Chapter XVIII: Book IV: The Phantoms (2)

As we rode on, I looked attentively at him. I scarcely recognized, in the personage beside me, the Mohun of the past. His gloom so profound on that night when I parted with him, after the expedition to the lonely house beyond Monk’s Neck, had entirely disappeared; and I saw in him as few traces of the days on the Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and the Wilderness. These progressive steps in the development of Mohun’s character may be indicated by styling them the first, second, and third phases of the individual. He had entered now upon the third phase, and I compared him, curiously with his former self.

On the Rappahannock, when I saw him first, Mohun had been cynical, bitter, full of gloomy misanthropy. Something seemed to have hardened him, and made him hate his species. In the bloom of early manhood, when his life was yet in the flower, and should have prompted him to all kind and sweet emotions, he was a stranger to all--to charity, good-will, friendship, all that makes life endurable. The tree was young and lusty; the spring was not over; freshness and verdure should have clothed it; and yet it appeared to have been blasted. What had dried up its sap, I asked myself--withering and destroying it? What thunder-bolt had struck this sturdy young oak? I could not answer--but from the first moment of our acquaintance, Mohun became for me a problem.

Then the second phase presented itself. When I met him in the Wilderness, in May, 1864, a great change had come over him. He was no longer bitter and cynical. The cloud had plainly swept away, leaving the skies of his life brighter. Gayety had succeeded gloom. The rollicking enjoyment of the true cavalryman had replaced the recklessness of the man-hater. Again I looked at him with attention--for his courage had made me admire him, and his hidden grief had aroused my sympathy. A great weight had plainly been lifted from his shoulders; he breathed freer; the sap long dried up had begun to flow again; and the buds told that the leaves of youth and hope were about to reappear. What was the meaning of that?

Now the third phase of the man had come to excite in me more surprise and interest than the former ones. This time the change was complete. Mohun seemed no longer himself. Was the man riding beside me the old Mohun of 1863? Where was the gloomy misanthropy--where the rollicking humor? They had quite disappeared. Mohun’s glance was gentle and his countenance filled with a charming modesty and sweetness. His voice, once so cold, and then so hilarious, had grown calm, low, measured, almost soft. His smile was exquisitely cordial; his glance full of earnestness and sweetness. The heaven-born spirit of kindness--that balm for all the wounds of human existence--shone in his eyes, on his lips, in every accent of his voice.

Colonel Mohun had been reckless, defiant, unhappy, or wildly gay. General Mohun was calm, quietly happy it seemed. You would have said of him, formerly, “This is a man who fights from hatred of his enemies, or the exuberant life in him.” Now you would have said, “This is a patriot who fights from principle, and is worthy to die in a great cause.”

What had worked this change? I asked myself once more. Was it love? Or was it the conviction which the Almighty sends to the most hardened, that life is not made to indulge hatred, but to love and perform our duty in?

I knew not; but there was the phenomenon before me. Mohun was certainly a new man, and looked on life and the world around him with a gentleness and kindness of which I had believed him incapable.

“I am going to take you to see a somewhat singular character,” he said.

“Who is he?”

“It is a woman.”

“Ah!”

“And a very strange one, I promise you, my dear Surry.”

“Lead on, I’ll follow thee!”

“Good! and I declare to you, I think Shakespeare would have examined this human being with attention.”

“She is a phenomenon, then?”

“Yes.”

“A witch?”

“No, an epileptic; at least I think so.”

“Indeed! And where does she live?”

“On the Halifax road, some miles from the Rowanty.”

“In the lines of the enemy, then?”

“Something like it.”

“Humph!”

“Don’t disturb yourself about that, Surry. I have sent out a scouting party who are clearing the country. Their pickets are back to Reams’s by this time, and there is little danger.”

“At all events, we’ll share any, Mohun. Forward!”

And we pushed on to the Halifax bridge, where, as Mohun expected, there was no Federal picket.

The bridge--a long rough affair--had been half destroyed by General Hampton; but we forded near it, pushed our horses through the swamp, amid the heavy tree trunks, felled to form an abatis, and gaining the opposite bank of the Rowanty, rode on rapidly in the direction of Petersburg, that is to say, toward the rear of the Federal army.

X.

AMANDA.

Half an hour’s ride through the swampy low grounds rising to gentle uplands, and beneath the festoons of the great vines trailing from tree to tree, brought us in front of a small house, half buried in a clump of bushes, like a hare’s nest amid brambles.

“We have arrived!” said Mohun, leading the way to the cabin, which we soon reached.

Throwing his bridle over a bough near the low fence, Mohun approached the door on foot, I following, and when close to the door, he gave a low knock.

“Come in!” said a cheerful and smiling voice.

And Mohun opened the door, through which we passed into a small and very neat apartment containing a table, some chairs, a wide fireplace, in which some sticks were burning, a number of cheap engravings of religious scenes, framed and hanging on the wall, and a low bed, upon which lay a woman fully dressed.

She was apparently about thirty-five, and her appearance was exceedingly curious. Her figure was slender and of medium height; her complexion that of a Moorish or oriental woman, rather than that of the quadroon, which she appeared to be; her hair black, waving, and abundant; her eyes as dark and sparkling as burnished ebony; and her teeth of dazzling whiteness. Her dress was neat, and of bright colors. Around her neck she wore a very odd necklace, which seemed made of carved bone; and her slender fingers were decorated with a number of rings.[1]

[Footnote 1: “I have endeavored to give an exact description of this singular woman.” Colonel Surry said to me when he read this passage to me: “She will probably be remembered by numbers of persons in both the Federal and Confederate armies. These will tell you that I describe her accurately, using her real name, and will recall the strange prediction which she made, and which I repeat. Was she an epileptic? I do not know. I have certainly never encountered a more curious character!”--EDITOR.]

Such was the personage who greeted us, in a voice of great calmness and sweetness, as we entered. She did not rise from the bed upon which she was lying; but her cordial smile clearly indicated that this did not arise from discourtesy.

“Take seats, gentlemen,” she said, “and please excuse me from getting up. I am a little poorly to-day.”

“Stay where you are, Amanda,” said Mohun, “and do not disturb yourself.”

She looked at him with her dark eyes, and said, in her gentle, friendly voice:--

“You know me, I see, General Mohun.”

“And you me, I see, Amanda.”

“I never saw you before, sir, but--am I mistaken?”

“Not in the least. How did you know me?”

The singular Amanda smiled.

“I have _seen you_ often, sir.”

“Ah--in your visions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or, perhaps, Nighthawk described me. You know Mr. Nighthawk!”

“Oh, yes, sir. I hope he is well. He has often been here; he may have told me what you were like, sir, and then I _saw you_ to know you afterward.”

I looked at the speaker attentively. Was she an impostor? It was impossible to think so. There was absolutely no evidence whatever that she was acting a part--rather every thing to forbid the supposition, as she thus readily acquiesced in Mohun’s simple explanation.

For some moments Mohun remained silent. Then he said:--

“Those visions which you have are very strange. Is it possible that you really _see_ things before they come to pass--or are you only amusing yourself, and others, by saying so? I see no especial harm in the matter, if you are jesting; but tell me, for my own satisfaction and that of my friend, if you _really_ see things.”

Amanda smiled with untroubled sweetness.

“I am in earnest, sir,” she said, “and I would not jest with you and Colonel Surry.”

I listened in astonishment.

“Ah! you know me, too, Amanda!”

“Yes, sir--or I think I do. I think you are Colonel Surry, sir.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have _seen you, too_, sir?” was the smiling reply.

I sat down, leaned my head upon my hand, and gazed at this incomprehensible being. Was she really a witch? I do not believe in witches, and at once rejected that theory. If not an impostor, then, only one other theory remained--that Nighthawk had described my person to her, in the same manner that he had Mohun’s, and the woman might thus believe that she had seen me, as well as my companion, in her “visions.”

To her last words, however, I made no reply, and Mohun renewed the colloquy, as before.

“Then you are really in earnest, Amanda, and actually see, in vision, what is coming to pass?” he said.

“I think I do, sir.”

“Do you have the visions often?”

“I did once, sir, but they now seldomer come.”

“What produces them?”

“I think it is any excitement, sir. They tell me that I lay on my bed moaning, and moving my arms about,--and when I wake, after these attacks, I remember seeing the visions.”

“I hear that you predicted General Hunter’s attack on Lexington last June.”

“Yes, sir, I told a lady what _I saw_, some months before it came to pass.”

“What did you see? Will you repeat it for us?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I remember all, and will tell you about it, as it seems to interest you. I saw a town, on the other side of the mountain, which they afterward told me was called Lexington--but I did not know its name then--and a great army of men in blue dresses came marching in, shouting and cheering. The next thing I saw was a large building on fire, and through the windows I saw books burning, with some curious-looking things, of which I do not know the names.”

“The Military Institute, with the books and scientific apparatus,” said Mohun, calmly.

“Was it, sir? I did not know.”

“What did you see afterward, Amanda?”

“Another house burning, sir; the Federal people gave the ladies ten minutes to leave it, and then set it on fire.”

Mohun glanced at me.

“That is strange,” he said; “do you know the name of the family?”

“No, sir.”

“It was Governor Letcher’s. Well, what next?”

“Then they went in a great crowd, and broke open another building--a large house, sir--and took every thing. Among the things they took was a statue, which they did not break up, but carried away with them.”

“Washington’s statue!” murmured Mohun; and, turning to me, he added:--

“This is curious, is it not, Surry?”

I nodded.

“_Very_ curious.”

I confess I believed that the strange woman was trifling with us, and had simply made up this story after the event. Mohun saw my incredulity, and said, in a low tone:--

“You do not believe in this?”

“No,” I returned, in the same tone.

“And yet one thing is remarkable.”

“What?”

“That a lady of the highest character assured me, the other day, that all this was related to her before Hunter even entered the Valley.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

And turning to Amanda, he said:--

“When did you see these things?”

“I think it was in March, sir.”

The words were uttered in the simplest manner possible. The strange woman smiled as sweetly as she spoke, and seemed as far from being guilty of a deliberate imposture as before.

“And you _saw_ the fight at Reams’s, too?”

“Yes, sir; I saw it two months before it took place. There was a man killed running through the yard of a house, and they told me, afterward, he was found dead there.”

“Have you had any visions, since?”

“Only one, sir.”

“Lately?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you see?”

“It was not much, sir. I saw the Federal people on horses, watering their horses in a large river somewhere west of here, and the vision said the war would be over about next March.”

Mohun smiled.

“Which side will be successful, Amanda?”

“The vision did not say, sir.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Colonel Surry assured me that he had scrupulously searched his memory to recall the exact words of this singular woman: and that he had given the precise substance of her statements; often, the exact words.--ED.]

Mohun, who had taken his seat on a rude settee, leaned his elbow on his knee, and for some moments gazed into the fire.

“I have asked you some questions, Amanda,” he said at length, “relating to public events. I _now come to some private matters_--those which brought me hither--in which your singular visions may probably assist me. Are you willing to help me?”

“Yes, indeed, sir, if I can,” was the reply.

XI.

DEEP UNDER DEEP.

Mohun fixed his mild, and yet penetrating glance upon the singular woman, who sustained it, however, with no change in her calm and smiling expression.

“You know Nighthawk?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He has been here often.”

“And Swartz?”

“Very well, sir--I have known him many years.”

“Have you seen him, lately?”

“No, sir; not for some weeks.”

“Ah! You saw him some weeks since?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At this house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what has become of him?”

“No, sir; but I suppose he is off somewhere.”

“He is dead!”

Her head rose slightly, but the smile was unchanged.

“You don’t tell me, sir!”

“Yes, murdered; perhaps you know his murderer?”

“Who was it, sir?”

“Colonel Darke.”

“Oh, I know _him_. He has been here, lately. Poor Mr. Swartz! And so they murdered him! I am sorry for him.”

Mohun’s glance became more penetrating.

“You say that Colonel Darke has been here lately?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was the occasion of his visit?”

“I don’t know, sir; unless it was to hear me tell my visions.”

“You never knew him before?”

Amanda hesitated.

“Yes, sir,” she said at length.

“When, and how?”

“It was many years ago, sir;--I do not like to speak of these things. He is a terrible man, they say.”

“You can speak to me, Amanda. I will repeat nothing; nor will Colonel Surry.”

The singular woman looked from Mohun to me, evidently hesitating. Then she seemed suddenly to make up her mind, and said, with her eternal smile:--

“I will tell you, then, sir. I can read faces, and I know neither you nor Colonel Surry will get me into trouble.”

“I will not--on my honor.”

“Nor I,” I said.

“That is enough, gentlemen; and now I will tell you what you wish to know, General Mohun.”

As she spoke she closed her eyes, and seemed for some moments to be reflecting. Then opening them again, she gazed, with her calm smile, at Mohun, and said:--

“It was many years ago, sir, when I first saw Colonel Darke, who then went by another name. I was living in this same house, when late one evening a light carriage stopped before the door, and a gentleman got out of it, and came in. He said he was travelling with his wife, who had been taken sick, and would I give them shelter until morning, when she would be able to go on? I was a poor woman, sir, as I am now, and hoped to be paid. I would have given the poor sick lady shelter all the same, though--and I told him he could come in, and sleep in this room, and I would go into that closet-like place behind you, sir. Well, he thanked me, and went back to the carriage, where a lady sat. He took her in his arms and brought her along to the house, when I saw that she was a very beautiful young lady, but quite pale. Well, sir, she came in and sat down in that chair you are now sitting in, and after awhile, said she was better. The gentleman had gone out and put away his horse, and when he came back I had supper ready, and every thing comfortable.”

“What was the appearance of the lady?” said Mohun, over whose brow a contraction passed.

“She was small and dark, sir; but had the finest eyes I ever saw.”

“The same,” said Mohun, in a low tone. “Well?”

“They stayed all night, sir. Next morning they paid me,--though it was little--and went on toward the south.”

“They seemed poor?”

“Yes, sir. The lady’s dress was cheap and faded--and the gentleman’s threadbare.”

“What names did they give?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, sir.”

Mohun’s brow again contracted.

“Well, go on,” he said, “or rather, go back, Amanda. You say that they remained with you until the morning. Did you not hear some of their conversation--gain some knowledge of whence they came, whither they were going, and what was the object of their journey?”

The woman hesitated, glancing at Mohun. Then she smiled, and shook her head.

“You will get me into trouble, sir,” she said.

“I will not, upon my honor. You have told me enough to enable me to do so, however--why not tell me all? You say you slept in that closet there--so you must have heard them converse. I am entitled to know all--tell me what they said.”

And taking from his purse a piece of gold, Mohun placed it in the hand extended upon the bed. The hand closed upon it--clutched it. The eye of the woman glittered, and I saw that she had determined to speak.

“It was not much, sir,” she said. “I did listen, and heard many things, but they would not interest you.”

“On the contrary, they will interest me much.”

“It was a sort of quarrel I overheard, sir. Mr. Mortimer was blaming his wife for something, and said she had brought him to misery. She replied in the same way, and said that it was a strange thing in _him_ to talk to _her_ so, when she had broken every law of God and man, to marry the--”

“The--?” Mohun repeated, bending forward.

“The murderer of her father, she said, sir,” returned Amanda.

Mohun started, and looked with a strange expression at me.

“You understand!” he said, in a low tone, “is the thing credible?”

“Let us hear more,” I said, gloomy in spite of myself.

“Go on,” Mohun said, turning more calmly toward the woman; “that was the reply of the lady, then--that she had broken all the laws of God and man by marrying the murderer of her father. Did she utter the name of her father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was it?”

“A Mr. George Conway,” replied Amanda, who seemed to feel that she had gone too far to conceal any thing.

“And the reason for this marriage?” said Mohun, in a low tone; “did she explain, or say any thing which explained to you, how such a union had ever taken place?”

“Yes, sir. They said so many things to each other, that I came to know all. The young lady was a daughter of a Mr. George Conway, and when she was a girl, had fallen in love with some worthless young man, who had persuaded her to elope with him and get married. He soon deserted her, when she fell in with this Mr. Mortimer and married him.”

“Did she know that he was her father’s murderer?”

“No, sir--not until after their marriage, I gathered.”

“Then,” said Mohun, who had suppressed all indications of emotion, and was listening coolly; “then it seems to me that she was wrong in taking shame to herself--or claiming credit--for the marriage.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Amanda, “and he told her as much.”

“So they had something like a quarrel?”

“Not exactly a quarrel, sir. He seemed to love her with all his heart--more than she loved him. They went on talking, and laying plans to make money in some way. I remember he said to her, ‘You are sick, and need every luxury--I would rather die than see you deprived of them--I would cheat or rob to supply you every thing--and we must think of some means, honest or dishonest, to get the money we want. I do not care for myself, but you are all that I have left in the world.’ That is what he said, sir.”

And Amanda was silent.

“Then they fell asleep?” asked Mohun.

“Yes, sir; and on the next morning he took her in his arms again, and carried her to the carriage, and they left me.”

Mohun leaned his chin upon his hand, knit his brows, and reflected. The singular narrative plunged me too into a reverie. This man, Darke, was a veritable gulf of mystery--his life full of hidden and inexplicable things. The son of General Davenant, he had murdered his father’s foe; permitted that father to be tried for the crime, and to remain under suspicion; disappeared, changed his name, encountered the daughter of his victim, married her, had those mysterious dealings with Mohun, disappeared a second time, changed his name a second time, and now had once more made his appearance near the scene of his first crime, to murder Swartz, capture his father and brother, and complete his tragic record by fighting under the enemy’s flag against his country and his family!

There was something diabolical in that career; in this man’s life “deep under deep” met the eye. And yet he was not entirely bad. On that night in Pennsylvania, he had refused to strike Mohun at a disadvantage--and had borne off the gray woman at the peril of death or capture. He had released his captured father and brother, bowing his head before them. He had confessed the murder of George Conway, over his own signature, to save this father. The woman who was his accomplice, he seemed to love more than his own life. Such were the extraordinary contrasts in a character, which, at first sight, seemed entirely devilish; and I reflected with absorbing interest upon the singular phenomenon.

I was aroused by the voice of Mohun. He had never appeared more calm: in his deep tones I could discern no emotion whatever.

“That is a singular story,” he said, “and your friend, Colonel Darke, is a curious personage. But let us come back to events more recent--to the visits of Swartz.”

“Yes, sir,” said Amanda, smiling.

“But, first, let me ask--did Colonel Darke recognize you?”

“You mean _know_ me? Oh, yes, sir.”

“And did he speak of his former visit--with his wife?”

“No, sir.”

“And you--?”

Amanda smiled.

“I made out I didn’t remember him, sir; I was afraid he would think I had overheard that talk with his wife.”

“So he simply called as if to see you as a curiosity?”

“Yes, sir--and staid only a few minutes.”

“But you know or rather knew poor Swartz better?”

“I knew him well, sir.”

“He often stopped here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mohun looked at the woman keenly, and said:--

“I wish you, now, to answer plainly the question which I am about to ask. I come hither as a friend--I am sent by your friend Mr. Nighthawk. Listen and answer honestly--Do you know any thing of a paper which Swartz had in his possession--an important paper which he was guarding from Colonel Darke?”

“I do not, sir,” said Amanda, with her eternal smile.

“For that paper I will pay a thousand dollars in gold. Where is it?”

The woman’s eyes glittered, then she shook her head.

“On my salvation I do not know, sir.”

“Can you discover?”

Again the shake of the head.

“How can I, sir?”

Mohun’s head sank. A bitter sigh issued from his lips--almost a groan.

“Listen!” he said, almost fiercely, but with a singular smile, “you have visions--you see things! I do not believe in your visions--they seem folly--but only _see_ where that paper is to be discovered, and I will believe! nay more, I will pay you the sum which I mentioned this moment.”

I looked at the woman to witness the result of this decisive test of her sincerity. “If she believes in her own visions, she will be elated,” I said, “if she is an impostor, she will be cast down.”

She smiled radiantly!

“I will try, sir!” she said.

Mohun gazed at her strangely.

“When shall I come to hear the result?”

“In ten days from this time, sir.”

“In ten days? So be it.”

And rising, Mohun bade the singular personage farewell, and went toward his horse.

I followed, and we rode back, rapidly, in dead silence, toward the Rowanty.

XII.

HOW THE MOMENT AT LAST CAME.

Mohun rode on for more than a mile at full gallop, without uttering a word. Then he turned his head, and said, with a sigh:--

“Well, what do you think of your new acquaintance, Surry?”

“I think she is an impostor.”

“As to her visions, you mean?”

“Yes. Her story of Darke I believe to be true.”

“And I know it,” returned Mohun. “A strange discovery, is it not? I went there to-day, without dreaming of this. Nighthawk informed me that Swartz had often been at the house of this woman--that the paper which I wish to secure might have been left with her for safe keeping--and thus I determined to go and ferret out the matter, in a personal interview. I have done so, pretty thoroughly, and it seems plain that she knows nothing of its present whereabouts. Will she discover through her visions--her spies--or her strange penetration, exhibited in the recognition of our persons? I know not; and so that matter ends. I have failed, and yet have learned some singular facts. Can you believe that strange story of Darke? Is he not a weird personage? This narrative we have just heard puts the finishing touch to his picture--the murderer marries the daughter of his victim!”

“It is truly an extraordinary history altogether,” I said, “and the whole life of this man is now known to me, with a single exception.”

“Ah! you mean--?”

“The period when you fought with him, and ran him through the body, and threw him into that grave, from which Swartz afterward rescued him on the morning of the 13th December, 1856.”

Mohun looked at me with that clear and penetrating glance which characterized him.

“Ah! you know that!” he said.

“I could not fail to know it, Mohun.”

“True--and to think that all this time you have, perhaps, regarded me as a criminal, Surry! But I am one--that is I was--in intent if not in reality. Yes, my dear friend,” Mohun added, with a deep sigh, his head sinking upon his breast, “there was a day in my life when I was insane, a simple madman,--and on that day I attempted to commit murder, and suicide! You have strangely come to catch many glimpses of those past horrors. On the Rappahannock the words of that woman must have startled you. In the Wilderness my colloquy with the spy revealed more. Lastly, the words of Darke on the night of Swartz’s murder must have terribly complicated me in this issue of horrors. I knew that you must know much, and I did not shrink before you, Surry! Do you know why? Because I have repented, friend! and thank God! my evil passions did not result, as I intended, in murder and self-destruction!”

Mohun passed his hand across his forehead, to wipe away the drops of cold perspiration.

“All this is gloomy and tragic,” he said; “and yet I must inflict it on you, Surry. Even more, I earnestly long to tell you the whole story of which you have caught these glimpses. Will you listen? It will not be long. I wish to show you, my dear friend--you are that to me, Surry!--that I am not unworthy of your regard; that there are no degrading scenes, at least, in my past life; that I have not cheated, tricked, deceived--even if I have attempted to destroy myself and others! Will you listen?”

“I have been waiting long to do so, Mohun,” I said. “Speak, but first hear me. There is a man in this army who is the soul of honor. Since my father’s death I value his good opinion more than that of all others--it is Robert E. Lee. Well, come with me if you choose, and I will go to Lee with you, and place my hand upon your shoulder, and say: ‘General, this is my friend! I vouch for him; I am proud of his regard. Think well of him, or badly of me too!’ Are you satisfied?”

Mohun smiled sadly.

“I knew all that,” he said. “Do you think I can not read men, Surry? Long since I gave you in my heart the name of _friend_, and I knew that you had done as much toward me. Come, then! Go to my camp with me; in the evening we will take a ride. I am going to conduct you to a spot where we can talk without interruption, the exact place where the crimes of which I shall speak were committed.”

And resuming the gallop, Mohun led the way, amid the trailing festoons, through the fallen logs, across the Rowanty.

Half an hour afterward we had reached his camp.

As the sun began to decline we again mounted our horses.

Pushing on rapidly we reached a large house on a hill above the Nottoway, and entered the tall gateway at the moment when the great windows were all ablaze in the sunset.

XIII.

FONTHILL.

Mohun spurred up the hill; reined in his horse in front of the great portico, and, dismounting, fastened his bridle to the bough of a magnificent exotic, one of a hundred which were scattered over the extensive grounds.

I imitated him, and we entered the house together, through the door, which gave way at the first push. No one had come to take our horses. No one opposed our entrance. The house was evidently deserted.

I looked round in astonishment and admiration. In every thing appertaining to the mansion were the indications of almost unlimited wealth, directed by the severest and most elegant taste. The broken furniture was heavy and elaborately carved; the remnants of carpet of sumptuous velvet; the walls, ceiling, doorways, and deep windows were one mass of the richest chiselling and most elaborate fresco-painting.

On the walls still hung some faded portraits in the most costly frames. On the mantel-pieces of variegated marble, supported by fluted pillars, with exquisitely carved capitals, rested a full length picture of a gentleman, the heavy gilt frame tarnished and crumbling.

The house was desolate, deserted, inexpressibly saddening from the evident contrast between its present and its past. But about the grand mansion hung an august air of departed splendor which to me, was more striking than if I had visited it in the days of its glory.

“Let me introduce ‘Fonthill’ to you, or rather the remains of it, Surry,” Mohun said, with a sad smile. “It is not pleasant to bring a friend to so deserted a place; but I have long been absent; the house is gone to decay like other things in old Virginia. Still we can probably find two chairs. I will kindle a blaze, and we can light a cigar and talk without interruption.”

With these words, Mohun proceeded to the adjoining apartment, from which he returned a moment afterward, dragging two chairs with elaborately carved backs.

“See,” he said, with a smile, “they were handsome once. That one with the ragged remnants of red velvet was my father’s. Take a seat, my dear Surry. I will sit in the other--it was my mother’s.”

Returning to the adjoining room, Mohun again reappeared, this time bearing in his arms the broken remnants of a mahogany table, which he heaped up in the great fireplace.

“This is all that remains of our old family dining-table,” he said. “Some Yankee or straggling soldier will probably use it for this purpose--so I anticipate them!”

And, placing combustibles beneath the pile, Mohun had recourse to the metallic match case which he always carried with him in order to read dispatches, lit the fuel, and a blaze sprung up.

Next, he produced his cigar case, offered me an excellent Havana, which I accepted, and a minute afterward we were leaning back in the great chairs, smoking.

“An odd welcome, this,” said Mohun, with his sad smile; “broken chairs, old pictures, and a fire made of ruined furniture! But one thing we have--an uninterrupted opportunity to converse. Let us talk, therefore, or rather, I will at once tell you what I promised.”

XIV.

“LORD OF HIMSELF, THAT HERITAGE OF WOE.”

Mohun leaned back in his chair, reflected for a moment with evident sadness, and then, with a deep sigh, said:--

“I am about to relate to you, my dear Surry, a history so singular, that it is probable you will think I am indulging my fancy, in certain portions of it. That would be an injustice. It is a true life I am about to lay before you--and I need not add that actual occurrences are often more surprising than any due to the imagination of the romance writer. I once knew a celebrated novelist, and one day related to him the curious history of a family in Virginia. ‘Make a romance of that,’ I said, ‘it is an actual history.’ But my friend shook his head. ‘It will not answer my purpose,’ he replied, smiling, ‘it is too strange, and the critics would call me a “sensation writer”--that is, ruin me!’ And he was right, Surry. It is only to a friend, on some occasion like the present, that I could tell my own story. It is too singular to be believed otherwise.

“But I am prosing. Let me proceed. My family is an old one, they tell me, in this part of Virginia; and my father, whose portrait you see before you, on the mantel-piece, was what is called an ‘aristocrat.’ That is to say, he was a gentleman of refined tastes and habits; fond of books; a great admirer of fine paintings; and a gentleman of social habits and feelings. ‘Fonthill’--this old house--had been, for many generations, the scene of a profuse hospitality; my father kept up the ancient rites, entertaining all comers; and when I grew to boyhood I unconsciously imbibed the feelings, and clung to the traditions of the family. These traditions may be summed up in the maxims which my father taught me--‘Use hospitality; be courteous to high and low alike; assist the poor; succor the unhappy; give bountifully without grudging; and enjoy the goods heaven provides you, with a clear conscience, whether you are called an aristocrat or a democrat!’ Such were my father’s teachings; and he practised them, for he had the kindest and sweetest heart in the world. He was aided in all by my mother, a perfect saint upon earth; and if I have since that time given way to rude passions, it was not for wanting a good example in the blameless lives of this true gentleman and pure gentlewoman.

“Unhappily, I did not have their example long. When I was seventeen my mother died; and my father, as though unable to live without her who had so long been his blessing, followed her a year afterward, leaving me the sole heir of the great possessions of the family. For a time grief crushed me. I was alone--for I had neither brother nor sister--a solitary youth in this great lonely house, standing isolated amid its twenty thousand acres--and even the guardian who had been appointed to look after my affairs, seldom came to see me and relieve my loneliness. The only associate I had was a sort of bailiff or steward, Nighthawk--you know him, and his attachment for me. It was hereditary--this attachment. My father had loved and trusted his; relieved the necessities of the humble family once when they were about to be turned adrift for debt. The elder Nighthawk then conceived a profound affection for his benefactor--and dying, left to his son the injunction to watch over and serve faithfully the son of his ‘old master.’

“Do not laugh at that word, Surry. It is the old English term, and England is best of all, I think. So Nighthawk came to live with me, and take care of my interests. You know that he has continued to be faithful, and to serve me, and love me, to this moment.

“But in spite of the presence of this true friend, I was still lonely. I craved life, movement, company--and this I promised myself to secure at the university of Virginia, to which I accordingly went, spending there the greater portion of my time until I had reached the age of twenty. Then I returned to Fonthill--only to find, however, that the spot was more dreary than before. I was the master of a great estate, but alone; ‘lord of myself,’ I found, like the unhappy Childe Harold, and Randolph of Roanoke after him, that it was a ‘heritage of woe.’ There was little or no society in the neighborhood--at least suited to my age--I lived a solitary, secluded, dormant existence; and events soon proved that this life had prepared my character for some violent passion. A philosopher could have foretold that. Every thing in excess brings on reaction. The drunkard may abstain long, but the moment he touches spirit, an orgy commences. Men love, because the time and a woman have come--and that hour and person came all at once to arouse me from my lethargy.

“One day I was inert, apathetic, sluggish in my movements, careless of all things and all persons around me. On the next I was aroused, excited, with every nerve and faculty strung. I was becoming suddenly intoxicated, and soon the drunkenness of love had absorbed all the powers of my being.

“You know who aroused that infatuation, the daughter of George Conway.”

XV.

THE STORM.

“At that time she was called Miss Mortimer. The commencement of our acquaintance was singular. Fate seemed to have decreed that all connected with our relations should be ‘dramatic.’

“One night I was returning at full speed from the house of a gentleman in the neighborhood, whither I had been to make a visit. The night was as dark as a wolf’s mouth, and a violent storm rushed down upon me, when I was still many miles from home. I have scarcely ever witnessed a more furious tempest; the thunder and lightning were fearful, and I pushed my horse to his utmost speed to reach Fonthill before the torrents of rain drenched me to the skin.

“Well, I had entered the Fonthill woods, a mile or two from the house, and was galloping at full speed through the black darkness which the lightning only occasionally illumined now, when all at once my horse struck his chest against something. I heard a cry, and then a dazzling flash showed me a light carriage which had evidently just been overturned. I was nearly unseated by the collision, but leaped to the ground, and at the same moment another flash showed me the form of a lady whom a man was extricating from the broken vehicle. I hastened to render my assistance. The lady was lifted in our arms, and then I aided in raising the fallen horse, who lay on his side, frightened and kicking violently.

“Ten minutes afterward I was placed in possession of what the lawyers call ‘the facts of the case.’ Mr. Mortimer, of Georgia, was travelling home from the North, with his sick sister in his carriage, for the benefit of her health. They had lost their way; the storm had caught them; their carriage had overturned in the darkness,--where could Mr. Mortimer obtain lodgings for the night? The condition of his sister rendered it imperative that they should not continue their journey until morning, even if the storm and broken vehicle permitted.

“I listened, and felt a warm sympathy for the poor sick girl--she was only a girl of eighteen, and very beautiful. I would gladly have offered my own house, but it was still some miles distant, and the young woman was so weak, and trembled so violently, that it would plainly be impossible to conduct her so far on foot. True, my carriage might have been sent for her, but the rain was now descending in torrents; before it arrived she would be drenched--something else must be thought of. All at once the idea occurred to me, ‘Parson Hope’s is only a quarter of a mile distant.’ Mr. Hope was the parson of the parish, and a most excellent man. I at once suggested to Mr. Mortimer that his sister should be conducted thither, and as he assented at once, we half conducted, half carried the poor girl through the woods to the humble dwelling of the clergyman.

“The good parson received us in a manner which showed his conviction that to succor the stranger or the unfortunate is often to ‘entertain angels unawares.’ It is true that on this occasion it was something like a brace of devils whom he received into his mansion! The young lady threw herself into a seat; seemed to suffer much; and was soon conducted by the parson’s old housekeeper--for he was a childless widower--to her chamber in which a fire had been quickly kindled. She disappeared, sighing faintly, but in those few minutes I had taken a good look at her. You have seen her; and I need not describe her. She is still of great beauty; but at that time she was a wonder of loveliness. Slender, graceful, with a figure exquisitely shaped; with rosy lips as artless as an infant’s; grand dark eyes which seemed to burn with an inner light as she looked at you; such was _Miss Mortimer_ at eighteen, when I first saw her on that night in the Fonthill woods.”

XVI.