I had concluded that the wounded man still lay at the house on the
other side of the Swamp, to which he had first been carried; and had
it not been for an accident, we should have had a long ride for no
purpose.
Just as we approached what they called the new place, my horse began
to go lame; and seeing an old negro standing at the door, I beckoned
to him to come and take out the stone which I was sure had got jammed
into the beast's hoof. The old man name up at a slow pace; and, as he
approached, to my surprise, I found it was that very remarkable
person, Uncle Jack. Between him and me, the stone was soon removed,
and I happened to ask him, just as I was re-mounting, what he was
doing there.
"I am waiting to see Mr. Thornton again, sir," he said; "Mr. William
Thornton. His son Robert, you know, is dead."
"Do you mean to say the old man has been brought over here?" I
exclaimed.
"Yes, sir; he would be brought over last night, in spite of all
remonstrance, and I fear he has killed himself thereby," was Uncle
Jack's answer.
I called to Mr. Wheatley, who had ridden on, and beckoned him back;
and while he was returning, I proceeded to ask Uncle Jack what he
meant by saying that he was waiting to see Mr. Thornton again.
"Why you see, sir," answered the old negro-preacher, "I knew the
gentleman whom you call the old man, when he was quite a little boy;
and much used I to talk to him at that time, so that even when he had
grown up to be a lad and did things which I hope God will forgive, I
had much influence over him--very much for a poor ignorant negro to
have over a well-educated white man. He would listen to _me_ when he
would listen to nobody else; and, more or less, has done so all his
life. So I came here as soon as I heard what had happened. I found
him very rash and raving last night; but this morning he is down,
sir--down, down, very low indeed--down in mind, and body, and heart;
but it is by the blessing of God it is so, for I trust yet to bring
his mind into a better frame to meet his Maker; and you know, sir, we
must never despair, after the thief on the cross. This morning he
listened to me quite willingly; and seemed to take comfort when I told
him of mercy and pardon. Last night, he would not hear at all, but
cursed and blasphemed till I was glad to get away."
The concatenation of a black teacher and a white neophyte had probably
not occurred since the days of the apostles; still I was very glad to
avail myself of any circumstances which would enable me to obtain
light in a matter where the whole feelings of my own heart and
that of another were so deeply interested. There are some cases in the
world were we know no compromise--where, for the sake of our own
peace, we must know all, see all distinctly--really--as it is, lest
there be, somewhere in the dark outskirts and corners of the den of
circumstances, some incubus which may swell and grow, and oppress the
heart till it crushes us to death.
Such seemed the case with me. I determined to know all, if it could be
known--I determined that there should be no dark and cloudy spot, no
storm upon the edge of the sky, the course and nature of which I did
not know; and, although the future, the dark predestined future, no
man can truly divine--the past, upon which the seal of destiny was
set, the true, irrevocable past, might well be scanned, till the real
gold of truth should be separated from the dross of doubt and
falsehood.
"We want much," I said, addressing the old negro, "to see Mr. William
Thornton upon business of great importance--business which has even
reference to the hour of death, and which must not be postponed.
Indeed, this gentleman _must_ see Mr. Thornton in order to spare him
greater discomfort at this sad and perilous moment. I may have more
personal views; but at the same time, my good friend, I cannot help
thinking that he who parts from this world with a free confession of
his errors in it, and some expression of regret, sets forth for the
wide future with more comfort and more hope."
"Assuredly," replied the negro; "and I will try to bring him to
receive you as tranquilly and as willingly as may be. But I cannot
answer for success; perhaps he may refuse--perhaps you may have to
force your way to him whether he desires it or not, as I had last
night; but at all events, I will do my best. Wait here, and I will
return to you presently. He was somewhat drowsy when I left him; and I
was glad to give him a little repose; for the words which I had read
to him from the Great Teacher had tortured him like the first effect
of a strong medicine for the cure of a terrible disease."
The old man paused; and, after a moment or two of silent thought, went
back into the house, telling some of his dark brethren to take care of
our horses. We followed him into one of the lower rooms; and the
contrast was certainly very sad between the aspect of his dwelling and
that of his cousin Mr. Henry Thornton. They had set out in life very
nearly equal in fortune--perhaps, of the two, William Thornton was the
more wealthy; yet the one had surrounded himself with family ties: had
lived in comfort, if not in splendour, had done right and justice to
all men; had preserved a high and unspotted name; and, in moderation,
had continued in peace and competence. Probably his household
presented no difference from the state in which it existed twenty
years before; he had sought for nothing higher, he had fallen no
lower.
On the contrary, in the house wherein we now stood, we could trace
the footsteps of dishonest ambition, disappointment, and decay. It
was the latter stage, indeed, which was altogether visible. Misery
and dilapidation--neglect, and the consequences of neglect, made
their abiding place in this dwelling. Yet, every here and there, were
slight indications of the steps by which the consummation had been
arrived at--a velvet sofa worn through to the sacking--a rich carpet
trodden out to the warp--window-frames long unpainted, with the glass
rattling in the shrunken wood-work--many a pane cracked and not
repaired--chairs broken and unserviceable--tables wanting castors, and
leaning, like cripples, on one side--everything, in short, which could
display the careless apathy of minds either occupied by eager schemes
for the future, or crushed by the disappointment of the past.
In that melancholy parlour the black preacher left us, saying,--
"I will go up to him again and see what progress I can make. He is in
the room just above; and if I stamp with my foot, it is to show that
you had better come up to the door, where I will give you some sign
when you shall come in. It is better that you should present
yourselves quietly, than run the risk of rousing him into one of his
fits of fury, when nothing on earth is to be done with him."
Thus saying, he left us; and Mr. Wheatley and I remained a quarter of
an hour or more very nearly in silence. He was more impatient than I
was, for I think he is naturally of a more irritable disposition. He
would sit for a few minutes, and then rise and walk about the room.
Then he would open the window-blinds and look out; and then he would
sit upon another chair and listen. We could hear, during the greater
part of the time, a murmur of low voices; but it was impossible to
distinguish who was speaking. At length, Mr. Wheatley, with his whole
patience exhausted, jumped up, exclaiming,--
"Come, we had better go up and see what is taking place. We may be
kept here all day; and you have business, and so have I, to attend
to."
Without waiting for reply or assent, he opened the door, went out, and
mounted the staircase; but at the top we heard the murmur of voices
from a room on the left; and putting my hand upon his arm, I stopped
him just as he was about to enter.
"Stay a moment," I said. "It is cruel to intrude upon a dying man.
That voice sounds very differently now."
"Pooh! that is the old preacher's voice," said Mr. Wheatley, pushing
the door partly open. But he paused immediately; for the scene within
had a simple solemnity in it which affected even him. There lay old
William Thornton, stretched upon a faded bed, with his head turned
partly away from us, but with the long, whitish hair, uncombed and
rough, scattered on the pillow. Kneeling at the other side of the bed
was the good old man, Uncle Jack. A book was open before him, and he
was reading aloud that sublime chapter in the Gospel wherein the
Saviour teaches his disciples how to pray. His voice was fine, and,
notwithstanding his great age, unbroken; and there was a peculiar
tone of loving confidence in it as he read the only perfect prayer,
that was very touching. He laid particular emphasis on the
words,--"_Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass
against us_." But when he stopped, Mr. Thornton remarked, in a very
feeble voice,--
"Well, it is very fine; I always thought so; yet I don't half
understand it, old man. Let us hear what you make of it."
"I doubt, master, that I am competent to make much of it, where you,
so much better taught, do not understand it," answered Uncle Jack.
"I don't know," said the dying man. "You have thought of nothing but
such things, and I have thought of them too little, perhaps."
"Well, I will try," said the negro. "You see, sir, there is no piece
of writing that I know of in which every word has so much meaning. It
first begins by teaching us what God is."
"I don't see that," said Mr. Thornton. "But go on--go on."
"It tells us that He is a Father to those who pray unto Him
sincerely--One who has the feelin? and affection of a parent--not
alone the Being who created us, but who still regards us as His
children, however wayward and sinful--who is as ready to be reconciled
to us as a Father to an erring child, and to give us all good things
as a Father gives good gifts unto his children. Oh, what a tender idea
it gives us of our God, when we are taught by His own word to address
Him as our Father! But then it shows us His greatness also--His
majesty and power. It is not an earthly Father whom we address, who
may not be able to give us what we seek--who may have no power to
protect, no means of comforting or blessing us; but our Father which
is in Heaven. That does not mean here or there--in this place or that;
but above all, ruling all, upon the throne of His majesty and His
power, in the centre of, and throughout all His universe, in the
Heaven of His own glory and love.
"Well may the prayer go on, '_Hallowed be thy name!_' Let His great
name always be sacred; but, above all, let it be hallowed when it is
written, '_Our Father which art in Heaven!_'
"'_Thy kingdom come!_' are the next words."
"Ay, that I do not understand," said Mr. Thornton, faintly. "Why
should people pray to die when they want to live? I could never
understand that."
"It is no prayer for death, sir," said the old negro teacher. "Our
Saviour has said,--'_The kingdom of God is within you!_' and it may
either be a prayer that the holy and happy kingdom of God be
established with all its peace in our own hearts, or that it be
established in its purity and unity throughout the whole world. '_Thy
will be done!_' are the succeeding words; and these teach, first, that
resignation to the will of God which is one of the purest forms of His
worship--a humble acknowledgment of His wisdom, and mercy, and love;
and a profession of our full faith, and trust, and confidence in Him;
and secondly, taken with the words that follow, _how_ we ought to do
God's will ourselves, and how we ought to wish all others to do it,
'_in earth as it is in Heaven!_' not slowly, not grudgingly, not
doubtingly; but with joy and alacrity, and full faith and trust--as it
is performed spontaneously by the holy angels."
Mr. Thornton moved impatiently in his bed; and the old man, as if
afraid that he would interrupt him, proceeded more rapidly.
"The prayer then goes on to say, '_Give us this day our daily bread!_'
That means, I think, the complete provision of God's mercy--all that
is needful for us during that day, as well for the body as the
soul--the bread that sustains the flesh, and the bread of life
itself--all, in short, that we want and require--"
"Well, that is sensible," said the wounded man, in a somewhat stronger
voice. "It is a very fine prayer; I don't deny it."
"You can't think, sir, what a comfort it would be to you if you could
but make up your mind to repeat it."
"I think I can repeat it," said Mr. Thornton. "I am sure my mother
made me say it so often when I was young, that I can't have forgotten
it--though that is a long time ago. Let me see."
And he began the prayer, murmuring in a low, but still articulate
voice. He proceeded very fluently till he came to the words, "_Forgive
us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us_."
There he paused, and muttered something between his teeth.
"Those are the most important words of all," said the old negro,
earnestly. "Upon these words hang the only hope of being forgiven. Oh,
Mr. Thornton, do say them. If ever you have done anything to offend
God--if you have ever done anything to injure man--if you have any
cause to fear the judgment hereafter, and which of us has not?--if
there be one act in your whole life which you could wish to blot
out--forgive, if you would be forgiven."
"Davenport!" ejaculated Mr. Thornton, in a wandering tone, "Davenport!
He did not trespass against me; but his wife did. She spat at me--she
called me villain, and scoundrel--said she would tell her husband all.
I recollect how he looked when he died. She could not have told him,
Uncle Jack, for there was no time; yet he looked very much as if he
thought I had done something. It was a bitter, reproachful sort of
look. But I say, uncle, do you think that we are obliged to forgive
those who have never trespassed against us as well as those who have?
That's the question."
The man's mind was evidently beginning to wander, and Mr. Wheatley
entered the room without further ceremony.
"Ah, doctor," cried the wounded man, turning round in the bed as soon
as he heard a step; but when his eyes fell upon Mr. Wheatley, a
strange and fearful change came upon his countenance. When he first
turned it, it was not only as usual, red from long habits of somewhat
excessive drinking, but apparently flushed with fever. When he beheld
Mr. Wheatley, however, the colour changed in a moment to a cadaverous
white, with here and there a bluish spot; neither did it resume its
former hue: the effect was permanent, and he remained looking more
like a dead man than a living one.
Wheatley saw the change which had taken place; and, advancing to his
bed-side, he spoke kindly to him, and in a cheerful tone.
"Ah, Mr. Thornton," he said, "I am sorry to see you ill. I came over
to inquire after you, and try if we could not settle that little
matter between you and me amicably."
"Who is that man?" said Mr. Thornton, glaring at me, as I stood a
little behind my friend. "I have seen him before. It can't be Richard
Conway come out of the Chesapeake--he is very like him."
"No, no," said Mr. Wheatley. "He's been dead near twenty years."
"Ay," said Mr. Thornton, gloomily, "he's rotten enough by this time."
"Just try to gather your thoughts together," said Mr. Wheatley; "and
see if we can't arrange this matter about the thirty thousand dollars
quietly. I think we can; for as to my share of the matter, I can wait;
and as for Griswold's, I have a proposal to make to you."
"Uncle Jack," said Mr. Thornton, in a low voice, "give me a tumbler
full of whisky--make haste, man, I feel faint. There's the bottle by
the bed-side."
With evident reluctance, the old negro found out the spirit, and the
dying man drank it off at a draught. It seemed to revive him a little,
but it made no change in his colour.
"A proposal!" he said, in a stronger voice. "What proposal? I cant pay
you the first cent. I have been disappointed in the money I expected;
that's the long and the short of it. As to the estate, you can't touch
that; for that's settled upon Robert long ago."
He had forgotten that his son was dead; but it seemed suddenly to
flash upon his recollection, for he paused and put his hand to his
head, stammering forth,--
"I forgot, I forgot. A proposal! what proposal?"
"Why this, and I think it a very kind one," said Mr. Wheatley. "A
young lady--a very good and generous young lady--offers to advance you
the sum necessary to pay off your debt to Mr. Griswold. For my part, I
shall not trouble you, in the situation in which you now are; but he,
depend upon it, will have no hesitation in taking everything he can
take, if the money is not paid by noon to-morrow. You had, therefore,
better accept this lady's proposal at once."
"Who is she?" asked Mr. Thornton. "Give me some more whisky, Jack. I
feel--I don't know what I feel. Who is she, Wheatley?"
"None other than Miss Davenport," replied Mr. Wheatley.
A spasm like that of death came over the sick man's face.
"I won't have it--I won't take it--I won't have to thank Bessy
Davenport for a cent," he cried in a voice preternaturally loud. "Give
me the whisky, you old black villain--give me the whisky."
"Oh, Master Thornton," said Uncle Jack, "forgive, if you would be
forgiven! Don't you know, don't you feel, that you are dying? That you
are going before that God to whom you were just now trying to say,
'_Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against
us._' Does not poor Bessy Davenport forgive you? And should you keep
up rancour towards her? Oh, take her offer, sir, and follow her
example before you die."
"Dying," said the old man feebly. "Am I dying? I do believe I am. Give
me the whisky, Jack. I can't die yet--I am not yet ready. Oh God, give
me a little time to think!"
The old negro looked across to somebody who had just come in and stood
behind me. It was Doctor Christy, who said:--
"Give it to him; it can neither do good nor harm; but it may keep him
up for half-an-hour or so, if there's business to be done. You see,"
he continued, speaking to me in a lower tone, as I turned towards him,
"there is the Hippocratical visage. No escaping from that!"
"Am I dying?" asked Mr. Thornton, as soon as he had drunk the whisky;
"am I dying, doctor?"
"Yes, sir, you are," replied the surgeon, almost sternly.
"How long?" asked the other, in a sad and a subdued tone.
"Long enough to show repentance if you will," answered Doctor Christy.
"Long enough to make your will, if it is not a very long one."
"The will be d----d," said the old man, in his usual phraseology,
which he could not abandon even at that awful moment. "Everything is
in confusion. I have no time for that."
"Oh, sir," said Uncle Jack, "let me pray----"
"Hush!" said the dying man. "You told me I was to forgive--but
forgiveness is nothing, unless I redress--did Bessy Davenport really
make that offer?" he continued, looking at Mr. Wheatley.
"She did," replied the other.
"Here, get me the keys out of my pocket. There, take this one," he
continued, as soon as he had got them. "Now open that cupboard door,
that mahogany cupboard in the corner. On the shelf you will find a
tortoise-shell casket, I think they call it.--Have you got it?"
"I haven't opened the door yet," said Mr. Wheatley. "Yes, here it is."
"Bring it here then, and the key that lies beside it. Heaven! how my
head swims. There, take that to Bessy Davenport. Tell her I sent it to
her with my dying hands. Tell her I am sorry for all I have done--very
sorry; that I have often been sorry, but that I would not let myself
think so. There, take it. She will find in it what puts all questions
about Aunt Bab's property at an end. Now, doctor, tell me, upon your
soul, am I dying? Can nothing be done to save me? If you could extract
the ball?"
"It would be no use," answered the surgeon. "It has got in amongst the
bones of the hip-joint, and your face shows me at once that
mortification has set in. There was a chance yesterday, if you would
but have been quiet, and abstained from drinking: to-day there is
none."
"Well, then, all of you leave me to die like an old fox in his hole,"
said Mr. Thornton. "Stay, stay, Uncle Jack. You turn to, and see what
you can do for my soul. We won't think of the body any more. There! Go
the rest of you. I don't want to hear you talk any more. My time is
but short, and I must do what I can with it."