They could never have known--my God!" he exclaimed, breaking off,
"what is that?" while, with his finger, he pointed to a sight that
froze all our blood with horror.
We had reached the bend of a small river which joined, later on, the
James, and were passing one side of it, a flat, muddy shore. On the
other side there arose a stiff, almost perpendicular, bank, beneath
which the river flowed; a bank that rose some seventy to eighty feet
above the water's level. And here it was that we saw that which was so
terrible to look upon.
Fixed into the earth was a long pole, or spar, of Virginian pine;
attached to that pole was the naked body of a man--or was it the body
of what had once been a man? It was bound to the staff by a cord of
wampum, the arms were bound to it above the head by yet a second cord;
plunged into the heart was an Indian knife, the hilt glistening in the
rays of the evening sun. But worse, far worse to see than this--which
we could do with ease since the stream was but a narrow one--was that
the body was already nearly consumed with swarms nay, myriads--of huge
ants that had crept up to it by the pole, and were already feeding on
it so ravenously that, in a few more hours, there could be nothing
left but the skeleton. Indeed, already our dilated eyes could see that
the flesh of the lower limbs was gone--devoured; of the feet and legs
there was naught left but the bones, while the body and the face were
black with the host of venomous ants preying on them, so that the
features could not be distinguished.
The women shrieked and hid their faces while the men sat appalled on
their horses. Then with, as it seemed, one impulse, all but one of the
latter dismounted and, wading through the stream that now, after the
long drought, was but knee-deep, rushed at the steep bank and
endeavoured to ascend it.
The impulse that so prompted all of us, except Kinchella, who remained
with Joice and Miss Mills, was that _we guessed who and what that
awful figure had once been_.
At first we could find no foothold by which to ascend; we strived in
vain, we even endeavoured to dig out steps with our swords and hands;
it was all unavailing. We should, indeed, have returned, desisting
from our labour, had not at this moment one of the trappers espied,
lower down, a slight path leading to the summit, a path doubtless used
by the Indians when in the neighbourhood. And so, gaining that path,
we reached the level above and drew near the horrid thing.
No need to ask who the creature had once been; all was answered by one
quick glance. At the foot of the pole, at the foot of the thing
itself, there lay a fawn-skin tunic and a silken cloak on which were
wrought stars and moons and snakes, and a great blazing Sun, the
insignia, or totems, of the false medicine man.
Yet, how had the deed been done? The Indians whom he had outraged and
deceived lay far behind us in the mountains; they, therefore, could
not have been his executioners. We had not far to seek ere this was
discovered too. The crest of the bank was higher than the level behind
it, which sloped downwards away from the river, and thus, when we
stood on the other side, we could not see all that lay below that
crest.
But now we saw, and, seeing, understood.
Near him, yet so far away that the venomous ants had not yet, at
least, reached it, there was another body--the body of a woman. It lay
on its back, the eyes staring up to the heavens, the tunic torn open
at the left breast and in that breast another dagger buried, which
still the right hand of the woman, an Indian, grasped and held as firm
as when she struck herself her death blow.
So we knew all! We knew that he had escaped the vengeance of the tribe
only to die at the hands of the woman who had loved him once, and
whose love he had thought to replace--the hands of the woman who,
having saved his life at the outset, had taken it from him when he was
false to her.
And thus he perished, not by the hands of those from whom he was
fleeing, but by those of Lamimi, his slighted and forsaken squaw.
PART IV
THE NARRATIVE OF
JOICE BAMPFYLD CONTINUED
CHAPTER XXIX
HOMEWARD BOUND
It took not more than three months to put my house into a liveable
condition once more, for, most happily, the injury which had been done
to it in the Indian raid concerned more the woodwork and the fittings
than aught else. Indeed, while this was a-doing, I also took occasion
to have many improvements made in various portions of the manor that
were sorely needed. Thus, in some of our upstairs rooms, our windows
had in them nothing but oiled paper, while others were furnished with
naught but Muscovy glass or sheets of mica, dating back from the time
of the first Bampfyld who came to the colony. These I now replaced by
crystal glass brought from England for the purpose.
Yet, in spite of changes and, I suppose, improvements, I could not
restrain my tears when first I set eyes on my saloon again. Oh!
how sad it was to see the spinet and the harpsichord broken to
pieces--everything stood exactly as we had left it that night--to see
also my choice Segodia carpets stained with the dried blood that had
been shed, and to observe my window-sashes, with their pretty gildings,
in splinters.
"Yet cheer up, sweetheart," my lord said to me, as, leaning on his
arm, I looked round this ruin and let fall my tears. "It is not
irreparable, and might have been worse. And, when we come back from
England, we will bring such pretty toys and knick-knacks with us that
you shall forget all you have lost. I promise you, sweet, you shall."
After which he strove to kiss away my tears, though still they fell.
This took place directly after we had all ridden into the courtyard on
our return from captivity. And when the gentlemen whose houses had
also been attacked as mine had been (including poor Gregory, who
seemed heart-broken at my having fallen in love, yet not with him),
and the other colonists had dispersed to their own homes, or what
remained of them, we had instantly begun to inspect the damage done.
Of the negroes we could discover no signs, though Buck and young Lamb
searched the whole house from the cellars to the garrets for them, the
former roaring many terrible threats and strange ejaculations at their
heads in the hopes they might be in hiding and, on hearing him, come
forth; but all was of no avail. Nor, when they searched in the late
slaves' and bond-servants' quarters were they any more successful.
Christian Lamb, my own maid, soon, however, re-appeared, she having
remained in the house the whole time, and though her brother swore at
her for a chicken-hearted wench and called her many other hard names,
such as traitress and deserter, I was most thankful to see her again,
she being a good, faithful creature, though timorous.
From her we learned that after the departure of O'Rourke and my dear
lord--the former of whom was now engaged in finding provisions for us,
if any remained--the negroes had all sallied forth in a body towards
the coast, some with the intention of escaping from their servitude
and the others to find a home until I returned, if ever, of which they
seemed most doubtful. After this, she told us, the house had been
quite deserted, there being none in it but herself--the other white
indented servant women having also betaken themselves to the village
for safety. Yet she determined to remain until she heard some news of
us and of the party that had set forth to rescue us. Moreover, her
alarm was lessened by the fact that a squadron of the Virginian Light
Horse, from Jamestown, had come into the village with a view of
following us and effecting a rescue if possible, but, on learning that
a considerable band had set out for the purpose, they had decided to
remain where they were, for the present, at least, and to await
results.
And now, when at the end of those months my house was once more fit
for habitation, and when all signs of the horrible attack that had
been made on it had been removed, Gerald, coming to me one evening
when I was sitting by my wood fire--for the evenings were turning
chilly--said:
"My dearest, are you ready? The time draws near."
"Must it be so soon?" I asked coyly, and with a blush upon my cheeks
that was not caused by the blaze of the logs. "Must it be now?"
"In very truth it must," he answered. "I must away to England as
swiftly as may be. See here, sweet, what I have found at Jamestown
to-day." Then with one arm round my waist, he drew forth with his
disengaged hand a packet of letters from his pocket and began to read
them to me.
"The Marquis," he said first, "grows old, nay, has grown old; he is
seventy-five if an hour. List what he says," and continued his reading
of a letter from that noble kinsman:
"I would have you here ere I die so that I may publicly announce you
as my heir, and this I will do in my own house when you return, though
even then I can of no certainty promise that the Lords will enrol you
as such immediately after my death, since they are not so easily
persuaded as their brothers in Dublin. Yet come, I say, come as soon
as may be. Your mother, too, grows more feeble, worn almost to her
grave by the slanders which your uncle and the man Considine--who
scruples not to say openly that you are none other than _his_
son--puts about you; and in truth I do think these calumnies will kill
her ere long. She rages terribly against them both, and calls on me
and many of the peers in power to punish them; yet what are we to do?"
"The vile wretches!" I exclaimed, as I nestled close to him. "Oh! the
vile wretches! Oh! my darling, that thus your birthright should be so
assailed."
"Yet will I have vengeance," he exclaimed, while his eyes glowed with
resentment. "Yet shall the fellow Considine regret that he has ever
dared to call me his son. His--his. God! My uncle's drunken pander!"
and for a while his rage was terrible to witness.
Then, taking up another letter, he said, "This also I found at
Jamestown to-day. It is from her, from my mother."
She, too, wrote saying how earnestly she desired that he might soon be
able to return home, and more especially so as she heard that the
fleet under Sir Chaloner Ogle was about to do so. Then, after
mentioning somewhat the same news as the Marquis had done, she went
on:
"Oh! my dearest child, can'st thou picture to thyself all the horrors
that I have endured since first you were impressed and torn away from
me again, after our short but happy meeting? I think it cannot be that
you do so. For five years have I, with my wasted frame and ill health
ever to contend against, pleaded your cause, worked hard to produce
evidence of your birth, and was even so successful with the Marquis's
aid as to defeat your vile uncle in the Irish courts and induce the
Lords there to enrol you as Lord St. Amande. Yet, as I have thus
striven, think of what else I have had to fight against. That most
abhorred and execrable villain, Wolfe Considine, has thrown away the
mask--if he ever wore it--and has now for two or three years boldly
said--God! how can I write the words?--that when your erring father
was petitioning the House of Lords for a divorce I was his,
Considine's, friend, and that you are his son."
The paper shook in my loved one's hands as he read these words, and he
muttered, "Considine, Considine, if ever you come within the point of
my sword it shall go hard with you," and then went on with the perusal
of the letter:
"That no one believes him--for none do so--matters not. The odium is
still the same, and there are some in existence who remember how, at
Bath and Tunbridge Wells, ere I had met your father, the wretch
persecuted me with his attentions, which I loathed. Also, I remember
that, on my becoming affianced to your father, he swore that I should
rue it and regret it on my knees, even though he had to wait twenty
years for his revenge. Alas! alas! I have rued it and regretted it
again and again, though not as he intended. Yet, my child, and only
one, if I could but see you properly acknowledged as the Marquis's
heir and as such accepted, then would I forget my rue, then could I
die happy--the end is not far off now. But ere that end comes, oh! my
child, my child of many tears, come back to me, I beseech you. Let me
once more clasp you to my arms and let me hear your kinsman proclaim
you as his successor. It is for that I wait, for that I long
unceasingly."
There was more in her letter saying, amongst other things, how Mr.
Quin, whom afterwards I came to know and to respect most deeply, never
slackened in his watchfulness over her; of how he was always in
attendance on her and what services he performed for her. But what he
had read was sufficient.
"You must go to England, Gerald," I said; "at all costs, you must go.
Will the Admiral give you leave?"
He laughed aloud at this, saying: "Will the Admiral give me leave?
Why, Joice, Sir Chaloner Ogle sailed a month ago, leaving me ere he
went his consent to my being absent as long as necessary on urgent
private affairs. He knows well how I stand, and wishes me well, too.
And, dear heart, as you say, I must go--only I will not go alone."
I well understood his meaning yet could find no answer to his words.
So again he went on whispering them in my ear. "No, not alone. My wife
must go with me. And, Joice, to-night I will tell Kinchella to make
all ready, to proclaim our banns, and to prepare to make us one. It
shall be so, my sweet saint, my tender Virginian rose, my heart's best
and only love; it shall be so, shall it not?"
What could I say but yes--what other answer make? No woman who had
loved him as I had loved him (even ere I knew him, I think)--no woman
who had dreamt of his sad story and then come to know him and see his
beauty and grace and his fierce bravery exacted on her behalf, but
must have answered yes, as I did. For he was all a woman's heart most
longs for; all that she most aspires to possess; handsome and brave,
yet gentle; fierce as the lion when roused, yet how tender and how
true. So I whispered "Yes," and murmured my love to him and the
compact was made; our fond troth plighted again with many a kiss.
It was in the old church, from the wooden tower of which the cannon
had been fired so often on that dreadful night of death and horror,
that we were married. As was the custom of the colony--though one, I
think, that might well be changed--the minister took the first kiss
from me, while my husband kissed my bridesmaid, Mary, and afterwards I
had to submit to being kissed by every gentleman present, while all
the while I wanted no other embrace than that of my dear lord. Yet it
had to be borne, and one of the first to avail himself of this
privilege was Gregory, who kissed me sadly, saying as he did so:
"Ah, Joice, 'twas otherwise I had hoped some day to kiss thy sweet
brow. Yet 'twas not to be and so I must bear it as best I may," and he
passed sadly down the aisle and away home, tarrying not for the
drinkings nor merry-makings that afterwards set in. But, poor lad, he
struggled with his love for me so well that at last he conquered it,
and certainly his disappointment made no difference in his friendship
for me or my husband. During our absence in England he managed my
property as carefully as though it had been his own, and regularly
sent us an exact account of all he had done, so that 'twas easy to
see, and to admire in seeing, that his unaccepted love had not made an
enemy of him.
Mr. Kinchella and Mary Mills we saw married a week after our own
nuptials, so we left them also happy and content--which was a great
joy to us to do. O'Rourke, too, we parted from as friends part from
one another, he setting out for Savannah where he purposed to instal
himself as agent of Mr. Oglethorpe and bidding us an affectionate
farewell ere doing so. He also made an affidavit before an attorney at
Jamestown of all he knew of the villainies of Robert St. Amande and
the wretch Considine, and swore as well that, from the intimate
knowledge he had of my lord's family, and also from having had him
once in his charge, the Viscount St. Amande was most undoubtedly the
lawfully born child of the late lord. Moreover, he also swore (and
produced letters from Considine proving his oath, which letters he
gave to Gerald) that, during the separation of Lady St. Amande from
her husband, he, Considine, was living an outlaw at Hamburg with a
price upon his head, so that he could never have even seen her during
that time.
The overseers of the bond-servants being, like all the others, free
men now, were provided with means whereby either to establish
themselves in the colony or to go elsewhere, though they, in common
with the others, elected to remain as hired hands on my estate during
my absence. Buck, however, who seemed never to have lost his
rollicking disposition, being also provided with some money wherewith
to adventure on his own account, bought the lease of the tavern in the
village, and changed its name from that of the King's Head to the St.
Amande Arms. Lamb, who had once been a sailor, became again one, while
his sister, Christian, took passage with us to England as my maid.
CHAPTER XXX
IN THE LAND WHERE THEIR FATHERS DWELT
How shall I, brought up a plain colonial maiden, who had never seen
anything more grand than the opening of our Virginian Assembly by the
Governor, nor anything more of great life than an assembly ball or the
meeting together of our first families at the races, dare to describe
the wonders and splendours of London. For wonderful and splendid
everything was, and marvellous to behold. From where we were at first
installed until the Marquis could arrive in London from his country
seat, namely, a busy inn called the Hercules Pillars, at Hyde Park
Corner, a spot which my dear father had often told me was the centre
of fashion, I saw so much going on that my head was ever in a whirl.
Here from morn till night, under the balcony of our sitting-room
windows, went on such a clatter and a dashing by of vehicles,
including the fast coaches coming in and going out of London, and of
huge carriages and carts and horses, that there was no peace, though,
in dear truth, I loved to lean over that balcony and watch the
turmoil. In the early November mornings--for 'twas that month ere we
reached London--first would come lumbering by great carts piled high
with vegetables, all of which, my lord said, London would have eaten
up by nightfall--a thing not wonderful to understand, seeing that it
was asserted that there were nearly half a million people in the town,
or one-twelfth part of the whole country. Then great droves of beasts
would pass, and sometimes--oh! sad sight--a wretched highwayman with
his hands tied behind his back and escorted by the thief-catchers,
while the passers-by hooted at him or beat at him with sticks and
whips, or flung refuse at him.
"Such was Buck once," Gerald would say when he saw one of these; "and,
perhaps O'Rourke, though I think he was more the spy. Ah! well, it is
better to be honest men in Virginia or Georgia than like this."
Then, as the day went on, and a poor, thin sun struggled out of the
mist, making some brightness around, there would ride forth gentlemen
who were going a-hunting at Richmond, or Hampton, or Hounslow, very
splendid in their coats. Others, too, would come down to ride in the
park most beautifully dressed, and some would stroll along on foot,
talking and laughing, and bowing to ladies in their chaises, or taking
off their hats to a portly bishop who passed our inn every morning in
a coach and six. And sometimes, too, a great lady or so would also go
by in her coach and six, with, seated on the steps outside, a page, or
sometimes a little black boy with a silver chain around his neck, and
I never understood then why Gerald would pull me back into the room as
though he wished me not to see these dames. Yet, when I learnt
afterwards that one was the Countess of Suffolk and another the horrid
woman, Melusina Schulemberg, I did comprehend his reason. And, even in
the three days we lay at this inn, I learnt to hate the latter, for,
going past one morning, she observed my handsome Gerald on the balcony
and kissed her hand to him--as they say she did to any well-favoured
gentleman she saw--and afterwards always peered out of the carriage as
though seeking for him.
Soon, however, my pleasures of witnessing the bustle of this place
came to an end. One dull November morning there drove up to the door
of the Hercules Pillars a great coach and six, all emblazoned with
coats-of-arms and decorated with rich hangings and much gilding, with,
before it, three panting footmen, who, poor creatures, had always to
run in front of it, and with, seated within it, a grave and
soberly-clad gentleman.
"Why," exclaimed Gerald, who did not share my surprise at this
gorgeous and, it seemed to me, sinfully extravagant spectacle--for
why could not the gentleman travel as we do in Virginia, either
a-horseback or on foot! "Why! 'Tis the Marquis. Joice, go, put on thy
best dress--no! stay just as you are; faith, you are fair enough to
charm any man." And then he ran downstairs to meet his kinsman and
presently brought him to our parlour.
"This is my wife, my lord," he said, presenting me to him, "of the
family of Bampfyld, of Virginia."
Whereon the Marquis bowed to me with most stately grace in reply to my
curtsey, and, taking my hand, kissed it. "Madam," he said, "we are
honoured by an alliance with you. There is no better English blood
than that of the Bampfylds, and sure there can be no fairer woman than
the Lady St. Amande. Are all women as fair as your ladyship in the
colonies?"
I simpered and blushed and knew not what to say, when Gerald diverted
his attention by exclaiming, with a smile:
"Her name is Joice, my lord. Will you not, as the head of our family,
thus call her?"
"Indeed I will. Joice--Joice; 'tis a pretty name, and well befits its
pretty owner. And so, _Joice_," turning to me and speaking as though
he had known me from a child, yet all the time with a most courtly
manner, "you have finally determined to throw in your lot with my
young kinsman, in spite of his troubles?"
"Oh! sir," I said; "oh! my lord, what woman who had ever seen or known
him could refuse to love him? And I owe him my life; I would lay it
down for him now if he willed it. He fought for me and mine, ay! shed
his dear blood for me. I have a dress at home all stained with it
which I will never part with. He sought for me amongst my capturers
and would have rescued me if they had not been mercifully disposed; he
was as a god in my eyes, and now he is my husband and I love him more
than aught else upon this earth. Oh! sir, I do love him so."
Both he and Gerald smiled gently at my ardour, which, indeed, I could
not repress, and then he said:
"Doubtless, Joice, doubtless. 'Tis perhaps not strange. And, child,
you wish to see him righted thoroughly; is it not so?"
"Indeed, indeed, my lord!" I cried, "such is ever my fervent prayer.
Yes, morning, noon, and night. And, surely, since the Irish Lords have
acknowledged his right to the title he bears, those in England will
not refuse to regard him as your heir."
"We must do our best. Yet, even if they will not give him my title
when I am gone, I can do much for him. Providence hath greatly
benefited me. There is much I can bequeath to him, and, for the rest,
I can provide that if he gets it not none other shall. Above all, the
Scoundrel Robert shall never have it."
"God bless you!" my husband and I exclaimed. "God bless you!"
"Now, listen," he continued, "to what I propose. Your mother follows
me but a few stages behind--poor Louise! she is marvellously stirred
at the thought of seeing her son again--and when she is arrived in
town this is what I will do. 'Tis what I intended five years ago, had
not Sir Chaloner's men impressed you and made a sailor of you. I will
have a meeting of many peers of my acquaintance--Sir Robert"--he meant
the great Sir Robert Walpole--"has promised that he will come as well
as some others who will be useful--and then I will publicly
acknowledge you as my successor. But," he went on, "there is something
else to be done."
Gerald looked enquiringly at him as though doubtful as to what he was
about to say, when the Marquis again took up the word.
"The two scoundrels, Robert St. Amande and Wolfe Considine, must be
brought to bay; above all, the latter must be made to retract the
villainous falsehoods he has spread about your mother."
"Ay, retract!" interrupted Gerald, hotly, "retract. He shall, indeed,
or I will tear his lying tongue----"
"Nay, nay!" said his kinsman, putting up his hand. "Nay, hear me."
"I ask your lordship's pardon."
"This is my plan, agreed to by your injured mother. They are both in
London now, ever spreading their calumnies about, though I hear that
none heed them, and Robert St. Amande endeavours unsuccessfully to
borrow money on what he terms his succession. Now, we have decided to
ask both these men to attend at my house on the same morning on which
I intend to proclaim you--only they are not to know that there will be
any other persons present but themselves. Thus, they will suddenly
find that they are surrounded by auditors, as well as some witnesses
who knew you in your childhood. There will be, also, the papers you
have forwarded me signed and testified to by O'Rourke, and by these
means we hope either to extort the truth from them, or at least so to
strike terror to them, that they shall prevaricate and contradict
their own lying statements. And, remember, there will be a strong
array against them."
"The idea is most excellent," exclaimed Gerald. "Surely thus they must
be beaten down. And will my mother be there, my lord?"
"Your mother will be there, but her presence will be unknown to them.
Yet she vows that, if Considine does not deny before all assembled the
wickedness of the slanders he has put about, she will come forward and
confront him and dare him to utter them to her face.
"'Twill be a terrible ordeal for her," my husband said. "Heaven grant
she may be able to endure it."
"She will endure it; she will so string herself up that none regarding
her will be able to imagine her a weak woman who sometimes cannot
raise herself even from her bed. Yet, since she has dwelt under my
care----"
"For which I say again God bless you--for that and all the other
luxuries and comforts you have surrounded her with."
"'Tis but little," replied the Marquis. "And she is desolate and the
mother of my heir. 'Tis nothing. But, as I say, since she hath been
with me I have seen some most marvellous moments of recovery with her,
moments when she would suddenly exclaim that she was once more well
and strong. And, to show me that she was so, she would lift some great
weight or walk up and down her chamber a dozen times, yet ever
afterwards there came directly a relapse when she would again sink
into her chair helpless as a babe once more."
"Ay," said my husband thoughtfully, "so have I seen her too. Nor do I
doubt that if she stands face to face with that craven hound, she will
lack no strength to cow him."
In a little while you shall see that that strength was not lacking,
you shall see how it was exerted against the miserable wretch who had
blighted her life. But the place to tell it is not here.
And now the Marquis bade us prepare to accompany him to that great
mansion of his in Lincoln's Inn Fields, of which my dear lord had told
me; and, ere long, Gerald's servant and Christian Lamb between them
had packed up our effects, we going in the gorgeous emblazoned coach
and they following in a hackney. As we went I observed how great a man
this noble kinsman of ours was, for many, both gentle and simple,
raised their hats to the carriage as it passed along, and in the great
square, which they call the Fields, there was quite a concourse to
witness our arrival; the poor people shouting for the noble Marquis
and cheering the Government, while his running footmen threw, by his
orders, some silver pieces amongst them.
Oh, 'twas indeed a joyful day!--joyful in many ways--for, besides
showing to us that which truly I had never had any doubts of, namely,
that the Marquis of Amesbury was all for Gerald and determined, if he
could, to right him, it brought together that poor mother and son who
had so often and so long been parted. Nor could I restrain my tears,
nor fail to weep for joy, as I saw them folded once more in each
other's arms, and heard her whisper her love and fondness for him and
murmur that, at last, they would never more be parted in this world.
"Never more be parted in this world." That was what she said. "Never
more to be parted in this world." Verily she spake as a prophet, or as
one who could divine the future.
And there was still one other meeting that took place which joyed my
heart to see. 'Twas that of my husband and his faithful, old friend,
Mr. Quin; the man who had sheltered him when he was a beggar, who had
been as a father or an elder brother to him, and who, when 'twas no
longer possible that he should serve Gerald, had transferred his
honest, faithful allegiance to Gerald's mother. It pleasured me, I
say, to see those two embrace each other, to hear my husband call him
his old friend and protector, and to see the joy upon the other's face
as he returned that embrace and told him how handsome he had grown and
how noble-looking a man he had become.
CHAPTER XXXI
FACE TO FACE
All were assembled in the great saloon, or withdrawing-room, of the
Marquis's house.
The day had come for that nobleman to acknowledge his kinsman, Lord
St. Amande, as his heir before all men.
The Marquis of Amesbury sat at a table near the fireplace, on which
lay, amongst other things, the papers that O'Rourke had signed and
sworn to, the certificates of Gerald's birth and of his enrolment by
Ulster King-of-Arms as the Viscount St. Amande in the peerage of
Ireland, several affidavits from nurses and tutors to whom the lad had
been put in the country, stating that the child delivered to them was
always spoken of by the late lord as his son; and many other
documents. At the end of the room were three witnesses who had been
brought over from Ireland to testify that, to their certain knowledge
and belief, Gerald was the lad they had known as the late lord's son.
One of these witnesses was the Protestant clergyman of New Ross, now a
very aged man; another was the steward of the estate where Gerald had
been born; a third the nurse who had had him in charge from his
earliest hours and had identified him by the marks upon his body.
Next to the Marquis, and on his right hand, Gerald was placed, and
next to him I sat. On his left was no less a personage than the
renowned Sir Robert Walpole, who had now ruled the country for many
years, after having triumphed over all his enemies--even those who had
had him dismissed from the Parliament and committed to the Tower. He
was a man who, had one met him in the street, they would have been
disposed to regard more as a jolly, beef-loving squire in London for a
week's shopping and sight-seeing, than aught else. There, too, was
William, third Duke of Devonshire--a courtly, grave gentleman, who had
not yet, or barely, reached the prime of life; Lord Trevor and many
others, to all of whom I was presented as the Lady St. Amande and
future Marchioness of Amesbury. All greeted me most courteously,
asking me many questions as to our colony and especially as to its
loyalty, of which I was able to testify proudly, though I know not if
I might have said as much of some of the more northern ones. The
extremely polite, also, made me many compliments and, in their
fashionable jargon, exclaimed that they trusted, now that I had shed
the light of my eyes upon the mother country, I should never withdraw
it wholly again. But these speeches I regarded only as foolishness and
scarce worth answering.
And now the Marquis, addressing them, said:
"My lords and gentlemen and my good friends, you know what we are
assembled here for. 'Tis for me to present you to my kinsman and heir.
That I have already done individually; later on I shall ask you as a
body to testify your willingness to acknowledge him as such. But
first, and ere that is done, I wish to expose to you two villains--one
of them, alas! also near to me in blood--who have long stood in the
path of his lordship, who have endeavoured in every way to thwart his
honest endeavours to come by his own, and who, in those endeavours,
have assailed the fair fame of his mother, Louise, Dowager Viscountess
St. Amande, who sits now behind that organ." And the Marquis pointed
to a great organ made by Geisler of Salzburg in 1650, and brought by
his father from there when making the grand tour.
'Twas there, indeed, that she had placed herself, being unwilling to
be more regarded than was necessary, either by those who knew of her
unhappy married days or who had known her in the full pride of her
beauty. But as she had taken this place, where she could easily
overhear all that passed, she had again reiterated her assertion that,
should the two calumniators persist in their falsehoods and vile
assertions, she would endeavour so to nerve herself to the task as to
drag herself forward and confront them.
"To expose those villains, my lords and gentlemen," went on the
Marquis, "this is what I have done. I have summoned Robert St. Amande
to this house to-day--it wants but a quarter of an hour to the time
when he should arrive," pointing to the great clock over the
fireplace, "and I have requested him to come provided with the proofs
which he says he can bring forward establishing his claim to be my
successor. My lords, he has fallen into the snare, he has notified to
me that he will be here at midday with Mr. Considine, his friend and
secretary, when he will advance such proofs, as he states, that Lord
St. Amande is not entitled to the rank he usurps, and desires in
future to usurp, that he, Robert, must be the right and lawful heir."
"Was not this Mr. Wolfe Considine once proscribed?" asked a gentleman
sitting near, who was no other than His Majesty's Attorney-General,
Sir Philip Yorke. "It appears to me I know his name."
"He was proscribed in 1710 for most treasonable practices and fled to
Hamburg, where he was supported by the Jacobites, but, on the
accession of His late Majesty, he, with many others, obtained a
withdrawal of that proscription on swearing allegiance to the House of
Hanover. But, my lords and gentlemen, I will call your attention to
the fact that this proscription entirely proves the grossness of the
lie he asserts, that he is the father of Lord St. Amande, since he
could not have been in England for some long time either before or
after his lordship's birth."
"And is this Mr. Robert St. Amande's only ground on which to base his
claim to both titles--Lord St. Amande's and yours?" asked Sir Robert
Walpole.
"It would be of little effect if it were," exclaimed the
Attorney-General, "since, even if true, his lordship must have been
born in wedlock." And he took up a document to assure himself of the
date of the marriage.
"He advances many other statements," continued the Marquis, "all of
which he says he is prepared to prove, when called upon to do so,
before the House of Lords. Doubtless he will bring forward some of
these to-day, but, ere he comes, I desire to tell you that, in so
coming, he imagines he will meet no one but myself. When, therefore,
he and his precious comrade are admitted, you may be well prepared to
see him exhibit many marks of surprise and consternation, in which
state we hope to show him in his true colours. And, my lords and
gentlemen, it is for this reason that I have ventured to have your
carriages and coaches sent to the other side of the Fields until
required, so that they, amongst other things, shall not scare the
birds away."
There arose a murmur of amusement at these precautions on the part of
his lordship, who went on to explain that his footmen had also
received their orders for conducting the expected visitors into the
presence of those here assembled; and then, as the clock solemnly
struck the hour, all sat waiting for the arrival of those two
conspirators. And, I think, with the exception of Sir Robert Walpole,
who shut his eyes as though about to indulge in a refreshing sleep,
and the Duke of Devonshire, who conversed with Gerald and me on the
state of the Indians in the colonies and seemed much interested
therein, all present were greatly agitated at the impending meeting.
Once I saw the sweet, sad face of my mother-in-law glance from behind
the organ and smile at Gerald, as though bidding him be of good
cheer--as, indeed, he well might be in this fair company, all so well
disposed towards him; and several times Sir Philip Yorke muttered
"Humph!" and "Ha!" as he turned over carefully the mass of papers
before him and occasionally whispered a word to the Marquis.
"That was a precious plot," I heard him say, "of Mr. St. Amande's to
get his nephew shipped to the plantations as a bond-servant. Our
friend, Mr. Quin, seems to have outwitted him neatly. What did you say
became of the other--the one called--humph! Robinson--nay, Roderick?"
"He died a fearful, terrible death," replied the Marquis, "after he
left the service of her father," indicating me. Then he went on to
tell him the history of that unhappy man while many of us glanced at
the clock. They were already fifteen minutes late--'twas fifteen
minutes after twelve--could they intend not to come?
My self-questioning was answered a moment later--through the hall
there rang a violent peal upon the bell, as though the hand which
caused it was a fierce, masterful one; and clearly could we hear a
harsh voice exclaim:
"Show the way and announce us. Follow, Considine!"
"My uncle," whispered Gerald to me. "Now prepare to see two of the
wickedest rascals unhung."
"The Viscount St. Amande," said the great footman, regarding the
company, as I thought, with a bewildered air--doubtless he wondered
how there could be two persons bearing the same title--"and Mr. Wolfe
Considine," and a moment afterwards the new comers were before us.
The one whom I soon knew to be Robert St. Amande bore nothing in his
features that seemed to me remarkable or to indicate a villain, unless
it was a terrible scowl and a most fierce, piercing pair of black
eyes. He was solemnly clad; indeed, he was in deep mourning for his
second wife, who had been carried off but recently by that dreadful
scourge the smallpox, so that there was no colour about him. His
companion also wore black--I suppose for his master's wife--and was
naught else but an ignoble copy of that master. Gazing on him, and
observing the insolent leer upon his face, his tawdry attempts at
finery even in his mourning, such as his steel-hilted sword inlaid
with brass, his imitation lace fal-lal neckerchief, and silver
shoe-buckles, I could well believe that here was an adventurer and
outcast who might easily be suborned and bribed to swear any lie for a
handful of guineas.
"So," exclaimed Robert St. Amande, as he cast his scowling glances
round the room, though even as he so scowled 'twas easy enough to see
that he was much taken aback by the sight of so many persons
assembled, "so, you invite us to meet a great company, my lord Marquis
and kinsman. 'Tis well, very well. Your Grace of Devonshire, I salute
you," accompanying his words with a deep bow, half mock and half
respectful. "And the Premier, as I live! Sir Robert, I am your most
obedient, humble servant. Sir Philip, too; though, sir, you are, I
think, none too well inclined towards me. Well, it must be endured.
And, now, my lord Marquis, in the midst of this gallant company,
enriched by the beauty of this fair lady, whom I know not, may I ask
what your intentions are? Though, indeed, I can but guess that you
have gathered your friends together to witness an act of justice
which, though tardy, you intend to do at last."
These swaggering speeches were well enough made and with a surprising
air of confidence--indeed, my lord hath often since said that neither
Wilkes nor Booth, the play-actors, could have surpassed him--yet they
had no effect. The Duke and the great Minister took no notice of his
salutations, while the Attorney-General but shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously at his remarks, and then the Marquis spake, saying:
"Robert St. Amande, your guess is indeed most accurate. It is to do an
act of justice at last that I have requested your presence here."
"'Tis well," the other replied, while he threw himself into a chair,
an act in which he was imitated by his follower. "'Tis well. Proceed,
my lord Marquis."
Yet as he spake with such assurance, it seemed to me as though he
blanched and turned white.
"It is, indeed, to do an act of justice at last!" the Marquis
repeated. "Robert St. Amande, it is to present my heir, the future
Marquis of Amesbury, to my political friends that I have summoned them
to-day. My lords and gentlemen and friends," and as he said the words
he laid his hand on Gerald's shoulder and motioned him to rise, "this
is my heir; this is the rightful Lord St. Amande and future possessor
of my rank."
There was a murmur of applause from all assembled, as well as of
greeting, while Robert St. Amande sprang to his feet, exclaiming:
"Him--you present him? That fellow! Why, 'tis none but the self-styled
Gerald St. Amande." And he burst into a contemptuous laugh. "A pretty
heir, that! A child born during a long separation of his father and
mother, ay! a separation of years--if they were ever married at
all----"
"Have a care!" exclaimed Gerald, also springing up from the seat he
had resumed. "Have a care! or even this house shall not protect you
now."
"I speak what I know. If they were ever married produce the
proofs--and, even though you can do that, you must also prove that
they were not separated for long before your birth. And on _that_
score I, too, have my witness," and he glanced significantly at Wolfe
Considine.
"Be tranquil, Gerald," exclaimed the Marquis to my husband, who made
as though he would fly at the other's throat, as, indeed, I think he
would have done had it not been for those who interposed between them.
"Calm yourself. There is proof enough here to confound every statement
of his," and he motioned, as he spoke, to the old clergyman from New
Ross, who came forward at his bidding.
"Sir," exclaimed the Attorney-General, looking up from his papers at
this venerable man, "I have here a certificate of the christening,
signed by you and duly witnessed by the others, of Gerald St. Clair
Nugent St. Amande, son of Viscount St. Amande, of New Ross. Do you
recognise it?"
"I do," the old clergyman answered.
"'Tis the marriage certificate we desire to see," exclaimed Robert St.
Amande. "The birth is not in dispute. What we do dispute is, first the
marriage, then the paternity of the child, and, lastly, the identity
of the person calling himself Gerald St. Amande with the real Gerald
St. Amande, presuming the real Gerald St. Amande to have been lawfully
born."
"We will endeavour to answer all your demands," Sir Philip Yorke said,
glancing up at him. "Listen."
Then in a cold, clear voice, such as I think must have caused many an
unhappy criminal to tremble for fear, he went on:
"The marriage between the late Viscount St. Amande, bearing himself
the names of Gerald St. Clair Nugent St. Amande, with Louise Honoria
Sheffield, was celebrated on the first of March, in the year of our
Lord seventeen hundred and eight, at the Church of St. Olave's, at
York. The certificate is here. You may see it for yourself."
Robert St. Amande waved his hand, exclaiming, "Since the
Attorney-General testifies to it, who shall dispute it? It proves,
however, nothing against our contention. Proceed, sir."
"Next we have the testimony of this reverend gentleman as to the birth
and christening. That you cannot dispute with any hope of success.
Here, too, is the woman who took charge of the infant at its birth.
Norah Mackay, of New Ross, come forward."
With much fear and nervousness, this elderly woman--she who had first
held my darling in her arms--came up the room, and, dropping many
curtseys, stood before the great lawyer.
"Norah Mackay," he said, "you state that you remember the marks upon
the neck and left arm of the child christened at New Ross as the
infant son of Viscount and Viscountess St. Amande, in the year
seventeen hundred and eleven?"
"I do, your honour's worship."
"And you have examined the neck and left arm of his lordship here,"
indicating Gerald, "and find thereon precisely and exactly the same
marks?"
"I do, your honour's worship."
"You swear to that?"
"I swear to it."
"So be it."
"Ay," exclaimed Robert St. Amande, "she may swear to it fifty times
an' she will. Doubtless fifty guineas would produce as many oaths. But
such evidence establishes no claim, nor does it prove even then that
my brother begot the brat. And this man here," pointing a lean and
shaking finger at my husband, whose self-control was most marvellous,
"is not that babe, I swear. The babe who was born at New Ross was
drowned in the Liffey in the year 'twenty-seven."
"Then," asked Sir Philip Yorke, "if such was the case to your
knowledge, why, in the winter of that year, go out of your way to have
this man whom you deemed an impostor shipped to the colonies to be
sold as a slave in the plantations there? For that you did so
endeavour we have, you know, O'Rourke's sworn testimony; and his
accomplice, as you thought Mr. Quin to be, is in this house to produce
your acquittance to him for so doing."
And he fixed his severe eyes on the other as he spoke.
CHAPTER XXXII
NEMESIS
Certainly Robert St. Amande looked now like a villain unmasked! All
eyes were fixed upon him as he rolled his own round upon the assembled
company; there was one pair, however, he did not see; the eyes of
Louise, Lady St. Amande, who from behind the great pipes of the organ,
had never ceased to gaze upon him and that other craven villain since
they entered; and that he stood before them most thoroughly exposed he
must have known well. Yet was his bravado such that he still
endeavoured to brazen it all out; he still attempted to assert his
wicked cause. Alas! I cannot think, even now, but that he would have
desisted and have withdrawn ere it was too late could he have foreseen
the dreadful tragedy that his conduct was to produce.
After a few seconds he again found his tongue; once more he nerved
himself to address all in that saloon, defiant still and reckless in
the blackness of his heart.
"He was to have been shipped to the plantations," he said, "not
because I deemed him the rightful Gerald St. Amande, but because I
knew him, even granting him to be the boy born at New Ross, to be
smirched in his birth; because I knew my brother was not his father.
'Twas for the honour of the family; of my family, of yours, my lord
Marquis, that no such child should ever sit in the place of honour.
And wherein did I sin? Your house, my lord, the house in which I hope
some day to sit as Marquis of Amesbury, has ere now refused the right
of peerage to those born in wedlock when 'twas well known that, in
spite of such birth, they had not been lawfully begotten. And that I
knew of him; I know it and proclaim now." As he spoke he glared even
more fiercely than before, so that his looks were terrible to see.
Then he continued, "You, Sir Philip Yorke, you have produced your
proofs to-day and have deemed them overwhelming. Now is the time, now
the hour, for me to produce mine. I do so. You challenge me to bring
forth evidence of the child's paternity other than that of my late
brother. Behold it, then. Here sits the man who is the father of that
other sitting there. 'Tis he, Wolfe Considine, the discarded admirer
of Louise Sheffield before her marriage, the accepted lover of Louise
St. Amande after her marriage, the father of Gerald St. Amande, the
man who has been wrongfully installed as Lord St. Amande in the Irish
peerage."
"God!" exclaimed my husband. "This can be borne no longer." And, as he
spoke, he endeavoured to tear his sword from its sheath. Yet, between
us, the Marquis and I did manage to appease him for the time, while
the former whispered in his ear, "Tush, tush, be calm! Remember your
mother hears all. Ere long we will bring her forth to confute them.
Peace, I say."
Then, clearly and distinctly upon all ears, there fell the crisp tones
of the Attorney-General addressing Robert St. Amande's accomplice.
"You have heard, sir," he said, "that which Mr. St. Amande hath
advanced. Do you confirm his words?"
A swift glance passed between them--'twas plain to be observed; the
other hesitated a moment, and then, oh! unutterable villain, slowly he
bowed his head and said, "I do confirm them."
I glanced at the organ as he spoke, I wondered how she behind it could
sit there so calm and unmoved if the last of her strength was not yet
gone; and then again Sir Philip Yorke was speaking: "Yet, Mr. Wolfe
Considine, your confirmation is somewhat strange. You were, if I
mistake not, proscribed as a rebel in the reign of Her late Majesty,
Queen Anne. I have a full description of you here, handed to me by the
Marquis. I will read it:--Wolfe Considine, late an officer in the
First Royal Scots Regiment, from which he deserted before Oudenarde.
Irishman, a spy in Scotland and traitor. Proscribed in seventeen
hundred and ten and fled to Hamburg. Now, sir, since you were absent
from England from that year until after the accession of the late King
in seventeen hundred and fourteen, will you tell us how you could
possibly be what you state you are, the father of Lord St. Amande!"
"I--I--I was frequently back in England--in Ireland--at that time," he
stammered, "disguised and unknown to the Government. 'Twas there,
then, that I met Louise St. Amande."
A terrible cry rang down the room as he spoke; a cry betwixt a scream
and a gasp, one that caused all our eyes to be turned to the spot
whence it came. And there we saw that which was enough to appal us;
which caused Gerald to spring to his feet and rush forward and made me
tremble and desire to weep.
For, erect and strong, as though she had never known an illness; her
eyes fixed with an awful glare upon the unhappy wretch; her hands
twitching and closing and opening spasmodically, we saw advancing down
the room towards us the woman so foully calumniated. Back from her she
motioned her son, as though commanding him not to bar her passage;
slowly but unhaltingly she came on until, at last, she stood full face
in front of the coward-hearted scoundrel before her. "Liar," she
hissed forth, "liar! Deny it! Deny it! Retract! Retract!"
He stood shivering before her, his ashen lips muttering and trembling,
though no sound came from them; he seemed, indeed, as though stricken
dumb.
"Liar," again she said, still with the dreadful stare in her eyes as
though she gazed on some horror unspeakable, "liar! Retract! You sat
once at his board and ate of his dish; when you were beggared he gave
you money and clothed you; yet now you would steal his wife's honour
from him; the honour from his child. Retract! Retract, ere it is too
late!"
He was dumb. Dumb with fear and dismay! He could frame no words in
answer to the spectre that had arisen before him; he could not meet
the glance of the poor paralysed woman whose strength had come back to
her so that she might confront him. Still she went on:
"Retract, I say." And with those eyes piercing his soul, she
continued, "Was my early acquaintance with you--unsought by me and
never desired--fit justification for hurling the name of wanton at me
all these years? Was my poor unhappy husband's charity to you fit
justification for branding his child so vilely? See, here he stands
before you. See," and she struck Gerald, who remained by her side, so
fiercely on the breast as she indicated him that he bore the bruise
for some days. "See! Is he that thing you state? Answer, vile
traducer. Answer me."
"For the love of God! be calm, mother. Heed him not," my husband
cried.
But, instead, she heeded not her son and again continued, though as
she spoke she wiped her lips with her handkerchief, and all saw that
it had blood upon it when she had done so.
"Retract, I say! Retract, I say! What! Shall a woman cherish above all
other things her honour only to have it fouled and maligned by any
crawling villain who chooses to speak the word? Am I--are all
women--at the mercy of such base things as you?"
She gazed at him a moment and again she reiterated:
"Retract! Retract! Retract, I say!"
Still his lips quivered but uttered no sound; once he gazed round the
room as though seeking to escape; the perspiration stood in beads upon
his brow; his knees shook under him. And then, unhappy wretch! he
whispered: "I--I cannot; I dare not."
They were the last he ever uttered. Swift as lightning darting from
the clouds, the right arm that had been so long paralysed was thrust
forth; in an instant her hand had seized the sword that hung by his
side and had torn it from its sheath; in another it had passed through
his body, the hilt striking against his breast. There was a piercing
scream from him, a thud as the body fell to the floor a moment after;
a clang of steel as she, after drawing forth the weapon from him, let
it fall from her now nerveless hand and, with a gasp, sunk into her
son's arms.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she moaned, while from her lips there oozed a
thin red stream! "Oh, my dear one, at last I have repaid his attempt
upon our honour and now 'tis finished. My sweet, this is the end. I
have not five minutes' life left to me. Farewell."
Once, as Gerald held her in his arms, she tried to put her own around
his neck, he helping her to do so, and then, opening her eyes wide,
she whispered, "Thrust a sword through a man's body, Gerald; through a
man's body," and so passed away.
How shall I write further, how continue an account of that which I no
longer witnessed? The room swam before my eyes; I heard a terrible cry
escape from the white lips of Robert St. Amande; in a mist I saw the
horror-stricken faces of the assembled guests and of the Marquis. I
knew that Sir Robert Walpole called loudly for a physician and a
chirurgeon to be fetched; I saw the dead man lying at my feet, the
dead woman in her son's arms, and then I swooned and knew no more.
THE NARRATIVE CONCLUDED BY GERALD, VISCOUNT ST. AMANDE
"AFTER THESE STORMS AT LAST A CALM"
Many years have passed since those events occurred which have been
written down by my dear wife and myself, and, hand in hand as ever, we
are beginning to grow old. Thus I, who was but a boy when my father
died and this history commenced, am now a middle-aged man fast nearing
forty. My children, too, are no longer to be regarded as children;
Gerald, my eldest boy, is promised a guidon in the Royal Regiment of
Horse Guards Blue. My second son is at home in England in preparation
for Oxford. My third, a little lad, is a midshipman serving under Sir
Charles Knowles, and, by his last letter, I gather that he is almost
as proud of the naval uniform which hath this year of grace, 1748,
been authorised to the King's Navy, as of the attack on Port Louis, in
St. Domingo, in which he took part. Of daughters I have been blessed
with one alone, who in name, as in features and complexion, resembles
what her dear mother must have been ere I had the good fortune to set
eyes on her.
The Marquis of Amesbury has been dead twelve years, yet the House of
Lords has not yet called me to take my seat there as his successor.
This, however, is of supreme indifference to me--so much so, indeed,
that I have not yet petitioned them to enrol me in his place, though
Sir Robert Walpole, after he became Earl of Orford, frequently desired
me to do so, saying that it would be better done in his lifetime than
afterwards. Yet he is dead, too; and 'tis not done. Why should it be,
I often ask myself, except for my children's sake? I dwell in
Virginia, which spot I love exceedingly, and I am never like to dwell
anywhere else; while as for the Marquis's wealth it has all come to
me. Yet, as I say, for the children's sake I must some day make out my
claim to the honour. When I do so there can be no opposition to it.
After that dreadful tragedy in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and after the
Marquis had sternly bade my uncle go forth and never darken his doors
again, Robert St. Amande--seeing, I suppose, that all was lost and
being, indeed, then very near to absolute destitution--betook himself
to the Temple Stairs, and, casting himself into the river, was swept
away by the fast ebbing tide and drowned, his body never being
recovered. He left a child, the boy by his second marriage that has
heretofore been spoken of, who has ever since been my care, and who
will be so as long as I live, as well as being provided for at my
death, but that he can dispute my children's birthright is, of course,
impossible. Nor, I think, is it probable he would have any desire to
do so, being in character most amiable and gentle as well as grateful,
and vastly different from his wretched half-brother, Roderick.
The remains of my dear mother lie in the vaults of her own people, and
there the sad and loving heart of Louise St. Amande knows at least the
peace that was never accorded it in this world. Poor mother! Poor
stricken wife, how sad was your existence! The love you gave your
husband was doomed to slight and contumely; the love you gave your
child could never induce Fate to let that child stay long by your
side. And often as I meditate on her and on her strange life and
ending, I see her again as I saw her on that last day; I hear her last
whisper, "Thrust a sword through a man's body, Gerald." As I do so I
recognise fully that she had never forgotten the words we spoke
together in her lodgings in Denzil Street until the time came for them
to bring forth their fruits.
Of the others who have figured in this narrative let me now speak
briefly. Oliver Quin, finding his occupation gone at my mother's
death--whom during her life he would never quit, being always a most
faithful and devoted servitor and friend---re-took up his old
business, and is now a thriving dealer of beasts and black cattle on
Tower Hill. Also has he been chosen as warden of the district in which
he dwells--which is close by where my kidnapping took place so long
ago--and he is a sidesman of his church, so that he is both
prosperous, respectable, and respected. When I am in England, which is
mostly once in every two or three years, we never fail to meet, he
coming to pass an evening or so with me in the great house in the
Fields, or I going to him in the City. And then, over a bottle of
sound wine if it be summer, or a sneaker of punch if winter, we talk
over our early adventures in Dublin and how we outwitted my uncle, and
I retail again and again to him the sequel to those adventures in
Virginia. Our wives know one another, too, for Quin hath married the
daughter of a poor clergyman in the Minories, she having been a
maid-servant in service of a rich cattle-dealer whom he knew; and they
admire one another's babes and talk much mother's prattle together.
Kinchella likewise prospers in America, and doth well. He, too, has a
thriving family and is happy. Mary, for so I now permit myself to call
her, is my wife's greatest friend as ever, as their sons are my sons'
greatest friends when all are at home. Kinchella's eldest is at
Harvard; his youngest is at Trinity College, Dublin; and both are
intended for the ministry. If they follow in their father's footsteps
then must they be an ornament to that sacred calling, and go far
towards reforming that which still needs much reformation in our
colonies--the private lives of our divines.
O'Rourke and I have never met again, yet I know that he is thriving
though he has grown very old. He dwells always at Savannah, in which
rising city he is one of the leading men, and we frequently have
correspondence with one another. And very touching and pathetic it
seemed to me to be when, on my writing him that, on my next journey
home, I intended to visit Ireland on my affairs, he asked me to take
with me some roots and cuttings to plant on his dead daughter's grave
in Dublin. "She died young," he wrote, "and ere you knew me. Had she
lived, may be your lordship would never have known me, for I might
have made a better life of it. She was all I had and she was taken
from me, and thus I turned reckless and dissolute. Thank God I have
seen the evil of my ways at last."
Buck still keeps the tavern--with my wife's redemption acquittal,
which she gave to him as to all the bond-servants, framed above his
chimney-piece--and does well at that occupation and horse-rearing.
Lamb is growing very rich, having again quitted the sea and possessing
now a plantation and many servants both white and black of his own,
and bids fair to found a family.
And now for ourselves, to conclude. That I am content with fate you
must surely know; who could be aught else who has ever by his side an
angel to guide, support, and minister to him? Through all the years
since first we met we have lived happily together, loving each other
most fondly, sharing each other's joys and troubles--which latter have
been but few--and being all in all to ourselves, with only our
children to partake of any portion of that love. She is still the same
as ever, her sweet, fair face as beautiful, her golden hair with
scarce a silver one in it; and, if her years have made her more
matronly, they have not robbed her of one charm. Nor is the gentle
disposition altered a jot; the trust and belief in others, the
unselfish nature, the simplicity and innocence of mind are as they
were on that summer day when first I saw her bending over her roses;
the day on which God raised up and gave to me the loving companion,
friend, and champion of my life and cause.
After I have smoked my big pipe out and drunk my nightcap down, and
seen that all the servants are a-bed--for we live in her old house in
the same way her father and his fathers lived before us--I go to my
rest and, as I pass to it, look in to her retiring-room to give her
one fond, good-night kiss. Yet, often, ere I pull aside the hangings,
I have to pause and stand reverently without. For many a time that
room has become a shrine; within that shrine there is a saint. A saint
upon her knees, her fair white hands clasped, and in those hands her
golden head buried. A saint who prays to her God to bless her husband
and her children ever; a saint who thinks of nought for herself but of
all for those dear to her, and who, in that self-forgetfulness, finds
her deepest happiness.
Than to possess such a fond heart as this there is no more to be
asked.
FOOTNOTES
[Footnote 1: A gossiping, chatting, or drinking place.]
[Footnote 2: The mastiffs in Virginia were trained to worry figures
dressed as Indians, as well as being always taken out in any foray or
chase after either a band of them or an individual, and the antipathy
between these dogs and the savages was always very marked.]
[Footnote 3: Unfortunately, such was the class of ministers who
originally went out to the American colonies (they generally being
outcasts from their own country) that, in this instance, Roderick St.
Amande was not only speaking the truth but also representing very
accurately the common feeling of the Indian tribes towards the
colonial clergyman.]
[Footnote 4: The incident of the Indian woman's mercy is not
fictitious.]
[Footnote 5: Indians taken prisoners by the colonists were sometimes
sold into slavery in Canada or the West Indies, where they generally
died soon.]
[Footnote 6: So called from the poles smeared with blood which were
erected before the Seminoles' tents when on the warpath. The French
settlers also termed them "Bâtons Rouges," whence the name of the old
capital of Louisiana.]
THE END
*********************************************************
F. W. S. Clarke & Co., Ltd., Criterion Press, Leicester.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Land of Bondage, by John Bloundelle-Burton