University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
COUNTRY LODGINGS—A DISCOVERY.

Persever was soon joined by his family, and during
their brief residence in the country, life seemed sweeter to
them than it had done at the same season in the city. The
rising lawyer resolved, as soon as he had accumulated
a sufficiency of wealth, to spend all his summers upon a
small farm of his own; and his wife and children were
already eloquent in their descriptions of the fruits and
flowers they would have.

It would not, perhaps, be an exaggeration to say, that
during the sojourn of the lawyer and his family at the
humble abode of Tim and Betty, they never failed to sit
down to a table more bountifully supplied with the things
which their appetites most coveted, than they had ever
been accustomed to elsewhere. Not only everything desirable,
which Tim's and Betty's industry produced, but
the entire range of rich and fresh delicacies that the moderate
domain of Timothy Hay yielded, were brought forward
in profusion, and imposed, without price, on the guests
from the city. The only drawback to Persever's enjoyment,
if indeed anything could detract from it, was the
well-meaning but untiring zeal of Tim in exhibiting his
fields, his crops, his cattle, his fowls, his fruits, etc. He
had delighted followers and auditors in the children; but
the father sometimes was reluctant to abandon his books
and pleas, merely to admire the running brooks and growing
peas.

One morning, when Ned and Charles were sitting with
Persever around a table filled with books, time-stained
parchments, and other insignia of the legal profession,
they beheld Tim and Timothy approaching the house, with
evidences of satisfaction in their faces.

“Now we shall be interrupted,” said Persever. “Tim
is coming to show me something; his pigs or chickens, I
suppose.”

“Oh, no!” said Ned, much interested in the subject

they had been discussing. “I will dispose of Tim. Let
me put him off.”

“But they have evidently been preparing a sight for
us, and it would be cruel to disappoint them. Timothy
Hay, you see, is with him. He is the happiest man I
know. Honest, industrious, and always smiling. Why
don't you poets immortalize such characters, as they did
in old times, in their pastorals? We have no pastoral
poets! Give us your `wood-notes wild,' and we'll crown
you with bays. That Timothy Hay could be made to
afford a valuable lesson. Look at his rosy face, his merry
eye, his smooth brow, his powerful chest, and his raven
black hair, while, no doubt, his age is not less than forty.
Ah, boys! the happy nature which enjoys the sweets of
life, and avoids its bitterness, is, after all, the best of treasures.
That man is the true philosopher without knowing
it. His innocent merriment is the talisman that unwinds
the yarn of existence which reeling time would bring to an
end. Age don't affect him. His is a perennial youth.
But here they are.”

“Come, gentlemen, if you please,” said Tim, timidly
opening the door. “I'm werry anxious to show you Betty's
calves. Neighbour Hay says they are worth looking
at. They're in the orchard, close to the garden.”

“We'll be there presently, Tim,” said Ned; “as soon
as we finish looking over some old documents we have
here.”

“In the meantime, Tim,” said Persever, “you can get
Mrs. Persever to examine the calves. She's quite as good
a judge of such things as I am. But we will follow
soon.”

“Yes, sir. We'll wait for you in the orchard.”

“Tim!” continued Persever, calling him back, after he
had closed the door. “Tim, I have found some old letters
and fragments of books in the closet here. Were they left
in the house by the former occupant?”

“What! that old trash?” exclaimed Tim, stepping in,
and pointing to the leaves of an old bible on the table, and
the heavy and blackened lids that had once enclosed
them.

“Yes; and the letters in the closet. directed to Susannah
Meek.”

“That old rubbish? No! I found 'em in an old oak
box my mother used to have. Betty made me bring 'em
up here. I was a-going to burn 'em once, but she hendered
me. She said bank notes might 've been hid in 'em, but
she couldn't find any. I would 've burnt 'em, if I'd a
known what company we was to have here!”

“Then you would have done wrong. Never burn any
document, written or printed, not of your own production.
That's all, Tim,” said Persever, “I wont detain you any
longer from the calves.”

“Mr. Persever!” said Ned, who had taken up the old
lids of the bible, and had been reading the inscriptions
written on the fly-leaves by different hands, “here is something
which has made a thrill run through me. Look at
that name!”

It was the name of “Edward Parke,” written in a
plain round hand, with all the evidences of antiquity; and
underneath were a few lines, as follows: “Presented to
his disobedient daughter Susannah, who married Hewling
against his consent, and now desires assistance. May she
find comfort in the truths this volume teaches.”

“And here's the whole story!” exclaimed the quick-scented
lawyer, opening the bunch of old leaves between
the ending of the old and the beginning of the new testament.
He read as follows:

“Susannah Hewling, daughter of Edward Parke, of
Philadelphia, and formerly of Hungers' parish, Virginia,
received this inestimable treasure as the only legacy from
her father. She married the man her parent disliked—
but she loved him, to wit: Wm. Hewling, of Summerton,
in the Jerseys. She writes this in illness. She may die
soon. And if so, she desires that this poor verse of her
composing may be inscribed on her tombstone:

In another hand was the following:

“Susannah, sole surviving child of Susannah and Wm.

Hewling, was married to Wm. Day, of Philadelphia,
anno 1775.

In still a different hand, but likewise by a female, was
the following:

“Mary, sole surviving child of Susannah and Wm. Day,
was married to Richard Meek, of Philadelphia, in 1810.
It is now 1820, and I am a widow, with one child, my poor
Susan. I am sinking under an incurable disease, and the
doctor promises nothing. Although very poor, in consequence
of the disobedience of my grandmother, we have
rich relatives in the city, and if any of them should die
without heirs, this record might be of use to my daughter.
I shall leave it in the keeping of the faithful Margery
Trudge, Susan's nurse.”

“Stop, stop, Ned!” cried Persever, seizing the young
man's wrists. “Be calm; don't mingle any of your poetic
ecstacies with matters of this sort. This is business for
me; and business and poetry never did prosper together.
Don't be excited. Don't excite others. It will all amount
to nothing perhaps. See how composed Montague is. He
has the best nerves.”

“But Susan! Susan must know it! Let me go to
her!”

“No.”

“Take Mr. Persever's advice, Ned,” said Charles.

“Of course he will. He shall!” said Persever, smiling.

“Oh yes,” said Ned, pale, though not trembling quite
so violently as he had been doing a moment before.
“But there can be no good reason for withholding this
discovery from Susan.”

“But there can be,” said Persever. “If we can prove
everything written here; or if this record be received as
evidence, then Susan gets the hundred thousand dollars,
belonging to Daniel L. Parke. If the discovery gets wind,
Bainton and Mallex may forestall us.”

“It was not the fortune that excited me,” said Ned,
“but the joy, the felicity of knowing that Susan and
I were relatives. Oh, merciful God! I thank thee, that
thou hast spared me one of my blood, and one so worthy
to be loved and cherished! To thee, Susan—”

“Go on,” said Persever, interrupting him; “the evidence

is sufficient for that. The circumstances furnish as conclusive
proof of your consanguinity, as a marriage certificate
does of the legitimacy of an heir. Go on, Ned; utter
thanks to heaven, and praises of Susan. If she had been
your mother she could not have loved you more tenderly.
But don't defeat me. I am after five or ten thousand of
that fortune for my own share, which I can't touch without
you and Susan, or perhaps I ought to say Susan, get the
balance.”

“My noble, generous friend, I know you will succeed!
It was for this purpose that a wise Providence directed
everything. Hereafter I shall rely upon Him, who created
and directs all things, to vindicate my cause, and remedy
the evils I may suffer, never again presuming to take the
remedy in my own hands. Such was the injunction I
received this very morning from the lips of the venerated
president of the college. Little did I then suppose that I
should so soon have such a convincing demonstration of
the verity and wisdom of his parental instruction.”

“Mr. Perseverance—Mrs. P. says that ain't it—it's
Persevere—Mr. Persevere!” continued Tim, opening the
door.

“Well, Tim, I am persevering,” said the lawyer.

“That's it, too. Mrs. P. sent me back to know what
Mr. Persevere was persevering in, and why he don't come
out and see Betty's fine calves.

“I'll come—we'll all come and look at them. Timothy
Hay says they are the largest in the country for their
age.”

“And Timothy Hay has inwited Mrs. P. and all o' you
over to his place to see his clover field and his shangys;
and Mrs. P. says she'll go.”

“She may. But Tim, I have a favour to ask of
you—”

“It's granted, Mr. Persevere! Now don't say any more
about it.”

“But you don't know what it is. I have found something
in this old bible and in the letters which has interested
me, and I want to borrow them—Not a word, Ned;
turn your back to him,” he added aside to our hero, who
was about to utter something or other which might have
betrayed his ill-suppressed perturbation.

“What! those old yaller letters, and that black bible with
the stuffen spilt out? Is that the sort of favour you ask?
Maybe you'll ask permission next to pick up some of the
curled old shoe leather laying about the barn yard. Howsoever
if you want these old trumpery things, jest take 'em
and welcome. Why if you had asked for one of Betty's
calves—”

“Thank you, Tim. We'll go with you, now. Lead the
way to the orchard.”

Charles was introduced to Mrs. Persever, who soon after
asked Ned in a whisper if his friend was not in dreadful
health. Ned said he was a poet and a student, which
might account for his paleness. But Mrs. P. said it did
not satisfactorily account for his cough. She admired his
manners, his conversation, and was pleased to have met
with him.

Of course the party praised the calves, and admired
everything else that was shown them. To have done less
would have evinced a lack of judgment, for every specimen
was most admirable. Thus Tim and Betty were made
very happy, and honest Timothy, from generous sympathy,
participated in the delight.

When the inspection was over, Mrs. P. and the kind
hearted farmer permitted Persever and Ned to depart for
the village, on the plea of an engagement, on condition
that Montague should remain and accompany them to the
premises of Timothy Hay. The proposition was seconded
by the poet himself, who became a voluntary hostage,
pledged to remain until the return of the others.

As the thoughtful lawyer and his young friend were
passing Susan's house, it was with difficulty that the latter
could be restrained from going in.

“Don't stop, Ned. Let us go straight on to the old
graveyard.”

“I won't even utter a hint of this discovery,” said Ned.
“I merely desire to show her my face. Since that
mournful interview at Lonsdale's mansion, she has not even
seen me smile, and she suffers painful apprehensions on my
account.”

“No. I can't trust you. The change in your spirits, a
more than orninary pressure of the hand, without even a

hint at this business being uttered, may beget surmises,
excite curiosity, and defeat our purpose. Let us first
secure the prize—that is, prevent its escape—and then we
may make open demonstrations. There are many things
to be considered, much to be done, and perhaps more to be
avoided. Come on. Cast no looks behind towards your
aunt, as you call her, but she is, I suppose, a sort of
cousin. Now, if her right be established, what becomes of
your pretensions, both as regards your legitimacy and the
fortune of John Parke deceased? Don't you see that her
success is your defeat?”

“No matter! Only raise her to a condition of affluence
and I will be satisfied. So that I am content with the
manner of my derivation I care not what the world may
think. I ask nothing of the world on the score of my
parentage. I will achieve fortune and win a good name by
my own exertions and conduct. Only let me see Susan
independent—”

“Of course, in that event, it would be hereafter as it
has been heretofore, with Susan. You are her heir.
Whatever is hers is yours.”

“True, sir. If she were my mother, she could not be
more careful of my welfare, or deeply interested in my
success and happiness. But surely, if she is to be your
client, you will have to get authority from her, before you
can proceed in this business. And then she must be informed
all about it. I know how happy the acquisition of
fortune will make her. The first thought will be for Tim.
He must be owner of the farm he cultivates. I know
Susan's disposition. Her happiness will be derived from
the anticipated enjoyment of others—”

“Ned, have you forgotten the fable in the spelling book,
wherein a certain damsel let fall her bucket of milk?
Don't let your thoughts have so free a rein. We must first
think how this fortune is to be secured. It will be time
enough to consider how it is to be expended after it is obtained.
I must consult an older lawyer than myself.
Everything must be weighed well and thoroughly considered
before the first move is made. But here we are at
the church-yard. I trust no one will suspect our object.”

“You need not fear it, sir; how can they?”

“I don't know. But we must be circumspect. What a
city of the dead! There is a dense population here!” said
Persever, when they had reached the centre of the yard
and stood surveying the marble monuments, slabs and perpendicular
stones.

“Let us seek the darkest and oldest,” said Ned. They
did so. For more than an hour they were busily engaged
reading the inscriptions on the moss-covered stones. Some
of these precious mementos were nearly defaced by time,
indicating either the extinction or the neglect of relations
and friends in the vicinity. Others, again, although
nearly one hundred and fifty years had elapsed since they
were carved, remained quite as legible as they had ever
been. Many a fresh sodded mound was strewn with flowers,
or garlanded with roses.

“Here it is, by Jupiter!” exclaimed Persever, who had
wandered a few paces away, seeing Ned had become pensive,
and poetically meditative, forgetting in his distraction
the object of their visit, and ceasing to search for old
inscriptions.

“Is it possible?” cried Ned, aroused from his reverie.

“It is as plain as the nose on your face, which is certainly
long enough to be distinguished by almost any eyes
under the age of ninety.”

True enough. The lines written in the old bible by
Susannah Hewling were all there, near a clump of evergreen
trees, which tastefully contributed to the peaceful
seclusion of the place. Above the verses quoted was the
following: “In memory of Susannah Hewling, who departed
this life September ye 6 A. D., 1754, aged 28
years.”

Ned gazed some moments in silence, swayed by the
reflection that he stood near the dust of one of his own
kindred. One who, like himself, had been abandoned by
those to whom it was natural to look for protection; and
who, in all probability, had suffered much in life and finally
died of a broken heart.

“This is almost what we lawyers call a “clincher,” Ned!
said Persever. “The links are well connected. This is
the hook that fastens the chain to the parent stock. Hist!
I hear some one in our vicinity,” he continued, in a whisper.

“I know you! I know who you are!” cried a sweet little
girl, of eight years, and niece of Elgiva, who burst from
the hand that sought to withhold her in the embowering
evergreens. She ran to Ned and seized his hand.

“Lily! you have surprised me,” said Ned, caressing the
beautiful child. “Surely you are not in the habit of visiting
this place alone?”

“Oh, no, sir! I should be frightened to come here alone.
My aunt came with me.”

“I am discovered,” said Elgiva, emerging from the
trees; “but you must not suppose, Mr. Lorn, that I came
hither to make discoveries or to be discovered. Once a
week I visit the grave of a dear friend, who was a member
of my class at the Hall.”

Ned introduced Persever, and then the whole party
turned in the direction of the grave Elgiva had referred
to. It was fragrant with the perfume of flowers planted
there by the fair hands of the surviving friend.

“You admire the buds and blossoms, gentlemen,” said
Elgiva, smiling sadly, while upon each of her long eyelashes
trembled a crystal tear, like the pure dew drop of
the morning, “but if you had seen and known the poor
Viola, you would admit that no flower could compare with
herself in the freshness of early bloom; and that the emblems
of innocence I have strewn around her dust are but
as the faint shadows of a once matchless, but alas! unsubstantial
substance. She was too bright to live, too pure
for earth. We were bosom friends. We had studied together,
shared each other's hopes, joys and disappointments.
We formed plans for the future, wherein we were not to be
separated—but, alas! you see what was to be her fate.
Yet, when lingering near her dust, it seems to me that the
place is revisited by her spirit, and all the hallowed memories
of our communings return to me.”

Neither Persever nor Ned had manifested by a look or
motion a desire to divert the thoughts of the fair mourner
from the subject which afforded her a melancholy pleasure.
As she spoke, she never ceased to strew the leaves of roses
on the grave, and was unconscious of the interest she created
in the eyes of her auditors. They could not avoid
being struck with her perfectly symmetrical form, her graceful

attitude, her noble features, her fair face and snowy
hands, as she cast the emblems of innocence upon the grave
of the departed.

“Gentlemen,” said she, when she ceased her accustomed
tribute to the memory of her beloved friend, “I have made
known to you the object of my pilgrimage hither, because
I have been an involuntary listener to the words you
uttered at yonder ancient headstone. You need not fear
to trust me; or rather, you may rely upon my discretion.
I believe I have some knowledge of the history of the poor
wife and mother who lies beneath that sod. Brokenhearted,
she died at an early age. She was the daughter
of a wealthy gentleman, of an ancestor of yours, Mr.
Lorn—”

“You could not have understood from the words I—”
said Persever.

“No. I should not have understood you,” said Elgiva,
quickly, but for the tradition preserved in the memory of the
wonderful Mrs. B—, who entertained me only last evening
with narations of events that occurred many years
ago.”

“Mrs. B—! I have often heard of her extraordinary
memory for one of her extreme age,” said Persever,
eager now for the fair mourner to pursue the subject.

Elgiva said she had been informed by Mrs. B. of many
occurrences in connection with the marriage of the lady
whose tombstone the gentleman had been examining. How
the descendants of poor Susannah had struggled against ill
fortune, while the members of the other branch of the
family enjoyed all the blessings of prosperity until the
deprivation of Edward—”

“Meaning me?” asked Ned.

“Yes, sir. The old lady says there can be no doubt
that you are truly the last remaining male descendant of
the father of the unfortunate Susannah. She has had Susan
Mulvany to relate all she knows on the subject without disclosing
her object, which only confirms her own opinion. And
since her interview with Susan she believes, from certain coincidences,
as well as the instincts which impelled Susan to
act as she did, that she must be a descendant of the poor
Susannah. But of this—too late I recollect it!—she warned

me not to speak, because, as she said, it might encourage
hopes never to be realized.”

“I am glad of it!” said Persever. “Miss Bloomville,”
he continued, “we have reason to believe that Mrs. B.'s
conjectures are perfectly well founded. We have a chain
of evidence, sufficient, in my mind, to establish the important
fact in regard to Susan's descent from this Susannah.
But extreme caution and profound secrecy will be requisite
in taking our initiatory steps. I am glad we can rely with
confidence on your discretion—”

“You may, sir,” said Elgiva, smiling. “I cannot, certainly,
sympathize with the adverse party, if there be such,
who would seek to suppress the truth or oppose the cause of
justice. Although an accidental confidant, Mr. Lorn,” she
added, smiling, “I think you may rely upon it that I shall
not be disposed to assume the attitude of an enemy.”

“I do rely upon it!” said Ned, warmly. “And more, I
am happy in the confident belief that you will be my friend.”

“You may believe so—trustfully believe so,” said she,
as they moved away slowly towards the church. “For,” she
continued, “if what I have learned be true, you have enemies
enough, and dangerous ones too.”

“You allude to the rumoured duel,” said Persever. “I
will tell you all about it—but, remember, it must likewise
be strictly in confidence.” He did so, and the young
lady was surprised and pleased to learn that Ned had not
fought at all, nor had he intended to fight. And she
laughed heartily at the description of the termination of
the affair.

When about to separate at the gate which led into the
broad thoroughfare where the cars were thundering past,
Elgiva, turning suddenly to Ned, reminded him that he
had not yet brought his friend Charles Montague with him,
to listen to her poor music.

“Not yet,” said Ned; “but it is my intention to do so,
if I can prevail on him to accompany me.”

“Will it be so difficult?”

“It is probable. He is sensitive and difficult of access
—he is young, poor like myself, and eccentric like other
poets. Hence he declares it is a terror for him to meditate
an encounter with—with—”

“Poor, fearful youth! But really, sir, when I look at
that pale young man sitting in the church, I am reminded
of Viola. There is a striking resemblance of feature—”

“Happy man!” said Persever, smiling. “What a powerful
auxiliary he would have to plead—”

“You are thinking about gaining suits, sir, no doubt,”
she replied. “But I am thinking of grave matters. The
young man not only resembles Viola in features and expression,
but in the fatal malady, as it appears to me, which
terminated her existence. His cough sounds precisely
similar, and the flush that accompanies it is the same.”
She then called Lily, who had lingered, culling flowers, to
her side, and bowing to the gentlemen, pursued her direction
homewards.

“Mr. Persever,” said Ned, as the two approached the
residence of Susan, “she who is the most deeply interested
in this matter; who watched over my helpless infancy;
supported me, instructed me, guarded me—”

“Should be informed of everything,” said Persever.
“That's what you would say. I yield. She will not endanger
the cause.”