University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

When I said that I had finished my story, it was
in one of those moments of concentrated selfishness
in which a man forgets there is anybody else in
the world but himself. I did think of one more.
I thought of Ann. But as she has long been a
part of myself, I am afraid I have occasion to go
back and read the lecture which I gave my sister
Jane. But I have not quite forgotten it, and in
proof of it I will tell the reader what became of the

other personages in my drama, even down to Jim
Porter the ducker.

Howard no sooner reached home than he commenced
his preparations for foreign travel. He
visited every part of Europe, not excepting Greece,
and for a time seemed bent on finding that relief
from wo which he had vainly sought from the
hand of Balcombe. But though he found not this,
he found a much better and equally efficient
remedy. He came into collision with men whose
pretensions on the score of birth and fortune paled
his own. He encountered privation, hardship, and
difficulty, and learned to live without the habitual
indulgence of all his wishes. He frequented scenes
where danger sought him when he sought it not,
and learned to think that a man's courage may be
tested by other and better means than his readiness
to peril his life on every fool's quarrel. In learning
all this he lost nothing of his high honour, his strict
principles, his delicacy of feeling, his easy deportment
and refined courtesy, and came back, after
an absence of three years, a man every way
worthy of his prosperous fortune. It was not long
before our intercourse was renewed, and as our
friendship had known no abatement, it at once
assumed the character of cordial intimacy. This
brought him frequently in company with my sister
Laura, and I saw with pleasure that she soon
began to fill the place in his regard which had
been left vacant by Ann. The reader anticipates

the result. They have been married a dozen years,
and are happy.

Margaret Howard married a gentleman of
moderate estate, in whom, perhaps, were more of
the qualities of Balcombe than in any other I have
ever known. He was not fully equal to that beauideal
of Miss Howard's imagination; but it came
in aid of the resemblance that he was nearly
as old.

Balcombe returned to Missouri in the spring.
In his journey from Fredericksburg to Craiganet he
had made his wife acquainted with all of us, so
that she came among us completely divested of
her reserve. She seemed as if she had known us
all her life. She met me as if I had been her
brother. Ann she never called from the first by
any other name. With Jane she was somewhat
more punctilious. To my mother tenderly respectful,
and to Laura she was as an elder sister.

The reader will readily suppose that, on the
appearance of my grandfather's will, all the scruples
of old Douglas vanished like a ghost at the
crowing of a cock. The consequence was that
the same day was fixed for the marriage of my
sister and myself. As we were oldfashioned folks,
who love to preserve all memorials of things that
have been, we fixed on Valentine's day. As it
approached, I received a hint that it would be as
well that Balcombe and I should take ourselves
out of the way of mops and brooms, especially if
we had no mind to live on bread and cheese, during

certain days appropriated to the preparation of
jellies, bridal cakes, &c., &c. I communicated
this intimation to Balcombe, and we determined to
use the time for a visit to Barnard's Castle, my
future home, and Raby Hall, which I wished to
make his. His wife insisted on accompanying us.
I was not sorry for this, for I found her heart
began to yearn for her wild home, her “desert
solitude,” and I had hopes the sight of Raby Hall,
with all its substantial comforts, might tempt her
to remain with us. I had a wish, too, (perhaps impertinent,)
to be present at her meeting with Mary
Scott. And I did see it. I had never mentioned
that unfortunate woman in her presence. But she
could be no stranger to her history, and to that of
her husband's former attachment and continued
esteem and admiration. Such a case was out of
rule, and I was at a loss to tell how she would
treat it. I might have known that, as George Balcombe's
wife, she would do the thing that was
right, but what that was to be I did not know.

As soon as Mrs. Balcombe was introduced to
the major and his lady, Balcombe inquired for
Mary Scott, and asked to be conducted to her.
In a few moments he returned. She was leaning
on his arm, and he led her with as much proud
respect as if she had been a queen. His wife rose
and advanced to meet them. I have spoken of her
lofty stature and commanding air. I never saw
her half so majestic as now. Her step was slow,
her carriage lofty, her countenance unmoved, yet

in the whole there was an air of tenderness and
softness in which everything like dignity was forgotten.
I saw poor Mary lift up her eyes, and
blench under the full black eye of the stately figure
before her; but she again raised her head, and
looked up confidingly in Balcombe's face.

“I need not tell you,” said he, “who this is, and
how much I owe her.”

“You owe her everything,” replied Mrs. Balcombe,
“that man can owe to the disinterested
friendship of a noble being. You owe her all of
your heart that is not mine, and she must give me
a place in her's for your sake.”

Saying this, she extended both her arms, and
folded the poor shrinking creature to her bosom.
She would have kissed her, but Mary could not
look up, and Mrs. Balcombe, gently moving her to
the sofa, sat down with her, without loosening her
hold, or removing the face of the weeping girl from
the shoulder where it rested. There she sat, bending
over and soothing her, as if unconscious of the
presence of every other.

The major had turned to the window to hide his
emotion. I did the same; when he said, in a low
tone,

“All our training can produce nothing like this.
Where the essentials of good breeding and good
principles are preserved, there is a majesty in the
wild forms of nature that art can never reach.”

When the tumult of Mary's feelings had subsided,
Mrs. Balcombe still sat by her, and drew

her into conversation. I never before had seen
her so affable to a stranger; but on this occasion,
though their topics were few and restricted, yet
they talked on like old acquaintances, and parted
for the night as if they really were so.

The next morning Mrs. Swann took Mrs. Balcombe
over the house, showing all those fixtures
and conveniences, in which women so much delight,
while Balcombe and I rode over the estate.
I took this opportunity to show him the advantages
of the place as a residence, and urged him to settle
there. Seeing that he hesitated, I remarked that
one half of the property was his by the will of my
grandfather, and that by every obligation of gratitude
and friendship I was bound to make the other
half his also.

“No more of that, William,” said Balcombe.
“Had I heard of that bequest, I am not sure you
would ever have heard of the will. Had it been
contained in the body of the will, I would not have
accepted it. As it is, my motives are liable to no
misconstruction, and I will keep them so. And
now having said this, I will add, that I am too poor
to occupy so large an establishment, and if I were
here, I should have a constant warfare with you
about aids which you would offer, and I would
decline. No, William; I am well enough off for
Missouri. I should be a poor man here. My
wife's parents are there. I must not task her devotion
to an old husband too far. I must take her
back to them. But I will deal with you in all the

frankness of friendship. I would much rather be
here, but whether it will ever be in my power I
cannot tell. Now I propose this: take my property
here at any valuation; pay me the interest of
the money, as long as we both live, and if I wish
to return cancel the bargain, and let me have your
half at the same price.”

To this I agreed. A round sum was fixed on
as the price, and the bargain concluded.

To Mrs. Balcombe this arrangement was quite
satisfactory. To poor Mary it was a subject of
great but silent grief. She said little until Balcombe
proposed, as part of the plan, that as soon
as James's education should be finished, he should
follow him to the western country and seek his fortune
there. At this suggestion all her self-command
forsook her. When she recovered herself,
she said she would not be any hinderance to James's
advancement, and admitted the plan to be a good
one.

“But, oh George! I was so happy in the thought
of being near my best friend, and to have the benefit
of his instructions, advice, and example for my
poor boy, without ever parting from him, and now
to lose you both! It is too much!”

Mrs. Balcombe now spoke to her a few words
in a low and tender tone, to which she replied,

“No, my dear madam. That must not be.
Your good and wise husband knows my reasons,
and he approves them. While Mr. Napier permits
me to receive shelter here, from the kind

friends who lifted me up when I was prostrate in
the dust, I shall seek no other home.”

“You shall never need another,” said I, “while
this will content you.”

“And if the most tender and profound respect
on our part,” said the major, “can make you happy
here, you will never wish to change your place of
abode.”

The grateful creature looked as she spoke from
one to another, and then clasping her hands, exclaimed,

“Oh, how have I deserved this?”

When I heard what passed between Mary and
Mrs. Balcombe, I looked at Balcombe for an explanation.
He now said to me apart,

“I proposed to her to accompany me to Missouri,
and make my house her home, and she declined
it.”

“Why so?”

“For reasons worthy of her. Our equal ages
and my former attachment to her. `I see,' said
she, `the confiding nobleness of your wife, and I
know she cannot be insensible of the advantages of
youth and beauty. But it is not right to task your
generosity, or to incur the least hazard of disturbing
her peace of mind. The situation you propose
would be to me the happiest in the world, were it
forced on me by circumstances. But it would be
wrong to adopt it from choice, and the thought of
that would make me unhappy. Should my present
dependance fail me, George, and leave me without

a home, I will to you as to a brother, and take
shelter under your roof.”'

After spending a day or two at Raby Hall, we
went to Barnard's Castle, leaving Mrs. Balcombe
behind. Here my arrangements were soon made.
We returned to Raby Hall; and on the day before
that appointed for the double wedding, returned to
Craiganet.

As Balcombe had determined to set out for Missouri
as soon as the nuptial festivities were over,
he prepared to take a final leave of the major and
Mary Scott. In order to this he drew up a paper,
directing me to pay her quarterly a handsome annuity
out of the interest on the price of his property.
Having showed me this, he handed it to his
wife, to be given to Mary on separating for the
night. This was done; and when we met in the
morning I could read it in her grateful countenance.
I think I never saw one in which that
most beautiful of all expressions (save only that
of tender love) displayed itself so strongly as in
her's. Perhaps no heart ever felt the sentiment so
deeply.

When we were about to part Mrs. Balcombe
kissed her tenderly, while Balcombe bade farewell
to the major and his lady. Then turning to Mary,
he folded her to his bosom, and kissing her forehead
as usual, was about to leave her, when she
held up her lips and said,

“Once more, dear George. This once; this
last time.”

And once more he impressed upon her lips the
hallowed kiss of his pure and generous friendship.

“Thank God! thank God!” she exclaimed, in a
tone of elevated enthusiasm. “Should we never
meet again, that token of a brother's love I will
carry to the grave.”

“My dear child,” said the kind old major, “Mr.
Balcombe is indeed a brother. You lose him now;
let me be your father.”

The poor creature could make no answer. Balcombe
wrung the major's hand, and we left the
house.

On our return to Craiganet, we found Douglas
there, accompanied by Margaret Howard. I was
rejoiced at this. I wished Mrs. Balcombe to
know this softened reflection of some of her husband's
noblest qualities. I had excited her wish to
know Miss Howard, by speaking of her in such
terms as conveyed this idea. Margaret, on the
other hand, met her as one whom she ought to
esteem as the wife of a man she so much admired.
In short, they met as sisters, and grew together
into the most cordial intimacy.

“She is the only woman in the world,” said
Mrs. Balcombe, “worthy to be the wife of Mr.
Balcombe.”

I shall not tell the reader about the wedding.
It is an old story; fifteen years old to-morrow;
and there sits Ann, quite matronly, with her eldest
daughter by her side, working her sampler. Our
firstborn is out with his gun. The youngest is

asleep in the cradle, and a wee thing of three years
old is worrying the cat, and plaguing me by inviting
my attention to her pranks.

Jane makes Douglas a good wife. Whether her
seniority gives her the same advantage over the
husband that she had over the lover, I don't know.
I rather think not. But boys always fall in love
the first time with women older than themselves;
and no woman ever objected, in her own case, to a
man for being too young.

Keizer returned with Balcombe to Missouri, and
has ever since lived uprightly and comfortably
under his munificent patron. James Scott followed
in three years. He has prospered, and
attained to competency and honour. Should I
give his true name, many of my readers would
find that I had been speaking of one of whom they
have heard before. Balcombe's daughter is now
grown. I hear frequently from her father, and
suspect, from some expressions, that Miss Delia
has found out that the difference between the ages
of her parents is about the same as that between
her's and James's.

I regret to close this summary by adding, that
within one year past Colonel Robinson has followed
his wife, who died soon after Balcombe's return to
Missouri.

This, I believe, fulfils my promise to tell all
about everybody, except that I have not yet accounted
for Jim Porter. Be it known that he is at
this moment shooting ducks in the Pocoson of the

Raby Hall estate, in which he has the exclusive
privilege of hunting, rent free.

Saturday, February 13, 1836.

P.S. Sunday morning—Valentine's day.

A letter from Balcombe. He is coming to Virginia,
and claims my promise to sell him my interest
in the Raby Hall property. He has prospered
in his affairs, and the death of Colonel Robinson
has made him rich. James Scott has married his
daughter, (his only child,) and will live with him.
I am told to expect him in April, and that Keizer
will accompany him. Poor Mary (who since the
major's death has been with me) is beside herself
with joy, and there is not a child in the house old
enough to talk, whose eyes don't dance at the
thought of seeing a man they have all learned to
love and honour. Even the negroes at Raby Hall
will not be sorry; for when I bought out Balcombe
they expressed no particular feeling, but merely
said, through Charles, their common spokesman,

“We been all mighty willing, sir, to have Mass'
George for master.”