The sheriff was standing with his sister at the door, and his first unceremonious exclamation was,--

"Why, Bessy, my young friend, you look as if you had been crying."

"If I have been crying, they have not been unhappy tears, Mr. Sheriff," answered Bessy; "and you know happy tears are out of your jurisdiction. You have plenty to do with unhappy ones, I have no doubt."

"Go along for a saucy girl," said the sheriff, laughing; "wash your eyes, and then come to breakfast; for we have a great critic of female beauty here, and you may miss a chance, you know, if you don't look your best."

"I'm not in the market," answered Bessy, running into the house.

"And who is your guest, Mr. Sheriff?" I inquired. "You say he is a friend of mine, which saves my question from impertinence."

"Oh, we have no secrets in Virginia," answered the sheriff. "This is Mr. Wheatley, of Norfolk. He says, as we have been cutting each other's throats here, he has just come up to see all his dead friends; for, as I dare say you have found out, Wheatley must have his jest, even on the most serious subject. But here he comes." While the sheriff had been speaking, his sister had retired to the breakfast-room, and Mr. Wheatley joined us, as brisk, as gay, and as composed as ever.

"Ah, Sir Richard," he said, "how are you? You have had some shooting affairs lately on a grander scale than when I last saw you. But I dare say this is nothing to India, where you make a battle of Rajpoots for your afternoon's amusement, and shoot a score or two of rajahs before breakfast; to say nothing of a sultan or two as a big head of game." I laughed, saying, that of course such sport as we had lately had was rather flat after the amusements he mentioned. Then, turning to the sheriff, I remarked,--

"What a beautifully organized country this is, Mr. Sheriff, where, on going and demanding the assistance of a public officer, instead of a long bill of costs, we get a good breakfast, a hearty welcome, a towel, and some cold water."

"Oh, the bill will come by-and-by," said the sheriff.

"By way of desert?" asked Mr. Wheatley. "Well, if it does, we must try to swallow and digest it."

"But, if there be no secret, what is it all about, Mr. Wheatley?" asked the sheriff.

"Oh, no secret at all," replied my Norfolk friend. "One of those matters of business which occur every day--a gentleman, who owes to me and my Boston partners certain banks of ducats, as that funny old fellow, Shakspeare, would call them, which he neglected to pay; he promised them the day before yesterday morning, on the nail, in the city of Portsmouth, at the hour of the arrival of the stage; but neither he nor the dollars ever appeared. I had warned him that this was the last time--it was about the fiftieth--that he should break his promise, and I pointed out to him that though habits of intimacy and some kindness shown to me, a long time ago, when he was a man of about forty, and I a youth of twenty-two or twenty-three, had induced me to forbear, notwithstanding the after-conduct which had severed our friendship; yet, as there were other persons concerned, who had befriended him, at my request, I was now bound to see them paid."

"But who is he--who is he?" asked the sheriff.

"Oh, your neighbour, Mr. William Thornton," replied Mr. Wheatley. "He told me he was to receive thirty thousand dollars this week, and would pay them over immediately; but he was like Hope, that told the flattering tale, which turned out untrue."

"He has had his hands somewhat too full of business lately," replied the sheriff gravely.

"Yes, my dear sir," answered Mr. Wheatley. "I dare say there has been a little bustle in the country; but I cannot allow the sports and pastimes of a number of coloured gentlemen to interfere with regular commercial transactions."

"You are not aware, my good friend," replied the sheriff, "that this unfortunate gentleman was, himself, severely wounded yesterday, and his son shot dead on the spot, by some of the revolted negroes. These are the latest victims of Nat Turner's insurrection. I trust they will also be the last." Mr. Wheatley looked aghast.

"Poor devil!" he exclaimed. "Of his son I know nothing; but of himself I saw very much in my young days, when this Robert was a boy."

"I trust, under the circumstances, Mr. Wheatley," said the sheriff, "that you will not judge it right to disturb this unfortunate man on his death-bed."

"I must see that the property is some way adequately secured," said Mr. Wheatley, gravely, after a moment's thought. "For myself, I should not care, sheriff. I could make up my mind to lose the fifteen thousand dollars, which is my share of the business; but there is another gentleman concerned, who never knew him, and is greatly irritated at his conduct."

"He has been very unfortunate, you know," urged the sheriff.

"Nay, sir, nay," replied Mr. Wheatley, drawing himself up with a sterner look than I ever thought his face could assume. "Unfortunate, truly, in being destitute alike of principle, and honour, and generosity; but in nothing else. The base and scandalous transaction which broke off my intimacy with him was the beginning of what you call his misfortunes."

"I do not understand what you allude to," answered the sheriff. "What did he do?"

"No matter, no matter," answered Mr. Wheatley. "I cannot enter into particulars; but he grossly and grievously insulted an excellent lady, the wife of his dearest friend, while her husband was absent on a sporting trip. It was within my hearing, though he did not know I was near. That was enough to sicken me of him; but when I afterwards found that he contrived to slay Uriah the Hittite with the sword of the Philistines, then Sir ----. But here come the ladies to announce breakfast, I do hope; for that is a much pleasanter thing to discuss than what we are discussing.--Miss Davenport, I kiss your shoe-strings."

"Mr. Wheatley, I never wear shoe-strings," answered Bessy.

"Then may your shadow never be less!" rejoined Mr. Wheatley.

"God grant it!" cried Bessy; "for it is little enough already." And we all laughed and went in to breakfast. It is wonderful how the human mind recovers from the most severe shocks. There is an elasticity, a buoyancy, about it which no one knows or believes, till he has remarked closely what I may call the evenings of the terrible days of human life. Some dreadful event has happened--some ghastly, sweeping desolation--something which has shaken all hearts with anxiety, or chilled them with fear. A few hours have passed: the event is over, the deed done, the consequences ascertained; the whole thing is fixed, firm, and certain, beyond all recall; and though a certain portion of sad remembrance, a mourning spirit, if I may so call it, remains like a cloud, yet every now and then the corruscation of a smile or a jest enlivens the gloom; the tears dry up in the re-awakening sunshine, and shade by shade the fragments of the cloud depart. To call our little breakfast-party gay, would be to apply a wrong epithet. Yet it was not altogether uncheerful--far more cheerful than might be expected by those who consider nothing but the dreadful scenes gone before. They very naturally leave out of consideration all the bright reaction which takes place in the human heart when it finds itself suddenly freed from the weight of dread and horror and anxiety for the next moment; when security and peace are restored, and the spirit springs up, and rejoices in the removal of evils and terrors which once clouded the prospect all around. In the moral as in the physical world, nature re-acts against oppression. Look at the thunder-storm, with its heavy clouds and its darkened sky, the flash, the roar, and the deluge; and then see the clouds rolled away, and the blue sky smiling above, and the sun shining in his splendour, and every drop upon the blades of grass sending back, like diamonds, the cheerful rays he casts upon them. It is true, that, as we sat round the table, it was not all brightness. Moments of sombre thought would fall upon us; impressions of great calamities past; recollections of things that never were to be more; and the shadows which the experience of danger and sorrow ever projects upon the future. Still, these were but the shadows of the fragments of past clouds, and the sunlight of the relieved mind shone out bright between. After breakfast, Mr. Wheatley, and the sheriff, and myself walked quietly out into the porch, to re-discuss the subject which had been broken off an hour before. The kindness of the worthy magistrate's heart was strongly evinced in this instance.

"I have no great love for William Thornton," he said; "I never have had; still it is a sad thing to see writs, or executions, or foreclosures, put in force against a man lying in a dangerous, if not a dying, state, from a severe wound. Now, I think you have said, Mr. Wheatley, that you did not mind for your own share in the business, if you could secure your partner."

"Rather a hard case, sheriff," replied Mr. Wheatley, with one of his short laughs. "I have breakfasted since, and have, of course, grown hard-hearted. Nothing like an empty stomach for tenderness towards anything, except broiled fowls or cold lamb. However, I won't go back from what I said. If he can secure Mr. Griswold, I will take my chance out of the sweepings."

"I have no doubt," said the sheriff, "that Miss Davenport will advance the money to repay your friend."

"No! no!" cried Mr. Wheatley, with a burst of eager feeling which I had not expected from him. "She shall not do it--I will not take it from her. He insulted and outraged her mother; he brought on the death of her father to conceal what he had done; he was, more or less, the murderer of the one and of the other, for grief killed her, and the pistol killed him; and the daughter shall not be called upon, with my consent, to save him from the consequences of his own folly or his own faults."

"Well, Mr. Wheatley," I said, interposing before the sheriff could reply. "Another means, perhaps, may be found. Suppose I advance the money, and place myself in the position of your friend, who originally lent it."

"Oh, that is quite a different case," said Mr. Wheatley. "If you choose to do such a thing, I have nothing to say against it. Every man to his taste. Some love helping scoundrels; some prefer to help honest men. The first was rather a passion of mine, some years ago; but I have got over it, and the latter is more to my taste now."

"Still," I replied, "for particular reasons of my own, I should like Miss Davenport, in the first instance, to offer this loan to her relation--merely, I will confess, to see what will occur in consequence. The advance shall be mine in the end; but I should like to obtain her permission to make the offer from her."

"Ha! ha! ha!" cried Mr. Wheatley. "Pray arrange your little embroglios as you like for me. She will consent, of course; knowing on whose pocket the loss will fall at length, whether you advance the money or she does. But go and ask her--go and ask her; and then I think we will ride over, Mr. Sheriff, to Bill Thornton's plantation, and see what is the real state of affairs."

"Very well," replied the sheriff; "but, remember, till you produce all formal processes, I take neither officers nor posse with me, and I must be back in a couple of hours." I did not detain the gentleman long. I found Bessy in the parlour, and her consent was given at once.

"It will not hurt us, Richard, if we lose it," she said. "We shall have enough for happiness, I dare say."

"Oh, quite," I answered. "But now I am going over to see this unfortunate man, and I trust my dear girl will spend the time till I come back in pondering upon the happiness which her affection confers upon one who loves her with his whole heart. If I know my Bessy rightly, she feels no greater pleasure than in making others happy."

"I wonder if it is to be so through all my life," said Bessy. "Every one has spoiled me--parents, friends, relations. And now comes a husband to do it more than all! Richard, Richard, I really must find some occasion to quarrel with you, that you may not make me altogether a spoiled child. There, go away now, and tell the poor man I am ready to do anything I can for him. I wonder that Mr. Wheatley can be so unkind as to ask him for payment of debts, when he is in such a condition." When I rejoined the two gentlemen in the porch, I found that an alteration of plans had taken place. The sheriff had recollected some business he had to transact in another quarter; and it was agreed that I and Mr. Wheatley should ride across the Swamp to the place where Mr. William Thornton lay.

"I shall tell Harry Thornton that you won't be back till two or three," said the sheriff; "and, as I know he has some business to transact with you, I will try and get him and all his party to come over here, and dine and sleep: four or five girls, and four or five lovers, and four or five elderly people, and talking, and music, and flirting----a fine way of transacting business, truly; but it is the Virginian mode, and so let it pass. I will order the horses, Sir Richard; you go and get on your boots." I now proceeded to my room, where I found Zed, after his own breakfast, arranging all my dressing-articles and apparel in the most inconceivable derangement. It would not only have puzzled [OE]dipus, but the Sphynx herself, to discover where any single article was; and yet he was as proud as a peacock of the whole. Poor Zed seemed quite thunderstruck, however, when I told him to get me a pair of boots and another coat.

"Lor a masey!" he cried; "what, going away again? Why, I haven't seen you, mas'r, for such a long time; and I thot you were going to tell me all about it. Well, at all events, you had better take me wid you, for you never comes to no good when I isn't there."

"I dare say that is all very true, Zed," I replied; "but I think this morning I must go by myself, or rather with Mr. Wheatley only, for I have a good deal to say to him as we ride along."

"Lor, mas'r, what does dat sinnify?" asked the persisting negro. "I shan't int'rupt you." But I remained firm; and in a few minutes Mr. Wheatley and I were upon the road. I have never been fond of long prefaces to anything; and I was hardly out of sight of the house, when I dashed at the subject which was uppermost in my thoughts.

"You accidentally came upon a topic before breakfast," I said, "which bears strongly upon some questions which had been puzzling Miss Davenport and myself this morning a good deal. Now I wish, Mr. Wheatley, that you would give me some further information in regard to this Mr. William Thornton, and his connection with Colonel Davenport. You were in the high road to do so when we were summoned to breakfast."

"Oh, no; I had said all I intended to say," replied Mr. Wheatley, with what I may call an unwilling look; "though I should fancy, Sir Richard," he added, "you had not said all you intended to say this morning before breakfast; for you and Miss Bessy were so deep in conversation that you did not even see me when I arrived; and that conversation seemed to promise wide extension." I was not to be led away from my point, however; and I answered,--

"We were talking of the very question to which I have just now alluded. Yesterday morning, Bessy and I had a very strange proof of old William Thornton's personal hatred towards her. He would not even allow her to stanch the bleeding of his wound; and used language not only fierce, but indecorous. We were wondering, when summoned to breakfast, what could be the motive of the persecution he has shown her through life; and it was, in some degree, to test the extent of this virulent antipathy that I desired she should offer the money rather than myself. I should not be surprised if he were to refuse it at her hands."

"I think it very likely," replied Mr. Wheatley; "but tell me how you and she happened to be so near when the old man was shot?"

"I will tell you all about it," I answered, "if you will give me the explanations I wish in return."

"Well, well," he replied, "it is a subject I neither like to think of, nor to talk about. Indeed, I may call a considerable portion surmise; for, although I am as much morally convinced of the inferences I draw from the facts, I know, as well as that I am alive, there are many of them for which I have no proof. However, we are now going to see this unhappy old man. There is no knowing that he may not himself tell you all, for his moods are very curious, and the fear of death may act strongly upon him. But if he does not do so, I will. And now let me hear how you and Miss Davenport have passed through all these terrible scenes. All that I could learn about you, by the way, was that you and the lady had escaped from poor Stringer's house, and had been wandering alone in the woods ever since--no very unpleasant pilgrimage, I should think--ha! ha! ha!" And there his laugh stopped short, as usual.

"It was, of course, by no means unpleasant," I replied, "when once I could convince myself she was safe, Mr. Wheatley. But our adventures were numerous; and it was not till I and Mr. Henry Thornton brought our sweet young friend to this house last night, that I could be at all satisfied she was secure." I then went on to relate briefly all that had happened to us, from the time that old Zed ran into my room to warn me of our danger, till our arrival at the sheriff's on the preceding evening. Mr. Wheatley seemed to take a great deal of interest in the whole matter, and expressed much indignation at Mr. William Thornton's conduct. At that part of my narrative, where I spoke of the father and son wishing to force Bessy to sign some papers, while they held her in a sort of duress, he exclaimed,--

"That was to pay the thirty thousand dollars, depend upon it. If we could find the fragments of those papers she tore up, I would bet you a thousand dollars to a ten-cent piece we should find some gross fraud--the admission of some debt, or some promise to pay, or something of that kind, all wrapped up nicely in legal-like phrases, and guarded, and double guarded, by allusions to former transactions in order to make a piece of roguery seem fair and honest. But I can tell you one thing, Sir Richard--this does not look well for the ultimate payment of my money, and I certainly do not intend to shuffle off a bad debt upon you or Miss Davenport either. If we find there is any tangible property sufficient to guard you against much risk, I shall be very willing that you advance the fifteen thousand dollars to pay off Griswold, for he is becoming impatient and irritable; but it is clear to me these men must have been desperately pushed to have had recourse to such means; although, to say truth, from all I hear, Robert Thornton always preferred the rashest and most violent paths of roguery, to the quiet and peaceful ones."