University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE CONFESSION.

The reader will perhaps by this time be inquisitive to know how
the proposed union of Satchell with the daughter of his victim, was
to contribute to his plan of revenge against Judge Manning in the
person of his son; or why he should forego a certainty of five
thousand dollars with the mere prospect, and an uncertain one, of
winning the hand of the maiden. But these things will be made
clear in the progress of the story, and Satchell shown to be perfectly
consistent with himself.

The ensuing morning Colonel Harwood rose, pale and haggard,
after a sleepless night. To the inquiries and anxious solicitude of
his wife and four sweet children, his eldest, a lad of sixteen, being
a midshipman in the Navy and at sea, he replied cheerfully and
with a forced smile that he was well. Soon after breakfast he
went out, and took his way up Hanover street in the direction of
Tremont. He came in front of a large, handsome edifice, standing
back some distance from the street. A spacious lawn stretched in
front, shaded with a number of stately sycamores. It was just nine
o'clock, and as he stood by the spacious arched gateway to the
mansion, troops of young girls passed him and went in, some with
books in their hands busily studying their morning lesson, others
affectionately locked arm in arm like twin flowers, and lovingly
whispering as they slowly stepped along; others romping and
laughing, and filling the air with music that enlivened that of the
birds in the branches of the trees above their heads. Several of
them smiled, and prettily and respectively spoke to him as they
passed, for they had seen him often come there to visit his “niece,”
the beautiful Carolina, or Linny Kent, as they called her, with
school-girl-like change of her name.

As they passed in and their bright happy faces flitted past him,
he sighed at the contrast with his own wretchedness.

“Good morning, Colonel Harwood,” said a pair of blooming girls
of seventeen or eighteen, one of them with her sun-hat carelessly
hanging back over her shoulders, and her cheeks rich with the hue
of health and tone of beauty.

“Good day, Fanny, good day, Miss Kate,” responded the Colonel,
his face in spite of his sorrows reflecting their smile.

“You are just the person above all others, dear Colonel,” cried
Kate, laying her white hand on his arm; “we are going to Jamaica
Plains this afternoon, and Linny must go. Will you let her?”

“Yes, Colonel, don't refuse,” cried the other, gracefully swinging
her straw hat by the string wound about her fore-finger. “There

is uncle John, and both of aunt, and father and cousin Dick going,
and we must have Linny.”

“I am sorry to say that she is engaged to-day,” answered the
Colonel, almost suffocating with emotion. The tears came into his
eyes and they saw them.

“You are ill, sir,” she said sympathizingly. “I thought you
looked ill.”

“I am not well.”

“How sorry Caroline will be,” said Kate, looking sadly herself.

“It is nothing. I shall feel better by and by.”

“I hope so, sir,” answered Fanny, with that tone of gentle sympathy
that renders a lovely girl, when pity is moving her young
and pure heart, so like an angel.

As they conversed they slowly approached the noble villa-like
mansion, which was occupied as a boarding-school.

“I will run in and tell Caro you are here, sir,” cried Kate; and
she bounded forward up the steps and disappeared in the hall.

In a small but elegant chamber on the south side of the house sat
a young girl of nineteen. She was writing off music for a guitar
which leaned against the table. Upon the table stood a vase of
fresh flowers with the dew upon them, the fragrance of which combined
with that from some blooming plants in the window filled the
apartment. Every article of furniture betrayed the taste and accomplishments
of the fair occupants. Costly annuals, drawings,
paintings from her own pencil, French and Italian poets, a guitar,
a harp,—all bore testimony to the elegant cultivation of the presiding
mind.

The maiden, who was Caroline Kent, the natural daughter of
Colonel Harwood, was a brunette, but of the most delicate tone of
complexion. Her figure though slight was developed with that
chaste voluptuousness of contour which Raphæl loved to portray
in his beautiful women. She was dressed in a white morning robe,
which displayed the fine outline of her faultless shoulders with
charming effect. Her arm and hand were of admirable beauty for
shape and whiteness and for the rosy loveliness of the finger-tips.
Her face was oval, like the faces of Venician maidens, and her eye-brows
dark and pencilled like those of a daughter of Araby. Beneath
them were eyes that in the pride and glory of their splendor
it was dangerous to look upon, much more to gaze into. They
were large, exceedingly dark and eloquently expressive of a soul
full of strong passion and deep feeling. They would now expand
with animation, now fall with softened power, the long dark lashes
letting the eyes beam through them like midnight stars seen through
the shadowy trees. Their expression was now grave, and perhaps
a shade of sadness dwelt about her beautiful mouth. Upon it she
had just laid her fore-finger as if to listen, and raised her eyes from
the music she was copying, with an air of attention, when her door
was assailed by a noisy rap.

“Come in,” she answered in a rich-keyed voice, that once heard
would linger upon the ear and live in the memory like music.

The door opened, and the little maiden “Kate,” we don't know
who, bounded in, yet with an air of deference, for Caroline Kent
was her senior by a couple of years. Her face, however, was
sparkling with her news.

“Your uncle has come, Linny, and is in the hall.”

“I was listening as you came to the door, for I thought I heard
his voice. You are very kind to come and tell me.”

She laid the pen down, and rose with a glad look to go and meet
him.

“He looks ill, but he says it is nothing,” said Kate, as they went
out. “But I shouldn't wonder as it is Wednesday if he came to
take you home. I asked him if you might go with us to Jamaica
Plains, and he said you were engaged. Did you know it?”

They had now reached the hall.

“No, indeed,” she answered, smiling. She then saw Colonel
Harwood. “My dear uncle!” she cried, almost embracing him in
the presence of the others. “You have been four days away. You
do look pale! I hope you are not sick, sir?”

“It is nothing, Caro.”

“Will you walk into the drawing-room or up stairs into my
room?”

“I will go up stairs. But have you no recitation?”

“No. I have pretty much my own hours now. Madame Delano
scarcely looks upon me as a pupil. I wish you had come to say
that you had decided to let me make it my home with you. I am
getting to be quite a venerable pupil, sir, at nineteen.”

She looked at him with solicitude, as she saw that his eyes did
not reflect the smile that sparkled in her own while she spoke.

“We will go up stairs to your room.” he said, with agitation that
he tried in vain to conceal.

She saw that something painful was upon his mind, and without
asking any questions she preceded him to her room.

After he had taken a chair and she had seated herself by him, he
for some moments sat with his brow resting upon his hand in silence.
She regarded him with deep concern. Taking up her guitar she
struck a few chords, and said,—

“Shall I sing, dear uncle? You are sad, and music always
soothes and cheers.”

“No, my child, I can't bear it now. I shall be composed soon.”

“What has occurred?” she asked, laying her hand gently upon
his arm. “Something distresses you. What concerns you is of
the deepest interest to me. You know, my dear uncle, that I know
no difference between you and a father. As a father you have
always been to me. From me you have a child's love and gratitude!”
she kissed him affectionately as she said this.

Every word she uttered pierced his heart.

“I will, if I can, tell you what weighs upon my mind, my dear
niece,” he said, more composed. “You need not be told how
much my heart is wrapped up in you. You are indeed to me as

my own child. But I fear you will cease to love me. I fear you
will hate me when you hear what I have to say.”

“I cannot hate you. Do not talk thus!” she cried with emotion.
“What is the meaning of this mystery in your words and looks!”

“You must hear. I will not torture you with suspense. Listen
to me, my child.”

He took her hand in his, and after an effort to command his
feelings he thus began, while she listened with the deepest and at
times the most painful attention.

“You are aware, my dear niece, that during the last war with
Great Britain I was placed in command of a fortress on Lake —.”

“I know it, sir. It was when you were taken prisoner, being
compelled to surrender to the enemy.”

“Yes,” he answered with a faint affirmative. “Now learn my
dishonor from my own lips.”

“No one can couple your name with dishonor,” she cried, with
the indignant sensibility of that quick affection which scorns the
thought of infamy touching a loved name.

“It is a painful task I have to do to reverse your opinion of me,
dear Caroline. But there are mitigating circumstances. The command
of fort — was given to me to maintain against the forces
of General Leslie which were investing it. I knew General Leslie
intimately. When I was to Eton school in England we were classmates
and as intimate as twin brothers. That intimacy continued
through the university so unbroken, that we were called by our
friends Damon and Pythias. The designation was prophetic, as
you will see. A few days after I was to leave Oxford and England,
I was involved in a duel with an unprincipled party, who used foul
play and would have assassinated me but for Leslie's presence of
mind. I owed my life to his presence and decision. Twice before
I had saved his life. When I left Oxford to go to Portsmouth to
embark for the United States, he accompanied me to that port.
When we parted we swore eternal friendship. I pledged myself
never to refuse any favor he should ask of me, and he on his part
made the same pledge.

“This was many years before the war broke out between our
respective governments. I drew the sword for my country and took
the field. He had previously entered the army, and the last year
of the war a regiment was given him. The command of fort —
was bestowed upon me when it was threatened by his forces; for
after his arrival in America he was made a Brigadier General, and
menaced at the head of eighteen hundred men the position I held.
We were in all four hundred and eighty men, our position strong,
we had plenty of water, provisions, and ammunition to stand a six
months' siege.

“Yet the place fell into General Leslie's hands, sir, if I recollect
right, on the tenth day after he came before it.”

“Yes,” answered Colonel Harwood, with a deep sigh. “The
evening of the first day a flag of truce was sent to the fortress from
the British army. I received it. The bearer, a captain, handed

me a sealed letter, marked `Private, C. L.' I knew the initials to
be those of my friend. I retired to my quarters and opening it,
read as follows:

“`My dear Harwood,—I regret as much as you can that our
second meeting should be in the attitude of foes. At heart we are
friends, at least I answer for my own heart. I do not mistrust you.
I am commanded by the General-in-chief to take the fortress you
hold, if at the sacrifice of every man in my three regiments. The
fortress must fall sooner or later. The American armies have
enough to employ them, without weakening their operations by
coming to your aid. Now is the time for you to redeem your
pledge to me. I call upon you to surrender the fortress to me in
the spirit of this pledge. I am sincere. Had you anticipated me,
and first sent to me to retire from the fortress I should have obeyed.
What less can you do? Let me hear whether your friendship
bears the test that I now apply to it! The surrender can be made
without affecting your honor. It shall be as if by the chance of
war. Send me a plan of all the approaches and the position of the
aqueduct by which water is supplied from the lake, and I will cut
off the water and manage to get my men within your posts by
means of your plan, so that there will be no alternative between
surrender or carnage. Let me have a line from you whether I can
trust to you to fulfil your pledge.”'

“And did you listen to him, uncle?” cried Caroline, with fear
and trembling, her eyes at the same time expressing by their fire
her strong feeling of resentment at the unblushing audacity of the
demand. “Surely you will say you shunned the application which
was as insulting to you as dishonorable to him.”

“Would to God I had done so, Caroline! No, I listened. I
thought more of my personal honor with a man who was now my
national foe, than of my country's welfare or of my national honor.
I replied to him that I was ready to redeem my pledge.”

“And did you not feel that he was unworthy of your friendship,
thus to demand its fulfilment?”

“I did not then; I did afterwards, as you shall hear. I replied
to his letter, and he again to mine. A secret correspondence was
kept up between us for three days. I wrote him at least fifteen
letters, and also sent him in sealed packages plans of all the approaches
to the fort, and information where he could cut off the
supply of water.”

“Oh! uncle, what treachery! what infamy and dishonor!” she
cried, covering her face with her hands.

“I shall not be surprised if you curse me.”

“Were you mad, sir? Had you your reason, sir?” she earnestly
demanded, fixing upon him her rigid gaze.

“I was blinded by a romantic, mad notion of friendship. I defended
my conduct by recollecting the devotion of Damon and
Pythias.”

“But Damon only risked life; you honor!”

“Do not sharpen by your cutting words the bitter anguish of my
soul,” he cried with emotion. “Listen and hear all, and then if you
scorn me I shall feel that I deserve not only your contempt, but that
of every honest man.”