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.