"_Lieut_. Forgive me, sir, what I'm compelled t' obey: An order for
your close confinement.
"_King H_. Whence comes it, good lieutenant?
"_Lieut_. Sir, from the Duke of Gloster.
"_King H_. Good-night to all, then!"
SHAKSPEARE.
Connected with the estate at Bellevue, of which Jaspar Dumont was now in
actual possession, was a small slave jail. It had been constructed under
the immediate direction of Jaspar, to afford a place of confinement for
the runaway or refractory negroes of the plantation. It was located at
some distance from the proprietary mansion, and from the quarters of the
negroes. Jaspar's taste in matters of this kind was of the most refined
character, and he had caused it to be constructed on a plan and in a
manner that would seem to bid defiance to the skill of a Baron Trenck,
or a Stephen Burroughs. The material was granite, brought at no trifling
expense from the North. There were no windows upon the sides, and only
one entrance, which was secured by double iron doors. Light and air were
supplied, in meagre quantities, by means of a skylight in the roof,
which was regulated by a cord passing down upon the outside.
This jail, either by accident or design, was so constructed that any
noise inside was not transmitted to the outside. Whether this was
because of the reflecting properties of the walls, which might have sent
the sound echoing out at the skylight on the apex of the four-sided
roof, or because of some other natural causes, we shall not take up the
reader's time in discussing. Its inmates might startle Heaven with their
cries, but certainly every ear on earth below must be deaf to their
wail. This circumstance seemed typical of the actual fact of oppression;
but we are sure that Jaspar never meant to typify the groans, by man
unheeded, of the victims of tyranny ascending to be heard above.
It was the day after the events related in the last chapter, and the
negro jail was tenanted; but not by a refractory or a runaway slave. It
was now devoted to a more dignified purpose, being occupied by a white
man and his wife, the victims of Jaspar Dumont's hatred and fears. They
had already been prisoners for the past forty-eight hours. No sound from
the wide, wide world without had reached them; and, though the man had
shouted himself hoarse in endeavors to arrest the attention of any
casual passer-by, the sound of his voice had risen to Heaven, but had
not been heard by any mortal ear.
On a heap of dirty straw, in one corner, lay a female. She was feeble
and helpless. By her side, gazing sadly upon her, was her companion,
pale and haggard, and apparently conquered in spirit. The sufferings of
the frail being by his side seemed to pierce him to the soul. He felt
not for himself; his thoughts, his feelings, all were devoted to her,
whom he had loved and respected through many vicissitudes, whose kindly
sympathy had cheered his heart in many of the severest of earth's
trials. They had passed through peril and poverty together, and now the
cup of tribulation seemed full to the brim. They were doomed to
death,--not to the death of the malefactor, but as victims of private
interest. No friendly jailer had been near, to bring them even a cup of
cold water to assuage their consuming thirst. Not a morsel of food had
they tasted since their incarceration! The terrible doom to which they
were consigned was too apparent; there was nothing to foreshadow even
the slightest hope of redemption. A few days' intercourse with their
inhuman persecutor had demonstrated too plainly that he was equal to any
crime which his own safety demanded.
The female turned uneasily upon her rude and filthy bed. Her companion
bent over her, and, as a flood of tears poured from his sunken eyes, he
imprinted a kiss upon her pale cheek.
"Do you feel no better, Delia?" asked he, tenderly.
"Alas, no! The sands of life are fast ebbing out. O, for a single drop
of cold water!"
"God in heaven! must I see her die, with no power to save?" exclaimed
Dalhousie,--for it was he,--striking his hands violently upon his
forehead.
"Do not let me distress you, Francois! Let me die!--I am ready to die,"
said she, faintly.
Dalhousie could make no reply. His emotions were too powerful to permit
his utterance. Maddened by despair, into which the terrible situation of
his cherished wife had plunged him, he paced the jail with long strides,
gazing about him, as if to seek some desperate remedy for his woes.
Escape had scarcely presented itself to his mind. He had not the energy
of character which rises superior to every ill, and had bent himself
supinely to the fate which awaited him. To work through the solid walls
of the jail seemed to him an impossibility, even if provided with the
necessary implements. The scheme was too vast for his mind,
unaccustomed, as it was, to contend with great difficulties.
Despair seemed to create, at this moment, a new man within him, armed
with energy to break through every obstacle which might oppose him. His
feeble, suffering companion demanded an effort for her relief, and such
a demand even his supine nature could not resist.
Near one side of the jail was a shallow pit, which had, apparently, been
quite recently excavated. In it lay the shovel with which the earth had
been thrown out.
Dalhousie fixed his eyes upon the pit. A new thought animated him. "_I_
began to dig that pit for gold; I will continue it for water," muttered
he, as he seized the shovel, and commenced digging. Awhile he labored
with the energy of desperation; but, enfeebled by long fasting, and
unused to such severe toil, he soon felt his strength give way. It
appeared to be his only hope, the only ministration of comfort to the
loved one beside him, and he strove manfully against the weakness which
beset him. An hour he labored; but not a drop of moisture rewarded his
toil. Overcome by his exertions, he seated himself upon the brink of the
pit, and gave way to the agonizing emotions which filled his soul. A
sigh from his wife roused him to a new effort, and, partially
invigorated by the few moments' rest, he again applied himself to his
task. The ground was of a moist character, and he had every
encouragement of soon finding the coveted treasure. Animated by this
hope, he redoubled his efforts, and for another hour despair nerved his
arm, and strengthened his sinking frame. Still the buried treasure
eluded his search. Exhausted by his exertions, he sunk heavily upon the
side of the pit, and the big tears coursed down his hollow cheeks.
Deserted by man, he felt that there was no God in heaven; and no
divinely-born sentiment came to cheer him in the hour of his
despondency. He felt that the hand of death must soon take him and his
loved wife into its cold embrace. With much effort he drew himself to
her side, and endeavored to compose his mind for the struggle with the
destroyer.
Two hours he lay by her side; but his time had not yet come. Rested from
the severe fatigue he had undergone, he felt a new vigor stealing
through his frame. Something like hope again flitted before his
desponding mind, and, partially raising himself from his recumbent
posture, he gazed about the apartment. The pit he had dug was yawning
near him. A shudder convulsed his frame, as it reminded him of the open
grave that gaped to receive him. Had he not dug this grave for himself?
The instinct of self-preservation drew him to his feet. Seizing the
shovel, he advanced to the pit, when, to his unspeakable delight, he
perceived that the bottom of it was covered with black, dirty water. The
sight roused his dormant energies, and he saw before him years of life
and happiness. Leaping into the pit, he drank from the putrid pool,
using the palms of his hands for a drinking vessel.
Tearing off the top of his glazed cap, he succeeded in making a very
tolerable cup of it, with which he conveyed some of the precious liquid
to the parched lips of his sinking wife. The act roused her from the
absent mood to which she had abandoned herself. She took a long draught
of the discolored beverage, and, had it been the pure mountain spring,
its effect could scarcely have been more magical. It not only refreshed
the body, but inspired the mind. With this dawning hope the poor
prisoners built the flimsy fabric of future joy and safety.
Dalhousie had lived years in the hours of his confinement. Experience,
the stern mentor of humanity, had ministered to him, and imparted the
strength and resolution which often require years to mature. Thoughts,
and feelings, and energies, to which he had before been a stranger, came
bounding through his mind, as the mighty river, which, having broken
away the feeble barrier man had set in its course, roars and thunders
down its before forsaken path. The powerful impulse of hope, stimulated
by this successful act, made him curse his supineness in calmly yielding
to the awful fate which awaited him. His best hours--his hours of
unimpaired strength--had now passed away; there was no fountain at which
he could renew it. But energy now burned within him, and, like an
invisible power, seemed to drive him on to some great act. The impulse
was irresistible; hopeless as his case had before appeared, he
determined to escape. But how? This question had not yet presented
itself. Escape from the jail!--from death!--himself,--more than himself,
his wife! Stone walls lost their appalling firmness, and were no more
than downy masses, which his breath could blow away.
Animated by this irresistible impulse, he took the shovel, and sounded
upon the walls; but they were everywhere firm and solid beneath his
blow. It seemed useless to his usually inert mind, and he was about to
abandon himself again to the jaws of despair, when a new thought
suggested itself. Fired with the inspiration of the new idea, he
impulsively proceeded to carry it into execution. By the side of the
wall, with vigorous strokes, he commenced digging, with the intention of
undermining it. Without a thought of his enfeebled body, he plied the
shovel with the energy of desperation. Instead of making a calm
calculation, and proceeding with such an economy of strength as would
enable him to complete the work, he labored as though the task before
him could be easily and quickly accomplished.
His wife, somewhat revived by the draught she had taken, penetrated the
purpose of her husband; but she saw that his strength must entirely fail
him ere the work could be accomplished.
"You must husband your strength, Francois," said she; "rest a little."
"The hope of deliverance is too strong to let me sacrifice another
moment in idleness," replied Dalhousie, without ceasing from his labors.
"But, Francois, you will kill yourself, if you work so hard."
"That would be an honorable death, at least."
"And leave me to linger here?--No, let us die together, if die we must.
Perhaps I can help you,"--and she strove to rise.
"Do not rise, Delia,--keep quiet; I am strong, and will yet deliver you
from this dungeon. Lay quiet, dear; do not add to my distress."
"I fear I must lay still,--I cannot rise," said she, sinking back with
the exhaustion of the effort.
Dalhousie threw down his shovel, and hastened to her side.
"Do not attempt to rise again, dear," said he. "Let me get you some more
water."
He again filled the rude cup at the pit, and, after she had taken a long
draught of it, he laved her head, an operation which appeared to refresh
her.
"Do you feel better?"
"Much better."
"Now keep perfectly quiet, and I will resume my task."
"I will; but pray, Francois, do not work so hard; temper your enthusiasm
with reason. You cannot succeed, unless you are careful."
"I will, dear; I will rest every little while."
Dalhousie resumed his labor, and, convinced by his wife's reasoning, he
labored more moderately. While he toils at this apparently hopelessly
task, we will return to the night when we left him in the library, after
having obtained possession of the secret packet.
The overseer, after leaving the library, was perplexed to determine his
future course. He was in possession of a mighty secret, a secret which
involved his employer's very existence. The realization of a thousand
golden dreams was at hand, and he was resolved, without an over-nice
balancing of conscientious scruples, to make the most of the information
he had obtained. There were two methods of procedure open to him, and
his perplexity was occasioned by this fact. In this instance his
resolution was not at fault, for the reins were in his own hands. It was
not like hewing a path through the granite barriers of difficulty,
against the very frown of destiny. He imagined that some overruling
power had made the path, and invited him to walk in it.
Should he make his fortune by means of the uncle or the niece? The
question of his existence had narrowed itself down to this point. It
was sure, he felt, from one or the other.
Being of a naturally generous disposition, with strong affections, and
having not a little of the natural sense of justice in his composition,
he was decidedly in favor of permitting the niece to enrich him. This
was his personal preference; but he was sensible of the truth of the
axiom, that individual preferences must sometimes be sacrificed to the
success of the main object; and, if the circumstances demanded it, he
felt able to make the sacrifice.
If he forwarded the packet to its proper destination, the lady would,
without doubt, be soon restored to her possessions. This was the course
he preferred, as well as the course which justice and morality demanded.
But, alas! his moral sentiment was not sufficiently developed to make
him pause before taking the opposite course, if his present and
temporary interest should seem to demand it. A departure from the strict
injunction of conscience is sure to bring misery; and this was doubly
true in his case.
The uncle was in actual possession, and he called to mind the old maxim,
that "possession is nine points in the law." He was unwilling to risk
the bright prospects, which had so suddenly opened upon him, on the
tenth point. Fearing that Jaspar's unscrupulous character would enable
him to defeat the heiress, he had not the courage to do his duty and
trust Heaven for the reward.
With this view of his position, he reluctantly--we will do him the
justice to say reluctantly--abandoned the project of restoring the niece
to her birthright. Thus was the great purpose of his life narrowed down
to one point, and he retired to his pillow to consider in what manner he
should approach Jaspar.
Simple as this single point had before appeared, he found, on
reflection, that it was environed with difficulties and dangers. Jaspar
was intrenched in his own castle, and it would require some address even
to approach near enough to hold a parley. Conclusive as were the
evidences in his possession of Jaspar's perfidy, they might, by the aid
of cunning and gold, be made to appear as forgeries, gotten up for the
purpose of extorting money. The stake was a great one, and he determined
with a bold hand to play the game.