The silver blade: The true chronicle of a double mystery

by Charles Edmonds Walk

Peyton Westbrook's nature was so mean that he could applaud his conduct in turning from her to Louise Shepardson. The world marvelled at the time; but the truth, like all puzzles of simple solution, was never hit upon. Louise Shepardson, when the Judge, her father, died, became possessed of more acres than would ever come to Elinor Clay. Good, broad acres constituted the only bait to which so cold-blooded a fish as Westbrook would ever rise. Did gracious Elinor ever suspect this simple explanation? No; her gentle soul never could comprehend such infamy. She wedded Richard Fairchild, believing she had driven Peyton Westbrook from her—blaming her pure self for his heartless baseness. Were I to attempt a writing of the curse which rises to my lips when I think of this soulless, bowelless nature, its scorching fervor would dry the ink on my pen. "Slade's Blessing" it has been called! "Blessing," indeed! Heaven grant that it may land him in the midst of the torment whither it has consigned him again and again, and is at last made eternal by the ineffaceable record which preserves forever the prayers of dying men!

Did I aspire to Elinor Clay's hand? God help me, if I did! I was young and ambitious; I was full of the dreams of youth—the young blood pulsed hotly in my body; and this was sweet—the one incident in my miserable past that I can look back upon and feel a shadow of pleasure's glow mount to my withered cheek. Even now, soured as I am by adversity, that beautiful name stirs a warmth in my heart; and I can pity myself and her in tears, and not by curses for those who wronged us. So does it soften the heart of bitterness. My sentiment was a matter of repression, my adoration silent; Elinor was as far from me as the stars. Because I was son of an overseer I was lonely enough; besides, what had I to do with boys of my own age, their foolish sports and inane pastimes? We had nothing in common.

But Elinor Clay never spoke aught to me but gentle words; and in the end I came to set her up in the shrine of my thoughts as the object of an adoration which, could she but have had a glimpse of it, surely would have melted her tender heart to pity. To have lived for her; to have toiled and laid up year by year, that in the end she might alone benefit; to have done this with a singleness of purpose that never faltered—does this signify selfishness or meanness? Then I am the meanest and most selfish that ever encumbered the earth....

I realized in my love-madness that I must have patience; that I must toil and labor unceasingly to attain to the place merited by my talents and intellect; for naturally I was superior to them all, being possessed of mental gifts of no mean order. I knew that with the advantages I could acquire I could rise above them; then I could take what to ask for then would have brought forth only derision and mockery. But here again the world was against me; I was only the overseer's son. But they feared me, and every hand was extended to keep me down....

Although my father was a rascal, he was a far-seeing one. Long before war's dire besom swept our fair land, he had a sure knowledge of the outcome, and with commendable enterprise laid his plans accordingly. He had put by a little money, and, as opportunity offered (and such opportunities were by no means lacking), he would lend a bit here and a bit there to the planters about our neighborhood, that they might be able to stem the rising tide of misfortune. Richard Fairchild was a poor weakling, and my father kept him from going under. There are those who may term it ingratitude to speak thus of my "benefactor." Bah! Benefactor! Fool! I pen the epithet in scorn and contempt. I can select no better evidence to support my opinion of him than that he should have opened wide the fast-emptying Fairchild purse, to take thence the gold that was exchanged for my education. The act was prompted by no spirit of kindness, but was animated by the same foolish vanity and love of ostentation that marked the wasting of all his substance. How carefully I could have husbanded it! Even at this late day the thought of the small fortune that he wasted upon his niggers alone makes me quiver with indignation. No; such learning as I have was come by through sore labor. His mean gift was thrown to me as a bone is tossed to a vagrant cur.

But no mortal could have saved that man. My father's error lay in taking payment twice, and somewhat over, for the money he had lent him. The highest tribute I can pay to Richard Fairchild's astuteness is that he never suspected this, although, during a period covering many years, he made many payments to my father, and probably had continued doing so had not every resource become exhausted.

My father used to say, in his vulgar way: "I fit for my country against the greasers,"—meaning thereby the Mexicans,—"and while I am too old to fight now, I may save some of these broad acres. But old association cannot be ignored; so long as my poor neighbors have a chance of keeping up their brave show, my small means are at their service. If they go down—well, I shall not." And not to place upon them any sense of obligation to an overseer, they never knew whence the money came. I might observe that, had they known, they would not have touched a penny of it. But thus my father went about his charitable work, with his tongue in his cheek, and one eye knowingly closed.

Also, I may say here that my father was a conscienceless liar. He never fought anything but occasional virtuous impulses, the same being ever put to an inglorious rout; for during the Mexican War he was nothing more nor less than a sutler, although there is much to be commended in providing nourishment, raiment, and refreshment to those who are battling for their country's honor. But he prospered, and in Mexico became connected with a certain young hidalgo of Spain who had moneys to invest. Why this partnership was severed I can only conjecture. My father was wont to accuse him of ingratitude, saying that Don Juan del Castillo was an ungrateful creature, who turned upon those that befriended him; but at the same time my parent would loudly forgive him for certain dim and unspecified wrongs, the which, I shrewdly suspect, were of my father's doing rather than the Spanish gentleman's. However that may be, it was largely the latter's money that went to Richard Fairchild as a loan for such of his acres as remained unincumbered. My father could well be the agent of Don Juan in these transactions, even though the gentry would not tolerate him as a principal. My father was a shrewd rascal.

As I have already stated, the money advanced to Richard Fairchild was repaid more than twice over. (A schedule will be found in the envelope with my will.) Hence, I have been no more than a trustee—a faithful one—of Richard Fairchild's property. Take it, Clay and Charlotte; I ask nothing for my lifetime of toil and care, because I know it will not be granted me. It is yours, freely and joyously bestowed. I have added to it many fold; but that is of no moment. I seek no credit for this generous impulse. I could not have the desire of my heart: Elinor has gone from me for ever. I want nothing else. Heaven give you happiness in the property that I, William Slade, the overseer's despised son, have laid up for you....

Only one single time did fate, or Providence, favor me, and then only to turn in the end and discomfit me. But for Elinor's sake, I may not tell all thereof.