University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

While I was reading, Balcombe walked the
room with a noiseless step, as if careful not to
awaken the youth, who in one corner still lay sleeping
off his weariness. At length he awoke; Balcombe
sat down by him, and they conversed in a
low tone. When I got through, I turned to Balcombe,
and said,

“In God's name! how came you by this?”

“He brought it,” replied my friend, pointing to
the youth; then turning to him,

“It is proper, James, that my young friend
here should see your sister's letter. You must
trust me.”

“I do trust you, sir. I am instructed to put
myself, in all things, under your direction; and
your kindness disposes me to do so without reserve.
My poor sister taught me to expect a
friend in you who would not serve her grudgingly
or by halves; and I see she was right.”

“Serve her!” said Balcombe, with emotion.
“Dear, dear Mary! dear, noble girl! What
would I not do to serve her!”

“Oh, sir!” said James, “what a comfort it is to
hear you speak so of her! My poor sister!”

His voice choked, he buried his face in the
pillow, and sobbed aloud. Recovering himself, he
went on:

“She is indeed the best woman on earth. But
she is unhappy, and the world, for some reason,
looks coldly on her. She is the best of daughters,
and such a sister as no man ever had; and yet she
seems condemned to bury in obscurity not only
these virtues, but talents that might adorn a throne.
I see nothing in her but excellence; and I have
but a vague recollection of having heard language
applied to her, before I understood its meaning,
which no man of feeling or prudence would now
utter in my presence. But you know her well,

sir; and it comforts me, and will comfort her, that
you speak of her in such terms.”

“I may well do so, James; for to me she has
been the truest and most generous friend on earth.”

“I rejoice to hear that, sir; it will reconcile me,
in some measure, to the trouble I may give you.”

“There will be little trouble. Montague is in
the neighbourhood. I shall see him to-day, and you
to-morrow. Your business shall be soon arranged
to your satisfaction; and in a week you shall be
on your road homeward. It is not certain that I
shall not go with you.”

“Oh, sir!” said the delighted youth, “I shall be
so glad!”

“Come, come!” said Balcombe, “up and dress.
We have no time for rejoicing yet.”

He went out, and we soon followed. After
breakfast, he directed us to retire to our room, and
desired James to remain there all the morning. I
was to stay until Montague was seated and engaged
in conversation. I was then to loiter in
carelessly, and take my seat without being introduced.

He soon appeared, and as Balcombe had predicted,
was exceedingly gracious. When I entered,
Colonel Robinson was in the act of announcing
his price for the land. Montague saw me,
but finding that my entrance attracted no notice
from others, he gave his whole attention to
the business in hand. He was a tall and powerful
man, and had his countenance been good, would

have been very handsome. Its expression was
saturnine and cold, and indicated, as I thought,
great concentration and tenacity of purpose.
When I observed this, and compared his athletic
frame with the slight figure of Balcombe, I hardly
knew how to credit the history the latter had given
of some scenes between them. But when I turned
to him, and remarked the cheerfulness, alacrity,
and self-confidence of his air, the covert scorn
that played on his lip, and the hawking expression
of his eye, I saw that it was the falcon hovering
over the sluggish and unwieldy bustard.

Montague made some demur to the colonel's
terms, and attempted to beat him down, but the
other stopped him.

“The only way to discuss this matter, Mr.
Montague, is with yourself. Ride over the land,
sir, and if you don't think it worth the money, you
will not give it.”

In this arrangement Montague acquiesced;
when Balcombe, turning to me, said,

“Two dollars an acre for such land as this! It
is strange how the intrinsic value of things is lost
sight of in regarding their relative value. What is
land good for in Virginia that it is not good for
here? But so it is. Value depends on demand
and supply. So say the political economists,
and I suppose they are right, in all things but one.
When truth and honour abound, they are most
prized. They depreciate as they become rare. If
there be a country where money and honour are

both scarce, that is your true Rogue's Harbour—
the paradise of successful villains; the proper place
for him who `robs the widow, and devours the
orphan's portion,' and fills his pockets with the
plunder of them who trust in him; the place where
the betrayer of confiding innocence may wed with
wealth and beauty. There let him go, and build
up a name illustrious in infamy! In the next generation,
`time, the beautifier,' which changes all
things to suit prevailing tastes, shall bleach it into
honour.”

This was addressed to no one in particular, nor
did a tone or glance point the meaning to its object.
It was just spoken with that careless air
which distinguished Balcombe, when, giving the
reins to fancy, he suffered himself to be borne
along at random. It was the uniform effect of
these capricious starts to put a total stop to conversation
until he himself chose to renew it. He
now threw himself back in his chair, and seemed
for a moment lost in abstraction. Then his voice
was heard again, breathing, as if unconsciously, in
the deep, low tone of solemn imprecation, these
lines:

There was nothing in this to revive conversation,
and the silence was dead and startling. Colonel
Robinson at length turned to speak to Montague,

but remained dumb with surprise. I had
been looking at him all the time. The change in
his countenance was fearful to behold. I shall not
attempt to describe its progress; but when he
perceived that we were all looking at him, the
measure of his suffering seemed full. There he
sat, his stony eye downcast, but with expanded
lids, and fixed on vacancy. An ashy paleness
overspread his face; the very flesh seemed to
shrink to the bone, and large beaded drops stood
on his brow. Balcombe did but glance his eye
towards him, smiled, and, throwing back his head,
whistled a few lively notes. Montague seemed
slowly to recover his consciousness at the sound,
when Balcombe again said, with the utmost carelessness,

“Oh, Mr. Montague! I have never asked you
what became of that will of old Mr. Raby which
was witnessed by you and me in 1802, and left in
your hands.”

Montague looked at him in blank dismay, and
made no answer.

“Was it ever cancelled by him or by his order?”
said Balcombe.

“I—I really do not know, sir.”

“Did you ever return it to him?”

“Indeed, sir—I do not—I cannot remember
rightly, sir, that I ever did.”

“Do you remember the purport of that will, Mr.
Montague? You wrote it, I believe.”

“Yes, sir, I wrote it; but I cannot say that I
remember rightly the whole purport of it.”

“Mr. Napier,” said Balcombe, turning to me
and pronouncing my name with startling emphasis,
“do you remember the substance of the memorandum
taken by your father of what Mr. Raby
told him about that will?”

“Yes, sir; and I have the memorandum itself
in my pocketbook. Here it is.”

The sudden annunciation of my name disclosed
to Montague that he was in the toil, and again the
same overwhelming agony of consternation came
over him. Balcombe took the paper coolly, and
read as follows: “Christmas day, 1802. Visited
my father-in-law, Charles Raby, Esquire. Was
informed by him that he had lately made a will
revoking all former wills, by which he devised his
whole estate to be divided into two equal parts,
one of which is to be again divided between his two
daughters and their heirs for ever, and the other to
go to the first of his grandsons who should attain
the age of twenty-one, and his heirs for ever. He
added that he had left that will in the hands of a
confidential friend.”

“Does this memorandum correspond with your
recollection of that will, Mr. Montague?”

“I really cannot say, sir; I cannot exactly
charge my memory.”

“I am aware of that, sir; but memory will
sometimes carry things without being charged.
Do you perceive any difference between the memorandum
and the substance of the will?”

“Why, really, Mr. Balcombe!” said Montague,

in a tone of expostulation, and speaking as if, in the
extremity of his distress, he was beginning to find
courage to ward off the attack of his enemy. Balcombe
suddenly shifted his position, and placed himself
directly fronting Montague. In doing this he
turned his back to Colonel Robinson, but was in full
view of me. In his look there was nothing of menace,
but I felt that I saw at that moment the same
glance of power under which Montague had
quailed when questioned concerning his views on
Mary Scott. I saw Montague's spirit sink under
it, and he stopped short. Balcombe slowly repeated
his question. “I ask you now,” said he,
“whether you perceive any difference between
that memorandum and the will, according to your
recollection of it?”

“I cannot say that I do,” faltered Montague.

“Enough,” said Balcombe. “Colonel Robinson,
I beg you to observe, that, to the best of Mr. Montague's
recollection of that will, written by himself,
left in his care, never returned by him to the testator,
and never, to his knowledge, cancelled by him, or
by his order, it corresponds with the memorandum
I have read. Here is the memorandum, sir; I
will thank you to look over it, see that I read it
exactly as it is, and put some mark on the paper
by which you can identify it again. Mr. Montague,
I will trouble you no further.”

These last words broke the spell that bound
Montague to his chair. He rose, muttered something
meant for an adieu, and left the house.