IV.

THE BLANDFORD RUINS.

These memories are not cheerful. Let us pass to scenes more sunny--and

there were many in that depressing epoch. The cloud was dark--but in

spite of General Grant, the sun would shine sometimes!

After reading the _Examiner’s_ comments, I mounted my horse and rode

into Petersburg, where I spent a pleasant hour in conversation with

a friend, Captain Max. Do you laugh still, my dear Max? Health and

happiness attend you and yours, my hearty!

As I got into the saddle again, the enemy began a brisk shelling. The

shell skimmed the roofs of the houses, with an unearthly scream; and one

struck a chimney which it hurled down with a tremendous crash. In spite

of all, however, the streets were filled with young women, who continued

to walk quietly, or to trip along laughing and careless, to buy a riband

or some trifle at the stores.[1] That seemed singular then, and seems

more singular to-day. But there is nothing like being accustomed to

any thing--and the shelling had now “lost its interest,” and troubled

nobody.

[Footnote 1: Real.]

“Good!” I said, laughing, “our friends yonder are paying us their

respects to-day. They have dined probably on the tons of turkey sent

from New England, and are amusing themselves shelling us by way of

dessert.”

And wishing to have a better view of the lines, I rode toward Blandford.

Do you remember the ivy-draped ruins of the old “Blandford church,”

my dear reader? This is one of our Virginia antiquities, and is

worth seeing. Around the ruins the large graveyard is full of elegant

tombstones. Many are shattered to-day, however, by the Federal shell, as

the spot was near the breastworks, and in full range of their artillery.

In fact it was not a place to visit in the fall of 1864, unless you were

fond of shell and a stray bullet. I was somewhat surprised, therefore,

as I rode into the enclosure--with a hot skirmish going on a few hundred

yards off--to see a young officer and a maiden sitting on a grass

bank, beneath a larch tree, and conversing in the most careless manner

imaginable.[1]

[Footnote 1: Real.]

Who were these calmly indifferent personages? Their backs were turned,

and I could only see that the young lady had a profusion of auburn hair.

Having dismounted, and approached, I made another discovery. The youth

was holding the maiden’s hand, and looking with flushed cheeks into her

eyes--while she hung her head, the ringlets rippling over her cheeks,

and played absently with some wild flowers, which she held between her

fingers.

The “situation” was plain. “Lovers,” I said to myself; “let me not

disturb the young ones!”

And I turned to walk away without attracting their attention.

Unfortunately, however, a shell at that instant screamed over the ruin;

the young girl raised her head with simple curiosity--not a particle of

fear evidently--to watch the course of the missile; and, as the youth

executed the like manoeuvre, they both became aware of my presence at

the same moment.

The result was, that a hearty laugh echoed among the tombstones; and

that the youth and maiden rose, hastening rapidly toward me.

An instant afterward I was pressing the hand of Katy Dare, whom I had

left near Buckland, and that of Tom Herbert, whom I had not seen since

the fatal day of Yellow Tavern.

V.

LES FORTUNÉS.

The auburn ringlets of Katy Dare were as glossy as ever; her blue eyes

had still the charming archness which had made me love her from the

first. Indeed her demeanor toward me had been full of such winning

sweetness that it made me her captive; and I now pressed the little

hand, and looked into the pretty blushing face with the sentiment which

I should have experienced toward some favorite niece.

Katy made you feel thus by her artless and warm-hearted smile. How

refrain from loving one whose blue eyes laughed like her lips, and whose

glances said, “I am happier since you came!”

And Tom was equally friendly; his face radiant, his appearance

distinguished. He was clad in a new uniform, half covered with gold

braid. His hat was decorated with a magnificent black plume. His cavalry

boots, reaching to the knee, were small, delicate, and of the finest

leather. At a moderate estimation, Tom’s costume must have cost him

three thousand dollars!--Happy Tom!

He grasped my hand with a warmth which evidently came straight from the

heart; for he had a heart--that dandy!

“Hurrah! old fellow; here you are!” Tom cried, laughing. “You came upon

us as suddenly as if you had descended from heaven!”

“Whither you would like to send me back! Am I wrong, Tom?”

And I shot a glance of ancient and paternal affection at these two young

things, whose _tete-à-tete_ I had interrupted.

Katy blushed beautifully, and then ended by laughing. Tom caressed his

slender mustache, and said:---

“My dear fellow, I certainly should like to go to heaven--consequently

to send my friends there--but if it is all the same to everybody, I

think I would prefer--hem!--deferring the journey for a brief period, my

boy.”

“Until an angel is ready to go with you!”

And I glanced at the angel with the ringlets.

“Ah, my dear Surry!” said Tom, smoothing his chin with his hand, “you

really have a genius for repartee which is intolerable, and not to be

endured!”

“Let the angel sit in judgment!”

“Oh, you have most ‘damnable iteration!’”

“I learned it all from you.”

“From me, my boy?”

“Certainly--see the beauty of repetition in poetry.”

And looking at the damsel, I began to repeat--

“Katy! Katy!

Don’t marry any other!

You’ll break my heart, and kill me dead,

And then be hanged for murder!”

The amount of blushing, laughter, pouting, good humor, and hilarity

generally, which this poem occasioned, was charming. In a few minutes we

were all seated again on the grassy bank, and Tom had given me a history

of his adventures, which had not been either numerous or remarkable. He

had been assigned to duty on the staff of General Fitzhugh Lee, and it

was delightful to hear his enthusiasm on the subject of that gay and

gallant officer.

“I tell you he’s a trump, old fellow,” quoth Tom, with ardor. “He’s as

brave as steel, a first-rate officer, a thorough gentleman, generous,

kind, and as jolly as a lark! Give me Fitz Lee to fight with, or march

with, or hear laugh! He was shot in the Valley, and I have been with him

in Richmond. In spite of his wound, which is a severe one, he is as gay

as the sunshine, and it would put you in good spirits only to go into

his chamber!”

“I know General Fitz well, Tom,” I replied, “and you are right about

him; every word you say is true, and more to boot, old fellow. So you

are cruising around now, waiting for your chief to recover?”

“Exactly, my dear Surry.”

“And have captured the barque _Katy!_”

“Humph!” quoth Miss Katy, tossing her head, with a blush and a laugh.

“Beware of pirates,” I said, “who make threats even in their

verses,--and now tell me, Miss Katy, if you are on a visit to

Petersburg? It will give me true pleasure to come and see you.”

“Indeed you must!” she said, looking at me with the most fascinating

smile, “for you know you are one of my old friends now, and must not

neglect me. I am at my aunt’s, Mrs. Hall,--uncle brought me a month

ago from Buckland; but in the morning I shall go down to a cousin’s in

Dinwiddie.”

“In Dinwiddie, Miss Katy?”

“Yes, near the Rowanty. My cousin, Mr. Dare, has come for me.”

“Well, I will visit you there.”

“Please do. The house is called ‘Disaway’s.’”

I bowed, smiling, and turned to Tom Herbert.

“When shall I see you again, Tom, and where? Next week--at Disaway’s?”

Tom colored and then laughed. This dandy, you see, was a good boy still.

“Well, old fellow,” he replied, “I think it possible I may visit

Dinwiddie. My respected chieftain, General Fitz, is at present reposing

on his couch in Richmond, and I am bearer of bouquets as well as of

dispatches between him and his surgeon. But I am told he is ordered to

Dinwiddie as soon as he is up. The country is a new one; the thought

has occurred to me that any information I can acquire by--hem!--a

topographical survey, would be valuable. You perceive, do you not, my

dear friend? You appreciate my motive?”

“Perfectly, Tom. There will probably be a battle near ‘Disaway’s.’”

“And I’d better ride over the ground, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll do it!”

“Only beware of one thing!”

“What, my dear Surry?” asked Tom, anxiously.

“There is probably a conservatory at Disaway’s.”

“A conservatory?”

“Like that near Buckland, and the battle might take place _there_. If it

does--two to one you are routed!”

Katy blushed exquisitely, smiled demurely, and burst into laughter. Then

catching my eye she raised her finger, and shook her head with sedate

reproach, looking at Tom. He was laughing.

“All right, I’ll look out, Surry!”

“Resolve on one thing, Tom.”

“What is that?”

“That you will never surrender, but be taken in arms!”

With which mild and inoffensive joke I shook hands with Tom, informing

him where to find me; made Miss Katy a bow, which she returned with

a charming smile and a little inclination which shook together her

ringlets; and then leaving the young people to themselves, I mounted my

horse, and returned to the Cedars.

All the way I was smiling. A charming influence had descended upon me.

The day was brighter, the sunshine gayer, for the sight of the young

fellow, and the pretty little maiden, with her blue eyes, like the

skies, and her ringlets of silken gold!

VI.

ON THE BANKS OF THE ROWANTY.

When I again set out for the cavalry, a few days after the scene at

Blandford church, the youth and sunshine of those two faces still dwelt

in my memory, and I went along smiling and happy.

Not even the scenes on the late battle-field beyond the Rowanty, made

my mood gloomy; and yet these were not gay. Graves were seen everywhere;

the fences were broken down; the houses riddled by balls; and in the

trampled roads and fields negroes were skinning the dead horses, to

make shoes of their hides. On the animals already stripped sat huge

turkey-buzzards feeding. My horse shied as the black vultures rose

suddenly on flapping wings. They only circled around, however, sailing

back as I disappeared.

Such is war, reader,--a charming panorama of dead bodies and vultures!

Turning into the Quaker road, I went on until I reached the

head-quarters of General William H.F. Lee, opposite Monk’s Neck. Here,

under the crest of a protecting hill, where the pine thickets afforded

him shelter from the wind, that gallant soldier had “set up his

rest”--that is to say a canvass fly, one end of which was closed with a

thick-woven screen of evergreens. My visit was delightful, and I shall

always remember it with pleasure. Where are you to-day, general,

and good comrades of the old staff? You used to laugh as hard as you

fought--so your merriment was immense! Heaven grant that to-day, when

the bugles are silent, the sabres rusting, you are laughing as in the

days I remember!

Declining the friendly invitation to spend the night, I went on in the

afternoon; and on my way was further enlivened by a gay scene which

makes me smile even to-day. It was in passing General Butler’s

headquarters near the Rowanty. In the woods gleamed his white tents;

before them stretched the level sandy road; a crowd of staff officers

and others, with the general in their midst, were admiring two glossy

ponies, led up by two small urchins, evidently about to run a race on

them.

Butler--that brave soldier, whom all admired as much as I did--was

limping about, in consequence of a wound received at Fleetwood. In the

excitement of the approaching race he had forgotten his hurt. And

soon the urchins were tossed up on the backs of their little glossy

steeds--minus all but bridle. Then they took their positions about three

hundred yards off; remained an instant abreast and motionless; then a

clapping of hands was heard--it was the signal to start--and the ponies

came on like lightning.

The sight was comic beyond expression. The boys clung with their knees,

bending over the floating manes; the little animals darted by; they

disappeared in the woods “amid thunders of applause;” and it was

announced that the roan pony had won.

“Trifles,” you say, perhaps, reader; “why don’t our friend, the colonel,

go on with his narrative?”

True,--the reproach is just. But these trifles cling so to the memory!

I like to recall them--to review the old scenes--to paint the “trifles”

even, which caught my attention during the great civil war. This is

not a history, friend--only a poor little memoir. I show you our daily

lives, more than the “great events” of history. That is the way the

brave Butler and his South Carolinians amused themselves--and the figure

of this soldier is worth placing amid my group of “paladins.” He was

brave--none was braver; thoroughbred--I never saw a man more so. His

sword had flashed at Fleetwood, and in a hundred other fights; and it

was going to flash to the end.

I pushed on after the pony race, and very soon had penetrated the belt

of shadowy pines which clothe the banks of the Rowanty, making of this

country a wilderness as singular almost as that of Spottsylvania.

Only here and there appeared a small house, similar to that of Mr.

Alibi’s--all else was woods, woods, woods! Through the thicket wound

the “military road” of General Hampton; and I soon found that

his head-quarters were at a spot which I had promised myself to

visit--“Disaway’s.”

Two hours’ ride brought me to the place. Disaway’s was an old mansion,

standing on a hill above the Rowanty, near the “Halifax bridge,” by

which the great road from Petersburg to North Carolina crosses the

stream. It was a building of considerable size, with wings, numerous

gables, and a portico; and was overshadowed by great oaks, beneath which

gleamed the tents of Hampton and his staff.

As I rode up the hill, the staff came out to welcome me. I had known

these brave gentlemen well, when with Stuart, and they were good enough,

now, to give me the right hand of fellowship,--to receive me for old

times’ sake, with “distinguished consideration.” The general was as

cordial as his military family--and in ten minutes I was seated and

conversing with him, beneath the great oak.

A charming cordiality inspired the words and countenance of the great

soldier. Nearly four years have passed, but I remember still his

courteous smile and friendly accents.

All at once, the figure of a young woman appeared in the doorway. At a

glance I recognized the golden ringlets of Katy Dare. She beckoned

to me, smiling; I rose and hastened to greet her; in a moment we were

seated upon the portico, conversing like old friends.

There was something fascinating in this child. The little maiden of

eighteen resembled a blossom of the spring. Were I a poet, I should

declare that her azure eyes shone out from her auburn hair like glimpses

of blue sky behind sun-tinted clouds!

I do not know how it came about, or how I found myself there, but in a

few moments I was walking with her in the autumn woods, and smiling as

I gazed into the deep blue of her eyes. The pines were sighing above us;

beneath our feet a thick carpet of brown tassels lay; and on the summit

of the evergreens the golden crown of sunset slowly rose, as though the

fingers of some unseen spirit were bearing it away into the night.

Katy tripped on, rather than walked--laughing and singing gayly. The

mild air just lifted the golden ringlets of her hair, as she threw back

her beautiful face; her cheeks were rosy with the joy of youth; and from

her smiling lips, as fresh and red as carnations, escaped in sweet and

tender notes, like the carol of an oriole, that gay and warbling song,

the “Bird of Beauty.”

Do you remember it, my dear reader? It is old--but so many good things

are old!

“Bird of beauty, whose bright plumage

Sparkles with a thousand dyes:

Bright thine eyes, and gay thy carol,

Though stern winter rules the skies!”

Do you say that is not very grand poetry? I protest! friend, I think it

superior to the _chef d’oeuvres_ of the masters? You do not think so?

Ah! that is because you did not hear it sung in the autumn forest that

evening--see the ringlets of Katy Dare floating back from the rosy

cheeks, as the notes escaped from her smiling lips, and rang clearly in

the golden sunset. Do you laugh at my enthusiasm? Well, I am going to

increase your mirth. To the “Bird of Beauty” succeeded a song which I

never heard before, and have never heard since. Thus it is a lost pearl

I rescue, in repeating some lines. What Katy sang was this:--

“Come under, some one, and give her a kiss!

My honey, my love, my handsome dove!

My heart’s been a-weeping,

This long time for you!

“I’ll hang you, I’ll drown you,

My honey, my love, my handsome dove!

My heart’s been a-weeping,

This long time for you!”

That was the odd, original, mysterious, incomprehensible poem, which

Katy Dare carolled in the sunset that evening. It may seem stupid to

some--to me the words and the air are charming, for I heard them from

the sweetest lips in the world. Indeed there was something so pure and

childlike about the young girl, that I bowed before her. Her presence

made me better--banished all discordant emotions. All about her was

delicate and tender, and pure. Like her “bird of bright plumage” she

seemed to have flitted here to utter her carol, after which she would

open her wings and disappear!

Katy ran on, in the pauses of her singing, with a hundred little jests,

interspersed with her sweet childlike laughter, and I was more and more

enchanted--when all at once I saw her turn her head over her shoulder.

A bright flush came to her cheeks as she did so; her songs and laughter

ceased; then--a step behind us!

I looked back, and found the cause of her sudden “dignity,” her demure

silence. The unfortunate Colonel Surry had quite disappeared from the

maiden’s mind.

Coming on rapidly, with springy tread, I saw--Tom Herbert! Tom Herbert,

radiant; Tom Herbert, the picture of happiness; Tom Herbert, singing in

his gay and ringing voice:--

“Katy! Katy!

Don’t marry any other!

You’ll break my heart and kill me dead,

And you’ll be hung for murder!”

Wretch!--I could cheerfully have strangled him!

VII.

THE STUART HORSE ARTILLERY.

An hour afterward I was at the camp of the Stuart horse artillery.

Five minutes after greeting Tom, who had sought Katy, at

“Disaway’s”--been directed to the woods--and there speedily joined us--I

left the young ones together, and made my way back to the mansion. There

are few things, my dear reader, more disagreeable than--just when

you are growing poetical--when blue eyes have excited your romantic

feelings--when your heart has begun to glow--when you think “I am

the cause of all this happiness, and gayety!”--there are few things I

say--but why say it? In thirty seconds the rosy-faced youngster Tom, had

driven the antique and battered Surry quite from the mind of the Bird of

Beauty. That discomfited individual, therefore, took his way back sadly

to Disaway’s, leaving the children his blessing; declined the cordial

invitations to spend the night, mounted his horse, and rode to find Will

Davenant, at the horse artillery.

Their camp was in the edge of a wood, near the banks of the Rowanty;

and having exchanged greetings with my old comrades of the various

batteries, and the gallant Colonel Chew, their chieftain, I repaired to

Will Davenant’s head-quarters.

These consisted of a breadth of canvass, stretched beneath a tree in the

field--in front of which burned a fire.

I had come to talk with Will, but our conversation was obliged to be

deferred. The brave boys of the horse artillery, officers and men,

gathered round to hear the news from Petersburg; and it was a rare

pleasure to me to see again the old familiar faces. Around me, in light

of the camp-fire, were grouped the tigers who had fought with Pelham,

in the old battles of Stuart. Here were the heroes of a hundred combats;

the men who had held their ground desperately in the most desperate

encounters--the bulldogs who had showed their teeth and sprung to the

death-grapple at Cold Harbor, Manassas, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg,

Chancellorsville, Fleetwood, Gettysburg, in the Wilderness, at

Trevillian’s, at Sappony, in a thousand bitter conflicts with

the cavalry. Scarred faces, limping bodies, the one-armed, the

one-legged,--these I saw around me; the frames slashed and mutilated,

but the eyes flashing and full of fight, as in the days when Pelham

thundered, loosing his war-hounds on the enemy. I had seen brave

commands, in these long years of combat--had touched the hands of heroic

men, whose souls fear never entered--but I never saw braver fighters

than the horse artillery--soldiers more reckless than Pelham’s

bloodhounds. They went to battle laughing. There was something of the

tiger in them. They were of every nation nearly--Frenchmen, Irishmen,

Italians,--but one sentiment seemed to inspire them--hatred of our

friends over the way. From the moment in 1862, when at Barbee’s they

raised the loud resounding _Marseillaise_, while fighting the enemy in

front and rear, to this fall of 1864, when they had strewed a hundred

battle-fields with dead men and horses, these “swarthy old hounds” of

the horse artillery had vindicated their claims to the admiration of

Stuart;--in the thunder of their guns, the dead chieftain had seemed

still to hurl his defiance at the invaders of Virginia.

Looking around me, I missed many of the old faces, sleeping now beneath

the sod. But Dominic, Antonio, and Rossini were still there--those

members of the old “Napoleon Detachment” of Pelham’s old battery; there

still was Guillemot, the erect, military-looking Frenchman,--Guillemot,

with his hand raised to his cap, saluting me with the profoundest

respect; these were the faces I had seen a hundred times, and never any

thing but gay and full of fight.

Doubtless they remembered me, and thought of Stuart, as others had done,

at seeing me. They gave me a soldier’s welcome; soon, from the group

around the camp-fire rose a song. Another followed, then another, in the

richest tenor; and the forests of Dinwiddie rang with the deep voices,

rising clear and sonorous in the moonlight night.

They were old songs of Ashby and Stuart; unpublished ditties of the

struggle, which the winds have borne away into the night of the past,

and which now live only in memory. There was one of Ashby, commencing,--

“See him enter on the valley,”

which wound up with the words,--

“And they cried, ‘O God they’ve shot him!

Ashby is no more!’

Strike, freemen, for your country,

Sheathe your swords no more!

While remains in arms a Yankee

On Virginia’s shore!”

The air was sad and plaintive. The song rose, and wailed, and died away

like the sigh of the wind in the trees, the murmuring airs of evening in

the brambles and thickets of the Rowanty. The singers had fought under

Ashby, and in their rude and plaintive song they uttered their regrets.

Then the music changed its character, and the stirring replaced the sad.

“If you want to have a good time,

J’ine the cavalry!”

came in grand, uproarious strains; and this was succeeded by the

jubilant--

“Farewell, forever to the star-spangled banner,

No longer shall she wave o’er the land of the free;

But we’ll unfurl to the broad breeze of heaven,

The thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!”

At that song--and those words, “the thirteen bright stars round the

Palmetto tree!”--you might have seen the eyes of the South Carolinians

flash. Many other ditties followed, filling the moonlight night with

song--“The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Katy Wells,” and “The Louisiana Colors.”

This last was never printed. Here are a few of the gay verses of the

“Irish Lad from Dixie:”--

“My sweetheart’s name is Kathleen,

For her I’ll do or die;

She has a striped straw mattress,

A shanty, pig, and sty.

Her cheeks are bright and beautiful,

Her hair is dark and curly,

She sent me with the secesh boys

To fight with General Early.

“She made our flag with her own hands,

My Kathleen fair and clever,

And twined its staff with shamrock green,

Old Ireland’s pride forever!

She gave it into our trust,

Among our weeping mothers;--

‘Remember, Irish men!’ she said,

‘You bear the Red Cross colors!’

“She told me I must never run;

The Rebel boys were brothers;--

To stand forever by our flag,

The Louisiana colors!

And then she said, ‘If you desert,

You’ll go to the Old Baily!’

Says I, ‘My love, when I can’t shoot,

I’ll use my old shillalah!’

“And many a bloody charge we made,

Nor mind the battle’s blaze;

God gave to us a hero bold,

Our bonny Harry Hays!

And on the heights of Gettysburg,

At twilight first was seen,

The stars of Louisiana bright,

And Katy’s shamrock green.

“And oh! if I get home again,

I swear I’ll never leave her;

I hope the straw mattress will keep,

The pig won’t have the fever!

For then, you know, I’ll marry Kate,

And never think of others.

Hurrah, then, for the shamrock green,

And the Louisiana colors!”

It was nearly midnight before the men separated, repairing to their

tents. Their songs had charmed me, and made the long hours flit by like

birds. Where are you, brave singers, in this year ‘68? I know not--you

are all scattered. Your guns have ceased their thunder, your voices

sound no more. But I think you sometimes remember, as you muse, in these

dull years, those gay moonlight nights on the banks of the Rowanty.

VIII.

“CHARGE! STUART! PAY OFF ASHBY’S SCORE!”

These memories are beguiling, and while they possess me, my drama does

not march.

But you have not been wearied, I hope, my dear reader, by this little

pencil sketch of the brave horse artillerymen. I found myself among

them; the moonlight shone; the voices sang; and I have paused to look

and listen again in memory.

These scenes, however, can not possess for you, the attraction they

do for me. To proceed with my narrative. I shall pass over my long

conversation with Will Davenant, whose bed I shared. I had promised

his father to reveal nothing of the events which I had so strangely

discovered--and was then only able to give the young man vague

assurances of a coming change for the better in his affair with Miss

Conway. He thanked me, blushing, and trying to smile--and then we fell

asleep beside each other.

Just at daylight I was suddenly aroused. The jarring notes of a bugle

were ringing through the woods. I extended my arm in the darkness, and

found that Will Davenant was not beside me.

What had happened? I rose quickly, and throwing my cape over my

shoulders, went out of the tent.

The horse artillery was already hitched up, and in motion. The setting

moon illumined the grim gun-barrels, caissons, and heavy horses, moving

with rattling chains. Behind came the men on horseback, laughing and

ready for combat.

As I was gazing at this warlike scene so suddenly evoked, Will Davenant

rode up and pointed to my horse, which was ready saddled, and attached

to a bough of the great tree.

“I thought I wouldn’t wake you, colonel,” he said, with a smile, “but

let you sleep to the last moment. The enemy are advancing, and we are

going to meet them.”

He had scarcely spoken, when a rapid firing was heard two or three miles

in front, and a loud cheer rose from the artillerymen. In a moment the

guns were rushing on at a gallop, and, as I rode beside them, I saw a

crimson glare shoot up above the woods, in the direction of the Weldon

railroad. The firing had meanwhile grown heavier, and the guns were

rushed onward. Will Davenant’s whole appearance had completely changed.

The youth, so retiring in camp, so cool in a hot fight, seemed burnt up

with impatience, at the delay caused by the terrible roads. His voice

had become hoarse and imperious; he was everywhere urging on the

drivers; when the horses stalled in the fathomless mudholes, he would

strike the animals, in a sort of rage, with the flat of his sabre,

forcing them with a leap which made the traces crack, to drag the piece

out of the hole, and onward. A glance told me, then, what was the secret

of this mere boy’s splendid efficiency. Under the shy, blushing face,

was the passion and will of the born soldier--the beardless boy had

become the master mind, and drove on every thing by his stern will.

In spite of every exertion to overcome the obstacles in the roads, it

was nearly sunrise before we reached open ground. Then we emerged upon

the upland, near “Disaway’s,” and saw a picturesque spectacle. From the

hill, we could make out every thing. A hot cavalry fight was going on

beneath us. The enemy had evidently crossed the Rowanty lower down; and

driving in the pickets, had passed forward to the railroad.

The guns were rushed toward the spot, unlimbered on a rising ground, and

their thunder rose suddenly above the forests. Shell after shell burst

amid the enemy, breaking their ranks, and driving them back--and by the

time I had galloped through a belt of woods to the scene of the fight,

they lost heart, retreated rapidly, and disappeared, driven across the

Rowanty again, with the Confederates pursuing them so hotly, that

many of the gray cavalry punched them in the back with their empty

carbines.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

Their object in crossing had been to burn a small mill; and in this they

had succeeded, after which they retired as soon as possible to their

“own side.” Some queer scenes had accompanied this “tremendous military

movement.” In a house near the mill, resided some ladies; and we

found them justly indignant at the course of the enemy. The Federal

officers--general officers--had ordered the house-furniture to be piled

up, the carriage to be drawn into the pile, and then shavings were

heaped around, and the whole set on fire, amid shouts, cheers, and

firing. The lady of the mansion remonstrated bitterly, but received

little satisfaction.

“I have no time to listen to women!”[1] said the Federal general,

rudely.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“It is not _time_ that you want, sir!” returned the lady, with great

hauteur, “it is _politeness_!”[1]

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

This greatly enraged the person whom she addressed, and he became

furious, when the lady added that all the horses had been sent away. At

that moment an officer near him said:--

“General if you are going to burn the premises, you had better commence,

as the rebs are pursuing us.”

“Order it to be done at once!” was the gruff reply.

And the mill was fired, in the midst of a great uproar, with which

mingled shouts of, “The Rebels are coming! The Rebels are coming!”

Soon they came, a hot fight followed, and during this fight a young

woman watched it, holding her little brother by the hand near the

burning mill. I had afterward the honor of making her acquaintance, and

she told me that throughout the firing she found herself repeating over

and over, unconsciously, the lines of the song,--

“Charge! Stuart! pay off Ashby’s score,

In Stonewall Jackson’s way.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

The enemy had thus effected their object, and retreated hotly pursued.

I followed toward the lower Rowanty, and had the pleasure of seeing them

hurried over. So ended this immense military movement.

IX.

MOHUN,--HIS THIRD PHASE.

I was about to turn my horse and ride back from the stream, across

which the enemy had disappeared, when all at once Mohun, who had led the

pursuit, rode up to me, and we exchanged a cordial greeting.

“Well, this little affair is over, my dear Surry,” he said; “have you

any thing to occupy you for two or three hours?”

“Nothing; entirely at your service, Mohun.”

“Well, I wish you to accompany me on a private expedition. Will you

follow me blindfold?”

“Confidingly.”

And I rode on beside Mohun, who had struck into a path along the banks

of the Rowanty, leading back in the direction of Halifax bridge.

As we rode on, I looked attentively at him. I scarcely recognized, in

the personage beside me, the Mohun of the past. His gloom so profound

on that night when I parted with him, after the expedition to the lonely

house beyond Monk’s Neck, had entirely disappeared; and I saw in him

as few traces of the days on the Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and

the Wilderness. These progressive steps in the development of Mohun’s

character may be indicated by styling them the first, second, and third

phases of the individual. He had entered now upon the third phase, and I

compared him, curiously with his former self.

On the Rappahannock, when I saw him first, Mohun had been cynical,

bitter, full of gloomy misanthropy. Something seemed to have hardened

him, and made him hate his species. In the bloom of early manhood, when

his life was yet in the flower, and should have prompted him to all kind

and sweet emotions, he was a stranger to all--to charity, good-will,

friendship, all that makes life endurable. The tree was young and lusty;

the spring was not over; freshness and verdure should have clothed it;

and yet it appeared to have been blasted. What had dried up its sap, I

asked myself--withering and destroying it? What thunder-bolt had struck

this sturdy young oak? I could not answer--but from the first moment of

our acquaintance, Mohun became for me a problem.

Then the second phase presented itself. When I met him in the

Wilderness, in May, 1864, a great change had come over him. He was no

longer bitter and cynical. The cloud had plainly swept away, leaving the

skies of his life brighter. Gayety had succeeded gloom. The rollicking

enjoyment of the true cavalryman had replaced the recklessness of the

man-hater. Again I looked at him with attention--for his courage had

made me admire him, and his hidden grief had aroused my sympathy. A

great weight had plainly been lifted from his shoulders; he breathed

freer; the sap long dried up had begun to flow again; and the buds told

that the leaves of youth and hope were about to reappear. What was the

meaning of that?

Now the third phase of the man had come to excite in me more surprise

and interest than the former ones. This time the change was complete.

Mohun seemed no longer himself. Was the man riding beside me the old

Mohun of 1863? Where was the gloomy misanthropy--where the rollicking

humor? They had quite disappeared. Mohun’s glance was gentle and his

countenance filled with a charming modesty and sweetness. His voice,

once so cold, and then so hilarious, had grown calm, low, measured,

almost soft. His smile was exquisitely cordial; his glance full of

earnestness and sweetness. The heaven-born spirit of kindness--that balm

for all the wounds of human existence--shone in his eyes, on his lips,

in every accent of his voice.

Colonel Mohun had been reckless, defiant, unhappy, or wildly gay.

General Mohun was calm, quietly happy it seemed. You would have said of

him, formerly, “This is a man who fights from hatred of his enemies, or

the exuberant life in him.” Now you would have said, “This is a patriot

who fights from principle, and is worthy to die in a great cause.”

What had worked this change? I asked myself once more. Was it love? Or

was it the conviction which the Almighty sends to the most hardened,

that life is not made to indulge hatred, but to love and perform our

duty in?

I knew not; but there was the phenomenon before me. Mohun was certainly

a new man, and looked on life and the world around him with a gentleness

and kindness of which I had believed him incapable.

“I am going to take you to see a somewhat singular character,” he said.

“Who is he?”

“It is a woman.”

“Ah!”

“And a very strange one, I promise you, my dear Surry.”

“Lead on, I’ll follow thee!”

“Good! and I declare to you, I think Shakespeare would have examined

this human being with attention.”

“She is a phenomenon, then?”

“Yes.”

“A witch?”

“No, an epileptic; at least I think so.”

“Indeed! And where does she live?”

“On the Halifax road, some miles from the Rowanty.”

“In the lines of the enemy, then?”

“Something like it.”

“Humph!”

“Don’t disturb yourself about that, Surry. I have sent out a scouting

party who are clearing the country. Their pickets are back to Reams’s by

this time, and there is little danger.”

“At all events, we’ll share any, Mohun. Forward!”

And we pushed on to the Halifax bridge, where, as Mohun expected, there

was no Federal picket.

The bridge--a long rough affair--had been half destroyed by General

Hampton; but we forded near it, pushed our horses through the swamp,

amid the heavy tree trunks, felled to form an abatis, and gaining

the opposite bank of the Rowanty, rode on rapidly in the direction of

Petersburg, that is to say, toward the rear of the Federal army.

X.

AMANDA.

Half an hour’s ride through the swampy low grounds rising to gentle

uplands, and beneath the festoons of the great vines trailing from tree

to tree, brought us in front of a small house, half buried in a clump of

bushes, like a hare’s nest amid brambles.

“We have arrived!” said Mohun, leading the way to the cabin, which we

soon reached.

Throwing his bridle over a bough near the low fence, Mohun approached

the door on foot, I following, and when close to the door, he gave a low

knock.

“Come in!” said a cheerful and smiling voice.

And Mohun opened the door, through which we passed into a small and very

neat apartment containing a table, some chairs, a wide fireplace,

in which some sticks were burning, a number of cheap engravings of

religious scenes, framed and hanging on the wall, and a low bed, upon

which lay a woman fully dressed.

She was apparently about thirty-five, and her appearance was exceedingly

curious. Her figure was slender and of medium height; her complexion

that of a Moorish or oriental woman, rather than that of the quadroon,

which she appeared to be; her hair black, waving, and abundant; her

eyes as dark and sparkling as burnished ebony; and her teeth of dazzling

whiteness. Her dress was neat, and of bright colors. Around her neck

she wore a very odd necklace, which seemed made of carved bone; and her

slender fingers were decorated with a number of rings.[1]

[Footnote 1: “I have endeavored to give an exact description of this

singular woman.” Colonel Surry said to me when he read this passage to

me: “She will probably be remembered by numbers of persons in both the

Federal and Confederate armies. These will tell you that I describe her

accurately, using her real name, and will recall the strange prediction

which she made, and which I repeat. Was she an epileptic? I do not know.

I have certainly never encountered a more curious character!”--EDITOR.]

Such was the personage who greeted us, in a voice of great calmness and

sweetness, as we entered. She did not rise from the bed upon which she

was lying; but her cordial smile clearly indicated that this did not

arise from discourtesy.

“Take seats, gentlemen,” she said, “and please excuse me from getting

up. I am a little poorly to-day.”

“Stay where you are, Amanda,” said Mohun, “and do not disturb yourself.”

She looked at him with her dark eyes, and said, in her gentle, friendly

voice:--

“You know me, I see, General Mohun.”

“And you me, I see, Amanda.”

“I never saw you before, sir, but--am I mistaken?”

“Not in the least. How did you know me?”

The singular Amanda smiled.

“I have _seen you_ often, sir.”

“Ah--in your visions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or, perhaps, Nighthawk described me. You know Mr. Nighthawk!”

“Oh, yes, sir. I hope he is well. He has often been here; he may have

told me what you were like, sir, and then I _saw you_ to know you

afterward.”

I looked at the speaker attentively. Was she an impostor? It was

impossible to think so. There was absolutely no evidence whatever that

she was acting a part--rather every thing to forbid the supposition, as

she thus readily acquiesced in Mohun’s simple explanation.

For some moments Mohun remained silent. Then he said:--

“Those visions which you have are very strange. Is it possible that you

really _see_ things before they come to pass--or are you only amusing

yourself, and others, by saying so? I see no especial harm in the

matter, if you are jesting; but tell me, for my own satisfaction and

that of my friend, if you _really_ see things.”

Amanda smiled with untroubled sweetness.

“I am in earnest, sir,” she said, “and I would not jest with you and

Colonel Surry.”

I listened in astonishment.

“Ah! you know me, too, Amanda!”

“Yes, sir--or I think I do. I think you are Colonel Surry, sir.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have _seen you, too_, sir?” was the smiling reply.

I sat down, leaned my head upon my hand, and gazed at this

incomprehensible being. Was she really a witch? I do not believe in

witches, and at once rejected that theory. If not an impostor, then,

only one other theory remained--that Nighthawk had described my person

to her, in the same manner that he had Mohun’s, and the woman might thus

believe that she had seen me, as well as my companion, in her “visions.”

To her last words, however, I made no reply, and Mohun renewed the

colloquy, as before.

“Then you are really in earnest, Amanda, and actually see, in vision,

what is coming to pass?” he said.

“I think I do, sir.”

“Do you have the visions often?”

“I did once, sir, but they now seldomer come.”

“What produces them?”

“I think it is any excitement, sir. They tell me that I lay on my

bed moaning, and moving my arms about,--and when I wake, after these

attacks, I remember seeing the visions.”

“I hear that you predicted General Hunter’s attack on Lexington last

June.”

“Yes, sir, I told a lady what _I saw_, some months before it came to

pass.”

“What did you see? Will you repeat it for us?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I remember all, and will tell you about it, as it seems

to interest you. I saw a town, on the other side of the mountain, which

they afterward told me was called Lexington--but I did not know its name

then--and a great army of men in blue dresses came marching in, shouting

and cheering. The next thing I saw was a large building on fire, and

through the windows I saw books burning, with some curious-looking

things, of which I do not know the names.”

“The Military Institute, with the books and scientific apparatus,” said

Mohun, calmly.

“Was it, sir? I did not know.”

“What did you see afterward, Amanda?”

“Another house burning, sir; the Federal people gave the ladies ten

minutes to leave it, and then set it on fire.”

Mohun glanced at me.

“That is strange,” he said; “do you know the name of the family?”

“No, sir.”

“It was Governor Letcher’s. Well, what next?”

“Then they went in a great crowd, and broke open another building--a

large house, sir--and took every thing. Among the things they took was a

statue, which they did not break up, but carried away with them.”

“Washington’s statue!” murmured Mohun; and, turning to me, he added:--

“This is curious, is it not, Surry?”

I nodded.

“_Very_ curious.”

I confess I believed that the strange woman was trifling with us, and

had simply made up this story after the event. Mohun saw my incredulity,

and said, in a low tone:--

“You do not believe in this?”

“No,” I returned, in the same tone.

“And yet one thing is remarkable.”

“What?”

“That a lady of the highest character assured me, the other day, that

all this was related to her before Hunter even entered the Valley.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

And turning to Amanda, he said:--

“When did you see these things?”

“I think it was in March, sir.”

The words were uttered in the simplest manner possible. The strange

woman smiled as sweetly as she spoke, and seemed as far from being

guilty of a deliberate imposture as before.

“And you _saw_ the fight at Reams’s, too?”

“Yes, sir; I saw it two months before it took place. There was a man

killed running through the yard of a house, and they told me, afterward,

he was found dead there.”

“Have you had any visions, since?”

“Only one, sir.”

“Lately?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you see?”

“It was not much, sir. I saw the Federal people on horses, watering

their horses in a large river somewhere west of here, and the vision

said the war would be over about next March.”

Mohun smiled.

“Which side will be successful, Amanda?”

“The vision did not say, sir.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Colonel Surry assured me that he had scrupulously searched

his memory to recall the exact words of this singular woman: and that

he had given the precise substance of her statements; often, the exact

words.--ED.]

Mohun, who had taken his seat on a rude settee, leaned his elbow on his

knee, and for some moments gazed into the fire.

“I have asked you some questions, Amanda,” he said at length, “relating

to public events. I _now come to some private matters_--those which

brought me hither--in which your singular visions may probably assist

me. Are you willing to help me?”

“Yes, indeed, sir, if I can,” was the reply.

XI.

DEEP UNDER DEEP.

Mohun fixed his mild, and yet penetrating glance upon the singular

woman, who sustained it, however, with no change in her calm and smiling

expression.

“You know Nighthawk?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He has been here often.”

“And Swartz?”

“Very well, sir--I have known him many years.”

“Have you seen him, lately?”

“No, sir; not for some weeks.”

“Ah! You saw him some weeks since?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At this house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what has become of him?”

“No, sir; but I suppose he is off somewhere.”

“He is dead!”

Her head rose slightly, but the smile was unchanged.

“You don’t tell me, sir!”

“Yes, murdered; perhaps you know his murderer?”

“Who was it, sir?”

“Colonel Darke.”

“Oh, I know _him_. He has been here, lately. Poor Mr. Swartz! And so

they murdered him! I am sorry for him.”

Mohun’s glance became more penetrating.

“You say that Colonel Darke has been here lately?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was the occasion of his visit?”

“I don’t know, sir; unless it was to hear me tell my visions.”

“You never knew him before?”

Amanda hesitated.

“Yes, sir,” she said at length.

“When, and how?”

“It was many years ago, sir;--I do not like to speak of these things. He

is a terrible man, they say.”

“You can speak to me, Amanda. I will repeat nothing; nor will Colonel

Surry.”

The singular woman looked from Mohun to me, evidently hesitating. Then

she seemed suddenly to make up her mind, and said, with her eternal

smile:--

“I will tell you, then, sir. I can read faces, and I know neither you

nor Colonel Surry will get me into trouble.”

“I will not--on my honor.”

“Nor I,” I said.

“That is enough, gentlemen; and now I will tell you what you wish to

know, General Mohun.”

As she spoke she closed her eyes, and seemed for some moments to be

reflecting. Then opening them again, she gazed, with her calm smile, at

Mohun, and said:--

“It was many years ago, sir, when I first saw Colonel Darke, who then

went by another name. I was living in this same house, when late one

evening a light carriage stopped before the door, and a gentleman got

out of it, and came in. He said he was travelling with his wife, who had

been taken sick, and would I give them shelter until morning, when she

would be able to go on? I was a poor woman, sir, as I am now, and hoped

to be paid. I would have given the poor sick lady shelter all the same,

though--and I told him he could come in, and sleep in this room, and I

would go into that closet-like place behind you, sir. Well, he thanked

me, and went back to the carriage, where a lady sat. He took her in his

arms and brought her along to the house, when I saw that she was a very

beautiful young lady, but quite pale. Well, sir, she came in and sat

down in that chair you are now sitting in, and after awhile, said she

was better. The gentleman had gone out and put away his horse, and when

he came back I had supper ready, and every thing comfortable.”

“What was the appearance of the lady?” said Mohun, over whose brow a

contraction passed.

“She was small and dark, sir; but had the finest eyes I ever saw.”

“The same,” said Mohun, in a low tone. “Well?”

“They stayed all night, sir. Next morning they paid me,--though it was

little--and went on toward the south.”

“They seemed poor?”

“Yes, sir. The lady’s dress was cheap and faded--and the gentleman’s

threadbare.”

“What names did they give?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, sir.”

Mohun’s brow again contracted.

“Well, go on,” he said, “or rather, go back, Amanda. You say that they

remained with you until the morning. Did you not hear some of their

conversation--gain some knowledge of whence they came, whither they were

going, and what was the object of their journey?”

The woman hesitated, glancing at Mohun. Then she smiled, and shook her

head.

“You will get me into trouble, sir,” she said.

“I will not, upon my honor. You have told me enough to enable me to

do so, however--why not tell me all? You say you slept in that closet

there--so you must have heard them converse. I am entitled to know

all--tell me what they said.”

And taking from his purse a piece of gold, Mohun placed it in the hand

extended upon the bed. The hand closed upon it--clutched it. The eye of

the woman glittered, and I saw that she had determined to speak.

“It was not much, sir,” she said. “I did listen, and heard many things,

but they would not interest you.”

“On the contrary, they will interest me much.”

“It was a sort of quarrel I overheard, sir. Mr. Mortimer was blaming his

wife for something, and said she had brought him to misery. She replied

in the same way, and said that it was a strange thing in _him_ to talk

to _her_ so, when she had broken every law of God and man, to marry

the--”

“The--?” Mohun repeated, bending forward.

“The murderer of her father, she said, sir,” returned Amanda.

Mohun started, and looked with a strange expression at me.

“You understand!” he said, in a low tone, “is the thing credible?”

“Let us hear more,” I said, gloomy in spite of myself.

“Go on,” Mohun said, turning more calmly toward the woman; “that was the

reply of the lady, then--that she had broken all the laws of God and man

by marrying the murderer of her father. Did she utter the name of her

father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was it?”

“A Mr. George Conway,” replied Amanda, who seemed to feel that she had

gone too far to conceal any thing.

“And the reason for this marriage?” said Mohun, in a low tone; “did she

explain, or say any thing which explained to you, how such a union had

ever taken place?”

“Yes, sir. They said so many things to each other, that I came to know

all. The young lady was a daughter of a Mr. George Conway, and when she

was a girl, had fallen in love with some worthless young man, who had

persuaded her to elope with him and get married. He soon deserted her,

when she fell in with this Mr. Mortimer and married him.”

“Did she know that he was her father’s murderer?”

“No, sir--not until after their marriage, I gathered.”

“Then,” said Mohun, who had suppressed all indications of emotion, and

was listening coolly; “then it seems to me that she was wrong in taking

shame to herself--or claiming credit--for the marriage.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Amanda, “and he told her as much.”

“So they had something like a quarrel?”

“Not exactly a quarrel, sir. He seemed to love her with all his

heart--more than she loved him. They went on talking, and laying plans

to make money in some way. I remember he said to her, ‘You are sick, and

need every luxury--I would rather die than see you deprived of them--I

would cheat or rob to supply you every thing--and we must think of some

means, honest or dishonest, to get the money we want. I do not care for

myself, but you are all that I have left in the world.’ That is what he

said, sir.”

And Amanda was silent.

“Then they fell asleep?” asked Mohun.

“Yes, sir; and on the next morning he took her in his arms again, and

carried her to the carriage, and they left me.”

Mohun leaned his chin upon his hand, knit his brows, and reflected. The

singular narrative plunged me too into a reverie. This man, Darke, was

a veritable gulf of mystery--his life full of hidden and inexplicable

things. The son of General Davenant, he had murdered his father’s foe;

permitted that father to be tried for the crime, and to remain under

suspicion; disappeared, changed his name, encountered the daughter

of his victim, married her, had those mysterious dealings with Mohun,

disappeared a second time, changed his name a second time, and now had

once more made his appearance near the scene of his first crime, to

murder Swartz, capture his father and brother, and complete his tragic

record by fighting under the enemy’s flag against his country and his

family!

There was something diabolical in that career; in this man’s life “deep

under deep” met the eye. And yet he was not entirely bad. On that night

in Pennsylvania, he had refused to strike Mohun at a disadvantage--and

had borne off the gray woman at the peril of death or capture. He had

released his captured father and brother, bowing his head before them.

He had confessed the murder of George Conway, over his own signature,

to save this father. The woman who was his accomplice, he seemed to

love more than his own life. Such were the extraordinary contrasts in

a character, which, at first sight, seemed entirely devilish; and I

reflected with absorbing interest upon the singular phenomenon.

I was aroused by the voice of Mohun. He had never appeared more calm: in

his deep tones I could discern no emotion whatever.

“That is a singular story,” he said, “and your friend, Colonel Darke, is

a curious personage. But let us come back to events more recent--to the

visits of Swartz.”

“Yes, sir,” said Amanda, smiling.

“But, first, let me ask--did Colonel Darke recognize you?”

“You mean _know_ me? Oh, yes, sir.”

“And did he speak of his former visit--with his wife?”

“No, sir.”

“And you--?”

Amanda smiled.

“I made out I didn’t remember him, sir; I was afraid he would think I

had overheard that talk with his wife.”

“So he simply called as if to see you as a curiosity?”

“Yes, sir--and staid only a few minutes.”

“But you know or rather knew poor Swartz better?”

“I knew him well, sir.”

“He often stopped here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mohun looked at the woman keenly, and said:--

“I wish you, now, to answer plainly the question which I am about to

ask. I come hither as a friend--I am sent by your friend Mr. Nighthawk.

Listen and answer honestly--Do you know any thing of a paper which

Swartz had in his possession--an important paper which he was guarding

from Colonel Darke?”

“I do not, sir,” said Amanda, with her eternal smile.

“For that paper I will pay a thousand dollars in gold. Where is it?”

The woman’s eyes glittered, then she shook her head.

“On my salvation I do not know, sir.”

“Can you discover?”

Again the shake of the head.

“How can I, sir?”

Mohun’s head sank. A bitter sigh issued from his lips--almost a groan.

“Listen!” he said, almost fiercely, but with a singular smile, “you have

visions--you see things! I do not believe in your visions--they seem

folly--but only _see_ where that paper is to be discovered, and I

will believe! nay more, I will pay you the sum which I mentioned this

moment.”

I looked at the woman to witness the result of this decisive test of her

sincerity. “If she believes in her own visions, she will be elated,” I

said, “if she is an impostor, she will be cast down.”

She smiled radiantly!

“I will try, sir!” she said.

Mohun gazed at her strangely.

“When shall I come to hear the result?”

“In ten days from this time, sir.”

“In ten days? So be it.”

And rising, Mohun bade the singular personage farewell, and went toward

his horse.

I followed, and we rode back, rapidly, in dead silence, toward the

Rowanty.

XII.

HOW THE MOMENT AT LAST CAME.

Mohun rode on for more than a mile at full gallop, without uttering a

word. Then he turned his head, and said, with a sigh:--

“Well, what do you think of your new acquaintance, Surry?”

“I think she is an impostor.”

“As to her visions, you mean?”

“Yes. Her story of Darke I believe to be true.”

“And I know it,” returned Mohun. “A strange discovery, is it not? I

went there to-day, without dreaming of this. Nighthawk informed me that

Swartz had often been at the house of this woman--that the paper which I

wish to secure might have been left with her for safe keeping--and thus

I determined to go and ferret out the matter, in a personal interview.

I have done so, pretty thoroughly, and it seems plain that she knows

nothing of its present whereabouts. Will she discover through her

visions--her spies--or her strange penetration, exhibited in the

recognition of our persons? I know not; and so that matter ends. I have

failed, and yet have learned some singular facts. Can you believe that

strange story of Darke? Is he not a weird personage? This narrative we

have just heard puts the finishing touch to his picture--the murderer

marries the daughter of his victim!”

“It is truly an extraordinary history altogether,” I said, “and the

whole life of this man is now known to me, with a single exception.”

“Ah! you mean--?”

“The period when you fought with him, and ran him through the body, and

threw him into that grave, from which Swartz afterward rescued him on

the morning of the 13th December, 1856.”

Mohun looked at me with that clear and penetrating glance which

characterized him.

“Ah! you know that!” he said.

“I could not fail to know it, Mohun.”

“True--and to think that all this time you have, perhaps, regarded me

as a criminal, Surry! But I am one--that is I was--in intent if not in

reality. Yes, my dear friend,” Mohun added, with a deep sigh, his head

sinking upon his breast, “there was a day in my life when I was insane,

a simple madman,--and on that day I attempted to commit murder, and

suicide! You have strangely come to catch many glimpses of those past

horrors. On the Rappahannock the words of that woman must have startled

you. In the Wilderness my colloquy with the spy revealed more. Lastly,

the words of Darke on the night of Swartz’s murder must have terribly

complicated me in this issue of horrors. I knew that you must know much,

and I did not shrink before you, Surry! Do you know why? Because I have

repented, friend! and thank God! my evil passions did not result, as I

intended, in murder and self-destruction!”

Mohun passed his hand across his forehead, to wipe away the drops of

cold perspiration.

“All this is gloomy and tragic,” he said; “and yet I must inflict it on

you, Surry. Even more, I earnestly long to tell you the whole story of

which you have caught these glimpses. Will you listen? It will not

be long. I wish to show you, my dear friend--you are that to me,

Surry!--that I am not unworthy of your regard; that there are no

degrading scenes, at least, in my past life; that I have not cheated,

tricked, deceived--even if I have attempted to destroy myself and

others! Will you listen?”

“I have been waiting long to do so, Mohun,” I said. “Speak, but first

hear me. There is a man in this army who is the soul of honor. Since my

father’s death I value his good opinion more than that of all others--it

is Robert E. Lee. Well, come with me if you choose, and I will go to Lee

with you, and place my hand upon your shoulder, and say: ‘General, this

is my friend! I vouch for him; I am proud of his regard. Think well of

him, or badly of me too!’ Are you satisfied?”

Mohun smiled sadly.

“I knew all that,” he said. “Do you think I can not read men, Surry?

Long since I gave you in my heart the name of _friend_, and I knew that

you had done as much toward me. Come, then! Go to my camp with me; in

the evening we will take a ride. I am going to conduct you to a spot

where we can talk without interruption, the exact place where the crimes

of which I shall speak were committed.”

And resuming the gallop, Mohun led the way, amid the trailing festoons,

through the fallen logs, across the Rowanty.

Half an hour afterward we had reached his camp.

As the sun began to decline we again mounted our horses.

Pushing on rapidly we reached a large house on a hill above the

Nottoway, and entered the tall gateway at the moment when the great

windows were all ablaze in the sunset.

XIII.

FONTHILL.

Mohun spurred up the hill; reined in his horse in front of the great

portico, and, dismounting, fastened his bridle to the bough of a

magnificent exotic, one of a hundred which were scattered over the

extensive grounds.

I imitated him, and we entered the house together, through the door,

which gave way at the first push. No one had come to take our horses. No

one opposed our entrance. The house was evidently deserted.

I looked round in astonishment and admiration. In every thing

appertaining to the mansion were the indications of almost unlimited

wealth, directed by the severest and most elegant taste. The broken

furniture was heavy and elaborately carved; the remnants of carpet of

sumptuous velvet; the walls, ceiling, doorways, and deep windows were

one mass of the richest chiselling and most elaborate fresco-painting.

On the walls still hung some faded portraits in the most costly frames.

On the mantel-pieces of variegated marble, supported by fluted pillars,

with exquisitely carved capitals, rested a full length picture of a

gentleman, the heavy gilt frame tarnished and crumbling.

The house was desolate, deserted, inexpressibly saddening from the

evident contrast between its present and its past. But about the grand

mansion hung an august air of departed splendor which to me, was more

striking than if I had visited it in the days of its glory.

“Let me introduce ‘Fonthill’ to you, or rather the remains of it,

Surry,” Mohun said, with a sad smile. “It is not pleasant to bring a

friend to so deserted a place; but I have long been absent; the house is

gone to decay like other things in old Virginia. Still we can probably

find two chairs. I will kindle a blaze, and we can light a cigar and

talk without interruption.”

With these words, Mohun proceeded to the adjoining apartment, from which

he returned a moment afterward, dragging two chairs with elaborately

carved backs.

“See,” he said, with a smile, “they were handsome once. That one with

the ragged remnants of red velvet was my father’s. Take a seat, my dear

Surry. I will sit in the other--it was my mother’s.”

Returning to the adjoining room, Mohun again reappeared, this time

bearing in his arms the broken remnants of a mahogany table, which he

heaped up in the great fireplace.

“This is all that remains of our old family dining-table,” he said.

“Some Yankee or straggling soldier will probably use it for this

purpose--so I anticipate them!”

And, placing combustibles beneath the pile, Mohun had recourse to the

metallic match case which he always carried with him in order to read

dispatches, lit the fuel, and a blaze sprung up.

Next, he produced his cigar case, offered me an excellent Havana, which

I accepted, and a minute afterward we were leaning back in the great

chairs, smoking.

“An odd welcome, this,” said Mohun, with his sad smile; “broken chairs,

old pictures, and a fire made of ruined furniture! But one thing we

have--an uninterrupted opportunity to converse. Let us talk, therefore,

or rather, I will at once tell you what I promised.”

XIV.

“LORD OF HIMSELF, THAT HERITAGE OF WOE.”

Mohun leaned back in his chair, reflected for a moment with evident

sadness, and then, with a deep sigh, said:--

“I am about to relate to you, my dear Surry, a history so singular,

that it is probable you will think I am indulging my fancy, in certain

portions of it. That would be an injustice. It is a true life I am about

to lay before you--and I need not add that actual occurrences are often

more surprising than any due to the imagination of the romance writer. I

once knew a celebrated novelist, and one day related to him the curious

history of a family in Virginia. ‘Make a romance of that,’ I said, ‘it

is an actual history.’ But my friend shook his head. ‘It will not answer

my purpose,’ he replied, smiling, ‘it is too strange, and the critics

would call me a “sensation writer”--that is, ruin me!’ And he was right,

Surry. It is only to a friend, on some occasion like the present, that I

could tell my own story. It is too singular to be believed otherwise.

“But I am prosing. Let me proceed. My family is an old one, they tell

me, in this part of Virginia; and my father, whose portrait you see

before you, on the mantel-piece, was what is called an ‘aristocrat.’

That is to say, he was a gentleman of refined tastes and habits; fond

of books; a great admirer of fine paintings; and a gentleman of social

habits and feelings. ‘Fonthill’--this old house--had been, for many

generations, the scene of a profuse hospitality; my father kept up the

ancient rites, entertaining all comers; and when I grew to boyhood I

unconsciously imbibed the feelings, and clung to the traditions of the

family. These traditions may be summed up in the maxims which my father

taught me--‘Use hospitality; be courteous to high and low alike; assist

the poor; succor the unhappy; give bountifully without grudging; and

enjoy the goods heaven provides you, with a clear conscience, whether

you are called an aristocrat or a democrat!’ Such were my father’s

teachings; and he practised them, for he had the kindest and sweetest

heart in the world. He was aided in all by my mother, a perfect saint

upon earth; and if I have since that time given way to rude passions, it

was not for wanting a good example in the blameless lives of this true

gentleman and pure gentlewoman.

“Unhappily, I did not have their example long. When I was seventeen my

mother died; and my father, as though unable to live without her who had

so long been his blessing, followed her a year afterward, leaving me

the sole heir of the great possessions of the family. For a time

grief crushed me. I was alone--for I had neither brother nor sister--a

solitary youth in this great lonely house, standing isolated amid its

twenty thousand acres--and even the guardian who had been appointed to

look after my affairs, seldom came to see me and relieve my

loneliness. The only associate I had was a sort of bailiff or

steward, Nighthawk--you know him, and his attachment for me. It was

hereditary--this attachment. My father had loved and trusted his;

relieved the necessities of the humble family once when they were about

to be turned adrift for debt. The elder Nighthawk then conceived a

profound affection for his benefactor--and dying, left to his son

the injunction to watch over and serve faithfully the son of his ‘old

master.’

“Do not laugh at that word, Surry. It is the old English term, and

England is best of all, I think. So Nighthawk came to live with me,

and take care of my interests. You know that he has continued to be

faithful, and to serve me, and love me, to this moment.

“But in spite of the presence of this true friend, I was still lonely. I

craved life, movement, company--and this I promised myself to secure at

the university of Virginia, to which I accordingly went, spending there

the greater portion of my time until I had reached the age of twenty.

Then I returned to Fonthill--only to find, however, that the spot was

more dreary than before. I was the master of a great estate, but alone;

‘lord of myself,’ I found, like the unhappy Childe Harold, and Randolph

of Roanoke after him, that it was a ‘heritage of woe.’ There was little

or no society in the neighborhood--at least suited to my age--I lived a

solitary, secluded, dormant existence; and events soon proved that this

life had prepared my character for some violent passion. A philosopher

could have foretold that. Every thing in excess brings on reaction. The

drunkard may abstain long, but the moment he touches spirit, an orgy

commences. Men love, because the time and a woman have come--and that

hour and person came all at once to arouse me from my lethargy.

“One day I was inert, apathetic, sluggish in my movements, careless

of all things and all persons around me. On the next I was aroused,

excited, with every nerve and faculty strung. I was becoming suddenly

intoxicated, and soon the drunkenness of love had absorbed all the

powers of my being.

“You know who aroused that infatuation, the daughter of George Conway.”

XV.

THE STORM.

“At that time she was called Miss Mortimer. The commencement of

our acquaintance was singular. Fate seemed to have decreed that all

connected with our relations should be ‘dramatic.’

“One night I was returning at full speed from the house of a gentleman

in the neighborhood, whither I had been to make a visit. The night was

as dark as a wolf’s mouth, and a violent storm rushed down upon me, when

I was still many miles from home. I have scarcely ever witnessed a more

furious tempest; the thunder and lightning were fearful, and I pushed my

horse to his utmost speed to reach Fonthill before the torrents of rain

drenched me to the skin.

“Well, I had entered the Fonthill woods, a mile or two from the house,

and was galloping at full speed through the black darkness which the

lightning only occasionally illumined now, when all at once my horse

struck his chest against something. I heard a cry, and then a dazzling

flash showed me a light carriage which had evidently just been

overturned. I was nearly unseated by the collision, but leaped to the

ground, and at the same moment another flash showed me the form of a

lady whom a man was extricating from the broken vehicle. I hastened to

render my assistance. The lady was lifted in our arms, and then I aided

in raising the fallen horse, who lay on his side, frightened and kicking

violently.

“Ten minutes afterward I was placed in possession of what the lawyers

call ‘the facts of the case.’ Mr. Mortimer, of Georgia, was travelling

home from the North, with his sick sister in his carriage, for the

benefit of her health. They had lost their way; the storm had caught

them; their carriage had overturned in the darkness,--where could Mr.

Mortimer obtain lodgings for the night? The condition of his sister

rendered it imperative that they should not continue their journey until

morning, even if the storm and broken vehicle permitted.

“I listened, and felt a warm sympathy for the poor sick girl--she was

only a girl of eighteen, and very beautiful. I would gladly have offered

my own house, but it was still some miles distant, and the young

woman was so weak, and trembled so violently, that it would plainly be

impossible to conduct her so far on foot. True, my carriage might have

been sent for her, but the rain was now descending in torrents; before

it arrived she would be drenched--something else must be thought of. All

at once the idea occurred to me, ‘Parson Hope’s is only a quarter of

a mile distant.’ Mr. Hope was the parson of the parish, and a most

excellent man. I at once suggested to Mr. Mortimer that his sister

should be conducted thither, and as he assented at once, we half

conducted, half carried the poor girl through the woods to the humble

dwelling of the clergyman.

“The good parson received us in a manner which showed his conviction

that to succor the stranger or the unfortunate is often to ‘entertain

angels unawares.’ It is true that on this occasion it was something

like a brace of devils whom he received into his mansion! The young lady

threw herself into a seat; seemed to suffer much; and was soon conducted

by the parson’s old housekeeper--for he was a childless widower--to

her chamber in which a fire had been quickly kindled. She disappeared,

sighing faintly, but in those few minutes I had taken a good look at

her. You have seen her; and I need not describe her. She is still of

great beauty; but at that time she was a wonder of loveliness. Slender,

graceful, with a figure exquisitely shaped; with rosy lips as artless as

an infant’s; grand dark eyes which seemed to burn with an inner light

as she looked at you; such was _Miss Mortimer_ at eighteen, when I first

saw her on that night in the Fonthill woods.”

XVI.

ACT I.

“An hour after the scene which I have tried to describe, I was at

home; and, seated in this apartment, then very different in appearance,

reflected deeply upon this romantic encounter with the beautiful girl.

“It was midnight before I retired. I fell asleep thinking of her, and

the exquisite face still followed me in my dreams.

“These few words tell you much, do they not, Surry? You no doubt begin

to understand, now, when I have scarcely begun the real narrative, what

is going to be the character of the drama. Were I a romance writer,

I should call your attention to the fact that I have introduced my

characters, described their appearance, and given you an inkling of the

series of events which are about to be unrolled before you. A young

man of twenty is commended to your attention; a youth living in a great

mansion; lord of himself, but tired of exercising that authority;

of violent passions, but without an object; and at that very moment,

presto! appeared a lovely girl, with dark eyes, rosy lips; whom the

youth encounters and rescues under most romantic circumstances!

“Well, the ‘lord of himself’ acted in real life as he would have done in

a novel. In other words, my dear Surry, I proceeded straightway to fall

violently in love with _Miss Mortimer_; and it is needless to say that

on the next day my horse might have been seen standing at the rack of

the parsonage. I had gone, you see, as politeness required, to ask how

the young lady felt after her accident.

“She was leaning back in an arm-chair, reading a ‘good book,’ and looked

charming. The accident seemed to have greatly shocked the delicate

frame of the young creature, but when I entered, she held out her hand,

greeting me with a fascinating smile. Mademoiselle was imitated by

Monsieur. I mean Mr. Mortimer. I did not fancy the countenance of that

gentleman much. It was dark and forbidden, but his manners were those of

a person acquainted with good society; he thanked me ‘with effusion,’ as

the French say, for my timely assistance on the night before; and then

he strolled forth with the good parson to look at the garden, leaving me

_tete-à-tete_ with his sister.

“Why lengthen out my story by comment, reflections, a description

of every scene, and the progressive steps through which the ‘affair’

passed? I was in love with Miss Mortimer. She saw it. Her eyes said,

‘Love me as much as you choose, and don’t be afraid I will not love you

soon, in return.’ At the end of this interview, which the worthy Mr.

Mortimer did not interrupt for at least two hours, I rode home thinking

with a throb of the heart ‘If she will only love me?’ Then the throb was

succeeded by a sudden sinking of the same organ. ‘But there will be no

opportunity!’ I groaned, ‘doubtless in two or three days she will leave

this part of the country!’ A week afterward that apprehension had been

completely removed. Miss Mortimer was still faint and weak, ‘from her

accident.’ All her movements were slow and languid. She had not left the

good parson’s house, Surry--and what is more she was not going to leave

it! She had learned what she desired to know about me; heard that I

was a young man of great wealth; and had devised a scheme so singular

that--but let me not anticipate! She proceeded rapidly. In our second

interview she ‘made eyes at me.’ In the third, she blushed and murmured,

avoiding my glances, when I looked at her. In the fourth, she blushed

more deeply when I took her hand--but did not withdraw it. In the fifth,

the fair head in some manner had come to rest on my shoulder--no doubt

from weakness. And in a few days afterward the shy, embarrassed, loving,

palpitating creature, blushing deeply, ‘sunk upon my bosom,’ as the

poets say, and murmured, ‘How can I resist you?’

“In other words, my dear friend, _Miss Mortimer_ had promised to become

_my wife_, and I need not say, I was the happiest of men. I thought

with rapture of the bliss I was about to enjoy in having by my side,

throughout life, this charming creature. I trembled at the very thought

that the accident in the wood might not have happened, and I might never

have known her! I was at the parsonage morning, noon, and night. When

not beside _her_ I was riding through the forest at full speed, with

bared brow, laughing lips, and shouts of joy--in a word, my dear friend,

I was as much intoxicated as ever youth was yet, and fed on froth and

moonshine to an extent that was really astonishing!

“There was absolutely nothing to oppose our marriage. My old guardian,

it is true, shook his head, and suggested inquiries into the family,

position, character, etc., of the Mortimers; I was young, wealthy, heir

of one of the oldest families, he said, and sharpers might deceive me.

But all I heard was the word ‘sharpers’--and I left my guardian,

whose functions had ceased now, in high displeasure at his unworthy

imputations. That angel a sharper! That pure, devoted creature, guilty

of deception! I fell into a rage; swore never to visit my guardian

again; and returning to the parsonage urged a speedy consummation of our

marriage.

“The fair one was not loth. She indicated that fact by violently

opposing me at first, but soon yielded. When I rode home that night I

had made every arrangement for our union in one month from that time.

“So much for Act I., Surry!”

XVII.

THE WILL.

Mohun had commenced his narrative in a mild voice, and with an

expression of great sadness upon his features. As he proceeded, however,

this all disappeared; gradually the voice became harsh and metallic,

so to describe it, and his face resumed that expression of cynical

bitterness which I had observed in him on our first meeting. As he

returned thus, to the past, all its bitterness seemed to revive; memory

lashed him with its stinging whip; and Mohun had gone back to his “first

phase,”--that of the man, stern, implacable, and misanthropic.

After uttering the words, “So much for Act I., Surry!” he paused. A

moment afterward, however, he resumed his narrative.

“What I am now going to tell you is not agreeable to remember, my

dear Surry, and I shall accordingly relate every thing as briefly as

possible. I aim only to give you a clear conception of the tragedy. You

will form your own opinion.

“I was impolite enough in introducing _Miss Mortimer_ to you, at the

parsonage, to describe that young lady as a ‘devil.’ No doubt the term

shocked you, and yet it conveyed something very like the exact truth. I

declare to you that this woman was, and is still, a marvel to me, a most

curious study. How could she be such as she was? She had the lips of

an infant, and the eyes of an angel. Was it not strange that, under

all that, she should hide the heart of a born devil? But to continue my

narrative.

“The month or two which elapsed between my engagement and my marriage

was not an uninterrupted dream of bliss. The atmosphere was strangely

disturbed on more than one occasion. Mademoiselle was frequently absent

from the parsonage when I arrived, taking long walks with Monsieur, her

brother; and when she returned from these excursions, I could see a very

strange expression on her countenance as she looked at me. Occasionally

her glance was like those lurid flashes of lightning which you may have

seen issue from the depths of a black cloud. Her black eyes were the

cloud--admire the simile!--and I assure you their expression at such

moments was far from agreeable. What to make of it, I knew not. I am

not constitutionally irritable, but on more than one occasion I felt a

strange angry throb of the heart when I encountered those glances.

“Mademoiselle saw my displeasure, and hastened at once to soothe and

dissipate it. The dark flash was always succeeded by the most brilliant

sunshine; but, even in moments of her greatest apparent abandon, I would

still meet suddenly, when she did not think I was looking at her, the

sombre glance which appalled me.

“In spite of this strange phenomenon, however, the young girl possessed

unbounded influence over me. I could not resist her fascinations,

and was as wax in her hands. She took a charming interest in all that

concerned me; painted the blissful future before us, in all the colors

of the rainbow; and declared that the devotion of her whole life would

not be sufficient to display ‘her gratitude for my magnanimity in

wedding a poor girl who had nothing but her warm love to offer me.’

“‘That is more than enough,’ I said, charmed by her caressing voice. ‘I

have few relations, and friends--you are all to me.’

“‘And you to me!’ she said. Then she added, with a sort of shudder, ‘but

suppose you were to die!’

“I laughed, and replied:--

“‘You would be well provided for, and find yourself a gay young widow

with hundreds of beaux?’

“She looked at me reproachfully.

“‘Do you think I would ever marry again?’ she said. ‘No! I would take

our marriage ring, and some little souvenir connected with you, leave

your fine house, and go with my brother to some poor home in a foreign

country, where the memory of our past happiness would be my solace!’

“I shook my head.

“‘You will not do that,’ I said, ‘you will be the mistress of all my

fortune, after my death!’

“‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed.

“‘Oh, yes!’ I responded, laughing; ‘and, to make every thing certain, I

am going to draw up my will this very day, leaving you every thing which

I possess in the world.’

“Her face suddenly flushed.

“‘How can you think of such a thing!’ she said. ‘I did not know how much

you loved me!’

“You will understand, my dear Surry, that those words did not change my

resolution. When I left her I went home, and wrote the will in due form,

and on my next visit she asked, laughing, if I had carried out my absurd

resolution.

“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and now let us talk of a more interesting affair--our

marriage!’

“She blushed, then turned pale, and again I saw the strange lurid

glance. It disappeared, however, in an instant, and she was all smiles

and fascinations throughout the remainder of the day. Never had I been

so happy.”

XVIII.

THE MARRIAGE.

“As the day of our marriage approached,” continued Mohun, “I saw more

than once the same singular expression in the lady’s eyes, and I confess

it chilled me.

“She seemed to be the prey to singular moods, and fits of silence. She

took more frequent and longer walks with Mortimer than before. When they

returned from these walks and found me awaiting them at the parsonage,

both would look at me in the strangest way, only to quickly withdraw

their eyes when they caught my own fixed upon them.

“I longed to speak of this curious phenomenon to some one, but had

no friend. My best friend, Nighthawk, was alienated from me, and

Mademoiselle had been the cause. From the first moment of our

acquaintance, Nighthawk had seemed to suspect something. He did not

attempt to conceal his dislike of Mortimer and the young lady. Why was

that? I could not tell. Your dog growls when the secret foe approaches

you, smiling, and, perhaps, Nighthawk, my faithful retainer, had

something of the watch dog in him.

“Certain it is that he had witnessed my growing intimacy with Miss

Mortimer, with ill-concealed distaste. As I became more and more

attentive, he became almost sour toward me. When I asked him the meaning

of his singular deportment, he shook his head--and then, with flushed

cheeks and eyes, exclaimed: ‘do not marry this young person, sir!

something bad will come of it!’ When he said that, I looked at him with

haughty surprise--and this sentiment changed in a few moments to cold

anger. ‘Leave this house,’ I said, ‘and do not return until you have

learned how to treat me with decent respect!’ He looked at me for a

moment, clasped his hands, opened his lips--seemed about to burst forth

into passionate entreaty--but all at once, shaking his head, went out in

silence. I looked after him with a strange shrinking of the heart. What

could he mean? He was senseless!--and I mounted my horse, galloped to

the parsonage, was received with radiant smiles, and forgot the whole

scene. On the next day Nighthawk did not return--nor on the next. I did

not see him again until the evening of the day on which I was married.

“To that ‘auspicious moment’ I have now conducted you, my dear

Surry. The morning for my marriage came. I say ‘the morning’--for my

‘enchantress,’ as the amatory poets say, had declared that she detested

the idea of being married at night; she also objected to company;--would

I not consent to have the ceremony performed quietly at the parsonage,

with no one present but her brother and the excellent parson, Hope,

and his old housekeeper? Then she would belong to me--I could do as

I pleased with her--take her to Fonthill, or where I chose--she only

begged that I would allow her to embark on the ocean of matrimony,

with no one to witness her blushes but myself, her brother, the old

housekeeper, and the good minister!

“I consented at once. The speech charmed me, I need not say--and I was

not myself unwilling to dispense with inquisitive eyes and laughing

witnesses. Infatuated as I was, I could not conceal from myself that my

marriage was a hasty and extremely ‘romantic’ affair. I doubted whether

the old friends of my father in the neighborhood would approve of it;

and now, when Mademoiselle gave me a good excuse to dispense with their

presence, I gladly assented, invited no one, and went to my wedding

alone, in the great family chariot, unaccompanied by a single friend or

relative.

“Mademoiselle met me with a radiant smile, and her wedding dress of

white silk, made her look perfectly charming. Her lips were caressing,

her eyes melting, but all at once, as she looked at me, I saw the color

all fade out of the rosy lips of the lady; and from the great dark eyes

darted the lurid flash. A chill, like that of death smote me, I know not

why, but I suppressed my emotion. In ten minutes, I was standing before

the excellent clergyman, the young lady’s cold hand in mine--and we were

duly declared man and wife.

“All my forebodings and strange shrinkings were completely dissipated

at this instant. I was overwhelmed with happiness, and would not have

envied a king upon his throne. With the hand of the lovely creature in

my own, and her eyes fixed upon me with an expression of the deepest

love, I experienced but one emotion--that of full, complete, unalloyed

happiness.

“Let me hasten on. The storm is coming, my dear Surry. I linger on the

threshold of the tragedy, and recoil even now, with a sort of shudder

from the terrible scenes which succeeded my marriage. _Tragedy_ is a

mild word, as you will perceive, for the drama. It was going to surpass

Aeschylus--and preserve the Greek ‘unities’ with frightful precision!

“Half an hour after the ceremony, I led madam to my chariot; followed

her into the vehicle, and making a last sign of greeting to the good

parson, directed the driver to proceed to Fonthill. Madam’s excellent

brother did not accompany us. He declared his intention to remain on

that night at the parsonage. He would call at Fonthill on the next

day--on the day after, he proposed to continue his way to Georgia. His

eyes were not a pleasant spectacle as he uttered these words, and I

observed a singular pallor came to madam’s countenance. But I was in no

mood to nourish suspicion. At the height of happiness, I looked serenely

down upon all the world, and with the hand of _my wife_ in my own, was

driven rapidly to Fonthill.

“We arrived in the afternoon, and dined in state, all alone. Madam did

the honors of _her table_ with exquisite grace, but more than once I saw

her hand shake in a very singular way, as she carried food or a glass to

her lips.

“After dinner she bade me a smiling courtesy, leaving me to find company

in my cigar, she said; and tripped off to her chamber.

“Well, I lit my cigar, retired to the library, and seating myself in an

arm-chair before the fire, began to reflect. It was nearly the middle

of December, and through the opening in the curtains I could see the

moonlight on the chill expanse of the lawn.

“I had just taken my seat, when I heard a step in the passage, the door

of the library opened, and Nighthawk, as pale as a ghost, and with a

strange expression in his eyes, entered the apartment.”

XIX.

WEDDING ARRANGEMENTS.

“I had recognized his step,” continued Mohun, “but I did not move or

turn my head, for I had not recovered from my feeling of ill humor

toward the faithful retainer. I allowed him to approach me, and then

said coldly, without looking at him--

“‘Who is that?’

“‘I, sir,’ said Nighthawk, in a trembling voice.

“‘What do you want?’

“‘I wish to speak to you, sir.’

“‘I am not at leisure.’

“‘I _must_ speak to you, sir.’

“I wheeled round in my chair, and looked at him. His pallor was

frightful.

“‘What does all this mean?’ I said, coldly, ‘this is a singular

intrusion.’

“‘I would not intrude upon you, if it was not necessary sir,’ he said,

in an agitated voice, ‘but I must speak to you to-night!’

“There was something in his accent which frightened me, I knew not why.

“‘Well speak!’ I said, austerely, ‘but be brief!’

“‘As brief as I can, sir; but I must tell you all. If you strike me dead

at your feet, I must tell you all, sir!’

“In spite of myself I shuddered.

“‘Speak!’ I said, ‘what does this mean, Nighthawk?’ Why do you look like

a ghost at me?’

“He came up close to me.

“‘What I have to tell you concerns your honor and your life, sir!’ he

said, in a low tone.

“I gazed at him in speechless astonishment. Was I the prey of some

nightmare? I protest to you, Surry, I thought for a moment that I was

dreaming all this. A tremor ran through my frame; I placed my hand upon

my heart, which felt icy cold--then suddenly my self-possession and

coolness seemed to return to me as by magic.

“‘Explain your words,’ I said, coldly, ‘there is some mystery in them

which I do not understand. Speak, and speak plainly.’

“‘I will do so, sir,’ he replied, in the same trembling voice.

“And going to the door of the apartment, he bent down and placed his

ear at the key-hole. He remained in this attitude for a moment without

moving. Then rising, he went to the window, and drawing aside the

curtains, looked out on the chill moonlit expanse. This second

examination seemed to satisfy him. At the same instant a light step--the

step of madam--was heard crossing the floor of the apartment, above our

heads; and this evidently banished Nighthawk’s last fears.

“He returned quickly to the seat where I was sitting; looked at me for

some minutes with eyes full of fear, affection, sympathy, fright, and

said in a voice so low, that it scarce rose above a whisper:--

“‘We are alone, sir, and I can speak without being overheard by these

devils who have betrayed and are about to murder you! Do not interrupt

me sir!--the time is short!--you must know every thing at once, in an

hour it would be too late! The man calling himself Mortimer is probably

within a hundred yards of us at this moment. The woman you have married

is----his wife. Stop, sir!--do not strike me!--listen! I know the truth

of every thing now. She talked with him for an hour under the big cedar,

near the parsonage last night. He will see her again to-night, and in

this house--hear me to the end, sir! You will not harm him; you will

care nothing for all this; you will not know it, for you will be dead,

sir!’

“At these words I must have turned deadly pale, for Nighthawk hastened

to my side, and placed his arm around me to support me. But I did not

need his assistance. In an instant I was as calm as I am at this moment.

I quietly removed the arm of Nighthawk, and said in a low tone:--

“‘How do you know this?’

“‘I overheard their talk,’ he replied, in a husky voice, and looked at

me with infinite tenderness as he spoke. ‘I was coming to see you at the

parsonage, where I thought you had gone, sir. I could not bear to

keep away from my old master’s son any longer; and let him get married

without making up, and having him feel kindly again to me. Well, sir,

I had just reached the big cedar, when I saw _the lady_ come out of the

house, hasten toward the cedar, and hide herself in the shadow, within

a few feet of me. No sooner had she done so, than I saw a man come from

the rear of the house, straight to the cedar, and as he drew nearer I

recognized Mortimer. Madam coughed slightly, as though to give him the

signal; he soon reached her; and then they began to talk. I was hidden

by the trunk of the tree, and the shadow of the heavy boughs, reaching

nearly to the ground; so I heard every word they said, without being

discovered.’

“‘What was it they said?’

“‘I can not repeat their words, sir, but I can tell you what I learned

from their talk.’

“‘Tell me,’ I said.

“‘First, I discovered that madam had been married to that man more than

a year before you saw her.’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Before which she had been tried, convicted, and confined for six

months in a prison in New York, as a thief. You turn pale, sir; shall I

stop?’

“‘No, go on,’ I said.

“‘These facts,’ continued Nighthawk, ‘came out in a sort of quarrel

which madam had with the man. He reproached her with intending to desert

him--with loving you--and said he had not rescued her from misery to

be thus treated. She laughed, and replied that she was only following

a suggestion of his own. They were poor, they must live; he had himself

said that they must procure money either honestly or dishonestly; and he

had fully approved of the plan she had now undertaken. _You_, sir--she

added--were an “empty-headed fool,”--the idea of her “loving” you

was absurd!--but you were wealthy; immensely wealthy; had made a will

leaving her your entire property;--_if you died suddenly on your wedding

night_, she and himself would possess Fonthill, and live in affluence.’

“‘Go on,’ I said.

“‘At these words,’ continued Nighthawk, ‘I could see the man turn pale.

He had not intended _that_, he said. His scheme had been, that madam

should induce you to bestow upon her a splendid trousseau in the shape

of jewels and money, with which they would elope. The marriage was only

a farce, he added--he did not wish to turn it into a tragedy. But she

interrupted him impatiently, and said she hated and would have no mercy

on you. She would have all or nothing. Your will made her the mistress.

What was a crime, more or less, to people like themselves! At these

words he uttered a growl. In a word, she added, you were _an obstacle_,

and she was going to _suppress you_--with or without his consent. She

then proceeded to tell him her resolution; and it is a frightful, a

horrible one, sir! All is arranged--you are about to be _murdered_!’

“‘How, and when?’ I said.

“‘This very night, by poison!’

“‘Ah!’ I said, ‘explain that.’

“‘Madam has provided herself with strychnine, which she will place in

the tea you drink to-night. Tea will be served in half an hour. _He_

will be waiting--for she forced him to agree--and your cries will

announce all to him. You will be poisoned between eight and nine o’clock

in the evening, sir,--at ten you will already be dying,--and at midnight

you will be dead. Then madam will banish every one from her chamber,

in inconsolable grief--lock the door--tap on the window-pane--_he_ will

hear the signal, and come up the back staircase--when madam will open

the private door for him to come in and take a look at your body! Do you

understand now, sir?’

“‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Remain here, Nighthawk. There is the step of the

servant coming to tell me tea is ready!’”

XX.

THE CUP OF TEA.

“The door opened as I uttered the words, and my old major-domo--gray

haired, and an heir-loom, so to say, of the family--bowed low, and

announced that tea was served and madam waiting.

“I rose and looked into the mirror above the fireplace. I was pale,

but not sufficiently so to excite suspicion; and with a smile which

frightened Nighthawk, took my way toward the supper-room.

“Madam was awaiting me, as I suspected, and I had never seen her look

more radiant. A single glance told me that she had made an elaborate

toilet in honor of--my funeral! Her dark hair was in shining braids;

her eyes sparkled with joy; her parted lips showed her white teeth;--the

only evidence I saw of concealed emotion was in the bloodless cheeks.

They were as white as the lace falling over her superb silk dress.

“‘You see you keep me waiting!’ she said, with playful _naiveté_, ‘and

your tea is growing cold, sir--which is worse for me than for you, as

you do not care, but I care for you!’

“And as I passed her, she drew me playfully toward her, dragged me down,

and held up her lips. I touched them with my own; they were as cold as

ice, or the cheek my own face just touched in passing. I went to the

table; took my seat; and madam poured out the tea, with a covert glance

toward me. I was not looking at her, but I saw it.

“A moment afterward, the old waiter presented me the small gilt cup,

smoking, fragrant, and inviting.

“I took it, looking, as before, out of the corner of my eye at madam.

She was leaning forward, watching me with a face as pale as death. I

could hear her teeth chatter.

“I placed the cup to my lips;--her hand, holding a spoon, trembled

so that the spoon beat a tattoo on her saucer. She was watching me in

breathless suspense; and all at once I turned full toward her.

“‘The taste of this tea is singular,’ I said, ‘I should call it very

bad.’

“‘Oh, it is--excellent!’ she muttered, between her chattering teeth.

“‘The cup you send me is certainly wretched. Do me the _pleasure to

taste it, madam_.’

“And depositing it upon the waiter of the old servant, I said:--

“‘Take this to your mistress.’

“He did so; she just touched it with her lips, her hand trembling, then

replaced it upon the waiter.

“‘I perceive nothing disagreeable,’ she murmured.

“‘Swallow a mouthful,’ I said, with a bitter smile.

“She looked at me with sudden intentness. Her eyes, full of wild

inquiry, seemed attempting to read into my very soul.

“‘Perhaps you object to drinking after me, as the children say,’ I

added--this time with a species of sneer, and a flash of the eye, I

think.

“‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed, with an attempt to laugh; ‘and to show you--’

“With a quick movement she attempted--as though by accident--to strike

the waiter with her elbow, in order to overturn the cup.

“But the old servant was too well trained. The lady’s elbow struck the

waiter, but the skilful attendant withdrew it quickly. Not a drop of the

tea was spilled.

“A moment afterward I was beside madam.

“‘I pray you to drink,’ I said.

“‘I can not--I feel unwell,’ she murmured, cowering beneath the fire in

my eye.

“‘I beg you to drink from this cup.’

“‘I have told you--I will not.’

“‘I beseech you to humor me, madam. Else I shall regard you as a

murderess!’

“She rose suddenly.

“‘Your meaning, sir!’ she exclaimed, as pale as death.

“I took the cup and poured the tea into a saucer. At the bottom was

a modicum of white powder, undissolved. I poured the tea into the

cup again--then a second time into the saucer. This time nothing

remained--and I proceeded to pour cream into the saucer, until it was

filled. Madam watched me with distended eyes, and trembling from head to

foot. Then suddenly she uttered a cry--a movement of mine had caused the

cry.

“I had gone to the fire where a cat was reposing upon the rug,

and placed the saucer before her. In two minutes its contents had

disappeared down the throat of the cat. Five minutes afterward

the animal was seized with violent convulsions--uttered unearthly

cries--tore the carpet with its claws--glared around in a sort of

despair--rolled on its back, beat the air with its paws--and expired.

“I turned to madam, who was gazing at me with distended eyes, and

pointing to the cat, said:--

“‘See this unfortunate animal, madam! Her death is curious. She has died

in convulsions, in consequence of drinking a cup of tea!’”

XXI.

THE FOILS.

“Up to this moment,” continued Mohun, “madam had exhibited every

indication of nervous excitement, and a sort of terror. Had that arisen

from a feeling of suspense, and the unexpected discovery of her intent

by the proposed victim? I know not; but now, when all was discovered,

her manner suddenly changed.

“She glared at me like a wild animal driven to bay. Her pearly teeth

closed upon her under lip until the blood started. Pallid, but defiant,

she uttered a low hoarse sound which resembled the growl of a tigress

from whom her prey has been snatched, and with a firm and haughty step

left the apartment, glaring over her shoulder at me to the last.

“Then her step was heard upon the great staircase; she slowly ascended

to her chamber; the door opened, then closed--and I sat down, overcome

for an instant by the terrible scene, within three paces of the dead

animal, destroyed by the poison intended for myself.

“This paralysis of mind lasted only for a moment, however. I rose

coolly; directed the old servant, who alone had witnessed the scene, to

retire, and carefully abstain from uttering a word of what had passed

before him--then I leaned upon the mantel-piece, reflected for five

minutes--and in that time I had formed my resolution.

“Mortimer was first to be thought of. I intended to put him to death

first and foremost. It would have been easy to have imitated the old

seigneurs of the feudal age, and ordered my retainers to assassinate

him; but that was repugnant to my whole character. It should never be

said that a Mohun had shrunk before his foe; that one of my family

had delegated to another the punishment of his enemy. I would fight

Mortimer--meet him in fair and open combat--if he killed me well and

good. If not, I would kill him. And it should not be with the pistol.

I thirsted to meet him breast to breast; to feel my weapon traverse his

heart. To accomplish this was not difficult. I had often heard Mortimer,

when at the parsonage, boast of his skill with the foils. I had a pair

at hand. By breaking off the buttons, and sharpening the points, I would

secure two rude but excellent rapiers, with which Mortimer and myself

could settle our little differences, after the fashion of gentlemen in

former ages! As to the place of combat,--anywhere--in the house, or a

part of the grounds around the mansion--it was unimportant I said,

so that one of us was killed. But a moment’s reflection induced me to

change my views. Under any circumstances _I_ was going to die--that was

true. My character, however, must be thought of. It would not do to have

a stain rest on the last of the house of Mohun! Were I to kill Mortimer

in the house, or grounds, it would be said that I had murdered him, with

the aid of my servants--that I had drawn him thither to strike him--had

acted the traitor and the coward. ‘No,’ I said, ‘even in death I must

guard the family honor. This man must fall elsewhere--in some spot far

distant from this house--fall without witnesses--in silence--in fair

fight with me, no one even seeing us.’

“I had formed this resolution in five minutes after the departure of

madam from the supper-room. I went straight to the library; calmly

stated my resolution to Nighthawk; and in spite of his most obstinate

remonstrances, and repeated refusals, broke down his opposition by sheer

force of will. It took me half an hour, but at the end of that time I

had succeeded. Nighthawk listened, with bent head, and pale face covered

with drops of cold perspiration, to my orders. These orders were to have

the horses put to the carriage, which was to be ready at my call; then

to proceed with a trusty servant, or more if necessary, to a private

spot on the river, which I described to him; dig a grave of full length

and depth; and when his work was finished, return and report the fact to

me, cautioning the servant or servants to say nothing.

“This work, I calculated, would be completed about midnight--and at

midnight I promised myself an interview with my friend Mortimer.

“Nighthawk groaned as he listened to my cold and resolute voice, giving

minute instructions for the work of darkness--looked at my face, to

discover if there were any signs of yielding there--doubtless saw none

whatever--and disappeared, uttering a groan, to carry out the orders

which he had received from me.

“Then I took the two foils from the top of the bookcase where they were

kept; broke off the buttons by placing my heel upon them; procured a

file, and sharpened the points until they would have penetrated through

an ordinary plank. That was sufficient, I said to myself--they would

pierce a man’s breast--and placing them on the buffet, I went to a

drawer and took out a loaded revolver, which I thrust into my breast.

“Two minutes afterward I had ascended to madam’s chamber, opened the

door, and entered.”

XXII.

WHILE WAITING FOR MIDNIGHT.

“I did not arrive a moment too soon--in fact I came in the nick of time.

“Madam had hastily collected watches, chains, breastpins, necklaces, and

all the money she could find; had thrust the whole into a jewel casket;

thrown her rich furs around her shoulders; and was hurrying toward the

door, in rear of the apartment which opened on the private staircase.

“She had not locked the main door of the apartment, doubtless fearing to

excite suspicion, or knowing I could easily break the hasp with a single

blow of my foot. She had plainly counted on my stupor of astonishment

and horror at her crime, and was now trying to escape.

“That did not suit my view, however. In two steps, I reached the private

door, turned the key, drew it from the lock, and placed it in my pocket.

“‘Sit down, madam,’ I said, ‘and do not be in such a hurry to desert

your dear husband. Let us talk for a few moments, at least, before you

depart.’

“She glared at me and sat down. She looked regal in her costly furs,

holding the casket, heaped with rich jewels.

“‘What is your programme, madam, if I may ask?’ I said, taking a chair

which stood opposite to her.

“‘To leave this house!’ she said, hoarsely.

“‘Ah! you are tired of me, then?’

“‘I am sick of you!--have long been sick of you!’

“‘Indeed!’ I said. ‘That is curious! I thought our marriage was a love

affair, madam; at least you induced me to suppose so. What, then, has

suddenly changed your sentiments in my direction? Am I a monster? Have I

been cruel to you? Am I unworthy of you?’

“‘I hate and despise you!’

“It was the hoarse growl of a wild animal rather than the voice of a

woman. She was imperial at that moment--and I acknowledge, Surry, that

she was ‘game to the last!’

“‘Ah! you hate me, you despise me!’ I said. ‘I have had the misfortune

to incur madam’s displeasure! No more connubial happiness--no more

endearments and sweet confidences--no more loving words, and glances--no

more bliss!’

“She continued to glare at me.

“‘I am unworthy of madam; I see that clearly,’ I went on. ‘I am only a

poor little, plain little, insignificant little country clodhopper! I am

nothing--a mere nobody,--while madam is--shall I tell you, madam? While

you are a convict--a bigamist,--and a poisoner! Are you not?’

“Her face became livid, but her defiant eyes never sank before my

glance. I really admired her, Surry. No woman was ever braver than

that one. I had supposed that these words would overwhelm her; that the

discovery of my acquaintance with her past life, and full knowledge of

her attempted crime, would crush her to the earth. Perhaps I had some

remnant of pity for this woman. If she had been submissive, repentant!

but, instead of submission and confusion, she exhibited greater defiance

than before. In the pale face her eyes burned like coals of fire--and it

was rage which inflamed them.

“‘So you have set your spies on me!’ she exclaimed, in accents of

inexpressible fury. ‘You are a chivalric gentleman, truly! You are

worthy of your boasted family! You pretend to love and confide in

me--you look at me with smiles and eyes of affection--and all the time

you are laying a trap for me--endeavoring to catch me and betray me!

Well, yes, sir! yes! What you have discovered through your spies is

true. I _was_ tried and sentenced as a thief--I _was_ married when I

first saw you--and it is this miserable creature, this offscouring of

the kennels, this thief, that has become _the wife_ of the proud Mr.

Mohun--in the eyes of the world at least! I am so still--my character

is untainted--dare to expose me and have me punished, and it is _your_

proud name that will be tarnished! _your_ grand escutcheon that will be

blotted! Come! arrest me, expose me, drag me to justice! I will stand up

in open court, and point my finger at you where you stand cowering, in

the midst of jeers and laughter, and say: “There is Mr. Mohun, of the

ancient family of the Mohuns,--he is the husband and the dupe of a

thief!”’

“She was splendid as she uttered these words, Surry. They thrilled

me, and made my blood flame. I half rose, nearly beside myself--then I

resumed my seat and my coolness. A moment afterward I was as calm as I

am at this moment, and said, laughing:--

“‘So you have prepared that pretty little tableau, have you, madam? I

compliment you on your skill;--and even more on your nerve. But have

you not omitted one thing--a very trifling portion, it is true, of the

indictment to be framed against you? I refer to the little scene of this

evening, madam.’

“Her teeth closed with a snap. Otherwise she exhibited no emotion. Her

flashing eyes continued to survey me with the former defiance.

“‘Is there not an additional clause in the said indictment, madam?’ I

calmly continued, ‘which the commonwealth’s attorney will perhaps

rely on more fully than upon all else in the document, to secure

your conviction and punishment? You are not only a bigamist and an

ex-convict,--you are also a poisoner, my dear madam, and may be hanged

for that. Or, if not hanged--there is that handsome white house at

Richmond, the state penitentiary. The least term which a jury can affix

to your crime, will be eighteen years, if you are not sent there for

life! For life!--think of that, madam. How very disagreeable it will

be! Nothing around you but blank walls; no associates but thieves and

murderers--hard labor with these pretty hands--a hard bed for this

handsome body--coarse and wretched food for these dainty red lips--the

dress, the food, the work, and the treatment of a convict! Disagreeable,

is it not, madam? But that is the least that a felon, convicted of an

attempt to poison, can expect! There is only one point which I have

omitted, and which may count for you. This life in prison will not be so

hard to you--since your ladyship has already served your apprenticeship

among felons.’

“The point at last was reached. Madam had listened with changing color,

and my words seemed to paint the frightful scene in all its horror.

Suddenly fury mastered her. She rose and seemed clutching at some weapon

to strike me.

“‘You are _a gentleman_! you insult a woman.’

“‘You are a poisoner, madam--you make tea for the gentleman!’

“‘You are a coward! do you hear? a coward!’

“‘I can not return, madam, the same reproach!’ I replied, rising and

bowing; ‘it required some courage to attempt to poison me upon the very

night of my wedding!’

“My words drove her to frenzy.