University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

The next morning Balcombe wrote a detailed
account of the whole affair. In this he took care
to set down his reasons for believing that Montague
had deceived Mr. Raby, when he told him
that my grandfather had ordered the destruction
of the will. In the law of the case, indeed, this

made no difference; but to the feelings of the parties
it made much. Among the facts he mentioned
the last letter he had received from my grandfather,
in which he spoke of his favourable designs towards
me. Not knowing anything of the quarrel between
Balcombe and Montague, he spoke generally
of the welfare of the latter, but said that he
had not seen him for a month. This was decisive;
for Mr. Raby had taken a memorandum of Montague's
communication to him, by which it appeared
that the very week before was the time
when, as he pretended, he was ordered to destroy
the will. This I think it right to mention here,
though the fact was not known to us until the receipt
of Mr. Raby's answer.

This letter was accompanied by one from me,
containing an offer of such terms of accommodation
as I deemed most proper. I shall not trouble
the reader with a statement of these. I beg him
to believe that my proposals were precisely such
as in his estimation I ought to have made. When
our letters were finished, we placed them in the
hands of the major, to be sent by the first regular
conveyance, along with a copy of the will, to his
principal.

The next day we returned to Craiganet.

“I have been thinking,” said Balcombe, as we
rode along, “of that devise of Raby Hall estate to
me. It makes plain what has heretofore been a
puzzle. There was certainly no man on earth

whom Montague dreaded more than me; and I
have often wondered what infatuation carried him
to Missouri, knowing that I was there. Stranger
still, he certainly more than once threw himself
into my way, and though he always crouched
under my eye, yet, on the least encouragement, he
would make up to me. I believe I told you that
although he said nothing to others of our former
acquaintance, he never failed, when he saw an
opening, to allude to it to me. I now remember
some things which then seemed without meaning,
especially his frequent allusions to Mr. Raby's paternal
regard for me, and the benevolent intentions
he had heard him express. You observe
that this codicil was not the subject of his bargain
with Mr. Edward Raby, who probably has never
heard of it. How easy, then, for me to come forward
and produce it, without laying Montague
liable to any suspicion of breach of faith with that
gentleman. I have now no doubt that had he
found me at all practicable, I should have been invited
to set up the codicil, and let him go snacks.
But I remember meeting his suggestions by a
declaration that I had no claims on Mr. Raby, and
rejoiced, as he had disinherited his children, that
it had not been in my favour. This, I think, was
our last conversation on the subject.”

My friends had heard nothing of our movements
since we left Fredericksburg, and were in total
ignorance of the late important events. We found
them sad enough. My poor mother dejected but

resigned; Jane humbled and despondent. Even
my merry little Laura had lost something of her
gayety at the thoughts of being banished from the
home of her infancy; while Ann, though satisfied
with her lot, seemed to feel by anticipation the
cares of a life of poverty and difficulties. Believing
that they would pass the night in more composure
under impressions to which their minds were familiarized,
than if excited at that hour by the intelligence
which we brought, we had determined to
keep them in ignorance of the will until the next
morning. All were gratified to see that my pleasure
at returning to them was enough to give me
an appearance of cheerfulness under my supposed
misfortune; and all appeared to derive comfort
and support from my presence. The indomitable
serenity of Balcombe made him a valuable auxiliary.
They all seemed to have taken the infection
of my habitual confidence that he would always
advise what was best, and find some means to
make its accomplishment practicable. I was particularly
pleased to see that Jane approached him
with more cordiality than I had ever seen her display
towards him; while there was a something in
her manner which seemed to deprecate his displeasure,
and implore forgiveness. He understood it,
and met her advances with the most soothing tenderness.
There was a degree of harmony in the
general sense of a common calamity which each
should help the rest to bear, that it seemed a pity
to disturb.

In this spirit we quietly took our frugal supper,
and I then handed my mother Mr. Raby's letter.
I had little doubt of the contents, and expected that
they would in some measure prepare the minds of
all for the yet better intelligence which was in store
for them. I was not disappointed. My mother
read the letter with just such emotions as I had
expected and wished, and handing it to me, said,

“Was I not right, my children? Said I not
truly that God would not desert us, if we could
compose our minds to be thankful for the past, instead
of murmuring about the present, and to trust
to him for the future. He has brought light out of
darkness, and given us a kind friend in one we
had deemed our worst enemy. Read that aloud,
William, and let us all learn to be humble and
thankful.”

I took the letter, and as she requested, read as
follows:—

The effect of this letter was such as might have
been anticipated. My poor mother was at least
as much humbled and mortified as delighted.
Little Laura was in raptures with “the dear good
old soul,” as she called Mr. Raby. Jane's countenance
brightened for a moment. But this present
relief placed her no nearer the great object of her
wishes; and the cloud soon again settled on her
brow. Ann's gratitude manifestly predominated
over every other feeling, except, perhaps, her pleasure
at seeing me about to be relieved from my difficulties.
Of herself she seemed not to think, and
looked up in my face with a smile which said,
“Help us to thank our benefactor.”

“Why are you so silent, William?” said my

mother. “Do you see any objections to the acceptance
of our kinsman's proffered kindness?”

“None,” said I. “I have felt as you do. But
the force of my feelings has spent itself. I knew
this before.”

“By what means?”

“By Mr. Raby's letter to Major Swann in which
that was enclosed.”

“The order, then, has been actually given?”

“Certainly. And I come to make preparations
for removing you to Barnard's Castle.”

“Oh me!” exclaimed Laura, bursting into tears,
“must we still leave dear Craiganet after all?”

“It seems so, my child,” said my mother, “and
we must learn to do so with thankful hearts;
though to me the most princely residence would
not be so pleasant as these scenes of my happy
youth, with all their sweet and bitter recollections.
But come, my children; we must be busy to-morrow.
To-night must be given to thanksgiving,
reflection, and repose. Good-night, my son. And
you,” extending her hand with matronly grace to
Balcombe, “my generous and noble friend! Let
me but learn to thank the efficient aid of our benefactor,
as my heart thanks you for your baffled
efforts to serve us, and he will not tax me with
ingratitude.”

As soon as breakfast was over the next morning
I interrupted the discussion of our proposed removal
by telling the whole story of the will, an
authentic copy of which I now handed to my mother.

It was well, perhaps, that I had prepared her
mind the night before, by conducting it to a sort of
halfway stage between depression and exultation.
As it was she bore the news well enough, though
her nerves were severely shaken. Poor Jane, for
the want of such preparation, (for now, for the first
time, hope dawned on her, and in the same moment
brightened to the perfect day of certainty,) she,
poor girl, sank under it in a strong hysterical affection.
If such things were ever dangerous, I should
have been alarmed for her. As it was, she occupied
all our attention, until my news had lost something
of its exciting effect on the rest.

As soon as a calm was restored, I reminded my
mother of the preference she had expressed the
night before for Craiganet as a residence; and
told her that I would, at once, take measures to
discharge the property from all encumbrance, by
pledging my own personal responsibility to the
creditors. By this means the approaching sale,
appointed for Newyear's day, would be prevented;
and instead of preparing for our removal, she would
be permitted to remain in peace and quietness
where she was.

Here was a new cause for rejoicing. The
pleasure of my mother was heartfelt, and the glee
of Laura more obstreperous than at any time
before. Jane was too much absorbed to think
about it; and as to Ann, Barnard's Castle was
“the pole of all her young affections,” and that
would again be her home. It was rather cause of

sorrow than joy to her that it was not also to be
the home of her second mother.

In the midst of all this tumult of feeling, in which
tears were more rife than smiles, Margaret Howard
and Douglas drove up. It was easy for them
to misunderstand the cause of the emotion they
beheld. It was very much in appearance, such as
my return, after the final defeat of my hopes, might
have been expected to occasion. Margaret offered
no condolence in words, but her manner was full
of tender sympathy, and as she kissed my mother,
she said she had come to invite us to Oakwood the
next day. She added that her brother would be
gone to Castle Howard, his principal residence, and
that she and her mother would follow in a few
days; that we must spend those few days with
them, and remain there after they were gone, until
the bustle of the sale was over, and as much longer
as our convenience might require.

She hurried through this speech with an air of
as much cheerfulness as she could assume, as if
fearful of interruption by her own emotion or my
mother's. It was not until she had got through
that I saw a tear in her eye, as again tenderly
kissing my mother, she added,

“Do, my dear madam, say yes.”

This was more than could be borne. My mother's
self-command now, for the first time, failed
her, and falling on Miss Howard's neck, the mingled
feelings of her heart at length found vent in
tears. The rest of us were hardly less affected.

To Ann, particularly, the generosity and delicacy
of Howard were overwhelming. My feelings
were drawn into the vortex of her's, and Balcombe
alone had self-possession enough to explain. As
to Douglas, I had observed his rueful visage as he
entered; but a glance had been exchanged between
him and Jane, and they were gone. Between
them, doubtless, the matter was soon understood.
But they had it all to themselves. I saw no more
of them until dinner, when they appeared with
glowing cheeks, and eyes red, but beaming with
delight. I was pleased to find that Jane, on this
occasion, did not seem to think her dignity engaged
to hide her feelings. She showed them simply and
naturally; she rejoiced with others, and was glad
to have them rejoice with her. She had no part to
act. She had no scheme in her head. She was
once more the same honest girl I had known her
before the visit of Howard to Oakwood, and his
attentions to Ann. I was delighted to recognise
one whom I had so much loved, and whom I had
despaired of ever seeing again. I caressed her
playfully, in a manner which, a month before,
would have outraged her dignity, and she said to
me apart,

“Oh William! I am so thankful to you. It was
a severe operation. You cut deep, but you reached
the seat of the disease, and I have no fear that I
shall prove myself unworthy of the happiness I
now hope for.”

We now understood from Miss Howard that her

brother was well enough to travel, and proposed
to do so for his health. With that view he would
leave Oakwood next morning, and in the spring he
would probably go to Europe.

“And shall I see him no more?” said Ann, with
all the simplicity of her innocent and grateful
heart. “Dear generous Henry! had he prepared
to load us with kindness and steal away from our
gratitude?”

I believe I have done my story. It matters little
whether we went to Oakwood or not. But we did
go, and received the congratulations of Mrs. Howard.
I now, too, had an opportunity of hearing her
and her daughter express their grateful admiration
of Balcombe. He had left us to bring down his
wife, that she might spend with us the approaching
season of festivity.

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Margaret Howard.
“I don't want to be led into temptation. But as I
never mean to marry any man but Mr. Balcombe,
or some other like him, and none such is to be
found, I beg you to advise her never to take food
from my hand. I feel a little conscientious just at
this moment, and so take this security against the
hour of temptation and weakness. Do, Mr. William,
tell me where I may go to look for such
another man.”

“You must go to the place he came from,” said
I; “and then to no purpose, unless you can find
some man, intelligent and brave by nature, who

has been carefully nurtured in the seed-bed of a
civilized, enlightened Christian society, and then
transplanted to the rich wilds where his luxuriance
may expand itself without restraint.”

In due season Balcombe arrived with his family,
and we Christmas'd it around at Oakwood, at
Craiganet, at Raby Hall, at Barnard's Castle; and
when Christmas was gone and forgotten by others
it was still Christmas with us, until the month of
February brought Mr. Raby's answer to our
letters.

This was friendly, congratulatory, self-accusing,
and definitive. It enclosed a large account of
rents and profits, with a declaration that no consideration
on earth should tempt him to retain one
cent of advantage from a transaction, doubtful in
its character, to say the least of it, and which had
always debased him in his own estimation. The
money thrown away on Montague he considered
as the mere earnest of a bargain with the devil,
through one of his emissaries, which he was glad to
forfeit if he might thereby annul the contract. He
enclosed bills for the whole amount due according
to his statement, including interest, and expressed
a hope that the command of so much money would
tempt me to travel. Then followed a kind invitation
to visit him; a hint at the opportunities of
forming desirable connections in England; and an
intimation that no gentleman or nobleman in the
north of England would deny his daughter to a
man bearing a name so illustrious in the legends of

the olden time as that of Raby. This advantage,
on which my aristocratic kinsman laid so much
stress, I had nearly overlooked, and am now reminded
to tell the reader, that the assumption of
the name of Raby was made, in my grandfather's
will, a condition of the devise. With this I cheerfully
complied. My name was changed in due
form, and I am ever since at the reader's service,

William Napier Raby,
of
Barnard's Castle, Northumberland,
Virginia.