As the sheriff spoke, Mr. Henry Thornton, Billy Byles, and another gentleman, whose face seemed familiar to me, rode up towards the cabin, but checked their horses suddenly as they came upon the body of Robert Thornton, which was still lying where he had fallen. They had evidently not received full intelligence of what had occurred: for surprise, as well as horror, was in the expression of their faces. All three sprang to the ground and gazed at the corpse for a moment in silence, while I and the sheriff advanced towards them.
"Why this is a terrible consummation!" said Mr. Henry Thornton, shaking me warmly by the hand. "How did this happen?"
"Nat Turner's work again," said the sheriff, before I could reply; "and the worst of it is, he has escaped us once more. He made his way through, and got into the swamp in spite of all we could do, though we came upon him before the smoke was out of his gun. Old William Thornton is hard hit too, but he is still living, and would live, if he were to keep himself quiet, and not curse, and swear, and abuse everybody."
"I suppose I must be content then," said the stranger, who had some up with the other two gentlemen; "for I was just going to call this unfortunate fellow to an account, as I find he has brought suspicion and discredit upon me, and my back is not sufficiently broad to bear all that people are inclined to pile upon it already."
"Well, well," said Billy Byles, "there is no use of talking any more about that, Halliday. All has been explained, and will be explained; and there lies Bob Thornton, the maker of all the mischief in the county, not likely to make any more mischief now, I fancy."
"Sir Richard Conway does not recollect me, I presume," said Colonel Halliday, speaking in a somewhat stiff and formal manner.
"I did not at first, Colonel Halliday," I replied; "but I do now, and am glad to see you."
"So am I to see you," he answered; "for I have much wished to explain to you that these two men, though friends of mine from my youth up, were neither aided nor countenanced by me in their late conduct towards Miss Davenport. They, and two or three others who were with them, promised me faithfully to see her safe to Jerusalem, while I went on to rescue some other young ladies from a somewhat dangerous position. Perhaps I ought not to have trusted to their word; for, I am sorry to say, I had known it violated before; but I had no suspicion at the time of anything like unfair play, and I gave orders to two men to wait to let you know where Miss Davenport was. They, however, were frightened away by the arrival of the negroes. I hope this explanation will be satisfactory to you, sir; but, if it is not, all I can say is, I am ready."
"Hush! hush! nonsense!" said Mr. Henry Thornton. And I immediately replied,--
"It is perfectly satisfactory, Colonel Halliday, though it was unnecessary. Miss Davenport has already done you full justice; and I easily attributed the conduct which has been pursued to the right parties, and to the true motives."
"Well, that is all right," said Billy Byles, in his easy, unconcerned way. "It is as well to get things over one by one; and now that is settled, what is to be done with this poor fellow's corpse, Mr. Sheriff? It cannot remain lying here, you know. Had we not better take it up to the old place?"
"We cannot carry it out of the state," replied the sheriff. "It will be better to put it out of sight amongst these bushes, till the cart I have sent for comes down to take the old man up to the house. We can then remove it to the cabin, and let it await the coroner's inquest there. In the meantime, Mr. Thornton, will it not be better for you and Sir Richard to ride over with Miss Bessy to my house? You will find my sister there, who will take care of the young lady; and if I might advise, she would not go further to-day, for she must be worn out with all she has gone through; and, indeed, she looks tired to death."
"A very good plan," answered Mr. Thornton; "and, at all events, we will wait at your house till you return, Mr. Sheriff." An alteration of plan, however, was forced upon us. The horses which had brought me and Bessy thither were not found for half-an-hour, having hobbled away three-quarters of a mile into the swamp. And when they were found and brought back, they had to be saddled for our journey. By this time, the cart which had been sent for had arrived, with a mattress stretched in the bottom. Old Mr. Thornton was carefully removed from the cabin and placed in the vehicle; and though a good deal reduced by loss of blood, he still seemed in a highly irritable and excited condition, cursing the men who moved him, for the pain they could not avoid inflicting. Three of the men who were present volunteered to accompany him to the old house; and the sheriff, after having given directions for sending for a surgeon, prepared with all the rest to set off together across the marsh.
"Where's old Jenny?" cried the sheriff as we were about to go, "where's old Jenny? We must not go without her. She is really a good creature, and tended that unhappy man quite kindly, notwithstanding all his abuse."
"Here I am, mas'r," cried Jenny, coming out of the hut. "You go 'long, I'll come after. Nobody hurt me, and I want to lay out Mas'r Robert."
"No, no, Jenny, come along," said the sheriff. "Let him alone; the coroner must see him just as he is. One of you lads catch that horse--or the other one there; I suppose they belong to William Thornton; but we must press one to carry the old woman."
"No, no, I rather walk," said Jenny eagerly. "I'se not ride a horseback. It bumps me shocking; I'se too fat. If Miss Bessy and Mas'r Richard stay beside me, I'll walk along wid dem." Mr. Thornton and several others, however, determined to bear us company, and to keep at a walking pace across the swamp; but we took a spare horse along with us in case Jenny, as I knew would happen, should get tired out before we reached the sheriff's house. I could have been well pleased if old Aunt Jenny's own plan had been followed, for I longed for a quiet talk with dear Bessy; and the good old lady would have afforded no interruption to our conversation. With Mr. Thornton, however, talking to us the whole way, inquiring into all that had occurred, and giving us little pieces of intelligence in return--with Billy Byles whistling one air upon our right, and a young farmer humming another behind us, anything like private conversation between the dear girl and myself was of course totally out of the question. Perhaps it was better as it was; for Bessy was certainly not in a condition to bear any more agitation; and I, like most other men, might not have been quite as considerate as I ought, had the opportunity been afforded to me. Our journey was, of course, very slow; but it afforded an opportunity to Mr. Thornton to tell us all that had occurred since I had quitted the county-town. The insurrection, he said, was now considered completely at an end; the troops were returning to their several stations, and but a small body remained at Jerusalem, more to act as police in apprehending the fugitive malefactors, than to guard against any renewal of violence. Just as he was setting out, he asked us to conduct Mrs. Thornton and his family back to their own home, the sheriff having come in, bringing William Thornton and his son as prisoners. The outrage they had committed upon the poor unoffending negroes excited the greatest indignation of the town. General Eppes had published a vigorous proclamation on the subject, warning the people to abstain from such barbarous acts; and it was with the greatest difficulty they could obtain bail for their appearance. They maintained sturdily that they knew not what had become of Miss Davenport; and though they admitted that Colonel Halliday had placed her under their charge, they declared she had quitted their house that morning, and they knew nothing more. A consultation ensued between Mr. Thornton and the sheriff, immediately after they had given bail and left the town. The suspicions of both fixed at once upon the place to which they had sent poor Bessy, and they arranged together to raise a large party and pursue the search for her, even into North-Carolina. They met early in the morning at the sheriff's house; and, somewhat to the surprise both of Mr. Thornton and Billy Byles, they found Colonel Halliday of the party. That gentleman, Mr. Thornton went on to say, on returning from a long reconnoitering expedition, had been exceedingly irritated to find that Mr. William Thornton had broken his word with him, and that suspicions had been excited against himself, both in me and others, in regard to Bessy's disappearance.
"So angry was he," continued Mr. Thornton, "that I thought it necessary to exact a promise from him, before we suffered him to go with us, that he would not proceed to any act of violence against Robert Thornton, if we met with him; for he asserted, what was very true, that Robert ruled his father completely." Almost all that occurred after they set out we already knew; for we had learned from the sheriff that neither he nor any of his party had the slightest idea that there was a cabin in the neighbourhood of the road they passed; and that it was only the sight of Matthew Leary watching them, and the report of two or three guns, which had brought them up to the spot where William Thornton and his son had fallen.
"I, Byles, and Halliday," resumed Mr. Thornton, "here quitted the sheriff and the rest about a mile from the spot where we afterwards found you, and rode on to the old place, which Mr. William Thornton and his son had quitted but a few minutes before. An old negro, called Samuel, on Halliday assuring him he would skin him alive if he did not tell us the truth, informed us that you had been there the night before, with five or six men, and carried Bessy away with you. His two masters, he said, had gone to look for you; but it was with the greatest difficulty that we got him to admit that one of the old women about the place knew of a small hut, which had been built upon the line, and had watched you go in that direction. We forced her to give some explanation where the place lay; and soon after, passing the sheriff's men on the road, got further directions.
"When we saw the body of Robert Thornton lying dead on the ground, we very naturally concluded, my dear Sir Richard, that a conflict had taken place, and you had shot him. I am indeed glad that it was not so, for this has been a sad business altogether."
"It has indeed," said Bessy Davenport; "the saddest week that Virginia has ever known."
"Well, my love, we must submit to what God appoints," responded Mr. Thornton. "And the first thing you have to do, Madam Bessy, is to take care of yourself, for you are looking quite haggard and old, and you will never get a husband if you don't put on better looks than that." Bessy gazed quietly up in my face, and a faint smile played about her lips; but Mr. Henry Thornton went on without noticing it, saying,--
"You must come home to-morrow, Bessy; and, under your good aunt's nursing, you will soon get as plump as a little partridge again."
"There, don't you take dat road, Mas'r Thornton," cried aunt Jenny, who was toiling along after us. "T'other is not quarter of a mile out of de way, and I do want to see what's become of poor 'Ercles."
"Well bethought, aunty," said Mr. Thornton; "you are a good, kind old woman; but really we must contrive to get you upon the horse, or we shall not reach home to-night. I must get to my own house this evening, Jenny, or the mistress will think we were all lost together." Poor Jenny, who was really tired by this time, was, with some difficulty, seated upon the inconvenient saddle; and though, in compassion to her, we did not perform our cavalry evolutions at very quick time, we certainly proceeded more rapidly than when she was on foot. At the end of about an hour's march after Jenny was mounted, we reached the dwelling of Mr. William Thornton; and here we found another very curious exemplification of how rapidly news flies amongst the negro race in this country. We knew of no one who had crossed the Swamp in that direction but ourselves, since the fatal events had occurred at the State-line, for the sheriff had taken the other road; yet the negroes were now gathered together round the door of Mr. Thornton's house, evidently agitated by some strong feelings.
"Look at those poor people," I said, addressing Mr. Henry Thornton; "is it possible any rumour of what has befallen their master can have reached them?"
"More than probable," answered my friend; "there is no accounting for the rapid spread of intelligence amongst the negroes. I have been sometimes really tempted to think that a bird of the air has carried the tidings. See, here comes one of them to ask us some question." As he spoke, the girl who the day before had given me the only indication I could obtain of the direction in which Bessy had been taken, ran up as we were passing at a little distance from the house, and inquired, in a tremulous sort of tone,--
"Oh, can it be true, Mas'r Henry, that dere hab been a fight out dere, and people killed?"
"No fight, my poor girl," answered Mr. Thornton; "but I am sorry to tell you, Nat Turner and his gang have been at more mischief, and your master has suffered." The girl wrung her hands, and then said, in a low voice,--
"And Mas'r Robert?"
"One has been killed, and the other badly wounded," replied Mr. Thornton. "You will, doubtless, hear more about it soon, and learn more accurate particulars than I can give you. Who told you anything of a serious nature had happened?" On that point, however, as usual, we could obtain no satisfaction. One negro--and several had now gathered round--had heard it from another, also present, and he from a third, till it made a complete circle, and then went round again. It was evident that some or all were lying; and, giving the question up, Mr. Thornton inquired if they knew anything of the state of poor Hercules.
"He war very bad dis morning," said one of the men; and the girl shook her head and looked sad.
"Let us go on, uncle Henry," said Bessy. "I must see the poor fellow myself. It was in trying to serve me he was injured; and I must see him."
"Well, Bessy, I will not try to stop you," said her uncle; "although, my dear child, I much fear you are over-exerting yourself, and must suffer for all this. Let us go on, however."
When we approached the little semicircle of huts which I have described before, and in which poor Aunt Bab's negroes were lodged, there appeared no crowd round any of the doors, such as I had seen there on a preceding visit. On the contrary, all was now still and silent; and I could not but fear that the wounded man was dead. Mr. Thornton, however, judged better.
"Oh, no!" he answered, when I expressed my apprehension; "they are most likely out in the field. If he were dead, you would hear noise enough. It is only with people educated to control their feelings that grief is silent. With these poor childlike creatures it is always noisy. But there is a horse's head between two of the huts. Perhaps Christy is with him." So it proved. The good surgeon was there, seated on a little stool by the poor man's side, with his fingers on the pulse, and his eyes half closed, almost as if he were dosing. A woman and a child were also in the cabin, standing at a little distance behind the surgeon. Though she was the man's wife, she was quite a young creature--almost a child herself--and she looked quite bewildered with grief and apprehension. We had opened the door without Doctor Christy moving or unclosing his eyes; but the moment Bessy Davenport entered, he started and looked up.
"I knew it!" he cried. "I felt it in the poor devil's pulse. Miss Bessy, you have no right to make any one's pulse gallop so, has she, Sir Richard? Squire, your very humble servant. You have all come just in the nick of time, for I want help here. All the people are out in the field, and this poor girl is hardly able to help herself."
"Oh, dear Miss Bessy, I'se so glad to see you, and with your own people too," cried the poor man. "You'se very good to come and see poor Ercles."
"Hush!" said the doctor, "not a word, if you would have me save your life."
"Oh, I knows I'se going to die any how, Mas'r Christy," said the man.
"You shall die if you talk, and I won't try to save you," answered the doctor.
"How hot his hand is!" said Bessy, who had gone up and taken the gigantic black hand in hers.
"Yes," said the doctor, oracularly; "he has had great irritation all night, and is now somewhat low. But I have made up my mind to two things, since I have been sitting here, in the hope that some sensible person would come to help me. The first is, that no vital organ has been touched, though, as so often happens in wounds, all sorts of mortal places lay in the way. The second is, that two balls were in the gun, fired so near that they did not spread at all, and that one of them is still in the wound."
"I feel it burning here, close to my back, mas'r," said Hercules,
"I dare say you do," answered the doctor; "nothing else could produce the symptoms which I perceive. Now, I must get that bail out; and I want some one to hold his right arm down while I operate; for yesterday hewouldmove it. The poor fellow could not help it indeed--it was involuntary when he felt the pain."
"Can I do it?" asked Bessy, in a low timid tone.
"No, I thank you, Miss Davenport," replied the doctor, with a quaint smile. "When I have a robin to operate upon, I will ask you to hold it, but not Goliath of Gath. Sir Richard, perhaps, or Mr. Thornton, will hold the arm; and we will reserve for you an easier task. Here, Miss Bessy, take the second bottle out of that little black-leather case there, and put about a teaspoonful in some water. Then stand here, while I seek for the ball; and give him the draught if you think he is likely to faint. We must guard against fatal syncope. Now, Hercules, if you are quite quiet, you shall have relief in a minute or two; and if you keep quiet you shall get well. Why, old Jenny, I did not see you. You can hold the hartshorn-and-water."
"No,Iwill do it, Doctor Christy," said Bessy. "I never have shrunk, and never wish to shrink, from that which is needful to help a fellow-creature."
"I know you don't," answered the surgeon; and, baring his arm, he proceeded to place his patient in the proper position, and remove the bandages from the wound. Bessy turned her eyes away at first, and I could see her lip quiver a little with agitation; but I would not interfere; and Mr. Thornton, who was watching her face also, walked round and stood behind her, evidently believing thatshemight faint sooner than the patient. The moment the operation began, however, she fixed her eyes upon the poor negro's face, and seemed to watch for any change. At the end of a minute or two (for the operation was a somewhat long one), she suddenly put the little cup to the man's lips, saying--
"Drink some of this, Hercules." He drank; and, almost at the same moment, Doctor Christy exclaimed,--
"I have got it! I have got it fast."
"Oh, that is comfortable! Oh, that is cool!" cried the poor fellow, as the surgeon drew out the forceps, with the ball in their gripe.
"Ay, and you will do well now, Hercules," said the surgeon. "That fellow must have been a bloody-minded scoundrel, to put two balls in the gun. You will do well now, I tell you."
"Dar say I shall, Mas'r Christy," answered the negro; "I feels quite easy like, and I do think I could fall asleep if Missy Bessy would but sing just a little bit. Many a time I'se stood to hear you a' singing under the window at old Beavors."
"That I will, Hercules, if it can do you any good," answered Bessy. And, sitting down on the little stool, with a voice that trembled, but was yet exquisitely sweet, she sung the negro song I have mentioned before--
"The shocking of the corn."
The poor man's young wife crept round, as she sang, and, kneeling at her feet, gently kissed her hand: the negro's eyes closed drowsily, opened, and closed again, in the sleep of exhaustion and relief; and Bessy, suffering her voice gradually to die away, closed the song at the end of the third stanza. The surgeon wiped something like a tear from his eye, and we all stole quietly out of the cabin.
"Well, I do think you are an angel, after all," said the good doctor, addressing Bessy, when we were in the open air.
"Hush, doctor, hush!" answered she almost sadly. "I never felt myself more completely mortal than at this moment--more weak--more worthless."
"Well, then, what is perhaps better than an angel," added the enthusiastic old gentleman, "you are the best specimen of a right, true-hearted Virginia girl. God bless them all! I never could get one of them to marry me; but it was not my fault, and their good luck."
"But tell us about the other men," said Mr. Thornton. "I heard there were three wounded."
"Oh, mere flesh wounds," answered the surgeon; "they will get well without much doctoring, when negroes or labourers are in the scrape. They are very serious, of course," he added with a comical smile, "when rich gentlemen and baronets from foreign lands are under our hands. Withthem, the cases are all very peculiar; and we get as much credit and as many fees out of them as we can. I have no patience, however," he continued, "with this Robert Thornton, for putting two bullets in his gun, to shoot a poor negro. I am sorry I helped to cure the bloody-minded scoundrel, and I shall tell him so the next time I see him."
"You will never see him more, Doctor Christy," replied Mr. Henry Thornton. "He was shot dead this morning, by Nat Turner, near the State-line." The good surgeon actually gasped with surprise; but he soon recovered his facetious mood; for sometimes doctors, like undertakers, become so habituated and familiar with death, that they can joke with the "lean abhorred monster," as if he were a boon companion.
"Nat Turner! again Nat Turner!" he cried. "Why, this fellow is ubiquitous. But I suppose his killing Bob Thornton will be a good thing for him; for, though a jury may condemn him for his other murders, of course the governor will pardon him in reward for this. I am sorry for the old man, however; he won't know what to do without his son. By his help, he had got three-quarters of the way to the dogs already; and now he will have no one to show him the remainder."
"He will find it easily enough," said Mr. Thornton, drily. And, mounting our horses again, we were about to ride on to the house of the sheriff, when Bessy perceived that old Jenny was not with us. On inquiry, we found that she had remained in the cabin; and when the surgeon beckoned her out, she approached Mr. Thornton's horse, saying,--
"Please, Mas'r Henry, I think I'll stay here, if you'se no objection."
"What for, Jenny?" asked Mr. Thornton; "are you too tired to go on?"
"No, dat's not it at all," answered the good woman; "but I wants to help Pheme to nurse poor Ercles. You see, Mas'r Henry, Pheme's no more nor a child in such matters; and she don't know how to nurse her husband at all. So I'd better stay."
"A capital good thought, auntie," said the surgeon; "you and I have nursed many a one through a bad illness before, and you're a handy old girl."
"Then," said Jenny, "we are close by ole Will's house, and that er hoss belongs to him. So, if you just take him off the hook, he'll go way home."
"I'll see to that," said Doctor Christy. "You ride on to the sheriff," added he, addressing Mr. Thornton, Bessy, and myself, "and leave me and Jenny to manage the sick man, and the well horse, too." The sheriff's habitation was different from any Virginian house I had seen, both in site and appearance. It was a low, cottage-looking structure, extending over a considerable space of ground, with its pleasant verandah all round it, and not seated, as usual, upon the very edge of the cleared part of the plantation, but still sheltered by the original wood. It was raised upon a little knoll in the forest, perhaps two hundred yards wide, and that space only had been cleared in the vicinity of the house. It looked dry and comfortable, yet cool and shady, with the large trees devoid of underwood, forming a sort of grove all around it, and giving it much the aspect of an English forest-lodge. The sheriff himself came out to receive us as we rode up, followed by his sister, of whom he had spoken; the very reverse of himself in many respects; for, whereas he was fully six feet, two or three, in height, she was very diminutive in stature, and certainly made up for the sheriff's occasional taciturnity by her own good-humoured volubility of tongue. In her dress she was a perfect model for elderly ladies in a state of single blessedness. It was the perfection of trim neatness, from the beautiful little white apron to the small Quaker-looking cap. No superfluous ribbon--no gaudy colour--no fantastic ornament was there; but she put me in mind of some of those neat little brown birds, which are generally the sweetest songsters. We were all welcomed heartily; and a good deal of hospitable bustle took place to make arrangements for getting some more becoming clothes for Bessy and myself; the little old lady justly remarking that we looked more like fugitives from the penitentiary than anything else. Mr. Thornton, however, speedily set her anxieties on that score at rest.
"I will just stay to take some dinner with you," he said, "and then ride on to my own house. As soon as I get there, I will send over some of my people, Bessy's maid, and her own clothes; for these she has evidently stolen somewhere. I took the liberty, Sir Richard, of bringing your man Zed over to my house; and as I had the melancholy task yesterday of making all the sad arrangements at Beavors, I and Zed brought away your baggage from the room you occupied there. Perhaps I had better send poor Zed over with such articles of apparel, et c[ae]tera, as his taste and judgment may select. He will then have the opportunity of assuring himself, with his own eyes, that you are safe and well, for the poor man went about all yesterday evening mourning after you, with a voice as melancholy as a whip-poor-will."
"But, my dear sir," I answered, "you take it for granted that I am going to stay here when I have not even been asked."
"Oh that's of course," cried the sheriff. "Nobody thinks of asking his friends in this country; they always come when they like, and the invitation is understood."
"Pray do stay, Richard," said Bessy, laying her head on my arm. "I have a great deal to talk to you about to-morrow; for I am so tired, and feel so weak, that I shall go to bed soon this evening--do stay."
"Assuredly," I replied. "I was only putting on a little mock-modesty about the invitation, Bessy."
"Well, well, go and wash your hands and faces," cried the sheriff. "We shall allow you time for no other toilet; for you have lingered so long on the road, that I fear the dinner has spoiled, and I hear certain sounds issuing from the back of the house, which indicate that fried chickens are on their way to the dining room. Listen, and you will presently hear a terrible crash, announcing that a large dish has fallen in the stone passage, and that Ham has tumbled out of the ark--a daily occurrence in Virginian houses, Sir Richard."
"No, brother Harrisson, I do declare," cried the sister. "It never happened in this house. Come away, Bessy, he's a libeller. Come away, Sir Richard, and I will show you both your rooms, quite snug, side by side."
"With a chink in the wall, like Pyramis and Thisbe's?" asked the sheriff, with a funny smile. Bessy shook her finger at him with the rose bright in her cheek; and then we both followed his sister to two very neat little rooms, which looked charmingly comfortable and tidy, after the strange, wild scenes in which some of our nights had lately been passed. When I returned to the parlour, I found Mr. Thornton and the sheriff in somewhat eager conference.
"We shall need you over at my house, and perhaps, at Jerusalem to-morrow," said Mr. Thornton, as I entered. "We would not, it is true, break up so pleasant an arrangement as Bessy has made for you; but business must be attended to, Sir Richard."
"What, inVirginia?" I asked with a smile, remembering his own description of the business habits of the people. "However, my dear sir, I will not promise to be over before two o'clock, for Bessy and I have really a great deal to talk of. She is my devisee, you know, Mr. Sheriff; and, of course, our business is very important--though I have some suspicion, my good friend," I continued, turning to Mr. Thornton, "that the clever arrangement we made for conveying all my right, title, interest, et c[ae]tera, to one Bessy Davenport, spinster, will have to be remodelled."
"We shall see," answered Mr. Thornton, quite gravely.
"At all events, our business is important," I urged.
"Not half so important as that which waits us in the next room," cried the sheriff impatiently, "if these two women would but come. Now, I'll answer for it, that excellent sister of mine is making our dear little friend give her a true, full, and particular account of all that has occurred to her during the last week; totally forgetting those fried chickens we were talking of. Jack," he shouted aloud from the door, "go and throw down a large china dish at your mistress's door, to let her know that dinner is ready. Mind you break it all to pieces with a good smash."
"Brother, brother, I am coming," cried his sister, who, of course, had heard the whole. "Don't be so foolish; the man might misunderstand you. Come, Bessy, my love, these voracious men are ravenous for their dinner." I must acknowledge that I certainly was ravenous for mine. Poor Bessy had every right to be hungry also; for we had not tasted any food since the preceding night. It is, indeed, wonderful, how agitation, alarm, or the eager activity of the mind, exercised in any way, will stay the cravings of appetite; and, at all events, it is not till a certain point is reached that hunger is at all felt when we are earnestly and vigorously employed. Oh, those two strange twins of Leda, mind and body, the godlike and the earthly! Though the one may rise when the other sets, the power of the one can always dominate over the other. In fear for her china dishes, the lady of the house very speedily entered the parlour, followed by Bessy, and we were soon seated at a comfortable and well-supplied country table, where everything that farm, garden, stream, and woodland could supply, was found in abundance. Nor to our appetites, purified by fasting, did anything seem over-cooked or under-cooked, although the sheriff, with less than his usual tact, decried some of the dishes as being too much done.
"Well, my good friend," rejoined Mr. Thornton, "we have only to apologize to your sister, by saying we have spoiled her dinner by deviating a little from the straight road on our errand of charity. We went to see that great, big fellow, Hercules, who was shot by Robert Thornton yesterday morning; and when once there, Doctor Christy kept us to aid in all sorts of operations."
"How is he, how is he?" asked the sheriff. "Had I thought of it, I would have passed that way myself; but I have so many matters jostling each other in my mind just now, that one half of them escape notice or remembrance in the crowd."
"The man, I hope, is likely to do well," observed Mr. Thornton. "The good doctor extracted a second ball just now; but I think Bessy was the best doctor of the two, for she sang him to sleep, though he had not been able to close an eye for the last twenty-four hours. It was not the best compliment to your song, my dear niece, to fall asleep over it; but I dare say it will do him a great deal of good."
"It was the best compliment I could wish him to pay me," replied Bessy; "for it was that at which the song was aimed. But you gentlemen, my good uncle, often think that we women are seeking for compliments when nothing is less in our thoughts. Besides, I would never think of seeking one in your presence, being sure that you would spoil it before it reached me." In such conversation, with the agreeable accessories of eating and drinking, and the pleasant, soporific sort of consciousness of being once more in a comfortable chair in a comfortable house, and safe amidst all the charming little luxuries of civilized life, three-quarters of an hour passed away very quietly, and then Mr. Henry Thornton rose to depart. I walked by the side of his horse for some way along the road, pretending to myself to desire much to know what were the matters of business which he wished to discuss with me the next day; but, in reality, much more anxious to ascertain what was the cause of a certain gravity which had tinged his manner, when I had vaguely hinted at the possibility of Bessy Davenport becoming my wife. He did not easily take my hints; but, at length, I came so nearly to the plain question, that he could neither mistake, nor affect to mistake, my meaning.
"The truth is, my friend," he said, "Bessy believes that there are insuperable obstacles; and depend upon it, she does not think so without cause. She is very tenacious in her resolutions; but she always believes, at least, that they are founded on good motives and sound reasons; for, lively and playful as her manner is, I know nobody who is at heart less of a coquette than Bessy Davenport. Before deciding in this instance, she put several questions to me by letter; in answer to which I was obliged to tell her the truth, although she did not conceal from me, that the reply which I was forced to make might greatly affect her own happiness."
"Would there be any objection to your telling me the question she put to you?" I asked.
"I think that would be hardly fair, my dear young friend," answered my companion. "But it seems you are to have a conference to-morrow, and then, doubtless, all will be explained to you by herself. All I can say is, I wish you success with all my heart; and I trust that the various scenes you have lately gone through together, and the vast services and kindnesses you have rendered her, will be found to outweigh all objections. Yet I will tell you fairly, Sir Richard, that I entertain considerable apprehensions--and I grieve to entertain them--in regard to the result to her own health, whether she marries you, or whether she does not."
"What you say puts all my conjectures at sea again," I replied; "for you, at least, must be well informed as to the events of preceding years; and I fondly fancied, up to this moment, that she had made a great mistake, which I could easily rectify. However, I would rather hear the whole facts from her lips, than from any other's; and, as she has already promised to leave the decision to me, I assure you. Mr. Thornton, I will try to decide as may be most forherhappiness, rather than for my own."
"Do so, do so, I beseech you, Sir Richard," replied Mr. Thornton. "To break such a heart as hers, would be worse than a murder; it would be a sacrilege." There we parted; and walking back to the sheriff's house, I found Bessy still in the parlour with himself and his sister, although, by this time, it was growing dark.
"I have stayed to wish you good night, Richard," she said: "but I must really go to bed now, for I am fairly worn out. When shall our conference be? to-morrow, Richard? Before breakfast, had it not better be? You know my early hours, and I can never sleep after five if I try."
"I will be down before then," I answered; "and we will make a regular appointment to meet here, dear Bessy, if we do not shock too much our kind host and hostess."
"O no, do as you like," cried the sheriff; "you are beyond my competence." Bessy had spoken perfectly calmly and quietly throughout, with not the slightest trace of doubt or agitation. And when she had wished the sheriff and his sister good night, I walked with her to the door, and into the passage.
"I wish I could be as calm as you are, Bessy," I said, with a sigh. She looked up in my face, and put her hand upon mine, gazing at me with an earnest, steadfast gaze.
"I am calm, Richard," she answered, "because the decision of my fate and of him whom I love best on earth is entirely in his own hands, and because I have such faith and trust in his judgment, that I have almost taught myself to believe his decision will satisfy my conscience whatever pre-conceived opinions I might now entertain. But let us not enter on it now. Let us decide all to-morrow. Good night, dear Richard, good night!"
"Stay a moment," I said, holding her hand. "I have got something in trust for you here. These papers were found upon your table at Beavors by Nat Turner, and he gave them to me. Believe me, dear Bessy, when I tell you, that although I knew they contained a clue to all the painful mystery, which, within the last week or so, has made our intercourse one of doubt and anxiety instead of joy and hope, I have not read one word."
"Oh, you might have read them," she said; "but never mind; you shall read them to-morrow, and then tell me what I am to do. You are the lord of my fate, and I will obey you as--as my----"
"Husband," I added, hope springing up anew. "I must have one kiss before we part, after such scenes. If to-morrow I find I am wrong in taking it, I will give it back again." She gave it readily, murmuring,--
"Oh, Richard, if such are your bargains, I know already how you will decide." Then, freeing herself from my arms, she ran away, and left me. At the end of little more than an hour, Zed and Julia, Bessy's maid, made their appearance, with a quantity of goods and chattels, sufficient to half-fill the cart in which they came. Soon after their arrival, I, too, went to bed, and only feared that, in the unwonted softness of my couch, I might oversleep myself on the the following morning.
What it was that woke me, I know not. It certainly was not the lark, for there is no such heavenly benison of dawn on this side of the Atlantic. It might, indeed, be a crowd of those large birds of the swallow tribe which they call here the bee-martins, who had congregated round the windows, daring each other to wanton, purposeless flights. But I think it was something within, rather than without--some of those strange, silent operations, amidst which the mind still lives and acts when apparently dead in sleep--some of the heart's sentinels calling the watches of the night. I was to rise to meet Bessy in the early morning, and I did not lie awake to count the hours; I was too weary for that. I slept, and slept soundly, the allotted time; and then I woke, as if a voice had said, "Arise!" The day was yet unconfirmed; the hues of the east were still russet, rather than red; but, as I dressed myself, the rose and the gold must have grown stronger in the sky, for many a magic hue poured varying through the pathways amongst the trunks of the old trees, and, streaming across the turf that covered the little rise on which the house stood, seemed to spread a many-coloured carpet before the windows. I took some pains in my toilet, but I was in the parlour and at the window some time before five o'clock struck. I amused myself with gazing forth, and the quiet, pleasant scene, with the sun at length, "perfundens omnia luce," sank into, and refreshed the spirit. But that spirit was all the time busy with other things. It was like thinking in the midst of music--one of the sweetest things I know in life when the heart is at ease--when we feel that harmony, are harmonized by it, and yet lose not one thread of the golden web we are weaving. There was a certain degree of waywardness in my mood, which, perhaps, that morning-scene encouraged, though I know not whence it originally sprung--a feeling of power, which I was inclined to sport with. May I own it? I experienced, I fancy, some of the sensations of the despot, when he remembers how much happiness or misery hung upon his will. Could it be that the treacherous heart was too conscious of the power Bessy had given me to decide her fate and mine for both? No, no, I will not believe it; and, at all events, if I was inclined, as I have said, to sport with the power, I was not inclined to abuse it. But, somehow, during the calm, refreshing sleep of the preceding night, confidence had returned; and I felt as if something was ever whispering in my ear that there could be no possible circumstance in the past or the present which could place a barrier between me and her I loved. Bessy did not keep me long waiting; for she was by my side before the clock had finished striking; and, oh, she looked very lovely, though her cheek was paler than usual, and her eyes somewhat languid. The eyelashes looked longer and darker than ever, the iris more full, though more shaded by the drooping lid. The beautiful, dark, silky hair was perhaps not arranged with all the trim care of former days; but the wavy lines were more plainly seen, making, as some old poet called it, "traps for sunbeams." I could see that she had made up her mind to her fate during the night--that she had prejudged my decision--or else felt that, after all that had passed, we could not be separated; for when she gave me her hand, she held up her lips to me also for the morning kiss, as if she would have said,--"I know how it must be." Bessy had got the packet of letters in her hand; and I was leading her to the sofa, but she stopped me, saying,--
"Let us go out amongst the trees, dear Richard. You know what a wild, fanciful girl I am; and when I have to encounter anything that is likely to agitate me, I would rather have breathing-room in the free air, and trees, and flowers, and birds around me, in preference to tables and chairs."
"And do you think anything will agitate you this morning, love?" I asked, somewhat maliciously, I am afraid.
"Oh, yes," she answered. "How can it be otherwise? although I know quite well, Richard, how you will decide, and what you will say, and I will abide by my promise; yet the very talking of such things must agitate me much."
"I do not think you know what I will say, dearest," I replied, walking by her side towards the door. "I may have much more to say than you can even guess; but let us go out; I prefer the free air, too, my beloved. Under the clear sky, one feels in the presence of a purer power; and with the great trust you have placed in me, I should wish to deal as if the eye of God were visibly fixed on me the whole time." We went forth together, passed across the little open space, and wandered on a short distance into the wood to a spot where we could see the cleared part of the plantation without being quite hidden from the house. We there seated ourselves in the shade, though a ray of the early sun stole through between the trunks of the old giants, and crossed with a gleam of golden light Bessy's tiny foot and delicate ankle. She laid the bundle of old letters upon my knee, and was apparently about to speak of them; but I forestalled her, taking her dear hand in mine, and holding it there.
"Bessy," I said, "these have been four eventful days--ay, and four eventful months to both you and me."
"They have, indeed!" she answered with a sigh.
"Have you remarked," I continued, "how fortune has seemed to take a pleasure in binding our fates together link after link in a chain that cannot be broken? How, from the first, event after event drew us nearer and nearer to each other, as if to sport with all your cold resolves, and with my unreasonable expectation?"
"It would seem so, truly," she answered, gazing down on the grass in thought.
"Let us recapitulate, my beloved," I said, "before we go farther. Here, to begin with myself, in man's true egotistical spirit, as you would have said not long ago,--I came to this country, without ever dreaming that I should find any one to excite anything in my heart beyond a passing feeling of admiration. I had made no resolves; but I had gone through many years and scenes, without ever seeing a woman I could wish to make my wife--without seeing any one to love, in short."
"And to fall in love, at length, with a wild Virginian girl, quite unworthy of you!" said Bessy, looking up with one of her old bright smiles.
"Nay," I answered, "to find a treasure where I least expected it. But let us go on----"
"Ay, but you have not added, dear Richard," she said, still smiling, "that you did not think it at all a treasure when you found it first."
"Perhaps I did not recognize its full value," I replied; "but I soon found it out when I came to see it nearer."
"I do not wonder that you saw nothing worth caring for in me at first," rejoined Bessy. "If you had hated me, and despised me, I could not blame you; for when I think of my sauciness and folly that night and the next morning, I feel even now quite ashamed of myself. But there is some excuse to be made for a wild, somewhat spoiled girl, Richard, who has never known love, or what it means, or what it is like. She says and does a thousand things that she would never think of if she had a grain more experience. But now tell me, when was it you began first to judge a little more favourably of me? for all this has grown upon us so imperceptibly, that I do not really know where it began."
"It began on my part," I answered, "that morning when we first rode over to Beavors--when you and I went to look at the pictures in the dining-room together. Then Bessy let me get a little peep at her heart, and that was quite enough, dear girl. I was more than half in love with you, Bessy, when we mounted our horses to return after the storm. It was high time that I should be so, Bessy; for I do not think if there had not been something more buoyant in my breast than mere humanity, we should ever have got out of that river."
"I am afraid, Richard," said Bessy, "that by that time there was something more buoyant, as you call it, in my bosom, too. I don't mind telling you now, but all that afternoon, at Beavors, I had been feeling very strangely about you, and could not be half so saucy as I wished. I do not think I should have cared much about being drowned before I knew you; but then I did not like the thought of it at all."
"Well, love," I answered, "that adventure was the first of those links between us, which I am now recapitulating--danger of the most desperate kind shared together."
"Ay," cried Bessy, eagerly, "and benefits conferred--life saved--bold and noble daring to save it--O Richard, how could I ever think of making you unhappy after that?"
"Assuredly, it bound us very closely together," I answered "No two people, after having experienced such sensations of interest and anxiety for each other, could ever feel towards each other as they did before."
"It was very soon 'Richard and Bessy' after that," she answered, thoughtfully. Then, raising her eyes to mine, with one of her sunny smiles, she added--"And I fancy in our own hearts it was 'dear Richard' and 'dear Bessy.'"
"It certainly was in mine, dear girl," I replied; "but there were other ties to be added, Bessy: the interest you showed in me--your anxiety about me, before the duel with Robert Thornton, and your gentle care and tendance afterwards; but, more than all, your frank kindness, and the courage of your tenderness, were never to be forgotten by me. Bessy, I do not think, if nothing else had happened to link us still more closely together, we could ever have made up our minds to part. But more, much more, has happened since then--how much within the last three days! Our flight together from a terrible fate----"
"Your saving me from death a second time," she added.
"The strange, close intimacy into which we were thrown during our long wanderings--intimacy such as, perhaps, never before existed between two unmarried persons."
"And which you used so nobly," she added. "Oh, Richard, if there were nothing else but your generous, delicate kindness during that night and day--kindness which, while I loved you as a wife, made me trust and rely upon you as a brother--were there nothing but that, I should, I believe, feel myself justified in overleaping barriers which would be insurmountable in other circumstances, and casting away all consideration but of what is due to you."
"But my happiness must not be alone consulted," I replied. "Whatever we do must be for your happiness also. Dear Bessy, you have lain and slept in these arms; your head has been pillowed on this bosom; your heart has beat fondly against mine. Now tell me, would you withdraw yourself from that resting-place?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" she cried; "never, never! I can never have any other upon earth." And, leaning her head upon my bosom again, she wept.
"And will you be perfectly happy here?" I said, putting my arm around her.
"There," she said, raising her head with a start, but without answering my question--"there, you need not read those papers, Richard. It needs no further consideration. I am yours, willingly, readily--without a doubt. Give me the letters. I will throw them away; and, with them, I will try to cast off all memory of what they contain. But you must promise me one thing, Richard. If, in after times, when I am your wife, you should see some shade of sadness come upon me, a slight and temporary gloom, as if a cloud were passing across a summer's sky, you must not for a moment think that Bessy regrets what she has done--that there is even a shade of repentance, or, as I once called it, remorse, for you have opened my eyes. I see what is right to be done, and I will do it, both for your happiness and for my own. A memory, however, of what these pages contain may, perhaps, from time to time, come back and sadden me, whether I will or not. But it is well that it should be so--that there should be some little thing to take away from the very sweetness of the cup. Were it not for that, I should be too, too happy. Life would be too bright, and I should hardly know how to bear it. Give me the papers, Richard. We will think of them no more."
"May I not read them?" I asked.
"Yes, if you will," she answered; "though I see no use in it. They may makeyousad too; and my course is now completely decided, If you still wish it, this hand is yours, and nothing but death shall take it from you. It can serve no good purpose to read those sad words." I drew her very close to me, and kissed her cheek, saying,--
"It may serve a very good purpose, Bessy. If I am not mistaken, it will enable me, I do believe, to remove from your mind an error, which, as you have said, might grow into a sad memory, might overshadow our mutual happiness as we stood together at the altar, and often come like a dark cloud over the brightness of our future fate."
"Indeed!" she exclaimed, with a doubting and bewildered look; "I do not see how that can be, Richard."
"May I read, Bessy?" I again asked.
"Assuredly," she answered; "do, if you wish it. But there is only one which it is needful for you to read, and that is not very long. It is here." And turning the papers over rapidly, she pointed to one, which had the post-mark, I think, 'Yorktown.' She then put her hand over her eyes, as if resolved not to see the letters any more; and, still leaning her head on my shoulder, remained silent while I read. The letter ran as follows; for having it by me as I write, I may as well copy it as it stands: