"This man's son!" exclaimed Mr. Thornton. "We never heard of that, and never received any answer to the first letter--perhaps it was intercepted. However, Mr. William Thornton almost immediately took out letters of administration to Colonel Thornton's property, as his next of kin--although your aunt had so long enjoyed undisputed possession. He has since, with the aid of this hopeful son of his, been fencing himself in with all sorts of legal forms and quibbles--has got possession of the negroes, let the old house and plantation, and is now, we understand, moving the legislature to escheat the property and grant it to him; the heirs being, as he declares, aliens."
"But does your law sanction such doings?" I asked.
"It sanctions a good many things that it should not sanction," replied Mr. Thornton; "and these matters of escheat and administration are so loosely managed here, that the property of persons dying without relations actually on the spot is an object of speculation and a means of livelihood to half the rogues in the state. Thank God, my dear young friend, you are here at last; for it is not too late yet to stop this iniquitous affair, though he has sold all the cattle and all the horses, which is a dead loss, I suppose."
"But can he not be made accountable?" I inquired. Mr. Thornton smiled.
"There are two sorts of banks," he answered, "from one of which you can draw money, from the other nothing but pebblestones. Now, Mr. William Thornton's bank is of the latter quality. The court required security, it is true, when they granted the letters of administration, but took men who are more deeply bankrupt than himself. That is the way we manage things in Virginia, especially when the people who are really interested do not appear to take care of their own property."
"But, my dear sir," I replied, "it was impossible. I was in India with my regiment. As some battles were coming on--expected every day--it was impossible either to ask for leave of absence or to sell out, until the war was at an end. As soon as that occurred, I did sell out; for the climate did not agree with me. I got bilious, and home-sick, and moody; disliked pillaus, abominated rice, and could not bear curry; was thoroughly disgusted with pale ale and claret, and thought Allahabad's sun the most unpleasant gentleman that ever rode the sky. Besides, I did not know what my aunt had left me. It might have been nothing but an old farthingale, for aught I knew to the contrary." Mr. Thornton laughed at the description of my disgust with India, but grew serious again directly, saying, "I beg your pardon. It is a very richly embroidered farthingale, I can assure you; as fine a plantation as any in Virginia, worth at least, under good management, from twelve to fifteen thousand dollars a year; a nice old house, somewhat like this; a good deal of scattered property; and about fifty negroes. The rest she emancipated; but these preferred to remain in their old condition, being accustomed to no other, and feeling that they wanted somebody to take care of them. Poor creatures! I dare say they are sorry enough now; but they had no notion into whose hands they are going to fall." His words made me muse for a moment. I then said, "Still, Mr. Thornton, I do not see how the words of that man Lewis, who was here just now, gave us any serviceable hint."
"Why don't you perceive?" he answered; "these fifty negroes, whom William Thornton wishes to sell, are the very fifty which your aunt left. He has not half a dozen of his own. He dare not bring these to the hammer, for fear of somebody opposing him; but if he gets rid of them by private sale, and sends them to New Orleans, we may whistle as long as we will, without getting either the servants or the money back again. But we had better consult Hubbard. Have you any objection to my telling him who you are? He will see the necessity of secrecy as well as we do."
"Not in the slightest degree," I answered. Mr. Thornton now rose and left the room. In two minutes he returned, bringing with him Mr. Hubbard, who seemed somewhat impatient of mood, saying, as he passed the door, "But really, Henry, I must get home. Positively I cannot stay to-night. I have got an attack of sciatica coming on. I feel it quite plainly; and nobody can nurse me like old Betty, you know." Mr. Thornton thrust him down into a chair, however, saying, "Rest your sciatica there, and let me introduce you to your cousin and mine, Sir Richard Conway." Mr. Hubbard rubbed the spectacles he had in his hand with the tail of his coat, put them on his nose, and gazed at me.
"Sir Richard Conway!" he exclaimed. "God bless my soul! I thought you were an older man. Well, I am very happy to see you, however; though you should either have come over sooner or answered my letter." All the explanations had now to be given anew; but he took my excuses in very good part, and plunged at once into an ocean of family affairs and points of law, which made him totally forget his sciatica and his desire to return home. The discussion was long; but it was highly beneficial and necessary. A definite course of action was laid out, to be commenced on the following morning; and at about half-past nine o'clock we arose from our conference, with the satisfaction of knowing that we were in a fair way of frustrating as iniquitous a scheme as was ever devised. I walked at once out towards the porch, where I heard music and singing going on of a simple kind, but of no very inferior quality, and I imagined that my fair connection, Bessy Davenport, had been prevailed upon to grant to others what she had refused to me. I was mistaken, however; she was leaning against one of the pillars, looking up at the moon. The music proceeded from a negro boy, sixteen or seventeen years of age, who was seated on one of the steps of the porch, cheek-by-jowl with one of Mr. Thornton's younger daughters, and playing on an instrument called a banjo--a sort of circular-bodied guitar, the strings of which he struck with the most extraordinary rapidity and skill, while he accompanied the sounds thus produced with the notes of a rich mellow voice, singing a wild negro song about--
"The shocking of the corn."