You know we have the best of game always at command.”
“Who is this man?” asked Marmaduke, in a hurried voice, in which the dawnings of conjecture united with interest to put the question.
“This man,” returned Edwards calmly, his voice, how ever, gradually rising as he proceeded; “this man, sir, whom you behold hid in caverns, and deprived of every-thing that can make life desirable, was once the companion and counsellor of those who ruled your country.
This man, whom you see helpless and feeble, was once a warrior, so brave and fearless, that even the intrepid natives gave him the name of the Fire-eater.
This man, whom you now see destitute of even the ordinary comfort of a cabin, in which to shelter his head, was once the owner of great riches—and, Judge Temple, he was the rightful proprietor of this very soil on which we stand.
This man was the father of———”
“This, then,” cried Marmaduke, with a powerful emotion, “this, then, is the lost Major Effingham!”
“Lost indeed,” said the youth, fixing a piercing eye on the other.
“And you! and you!” continued the Judge, articulating with difficulty.
“I am his grandson.”
A minute passed in profound silence.
All eyes were fixed on the speakers, and even the old German appeared to wait the issue in deep anxiety. But the moment of agitation soon passed.
Marmaduke raised his head from his bosom, where it had sunk, not in shame, but in devout mental thanksgivings, and, as large tears fell over his fine, manly face, he grasped the hand of the youth warmly, and said:
“Oliver, I forgive all thy harshness—all thy suspicions.
I now see it all.
I forgive thee everything, but suffering this aged man to dwell in such a place, when not only my habitation, but my fortune, were at his and thy command.”
“He’s true as ter steel!” shouted Major Hartmann; “titn’t I tell you, lat, dat Marmatuke Temple vas a friend dat woult never fail in ter dime as of neet?”
“It is true, Judge Temple, that my opinions of your conduct have been staggered by what this worthy gentle man has told me.
When I found it impossible to convey my grandfather back whence the enduring love of this old man brought him, without detection and exposure, I went to the Mohawk in quest of one of his former comrades, in whose justice I had dependence.
He is your friend, Judge Temple, but, if what he says be true, both my father and myself may have judged you harshly.”
“You name your father!” said Marmaduke tenderly—“was he, indeed, lost in the packet?”
“He was.
He had left me, after several years of fruit less application and comparative poverty, in Nova Scotia, to obtain the compensation for his losses which the British commissioners had at length awarded.
After spending a year in England, he was returning to Halifax, on his way to a government to which he had been appointed, in the West Indies, intending to go to the place where my grand father had sojourned during and since the war, and take him with us.”
“But thou!” said Marmaduke, with powerful interest;
“I had thought that thou hadst perished with him.”
A flush passed over the cheeks of the young man, who gazed about him at the wondering faces of the volunteers, and continued silent.
Marmaduke turned to the veteran captain, who just then rejoined his command, and said:
“March thy soldiers back again, and dismiss them, the zeal of the sheriff has much mistaken his duty.—Dr.
Todd, I will thank you to attend to the injury which Hiram Doolittle has received in this untoward affair,—Richard, you will oblige me by sending up the carriage to the top of the hill.—Benjamin, return to your duty in my family.” Unwelcome as these orders were to most of the auditors, the suspicion that they had somewhat exceeded the whole some restraints of the law, and the habitual respect with which all the commands of the Judge were received, induced a prompt compliance.
When they were gone, and the rock was left to the parties most interested in an explanation, Marmaduke, pointing to the aged Major Effingham, said to his grand son:
“Had we not better remove thy parent from this open place until my carriage can arrive?”
“Pardon me, sir, the air does him good, and he has taken it whenever there was no dread of a discovery. I know not how to act, Judge Temple; ought I, can I suffer Major Effingham to become an inmate of your family?”
“Thou shalt be thyself the judge,” said Marmaduke.
“Thy father was my early friend.
He intrusted his fortune to my care.
When we separated he had such confidence in me that he wished on security, no evidence of the trust, even had there been time or convenience for exacting it.
This thou hast heard?”
“Most truly, sir,” said Edwards, or rather Effingham as we must now call him.
“We differed in politics. If the cause of this country was successful, the trust was sacred with me, for none knew of thy father’s interest, if the crown still held its sway, it would be easy to restore the property of so loyal a subject as Colonel Effingham.
Is not this plain?’”
“The premises are good, sir,” continued the youth, with the same incredulous look as before.
“Listen—listen, poy,” said the German,
“Dere is not a hair as of ter rogue in ter het of Herr Tchooge.”
“We all know the issue of the struggle,” continued Marmaduke, disregarding both.
“Thy grandfather was left in Connecticut, regularly supplied by thy father with the means of such a subsistence as suited his wants.
This I well knew, though I never had intercourse with him, even in our happiest days.
Thy father retired with the troops to prosecute his claims on England.
At all events, his losses must be great, for his real estates were sold, and I became the lawful purchaser.
It was not unnatural to wish that he might have no bar to its just recovery.”