University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Mr. Jones arose, on the following morning,
with the sun, and, ordering his own and Marmaduke's
steeds to be saddled, he proceeded, with a
countenance that was big with some business of
unusual moment, to the apartment of the Judge.
The door was unfastened, and Richard entered,
with the freedom that characterized, not only the
intercourse between the cousins, but the ordinary
manners of the Sheriff.

“Well, 'duke, to house,” he cried, “and I will
explain to you my meaning in the allusions I
made last night. David says, in the Psalms—no,
it was Solomon, but it was all in the family—Solomon
said, there was a time for all things; and,
in my humble opinion, a fishing party is not the
moment for discussing important subjects—Ha!
why what the devil ails you, Marmaduke? an't
you well? let me feel your pulse; my grandfather,
you know”—

“Quite well in the body, Richard,” interrupted
the Judge, repulsing his cousin, who was about to

assume the functions that properly belonged to
Dr. Todd: “but ill at heart. I received letters
by the post of last night, after we returned from
the point, and this among the number.”

The Sheriff took the letter, but without turning
his eyes on the writing, for he was examining the
appearance of the other with astonishment. From
the face of his cousin, the gaze of Richard wandered
to the table, which was covered with letters,
packets, and newspapers; then to the apartment,
and all that it contained. On the bed there was
the impression that had been made by a human
form, but the coverings were unmoved, and every
thing indicated that the occupant of the room had
passed a sleepless night. The candles were burnt
to the sockets, and had evidently extinguished
themselves in their own fragments. Marmaduke
had drawn his curtains, and opened both the shutters
and the sashes, to admit the balmy air of a
spring morning; but his pale cheek, his quivering
lip, and his sunken eye, presented, altogether,
so very different an appearance from the usual
calm, manly, and cheerful aspect of the Judge,
that the Sheriff grew each moment more and more
bewildered with his astonishment. At length Richard
found time to cast his eyes on the direction
of the letter, which he still held unopened, crumbling
it in his hand.

“What! a ship letter!” he exclaimed; “and
from England! ha! 'duke, here must be news of
importance indeed!”

“Read it,” said Marmaduke, waving his hand
for silence, and pacing the floor in excessive agitation.

Richard, who commonly thought aloud, was
unable to read a letter, without suffering part of
its contents to escape him in audible sounds. So
much of the epistle as was divulged in that manner,

we shall lay before the reader, accompanied
by the passing remarks of the Sheriff:—

“ `London, February 12th, 1793.' What a
devil of a passage she had! but the wind has been
northwest, for six weeks, until within the last
fortnight. `Sir, your favours, of August 10th,
September 23d, and of December 1st, were received
in due season, and the first answered by
return of packet. Since the receipt of the last, I'
—Here a long passage was rendered indistinct,
by a most significant kind of humming noise,
made by the Sheriff. `I grieve to say, that'—
hum, hum, bad enough, to be sure—`but trust
that a merciful Providence has seen fit'—hum,
hum, hum; seems to be a good, pious sort of a
man, 'duke; belongs to the established church, I
dare say; hum, hum—`vessel sailed from Falmouth
on or about the 1st September of last
year, and'—hum, hum, hum. `If any thing should
transpire, on this afflicting subject, shall not fail'
hum, hum; really a good-hearted man, for a lawyer—`but
can communicate nothing further at
present'—Hum, hum. `The national convention'
—hum, hum—`unfortunate Louis'—hum, hum—
`example of your Washington'—a very sensible
man, I declare, and none of your crazy democrats
Hum, hum—`our gallant navy'—hum,
hum—`under our most excellent monarch'—ay,
a good man enough, that King George, but bad
advisers; hum, hum—`I beg to conclude with
assurances of my perfect respect,'—hum, hum—
`Andrew Holt.'—Andrew Holt—a very sensible,
feeling man, this Mr Andrew Holt—but the
writer of evil tidings. What will you do next,
cousin Marmaduke?”

“What can I do, Richard, but trust to time,
and the will of Heaven? Here is another letter,
from Connecticut, but it only repeats the substance

of the last. There is but one consoling reflection
to be gathered from the English news,
which is, that my last letter was received by him
before the ship sailed.”

“This is bad enough indeed! 'duke, bad
enough indeed! and away go all my plans of
putting the wings to the house, to the devil. I had
made my arrangements for a ride, to introduce
you to something of a very important nature.
You know how much you think of mines”—

“Talk not of mines,” interrupted the Judge;
“there is a sacred duty to be performed, and that
without delay. I must devote this day to writing;
and thou must be my assistant, Richard; it will
not do to employ Oliver in a matter of such secrecy
and interest.”

“No, no, 'duke,” cried the Sheriff, squeezing
his hand, “I am your man, just now; we are sisters'
children, and blood, after all, is the best cement
to make friendship stick together. Well,
well, there is no hurry about the silver mine, just
now; another time will do as well. We shall
want Dirky Van, I suppose?”

Marmaduke assented to this indirect question,
and the Sheriff relinquished all his intentions, on
the subject of his ride, and, repairing to the breakfast
parlour, he despatched a messenger to require
the immediate presence of Dirck Van der School.

The village of Templeton, at that time, supported
but two lawyers, one of whom was introduced
to our readers in the bar-room of the
“Bold Dragoon,” and the other was the gentleman
of whom Richard spoke, by the friendly, but
familiar appellation of Dirck or Dirky Van. Great
good nature, a very tolerable share of skill in his
profession, and, considering the circumstances, no
contemptible degree of honesty, were the principal
ingredients to be found in the character of

this man; who was known to the settlers as Squire
Van der School, and sometimes by the flattering,
though anomalous title of “the Dutch,” or “honest
lawyer.” We would not wish to mislead our
readers in their conceptions of any of our characters,
and we therefore feel it necessary to add,
that the adjective, in the preceding agnomen of
Mr. Van der School, was used in direct reference
to its substantive. Our orthodox friends need not
be told that all merit in this world is comparative;
and, once for all, we desire to say, that
where any thing which involves qualities or character
is asserted, we must be understood to mean,
“under the circumstances.”

During the remainder of the day, the Judge was
closeted with his cousin and his lawyer; and no
one else was admitted to his apartment, excepting
his daughter. The deep distress, that so evidently
afflicted Marmaduke, was, in some measure, communicated
to Elizabeth also; for a look of dejection
shaded her intelligent features, and the buoyancy
of her animated spirits was sensibly softened.
Once, on that day, young Edwards, who was a
wondering and observant spectator of the sudden
alteration produced in the heads of the family,
detected a tear stealing over the cheek of the
heiress, and suffusing her bright eyes, with a softness
that did not always belong to their proud and
laughing expression.

“Have any evil tidings been received, Miss
Temple?” he inquired, with an interest and voice
that caused Louisa Grant to raise her head from
her needle-work, with a quickness, at which she
instantly blushed herself. “I would offer my services
to your father, if, as I suspect, he needs an
agent in some distant place, and I thought it would
give you relief.”

“We have certainly heard bad news,” returned

Elizabeth, “and it may be necessary that my
father should leave his home, for a short period;
unless I can persuade him to trust my cousin Richard
with the business, whose absence from the
county, just at this time, too, might be inexpedient.”

The youth paused a moment, and the blood
gathered slowly to his temples, as he continued—

“If it be of a nature that I could execute”—

“It is such as can only be confided to one we
know—one of ourselves.”

“Surely, you know me, Miss Temple!” he
added, with a warmth that he seldom exhibited,
but which did sometimes escape him, in the moments
of their frank communications—“Have I
lived five months under your roof, and yet a
stranger!”

Elizabeth was engaged with her needle, also;
and she bent her head to one side, affecting to arrange
her muslin; but her hand shook, her colour
heightened, and her eyes lost their moisture in an
expression of ungovernable interest, as she said—

“how much do we know of you, Mr. Edwards?”

“How much!” echoed the youth, gazing from
the speaker to the mild countenance of Louisa,
that was also illuminated with awakened curiosity;
“how much! have I been so long an inmate with
you, and not known?”

The head of Elizabeth slowly turned from its
affected position, and the look of confusion that
had blended so strongly with an expression of interest,
changed to a smile of archness, as she answered—

“We know you, sir, indeed: you are called Mr.
Oliver Edwards. I understand that you have
informed my friend, Miss Grant, that you are a
native”—

“Elizabeth!” exclaimed Louisa, blushing to
her eyes, and trembling like an aspen; “you misunderstood
me, dear Miss Temple; I—I—it was
only conjecture. Besides, if Mr. Edwards is related
to the natives, why should we reproach him!
in what are we better? at least I, who am the child
of a poor and unsettled clergyman?”

Elizabeth shook her head, doubtingly, and even
laughed, but made no reply, until, observing the
melancholy which pervaded the countenance of
her companion, who was thinking of the poverty
and labours of her father, she continued—

“Nay, Louisa, your humility carries you too
far. The daughter of a minister of the church
can have no superiors. Neither I nor Mr. Edwards
is quite your equal, unless,” she added,
again smiling, “he is in secret a king.”

“A faithful servant of the King of kings, Miss
Temple, is inferior to none on earth,” said Louisa;
“but his honours are his own; I am only the
child of a poor and friendless man, and can claim
no other distinction. Why, then, should I feel
myself elevated above Mr. Edwards, because—
because—perhaps, he is only very, very distantly
related to John Mohegan?”

Glances of a very comprehensive meaning were
exchanged between the heiress and the young
man, as Louisa betrayed, while vindicating his
lineage, the reluctance with which she admitted
his alliance to the old warrior; but not even a
smile at the simplicity of their companion was
indulged by either.

“On reflection, I must acknowledge that my
situation here is somewhat equivocal,” said Edwards,
“though I may be said to have purchased
it with my blood.”

“The blood, too, of one of the native lords of

the soil!” cried Elizabeth, whose melancholy had
vanished in the excitement of their dialogue.

“Do I bear the marks of my lineage so very
plainly impressed on my appearance?” asked the
youth, with a little pique in his manner. “I am
dark, but not very red—not more so than common?”

“Rather more so, just now,” said the heiress.

“I am sure, Miss Temple,” cried Louisa, “you
cannot have taken much notice of Mr. Edwards.
His eyes are not so black as Mohegan's, or even
your own, nor is his hair!”

“Very possibly, then, I can lay claim to the
same descent. It would be a great relief to my mind
to think so, for I own that I grieve when I see old
Mohegan walking about these lands, like the ghost
of one of their ancient possessors, and feel how
small is my right to possess them.”

“Do you!” cried the youth, with a vehemence
that startled the ladies.

“I do, indeed,” returned Elizabeth, after suffering
a moment to pass in her surprise; “but
what can I do? what can my father do? Should
we offer the old man a home and a maintenance,
his habits would compel him to refuse us. Neither,
were we so silly as to wish such a thing,
could we convert these clearings and farms, again,
into hunting-grounds, as the Leather-stocking
would wish to see them.”

“You speak the truth, Miss Temple,” said Edwards.
“What can you do, indeed! But there
is one thing that I am certain you can and will do,
when you become the mistress of these beautiful
valleys—use your wealth with indulgence to the
poor and charity to the needy;—indeed, you can
do no more.”

“And that will be doing a good deal,” said
Louisa, smiling in her turn. “But there will,

doubtless, be one to take the direction of such
things from her hands.”

“I am not about to disclaim matrimony,” cried
the heiress, “like a silly girl, who dreams of nothing
else from morning till night; but I am a
nun, here, without the vow of celibacy. Where
should I find a husband, in these forests?”

“There is none, Miss Temple,” said Edwards,
quickly, “there is none who has a right to aspire
to you, and I know that you will assert the dignity
of your sex, and wait to be sought by your
equal; or die, as you live, loved, respected, and
admired, by all who know you.”

The young man seemed to think that he had
said all that was required by gallantry, for he
arose, and taking his hat, hurried from the apartment.
Perhaps Louisa thought that he had said
more than was necessary, for she sighed, with an
aspiration so low that it was scarcely audible to
herself, and bent her head over her work again.
And it is possible that Miss Temple wished to
hear more, for her eyes continued fixed, for a minute,
on the door through which the youth had
passed, then glanced quickly towards her companion,
when the long silence that succeeded manifested
how much zest may be given to the conversation
of two maidens under eighteen, by the
presence of a youth of three and twenty.

The first person encountered by Mr. Edwards,
as he rather rushed than walked from the house,
was the little, square-built lawyer, with a large
bundle of papers under his arm, a pair of green
spectacles on his nose, with glasses at the sides, as
if to multiply his power of detecting frauds, by
additional organs of vision.

Mr. Van der School was a well-educated man,
but of a slow comprehension, who had imbibed a
wariness in his speeches and actions, from having

suffered by his collisions with his more mercurial
and apt brethren who had laid the foundations of
their practice in the eastern courts, and who had
sucked in shrewdness with their mother's milk.
The caution of this gentleman was exhibited in
his actions, by the utmost method and punctuality,
tinctured with a good deal of timidity; and in his
speeches, by a parenthetical style, that frequently
left to his auditors a most delightful research after
his meaning.

“A good morning to you, Mr. Van der School,”
said Edwards; “it seems to be a busy day with
us at the Mansion-house.”

“Good morning, Mr. Edwards, (if that is your
name, (for, being a stranger, we have no other evidence
of the fact than your own testimony.) as I
understand you have given it to Judge Temple,)
good morning, sir. It is, apparently, a busy day,
(but a man of your discretion need not be told,
(having, doubtless, discovered it of your own accord,)
that appearances are often deceitful,) up at
the Mansion-house.”

“Have you papers of consequence, that will
require copying? can I be of assistance to you in
any way?”

“There are papers (as, doubtless, you see (for
your eyes are young) by the outsides) that require
copying.”

“Well, then I will accompany you to your office,
and receive such as are most needed, and by
night I shall have them done, if there be much
haste.”

“I shall be always glad to see you, sir, at my
office, (as in duty bound, (not that it is obligatory
to receive any man within your dwelling, (unless
so inclined,) which is a castle,) according to the
forms of politeness,) or at any other place; but
the papers are most strictly confidential, (and, as

such, cannot be read by any one,) unless so directed,)
by Judge Temple's solemn injunctions,)
and are invisible to all eyes; excepting those
whose duties (I mean assumed duties) require it of
them.”

“Well, sir, as I perceive that I can be of no
service, I wish you another good morning; but
beg you will remember that I am quite idle, just
now, and I wish you would intimate as much to
Judge Temple, and make him a tender of my services,
in any part of the world; unless—unless—
it be far from Templeton.”

“I will make the communication, sir, in your
name, (with your own qualifications,) as your
agent. Good morning, sir.—But stay proceedings,
Mr. Edwards, (so called,) for a moment.
Do you wish me to state the offer of travelling, as
a final contract, (for which consideration has been
received, at former dates, (by sums advanced,)
which would be binding,) or as a tender of services,
for which compensation is to be paid (according
to future agreement between the parties) on performance
of the conditions?”

“Any way—any way,” said Edwards—“he
seems in distress, and I would assist him.”

“The motive is good, sir, (according to appearances,
(which are often deceitful,) on first impressions,)
and does you honour. I will mention
your wish, young gentleman, (as you now seem,)
and will not fail to communicate the answer, by
five o'clock, P. M. of this present day, (God willing,)
if you give me an opportunity so to do.”

The ambiguous nature of the situation and
character of Mr. Edwards, had rendered him an
object of peculiar suspicion to the lawyer, and the
youth was consequently too much accustomed to
similar equivocal and guarded speeches, to feel
any unusual disgust at the present dialogue. He

saw, at once, that it was the intention of the practitioner
to conceal the nature of his business, even
from the private secretary of Judge Temple; and
he knew too well the difficulty of comprehending
the meaning of Mr. Van der School, when the
gentleman most wished to be luminous in his discourse,
not to abandon all thoughts of a discovery,
when he perceived that the attorney was endeavouring
to avoid any thing like an approach
to a cross examination. They parted at the gate,
the lawyer walking, with an important and hurried
air, towards his office, keeping his right hand
firmly clenched on the bundle of papers that his
left arm pressed to his side with a kind of convulsive
motion.

It must have been obvious to all our readers,
that the youth entertained an unusual and deeply-seated
prejudice against the character of the
Judge; but, owing to some counteracting cause,
his sensations were now those of powerful interest
in the state of his patron's present feelings, and in
the cause of his secret uneasiness.

He remained gazing after the lawyer, until the
door closed on both the bearer and the mysterious
packet, when he returned slowly to the dwelling,
and endeavoured to forget his curiosity, in the
usual avocations of his office.

When the Judge made his re-appearance in the
circles of his family, his cheerfulness was tempered
by a shade of melancholy, that lingered for
many days around his manly brow; but the magical
progression of the season aroused him from
his temporary apathy, and his smiles returned with
the animated looks of summer.

The heats of the days, and the frequent occurrence
of balmy showers, had completed, in an
incredibly short period, the growth of plants,
which the lingering spring had so long retarded

in the germ; and the woods presented every
shade of green that the American forests know.
The stumps in the cleared fields were already hid
beneath the tops of the stalks of rich wheat that
were waving with every breath of the summer air,
shining, and changing their hues, like velvet.

During the continuance of his cousin's dejection,
Mr. Jones forbore, with much consideration,
to press on his attention a business that each
hour was drawing nearer to the heart of the Sheriff,
and which, if any opinion could be formed by
his frequent private conferences with the man, who
was introduced in these pages, by the name of
Jotham, at the bar-room of the Bold Dragoon,
was becoming also of great importance.

At length the Sheriff ventured to allude again
to the subject, and one evening, in the beginning
of July, Marmaduke made him a promise of
devoting the following day to the desired excursion.