George Balcombe a novel |
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| 17. | CHAPTER XVII. |
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 | CHAPTER XVII. George Balcombe |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.
Byron.
After some little more conversation we returned
to the hall.
“What is to be done now?” said I.
“Boot and saddle,” said Balcombe, cheerily; “to
horse and pursue.”
Accordingly, we hurried back, and were presently
on the road, after a word of apology and a
promise of explanation to our host. We had not
ridden two miles, before we came to a little grogshop
on the confines of the estate, established, I
have no doubt, for the especial benefit of Mr.
Raby's negroes. Here stood a genuine rattletrap
of a gig, and a sorry old horse, apparently spent
with fatigue, his hair all matted and crusted with
cold air. An old negro was just staggering from
the house, and was in the act of clambering up into
the gig, when Balcombe inquired what he had done
with the gentleman he had taken to Tapahannock.
Tom, who was too drunk to remember any caution
if he had received one, said he had gone on
with his own carriage and servant. This was
poor encouragement; but we pressed on. At Port
Royal we obtained fresh horses, and having learned
that Montague had passed only two hours before,
we made a race from thence to Fredericksburg.
But all in vain. He was there and housed before
we arrived. We tried in vain to find where. At
the principal tavern he had not stopped. So much
we learned with certainty, and this was all that
we could learn, for it was already bedtime when
we arrived.
The next morning John was on the scent betimes,
and ascertained that Montague had stopped
at Falmouth for the night, and had at an early hour
left that place for Baltimore. Here, then, we were
fairly beaten in a straight race; but being at Fredericksburg,
it was as well to execute the business
for which I had proposed to come there, if it should
prove necessary. I accordingly laid my case at
large before an eminent attorney. As there was
no doubt of the result if the papers could be secured,
he determined to take such a course as would
at once put them safely in the custody of the law.
With that view he drafted a bill, to which Mr. Edward
whole transaction, as I believed it to have taken
place. Mr. Swann was also made defendant, and
was charged with the possession of the will, and
called on to produce it. It was anticipated that in
his answer he would disclaim the possession of any
such paper, unless such a one might be concealed
in the packet, and that he would file that along with
his answer.
Having arranged this matter we returned to our
lodging, where we spent a pleasant evening. In
the morning we called again on the attorney to
obtain the proper process along with a copy of my
bill. He was out at the time, but soon came in
provided with the necessary papers. After some
little conversation, he said he had been called on
the night before by a gentleman whose business he
had declined, because he apprehended that his engagement
with me did not leave him at liberty to
undertake it. On further inquiry, we ascertained
that Montague, on leaving Falmouth, must have
come around by Chatham, and back into Fredericksburg.
We were, of course, eager to learn
where he was; but Mr. L. (the attorney) observing
this, told us he was not at liberty to inform us. I
therefore remonstrated against any concealment
on the part of one whose professional services I
had engaged; but he stopped me short at once, by
saying that it was only professionally that he had
become acquainted with Montague's whereabout,
and though not free to engage in his service, he
from disclosing anything which Montague wished
to conceal, and which, in any other character,
would not have been made known to him. To the
scrupulous delicacy of this reserve we could object
nothing, and even felt some hesitancy about acting
so far on what we had learned as to renew our
search for Montague. From this difficulty we were
however relieved by Mr. L., who assured us that
Montague had at an early hour that morning set
out for Baltimore. We had therefore nothing left
for it but to return to Raby Hall.
We returned, accordingly, and I committed to
Balcombe the task of breaking the matter to the
major. There was no occasion to offend him by
taking an officer with us, as his acknowledgment
of the process would answer every purpose. He
was much surprised, but saw at once the solution
of Montague's strange behaviour. He expressed
himself obliged, too, at our having refrained from
giving him any hint of our suspicions, until we had
taken such measures as made the line of duty plain
to him. This was to answer that he had no such
paper as the supposed will unless it was contained
in the packet; to tell how he came by that, and
deliver it into court as a part of his answer.
We were now secure from everything but violence,
unless our conjectures (of the truth of which
we had no doubt) should prove false. As the major
was now effectually on his guard, and Montague
fairly chased off, we ventured to return to Craiganet,
to keep a sharp lookout, and notify us if he saw
any signs of the reappearance of Montague in the
neighbourhood.
Our return was welcomed by the undissembled
pleasure of our friends, which was enhanced by the
history of our late adventures. My confidence
in the ultimate success of our endeavours to recover
my property, seemed now to communicate itself
to my mother and sisters. To Ann the subject
seemed one of less exciting interest, though she
expressed and doubtless felt a quiet pleasure, but
not less deep than theirs, in the prospect of affluence
for herself, and of all the comforts of life for
one who had been to her a second mother. The
day after our return had been appropriated for a
visit to Oakwood, where it was proposed to spend
a few days. As the custom of the country included
in such invitations all chance comers in the invited
family, the arrival of Balcombe and myself made
no difference but the addition of two to the party.
The mother of Howard, as formerly, presided over
the hospitalities of the household, of which he did
the honours in the frank and courteous spirit of a
Virginia gentleman of the old school. I went
with a predetermination to take whatever part
might be assigned me by circumstances; while
Balcombe, who was but a looker-on, promised to
aid me by his observation to ascertain how matters
stood between the several parties. I was agreeably
surprised to find myself, in a good measure,
marked attention to Miss Howard. Whenever I
approached her I found myself received as formerly
with a manner that showed that my person was
respected and my conversation not unacceptable.
But, contrary to his former habit, young Douglas
was seldom absent from his cousin's side, and
always ready to strike into any chitchat in which
she might be engaged. Howard was, as usual,
respectfully and delicately attentive to Ann, still
approaching and addressing her with the same
guarded consideration for all her wishes and feelings,
which displayed not more a desire to please
than a fear of alarming her. I thought, too, that
his attentions were not received with the same
placid satisfaction as formerly. Whether the
pleasure was more or less I could not determine;
but it was not the same.
There was more excitement, more flutter in her
manner, and occasionally I thought I saw a stolen
glance directed towards me, and that her ear
was sometimes listening to catch my words addressed
to others. In this change of partners Jane
and I seemed thrown out of the game, for it was
one we could not play at altogether; and but for
the presence of some other lads and lasses, whose
characters form no part of my history, we should
have been absolute supernumeraries. To this I
had no objection. I had little wish to be attentive
to Ann in company; and the rest, just then, were
more than indifferent to me. I accordingly joined
conversation, now of one party, now of another,
while he occasionally threw off remarks that
arrested the attention of all.
I was curious, on my sister's account, to discover
whether the attention of Douglas to his
cousin was the spontaneous result of his own feelings,
or the effect of some effort on her part to keep
him near her. I suspected the last, and felt
obliged by finding myself by her own act emancipated
from the necessity of paying constant though
unmeaning attention to her. But was there anything
of coquetry or pique in this? I thought not.
I was always welcomed as a third party in their
dialogues, and not unfrequently appeals were made
to me by which I seemed purposely drawn into
them. But no effort was made to detain me; no
attempt, after engaging me in conversation, to
shake him off. In short, no lady could carry herself
towards any gentleman in a manner more clearly
indicative of every favourable sentiment but
that of love.
Poor Jane I saw was in a state of great uneasiness.
She received as a matter of course from the
young men of the party such attentions as were
paid her; but she took no interest in them. Her
eye wandered continually towards Douglas and
Margaret Howard, and sometimes, as I thought,
looked imploringly at me, and sometimes glanced
reproachfully at Ann. The courtesy of Howard
at length provided her with a temporary relief, by
in fine taste, so that she appeared to more advantage
at the instrument than in any other situation.
Most of the young men clustered around her,
while Balcombe and I stood aloof.
After playing one or two overtures, she suddenly
struck into that beautiful song of Moore's,
in which he characterizes the constancy of a faithful
heart by likening it to the fancied devotion of
the sunflower to the god of day. This she sung
with a pathos which arrested the attention of the
whole company, and, having closed the strain,
folded her hands in her lap, and sat silent and with
downcast eyes. Immediately some conversation
arose, which I did not at first hear, but to which
my attention was presently drawn by an appeal
from Miss Howard.
“Do, Mr. Napier,” said she, “come here and
talk a little reason to your sister. She is not content
that we shall beguile ourselves, with the aid of
poetry and music, into such pretty fancies as Moore
has expressed in that beautiful song, but she insists
in sober-spoken prose that undying constancy
is the only test of truth in love. She would not
only persuade herself, but others, that neither man
nor woman ever can love more than once with
genuine passion. How say you?”
“I can only say,” replied I, “that her opinion
shows that she has had no proof to the contrary
in her own feelings; and as I have had none, I
on the subject. But if we give credence either to
the words or actions of others, we must suspect
her of error.”
“And what,” said Jane, “do the words and actions
of others prove, but that they who are incapable
of that imperishable devotion which alone
deserves the name of love, may feel a hundred
times that which passes with them for it? It will
still be a question whether they ever felt it once.”
“I have never learned to chop logic,” said Miss
Howard, “but I have heard of something which is
called `begging the question.' Is not this something
like it, Mr. Balcombe?”
“I cannot say,” said Balcombe, laughing; “but
if a lady condescends to be a beggar, no gentleman
would deny her suit. Therefore either way
Miss Nepier's argument is unanswerable.”
“Why, really, you gentlemen are so insufferably
polite and acquiescing,” said the lady, “that one
might as well expect truth from a love ditty. So
I suppose we must take Mr. Moore's word for all
that sort of nonsense, because it is in vain to hope
for anything better. Certainly not from Mr. Napier;
but as to you, Mr. Balcombe, I supposed that
you had spent so much time among the unsophisticated
sons and daughters of nature, that the habit
of speaking frankly had overcome the fear of offending.
Now, I do beseech you, if you can compliment
us so highly, imagine us a company of squaws,
and tell us what you think of this matter.”
“I think of love,” said Balcombe,” as I do of a
fever. He who dies of the first attack will never
have another.”
“But suppose,” said Miss Howard, “he don't
die of it.”
“Then he will get well.”
“And what then?”
“According to Miss Napier, he may be immortal.”
“Pshaw!” said Miss Howard, “you are too
provoking. But what do you say to his case while
he is yet alive, though badly in love?”
“That if he expects to die of it, he never expects
to be in love again.”
“Still you evade the question,” said Miss Howard.
“On the contrary,” said Balcombe, “I offer a
solution to which no one can object. If Miss Napier
expects to die of love, it ought to be satisfactory
to her, and equally so to you, who manifestly
have no such expectation.”
“At least,” said Jane, “I will not affect to misunderstand
you. You clearly are against me.
No one, thinking as I do, could jest with the subject.”
If those who don't think love a jest, Miss Napier,
agree with you,” said Balcombe; “I certainly
am on your side.”
“What, then, seriously speaking,” asked Jane,
“would you admit as a sufficient cause for loving
a second time?”
“Accident, blind contact, or the strong necessity
of loving,” said Balcombe, carelessly.
“I declare, Mr. Balcombe,” said Jane, “I shall
hate you if you talk so.”
“You must think more favourably of hate than
love, Miss Napier,” replied Balcombe, “if you can
hate on so slight a cause, and yet will not allow
that love shall spring from the habits of social intercourse,
from an interchange of good offices,
from a common destiny, or from that law of our
nature which makes us incapable of happiness
which there is none to share.”
“Well,” said Jane, “for my part, I would not
give a straw for the love of any man who had ever
loved another.”
“Take care, Jane,” said Margaret; “your own
maxim may be turned against you. The time
may come when you would be glad to get a better
market for what is left of your heart, after having
loved more than one.”
“Oh, Margaret!” said Jane, reproachfully.
“Nay,” said Margaret, “I mean no insinuation,
dear; I only mean to say that I have such an
opinion of the indestructible good qualities of your
heart as to believe they can stand the fire of love,
and be none the worse. Now, if you can pay me
as high a compliment, I certainly shall not take
offence at it.”
“I am sure you mean no offence,” said Jane;
“but, really, the idea of having one's heart burned
to a cinder is shocking.”
“That's your idea,” said Margaret, “not mine.
I only hope the cinder may yet answer to kindle
the fire of love in another bosom. But come, Mr.
Balcombe, let us have one of your oracular responses
on the subject.”
“The ancient sibyl,” answered Balcombe, with
much solemnity, “is the type of her sex. Her
books are the type of woman's heart. They were
a treasure beyond price, containing all that was
necessary to happiness and virtue. This was
alike in all and in every part; and when more than
half were burned, the great arcanum was still
there.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Margaret, dropping a
courtesy. “The compliment deserves my best
courtesy; but I feel interested to have your sex
included in it, because, as I am not quite young
enough for a boy of fifteen, I expect I shall have
to content myself with such small remnant of a
heart as some good man may offer me after having
been in love half a dozen times.”
“It would not become me,” said Balcombe, “to
praise my own sex; but if you will return the
compliment, I will not deny its justice.”
“Then, sir,” said the lady, bowing graciously,
“I pray you to consider it reciprocated in your
own words. And so, my dear Jane, for all that's
come and gone yet, I may hope to pick up of the
rejected leavings of you and Ann, and all the other
belles, a piece of a heart worth having.”
This was said with an arch glance at Douglas
Ann coloured to the tips of her ears. How I
looked I know not; as little can I tell how I felt,
except my delight at observing that some not unpleasant
feeling seemed to mingle with Ann's confusion.
She did not raise her eyes, but I fancied
that they tried to peep through their half transparent
snowy lids at me. She was standing behind
Jane's chair, between Howard and Balcombe.
The latter now turned to her, and said,
“You give no opinion on this subject, my
dear.”
“I cannot,” said she. “William said he could
not condemn Jane's opinion, because he had no
experience to the contrary, and I can neither
condemn nor adopt it, because I have no experience
at all.”
“What a sweet innocent!” said Miss Howard,
with an arch and playful frankness which
showed that what she said did not touch her own
feelings. “Sisterly affection is the warmest feeling
she has ever experienced, and such as it is, I
dare swear it is the warmest she ever will feel.”
“Oh, Margaret!” said Howard, observing that
Ann was overwhelmed with confusion.
“Never mind, Henry,” said his sister; “you
have no need to guard Ann's sensibilities from me.
She knows I love her,” continued she, gliding between
her brother and Ann, and kindly taking her
hand. She knows I love her, and I love her because
herself.”
Ann looked up timidly and affectionately in her
face, and meeting her half-tender, half-playful
glance, bowed her head on her friend's shoulder,
and hid her blushes there. Balcombe turned his
quick eye inquiringly on Miss Howard, and she
answered it with a look at me so full of encouragement,
that I could no longer misunderstand her
hint. Howard, with a moody and uneasy countenance,
fell back behind the circle. Jane tore her
handkerchief in the eager vexation with which she
pulled the edge of it, and rising abruptly, broke up
the conversation. There was little disposition to
renew it. Every one seemed thoughtful, and all
but Balcombe and Margaret Howard rather grave.
His eye sparkled as it always did when he saw
his way clearly, and she wore an air of high and
generous excitement, which made her look more
noble in my eyes than any being I had ever seen.
We soon separated for the night, when, holding
out her hand to me, she pressed mine cordially and
unreservedly, and said, “Good-night, Mr. William;”
and then added, in a lower tone, “You have
acted delicately and nobly. You deserve to be
happy, and you will be.”
| CHAPTER XVII. George Balcombe | |