University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

It was the hour of midnight; the softened rays
of a shaded lamp threw a flickering and uncertain
light upon the paraphernalia of the sick chamber,
as our hero sat a solitary watcher at the side of
the wounded Cavalier. The long and apparently
profound sleep into which the invalid had fallen,
completely deceived the females of the family, so
that they were more easily persuaded by Nathaniel
to leave the charge, during the first half of the
night, to his sole care. He had for a long time
sat a sad and silent beholder of the unconscious
sleeper, watching with breathless eagerness every
change of muscle, as some sharp and inward pain
vibrated in horrible contortions upon the countenance
of the wounded Cavalier. In one of these
he started suddenly up in the bed, his eyes glaring
wildly upon his unrecognised attendant in utter
amazement. First looking into his face and then
to the bandages around his own person, he fell
back on his couch—a grim and frightful smile of
remembrance and recognition playing for a moment
upon his features, as he placed his cold hand
within that of Bacon, which had been softly laid
upon his breast to soothe his startled perceptions.

“Nathaniel,” said he, his voice already hollow
and thrilling, “My hour is come! It is useless
to disguise it. I feel and know it to be so, whatever
the surgeon may pretend. You need not
place your finger upon your lip; I owe to you a
duty which I must perform while yet I may. You
have often importuned me, and sometimes impatiently,
which I did not enough, perhaps, consider
to be natural to your situation, but you must
forgive me—you have often importuned me upon
the subject of your origin. If I had possessed
any full or satisfactory knowledge on the subject,
you may be sure I would not long have detained
it from you. Indeed, I was little less anxious
than yourself to place you upon an equal
footing in every respect with your associates.”
Here a smile of inward satisfaction beamed upon
his auditor's countenance, unobserved, however,
by the speaker, as he continued: “There were
some reasons too, connected with the history of
my own family, which prevented me from divulging
what little I did know of your's. If
I have erred, for this too you must forgive me.
The wrong shall now be repaired. You have
now been a member of my household for fifteen
or sixteen years.

“One cold and rainy day our sympathies were
excited, by seeing an athletic young Irishman in
the street, near our door, carrying upon his back
a well dressed boy, apparently six or seven years
of age. The child was crying most piteously with

cold and hunger. We called in the Irishman, and
after furnishing him and his little charge with food,
inquired whose child it was, and whither he was
taking it. He answered, in his own expressive
language, that he did not know to whom the child
belonged, nor whither he was taking it. That it
had beeen a fellow passenger with him across the
ocean, until they were shipwrecked at the mouth
of the river, outside of the Capes. That a woman
who had two boys near the same age, either
of her own, or under her protection, he did not
know which, had most earnestly prayed him to
take one of them upon his back, as he was preparing
to swim to the beach. He did so, and succeeded
in landing with his charge in perfect safety.
What became of the woman and the other child
he never knew, as shortly after the waves broke
over the vessel, and she went to pieces. Many
of the passengers and crew, however, had been
saved and were scattered about through the neighbouring
plantations, driven to seek employment
by the urgency of their immediate wants. Whether
the woman and the child were among the
number he could not learn, as those who were
saved had necessarily landed at distant points upon
the shore. He brought the child to Jamestown in
hopes that it would be recognised, and if not, that
some humane person would take charge of it. His
hopes had thus far proved fruitless, as to the first
expectation, but we undertook cheerfully the latter
task, and likewise gave employment to the kindhearted
Hibernian. I caused it to be made as generally
known through the Colony, as our limited
means of communication would permit, that such
a child was in our possession, particularly describing
his person and clothes, but all in vain.
I also caused search to be made for the woman
with the other child, through the southern plantations,
but no tidings of them were ever heard,
and we naturally concluded that they had gone
down with the vessel.

“Some months after the little stranger had been
thus domiciliated among us, I one day received
an anonymous letter, which stated that the writer
knew who were the parents of the child, but for
important reasons of a political nature, he could
not then divulge their names or history. He
stated so many circumstances connected with the
shipwreck, and described so exactly the child,
that we were compelled to believe him. This
letter was followed by others at various intervals,
from that time to the present, often enclosing drafts
for large sums to be drawn for in England, for the
benefit of the child. I need scarcely tell you that
the child was yourself—and your preserver, Brian
O'Reily. The name by which you are called is
the nearest that we could come to that by which,
both yourself and Brian stated, you were known
on board the vessel. The money enclosed for
your benefit, has been suffered to accumulate until
the late purchase of the plantation at the falls, of
which you are now in possession. Around your

neck, at the time of your arrival, was a small
trinket, enclosing the hair of two individuals,
curiously interwoven, and on its outside were
some initials corresponding with your own name,
and the date of a marriage. This, together with
the letters I have mentioned, you will find in the
left hand drawer of the secretary which stands in
the corner of my library. After opening the
outside door, you will perceive the key hanging
beside the drawer. These letters were never
shown, nor the contents mentioned to my wife,
for a reason which I am now about to explain to
you, if my strength will permit, and which will
also unfold to you the cause of my reluctance to
communicate with you on this subject.

“When I first saw Emily in England, she was a
young and beautiful widow. Early in life a
mutual attachment was formed between her and
the son of a neighbouring gentleman, in rather
more humble circumstances than the father of my
Emily. In consequence of this disparity in the
fortunes and standing of the two families, their
attachment was kept a profound secret between
themselves, until the youth having joined the
army of the Commonwealth, they eloped. This
was their last and only resort, because her father
was as determined a Loyalist as his was indefatigable
in the cause of the Independents and Roundheads.
For two whole years she followed the
perilous fortunes of her husband, now become a

distinguished officer, during which time she gave
birth to a son. For a season she resided with her
infant at a retired farm-house, in a distant part of
the country from the scene of strife; but her husband
becoming impatient of her absence, directed
her to procure a nurse for her boy and again partake
of his hazardous fortunes. Her child was accordingly
left in the charge of the nurse, and she set
out to join her husband. On the eve of meeting
him, as she supposed, she was met by the news of
a desperate engagement, in which the party opposed
to her husband had been victorious, and very
shortly afterward, she was herself, with her attendants,
overtaken in the highway, and captured by
a party commanded by one of her own brothers.
He immediately sent her under a strong escort to
her father's house, not however before she had
time to learn from some of the prisoners taken in
the engagement, the heart-rending news of the
death of her husband. She gained these sad
tidings from one of his comrades, who saw him receive
the wound and fall at his side.

“She found her father so exasperated against her
that she dared not even mention to him or her
brothers the existence of her child, lest they
should take some desperate means to separate them
for ever. For a time, therefore, she contented herself
with such clandestine communications with
her nurse as the perilous nature of the times permitted.
At length the sum of her afflictions was

consummated by the death of her infant, the account
of which was brought to her by the nurse
in person.

“When I first saw her, these many and severe
misfortunes had been somewhat softened down in
the lapse of years. She was still a melancholy
being, however, but I belonging to her father's
party, and being of a gay and volatile turn of mind,
and much pleased with her beauty and amiable
temperament, offered to bring her out to America
as my wife, whither the success of the Protector's
arms was then driving so many of the Nobles
and Cavaliers of England, and where I already
had a sister married to the then late, and now
present Governor of Virginia. After candidly
stating all the foregoing circumstances, she agreed
to accept my hand. And we were accordingly
married and sailed for the Capes of Virginia. You
will perceive, upon a perusal of the anonymous
letters, that the writer displays a most intimate
knowledge of all the foregoing particulars of our
family history. The design, as you will doubtless
perceive, was to operate upon our superstitious
feelings, by this mysterious display of knowledge,
in matters so carefully guarded from the world.
This was not at all necessary, because we had
already adopted, and treated you as one of our
own family. Nevertheless he partially succeeded
with me. I confess to you that it has always
appeared to me one of the strangest circumstances

that ever came under my knowledge, that
any living person should be acquainted with the
facts contained in those letters. I have made the
most strenuous and unceasing efforts to discover
their author, by means of the European drafts, but
all to no purpose. You will now readily comprehend
the reason, why I did not communicate
with Emily on this subject. It would only have
been opening old wounds afresh, and would probably
have excited her more sensitive feelings to
a painful state of anxiety and suspense. The
same reasons which influenced my conduct in this
respect, will doubtless operate upon your own judgment
when I am gone. In the same drawer is a
will, by which you will perceive, when it is properly
authenticated, that I have left to you, in
conjunction with others, the most sacred of all human
trusts. You will find yourself associated in
the management of my affairs, with persons whom
I know at the time to be uncongenial with you in
your general feelings, but upon this one subject
you will all be influenced by one desire. Governor
Berkley and Mr. Harrison will never thwart
you in the active management, which I have left
principally in trust to you.

“I have now rapidly sketched what you will better
understand from the papers themselves, and I
have finished none too soon, as I am admonished
by the return of these cutting pains.”

After another agonizing paroxysm, he fell again

into one of those death-like slumbers, which often
fill up the intervals of suffering after a mortal
wound.

When Bacon perceived that he slept profoundly,
he at once gave way to the restless anxiety to see
the papers, by which he was consumed. Eagerly,
but softly, he sought the library, opened the doors
of the high old fashioned black walnut secretary,
with its Lion's claws for feet, and his grisly beard
and shining teeth, conspicuous from every brass
ornament with which it was adorned.[1]

He returned to his post and opened the package
of papers with a trembling anxiety, and intense
interest, similar to what one might be supposed to
feel who was about to unseal the book of fate.

He had no sooner cast his eye upon the handwriting,
than the package fell from his grasp in
the most evident disappointment. Until this moment
he had indulged a vague undefined hope that
from a single glance at the characters, he should at
once possess a clue to unravel the whole mystery.
His mind had instantly settled upon one peculiar
and remarkable individual in the Colony, as the
only one likely to possess such knowledge, and
from the interest which that person had always
manifested in his fate, he had almost persuaded himself
that he would prove to be the writer. With

his handwriting and the peculiarly dignified and
stately character of his language, he had long been
familiar. The first few lines over which his eye
glanced rapidly and eagerly, convinced him of his
error; neither the characters nor the language were
his. Nevertheless they possessed sufficient interest,
after the momentary disappointment had passed
away, to induce him to grasp the magain and once
more commence their perusal. In this occupation
he was soon so completely absorbed as to be unconscious
of the time which elapsed, the situation
and circumstances in which he was placed as regarded
himself, as well as the wounded Cavalier,
who lay in the same apartment. In unfolding one
of the papers the came upon the gold trinket mentioned
by his benefactor. Here again was a new subject
of intense interest. “This,” said he to himself,
“was worn by my mother and was placed
around my neck at our last parting.” Here was
a fragment of her tresses precisely similar in character
and colour to his own, interwoven with the
darker shades of those of his father. Here too
was the date of their marriage and the initials of
their names agreeing sufficiently well with his own
supposed age. These were all subjects of earnest
contemplation to the excited imagination of a youth
rendered morbidly sensitive on the subject of his
birth and parentage, by many painful occurrences
with his aristocratic young associates, and still more
by recent developments with the idol of his affections.
The trinket was laid down and the manuscript
resumed, of whose contents as much as is
important to our narrative has already been communicated
to the reader. The characters in which
it was written, were successively compared in his
mind to those of every person in the Colony who
handled the pen. In that day it was not hard
to remember who they were from their great number,
chirography having been an art with which
the Cavaliers were less familiar than with the use
of the small and broad sword. Not a scribe in the
country wrote in characters similar to the one
he held in his hand, so far as he could recollect.
He thought they resembled those of Governor
Berkley more than of any other, yet that sturdy
old knight had invariably frowned so much on his
attempts to assume the place and standing in society
to which his education and intelligence entitled
him, that he could not believe him concerned
in benefiting him, even as an agent.

The Recluse was the only individual upon whom
his mind ould rest as the probable author, notwithstanding
the variance of the writing. Yet against
this conclusion there were many powerful arguments.
The first that suggested itself to his mind
was the money. Could he command such large
sums? And if he could, was it possible with his
known habits and peculiarities, not to mention his
occasional abberration, to arrange complicated pecuniary
affairs in Europe? Then again, if he was the
writer, why were these communications continued
after he had himself arrived at years of discretion?

Every reason seemed to favour the idea that he
himself would have been chosen as the depository
of these communications, had the Recluse been the
man, especially when he reflected that he was at
that very time possessed of more of his confidence
than any other person in the Colony. The papers
were perused and re-perused, and the locket turned
over and over listlessly in his fingers, while a
shade of deep sadness and disappointment settled
upon his countenance.

From this unpleasing revery he was suddenly
aroused by the groans of the wounded sufferer,
who now awoke in the greatest agony. When
Bacon came to his bed-side a melancholy change
was visible in his countenance. He was making
his last struggle with the grim monster. He was
however enabled to express a desire that his family
should be called, but when they arrived, he could
not give utterance to his ideas. He took first
the hand of his wife, and next that of his
daughter, and successively resigned them into
those of his young executor. This, under the
existing circumstances of the moment, attracted
no particular attention, but was the subject of
many an after-thought and remark. A few convulsive
struggles followed, and then the generous
and noble spirit of the Cavalier deserted its prison
house.

We will not attempt to describe the heart-rending
scene which ensued. Suffice it to say, that
after a decent and respectful delay, (far more than

is allowed in our day,) the much loved and much
lamented Mr. Fairfax was borne to the grave,
amidst the lamentations and regrets of the whole
assembled gentry of the Colony. The long line of
mournful pageantry moved in slow and melancholy
steps to the sound of a solemn dirge through the
streets of the ancient city, and after the usual sad,
but appropriate rites of the established church, the
corpse was deposited in the burying ground, which
to this day preserves the crumbling ruins of many
monuments of the ancient Cavaliers.