SOMEWHAT OF A MYSTERY
A long, dusty road swept by the bleak wind of a November day. A boy,
young man he seemed in his ragged frontier garb, trudged wearily on.
The long rifle he carried had a fancifully carved stock, once the
pride of a veteran Wyandotte chief.
The lad's face was worn and thin and, by reason of long exposure, almost
the colour of an Indian's. "Four miles further to Charlottesville," he
said, and threw himself down beside the road as one exhausted. At the
sound of a galloping horse he looked up with dull, sullen eyes, into
which there came a flash of recognition and he cried, "Nat, old boy!"
The horse stopped so quickly his rider narrowly escaped being unhorsed.
"What in thunder are you doing? er--shadder of old black Tom! is it
you, Rodney Allison, or your ghost?"
"I feel like a ghost, Angus, and I don't think I'm heavy enough to
bother Nat if we ride double back to town. How is mother and 'Omi?
and how did you come by Nat? Is the place gone? I feared Denham had
the colt."
"Never heard that ghosts could ask questions or I'd sure think ye was
one. Ride double? You bet ye can, an' if thar ain't horse enough, I'll
walk. Give us yer hand, thar, now I'll answer the rest o' yer
questions. The folks are right smart but powerful anxious fer yer dad.
Reckon they'd lost hope o' seein' you again."
"Father was killed in the battle at Point Pleasant."
"Yer father killed! An' he thought you was dead. He was a good man,
Rodney. Everybody'll be mighty sorry to hear that," and then, words
failing, he said no more and in silence they arrived at the Allison
home. Angus led the colt to the stable while Rodney entered the
house.
Mam saw him first, and for a moment she was almost a white woman. His
mother fainted and his little sister ran from him in terror. But why
attempt to describe that which words fail to express? Tragedies were
not uncommon in the frontier homes of that day in this new land, and
wives and mothers were heroines, though the great outside world never
was to learn their names and Fame could not record them.
Angus with true delicacy went to his home, but later in the day
called, and the two boys had a long talk.
"You haven't answered my questions, yet, Angus. I haven't felt like
talking business with mother. I find poor old Thello sick and I don't
know as Mam will ever get over her scare at sight of me."
"Thello's bein' sick was why I was exercisin' the colt. I say, Rodney,
old Denham mighty nigh owned the critter, and the place to boot. He'd
got his thumb right on 'em when along come a feller as told him to
take it off."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Denham was--er--foreclosin', that's the word, when this
man interfered."
"What man? Not Mr. Jefferson?"
"No. He would, though, if he'd been round home an' known about it; but
he's away most the time. No, I don't know who the man was. Yer mother
may know fer he left the deed with her. Ye see, 'twas this way. I met
him ridin' like the wind. His nag was all of a lather. He pulled up
an' says, 'Can you tell me where the Allison home is?' I says, 'I
reckon I can, it's right over thar.' He kept on an' met ol' Denham
leadin' Nat out'n the stable. I dunno what was said, but I saw 'em an'
moused right along down whar they was talkin'. Yer mother had gone to
the village. Well, when I got within earshot, I heard the man say,
'I've got the money right here.' Denham didn't act as though he had
any use for money, which looked mighty funny. But the man, he was a
masterful one, I tell ye,--"
"I'll bet Mr. Jefferson sent him. What'd he look like?"
"Oh, I dunno. He was one o' the quality, I c'd see that with half an
eye. Anyhow he jes' tol' Denham to take that money an' Denham 'lowed
he wouldn't. Then the man, he says, 'You'll take that money an' give
me a deed o' that Allison place, free an' clear, or I'll fight ye
through the courts an' I'll win.' Denham, he hemmed an' hawed, but the
man wouldn't stand fer no foolin' an' Denham, he wilted. They went
down to the Squire's to fix the matter up."
"I wish I knew who he was or how I'm going to pay him."
"Don't reckon ye got to pay him. Yer mother's got the deed fer I see
him give it to her."
"It's a debt of honour, Angus. You must help me to think up some way
to make a living, and something besides, off the old place."
"We'll figger it out certain sure, Rodney. You've got a home as no one
can take away from ye if ye don't mortgage it."
On his return to the house Rodney asked his mother about the matter.
"It's all very strange to me. The gentleman, and it was very evident
that he was one, called and handed me a paper, saying, 'Madam, there
is the deed to your home. I understand that leaves you free of debt. I
do not wish to seem impertinent but am I correct?'"
"I told him I knew of no other obligations. I said: 'You are very kind
and I am deeply grateful if I do not seem so. It is hard for one
unaccustomed to charity to accept it, you know. I must know to whom I
am indebted, for I certainly hope the time may come when it may be
repaid.'"
"What did he say?"
"His reply was, 'This is not given as charity. It is to repay a debt
owed to one very dear to you and I am not at liberty to mention the
debtor's name. I assure you, however, that it is not charity, but the
payment of an obligation. The only request is, that this home, never,
so long as in your possession, be mortgaged again.'"
"Father was always helping people and saying nothing about it,"
replied Rodney, and the tears came to his eyes.
They sat many minutes looking into the open fire. Then Mrs. Allison
said: "Rodney, I wish you would go to the closet in my room and get
the little trunk in which your father kept his papers."
The boy brought back a little leather-bound trunk, neatly ornamented
and secured with brass headed tacks.
Mrs. Allison was a woman of strong character and, after the shock of
hearing the report of her husband's death, took up her duties with
composure, though the lines in her face seemed deeper, and Rodney saw
that an errant lock of her hair, which he had always thought a part of
the attractiveness of her fair face, was now quite gray, and, as she
pushed it aside, a familiar way she had, he noticed how thin and white
her hand was and saw that it trembled.
"As I put the deed in the trunk with the other papers, the day it was
brought to me, I noticed a sealed paper there, which I think we
perhaps should open," saying which she took it and held it out that
her son might read the inscription, which was: "To be opened by my
dear wife after my death, if she should survive, otherwise to be
burned unread."
She broke the seal and read, the boy watching her face as she did so.
Having read it, she allowed it to lie in her lap for a time, and then
gave it to Rodney, and this is what he read, his wonder increasing
with every line:
"MY BELOVED WIFE:--As you read this you may recall the last evening in
the old home before we came to Charlottesville. I sat by the window
and you said, 'It is a pretty picture, David, the water in the creek,
in the sunset colours, looks like wine and the road is a brown ribbon
on green velvet. But perhaps you are not thinking of that at all.
Sometimes, David, I think there is a part of your life in which I do
not live.'
"You did not see me start at those words, for they were true. After
you had retired I sat for a long time and then it became clear to me
that you should know in good time that other part of my life, for
there really was another.
"I had not seen the colours on the creek nor the brown ribbon on the
green velvet, as I sat by the window. Instead I saw the streets of old
Edinburgh, the shadows heavy in the Greyfriars' churchyard, the
familiar scenes along High Street of an evening, when the students
were out laughing and joking, strolling along, each with hand on the
other's shoulder, and I among them. For I was as care-free as any one
of them all. The good mother had not let me see that she was making
any sacrifice in giving me those years at the University, and I was
confident of the future.
"I have told you of those days, but not that my mates knew me as David
Cameron,--David Allison Cameron, to be exact, Allison being my
mother's name. 'Why should you change it?' I can hear you ask,
apprehension in your voice. That is the part of my life in which you
are now to share. Nor do I clearly know why you have not been
permitted to do so before. It was no guilt of mine that caused me to
change my name, except, possibly, that I was influenced by pride. My
father's brother was a merchant in Glasgow, who urged that I become
his apprentice. Mother was all for having me educated. I think the
dear soul hoped to hear me expound in the kirk, as possibly she might
but for the cold that came upon her and, before I realized what it
meant, the good doctor was telling me it would be her last illness.
"Ah! the mists hung heavy over the lowlands the morning I turned my
face toward London, where I was determined to seek fame and fortune. I
might have gone to my uncle in Glasgow, but no, mother had wished
otherwise and I was as proud as I was inexperienced.
"I will not pain you with a recital of the struggles I endured until,
as I thought, Fortune came to my relief and Lord Ralston engaged me as
the tutor of his son, Dick. And, when I saw the lad, my happiness was
complete. He was a handsome fellow, generous to a fault, and his
pleasant smile and hearty greeting won me at the first. The stipend,
to one impoverished as I was, seemed munificent, but I soon found that
Handsome Dick, as he was called, made sure the spending of it should
not trouble me. He could borrow a pound or two as if doing one a
favour, and I knew it was with the firm intention that I should have
it back. This, however, he found so inconvenient I rarely had enough
to help him out of scrapes when his own funds were wasted. Admonitions
to him were like the falling rain on the back of the duck. He early
acquired a passion for gambling. His father knew it, but hoped that
time would work his cure. He, himself, I learned, had been somewhat of
a profligate.
"I loved the boy and life with him would have been a pleasure but for
the anxious moments when it seemed he would go headlong to perdition
despite my utmost efforts. Once, I thought, he seemed inclined to mend
his ways, when, after the manner of youth, he met a young lady in
whose eyes he thought his happiness to lie. For a time his passion for
cards was forgotten, and neither White's nor the Coffee House saw him
for months. But she went abroad and he became restless. Then came news
of her marriage and he returned to his first love, the gaming table.
Do what I might I could not restrain him. He was perfectly reckless.
Soon he was in debt and his father, when it was too late, sought to
check him and cut down his allowance. From associates at White's he
descended to the lower resorts. There was one fellow that I specially
feared, and with whom he had become a boon companion, a Captain
Villecourt, a gambler and a rake, whose reputation was unsavoury. I
pleaded, but in vain. I could not desert the boy. He loved me, and I
him, and so I dogged his footsteps, helped him out of difficulty
whenever I could, and lost no opportunity for pleading his cause with
his father.
"One night, I shall never forget it, word came that his father was
ill. The laddie was out and I thought he had gone to meet Villecourt,
who lived in a low tavern and frequently did not dare venture abroad
for fear of meeting his creditors and being lodged where he belonged,
in a debtor's gaol.
"It was a villainous place. A dismal rain was falling, the street was
poorly lighted, and, but for the mean attire I put on, I might easily
have become the victim of footpads.
"I was not a welcome caller at the tavern, was told with an oath that
neither Villecourt nor Ralston was in the house. There seemed nothing
to do, and I turned down the ill-smelling passage leading to the side
entrance, when, from a room on the right, I heard Dick's strong young
voice cry out, 'You are a knave, sir!'
"I tried to open the door; it was bolted. I threw myself against it
and the rotten casing yielded, the door burst open. The room was in
semi-darkness, one candle, along with the cards, having been upset
and knocked to the floor. Dick with uplifted cane stood over the
cowering Villecourt. Hearing the noise of the bursting door, and
doubtless thinking Villecourt's friends were coming to the rescue, he
wheeled and struck me a savage blow.
"How long I remained unconscious I do not know. I awoke with an aching
head on a pallet of filthy straw. The place I was in was in utter
darkness. I listened for any sound which might explain my situation.
The vile odours of a ship's hold, the sound of water, and a slight
sense of motion convinced me I was on shipboard! I felt in my pockets,
but they had been rifled!
"I fell asleep, or fainted, and was again awakened with an oath. I was
on board a ship bound from London to Norfolk, Virginia, and soon
learned that I not only was to work but would be sold on arrival there
for a sum equivalent to the cost of passage. How I toiled until I
secured my freedom!
"You know the rest, except my motive for not giving my full name. That
I scarcely know myself, but suppose shame at the condition in which I
found myself led me into the deception, and I adopted the first name
that suggested itself. Afterward, an explanation would have been
embarrassing and apparently of no value, yet I much regret the
mistake.
"What became of Dick Ralston I have never learned. He may have been
killed, and the crime laid at my door. The place he was in was one
convenient for such a crime. Had he lived I am sure he would have
prevented my being put aboard the ship, for he was as brave and loyal
to a friend as he was reckless. As for the name Allison, it is as
honourable as the other, and I intend now to retain it and hope you
will appreciate the wisdom of so doing.
"My life at times seems a failure, but that is when I am thinking of
the little of this world's gear I have accumulated for my family. In
you, beloved, and in our dear children, I am blessed beyond my
deserts. That you may forgive my unintentional deception, and never
have cause to suffer by reason of it, is my daily prayer. Believe me,
your affectionate husband,
"DAVID ALLISON."