University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Wharton.

It could not be considered peculiar to Adam
Balantyne, that bitters and sweets had mingled
in the cup of his life, for in whose life-cup have
they not mingled? But the predominance of the
bitters over the sweets had in his been unusually
great: nay; the bitters had, at one time,
been so intense as almost to extinguish every
perception of the sweets. One ingredient only
remained to soften and ameliorate their venom,
and enable him to tolerate existence,—it was
his daughter. Her caresses were the balm that
soothed his afflictions—her smiles the sun-shine
that dispersed the clouds of his despair. To this
daughter, therefore, he was attached with parental
ties more than ordinarily strong. From her alone
he drew comfort, and for her sake alone did he
feel it desirable to live. All his thoughts, his
anxieties, his prayers, were for her, and on her
welfare depended all his earthly happiness;
and alas! through her that happiness was doomed
to be blasted for ever.

As the summer of 1777 advanced, the depression

which, since her last fatal interview
with Harris, weighed down the spirits of Mary
Balantyne, visibly increased. In vain did her anxious
parent endeavour to discover the cause of
this aggravation of her affliction. She carefully
concealed it. She seldom appeared in company,
and when she did, the paleness and pensive
expression of her countenance, and the thoughtful
abstraction of her manner, indicated the
terrible devastation which some unknown grief
was making upon her heart.

Her father seldom left her at this period.
But being one day invited to visit his friend,
Elias, she urged him to comply, alleging that
any means by which his mind could be even
temporarily diverted from its present solicitude,
would tend to relieve her own sorrows. He
yielded to her wishes, and set out for the residence
of his kind-hearted neighbour. The
unhappy state of the times formed the engrossing
topic of conversation between these two
men of peace, and domestic calamities were
for a time forgot in the all-absorbing subject of
the fierce war that surrounded them. It was
drawing towards the evening, but the friends
had not yet thought of parting, when one of
Balantyne's servants suddenly entered the
chamber where they sat, and almost breathless
with haste and terror, informed them that Miss
Balantyne was dying.

The alarmed father hastened home. He flew
to the chamber of his daughter. She was not
quite dead, but she was oppressed with a heavy
and overpowering stupor which had paralyzed
all her faculties, and rendered her powerless
and inert. She was in fact fast approaching to
a state of utter insensibility. The vital spark
seemed quivering on the verge of entire and
absolute extinction.

“Oh! my daughter, what has occasioned this
dreadful stroke!” cried the heart-pierced father
as he bent imploringly over her, where she lay
speechless on the couch of sorrow. “Speak,
my dear child; speak to thy father—Oh! say,
what has caused this new calamity? Heaven
save thee, my beloved, my innocent child,”
he continued, as he observed that she languidly
made signs of being conscious of his presence.
He caught her hand, she feebly pressed it.
Her lips moved in the articulation of some low
sounds. He bent to hear them. He thought
she mentioned her writing desk. He hurried
to it. On opening it, he found the following
letter.

The wretched father scarcely took time to
read through this letter, every word of which
sent a venomed dagger to his heart and a burning
arrow through his brain.

“Leave me and my daughter together,”
said he to the attendants in this chamber of

grief. “I alone shall witness the extinction
of her life.”

He was obeyed. He locked the chamber-door
inside, and, for several hours, poured forth
his agonized feelings alone, or was overheard
only by superior beings, who, even in their
happy sphere, could not but feel sorrow for
the incalculable weight of misery which he
bore. At length the servants were admitted,
and he gave orders in relation to his daughter's
funeral with a calmness that surprised
them, and which they ascribed to that fearful
lassitude which is often induced by despair. He
then sent for his friend Elias, who instantly
obyed the summons.

“I have at length,” said he to his friend,
“drunk of sorrow to the very dregs of the
cup. Life has now no charm for me; yet for
one purpose—inquire not what that is—will I
endure it.”

“What the purpose is that thee would conceal,
it is not my part to inquire,” replied
Elias. “But I know thy principles to be good,
and that as a Christian thee dost fear thy
Maker. I hope, therefore, that great as thy sufferings
are, thee will remember the duty of
submission which is incumbent on all rational
creatures, to the great Creator, who can produce
light out of darkness, and turn even our
calamities into blessings.”

“I am grateful for the consolation thou
wouldst afford,” replied Balantyne, “for I
know thy friendship is sincere. But my knowledge
that the wretchedness of this life cannot
last long is my chief consolation. I am unfit,
at present, to attend to my worldly affairs.
Wilt thou undertake their management for a
few days, and see that all things in relation to
my daughter's funeral be decently conducted?”

Elias readily consented to charge himself
with the task thus entrusted to him. “I have
another request to make,” said Balantyne. “You
may think it an extraordinary one; but I wish
greatly to be indulged in it. I desire to be
permitted to remain in the chamber with my
daughter's corpse, after her shroud and coffin
are provided, with no attendant but Francis
Holmes, who, I doubt not, will readily wait
on me on this melancholy occasion.”

Francis agreed without hesitation to watch
with the afflicted father over the corpse of his
daughter. He had, ever since his coming to
reside in the neighbourhood, cultivated the
friendship, and had gained much of the confidence
of Balantyne. In their political sentiments
and aversion to war, they perfectly
agreed; and in the misfortunes of his new
friend, Francis truly sympathized. Balantyne
had, on his part, imbibed such a high opinion

of the shrewdness, activity and management
of Francis, as well as confidence in his zeal to
serve him, that he selected him on the present
occasion as the companion who could most
readily enter into his feelings, and effect the
performance of his wishes.

When Francis arrived, he found Balantyne
sitting alone, according to his wish, by the side
of the corpse. The latter immediately secured
the door.

“Francis,” said he, “I will now entrust you
with a secret which you must never reveal.
Will you in compassion to a man bereaved of
all earthly happiness, promise me, by the faith
and honour of a virtuous bosom, that you never
will?”

“I promise you,” replied Francis, without
hesitation, “for I know that you will ask me
to keep no secret which it would be my duty
reveal.”

“Then read that heart-rending letter, and
see the extent of my misery, and of a heartless
villain's guilt.” So saying, he handed him
the letter which he had found in his daughter's
writing-desk.

“He is, indeed, a fiend in human form, who
has done this!” exclaimed Francis on reading
the letter.” “Justice demands that he should
be punished.”

“Yes; yes!” cried the distracted father, with

a deep groan. “Surely vengeance on such a
wretch must have the sanction of Heaven. Oh!
my heart burns for vengeance on the destroyer
of my lovely—my tender—my unoffending
daughter! I shall never know rest until I
have satisfaction for the terrible desolation he
has brought upon me.”

“But how!—what do you contemplate
against him?” asked Francis coolly. “How
can you bring him to justice? You have already
suffered much for pushing revenge to
the extent of bloodshed.”

“For taking away a human life, I have indeed
been made miserable,” replied Balantyne,
thoughtfully.—“No—no, I will not slay
him.”

“What then? Will you apply to his commander
for justice?” asked Francis.

“It were needless,” returned Balantyne.
“My accusation would be disregarded, and
my child's shame made known.”

“For the same reason, you dare not in any
manner, expose her destroyer's infamy to the
world. How then do you propose to punish
him?”

“Alas! I know not!” returned the disconsolate
father. “Leave me for the present. I
am bewildered with grief. I am heart-broken
and distracted. In half an hour, let us confer
again.”

Francis retired, and the unhappy Balantyne
throwing himself on a couch, gave vent, in unwitnessed
tears, to the sorrows that preyed upon
his heart. These tears were the first he had
shed since this last calamity had assailed him.
They afforded him some relief—they moderated
the fever that was burning in his brain
and giving delirium to his thoughts. When
Francis returned, he found him much more
collected, and better qualified to reason on the
course of life he should pursue. That course
was soon determined on; and Francis engaged
to adhere to him in its prosecution as a
friend, an adviser, and assistant. “My own
concerns,” said he, “require but little of my
attention. Your life has been hitherto a path-way
of thorns which have sorely wounded
you; and now, alas, they pierce you to the
quick. I feel for you too strongly to refuse
my aid amidst your distress. On my fidelity
and attention you may rely; and whatever consolation
it may be, at any time, in my power
to bestow, shall freely and zealously be yours.”

“Write then—write immediately to the destroyer,
an account of the awful result of his
villany,” said Balantyne. “Let him feel, as
soon as possible, the tortures of remorse, if he
be capable of feeling them. I have endured remorse,
and know the terrible severity of its
gnawings. If he has the conscience or the

heart of a human being, he will never know
earthly happiness after he receives information
of the destruction he has brought on her
who trusted in him and who loved him. Haste,
therefore, to write. It is but justice to make
him miserable without delay.”

Mary Balantyne had been beloved by every
one who knew her. Even the maidens who
envied her beauty, were propitiated by the
kindness and gentleness of her manners; and,
as for the youths of her acquaintance, they had
always been unanimious in their respect for her
virtue and admiration of her loveliness. Her
premature death was, therefore, greatly lamented;
and her bier was accompanied to the grave
by a numerous assemblage of real mourners.
Among these, there was one young man who
felt more deeply than the rest. He had long
loved her with a passion as ardent, disinterested
and constant, as ever burned in a lover's
bosom. But she did not return his affection.
Perhaps she had been too young when he first
declared it—perhaps he was too timid and reserved
to press his suit with sufficient ardour—
or perhaps—But why attempt the vain task of
accounting for the caprice of a young maiden's
fancy who knows that she is handsome, and
who feels that she is born to be admired? Mary

Balantyne could and did accord to William
Barton, her most cordial esteem, but her love
—alas! it was fated to be bestowed upon one
who deserved it not; one who abused the precious
boon and, without compunction, destroyed
the beauteous donor. And such men have been
on earth; yea, such are even now to be found
on its polluted surface, mingling unblushingly,
and unmarked as villains, among their fellow-men!
Oh, Heaven! forgive those who, knowing
that such things are, wonder at thy forbearing
to lift the arm of vengeance to extirpate
the wretches from the limits of thy fair
creation!

William Barton was the son of that John
Barton whose sufferings from tory atrocities
have already been noticed as awakening the
sympathies and indignation of Elias and Balantyne.
He had been long a favourite pupil
of the latter, and from the earliest dawn of his
affections he had placed them entirely on the
fascinating Mary. She was his dream by night,
and his contemplation by day. She was in
truth all he could fancy of female loveliness
and perfection. And although unable to elicit
reciprocal feelings in her bosom, he was not
the less ardently devoted to her as the sole
idol of his earthly worship.

During the funeral he was the object of

universal but respectful commiseration; and
after all others had withdrawn from the grave,
he remained alone there to weep over the hallowed
spot. The observant eyes of Francis
Holmes beheld him, and when all the people
were gone, and solitude and silence once more
surrounded the place, he approached him.

“Forgive my interruption of your sorrows,
young man,” said he. “Believe me, I sympathize
with you, and approach you in friendship,
and with an earnest desire to administer to
you consolation.”

“Can you restore to my sight the fair being
who lies beneath this earth?” said the mourner.
“If you cannot, you will try to console me in
vain. When she lived, I loved her too well
for my own happiness: and over her grave I
may be permitted to mourn at the early extinction
of those charms on which I have so
often gazed with rapture, but which, alas! I
shall behold no more.”

“William Barton, you are reputed to be a
valliant and active youth,” returned Francis,
“and such I should expect, would not give
way to unavailing sorrow. I have heard of
your bold enterprises against the tory bands
that lately infested this neighbourhood, and
have been informed that you have taken from
them ample satisfaction for the injury they inflicted

on your father's family. One of them—
he too who dealt the blow against your kindred—was
the destroyer of your love—”

“Ha! name him not!” interrupted Barton.
“His very name is torture to me.”

“Would you have him brought to a sense
of his wickedness? Would you make him feel
how much he has injured you? Would you
wish him punished for his villany towards her
you loved, and have lost for ever?” said Francis.

“Ask him who is weary, if he will have
rest—him who is hungry, if he will have food,
or the thirsty man, if he will accept of a cooling
draught. Yes; bring the destroyer only
within my reach, and I shall be satisfied.”

“Meet me to-night at the house of the father
of your lost Mary, and you will learn that
which will yield consolation to you both in
your present affliction. I will explain no further
now. But fail not to come, and you shall
have comfort.”

“I would avoid that venerable man in his
present distress,” observed Barton, “lest the
presence of one who loved his daughter so
well, might aggravate his sorrow. But there
is an earnestness in your manner which persuades
me that you mean well, and I shall
meet you.”

“I am the friend of Balantyne, and you

shall find me yours also; therefore, fail not,”
said Francis; and leaving Barton to his mournful
meditations over the grave of her he
loved, he hastened to the residence of Balantyne.”