister. I started at
this with a vehemence that alarmed her, and in
her eagerness to excuse herself, she assured me
that the whole family considered Mr. Napier and
me as engaged. You may believe that this information
convinced me that in my care of others
I ought to have been more chary of myself. My
inquiries of Laura gave me no clew to the source
or grounds of this tale, and I determined to seek it
of one who might give more satisfactory information.
“`I accordingly inquired of Jane, who knew
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nothing, it seemed, of the origin of the rumour,
but had had no doubt of its truth. This was
provoking. Why did she not doubt it? Oh,
nobody doubted it.
““`Does not Ann doubt it?”
““`Certainly not: how should she? William
is handsome and agreeable; he has been very
attentive; and really,” said she, “he has been so
well received that I could not doubt it.”
““`And Ann?” repeated I; “Does she believe
it? can she believe it?”
“`Saying this, I was going in quest of her, when
Jane said, “Hadn't you better not undeceive her?
It would distress her very much. Her heart is
set on the connection, and the expectation of it
must certainly dispose her more favourably to an
alliance with your brother.”
“`This staggered me, but I presently reflected
that in such matters a woman's first duty is to herself,
not as self, but as one of the guardians of her
sex's honour. I accordingly sought out Ann, and
asked her how she had heard the report. She
seemed much agitated, and instead of answering
my question, asked in turn why I had put it.
““`Because,” said I, “I have learned that it had
reached you, and am anxious to know its source,
as well as anxious to contradict it effectually.”
““`Contradict it!” she exclaimed, with a countenance
of eager surprise, while every feature
quivered with emotion, and she trembled in every
joint. “Is it not then true?”
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““`True!” said I; “certainly not. I never
had a serious thought of Mr. Napier, and I doubt
if he ever thought of me at all. Certainly, if he
did, he never told me so.”
“`While I spoke, she gazed at me with a look
of intense interest, and as I uttered the last words,
her colour flushed over cheek, and neck, and brow,
then faded, then returned, and at last she burst
into tears, and hid her face in my bosom. Jane
would have said she was very much distressed.
But there was no mistaking those tears. They
flowed from the rapture of reviving hope. I did
not probe her heart with words. I saw it plainly
enough. I contented myself with pursuing my
original inquiry, and found that a foolish girl, who
pretended to be my confidential friend, had told
Jane that I had acknowledged a partiality for Mr.
Napier. This was wrong in Jane, Mr. Balcombe.
Doubtless the silly thing had told her so; but she
must have known that I would repose such confidence
nowhere, and certainly not with such a person
as that.
“`From this time I saw that Ann was an
altered being. She was obviously more happy.
Her colour, which had faded, resumed its freshness;
her look of abstraction now became that of
one that chews the cud only of sweet fancies; her
eye brightened; her smile became spontaneous;
and, though less volatile, she was obviously more
cheerful. Mrs. Napier, who had, with all a mother's
solicitude, remarked a former change of the
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opposite character, one day spoke of this to me in
terms which led me to hint my suspicion of the
cause. Judge my astonishment when she assured
me that I must be mistaken; as William, not long
before he left home, had addressed Ann, and was
not only rejected, but condemned to be for ever
silent on that subject. I was the more amazed,
because this conduct was so much the reverse of
that observed towards my brother. I could only
account for it by supposing that she, believing that
idle rumour about me, had considered Mr. Napier
as having trifled unjustifiably with her feelings.
Further inquiry showed that her conduct on the
occasion had been that of one who felt herself
injured and insulted.
“`Now, Mr. Balcombe,' continued the young
lady, `I find that with none but good intentions I
have suffered myself to be made an instrument
of much mischief. Mr. Napier and Ann have
both been rendered unhappy, and my poor brother
has been kept wearing his heart out in a vain
pursuit. Worse than vain it might have been, had
Ann, in the desperation of her wounded feelings,
deserted, and even insulted, as she supposed, by
the man she loved, thrown herself into Howard's
arms, they must have been wretched. Notwithstanding
what I said the other night, I do think
there are hearts that can know no second love.
Ann Napier's is one of them. My first duty was
to undeceive my brother. He could hardly be expected
to take this kindly; and when I advised
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him to urge for a decisive and final answer, he
seemed as if he thought I had turned against him.
But he knows me better; though it is natural he
should feel hurt when he sees me (though he acknowledges
it to be my duty) seeking to repair
my error at his expense. I at length prevailed
with him to put his fate to the final test; and to-day
he did so, with the result I had anticipated.
He is now out of the field, but Napier will hold
himself bound in honour to his promised silence,
and from Ann he will certainly never get a hint
to speak. Now it is for me who made this difficulty
to remove it, and I invoke your aid in doing
so. I mistake very much if you will be long at
a loss to bring together two young people whose
hearts are panting to fly into each other's bosoms.”'
CHAPTER XIX.
Mercutio, thou consort'st with Romeo.
Shakespeare.
“This,” continued Balcombe, “is the substance
of Miss Howard's communication. Now go to
sleep and dream about it, and to-morrow we will
think what is to be done.”
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I would at once have entered into the discussion
of measures, but Balcombe cut me short by saying,
“What you are bound not to do in person, you
have no right to do by another. I am free to act
as I please. Leave me so, and beware of proposing
that I shall do anything; for whatever you may propose,
that I certainly will never do.”
I could reply nothing to this. I saw that with
all Balcombe's zeal for my happiness, his aid was
like some talismans of which we read in oriental
tales, the virtue of which was lost to the possessor
the moment fear entered his heart, or any temptation
turned him from the straight line of duty. I
therefore obeyed him so far as to hold my tongue.
Whether I slept much the reader will judge.
After breakfast the next day, when my mother
went to her household affairs, and Laura to her
lessons, Balcombe detained Ann in the parlour by
some slight pretence, and then kept her in chat too
busily to let her get away. I would have left
them, but I found that Jane, with a countenance
of great demureness, was fixing herself to her
work, with a full purpose to sit them out. I loitered
a moment, trying to devise some means to
draw her away, when Balcombe, with his accustomed
directness, said to Ann,
“I wish to have some private conversation with
you, my dear. Where shall it be?”
Jane instantly rose, and without raising her
eyes, began to gather up her work, saying something
about leaving the room to them, in that
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peculiar tone which is meant to be soft and complying,
but which, proceeding from the lips of a woman, is
a sound that no practised ear will ever hear without
some apprehension of mischief. For my part,
I seized my gun, and betook myself to the fields;
but whether I saw hare or partridge that day,
the reader knows as well as I. As little do I know
how long I was out. It might have been a century,
or perhaps not more than half as much. It
certainly was no short time, though I am not sure
that the sun had moved more than fifteen or twenty
degrees before I returned to the house. As I entered,
Balcombe opened the parlour door and met
me with a smile and an extended hand. He took
mine, led me into the room, drew back, and closed
the door after him. Ann was there, and alone.
What passed? That, reader, you shall never
know. As a stranger, you cannot complain that
you have not enough of my confidence. I know
that there is precedent of high authority in favour
of my telling you of every word, and look, and
tear, and blush. But you must be content to know
that I left the room the plighted lover of one to
whom, the day before, I had not been at liberty to
speak even the name of love.
What passed for some days after this I do not
remember. My brain was in a whirl, my mind
in a tumult of bliss. I was greeted with the warmest
gratulations by my dear mother, who lost sight
of all prudential considerations in contemplating
the happiness of her children. Laura was
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perfectly wild with delight, and even Jane felt the
necessity of trying to seem glad. She made a
poor hand of it. She was gloomy and sad, and I
thought it cost her an effort not to be peevish and
morose.
The cause of this, perhaps, may have been that
she saw nothing of Douglas. During our last visit
to Oakwood, he had paid her little attention, and
seemed wholly occupied with his attractive cousin.
Several days had now passed, and he had not
come near us. I had no right to complain that
under such circumstances Jane thought more of
herself than of me. At last he came, but in attendance
on Miss Howard. I was sitting with Ann
in the little parlour when they drove to the door.
She leaped from the barouche, and while he staid
to give some orders about the horses, ran into the
house, and entered the parlour.
One glance at Ann's blushing countenance told
her all. She stopped, and looked first at one and
then at the other, until Ann, advancing, took her
hand. Miss Howard, without speaking, stooped
to kiss her, when the timid girl suddenly bowed
her head, and hid it in the bosom of her friend.
Miss Howard caressed her tenderly, and then
looking up at me, with a smile and a tear, said,
“All right! all well! Thank God! thank God!”
She extended her hand to me, and had just disengaged
herself from Ann's embrace, when Douglas
entered. The family now collected, all but
Jane. After a while I went to look for her.
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Nobody wanted to see her, she said. Besides,
she had never permitted herself to sit in the parlour
since the day she had been dismissed from
thence so cavalierly. I tried to rally away her
ill humour, and told her she was not sure she
might not have her turn in the exclusive use of
that room before night.
As it chanced, I had an opportunity to fulfil my
prediction. In the course of the evening, finding
none but her, Douglas, and myself in the room, I
went out, after casting a significant look at her,
which she answered by biting her lip, and looking
anything but amiable. What passed I never knew.
She was plainly out of humour with Douglas, and
a lover's quarrel, with its usual consequences, was
a matter of course. When we met again, I saw
that a perfect understanding had been restored,
but the countenance of Douglas showed that some
unpleasant feeling was on his mind; while Jane,
with the complacency of secret satisfaction, demurely
kept her eyes upon her work.
Once or twice I saw her glance at Balcombe
with some slight expression of malicious pleasure,
for which I was unwilling to account by attributing
such a feeling to the part he had acted between
me and Ann. Perhaps he had incurred her displeasure
by taking less notice of her than of either
her cousin or sister. But the grounds of his attachment
to Ann were natural and had been openly
avowed. No invidious distinction was implied in
his preference of one with whom he had been
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domesticated when a child. As to Laura, she had
taken to Balcombe at first sight, and her playful
manners had long removed every feeling of
strangeness on his part. Jane, on the contrary,
not only to him but to every person, bore herself
habitually with an air which not only forbade any
familiar approach to herself, but seemed to rebuke
it between others. She had therefore no right to
complain, or be hurt that she did not receive more
of his attention than he had reason to believe would
be acceptable to herself. But perhaps she thought,
as I sometimes did, that Balcombe had looked on
her with an air of suspicion, and had tasked his
keen sagacity to find out what part she might have
had in weaving the tangled web which he had set
himself to unravel. But this was now past; and
having accomplished his object he had thrown himself
into our amusements and conversations like a
playful child, forgetful of the past, reckless of the
future, and intent only on the present moment.
An occasional allusion to his wife and child alone
showed that he had a thought or feeling not in
common with us all. Them he was impatient to
see; but the interval between the adjustment of
my little affair with Ann, and the session of the
chancery court at Fredericksburg, was too short
for a visit to them. It was his wish, too, to bring
them to see us, but the unsettled condition of our
affairs forbade that.
At a late hour Douglas returned to Oakwood,
leaving Miss Howard. The next morning he
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came back, and handed her a letter from her brother.
She seemed a good deal moved while reading
it, but presently called for the barouche and
prepared to go home. The movement was so unexpected
as to excite some solicitude, with earnest
remonstrances from our whole party against her
departure. Jane seemed particularly uneasy, and
pressed so eagerly to know the cause of Miss
Howard's sudden departure, that I saw she hoped
to obtain, by that means, a sight of the letter that
occasioned it. She was not gratified, however;
and I thought the young lady met her expostulations
with an air in which there was something of
reproach. At length Jane made up to Douglas,
and I thought she asked the explanation of him.
His answer seemed to increase her uneasiness,
and in the close of the conference I thought I heard
him say,
“We could not have anticipated any such thing;
but his feelings are so wrought up that he cannot
stop on any middle ground. But this will not prevent
my seeing you as often as possible, though
not so often as heretofore.”
They now left us to wonder and guess; for Miss
Howard displayed great emotion at parting, expressing
strongly in some way her feelings towards
each of us; affectionate reverence for my mother,
the highest respect for Balcombe, kindness to me,
fondness to Laura, the most melting tenderness to
Ann, and a something the reverse of all these to
Jane. This last, however, was only manifested
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so far as a lady may properly permit herself to
display such feelings.
The very next day, in riding out, Balcombe and
I met Howard. He looked wretchedly, was much
reduced, and the momentary flush which passed
over his face at the first encounter was succeeded
by ashy paleness. His salutation to me was
friendly, though I saw that he shrank from the
touch of a favoured rival's hand. To Balcombe
he merely bowed with stately coldness, which
seemed unnoticed by him. I now expressed my
regret that we had seen so little of him, reminded
him of our long visit, and pressed him to return it.
To all this he answered evasively at first; but at
length said,
“I perceive that my sister did not deliver my
message yesterday. It was not exactly suited to
a lady's mouth, but she might have handed you
my note. Did she do so?”
“She did not. What message could she have
been charged with which should have prevented
me from saying anything that I have now said?”
“I will tell you,” said Howard, gravely. “I
charged her to give you an assurance of my continued
esteem and friendship, but to say to you
that I could neither visit in person, nor permit her
to visit at a house, where we must meet on equal
terms, and treat as a gentleman, an impertinent
intermeddler in other men's affairs.”
I was completely thunderstruck at these words;
and Balcombe, with all his quickness, did not seem
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at once to understand them. As soon as he did
he said, with perfect calmness,
“If I could perceive any motive, sir, that you
can have to fasten a quarrel on me, I should suppose
that remark was meant to apply to me.”
“You have no concern with my motives, sir,”
said Howard. “It is enough for you to know that
the remark was meant for you. But I have no
need, it seems, to tell you that. Conscience was
beforehand with me, and leaves nothing for me but
to punish the offence.”
“Mr. Howard,” replied Balcombe, speaking
with measured deliberation, “I have heretofore
cherished a high respect for you, and the most perfect
good will. I should now be loath to be angry
at anything you may say under the influence of a
distempered excitement. But it is necessary to
admonish you, sir, that he who attempts to inflict
unmerited punishment, must himself be punished.”
During the first part of Balcombe's speech,
Howard had permitted his countenance to relax
into cool scorn, at what perhaps seemed to him an
ill-timed expression of regard. The last three
words, and the startling coldness of the emphasis
upon them, completely undeceived him, and threw
him into a paroxysm of rage.
“Punishment, sir!” exclaimed he. “Do you
talk of punishment to me?”
“Such punishment as you talked of to me, sir,
exactly such as you propose to inflict, just such
shall recoil on your own head.”
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“I understand you, sir,” said Howard. “For
the sake of a paltry advantage you would affect to
consider me the party aggrieved. You are welcome
to it, sir, if you think that any call that I can
make upon you will discharge the indignity which
I have just hurled in your teeth. I repeat, sir,
that you are an impertinent intermeddler in other
men's affairs.”
“And I,” said Balcombe, “must be savage indeed
if I could wish to add to the torture which a
man bred in the school of honour must endure,
when he comes to reflect on having uttered what
he knows to be false.”
“False, sir!” exclaimed Howard, foaming with
rage.
“False, sir,” said Balcombe. “Your sister's
ingenuousness is my pledge that she told you what
passed between us. You know of my relation to
Ann and William Napier. Therefore you know
that what you have said is false.”
“It is well, sir,” said Howard, recovering himself.
“I am glad that you will soon know that I
have not sought to withhold the advantage which
you have endeavoured to secure by this insolence.”
He now touched his hat, and moved on
haughtily.
“I am sorry for that young fellow,” said Balcombe.
“His life has been one of such prosperity,
that he is utterly incapable of bearing disappointment.
His unquestioned right to everything he
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has wanted heretofore, makes him imagine that he
must be wronged when any wish is not gratified.
He is obviously quite beside himself; and if I am
to judge by his last speech, he has already entered
on some course of measures to obtain redress for
his imagined wrong.”
“How do you infer that?” asked I.
“He seems,” said Balcombe, “to think that I
wished to bandy insults with him, that I might
secure to myself the privilege of the challenged
party, and this, I understand, his magnanimity has
already accorded to me.”
“Good God!” exclaimed I, “is it possible he has
been guilty of such folly?”
“The man is mad,” said Balcombe, “and must
be dealt with as a madman.”
Arriving at home, we found Douglas there. He
was chatting with the ladies, and seemed more
than usually gay. Premonished, however, as to
the purpose of his visit, I discovered that he had
something on his mind, and was not surprised to
see him seize an occasion to speak apart to Balcombe,
and slip a note into his hand. I guessed
the nature of it, and soon gave the latter an opportunity
to speak to me.
“As I conjectured,” said he, putting the paper
into my hand. “This pampered child of fortune
has actually summoned me to the field.”
“Surely,” said I, “you don't mean to fight on
such a fool's quarrel as this?”
“Had I not been personally insulted this
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morning,” said Balcombe, “I might have thought it my
duty to find some pacific means of bringing the
young man to his senses; as it is, he must take
course, until he brings up with the consequences
his own folly.”
“Say rather madness,” said I. “He is incapable
of anything so silly or unjust as this would be
considered as the act of a man in his right mind.
It is perfect phrensy.”
“You say right,” said Balcombe, “and I
therefore not indulge the idea of punishing it.
I must do the best I can to do myself justice with
out hurting him.”
“And what will that be?” asked I.
“Let time and circumstances decide,” said
combe. “Mean time speak with Douglas, and
him, that after what passed to-day, I waive all the
privileges of a challenged party, and not only
cord to Mr. Howard the satisfaction he claims,
leave it to him to decide on all the circumstances
of time, place, and mode.”
“Do you not make an important and
concession?”
“Not at all,” said Balcombe. “I shall not
to humour this foolish boy. I do it only to
my own honour, and that is not to be done by
measures. I shall therefore give him all the game
into his own hands, and let him play it as he will.”
“This is provoking,” said I, “that one
folly should have power to neutralize the wisdom
of another.”
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“It cannot be helped,” said Balcombe. “As
long as God is pleased to send fools into the world,
they must be treated according to their folly. We
must defend ourselves against all noxious animals,
each according to his nature, and that of his attack.
A helmet is no defence against a rattlesnake, nor
can all the wisdom of man protect his honour from
the poisonous breath of insult, but by showing a
spirit to repel and chastise it.”
“Still,” said I, “at your time of life, and with
your established character, it seems superfluous to
incur a peril which may leave your wife and child
without a protector. I do wish, therefore, you
would authorize me to try to accommodate this
matter with Douglas.”
“I have no objection,” said Balcombe, “to your
listening to any suggestions Mr. Douglas may make,
but none must come from us. I dare say he begins
to repent of the hand he has had in this foolish
business, but he must pacify his own conscience as
he may. As to my wife, were the peril real and
formidable, she would never have me shrink from
it. But there is no danger, in fact, and I am half
ashamed to see that you are giving me great credit
for coolness, and all that, when there is nothing at
all to jar my nerves.”
“The idea is new to me,” said I, “that there is
no danger in such rencounters.”
“They are dangerous enough,” said Balcombe,
“but little so to a man whose familiarity with
greater dangers has given him command of his
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nerves and weapons, unless he meets one having
the same advantages.”
“He is a capital shot,” said I.
“I dare say he is,” replied Balcombe; “but the
skill of a man who can shake with rage as he did
to-day is of little avail. He who cannot command
one feeling has but little power over any other. I
don't mean to question Mr. Howard's courage. I
have no doubt he is brave. But the bravery which
shall enable a man to possess all his faculties in
danger, is not commonly found in men who have
never had to contend with their own passions.
But enough of this. You must see Douglas and
arrange preliminaries.”
I did see Douglas, and communicated Balcombe's
resolution. He seemed surprised that he
should renounce his privilege, but saw the sufficiency
of his motive as soon as I told him what had
passed in the morning.
“At least,” said he, “I shall give Howard a
little advantage as possible. Indeed none; as
shall name pistols, and I presume Mr. Balcombe
a good shot. But I must ask the liberty to
present when you communicate the result of
conference. I don't expect he will offer any objection,
but I may discover if anything is unacceptable
to him, and take occasion to change it.”
We accordingly made a formal set of regulation
by which the proposed combat was to be governed
of which each took a copy, and giving a hint
Balcombe, we all walked out together. I the
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handed Balcombe the paper, which he read without
suggesting any difficulty. As we were about to
separate, however, he said,
“Mr. Douglas, it is but fair to tell you that you
have perhaps given me an advantage of which I
ought not to avail myself. I see you limit us to
fire after one and not after three. Now, sir, I am
so quick a shot, that this short notice is altogether
in my favour.”
“I admire your frankness, sir,” said Douglas,
“and at your suggestion will substitute five for
three; but my friend will perhaps have no more
occasion for the additional time than you.”
“Perhaps not,” said Balcombe; and drawing
his pistol at the moment, he cocked it, threw a
dollar into the air, and struck it as it fell.[2]
“You see,” said he to the astonished Douglas,
“that I have dealt fairly with you. This is not
done by way of bravado, to be reported to Mr.
Howard. On the contrary, on his behalf I advise,
and on my own I beg, that you will say nothing of
it to him.”
“You are right, sir,” said Douglas; “I will be
silent; and the time shall be enlarged from three
to five.”
The hour was now fixed for twelve o'clock the
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next day, during our morning ride, at a place convenient
to both parties; and Balcombe, leaving us,
returned to the house alone.
“This is a foolish business, William,” said
Douglas.
“It is so,” I replied, “and I am afraid you have
had some hand in it.”
“I fear so too,” said he, “though I have earnestly
endeavoured to prevent it. But there is a
desperation in Howard's feelings that will hear no
reason. I had no idea that he would be so moved
at the information that I gave him, especially as,
his own pretensions being withdrawn, he had
really no right to take offence.”
“And what information did you give him?” I
asked.
“Only what Jane told me, that the match between
you and Ann was brought about by Balcombe's
interference.”
“And did Jane tell you that?”
“Yes. She had no time to give particulars;
but when I inquired how the barrier which prevented
your approach to Ann on that subject had
been removed, she gave me that answer.”
“Where you aware of that barrier?” said I.
“I was.”
“By what means?”
“From Jane.”
What could I say to this? Jane was my sister,
and Douglas but an instrument in her hands. He
had, indeed, made her fault his own, but I could
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never hold him responsible for it. I could but be
mortified and hurt, and bear my mortification in
silence. Indeed, seeing no motive for Jane's conduct,
and not suspecting that it could spring from
the mere wantonness of causeless malice, I could
only attribute it to indiscretion. At least I should
have been glad to do so; but I could not help
remembering that her whole manner showed that
she took little interest in my happiness, and had
thoughts and feelings of her own, of which none
of the family were made partakers.
My uneasiness at the probable consequence of
the adventure was of course increased at finding
that it had had its origin in the folly of my own
sister, and I thought with horror of the punishment
she had perhaps prepared for herself. Of all this
I could say nothing to Douglas. His esteem was
necessary to her happiness, and the care of that
was still my duty.
He left us after dinner, and returned to Oakwood.
I passed the evening and night in great
uneasiness; but Balcombe was calm and cheerful
as usual, and slept like an unweaned child.
eaf402v2.n2[2] There is no exaggeration in this. Lieutenant Scott, of the
United States army, has a thousand times performed feats with
the pistol, to which this is but a trifle. The fatal result of duels
so common in the western country, is in accordance with the specimen
of skill here given.
-- 232 --
CHAPTER XX.
Beware of entrance into quarrel; but, being in,
Bear it, that the opposer may beware of you.
Shakespeare.
[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
In the morning, as we rode together to the
ground, he said to me,
“I see you feel some solicitude on my account,
and more, perhaps, on that of your friend Howard.
I will tell you, therefore, that I don't mean to hurt
him, or to let him hurt me.”
“The first,” said I, “depends on your will, but
how will you guard against the other?”
“Quite easily,” he replied. “Our pistols are to
be held perpendicular until the word `one' is uttered;
and I have no doubt that I can strike his
from his hand before he can bring it down.”
“Will you not throw away your fire on a ticklish
experiment?” said I.
“If it were doubtful,” replied he, “I would not
hazard it. I would make his arm my mark, and,
as it is, I shall take care if I miss the pistol to strike
that. I stipulated to have the time prolonged on
purpose that he might not be hurried. Douglas
will certainly advise him not to contend vainly for
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the first shot, and his dependence will be on firing
deliberately after drawing my fire. So be under
no uneasiness on my account.”
We reached the ground in time. Douglas and
Howard were there already. The latter seemed
quite resolute, but his air was haughty and constrained,
and his manner rather cold than simply
cool. Balcombe, on the contrary, was bland, courteous,
and easy in his deportment, displaying the
same unpretending simplicity of character which
always graced his noblest actions. The one either
required, or thought he required an effort to
command himself. The other made none, and
needed none.
The ground was measured, and the parties
posted. Douglas gave the word; and hardly had
it reached my ear before I heard the report of Balcombe's
pistol, and saw that of Howard fly from
his grasp. I perceived by the twitching of his fingers,
that the hand was, for the time, disabled by
the jar, but he immediately asked for another pistol.
I now said, in a low voice, to Douglas,
“Are you aware that that shot was not accidental?”
“How do you mean?” said he.
“I mean that Balcombe told me he would do
exactly what he has done, and the precision of his
shot shows that the life of Howard was absolutely
in his power.”
“You say true,” said Douglas. “Howard must
know this.”
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He accordingly approached his friend, and told
him in a low voice what I had said. I never saw
mortification and perplexity greater than the countenance
of Howard displayed at this communication.
At length he said aloud,
“I see, gentlemen, that I can go no further with
this business. But I am sensible I ought not to
accept my life at Mr. Balcombe's hands without
making an apology, which, wronged as I am, I do
not in my conscience feel to be due.”
On hearing this I turned to Balcombe, whose
countenance, now for the first time, showed resentment.
I asked him privately whether he would
insist on an apology from Howard.
“None is necessary,” said he. “But to him I
do not say so. I am here at his bidding. I promised
that his proposed punishment should recoil
on his own head, and I shall not help him to escape
or mitigate it.”
I was now asked if Mr. Balcombe required an
apology, and replied that Mr. Balcombe had no
answer to give.
“What did he propose?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he wish another fire?”
“To that he had no answer to give.”
The perplexity of Howard was now at its
height; and he at length sought to escape it by
saying that if Mr. Balcombe would do nothing
else, the business for which he came must go on.
To this Balcombe only replied by coolly holding
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out his hand to me for another pistol. This, of
course, I did not give him. Howard had received
his before his friend had been informed of Balcombe's
intention; but Douglas insisted on knowing
whether Mr. Balcombe would fire at Howard.
To this question he received no answer, and then
declared that the affair should proceed no further.
Howard immediately, with an impatient gesture,
turned, moved a step or two, and then went back
to Douglas. Balcombe remained stationary. Observing
this, I said to him, that Mr. Howard having
left his post, he was at liberty to do so too.
“I am aware of what Mr. Howard has done,”
said Balcombe; “but, as I don't mean to govern
myself by his example, I shall stay here until I
am discharged by the voice of his friend.”
“You are discharged, sir,” said Dougals, giving
his hand to Balcombe. “You have done all that
becomes a gentleman.”
“Then,” said Balcombe, without moving, “I
have done nearly all that I proposed. But I have
kept my promise to Mr. Howard but in part.
The full weight of the punishment he proposed for
me must now fall on his own head. I will now say
that I ask no acknowledgment from him. I have
no need to ask it. If he is satisfied without redressing
the wrong he imagines he has received,
or acknowledging that which he has actually done,
it is his affair, not mine. It is enough for me to
know that Mr. Howard can have no doubt that the
injurious language applied by him to me is not
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warranted by the fact. I can have no interest in
his admitting this. That is a matter which concerns
his own honour. Mine is clear.”
While Balcombe said this, Howard stood pale
and ghastly, with his eyes fixed on the ground.
During the last sentence he lifted them, and glared
wildly on Balcombe, and then turning fiercely on
Douglas, said,
“How is this, sir? Is it in your keeping that
my honour has been tarnished?”
“Had you acted by my advice, Henry,” replied
Douglas, “I should hold myself bound to answer
that question.”
“By your advice!” cried Howard. “And was
it not by your advice I left my post?”
“Yes,” said Douglas; “but against my consent
you first took it. But if you think your honour
can be cleared by lifting your hand against the
life of one who has given you yours, you can resume
it. Mr. Balcombe is still at his post.”
“My life! my life!” cried Howard, furiously.
“And is it that paltry boon, the enforced acceptance
of which has bound me hand and foot to submit
to dishonour and insult?”
Saying this, he suddenly turned his pistol against
himself. It was not cocked, and Douglas, wresting
it from his hand, fired it in the air. The fury
of Howard was now uncontrollable, and he was
restrained with difficulty from doing mischief to
himself or others. His impotent struggles at length
exhausted the violence of his passion. He sunk
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into a sort of sullen calm, and permitted himself
to be led by Douglas to his barouche, and carried
home.
On our part we took the road to Craiganet.
Balcombe rode a while in silence, and at length
said,
“I can never be thankful enough to Heaven for
having been enabled to save myself without hurting
that unfortunate young man. I only regret
having said so much before I discovered his situation.”
“What have you discovered?” I asked.
“That he is actually mad,” said Balcombe;
“unequivocally mad. You will find it so. His
disappointment has shaken his brain, and his phrensy
would naturally turn itself against you or me.”
This idea had not occurred to me before; but I
now clearly saw that it was well founded, and rejoiced
with Balcombe at his forbearance. We
reached home too early to give occasion to any
remark on our absence; and, but for my concern
on account of poor Howard, I should again have
enjoyed without alloy the pleasures which flow
from the perennial fountain of love avowed, approved,
and reciprocated. There was, indeed, another
drawback. I could not consider Jane as the
intentional author of the mischief that had been
done, but her cold selfishness, her heartless indifference
to the happiness of her friends, her ingratitude
for Balcombe's generous zeal in our service,
and her peevish disposition to take offence at
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everything in which her wishes were not chiefly consulted,
were sources of deep mortification. What
effect the discovery of what had just passed might
have upon her I could not anticipate. It could
not change her nature, but I did hope it might
bring her to a sense of her fault, and dispose her
to live in future not so wholly for and in herself.
Her very attachment to Douglas seemed, indeed,
but a modification, and a slight one, of her ruling
principle of self-love. Decidedly his superior in
intellect, she exercised over him an influence
which seemed exerted only for her own gratification.
Indeed, her chief delight appeared to be in
the amusement she found in playing on his feelings.
She was well-pleased to make him happy;
but if that could not be, the next best thing was to
make him miserable. That she should form no
part in the happiness or misery of any with whom
she had to do, and of him especially, was what she
could not bear. That he should be either grave
or gay, merry or mad, or neither, without her
agency or in spite of her, was nothing short of
high treason. Poor fellow! the spell was upon
him, and he could not break it. She had talent,
accomplishment, beauty, address, and tact; and it
was vain to expect that he should ever escape
from her toils. He was much her junior, too; a
circumstance that, up to a certain age, much increases
a woman's power over her lover. As her
brother, I was glad to have his constancy thus secured;
as his friend, I might have regretted it.
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[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
But, though an amiable and honourable young
man, he had not the qualities which I would choose
in a friend, though I could not object to him as a
future brother-in-law.
We saw nothing of him for a day or two, nor
did we hear directly from Oakwood. A flying
rumour, indeed, reached us, that Howard was ill
and delirious. Of the truth of this Balcombe and
I had little doubt; but it was our cue to seem to
disregard it. At last the intelligence came direct
in a note from Douglas to Jane, excusing his absence.
My mother immediately urged me to visit
Howard. I made such objections as I could without
hinting at the truth, but they were overruled.
I could ascertain whether the sight of me might
have an injurious effect, and keep myself aloof, if
necessary. I went, accordingly, and at the door
was met by Miss Howard, who seemed in the
greatest distress.
“For God's sake, Mr. Napier,” said she, “what
can be the matter? My poor brother raves continually
about Ann, and you, and Mr. Balcombe,
and dirks, and pistols, and duels; and seems, at
times, bent even on self-destruction. Surely he
has not been so unreasonable as to quarrel with
you?”
“Not at all,” said I, “I have seen him, and we
parted on the most friendly terms.”
“His pique against Mr. Balcombe,” said Miss
Howard, “is the most unaccountable thing; and if
it is not altogether the effect of the disorder of his
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[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
mind, I ought perhaps to rejoice that his illness
disables him to prosecute his revenge.”
I now inquired for Douglas, and ascertained that
the tone of Howard's ravings generally softened
whenever my name occurred to him, and that he
seemed to connect me in his imagination with the
happiness of Ann, of whom he always spoke with
the most melting tenderness. We thence inferred
that the sight of me might be rather beneficial to
him than otherwise. I accordingly proposed to
Douglas to conduct me to his room.
I found him in bed, pale and squalid, with his
hands and face besmeared with blood, which I
supposed had been taken from his arm. As I entered,
he looked at me with a stupid, vacant gaze,
in which there was little of recognition, and, as I
approached the bed, held out his hand in silence.
I took it, and he, grasping mine, continued to keep
his eye upon me. For a moment a glimpse of
meaning gleamed in it, and then relapsing into the
same appearance of stolidity, he let go my hand,
and hid his under the bedclothes. I seated myself
by him, and remained silent. In a few minutes
he turned to me, and said, in a deep, hoarse
whisper,
“Did you say she was well?”
“She is,” said I, guessing at his meaning.
“And happy?” added he.
“As happy,” said I, “as her concern for your
illness will permit.”
“Her concern for me!” he exclaimed, with a
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[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
wild, dissonant laugh. “But she is good. Yes,
she is concerned for me,” he added, in a touching
tone. “She is so good. But she must not mind
me. She must be happy. I am well—very
well.”
Saying this, he raised himself, and seemed about
to leave his bed, when he fell back dizzy with loss
of blood. Indeed, I ascertained that the calm state
in which I found him had been the effect of profuse
and repeated bleeding, which had left him
utterly exhausted. I learned, also, that he had
passed several days without sleep, and that anodynes
had been administered which appeared to
have composed him. The doctor, it seemed, looked
to sleep as his great auxiliary, and his efforts now
were to bring that to his aid.
Finding the effect of my presence not injurious,
I determined to spend the night by his bedside, and
give poor Douglas a chance to snatch some repose.
I accordingly obtained the necessary instructions,
and after supper took my post for the night. My
patient continued until a late hour to oscillate between
stupor and occasional fits of excitement.
At length after midnight he sank into a profound
sleep. About daylight I roused Douglas, and went
to bed. It was near noon when I awoke, and
Howard still slept. When I entered his room he
lay still and pale, and but for his low deep breathing
I should have thought him dead. I was impatient
to see him open his eyes, for I could not look
at him without fearing he might never open them
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[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
again. But the doctor, stealing his hand to the
pulse of the patient, pronounced that he was doing
well, and encouraged us to hope he would awake
in his senses.
He was not mistaken. Howard at length slowly
opened his eyes, and looked around the room with
a countenance intelligent and calm, though bewildered.
He looked inquiringly at every person
present, then at his hands, and at the bloody bedclothes,
and at length said,
“What does all this mean? Have I been ill?”
Being told that he had been, he asked a few
more questions, the answers to which seemed to
awaken a sort of dreaming recollection. After
musing some minutes, he requested all to leave the
room but Douglas and me. Then turning to him
he said,
“How is this, Angus? How much of this is
true—how much a dream?”
“I cannot tell that,” said Douglas; “but you
have been ill, and delirious many days.”
“Then I have perhaps imagined it all?”
He relapsed into silence, and at length with
some quickness asked for his pistols. Douglas
brought him one.
“The other! the other!” said he. “I want
both.”
Douglas now handed him the other, which had
been shattered by Balcombe's ball. It had struck
near the lock, and torn it off. As Howard looked
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[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
at it his pale cheek flushed slightly, and closing his
eyes he said,
“It was no dream. Where is Mr. Balcombe?
Not hurt! was he? I hope not. I think not.
Perhaps I don't remember all things aright.”
“He is well,” said I, “and will be learn
that you are better.”
“I thank him,” said Howard. “He is a noble
fellow. Have I not acted foolishly, wickedly,
madly? I fear so. I wish to see Mr. Balcombe
and tell him so. I must learn to love him for her
sake.”
He now held out his hand to me and grasped
mine feebly. A tear rose to his eye as he said,
“I once thought to love you, William, for my
sister's sake. But you must be still dearer to me
now. You must make her happy, William, and
when she sheds a tear to my memory, tell her I
died blessing her, and her tears will not be bitter.”
He was again silent. After a few minutes he
spoke again.
“I have been selfish and unjust,” said he. “Will
not Mr. Balcombe come to see me? I have no
right to ask it, but I wish to take him by the hand,
and hear him say he forgives my insolence. I
remember something of it, but I fear not all. I
remember, too, he acted nobly, and shamed me
into the dust. But I deserved it. Did I not?”
“You were not yourself, Henry. We are all
now sensible of that. Mr. Balcombe was the first
to discover it. He has no unkind feeling towards
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[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
you, and will be here as soon as he knows that you
can see him.”
We now prevailed on Howard to take some
nourishment, and a servant was despatched to
Craiganet to say that he was better, and expressed
a wish to see Balcombe. I enforced this request
by a note which removed all Balcombe's difficulties,
and he came next morning. Another night's
rest had completely calmed Howard's mind, and
he now seemed to distinguish clearly between
those recollections in which he could, and those in
which he could not trust his memory. There was,
indeed, a cloud on all that had happened, since
the day he left Craiganet a discarded suitor;
and he obtained from Douglas an exact account
of all.
When Balcombe arrived, he was immediately
conducted to Howard's room. Miss Howard was
present when he entered. She was the first to
greet him with great cordiality. He then approached
Howard, who holding out his hand, said,
“This is very kind, Mr. Balcombe. I take your
visit as a pledge that I am forgiven. But it will
be gratifying to me, because it will humble my
pride, to hear you say so.”
Balcombe now, with the utmost delicacy, gave
him the desired assurance, telling him he had no
idea that he could be justly blamed for anything
he did in the distempered condition of his mind.
“But you were not aware of that at the time,
and therefore my gratitude must be measured by
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[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
your forbearance. You don't know, Margaret,
that it is due to Mr. Balcombe's magnanimity that
you still have a protector. I will not offend his
delicacy by telling the story in his presence, but
you must know all. Angus must tell you all.”
Miss Howard turned an inquiring look on Balcombe,
but he merely smiled and shook his head,
saying,
“A foolish quarrel; nothing more.”
“Yes, there was much more,” said Howard;
“and when you know all, Margaret, you must
thank Mr. Balcombe for me as he deserves.”
“I do thank him,” said the young lady. “I know
he deserves all my thanks.”
Saying this, she left the room. I returned home,
and Balcombe remained all night. The next day
I returned to relieve Balcombe, but was told by
the doctor that the presence of my friend was of
great advantage to Howard, and that he had prevailed
on him to stay there. Indeed it was delightful
to see how the mind of Howard calmed itself
under the mild ministrations of Balcombe, and
how the originality of his thoughts, and the vividness
of his conceptions and language, took possession
of the faculties of the patient, and wiled him
away from all subjects of painful reflection. There
was, indeed, a healthfulness in the action of Balcombe's
mind, which seemed to impart itself to all
he associated with, dispelling phantasies, and healing
sickly sensibilities as if by magic. His philosophy
was nothing but plain common sense. The
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[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
art of making this acceptable was his great excellence.
The time now approached when it would be
necessary to attend the chancery court at Fredericksburg.
A few days before a letter was received
from Major Swann, saying that he had intended
to go to Fredericksburg, and there prepare his
answer, but that his health would not permit it.
As it was desirable to me that this document should
be full and clear, I had expressed a wish to see it
before filing. He therefore proposed that Balcombe
and I should return to Raby Hall, and take
with us a professional gentleman of the major's
acquaintance to prepare the answer. I determined,
therefore, to set out immediately, and would
have asked the company of Balcombe, but that I
saw he was become a sort of necessary of life to
Howard. We parted, therefore, with an agreement
to meet the night before court in Fredericksburg.
Balcombe also requested, that as there
would be no longer any need of John's services
at Raby Hall, I would send him to Craiganet.
“I have no particular use for him,” said he,
“but I like to have him about me. He is quick
and apprehensive, and I am never at a loss when
I have him with me. Besides, I have been listening
to good English so long, that I begin to long
for some of his stories told in his own terse
dialect.”
-- 247 --
CHAPTER XXI.
With every pleasing, every prudent part,
Say what can Chloe want? She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought,
But never, never reached one generous thought.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
Pope.
[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
When I reached home, I discovered by the first
glance at Jane that she had heard all from Douglas,
who had been there. At the same time a
mysterious look, as she rolled up her eyes, lifted
one hand, and heaved a short sigh, told me that the
secret was known to herself alone of all the household.
As soon as she could catch me alone she
exclaimed,
“Oh, William! to think of the mischief that my
indiscretion was so near producing!”
“You are mistaken as to the cause, Jane,” said I.
“Oh no!” said she, “I know. Douglas told me
it was the effect of my foolish speech to him, which
he repeated to Howard. Though, to tell the truth,
I don't see that I am so much to blame, for how
did I know that Howard was crazy enough to
quarrel about such a thing. Indeed I am glad to
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[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
hear you say that I was not the cause of the
quarrel.”
“I said that your indiscretion was not the cause.
You are never indiscreet, Jane. I almost wish
you were sometimes.”
“Gracious Heaven, William!” she exclaimed,
with a look of horror quite theatrical; “you do
not mean to impute to me any design to bring about
such consequences?”
“Nothing like it,” said I. “No design at all.
Nothing but a perfect indifference to consequences
which you did not foresee might react on yourself.”
She now looked at me with an expression of
undissembled amazement. Up to this time she
had always used freely the elder sister's privilege
of rebuking my faults. Of hers I had never presumed
to speak. But the tone of calm displeasure
in which I spoke reversed our position at once,
and she said with an air of anxious humility,
“William! what does this mean?”
“Nothing,” replied I, “but that I would not
have you deceive yourself, and so aggravate a real
fault by endeavouring to correct one which is altogether
imaginary.”
“And what is that real fault, brother?” said she,
meekly.
“Selfishness,” replied I.
“Selfishness! selfishness!” screamed Jane, indignantly,
and immediately endeavouring to resume
the ascendant. “Selfish! I who—but I won't be
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[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
my own trumpeter. But you know enough to
know, William, that I am anything but selfish.”
“I know you think so, Jane, and I say this to
undeceive you. Were I merely disposed to wound,
I might call it malevolence; but it is not that.”
“Selfishness and malevolence!” said she. “I
selfish and malevolent? I who—”
“I know what you would say,” I replied. “The
proofs of benevolence to which you would appeal
are no secret. If they were, I might judge of them
differently. But I am not mistaken. Now look
at this business. Had you not been wrapped up
in your own schemes, could you not have spared
enough of sympathy to me, and gratitude to one to
whom we both owe so much, to refrain from applying
to Balcombe the epithet of matchmaker?
Could you not have heard of the late occurrence
with pleasure at the escape of our friends, instead
of losing all other interest in the affair but that
which grew out of your own part in it? Could
you not bear the well meant remonstrance of a
brother, without endeavouring to put him in the
wrong, by imputing to him words he never uttered?
Did I say you were malevolent?”
“You said malevolence,” said she.
“Still struggling for victory,” replied I, “still
all for self. I did say malevolence. I said I did
not impute to you malevolence. Was not that
it?”
“That was not what you meant,” said she.
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“Am I then in the habit,” asked I, “of saying
one thing when I mean another?”
She half raised her eyes and looked spitefully at
me, but did not dare to say “Yes.” But she
would say nothing else, and so her spirit again
gave way, and she burst into tears.
I would not have the reader suppose I saw this
with indifference. A woman in tears, and that
woman my sister, was no pleasant sight. But I
manned myself to bear it, and saw her through a
fit of hysterics without running away, or calling
for help. What I had begun I determined to go
through with. She at length reached that point
of exhaustion at which the pathetic seems more
practicable than any other mode of eloquence, and
lifting up her hands and eyes, exclaimed plaintively,
“Oh me! to be accused of selfishness by my
own brother!”
“Was it then a brother,” asked I, “whose hopes
of happiness you sought to destroy for the chance
of bettering yours?”
“Good Heaven, William!” she exclaimed, with
well acted amazement, “what do you mean?”
“Did you not tell my father and Ann,” I asked,
“that Miss Howard had avowed a decided preference
for me?”
“I said I had been told so by another,” was the
reply.
“By a confidential friend. Was it not so?”
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“I said I was told that the communication was
made in confidence.”
“And the object of that confidence was—Sally
Grey! The silly, flippant, indiscreet, and vulgar
Sally Grey, the confidant of the highminded, delicate,
refined, intellectual Margaret Howard! I
will not ask you, Jane, if you believed that. But
I will ask you if you did not tell Ann that I was
engaged to Miss Howard?”
“I told her everybody said so.”
“And believing it yourself, doubtless, you encouraged
her to believe it.”
“And what right had I to doubt it?” she asked.
“You could not believe it,” I replied, “because
you were in the secret. I was not. But you and
Douglas perfectly understood how it was that Miss
Howard and I were thrown so much together.
He is an honourable young fellow. Are you content
that he should know that you encouraged Ann
to believe it, and that the notable device of keeping
her room unless I would promise eternal silence
was of your suggestion?”
“Oh, William!” she exclaimed, with an alarmed
look.
“Douglas,” I continued, “does know of the interdict.
Does he know how it was brought about?
Your silence says no. And though your love for
him prompted the deception, yet for the world
you would not have him know it. What is it,
Jane, that bribes conscience, and makes it a more
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lenient judge than a devoted lover? Can selfishness
achieve a greater triumph?”
She made no answer, but at length sobbed out
in a reproachful and querulous tone,
“I have no home but yours; no protector but
you.”
“Still harping on self,” said I. “Will it not
even suffer you to remember that none of us has
any home. That your mother has no home? And
if you ever have a home, at least while you are
single, you will owe it to one who has perilled his
life to serve you, and towards whom you have
never permitted yourself to feel one sentiment of
gratitude.”
“I am sure,” said she, “he never did anything
on my account, and does not care a straw what
becomes of me.”
“And therefore you, who are not at all selfish,
wantonly asperse and endanger the life of one,
whose only merit is his gratitude to your grandfather,
and his generous devotion to your brother,
because, if he serves you at all, it will be but incidentally.”
She saw that in her eagerness to defend herself
she had given up her cause, and again had recourse
to tears. I went on:
“As to your having no protector, Jane, but me,
that is true, and I therefore am doing the duty of
one, painful as it is. It is my duty to free your
mind from the delusions which self-love, and the
flattery of a certain clique of sentimentalists, have
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palmed on you for truth. I have no wish to mortify
you. You have qualities of the highest order,
which fit you to be the happiness or the torment of
your friends. Which you shall be depends on
your coming to a right understanding of yourself.
Learn to bear the thought that others may be
happy, without owing their happiness to you, and
then, if you cannot make them so, you will at least
not make them wretched. Look into your own
heart, and you will see that there has been the
root of all this bitterness. Instead, therefore, of
cherishing angry feelings against your brother,
remember that he not only forgave his own
wrongs, but forbore to speak of them. Let that
be my pledge, that having done my duty now, you
shall not find me inclined to recur to this unpleasant
topic. On the contrary, assure yourself, that I
shall never fail in the respect and tenderness due
to a lady and a sister.”
Saying this, I took her hand, and she, subdued
and softened, threw her arms around my neck,
and now wept penitential and salutary tears.
As the affair between Balcombe and Howard
was no longer a secret, I made no scruple of telling
the whole story to my mother and Ann. I knew
they would hear it all after I was gone, and I
wished to witness the pleasure with which Ann
would look on this new display of the noble qualities
of her friend. She was by this time as far
gone as I in confidence in the resources of Balcombe;
and if he had promised her the crown of
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China, she would hardly have doubted the fulfilment
of the promise.
The next day I left home, and went as far as
the house of Mr. W—, the lawyer mentioned by
Major Swann, and the day after we rode together
to Raby Hall.
I was pleased to find the old gentleman only so
much indisposed with a slight rheumatism, as to
make it unadvisable to go from home at that inclement
season. James had in a great measure
recovered his spirits. He seemed quite domesticated
at the hall, and happy in the free use of
books which he read with his sister. In her I saw
no change, except that she had been drawn out by
degrees from that shrinking reserve to which she
had condemned herself, and now showed in conversation
the same superiority of intellect of which
I had seen so many other proofs. What punishment
could be too severe for the wretch by whose
villany such a woman had been lost to the world
and to herself?
Mr. W—, whose business required his presence
elsewhere, at once betook himself to that
which brought him to Raby Hall. He did no
sleep until he had done his work, and next morning
left us immediately after breakfast.
Before his departure, he admonished Mr. Swann
that it was proper he should send the answer
packet by some confidential person, and turning
me, added,
“No person can be more worthy of such
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confidence than yourself, Mr. Napier; but you will
nevertheless see that this paper should reach the
court without ever having been in your hands.”
I felt the justice of this, and therefore did not
touch it; though I saw, with some anticipation of
disappointment, that the packet was too large to
contain merely such a will as my father's memorandum
spoke of. I saw, too, where the scorched
envelope had crumbled away, nothing but the appearance
as of an old newspaper. But a moment's
reflection satisfied me, that whatever unimportant
papers it might contain, there was certainly some
document there of great consequence, and that
Montague was especially anxious to keep that
from falling into my hands. Why else had my
appearance broken up his repose, and determined
him even to risk his life to destroy it or possess
himself of it?
After some reflection, the major determined to
ask James to take charge of the packet, which he
agreed to do, and it was settled that we should go
together. The next day but one was court day,
and the distance almost too great for a day's ride.
I had intended to go as far as Tapahannock that
evening, but James could not be ready until morning.
I therefore determined to wait for him.
Walking out in the evening, I met a man
mounted on a fine roan horse, of remarkable action
and fleetness. I thought I had rarely seen one
that got over the ground with so much ease to
himself and his rider. I turned as he moved
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rapidly by, and remarked the fine and vigorous
movements of the animal as he went from me.
Charles was not far behind me, and I saw the
horseman stop and speak to him. He then passed
on, and I waited till Charles came up.
“Who was that, Charles?” said I.
“I don't know, sir. He stranger to me
master.”
“What did he want with you?”
“Just ask me if that was you, sir, and if you
was going to start to Fredericksburg this evening
He say he want company.”
“And what did you tell him?” said I, not
to give my company to one so free of his.
“I tell him, sir, I hear 'em say you wasn't going
to start 'fore morning. Then he say you have
mighty long ride, and I tell him you got a
horse, carry you to Fredericksburg mighty hand
before bedtime.”
Returning to the house, I sat with Mr. Swann
who could not take his usual exercise, and to whom
therefore, a companion was more necessary that
usual. Before I came in he had been talking
James, who no sooner found me engaged in
versation than he resumed his book. Our thought
necessarily ran on Montague and his machination
and we spoke of him, forgetting the presence
poor James. I am not sure that the major
aware of his ignorance of his sister's history.
that as it may, he let fall some expression
struck on James's ear with a shock that made
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spring into the middle of the floor. Startled at
this movement, I looked at him, and saw him staring
wildly on the major. At length he recovered
himself enough to ask the meaning of what he had
heard. Unluckily the major gave an answer, which
he perceived to be designedly evasive.
The change in his whole appearance and manner
at once made me sensible of the reason of Mary's
caution to Balcombe concerning him. I have
never seen the wildness of rage and desperation
so displayed as in his countenance. The glare of
his eye, the paleness of his face, the blackness
about the mouth, and the foam that gathered at its
corners, as he stood grinding his teeth in silence,
were horrible to behold. At last he exclaimed, “I
will know the truth,” and rushed from the room.
I afterward learned that he had found Charles,
and wrung from him the whole story, which he had
probably heard from his mother.
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CHAPTER XXII.
He knew and crossed me in the fray.
I gazed upon him where he lay,
And watched his spirit ebb away.
Byron.
[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
I saw no more of James that evening, nor did
poor Mary appear at supper. Late at night he
came into my room, where he lay, and went to
bed, but not to sleep. By daylight our horses were
at the door, and James made his appearance.
Something had put it into my head to take my
pistols, and I asked James if he was armed. He
only replied by grasping the handle of his dirk
with one hand, and pointing with the other to his
pistols under his coat. These were all the same
weapons of which Balcombe had been robbed. He
had given them to James, saying,
“Here, my boy, are a dirk and a pair of pistols
that never failed their master. I hope you may
never have cause to use them; but if you do, that
they may serve you as well as they have me.”
“I am afraid,” said James, “they may lose their
virtue in my hands.”
“Never fear,” said Balcombe. “Be always
sure that your cause is good, and learn to use them
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with deliberate promptitude, and they'll not fail
you.”
James had not forgotten this, and as he turned
I heard him mutter,
“A good cause, and deliberate promptitude.”
In these words I was sure I heard the doom of
Montague. It was in vain to think of saying anything
to calm his excited feelings, so we mounted
our horses and rode away in silence.
At Tapahannock we stopped for breakfast, and
there found the knight of the roan horse, who
breakfasted with us, and immediately rode off. I
was pleased at this, for it gave me a favourable
opinion of my own address and dignity. Having
no desire for his company, and remembering the
wish he had expressed, I took care to meet all his
advances towards my acquaintance with a cold
and stately courtesy which was intended to repel
without offending. Seeing him, then, ride off
without having proposed to travel with me, I had
little doubt that I had acquitted myself well of this
delicate task, and perhaps made him feel that there
was some difference between us, which forbade
his intended overture. This was fifteen years ago,
reader, and I was then a boy; and though the
fortunes of my family were fallen, I had not yet
lost a vague notion of some peculiar merit belonging
to the blood of Raby and Napier which flowed
in my veins. Such notions had indeed been exploded
long before, but I did not know that. In
the progress of events and manners, I am not sure
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that the ancient order has not been reversed. It
is perhaps a disadvantage now to be what was
once called “well born.” It is considered merely
as affording prima facie evidence that a man is
arrogant, self-important, and satisfied to be a fool,
because he does not know it. I mention this error
of my youth, only that I may proclaim my repentance
of it. Having had occasion to allude frequently
to my family, I feel that it may be necessary
to bespeak your favour, and, perhaps, forbearance,
by disclaiming that foolish family pride which
I then cherished. I did cherish it. Notwithstanding
my professions to Balcombe, I had more of it
than he would have approved. Indeed I did not
pride myself on the individual merit of any ancestor;
for I am not aware that, since the old baron
whose name I bear, there was any such merit to
be proud of. The name alone, as that of a family,
which, through several generations of uninterrupted
prosperity, had been looked up to by the less
wealthy, was the source of my self-complacency.
I had been aware of my relation to the noble patriot,
of whose magnanimous devotion of life and
fortune to his country Balcombe had spoken; but
the idea of being proud of him had not occurred
to me. My habit of thinking on the subject had
been, that all the honour of the alliance was the
other way. Why? If I could have found any
rational answer to the question, I should have
cherished this pride. As it was, I made haste to
get rid of it, as soon as I discovered, that, in those
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who still retain it, it is commonly in the inverse
ratio to the respect of others.
We stopped again at a house between Tapahannock
and Port Royal, and there again found the
gentleman of the roan horse. Having now, as I
supposed, taught him his distance, I thought I
might condescend so far as to speak of the merits
of his noble horse. The theme proved a grateful
one. He expatiated on the performance of the
animal and his own care for him.
“He could travel,” said he, “as far again in a
day as any common horse; and he travels so fast
and so easy, that I should impose on him if I did
not make short stages and long stops. I have
been here an hour, and shall stay an hour longer,
and pass you again before you get to Port Royal.”
He now took advantage of the opening I had
made, and ran on with a great deal of horse language.
Being, like all young fellows of my standing
in Virginia, a mighty foxhunter, I was of
course an enthusiast in regard to horses; and
found myself disposed to recognise a sort of equality
in a man who conversed as learnedly, and with
as much unction as any of my highborn companions,
on this their favourite topic.
At length we went on, and left him taking his
rest. We had not gone far before he swept past
us at a rapid pace, and then, reining up his horse,
said, as he would get to Port Royal some time
before us, he would, if we thought proper, order
dinner for us with himself, and await our arrival;
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unless we proposed to spend the night there, and
to wait for supper. I told him it was uncertain
whether we should stop or go on, but that the
dinner would be by no means unacceptable. He
then said he would do as he had proposed, and
pushed on.
On our arrival we found that he had been as
good as his word, and that an excellent dinner was
waiting for us. We dined heartily, and with the
help of a good glass of wine, I found myself so
much refreshed, that the distance to Fredericksburg
seemed much less formidable than before.
The stranger now called for his horse, and said,
“I now find the benefit of my mode of travelling.
I have half an hour start of you; my horse
is quite refreshed, and I shall reach Fredericksburg
by dark, while you will have to spend the
night here.”
I was not in the humour to have my horse, or
my skill in his management disparaged, and replied
that, though I had ridden farther than he, I should
still be in Fredericksburg by bedtime, which, as
the weather was good, and the moon would give
some light, would answer just as well as an earlier
hour.
He now rode off, and the landlord, looking after
him, said to me,
“You are a young traveller.”
“I am young,” said I; “but having travelled in
the western settlements beyond the Missouri, I
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think that, young as I am, I might pass for a pretty
old traveller.”
“There must be less danger travelling in that
wild country,” said he, “than I had thought.”
“Why so?” asked I, with some pique.
“Because if you were as free of travelling in the
night there as you are here, and of telling strangers
about it, I should think you might have lost your
money, or maybe your scalp.”
“Do you know anything of that fellow?” I
asked.
“I do not,” said he; “but he has travelled up
and down this road frequently of late, as if he had
some business, and I cannot find out what it is. I
should take him for a gambler, but he don't play;
or a horse jockey, but he will neither buy, nor sell,
nor swap. Altogether I don't like his ways, though
I cannot well say why; but I have a notion I have
seen honester men. If you'll take my advice,
gentlemen, you'll stay where you are to-night, and
go into town in the morning.”
“We are both well armed,” said I.
“And if you took notice,” said the landlord, “he
is armed too. Didn't you see his pistols under his
coat?”
I had not observed them.
“There is a gang of them, I'm thinking,” continued
our host. “I have seen three or four fellows
dodging about here for a day or two. They
all seem to know one another, though they are
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strangers to everybody here; and I see they all
ride fine horses, and all carry pistols.”
“Do you know none of them?” asked I.
“I have seen one of them, I think, a month or
two ago,” said the landlord, “but he don't seem to
be just the same kind of a man with the rest. I
have a notion he is a sort of head man among
them.”
“Is he a tall, stout, middle-aged, handsome
man,” said I, “with a dark complexion?”
“I dare say he may be good-looking enough
when he is in health,” said the landlord; “but he
looks badly, and carries his arm in a sling.”
As I described Montague, James, who understood
me, looked eagerly on the landlord for his
answer, and, as soon as he heard this last particular,
insisted that we should go on. I reproved his
too manifest impatience by a significant look, and
he, taking the hint, contented himself with speaking
contemptuously of the supposed danger. I had
not at any time been inclined to evade it; and I
was now conscious of something like the desire
manifested by James, to meet and even court
it. We accordingly mounted our horses, and
moved on.
I was now struck with the change in James's
appearance and manner. He had been not only
silent, but gloomy and dejected all day. Now his
countenance beamed with suppressed excitement;
his movements were full of energy and alacrity,
and the spirit which animated him seemed to
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extend to his horse, which moved off fresh and cheerful
as in the morning. As soon as we were out of
sight he took out his pistols, examined the flints
and freshened the priming, with an air of grim
satisfaction, and a sort of half smile in which there
was a fearful meaning. I said nothing, but used
the same precautions, and then betook myself to
the more important task of thinking. From Port
Royal to Fredericksburg the road runs for the
most part through the valley of the Rapahannock,
sometimes skirting the foot of the hill. About halfway
between the two places the Richmond road
comes down from the hills. Along this road Balcombe
was to travel, and, leaving Craiganet after
breakfast, would probably reach the point of intersection
a little before us. I mentioned this to
James, and he at once concurred with me in thinking
that we should push on, and try to meet him
there.
On reaching the fork of the road we made a short
halt, and listened for the sound of horses' feet on
the frozen ground. It was now night; but the
moon, though low in the west, gave some light.
The road was wide and the country open. We
now reflected, that if there was danger it was before
us; that it threatened us and not Balcombe;
and that our only chance for his aid was that he
might yet be behind. On reconsidering my calculation,
I found that our late rapid ride had probably
placed us ahead of him; and we determined
to move on slowly and warily. We accordingly
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reined in our horses to a walk, and each drawing
a pistol, we kept our eyes on the road before us.
The moon at length sank behind the hills on our
left, the sky became overcast, and we could no
longer see distinctly any object more than a few
feet off.
The road here runs between deep ditches, for
the most part dry, the banks of which, with slight
hedges on the top, form the enclosure of the adjoining
fields. Across these ditches are small flat
bridges at the gate of every farm. A few miles
below Fredericksburg are two such gates and
bridges directly opposite to each other. Just as
we were passing these, two men sprang out from
behind the bridges on either hand, and seized our
horses. I instantly fired my pistol at the head of
him who held mine. The shot would have been
fatal, but at the same moment my left hand was
seized by some one from behind, and I was jerked
from my horse. The action threw my right arm
up, and the bullet passed harmless over the villain's
head. Both men then seized and held me fast.
In the mean time I saw that James, who had not
fired, was treated in the same way by two others.
A fifth now appeared, who seemed to advance from
a distance.
He approached James, and proceeded to search
him. I saw him eagerly thrust his hand into the
breast pocket of James's greatcoat; when the
trampling of horses at a gallop was heard in our
rear. A shot was fired, and the ball whistled over
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our heads. My hands were free in an instant, and
the men who had held me took to their heels. At
the same moment I heard the report of James's
pistol, and he exclaimed, “Die, villain!” The man
who was searching him staggered back, and James,
springing at him, bore him to the ground. Instantly
I saw the gleam of his dirk as he lifted his
hand.
“This for Mary Scott!” cried he; “and this!
and this!”
And with every word down came the dirk. I
sprang to him, caught his hand, and raised him
from his prostrate enemy. In the same moment
the horsemen from behind coming up, threw themselves
from their horses, and proved to be no other
than Balcombe and John.
“What is the meaning of this?” cried Balcombe.
“Robbers?”
“Montague's work,” said I.
“Montague!” exclaimed Balcombe; “where is
he?”
“There he lies,” said James, in the low grating
tone of bitter exultation.
“But are you sure that is he?” asked I. “You
could not distinguish him in the dark.”
“I am not mistaken,” said James. “I would
not fire at the paltry tool he thrust upon the first
danger. I knew that was not himself. Besides,
the man was too low to be mistaken for him. But
instead of searching for money, he betrayed himself
by his impatience to get the packet. I
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remember now that his confederate saw where I carried
it. His first action was to feel my pocket on the
outside, and having ascertained what was there,
he seized the packet with an eagerness not to be
mistaken. I observed, too, that he used the left
hand, which put the matter past doubt. But how
could I mistake him?” continued he. “Is there no
instinct in the sense of wrong like mine, to mark
the villain for his punishment even in the darkest
night? Laid beside him in the tomb, I would have
known him, grappled with him, and torn his heart
from his bosom.”
I now inquired whether James still had the
packet, to which he replied that Montague had
taken it from him. John immediately approached
the body, (for I shrank from the task,) and felt in
his hands for the packet. The right arm was in a
sling, as we expected. The left, as I afterward
learned, lay extended at right angles to the body,
but the hand was empty. While John was making
this examination, a deep gurgling groan announced
to us that the unfortunate wretch still breathed.
We all immediately approached—for, with that
groan, the horror with which we look upon the
victims of violent death had vanished—and endeavoured
to administer such relief as we might.
It was to little purpose. He revived enough to
utter a few words, which showed that he was conscious
of the presence of all he most hated; and
died, howling forth a strain of mingled execration
and prayer—his last words displaying the same
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selfishness, malignity, and slavish fear, that had
characterized his whole life.
About this time a negro appeared on the scene
of action, driving a wain of some sort, and we
easily engaged his services to take the body into
town. This being arranged, my thoughts recurred
to the packet. I determined not to leave the spot
without it. James was equally resolute in the
same purpose, conceiving himself bound, as he
said, to recover that which had been committed to
his care. It was altogether probable that it would
remain where it was until morning; but the bare
possibility that it might be removed was greater
than I chose to hazard. If I should remain, it was
not merely possible, but probable, that I should
find it; and James said, that to permit me to do
so when he was aware of the object of my stay,
would be a breach of trust. I admired and Balcombe
praised his scrupulous fidelity, to which I
had nothing to object, as the event must be the
same whether he or I found it. We agreed
therefore, to remain together, while Balcombe and
John should go on to Fredericksburg with the body.
To this John objected, saying it was no new thing
to him to camp out, and he could be of service
to us.
Balcombe, accordingly, moved on, and John
betook himself to the task of making a fire. This,
with the help of his rifle and powder, he soon accomplished,
at the expense of the neighbouring
fences; and having made ourselves somewhat
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comfortable, we debated what should be done.
The night was pitchy dark; we had already felt
every inch of ground near where the body lay, and
we both concluded that it was vain to extend the
search any farther until morning. What was to
be done in the mean time? We had our saddle
blankets; Balcombe, with his usual thoughtfulness
and generosity, had added his and his greatcoat;
and we were tired enough to feel the want of
sleep. But the possibility that the enemy might
return forbade that, until John, who was never
tired, remarking that he had not rode so far as we
had, proposed to watch while we slept. There
was something selfish in our assent to this proposal;
but really the fellow seemed to have so few of the
infirmities of humanity, that I had long ceased to
regard anything as a hardship to him. Accordingly,
with his aid, we arranged our bed and were
soon fast asleep. Poor James, who had spent the
preceding night tossing with passion, now slept as
calmly as a child. His spirit seemed completely
tranquillized by the death of Montague; and his
whole manner was that of a man who had just
accomplished a pleasant duty. He was asleep
before I was, but not long.
-- 271 --
CHAPTER XXIII.
My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlocked to your occasions.
Shakspeare.
[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
It had been arranged that John should awaken
us in a few hours, and take his turn; but he had
no thought of this, and we slept on until broad daylight.
We were then roused, and commenced our
search; but, though aided by Balcombe, who returned
to us at an early hour, we searched in vain.
Yet we did not desist until every spot within the
possible range to which Montague might have
thrown the packet, had been examined over and
over again. When nothing could be more certain
than that the packet was not there, we went on to
Fredericksburg.
What was now to be done? My solicitor was
consulted, who said that we could do no more than
file the answer of Major Swann, and await the
coming in of that of Mr. Edward Raby. On this
there was little reason to found any hope, but such
was the regular course of business. An affidavit
of James Scott, explaining how he had lost the
paper committed to him, was also left with the
solicitor, to be filed with the answer. It only
-- 272 --
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remained to take the proper measures to free James
from the charge of homicide, and we were ready
to go home.
Even when I journeyed from Missouri, not sure
that I might not find Ann the wife of another, I
hardly thought of my return to Craiganet with
more pain than I now did. At the very moment
when the packet was within my reach, and almost
within my grasp, it had been carried off, and I had
lost all trace of it. The very death of Montague
seemed fatal to my hopes. While he lived, there
was one who knew, however unwilling he might
be to tell, what I wished to prove. Even the
chance that, in his habitual dread of direct perjury,
the truth might be wrung from him on examination,
was better than any that now remained. It
seemed most probable that Montague had put the
packet in the hands of one of his accomplices.
But who were they? Only one of them I had
ever seen, and as he was an utter stranger, I had
little hope of finding him. That he would never
designedly cross my path was now sure.
Under these circumstances, I was not sorry to
learn from Balcombe that business called him
down into the county of Northumberland, and
that he would be gratified if I would accompany
him. I readily agreed to do so, and wrote my
poor mother an account of the final defeat of all
my hopes. James, who feared the story of our adventure
might reach his sister in a distorted shape,
pleaded that as a motive for going direct to Raby
-- 273 --
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Hall. Balcombe at once assented to this, and he
left us, and returned to Port Royal the same
evening. We, not having any occasion to reach
Northumberland before court day, which was yet
three days off, remained where we were until
morning.
The reader may charge me with ingratitude, but
I was half vexed at the perfect tranquillity with
which Balcombe bore this final disappointment.
When I saw him retain his cheerfulness and confidence
under our former defeats, I caught the contagion
of his feelings. When I saw him look death
and dishonour steadily in the face, I did but admire
his fortitude and energy. But now I could
not look on the perfect nonchalance of his countenance
without vexation. He saw this, and endeavoured
to wile me from myself, by throwing into
his conversation a double portion of that spirit and
raciness which I had so much admired. But it
was all in vain. I was incurably dull, dejected,
and miserable.
“Come, come, William!” said Balcombe, “this
will never do. You must learn to shake off vain
regrets, and try to interest yourself in what yet
remains to be done.”
“And what remains to be done?” asked I.
“Certainly not to lie down in despair, and wait
for death. Can you find nothing to occupy your
thoughts but what cannot be helped? You have
never asked me yet what takes me to Northumberland.”
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“I am not sure I have a right to ask,” said I.
“You have never before spoken to me of any
business you had there, and it might be indelicate
to make the inquiry.”
“Too scrupulous by half,” replied Balcombe.
“Well, don't you want to know?”
“I should be well pleased to know,” said I, “if
you think proper to inform me.”
“Nay,” said Balcombe, “I speak not to the ear
of drowsy indifference. Rouse up, man, and promise
to take a proper interest in my affair, and I will
tell you.”
There was so much kindness and playfulness in
this reproach, that, feeling its justice, I could not
help blaming myself. I turned my eyes on Balcombe,
and found his resting on me with an expression
which said, “Up, up, and be a man!” and
I determined to make the effort. Did I not deserve
at the moment something of the same rebuke
I had given Jane a few days before? I felt so,
and said,
“My dear sir, it has been all along one of my
griefs, that you are always so sufficient to yourself
that I can never think of doing anything for you,
before you have already done it for yourself. Show
me anything in which I can serve you, and I will
promise to forget all private troubles until it is
accomplished.”
“Spoken like a man,” said Balcombe. “Spoken
like a man whose heart is in his friend's welfare.
Such is the stuff that friendship is made of. The
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material is nevertheless often spoiled by circumstances
which render long-continued and engrossing
attention to one's own interest necessary and
even laudable. When, in such a pursuit, we have
occasion to engage the devoted co-operation of
others, we are apt to forget that we are made for
them, as well as they for us. Something to break
the continuity of the reign of self, that master fiend
who leads the hosts of the apostate angels, is not
amiss. Now tell me. In all your troubles—
have you the heart to rejoice at the prosperity of
a friend?”
I was really hurt at this; and Balcombe saw in
my manner that to doubt it would be to do me
injustice; and I assured him that such a question
seriously asked would give me more pain than my
late defeat.
“I believe you, Will,” said he. “You are a
truehearted fellow; but we must not let your
better feelings perish for want of exercise. Well,
then, to come to the point; I am going to Northumberland
to claim and take possession of a
handsome estate.”
“Good God!” exclaimed I, “is it possible that
your attention to my affairs has so engrossed you,
that you have never given a thought to that?”
“That ought to have been a sufficient reason, but
I am not sure it would have been. But the true
reason was (and you will admit it to have been
all-sufficient) that I never knew of it myself until
this morning. It comes very apropos at this
-- 276 --
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
moment, because, having enough of my own, I can
share this with you.”
“Oh, no more of that, my dear sir,” said I.
“Your own family have claims on you that must
not be overlooked.”
“Would you not have insisted on sharing your
good fortune with me,” said Balcombe, “had you
been successful?”
“I certainly should,” said I, “have pressed on
you the acceptance of your old residence of Raby
Hall, as strongly as my respect for your delicacy
would permit. But pray tell me, how comes this
windfall?”
“By the will of an old friend.”
“Strange!” said I; “I have never heard you
speak of such a one.”
“Yes, you have, over and often.”
I tried to remember.
“Who can it be?” asked I.
“Your grandfather.”
I stared, and Balcombe, laughing, said to Keizer,
who had come in during our conversation,
“Come, John, tell your part of the story.”
“I shall be right glad to do that, colonel,” said
John; “for I have been ready to burst all day to
see Mr. Napier looking as if every friend he had
in the world was dead.”
“Well, John,” said I, “tell your tale, and if you
cannot bring them to life nothing can.”
“Why you see, sir,” said John, “I don't know
as I ever rightly got the nature of this business.
-- 277 --
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But last night when you and James Scott was a
talking, I found out that for all you wanted to get
that bundle of papers into the court, you'd a heap
rather have it yourself. And I seed, too, that
James, and all, would be glad if you did have it,
only just his word was out, and it would not do
for him to let you get them if he could help it. But
then, thinks I, what if you can't help it? nobody
can blame you then. So with that I makes up my
mind, if the thing fell to me in the search, nobody
should know it till I had a chance to ask the colonel
what to do. As soon as I seed you and James
fast asleep, I takes a knot of lightwood, and I goes
right straight to it.”
“How did you know where it was?” said I.
“Why you see, sir, when I went feeling about
the fellow to find if he had it in his hands, I saw
that his left hand was stretched right out from his
body just so, and the hand wide open; and I made
sure that he threw the bundle right that way his
arm pointed, and that just as he did it James had
given him the dig that settled him. So when I
heard the talk about who should go, and who
should stay, and where the bundle was, thinks I,
I will stay for one anyhow, and as to the bundle, I
guess I know where it is, but it's no use to say so.
So I just kept dark about it, as I didn't mean to do
nothing but what was right, and I knowed the
colonel could tell me how that was. So you see,
sir, the ditch was wide and the bank was high, and
then there was a hedge a top of it, and I made
-- 278 --
[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
sure Montague couldn't throw over that, and he
most the same as dead. So I just looks to see
where he lay, and takes my course; and sure
enough there it was at the bottom of the ditch in a
hole of water. So I starts right off a little way
down the road, and puts it clean out of the way
for fear somebody might take a notion that I had
found it; and when we started I just rides close to
the colonel, and says I,
“`I wish you'd send me back to look for your
handkerchief or something,' says I.
“And with that the colonel looks right sharp at
me, and I sorter smiled, and then says he, (don't
you remember that, Mr. Napier?) says he,
“`John, I wish you'd ride back and see if I have
not left my knife yonder.'
“So I goes back, sir, and gets the bundle, and
when I comes up, says the colonel,
“`What's this now, John?'
“Says I, `I've got the bundle, sir, and I thought
I would tell you first, 'cause I thought you'd know
best what I ought to do with it.'
“`Maybe you are right,' says he. `And it cannot
do any harm to think about it, anyhow.'
“So you see, sir, as soon as we gets here I gives
it to him; and there's an end of my part of the
story.”
“And now for my part,” said Balcombe. “You
remember, William, when I proposed at Raby
Hall to try to catch Montague, I assigned, as a
reason, my desire not to throw any reproach on
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[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]
the name of Raby. Now that chancery suit could
not be successfully prosecuted without fixing infamy
on Mr. Edward Raby. But there was nothing
as yet but the bill, which could be dismissed
and withdrawn, so as to leave no trace of the
transaction on record. Moreover, although the
production of the will would be decisive on the
main point, yet there was a long controversy behind
about rents and profits. All this Mr. Raby
will be glad to settle amicably and privately, and,
in the mean time, the will being proved this week
in Northumberland, you can enter at once on the
estate, and your poor mother will not be left without
a home on Newyear's day, as she otherwise
must be. Now all these points are secured by
keeping dark, as John says; and, as to poor James,
no man can say that he was not as true to his trust
as a dog to the dead body of his master.”
“Then you really have the will?” said I.
“Really and bona fide the very paper I witnessed,
and more too.”
“What more?”
“A codicil containing a small bequest to myself,
which I dare say suggested to Montague the first
thought of suppressing the whole, through his
hatred to me. You must understand,” continued
Balcombe, “what until now I did not think proper
to tell you. When I left Raby Hall and returned
to Barnard's Castle, to announce my purpose of
going to seek my fortune in the world, the kind old
man opposed it strongly.
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[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]
“`You are my son, George,' said he; `and, except
that curly-headed chap,' (meaning you, William,)
`my only son. I had formed a plan of life
for you, which I trust would have met your wishes.
My necessary expenses, and those of Mr. Napier,
don't permit me to furnish you with an outfit proper
for such a life of adventure as I fear you propose
to yourself. But this will not prevent my providing
for you amply and permanently, if you will
stay with me.'
“The temptation was strong. In my right mind
I should not have resisted it; but the fiery arrow
was in my brain. A small sum was all the good
old gentleman could conveniently spare at the
moment, and I would receive no more. I well
remember the day. The very next day is the date
of this codicil, which recites his previous intention
of providing for me by giving me the old hall, with
a considerable portion of land as well as negroes,
stock, books, &c.; that with that view he had
placed me there, to familiarize me to my future
home, and acquaint me with the proper management
of the property, and then goes on to bequeath
it to me.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed I. “This is just as I
would have it; and now I shall have no contest
with your delicacy.”
“You shall have none,” said Balcombe. “But
to my tale. And see how self has crossed my
path, and what a dance it has led me. Before I
should take my course definitely, I determined to
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[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
consult Mr. L—, and found he concurred with
me entirely.
“`Moreover,' said he, `if you happen to be on
the wrong scent, and the paper is not here after
all, better to dismiss the action than let your mountain
actually bring forth a mouse.'
“This had not occurred to me, because I had
no doubt. In him, who had less reason to be confident,
it was wise. I had taken the precaution
not to open the packet all this time, though it was
wringing wet. We now opened it together. You
remember its great size.”
“Yes. How was that?”
“Nothing but a blind, I suppose, to keep poor
Mary from suspecting the truth. But it was the
means, after all, of saving the papers. There
were not less than a dozen newspapers, with the
will and codicil in the midst. The external papers
were in part destroyed by the wet; the enclosure
perfectly safe. I took care to leave them in the
hands of Mr. L—, who will attend at court to
prove how he came by them. Your bill has been
withdrawn; the answer was not filed, and Mr.
L— has James's affidavit, which, without his
approbation, we would not destroy.”
-- 282 --
CHAPTER XXIV.
“The far-descended honours of a race
Illustrious in the annals of old time
Are mine, and I'll uphold them. Ill exchanged
For gilded shame.”
[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]
It may be readily believed that I was now
eager to be off to Northumberland. The next
day we commenced our journey, and never had I
performed one with so light a heart. We had a
day to spare, and that day we spent at Barnard's
Castle, which, until within the last five years, had
been my home. The house was in excellent preservation,
the furniture good, though somewhat
oldfashioned, (no fault in my eyes,) and everything
nearly as my grandfather had left it at his death.
I looked on this mark of respect to his memory, as
a sign of grace in Mr. Edward Raby, which made
me rejoice that I should be able to do myself justice
without dishonouring him. The old house servants,
for the most part, retained their former
offices, though now sinecures; and the overseer,
though I gave no hint of my rights, received me
with hereditary respect, and treated me in all
things as if I had been master of the whole estate.
Had he done otherwise the negroes would have
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[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
been tempted to rebel against his authority; for
my presence was a jubilee (sad and tearful, indeed,
but yet a jubilee) to them. I prevailed on the
overseer to accompany me to court, and there
made him witness with his own eyes the unexpected
proceeding, which established me as executor
and devisee in the rightful possession of the
whole property. He had served my grandfather,
who had been satisfied with him. He had been
less successful in pleasing Mr. Edward Raby, and
I have no doubt was quite sincere in his congratulations
on the event.
Indeed the sensation produced by the sudden
presentation of the will seemed to run through the
whole assembled crowd. The handwriting of my
grandfather was known to every person present.
So was Montague's. Balcombe's testimony was
clear and positive; and the codicil, altogether
written by my grandfather, proved itself. There
was no need to ask whence the papers came. The
thing admitted of no doubt. No security being
required of the executor, to which office my father
and myself were named, letters testamentary were
at once granted, and I was restored to the inheritance
of my fathers. Then came a scene. Every
one who had known me pressed to speak to me;
those who had known my grandfather asked to
be introduced. The business of the court was
suspended. The worthy old members of that
“paternal tribunal” (blessing on his name who
first so designated it!) left the bench to take by
-- 284 --
[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
the hand the grandson and heir of their old friend
and associate in office; and more than one, pointing
to the seat he had long filled as presiding
justice, expressed a hope to see it occupied by
myself.
I was now impatient to return to Craiganet, and
wipe away the tears my letter from Fredericksburg
must have drawn from the eyes of the dear
ones there. Raby Hall lay directly in our way,
and thither we went. Nothing could be more
unexpected or more welcome than our news. The
amiable old major highly approved the course we
had pursued, as affording a salvo for his patron's
honour; and even James's jealous scruples were
satisfied by Balcombe, though at first he looked
quite indignant on finding that John had played
him false. But John had but laboured in his vocation.
It was so long since he had an opportunity
of playing a trick of any sort, that he languished
for want of exercise in that way. He had begun
to think for some time that he was of no account,
but was now restored to favour with himself. To
the major and poor Mary the most agreeable part
of the whole was to acknowledge Balcombe as
master of Raby Hall. The former entertained
for him the highest regard, and to the latter he was
everything in the world. It was easily arranged
that the old gentleman should retain his office, and,
for a time at least, his residence. As to Mary,
she was now sure of every comfort in life which
her former misfortunes left her capable of enjoying,
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[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
and to receive these at the hand of Balcombe
would be no burden to her heart.
But of all who rejoiced at my change of fortune
there was no joy like that of the negroes. One
after another, soon after nightfall, they came
thronging. One had heard the news and told it
to a dozen; it was soon spread over the estate;
and, from the old man hobbling on his crutch to
the infant in arms, all were assembled in the yard.
It seems they had heard that I should set out at
daylight next day, and see me they must. There,
then, they all were; many held torches of lightwood,
the red glare of which, as I looked through
the window, gleamed with picturesque effect on
their rude garments, and dusky but shining skins.
I was requested to go out and place myself in the
door. Charles now came forward, grinning and
wriggling.
“The folks want to know, master, if you is their
master sure enough?”
“I am, my good fellows,” said I, aloud. “Your
old master's grandson is your master sure enough.”
This answer was the signal for a general rejoicing
such as I never saw. The shout, not mechanically
simultaneous, but bursting spontaneously at
intervals through the din of many tongues, the
spasmodic clapping of the hands above the head,
the tattered hat tossed aloft, “as if to hang it on
the horns of the moon,” the wild loud ringing
echoing laugh, the hurried running of each backward
and forward through the crowd, and the
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[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
vehement shake of the hand interchanged by those
who felt best assured of each other's sympathy,
made a scene, which he, who would know human
nature in all its aspects, would do well to study.
For the moment, at least, I was a convert to Balcombe's
doctrines on the subject. When the tumult
was over, one and another advanced to touch my
hand. I gave it cordially to each, nor did I leave
my position until I had received and returned the
gratulating grasp of all the larger negroes, and
patted the head of every little knotty-pated urchin
of the whole.
After supper, Major Swann, with some hesitancy,
told us that, during our absence, he had received a
letter from Mr. Edward Raby, covering one to
Montague. He said that there were expressions
and directions in the former which left little doubt
in his mind that the latter would show, that Mr.
Raby either did not understand, or highly disapproved
the conduct of Montague. Eager to vindicate
him, and to prepare the way for an amicable
adjustment of the whole affair, he wished to
open the letter, and lay the contents before us.
“I am not merely the steward of Edward
Raby,” said he; “I am his old and trusted friend.
I love and honour him, and am willing to peril my
honour to vindicate his. How say you, gentlemen?
I beg your advice. Shall I open this
letter?”
I shall not stop to discuss the propriety of the
advice we gave. Major Swann and Mr. Raby
-- 287 --
[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
had been friends from youth to age, and catching
the infection of his enthusiastic confidence in his
friend's honour, we ventured to advise the step.
The letter was opened and read aloud by Balcombe.
It ran thus:—
“Sir,
“Your extraordinary communication of the 15th
ultimo is before me. In answering it I find myself
under the necessity of adverting to much
more than it contains; and I shall do so fully, because
I find it necessary to make you understand
distinctly the relation between us.
“In the first place then, sir, let me say that it is
not a relation which authorizes you to make me
your debtor at your own pleasure, on any occasion
or to any amount that you may think proper.
With the ink hardly dry on the last check drawn
in your favour, I have here an account in which
you claim against me the round sum of two thousand
dollars, made up of four equal items. The
lumping character of these charges, the beautiful
harmony of the constituent parts of the account,
and the perfect symmetry of the collective whole,
show to great advantage on paper; though it is
not easy to conceive of such a concurrence of fortuitous
circumstances, as could thus round off in
the whole and in all the parts a set of purely incidental
charges. This objection I should insist on,
-- 288 --
[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]
if you had any right to charge me at all, which I
deny. Let us review your account, sir.
“First, I am charged with five hundred dollars,
as so much paid to a gang of ruffians, to aid you
in obtaining from some man in the wilds of Missouri,
the means of getting into your possession a
certain document, which you say elsewhere is
safely lodged in my own house at Raby Hall, Virginia.
To this I have but to say, sir, that whenever
you have occasion to hire a bravo to do that
which a man of honour would not think of, or a
brave man would do for himself, I beg you will
draw on your resources.
“Secondly, I am charged with a like sum paid
to a lawyer, to engage him to prosecute to the last
extremity this same man, for a crime of which, by
your own showing, he was not guilty. Need I say
to this, sir, that, when next you meditate a scheme
of revenge to be accomplished by a judicial murder,
I hope you will not again call on me to become an
accessary to the crime.
“I am next called on to refund five hundred dollars,
as the alleged amount of the expense of a
journey to and from Virginia, and as much more
for your time and trouble therein. I shall no
otherwise comment on these charges than by congratulating
you on the discovery of the means of
travelling and taking your pleasure without expense.
To such of our gentry and nobility as
waste their time and money in touring it over the
Continent, it would be invaluable. Bring it with
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[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]
you to this country, sir, and your fortune is made.
Be sure, too, when you come, to charge the expense
of that journey to me, and let me hope that
you will take occasion at the same time to honour
my poor dwelling with a visit.
“I find that I owe an apology to myself for the
language which my indignation has drawn from
me. I will make the due amende by using all
possible moderation in saying what remains to be
said.
“Let me then ask, sir, how it comes that I hear,
at this time of day, of the existence of that document?
Am I to find the answer in your delicate
hint that that paper is your only security for the
fulfilment of my engagements to you? Is it possible
that I read this passage of your letter aright?
Do you indeed mean to insinuate that an engagement
to which my word is pledged needs any other
guarantee? If such was your meaning, sir, you
will find the origin of the thought in your own
conscious baseness, and you will owe your impunity
to the same cause. But though you dared
to intimate this, it was not this you meant. It is
not a pledge for the performance of past promises,
but a means of future and unlimited exaction that
you would preserve. Your dexterous hint at the
urgent necessities of my young kinsman of Craiganet,
could hardly fail to make me see that you
flatter yourself that he would gladly purchase at
a high price the important secret of which you
affect to be the depositary. I say affect, sir,
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[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]
because I am by no means sure that I have not been
your dupe. When you first told me that Mr.
Raby had executed and placed in your hands a
will which he afterward directed you to destroy,
and that you had neglected to do so, and when you
required of me a price to bribe you to the late performance
of this duty, could I fail to see that I had
to do with a villain, who would sell himself to
others, if I would not buy him? I therefore took
you at your word. I did not demand to see the
paper, for what should hinder you to forge another.
I took more effectual security against you, by
wringing from you a reluctant oath that you knew
not what had become of that paper. Will you
now brave the penalties of perjury and suppression
of a will, by bringing it forward? Can it be proved
by your oath against your oath? No, sir; I put
you at defiance, and you feel that you are powerless
to harm me.
“Have I forgotten how you cowered under my
eye, when I compelled you to answer that decisive
question? Have I forgotten how the beaded drops
stood on your pale forehead at that moment?
Whether your emotion was the effect of a conviction
that from that time you had no security but
my honour, the price of which you knew not how
to estimate, or shrank at the idea of committing
deliberate perjury, if perjury it was, I know not.
I would to God I did. I would to God I had any
means of knowing whether you had but done me
justice, or made me the instrument of injustice to
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[figure description] Page 291.[end figure description]
others. Could I be assured of the last, sir, not the
waves of the Atlantic, nor the wilds in which you
have sought to hide your baseness, no, not even
your baseness itself, should screen you from my
resentment.
“For one thing at least I have cause to thank
you. By acquainting me with the distresses of
my young kinsman, you show me how to do my
duty, as the head of my house, by those of whom
the law of primogeniture makes me the protector.
I say this that you may see how little liable I am
to be influenced by the sordid fear to which you
would appeal. Show me what justice requires,
and give me reason to believe your word, and I
will do it gladly. Now mark me, sir. You say
the supposed document is in your power, at least
with the co-operation of Mr. Swann. I shall write
and direct him to give you this co-operation. Now,
sir, when it is recovered, put it into his hands.
When I hear from him that it is there, I shall then
order the payment of five thousand dollars to you
in full of all demands, and endeavour to form my
own judgment of my rights and duties on my own
view of the paper. This will terminate all my
connection with you. Terminate it shall. If no
such paper is found and delivered up to Mr.
Swann, it shall cease at once. Directly or indirectly,
never again presume to address yourself to
“Edward Raby.
“Raby Hall, Northumberland county,
England, Nov. 18th, 1820.”
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As Balcombe read this letter I was inconceivably
affected. The favourable light it threw on the
character of one whom I was bound to consider
(as he expressed it) as the head of my house, and
whom I had of late learned to detest, was truly acceptable
to me.
The good old major bowed his head on his hands,
and when the letter was gone through, raised it
and said,
“Thank God! the idea that Edward Raby had
been guilty of the baseness which appeared chargeable
against him was one of the most painful that
ever entered my mind. I awaited his answer in
the hope that that would clear him. I now see
that to me it would have done so, but to the world
I fear it would not. But this letter frees him from
every imputation but that of having treated on any
terms with an acknowledged villain, and of having
bought off his knavery. This was unworthy of
Edward Raby; but how venial compared with
what seemed to be his offence!
“And now, Mr. Napier,” said the old gentleman,
“I will no longer hesitate to fulfil my friend's
commission, and hand you a letter enclosed by
him for your mother. The purport of it I can
guess from my own. If it be such as I suppose, it
is such a letter as I would not have delivered to
Mrs. Napier while the conduct of Mr. Raby was
unexplained. Here is the letter, sir; and here,
George, is a passage in that to me which you
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must read aloud. Edward Raby now stands fair
before the world. The same honourable gentleman
that I knew him when he visited his uncle
here in youth, and afterward, when I travelled in
England; the same he showed himself when last
here, and has proved himself to be in all his subsequent
transactions with me. Read the letter,
George.”
Balcombe did as he was requested. The passage
was as follows:
“I am concerned to learn, from the letter of
this Montague, that my young kinsman, Napier of
Craiganet, has fallen into poverty. This must not
be. To say nothing of his illustrious descent
through his father from a most distinguished nobleman,
he is a branch of the house of Raby. As
such it belongs to me to fulfil the duty contemplated
by the very law in deference to which his
grandfather left me his estate. He could never
have been justified in disinheriting his own issue,
but for a well-founded reliance that the head of
the family would perform towards them the duties
of an elder brother. The exact measure of these
duties I am not in condition to ascertain. But
there is something to be done to relieve the present
distress. I beg you, therefore, to ascertain the
amount of encumbrances on his father's estate, and
in the mean time to account with him for that portion
of my nett income which proceeds from the
property at Barnard's Castle, and to admit Mrs.
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Napier and her family to the use of the house and
all it contains.”
Balcombe had read thus far aloud, when he
dropped the letter, and exclaimed,
“Noble! noble! nobly done! Now this does
my very soul good. Nauseated with Montague's
villanies, and in my own mind implicating this gentleman
in them, this display of character is a perfect
cordial. It is light shining out of darkness.
Why, William, the discovery of such a character
in a kinsman is worth more than the estate. This
must be answered instantly, and in its own spirit.
Wives and sweethearts must wait till honour is
served, for it will never do to be outdone in this.”
CHAPTER XXV.
“You wrong me, lady. Think you I have borne,
So long, a name that lives in history,
Nor learned to prize its proudest honour?”
The next morning Balcombe wrote a detailed
account of the whole affair. In this he took care
to set down his reasons for believing that Montague
had deceived Mr. Raby, when he told him
that my grandfather had ordered the destruction
of the will. In the law of the case, indeed, this
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made no difference; but to the feelings of the parties
it made much. Among the facts he mentioned
the last letter he had received from my grandfather,
in which he spoke of his favourable designs towards
me. Not knowing anything of the quarrel between
Balcombe and Montague, he spoke generally
of the welfare of the latter, but said that he
had not seen him for a month. This was decisive;
for Mr. Raby had taken a memorandum of Montague's
communication to him, by which it appeared
that the very week before was the time
when, as he pretended, he was ordered to destroy
the will. This I think it right to mention here,
though the fact was not known to us until the receipt
of Mr. Raby's answer.
This letter was accompanied by one from me,
containing an offer of such terms of accommodation
as I deemed most proper. I shall not trouble
the reader with a statement of these. I beg him
to believe that my proposals were precisely such
as in his estimation I ought to have made. When
our letters were finished, we placed them in the
hands of the major, to be sent by the first regular
conveyance, along with a copy of the will, to his
principal.
The next day we returned to Craiganet.
“I have been thinking,” said Balcombe, as we
rode along, “of that devise of Raby Hall estate to
me. It makes plain what has heretofore been a
puzzle. There was certainly no man on earth
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whom Montague dreaded more than me; and I
have often wondered what infatuation carried him
to Missouri, knowing that I was there. Stranger
still, he certainly more than once threw himself
into my way, and though he always crouched
under my eye, yet, on the least encouragement, he
would make up to me. I believe I told you that
although he said nothing to others of our former
acquaintance, he never failed, when he saw an
opening, to allude to it to me. I now remember
some things which then seemed without meaning,
especially his frequent allusions to Mr. Raby's paternal
regard for me, and the benevolent intentions
he had heard him express. You observe
that this codicil was not the subject of his bargain
with Mr. Edward Raby, who probably has never
heard of it. How easy, then, for me to come forward
and produce it, without laying Montague
liable to any suspicion of breach of faith with that
gentleman. I have now no doubt that had he
found me at all practicable, I should have been invited
to set up the codicil, and let him go snacks.
But I remember meeting his suggestions by a
declaration that I had no claims on Mr. Raby, and
rejoiced, as he had disinherited his children, that
it had not been in my favour. This, I think, was
our last conversation on the subject.”
My friends had heard nothing of our movements
since we left Fredericksburg, and were in total
ignorance of the late important events. We found
them sad enough. My poor mother dejected but
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resigned; Jane humbled and despondent. Even
my merry little Laura had lost something of her
gayety at the thoughts of being banished from the
home of her infancy; while Ann, though satisfied
with her lot, seemed to feel by anticipation the
cares of a life of poverty and difficulties. Believing
that they would pass the night in more composure
under impressions to which their minds were familiarized,
than if excited at that hour by the intelligence
which we brought, we had determined to
keep them in ignorance of the will until the next
morning. All were gratified to see that my pleasure
at returning to them was enough to give me
an appearance of cheerfulness under my supposed
misfortune; and all appeared to derive comfort
and support from my presence. The indomitable
serenity of Balcombe made him a valuable auxiliary.
They all seemed to have taken the infection
of my habitual confidence that he would always
advise what was best, and find some means to
make its accomplishment practicable. I was particularly
pleased to see that Jane approached him
with more cordiality than I had ever seen her display
towards him; while there was a something in
her manner which seemed to deprecate his displeasure,
and implore forgiveness. He understood it,
and met her advances with the most soothing tenderness.
There was a degree of harmony in the
general sense of a common calamity which each
should help the rest to bear, that it seemed a pity
to disturb.
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In this spirit we quietly took our frugal supper,
and I then handed my mother Mr. Raby's letter.
I had little doubt of the contents, and expected that
they would in some measure prepare the minds of
all for the yet better intelligence which was in store
for them. I was not disappointed. My mother
read the letter with just such emotions as I had
expected and wished, and handing it to me, said,
“Was I not right, my children? Said I not
truly that God would not desert us, if we could
compose our minds to be thankful for the past, instead
of murmuring about the present, and to trust
to him for the future. He has brought light out of
darkness, and given us a kind friend in one we
had deemed our worst enemy. Read that aloud,
William, and let us all learn to be humble and
thankful.”
I took the letter, and as she requested, read as
follows:—
“Madam,
“Let me indulge a hope that the sight of my
name at the bottom of this letter may not prevent
you from reading it. Having hitherto received
nothing at my hands but what, to you at least, appeared
to be injustice, I cannot expect to engage
your attention to what I am about to say, without
first assuring you that the purpose of this letter is
altogether friendly.
“According to my understanding of the subject,
estates, such as that held by your father during his
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life, are so limited, in order that the head of each
family may have it in his power to uphold the name
of the donor, and to stand in his place as the guardian
and protector of all others descended from
him. I have been thus established by my grandfather
(who is also the great-grandfather of your
son) in all his rights and all his duties to his posterity,
so far as they are connected with that property.
Your honourable and just father saw the
subject in this light. He knew that I did too; and
therefore determined, by his will, to fulfil the design
of his father, instead of availing himself of
the power which the change of the laws of your
country gave him over the subject. When I went
to Virginia for the purpose of establishing my
claims, I would gladly have explained the relation
in which I was thus placed to you and your family,
to be that of a friend and protector; but I found
myself met and repulsed as an enemy, and an intruder
on the rights of others. I made such advances
as my self-respect permitted. Perhaps I
went somewhat too far. I perceived something
of the difficulties of your husband's situation; but
I was made to feel that an offer to relieve them
would be taken as a marked overture to a base
and dishonourable compromise. I could therefore
make no such offer. Conscious as I was of none
but kind intentions towards you and yours, I felt
myself wronged, and returned to England, making
up my mind to take no further interest in your
affairs.
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“Herein resentment made me forgetful of my
duty, and I am recalled to it by learning accidentally
the disastrous condition in which your husband's
death has left his family. I have not heard
particulars, nor do I now stop to inquire them.
My first duty is plain. It is to make a provisional
arrangement for your comfort. The second is to
endeavour to engage your confidence so far as to
obtain a full knowledge of all your difficulties.
The third and most pleasant will be to remove
them if practicable.
“I wish I could confidently anticipate that, having
read thus far, your mind will be altogether prepared
to take what follows in the same frank and
cordial spirit in which it is offered. Should this
not be so, my proposition is one which can be
passed by in silence. But I will hope a different
result.
“If I remember right, your son came of age in
April last. If this be so, pray observe the evidence
I here give that I have ever looked on your
family with the eye of a kinsman and friend. The
birth of a boy, to be the prop of your house, was
noted by me as an event of great interest. But let
that pass. He is of age, and either is or ought to
be your representative in all pecuniary matters. I
have therefore given instructions to my friend and
agent, Joseph Swann, Esquire, to account with him
alone for the nett income from the property at Barnard's
Castle. The house with all it contains is
also at your service. What else it may be my
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duty to do, will be considered of when you shall
have honoured me with your confidence so far as
to make me acquainted with the extent of your
difficulties. Had I told you five years ago that in
claiming the estate devised to me by your father,
I did but take it as the steward of my grandfather,
for the benefit of all his descendants, my sincerity
might have been questioned. Let me hope it will
not be so now, and that in future I may be regarded
by you and your's not as an alien and an enemy,
but as your kinsman and friend,
“Edward Raby.
“Raby Hall, Northumberland county,
England, November 18th, 1820.”
The effect of this letter was such as might have
been anticipated. My poor mother was at least
as much humbled and mortified as delighted.
Little Laura was in raptures with “the dear good
old soul,” as she called Mr. Raby. Jane's countenance
brightened for a moment. But this present
relief placed her no nearer the great object of her
wishes; and the cloud soon again settled on her
brow. Ann's gratitude manifestly predominated
over every other feeling, except, perhaps, her pleasure
at seeing me about to be relieved from my difficulties.
Of herself she seemed not to think, and
looked up in my face with a smile which said,
“Help us to thank our benefactor.”
“Why are you so silent, William?” said my
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mother. “Do you see any objections to the acceptance
of our kinsman's proffered kindness?”
“None,” said I. “I have felt as you do. But
the force of my feelings has spent itself. I knew
this before.”
“By what means?”
“By Mr. Raby's letter to Major Swann in which
that was enclosed.”
“The order, then, has been actually given?”
“Certainly. And I come to make preparations
for removing you to Barnard's Castle.”
“Oh me!” exclaimed Laura, bursting into tears,
“must we still leave dear Craiganet after all?”
“It seems so, my child,” said my mother, “and
we must learn to do so with thankful hearts;
though to me the most princely residence would
not be so pleasant as these scenes of my happy
youth, with all their sweet and bitter recollections.
But come, my children; we must be busy to-morrow.
To-night must be given to thanksgiving,
reflection, and repose. Good-night, my son. And
you,” extending her hand with matronly grace to
Balcombe, “my generous and noble friend! Let
me but learn to thank the efficient aid of our benefactor,
as my heart thanks you for your baffled
efforts to serve us, and he will not tax me with
ingratitude.”
As soon as breakfast was over the next morning
I interrupted the discussion of our proposed removal
by telling the whole story of the will, an
authentic copy of which I now handed to my
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mother. It was well, perhaps, that I had prepared her
mind the night before, by conducting it to a sort of
halfway stage between depression and exultation.
As it was she bore the news well enough, though
her nerves were severely shaken. Poor Jane, for
the want of such preparation, (for now, for the first
time, hope dawned on her, and in the same moment
brightened to the perfect day of certainty,) she,
poor girl, sank under it in a strong hysterical affection.
If such things were ever dangerous, I should
have been alarmed for her. As it was, she occupied
all our attention, until my news had lost something
of its exciting effect on the rest.
As soon as a calm was restored, I reminded my
mother of the preference she had expressed the
before for Craiganet as a residence; and
told her that I would, at once, take measures to
discharge the property from all encumbrance, by
pledging my own personal responsibility to the
creditors. By this means the approaching sale,
appointed for Newyear's day, would be prevented;
and instead of preparing for our removal, she would
be permitted to remain in peace and quietness
where she was.
Here was a new cause for rejoicing. The
pleasure of my mother was heartfelt, and the glee
of Laura more obstreperous than at any time
before. Jane was too much absorbed to think
about it; and as to Ann, Barnard's Castle was
“the pole of all her young affections,” and that
would again be her home. It was rather cause of
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sorrow than joy to her that it was not also to be
the home of her second mother.
In the midst of all this tumult of feeling, in which
tears were more rife than smiles, Margaret Howard
and Douglas drove up. It was easy for them
to misunderstand the cause of the emotion they
beheld. It was very much in appearance, such as
my return, after the final defeat of my hopes, might
have been expected to occasion. Margaret offered
no condolence in words, but her manner was full
of tender sympathy, and as she kissed my mother,
she said she had come to invite us to Oakwood the
next day. She added that her brother would be
gone to Castle Howard, his principal residence, and
that she and her mother would follow in a few
days; that we must spend those few days with
them, and remain there after they were gone, until
the bustle of the sale was over, and as much longer
as our convenience might require.
She hurried through this speech with an air of
as much cheerfulness as she could assume, as if
fearful of interruption by her own emotion or my
mother's. It was not until she had got through
that I saw a tear in her eye, as again tenderly
kissing my mother, she added,
“Do, my dear madam, say yes.”
This was more than could be borne. My mother's
self-command now, for the first time, failed
her, and falling on Miss Howard's neck, the mingled
feelings of her heart at length found vent in
tears. The rest of us were hardly less affected.
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To Ann, particularly, the generosity and delicacy
of Howard were overwhelming. My feelings
were drawn into the vortex of her's, and Balcombe
alone had self-possession enough to explain. As
to Douglas, I had observed his rueful visage as he
entered; but a glance had been exchanged between
him and Jane, and they were gone. Between
them, doubtless, the matter was soon understood.
But they had it all to themselves. I saw no more
of them until dinner, when they appeared with
glowing cheeks, and eyes red, but beaming with
delight. I was pleased to find that Jane, on this
occasion, did not seem to think her dignity engaged
to hide her feelings. She showed them simply and
naturally; she rejoiced with others, and was glad
to have them rejoice with her. She had no part to
act. She had no scheme in her head. She was
once more the same honest girl I had known her
before the visit of Howard to Oakwood, and his
attentions to Ann. I was delighted to recognise
one whom I had so much loved, and whom I had
despaired of ever seeing again. I caressed her
playfully, in a manner which, a month before,
would have outraged her dignity, and she said to
me apart,
“Oh William! I am so thankful to you. It was
a severe operation. You cut deep, but you reached
the seat of the disease, and I have no fear that I
shall prove myself unworthy of the happiness I
now hope for.”
We now understood from Miss Howard that her
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brother was well enough to travel, and proposed
to do so for his health. With that view he would
leave Oakwood next morning, and in the spring he
would probably go to Europe.
“And shall I see him no more?” said Ann, with
all the simplicity of her innocent and grateful
heart. “Dear generous Henry! had he prepared
to load us with kindness and steal away from our
gratitude?”
I believe I have done my story. It matters little
whether we went to Oakwood or not. But we did
go, and received the congratulations of Mrs. Howard.
I now, too, had an opportunity of hearing her
and her daughter express their grateful admiration
of Balcombe. He had left us to bring down his
wife, that she might spend with us the approaching
season of festivity.
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Margaret Howard.
“I don't want to be led into temptation. But as I
never mean to marry any man but Mr. Balcombe,
or some other like him, and none such is to be
found, I beg you to advise her never to take food
from my hand. I feel a little conscientious just at
this moment, and so take this security against the
hour of temptation and weakness. Do, Mr. William,
tell me where I may go to look for such
another man.”
“You must go to the place he came from,” said
I; “and then to no purpose, unless you can find
some man, intelligent and brave by nature, who
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has been carefully nurtured in the seed-bed of a
civilized, enlightened Christian society, and then
transplanted to the rich wilds where his luxuriance
may expand itself without restraint.”
In due season Balcombe arrived with his family,
and we Christmas'd it around at Oakwood, at
Craiganet, at Raby Hall, at Barnard's Castle; and
when Christmas was gone and forgotten by others
it was still Christmas with us, until the month of
February brought Mr. Raby's answer to our
letters.
This was friendly, congratulatory, self-accusing,
and definitive. It enclosed a large account of
rents and profits, with a declaration that no consideration
on earth should tempt him to retain one
cent of advantage from a transaction, doubtful in
its character, to say the least of it, and which had
always debased him in his own estimation. The
money thrown away on Montague he considered
as the mere earnest of a bargain with the devil,
through one of his emissaries, which he was glad to
forfeit if he might thereby annul the contract. He
enclosed bills for the whole amount due according
to his statement, including interest, and expressed
a hope that the command of so much money would
tempt me to travel. Then followed a kind invitation
to visit him; a hint at the opportunities of
forming desirable connections in England; and an
intimation that no gentleman or nobleman in the
north of England would deny his daughter to a
man bearing a name so illustrious in the legends of
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the olden time as that of Raby. This advantage,
on which my aristocratic kinsman laid so much
stress, I had nearly overlooked, and am now reminded
to tell the reader, that the assumption of
the name of Raby was made, in my grandfather's
will, a condition of the devise. With this I cheerfully
complied. My name was changed in due
form, and I am ever since at the reader's service,
William Napier Raby,
of
Barnard's Castle, Northumberland,
Virginia.
CHAPTER XXVI.
To each and all a fair good-night,
And rosy dreams and slumbers light.
When I said that I had finished my story, it was
in one of those moments of concentrated selfishness
in which a man forgets there is anybody else in
the world but himself. I did think of one more.
I thought of Ann. But as she has long been a
part of myself, I am afraid I have occasion to go
back and read the lecture which I gave my sister
Jane. But I have not quite forgotten it, and in
proof of it I will tell the reader what became of the
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other personages in my drama, even down to Jim
Porter the ducker.
Howard no sooner reached home than he commenced
his preparations for foreign travel. He
visited every part of Europe, not excepting Greece,
and for a time seemed bent on finding that relief
from wo which he had vainly sought from the
hand of Balcombe. But though he found not this,
he found a much better and equally efficient
remedy. He came into collision with men whose
pretensions on the score of birth and fortune paled
his own. He encountered privation, hardship, and
difficulty, and learned to live without the habitual
indulgence of all his wishes. He frequented scenes
where danger sought him when he sought it not,
and learned to think that a man's courage may be
tested by other and better means than his readiness
to peril his life on every fool's quarrel. In learning
all this he lost nothing of his high honour, his strict
principles, his delicacy of feeling, his easy deportment
and refined courtesy, and came back, after
an absence of three years, a man every way
worthy of his prosperous fortune. It was not long
before our intercourse was renewed, and as our
friendship had known no abatement, it at once
assumed the character of cordial intimacy. This
brought him frequently in company with my sister
Laura, and I saw with pleasure that she soon
began to fill the place in his regard which had
been left vacant by Ann. The reader anticipates
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the result. They have been married a dozen years,
and are happy.
Margaret Howard married a gentleman of
moderate estate, in whom, perhaps, were more of
the qualities of Balcombe than in any other I have
ever known. He was not fully equal to that beauideal
of Miss Howard's imagination; but it came
in aid of the resemblance that he was nearly
as old.
Balcombe returned to Missouri in the spring.
In his journey from Fredericksburg to Craiganet he
had made his wife acquainted with all of us, so
that she came among us completely divested of
her reserve. She seemed as if she had known us
all her life. She met me as if I had been her
brother. Ann she never called from the first by
any other name. With Jane she was somewhat
more punctilious. To my mother tenderly respectful,
and to Laura she was as an elder sister.
The reader will readily suppose that, on the
appearance of my grandfather's will, all the scruples
of old Douglas vanished like a ghost at the
crowing of a cock. The consequence was that
the same day was fixed for the marriage of my
sister and myself. As we were oldfashioned folks,
who love to preserve all memorials of things that
have been, we fixed on Valentine's day. As it
approached, I received a hint that it would be as
well that Balcombe and I should take ourselves
out of the way of mops and brooms, especially if
we had no mind to live on bread and cheese, during
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certain days appropriated to the preparation of
jellies, bridal cakes, &c., &c. I communicated
this intimation to Balcombe, and we determined to
use the time for a visit to Barnard's Castle, my
future home, and Raby Hall, which I wished to
make his. His wife insisted on accompanying us.
I was not sorry for this, for I found her heart
began to yearn for her wild home, her “desert
solitude,” and I had hopes the sight of Raby Hall,
with all its substantial comforts, might tempt her
to remain with us. I had a wish, too, (perhaps impertinent,)
to be present at her meeting with Mary
Scott. And I did see it. I had never mentioned
that unfortunate woman in her presence. But she
could be no stranger to her history, and to that of
her husband's former attachment and continued
esteem and admiration. Such a case was out of
rule, and I was at a loss to tell how she would
treat it. I might have known that, as George Balcombe's
wife, she would do the thing that was
right, but what that was to be I did not know.
As soon as Mrs. Balcombe was introduced to
the major and his lady, Balcombe inquired for
Mary Scott, and asked to be conducted to her.
In a few moments he returned. She was leaning
on his arm, and he led her with as much proud
respect as if she had been a queen. His wife rose
and advanced to meet them. I have spoken of her
lofty stature and commanding air. I never saw
her half so majestic as now. Her step was slow,
her carriage lofty, her countenance unmoved, yet
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in the whole there was an air of tenderness and
softness in which everything like dignity was forgotten.
I saw poor Mary lift up her eyes, and
blench under the full black eye of the stately figure
before her; but she again raised her head, and
looked up confidingly in Balcombe's face.
“I need not tell you,” said he, “who this is, and
how much I owe her.”
“You owe her everything,” replied Mrs. Balcombe,
“that man can owe to the disinterested
friendship of a noble being. You owe her all of
your heart that is not mine, and she must give me
a place in her's for your sake.”
Saying this, she extended both her arms, and
folded the poor shrinking creature to her bosom.
She would have kissed her, but Mary could not
look up, and Mrs. Balcombe, gently moving her to
the sofa, sat down with her, without loosening her
hold, or removing the face of the weeping girl from
the shoulder where it rested. There she sat, bending
over and soothing her, as if unconscious of the
presence of every other.
The major had turned to the window to hide his
emotion. I did the same; when he said, in a low
tone,
“All our training can produce nothing like this.
Where the essentials of good breeding and good
principles are preserved, there is a majesty in the
wild forms of nature that art can never reach.”
When the tumult of Mary's feelings had subsided,
Mrs. Balcombe still sat by her, and drew
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her into conversation. I never before had seen
her so affable to a stranger; but on this occasion,
though their topics were few and restricted, yet
they talked on like old acquaintances, and parted
for the night as if they really were so.
The next morning Mrs. Swann took Mrs. Balcombe
over the house, showing all those fixtures
and conveniences, in which women so much delight,
while Balcombe and I rode over the estate.
I took this opportunity to show him the advantages
of the place as a residence, and urged him to settle
there. Seeing that he hesitated, I remarked that
one half of the property was his by the will of my
grandfather, and that by every obligation of gratitude
and friendship I was bound to make the other
half his also.
“No more of that, William,” said Balcombe.
“Had I heard of that bequest, I am not sure you
would ever have heard of the will. Had it been
contained in the body of the will, I would not have
accepted it. As it is, my motives are liable to no
misconstruction, and I will keep them so. And
now having said this, I will add, that I am too poor
to occupy so large an establishment, and if I were
here, I should have a constant warfare with you
about aids which you would offer, and I would
decline. No, William; I am well enough off for
Missouri. I should be a poor man here. My
wife's parents are there. I must not task her devotion
to an old husband too far. I must take her
back to them. But I will deal with you in all the
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frankness of friendship. I would much rather be
here, but whether it will ever be in my power I
cannot tell. Now I propose this: take my property
here at any valuation; pay me the interest of
the money, as long as we both live, and if I wish
to return cancel the bargain, and let me have your
half at the same price.”
To this I agreed. A round sum was fixed on
as the price, and the bargain concluded.
To Mrs. Balcombe this arrangement was quite
satisfactory. To poor Mary it was a subject of
great but silent grief. She said little until Balcombe
proposed, as part of the plan, that as soon
as James's education should be finished, he should
follow him to the western country and seek his fortune
there. At this suggestion all her self-command
forsook her. When she recovered herself,
she said she would not be any hinderance to James's
advancement, and admitted the plan to be a good
one.
“But, oh George! I was so happy in the thought
of being near my best friend, and to have the benefit
of his instructions, advice, and example for my
poor boy, without ever parting from him, and now
to lose you both! It is too much!”
Mrs. Balcombe now spoke to her a few words
in a low and tender tone, to which she replied,
“No, my dear madam. That must not be.
Your good and wise husband knows my reasons,
and he approves them. While Mr. Napier permits
me to receive shelter here, from the kind
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friends who lifted me up when I was prostrate in
the dust, I shall seek no other home.”
“You shall never need another,” said I, “while
this will content you.”
“And if the most tender and profound respect
on our part,” said the major, “can make you happy
here, you will never wish to change your place of
abode.”
The grateful creature looked as she spoke from
one to another, and then clasping her hands, exclaimed,
“Oh, how have I deserved this?”
When I heard what passed between Mary and
Mrs. Balcombe, I looked at Balcombe for an explanation.
He now said to me apart,
“I proposed to her to accompany me to Missouri,
and make my house her home, and she declined
it.”
“Why so?”
“For reasons worthy of her. Our equal ages
and my former attachment to her. `I see,' said
she, `the confiding nobleness of your wife, and I
know she cannot be insensible of the advantages of
youth and beauty. But it is not right to task your
generosity, or to incur the least hazard of disturbing
her peace of mind. The situation you propose
would be to me the happiest in the world, were it
forced on me by circumstances. But it would be
wrong to adopt it from choice, and the thought of
that would make me unhappy. Should my present
dependance fail me, George, and leave me without
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a home, I will to you as to a brother, and take
shelter under your roof.”'
After spending a day or two at Raby Hall, we
went to Barnard's Castle, leaving Mrs. Balcombe
behind. Here my arrangements were soon made.
We returned to Raby Hall; and on the day before
that appointed for the double wedding, returned to
Craiganet.
As Balcombe had determined to set out for Missouri
as soon as the nuptial festivities were over,
he prepared to take a final leave of the major and
Mary Scott. In order to this he drew up a paper,
directing me to pay her quarterly a handsome annuity
out of the interest on the price of his property.
Having showed me this, he handed it to his
wife, to be given to Mary on separating for the
night. This was done; and when we met in the
morning I could read it in her grateful countenance.
I think I never saw one in which that
most beautiful of all expressions (save only that
of tender love) displayed itself so strongly as in
her's. Perhaps no heart ever felt the sentiment so
deeply.
When we were about to part Mrs. Balcombe
kissed her tenderly, while Balcombe bade farewell
to the major and his lady. Then turning to Mary,
he folded her to his bosom, and kissing her forehead
as usual, was about to leave her, when she
held up her lips and said,
“Once more, dear George. This once; this
last time.”
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And once more he impressed upon her lips the
hallowed kiss of his pure and generous friendship.
“Thank God! thank God!” she exclaimed, in a
tone of elevated enthusiasm. “Should we never
meet again, that token of a brother's love I will
carry to the grave.”
“My dear child,” said the kind old major, “Mr.
Balcombe is indeed a brother. You lose him now;
let me be your father.”
The poor creature could make no answer. Balcombe
wrung the major's hand, and we left the
house.
On our return to Craiganet, we found Douglas
there, accompanied by Margaret Howard. I was
rejoiced at this. I wished Mrs. Balcombe to
know this softened reflection of some of her husband's
noblest qualities. I had excited her wish to
know Miss Howard, by speaking of her in such
terms as conveyed this idea. Margaret, on the
other hand, met her as one whom she ought to
esteem as the wife of a man she so much admired.
In short, they met as sisters, and grew together
into the most cordial intimacy.
“She is the only woman in the world,” said
Mrs. Balcombe, “worthy to be the wife of Mr.
Balcombe.”
I shall not tell the reader about the wedding.
It is an old story; fifteen years old to-morrow;
and there sits Ann, quite matronly, with her eldest
daughter by her side, working her sampler. Our
firstborn is out with his gun. The youngest is
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asleep in the cradle, and a wee thing of three years
old is worrying the cat, and plaguing me by inviting
my attention to her pranks.
Jane makes Douglas a good wife. Whether her
seniority gives her the same advantage over the
husband that she had over the lover, I don't know.
I rather think not. But boys always fall in love
the first time with women older than themselves;
and no woman ever objected, in her own case, to a
man for being too young.
Keizer returned with Balcombe to Missouri, and
has ever since lived uprightly and comfortably
under his munificent patron. James Scott followed
in three years. He has prospered, and
attained to competency and honour. Should I
give his true name, many of my readers would
find that I had been speaking of one of whom they
have heard before. Balcombe's daughter is now
grown. I hear frequently from her father, and
suspect, from some expressions, that Miss Delia
has found out that the difference between the ages
of her parents is about the same as that between
her's and James's.
I regret to close this summary by adding, that
within one year past Colonel Robinson has followed
his wife, who died soon after Balcombe's return to
Missouri.
This, I believe, fulfils my promise to tell all
about everybody, except that I have not yet accounted
for Jim Porter. Be it known that he is at
this moment shooting ducks in the Pocoson of the
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Raby Hall estate, in which he has the exclusive
privilege of hunting, rent free.
Saturday, February 13, 1836.
P.S. Sunday morning—Valentine's day.
A letter from Balcombe. He is coming to Virginia,
and claims my promise to sell him my interest
in the Raby Hall property. He has prospered
in his affairs, and the death of Colonel Robinson
has made him rich. James Scott has married his
daughter, (his only child,) and will live with him.
I am told to expect him in April, and that Keizer
will accompany him. Poor Mary (who since the
major's death has been with me) is beside herself
with joy, and there is not a child in the house old
enough to talk, whose eyes don't dance at the
thought of seeing a man they have all learned to
love and honour. Even the negroes at Raby Hall
will not be sorry; for when I bought out Balcombe
they expressed no particular feeling, but merely
said, through Charles, their common spokesman,
“We been all mighty willing, sir, to have Mass'
George for master.”
THE END.
