"My Dear Madam,--Mr. Winthorp brought me your letter of inquiry yesterday, and also one from Mr. Hubbard. But it was late at night before I received them; and though I notified the sheriff and the magistrates immediately, it was considered too late to do anything that night. Alas, that I should say it! it was too late altogether.
"Early this morning--one of the saddest mornings I have ever seen--I went out to the village; and, upon inquiry, found that the constable and apossehad gone out in one direction, while there was reason to believe that Colonel Davenport had gone in another; that is to say, down towards the bank of the river, so as to have the means at hand for either party to escape out of the State. I rode whither these hints directed me as fast as I could, though, God help me! I had no power or right to interfere. Had I possessed either, I was too late, however; for the matter was all finished and over, and the deed was done before I arrived in the meadow.
"It is very sad to have to tell you that, of two dear friends, I found one dead, and the other almost in a state of distraction. Davenport had been killed at the first fire, andSirRichard Conway was nearly insane at the act which he had committed. Tearing his hair and wringing his hands, he sometimes walked up and down the field, and sometimes stopped to gaze upon the dead body, crying out that he had killed his best friend, his brother, the man he most esteemed on earth. In fact, he spoke very hard words of himself, but still harder of another, who shall be nameless, but whom he accused of having nursed up a jest into a quarrel, and a quarrel into a murder; and who, he said, had suppressed a letter offering every explanation on his part which an honourable man could give.
"The man he spoke of was there upon the field present; but he kept out of his way, and being a near connection of yours, though I believe you are 'scarce cater-cousins,' I think it better not to allude to him more particularly, although all the people present, who were in numbers quite unbefitting the occasion, laid much blame to his charge, and I had some fear that violence would be shown to him.
"Davenport was dead, and there was no help for it; but Conway's grief seemed to touch them much, and when a report spread that the justices were coming, they hurried your brother down as fast as possible to a boat which was in readiness, whether he would or no, and one of them got in with two sailors to steer him over to the eastern shore of Maryland.
"I trust, my dear madam, that you will communicate these sad facts as gently as possible to her who has the deepest and the saddest interest in them, unless, indeed, Rumour, who has a thousand wings as well as a thousand tongues, has carried to her the tidings before this reaches you.
"I may add, and I do it reluctantly, although I tell you fairly I give no credit whatever to the report--for whenever anything sad and disastrous occurs it is sure to give rise to a thousand vague whispers of other calamities--that a rumour has reached this place, since the fatal event of the morning, that a boat has been capsized in the bay, having four persons on board, all of whom were lost; and credulous people will have it that this was the boat which was carrying your brother. However, you may make your mind quite easy on this score; such a thing occurs very rarely in the Chesapeake, and I dare say the whole tale is a fabrication. Yet I cannot but condole with you very sincerely upon the terrible disaster which has actually occurred. That is sufficient, without anything more, to strike you with profound grief; for to see such near connection falling by each other's hand, to the disruption of all family ties and kindred associations, is, indeed, very terrible, although I am inclined to think that neither Davenport nor Conway were so much to blame as those who pretended to act as their friends.
"Believe me to be, my dear madam, with sincere sympathy and respect, your faithful friend and servant,
"Agar Harcourt."
"Postscriptum--I am truly grieved to inform you that the rumour of a boat having been lost proves to be too true. Do not alarm yourself yet. We have no particulars; but simply that about ten o'clock this morning a small boat was seen crowding sail across the bay, when by some sudden accident, no one knows what, she was seen to capsize at a great distance from shore. No assistance could be rendered; for all the vessels which saw her were far distant, and a gale was blowing at the time. Let us hope for the best, however, and put our trust in God."
I read the letter attentively. I scrutinized--I examined every word. There was no doubt it was a genuine letter, from some gentleman I had never heard of, to good aunt Bab. Yet there was something wrong. There must be some mistake. The post-mark was there--the address was written in the same hand as the letter itself; but there was some mistake or some fraud about it. At length I turned to the docket, written in a neat, round, legal-like hand, and in very fresh ink; and it gave me the clue. This Mr. Agar Harcourt, who had written the letter, was evidently intimately acquainted with all the parties, and could not have made a mistake. The letter expressed what he believed to be true, and there was no probability of his believing anything that was not true. Yet there was a falsehood somewhere. The docket, however, read thus,--
"Letter, from the Rev. Agar Harcourt to Mrs. Barbara Thornton in regard to the death of Colonel Edward Davenport by the hands of Sir Richard Conway, baronet, father of the present Sir Richard Conway, now serving in the ---- regiment of dragoons in the Presidency of Bombay." I could easily conceive how such a letter, so designated, must have affected my dear Bessy when first she saw it. What feelings of terror and anguish, and hesitation, must have been produced in her mind when she learned to believe that she was about to give herself, heart and mind, and soul and body, to the son of one who had slain her own father. My mind, though not light, was relieved; for I knew that, by other proofs, I could show her the error easily; yet I wished to prove it to her from the letter itself, to show her the villany which had been perpetrated, and which I knew that letter, if thoroughly and properly analyzed and scanned, must display in some part. I accordingly turned to the very beginning again, and read it once more, examining every word. In the meantime, Bessy removed her hand from her eyes, weary of waiting for my long examination. She fixed them on my face, however, and not upon the letter, and at length she said, in a low and timid tone,--
"Well, Richard, was not that enough to shake and terrify, and almost drive me mad?"
"It was, my love," I answered, pressing her closely to me, "and I grieve that a scoundrel should have had the power to inflict upon you such pain. You shall suffer no more on this account, Bessy; but let me go on and examine this paper more closely."
"Oh, it is certainly Mr. Harcourt's handwriting," replied Bessy. "There are several more of his letters there, and I have got two or three others. I know his writing quite well."
"I doubt it not," I answered; "yet there is a falsehood somewhere. Let me examine farther, dear girl." I read the first page, and part of the second, and then something struck my eye which made me pause.
"Look here," dearest, I said. "This docket on the back tells you that this is a letter describing the death of Colonel Davenport--your father, I presume--by the hands of Sir Richard Conway, whom it points out asmyfather. The docket purports to have been written when I was serving with a regiment in the presidency of Bombay. That is eight years ago, Bessy; for I exchanged almost immediately after that period, when I was merely a cornet, into a regiment in Bengal. Yet the ink seems to me exceedingly fresh. I suspect that it has not been upon the paper more than ten days. But now mark another thing. Look here at this line; you see it stands thus: 'Davenport had been killed at the first fire, and----' The line is almost full if you end with that word 'and;' but crowded in at the end of the line is the small word 'Sir,' and then, in the next line, come the words, 'Richard Conway.' If you will remark closely the handwriting and the ink of that small word, 'Sir,' you will perceive that the one is different and the other bluer than those employed in the letter."
"I see, I see!" cried Bessy, eagerly. "Itisdifferent; but what object could be attained by adding that word?"
"To bear out the docket that was written by Robert Thornton," I answered, "and to snap the love and the engagement between us like a withered twig, by making you believe that my father had killed your father, and the parricidal drops would stain the hand which you clasped in mine at the altar. Then you did believe it, Bessy?"
"I did, indeed," she answered. "But where you have twice saved my life, Richard, where you have risked your own to do it--where you have been so kind, so noble, so generous, surely, surely, the barrier is broken down, the stain wiped out, and my father himself may look down and bless us. Oh, do not gaze at me so! Tell me--tell me what you mean! What do your looks mean? Is it not so? Is not this letter true?"
"No, no, no! Bessy," I answered. "With the interpretation put upon it, and that small word, 'Sir,' added, it is not true! My father, SirHenryConway, was never in America in his life; though my uncle, Major Richard Conway, was. My father died only thirteen years ago. My uncle, Richard Conway, was drowned in Chesapeake Buy, some nineteen or twenty years ago. Richard Conway was the youngest son, and never inherited the baronetcy. That word 'Sir' was introduced solely to make you believe he was my father. Cast all feelings of doubt and hesitation from your mind, my beloved. My uncle, it is true, may have killed your father for aught I know; for I never heard of the fact till now: but, believe me, my father was as innocent of your father's blood as I am; and I have every reason to believe, from what I have heard this day, that my uncle would have been as innocent also, if it had not been for the base and treacherous conduct of old William Thornton, who was your father's second, and who would not suffer an honourable explanation to take place.
"And now, my beloved Bessy, have I not kept my word with you? Have I not extracted from this letter--which was meant to poison your peace, to divide you from a man who truly loved you, or to render your union with him a wretched one--the antidote to its own venomous insinuations?" Bessy did not answer. Some minutes before, while I was clearing away cloud after cloud from her mind, and she had hidden her face upon my bosom, I thought that I felt her heart beating violently; but now she was quite silent and still--so still that, for a moment, I thought she had fainted. I raised her head gently, and saw that the tears were flowing fast from her eyes. She wiped them away hastily; and through the drops beamed a bright smile, telling me they were not drops of sorrow. She hid her face again; but I heard her murmur,--
"They have come at last, Richard--they have come at last, and will bring relief--do not wish me to check them: they are full of joy and comfort."
"Then weep on, dearest," I said; "and may you never shed any but such tears as these." Gradually she grew more composed, and looked up, saying,--
"Oh, this is a happy hour! It is like the clearing away of dark mist; not alone giving back sunshine to the spot where we stand, but opening out bright prospects all around us."
"Then I may tell your uncle that you are mine without doubt or hesitation?" I asked.
"Yours, joyfully, gladly," she answered. "Richard, if ever you thought me a coquette, you shall not think me so now; for you shall find me as ready to own my love as I was formerly to declare I never could love. How you ever came to love me, I cannot tell; but I know right well how I came to love you, and I should hate and despise myself if I did not."
"I came to love you very easily, dear Bessy," I answered. "It was simply, as I told you one day, I found you out."
"And I did not believe you," she replied; "but no wonder, for then I had not found myself out. But there is one thing that puzzles me still, which is, why--for what cause, or on what motive, Mr. William Thornton has so persecuted me and mine. I can easily believe that Robert was moved only by the desire for money, and the habit of fraud; for all the country knows what he was; but as for his father, I have heard people say, who knew him in his youth, that he was a gay, thoughtless, open-hearted man, who spent all he had, and more, with profusion, rather than liberality; yet even at the time of my poor father's death, it would seem he had the same bad feelings towards us, though he concealed them."
"It is indeed strange," I replied, remembering the extraordinary vehemence of hatred the old man had displayed towards Bessy herself. "There may be some mystery in the business; but it were as well not to inquire into it too far, dear Bessy. Let us be content that we have frustrated all their schemes against us, without prying into their motives. There is, they say, a skeleton in every house; and we may as well not open the closet door. Something puzzles me also," I added; "but that is of no very fearful nature. It is this: that your uncle Henry did not know all the circumstances of this sad affair between your father and my uncle; for only yesterday he seemed to think you had good grounds for refusing to unite your fate with mine."
"I do not think he knows anything but what I wrote to him," replied Bessy. "At the time the duel was fought, he must have been in Europe; for about that time he travelled with my aunt for three years; and the subject has been carefully avoided ever since. Even dear aunt Bab never gave us any particulars. One day, indeed, when warning me not to fall in love with a duellist, she told me my poor father had been killed in a duel. But that was the only allusion to the facts I ever heard till I received these letters. Even Mr. William Thornton, when he used to come to see me often, 'on business,' as he said, never even approached the subject."
"It must have been a painful--a dreadful one to him," I answered. "I do not wonder he abstained."
"Bessy, Bessy!" cried the voice of our good old maiden hostess. "Sir Richard, if you have had your chat out, will you come in to breakfast? We have a guest here who knows you." Bessy and I would both have dispensed, I believe, with the breakfast and the guest; for that morning, as a Persian poet says, in speaking of the conversation of happy lovers, we had certainly "fed on roses," and we desired no company but our own. However, we were forced to go; and, after Bessy had made me assure her that her eyes did not look very red, we returned to the house.
The sheriff was standing with his sister at the door, and his first unceremonious exclamation was,--
"Why, Bessy, my young friend, you look as if you had been crying."
"If I have been crying, they have not been unhappy tears, Mr. Sheriff," answered Bessy; "and you know happy tears are out of your jurisdiction. You have plenty to do with unhappy ones, I have no doubt."
"Go along for a saucy girl," said the sheriff, laughing; "wash your eyes, and then come to breakfast; for we have a great critic of female beauty here, and you may miss a chance, you know, if you don't look your best."
"I'm not in the market," answered Bessy, running into the house.
"And who is your guest, Mr. Sheriff?" I inquired. "You say he is a friend of mine, which saves my question from impertinence."
"Oh, we have no secrets in Virginia," answered the sheriff. "This is Mr. Wheatley, of Norfolk. He says, as we have been cutting each other's throats here, he has just come up to see all his dead friends; for, as I dare say you have found out, Wheatley must have his jest, even on the most serious subject. But here he comes." While the sheriff had been speaking, his sister had retired to the breakfast-room, and Mr. Wheatley joined us, as brisk, as gay, and as composed as ever.
"Ah, Sir Richard," he said, "how are you? You have had some shooting affairs lately on a grander scale than when I last saw you. But I dare say this is nothing to India, where you make a battle of Rajpoots for your afternoon's amusement, and shoot a score or two of rajahs before breakfast; to say nothing of a sultan or two as a big head of game." I laughed, saying, that of course such sport as we had lately had was rather flat after the amusements he mentioned. Then, turning to the sheriff, I remarked,--
"What a beautifully organized country this is, Mr. Sheriff, where, on going and demanding the assistance of a public officer, instead of a long bill of costs, we get a good breakfast, a hearty welcome, a towel, and some cold water."
"Oh, the bill will come by-and-by," said the sheriff.
"By way of desert?" asked Mr. Wheatley. "Well, if it does, we must try to swallow and digest it."
"But, if there be no secret, what is it all about, Mr. Wheatley?" asked the sheriff.
"Oh, no secret at all," replied my Norfolk friend. "One of those matters of business which occur every day--a gentleman, who owes to me and my Boston partners certain banks of ducats, as that funny old fellow, Shakspeare, would call them, which he neglected to pay; he promised them the day before yesterday morning, on the nail, in the city of Portsmouth, at the hour of the arrival of the stage; but neither he nor the dollars ever appeared. I had warned him that this was the last time--it was about the fiftieth--that he should break his promise, and I pointed out to him that though habits of intimacy and some kindness shown to me, a long time ago, when he was a man of about forty, and I a youth of twenty-two or twenty-three, had induced me to forbear, notwithstanding the after-conduct which had severed our friendship; yet, as there were other persons concerned, who had befriended him, at my request, I was now bound to see them paid."
"But who is he--who is he?" asked the sheriff.
"Oh, your neighbour, Mr. William Thornton," replied Mr. Wheatley. "He told me he was to receive thirty thousand dollars this week, and would pay them over immediately; but he was like Hope, that told the flattering tale, which turned out untrue."
"He has had his hands somewhat too full of business lately," replied the sheriff gravely.
"Yes, my dear sir," answered Mr. Wheatley. "I dare say there has been a little bustle in the country; but I cannot allow the sports and pastimes of a number of coloured gentlemen to interfere with regular commercial transactions."
"You are not aware, my good friend," replied the sheriff, "that this unfortunate gentleman was, himself, severely wounded yesterday, and his son shot dead on the spot, by some of the revolted negroes. These are the latest victims of Nat Turner's insurrection. I trust they will also be the last." Mr. Wheatley looked aghast.
"Poor devil!" he exclaimed. "Of his son I know nothing; but of himself I saw very much in my young days, when this Robert was a boy."
"I trust, under the circumstances, Mr. Wheatley," said the sheriff, "that you will not judge it right to disturb this unfortunate man on his death-bed."
"I must see that the property is some way adequately secured," said Mr. Wheatley, gravely, after a moment's thought. "For myself, I should not care, sheriff. I could make up my mind to lose the fifteen thousand dollars, which is my share of the business; but there is another gentleman concerned, who never knew him, and is greatly irritated at his conduct."
"He has been very unfortunate, you know," urged the sheriff.
"Nay, sir, nay," replied Mr. Wheatley, drawing himself up with a sterner look than I ever thought his face could assume. "Unfortunate, truly, in being destitute alike of principle, and honour, and generosity; but in nothing else. The base and scandalous transaction which broke off my intimacy with him was the beginning of what you call his misfortunes."
"I do not understand what you allude to," answered the sheriff. "What did he do?"
"No matter, no matter," answered Mr. Wheatley. "I cannot enter into particulars; but he grossly and grievously insulted an excellent lady, the wife of his dearest friend, while her husband was absent on a sporting trip. It was within my hearing, though he did not know I was near. That was enough to sicken me of him; but when I afterwards found that he contrived to slay Uriah the Hittite with the sword of the Philistines, then Sir ----. But here come the ladies to announce breakfast, I do hope; for that is a much pleasanter thing to discuss than what we are discussing.--Miss Davenport, I kiss your shoe-strings."
"Mr. Wheatley, I never wear shoe-strings," answered Bessy.
"Then may your shadow never be less!" rejoined Mr. Wheatley.
"God grant it!" cried Bessy; "for it is little enough already." And we all laughed and went in to breakfast. It is wonderful how the human mind recovers from the most severe shocks. There is an elasticity, a buoyancy, about it which no one knows or believes, till he has remarked closely what I may call the evenings of the terrible days of human life. Some dreadful event has happened--some ghastly, sweeping desolation--something which has shaken all hearts with anxiety, or chilled them with fear. A few hours have passed: the event is over, the deed done, the consequences ascertained; the whole thing is fixed, firm, and certain, beyond all recall; and though a certain portion of sad remembrance, a mourning spirit, if I may so call it, remains like a cloud, yet every now and then the corruscation of a smile or a jest enlivens the gloom; the tears dry up in the re-awakening sunshine, and shade by shade the fragments of the cloud depart. To call our little breakfast-party gay, would be to apply a wrong epithet. Yet it was not altogether uncheerful--far more cheerful than might be expected by those who consider nothing but the dreadful scenes gone before. They very naturally leave out of consideration all the bright reaction which takes place in the human heart when it finds itself suddenly freed from the weight of dread and horror and anxiety for the next moment; when security and peace are restored, and the spirit springs up, and rejoices in the removal of evils and terrors which once clouded the prospect all around. In the moral as in the physical world, nature re-acts against oppression. Look at the thunder-storm, with its heavy clouds and its darkened sky, the flash, the roar, and the deluge; and then see the clouds rolled away, and the blue sky smiling above, and the sun shining in his splendour, and every drop upon the blades of grass sending back, like diamonds, the cheerful rays he casts upon them. It is true, that, as we sat round the table, it was not all brightness. Moments of sombre thought would fall upon us; impressions of great calamities past; recollections of things that never were to be more; and the shadows which the experience of danger and sorrow ever projects upon the future. Still, these were but the shadows of the fragments of past clouds, and the sunlight of the relieved mind shone out bright between. After breakfast, Mr. Wheatley, and the sheriff, and myself walked quietly out into the porch, to re-discuss the subject which had been broken off an hour before. The kindness of the worthy magistrate's heart was strongly evinced in this instance.
"I have no great love for William Thornton," he said; "I never have had; still it is a sad thing to see writs, or executions, or foreclosures, put in force against a man lying in a dangerous, if not a dying, state, from a severe wound. Now, I think you have said, Mr. Wheatley, that you did not mind for your own share in the business, if you could secure your partner."
"Rather a hard case, sheriff," replied Mr. Wheatley, with one of his short laughs. "I have breakfasted since, and have, of course, grown hard-hearted. Nothing like an empty stomach for tenderness towards anything, except broiled fowls or cold lamb. However, I won't go back from what I said. If he can secure Mr. Griswold, I will take my chance out of the sweepings."
"I have no doubt," said the sheriff, "that Miss Davenport will advance the money to repay your friend."
"No! no!" cried Mr. Wheatley, with a burst of eager feeling which I had not expected from him. "She shall not do it--I will not take it from her. He insulted and outraged her mother; he brought on the death of her father to conceal what he had done; he was, more or less, the murderer of the one and of the other, for grief killedher, and the pistol killedhim; and the daughter shall not be called upon, with my consent, to save him from the consequences of his own folly or his own faults."
"Well, Mr. Wheatley," I said, interposing before the sheriff could reply. "Another means, perhaps, may be found. Suppose I advance the money, and place myself in the position of your friend, who originally lent it."
"Oh, that is quite a different case," said Mr. Wheatley. "If you choose to do such a thing, I have nothing to say against it. Every man to his taste. Some love helping scoundrels; some prefer to help honest men. The first was rather a passion of mine, some years ago; but I have got over it, and the latter is more to my taste now."
"Still," I replied, "for particular reasons of my own, I should like Miss Davenport, in the first instance, to offer this loan to her relation--merely, I will confess, to see what will occur in consequence. The advance shall be mine in the end; but I should like to obtain her permission to make the offer from her."
"Ha! ha! ha!" cried Mr. Wheatley. "Pray arrange your little embroglios as you like for me. She will consent, of course; knowing on whose pocket the loss will fall at length, whetheryouadvance the money or she does. But go and ask her--go and ask her; and then I think we will ride over, Mr. Sheriff, to Bill Thornton's plantation, and see what is the real state of affairs."
"Very well," replied the sheriff; "but, remember, till you produce all formal processes, I take neither officers norpossewith me, and I must be back in a couple of hours." I did not detain the gentleman long. I found Bessy in the parlour, and her consent was given at once.
"It will not hurt us, Richard, if we lose it," she said. "We shall have enough for happiness, I dare say."
"Oh, quite," I answered. "But now I am going over to see this unfortunate man, and I trust my dear girl will spend the time till I come back in pondering upon the happiness which her affection confers upon one who loves her with his whole heart. If I know my Bessy rightly, she feels no greater pleasure than in making others happy."
"I wonder if it is to be so through all my life," said Bessy. "Every one has spoiled me--parents, friends, relations. And now comes a husband to do it more than all! Richard, Richard, I really must find some occasion to quarrel with you, that you may not make me altogether a spoiled child. There, go away now, and tell the poor man I am ready to do anything I can for him. I wonder that Mr. Wheatley can be so unkind as to ask him for payment of debts, when he is in such a condition." When I rejoined the two gentlemen in the porch, I found that an alteration of plans had taken place. The sheriff had recollected some business he had to transact in another quarter; and it was agreed that I and Mr. Wheatley should ride across the Swamp to the place where Mr. William Thornton lay.
"I shall tell Harry Thornton that you won't be back till two or three," said the sheriff; "and, as I know he has some business to transact with you, I will try and get him and all his party to come over here, and dine and sleep: four or five girls, and four or five lovers, and four or five elderly people, and talking, and music, and flirting----a fine way of transacting business, truly; but it is the Virginian mode, and so let it pass. I will order the horses, Sir Richard; you go and get on your boots." I now proceeded to my room, where I found Zed, after his own breakfast, arranging all my dressing-articles and apparel in the most inconceivable derangement. It would not only have puzzled [OE]dipus, but the Sphynx herself, to discover where any single article was; and yet he was as proud as a peacock of the whole. Poor Zed seemed quite thunderstruck, however, when I told him to get me a pair of boots and another coat.
"Lor a masey!" he cried; "what, going away again? Why, I haven't seen you, mas'r, for such a long time; and I thot you were going to tell me all about it. Well, at all events, you had better take me wid you, for you never comes to no good when I isn't there."
"I dare say that is all very true, Zed," I replied; "but I think this morning I must go by myself, or rather with Mr. Wheatley only, for I have a good deal to say to him as we ride along."
"Lor, mas'r, what does dat sinnify?" asked the persisting negro. "I shan't int'rupt you." But I remained firm; and in a few minutes Mr. Wheatley and I were upon the road. I have never been fond of long prefaces to anything; and I was hardly out of sight of the house, when I dashed at the subject which was uppermost in my thoughts.
"You accidentally came upon a topic before breakfast," I said, "which bears strongly upon some questions which had been puzzling Miss Davenport and myself this morning a good deal. Now I wish, Mr. Wheatley, that you would give me some further information in regard to this Mr. William Thornton, and his connection with Colonel Davenport. You were in the high road to do so when we were summoned to breakfast."
"Oh, no; I had said all I intended to say," replied Mr. Wheatley, with what I may call an unwilling look; "though I should fancy, Sir Richard," he added, "youhad not said all you intended to say this morning before breakfast; for you and Miss Bessy were so deep in conversation that you did not even see me when I arrived; and that conversation seemed to promise wide extension." I was not to be led away from my point, however; and I answered,--
"We were talking of the very question to which I have just now alluded. Yesterday morning, Bessy and I had a very strange proof of old William Thornton's personal hatred towards her. He would not even allow her to stanch the bleeding of his wound; and used language not only fierce, but indecorous. We were wondering, when summoned to breakfast, what could be the motive of the persecution he has shown her through life; and it was, in some degree, to test the extent of this virulent antipathy that I desired she should offer the money rather than myself. I should not be surprised if he were to refuse it at her hands."
"I think it very likely," replied Mr. Wheatley; "but tell me how you and she happened to be so near when the old man was shot?"
"I will tell you all about it," I answered, "if you will give me the explanations I wish in return."
"Well, well," he replied, "it is a subject I neither like to think of, nor to talk about. Indeed, I may call a considerable portion surmise; for, although I am as much morally convinced of the inferences I draw from the facts, I know, as well as that I am alive, there are many of them for which I have no proof. However, we are now going to see this unhappy old man. There is no knowing that he may not himself tell you all, for his moods are very curious, and the fear of death may act strongly upon him. But if he does not do so,Iwill. And now let me hear how you and Miss Davenport have passed through all these terrible scenes. All that I could learn about you, by the way, was that you and the lady had escaped from poor Stringer's house, and had been wandering alone in the woods ever since--no very unpleasant pilgrimage, I should think--ha! ha! ha!" And there his laugh stopped short, as usual.
"It was, of course, by no means unpleasant," I replied, "when once I could convince myself she was safe, Mr. Wheatley. But our adventures were numerous; and it was not till I and Mr. Henry Thornton brought our sweet young friend to this house last night, that I could be at all satisfied she was secure." I then went on to relate briefly all that had happened to us, from the time that old Zed ran into my room to warn me of our danger, till our arrival at the sheriff's on the preceding evening. Mr. Wheatley seemed to take a great deal of interest in the whole matter, and expressed much indignation at Mr. William Thornton's conduct. At that part of my narrative, where I spoke of the father and son wishing to force Bessy to sign some papers, while they held her in a sort of duress, he exclaimed,--
"That was to pay the thirty thousand dollars, depend upon it. If we could find the fragments of those papers she tore up, I would bet you a thousand dollars to a ten-cent piece we should find some gross fraud--the admission of some debt, or some promise to pay, or something of that kind, all wrapped up nicely in legal-like phrases, and guarded, and double guarded, by allusions to former transactions in order to make a piece of roguery seem fair and honest. But I can tell you one thing, Sir Richard--this does not look well for the ultimate payment of my money, and I certainly do not intend to shuffle off a bad debt upon you or Miss Davenport either. If we find there is any tangible property sufficient to guard you against much risk, I shall be very willing that you advance the fifteen thousand dollars to pay off Griswold, for he is becoming impatient and irritable; but it is clear to me these men must have been desperately pushed to have had recourse to such means; although, to say truth, from all I hear, Robert Thornton always preferred the rashest and most violent paths of roguery, to the quiet and peaceful ones."
I had concluded that the wounded man still lay at the house on the other side of the Swamp, to which he had first been carried; and had it not been for an accident, we should have had a long ride for no purpose. Just as we approached what they called the new place, my horse began to go lame; and seeing an old negro standing at the door, I beckoned to him to come and take out the stone which I was sure had got jammed into the beast's hoof. The old man name up at a slow pace; and, as he approached, to my surprise, I found it was that very remarkable person, Uncle Jack. Between him and me, the stone was soon removed, and I happened to ask him, just as I was re-mounting, what he was doing there.
"I am waiting to see Mr. Thornton again, sir," he said; "Mr. William Thornton. His son Robert, you know, is dead."
"Do you mean to say the old man has been brought over here?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, sir; he would be brought over last night, in spite of all remonstrance, and I fear he has killed himself thereby," was Uncle Jack's answer. I called to Mr. Wheatley, who had ridden on, and beckoned him back; and while he was returning, I proceeded to ask Uncle Jack what he meant by saying that he was waiting to see Mr. Thornton again.
"Why you see, sir," answered the old negro-preacher, "I knew the gentleman whom you call the old man, when he was quite a little boy; and much used I to talk to him at that time, so that even when he had grown up to be a lad and did things which I hope God will forgive, I had much influence over him--very much for a poor ignorant negro to have over a well-educated white man. He would listen tomewhen he would listen to nobody else; and, more or less, has done so all his life. So I came here as soon as I heard what had happened. I found him very rash and raving last night; but this morning he is down, sir--down, down, very low indeed--down in mind, and body, and heart; but it is by the blessing of God it is so, for I trust yet to bring his mind into a better frame to meet his Maker; and you know, sir, we must never despair, after the thief on the cross. This morning he listened to me quite willingly; and seemed to take comfort when I told him of mercy and pardon. Last night, he would not hear at all, but cursed and blasphemed till I was glad to get away." The concatenation of a black teacher and a white neophyte had probably not occurred since the days of the apostles; still I was very glad to avail myself of any circumstances which would enable me to obtain light in a matter where the whole feelings of my own heart and that of another were so deeply interested. There are some cases in the world were we know no compromise--where, for the sake of our own peace, we must know all, see all distinctly--really--as it is, lest there be, somewhere in the dark outskirts and corners of the den of circumstances, some incubus which may swell and grow, and oppress the heart till it crushes us to death. Such seemed the case with me. I determined to know all, if it could be known--I determined that there should be no dark and cloudy spot, no storm upon the edge of the sky, the course and nature of which I did not know; and, although the future, the dark predestined future, no man can truly divine--the past, upon which the seal of destiny was set, the true, irrevocable past, might well be scanned, till the real gold of truth should be separated from the dross of doubt and falsehood.
"We want much," I said, addressing the old negro, "to see Mr. William Thornton upon business of great importance--business which has even reference to the hour of death, and which must not be postponed. Indeed, this gentlemanmustsee Mr. Thornton in order to spare him greater discomfort at this sad and perilous moment. I may have more personal views; but at the same time, my good friend, I cannot help thinking that he who parts from this world with a free confession of his errors in it, and some expression of regret, sets forth for the wide future with more comfort and more hope."
"Assuredly," replied the negro; "and I will try to bring him to receive you as tranquilly and as willingly as may be. But I cannot answer for success; perhaps he may refuse--perhaps you may have to force your way to him whether he desires it or not, as I had last night; but at all events, I will do my best. Wait here, and I will return to you presently. He was somewhat drowsy when I left him; and I was glad to give him a little repose; for the words which I had read to him from the Great Teacher had tortured him like the first effect of a strong medicine for the cure of a terrible disease." The old man paused; and, after a moment or two of silent thought, went back into the house, telling some of his dark brethren to take care of our horses. We followed him into one of the lower rooms; and the contrast was certainly very sad between the aspect of his dwelling and that of his cousin Mr. Henry Thornton. They had set out in life very nearly equal in fortune--perhaps, of the two, William Thornton was the more wealthy; yet the one had surrounded himself with family ties: had lived in comfort, if not in splendour, had done right and justice to all men; had preserved a high and unspotted name; and, in moderation, had continued in peace and competence. Probably his household presented no difference from the state in which it existed twenty years before; he had sought for nothing higher, he had fallen no lower. On the contrary, in the house wherein we now stood, we could trace the footsteps of dishonest ambition, disappointment, and decay. It was the latter stage, indeed, which was altogether visible. Misery and dilapidation--neglect, and the consequences of neglect, made their abiding place in this dwelling. Yet, every here and there, were slight indications of the steps by which the consummation had been arrived at--a velvet sofa worn through to the sacking--a rich carpet trodden out to the warp--window-frames long unpainted, with the glass rattling in the shrunken wood-work--many a pane cracked and not repaired--chairs broken and unserviceable--tables wanting castors, and leaning, like cripples, on one side--everything, in short, which could display the careless apathy of minds either occupied by eager schemes for the future, or crushed by the disappointment of the past. In that melancholy parlour the black preacher left us, saying,--
"I will go up to him again and see what progress I can make. He is in the room just above; and if I stamp with my foot, it is to show that you had better come up to the door, where I will give you some sign when you shall come in. It is better that you should present yourselves quietly, than run the risk of rousing him into one of his fits of fury, when nothing on earth is to be done with him." Thus saying, he left us; and Mr. Wheatley and I remained a quarter of an hour or more very nearly in silence. He was more impatient than I was, for I think he is naturally of a more irritable disposition. He would sit for a few minutes, and then rise and walk about the room. Then he would open the window-blinds and look out; and then he would sit upon another chair and listen. We could hear, during the greater part of the time, a murmur of low voices; but it was impossible to distinguish who was speaking. At length, Mr. Wheatley, with his whole patience exhausted, jumped up, exclaiming,--
"Come, we had better go up and see what is taking place. We may be kept here all day; and you have business, and so have I, to attend to." Without waiting for reply or assent, he opened the door, went out, and mounted the staircase; but at the top we heard the murmur of voices from a room on the left; and putting my hand upon his arm, I stopped him just as he was about to enter.
"Stay a moment," I said. "It is cruel to intrude upon a dying man. That voice sounds very differently now."
"Pooh! that is the old preacher's voice," said Mr. Wheatley, pushing the door partly open. But he paused immediately; for the scene within had a simple solemnity in it which affected even him. There lay old William Thornton, stretched upon a faded bed, with his head turned partly away from us, but with the long, whitish hair, uncombed and rough, scattered on the pillow. Kneeling at the other side of the bed was the good old man, Uncle Jack. A book was open before him, and he was reading aloud that sublime chapter in the Gospel wherein the Saviour teaches his disciples how to pray. His voice was fine, and, notwithstanding his great age, unbroken; and there was a peculiar tone of loving confidence in it as he read the only perfect prayer, that was very touching. He laid particular emphasis on the words,--"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." But when he stopped, Mr. Thornton remarked, in a very feeble voice,--
"Well, it is very fine; I always thought so; yet I don't half understand it, old man. Let us hear what you make of it."
"I doubt, master, that I am competent to make much of it, where you, so much better taught, do not understand it," answered Uncle Jack.
"I don't know," said the dying man. "You have thought of nothing but such things, and I have thought of them too little, perhaps."
"Well, I will try," said the negro. "You see, sir, there is no piece of writing that I know of in which every word has so much meaning. It first begins by teaching us what God is."
"I don't see that," said Mr. Thornton. "But go on--go on."
"It tells us that He is a Father to those who pray unto Him sincerely--One who has the feelin? and affection of a parent--not alone the Being who created us, but who still regards us as His children, however wayward and sinful--who is as ready to be reconciled to us as a Father to an erring child, and to give us all good things as a Father gives good gifts unto his children. Oh, what a tender idea it gives us of our God, when we are taught by His own word to address Him as our Father! But then it shows us His greatness also--His majesty and power. It is not an earthly Father whom we address, who may not be able to give us what we seek--who may have no power to protect, no means of comforting or blessing us; but our Father which is in Heaven. That does not mean here or there--in this place or that; but above all, ruling all, upon the throne of His majesty and His power, in the centre of, and throughout all His universe, in the Heaven of His own glory and love.
"Well may the prayer go on, 'Hallowed be thy name!' Let His great name always be sacred; but, above all, let it be hallowed when it is written, 'Our Father which art in Heaven!'
"'Thy kingdom come!' are the next words."
"Ay, that I do not understand," said Mr. Thornton, faintly. "Why should people pray to die when they want to live? I could never understand that."
"It is no prayer for death, sir," said the old negro teacher. "Our Saviour has said,--'The kingdom of God is within you!' and it may either be a prayer that the holy and happy kingdom of God be established with all its peace in our own hearts, or that it be established in its purity and unity throughout the whole world. 'Thy will be done!' are the succeeding words; and these teach, first, that resignation to the will of God which is one of the purest forms of His worship--a humble acknowledgment of His wisdom, and mercy, and love; and a profession of our full faith, and trust, and confidence in Him; and secondly, taken with the words that follow,howwe ought to do God's will ourselves, and how we ought to wish all others to do it, 'in earth as it is in Heaven!' not slowly, not grudgingly, not doubtingly; but with joy and alacrity, and full faith and trust--as it is performed spontaneously by the holy angels." Mr. Thornton moved impatiently in his bed; and the old man, as if afraid that he would interrupt him, proceeded more rapidly.
"The prayer then goes on to say, 'Give us this day our daily bread!' That means, I think, the complete provision of God's mercy--all that is needful for us during that day, as well for the body as the soul--the bread that sustains the flesh, and the bread of life itself--all, in short, that we want and require--"
"Well, that is sensible," said the wounded man, in a somewhat stronger voice. "It is a very fine prayer; I don't deny it."
"You can't think, sir, what a comfort it would be to you if you could but make up your mind to repeat it."
"I think I can repeat it," said Mr. Thornton. "I am sure my mother made me say it so often when I was young, that I can't have forgotten it--though that is a long time ago. Let me see." And he began the prayer, murmuring in a low, but still articulate voice. He proceeded very fluently till he came to the words, "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." There he paused, and muttered something between his teeth.
"Those are the most important words of all," said the old negro, earnestly. "Upon these words hang the only hope of being forgiven. Oh, Mr. Thornton, do say them. If ever you have done anything to offend God--if you have ever done anything to injure man--if you have any cause to fear the judgment hereafter, and which of us has not?--if there be one act in your whole life which you could wish to blot out--forgive, if you would be forgiven."
"Davenport!" ejaculated Mr. Thornton, in a wandering tone, "Davenport! He did not trespass against me; but his wife did. She spat at me--she called me villain, and scoundrel--said she would tell her husband all. I recollect how he looked when he died. She could not have told him, Uncle Jack, for there was no time; yet he looked very much as if he thought I had done something. It was a bitter, reproachful sort of look. But I say, uncle, do you think that we are obliged to forgive those who have never trespassed against us as well as those who have? That's the question." The man's mind was evidently beginning to wander, and Mr. Wheatley entered the room without further ceremony.
"Ah, doctor," cried the wounded man, turning round in the bed as soon as he heard a step; but when his eyes fell upon Mr. Wheatley, a strange and fearful change came upon his countenance. When he first turned it, it was not only as usual, red from long habits of somewhat excessive drinking, but apparently flushed with fever. When he beheld Mr. Wheatley, however, the colour changed in a moment to a cadaverous white, with here and there a bluish spot; neither did it resume its former hue: the effect was permanent, and he remained looking more like a dead man than a living one. Wheatley saw the change which had taken place; and, advancing to his bed-side, he spoke kindly to him, and in a cheerful tone.
"Ah, Mr. Thornton," he said, "I am sorry to see you ill. I came over to inquire after you, and try if we could not settle that little matter between you and me amicably."
"Who is that man?" said Mr. Thornton, glaring at me, as I stood a little behind my friend. "I have seen him before. It can't be Richard Conway come out of the Chesapeake--he is very like him."
"No, no," said Mr. Wheatley. "He's been dead near twenty years."
"Ay," said Mr. Thornton, gloomily, "he's rotten enough by this time."
"Just try to gather your thoughts together," said Mr. Wheatley; "and see if we can't arrange this matter about the thirty thousand dollars quietly. I think we can; for as to my share of the matter, I can wait; and as for Griswold's, I have a proposal to make to you."
"Uncle Jack," said Mr. Thornton, in a low voice, "give me a tumbler full of whisky--make haste, man, I feel faint. There's the bottle by the bed-side." With evident reluctance, the old negro found out the spirit, and the dying man drank it off at a draught. It seemed to revive him a little, but it made no change in his colour.
"A proposal!" he said, in a stronger voice. "What proposal? I cant pay you the first cent. I have been disappointed in the money I expected; that's the long and the short of it. As to the estate, you can't touch that; for that's settled upon Robert long ago." He had forgotten that his son was dead; but it seemed suddenly to flash upon his recollection, for he paused and put his hand to his head, stammering forth,--
"I forgot, I forgot. A proposal! what proposal?"
"Why this, and I think it a very kind one," said Mr. Wheatley. "A young lady--a very good and generous young lady--offers to advance you the sum necessary to pay off your debt to Mr. Griswold. For my part, I shall not trouble you, in the situation in which you now are; but he, depend upon it, will have no hesitation in taking everything he can take, if the money is not paid by noon to-morrow. You had, therefore, better accept this lady's proposal at once."
"Who is she?" asked Mr. Thornton. "Give me some more whisky, Jack. I feel--I don't know what I feel. Who is she, Wheatley?"
"None other than Miss Davenport," replied Mr. Wheatley. A spasm like that of death came over the sick man's face.
"I won't have it--I won't take it--I won't have to thank Bessy Davenport for a cent," he cried in a voice preternaturally loud. "Give me the whisky, you old black villain--give me the whisky."
"Oh, Master Thornton," said Uncle Jack, "forgive, if you would be forgiven! Don't you know, don't you feel, that you are dying? That you are going before that God to whom you were just now trying to say, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.' Does not poor Bessy Davenport forgive you? And should you keep up rancour towards her? Oh, take her offer, sir, and follow her example before you die."
"Dying," said the old man feebly. "Am I dying? I do believe I am. Give me the whisky, Jack. I can't die yet--I am not yet ready. Oh God, give me a little time to think!" The old negro looked across to somebody who had just come in and stood behind me. It was Doctor Christy, who said:--
"Give it to him; it can neither do good nor harm; but it may keep him up for half-an-hour or so, if there's business to be done. You see," he continued, speaking to me in a lower tone, as I turned towards him, "there is the Hippocratical visage. No escaping from that!"
"Am I dying?" asked Mr. Thornton, as soon as he had drunk the whisky; "am I dying, doctor?"
"Yes, sir, you are," replied the surgeon, almost sternly.
"How long?" asked the other, in a sad and a subdued tone.
"Long enough to show repentance if you will," answered Doctor Christy. "Long enough to make your will, if it is not a very long one."
"The will be d----d," said the old man, in his usual phraseology, which he could not abandon even at that awful moment. "Everything is in confusion. I have no time for that."
"Oh, sir," said Uncle Jack, "let me pray----"
"Hush!" said the dying man. "You told me I was to forgive--but forgiveness is nothing, unless I redress--did Bessy Davenport really make that offer?" he continued, looking at Mr. Wheatley.
"She did," replied the other.
"Here, get me the keys out of my pocket. There, take this one," he continued, as soon as he had got them. "Now open that cupboard door, that mahogany cupboard in the corner. On the shelf you will find a tortoise-shell casket, I think they call it.--Have you got it?"
"I haven't opened the door yet," said Mr. Wheatley. "Yes, here it is."
"Bring it here then, and the key that lies beside it. Heaven! how my head swims. There, take that to Bessy Davenport. Tell her I sent it to her with my dying hands. Tell her I am sorry for all I have done--very sorry; that I have often been sorry, but that I would not let myself think so. There, take it. She will find in it what puts all questions about Aunt Bab's property at an end. Now, doctor, tell me, upon your soul, am I dying? Can nothing be done to save me? If you could extract the ball?"
"It would be no use," answered the surgeon. "It has got in amongst the bones of the hip-joint, and your face shows me at once that mortification has set in. There was a chance yesterday, if you would but have been quiet, and abstained from drinking: to-day there is none."
"Well, then, all of you leave me to die like an old fox in his hole," said Mr. Thornton. "Stay, stay, Uncle Jack. You turn to, and see what you can do for my soul. We won't think of the body any more. There! Go the rest of you. I don't want to hear you talk any more. My time is but short, and I must do what I can with it."