120. CXX.
DIABOLISM.
I REACHED the banks of the Rappahannock without further
accident, and, crossing near Orleans, came in sight of Mordaunt's
camp again, as the sun was sinking behind the Blue
Ridge.
Near the tent stood Mordaunt's powerful black horse, covered
with the foam of a hard journey, and as I dismounted, Mordaunt
issued forth, his uniform soiled with dust, apparently from the
same cause.
But I did not look at his uniform. The proud face riveted
my regard. Never have I seen upon human countenance a more
resplendent expression. Mordaunt's eyes were fairly radiant,
and his swarthy face glowed with passionate joy. There was
no mistaking that look. Here was a man whom some great
good fortune had made for the moment entirely happy.
“Good!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “Here you are, with the
air of a general who has just whipped the enemy, and cut him
to pieces, after a desperate struggle.”
“Ah?” was his reply with a dazzling look; “do you think so,
Surry? Am I then so gay?”
“You are positively radiant, my dear Mordaunt! Come, tell
me all about it!”
“About what, my dear, fanciful Surry? Upon my word,
you make me think, as I look at you, that one of my old maxims
is more than ever true.”
“What is that?”
“That when we are happy ourselves, the whole world seems
to be as fortunate, and every face beams with smiles!”
“Pshaw! Mordaunt—stop all that talk. Your eyes are really
dazzling—you laugh at any and every thing. Explain! explain!”
“I really have not time, Surry, even if I had any thing to tell
you.”
“What! are the enemy advancing?”
“No, but I have an engagement. I am waiting for a gentleman
who has an appointment with me in half an hour from this
time.”
“Ah? Can you mean—?”
“Our young friend Harry Saltoun? Certainly: you remember
my promise to him?”
“And this evening he is to meet you here?”
“Precisely—and hold! yonder he comes, before the hour!”
As Mordaunt spoke, the young officer was seen approaching
from the river; and very soon he had reached the spot where
we stood. Dismounting, he approached with a firm tread, and
saluted in turn both Mordaunt and myself. His air was grave,
stern, and resolute—his face gloomy and rigid—his eyes steady
and determined, but without menace. He seemed to feel that he
was near the accomplishment of his object, and was resolved to
go through with the work before him, without passion or any
thing like a scene.
Mordaunt greeted him with grave and stately courtesy, bowing
low in reply to his salute. As they thus stood facing each
other—the youth with his slender figure, his elegant proportions,
his classic face, and collected look—the elder with his tall
and athletic form, his face of bronze, and his proud and noble
glance—I thought that they were the most magnificent types
of youth and middle age which I had ever met with.
“You are punctual, Lieutenant Saltoun,” said Mordaunt, in the
same grave and courteous tone; “it is the politeness of kings
and of gentlemen.”
Saltoun bowed, but said nothing.
“Will you come into my tent, sir?” continued Mordaunt.
“Before making the arrangements which we have agreed upon,
I wish to say a very few words to you.”
The young man's face exhibited a gloomy surprise at these
words, but he simply inclined his head, and, entering the tent,
sat down.
“Will you do me the favor to be present at this interview,
Colonel Surry?” said Mordaunt, as I made a step toward my
horse; “I particularly desire it, and request Lieutenant Saltoun
to agree to my wishes.”
The young man slightly inclined his head—his eyes had never
relaxed their steady and gloomy expression—and I followed
Mordaunt into the tent.
He unbuckled his belt and laid his arms upon a desk, then
leaning his head upon his hand, he said, after a brief silence, and
in the same grave tone, as he gazed with a strange expression at
the youth:
“Before proceeding to make arrangements for the meeting
which you wish, Lieutenant Saltoun, I beg that you will listen to
a few words which it becomes my duty to pronounce. I am thirty-eight
years old, sir, and thus many years your senior. I have
seen in my time the death of many human beings, here and in
the old world. I do not like blood, and especially shrink from
myself shedding it: hence, I am compelled, sir, by my conscience—even
though I offend against every rule of the code—to
ask that you will give me, as gentleman to gentleman, some
explanation of your motive in thus defying me to mortal combat.”
He paused, and for an instant silence reigned. Then, in a
cold and gloomy voice, just touched with a sneer:
“Is it necessary to explain what an insult means, Colonel Mordaunt?”
said the young man. “I choose to offer you a defiance,
and you choose to accept it, as I expected. Therefore, you
fight!”
“I must fight!” exclaimed Mordaunt. “And for a word, a
groundless taunt, I must kill you!”
“Are you about to break your word, sir?” exclaimed the
young man with a fiery glance. “Beware, sir!”
“Do not threaten me, Lieutenant Saltoun,” was the grave reply;
“you ought to know that my nerves are steady, my repugnance
to this meeting not the result of timidity, but of genuine
and conscientious feeling. If you think me unreasonable, let
our friend—the friend of both—Colonel Surry—decide. I will
abide by his decision.”
Mordaunt turned to me as he spoke, and finding myself thus
appealed to, I said:
“There cannot be a moment's doubt of the propriety of
Colonel Mordaunt's request, Lieutenant Saltoun, and I certainly
think that you are bound to afford him this simple satisfaction
before you meet him, for the ease of his conscience. I declare
to you, upon my word as a man of honor, and the friend equally
of both, that I regard your compliance as imperative in foro
conscientiœ”
These words seemed to produce the desired effect upon the
young man. His face flushed—a flash darted from his eyes.
“Be it so,” he said. “I fight because Colonel Mordaunt has
outraged me—yes! has struck me mortally—to the very heart!”
And something almost like a groan tore its way through the
set teeth of the youth.
“I fight because he has made me wretched by his baseness—
has offered me a mortal insult by his action toward those I love!
—because but for him I would not be here with a broken heart,
an aimless life, a future dark and miserable!”
Not a muscle of Mordaunt's face had moved, but his eyes, as he
gazed at the flushed face of the young man, were resplendent.
“You mean that I have thwarted you in your affection for
Miss Grafton!” he exclaimed.
“I have not the remotest reference to Miss Grafton!” was
the stern reply; “there is something more beneath this black
affair than the love of a girl! There is more than rivalry,
Colonel Mordaunt—there is infamy!”
And with eyes which fairly blazed, the young man drew from
his bosom a paper which his moist hand clutched with savage
earnestness.
“You demand an explanation of my grounds of quarrel!” he
said; “you ask why I hate you, and intend to drive a bullet or
a sword's point through your heart! Well, you shall know, sir!
You shall not die in ignorance. Read! read, sir! There is the
the record of your infamy!”
And, trembling with passion, the young man held out the
paper, which shook in his stern grasp.
Mordaunt took it from his hand, leaned back in his chair, and
with not a trace of anger, but an air of unmistakable astonishment,
perused its contents.
As he did so, I could see a blush come to his cheek, his eyes
flashed—then grew calm again. When he had finished reading
the paper, he turned back, evidently examining the handwriting,
then he handed it to me, murmuring:
“He is not dead, then!”
The paper was in these words, written in a bold and vigorous
hand.
“Virginia,
April 15th, 1863.
“Lieutenant Saltoun:
“An unknown friend, who takes an interest in you, writes
these lines, to put you in possession of facts which it is proper
you should be acquainted with.
“Listen, sir. You think yourself the son of Mr. Henry
Saltoun, of Maryland. You are wrong. Your father and
mother are both dead—the victims of one man's ceaseless hatred
and persecution—following them to the very brink of the grave.
Would you know the facts in connection with them, and with
your life? Listen:—Your father, whose name you shall one
day know, lived near Frederick City, and was married, when he
reached the age of twenty-one, to a young lady whom he had
met in Virginia. Before he made her acquaintance she had been
pleased with a young Mr. Mordaunt—now Colonel Mordaunt, of
the Confederate cavalry—who loved her, but had never avowed
his love. Under these circumstances, your mother, then a girl
of only seventeen, was justified in accepting the addresses of
your father, and did accept them. They became engaged—were
married—and the happy pair went to live in Maryland.
“Now mark what followed. Your mother had broken no
faith with young Mordaunt—not a word of love had ever passed
between them—but no sooner had her marriage taken place,
than Mordaunt conceived a violent hatred against your mother
and father, charging the former with deception, and the latter,
who was merely a common acquaintance, with treachery. Possibly
you know Colonel Mordaunt personally—if so, you can understand
that, in a man of his violence of passion, hatred was,
soon succeeded by the desire for vengeance. Not only did that
thirst possess him, but his whole life soon became absorbed in plans
to wreak his hatred upon the happy couple. To achieve this
end, it was necessary to use caution and stratagem; and very
soon everybody was speaking of the touching friendship which
existed between Mordaunt and your father. Mordaunt paid long
visits to his successful rival; played with him for large sums;
lent him money whenever he wished it; and was apparently the
best friend of the family.
“In a year or two, the consequence of this fatal intimacy was
seen. Your father was a gentleman of the noblest character,
and the most liberal disposition—indeed generous to a fault, and
utterly careless in money matters. Mordaunt never asked for
the sums which he had won at cards—he took a note for the
amount, without looking at it, apparently. He never demanded
repayment of money lent—but he had your father's bonds. All
went on as smoothly as possible, not a cloud obscured the friendship
of the two intimates—but, one morning about two years
after the marriage, Mordaunt asked for payment of the sums due
him. A frightful mass of debt at once stared your father in the
face, and he saw that he was utterly ruined if Mordaunt forced
payment—but there could surely be no fear of that! His good
friend Mordaunt loved him too well to thus ruin him—it was
impossible that he could have the heart to press his claims—so
he laughed and asked for time. Mordaunt grew stormy, and in a
moment the smiling friend was a Shylock. `Pay what you owe
me!' was his unchanging reply; and even when the poor, sick
wife—soon to be your mother, sir—went to Mordaunt and besought
him to have mercy, he refused. The person who related
these events declared that she knelt to him, and that he spurned
her; but this is probably exaggerated.
“Mordaunt's vengeance was now about to be sated. He acted
promptly. Your father's estate was sold to satisfy a deed of
trust upon it, which his enemy held—other claims swept away
every vestige of property which the young married pair owned
—and in the freezing winter of 1844, your father and mother
were driven fom their home, and forced to seek refuge in an
almost roofless cabin in the neighborhood. Here they lived
with an old negress who had followed their fortunes, and now
slaved for them—but soon her care was not necessary. Your
mother, broken-hearted, and worn to a shadow by distress or
exposure to the chill blasts of winter, died in giving you birth;
and three weeks afterward your father followed her. Before
his death, however, he had an interview with Mordaunt, who
now occupied the house in which he had formerly been a guest.
Your father went to beg—yes, to beg—a small pittance for his
infant son—yourself; went in rags, and humbly, to his former
friend; and that friend rose from his wine, to go out to the door
where the beggar—your father—stood, and refuse, insult, and
strike him. When your father sprang at him, and caught him
by the throat, it was the negroes, Mordaunt's servants, who
hurled him through the door, and slammed it in his face!
“I have nearly done, sir. The rest may be soon told. Your
father followed your mother, and you were left a helpless infant,
with no friend but the old negress—with no friend, but with an
enemy. More than one threat of Mordaunt against you reached
the old woman's ears, and fearing the power and cunning of
this implacable man, the old negress one night took you in her
arms, walked many miles to the house of a rich and childless
gentleman, whose excellent wife was known through all the
country for her kindness; and at daylight you were deposited
at the door of Mr. Saltoun, and duly discovered by his wife.
“You know the rest. You were brought up as his son, but
must have suspected more than once, from some careless speech
or reference, that you were not such. When the war broke out,
you entered the Southern army—and a strange fate has thrown
you with the murderer of your father and mother.
“Such is your real history. You may say that this statement
comes from an unknown source, and may be false throughout.
Be it so. The writer of these lines must rest under that imputation,
for to sign his name here would subject him to the
vengeance of the man whom he has exposed. He may even
know my handwriting, and I would beg you not to let it meet
his eye. One proof of the truth of what I utter I can afford
you. Go to Colonel Mordaunt—look him in the eyes—say,
`What has become of Frances Carleton?'—and mark his face as
you speak. Anger brings a flush to the cheek—the consciousness
of infamy, a deep pallor. If he turns pale at that name,
you can form your own opinion.
“Mordaunt is the murderer of your father and your mother—
the name of the former you shall one day know. I reveal this
mystery, because you ought to know it, to guide your action
after the war. At present you cannot fight Colonel Mordaunt—
he is your superior, and would punish you for even proposing
such a thing, unless you offer him such an insult as will arouse
his hot blood.
“Of that you must be the judge. Be cool, be cautious, but
remember your wrongs!
There was the letter. I dropped it in a maze of wonder.
What hand could have framed this web of incredible ingenuity
—of diabolical falsehood? The father of lies himself might
have envied the consummate skill of the secret enemy who concocted
this story—and, after reading the contents of the paper,
I remained in a state of stuyid astonishment until I was aroused
by the voice of Mordaunt.
“You see I did not kill him, after all, Surry,” he said; “and
this letter is his great blow in return for my lunge that night!”
“Fenwick!” I exclaimed; “did Fenwick write that?”
“Yes—it is in his handwriting, and here is the date: not a
fortnight ago. But we will speak of this hereafter. I have
something else to occupy me now.”
And, as he spoke, Mordaunt looked at young Harry Saltoun,
who remained cold, silent, and threatening.
That glance sent a thrill to my very heart, and filled me with
vague and trembling emotion. What did it mean? I knew not,
but I knew that it was as rapid and dazzling as the lightning
itself.
