INDIA:

                                   THE

                          PEARL OF PEARL RIVER.

                                    BY

                      MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

 AUTHOR OF “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “THE LOST HEIRESS,” “THE DESERTED WIFE,”
                        “THE WIFE’S VICTORY,” ETC.


 _Complete in one large volume, neatly bound in cloth, for One Dollar and
   Twenty-five Cents; or in two volumes, paper cover, for One Dollar._


“‘INDIA: THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER,’ taking it all in all, is the best
work Mrs. Southworth has yet written. It is one great merit in her
fictions, that they faithfully delineate life and manners, without
entering on vexed social, religious, or political issues. In ‘India,’
the reader will find a vivid delineation of the South-West. But this is
not all: the characters are boldly drawn, the incidents natural, and the
action of the story rapid and absorbing. The two heroines are finely
contrasted. The hero is a noble creation; strong of will, earnest in
purpose, firm for the right, and persevering to the end in whatever he
believes to be justice and truth. We cannot recall, in any late work, a
character so ideally lofty, yet so faithful to reality. The heroic
spirit in which he goes West, abandoning the luxuries he has been
accustomed to, and settling down in his rude log hut, determined to
conquer fortune with his own good right hand, is, indeed, the true type
of a self-relying American. No fiction of Mrs. Southworth’s bears such
proofs of careful finish. It ought, on these several accounts, to have a
popularity unrivalled by any of her former works, spite of the immense
circulation they have attained.”

☞ Copies of either edition of the above work will be sent to any part of
the United States, _free of postage_, on the person wishing it remitting
the price to the publisher, in a letter.


T. B. Peterson publishes a complete and uniform edition of Mrs.
Southworth’s works, any one or all of which will be sent to any place in
the United States, _free of postage_, on receipt of remittances. The
following are their names:

  THE LOST HEIRESS. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Being a splendid
    Picture of American Life; everybody admiring and applauding it as a
    master production. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One
    Dollar; or in one volume, cloth, for One Dollar and Twenty-five
    cents.

  THE MISSING BRIDE; OR, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N.
    Southworth. Two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in
    one volume, cloth, for $1.25.

  THE WIFE’S VICTORY; AND NINE OTHER NOUVELLETTES. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N.
    Southworth. It is embellished with a view of Prospect Cottage, the
    residence of the author, as well as a view of Brotherton Hall.
    Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in
    one volume, cloth, for $1.25.

  THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in
    two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume,
    cloth, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

  THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Two volumes,
    paper cover, price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for
    One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

  THE DESERTED WIFE. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One
    Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.25.


                IN PRESS, AND WILL BE SHORTLY PUBLISHED.

  RETRIBUTION; OR, THE VALE OF SHADOWS. A Tale of Passion. By Mrs. Emma
    D. E. N. Southworth. Two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or
    bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.25.

  THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; OR, THE ISLE OF RAYS. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N.
    Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar;
    or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.25.

  SHANNONDALE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in two
    volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume,
    cloth, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

  VIRGINIA AND MAGDALENE: OR, THE FOSTER SISTERS. By Mrs. E. D. E. N.
    Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar;
    or in one volume, cloth, for $1.25.

☞ Copies of either edition of any of the above works, will be sent to
any person, to any part of the United States, _free of postage_, on
their remitting the price of whatever works they may wish, to the
publisher, in a letter post-paid.

      Published and for Sale by    T. B. PETERSON,
                         =No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia=.

[Illustration: MOVING INTO WOLF GROVE]




                                 INDIA:
                                  THE
                         PEARL OF PEARL RIVER.

                                   BY

                       EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

     AUTHOR OF “DESERTED WIFE,” “LOST HEIRESS,” “CURSE OF CLIFTON,”
        “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “MISSING BRIDE,” “WIFE’S VICTORY.”

 “How changed since last her speaking eye
   Glanced gladness round the glittering room,
 Where high-born men were proud to wait—
 Where beauty watched to imitate
   Her gentle voice and lovely mien—
 And gather from her air and gait
   The graces of its queen!”—BYRON.

                             Philadelphia:
                T. B. PETERSON, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET.




       Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by
                             T. B. PETERSON,
 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
                for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.


 PRINTED BY KING & BAIRD.
 TALMAGE BROTHERS, BOOKBINDERS.




                                   TO

                         MRS. HELEN MOORE WALL,

                        OF PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA,

             This Volume is most affectionately Dedicated,

                             BY HER FRIEND,

                                               EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

 PROSPECT COTTAGE,
     _February 16th, 1856_.




                                PREFACE.


The leading incidents of the following story were suggested by
circumstances in the life of a near relative, long since, we trust, in
Heaven. I have used the novelist’s privilege in giving a happier
termination to the fiction than is warranted by the facts.

                                                          E. D. E. N. S.

 PROSPECT COTTAGE,
         _February 16th, 1856_.




                               CONTENTS.


           CHAPTER                                      PAGE
                I. The Collegian’s Supper,                25
               II. A Southern Home,                       37
              III. The Planter’s Daughter,                46
               IV. Mrs. Sutherland,                       67
                V. Chambre de Toilette et la Trousseau,  111
               VI. Love and Gold,                        118
              VII. Reaction,                             132
             VIII. Farewell,                             154
               IX. The Fatal Marriage,                   162
                X. Rosalie and her Lover,                177
               XI. Rosalie,                              183
              XII. Bridal Preparations,                  196
             XIII. The Meeting,                          205
              XIV. Rosalie,                              217
               XV. Discordances,                         223
              XVI. The Confession,                       235
             XVII. Prognostics,                          241
            XVIII. Departures,                           246
              XIX. The Journey,                          250
               XX. The Log Cabin,                        266
              XXI. Going to Housekeeping,                274
             XXII. A Night of Fear,                      282
            XXIII. Cabin-Keeping,                        291
             XXIV. Domestic Arrangements,                299
              XXV. Cashmere,                             307
             XXVI. India,                                328
            XXVII. Forgery,                              334
           XXVIII. Uncle Billy,                          340
             XXIX. Failing Health,                       344
              XXX. An Original,                          351
             XXXI. Magnanimity,                          358
            XXXII. Restitution,                          361
           XXXIII. Immortality,                          371
            XXXIV. Take up the Burthen of Life again,    382
             XXXV. To Wed the Earliest Loved,            388




                                 INDIA:

                                  THE

                         PEARL OF PEARL RIVER.




                               CHAPTER I.
                        THE COLLEGIAN’S SUPPER.

          “Filled is life’s goblet to the brim.”—_Longfellow._


“India!” exclaimed Mark Sutherland, rising at the head of his table, and
waving high the brimming glass, while his fine dark countenance lighted
up with enthusiasm. A young Ajax in athletic beauty and strength, stood
the Mississippian, until—

“India!” responded his friend Lauderdale, from the foot of the table.

“India!” echoed the young men around the board, as they all arose, and,
standing, honoured the toast. Then the glasses jingled merrily down upon
the table, and then—

“Now that in blind faith we have worshipped your goddess—who is India?
Is it a woman or a quarter of the globe—your idolatry?”

“India!” ejaculated the young Southerner with fervor. “India!

  “‘Oh! a woman! friend, a woman! Why, a beast had scarce been duller’

than to have harboured such a question! Fill high your glasses again,
and

                 “‘’Twixt the red wine and the chalice’

let me breathe her beauty’s name. Gentlemen, are you ready?—The Pearl of
Pearl River!”

“The Pearl of Pearl River!” responded Lauderdale.

“The Pearl of Pearl River!” re-echoed all those gay youths, as this
toast was also quaffed standing, and the empty glasses rattled down upon
the table.

This was the parting toast, and the company broke up to separate. The
young guests all crowded around their youthful host with adieus,
regrets, congratulations, and kind wishes; for all these opposite
phrases were equally appropriate, as will be seen.

Mark Sutherland was the son and nephew of the celebrated Pearl River
planters—the three brothers Sutherland. He was the prospective possessor
of three immense estates—being the heir of the first, betrothed to the
heiress of the second, and co-heir with her to the third extensive
plantation. He had just concluded a brilliant collegiate course with
distinguished honour; he was soon to return south, to enter upon his
patrimony, and claim the hand of his affianced bride, before he set
forth upon his European travels. And this was his valedictory
entertainment, given to his classmates. For him, indeed—

                “Filled was life’s goblet to the brim!”

No wonder those fine strong eyes danced with anticipation as he shook
hands right and left. He was, up to this time, a frank, thoughtless,
joyous, extravagant fellow—selfish because he knew nothing of sorrow,
and wasteful because he knew nothing of want. Affluent in youth, health,
and love—affluent in wealth, honour, and homage—he seemed to consider
gold valueless as dust, and deference only his just due. He “the heir of
all the ages” past of thought and toil, had entered upon his
intellectual inheritance with great _éclat_; but as yet not one mite had
he added to the store; not one thought had he bestowed upon the great
subjects that now engross all earnest minds. Too full of youthful fire,
vitality, love, hope, and joy, for any grave thought or feeling to find
room in his brain or heart, was the planter’s son. How, indeed, could
earnest thought find entrance through such a crowd of noisy joys to his
heart? He stood upon the threshold of the past, indeed, and his face was
set forward towards the future; but not one onward step had he taken.
Why should he trouble himself? The bounteous future was advancing to
him, smiling, and laden with all the riches of life and time.

But he stood, receiving the adieus of his young friends, and dealing out
wholesale and retail invitations for all and each to come and visit him,
for an indefinite length of time, or until they were tired. At last they
were all gone, except Lauderdale, his chum, who was passing some days
with him, as his guest, at the Minerva House.

“You are an enviable dog, Sutherland,” exclaimed the latter, clapping
him sharply upon the shoulder. “You are a deuced enviable villain! By my
soul, it is enough to make a poor man like me dissatisfied with his lot,
or the present arrangements of society, which amounts to precisely the
same thing, I suppose. Deuce take me, if it is not enough to make me
turn Agrarian, Chartist, Radical, or whatever may be the new name for
the old discontent! Just contrast our positions! Here are you, at
one-and-twenty years of age, entirely free from all toil and care for
the whole remainder of your life. You will now return to a sumptuous
southern home, on a magnificent estate, where troops of friends wait to
welcome you, and troops of slaves attend to serve you, and where your
bride, the very pearl of beauty, dreams of and languishes for your
presence; and, above all—yes, I speak reflectingly, above _all_—more
than sumptuous home, and troops of friends, and trains of servants, and
blushing bride—where, lying perdue at your service, is a plenty of the
root of all evil—

                      ‘Gold to save—gold to lend—
                      Gold to give—gold to spend.’

While I!—well, I shall just plod on in the old way, teaching school one
half the year to pay my college expenses for the other, until I find
myself in some lawyer’s shop, in arrears with my landlady, in debt to my
washerwoman—detesting to walk up the street, because I should pass the
tailor’s store—abhorring to walk down it, because I should be sure to
see the shoemaker standing in his door. With no more comfort or
convenience in my life than can be enjoyed between my little
back-chamber, up four pair of stairs in a cheap boarding-house, and the
straight-backed chair and high-topped desk of the law shop. And no more
love, or hope, or poetry, in my life, than may be found bound up between
the covers of Coke upon Lyttleton. Or perhaps I shall turn private
tutor, and advertise, ‘A highly respectable young gentleman, a graduate
of Yale College, wishes to obtain,’ &c.; and you, who will be by this
time the grave head of a family, with several little domestic
liabilities, will probably answer the advertisement; and I shall find
myself teaching the names of the keys of knowledge to young Mark and his
brothers. Oh!”——

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!” laughed Sutherland.

“Oh, _you’ll_ patronise me, rather! _You’ll_ be kind to me; for you’ll
say to yourself and friends, ‘He was a college friend of mine, poor
fellow.’ I fancy I hear and see you saying it now, with that careless,
cordial, jolly condescension of yours.”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! My _dear_ Lincoln! My _dear_ fellow, why
should that be? Why should you be pettifogger or pedagogue, unless you
have a vocation for it? Why should anybody do what they don’t want to
do? Life is rich—full of wealth, and love, and joy, and glory. Enter and
take possession.”

“Enter and take possession! Yes, that is what _you_ can do. Life is full
of wealth, and love, and joy, and glory, for _you_, indeed; and you can
afford to mock me with those words! But, never mind, my fine flamingo! I
have heard the wise say that happiness is not so unequally distributed,
after all. And I, for one, don’t believe this cake of comfort is going
to be so very unjustly divided between us, or that you will have all the
white sugar on the top, and I all the burnt paper at the bottom.”

“See here, my friend, remember that we good-for-nothing Mississippians
are not initiated into the mysteries of the kitchen, and therefore I
don’t understand your culinary figure of speech at all.”

“Oh, go on! go on! You’re a young bear!”

“A young bear! Comrades! Oh, they are all gone! A young bear? Oh, I
suppose he alludes to my black whiskers and hair, and my shag over
coat!”

“I mean _your_ trouble is all before you!”

“Trouble? Oh, my dear boy, that is a word with out a meaning! Trouble?
What _is_ trouble? What idea is the word designed to represent? Trouble?
Oh, my dear fellow, it is all a mistake, a mere notion, a superstition,
a prejudice; a saying of old folks, who, being near the verge of
departure from this bright, glad, joyous, jubilant world, vainly try to
console themselves by slandering it as a world of trouble, and talk of a
_better_ one, to which they are progressing. If this world in itself is
not ‘good,’ as the Creator pronounced it to be in the beginning, by all
the rules of comparison, how can any other world be said to be better?”

“Well, I believe in the better world as much as they do; but look you!
the pleasantest notion I have of Heaven is its being—being”——

“Oh, don’t let it go any further—as _good_ as this world, and only
better as far as it endures longer. _This_ world is full of all that is
great and glorious for enjoyment! And, Lincoln, my fine fellow, enter
and take possession! _Don’t_ teach or study law! _Don’t_ plod; it is
ungentlemanly. Somebody, I suppose, must teach and study law, and do
such things—but don’t _you_. Do you leave it to those a—those persons
a—those in fact who have the plebeian instinct of labor; you apprehend?
They really _enjoy_ work now! Just think of it! I suppose that gracious
nature, intending them to carry on the work of the world, endowed them
with a _taste for it_! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! But _I_’ve no
vocation for it! Neither have you, my dear boy. Don’t force your nature
in an opposite direction to which it tends, therefore! Enter life, and
take possession!”

“Humph! thank you! This is to say, ‘follow my attractions,’ and if they
‘attract’ me to lead an idle life, and live upon other people, why, so
much the better—they are my attractions; and if they ‘attract’ me to
pick my host’s pocket, or run away with his daughter, it is the same
thing by the same law.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Oh, certainly; remembering that your host might experience
an attraction to blow your brains out.”

“Pleasant points to be drawn to. I guess I shall not follow my
attractions! I’ll stick to the little law shop, and relieve weariness by
grumbling. Some distinguished men have emerged from those little law
dens; and, by the way, seriously, my dear Mark, I think that I, that
you, even _you_, possess those very qualities out of which _really_
distinguished men are formed, and that if destiny had not ‘thrust’ a
sort of moneyed and landed greatness upon you, that even _you_ would
‘achieve’ some judicial, political, diplomatic, or intellectual
greatness of some sort.”

“Ha! ha! ha! even _I_! Well, that is a stretch of possibility, indeed.
Even _I_, humph! _Mais à nos moutons._ Will you come home with me? Do
come and be my guest _à éternité_—or until you win some rich Mississippi
beauty. Woo beauty, not Blackstone, for a fortune. You have so much more
genius for the first than for the last, my fine fellow.”

“Oh, then you would have me turn fortune-hunter, and, under cover of
your friendship and introduction, aim at some heiress, and bring her
down, and so secure wealth?”

“Set fire to you, _no_! Whom do you take me for? Do you think that _I_
would present an adventurer to Southern creoles? _No, sir!_ But I _do_
want you to fall in love with a Southern beauty, and fortune would
follow, of course.”

“I do not see it at all. There are several links wanting in that chain
of reasoning. But, apropos of beauty, love, and marriage. Tell me
something more of Miss Sutherland, _votre belle fiancée_.”

“India! listen, you.” And he took Lauderdale’s arm, and turned to walk
up and down the room for a confidential chat. “Listen, you! I named her
just now over the wine. I regret to have done so. Would it were undone!
But so it is; in some moment of excitement a word passes our lips, and
it is unrecallable forever. She is so sacred to my heart, so divine to
my soul! I often wonder if Helen of Argos were half as beautiful as
she—my India.”

“What a strange, charming name that is for a woman!”

“Is it not? But, rich, luxurious, and gorgeous, in its associations,
too—(and that is why it was given to her) it suits her. She is India.
Her mother was like her—a beautiful, passionate Havanienne, rich in
genius, poetry, song—luxuriating in the beautiful creations of others,
yet far too indolent to create. More than all, she lost herself amid the
oriental elysiums of Moore, and thence she named her only daughter
Hinda. And as the maiden budded and bloomed into womanhood—well, yes, I
believe, after all, it was I who softened down her name to India. It has
the same derivation, it is the same name, in fact. Oh! and it suits
her.”

“Describe your nonpareil to me.”

“I cannot. By my soul’s idolatry, I cannot. The best of beauty—the
charm, the soul, the divine of beauty—can never be described or painted.
It is spiritual, and can only be perceived.”

“Humph! is she fair?”

“No—yet radiant.”

“Dark?”

“No—yet shadowy.”

“Is she tall?”

“No.”

“Short?”

“No, no; nonsense!”

“What, neither tall nor short? Perhaps she is of medium height.”

“I do not know. I cannot tell, indeed. But oh! she is beautiful—she is
glorious! My lady, my queen!”

“To come to something tangible, what is the colour of her eyes?”

“Oh! what is the colour of love, or joy, or heaven? for as soon could I
tell you the colour of these as of her witching eyes. I only know they
have light, softly thrilling all the chords of life, like music; and
shadows, calming my spirit, like silence.”

“Well, I admit the hue of beautiful eyes to be a mysterious point; but
hair, now, is a little more certain in that respect. Tell me the hue of
your lady’s tresses.”

“I cannot. I only know they are rich, warm, and lustrous.”

“Humph! satisfactory portrait that. Oh! here is Flamingo. Come, Flame,
and tell me what is the colour of your young mistress’s hair.”

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Sutherland’s valet,
who had just entered. Flamingo was a character in his way; a handsome,
bright mulatto, with quite a “wealth” of bushy black silky hair and
whiskers. Very mercurial in temperament, and excessively fond of dress,
he presented quite as gay and gorgeous an exterior as the famous
feathered biped, his namesake. Flamingo stood for a moment in a
quandary, at the suddenness and novelty of the question put to him.

“Oh, come, now; you are not poetically bewildered. Can’t you tell us the
colour of the lady’s hair?”

“De colour o’ Miss Inda’s hair, sir—a—yes, sir—its—its—’bout de colour
o’ ‘lasses taffy, when you’re ’bout half done pullin’ of it, an’ it’s
shining.”

“Molasses taffy! Out, you wretch! It is amber-hued,
Lauderdale—_amber-hued_, understand; the rich, warm, lustrous hue of
amber. Molasses taffy! Oh, villain! To think I could not find a
comparison in all nature precious enough for those precious tresses, and
he should compare them to molasses taffy! Out of my sight, beast!
_Molasses taffy! Pah!_” exclaimed Sutherland, in disgust, while
Lauderdale laughed aloud, and Flamingo vanished into the adjoining
chamber, where he turned on the gas, and busied himself in making the
apartment comfortable for the night.

“Come, let’s get out of this mess before the waiters come to clear away
the service. Look! This is one of the things that always make me
melancholy,” said Sutherland, pointing to the disordered table.

Both young men were about to retire, when Sutherland again clasped the
hand of his friend and said—“But you have not yet told me whether you
will accompany me home. Come, laying all jesting and raillery aside, you
know how happy I should be to have you.”

“And you know what I have told you before, my dear Sutherland, that I
must go to New York for the anniversary week. And by the way, my dear
Damon, why cannot you stop a few days before you go South, and attend
some of these meetings?”

“Me! Heavens! You shock me! You deprive me of words—of breath! _I!_ a
Mississippian! Why, look you; if I were to attend one of those meetings,
and if it should be known in my neighborhood, my friends would turn me
off, my uncles disinherit me, and my father rise from his grave to
reproach me. Sir, my friends and relatives are ‘of the most straitest
sect of the Pharisees!’”

“And do you share their opinions?”

“Opinions? Opinions, my dear fellow! I have no opinions. Opinions, it
appears to me, are the currency of—of—those who have nothing else to
offer in exchange for a living.”

“Levity! Oh, Mark, how you sin against your own fine mind!”

“Oh! come, come, come, no more of that. ‘Sir, praise is very flat,
except from the fair sex.’”

“Ah! I see you are hopelessly flighty to-night. Good night.”

“Good night. Stay; you _will_ go with me?”

“No; unless you first accompany me to New York, and remain through the
anniversary week, and attend the meetings.”

“And hear myself traduced, slandered, abused, cursed! A pleasant
invitation—thank you.”

“And get yourself _dis_abused of many things, you should rather say. See
here, Mark, my proposition is perfectly fair and reasonable, and has a
meaning in it. Observe: you invite me to the South, and laughingly
promise that an actual acquaintance with the patriarchal system shall
cool what you call my fever; and that a Southern bride with two hundred
negroes, shall completely cure it. Well, I am reasonable. I am open to
conviction. I am willing to try it—to examine the ‘peculiar institution’
with the utmost impartiality. Nor do I fear or doubt the result. But
observe further. Both of us, it seems, have heard but one side of this
great question. I therefore consent to go with you to the South, and
spend some weeks on a cotton plantation, only on condition that you
accompany me to New York, and attend the anniversary meetings. In a
word, I will _see_ your side of the question, if you will _hear_ ours.”

“I’ll do it, I’ll go,” exclaimed Sutherland, laughing, and clapping his
hand cordially into that of Lauderdale. “I’ll go, nor have _I_ any doubt
or fear as to the result.”




                              CHAPTER II.
                            A SOUTHERN HOME.

                 “——A villa beautiful to see;
               Marble-porched and cedar-chambered,
                 Hung with silken drapery;
               Bossed with ornaments of silver,
                 Interlaid with gems and gold;
               Filled with carvings from cathedrals,
                 Rescued in the days of old;
               Eloquent with books and pictures,
                 All that luxury can afford;
               Warm with statues that Pygmalion
                 Might have fashioned and adored.
               In the forest glades and vistas,
                 Lovely are the light and gloom:
               Fountains sparkle in the gardens,
                 And exotics breathe perfume.”—_Mackay._


The sun shines on no more beautiful and entrancing region than the vale
of Pearl river. It is the Elysium of the sunny south, reposing between
the rich alluvial lands of the Mississippi, and the fragrant[1] pine
forests of the Pascagoula. The green land of the valley seems to roll in
gentle undulations, like the waves of a calm sea. Between the swelling
hills, or rather waves of verdure, flow crystal streams towards the
bosom of the Pearl. These lovely hills are capped with groves of the
most beautiful and odoriferous of the southern flowering trees. These
charming streams are shaded with the most fragrant and delightful of the
flowering shrubs and vines. Here nature throws around her riches with an
unsparing hand and a wonderful exuberance of luxury. Birds of the most
brilliant plumage and enchanting melody fill all the summer groves, at
early morn and eve, with their perfect music. Flowers of countless
varieties, and most beautiful forms and hues, laden all the air with
their ambrosial perfume. The breeze is charged with music and fragrance,
as from the spicy groves of Araby the Blest.

Footnote 1:

  All who have travelled through or near the pine woods of Mississippi
  know the effect of the southern sun upon these trees, ripening and
  rarefying from them a most grateful and salubrious fragrance, called
  the “terebinthine odour.” The effect of the climate is still more
  obvious upon ornamental trees and flowers. Those that lose much of
  their luxuriant beauty and fragrance in the North, attain in the South
  their utmost perfection.

If in this garden—this conservatory of Nature, where all her choicest
luxuries are assembled—there is one spot more favoured than all the
rest, it is “Cashmere,” the beautiful seat of Clement Sutherland.

The brothers Sutherland emigrated from the old dominion, and settled on
the Pearl river, in those palmy days of cotton-planting, when every
planter seemed a very Midas, turning all he touched to gold, and when
the foundations were laid of some of the present enormous southern
fortunes. It was no love for the land of sun that brought the
Sutherlands there. They had heard that the common annual profits of the
cotton crops were from ten to eighty thousand dollars; and they had sold
their tobacco plantation on the Potomac, and emigrated to the valley of
the Pearl. The spot selected by the brothers was that Eden of the valley
where the Pearl river turns with a serpentine bend in the form of an S
with an additional curve, shaping the land into two round points to the
west, and one—the largest and loveliest—to the east. The east point had
been taken up by Clement Sutherland, the eldest of the brothers, and the
west points by the two others. Thus Clement Sutherland’s plantation lay
embosomed between those of his brethren. On the upper side lay that of
Mark, the second brother, and on the lower, that of Paul, the third and
bachelor brother.

Very early in life, and some years previous to their emigration, Mark
Sutherland had been united in marriage to a lady of St. Mary’s—one of
the noblest of Maryland’s noble daughters. From her, their only son,
Mark Sutherland, the younger, inherited a strong mind, warm heart, and
high spirit; from his father he took the stalwart form, athletic
strength, and dark and sometimes terrible beauty, that marked the race
of Sutherland.

Clement Sutherland had remained unmarried until long after his
settlement upon the Pearl. But one autumn, while on a visit to New
Orleans, to negotiate the sale of his cotton, he chanced to meet a
beautiful West Indian girl, whom he afterwards wooed and won for his
bride. Whether the sweet Havanienne, or the large fortune of which she
was the sole heiress, was the object of his worship, was a mooted point
by those who knew him best. It is probable he adored both. Certainly no
slightest wish or whim of the lovely Creole remained unsatisfied. It was
she who gave the charming scene of his home the appropriate name of
Cashmere. She it was who persuaded him to pause in his incessant,
exclusive thinking, talking, and acting, about cotton-growing, and his
mad pursuit of gain, to build and adorn an elegant villa upon the site
of the temporary framed house to which he had brought the beautiful
_épicurienne_. Her rare artistic taste presided over the architecture
and embellishment of the mansion, and the laying out and ornamenting of
the grounds. But here the evanescent energy of the indolent West Indian
died out. She was, at best, but a lovely and fragile spring flower, that
faded and fell ere the summer of her life had come. She left a child of
perfect beauty—a little girl—who inherited her mother’s graceful harmony
of form and complexion, and her father’s strength and vigour of
constitution.

Immediately after the death of her mother, the orphaned infant had been
taken home by her aunt, Mrs. Mark Sutherland, to share the maternal
cares bestowed upon her only son. The lady gave herself up to the
rearing and education of these children. And not the noble mother of the
Gracchi was prouder of her “jewels” than Mrs. Sutherland of hers. Thus
the infancy and childhood of Mark and Hinda were passed together—the
same mother’s heart, the same nursery, the same school-room, nay, the
same book, with their heads together, and their black and golden locks
mingled, were shared by the children. And no Guinea mice or turtle doves
were ever fonder of each other than our boy and girl.

It was a woful day when they were first separated—Mark to enter college,
and Hinda to be placed at a fashionable boarding-school. Tears fell on
both sides, like spring showers. Young Mark, when laughed at for his
girlish tears, angrily rejoined, that it was no shame to weep; that the
renowned hero, Achilles, had wept when they took Briseis away from him,
also when his friend Patroclus was slain.

Paul Sutherland, the third brother, had remained up to the present time
unmarried, with the determination to continue so until the end of his
life. He bestowed his affections with paternal pride and devotion upon
his niece and nephew, resolving to make them his joint heirs, and with
his own large property swell the enormous bulk of theirs. Just two years
previous to the opening of our story, the Pearl river trio had been
broken by the death of Mark Sutherland, the elder. Young Sutherland had
hastened home to console his widowed mother, but not long did the widow
permit him to remain. The lady sent him back at the commencement of the
next following term.

But it is time to describe more particularly Cashmere, the charming seat
of Clement Sutherland, and the principal scene of our drama. The estate
itself was a very extensive one, comprising several thousand acres of
the richest land in the vale. That part of the plantation on which the
villa had been erected lay in a bend of the Pearl river, surrounded on
three sides—north, east, and south—by its pellucid waters. The whole of
this area is occupied by the mansion and ornamental grounds.

The villa itself is a very elegant edifice of white freestone, fronting
the river. The building is long and broad, in proportion to its
height—this being the necessary plan of all southern mansions, to save
them from the effects of the terrible tornadoes that sweep over the
country, and to which a higher elevation would expose them. But the
mansion is relieved from all appearance of heaviness, by a light and
elegant Ionic colonnade, sustaining an open verandah running around
three sides of the building. On the fourth side, looking to the south,
the aspect is diversified by a large bay window projecting from the
lower story, and an elegant Venetian balcony from the upper one.

The villa is also shaded on three sides—north, west, and south—by a
grove of the most beautiful and fragrant of the southern trees—the
splendid tulip-poplar, lifting to the skies its slender shaft, crested
with elegantly-shaped leaves of the most brilliant and intense verdure,
and crowned with its bell-shaped flowers of the most vivid and gorgeous
flame colour; the beautiful cotton-wood tree, softly powdered over with
its formless snowy blossoms; the queenly magnolia-grandiflora, with its
glittering green foliage and dazzling white flowers and rich oppressive
aroma; the pretty red-bud, with its umbrella-shaped top, its crumpled,
heart-shaped leaves, and scarlet tufts; the bois-d’arc, in full bloom,
the most splendid and magnificent of ornamental trees, uniting the
rarest qualities of the orange tree and the catalpa; the chinidine, with
its vivid green foliage and brilliant purple flowers, dropping delicious
but heavy narcotic odours, weighing down the nerves and brain into
luxurious repose, and stupefying the very birds that shelter in its
aromatic shades, so that they may be taken captive with the bare hand;
the imperial catalpa, sovereign of the grove by virtue of the grandeur
and elegance of its form, the grace and beauty of its foliage, and the
ambrosial perfume of its flowers, filling all the air around with its
delightful fragrance; and many, many others, so various, beautiful, and
aromatic, that one is lost and entranced amid the luxuriating wealth of
the grove. Birds of the most splendid plumage and the most exquisite
melody—the goldfinch, the oriole, the redbird, the paroquet, the
nightingale, swallow, and innumerable others, shelter here, and their
songs fill the air with music. No artificial walk disfigures the sward.
The green and velvety turf affords the softest, coolest footing. Rustic
seats of twisted bow-wood are under the trees; here and there fountains
of crystal water leap, sparkle, and fall, ever playing silvery
accompaniments to the song of birds; statues of Diana, Pan, and the
wood-nymphs, peopled the grove. Its shades are the delightful resort of
the Sutherlands and their friends, to enjoy the freshness and brilliancy
of the morning, to find shelter from the burning rays of the sun at
noon, or to luxuriate in the delicious breeze of the evening. This
Arcadian grove, as has been said, surrounded the house on three
sides—north, west, and south.

The east is the front of the house towards the river. The view here is
open, and the most beautiful, charming, and variegated, to be imagined.

From the colonnaded verandah a flight of broad marble steps lead to a
terrace carpeted with grass, and planted with rose-bushes—the Damascus,
the Provence, the scarlet, the white, the multiflora, the moss rose;
daily, monthly, and perpetual roses; “roses—everywhere roses”—such a
luxuriant exuberance of roses upon this velvety terrace. The rose
terrace is divided from the lawn by a _treillage_ of the most delicate
and elaborate trellis-work; and this also is wreathed and festooned by
running rose vines.

Below this spreads the lawn on every side, not level, but gently waving,
and covered with grass as soft, as smooth, and as downy as velvet; and
everywhere the eye roves with pleasure over a turf of brilliant intense
green, except where it is variegated with the floral mosaic work of gay
parterres, or trellised arbours, or reservoirs, or single magnificent
forest trees left standing in honour of their monarchal grandeur. The
parterres are rich, beautiful, and fragrant beyond description; there
our hothouse plants bloom in the open air; and there our common garden
flowers—violets, lilies, roses, myrtles, irises, and innumerable
others—flourish with surpassing luxuriance. The arbours, of delicate
trellis-work and elegant form, are shaded and adorned with running vines
of rich Armenean and cape jessamine, honeysuckles, and woodbine. The
reservoirs contain gold fish, and other ornamental specimens of the
piscatorial kingdom.

This extensive and beautiful lawn is surrounded by an iron open-work
fencing, very light and elegant in appearance, yet very strong and
impassable. Three ornamented gates relieve the uniformity of this iron
trellis; one on the north leads through to the orange groves, always
inviting and delightful, whether in full bloom, and shedding ambrosial
perfume in the spring, or laden with their golden fruit in the fall. The
gate on the north admitted into the vineyard, where every variety of the
finest and rarest grapes flourished in luxuriant abundance. The one on
the east is central between these two others, and leads from the lawn
down to the white and pebbly beach of the Pearl, where pretty boats are
always moored for the convenience of the rambler who might desire to
cross the river.

And then the curving river itself is well named the Pearl, from the
soft, semi-transparent glow of roseate, whitish, or saffron tints,
caught from the heavens.

Across the soft water, in rich contrast, lie hills, and groves, and
cotton-fields—the latter, one of the gayest features in southern
scenery. They are sometimes a mile square. They are planted in straight
rows, six feet apart; and the earth between them, of a rich Spanish-red
colour, is kept entirely clean from weeds. The plants grow to the height
of seven feet, and spread in full-leaved branches, bearing brilliant
white and gold-hued flowers. When in full bloom, a cotton-field by
itself is a gorgeous landscape. Beyond these hills, and groves, and
cotton fields, are other cotton-fields, and groves, and hills, extending
on and on, until afar off they blend with the horizon, in soft,
indistinct hues, mingled together like the tints of the clouds.

I have led you through the beautiful grounds immediately around and in
front of the villa; but behind the mansion, and back of the grove, there
are gardens and orchards, and still other fields of cotton and
outhouses, and offices, and the negro village called “The Quarters.”




                              CHAPTER III.
                        THE PLANTER’S DAUGHTER.

    She has halls and she has vassals, and the resonant steam eagles
      Follow fast on the directing of her floating dove-like hand,
    With a thunderous vapour trailing underneath the starry vigils,
      So to mark upon the blasted heavens the measure of her lands.
    _Mrs. Browning._


The summer sun had just sunk below the horizon, leaving all the heavens
suffused with a pale golden and roseate light, that falls softly on the
semi-transparent waters of the Pearl, flowing serenely on between its
banks of undulating hills and dales, and green and purple lights and
glooms. No jarring sight or sound breaks the voluptuous stillness of the
scene and hour. The golden light has faded from the windows and
balconies of the villa, and sunk with the sunken sun. An evening breeze
is rising from the distant pine woods, that will soon tempt the inmates
forth to enjoy its exhilarating and salubrious freshness and fragrance.
But as yet all is quiet about the mansion.

In the innermost sanctuary of that house reposes Miss Sutherland. It is
the most elegant of a sumptuous suit of apartments, upon which Mr.
Sutherland had spared no amount of care or expense—having summoned from
New Orleans a French _artiste_, of distinguished genius in his
profession, to superintend their interior architecture, furnishing and
adornment.

The suit consists of a boudoir, two drawing-rooms, a hall or picture
gallery, a music room, a double parlour, a library, and dining and
breakfast rooms; and, by the machinery of grooved doors, all these
splendid apartments may be thrown into one magnificent saloon.

But the most finished and perfect of the suite is the luxurious boudoir
of India. It is a very bower of beauty and love, a _chef d’œuvre_ of
artistic genius, a casket worthy to enshrine the Pearl of Pearl River.

There she reposes in the recess of the bay window, “silk-curtained from
the sun.” This bay window is the only one in the apartment; it is both
deep and lofty, and is a small room in itself. It is curtained off from
the main apartment by drapery of purple damask satin, lined with
gold-coloured silk, and festooned by gold cords and tassels. The
interior of the recess is draped with thin gold-coloured silk alone; and
the evening light, glowing through it, throws a warm, rich, lustrous
atmosphere around the form of Oriental beauty, reposing on the silken
couch in the recess.

It is a rare type of beauty, not easy to realise by your imagination,
blending the highest charms of the spiritual, the intellectual, and the
sensual, in seeming perfect harmony; it is a costly type of beauty,
possessed often only at a fearful discount of happiness; it is a
dangerous organisation, full of fatality to its possessor and all
connected with her; for that lovely and voluptuous repose resembles the
undisturbed serenity of the young leopardess, or the verdant and flowery
surface of the sleeping volcano. It is a richly and highly gifted
nature, but one that, more than all others, requires in early youth the
firm and steady guidance of the wise and good, and that in after life
needs the constant controlling influence of Christian principle.

India Sutherland has never known another guide than her own good
pleasure. “Queen o’er herself” she is _not_, indeed, unhappily; but
queen instead over father and lover, friends, relatives, and servants.
In truth hers is a gentle and graceful reign. It could not be otherwise,
over subjects so devoted as hers. All of them, from Mr. Sutherland her
father, down to Oriole her bower-maid, deem it their best happiness to
watch, anticipate, and prevent her wants; and she is pleased to repay
such devotion with lovely smiles and loving words. She is, indeed, the
tamest as well as the most beautiful young leopardess that ever sheathed
claws and teeth in the softest down. She is no hypocrite; she is
perfectly sincere; but her deepest nature is unawakened, undeveloped.
She knows no more, no, nor as much, as you now do, of the latent
strength, fire, and cruelty of those passions which opposition might
provoke. There she lay, as unconscious of the seeds of selfishness and
tyranny as Nero was, when, at seventeen years of age, he burst into
tears at signing the first death-warrant. Awful spirits sleep in the
vasty depths of our souls—awful in goodness or in evil—and vicissitudes
are the Glendowers that can call them forth. There she lies, all
unconscious of the coming struggle, “a perfect form in perfect rest.” A
rich dress of light material, yet dark and brilliant colours, flows
gracefully around her beautiful figure. She reclines upon a crimson
silken couch, her face slightly turned downwards, her head supported by
her hand, and her eyes fixed upon a book that lies open upon the downy
pillow; a profusion of smooth, shining, amber-hued ringlets droop around
her graceful Grecian head; her eyebrows are much darker, and are
delicately pencilled; her eyelashes are also dark and long, and shade
large eyes of the deepest blue; her complexion is very rich, of a clear
warm brown, deepening into a crimson blush upon cheeks and lips the
brighter and warmer now that the book beneath her eyes absorbs her
quite. The light through the golden-hued drapery of the window pours a
warm, subdued effulgence over the whole picture. On a cushion below her
couch sits a little quadroon girl, of perfect beauty, fanning her
mistress with a fan of ostrich plumes; and while she sways the graceful
feathers to and fro, her dark eyes, full of affection and innocent
admiration, are fixed upon the beautiful epicurienne.

When the rising of the evening breeze began to swell the gold-hued
curtains, Oriole dropped her fan, but continued to sit and watch
lovingly the features of her lady. When the purple shades of evening
began to fall around, Oriole arose softly, and drew back the curtains on
their golden wires, to let in more light and air, revealing the terrace
of roses, the lawn and its groves and reservoirs, and the lovely rose
and amber-clouded Pearl, rolling on between its banks of undulating
light and shade; and giving to view, besides, the figure of a lady
standing upon the terrace of roses, and who immediately advanced
smiling, and threw in a shower of rose-leaves over the recumbent reader,
exclaiming—

“Will that wake you? _Mon Dieu!_ What is it you are idling over? The
breeze is up, and playing a prelude through the pine tops and
cane-brakes, and the birds are about to break forth in their evening
song. Will you come out?”

The speaker was a lady of about twenty-five years of age, of petite
form, delicate features, dark and brilliant complexion, and sprightly
countenance, which owed its fascination to dazzling little teeth, and
ripe lips bowed with archness, great sparkling black eyes full of
mischief, and jetty ringlets in whose very intricacies seemed to lurk a
thousand innocent conspiracies. She was dressed in mourning, if that
dress could be called mourning which consisted of a fine light black
tissue over black silk, and a number of jet bracelets set in gold, that
adorned the whitest, prettiest arms in the world, and a jet necklace
that set off the whiteness of the prettiest throat and bosom. Mrs.
Vivian, of New Orleans—Annette Valeria Vivian—spirituelle
Valerie—piquant Nan!—the widow of a wealthy merchant, a distant relative
of Mrs. Sutherland by her mother’s side, and now with her step-daughter
on a visit of some weeks here at “Cashmere.”

“_Ciel!_ then do you hear me? What volume of birds or flowers do you
prefer to the living birds and flowers out here? What _book_ (pardieu!)
of poetry do you like better than the gorgeous pastoral poem spread
around us? _Mon Dieu!_ she does not hear me yet! India, I say!”
exclaimed the impatient little beauty, throwing in another shower of
rose petals.

Miss Sutherland, languid and smiling, rose from her recumbent posture,
and handed her the volume.

“Pope! by all that is solemnly in earnest! Pope’s Essay on Man, by all
that is grave, serious and awful! Why, I thought at the very worst it
was some Flora’s Annual, or Gems of the Aviary, or some other of the
embossed and gilded trifles that litter your rooms. But Pope’s Essay on
Man! Why, I should as soon have expected to find you studying a work on
tanning and currying!”

“Oh, hush, you tease! And tell me what these lines mean. I have been
studying them for the last half hour, and can’t make them out.”

“_You_ studying! Ha! ha! ha! You doing anything! By the way, I have been
trying to discover what office I hold near the person of our Queen. I
have just this instant found out that I am thinker in ordinary to her
gracious majesty.”

“Well, dear Nan, do credit to your post—think me out these lines,” said
the beauty, languidly sinking back upon her couch.

“But what lines do you mean?”

“Oriole, show them to her. Oh, never mind, you don’t know them. Hand me
the book, Nan! Here, here are the lines—now make out a meaning for them,
if you can:

                   ‘And binding nature fast in fate,
                   Left free the human will.’”

“Well,” said Mrs. Vivian, laughing, “it sounds very like—

                     ‘And tying Adam hand and foot,
                     Bid him get up and walk!’

And it _looks_ as if it might have been written by Uncle Billy
Bothsides! Ah, by the way, here he comes. Talk of the evil one, and—you
know the rest. Ah, I shall be amused to hear his opinion of the
sentiment in question. It is just in his way.”

I am sure that I shall never be able to do justice to the gentleman that
was now seen advancing from the lawn—Mr. William I. Bolling, as he
called himself; Billy Bolling, as he was called by his brothers-in-law;
Bolling Billy, as called by his boon companions of the bowling alley;
Uncle Billy, by the young people; Marse Billy, by the negroes; and Billy
Bothsides, by everybody else. He was a short, fat, little gentleman, of
about fifty years of age, and clothed in an immaculate suit of white
linen, with a fresh broad-brimmed straw hat, which as he walked he
carried in one hand, while in the other he flourished out a perfumed
linen handkerchief, with which he wiped his face and rubbed his head.
His little head was covered with fine light hair, that did not shade,
but curled itself tightly off from his round, rosy, good-natured face,
full of cheerfulness, candour, and conceit. The damper or the warmer the
weather, or the more excited state of Uncle Billy’s feelings, then the
redder grew his face and the tighter curled off his flaxen hair.

Mr. Bolling was one of those social and domestic ne’er-do-wells of which
every large family connection may rue its specimen—one of those idle
hangers-on to others, of which almost every southern house does penance
with at least one. He was a brother of Mrs. Mark Sutherland, but no
credit to his sister or their mutual family; though, to use his own
qualifying style, neither was he any dishonour to them. He was a
bachelor. He said it was by his own free election that he led a _single_
life, though he vowed he very much preferred a _married_ life; that
nothing could be justly compared to the blessings of celibacy, except
the beatitude of matrimony. He compromised with the deficiency of every
other sort of importance by a large surplus of _self_-importance. He
valued himself mostly upon what he called his cool blood, clear head,
and perfect impartiality of judgment. He was not to be seduced by love
or bribed by money to any sort of partisanship. And as there are two
sides to most questions under the sun, and as Mr. Bolling would look
impartially upon positive and negative at once, so Billy

                   “Won himself an everlasting name.”

He now came up to the bay window, wiping his face, and fanning himself,
and saying—

“Good evening, ladies! It is a perfectly delightful evening—though, to
be sure, it is insufferably warm.”

Mrs. Vivian immediately challenged him with, “Mr. Bolling, we are
anxious to know your opinion upon these lines of Pope;” and she read
them to him, and put the book in his hands. He took it, and wiped his
face, and fanned himself—but these cooling operations seemed to heat him
all the more, for his face grew very red and his flaxen hair crisped
tightly as he gazed upon the page, and said: “Eh, yes, that’s all
right—certainly!”

“We believe it right, but what does it mean?”

“Mean! Why, _this_ is what it means—

                     ‘Binding nature fast in fate,
                     Left free the human will;’

certainly—yes.”

“Please to explain yourself, Mr. Bolling,” said the widow, while India
gazed on in languid amusement.

Uncle Billy wiped his forehead, and said, “Why I don’t think ladies
understand these grave theological matters.”

“No, but you can enlighten us, Mr. Bolling.”

“You see these lines comprise the profoundest problems of philosophy—so
profound as to perplex the understandings of the greatest scholars and
philosophers that have ever lived; so profound, in fact, as to be quite
unintelligible even to me—yet so simple as to be easily comprehended by
the narrowest intellect—so simple as to be clear even to you, or to Fly
here.”

This was said of a small boy who at that instant appeared with a basket
of oranges.

“Fly, do you know what your master William is talking about?”

“Yes, ma’am; politics.”

“Exactly,” smiled Valeria; “go on, Mr. Bolling.”

“_Hem!_ Observe, Mrs. Vivian, that there is an analogy all through
nature—physical, mental, moral, spiritual.”

“Yes. Fly, listen—what is he talking about now?”

“Physic and sparrits, ma’am.”

“That is right. Pray go on, Mr. Bolling.”

“Yes; permit me to seat myself.”

Uncle Billy let himself cautiously down upon the green turf. Valeria
gave her hand to India, who stepped out upon the terrace and seated
herself. Mrs. Vivian sank down near her. Oriole placed herself by her
mistress, with the plume fan. Fly stood a short distance off, with his
basket of oranges.

The tall rose-trees, blown by the breeze, shed coolness and fragrance
over the party. The beautiful variegated lawn, with its groves, ponds,
and parterres, stretched out before them; and below it flowed on,
between its banks of purple shadow, the limpid Pearl, with the evening
light fast fading from its white bosom.

“Now, then, Mr. Bolling!”

“Now, then, Mrs. Vivian! I said that there was an analogy running
through the universe of nature; thus, the centripetal and centrifugal
forces, that modify each other’s power, and regulate the motions of the
planetary systems, correspond exactly to predestination and free will”—

“Do you understand him _now_, Fly?”

“No, ma’am; Marse Billy’s too deep for me now.”

“And for me too, Fly; put down your basket now, and go, Fly. I dislike
to see a poor child tiring himself, first upon one foot, and then upon
the other; it puts me ill at ease.”

“Yes, go! you sickly little wretch, you! I wonder how you think the
ladies like to have such an ugly little attenuated black shrimp as you
are about them; and I’m astonished at the gardener for presuming to send
you here. Be off with you, and never show your face again,” said Master
Billy, growing very red in the face with zeal and gallantry.

Little Fly looked first surprised and grieved, and then penitent on the
score of his sickness and deformity, and set down his basket and turned
to go.

“Please don’t scold him, Mr. Bolling; it’s not his fault, poor little
fellow! It was I who asked Mr. Sutherland to take him from the field and
place him in the garden, because it is shadier there, and the work is
lighter. Everybody cannot be strong and handsome—can they, Fly?” And the
gentle speaker turned and laid her hand kindly upon the boy’s head and
smiled encouragingly in his face. The child looked up in grateful
affection; and the eyes of all the party were raised to welcome the
orphan step-daughter of Mrs. Vivian. She was a fair, pale girl, of a
gentle, thoughtful, pensive cast of countenance and style of beauty,
with which her plain dress of deep mourning perfectly harmonized.

“Come and sit by me, Rosalie, love,” said the widow, making room for the
maiden, half embracing her with one arm.

The kind girl put an orange in the boy’s hand, and, smiling, motioned
him away; and Fly, no longer mortified, but solaced and cheerful, ran
off.

“Now proceed, Mr. Bolling. Rosalie, dove, Mr. Bolling is explaining to
us the two great motive powers of the universe; the centripetal, which
he says means the law of the Lord, and the centrifugal, which he says
means the temptation of the demon. And we, my love, are the planetary
bodies, kept from extremes of good and evil by the opposite action of
these two forces. Is not this it, Mr. Bolling?”

“No, madam; no! no! no! Lord! Lord! Thus it is to expose one’s theories,
especially to Mrs. Vivian there, who would wrest the plainest text of
Scripture to her own perdition. No, ma’am; I was about to say that the
overruling will of Providence and the free agency of man were the two
great motive powers of the moral universe—the human free will, being the
great inward and impulsive force, is the centrifugal or flying-off
power, and the government of God the centripetal or constraining power;
that in the moral world these two great forces modify each other’s
action, just as their prototypes do in the material world—keeping all in
healthful action. Do you understand me?”

“Do you understand _yourself_, Mr. Bolling?”

“Ah, I see you don’t—women seldom do!” said Uncle Billy, wiping his
forehead. “Thus, then, were man without free will—without the power of
working out his own salvation, or the privilege of sending himself to
perdition, if he desired it—he would no longer be a moral agent, and,
were he never so sinless, he would be at the best only a sinless puppet,
an automaton, and God’s creation would be a dumb show. And, on the other
hand, were human free will left without restraint of the Lord’s
overruling government, why, man would rush into all sorts of
extravagances, become a maniac, and convert God’s order into chaos
again. But, both these evil extremes being avoided, the Scylla of inert,
passive obedience is left upon the right, and the Charybdis of unbridled
license on the left, and all goes on well and harmoniously. And now I
hope you understand how it is that in ‘binding nature fast in fate,’ God
still left free the human will.”

“No, I do not; it seems to me that we are free agents, or we are _not_
free agents—one or the other.”

“We’re both, I assure you—both. Truth generally lies between extremes. I
have known that all my life, and acted upon it. We _are_ free agents,
and we are _not_—that is to say, we are free agents within a certain
limit, and no further. And observe, my dear Mrs. Vivian, and my dear
girls! _within that limit we have still room enough to save or to lose
our souls!_”

This speech was concluded with so much solemnity of manner, that it
imposed a silence on the little circle, that might have lasted much
longer than it did, had Mr. Bolling been disposed to repose on his
laurels. He was not.

“Now, are you satisfied, madam?” he inquired of Mrs. Vivian.

The little lady shook her jetty ringlets, and slowly picked her marabout
fan to pieces.

“I think mamma wishes to know why these things need be so,” said
Rosalie.

“My sweet Miss Vivian, little maidens should be seen, and not heard.”

“Don’t tempt Mr. Bolling beyond his depth, Rosalie,” smiled the widow;
and _not_ suiting the action to the word, she handed Uncle Billy an
orange she had just peeled.

The little gentleman received the attention with a deprecating, humble
bow, and, to prevent inconvenient questioning, turned to Miss
Sutherland, and inquired when she had heard from her cousin Mark,
winking with what he supposed to be a killing leer.

The beauty slightly raised her lip and arched her brows, but deigned no
other answer.

“Oh, she has not heard from Mr. Sutherland for three whole days, and his
last letter was but twelve pages long. I am afraid he is fickle, like
the rest. I should not wonder if he were now the humble servant of some
northern blue ——. It is written, ‘put not your trust in’—pantaloons. Men
are so uncertain,” said Valeria.

“Men are so uncertain! What men? Uncertain in what respect?”

“All men are uncertain, in all things!”

“Humph, that is a totally unfounded calumny on our sex; though, to be
candid, I acknowledge it is but too true of all men, without a single
exception—save myself!”

“You? Oh, dear, oh! Ha! ha! ha! _You!_”

“Yes, me! In what did you ever find me uncertain?”

“In what? Oh, heavens! he asks in what! Why, in _all things_—mental,
moral, and physical! In religion, politics, and morality! In friendship,
love, and truth! In war, courtship, and money! In one word, you are a
thorough, essential, organic uncertainty. Other people are uncertain—you
are uncertainty. I think, in the day of general doom, you will find
yourself—nothing in nowhere!”

Uncle Billy turned away from this unmerciful philippic, and again asked
Miss Sutherland if she had lately heard from her cousin.

“I have not heard from him for two weeks,” replied the young lady, in a
low voice, and without raising her eyes.

“Nan, what would you give me for a letter?” inquired Mr. Bolling,
rolling his little blue eyes merrily, as he drew one from his pocket and
laid it before her.

“Oh, Mr. Bolling! have you had this letter all this time, and detained
it from me?” said the beauty, reproachfully, as she took it, and,
excusing herself, withdrew into the house to peruse it.

“Come, Rosalie, this night air is deadly to you, my child.”

“Oh, mamma, see, the full moon is just rising over those purple hills. I
only want to see it reflected in the river, and then I will come.”

“Are you moon-struck, then, Rosalie? Come in; you can safely view the
scene from the house. Besides, coffee is about to be served.”

And the lady gave her hand to her step-daughter and assisted her to
arise, and then tenderly drawing the girl’s arm within her own, turned
to lead her into the house. And Mr. Bolling lifted himself up, and
picking up his straw hat, said—

“And I must go down to the cotton-mills, and make Clement Sutherland
come home to his supper. Heigh-ho! it’s an incontrovertible fact, that
if I did not walk after that man and take care of him, he’d kill himself
in the pursuit of gain in one month. Everything is forgotten—mental
culture and bodily comfort. I have to bully him to his breakfast, and
dragoon him to his dinner, and scare him to his supper. If things go on
in this way, I shall have to cut up his food and place it to his lips.
He is growing to be a monomaniac on the subject of money-getting. He is
as thin as a whipping-post, and about as enlivening to look upon. He
looks like a weasel in the winter time, all skin and hair, and cunning
and care! He looks as if he felt poor in the midst of all his
possessions, and I suppose he really does; while here am I, without a
sous, cent, markee, happy as a king, and much more at leisure; eating
hearty, and sleeping sound, and growing fat; ‘having nothing, yet
possessing all things,’ according to Scripture, and without a care in
life, except to keep Clement from sharing the fate of Midas, and
starving in the midst of gold. And, by-the-by, _that_ is another heathen
myth, with an eternal, awful truth wrapped up in it. Heigh-ho!. Well,
here’s to bring him home to his supper. And a hot time I shall have of
it, between him and the infernal machinery! I shall not get the thunder
of the mills out of my ears, or the shower of cotton-lint out of my
eyes, nose, and throat, the whole night! Oriole, is that you? Do you go
and tell the housekeeper, child, to have something comforting prepared
for your poor master. He’s had nothing since breakfast; I couldn’t find
him at dinner-time. He was gone, devil knows where, to inspect, devil
knows what! He is the only southerner I ever _did_ know to give himself
up so entirely to the worship of Mammon, and the only one, I hope, I
ever shall know!”

And, having eased his mind by this fit of grumbling, Uncle Billy waddled
off on his benevolent errand to the mills.

In the meantime Mrs. Vivian conducted her step-daughter into the
drawing-room communicating with Miss Sutherland’s boudoir. The room was
now brilliantly lighted up, but vacant of the family. The broad doors
were slidden back into the walls, revealing the boudoir in its
rich-toned gloom and gleam of purple and gold; and India herself,
standing in the midst, quite lost in thought, with one jewelled hand
pressing back the amber ringlets from her forehead, and the other
hanging down by her side, clasping the letter of Mr. Sutherland. So
deeply troubled and perplexed was her look, that Valeria impulsively
sprang to her side, exclaiming, “What grieves you, my dearest India? No
evil news, I trust?”

Miss Sutherland burst into tears, and silently handed her the letter.
But before Valeria had turned it about and found the commencement, India
recovered her voice, and said in broken accents, “You know how closely I
have kept his correspondence for the last few weeks. Alas! I have had
reason for it, Valeria. Little do his uncles imagine what detains him at
the North. But he conceals nothing from me, and he lays the heavy
responsibility of his confidence upon me. For a month past it has been
an onerous burden to my conscience.”

“My love! what has he been doing there? Has he killed his man in a duel,
and got himself in trouble, in that frozen stiff North, where a
gentleman cannot even shoot his rival in a generous quarrel, without
being put to the inconvenience of a judicial investigation? I really do
suppose that is it, now!”

“Oh, no! Would it were only that! That were no dishonour, at least. Oh,
no! It is as much worse as it could possibly be!”

“I cannot believe that Mr. Sutherland would do aught unworthy of a man
and a gentleman.”

“Woe to my lips that they should utter the charge. But read his letter,
Valeria, and advise me, for I am deeply distressed,” said Miss
Sutherland; and she threw herself back into a cushioned chair, and bowed
her face upon her hands, until all the amber ringlets drooped and veiled
them.

Valeria ran her eyes quickly over the letter, and then she threw herself
into a chair—but it was to laugh. Miss Sutherland raised her head in
silent surprise and displeasure. But still Valeria laughed, till the
tears ran down her cheeks, holding up one hand in speechless
deprecation, to implore forgiveness for a mirth impossible to restrain.
When she found her voice—“Why, my dear, unsophisticated girl, there is
nothing except a great deal of food for laughter in all this! He has
been in New York at the height of the annual fever, and has caught it!
He has been bit by a raging reformer, and gone rabid! Not the first
hot-headed young southerner sent to a northern college who has fallen
into the same series of fevers. But they all come safely through it!
When they find out that to free their slaves means just to empty their
pockets, and go to work with their own hands or brains, you have no idea
how refrigerating the effect. Don’t fear for Mr. Sutherland. He will be
brought beautifully out of it! Only note it! he will never send a son of
his to be educated at a northern college. Come, cheer up, my love, and
never mind my laughing. Really it is legitimate food for laughter! Ha!
ha! ha! ha! ha!”

“Oh, don’t! Only think of it, even at its best! Here, for weeks past, he
has been mingling freely with these sort of persons—mixing in their
assemblies, where people of all colours and castes meet on equal terms,
in a stifling crowd—oh, Queen of Heaven! it is a ruinous dishonour—an
unspeakable insult he has cast upon me, his betrothed!” she exclaimed,
rising with all the proud and passionate energy of deep and strong
conviction.

And again Mrs. Vivian gave way to a peal of silvery laughter,
exclaiming, “Why, you simple maiden! gentlemen _will_ do such odd
things, because you see they (poets excepted) have no instincts—not even
any original ideas of refinement. But be comforted! He comes to us by
sea, and will have passed through several hundred miles of salt sea wind
before he reaches your fragrant boudoir.”

“_Do not_ pursue this subject! _Do not_, Valeria! _Do not_ press it upon
me so! It wrongs, it injures me—I feel it does!” said India, with
energetic earnestness.

“I never saw you so deeply and strongly moved before—nonsense! But
indeed I must have my laugh out with somebody! It is, besides, too good
to keep—this ludicrous secret! Ah, here comes Mr. Bolling, with Uncle
Clement in his wake, no doubt, for he went to fetch him! I must tell
Uncle Clement of his son-in-law’s conversation or—die.

“Uncle, Uncle Clement! what do you think has happened to Mark? Listen,”
exclaimed the vivacious lady, running off with the letter. Miss
Sutherland sprang and caught her hand, and, pale as death, cried out,
“On your _life_, Valeria—on your soul! You do not know my father; he
abhors those sects with an exterminating fury of hatred! Give me the
letter! Nay, now by your _honour_, Valeria! It was a sacred confidence.
Give me the letter!” and she wrested the contended paper away from the
giddy, laughing, little lady.

“Hey_day_! What the mischief is all this? A regular romp or wrestle? Let
me put down my hat, and I’ll stand by and see fair play,” exclaimed Mr.
Bolling, who had just entered.

Blushing with anger at having suffered herself to be surprised out of
her usual repose of manner, Miss Sutherland sat down in silent dignity,
while Mrs. Vivian, still laughing, inquired, “Where is uncle?”

“Where? Yes! ‘Echo answers where?’ He has not been home to breakfast nor
dinner, and now I suppose he’ll not be here to supper. I went down to
the mill to bring him home to supper; he was not there! Guess where he
was? Gone over the other side of the river, to preside at the lynching
of an incendiary. Upon my sacred word and honour!” exclaimed Uncle
Billy, growing crimson in the face, “the most cruel, unjust,
unwarrantable proceeding I ever heard of in all my life; _though_, to be
perfectly fair, I must say it serves the fellow exactly right.”

“_Apropos—what did I tell you, Valeria?_” said Miss Sutherland, in a low
voice.

“And, now, what is this mighty mystery that must be concealed from
Clement?”

Mrs. Vivian and Miss Sutherland exchanged glances, and the latter
replied: “It is a letter from Mr. Sutherland, sir, that concerns myself
alone, and I do not choose to make its contents public, even at the
suggestion of my dear esteemed friend here.”

“Ah! Umph—hum! Yes! But now, my dear child, let me say one word. Young
people are foolish, and need to be counselled by the wisdom of age.
Observe, therefore, what I say, and be guided by my advice. There is no
circumstance or combination of circumstances whatever, that will justify
you in withholding any secret from your father; nevertheless, I am bound
to say that nothing under the sun could excuse you in betraying, even to
him, the confidence of your betrothed husband. Now, I hope you
understand your duty! At least, you have my advice!” said Uncle Billy,
wiping his head, after which he placed his handkerchief in his straw
hat, seated himself, and put the hat upon the carpet between his
feet—all with a look of great self-satisfaction.

“At least the advice is very practical!” said an ironical voice behind
him. All turned to see Mr. Sutherland the elder, who had silently
entered. He was of an unusually tall, attenuated form, with a yellow,
bilious, cadaverous face, whetted to the keenest edge by care and
rapacity, and surrounded by hair and whiskers so long and bristling as
to give quite a ferocious aspect to a set of features that without them
would have looked merely cunning. He strode into the midst of the
circle, and standing before his daughter, demanded in an authoritative
tone, “Give me that letter, Miss Sutherland!” She turned deadly pale,
but without an instant’s hesitation arose to her feet, placed the letter
in her bosom, and stood fronting him.

Seeing that the matter was about to take a very serious turn, Mrs.
Vivian playfully interfered, by nestling her soft little hand into the
great bony one of the planter, and saying, with her bewitching smile,
“Ah, then, Mr. Sutherland, let young people alone. Do not rifle a young
girl’s little mysteries. Remember when you were youthful—it was not so
long ago but what you can remember, I am sure,” she said with an arch
glance. “And when you used to write sweet nonsense to one beautiful
Cecile, her mother, how would you have liked it if the practical
commercial eyes of good Monsieur Dumoulins had read your letters? Come!
give me your arm to supper; we have waited for you half an hour;” and
the lively lady slipped her arm into his; and Mr. Sutherland with the
very ill grace of a bear led captive, suffered himself to be carried
off. Mr. Billy Bolling, with a flourishing bow, gave his hand to Miss
Sutherland, and Paul Sutherland led Rosalie.

The apartment was very pleasant. The inner shutters of wire gauze, that
were closed against the mosquitoes, did not exclude the fresh and
fragrant evening breeze that fanned the room. The elegant tea-table
stood in the midst, and the whole was illumined by light subdued through
shades of ground glass—not figured—but plain, and diffusing a soft,
clear, even radiance. They sat down to the table, and coffee and tea
were served by waiters from the sideboard. To dispel the last shades of
suspicion and discontent from the mind of Mr. Sutherland, Mrs. Vivian
remarked: “We are to have Mr. Mark Sutherland home in a very few days,
if I understand aright. _N’est ce pas, chere Indie?_” Miss Sutherland
only bowed, and the conversation turned upon their approaching voyage to
Europe.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                            MRS. SUTHERLAND.

               On her cheek the autumn flush
               Deeply ripens; such a blush
               In the midst of brown was born,
               Like red poppies grown with corn.
               Round her eyes her tresses lay—
               Which are blackest, none can say;
               But long lashes veil a light
               That had else been all too bright.—_Hood._


On the opposite side of the Pearl from Cashmere, and a little further
down the river, and back from its banks, in a small vale embosomed in
hills, was Silentshades, the home of Mark Sutherland. The homestead was
the same that had been built by his father, upon first laying out the
plantation. The house was very modest and unpretending—a moderate-sized,
oblong building of two stories, painted light brown, with green
shutters, and with piazzas surrounding both floors. The house was shaded
and darkened by catalpa trees clustering thick about it and overhanging
the roof. The pillars of the piazzas were thickly twined with running
vines, that, branching and interlacing, formed a beautiful _treillage_
of foliage and flowers. Doors from this piazza admitted directly into
the rooms upon the first floor. In the right-hand front room, opening
upon two sides into the piazza, upon the next evening after the events
related in the last chapter, sat Mrs. Sutherland. She was a
medium-sized, full-formed brunette, of perhaps forty years of age; yet
so perfect was her physical organization, and so well regulated her
moral nature, so even, calm, and blameless had been the tenor of her
life, that now, she was a specimen—not, certainly, of youthful
beauty—but of a rarer kind of matured and perfected matronly beauty. Her
style was noble and simple. Her rich, abundant hair of glossy black,
with purplish light, was plainly divided above a broad forehead, and
laying down upon the temples in heavy looped bands, was carried behind
and twisted into a thick, rich coil, and wound round and round into a
large knot fastened with pins; there were no combs, curls, ribbons, or
fripperies of any sort, to mar the simple, grand beauty of the head. The
eyebrows were black and lightly arched; the eyes large, dark, and very
quiet, under their curtain of long black lashes; the nose perfectly
straight; and the cheeks, lips, and chin, perfectly beautiful in
contour. Her complexion was of that mellow, Italian brown, flushing and
deepening in the cheeks to a carnation richness. (Uncle Billy, who
sincerely admired his sister, always said that her complexion ever
reminded him of the bloom on a ripe, luscious peach.) Her dress was very
simple—a black silk with a delicate lace collar pinned with a small
diamond brooch. She sat in an easy chair, reading a letter; and as she
read and turned the leaves a quiet smile would just dawn and play on her
lips. By her side was a stand with an open book, a workbox, and a little
silver hand-bell. At last, without removing her eyes from the letter,
she smilingly extended her hand, and rang the little bell. A servant
entered, and still without withdrawing her eyes from the fascinating
letter, she said:

“Send Mrs. Jolly to me, William.”

The man withdrew with a bow, and the housekeeper entered, and awaited
the commands of the lady.

Slowly and smilingly folding up the letter, she said, “Mr. Sutherland is
coming home this evening. He brings a friend, a young gentleman, with
him. I wish you to have their chambers prepared; and do remember to
close the wire-gauze blinds, and burn catalpa leaves in the rooms, to
destroy any mosquitoes that may remain.”

“And at what time shall I order supper, madam?”

“Ah, yes—it will be necessary to put it back two or three hours. You
must judge of that. Mr. Sutherland may arrive at any time between this
and ten o’clock.”

The housekeeper left the room, and the lady sank into her chair again,
to re-peruse her letter, smiling and murmuring to herself, half
aloud—“Dear boy! dearest Mark! Sure no mother ever had a son like mine.
Comes to _me_ first—comes to _me_ before hastening to see his
lady-love—his adored India. Dearest Mark—but his devotion shall be
rewarded. He shall find his India here.” And she went to a writing-desk,
took paper, and pen, and ink, and wrote the following note:

                                             SILENTSHADES, _June_, 184–.

  DEAR INDIA: My dear niece, but dearer daughter, just get into your
  carriage, and come to me, and do not pause to wonder why I ask you. It
  is late, I know, but the moon shines brightly, and the roads are
  good—your driver is careful, and the distance is short. More than all,
  dear daughter, I consider your coming very important. So hasten,
  darling, to

                                Your affectionate aunt and mother,
                                                    HELEN B. SUTHERLAND.

Having sealed this letter, the lady rang the bell and gave it in charge
of a footman, urging dispatch.

Soon a waiter entered, and lighted up the rooms; and he had scarcely
closed the blinds and withdrawn, before the sound of carriage-wheels was
heard approaching, and the lady hastened out into the hall. The carriage
paused before the door, and in an instant after, Mark Sutherland had
alighted, and was clasped to the bosom of his mother.

“Oh, my dear Mark! I am so overjoyed to have you again!”

“Dear mother, I am so proud and happy to find you looking so well!
Permit me to present my friend—Mr. Lincoln Lauderdale—Mrs. Sutherland.”

A low bow from the gentleman, and a deep courtesy from the lady, and
then smilingly throwing off her habitual reserve, Mrs. Sutherland
offered her hand, saying—

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Lauderdale. You are not a stranger, I
assure you. My son has taught me to esteem you, and desire your
friendship. Will you enter now?”

And with another smile she gave her hand to her guest, and permitted him
to lead her into the drawing-room.

Mr. Sutherland remained in the hall to give some directions to the
grooms, and to order the baggage of his guest to be taken up to his
chamber. After which he entered the parlour, and laying his hand
affectionately upon his friend’s shoulder, said—

“My dear Lauderdale, when you feel disposed—or, rather, _if_ you feel
disposed—to change your dress—Flamingo will show you your apartment.
Supper will be ready—Madame, when will supper be ready?”

“My dear Mark, any time—in an hour—an hour and a half”——

“In an hour, Lincoln; that will give you ample time. Flame! lights here.
Show Mr. Lauderdale to his room, and consider yourself in his exclusive
service while he honours us with his company. I presume you will prefer
Flame, my dear Lincoln, because you already know the fellow.”

“Thank you, but really I do not need”——

“Oh, say not a word, my dear boy! When you have been subjected to the
enervating influence of this climate for a week, you will better know
what you need.”

By this time Flamingo made his appearance with chamber lamps. Lauderdale
arose to follow him. Sutherland accompanied him into the hall.

“My dear Mark,” said the former, “did I understand you to say that Mrs.
Sutherland was your _own_ mother?”

“Undoubtedly my own mother! What a question! Besides, my friend, pardon
me! but really, where are your eyes? We are said to be the image of each
other!”

“Well, now, although both of you are dark, with high complexions, I
cannot see the likeness, to save my soul,” said Lauderdale,
mischievously; then adding, “she is very handsome.”

“_Is she not!_” echoed Sutherland, with enthusiasm, and accompanying
Lauderdale up stairs—“the handsomest woman in the world? oh, except
_one_. You should see India. And, more than that, she—my mother, I
mean—is the most excellent, except—_none_.”

“I cannot think that she was so handsome in early youth as she is now.”

“Oh, I suppose her youth to her maturity was as the budding to the
blooming rose—that is all. Here is your room. Make Flame supply you with
anything you may need, that is not at hand; and for your life—nay,
_more_, for your good looks, worth more than life—do not open the wire
shutters; if you do, you may look in the glass in ten minutes after, and
fancy yourself ill with the erysipelas. _Au revoir!_ When you are ready,
come down.”

Mark Sutherland left the room, and instead of seeking his own chamber,
to refresh himself with a change of raiment, he hastened down the
stairs, entered the parlour, and once more clasped his mother fervently
in his arms, and—

“My dearest mother,” and “My dearest Mark,” were the words exchanged
between them. “But, oh, Mark! how haggard you look, my love! You have
been ill, and never let me know it.”

“No, upon my honour, mother!”

“Ah, but you are so pale and thin, and your expression is so
anxious—what is it? What can it be, Mark?”

“My own dear mother, it is nothing that should give you any uneasiness.
I have had a long, fatiguing ride, and—I have not heard from India for
more than a week. How is my Pearl?”

“Ah, rogue! a lover’s anxiety. Is that the cause of those haggard looks?
And yet, to come to me first! Dear Mark! But I have anticipated all your
wishes. Your India will be here to meet you—I am expecting her every
moment. Hark! there are her carriage-wheels!” said the lady, going to
the window; then hurrying back, she exclaimed, “_Peste!_ she has some
one with her—that lively little Mrs. Vivian, I suppose. Listen, Mark! I
will carry her off to a dressing-room, and leave you to meet India. She
does not know that you are here.”

And Mrs. Sutherland went to the hall door, which she reached just as
Mrs. Vivian, who was the first to alight, entered.

“Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Vivian? I am very glad to see you! Come, come
into my room.”

“Oh, but stop—let us wait for India!”

“By no means, my dear. _Mark_ will wait for her.”

“_A-h-h-h!_ _He_ has come!”

“Certainly,” said the lady, carrying off her captive.

India sauntered languidly up the door-stairs. Mark sprang forward to
meet her. She started—paled—reeled—might have fallen, but he caught her
to his bosom, murmuring deeply, earnestly, “_India! my India!_”

For a moment she had nearly swooned with surprise and joy, but in the
next instant she recovered, and deeply blushing, withdrew herself from
him, saying, “I did not know that you were here.”

“I have only this instant arrived,” he replied. “My dear, beautiful
India! to see you, it is unspeakable happiness.”

And he would have clasped her form again, but with flushed cheek she
glided out of his arms and entered the parlour. He followed her, placed
an easy chair, seated her on it, rolled a cushion to her feet, untied
and removed her bonnet, lifted the mass of shining amber ringlets and
pressed them to his face, and then would have sunk down upon the cushion
at her feet—there to sit and worship with his eyes her peerless beauty,
only the sound of light footsteps and silvery laughter arrested the
folly.

It was Valeria, who, chatting and laughing with her usual gaiety,
entered, accompanied by Mrs. Sutherland. Their entrance was soon
followed by that of Mr. Lauderdale, who was immediately presented to
Mrs. Vivian and Miss Sutherland.

Supper was next announced, and the party left the drawing-room. After
supper, the evening was spent in music, conversation, and cards. A storm
arising, detained the ladies all night. After the party had separated,
each to seek his or her own apartment, Sutherland stopped for an instant
in Lauderdale’s room to ask, “Well, what do you think of her, Lincoln?”

“She is perfectly beautiful.”

“Is she not?”

“There is positively nothing possible to be added to her beauty!”

“Ah, did I not tell you so?”

“She has taken me completely captive.”

“The deuce! I did not require you to be taken captive.”

“If I were only in a condition to seek the lady’s love—”

“Humph! What would you do, then?”

“Lose no time in suing for it.”

“The demon you wouldn’t! That is extremely cool, upon my sacred word and
honour!”

“Such glorious black eyes!”

“They are not black, mine honest friend, but blue—celestial blue.”

“Blue, are they? I thought they were black; but, in truth, one cannot
follow their quickly-changing light and shade to find the hue, they
scintillate and flash so.”

“Scintillate and flash! Why, they are calm and steady as stars. What the
deuce are her eyes to you?”

“And then her magnificent black hair!”

“Black! you are mad! Hers is bronze in the shade, and golden in the
sunlight. D——l fly away with you!” the latter clause under his breath.

“I swear her hair is superb black!”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Who—who but charming Mrs. Vivian!”

“Cousin Valeria! Oh-h-h-h! ha! ha! ha! And _I_ was speaking of India! So
you think Mrs. Vivian good-looking?”

“Good-looking—divine.”

“I thought no one in his senses could apply that term to any woman but
Miss Sutherland.”

“Who—the red-haired young lady?”

“_Red-haired!_” burst out the voice of Sutherland, in indignant
astonishment; then reining in his anger with a strong hand, he added,
“Lincoln, you are my friend, but there are some provocations”—

“Miss Sutherland is _graceful_,” said Lauderdale, with a quiet smile.

“Tah-tah-tah, with your faint praises; good night.”

“Now, here is a reasonable man! When he thought me praising his love
with great fervour, he was so jealous as to feel like running me through
the heart; and now that he finds me very moderate in my admiration of
his idol, he is angry enough to sweep my head off at a blow,” said
Lauderdale, laughing.

“Good night!” said Sutherland, to cover his confusion.

“Stay, I can’t let you go so; your lady-love is _really_ lovely enough
to turn all the heads and break all the hearts that approach her. But
she has not disturbed the healthful action of mine—will that content
you?”

“Yes, because I know it is true—especially the first part of it. Good
night.”

“Good night.”

And the friends separated.

“And is this _all_ you have to say in support of your project, Mark?”

“Not all, my dear mother.”

The lady applied her handkerchief to her eyes quietly, almost
stealthily; her face was pale and sorrowful; she seemed to restrain
herself steadily, as though she thought the betrayal of strong emotion
unbecoming to a woman of her age and station. Her son had just revealed
to her his purpose of emancipating all the negroes upon his plantation
and sending them to Liberia, with his reasons for so doing. The scene
took place very early in the morning after his arrival. It was in her
dressing-room. Before any of their guests had arisen, they were up, and
she had called him, as he passed her door. They sat now at the open
window that looked out upon the beautiful valley of the Pearl, with its
groves and fields and streams all fresh and resplendent in the light of
the newly-risen sun. The mother sighed deeply as she withdrew her glance
from the gladdening scene, and fixed it upon the face of her son.

“And so, Mark, this is the cause of your ill and anxious looks?”

“Yes, mother; I will not deny to you that it has cost me a very severe
struggle; and perhaps you see some of its effects.”

“Yes, _some_ of them, Mark—alas! not _all_,” said the lady, in a low,
faint voice.

If a little while before she had restrained unmeet energy of expression
in the strong emotion she had felt, now all power as well as all will
seemed to forsake her. She sat silent, with her hands folded and her
eyes fixed upon them. Mr. Sutherland watched her anxiously.

“My dear madam, I have pained you.”

“I am a widow, Mark, and have no child but you”—

“_Mother_”——

“It is a sorrowful time for the mother, Mark, when the boy she has
nursed and brought up to man’s estate turns upon her in her weakness,
arrayed in all the strength and power of manhood.”

“My dearest _mother_”——

“Your father, Mark, never caused me a tear or a sigh in his life.”

“God bless his memory for that.”

“He trusted so in your affection for me, Mark—_and so did I_—that he
left me totally dependent upon you”——

“My dearest mother, your comfort and convenience shall be my first
object in life. Not even India, my loved India, shall cause me to forget
all I owe to you.”

“Words, Mark! words! This project of yours will reduce me to beggary!”

“No, dear madam, it shall not. Me it will reduce to—my own exertions for
a livelihood, but not you. When all my slaves are freed, and on their
way to Africa at my cost, there will still remain, from the sale of the
land, some thirty thousand dollars. That money, mother, with the
homestead here, I intend to settle upon yourself”——

“Oh, my son! you break my heart. Do you think, then, that I will suffer
you to beggar yourself to enrich me? No, dear Mark; no! Since you do not
forget me—since you remember me with affectionate interest, it is
sufficient. If I reproached you just now, it was only because I felt as
if you did not care for me; and that is a sorrowful feeling in a parent,
Mark.”

“I never for one instant forgot your interests, dear mother. How could
I? I had settled the plan I have named to you, in my mind, before I left
the North.”

“I cannot bear the name of that quarter of our country! the word strikes
like a bullet, Mark!” exclaimed the lady, with an impulsive start, and
shrunk as if indeed she were shot.

Mr. Sutherland looked down, mortified and troubled.

“And as for this plan, Mark,” proceeded the lady, “it must not be
carried out. Under no circumstances can I consent that you beggar
yourself for me.”

“Dearest mother, I do not think it possible for mere loss of fortune to
beggar a man of good health and good morals. I shall go to the West. It
is a broad field for enterprise. I studied law for my amusement, having
had a strong natural attraction for it. I shall commence the practice of
that profession in some western village, and grow up with the town. I
shall succeed. Indeed, methinks new life and energy runs through my
veins and fires my heart at the very thought of difficulties to meet and
overcome!” said Mr. Sutherland, smiling gaily, stretching his arms and
rubbing his hands together.

“Alas! you do not know what you are talking about, Mark! What a project!
And your approaching marriage with India—is it possible in this
connexion that you do not think of that?”

“Not think of that!” echoed Mr. Sutherland, as a strange, beautiful
smile flitted over his face. “Mother, I dreaded this interview with you;
but I looked forward to an explanation with my loved India as the first
reward of right-doing—if what I have done is right—a foretaste of what
the rewards of Heaven will be! My India! I know her generosity, her
magnanimity, her high-souled enthusiasm! How many times I have
experienced it! How many times, when reading with her of some high
heroism of the olden time, when there were heroes, have I seen her
pause, her bosom heave, her cheek flush, her eye kindle and gaze upon
me, expressing unspeakable admiration of those lofty deeds! And now,
when in her own life an opportunity occurs of practising those very same
great virtues—when she has the power, by sacrificing wealth and luxury,
to bless hundreds of her fellow-beings, and not them only, but their
children and children’s children—do I not know that high-souled girl
will aspire to do it! Madam, it is a majestic, a godlike power, to be
able to confer the blessing of liberty and education upon hundreds of
beings and their descendants to numberless generations—a power I would
not _now_ exchange for a small limited monarchy. And, oh! do I not know
that my India—soul of my soul!—will think as I do—will feel as I do?
Nay, do I not know that she will go beyond me? Mother, when I have
doubted, or struggled against my better feelings, I have seen as in a
vision, her eyes suffused with generous tears, her cheek kindle, and
felt the warm pressure of her hand encouraging, inspiring me!”

“Oh, Mark! Mark! romance! nothing more. And even should India approve
your project, which I think quite impossible, what is your further
purpose? To leave her here, bound by an engagement, to wear out her
youth in expectation of your making a fortune and coming back to claim
her hand?”

“No, dearest mother, that were too hard a trial to both of us. No, I
mean to take her with me to the West, to encourage and assist me while I
make her as happy as I possibly can!”

Here, again, the lady’s feelings arose to so high a pitch of excitement
that she had to put a violent constraint upon herself, while she
answered quietly, “And how do you think Miss Sutherland will like to lay
aside all the prestige of her rank, and wealth, and bridehood, and,
instead of a splendid wedding, and a bridal tour, and a voyage to
Europe, take an ignominious departure from her father’s house, for a
life of poverty and privation in the West?”

“I told you, dearest mother, that my India was of a highly heroic
nature. That does not mean wedded to ease and worldly honour; indeed, it
more frequently means the loss of both.”

“And so you deliberately mean to take that girl—if she will go with
you—to some miserable western village, to endure all the miseries of
poverty?”

“What miseries of poverty, dearest mother? If you were a European
talking of Europeans, I could understand your prudence; but you are an
American matron talking to an American youth, and advising him not to
marry the girl he loves if he has not a fortune to support her. It seems
to me, mother, that in _our_ country the man or woman who refuses to
marry for such a reason, wants faith, love, hope, enterprise, energy,
and every thing they ought to have; and under such circumstances, it
seems but right, indeed, that they should stay single.”

“You do not know what you are talking about. But should India be so
imprudent, do you think her father will consent to such a mad project?”

“His consent to our union was long ago obtained; and if, under present
circumstances, he should withdraw it—India is of age, you know!”

“Mark, tell me if you have ever had any experimental knowledge of
_want_?” The young man looked up with a questioning glance. “Because if
you do not know, I can tell you, Mark. I know how young people think of
poverty, and talk of poverty, when any strong motive like love, or any
other passion, urges them to embrace it; and people who are older, and
should know better, talk pretty much in the same way. They will tell you
that poverty deprives you of none of the real essential blessings of
life; that the riches of nature and of nature’s God are free alike to
the rich and the poor; that the blessings of health, of well-doing, of
sunshine, and the face of nature, are open alike to both. It is so with
the rich, doubtless, and it may be so with the poor who were born in
this poverty; but to the well-born and well-educated, to the refined and
intellectual, poverty is a dreadful, dreadful thing. It is not only to
suffer the privation of proper and sufficient food, and comfortable
clothing, and dwelling—it is to be shut out of all enjoyment of the
blessings of nature and of society, and at the same time be exposed to
all the evils that nature and society can inflict upon you. You have no
leisure, or if you have, you have no respectable clothing, in which to
go out and take the air, and enjoy the genial sunshine of pleasant days,
on the one hand; and on the other, no adequate protection against the
freezing cold of winter, and no escape from the burning heat of summer.
And for society, pride will not permit you to seek the company of your
sometime peers, and delicacy restrains you from the coarse association
around you. To us, Mark, poverty would be the privation of every
enjoyment. To be poor, were to be maimed, blind, ill, and imprisoned, at
once!”

“Dear mother, _you_ are a lady—_I_, a man! And loss of fortune has now
no terrors for me; and birth and education, so far from rendering me
more helpless, shall make me stronger to conquer my difficulties. I have
no fear of wanting any of the comforts of life from the very onset. And
as for being shut out, or rather shut _in_, from nature—mother, do you
think I shall be? Do you think I shall keep away from nature because I
cannot call on her in a coach, with a groom on horseback to take in my
card? No, indeed. On the contrary, I purpose to live with nature. She’s
an old intimate friend of mine, and no summer friend either—nor shall I
be a summer friend of hers, and shrink from her boisterous winds and
rattling sleet. And as for society, mother—oh, let me quote to you the
words of Dr. Channing, whose lips, indeed, seemed touched with fire: ‘No
matter though the prosperous of my own time will not enter my obscure
dwelling. If the Sacred Writers will enter and take up their abode under
my roof, if Milton will cross my threshold to sing to me of paradise,
and Shakspeare to open to me the worlds of imagination and the workings
of the human heart, and Franklin to enrich me with his practical wisdom,
I shall not pine for want of intellectual companionship.’ So, dearest
mother, with industry that will procure me all the necessaries of life,
health that will enable me to enjoy or endure nature in all her moods,
and a mind dependent on itself for its enjoyment, what have I to dread
from loss of fortune?”

“It may be very well for _you_, at least tolerable; but for _India_! You
would not bring Miss Sutherland down to such a state?”

Mark paused, and then answered—

“Yes, mother, yes; if the only other alternative is to be a separation
of many years, I would bring India down to this state.”

“Oh, Mark! that is very, very selfish!”

“I do not think so, madam.”

“Mark! Just now, when I told you of the nameless miseries of the
well-born poor, you did not deny them, but said, ‘Mother, _you_ are a
lady—_I_, a man.’ Mark! out of your own mouth I will condemn you.
India—Miss Sutherland—‘is a _lady_,’ Mark! Are you not selfish?”

“No, mother! not if India feels as I do—as I know she does; not if our
separation would be to her, as it would be to me, a greater evil than
all the early struggles our union may bring upon us.”

“My dear son, your sanguine confidence gives me deep pain. Dear Mark, be
not too sure! Not for worlds would I speak a word against your India.
Nor do I know that, under her circumstances, I speak much evil of her
when I say that she is haughty, self-willed, indolent, and fastidious!
But are those the elements of self-sacrifice?”

“Mother, I would not hear another soul breathe aught against India but
you; but to answer your question—and granting, what I am unwilling to
grant, that these faults of her station may be also hers—affection will
conquer them! My _life_ upon India’s magnanimity!”

Yet, even while he spoke, he became suddenly pale and aghast, as if, for
the first time, the possibility that it might be otherwise had struck
him.

The lady had been pale and disturbed throughout the interview; and now
she rose, and taking his hand, said—

“Mark, they have gone down to breakfast; we must go too. We will speak
of this again. Mark, I should be in despair, if I did not hope that
circumstances will compel you to abandon this insane purpose. When do
you break it to India?”

“This day, mother! You have conjured up a phantom whose presence I would
not endure for many hours. It must be exorcised by dear India
forthwith.”

Mrs. Sutherland had two grounds of hope. The first was, that her son,
restored to home associations and influences, might change his views and
purposes before they should become known to his uncle. Upon this first
hope she founded her purpose of preventing, as long as possible, Mark’s
intended communication to India. The second ground of hope was, that in
the event of Mr. Sutherland’s intentions becoming known, the powerful
motives that would be brought to bear upon him—the threatened loss of
his uncle’s favour, and of his promised bride’s hand—might irresistibly
impel him to renounce his project.

But her present wish was to arrest the disclosure of her son’s
resolution until she could gain time to use her influence upon him to
induce him to abandon them. These thoughts did not arise in her mind
during her interview with Mark, nor until she sat reflecting upon it,
after breakfast, in the back parlour. Her visitors, on leaving the
table, had retired into the front room.

Her fit of deep thought was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Vivian
from that front parlour. The “lady gay” came in, trilling a lively opera
air. Mrs. Sutherland arose, and took her hand with a very serious
manner, saying—

“My dear Valeria, who have you left in the other room?”

“Mark and India,” answered the little widow, raising her eyebrows with
slight surprise.

“No one else?”

“No—yes—I do not know; I believe there is a waiter, or”—

“My dearest Valeria,” said Mrs. Sutherland, drawing her to the opposite
extremity of the room, “do me a favour; return to the room, and, not
only while you remain here, but after you go back to Cashmere, prevent
as long as possible any private conversation between those two young
people; interrupt them; follow them; stay with them: circumvent them in
every way.”

“Helen, you astonish me! _Me_ play Madame Detrop, not ‘for one night
only,’ but for a whole season! You positively shock me!” exclaimed Mrs.
Vivian, and her _eyes_ asked, what _can_ you mean?

Mrs. Sutherland answered both words and looks at the same time, by
saying, very gravely,—

“Valeria, I ask a very strange favour, and impose upon your friendship
the unpleasant alternative of refusing me point blank, or taking upon
yourself a most ungracious duty; but, dear Valeria, in this at least the
end will justify the means. I do not wish to separate my son and niece,
as your eyes seem to say, but _au contraire_, to prevent their
separation.”

“I do not comprehend.”

“I wish to prevent a quarrel. Young people will not quarrel before
others, any more than they will make love before them. There is a point
of controversy between Mark and India, and I do not wish them to have an
opportunity of discussing it until both their heads are cool.”

“Ah, I think I know the point of contention,” said Valeria, with a
bright look of sudden intelligence.

“You?”

“Yes.”

And the thoughtless little lady, totally forgetful that the
communication had been confidential, imparted to her the contents of
Mark’s letter to India, and the indignation she had expressed at its
contents, and the fear she had betrayed lest her father and uncle should
discover her lover’s change of sentiments.

Mrs. Sutherland heard the story with a thoughtful brow, and at its
close, said—

“And do you not think, Valeria, that the discussion of this subject
between them at present would end fatally for our hopes?”

“I do not know, indeed. I cannot estimate the strength of Mr.
Sutherland’s convictions and purposes.”

“But you think that India will never yield to them?”

“Never!”

“And so think I. Yet Mark, dear, deluded child, would stake his soul on
what he calls her heroism. Well, Valeria, now will you promise me to
prevent an interview as long as you can, to give me an opportunity of
trying to bring that poor boy to reason?”

“Ha! ha! ha! It is a thankless task, but I will undertake it. But you
must give me an assistant, to relieve me sometimes, and to better insure
the success of your enterprise. Confide in Uncle Billy, and let him be
on duty while I am off.”

“I intend to have a talk with my brother upon the subject, but in the
mean time I rely mainly upon you. Promise me again that you will be
vigilant.”

“As vigilant as I can, Helen; but you know my first duty is to Rosalie,
dear child! I reproach myself for having left her last night, but the
housekeeper promised that she would sleep in the adjoining room, and
watch over her.”

“Do you not think that you watch over her too much? Do you not see that
she is made too much of a hothouse plant?”

“Rosalie? What! when even a slight change in the weather, or a draught
of air, or a piece of fruit not ripe, or a little too ripe, or some such
trifle, is sufficient to make her ill for a week, and to bring her to
the brink of the grave? I would give half my fortune to any physician
who would”—

The little lady’s voice broke down, and her sparkling eyes melted into
tears; then she said, in a faltering tone—

“Do you think she will die? or do you think there is a blessed
possibility of her health being restored?”

“That which she never possessed, and therefore never lost, cannot, of
course, be _restored_. But I think a different manner of treatment would
strengthen the child; for how can you expect her to be strong, confined
to hot rooms, and idleness, and super-dainty diet?”

“I am sure I do the very best I can for the dear girl; I take her out
twice a day in the carriage; I never suffer her to go alone; she never
has a bath until I dip the thermometer into it with my own hands, to
regulate the temperature; she never puts on an article of clothing until
I have ascertained it to be well aired; and she never even eats an
orange until it has first passed through my fingers; and yet, with all
my care, she droops and droops”—

“Like an over-nursed exotic. But, dear Valeria, there! There goes
Thomas, with a vase of yesterday’s flowers, to change them. Hasten in
there, dear Valeria, and prevent an eclaircissement, while I speak to my
brother.”

“Why, is _he_ here?”

“Certainly; he came while we were at breakfast, and went up stairs to
change his dress. That is the reason I remained in this room, to give
him his breakfast.”

The flighty little lady, already oblivious of her causes for distress,
went singing into the room, just in time to overhear, with her quick
ears, Mr. Sutherland say to his betrothed—

“Dear India—(Oh, heavens! here comes that widow again!)—but I _must_
have an uninterrupted talk with you; when and where shall it be?”

“In the library, at twelve. Hush! She’s here”——

“So,” thought Mrs. Vivian, “I have just got in time enough to hear for
myself that my efforts to be useful and impertinent will be totally
fruitless.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

In the meanwhile Uncle Billy had changed his dress, and had come down in
a jacket and trousers of linen, white as “driven snow,” and took his
seat at the breakfast table. While she waited upon him, Mrs. Sutherland
cautiously communicated the news that so burdened her mind. Gradually,
as she proceeded, the truth burst with the suddenness of a thunderbolt
upon Uncle Billy, who dropped his roll and cup of coffee, turned pale,
fell back in his chair, and gasped—“Good gracious!”

“Don’t make a noise, brother, if you please. See, James is coming with
your eggs; wait until he has withdrawn,” said the self-possessed Mrs.
Sutherland; and then she directed the servant who came in to set down
his salver, and leave the room. When he had gone, she turned again to
her brother, and said—

“Yes, this is true, and nothing remains now but to try to overrule his
purpose, or at least to gain time.”

“I—I am overwhelmed, prostrated, stunned with astonishment; though, to
be sure, at my time of life, I am never the least surprised by any thing
that happens. They are fools who at fifty wonder at any thing.”

Mrs. Sutherland then expressed a wish that her brother would aid her
designs, both by delaying the opportunity of an explanation between the
young people, and also by using all his logical powers upon her son, to
convert him from his purpose; for, strange as it may seem, Mrs.
Sutherland had unbounded faith in Mr. Bolling’s polemic abilities. His
_soi-disant_ impartiality, coolness, and precision of judgment, had
really imposed upon her.

Uncle Billy dug both his hands in his pockets, and dropped his rosy chin
upon his chest with an attitude and expression of deep cogitation, and
his face quite flushed with the heat and burden of his thoughts. At last
he said, with an air of great deliberation—

“Hem! In the first place, we must essay every possible means of
persuasion and coercion, to move him from his purpose. Yes, persuasion
and coercion of every possible kind and degree; for in this case the end
justifies the means.”

“Yes, my dear brother, I agree with you perfectly; it is just what I
said.”

“Yes, but at the same time,” said Billy Bothsides, shaking his head, and
glancing keenly at his sister, with the astute air of one making a very
fine distinction—“_at the same time_, we are not to use any undue or
unfair influence over the young man.”

“Oh, certainly not,” said Mrs. Sutherland.

“No, no, I never could consent to _that_, although I would go to any
justifiable or even unjustifiable lengths, to cure the boy of his folly.
You understand me? You follow out my line of reasoning?”

“Well, no, brother William, I do not, clearly.”

“Women seldom do! women seldom do! But never mind! Trust to me! _I’ll_
bring him round _I_—though I confess I do not believe it will be in the
power of mortal man to do it,” said Mr. Bolling, rising from the table,
and sauntering into the front parlour.

He found Mrs. Vivian monopolising the attention of Mr. Sutherland, by
making him translate for her a sonnet of Petrarch. As soon as Uncle
Billy appeared, to relieve guard, Mrs. Vivian suddenly lost all interest
in Italian, dropped her book, and left the room, passing Mrs. Sutherland
on her way, to whom she said, laughingly—

“A pretty commencement I have made of it! First, heard myself
anathematised for a ‘pestilent widow’—next made myself and three other
people wretched for an hour—those were, Sutherland, who was dying to
speak to India—Lauderdale, who was longing to talk to me—India, who
wishes to listen to Sutherland—and last, not least, myself, who was
quite willing to hear what Lauderdale had to say.”

“Mr. Lauderdale seemed quite—_pleased_ with you last night.”

“Pleased? Well, I should not be surprised. Perhaps he means to make love
to me this morning. If he does not, perhaps—he’s only a college boy—I
mean to make love to him, _pour se disennuyée_;” and waving her fan
playfully, and half curtseying, the trifler glided off.

And soon after she was seen promenading on the piazza with young
Lauderdale.

_Ennuyée_ with the _dolce far niente_ of the morning, Miss Sutherland
ordered her carriage to return home. Uncle Billy begged a seat inside,
and Mr. Sutherland and (at the invitation of the latter) Mr. Lauderdale
mounted horses to attend the party.

Their way lay through a beautiful piece of woods, that covered the hill,
just rising, and then gradually declining to the river. They crossed by
a ferry.

This part of the river, being the head of the bend, resembled a
beautiful woodland lake, lying embosomed among its green hills and
groves, which were all distinctly reflected in the water, that was
flushed with a pale purple light, changing ever into azure or crimson,
or fading off into faint beautiful hues of pink or saffron.

“Oh! it is well named the Pearl—this lovely river—though it might as
well be called the Opal,” said Billy Bolling, who had a taste for
natural beauty.

They were but few minutes in reaching the other bank of the river, and
landing at Cashmere.

Arrived at Cashmere, the party passed up the winding road leading
through the groves and shrubberies of the lawn, to the foot of the
marble steps leading to the rose terrace, and there alighting, passed
through the verandah into the house.

Laughingly Mrs. Vivian took immediate possession of Miss Sutherland, and
carried her off to seek Rosalie.

Mr. Sutherland, senior, happened to be in the house, and Mark
immediately introduced his friend Lauderdale. The old gentleman welcomed
the stranger with the stately suavity habitual to men of his day and
station; but he received his nephew with an earnestness of affection
scarcely restrained by the presence of a third party—pressing his hand
with much warmth, and detaining it lingeringly in his clasp.

Mark Sutherland could hardly repress a groan, to think how soon all this
must be changed. Nay, more: he even felt a species of compunction for
receiving his uncle’s kindness under what he felt to be false colours;
and he determined, if possible, not to let an hour pass before having a
full explanation with him. And so, after the first compliments were
over, and when the planter arose and politely excused himself, saying
that important business called him over to his new plantation, and
expressing a hope that Mr. Lauderdale would consider his house,
servants, and stables, entirely at his commands, Mark Sutherland laid
his hand solemnly upon his arm, and said—

“My dear uncle, I must have a conversation with you this morning.”

“My dear Mark,” said the old man, smiling—if it could be called a
smile—“I know what you are about to ask, and I answer beforehand, _just
as soon as India pleases_. The sooner the better. I speak freely before
your friend”—bowing to the latter—“whom, I presume, you have persuaded
to do you the honour of attending you upon the occasion. Consult my
daughter! You know her will is law in this affair.”

“My dear sir, it is upon another subject that I really _must_ consult
you, at your very earliest convenience,” said Mr. Sutherland, with such
earnestness of manner as to enforce serious attention.

“Well, sir,” said the planter, “to-day you must really excuse me. I have
to go over to the new plantation. Stoke, my manager there, thinks that
the cotton crop is not in a vigorous state; he fears that it is taking
the rot. But, excuse me—young men know little and care less for the
anxieties that make their elders slaves.” And, smiling and bowing, the
old gentleman withdrew.

And Mark Sutherland, seeing no opportunity of breaking his mind to
either father or daughter for the present, invited Lauderdale for a ride
over the plantation.

Mr. Sutherland rang, and ordered horses, which were at the door in
fifteen minutes, and he and his friend mounted and commenced their ride.

First winding round the shaded path at the foot of the rose terrace,
they turned to the left, and entered the grove which surrounded three
sides of the back of the house. Half a mile’s ride through a narrow,
tangled pathway, up which they were obliged to proceed in Indian file,
led them to an elevated clearing of about a hundred acres, on which was
situated the negro village, called, in plantation parlance, “The
Quarters.”

“There! what do you think of that?” asked Mark Sutherland, with a slight
dash of triumph in his tone, as they drew rein and paused under the
shade of the trees at the edge of the grove.

Lauderdale’s eyes were roving leisurely and attentively over the
woodland village. It was certainly a most lovely scene. The sky above
was of the brilliant, intense blue of southern climes; the foliage of
the woods around was of the vivid green of early summer. A few large
trees were left standing at intervals in the clearing; and under these,
and scattered at irregular distances through the area, were the neat
white cottages with their red-painted doors. Each cottage had its small
vegetable garden, and some few of the better-kept houses had their fruit
trees, and even flower yards. The village was deserted now, except by
the children playing at the doors, and the old people left to take care
of them. Of these latter, some were seated upon the door-steps, and some
were standing leaning over the fence-rails; some were occupied with
knitting coarse stockings; and some, mostly men, were smoking their
pipes. All the able-bodied men and women were out in the fields.

Lauderdale looked on, first with an expression of surprise and pleasure,
but afterwards with a countenance full of thought.

“Well, my friend, how do you like that?” repeated Mr. Sutherland.

“I will give you my opinion more at large, later in the day, my dear
Mark,” replied Lauderdale; and then he added, “I have been told that you
have the best stud and best stables in Mississippi; will you favour me
with the sight of those also?”

Mr. Sutherland immediately assented. They turned their horses’ heads,
and taking another path, rode in a circuit around to the site of the
stables, which lay at some distance to the right of the mansion house,
and were concealed from the latter by an intervening arm of the grove.
The stables were built in the most approved modern style, with much
architectural beauty, and possessed every requisite for the health and
comfort of the noble animals for whose accommodation they were designed.
Here again Lauderdale expressed no opinion, but asked to see—don’t
start, super-refined reader—the pig pens. Mark, with a queer smile,
conducted his guest to the desired premises; and also, without waiting
to be solicited, introduced him to the cow pens, the hen house, etc. All
these buildings had been constructed under the direction of a celebrated
English rural architect, and of course were fitted with every modern
improvement for the well-being of the stock. Still Lauderdale as yet
reserved his judgment, while he expressed his thanks to his host for the
privilege he had enjoyed. Sutherland mischievously asked him whether he
would not also like to see the pigeon boxes before dinner. Lauderdale
smilingly declined, and they returned to the house. They alighted from
their saddles and threw the reins to the groom, entered the hall, and
separated to dress for dinner.

Half an hour after, when they met in the drawing-room, Lauderdale
advanced to his host, and said,—

“Sutherland, I must thank you again for the sight of your plantation
arrangements! and I must say that _all_ your stock—horses, cows, and
pigs, and slaves—are probably the best accommodated of any in the
state!”

Mark Sutherland, with a flushed brow, turned away. But in an instant,
Lauderdale laid his hand upon his arm, and said, with a voice and manner
full of affectionate earnestness—

“I mean to say just _this_, dear Mark—that your negro village is
comfortable, and even exceedingly beautiful, but that no amount of
physical comfort can or _ought_ to compensate an immortal being for the
loss of liberty!”

The entrance of other members of the family and the speedy announcement
of dinner ended this conversation for the present.

Haggard, careworn, anxious, as he was, the deep, ever-springing fountain
of gladness in Mark Sutherland’s heart dispersed all his gloom; and,
during dinner, when the jest and laugh went round, _he_ was as usual the
spring of wit and humour to the party.

After dinner, when he was about to seek an interview with his betrothed,
Mrs. Vivian forestalled him, by carrying off Miss Sutherland to examine
a box of goods, lately arrived from New Orleans for the bride elect. And
Mr. Bolling, leaving Sutherland, senior, to entertain the guest, ran his
arm through that of Mark, and marched him off in triumph.

“Well, Mark,” he said, as soon as he had got him on to the lawn, “I
cannot understand it! how a young man of your strength of character, of
your firmness—nay, obstinacy; stubbornness—should permit yourself to
fall a prey to these adventurers.”

“I really do not see how I am their prey, Uncle Billy, or why they
should be adventurers.”

“Oh, Mark, you are—I mean, dear Mark, you want experience of the world;
and no amount of moral or intellectual excellence will stand you in
stead for that. Nay, indeed, goodness will only make you the easier
victim, and talent the more useful tool to these speculators.”

“Uncle, you wrong them! By the honour of my soul, you do! You have never
seen or heard but one side of the question, and therefore you are
bitterly prejudiced.”

“Prejudiced! _Me_ prejudiced! when everybody knows that I am the most
impartial person in the world! But ‘moderation has its martyrs also.’”

“You certainly are prejudiced in this matter; yet how shall I set you
right? And why should I be surprised? Once, there was never such a
scoffer as I was.”

“Yes, and _that’s_ just what raises the hair of my head with wonder!
Your good-humoured satire and gay indulgence used to please me so much
more than your uncle’s haughty, scornful, persecuting resentment of
these people’s affronts. You used to laugh, and say to your uncles,
‘Your anger is inadequate to the offence; it is ungenerous. These
objects of your displeasure are very harmless enthusiasts.’ _And now!_
Ah, Mark, I call to mind the poet’s line—

                ‘First endure, then pity, then embrace.’

You began by enduring, and you end by embracing their doctrines. Ah,
Mark! Mark! Mark! how came it so?”

“Uncle, did you never hear of a gay man or woman of the world—well
enough in their way—not sinners above all sinners, but with a certain
light, satirical way of treating serious subjects, and a certain
good-humoured contempt for those that entertained them—did you never
hear an instance of such a man or woman going into a religious meeting
to scoff, _but returning home to pray_? Well, very much akin to that was
my experience. I went to the convention in New York, just to fulfil a
promise made to my friend Lauderdale, and next to have a laugh at them!
At the first meeting—well; I am not going to give you a report of
it—sufficient is it to tell you that the subject was presented to my
mind in a new and startling aspect. I laughed, or rather _tried_ to
laugh, it off.”

“I wish to goodness you had taken it more earnestly than to begin with
laughing, to end with imitating.”

“At the second meeting, there were some still higher, purer souls, and
more eloquent and commanding tongues; lips touched with fire, whose
words were flame consuming the wrong principle, that shrivelled up
before it. But I do not mean to become eloquent myself. This is not the
time or place, nor are you the audience. It is enough to say that the
speakers in that meeting gave me the heartache and the headache, and I
wished in my soul I had never entered their hall. Yet nevertheless a
fascination drew me there the third evening. And then, whether ‘the
master minds’ of the cause had said all they had to say for the time, or
whether they had not yet arrived upon the scene of action, I really
cannot say—(for the room was crowded, and not by friends of the cause,
as you will hear, but by conspirators, who had come there to break the
meeting up)—but certainly, after one short address of thrilling
eloquence and power—during the progress of which I felt myself to be a
participant in an injustice, and at the close of which I was ready to
make an irrevocable oath to clear my life from the sin—up jumps a
fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, and more deviltry, I perfectly
believe, than either, and so defames me and my fellow-citizens of the
South, and so caricatures us as monsters of atrocity, and so whirrs and
rattles whips and chains and gyves about my ears and eyes, that it was
the cast of a die whether I should laugh or swear. But before it was
decided, a resolution was put and an amendment offered, and two or three
people rose, and half a dozen began to speak, and everybody wanted to
talk, and nobody—but me—wanted to hear, and there was a confusion inside
and a gathering mob outside, and in an incredibly short time there was a
hailstorm of stones, and battered walls, and smashed windows, and the
meeting was broken up in a row; and my Celtic blood boiled up and boiled
over; and while laying about me valiantly in defence of freedom of
speech, _I lost myself_. And when I found myself, I was lying with a
broken arm and broken head in the watchhouse!”

“Good gracious, Mark! what a dishonour! What would my sister, what would
my niece, say to that?”

“They do not know it, and they need not.”

“Well, really, one would have thought that would have cured you!”

“My good uncle, it did—of _indecision_. One is very apt to be confirmed
to a cause in which they have suffered somewhat. I lay very ill for two
weeks. During that time I was ministered to by some excellent men, and
_women_ also—persons whose disinterestedness, benevolence, gentleness,
and perfect sincerity, gave me such a deep and beautiful impression of
the Christian character as I had never received from book or
pulpit—persons who had sacrificed fortune, position, friendships—_all_,
to a pure but despised cause. It was the silent influence, even more
than the spoken words of these, which fixed me forever in my good
purpose.”

“It may be true, Mark, that there are such, or it may only have seemed
so to you. What I know is, that if there are such disinterested souls in
the cause, they are, at best, only the instruments with which the party
leaders work for their own individual ends and selfish purposes.”

“No, it is not so, nor could it be so; wisdom and goodness could not
become the tools of selfishness and worldliness.”

“Now, Mark, don’t stand there and try to dazzle your old uncle’s
intellect, by a fine-sounding Joseph Surface sentiment! You must either
be a blockhead, or take me for one, when you pretend to tell me that the
teachers of that party are not a set of self-seeking agitators, whose
motives range from the mere getting of daily bread, up to the getting of
political power; and who, if it fell easily in their way, would as
willingly reach their ends by entering into the slave trade, as by
agitating the question of emancipation.”

The hot blood crimsoned Mark Sutherland’s brow, and he answered
indignantly—

“You speak of that of which you know nothing. You speak of those
whose”——

“Ah! _don’t_ I know nothing?” interrupted Mr. Bolling. “Where is that
Mr. Grab, who came down here as a travelling preacher, and took that
opportunity (or perhaps he was sent on purpose, and paid to do it) to
preach abolition to the poor whites and the blacks, and to do Satan
knows what other mischief; and the Lord knows what judgment would have
fallen on him from our incensed planters, if he had not been offered an
asylum in the house of your cousin, Mrs. Tilden, who, being a
sentimental, compassionate young woman, and finding herself the
protectress of a pale, persecuted young preacher, began to court him, as
widows _will_ court; and so, when all her brothers and brothers-in-law
came in force to turn him out and lynch him, they met the pair coming
home from the minister’s—_married_! The pretty widow, the plantation,
and the negroes, had proved most convincing arguments, and had converted
him. And now, when he feels it necessary to defend himself from the
charge of treachery to his party, he says, ‘Oh, the erroneous sentiments
of his youth were the effects of ignorance and enthusiasm!’ Umph, humph!
we all understand that—in his case second thoughts _paid better_.”

During this speech, Mark had put down his anger, and now replied,
gravely and earnestly—

“Uncle, it is a point that I must meet—this of yours. It has given _me_
much, deep pain. But why should it make you scornful and incredulous of
the disinterestedness of these reformers, or why should it give me
sorrow? We must separate a high and pure cause, and its devoted
self-sacrificing supporters, from its few unworthy advocates. Why,
uncle, do we reject Christianity because among the Saviour’s chosen
twelve there was one Judas, who was covetous, and whose covetousness
made him sell his master? Or because among His many disciples there were
some who followed Him, hoping for high places in the kingdom they
supposed Him about to establish on earth? Or, even now, do we all refuse
to hear the Gospel preached, because there have been some Averys and
Onderdonks in the pulpits? And shall we stop our ears, and close our
eyes, and fold our hands before the cause of reform, for the reason that
there are some Grabs in the party? Nay, God forbid!”

Mark Sutherland paused as in painful thought some time, and then, with
more than usual emotion, he exclaimed—

“I would to God there were _no_ Achans in the camp! For this work, that
at the best is apt to arouse so much evil passion—for this work,
requiring so much wisdom and goodness to carry it on aright—for this
work, more than for all others, should the labourers have clear heads,
and clean hands, and pure motives.”

Then, after a short pause, addressing his uncle again, and taking his
hand, he said—

“Uncle, _I_ am about to sacrifice all I have in the world, to principles
I have but so lately embraced. Well, sir, believe me, for it is God’s
holy truth—notwithstanding these Grabs who bring dishonour on their
cause, there are hundreds of philanthropists who have sacrificed as much
as _I_.”

“Indeed, _indeed_, Mark, you are very wrong and foolish to do this
thing! Very, _very_ foolish and wrong, indeed. _Nevertheless_, I am
constrained to say that you are perfectly wise and right in persevering
in your duty! _Yes, sir!_” said Mr. Bothsides, wiping his face
furiously, and stuffing his white handkerchief back in his pocket. “And
now, what do you mean to do further?” he asked.

“I shall go to the West.”

“Yes—yes—yes—yes,” said Uncle Billy, meditatively; “do so. Go to the
West—go to some new place, and grow up with it. It will be the easiest
thing on earth for you to rise in the world there, and success in the
end is almost certain—_though_—confound it! you will find you’ll have to
struggle very hard, and be very apt to be disappointed at last. You have
no reason in the world to be the least bit discouraged—_but_—you must
not be sanguine—that I can tell you! I make it a rule, without an
exception never to give advice, Mark—_notwithstanding_—if you are ever
at a loss how to act in an emergency, consult me, Mark—my best counsel
is at your service. And I really think that with it you could not
possibly go wrong,” said Mr. Bolling, drawing his handkerchief from his
pocket and wiping his forehead, and replacing it with a look of great
self-complacency.

“My dear Uncle Billy,” said Mark, with a quiet smile, “believe me, I
know how to appreciate your fine, impartial judgment, and feel convinced
that I never should come to harm in following your advice.”

With this proof of his high-minded nephew’s affection and confidence,
Mr. Bolling’s blue eyes filled with tears, and he seized Mark’s hand,
and squeezed it, and shook it, crying—

“Deuce fly away with you, Mark! I feel a perfect contempt for your folly
and wrong-headedness in this matter—_nevertheless_—I am compelled to
admit that I am filled with unmingled admiration for the wisdom and
rectitude of your character and conduct! _Yes, sir!_”

This was said with great emphasis, and once more the cambric
handkerchief was brought into violent requisition.

An hour after the end of this conversation, Mark Sutherland was seated
in the library, impatiently waiting the entrance of his uncle, with whom
he had at last succeeded in appointing an interview. He was anxious,
restless, and unable to occupy himself with anything, during the few
moments which seemed ages before the planter should enter. He tumbled
over the books, rumpled the papers, shifted his position many times,
started up and paced the floor, looked out of all the windows in turn,
and finally went to the door to listen, and reached it just as it was
swung open in his face, and old Clement Sutherland entered. The planter
walked to the centre of the room, and threw himself into his
leather-covered chair at his writing-table, saying, in a curt voice—

“Well, sir, what is your business with me?”

Startled by the unusual sternness of his manner, Mark Sutherland turned
and looked at him inquiringly. The planter’s countenance wore an aspect
of severity that at once told his nephew that from some cause or by some
means he had been led to suspect the nature of the communication the
latter was about to make him.

“Will you oblige me, sir, by opening your business at once, as my time
is somewhat valuable?” said Clement Sutherland, looking at his watch.

The young man bowed, drew a chair to the opposite side of the table,
took a seat, excused himself, and deprecated his uncle’s displeasure for
the painful subject he was about to introduce.

Here Clement Sutherland waved his hand impatiently, begging that he
would cut his introduction as short as possible.

Then the young man commenced to relate the history of his life and
experiences for the last preceding three months; he told how he had been
induced to attend the colonization meetings, first merely in the spirit
of bravado; how, in hearing the subject freely and ably discussed, the
conviction had forced an entrance into his soul.

Here Clement Sutherland wheeled his chair around, so that his back was
presented to the light, and his face cast into deep shadow, and from
this instant to the end of the conversation, Mark Sutherland could not
watch the expression of his countenance to judge his mental comments.

But he went on to relate how long and stoutly he had struggled against
this conviction; how at last it had overcome him; how his pride, his
selfishness, his interests, his passions, and affections—all had
yielded, or must yield in any conflict between them and his sense of
duty.

“_Facts, sir! facts!_ Let us have no sentiments, no moral or
metaphysical disquisitions, but actual facts! What do you intend to do?”

Mark Sutherland answered, calmly—

“To free every negro on my plantation, and at my own expense to send
every one, who is willing to go, to Liberia.”

A scornful, most insulting laugh, was the only comment of the planter.

“And after freeing them, I must do all in my power to place them in a
situation of happier circumstances for their present, and more hopeful
probabilities for their future, lives.”

The young man here paused, and as the planter did not answer, silence
ensued between them for several minutes, during which the latter passed
his hand slowly back and forth over his bearded chin. At length Mark
Sutherland said, in a troubled voice—

“I do not wish to conceal from you, sir, the fact that my greatest trial
in this affair has been connected with the thought of India.”

Again he paused for a reply or comment. But the planter only caressed
his bristling chin, while his countenance was inscrutable in the deep
shadow.

The youth spoke again:

“It has been a subject of deep regret and anxiety to me, to feel that I
can no longer hope to offer India a fortune or a position equal to her
just expectations. For myself, I have no doubts or fears for the future.
I feel within me a power to struggle and to conquer. I feel assured that
within a very few years my position will be a higher one than it is now,
or than it would be were I to retain my present wealth. I believe that
my India will have no cause to blush for her husband, or you for your
son-in-law.”

Still the old man did not make a single remark, and so deep remained his
face in the shadow, that the youth could not read his thoughts. It was
rather trying to continue speaking under these circumstances; but there
was no alternative. He concluded by saying—

“Although I have long enjoyed the pleasure of your approbation in my
addresses to your daughter, I thought it proper to take the very
earliest opportunity of informing you of my purposes, and the consequent
change they must make in my fortune and circumstances. And now, sir, I
have told you all, and I wait in much anxiety to hear what you have to
say.”—

“What do you _wish_ me to say?” dryly inquired the planter.

“Just what is on your mind, my uncle.”

“Humph! this is rather sudden, sir. It is true that a few words dropped
by Mr. Bolling, and unexpectedly overheard by myself, in some degree
prepared me for the strange communication you have just made. Still, it
is sudden, sir! It is sudden! What, may I inquire, did you _expect_ me
to say? How did you anticipate that I should meet this?”

Mark Sutherland hesitated to reply, but got up and walked the floor in
an exceedingly troubled manner.

A strange smile sat upon the face of the planter. At last he said—

“You doubtless, and with much justice, expected me to withdraw my
consent to the marriage of yourself and my daughter. Did you not? Reply,
if you please.”

“Sir—my dear uncle!” said Mark, coming forward again, “I had my doubts
and misgivings about that. It would have been unjust to you to have
seriously _entertained_ them; and it would be unjust to myself to say
that I did so.”

“You were right, sir!” said the planter, with the same inscrutable
smile; “you were right—I shall not interfere. Having once sanctioned
your addresses to my daughter, I shall not now oppose them. Miss
Sutherland is of age. I refer you solely to her. If, under the new
aspect of affairs, she is willing that this engagement between you and
herself shall stand, and that the preparations for marriage proceed, I
shall throw no obstacles in your way. Nay, further, sir, that in that
case, the marriage shall be conducted precisely as, under other
circumstances, it was planned—that is, in all things befitting the
social position of myself and my sole daughter. Our interview is at an
end, I believe?”

The _words_ of Clement Sutherland would have called forth from his
nephew the warmest emotions and expressions of gratitude, but that the
tone and the smile that accompanied them, more than neutralised their
good effect, and sent a pang of terrible foreboding through the heart of
the young man.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said, laying his hand gently and respectfully upon
the arm of his uncle, as the latter was rising to leave the library. “Do
I understand you to say that you approve”——

“You will please to understand me to say, sir, that I refer you to my
daughter, Miss Sutherland, and that I shall endorse her decision,
whatever that may be. Excuse me, sir—good afternoon.”

And Clement Sutherland, coldly bowing, left the library.

Mark Sutherland walked up and down the floor in great disturbance of
mind, and then at last he seized his hat and hurried from the room, to
seek the presence of India.




                               CHAPTER V.
                  CHAMBRE DE TOILETTE ET LA TROUSSEAU.

              “’Tis a proud chamber and a rich,
              Filled with the world’s most costly things,
                Of precious stones and gold;
              Of laces, silks, and jewelry,
                And all that’s bought and sold.”—_Howitt._


“Rosalie! what is it you are poring over, now? Good heaven! Moore’s
Sacred Melodies! Now, my love, that is not the food for you to be
feeding your sick fancies upon! Plague take the books! I could find it
in my heart to throw every one I find into the fire! Come, throw aside
that _blazée_ sentimentalist, and come with me into Miss Sutherland’s
room, and try to interest yourself a little in healthful external life.
Miss Sutherland’s boxes have just arrived from Paris, _viâ_ New Orleans;
they have been carried up into her dressing-room; and by this time, I
suppose, the men have opened them, and carried off all the rubbish of
nails, and bands, and outside boxes, and we have only to go and help to
set the beautiful things at full liberty.”

This was addressed by Mrs. Vivian to her step-daughter, when, on
entering the chamber of the latter, she found the young invalid
reclining upon a couch, and reading, as usual.

The fair girl closed her book, and smiling gently, arose, and passed her
arm through that of her step-mother. And they left the chamber, crossed
the hall, opened an opposite door, and entered the dressing-room of Miss
Sutherland.

A scene of splendid chaos met their view. Most of the boxes had been
unpacked and taken away, and their brilliant contents littered chairs,
couches, ottomans, psyches, and even the carpet. And the favoured
mistress of all this wealth sat in the midst of the resplendent
confusion, with an air of extreme languor and indifference. At her feet
sat her beautiful hand-maiden, Oriole, with a box of white satin
slippers by her side, and her mistress’s small foot in her lap, fitting
the fairy shoes. By her side stood her woman, Meda, holding a box of
white kid gloves, from which she continued to hand out pair after pair
to the young lady, who would draw one half upon her fingers, and then
draw it off and let it fall, and drop her hand upon her lap with a look
of extreme fatigue, as if the exertion had really been too much for her,
and say, languidly—

“There, take them away; they are all too large, or too small, or
something”——

“Dear India, how can you say that?” said Mrs. Vivian, approaching, and
taking up a pair of gloves; “they are all exactly of a size, and all
number sixes—your number—and are really beautiful gloves.”

“But I’m so tired—it is such a bore. Oriole, cease tormenting my feet,
and take away those odious slippers.”

“How can you call them odious—the beauties?” said Mrs. Vivian, stooping
down, and taking up a pair.

And Oriole herself echoed the question with her eyes, as she fondled her
mistress’s beautiful foot, in its case of white satin, soft and light as
a snow-flake.

“Oriole, did I not tell you to let my foot alone? Meda, clear away all
this chaos from around me. Rosalie, my love, reach me the vinaigrette”——

“Can _I_ also do anything to serve you?” asked Mrs. Vivian,
mischievously.

“Yes, dear Valeria; just see that they hang the dresses up, and put away
the cases and things, while I close my eyes upon this glare, and rest.”

Mrs. Vivian arched her eyebrows, and did as she was bid, examining at
her leisure the magnificent trousseau, as it was detailed off under her
eye into various wardrobes and bureaus. Only once she interrupted the
repose of Miss Sutherland, to ask her if the wedding-dress had come.

“Meda, tell Mrs. Vivian about it,” said the languid beauty, scarcely
lifting her long lashes.

And the waiting-woman respectfully telegraphed the lady, and preceded
her into the adjoining chamber, where upon the bed was laid the
magnificent bridal costume of white brocaded satin, the superb veil of
Honiton lace, and the beautiful chaplet of orange flowers.

Mrs. Vivian beckoned Rosalie, and when the child stood by her side, they
examined it together, and the mother tried to make the daughter
understand how elegant, how costly, how _recherché_ was this costume.

“And to think,” she said, “that India is so indifferent about a
trousseau that would have turned my head when I was a girl. I don’t
believe it _is_ indifference either; I believe it is affectation.”

“No, it is not, mamma. She is really indifferent to all this. There is
something troubles her. She was not resting when she sat so still. I saw
her lips tremble and her eyelids quiver.”

Mrs. Vivian cast a scrutinizing glance at the girl, thinking, “How is it
that in some things she is observant?” But Rosalie, almost
unconsciously, was repeating to herself the refrain of the song she had
been reading:—

                     “All that’s bright must fade.”

“Rosalie, have done with that sentimental melancholy; it disturbs me;
and it is untrue, besides. The best things are most enduring. And it is
all nonsense, besides, to suppose that anything more serious than
indolence troubles India. And now, my dear, do you know the programme of
these bridal festivities and tour, as we arranged it yesterday?”

“No,” said the young girl, trying to be interested.

Mrs. Vivian dropped herself into an easy chair at the side of the bed,
and Rose sank upon the cushion at her feet, and laid her head in the
lady’s lap; and while Valeria ran her fingers caressingly through the
soft ringlets of the child, she said—

“The marriage was long ago fixed to come off on Miss Sutherland’s
birthday, and she and her friends see no reason to change it now. That,
you know, my dear, is on the 15th of this month—a week from to-day. The
ceremony is to take place in the morning, my love, and you are to be one
of the bridesmaids. Immediately after the benediction, the bridal pair
are to set out upon a tour of the springs and other places of
fashionable summer resort, of six weeks. You and I, Rose, are going up
into the pine woods, to a quiet farm-house, to spend the hot months; for
indeed, dear child, I do not think you strong enough to bear the fatigue
of a northern journey, or the crowd and bustle of a watering-place.”

“Dear mamma, how much you give up for me!”

“My child, I would do anything in the world to see you restored to
health and cheerfulness like other young girls.”

“But this, sweet mamma, is too much to sacrifice. It is too much for you
to give up Saratoga and Nahant, where you meet so many friends and
admirers, and where you enjoy and adorn society so much. Mamma, do not
think of giving this pleasure up, and burying yourself for me in the
pine woods. Let us go to Saratoga.”

“My love! I tell you the long, fatiguing journey, the crowded hotels,
the execrable tables, the wretched attendance, and the noise and
confusion, would kill you, Rosalie!”

“And then my sweet mamma would really be the rich young southern widow
she is generally supposed to be,” said the girl, gazing on her young
step-mother with a fond, sorrowful smile.

“Oh, Rosalie! why did you say that to me, love? Do you believe in the
traditional selfishness of all step-mothers, from the days of
Cinderella’s step-dame to yours? Or have you read such poetry as—

                   ‘There’s nothing true but heaven,’

till you have lost faith in all things?—poetry that, Heaven knows, gives
anything but ‘Glory to God, and peace and good will to man.’”

“Dear mamma, I am very sorry I said what I did. Oh, believe me, it was
far from my heart to be so cruelly unjust as I see you must think me!
_You selfish_—the most disinterested mother that ever cherished a poor,
sick, troublesome child! Oh, forgive the light and thoughtless words
that could be twisted into such a hint.”

“Just tell me how you came to say what you did, Rosalie, for the words
trouble me.”

“Nay, never heed them, dear, kind mamma. Forget them; they were wicked
words, since they gave you pain.”

“Rosalie, I insist upon knowing what put such a thought into your head.”

“Mother, sometimes I hear things not intended for my ear, which,
nevertheless, I cannot help hearing”—

“Explain.”

“Why, often when I have been reclining in a shaded window-seat with a
book, or lying on a distant sofa with my eyes closed, and they think I
am asleep, or quite abstracted, I hear them say, ‘Poor girl, she is a
trouble to herself and all around her.’ ‘She can never live to be a
woman; so, if it were the Lord’s will, it were better she should die
now.’ ‘Her death would be a great relief to the young widow; and, by the
way, Mrs. Vivian would come into the whole property then, would she
not?’ That is all, dear mamma. Do not let it disturb you. It did not
disturb me the least.”

Mrs. Vivian placed her hand upon the bell. Miss Vivian gently arrested
her purpose, saying—

“What are you about to do, mamma?”

“Ring, and order our carriage. I will not stay in this house, where you
are so cruelly wounded, one minute longer than is required to put the
horses to the carriage.”

“Dear mother, you cannot surely imagine that it is in _this_ house I
have ever been injured, in word or deed?”

“Where, then, Rose? Rose, you have distressed me beyond all measure.
Tell me where it is that such wanton words meet your ear?”

“Dear mother, almost everywhere where you and I sojourn for any length
of time. On our own plantation; in our own house at New Orleans; at our
place in the pine woods; and while we are travelling, in steamboats, in
hotels—in short, wherever the great world that knows us has entered.”

The lady looked so deeply distressed, and the maiden felt so grieved to
see her troubled, that she hastened to turn the conversation, by saying,
gaily—

“But, mamma, you did not finish telling me about our summer
arrangements. You said that immediately after the marriage ceremony, the
bridal pair would set out on a tour of the northern watering-places, and
that you and I should go into the pine woods. And what next?”

“We shall spend two months in the pine woods, where the terebinthine air
is so strongly recommended as the great specific for weak or diseased
lungs; and where the quiet and regular hours, plain, simple food, and
gentle exercise, will bring back the colour to my child’s cheeks. And,
after two months, when my drooping rose will be fresh and blooming
again, I will take her to Charleston, South Carolina, there to meet the
married pair by appointment, and who, it is to be hoped, will then be
sufficiently satisfied with each other’s exclusive society, to be able
to tolerate _ours_ for a little while. When we join them, we embark
across the ocean, and make the tour of Europe together—winter in Sicily,
and return home next spring. And by that time, I hope, the sea voyage,
the change of scene and of climate, will have completely restored my
darling to health!”




                              CHAPTER VI.
                             LOVE AND GOLD.

             “On her forehead sitteth pride,
             Crown’d with scorn, and falcon-eyed,
             Yet she beneath, methinks, doth twine
             Silken smiles that seem divine.
             Can such smiles be false and cold?
             Will she only wed for gold?”—_Barry Cornwall_.


While Mrs. Vivian sat talking with her daughter in the bed-chamber of
Miss Sutherland, the latter remained in the adjoining dressing-room,
where we left her seated in the easy chair, with her hands folded upon
her lap, and her eyes closed as in gentle repose, only sometimes a
half-smothered, shuddering sigh disturbed the statue-like stillness of
her form. It was no deep sorrow, no great anxiety, that troubled this
favourite of fortune—only, being quite unused to pain of any sort,
physical or mental, she was impatient of its lightest touch. But she had
that day been summoned to the presence of her father, and by him had
been informed of Mr. Mark Sutherland’s whole plan, as he had just
learned it from the latter. The planter had told his daughter, with
distinct and dreadful detail, of all the numerous privations, toils,
hardships, and humiliations, and vaguely hinted at a countless variety
of suffering she must endure, if she should become a party to her
lover’s purpose. He had further assured her, that if she should remain
firm in opposing the plan of her lover, his resolution must finally
yield to his affection for herself. And at last he had wrung from his
daughter a promise, that she would make the total resignation of Mr.
Mark Sutherland’s plans the only condition upon which their marriage
should proceed. And so the interview between father and daughter had
closed; and Miss Sutherland had returned to her room with little
disposition to be amused by the variety and splendour of her
newly-arrived trousseau. And, by seeming lassitude and nonchalance, she
had drawn upon herself the unjust censure of Mrs. Vivian, and the
wondering compassion of the more sympathetic Rosalie.

India never for an instant doubted her power over Mark Sutherland; nay,
she never mentally even limited the _extent_ of that power. The worst
she anticipated was a controversy with her betrothed. That this
controversy could end in any other manner than in her own favour, she
never once inquired. That his fanaticism must yield to her influence,
she felt certain. But she did not like to have to exert this influence.
She admired and honoured Mark Sutherland above all men—nay, there were
times when she feared him above all things. And she loved him as those
of her clime only love. And with all her faults, this spoiled child of
fortune was too true a woman to wish to take the position and tone of a
dictator to the man she so loved. Nay, she felt indignant with all
concerned in thrusting upon her such inevitable, yet such repulsive,
“greatness.” And now she sat trying to compose her nerves and collect
her thoughts for the unavoidable interview to which she momentarily
expected to be summoned.

She had not much longer to wait. A servant soon entered, and, bowing,
informed her that Mr. Sutherland requested the favour of an interview at
her earliest convenience, and desired to know when and where she would
receive him.

“Where is Mr. Sutherland?” inquired the young lady.

“In the library, Miss.”

“Proceed thither and announce me, then.”

Arrived at the library, the man opened the door, and merely saying,
“Miss Sutherland, sir,” held it open until she had passed in, and then
closing it, retired.

And India found herself alone with Mark. He was sitting at a central
library-table, leaning with his head resting upon his hand; his face was
very pale, his countenance haggard, his dark hair slightly dishevelled,
his manner disturbed and anxious, yet withal controlled. He arose and
advanced to meet her, led her to a sofa, and placed himself beside her.
Taking her hand in his own, and pressing it gently, he looked down into
her face, regarding her with a grave, sweet, sad, almost solemn
expression of countenance; and, after a brief pause, he said, “My
dearest India, you cannot be at a loss to understand my motive for
requesting this interview?”

He paused, as expecting her assent, but she did not reply in any way.
She did not even lift her glance from the carpet. He pressed her hand
fondly, and resumed: “My love, the time has come, the opportunity is
presented for us—even for _us_, my India—to put in practice some of
those high examples of heroism, which in others have so often won our
fervent admiration. Even _we_, my India, may”—

She arrested his serious words by suddenly drawing her hand away, and
hurriedly exclaiming, “I have heard something of your purpose of
manumitting the people on your various plantations. But I would prefer
to hear your plan of benevolence, or philanthropy, whichever it may be,
from your own lips, unwarped by prejudice, and uncoloured by passion,
and _with as little preface as possible_!”

The coldness and reserve of her words and tones smote him to the heart.
Nevertheless, he replied, “My purpose is no plan of benevolence or
philanthropy, my dear India, but a simple act of justice, originating in
a simple impulse of conscientiousness.” Then gently repossessing himself
of her hand, he held it tenderly in his own, while he began, and, for
the fourth time since his return home, related all the mental and moral
experiences that had led him to determine upon the contemplated act of
emancipation. She heard him out without again interrupting him. She sat
very still, with her face pale and impassable, and her eyes cast down.
She was no match for him in argument, yet, nevertheless, seeing that he
silently awaited her answer, and preferring to convert rather than to
cast him off, she recalled and repeated all the arguments she had ever
heard in defence of slavery; she began by saying that she thought the
existence of the system of slavery to be the manifest will and
ordination of Divine Providence; and she wondered how any rational being
could doubt it. Was not their present subordinate position here
infinitely preferable to their former savage and cannibal condition on
the coast of Congo? Here at least they were Christianized.

A smile dawned upon the young man’s countenance. She saw and felt it.
Her cheek flushed, and she hastened to say—

“They must be blind indeed, Mr. Sutherland, who cannot see in the
enslavement of the African race by the Anglo-Saxons the purpose of
Divine Providence to civilize Africa.”

Mark Sutherland took her hand, and replied gently—

“My dear India, we do not deny that God continually brings good out of
evil; but is _that_ a justification of the evil? And even admitting, for
argument’s sake, that the reduction of a portion of the Ethiopian race
to slavery by the Anglo-Americans is to be the means of Christianizing
them, is it not full time, after two hundred years of bondage, that some
of this harvest sowed with tears and blood should be reaped?—that some
of these good fruits should begin to be enjoyed?”

“Besides,” said Miss Sutherland, eluding his question and evading his
eye, “there is a fitness in these relations between the European and the
African races—Europeans could not engage in agricultural labour under
the burning heat of our Southern sun”——

“But why _enslave_ the negroes—why not emancipate and hire them?”
interrupted Mark.

“O! you know,” she replied, hastily, “that the negroes will not work
effectually, unless driven to it.”

“Plantation slaves will not, I grant you; but what has reduced them to
this hopeless and inert condition?”

“I do not know why you should call their condition hopeless—I think,
upon the whole, they are at least as hopeful and as happy as poor white
people, or free blacks. And I never heard of a bad master, who was not
also a bad son, brother, husband, father, neighbour—in short, who was
not a bad Christian. And if you feel a call to reform the world, Mark
Sutherland, why not begin at the right end, and Christianize it—and all
other reform will follow early, and as a matter of course. Why not do
that?”

“Because, my dear India, unluckily the world thinks itself already
Christian. ‘And if the light that is in it be darkness, how great is
that darkness?’ Neither, my dear girl, am I the missionary to dispel it.
I am quite unworthy of, and unpretending to, the name of Christian, and
have no presumption to begin reforming the world, either at the right
end or the wrong end. I only wish to do what I consider a simple act of
justice, in a matter between me and my own conscience.”

“I do not understand why your ‘conscience’ should meddle in the matter.
The system appears to me to be perfectly right—every thing that we can
wish. There is a beautiful adaptation in the mutual relations existing
between the Anglo-Saxon master and the Ethiopian slave; for, observe,
the Anglo-Saxon is highly intellectual, strong, proud, firm,
self-willed, impelled to govern, gifted with great mental independence;
the Ethiopian, on the contrary, is very _un_intellectual, weak, lowly in
mind, imitative, affectionate, docile, easily controlled—and these
traits of character so harmonize in this connection, that it seems to
need only the spirit of Christianity to make it a beautiful and happy
correspondence.”

“I think, my dearest girl, that even in that case the ‘beautiful and
happy correspondence’ would be like Irish reciprocity—_all on one side_.
Selfishness so blinds us, India”——

I have no space to dilate on what was said on either side. Both grew
very serious, earnest, and emphatic. India became heated, fevered; she
brought forward every plea she had ever heard pressed in favour of her
own side of the controversy; but she was not his equal in logic. Baffled
and disappointed in her failure, and unnerved by the strangeness of
anxiety and contention, she suddenly burst into tears, and passionately
exclaimed—

“You do not love me! You never loved me! You prefer the fancied welfare
of these miserable negroes to my comfort and happiness!”

Mark Sutherland saw and felt only her tears and sorrow, and addressed
himself to soothe her with all a lover’s solicitude. She took advantage
of his tenderness—perhaps she even misunderstood it. She had failed to
convince his judgment by her arguments, failed to change his purpose by
opposition and reproaches, and now she resolved to try the power of
love—of persuasion. She let him draw her to his bosom; she dropped her
head upon his shoulder, with her blushing, tearful face and soft hair
against his cheek, her arm upon his neck, and half-caressing, suffered
herself to be caressed, and let him feel how sweet her love was, by the
unutterable sweetness of her shy caress; and when his heart was weak
unto death, she pleaded with him, yieldingly, submissively, tearfully,
as with one who had the right and the power of ordering her destiny—that
he would not doom her to a lot so cruel, so terrible; that she was so
unprepared for it; that he must know she was; that it would kill her in
a year.

All this was pleaded with her head upon his shoulder, with her face
against his cheek, with her hand pressed around his neck. This seductive
gentleness was very hard to resist, indeed. He answered—

“My dearest India, you are sole mistress of your own destiny, and, to a
great extent, of mine. I did hope that you would have borne me company
in my pilgrimage, and, even from the first, have shared my lot, hard as
it is sure to be. We have both read and heard how women, even the most
tenderly reared and delicate, have, for affection, for constancy, for
truth, and the great idea of duty, borne poverty, toil, hardships and
privations, even with a better grace and with more fortitude and
patience than the strongest men. But I begin to think that history and
tradition must exaggerate. How, indeed, could my own fragile lady-love
endure what _my_ strong frame must encounter and overcome? No, dear
India, ardently as I once desired that you should be, from this time
forward, the partner of my lot, I see and feel that the wish was
thoughtless, unreasonable, selfish. It was exacting far too much. No,
dearest, painful as it must be to tear myself from you, I must go forth
alone to do battle with an adverse fate. Yet why should I call it
adverse? I go forth with youth, and health, and strength; with a liberal
education, and some talent; and when I have attained fame and fortune,
then, like a true knight, I will come and lay them at my lady’s feet,
and claim—no, not claim—but _sue for_ my blessed reward.”

She said that she could not let him go; it would break her heart to part
with him. Could he leave her to break her heart? Would he not give up
his purpose for her sake, and stay with her? Her head was still upon his
shoulder, and her face against his cheek. With a slight movement, at
once shy and fond, she pressed her lips to his neck, and repeated her
question: Would he not give up his purpose for her sake, and stay with
her?

He felt his fortitude and strength fast leaving him. Amidst the fondest
caresses, he said—

“My own dear India! how have I merited such love? My India, I will not
stay so long as I said. I will not stay till I have won fame or fortune.
I cannot remain away so long. But as soon as I have won a modest
competence—in a year or two—I will be back to claim my blessing.”

Her tears fell like rain. Still she clasped, and pressed, and kissed his
neck, and said that would not do at all; he must not leave her—no, not
for a week; she could not, would not, bear it; she should die.

He kissed away her tears, fast as they fell, and then proposed again
that she should go with him, promising to do more than man ever did, or
even could do, to shield her from hardship till all hardship should be
over, as it surely would be in time.

With a few deep-drawn sighs, she lifted up her head, and answered, No,
she could not go; she was far too delicate to bear such a change; he
ought to know it, and ought not to ask it. _No, if he loved her_, he
must give up his project, and stay with her; _and if he did love her_,
he surely would do it. Any man that really loved would do that much for
his lady.

She was evidently merging from her tender, alluring mood, into an
irritable and capricious one.

Full of doubt and trouble at her words, he answered—

“My dearest India, I told you that this purposed action of mine is a
measure of conscience. You know it involves an immense sacrifice. Do you
suppose that I would make that sacrifice, except from the most righteous
principles, and do you suppose I can possibly abandon such principles?
My India, if from my great love for you I could now sacrifice my
conscience to your convenience, you would soon lose all esteem for me,
and, in losing all esteem, lose all comfort in loving me. My India, no
honourable woman can continue to love a man who has forfeited his own
and her respect. Do you not know that?”

Coldly she put away his encircling arms—coldly she withdrew herself from
him, saying—

“I see how it is, sir! You do not love me; you are faithless; you seek
an excuse to break with me, by putting our union upon conditions
impossible for me to comply with. You need not have taken such a crooked
path to a plain end, sir; you needed only to have frankly named your
wish, to have had your plighted troth restored. You are free, sir——to
unite yourself with one of the favoured race, the objects of your
manifest preference, if you please”——

This last, most insulting clause was cast at him with a glance of
insufferable scorn, as she turned to leave the room.

His brow crimsoned with the sudden smite of shame, and—

“_This from you, India!_” he exclaimed.

She was looking at him still; but the scorn and anger slowly passed from
her face, as he rose and advanced towards her, saying—

“But you are excited; I will not lay your bitter words to heart, nor
suffer you to leave me in anger. Dearest India!”

She had already regretted her sharp words; love and anger were balanced
in her bosom so evenly, that it took but a trifle to disturb the
equilibrium; and now his forbearance and his kind words completely upset
the scale, and love ascended. Turning to him once more, and throwing
herself in his open arms, she burst into tears, and said—

“Dearest Mark, only give up this mad, mad project, and I am all yours.
Oh, you know I am, any way; for even now the separation that would pain
you, would kill or madden me! But, oh! you know I cannot endure the
hardships you would prepare for me; they would be equally fatal. Give it
up, Mark! Dear Mark, give it up, for my sake, for your dear mother’s
sake, for all our sakes! Stay with us! do not divide us, and break our
hearts, by leaving us! We all love you so! you know we do! We would do
anything in the world for you, if you would stay with us! And I only
grow angry and lose my senses, and utter mad words, when you talk of
leaving us! Don’t go, Mark! Dearest Mark, don’t leave us.”

And so she pleaded, hiding her tears and blushes on his shoulder, and
clasping, and pressing, and kissing his neck and cheek. The pleadings of
young beauty to young love, most powerful, most painful to resist, yet
they were resisted, mournfully, but calmly and firmly, resisted.

She raised her head from his shoulder.

“And you persist in your purpose?” she said.

“My India, I cannot do otherwise.”

“Notwithstanding all the suffering you may cause your mother, your
relatives, and me?”

“My own India, I would I could bear all your grief in my own person.”

“But you adhere to your resolution?”

“I have no alternative.”

“And this is your final decision?”

He bowed.

“Even if you should lose me for ever?”

He started, as if suddenly struck by a bullet. He changed colour, but
did not speak. She regarded him fixedly. At last she said, slowly and
calmly—

“Will you please to answer my question?”

“India,” he said, “I will not for a moment, admit such a possibility.
God will never repay fidelity to conscience with calamity.”

“Perhaps it might not _be_ a calamity. I think it were well we should
understand each other. The question is now before you—do not evade it.”

“My India, it is not _practically_ before me. No, thank Heaven, the
intolerable alternative of resigning you or my principles is _not_ yet
before me.”

“By all our past dreams, and present hopes, of happiness, I assure you
that the alternative is now submitted to you, sir. And I adjure you, by
your conscience, and by the strength of your vaunted principles, to
decide the question, which I now repeat to you—if the adherence of your
present purpose involve the final loss of my hand and heart, do you
still persist in that purpose?”

Something in her tone caught up his glance, to rivet it upon her. Never
in all their lives had she seemed to him so beautiful, so regnant, so
irresistibly attractive. He gazed upon, he studied her face; nor did she
turn it from him, nor avert her glance. She met his searching gaze
proudly, fearlessly, imperially; she seemed to wish that he should read
her soul, and know its immutable determination. There was no pique, no
anger, no weakness, or wavering, on that high, haughty brow now; there
was nothing but calm, indomitable resolution. He gazed upon her in
wonder, and in sorrow, some time fascinated by the imperious beauty of
her young brow, and marvelling that this could be the tender, seductive
woman that lay cooing on his bosom scarce an hour ago. It would not do
to waver now. He took her hand again. He answered, solemnly—

“India, you have adjured me, by my conscience, by the sacredness of my
honour, to answer your question, and say whether, were the alternative
finally before me, I should resign my resolution, or be resigned by you.
India, I may not, must not, evade this. And I answer now, by my sacred
honour and my hopes of heaven, come what may, of trial, of suffering, or
of agony, I will never forego this purpose, to which reason and
conscience alike urge me.”

“And that is your final determination?”

He bowed.

“Now, then, hear mine; but first I give you back your plighted troth and
its less perishable symbol”—here she drew a diamond ring from her
finger, and handed it to him—“and I remove your image from my heart with
less difficulty than I disentangle this miniature one from my
chain”—here she took a locket, set with diamonds, from her chatelaine,
and handed him. He received both pledges back, and stood with a certain
mournful dignity, awaiting her further words and actions. “And now,” she
said, “let me make you thoroughly acquainted with my thought upon this
subject which so interests you, so that you may see how far, as the East
is from the West, is my thought from yours. Know, that I like the
position that I occupy, the power that I wield; our plantation is as
large as a German or Italian principality; our people are better
governed, more prosperous, and more profitable, than the subjects of
such a principality. We have more power than its prince. And I was born
to this power; I am accustomed to it; I like it. Heaven crowned me with
it; and do you think that I will discrown my brow to become—what? A
drudging peasant? NEVER! And now, hear my oath. As you are the ‘dupe’ of
a party, we separate, never to meet again until you have recovered
manhood and independence enough to abjure this pernicious influence, and
abandon the mad project to which it has forced you—so help me God!”

And, turning haughtily away, she left the room.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                               REACTION.

  “Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bend
    To this thy purpose—to begin, pursue,
  With thoughts all fixed and feelings purely kind;
    Strength to complete, and with delight review,
    And grace to give the praise where all is due.”—_Charles Wilcox._


It was over. Until this, he had not realized his true position. Nay, he
did not fully realize it now. He sat, as one stunned, in the seat into
which he had dropped when the door closed behind her. Until now, he had
been elevated by a high enthusiasm in his purpose, and supported by a
firm faith in her sympathy and co-operation—a faith, the strength of
which he had not known until it was stricken from him, and he was left
weaker than a child.

Why! it really had not seemed so great a sacrifice to resign wealth and
position with _her_ by his side—with _her_ approving looks, and smiles,
and words—with _her_ cordial, affectionate concurrence. And how often
the picture had glowed before his imagination, as he recalled her
kindling cheek, and kindling eye, and fervent imagination, while reading
with him of some heroic deed of self-devotion in _another_! And when he
thought of all that earnest enthusiasm with himself for its
object——forgive him, it was no better than a lover’s aspiration,
perhaps; but all his soul took fire at her image, and all things seemed
easy to do, to be, or to suffer, for such an unspeakable joy. That _he_
should be her Curtius, her Bayard, her Hampden, Sydney, her _hero_. And
until now, he had believed this, and had lived and acted under a strange
illusion. And if for an instant his faith in her sympathy had ever been
shaken, it was merely as the Christian believer’s trust is shaken, only
to strike its roots the deeper after the jar.

But now—oh! this was indeed the bitterness of death! In the first
stunned moment after his fall from such a height of confidence and joy,
into such a depth of desolation and wretchedness, he could scarcely
believe in his misery, far less analyze it, and detect its hidden and
bitterest element. And _this_ was its bitterest element—the ascertained
antagonism of his India—her _utter_ antagonism! This was the weapon that
had felled him to the earth. This was the fang of the adder, struck deep
in his heart, and poisoning all his soul!—with what? With
distrust!—distrust of her, of himself, of all men and women! As yet, all
this he felt, without acknowledging, nay, without perceiving it. He sat
there as one in a trance. And the hours that passed over him were as a
blank.

He was aroused by psychological disturbance. Why should he immolate
himself upon the altar of a principle that one half of the Christian
world would consider a mere madness? And how if, after all, it _was_
madness? How if he was self-deceived?—actuated by fanaticism, and not
by legitimate heroism? _She_ whose whole soul had glowed at the mere
mention of _true_ magnanimity—_she_ whose approbation had been the
ardently desired reward of his sacrifice—the object of his young
heart’s passionate aspiration—how had _she_ regarded him? As a hero or
a fanatic! How had she received him in his new aspect? Not as he had
often fondly prevised—not with a faithful, loving clasp, strengthening
his hands—not with a fervent, inspiring gaze, imparting courage and
energy to his soul—not with approval and sympathy, and faithful
cordial concurrence, confirming his faith—arming him for any
conflict—strengthening him for any sacrifice. Oh! no, no; far
otherwise. She had heard him with repelling hand and averted eye, and
scorn, and loathing, and repulsion, that had left him bitterly
disappointed, humbled, weakened, prostrated, _paralyzed_ by
self-doubt!

Was she right? Was he a madman?

Oh! there had been an element of worship and of aspiration in his love
for India. And was this idol a mere stone, upon which he had broken
himself in vain? He could not bear to think so. He was willing to
believe himself a fool or a madman, so that her image remained undimmed,
unspotted, unchanged in its shrine—so that she was still a perfect
woman, angel, goddess!

And was this not truly so? Was her decision not really just, and was he
not indeed a fanatic?

To _believe_ this, would end the struggle and the agony at once. To
_confess_ this, would restore harmony and happiness to the
grievously-disturbed family circle, and peace and joy to himself and his
India! How easy to step down from his pedestal of principle, frankly
confess it to have been a false position, taken in a fit of generous,
youthful enthusiasm; to jest over it with his friends—_friends recovered
by that step_; to call himself Don Quixote the younger, laugh at the
matter, and dismiss it to oblivion. And then India! This beautiful,
bewildering girl would be his own in five days. That vision whelmed him
in vague, intense delirium.

_Would_ it be so easy to step from his post, to abjure his principles,
to silence his conscience?

No! Even amid the intoxicating dream of his beautiful India’s love, his
stern soul answered, No!

He knew that he had _not_ taken a false position—the Tempter could not
persuade him that he had done so. He knew himself to be right; he knew
that he was not self-deceived. Not even now, in this hour of bitter
trial, would his moral sense be so confused. In his conscience, the
dividing line between right and wrong was too clearly, distinctly,
sharply defined, and there was no possibility of confusing or mistaking
the boundary.

And so the mental sophistry of the temptation ended.

And now for the moral conflict. Admitted that his convictions were those
of pure rational duty, why should he sacrifice so much to them? Did
_others_ around him do so? Did _any one_ live up to his or her high idea
of right? On the contrary, _who_ did not silence the voice of conscience
every day of their lives? _Who_ in this world was not, in their turn,
and in their way, more or less unjust, selfish? And did they not, the
best of them, compound for all this by going to church, and confessing
themselves “lost and ruined sinners,” and returning with a clean
conscience, like a tablet newly sponged over, and prepared to be
inscribed all over again with the same sins, to be effaced in the same
manner? Now, why could not he also do his pleasure, enjoy his wealth,
hold to this world, and secure heaven—all on these easy terms? It was
only to make a profession.

It would not do. His heart, it is true, had not been touched by the
spirit of Christianity, yet his mind was too clear and right to deceive
itself so delightfully about this matter. That grace of God which hath
appeared unto _all_ men, taught him that Christ was not the minister of
sin—not one who gave out patents conferring impunity in sin, and signed
with his own life-blood—not one who wiped out the sins of the soul, as
men sponge out marks from a note-book, to make room for more of the same
sort of matter—not one to make his own righteousness the shield for our
wilful unrighteousness. In a word, he felt and knew that Christ was not
the minister of sin.

This sorely tried and tempted man had made no professions, had used no
cant, but he nevertheless possessed a large portion of natural
conscientiousness, and he had a frank, light-hearted manner of doing
right, bordering on levity and nonchalance—a manner tending to mislead
superficial observers into making too shallow an estimate of the depth
and earnestness of his convictions and principles.

All his family, from the cold-hearted, clear-headed Clement Sutherland,
down to the ardent and impulsive India, had miscalculated the strength
of his character and the firmness of his purpose. And hence the
_comparative indifference_ with which they had hitherto received the
communication of his intentions. I say comparative indifference; for
though indeed the family were much disturbed that he should for a moment
entertain such purposes as he had revealed, yet none of them had doubted
that the influences which should be brought to bear upon him would
compel him to abandon his project. And thus agitation at this time was
calmness, perfect halcyon peace, in comparison with the confusion, the
chaos, the tremendous storm of indignation, opposition, and persecution,
that afterwards arose and hurtled around him. There are no wars so
bloody as civil wars; there are no feuds so deadly as family feuds;
there are no enemies so bitter, so cruel, so unrelenting, as those of
our own blood, when they _are_ enemies! Others may spare, but they will
_never_ spare! Others may in time become sated with vengeance, but
_they_ never! while their victim has one faculty of mind left uncrazed,
or one heartstring unwrung. Others may in time be touched by some sense
of justice; _they_ never! they hold to and defend their cruelty. Others
may repent; _they_ never. It would seem that a fatal blindness of sight
and hardness of heart fell upon them as a judgment from Heaven for their
unnatural sin.

Perhaps _you_ think that the days of martyrdom have been passed ever
since the stake and the faggot went into disrepute; and that the spirit
of persecution went out with the fires of Smithfield. If you do, may you
never have more reason for thinking otherwise than is contained in the
simple narrative before you. I am not going to enter minutely into the
details of all the scenes that followed that last interview between Mark
and India. I have all this time gone around and about the subject,
fearing or disliking to approach it. In real life, evil, malignant
passion is not really the graceful and dignified and all but too
fascinating thing that we see it represented on the stage—for instance,
in the toga and buskins of Brutus, and Cassius, or the train and plumes
of Lucretia Borgia. Nor has it a stately, measured gait, a sonorous
utterance, or a grand gesture. It is a humiliating fact, but it _is_ a
fact, that it looks and behaves very much more like an excited Terry or
Judy at a fair. It shakes its fists, and strides, and vociferates, and
chokes, and stutters. Fierce anger, hatred, and vengeance are of _no_
rank. They show just as hideous, revolting, and _vulgar_, in the prince
or princess, as in the meanest peasant. And all this has been suggested
by the recollection of the manner in which Mark Sutherland was treated
by his family.

He had made one more attempt to obtain another interview with India, by
addressing to her a note. This note was returned, with the seal
undisturbed, and with an insulting menace to the effect that any
communication addressed by Mr. Mark Sutherland to Miss Sutherland must
be preceded by a complete and final renunciation of his present
purposes, before it could be received by her. Full of bitterness, he
wrote to her again, and concluded his note thus:—

“I know you now, India; I know you perfectly. I no longer worship you.
Alas! there is nothing in you to worship, or even to approve beyond your
enchanting beauty. And yet I love you still for that bewildering beauty
and for the dream that is passing away. And you love me for something
better than that; you love me, now that for conscience I withstand you,
as you never loved me before. You wrong me in taking yourself away. You
take from me mine own. There is a voice in your heart that assures you
of this. But you stifle that voice. You outrage Nature—but beware! Be
sure that Nature is a dread goddess, and Nemesis waits upon her
bidding!”

There is something awful in the just anger of a noble-minded,
pure-hearted, high-spirited man; and thrice awful is it to the woman who
loves him, when that anger falls upon herself.

India received _this_ letter, and as she read it, bitter and scalding
tears fell upon it. He had surmised the truth—she _did_ love him now
with ten-fold strength and fervour, now that she had tried and proved
his strength. There was something in him to love, to lean upon, to
worship—something far more reliable, more attractive, and more binding
than mere masculine beauty—than the stately form, the dark, spirited
countenance, and the fascinating gaiety, that had pleased her childish
fancy. There was firmness, courage, fortitude, _moral strength_;
something that a true woman loves to rest upon, serve, adore. A wild and
passionate longing seized her heart—to go and stand by him in his
emergency—to help to sustain him, if it were ever so slight a help, in
this storm of opposition.

While the soul of India was convulsed in the terrible struggle between
her strong and passionate affection, and her invincible spirit of
antagonism, Mark Sutherland lingered at Cashmere. The habit of
considering himself a son of the house could not easily be uprooted; and
the absorption of all his thoughts and feelings in the subject of his
broken relations with India, prevented him, for a time, from perceiving
the cold and scornful demeanour of the master of the house. Had he not
been totally abstracted in mind, he would not for an hour have borne the
arrogance, which neither age nor relationship justified.

Miss Sutherland had perseveringly absented herself from the
drawing-room, and from the table—confining herself to her own room, and
taking her meals there.

At length one day, the family, as usual, with the exception of India,
sat down to dinner. There were present Clement and Paul Sutherland, Mrs.
Vivian, Miss Vivian, Mr. Bolling, Mark, and Lincoln—a party of seven
persons claiming to be refined women, or honorable men; in a word,
ladies and gentlemen—enough, under any emergency, to preserve the
decencies of a family dinner-table. Clement Sutherland, the host, sat
with the usual cloud upon his brow. When the waiter was about to lift
the cover from the dish before him, he arrested his act, by
saying—“Stop, sir! where is Miss Sutherland? Go, and let her know that
dinner waits.”

The man bowed and left the room. An embarrassing pause and silence
ensued, during which Clement Sutherland sat back in his chair, with a
scowl upon his yellow forehead, with an expression and an attitude that
he doubtless supposed to be awfully tragic and imposing, and which, in
truth, was inexpressibly disagreeable, and even alarming; for all
present felt that under all that ridiculous dramatic acting there was
some real offence meant—some mean, unmanly, inhospitable act to be
perpetrated. In about ten minutes, the servant returned. Entering, and
stepping lightly, he went up to his master’s side, bowed, and in a low
voice said—“Miss Sutherland, sir, has ordered me to say that she desires
to be excused.” And, with another bow, the waiter retired, and stood
behind his master’s chair. Clement Sutherland started up with an angry
gesture, pushed his chair violently behind him, to the risk of upsetting
my gentleman-waiter, and exclaimed—“Sirs, I have to ask you if the laws
of hospitality are to be so abused as to exile my daughter from the head
of the table, and how long it is your pleasure that this state of things
shall continue?”

This explosion was just as shocking as though something like it had not
been expected.

Mark Sutherland, with a crimsoned brow, arose from his chair.

Lincoln, with perfect self-possession, deliberately arose, walked into
the hall, took down his hat, returned, and, standing before Clement
Sutherland, deliberately said—“Mr. Sutherland, permit me to make a due
acknowledgment of the hospitality you have extended me, and also to
express my regret that it has been so unpardonably trespassed against. I
shall be most happy if you will afford me the opportunity to reciprocate
the hospitality, and atone for the trespass. Good day, sir.

“Oh! young man, you have nothing to thank me for.” Bowing to the ladies
present, Lincoln withdrew. Mark Sutherland snatched his hat, and,
without a word of leave-taking, left the room.

All the other members of the family circle remained seated at the table,
with the exception of Miss Vivian, who, rising, excused herself, and
retired.

When Mark Sutherland reached the rose terrace, he called to Lincoln to
stop, and wait until their horses were saddled. And then he hastened off
to the stables to give his orders.

In a very short time the horses were brought up, and the young men
mounted, and gallopped away from the house. They rode on in silence for
some time—Lincoln buried in calm thought, and Mark enrapt in a sort of
fierce reverie. At length he backed his horse close up to Lincoln’s
steed, seized his hand, and exclaimed, “Lauderdale, how can I ever atone
for exposing you to such insult?”

“Insult? My dear fellow”—(he was just about to say, “Mr. Clement
Sutherland _cannot_ insult me;” but, delicate and generous in his
consideration for the feelings of Mark, he only said)—“look into my
face, and see if you think I am very much troubled.”

And, indeed, the pleasant countenance of the youth was well calculated
to re-assure his friend.

They relapsed into silence as they approached the river. Sutherland was
absorbed in mournful and bitter reverie, which Lauderdale forbore to
break. They crossed the Pearl in perfect silence; Lincoln glancing from
the beautiful semi-transparent river, with its surface softly flushed
with rose and saffron clouds, to the gorgeous fields of cotton, with its
myriads beyond myriads of golden white flowers. When they left the
ferry-boat, and cantered up the gradual ascent of the road, and entered
upon the domain of Silentshade, once more Mark put out his hand and
seized that of his friend, saying, “Here at last is _my_ home, where I
may welcome any friend of mine for any length of time; and I do not so
much _invite_ you, as I _entreat_ you, to come and stay with me as long
as you can give me your company, if it be only, dear Lincoln, to prove
that you forgive me the offence that has been offered to you.”

“Pray say no more about it, dear Mark; how are you responsible for an
affront offered _yourself_ as well as me? As for staying with you, I
will do so with the greatest pleasure as long as I may.”

And once more Mark Sutherland fell into silence—into bitter and
sorrowful meditation—into deep despondency. Since India’s haughty
rejection of his hand, his life had grown very real to him. Before that,
he had thought, spoken, and acted, as one under the influence of some
inspiring dream. His anticipation and appreciation of the trials that
awaited him, differed as much from the real experience of them as the
imagining of some glorious martyrdom falls short of the suffering it.

Young enthusiast that he was, he had thought only of the excitement and
glory of the heroism, and not of the fierce torture and maddening shame
of the sacrifice. But now he felt his position in all its dreadful
reality. And it was well that he should so feel it. It would test his
sincerity, try his strength, prove his character. And now he rode on
despairing, almost heart-broken. Yet even in this dark and clouded hour,
one bright star of hope, and promise, and strength, shone on him—a
mother’s love—a mother’s undying, unchanging love. It has been the theme
of poets, of philosophers, and of novelists, since hearts first beat
with affections, and tongues first gave them utterance. It is the chosen
Scripture illustration to express even the divine love of God. The young
man rode along, deeply musing on that mother’s love—deeply thirsting for
it. He felt—man as he was—that it would be a sweet and grateful relief
to sit by her side, to drop his proud, but weary head upon her shoulder,
and for a little while to give vent to the flood of sorrow now stifled
in his bosom—sure, that if others thought even such a transient yielding
to grief unmanly, she, that tender and affectionate mother, never would
think so. And so he mused upon that love—the only earthly love that
never faileth—that neither misfortune can abate, nor crime alienate.
And, unfortunate and suffering in the cause of conscience as he was, how
confidently he trusted in that mother’s sympathy and support! Yea,
though all other affection might fail him—though friends should forsake,
and relatives abandon him, and even his bride discard him—she, his
mother, would be true!

He would have staked his salvation upon this, as they turned into the
avenue of limes leading up to the house, and saw Mrs. Sutherland
standing, smiling, upon the piazzi. But, on seeing the young men
approach, in one instant, the lady’s countenance changed.

_She had had her lesson._

Without advancing one step to meet and welcome them, she allowed them,
after dismounting from their horses, to walk quite up the steps, and to
the very spot where she stood, and to bow and speak, before she relaxed
one muscle of her countenance.

She replied to their greeting in the coldest tones, inviting them to
enter the house.

For an instant, Mark and Lincoln raised their eyes to each other’s face,
and their glances met. A pang of mortification and disappointment sped
through the heart of Sutherland; and Lauderdale, apparently not the
least surprised or disconcerted, took his resolution.

Preceded by the lady, they entered the house, and passed into a front
parlour, and at her cold invitation, which seemed more like a strained
and reluctant permission granted, they took seats. Nothing could be more
deeply disagreeable and embarrassing than the next few minutes. Mrs.
Sutherland took her sofa in perfect silence, turned her face towards
them with a look of cold enquiry, and assumed the air of waiting to hear
what might be their business with her—what they might have to
communicate.

This was very perplexing. They did not come on business—indeed, they
were made to feel that _they had no business there_. They had come to be
entertained, and comforted, and compensated, after the Clement
Sutherland infliction. They had nothing particular to answer to that
cold, questioning look, except Lauderdale, who, cool as his own clime,
informed Mrs. Sutherland that the day was “very fine.” The lady bowed in
silent assent.

“The weather for many days past has been very pleasant,” continued
Lincoln, without the least embarrassment.

“Yes—I think the present state of the atmosphere highly favourable to
_travelling_,” said the lady.

“Your climate here, madam, is not near so sultry as we of the North have
supposed it to be,” persevered Lincoln.

“Hem—yet at this season we think it too hot to be wholesome to you of
the North,” said the lady, with a curling lip.

“Humph,” thought Lauderdale, “your courtesy, madam, is cold enough to
cool the hottest hour of the hottest day, in the hottest clime under the
sun.” But, turning to his friend Mark, said—

“Sutherland, if madame will excuse us, will you be kind enough to let me
have my room?”

And Mark, released from the vice into which he had felt himself
compressed for the last ten minutes, very gladly sprang up to accompany
him. Lauderdale bowed to Mrs. Sutherland, with some pardonable formality
of ceremony, perhaps, as they left the parlour.

When they had reached Lincoln’s chamber, in the second story, Mark threw
himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. Lincoln went
calmly to work, packing up his wardrobe. After a while, seeing that
Sutherland kept his attitude of humiliation, he went up to him, clapped
him upon the shoulder cheerfully, and said—

“_Never_ mind, my dear Mark! _never_ mind! You take this to heart far
more than necessary. Now, I dare say that one of your hot-blooded,
fire-eating Mississippians, treated as I have been, would call somebody
out, and do something desperate; but I really do not feel obliged to do
anything of the sort.”

“_I_ am a Mississippian—do you consider _me_ a very hot-blooded person?
Am I not rather a miserable poltroon, to see my friend and guest
outraged and insulted as you have been?”

“Well, that is as fine a piece of self-accusation as I have met with
since reading the formula of confession in a Roman Catholic missal. You
could not help it, Mark—you could not affront age or womanhood, in my
defence or your own,” said Lauderdale; and he resumed his packing.

In a very few minutes it was completed, and then he came to announce his
departure to Mark, and to take leave of him.

“I have nothing to say to you, dear Lincoln—nothing whatever, except
once more to entreat your pardon for what has passed, and to wish you
well with all my heart.”

He could not seek to change his guest’s purpose—could not ask him to
remain; how could he do so, indeed? He wished to order the carriage, but
Lincoln positively refused to avail himself of it, saying that he would
walk to the next village, and send for his trunks. Mark impressed upon
him the use of his own riding-horse, and Lincoln, to avoid wounding him,
accepted it.

The young men then went down stairs; Lincoln entered the parlour, to bid
adieu to his hostess, and Mark left the house to order the horses, for
he was resolved to accompany his friend.

In a few minutes they were in their saddles, and on the road leading to
C——, a muddy, miserable town, about five miles down the river.

Here the friends finally separated, but not until Lincoln’s trunks had
been sent for, and had arrived, and Lincoln himself had entered the
stage that passed through the village that night, and was to convey him
to the steamboat landing on the Mississippi, by which route he preferred
to return north. They took leave with mutual assurance of remembrances,
and promises of frequent correspondence.

It was late at night when Mark Sutherland returned to his home, and he
immediately went to his room.

He arose the next morning, with the full determination to set
immediately to work.

“I must plunge myself into action, lest I wither by despair,” might have
been his thought. His mother received him at the breakfast table with
coldness. He told her respectfully what he intended to do during the
day. She curled her lip, and begged him to proceed, without remorse or
fear, to unroof the house that sheltered her head—and she trusted Heaven
would give her strength to bear even that.

After breakfast, he set out, and rode to Jackson, to engage the services
of a lawyer to assist him in making out the deeds, and taking the legal
measures required in emancipating his people. As the distance to the
city was a full day’s journey, and he had business enough to occupy the
whole of the second day, he did not reach home until the evening of the
third day.

He came, accompanied by a lawyer. They were both tired and hungry, but
found no supper prepared, and no one to make them welcome. Mr.
Sutherland went out, and enquired for his mother, and was told that the
lady desired to be excused from receiving an official, that had come to
make her homeless. Mark stifled a sigh; he ordered refreshments for his
guest, and soon after showed him to his sleeping chamber.

The next day was a very busy, yet a very trying one. On coming down into
the breakfast-room, Mark Sutherland heard with poignant sorrow that his
mother had departed from the house, carrying with her many of her
personal effects, as if for a long or permanent absence, and had gone to
take up her abode in Cashmere. In consternation at this act, Mark
Sutherland rushed out to institute further enquiries, and found in front
of the house a baggage-waggon, with Billy Bolling standing up in the
midst, receiving and packing away trunks, boxes, and packages, that were
lifted to him by two negro men in attendance.

“In the name of Heaven, what is the meaning of all this, uncle?” asked
Mark with trepidation.

Mr. Bolling stood up, took his handkerchief leisurely from his pocket,
wiped his flushed, perspiring face, replaced it, and answered—

“It means, sir, that you have turned my sister out of doors; that is all
it means.”

“But, uncle, my dear mother has perfect”——

“D——n it, sir, don’t call my sister mother, or me uncle! You are no son
or nephew of ours; we wash our hands of you! We cast you off! We’ll have
nothing to do with you!”

“Why, Mr. Bolling, what is the”——

“Confound it, sir, don’t talk to me; you are a villain, sir! James,
drive on!” And clapping his hat upon his head, Mr. Bolling sat down and
settled the last box in its place, and the waggon was driven off.

It is impossible to describe the state of mind in which Mark Sutherland
found himself. The distracting thoughts and emotions that whirled
through his brain and heart, excited him almost to frenzy. He
immediately wrote an imploring, passionate note to his mother, briefly
alluding to the independence he intended to secure to her, and
supplicating her to return to her own home. He sent it off; and, in a
few minutes, unsatisfied with that note, he wrote another, more
affectionate, more ardent, more supplicating, and despatched that also.

And then, half-maddened as he was, he turned and set himself to his
business. He caused all the servants to be assembled on the lawn. He
went out to them, and announced his intention of setting free, and
sending all who were willing to go, to Liberia. He explained to them the
good that must accrue to the younger, and more intelligent and
industrious among them, who might emigrate and settle in the last-named
place. This news did not take the negroes the least by surprise. They
had heard whisperings of the cause that had broken off their master’s
marriage, and set all his family and friends at feud with him. After
closing his little speech to the assembled slaves, he singled out some
dozen among them—heads of cabin families—old and steady men; and he took
them with him into his library, where he explained to them, at greater
length, the advantages of the plan of emigration to Liberia. And then he
dismissed them, to converse with each other, to reflect, and decide what
they wished to do.

Next, he left his study to go and enquire if the messenger sent to his
mother had returned. He found the man watching for him in the hall. He
held a letter in his hand. Mr. Sutherland eagerly snatched it. It
contained a few lines, formally advising him that no further
communication would be received from him, which was not preceded by a
full and complete renunciation of his obnoxious plans. While his gaze
was painfully riveted upon this note, the second messenger arrived,
bringing a letter in his hand. He seized it. _It was his own, returned
unopened._

“Did you see Mrs. Sutherland, Flamingo?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did she say?”

“I gave her the letter, sir; she took it, and read the direction, and
handed it back to me, and told me to take it back to him who sent it,
and not to bring her another one.”

“That will do—you may go,” said Mark, and a spasm of pain twitched his
countenance, as he tore up the letter, and threw the fragments away.

“That is not all, sir—there is something else.”

“Well, what new stab?” he thought; but he _said_—

“Well, what is it?”

Flamingo took from under his arm a small packet, wrapped in tissue
paper, and handed it to him.

“What is this? Where did you get this?”

“Miss Rosalie gave it to me to bring to you.”

“You may go now,” said Mr. Sutherland, as he opened a door, and passed
into the parlour, and sat down to look at the packet. It was a little
morocco case, containing a lady’s small pocket Bible, bound in white
velvet and silver, with silver clasps. An elegant little _bijou_ it was.
Upon the fly-leaf was written, “_Rosalie Vivian, from her affectionate
and happy mother._” And this writing bore a date of several years
before.

On the opposite page was inscribed, “_Mark Sutherland, with the deep
respect of Rosalie Vivian._” And this inscription bore the date of
to-day. A leaf was folded down, and when he opened it at the 27th Psalm,
he saw marked this passage: “When my father and my mother forsake me,
then will the Lord take me up.” There was still another page turned
down, and another pencil stroke, enclosing these words, (Mark x. 29,)
“And Jesus answered, and said, Verily, I say unto you, there is no man
hath left home, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife,
or children, or lands, for my sake and the gospel’s, but he shall
receive an hundred-fold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and
sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions; and in
the world to come, eternal life.”

He turned over the little book with a fond look and smile—partly given
to the elegant little _bijou_ itself, such an inappropriate sort of copy
to be sent to a man—and partly to the fair, gentle girl, its donor. The
little incident came to him like a soft, encouraging pressure of the
hand, or a kind word at his greatest need—like a loving benediction. And
for those blessed words that were marked, they were dropped into his
broken and tearful heart, like good seeds into the ploughed and watered
earth, to bring forth fruit in due season.

He replaced the little book in its case, wrapped it again in its tissue
paper, and, for the present, lodged it within the ample breast of his
coat. He had never in his life heard Rosalie give expression to one fine
heroic sentiment, such as fell plenteously from the lips of India, as
the pearls and diamonds from the fairy favoured maiden of the child’s
story. But now he could not suppress the painful regret that the
brilliant and enthusiastic India had not possessed more of the
tenderness, sympathy, and real independence, found in the fragile,
retired Rosalie.

It were tedious, as needless, to follow Mr. Sutherland through all the
multifarious and harassing details of business that filled up the next
few weeks. His path was full of difficulties. Not only social and
domestic discouragements, and legal obstacles and delays, but
difficulties that arose on the part of the negroes themselves. A few of
them did not want the old state of things, with its familiar
associations, and close attachments, broken up. Some of them, who were
anxious to be free, had wives and children, or husbands, upon some
neighbouring plantation, and so were held bound by their affections.
Nay, indeed, often a mere fraternal love was sufficient to produce this
effect. This class of negroes, proved to be a great trial and vexation
to Mark, not only by throwing nearly insurmountable obstacles in the way
of their own emancipation, but also affording his opponents much
material for laughter. It was in vain their benefactor told these men,
that, after a few years of labour and saving, they would be able to
purchase their wives or children. They shook their heads—they
feared—their spirits were too faint. As far as his means would go, Mr.
Sutherland purchased these wives or children, and sent them off with
their husbands and fathers.

At length, it was all over—the slaves were emancipated and gone, each
with a sum of money to pay their transport, and provide their immediate
necessities, until they should find work. Many misgivings troubled the
head of Mr. Sutherland, as to whether they would do well with the
liberty, so unaccustomed, and so newly given; but no doubts as to the
righteousness of his own act ever crossed his mind. And so he committed
the result to Providence.

He had taken care to secure the homestead to his mother. For her
benefit, he had also placed at interest thirty thousand dollars, which,
at six per cent., would yield her an income of eighteen hundred.

Having thus wound up his business, he went over to Cashmere to seek an
interview—a _farewell_ interview—with his mother and relatives. He
learned that they had, a few days before, left Cashmere for the North.

The next morning, Mark Sutherland, with only ninety dollars in his
pocket-book, with his wardrobe and his law books, departed from his
childhood’s home.

It may be as well to state here, that when the Sutherlands returned, in
the autumn, Mrs. Sutherland, with some ten or twelve slaves, her own
personal property, took up her abode at Silentshades, availed herself of
the income her son had secured to her, and made herself comfortable.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                               FAREWELL.

            “Fair wert thou in the dreams
              Of early life, thou land of glorious flowers,
            And summer winds, and low-toned silvery streams,
              Dim with the shadow of thy laurel bowers.

            “Fair wert thou, with the light
              On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast
            From purple skies, soft deepening into night,
              Yet slow as if each moment was their last
                Of glory waning fast!”—_Hemans._


The sun was rising in cloudless splendour, on the morning on which Mark
Sutherland paused upon an eminence, to throw a farewell glance over the
beautiful scenes of his childhood and youth—the fair valley of the
Pearl. East lay the dark boundary of the pine forest, pierced by the
golden, arrow-like rays of the level sun, or casting long, spear-like
shadows athwart the green alluvion—south and west, belts of forest
alternated with gaudy cotton-fields, and rolling green hills,
interspersed with graceful groves, until in softly-blended hues they met
the distant horizon. From this beautifully-variegated circumference, his
eye returned to gaze upon the centre of the scene—the Pearl—the lovely
river which took its name from the semi-transparent hues of clouded
saffron, rose, and azure, that seemed not only caught from the glorious
sky above, and the gorgeous hills, and fields, and grove, around, but
flashed up from the deep channel of the stream, as if its clear waters
flowed through a bed of opal.

At some distance below him, encircled by a bend of the river, lay—like
some rich mosaic on the bosom of the vale—“Cashmere,” the almost
Oriental scene of his youthful love-dream. There was the pebbly beach,
with its miniature piers and fairy boats—the lawn, with its flowering
and fragrant groves, its crystal founts, its shaded walks and vine-clad
arbours; and, nearer the house, the rose terrace, with its millions of
odoriferous budding and blooming roses, surrounding as within a crimson
glow, that white villa and its colonnade of light Ionic shafts. At this
distance, he could see distinctly the bay window, with its purple
curtains, of India’s boudoir; and, at its sight, the image of the
beautiful India arose before him. Again he saw her in that poetic
harmony of form and colouring that had so ravished his artist soul—the
slender, yet well-rounded figure—the warm, bright countenance, with its
amber-hued ringlets, and clear olive complexion deepening into crimson
upon cheeks and lips—a beauty in which there was no strong contrast, but
all rich harmony—a form that he once had fondly thought clothed a soul
as harmonious as beautiful. They were lost! all lost—home, and bride,
and lovely dreams of youth! Do not despise him, or blame him, when I
tell you, in the touching words of Scripture, “that he lifted up his
voice and wept.” He was but twenty-one, and this was the first
despairing passionate sorrow of his youth.

It is very easy to talk and write of the “rewards of virtue,” the
comfort of a good conscience, the delights of duty. Alas! I am afraid
the delights of duty are seldom believed in, and seldomer experienced.
Be sure, when a great sacrifice of interest, of affection, of hope, is
made, and a great sorrow is felt—nothing—_nothing_ but a loving,
Christian faith can console.

And Mark Sutherland was not a Christian man.

Here, then, even a philanthropist might reasonably inquire _why_ all
this was done? _Why_ a youth, born and brought up a slaveholder, should,
against preconceived ideas, against prudence, against self-interest,
against hope, with doubtful good even to the beneficiaries of his
self-devotion, beggar himself for the sake of their emancipation? Why
he, being no Christian, should make such an immense sacrifice of wealth,
position, affection, hope—in short, of all temporal and earthly
interests?

We are all able to answer, that, had a scientific phrenologist examined
the moral organs of Mark Sutherland’s head, he would have found his
answer in the predominant CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. It was, therefore, only a
severe sense of justice that laid its iron hand upon him, obliging him
to do as he had done—a single sense of justice, such as might have
influenced the actions of a Pagan or an Atheist—a hard, stern sense of
justice, without faith, hope, or love—an uncompromising sense of
justice, without self-flattery, promise, or comfort.

He is not as yet a Christian, but he may become one, he must become one,
for no great sacrifice was ever made to duty, without Christ claiming
that redeemed soul as his own.

After all, perhaps, there is but one sin and sorrow in the
world—IDOLATRY—and all forms of evil are compromised within it. It
includes all shades of sin, from the lightest error that clouds the
conscience, to the darkest crime that brings endless night upon the
soul; and all degrees of suffering, from the discontent that disturbs
the passing hour, to the anguish and despair that overwhelms and
swallows up all the hopes of life. We are all idolaters. Some
god-passion of the heart is ever the deity we worship. Ambition,
avarice, love—“the world, the flesh, or the devil,” in some form, is
always the idol. Perhaps, love; the first, the most disinterested,
self-devoted, of all the forms of idolatry, comes nearest to the true
worship. But it is not the true worship—by all the anguish that it
brings, it is not the true worship.

Oh! if but for a moment we could raise our souls to God, in the
self-surrender wherewith, in passionate devotion, we throw our hearts
beneath the feet of some weak and perishable form of clay—_that_ were
conversion—that were regeneration—that were a great deliverance—that
were eternal life, and full of joy!

And are there not moments when we catch a glimpse of such a possibility?
when brain and heart stand still, thoughtless, breathless? when life
itself pauses in the transient revelation of such unsufferable light?
And we know that some have entered in and lived this light all the days
of their lives. To many of us, alas! and in most of our moods, they seem
to live in an unknown world—to speak in an unknown tongue.

Who of us has not occasionally experienced these thoughts and emotions,
in reading and meditating on the lives and characters of Christians of
_any name_?—it matters little what; for there is a unity of spirit in
all regenerated children of God, of every nation, rank, or _sect_.
Fenelon and George Whitefield—the Frenchman and the Briton—the mitred
archbishop and the poor field preacher—the Roman Catholic and the
Methodist, dwelt in the same light, spoke the same language, because
both were one in spirit. What if through the medium of each separate
brain, the theology look different? The heart is greater than the brain;
or, in other words, the affections are higher than the intellect. “Out
of the _heart_ are the issues of life;” and “_this_ is life eternal,
that we should know the true God, and Jesus Christ whom he hath sent.”
With their hearts, their affections, they discerned Him. And in love
they were one with each other, and one with Christ and God. And who, in
communing with their fervent souls—in meditating on their perfect faith
and love—perfect devotion to God, has not been startled by some such
light as this let in upon the mind?—“Why, if this unfailing love—this
unwavering faith—this unreserved devotion—this total self-surrender—be
the worship we owe to our Creator, then have we been idolaters; for all
this instinct and power, and _necessity_ of loving, sacrificing, and
worshipping has been ours, and has been lavished, wasted, only on the
creature.”

Akin to this was the feeling that impelled the dying Wolsey to exclaim,
“Had I but served God as diligently as I have served the king, He would
not have given me over in my grey hairs.”

And as Mark Sutherland stood gazing in bitterness of spirit upon the
beautiful scene of his love and joy, the maddening scene of his trial
and suffering, these words escaped from his bursting heart: “Oh, God! if
I had worshipped thee as I worshipped _her_, Thy beautiful work, I had
not been now alone—alone in my sorrow.”

It was the sincere, earnest cry of a stricken, penitent, suffering
heart.

It was answered then and there. Around him fell an influence sober and
more genial than sunshine—more refreshing than dew—a spiritual
influence, warming, renewing, supporting—a Divine influence, kindling
and strengthening the soul within him.

The Comforter had come, and was acknowledged. With uncovered head, and
uplifted heart, then and there Mark Sutherland consecrated his life to
the service of God, and His work on earth.

From the beautiful vale he turned, and, inspired by new strength and
courage, put spurs to his horse, and galloped rapidly on towards the
road leading to the town of C——, where, six weeks since, he had parted
with Lauderdale. He reached C—— in time for an early breakfast. Here—not
wishing to leave his family in ignorance of his fate, and by his
departure thus to cut down the bridge of communication between them and
himself—he addressed a letter to his bachelor uncle, Paul Sutherland,
informing him that his destination was some north-western town, whence,
as soon as he should become settled, he should write. He gave this
letter in charge of the landlord, to be forwarded as soon as his uncle
should return from the North. He then mounted his horse, and took the
road to Natchez, whence he intended to embark in a steamboat up the
Mississippi. He reached the city by nightfall, and found his baggage,
sent by the stage-coach, had arrived in safety. He took the boat that
passed that night; and the next morning he found himself many miles on
his way up the river.

             “The world was all before him, where to choose
             His place of rest, and Providence his guide.”

And to a young, adventurous, hopeful spirit, this uncertainty, joined to
liberty, was not without its peculiar charm. During the greater part of
the day he remained on deck, with a spy-glass in his hand, examining the
face of the country on either side of the river. The lawns and villages
on the Lower Mississippi did not attract him in the least degree. Their
situations were low—their beach sluggishly washed by the thick and murky
water—their thoroughfare wet and muddy—their general aspect unwholesome
to the last degree.

But, farther up the river, and above the mouth of the Ohio, the country
and the colour of the water began to change. High bluffs, gray old
rocks, and gigantic woods, diversified the shores—crystal creeks and
verdant islets varied the river. He approached the fine “Rock River
country.”

Beautiful as a poetic vision of Elysium, had seemed the luxurious valley
of the Pearl.

But this gigantic scene—Rock River, Rock Island, with the opposite
shores of the Mississippi, widening here into a lake-like expanse—had a
breadth of grandeur, a Titanic vigour and vitality of beauty, the most
consonant, the most imposing and encouraging, to his own young energetic
spirit.

The boat stopped opposite the village of S——, just as the morning mist
was rolling away before the sun, and revealing the scene in all its
picturesque beauty, and fresh life. The young city was but two years
old—yet, infant of the Titaness West, it was growing and thriving most
vigorously. Here, then, Mark Sutherland determined to take up his
abode—here to live and labour. He ordered his baggage into the boat, and
stepped in after it, and was swiftly rowed to the shore. Here, too, in
order to begin aright and betimes, he shouldered his own trunk, while a
porter followed with his box of books, and wended his way to the hotel
on the hill.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                          THE FATAL MARRIAGE.

   “_Isabella._—’Tis a babbling world

   “_Mr. Graves._—_Oh!_ ’tis an _atrocious_ world!
   It will be burnt up one day—that’s a comfort.”—_London Assurance._


Eighteen months have passed since Mark Sutherland left his home.
Eighteen months of persevering study, of unsuccessful effort, and of
varied wanderings, find him, at the close, in Cincinnati, quite
penniless, and nearly hopeless. His efforts to find employment here are
unavailing. He has not even the means to pay his board—a situation in
which many a worthy and promising young man has found himself, who has
afterwards nevertheless risen to fame or fortune. Embarrassing and
discouraging enough is the position while occupied, however piquant to
look back upon.

In a listless and disappointed mood, Mark Sutherland entered the
reading-room of the hotel, and, taking up the daily papers, began to
look over their columns, to see if any new want of a clerk or an agent
had been advertised, which might hold out the hope of employment to him.
At last, in the Intelligencer, his eye lighted upon an advertisement for
a classical and mathematical teacher. The candidate was required to
produce the highest testimonials of character and competency, and
requested to apply through the office of that paper. Mr. Sutherland’s
classical and mathematical attainments were far above mediocrity, and
the references he could give were unexceptionable. He felt therefore
certain of being able to offer more than an equivalent for the salary.
He saw, too, that the office of a teacher, by leaving him many hours of
the day, and the whole of Saturdays and holidays free, would afford him
ample leisure for the pursuit of his legal studies.

He called for writing materials, and immediately wrote and mailed a
letter of application. He was scarcely anxious about the result—only a
little interested to know whether he should get the situation, and what
sort of a one it would be, when it was got; whether it would be the
place of assistant in a public academy, or that of tutor in a private
family; also, whether his temporary home should be in the cold North or
the sunny South, the populous East or the sparsely-settled West, or in
the indefinite country between them; lastly, with what sort of people he
should find himself.

But, upon the whole, he scarcely hoped to get a response to his
application, as the paper containing the advertisement was several days
old when he first saw it. Therefore, when days passed into weeks, and
weeks became a month, he gave up all hopes of obtaining an answer,
without much disappointment.

At length—as generally happens after expectation sickens and dies, and
is buried—the unlooked-for letter arrived. It contained a proposition
from Colonel Ashley, of Virginia, to engage Mr. Sutherland as private
tutor, to prepare his two younger sons for the university, offering, in
remuneration, a very liberal salary, and requesting, in the event of Mr.
Sutherland’s acceptance, that he would reply promptly, and follow his
own letter in person as soon as possible.

Mark sat down and wrote at once, closing the contract, and promising to
be at Ashley by the first of March.

It was now near the last of February. He sold his horse, paid his bill
at the hotel, and having money enough remaining to take him to Virginia,
left the same afternoon by the steamboat up the river, and met the stage
at Wheeling. After two or three days’ travelling upon the turnpike road,
through the most sublime and beautiful mountain and valley scenery in
the world, he arrived, late one evening, at the little hamlet of Ashley,
situated in a wild and picturesque gap of the Blue Ridge.

Here, at the little inn, he ordered supper, and purposed to spend the
night. But he had scarcely entered the little bed-room allotted to him,
with the intention of refreshing himself with ablutions and a change of
dress, before the head of the host was put through the door, and the
information given that Colonel Ashley’s carriage had come to meet Mr.
Sutherland, and was waiting below. He finished his toilet, however,
before leaving his room.

He found the parlour occupied by two boys, of about thirteen and fifteen
years of age, disputing the possession of a pistol, which, in the
wrestle that ensued, went off—harmlessly. And before Mark could reprove
them for their imprudence, they came to meet him. The elder lad, cap in
hand, inquired, respectfully—

“Are you Mr. Sutherland, sir?”

“Yes, my son; have you business with me?”

“Father has sent the carriage for you, sir—that is all. My name is
Henry—he’s Richard. St. Gerald, you know, is in Washington. He is in
Congress, you know, and has made a great speech—father says, one of the
greatest speeches that has been made since”—

“_Oh, sho!_ He’s a great deal older than we are, Mr. Sutherland; and
he’s only our half-brother besides. _You_ don’t know every thing,” said
the younger boy Richard, addressing the last phrase, accompanied by a
punch in the side, to his brother.

“I am happy to meet you, Henry—how do you do, Richard?” said Mr.
Sutherland, giving a hand to each of the boys.

“And so,” he added, smiling to himself, and at them, “this new star of
the Capitol—this eloquent and admired St. Gerald Ashley—is a relative of
yours?”

“Our brother,” said Henry.

“Our _half_-brother,” amended Richard, favouring his senior with another
malicious punch in the ribs.

Hereupon another scuffle ensued, which Mr. Sutherland ended, by saying—

“Come—shall we go on to Ashley Hall, or will you take supper first,
here, with me?”

“Take supper first here, with you,” assented the boys, who could have
been tempted by nothing but the novelty to forego their father’s
sumptuous supper-table for this poor tavern meal.

“It was kind to come and meet me. But how did you guess that I should
arrive _this_ evening?”

“Oh, we did not guess. Father thought it about time you should come, and
he sent the carriage, and intended to send it every stage-day until you
_did_ come, or write, or something. Father would have come himself, only
he staid home to read St. Gerald’s great speech.”

“St. Gerald” was evidently the hero of Henry’s worship.

While they supped, their horses were fed and watered. And, half an hour
afterwards, Mr. Sutherland and his pupils entered the carriage, and were
driven to Ashley Hall. It was quite dark when the carriage drew up
before the door of a large, rumbling old building of red sandstone,
scarcely to be distinguished from the irregular masses of rock rising
behind and around it. A bright light illumined the hall, where the
travellers were received by a negro man in waiting, who would have
conducted them into a drawing-room on the left, but that Henry and
Richard, breaking violently forward, threw open the door upon the right,
exclaiming—

“Father is here. He is come, father! We found him at the village.”

A genial wood fire blazed and crackled in the wide, old-fashioned
chimney of this room; and near it, in an easy chair, beside a
candlestand, sat an old gentleman, engaged in reading a newspaper. No
whit disturbed by the boisterous onslaught of the boys, he calmly laid
aside his paper and stood up—an undersized, attenuated old man, with a
thin, flushed face, and a head of hair as white and soft as cotton wool.
He stood, slightly trembling with partial paralysis, but received Mr.
Sutherland with the fine courtesy of an old-school gentleman.

The boys hurried about their own business.

The man-servant placed an arm chair for Mr. Sutherland. And when the
latter was fairly seated, the old gentleman resumed his own seat, and
inquired whether his guest had supped. Being answered in the
affirmative, he nevertheless ordered refreshments to be served there.

A stand, with wine, sandwiches, cake, and fruit was placed between them;
and while they discussed these, the old gentleman, in an indifferent
sort of manner, said—

“By the way, Mr. Sutherland, have you seen Monday’s paper, with the
debate on the tariff? Here it is; take it—look over it. Never mind me, I
would prefer that you should see it now. If any thing _strikes_ you,
just read it aloud, will you?”

Mark took the paper, but found the “debate” to be all on one side, and
in the mouth of one individual, to wit—the Hon. St. Gerald Ashley, of
Virginia. He ran his eye over it—the old man fingering cheese and
crackers, and pretending to eat, not to interrupt him. “Do you wish me
to read this _debate_ aloud, sir?” asked Mark, benevolently inclined to
indulge the aged father’s pride.

“Yes, yes,” said the old man, smiling, nodding, and crumbling soda
crackers; “yes, if it will not tire you.”

“Oh, by no means,” answered Mark; and forthwith began.

The celebrated speech was, indeed, a master-piece of legislative
oratory; and Mark Sutherland was an admirable elocutionist. He read,
became deeply interested and absorbed, and before long was betrayed, by
the old man’s enthusiasm and his sympathy, into declamation, interrupted
now and then by Colonel Ashley’s exclaiming, “_That’s_ it! hear, hear.
_That must_ have brought down the House! I wonder what the Democrats
will find to say to _that_!”

Finally, laughing at the fever into which he had worked himself and his
hearer, Mark finished the speech, and laid down the paper. It was
time—it was past eleven o’clock—late hours for country people, and far
too late for the aged and infirm.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you. You have given me a treat. It was as good as
if I had heard it spoken,” said the old man, flushing with pride and
pleasure. Soon after, he rang for night lamps, and a servant to show Mr.
Sutherland to his room.

Early next morning, Mark Sutherland arose and left his bed-room. The
family were not yet stirring; none but the house servants were about.
And with the restlessness of a heart ill at ease, he walked out upon the
piazza, to find diversion from the bitter retrospections of the past,
and gloomy forebodings of the future, in the novel aspect of the country
around him.

To one used to the undulating, luxurious beauty of southern scenery,
there was something startling and inspiring in the abrupt, stern,
rugged, yet vigorous and productive aspect of this mountainous region.

The Ashley plantation filled the whole of a small valley, shut in
between two curving spurs of the Alleghanies, and watered by a branch of
the Rappahannock. The Ashley house, an irregular but massive building of
red sandstone, was situated at the foot of the mountain; behind it arose
hoary rocks, intermingled or crowned by dark evergreens of pine and
cedar; before it, at some distance, flowed the branch: around on every
side within the vale were gardens, shrubberies, orchards, wheat and corn
fields; and here and there, picturesquely placed, or half concealed by
trees or jutting rocks, were the negro quarters; while more
conspicuously, in the midst of the open fields, stood the barns and
granaries. Altogether, the plantation, occupying the whole valley, and
completely shut in by mountains, was an independent, isolated, little
domain in itself.

Now, upon the second day of March, the grass along the margin of the
branch was already fresh and verdant, and the wheat fields sprouting
greenly. The morning was very bright and fresh, and Mark walked into the
garden that lay to the left of the house. There he found three or four
negroes, under the direction of the gardener, engaged in clearing up
beds, tying vines, trimming trees, and repairing arbours and garden
seats.

This place had not the luxurious beauty of the south, nor the fresh and
vigorous life of the west; yet there was a solid, jolly, old homeliness
about it, very comfortable even in contrast to those other scenes. Mark
felt this, while alternately talking with the old gardener or
contemplating the old home.

He was interrupted by an irruption of that Goth and Vandal, Henry and
Richard Ashley, who, rushing upon him, seized the one his right hand and
the other his left, and boisterously informed him that breakfast was
ready, and had “been waiting ever so long.”

He returned their vehement greeting good-humouredly, and accompanied
them into the house, and to the breakfast table, which was set in the
old oak parlour where he had passed the preceding evening.

Two ladies, in simple, graceful, morning dresses of white cambric, sat
near the fire, occupied with a little delicate needlework; Colonel
Ashley stood with his back to the chimney, with _the_ paper in his hand,
and talking to them about _the_ speech.

On seeing Mr. Sutherland, the old gentleman immediately stepped forward,
welcomed him, and conducted him to the ladies, saying, “My dears, this
is Mr. Sutherland; Mr. Sutherland, my”——

But before another syllable was spoken, the elder lady had lifted her
face, started up with a blush of pleasure, and extended her hand,
exclaiming—

“Mark Sutherland! Is it possible!”

“Mrs. Vivian! Miss Vivian!” exclaimed Mark, extending a hand to each,
impulsively.

“Why, how strange that we should meet here!” said Valeria.

“A most pleasant surprise, indeed!” responded Mark.

“The surprise as well as the pleasure is mutual, I assure you! But how
did it happen?”

“I am sure I do not know.”

“Nor I. Can _you_ guess, Rose?” and Mrs. Vivian turned to her
step-daughter, who remained silent, with her fingers in the unconscious
clasp of Mark Sutherland’s hand.

“I inquired only in jest, but now I really do believe you could tell us
something about this,” persisted the lady, looking intently at the
maiden.

Rosalie’s pale face slightly flushed; she withdrew her hand, resumed her
seat, and took up her work. Colonel Ashley, if he _felt_, certainly
_expressed_ no surprise at this re-union; but as, with stately courtesy,
he handed his niece to the head of the table, said, “As Mrs. Vivian
arrived only yesterday afternoon, and retired at once to rest from the
fatigue of her journey, and as Mr. Sutherland reached here last night,
there has been no time for conversation about our arrangements.”

“Ah, yes; that’s all very well; but you’ll never make me believe that
Rose is not at the bottom of this, somehow,” laughed the widow, shaking
her jetty curls as she sat down at the table. Her eyes met those of
Rosalie for an instant, and the spirit of mischief was quelled. She
became silent on that topic, and soon after changed the subject,
entering into gay conversation about St. Gerald Ashley and his sudden
fame.

When breakfast was over, Colonel Ashley invited Mr. Sutherland to
accompany him to his study, where he began to unfold his plan for the
education of his boys. After hearing him through, Mark inquired when he
should enter upon his new duties, and requested to defer the
commencement until Monday, and to use the intervening time to become
acquainted with his home and pupils.

The interview then closed. Both gentlemen descended the stairs. Colonel
Ashley told Mr. Sutherland that he would find the ladies in the parlour,
and then, excusing himself, bade him good morning, and entered the
carriage, which was waiting to take him to the village.

Mark opened the parlour door, advanced into the room, and before he
could retreat, saw and heard the fragment of an earnest interview
between the mother and daughter. Mrs. Vivian sat upon the sofa, her head
bent, her jetty curls drooping, her jetty eyelashes and rosy cheeks
sprinkling and sparkling with teardrops, like morning dew upon a fresh
flower. She was nimbly and nervously stitching away at a piece of muslin
embroidery.

Rosalie sat on a cushion before her, with her hands and her needlework
fallen idly on her lap, and her pale hair fallen back from her paler,
upturned brow, and earnest eyes, that were fixed upon her mother’s. She
was asking in open accents, “Oh, mamma! can this be possible?”

“Not only possible, but true, Rose,” replied the lady, dashing the
sparkling tears away.

“Oh, mamma! do not let him meet such a shock; prepare him for it,
mamma.”

“I cannot; how could I? Hush—here he is,” said she, perceiving Mark. And
in an instant, presto! all was changed.

Smiling out from her tears, like an April sun from a cloud, or a
blooming rose scattering its dew in the breeze, she looked up and said,
“Come in, Mark; draw that easy chair up here to the sofa, and sit down,
for I know by experience that men are lazy as the laziest women.”

Mr. Sutherland took the indicated seat. Miss Vivian started from her
lowly position, resuming her place upon the sofa, drawing the
foot-cushion under her feet, and arranging her needlework.

“It is really surprising that we should all meet here so unexpectedly in
Alleghany county,” said Mrs. Vivian.

“I certainly had not anticipated such a pleasure. I did not know that
you were related to Colonel Ashley, or to any one else in this part of
the country.”

“Nor am I. Colonel Ashley is Rosalie’s great uncle—her mother’s uncle.
Colonel Ashley’s last remaining single daughter was married last year,
and Rosalie was invited to take her abdicated place in his household.
Physicians recommended the bracing air of the mountains for my delicate
girl, and therefore Rosalie has been living here for the last eighteen
months—ever since we left Cashmere, in fact. Last winter, I think, was
rather too cold for her here on the mountains. I spent the season in
Washington, from whence I have just returned; but next winter I intend
to take Rose to Louisiana with me, and make an arrangement by which she
can spend all her winters in the south.”

“Indeed, mamma, you shall not immolate your happiness upon my ill
health. You shall just spend your winters in Washington, where you enjoy
life so much, and your summers at the watering-places, where you meet
again your gay and brilliant friends. I shall do well enough. You shall
visit me in the spring and autumn intervals.”

“Oh, a truce, Rosalie! We shall be set down as a model mother and
daughter. _I_ know, for _one_, selfishness is the mainspring of all my
acts. I rather think I like you, child, and prefer to see you well.
There! I declare there’s Robert with the horses already. Put on your
cloth habit, Rosalie; the morning is really cold; and don’t let him take
you far, child; these hearty men have very little instinctive mercy for
delicate girls, and he would not imagine he had tired you to death till
you had dropped from your horse.”

Rosalie arose, rolled up her work, and left the room, nodding and
smiling to a young man who entered as she left. “Mr. Bloomfield,” said
the lady, presenting him to Mr. Sutherland. Mr. Bloomfield was a
sufficiently pleasing specimen of a well-bred, country beau—moderately
tall, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested—with regular features—fresh,
ruddy complexion—clear, merry blue eyes—and lips, whose every curve
expressed the good humour and benevolence of a kind, contented heart.

“You mustn’t take Rose far, Robert.”

“I will take her only to mother’s.”

“And you sha’n’t teaze her with any more nonsense! I can’t put up with
that, you know.”

Robert Bloomfield blushed violently, smiled till all his regular white
teeth shone, and was stammering out a blundering deprecation, when, to
his great relief, Rosalie appeared, attired for the ride. The young man
arose, Mrs. Vivian surveyed Rose, to be sure she was well defended from
the cold, and finally yielded her in charge of her escort, who bowed and
took her out.

Mrs. Vivian and Mark looked at them through the window, saw him place
her in the saddle with more than polite attention—with a careful and
tender solicitude that made her smile. When they had ridden off she
turned to Mark, and said—

“I like that good-humoured, blundering boy. He has been paying court to
Rose ever since she has been here. He is a young man of independent
fortune, irreproachable character, fair education, and most excellent
disposition, and he has loved Rose for more than a year. Yet, with all,
he is not worthy of her! he wants polish—the polish that nothing but
intercourse with refined society can give him. He came to see me last
winter in Washington, got fitted out by a fashionable tailor, and I
good-naturedly took him with me to an evening party. If ever I do such a
thing again as long as I live may——; but never mind! Just think, when I
presented him to a superfine belle, of his holding out his hands to
shake hands with her, telling her he was glad to see her, and hoping
that if ever she passed through his part of the country, she would pay
his mother and sisters a visit, &c. And then, when the elegant Mrs. A.
inquired if Mr. Bloomfield waltzed, just fancy him blushing furiously,
and saying that he would rather not—that he disapproved of waltzing!”

“Well!” said Mrs. Vivian, looking up, after a pause.

“Yes—well?” inquired her companion, raising his eyebrows.

“You have not made a single comment upon my country beau. I see how it
is. You’re thinking of your relatives. Mark, you must question me if you
want me to tell you anything.”

“My mother”—began the young man.

“She is living very comfortably with her husband at Cashmere.”

“With her husband!”

“Is it possible you did not know she was married, Mark?”

“I never knew it—I never dreamed it—I never thought it possible.” He
looked shocked—he _was_ shocked.

“And why not?” asked the lady, with a little jealous petulance. “Why may
not a widow remarry?”

“Nay—I do not know, I’m sure,” said Mr. Sutherland, with his eyebrows
still raised, and his eyes fixed upon the floor. “My mother married!
Will you please tell me to whom?”

“To whom? Oh, of course you know, Mark. Now, who was it likely to be,
but Dr. Wells?”

“Our old family physician!”

“Why of course. You know he had been pleased with her a long time.”

“That my mother should have married!”

“She never would have done so, Mark, had you not left her.”

“And she is happy, you say?”

“Comfortable, Mark. Your mother and Dr. Wells make what Tim Linkenwater
calls ‘a comfortable couple.’”

“I am not so much grieved as surprised,” said Mr. Sutherland. And after
a short pause he said, “There was another—my cousin.”

The face of the lady grew troubled—she did not speak.

“Is _India_ well?” again spake Mark, in a faltering voice.

“India is well, and beautiful as ever. She was the belle of Washington
last winter—her beauty the theme of every tongue—the envy of every
woman, the madness of every man. No assembly was complete without ‘the
Pearl of Pearl River!’”

Mark Sutherland grew pale, and shivered—saying, “Of course she”——

“Among her own sex there was no rival star. She divided public interest
and attention only with St. Gerald Ashley, that great new planet on the
political horizon.”

Mark Sutherland’s whole strong frame was convulsed. He started up and
paced the floor in extreme agitation—then, seizing his hat, rushed out
of the room.

“And _I_ was to prepare him for it, said Rosalie!” exclaimed Mrs.
Vivian, looking after him, as the pity of her heart grew strong.




                               CHAPTER X.
                         ROSALIE AND HER LOVER.

              “She loves, but ’tis not him she loves—
                Not him on whom she ponders,
              When in some dream of tenderness
                Her truant fancy wanders.
              The forms that flit her vision through
                Are like the shapes of old,
              Where tales of prince and paladin
                On tapestry are told.
              Man may not hope her heart to win,
                Be his of common mould.”—_C. F. Hoffman._


In the meantime, the two young riders took their way up a narrow
bridle-path, leading up a long crooked pass of the mountain.

The morning was glistening with brightness and freshness, and the
mingled joyous sounds of rural life made music in the air. They rode
along awhile in silence, strange enough in a pair so youthful. At length
the young man broke the spell.

“Rose!”

“Well, Robert!”

“I cannot bear this suspense! I cannot, indeed. Heart and frame are
wearing out with it!”

Rosalie stole a glance at his clear, bright blue eye, and round, fresh,
ruddy cheek, looking still brighter and fresher under the glossy, crisp,
curling, auburn hair—and a smile lighted up her countenance.

“Ah! you may laugh! You have the hardest, the most unimpressible heart I
ever saw in my life! But good and strong as my constitution is, it will
break down—it will indeed, Rosalie—if you keep this up much longer. And
I wish it _would_ break down! I do so! Then perhaps you would pity me.”

“But, Robert, my pity would be very poor compensation for lost health.”

“I don’t know! If I could make you feel for me any way, or at any cost,
I should be glad.”

“I _do_, Robert. I feel a very sincere esteem and friendship for you.
Surely you cannot doubt that.”

“Oh! yes, you are good to me to a certain degree. Your heart is like a
peach!”

“Like a peach!”

“Yes; it is superficially soft and impressible, but the core of it is
hard and rough—hard and rough! Oh, Rosalie, can’t you _try_ to like me a
little?”

“I like you very much without trying!”

“Oh, you know what I mean, you tormenting girl! Can’t you—you—can’t you
love me well enough to be my own? Speak! Answer! Tell me, Rose!”

“Oh, Robert, how many times have I told you—no?”

“I—but I won’t take no for an answer! All my affections and hopes are
freighted in you, and I _will not_ resign you; I _will not_, Rose. I
will go on hoping in spite of you—hoping against hope! It is
_impossible_—mind I say _impossible_—any one loving as I do, should not
win love in return. It does seem to me as if it would be unjust in
heaven to permit it!”

He spoke with impatient, passionate vehemence and earnestness.

Rosalie watched and heard him with wondering and sorrowing interest. She
gravely said—

“‘It is impossible that one loving so much should not win love in
return,’ you say? Yes, it _does_ seem impossible, if we did not know it
to be often really possible. It _does_ seem unjust!”

“You acknowledge it! You own it to be unjust that I should give you so
much—give you _all_—my entire heart, with all its affections and
hopes—and get back nothing, _nothing_ in return—or next to it—only
‘esteem,’ forsooth! and ‘friendship!’ That provokes and exasperates me
beyond endurance! Rosalie, I don’t want your esteem or friendship. I
refuse and repudiate it! I reject and repulse it! I will have none of
it! Give me _nothing_, or give me your whole heart and hand!”

“I would to Heaven I could do it, Robert! I would to Heaven I could give
you my heart. I am ready to say that if I could, I should then be a
happy and enviable girl, because I believe you a most excellent young
man, whose only weakness is your regard for me. But I cannot, Robert.
With all my friendship for you”—

“_Don’t_ name it!”

“I must, Robert! With all my friendship for you, when you talk of love,
my heart grows hard and cold, and silent as a stone—it has no response
for you at all.”

“And you say that to drive me out of my senses—to make me wild!”

“I say it because it is the simple truth. I am sorry that such _is_ the
truth. I think, with you, it is strange—strange—almost unjust, that so
much priceless love should be thrown away.”

“How cool she is! Good Heaven, how cool she is!”

“I have a problem for you, Robert; and I want to see if, with all your
mathematics, you can solve it, and satisfy me as to why there is so much
love lost in this world.”

“She can philosophise, too, after her fashion. She can do anything but
love!”

“Will you solve my problem?”

“It belongs rather to metaphysics than mathematics, one would
think—nevertheless, state it.”

“Thus, then: A loves B—or rather, to be clearer, Aaron loves Belinda
with a perfect passion; and he thinks, by reason of its great power, it
_must_ win a response from her. But Belinda involuntarily turns from
Aaron, and fixes her affection upon Charles, who does not in the least
return it. Now, why should these cross purposes exist? They say that
marriages are made in heaven. I wish the angel that has charge of them
would look into this matter a little.”

She spoke in a light, bantering manner, yet her voice quivered slightly.
She stole an arch glance at her companion, and said—

“There is my problem—solve it.”

He eyed her closely, jealously.

“Are you putting an imaginary case?” he asked.

“Nay, answer my question before asking another.”

“Well, then, yes! I _will_ tell you how this ought to end, and how it
_shall_ end, too. Belinda will soon feel it to be unwomanly, indelicate,
undignified, to leave her heart in the possession of one who undervalues
the priceless treasure; she will withdraw it, and yield it up at the
demand of the rightful owner—of him who _justly_ claims it because he
prizes it above all treasures, and desires it above all possessions!”

“You think so?” said Rosalie, averting her face, and bending down, and
stroking her horse’s mane.

“I _know_ so.”

“How do you know it?”

“Because it _ought_ to be so.”

“Again—_why_?”

“Because _man’s_ love is the conquering love! But now, tell me—were you
putting an imaginary case?”

“Yes, I was putting an imaginary case,” she said, in a low, quiet tone.

She drew rein.

“What is the matter, Rosalie? Are you tired? Has the ride been too much
for you?” inquired the young man, checking his horse, and looking
anxiously at her.

“Yes, I think so,” she answered, wearily.

“Rest awhile, and then we will go on.”

“No—I must go home—the air is very chill,” she said, shivering.

“And you are pale,” he observed, gazing at her with earnest,
affectionate interest.

She returned that gaze with a pensive, grateful glance, saying—“Indeed,
I feel I ought to be very grateful to you for caring so much for a poor,
sickly creature, like me. You in such fine health, too. I do not
understand it. I thought every one preferred blooming girls; but you
attach yourself to poor, pale me. Dear Robert, believe me, I am very,
_very_ grateful for your love, however this may end. I _do_ wish I could
be _more_ than grateful. Dear Robert, if I could give you my whole heart
as easily as I give you this rose, I would do it.” And detaching a white
rose from her bosom, she handed it to him.

And they turned their horses’ heads, and went down the mountain path,
towards home.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                                ROSALIE.

                 “Imagine something purer far,
                   More free from stain of clay,
                 Than friendship, love or passion are,
                   Yet human still as they.
                 And if thy lip for love like this
                   No mortal word can frame,
                 Go ask of angels what it is,
                   And call it by that name.”—_Moore._


Rosalie Vivian and Robert Bloomfield reached home just as the carriage
containing Colonel Ashley rolled into the yard. The old gentleman
alighted, greeted the young people with a most cheerful and kindly
smile, and with unusual vigour and lightness tripped up stairs into the
house. His servant, laden with packets of newspapers and letters,
followed.

“You may take my word for it, Rosalie, that the Colonel has received
some excellent news by this morning’s mail! And now just observe the
power of the soul over the body! Joyful news will so rejuvenate infirm
old age, that it will skip about, elastic as youth. Witness Colonel
Ashley, who stepped up those stairs more lightly than I ever saw him
move in my life; while disappointment and sorrow will so enfeeble youth
that it will move about drooping like paralytic age. Witness me ready to
drop from my saddle with exhaustion—from your unkindness, Rosalie!”

“I am not unkind, nor do you look very much prostrated, let me say,
Robert! But will you not come in?”

“No,” mournfully replied the young man, assisting her to alight.

“You had better—we have strawberries for the first time this spring.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Robert, with an offended air.

“Strawberries from uncle’s premium conservatory, and cream from my own
premium dairy; you had better think it over!”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Robert, contemptuously.

“Oh, _then_, there’s no more to be said, of course!”

“Good morning, Rosalie!”

“Good morning, Robert; but won’t you shake hands with me?” she asked,
offering her hand. He seized that little hand, and squeezed it and
pressed it to his lips, and with an expression of curiously-blended
deprecation and reproach, dropped it, mounted his horse, and galloped
away.

Mrs. Vivian was standing dawdling with a white rose in the piazza. She
came forward, with tender care, to meet Rosalie. “Did you ride far—are
you tired, love?”

“Not very.”

“But you look pale and wearied.”

“A moment’s rest will restore me, dear mamma.”

“Come in and sit down, while I take off your things,” said the kind
little lady, leading her stepchild into the parlour. She sat her down in
a deep-cushioned chair, rang the bell, ordered a cordial, and then
removed her hat and riding skirt. When she had made Rosalie take a
cracker and a little glass of anise-seed cordial, and when the salver
was removed, and they were left alone, Rosalie reclining upon the sofa,
Valeria sitting in the easy chair near her, the lady inquired—

“Why did not Robert come in?”

“I do not know, unless it was because he did not wish to do so.”

“Have you quarrelled?”

“Quarrelled! Dear mamma, I never had a quarrel with any one in all my
life, and never expect to have one with anybody—least of all with Bob.”

“That is no reason you should not have a lover’s quarrel—_they_ befall
the most amiable pair. Is it so?”

“What, mamma?”

“Have you and Robert had a ‘lover’s quarrel?’”

“No, indeed—I assure you.”

“Yet Robert went away offended—‘in dudgeon,’ as uncle would say.”

Rosalie looked distressed. The lady eyed her searchingly.

“Rosalie, will you let me speak to you frankly, and ask you a few
questions?”

“Certainly, dear mamma; I would turn my heart inside out, and show you
its most hidden secret, if it had any secrets.”

“Well, then, are you and Robert engaged?”

“No, mamma.”

“He has not yet proposed, then?”

“I scarcely know, mamma, whether I ought to reveal poor Robert’s
confidences.”

“Well?”

“Well, mamma!”

“You did not reject him?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I’m astonished! How long ago has this been?”

“Dear mamma, twelve months ago Robert first did me the honour of
offering his hand, and I gratefully declined it.”

“Yet continued to keep his company! Oh, Rosalie! Well, has he ever
renewed his proposals?”

“Yes, mamma, several times.”

“And you have continued to reject them?”

“Of course, mamma.”

“And yet you still accept his attentions! Oh, Rosalie!”

“Was I—am I wrong, mamma?” asked Rosalie, looking up from where she
reclined upon the sofa.

The lady sat with her hands clasped upon her knees, in a simple
attitude, with her eyes fixed in sorrowful doubt upon her child.

“Do you ever mean to review your decision, and accept him, Rosalie?”

“Never, mamma, I assure you!”

“Are you very certain, Rosalie?”

“Certain, dear mamma, beyond all possibility of doubt.”

“If I could believe it”——

“Dear mamma, you may rest assured of it! Why, if I thought it was to be
my fate to marry Robert Bloomfield, well as I like him, I think I should
die of grief!”

“And yet you keep his company! Oh! Rosalie, I am surprised.”

“Is it not right, mamma?”

“What a simple question! Oh, child! if it were not you, I should say it
is unprincipled!”

“Mamma, you distress and alarm me! Why must I not keep poor Robert’s
company, when he takes so much comfort in my society?”

“Comfort! Does he take comfort—do you call it comfort? No, Rosalie, it
is a feverish, consuming hope that keeps him at your side; a wasting,
baleful hope, which, since you do not intend to realize to him, it is
your bounden duty to extinguish forever!”

“Mamma! I do not quite understand you. I am sorry, very sorry, that I
cannot return Robert’s regard”——

“Oh!” exclaimed the lady, interrupting her, “I am not sorry for _that_:
as to _that_, I am very glad you are not engaged to him, nor ever likely
to be; but”——

“But why add to the grief of rejection the bitterness of ingratitude and
coldness?”

“To refuse his attentions, to deny him your company, would not be either
the one or the other, and it is your duty.”

“When poor Robert has no consolation in the world but my company”——

“To say he has no other intoxication, would be nearer the truth.
Rosalie, you are so young, so delicate, so _spirituelle_, so
inexperienced. Rosalie, there is a kindness that is cruel, and that is
what you have been showing ‘poor Robert’ all this time. And there is a
cruelty that is kind, and that is what you must show him now.”

“Mamma, if you think it wrong, I will never ride with him again.”

“And avoid him as much as possible, Rosalie.”

“Indeed I will, mamma. Poor Robert!”

“Fudge! It will not hurt him. The flame without fuel will soon expire
harmlessly.”

By this time the young girl had quite recovered from her fatigue, and
she arose and left the room, to prepare her strawberries, she said.

She passed into a pleasant back room, connected with the pantry and
dining-room, but opening upon the garden, and devoted to certain light
dessert preparations; such as the shelling of peas, stoning of cherries,
&c. It was a cool apartment, with a bare, white oak floor, and many
doors and windows open, and looking out upon the pleasant garden, with
its budding spring flowers—its roses, hyacinths, and daffodils—and upon
the orchard, with its peach trees and cherry trees, covered with pink
and with white blossoms, and further off, upon the green and dewy wheat
field, lying in fertile dales between gray and mossy rocks and
mountains. It was indeed a pleasant apartment, looking out upon a fresh,
verdant, rural scene. Rosalie sat down in the midst of the room, with a
basket of fresh strawberries on her right hand, an empty basket to
receive the caps on her left, and a cut-glass dish on her lap. She chose
to do this. She had a decided attraction to these little graceful
domestic avocations; and as her nimble fingers capped the strawberries,
and dropped berries in the dish, and threw caps in the basket, she began
to sing some lively rural glee; and while she was busily engaged,
singing and capping, she chanced to look up, and saw Mark Sutherland
approaching the house from the garden. He met her glance, and smiled.
She was in a merry mood, or she would not have felt free to say to him
what she did.

“Come in, Mr. Sutherland; I have got something for you, very nice!”

Mark came in, and she said, “Make a bowl of your joined hands, now, and
here!”

She poured into his hands some fine large strawberries, adding,

“These are the first fruits of the season, Mr. Sutherland, and we offer
them to you.”

“Let me first merit them, by helping you,” said Mark.

“Will you help me?”

“Certainly; that is, if I am not intruding on some housekeeping
sanctuary.”

“Oh, no! this room is open and common to the whole family; why, it is
the pleasantest room in the house, only as it is near the pantry and
dining-room, and opens upon the kitchen garden, we prepare our fruit,
and sometimes pick over our vegetables here.”

Mr. Sutherland drew a chair on the other side of the strawberry basket,
and went to work—nobody could tell why—actuated by some whim, no doubt.
After a little desultory conversation, Mr. Sutherland said,

“I believe, dear Rosalie, that I owe this situation to your friendly
remembrance, and I have been waiting some hours for an opportunity of
expressing my thanks.”

Rosalie’s face flushed to the temples.

“I am deeply obliged and grateful to my fair patroness.”

The blush deepened, crimsoning her face. She waved her hand
deprecatingly, impatiently; she began—“Mr. Sutherland”—and stopped, as
it were, choked.

“Miss Vivian, are you so unwilling to receive my acknowledgments? Then
must my gratitude be silent, but not the less deep.”

Again she essayed to speak, and the words came vehemently, impetuously.

“I had no agency in procuring this situation for you, Mr. Sutherland.
How could you think for a moment that _I_, or any one else, could
presume to ‘patronize’ _you_ in such a manner? How could you suppose,
for an instant, that I, or any one else that knew you, could deem this
position a fit and proper one for you? No! could I have dared to
interfere, it would have been to prevent your coming here.”

There was a tone of honest, earnest indignation in her voice, looks, and
manner, that utterly astounded Mark Sutherland. Could it be that she
thought him unworthy of the position? No; he dismissed that surmise at
once, and answered, quietly,

“I confess you surprise me, Rosalie! Is not the vocation of a teacher
really honourable, if conventionally humble?”

“It is greater, higher, more difficult, more responsible, than any
other, except that of the preacher of the Gospel!” answered the girl,
earnestly.

“What is the matter, then—am I unfit for it?”

“Yes, you are totally unfit for it.”

“Why?” smiled Mark; “has my education been neglected?”

“I know that you are a distinguished classical and mathematical scholar,
Mr. Sutherland; and for any other branch of knowledge quite fitted to
take a professor’s chair; but to be a teacher of youth requires other
and rarer qualifications, which you have not.”

“To wit?” inquired Mark, much amused with his young mentor.

“First, then, you should have a natural vocation for teaching, and
consequently the love of it, which you have not; a great deal of
affection for children, which you have not; much patience, perseverance,
firmness, social humility, some of which qualities you have, and others
you have not.”

“I am tempted to ask you to specify which I have and which I have not,
but I will not.”

“I thought you were going to open a glorious career for yourself, and
achieve a great name.”

“In what manner?”

“I thought you were going to be a statesman.”

“A _lawyer_, child.”

“Why are you here, then, Mr. Sutherland? Why are you not a lawyer?”

“Rosalie, I made an effort, many an effort, to get admitted to practice,
at the bar of S——. I had thought myself well qualified, for I had
studied legal science with what you call an attraction—a vocation for
the profession. For several years past I had read law _con amore_; yet,
through the want of familiarity with the technicalities of practice, I
failed to get admitted as a practitioner before the court.”

“Then I would have gone into some lawyer’s office, and assisted him as a
copyist for nothing, until I had acquired an intimacy with those crabbed
technicalities. It seems to me such a very trivial matter for an
impediment. Why, there is your uncle, who is no lawyer, but who can draw
up a right legal and binding document, with as many ‘whereases’ and
‘aforesaids’ as ever made a composition unintelligible.”

“My dear Rosalie, that would have been a very small beginning.”

“‘Despise not the day of small things,’ said the wise man. And at least
the lawyer’s office would have been in the way of your genius; and to
have entered it in the capacity of copyist would have been much better
than to have turned into this by-path, which is utterly apart from it.”

“There were difficulties in the way of even that, Rosalie.”

“And even if there _were_ difficulties, what then? We have no royal road
to distinction in our country. We have no ready-made great men. None are
‘born great;’ none have ‘greatness thrust upon them.’ If any would be
great, he must ‘achieve greatness.’ Nearly _all_ of our heroes and
statesmen have struggled up from the humblest places in society—have
struggled up, alone and unaided, until they have proved their mettle;
and the struggle has been wholesome for them, and has turned them out
sound and healthful natures.”

“You speak wisely and truly, dear Rosalie; yet each of all these men to
whom you have alluded, had near and dear friends—mother, sisters, a
wife, perhaps—to watch his career, and rejoice in it—to soothe him in
moments of exasperation, from injustice, from opposition, from
persecution, and to encourage him in hours of depression and
despondency, when all his hopes and energies seemed palsied, and the
wheels of life and action seemed clogged and stopped; and, finally, to
share and enjoy his success, and to glory in his triumph. Oh, believe
me, Rosalie, man cannot work for himself alone! It were a low and
selfish aim!”

“But he can work for humanity—he can work for God!” said Rosalie, in a
low and reverent voice.

Mark Sutherland sat with his eyes fixed upon the ground, in deep
thought. Rosalie continued—

“Attain a position, Mr. Sutherland—such a position as the prophetic
voice in your heart foretells. Win fame! not for yourself, but for men
and God! not for your own aggrandizement, but for the POWER to right the
wronged, to raise the fallen, to deliver the oppressed, to redeem the
evil, to speak with AUTHORITY the truth to men and before God! Labour,
wait, struggle, for such a position, and, though no mother, sister,
wife, or love, smile on your career, men and women will know it! God
will bless it!”

Mark Sutherland still remained buried in deep and silent thought upon
her words. Oh, if _India_ had so spoken to him, so sympathized with his
aspirations, so encouraged his flagging hopes and energies, what might
he not have accomplished, even before this! But this child Rosalie was
nothing, and yet she spoke words of high moment, and spoke them “as one
having authority.”

“You astonish me, Rosalie; you talk far beyond your years and sex; you
really astound me.”

“I wish I could convince you.”

“You do, you do, my child. But, Rosalie, how is this? You must have
reflected very much, for one of your tender years.”

“I am not so young; I am seventeen.”

“A venerable age, indeed. But, Rosalie, how is it that you have thought
so much beyond girls of your age?”

“Have I done so?”

“Why, assuredly—do you not know that you have? Now tell me how it is.”

“Well, if it is so as you say—for _I_ do not know and cannot judge of
young people, having never had any young companions—I suppose it is
because I have been always sickly, and have always led an isolated,
meditative life; hearing in my secluded retreat only the loudest
thunders of the distant great world of society, I have naturally thought
most about its great successes, and how they were accomplished. I have
watched from afar the career of living great men, and have secretly made
unto myself idols like them. I have read with deep interest the lives of
distinguished statesmen and heroes, particularly those who have
struggled up from poverty and obscurity; that is the reason.”

“Yet that is very unusual in so young and beautiful a girl. I cannot yet
comprehend it—I can scarcely believe in it.”

“The pleasures of childhood and girlhood were not for me—there was
nothing left but books, and much thought over needlework, in solitary
hours. Please do not give me undue credit; it is more mortifying than
blame. I must tell you how it was I thought so much of your life. Nearly
two years ago, after you made such a vast sacrifice to principle—giving
up wealth, station, popularity, family, friends, love, esteem, _all_ for
your ideas of duty—hero-worshipper that I was, I recognized in you the
elements of which heroes are made, and”——

She blushed, and suddenly stopped, conscious of the indelicacy of
praising him to his face.

“Go on, dear Rosalie.”

Still she remained silent and embarrassed.

“Well, Rosalie, you saw, or rather you _thought_ you saw, in me the
elements of heroism?”

“It was very impertinent in me to presume to say so—forgive it!”

“Nay, dear child, I beg you won’t take it back! If you do not hope for
me, who will?”

“Indeed, I do hope for your success very strongly—and more than that, I
count upon it very confidently”——

“But finish what you were going to say; you saw in some one ‘the
elements of which heroes are made, and’”——

“Oh, nothing, only I dived more deeply than ever before into my lives of
great men, and reflected more than ever upon the causes that made them
great, if you do not think it presumption in a girl like me to talk of
reflection upon such a subject. But my mind ever had an attraction to
it, and you gave that attraction a new and strong interest. I thought of
you, and hoped that you were on the road to an honourable and beneficent
distinction. I was grieved to hear that you were coming here; I would
have opposed it, had I dared. Do not stay here, Mr. Sutherland.”

“I must fulfil my engagement with your uncle!”

“My uncle will release you from it.”

“Yet, dear Rosalie, I cannot leave now.”

“Do not think me importunate, impertinent; I wish you would go even now
to-day.”

Mark Sutherland looked up at her in surprise, but checked the answer
that rose to his lips, when he saw her troubled face. Her work being now
completed, she arose, and left the room.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                          BRIDAL PREPARATIONS.

             “Oh, yet we know that somehow good
                 Will be the final goal of ill,
                 To pangs of nature, sins of will,
             Defects of doubt, and taints of blood:

             “That nothing walks with aimless feet;
                 That not one life shall be destroyed,
                 Or cast as rubbish to the void,
             When God hath made the pile complete:

             “That not a worm is cloven in vain!
                 That not a worm, with vain desire,
                 Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire,
             Or but subserves another’s gain.”—_Tennyson._


For the next several days, various notes of preparation as for some
joyful coming event, were sounded through the old hall. Servants, within
and without the house, pursued their avocations with unusual alacrity.
Waggons, with new furniture, arrived from a neighbouring town. In the
drawing-room and parlours, Mrs. Vivian directed the operations of the
upholsterers, in putting down new carpets, and hanging new curtains,
mirrors, &c. On the lawn, and in the garden, Rosalie’s taste presided at
the trimming and dressing of vines, shrubs, and flowers; while from one
to the other Colonel Ashley flew with a gay, busy interest. They were
all evidently playing the prelude to some great family festival. Mark
Sutherland remained unenlightened upon the subject, until, one morning,
as he walked out upon the piazza, to enjoy the early freshness of the
air, he was joined by the two lads, Henry and Richard, who, seizing each
a hand, eagerly inquired—

“Are you going to walk out this morning, before breakfast, Mr.
Sutherland?”

A nod and smile was his answer. He was depressed, despondent; he felt
that he had no part in all that was going on in that house—he felt
himself a stranger and an alien. Yet, too generous and benevolent to
damp the spirits of the lads by his own gloom, he smiled upon them
kindly, and when they asked permission to accompany him, he inquired,
gaily, how it happened that, while all were so very busy, in the house
and on the grounds, they alone should be idle.

“Oh, Mrs. Vivian drives us out of the way—even Rose won’t let us help
her, and father threatens to lock us up if we don’t keep quiet. We’re
driven about from post to pillar; and so we came out to walk with _you_.
Father and the rest of them making such a fuss! just as if nobody ever
got married before St. Gerald!” said Richard, contemptuously.

Another might have rebuked the boy for speaking so disrespectfully; but
Mark had little of the tutor spirit in him, after all. Rosalie was right
in that.

They left the piazza, crossed the lawn, and took the narrow path leading
along the course of the stream-the boys sometimes affectionately holding
his hands, and sometimes one or the other suddenly breaking away to
pluck and bring him an early violet, or eglantine rose, or to throw a
pebble in the stream, where some small fish had started up. At last—

“Making such a fuss!” again complained Richard; “making such a fuss, and
driving us about so that we boys can’t have a bit of peace of our lives!
Just as if _she_ were so much better than everybody else in the world,
that so much trouble must be taken for _her_.”

“Whom are you talking of?” inquired Mr. Sutherland, carelessly.

“Why the young lady St. Gerald is going to marry, to be sure!”

“Ah, then, Mr. Ashley is going to bring home a wife, is he?”

“Why, _of course_ he is!” said Henry, warming up. “He is going to be
married to a beautiful young lady, very rich, who was the belle of the
city last winter, they say!”

“Oh, she is as rich and as beautiful as a princess in a fairy book; and
that’s what all the fuss is about,” sneered Richard.

“Don’t you mind Rich, Mr. Sutherland; he can’t bear to have a word said
about anybody but himself!”

“As if I wanted anybody to bother themselves about me—I’m not so much
like _you_ as _that_,” retorted Richard. And thereupon arose the usual
squabble between the lads, until their tutor interfered and restored
order, if not good feeling.

They continued their walk for about a mile along the mountain stream,
and then returning by the back hills, got home at the breakfast hour.

Colonel Ashley, Mrs. Vivian, and Rose, were already seated at the
breakfast table, and engaged in eager conversation concerning the
approaching marriage of the heir of the house, when Mr. Sutherland and
the lads entered.

“Good morning, Mr. Sutherland. I hope you have had a pleasant
walk—though I would not be bothered with those troublesome boys, if I
were you; their company is quite enough in school hours, I should
think!” said the old gentleman, banteringly, as they took their places
at the board.

Mrs. Vivian and Rosalie smiled a salutation. And then the thread of the
conversation was taken up again, as if it had never been broken, and as
if Mark Sutherland was already familiar with the premises.

“Yes; St. Gerald writes me that the marriage will come off at an early
hour of the day, and that immediately after the ceremony they will set
out from Washington for this place. It will take them two days to reach
here, so that we may expect the party on Thursday evening. Rosalie, my
dear, bear that in mind, if you please, and be ready. Mrs. Vivian, my
dear lady, I do not want _two_ cups of chocolate at once—this, I think,
is intended for Mr. Sutherland!” said the old gentleman, passing the cup
to Mark.

Mrs. Vivian’s mind was certainly absent and distracted, as her manner
was disconcerted, and her beautiful countenance troubled.

After breakfast, the family party separated as usual. Colonel Ashley
went to his study, to write letters; Mrs. Vivian and Rosalie to their
work-table, in the parlour; and Mark to his school-room, with the boys.

The ladies had scarcely seated themselves, before a servant entered to
say that Mr. Robert Bloomfield had come with the ponies, and wished to
know if Miss Rosalie would ride.

“Don’t go, Rose; send an excuse. Cut this companionship firmly and
kindly off, at once and forever,” said Mrs. Vivian, in a low voice.

“Tell him, William, that I am very much obliged for his kindness, but I
cannot ride to-day,” said Rosalie, and, as the servant left the room,
she added, “That was a very unkind, ungrateful message, mamma.”

“Nonsense! What kindness or gratitude do you owe to Robert?” answered
the lady, with an apparent harshness of sentiment that her heart did not
by any means justify.

But, before Rosalie could reply again, Robert Bloomfield entered the
room, flushed and in haste; and, without even seeing Mrs. Vivian,
hurried up to the young girl, exclaiming—“Rose! Rose! how _is_ this?
Three times I have called here, as usual—as a matter of course—to ride
with you, and each time I have been met by your servant, and told—I
don’t know what, except that I could not see you, Rose. Dear Rosalie,
have I offended you in any way? Dear Rosalie, speak to me! Say! Say, are
you angry with me?” he persisted, seeing that she did not answer.

“Now, what on earth should I be angry with you about, Robert? Of course,
I am not angry.”

“You are offended with me. You are, I feel you are—I know you are; I see
it in your face, Rosalie,” he persisted, gazing on her troubled
countenance, and reading, but not aright, its sorrowful expression.

“Indeed, I am not displeased with you, dear Bob. How could I possibly
be, when you never in your life gave me cause for any other feeling
towards you than esteem and thankfulness?”

“‘Esteem and thankfulness!’ I told you before, Rosalie, if you persisted
in talking that way you’d drive me out of my senses!”

Here Mrs. Vivian hemmed, to give notice of her presence; and Robert
Bloomfield turned, and perceived her for the first time. If he had not
observed the lady before, he did not care about her now. He bowed; and
then, forgetting her, turned, and resumed his conversation with Rosalie,
in the same impatient, impassioned tone.

Mrs. Vivian, with a cold, offended air, arose and left the room. But as
soon as the door closed behind the lady, and Robert found himself alone
with Rosalie, he certainly betrayed a great sense of relief, for his
manner became more earnest and vehement, and he pleaded anew the
hopeless suit so often and so decidedly rejected. His tongue was
loosened, and words flowed, without let or hindrance, in that impetuous
torrent of eloquence inspired only by passion; and Rosalie listened with
emotion scarcely less than his own, for every word he uttered gave
expression to the vague, deep, unspoken yearning of her own heart.

She heard him out patiently; yes, she let him begin again, and go over
the whole matter a second and a third time, before she could find
courage to destroy his hopes. At last she said—

“I have deeply wronged you, Robert. I did not mean it, Heaven knows; but
I _have_ wronged you. Robert, I am very sorry. I shall never forgive
myself.”

“I don’t understand you, Rosalie—I—_do_ tell me what you mean!”

“I mean that I have not been frank enough with you, Robert. I have not
had the courage,” said Rosalie, in a faltering voice, for she still
deeply pitied him.

He did not look like an object of pity, just then; all his countenance
suddenly brightened with joy. He seized her hand, exclaiming—“Do I
comprehend? Do I hear you right? Do you mean, after all, that you like
me a little better than you said you did?”

“No. Oh! Robert, what a sanguine nature yours must be, to interpret
every word which is not positive, in your own way. No, Robert! I mean,
that I have thoughtlessly accepted all your kind services, knowing full
well that I never, never can repay the smallest of them. I mean, too,
that I have let you tell me, again and again, of your regard, knowing
all the while that I can never, never return it in the way you wish. I
have wronged you, by not telling you this with sufficient firmness
before!”

“Cruel! cold! hard! heartless!”

“It is my misfortune that I cannot accept you, Robert. My reason is
telling me all the time, just as any prudent old lady could tell me—that
if I _could_ like you, I should have an enviable lot in life; not
because you are wealthy, and all that, of course, Robert, but because I
really do know you are—so good, so disinterested, so true, and because
your dear mother and sisters are just like you, and I could love them as
if they were my own relatives.”

“In mercy, Rosalie, why do you talk to me so, if you never mean to
accept me?”

“Why, indeed? Because I cannot reject this kindness, for which I am
indeed most sincerely grateful, in any other but the humblest manner,
and with every circumstance to assure you, that I feel how much good I
reject in rejecting you, Robert. Dear Robert, there is certainly
destiny, as well as duty, in these matters; and, well as I like you, I
could not love you enough to marry you, if my salvation depended on it;
indeed I could not. I am not destined to so easy a life, Robert. I begin
to have a foreshadowing that my lot will be a very rough one, Robert;
that I shall not be left to bask in the sunshine, but shall have to face
and weather the storm.”

“You—you fragile snow-drop! What do you mean now? _You_ meet the storms
of life! Has the Planters’ Own Bank broken, or have all the slaves on
the plantation run off in a body?”

“Neither one nor the other, Robert. And if I ‘rough it’ in the world, it
will be my own free choice.”

“I confess I do not understand you—except that you make me wretched;
that is plain enough, but as to the rest, I am all in the dark.”

“It is my own secret, Robert.”

“One thing I do know; that is, you are too delicate for a rough life.”

“Robert, there are many delicate natures that have been cherished, and
nursed, and petted to miserable weakness and death. My flower garden has
taught me that lesson.”

“I should like to know how a flower garden could teach you a lesson like
_that_!”

“Oh! should you? I can tell you, then. Last year, when I came here, I
found a new flower growing in the garden. I don’t know botany, and I
don’t know what the flower was, or how it came there; but I suppose the
wind brought the seed. My flower was so feeble and withered, that it had
lost all beauty and comeliness, and every charm, except a delightful
odour. I weeded and worked around it, and watered it regularly, and
nursed and cherished it, but it faded faster and faster, yielding a
dying fragrance. I said it was too exposed and cold, and I took it up
and transplanted it to the conservatory. There it wilted and fell, and I
gave it up for lost. But now mark the sequel. A few days after, I took a
ride up to the mountain top, and left my horse, for a ramble on foot. A
fresh, delicate, delicious odour greeted me. I looked about, and lo!
there, in a cleft of the rock on the mountain top, where it would be
exposed to all the snow, and wind, and hail of winter, and burning rays
of summer, was my strange hothouse plant! There it grew and flourished,
swaying to and fro in the wind, and filling all the air with the
freshness of its fragrance! Now what do you think I did, Robert? You
will laugh at me, of course, for everybody laughed. The very next day I
took my poor flower, that was dying in the conservatory—and that I
pitied as if it had been a sick, caged bird—and I carried it up the
mountain, and planted it in the evening. Thunder gusts and showers the
next day prevented my ride; but the third day I visited my protege. It
was living! It had plucked up a spirit and intended to live. I am like
that plant, Robert! And now, to come back to yourself. We must part,
Robert, as friends—kindly—but not to meet again, except as mere
acquaintances, until you have outgrown the present weakness of your
heart.”

She extended her hand—he pressed it to his lips, seized his cap, and
hastily left the house.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                              THE MEETING.

         “The staring madness, when she wakes, to find
         That which she has loved—must love—is not that
         She meant to love—
         There is a desolation in her eye
         He cannot bear to look on—for it seems
         As though it eats the light out of his own.”—_Festus._


The day at length came upon which St. Gerald Ashley and his young bride,
with their attendants, were expected to arrive at Ashley Hall. Early in
the afternoon, the carriage had been sent to the village to meet them;
and in the evening all the members of the family were assembled in the
drawing-room, to await them. Many of the country gentry, who had been
invited to meet the bridal party, had joined the circle in the course of
the evening, and the rooms were now quite full. Among the guests present
were the Right Honourable W—— R——, then Governor of the State; Judge
M——, of the Supreme Court; and a few others, high in state or national
authority, whose distinguished names are now historical. But there was
no one present so proud or happy as old Colonel Ashley, who walked about
gently rubbing his hands, in the simple gleefulness of his country heart
and habits.

The carriage was behind time; for the reason, it was rumoured, that the
bride and her attendants chose to rest an hour or two at the village. At
length, however, the welcome wheels were heard to roll up to the door,
and the travellers to alight and enter the hall. They retired to change
their dresses before entering the drawing-room. In the meantime, among
the country neighbours in the saloon, all was half-subdued excitement
and expectancy. Among the company was Mark Sutherland, of course. He was
not one to shade with his dark brow the brightness of other people’s
gaiety. In the social temper of youth, he had sought to enter into the
spirit of the time, and had laughed and jested with the young people, or
“talked politics” with the elders, as the case demanded. He had heard
the slight, subdued bustle in the hall, incident upon the arrival of the
bridal party; and the instant absorption of the whole heart of the
assembled company, in the interest of the moment, had left him free. He
had stood a few moments quite alone and unobserved, when a slight
tremulousness of the air near him, a slight disturbance of his own
serenity, caused him to look up.

Rosalie Vivian was standing near him, with a deprecating, imploring look
and gesture. Her face was white as the white crape dress she wore, and
her wreath of snow drops quivered with the trembling of her frame.

Startled by her appearance, he asked hurriedly—“Dear Rosalie, has
anything happened? What is the matter?”

“I ought to have told you before! _Some_ of us ought to have told you!
_I_ ought to have done so!” she answered, somewhat vaguely and wildly.

“Told me _what_, dear Rosalie? What is it?”

“Give me the support of your arm into the next room—there is no one
there.”

“My child, you are not well!” said Mark, looking at her now with painful
anxiety, as he drew her hand through his arm.

“I am not _good_, you ought to say. I have not been good! I have been a
coward! I have not been your friend, Mark! I have been a traitor.”

“A traitor! Rosalie, you rave!”

“I ought to have told you any time this month past; but I could not
_bear_ to do it. And now it is scarcely any use at all; it is a mockery
to tell you. But yet, indeed, I could not bear to see you standing
there, so gay and unsuspicious. I could not bear to think how you would
lose your self-command in _her_ presence. No, I could not endure the
thought, Mark!” she said, more and more incoherently.

“Rosalie, you are very nervous; you have over-excited yourself about
this wedding. Come, let me get you something,” said Mark, drawing her
gently through the crowd.

As they passed, the buzz of conversation increased very much, and “They
are coming;” “The bride is coming;” “There she is;” “Hush,” &c., were
the sounds that heralded the entrance of the bridal party, just as Mark
Sutherland led Rosalie Vivian into the next room. He took her to a sofa,
seated her, handed her a glass of water; but she waved it aside, saying,
“I do not need it—I do not need it! It is _you_ who need strength and
calmness now. O, Mark! I wish you had left the house when I advised you
to leave it!” she exclaimed, her agitation becoming momentarily greater.
At last, forcing herself to speak again, she asked: “Mr. Sutherland!
Mark! Do you know the name of the lady whom St. Gerald Ashley has
married?”

“Certainly,” said Mark Sutherland, raising his eyebrows in an
interrogative manner.

“You do!” exclaimed Rosalie, greatly surprised—excited.

“Certainly I do! How could I possibly remain in ignorance of it?”

“You do! You know it! And yet you are so calm! Nay, indeed, I am afraid
you are mistaken; whom do you suppose it to be?”

“One once betrothed to myself—my cousin India!”

“You know it! And you are not unhappy about it! Oh, blessed Lord! I am
so thankful—so glad!” And Rosalie dropped her face upon her hands, and
wept softly and quietly.

“Dear Rosalie, has all this disturbance of yours been caused by your
sympathy with unworthy me?”

“I remembered how you suffered at Cashmere—I feared—I dreaded if you met
her suddenly here—the bride of another—that”——

“Well, dear Rose! That”——

“Oh, I fear you think me very impertinent. If you do, you may tell me
so; indeed, I shall not take it amiss.”

“Tell me your thought, Rosalie. Was it that all those old wounds would
be re-opened? That all those sufferings would be renewed?”

“Yes!”

“Yet you see that they are not.”

“No, thank Heaven, Mark! But I cannot understand it.”

“Well, then, understand it now. The advent of my promised bride, as the
wedded wife of another, does not disturb a pulse of mine, because, in
_my_ heart—in any honourable heart—love could not long survive esteem,
more than it could survive hope or duty, and because”—— Here his whole
manner grew most earnest, most intense, and passing his arm over her
shoulder, he drew her face towards his own, and kissing away the tear
drops from her eyes, said, “Because I love this single tear of true
feeling better than the whole heart of yonder selfish beauty!”

And now, if Mark fancied tears, he might have a plenty of them; for now
they fell warm and fast.

“What is the matter, Rosalie? Why do you weep now?” asked Mark.

But she did not answer. He repeated the question perseveringly.

At last, sobbing softly, and smiling, and sighing, and blushing, and
averting her face, she said, archly, “Juliet wept at what she was ‘glad
of.’”

“Are _you_ glad, Rosalie? Tell me, dear Rose. Are _you_ glad that I love
you more than all the world that I have chosen you the guiding star of
my life?”

She did not, could not answer.

He repeated this question, also searchingly, perseveringly, only to hear
her answer; and he bent his ear, and averted his eyes, and quelled the
beating of his heart, to win her reply.

At last it came, with her face hidden on his shoulder, and in a tone
scarcely above her breath—“I always hoped you would like me at last; I
did not think you would so soon, though.”

“But are you glad—are you _glad_?” persisted the unreasonable man.

“Yes, _glad_,” whispered Rosalie; and in proof of her truth the tears
rolled quietly down her face.

“And so am I! Glad, happy, hopeful, confident, Rosalie! There will be no
more faltering, and fainting, and failing now! You have infused new life
into me. That any gossamer girl should have the power to do this! Yet
such is the case, Rosalie.”

“Am I such a gossamer?”

“You are very fragile, Rosalie.”

“‘Out of the heart are the issues of life.’”

They were interrupted, of course; people always are when they are very
blessed. It does not suit “the rest of mankind” to leave them so. This
time it was old Colonel Ashley, who really was happy enough in himself
to have left Mark and Rosalie alone in their content, if he had known
it. He came in with a brisk step, with his slight figure seeming
slighter, his grey hair lighter, and his thin, rosy face fiercer than
ever, with the effervescence of his joy. He advanced, speaking—

“Ah, Mr. Sutherland, you are here! I have been looking for you. What!
will you be the last to pay your respects to the bride, and she a
relative—though a very distant one, I suppose, of your own? Come, let me
present you.”

“Does India—does Mrs. Ashley expect me?” inquired Mr. Sutherland.

“I imagine not!” replied the old gentleman, raising his eyebrows; “but
that does not matter, you know. Come!”

Pressing the hand of Rosalie, before relinquishing it, Mark Sutherland
arose to accompany Colonel Ashley to the front drawing-room, and to the
presence of the bride.

They could not at once approach her, on account of the number of persons
around her; yet the room was not so thronged with company as to prevent
their having a full view of the bride and her attendants.

There stood India receiving the homage of her circle—her superb form
arrayed in the rich and gorgeous costume that was so well adapted to her
majestic and luxurious style of beauty. Her cheeks were mantled with a
rich, high colour, yet this seemed not the carnation bloom of youth and
health, but the fire of a feverish excitement. Her eyes were dark and
brilliant, yet not with the light of innocent love and joy, but with the
blaze of a burning and consuming heart.

“Come,” whispered the old gentleman; “it is no use to stand here waiting
our opportunity; for we might stand all night, and those fools wouldn’t
give way. Poor wretches!—just like boys peeping at a gentleman’s
conservatory, where they know they dare not touch even a rose-bud. Come,
we must elbow through that circle of dandies; gently, you know—gently.”

And suiting the action to the words, Colonel Ashley adroitly insinuated
himself through the outer crowd and through the nearer circle, and into
the very presence of the bride.

She was not looking towards the new-comers. She was listening to a
gentleman, who, having apparently exhausted all other subjects of
adulation, was now expatiating upon the rare and exquisite beauty of the
bouquet she held in her hand.

Colonel Ashley and Mr. Sutherland were before her.

“Mrs. Ashley”——

She looked round.

“Will you permit me to present to you my young friend, Mr. Sutherland—a
distant relative of your own, may I hope?”

Mark Sutherland looked up, caught her eye, and bowed deeply. But before
he had had time to do so, before even the deliberate ceremonious
presentation speech of the old gentleman was half over—at the very
instant she had turned around, and her eye had fallen upon Mark
Sutherland—a change, an appalling change, had come over her lovely face
and form, like that which might be supposed to sweep over the face of
some beautiful and fertile oasis at the sudden blast of the simoom, that
buries all its luxurious beauty in the burning and arid sands of the
desert.

As by the sudden smite of death, all colour was dashed out from her
cheek, and all light from her eye. For a moment she stood and gazed,
transfixed, unable to withdraw her stony eyes from his; then, with a
sudden cry, as if some tightly-strained heartstring had snapped—the
tension of her form relaxed, and she fell to the floor!

In an instant all was confusion. Raised in the arms of her father,
Clement Sutherland—who, until that moment, had remained obscure in the
background—the swooning bride was borne into the adjoining room, and
laid upon the sofa, while restoratives were anxiously sought for, to be
administered.

In the meantime, in the saloon she had left, only two persons—Mark
Sutherland and Mrs. Vivian—understood the cause of her fainting. Various
innocent conjectures prevailed, far from the truth. “It was the heat of
the room,” thought one; “Over-excitement,” opined another; “Standing so
long,” fancied a third; “The fatigue of her journey,” imagined a fourth.
“Really, it was too inconsiderate in Colonel Ashley to oblige his
daughter to receive company upon the very evening of her arrival,”
complained Mrs. Chief Justice M——, a large, heavy person, fanning
herself slowly. “I noticed her face was very pale,” said a sympathetic
lady, drawing upon her imagination for her facts. “Indeed! but I thought
it was very flushed,” interrupted a matter-of-fact individual.

All these various conjectures were expressed in low, almost inaudible
tones; while, undisturbed and smiling, Mrs. Vivian passed among the
company, and, as it were, moved upon the troubled waters of their
half-suppressed excitement, and, with her mere smile of self-possession,
restoring calmness and order.

Presently the door of the inner room opened, and the bride reappeared,
leaning lightly upon the arm of her father, and attended by her husband
and bridesmaids. She entered, and passed up the saloon to her former
position. Several country gentlemen zealously drew forward a cushioned
chair, and several sympathetic old-fashioned ladies approached, with
inquiries and expressions of condolence.

Pale and weary, but smiling and self-possessed, Mrs. Ashley gracefully
accepted the services of the former, and replied to the interested
questions and comments of the latter.

“It was very ill-judged on the part of the Colonel, my dear, to subject
you to the fatigue of a reception, just off your journey—very indeed,”
said Mrs. Chief Justice M——.

“I do really think we ought to exercise the good taste of retiring,”
whispered another.

Whether India heard this remark or not, she answered—

“I am not fatigued. We made but a very short stage to-day, and rested
several hours at the next village. No; it was the warmth and closeness
of the room. The windows are open now, and the effect has gone with the
cause,” she added, smiling brightly, while at the same moment the
consciousness of the first falsehood she had ever uttered in her life
brought a warm though transient blush to her cheek, that resembled the
returning glow of strength, and reassured all doubt.

After a little, the musicians began to touch their instruments, and soon
struck up a lively quadrille air. The younger portion of the company
gave signs of restlessness. Gentlemen hesitated, and then chose their
partners for the set, and remained awaiting the motions of Mrs. Ashley.
As hostess, it was her right to select any gentleman present to honour
with her hand for the quadrille; and as bride, it was her privilege to
lead off the dance.

When India became aware that all were waiting for her, she threw her
eyes over the assembly; and the aspiring heart of many a youth beat
faster when their beams lingered for an instant on him. But he for whom
she looked was nowhere to be seen. At last, a smile of scorn and
_self-scorn_ writhed swiftly athwart her lips, and her eyes suddenly
blazed as their light kindled upon the form of one who came in at the
farthest door. Quick as lightning flashed and fled the spasm of that
face, leaving it serene and smiling, as she arose and met the new-comer,
and said sweetly—

“My cousin Mark, will you honour me?”

And before the astonished man could bow, she had placed her hand in his,
and he found himself by her side, at the head of a set that instantly
formed around them.

India spoke and smiled with her usual charming ease, and danced with her
usual grace and dignity.

And after the dance was finished, and her partner had led her to her
seat, she detained him near her, toying with her fan or bouquet, talking
of a thousand nothings. She presented him to her husband; and Mark
Sutherland, of course, politely expressed himself pleased to form the
personal acquaintance of one with whose public life and services he had
been so long familiar, &c.

Throughout the long evening, India maintained a regnant self-control.
And Mark Sutherland wondered at the seeming inconsistency of her
conduct. He did not know, or he did not reflect, that in the first
instance of surprise, her _nerves_ had—so to speak—got the start of her
_will_, and so betrayed her; but that after once the will had regained
the ascendancy over the nerves, it was able to control them.

Not again that evening did Mark Sutherland find an opportunity to speak
with Rosalie. India detained him at her side, smiling, chatting, and in
her daring audacity carrying back their recollections into scenes and
times and places that suggested the parallel of taking lighted candles
among open casks of camphine or gunpowder. Her indifference was too well
attested to be genuine. But Mark Sutherland’s perfect calmness—real and
thorough, as hers was assumed and superficial—assisted her.

The drama of the evening was at last over. The company had departed, the
lights were out, and India found herself, for a few moments, alone in
her chamber. She had smiled, and glanced, and chatted, and charmed all
eyes and ears to the last. She had gained the privacy of her chamber—she
had angrily, then fiercely, rejected the services of her attendant, and
turned her from the room. And now, for the moment, she was alone and
free—the acting all was over—the mask might be laid aside—the miserable
victim of pride might seem the wretch she really was.

And oh! the fearful change that came over that beautiful but agonized
face when the mask of smiles fell! She threw herself, all robed, and
gemmed, and wreathed, as she was, prostrate upon the bed—her form
convulsed, her bosom heaving with the suffocating anguish, which, from
its very excess could not be vented.

“False! false! false!” she wailed. “False to Mark! false to my husband!
falser than all, to myself! Lost! lost! lost! Lost, body, soul, and
spirit! Would that I could die!”

A light, gay footstep on the stairs, a low, love-tuned voice near the
door, and it opened, and St. Gerald Ashley entered, with a smile of
confiding affection on his noble face.

How will that erring woman meet his manly, trusting love?




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                                ROSALIE.

           “And I am blessed, to my mind.”—_E. B. Browning._


Rosalie’s content was undisturbed and perfect. She had not witnessed
India’s fainting. She knew of it, but ascribed it, as others did, to
fatigue, heat, and over-excitement. She never once associated the swoon
of the bride with the meeting with her former lover. It is true she had
dreaded this meeting, for the sake of Mark, who, she feared, still
cherished an affection for India; but she had no such fears for her. She
could not have imagined—the simple integrity of her heart shielded her
from imagining—that India could have given her hand to one man, while
cherishing a thenceforth guilty preference for another. Of course, she
had heard and read of ladies who desecrated marriage by making a legal
sale of themselves for money, rank, or convenience; but then such were
ladies of society, ladies of the great world—not highhearted women, not
women of noble _sentiments_, like her friend India, who, if she were
fickle, was at least truthful, even in her fickleness. No; the thought
of India, while the wife of another, still loving Mark, and fainting at
his sudden appearance, never entered the girl’s mind. She heard and
entirely believed India’s own explanation of her swoon—“the closeness of
the room”—and so, undisturbed by the suspicion of that suffering near
her, which, had she known it, would have greatly troubled her peace,
Rosalie yielded up her soul to serene joy. That night in her prayers she
returned earnest thanks for the happiness accorded her. She sought her
pillow in the fulness of content. Mark loved her! beyond this, she did
not care to ask or hope any earthly good. Mark loved her! this was
happiness enough for one long season. Mark loved her! the thought
enveloped her soul in a benign sense of perfect protection, safety, and
comfort. Mark loved her! the thought was perfect peace. Wrapped in it,
she sweetly fell asleep.

She awoke in the morning, with a vague impression of a great happiness
sleeping in her heart. Suddenly, with a shock of electric joy, she
remembered what it was—Mark loved her! Again, in her morning worship,
she offered up fervent thanksgiving for this priceless boon of love; and
after she had made her simple morning toilet, she left her room, and
went down stairs. Her self-assumed domestic duties claimed attention;
but still the light of her inward joy brightened all her countenance.

Colonel Ashley, always an early riser, was in the hall when she
descended. He met her, smiling. She was smiling, too.

“Well, my bonny girl!” he said, “spite of late hours, our mountain
breezes are beginning to make the roses bloom on your cheeks. You look
very pretty this morning!”

“Well,” said Rosalie, “how long am I to keep the keys, or when am I to
deliver them up to _Madame l’épouse_?”

“Ah! I don’t know. How should I? You must settle that between you. In a
few days, I suppose. Ask your pretty little mamma; she is likely to know
such points of domestic etiquette. Madam does not look very much like
the material of which Virginia housewives are composed, I must say. I
fear, little girl, that you will still have to carry the keys.”

“Now, you know, uncle, if I am to have all the duties of housekeeper,
without the dignities of mistress, I intend to demand a salary for my
services. Do you hear?”

“And you shall have it, my dear—ten kisses a day. Will that suit you?”

Rosalie laughed and left him.

It was yet early in the morning, and she went to “see after” breakfast.
Her first visit was to her diary, to have the new milk strained, and the
old milk skimmed, and the cream and butter iced and brought out for
breakfast. Then she sent two little negro girls into the garden, to
gather raspberries—a necessary luxury in its season on a country
breakfast table. Then she went into the cellar, to select the fresh fish
and game and oysters that had been kept in ice. Then went to the pantry,
to give out coffee, tea, chocolate, sugar, &c. Then to the plate and
china closet, to “parade” the best Sevres breakfast service and the
family plate, in honour of the occasion. Her next visit was to the
breakfast room, to see that the table was well arranged. “I wonder,
after all, if India _will_ like to spend two hours of the early morning
in this manner, instead of lounging them away over her own elegant
toilet,” said Rosalie to herself, as she passed into the room. Finding
all in order here, the busy little housewife passed next into that
pleasant room near the kitchen and the pantry, and fronting upon the
garden, and devoted to the picking of vegetables and fruit, and such
little half-horticultural, half-culinary pursuits. Here she found her
two little black handmaids, with their baskets of raspberries, waiting
for her. She praised their diligence and took the raspberries, and was
engaged in putting them in cut-glass dishes, and powdering them with
sugar, when she felt a light hand laid upon her shoulder, and, glancing
around, she saw Mark Sutherland standing behind her, smiling upon her. A
sudden bright blush suffused her beautiful countenance; but she
exclaimed, saucily—

“Not even the grace of Paul Pry, to say, ‘I hope I don’t intrude.’”

“You know you gave me the freedom of this room long ago, little
housekeeper.”

“A privilege which men like you seem inclined to abuse,” answered
Rosalie, glancing at her gingham gown, holland apron, and turned-up
sleeves.

“Beautiful in that also, Rosalie. What a charming little peasant you
make!”

“I think so too,” said Rose, ingenuously; and then, blushing and
laughing, she suddenly corrected herself, saying, “_Oh!_ I did not mean
_that_; I meant I like this dress and this occupation, and think they
suit me perhaps as well as any other.”

“Shall I help you with this also, Rosalie?” said Mark, taking up a
sugar-duster.

“Oh, no, thank you! I have nearly done. If you want employment, you may
go into the garden and select a bouquet of the sweetest half-blown white
rose buds and heliotrope that you can find, as a morning offering to our
bride.”

“And for you, a posy of heartsease,” he answered meaningly, pressing her
fingers as he went.

Rosalie finished her fruit, ornamenting the edges of the dishes with
fresh green leaves, and sent them to the table. Then she went and
changed her dress for breakfast; and when Mark returned from the garden,
he found her standing in the hall waiting for him.

She was looking very lovely, in her fresh white muslin morning dress,
without any ornament, but her own soft brown ringlets, and the bright
blush and smile lighted by happiness.

“Here they are, sweetheart!” he said, gaily and fondly showing the
flowers.

“An elegant bouquet for the bride!” she exclaimed admiringly.

“And a sweet little posy for you,” he said, placing the heartsease on
her bosom.

“_Il est a propos, n’est ce pas?_”

“It is fit.”

“_Oui! Comme il faut, Monsieur?_”

“It is faultless.”

“Do you mean to say you won’t talk French with me, Mark?”

“I mean only to show you, as long as you speak it to me, that there is
not a word or phrase in that fashionable and hackneyed language, that
has not a shorter, stronger, and more expressive synonym in our own
mother tongue. There is no language for true thought and strong feeling
like our earnest English. But, my Rose! even English has no word to tell
how much I love you—how dear you are to me! All last evening, occupied,
monopolized as I was, sometimes for a moment I would forget you, and
then your image would return to me with—how shall I say it?—how express
it?—with such a thrill of life and joy as I never felt before; an
emotion purer, higher, more blissful than I ever knew before. But, Rose!
my rose! will this dream fade also? Must I wake, to find that you cannot
go with me through the rough paths of life, up which my footsteps have
to toil?”

“No, Mark! No—unless you will it so. Believe in me, for I am true.
‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge;
thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; and the Lord do so to
me, and more also, if aught but death part me and thee,’” she said
earnestly.

There was earnest honour as well as deep affection in the broken words
wherewith he blessed her, as he led her back into the parlour where all
the family were now assembled.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                             DISCORDANCES.

             “But here upon this earth below,
             There’s not a spot where thou and I
             Together for an hour could breathe.”—_Byron._


It was impossible that the discordant elements of social life assembled
at Ashley Hall could harmonize for an instant. Of the family party
gathered around the breakfast table, the pale, beautiful India assumed a
mask of smiles—Mr. Ashley wore a look of anxious perplexity he did not
care to hide—Mark Sutherland appeared self-possessed, but was too
conscious to feel really at ease. Colonel Ashley was secretly annoyed,
to find the re-union around the breakfast table not quite so cheerful as
might have been expected. Mrs. Vivian was vexed at the general tacit
antagonism, and resolved, if this should last, to bring her visit to a
close as soon as possible. Nevertheless, she kept up an irregular fire
of wit and repartee, to prevent the party falling into dead silence.
Rosalie alone was truly at ease. She was totally ignorant of any cause
of disunion in the circle, and too much absorbed in her own infinite
content, to notice signs of disturbance among those around her.

When breakfast was over, the little lady drew Rosalie off into the
piazza, and away up to the honeysuckle-shaded end, where no one was
likely to come but the honey bees.

“And now, Rose,” she asked, “what is it? Your eyes have poured streams
of light all breakfast time, like sun glances; they have projected rays
wherever they have fallen. Now what is it all about?”

“One should be merry in wedding times!”

“Merry in wedding times! Look here, Rosalie! Some marriages are made in
heaven, some on earth, and some—_in the other place_. But it was not
merriment, but profound, still joy, that lighted your eyes, Rose! Now,
what was it all about?”

“Mark loves me, mamma!” whispered the girl, hiding her face upon her
step-mother’s shoulder.

“Now, that’s the most absurd thing I ever heard in all my life!”
exclaimed the little lady, shoving her off, and walking rapidly away
with a highly-flushed cheek.

Rosalie knew her too well, and trusted her too thoroughly, to feel any
anxiety. She walked behind her, put her arms around her waist, and,
bending forward, looked up smilingly into her eyes.

“You needn’t think to get the better of me that way, Rose! It is
ridiculous, I say! What do you mean to do with this love?”

Rose folded both hands over her bosom with a look of unspeakable
content. Both look and gesture were involuntary.

“Aye, hoard it away, treasure it deep in your heart, I suppose you mean.
Silly girl! Well, what is to be the end of it all? What practical object
do you propose to yourself? When ever do you expect to be _married_?”

“Whenever Mark asks me, mamma!”

“It is just madness!” exclaimed the lady, impatiently; “he has not a
dollar!”

“Yes, he has! All that I have, mamma!”

“All that you have! Do you imagine for an instant that your guardian
will give up one cent of your property during your minority? No; he will
even stop your allowance if you become the wife of Mark Sutherland!”

“Why should he do that? It would be very unjust!” said Rosalie, raising
her eyebrows with surprise. “It would be unnatural! monstrous! My
guardian, Mark’s own uncle! Oh! surely, having discarded him, he will
not pursue him with persecutions.”

“_Will he not?_”

“No, I will never believe it!”

“He will fill up the measure of his animosity—believe that! Clement
Sutherland did not appear at the breakfast table this morning. Can you
not surmise the cause? He has many bad reasons for hating his nephew. He
hates him for his political opinions, for his principles, and, more than
all, for having had the power to give up the beautiful India. Clement
Sutherland worships his beautiful daughter; and he hates Mark for not
having laid upon her shrine the most precious jewel of his soul—his
integrity. And now, with the opposition of your guardian, who is
invested with such power over your fortune, what have you to expect in
giving yourself to Mark Sutherland?”

“I do not know; I shall leave it all to Mark. It is no conditional
promise I have given him—no halffaith I have pledged him. I have given
him the full and complete control of my destiny. I could not help it.
All that was within me—heart, and soul, and spirit—sprang to him when he
called me. Mamma, it is a word often abused, but at this moment my soul
throws it irresistibly upon my lips—I _adore_ Mark! And now, amidst
opposition, persecution, desertion, he must know that there is one who
will follow wherever he leads—one heart that will cleave to him, in joy
and in sorrow, in life and in death.”

At that very instant the boy brought the mail-bag, intruded upon them,
and handed Mrs. Vivian a letter. As soon as her glance fell upon the
superscription, her face flushed to the forehead, and, for the moment
forgetful of Rosalie, she hastened to read it.

While this confidential conversation was going on between the young
step-mother and her daughter, another scene, portentous with fate,
transpired in the study of Colonel Ashley. As that gentleman was leaving
the breakfast-room, a message was brought him from Mr. Clement
Sutherland, desiring the favour of a few moments’ private conversation
with him. Colonel Ashley returned word that he would be pleased to see
Mr. Sutherland in his study. Thither he immediately proceeded, and
thither soon followed his guest.

Clement Sutherland entered, with a forbidding and foreboding scowl upon
his brow.

Colonel Ashley instantly arose, set a chair, and invited him to be
seated.

Clement Sutherland, without unbending the sternness of his features,
bowed, and sat down.

“I trust you are in good health this morning, Mr. Sutherland,” said the
Colonel, urbanely.

“I am well, sir,” replied his guest, coldly.

“I was sorry to miss you at the breakfast table this morning. I trust my
little girl made you comfortable in your own apartment?”

“Thank you, sir.”

Colonel Ashley was silenced and repelled for a little while by this
churlishness on the part of his interlocutor; but, speedily recollecting
that it was his guest who had sought this interview, he inquired with
some reserve of manner—

“Can I be so happy as to serve you in any way this morning, Mr.
Sutherland?”

“Who recommended that young man whom you have engaged as a tutor?” asked
Clement Sutherland, curtly.

Now, Colonel Ashley might well have been provoked by the abruptness of
this question to make some unpleasant answer, but Colonel Ashley was a
gentleman and a host. He replied with the utmost courtesy, yet in a
manner that administered the keenest and most delicate rebuke. Looking
at his guest, he said, slowly and with meaning, “His _name_ recommended
him, Mr. Sutherland.”

“That is just what I feared. That is the one thing, unhappily, of which
we cannot deprive him, and makes us, in some degree, responsible for
him. Pray, sir, did you know anything of this young man’s past history?”

“Nothing.”

“You fancied him a relative of ours?”

“Certainly.”

“Now, then, will you be so kind as to give me your attention for a few
minutes?”

Colonel Ashley settled himself in an attitude of fixed interest, and
Clement Sutherland commenced a narration of some considerable length,
which, at its close, left Mark Sutherland with the character of a
graceless son, a faithless lover, an unprincipled man, and a mad
reformer.

“Sir,” said he, in conclusion, “you should not give him house-room for
an hour! He will pervert your children, steal the heart of your niece,
sow fatal dissension between your son and his wife, and incite your
servants to revolt!”

Colonel Ashley went through all the degrees of incredulity, doubt,
perplexity, and alarm, exclaiming, “I should never have believed it of
him! He does not look at all like an incendiary!”

“Sir, an incendiary does not parade his combustible matter before your
eyes, and _look_ like he was going to fire your house!”

“He does not seem to me to be at all dangerous.”

“Sir, dangerous people never _seem_ dangerous.”

“I rather liked the young gentleman, I confess,” said Colonel Ashley,
slowly and hesitatingly.

“Sir, would you like your children to imbibe revolutionary principles?
Would you like your servants incited to revolt? Would you like an
estrangement and separation brought about between your son and
daughter-in-law? Would you like your niece to elope with a fanatic?”

“Mr. Sutherland, I must say that you shock me beyond endurance. You
ruthlessly grasp subjects that a man of honour and delicacy scarcely
likes to touch. You have dealt severely with the young man, also, in
your speech. He may be an enthusiast—enthusiasm is a fault appertaining
to youth and genius—and, moreover, persecution is not at all to my
taste; it is always the growth of cowardice. I am as far from the spirit
of persecution as I am from the spirit of fear. I do not _fear_ that my
children will be perverted, my negroes maddened, my niece infatuated, or
my son and his wife divorced, by the presence of this high-souled but
mistaken young gentleman in my family. I told you that I liked Mr. Mark
Sutherland, and I cannot hate him to order. Nevertheless, as it is not
expedient that one formerly betrothed of Mrs. Ashley should be here to
annoy her by his presence, I will see the young gentleman, and arrange
the speedy termination of our engagement.”

Mr. Clement Sutherland expressed himself satisfied, arose and left the
room.

Colonel Ashley remained with his head upon his chest, in an attitude of
serious thought, for a few minutes; then, pulling the bell-rope, he
summoned a servant.

“Go,” he said to the man that entered, “and request Mr. Mark Sutherland
to favour me with his company here for a few moments.”

The messenger went out, and in search of the tutor.

Meanwhile, Mark Sutherland was in his own room, engaged in reading a
letter that had arrived by the morning’s mail. It was from his old
college friend, Lauderdale. It was a very long letter, being the first
that he had written to Mark Sutherland for more than two years. He began
by reproaching Mark for dropping the correspondence, and leaving him in
ignorance of his whereabouts. He next informed his friend that he owed
his knowledge of his present residence to a happy accident—namely, to
information given him by a fair lady with whom he had been so fortunate
as to maintain an epistolary correspondence; that he expected soon to
arrive at Ashley Hall, on a visit to this fair friend, from whom he had
received an invitation. (Here a jealous pang shot through the heart of
the reader.) “A fair friend”—might that be Rosalie? Had _she_ kept up a
constant correspondence with Lauderdale? And had she even invited him to
the house? He could not endure the suspicion for a moment. No, not even
if it were only a cool, friendly correspondence. He could not endure
that Rose should be on friendly terms with any man except himself. He
read on. The letter proceeded to tell him all that had befallen the
writer since he had last written; how he had settled in a Western
country town; how, after some difficulty, he had been admitted to the
bar, and how he had already got into a tolerably lucrative practice.
Finally came the most startling news of all—viz., that two months
previous, he—L. Lauderdale, Esq.—had come into the possession of an
estate of sixty thousand dollars, by the demise of his godfather, a
widower without children or near relatives, and who, dying, bequeathed
to him the whole of his considerable property. “I do not fully realize
this event, dear Mark,” he wrote; “I cannot realize my personal interest
in it. All I _do_ feel—but that is much, that is everything—is that now
I may go to Ashley Hall, and lay myself and my fortune at the feet of my
fair friend, the beautiful widow, Mrs. Vivian.”

Mark took a long, deep breath.

“What do you want, sir?” he said, looking up, and for the first time
seeing Colonel Ashley’s servant standing in the room.

The man delivered his message, and Mark promised to attend Colonel
Ashley soon, and dismissed the messenger.

He resumed his letter. There was little more to be read, but that little
was full of fate.

“It matters not to me, now, dear Mark, what quarter of the country I
live in. That shall be decided by the will of my fair queen, Valeria.
One thing is certain—this ‘law shop’ and this village must be given up.
My evacuation of the premises will leave a fair opening for any
enterprising young gentleman who may choose to fill it. What say you? If
you are still ‘seriously inclined’ to the ingenious profession of the
law, let me know. If you are disposed to step into my shoes, you will
find them not much worn, with not even the gloss off, only the creak and
harshness taken out of them a little. Think this over, so as to be able
to give an answer, by the time I see you. You may expect me soon.”

Full of thought, Mark Sutherland folded up his letter, and went to the
study of Colonel Ashley.

The old gentleman received him with a degree of kindness almost
paternal. He arose and took his hand, and requested him to be seated.
Then, after some delicate hesitation, he said—

“I was not, until this morning, made aware of the very interesting
relations which you once sustained towards a young lady—your cousin—now
the wife of my son. You were once engaged to be married to Miss
Sutherland, I hear?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the young man, seating himself, in a calm,
unembarrassed manner; while the old gentleman scrutinized the expression
of his countenance, without finding anything there to displease him.

“Will you object to informing me of the cause of the disruption of that
engagement?”

“Certainly not, sir: we differed upon the subject of slavery. She took
sides with her friends, and—we parted; that is all.”

“You mean, my honoured young friend, that when called to do so, you made
a stupendous, an unprecedented sacrifice of fortune, family affection,
and love, for the sake of principle—mistaken principle, perhaps, yet
still principle. Was it not so?”

Mark Sutherland bowed.

“My dear young friend, _we differ in opinion_; but I highly respect you.
I earnestly pray that you may be set right,” said the old gentleman,
warmly, as he held out his hand to Mark, who grasped it, pressed it, and
let it fall.

“Mr. Sutherland, in every exigency of your life, I pray you to consider
me as your friend, ready always to serve you with counsel or assistance
of any kind I have fancied that since the unexpected rencounter of last
evening, you might have something to propose; or, rather, that you might
_wish_ to propose, yet be withheld by some exquisite sense of honour and
delicacy. I entreat you now to waive all considerations save those of
truth, and speak freely to me.”

“I had something to say to you, Colonel Ashley, and, under the
circumstances, the approach of the subject was, as you rightly inferred,
extremely difficult to me. I thank you for having opened the way,” said
the young man, _totally misapprehending him_; then, after a moment’s
hesitation, he went on to say—“You have doubtless surmised the nature of
the communication I had to make to you. It is, that I love your niece,
Miss Vivian; I have told her as much within a few hours past, and have
her permission to entreat your sanction of our engagement.”

Colonel Ashley sprang from his chair, shoving it behind him, and stood
gazing with astonishment upon the young man—with simple astonishment,
unmixed with regret or resentment. At last—

“How long has this gone on, sir, without my knowledge?”

“I fancied it was _not_ without your knowledge, sir. Our association has
been very open. I fancied, from your own words, that you expected the
communication I have just made,” said Mark, with a surprise almost equal
to his own.

“No, sir, no! my words referred to a totally different matter, which I
shall explain presently,” replied the old gentleman, resuming his seat,
with a somewhat changed manner. “So you have addressed Miss Vivian?”

Mark bowed.

“And won her consent to be yours?”

Another bow of assent.

“Humph! well—so I have been truly warned, after all! Pray, Mr.
Sutherland, have you ever tried to instil into the minds of my sons,
your pupils, any of your own opinions in respect to slavery?”

“I have never named the subject to them, sir. I have endeavoured to
cultivate in them principles of truth, justice, and mercy, and left the
application of those principles to that subject to time and
circumstances.”

“Humph! Have you ever convened my coloured people, and preached
insurrection to them?”

“Sir!” exclaimed Mark, with the indignant blood purpling his forehead.

“Nay, nay! don’t look so. God knows, if you had done so, I should have
sought no vengeance, young man.”

“Colonel Ashley, I am neither mad nor unprincipled, however I may have
been misrepresented to you.”

“I believe it, Mark! I quite believe it. I will not examine you upon the
_fourth charge_! Heaven knows what demonstrations of indignation would
meet my question, should I ask you if, poet-wise, you had endeavoured to
awaken in Mrs. Ashley’s memory any sentimental reminiscences of the
past!”

Mark smiled.

“Yet nevertheless, my dear young friend, it was upon _that subject_ that
I wished to speak to you. Mr. and Mrs. Ashley will make this house their
permanent home. My son’s wife will be the mistress of the establishment,
of course. Will it be pleasant for you to meet them in daily, hourly
intercourse? I have seen it written, that ‘friendship sometimes turns to
love, but love to friendship never.’ A brimstone sentiment, I admit.
Still, I can imagine cases and characters to which it is applicable. For
instance, I do not think it possible for you and your cousin ever to be
friends.”

Mark was silent.

“You do not speak. Do you perchance imagine that you two could live
comfortably under the same roof?”

“Colonel Ashley, I know we could not.”

“That will do; we understand each other. And I leave all the rest to
yourself. I will speak with you again to-morrow. In the meantime, do me
the favour to let Miss Vivian know that I wish to see her.”




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                            THE CONFESSION.

  “She’ll go with him, in all his weal and woe;
  She’ll be with him in sunshine and in storm;
  In his afflictions, should they fall on him;
  In his temptations, when bad men beset him;
  In all the perils which may press around him;
  And, should they crush him, in the hour of death.”
                                      _Taylor—“Philip Van Artevelde.”_


“Come here, Rosalie; I want to have a very serious talk with you, my
child,” said Colonel Ashley, rising to meet his niece, as she entered,
and leading her to a seat. “Now, my dear, I am very sorry for something
that I have just heard. Nay, now, be calm, my dear—I am not going to
scold. If I indulge in any sort of reproach, it must be in self-reproach
for my own reprehensible carelessness. And so, my child, you are engaged
to be married!”

Rosalie’s face crimsoned, and her eyes fell to the ground.

“And what good, Rosalie, do you think will ever come of this imprudent
step?”

The blush deepened on her cheek, but she did not reply.

“And what am I to think of this penniless young man, who uses his
position in my family to wile the affections of my niece—an heiress?
Would it not be a fair and rational conclusion to set him down as an
unprincipled fortune-hunter?”

Rosalie started. Her eyes flashed, her lips quivered. She exclaimed—

“Uncle, you do not believe that—you do not!”

“Would it not be fair to believe it?”

“Uncle, you are a noble-hearted being—you always recognise true nobility
in others. Uncle, be just to Mr. Sutherland—nay, be just to
yourself—unsay your words.”

“Why, Rosalie, ninety-nine out of a hundred would call your lover a
fortune-hunter.”

“Oh, sir, they could not—they could not! knowing that Mr. Sutherland
voluntarily renounced a large fortune for an idea of duty.”

“At any rate, Rosalie, here are the naked facts: Mark Sutherland, being
quite penniless, and well knowing that he has no way on earth of
supporting a wife, makes the best use of his opportunities to woo and
win an heiress!”

Rosalie dropped her face into her hands; her bosom heaved convulsively,
as with some inward struggle, for an instant, and then lifting a
countenance blushing and tearful, yet gently resolute, she said, in a
faltering voice:

“I must make a confession, even if it cover me with humiliation. I must
clear Mr. Sutherland, and take the blame where it truly belongs—upon my
own head. Uncle, it was _my fault_—_my own_—_mine solely_.”

She paused, for her girl’s nature would not bear the look the old man
fixed upon her. She averted her face, and with deeply flushed cheek and
low, tremulous voice, resumed:

“I loved him, uncle. It was impossible, adoring moral heroism as I did,
_not_ to love him. God and angels know it, and you must know it, too”——

Again she paused for an answer, but Colonel Ashley did not reply, and
she asked—

“Uncle! you exonerate Mr. Sutherland now, do you not?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Colonel Ashley, speaking as if waking up out of a
reverie. “I exonerated him at first; I only wanted to see, Rosalie,
whether you would have the honour and generosity to admit what you have.
Good heaven! It seems to me fully one half the love originates with the
girls, although they have too much tact to let us know it! Now, there
was your aunt: I was two years courting her. In truth, I thought I had a
terrible time to win her heart; but listen, now. Some time after we had
been married, she told me how many months she had been ‘setting her cap’
at me before I ever thought of her; and yet you see after she had once
gained her point, and brought me to her feet, she kept me on the
tenterhooks of suspense for two years!”

“May I go now? Are you done with me, uncle?”

“No, my dear, I have not begun with you yet! I must give you a lecture!
Don’t you know it was a very unmaidenly thing of you to ‘set your cap’
at Mr. Sutherland?”

“Uncle, Mr. Sutherland evidently does not pronounce such a judgment, and
therefore it is not so.”

“No, poor fellow! because he doesn’t know you _did_ it. _He’s_ under the
illusion that he did all the lovemaking himself. That’s natural. But
now, then, Rosalie, how do you expect to get along in this world if you
and Mark are married? You may know that _he_ has no way of supporting
you, and your guardian would see you both in the bottomless pit before
_he’d_ advance a cent of your fortune. Come, stop blushing and
trembling, and answer me, my dear. I like people to be practical. What
do you expect to do?”

“I do not know, uncle; I wish to leave it all to Mr. Sutherland. I have
so much confidence in his judgment and in his regard for me, that I feel
perfectly sure he will never draw me into any evil or suffering.”

“Always faith in Mark! Suppose he should be going away in a few days,
and suppose he should wish to marry and take you with him?”

“In that case, I should wish to go, dear uncle. Have you done with me
now, sir?” asked Rosalie, really distressed by the length and closeness
of the examination to which she had been subjected.

“Yes, you may go!” answered the old gentleman, rising, and holding the
door open for her to pass. And Rosalie left the study.

In the lower hall she saw Mark Sutherland. He came to meet her, drew her
arm within his own, and then they both walked into the garden.

“Well, dear Rosalie, do you know that I shall probably leave here in the
course of a week?”

“My uncle has just hinted it to me. Where do you go?”

“Back to the village of S——, to take possession of an established office
about to be vacated by my friend Lauderdale, who is coming on here, upon
an errand of which you are already apprised, my dear Rosalie.”

“Yes, I know mamma and Mr. Lauderdale will be united next month.”

“Well, dear Rosalie?”

“Well?”

“I am going away in a week—must we then part?”

“Not unless you wish to go and leave me behind, Mark.”

“Wish to leave you behind! In leaving you I should turn my back upon my
guiding star, my inspiration, my life!”

“Then I accompany you, Mark.”

“Your friends, Rose, will they not raise serious opposition?”

“No! I have neither father nor mother, and there are no other friends
who have any wish to rule me, or any interest in doing so. My young
step-mother is going to break the conventional tie between herself and
me by marrying a second time; and with her _own_ heart under the gentle
influence of happiness, she will not be disposed to wring mine. As for
my uncle, his son has brought a wife home now, who will be the mistress
of his house, and he no longer requires my presence in that capacity.
Indeed, I might even be considered in the way. And neither am I disposed
to take a second place in a household of which I have hitherto been at
the head. And that reminds me that I am at the head of it _still_, and
that the duties of the position press upon me every hour—even now,” said
Rosalie, moving to go.

He caught her hand to detain her.

“Stay—do not leave me just yet. And so, my dearest Rosalie, when I go
forth you will accompany me?”

“I have said that if you wish it—yes, I will accompany you.”

“God bless you, dearest Rose!” burst from his lips with impassioned
fervour. “But, my dear girl—my fairy, fragile girl—do you know what
women in the far West have to encounter? hardships from which the most
robust shrink; hardships from which the strong and beautiful India
shrank; and will my pale, frail Rosalie dare them? and can she bear
them?”

“India, with her glorious physique, is still a delicate daughter of the
sun; she is like a gorgeous, brilliant exotic, that can bloom only in a
luxurious conservatory; while I, with my wan face and fragile form, am
yet a child of the wind—a wood-anemone, that only withered in a Southern
hothouse—that will flourish and thrive in the wilderness.”

“Heaven grant it may be as you say, dear Rosalie! It is impossible for
me to give you up, to leave you; yet when I think of all you may have to
suffer in being my companion, my heart is filled with anxiety and
trouble. What did you say, dearest? Your sweetest words hide under low
tones, just as the sweetest violets lurk under thick shade. What were
you murmuring?”

“Only that I should not suffer half as much in meeting anything _with
you_, as I should—as I should”—

“Well, dearest?”

“_In being left behind_,” said Rosalie, dropping her head upon his
shoulder, as he caught her to his heart, and exclaimed, in a sudden
burst of emotion—

“You shall _not_ be left behind, my darling! my darling! By all my hopes
of earth and heaven, I will never, never part from you!”

For a moment her head had rested on his breast in peace, and then she
began to grow restless and twisted herself out of his embrace.

“Where now?” he asked, rather impatiently.

She looked at him with a comic expression of countenance, and said:

“It is a mortifying necessity to confess, but the truth is, the _ham_
has to be taken out of soak and put on to boil for dinner, and I have
got to see it done; also there are gooseberry tarts and lemon custard to
be prepared for the dessert, and I have got to go and do it. I wonder if
uncle and cousin St. Gerald, who both love their palates, (low be it
spoken,) will ever get anything fit to eat when the gorgeous Mrs. India
takes my place!” and so, laughing and escaping, she ran off.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                              PROGNOSTICS.

          “With caution judge of probability;
          Things thought unlikely, e’en impossible,
          Experience often shows us to be true.”—_Shakspeare._


The world-honoured and time-honoured bard whose lines are quoted above
habitually looked beneath the mere plausible surface of possibility, and
from the deep insight thereby gained, often put forth oracles at
opposition to the usual routine of thought and expectation, yet which
the eternal experiences of life continue to endorse as truths.

Were I writing a merely fictitious narrative, it would be in order now
(after the custom-sanctioned manner of story-tellers) to describe the
cruel opposition the lovers met from tyrannical parents, guardians, &c.
But I am writing a true story—in this particular at least, “stranger
than fiction”—and so have no such events to relate.

It happened as Rosalie had predicted—she met no serious opposition to
the current of her affections. And if we look into the causes of that
leniency on the part of her guardians, we shall not find their
non-resistance so unaccountable, after all.

Left without father or mother—without near relatives or natural
protectors, except a youthful step-dame, now too entirely absorbed in
the contemplation of her own marriage, and an old uncle, to whom until
two years past she had been a perfect stranger, Miss Vivian was thus not
the first object of interest to any one around her.

It is true, that when Rosalie made known her purpose to Mrs. Vivian, the
lady opposed the contemplated marriage with entreaties and tears; but
finding that entreaties and tears only distressed the maiden without
shaking her resolution, the young step-mother felt neither the right nor
the inclination to attempt the arbitrary control of Miss Vivian’s
destiny. In yielding her final consent, the sweet-lipped lady said, amid
falling tears—“Oh! were he well established, Rosalie, there is no one in
the world to whom I would resign you with so much pleasure and comfort,
as to him whom you have chosen. And well I know, and deeply I feel, that
even now, from this low point of life—with you by his side—with you for
an incentive—with his high moral principles and intellectual faculties,
and in this favoured country, he _must_ rise, he _must_ accomplish a
brilliant destiny. But O, Rosalie, my child, in the meanwhile, I dread
for you those toilsome, terrible first steps on the road to success! O
Rosalie, pause! How much wiser to wait until he has conquered success!”

“And share his triumphs when I would not share his toils? No! no! no!”

“It would be so much safer, Rosalie!”

“And so much more _prudent_ to allow him, in those moments of depression
and despondency that must come, to think that it is only the
_successful_ statesman or jurist whose fortunes I would share, not those
of the toiling aspirant! To turn a second India on his hands, and so
forever and forever break down his faith in womanhood, in
disinterestedness, and in truth! No! no! no! and a thousand times no! I
have the blessed privilege of healing the heart that India wounded, of
lifting up the brow that she bowed down, of strengthening and sustaining
the faith that she weakened.”

“If you should be a burden to him?”

“I will _never_ be a burden to him! Providence will never so fail me.
Mine is no sudden girlish fancy. It is a deep, earnest affection,
arising from the profoundest sentiments of esteem and honour that ever
woman felt for man—and the Father who inspired it will bless it. HE who
in his benignant love said, ‘It is not good for man to be alone,’ will
strengthen me to be a true help-meet for my husband.”

“O Rosalie! be _practical_, child!”

“Be faithful first, and practical afterwards.”

“Rosalie, you don’t know what you brave! Fancy yourself and Mark now
married, and housekeeping (forsooth!) in some wretched log cabin or some
lath-and-plaster shell of a shanty, in some new Western village. Fancy
yourselves both down with that curse of new settlements, the ague, and
each unable to help the other, and no one to give you a cup of tea, and
perhaps with no tea in the house.”

“That is a plain statement of a very dismal contingency, dear mamma. Yet
I have no doubt that we should shiver and shake safely through it, as
others have done. Yet it is not fair or wise to contemplate the worst
possibility only. The Western pioneers are not always laid up _with_ the
ague and _without_ tea!” said Rosalie, with a sparkle of fun in her
eyes.

But in a moment after, the young girl’s face grew serious, and she said,
in a tremulous voice, “And besides, dear mamma, the very bugbears that
you have evoked to frighten me from my journey only draw me on to go.
Oh, do you think, mamma, that I could bear to stay here in safety, ease,
and luxury, and know that he was far away, exposed to all the dangers,
hardships, and privations of a pioneer life?”

“Nonsense! Danger is the natural element of man! to seek it is the
nature of the creature!”

“Yes, mamma; but illness, fever, burning thirst, solitude, and
helplessness, is _not_. And, if I thought that Mark were suffering all
these things in some wretched Western cabin, and I not near to bathe his
head and give him a cup of cold water, and to nurse and comfort and
soothe him, but separated from him by thousands of miles of mountains
and plains, I tell you, mamma, it would nearly break my heart! It is no
use! I _must_ go with him, to meet whatever of good or ill Fate has in
store. It can have nothing else so evil as a separation! Oh! I feel as
if the worst calamity that could possibly befall me, would be a
separation from him.”

“Foolish girl! You love that broad-shouldered, robust man, as tenderly
as a mother loves her babe!”

“I love him with a tenderness and sympathy that makes me tremblingly
alive to his least sorrow or lightest pain; and yet mark you, mamma,
with an esteem, with a depth of respect, with an honour that makes me
aspire to his approbation as my highest good under Heaven!”

“O Rosalie, I will not farther oppose you! Yet, if you only had strength
to endure the hardships of a Western life, I should feel less anxiety.”

“Do not fear. I shall be able to endure, because ‘my good will is to
it;’ and energetic, because I shall have a good motive; and healthy,
because I shall be happy—because my heart will be right and at rest; for
I say it again, because it is a great deep truth—‘_Out of the heart are
the issues of life!_’ Yes, out of the heart are the issues of will,
purpose, hope, health, strength, enterprise, achievement, SUCCESS! Out
of the heart are the issues of all the good that can come back to us in
time or eternity! on earth or in Heaven!”




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                              DEPARTURES.

           “We foresee and could foretel
           Thy future fortune sure and well;
           But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true,
           And let them say what thou shalt do!”—_Browning._


With Miss Vivian’s uncle the difficulty was even less in obtaining his
consent to the marriage with Mark Sutherland; and for the following
reasons:—Colonel Ashley worshipped his proud, talented son, St. Gerald;
and in his estimation no interests could compete for an instant with St.
Gerald’s interests. Colonel Ashley liked Rosalie well enough, and wished
her well enough, and he was resolved to do all he could to insure her
future happiness; yet if a slight risk of her welfare would insure the
domestic peace and content of St. Gerald, Colonel Ashley was not one to
hesitate between the conflicting interests of his niece and son. And
that the marriage and departure of Mark Sutherland and Rosalie would
tend greatly to tranquillise the life of the already disturbed husband,
he could not _now_ doubt.

It was dreadful to notice all the fatal effects of India’s want of
faith—it was awful to anticipate the final result. The once haughty and
self-possessed woman was growing spiritless and nervous, subject to
extremes of excitement and depression, moody, irritable, and flighty to
the last degree. Her glorious beauty was _withering_, _wilting_, as you
have seen some richly-blooming flower wither suddenly without apparent
cause—wither as if scorched by the burning breath of the sirocco. And
the cause was apparent to every one around her, not excepting her
bitterly-wronged and most wretched husband—to every one around her but
Rosalie, whose perfect truth and innocence of heart shielded her from
the suspicion of so much evil. If it was fearful to see the ravages that
misery had made in the glorious beauty of India, it was not less so to
observe its desolating effect upon the splendid genius of St. Gerald.

It was now a stirring time with aspiring young statesmen. A great
national crisis was at hand; and it behooved all prominent politicians
to be up and doing. St. Gerald, of all statesmen, should have been the
most active, the most energetic. The eyes of his party were turned in
anxiety towards him—the eyes of old grey heads, exhausted by a long
life’s service, and reposing on their well-earned laurels, and the eyes
of young aspirants, panting to succeed to them, were all fixed upon St.
Gerald, as their hope, their leader, and their deliverer! A senator
already, he is carried up on the tenth wave of popular favour! Should he
serve them well in this crisis, as he surely _can_ if he _will_, for his
talent, his eloquence, his influence is mighty among the nations; should
he serve them well this time, there is no honour, no, not the highest in
the gift of the people, to which he may not reasonably aspire! St.
Gerald should be busy now—riding from town to town, from county to
county, from State to State—convening the people, organising meetings,
making speeches, drawing up resolutions, and doing all those
multifarious acts by which statesmen in the recess of Congress touch the
secret springs of the great political machinery, to keep it in motion,
or haply to stop it altogether. St. Gerald should be up and doing, for
now is the “tide” in his affairs, which “taken at the flood” may bear
him on to fortune—aye, ultimately to the Presidential chair. St. Gerald
should be active, stirring—for every day is destiny! But the young
statesman is doing absolutely nothing. He is withering in inaction,
because his bride is withering from his side.

Colonel Ashley perceives it all. And can he see the brilliant fortunes
of his proud boy thus wrecked, if the sacrifice of Rosalie will help to
avert the ruin? No, Rosalie! Only give yourself to Mark Sutherland, and
coax him away to “parts unknown,” to that “borne whence no traveller
returneth,” if possible, and your uncle will smooth your path—he will
try to persuade Clement Sutherland to forego his wrath and hate, and
yield you up your own fortune—he will give you his blessing, and as much
assistance of every kind as your independent spirit will permit you to
accept.

Colonel Ashley, in fact, gave his full consent and approbation to the
engagement of Mark Sutherland and Rosalie Vivian. He even joined Mr.
Sutherland in persuading Rosalie to fix an early day for the
solemnization of the marriage.

And, having settled that matter to his satisfaction, he next sought his
friend, Clement Sutherland, and, having informed him of the betrothal,
entreated him to make some provision from the bride’s fortune for the
young couple, or at least to settle an annuity upon _her_ until she
should be of age, and enter upon the possession of her property.

But Clement Sutherland was proof against all arguments and entreaties.
He locked his grim jaws fast, and would yield not a cent or a kind word.
At last Colonel Ashley left him in indignation and despair. He did not
_then_ know that hate and revenge were not the only reasons that
constrained the guardian of Mark Sutherland’s young bride to hold a
death-grip upon her purse-strings. No one _then_ suspected that the
money-grasping passion of the man had tempted him into ruinous
speculations and embezzlement of the orphan’s funds. “Sufficient unto
the day is the evil thereof;” therefore, let them not dream it yet!

A week after this betrothal, Mr. Lauderdale arrived, to fulfil his
engagement with the “sparkling” young widow. He was received with the
utmost pleasure by his old friends and acquaintances, and welcomed with
cordial hospitality by Colonel Ashley.

The next week witnessed two bridals. Mr. Lauderdale and Mrs. Vivian were
married at Ashley Hall, by the pastor of the parish; and at the same
time and place, by the same minister, Mark Sutherland and Rosalie Vivian
were united in that bond that only death can sever.

The next day there were two departures: Mr. and Mrs. Lauderdale bade an
affectionate adieu to their friends, and set out for their palace home
in the South; and Mark Sutherland, and Rosalie, his wife, departed for
their log cabin in the West.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                              THE JOURNEY.

          “If any two creatures grew into one,
          They shall do more than the world has done;
          Tho’ each apart were never so weak,
          Yet vainly thro’ the world would you seek
          For the knowledge and the might
          Which, in such union, grew their right.”—_Browning._


“Rosalie, my own blessed wife, you spoke the truth, or, rather, you
applied it fitly—‘out of the heart are the issues of life!’ I feel and
recognize it now. It is with far different emotions that I tread this
deck, that bears us on to the great West, to those which oppressed and
discouraged my soul two years ago. Then, dearest, I went forth alone,
unloved, unloving; now your form hangs upon my arm, not an incumbrance,
but a source of strength and joy. But, O Rosalie, how is it—how _will_
it be with you? Can you love the wild West as you love your own sunny
South?”

“‘Westward the star of empire wends its way.’ Who can look upon the
shores of this great river, and note the many thriving new villages,
without joyfully perceiving that? The South is a beautiful, a luxuriant
region, where, ‘lapped in Elysium,’ you may dream your soul away; but
the West is a magnificently vigorous land, whose clarion voice summons
you to action. The South might be illustrated by a beautiful
epicurienne, like India—the West only by a vigorous young Titan, like”——

“Whom?”

“Mark Sutherland!” answered Rosalie, with her eyes sparkling with
delight.

They were standing upon the hurricane deck of the steamer Indian Queen,
which was puffing and blowing its rapid course down the Ohio river. She
was leaning on the arm of her husband; their heads were bare, the better
to enjoy the freshness of the morning air; her eyes were sparkling, and
her cheeks glowing with animation, and her sunny ringlets, blown back,
floated on the breeze.

From their elevated site they commanded a view of both shores of the
river, and turned their eyes alternately from the north to the south
side.

“Does my dear Rosalie perceive any very remarkable difference in the
aspect of these opposite shores?” asked Mark, bending his serious gaze
upon her.

“Yes! I notice that one shore is thickly studded with thriving villages
and flourishing fields, while the other is a comparative wilderness,
with here and there a plantation house, and at long intervals a stunted
town. What can be the reason of this?”

“Have you not already surmised the reason?”

The thoughtful eyes of Rosalie roved slowly over the scene, and then
raised and fixed their earnest gaze upon her husband’s face, and she
said—

“It is so. There is only one set of persons in the civilized world who
are more unhappy than the negroes.”

“And they are”——

“Their masters.”

“Yes, Rosalie; and it is from among their number that the first great
successful reformer of the great evil must arise!”

“Why do you think so, Mark?”

“From _fitness_: we are unwilling to be taught our duty by an antagonist
who reasons in partial ignorance of the facts, judges harshly and
unjustly, and speaks not the truth in love so often as falsehood in
hatred; and from _analogy_: all great successful reformers that the
world has ever known, have arisen—not from the outside, but from the
very midst of the evil to be reformed. Martin Luther sprang, not from
among the Illuminati, but from the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church
and priesthood. Nay, Christ himself came not in clouds of glory, clothed
with the majesty of Godhead from Heaven—he arose from the midst of the
people whom he came to redeem. So, Rosalie, the apostle of liberty must
arise in the South.”

She had listened to his words with loving and reverent attention, and
now she fixed her gaze upon his eyes, and said, with penetrating
earnestness—

“Mark Sutherland—‘_Thou art the man!_’”

His very soul thrilled to her inspiring words and glance. He walked
hastily from her side in agitation, but, soon returning, said—

“Nay, Rosalie, nay; this mission is not for me. I hear no voice from
heaven calling me to the work!”

“_Have you listened?_ The voice of God speaks not often in thunder from
Heaven. It is a ‘still, small voice,’ breathed from the depths of your
spirit. ‘The word of God is within you.’”

He pressed his hand to his brow, throwing back the dark hair that fell
in waves around it. He was still agitated, excited.

“You trouble my soul even as the descending angel troubled the pool of
Bethesda, Rosalie!” he said.

“Only to arouse its powers,” she answered, carrying out the simile.
While speaking, she anxiously sought his eyes, which at last met hers in
a loving gaze, and then she continued,—“You have consecrated your
mission as only such a mission can be consecrated, by a great sacrifice
at its commencement—_can you pause_ now?”

“Rosalie! Rosalie! why had I not known you better before? Why could I
not have loved you only from the first? Why have the last two or three
years of my life been lonely and wasted?”

“I had to grow up for you. I had to be left to mature in solitude and
silence. I was a child three years ago.”

“And you are a child still, young priestess of liberty! A child still in
all things but the inspired wisdom of your heart!”

We have no time nor space to follow the course of this young pair, step
by step, or to relate the many conversations they held together, in
which hand upheld hand, heart strengthened heart, spirit inspired
spirit, until the two grew into one—with one heart, soul, and spirit—one
interest, purpose, and object.

The boat wended on her way, reached the mouth of the Ohio river, and
turned up the Mississippi; and in five days more landed at the new
village of S——, in the Northwest Territory. It was very early in the
morning; the sun had not yet risen, and the fog still lay, white and
heavy, upon the wilderness shores—for here the wilderness, exuberant and
luxuriant in vegetation, lay all around—and the new village of S—— was
at the very outskirts of pioneer civilization. It was situated on the
right or east bank of the Upper Mississippi, and the dwellings were
scattered up and down the high bluff so oddly, that a passenger, looking
upon the hamlet, said it seemed as if a giant had gathered a handful of
houses and flung them at the bluff, and that they had settled at random
where they had fallen.

Our young couple were the only passengers for S——, and they followed
their baggage into the skiff, and were landed just as the sun arose,
gilding the windows of the village, and lighting up into splendour all
the glorious scene.

“See, Mark! It is a happy omen,” said Rosalie smiling.

He pressed her hand, and turned upon her a look of unspeakable love, as
he handed her to the shore.

There was a porter even in that rude, remote place. He took charge of
the baggage, and led the way to the hotel on the top of the bluff.

It was a large, unfinished, two-story frame house, rudely built of rough
pine boards, unpainted without, and unplastered within. Our young couple
followed their guide, the porter, who was also the landlord, into the
large bare parlour, which was also the kitchen of the inn. This room was
scantily furnished, with a few rough chairs, a table neatly enough set
out for breakfast, and a glowing cooking-stove, in full blast, at which
stood the cook, who was also the landlady, getting breakfast.

The rudeness of the whole scene disturbed Mark, for Rosalie’s sake. She
felt that it did. She looked at him with a gladdening smile, exclaiming—

“Oh! I like it, Mark. I like it so much. Everything is so new and
strange, and so free and easy. And so large and grand,” she added, going
to one of the windows, and looking out, with delighted eyes, upon the
magnificent virgin country. “The air is fine here, Mark. There is a
springiness and life in it I never felt before, even on the mountains.
And see, the fog is all dispersed already.”

“Yes—it’s allowed to be healthy in these parts; no ague here,” said the
landlady.

“And so near the river—that is strange,” said Mark.

“Well, you see the winds blow mostly from the shore; and the fog—when
there _is_ a fog—settles on the other side of the river. And then, many
folks allow that this, being a high, lime-stone country, is naterally
healthy.”

“Have you many boarders now?” inquired Rosalie, kindly interesting
herself in the fortunes of her hostess.

“Only bachelors, for constant. Sometimes, when a boat-load of people
arrive, we have a house full, till they gets settled or goes somers
else,” replied the landlady, setting the coffee-pot on the table, and
ordering her lord and master to go to the door and blow the horn. She
then invited her guests to sit down to breakfast, and had just begun to
help them, when her other boarders, the bachelors—half-a-dozen robust,
rudely-clothed, but earnest, intelligent-looking men—entered, and
gathered around the table. The breakfast was plain, but substantial,
well-cooked, and abundant. And our young pair, as well as the bachelors,
did justice to the fare.

After breakfast “the bachelors” left the table and the house, and went
about their various businesses—some to their stores, some to their
workshops. The landlady bustled about to wash up and clear away her
breakfast service; and Mark Sutherland followed his young wife to the
window, and said—

“And now, dear Rosalie, I must leave you here, _at least_ till noon.”

“You must?”

“Yes; there is much to be done, that must be done immediately.
Lauderdale’s deserted law office must be opened and aired, and my
sign—or _shingle_, as the folks here call it—tacked up, and the place
generally prepared for the transaction of any business that may turn up.
Then I have to write and send off an advertisement to the nearest
newspaper—which, by the way, is published in a town thirty miles
distant. And lastly, dear Rose, I have to look up a cabin, or part of a
frame house, where ‘two mortal mice,’ like you and I, may go to
housekeeping. Whether all this can be accomplished in a forenoon, or
not, I do not know; but, at all events, I shall try to be back again at
twelve. Good bye.”

And, pressing her hand, he left her.

Rosalie seated herself by the window, and looked out upon the new
country. From the river, and from the grove that crowned the bluff on
which the village was situated, the country stretched eastward, out and
out—a high, level, and limitless prairie, its flat and green monotony
broken, at wide intervals, by groves similar to this which surrounded
S——, and relieved by countless millions of wild flowers, whose rich,
gorgeous, and brilliant hues surpassed anything the observer had ever
seen before.

“What is that splendid scarlet flower that grows so tall, and is as
abundant on the prairie as clover in our own fields?” inquired Rosalie.

“I reckon you are talking about the prairie pink; but I haven’t much
time, myself, to take notice of flowers—’specially wild weeds,” replied
the landlady, rattling the dishes and tea-cups, and bustling about
between the cooking-stove, the table, and the cupboard.

“Are you not a Marylander?” asked Rosalie.

“Yes,” said the woman. “How did you know?”

“By your speech.”

Just at this moment the cry of a child commenced in an adjoining room,
and continued during the whole of the hostess’s morning work. She set
aside the table, and began to sweep the room, raising a great dust from
the dried and pulverized mud left by the bachelors’ shoes. Rosalie
thoughtlessly threw her pocket-handkerchief over her head, to protect
her hair from the dust—thoughtlessly, for else she might have guessed it
would displease the touchy pride of the hard-working pioneer woman.

“You don’t like the dust—maybe you never saw a broom?” she asked,
looking somewhat contemptuously at the young lady’s delicate person.

“Oh! yes, I have,” said Rosalie, gently, “and _used_ a broom, too; but I
always sprinkle the floor, and tie a handkerchief over my head before
sweeping.”

“And what do you take all that trouble for?”

“Because I dislike the dust to settle on my hair.”

“Ha! ha! ha! You’ll get out of that, if you _settle_ in these parts,”
laughed the woman—not ill-naturedly this time—resuming her broom, and
continuing her sweeping to its completion. Then she fired up the
cooking-stove afresh; and while it was drawing, and roaring, and heating
the room to suffocation in this sultry summer weather, she wiped down
the chairs with her apron, and finally went into the next chamber and
brought out her baby which was still squalling at the top of his voice.
Giving him a piece of bread, she sat him in the cradle and went about
her work, notwithstanding that the child threw away the bread, and was
screaming louder than ever. Rosalie got up and lifted the babe, and took
him to the window, where she sat down with him, and soon soothed his
temper. The over-worked mother looked pleased, but said, deprecatingly—

“You needn’t adone that; ’tain’t a bit o’ use; it’ll only spile him.
You’ll find ’twon’t do. And if ever you have a house of your own, and a
baby of your own, and no one to tend to nyther but yourself—_mark my
words_—just exactly when the loaf of bread is burning up in the oven,
and the tea-kettle is boiling over, and the fat is catching afire in the
frying-pan, that very time the baby’s going to take to open its throat
and squall you deaf. Let it squall! You ain’t got twenty pair o’
hands—you can’t tend to everything at once. You’ll find it so, too—mark
my words—I never knew it to fail!”

“That is a very discouraging picture, indeed,” said Rosalie;
“nevertheless, I should try to foresee and prevent such a combination of
perplexities.”

“Oh! _would_ you? You may thank goodness if, on top of all that, your
man aint down with a spell of sickness, and the cow lost in the woods,
and the well dry!” said the hostess, going to the door, and rapping, and
calling out—

“John! _You_ John!”

The landlord, _her_ “man,” obeyed the summons, entering from the
bar-room. She met him with a sharp rebuke, for not bringing water
enough, not splitting wood enough, not bringing the vegetables for
dinner—“An’ _it_ drawin’ on to ’leven o’clock—and he knew the bachelors
would be home to dinner at twelve.” And pushing the empty pail into his
hand, she bade him make haste to the well, and be back in no time with
the water, and so she hustled him out of the house. And soon the process
of dinner-cooking was commenced; and in addition to the melting heat of
the stove, the various mingled steams of boiling, stewing, and frying
arose, and filled the summer air with thick, greasy vapour.

“Surely cooking-stoves were first invented by the demon,” Rosalie could
not help thinking, while she resolved, whenever she had to cook, it
should be in an open fire-place, where the stifling vapours could ascend
the chimney.

When dinner was ready, the sound of the horn summoned the same company,
who entered first an adjoining shed, where they all washed their faces
and hands, using the same tin basin and the same crash towel, and
then—coarse, ruddy, healthful, and hungry—they came in, and gathered
around the table. A few minutes after they had sat down, Mark Sutherland
returned from his morning’s ramble, and took his seat among them.

“How have you prospered in your enterprise to-day, Mark?” asked Rosalie,
as they left the table.

“I have got through all I wished to do to my perfect satisfaction,
except one thing.”

“And that?”

“I have not been able to rent a house, or a part of a house, either for
love or money! And so, dear Rosalie, I shall have to leave you again
this afternoon, in order to renew my search. And I am afraid you find
the time hang very heavily.”

“Not at all, I assure you, Mark. I have been occupied and interested.
Everything is so different here from what I have ever been accustomed
to.”

“Yes, very different, indeed!” said Mark Sutherland, with a sigh.

“Now, I didn’t mean that,” said Rosalie, smiling. “I meant that
everything is so new and strange that I am entertained and amused every
moment.”

“Entertain and amuse yourself, then, as well as you can, until I come
back in the evening; then, my love,” whispered Mark, stealthily pressing
her hand to his heart, as he left her.

The landlady rattled and clattered the dishes, and bustled about between
table, cupboard, and cooking-stove, until she had cleared away the
dinner-service. And then she proceeded to wash off the stove, raising a
more offensive vapour than before. Then she swept the floor again; then
she got a tub of water and a mop, and washed it all over. And then,
after wiping and putting away the tub, and pan, and mop, and doing
numberless other “last jobs,” she finally cleansed her own face and
hands, put on a clean apron, and sat down to nurse her baby, and talk to
Rosalie. But by this time the afternoon was so far spent, that the poor
woman had not rested half an hour before it was time to get up, fire up
the cooking-stove once more, and prepare supper for her family and her
boarders, who would be back, she said, at six.

Rosalie was sympathetically fatigued, only to witness her labours, and
she could not refrain from saying, as she once more took charge of the
fretful, teething child—

“Indeed, you have a great deal to do. I do not know how you have
strength to go through so much.”

“Ah! you will know after a bit; wait a little. Lord, child, this is
nothing at all! wait till wash-day,” said the hostess, putting a great
tray of flour on the table, and preparing to make bread.

And once more the process of cooking went on, with the same
accompaniments of melting heat, stifling vapour, &c. And again the horn
sounded, and the company gathered; but this time Mark Sutherland did not
appear during the whole course of the meal—no, nor after it was over.

The table was cleared away, the room once more put in order, the candles
lighted for the evening, and the men gathered in the kitchen, with their
pipes, but still Mark did not come.

The landlady was rocking her baby to sleep, and entering at intervals
into the conversation. At last she arose, and put her child to bed, and
asked Rosalie if she should not like to be shown to her sleeping-room.

Rosalie replied in the affirmative; and the hostess lighted a candle and
conducted her through the middle passage, and up the stairs, and opened
a door to the right of the landing, leading into a large room,
unplastered, and nearly unfurnished. The room was divided in the middle
by a temporary partition of hanging blankets. In the first division
there were two double beds, covered with coarse patch-work quilts. The
hostess passed between these, and, putting aside the blankets, led her
guest to the interior division, which was smaller, and contained only
one bed, covered like the others.

“You are to sleep here. Is there anything you want?” she asked, setting
down the candle on a chest that served as toilet-table and washstand.

“Yes; water and towels, if you please,” replied Rosalie.

“I’ll get them for you in a minute. When do you look for _him_ in?”

“Mr. Sutherland?—every moment!”

“Umph! humph! Now tell me the truth—I sha’n’t blame you—it’s none o’ my
business you know, but—_ain’t_ you and that young man a runaway match?”

“Why, no, certainly not,” said Rosalie, reddening and laughing. “We were
married in my uncle’s house, and left it with his blessing and good
wishes.”

“That’s right; you must excuse my asking, but you somehow looked so
young and delicate for such a life as you’re come to, that I couldn’t
help thinking that it must o’ been a _love-match_.”

Rosalie did not say that she hoped it _was_ a love-match, and the
landlady departed on her errand.

When she entered, bringing a tin basin and a crash towel, she put them
down upon the chest, and said:

“I forgot to tell you that there are four bachelors sleep in the fore
part of the room.”

Rosalie looked up, surprised and shocked. This feature of western life
was quite new to her, and she was totally unprepared for it.

The hostess saw her expression, and hastened to say—“Oh! they’re very
nice, steady young men; they won’t make a noise, and keep you awake.”

“But have you no private room unoccupied? Your house seems large; I
should think there were at least four chambers on this floor?”

“Lor’ bless you, child, so there are; but the floors ain’t laid to none
o’ them except this one, which is the reason I have to put so many in
it. Bless you, you mus’n’t mind such things out here—nobody does—’tain’t
like where you come from, you know. And now, child, if there’s nothing
else I can do for you, I hope you’ll excuse me, for indeed I am so tired
I am almost ready to drop.”

“Certainly; indeed, I am sorry to have given you so much trouble. Good
night!”

“Good night!” said the hostess, taking up her candle, and disappearing
through the opening folds of the blanket.

Rosalie did not wish to sleep. The not unpleasant restlessness, induced
by a new and strange position, drove sleep for a time from her eyes. She
drew the chest to the only window in her part of the room, and sat down,
and opened it, and looked out upon the dark green prairie, that seemed
to roll out like the ocean to meet the eastern horizon, where the
harvest moon was just rising. The full moon! It was the only familiar
object that met her eyes in all the strange, wild, lonely, beautiful
scene—the only old acquaintance—the only thing she had known at home!
Tears—but not of sadness—rushed to her eyes. And then she thought of the
vicissitudes of the last two years, and especially of the last two
months; of her life of almost oriental luxury in the valley of the
Pearl; of her home in the mountains of Virginia, where she was
surrounded by all the advantages of wealth, taste, elegance, and
comfort—where the eyes of affection watched her motions all day long,
and many servants waited on her lightest bidding; and then of the
roughness and ruggedness of her present lot. But not in repining, and
not in regret did she compare these various phases of her life. She was
happy if ever young wife was so. She looked upon the prairie, bathed in
the silvery splendour of moonlight, with its mystic boundaries lost
under the horizon, and its vastness and vagueness cast a glamour over
her imagination, and charmed her with the fancy of wandering on and on
in quest of its unknown limits, or as far as the vanishing boundaries
might entice her. In the midst of these eyrie reveries sleep surprised
her, and her fair head sank upon her folded hands on the window-sill.

She was awakened by a gentle clasp around her waist and a gentle voice
in her ear, saying—

“My Rosalie—asleep at the window with the night dews falling on your
head?”

She started, blushed, smiled, and exclaimed, “O, Mark, is it you? I am
so glad that you have come!”

He let down the window, and placed his hand upon her head to see if it
was damp, and asked—

“Why did you not go to rest, Rosalie?”

“Why, at first I was not sleepy; and I heard that there were strangers
in the next room—or, rather, on the other side of the blankets—and it
seemed so odd. I could not get used to the thought in a minute, Mark.”

He answered with a laugh and said, as he looked around—

“Yes, it is rather a rude place, with rather primitive accommodations,
for the first and best hotel in the great city of Shelton. But, never
mind; wait a bit. In a year or two you shall see this house well and
completely finished, within and without, and the rooms all properly and
comfortably fitted up and furnished, and the establishment provided with
suitable waiters and chamber-maids; and in half-a-dozen years the host
will probably have made his fortune.”

“Well, Mark, and what success have you had this afternoon?”

“The best success. I have found a house, which I think will suit us
exactly. Come to the window for a moment again. Do you see, immediately
under the moon, that distant grove, that looks as if it were just
against the horizon? You see the trees stand up straight and dark
against the sky?”

“Yes, I see it.”

“That is Wolf’s Grove. It is not more than three miles from here. I can
easily walk the distance twice a day. There is one building on the
spot—a large log cabin, that was put up for a meeting-house, but has
fallen into disuse since the rise of this village. The cabin is in good
repair, and I have already engaged it. So, dear wife, we have only to
wait for the arrival of our little furniture, to go to housekeeping. And
to-morrow we will go over to Wolf’s Grove, and review the premises.”




                              CHAPTER XX.
                             THE LOG CABIN.

               “A summer lodge amid the wild.”—_Bryant._


“Judge! your plunder’s come—landed from the ‘Sachem’ this morning!” were
the words with which the landlord greeted Mark Sutherland, as the
latter, with Rosalie, descended to breakfast.

“Judge!” echoed Rosalie, looking inquiringly from one to the other.

Mark Sutherland laughed, and pinched her arm; and when their host had
moved off in another direction, said:

“Nonsense, Rose. Yes, it was _I_ whom he addressed as Judge—of course it
was. Every one gets an honorary title of distinction here. I don’t know
what it is given for; certainly not to confer honour, but rather, I
suppose, for the sake of civil brevity, as it is easier to say ‘Judge’
than ‘Mr. Thompson.’ Now, if I had ever belonged to any military
company—if only as private in militia, they’d dub me here ‘Cap’n,’ if
not ‘Major,’ or ‘Gen’l:’ and if I were county constable, instead of law
student, they must still call me ‘Judge.’”

And just then, as if in illustration of Mr. Sutherland’s words, several
men entered, eagerly inquiring for “the Colonel,” meaning the landlord.
And when the host came forward to know their will, several speaking
equally together, exclaimed:

“Colonel, we want your guns, and your dogs, and your company, this
morning, to hunt a pack of wolves that chased Jones’s boy almost into
the village!”

“A pack of wolves!” exclaimed the boarders, gathering around.

“Jones’s boy!” ejaculated the landlord, in amazement.

“Riding from McPherson’s mill;”

“So close, they caught at the boy’s boots;”

“Foremost one hung upon the horse’s flanks;”

“Wounded;”

“Nothing but the animal’s speed saved him;”

“Wet with sweat;”

“Miraculous ’scape;”

“Jones’s boy,” &c., were the broken sentences with which the tale was
told by the several informants, all speaking at once.

“Well, friends, long as there’s no damage done, I don’t see any use in
being so excited. As to my guns and dogs, you can have them in welcome;
but as to my company, I have promised the Judge here to drive him and
his wife over to see their house. And I expect they will want me to haul
the plunder over too—won’t you, Judge?”

Mark Sutherland bowed.

After a little discussion, they urged “the Judge” to join their hunt,
and Rosalie privately squeezed Mark’s arm in disapproval. Mark declined;
and, after a little more altercation, the visitors at length departed,
with three or four of the bachelor boarders, who quaffed each a “hasty”
cup of coffee and followed.

When this little disturbance was over—

“I did not know,” said Mr. Sutherland, “that the wild denizens of the
forest ever ventured so near the settlements.”

“No more they don’t,” replied the host; “only this go, I s’pose, the
Injuns have been hunting of ’em and druv ’em close on to the village.
We’ll git shut of ’em agin after a bit.”

When breakfast was over, “the Colonel” geared up the carryall to take
his young guests across the prairie to Wolf’s Grove. It was a fresh,
bright, blithe morning, scarcely seven o’clock, when they set out, and
the prairie still glistened with dew. There was no road to Wolf’s Grove;
but the driver took a beeline over the level ground, and the wheels of
the carryall tracked deep through the sedgy grass and gorgeous wild
flowers.

“It looks strange to me,” said Rosalie, “to see these glorious
flowers—which, if they were in our eastern gardens, we should cherish
with so much care—driven down and crushed by thousands under our
wheels.”

“It is but the sign of the fall of the forest before the advancing march
of immigration,” observed Mark.

“It reminds me, somehow, of the triumphal entries of the sanguinary old
conquerors of ancient times, whose chariot wheels passed ruthlessly over
the fallen, the dead, and the dying.”

Mark smiled at her fancy, and the driver took his pipe out of his mouth,
and turned and looked at her in perplexity.

“But, Rose, when you look around you at the countless millions of
flowers left blooming—nay, I mean to say, when you think of the
countless millions of trees left standing—does it not give you an
exultant sense of the exhaustless wealth, the boundless resources of our
prairies and forests?”

“I know _something_ inspires me with unlimited hope just now. There is,
certainly, as far as the comforts and elegances of civilized life are
concerned, a look of great privation in the village and among the people
we have just left. And yet—and yet—whether it is because the inhabitants
are mostly young and full of health and hope, or that the houses are all
new, or that the primeval wealth and exuberance of nature is not only
undiminished, but almost untouched; whether it is any or _all_ of these
causes, I do not know, but certainly to me there is about this country
an air of youth, vigor, hope, promise, unlimited, indescribable! I feel
its influence, without being able to explain it. It seems to me that
here, the age, the weariness, and the sorrow of the old world has been
left behind. That this is a breaking out in a new place, or rather that
this country and people, and we ourselves, are a new creation, fresh
from the hand of God, and with a new promise! Let us be faithful to our
part of the covenant. Oh, let us be faithful; let no sin, selfishness,
injustice of ours cause us to lose the glorious promise!”

A pressure of the hand, at once approving, kind, and warning, from Mark
Sutherland, reminded Rosalie that they were not alone.

A little farther on, the sprightly eyes of the girl lighted upon a
large, speckled bird, standing still, almost in their road.

“What a beautiful bird! What is it?” inquired Rosalie.

“It’s a prairie chicken. Now, I want you just to take notice o’ that
creetur; it won’t take the trouble to move—you’ll see,” said the man,
driving slowly past, and leaving the bird behind them, standing still.

“They must be very tame,” said Rosalie.

“No, they ain’t nyther, but they’ve got a heap o’ sense. We are driving.
Now, if I had o’ been afoot with a gun, or anything that looks like a
gun to _it_—say a stick—why, it would a-taken wing in a minute. I’ve
took notice of it often and often. Same case with a deer—it’ll stand
right still and look at you going past with your team; but only just let
it catch its eyes on you when you’re walking ’long o’ your gun, and it’s
off in an instant. Well knowing of that, you see, I often just quietly
lays my gun down in the bottom of the wagon, to be ready for the
creeturs.”

In desultory talk like this, which nevertheless gave our young
immigrants some little insight into the manners of the country, they
passed over the three miles of intervening prairie land, and entered
Wolf’s Grove.

Wolf’s Grove was not what its name indicated—an isolated piece of wood,
similar to those that at wide intervals dotted the prairie; it was
rather a portion of that vast, unbroken, interminable forest, projecting
here into the open prairie like a point of land into the sea, but
stretching back and back hundreds of miles, and even to the banks of
Lake Superior. Here the old primeval forest trees were of gigantic,
almost fabulous size, but thinly scattered, and standing singly apart,
like the outposts of a vast army.

Half a mile within the Grove, where the trees were thicker, stood the
cabin originally built for a school and meeting-house, by the first
settlers. There was not a wood-shed, a fence, a fruit tree, nor a foot
of cultivated ground, around it; nor a house, nor a field, within three
miles of it.

Mark Sutherland and Rosalie alighted, and entered the house, while the
driver secured his horses and gave them water. The cabin was unusually
large and well built, being nearly thirty feet square, and constructed
of huge logs, well hewn, and well cemented. The cabin fronted south,
where one door admitted into the only room; opposite this door, in the
north wall, stood the large, open fire-place. The room was lighted by
two windows, fronting each other, east and west. The floor was well
laid, and a step-ladder in the corner, between the fire-place and the
east window, led up to a loft. The house was in good repair, with the
single exception of the broken windows.

“A very different abode from that you have left, for my sake, dear
Rosalie; and yet, if you only knew, as I do, how much better this is
than any other log cabin to be found anywhere! Why, Rose, it is a
palace, compared to some.”

“I know it is; and I only wonder that it has been left so long
untenanted, while the meanest hovels have been all taken up.”

“Why, you see, my dear, this house is too remote from the village for
any one but a farmer, and as it stands upon the reserved school lands,
of course, no farmer can cultivate the ground.”

“Will it not be too far for _you_?”

“With me it is different. I like to walk, and do not grudge my steps.
The three miles’ walk, morning and evening, will do me good. Nay, more;
that exercise will be a necessary relief from the sedentary life of the
office. My only anxiety will be in leaving you here alone, all day. Will
you be very lonesome, dear?”

“Lonesome? I don’t know. I should be lonesome _anywhere_ without _you_,
Mark. But that is a very foolish weakness, and must be overcome, of
course.”

“But you will be afraid to stay here all day long alone?”

“Afraid? Of what? Why should I be? Is there any cause of fear?”

“No, dear; no cause for fear; but, as Emilia said of jealousy, one might
say of fear:

             ‘That fearful souls will not be _answered_ so;
             They are not ever fearful for a _cause_,
             But fearful for they are fearful’”——

“Well, I am not afraid with or without a cause. A child would not be
afraid in this quiet place,” said Rosalie, going to one of the windows,
and looking out into the waving woods.

“How still—how very still—no sound to be heard but the rustle of the
leaves and the ripple of water, that must be near!” she continued,
looking from the window, while Mark walked about the room and made notes
of glass, putty, a door latch, and such little matters that would be
needed to be brought out with their furniture. Then they went out where
the driver stood watering his horses, and where the only sign of
previous human presence was afforded by the narrow grass-grown path,
leading down into a deep dingle, where the ripple of water was heard.

“If you’d like a drink, there’s one of the finest springs in the whole
country down there,” said the landlord, taking a tin cup from the wagon
and handing it to Mark. Rosalie was already going down the path. They
reached the spring, and found the water cold and clear as crystal. They
drank, and congratulated themselves upon this great blessing, and then
went up to the cabin, and, as their host was in a hurry to be off they
entered the carryall to return to the village.

“Well, are you going to take it?” asked the driver, looking around as he
took the reins and started.

“Why, of course. I had _already_ taken it.”

“I knowed _that_; but I thought when _she_ saw how lonesome it was,
she’d object. ’Tain’t many women—I can tell you _that_—who’d agree to
live out there, by themselves, in _that_ lonesome place, and you gone
all day long.”

“I am sure my wife prefers it to an inferior cabin nearer the village.”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” said Rosalie.

“Well, every one to their taste,” observed the landlord, cracking his
whip, and making his horses fly.

They reached home in good time for dinner.

The afternoon was employed by Mark Sutherland in collecting together
necessary provisions, to be taken with their furniture to the cabin; and
by Rosalie—seated by the window of _her_ part of the upper chamber—in
hemming napkins, preparatory to her housekeeping, and in looking out
upon the prairie basking in the afternoon sun, and upon her distant
home, Wolf’s Grove.

In the evening the hunters returned from an unsuccessful expedition; and
fatigued and mortified, and inclined to be silent upon the subject of
their defeated enterprise, they gathered around the supper-table. But
the curiosity of the hostess, and the perseverance of the host, at last
elicited from them the fact that they had not even hit upon the track of
the wolves.

The next day was fixed upon by Mark Sutherland and his wife for their
removal to Wolf’s Grove.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                         GOING TO HOUSEKEEPING.

All the forenoon of the next day, Mr. Garner, the landlord, was absent
with his team; so that our young people were obliged to defer their
removal until the afternoon; and they spent the intervening hours in
reviewing their possessions and supplying those few last articles that
always are forgotten in a first preparation.

At two o’clock, the capacious wagon of the hotel stood before the door,
laden with furniture, trunks, provisions, and so forth. A tolerable seat
was arranged for Rosalie among the baggage; but Mark, on foot,
accompanied the landlord, who walked at the head of his horses. It was a
slow progress; the horses, already fatigued with their morning’s work,
never got out of a walk; so that it was nearly four o’clock when they
entered Wolf’s Grove and drew up before the log cabin. While his horses
were resting, Mr. Garner assisted Mark to unlade the wagon, and take in
the furniture and arrange the heaviest part of it. Then, having watered
his horses, he shook hands with his late guests, wished them good luck,
jumped upon his seat in front of the wagon, and drove off.

And Mark and Rosalie found themselves standing, looking at each other,
alone, in the forest cabin. It was a moment in which flashed back upon
each the memory of their whole past lives, and the intense realization
of their present position. A doubt, whether to weep or smile, quivered
over Rosalie’s features for an instant. Mark saw the tremor of her lips
and eyelids, and drew her to his heart; and she dropped her head upon
his shoulder and smiled through her tears. He whispered, cheerily—

“Never mind, dear; you will be one of the honoured pioneer women of the
West. And when this wilderness is a great Commonwealth, and Shelton is a
great city, and I am an old patriarch, we will have much joy in telling
of the log cabin in the wilderness, where we first went to housekeeping.
And now, let us see if we cannot get this place into a little order.”

The room, as I said, was large and square, with a window east and west,
facing each other, and a stone fire-place north, facing a broad door
south. The walls were unplastered, but well planed and cemented, and
grey with time and use. The floor was of rough but sound pine plank. A
broad shelf over the fire-place served for a mantel-piece. In the corner
between the east window and the fire-place stood the step-ladder leading
to the loft. In the opposite corner, between the west window and the
fire-place, were three triangular shelves, that did duty as cupboard or
beaufet. Finally, the sashes of the windows were good, but the glass was
all broken out of them. This was the state of the room when Mark and
Rosalie looked around it. Mark went up the step-ladder to examine the
loft, but found it so low that even a woman could not stand upright in
it. It was therefore given up, except as a place to stow trunks, boxes,
&c.

Then they began to arrange their furniture. It was very easily done,
they had so little—a bedstead with its appointments, a table, a
half-dozen chairs, and almost everything else in half-dozens. The form
of the room favoured the convenient arrangement of these things. The
bedstead had already been put up in the corner between the west window
and the door, and the table placed in the corresponding corner between
the door and the east window. They set the chairs in their places, and
then Mark began to unpack the china, while Rosalie arranged it on the
shelves of the corner cupboard. There were several things—remnants of
past refinement—out of keeping with their present condition; among them,
the French china—that looked upon their rough pine shelves as the
elegant Mark Sutherland and the fair and delicate Rosalie looked in
their rude log cabin—and the superb white Marseilles counterpanes, whose
deep fringes touched the rough plank floor; and the tester and valance
of fine and beautiful net-work; and lastly, the tamboured curtains that
lay upon the chairs, ready to be put up when Mark should have mended the
windows. These were certainly out of place here, but it could not be
helped; they were Rosalie’s little personal effects, endeared to her by
long possession, and by their having been the property, and some of
them—the tamboured curtains and the net valance, for instance—the
_handiwork_ of her mother. By sunset, all was arranged, except two
matters—the broken windows, with which now the young master of the house
began to employ himself, taking out the sashes and laying them upon the
table, and laying pane after pane in their places; and the barrel of
flour which stood in the middle of the floor, with a quarter of beef
laid across the top of it—both waiting to be put away out of sight, in a
proper place; that is, supposing a proper place could be found on
premises where there was neither storehouse, pantry, nor shed, nor even
a second room.

Mark busied himself with the window sashes, trying pane after pane in
the empty forms. But at length, turning around, he smiled and said—

“It’s no use, Rose; I’m not a glazier, and so carefully as I thought I
measured the sashes and the glass, they will not exactly fit; and I have
no diamond here to trim them, and so I suppose they must be left until
to-morrow.”

And he replaced the empty sashes in the window frames. Then, seeing the
neglected barrel of flour, he wheeled it up against the wall, near the
door, and said it must remain there for the present; and Rosalie took a
coarse, clean table-cloth and spread it over the beef, that still lay
upon the top.

“And now, dear,” he said, looking around, “I believe we are as well
fixed as we can be for the present. Nothing remains but to get supper;
and, as I was out here in the West two years before you ever saw it, I
shouldn’t wonder if I hadn’t to give you some instruction.”

“_You_ teach me to cook! _I_, my uncle’s housekeeper for two years,
while you were wandering about from town to town!” exclaimed Rosalie.

Mark laughed, and bade her remember that when she was “uncle’s”
housekeeper she had experienced cooks at her command, and that her
housekeeping duties and responsibilities consisted in carrying the keys
and ordering what she pleased to have for dinner. And he further advised
her to recollect that she was not to snap up her liege lord in that way,
either! Whereupon Rose bade him mind his business and his briefs; for
that she should snap him, and box his ears, too, whenever the spirit
moved her. She! Mark snatched her, laughing, to his bosom, and half
suffocated her with kisses, and then holding her tight, bade her do her
wickedest.

“And, Rose,” he exclaimed merrily, “I do not know why it is; but out
here, in this cabin of the wilderness, with nobody but you for company,
I feel as if the restraints of society and of maturity had fallen away,
and restored me to the freedom and the wilfulness and the irresponsible
wickedness of my boyhood. And _oh!_ little one, if you were only a great
deal taller and stronger, what a wrestle we would have!”

And he gazed down on her there, standing within his arms—so small, so
fair, so perfectly helpless, so utterly in his power—and all the
wantonness of youth fled from before her helplessness and her beauty,
and a flood of unutterable tenderness rushed over his heart; and, still
gazing upon her with infinite love, he said—

“God forever bless you—you little, little, wee thing; you delicate,
beautiful creature; and God forever forsake me, if ever, willingly, I
give you a moment’s pain or sorrow!”

Blushing deeply, Rose withdrew herself from his now yielding clasp, and,
to cover her girlish embarrassment, took the new bucket and put it in
his hands, requesting him to go to the spring, and bring her fresh water
to fill the tea-kettle, and adding—

“You shall see what nice biscuits and what nice tea I can make.”

Mark took the pail and went out, and disappeared down the path.

Rosalie, observing the floor littered, looked around for the broom to
sweep it up; and then laughed to find that, with all their getting, they
had got no _broom_.

Mark came in with the pail of water, set it down, and said he would go
and get some brush to kindle a fire. And while he was gone, Rosalie put
water in a basin to wash her hands preparatory to making the biscuits;
and _then_ she discovered that they had forgotten _soap_ also. And while
she stood in dismay, wondering what else might have been omitted, Mark
re-entered with a pile of brush on his shoulders, “like Christian with
his bundle of sin,” he said. He threw it down upon the hearth, and began
to look around, and then he broke into a gay, prolonged laugh.

“What’s the matter, Mark? Are you daring to laugh at me, with my sleeves
and skirt tucked up?”

“O, Rosalie, we have heads, child! we have heads—and so have cabbages,
when they have come to maturity.”

“Well, don’t laugh _yours_ off your shoulders, but tell me what you’re
laughing _at_!”

“We have not brought a match nor a candle.”

“Oh! no! You don’t say so?”

“It is a positive fact.”

“We have forgotten soap and brooms too; we have forgotten _every_thing.”

“No, not _every_thing; only a few things that make everything useless.”

“What’s to be done? We can’t cook supper to-night, or even breakfast
to-morrow morning, without a fire.”

“No. Let’s see—I know if one rubs two pieces of wood together long
enough, they will ignite; and I know of other processes by which fire
may be kindled; but, after all, I think the quickest and the surest way
will be for me to go back to Shelton this evening, and get the matches;
and then I can also get soap, a broom, and my pistols, which were
likewise forgotten.”

“Go back to Shelton this evening! Walk three miles to Shelton, and back
this evening, and the sun already down! You will be tired to death.”

“No, dear; I can walk that three miles in about an hour, get the things
in ten minutes; borrow Mr. Garner’s saddle-horse to ride back, and take
him home again in the morning, when I go to the office. And my brave
little girl will not be afraid to stay here a a few hours by herself?”

“Afraid? No; surely not.”

“You can fasten the door with this wooden pin, if you wish to do so.”

“Oh! I shall not wish to fasten the door. I shall sit on the sill and
watch the stars, and see if I can read our future destiny on their orbs,
and wait for the moon to rise, and for you to come.”

“No, you must not do that, Rose. The woods are damp, and the evening air
chill. And, now I think of it, this cabin will be too cool for you, with
this draught through the open windows. Let’s see if we cannot do
something with them. If you had anything to tack up against them,
Rosalie?”

She went to a box and took out two sheets, each of which, doubled, was
tacked against a window, and because the breeze still lifted them, a few
tacks were driven in the sides and bottoms of these temporary blinds, to
keep them down. Having finished that job, Mark pulled down and buttoned
his wristbands, put on his coat, kissed Rosalie, bade her keep up her
heart, for that he should be back at ten, or a little after, and
departed. She stood at the door, watching him, until he disappeared
within the intervening trees, and then she turned and entered the
darkening house.

Did Mark Sutherland—did Rosalie—dream of all that should happen before
they should meet again? Did either imagine the grim horror of the next
few hours? It was a night that _one_ of them never, in after life,
forgot—whose fearful memory haunted thoughts by day, and visions by
night, when the dreamer would start from sleep, and, with convulsive
shivers and cold perspiration, gaze around in terror that could not be
reassured.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                            A NIGHT OF FEAR.

Rosalie entered the house, and shut the door behind her. It was very
dark, for twilight had departed, and the moon had not yet arisen.
Although the door and windows were closed, the room was still
sufficiently cool, and Rosalie might have remained pleasantly seated in
her sole rocking-chair, and wrapped in reverie, through all the lonely
hours until her husband should return, but for one trifling
circumstance; trifling in itself, yet fraught with the most appalling
danger, and the most ghastly consequences. The fresh carnal smell of
that quarter of newly-killed beef that lay across the top of the barrel,
only lightly covered over with the table-cloth, began to fill the closed
room, and soon became intolerable to Rosalie’s fine senses.

For the sake of fresh, pure air, she went and opened the door, and sat
down upon the door step. There she sat, gazing into the dark mysterious
depths of the forest, or up to the deep blue, starlit sky, listening to
the chirp of the field-cricket, the grass-hopper, and the katydid, those
merry little night warblers, who begin their concerts when the birds
have finished theirs—and remembering all her past life, enjoying her
present, and dreaming and hoping of the future. She thought of her
palace home, where, circled with affection, she had still wandered with
a strange unrest, and wasted with a vague longing; she thought of her
present home, as poor, as humble, as rude, as it well could be, yet
yielding a fulness of content—of _measureless_ content—that filled her
heart to overflowing with gratitude and love to God for the joy and
peace that abounded. And she thought of their future; it might bring
toil, privation, penury, disappointment, and death, but it could not
deprive her of the jewel of her soul, LOVE. That word—that idea—was
still the centre of her soul’s circle, around which thought and feeling
still revolved. She sank into a dim, delicious reverie, and, wrapped in
blissful dreams, the world around her disappeared. The cheerful chirp of
the crickets and the katydids was no longer heard—the deep blue, starlit
sky no longer watched—the dark, mysterious forest, with its ever
untrodden depths, no longer seen. She was like a slumberer “smiling as
in delightful visions, on the brink of a dread chasm.” There was a
far-off, light, multitudinous tramp, like the patter of distant
rain-drops. She knew it not, she heard it not. “Senseless as the dead
was she, to all around, beneath, above.” Senseless as the dead—aye,
senseless as the dead—to the near approach of a dreadful death! Oh,
surely this was not her unguarded hour! She would not be left to perish
in her youth and beauty—to perish while wrapped in her visions of love
and devotion. Oh, surely her guardian angel must have been at his post.
He was! For, as she sat there in the door, her thin white dress distinct
in the darkness, her fair pale face bowed on her hand, and her beautiful
light hair damp with dew—a shudder thrilled her frame. She arose, and,
shivering with a damp chillness, retired into the house; but before she
shut the door, she turned her eyes once more from earth to sky, and—

“It is a most beautiful night,” she said; “a lovely night, ‘not made for
sleep.’”

A singular low noise caught her ear, and ceased.

“That sounds like a sudden fall of rain stopped,” she said, and paused
to listen. Not hearing the noise again, she closed the door; and without
in the least degree intending to do it, quite mechanically she did the
wisest thing that could have been done. She _barred_ the door, and then
she seated herself once more in the rocking-chair. The room was
intensely dark. The faint light that stole in at the sheeted window only
seemed a thinner blackness. She sat gently rocking to and fro, and
gradually relapsing into reverie.

It was soon rudely broken through. Still like the sudden heavy fall of
rain-drops on forest leaves, multitudinous footsteps thronged pattering
around the cabin—pawing at its walls! Startled, astonished, yet not
alarmed, Rosalie listened. Then a low ground swell of a growl arose,
murmuring on the air, and thrilling every nerve with awe. It was low,
deep, and threatening, as the thrilling bass string of the harpsichord
when rudely swept by some idler’s hand. Rosalie stood up; and, resting
her hand upon the rocking-chair, listened more intently. The sound
ceased—all was still as death. She crept cautiously to the window, and,
pulling aside slightly the edge of the sheet-blind, where it was tacked
to the side of the frame, she looked out. The night was deeply dark,
though the sky was still studded with stars—_the ground was also lighted
with stars_—twin stars, scattered all about. At first sight she took
these for lightning-bugs; but, as she gazed, she knew them to be the
phosphoric, excited eyes of couchant wild beasts. And, at the same
instant that she made this appalling discovery, the whole pack burst, in
full cry, upon the cabin, tearing at the walls, and howling furiously
with hunger, rage, and frantic desire. Rosalie tottered back to her
chair, and sank into it. The whole horrible truth, in all its detail of
cause, effect, and consequence, burst with overwhelming force upon her
senses. It was a pack of hungry wolves!—the same pack that the Indian
hunters had pursued into the neighbourhood of Shelton—the same pack that
had been the terror of the settlement since their discovery near it.
They had been drawn to the cabin by the scent of blood from the
newly-killed beef, and there was no light in the house to fright them
off. Sick—oh, sick, and nearly swooning with deadly terror—Rosalie still
charged her soul “to hold her body strengthened” for the crisis.

She looked around in the darkness, trying to think of some means of
defence, security, or escape, but found none. If she should open the
door and fly from the house, she must inevitably fall an instant victim
to their rapacity. That plan was rejected at once, as not to be thought
of, except as the drowning think of catching at straws. And then her
eyes flew wildly around in the darkness for means of defence or retreat.
Alas! there was not a chance of either. She could go up into the loft,
or climb up into the chimney, or bury herself in the bed; but an
instant’s reflection convinced her that there was no place within the
walls to which the fell wolves would not climb with more facility than
she could, and no retreat to which their keen scent would not guide
them, and from which they would not drag her to death. And oh! in the
midst of all her desperate thoughts, their frantic onsets to the walls,
their horrible baying, barking, and tearing, nearly drove her mad with
terror. Every instant she expected death! How thin, how slight the
barrier that kept them out! The moment they should chance to strike the
broken windows, protected only by the thin sheets, and so find the way
of entrance, that very moment must the cabin be filled by the hungry and
ravening beasts. For an instant, perhaps, the beef, whose scent had
drawn them to the spot, might divert them from herself, but only for an
instant, for that flesh would be swiftly torn in pieces and devoured;
and then what a fate would be hers! To perish so sharply and suddenly,
and by such a ghastly death! And not of herself alone did she think in
that hour of dread, but of all whom her death would appal and afflict;
and of him, oh! of him whom it would most awfully bereave. For
herself—for her own person—it would not be so dreadful, after all, she
thought. The sharp agony would soon be over—in a very few minutes most
likely—and then all that was mortal and perishable of her—her small,
frail body—would be totally destroyed; and her soul, she trusted, would
be at rest. But, of the distant loved ones, whose hearts would thrill
with horror at hearing of her fate, and of him whose life would be made
desolate by her loss—whose arm, whose _brain_ would be stricken
powerless by the terrible doom of her who was at once his inspiration
and his object—this, oh! _this_ was the bitterness of death! But oh! the
frightful, the maddening howls of the demoniacs outside scattered all
her thoughts so quickly, it was impossible to reflect to any good end.
But suddenly athwart the stormy chaos of deafening noise, despairing
terror, and distracting thought, darted, like lightning, an inspiration!
She had grown conscious that the storm outside had drawn itself to a
point nearest the spot where the barrel and the meat stood; and the
wolves were scratching and tearing furiously, and hurling themselves at
the wall, baying all the while in full cry, or barking and fighting
among themselves, like demons. And now her idea was further to decoy
them from the windows, the weak parts of the cabin. She went to the
barrel. She could not lift the quarter of beef, but she pushed it off,
letting it fall heavily upon the floor. For an instant the noise outside
ceased, but soon burst forth again with renewed violence. She dragged
the beef close as she could get it to the door, and then she got a
knife, and close to the floor she cut the flesh in gashes, so that the
juices might run under the door to the outside, and draw and hold the
frantic wolves to that spot. For this she knew was the safest place of
attack—it was the farthest removed from the windows, and the door was
too strong and well barred to give way. She knew this, but yet when it
rattled violently at their furious assaults, her very heart nearly died
within her.

She thought of her husband’s return with extreme anxiety; she feared
full as much as she hoped it. She had perfect faith in his courage and
presence of mind, and she knew, besides, he would be well armed when he
should return; and yet she sickened with fear for him when she thought
of that return. She remembered that he said he would be back by ten. She
wished to know the hour. It was still pitch dark, but she went to the
chimney shelf, and opened the clock, and with her delicate fingers and
nice touch she felt for the hour and the minute hands, and for the
raised figures, and ascertained that it was already after ten. She felt
again, and was sure there was no mistake. After ten, and Mark not yet
returned! What could have detained him? This source of anxiety was
beginning to add its sting to the others, when a new ground of alarm, of
despair, fixed her panic-stricken where she stood. The wolves, who had
not ceased to howl and cry, and hurl themselves against the walls, now
led by a surer instinct, were careering around and around the cabin,
leaping up at the walls, and leaping up at the window sashes, which
shook at each bound! The clamour outside was now deafening, appalling.
She heard the frail sashes shake—she heard them give way—she heard the
whole hungry, horrible pack burst with full cry into the room; and
mortal terror whirled away her consciousness, and, with an agonizing cry
to Heaven, she fell to the floor insensible.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When consciousness came back, Rosalie found herself lying upon her bed.
The room was quiet, cool, and dimly lighted by a candle on the hearth,
whose glare was shaded from her eyes by an intervening chair with a
shawl thrown over it. Mark was standing by her, bathing her face with
cold water. As memory returned, she shuddered violently several times;
and her first words, gasped out, were, “The wolves! Oh! the wolves!”

“They are gone, love; put to flight!” said Mark Sutherland, soothingly.

“And you—_you_?” she asked, wildly gazing at him.

“Safe, as you see, love!” he answered, as he lifted her head, and placed
a glass of cold water to her lips.

“How did it happen, Mark?” she questioned, as he laid her head once more
upon the pillow.

“What happen, love?”

“My escape, your safety, and the flight of the wolves.”

“Dear Rose, we had better not revert to the subject again to-night. Try
to compose yourself.”

“I cannot! If I close my eyes and lie still, I hear again those dreadful
howls—I see again those glaring eyes and ghastly fangs—I live over again
the terrible danger.”

“My dear Rosalie, there was really no very great danger, and it was all
over as soon as I reached the spot with fire-arms,” said Mark, calmly,
and wishing to depreciate the peril she had passed, and restore her to
quietness.

“Yet tell me about it—if you will talk to me about the escape I shall
not brood over the appalling”——

She shuddered, and was silent.

“There is really very little to tell, Rosalie. As I approached the house
on my return home I heard the howling of the wolves. I surmised the
truth instantly—that they were the same pack the neighbours had been
after for the last few days—that the smell of the fresh meat we had
brought over the prairie and into the forest had decoyed them to the
cabin, from whence there was no light to scare them. I hurried on as
fast as possible, and soon came upon the cabin, and found a pack of
perhaps a dozen wolves baying around the house, and leaping and
scratching at the walls. They were prairie wolves—a small, cowardly
race—who go in packs, and who are generally very easily driven off. I
first of all picked up and threw a billet of wood at them. I forgot,
dear Rose, that our window had no better defence than a sheet, or else I
never thought of it at all, for when I threw the piece of wood, it not
only passed through the pack of wolves, but on through the window-place,
too—scattering the animals, but also making an opening, through which
several of them, in their efforts to escape, leaped into the house”——

“It was then I fainted,” said Rosalie.

“I found you lying on the floor, insensible.”

“But you and the wolves?”

“A very short skirmish served to put the enemy to flight. I succeeded in
killing only two of them—two that had leaped before me in at the
window—the others escaped.”

As Rosalie continued to tremble, he added:

“They are really not a formidable antagonist, my dear. I have heard a
pioneer say, that he would as lief as not tumble himself, unarmed, down
into a dingle full of them, and trust to his muscular strength and
courage to conquer. That might have been all boasting; still I know they
are a dastardly race; and if you had known it, and could have raised
great noise, and thrown some heavy missiles among them from the loft
above, you would have put them all to flight.”

“Ah, but if they had got in while I lay here insensible from terror,
they would have destroyed me,” thought Rosalie. But, unwilling to give
pain, she withheld the expression of those terrible thoughts.

More words of soothing influence Mark dropped into her ear, until at
length her spirits were calmed, and she was enabled to join him in
earnest thanksgiving to Heaven for their preservation. He fanned her
till she dropped asleep. And then, late as it was, he went and busied
himself with many things that remained to be done—putting glass in the
windows, cutting up and salting down the nearly fatal quarter of beef,
ripping off the head of the barrel of flour, &c.—and doing all so
quietly as not to disturb the sleeper.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                             CABIN-KEEPING.

       “There is probation to decree,
       Many and long must the trials be;
       Thou shalt victoriously endure,
       If that brow is true and those eyes are sure.”—_Browning._


A night’s undisturbed repose restored Rosalie’s exhausted nervous
energy. The young couple arose early in the morning to begin their first
day of house, or rather _cabin_-keeping, for the difference of style
requires a difference of term. They had anticipated toil and privation,
and had thought they were prepared to meet them. But it is one thing to
think in a general way about work and want, and quite another to feel
them in all their irritating and exhausting details; and the first day
of housekeeping in the forest log cabin taught them this difference.
They had no garden, no cow, no poultry, and there was no market where to
procure the necessaries that these should have supplied. Everything that
could be bought at the village shops had been provided; yet their first
breakfast consisted of coffee without cream or milk, and biscuits
without butter. But mutual love, and hope, and trust, sweetened the
meal, and even their little privations furnished matters of jest. And
when breakfast was over, and Mark was preparing to bid his “little
sweetheart,” as he called her, farewell for the day, and promising to
return by four o’clock, she gaily asked him what he would _like_ for
dinner, and he replied by ordering a bill of fare, that _might_ have
been furnished by some famous Eastern or European hotel. Suddenly, in
the midst of their merriment, she thought of the wolves and trembled—yet
restrained the expression of her fears. But the eye of affection read
her thoughts, and Mark hastened to assure her that there was no more to
dread—that the cabin was the last place on earth that the same animals
would seek again—that they would not come within sight of its smoking
chimney. Her trust in his judgment and his truthfulness completely
reassured her doubting heart, and set it at perfect rest. And she let
him go to his business with a gay, glad smile.

She watched him winding up the little narrow path, and disappearing
among the trees, and then she turned into the house, to wash up the
breakfast service and set the room in order. It was a queer day—that
first one that she spent alone in her cabin. After arranging her corner
cupboard and sweeping her room, and making a few little alterations and
improvements in the disposition of her lighter furniture, she unpacked
her sewing materials and sat down in the door to needlework. The
primeval forest all around her, even up to the house, the blue sky
above, and the log cabin, in the door of which she sat, was all that met
the eye; the trilling songs of the wood birds, and the ripple-ripple of
the trickling spring in the deep dell near, was all that met the ear.
And yet she was not lonesome—she loved this solitude—the manifest
presence of God filled it, and heart and mind received the holy, the
elevating, the joyous influence. The day advanced—the sparkling
freshness of the morning mellowed into noon. And then she got up and
took a pitcher and went down to the spring, that seemed to have been
calling her in its merry voice all the morning. A narrow, steep path
down into the dingle led to the spring, and beyond it arose a high hill,
heavily wooded, like all the land about there. She filled her pitcher,
and returned to the house to take her lonely noontide luncheon. And
then, as the meridian sun was pouring its rays in at the door, which you
know faced the south, she removed her needlework to the west window, and
resumed her sewing. Day waned; nor was she conscious of its waning until
the burning sun began to glance in at her through the window where she
sat, and oblige her to take her work to the opposite one—smiling at the
conceit of being chased from place to place by Apollo. She sat at the
cool east window, until the striking of the clock warned her that it was
time to prepare the afternoon meal, which was to comprise “dinner and
supper together.” She arose, and put away her work. But what was there
to be got for dinner, after all? Tea without milk, bread without butter,
and salted beef without vegetables. A poor meal certainly to set before
an epicurean, such as Mr. Sutherland had been, for of _herself_ she
never thought.

Suddenly she recollected having seen some wild plum trees growing on the
hill beyond the spring, and she knew the fruit should now be ripe, and
she thought she would go and get some, to make a pie. No sooner thought
than attempted. She seized her bonnet, caught up a little basket, and
set out. She hastened down the dingle path, crossed the run, and climbed
the hill. She reached its summit, and stopped to breathe, and rest for a
moment. The sudden glory of the extended landscape held her spell-bound.
On one side of the forest—a boundless ocean of waving greenery—spreading
on and on, thousands of miles, for aught she knew, after it was lost
under the horizon. On the other side, the vast prairie, with its dotted
groves, like oases in desert, and in the distance the river, and the
village, and the opposite shore of Missouri Territory. For a few minutes
she stood in enchanted admiration; and then, remembering that she had no
time to lose, addressed herself to the errand upon which she came,
promising herself, after tea, when they should be at leisure, to return
with Mark, and view the landscape over by moonlight. The wild plum trees
furnished a rich harvest. She had only to shake the slight and graceful
shaft, and a shower of ripe fruit fell around her. She quickly filled
her basket; and then, with her girlish love of change, she returned to
the house by another way. By this little route through the thicket, she
observed, late as it was in the season, a profusion of wild raspberries,
of unusual size and richness. She stopped, in pleased surprise, to
gather them, and heaped them up on top of the plums, as many as the
basket would hold.

Delighted with these woodland treasures—such a delicious addition to her
frugal board—she returned to the cabin, and began to prepare their
evening meal. Rosalie had not superintended her uncle’s Virginia
farm-house for two years, to no purpose. She was a skilful little cook.
It was not much to prepare a meal twice a day, for two persons; besides,
her “good will was to it.” And I doubt if, in all the elegance and
luxury of her Southern home, she was ever gayer, gladder, _happier_,
than when preparing, with her own hands, this first little supper in her
log cabin. The meal was soon ready. The damask table linen and the
delicate china that adorned the table, and the fair girl that hovered
around it, I was about to say, were somewhat out of keeping with the
house. But that would not have been true; for there was nothing mean,
poor, or squalid, in the surroundings of the log cabin. It had a wild,
woodland air—there was as yet nothing to offend the most æsthetic taste.
The arrangement of the table was complete—the last things set upon it
being the delicate pastry and the cut-glass bowl of raspberries,
powdered with sugar. But, there was no cream or butter; and this was
Rosalie’s sole regret, as she gave a pleased glance at the whole effect,
and then went to each window, and put aside the muslin curtains to let
in the evening breeze, and the green woodland prospect. As she turned
from the window, she was startled by a thump upon the floor, and the
exclamation of—

“_There!_ she sent you _these_! And I wonder why you couldn’t o’ comed
arter them yourself!”

And with astonishment Rosalie saw standing in the room a large,
fair-complexioned, middle-aged man, clothed in coarse blue linen jacket
and trousers, with a waiter’s white apron tied before him. He had just
thumped on the floor a large basket filled with vegetables. He still
held in his hand a tin pail, with a tin pan covered upon the top of it.

“Who are you?” inquired she.

“_Billy._ Here’s the butter. Where am I to pour the milk?” said the man,
lifting the little pan that contained a pound print, and displaying half
a gallon of milk in the pail.

“Who sent these?” asked Rose, in surprise.

“_She!_ Can’t you empty the milk? I’ve got to carry the bucket back.”

“I am afraid there is some mistake,” said Rose, hesitating. “Who did you
say sent you?”

“_Her_, I tell you. I can’t stand here gablin’ all day.”

“But, my good friend, there is some error—these things were not sent to
me,” persisted Rosalie, looking longingly at the hard, sweet-smelling
butter, with the dew rising on it.

With no more ado, “Billy” marched up to the corner cupboard, seized a
knife, passed it under the print of butter, and deftly turned the print
out of the pan into a plate; next, he took up the pail and poured the
milk into a pitcher; finally, he went back and seized his basket, and
seeing nothing, to receive the vegetables, just turned it upside down
and shook them out upon the floor—and potatoes, cucumbers, onions,
tomatoes, &c., rolled in every direction. And “Billy” caught up his
empty pan and pail and pitched them into the basket, and hitched the
latter, with a jerk, upon his arm, and marched out of the door,
exclaiming—

“Now, for the futur’, mind, you must come arter ’em every day,
yourself—if they’re worth havin’ they’re worth comin’ for, an’ I’ve got
’nough to do for _her_, ’out trudgin’ over here every day for _you_. An’
I told her I wan’t agoin’ to do it, nuther,” &c., &c., &c.

For long after Billy was out of sight in the woods, Rosalie heard the
retreating sound of his grumbling. Full of wonder, she set about to
collect the fugitive potatoes, tomatoes, &c. She put them under the
lower shelf of her cupboard, and drew the short white curtain before
them; then she set the pitcher of rich milk and the plate of fresh
butter upon the table, much pleased with the unexpected luxury, but more
pleased to anticipate the surprise and pleasure of Mark. And all being
ready, she took her sewing, and sat in the door to watch for his coming.
She heard his footstep before she saw his form; and she closed the door
and ran up the woodland path to meet him. And soon their merry voices
and silvery laughter echoed through the forest, as they approached the
cabin. Rosalie had said nothing of her new luxuries; and when they
entered the cabin, and he threw a glance around, and dropped his eyes
upon the table, first of all he caught and kissed Rose again for her
affectionate care, and then, by his exclamations and questions,
exhibited all the surprise and satisfaction that the most exacting
little Rose could have desired. While they supped, Rosalie explained the
mystery of the plums and raspberries, and, after relating the visit of
Billy, requested an explanation of the other mystery, of the butter,
milk, and vegetables, and expressed her fears that, after all, she had
no right to them—that they were intended for some one else. Mark
reassured her by giving his opinion that they were intended for herself,
and no other; and that she would find out, the next day, probably, the
kind neighbour who had sent them.

After supper was over and cleared away, and the young pair had rested
awhile, and the moon had risen, they crossed the rill and went up the
hill to enjoy the fine air and the extended view.

And thus closed their first day at the log cabin.

And the next morning Rosalie found out her kind neighbours.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                         DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.

               “They grow in the world’s approving eyes,
                 In friendship’s smile and home’s caress:
               Collecting all the heart’s sweet ties
                 Into one knot of happiness.”—_Moore._


The next morning, after breakfast, while sitting alone in her cabin,
engaged, as usual, in needlework, Rosalie received a call from her kind
neighbour, Mrs. Attridge, whom she found to be the wife of the worthy
proprietor of the neighbouring lead-smelting furnace. “Fat, fair, and
forty,” with a fund of good nature and good humour, in easy
circumstances, and with much experience in Western life, this lady
proved an invaluable acquisition to Rosalie in the era of her cabin
trials. Her frank, gay, and homely manner invited confidence. She
pressed upon her young neighbour the freedom of her garden and her
dairy, for as long as the latter chose to avail herself of the
privilege, or until she should have cows and a garden of her own—telling
her that it was the custom of the settlers to accommodate each other in
that way, and that she herself, in the first year of her residence here,
had been indebted to a neighbour for her milk and vegetables. Talking of
vegetables, led to the subject of “Billy,” whom Mrs. Attridge laughingly
averred to be a vegetable himself, for verdancy. Billy, she said, was a
native of Holland, brought over to America in his infancy, and left a
destitute orphan, whom her mother had taken and brought up, but whose
peculiarity of disposition and simplicity of character was such as
fitted him only for house-work. She said that, on the death of his first
mistress, Billy had attached himself to the fortunes of herself and
husband, and had accompanied them to the West, and had been their only
house servant ever since—cooking, cleaning, washing, and ironing, as
well as any woman could.

Rosalie was amused, cheered, and comforted, by Mrs. Attridge’s lively
conversation and kind sympathy—yet during the lady’s visit, a case that
had troubled the youthful wife for several days still weighed upon her
spirits and cast its gloom over her countenance, and refused to be
shaken off.

Mrs. Attridge, with a housekeeper’s sympathy and a woman’s tact, divined
the cause, and with rude but kind promptitude drew the trouble out to
light, by suddenly asking—

“What do you intend to do about your _washing_, my dear?—for it is all
nonsense to suppose that you could wash.”

“It is, indeed,” said Rosalie; “and that is just what disturbs me so. I
can manage to keep our cabin tidy, and dress our little meals; but I
cannot wash—indeed, I cannot. I attempted to do so, but, after having
exhausted all my strength, and made myself almost ill, I failed. And
when I know that every pioneer housekeeper needs to be competent to the
performance of _all_ her domestic duties, I feel thoroughly ashamed of
my helplessness in some respects. And when I see my husband so patient
and cheerful under domestic annoyances that no day-labourer with an
efficient helpmate ever has to suffer—oh! you know I must feel so
cruelly disappointed in myself.”

Mrs. Attridge made no comment, but looked upon her young neighbour with
a considerate, fond, protective expression on her honest countenance.
And after a few minutes, Rosalie spoke again—

“Can you advise me what to do, Mrs. Attridge? for I have resolved that,
in our present circumstances, my husband shall be put to no expense for
these matters.”

“Oh! pshaw! you can never do it; and some other plan must be thought
of,” said the visitor, reflectively.

“Yes, it is real incapacity on my part—a want of the requisite physical
strength. I am not constitutionally weak; but the muscles of my arms and
chest have never been trained to great or continued exertion, and
strengthened by that process—more is the pity! Look at my wrists.”

And Rosalie, smilingly, tearfully, held out two delicate, fair, tapering
arms. And Mrs. Attridge took and held them affectionately, while she
said—

“I know—I know it would be useless and cruel to expect hard work of you;
and yet the expense oughtn’t to come on _him_, neither, just now. I have
been thinking, since I sat here, of an Irish family of the name of
Malony, who live in a shanty about a quarter of a mile from this, on my
road home. The man works at our furnace, and the woman washes for
bachelors. Now, although they are thriving, she and her family are
always ragged, because she is as ignorant as a savage of the use of a
needle; and, besides, she says she hasn’t time to sew. Now,” said Mrs.
Attridge, half laughingly, as she arose to depart, “suppose you were to
barter work with Judy Malony, and pay her for washing by making up
clothing for her children? At any rate, I will call and see Judy on my
way home, and send her over to you.”

Rosalie cordially thanked her kind friend, and held her hand, and felt
unwilling to allow her to depart.

“I shall send Billy over with more fresh milk this evening. And you must
not mind his _grumbling_—he grumbles at me and Mr. Attridge all day long
sometimes, and won’t allow us to touch a thing in the garden till he
thinks proper, without a _deal_ of grumbling.”

Mrs. Attridge, after promising Rosalie to walk over and see her often,
and spend whole days whenever it was possible, took leave, and departed.

That evening Mark Sutherland returned home sooner than usual. His
countenance was cheerful with good news, and he threw into Rosalie’s lap
a packet of letters and papers from home—the first that had been
received since their separation from their friends.

There was a letter from Colonel Ashley, full of kind wishes, and
something more substantial in the shape of a cheque on the St. Louis
bank, for his niece. He informed them that he was again alone—that his
son, St. Gerald, having lost his election, had, under the
disappointment, yielded to the wishes of his wife, and taken her to her
Southern home; and that he expected his own eldest daughter, now a
widow, to return and take the direction of his household.

There was also a letter from Valeria to Rose, and one from Lincoln to
Mark.

By these letters they learned that Mr. and Mrs. Lauderdale had joined
the Ashleys at Cashmere, and remained the guests of Clement Sutherland
for a month before proceeding to their own home in Louisiana.

Valeria wrote that the Valley of the Pearl was still the loveliest vale
on earth, and Cashmere the brightest gem on its bosom; but that the
envied master of this Eden was more sullen, morose, and unhappy than
ever—that it was rumoured his affairs were not as prosperous as
before—that he had engaged in ruinous speculations—that Mr. St. Gerald
Ashley, since losing his election, had lost his good temper and
amiability, and sought more consolation from his “generous wine” than
from his unloving wife—that all these circumstances weighed heavily upon
the health and spirits of the beautiful India, who had changed sadly
within the last few months. The kind-hearted but volatile Valeria
touched lightly and reluctantly upon these unhappy circumstances, and
seemed always divided between her spirit of communicativeness and her
scruples of conscience.

Mark Sutherland and Rosalie read with regret, and turned from the sad
contemplation with a sense of relief to rest gladly upon the image of
Valeria and Lincoln Lauderdale, now happily settled upon their beautiful
estate of Fairplains, in Louisiana. Withal this was a happy evening to
the young cottagers—a festival of gladness, such as can be fully enjoyed
only by exiles, feasting upon long-desired letters from home.

The next day Rosalie was somewhat surprised to receive a visit from
Judy, and very well satisfied to effect with her an arrangement by which
Judy was to do all the washing and ironing for Rosalie, who was to repay
her by making up frocks and aprons for her children. And so, before the
end of the first week of housekeeping, Rosalie’s domestic circumstances
were providentially arranged in all the order and comfort consistent
with log-cabin life.

It would seem a lonely life she led now, yet Rosalie found it not so.
The solitude was peopled with her multitudinous rich affections, high
purposes, and bright hopes of the future. Through the day she sang at
her active household work, or fell into pleasing reverie over her
needle. In the afternoon, when Mark returned, they partook of an early
supper, rested, and then took a pleasant woodland walk, or occupied the
evening hours with a book.

On the first Sabbath Mrs. Attridge called in her carryall to offer the
young couple the two vacant seats to church; a favour which, after some
little hesitation and reflection, they frankly and gratefully accepted.
And, afterwards, Mark Sutherland was much pleased when it fell in the
way of his profession to do Mr. Attridge a gratuitous service—a favour
which it was rather difficult to make honest Paul Attridge accept, who
answered to all Mr. Sutherland’s grateful acknowledgments and
expostulations,

“That neighbours should be neighbours, but that professional men should
be paid for their services.”

As passed the week, so passed the autumn, bringing little change in the
circumstances of our young friends. Mr. Sutherland gained admittance to
the bar; but as yet his professional duties were confined exclusively to
office business, the drawing up of deeds, bonds, mortgages, &c. And this
was not profitable. Indeed, many of his best-meaning neighbours strongly
advised him to take up government land, and turn his attention to
agriculture. But this Rosalie opposed with all her might, encouraging
him to be constant to his profession as he was to his wife—“for better
for worse, for richer for poorer.” She alone, suppressing all complaint
and concealing all her personal privations, continued to cheer and
strengthen the struggler. She alone had an invincible faith in his
future—his future of greatness and wide usefulness.

Autumn waned, and the severe winter of those latitudes approached. Early
in December a heavy fall of snow covered the ground two or three feet in
depth, rendering the road almost impassable between Wolf’s Grove and
Shelton, and nearly blockading our friends in their log cabin. It was
with the greatest difficulty that Mark Sutherland performed the three
miles’ journey from his home to his office, and Rosalie was a close
prisoner in her house.

The snow lay on the ground several weeks, during which time the
hardships and privations of the young couple were so numerous and so
great as to determine them to seize the earliest opportunity of removing
into town; and Mark accordingly sought a house in Shelton. And having
found one vacated by a family about to emigrate to Arkansas, he rented
it at once, and availed himself of the first favourable change in the
weather to remove to town and take possession of it.

Their removal took place the first of January. A return to the society
of her fellow-beings produced a very happy change in the spirit of
Rosalie. Patient, cheerful, and hopeful, she had been before; but now,
the sight of people about her—all active, lively, energetic, each
engaged in the pursuit of some calling, whose object was at once the
benefit of his individual self and the community—this gave strong
impetus to her enterprise, and suggested many plans of usefulness and
improvement.

Considerable and thriving as was the town of Shelton, no newspaper had
as yet been published there. Rosalie spoke of this to her husband. Could
he not create a sphere of influence and usefulness in that way? Could he
not edit an independent newspaper?

It took money to set up a journal, and he had no money, Mark answered.

Could he not interest the small capitalists and business men of the
village in this enterprise?

Mark replied, that to edit a paper required time, and that his office
business, though not enough to support them comfortably, was quite
enough to spoil his leisure for any other employment.

In fact, our friend was in a state of depression and discouragement,
from which it required all the faith and hope that was in Rosalie to
arouse him. She said that she would help him, both in the law office and
with the paper. She begged him to try her—her “good will was to it,” and
she had more leisure than she could profitably employ at present.

In brief, Rosalie effected her purpose. Mark Sutherland prevailed upon
the principal men of the village to unite in establishing a free paper;
and, as a natural result, they appointed Mr. Sutherland the editor.
Rosalie rendered efficient though unseen aid. Nor did the enterprising
spirit of the girl pause here. There was no good school in Shelton. The
want of one was greatly felt. Rosalie proposed to Mark that she should
open one. Mark at first opposed the plan—it would be too much for her.
But Rosalie found her greatest health of mind and body in her greatest
activity and usefulness. The girl’s school was established by her single
enterprise. And it grew and prospered.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                               CASHMERE.

          “You were not meant to struggle from your youth,
          To skulk, and creep, and in mean pathways range;
          Act with stern truth, largo faith, and loving will—
          Up and be doing.”—_Lowell._


Four years had passed away since Mark Sutherland and Rosalie had taken
up their residence in the village of Shelton. In this space of time many
changes had passed over the village community and the individuals that
composed it. The Territory had been erected into a state—new towns were
incorporated—new cities founded—old ones throve. Shelton itself had more
than doubled in population and importance. Where there had been but
three or four stores, there were now a dozen; where there had been but
two churches, there were now five. A handsome courthouse stood on the
site of the old log tenement, whence the law, if not justice, had once
issued its decisions; an excellent market-place, well attended, added
much to the comfort of the citizens; a lyceum—an incipient library and
museum, perhaps—lent its attractions to the town; an elegant and
capacious hotel replaced the rude, clap-boarded tavern of Colonel
Garner. The country around the village had become thickly settled, and
many, many improvements, which it were tedious to enumerate, had added
to the importance of the place.

Our friends, Mark and Rosalie, had grown up with the village. Their
paper, “_The True Freeman_,” and their school, had both greatly
prospered. But no one in the world, except Mark himself, knew how much
of this prosperity was owing to the cheerful hope, the firm faith, the
warm zeal, the untiring perseverance of Rosalie. And at times he
wondered at the power of that pale, fragile creature—for she was still
very delicate and frail.

His professional business had increased very rapidly. He could not have
specified any day, or any suit, from which his success had taken its
impetus—all had been so gradual, so purely the result of application and
perseverance, rather than of accident or fortune. He felt that here too
there was an outward influence, an external power, to which he owed
much, very much, of his persistent energy—a power living by his side,
that continually threw itself with all its ardour and force into his
purposes—into his soul—warming and strengthening him for effort, for
endurance.

His success was wonderful. He was already the most popular, the busiest,
as he was also considered the most able lawyer in the West. Though but
twenty-five years of age, he was no longer only by courtesy “Judge”—he
was the presiding Judge of the court, by the appointment of the
Executive. He had been elected to the State Senate; he had been named as
a candidate for Governor. And he felt and knew that from the quiet,
fair, and fragile being at his side, he drew continual strength, and
light, and warmth; that, in addition to his own, he absorbed _her_
life—her life, that she gave freely to her love. Her form was frailer,
her face wanner, but more beautiful, more impressive than ever—for her
eyes were brilliant and eloquent with enthusiasm, and her lips, “touched
with fire.”

“Not only for you—not only for you—but for _humanity_, dearest Mark, I
wish you to attain power and place. You will attain them, and——_I shall
not die till then_!” she would mentally add.

At the end of the fourth year of their residence in Shelton, Rosalie
having attained her majority, it became necessary for Mark Sutherland to
go to Mississippi—to Cashmere—on the part of his wife, for the purpose
of making a final settlement with her guardian, Clement Sutherland, and
taking possession of her splendid fortune. He wished very much that
Rosalie should accompany him to the South; but as the necessity of her
personal attendance might be dispensed with, and as at home the
interests of their household, their school, and the paper, seemed to
require the presence of one of them, it was decided that Mark Sutherland
should depart on his journey alone.

It was on a cool, pleasant day of September that Judge Sutherland set
out on his journey for the South. Rosalie had accompanied him on board
the boat, to remain as long as she might before the steamer should leave
the wharf. It was their first separation since their marriage, and upon
that account alone, perhaps, they felt it the more sensibly; and as the
boat was getting up her steam, Mark Sutherland blessed and dismissed his
wife. He felt—how wan, how fragile, how spiritual was her appearance; he
almost felt that at any moment she might be wafted from his possession,
from his sight, for ever. The idea transfixed him with a sharp agony,
but only for a little while.

The boat was on her way, and his thoughts turned from her he was leaving
behind to those he was hastening to meet. This way, too, was full of
anxiety. Nearly a year had passed since he had heard from any of his
friends in Mississippi. Although he had written to his mother regularly,
he had received no letter from her for several months, and the vague
reports from Silentshades were not satisfactory. Six weeks had
intervened since his wife had attained her majority, and they had
advised Mr. Clement Sutherland to be prepared to give an account of and
yield up the property left in his care for so many years; yet no answer
had been vouchsafed. Rumour also spoke of Clement Sutherland as a
suspected, if not a ruined man. Full of anxiety as to the truth of these
injurious rumours and the causes of this ominous silence, Mark
Sutherland paced the deck of the steamer as it pursued its course down
the river.

It was on the afternoon of the sixth day of his voyage, that the boat
stopped at the wharf of the small hamlet of C——, and Mark Sutherland
debarked, and hired a horse to take him to Cashmere. He left his
portmanteau in the care of the landlord of the little tavern, and set
out on his ride. Leaving the low banks of the river to the westward
behind him, he rode on towards the interior of the State, ascended a
line of hills, and descending the other side, entered once more the
“Beautiful Valley of the Pearl.” Here then he stood once more upon the
scene of his youth’s tragedy! With the profoundest interest he looked
around. But all was, or seemed to be, changed! Had it really ever been
so beautiful as it had once seemed to him, and had age and decay passed
over it? Or had its beauty been only the glamour thrown over the scene
by youth, and love, and hope? It might have been his changed and
purified vision; for much of imagination, enthusiasm, ideality, had
passed away with the morning of Mark’s life, even as the silvery mist of
sunrise passes away before the full, broad day.

It might have been the waning season, for it was now late in a dry and
burning September; but the beauty and glory had departed from the vale.
The luxuriant green freshness of summer had departed, and the brilliant
and gorgeous magnificence of autumn had not come. All the
vegetation—forests, and shrubberies, and grasses—was dry and parched in
the sun, and the very earth beneath seemed _calcined_ by the dry and
burning heat. The springs, ponds, and watercourses were low, muddy, and
nearly exhausted; and over all the sun-burned, feverish earth, hung a
still, coppery, parching sky. You scarcely could tell which was driest
and hottest—the burning sky above, or the burning earth below.

It was, as an old field negro said, “like an oven-lid on an oven.” The
Pearl itself was now a narrow, shrunken, sluggish stream, creeping
between high banks of red and pulverized earth, that was always sliding
in and discolouring and thickening the stream of water.

Mark Sutherland rode down to the edge of the river, to the ferry
house—once a neat and well-kept little building, now fallen into neglect
and dilapidation.

The white-haired negro ferryman was a servant of Clement Sutherland’s,
and an old acquaintance of Mark’s. He met his “young master” with a sort
of subdued surprise and pleasure, and to his question as to whether they
were all well at Cashmere, answered with a sigh that they were just as
well as usual.

Mark asked no other questions, and in perfect silence the old man put
his passenger over to the Cashmere side.

Here had once been a well-kept wharf, but now it was much worn and out
of repair. Under the shade of a group of elms on the right had once
stood a pretty boat-house, in the form of a Chinese Pagoda; it was now a
heap of ruins. There had once been a little fleet of boats moored under
its shadow; there remained now one large, dirty skiff, half-full of mud
and water, and floating idly on the turbid stream; and another smaller
skiff, high and dry upon the beach, with its timbers shrunken apart,
bleaching in the sun.

As Mark rode on through the grounds towards the house, he noticed
further signs of approaching desolation. Fences were broken or down, and
out-buildings were dilapidated or unroofed. Passing through the orchard,
he saw the trees untrimmed; some broken down with their loads of
over-ripe fruit, some blighted—a prey to vermin—and some dying or dead,
and wrapped in shrouds of cobwebs. Entering the vineyard, he observed
the trellis-work broken and falling, the vines trailing on the ground,
and the ripe and luscious fruit rotting on its stems. He paused near the
garden on his right, and a glance showed him that favourite resort of
his youth, once the perfection of order and beauty, now a wilderness
where thousands of the most lovely flowers and most noxious weeds dried
and decayed together under the burning sun of September. There the
deadly nightshade grew ranker than the rose which it crowded out of
life; and the poison oak, whose contact is death, twined in and out
among the tendrils of the honeysuckle and the clematis.

Everywhere! everywhere! all things betokened indifference and neglect,
and prophesied of ruin and despair. While occupied with wondering what
could have been the cause of this great and grievous change, Mark
Sutherland perceived the approach of an old negro, who touched his hat
in respectful salutation, and followed him to the foot of the Rose
Terrace, where he stood in readiness to take the horse. Mark dismounted,
and threw the reins to the groom, whom he now recognized for an old
acquaintance. He held out his hand and spoke kindly to the old man,
inquiring after his wife and children.

“All well as can be ’spected—Marse Mark! Ah, chile! things is changed
since you was here—‘deed dey is, honey. Tree year han’ runnin’ ole marse
crap fail—‘fore my blessed Hebbenly Master, dey did, honey—tree year
han’ runnin’. ‘Deed, den, when we-dem had fuss-rate crap, come de
tornado, an’ ruin eberyting; and nothin’ eber been fix up right since.
An’ ‘pears like nothin’ eber gone right since. Den ole marse he went to
speculatin’, and loss heap o’ money—leastways so dey do say. Den arter a
bit come de sheriff, executionizin’ down on top o’ we-dem poor coloured
people, as hadden nothin’ ‘tal to do wid it—an’ carries away all de best
of us—all my poor dear gals an’ boys, as I hoped to spen’ my ole days
wid, an’ good many oders. And since dat, seem like we-dem aint had no
heart to tend to nothin’—a-pinin’ arter our poor children—it kinder
takes all the strength out’n us.”

With a deep sigh, Mark Sutherland turned from the poor old man, and went
up the stone steps that led to the Rose Terrace, that was also a
neglected wilderness—but a wilderness of roses, and therefore still
beautiful. Unannounced, he went up into the piazza; and before he could
retreat, in an instant he saw and heard the following:—A man—or perhaps
I should be expected to say, a gentleman—of very bloated and slothful
appearance, was lazily reclining upon a bench, with his feet on the top
of the balustrades, and with his right arm around the waist of a pretty,
frightened quadroon girl, who seemed from the fan she still held, to
have been engaged in keeping the flies off from him while he slept. She
was now gently and fearfully struggling to free herself from his clasp,
and saying, in hushed, frightened tones—

“O! if you please, sir, don’t! Consider. Indeed it isn’t right. What
would my dear mistress say?”

“Mistress! my pretty Oriole! I wish she may say anything! Let her! You
_shall_ kiss me!”

“O master! O sir!”

At this moment Mark Sutherland had entered, advanced, and bowed very
coldly, saying—“Mr. St. Gerald Ashley, if I remember right?”

The ruin of St. Gerald Ashley arose to his feet, and answered, with
something of his former ease and self-possession,

“Yes, sir. Mr. Sutherland, you are welcome to Cashmere again. Walk in;
or would you prefer to sit down in the cool air here for a few moments?
The house is very warm. Girl, go and let you mistress know that Mr.
Sutherland has arrived.”

He added this command in a tone of authority, in strong contrast of his
tone of wooing of a moment since.

Oriole, with her eyes filled with tears, and her face dyed with blushes,
went gladly to obey.

Mr. Ashley then conducted his guest into the house.

In a few minutes Oriole returned. Her mistress was too indisposed to
appear; Mr. Sutherland would please to excuse her.

Within half an hour a servant, summoned for the purpose, showed Mr.
Sutherland to his room, and supplied him with articles necessary to the
bath and toilet.

After refreshing himself, Mark rang the bell, and requested to know if
Mr. Clement Sutherland was in the house, and when he could see him.

He was answered, that Mr. Sutherland had ridden to the county town, and
would not return before the next morning.

And soon after he was summoned to the supper-table. No one was present
at the board beside Mr. Ashley and Mark Sutherland, except Oriole, who
stood at the head of the table, and poured out the coffee. With profound
and melancholy interest Mark Sutherland watched this girl. She had been
a pretty child, and now had ripened into a most beautiful woman. A
slight and elegant form, well rounded and tapering, pliant and graceful
as a willow, oval face of the purest olive, warming into pomegranate
bloom upon the cheeks and lips; large, dark-grey, passionate eyes,
fringed with long black lashes, “sweet low brow,” shaded with soft,
black, silky ringlets, a countenance full of slumbrous passion and
emotion, with little strength of spirit or of intellect. These formed
the complete and matchless beauty of the maiden, and Mark Sutherland
noticed—he could not help but notice, his interest was so painfully
excited—the glances with which Mr. Ashley followed the gracefully-moving
form of Oriole.

Mark Sutherland wished to inquire after the health and welfare of his
mother, with whom he had made several attempts to open a correspondence,
but from whom he had not heard for nearly four years; but an undefinable
reluctance withheld him from naming the subject to the degenerate man
before him. Mr. Ashley ordered more wine, and pressed it upon his
companion; but Mark Sutherland, habitually abstemious, suffered his
glass to be filled once, and then excused himself; and Mr. Ashley filled
and quaffed glass after glass, momentarily more and more garrulous,
noisy, and familiar with Oriole—calling her to his side, drawing her
towards him, pinching her cheek and pulling her ears with maudlin
freedom; while the poor girl, blushing with shame and confusion, and
weeping with grief and terror, sought in vain to escape.

Mark Sutherland, deeply offended with the scene, would gladly have
withdrawn, but that he felt his presence to be some protection to the
poor girl; he would gladly have interfered for her succour, but that he
knew such interference, far from saving her, would hurry on her
destruction. It is hard to be wise and prudent when the blood is
boiling; and it is uncertain how long he would have remained so, had not
a bell sounded in a distant part of the house, and Oriole, taking
advantage of the circumstance, exclaimed, “It is my mistress,” and made
her escape.

Mr. Ashley poured out and quaffed glass after glass of wine, until his
ranting mood was merging into a stupid one; and Mark Sutherland seized
the first opportunity to rise and leave the table, and pass into the
drawing-room.

That elegant drawing-room which you may recollect communicated with Miss
Sutherland’s beautiful boudoir—how changed since he saw it last!
Desolation was creeping even into the sanctuary of the house. He had
scarcely time to note this by the sickly light of the moon through the
open shutters, when a loud, familiar voice in the hall arrested his
attention—

“Where is he? In the drawing-room? And no light there? Get a candle,
directly, you scoundrel! and light me in there! I shall break my shins
over these empty baskets and upset stools—do you hear?”

And soon after entered a slovenly man-servant bringing a guttering
tallow candle, stuck in a mildewed silver candlestick, which he sat upon
a dusty and spotted marble pier-table. He was followed closely by Mr.
Billy Bolling, who, with outstretched arms, and almost shouting his
welcome, ran to Mark, and clasped him around the body, exclaiming,
sobbingly—

“My dear—dear—bo-oy! I’m so glad to see you! And how are you? And how
did you leave little Rose? And when did you get here? And nobody to
welcome you, but that brandy-swilling beast in there!——Begone, you black
villain, you! Who gave _you_ leave to stand there eavesdropping,
eh?——That’s a field nigger, Mark! Every decent house servant, man and
maid, that we had in the world, has fallen under the hammer long
ago—all, except Oriole, whom that fellow yonder bought in for his own
purposes. Ah! Mark, times are changed, my boy, since you were here!
Heigh-ho! ‘_Sic transit gloria mundi_,’” said Mr. Bolling, sinking into
a threadbare velvet chair, and wiping his rosy face—as fat, fair, and
rosy as ever.

“_You_ are not changed, uncle, except that you appear to be in even
finer health than ever.”

“_Me!_ Why, I’m dying of mortification and grief! _I am._ I have got an
organic disease of the heart. _Yes, of the heart._ The string the most
strained the soonest snaps! Heigh-ho!”

“Why, I declare, Uncle Billy, I never in all my life saw a man in such
perfect health. You are fatter and rosier than ever!”

“Fatter and rosier! Lord help your perspicasity! It’s—it’s _dropsy_,
and—and—_fever!_ That’s what it is—this fat and rosy.”

“Reassure yourself, Uncle Billy, and tell me how it fares with all our
friends.”

“All going to the dogs—all going to the dogs—except them that are going
to the demon!”

“Nay, Uncle Billy, I hope not—any more than you are going into a
consumption. How are they all at Silentshades? How is my dear mother?”

“Silentshades! Mother! Heigh! didn’t you know they had sold Silentshades
long ago, and moved to Texas?” exclaimed Uncle Billy, with a look of
unbounded astonishment.

“I knew nothing about it. This is the first word I have heard of it!
What on earth could have tempted my mother to sell her home and move
away from all her friends?”

“What could have tempted her?—what could have tempted her?” repeated
Uncle Billy, mockingly, shutting his eyes, pinching his lips, and
bobbing up his nose and chin, with petulance and contempt. “What could
have tempted her to _marry Doctor Wells, at her age_?—a woman of forty,
whose matrimonial feelings should all be quiet? What could have tempted
her to do _that_?”

“I suppose my mother was lonesome.”

“Oh! lonesome be hanged! Wasn’t _I_ there—her natural born brother—to
keep her company? I don’t brag—but you know what company _I am_,
nephew.”

“Yes,” said Mark, suppressing a smile.

“Well, I was there to take care of her, and protect her, and keep her
company, and cowhide her niggers—although that last is very laborious
exertion, and always put me in a profuse perspiration, and gives me a
palpitation of the heart—the thoughtless creatures, to put me to the
trouble of fatiguing myself so. And now, if you want to know what
_tempted_ your mother to sell her home and leave all her friends, I’ll
just tell you—vanity.”

“Vanity!”

“Yes, _vanity_—the wish to be thought generous, and disinterested, and
_confiding_,” sneered Uncle Billy.

Mark Sutherland reddened.

“My dearest mother was all that in reality, without wishing to be
_thought_ so!”

“I tell you ’twas _vanity_—_vanity_ that tempted her to sell her
home—_vanity_ that tempted her to marry—_vanity_ that tempted her first
to listen to a suitor—_a woman of her age_! But I do think women are the
most incorrigible—the most provoking—the most hopeless—and of all women,
middle-aged widows are the most _desperate_ fools!”

“Uncle Billy, I suppose, as an old bachelor, you have a license to rail
at women in general, and, as an elder brother, you have liberty to be
unjust to your sister. My mother was a handsome woman, in her prime, and
it appears to me not unnatural that she should have married. But if you
thought otherwise, you should have told her so.”

“For what good? A cat _may_ release a mouse from its claws; a
rattle-snake a charmed bird from its jaws; the grave give up its victim;
but never cat held mouse, or snake bird, or grave victim with such a
death-grip as a middle-aged widow holds her last lover!”

“Just now you told me that Dr. Wells tempted my mother into this
marriage—now, you lay the responsibility upon _her_. That is like you,
old, impartial justice, Mr. ‘Bothsides.’”

“All true. They tempted each other—she, him, with her handsome property!
he, her, with his handsome person! He was bent on having her
plantation!—she, on having him. And so they soldered an engagement that
Satan himself, with his sledge hammer, could not have shivered. I’ll
tell you all about it, Mark! I kept a sharp look-out on that chap when
he first came prowling about Silentshades. I was tempted to shoot him by
mistake, for a catamount. But _I_ twigged him! Very little of that
palavering courtship, that _I_ didn’t hear! Sure as ever they’d be on
the piazza, _I’d_ be in the parlour under the window, listening.”

“But what did you think of yourself, Mr. Bolling, for your
eavesdropping?”

“Thought I was doing my duty by my sister, to circumvent a gay
deceiver!”

Mark frowned.

“Oh, now you don’t know how old pill-box and blister-plaster could
court! You should have heard him talk about that ‘regal brow’—‘that,
_that_ face!’ (as if there was no word good enough to describe it)—and
‘those holy eyes’—and ‘my darling, _oh_, my darling’—and ‘my lovely
Helen’—and ‘it is too much, _too_ much to crave of Heaven’ (her love you
know he meant)—and ‘oh, my dearest’—and ‘this little hand’—and all the
rest of the lying balderdash, which I suppose was mighty sweet to a
woman who had not heard such words for twenty years.”

“And how do you know it was not perfectly sincere?” exclaimed Mark,
indignantly rising and walking away.

“What, at forty?” coolly inquired Uncle Billy, getting up and walking
about, and fanning himself, and sitting down again.

But Mr. Sutherland was much too deeply interested in his mother’s fate
to keep silence. He returned, and resumed his seat, and inquired—

“Has my mother’s marriage turned out happy?”

“Don’t know—can’t say, I’m sure!”

“You have not told me yet why she sold her home.”

“Dr. Wells tempted her to do it for his sake. This was the way of it:
Lord bless your soul, he was too old and cunning to stop courting her
after the honeymoon, or at least until he had got his hands on the
property; on the contrary, they sat on the bench of the piazza against
the parlour window blinds, and _courted_ more than ever! And I laid on
the lounge under the same window in the parlour, and _listened_ more
than ever. And then he cooed to her, and called her ‘My boon,’ ‘My
blessing,’ and ‘My bride;’ and told her what a noble woman she was—how
full of sensibility, benevolence, and disinterestedness—how full of
honour, truth, and courage.”

“Well, sir, it was truth! I can easily understand how much truth should
have burst impulsively from the lips of any one intimately associated
with my dear mother!” exclaimed Mark, impatiently.

Uncle Billy shut his eyes, and bobbed up his chin contemptuously, and
then resumed:

“Truth, was it? Well, you shall hear the rest of the truth. By-and-by he
began to take the tone of a wise, affectionate guide and husband—which I
have always noticed is very charming to good women, especially when it
is mixed up with a little appreciative admiration—and he told her again
what a high-principled, noble woman she was, and how she had only to get
rid of _one_ foible—_one_ little weakness—and she would be a _glorious_
woman—a perfect woman! And she pressed to know what it was, and she was
willing to get rid of _any_ fault he disapproved. ‘Oh,’ he told her, ‘it
was a want of _trustfulness_—a want of that _confiding spirit so
beautiful in woman_—it was no fault; only but for that one small foible
she would be such a glorious woman!’ Well, Mark, to convince him that
she could exercise a confiding spirit, and so become ‘a glorious woman’
all out, she gives him the full possession and perfect control of all
her property, real and personal; and the upshot of it all is, that Dr.
Wells has sold Silentshades, and they have emigrated to Texas!”

“Was my mother willing to go?”

“I don’t know, Mark. After parting with Silentshades, they remained here
at Cashmere about three months before getting off to Texas; and I
thought in that three months your mother altered more than any one I had
ever seen.”

“Poor, dear mother!”

“There was another thing that gave her trouble. The Doctor certainly
_did_ neglect her; and then he took a great fancy to purchase a
beautiful maid-servant from Clement Sutherland—I dare say you remember
the girl—she was Mrs. Ashley’s own maid, Oriole.”

“Yes, I know”—

“Mrs. Ashley—India—wished to part with her, too; and I dare say the sale
would have been effected, only there was an execution, and Oriole, with
half-a-dozen of the likeliest of the house servants, both men and maids,
were seized, and put up at auction. Well, when Oriole was placed upon
the block, there was pretty high bidding, I assure you. The three
principal bidders were a New Orleans trader—who seemed determined to
have the girl at any price—and Dr. Wells, and Mr. Ashley. But Dr. Wells
and Mr. Ashley outbid the trader, and had the field all to themselves;
and the contest ran very high between them. I wish you could have seen
those two men bidding against each other for that girl! They became
excited—angry—their eyes grew blood-shot—they glanced at each other like
tigers—their glances flashed fire! They ran the price up to a ridiculous
pitch. Finally, Dr. Wells, frowning, sat down. Mr. Ashley was the
purchaser. ‘Thank Heaven,’ said your mother, when she heard the issue.
Mrs. Ashley curled her lip in proud silence!”

Mark Sutherland dropped his head upon his hands, and groaned. A pause
ensued, which after some time was broken by Mr. Sutherland.

“You mentioned an execution on the premises—is it possible my uncle was
in debt beyond his means of cash payment?”

“Umph! I don’t think any one in the State would consider it worth while
to ask the question _now_.”

“I do not understand how his colossal fortune could have so sunken.”

“Ah, well! now I’ll tell you his fortune was not so colossal after all.
To be sure, he owned several thousand acres of land; but reflect that
nine-tenths of that was pine barrens and cypress swamps, producing
nothing and costing considerable in taxes; and he owned several hundred
negroes; but remember that one-third of them were old people, and
one-third of them children, who had to be supported out of the labour of
the others; and he owned this very magnificent seat of Cashmere; but
consider how much of his capital was invested in the building, laying
out and adorning of this house and grounds, and how much in debt it left
him, and you will come to a fairer conclusion in your estimate of your
uncle’s fortune. And then this great commercial crash, that has ruined
so many people, has affected him deeply. He lost one hundred thousand
dollars by the villany of Claxton & Co., manufacturers, and nearly as
much more by the failure of Fleece and Brother, importers, Liverpool.
And what was worse than all, he made a desperate attempt to retrieve his
fortunes by speculation, and failed, with a stupendous loss. It was like
a gambler’s last stake, and he lost it—and now he is ready to blow his
own brains out! Lord grant that your wife’s fortune may be safe, Mark,
which I doubt.”

“Oh! certainly; I have not the slightest misgiving of it. It was real
estate, and could not have been staked in any way, you know.”

Mr. Bolling shook his head.

Unheedful of that wise gesture, Mr. Sutherland asked, “And how does my
cousin India bear this?”

“I don’t know—I don’t think she cares about it. Mark, perhaps I oughtn’t
to tell you, but I don’t think she cares for _anything_, or has ever
cared for anything, since you and she broke off, nearly seven years ago.
She never cared a cent for the man she married”—

“Hush! you must not say that!”

“But I _will_ say it, because it’s the solemn truth. She never cared a
sous, cent, marquee, for him, though he loved the very ground she walked
on. If ever you saw a man infatuated with a woman, St. Gerald was with
India; his eyes followed her fondly wherever she moved. Yes, a year
after they were married, I saw him slily take up a glove of hers, and
pet it, and talk to it, and kiss it, and put it in his bosom, as if it
had been a live thing—the consummate idiot! And the same day I saw him
strike her down before him with a blow!”

Mark Sutherland started to his feet, and gazed wildly at the speaker,
who reiterated—

“_Yes_, I _did_; I saw that with my eyes!”

“And stood by, and permitted a man to strike a woman!”

“I never interfere between man and wife. Besides, what business had she
to deceive and marry him, while she loved another—and to meet his
attentions with aversion—and finally to be found sobbing hysterically
over a lock of black hair, when _his_ was brown? No, if he had killed
her on the spot, I should have been sorry for—_him_. He loved her truly
and well. She loathed him. I have seen her shudder all over, if he did
but press her hand, or stroke her dainty curls. He felt her repulsion;
it drove him mad! To sum up all, Mark, as I said before, a curse is on
the place and on the people; they are all going to the dogs, who are not
going to the d——l! But now, tell me something about yourself. You are a
Judge of the Court, I hear?”

“I have that honour.”

“Well, I always said you’d turn out well! d——d if I didn’t! I shall live
to see you Chief Justice of the Supreme Court yet! And hark you, nephew;
_I intend to go home and live with you_. I feel it my duty to encourage
you. I’ll stick to you, Mark. I don’t care what Clement Sutherland and
the rest say. I’ll stick to you, my boy. You shall never have it to say
that your old uncle fell away from you. But now, tell me, how is your
little wife? _Well_, I know, else you would not be here, eh?”

“Rosalie is well, but not strong.”

“Never was, poor little thing. And how are the little children, and how
many of them are there, and are they girls or boys, or both, and what
are their names?”

“We have no children.”

“What! lost them all? Well, poor little things, they are better off.”

“We never had any children.”

“Oh-h-h! Whew-w-w!” whistled Mr. Bolling, rather disconcerted; then
resuming, he said—“well, neither have the Ashleys. That’s strange! What
the d——l’s that hubbub in the dining-room? Ugh! It’s the niggers toting
that animal up to bed! _He_, who seven years ago was called the
brightest rising star on the political horizon! Now look at him! That is
India’s fault! What tremendous power women have for _evil_!”

“And for _good_!” said Mark Sutherland, as his thoughts flew to his
guardian angel, Rosalie.

Wearied with his journey, and longing for the solitude that would leave
him free to reflect upon all that he had just heard, Mark Sutherland
expressed a wish to retire. Mr. Bolling rang for the night lamps, and
they parted for the night.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                                 INDIA.

             “How changed since last her speaking eye
               Glanced gladness round the glittering room,
             Where high-born men were proud to wait—
             Where beauty watched to imitate
               Her gentle voice and lovely mien—
             And gather from her air and gate
               The graces of its queen!”—_Byron._


Early the next morning Mark Sutherland descended to the drawing-room. No
one was there except Oriole, who had just stepped from her mistress’s
boudoir, and was crossing the room, on her way to some other part of the
house. Once more Mark Sutherland was mournfully affected by the
marvellous, the fatal beauty of the poor girl. As she met and was
passing him, with eyes cast down, cheeks painfully flushed, and heart
beating, as it had too well learned to beat with fear at the look of
man, his heart was moved with deep pity. He had known her from her
infancy; he held out his hand, and spoke to her, saying—“How do you do,
Oriole? You have not spoken to me since my arrival.” But without
touching his hand, or even venturing a glance at his face, the maiden
dropped a quick courtesy as she passed, and hurried on her errand.

“Poor, hunted, trembling deer!” said Mark: “she cannot even trust a
friend. Is it possible to save her?”

His thoughts dwelt with painful but vain intensity upon the hapless
girl, and it was many minutes before the old familiar scene around
him—suggestive as it was of the most joyous as well as the most painful
passages in his past life—could recall him to himself.

He gazed around. The sliding doors and the flowing curtains that divided
the boudoir from the saloon, were drawn entirely back, revealing the
whole apartment. Yes; here was the same saloon, the temple of joyous
reunions, and the same boudoir, the shrine of beauty, love, and
happiness. The same, yet how changed from all the pristine splendour of
the past! Then all was order, beauty, freshness, and enjoyment. Now all
was indifference, neglect, decay, and desolation. Even there, in the
sacred boudoir of India—the latest sanctuary of elegance and luxury—rust
and must, mildew and canker, had crept over all. There the sumptuous
hangings of purple and gold, that made the bower seem like some gorgeous
oriental sunset scene, were now faded and tarnished—the royal purple
turned to a dull, streaked brown and drab—the gold cankered with green
verdigris. The cheval mirrors were specked thickly with mildew, and
obscured with fly-stains; the marble tables stained and smirched; and,
for the fragrance of fresh flowers, a close, damp, stifling smell of
must pervaded the apartment. All was cheerless, hopeless, desolate.

His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of another
figure. It was India. And prepared as he had been to meet a great change
in the “Pearl of Pearl River,” he scarcely recognised her. The
superficial is ever the first to strike us. He noticed that the gorgeous
and flowing drapery which had once graced her form, was now replaced by
a plain black dress. The rich, warm, olive bloom of her complexion had
given place to the paleness of ivory. Naught remained of her glorious
beauty but the luxuriant amber-hued ringlets and the large, dark,
mournful, soul-thrilling eyes. More of _real_ self-possession she
exhibited now than she had ever shown in former times. She advanced
towards Mark, holding out her hand, and welcomed him with these words:

“I am happy to see you again at Cashmere—after so many years—my dear
cousin—why could we not be friends?”

Her voice faltered slightly; and when she paused, Mr. Sutherland
cordially grasped her outstretched hands, and said, while he pressed
them—

“We _are_ friends, my dearest India; at least, I can speak for myself
and for one who loves you not less than I do—my wife Rosalie.”

With a spasmodic catch India snatched away her hands; and, quivering
through every nerve, sat down, and veiled her face with her hands, and,

“It is a trying world!”—burst from her quivering lips.

Raising his eyebrows in painful surprise, Mark Sutherland gazed
earnestly at her for an instant, and then turned away his eyes, waiting
reverently for her self-recovery. Soon she looked up, and, faintly
smiling, said—

“I have had much, oh! very much, indeed, to try me of late, my cousin.
Everything is going to ruin with us—everything, everything.”

“I trust not. Your father is embarrassed, but with the advice and
assistance of his friends, all, I hope, will be brought to a happy
issue.”

“Ah, no! but it is not of our desperate affairs I wished to speak. Tell
me of your own. You have been successful in life?”

“Yes, I have been successful, thanks, under Divine Providence, to the
constant sympathy and co-operation of my faithful Rosalie.”

Again India hastily raised her hands, to screen the spasm of pain that
traversed her countenance; and—“Why will he stab me with that name?” she
thought; but she answered calmly—“Rosalie is an amiable woman; how is
she?”

“Well, and very busy.”

“And your family?”

“We have no family; we are all the world to each other.”

“Tell me how you have got on since I saw you last.”

Mr. Sutherland began, and told her the principal circumstances of his
life since their last parting-dwelling frequently upon his Rosalie’s
hope and faith, and persevering energy.

“And so Rosalie has been the angel of his life,” she muttered inaudibly
between her white lips.

A pause ensued, which was broken at last by India.

“All is sadly changed here; my father has been very unfortunate, and Mr.
Ashley——I cannot comprehend it! I see ruin gathering darkly around us
all, without the power—yes, and without the will—to avert it, any more
than I could avert an earthquake, whose premonitory jars were shaking
us!” she said, in a despairing tone.

Mark Sutherland made no comment. What could he have said to console her
that would not have been false? He thought that not so would Rosalie
have met misfortune—with inert despair. And then he remembered that much
of this impending ruin the beautiful India had drawn upon her own head,
and the heads of those who loved her, but whom, alas! she loved not. He
felt relieved when, at this point, a summons to the breakfast-room
terminated the interview.

At the breakfast table appeared India, Mark Sutherland, St. Gerald
Ashley, and Mr. Bolling. Oriole served tea and coffee from a side-table.
Clement Sutherland had not come home. Mr. Ashley’s face was bloated, and
his eyes blood-shot—the effects of the preceding evening’s excess were
but too plain. He sat silent and morose, and ate but little. India
maintained a cold, severe aspect, never speaking to or looking at him.
Mark Sutherland felt himself _de trop_ and uncomfortable, but for Uncle
Billy, who kept up an incessant monologue, asking a score of questions
about the north-west, and volunteering many comments. Mr. Sutherland was
rejoiced when the gloomy meal was over, and earnestly wished that the
master of the house might soon return, and his business and his visit be
concluded at once. He expressed this wish to Mr. Bolling, who hastened
to reply—

“And so do I, nephew! and so do I! For this is the case every day. Each
night that fellow goes to bed tipsy, and each morning appears at the
breakfast table in a state of bloated torpor! Yes, _Lord knows_ do I
wish that Clem. Sutherland would come, and we could finish our business
and leave; for you know I’m going home with _you_, Mark. I intend to
stick to _you_. I admire your principles—always _did_—_I’m_ your man.”

The day advanced, and still Clement Sutherland did not make his
appearance. The late dinner was served, and passed as gloomily as the
breakfast, and still he came not. The house was growing intolerable to
Mark, who summoned one of the servants, and inquired where he should be
likely to find his master; and was informed that he might be found at
the Planters’ Best, where he usually stopped when business took him to
the village. Mr. Sutherland then ordered his horse, and, while waiting
for him to be saddled and brought to the door, went and took leave of
Mr. Bolling, leaving his compliments and adieus to Mrs. Ashley, who had
retired to her room to take her afternoon rest. Then he mounted his
horse, and took the road to the village, intending, if possible, to have
an interview and a settlement with his uncle, and to make his
head-quarters at the village inn, as long as he should be obliged to
remain.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                                FORGERY.

       “Oh! cursed lust of gold! how for thy sake
       The fool throws up his interests in both worlds!
       First lost in this—then damned in that to come.”—_Blair._


In the meanwhile, the object of his solicitude, Clement Sutherland, sat
in a private parlour of the Planters’ Hotel, in the village of C——,
_afraid to return home_, with wild thoughts of flight darting through
his oppressed, distracted head! A victim to the lust of gold, he had
served the devil too well to be deserted of him at the last hour. And
now he sat, with his prematurely whitened head bowed upon his cramped
and shrivelled hands, bitterly trying to recall the wiles and review the
crooked paths by which the fiend had led him.

In youth, his besetting sin had been a reasonable wish of independence,
and he called it thrift; and it seemed to justify every kind of
parsimony and selfishness. In maturity it became a craving desire for
wealth, and he named it prudent foresight, wise provision for the
future, and it appeared to excuse every sort of exaction from health,
life, and limb, of his labourers, or “uttermost farthing” from his
debtors. In midlife it grew an absorbing passion, and he termed it
parental devotion, and it seemed to palliate every species of injustice,
cruelty, and dishonesty. In his age it reached its full development, as
a monomania, which he no longer sought to sanctify by any holy name,
when it led him into _crime_—into the crime of _forgery_!

Some months before, a most promising opportunity offered of making a
great speculation by the investment of a considerable sum of money. But
how to raise this sum? He had neither cash nor credit; and all his
estate in which he had retained more than a life interest, was mortgaged
to nearly its full value. There was one means of raising the funds
suggested to his mind, but his soul shrank from it. He could anticipate
his ward’s majority by a few months, and borrow her signature only for a
power of attorney and a deed of mortgage—that was all. And the money
could be raised on her real estate, and the sum invested, and the
profits secured. And then the mortgage could be released and destroyed
before the (he hesitated to give the act its proper name, even in his
thought) forgery could be discovered and exposed. So the tempter
persuaded him.

He had never trained his moral strength by resisting slight temptations;
and now that the temptation was very great, he fell before it. Scarcely
daring to think on what he was about to do, he left the neighbourhood of
Cashmere for two weeks, and on his return, laid before his
correspondent, the usurer at C——, a power of attorney and a deed of
mortgage, seemingly duly signed, witnessed and attested. Upon these the
requisite funds were borrowed, embarked in the speculation, and lost!

And now the dread day of account had come, and he sat overwhelmed,
crushed, unable to fly, afraid to go home, yet fitfully and by turns
impelled to each course. It was while he sat there, by turns stupified
and distracted, that the door was opened by a waiter, who announced—

“Judge Sutherland!”

And retired, as Mark walked in.

Clement Sutherland started to his feet, pale and wild-looking, and
gazed, without speaking, at his nephew.

“Sir, you are ill!” exclaimed the latter, anxiously, stepping up to him.

Muttering some inaudible words between his white lips, the old man sunk
down, collapsed, into his chair. Mark hastily stepped to the bell-rope,
to ring for wine. But the guilty man, in the confusion of his trouble,
misunderstood the intention, and stretching out his trembling, almost
palsied arm, bade him “Stop, for Christ’s sake!”

Mark returned, with looks of interest.

“I did not mean to—to _wrong_ her! God knows I did not!” said the old
man, in a quivering tone.

“Wrong whom?” added Mark, regarding him with much surprise and anxiety;
“sir, sir, you are really ill, and I must summon some assistance.”

“No, no! you are mistaken. Bring no witnesses. It is—it is—a family
affair. Now, I suppose, you will have your revenge!” exclaimed Clement
Sutherland, with a frightened, chattering smile.

Without more ado, Mark hastened to the door, with the purpose of sending
for a physician. But the old man sprang, tottered after him, and clasped
him around, staggered back, exclaiming—“You shall not! I’ll have no
witnesses. Oh! you’re a lawyer!”

Mark Sutherland disengaged himself, sat his uncle down in a chair, and
stood for a moment undecided how to proceed—vague suspicions crossing
his mind for the first time, as he heard his wild words, and recollected
Mr. Bolling’s ominous doubts.

“Yes, look!” exclaimed the distracted culprit, who had quite lost his
self-possession, “look! and consider what you will do! It will be a fine
revenge, for old and new, to cast the white-haired man into a
State-prison, won’t it? Now, hark ye! No dishonour can crush me that
will not touch you! Remember that!”

Mark Sutherland went to a sideboard, poured out a glass of water, and
brought it to his uncle, who took it in his trembling hand and quaffed
it off, and returned the empty glass, all mechanically, and without a
word of acknowledgment. Mark Sutherland put down the glass, and then
returned and took his seat beside the guilty man, saying calmly, and
with some reserve—

“Now, sir, it were best for all parties concerned, that you should put
me in possession of the facts of this case.”

“And criminate myself! Ha! that’s a lawyer’s trick, to lead me into such
a folly. But I’m cool, I’m collected, I’m not going to do it.”

“Sir, you have already criminated yourself.”

“Ha! you wish to trap me into doing so, so that you can take your
revenge. It would be a tremendous revenge, would it not?”

“Sir, you know well that no such mean spirit of vengeance will influence
my action in this matter.”

“Ha! well, it will be because it cannot. You can’t prosecute me—you
can’t appear against me—because you can’t disgrace me without
dishonouring yourself. It would not do, you think, to have it said that
Judge Sutherland’s uncle was a felon.”

“And why should not ‘Judge Sutherland’s’ uncle, or Judge Anyone’s uncle,
be called a felon, if he _is_ a felon, as well as the poorest man’s
uncle alive? Is it because the former has more power, more means, more
friends, fewer wants, fewer temptations, than the latter? I think not.
No, sir! family pride will no more restrain my action, than revenge will
impel it. Family considerations, personal pride, never _have_ influenced
my conduct, and never _will_ do so. No, sir; I conform my life to a
purer rule of action. In every question there is a right and a wrong. I
obey the right. Had I a brother or a son guilty of felony, and it became
my duty to bear witness against either, I should do it, though my
testimony consigned the culprit to death. No, sir; if we refrain from
prosecution, it will be for a reason much holier than pride. It will be
from a motive that would also actuate us in sparing the veriest forsaken
wretch alive!”

Clement Sutherland had sat with his elbows on the table, and his head
bowed in his hands, his grey hair dishevelled, and his thin, withered
features whitened and drawn in as by internal agony. But now he bursts
forth in a fit of fury, as ungovernable as it was unreasonable and
impotent. Mark Sutherland stood quietly by, and let his rage exhaust
itself. Then, when the guilty man was calm from prostration, his nephew
spoke to him coolly, wisely, kindly—making him understand and feel that
his detection was inevitable, unless he put him in possession of all the
facts, to prepare him to meet knowingly the exigencies of the case. It
was very difficult to influence the wretched man, who, having parted
with his own faith, was unable to rest on the good faith of any other.
And it was only after arguing and persuading him all the afternoon and
evening, that late at night he won from the guilty man a full account of
the circumstances.

“And now, what do you purpose to do?” was his trembling question, when
he had confessed all.

“I shall return home to-morrow, and take counsel with Rosalie.”

“Take counsel with _her_!” exclaimed the old man, in alarm.

“Be at ease, sir. She has a voice in this matter Nay, she _has_—it
_must_ be—it is _her_ name that has been used—_her_ property that is
lost. And if it were not—if it were my own exclusive affair, still I
should consult her before taking any important step!”

“_What will become of us?_—of India? My child! my child! that your high
head should be bowed with shame!” cried the wretched man, in a voice of
anguish.

“Reassure yourself, sir, I beg. I can answer for Rosalie’s noble heart.
You are safe from all punishment from her. And now let us part at once.
You had better return to Cashmere, where your family must be anxiously
awaiting you.”

“And where will you stay?”

“To-night I shall go on board the steamer Victress, which will leave for
the Upper Mississippi to-morrow.”

Suddenly the old man lifted up his head, and showed a countenance
brightened with hope. Mr. Sutherland stopped to hear what he had to say.
He grasped the arm of his nephew, exclaiming—

“Oh! Mark, I have it now. I have found the means by which family honour
and Rosalie’s fortune both may be saved. Rosalie need not deny her
signature; that will protect me, and save family honour. But the
signature was written before she came of age; therefore the deeds are
null and void and the usurer cannot foreclose the mortgage, or recover
his money. So you see that I can—I mean family honour—can be saved, and
Rosalie lose nothing either.”

An involuntary expression of scorn and loathing flashed from Mark
Sutherland’s fine Roman face for a moment; and then, composing himself,
he replied, coolly—

“No, sir; if you are saved, it must be at our own proper cost and loss.”

And so they parted.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                              UNCLE BILLY.

                “He’s had misfortunes, great and sma’,
                But aye a soul above them far;
                He’ll be a credit to us a’,
                  We’ll a’ be proud o’ Willie!”—_Burns._


Mark Sutherland went on board the Victress, and almost immediately
betook himself to the solitude of the forsaken hurricane deck, there to
walk, and while the water breeze fanned his fevered brow, to reflect
upon the sinfulness, the danger, of an ungoverned lust of gold—upon the
crimes to which it often leads, and upon the felony made known to him
that evening. The orgies of a noisy party of card-players in the saloon
below occasionally broke upon his silence; and the sweet laughter of
young girls, walking on the guards of the ladies’ cabin, was borne
upwards on the wind. But the hurricane deck was lonely, and there he
paced up and down, wrapped in mournful thought, until the arrival of a
noisy set, who, weary of the heated saloon, sought the free, fresh air
above, and disturbed his solitude. Then he went below, and sought his
berth.

Early in the morning he arose from a sleepless couch, to find all the
officers and hands on the boat engaged in receiving last freight and
passengers, while the engine was getting up her steam to be off. Mark
Sutherland finished his morning toilet, and went out upon the guards,
just as the boat was beginning to move from the wharf. The usual crowd
of idlers, porters, and loafers, stood upon the shore, watching her
departure. And Mark Sutherland fixed himself in a favourable position
for watching the receding wharf of what might be called his native
village, when the figure of a fat man, in white linen jacket and
trousers, with his light hair blowing free behind his rosy face, waving
a straw hat, came running desperately towards the wharf. The boat
arrested her motions, the plank was thrown out, and Uncle Billy followed
by a man with his trunk and portmanteau, stepped on board. Panting and
blowing, and wiping his face, he hastened up to Mr. Sutherland,
exclaiming, “My dear boy! I liked to have missed you! Near as possible!
Wouldn’t have lost you for the world, my dearest lad! Stick to you as
long as I live, Mark, for your dear mother, my sister’s sake! Whew!
_Whew-ew!_ what a chase I’ve had! Only heard this morning, from Clement,
that you were going by the Victress! Running ain’t good for me.
Dangerous!” And so, talking and shaking his nephew’s hand, and wiping
his own rosy face, and blowing and panting, Mr. Bolling at last sat
down, and began to fan himself with his broad-brimmed straw hat.

Mark Sutherland received his relative’s demonstrations of attachment as
best he might; he welcomed him, and went to the captain’s office to see
if he could secure a state-room for his enforced travelling companion;
and by the time he had successfully accomplished his errand, the
passengers were summoned to the breakfast table, and the boat had
cleared the wharf and was well under way up the Mississippi.

It was a slow voyage up the river, and on the afternoon of the twelfth
day the steamer arrived at the wharf of Shelton. Mark Sutherland wished,
if possible, to get rid of his troublesome travelling companion for a
few hours, while he could go home quietly, and have an uninterrupted
meeting and talk with his dear Rosalie.

So, leaving all their baggage in the care of the clerk of the boat, Mark
drew Uncle Billy’s fat arm within his own, and conducted him to Col.
Garner’s hotel, to a private parlour, containing a comfortable lounge
and easy chair. Here he ordered a luncheon of cold ham, fowl, sardines,
pickled oysters, and next all the late newspapers the house could
muster; and having seen them all arranged upon the table, to which the
easy chair was drawn up, and while Uncle Billy stretched his lazy length
upon the lounge, Mr. Sutherland turned to Mr. Bolling, and said—

“And now, Uncle Billy, can you excuse me, and make yourself comfortable,
while I run down to Rosalie and prepare her for your arrival?”

“Eh? Yes; all right! Certainly! The child always was fond of me, and it
might give her too much of a shock to meet me suddenly, after so long a
separation! Very considerate of you, Mark, certainly—very!”

“Is there anything else I can order for you before I go?”

“Eh? No, nothing; I am much obliged to you, nephew.”

“Well, if you should think of anything after I am gone, you can ring for
it, you know.”

“Yes—yes.”

“Good afternoon for the present, I will come and fetch you at tea-time.”

“Yes; very well, I shall be ready. Hark ye, Mark! break my arrival to
your wife cautiously, do you hear? Joy kills sometimes.”

“I shall be careful not to endanger Rosalie’s life,” said Mark, smiling
as he left the room.

No sooner had the door closed behind his nephew, than, with a sigh of
profound satisfaction, Uncle Billy arose and sat down in the easy chair,
and drew the table towards him. In addition to everything else on the
table, there was a tall, black bottle, which Mr. Bolling took up,
uncorked, and put to his nose with a look of delightful anticipation. He
sat it down suddenly, with an expression of intense disgust—

“Tomato catsup, by all that is detestable, and I thought it was port
wine! Here, waiter!—(where the devil is the bell-rope?) Waiter, I say!”

A man in a linen apron put his head in at the door—

“Did you call, sir?”

“Yes; bring me a bottle of your best port wine.”

The man withdrew, and after a while returned with a black bottle of the
villanous drugged compound which is sold and bought as the best port
wine, and which _bon vivants_ like Mr. Bolling imbibe with perfect
faith.

We will leave Uncle Billy to the enjoyment of his beloved creature
comforts, and follow Mark Sutherland to his “sweet home.”




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                            FAILING HEALTH.

  “’Tis shadow’d by the tulip tree—’tis mantled by the vine;
  The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets nigh,
  And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the sky.”

  _Bryant._


On the outskirts of the town, embosomed in a grove of trees, stood Rose
Cottage, the pleasant home of the Sutherlands. It was named partly from
Rosalie, and partly from her favourite flower—the rose—of which every
variety had been collected and cultivated to adorn her house and garden.
The house itself was simple and plain in its structure—just an oblong
two-story frame building, painted white, with green Venetian blinds, and
having four rooms on each floor, with a wide passage running through the
centre from front to back, and with an upper and lower piazza running
all around the house.

The grounds were unpretending, too—behind the house a kitchen garden and
young orchard; in front and at the sides a spacious yard, where single
great forest trees were left standing, with rural seats fixed under
their shade. In that rich and fertile soil the favourite rose flourished
luxuriantly. Rose-trees adorned the yard, rose-bushes hedged the
parterres, rose vines shaded the arbours and climbed the pillars of the
piazza and gracefully festooned the eaves, and the fragrance of roses
filled the air. What gave a tenderer interest to these beautiful roses
was, that they were all love-offerings from the young girls and children
to their beautiful and beloved teacher.

Mark Sutherland approached this sweet home. Every care and sorrow
dropped from his spirit as he opened the little wicket-gate that
separated his garden of Eden from the wilderness. He walked on through
the shaded yard to the house, and went up to the piazza, and through the
front door into the hall, or passage. Here two doors, opposite each
other to the right and left, opened—one into their parlour and
dining-room, and the other into the school and classroom. He paused a
moment, and listened, with a smile, as the low murmur of girls’ voices
revealed to him that the school was not yet dismissed.

He opened the door and entered.

Surely, there never was a school-room so pleasant as this, from which
the aspect of dullness, weariness, restraint, and irksomeness, was so
completely banished, as there certainly never was a teacher so lovely
and so beloved. It was a spacious, airy apartment, lighted with many
windows, shaded at a little distance by the rose-wreathed pillars and
eaves of the piazza. The furniture was of bright cherry, in cheerful
contrast to the white walls and floor. Maps and pictures, of rare beauty
and appropriateness, decorated the walls, and shells and minerals and
mosses adorned the tables.

The young girls and children—some engaged in study, some in
pencil-drawing or penmanship, and some in needlework—looked cheery and
very much at their ease. They left their seats, and spoke to each other
without infringing any rule, but all was done quietly and gracefully, as
under the influence of a beloved mistress, whom they obeyed with no
forced eye-service, and whom they would not for the world distress or
annoy.

And there, at the upper end of the room, on a platform raised but one
step above the floor, on a chair, at a table, sat the young
schoolmistress—the wife of four years’ standing—scarcely turned
twenty-one, and with the loveliest and most delicate face and form in
the world, yet by the power of her soul’s strength and beauty keeping in
willing subjection a miscellaneous crowd of girls, of all ages, sizes,
and tempers. There she sat, with her sweet, fair face, and pale, golden,
curly hair, and white muslin wrapper—looking the fairest girl among them
all. When Mark entered, the quiet light of joy dawned in her eyes, and
she arose and came softly down to meet him. There was a subdued gladness
in the manner of both, as they clasped hands.

“My dearest Rose, you are so much better than when I went away,” said
Mark, looking fondly at her, as the bloom deepened on her cheeks.

“I am better—I am _well_” replied Rosalie, smiling round upon her girls,
several of whom left their seats, and came fluttering forward to welcome
Mr. Sutherland with saucy pleasure. He had a merry jest or a loving word
for each affectionate child, but soon sent them gaily back to their
places, as the hour of dismissal had come. And Rosalie, accompanied by
Mark, went back to her seat, and called the school to order, and gave
out and led the evening hymn that closed their exercises.

When the song was finished, and the girls all gone, Mark Sutherland
turned to his young wife, and with a smile of joy drew her to his bosom.
But in a moment a shade of anxiety clouded his face; and, still clasping
her close to his bosom, he asked—

“Rose, what makes your heart throb so violently?”

Rosalie raised her eyes to his face, and he noticed that a sorrowful
shade dimmed their lustre for an instant, but vanished before the smile
with which she replied—

“I am so glad to see you.”

“But your heart knocks so forcibly?”

“Come in the parlour, and let’s sit down there and talk—I have so many
things to tell you, and to ask you about,” said Rosalie, evading his
remarks; and gently withdrawing herself, she led the way into the
parlour, and wheeled up an easy chair, and begged him to “sit down and
make himself at home.”

But, first, he made her recline upon the lounge and rest, while he drew
the chair up and sat by her side.

And there she lay, with her sweet, spiritual face, white as her drapery,
except where all the colour had concentrated in a circumscribed fiery
spot in either cheek. She was breathing short, yet smiling gaily at her
own difficulty.

He sat watching her, and trying to feel and to look happy, yet thinking
that after all she was not so well as when he had left her—perceiving
that he had mistaken fever heat for healthful bloom. He sat, trying to
smile and talk cheerfully, yet with a dull, aching prophecy in his
heart. It was in vain to stifle the rising anxiety. It found some vent
in these words:

“My love, you work too hard; that school is hurting your health?”

“No, dear Mark, believe me, it is not—it keeps me up.”

“It exhausts, it prostrates you, my love—indeed, it must be closed—that
school _must_ be closed!”

By way of nimbly proving how strong she was, she arose to a sitting
posture, arranged her hair by running her slender fingers through the
ringlets, adjusted her dress, and sat straight up, while she answered—

“Not for the world would I close that school, dear Mark. I have no
children, and that school is my field of almost unbounded usefulness.
Those girls are my children; and not only must I cultivate their
intellects, but in every young, receptive heart I must sow good seed,
that will bring forth fruit long after I am in”——

She paused suddenly, in embarrassment.

“What do you mean, Rosalie?” he asked, in distress.

“Dearest Mark,” she said, slightly evading a direct reply, “dearest
Mark, a faithful teacher, called to the work, may not abandon her post,
indeed; for oh! see how mighty the influence of a teacher may be, and
how long it may last—the good principles instilled into a little girl’s
tender heart do not conclude their work with her alone, but influence
her children, and her children’s children, and all who come within her
sphere and in theirs. Consider how mighty an instrument of good is set
in motion by teaching aright one little child, and I faithfully try to
teach forty. So, dearest Mark, hinder me not; but while I live, let me
sow the good seed, that it may bring forth good fruit when I am—I mean
when all this generation shall have passed away.”

There was a pause, during which he held her hand fondly, and seemed
buried in thought.

“Dearest Mark, you look so careworn—have you had much trouble in
settling our business?”

He raised his head, and looked at her sweet, wan face. He could not, for
his life, tell anything to distress her then; so he answered that Mr.
Clement Sutherland was not yet prepared to give an account of his trust,
but that all would be arranged before the close of the month.

Rosalie arose, and putting her hands upon his shoulders, pressed a kiss
upon his forehead, and was sliding away.

“Where are you going?” asked Mark, detaining her.

“To order tea, of course,” she answered.

Suddenly Mr. Sutherland remembered Uncle Billy.

“Stop, Rosalie,” he said, “I have got something to tell you.”

And Rosalie sat down again; and Mark, in some painful and ludicrous
embarrassment, related his meeting with Mr. Bolling, and the manner in
which that impartial, disinterested gentleman had thrust himself upon
him for life.

“And where have you left him now?” asked Rosalie.

“At Col. Garner’s, enjoying himself. Really, my dearest Rose, I feel
very much annoyed that you should be troubled with this old man,” said
Mark Sutherland, in a tone of vexation.

“Bless your kind heart, dear Mark, he will be no trouble to me. I have
not the shadow of an objection to his coming; I think I shall rather
like to have him. Uncle Billy always was rather a cheerful object to
me—such a neat, clean, fresh, dainty, self-satisfied, delightful old
gentleman! We can put him in the other front room up stairs, you know!”

“But to be burdened with him for ever, Rose! Just think of it! And the
most provoking part of it is, he thinks he is doing us a mighty
benefit!”

“Well! poor, homeless old gentleman! let him think so, if it makes him
happy. Never let him feel a sense of obligation, or fancy that we are
not delighted to have him! I can speak truly for myself—I shall be very
glad to make the old man contented!”

“Oh, yes; he says you’re very fond of him, and begged me not to break
his arrival to you too abruptly, lest the sudden joy should be too much
for you!”

Rosalie laughed outright. Her silvery laughter was very sweet, from its
rarity, and Mark found it charming. He caught her gaily, and kissed her
cheek. Oh, that burning cheek! it sobered him directly. He took his hat,
and went to fetch Uncle Billy.




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                              AN ORIGINAL.

           “He seeth only what is fair,
             He sippeth only what is sweet;
           He will laugh at fate and care,
             Leave the chaff and take the wheat.”—_Emerson._


And Rosalie passed into a large, square, well-ordered kitchen, over
which presided another Billy—Mrs. Attridge’s ex-servant, and now
Rosalie’s maid-of-all-work. And the short history of the transfer of his
services was this: Mr. and Mrs. Attridge, having no family, grew lonely,
and tired of housekeeping in the country. So they broke up, sold their
furniture, rented out their place, and came to Shelton, and took rooms
at Garner’s Hotel.

So Billy was out of a place. A great many housekeepers would have been
glad to hire him. But Billy, like all invaluable geniuses, had a great
many eccentricities and difficulties to be got over. He wouldn’t live in
a row of houses, or in any sort of a house that wasn’t a handsome house,
in a large space, with trees round it. He wouldn’t live in a family that
had babies, or _hadn’t_ cows and a garden. Poultry was also
indispensable, and pigs totally inadmissible. And lastly, he wouldn’t
live—no, not in town or country, neither for love nor money, with
anybody who was not good-looking. There—to use Billy’s own words—he set
his foot down, and no one could move him from that position. And so it
fell out that Billy would accept no place in Shelton, but continued
hanging on to the skirts of his old master and mistress, at Garner’s
Hotel.

But one day, it happened that Rosalie, after she had dismissed her
afternoon school, stood at her nice white kitchen table kneading bread
for supper, when a shadow darkened the door, and the sound of something
dumped suddenly down upon the floor, caused her to turn round. There
stood Billy, in his pale blue cotton jacket and trousers, and clean
linen apron and straw hat, with a great bundle at his back, and a heavy
trunk at his feet. Down he dropped the bundle upon the trunk, and
heaving a deep sigh of relief, said—

“I’m been looking for you to send arter me to come and live ’long o’
you. Why ain’t you sent afore this? Don’t like to be a-losing so much
time.”

“Why, Billy, I had no idea you wished to come and live with us,”
returned Rose, in surprise.

“Well, you might a-known it, then! You always knowed I liked you and
him.”

“I thought you refused to go out to service?”

“I ’fused all _them there_” said Billy, chucking his thumb
contemptuously over his shoulder, pointing in the direction of the
village—“think I’m agoin’ to live in a bake-oven, like them there red
brick houses?”

“But you might have gone to the country.”

“Yes, but you know most all on ’em were so ill-looking—I mean the
people, and for that matter the houses too—and then they kept pigs, as
made an onpleasant fragrance, and childun, as made werry onpleasant
noises. And some places, the missus was either ugly in her temper, or
her face, or in both, which is dreadful. And in other places the master
was always a-interfering with the dinner or the dishcloths, in a very
misbecoming manner. Some on ’em were not nice in their ways; and what
’couragement would it be to me to put on a clean apron every day, with a
nice stiff crease ironed down in the middle of it, to sarve people as
wa’n’t clean themselves? So the long and the short of it is, ma’am, that
I’m come to live ’long o’ you.”

Now, Rosalie was so gentle-hearted that she did not speak her thought,
and say—“But we did not send for you, Billy.” Yet, nevertheless, Billy
guessed it, for he answered as if she had spoken—

“Well, what o’ that? Here I _am_. And here’s my trunk and bundle. I paid
a man twenty-five cents to help me to bring them over. I reckon I can
stay, if I ’gree to stay on your own terms,” said Billy, betraying
piteous anxiety nevertheless.

Gentle and truthful Rosalie hastened to set his fears at rest. “Indeed,
Billy, we shall be delighted to have you. You will be an invaluable
acquisition to us. I am only very much surprised that you should have
given us the preference.”

A bright, glad smile broke over honest Billy’s face. “Why, you see,
ma’am, I don’t care how much work I have to do—I does it cheerful. I
don’t care how little wages I gets—I takes it—contented. But I ain’t got
but one life to live on this yeth, and while I do live, I _must_ live in
a pretty place, long o’ pretty people. Anything else smothers of me—it
stifles of me—it gives me the—I mean it makes my wittles disagree with
me.” And, so saying, Billy shouldered his bundle and trunk, and took
them up into the loft over the kitchen, as if he had slept there all his
life, and knew the way. And then he came down, and took two big buckets
to go to the well. And so, without more ado, Billy was inaugurated in
his new place and duties. And a most “invaluable acquisition” he really
proved. Billy had now been living several months with the Sutherlands.

To return: Rosalie went into the kitchen, to give directions to Billy
about the supper. She found him sitting down, stirring the batter for
the pancakes. She told him she expected a stranger to tea, and that he
must make coffee also, and dress two prairie fowls, and broil some ham.
And next she went into her dining-room and set her table, adorning it
with her finest damask table-cloth, and best china, and placing upon it
her nicest cakes and preserves. She was so engaged when Mr. Sutherland
returned, bringing in Uncle Billy.

I cannot do anything like justice to the vociferous joy with which Mr.
Bolling rushed upon his dear niece, as he called Rosalie. She received
him with an affectionate welcome.

“I am come to stay with you as long as I possibly can, my dear. Although
a man like me has a great many conflicting claims upon his time and
presence, of course, nevertheless I intend to stay with you as long as
possible.”

Rosalie assured him that the longer he stayed the better she should be
pleased. And then, as Billy had put supper on the table, she invited him
in to that meal. And Mr. Bolling sat down and enjoyed it with as much
gusto as if he had not partaken of a heavy luncheon at Garner’s. When
supper was over, and Mr. Bolling had been invited by Mark to take a
stroll around the premises, Billy entered, to clear off the table, and,
pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, he asked—

“Who _is_ yon fat, puffed-up fellow in the rosy face and white jacket
and trousers?”

“He is my husband’s uncle, and you must speak of him more respectfully.”

“That’s ’cordin’ as it may be,” said Billy, as he moved off under the
weight of the laden tea-tray.

Rosalie’s benevolent heart was so gratified at having some one else to
be good to, and Mark was so pleased to see her satisfaction, that he
became quite reconciled to the intruder.

But Billy was not to be mollified. When Mr. Bolling had been
domesticated a week in the house, one morning Billy bounced suddenly in
upon Rosalie, as she stood arranging the breakfast table, and asked—

“How long is your uncle-in-law going to stay here?”

“I do not know, Billy; probably all his life.”

“Oh! he is! Well, I tell you, one of us two’s got to leave!”

“Just as you please, Billy. You know, of course, we can’t turn out a
guest to gratify you.”

“Well, I give you warning—that’s all!” and Billy bounced out in high
dudgeon. But presently he came back again.

“Look here, ma’am; I don’t want to be onreasonable, but just
consider what a difference it makes in my washing and ironing. Look
here! every day your uncle-in-law puts on a spic span clean suit,
all out! every day, clean jacket, clean trousers, clean shirt, clean
what-you-call-’ems, and clean cravat, and pocket-handkerchiefs, and
clean socks. Now count. There’s seven pieces every day, and seven
days in the week; now, how much is seven sevens? You’re a
schollard.”

“Forty-nine!”

“Well, there’s forty-nine pieces of clothing, to say nothing of four
sheets and two bolster slips, and two pillow slips, and fourteen towels,
and table napkins, I have extra washing and ironing for him every week.
Now I’m going to count, and see how much it all ’mounts to—ninety-two
pieces! Ninety-two pieces extra washing and ironing I have to do, all
along of your pet uncle-in-law! Now, you know I can’t stand that! No
reasonable ’oman would want me to stand it!” said Billy, appealingly.

“No, of course not,” said Rose, thoughtfully.

“So onreasonable in any uncle-in-law to act so.”

“You must excuse our visitor, Billy. He has been used to the convenience
of a large plantation laundry.”

“Well, I think he ought to staid there.”

“We will put out Mr. Bolling’s washing.”

“And put yourself to an extra ’spense, and not have clothes half done?
No, I can’t ’pose on you that way, neither. Well, I’ll not give warning
yet awhile! I’ll see how long I can stand it!” And Billy left the room,
and took more pains to please his gentle mistress that day than he ever
did before.

There was no love lost on Mr. Bolling’s side either, and—“Insolent
fellow!” and “Is he an idiot?” and “You all spoil that fellow of yours,
Mark!” fell often from his lips, and sometimes in honest Billy’s
hearing. And one day, while the family were all gathered round the
dinner-table, Mr. Bolling said to his niece and nephew—“My dear
children, I must request you to drop the name of Uncle Billy, and
substitute Uncle William, when you address me. There are two of that
name in this house, and if you call me Uncle Billy, strangers might
confound me in some way with Billy Bumpkin in the kitchen there, which
would not be complimentary.”

Rosalie afterwards thought that her factotum must have heard these
offensive remarks; for the next evening, as she entered the kitchen, to
order supper, he approached her respectfully, and said—

“Mrs. Sutherland, ma’am, if you please, ma’am, I would be thankful if
you’d be so good as to call me William, which is the name given me by my
sponsors in baptism, and not ‘Billy,’ for fear people might get me
jumbled up in their minds along o’ that fat, lazy man, in white teeth
and linen, which would lose me my good character, and be very onpleasant
to my friends.”




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                              MAGNANIMITY.

         “Though with my high wrongs I am struck to the quick,
         Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my anger
         Do I take part. The better action is
         In patience than in vengeance.”—_Shakspeare._


Mark Sutherland had been home eight days before he broke to Rosalie the
sad news of his uncle’s betrayal of his trust, and her own loss of
fortune.

Rosalie heard it with sorrow and amazement. She replied by not one word,
but dropped her head upon her hands, and remained silent so long that
her husband became anxious and alarmed. In truth, it was a most bitter
disappointment to the young wife—she had looked forward to coming of
age, and coming into possession of her fortune, with so much impatience,
with such bright anticipations, not for herself, but for her husband’s
sake. It would have placed them in so much more favourable
circumstances. It would have relaxed the tight strain of office work
from the overtasked, weary lawyer, and left him more leisure for the
study of the higher and more attractive and more honourable branches of
his dry profession. It would have afforded him means and leisure for
engaging actively in political life, and never was the country more in
need of honest men “to the fore.” It would have enabled him to assist
largely in the public improvements of the growing city. Nay, what good
might they not have done with the large fortune that was lost? Indeed,
it was a sudden, stunning blow to Rosalie; and oh! worse than all, was
the thought of him whose guilty hand had dealt that blow. She sat so
long overwhelmed by the shock, that her husband—Heaven forgive
him!—misunderstood her silence and stillness, and misconstrued her noble
heart. He said—

“Rosalie, my love, look up! This loss of fortune, which you take so much
to heart, is not inevitable, irrecoverable. Disclaim the signature,
expose the forgery”—

She raised her head, and looked up at him, with wonder in her mild,
mournful eyes.

“And what then?”

“Your estate cannot then be touched by the forged mortgage.”

“And the man who confidingly loaned the money on the mortgage?”

“Will lose forty thousand dollars.”

“And Clement Sutherland?”

“May go to the State’s prison for ten years.”

She suddenly dropped her head upon her hands, and shuddered through all
her frame, and remained silent for another while. And then she rose up
and threw herself in his arms, and clasped him around the neck, saying—

“We must lose it, dear Mark; we must lose it! Oh! I am so sorry for
you!”

“My poor Rose, I knew what your decision would be; I told the wretched
man so. But, my dearest, it is proper that I should set the matter
before you in its true light. Should you fail to expose the forged
mortgage, you will not only lose the sum of forty thousand dollars,
which was raised on your plantation, but, by the foreclosure of the
mortgage, and the peremptory sale of the plantation, the property will
be sacrificed at about a fourth of its real value, and you will lose
all, my poor Rosalie.”

“I do suppose so. Well, well; let all go—all, but peace of mind; for, my
dearest Mark, could you or I enjoy peace of mind—could we take pleasure
in our morning ramble, or our evening fireside—could we take comfort in
anything, dearest Mark, if a deliberate deed of ours had consigned a
fellow-creature—an old, gray-headed man—to a prison? Oh, never let it be
dreamed of, Mark.”

“That is a woman’s thought! Men would deem it a stern duty to prosecute
the criminal.”

“And do you?”

“I should so deem it, but for the thought that this is the old man’s
first offence, under great temptation; that it surely will be his last;
that punishment, in his case, would not be reformatory, but ruinous;
that no one can be tempted by the impunity of his crime, since no one
but ourselves know it.”

This was all that was said then. Mr. Bolling’s entrance interrupted the
conversation; and Billy soon appeared and summoned the party to tea. And
though Rosalie presided at her supper-table that evening with a graver
face than usual, yet by the next morning she had recovered her
self-possession and cheerfulness, and met them all at breakfast with a
smile.




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                              RESTITUTION.

     “Rouse to some high and holy work of love,
       And thou an angel’s happiness shalt know;
     Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
       The work, begun by thee, shall onward go
       In many a branching stream and wider flow.”—_Carlos Wilcox._


A week after this, Mark Sutherland once more left home for a visit to
Mississippi, on business. He went to make a final settlement with
Clement Sutherland.

The miserable old man had fallen, almost into a state of idiotcy. He
gave up all the title deeds and various documents relating to Rosalie’s
estate, but could give little or no information concerning them.

The plantation was sold under the mortgage, and when all was done, and
the final accounts cast up, Mark Sutherland found that of all his wife’s
splendid fortune, but a paltry two thousand dollars was left.

With this, Mark Sutherland prepared to leave the neighbourhood of
Cashmere. But the day that he had fixed for his departure was signalized
by a catastrophe that delayed his journey for weeks. It was the dreadful
death of St. Gerald Ashley, who, during a fit of mania-a-potu, threw
himself from a second story window, and, striking his head upon the iron
trellis below, was instantly killed.

India was distracted—Clement Sutherland helpless. And Mark remained at
Cashmere to take the direction of the funeral.

Three days from the death, when all was over, Mark Sutherland sought the
presence of the widow. He went to her with no tender condolements, but
with the words of bitter truth and stern rebuke upon his lips. He found
her in her faded and dingy boudoir.

She arose at his entrance, and held out her hand to welcome him, but
before his own had touched it, she sank down in her chair, burst into
tears, and covered her face with her hands.

He took a seat, and spoke:

“I come to you, Mrs. Ashley, with no vain words of sympathy, which would
seem as untrue to your sense as they would _be_ upon my lips. I come
merely to set before you the stern realities of your position, and, if
possible, to awaken you to its duties and responsibilities.” He paused a
moment, and she lifted up her head and tearful face, saying,

“Speak, Mark! you will not find me haughty now!”

His lips curled, and then he compressed them.

“Your husband is dead! You know too well what fatal power brought down
that high, proud nature to dishonour and to death”——

“Speak—ay, speak—and spare not! I deserve it! Most of all, from you!”
she exclaimed, in a voice of anguish.

“Yet, India, for the kindred blood in our mutual veins—for the regard I
once bore you, and the anxiety I still feel for you—I would point out a
way of recovery”——

“Tell me, Mark! tell me! Oh! I know that I have been guilty! but not
wantonly guilty, as you think! God knoweth that I have not! _One_ mad,
impatient act—_one_ frantic act—led to all the rest—ruined all my life
and his!”

“Yet that act could not have been committed by any but an intensely
selfish nature, India. I speak not to indulge in _vain_ reproaches, but
to recall you to a sense of what you have already caused others to
suffer, and to a consciousness of what you owe to others. You cannot now
recall the past, but you are very young, and the long future is all
yours. Your husband is dead, your father imbecile, and there is no one
to take the direction of affairs on this plantation. You must rouse
yourself from vain regret and indolent self-indulgence. You were not
created to sit still and be waited upon. You must engage in the active
duties of life. You must redeem the past by the future. You cannot now
bring back St. Gerald Ashley from his dishonoured grave, and restore him
to the brilliant and distinguished position from which he fell—but you
can do somewhat to save his memory from reproach. He died heavily in
debt. You have property of your own. This seat of Cashmere was secured
to you on your marriage, leaving your father a life interest in it. I do
not, therefore, mean _this_. But you have other property in your own
right—devote it to the liquidation of Ashley’s debts. And more; when you
estranged him from your bosom, he sought sympathy and affection from a
poor girl who lives in the pine forest. I need not tell you the story;
doubtless, you know it. If you do not, the theme is, unhappily, so
common, that you can easily imagine it. What I mean to say is this: this
poor, fallen girl is unprovided for, desolate, and heart-broken; and
what I have to enjoin upon you is, that you seek out that poor victim of
St. Gerald’s sin, and make such a provision for herself and child as
will save her from despair and deeper vice.”

“And if I do all this—if I spend all that I have in clearing St.
Gerald’s memory from debt, and if I take this poor girl and her child
under my protection—will you think of me more leniently than you do?
Will you restore me your esteem?”

“My thoughts, my esteem, should be no motive with you. I never asked you
to do this for _my_ sake. I would not ask you to do it for heaven’s
sake; but simply I enjoin you to do it because it is _right_, whether I
ever remember your existence again or not.”

“Oh! Mark, I will do it. But you have not learned of Him, that divine,
compassionate One, who would not break the bruised reed or quench the
smoking flax!”

She raised her eyes tearfully, doubtingly, to his face.

“Is there anything else, Mark?” she asked.

“Yes, India, your people; remember, that if your life should be cut off
before you emancipate them, when your soul is in the spiritual world,
you will see those whom you have left on earth, doomed, with their
children and their children’s children, to a bondage, from which you
have no longer the power and the privilege to free them. Oh! I think,
India, it is a fearful responsibility, it is an awful one, to die and
leave them so—to let the power of righting their wrongs pass away from
you forever.”

“To do all this it would require nearly all my means—it would leave me
very poor.”

“_Be_ poor! _let_ all go but peace of mind.”

She paused a long time with her head bowed upon her hands. At last she
looked up, and stretched her hand out to him, and said—

“Mark, is this all that you require of me?”

“No; your father is imbecile in mind, and no longer capable of directing
even his most trivial affairs. You must apply to the court for the
necessary authority, and take the control of his estate. I will remain
here a few weeks longer to aid you in obtaining it, and in settling up
the accounts. You will find many a just debt which nevertheless cannot
legally be recovered of him. You must pay them all without flinching,
though the settlement should leave you penniless. You must right every
wrong that he has done, or others suffered through him.”

He had not taken the hand she had held out to him a few minutes before.
It had fallen unheeded at her side. Yet now she laid it in his, as she
asked:

“And if I do all this that you demand, _then_ will you give me back
regard?”

He looked disappointed and annoyed, and dropped her hand, as he replied:

“If the fountain be not sweet, how shall the stream be? If the motive be
not pure, how shall the act be? India! do not seek to make a trader’s
bargain with heaven, or even with me! I have not asked you to do this
from the fear of any punishment, or the hope of any reward; I have not
required it at your hands for God’s sake, least of all for mine; I have
simply demanded it in the name of the RIGHT! India! there is a sentiment
expressed, a principle laid down, or a prayer made, by one of our poets,
which, for sublime simplicity, transcends everything not written in the
Holy Scriptures. It is contained in the lines of Pope’s Universal
Prayer:

               “‘What conscience dictates to be done,
                 Or warns me not to do—
               _This_ teach me more than _hell_ to shun,
                 _That_ more than _heaven_ pursue.’

“There is no clap-trap there, India; it is a sublime rule! Lay it to
heart!”

He had arisen, and was about to leave the room, but seeing her arms
crossed upon the table, and her head fallen upon them in an attitude of
the most desolate grief, he turned back, and laying his hand kindly upon
the bowed head, he said:

“Dear India, I am writing to Rosalie; shall I tell her to come down and
remain with you for a few weeks?”

“No, no! not now! I could not bear her presence here; it would bring
back the memory of happier days, in too dreadful contrast with these.
Not now! It is very dark, life is very dark to me, and I am very weak
and miserable!”

“Dearest India! I wish you would let her come to you—would let her lead
you to the only true source of light, and strength, and joy!”

“I cannot! I can _die_!”

“She would teach you to live; she would teach her truth, that ‘out of
the _heart_ are the issues of life’”—

“And of _death_!” said India, in a hollow voice.

Then he could only press her hand, and leave her.

Mark Sutherland remained three weeks longer in the neighbourhood of
Cashmere. During his stay he lodged at the village of C., because he
found it impossible to remain at Cashmere, where the presence of India,
in her grief and desolation, seemed to scorch his very soul like a
spiritual fire. He laboured very industriously, and, with the assistance
of efficient lawyers and clerks, reduced the chaos of the Cashmere
accounts into something like order, and made the way straight for the
future course of India and her attorney. At the end of the third week he
completed his work, and bade adieu to India and to Cashmere.

And in twelve days he was at home again. He was met near the house by
Billy, who, with two baskets upon his arms, was proceeding upon some
household errand.

“Well! and so it’s you, is it!” observed that functionary, setting down
his baskets. “And so you’ve comed at last!”

“How is your mistress, Billy?” inquired Mr. Sutherland.

“Not bein’ of a nigger, hain’t got no missus. Ef you means _her_, in
yonder, how does you ’spects her to be being, along o’ the school and
the head-eat-oriels, and the clients? You better go see how she is! Yes,
and I can tell you, you better go see arter your paper, _too_! or you
won’t have any ’scribers left!”

“Why, how so?”

“Humph! how so? Why Mr. Bolling, he took it into his head as he’d write
a great head-eat-oriel leader—I could o’done it as well myself ef I’d
had anybody to take down my words in writin’—’cause I used to be a
_class_ leader, or least way I used to belong to a class. Well,
unbeknownest to Mrs. Sutherland, Mr. Bolling he puts on his spectacles
and sits down to write a leader. Lord, it took him a week, and then it
took a whole side of the paper to print it! And when it come out—ugh!
whew! brikey! my eyes! ef it didn’t put the whole town and county into a
hubbub. _Every_body was mad, and threatened to stop their paper—the
Dimocrats said how you’d turned Whig; and the Whigs said you’d turned
Dimocrat; and the Consarvatives said you’d become a revolutioniser and a
’cendiary; and the Free-S’ilers said how you’d betrayed your pairty! If
you could get ’lected to a lamp-lighter’s place _this_ go, _I’m_ a
Hunker!” said Billy, hitching up his baskets, and trudging off towards
the town. Very much disturbed by what he had heard, Mark Sutherland
hastened on homeward. That his paper was injured, and his income
diminished, were comparatively small matters; that his election was
lost, was not a very great one; but that public confidence was shaken,
and his influence impaired, was a misfortune. Anathematising Mr.
Bolling’s both-side-isms, which now seemed to have reached
_all_-side-ism, he passed through the green gate leading into his own
lawn.

Rosalie, who had seen his approach from afar, came down from the house
to meet him. She looked smiling and happy, as she gave him both her
hands. Her cheerful confidence raised his hopes. He greeted her fondly,
and then drew her arm within his own. And as they walked slowly back to
the house—

“Well, Rosalie!” he said, “what about this confounded editorial of Mr.
Bolling’s? It is not enough, it seems, that he should be a kill-joy in
the house and by the fireside, but he must be a mar-plot abroad, and an
evil genius to our business!”

Rosalie laughed gaily.

“Oh, it is nothing,” she said; “it was just one of Mr. Bothsides’ grand,
broad, impartial manifestoes. It took our people, both friends and
opponents, very much by surprise, perplexed them not a little, and
finally made them laugh. No one, for an instant, could have attributed
such a leader to you, even if they had not been advised of your absence
and exclusive engagement elsewhere. Besides, in to-day’s paper the
publisher explains that the article was from the pen of a transient
contributor. Why do you still look so grave? It is not possible that
poor, daft Billy has really alarmed you with his gossip. Psha! even
innocents of Billy’s mental calibre could scarcely impute the sentiments
of that foolish leader to you.”

Grave! Well he might look grave; but not upon the subject of leading
editorials, public sentiment, popular applause, or popular execration.
He wondered now, how such trifles could have discomposed him. There
_she_ was—the angel of his life—walking by his side, leaning on his
arm, looking very smiling and happy, talking cheerily, laughing
sweetly; but, oh! that face was so fair and wan—that pearly forehead
so greatly developed, so polished from the tension of the skin—those
large, shadowy eyes, so deeply luminous—those crimson flushes in the
hollow cheek, so intense and fiery—that whole countenance, irradiated
with such unearthly, supernal light! Why should he look grave? He
answered her question in some trivial way—said he was not grave, or
something to that effect, and put on a look and manner of ease and
light-heartedness—strangers, alas! to his bosom, from this time
forward many a day! He did not now express any anxiety, or care, or
thought about her health! he did not even ask her how she was; for oh!
such feelings had suddenly grown too deep, too real, too painful to be
spoken. He did not support her steps with his usual tenderness and
solicitude. A sort of fierce jealousy and antagonism to disease and
death took possession of him—a sort of instinct that, by denying their
existence, he might disable their might—a kind of feeling that, by
disbelieving Rosalie’s weakness, and disallowing her yielding to
disease, he might save her from the power of death.

With more refined spiritual insight than he possessed, Rosalie perceived
his thoughts and emotions; and, as much as possible, avoided giving him
pain. She never betrayed weariness, if the exercise of the greatest
fortitude and patience could conceal her sufferings; she never
complained, never even alluded to her mortal illness.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                              IMMORTALITY.

                     “Slowly she faded—day by day
               Her step grew feebler in our hall,
               And fainter at each even fall
                     Her low voice died away;
               Yet on her sweet, pale lips the while
               Sat resignation’s holy smile.

               Calm as a child to slumber soothed,
               As if an angel’s hand had smoothed
                     The still, white features into rest—
               Silent and cold, without a breath
                     To stir the drapery on her breast,
               She slept, at last, in death.”—_Whittier._


In the political world, the next year, the spirit of party ran very
high. A great moral as well as national problem agitated and divided the
whole country. Mark Sutherland had been nominated by the Human Rights as
their candidate for the United States Senate; he had accepted the
nomination, and his friends laboured perseveringly and anxiously for his
election. Rosalie, as usual, entered heart and soul into all his toils
and anxieties. “And not for ourselves, dearest Mark,” she said; “not for
our own profit or vainglory—for that were a poor, mean, narrow motive,
and a low, selfish aim!—nor for your own personal honour, Mark—though to
him who is worthy of it, to him who appreciates and accepts its duties
and responsibilities in the right religious spirit, a seat in the
American Senate is a great honour—nor even for your future fame,
Mark—not from any or all these motives do I wish and pray and toil for
your success—but for the sake of the place and power it will confer upon
you of doing good; of speaking appropriate truths before the proper
audience; of succouring the oppressed; of defending the right! For this
I hope, and trust, and labour, and would, if need were, die!”

And upon another occasion, when he was vexed and harassed, wearied and
despondent, and inclined to give up the object as little worthy the
labour or the pains, she said to him, sweetly—for her very tone and
manner had a soothing, encouraging spell—

“Remember what Mountford says: ‘Fame is a great thing for a man; it is
silence for him when he wants to speak; it is a platform to preach from,
more authoritative than a monarch’s throne; it is an affectionate
attention from a multitude of hearers.’ Win fame, Mark—win the silence
that will wait for your voice; the platform more authoritative than the
monarch’s throne; the reverential attention of multitudes! Only let
sounds of words of truth and justice fall upon the silence; principles
of righteousness speak from the platform; and the confiding attention of
the crowd be riveted to the glorious right!”

High, inspiring words of holiness like these fell daily from her lips.
But Rosalie was dying—dying all the faster because her failing oil of
life was consumed so ungrudgingly—her lamp of life shone so brightly,
giving light where it was needed. Yes, Rosalie was dying, and her
husband did not dream of it. Soothed into rest by her own sweet
patience, and by the slowness and beauty of her failure, he did not
dream of it! He left her with an increased burden of duties. At the
urgent entreaties of his political friends, he went to show himself
among the voters of the western counties. He was absent about a month,
during which she toiled for “the good cause” faithfully—saying, when her
strength was failing, “There will be time enough for rest hereafter; I
must ‘work while it is yet day, for the night cometh wherein no man can
work.’” And so, at the close of her daily school duties, she only left
her school desk to seat herself in the editor’s vacant chair; and the
hours that should have been spent in recreation and rest, and the hours
that belonged to sleep, were devoted to the interests of “the paper,”
and the cause it supported—to writing editorials, to reading and
answering letters, examining exchanges, and propitiating or putting down
opposition.

Mark Sutherland returned at the end of the month, with the flush of hope
upon his cheek, the light of anticipated triumph in his eyes; but both
light and colour faded from his face at the sudden sight of Rosalie’s
brilliant eyes and burning cheeks. Was it strange that he never was
struck by her illness, except upon meeting her after an absence? On the
contrary, I think it was natural, for a few days accustomed him to her
appearance; and her sweet patience, her cheerfulness and hope,
mesmerised him into peace and joy. But this time, as he drew her into
the house, he said—

“Indeed, Rosalie, you must, you _shall_ give up your school. You are not
strong enough to continue it! Besides, it is not needful. My election is
nearly certain, and then another sphere and other more graceful,
agreeable, and lady-like amusements will await you, dearest.”

Rosalie smiled.

“Dear Mark, whenever you make a circuit among our hardy country people,
you come back thinking me more fragile than ever, from the contrast.”

And so she reassured him—and oh! he was very willing to be reassured—and
she continued the charge of her school—anxious for every good principle
she could instil into the minds of her young pupils—saying to herself,
“These little ones will hereafter be the wives and mothers of
law-makers, as all our people are law-makers; they will live in an era
when American women will have more influence upon the destinies of the
nation than they dream of now. That influence must be for the right; I
must sow the good seed, and cultivate it while I live, that, after I
die, the germ may grow and flourish, and bring forth much fruit in other
lives!”

But the day came at last when her school had to be closed, and the
labourer was obliged to rest from her labour. It was during the
afternoon session of a certain Friday—a day never to be forgotten by the
young girls, who loved their gentle teacher with enthusiastic
devotion—in the midst of one of the class-exercises—a little _extempore_
lecture on their history lesson—that a sudden failure of strength drew
all colour from her face, her head dropped forward on her desk, and she
swooned. And after this she did not teach. Her school was opened but
once more, and for the last time. It was the day that she received her
pupils for the purpose of bidding them farewell. It was quite a cheerful
parting on her part, saddened by no vain repining; on theirs, darkened
by no vision of the shadow of death. She made it the occasion of a
little festival, that her children’s last reminiscences of her might be
associated with pleasant thoughts; and yet it was an earnest parting,
too, that she sought to sanctify to their good. In taking leave of each
dear girl, she laid upon the heart of each a text of Scripture, suited
to the individual need, to be remembered for her sake, and acted upon
until they should meet again. For instance, Regina’s besetting sin was
ambition, and with her she left, “What shall it profit a man, if he gain
the _whole world_ and lose his own _soul_?” and to Augusta, who had a
haughty mind, she said, “_Pride_ goeth before a fall, and a haughty
spirit before destruction;” to Maud, who had a high temper, she
whispered, “A _soft answer_ turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir
up anger;” to little Alice, who was poor and neglected, and
inclined—child as she was—to despondency, she said, “Blessed are the
_meek_, for they shall inherit the earth;” to Fanny, who was an
impetuous, impassioned child of impulse, she said, “He that _ruleth his
own spirit_ is greater than he who taketh a city.” All these the
affectionate girls promised to lay to heart, and act upon until they
should meet their teacher again. Only Fanny said she hoped their dear
teacher would not treat them as Lycurgus did the Spartans, and leave
them laws to be obeyed during her absence, and then go away, never to
return. A cloud passed over the sunshine of Rosalie’s countenance; but
after a little hesitation she said, “If I live, dear girls, I will
return in the spring.” And soon after saying this, she dismissed all the
bright-eyed, light-hearted children to their homes.

Rosalie had been directed by her physician to spend the fall and winter
in the South. She had an old, standing engagement to spend a few months
in Louisiana, at the house of the Lauderdales, with whom she had kept up
a regular correspondence. But, previous to embracing this opportunity of
benefitting her health by accepting the invitation, Rosalie wrote to her
step-mother, telling her frankly of the feeble state of her health and
the precarious tenure of her life, and of the order of her physician
relative to her removal South; but expressing, at the same time, her
dread of the inconvenience and trouble to which her illness and death at
their house might possibly subject her host and hostess. There could but
one possible answer to such a letter suggest itself to the mind of
Rosalie’s affectionate step-mother—it was an answer in her own person.
Accordingly, in about two weeks from the day that Rosalie mailed her
letter to Mrs. Lauderdale, that lady arrived at Shelton, stopping only
long enough at the hotel to write a note to Mark Sutherland, requesting
him to break the news of her presence to Rosalie, and then come and take
her to his wife.

The meeting between Rosalie and her step-mother was most affectionate
and tender; but the patience of Rose and the self-possession of Mrs.
Lauderdale restrained their mutual agitation. Mrs. Lauderdale had come,
in person, to take her step-daughter to Louisiana, that she might nurse
and watch over her during the journey. And as soon as she found herself
alone with Mark Sutherland, she said—

“And you must let her go at once, dear Mark. She is iller than you
think, and the mornings and the evenings are already chill in this bleak
clime. Yes, dear Mark, you must let her go at once; and if you cannot
possibly leave your political interests here, you may confidently trust
her to me on the journey, for I love her as my own child, and will not
leave her, night or day; and you can join us as soon as you get through
this bustling and bothersome election.”

“No, I will never suffer her to go without me. I will accompany
her—attend upon her. I will never leave her again. Let the election go.
What is success to me, if I lose her? You do not know all that she has
been to me—all that she is to me—Mrs. Lauderdale! I tell you, if she
should sink into the grave, earth could not offer me a boon so welcome
as the half of that grave!”

A few days after this, the whole party set out for the South, and in a
little more than a week arrived at the beautiful home of the
Lauderdales.

Lincoln Lauderdale met and received them with hearty cordiality. Upon
the very day that Mrs. Lauderdale had left home to go up the river and
visit her step-daughter, she had written to Mrs. Wells, and invited her
to come to Louisiana to meet her daughter-in-law, and perhaps her son.
This was done by the kind-hearted little lady with the purpose of
effecting a reconciliation between the long-estranged members of the
family. And now, on reaching home again, among the letters upon her
boudoir table she found one from Mrs. Wells, saying that the Doctor had
gone for an indefinitely long absence to California, and that she should
be pleased to accept the invitation of Mrs. Lauderdale, who might expect
her about the middle of the month.

“And the day after to-morrow is the sixteenth, so, Mark, you may daily
expect the arrival of your mother,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, looking up
from the epistle. And then she told them of her invitation.

Upon that very afternoon Mrs. Wells arrived. The meeting between herself
and her son took place alone, by her request. It was not known what
happened at that interview, except that she sobbed a long time on his
shoulder, and that a full reconciliation ensued. To Rosalie her manner
was very affectionate.

But Rosalie, from the time of her reaching Fairplains, failed very fast.
She now seldom left her easy chair by the western window. It was the
pleasantest and most beautiful room in the house that had been assigned
the invalid—a room occupying the first floor of a whole wing of the
house, and with its east windows looking far out upon the green alluvion
that stretched to the sandy beach of the distant gulf, and with its west
windows opened upon a beautiful garden, beyond which spread fields
reaching out to the dark pine forest that stood stately against the
sunset sky. At this sunset window was her favourite afternoon seat; and
here, with her friends grouped around her, she smiled and conversed as
sweetly, as cheerfully, if more faintly, than ever; or here, with only
her husband seated by her side, she would sit with her thin hand in his,
looking into his eyes with such infinite, unutterable love and devotion,
as though she would transfuse all her mind, and soul, and spirit into
his being, to strengthen him for his life’s trial and work.

Every mail brought him piles of letters from his political friends and
correspondents: but they lay unanswered, unopened, upon his secretary.
Sometimes she would inquire about the prospects of the party; he could
tell her little, he thought little, he cared little about it; and she
would fix her mild eyes in mournful wonder upon him.

Soon the pleasant seat by the sunset window was given up for the couch,
and too soon the couch was left for the bed, from which she was never to
rise again. Then it was, after her confinement to her bed, that they
approached a subject that both had hitherto avoided discussing
together—her dissolution. She still spoke to him of the good cause—the
cause of justice, truth, and freedom. She implored him to let no
individual sorrow draw him away from his labours of love to the whole
race of man; rather to consecrate that sorrow to their service. And
still she inquired about the prospects of his election to the Senate.
She so much wished to see him in the possession of place and power
before her death.

“Not alone for your sake, dearest Mark,” she still repeated; “not alone
for your sake, but for the sake of humanity.”

“Oh, dearest Rosalie, why should I wish for success? When you have left
me, what motive of action have I on earth?”

“A motive higher than any my life could supply you with—the service of
God, the good of man.”

And all this time piles of accumulated and accumulating letters from
political partisans lay unopened and unanswered, on his forsaken
secretary.

At last the day of death came—a clear, beautiful day, that, after the
noontide glory, waned without a cloud.

Rosalie lay sleeping on her bed; her pale gold hair, unconfined by a
cap, lay floating on the pillow; her wan face was as white as the linen
pillow-case against which it rested; her thin, blue-veined arm,
uncovered from the loose muslin sleeve, was white as the counterpane
upon which it lay. She slept calmly for a while, and then her bosom was
agitated by a slight flutter; it came a second and a third time; and
then, with a start and a gasp, she awoke, opened her eyes, and gazed
wildly about for an instant; then her glance fell on Mrs. Wells, sitting
watching by her bed-side. That lady arose, and, bending affectionately
over the invalid, inquired—

“What do you want, dearest? Will you take your composing draught now?”

The eyes of the death-stricken Rosalie softened into self-possession and
quietness, and she answered faintly, “No, mother, not now. Where is
Mark?”

“On the piazza, dear.”

“Sleeping?”

“No; waiting for his darling to awake.”

“Send him to me, mother. I wish to see him alone.” The lady stooped, and
pressed a kiss upon the chill brow of the dying girl, and without
suspicion went out; and in half a minute Mark stood over Rosalie.

She raised her eyes, a little wild with the life-struggle, to his pale
face.

“My hour is come; I am going, dear Mark; I am going! Turn me over on my
right side, facing you. Sit down by me, so that I can see you to the
last! Hold my hand!”

Agonised with grief, yet by a powerful will controlling his feelings, he
raised her light form, and turned her as she desired. And then he wished
to call assistance; but with an imploring look and gesture she arrested
his purpose, and said,

“Useless, dear Mark! useless all. Oh! sit near me, where I can see you
till the last, and so—part in peace sweetly.”

She lay upon her right side, with her face towards him, with her fair
hair floating back upon the pillow, with her blue eyes raised with
unspeakable love to his countenance, with her left hand lying helplessly
over the white counterpane.

He sunk down into the chair by her side; he took her chill hand in his
own warm one; he gazed upon her dying face. And, as he gazed, a slight
spasm agitated her fair throat, quivered over the sweet lips, and gave
place to a heavenly smile. She sought to speak, but her words sank in
quivering music—her eyes fixed upon his eyes—pouring their last light in
streams of unutterable love into his soul—and so they remained, until
the heavenly spirit left them dim in death.

And still he sat gazing upon the dead face, holding the cold hand, until
a noise in the piazza disturbed him, and words and tones of joy and
triumph fell upon his ear—and a familiar voice, asking—“Where is Mark?
Where is he? I swore to be the first to congratulate him, and I’ll do
it! I will not be hindered, I tell you!” and in another instant Uncle
Billy burst into the room, and, overjoyed, bewildered, _blinded_, rushed
upon Mark, who had risen to prevent him, seized both his hands,
exclaiming exultingly—

“Judge Sutherland, you are elected, sir! Sir, by an unprecedented vote!
Allow me the honour of being the first to pay my respects to our
Senator!”

Mark Sutherland grasped his visitor’s hand with overmastering force, and
silently pointed to the still, pale form upon the bed.

Mr. Bolling drew nigh, in sudden awe and grief; and his heart almost
stood still, as he inquired, with hushed tones—

“_Dead?_”

“No!” replied Mark Sutherland, reverently,—“IMMORTAL!”




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                  “TAKE UP THE BURTHEN OF LIFE AGAIN.”

      “Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn
        O’er joys that God hath for a reason lent,
        Perchance to try thy spirit and its bent,
      Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.

      “Art thou already weary of the way—
        Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o’er?
        Get up and lift thy burthen; lo, before
      Thy feet the road goes stretching far away.”—_Fanny Kemble._


Oh life! Oh world and worldly honour! how poor and vain, how worthless
and worse than worthless, how bitterly mocking do ye seem in the
presence of death, the death of the best-beloved! What now to him was
his political victory? what the success of his party? the cause of the
country? aye, of the world, or of humanity? Nothing, and less than
nothing! if that could be. He had called her “immortal”—making what
stand he could against the overwhelming sense of annihilation that had
fallen upon him. Alas! alas! he felt now as if nothing were immortal but
his own bitter, insupportable grief; as if with her all things had
passed from him—leaving only insufferable sorrow. And he lifted up his
voice, and wept—“Oh, Rosalie! Rosalie! life of my life!” But let us not
intrude upon a grief so sacred.

Pass we by the next few mournful days. Pass we by the funeral, where all
who had known the angel in her mortal life, gathered around to gaze once
more upon her sweet face, drop a tear to her lovely memory, and go away,
haply, wiser, and more loving than they came.

Pass by the time when the news of her departure from this earth reached
her distant Western home, and many other homes that felt the blessing of
her influence and mourned her loss; and where to this day the memory of
Rosalie is still fresh and beautiful, sweet and fragrant—even as that of
some fair saint, who lived, and loved, and toiled, and suffered to
benefit humanity, to whom she was given; and where the present thought
of Rosalie is as that of some bright guardian angel, still blessing from
heaven those she loved upon the earth.

Pass to the time when Mr. Sutherland’s official duties called him to
Washington City. The first vehemence and severity of his sorrow was
over—but not the sorrow: it had settled rather into a fixed and silent
melancholy, from which no earthly interest was strong enough to arouse
him. Even the fine powers of his mind seemed palsied for a time.

He reached Washington, the goal of his young ambition; was duly sworn
in, and took his appointed seat in the Senate Chamber. But all this
passed to him like a dream, or at least like a form in which he had no
vital interest. It was well for Mark Sutherland that he was a man of
very imposing presence—that his bearing was dignified and commanding,
and his fine Roman features, even in the deepened repose, as in a
painting, or a marble bust, still expressed a high degree of intellect;
as, through that fortuitous accident of physique, taken together with
his antecedents, which were not those of a negligent politician—his
mental abstraction passed for the pride and reserve of a lofty
mind—which it was _not_—rather than for the profound indifference,
amounting almost to apathy, of a deeply stricken heart—as it _was_.

Time passed, and the “affairs of the nation” got slowly under way. And
the “assembled wisdom” of the commonwealth took up its profoundest
problems. Debate after debate arose, and questions in which he had once
taken the profoundest interest—but they had now no power to affect or
inspire him.

Into society he did not go at all; but left the Capitol only for his
boarding-house, and his boarding-house only for a ride or a walk out
into the country.

So the session passed, and Mr. Sutherland had failed to distinguish
himself, or to do credit to his constituents. He had apparently done no
service to himself, his party, humanity or heaven. His best friends were
surprised, grieved and disappointed in him.

He returned home; met his constituents with the same apathetic, frozen
indifference.

What was the matter?

It was scarcely credible even to himself that the sorrow that had fallen
upon him—a sorrow no heavier apparently than that which falls upon many
a man and woman, who nevertheless “take up their burden of life again,”
and go on—should have so paralyzed his intellect and his will.

Had all his motive power departed with Rosalie? Had she been the secret
and the fountain of his mental and moral force? He had often said so and
thought so, during her mortal life; and now it seemed to be
demonstrated. He once thought of resigning his seat in the Senate, and
spoke of his failing health as a reason for doing so; but his personal
friends dissuaded him from his half-formed purpose. And about this time
Lincoln Lauderdale wrote and invited Mark Sutherland to join him in a
trip to England. Mr. Sutherland accepted the invitation.

The friends met by appointment at St. Louis, and travelled in company to
New York, and embarked together for Liverpool.

The voyage was made. The summer was spent in travelling through England,
Scotland and Ireland.

And in the autumn they returned to the United States, and reached
Washington City just before the meeting of Congress.

The trip had been made without much benefit to the health and spirits of
Mr. Sutherland. And Mr. Lauderdale, with much uneasiness in regard to
the state of his friend, took leave of him in Washington, and departed
for the South.

The two Houses of Congress organized, in the course of time, and the
nation’s business commenced. And again Mr. Sutherland sat a mere silent,
handsome figure-head in his seat.

In fact, it required—not travel and change of scene, not the offices of
friendship, nor the distinctions of society, but some powerful emotion,
something that should sound a trumpet-call to his heart and brain—some
mental or moral shock—to rouse that dormant mind to life and action.

And it came! In the midst of a calm as profound as a sleep of peace, the
thunderbolt fell that struck consternation, not only among all
right-thinking men upon the floor of Congress, but all honest souls to
the remotest bounds of the Union. It was in the midst of the temporary
calm I have just mentioned, that a Senator arose and presented a bill
for the repeal of a treaty hitherto held so sacred that the most
reckless of political adventurers had not dared to dream of meddling
with it until now.

It was no very extravagant figure of speech to call that event a
thunderbolt. It took the Senate, the House, and the nation by surprise.
It had the momentary stunning effect of a thunderbolt when it fell. Men
were struck with consternation, heard as doubting the evidence of their
own senses, and for a time remained dumb with astonishment.

Then followed indignation which we all know to be anything but a “dumb
devil,” whether it possess a man or a body of men. And a tempest of
opposition arose that in its turn provoked a storm of assault from the
friends of the bill, and then the war raged fast and furious. Not very
“parliamentary” was the character of the debates upon that question, for
it was indeed a time that “tried men’s souls,” “what manner of spirit
they were of.”

Mr. Sutherland was among the foremost, most earnest and strenuous among
the opponents of the bill. I have said elsewhere that if Mark Sutherland
were remarkable for one trait above all others it was for his severe
sense of _justice_. It was this that had led, or rather driven him to
his early sacrifices; it was this that had governed all his conduct and
changed the whole current of his life. And it was this sense of justice
stung to the quick that had roused the dormant faculties of his mind,
and woke his spirit “all the stronger that it slept so long.” With all
his strength of intellect and will, he wrought in the cause of national
good faith and political righteousness, both at stake in the issue of
the pending act. Other men, abler men, older men, veterans in the
political arena, toiled with equal zeal and greater power, and long and
faithfully was the contest kept up. All that man could do to prevent
that breach of political faith was done; but, alas! the powers of evil
carried the day: the bill was passed, the sacred treaty repealed, and
the cause of justice lost at least for the time.

At the close of this the second session of his services, Mr. Sutherland
returned once more to his home and to his constituents, who received him
with cordiality; he had done what was possible for the cause of right.
Thus six years passed in the distracting life of a politician, six years
since his Rosalie went to heaven, and still Mark Sutherland was a lonely
man. He now entered society freely, both in Washington City, during the
session of Congress, and at the various watering-places, or at home in
his own adopted State. But neither the rustic beauty of the country
maidens in his own neighbourhood, nor the refined grace of the city
belles that yearly congregate at the capital, had been able to attract
his heart from its fidelity to the memory of his sainted Rosalie. And at
the end of six years’ widowhood, though still in the early prime of
life, eminently handsome and graceful, and as distinguished for elegance
and accomplishments in the drawing-room as for talent and eloquence in
the Senate chamber; though honoured by the country and courted by
society; though constantly thrown among the young, the beautiful, the
gay and the fascinating; though admired by women as well as
distinguished by men—Mark Sutherland was still alone—still faithful to
an earthly memory that had also become a heavenly hope, and his angel
wife, Rosalie, had no mortal rival.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                       TO WED THE EARLIEST LOVED.

           “Joy circles round, and fancy plays,
             And hearts are warmed, and faces bloom,
             As drinking health to bride and groom,
           We wish them stores of happy days.

           Nor count me all to blame if I
             Conjecture of a _stiller guest_,
             Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
           And, though in silence, wishing joy.”—_Tennyson._


And where, during all these years, was India, the once fair, though
faulty “Pearl of Pearl River?” Alas! how many a ship-wrecked voyager
there is upon the strands of life—still making what stand he can against
the overwhelming waves of despair that, in every advancing tide,
threaten to sweep him to utter destruction! Oh life! oh mystery of life!
when and where shall be found thy true solution?

When India had administered upon the estate of her deceased father, who
had survived the discovery of his guilt but a few months,—when she had
settled every just claim upon it,—she found herself, as she had
predicted, very poor. When the last debt was paid, the surplus fund was
so small that it would not have met even her moderate expenses for one
year.

And the once haughty India, haughty now no longer, found it necessary to
do something for her own support. In a legal point of view, it was not
by any means obligatory upon India to impoverish herself to pay her
father’s or her husband’s debts. A portion of the property, sufficient
for her own comfortable and even elegant maintenance, she might still
have withheld from the creditors; but with a late though noble sense of
justice—emulative of Mark’s own strict rectitude—she resolved to pay the
uttermost farthing, and clear, as much as possible, from blame the
memory of the dead, by cancelling, at least, their pecuniary
obligations; even though by doing so she should leave herself quite
penniless. In vain her friends and neighbours remonstrated. India, once
so obstinate in wrong, could be equally firm in right.

The estate settled, the creditors all paid off, all other claims of
justice satisfied, and India, with a small surplus, turned to consider
what next she should do.

In the South, luxurious houses enough were open to her. All—even those
who would fain, out of kindness, have persuaded her to reserve a portion
of her fortune from the claims of justice—were eloquent in the praise of
that high sense of honour that led her to disregard alike her own
self-interest and their benevolent counsel. And many among the wealthy
families of her acquaintance, with true Southern hospitality, invited
and pressed her to come and make their house her home for as long as she
liked. And there is no doubt but that the high-born, beautiful, and
accomplished young widow, would have been considered a great acquisition
in the drawing-room of any country house. But at no time of her life
would India have endured such a life of luxurious dependence—and even
now, when her heart had been disciplined and chastened by sorrow, she
much preferred the honest independence of labour. Therefore she
gratefully and somewhat proudly, withal, declined the invitations of her
friends, bade them kindly adieu, and left the neighbourhood.

Something of the old haughty reserve remaining, perhaps, induced her to
cover her retreat. And so—many of her friends—Mark among others—had
quite lost trace of her.

And she, also, had lost sight of _all_, except of Mark Sutherland, whose
rising star she watched from afar, with mingled emotions of pride, joy,
and passionate regret.

She had effectually hidden herself in the great city of New York, where,
as a teacher of music and drawing, she lived in strict retirement, and
whence she watched the upward progress of the successful statesman.

At the close of his first senatorial term, Mark Sutherland had been set
up as the candidate of the liberal party for one of the highest offices
in the gift of the people. Political business, about this time, called
Mr. Sutherland to New York. He was received with enthusiasm by the
friends of his party, and when his business was dispatched, he entered
freely into the fashionable society of the city.

India had seen his arrival announced with the usual flourish of the
press trumpets. And every day she saw his honours and his triumphs
chronicled in the morning and evening papers. She could not bear the
thought of meeting him in her poverty now. But in that extensive
wilderness of crowded buildings, called New York, she believed herself
as completely screened from observation and discovery as though she had
been away in London or in Paris, or in a desert or a forest. And she
also felt assured that he had not the slightest clue to her dwelling
place.

But it happened that, during his sojourn in New York, Mr. Sutherland had
consented, with feelings partly of amusement and partly of annoyance, to
sit for his portrait, to adorn some lyceum or lecture room. And the
painting had been finished and hung up, and had attracted crowds of his
friends and admirers—for a few days—and then had been left “alone in its
glory.”

One morning, at an hour so early that it was highly improbable he should
find any other visitors there, Mr. Sutherland went to the lyceum to
procure a rare volume on jurisprudence. The librarian was in his stall,
but otherwise the room seemed deserted.

Perhaps Mr. Sutherland’s foot was light in stepping—perhaps the carpet
was thick and soft, or it might be that the lady he presently saw
standing before his portrait was so abstracted that she could not hear
the entrance of another visitor. At all events, she did not perceive his
approach, and Mr. Sutherland went past, selected his volume, and had
turned to go back, when a casual glance at the lady, and a flutter of
her brown veil, disclosed to his astonished eyes the face of India.

He could scarcely suppress an exclamation of joy. His first impulse was
to spring forward and greet her. Had he been some years younger, he
would have done so on the spur of the moment; but age brings caution and
teaches self-restraint; and it was well he refrained, for a second
glance at that pale, impassioned face, with those dark, burning eyes,
fixed with such a fascinated gaze upon the picture before her, warned
him that by no rude shock must that colourless, motionless woman be
approached.

Softly and silently he drew away towards the other extremity of the long
room, where the librarian sat in his stall.

“Mr. Ferguson, do you know the lady at the other end of the room?” he
inquired of that gentleman.

“No, I do not,” answered the librarian, after taking a look at India.

“Nor where she lives, of course?”

“Nor where she lives,” said the librarian, looking up in some surprise.

“I supposed her to be a lady that I once knew, but I did not like to
speak to her in uncertainty—that is all,” said Mr. Sutherland,
evasively.

The librarian was a grave man, as it befitted a custodian of grave books
to be, and Mr. Sutherland’s reputation for unvarying propriety of
deportment was beyond cavil, so there was no quizzing, and their talk
ended there.

Mark Sutherland went down into the lobby, considering how best to
introduce himself, without startling Mrs. Ashley. He might wait until
she should come down, and then follow her home, ascertain her address,
and call upon her the next day; but there appeared to him to be
something about such a course as that he did not approve, something
romantic, absurd, yet verging upon treachery. Besides, it was most
probable that she would take an omnibus, when he should lose sight of
her, unless, indeed, he should get into the same omnibus; to which there
was the same great objection of presenting himself suddenly before her,
which, after seeing the expression of her face, he dared not do; while,
at the same time, it was the recollection of that very look that made
him doubly anxious to meet her. After considering a while, he determined
to address a letter to her through the city post-office. That would
certainly reach her sooner or later.

He went home and put his purpose into execution.

He was unfit for study or for society that day. That sudden meeting with
India, the revelation made by that look upon her worn but still lovely
face, had stricken the rock in his bosom, and the long-sealed fountain
of memory and affection was set free.

That motionless, colourless, most beautiful face—it haunted him all the
day.

That afternoon he dressed to go to a dinner party, at a house on Fifth
Avenue. On arriving at the place, just as he entered the hall, a lady
closely veiled went out. That form and air! he could not be mistaken!
Again, with a start of irrepressible pleasure, he had recognised India.

“Who is that lady?” he inquired of the “Jeemes” of that hall.

“The music mistress, yer honour,” answered “Jeemes,” who happened in
this case to be “Patrick.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“I’ll inquire, yer honour,” replied Patrick, opening the drawing-room
door to admit the guest, and then departing on his errand. In a few
moments he returned, with Mrs. Ashley’s address.

It was in a distant part of the city. Yet gladly would Mark have sought
out her retreat that night, had he been free to do so; but nothing but
the most urgent necessity could now have excused him from the dinner got
up in his own honour. So he was forced to restrain his impatience for
that evening. Nay, more; having found out her residence and mentally
fixed the hour that he should see her the next morning, he gave himself
up to the festivities of the evening, and was once more the brilliant
conversationist he was reputed to be. At dinner, he led in and sat next
one of the most charming women in New York, and no doubt did his devoirs
with equal grace and pleasure.

Yet neither is there any doubt that he was well satisfied when the
evening’s hospitality was over.

And he was still better pleased when the night was passed, and the
morning came, and the sun arose, and he at last had leave to dress
himself, dispatch an early breakfast, take a cab, and drive to the
remote suburb where India lived.

Was it a private dwelling or a boarding-house? The address gave no clue
to that question—it designated only the street and the number. He hoped
it was a private dwelling! He must see her alone! How would she receive
him? There was no mistaking that look upon her face that had thrilled
him, striking the whole “electric chord” of memory and passion! that
look of mingled affection, aspiration, and passionate regret! How would
she receive him? Such were the glad, anxious, questioning thoughts that
chased each other through his mind, while the cab rolled on. In these
tumultuous, half-delightful, half-painful recollections and
anticipations the distance was passed.

“This is the place, sir,” said the driver, as the cab drew up before a
little cottage, surrounded by a small luxuriant flower garden, and
literally covered and concealed by a complete thicket of tall rose-trees
and climbing vines.

“So this is a private dwelling, and her love of beautiful surrounding
survives all the crash of fortune and the wreck of life,” thought Mark
Sutherland, as he alighted and opened the gate leading into the yard.

Let us precede him, by a few moments.

India, who had risen from an almost untasted breakfast, had passed into
the small parlour only to escape the eyes of her attendant, the pretty,
loving Oriole, who had followed the fortunes of her mistress with the
most devoted affection and fidelity, and who, if a cloud did but fall
upon the brow of Mrs. Ashley, reflected it in the sadness of her own
face.

But this morning, in the bitterness of her emotions, India could not
endure the sad, wistful glances of poor Oriole; so she had left the
small sitting-room impatiently, and passed into the parlour, where she
paced up and down with the fearful, half-suppressed excitement of some
caged lioness.

Disciplined and chastened as her heart certainly had been in the trials
of her life, India was still very far from Christian perfection. And,
perhaps, now she needed a little of the sunshine of happiness, as well
as the long, long cloud of sorrow, to nurture the growth of goodness in
her heart. At all events, she found it very difficult to bear with
fortitude the mortification and grief of the night before. She had met
him on the steps of one of those Fifth Avenue palaces, where her pupils
resided. She had met him! he had passed her, brushing her dress as he
went! Though her veil was down, she had recognized him. And she knew by
the start that he made, he recognized _her_ as well! Yet he had passed
without speaking! Ah! all her thoughts of the future possibilities of a
rencounter that she dreaded and shrunk from, had not shaped a meeting so
humiliating as this! She _had_ feared that he would seek her out, and,
from his pride of place, presume to patronize her, by endeavouring to
improve her circumstances, giving her advice, offering her
assistance—humiliations which to escape she would have fled to an
alms-house—or, perhaps, plunged into a river, “but for the grace of
God,” for India was but half regenerated. But a rencounter so mortifying
as this, she had never dreamed of. All the circumstances attending that
chance meeting also combined to make it inexpressibly galling—_he_ going
into that house an honoured guest, for whom its saloons were illuminated
and a feast prepared, and a choice company gathered: she creeping out of
it, a sort of hired servant with her wages in her hand. So, in the
present bitterness of her mood, she looked at herself. And they had so
met upon the steps, and he had seen her, recognized her, and passed her
without speaking! “Ah! fool!” so she thought; “there was little need to
dread that he would seek me out to benefit me. The ‘great statesman’
evidently has no wish to be bored by his poor relations. But oh, Mark!
Mark! that _you_ should have done such an unworthy thing! _you_, my one
saving idea of manly excellence—that prosperity should have corrupted,
and the world hardened, even _you_! When you upbraided me so bitterly,
in the midst of my sorrows at Cashmere, I bore it all with a
meekness—not very like _me!_ because—oh! because I _saw and felt_ what
you would never acknowledge to your own heart—the secret, unacknowledged
feeling that gave point, sting, and acrimony to all the bitter
reproaches you uttered. Oh! Mark, in that day I read your heart as a
woman only can! But all this is over—over—and you pass me without
recognition,” she said, sinking into a chair, dropping her head upon her
hands, and giving way for the first time in years to a passionate flood
of tears.

Hark! the bell rings—Oriole goes to the door. It is probably the
postman, and India is too much depressed, and has too little to hope, to
care much about the coming of that messenger of joy or of woe to so many
households. But hark!

“Why, how do you do, Oriole? Do you recollect me, child? Yes? I am very
glad to see you here! How is your mistress? Is she in?”

It is a rich, full-toned voice that speaks—a cordial, familiar,
life-giving voice—a voice that has power to thrill every nerve in her
frame—in a word, it is Mark Sutherland’s voice! and he is in the little
hall, and in another moment he will be in the room.

Oh! Heaven! her face is pale, and bathed with tears—he must not see her
thus! In a moment the blinds are drawn down, the curtains dropped, and
the room obscured, and her chair is wheeled around with its back to the
windows, so as to throw her face into deep shadow. So she will await
him. But Oriole enters alone, with a card.

“It is Mr. Sutherland, madame, and if you are disengaged he will be glad
to see you.”

She bows in assent—she can do no more; and Oriole goes out, returns, and
ushers in Mr. Sutherland.

“Mrs. Ashley”——

She rises, and extends her hand.

“Mrs. Ashley, I am very happy to see you again.”

She essays to speak, but fails, and her self-possession utterly deserts
her. The hand he has taken is cold as ice—he carries it to his lips.

“My dearest India, I am so happy to find you again, after all these
years.”

“All these years!”—she repeats his words, mechanically, as she sinks
back in her chair.

He takes the nearest seat, and resumes—“I have sought you far and wide,
I have sought you for so long, I have done all but advertise you!” He
added, smiling—“Why have you hidden yourself so long from all your
friends?”

“The old ‘sinful pride’ perhaps, Mark,” she answered, half smiling in
her turn.

“‘Pride,’ dear India? Ah! I understand you. Yet that same pride, in all
its phases, has caused much vexation to those who love you, dear India.”

“Do I not know it? And do I not regret it?”

“And to none has it caused more trouble than to _myself_.”—But the
conversation is growing personal, and closing in.

You and I, reader, are _de trop_—and will withdraw from the scene and
wait.

The result was this—that Mr. Sutherland did not leave New York as soon
as he had expected, by many weeks.

And one Sunday, before morning service, there was a quiet marriage
ceremony performed before the altar of Grace Church.

And the next morning, in the list of passengers that sailed in the
Baltic, for Liverpool, were the names of “Mr. and Mrs. Mark Sutherland,
and two servants”—the latter being Oriole, who could not live without
her mistress, and Mr. Sutherland’s valet, who was no other than our old
friend Billy Button, who had been well drilled for some years past, and
now, in a speckless suit of black, and a spotless white neckcloth,
presented one of the most respectable specimens of a gentleman’s
gentleman.

And in the meantime, Mr. Sutherland’s elegant country seat on Lake
Crystal, in one of the most thriving of the Western States, was left
under the charge of that grand, impartial, large-hearted, broad-visioned
specimen of manhood, Mr. Billy Bolling, who had received a
_carte-blanche_ for fitting up and refurnishing the house; for, however
uncertain any one might be as to Mr. Bolling’s opinions, no one could
doubt his _taste_, which was really exquisite. And that gentleman took
the greatest possible delight in preparing the mansion for the reception
of the bride.

And, by the way, Mr. Bolling, by his universal agreeableness, conquered
such a popularity in his own district, that he has been talked of for
the Legislature, and would certainly have been made a candidate, only it
seemed impossible by any means to arrive at his politics, he being
claimed with equal reason by all parties.

Early in the winter, Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland returned to the United
States. They went first, by invitation and pre-engagement, to spend a
month among their relatives in the South.

They went to Texas, where they found Mrs. Wells, still a hale and
handsome woman, though on the shady side of fifty, and the Doctor more
appreciative of her real worth, and more attached to her now than he was
at the period of his mercenary marriage. They spent one happy month with
the Wellses, and then, accompanied by Mrs. Wells, went into Louisiana,
to pay a long-promised visit to Lincoln Lauderdale and his vivacious
little lady.

They found them well and prosperous, and surrounded by a thriving young
family. Little change had time made in Lincoln or the piquant “Nan.” A
month was whiled away in their pleasant society, and so it was near
spring before the Sutherlands, still accompanied by Mrs. Wells, set out
up the river for their North-Western home.

And it was quite spring when they reached the beautiful shores of Lake
Crystal, and entered their own elegant home. Mrs. Wells remained with
them and spent the summer.

And she still continues to come every year to spend her summers with her
“beloved Mark,” her “only child.” Mark and India occasionally return
those visits in the winter—that is, when Mr. Sutherland’s official
duties permit him to do so. For Mark Sutherland is still a rising
politician, adored by one party and abhorred by another. And, in the
present hopeful state of the public mind, it is impossible to predict of
any given contest whether the people mean to elect or mob their own
candidate.

But, aside from Mr. Sutherland’s public life, his home is a very happy
one. In his profession he has realized a handsome fortune. By the death
of her Uncle Paul, at an advanced age, India has inherited a large
property, so that they are entirely independent in their pecuniary
circumstances. India is as beautiful but no longer as proud as Juno,
Queen of Goddesses, and is the centre of a very refined and intellectual
circle. They have two fine children—a beautiful boy, whom they named
Mark—and a lovely little girl, whom they called India.

Mrs. Sutherland, in a mood of magnanimity, proposed that this child
should be christened Rosalie; but Mr. Sutherland could by no means be
brought to consent to that. No! the child must have its mother’s
name—only hers. And so she had. India was flattered and pleased. And
Mark Sutherland was exactly right.

Was Rosalie then forgotten?

No! no! and a thousand times no! She was well remembered. Her name was a
sacred, sacred name, that he could not bear to give to another creature.
It was hers and hers only; it represented _her_ individuality; it stood
to him for all that was most beautiful, pure, lovely and sweet—aye,
heavenly! He could not bear to bestow it upon India’s child,
passionately as he loved that child and its mother. Reader, do you
understand that? India had once been his boyhood’s passion, as she was
now his manhood’s love. He preferred her immeasurably before all living
women. She was a handsome, intellectual, and warm-hearted woman,
eminently fitted to make a man like Mark Sutherland happy. And his
marriage with her was eminently happy.

The beautiful India was his Hertha, but there was one who had gone
before who was and _is_ his Psyche. And deep in his heart is a chamber
into which no mortal creature entereth—a sanctuary closely veiled from
all human knowledge—a holy of holies, sacred to one earthly memory and
one heavenly hope—consecrated to the veiled worship of his angel wife—

                                ROSALIE.


                                 FINIS.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.