"You will get me into trouble, sir," she said.
"I will not, upon my honor. You have told me enough to enable me todo so, however--why not tell me all? You say you slept in that closetthere--so you must have heard them converse. I am entitled to knowall--tell me what they said."
And taking from his purse a piece of gold, Mohun placed it in the handextended upon the bed. The hand closed upon it--clutched it. The eye ofthe woman glittered, and I saw that she had determined to speak.
"It was not much, sir," she said. "I did listen, and heard many things,but they would not interest you."
"On the contrary, they will interest me much."
"It was a sort of quarrel I overheard, sir. Mr. Mortimer was blaming hiswife for something, and said she had brought him to misery. She repliedin the same way, and said that it was a strange thing in _him_ to talkto _her_ so, when she had broken every law of God and man, to marrythe--"
"The--?" Mohun repeated, bending forward.
"The murderer of her father, she said, sir," returned Amanda.
Mohun started, and looked with a strange expression at me.
"You understand!" he said, in a low tone, "is the thing credible?"
"Let us hear more," I said, gloomy in spite of myself.
"Go on," Mohun said, turning more calmly toward the woman; "that was thereply of the lady, then--that she had broken all the laws of God and manby marrying the murderer of her father. Did she utter the name of herfather?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was it?"
"A Mr. George Conway," replied Amanda, who seemed to feel that she hadgone too far to conceal any thing.
"And the reason for this marriage?" said Mohun, in a low tone; "did sheexplain, or say any thing which explained to you, how such a union hadever taken place?"
"Yes, sir. They said so many things to each other, that I came to knowall. The young lady was a daughter of a Mr. George Conway, and when shewas a girl, had fallen in love with some worthless young man, who hadpersuaded her to elope with him and get married. He soon deserted her,when she fell in with this Mr. Mortimer and married him."
"Did she know that he was her father's murderer?"
"No, sir--not until after their marriage, I gathered."
"Then," said Mohun, who had suppressed all indications of emotion, andwas listening coolly; "then it seems to me that she was wrong in takingshame to herself--or claiming credit--for the marriage."
"Yes, sir," returned Amanda, "and he told her as much."
"So they had something like a quarrel?"
"Not exactly a quarrel, sir. He seemed to love her with all hisheart--more than she loved him. They went on talking, and laying plansto make money in some way. I remember he said to her, 'You are sick, andneed every luxury--I would rather die than see you deprived of them--Iwould cheat or rob to supply you every thing--and we must think of somemeans, honest or dishonest, to get the money we want. I do not care formyself, but you are all that I have left in the world.' That is what hesaid, sir."
And Amanda was silent.
"Then they fell asleep?" asked Mohun.
"Yes, sir; and on the next morning he took her in his arms again, andcarried her to the carriage, and they left me."
Mohun leaned his chin upon his hand, knit his brows, and reflected. Thesingular narrative plunged me too into a reverie. This man, Darke, wasa veritable gulf of mystery--his life full of hidden and inexplicablethings. The son of General Davenant, he had murdered his father's foe;permitted that father to be tried for the crime, and to remain undersuspicion; disappeared, changed his name, encountered the daughterof his victim, married her, had those mysterious dealings with Mohun,disappeared a second time, changed his name a second time, and now hadonce more made his appearance near the scene of his first crime, tomurder Swartz, capture his father and brother, and complete his tragicrecord by fighting under the enemy's flag against his country and hisfamily!
There was something diabolical in that career; in this man's life "deepunder deep" met the eye. And yet he was not entirely bad. On that nightin Pennsylvania, he had refused to strike Mohun at a disadvantage--andhad borne off the gray woman at the peril of death or capture. He hadreleased his captured father and brother, bowing his head before them.He had confessed the murder of George Conway, over his own signature,to save this father. The woman who was his accomplice, he seemed tolove more than his own life. Such were the extraordinary contrasts ina character, which, at first sight, seemed entirely devilish; and Ireflected with absorbing interest upon the singular phenomenon.
I was aroused by the voice of Mohun. He had never appeared more calm: inhis deep tones I could discern no emotion whatever.
"That is a singular story," he said, "and your friend, Colonel Darke, isa curious personage. But let us come back to events more recent--to thevisits of Swartz."
"Yes, sir," said Amanda, smiling.
"But, first, let me ask--did Colonel Darke recognize you?"
"You mean _know_ me? Oh, yes, sir."
"And did he speak of his former visit--with his wife?"
"No, sir."
"And you--?"
Amanda smiled.
"I made out I didn't remember him, sir; I was afraid he would think Ihad overheard that talk with his wife."
"So he simply called as if to see you as a curiosity?"
"Yes, sir--and staid only a few minutes."
"But you know or rather knew poor Swartz better?"
"I knew him well, sir."
"He often stopped here?"
"Yes, sir."
Mohun looked at the woman keenly, and said:--
"I wish you, now, to answer plainly the question which I am about toask. I come hither as a friend--I am sent by your friend Mr. Nighthawk.Listen and answer honestly--Do you know any thing of a paper whichSwartz had in his possession--an important paper which he was guardingfrom Colonel Darke?"
"I do not, sir," said Amanda, with her eternal smile.
"For that paper I will pay a thousand dollars in gold. Where is it?"
The woman's eyes glittered, then she shook her head.
"On my salvation I do not know, sir."
"Can you discover?"
Again the shake of the head.
"How can I, sir?"
Mohun's head sank. A bitter sigh issued from his lips--almost a groan.
"Listen!" he said, almost fiercely, but with a singular smile, "you havevisions--you see things! I do not believe in your visions--they seemfolly--but only _see_ where that paper is to be discovered, and Iwill believe! nay more, I will pay you the sum which I mentioned thismoment."
I looked at the woman to witness the result of this decisive test of hersincerity. "If she believes in her own visions, she will be elated," Isaid, "if she is an impostor, she will be cast down."
She smiled radiantly!
"I will try, sir!" she said.
Mohun gazed at her strangely.
"When shall I come to hear the result?"
"In ten days from this time, sir."
"In ten days? So be it."
And rising, Mohun bade the singular personage farewell, and went towardhis horse.
I followed, and we rode back, rapidly, in dead silence, toward theRowanty.
XII.
HOW THE MOMENT AT LAST CAME.
Mohun rode on for more than a mile at full gallop, without uttering aword. Then he turned his head, and said, with a sigh:--
"Well, what do you think of your new acquaintance, Surry?"
"I think she is an impostor."
"As to her visions, you mean?"
"Yes. Her story of Darke I believe to be true."
"And I know it," returned Mohun. "A strange discovery, is it not? Iwent there to-day, without dreaming of this. Nighthawk informed me thatSwartz had often been at the house of this woman--that the paper which Iwish to secure might have been left with her for safe keeping--and thusI determined to go and ferret out the matter, in a personal interview.I have done so, pretty t
horoughly, and it seems plain that she knowsnothing of its present whereabouts. Will she discover through hervisions--her spies--or her strange penetration, exhibited in therecognition of our persons? I know not; and so that matter ends. I havefailed, and yet have learned some singular facts. Can you believe thatstrange story of Darke? Is he not a weird personage? This narrative wehave just heard puts the finishing touch to his picture--the murderermarries the daughter of his victim!"
"It is truly an extraordinary history altogether," I said, "and thewhole life of this man is now known to me, with a single exception."
"Ah! you mean--?"
"The period when you fought with him, and ran him through the body, andthrew him into that grave, from which Swartz afterward rescued him onthe morning of the 13th December, 1856."
Mohun looked at me with that clear and penetrating glance whichcharacterized him.
"Ah! you know that!" he said.
"I could not fail to know it, Mohun."
"True--and to think that all this time you have, perhaps, regarded meas a criminal, Surry! But I am one--that is I was--in intent if not inreality. Yes, my dear friend," Mohun added, with a deep sigh, his headsinking upon his breast, "there was a day in my life when I was insane,a simple madman,--and on that day I attempted to commit murder, andsuicide! You have strangely come to catch many glimpses of those pasthorrors. On the Rappahannock the words of that woman must have startledyou. In the Wilderness my colloquy with the spy revealed more. Lastly,the words of Darke on the night of Swartz's murder must have terriblycomplicated me in this issue of horrors. I knew that you must know much,and I did not shrink before you, Surry! Do you know why? Because I haverepented, friend! and thank God! my evil passions did not result, as Iintended, in murder and self-destruction!"
Mohun passed his hand across his forehead, to wipe away the drops ofcold perspiration.
"All this is gloomy and tragic," he said; "and yet I must inflict it onyou, Surry. Even more, I earnestly long to tell you the whole story ofwhich you have caught these glimpses. Will you listen? It will notbe long. I wish to show you, my dear friend--you are that to me,Surry!--that I am not unworthy of your regard; that there are nodegrading scenes, at least, in my past life; that I have not cheated,tricked, deceived--even if I have attempted to destroy myself andothers! Will you listen?"
"I have been waiting long to do so, Mohun," I said. "Speak, but firsthear me. There is a man in this army who is the soul of honor. Since myfather's death I value his good opinion more than that of all others--itis Robert E. Lee. Well, come with me if you choose, and I will go to Leewith you, and place my hand upon your shoulder, and say: 'General, thisis my friend! I vouch for him; I am proud of his regard. Think well ofhim, or badly of me too!' Are you satisfied?"
Mohun smiled sadly.
"I knew all that," he said. "Do you think I can not read men, Surry?Long since I gave you in my heart the name of _friend_, and I knew thatyou had done as much toward me. Come, then! Go to my camp with me; inthe evening we will take a ride. I am going to conduct you to a spotwhere we can talk without interruption, the exact place where the crimesof which I shall speak were committed."
And resuming the gallop, Mohun led the way, amid the trailing festoons,through the fallen logs, across the Rowanty.
Half an hour afterward we had reached his camp.
As the sun began to decline we again mounted our horses.
Pushing on rapidly we reached a large house on a hill above theNottoway, and entered the tall gateway at the moment when the greatwindows were all ablaze in the sunset.
XIII.
FONTHILL.
Mohun spurred up the hill; reined in his horse in front of the greatportico, and, dismounting, fastened his bridle to the bough of amagnificent exotic, one of a hundred which were scattered over theextensive grounds.
I imitated him, and we entered the house together, through the door,which gave way at the first push. No one had come to take our horses. Noone opposed our entrance. The house was evidently deserted.
I looked round in astonishment and admiration. In every thingappertaining to the mansion were the indications of almost unlimitedwealth, directed by the severest and most elegant taste. The brokenfurniture was heavy and elaborately carved; the remnants of carpet ofsumptuous velvet; the walls, ceiling, doorways, and deep windows wereone mass of the richest chiselling and most elaborate fresco-painting.
On the walls still hung some faded portraits in the most costly frames.On the mantel-pieces of variegated marble, supported by fluted pillars,with exquisitely carved capitals, rested a full length picture of agentleman, the heavy gilt frame tarnished and crumbling.
The house was desolate, deserted, inexpressibly saddening from theevident contrast between its present and its past. But about the grandmansion hung an august air of departed splendor which to me, was morestriking than if I had visited it in the days of its glory.
"Let me introduce 'Fonthill' to you, or rather the remains of it,Surry," Mohun said, with a sad smile. "It is not pleasant to bring afriend to so deserted a place; but I have long been absent; the house isgone to decay like other things in old Virginia. Still we can probablyfind two chairs. I will kindle a blaze, and we can light a cigar andtalk without interruption."
With these words, Mohun proceeded to the adjoining apartment, from whichhe returned a moment afterward, dragging two chairs with elaboratelycarved backs.
"See," he said, with a smile, "they were handsome once. That one withthe ragged remnants of red velvet was my father's. Take a seat, my dearSurry. I will sit in the other--it was my mother's."
Returning to the adjoining room, Mohun again reappeared, this timebearing in his arms the broken remnants of a mahogany table, which heheaped up in the great fireplace.
"This is all that remains of our old family dining-table," he said."Some Yankee or straggling soldier will probably use it for thispurpose--so I anticipate them!"
And, placing combustibles beneath the pile, Mohun had recourse to themetallic match case which he always carried with him in order to readdispatches, lit the fuel, and a blaze sprung up.
Next, he produced his cigar case, offered me an excellent Havana, whichI accepted, and a minute afterward we were leaning back in the greatchairs, smoking.
"An odd welcome, this," said Mohun, with his sad smile; "broken chairs,old pictures, and a fire made of ruined furniture! But one thing wehave--an uninterrupted opportunity to converse. Let us talk, therefore,or rather, I will at once tell you what I promised."
XIV.
"LORD OF HIMSELF, THAT HERITAGE OF WOE."
Mohun leaned back in his chair, reflected for a moment with evidentsadness, and then, with a deep sigh, said:--
"I am about to relate to you, my dear Surry, a history so singular,that it is probable you will think I am indulging my fancy, in certainportions of it. That would be an injustice. It is a true life I am aboutto lay before you--and I need not add that actual occurrences are oftenmore surprising than any due to the imagination of the romance writer. Ionce knew a celebrated novelist, and one day related to him the curioushistory of a family in Virginia. 'Make a romance of that,' I said, 'itis an actual history.' But my friend shook his head. 'It will not answermy purpose,' he replied, smiling, 'it is too strange, and the criticswould call me a "sensation writer"--that is, ruin me!' And he was right,Surry. It is only to a friend, on some occasion like the present, that Icould tell my own story. It is too singular to be believed otherwise.
"But I am prosing. Let me proceed. My family is an old one, they tellme, in this part of Virginia; and my father, whose portrait you seebefore you, on the mantel-piece, was what is called an 'aristocrat.'That is to say, he was a gentleman of refined tastes and habits; fondof books; a great admirer of fine paintings; and a gentleman of socialhabits and feelings. 'Fonthill'--this old house--had been, for manygenerations, the scene of a profuse hospitality; my father kept up theancient rites, entertaining all comers; and when I grew to boyhood Iunconsciously imbibed the feel
ings, and clung to the traditions of thefamily. These traditions may be summed up in the maxims which my fathertaught me--'Use hospitality; be courteous to high and low alike; assistthe poor; succor the unhappy; give bountifully without grudging; andenjoy the goods heaven provides you, with a clear conscience, whetheryou are called an aristocrat or a democrat!' Such were my father'steachings; and he practised them, for he had the kindest and sweetestheart in the world. He was aided in all by my mother, a perfect saintupon earth; and if I have since that time given way to rude passions, itwas not for wanting a good example in the blameless lives of this truegentleman and pure gentlewoman.
"Unhappily, I did not have their example long. When I was seventeen mymother died; and my father, as though unable to live without her who hadso long been his blessing, followed her a year afterward, leaving methe sole heir of the great possessions of the family. For a timegrief crushed me. I was alone--for I had neither brother nor sister--asolitary youth in this great lonely house, standing isolated amid itstwenty thousand acres--and even the guardian who had been appointed tolook after my affairs, seldom came to see me and relieve myloneliness. The only associate I had was a sort of bailiff orsteward, Nighthawk--you know him, and his attachment for me. It washereditary--this attachment. My father had loved and trusted his;relieved the necessities of the humble family once when they were aboutto be turned adrift for debt. The elder Nighthawk then conceived aprofound affection for his benefactor--and dying, left to his sonthe injunction to watch over and serve faithfully the son of his 'oldmaster.'
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