University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE VICTIM.

The apartment into which the lawyer was ushered by the negress
was a large, square, old-fashioned parlor with high wainscoatings,
deep cornices and pilasters above the mantel-piece supporting an
arch, upon which reclined a Bacchus upon a couch of carved
grapes.

The furniture of the room was as old-fashioned as the architecture,
consisting of half a dozen black high-backed chairs with open-work
backs in wood, and seats of faded needle-work; a sofa covered
with flowered chintz, a mahogany beufort, three or four ancient
pictures in large oval frames, and polished mahogany tables almost
of an ebony color with oval leaves. These were placed against the
sides of the room one opposite the other, with a mirror in a heavy
elaborate gilt frame suspended above each.

At one of these tables, that which was on the left of the door by
which Satchell entered and between the two front windows, stood
a gentleman who had just risen from a chair by it to receive him.
There stood a tall wax candle upon the table in a very tall silver
candle-stand, and by its light the features and person of the gentleman
were visible. He was in height nearly six feet, very noble in
the breadth of chest, and with an air and carriage of the head singularly
imposing. His head was finely shaped, the features regular
and handsome, and his hair which was nearly white was worn
long upon the temples and adown the neck. His age could not have
been more than fifty, for his face was unwrinkled and his form
vigorous. He wore a dark brown dressing-gown and a white vest
with gilt buttons set closely together; a finely plaited ruffle adorned
the bosom of his shirt, in which was pinned a small jet cross. His
hand was very white and small.

His countenance looked troubled, as if the visit was untimely or
the visitor unwelcome. He nevertheless assumed a smile as
Satchell entered, a sickly, sad smile, and advanced a step towards
him but without extending his hand, like a man who felt compelled
to receive his guest with courtesy, yet resolved not to yield more
towards him than was absolutely necessary.

“Good evening, Mr. Satchell,” he said, with embarrassment and
a constrained air; and, as we have said, he bowed politely but did
not extend his hand. Perhaps he was aware of Satchell's principle
never to shake hands with any man. But a close observer would
have set down the omission to instinctive repugnance to the man.

“Good evening, Colonel Harwood,” said Satchell, in a bland and
social manner unusual to him.

“Be seated, sir. To what favorable circumstance am I to owe
this visit to me, sir?” added Colonel Harwood, as Satchell took a
chair by the side of the table, so that the candle stood between him
and his host, who had also reseated himself. This question was
asked in a hesitating manner. Indeed his whole bearing was like
that of a man who feels himself in the power of another.

“To circumstances that affect me more than yourself, Colonel
Harwood.”

“I trust that you have come to inform me that you have, at
length, decided to accept of my offer for the correspondence, and
thus relieve my mind of a most painful source of anxiety.”

“You proposed to give me—”

“Five thousand dollars in money down, sir, for the papers,” answered
Colonel Harwood, with great earnestness. “I am as ready
to repeat the offer as I was to make it last Thursday when I saw
you in your office.”

“I cannot take that sum, Colonel Harwood,” answered Satchell,
quietly.

“Then why are you here, sir? Do you come to feast your eyes
upon your victim? Do you delight to gloat upon him whom a
word from you will arraign before the tribunal of his country for
high treason?”

“No, that is not my pastime, sir. I have you in my power, it is
true, but I do not wish to take any undue advantage of it.”

“Pray, sir, what do you call undue advantage? You have set
the price of those papers, which is the price of my life and honor, to
the very last dollar I am worth in the world.”

“I know that, sir. I know exactly how much you can pay me
without utter ruin. To that outside limit have I set my price.”

“And I have offered it to you. I offered it to you when last we
had our interview. You then said you would give me an answer
in a week. But three days before the week expires I see you voluntarily
at my house. Have I not just reason to hope that you
have called to close with my offer?”

“It is true that my object in visiting you to-night and at this late
hour, Colonel Harwood, touches the affair of the treasonable papers.
But I have not come to accept the five thousand dollars.”

“You have not? Then what in the devil, sir, have you called upon
me for? I will remind you, Mr. Satchell, that there is a limit to all
human patience and forbearance. I will hint to you that you may
overshoot your mark, and by aiming too high lose all. I already begin
to think that I had better defy you at once to do your worst, and
take the infamy that will follow.”

“You have your option, sir,” coolly replied Satchell.

“Will you drive me mad, sir? I have not my option. I cannot,
you know I cannot bear to be held up to the eyes of my country
and the world as a traitor. You know, sir, that I have too keen a
sense of honor,—that I will die first.”

“I know it, sir. I know that you would give me not only all to

the last cent you are worth, but that you would kneel and lick my
hand rather than be thus dishonored.”

“I would not, sir. I would blow out my brains before I would
thus demean myself. Yet, God knows I would do much for my
dear family's sake to avert the disgrace. Oh, what fiend possessed
the man to single you out as the agent of his revenge!”

“Because revenge is sweet, sir. He knew me, and he knew that
I would see that the whole talley was scored. I paid him his price
for the papers. I hold them, sir, to your confusion, and to my
profit. Hear me, Colonel Harwood. In purchasing these papers
from the deserter whom you so severely punished, I intended only
to make out of them, through your fears, a pecuniary gain. When
I called upon you three months ago and told you that I had these
papers, and convinced you too that I had them, by showing you
one of the letters in your own hand-writing to the British General,
you offered me promptly one thousand dollars for them. This I
refused, giving you a month to do better. At the end of a week
you came and doubled the offer. This I refused, and the next
week you increased your offer. But I knew the power I possessed,
and resolved to make the affair in hand a source of profit. So I
took measures to ascertain just how much blood you could bear
letting, that is, how much you were worth. I then laid my maximum
at five thousand dollars.”

“And this I offered you, but you hesitated.”

“Because I did not wish to resign my power at once, and I hoped
to be able to get something more.”

“Sir, you are a monster!”

“You have tried your tongue before at calling bad names, Colonel,
but you see that I don't mind them. They are but breath,—
they can't hurt me. I laugh, having the game.”

“Will you tell me, sir, why you are here to-night?”

“I will. I began to do so, but you have interrupted me.”

“You need not expect me to give you one dollar over what I
have offered you. It will beggar me and my family to do this. I
will blow out my brains and end the matter before I oblige you any
farther.”

“Colonel, I am your friend. If any other man had got possession
of this correspondence, in which you offer to surrender an important
fortress to the British during the war, they would not have thought
of making money out of it, but would at once have published it to
the world, and by this time you would have had the honor of dying
twelve feet distant from a dozen muskets loaded with ball. But I
came to you in a friendly way, and offered for a consideration,
(money for honor and life,) to surrender the mischievous papers
into your hands. Had your friend, Judge Manning, got the papers
into his hands, believe me he would have communicated them to
the Government. As a man of honor he would have felt himself
bound to do so; and so to a sense of duty he would have sacrificed
friendship. An enemy to you would have made a similar use of

them. But I come to you and propose a compromise. What could
be more suited to your views and wishes?”

“I do not find fault with you. What you say is very likely to
have proved true. I had rather they had fallen into your hands
than in those of friend or foe. Will you surrender them to me for
five thousand dollars?”

`No, not for money,” he answered with emphasis.

“How, then? If not for money, in what manner?” demanded
the Colonel with amazement.

“I will tell you,” replied Satchell, reaching out and moving the
candle a little nearer Colonel Harwood, as if he would darken his
own features and lighten up his more fully while he addressed him,
at the same time he looked carefully about the room to see that the
doors were all closed.

`Pray, do tell me?” cried Colonel Harwood. “Indeed I am
unable to guess what you mean. Not money?”

“Not money. Circumstances have led me to change my resolution.
Money is as valuable to me perhaps as to most men. But it
is not money.”

Colonel Harwood looked perplexed and distressed as much at the
manner as the words of Satchell. If it was not money he feared,
he knew not what. Something indefinable, more dreadful than
impoverishing him. What could it be? But he did not put the
question. He waited in painful silence until Satchell should explain
his meaning.

“There are in this world some things, Colonel Harwood, more
valuable to a man than honor,” said Satchell, in a grave manner;
“for instance your honor is dearer to you than money.”

“It is.”

“Revenge is often dearer to men than money. It may not be so
to you, but it is to me.”

Here Satchell paused and seemed to be uncertain how to go on.
Colonel Harwood regarded him in pale silence.

“A man sometimes considers fame, which is a breath, dearer
than money,” resumed Satchell. “Others love.”

“Well, sir,” observed or rather interlocuted Colonel Harwood,
hardly knowing what to say, but seeing that he paused and gazed
on him, he said—“Well, sir.” He was more and more perplexed
to guess how this would end.

“Love,” remarked Satchell, with emphasis upon the word,—
“love, as I said, men often, very often, regard as more valuable
than silver and gold.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“I know so, Colonel Harwood. To speak more to the point, I
feel that it is so. For instance, I can by giving you the papers
which like a cloud hangs over your life, this very night receive
from you all your estate.”

“Five thousand dollars, Mr. Satchell. This was my proposal.”

“You would give me all your estate, and you know it. You

would beggar yourself to have in your power the secret which I
hold. So do not interrupt me if you please, Colonel. I repeat that
your fortune is at my command, on condition that I surrender to
you the papers. But I have come here to-night ready to surrender
them to you, and take nothing from you—not a dollar.”

“Give them to me!” exclaimed Colonel Harwood, with a cheek
glowing with hope and joy, yet his eye wavering with doubt and
incredulity.

“Not give them, Colonel. I shall expect in return a value equal
to the proposal you offered. What I ask I am willing to take in
lieu of the money, for it will be as valuable to me. To you it may
not be so.”

“What do you speak of? You are inexplicable.”

“I will be clearer then. Be calm and take what you hear composedly.
Nothing can be gained by excited words and loss of equanimity.
I have no doubt when you think upon my terms you will
embrace them. It will be better for you to do so, than to impoverish
your wife and five lovely children. I have hinted to your that
men have held love to be as valuable as gold. It is so in my estimation.
You have, Colonel Harwood, a lovely daughter, born out
of wedlock, if rumor says true. I am willing to take her instead of
the five thousand dollars, and give you up the papers.”

Colonel Harwood grew as pale as the face of the dead when he
named his daughter. Alarm, surprise, anger struggled in his countenance.
The quick blood rushed to his brows. He gazed upon
the speaker with trembling lips.

“How do you know she is my daughter?”

“I discovered it by accident. With the world she passes as
your niece. It is on your tongue to assert to me that she is your
niece. You need not. I know she is your daughter, born two
years before you wedded your present wife. I know she is your
daughter, though you have not educated her at home, and now,
although she is at the age of nineteen, you keep her boarded at a
boarding-school, on the plea that she is to learn French and Music,
and finish her education. In the meanwhile you are looking out
for a suitable match for her. I am here ready to take her off your
hands. Consent to use your influence with her to marry me, and
the papers are yours if you succeed. Otherwise, you shall have
them at no price! I will communicate them to the Government,
and fill your cup to the brim by acquainting your daughter with
the stain upon her birth, and making known to your wife that she
is not your niece.”