University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

The next morning we resumed our journey, and
I now sought to beguile the time by asking the
history of Keizer's adventure.

“Just about dusk,” said he, “I got to St. Louis,

and as I went along into the town I heard a bell.
So I asked the boy that took my horse at the tavern
what was the meaning of it, and he told me it
was for meeting. As soon as I heard that, I was
pretty sure that Montague would be there. So I
took notice where the noise came from, and as I
was pretty sharp set I thought I would get my
supper, and then go to look for him. I knew well
enough if I could catch him out in the night by
himself he would never get away from me. So
after supper I walks up to the meetinghouse, and
I stands by the door till they all comes out. And
sure enough, presently the meeting breaks up and
out they come. I just stood to one side, so as the
light should not shine upon me, and presently here
comes Montague. But there was another man
with him, and they two walked down the street
together till they got to a tavern, but it was not
the same house where I put up; and Montague he
stopped, and the other one wished him good-night
and went on. So I follows, and looks through the
window to see whether Montague stopped in the
room before I would go in. But I did not see him
at all, and good reason for it, for just at that minute
he turned round and came out to speak to the
other man, and there was I standing with the light
shining right in my face. I noticed that he saw
me, for he started right back, and through the barroom
he went as fast as he could. Then I did not
know what to do; so just to get time to think
about it, I goes right across the street to a sort
of a dark corner, to consider. And while I stood
there I could see into the door, and I saw Montague
come into the room after a while and look
all around, and then he goes back. So I concluded
I would just stay where I was till bedtime, in
hopes that maybe after a while he would venture
out, and if he meant to do me any mischief he
should not know where I was. I suppose I staid
there better than an hour, and I saw a heap of
people going in and coming out, and at last Montague
comes to the door and looks out, and the
night was dark and sort of drizzly like, and he
buttons up his coat and looks out again. Then he
goes back and gets his hat, and again he comes to
the door and looks out, and then he goes back and
gets his greatcoat, and stands right before the door
and puts it on. So I did not see anybody else that
looked like going out, and I made sure I had him.
So I starts across the street, and got pretty near
the other side in a dark place, where I knew he
could not see me just coming out of the light, and
sure enough here he comes by himself and passes
along right by me, and so round the corner. So
just as he turned the corner I was right behind him,
and I spoke sorter low: `Mr. Montague, Mr. Montague,'
says I. With that he turns and speaks up,
right loud, and says he,

“`Oh! is that you, Mr. Keizer?'

“`Yes,' says I, `this is me, and you must go
back with me,' says I.

“`Why, Mr. Keizer?' says he; and the word

was hardly out of his mouth before they had me—
four of them. So they carried me right in, and
into a back room; and there was the justice, and
the sheriff, and this same lawyer Shaler, and they
had the warrant and the affidavit all fixed and
sworn to, just waiting there till Montague should
step out and make me show myself. So you see,
sir, they had me fast enough. So the next morning
about sunrise they started me off, and just as we
started, the steamboat started too, with Montague,
for Virginia.”

Here ended John's story; and thus ended all
our schemes for entrapping the most artful villain
that ever breathed.

“There's one thing I forgot to tell you,” said
Keizer. “That sheriff is a clever fellow, and he
was as kind and tender with me as if I had been
his own brother. And says he to me,

“`Mr. Keizer, it may be of some service to you
to know that I heard you last night tell Mr. Montague
he must go back with you.'

“`I am much obliged to you, sir,' says I; `but I
don't see what good that's going to do me.'

“`Why,' says he, `they'll want to make it appear
that you were flying from justice, and that
shows it was not so.”'

“As to that, John,” said I, “I can explain that
matter to the satisfaction of everybody.”

“Oh yes,” replied John, “I know that, and the
whole affair is not of no consequence only as it

keeps you and the colonel here, but it was civil
and fair in him, sir.”

The next evening brought us to Colonel Robinson's,
where I found such consolation for fatigue
and disappointment as a kind and cordial welcome
could afford. I now discovered that Balcombe
had not expected a very different result. He was
too well aware of the ever ready craft of Montague
to expect it to fail him, but under the influence
of feelings which Keizer would not know how
to excite. Expecting little, therefore, his disappointment
was proportionate. His excitement
was calmed down, and I found him cheerful, tranquil,
and philosophical, eccentric and discursive as
ever, but more disposed to give a romantic and
tender turn to his thoughts than formerly. His
wife had undergone a change of an opposite character.
Her high spirit seemed called fully into
action, and displayed itself not only in her words,
but in the tones of her voice and the flash of her
eye. Her extreme modesty had not forsaken her,
but did not prevent occasional manifestations of a
spirit which looked with scorn upon the generality
of mankind, yet bowed itself with a yet deeper
prostration in admiration and deference of her husband.
When he was silent, her eye dwelt upon
him. When he spoke, her ear seemed to drink in
greedily all his words. She seemed impatient
that any one should differ from him in opinion, and
indignant that all did not reverence him as she did.
The colonel would sometimes amuse himself with

rallying her enthusiastic devotion for a man, old
enough, as he said, to be her father. This she
sometimes parried playfully, at others she seized
on it as a pretext for venting her impassioned
admiration.

“What has age to do with it?” said she. “What
has age to do with one, in whom

My dear father, you make me speak proudly, but
only as George Balcombe's wife should speak,
when his name is stained with the imputation of
base, dishonourable crime. When mind can perish,
when virtue can die, he may grow old. But
don't you know the poet says,

“I, too, wonder sometimes, but it is at his love
for me, and of that I should doubt, were it possible
to doubt his truth. Let me feel worthy of that,
and I shall be the proudest woman on earth. But
how can I deserve it but by loving him? And
this insolent aspersion, which makes me feel that
I love him more than ever, and gives me a right

to speak of his virtues and my love, makes me
speak proudly.”

This impassioned burst may be taken as a specimen
of the change wrought in one who until now
had been one of the most reserved and shrinking
females I had ever seen.

“Would it not be as well,” said Colonel Robinson
one day to Balcombe, “to employ a lawyer?”

“Employ a lawyer!” exclaimed Mrs. Balcombe;
“for what? To set the stain on his name? To
deepen the soiled spot by an attempt to wash it
out with dirty water? To pick flaws? To start
quibbles? Or to build up a reputation for eloquence
on the ruins of his honour, that his daughter
may hear it said that her father owed his escape
from an ignominious death to the address and ingenuity
of Mr. Such-a-one? Never! never!”

“Bless you, my dear girl!” said Balcombe, playfully,
laying his head in her lap. “Why, Bet, I
never thought to be so much indebted to Montague
as I am for letting me see what a wife I
have.”

She looked down fondly on him, and passing
her hand through his grizzled hair smiled proudly
and affectionately, while a large tear fell on his
cheek. I doubted if either ever felt happier than
at that moment.