The sheriff was standing with his sister at the door, and his first
unceremonious exclamation was,--
"Why, Bessy, my young friend, you look as if you had been crying."
"If I have been crying, they have not been unhappy tears, Mr.
Sheriff," answered Bessy; "and you know happy tears are out of your
jurisdiction. You have plenty to do with unhappy ones, I have no
doubt."
"Go along for a saucy girl," said the sheriff, laughing; "wash your
eyes, and then come to breakfast; for we have a great critic of female
beauty here, and you may miss a chance, you know, if you don't look
your best."
"I'm not in the market," answered Bessy, running into the house.
"And who is your guest, Mr. Sheriff?" I inquired. "You say he is a
friend of mine, which saves my question from impertinence."
"Oh, we have no secrets in Virginia," answered the sheriff. "This is
Mr. Wheatley, of Norfolk. He says, as we have been cutting each
other's throats here, he has just come up to see all his dead friends;
for, as I dare say you have found out, Wheatley must have his jest,
even on the most serious subject. But here he comes."
While the sheriff had been speaking, his sister had retired to the
breakfast-room, and Mr. Wheatley joined us, as brisk, as gay, and as
composed as ever.
"Ah, Sir Richard," he said, "how are you? You have had some shooting
affairs lately on a grander scale than when I last saw you. But I dare
say this is nothing to India, where you make a battle of Rajpoots for
your afternoon's amusement, and shoot a score or two of rajahs before
breakfast; to say nothing of a sultan or two as a big head of game."
I laughed, saying, that of course such sport as we had lately had was
rather flat after the amusements he mentioned. Then, turning to the
sheriff, I remarked,--
"What a beautifully organized country this is, Mr. Sheriff, where, on
going and demanding the assistance of a public officer, instead of a
long bill of costs, we get a good breakfast, a hearty welcome, a
towel, and some cold water."
"Oh, the bill will come by-and-by," said the sheriff.
"By way of desert?" asked Mr. Wheatley. "Well, if it does, we must try
to swallow and digest it."
"But, if there be no secret, what is it all about, Mr. Wheatley?"
asked the sheriff.
"Oh, no secret at all," replied my Norfolk friend. "One of those
matters of business which occur every day--a gentleman, who owes to me
and my Boston partners certain banks of ducats, as that funny old
fellow, Shakspeare, would call them, which he neglected to pay; he
promised them the day before yesterday morning, on the nail, in the
city of Portsmouth, at the hour of the arrival of the stage; but
neither he nor the dollars ever appeared. I had warned him that this
was the last time--it was about the fiftieth--that he should break his
promise, and I pointed out to him that though habits of intimacy and
some kindness shown to me, a long time ago, when he was a man of about
forty, and I a youth of twenty-two or twenty-three, had induced me to
forbear, notwithstanding the after-conduct which had severed our
friendship; yet, as there were other persons concerned, who had
befriended him, at my request, I was now bound to see them paid."
"But who is he--who is he?" asked the sheriff.
"Oh, your neighbour, Mr. William Thornton," replied Mr. Wheatley. "He
told me he was to receive thirty thousand dollars this week, and would
pay them over immediately; but he was like Hope, that told the
flattering tale, which turned out untrue."
"He has had his hands somewhat too full of business lately," replied
the sheriff gravely.
"Yes, my dear sir," answered Mr. Wheatley. "I dare say there has been
a little bustle in the country; but I cannot allow the sports and
pastimes of a number of coloured gentlemen to interfere with regular
commercial transactions."
"You are not aware, my good friend," replied the sheriff, "that this
unfortunate gentleman was, himself, severely wounded yesterday, and
his son shot dead on the spot, by some of the revolted negroes. These
are the latest victims of Nat Turner's insurrection. I trust they will
also be the last."
Mr. Wheatley looked aghast.
"Poor devil!" he exclaimed. "Of his son I know nothing; but of himself
I saw very much in my young days, when this Robert was a boy."
"I trust, under the circumstances, Mr. Wheatley," said the sheriff,
"that you will not judge it right to disturb this unfortunate man on
his death-bed."
"I must see that the property is some way adequately secured," said
Mr. Wheatley, gravely, after a moment's thought. "For myself, I should
not care, sheriff. I could make up my mind to lose the fifteen
thousand dollars, which is my share of the business; but there is
another gentleman concerned, who never knew him, and is greatly
irritated at his conduct."
"He has been very unfortunate, you know," urged the sheriff.
"Nay, sir, nay," replied Mr. Wheatley, drawing himself up with a
sterner look than I ever thought his face could assume. "Unfortunate,
truly, in being destitute alike of principle, and honour, and
generosity; but in nothing else. The base and scandalous transaction
which broke off my intimacy with him was the beginning of what you
call his misfortunes."
"I do not understand what you allude to," answered the sheriff. "What
did he do?"
"No matter, no matter," answered Mr. Wheatley. "I cannot enter into
particulars; but he grossly and grievously insulted an excellent lady,
the wife of his dearest friend, while her husband was absent on a
sporting trip. It was within my hearing, though he did not know I was
near. That was enough to sicken me of him; but when I afterwards found
that he contrived to slay Uriah the Hittite with the sword of the
Philistines, then Sir ----. But here come the ladies to announce
breakfast, I do hope; for that is a much pleasanter thing to
discuss than what we are discussing.--Miss Davenport, I kiss your
shoe-strings."
"Mr. Wheatley, I never wear shoe-strings," answered Bessy.
"Then may your shadow never be less!" rejoined Mr. Wheatley.
"God grant it!" cried Bessy; "for it is little enough already." And we
all laughed and went in to breakfast.
It is wonderful how the human mind recovers from the most severe
shocks. There is an elasticity, a buoyancy, about it which no one
knows or believes, till he has remarked closely what I may call the
evenings of the terrible days of human life. Some dreadful event has
happened--some ghastly, sweeping desolation--something which has
shaken all hearts with anxiety, or chilled them with fear. A few hours
have passed: the event is over, the deed done, the consequences
ascertained; the whole thing is fixed, firm, and certain, beyond all
recall; and though a certain portion of sad remembrance, a mourning
spirit, if I may so call it, remains like a cloud, yet every now and
then the corruscation of a smile or a jest enlivens the gloom; the
tears dry up in the re-awakening sunshine, and shade by shade the
fragments of the cloud depart.
To call our little breakfast-party gay, would be to apply a wrong
epithet. Yet it was not altogether uncheerful--far more cheerful than
might be expected by those who consider nothing but the dreadful
scenes gone before. They very naturally leave out of consideration all
the bright reaction which takes place in the human heart when it finds
itself suddenly freed from the weight of dread and horror and anxiety
for the next moment; when security and peace are restored, and the
spirit springs up, and rejoices in the removal of evils and terrors
which once clouded the prospect all around. In the moral as in the
physical world, nature re-acts against oppression. Look at the
thunder-storm, with its heavy clouds and its darkened sky, the flash,
the roar, and the deluge; and then see the clouds rolled away, and the
blue sky smiling above, and the sun shining in his splendour, and
every drop upon the blades of grass sending back, like diamonds, the
cheerful rays he casts upon them.
It is true, that, as we sat round the table, it was not all
brightness. Moments of sombre thought would fall upon us; impressions
of great calamities past; recollections of things that never were to
be more; and the shadows which the experience of danger and sorrow
ever projects upon the future. Still, these were but the shadows of
the fragments of past clouds, and the sunlight of the relieved mind
shone out bright between.
After breakfast, Mr. Wheatley, and the sheriff, and myself walked
quietly out into the porch, to re-discuss the subject which had been
broken off an hour before. The kindness of the worthy magistrate's
heart was strongly evinced in this instance.
"I have no great love for William Thornton," he said; "I never have
had; still it is a sad thing to see writs, or executions, or
foreclosures, put in force against a man lying in a dangerous, if not
a dying, state, from a severe wound. Now, I think you have said, Mr.
Wheatley, that you did not mind for your own share in the business, if
you could secure your partner."
"Rather a hard case, sheriff," replied Mr. Wheatley, with one of his
short laughs. "I have breakfasted since, and have, of course, grown
hard-hearted. Nothing like an empty stomach for tenderness towards
anything, except broiled fowls or cold lamb. However, I won't go back
from what I said. If he can secure Mr. Griswold, I will take my chance
out of the sweepings."
"I have no doubt," said the sheriff, "that Miss Davenport will advance
the money to repay your friend."
"No! no!" cried Mr. Wheatley, with a burst of eager feeling which I
had not expected from him. "She shall not do it--I will not take it
from her. He insulted and outraged her mother; he brought on the death
of her father to conceal what he had done; he was, more or less, the
murderer of the one and of the other, for grief killed _her_, and the
pistol killed _him_; and the daughter shall not be called upon, with
my consent, to save him from the consequences of his own folly or his
own faults."
"Well, Mr. Wheatley," I said, interposing before the sheriff could
reply. "Another means, perhaps, may be found. Suppose I advance the
money, and place myself in the position of your friend, who originally
lent it."
"Oh, that is quite a different case," said Mr. Wheatley. "If you
choose to do such a thing, I have nothing to say against it. Every man
to his taste. Some love helping scoundrels; some prefer to help honest
men. The first was rather a passion of mine, some years ago; but I
have got over it, and the latter is more to my taste now."
"Still," I replied, "for particular reasons of my own, I should like
Miss Davenport, in the first instance, to offer this loan to her
relation--merely, I will confess, to see what will occur in
consequence. The advance shall be mine in the end; but I should like
to obtain her permission to make the offer from her."
"Ha! ha! ha!" cried Mr. Wheatley. "Pray arrange your little embroglios
as you like for me. She will consent, of course; knowing on whose
pocket the loss will fall at length, whether _you_ advance the money
or she does. But go and ask her--go and ask her; and then I think we
will ride over, Mr. Sheriff, to Bill Thornton's plantation, and see
what is the real state of affairs."
"Very well," replied the sheriff; "but, remember, till you produce all
formal processes, I take neither officers nor _posse_ with me, and I
must be back in a couple of hours."
I did not detain the gentleman long. I found Bessy in the parlour, and
her consent was given at once.
"It will not hurt us, Richard, if we lose it," she said. "We shall
have enough for happiness, I dare say."
"Oh, quite," I answered. "But now I am going over to see this
unfortunate man, and I trust my dear girl will spend the time till I
come back in pondering upon the happiness which her affection confers
upon one who loves her with his whole heart. If I know my Bessy
rightly, she feels no greater pleasure than in making others happy."
"I wonder if it is to be so through all my life," said Bessy. "Every
one has spoiled me--parents, friends, relations. And now comes a
husband to do it more than all! Richard, Richard, I really must find
some occasion to quarrel with you, that you may not make me altogether
a spoiled child. There, go away now, and tell the poor man I am ready
to do anything I can for him. I wonder that Mr. Wheatley can be so
unkind as to ask him for payment of debts, when he is in such a
condition."
When I rejoined the two gentlemen in the porch, I found that an
alteration of plans had taken place. The sheriff had recollected some
business he had to transact in another quarter; and it was agreed that
I and Mr. Wheatley should ride across the Swamp to the place where Mr.
William Thornton lay.
"I shall tell Harry Thornton that you won't be back till two or
three," said the sheriff; "and, as I know he has some business to
transact with you, I will try and get him and all his party to come
over here, and dine and sleep: four or five girls, and four or five
lovers, and four or five elderly people, and talking, and music, and
flirting----a fine way of transacting business, truly; but it is the
Virginian mode, and so let it pass. I will order the horses, Sir
Richard; you go and get on your boots."
I now proceeded to my room, where I found Zed, after his own
breakfast, arranging all my dressing-articles and apparel in the most
inconceivable derangement. It would not only have puzzled [OE]dipus,
but the Sphynx herself, to discover where any single article was; and
yet he was as proud as a peacock of the whole.
Poor Zed seemed quite thunderstruck, however, when I told him to get
me a pair of boots and another coat.
"Lor a masey!" he cried; "what, going away again? Why, I haven't seen
you, mas'r, for such a long time; and I thot you were going to tell me
all about it. Well, at all events, you had better take me wid you, for
you never comes to no good when I isn't there."
"I dare say that is all very true, Zed," I replied; "but I think this
morning I must go by myself, or rather with Mr. Wheatley only, for I
have a good deal to say to him as we ride along."
"Lor, mas'r, what does dat sinnify?" asked the persisting negro. "I
shan't int'rupt you."
But I remained firm; and in a few minutes Mr. Wheatley and I were upon
the road. I have never been fond of long prefaces to anything; and I
was hardly out of sight of the house, when I dashed at the subject
which was uppermost in my thoughts.
"You accidentally came upon a topic before breakfast," I said, "which
bears strongly upon some questions which had been puzzling Miss
Davenport and myself this morning a good deal. Now I wish, Mr.
Wheatley, that you would give me some further information in regard to
this Mr. William Thornton, and his connection with Colonel Davenport.
You were in the high road to do so when we were summoned to
breakfast."
"Oh, no; I had said all I intended to say," replied Mr. Wheatley, with
what I may call an unwilling look; "though I should fancy, Sir
Richard," he added, "_you_ had not said all you intended to say this
morning before breakfast; for you and Miss Bessy were so deep in
conversation that you did not even see me when I arrived; and that
conversation seemed to promise wide extension."
I was not to be led away from my point, however; and I answered,--
"We were talking of the very question to which I have just now
alluded. Yesterday morning, Bessy and I had a very strange proof of
old William Thornton's personal hatred towards her. He would not even
allow her to stanch the bleeding of his wound; and used language not
only fierce, but indecorous. We were wondering, when summoned to
breakfast, what could be the motive of the persecution he has shown
her through life; and it was, in some degree, to test the extent of
this virulent antipathy that I desired she should offer the money
rather than myself. I should not be surprised if he were to refuse it
at her hands."
"I think it very likely," replied Mr. Wheatley; "but tell me how you
and she happened to be so near when the old man was shot?"
"I will tell you all about it," I answered, "if you will give me the
explanations I wish in return."
"Well, well," he replied, "it is a subject I neither like to think of,
nor to talk about. Indeed, I may call a considerable portion surmise;
for, although I am as much morally convinced of the inferences I draw
from the facts, I know, as well as that I am alive, there are many of
them for which I have no proof. However, we are now going to see this
unhappy old man. There is no knowing that he may not himself tell you
all, for his moods are very curious, and the fear of death may act
strongly upon him. But if he does not do so, _I_ will. And now let me
hear how you and Miss Davenport have passed through all these terrible
scenes. All that I could learn about you, by the way, was that you and
the lady had escaped from poor Stringer's house, and had been
wandering alone in the woods ever since--no very unpleasant
pilgrimage, I should think--ha! ha! ha!" And there his laugh stopped
short, as usual.
"It was, of course, by no means unpleasant," I replied, "when once I
could convince myself she was safe, Mr. Wheatley. But our adventures
were numerous; and it was not till I and Mr. Henry Thornton brought
our sweet young friend to this house last night, that I could be at
all satisfied she was secure."
I then went on to relate briefly all that had happened to us, from the
time that old Zed ran into my room to warn me of our danger, till our
arrival at the sheriff's on the preceding evening.
Mr. Wheatley seemed to take a great deal of interest in the whole
matter, and expressed much indignation at Mr. William Thornton's
conduct. At that part of my narrative, where I spoke of the father and
son wishing to force Bessy to sign some papers, while they held her in
a sort of duress, he exclaimed,--
"That was to pay the thirty thousand dollars, depend upon it. If we
could find the fragments of those papers she tore up, I would bet you
a thousand dollars to a ten-cent piece we should find some gross
fraud--the admission of some debt, or some promise to pay, or
something of that kind, all wrapped up nicely in legal-like phrases,
and guarded, and double guarded, by allusions to former transactions
in order to make a piece of roguery seem fair and honest. But I can
tell you one thing, Sir Richard--this does not look well for the
ultimate payment of my money, and I certainly do not intend to shuffle
off a bad debt upon you or Miss Davenport either. If we find there is
any tangible property sufficient to guard you against much risk, I
shall be very willing that you advance the fifteen thousand dollars to
pay off Griswold, for he is becoming impatient and irritable; but it
is clear to me these men must have been desperately pushed to have had
recourse to such means; although, to say truth, from all I hear,
Robert Thornton always preferred the rashest and most violent paths of
roguery, to the quiet and peaceful ones."