University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

“You see,” said Balcombe, “by the dates, that
this is a recent transaction. It is not long since I
received the papers, and I was casting about to
devise some means of opening a communication
with you, when Providence threw you in my way.
I say Providence, because, though I am not quite
so superstitious as Montague, who worships the
devil, and calls him God, I do believe in a special
providence, and look upon such coincidences as
providential and ominous of good. But tell me—
How came Montague to leave Virginia?”

“I cannot answer that question with certainty;
but there were those who could not be
persuaded that all was right, and they looked
coldly on him. His circumstances were certainly
improved; but this, as I understand, was rather
discovered by others than displayed by him. He
was less engaged in business, but had more money,

and was more at his ease. He never finessed so
deep, as to affect any embarrassment or difficulty, but
seemed rather desirous to glide into a place among
the first gentlemen of the country. The earliest
manifestation of this disposition was the signal for a
distinct and marked exclusion. He was made to
understand at once that he was not of their order;
and even with the poorer clases, and the very negroes,
(you know their unerring instinct in these
matters,) he could never pass for more than what
Paddy calls `a half-mounted gentleman.”'

“And what became of poor Mary Scott?”

“Ah! were you aware of that matter?”

“Yes, from the first. I could never be said to
be in the fellow's confidence, for I would not have
accepted it: but circumstances made me privy to
it from the very commencement of his amour. Indeed
I did not suppose it had ever become public,
and, in asking the question, thought I might be
giving you a hint of something new to you. But
let me tell you all I know, and you shall give me
the sequel. We must look narrowly into this matter.
Men, as versatile in wickedness as Montague,
sometimes find one crime the avenger of another;
and my knowledge of the parties has inspired me
with a hope, that it is in that very quarter that
light is to break out, and disclose the villany of
which you have been the victim.

“You must understand, then, that when I left
college in 1805, your grandfather, seeking, with
his accustomed delicacy to disguise a benefit, conferred

under the semblance of a favour received,
pretended that it would be to his interest for me
to reside a while at his estate on Rappahannock.
There was a fine old house there, somewhat decayed;
there were old supernumerary house servants,
who were never permitted to labour in the
field; there was a tolerable supply of oldfashioned
furniture; and, above all, there were a great many
good old books, which, added to my little modern
library, afforded the means of profitable employment
of my time. In truth, there was nothing for me
to do but to study; and I must have been a dunce
indeed if I had not seen that I was put there for
my good. The place was admirably adapted to
the plan. The vast extent of the estate placed me
in the centre of a wide solitude. I could hardly
be said to have any neighbours; and was, therefore,
not tempted to dissipation. The necessary
exercise with my gun afforded me healthful and
abundant recreation; and, as I had every opportunity,
so I had every disposition to improve myself.
To have done otherwise would have been a
base abuse of unmerited kindness. I was exposed
to one only danger; and from that Montague
saved me. I suppose I ought to thank him, and,
in due season, I will try to show my gratitude in
the proper manner.

“The poor girl, of whom we speak, was the
overseer's daughter. He lived in one of those secondary
houses, which so often form a part of our
old establishments. Drawing his supplies from

the estate, he might have saved nearly the whole
of his handsome stipend, had he not lavished so
much on her. She was beautiful and intelligent;
gay, sprightly, and impassioned. As there were
servants, more than enough, she had nothing to
do. She was fond of reading, and read a great
deal; but having access to all sorts of books, and
no one to direct her choice, her reading was, perhaps,
worse than unprofitable. A dangerous turn
for romance, fatally cultivated, was, at once, her
fault and her misfortune; but this did not make
her less attractive to a raw youth just from
college. What might have come of it, I do not
know, but for Montague. I took great pleasure
in her society, for she was cheerful, imaginative,
witty, ardent, and confiding. I have rarely seen a
more agreeable girl, and her beauty was of an
order to make the beholder imagine that the blood
in her veins was right royal. You have seen her?”

“Only in decay.”

“Her person was then majestic; her complexion,
though deficient in the milky whiteness of a
skin which the breath of heaven is never suffered
to visit, was fair, rich, and transparent; her features
were regular, lighted up by an eye of ever-varying
expression, to which the tones of her voice
were always in perfect unison. She was gifted,
indeed, with a spontaneous flow of words, which
often gushed forth in streams of fervid eloquence, or
sparkling wit, or bubbling gayety, or deep, low-murmured
tenderness. In short, she was a glorious

creature, formed to fill to overflowing the cup of
bliss of him to whom she might give her heart. If I
ever saw perfect disinterestedness, it was in her. If
I ever saw a woman, whom no consideration could
influence to surrender herself to the embrace of
any but the master of her affections, she was that
woman. I admired her very much; I loved her
very sincerely; I should have loved her, in spite
of myself, with all the fierceness of passion, had she
permitted it.

“It was quite natural that she should take pleasure
in my society; for I was the only person who
could converse with her on the topics which interested
her most. She delighted in poetry. I read
well, and often read to her, while she listened with
rapture. I taught her to read it, and she was grateful
for an acquisition which enabled her to perceive
new beauties in passages, uttered in her own rich,
mellow, and flexible tones. She delighted in knowledge.
I instructed her in such things as she most
desired to know, and enjoyed, for the first time,
that sweetest and purest of all pleaures—that of
imparting to a lovely and beloved female ideas
which are reflected from her eyes and echoed by
her voice; which sink into her mind, and become
a part of it; which refine, and purify, and elevate
her affections; which open to her a new world of
existence, and make her even to herself a new
creature. To do this, is to wield and to brave all
love's artillery. Nothing but pre-engaged affections
can withstand it; and faithful is the heart which

even these do not surrender to such an attack.
Such a heart was hers. She already loved—and
loved Montague. She saw the necessity of arming
me against myself, and frankly told me so.

“There was great nobleness and generosity in
this. How many women scruple to make their
sport of the best feelings of the heart of man?—
playing on its chords as on a stringed instrument,
and listening to its wailing tones with a pleasure
hardly less savage than that of Dionysius, at his
artificial ear!! How many women deny themselves
the advantage of playing off a rival against a
favoured lover—alarming his fears, heightening in
his eyes the value of the prize, and thus securing his
fidelity? Had this poor girl done this, she would
have been now the cherished wife of Montague.

“I should have mentioned, that he was a frequent
visiter there. As he attended the court of
that county, where your grandfather's large property
gave him so great an influence, the good old
man invited him always to spend a day at the old
mansion. `It will be of service to you,' said he:
people will see that you are in my intimacy and
confidence; they will think that you are employed
about my business, and will give you theirs.' No
man understood the effect of such things better
than Montague. He had, accordingly, availed
himself of the privilege, even before I went there,
often enough to become attached to Mary Scott,
and to secure her heart. You may suppose, his
visits were not less frequent when he saw one

established there who might be a formidable rival
That he loved her as much as his selfish hear
could love, I am sure; at least in the beginning
At first, too, he would have been glad to marry
her. His delay was dictated by proper prudence
for both were poor. But, as his circumstances
improved, he discovered that Scott was even poorer
than he had supposed, having saved nothing. A
certain elderly maiden, too, of tolerable property
and good expectations, was said to look kindly on
him. So it was; his visits became less frequent,
and she was often doomed to the misery of disappointed
expectation. But when he did come, all
was forgotten. Some satisfactory excuse was
found; and he professed to indemnify himself for his
long absence by more protracted visits. In one
of these, I accidentally witnessed a circumstance (no
matter what) which led me to suspect him of dishonourable
designs. The idea that he had accomplished
them did not enter my head. I soon had
cause to fear that he had, and that, but a few hours
earlier, my interference would not have been too
late. I sought a private interview with him.

“`Montague,' said I, `do you love Mary Scott?'
He hesitated, muttering something about the
strangeness of the question. `Understand me, sir,'
said I, `I do not ask your confidence. I would
not accept it. I demand to know the fact, for my
own purposes, and to be used at my own discretion.
Mark me. I do not ask whether you profess
to love her. I know that you do. I have that

from her own lips. I demand to know whether
you do love here in very truth.'

“`Oh!' said he, in the mildest tone, `if she has
made you her confidant, I have no need to be secret.
Therefore, I acknowledge to you that I do
love her with all my heart.'

“`Why, then,' said I, `do you not marry her?'

“He paused again. `Speak on,' said I, `and
speak out.'

“`Why, really, Mr. Balcombe, I do not understand
this peremptory tone.'

“`You understand it well,' said I, `and you understand
perfectly that I will have an answer. I
want it for my own purpose, again, and to be used
at my own discretion. Answer you shall. Truly
or falsely, is your own concern. I hardly expect
the truth, and do not care to have it. But I will
know on what footing you place this thing.'

“`Well!' said he, `you know I have a will of
old Mr. Raby's in my hands, in which I am handsomely
provided for by a bequest of valuable lands.
I am, therefore, careful not to offend him; and I
have reason to believe this marriage would not be
agreeable to him. Poor as I am, he would regard
it as a duty I owe to my ancestors not to ally
myself to his overseer.'

“`And is this,' said I, `the reason you assign to
her for your delay to claim her hand?'

“`It is.'

“`Then you have told her what is false.'

“`How can you say that?' said he: `I wrote the
will. You never read it.'

“`That is true,' said I, `but I witnessed it.'

“`What of that?'

“`Why, this, sir. It is witnessed only by us
two. What can you claim under it by your own
testimony? Would you, the wary, the crafty, the
selfish, rapacious Edward Montague, have been
content to have a will of lands, under which you
expect to claim, so witnessed? Shame upon you,
sir. Would you palm such a barefaced lie upon
me, as well as on that poor, confiding, generous,
true-hearted girl? I will undeceive her instantly.'

“I shall never forget the grim smile, in which
something like triumph seemed struggling to free
itself from the mire of degradation into which I
was trampling him.

“`You will use your own pleasure about that,'
said he; `I mean to marry her when circumstances
will permit. Before that I cannot.'

“`Marry her you never shall,' said I.

“`Will you take her off my hands?' said he,
with the same incomprehensible smile. I sprung
at him, I know not why. But he darted through
the door, and jerked it after him. I did not pursue
him. I heard him order his horse, and he soon
rode off.”