Robert Lytton: The Disappearance of John Acland
CHAPTER I
In the following extraordinary narrative nothing is fictitious but the names of the persons.
About thirty-five or forty years ago, before the border territory of Texas had become a state of the great American Union, a Virginian gentleman, living near Richmond, received from a gentleman of Massachusetts, living near Boston, a letter pressing for punctual payment of a debt owing to the writer of it by the person to whom it was addressed. The debt was a heavy one. It was a loan for a limited period, contracted partly on mortgage and partly on other less valid securities. The period for which it was originally contracted had been frequently renewed at increasing rates of interest. The whole capital would shortly be due; and renewal of the loan (which seems to have been asked for) was firmly declined, on the ground that the writer of the letter was now winding up his business at Boston preparatory to the undertaking of an entirely new business at Charleston; whither it was his intention to proceed very shortly. Such was the general purport of this letter. The tone of it was courteous, but peremptory. The name of the gentleman who received it we shall suppose to have been Cartwright, and that of the gentleman who wrote it to have been Ackland. Mr. Cartwright was the owner of an estate, not a very large one (which, with the reader's permission, we will call Glenoak), on the banks of the James River. The Cartwrights were an old Virginian family, much esteemed for their antiquity. Three generations of male Cartwright babies had been christened Stuart (because, sir, the Cartwrights had always fought for the Stuarts, sir, in the old country), and in Virginia a very moderate amount of family antiquity has always commanded for the representative of it as much consideration as is accorded in England to the lineage of a Beaufort or a Howard. The personal reputation of this present Philip Stuart Cartwright, however, was not altogether satisfactory. It was regretted that a man of his parts and property should have contributed nothing to the strength and dignity of the territorial aristocracy of old Virginia in the legislature of his state – a legislature of which the Virginians were justly proud. The estate of Glenoak, if well managed, would have doubtless yielded more than the income which was spent, not very reputably, by the owner of it, whenever he had a run of luck at faro. But the estate was not well managed, and, between occasional but extravagant hospitalities on this estate, and equally extravagant indulgence in the stimulant of high stakes and strong liquors at the hells and bars about Richmond, Mr. Philip Cartwright passed his time unprofitably enough; for pulling the devil by the tail is a fatiguing exercise, even to a strong man. Mr. Cartwright was a strong man, however, and a handsome man, and a tall. "Quite a fine man, sir," said his friends. "You may have seen Philip S. Cartwright as drunk as a hag, sir, but you will have always found him quite the cavalier." And, in truth, he had grand manners, and pleasant manners, too, this hard-living, devil- may-care gentleman, which embellished the impression of his vices. And he was a bold rider and a crack shot; accomplishments which, in all Anglo-Saxon communities, ensure easy popularity to their possessor. Then, too, he had been left, early in life, a widower; and if, since then, he had lived too hard, or lived too loose, this was an extenuating circumstance. Moreover, he had but one child, a pretty little girl; and to her he had ever been a careful, tender, and devoted father. That was another extenuating circumstance. He was doubtless no man's enemy but his own; and the worst ever said of him was, that "Philip S., sir, is a smart man, smart and spry; but wants ballast."
Mr. Cartwright lost no time in answering Mr. Ackland's letter. He answered it with the warmest expressions of gratitude for the consideration and forbearance which he had hitherto received from the writer in the matter of this large, and all too long outstanding debt. He confessed that only a month ago he had been greatly embarrassed how to meet the obligations now falling due; but he was all the more rejoiced, for that reason, to be now enabled to assure his correspondent, that in consequence partly of the unusual excellence of the present rice harvest, and partly owing to other recent and unexpected receipts to a considerable amount, the capital and interest of the debt would be duly paid off at the proper time. As, however, Mr. Ackland, in his letter, had expressed the intention of going to Charleston about that time, he (Mr. Cartwright) begged to remind him that he could not reach Charleston without passing through Richmond on his way thither. He trusted, therefore, that Mr. A. would afford him that opportunity of offering to his New England friend a sample of the hospitality for which old Virginia was justly celebrated. He was naturally anxious to be the first southern gentleman to entertain his distinguished correspondent on Virginian soil. He, therefore, trusted that his esteemed friend would honour him by being his guest at Glenoak for a few days; the more so, as he was desirous not only of introducing Mr. A. to some of the most distinguished men of Virginia, but also of furnishing him with letters to many influential friends of his in South Carolina, whose acquaintance Mr. A. would probably find useful in the course of his business at Charleston. If, therefore, Mr. A. could manage to be at Richmond on the – proximo, he (Mr. C.) would have the honour of meeting him there, and conducting him to Glenoak, where all would be in readiness for the immediate and satisfactory settlement of their accounts.
When Mr. Ackland received this letter, he was sitting in his office at Boston, and conversing with his cousin, Tom Ackland. Tom Ackland was a rising young lawyer, and the only living relative of our Mr. John Ackland, of the firm of Ackland Brothers. Ackland's other brother, who was also Ackland senior, had died some years ago, and Ackland junior had since then been carrying on the business of the firm, not very willingly, and not very successfully.
"What do you think of that, Tom?" said Mr. John Ackland, tossing over the letter to his cousin.
"Well," said Tom, after reading it through, hastily enough, " I think you had better accept the invitation, for I suspect it is about the only thing you will ever get out of Philip Cartwright. As to his paying up, I don't believe a word of what he says on that score."
"I don't much believe in it neither," said Mr. John, " and I'm sadly afraid the debt is a bad one. But I can't afford to lose it: and 'twill be a great bore to have to foreclose. Even then, too, I shan't recover half of the capital. What do you think, Tom?"
Mr. Ackland spoke with a weary tone of voice and an undecided manner, like a man who is tired of some load which he is either too weak or too lazy to shake off.
"Well, you must pass through Richmond, Jack, and Glenoak will be as pleasant a halt as you can have. Drink as much of Cartwright's wine, and smoke as many of his cigars as you can; for I doubt if you'll get back any of your money except in that kind. However, you can afford to lose it, so don't be so downhearted, man. And as for this Charleston business – "
"Oh!" said John Ackland, impatiently, "the best of the Charleston business is that it is not Boston business. I am longing, Tom, to be away from here, and the sooner I can start the better. Have you heard (I did yesterday at the Albion) that Mary, I mean Mrs. Mordent, and her husband, are expected back in Boston next month?"
"Ah, Jack, Jack!" exclaimed Tom, "you will get over this sooner than you think, man, and come back to us one of these days with a bouncing, black-eyed Carolinian beauty, and half-a-dozen little Ackland brothers and sisters too."
"I have got over it, Tom. At my time of life I don't think there is much, to get over." ,
" Your time of life, Jack! What nonsense."
"Well, I am not a patriarch, certainly," said Mr. John Ackland. "But I don't want to be a patriarch, Tom: and I don't think I ever shall be a patriarch. The best part of my life was short enough, Heaven knows, and I hope (now that is over) that the worst part of it won't be very long. I don't think it will be very long, Tom. Anyhow, I have no mind to meet Mr. and Mrs. Mordent again just now, so I shall accept Cartwright's invitation, and now, for mercy's sake, no more about business for to-day, Tom."
He did accept the invitation: and, at the date proposed, John Ackland arrived at Richmond late in the evening of a hot June day. He was much fatigued by his long journey and the heat of the weather; and not at all sorry to accept an invitation (which he received through Cartwright, who met him on his arrival) from Mr. D., the accomplished editor of the Richmond Courier, to sup and sleep at that gentleman's house before going on to Glenoak. Mr. D. having heard from Cartwright of Mr. Ackland's intended visit to the south, and knowing that he could not arrive in Richmond till late in the evening, had, with true Virginian hospitality, insisted on the two gentlemen passing the night at his house in town; and it had been arranged that Cartwright should drive Mr. D. and Mr. Ackland over to Glenoak on the following day. Mr. Ackland was very cordially received by his Richmond host, an agreeable and cultivated man. The fatigue of his long journey secured him a good night's rest; and, being an early riser, he had indulged his curiosity by a solitary stroll through the town, before the three gentlemen met at breakfast the next morning. After breakfast, he was conducted by his two friends to see the lions of the place. When they had visited the court-house and the senate-house,
"Now, Mr. Editor," said Cartwright, "I shall ask permission to leave my friend here under your good care for an hour or so. I am going to fetch my little girl from school. You know she is at Miss Grindley's finishing establishment for young ladies; and though she is only ten years old, Miss G. assures me that Virginia Cartwright is her most forward pupil. We will take this little puss with us, if you please. What o'clock is it now?"
Cartwright looked at his watch, and Mr. D. looked at his watch. Yawning and looking at your watch are infectious gestures. John Ackland also put his hand to his waistcoat-pocket, and then suddenly remembering that his watch was not there, he felt awkward, and blushed. John Ackland was a shy man, and a lazy man in everything but the exercise of self-torment. He was in the habit of interpreting every trifle to his own disadvantage. This unfortunate way of regarding all external phenomena was constantly disturbing his otherwise habitual languor with an internal sensation of extreme awkwardness. And whenever John Ackland felt awkward he blushed.
"Twenty minutes to one," said Mr. D.
"Good; then," said Cartwright, "in one hour, as near as may be, I and my little girl will be at your door with the waggon, and phaeton. Can you be ready by then?"
"All right," answered the editor, "we shall just have time for a light luncheon."
"Will it be out of your way, Mr. D.," said Ackland, after Cartwright had left them, " to pass by D'Oiley's, the watch- maker's, in – street?"
"Not at all. How do you happen to know the name of that store, though?"
"I noticed it, whilst strolling through the town this morning. My chronometer has been losing time since I came south; and I asked Mr. D'Oiley to look at it, saying I would call or send for it before leaving town this afternoon."
When the watchmaker handed back the chronometer to Mr. Ackland, " That watch was never made in the States, I reckon, sir?" said he.
"No. It is English."
"Geneva works, though. I'll warrant your chronometer, sir, to go right for six years now. Splendid piece of workmanship, sir."
Mr. Ackland was much pleased with his pretty little new acquaintance, Virginia Cartwright. She was a dark-eyed lively child, who promised to become a very beautiful woman, and was singularly graceful for that awkward age in the life of a young lady which closes her first decade. Her father seemed to be immensely proud of, as well as tenderly attached to, the little girl. Every little incident on their way to Glenoak suggested to him some anecdote of her childhood which he related to his guest in terms, no doubt inadequately expressive of her extraordinary merits. Once he said, "Good God, sir, when I think what would become of that child if anything were to happen – " But he finished the sentence only by whipping on the horses.
A large assembly of Virginia notables had been invited to Glenoak to meet Mr. Cartwright's New England guest. " I am going to be shown off," thought John Ackland to himself; and he entered the house, hot and blushing, like the sun rising through a fog. Among these notables was Judge Griffin, " Our greatest legal authority, sir," whispered Cartwright, as he pushed his guest forward, and presented him to the judge with expressions of overflowing eulogy and friendship.
Mr. Ackland, of Boston city, was a representative man, he said, " a splendid specimen, sir, of our great merchant princes of the North, whom he was proud to receive under his roof. More than that, he himself was under deep obligations (why should he be ashamed to avow it?), the very deepest obligations to his worthy friend and honoured guest, John K. Ackland!" Here Mr. Cartwright, apparently under the impression that he had been proposing a toast, paused, and prepared to lift his glass to his lips, but finding that he had, just then, no glass to lift, he informed the judge and his other guests that dinner would soon be served, and expressed a hope that in the meanwhile Mr. Ackland would favour him with a few moments of his private attention for the settlement of a matter of business to which, indeed, he partly owed the honour of that gentleman's visit. The two gentlemen were then closeted together for nearly an hour. When they rejoined the rest of the company at dinner, Mr. Cartwright appeared to have made (during their recent interview) a most favourable impression on his New England guest. Host and guest were already on terms of the most cordial intimacy with each other, and Cartwright himself was in the highest possible spirits. One of the company present on that occasion, a very young gentleman, who had had some betting transactions with the owner of Glenoak – transactions from which he had derived a very high appreciation of the remarkable 'cuteness of that gentleman – expressed to his neighbour at table a decided opinion that his friend Philip S. must certainly have succeeded, before dinner, in getting a pot o' money out of the Yankee, who looked as well pleased as people usually do when they have done something foolish. After dinner, when the gentlemen lit their cigars, and strolled into the garden, Cartwright linking one arm in that of Judge Griffin, and the other in that of John Ackland, exclaimed,
"I wish, judge, that you, whose powers of persuasion are irresistible, would induce my friend here to listen to reason. No, no!" he continued, as John Ackland made some gesture of impatience, " no, my esteemed friend, why should I conceal the truth? The fact is, judge, that Mr. Ackland and myself have had some pecuniary transactions with each other, in which he has been creditor, let me add, the most forbearing and considerate creditor that ever man had, and I, of course, debtor – "
"A highly honourable one," put in John Ackland.
"My dear sir, that is the very point in question. Allow me to deserve the flattering epithet. Judge Griffin shall decide the case. You must know, judge, that the unfortunate force of circumstances (why should I be ashamed to own it?) has compelled me to keep this gentleman waiting an unconscionably long time for the repayment of a considerable sum of money which he has been good enough to advance to me, partly on my personal security. Under these circumstances, I was naturally anxious that he should not, finally, be a loser by the generosity of his patience. It is, therefore, needless to say that the rate of interest offered by myself for the renewed postponement of the liquidation of this loan was, in the last instance, a high one. I am happy to say that I have, this afternoon, had the pleasure of refunding to my friend the entire capital of the debt. On that capital, however, a year's interest was still owing. Of course I added the amount of it to that of the capital. But he (wonderful man!) refuses – absolutely refuses – to receive it. Tell him, judge (you know me), that he is depriving me of a luxury which I have too seldom enjoyed – the luxury of paying my debts – and that the capital – "
"Was a very largo one," interrupted Mr. Ackland, who had been listening with growing impatience to this speech. " Pardon me if I confess that I had not counted on the entire recovery of it – especially so soon. The interest to which Mr. Cartwright has referred was fixed in accordance with that erroneous impression. For which – ahem – my excuse must be, sir, that – well, that I am not – never was – a man of sanguine temperament. Sir, Mr. Cartwright has greatly embarrassed me. Under present circumstances, I really – I could not – ahem – tax my friend here so heavily on a debt of – of – well, yes – of that amount, which has been so unexpectedly – ahem. I really – I – am not a usurer, sir, though I am a merchant."
Mr. Ackland said all this with the difficult hesitation of an exceedingly shy man, which he was, and blushing up to the roots of his hair. As soon as he had struggled through the effort of saying it, and thereby worked himself into a state of feeling so defensive as to be almost offensive, he extricated his arm from the embrace of his host, and, with an awkward bow, hastened to join the ladies in the arbour.
"Odd man, that," said Judge Griffin.
"Shy and proud," said Cartwright, " but as fine a fellow as ever lived."
John Ackland wrote from Glenoak to his Cousin Tom, expressing much pleasure in his visit there. The change of scene and air had agreed with him, notwithstanding the great heat of the season, and he already felt in better health and spirits than when he left Boston. He related the result of the interview which had taken place between himself and his host on the day of his arrival at Glenoak. He had the cash now with him in notes. But the amount was so large that he should of course exchange them at the Richmond Bank for a credit on their correspondents at Charleston. It was a strange notion of Cartwright's to insist on paying the money in notes.
"He seems to have been under the impression that I should not have been equally well satisfied with his signature. Which made me feel very awkward, my dear Tom."
He had felt still more awkward in consenting to take the last year's interest on that loan at the rate originally stipulated. Tom knew that he would not have raised it so high if he had ever had any hope of recovering the entire capital at the expiration of the term. However, there was no help for it. Cartwright would have it. Cartwright had behaved exceedingly well. Very much like a gentleman. He had really conceived a great regard for his present host. In despite of some obvious faults of character, and he feared also of conduct, there was so much good in the man. C. was a most pleasant companion, and had shown the greatest delicacy in this matter. The man's affection for his daughter, too, was quite touching; and the child herself was charming. John Ackland then described his impressions of a slave plantation at some length His abhorrence of the whole system was even more intense than before. Not because he had noticed any great cruelty in the treatment of the slaves on this plantation, but because the system was one which rendered even kindness itself an instrument of degradation; and these unfortunate blacks appeared to him to be in a mental and moral condition which, without justifying it, gave a hideous plausibility to the cool assertion of their owners that coloured humanity is not humanity at all. He avoided all discussion on this subject, however, for, as Tom knew, there was nothing he hated so much as controversy. At first he had felt " a little awkward " at being the only Northerner amongst so many slave proprietors. But now he felt quite at his ease with them all. Especially with Cartwright. 'Twas a pity that man had been born South. He had been brought up there to idleness and arrogance, but his natural disposition fitted him for better things. Glenoak was a very pleasant place. So pleasant, that he was reluctant to leave it. And, in fact, there was no real necessity for going to Charleston so soon. The weather was horribly hot. He had not yet been up to the exertion even of going to Richmond to deposit the notes he had received from Cartwright. He thought he should probably remain some days longer – perhaps a fortnight longer – at Glenoak.
On the evening of the day he wrote this letter, however, an incident occurred which changed Mr. Ackland's disposition to prolong his stay at Glenoak.
CHAPTER II
Among Mr. Cartwright's guests was a young lady who had, or was supposed to have, an extraordinary faculty for describing people's characters or sensations; not by looking at their handwriting, but by holding it in her hand, and thus placing herself (it was averred) in magnetic rapport with the writers. She was a merry, good-natured girl, who did her spiriting gently, without professing much belief in it herself, and always ready to laugh heartily with others at the result whenever (as sometimes happened) it was an unmitigated failure. This evening the experiment had been tried several times with more than usual success; and sundry hypercritical spectators averred that Miss Simpson had made a great many lucky guesses.
"Well, now," said Cartwright, "that is not fair on Miss Simpson. Here is the writing of a person whom nobody present – not even myself – has ever seen. Miss Simpson shall try again with it, and I will bet you all that she guesses right."
He drew a letter from his pocket, and the young lady, after crumpling it for a moment in her hand, said, hesitatingly,
"This is a woman's writing."
"Right!" said Cartwright.
"A married woman," said Miss Simpson, more boldly.
"Right again. Any children?"
"No."
"Quite right. Married long, eh?"
"About three months, I think."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Cartwright. "It is just three months and nine days."
Mr. Ackland looked up, and looked red, and fidgeted in his chair.
"Oh, Cartwright," cried Judge Griffin, "that won't do. You put her leading questions."
"Well, let her go on by herself," said Cartwright.
He had noticed John Ackland's movements and was looking hard at his New England guest. Mr. Ackland blushed again, and turned away his face.
"But she is not happy – no, not at all happy," said Miss Simpson, musingly.
"The devil she's not!" cried Cartwright; "but 'twas a love match, wasn't it?"
"I think so," replied Miss Simpson, after a pause, and doubtfully.
"My withers are unwrung," said Cartwright, looking round. "I swear I never saw the lady in my life."
"Does she care more for somebody else already, ma'am, than for her husband?" asked the judge.
"More, yes," replied Miss Simpson, "much, no. She must be a strange character. Not much feeling for any one, I should say, except for herself. She jilted him."
"Whom?" demanded all the listeners together.
"I don't know. But now I fancy she half regrets him. There is a strange feeling about this letter."
"Pleasant for poor Mordent!" muttered Cartwright.
John Ackland sprang to his feet. He was not red this time, but frightfully pale, and trembling violently.
"The letter! the letter!" he cried, and seized the hand of Miss Simpson. The young lady started at his touch.
"Oh, Mr. Ackland," she cried, "why did nobody stop me? I never dreamed that it was you." But already John Ackland had left the room.
The next day Cartwright sought out his guest (Mr. Ackland had not reappeared in the drawing-room during the rest of that evening), and expressed his regret for the painful incident of the preceding night.
"I had no idea you were even acquainted with Mrs. Mordent," he said.
"But how do you happen to be acquainted with her?" asked John Ackland.
"Strictly speaking," he said, "I am not acquainted with her. Mordent and I were schoolfellows at West Point. He wrote to me some time ago informing me of his engagement to Miss Stevens; and, as I anticipated being absent from Virginia about that time, I wanted him and his bride to pass their honeymoon at Glenoak. I also asked him to send me a portrait of the future Mrs. M. I have portraits of all my friends' wives. A fancy of mine. He declined the invitation, but sent me the portrait, accompanied by a pretty little line from the lady herself. That is what I placed in Miss Simpson's hands last night; and I assure you that is all I know of Mrs. Mordent."
John Ackland's impatience to leave Glenoak was now, however, excessive. "Every time," he said to himself, "that I must face again the people in this house is intolerable pain to me."
Cartwright suggested to him that if resolved on so hasty a departure, he need not return to Richmond. "By going across country," he said, "you will save a long day's journey, and catch the Charleston coach at a point which is nearer here than Richmond. I can send your luggage on by the cart, this morning, and lend you a horse to ride there this afternoon. We will dine early, and if you start from here on horseback at four o'clock, you will be at your destination before nightfall, and a good hour before the coach is due there. I will be your guide across the plantation, and put you on your road, which you cannot possibly miss. I would gladly accompany you the whole way thither, if I had not some business with my overseer which must be settled to-night. You can leave the horse at your destination with the ostler there. I know him, and can trust him to bring it back safely to Glenoak. What say you?" "That would certainly be my best and pleasantest plan," said Mr. Ackland, "and really I am much obliged to you for proposing it. But I suppose I ought to go to Richmond about those notes."
"No necessity for that, I think," answered Cartwright. "At least if you are in a hurry. At the next stage after you join the coach, you will be obliged to stop the greater part of the morning. I know a very respectable banker whose office is close to the hotel where you change horses and dine. I will give you a line to him if you like, and you can change the notes there."
"You are most kind, my dear friend, and I cannot sufficiently thank you. But do you think it would be safe to carry such a large sum in notes so far?"
"If you carry them about your person, yes. Luggage sometimes gets mislaid; but you need not be afraid of robbers. Our roads are not so unsafe as all that, Mr. Ackland, sir. I have travelled all across this country, sir, on horseback without ever having any misadventure, and once you are out of the plantation you have only a few miles between you and the coach. By the way, let me lend you my travelling belt."
"Then, indeed," said John Ackland, "if it does not seriously inconvenience you, I shall gladly accept your kind offer. For I confess that even your hospitality – -"
"Yes, yes!" said Cartwright, "I understand. And greatly as I regret this departure, I cannot press you to stay. There will be no inconvenience at all, and I will at once give orders about your luggage."
After dinner, when John Ackland and his host were mounting their horses, "We shall have a cool ride, I think," said Cartwright, "and there's plenty of time, so that we can take it easy. I shouldn't wonder if we put up some game as we go along. We had better take our guns with us."
"I'm not much of a sportsman, I'm afraid," said John Ackland, with his customary blush.
"Oh," laughed the other, "I dare say you are a better shot than I. You Northerners are such modest gentlemen. Any how, there's no harm in having out the guns. You see they are in nobody's way. That's how we sling 'em in our country, rough but handy. Now then."
"Good- bye to Glenoak," said John Ackland, rather sadly, looking up at the house and waving his hand. His melancholy had been excessive during the whole day.
"Not good-bye altogether, I hope," said Cartwright.
And off they started.
CHAPTER III
It was not yet dark when Cartwright returned alone to Glenoak. He found Judge Griffin, assisted by the betting young gentleman, working his way through a bottle of brandy and a box of cigars in the arbour.
"Well, Cartwright," said the judge, "I suppose your friend's off, eh?"
"Yes. Poor old Ackland! Good fellow as ever lived. I shall quite miss him."
"Very amiable man," said the judge.
"Bet you a pony, Cartwright," said the betting young gentleman.
"What on? Here, you black block-head, bring another bottle of brandy, ice, and soda-water. And look alive, do you hear? 'Gad, sir, I've swallowed a bushel of dust, and am as dry as mud in a brick- kiln."
"Bet you," resumed the betting young gentleman, "that the Yankee don't reach the coach to-night. Bet you, anyhow, he'll come to grief."
"What do you mean?" said Cartwright, sharply.
"Well, sir," responded that promising youth, "I reckon you should never have set him on that black mare of yours."
"Pooh," said Cartwright, "the mare's as quiet as a mouse."
"If you know how to ride her; but he don't. Very queer seat, that Yankee. Now she has him to herself, if she puts her head down he'll have no more chance with her, I reckon, than a cat in hell without claws," said the betting young gentleman, apparently much pleased with the originality and elegance of that striking figure of speech.
"I tell you the mare's as quiet as a mouse," growled Cartwright. "Pray do you suppose, my young friend, that your remarkable facility for falling head-foremost off the back of any four-legged animal can be acquired without very pe-cu-liar practice? You've been practising it yourself a good long time, you know."
The betting young gentleman, not finding any sufficiently expressive retort in the ready-made idiom of his native tongue, was carefully preparing one, when the judge interposed with,
"Find any game, Cartwright?"
"No," said Cartwright, " not to speak of. I had only one shot, and Ackland none." "Guessed I heard a gun about an hour ago," said the betting young gentleman.
"Lord bless you and me, judge," said Cartwright, " if this child here ain't going to die, I do believe, of a determination of intelligence to the brain. The peculiar acuteness of his youthful faculties, is something quite astonishing."
"Well, I guess I wasn't born yesterday," responded the disconcerted subject of this sarcastic compliment, "and when you were as young as I am – -"
"I never was as young as you are, sir," said Cartwright.
"Well, never mind that. What did you bag, old boy?"
"Nothing, young reverend."
"Never knew you miss before, Cartwright."
"Well, I don't often miss, when the game is as easy – as easy as I mostly find it whenever I have the pleasure of a crack with you, my young friend."
In this sprightly conversation Mr. Philip Cartwright was still exercising his wit and humour, when that "black blockhead," as his master called him, entered the arbour, looking as white as a black man can look, and whispered something to him.
"Returned? impossible!" cried Cartwright, springing up.
"What's the matter?" cried the two other gentlemen; "Ackland back again?"
"No, but the mare's back again, riderless, covered with foam, and the saddle turned. The mare I lent him."
"Told you he'd come to grief with her. Shouldn't wonder if she's broke his neck," exclaimed the betting young gentleman, with joyful exultation.
"Tell Sam to saddle my horse instantly," cried Cartwright. "Not the one I had out to-day, a fresh one."
"Why, where are you going, Cartwright?" asked the judge, not very well pleased at the prospect of interrupted potations and a dull evening.
"To look for poor Ackland. And at once."
"But it's a good twelve miles' ride."
"Can't help that, judge. If anything has happened to my poor friend, if the mare has thrown him, he may be in want of assistance. I saw him safe through the plantation. If anything has happened to him, it cannot have been long after I left him, or the mare would hardly have got home by now, even at a gallop. Stay, I'd better take the waggon, I think. If he's hurt we shall want it. Who will come with me?"
"Not I," said the judge. "I'm too old. But I tell you what, Cartwright, if you'll order another bottle I'll sit up for you."
"I'll come," said the betting young gentleman.
"Pooh," cried Cartwright, with ineffable contempt. "You're no use. I must be off." And off he went.
When he returned to Glenoak about three o'clock in the morning, the judge had kept his word, and was sitting up for him, having nearly finished his second bottle. Cartwright dropped into a chair haggard and exhausted. He had been to the Coach's point and back, but had discovered nothing, except, indeed, that neither horse nor rider had arrived that evening from Glenoak at the inn at that town, and that the Charleston coach had taken in no passengers there.
"The whole thing is a mystery," he said. "It fairly beats me."
"And beat you look," said the judge; "you'd best take a cocktail and go to bed. Found no trace of him on the road?"
"Nothing."
"Nor heard anything of him?"
"Nothing; absolutely nothing."
The next morning all the slaves on Mr. Cartwright's estate were assembled and interrogated about the missing gentleman. Judge Griffin himself conducted the inquiry, and very severely he did it. Of course, they all contradicted each other and themselves, and floundered about in a fathomless slough of unintelligibility; for, whatever natural intelligence they possessed was extinguished by the terror of the great judge, or lost in the labyrinths of cross-examination. One old negro in particular, "whose name was Uncle Ned," revealed such a profundity of stupidity, that the judge said, "Cartwright, that nigger of yours is the stupidest nigger in all niggerdom."
"He is," said Cartwright, "and if the black beast don't mind what he's about I'll sell him – whip him first, and sell him afterwards."
"He won't fetch much, I reckon," said the judge.
"I'll skin him alive and make squash pie of him, and eat him with pepper, and salt, and vinegar," said Cartwright, showing all the teeth in his handsome mouth, and looking very much like a hungry ogre. "I have my eye on him," he added, "and he knows it."
Poor Uncle Ned did indeed appear to have a very lively sense of the uncomfortable honour of having Mr. Cartwright's eye on him. For he trembled violently, and looked like an old black umbrella with all its whalebones working in a high wind.
One thing, however, resulted from this investigation. None of Mr. Cartwright's negroes had seen anything, none of them had heard anything, none of them knew anything, that could shed the smallest light on the fate of John Ackland.
All Mr. Cartwright's guests were greatly excited about the events of the previous evening, especially the ladies.
"We have done all that can be done for the present, my dear ladies," said Judge Griffin, "but I regret to say that as yet we have no clue to this mystery. By the way, Cartwright, suppose we try Miss Simpson?"
"Oh, pray, no!" said that young lady; "you know, I have already been so very unlucky about poor Mr. Ackland."
"But you can't hurt his feelings now, my dear, as, unfortunately, he is not here; and really it is just possible that you may be able to suggest something."
"Psha!" cried Cartwright, impatiently; "you don't mean to say you seriously believe in that nonsense, judge?"
"Nonsense or not, there is no harm in trying," said the judge, "and you have, doubtless, some letter of Ackland's that will do."
"But," said Miss Simpson, "it ought to be, please, something written very recently, if possible."
"Stay!" exclaimed Cartwright, "I have the very thing. I believe it was the last thing John Ackland wrote in this house. Anyhow, the writing is not a week old."
"What is it?" said the judge.
"Why, his receipt, to be sure, for the money I paid him the other day."
Mr. Cartwright appeared to regard this document as one of peculiar interest. He insisted on handing it round, and showing it to every one: remarking at the same time that "Ackland wrote a bolder hand than any one could have supposed from the look of the man." The only person to whose hands he did not seem particularly willing to entrust it, was Miss Simpson. All the party, however, were eager for the experiment to begin, and that young lady was much urged to try her magnetic powers on the document.
"Don't crumple it!" cried Cartwright, nervously, as she took up the paper somewhat reluctantly.
Hardly had she touched it, however, before Miss Simpson's whole frame seemed to be convulsed by a sharp spasm.
"Take it away!" she cried "take it away! You have put me in rapport with a – -."
The rest of this exclamation was inaudible. But Miss Simpson had fainted. It was a long time before she was restored to consciousness; and then she declared that she had no recollection of anything which had passed.
"I tell you what it is," said Philip Cartwright to Judge Griffin that evening, "this is a very serious business; and we ought not to be losing time about it. You must come with me, judge, to Richmond to-morrow."
"Do you suspect violence or foul play?" said the judge.
"I don't know," answered Cartwright, "I don't like the look of it. I believe that John Ackland when he left Glenoak had a large sum of money with him. For I had some talk with him about the possibility of changing it at the first stage to Charleston. We ought to lose no time, I think, in setting the police to work."
Cartwright, accompanied by Judge Griffin, went to Richmond the next day. And they did set the police to work. And the police worked hard for a fortnight, and made a great many inquiries, and suggested a great many ingenious hypotheses, but discovered absolutely nothing.
"All we can do now," said the judge, "is to send or write to Charleston. But, meanwhile, don't you think we ought to communicate with Mr. Ackland's friends in the north, or relatives, if he has any? Do you know any of them?"
"Yes," said Cartwright, "I had thought of that before. But the painful excitement of our inquiries here during the last few days had put it out of my mind. I am not personally acquainted with any relations of poor Ackland. But I believe he has a cousin at Boston – a Mr. Tom Ackland – a lawyer, I think – and I'll write to him at once. I don't think I can do any more good here, judge."
"Certainly not," said the judge; "you've done all that man can do, and more than any man could have done without the wits and energy of Philip Cartwright."
"But I'm quite knocked up," said Cartwright, "and I shall return to Glenoak tomorrow."
Mr. Philip Cartwright, however, did not return to Glenoak quite so soon as he said. For on the evening of that morrow he was still at Richmond, and engaged in the transaction of a very important little piece of business.
CHAPTER IV
In the city of Richmond, Virginia, United States, and in a back street of a certain quarter of that town which was not very well reputed, there existed a certain gambling-house which was very ill reputed. As it is fortunately possible for the reader of this veracious history to enter that house without losing either his character or his purse, he is hereby invited to do so, and to grope his way, as best he can, up a dark and greasy staircase till he reaches the third landing, where, in a small room to which "strangers are not admitted," he will find Mr. Philip S. Cartwright in close conversation with a Mexican gentleman lately arrived in Richmond. This Mexican gentleman is of such modest and retiring habits, that although he has been resident about three weeks in the capital of Virginia, and is a gentleman of striking appearance and varied accomplishments, he is as yet unknown to any of the inhabitants of that city, with the exception of two or three enterprising spirits who are interested in the fortunes of the establishment which he has honoured by selecting as his temporary place of abode. Perhaps, also, the name of this interesting foreigner (which figures on his visiting-cards as Don Ramon Cabrera y Castro) may be not altogether unknown to some professional students of character whose researches are recorded in the secret archives of the Richmond Police. But, if this be so, neither he nor they have as yet taken any steps towards increasing their acquaintance with each other. To the select few who have been privileged to hold unrestricted personal intercourse with Don Ramon during his short residence at Richmond, he is familiarly known as the Don. He is a gentleman of polished manners and polished nails; an epicurean philosopher, who takes the evil with the good of life cheerfully and calmly. By the side of the don, even the descendant of the cavaliers looks coarse and underbred.
"I tell you," said Cartwright, "it was all no use. You must get up early if you want to catch a Yankee napping. He would have nothing to do with it. Said it wasn't in his line of business. Bref, that cock wouldn't fight, sir."
"Just so," said the don, without looking up from the occupation in which he was then absorbed, for he was paring his nails. They were very polished, very pink, and very spiky nails. "You failed, in short, my dear friend."
"Not my fault," replied Cartwright: "I did what I could."
"Of course," said the don; "and Don Filippo can't do more than a man can do. You did what you could, but you couldn't dispose of the notes. Just so. Where are they?"
"Here," said Cartwright, "and you'll find them all right." He pushed a little black box across the table, which seemed to be common property of the two gentlemen, for the don took a small key from his own pocket, opened the box, and taking from it a bundle of bank-notes, held up one of them against the candle (making a transparency of it), and contemplated it with a tender, musing, and melancholy eye.
"They are beautifully made," he murmured, softly; "just look at the water-mark, mi querido Don Filippo. A masterpiece of art!"
"Yes," said Cartwright, "they couldn't beat that in New York."
"Not in all the world – not in heaven itself!" sighed, the don, with that subdued voice expressive of sensuous oppression which is inspired by the contemplation of any perfectly beautiful object.
"But I reckon you'd better not drop 'em about Richmond," said Cartwright.
"You think so?" responded the don, musingly; "you really think so?"
"Our people are too sharp now. They were caught once, but I take it they won't be caught twice."
"Caught once?"
"Out and out. Two years ago. By a Quaker chap travelling down South for the propagation of Christian knowledge, and various little manufactured articles of your sort."
"Then it's no use my staying here?" said the don.
"Don't think it is," said Cartwright.
"And I think you'd better pay my bill before I leave, my dear friend."
"I'll do what I promised," said Cartwright.
"You really think, then," said the don, "that there is no opening for investment at Richmond?"
"That's a fact," said Cartwright
"But you forget." resumed his companion, "that if I did invest any portion of this little capital for the benefit of your city, sir, and if that benevolent speculation unhappily failed, I at least should be spared the pain of contemplating the failure, since I should no longer be in the States."
"It would fail," said Cartwright, "before you could get clear of the States, and the Union has extradition treaties."
"Not with all the world," replied the don; "not with all America even. Not with Texas, for instance."
"Well, why not try Texas at once? Capital place. Just over the frontier, and just beyond the law."
"I am thinking of it," said the don. "But there are drawbacks. Judge Lynch, for instance, bowie-knives, and tar-barrels, if a man has the misfortune to lose popularity. Besides, 'tis a devil of a distance; and though, of course, you will pay travelling expenses"
"That's not in the bargain," exclaimed Cartwright, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and walking up and down the room, not very unlike a Bengal tiger in a small cage. "I never agreed to that, don."
"But you will agree to it, of course. Friends must help each other, specially such intimate friends as you and I. And just now, you know, you are so rich – at least, so much richer than I."
"I ain't rich," said Cartwright; "and you know it. But I have an idea, don."
"Felicita!" cried the don, bowing. "Ideas are valuable properties. Yours especially, my dear friend. Virginia mines; you don't work 'em half enough. I suppose you want a partner. What are the terms?"
"I want you to go down to Charleston."
"It is out of my way."
"Expenses paid."
"And from there to Texas?"
"And from there to Texas."
"Business at Charleston likely to last long?"
"A month at longest. Possibly less."
"Say a month, then. Charleston's a dear city. Month's board, lodging, carriage hire, small pleasures – "
"Paid."
"For a foreign gentleman of distinction. Living twice as dear for foreigners as for natives. Risk paid, too. Risk's everything in the calculation, you know. May be heavy. Haven't heard what it is yet."
"None in the world. But I must think the matter over. Meet me here to-morrow night at the same hour. If we agree as to terms, can you start at once?"
"The sooner the better, my dear friend."
"Then to morrow night."
"I shall await you here."
"And now," said Cartwright, "to get out of this cursed den without being seen. Don't forget to-morrow night."
So the two gentlemen parted for that evening.
They met again on the following night according to appointment. On each occasion the conversation between them was carried on in Spanish, the only language which Don Ramon spoke fluently. In the interval between their first and second interview, Cartwright was busily engaged all day and a great part of the night, too, in his own room at the hotel. Probably in some occupation of a literary nature; for before he began it he purchased a great quantity of writing materials, various kinds of inks, various kinds of pens, various kinds of paper, and when he had finished it, he left behind him, as he unlocked the door and went out to keep his appointment with Don Ramon, not even a pen or a scrap of paper. The work on which he had been so assiduously employed must have absorbed all these materials, and perhaps spoiled many of them; for in the room, as he left it, there was a strong smell of burnt pens and burnt paper.
On the morrow of that night Don Ramon left Richmond, not by the ordinary conveyance, but by a horse and buggy, which he had purchased for the purpose, since, he said, he was travelling for his pleasure. And to a gentleman who could afford to pay for his pleasure, nothing was less pleasant than to be booked from place to place like a parcel. The same day Philip Cartwright returned to Glenoak.
CHAPTER V
Mr. Cartwright had not forgotten, before returning to Glenoak, to write to Mr. Ackland's cousin at Boston, as he had promised Judge Griffin. That letter informed Tom Ackland of his cousin's sudden impatience to leave Glenoak, in consequence of an unfortunate incident having reference to the name of a lady at Boston, with whom the writer believed that Mr. John Ackland had been acquainted previous to her marriage. It narrated the circumstances already known to the reader, of the departure from Glenoak, the mysterious return of the horse, and the failure of Mr. Cartwright, assisted by his friend, Judge Griffin, and by the Richmond police, to discover any tidings of his late guest.
On the evening of his return to Glenoak, Mr. Cartwright was in excellent spirits. He kissed his little daughter with more than usual paternal unction, when she bade him good-night that evening.
He was pleasantly awakened next morning, by a despatch from the inn at the coach's halting town, informing him that Mr. Ackland had just sent to fetch away his luggage which had been lying there, in charge of the landlord, ever since the day on which John Ackland left Glenoak. The landlord had delivered the luggage to Mr. Ackland's messenger, on receipt of an order from Mr. Ackland which the messenger had produced, authorising him to receive it on Mr. Ackland's behalf. This order the landlord now forwarded to Mr. Cartwright, in consequence of the inquiries which that gentleman had been making with reference to Mr. Ackland. The messenger who called for the luggage had informed the landlord that he had come from Petersburg, where Mr. Ackland had been laid up by the effects of a bad accident; from which, however, he was now so far recovered that he intended to leave Petersburg early next morning, accompanied by a gentleman with whom he had been staying there, and by whom, at Mr. Ackland's request, this messenger had been sent for the luggage.
Mr. Cartwright lost no time in communicating this good news, both to his friends at Richmond, and to Mr. Ackland's cousin at Boston. In doing so, he observed that he feared Mr. Ackland could not have completely recovered from the effects of his accident – whatever it was – when he signed the order forwarded to Glenoak; for he had noticed that in the signature to this order, the usually bold and firm character of John Ackland's handwriting had become shaky and sprawling, as though he had written from a sick bed.
Now Tom Ackland was rendered so anxious, that he resolved to leave Boston in search of his cousin; and he certainly would have done so if he had not received on the following day, this letter, written in a strange hand, and dated from Petersburg.
"My dear Tom. You will be surprised to receive from me, so soon after my last, a letter in a strange hand. And, indeed, I have a long story to tell you in explanation of this fact; but, for the sake of my kind amanuensis, as well as for my own sake (for I am still too weak to dictate a long letter), the story must be told briefly." The letter then went on to mention that Mr. John Ackland had left Glenoak sooner than he had intended at the date of his last letter to his cousin, availing himself of Mr. Cartwright's loan of a horse to catch the Charleston coach. How Cartwright had accompanied him through the plantation, and had insisted on taking a couple of guns with them, "though I assured him that I am no sportsman, my dear Tom;" how, in consequence of a shot fired suddenly by Cartwright from his saddle, at a hare which he missed, the mare on which John Ackland was riding had become rather restive, "making me feel very uncomfortable, my dear Tom;" how, after parting with Cartwright, and probably a little more than half way to his destination, at a place where there were cross-roads, Mr. Ackland had encountered a buggy with two persons in it (an English gentleman and his servant, as it afterwards turned out), and how this buggy, crossing the road at full speed close in front of his horse, had caused the horse to rear and throw him. He had immediately lost consciousness. Fortunately, the persons in the buggy saw the accident, and hastened to his assistance; the mare, in the mean while, having taken to her heels. Finding him insensible and severely injured, they had conveyed him with great care to Petersburg, whither they were going when he met them. There they obtained for him medical assistance. He believed he had been delirious for many days. He could not yet use his right arm, and he still felt a great deal of pain about the head. He was, however, sufficiently recovered to feel able to leave Petersburg, travelling easily and by slow stages. His kind friend, Mr. Forbes, the English gentleman who had taken such care of him, was going to meet his yacht at Cape Hatteras, intending to sail to the Havannah, and had kindly offered to take him in the yacht as far as Charleston. John Ackland hoped the sea voyage would do him good. They intended to start immediately – that evening or early next morning. Tom had better address all letters for the present to the post-office, Charleston.
A few lines were added by Mr. Forbes, to whom this letter had been dictated. They described Mr. Ackland's injuries as serious, but not at all dangerous. A bad compound fracture of the right arm, broken in two places. The surgeon had at first feared that amputation might be necessary; but Mr. Forbes was happy to say that the arm had been set, and he trusted Mr. Ackland would eventually recover the use of it. There had been a severe concussion of the brain, but fortunately no fracture of the skull. Mr. Ackland had made good progress during the last week. Mr. Forbes was of opinion that Mr. Ackland was suffering in general health and spirits from the shock of the fall he had had, rather than from any organic injury.
On receipt of this letter, Tom Ackland wrote to his cousin, addressing his letter to the post-office at Charleston, and enclosing a line expressive of his thanks, &c. for Mr. Forbes, to whom he hoped John Ackland would be able to forward it. He also wrote to Mr. Cartwright, thanking that gentleman for his kind interest and exertions, and communicating to him what he had heard of his cousin from Mr. Forbes. When Cartwright mentioned the contents of this letter to Judge Griffin: "I always thought," said the judge, " that the man would turn up some how or other. We need not have taken such a deal of trouble about him." All further proceedings with a view to obtaining information about John Ackland were immediately stayed: and Mr. Cartwright made a handsome present to the police of Richmond for their " valuable assistance."
CHAPTER VI
It was some time before Tom Ackland heard again from his cousin. When he did hear, John Ackland's letter was written by himself, but was almost illegible. He apologised for this, dwelling on the pain and difficulty with which he wrote, even with his left hand. He thought his broken arm must have been very ill set. As for business, he had not yet been able to attend to any. He would send Tom's letter to Mr. Forbes. But he really didn't know whether it would ever find him. He believed that gentleman must have left the Havannah. As for himself, he had found the journey by sea to Charleston very fatiguing, and it had done him no good. The whole letter breathed a spirit of profound dejection. It complained much of frequent pain and constant oppression in the head. Life had become an intolerable burden. He, John Ackland, had never wished for a long life, and now desired it less than ever. He was so constantly changing his quarters (not having yet found any situation which did not horribly disagree with him), that Tom had better continue to direct his letters to the post-office.
Some expressions in the letter made Tom. Ackland almost fear that John's mind had become affected. He wrote at once imploring his cousin to return to Boston if well enough to travel, and offering, if he were not, to start for Charleston at once, in order to be with him.
John Ackland, in his reply, assured his cousin that he felt quite unable to undertake the fatigue of even a much shorter journey than the journey from Charleston to Boston. He begged that Tom would not think of joining him at Charleston. He could not at present bear to see any one. Even half an hour's conversation, especially with any one he knew, excited him almost beyond endurance. He avoided the sight of human faces as much as he could. His only safety was in complete seclusion. Every one was in a conspiracy to distress and injure him. He might tell Tom, in strict confidence, that all the people in Charleston were so afraid of his setting up business in that town, that they were determined to ruin, and even to murder him if they could. There were persons (he had seen them) who followed him about, wherever he went, in order to poison the air when he was asleep; but he had been too sharp for them The letter concluded with some quotations from Rousseau on the subject of suicide. It bore such evident traces of mental derangement, that Tom Ackland resolved to lose no time in going to Charleston. A statement which attracted his attention in the next morning's newspapers, confirmed his worst fears, and greatly increased his anxiety to arrive there.
CHAPTER VII
At this time, some political friends of Mr. Dobbins, whose opinions had been advocated with great ability in the Richmond Courier on a subject of a question so hotly debated between North and South that it had threatened to break up the Union, invited that gentleman to a public banquet at one of the principal hotels in Richmond. Mr. Cartwright was present at this dinner; so was Judge Griffin; so was Dr. Simpson, the brother of the magnetic young lady; so were other of John Ackland's fellow-guests at Glenoak.
The dinner was a Union dinner, the speeches were Union speeches, the event celebrated was the triumph of Union sentiment in harmony with Southern supremacy. After the great political guns had fired themselves off, the ladies were "admitted from behind the screen," toasts of gallantry and personal compliment were proposed, and the minor orators obtained a hearing. None of these was more voluble than Mr. Cartwright. He rose to propose a toast. The toast was a Union toast, for it united the absent with the present. He would invite the company to drink to the health of " Our absent friends."
At this moment Mr. Cartwright was disagreeably interrupted by a bustle and buzz of voices among the sable attendants at the door. " Order! order!" cried Judge Griffin, indignantly looking round.
"Please, Massa Judge," cried one burly nigger, bolder than his fellows, "Massa Ackland he be in de next room, and want to speak bery 'tic'lar with Massa Cartwright."
"By Jove, Cartwright! do you hear that?'' exclaimed the judge. " What, Ackland? John Ackland?"
"Yessir. Massa John Ackland he be in a bustin' big hurry, and waitin' to see Massa Cartwright bery 'tic'lar."
"Why not call him in?" suggested the judge. " Every one will be happy to see him, after all the trouble he has cost some of us.''
"No, no," cried Cartwright, much overcome by the surprise. "Gentlemen, I will not detain you longer. To our absent friends! And now," he added, emptying his bumper with an unsteady hand, "I am sure you will all excuse me, since it seems that one of my absent friends is waiting to see me."
CHAPTER VIII
Mr. Cartwright hurried to the door, and next moment found himself face to face: not with Mr. John, but with Mr. John's cousin Tom, Ackland.
Mr. Tom Ackland introduced himself: "My excuse," said he, "is, that I am only at Richmond for a few hours, on my way to Charleston, and that, accidentally hearing from one of the helps here that you happened to be in the hotel, I was anxious to ask you whether you had lately heard from my cousin, or received any news of him from Charleston?"
"None," said Cartwright. "I trust there is nothing the matter?"
"You have not even seen his name mentioned in the newspapers?"
"No."
"Yet I presume a paragraph I have here from a Boston paper, must also have appeared in the Richmond journals. Pray be so good as to look at it."
The paragraph ran thus:
"The following has appeared in the Charleston Messenger of October 18th. On the 16th instant, about two hours after sundown, a Spanish gentleman, who happened to be walking towards Charleston along the right bank of Cooper River, was startled by what he believed to be the sound of a human voice speaking in loud tones. The voice apparently proceeded from the same side of the river as that along which he was walking, and not many yards in advance of him. As the night was already dark, he was unable to distinguish any object not immediately before him, and, as he was but imperfectly acquainted with the English tongue, he was also unable to understand what the voice was saying. He was, however, so strongly under the impression that the voice was that of a person addressing a large audience in animated tones, that he fully believed himself to be in the immediate vicinity of a camp meeting, or other similar assemblage, and was somewhat surprised to perceive no lights along that part of the bank from which the voice apparently proceeded. Whilst he was yet listening to it, the voice suddenly ceased, and was succeeded by the sound of a loud splash, as of some heavy body falling into the water. On hastening to the spot from which he supposed these sounds to have arisen, he was still more surprised to find it deserted. On examining the ground, however, as well as he could by the light of a few matches which he happened to have with him, he discovered two pieces of property, a hat and a book, but nothing which indicated the owner of them, and no trace of any struggle which could lead him to suppose that their unknown owner had been deprived of them by violence. After shouting in every direction, without obtaining any answer, this gentleman then took possession of the hat and book, and, on returning to Charleston, deposited them, with the foregoing explanation of the manner in which he had discovered them, at the F.-street police-station. From the examination of these objects by the police, it appears that both the book and the hat are inscribed with the name John K. Ackland. The book, as we are informed, is the second volume of a small pocket edition of the Nouvelle Héloise, and the page is turned down and marked at the following passage:
' Chercher son bien, et fuir son mal, en ce qui n'offense point autrui, c'est le droit de la nature. Quand notre vie est un mal pour nous, et n'est un bien pour personne, il est donc permis de s'en délivrer. S'il y a dans le monde une maxime évidente et certaine, je pense que c'est celle-là; et si l'on venait à bout de la renverser, il n'y a point d'action humaine dont on ne pût faire un crime.'
On the margin opposite this passage something is written, but in characters which are quite illegible. The volume apparently belongs to a Boston edition. Inspector Jenks, of the Fifth Ward Police Division, has lost no time in investigating this mysterious occurrence. We understand that the river has been dragged, but without the discovery of any human body. It is to be observed that if a body, falling into the river at the spot indicated, by the gentleman by whom the above-mentioned property was deposited at the F.-street station, had floated within an hour after its immersion, it is quite within possibility that it might have been carried out to sea before the following morning, that is to say, supposing it to have fallen into the river at that point, where the current is extremely strong, not later than 10.30 P.M. It is, however, extremely improbable that a human body could have been floated out to sea in this manner without being observed. It is equally improbable that any person could have perished within the neighbourhood of Charleston, whether by accident or violence, on the night of the 16th without the disappearance of that person having excited attention in some quarter up to the present moment. Our own impression is that the whole affair has been an ingenious hoax. This impression is, at least, borne out by the fact that the name of Ackland (which certainly is not a Charleston name) is not known at, and does not appear on the books of, any hotel in this city, that the advertisements of the police have, up to the present moment, elicited no claimant for the hat and book now on view in F.-street, and that, from the inquiries hitherto made, it appears that no person in or about Charleston has been missing since the night of the 16th instant. With a view, however, to the possibility of this mysterious Mr. J. K. Ackland ever having existed, except in the imagination of some mischievous wag, Union journals are requested to copy, in order that the friends and relations of the missing gentleman (if there be any) may be made acquainted with the foregoing information."
"Well?" said Tom Ackland, when Cartwright had finished his perusal of this statement.
"Well," answered Cartwright, "I also incline to think it a hoax."
"I wish I could think so too," said Mr. Tom; "but I have many sad reasons to think more seriously of it."
"When do you go on to Charleston?" asked Mr. Cartwright.
"Before daybreak to-morrow."
"Ever been there before?"
"Never."
"Then you must let me come with you. I know something of that city, have friends there, and may be of use."
"Really, my dear sir, I could not possibly think of allowing you to sacrifice – - "
"No sacrifice, sir. Nothing I would not do for the sake of your cousin, Mr. Ackland. He was once very useful to me, sir; very useful and very kind. And no man shall say that Phil Cartwright ever forgot a kindness done him. I can pack up in an hour, and the sooner we start the better."
So Mr. Cartwright accompanied Mr. Tom Ackland to Charleston. And Mr. Tom Ackland was inexpressibly touched by that proof of friendship for his cousin.
CHAPTER IX
On inquiry at the police station in Charleston, S.C., Mr. Tom Ackland, accompanied by Mr. Cartwright, was shown the hat and book mentioned by the Charleston Messenger. Mr. Tom Ackland rather thought that he had once seen the book in the possession of his Cousin John. But of this he could not feel sure. The name, both in the book and in the hat, was printed. The handwriting on the margin of the page opposite the marked passage in the book proved to be quite illegible, but bore a strong resemblance to the sprawling and unsteady characters of the last two letters received by Mr. Tom Ackland from his cousin. Inside the hat they found the mark of a Georgetown maker, partly effaced. The police, after their first inquiries in Charleston, having jumped to the conclusion that they were being hoaxed, had treated the whole affair so carelessly that they had not even attempted to follow up this indication. Cartwright was the first to point it out. In consequence of this discovery, Mr. Tom Ackland immediately proceeded to Georgetown, and had no difficulty in finding there, the hatter whose name and address Cartwright had detected inside the hat. On examining the hat, and referring to his books, the hatter identified it as having been sold on the 29th of last September. To whom? He could not say. So many different hats were sold in the course of a day, to so many different people. He would ask his young men. One of his young men thought he had sold a hat of that description some time ago, but could not positively say it was on the 29th of September, to a gentleman who had one arm in a sling. Right arm? Could not remember, but thought it was the right arm. Hat was paid for in ready money. Was the gentleman on foot, or in a carriage? Thought he was on foot, but could not remember distinctly.
This was all the information Tom Ackland could obtain at Georgetown. He inquired at all the hotels there, but could not find the name of Ackland inscribed in any of their books. On his return to Charleston, Cartwright told him that his own inquiries at the hotels and boarding- houses in that city had been equally infructuous.
On inquiring at the post-office, they were informed that letters had certainly been received there for John K. Ackland, Esq., and regularly delivered to a gentleman so calling himself, who applied for them daily. What sort of looking gentleman? Very invalid-looking gentleman, always muffled up to the chin in a long cloak, and seemed to suffer from cold even when the weather was oppressively hot.
"Was he at all like this gentleman?" asked Cartwright, pointing to Tom Ackland.
Really couldn't recal any resemblance.
Noticed anything else particular about him?
Yes. He carried one arm in a sling, and limped slightly.
Anything else?
Yes. Spoke with rather an odd accent.
Yankee accent?
Well, hardly. Couldn't well say what it was like. But the gentleman rarely spoke at all, and seemed rather deaf.
Had been for his letters lately?
Not since the 15th of October. There was one letter still lying there to his address. Explanations having been given by the two gentlemen, this letter was eventually, with the sanction of the police officer who accompanied them, handed over to Mr. Tom Ackland, that gentleman having claimed it on behalf of his cousin. It proved to be his own reply to John Ackland's last letter to himself.
Had the gentleman never communicated to the post-office his address in Charleston?
Never.
Tom groaned in the spirit. He could no longer entertain the least doubt that his worst fears had been but too well founded. The absolute and universal ignorance which appeared to prevail at Charleston of the existence of any such person as John Ackland would have been altogether inexplicable if John Ackland's own letters to Tom, alluding to the profound seclusion in which he had been living ever since his arrival in that city, did not partly explain it. No such person having ever been seen or heard of on 'Change, or at any of the banks in Charleston, how had John Ackland been living? Cartwright suggested that it was possible that he might have been living all this while on the money which he himself had paid over to him in notes at Glenoak.
"That is true," thought Tom Ackland; for he remembered that his cousin, in his last letter from Glenoak, had stated that the notes were still in his possession. But nothing short of insanity could account for his not having deposited them, since then, at any bank. Unhappily such an hypothesis was by no means improbable. Who was that Spanish gentleman who professed to have discovered the hat and book of John Ackland's on the bank of the river? Could he have been John Ackland's assassin? But if so, why should he have spontaneously attracted attention to the disappearance of his victim, and promoted investigation into the circumstances of it? His story, as reported by the Charleston Messenger, was indeed so extravagant as to justify the opinion expressed by that journal. But Tom Ackland had in his possession letters from his cousin which made the story appear far less improbable to him than it might reasonably appear to any one not acquainted with the state of John Ackland's mind during the last month. It was very unlucky that there was now no possibility of seeing and speaking with that Spanish gentleman. For the gentleman in question, after having postponed his departure in order to aid the inquiries of the police, had left Charleston about two days before Tom Ackland's arrival there, on being assured by the authorities that his presence was not required. And he had left behind him no indication of his present whereabouts.
This was the position of affairs with Mr. Tom Ackland, and his inquiries appeared to have come to a hopeless dead lock, when, late one night, Mr. Cartwright (who had been absent during the whole of the day) burst into his room with the announcement that he had obtained important information about John Ackland.
It had occurred to him, he said, that John Ackland must, from all accounts, have been a confirmed invalid for the last few months. If so, he would probably have sought some country lodging in the neighbourhood of Charleston, where the situation was healthiest, without being inconveniently far from town, in case he should require medical assistance. Acting at once on this supposition (which, in order not to excite false hopes, in case it should lead to nothing, he had refrained from communicating to Tom), he had determined to visit all the environs of Charleston. He had that morning selected for his first voyage of discovery a locality only a few miles distant from Charleston, which he knew to be a particularly healthy situation. His inquiries there were not successful, and he was on the point of returning to Charleston, when he fortunately recollected that he had not yet visited a little lodging-house where he remembered having once taken rooms himself, many years ago, when he was at Charleston with his poor wife, then in very weak health. He was not aware whether that house still existed, but he thought he would try; and he had been rewarded for his pains by learning from its landlady that some time ago a gentleman, who said his name was Ackland, called there, saw the house, and took it for six months. He paid the rent in advance, and had placed his effects in the house. But, to the best of the landlady's belief, he had not once slept at home since he became her tenant. He frequently came there, indeed, during the day, and had sometimes taken his meals there. But on all such occasions it was his habit to lock the door of his room as long as he was in it. Nothing would induce him to touch food in the presence of any one. She had served him his dinner often, but had never seen him eat it. Sometimes he carried part of it away with him; and once he told her that he did this in order to have the food analysed. He appeared to be under a constant impression that his food was poisoned; and the landlady was of opinion that her lodger was a decided monomaniac, but that he was perfectly harmless. She said he was a very eccentric gentleman, but an excellent tenant. He had been at the house on the morning of the 16th (she remembered the date because of a washing bill which he told her to pay for him on that day, and for which she has not yet been reimbursed). He remained at home during the whole of the day, but locked up his room as usual. About six o'clock in the evening he went out, locking the doors of all the sitting-rooms and bedrooms, and taking the key with him. Before leaving the house, he told her that he was likely to be absent for some time, as he was pursued by enemies, and that there would probably be inquiries about him, but she was not to notice them, and on no account to mention his name to any one. "She has never seen him since. But her description of him precisely tallies with that which was given us at the post-office. She is a very old woman, rather blind, rather deaf, and very stupid. I don't think she can either read or write. Most of this information I obtained from the nigger gal who does all the work of the house. She eventually promised to have the locks opened in our presence to-morrow; and I have settled that, if agreeable to you, we will drive over there after breakfast." Thus Cartwright to Tom Ackland.
Poor Tom Ackland was profoundly affected by this fresh evidence of zeal and sympathy on the part of Mr. Cartwright. But Cartwright himself made light of his own efforts. "Pooh, pooh, my dear sir!" he said, in reply to Tom's repeated expressions of gratitude; "if he was your cousin, was he not also my friend?"
When Tom Ackland entered the first room, from which the lock was removed, in the house to which Cartwright conducted him on the following day, one glance round it told him all, and, with a low moan of pain, he fell upon the bed and sobbed. There, on that bed, was the dressing-gown which poor John Ackland had worn the last evening on which he and Tom had sat together discussing John's plans for the future. There, in the wardrobe, were John Ackland's clothes; there, on the shelf, were John Ackland's books; there, on the table, were John Ackland's papers. And among those papers Tom afterwards found an unfinished letter addressed to himself. It was written in those sprawling shaky characters which Tom had lately been learning, sadly, to decipher, and which were so all unlike the once firm and well-formed handwriting of his cousin. "God bless you, dear Tom!" (the letter said). "My last thought is of you. I have borne it long. I cannot bear it longer. Nobody will miss me but you. And you, if you could see me as I am now, if you could know all that I have been suffering, even you, would surely wish for me that relief from misery which only death can give. They are after me day and night, Tom. They have left me no peace. Mary Mordent is at the bottom of it all. She hides herself. But I know it. I have no heart to post this letter, Tom. I have no strength to finish it. Good-bye, Tom. Don't fret. Dear, dear Tom, good-bye."
Tom Ackland returned to Boston with two convictions. One, that his unfortunate cousin had perished by suicide on the night of the 16th of October; the other, that Philip Cartwright was a most unselfish, warm-hearted fellow. The whole story of John Ackland's mysterious disappearance and lamentable death had excited too much curiosity, and been too hotly discussed, both at Richmond and Boston, to be soon forgotten in either of those localities. Serious quarrels had arisen (in Richmond at least), and old acquaintances had become estranged in consequence of the vehemence with which diverse theories were maintained by their respective partisans on the subject of John Ackland's fate. But time went on, and, as time went on, the story became an old story which no one cared to refer to, for fear of being voted a bore. There were not wanting at Richmond, however, some few persons by whose suspicious fancies Philip Cartwright, against all evidence to the contrary, remained uncharitably connected with the mysterious disappearance and subsequent suicide of the Boston merchant, in a manner much less flattering to that gentleman's character than Mr. Tom Ackland's grateful recollection of his friendly exertions at Charleston.
CHAPTER X
Mr. D'Oiley, the watchmaker, was a strange mixture of practical shrewdness and an inveterate appetite for the miraculous. Spiritualism had not then been invented. Otherwise Mr. D'Oiley would surely have been one of its most enthusiastic disciples. But on the subject of animal magnetism, electro-biology, presentiments, clairvoyance, and second sight, Mr. D'Oiley was great and terrible. The whole story of John Ackland, in all its details, had been discussed in every circle of Richmond society, high and low. Mr. D'Oiley was well up in it; and he had formed very decided opinions about it. He confided them to the wife of his bosom.
"Just look at the case without prejudice," said Mr. D'Oiley, in the confidence of the nuptial couch. "How does it stand, ma'am? It is well known that Cartwright owed Ackland a large sum of money. It is equally well known, ma'am, that Cartwright never had a large sum of money – of his own. How, then, did he get the money with which he says he paid off his debt to Ackland? There are only two ways, my dear, in which that man could have got that money. Either by a loan from some other person, to be repaid at the shortest possible date, or by a forgery. The first is not probable. The second is. In either case it would have been a matter of vital importance to Cartwright to regain possession of the money he paid to Ackland. In the one case, in order to liquidate the second loan on which he must have raised it; in the other case, to recover the forged draft before it fell due. The moment he had succeeded in securing Ackland's receipt for the money, he had nothing more to fear from Ackland. Why did Cartwright talk so much about his transactions with Ackland? Why did he show about Ackland's receipt for the money, if it were not to avert suspicion from himself after Ackland's disappearance, by making every one say, 'Cartwright could have had no motive to murder Ackland, for he owed him nothing'? Mark my words, Mrs. D. Time will show that John Ackland never left Virginia alive, and that he fell by the hand of Philip Cartwright."
"But in that case," objected Mrs. D., "why has the body never been found?"
"Time will show," replied Mr. D'Oiley, oracularly. "But you don't suppose that dead bodies are in the habit of walking about with their heads in their hands and showing themselves off, like waxworks? Eh?"
It is needless to say that both Mr. and Mrs. D. believed even more in Miss Simpson's magnetic gift than did Miss Simpson herself. That young lady, whenever the subject of John Ackland was referred to, assured her friends that she did not doubt she had talked a great deal of nonsense about Mr. Ackland, but she had not the least recollection of anything she might have said. This subject was inexpressibly distasteful to her, and she requested that it might not be discussed in her presence. What was very extraordinary, and very much remarked, was the invincible repugnance which, ever since that day at Glenoak, Miss Simpson appeared to entertain towards Mr. Cartwright. She studiously avoided him, and if ever she happened, unavoidably, to find herself in the same room with him, or even to meet him in the street, it was noticed that she became visibly agitated, and turned away her eyes from him with an expression of horror. She either could not, or would not, give any explanation of this conduct, but gradually and imperceptibly Miss Simpson's studious avoidance of Mr. Cartwright affected the relations and intimate friends of this young lady, with an uncomfortable and unfavourable impression in regard to that gentleman. Nor did time, as it went by, improve either the fortunes, the character, or the reputation of Philip Cartwright. He neglected his property more than ever, and was constantly absent from Glenoak, haunting the hells, bars, and bowling-alleys of Richmond and all the neighbouring towns, apparently with no other purpose than to get rid of time disreputably. He drank fiercely, and the effects of habitual intoxication began to render his character so savage and sullen that in the course of a few years he entirely lost that personal popularity which he had formerly enjoyed.
Poor Virginia Cartwright had a sad and solitary life of it at Glenoak. Her father's affection for her was undiminished; nay, it seemed stronger than ever, but there was a fierceness and wildness about it which was rather terrible than soothing. And he himself had yet the grace to feel that he was no fit companion for his daughter. He was rarely with her, and, though numerous friends at Richmond and in the neighbourhood never ceased to urge her to visit them, and always received her with a sort of compassionate tenderness of manner, yet their kindness only wounded and embarrassed her. For Virginia Cartwright was sensitively proud, and proud even of her disreputable parent. So the poor young lady lived in great seclusion at Glenoak, of which she was undisputed mistress; and where, by her care and good sense, she contrived to prevent the property from altogether going to the dogs.
CHAPTER XI
One afternoon in January (a bright clear frosty afternoon, when the ice was white on the James River), Miss Cartwright ordered her pony carriage and drove herself over to Richmond. It was just six years since the date of John Ackland's visit to Glenoak, and Miss Cartwright was just sixteen years of age. Any one who saw her as she drove into Richmond that afternoon, with the glow in her dark Southern cheek heightened by the healthy cold, would have admitted that Virginia Cartwright had nobly fulfilled John Ackland's prophecies of her future beauty. People turned in the street to admire her as she passed. After visiting various stores where Miss Cartwright made various little purchases, the pony carriage stopped at the door of Mr. D'Oiley, the watchmaker, and Miss Cartwright alighting, left her watch with one of the shopmen to be cleaned and repaired, and returned to her by the postman, as soon as possible. Just as she was leaving the shop Mr. D'Oiley entered it from his back parlour.
"That is a very valuable chronometer of yours, miss," said Mr. D'Oiley, taking up the watch and examining it. "Not American make. No. I never saw but one watch like this in my life. May I ask, miss, where you purchased it?"
"I did not purchase it," said Virginia. "It was a gift, and I value it highly. Pray be careful of it, and return it to me as soon as you can." So saying, she left the shop.
Mr. D'Oiley screwed his microscope into his eye, opened Miss Cartwright's chronometer, and probed and examined it. Suddenly a gleam of triumphant intelligence illumined Mr. D'Oiley's features. Taking the watch with him he withdrew into the back parlour, and, carefully closing the door, took down from the shelf several volumes of old ledgers, which he examined carefully. At last Mr. D'Oiley found what he was looking for. "The Lord," exclaimed Mr. D'Oiley, "the Lord has delivered Philip Cartwright into mine hand!"
After nearly an hour's secret consultation with the wife of his bosom, Mr. D'Oiley then repaired to the house of Dr. Simpson, where he sought and obtained an interview with that gentleman.
"Dear me!" said Dr. Simpson. "What is the matter Mr. D'Oiley? You seem quite excited."
"I am excited, sir. This is a mighty serious matter, Dr. Simpson. And truly the ways of Providence are wonderful. Now, look at this watch. Did you ever see a watch like it before?"
"Not that I know of," said the doctor.
"I never did, sir, and I suppose I've seen as many watches as any man in these United States. Now, you follow me, Dr. Simpson. And keep your eyes, sir, on this re-markable watch that you see here in my hand. Six years ago that Mr. Ackland, who was your fellow-guest at Glenoak, called at my store, and asked me to clean this remarkable watch, and set it. I took particular notice of this remarkable watch, because it is a most re-markable watch, sir. And I took down the number of it in my books. I said to Mr. Ackland, when I handed his watch back to him, 'This is a very remarkable watch, sir.' 'Well, sir,' says he, 'it is a remarkable watch, but it loses time, sir.' 'It won't lose time now, sir,' says I; 'I'll warrant that watch of yours to go right for six years now that I've fixed it up,' said I. Well, sir, and the watch has gone right for six years. It's just six years and six months, Dr. Simpson, sir, since Mr. Ackland got this watch fixed up by me, and took it with him to Glenoak. And it's not six hours since Miss Cartwright called at my store, and brought me this very re-markable watch to fix up again."
"God bless my soul!" cried Dr. Simpson."
"You may well say that, Dr. Simpson, sir," responded Mr. D'Oiley. "I said to Miss Cartwright, 'May I make so bold, miss, as to ask where you happened to purchase this watch of yours?' 'Didn't purchase it,' says she, 'it was a gift,' and off she goes."
"But you don't mean to say – "
"I do mean to say it, sir. I mean to say that I don't believe Mr. Ackland would have given this very valuable chronometer to Virginia Cartwright who was a mere chit, when Mr. A. was at Glenoak. I mean to say, sir, that I do believe, and always have believed, and always will believe, that Mr. Ackland was foully murdered."
"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the doctor: "you have no right to say that, Mr. D'Oiley."
"But I do say it, sir," continued the watchmaker, energetically, " I do say it – to you at least, Dr. Simpson, sir. For I know that if you don't say it too, sir, you think it. And I know that Miss Simpson thinks it. And I say more, sir. I say that the man who gave this watch to Virginia Cartwright was a robber, as well as a murderer. That's what I say, sir."
"But you mustn't say it," said the doctor, "not unless you are prepared to – "
"Sir," said Mr. D'Oiley, "I am prepared to place this watch in the hands of justice."
"But you have no right to do anything of the kind. Justice will of course restore it to its present legal owner, Miss Cartwright. And let me tell you, Mr. D'Oiley, that this is a very delicate matter, in which any imprudence may easily bring you to trouble. Will you leave the watch – at least for a few days – in my hands? Miss Cartwright will doubtless be able to explain satisfactorily her possession of it. I will promise to see her immediately, and, if necessary, her father also. What do you say?"
Mr. D'Oiley would not consent to relinquish possession of the watch, which, as he again declared, "the Lord had delivered into his hands," but he reluctantly agreed to take no further steps in the matter until Dr. Simpson had seen Miss Cartwright. The doctor went to Glenoak next day and did see Miss Cartwright: from whom he learned that she had received the watch from her father as a birthday gift, on the occasion of her last birthday a year ago.
Where was her father? In Maysville, she believed. But it was nearly a month since she had heard from him. To Maysville went the doctor, and the first man he met at the bar of the Maysville hotel was Philip Cartwright. Cartwright was furious when he learned the object of the doctor's visit. "Of course," he said, "the watch had belonged to his poor friend John Ackland, who had given it to him as a parting gift, the very day on which he left Glenoak. And tell that scoundrel, D'Oiley," he added, "that if he don't immediately restore it to my daughter, I'll arrest him for a thief."
That gentleman, however, was neither disconcerted nor despondent.
"It is my conviction, sir," said he, "it has long been my conviction, sir, that I shall be guided by the finger of Providence to unravel this great mystery, and bring detection home to as black a criminal as ever burdened God's earth, sir. And since you tell me, Dr. Simpson, sir, that I have no help for it but to restore this watch to its unrightful owner, I shall take it back to Glenoak, and place it in Miss Cartwright's hands, myself."
CHAPTER XII
Miss Cartwright thanked the watchmaker for taking so much care of her watch, and bringing it back to her, with his own hands. She begged that he would take some refreshment before leaving Glenoak, and remain there as long as he pleased. The weather was not very inviting; but if he liked to ride or walk in the plantation, Mr. Spinks, the overseer, would show him over it.
Mr. D'Oiley thanked Miss Cartwright for her kind condescension to "a poor over- worked son of the busy city, miss." He was not much of an equestrian, and Mr. Cartwright's steeds had the reputation of being dangerous to bad riders, like himself. But there was nothing he liked so much as a good country walk on a fine frosty day; and, with Miss Cartwright's kind permission, he would gladly take a stroll about these beautiful premises before returning to town.
The first thing that roused Mr. D'Oiley's curiosity, when he commenced his stroll about the beautiful premises, was the shrieking of a miserable old negro who was wailing under the lash.
"What is the man's fault?" he inquired of the overseer who was standing by, to see that punishment was thoroughly inflicted.
"Man, you call him, do you?" responded Mr. Spinks, "I call him, sir, a darned pig-headed brute. We can't, none of us, get him to take that load of ice into the ice-house, and it's spoiling."
"Well, but," said Mr. D'Oiley, "the load seems a heavy one, and he don't look good for much."
"Good for much? He ain't good for anything."
"Why won't you take the ice, Sambo?" asked the watchmaker.
"I ain't Sambo," said the negro, sullenly and cowering, "I'm Ned, old Uncle Ned."
"Well, why won't you do as you're told, Uncle Ned?"
"'Cause poor old Ned he no dare, massa. Old Ned he no like Bogie in de ice-house. Bogie, he worse nor massa by night, and massa he worse nor Bogie by day. Poor Uncle Ned, he berry bad time of it."
Mr. D'Oiley had another illumination.
"Well now, you look here, Mr. Spinks. Reckon I'd like to buy that nigger o' you, sir. He ain't worth much, you know."
"Well, sir, he ain't bright. That's a fact. But there's a deal o' field work in him yet. And he was raised on the plantation, you see, and knows it well."
"Ah, indeed!" said the watchmaker, as though very much surprised to hear it.
"Knows it well, does he? Say a hundred dollars for him, Mr. Spinks?"
"Not two hundred, sir."
"Name your figure, sir."
"Not less than a thousand, Mr. D'Oiley. I assure you, sir, Mr. Cartwright wouldn't hear of it. He's uncommon fond of this nigger. He's quite a partiality for this nigger, has Mr. Cartwright, sir."
"Did you say a thousand, Mr. Spinks?"
"I did, sir."
"Split the difference, Mr. Spinks. Make it five hundred, sir."
"Done, sir."
"Done with you, sir," returned the watchmaker; "and if you'll take my cheque for it, I'll carry him back in my buggy. Nothing like settling things at once."
"Take your note of hand for a million, sir," responded the overseer, delighted to have sold a broken-down nigger so advantageously, at double the market price.
That very night the owner of Glenoak returned unexpectedly to his ancestral mansion. His first act was to send for Mr. Spinks. " I want to see Uncle Ned, Mr. Spinks. Send the brute up immediately."
"Uncle Ned? Why, Mr. Cartwright, I've just sold him, and very advantageously. He's not been worth his keep for the last three years."
Words cannot describe the frantic paroxysm of wrath into which Mr. Cartwright was thrown by this announcement.
"But, indeed, Mr. Cartwright," expostulated the overseer, "I thought that, in your interest, when I found Mr. D'Oiley willing to give five hundred – "
"You sold him to D'Oiley?"
"Yes, sir, this afternoon."
"You villain!" howled Cartwright, springing at the throat of the overseer. But his humour suddenly changed. "Never mind, now," he growled, flinging the overseer against the wall, "the mischief's done now. Order round the waggon and team this moment, and bring me all the money you have in the house, and then get out of my sight."
Mr. Cartwright strode up-stairs, and entered his daughter's room. " Virgy," he said, with a dim eye and a husky voice, "I'm going away – I'm going at once, and I'm going far, far, far. If you stay at Glenoak, Virgy, may-be we shan't meet again; anyhow not for a long, long while. If you'll come with me we'll never part, my girl; but the way's a long one, and the future's dark as night, and there's danger behind us. What will you do, Virgy?"
"O father, father!" cried the frightened girl, "how can you ask? I will never leave you!"
That night, Philip Cartwright and his daughter left Glenoak, never to return.
CHAPTER XIII
It was about a fortnight after Glenoak had been deserted by its owners that the much-injured Mr. Spinks, whilst debating with himself the knotty question whether it were best to retain his situation, in the hope of further plunder, or to throw it up in vindication of his outraged dignity, was unpleasantly surprised by a second visit from Mr. D'Oiley, accompanied by Dr. Simpson, Judge Griffin, Mr. Inspector Tanin, and half a dozen constables.
"Now, Mr. Spinks," said Inspector Tanin, "you'll be good enough, if you please, sir, to set all hands on, to remove the ice out of that there ice-house of yours. I have a search-warrant, sir, to .search these premises. And do you know what this is, Mr. Spinks? It's a warrant for the arrest of Philip S. Cartwright, whensoever and wheresoever he can be found in the territory of the United States."
"On what charge?" asked Mr. Spinks.
"Murder," replied the inspector, laconically.
Mr. Spinks was persuaded. Mr. Cartwright's slaves were ordered to open Mr. Cartwright's ice-house and remove the ice.
Be it known to the reader that every country-house in America is provided with an excellent ice-house of the simplest and most practical kind. It consists of a deep excavation in the earth, roofed over with a pointed thatch. These ice-houses are always well filled in the winter, and rarely, if ever, quite emptied during the summer. It was long past dark before the men at work in the ice-house at Glenoak had removed all the loose ice from the pit. The lower layers were hard as granite, and could only be broken up by the pickaxe: so that the work went on slowly, by torch-light. At last Mr. Inspector, who had descended into the pit to superintend this final operation, called to those above for a stout rope. The rope was not immediately forthcoming; and when the submissive Spinks (who had been despatched to get one from the cart-house) returned with it in his hand the excitement of the spectators was intense. Uncle Ned, at his most urgent request, had been exempted from the ordeal of this expedition to Glenoak.
"Now pull!" cried Mr. Inspector from the bottom of the pit, "and pull gently."
The rope came up heavily. No wonder. There was a dead body fastened to the end of it. That dead body was the body of John Ackland. All present who had ever seen Ackland recognised it at once, in despite of the lacerated skull and partially mangled features. For the ice had so wonderfully preserved the hideous secret confided to its frozen clasp, that the murdered man looked as freshly dead as if he had perished only an hour ago.
In the subsequent search of Glenoak a copy of John Ackland's letter to his cousin was found in Mr. Cartwright's desk. He had not taken the precaution of destroying it. Doubtless he had felt that if once the body of John Ackland were discovered at Glenoak, it little mattered what else was discovered there. And when he learned from his overseer that Uncle Ned had been sold to D'Oiley, he knew that he was a ruined man, and that his paramount concern was to place himself as quickly as possible beyond the reach of the law.
Mr. D'Oiley's triumph was great. He had worked hard for it. Never had he exercised so much ingenuity and patience as in the moral manipulation whereby he had finally elicited from Uncle Ned the revelations which had led to the discovery.
This was the substance of them: Philip Cartwright, whilst riding with his unfortunate guest through his own plantation, had slackened pace, and falling a little to the rear of his companion's horse, deliberately shot John Ackland through the back of the head. The wounded gentleman immediately fell from his saddle. Cartwright quietly alighted, and finding that there was still a faint flutter of life left in his victim, beat him about the head till he beat the life out of him with the butt-end of his gun. He then carefully examined the mare which Mr. Ackland had been riding, wiped every trace of blood from the saddle, turned it, and with a sharp cut of his whip started the beast into a gallop, in a direction away from the house. Thus left alone with the dead body, his next care was to dispose of it. All this happened in broad daylight, a good hour before sundown. Mr. Cartwright's own slaves were still at work in the surrounding fields. They must have heard the report of the firearm; they might possibly have witnessed the fall of the victim. But what of that? They were slaves. Philip Cartwright well knew that in no American court of justice could a white man be convicted of crime on the evidence of a man of colour. He knew that none of his slaves could give evidence against him, even if they had witnessed every particular of his crime. He tied his own horse to a tree, and walked leisurely to the gate of the field. Leaning over it he perceived some of his own negroes at work in the adjoining ground; amongst them an old negro, whom he knew by experience that he could intimidate and cow, more easily even than the others. He beckoned this slave to him, and said coolly, as if it were the most natural announcement in the world, "I have just shot a man down; you must come along, Uncle Ned, and help me to carry the body into the ice- house." It was late in the summer season and the ice-house at Glenoak was nearly empty. Quite empty it never was. With some difficulty Cartwright and the slave removed the upper layer of ice, and buried the body underneath it. "And now look ye here," said Cartwright, "if ever you utter to a human being about what's in that ice- house, or what I've told you, or what you've just been doing, I'll flay you alive and roast you. afterwards. All the same I won't have any talking, or hinting, or winking. Do you understand? If you don't teach your eyes to forget what they've seen, I'll gouge 'em out. If you don't teach your ears to forget what they've heard I'll cut 'em off. If you don't teach your tongue to be silent, I'll tear it out by the roots. So now you know what I mean. Get along with you." Before burying John Ackland's body, however, the murderer had rifled the dead man, and re-possessed himself of the forged notes which John Ackland (as Cartwright well knew) carried in the belt lent to him by Cartwright expressly for that purpose. Unluckily for Mr. Cartwright, while he was engaged in this operation his eye was tempted by what Mr. D'Oiley had called "that very re-markable watch, sir," and he hastily thrust John Ackland's chronometer into his own pocket. But for this superfluous felony, in all human probability Philip Cartwright would have carried safely with him to his own grave the secret of his great crime.
The first question asked by the present writer of the Virginian gentleman from whom he received the details of this strange story was, "How did Philip Cartwright die?"
"Well, you see the law couldn't reach him in Texas, which wasn't then annexed. But John Ackland's cousin, and some of his friends in the North, and some down here in Virginia, constituted themselves a committee of vengeance. They were sworn to have Philip Cartwright's life, but to have it according to law. They found him in Texas, not far over the border, where he had set up a faro bank; and they disguised themselves, and they frequented the bank, and they played against him, and betted with him, till one night they succeeded in tempting him over the border, on the chance of plucking a fat pigeon there; but the officers of justice were waiting for him there; and by gad, sir, we arrested him, and tried him all square, and hanged him hard."
"And his daughter?"
"Poor girl, she didn't long survive her journey to Texas, and the rough life she had of it there. It was better for her. She was spared the knowledge of her father's guilt, and the humiliation of his death, and she loved the blackguard to the last."