It may be easily conceived with what mingled emotions the generous Henry, whose anxiety had been so long excited in regard to his brother's fate, now beheld that brother suddenly restored to him. Filled with an affection that was rendered the more intense by the very fact of the danger from which he had just seen him rescued, he, regardless of those around and in defiance of his wet and dripping clothes, sprang eagerly to his embrace, but Gerald received him with a cold—almost averted air. Suffering, rather than sharing, this mark of fraternal love, he turned the instant afterward to his servant, and, in a tone of querulousness said, "Sambo, give me wine."
Inexpressibly shocked, and not knowing what to think of this conduct, Henry bent his glance upon the negro. The old man shook his head mournfully, and even with the dripping spray that continued to fall from his woolly locks upon his cheeks, tears might be seen to mingle. A dreadful misgiving came over the mind of the youth, and he felt his very hair rise thrillingly, as he for a moment admitted the horrible possibility, that the shock produced by his recent accident had affected his brother's intellect. Sambo replied to his master's demand, by saying "there was no wine—the canoe and its contents had been utterly lost."
All this passed during the first few moments of their landing. The necessity for an immediate change of apparel was obvious, and Gerald and his servant were led into the nearest block house, where each of the honest fellows occupying it was eager in producing whatever his rude wardrobe afforded. The brothers then made the best of their way, followed by the negro, to their own abode in the town.
The evening being damp and chilly, a fire was kindled in the apartment in which Gerald dined—the same in which both had witnessed the dying moments of their mother, and Henry those of their father. It had been chosen by the former, in the height of her malady, for its cheerfulness, and she had continued in it until the hour of her decease; while Major Grantham had selected it for his chamber of death for the very reason that it had been that of his regretted wife. Henry, having already dined, sat at the opposite extremity of the table watching his brother, whose features he had so longed to behold once more; yet not without a deep and bitter feeling of grief, that those features should have undergone so complete a change in their expression towards himself. Gerald had thrown off the temporary and ill-fitting vestments exchanged for his own wet clothing, and now that he appeared once more in his customary garb, an extraordinary alteration was perceptible in his whole appearance. Instead of the blooming cheek, and rounded and elegant form, for which he had always been remarkable, he now offered to the eye of his anxious brother, an emaciated figure, and a countenance pale even to wanness—while evidence of much care and inward suffering might be traced in the stern contraction of his hitherto open brow. There was also a dryness in his speech that startled and perplexed even more than the change in his person. The latter might be the effect of imprisonment, and its anxiety and privation, coupled with the exhaustion arising from his recent accident; but how was the first to be accounted for, and wherefore was he, after so long a separation, and under such circumstances, thus incommunicative and unaffectionate? All these reflections occurred to the mind of the sensitive Henry, as he sat watching, and occasionally addressing a remark to, his taciturn brother, until he became fairly bewildered in his efforts to find a clue to his conduct. The horrible dread which had first suggested itself of the partial overthrow of intellect, had passed away, but to this had succeeded a discovery attended by quite as much concern, although creating less positive alarm. He had seen, with inexpressible pain, that Gerald ate but little, seeming rather to loathe his food, while on the other hand he had recourse more frequently to wine, drinking off bumpers with greedy avidity, until, yielding at length to the excess of his potations, he fell fast asleep in the arm-chair he had drawn to the fire, overcome by the mingled influence of wine, fatigue and drowsiness.
Bitter were the feelings of Henry Grantham, as thus he gazed upon his sleeping brother. Fain would he have persuaded himself that the effect he now witnessed was an isolated instance, and occurring only under the peculiar circumstances of the moment. It was impossible to recal the manner in which he had demanded "wine" from their faithful old servant and friend, and not feel satisfied that the tone proclaimed him one who had been in the frequent habit of repeating that demand, as the prepared yet painful manner of the black, indicated a sense of having been too frequently called upon to administer to it. Alas, thought the heart-stricken Henry, can it really be, that he whom I have cherished in my heart of hearts with more than brother's love, has thus fallen? Has Gerald, formerly as remarkable for sobriety as for every honorable principle, acquired even during the months I have so wretchedly mourned his absence, the fearful propensities of the drunkard? The bare idea overpowered him, and with difficulty restraining his tears, he rose from his seat, and paced the room for some time in a state of indescribable agitation. Then again he stopped, and when he looked in the sleeping face of his unconscious brother, he was more than ever struck by the strange change which had been wrought in his appearance. Finding that Gerald still slept profoundly, he took the resolution of instantly questioning Sambo as to all that had befallen them during their absence, and ascertaining, if possible, to what circumstance the mystery which perplexed him was attributable. Opening and reclosing the door with caution, he hastened to the room which, owing to his years and long and faithful services, had been set apart for the accommodation of the old man when on shore. Here he found Sambo, who had dispatched his substantial meal, busily occupied in drying his master's wet dress before a large blazing wood fire—and laying out, with the same view, certain papers, the contents of a pocket-book which had been completely saturated with water. A ray of satisfaction lighted the dark but intelligent face of the negro, which the instant before had worn an expression of suffering, as the young officer, pressing his hand with warmth, thanked him deeply and fervently for the noble, almost superhuman, exertions, he had made that day to preserve his brother's life.
"Oh, Massa Henry!" was all the poor creature could say in reply, as he returned the pressure with an emphasis that spoke his profound attachment to both. Then leaning his white head upon his hand against the chimney, and bursting into tears—"berry much change, he poor broder Geral, he not a same at all."
Here was a sad opening indeed to the subject. The heart of the youth sank within him, yet feeling the necessity of knowing all connected with his brother's unhappiness, he succeeded in drawing the old man into conversation, and finally into a narration of all their adventures, as far at least as he had personal knowledge, from the moment of their leaving Detroit in the preceding autumn.
When, after the expiration of an hour, he returned to the drawing-room, Gerald was awake, and so far restored by his sound sleep as to be, not only more communicative, but more cordial towards his brother. He even reverted to past scenes, and spoke of the mutual events of their youth, with a cheerfulness bordering on levity; but this pained Henry the more, for he saw in it but the fruit of a forced excitement—as melancholy in adoption as pernicious in effect—and his own heart repugned all participation in so unnatural a gaiety, although he enforced himself to share it to the outward eye. Fatigue at length compelled Gerald to court the quiet of his pillow, and, overcome as his senses were with wine, he slept profoundly until morning.