University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

While I read this long letter, Balcombe amused
himself with a book. When I had got through I
did not immediately interrupt him, for I was glad
to steal a moment for my own thoughts. At
length I remarked, that it appeared to me as if the
present posture of our affairs rendered hurry unnecessary,
and that we might safely indulge ourselves
with a day or two of rest.

“Take care, William,” said Balcombe. “Remember
we have to do with one who never sleeps.
I know it is not sloth that would keep you here;
but I am much mistaken if your absence has not
already served you better than your presence
could have done. You will lose nothing by a display
of energy and hope of success. Make that
sure, and I deceive myself if you don't find influences
exerted in your favour which have been
heretofore exerted against you.”

“You don't mean,” said I, “to impute mercenary
feelings to Ann?”

“By no means. I am not exactly sure of my
own meaning, nor will I permit myself to be so,
unless I become convinced that my thoughts do
no wrong to others. But we must betake ourselves
to rest, for the way is long to Raby Hall,
and we must sleep there to-morrow night.”

He now left me and went to his room. At an
early hour the next morning we were in the saddle.
The day was pleasant for the season, but the roads
were deep, and we got on but slowly. Night
overtook us when we were yet ten miles from the
place of our destination. But Balcombe knew the
road, and we had a new moon, which promised to
give light until we should be within the compass
of his former daily walks. We therefore patiently
toiled along over ground roughened by a partial
thaw, which made it difficult for our weary
horses to pick their way. It was not very far
from midnight when we reached the stables, which
were perhaps a quarter of a mile from the house.
In passing these we met a negro man, of whom
Balcombe inquired if Major Swann was at home.
Being answered in the affirmative, he asked the
negro's name.

“Charles, sir,” was the reply.

“What, old Amy's son Charles?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how is your mother, Charles?”

“I thank you, sir. She been mighty low; but
Miss Mary take such good care of her, she right
well again; only just she mighty old, master.”

“And are you hostler here still, Charles?”

“Yes, master. But, master, I don't know who
you, for all you seems to know all about us.”

“Don't you know my voice, Charles? I think I
should know your's. Don't you remember George
Balcombe?”

The negro clapped his hands, and springing into
the air, alighted with Balcombe's hand in both of
his. To one not accustomed to the negro character,
their strong attachments and grotesque manner
of displaying their feelings, the contortions of his
dusky figure, bowing himself on Balcombe's hand,
then swaying his body back, and writhing from
side to side like a wounded serpent, would have
been amusing.

“Oh, Mass George,” said he, “I so glad to see
you. And poor Miss Mary, she be so glad to see
you too, sir.”

“And how is she, Charles?”

“Oh, thank God! she right well, sir, and mighty
comfortable. Old master and missis here, sir,
mighty good to her. But who this you got here
with you, master?”

“This is Mr. Napier, Charles; your old master's
grandson.”

“What!” exclaimed the negro, “Mass William!
my Miss Fanny's son! Oh, bless God I live to see
him.”

Then turning to me he added, in a plaintive tone,
“Master, I been afraid you never was coming to
see your poor negroes, now we don't belong to

you no more, but all gone to strange man that
lives away there in England, and don't care nothing
at all about us. I was mightily in hopes we'd
all have gone to you, sir; but you's my master for
all that.”

As he spoke this in a tone of reverential affection,
I held out my hand to him. He took it, and
drawing it strongly downward to accommodate it
to the lowliness of his prostration, bowed himself
upon it, and pressed it to his lips. I felt a tear
upon it; and if an answering tear had not sprung
to my eye, I should have little deserved to be the
object of a loyalty as ardent and devoted as it was
hopeless.

“If you are as tired of the saddle as I am, William,”
said Balcombe, “you will not be sorry to
leave our horses with Charles, and walk to the
house.”

I gladly assented to this; and Balcombe, addressing
the negro, added,

“Charles, my good fellow, take care of our little
baggage, and bring it up to the house.”

Saying this, he alighted, and we walked on, both
too busy with our own thoughts for conversation.
As we approached the house, we saw a dusky red
light glimmer fitfully from between the bars of a
cellar window. Just as we were about to enter,
it flashed up brighter than before, and we saw that
it came from the wall beneath a window at the
end of the house. Balcombe instantly turned
aside and dashed around the corner. Immediately

I heard a rush, and the noise of feet clattering over
the frozen ground. I followed, and saw a man
leap the enclosure of the yard, and Balcombe, who
was almost near enough to touch him, drew a
pistol and fired it.

Without stopping to see the effect of his shot, he
returned hastily, and running to the door, rang the
bell violently. The shot had alarmed the family,
and the door was presently opened. He immediately
gave the alarm of fire in the cellar, and
snatching a can of water which stood, as he well
remembered, on a three cornered shelf just within
the door, ran to the window and poured it in. The
light went down immediately, and servants going
into the cellar presently extinguished the fire. We
now saw that it was a wood cellar, with a quantity
of wood directly under the window. On this,
burning coals had been thrown, and some shavings
and splinters of dry pine wood had been added.
A part of these combustibles still lay in a pile on
the outside of the window.

Mr. Swann now appeared in his nightgown, and
Balcombe made himself known. He was a fine-looking
old gentleman, venerable, dignified, and
courteous. We were received with great cordiality,
and ushered into a parlour, yet comfortable
with the glowing embers of the evening fire. Here
the old gentleman, having ordered some refreshments,
left us to dress himself. He soon returned,
accompanied by his wife, who seemed to be among
ladies just what he was among gentlemen. She

added her welcome to his; and we would have
gone at once to bed, but supper was pressed on
us so earnestly, and so strongly recommended by
our own appetites, that we could not decline it.

In the mean time, James, having inquired for his
sister, had been conducted to her room. She had
been reading, and was not yet gone to bed. Their
meeting no one witnessed; but she soon left him
alone to his grief and came to see Balcombe. We
were all standing when she entered. She looked
hastily around, and then approached him with an
eagerness of manner which, for the moment, restored
something of the brilliancy of countenance
I had remarked in the picture. He advanced to
meet her, when she suddenly stopped short, and
with a look of utter abasement fell on her knees,
and bowed her head to his very feet. Her action
was characterized by her own words. Her heart
had leaped up, and then fell prostrate in the dust.
Balcombe raised her with some difficulty, and
rather lifted than led her to a sofa, against the arm
of which she hid her face and wept in silence.
Balcombe bent over her tenderly, and holding her
hand, said soothingly, “Dear Mary! My dear,
good girl!” and continued thus to utter tones and
words which spoke comfort to her heart, until she
became more composed. She then looked up, and
gazing on him with an expression of timid affection,
pressed his hand to her lips, and having disengaged
her own, cast down her eyes and remained
silent.

If ever Divine mercy forgave a single error to
deep repentance and contrition; if ever the voice
of God spoke audibly to the sinner's heart, saying,
“Neither do I condemn thee;” surely at that moment
such consolation was not withheld from
hers.

In the mean time, the field through which the
incendiary had escaped was searched, to ascertain
the effect of Balcombe's shot. Nothing was found,
and we concluded that he had got off unhurt.

“I don't think I struck him,” said Balcombe.
“If I did, it was somewhere about the right shoulder.
Firing over the wall, I could not well bring
my pistol to bear.”

“It was well for the fellow,” said John, “that
something hindered you, for it an't often that you
miss.”

Much conversation now ensued between Major
and Mrs. Swann about the attempt to burn the
house, and they seemed quite at a loss to guess
who the incendiary could be. At length we
retired for the night. As the ladies were about
to leave the room, Balcombe took Mary's hand,
and drawing her gently to him, passed his arm
around her waist and was about to kiss her. At
first she turned up her lips to him; and then
suddenly averting her face and interposing her
hand, said,

“No, George, no! let that remain. I would die
with that on my lips.”

He only answered by pressing her tenderly to

his bosom and kissing her forehead. I think I
never saw any man so affected as Major Swann
was, when, after she had left the room, Balcombe
told him the meaning of her words.

As soon as the servant had left us in our chamber,
Balcombe said to me,

“That was Montague.”

“What do you mean?” said I.

“I mean,” he replied, “that it was Montague
who attempted to burn the house down. The
stature and figure were his, and an exclamation
uttered as I laid my hand upon the fugitive was in
his voice.”

“Did you seize him?” said I.

“No; I did but touch him, and at the moment
stumbled and fell. He was near the wall and
over it before I could well recover. But I think I
have disabled him for mischief for a few days.”

“How so?”

“Firing hastily,” said he, “the trigger may give
way too soon. But I seldom fail to know where
my ball goes. I am deceived if he has it not in
his right arm or shoulder.”

“But what could be his motive?”

“Motive! Don't you see that had we not
arrived the fire must have advanced so far before
it was discovered as to make it impossible to save
anything; and his worthy employer would doubtless
be willing to forgive the destruction of the
house for the destruction of the will. As to Montague's
conscience, arson is not mentioned in the

decalogue; and if this good old man and his wife,
and Mary and old Amy had been burned alive, why,
that would have been chargeable to Providence,
not to him. He would calm himself by saying it
was no part of his plan, and would not have happened
had not God so willed it. However, I think
the rascal has had a taste of my pistol; and if he
is not disabled for the time, he will hardly come
about the premises while he knows that I am
here.”

The next day we took some pains to learn what
had become of Montague, but could hear nothing
of him since the day that the room of Mary Scott
was searched.