University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

A day or two after my return Balcombe and I
walked out, and he took me over the ground which
had been the scene of the adventures of the preceding
Saturday night. The tracks of different
persons moving violently to and fro, were fresh
and distinct under the shelter of the rock, and may
be so to this day. The stain of blood, too, was
still there; but all traces without had been obliterated
by recent rain. We were curious to observe,
that, just at the point where the body had been
thrown in, the water swept the shore in a deep
and strong current, and just below lay a fallen
tree, making a small bar on which the stream
broke violently. This explained the rare phenomenon
of the body of a man with his clothes on
being cast up by the Missouri. The leather dress,
too, of Ramsay, was not so readily clogged with

sand as cloth would have been. I mentioned these
things to Balcombe.

“All that is so,” said he; “but you overlook
the main cause of all. It was the will of God it
should be so.”

“I see,” said I, “that you are as observant of
the ways of Providence as ever; though it would
seem that your confidence in your last prognostics
begins to fail you. Do you then consider Providence
as having declared against us?”

“By no means,” said he. “But I am admonished
not to think of knowing more of the book of fate
than the page which is open before me. We can
always see enough to keep us in mind that God
rules over the events of every passing hour. We
know that his general purpose is just, benevolent,
and wise. But we do not always reflect that there
may be that about ourselves which, for the very
attainment of this ultimate end, may require to be
rebuked by seeming departure from the line of
justice. Look back upon your former self, the
pampered child of indulgence, the overweening
inheritor in anticipation of unpurchased and unmerited
affluence. You have not told me that you
were such as I describe. But were you not something
like this?”

“Indeed I was.”

“How say you, then? The rich, we are told,
are the stewards of God's benevolence. And
surely so it should be; for how else shall we reconcile
to the principles of universal justice any

claim that you could set up to the possession of
more than you want, while the necessaries of life
are denied to others? And can it be that the ends
of a plan of justice thus comprehensive can be accomplished,
if, in every instance, all the power over
the happiness of others incident to a princely patrimony
should be permitted to descend with unvarying
certainty, on such a spoiled child of fortune
as you admit yourself to have been? You may
parry this question by recalling the innumerable
instances in which things have been suffered to
take their course, in favour of men more likely to
abuse the bounties of Providence than yourself.
But will you murmur at having been selected as
a fit subject for a discipline that might but have
been wasted upon them? or will you take merit
to yourself for being a more hopeful pupil than
they? Who made you to differ? Who endowed
you with those qualities, which might have been
spoiled by unchecked prosperity, but which, matured
by the training of the last (and it may be of
the next) five years, may qualify you to resume
the rights of your fathers, with the capacity and
disposition to be the protector, and guide, and
comforter of your dependants, and not their luxurious,
insolent, and heartless oppressor? My
dear William, in the armory of God's displeasure
against the vices and follies of mankind, there is
not one shaft too many, nor is one of them misdirected.
In this instance, I fear, you are suffering
rather for my faults than yours.”

“For your faults,” interrupted I. “What have
you done that was not praiseworthy? What have
you omitted, that ingenuity, address, and courage
could accomplish?”

“To that question, on Monday morning, in the
exultation of a proud heart, I should have answered,
`Nothing.' Did not that presumption
need rebuke? I should have so answered, and I
should have answered falsely. Did not that error
need correction? I had given myself credit for
motives altogether pure, and for plans laid in wisdom.
I now see that my motives were vicious
and my schemes childish. Can I murmur at my
own share, or will you, William, at yours, in the
mortifications that have undeceived me?”

“Pray undeceive me too,” said I. “I will not
offend your delicacy by saying what I did think;
but certainly I did not impute to your conduct any
defect of wisdom or virtue.”

“I dare say not,” replied Balcombe. “On the
contrary, I am sure the exhibition was calculated
to call forth the admiration of an unpractised young
man. And hence, in part, my error. It is not my
wife alone—God bless her!—who has an overweening
pride in her husband's real or fancied endowments.
Her husband, I am afraid, is not far
behind her in this. Hence the pleasure I took in
drawing Montague into a controversy of craft
against boldness. Had this pleasure a virtuous
source? And the further and higher gratification
I promised myself, in taking this imbecile wretch

in his own snare, and looking on the agonies of his
terror and shame. Was this virtuous or fiendlike?
And when the eagerness with which I pursued
these objects blinded me to the obvious course of
turning James back without holding any communication
with Montague, and relying on my influence
with Mary Scott to recover the will, did I
show my wisdom? It is true that we should want
Montague's testimony to establish the will; and
to get that it was necessary to involve him here in
difficulties from which he would have been glad to
be released by doing my bidding. In that point of
view I dare say my plan was well laid; for, but
for Ramsay's death, it would not have been in his
power to escape punishment, either here or in Virginia,
but by my forbearance. But I am not sure
that we might not have got along without his testimony;
but still I don't despair. My self-love and
presumption have been undeceived and rebuked,
and that end accomplished, all may yet go well.
I rememer old Amy. She must detest Montague
as the destroyer of the peace of her dear child, for
so she considered Mary. She had a hard head, a
loud tongue, and a bold spirit thirteen years ago;
and the continued experience of indulgence, and
the habit of authority among her fellow-servants
have hardly abated these. I am, therefore, not
without hopes that she will hold Montague up to
the production of the ring which we have here. In
that case there will be a war of wits between him
on one side and the old woman and Mary on
the other. He may resort to violence; but in defence
of his foster sister I'll put Charles, if he's
alive, against him at that game. If he seeks the aid
of the law, why, then we shall have the benefit of
the law's delay as well as he. So, one way or
the other, I am in hopes we may reach the field of
action before the battle is fairly over.”

“You are still my good angel,” said I; “and
gloomy as things look, I find I cannot despair
while I have your energy and sagacity on my
side.”

“Oh, no more of that! `Put not thy trust in
princes nor in the sons of men.' `The race is not
to the swift nor the battle to the strong.' Let us
take care that each event has its due influence upon
our own hearts, and if we do not suffer them to
deceive us, our trust in Providence will not deceive
us.”

“Yours is a curious philosophy, Mr. Balcombe,”
said I.

“It is such philosophy,” said he, “as an educated
man, brought up in a Christian society, learns
in a life of solitary danger, where he must think
his own thoughts, supply his own wants, and make
his hand guard his head; while his naked and unhoused
condition, battling with the elements, which
are God's immediate ministers, continually reminds
him of his helpless dependence. How can he but
feel that his strength is but weakness, when daily
grappling with such giant foes as the tempest or
the mountain torrent? Depend upon it, men learn,

from the impertinent prate of what is called philosophy,
few things more true or more profound
than the thoughts that throng the mind of the solitary
savage as he sits at night by his little fire,
with the stars above him, and the wild waste of
untamed nature around him. Hence the peculiar
character of our Indians. It is born and nurtured
in solitude. They are indeed an intellectual race;
but mind must have materials for thought, and
they find them in a condition which nourishes at
once a sense of dependence upon God, and an independence
of all things else. Mutatis mutandis,
you will find few old sachems whose philosophy is
not analogous to mine.”

While he spoke thus I looked up to the rock
above us, and felt how appropriate such discourse
was to what the hypocrite Montague called “one
of God's own temples, not made with hands.” In
my mind I could not help comparing his formal
cant and false profession with the unpretending
piety of the extraordinary being from whose lips
I had just heard a discourse which impressed me
with a deeper sense of God's providence than all I
had ever read or listened to. I thought this, but
I did not express it. I saw that Balcombe was
in no humour to hear with pleasure even an allusion
to the faults of any but himself, or the praise
of any but God. I was silent, and we bent our
steps homeward.

On reaching the house we found Keizer there,
and a small cigar box, such as is commonly called

a quarter box, was handed to Balcombe by a servant.
On the top was awakwardly scrawled with
chalk what seemed intended for these words, “For
Kurnal Balkum.” Opening it, it was found to
contain the fellow to the pistol which had been discovered
at the cave.

“Who brought this, Tom?” said Balcombe.

“A woman, sir, that I never saw before. She
said she had orders to leave it here.”

Balcombe looked musingly at it. “Whence
comes this?” said he; “from friend or foe? If I
had not distinctly avowed the ownership of the fellow
to it, I should suspect this was sent here that
some one might come to search for it, and by finding
it fix on me the property of the other. But
there can be no such purpose. I was robbed of it.
Has the thief repented and returned it? Or has
some other person robbed the thief to make restitution?
What say you, John? What do you
make of it?”

“I could give a pretty good guess, sir, if I could
see the woman that brought it. How long ago
was it, Tom?”

“About half an hour, sir.”

“Which way did she go?”

Tom showed the direction.

“I met her,” said John, “as I came here, but I
cannot say that I ever saw her before. But I will
try and see if I cannot find her out.” He took up
his rifle and disappeared.

I find I have omitted to mention, in the proper

place, that while at St. Charles I had written to a
friend in Virginia, explaining my situation, and
the nature of Montague's errand, and urging him,
if possible, to anticipate the villain, by going to
Raby Hall and seeing Mary Scott before he should
get there. Should he fail in this, he might yet be
in time to put her on her guard against his art, or
to defend her against his violence. I now apprized
Balcombe of this; and being satisfied that we had
done all that could be done, we composed ourselves,
and committed the event to Providence.

The time for the meeting of the court was now
at hand. We had not seen Keizer since the day
when the pistol was returned, and, on inquiry,
we could hear nothing of him. As the time wore
away, I could not help suspecting that he was too
doubtful of his own character to be willing to try
conclusions with the law, in a case of so much moment.
To make his escape, and leave his securities
to pay the forfeiture of his recognisance, was
the measure which I feared he had adopted. For
that, had I been able to pay it, I should have cared
nothing, as his peril had been incurred on my account.
The same consideration would doubtless
have reconciled Colonel Robinson (who was his
security) to the loss, as John's devotion to Balcombe
had completely won his heart. Indeed, he
had acted under the orders of Balcombe, who would
never have permitted him to come by any loss if
he could help it. But there was another aspect of
the case. John's disappearance would wear the

air of conscious guilt; and if he was guilty, Balcombe's
tale was false, and all were guilty. This
thought gave me great uneasiness. I did not like
to mention it to Balcombe, but he had adverted to
it, and assured me of his confidence in John.

“He was not idle,” he said. “He could not be
idle. I rather think,” continued he, “that John
(with too much reason, perhaps) has not so much
faith in Providence as I have; and my great fear
is, that he may be engaged in some scheme of his
own devising which he knows I would not approve.”

As he said this, his wife entered the room. I
would have changed the conversation, but seeing
her, he went on:

“No, William; have no fear that Keizer will
betray or desert me. I know him for exactly what
he is, and I feel that it is impossible he should ever
fail me.”

“You are right, my husband,” said Mrs. Balcombe.
“Bad as human nature is, there is no
depth of baseness so great as that of the wretch
who would betray your noble confidence.”

“You forget Montague,” said Balcombe.

“No, I do not. Did you ever trust Montague?
Even he, the vilest of the vile, could not betray
you, if it were possible you should ever trust
him.”

“But did I not trust him, on his promise to go
with me to Virginia?”

“No; you did not trust him; you trusted to

your power over him. If he could evade that, he
was as free to go as a prisoner to break jail.”

“You are a nice casuist, Bet.”

“You have taught me to distinguish. Montague's
fault was not in giving you the slip, but in
the crimes which made that step necessary, and
his endeavour to fix a charge of guilt on you.
But could John Keizer be false to you, he must be
a baser wretch than Montague himself. No, my
husband! confidence like yours cannot be betrayed.
I know the power of that spell too well to doubt
it.”

“How say you, William?” said Balcombe.

“She is right, sir,” said I; “and I shall never
again have faith in the instinct of woman's love if
it do not prove so. But tell me, I pray you, the
secret of this strange power of commanding
the fidelity of those who are faithful to none besides?”

“It is very simple. To go, if possible, beyond
the letter of my own engagements, and to trust
entirely, or not at all.”