University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

The result of this conference was entirely satisfactory
to me. I saw my way clear to the recovery
of the lost will, and the re-establishment of the
fortunes of my family. I saw, too, that there was
now no prudential consideration to restrain me
from pressing my suit with Ann, and, at least, satisfying
myself, whether her happiness, as well as
my own, had been endangered by my former
reserve. But my mind only became more restless

and impatient in view of this aspect of affairs; and,
though the night was far spent, I had no disposition
to sleep. I began to think that it would be
an age to the next evening; but weariness at
length overcame me, and I slept. I dreamed of
home. Ann was before me; Howard was at her
feet; he was ardent and tender; she, pale, agitated,
and alarmed. With an averted and tearful
eye, she permitted him to take her hand; he
pressed it to his lips; his eye searched her countenance
with the eagerness of baffled hope; she
merely raised hers to lift them despairingly to
heaven; they fell on me. She sprung to my embrace,
hung on my neck, and seemed to lose all
consciousness of anything but that she was once
more in my arms.

The next day, Balcombe took pity on my impatience,
and employed me about his preparations
for our journey. At last the evening came, and he
and Scott walked out. Their departure increased
my restlessness. The sun was not long down,
before I sallied forth and took the direction in
which Scott and Balcombe had disappeared. The
old gentleman, seeing I was for a walk, called after
me and joined me. We loitered slowly along, as
I was in no hurry to pass the point at which I had
lost sight of Balcombe. Here I paused, and the
colonel proposed to go back to the house. I lingered
a few moments, and finally expressed my
wish to await the return of Balcombe. He acquiesced

at first; but, as the night began to close
in upon us, became impatient to go home.

“To tell you the truth,” said I, when he again
suggested this, “I am a little uneasy about Mr.
Balcombe's absence.”

“Uneasy!” said he; “why so? No man on
earth knows better how to take care of himself
than Balcombe.”

“I am aware of that,” said I. “But he had not
far to go, his hour of appointment was sunset, and
the business which carried him could only be done
in daylight. It would not take two minutes. He
ought, therefore, to have been here before now.”

“He might have been. But why should he
hurry back?”

“He knows that I am impatient for the issue of
the adventure; and he would be impatient to disclose
it to me.”

“The adventure!” said Colonel Robinson, with
some surprise. “What does this mean? Whom
has Balcombe gone to meet?”

“Montague,” said I, after some hesitation.

“What!” said the old man; “can Montague
have screwed up his courage to demand satisfaction
for Balcombe's treatment of him on Wednesday?”

“No, indeed; but I am afraid he may have laid
a plot to take it, without demanding it. Indeed,
I know he did lay a plot of that sort, which could
not have failed if his instrument had been true to
him.”

“What instrument?”

“Keizer.”

“Keizer! Good God! I hope Balcombe's safety
does not depend on the choice Keizer may make
which of the two he may betray, him or Montague.
For God's sake, Mr. Napier, what does
all this mean?”

His obvious alarm increased mine. I had no
time for explanations, but proposed to go in quest
of Balcombe.

“Which way did he go?” said he.

“This way, so far; but beyond this I know
nothing.”

“Beyond this is nothing but one vast forest down
to the river.”

“Then,” said I, “let us go to your neighbour
Jones's.” He assented and led the way.

“Are you acquainted,” said I, “with Mr. Jones's
premises?”

“Perfectly.”

“There is an outhouse in which he lodges his
guests; is there not?”

“There is.”

“Montague lodges there. Will it not be well
to go to that house first? If he is there, we can
see him without troubling the family.”

To this he assented, and a walk of half an hour
brought us to the place. The night was pitchy
dark, and we saw nothing of the low building we
were in quest of, until we were quite near it. It
was a log cabin, of a single room, with a chimney

of logs at one end; on the side next us was a solitary
window, and, directly opposite, a door. As
we neared it, and began to be aware of its proximity
by the deepening shade of darkness, we
heard the door open; a dim, red spot of light was
seen through the window, and, at the same moment,
the door was again closed. I was within a
few feet of the window at the moment, and saw
that this phenomenon was produced by the entrance
of some one bearing a small brand of fire.
Waving this to and fro, he groped about, and found
a candle, which he soon succeeded in lighting. As
the light blazed up, I saw that it was Montague.
He placed the candle on a small table which stood
between the door and window, took off his hat,
sat down, and wiped his brow, and then leaned
his head on his hands, as if in great agitation.
Presently he recovered himself, and took from his
pocket a small parcel, which I immediately knew
to be the same I had seen in the hands of James
Scott. This he opened, and took out of a small
ring casket a scrap of paper, and something, apparently
very small, which glanced in the light of
the candle with metallic lustre. While he sat
looking at these, I stole round to the door. There
was an opening between the logs, through which
I looked, and saw him in the act of replacing the
things in the casket. Keeping my eye upon him,
I tapped the door, in the light, familiar, household
way. Immediately he closed the casket, and opening
a small drawer in the table, threw it in; then
rose and opened the door.

I entered, and was followed by Colonel Robinson.
He did not seem at first to recognise me,
for he had scarcely seen me, but the sight of Colonel
Robinson brought him to his recollection.

Nothing could exceed the consternation with
which he regarded us both. I gave him no time to
recover himself, but walking directly up to his table,
placed myself at the end next the drawer. I was
now secure of one point, and informed him that
we were in quest of Mr. Balcombe.

“Mr. Balcombe, sir! Mr. Balcombe has not
been here.”

“So I see, sir; but as Mr. Balcombe went out
to meet you this evening, we thought you might
tell us what had become of him.”

“To meet me, sir! Indeed, sir, I don't know
what has become of him.”

“Nor of my grandfather's will either?” said I,
sternly.

He staggered back at these words, and I at the
same moment opened the drawer, and taking out
the casket, added,

“And how came you by this, sir?”

In all my life I have never witnessed such an
appearance of utter discomfiture and dismay as he
exhibited. He sunk into a chair in such a condition
of body and mind as to make it impossible for a
while to carry on any communication with him.
This appearance by no means relieved our apprehensions

for Balcombe. I knew that it was no part
of his plan to let Montague carry off the casket.
His possession of it, therefore, showed not only that
they had met, but that Balcombe had been baffled;
and how could that be but by the double treachery
of Keizer? and where would he stop when he had
made up his mind to play the traitor with Balcombe?
He was not a man to do things by
halves; and, having gone so far, would not be less
interested than Montague to put Balcombe for ever
out of the way. I had heard enough, indeed, to
suppose that he was probably yet alive, but that
he might be carried off and never heard of again.
I therefore endeavoured to calm Montague as
much as possible; and, as soon as he seemed capable
of understanding me, told him that I knew Balcombe
and Scott had gone to meet him, that I knew
that they carried that casket with them, and that if
any harm befel them he would answer it with his life.

“You must be aware,” said I, “that I know
how desirable Mr. Balcombe's death would be to
you. If he disappears, I have but to show this
casket, and tell my tale, and no human being will
doubt that he has been murdered, and by your procurement.
I accordingly take you into custody,
and unless you conduct me to Balcombe, I conduct
you to the next magistrate. Take your choice,
and that instantly.”

He now looked at me imploringly, and said, in
a tone of despair, “I don't know where it is!”

“Where what is?” said I.

“The Rockhouse! the Rockhouse!” screamed
he; “I don't know where it is!”

“But I do,” said Robinson. “Is Balcombe there,
and alive?”

“Oh,” said Montague, “I hope he is there! I
hope they have not done him any harm!”

“Come along with us, sir,” said the colonel,
hastily, and laying hold of the arm of the passive
Montague, he led him along. I followed, and we
groped our way in darkness until we came to the
road which passed near the house. This we
took.

“This is not the most direct way,” said the
colonel, “but we must follow this road to the ferry,
and then keep down the bank.”

“What is the Rockhouse?” said I.

“It is a place on the bank of the river, where a
low projecting rock overhangs the beach, and
makes a sort of cave, or rather a shelter, open to
the sun. The direction in which Balcombe left
the house pointed to the head of a hollow which
leads down directly to it. It stands at the mouth
of that hollow.”

“And in that hollow,” said I, “was the camp of
Keizer and his Indians.”

“Exactly so. By daylight we should go that
way; but the place is too dark and rugged. We
shall have more light along the river bank.”

A walk of an hour brought us to the spot. As
we drew near, Colonel Robinson apprized Montague
of it, and said, “Now, sir, as soon as we

reach the mouth of the cave you are to speak
and make yourself known. Are you armed, Mr.
Napier?”

“I am; are you?”

“No; but you are, Mr. Montague. Give me
your arms, sir, and speak, as I have told you, to
Keizer or Balcombe, as you please.”

We now examined Montague, and took from
him a pair of pistols and a dirk, with which the
old gentleman armed himself. I was equipped in
like manner.

As it turned out, we had no occasion for our
weapons. We reached the spot, and Montague
said, “Mr. Balcombe! Mr. Balcombe!” All was
still as death. We listened, and heard no breath
or motion. We groped around the wall, looking
out, at the same time, to the light at the mouth.
But we neither felt nor saw anything. Near the
mouth of the cave my foot slipped, and I fell with
my hands in a sort of puddle that felt a little
warmer than I should have expected to find the
ground in that damp place. The idea of blood
occurred to me at once. I mentioned it; and
Colonel Robinson, who had flint, steel, and touchwood
in his pocket, struck a light. We now saw
that I had not been mistaken. On the edge of the
bank, just at the mouth of the cave, lay a quantity
of blood. Near it was a bit of rope, which seemed
to have been tied at each end around something
not larger than a man's arm, and then cut loose;
and, leading directly down from the puddle of

blood, were steps deeply imprinted in the sand,
and the marks of a heavy body dragged down to
the water's edge. The track could hardly fail to
remind any one who had seen him, of Keizer's
moccasin and diminutive foot. This discovery
was nearly fatal to Montague. Nothing could
exceed the attachment of Colonel Robinson to his
son-in-law; and now, frantic with rage, he drew a
pistol, and commanded Montague to prepare for
death. The poor wretch fell upon his knees in
prayer, not to God, but man, and, eloquent with
terror, declared that if Balcombe had been murdered,
it was contrary to his orders. He had expressly
enjoined his agents to do him and Scott no
harm.

“What, then, were they to do with them?”

“To carry them out of the state.”

“Whither?”

“Into the Indian country.”

“And what then?”

No answer. By this time the colonel recovered
his self-command, and determining to leave Montague
to the fate appointed by the law, we resumed
our march. The moon had just risen, and gave a
little light, and as the head of the hollow, at the
mouth of which we were, was not far from Colonel
Robinson's, we determined to grope our way
through that gorge. We had not gone far before
we saw a light. We approached cautiously, but
seeing no living creature, we went near, and found
the remains of the Indian encampment. A few

half-extinguished brands gave the light we had
seen. We stirred this up, and, looking about,
found a scrap of paper, on which were some words
in Balcombe's handwriting, and saw in the ashes
the track of shoes or boots mixed up with those of
moccasins. Here, doubtless, our poor friend had
been stopped for the convenience of the light in
rifling his pockets.

We now proceeded with heavy hearts, and as
we approached the house, I shuddered at the
thought of communicating Balcombe's fate to his
bereaved family. I have said little of Mrs. Balcombe.
She was reserved in her manners, so
that it was not easy to see more of her than that
she was a perfect lady, and that she was devoted
to her husband. She was obviously a proud woman,
but her pride rested on him. Her bearing
was high and queenlike, but she was the queen
consort, not a queen in her own right. She seemed
to feel her individuality merged in her husband,
and to rest in undoubting confidence on his wisdom,
his courage, his prowess, and resources—
“his stars, his fortune, and his strength.” Torn
from him, what would she be? She would either
sink into utter and helpless despondency, or rouse
herself to endure her loss by nourishing a spirit of
revenge against the murderer. The phrensy of
her grief in either aspect was appalling to think
of. But there was no remedy.

As we approached the house, I saw that there
was already an appearance of bustle and alarm.

Lights were glancing about, and heads were frequently
thrust out of the windows. As we entered,
we heard the joyful cry of “Here they are!” My
heart sunk at the disappointment which our appearance
in the parlour must produce; but there
was no stopping. We walked in in silent dread,
when to our utter astonishment, whom should we
see but Balcombe himself in full life, and young
Scott, and Keizer, and the Indians.