The Hallam Succession

"Ay, I'm sure it does, Miss Hallam. If God is said to open t' eyes o' our understanding, t' devil is said to blind 'em. Are Christians filled wi' t' Spirit o' God? 'Why,' said Peter to Ananias, 'Why hath Satan filled thy heart?' Does God work in us to will and to do? T' devil also works in t' children o' disobedience. What do you mak' o' that now?"

"I think it is a very solemn consideration. I have often thought of good angels around me; but we may well 'work out our salvation with fear and trembling,' if evil ones are waiting to hinder us at every turn."

"And you see, then, how even good angels may hev to be varry prudent about t' blessings they hev on t' road to us. So they come as surprises. I don't think it's iver well, even wi' oursel's, to blow a trumpet before any thing we're going to do. After we hev got t' good thing, after we hev done t' great thing, it'll be a varry good time to talk about it. Many a night I've thought o' t' words on my little Wesley tea-pot, and just said 'em softly, down in my heart, 'In God we trust.' But tonight I hev put a bit o' holly all around it, and I hev filled it full o' t' freshest greens and flowers I could get, and I s'all stand boldly up before it, and say out loud—'In God we trust!'"

CHAPTER X

"When we have hoped and sought and striven and lost our aim, then the truth fronts us, beaming out of the darkness."

"Speaking of things remembered, and so sit
Speechless while things forgotten call to us."

"We, who say as we go,
'Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That we shall know one day.'"

"I would tell her every thing."

It was the rector who spoke. He and Richard were sitting before the study fire; they had been talking long and seriously, and the rector's eyes were dim and troubled. "Yes, I would tell her every thing." Then he put his pipe down, and began to walk about the floor, murmuring at intervals, "Poor fellow! poor fellow! God is merciful."

In accord with this advice Richard went to see Elizabeth. It was a painful story he had to tell, and he was half inclined to hide all but the unavoidable in his own heart; but he could not doubt the wisdom which counseled him "to tell all, and tell it as soon as possible." The opportunity occurred immediately. He found Elizabeth mending, with skillful fingers, some fine old lace, which she was going to make into ruffles for Harry's neck and wrists. It was a stormy morning, and the boy had not been permitted to go to the village, but he sat beside her, reading aloud that delight of boyhood, "Robinson Crusoe."

Elizabeth had never removed her mourning, but her fair hair and white linen collar and cuffs made an exquisite contrast to the soft somber folds of her dress; while Harry was just a bit of brilliant color, from the tawny gold of his long curls to the rich lights of his crimson velvet suit, with its white lace and snowy hose, and low shoes tied with crimson ribbons.

He was a trifle jealous of Richard's interference between himself and his aunt, but far too gentlemanly a little fellow to show it; and quite shrewd enough to understand, that if he went to Martha for an hour or two, he would not be much missed. They both followed him with admiring eyes as he left the room; and when he stood a moment in the open door and touched his brow with his hand, as a parting courtesy, neither could help an expression of satisfaction.

"What a handsome lad!" said Richard.

"He is. If he live to take his father's or my place here, he will be a noble squire of Hallam."

"Then he is to be your successor?"

"Failing Anthony."

"Then, Elizabeth dear, he is squire of Hallam already, for Anthony is dead."

"Dead! Without a word! Without sign of any kind—O, Richard, is it really—death?"

Richard bowed his head, and Elizabeth sat gazing out of the window with vacant introspective vision, trying to call up from the past the dear form that would come no more. She put down her sewing, and Richard drew closer to her side, and comforted her with assurances that he believed, "all was well with the dead." "I was with him during the last weeks of his sad life," he said; "I did all that love could suggest to soothe his sufferings. He sleeps well; believe me."

"I never heard from him after our sorrowful farewell. I looked and hoped for a little until my heart failed me; and I thought he perished at sea."

"No; God's mercy spared him until he had proved the vanity of all earthly ambition, and then he gave him rest. When he awoke, I have no doubt that 'he was satisfied.'"

"Where did he die? Tell me all, Richard, for there may be words and events that seem trivial to you that will be full of meaning to me."

"Last March I went to Mexico on business of importance, and passing one morning through the Grand Plaza, I thought a figure slowly sauntering before me was a familiar one. It went into a small office for the exchange of foreign money, and, as I wanted some exchange, I followed. To my surprise the man seemed to be the proprietor; he went behind the counter into a room, but on my touching a bell reappeared. It was Antony. The moment our eyes met, we recognized each other, and after a slight hesitation, I am sure that he was thankful and delighted to see me. I was shocked at his appearance. He looked fifty years of age, and had lost all his color, and was extremely emaciated. We were soon interrupted, and he promised to come to my hotel and dine with me at six o'clock.

"I noticed at dinner that he ate very little, and that he had a distressing and nearly constant cough, and afterward, as we sat on the piazza, I said, 'Let us go inside, Antony; there is a cold wind, and you have a very bad cough.'

"'O, it is nothing,' he answered fretfully. 'The only wonder is that I am alive, after all I have been made to suffer. Stronger men than I ever was fell and died at my side. You are too polite, Richard, to ask me where I have been; but if you wish to hear, I should like to tell you.'

"I answered, 'You are my friend and my brother, Antony; and whatever touches you for good or for evil touches me also. I should like to hear all you wish to tell me.'

"'It is all evil, Richard. You would hear from Elizabeth that I was obliged to leave England?'

"'Yes, she told me.'

"'How long have you been married?' he asked me, sharply; and when I said, 'We are not married; Elizabeth wrote and said she had a duty to perform which might bind her for many years to it, and it alone,' your brother seemed to be greatly troubled; and asked, angrily, 'And you took her at her word, and left her in her sorrow alone? Richard, I did not think you would have been so cruel!' And, my darling, it was the first time I had thought of our separation in that light. I attempted no excuses to Antony, and, after a moment's reflection, he went on:

"'I left Whitehaven in a ship bound for Havana, and I remained in that city until the spring of 1841. But I never liked the place, and I removed to New Orleans at that time. I had some idea of seeing you, and opening my whole heart to you; but I lingered day after day unable to make up my mind. At the hotel were I stayed there were a number of Texans coming and going, and I was delighted with their bold, frank ways, and with the air of conquest and freedom and adventure that clung to them. One day I passed you upon Canal Street. You looked so miserable, and were speaking to the man with whom you were in conversation so sternly, that I could not make up my mind to address you. I walked a block and returned. You were just saying, "If I did right, I would send you to the Penitentiary, sir;" and I had a sudden fear of you, and, returning to the hotel, I packed my valise and took the next steamer for Galveston.'

"I answered, 'I remember the morning, Antony; the man had stolen from me a large sum of money. I was angry with him, and I had a right to be angry.'

"Antony frowned, and for some minutes did not resume his story. He looked so faint, also, that I pushed a little wine and water toward him, and he wet his lips, and went on:

"'Yes, you had a perfect right; but your manner checked me. I did not know either how matters stood between you and my sister; so, instead of speaking to you, I went to Texas. I found Houston—I mean the little town of that name—in a state of the greatest excitement. The tradesmen were working night and day, shoeing horses, or mending rifles and pistols; and the saddlers' shops were besieged for leathern pouches and saddlery of all kinds. The streets were like a fair. Of course, I caught the enthusiasm. It was the Santa Fe expedition, and I threw myself into it heart and soul. I was going as a trader, and I hastened forward, with others similarly disposed, to Austin, loaded two wagons with merchandise of every description, and left with the expedition in June.

"'You know what a disastrous failure it was. We fell into the hands of the Mexicans by the blackest villainy; through the treachery of a companion in whom we all put perfect trust, and who had pledged us his Masonic faith that if we gave up our arms we should be allowed eight days to trade, and then have them returned, with permission to go back to Austin in peace. But once disarmed, our wagons and goods were seized, we were stripped of every thing, tied six or eight in a lariat, and sent, with a strong military escort to Mexico.

"'Try to imagine, Richard, what we felt in prospect of this walk of two thousand miles, through deserts, and over mountains, driven, like cattle, with a pint of meal each night for food, and a single blanket to cover us in the bitterest cold. Strong men fell down dead at my side, or, being too exhausted to move, were shot and left to the wolves and carrion; our guard merely cutting off the poor fellows' ears, as evidence that they had not escaped. The horrors of that march were unspeakable.'

"You said I was to tell you all—shall I go on, Elizabeth?"

She lifted her eyes, and whispered, "Go on; I must hear all, or how can I feel all? O Antony! Antony!"

"I shall never forget his face, Elizabeth. Anger, pity, suffering, chased each other over it, till his eyes filled and his lips quivered. I did not speak. Every word I could think of seemed so poor and commonplace; but I bent forward and took his hands, and he saw in my face what I could not say, and for a minute or two he lost control of himself, and wept like a child.

"'Not for myself, Richard;' he said, 'no, I was thinking of that awful march across the "Dead Man's Journey," a savage, thorny desert of ninety miles, destitute of water. We were driven through it without food and without sleep. My companion was a young man of twenty, the son of a wealthy Alabamian planter. I met him in Austin, so bright and bold, so full of eager, loving life, so daring, and so hopeful; but his strength had been failing for two days ere he came to the desert. His feet were in a pitiable condition. He was sleeping as he walked. Then he became delirious, and talked constantly of his father and mother and sisters. He had been too ill to fill his canteen before starting; his thirst soon became intolerable; I gave him all my water, I begged from others a few spoonfuls of their store, I held him up as long as I was able; but at last, at last, he dropped. Richard! Richard! They shot him before my eyes, shot him with the cry of 'Christ' upon his lips. I think my anger supported me, I don't know else how I bore it, but I was mad with horror and rage at the brutal cowards.

"'When I reached the end of my journey I was imprisoned with some of my comrades, first in a lazaretto, among lepers, in every stage of their loathsome disease; and afterward removed to Santiago, where, hampered with heavy chains, we were set to work upon the public roads.'

"I asked him why he did not apply to the British consul, and he said, 'I had a reason for not doing so, Richard. I may tell you the reason sometime, but not to-night. I knew that there was diplomatic correspondence going on about our relief, and that, soon or later, those who survived their brutal treatment would be set free. I was one that lived to have my chains knocked off; but I was many weeks sick afterward, and, indeed, I have not recovered yet.'

"So you began the exchange business here?"

"'Yes; I had saved through all my troubles a little store of gold in a belt around my waist. It was not much, but I have more than doubled it; and as soon as I can, I intend leaving Mexico, and beginning life again among civilized human beings.'"

Elizabeth was weeping bitterly, but she said, "I am glad you have told me this, Richard. Ah, my brave brother! You showed in your extremity the race from which you sprung! Sydney's deed was no greater than yours! That 'Dead Man's Journey,' Richard, redeems all to me. I am proud of Antony at last. I freely forgive him every hour of sorrow he has caused me. His picture shall be hung next his father's, and I will have all else forgotten but this one deed. He gave his last drink of water to the boy perishing at his side; he begged for him when his own store failed, he supported him when he could scarcely walk himself, and had tears and righteous anger for the wrongs of others; but for his own sufferings no word of complaint! After this, Richard, I do not fear what else you have to tell me. Did he die in Mexico?"

"No; he was very unhappy in the country, and he longed to leave it. As the weather grew warmer his weakness and suffering increased; but it was a hard thing for him to admit that he was seriously ill. At last he was unable to attend to his business, and I persuaded him to close his office. I shall never forget his face as he turned the key in it; I think he felt then that life for him was over. I had remained in Mexico for some weeks entirely on his account, and I now suggested, as he had no business cares, a journey home by way of Texas. I really believed that the rare, fine air of the prairies would do him good; and I was sure if we could reach Phyllis, he would at least die among friends. When I made the proposal he was eager as a child for it. He did not want to delay an hour. He remembered the ethereal, vivifying airs of Western Texas, and was quite sure if he could only breathe them again he would be well in a short time. He was carried in a litter to Vera Cruz, and then taken by sea to Brownsville. And really the journey seemed to greatly revive him, and I could not help joining in his belief that Phyllis and Western Texas would save him.

"But when we reached the Basque there was a sudden change, a change there was no mistaking. He was unable to proceed, and I laid his mattress under a great live oak whose branches overshadowed space enough for our camp. I cannot tell you, Elizabeth, what a singular stillness and awe settled over all of us. I have often thought and wondered about it since. There was no quarreling, no singing, nor laughing among the men, who were usually ready enough for any of them; and this 'still' feeling, I suppose, was intensified by the weather, and the peculiar atmosphere. For we had come by such slow stages, that it was Indian summer, and if you can imagine an English October day, spiritualized, and wearing a veil of exquisite purply-grey and amber haze, you may have some idea of the lovely melancholy of these dying days of the year on the prairie.

"We waited several days in this place, and he grew very weak, suffering much, but always suffering patiently and with a brave cheerfulness that was inexpressibly sorrowful. It was on a Sunday morning that he touched me just between the dawn and the daylight, and said 'Richard, I have been dreaming of Hallam and of my mother. She is waiting for me. I will sleep no more in this world. It is a beautiful world!' During the day I never left him, and we talked a great deal about the future, whose mystery he was so soon to enter. Soon after sunset he whispered to me the wrong he had done, and which he was quite sure you were retrieving. He acknowledged that he ought to have told me before, but pleaded his weakness and his dread of losing the only friend he had. It is needless to say I forgave him, forgave him for you and for myself; and did it so heartily, that before I was conscious of the act I had stooped and kissed him.

"About midnight he said to me, 'Pray, Richard;' and surely I was helped to do so, for crowding into my memory came every blessed promise, every comforting hope, that could make the hour of death the hour of victory. And while I was saying, 'Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world,' he passed away. We were quite alone. The men were sleeping around, unconscious of 'Him that waited.' The moon flooded the prairie with a soft, hazy light, and all was so still that I could hear the cattle in the distance cropping the grass. I awoke no one. The last offices I could do for him I quietly performed, and then sat down to watch until daylight. All was very happy and solemn. It was as if the Angel of Peace had passed by. And as if to check any doubt or fear I might be tempted to indulge, suddenly, and swift and penetrating as light, these lines came to my recollection: