George Balcombe a novel |
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| 24. | CHAPTER XXIV. |
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 | CHAPTER XXIV. George Balcombe |  |
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
Illustrious in the annals of old time
Are mine, and I'll uphold them. Ill exchanged
For gilded shame.”
It may be readily believed that I was now
eager to be off to Northumberland. The next
day we commenced our journey, and never had I
performed one with so light a heart. We had a
day to spare, and that day we spent at Barnard's
Castle, which, until within the last five years, had
been my home. The house was in excellent preservation,
the furniture good, though somewhat
oldfashioned, (no fault in my eyes,) and everything
nearly as my grandfather had left it at his death.
I looked on this mark of respect to his memory, as
a sign of grace in Mr. Edward Raby, which made
me rejoice that I should be able to do myself justice
without dishonouring him. The old house servants,
for the most part, retained their former
offices, though now sinecures; and the overseer,
though I gave no hint of my rights, received me
with hereditary respect, and treated me in all
things as if I had been master of the whole estate.
Had he done otherwise the negroes would have
my presence was a jubilee (sad and tearful, indeed,
but yet a jubilee) to them. I prevailed on the
overseer to accompany me to court, and there
made him witness with his own eyes the unexpected
proceeding, which established me as executor
and devisee in the rightful possession of the
whole property. He had served my grandfather,
who had been satisfied with him. He had been
less successful in pleasing Mr. Edward Raby, and
I have no doubt was quite sincere in his congratulations
on the event.
Indeed the sensation produced by the sudden
presentation of the will seemed to run through the
whole assembled crowd. The handwriting of my
grandfather was known to every person present.
So was Montague's. Balcombe's testimony was
clear and positive; and the codicil, altogether
written by my grandfather, proved itself. There
was no need to ask whence the papers came. The
thing admitted of no doubt. No security being
required of the executor, to which office my father
and myself were named, letters testamentary were
at once granted, and I was restored to the inheritance
of my fathers. Then came a scene. Every
one who had known me pressed to speak to me;
those who had known my grandfather asked to
be introduced. The business of the court was
suspended. The worthy old members of that
“paternal tribunal” (blessing on his name who
first so designated it!) left the bench to take by
and associate in office; and more than one, pointing
to the seat he had long filled as presiding
justice, expressed a hope to see it occupied by
myself.
I was now impatient to return to Craiganet, and
wipe away the tears my letter from Fredericksburg
must have drawn from the eyes of the dear
ones there. Raby Hall lay directly in our way,
and thither we went. Nothing could be more
unexpected or more welcome than our news. The
amiable old major highly approved the course we
had pursued, as affording a salvo for his patron's
honour; and even James's jealous scruples were
satisfied by Balcombe, though at first he looked
quite indignant on finding that John had played
him false. But John had but laboured in his vocation.
It was so long since he had an opportunity
of playing a trick of any sort, that he languished
for want of exercise in that way. He had begun
to think for some time that he was of no account,
but was now restored to favour with himself. To
the major and poor Mary the most agreeable part
of the whole was to acknowledge Balcombe as
master of Raby Hall. The former entertained
for him the highest regard, and to the latter he was
everything in the world. It was easily arranged
that the old gentleman should retain his office, and,
for a time at least, his residence. As to Mary,
she was now sure of every comfort in life which
her former misfortunes left her capable of enjoying,
would be no burden to her heart.
But of all who rejoiced at my change of fortune
there was no joy like that of the negroes. One
after another, soon after nightfall, they came
thronging. One had heard the news and told it
to a dozen; it was soon spread over the estate;
and, from the old man hobbling on his crutch to
the infant in arms, all were assembled in the yard.
It seems they had heard that I should set out at
daylight next day, and see me they must. There,
then, they all were; many held torches of lightwood,
the red glare of which, as I looked through
the window, gleamed with picturesque effect on
their rude garments, and dusky but shining skins.
I was requested to go out and place myself in the
door. Charles now came forward, grinning and
wriggling.
“The folks want to know, master, if you is their
master sure enough?”
“I am, my good fellows,” said I, aloud. “Your
old master's grandson is your master sure enough.”
This answer was the signal for a general rejoicing
such as I never saw. The shout, not mechanically
simultaneous, but bursting spontaneously at
intervals through the din of many tongues, the
spasmodic clapping of the hands above the head,
the tattered hat tossed aloft, “as if to hang it on
the horns of the moon,” the wild loud ringing
echoing laugh, the hurried running of each backward
and forward through the crowd, and the
who felt best assured of each other's sympathy,
made a scene, which he, who would know human
nature in all its aspects, would do well to study.
For the moment, at least, I was a convert to Balcombe's
doctrines on the subject. When the tumult
was over, one and another advanced to touch my
hand. I gave it cordially to each, nor did I leave
my position until I had received and returned the
gratulating grasp of all the larger negroes, and
patted the head of every little knotty-pated urchin
of the whole.
After supper, Major Swann, with some hesitancy,
told us that, during our absence, he had received a
letter from Mr. Edward Raby, covering one to
Montague. He said that there were expressions
and directions in the former which left little doubt
in his mind that the latter would show, that Mr.
Raby either did not understand, or highly disapproved
the conduct of Montague. Eager to vindicate
him, and to prepare the way for an amicable
adjustment of the whole affair, he wished to
open the letter, and lay the contents before us.
“I am not merely the steward of Edward
Raby,” said he; “I am his old and trusted friend.
I love and honour him, and am willing to peril my
honour to vindicate his. How say you, gentlemen?
I beg your advice. Shall I open this
letter?”
I shall not stop to discuss the propriety of the
advice we gave. Major Swann and Mr. Raby
the infection of his enthusiastic confidence in his
friend's honour, we ventured to advise the step.
The letter was opened and read aloud by Balcombe.
It ran thus:—
“Mr. Edward Montague.
“Your extraordinary communication of the 15th
ultimo is before me. In answering it I find myself
under the necessity of adverting to much
more than it contains; and I shall do so fully, because
I find it necessary to make you understand
distinctly the relation between us.
“In the first place then, sir, let me say that it is
not a relation which authorizes you to make me
your debtor at your own pleasure, on any occasion
or to any amount that you may think proper.
With the ink hardly dry on the last check drawn
in your favour, I have here an account in which
you claim against me the round sum of two thousand
dollars, made up of four equal items. The
lumping character of these charges, the beautiful
harmony of the constituent parts of the account,
and the perfect symmetry of the collective whole,
show to great advantage on paper; though it is
not easy to conceive of such a concurrence of fortuitous
circumstances, as could thus round off in
the whole and in all the parts a set of purely incidental
charges. This objection I should insist on,
deny. Let us review your account, sir.
“First, I am charged with five hundred dollars,
as so much paid to a gang of ruffians, to aid you
in obtaining from some man in the wilds of Missouri,
the means of getting into your possession a
certain document, which you say elsewhere is
safely lodged in my own house at Raby Hall, Virginia.
To this I have but to say, sir, that whenever
you have occasion to hire a bravo to do that
which a man of honour would not think of, or a
brave man would do for himself, I beg you will
draw on your resources.
“Secondly, I am charged with a like sum paid
to a lawyer, to engage him to prosecute to the last
extremity this same man, for a crime of which, by
your own showing, he was not guilty. Need I say
to this, sir, that, when next you meditate a scheme
of revenge to be accomplished by a judicial murder,
I hope you will not again call on me to become an
accessary to the crime.
“I am next called on to refund five hundred dollars,
as the alleged amount of the expense of a
journey to and from Virginia, and as much more
for your time and trouble therein. I shall no
otherwise comment on these charges than by congratulating
you on the discovery of the means of
travelling and taking your pleasure without expense.
To such of our gentry and nobility as
waste their time and money in touring it over the
Continent, it would be invaluable. Bring it with
Be sure, too, when you come, to charge the expense
of that journey to me, and let me hope that
you will take occasion at the same time to honour
my poor dwelling with a visit.
“I find that I owe an apology to myself for the
language which my indignation has drawn from
me. I will make the due amende by using all
possible moderation in saying what remains to be
said.
“Let me then ask, sir, how it comes that I hear,
at this time of day, of the existence of that document?
Am I to find the answer in your delicate
hint that that paper is your only security for the
fulfilment of my engagements to you? Is it possible
that I read this passage of your letter aright?
Do you indeed mean to insinuate that an engagement
to which my word is pledged needs any other
guarantee? If such was your meaning, sir, you
will find the origin of the thought in your own
conscious baseness, and you will owe your impunity
to the same cause. But though you dared
to intimate this, it was not this you meant. It is
not a pledge for the performance of past promises,
but a means of future and unlimited exaction that
you would preserve. Your dexterous hint at the
urgent necessities of my young kinsman of Craiganet,
could hardly fail to make me see that you
flatter yourself that he would gladly purchase at
a high price the important secret of which you
affect to be the depositary. I say affect, sir, because
your dupe. When you first told me that Mr.
Raby had executed and placed in your hands a
will which he afterward directed you to destroy,
and that you had neglected to do so, and when you
required of me a price to bribe you to the late performance
of this duty, could I fail to see that I had
to do with a villain, who would sell himself to
others, if I would not buy him? I therefore took
you at your word. I did not demand to see the
paper, for what should hinder you to forge another.
I took more effectual security against you, by
wringing from you a reluctant oath that you knew
not what had become of that paper. Will you
now brave the penalties of perjury and suppression
of a will, by bringing it forward? Can it be proved
by your oath against your oath? No, sir; I put
you at defiance, and you feel that you are powerless
to harm me.
“Have I forgotten how you cowered under my
eye, when I compelled you to answer that decisive
question? Have I forgotten how the beaded drops
stood on your pale forehead at that moment?
Whether your emotion was the effect of a conviction
that from that time you had no security but
my honour, the price of which you knew not how
to estimate, or shrank at the idea of committing
deliberate perjury, if perjury it was, I know not.
I would to God I did. I would to God I had any
means of knowing whether you had but done me
justice, or made me the instrument of injustice to
waves of the Atlantic, nor the wilds in which you
have sought to hide your baseness, no, not even
your baseness itself, should screen you from my
resentment.
“For one thing at least I have cause to thank
you. By acquainting me with the distresses of
my young kinsman, you show me how to do my
duty, as the head of my house, by those of whom
the law of primogeniture makes me the protector.
I say this that you may see how little liable I am
to be influenced by the sordid fear to which you
would appeal. Show me what justice requires,
and give me reason to believe your word, and I
will do it gladly. Now mark me, sir. You say
the supposed document is in your power, at least
with the co-operation of Mr. Swann. I shall write
and direct him to give you this co-operation. Now,
sir, when it is recovered, put it into his hands.
When I hear from him that it is there, I shall then
order the payment of five thousand dollars to you
in full of all demands, and endeavour to form my
own judgment of my rights and duties on my own
view of the paper. This will terminate all my
connection with you. Terminate it shall. If no
such paper is found and delivered up to Mr.
Swann, it shall cease at once. Directly or indirectly,
never again presume to address yourself to
England, Nov. 18th, 1820.”
As Balcombe read this letter I was inconceivably
affected. The favourable light it threw on the
character of one whom I was bound to consider
(as he expressed it) as the head of my house, and
whom I had of late learned to detest, was truly acceptable
to me.
The good old major bowed his head on his hands,
and when the letter was gone through, raised it
and said,
“Thank God! the idea that Edward Raby had
been guilty of the baseness which appeared chargeable
against him was one of the most painful that
ever entered my mind. I awaited his answer in
the hope that that would clear him. I now see
that to me it would have done so, but to the world
I fear it would not. But this letter frees him from
every imputation but that of having treated on any
terms with an acknowledged villain, and of having
bought off his knavery. This was unworthy of
Edward Raby; but how venial compared with
what seemed to be his offence!
“And now, Mr. Napier,” said the old gentleman,
“I will no longer hesitate to fulfil my friend's
commission, and hand you a letter enclosed by
him for your mother. The purport of it I can
guess from my own. If it be such as I suppose, it
is such a letter as I would not have delivered to
Mrs. Napier while the conduct of Mr. Raby was
unexplained. Here is the letter, sir; and here,
George, is a passage in that to me which you
before the world. The same honourable gentleman
that I knew him when he visited his uncle
here in youth, and afterward, when I travelled in
England; the same he showed himself when last
here, and has proved himself to be in all his subsequent
transactions with me. Read the letter,
George.”
Balcombe did as he was requested. The passage
was as follows:
“I am concerned to learn, from the letter of
this Montague, that my young kinsman, Napier of
Craiganet, has fallen into poverty. This must not
be. To say nothing of his illustrious descent
through his father from a most distinguished nobleman,
he is a branch of the house of Raby. As
such it belongs to me to fulfil the duty contemplated
by the very law in deference to which his
grandfather left me his estate. He could never
have been justified in disinheriting his own issue,
but for a well-founded reliance that the head of
the family would perform towards them the duties
of an elder brother. The exact measure of these
duties I am not in condition to ascertain. But
there is something to be done to relieve the present
distress. I beg you, therefore, to ascertain the
amount of encumbrances on his father's estate, and
in the mean time to account with him for that portion
of my nett income which proceeds from the
property at Barnard's Castle, and to admit Mrs.
all it contains.”
Balcombe had read thus far aloud, when he
dropped the letter, and exclaimed,
“Noble! noble! nobly done! Now this does
my very soul good. Nauseated with Montague's
villanies, and in my own mind implicating this gentleman
in them, this display of character is a perfect
cordial. It is light shining out of darkness.
Why, William, the discovery of such a character
in a kinsman is worth more than the estate. This
must be answered instantly, and in its own spirit.
Wives and sweethearts must wait till honour is
served, for it will never do to be outdone in this.”
| CHAPTER XXIV. George Balcombe | |