University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

This day being Sunday, was the great day of
the campmeeting. I had some curiosity to witness
the scene, to which the protracted excitement of
the past week and the increased multitude might
give rise. But I had no mind to look on such a
profanation of sacred things, and really shuddered
at the thought of seeing Montague enacting the
saint, with all the guilt of premeditated murder on
his conscience. The feelings of the rest of our
party were like my own. We staid within doors;
and Balcombe, who was an eloquent reader, read
us a sermon. The day was to me one of pure
and holy pleasure; and never had I felt so much
disposed to pour out my heart in thankfulness to

the gracious Being, of whose fatherly care I had
just received such striking proofs.

At supper a note was handed to Balcombe, who
was told the bearer waited for an answer. He
read it and passed it to me. It ran thus:—

“Edward Montague presents his best respects
to Mr. Balcombe, and begs leave to suggest that
his affairs render it of great importance to him to
spend one day at least at his own house, before his
departure for Virginia. To do this, he would be
necessarily absent five days, as his residence is
two days' journey from hence. But, urgent as the
necessity is, E. M. assures Mr. B. that if the delay
will be at all inconvenient to him, the thought of
this journey will be at once relinquished, and he
will be in readiness to accompany Mr. B. to-morrow
morning. If, on the other hand, it should entirely
suit Mr. B.'s convenience, E. M. begs leave
to add, that, as five days will leave only one day
of this week, and as E. M. would dislike to commence,
or even to continue a journey on the Sabbath,
he hopes Mr. B. may, on reflection, find it
quite convenient to delay his departure until the
following Monday. E. M. would have laid this
subject before Mr. B. at an earlier hour, but he
did not think it right to devote to temporal concerns
any portion of the Lord's day. He now
awaits Mr. B.'s answer, and, with his entire approbation,
proposes to set out at daylight.

“September 24, nine o'clock at night.”

“What say you, Bet?” said Balcombe. “Could
you be ready to go with us to Virginia by to-morrow
week?”

Mrs. Balcombe's eyes sparkled at the question,
and I now discovered that such a journey had
been already in contemplation, and relinquished in
consequence of the sudden emergency of my affairs.
I, of course, smothered my impatience and made
no objection. The servant who brought the note
was accordingly called in.

“There's no occasion to write, Jim,” said Balcombe.
“Tell Mr. Montague to-morrow week
will do just as well.”

The next day was ushered in with joyful note
of preparation for our journey. At breakfast, the
ladies showed manifest impatience to be left to
their own occupations. We accordingly adjourned
to the drawingroom, and sat chatting over the
past, present, and future, until ten o'clock. About
that hour Mr. Jones was announced. He was a
grave, quiet, sedate old man, with a countenance
betokening great meekness of spirit, Christian
benevolence, and heartfelt piety. In short, he
seemed in all things the very reverse of his friend
Montague. He was accompanied by a coarse,
rough-looking fellow, in his shirt sleeves, with uncombed
hair and unwashed face, and a countenance
which, bearing the marks neither of intelligence or
intrepidity, hovered between knave and ruffian.
He was introduced to me, after the fashion of the
country, by some name, I forget what, and took

his seat in silence near the door. A short and
somewhat dull conversation ensued. The old
man's feelings were obviously too serious and
solemn for Balcombe's sportive style of talk, and
none of the rest of us had the art of carrying on a
conversation alone.

At length Mr. Jones, after fumbling in his bosom,
drew forth a small rifle-barrelled pistol of exquisite
workmanship, which he handed to Balcombe,
saying, gravely,

“That is yours, I believe, Mr. Balcombe.”

“Indeed it is,” exclaimed he; “and glad I am
to get it again.”

“Then,” continued Jones, “I am in hopes you
will be able to tell who this belongs to.”

Saying this, he presented a large miniature set
in gold, and representing a female. James glanced
at it, and immediately claimed it, saying it was his
sister's picture.

“Indeed it is,” said Balcombe, gazing earnestly
at it. “Poor dear Mary,” continued he, as a tear
swelled in his eye, “how well do I remember the
day when the partial fondness of your poor father
led him to this extravagance. See, William! I
told you she was beautiful. You can now judge
for yourself.”

I bent over him as he held the picture; and
surely never had I seen a more lovely and intellectual
face. It spoke her whole character, and
explained the secret of that infatuation which,

when her beauty blazed out in all its brightness,
had made Balcombe insensible to everything else.

He at length handed the picture to James, and
Mr. Jones again addressed him.

“I am sorry to say, Mr. Balcombe, that I have
come on an unpleasant business. My respect for
you and Colonel Robinson, and for the feelings of
the ladies, made me come with the constable—”
here he made an embarrassed pause, and sat puzzling
how to go on, until Balcombe relieved him
by saying,

“The constable, sir! and what have I to do
with the constable?”

“He has a warrant against you, sir.”

“A warrant!” exclaimed Balcombe. “And for
what, in God's name?”

“Let him see the warrant, if you please,” said
Jones, turning to the officer.

It was accordingly handed to Balcombe, and
proved to be a warrant for the arrest of George
Balcombe, charged with the murder of Andrew
Ramsay. He read it patiently through, and
seemed for a while perplexed to know what it
could mean. At length the cloud seemed to pass
off his mind, his eye brightened, and he said, with
a careless though indignant laugh,

“Well! these rascals have really carried their
audacity to a pitch I could not have anticipated.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Balcombe?” said Colonel
Robinson, with an anxious look.

“Mean!” said Balcombe. “I mean that those

ruffians, balked of their prey, have the effrontery
to claim it at the hands of the law.”

“I don't know what ruffians you mean, sir,”
said Mr. Jones, mildly. “You certainly cannot
mean me, and I am the person that gave the information
in this case.”

“You, sir! why, what upon earth do you know
about it?”

“Perhaps we had better not talk it over here,”
said Jones. “It may get to the ears of the ladies,
and make them uneasy. I have a very high respect
for you, Mr. Balcombe, and am in good hopes
you'll be able to clear the matter up; so, if you'll
just walk with us to the justice close by, you'll
hear all about it.”

Balcombe assented instantly; and the old gentleman,
turning to Scott, remarked that it might
be proper for him to go too, as he had recognised
the picture as his. Nothing could be more superfluous
than this suggestion. The tear was hardly
yet dry which Balcombe had shed while gazing on
poor Mary's picture, and, though it was to dishonour
or death itself, James would have followed
him.

A walk of half a mile brought us to the house of
the justice. A good many people were in waiting,
and, among the rest, I remarked a tall young man,
whose dress denoted some pretensions to gentility,
and who pressed to meet Balcombe with a fawning
smile, obviously meant to be received as encouraging
and patronising. Balcombe passed him

coldly, not seeming to observe his offered hand,
and walked into the house. We found the justice
seated behind a small table, on which lay pen, ink,
and paper, a powderhorn, and a single volume,
which proved to be a digest of statute laws, with
sundry forms by way of appendix. He was a
quiet-looking, simple old man, who seemed to have
discharged himself of all his knowledge of law,
when he had copied the form of a warrant for
murder. He now looked anxious and perplexed;
and, on our entrance, returned Balcombe's salutation
with an air of deep respect, and a flush of
sympathy that slightly reddened the old man's
eye.