University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

In the morning I resumed my narrative, and
successfully accomplished my purpose of impressing
her mind with admiration for Balcombe, and
confidence in his friendship. In the afternoon
Balcombe came, accompanied by Keizer and
James. He had dissuaded the latter from hurrying
directly home, because he had been unwilling
to trust so raw a youth to cope alone with Montague,
and because he wished to come upon him
unexpectedly. The time lost was of little consequence.
If Mary held him at bay, she would still
await the appearance of her brother. If he had
already carried his point, James's presence there
could do no good. But we had no doubt that the
approach of Balcombe (should Montague be apprized
of it) would hurry him to some or any act

of desperation; and, being now so near the scene
of action, we determined to hasten to it without
further loss of time.

We would gladly have remained a day or two
where we were, but Balcombe's eagerness in pursuit
of his prey made him insensible to fatigue.
For my own part, all other considerations seemed
of little consequence in my eyes in comparison with
my desire to be near Ann, and to hear how Howard's
suit had sped. Balcombe, by going alone,
might have accomplished all that I could. But
how contemptible must I appear in the eyes of
Ann, if, after his past hazards in my behalf, I should
again leave him alone to do what was most properly
my own work. It was determined, therefore,
that we should both go the next day to Raby Hall,
accompanied by James and Keizer.

Soon after this resolution was taken, a servant
came from the postoffice, and handed Balcombe
a letter. After receiving it he left us to read it in
his own room. Presently the servant came to
inform James that Balcombe wished to speak to
him. They remained together some time, and
then I saw Balcombe walk into the park with the
letter in his hand, which he read as he went. He
did not return until nearly dark. At supper,
James did not make his appearance. My mother
directed a servant to find him, when Balcombe
said,

“I beg he may not be called. He is in his

room. The poor boy has just heard of the loss of
his mother.”

To the rest of the company these words sufficiently
explained a something of gloom which had
hung on Balcombe's brow since he returned from
his walk, and imparted a tone of tender sadness to
his voice. But to me they gave a further intimation
that the letter was from Mary Scott, and I
turned on him a look of eager inquiry. To this
he only answered by a quiet smile, and then began
to speak of James; of his fine intellect, of his
scrupulous honour and fidelity, and his gentle and
amiable deportment. When he rose from table he
approached Ann, and gently taking her hand, said
in the kindest tone,

“You can have no recollection of me, my
dear.”

“None at all,” said she; “and I regret it, for,
from what I have learned, none ever better deserved
to live in the memory of his friends.”

“You can never fade from mine, while it
pleases God to preserve to me my own little
daughter, whose blue eyes and fair hair always
remind me of you. You were very dear to me.
I was then but a boy, and the only return I could
make for the unmerited bounty of your grandfather,
was in acts of playful kindness to the children
on whom he doted. I thus won the hearts
of you and William; and I trust mine will never
be so hard, as not to love those who love me.”

“William has told me,” said Ann, “that we

used to call you our George. I think that sound
comes to my ear like the voice of an old friend.
My George! my George!” she repeated, with the
look of one trying to recall a half-remembered
tune.

“Say that again,” said Balcombe, gently passing
his arm around her waist and drawing her to him.
“Say that again. You cannot think how sweet
to me is a sound that reminds me that I once was
young and lived in the paradise of domestic peace,
so ill exchanged for the thorny wilderness of strife
where my manhood has been spent. I am still
your George, my dear child; and I hope you will
soon know me well enough to call me so again.
In the mean time,” continued he, with a mild solemnity
of manner, “accustom yourself to whisper
those words to your own heart, that they may be
echoed back to you, if, at any time, you feel the
want of a friend.”

As he said this, he gently turned up to his own
her face, beaming with a tearful smile, and after
gazing on her tenderly for a moment, kissed her
forehead, and placed her softly in a chair. In the
whole action there was something so quiet, so
bland, so soothing, so exactly adapted alike to the
delicacy and warmth of Ann's feelings, that I saw
that his place in her confidence was at once immoveably
established. Balcombe, though not a
handsome man, was not ugly; though not young,
he was yet in the prime of manhood; the unexampled
devotion of his young wife showed his power

over the female heart; and here I had seen his
manner of exercising it. I could not have endured
to see Ann's cheek resting on the bosom of any
other man; but in his whole action there was a
holy calmness, and a soft breathing of paternal
tenderness, with which my whole heart sympathized.
As he withdrew his lips from her white
brow, I felt as if he had left a blessing there. Had
I any part in it? I was not selfish enough to ask
the question.

When the ladies had retired, Balcombe proposed
to accompany me to my room. On reaching it,
he produced and handed me the letter he had just
received. It proved, as I suspected, to be from
Mary Scott, and ran as follows:—

“When I wrote the letter which I sent you by
James, I hardly hoped that time, which has left me
nothing by which I can recognise my former self,
had made so little change in you. That you could
not be ungenerous or unkind I knew. But that
you would at once address yourself, with all the
energy and vivacity of youth, to the service of a
distant and dishonoured, though unfortunate woman,
was more than I had a right to expect. Still
less had I hoped that the history of my wrongs and
wretchedness would draw from you a letter so full
of kindness and sympathy as that I have just received.
Thank God! you at least are unchanged.
I rejoice at it more for your own sake than my
own. Remaining what you were when I first

knew you, I know that you have been, are, and
must be happy. Fate does not do her work by
halves, and thus leave a fountain of bliss pouring
its perennial freshness through the hearts of those
she has doomed as the victims of her malice.

“I have hardly more cause to be thankful for
your kindness, than to rejoice that your letter did
not reach me a few days sooner. Had it done so,
I might have been the dupe of that artful villain, in
whom the guile, the malignity, the venom, and
the grovelling baseness of the serpent are all
blended. For once he overreached himself. The
rapidity of his journey defeated his own object.
Not seeing James, nor hearing from you, I was
suspicious of him; and his eagerness to accomplish
his end had, before the arrival of your letter, confirmed
my suspicions into a determination not to
trust him. But let me begin and tell my story. I
shall address this to the care of Mrs. Napier of
Craiganet, where you informed me you proposed
to be ere this. Later information satisfies me you
cannot be there for some weeks, and I shall have
time enough to detail to you all the machinations
of the wretch. Could you conceive the comfort
which it affords to a being desolate as I am, that
there is one worthy of all esteem and confidence,
who takes an interest in her, and will listen without
disgust to whatever tones the agony of remorse,
the bitterness of grief, the gloom of despair,
or the hope that dawns from beyond the tomb may
draw from her heart, you would not wonder that

I am disposed to fill the interval between this and
your expected return with a history of the events
that have befallen me since James left home. I go
to it as to a `pleasant task,' which, like the poet's
dream, beguiled his dungeon's solitude, scarce less
lonely, less weary, less desolate than mine. The
light which Heaven sheds upon the mind, is mine
as it was his. All other is shut out. The sun may
shine. I see him not.

“A few days after poor James left me, a paralytic
stroke brought my mother to the grave. I
need not describe my situation, thus left alone on
earth. The solitude of my cottage, before dreary,
was now frightful. It was a relief to me that the
only other being in Virginia who cared for my
existence, required my presence and aid. My old
nurse was taken ill. You remember she was the
housekeeper at Raby Hall. I hastened to see her,
and found her so ill that I passed the night by her
side. In the morning I threw myself on a pallet,
and slept a few hours. I was awakened by a
strange voice, and saw a venerable and benevolent-looking
old gentleman standing by the
bed. I immediately conjectured that it was the
steward, whom I had never seen. It seems
that Mr. Raby had been imposed on by his overseers
and agents, and lately determined to engage
the service of some reputable man in moderate circumstances
to live on one of his estates, and exercise
a supervisory control over all of them. The
gentleman selected was one whose fortunes were

decayed, and whose family had all left him. He
and his wife, both old, had been reduced to poverty.
But I need not tell you more than this. He
is Major Swann, whose character you know; for
I learn that in his better days he was a neighbour
and friend of Mr. Charles Raby, and knew you
when a youth. I rose on seeing him, and his attention
being drawn to me, Mammy Amy told
him who I was. He said something very kind,
and took occasion to speak feelingly of that strong
tie which binds the nursling to its foster-mother,
and which goes so far to mitigate the evils of slavery
in Virginia. Leaving the room, he sent the
old woman her breakfast, and I found that something
was added for me, prepared with a delicate
care that was more grateful to my heart than the
food to my palate. Not long after his wife appeared.
She, too, was very kind, and sat and conversed
with me a long time. While she was there
servants came in, bringing a small cot bed, which
was set up silently in one corner of the room. The
old lady now left it, saying, that if I should have
occasion to stay all night I would be more comfortably
lodged. I felt that there was great sincerity
and delicacy in this kindness, and made no
scruple to remain. I staid by my good old nurse
night and day, and she got better. I began to feel
some yearning for my solitary home, but my heart
shrunk from its desolate loneliness, and I would
gladly have staid where I was. Yet I had no
longer any excuse to remain, and was about to go
away, when the old gentleman told me that he
understood my situation, and begged me to consider
whether I could not be more comfortable
where I was. You remember the housekeeper's
room. It is quite snug; and there was a little
girl to do for me many offices which, at home, I
must have done for myself. I could not afford a
servant. I could hardly afford myself bread. I
was much obliged, but said that I could not consent
to remain unemployed. This objection was
easily removed. The keys were put into my
hands; and knowing of old all the fixtures and
arrangements of the house, I had no difficulty in
fulfilling the duties of housekeeper during my
nurse's illness. In this new vocation I was so fortunate
as to give entire satisfaction, and as the
poor old woman has never recovered her activity,
I was invited to consider Raby Hall my home in
future, and to take on myself the office she could
no longer fill. I was told that I should have the
benefit of such aid and advice as she could give,
but that her day of service was past; that she had
reached that age at which she was entitled to
spend her remaining years in repose and comfort;
and that my services would deserve a higher remuneration
than mere subsistence. This last
idea I rejected, and insisted on even giving up
my lease, which was at last accepted. The few
articles I no longer needed were sold, and I was
duly installed as housekeeper at Raby Hall.

“I was now invited to a seat at Major Swann's

table. This I declined. It was pressed upon me
until I was obliged to speak of my unfitness (my
pride would not let me say unworthiness) for society
such as that of Mrs. Swann. The kind old
gentleman said something very civil about the
place to which my manners and conversation entitled
me, but acquiesced. Here I have been ever
since, dividing my time between my books and
household cares, and quietly eating my humble
but comfortable meals with Mammy Amy by her
little fire.

“Can you forgive the egotism of this preamble?
I know you will; and I will not aggravate my fault
by excusing it.”