CHAPTER XXI.

"_Friar_ Can you forgive? _Elmore_. As I would be forgiven."

LOVELL.

On the morning following the defeat of Maxwell and Vernon, it became necessary to make some disposition of the prisoners, so that the conquerors could attend to their daily duties. Their number was too large to be left upon the island in the absence of its defenders. A consultation between Dr. Vaudelier and the principals of the party took place. There were so many difficulties in the way of bringing the invaders to justice, that it was finally decided to release them all. The burden of the evidence was against the physician's son. The doctor, however much he deprecated the deed, was anxious to save his son from the publicity of a trial. His friends, seeing the melancholy truth, relieved his mind by suggesting that all of them be released, which was accordingly done.

Vernon had entirely recovered from the effects of Hatchie's blow, and was seated at the window of his apartment, contemplating the means of escape. At his father's request, two men had sat by him during the night, as much to prevent his escape as to minister to his wants. The watchers were still in the room. Vernon was not yet informed of the relation he sustained to the proprietor of the mansion in which he now involuntarily abode. He thought that, considering the unequivocal circumstances under which he had been made a prisoner, he was treated with a great deal of gentleness; but to him the reason was not apparent. He had been an alien from his father's house for a long period, and was not acquainted with the history of the past three or four years of the doctor's life.

His mind was now occupied in devising the means of escape; and just as he had struck upon a feasible project, he was interrupted by the entrance of Jerry Swinger, who had been sent by Dr. Vaudelier to ascertain the present frame of his son's mind, and broach to him the tidings that he was beneath his father's roof,--a circumstance of which his watchers were also ignorant.

"Well, stranger, how do you feel yourself, this morning?" asked Jerry.

"Better. That was a cursed hard rap which some one gave me, last night," replied Vernon,--as, from the force of habit, we must still call him.

"That are a fack, stranger; the man that gin you that blow has a moughty hard fist; and I advoise you to keep clear of him, or he will beat you into mince-meat."

"I will try to do so."

"You will larn to, if he mought have one more chance at that head of yours."

"Who is he?"

"He's an oncommon fine fellow, and made your cake dough once before."

"Ah, was it Miss Dumont's--that is, the quadroon's servant."

"Quadroon, man!--that's all humbug. But he's the boy, and is bound to fotch his missus out straight, in the end."

"Well, if she is his mistress, I hope he may. I wish her no harm, however much appearances belie me."

"Is that a fack, stranger?"

"Certainly; she never did me any harm."

"Then what mought be the reason you were so onmerciful to her?"

"I never used her hardly. My friend said she was his slave, and all I wished was to have him obtain his own. In short, I was paid for my services."

"No doubt of it, stranger. But I can't see how the tenth part of a man could hunt down such a gal as that,--it's onnateral. Besides, you didn't believe she was a slave."

"'Pon my honor I did, or I would not have lifted a finger. But I see you have released the rest of your prisoners,--I hope you will be as generous towards me."

"Don't flatter yourself, stranger!"

"I have a mortal aversion to courts of justice."

"Quite likely," returned Jerry, pleased with the man's frankness.

"Besides, I belong to a respectable family, who will not mind paying something handsome to avoid exposure."

"Can't be bought, stranger; besides, respectable villains arn't any better nor others."

"True; but, you know, their friends, who are educated, are more sensitive in such matters than others."

"That mought be true, for's aught I know; but it's mighty strange you never thought of that sarcumstance before."

"Never was in limbo before."

"That's the go, is't? Look-a-here, stranger, is it the darbies, or the crime, which brings the disgrace upon the family? Accordin' to my notion,--and I believe I've got something besides nits and lice in my head,--it's the deed, and not the punishment, that fotches the disgrace. But whar does your family live?"

"In New Orleans," replied Vernon, who knew nothing to the contrary, though we are not sure that, if he had, it would have made any difference in his reply.

"And your name is Vernon?"

"It is."

"Is that your family name, or only a borried one?"

"It is my real name," replied Vernon, not a little perplexed by the coolness and method of the woodman's queries.

"I rather guess not," suggested Jerry, mildly.

"'Pon my honor--"

"Think again,--maybe you mought fotch the real one to your mind."

Vernon, whose temper was not particularly gentle under contradiction, was nettled, and disposed to be angry.

"Perhaps you know best," said he, conquering his passion, and assuming one of those peculiarly convincing smiles, which must be an hereditary possession in the family of the "father of lies."

"Perhaps I do," replied Jerry. "If you don't know any better than that, why, then, I do know best. It arn't Vernon."

"It is not manly, captain, to insult a prisoner," replied Vernon, with an air of dignity, which came from the same source as the liar's smile.

"I don't mean to insult you, stranger; but facts is facts, all over the world," said Jerry, untouched by the other's rebuke.

"What mean you?"

"Nothin', stranger, only I know you. Your mother arn't livin'."

"No," returned Vernon, with a start; for, with all his vices and his crimes, a sense of respect for the name and honor of his family had outlived the good principles imbibed upon a mother's knee. Although a villain in almost every sense of the word, there were many redeeming traits in his character, which the reader will be willing to believe, on recalling his expressions of conscientiousness uttered to Maxwell. Family pride is often hereditary, and the reverses and degradations of a lifetime cannot extinguish it. It was so with Vernon. His real name was unknown, even among his most intimate associates. He had early taken the precaution--not in deference to the feelings of his father--to assume a name; it was from pride of birth, which shuddered more at the thought of a stain upon the family escutcheon than at all the crimes which may canker and corrode the heart.

"My mother is not living," continued he; "but how know you this?"

"It don't matter, stranger. Have you seen your father lately?"

"Not for many years. I am an outcast from his presence," replied Vernon, with some appearance of feeling.

"That's onfortunate; does he know what sort of a lark you are?"

"I hope not," replied Vernon, with a sickly smile.

"But he does; he knows all about this ongodly scrape you got into last night."

"What mean you?" said the ruffian, sternly.

"Mean? Why, just exactly what I say, Mr. Vaudelier! Don't start! I know you as well as you know yourself."

Vernon bit his lips; he was confounded at hearing his name uttered,--a name which had not greeted his ears for many years. His passion was disarmed before the rude but cutting speech of the woodman, whose knowledge of human nature, bred in the woods as he had been, was remarkable. There are men in the world, supposed to be entirely intractable, who, when rightly approached, prove as gentle as lambs. There is no evil without its antidote, however deeply it may be hid from the knowledge of man; and there is no man so vile that he cannot be reformed. The image of God, marred and disfigured as it may be, exists in every man, as the faultless statue exists in the rough block of marble; from which, when the fashioning hand, aided by the magic of genius, touches it, the imago of beauty shall come forth. So, when man, in whom always exists the elements of the highest character, shall be approached by the true reformer,--the highest and truest genius,--the bright ideal shall assume the actual form.

The woodman had touched a chord in the heart of the gambler which vibrated at his touch. It was not the words, but the genuine sympathy with which they were laden, that overcame the indifference of the vicious man. Perceiving his advantage, the woodman followed it up, repeatedly disarming the bolt of passion, which was poised in the mind of his auditor.

"Your father," said Jerry, "is a good man, and you mought go round the world without finding a better."

"Very true!" replied Vernon, moved to a degree he was unwilling to acknowledge.

"Now, if you jest turn over a new leaf in the book of life, and try to fotch out right in the end, I believe the old man would cry quits on the old score."

"Send those men away, captain! I will not attempt to escape."

Jerry complied, and the watchers took their departure.

"Where is my father?"

"Close by, stranger. May be you'd like to see him?"

"On no account!"

"That's a good sign, anyhow," muttered Jerry. "You will have to see him, I am afraid. You are under his ruff."

Vernon, completely overcome, staggered to a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

"Not so bad a boy as one mought suppose," soliloquized Jerry, as he went to the door, and requested the servant to summon Dr. Vaudelier. "The fellow has fed on husks long enough, and, as the scripter says, he is goin' to rise and go to his dad."

"Do not let my father see me,--anything, rather than that!" exclaimed Vernon, rising, and grasping the woodman's arm. "I am a great villain!"

"That's very true, stranger; but you have got into the scrape, and the best thing you can do is to get out on't."

"How can I!"

"Be an honest man."

"I fear I never can be that."

"Try it! There is something left of you."

At this moment Dr. Vaudelier entered the room. His aspect was stern and forbidding, and the son buried his face in his hands after the first glance at him.

"Jerome," said he, "you will bring my gray hairs with sorrow down to the grave."

"Easy with him, doctor, easy! He is a little touched, and, if you manage him right, you can fotch him over. He is under conviction now. Don't let on yet!"

"Jerome, this is a sorry visit you have made me," continued the doctor. "Are you entirely lost to all shame, that you could thus enter my house with a band of ruffians behind you?"

"Father," said the convicted Vernon, "I did not know it was your house, or I could never have done it."

"Alas, that a son of mine should have become a midnight assassin!" and Dr. Vaudelier covered his face with his hands, and sobbed like a child.

"Forgive me, father!" exclaimed the repentant son. "Forgive me!"

"God and your country alone can forgive crimes like yours!"

"Easy with him, doctor!" interposed Jerry, fearful lest the son's repentance should be dissipated before the father's sternness.

"I will atone for all, to the best of my ability."

"Would that you might do so!"

"I will! Heaven witness my sincerity!"

"Your first act of atonement must be to the lady you have so deeply injured."

"I would be her slave for life!"

"If you are sincere, you will disclose all you know of the wrongs which have been inflicted upon her."

"I fear, for her sake, that my knowledge is too limited to avail anything to her. Maxwell assured me she was his slave, and showed me the bill of sale. I believed him, or he could never have had my help."

"You were too willing to believe him," said the doctor, sternly.

"I told him, at the outset, that I would expose all I knew (which is but little), if I discovered she was not a slave. I will tell you all."

"Let Miss Dumont be called, Jerry."

Emily came at the summons, and Dr. Vaudelier informed her of the position of the matter.

"Can you forgive me, Miss Dumont, for the wrong I have done?"

"Freely, sir; and may God enable you to persevere in the course you have taken!"

"Thank you! With an angel's prayer, I shall begin the new life with the strength your good wishes impart."

Vernon now related all he knew of the machinations of the attorney, concealing no part of his own or his confederate's villany. Of the will he knew nothing, his operations having been confined to the attempts to obtain possession of her person.

Dr. Vaudelier was satisfied that his son had told the whole truth. It was a source of much satisfaction to him that he had chosen the better part. His fervent prayer ascended that the penitent might be faithful to his good resolutions.

All the circumstances relating to the will were unknown to Vernon, which was the occasion of much congratulation both to his father and to Emily. It seemed to relieve him from some portion of the guilt which the subsequent transactions fastened upon him; and, when these circumstances were related to him, a burst of generous indignation testified that he, the blackleg, the robber, was above such villany. However depraved in some respects, that vice which is commonly called _meanness_ had no place within him. He was, or rather had been, of that class of operators who "rob the rich to pay the poor;" who have no innate love of vice, only a desire to be free from wholesome restraint, and have at hand, without toil or sacrifice, the means of enjoying life to the utmost.

"Jerome," said Dr. Vaudelier, "this Maxwell must be watched, and, if you are true to yourself, no one can do this duty as well as you."

"Trust me, sir! I am strong in this lady's service."

"I shall not doubt you, my son, until I have occasion to do so. I am satisfied, if Miss Dumont is."

"I feel perfectly confident in the good faith of your son, and am indebted to him for the zeal he manifests in my cause."

"Thank you, Miss Dumont," said Vernon. "You are too generous; but, be assured, your confidence shall not be abused."

It was determined that Vernon should immediately depart for Vicksburg, whither Maxwell had gone.