University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

It had been arranged that John should awaken
us in a few hours, and take his turn; but he had
no thought of this, and we slept on until broad daylight.
We were then roused, and commenced our
search; but, though aided by Balcombe, who returned
to us at an early hour, we searched in vain.
Yet we did not desist until every spot within the
possible range to which Montague might have
thrown the packet, had been examined over and
over again. When nothing could be more certain
than that the packet was not there, we went on to
Fredericksburg.

What was now to be done? My solicitor was
consulted, who said that we could do no more than
file the answer of Major Swann, and await the
coming in of that of Mr. Edward Raby. On this
there was little reason to found any hope, but such
was the regular course of business. An affidavit
of James Scott, explaining how he had lost the
paper committed to him, was also left with the
solicitor, to be filed with the answer. It only remained

to take the proper measures to free James
from the charge of homicide, and we were ready
to go home.

Even when I journeyed from Missouri, not sure
that I might not find Ann the wife of another, I
hardly thought of my return to Craiganet with
more pain than I now did. At the very moment
when the packet was within my reach, and almost
within my grasp, it had been carried off, and I had
lost all trace of it. The very death of Montague
seemed fatal to my hopes. While he lived, there
was one who knew, however unwilling he might
be to tell, what I wished to prove. Even the
chance that, in his habitual dread of direct perjury,
the truth might be wrung from him on examination,
was better than any that now remained. It
seemed most probable that Montague had put the
packet in the hands of one of his accomplices.
But who were they? Only one of them I had
ever seen, and as he was an utter stranger, I had
little hope of finding him. That he would never
designedly cross my path was now sure.

Under these circumstances, I was not sorry to
learn from Balcombe that business called him
down into the county of Northumberland, and
that he would be gratified if I would accompany
him. I readily agreed to do so, and wrote my
poor mother an account of the final defeat of all
my hopes. James, who feared the story of our adventure
might reach his sister in a distorted shape,
pleaded that as a motive for going direct to Raby

Hall. Balcombe at once assented to this, and he
left us, and returned to Port Royal the same
evening. We, not having any occasion to reach
Northumberland before court day, which was yet
three days off, remained where we were until
morning.

The reader may charge me with ingratitude, but
I was half vexed at the perfect tranquillity with
which Balcombe bore this final disappointment.
When I saw him retain his cheerfulness and confidence
under our former defeats, I caught the contagion
of his feelings. When I saw him look death
and dishonour steadily in the face, I did but admire
his fortitude and energy. But now I could
not look on the perfect nonchalance of his countenance
without vexation. He saw this, and endeavoured
to wile me from myself, by throwing into
his conversation a double portion of that spirit and
raciness which I had so much admired. But it
was all in vain. I was incurably dull, dejected,
and miserable.

“Come, come, William!” said Balcombe, “this
will never do. You must learn to shake off vain
regrets, and try to interest yourself in what yet
remains to be done.”

“And what remains to be done?” asked I.

“Certainly not to lie down in despair, and wait
for death. Can you find nothing to occupy your
thoughts but what cannot be helped? You have
never asked me yet what takes me to Northumberland.”

“I am not sure I have a right to ask,” said I.
“You have never before spoken to me of any
business you had there, and it might be indelicate
to make the inquiry.”

“Too scrupulous by half,” replied Balcombe.
“Well, don't you want to know?”

“I should be well pleased to know,” said I, “if
you think proper to inform me.”

“Nay,” said Balcombe, “I speak not to the ear
of drowsy indifference. Rouse up, man, and promise
to take a proper interest in my affair, and I will
tell you.”

There was so much kindness and playfulness in
this reproach, that, feeling its justice, I could not
help blaming myself. I turned my eyes on Balcombe,
and found his resting on me with an expression
which said, “Up, up, and be a man!” and
I determined to make the effort. Did I not deserve
at the moment something of the same rebuke
I had given Jane a few days before? I felt so,
and said,

“My dear sir, it has been all along one of my
griefs, that you are always so sufficient to yourself
that I can never think of doing anything for you,
before you have already done it for yourself. Show
me anything in which I can serve you, and I will
promise to forget all private troubles until it is
accomplished.”

“Spoken like a man,” said Balcombe. “Spoken
like a man whose heart is in his friend's welfare.
Such is the stuff that friendship is made of. The

material is nevertheless often spoiled by circumstances
which render long-continued and engrossing
attention to one's own interest necessary and
even laudable. When, in such a pursuit, we have
occasion to engage the devoted co-operation of
others, we are apt to forget that we are made for
them, as well as they for us. Something to break
the continuity of the reign of self, that master fiend
who leads the hosts of the apostate angels, is not
amiss. Now tell me. In all your troubles—
have you the heart to rejoice at the prosperity of
a friend?”

I was really hurt at this; and Balcombe saw in
my manner that to doubt it would be to do me
injustice; and I assured him that such a question
seriously asked would give me more pain than my
late defeat.

“I believe you, Will,” said he. “You are a
truehearted fellow; but we must not let your
better feelings perish for want of exercise. Well,
then, to come to the point; I am going to Northumberland
to claim and take possession of a
handsome estate.”

“Good God!” exclaimed I, “is it possible that
your attention to my affairs has so engrossed you,
that you have never given a thought to that?”

“That ought to have been a sufficient reason, but
I am not sure it would have been. But the true
reason was (and you will admit it to have been
all-sufficient) that I never knew of it myself until
this morning. It comes very apropos at this moment,

because, having enough of my own, I can
share this with you.”

“Oh, no more of that, my dear sir,” said I.
“Your own family have claims on you that must
not be overlooked.”

“Would you not have insisted on sharing your
good fortune with me,” said Balcombe, “had you
been successful?”

“I certainly should,” said I, “have pressed on
you the acceptance of your old residence of Raby
Hall, as strongly as my respect for your delicacy
would permit. But pray tell me, how comes this
windfall?”

“By the will of an old friend.”

“Strange!” said I; “I have never heard you
speak of such a one.”

“Yes, you have, over and often.”

I tried to remember.

“Who can it be?” asked I.

“Your grandfather.”

I stared, and Balcombe, laughing, said to Keizer,
who had come in during our conversation,

“Come, John, tell your part of the story.”

“I shall be right glad to do that, colonel,” said
John; “for I have been ready to burst all day to
see Mr. Napier looking as if every friend he had
in the world was dead.”

“Well, John,” said I, “tell your tale, and if you
cannot bring them to life nothing can.”

“Why you see, sir,” said John, “I don't know
as I ever rightly got the nature of this business.

But last night when you and James Scott was a
talking, I found out that for all you wanted to get
that bundle of papers into the court, you'd a heap
rather have it yourself. And I seed, too, that
James, and all, would be glad if you did have it,
only just his word was out, and it would not do
for him to let you get them if he could help it. But
then, thinks I, what if you can't help it? nobody
can blame you then. So with that I makes up my
mind, if the thing fell to me in the search, nobody
should know it till I had a chance to ask the colonel
what to do. As soon as I seed you and James
fast asleep, I takes a knot of lightwood, and I goes
right straight to it.”

“How did you know where it was?” said I.

“Why you see, sir, when I went feeling about
the fellow to find if he had it in his hands, I saw
that his left hand was stretched right out from his
body just so, and the hand wide open; and I made
sure that he threw the bundle right that way his
arm pointed, and that just as he did it James had
given him the dig that settled him. So when I
heard the talk about who should go, and who
should stay, and where the bundle was, thinks I,
I will stay for one anyhow, and as to the bundle, I
guess I know where it is, but it's no use to say so.
So I just kept dark about it, as I didn't mean to do
nothing but what was right, and I knowed the
colonel could tell me how that was. So you see,
sir, the ditch was wide and the bank was high, and
then there was a hedge a top of it, and I made

sure Montague couldn't throw over that, and he
most the same as dead. So I just looks to see
where he lay, and takes my course; and sure
enough there it was at the bottom of the ditch in a
hole of water. So I starts right off a little way
down the road, and puts it clean out of the way
for fear somebody might take a notion that I had
found it; and when we started I just rides close to
the colonel, and says I,

“`I wish you'd send me back to look for your
handkerchief or something,' says I.

“And with that the colonel looks right sharp at
me, and I sorter smiled, and then says he, (don't
you remember that, Mr. Napier?) says he,

“`John, I wish you'd ride back and see if I have
not left my knife yonder.'

“So I goes back, sir, and gets the bundle, and
when I comes up, says the colonel,

“`What's this now, John?'

“Says I, `I've got the bundle, sir, and I thought
I would tell you first, 'cause I thought you'd know
best what I ought to do with it.'

“`Maybe you are right,' says he. `And it cannot
do any harm to think about it, anyhow.'

“So you see, sir, as soon as we gets here I gives
it to him; and there's an end of my part of the
story.”

“And now for my part,” said Balcombe. “You
remember, William, when I proposed at Raby
Hall to try to catch Montague, I assigned, as a
reason, my desire not to throw any reproach on

the name of Raby. Now that chancery suit could
not be successfully prosecuted without fixing infamy
on Mr. Edward Raby. But there was nothing
as yet but the bill, which could be dismissed
and withdrawn, so as to leave no trace of the
transaction on record. Moreover, although the
production of the will would be decisive on the
main point, yet there was a long controversy behind
about rents and profits. All this Mr. Raby
will be glad to settle amicably and privately, and,
in the mean time, the will being proved this week
in Northumberland, you can enter at once on the
estate, and your poor mother will not be left without
a home on Newyear's day, as she otherwise
must be. Now all these points are secured by
keeping dark, as John says; and, as to poor James,
no man can say that he was not as true to his trust
as a dog to the dead body of his master.”

“Then you really have the will?” said I.

“Really and bona fide the very paper I witnessed,
and more too.”

“What more?”

“A codicil containing a small bequest to myself,
which I dare say suggested to Montague the first
thought of suppressing the whole, through his
hatred to me. You must understand,” continued
Balcombe, “what until now I did not think proper
to tell you. When I left Raby Hall and returned
to Barnard's Castle, to announce my purpose of
going to seek my fortune in the world, the kind old
man opposed it strongly.

“`You are my son, George,' said he; `and, except
that curly-headed chap,' (meaning you, William,)
`my only son. I had formed a plan of life
for you, which I trust would have met your wishes.
My necessary expenses, and those of Mr. Napier,
don't permit me to furnish you with an outfit proper
for such a life of adventure as I fear you propose
to yourself. But this will not prevent my providing
for you amply and permanently, if you will
stay with me.'

“The temptation was strong. In my right mind
I should not have resisted it; but the fiery arrow
was in my brain. A small sum was all the good
old gentleman could conveniently spare at the
moment, and I would receive no more. I well
remember the day. The very next day is the date
of this codicil, which recites his previous intention
of providing for me by giving me the old hall, with
a considerable portion of land as well as negroes,
stock, books, &c.; that with that view he had
placed me there, to familiarize me to my future
home, and acquaint me with the proper management
of the property, and then goes on to bequeath
it to me.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed I. “This is just as I
would have it; and now I shall have no contest
with your delicacy.”

“You shall have none,” said Balcombe. “But
to my tale. And see how self has crossed my
path, and what a dance it has led me. Before I
should take my course definitely, I determined to

consult Mr. L—, and found he concurred with
me entirely.

“`Moreover,' said he, `if you happen to be on
the wrong scent, and the paper is not here after
all, better to dismiss the action than let your mountain
actually bring forth a mouse.'

“This had not occurred to me, because I had
no doubt. In him, who had less reason to be confident,
it was wise. I had taken the precaution
not to open the packet all this time, though it was
wringing wet. We now opened it together. You
remember its great size.”

“Yes. How was that?”

“Nothing but a blind, I suppose, to keep poor
Mary from suspecting the truth. But it was the
means, after all, of saving the papers. There
were not less than a dozen newspapers, with the
will and codicil in the midst. The external papers
were in part destroyed by the wet; the enclosure
perfectly safe. I took care to leave them in the
hands of Mr. L—, who will attend at court to
prove how he came by them. Your bill has been
withdrawn; the answer was not filed, and Mr.
L— has James's affidavit, which, without his
approbation, we would not destroy.”