University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

By the time we had got through these reciprocal
communications, Tom made his appearance to
say, that one of the gentlemen to whom he had
been sent had company in his house, and that the
other had been invited to dine with him.

“I am not sorry for that,” said Balcombe, as
soon as the servant withdrew. “Had I known,
last night, who you were, I should not have sent for
them to interrupt our conference; but now all is
safe: we have the evening to ourselves, and may
spare time for a little refreshment. “But, dearest,”
continued he, raising his voice, “will you
send us some wine and fruit? and give us the
light of your countenance too, darling; for the day
is dark, and a charcoal fire gives but a grim fuliginous
glare, uncongenial to wine and friendship.
Bright eyes afford the only light that's fit to drink
by.”

A servant soon appeared, with wine and cake,
and a delicious cantelope, and some rich, mellow,
glowing peaches. The lady soon followed, and

we feasted together on these dainties, the appearance
of which seemed hardly less miraculous than
that of the manna in the wilderness.

“I have not thought to ask you yet,” said Balcombe,
“if you remember anything of me.”

“I do not think I have the least recollection of
any such person,” said I.

“That's strange. You were taken to your
grandfather's before you were two years old. His
house was my home until I went to college, and I
spent my vacations there. I left it for the old hall
in 1805. You were then six years old, and I saw
you, for the last time, two years after, when I returned
to take my final leave. Do you remember
the first day you ever put on breeches?”

“As if'twere yesterday.”

“And how you pinned up your hat into a three-cornered
cock, and stuck a feather in it? and how
you mounted a stick horse, and went to take a
ride? and how you would go prancing along the
plank across the mill stream? and how you fell in,
and were fished out? and who fished you out?”

“Was that you? Yes, his name was George;
my George, as we used to call him.”

“Yes, I was your George, and your cousin's
George. Dear little Ann! no doubt she has forgotten
me entirely. She was three years younger
than you. She was my pet, and I was her playfellow,
and her horse, and her dog, and her cat;
in short, I was everything to her, and now, it
is just as if no such being as George Balcombo

ever existed. So goes the world! We love, we
toil, we fight, we give our heart, and purse, and
blood for those who presently forget us, and whom
we forget. Of all whose joys and sorrows, whose
strifes, whose defeats and triumphs I have shared,
who is there that cares for me? One, and but
one—Bet. This is a great thing, this marriage,
William. It is the only anchor of the affections
that will hold through the storms of life. Without
this we drift from our moorings, the sport of every
gale of fortune or passion.
The harbour of matrimony affords the only safe
anchorage, and he who overshoots that may go
cruise with the `Flying Dutchman.'

“The love of children, too, is the most hallowing
of our affections. We cannot help loving
them if they are good, but to love other people's
children is to sow the seeds of happiness on the
shifting islands of the Missouri. The crop springs
up and flourishes; it is fresh and green over night.
In the morning the land itself is gone. Why do
all mankind detest ingratitude? Because it robs
virtue of her sweetest reward—the pleasure of
doing good, and receiving nothing but affection in
return. Children and dogs alone never disappoint
this hope. They are the proper recipients of that
stream of descending affections which must have
vent. May it not be,” continued he, in a more

thoughtful tone, “that they are implanted in our
hearts to enable us to comprehend something of
the love for us which is avowed by God himself,
by the great King above all gods, for us helpless
worms? and how he asks nothing in return but
our hearts?”

He looked up, and after a long pause added, in
a tone of musing enthusiasm, “Like as a father
pitieth his children.”

A tear sprang to his eye, and he remained for
some minutes silent and thoughtful. I said nothing,
for I had never seen a man it was so hard
to talk to. It was impossible to keep pace with
the wild digressions of his mind. By the time I
could frame an observation on any topic he touched
on, he was away to something else; and was most
apt to pause when he had just uttered some thought
that had never entered my head, or perhaps his
own, or that of any other human being until that
moment.

“I wish,” said he at length, “our little Delia
was here. I would let you see how I can love a
child.”

“You have a daughter, then?”

“Yes, a little urchin of three years, now with her
grandmother. Bet, don't you want to see her?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Well, then, let us go to-morrow. By that time,
I think the novelty of this shieling will have worn
out with you, William, and you will not be sorry
to go into snugger quarters. I should be badly

off, if I had no better place to welcome a friend to
than this. I am inviting you, indeed, to another
man's house; but I have a right to do so, and can
promise you a cordial reception, on your own account,
as well as mine.”

“You forget,” said I, “that I have other objects
than amusement.”

“Not a whit,” said he. “My proposal is made
in due subordination to that matter, and will be
acted upon, or not, accordingly. Before to-morrow,
I mean to know something of the motions of the
enemy.”

He rang a small hand bell. A servant came.
“Is Henry here?” said he.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then send him to me. God forgive us! this is
Sunday, and but one allusion have I made to him
this day.”

“It would be a good thing,” said I, “if every
sermon preached to-day contained one thought as
well calculated to recommend religion to the heart
as that was.”

“Perhaps! perhaps!” said he, impatiently.
“This Henry belongs to my neighbour H—,
and has a wife here. Here he comes. Henry,
what gentleman was it that came to your house
last night?”

“Mr. Montague, sir.”

“Do you know how long he means to stay?”

“I believe he was going away this morning, if
it had not rained.”

“He is in a mighty hurry. Where is he going
to?”

“I hear 'em say, sir, he is going to see Mr.
Jones there, near Colonel Robinson's.”

“How are all at home to-day, Henry?”

“All very well, I thank you, sir.”

“That's all. Bet, my dear, give Henry a dram
if you please. You may add one for the rest of
them, for they have a hard time of it in such
weather as this.”

She left the room, and he went on: “This is
just as I supposed. When I heard there was a
gentleman there, I suspected it was Montague.
Had he been a friend of mine, H— would have
brought him. If a stranger, he would have sent
for us to dine with him, as he could not come.
Business calls Montague this way about this time;
and this visit to Jones may be of some days.”

“Why do you think he will be there so long?”

“Why, to-morrow is court day, and he has
business at court. Jones lives near. He is a really
pious man. Montague is an enthusiast in, what he
calls, religion. A great camp meeting commences
in the neighbourhood on Thursday. Now, Colonel
Robinson is Elizabeth's father; and 'tis to his house
I invite you. So, if we don't scare Montague
away, we are sure of him, for a week at least. So
now to dinner.”

The jingle of plates and dishes had just then announced
the approach of this important meal; so
we recrossed the passage, and found all ready.

And such a dinner! It had been prepared, indeed,
for a company twice as large, and it was sufficient
for twenty persons. The saddle of venison
alone would have given eclat to the most sumptuous
feast of a London alderman. The ham of
bacon could not be matched at any table but that
of a Virginian. The etceteras were in proportion;
and then followed a rich plum pudding, with appropriate
accompaniments; and, afterward, walnuts,
peccans, apples, peaches, cantelopes, and
watermelons. To wash down all these, was fine
old cognac, Jamaica rum, and Madeira wine. In
short, it was a feast of fat things spread in the wilderness.

But the great charm was in the welcome. I
seemed to have recovered all my friends. A man,
whom I had not known twenty-four hours, and of
whose existence I had not heard, was now, to me,
the most important personage in the world. There
he sat, full of energy, spirit, sagacity, and penetration,
knowing more of my affairs than any other
person, and prepared to exert to the uttermost all
his extraordinary faculties in my service. All the
difficulties which had encompassed me seemed to
vanish; and I felt as sure of an effectual triumph
over the arts and villanies of Montague as if I had
the will of my grandfather in my pocket. A life of
comfort for my widowed mother, competence for my
sisters, and affluence for myself and my dear Ann,
lay in prospect before me. I was too happy, and the
wine I took, though not much, made the buoyancy

my spirits somewhat excessive. My host, who
both ate and drank temperately, perceived it, and
rose from table.

“Come! come! Master William,” said he, “fas
ab hoste doceri. I have learned a lesson from
my red neighbours here, which you will do well
profit by.”

“What's that?” said I.

“To keep a cool head in the neighbourhood of
an enemy,” said he; “and always to go into
action sober. Dutch courage is a poor dependance,
especially in a war of wits. We have to do
with one who drinks only water.”

He now sent for Tom, and we returned to what
must, in courtesy, be called the other room. Tom
appeared.

“Go to Keizer,” said Balcombe, “and tell him,
rain or no rain, I must see him with the speed of
light.”

Tom vanished, and Balcombe went on: “This
Keizer,” said he, “is a sort of familiar of mine.
He is the only tool of the knave kind I ever work
with. Not that I ever use him as a knave. In
my service, and in that only, he acts the part of
an honest man. I may therefore say, that he is
such a friend as few men have; for he will do for
me what he will not do for himself. If I wanted
dishonest service, there is none so competent, and
there would be none so ready. But there are some
meritorious actions which a knave is better qualified
for than an honest man can be. `Set a thief

to catch a thief,' says the proverb; and this proverb
is true in analogous cases as well as in cases
in point. This fellow has activity, courage, hardihood,
coolness, sagacity, and plausibility. He is
indefatigable as a bloodhound, and never runs a
false scent. Every one knows him to be a knave;
yet, to a certain extent, every one trusts him,
while he trust nobody but me. And the reason is
this: He is bound to me by ties of gratitude. It
is his only virtue. I have done him service, and
he is grateful; the more so, because he has no
cause to be grateful to any one else on earth.
Every man has some good in him. This is his
good quality. It all centres here, and all for my
benefit. Ergo, I have a zealous and devoted
agent, in all things wherein he can serve me. He
will even be true to others at my bidding, and so
long as he considers them as under my special
protection. After that, they may look sharp.
Now, as he knows that I know him, and have no
doubt he would do anything for me, and as I never
require or permit any service that is not honest, he
has set me down as that rara avis, an honest man.

“What I want with him just now, I do not know.
But I may want him; and if I do, I have but to
give him a hint to be on the alert, and, by some
sort of instinct, he will be present at my wish,
whenever the emergency occurs. And, apropos to
the remark, here he is now. Come in, John!
Come in!”