George Balcombe a novel |
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| 18. | CHAPTER XVIII. |
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 | CHAPTER XVIII. George Balcombe |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
Who but of fears knows no control.
He shamed not, loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash,
And crouch like hound beneath the lash.
Scott.
I found Balcombe already at home and in high
spirits. I saw that he had been successful in the
operations of the day, and was impatient to know
particulars.
“How have you sped?” said I, in a low voice.
“Well,” said he; “excellent well. I will tell
you all after supper.”
But supper passed, and he rattled on till bedtime,
talking, as usual, of everything and nothing,
according to the humour of the moment. At length
the ladies withdrew, when he turned to the colonel,
and said,
“Come, sir, we must not keep you up. Napier
and I have matters to talk over; and we must
send James to bed, and have our conference here.
So good-night, my dear boy. Good-night, colonel.”
They withdrew, the shutters were closed, and
all seemed hushed for the night.
“Was not Scott with you,” said I, “that you
sent him away?”
“A part of the time; not all. I sent him away
when we came to speak of matters that he must
never hear of. A noble fellow he is, William, and
a rare proof he gave me this day of his delicacy
and sense of honour.”
“How was that?” said I. “But belier, mon
ami, commencez par le commencement—begin at
the beginning, and tell me all about it.”
“Well,” said Balcombe, “you saw us follow
Montague and overtake him. “I wish to speak
with you, Mr. Montague,' said I. The fellow has
sold himself to the devil, and how he will look
when old Cloots comes to claim his bargain, I do
not know; but I should think pretty much as he
did when I accosted him. You know how he
looked yesterday. Add to that the expression of
mortal bodily fear, and you may have an idea of
it. He tried to `clap back,' but I had cast the
spell upon him, and he went on. I walked him
away deep into the forest without speaking. I
observed he breathed hard, and looked anxiously
around. The only living thing he saw was
James, following not far behind, and obviously in
attendance on me. Seeing this, his terror increased,
until he could go no farther. Indeed, we
were far enough, in a remote sequestered spot,
where interruption was hardly to be apprehended.
James had put into my hands for him, and delivered
it. He seemed somewhat relieved at the sight
of it. I dare say he would have been less surprised
to see me draw a pistol. It was long, and while
reading it he seemed to recover from his terror.
In the mean time, James approached and stood
near. Montague at length finished the letter, and
slowly folding it, declared himself ready to do and
submit to whatever might be required.
“`In the first place, then, Mr. Montague, I wish
to see that letter.'
“He started in great alarm, and said,
“`Is that one of the conditions?'
“`No, sir,' said I; `it is not one of the conditions.
It is what, as I have told you on other occasions,
I wish to see for my own purposes, and to
be used in my own discretion.'
“He looked at me and at James, and was preparing
to make a virtue of necessity, when the
noble boy spoke:
“`Mr. Balcombe,' said he, `my sister charged
me to see that that letter was delivered to Mr.
Montague; and I am afraid it is not right, sir,
that I should be aiding and abetting to its being
taken from him.'
“`There is no need of your aiding and abetting,
James,' said I; `Mr. Montague will give me the
letter of his own free will and accord. Your sister
conceals nothing from me that she has a right to
disclose. If there is anything in that letter that I
a right to let me into it if he chooses.'
“`But I am afraid he don't choose, Mr. Balcombe;
and if he gives you the letter it may be
because we are two to one against him, and he
cannot help himself.'
“`You say true, James,' said I; `it might have
that appearance. So go to the house, my dear
fellow, and make yourself easy. All will go smooth
between Mr. Montague and me.'
“He left us, and when he was entirely out of
sight and hearing I turned to Montague:
“`Mr. Montague,' said I, `I now repeat, that I
must have a sight of that letter for my own purposes,
and to be used in my own discretion.'
“`Really, Mr. Balcombe—”
“`Hand me the letter, if you please,' said I,
quite mildly. I looked steadily in his face, and
held out my hand until I felt the letter touch my
fingers. I took it, and said,
“`Compose yourself, Mr. Montague. Sit down
on this log and calm your mind, sir. We will talk
the matter over presently.'
“I read the letter over at my leisure, and again
addressed him:
“`It seems that I am made a sort of umpire in
this business, sir.'
“`You are,' said he; `and I submit to your umpirage.
I will do whatever you may think it right
to require of me, on condition that at the same moment
me.'
“`I require nothing else,' said I.
“`What, then, am I to do?' inquired he.
“`To come directly to the point, sir, I shall expect
you to advance one thousand dollars in hand
for the relief of this distressed family, and to deliver
me ten bonds, for three hundred dollars each,
payable to James Scott, at the end of each of ten
successive years from this date, with good security
to each bond.'
“`But where am I to get so much money?' said
he.
“`Oh, quite easily. I will advance the thousand
dollars on a draft on Tompkins and Todd of New-York;
or, if you please, directly on Bell and Brothers
of Liverpool; or more directly yet, sir, on
Edward Raby, Esquire, of Raby Hall, in the county
of Northumberland, in England.”'
I here interrupted Balcombe by exclaiming,
“How did he stand that?”
“Exactly as I wished. At first he seemed about
to sink into annihilation; then a sort of reaction
took place, and he showed more spirit than I ever
saw him manifest. His eye glared like that of a
pent-up cat; and I dare say, if he had seen mine
blench, there might have been some danger from
his great strength, at a moment when cowardly
ferocity—the very fierceness of terror and despair
—supplied the place of courage.
“But I looked him down; a collapse came on,
tied to the bedpost, and, after all his biting and
kicking, finds he cannot get loose.”
“But what motive had you for a taunt which
might drive him to desperation?”
“Precisely that. I wish the advantage over him
which desperation gives.”
“But is there no danger that his desperation
will seek some advantage of you?”
“Why, we must run that risk. It is only in the
game of lives that openness and boldness have the
benefit of their superiority over craft and cowardice.
Let us play for chinquapins, and he will beat
me from morning till night. Make life the stake,
and he won't know one card from another.”
“Well, how did the affair terminate?”
“Oh! very well. He came to himself at length,
and professed all willingness to do the needful.
But he must have time to look for the proper security.
To this I agreed. He then mused awhile,
and looking round with an eye that seemed to note
the privacy of the spot, he said,
“`Meet me here, then, on Saturday evening at
sunset precisely, and I will deliver the money and
bonds, and receive the parcel. But where is
that?'
“`James Scott has it.'
“`He will accompany you, then?'
“`Yes, unless you will authorize me to receive
the parcel from him on your account.'
“He seemed alarmed at the bare thought, and
James. I therefore promised to take him there.
In truth, I should not like to trust myself with such
a temptation as the possession of that parcel might
present. But no matter! I shall catch the villain
in his own snare.”
“Did you return the letter to Montague?”
“Oh, that's true! No, here it is.”
He handed it to me, and we proceeded to make
a copy of it. It was as follows:—
“It is not the purpose of this letter to reproach
you with your crimes, or to degrade myself by
fruitless complaint of the wretchedness they have
brought upon me. My weak voice can add no
terrors to the thunders of conscience. The history
of my sufferings would be superfluous. So
far as you are capable of comprehending them, you
already know them. The want of the necessaries
of life you can appreciate. Of the sting of self-reproach
to a conscience not rendered callous by
crime, of the deep sense of irreparable dishonour,
of the misery of witnessing distress brought by
our fault on those we love, you can form no conception.
“But you once professed to be so far sensible
of these things as to acknowledge an obligation to
repair, as far as practicable, the mischief you had
done. How you since have evaded the effect of
that acknowledgement you know. With that,
is with justice—not revenge.
“In demanding justice I will do justice. Of the
nature of the packet you once placed in my hands
I know nothing. That its concealment enables
you to work some iniquity I suspect, but to whom
I know not. The possession of it, unsought by
me, is at this moment only retained as the means
of enforcing what you yourself know and have
acknowledged to be justice. That done, it shall
be restored to you.
“This will be handed to you by one who knows
my wrongs, and can judge of the true measure of
retribution. My brother, who will hand it to him,
carries also a parcel for you, the receipt of which
will enable you to regain the packet.
“It is not in my hands: I put it away out of the
reach of your violence. It is in the hands of one
who will deliver it only on the presentation of a certain
token. That token is contained in the parcel
placed in my brother's hands, and there also is the
name of the depositary of the packet. When you
shall have done that which, in the judgment of Mr.
Balcombe, you ought to do, that parcel will be
handed to you. I commit you to him. You know
that you can confide in his honour, and with him
you will not dare to palter. Having fulfilled his
requisitions, never again, until you stand at the bar
of God, will you hear the name of
This letter was addressed, “To Edward Montague,
by the hands of George Balcombe, Esq.”
Having copied it, I returned to Balcombe.
“And now,” said I, “what is next to be done?
That packet, doubtless, contains my grandfather's
will.”
“I think so.”
“And the means of recovering it are now in
this house, and in the possession of young Scott.”
“Even so.”
“Shall we, then, let them go out of his hands?”
“What shall we do? We must not pick Scott's
pockets as he sleeps.”
“Certainly not.”
“I very much doubt whether he will give up the
parcel even to me. He is charged to give it to
no one but Montague; and he showed me plainly
to-day that he is more apt to go beyond the mere
letter of his engagement than to fall short.”
“I admire and honour his scruples. But would
they not give way, if he were made acquainted
with the true character of the transaction. What
if you were to tell him all you have told me?”
“He would cut Montague's throat, which would
be no great matter; but then he would cut his
own too. That boy could not live after hearing
the history of his sister's dishonour.”
“What, then, shall we do?”
“End as we have begun. Do the right thing,
come what will of it. But, if we can make the
wickedness of others give us a right to do what
will bear me out.”
“I cannot say that I understand you,” said I;
“but I see you full of confidence, and am sure
that you understand yourself.”
“I do,” said he. “I am now sitting up here to
see Keizer.”
“Do you expect him here?”
“Yes; he has orders to come at midnight. I
expect to hear him every moment.”
The expectation was not disappointed. The
whistle was soon heard, and Balcombe, leaving
the room, went out by a back way, and soon returned,
conducting Keizer in the dark.
“You have seen no one as you came?” said
Balcombe.
“Not a creature, sir.”
“And no one knows of your having any conference
with me?”
“Not a word, sir.”
“Where do you stay?”
“At the camp, with the Indians.”
“That's well. Have you seen Montague
lately?”
“I saw him this evening.”
“Any talk about business?”
“Nothing very particular; only he gave me to
understand he should like to see me to-morrow.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Oh, I told him, sir, that I always liked to do
business for a real gentleman, like him; and that
could for him; and I told him, too, that I always
knew where to find men to help me out, and do
such things as I could not do myself.”
“Did you give him any hint about the Indians?”
“Oh yes, sir. He asked me where I staid, and
I told him I was camped out with a couple of
Shawnees, that would do anything in the world I
told them.”
“Did he ask where the camp was?”
“Yes, sir; and I told him. You know where
you and he stopped, this morning, just in the head
of a hollow? it's right down that hollow.”
“What! did you see us?”
“To be sure I did, sir. What else am I here
for? So when you parted, I was pretty sure you
wanted to see me, and so I fell in with you as you
came back.”
“Well, how did he like the encampment?”
“He seemed mightily pleased, and said he
wished for me to stay there, and then he would
know where to find me.”
“When are you to see him next?”
“He is to come there to-morrow, about the time
the meeting breaks up for dinner.”
“Well, John, I told you the other day, in a joke,
that, if he wanted you to cut my throat, you must
agree to do it. I now tell you so in sober earnest;
for, as sure as you are alive, if he does not suspect
your connection with me, he will try to get
you and the Shawnees to do me some mischief.”
“I am very glad we are here, then, sir; for if
we were not, he would not have much trouble to
find them that would do it.”
“Whom do you mean, John?”
“Oh, nobody in particular; but, just at this time,
there is not a rogue or ruffian in the country but
what's just here.”
“Then, John, you must honey him up, and keep
between him and anybody else. If he does not
make his bargain with you before twelve o'clock
on Saturday, you must be sure to let me know,
because I shall conclude he has employed some
other person, and we must then lay our plans.
But if he does speak out plain, you'd better not
come near me any more lest he might suspect
you.”
“Mustn't I let you know what he wants me to
do?”
“No; there's no need. I know pretty well
what it will be. There's no occasion to fix any
snare for him; for when I touch the trigger he
sets for me, he will be right under his own trap.”
“I don't rightly understand you, colonel; but I
have no doubt it will all work right. You and I
have had to do before now with cunninger folks
than this fellow, and braver ones, too, I think.”
“Well, John, it is time to rest. I would ask
you to stay here, but you must go away under
cloud of night.”
“Thank ye, colonel. I would just as lief walk
to the camp. It's not over two miles off, and all
Balcombe conducted him out and soon returned.
“Do you understand the game now?” said he.
“Not exactly.”
“Well, here it is. Three hundred dollars per
annum, for ten years, amounts to three thousand,
and one thousand in hand makes four; and for
four thousand dollars Montague would murder
his own father, and dishonour the memory of the
mother that bore him. Now if, instead of paying
this price to possess himself of the token, he can
trepan Scott and myself and take it from him,
there will be so much saved.”
“But will he not fear prosecution?”
“He might if Scott and I should be forthcoming.
But that hollow leads down to the Missouri, which
is not a half mile off, and, if he meets me there,
and I had a mind, I could have him placed beyond
the Rocky Mountains, or buried in the sands of the
Missouri; no doubt he thinks he will have the
same power over me.”
“But would he incur not merely the guilt, but
the penalties of murder?”
“No need of that. What law is there to make
him responsible for the acts of Indians, in their
own country?”
“Then what is your plan?”
“Why, simply this: if he takes the token from
Scott by violence, I will take it from him by the
hands of his own instruments. But if he disappoints
and gets it fairly, I will then be fair with him, and
try whether, for once in his life, he can refuse to
do my bidding. One way or another he shall not
escape me; but the advantage I seek I would
rather obtain by his fault than mine. But come;
the night wears. So to bed.”
| CHAPTER XVIII. George Balcombe | |