XX. — WHAT OCCURRED AT “FIVE FORKS,” ON THE NIGHT OF MARCH 31, 1865.
Mohun turned like a tiger, and was evidently about to throw himself upon Darke. I grasped his arm and restrained him.
“Listen!” I said.
The house was surrounded by trampling hoofs, and clattering sabres.
Darke had not drawn his pistol, and now glanced at me. His face was thin and pale—he was scarce the shadow of himself—but his eyes “burned” with a strange fire under his bushy brows.
“You are right, Colonel Surry!” he said, in his deep voice, to me, “restrain your friend. Let no one stir, or they are dead. The house is surrounded by a squadron of my cavalry. You are a mile from all succor. You can make no resistance. I am master of this house. But I design to injure no one. Sit down, madam,” he added, to his companion, “I wish to speak first.”
The sentences followed each other rapidly. The speaker’s accent was cold, and had something metallic in it. The capture of the party before him seemed to be no part of his design.
All at once the voice of the strange woman was heard in the silence. She quietly released the arm of Georgia Conway, who had drawn back with an expression of supreme disdain; and calmly seating herself in a chair, gracefully cut some particles of dust from her gray riding habit with a small whip which she carried.
“Yes, let us converse,” she said, with her eyes riveted upon Georgia Conway, “nothing can be more pleasant than these sweet family reunions!”
Judge Conway glanced at the speaker with eyes full of sudden rage.
“Who are you, madam,” he exclaimed, “who makes this impudent claim of belonging to my family?”
“I have already told you,” was the satirical reply of the woman.
“And you, sir!” exclaimed the old judge, suddenly turning and confronting Darke, “perhaps you, too, are a member of the Conway family?”
“Not exactly,” was the cold reply.
“Your name, sir!”
“Mortimer Davenant.”
Judge Conway gazed at the speaker with stupor.
“You that person?—you the son of General Arthur Davenant?”
“Yes, I am the son of General Arthur Davenant of the Confederate States army—General Davenant, whom you hate and despise as a felon and murderer—and I have come here to-night to relieve him of that imputation; to tell you that it was I and not he, who murdered your brother!
“A moment, if you please, sir,” continued the speaker, in the same low, cold tone, “do not interrupt me, I beg. I have little time, and intend to be brief. You believe that your brother, George Conway, was put to death by General Davenant. Here is the fact of the matter: I saw him at Dinwiddie Court-House; knew he had a large sum of money on his person; followed him, attacked him, murdered him—and with General Davenant’s pen-knife, which I had accidentally come into possession of. Then I stole the knife from the court-house, to prevent his conviction;—wrote and sent to him on the day of his trial a full confession of the murder, signed with my name—and that confession he would not use; he would not inculpate his son; for ten years he has chosen rather to labor under the imputation of murder, than blacken the name of a castaway son, whose character was wretched already, and whom he believed dead.
“That is what I came here, to-night, to say to you, sir. I am a wretch—I know that—it is a dishonor to touch my hand, stained with every vice, and much crime. But I am not entirely lost, though I told—my father—so, when I met him, not long since. Even a dog will not turn and bite the hand that has been kind to him. I was a gentleman once, and am a vulgar fellow now—but there is something worse than crime, in my estimation; it is cowardice and ingratitude. You shall not continue to despise my father; he is innocent of that murder. You have no right to continue your opposition to my brother’s marriage with your daughter, for he is not the son of the murderer of your brother. I count for nothing in this. I am not my father’s son, or my brother’s brother. I am an outcast—a lost man—dead, as far as they are concerned. It was to tell you this that I have come here to-night—and for that only.”
“And—this woman?” said Judge Conway, pale, and glaring at the speaker.
“Let her speak for herself,” said Darke, coldly.
“I will do so, with pleasure,” said the woman, coolly, but with an intensely satirical smile. That smile chilled me—it was worse than any excess of rage. The glance she threw upon Georgia Conway was one of such profound, if covert, hatred, that it drove my hand to my hilt as though to grasp some weapon.
“I will be brief,” continued the woman, rising slowly, and looking at Georgia Conway, with that dagger-like smile. “General Darke-Davenant has related a pleasing little history. I will relate another, and address myself more particularly to Judge Conway—my dear uncle. He does not, or will not, recognize me; and I suppose I may have changed. But that is not important. I am none the less Lucretia Conway. You do not remember that young lady, perhaps, sir; your proud Conway blood has banished from your memory the very fact of her former existence. And yet she existed—she exists still—she is speaking to you—unbosoming herself in the midst of her dear family! But to tell my little story—it will not take many minutes. I was born here, you remember, uncle, and grew up what is called headstrong. At sixteen, I fell in love with a young Adonis with a mustache; and, as you and the rest opposed my marriage, obdurately refusing your consent, I yielded to the eloquence of Mr. Adonis, and eloped with him, going to the North. Here we had a quarrel. I grew angry, and slapped Adonis; and he took his revenge by departing without leaving me a wedding-ring to recall his dear image. Then I met that gentleman—General Darke-Mortimer-Davenant! We took a fancy to each other; we became friends; and soon afterward travelled to the South, stopping in Dinwiddie. Here I made the acquaintance of General Mohun—there he stands; he fell desperately in love with me—married me—Parson Hope will tell you that—and then attempted to murder me, without rhyme or reason. Luckily, I made my escape from the monster! rejoined my friend, General Darke-Davenant; the war came on; I came back here; have been lately arrested, but escaped by bribing the rebel jailers; only, however, to find that my naughty husband is going to marry my cousin Georgia! Can you wonder, then, that I have exerted myself to be present at the interesting ceremony? That I have yielded to my fond affection, and come to say to my dear Georgia, ‘Don’t marry my husband, cousin!’ And yet you frown at me—you evidently hate me—you think I am lying—that I was married before, perhaps. Well, if that be the case, where is the proof of that marriage?” “Here it is!” said a voice, which made the woman turn suddenly.
And opening the heavy window-curtains, which had, up to this moment, concealed him, Nighthawk advanced into the apartment, holding in his hand a paper.
A wild rage filled the eyes of the woman, but now so smiling. Her hand darted to her bosom, and I saw the gleam of a poniard.
“This paper,” said Nighthawk, coolly, “was found on the dead body of a man named Alibi, who had stolen it. See, Judge Conway; it is in regular form. ‘At Utica, New York, Mortimer Davenant to Lucretia Conway.’ Attested by seal and signature. There can be no doubt of its genuineness.”
Suddenly a hoarse exclamation was heard, and a poniard gleamed in the hand of the woman.
With a single bound, she reached Georgia Conway, and struck at her heart. The corsage of the young lady, however, turned the poniard, and at the same instant a thundering volley of musketry resounded without.
Furious cries were then heard; the wild trampling of horses; and a loud voice ordering:—
“Put them to the bayonet!”
Darke drew his sword, and reached the side of the woman at a bound. Throwing his arms around her, he raised her, and rushed, with his burden, through the hall, toward the lawn, where a fierce combat was in progress.
Suddenly the woman uttered a wild cry, and relaxed her grasp upon his neck. A bullet had buried itself in her bosom.
Darke’s hoarse and menacing voice echoed the cry; but he did not release the body; with superhuman strength he raised it aloft, and bounded down the steps.
As he reached the bottom, a man rushed upon him, and drove his bayonet through his breast. It was withdrawn, streaming with blood.
“Put all to the bayonet!” shouted the voice of General Davenant, as he charged with his young son, Charles, beside him.
At that voice Darke stretched out both hands, and dropping his sword, uttered a cry, which attracted the general’s attention.
For an instant they stood facing each other—unutterable horror in the eyes of General Davenant.
“I am—done for,” exclaimed Darke, a bloody foam rushing to his lips, “but—I have told him—that I was the murderer—that you were innocent. Give me your hand, father!”
General Davenant leaped to the ground, and with a piteous groan received the dying man in his arms.
“I am a wretch—I know that—but I was a Davenant once”—came in low murmurs. “Tell Will, he can marry now, for I will be dead—kiss me once, Charley!”
The weeping boy threw himself upon his knees, and pressed his lips to those of his brother.
As he did so, the wounded man fell back in his father’s arms, and expired.