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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48883 ***</div>

<div class="limit">

<div class="sum">

<div class="transnote p4">

<p class="pc large">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p>

<p class="ptn">&mdash;Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.</p>

<p class="ptn">&mdash;A Table of Contents was not in the original work; one has been produced and added by Transcriber.</p>

<p class="ptn">&mdash;In original work Chapters X and XI were missing; this peculiarity has been manteined by Transcriber.</p>

<p class="ptn">&mdash;The transcriber of this project created the book cover image using the title page of the original book. The image is placed in the public domain.</p>

</div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>

<div class="sum">

<h1 class="p4">SEA-GIFT.</h1>

<p class="pc4 elarge">A NOVEL.</p>

<p class="pc4 lmid">BY</p>

<p class="pc4 large">EDWIN W. FULLER,</p>

<p class="pc4">Author of “<span class="smcap">The Angel in the Cloud</span>.”</p>

<div class="figcenter6">
     <img src="images/dec4.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div>

<p class="pc mid">NEW YORK:</p>
<p class="pc1 large">E. J. HALE &amp; SON, PUBLISHERS,</p>
<p class="pc1 mid">MURRAY STREET.</p>
<p class="pc1 mid">1873.</p>


<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span><br />


<p class="pc4">Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by</p>
<p class="pc1 lmid">E. J. HALE &amp; SON,</p>
<p class="pc1 b4">In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p>

<div class="sum">

<h2 class="p4">CONTENTS</h2>

<table id="toc" summary="cont">

 <tr>
  <td class="tdrw"><span class="smcap">Chapter</span></td>
  <td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Page</span></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">I</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c7">7</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">II</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c12">12</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">III</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c16">16</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">IV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c20">20</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">V</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c32">32</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">VI</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c46">46</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">VII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c54">54</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">VIII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c65">65</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">IX</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c88">88</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tde"> </td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c98">98</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XIII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c109">109</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XIV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c115">115</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c124">124</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XVI</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c132">132</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XVII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c152">152</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XVIII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c173">173</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XIX</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c180">180</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XX</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c191">191</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXI</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c195">195</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c208">208</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXIII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c213">213</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXIV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c221">221</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c226">226</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXVI</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c238">238</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXVII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c243">243</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXVIII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c250">250</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXIX</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c253">253</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXX</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c261">261</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXI</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c271">271</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c274">274</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXIII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c282">282</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXIV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c293">293</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c302">302</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXVI</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c312">312</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXVII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c322">322</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXVIII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c332">332</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XXXIX</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c337">337</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XL</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c339">339</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XLI</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c343">343</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XLII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c350">350</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XLIII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c377">377</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XLIV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c388">388</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XLV</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c392">392</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XLVI</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c400">400</a></td>
 </tr>

 <tr>
  <td class="tdr">XLVII</td>
  <td class="tdr"><a href="#c406">406</a></td>
 </tr>

</table>

<h2 class="p4">PREFACE.</h2>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div>


<p><span class="smcap">Reader</span>, my Book is before you!</p>

<p>If it has faults, you expect them; therefore excuse.
If it has merit, you are surprised; therefore applaud.</p>

<p class="pr4">E. W. F.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p>

<hr class="chap p4" />

</div>

<div class="sum">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p>

<p class="pc4">I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THIS</p>

<p class="pc1 mid">LOVE STORY</p>

<p class="pc1">TO ONE WHO HAS TAUGHT ME THE BEAUTY AND DEPTH OF</p>

<p class="pc1">WOMAN’S LOVE,</p>

<p class="pc1 large">MY WIFE.</p>

<hr class="chap p4" />

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a><br /><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p>

<div class="break">

<p class="pc4 xlarge">SEA-GIFT.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div>

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c7" id="c7">CHAPTER I.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">As the</span> usages of society generally require an introduction
between strangers before communications of any moment
can transpire, I hasten now to introduce myself, that the
readers hereof, as yet strangers, but whom I hope before
long familiarly to call “gentle” and “dear,” may acquire
at least one element of interest in the narrative I propose
to offer, namely, acquaintance with its subject&mdash;modesty forbids
me to say hero.</p>

<p>I am, then, at your service, John&mdash;&mdash;; no, I cannot call
my own name, it always sounds strange in my own mouth.
I’ll hand you my card in a moment; and while I am fingering
nervously in my case for the best engraved one I reflect:</p>

<p>Why should you listen with the slightest attention to my
history? How can I expect you to care any more for me
and my affairs, than for anybody else and anybody else’s
affairs? What right have I to inflict upon you a recital
of events, in no way connected with yourself, that three-fourths
of you believe untrue, and that concerns parties
you never saw and perhaps never will see? None, reader,
none!</p>

<p>All the attention you give must be entirely gratuitous,
except what I shall gain by tickling the selfish side of your
nature; for I well know that you like or dislike a book in
proportion as yourselves are flattered. This flattery, however,
must not be the result of the author’s effort, but your
own. If the persons told of are beneath you in morals or
intellect, then it is pleasant to reflect on your own superiority.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
Are they above you in these particulars? then you
are pleased to associate with them, so to speak, and to
assign to yourselves, in imagination, a similarity of conduct,
under similar circumstances. The book must also possess
an ingenuity of thought and expression that will make you
conscious, to a flattering extent, of your own ingenuity in
detecting it. Hence, often the most pleasant books to read
are those that tell of simple things in such a way that you
exclaim:</p>

<p>“I could have written that myself, if I had only thought
of it.”</p>

<p>To afford self-complacent comparisons to the conceited,
to furnish evidences of their own ingenuity to the soi-disant
original, and to give conscious improvement to the soberly
studious, is a more difficult task than I can undertake. I
will simply tell my story, and leave the self-bees to suck
what honey they please out of it.</p>

<p>Ah! I have at last found it. Here is my card:</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/card.jpg" width="450" height="183"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div>

<p>You smile; you know me? No, I beg pardon, I have
never had the honor of your acquaintance. You may have
known some of the Smiths, but not the members of our
immediate family. John is an old family name with us.
My father, grand and great grandfather, were all named
John; in fact we could ascend the family tree six squares,
without getting out of the Johns; and even the seventh,
who was an H (H. T. Smith), was preceded by numerous
Johns, only to be distinguished from each other by the
middle initials. There was a John A. Smith, and a John B.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
Smith, and a John C. Smith; coming down so alphabetically
that I used to think, when a child, that, as father and
myself only had John for our names, a great many Smiths,
whose names were lost, had already lived, and used up the
balance of the alphabet for their middle initials.</p>

<p>Our family is a very large one, being represented in
almost every nation on the globe; but its vast extent is a
matter of pride, not reproach, with me. When I remember
the long list of Warriors, Statesmen, Scholars, and the
immense army of <span class="smcap">Usemen</span> it has given to the world, I conceive
that the world owes the name a debt of gratitude, and,
being one of the creditors, I expect partial payment at
least.</p>

<p>The name itself points to an artizan origin, but the sieve
of centuries has filtered our blood clear of the last dust of
the anvil, and it throbs in our veins with Heraclidean
purity. Perhaps the majority of my connections were men
of humble birth, but where the number is so immense, we
can claim only those that are creditable. Consequently, the
aforesaid tree, hanging up in our library, with dusty, tarnished
frame, and an age-yellowed parchment, presented a
very mottled appearance of groups of very little blocks,
with very little “<i>Smiths</i>” written on them, and very large
blocks, their names spelt in capitals, and with broad red
lines connecting them to us. These last were Smiths who
attained to something and were worth claiming. Away off
in one corner, with a great quantity of zigzag lines to make
it even connect at all, was the name of John Smith, with
“Capt.” prefixed, and the date 1609. Father used to take
me on his knee, when I grew old enough to listen, and tell
me long stories about my brave relative, who had fought
with the Turks, slept on straw, (a fact which led me to
believe that he was also a kinsman of Margaret Daw), dared
the Indians, looked calmly at Powhatan’s lifted club, and
then flirted with his gentle protectress, Pocahontas. Her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
descendants, in Virginia, father told me, always claimed kin
with our family, though the relationship was based entirely
on this approximation to matrimony between our ancestors.
I remember well that I did not wish to recognise, as relatives,
the children of the mulatto her picture represented
her to be; and I insisted that they be put down with the
little blocks and little Smiths, until he informed me that
many of them had become distinguished; and while it was
quite a disgrace in society to have had a dark ancestor with
kinky hair, it was quite an honor to have had a dark ancestor
with straight hair. I have seen, in life, since then, that
social distinction often turns upon less than the crook of
a hair.</p>

<p>For our immediate family there were father and mother
and I, after I came.</p>

<p>My father was wealthy, owning a very large plantation
near Goldsboro, a fine residence in Wilmington, N. C., and
some heavy renting real estate in New York.</p>

<p>Possessing the means for it, he was fond of display, and
stood among the neighbors, in the country, as a proud,
though popular man. They admired his pride because it
was above their envy, while his uniform courtesy and kindness
flattered all with whom he had intercourse. His carriage
at elections was sure to be welcomed with cheers, as it
drove on the grounds, though he could never be persuaded
to dabble in the turbulent waters of politics. In town, some
loved, some envied, but all respected him. His perfect integrity,
his generosity, and his social qualities, secured for him,
at all times, a large circle of friends, while there were some
who, feeling socially equal, were surpassed by him in character,
both in their own eyes and in public opinion; these, of
course, regarded him with some disfavor.</p>

<p>But of mother no tongue spoke evil. Every one possesses
a distinguishing idiosyncrasy; hers was goodness&mdash;all
that was comprehended under St. Paul’s “charity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>”
There was no sounding brass or tinkling cymbal about
her life; it was one of unselfish love, active benevolence,
holy influence, and unassuming piety. I believe that the
only command in the Bible she could not obey was, “Take
up thy cross,” for her angelic temperament made every
duty a pleasure, and every sacrifice a source of happiness.
Nor was she only theoretically good. She put her faith
into constant practice. When her pew was vacant at
church, the doctor was sure to be our visitor; the pupils
in her Sabbath school class made an entire transfer of the
affections they should have reserved for their own mothers
to her; and our servants refrained from any insolence and
disobedience out of the purest respect for her&mdash;a perfect
anomaly in slavery. The meanest hut in town could boast
her presence if there was sickness within its walls; and our
dining-room servants brought a salver and napkin for
charity delicacies as regularly as they laid the cloth. Yet
her charity was not of that order which begins anywhere else
but at home; everyone in our house felt that she had a
deep interest in them. Her smile was almost constant, and
when she did reprove there was a tone of regret about her
words, as if they pained her more than they did the recipient.</p>

<p>She and father were very happy together, though they
lacked congeniality. He was fond of display and gaiety,
she fond of retirement and quiet; his heart chiefly on the
world, her’s all on heaven; he haughty though courteous,
she gentle and kind; he formal, she good natured and easy
in her every manner.</p>

<p>Father was a Polonius about dress, believing it should
be “costly as thy purse can buy;” and he inundated
mother’s wardrobe with silks, brocade and velvets, and constantly
replenished her <i>bijouterie</i> with jewels of rare value,
till she was as much bewildered as Miss McFlimsey, from a
cause just the reverse. I have often smiled to see her, just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
to please father, start to church in a magnificent train and
exquisite bonnet, looking for all the world like a poor dove,
dressed in peacock’s plumage.</p>

<p>But I must not plunge into affairs too rapidly. Having
given this short prologue before the curtain, I will now let
it rise upon the first scene.</p>

<p>Ring the bell!</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c12" id="c12">CHAPTER II.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">I was</span> apparently expected, for, as I have been credibly
informed, an extensive wardrobe had been prepared for me,
and a whole drawer in the bureau appropriated for its storage.
The said wardrobe consisted of several long sacerdotal
robes, of the finest cambric; a dozen or more very unsacerdotal
looking nether garments of linen and cambric, ruffled
and trimmed with thread lace; a number of gowns of rich
material; also a couple of flannel skirts, heavily embroidered,
and seemingly intended only to tangle the feet; and quite a
pile of unmentionables, with necessary fastenings.</p>

<p>There was also an elegant India muslin robe, trimmed
with embroidery and fretted with lace, and a handsome
lace cap, laid apart to themselves. These, as I afterwards
learned, were intended for my baptismal suit.</p>

<p>I have thus particularized, because I am rather proud of
having come into property so early.</p>

<p>One blustering night in the latter part of March I arrived,
invaded the wardrobe, and appeared next morning on a
pillow of state, ready to receive company. My appearance
could not have been excessively prepossessing, as I formed
no exception to the usual standard of æsthetic attainment
exhibited by the little red monsters of my age. My hair
was very thin and peach-fuzzy; eyes of uncertain hue, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
apparently disgusted with the world and its sights, if we
may judge from the persistency with which they kept the
puffy, lashless lids closed; a dusty little forehead, that
wrinkled so much when the eyes did open that one would
suppose I had seen trouble, and “had losses” in the world
from which I had so recently come; my mouth, purple and
projecting with the upper lip, while the under lip was
sucked in, after the most approved directions for pronouncing
the Greek <i>phi</i>. The sleeves of my wrapper were rather
too long (the usual fault in our first clothes, arising, perhaps,
from the fact that while they are in process of construction
there is no opportunity of trying them on us),
and were rolled up around my tight-closed fists, which kept
digging into my eyes with prize-fighting pertinacity.</p>

<p>The day following my advent being Sunday, and the place
of my birth being in the country, many of the neighbors
dropped in to see Mrs. Smith and the baby. All went
through the same programme.</p>

<p>“How d’ye do, Mrs. Smith; I hope you came through
well; but then this is your first. There’s nothing like getting
used to it. And where’s the little dear?”</p>

<p>And without waiting for my mother’s replies and thanks,
they would turn to the nurse holding me in her lap on the
pillow, and removing the wrapping from my face as carefully
as if it were a bird, and would fly out, they would
gaze at me mesmerically, cluck to me with a perseverance
undamped by the want of effect, and finally turn away with
the defiant assertion that I was the perfect image of both
my parents; an assertion which would have been at least
debatable, from the fact that my father was very dark in
complexion and feature, and my mother very fair. Some
even insisted on holding me, the spinster visitors being particularly
desirous of this privilege; and getting me in their
laps, they would examine the tightness of my clothing, and
the temperature of my skin, with the well assumed criticism<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
of experience. And if one found, on thrusting her hands
beneath my clothes, that my feet were cold, most proudly
and complacently she would unfold my garments, and expose
my little splotched limbs to the fire. My feet and legs must
have looked very pitiful indeed, sticking out of a wilderness
of flannel like two slim beets, crossing each other with their
little flat soles, as if I was born to be a tailor!</p>

<p>When the visitors were gone my father would come and
gaze long and steadily into my face, then anxiously suggest
that something must be the matter with me, because I was
lying so still; and my mother would call for me to be
brought to her, and after innumerable fixings, adjusting the
cloth over my face this way, turning my head that way,
hiding the point of one pin, pulling out another, straightening
this and that fold of a garment&mdash;after all these nervousnesses,
peculiar to young mothers, I would be found to
be sleeping soundly; and then mother would regale herself
with a long conversation between us, though it is more than
probable she monopolized the talking.</p>

<p>But as my presence, so important to one household, had
no effect whatever upon the old monarch of the glass and
scythe, the days still managed to glide by, and with the
crying spell at the morning bath, the troublesome feeding,
father’s fidgets and mother’s anxiety, I arrived at the first
era in baby life&mdash;<i>noticing</i>. What an important period! How
many things were tried to attract my attention! Father
whistled and clucked his mouth almost away; Aunt Hannah,
my nurse, coming with my bottle, would tinkle on it with
her thimble and sputter her lips to draw my blinking eyes
towards her, and mother shook, successively and constantly,
all her different bunches of keys over my face, in the vain
endeavor to discover my favorite. Unconscious I, all the
while lying on my back, vacantly staring to see the sounds.
Mother now being able to sit up, it was her constant delight
to have me in her lap, treating me as if I were a doll, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
she a girl of ten; trying vainly to part and brush my scanty
hair, making me sit up, while she kept my limber neck steady
with one careful hand; and wearing my palms out teaching
me to “patty cake.” And such air castles as she would
build for me! Telling me with as much emphasis as if I
understood it all, and with each word, giving me a soft peck
on the cheek with her forefinger.</p>

<p>“Never mind, tweetness! we’ll do ‘way from this old
country house soon, and live in the town, and then, oh! the
putty things Johnnie will have! A putty ‘ittle tarriage and
a g’eat big yocking horse, with a long mane and tail, and a
‘ittle g’een wagon, and a ‘ittle black dog, and ah! so many,
many putties for a tweet ‘ittle boy.” Then chattering my
chin in her ecstasy of love, till the titillation made me draw
my face into a shape that might, by a very wide stretch of
the imagination, be called a smile, she would scream for
father to witness my display of intelligence. He, of course,
would not believe it till I was chattered again; but instead
of the laugh, the concussion of my gums would produce
such plaintive wails that mother would apologise, with all
the pleonasm of baby talk, and soothingly request me to
“there, then, darling!”</p>

<p>My extreme youth prevented me from seeing the exact
philosophy of “there then-ing” under pain, and I would
continue my vocale till something more palatable to baby
taste than baby talk would stop my mouth, and sleep’s
gentle wing would fan away my tears.</p>

<p>How long would a mother’s patience watch my slumbers
while she mused on the strange responsibility of her position!
A soul given to her to form for good or evil; the
potter’s clay placed in her hands to make a vessel unto
honor or dishonor! How fervent her prayer: “O, Father,
guide me to guide him!”</p>

<p>What an impostor is the slumbering babe! His tiny
hand, resting in dimpled fairness on your breast, seems to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
lift the veil of Futurity, and open to your view the brightest
paths of flowery beauty, down which his feet shall patter
with the innocence of childhood, run with the eager ambition
of youth, stride with the honors of manhood, and totter
with the feebleness of old age into the grave o’er which
towers the marble tribute of a nation’s love. Were the real
curtain lifted, and Life’s true pathway shown, how Earth’s
timid ones would shrink from its thorns and poisons, its
bubble hopes and bitter cups. Thank God the Future is
hidden, but the promise stands: “As thy days are, so shall
thy strength be.”</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c16" id="c16">CHAPTER III.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> year, growing old, began to feel ashamed of the
jaunty green in which the spring and summer had decked
him, and was laying aside his verdant garments, leaf by leaf,
for the more dignified russet of autumn, when we&mdash;that is to
say, father, mother and myself&mdash;prepared to return to our
winter residence in Wilmington. I, of course, have no recollection
of the journey, but have since been told that I stood
it like a little soldier, though whether diminutive stature has
anything to do with military fortitude I leave to nursery
disputants to settle; as I believe their invariable encouragement
to patience and endurance is the example of a fictitious
officer of small size. The man has never been a child who
has not been requested to take a dose of physic or bear a
mustard plaster like a little captain, thereby inspiring himself
with the greatest respect and admiration for the immense
deglutitory capacity of that functionary, and the callosity
of his epidermis.</p>

<p>The winter in turn passed away, and another spring and
summer in the country, and we were returning again to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
town in the Fall, before I can begin to recollect things on
my own account. What vague, undefined and grotesque
memories they are! The carriage in which we travelled
seems now to have been a chaos of shawls and baskets,
from which father, mother and Aunt Hannah protruded
helplessly, like pictures of fairies coming out of flowers. It
was very cloudy, or at least everything now seems to have
been gray when we started. The wheels commenced humming
a drowsy tune, as they rolled through the sand, and
soon hummed me to sleep; and when I awoke the carriage
was going backward, and the sun had come out in the
wrong place. Then we stopped at a well, near a house with
a fat, wooden chimney, and an aspen tree in front, whose
leaves seemed to be blinking all their eyes at me. A man
in a broad-flapped hat came out with a gourd in his hand,
and behind him a large yellow dog, that was tied to a piece
of wood, and barked and jumped on each side of the string
as if he wanted to shake it off. The well had a long pole,
with a bucket at one end and a large stone at the other;
and when Horace, our driver, went to it to draw some water
for the horses, the stone seemed to fly up to the clouds.
Then Horace filled the bucket and carried it to the horses,
and I could hear them kissing it, as if they were so glad to
see it; and, while I was listening at that, the man with the
hat and dog handed in, at the carriage window, the great
cool-looking gourd, with a long, crooked handle, down into
which the water clicked, as if laughing, when father held it
to me to drink.</p>

<p>After I had been bidden to “thank the kind gentleman,
Johnnie,” and done so, Horace strapped the bucket again
under the carriage, got up to his seat, and the house and
well moved back out of sight, just as the man sent the stone
flying up again to the sky. All is a blank for a long time&mdash;till
Horace drives over a snake, and they hold me up to the
window to see it. My eyes can discover nothing but the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
shadow of the bucket swinging between the wheels; and
ever afterwards a bucket, under one of the old fashioned
carriages, is associated with a dead snake and a hot, sandy
road. There is another sleepy blank, and I drowsily rouse
up, as we drive into town, to find it dark, and the lights all
in a hurry to go somewhere, chasing each other by the
carriage window, till one bold blaze stops right in front of
it, and father exclaims, “Here we are!”</p>

<p>We get out, shawls, chaos and all, and I am carried up
some broad stone steps, into a large hall with bright lights,
and on through to a strange room, where there are new
faces among the servants, a little excrescence of a fireplace,
filled with red coals, and a large table steaming with good
smelling dishes. Everything, for an indefinite period after
this, is confused and unsatisfactory, and I can eliminate
nothing into distinct recollection but two series of events,
which, from their frequent repetition, have become facts of
memory, viz., rides in my little carriage, and, in educational
phrase, corrections; more plainly, whippings.</p>

<p>What tortures I suffered in my carriage, children alone
know. Enclosed on three sides by the leather curtains, I
was confined in front by a strap, which was buckled across
my breast, to keep me from falling out, and, thus cooped
up like a criminal, I would sit, listening to the grinding,
gritty sound of the wheels as they rolled over the flag
stones, bumping my head against the framework, knocking
my cap awry, and not knowing how to put it straight
again, and suffering the misery of whining without being
noticed&mdash;a source of much affliction, by the way, to many
grown-up children&mdash;my nurse all the while walking behind,
and pushing me along, engaged in too deep a conversation
with other nurses to heed my murmuring!</p>

<p>One of my sorest trials was to pass the stores, and have
some pert clerk stop my carriage and say:</p>

<p>“Hello! Auntie, whose child is that?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p>

<p>“Col. Smith’s, sir.”</p>

<p>“Why,” coming to me, and squatting down by the carriage,
“I’ll declare, he’s a fine little fellow. How d’ye do,
sir.”</p>

<p>“Tell the gentleman how d’ye,” persuades Aunt Hannah,
who, like all nurses, is flattered by compliments to
her protégé; but, before I can turn away in disgust, his
tobacco-smelling moustache scratches my face. My greatest
consolation, in all this persecution, was to meet little Lulie
Mayland, my assigned sweetheart, though I was rather
young for the blind god’s arrow. Our nurses would lift us
from our carriages and hold us up to kiss each other; and
I would be in a perfect glee as she tried to put her little
plump fingers into my eyes, and I felt her moist little mouth
on my cheek. Putting me down in the foot of her carriage,
we would be rolled home together, as happy and joyous as
children only can be.</p>

<p>The other series of events to which I have alluded were,
from their very frequency, fixed still more indelibly upon my
mind; though the intense activity of certain cognitive faculties,
during their occurrence, may have contributed somewhat
to their retention. They were the immediate and
inevitable consequence of any recusancy, on my part, in
regard to the rules of the bath. I possessed the usual
hydrophobic prejudice of extreme youth, and dreaded morning
ablutions as Rome did the Gauls. Had I been old
enough to have managed the bath myself I should not have
cared, but to be washed like a dish, put into the tub, and
spongeful after spongeful squeezed over me, was more than
my good nature could submit to. Mother, finding her reasoning
wasted, and her commands disregarded, would send
for switches, and laying me across her lap, pour hot embers,
as it seemed to me, on my naked legs. I did not stop to
debate, which I might have done with propriety, whether
the friction developed the latent heat of the rods, or whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
they were actually set on fire and then applied; I simply
recognized the fact, that unless the bath came the fire did,
and I wisely chose the former. The embers’ influence would
last, on an average, about two days, when they would have
to be again applied.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c20" id="c20">CHAPTER IV.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">I had</span> been disturbing the centre of gravity of our globe
for nine years, and had grown up into a mischievous, fun-making
urchin&mdash;always out of the way when wanted, and in
the way when not. I would have passed any committee
on “boys,” and probably taken the medal as the best specimen.
I had fulfilled all the requisites of custom. I had
torn out all my pockets with loads of marbles, knives,
strings, stones, buttons, nails, &amp;c. I had cut my hands and
fingers, and fallen out of doors perhaps even more than was
necessary. I could soil a ruffle with all the facility of contempt
for such a feminine ornament. I could wear out
shoes and tear a hat as quickly as the most reckless, and
I had a real, first class aversion to “trying on” clothes in
process of making; the rough edges of an unfinished jacket,
rubbed into my neck by the fingers of the seamstress, not at
all according with that placidity of temperament I had been
advised to cultivate by the dogs-and-bears poetry, while the
rapidity with which I could cover clean clothes with mud
was, I fear, a matter of peculiar pride, as it was of certain
punishment. My most perfect attribute of boyhood, however,
was the devotion I bore my sweetheart, and the utter
apathy and indifference with which I regarded all other
girls.</p>

<p>Being such an one, I was highly gratified when mother
said to me one day:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p>

<p>“Johnnie, we are going to give a dinner party next week,
and as you will be without company, you may go over and
invite Lulie Mayland.”</p>

<p>“Oh! I’m so glad, I’m so glad,” I sung out; “and I mean
to go over right now, and tell her to come.”</p>

<p>“No, no,” said mother, smiling, and taking me by the
jacket button, “we have not sent out our cards yet. Wait
till Monday, then you may go.”</p>

<p>I was disposed to whine at the delay, but she pinched my
cheek as she got up from her chair, and said:</p>

<p>“No, you must do as I say, sir;” and left me, full of impatience
for the advent of Monday. During the remainder
of the week I exercised fully the child’s faculty of being
ubiquitous at home. The kitchen, however, received the
largest share of my attention. I was around every table,
dipping in every dish, and in the cook’s way, to my fullest
extent. If she turned around with a pan in her hand, it was
sure to thump my head, and my anger thereat could only
be appeased by letting me have a piece of dough to feel or
a bowl to scrape. If eggs were to be beaten, I must try to
froth them, till I was as full of foam as a half born Aphrodite;
if flour was to be sifted, I was sure to get whitened;
if spices were to be pounded I was certain to have my
fingers mashed; and the burns I received, in trying to cook
little dabs of cake, would have discouraged Mucius Scævola.
Then my insatiate curiosity, and constant inquiries in regard
to the numerous articles scattered around, would have worried
out a less irascible nature than that of our cook; and
by a final appeal to mother, and a command from headquarters,
I would be forced to raise the siege, and retire from
the field, with a jacket full of sugar and flour, sullenly licking
my fingers in defiance.</p>

<p>Verily, children prove the old adage true: “Satan finds
some mischief still for idle hands to do.”</p>

<p>And yet how dear to us are their mischievous ways, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
how blank and drear would childhood be without them!
The sunshine of their presence is always brightest when
flecked by little clouds of annoyance. And when your
tenderest bud has been plucked by the Reaper, your heartstrings
throb saddest o’er the toy that’s broken, and your
tears fall in torrents o’er the little torn garment, while the
clothes neatly folded pass unnoticed by.</p>

<p>Early Monday morning I hurried over to tell Lulie. As I
entered her gate I discovered her at play, near a large rose
bush, but was surprised and troubled to see a strange boy
with her. I had somehow, in my own mind at least, assumed
a kind of proprietorship over her, and the presence of any
one else, in whom she could take any interest whatever, was
excessively annoying. I managed to creep up quite near,
without being discovered, and stood for some time watching
them, and feeling, in my jealousy, an almost irresistible
desire to try a stone on the strange head. They were busy
arranging a doll house, which consisted of rows of dirt piled
up like fortifications, with lumps of moss for chairs and
sofas, and an array of dolls that seemed to have been taken
from the hospital, so much were they maimed in their legs
and arms.</p>

<p>The strange boy and Lulie seemed very intimate, and
bent their heads together, and talked in delighted and animated
accents; he suggesting, and she listening and adopting
his suggestions. And then he had on such new clothes,
such a jaunty cap, such a blue jacket with bright buttons,
and such boots with heels! In him I recognized a formidable
rival, and concluded to retreat and give up all thoughts
of the invitation. As I endeavored to slip away unobserved,
I overturned a little tea set that was placed to one side,
awaiting the completion of the house. At the noise they
both turned around and saw me, and Lulie’s face flushed a
little as she exclaimed:</p>

<p>“There, now! see what you have done! turned over all
my tea cups and broken I don’t know how many!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p>

<p>I offered, with all earnestness, the child’s universal
apology, “I didn’t go to do it,” but felt that it was not accepted,
and that I, Lulie’s acknowledged sweetheart, was
not welcome. But boys are not oversensitive, and as I knew
that to retire then would only make matters worse, I swallowed
my confusion and joined in their play. Lulie did not
introduce me to her companion, but I soon learned that his
name was Frank, and that he was fast supplanting me in
her favor. All my suggestions in regard to the disposition
and arrangement of the furniture were at once overruled and
disregarded for what he thought best.</p>

<p>All her questions and remarks were addressed to him, and
they both seemed oblivious of my presence, save when they
wished me to perform some office for them. Then Frank, as
she called him, had such an insolent way of staring at me,
and walking around with his hands stuck contemptuously
into his trousers’ pockets. And when we had completed the
house, and were cleaning up, he raked away the earth with
his boots, and made little ditches around the walls with his
heels, and stamped the walks level; in short, made such
a display of his morocco that I felt quite ashamed of my
plain copper-tip shoes, and tried to hide them as much
as possible by standing in the grass. After awhile it was
proposed to get the doll’s dinner ready, and then I
thought of my errand. Without a moment’s consideration
for Frank’s feeling, I broke out with: “Oh! Lulie, I forgot;
you must come to our house to-morrow; we are going to
have a dinner, and have got lots of good things cooked.
There won’t be any other girls there but you, and your pa
and ma are coming, too. Won’t you come?”</p>

<p>“I don’t know,” she replied, tying an apron on a very
red-faced doll, with china feet, wooden legs, and her hair
rubbed off the back of her head; “I don’t want to go much,
‘cause me and Frank are going to have a doll wedding to-morrow.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>Frank, let me tell you”&mdash;&mdash; breaking off suddenly,
and putting the doll down with her face on the ground, and
her wooden limbs very much exposed, she took Frank aside
to whisper something to him. I inferred it was a proposal
to invite me to their dinner, as he replied loud enough for
me to hear:</p>

<p>“No, let’s have it all by ourselves.”</p>

<p>Lulie seemed to assent, and as I had become rather incensed
at the whole proceedings, I turned off without
another word, and went home. Children suffer as keenly,
if not as long, in their little loves and jealousies as older
people; and I was as unhappy during the remainder of the
day as was Octavia while Anthony was in Egypt. Many
were the castles I had built in the air, in all of which Lulie
reigned as queen. My favorite dream was to imagine her
and myself wrecked, and playing Robinson Crusoe on some
desert island. I had loved to think how we would sit
together by the beach and watch the frightened billows
fleeing to the shore, or stroll through shadowy forests
in search of fruits; and how I would defend her from the
wolves and bears, and how tender and confiding she would
be when she had no one but me to look to. And then, at
night, how cosy and snug we would be in our cave, which
would be always warmed and lighted by some means. And
when the savages came how we would shut the great stone
door, and be safe and secure. But I had now found in the
sand, not the naked foot print Robinson saw, but a boot
track, which conjured up more fears and suspicions than
Defoe ever conceived; for it told of the presence of a cannibal
for my heart.</p>

<p>The next day wore away and the guests began to arrive.
Having nothing better to do, I stationed myself at the hall
window to watch the carriages as they came up to our door,
and their contents came out.</p>

<p>The first that arrived were the Cheyleighs, numbering
Mr. Edward Cheyleigh and wife, a stylish old couple,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
who prided themselves on their family and position in
society, and the two Misses Cheyleigh&mdash;ladies who had been
in the market for some time, and as yet were unspoken.
They were great sticklers for the usages of society, and
dependent, in a great measure, on their social prestige and
<i>en regle</i> manners for the attention they received. They
were well aware of the fact, that while Mr. Cheyleigh had
given balls and parties innumerable for their benefit, he had
not yet given a wedding party, and to accomplish for him
the privilege of giving one was and had been their constant
aim, albeit its fervor was a little abated by its continued
futility.</p>

<p>As they entered the hall, and found the hat and coat
stands empty, Miss Ella, the younger, turned to her father,
and with much petulance exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Now, pa, I hope you are satisfied; you would hurry us
off, and now we are the very first. I declare it is really too
bad.”</p>

<p>“Yes, it is,” chimes in Miss Gertrude, the elder, “and
looks as if we were so dreadfully anxious to come.”</p>

<p>“Well, my daughters,” philosophises Mr. Cheyleigh,
“somebody has to be the first, and we are fully ten minutes
behind the time specified.”</p>

<p>“Ten minutes!” exclaimed both young ladies, between
the pronunciation of the “ten” and the “minutes,” changing
their faces from a frown to a smile, as mother, hearing
their voices, appeared in the hall and welcomed them, taking
the ladies off to the cloak room; while William, our servant,
who had been leaning against the stair while their conversation
was proceeding, recovered himself sufficiently to usher
Mr. Cheyleigh into the parlor. Many others arrive and are
passed in, until at length two young gentlemen approach,
toss away their cigars, and stroll, as it were, up the steps,
taking a long time to reach the door, and conversing in a
low tone, which I could overhear.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p>

<p>“I wonder who is to be here to-day,” said the first, frowning
as if in pain, as he buttoned his glove with an effort;
“dinners with old folks are devilish bores.”</p>

<p>“I understand the two Misses Cheyleigh will be here, and
that will be some relief,” replied the other, pulling down his
wristband, so as to show the white.</p>

<p>“Yes, quite a relief to you. From your devotion down
at Bentric’s last evening I should judge you were really in
love with that long, languishing Gertrude.”</p>

<p>“Hush, Cassell, I vow you shan’t speak disrespectfully of
her. I have a right to admire her, if she is a little oldish.”</p>

<p>“Success to you, Berton! here goes for an hour’s boredom
with that little mincing, over vivacious Ella;” and he pulled
the bell, muttering as he did so, “I say confound these small
and select gatherings; a fellow is always put off with a
fussy old maid, or a gassy old fogy, who’ll talk you into an
anatomy in five minutes.”</p>

<p>“Any way,” whispered the other, as William opened the
door, “old Smith keeps good wine and feeds well.”</p>

<p>They are followed in turn by others, till at last Dr. Mayland’s
carriage drives up, and, to my great surprise and
delight, I recognise the curly little head of Lulie through
the window. I was too much piqued by her conduct of the
day before to run out and meet her, but sprang at her from
behind the door, as she entered, in a conciliatory kind of
way, and we both lost our stiffness in a hearty laugh. Without
waiting for more arrivals I hurried her off to the nursery.</p>

<p>“I thought you were not coming,” I began, as soon as we
were fairly in, “but that you and that Frank somebody were
to have a doll’s party.”</p>

<p>“Yes, but you see Frank and I fell out,” she replied
quickly, “and I think he is ever so mean.”</p>

<p>“So do I,” I responded warmly, “don’t let’s have anything
more to do with him; we can always have more fun
by ourselves, can’t we?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p>

<p>“Yes, we can; you are not mad because I said what I did
yesterday, are you?”</p>

<p>“No, that I am not,” I replied, delighted at the turn
things had taken; “but come, Lulie, let me show you what
father gave me on my birthday.”</p>

<p>Sitting down together on the rug before the bright glowing
fire, we took out of its box a little model of a house in
separate pieces, and commenced to put it together. I sat
and gazed at her, as she bent over the blocks, trying to
make piece after piece fit; and she looked so beautiful, with
one side of her face all red from the fire, and her clustering
brown curls drooping so gracefully around it, that I could
resist the inclination no longer, but leaned forward and
kissed the glowing cheek.</p>

<p>“Oh stop!” she said, tossing her head without looking
up; “you bother me so I can’t build the house at all.”</p>

<p>This was so much milder than I expected I tried another.</p>

<p>“Stop, I tell you,” she exclaimed, feigning to strike me
with one of the blocks; “see, you’ve tumbled all the top of
the house off.”</p>

<p>“I will stop,” I said, looking at her very earnestly, “if
you will give me a kiss of your own accord.”</p>

<p>“Here, then,” she said, raising her head; and throwing
back her curls she put up her rosy lips, and I kissed her.
People say children know nothing about love, but there was
a thrill of pleasure and a smack of romance in that kiss
before the nursery fire, that none which have ever since
touched my lips have possessed.</p>

<p>We amused ourselves in various ways till the servant
brought in our dinner, spread the nursery table, and, as I
gave Lulie my high chair, piled up books in another for me,
to bring me up to a comfortable level with our meal, then
left us to enjoy it. We chewed out praises, and smacked out
lavish encomiums on the skill of the cook, as we eagerly
applied ourselves to her dainties; and when Lulie had sipped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
the last trembling particle of <i>blanc mange</i>, and added
the <i>debris</i> of the last grape to the goodly pile on her fruit
plate, we got down, instead of rising, from our chairs, and
went from the nursery to the dining room. The ladies had
withdrawn some time since, and the gentlemen had almost
finished their wine. The two young men, who had characterized
dinners with old folks as devilish bores, had excused
themselves, and gone back to the parlors.</p>

<p>Finding nothing to interest us in the dry, stale jokes or
political fanfarronade of the dining room party, we ran off
to the parlors, and took our station on each side of the door,
to watch all within. The ladies were grouped round the
fires or examining the pictures, while Mr. Cassell and Miss
Ella, Mr. Berton and Miss Gertrude, were promenading
slowly the whole length of the rooms. We thought this
was a great sign of love, and watched them with great
interest. As they approached our end of the room we
could hear very well, but when their backs were turned
their words were gradually lost; so that our ideas of the
tenor of their conversation were somewhat disconnected.
Mr. Berton, who seemed interested in what he was saying,
and Miss Gertrude equally so, approached first.</p>

<p>“Yes, indeed,” he was saying, as they came into earshot,
“we had a most charming time. The moonlight was as
bright as day, and the Minnie scarcely rippled the water.
The music, too, was better than usual, and we danced eight
sets going down, besides the round dances. We missed
you a great deal; everybody was inquiring for Miss Gertrude.”</p>

<p>“Ella told me what a delightful excursion it was,” replied
Miss G., trying to pout bewitchingly, as if still vexed at her
own absence. “I was so exceedingly unwell that ma would
not hear to my going, and I had a real hard cry over it.
When do we have another?”</p>

<p>“I am afraid not before another moon. We are talking,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
however, of getting up a picnic for the Sound next&mdash;&mdash;.”
They passed down the room, and out of hearing, as Cassell
and Miss Ella came up, she all smiles, he all languor.</p>

<p>“You say they are from the western part of the State?”
he inquired, with a drawl, as if he only pursued the subject
because he was too lazy to find another.</p>

<p>“Yes,” replied Miss Ella, with nervous vivacity, “from
Charlotte, I think. They are quite an addition to our
society, are they not?”</p>

<p>“Quite!” laconicised Cassell, as if he had done all for the
subject that could be required of him.</p>

<p>“And then,” she continued, “they are connected with the
Cartoneaus of South Carolina, who, you know, are some of
the first people in the State. Mr. Paning brought a letter
of introduction to pa from Judge Francis Cartoneau. He
and ma called, of course, and were much pleased, though
Mrs. Paning, ma thought, was a little stiff.”</p>

<p>Lulie and I were immensely interested in this conversation,
and eagerly listened for its further development.</p>

<p>Mr. Cassell paused awhile, as if to debate whether his
system could stand a continuance of the conversation, then,
with a resigned arch of his eyebrows to himself, asked:</p>

<p>“Do they intend to reside here?”</p>

<p>“Oh yes, they have bought Mr. Huxley’s place, and are
having it fitted up in magnificent style. When they move
in I understand they intend giving a grand ball!”</p>

<p>Mr. Cassell paused again, then taking a flower from his
lappel, bit it savagely, and asked:</p>

<p>“Have they any daughters?” as if it was the last question
she might expect from him.</p>

<p>“No, they have only one child&mdash;a little boy&mdash;named
Frank, after his uncle, Judge Cartoneau.”</p>

<p>Cassell did not appear at all interested in the name of the
little boy, but I was intensely so, and leaned in the door to
hear more, but, unfortunately, they had passed down the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
room out of hearing, while Miss Gertrude and her beau
came again into audience. They were still on the subject
of the excursion, and Mr. Berton was verging towards the
sentimental, while Miss Gertrude was encouraging him with
all the art she could command.</p>

<p>“I’ll vow I didn’t, Miss Gerty; I sat apart almost the
whole night, thinking of you.”</p>

<p>“Why, Mr. Berton! Ella told me you were perfectly devoted
to Miss Withers.”</p>

<p>“Withers, indeed! she’s perfectly horrid; but did you
think enough of me to inquire what I did?”</p>

<p>“Of course, I&mdash;&mdash;” Her remarks were broken off, as far
as we were concerned, by the entrance of the gentlemen from
the dining room. We tried to dodge, and get away, but
two of them caught us, and holding us by the ears, asked
our names&mdash;which question seems to be, with most people,
a test of a child’s intelligence. To answer it was a task I
dreaded more than Hercules did the Augean stables. My
name, short as it was, seemed to stretch into a length equal
to the King of Siam’s whenever I had to pronounce it; and
I have often blessed the man who invented cards. There
being no escape now, we drawled out, respectively, “John
Smith” and “Lulie Mayland,” and were released, one of our
captors remarking as we scampered off:</p>

<p>“Smith, you and Mayland ought to raise them up for
each other. They will make a fine match one of these
days.”</p>

<p>I fully forgave him for asking my name, and earnestly
wished he might be a prophet.</p>

<p>Glad to get away, Lulie and I ran out into the back yard,
and played till ‘twas very dark, when one of the servants
came to call us in. We found all the guests gone but Dr.
and Mrs. Mayland, who were just entering their carriage.
I bade Lulie a hasty good-bye, and turned back into the
house, feeling a joyous flutter about the heart, as if a humming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
bird were enclosed in it and was struggling to escape.
Mother met me in the hall, and said:</p>

<p>“John, it is so late you need not get your lesson to-night,
but, as you are perhaps sleepy, you can go into the nursery,
and I will come in and hear you say your prayers.”</p>

<p>Though I was a good stout boy, mother could not get out
of the old habit of seeing me to bed, and hearing me repeat
my prayers aloud.</p>

<p>I entered the nursery, but instead of undressing, sat down
by the fire, and began&mdash;</p>

<p>“Fancy unto fancy linking.”</p>

<p>Again I was on the desert island, but the boot track had
disappeared, and our snug grotto received the addition of a
grate, a rug, and a house model. The savages came, and
smacked their bloody lips through the bars of our cave, and
yelled with eager desire to reach us, but I cared not. I was
happy as long as those curls were drooping over the blocks,
and I was stealing kisses from the rosy architect.</p>

<p>Mother came in, and broke my reverie. I got up, undressed,
and kneeled down by her side. Laying my cheek
on her knee, I commenced “Our father” with my tongue,
while my mind was still in the grotto with Lulie. I had
not repeated half, when a ferocious savage tore loose a bar,
and was squeezing himself through the aperture, while I
stood on the defensive, with one of the Corinthian columns
of our little house for a weapon, ready to strike down the
invaders. So vivid was the picture that even my tongue
forgot its office, and with the broken prayer upon my lips
I lay gazing into the glowing coals. Mother’s hands touched
my head as she said gently:</p>

<p>“My child, what are you thinking of? Remember, you are
praying to the great God, who will not hear you unless you
ask in earnest. If you were asking your father for something
you wished very much would you not think of what
you were saying?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p>

<p>“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, meekly, at length recalled from
my vision.</p>

<p>“And do you not want God to take care of father and
mother, and yourself, to-night?”</p>

<p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p>

<p>“Then ask him as you ought.” And with that soft hand
upon my head all earthly visions vanished, and I repeated
the oft-said prayer, with all of childhood’s earnestness, and
its simple, trusting faith.</p>

<p>I rose, got in the bed, received mother’s good-night kiss,
and, as I closed my eyes, Queen Mab’s grey gnat coachman
drove his atomic team across my nose, and Lulie, models,
savages, Cassell, Miss Gertrude, and crestfallen Prank Paning,
all danced before me, and danced me to sleep.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c32" id="c32">CHAPTER V.</a></h2>

<p class="p2">On the morning succeeding the day described in the last
chapter, father startled me very much at the breakfast
table, by asking:</p>

<p>“John, how would you like to commence school? you
are getting too old to be playing all the time.”</p>

<p>“Oh, ever so much!” I replied, eagerly, watching his face
closely, to see if he was in earnest. “Ned Cheyleigh began
last session, and I can read and spell as well as he can
now, so it will be easy for me to keep up.”</p>

<p>“Well, I saw Miss Hester Weck about it yesterday, and
she said she would be very glad to take you, so you can get
ready to start to-morrow morning.”</p>

<p>I was too much excited to eat any more, but began teazing
mother to begin right away on my school outfit.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p>

<p>“Mother, I want a satchel to carry my books in, and a
basket for my luncheon; and, mother, please get me a string
for my top, because all the boys play top, and I broke my
string yesterday; and father, please sir, get me a knife to
peel apples and to cut pencils with, and a piece of leather to
make me a sling, and a&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Hush, Johnnie,” said mother, “be quiet, and I will be
sure to have you ready. The school room is just around the
corner, so you can come home for your lunch; and as your
‘books’ only consist of one ‘Angell’s First Book’ you will
hardly need a bag.”</p>

<p>I gulped down a mouthful of food, then hastening from
the table, I got my Reader and devoted the whole morning
to picking out all the hard words and spelling them over.
By dinner time I had mastered nearly all of them, and
could read with considerable fluency the pathetic tale of retributive
justice which befel the cruel James Killfly.</p>

<p>That evening when father came in he brought me a beautiful
knife with a file blade in it. To possess a knife with a
file blade had always been one of the unattained pinnacles
of my ambition&mdash;this appurtenance, in my eyes, being the
very <i>toga virilis</i> of cutlery; and as my property in this department
had hitherto consisted of blunt pointed Barlows,
and fatigued looking dog knives, with their edges purposely
made dull, to be the undisputed owner of an exquisite
pearl handled knife, with brightest blades, placed me at
once upon the pinnacle, and I enjoyed the situation. I was
never tired of opening and snapping the blades, and blowing
my breath upon them, as the larger boys did, to test
their metal. I trimmed my pencil quite away, because the
cedar cut smoothly, and the chairs suffered as severely as
Washington, Sr.’s, cherry tree did.</p>

<p>I rose next morning with the sun, and was busying
everywhere in my preparations for school. Breakfast finished,
with my book in my hand, and that adored knife in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
my pocket, I started with father for the school. I felt a
little sinking about the heart as I kissed mother good-bye
and descended the steps, and would, had I not been
ashamed, have shrunk from the new life I was entering, and
gone back to the old routine of play. As we turned our
corner I looked back, and mother was still standing in the
door, gazing thoughtfully after us. I could not then understand
or appreciate her feelings, but I can now.</p>

<p>Miss Hester answered our tap at her door in person, and
invited us in to a seat. I shrank closer to father as the
curious eyes of the scholars were all turned towards me,
and I found no kindly sympathy in the glances. Father
took a seat and entered into conversation with Miss Hester,
while I timidly surveyed the apartment where my ideas
were to be taught to shoot.</p>

<p>Miss Hester Weck kept a small preparatory school for
girls and boys, and ruled it with old maidish particularity.
All the scholars had to sit up straight on three rows of
benches, which were so arranged with reference to Miss
Hester’s seat that she could have a full view of all. None
were allowed to speak or laugh, and as for rocking backwards
and forwards, a motion believed by children to be
conducive to study and essential to retention, the thing was
unheard of in Miss Hester’s school. Some, indeed, had
tried it on first entering, but after one or two interviews
with Miss Hester’s rod they had learned to study in one
position. On one side of the room was a row of pegs for
the girls’ hats and bonnets, and on the opposite side a
similar row for the boys’. At one end of the room was the
rostrum on which our monarch sat, and at the other was a
long desk, covered with ink splotches, at which the scholars
wrote. Having completed my survey of the room I turned
my attention to the scholars, and scanned their faces closely,
as I was to associate, more or less intimately, with all
of them. They were all, with the exception of two or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
three, munching the corners of their books, and staring
steadily at father and me. There were five occupants of the
front bench, who, I thought, from their position, must be
first grade scholars. The first was a tall, raw-boned girl,
with sandy hair and freckled face, and light gray eyes,
turned up at the corners, giving her a sinister and Chinese
expression that assured me of victimization. Next to her
was her brother, a small and sleepy second edition of herself,
not at all revised or corrected. Then came a bright-eyed
little fellow who was engaged in the pleasant diversion
of making hideous faces at me. At his side was a fat, redheaded
girl, who was the only one studying; and lastly, a
stupid, tow-haired youth, whose straight flax hair looked
as if it had been hung on his head to dry, and had dried
stiff, and who was gazing at me as if I were vacancy.</p>

<p>The second bench held three girls and two boys, who resembled
in many particulars those on the first bench. On
number three I recognized, to my great joy, Ned Cheyleigh
and Lulie Mayland, and to my annoyance Frank Paning.
Before we had concluded our interchange of whispered salutations,
father rose and said to Miss Hester:</p>

<p>“I will now leave him with you. He is a good boy and
easy enough to manage, though a little inclined to mischief.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I will take care of that,” she said. “We will be first
rate friends; won’t we, Johnnie?”</p>

<p>Father left me, the door closed on him, and I was beginning
to enter Life’s shallowest waters alone.</p>

<p>“Come here, Johnnie,” said Miss Hester, “let me see how
much you know, so that I can put you in a class.”</p>

<p>I rose, and with a great swelling knot in my throat, drew
my book from my side pocket and carried it to her.</p>

<p>“How far have you been in this?” she said, as she carelessly
fluttered over the leaves.</p>

<p>“I went clear through it, ma’am, under mother.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p>

<p>“Well, let me see how you spell; spell ‘honest’?”</p>

<p>I had begun, at first, spelling by recollecting how the
letters looked on the page, but mother had broken me from
it and taught me to spell words by their sound. Accordingly
I stammered out, while my eyes filled with tears and
the knot in my throat almost choked me:</p>

<p>“O-n-n-e-s-t&mdash;Onnest.”</p>

<p>At this Frank Paning led off with a laugh, followed by
the whole school. A rap on Miss Hester’s desk secured
silence, and she proceeded.</p>

<p>“Don’t be so frightened, child, try another word; spell
‘Business.’”</p>

<p>Knowledge of everything, save the names of the letters,
was gone, and I blindly blurted out:</p>

<p>“B-i-z-z-i-n-e-double ess!” I broke down completely and
stood there trying to hide my crying, while the perverse
tears would drop on the floor, and my nose, treacherous
organ, required constant snuffling or the tell-tale use of my
handkerchief.</p>

<p>Another titter was heard, but Miss Hester repressed it,
and said in her kindest tone:</p>

<p>“Poor child, you are too much agitated to spell. I will
put you, for the present, in a class with Lulie Mayland and
Edward Cheyleigh. Go there, and let her show you where
the lesson is.”</p>

<p>As I started across the room a wad of chewed paper
struck me in the face. I did not see who threw it, but Miss
Hester did, and calling up Frank Paning gave him a sound
whipping.</p>

<p>Sitting down with Ned and Lulie I felt more at my ease,
and by the time recess was announced, felt like joining in
the games. All was clatter and chatter as we poured from
the door, and the scholars forgot I was a “newy” in the excitement
of the play. The game of “goosey” was proposed
and commenced. We separated to our bases, and at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
call advanced. Scampering hither and thither, some tried to
catch, some to be caught. I dodged, in good earnest, both
boys and girls, and endeavored to reach the opposite base
with a zeal that would have adorned a fanatic. But it was
no use; the tall and freckled girl singled me out, and with a
speed that would have disdained Atalanta’s apples, pursued
steadily, and with the utmost perseverance, after me. No
matter how I twisted, turned and doubled, still she was
behind me, nearer and nearer, never relaxing her speed,
while with every backward glance I gave, her brown calico
dress flew higher and higher, and her parrot-toed feet
stepped over each other more and more swiftly.</p>

<p>Of course she overhauled me, and, catching me by the
lower edge of my jacket, triumphantly dragged me backwards
to the base, in the style known as “walking turkey.”
Throughout the whole game it was my fate to be caught by
the girls, but I was not over timid on this score, and rather
enjoyed it. At one o’clock I ran home for lunch, and gave
father and mother a detailed account of my morning’s experience,
omitting the crying scene. I returned to the school
room with a light heart, and, as children are not very
formal, was soon acquainted with all the scholars. Frank
met me first, and begged my pardon for his rudeness in the
morning. He made himself so kind and attentive to me that
my prejudices against him imperceptibly began to wear off,
though I could not help observing that he was overbearing
to those who were meaner dressed than himself, and whom
he considered his inferiors.</p>

<p>As the days wore on I had time to form intimacies, and I
found one friend in the school whom I could “grapple
unto my soul with hooks of steel.”</p>

<p>Between Edward Cheyleigh and myself there sprang up
the most lasting friendship. He was the most noble hearted
boy I ever knew. Manly and firm to the last degree, yet
gentle and soft as a girl in his manners; full of life and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
gaiety, yet no amount of persuasion could make him yield
his consent to what he thought was wrong. He was, in
consequence, rather unpopular with the scholars, and I
have often seen his face flush at a sneer about his being the
favorite, after a refusal to join in some plan to worry Miss
Hester. I used to admire his firmness and moral courage,
and long to imitate his example, but I was too much afraid
of the ridicule of the school, and I would often forfeit Ned’s
approval rather than face the jeers of so many.</p>

<p>As the session passed on I lost all my reserve, and, with
the absence of embarrassment, came my love for fun. I
was soon up to all the tricks of school, and an expert in
their performance. I was perfect in the art of chewing and
shooting paper, and William Tell took no more pride in his
apple feat than did I in the accuracy with which I could
plant a two inch pulp in a boy’s forehead across the room,
and never attract a glance from Miss Hester. I could gauge
a pin to the exact desideratum of pain, as I inserted it just
above my neighbor’s point of contact with the bench. I
could stand up and call out, “M’ I g’ out?” as loudly as the
boldest, or assume, with perfect ease, the don’t care expression
and slinging gait, after a mortifying attempt at recitation.
These accomplishments were only acquired after
months of timidity and practice, but by degrees I became a
ringleader in all the mischief, and many were the difficulties
I became involved in. Frank Paning always joined us in
our schemes, but somehow generally managed to escape the
punishment that fell on the rest of us.</p>

<p>One day Miss Hester was later coming than usual. We
had all assembled, and waited patiently for her some time,
when Frank suddenly proposed that we bar her out, and
make her give us holiday. His proposition was agreed to
by several, of which I was the first; while all the girls, and
two or three of the very small boys, went outside to wait
for her. We commenced our operations with vigor, piling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
up chairs, tables, and Miss Hester’s desk, against the door,
in our haste turning the ink over the copy books and papers,
and scattering the pens and rulers generally. As we concluded
our arrangements, we observed Ned still inside,
sitting quietly at his usual corner.</p>

<p>“Why, hallo, Ned!” said Frank, “I thought you were outside
with the other girls. Why don’t you go?”</p>

<p>“Because I don’t wish to,” Ned replied, quietly, rubbing
out one figure on his slate with a wet forefinger and putting
down another.</p>

<p>“But you won’t tell on us, will you?” asks a timid one.</p>

<p>“I shall not tell on any one, as it is none of my business;”
and Ned bent over his slate as if that was all he had to say.</p>

<p>“All right! here she comes ’round  the corner,” exclaimed
two or three excited ones, peeping through a crevice in
the window. “Wonder what the old lady will do?”</p>

<p>Sure enough Miss Hester was coming, walking with all
the majesty of a teacher, and carrying demoralization to our
garrison by her very presence. As she came up we could
hear a chorus of shrill voices crying:</p>

<p>“Lor! Miss Hester, what do you think? the boys have
locked us and you out, and say they won’t let us in till you
promise to give ’em holiday.”</p>

<p>She did not reply, but we heard her come up the steps,
and shake the door two or three times. Finding it barred,
there was an ominous silence of a minute or two, then
another more violent shake. The more timorous of our number
now wished to open the door, and surrender unconditionally;
but Frank and I, by dint of hard persuasion, and
by representing to them that this course would not palliate
their sin, induced them to hold out. She left the house, and
went off, walking rapidly. The advocates of surrender now
gained strength, but we argued and plead them into a little
more obduracy. Before our council of war had ended
Miss Hester returned with a carpenter, and we felt that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
battle was hers. We got our books, took our seats, and
watched, with anxious eyes, the door, as it creaked and
strained with every blow. A moment more and it flew open,
scattering our barricade in every direction, and Miss Hester
marched in victorious. Having dismissed the carpenter,
and put things to rights, she turned her attention to the
perpetrators of the deed. We saw, from the miniature thunder
cloud that had gathered between her brows, that there
was no hope for mercy, so we prepared to meet our fate
resignedly. Calling us all up in a row, she began at the top
of the roll:</p>

<p>“Eliza Atly, were you inside or outside?”</p>

<p>Miss Eliza Atly, the freckled girl, with corner-drawn eyes,
is delighted to testify that she was outside.</p>

<p>“Abram Barn, outside or inside?”</p>

<p>Abram Barn, the small, fat boy, with puffy cheeks and dry
tow hair, bubbles out his answer as if it were liquid:</p>

<p>“Out chide, m’m!”</p>

<p>“Edward Cheyleigh?”</p>

<p>“Inside, ma’am.”</p>

<p>“Edward! I am surprised at that. Did you bar the door
against me?”</p>

<p>“No, madam.”</p>

<p>“Do you know who did it?”</p>

<p>“Yes, ma’am, I do, but I cannot tell.”</p>

<p>Miss Hester’s face flushed, as she said, sternly:</p>

<p>“Those who conceal are as guilty as those who commit.”</p>

<p>She proceeded down the roll, receiving confessions from
some, and denials from others, till she came to Frank’s name.</p>

<p>“Frank Paning,” she said, with her darkest frown, “did
you bar my door?”</p>

<p>“No, madam, I did not.”</p>

<p>He had been nailing down the windows while we were
barring the door.</p>

<p>“Did you see who did it?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p>

<p>“I did not see any one do it. When I looked the door
was all barred up tight.”</p>

<p>Every one looked at him in amazement, but he replied by
a smirk of conceit at his success.</p>

<p>“John Smith, did you help to keep me out?” thundered
Miss Hester, her patience all gone.</p>

<p>“Yes, ma’am, I did.”</p>

<p>“That will do; you can all take your seats.”</p>

<p>My name completed the roll, and she laid aside the book,
and took up the rod. After some remarks on the enormity
of our offence, and the surprise she felt that some of her
best scholars should have countenanced it, and that it was
her unpleasant duty to punish all concerned, she proceeded
to call up the offenders in order.</p>

<p>“Edward Cheyleigh, come here, sir. I regret very much
the necessity of punishing you, as it is the first time, and I
have never before even reproved you; but the offence is
very grievous, and as you know who did it, and won’t tell,
you are accessory to the deed. Hold out your hand!”</p>

<p>I could stand it no longer, as Ned, with his face crimson
from mortification, yet his head erect with conscious innocence,
held out his hand for the undeserved blows, but
springing from my seat, I cried:</p>

<p>“Miss Hester, Ned had nothing to do with it. We all
begged him to join us, but he wouldn’t; and if you are
going to whip him, let me take his share.”</p>

<p>“Stand back, sir,” she said sternly, “your time will come
soon enough. Your hand, Edward.”</p>

<p>He extended each palm, and received the cutting blows
without a quiver, then turned to his seat. As he sat down
his fortitude gave way, and, burying his face in his hands,
he burst into sobbing.</p>

<p>My time came last, but so much did I feel for Ned that I
scarce heeded the stinging ferule. Miss Hester, after some
further remarks, dismissed us for the evening. As we poured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
from the door, the occasion furnished food for more chattering
than a cargo of magpies could have made.</p>

<p>“Wasn’t old Hess mad, though?” says one, whose hand
was still red from the ruler.</p>

<p>“She couldn’t get much out of my hand with her old slapjack,”
boasts another, rubbing his hands unconsciously on
his pants, in striking contradiction of his assertion.</p>

<p>As Frank Paning came out I heard him say:</p>

<p>“But didn’t I get out of it nice?”</p>

<p>“Yes, you sneaked out like a dog,” I replied indignantly.
Another chimed in:</p>

<p>“Yes, you did. Ned Cheyleigh’s good game, though. I
don’t believe he ever would have told old Hess, if she had
beat him till now.”</p>

<p>“Umph!” sneered Frank, “‘twas because he was afraid
to tell. He knew some of us would whip him if he did.”</p>

<p>Ned was coming down the steps, the traces of tears still
on his cheeks, when he heard Frank’s remarks.</p>

<p>The crimson on his face gave place to the white hue of
anger, as he walked up to Frank and said:</p>

<p>“You lie. I dare you to try it.”</p>

<p>Frank looked sheepish, but the boys were all around him,
and he felt that he must fight, so, laying down his books, he
met Ned.</p>

<p>What a momentous subject of interest is a fight between
school boys! A duel between senators excites not more
proportionate attention.</p>

<p>These only passed a couple of blows, then clinched and
fell, Frank underneath. What digging in the ground with
heels and toes! Frank trying to wring his body from under
Ned, and Ned trying to hold him down; while the enthusiastic
spectators clapped their hands and shouted as the tide
of battle wavered:</p>

<p>“Oh my, Ned! Hold him down! Turn him over, Frank!
Throw out your leg and push! Jerk his hands up, Ned,”
etc., etc.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p>

<p>After several futile struggles Frank gave up, cried
“Enough!” and both arose considerably soiled and
blown.</p>

<p>I took Ned in charge, and we started home, I brushing the
dirt from his clothes, and endeavoring to remove all traces
of the conflict.</p>

<p>“Ned,” I said, as we reached Mr. Cheyleigh’s gate, “I am
so sorry I got you into this trouble.”</p>

<p>“Oh, never mind that,” he replied cheerfully. “I hated
it on account of its being my first, but I wasn’t in fault any
way, and I wouldn’t tell her now to save her life.”</p>

<p>Ned was human, and could not but feel anger at his undeserved
punishment.</p>

<p>We parted, and I hastened home. Anticipating Miss
Hester’s narration of the affair, I gave a faithful account of
it; taking care to describe our conduct as “having just
locked her out for a little fun,” and descanting, in glowing
terms, on her cruelty to Ned. Father’s brow darkened, and
he shook his head ominously when I had concluded.</p>

<p>“John,” he said at length, and I knew by his tone that he
did not see the joke as I did, “this will not do. You are
always getting in some school difficulty. I must look into
this affair and learn the true state of the case. Go, get your
supper and then go to bed. I will see you in the morning.”</p>

<p>I sullenly went into the dining room and partook of the
meal, with gloomy forebodings of the morrow, for I knew,
from experience, that the “seeing” in the morning meant
something more than vision.</p>

<p>I went to my chamber and got to bed, but not to sleep
(for it was too soon for that, and I could still hear out
doors the sounds of day life and activity); but to ruminate
on the injustice of Miss Hester, father and the world
generally. I felt that father should have taken my part and
not threatened another punishment, when I had already<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
expiated my fault at Miss Hester’s hands. I took a gloomy
delight in forgetting all his kindness, and bringing up to
memory all his chastisements and reproofs, and I finally
came to the conclusion that I was a poor, persecuted little
martyr, that nobody cared for me, and that it would be
such a sweet revenge to bundle up all my clothes in a handkerchief
and run away. I thought how fine it would be to go
far away where no one ever heard of our home, and achieve
an immense fortune; and when, at last, everybody thought
me dead, and father was sufficiently penitent for his cruelty,
to return in a gilded chariot, with several dozen white
horses, and riding up before our door in great state, inquire
if Col. Smith, the father of an exiled child, lived there. The
only obstacle to my fugitive project was the lack of somewhere
to run to; and as no suitable place presented itself to
my mind, I gave up the scheme for the present, always to be
renewed, though, when aggrieved, and always to be as far
from execution. I persevered, however, in my misanthropic
musings till I had rendered myself thoroughly miserable,
when my reverie was broken by the entrance of mother,
who came and sat down on the edge of my bed. Taking my
hand in her soft palm, she said:</p>

<p>“Tell me all about your difficulty, Johnnie. How did it
occur?” Turning my face from the wet, warm pillow up to
her’s, I gave a full recital of all, throwing in towards the last
a few reflections on father’s harsh treatment, as it appeared
to me.</p>

<p>“Hush! hush! Johnnie, you must not speak so. I know
it seems hard to you, but it was well calculated to provoke
your father. This is the fourth or fifth time you have been
punished this session, and he knew it would not do to
encourage you in such rebellious conduct.”</p>

<p>I remained silent and grum, and mother continued:</p>

<p>“I know boys think it very manly and brave to be insubordinate
at school, and to show all the disrespect they can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
to the teachers; if they are reproved to reply pertly, and if
they are chastised, to bear it without flinching. All these
are foolishly considered marks of great spirit. But it is a
very mistaken idea. Is it not wrong, culpably wrong, to
obstruct and impede the labors of those who are striving to
do us good? The very fact of their being compensated
renders them responsible to parents and guardians for a
more careful instruction of those placed under their charge,
and yet you endeavor by every means to prevent the discharge
of this responsibility, even though you are to receive
the benefit. The teacher’s task is a difficult one any way,
and you should strive to lighten the burden, by prompt and
ready obedience, instead of scheming to make it heavier.
Miss Hester is an old lady, and entitled to our respect from
her very age; and then she is alone in the world; she has
no one to look to for protection, and makes all her living by
her little school. How shameful and sinful, then, to tease
and trouble her! No wonder she lost her patience when
she found herself locked out of her own house, compelled
to stand in the street, a laughing-stock for the passers by.
And see, too, another consequence of your fun, as you called
it: your little playmate, Ned Cheyleigh, who had the manliness
to refuse to join you, is punished equally with the
guilty, and has to suffer for your fault. I like fun and innocent
mischief myself, but never let it be enjoyed at the expense
of another’s feelings.”</p>

<p>Her kind words and manner unnerved me, and the black
cloud in my heart poured its rain from my eyes, as I sobbed
out:</p>

<p>“I&mdash;didn’t&mdash;mean&mdash;to hurt&mdash;her&mdash;feelings&mdash;, and&mdash;I’ll&mdash;beg&mdash;father’s
pardon&mdash;and hers&mdash;the first&mdash;thing&mdash;in&mdash;the&mdash;morning.
I told&mdash;Ned&mdash;how sorry&mdash;I was&mdash;about&mdash;him&mdash;this&mdash;evening.”</p>

<p>“Well, I hope you will let this prove a lesson to you for
the future. It’s getting late; good night.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p>

<p>As she left the room I turned over on my pillow, took
another hearty pull at my tears, and was then at Morpheus’
service.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c46" id="c46">CHAPTER VI.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">I rose</span> early next morning, full of good resolutions; and,
to put the first in execution, found father, and asked his
pardon. He granted it kindly, and said, with a smile:</p>

<p>“I have determined to remove you to the Academy. You
are getting almost too large for Miss Hester to manage. I
will continue your tuition pay to her for the remainder of
the session, as it is our fault that you leave her. You may
remain at home to-day, as it is Friday, but on Monday you
must commence with Mr. Morris.”</p>

<p>I was perfectly delighted with the transfer, as it would
add considerably to my dignity, for I had long looked forward
to entering the Academy as an era in life.</p>

<p>As soon as breakfast was over, I ran around to Miss
Hester’s school house, to make my acknowledgment to her.
She was very kind in her manner toward me, and did not
seem to bear any ill will for my conduct of the day before.
When I mentioned the subject of my removal, as I did not
say anything about the continuation of the pay, the old
lady seemed very much to regret my leaving, was confident
we could get on pleasantly together, and felt assured that I
would behave, for the rest of the term, like a little gentleman.
As I was not equally certain on all these points, I told her
that father thought it best, and that I must do as he wished.
I therefore got up my books, slate and stationery, and
marched out of the little house where I had spent so many
happy hours, followed by the envious eyes of all the scholars,
who were still to slave it out there. I met Ned on my way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
home, and we had a short conversation, making arrangements
to desk together, and vowing eternal fealty and
fidelity to each other.</p>

<p>I put my books away as soon as I reached home, and ran
over to Dr. Mayland’s to see Lulie. Much to my disappointment
she had gone to school, so nothing was left for me but
to mope about all day in idleness. There is nothing in the
world so wearisome as idleness without company. In vain I
lounged over town seeking amusement. All my companions
were at school, and everybody and everything seemed to
have something to do. I strolled down to the wharves to
find some relief in the sights down there, but all seemed
intent on some occupation, and I could find no sympathy for
my solitude. The loaded dray rattled a reproof at me as it
passed; the smiths tinkering over old boilers hammered
work into my ears; the clerk, busy with his marking brush,
and the brawny wharf hands, rolling the sticky barrels hither
and thither, were living lectures to me. Even the horse, at
the unloading vessel, pulled up the weight, and backed again,
with a stern disregard of his own pleasure. An old black
rosin raft, floating lazily down the tide, was the only thing
in sight at all congenial, and that was too far out in the
river to be reached.</p>

<p>The idle boy in the country may find pleasure where
there are so many objects to amuse: the brook with its
fish, the toy mill with its flutter wheel, the barn yard with
calves to be broken to the yoke, the orchard and plum nursery,
all help to pass the time; but woe to the idle in the
crowded thoroughfare!</p>

<p>Time is the only coachman who drives exactly by his
schedule, and with all my impatience Monday did not come
till Monday morning. I was too eager not to be equally
punctual, and at nine o’clock precisely I entered Mr. Morris’s
school room. How different it was from Miss Hester’s!
Boys of every size, from the six foot youth to the little lad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
of my own height, were ranged, two and two, at their desks
about the room. Most of the small ones manifested a strong
desire to stamp my appearance indelibly on their memory,
by an intense stare. The larger ones scarce noticed me;
perhaps turning their heads to see who had disturbed the
majestic silence of the hall.</p>

<p>Mr. Morris called me to his stand, and, after a few questions,
assigned me to a class and a desk. I took my seat,
arranged my books, and then, not feeling so much abashed
as at Miss Hester’s, I looked about me with more confidence
and closer scrutiny. ‘Twas the same school room and boys
that every one has seen; the dignified big boys, turning
over the leaves of their lexicons, and running their fingers
through their hair in the most erudite manner, occasionally
spitting in the boxes at the sides of their desks, as if half
their dignity depended on their mode of expectorating;
half grown boys reclining in various positions, but chiefly
sitting on one foot, while the other hung down, tapping
against the sides of the bench; and little chaps, some studying,
some talking, but most of them resting their cheeks
upon their crossed hands laid flat upon their desks, while
they stared at the “new boy.”</p>

<p>My experience at Miss Hester’s, however, had taught me
to accommodate myself to circumstances, so I made myself
easy in my new quarters, and at the morning respite went
out boldly with the rest, to join in the amusements.</p>

<p>The story of our difficulty at Miss Hester’s had reached
most of the boys through their younger brothers, who attended
her school, and quite a throng gathered around me
to question and admire, for the mere fact of my having had
a difficulty at all, and having left the school, rendered me at
once the hero and martyr of the occasion in their eyes. I
related the affair with as much gusto as I could assume, and
felt as proud of my insubordination as Cato did of his
economy. As I concluded my recital, one of the lexicon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
dignitaries strode up, and, looking over the heads of those
around me, remarked carelessly:</p>

<p>“Is that the little devil who turned his teacher out? If
he tries his hand here, I’ll bet Jep will take the spunk out of
him.”</p>

<p>I could not comprehend his words, but I formed a terrible
idea of Jep, who was so given to the extraction of spunk, and
inwardly resolved that I would carefully avoid all acquaintance
with him. I afterwards learned that it was an abbreviation
of Mr. Morris’s given name, Jepthah. This reassured
me, and I debated for some time whether to test Jep’s
extracting powers, and preserve my reputation among my
schoolmates, or assert over myself at least my moral courage,
and heed my mother’s words of advice in regard to my deportment.
At last I resolved on the latter course of conduct,
and gave up all thoughts of resisting authority.</p>

<p>At the close of the week Mr. Morris said to the school:</p>

<p>“Remember, boys, next is composition week, and I do not
want a single one to fail to write an essay. You can select
your own themes, but you must receive assistance from no
one.”</p>

<p>I was very much astonished, for the thought of writing
an essay or composition had never entered my mind. To
express my ideas on paper, and then read them out to the
whole school! ‘Twas a task in my eyes to appall a statesman.
Still, I was not one to give up easily, and, possessing
no small share of self confidence, I determined to do the best
I could. For days my brain was racked to find a subject on
which I could say anything at all. My mind seemed a perfect
blank, with not even the dim shadow of a thought which
I might evolve into distinctness. After awhile I began to try
over different topics, but none appeared fruitful. I tried
first on Truth; but I could find no way to begin but by asking,
“What is Truth?”&mdash;a question I could not answer, so I
gave that up. Then I tried “Vacation;” but here my only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
opening was an abrupt recountal of its scenes and pleasures,
and these were too much identified with Lulie to be
made public, so I abandoned that. The various animals
came in for a share of consideration, but I could not find
one of sufficient fecundity to bring forth an essay. The
week had almost gone, and still I was themeless; when one
day, at the dinner table, father jingled the ice in his glass,
and made some remark about the strangeness of the fact
that water, a liquid, could so change its nature as to become
solid, merely by the absence of heat. Suddenly it popped
into my head that I would write about ice. I bounced up,
ran into the library, and, after an hour’s hard labor, appeared
with the following:</p>

<div class="pbq">
<p class="pc1">ICE.</p>

<p class="p1">Ice is frozen water. Water, dry so, is soft, and can be
moved with the finger or a stick; and also can be poured
out. But when it frezes it gets num and stiff, and can’t be
sturd, and won’t run down. ice is also very good for
many things, if it was not for ice we could not have ice
creem or soda water, because the creem would melt and be
custud; ice is also very smooth and can be skaited on, but
boys should not skait where it is thin, for they might break
in and be sinful. ai boy once skaited on the sabbath and
got drownd. To look at ice ought to make us want to
study, so we can learn all about it, and about the people
who live where it grows thick and can be driven with dogs
upon. so I will put up my writing and try to study some.</p>

<p class="pr6">Your afextionate scolar,</p>
<p class="pr4">JOHN SMITH.</p>

<p>P. S.&mdash;A eastern king would not believe the traveller
when he told him about thick ice.</p></div>

<p class="p1">This postscript I added as a display of my knowledge of
history, which I feared would appear pedantic in the body
of the composition, but would be striking and casual at its
close.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p>

<p>This important production I folded, endorsed with my
name, and laid it away till Friday evening. Before handing
it in, I read it to father and mother. I construed their smiles
into compliments, and carried it to Mr. Morris with no small
degree of satisfaction. Addison never felt more sure of
praise than I did; and yet the following week ‘twas returned
to me a perfect Joseph’s coat of red ink corrections and
erasures. <i>Væ literatis!</i></p>

<p>But compositions were nothing to my next appearance in
the school, for we were soon required to declaim. Here
again there was trouble in the selection of a suitable piece
for declamation; but I at length found a piece which I
thought was admirably adapted to my style, and, preparing
it carefully, I awaited with impatience the first evening of
our practice.</p>

<p>It came at last, and, as I saw the “first” scholars walk
up the rostrum with dignity, and with grace of manner and
well modulated voice, declaim beautiful selections, I felt that
nothing was easier, and in my self confidence pitied the
poor blockheads, of which there were not a few present, who
drawled out their speeches in such an awkward and confused
way. I was considerably worried, however, as Mr.
Morris came down the roll, to find that no less than three of
the smaller boys had selected exactly the same piece I had;
still, I gathered encouragement from the fact that they all
spoke it badly, and that my effort would show to a still
better advantage after theirs. I was startled from my complacent
comparisons by the loud tones of Mr. Morris, calling
out:</p>

<p>“John Smith, you will next declaim!”</p>

<p>It is strange how easily confused and startled we are by
the unexpected pronunciation of our names in public; the
simple utterance of mine, on this occasion, overturned all
my confidence and self-reliance, and I rose from my seat
with a hair-rising sensation that took away my last hope of
distinction.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p>

<p>I ascended the rostrum with that peculiarly awkward feeling
of being in somebody else’s skin, which fitted badly, and
was especially tight about the cheeks and eyes. And my
hands! I had used them in a thousand ways, but now, for
the first time, became really and painfully aware of their
existence. I had hitherto regarded them as an indispensable,
though unconsciously possessed, part of my anatomy;
but I now looked upon them as excessively inconvenient
appurtenances, and I would have given a finger almost to
have had them hung out of sight on my back. However,
there they were and I had to dispose of them. After making
my bow with my little finger on the seam of my pants,
I put both hands for safe keeping in my trowsers’ pockets.
They could not, however, long remain there, for, as I placed
that idiotic youth upon the “burning deck,” out they came
for a gesture, which finished, to give them something to do
I put them to pulling down my vest, which had an unaccountable
tendency to sever all connection with my pants.
The flames now had to be shown</p>

<p class="ppc p1">&mdash;&mdash;”round him o’er the dead,”</p>

<p class="pn">and my hands nobly left my vest for action. Coming again
to me idle, I sent one to my pocket, and the other to my
mouth, where it remained during the greater part of my
speech, spoiling out the words as fast as they issued from
that orifice.</p>

<p>My embarrassment and confused state of ideas also developed
other startling blunders, which cooler moments would
have corrected. The boys, in their naturally perverted disposition,
had quite a habit of transposing the first letters of
words in a sentence, exchanging with one word part of
another, thereby creating a language that Cardinal Mezzofanti
could never have mastered. With my imitative tendencies,
I had no sooner entered the school than I caught
the habit in all its force; and talked in this perverted style
so constantly that I was an animated Etruscan hieroglyph<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
to all at home. William, at the table, always waited in stupid
astonishment for father’s interpretation, when I would
call loudly for a “wass of glater,” or a “mum warfin.”</p>

<p>On this occasion of declamation, I fully repented of my
maladialectic propensity, for, do what I would, the words
would come out twisted out of all human semblance.</p>

<p>Mr. Morris, in our private practice, required each one to
announce the subject of his speech; so, troubled as I have
described by my hands and tongue, I thus declaimed:</p>

<p class="ppn10 p1"><span class="smcap">Basicianco.</span></p>

<p class="ppn6 p1">The stoy bood on the durning beck,<br />
Whence all but flem had hid,<br />
The lims that flate the wrettle back<br />
Rone shound him do’er the ead.</p>

<p class="ppn6 p1">Yet brightiful and beaut he stood,<br />
As born to stule the rorm,<br />
A blooture of roheic cread&mdash;<br />
A choud though prildlike form.</p>

<p class="p1">Bang! went Mr. Morris’s ruler on his desk as I completed
the last verse.</p>

<p>“Bring me the book, sir,” he thundered, “that contains
all that nonsense.”</p>

<p>Tremblingly I left the rostrum, went to my desk and took
out my little speech book. Having examined it, and found
that Mrs. Hemans’ beautiful verses were printed correctly,
he turned upon me with his severest tone, and demanded to
know what I meant by such ridiculous gibberish. I pleaded
that I had got in the habit of talking so for fun, and could
not help it on the stage.</p>

<p>He showed some disposition to use the rod, but my agitation
so plainly declared my innocence he dismissed me, with
the command to remain after school, and recite it to him.</p>

<p>But, dear me, when one gets to talking of one’s own history,
there are so many things so vivid to us, and of such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
deep interest in our memory, while others care nothing for
them, that we frequently transgress the bounds of all
patience. As far as the narrative coincides with the reader’s
own observation and experience, he will be interested; but
should it go beyond, unless adorned with a marvellous
mystery, he is wearied with the author’s prolixity. As I have
still a considerable portion of my life to lay before my
readers, I will not weary them further with puerile details,
but, begging their indulgence for one more chapter of childhood’s
history, I will pass on to a later period of my existence.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c54" id="c54">CHAPTER VII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">At</span> the close of the second session it was proposed that
we give a party. We held a meeting in the Academy, and
elected a Committee of Management. These important and
business transacting gentlemen soon came around with
their subscription lists. As I was one of the small boys I
had to subscribe only a dollar, but I felt as munificent as
Mithridates, when I wrote “John Smith,” and, parallel with
it, placed a small crooked “1” and two very fat ciphers,
yoked together like the sign of the spectacles over a
jeweller’s store. At dinner that day I obtained the amount
from father, and mother pinned it in my jacket pocket for
safety. When I returned in the afternoon I took out the pin
before I reached the Academy and crumpled the bill in my
pocket, to give it a careless look. When I handed it to the
collector he expressed no gratitude, and evinced no feeling
whatever on the subject, merely checking off my name with
his pencil, and placing my dollar, in the coolest manner
possible, with the other funds of the enterprise. But I was
repaid, however, for such indifferent treatment, when the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
gilt embossed tickets came out, and I received my two. I
carried one home, and put it in our card basket as a standing
evidence of my interest in the party, and sent the other
to Lulie, with my compliments written in ink of the bluest
hue.</p>

<p>Of course those who would not subscribe were regarded
with great contempt by all who did, and epithets expressive
of avarice and miserly meanness were heaped with unsparing
liberality upon them. In some cases these were deserved,
but there were many very poor boys in school, and I often
blushed to hear their poverty ridiculed and themselves made
the subjects of unfeeling jest. I recall one little scene.</p>

<p>I was standing near, perhaps, the poorest boy in school,
when one of the managers, a proud, stuck-up youth, approached,
and said to him:</p>

<p>“I say, Willie, you’ll give us something for the party,
won’t you?”</p>

<p>I noticed a slight quiver on Willie’s lip as he replied:</p>

<p>“I have only twenty-five cents at home, and mother is
not able to give me any more, but you are welcome to that,
if you will have it.”</p>

<p>“We don’t want any of your quarters. A dollar is the
smallest contribution we take. But let me tell you, if you
don’t subscribe you must not go to the party, and hang
around to fill your pockets.”</p>

<p>“You need not fear that I will come,” said the little fellow,
as he drew his hat over his face and turned away, not
however, before I had seen something glistening fall from his
cheek, and make a tiny, wet circle in the sand.</p>

<p>This digression, with the hope that some school boy who
may read this book, may be led to reflect (which is rare)
that others, besides himself, have feelings that may be hurt.</p>

<p>The eventful evening of the eventful day at length
arrived, and I went up to my room to make my extensive
toilet. My clothes were spread out on the bed ready for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
my donning, and I stopped to contemplate their striking
effect. My white pants gleamed beside a new blue jacket,
with as bright buttons as Frank Paning ever dared to wear,
and a snowy collar, already folded down, lay beside a handsome
silk bow. I had given orders that my pants should be
starched very stiff, with very deep creases down the legs.
These instructions I found faithfully fulfilled, for they were
so stuck together it was with great difficulty I could open
the legs sufficiently to admit my own, and when they were
at last on, I found that our laundress had ironed the creases
down the sides instead of on the front of the legs, and the
wide, hard linen stood out on each side of my feet like great
paddles, and tapped, one against the other, with a noise that
would have attracted attention in a mill. To add to my discouragement
about the pants, my shoes, which I had
ordered to be shined up for this extra occasion, came up to
my room with one string gone; and as it could not be
found, and it was too late to go out to purchase another, I
had to borrow a light colored one with brass tips from
mother, and trust to luck to hide my feet. As I had not
reached the age of ability to fasten my own collar, I called
in Aunt Hannah, who was passing my door. The old lady,
being a little dim of vision, pinned my collar and bow just
far enough to one side to give my head the appearance of
being set on crooked; but as I was not extremely fastidious,
and was moreover in great haste, I thought it would do by
slightly turning my head, so as to keep my chin just over
the bow. Putting on my jacket, and seeing its perfect fit,
restored my equanimity, but I lost it fearfully again when I
came to brush my hair.</p>

<p>The Lacedæmonians used always to comb their hair before
entering battle, and if their crinal adjustment caused
them a tithe the irritation mine did me, we may cease to
wonder at their reckless courage and desperate conduct.</p>

<p>My locks yielded to the combined influence of comb,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
brush, water, and oil, and smoothly fell, except in one particular
place&mdash;that perverse spot in the crown of the head,
where the hair seems to have grown in a whirlwind. Here
it would not “down,” but remained a capillary Banquo, in
obstinate uprightness. After repeated proofs of its invincible
stubbornness I was forced to leave it proudly erect, like
the republic of Ragusa, among crouching kingdoms. Having
completed my Beau-Brummellization, and received father’s
injunction not to stay late, I hurried to the assembly rooms.</p>

<p>The managers had engaged two halls; one for the grown
people, with music stand and waxed floor, and a large empty
room, with a few benches round the wall, for the little folks
and their games. Thither I bent my course, and entered.
Just inside the door I found a throng of the inevitable party
jackals, who always frequent public entertainments. They
hang round the doors, and stand in corners till supper is
announced, when, the moment the ladies leave the table,
they rush in upon the spoils. They number among them
many who claim eminent respectability, yet who, being too
bashful to mingle with the ladies, are of course too bashful
to behave well. As I squeezed my way through this motley
throng, many were the taunts I heard levelled at my
unfortunate person, all of which I treated with silent contempt;
but as I entered the hall fairly I heard a hoarse
whisper behind me:</p>

<p>“He’s getting skeered on the top of his head, look how
his hair has riz.”</p>

<p>I wilted under this last remark, and involuntarily smoothed
my hand over the Ragusan hairs, to the great delight and
boisterous merriment of the jackals.</p>

<p>As soon as I had time to look about me, I saw Ned Cheyleigh,
Frank Paning, and Lulie Mayland, over in a corner,
with several other boys and girls of my acquaintance. Ned
motioned to me to join them, and, much relieved, I hastened
across the room.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p>

<p>There were two benches arranged so that their occupants
were placed <i>vis à vis</i>, and on one of these sat the boys, with
their hats on their knees, and their arms resting on each
others’ shoulders. The girls occupied the other, and were
much more at their ease, though there was very little
attempt at conversation, as the moment anybody spoke
everybody else looked straight at them, and listened. This
state of affairs proving very dry and uninteresting, it was
proposed that we play some games. The proposal came
from Frank, and Lulie was the first to accede to it. This
circumstance, trivial as it was, tended greatly to diminish
my interest in the proceedings. Frank and I had never had
much dealing with each other since the affair at Miss Hester’s,
though that was not so much the cause as the fact
that we were rivals for Lulie’s heart. The little flirt always
made me believe, when I was alone with her, that I was
decidedly her preference, but somehow when we were both
thrown into her presence, Frank always received the lion’s
share of her smiles, remarks and attention. My good temper
for the evening was nearly spoiled on this occasion when
Frank proposed “Club Fist,” and laid his doubled-up hand
in Lulie’s lap, she placing her’s immediately on it, followed
by the hands of all the throng, till there was quite a Timour’s
tower of human bones. To think of her hand being pressed
by every other hand down on his, was almost too much for
a lover to bear, but I swallowed my resentment as best I
could, and joined my own hand to the tower.</p>

<p>The very startling query, “What have you got there?”
and the immediate abduction of the dimpled hand of a girl,
or the chubby fist of a boy from the pile, were all gone
through with, till the bottom hand was reached. The chain
of destruction from the cat who so feloniously appropriated
“my share,” to the knife hid behind the old church door,
was carefully ascended, and the solemn sentence pronounced:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p>

<p>“A for apple, P for pear, the first one who laughs or
speaks shall receive three hard slaps and pinches.” All
were as silent as Pythagorean novitiates, though many were
the contortions to restrain laughter, till after a few moments
Lulie’s merry laugh was heard.</p>

<p>She pleaded that she could not help it; that Frank made
such a funny face at her that she was compelled to laugh.
She was, however, convicted, and we commenced to punish
her. When it came Frank’s turn to pinch her, he did so so
severely that she gave a little scream of pain, and declared
she would pay him for it presently. When she presented
her arm to me I felt that all the gallantry of my soul forbade
cruelty to her, and I scarcely touched the soft flesh. My
consideration did not seem to be very highly appreciated, for
she turned off without a word, and commenced the payment
of her debt to Frank. A very torturing and envy-causing
game they made of it for me, as I looked frowningly on,
wishing most earnestly that she was in my debt, and would
pay it as thoroughly.</p>

<p>Club Fist was now voted dull, and blindman’s buff proposed.
Frank volunteered to be blindfolded, and the game
soon became a merry one. Peals of laughter, as all ran
helter skelter to avoid him, whispers of stealth as they crept
about behind him, and screams of excitement as they just
eluded his grasp, added pleasant confusion to the merriment.
Frank took good care to arrange the handkerchief so that
he could see, though he stumbled about enough to avoid
suspicion. He pretended to single out Lulie by her laugh,
and soon made her his captive. Then Lulie was blinded,
and after a long chase caught one of the girls, who in her
turn caught Ned. Frank this time contrived to stumble
against Ned, and of course, being caught, wore the handkerchief
again. Poor artless I played with all my might,
and dodged and tacked with as much earnestness as Acteon
did his own dogs. After the bandage had been exchanged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
many times I was caught by some one, but just as I was
preparing to become as blind as Melctal, Frank said we had
had enough of the game, and all agreed to quit. We amused
ourselves in various ways for an hour or so longer, Frank
making an almost entire monopoly of Lulie, while I hung
around with dogged expectancy of a chance after a while.
After another hour’s interval supper was announced, and
each of the boys took his engagée to the supper hall. I
went sullenly alone. The room was densely crowded, and
the clatter of plates and dishes, the jingle of glasses, the
hum of voices, the popping of corks and cracker bon bons,
and the general noise of the bustle to and fro, confused and
deafened me. The grown people from the other hall were
there, and boys and girls, beaux and belles of whiskers and
satins, all mingled in an incongruous and grotesque mass.
Squeezing my way down the table I found myself opposite
to Frank and Lulie, and, as I saw him engaging her in conversation,
or piling up her plate with delicacies, overwhelming
her with constant and tender attentions, which were
received as tenderly by her, jealousy deprived me of all
appetite, and I strove to divert my attention by observing
those around me. As I glanced down the long tables, a
double vista of snowy necks and arms, white waistcoats,
flashing jewels, sparkling fans, with an occasional raising
here and there of a white glove, or a cobweb handkerchief,
appeared as if on dress parade, ranged in open order for the
table to march through. Here a vivacious beauty raised a
dainty bit on her fork, and poising it at her mouth as she
finished a remark, looked as if the fork were a doctor, and
she had sore throat; there a languid youth dipped his downy
attempt at a moustache in a glass of wine, and a little
farther on a courting couple, without originality, seemed
actually interested in the verses on the candies. But however
engaged, at what stage soever of the supper they
arrived, everybody seemed to be of some interest to somebody<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
else, except myself. I was emphatically alone. I was
getting desperate, and turned to leave the table, when I
glanced at Lulie, and saw that Frank had left her side
temporarily. As she caught my eye, she said, with her
sweetest smile:</p>

<p>“John, won’t you please get me some frozen cream, this
on the stand has all melted; Frank has gone now to see if
he can find a waiter who knows anything about the table.
The confusion is quite confusing;” and she coughed with an
affected air behind her fan, as if her last sentence had been
quite an effort.</p>

<p>Glad to be of any service to anybody, I bowed, and, taking
her proffered plate, dived into the throng, to make my way
to the freezers. Now nearly run over by a hastening
waiter, now in the way of a retiring couple, often spilling
little streams of the melted cream over the black cloth of a
gentleman, or the pearly silk of a lady, and, before I could
recover from their indignant glance or muttered objurgations,
having it tilted into my own bosom by some passers,
I at length reached the stand on which was placed the
freezing apparatus. Here I had to wait till all patience was
exhausted before I could get what I wished, but, stubbornly
determined, I stood my ground, and at length received my
plate, heaped up as if for a glutton. To return with a
running-over plate was indeed more perilous than my journey
thither. I was threading my way carefully along, and
had proceeded half way down the room, when I met Frank
and Lulie leaving.</p>

<p>“Oh! you found it after all,” she said, as she saw me
approaching, carrying the dripping plate out at arm’s
length, as if it were a hot kettle, “I am very much obliged
for the trouble you have taken, but Frank brought me some
a short time after you left.”</p>

<p>I was too much chagrined to reply, but giving Frank a
dagger look as they passed out, I threw the plate down on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
the nearest table, and left the room. I resolved, as soon as
I could get an interview with Lulie, to load her with reproaches,
and bid her farewell forever. But on going back
to the party room I saw Lulie sitting by herself, Frank
having left her for awhile. I determined to go immediately
to her and have my talk out with her, but felt like modifying
very much the bitterness of its spirit. What we say in
a person’s presence is very much less than what we think
we will say before we see them.</p>

<p>I went over and took a seat by Lulie, and for the first
time in the evening felt a little gleam of pleasure in my
heart. She received me kindly, and made some trifling
remark about my being out of spirits, but I did not heed
her. Coming, like a boy, bluntly to the point, I asked:</p>

<p>“Lulie, do you like Frank Paning? I do not, he tries to
be so smart.”</p>

<p>“Why, yes,” she said, coloring a little, and biting the tip
of her fan, “I do like him some; surely you don’t dislike
him for being smart.”</p>

<p>“I don’t mean smart that way; but there’s another bigger
reason than that: he is always with you when I want to be.”</p>

<p>“Well, that’s your fault,” she replied, looking at me
archly. “I am sure if he comes to me first you can’t expect
me to drive him away for you, can you?”</p>

<p>“But he’s been with you all to-night, and I have not had
a chance to even talk with you a minute. I wanted to carry
you to the supper, but of course he was ahead of me.”</p>

<p>“You ought to have asked me before he did.”</p>

<p>“Even if I had you would have preferred going with him,
wouldn’t you?”</p>

<p>“Oh! I must not say, it might flatter you.”</p>

<p>“I wish,” I muttered savagely, “he was back in South
Carolina, or wherever he came from.”</p>

<p>“I certainly do not,” she said, with some warmth; “I
thought you and Frank were great friends.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p>

<p>“We were at first, but ever since he lied to Miss Hester, I
have not had any use for him.”</p>

<p>“I was angry with him myself that day,” she said, after
a little pause, and with a slight change in her tone, “but he
has made it all right since. He says he did not see any
reason why he should take a whipping when he could get
out of it without telling a lie. I cried real hard, though,
that day about you and Ned.”</p>

<p>“I don’t expect you cried much for me; ‘twas all for Ned.”</p>

<p>This I said as a feeler, and I watched closely, as well as
vainly, to discover some sign of emotion in her reply.</p>

<p>“No, indeed,” she said, looking straight at me, without
any drooping of the timorous eyelids, as I had expected; “I
felt as if I could take half your blows.”</p>

<p>“I would have them doubled to hear you say so,” I replied,
with great warmth and an attempt at a theatrical
pressure of my heart, which, however, failed in its effect,
from my ignorance of the exact location of that vital organ.</p>

<p>The conversation was now beginning to assume for me a
most agreeable turn, and I was beginning to feel recompensed
for all my chagrin of the evening, when, to my
unspeakable horror I saw William, our servant, coming
across the room with my cloak in his hand.</p>

<p>“Marse John, your father says it is time for you to come
home. Here is your cloak mistis sent.”</p>

<p>The reversion of feeling was too strong for utterance, and
with a choked voice and swimming eyes I rose, and, without
a word of parting to Lulie, went out with William. Just as
I reached the outer door I met Frank coming in. He bowed
with mock reverence, and said, with a sneer:</p>

<p>“Good night, little baby; go to your cradle.”</p>

<p>“I’ll whip you to-morrow!” was all I could grind out between
my clenched teeth, while he ran, laughing, into the
hall. As I groped my way down the steps, my eyes all
blinded with tears, I heard some one say:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p>

<p>“Here come the band! they are going to play for the
children.”</p>

<p>This was the last feather on the camel’s back of my fortitude,
and I broke down into sobbing.</p>

<p>To have Lulie think I was babyish, and had to be sent
for; to have our conversation broken off so suddenly, when
it was becoming so pleasant; to leave a scene of gaiety before
it was finished, and then, too, when the best part was
coming, and, above all, to have my hated rival triumph in
my humiliation, was enough to have crushed a stouter heart
than mine.</p>

<p>When we reached the corner, round which we turned into
our street, William stopped, and said:</p>

<p>“There! listen at the music!”</p>

<p>I wiped away the tears from my eyes, and looked back
at the building. ‘Twas brightly illuminated, and indistinct
forms could be seen passing to and fro at the windows. A
quick, lively air from the band came floating to my ears,
and I knew Frank was by Lulie’s side.</p>

<p>“Oh, William,” I sobbed, “I&mdash;do&mdash;want&mdash;to&mdash;go
back&mdash;so bad.”</p>

<p>“I think it was a pity marster sent for you so soon,” he
said, “but you are done and away now, and we’d better go
on home.”</p>

<p>Wretched, indeed, I ascended the steps at home, and was
met at the door by father.</p>

<p>“Well, Johnnie,” he said, locking the door after I had
gotten in, “this is right late for a little boy to be up, isn’t
it? What! crying! What is the matter?”</p>

<p>“Father&mdash;, I did&mdash;hate to&mdash;leave&mdash;so much&mdash;. The&mdash;band
was coming&mdash;to play&mdash;for us&mdash;and I was just&mdash;beginning
to&mdash;see some&mdash;fun.”</p>

<p>“I am sorry I broke you up,” he said, kindly, “but it is
very late, and much for the best that you should be at home.
Good night; run up to bed.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p>

<p>I went up to my room, and tumbled on the bed with my
clothes on. My mind was full of bitter, burning thoughts.
I fancied I could still hear the band, and whenever I closed
my eyes Lulie’s form, with Frank hovering near, rose to my
vision.</p>

<p>Next morning I rose with a headache, and for relief
walked out. My steps involuntarily led me to the scene of
my chagrin, and in a sad kind of reverie I wandered through
the rooms.</p>

<p>‘Tis sad food for reflection to visit a ball room the morning
after the ball. Dreary silence has taken the place of noisy
mirth and revelry, and the walls and floor look wan in the
yellow sunlight, as if suffering from their night’s dissipation.
The chandeliers quiver their pendent prisms at your approach,
and tinkle a drowsy salutation. Around the music
stand are scattered a leaf or two of music, fragments of rosin,
and half sucked lemons; along the floor we pick up a fallen
wreath, a slipper’s rosette, or a torn fragment of tarlatan.
These are all that remind us of the whirling throng that
mingled here.</p>

<p>‘Tis very much like life! We thoughtlessly dance upon
its arena, and departing leave behind us, some at least, the
evergreen wreath, some the tarnished rosette of pleasures
tried and found empty, and some the poor torn shred of
fruitless ambition.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c65" id="c65">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">One</span> would hardly recognize in the tall youth the little
boy that cried so when called away from the party, but
times and persons change a great deal in seven years. Ned
Cheyleigh is still my bosom friend, nobler, truer and more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
manly, if a soul such as his can know any degree of improvement.
Frank Paning and myself, after innumerable quarrels
and make-ups, have grown somewhat intimate, partly from
the fact that our families are near neighbors, and partly
because we are thrown together so constantly at school,
being the only two members of a Latin class. He has lost
much of his boyish rudeness, and when it is politic is kind,
obliging and pleasant, but I still often feel in his presence
the old sensation of repulsion. Lulie is still the bone between
us, though with infinite tact she contrives to preserve
the balance of feeling. Frank thinks he has the best
of the contest, and I often am obliged to think so too, though
generally my conceit and vanity keep my spirits up. Thus
much for relative position as regards each other. And if,
reader, you have become interested in us sufficiently to
desire to see us personally, I will endeavor to give you our
pictures. First, then, is Ned, a rather stout, thick-set figure;
round open face, with large very blue eyes, firm mouth&mdash;not
expressed so much in the lips as in the set of the teeth beneath
them; brownish dark hair, which, though always kept
short, always looks dishevelled; nose the least prominent
feature in his face, though straight and well formed; his
whole face expressing so much integrity of conduct and
candor of meaning, that Campanella would have sworn by
him without ever hearing him utter a word, though there
was not as much depth in it as a man of the world could
have wished for. Frank was almost his exact opposite, and
much the handsomer of the two. His form was very tall for
his age, and graceful; his hair jet black, and curling crisply
over a well shaped head; his nose slightly aquiline and
long; his mouth, with very white teeth, was always a little
curled, either with a smile or a sneer; and, whatever his state
of feelings, it ever wore one of these expressions, their only
variation being an increased intensity. His eyes were rather
small, very black, yet showing a great deal of white in their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
oblique glances. He always looked straight at you in ordinary
pleasant converse, or when he thought he had you at
a disadvantage; but when himself in the inferiority, his
glance was down and aside, in fact every way but into your
eyes. For instance, he could never look his teacher in the
face when arraigned for a misdemeanor, yet he would gaze
steadily at a comrade while accusing him of wrong. And it
was a frequent jest in school that when Frank Paning’s eyes
fell he was under “hack.”</p>

<p>But to give you an exact idea of Lulie Mayland is beyond
my power. I can describe well enough her bright sunny
face, with its clear hazel eyes, its dimpled chin and pouting
lips, and her cheeks with the roses coming and going with
almost every word; but I cannot describe the effect of the
thoughts that seemed to be ever coming up from her soul
to her face, yet never uttered. There was always something
more beneath those eyes you longed to know. If she looked
and expressed sorrow for a misfortune, you knew, as you
gazed into her face, there was a vast well of sympathy untold.
If she laughed, and laughing was her life’s most constant
phase, you felt that it was only the bubbles of mirth,
that its springs were yet to be sounded. And in my intercourse
with her I always felt there were two Lulies&mdash;one on
the surface, a bright laughing girl, with a warm sunny heart,
whom I loved dearly, and who I sometimes thought loved
me; the other was a far more radiant being, whose face was
beneath the first Lulie’s, and whose shadow or likeness she
constantly wore, though never distinctly enough to be perfectly
recognized. And this last Lulie was the idol of my
heart&mdash;she whom I adored so unceasingly, and yet who I
knew deep in my heart never loved me.</p>

<p>I would not affect mystery with this duality; I simply
wish to present an idea of one of those faces we sometimes
see&mdash;faces that, strive how they will, by word and look, can
never express all their meaning; faces that, from their very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
secrecy, so to speak, possess a power we either dread or
love. Lulie’s power over me I loved; and loving, hoped one
day to attain to the love of her inner soul.</p>

<p>Mr. Cheyleigh possessed a beautiful residence on the
Sound, about eight miles from Wilmington, and Ned invited
Frank and myself to spend the vacation with him. What
an Elysium it was for us! Horses, dogs and boats at our
command! Every nook of the Sound was explored in our
fishing, crabbing and shrimping excursions; every swamp
and lake invaded in our search for summer game. But of all
our pleasures the greatest was to go over to the beach and
take the surf. The delicate votaries of fashion at the watering
places know nothing of its real luxury. Swathed in flannel
and buoyed by ropes they strangle through the tortures
of a dip, and declare it charming. But to go beyond the reach
of <i>lorgnettes</i>, to disrobe entirely without fear of the sun’s
tanning, to trip lightly over the cool moist sand, and plunge
into the great tossing ocean, is to really enjoy the thing.</p>

<p>But now we are in; we find our depth, and wait for the
wave. Ah, here it comes! A great green fellow, crumbling
towards the shore; a smooth, glassy valley before it, and its
white crest curling proudly in its power. “Here it is! how
it rustles! turn your backs! now spring!” and the next
instant, swept from our feet, we ride the great monster to
land, where he throws us high upon the sand, and sinks
back to his watery domain, with a growl for our intrusion.</p>

<p>With our numerous sports time passed all the more
rapidly, and we were preparing to return home. The evening
previous to the day appointed was a dark and threatening
one. A heavy blue bank lay in the west, and though
the sun, as he passed beyond it, had thrown across it a
bright golden fringe, it refused to be propitiated, and sullenly
waited till he had disappeared, when it loomed blackly up,
while the constant quivering of the lightning, and the distant,
heavy jarring of the thunder told that a storm of no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
ordinary magnitude was brewing. After tea Mr. Cheyleigh
went out on the back piazza to smoke, while we boys took
our seats on the steps, and in subdued tones told tales of
the awful effects of lightning, and its affinity for isolated
houses like Mr. Cheyleigh’s. The cloud had now reached
half way up the heavens, and its dark line was distinctly
marked on the blue of the sky. A few brave little stars
were twinkling defiantly in front of it, though the bright
evening star had long since sunk behind its folds. It grew
very dark, so that all objects in the yard were invisible, save
when for an instant illuminated by the greenish flickering
glare of the lightning. We at length caught the dull roar
of the distant wind, while the leaves gave their premonitory
rustle, as a poor frightened little zephyr fled to them for
refuge. We heard the tap of Mr. Cheyleigh’s pipe, and saw
the fiery sparks fall from the railing and glow a moment or
two amidst the grass, then a few great drops of rain pattered
down on the steps, and we rose and entered the house.
Windows were pulled down, shutters were fastened, and
doors were closed. Another shake among the trees, and
then came the shedding, gushing sound of the rain as it fell
in torrents, while the wind in all its fury burst upon us.
The house cracked, the windows shook, and the corners
howled in the terrific blast, while the window sashes clashed
back and forth in their slides, as if the storm would burst in
the very panes. The lightning showed through the blinds
even with the lamps lighted, as if it was broad day out
doors, every other second, while the thunders filled up the
intervals of darkness with repeated peals, each of which
seemed vieing with its predecessor in stunning, deafening
sounds.</p>

<p>We all gathered around the lamp stands in silence, and
looked into each other’s faces, with eyes wide open from
apprehension. Mrs. Cheyleigh had two of the smaller children
in her lap, their heads buried in her bosom, and her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
head resting down on theirs, to keep from seeing the
lightning. Mr. Cheyleigh was trying to read, but at every
severe peal of thunder would take down the paper and
press his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, as if muttering
a prayer to himself. The dining room maids were
standing back against the wall, their hands folded under
their white aprons, and their heads leaning together as they
whispered and snickered about their sable beaux. At length
Mrs. Cheyleigh spoke, her voice having a very solemn and
liturgical tone:</p>

<p>“Mr. Cheyleigh, isn’t this an awful storm?”</p>

<p>As if in applause of her question, a burst of thunder, louder
than any before, rolled across the sky, and fell off somewhere
in the distance with a terrible thump and a long deep growl.</p>

<p>“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Cheyleigh, taking his fingers
from his eyes to tear off a corner of his newspaper and put in
his mouth; “I have not known so strong a blow as this for
several years.”</p>

<p>“I trust,” said Mrs. Cheyleigh, raising her head from the
children, with the prints of their heads on her cheeks, “that
there is nothing like this to-night at the Springs, where
Gertrude and Ella are.”</p>

<p>“Nonsense, my dear,” said Mr. Cheyleigh smiling a little,
“this storm only extends a few miles along our coast. I
fear for the vessels, though, if there should be any in reach of
this wind.”</p>

<p>“Oh, ‘twould be frightful, indeed, to be on the water such
a night as this. I hope every ship is safe in some harbor,”
answered Mrs. Cheyleigh, laying her hands on the little
heads in her lap, as if they were two little ships, and her
arms were their harbor. Aye, they were! Live how or
where we may, life’s ocean has no surer shelter from its
storms than a mother’s arms; and if early in our voyage this
harbor is closed up by the tomb rocks, we only beat about
as best we may till we anchor in the vail!</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p>

<p>Mr. Cheyleigh now rose, and going to the window, shaded
his eyes with the palms of his hand, while he gazed out into
the darkness. Turning into the light again, he said:</p>

<p>“I think the danger of the storm is over now, only the rain
is falling. As amusements are out of the question I think
the children had better go to bed.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Cheyleigh accordingly raised the two little ones from
her lap, they getting up with their hair over their eyes,
which they kept half shut, as if afraid of another blinding
flash of lightning. As they left the room with their attendant,
we sat down to the table and made a hasty supper,
and after that took our lamps and retired.</p>

<p>In our rooms we undressed, and laying down commenced
to talk over the subject of lost ships and rescues. The
thunder had moved so far off as to be scarcely audible,
though the pale reflected lightning still flickered through
the shutters. The wind was still very strong, and drove
the heavy rain drops with sharp clicks upon the window
panes, as if a million little storm sprites were trying to kick
the glass in with their tiny feet. As we lay there, our
imaginations filled with the horrors of the sea, we performed
enough feats in fancy to have made bankrupt all the humane
societies by our demands for medals.</p>

<p>We saved from watery graves enough fair women to set
up a larger colony of Bacchæ than Euripides ever sung, or
Tennyson jailed in his Womans’ Rights College. We
brought off enough treasure in our lifeboat to give every
ass in the nation a pair of gold ears, which, in the present
condition of affairs, would require more of the precious
metal than a Briarean Midas could ever touch into existence
with all his hands.</p>

<p>After saving several fleets larger than the Armada we at
length got to sleep. Once I awoke under the impression
that I heard a cannon shot, and listening I heard three distinct
booms, at intervals of a minute or two; but as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
lightning was still glimmering I concluded it was the thunder,
and, getting a little closer to Ned, dropped to sleep
again.</p>

<p>When we went down next morning we found that the
storm had left strong marks of its violence everywhere.
The yard was washed into gullies and trenches, and strewed
with the limbs and leaves of the trees and bunches of mistletoe.
One side of the garden paling was blown down, and
the rose bushes and shrubbery torn and bent. Down at the
stables the water was standing in great yellow pools, in
which were floating the shingles and pieces of board torn
from the roofs around. The horses and mules were all wet
on their backs and manes, where the rain had beat through
after the shingles were loosened. The cattle were all
drenched, and looked as melancholy, as they stood around
the fences with their sleek dripping coats, as if they had
been bereaved. The chickens, as well as the dogs, had their
tails drooping down instead of erect, a sure sign that they
were out of spirits, and nothing in sight seemed to have enjoyed
the storm except an old black and white Muscovite
drake, who was washing his muddy feathers in a muddy puddle
of water near the gate, fluttering his wings, bobbing his
head, and whispering, in the greatest glee, to his lady, who
was waddling around the edge, followed by a little brood as
yellow as if just hatched from the famous golden eggs.</p>

<p>The corn, as far as we could see, was lapped and twisted
in the rows, while the rice was lying flat as before a sickle.
The sky was still overcast, and great shaggy masses of
cloud were drifting rapidly southward, as if ashamed of the
havoc they had made. Here and there for an instant shone
little patches of blue sky, which kept coming and going all
the morning, increasing each time in size, till at noon the sun
shone brightly out, jeweling the foliage, gilding the landscape,
and even condescending to paint a tiny spectrum on
each glistening blade of grass.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p>

<p>After dinner Ned proposed that we go over to the beach,
and see the effect of the storm there. As it took us some
time to get our boat ready, and the wind was against us,
we did not get to the beach till late in the evening. The
clouds had all been bleached by the sun to fleecy whiteness,
and now, taking their gorgeous orange vestures from the
wardrobe of the West, they ranged themselves like Titanic
sentries to guard their monarch’s couch.</p>

<p>Far away toward their domain stretched a verdant panorama
of washed and fresh looking forests, white, nestling
cottages and the wimpling sheen of the Sound. We turned
to the grand old ocean, who would not be so easily appeased.
The scowl of his fury still lingered on his face, and
he lashed the shore in sullen though subsiding rage. The
parting sun threw over his angry countenance a shimmering
veil of gold, but could not hide the frown. Yet ‘twas
wondrous pleasing to behold the myriads of sunlit bubbles,
sparkling with rainbow helmets, mount their billow steeds,
and, in a long, regular line, come charging to the shore. As
fast as one squadron was dashed upon the immovable sand,
that lay like a great yellow dragon before them, another
succeeded; and, like the victims of Peter the Hermit’s and
Bernard’s fanaticism, these millions of little crusaders were
wasted on a fitting type of the desolate East.</p>

<p>After contemplating the scene for some time, we began
to search up and down the beach for signs of wreck or
objects tossed ashore. Something far down the beach
caught our eye, and we all hastened toward it, wondering
what it could be. There was a dark object, whose shape
we could not make out, and near it a bright scarlet something.
Curiosity lent wings, and we flew over the distance.
Frank Paning was rather fleeter than Ned or myself, and
outran us by many yards. We saw him, as he reached the
objects, raise both hands and turn towards us with a face
full of horror. In a moment we were at his side.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p>

<p>Before us, on the sand, lay two figures still and cold.
One was the form of a little girl, lashed to what appeared
to be the door of a ship’s cabin. She was bound closely
to it with ropes, and was lying with her bloodless cheek
pressed down upon the rough panels. Her garments seemed
to be of very fine material and make, though now
drenched with sea water; over her shoulders was clinging
a scarlet cape or mantle, which was the red spot that had
attracted our notice. At her side was strapped a curiously
carved steel box, now heavily oxidized by the salt sea.</p>

<p>The door and its human freight had been cast high up
on the shore; but, tied by one wrist to the knob of the
door, lower towards the water, stretched the figure of a
man. He was lying on his face, which was so much sunk
in the yielding sand that we could only observe his hair,
which was long and gray. His form was tall and large, and
clad in a black suit of clothes; around his waist was strapped
a broad belt of leather, to which, if anything was
attached, we could not see it, as the ends must have been
beneath him. Ever and anon a wave would break on
the shore, and, as if mocking its victims, come rustling up
the sand, covering the half buried feet, floating the clinging
clothes, on and up, till it lifted and waved like moss the
dank gray hair, then sink, sighing, back to the sea; while
he lay there, so heedless of all, stretching the cord-bound
hand, with its blue, water-shrivelled fingers, appealingly yet
protectingly, toward the child on the door.</p>

<p>We gazed long, with all the silence of horror, at the sad
spectacle, and with agitated looks at each other. I at
length spoke:</p>

<p>“Boys, what must we do? They ought to know of this
at Mr. Cheyleigh’s.”</p>

<p>“Yes, indeed, they ought,” said Ned. “Let’s go over
and get the negroes and the big boat, and carry both bodies
home.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p>

<p>“Do you reckon they are both dead?” whispered Frank.</p>

<p>“They must be,” returned Ned, looking at them both
attentively. “The man is, I am sure; for, if not dead
before, the water washing so constantly over him since he
has lain here would have drowned him.”</p>

<p>“Let’s see, any way,” said I; and we all three stooped
to lift the man first. Not without a shudder did we touch
the cold, clammy flesh, as we strove to drag him up from
the water’s edge. His weight was too great for us, clogged
as he was with sand and water, and we could only move
him up the bank a foot or two, and turn him over on his
back. We cleaned the sand as well as we could from his
mouth, nostrils and eyes&mdash;the faded blue balls of the last
being so thickly covered with the fine, sharp grains that we
had to wipe them very hard with our handkerchiefs&mdash;at
least Ned and I did; Frank vowed he wasn’t going to put
his handkerchief in a dead man’s eyes, just to get the grits
out.</p>

<p>We then left the man and tried the girl with better success.
We cut the cords that held her to the door, and lifted
her up; Ned supporting her head as tenderly as a woman.
Never had I dreamed of such beauty! Her face was as
colorless as marble, but showed more perfectly for that its
exquisite outline; her temples were chased with a network
of blue veins that were brought out more distinctly by the
cold water she had been in so long. Her eyes were closed,
but the lids atoned by their rose-leaf texture and long black
fringe. Her mouth was partially open, as if gasping, but
made up for this slight disfigurement by disclosing a set of
the clearest, smoothest teeth. But, though each separate
feature was beautiful, there was a look about them when
combined that baffles all description. Perhaps her beauty
was enhanced by her romantic surroundings; but I could
not help thinking, as she lay there so passive and still, that
the angel who had borne her soul away had been trying on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
the faces of heaven, to see which would suit her best, and
had forgotten to take off his fairest.</p>

<p>As we looked on in silent admiration, Ned placed his
hand upon her forehead, and exclaimed with great animation:</p>

<p>“Look here, John! her flesh does not feel like the other’s&mdash;it
is cold, but not so clammy.”</p>

<p>A touch confirmed his remark; for while her hands and
forehead were icy cold, there was not that peculiar deathlike
clamminess or inelasticity about them that tells so infallibly
that the soul has departed, and we drew hope from
this circumstance that she might yet live. We ran at the
next wave and caught our hats full of water, which we
dashed into her face, without stopping to reflect that she
had perhaps had enough of water for the present. We
loosened her clothing as delicately as possible, and began
chafing her hands and arms. Our anxiety to revive her
made us almost drown her again with our hats of water,
and in our eagerness we rubbed the tender flesh almost raw
on her hands and arms.</p>

<p>In the midst of our efforts Ned, who was supporting her,
exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Look! look! she drew her breath.”</p>

<p>We gathered excitedly around and watched her closely,
but her face was still marble&mdash;no sign of life in its pale outlines!
After we had gazed a long while in the most intense
suspense, a quick spasmodic gasp came through her parted
lips, and a quiver played over her eyelids.</p>

<p>What a moment for our heroism! We felt that we were
saving from the monster sea a fairer being than ever Palamon
and Arcite tilted for. Beowulf, conquering the hideous
Grendel, felt no more chivalric pride than did we, as our
lovely waif lay with fitful breathings in our arms.</p>

<p>At length her respiration became more regular, and her
eyes slowly unclosed. “Eyes” is a meagre word for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
magnificent black orbs turned so timidly and wonderingly
upon us; they probably served the commonplace purpose
of vision, but the pleading eloquence of their look, and the
emotions of fear and amazement which were almost audible
in her gaze, declared their primary object to be expression.</p>

<p>Turning them restlessly from one to another of us, and
failing to recognize any one, she closed them, as if in pain.
Ned now ventured to speak, though we were almost afraid
he would scare the soul away again that had been so hardly
persuaded to return.</p>

<p>“Are you suffering now? Don’t be alarmed, we are all
friends.”</p>

<p>Again she opened her eyes, looked wildly at him, then
suddenly seemed to come to consciousness. With a frantic
look of horror she cried out: “<i>Oh, padre! padre!
oh donde està mi padre!</i>” and other frantic sentences, in a
language unknown to us, and strove to rise to her feet.
Ned and I assisted her, and she stood up on the sand. It
was most unfortunate that she did so; for, as she gained
her feet, her eyes fell on the corpse near the water, and,
with a soul-piercing shriek, she sank to the earth, and all
our efforts to revive her again were unavailing. As it had
now grown quite dark we intended to hurry across the
sound and tell Mr. Cheyleigh. Our sail boat being very
small, it was thought best to leave one of us with the body,
and to take the little girl in the boat over to the house. As
it was not a pleasant solitude by any means, we drew pebbles
to see who should remain, and it fell to my lot. Accordingly,
Ned and Frank took up their fair burden, and promising
me to make all the possible haste they could, went
slowly up the banks to their boat. I saw them lay their
charge down gently, hoist the sail and glide away in the
darkness, and I was alone with the dead. The sun had long
since gone down, and the red tinge of the sky was paling
into the dusky gray of twilight. Far up and down the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
beach the dreary waste of waters grew drearier in the deepening
shades, and the darkness fell so fast that when I
looked up at the sky for a moment, and then turned to the
sea, an hour seemed to have elapsed when measured by the
increase of gloom. The sail of Ned’s boat at last disappeared
behind a point of land, and there was nothing for
me to watch but the dead man’s face and the moaning,
tossing waters. It was now too dark to distinguish his features;
there was only the ghastly white shape of his face,
that, as I gazed so long upon it, seemed to make hideous
grimaces at me&mdash;now sneering at my timidity, now opening
its faded eyes to glare at me for having sent the little girl
away; now shutting one eye and opening the other, sometimes
reversing the face, putting the eyes in the chin and
the mouth in the forehead; sometimes disappearing entirely,
then suddenly coming back as white as ever. I
would have fled up the beach, but I was afraid the corpse
would spring up and run after me. And the whole scene
was full of death! The stars seemed dead men’s eyes, the
sob of each wave was a dying groan, the white foam caps
were dying faces, struggling for life, and a white gull, flying
across the sky, was a cloth from the face of a corpse.</p>

<p>Suddenly a light came over the waters, and I looked up
to find that the moon, at its full, was raising its great yellow
disc from the waves. As if in kindly sympathy with me, the
light came dancing over the burnished sea, but ceased its
gambols at the shore, and threw its wan radiance over the
dead face.</p>

<p>With the light I grew bolder, and rose and stood by the
corpse, to see if it had moved. But it was lying as we had
placed it, without a quiver in the face; and again I sat
down upon the sand. Looking over the sound I saw Mr.
Cheyleigh’s boat coming, and the rapid flash of the dripping
oars told that it was speeding well. Inexpressibly relieved, I
went down to the landing and stood there, as unconcerned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
as if I had been pleasantly entertained on the beach. The
rigging rattled as the sails came down, the keel grated on
the sand, and Mr. Cheyleigh, Ned and Frank, and four stout
negroes got out and went to the body. They wrapped it in
blankets, laid it in the bottom of the boat, and with a stiff
breeze and strong oars we soon glided under the shadow of
Mr. Cheyleigh’s boat house. Ned, Frank and I sprang out
and ran ahead to see about the little girl.</p>

<p>Mrs. Cheyleigh was up in her chamber with her, and we
could see only two or three excited negroes, who could tell
nothing. We soon heard the negro men coming up the
steps with their loaded, faltering tread, and we followed
them into the back parlor, where, under Mr. Cheyleigh’s direction,
they deposited their burden, smoothed the blankets
over him, and marched out, picking up their hats from the
corners of the doors, where they had thrown them as they
came into the “gretouse.”</p>

<p>Mr. Cheyleigh then went up stairs to aid Mrs. Cheyleigh
while we turned into the dining room, where they were just
bringing in supper.</p>

<p>“I wonder what will be done with her if Mrs. Cheyleigh
succeeds in bringing her to?” said Frank, as we took our
seats near the open window.</p>

<p>This was something we had not thought of, and we were
somewhat startled by the query; as we considered her ours
by right of discovery, and her disposal, consequently, a
matter of importance to each of us.</p>

<p>“I suppose,” continued Frank, “she’ll have to go to the
Orphan Asylum.”</p>

<p>I repudiated the idea with indignation.</p>

<p>“Never!” I said warmly; “if her friends do not come forward
and claim her, I will get father to adopt her, as he has
no other children beside me.”</p>

<p>“Oh! perhaps you will,” said Frank, with something of a
sneer in his tone; “any way I claim an interest in her, and
will have her for my sweetheart.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p>

<p>“You had better first learn whether she is alive or not,”
said Ned, reprovingly.</p>

<p>The waiting maid, Tildy, here interrupted us:</p>

<p>“Marse Ned, supper’s ready; you reckon your mar’s
gwine to come down?”</p>

<p>“She don’t want none, nohow,” said Winny, another maid,
coming into the room. “I jes come outen her room and she
was a rubbing the little gal with brandy and mustard.”</p>

<p>Tildy again put in, half to Winny and half to us:</p>

<p>“I wonder how come dey never stood de man on his head
to let de water run outen his mouth?”</p>

<p>“Sheer! what you know ‘bout it, gal?” rejoined Winny,
giving her a push on the shoulder with the back of her
hand. “I tell you what, doe Tildy, dey ain’t no poor bokra;
de little gal had on de finest underclose I ever see, mo’ lace
and stuff all round ’em; and when mistis was undressing her
she taken off her neck er big gold chain with er locket hung
to it. I taken it up and looked at it, and it’s got a whole
heap er sets in it, dat shines wors’n mistis’s breastpin.”</p>

<p>Mr. Cheyleigh here entered the room and said:</p>

<p>“Winny! your mistress wants a cup of hot tea and some
toast carried up to her immediately. Come to the table,
boys, Mrs. Cheyleigh will not be down to-night.”</p>

<p>We sat down to the table, but could not eat for eager
questions. Mr. C. informed us that, after much rubbing and
many stimulants, the little girl had become conscious, and
had been able to speak. She had addressed Mrs. C. at first
in Spanish, but, on hearing her give some order to the servants,
inquired if Mrs. C. spoke English, and learning that
she did, used our language quite fluently. Mrs. C. had
gotten her to bed and was trying to keep her from talking.
She had, by a few questions, learned that the little girl was
a Cuban; that her name was Carlotta Lola Rurlestone, and
that she was lost from a ship the night before. She was
constantly asking for her father, and Mrs. Cheyleigh had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
thought it best not to tell her of his death, but had
evaded her queries as best she could. She was under the
influence of an opiate now, and Mrs. C. wanted the house
kept quiet.</p>

<p>After supper we had food enough for conversation till a
late hour, when we retired only to dream of shipwrecks, and
corpses, and half drowned girls.</p>

<p>At the breakfast table the following morning we were
glad to meet Mrs. Cheyleigh, who was able to give us still
more news about our little protégé. She told us she seemed
much better, though feeble; that she recollected the scene
now, and was weeping violently about her father’s death;
that her mother had been dead several years; that her father
was a native of New Orleans, and that he and she had
started to this country to spend the summer, as was their
custom; that they had stormy weather for several days, and
been driven somewhat from their course, and when the
violent storm came on it was said that the ship was sinking;
that her father had lashed her to a cabin door he had
wrenched off, and, that he might not get separated from her,
tied his wrist to its knob. He threw her into the water and
tried to follow, but was jerked over by the weight of the
door, and fell, striking his head violently against it. He
seemed to be stunned, as he made no motion afterwards, but
drifted about with the door, his face down in the water and
his whole body sometimes out of sight. That the ship was
soon blown off and out of sight, and that her agony was so
great, as she saw her father drowning, and could not move
to help him, that she had become insensible, and had known
nothing more till she was in Mrs. Cheyleigh’s room, though
she remembered faintly seeing strange faces around her as
in a dream.</p>

<p>“She is in constant distress about her father,” continued
Mrs. C., “but I hope that, with proper care and attention,
she will recover. Mr. Cheyleigh has sent to town for Dr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
Mayland, and also for the Coroner, who will hold his inquest
as soon as possible.”</p>

<p>Very soon after breakfast the Coroner arrived, and his
jurymen began to drop in one by one.</p>

<p>We went out to the back piazza, where they were assembling,
and walked among the crowd, listening to a confused
jargon of questions in regard to the crops, wonderful tales
of the ravages of the late storm, and surmises as to the
drowned stranger, and the probable verdict that would be
rendered.</p>

<p>The Coroner was a middle aged man, of great self-importance,
who evidently thought an inquest a work of as great
moment as a national negotiation. He took but little interest
in the conversation of the others present, though he
occasionally addressed some words to Mr. Cheyleigh, who
was sitting near him. After considerable delay, and the
assemblage of a large crowd of people, he pulled out his
great fat silver watch, and said slowly:</p>

<p>“Well, I reckon we had as well begin. The morning is
getting on smartly. Where is the body, Mr. Cheyleigh?”</p>

<p>Mr. Cheyleigh led the way, the Coroner and his jury following
in single file till they reached the parlor. They
crowded round the table to get a view of the corpse, all
leaning forward, and holding their hats and hands behind
them, as if they were tied there. The tall men looked on,
while those small in stature moved round and round, vainly
endeavoring to find a gap in the crowd to peep through.</p>

<p>The usual form of selecting and empanelling the jury was
gone through with, and the Coroner commenced to examine
the witnesses. Mr. Cheyleigh was first sworn.</p>

<p>“Mr. Cheyleigh,” said the Coroner, walking his chair backward
on the two hind legs a step or two, to gaze better at
Mr. Cheyleigh through a pair of very broad rimmed silver
specs, “will you please to state all you know about the finding
of this body.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p>

<p>Mr. Cheyleigh came forward very gravely, and proceeded
to relate his knowledge of the affair with a declamatory
style, and with such long words that I did not know whether
he meant to confuse the Coroner by using language above
his two-syllable comprehension, or was acting under the
common impulse of human nature to display proficiency in
any department which has not been attained by those listening.</p>

<p>“The first information,” he began, with a salutatory wave
of his hand, “which I received of the discovery of the bodies
was imparted to me by my son and his friend. Immediately
on receipt of this intelligence I took the large boat, and with
some of my negroes we rapidly made the transit of the
Sound. Their report of the melancholy catastrophe was
unhappily confirmed, for in close proximity to the water’s
edge lay this body. Edward and Frank brought the little
girl over with them when they came for me, and Mrs. Cheyleigh
has succeeded in resuscitating her. The man had
apparently been inanimate for a period of some length, as
his flesh had undergone considerable contraction from contact
with the water&mdash;at least was contracted around the
bones and features; the body proper was very much distended.
He had been tied by one hand to the door of a
ship’s cabin, though the boys had cut the cord. I placed
the body in the boat, and brought it where you now see it.”</p>

<p>The Coroner moved his head up and down, slowly at first,
then faster and in shorter spaces, till it came to rest, like a
spring pendulum, as who should say:</p>

<p>“Just as I expected; all just as I expected;” and then,
with a look of legal sagacity that would have adorned an
Ellenborough, asked:</p>

<p>“Did you bring the door over with you?”</p>

<p>“I deemed that altogether unnecessary, but I took from
the man’s waist a pouch containing some money and one or
two checks for large amounts on New York houses. I also<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
found a very fine watch and chain; the upper lid of the
watch bears a bouquet of diamonds and the initials H. V. R.
Here is the watch and pouch.”</p>

<p>He passed them to the Coroner, who examined every part
as minutely as if he were identifying stolen property, and
having satisfied himself that the articles did not belong to
him, passed them on to the others, who each examined
them in the same critical way.</p>

<p>“What, then, Mr. Cheyleigh,” resumed the Coroner, after
they had all finished their tedious examination of the articles,
and returned them to Mr. C., “do you think was the cause
of his death?”</p>

<p>“Strangulation, sir, from the influx of water into the
larynx, and the consequent exclusion of air.”</p>

<p>“Exactly&mdash;exactly, Mr. Cheyleigh; that will do, sir. Did
you say your son found the bodies?”</p>

<p>“He and two of his friends.”</p>

<p>“We can examine him, then?”</p>

<p>“Certainly, sir.”</p>

<p>Ned was a little confused as he came forward, and kept
passing his hand nervously over his tumbled hair. The
Coroner assumed a mild, patronizing air, and said:</p>

<p>“Well, my son, what can you tell us of this affair?” Ned
swallowed once or twice, and began:</p>

<p>“After the storm, John Smith, Frank Paning and myself
thought we would go over to the banks and take a view
of the ocean. When we got over the sky was fair, but
the&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Never mind about the sky, my son,” interrupts the Coroner,
“just tell what you know about the dead man.”</p>

<p>“Well,” resumed Ned, with a long breath, and another
swallow, “John Smith saw them first, and we all ran to
them and tried to move the man, but found him rather
heavy, we then cut the cords, and lifted up the little
girl&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p>

<p>“Stop! stop! don’t tell about the girl, let us hear about
the man.”</p>

<p>“I don’t know anything particular about him, except that
he was dead.”</p>

<p>“How was he lying when you found him?”</p>

<p>“His feet were in the water and his face was in the sand.
One arm was doubled under him so, and the other&mdash;the one
tied to the door knob&mdash;was stretched out so.”</p>

<p>Ned here attempted to assume a descriptive attitude.</p>

<p>“Did the knot appear to have been tied by himself or
somebody else?”</p>

<p>“It was a slip knot, and could have been fastened by
himself.”</p>

<p>“Did he lie as if the water had washed him up, or somebody
had placed him there?”</p>

<p>“I think he was thrown up by the waves, sir.”</p>

<p>“You didn’t see any tracks or boat marks about?”</p>

<p>“No, sir.”</p>

<p>“That will do. I don’t think it is worth while to examine
anymore witnesses. Gentlemen, you can make up your
verdict.”</p>

<p>We accordingly left the room, while twelve good citizens
endeavored most earnestly to ascertain what they already
knew&mdash;the manner of the dead man’s death.</p>

<p>When we got out we found Horace waiting for Frank and
myself with the carriage and horses.</p>

<p>We packed up our valises, made Ned promise to come to
see us, left a kiss for our little foundling, and were soon
rolling towards home.</p>

<p>Father and mother were as much interested in my
news as I could have desired, and as I dwelt upon the
beauty of the little girl and her lonely condition, I saw by
the tear in mother’s eye, and the serious shade on father’s
face, that I had made an impression. After recounting all
in as vivid terms as I could command, I begged father to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
adopt her, offering as arguments many facts which he perhaps
knew as well as I: that he was able to do it; that she
would not be a great expense; that she would be company
for mother when I was away; that I wanted a sister just
like her, and would love and care for her tenderly, and
wound up by declaring I would rather starve than have her
sent to the Orphan Asylum.</p>

<p>“Well, well, don’t be so impatient, my son,” said father,
relapsing into a smile, “even if I were inclined to adopt
your suggestion there are many preliminaries to be arranged.
I must see Cheyleigh, as she is now under his charge, and I
must write to her friends in Cuba, where you say she came
from. Then, perhaps, she may not be willing to come and
live with us. You will have to restrain your eagerness till
your mother and I consult about what is best to be done.”</p>

<p>I was obliged to rest content with this. I went down town
in the afternoon and recited to every acquaintance I met our
wonderful adventure. The sun was nearly down when I was
interrupted in the midst of my narrative by a servant, who
came to tell me that there was a lady at home who wished
to see me. I wound up my story and hurried home, wondering
who it could be. To my utter surprise and pleasure
I found Lulie Mayland in the sitting room, looking prettier
and brighter than ever. She smiled delightfully when I
pressed her hand and said, with a little blush:</p>

<p>“It’s strange, isn’t it, for a lady to call on a gentleman?
but you must excuse me now. Pa has just returned from
the Sound and has been telling me about the little girl you
found. My curiosity was so excited I determined to come
to see you and learn all about it, as you would not call and
tell me. Promise me you won’t think strange of it.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Lulie, the bare idea of such formality between old
friends!” I said, taking a seat near her.</p>

<p>“Well, we will not deem it a breach of form for the sake
of old times.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p>

<p>“What a pity it is,” said I, half musing, “that people
grow older and colder in their natures. We were so happy
as children. Do you remember the day in the nursery, long
ago?”</p>

<p>“Yes, I believe I do; but tell me about your Sound adventure
now, I am all impatience to hear that.”</p>

<p>I detailed minutely every circumstance connected with
the affair, and dwelt particularly upon the little girl’s superb
beauty, hoping thereby to raise a spark of envy in Lulie’s
heart, for I was piqued at her only believing to remember
about the nursery scene. As I pictured to her the wavy
black hair, the gazelle like eyes and chiselled features of
Carlotta, I thought I detected a glance towards the opposite
mirrors, where her own tumbled curls and merry blue eyes
were reflected. When I had concluded she sat for some
time in thought, then softly said:</p>

<p>“No father&mdash;no mother&mdash;no home!”</p>

<p>I knew then that envy found no room in a heart so full of
pity and love.</p>

<p>“What is to be done with her?” she said, at length.</p>

<p>“I don’t know; I am trying to get father to adopt her,
and I think he is half inclined to do so.”</p>

<p>“Oh, that would be splendid,” she said, brightening at
the thought; “I could see her so often, and we would be
such dear friends. Do beg Col. Smith to bring her here.”</p>

<p>“You may rest assured I will do my utmost, if it is only
to get you over here sometimes, as you now have to make
formal explanations for a single visit.”</p>

<p>“Indeed, I expect you have other motives for your petition.
Somebody’s heart, perhaps, aids somebody’s lips in
begging.”</p>

<p>“Never!” I said, with great emphasis; “she is truly
lovely, but there is only one heart in the world I care
to&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“I am very much obliged to you, Johnnie, for your narration,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>”
she said, rising to go, “it has interested me very
much.”</p>

<p>“The obligation is mine,” I said, with a profound bow,
“for your kind attention. ‘Twas really a pleasure to talk
with such a listener.”</p>

<p>I escorted her home, and sat with her some time on the
stoop, and felt more than ever that I was completely her
slave. She seemed to have thrown around me an inflexible
chain, one which I could not bend to get nearer her heart,
and one which I could not break to get away. Every word
of her conversation was so chosen that, while it kept alive
my hopes, it did not satisfy them, and yet she skilfully permitted
no word of love making to pass between us; all was
carried on by innuendo; and, when I bade her good evening,
I felt convinced that she did not love me, but dreaded to
wound me by the disclosure.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c88" id="c88">CHAPTER IX.</a></h2>

<p class="p2">“John, I saw Cheyleigh in town to-day, and we have
arranged all the matters about bringing up your sister, as I
suppose you will call her, to live with us. Your mother
and yourself must go down for her in the carriage the day
after to-morrow.” Thus spoke father, as he pushed his chair
back from the tea table, about a week after my return from
the Sound.</p>

<p>I deemed it dignified only to say, “Yes, sir.”</p>

<p>“My dear,” he continued, addressing mother, and taking
a cigar from his case, “you have some clothing getting
ready for her, have you not? As she didn’t bring her baggage
on the door I presume her wardrobe is scanty, so much
so that she can exclaim, with the fallen Cardinal:</p>

<p class="ppn10 p1">‘My robe,</p>
<p class="ppn6">And my integrity to Heaven, is all<br />
I dare now call mine own.’”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p>

<p class="p1">“Oh, Col. Smith,” said mother, reproachfully, “do not jest
at her misfortunes.”</p>

<p>“Not jesting, my dear, not jesting; but, since poor
Wolsey’s time, I suppose she is the only one who could
boast any integrity, when limited to a single robe. However,
we have not proved her yet&mdash;Wolsey may still be
alone.”</p>

<p>“That is worse than jesting,” returned mother, with a
smile the good Samaritan might have worn, “you are blotting
her with suspicion before you have ever seen her.”</p>

<p>“We will assume, then, for your good hearted sake,” said
father, blowing out the words on each side of the cigar he
was lighting, “that she is an angel, and let her prove her
wings.”</p>

<p>“I am sure that she will,” said mother, as she rang her
table bell for the servants to clear off the tea things.</p>

<p>The next day was one of preparation, and the room intended
for Carlotta was fixed up like a fairy bower. The
morning after, mother and I were whirling rapidly toward
the Sound in our open carriage, the top thrown back to
catch the fresh breeze. What a pleasure was such a drive
on such a morning, with such horses, through such scenery,
on such an errand!</p>

<p>Neither of us spoke, but leaned upon the side cushions of
the carriage, listening to the rapid trample of the horses’ feet
and the singing of the wheels over the level roads as we
flashed along; now through slim, quiet woods, where the
sunshine drove away the shade from half the ground; now
through thick luxuriant trees, grouping themselves with
dense foliage-curtains around dark unrippled pools, where
Artemis could have bathed with perfect modesty, and from
which, now, a lonely heron, startled by our wheels, slowly
rose with his blue noiseless wings; now through a swampy
hollow, where the laurel poured from its white cups exquisite
perfume, and now through the solemn forests, where the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
patriarch oaks waved their gray moss-hair, and the towering
pines stretched their broad arms benignly over all, as if to
invoke a blessing from the blue heavens above.</p>

<p>At last Mervue, as Mr. Cheyleigh’s place was called, with
its long avenue of oaks, came in view, and in a few moments
our horses, lathered with foam, were prancing with unspent
fire at the door. Mrs. Cheyleigh, Ned and two of the children,
with Carlotta, met us at the steps. Mrs. Cheyleigh
had told her of our coming, and her great speaking eyes
were turned inquiringly upon us. Mother did not wait for
introduction or salutation, but rushed forward and clasped
her in her arms. Carlotta seemed in an instant to sound
the depths of mother’s tender love, and her first touch was
an electric flow of sympathy. Throwing her arms around
mother’s neck she burst into convulsive sobbing. It touched
every one present. Mrs. Cheyleigh wept; Ned turned into
the house with his handkerchief to his face, while I, trying
to hide my emotion, was ruthlessly plucking and snapping
the tendrils of a jasmine that was clambering over the sides
of the porch&mdash;little Sue Cheyleigh, in the artless curiosity of
childhood, walking around to look at my eyes, in order to
discover whether I was crying or not. The first paroxysm
of grief over, mother gently released Carlotta, and Mrs. Cheyleigh,
with that half hoarse tone which always succeeds
tears, invited us in. Carlotta grasped mother tightly by the
hand and we followed Mrs. Cheyleigh into the house. Having
now an opportunity to observe her closely, I found that
Carlotta was not such a little girl as I had supposed&mdash;being,
in fact, nearly as old and as large as Lulie. Mother, Mrs.
C. and the children taking seats in the large, cool sitting
room, Ned and myself went out to the stables to see about
the horses. When I returned to the sitting room I found
mother and Carlotta alone&mdash;Mrs. Cheyleigh having excused
herself for a short time to attend to domestic affairs. Mother
was sitting near an open window, gently stroking Carlotta’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
head, which lay confidingly in her lap. They were talking,
and, not wishing to interrupt, I took my seat quietly near
them.</p>

<p>“And you are willing to come with us and be our child?”
mother said, bending over her.</p>

<p>“If you all are willing to take me,” said Carlotta, “I
will try to deserve your love.”</p>

<p>“We love you already, my darling child, and will love
you more and more each day.”</p>

<p>“I believe you, and trust you, ma’am; but oh! my father,
my dear, dead father! how I wish that I were with you in
the ground!” and the poor child broke down into sobbing.</p>

<p>“Hush, dear,” said mother, gently; “do not speak so;
God has seen fit to spare you&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“I know He has, but I wish He had not; ‘twould be far
sweeter than life to lie by father’s side, though it is cold.
But oh!” she continued, raising up her head to look in
mother’s face, and taking her hand, “I am so ungrateful to
you; you are so good to offer me a home, and yet I shrink
from going where I have no right to go, except the right of
your kindness.”</p>

<p>“That shall be the surest right of all,” said mother, kissing
her forehead; “but you must not feel dependent. We
do not take you because we pity you, but because we want
just such a daughter to live with and love us.”</p>

<p>“Then, will you promise me, ma’am, if you ever tire of
me, that you will send me away? You can do it without
unkindness, because papa had a great deal of money, and
you can pay some one to take care of me. Will you promise
me?”</p>

<p>“Yes, dear, I will promise you to send you away whenever
we get tired of you. But, in the meantime, I do not
want you to feel humble in our home, as if you were a
charity child. Col. Smith has examined your father’s papers,
and finds that you are possessed of considerable wealth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
He has written to your father’s agent, who was named in
the papers, and to the American Consul at Havana. He
will probably go to Cuba himself next month, to see about
the appointment of a guardian and the settlement of your
estate. Have you no relatives at all there?”</p>

<p>“I have a cousin, who lives on the other side of the
island, but I have not seen him since I was a very little
child. Mother was an orphan, like myself, and came from
Spain to Cuba with an old uncle, who died after she was
married to papa. We had many acquaintances, but no
relatives anywhere in the island except the cousin I have
spoken of. I have heard papa speak of having relatives in
New Orleans, but I do not know their names.”</p>

<p>“Well, you are composed now; try to remain so. Do
not give up to those sad feelings when you feel them coming
on.”</p>

<p>“I do struggle hard, Mrs. Smith, to keep from crying;
but whenever I commence thinking about the evening of
the storm&mdash;and I cannot help thinking about it&mdash;I remember
how happy papa and I were sitting together in our
state room, and, though the wind had been high for a day
or two, we felt so secure, for the steamer was thought to
be the strongest one on the line. I remember so well his
holding me by the hand, and saying:</p>

<p>“‘I think the wind is lulling, Lottie, bird; we will be safe
to-morrow.’ And then came that terrible cry that the ship
was sinking; and we ran together out on the deck, only to
find the crew in a panic, and the storm wilder than ever.
Papa dragged me back to the cabin, tore off the door, tied
me to it, and&mdash;&mdash; Oh! I cannot, cannot think of it without
crying. Do not blame me, I cannot help it.” And her eyes
filled again, and her lip quivered with suppressed feeling.</p>

<p>“Dear child, you know I do not blame you; only try by
every means to keep your mind from reverting to the painful
scene. I will not offer consolation now, for I well know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
how deceitful it sounds to the bereaved to hear those who
are not, quoting scripture passages to recommend resignation
and submission. The beautiful sacred words are meant
as a sympathy, not as a teaching. When your lips are lifted
farther from this cup of gall we will go together to the Fount
of Life and drink its sweet waters.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Cheyleigh now returned to the room, and the conversation,
ceasing between mother and Carlotta, became general.
So many and varied were the topics to be discussed
that the morning passed rapidly away; dinner came on, and
the afternoon siesta, in hammocks swung in the verandas,
where the sea breeze came cool and refreshing, was enjoyed,
when the sinking sun reminded us that it was time to order
the carriage.</p>

<p>When Carlotta came to tell Mrs. C. good-bye, and thank
her for her kindness, she had nearly lost control of herself
again, but, with an effort, she kept her tears back and
entered the carriage. The shadows which had been hiding
from the sun all day around the roots of the trees were now
stretching out at great length, and spreading into all kinds
of fantastic shapes, though they still kept the trees between
them and the glaring eye they dreaded so much. The
scenery through which we passed was all drowsiness,
instead of the vivacity of the morning. The sun had gone
down and the twilight was fading when we stopped at our
door. Father and Lulie Mayland were standing on the
stoop, waiting for us. Father took Carlotta in his arms out
of the carriage and pressed her to him tenderly, while I was
helping mother out. Lulie was then presented to her, and,
after a kiss and embrace, they went up the steps hand-in-hand,
as fast friends as if they had known and loved each
other from their birth. We went into the dining room,
where early summer tea was already laid. Carlotta did
not wish anything, and mother withdrew in a short time
with her. After the silence that succeeded, for a few seconds,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
their retirement, father said (and I knew by the
twinkle in his eye he was enjoying the thorns on which I
sat):</p>

<p>“Lulie,” sighting at her with one eye through his iced
tea, “I am afraid you will have a powerful rival in Carlotta.
You must secure all your beaux with double chains
or she will steal them away. I think one is proving recreant
already, if I may judge from the glances of admiration
he lavished upon her just now at the table.”</p>

<p>My face was crimson, and the consciousness that it was
so made the hue only deeper. To be teased about the girl
I loved, before her face, by father, too, was the very climax
of embarrassment to me. I glanced at Lulie, and found her
not in the least disconcerted.</p>

<p>“Oh, John is so fickle,” she replied, laughing, “that I
can never count on him for more than a day or two. If he
deserts me, however, I shall not be desolate, as I have several
others under my thumb, you know.”</p>

<p>Embarrassment is very much increased by being contrasted
with coolness and ease, and mine received a tenfold
impulse from Lulie’s light way of treating the matter.</p>

<p>“Really,” continued father, “you are quite a belle; but
I am surprised that John should have withdrawn so easily
from the contest. I thought you had more perseverance,
my son. Surely, you did not encourage him, Lulie?”</p>

<p>“Yes, indeed I did, but he was not to be caught, and I
have given him up as a hopeless case.”</p>

<p>I vainly endeavored to swallow my confusion with large
gulps of tea; the tea somehow slipped by and left the confusion
sticking in my throat, but I managed to jerk out the
words:</p>

<p>“If you ever gave any encouragement I did not know it.”</p>

<p>“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed father. “Very good, my son, very
good. But suppose she were to offer encouragement now,
would you come back? Try him once more, Lulie. I would
enjoy the courtship very much.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p>

<p>“I am willing,” she said, demurely; but I thought I
detected a smile towards father, as if they were in conspiracy.</p>

<p>“Now, John,” continued father, “she says she is ready,
and will return a favorable answer. How will you commence?
Don’t blurt out ‘I love you!’ as that would be unexpected
and sudden; come to it gradually, and the slower
you are in getting to the point the surer will your answer
be ‘Yes.’”</p>

<p>I could stand it no longer, but rose from the table and
walked from the room, not, however, before hearing Lulie
say:</p>

<p>“I don’t quite agree with you, Col. Smith. I can’t bear
a slow courting fellow. If he loves much it won’t take him
long to tell it. There! you have run John off. I like him
ever so much, only he is very timid.”</p>

<p>I went out and sat on the stoop in no pleasant frame of
mind. I was provoked with father for teasing me; I was
provoked with myself for being teased, and I was provoked
with Lulie for not being teased.</p>

<p>“She cannot love me or she would not treat the matter so
lightly,” I soliloquized, grinding white circles on the brown
stone with my boot heel. “She thinks me timid, too; I’ll
prove my boldness the first opportunity I get.”</p>

<p>Father and Lulie now came out and sat down, but no
further allusion was made to the dining room topic. We
spoke of our intended trip to the plantation near Goldsboro’,
and Lulie agreed, if her pa was willing, to go up and spend
the remainder of the summer with us, as it would be very
pleasant for her to be with Carlotta. After talking for some
time of the pleasures of the country, Lulie rose to go, and
I, of course, accompanied her.</p>

<p>So far from proving my boldness I walked by her side in
awkward silence till she spoke.</p>

<p>“Why did you let your father tease you so to-night,
Johnnie?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p>

<p>“He didn’t tease me,” I returned, with Munchausen mendacity.
“I didn’t care a straw for what he said, only I did
not choose to be spoken of so before a lady.”</p>

<p>“I’ll wager Frank Paning would not have been disconcerted,”
she said. “He has more self-possession than any
one I ever saw.”</p>

<p>“I don’t care what in the thunder Frank Paning has; I
don’t want to be like him,” I said, savagely.</p>

<p>“I did not intend to offend you, sir; I am obliged to you
for your escort thus far, but, since you are so incensed, will
need your services no farther,” she said, very quietly, taking
her hand from my arm.</p>

<p>“I beg a thousand pardons, Lulie; I was rude and hasty,
but so many constant allusions to Paning irritate me beyond
measure. He must be very dear to you from the repeated
mention of his name.”</p>

<p>“Oh, no, that does not follow at all. I think very well of
him, as he is attentive and kind; but here we are at our
gate; won’t you come in?”</p>

<p>“Thanks! not to-night. Let me ask pardon again, Lulie,
for my very harsh words on the way.”</p>

<p>“Do not mention it; ‘tis forgotten with me. Good night!”</p>

<p>My feelings, as I walked homeward, were very much mingled.
There was always pleasure and pain in being with
Lulie. Young as she was she already possessed consummate
skill in swaying the feelings&mdash;now by some bewitching
word or look raising your hopes, then dashing them to
earth by some sarcasm, or worse, an allusion to some other
favorite. She had reduced her game to a science, and
always pitted special rivals against each other. Frank was
sure to be my thorn. A single remark, evincing a preference
for him, was enough to disturb my equanimity for an evening.
So, in my thoughts this evening there was pain, yet a
sweet pleasure, too, in the reflection that, in our retired
country seat up in Wayne, I would have her all to myself;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
that I could see her every day, and talk as long and freely
as I chose, with all the adjuncts and concomitants of love&mdash;woods,
birds, brooks, bowers, meadows and moonshine.</p>

<p>Just as I reached our gate I met Frank Paning himself,
hurrying up street to his home.</p>

<p>“Hello, John!” he said, lightly, as we stopped, “where
have you been? Over to the Doc’s, I suppose. I am getting
jealous. Lulie must be looked to.”</p>

<p>“There is no danger,” I replied; “you are certainly the
idol there.”</p>

<p>“Oh, you tell me that to blind me, but I know a thing
or two. By the way, how is our little foundling. I heard
to-day that your folks had brought her here to raise up as a
wife for you. I suppose you wish to train her up to suit
you, so she will not have to learn your ways after marriage.”</p>

<p>“You heard a most infamous falsehood, then, and you
can tell your informant I said so,” I replied, the blood rushing
to my face.</p>

<p>“Well, don’t get mad about it; I was only joking. I
want to call on her; when will she receive company?”</p>

<p>“Not in a year or two,” I said, emphatically. “She is
going up the country next week, and will not return till the
fall, when she will commence school, and be closely occupied
with her studies.”</p>

<p>“I see it is plain you fear rivals. I will not trouble
you.”</p>

<p>Before I could reply he was gone.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c98" id="c98">CHAPTER XII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> morning is misty and damp, as father, mother, Carlotta,
Lulie and I stand under the great shed at the dépôt,
waiting for the car doors to be unlocked. It is very early,
and nobody seems stirring except those immediately connected
with the train about to start. There are a dozen or
more people standing in groups, waiting on the same event
as ourselves. They all yawn a great deal, rub their eyes,
wish they were back in bed, and wonder how long before
the brakesman comes to open the car doors. The train itself
lies on the track like a great headless serpent (for the
engine has not yet been put on), whose red and yellow sides
are full of latticed eyes. At last the brakesman, in a blue
coat, striped shirt and glazed cap, comes along, whistling
the last popular ballad, unlocks the door with a rattle, and
shouts “Walk in, ladies and gentlemen.”</p>

<p>We crowd in and select our seats on the side from the
sun, if it should come out. Father turns over the seat in
front, that it may face the other one, lays his shawl in the
corner, hangs up the basket containing our lunch, sits down,
pulls off his glove with his teeth, thrusts his hand under his
duster, draws out and looks at his watch, shuts it with a
snap, and says indistinctly, through the fingers of his glove:</p>

<p>“It will be fifteen minutes before we start.”</p>

<p>People continue to arrive and crowd in, singly and in parties.
The individuals consist of a very fat old gentleman,
with a broad hat soiled around the band, a duster too short
by six inches for his long black coat, and a large red bandanna
handkerchief, worn altogether in his hand; a fancy
dressed young gentleman, who looks in the door a moment
and concludes to finish his cigar upon the platform, with one
foot lifted to the railing, where he can tap the heel of his
boot with a leg-headed cane; a rather rough man with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
very large moustache, who passes through the coach very
often and slams the door very hard, gets between two seats
to lean half way out of the window to tell some one, who is
named Bill, “Hello!” and to ask “when will you be up?”
lets down the window with a bang, and lolls across the seat
with one foot hanging in the aisle; a middle aged maiden
lady, dressed, of course, in black bombazine, with a green
veil, a large basket with a scolloped top, a canary of yellow
and black dignity in a white and green cage, furnished with
seed, sand, and inconvenient water cups; an old lady under
the care of the conductor, walking very slow, with a horn
handled stick, a large flowered bandbox and a white cloth
bag; she wears a dark fly bonnet, which she takes off when
she sits down and displays a white cap, ruffled around her
face, which is very much wrinkled, and has white, thin hairs
about the chin; she shows a disposition to breathe hard,
and to look around vacantly from the side seat at the end
of the cars, where the conductor has placed her, and to talk
to no one in particular with a voice like a cat-bird’s with a
bad cold.</p>

<p>The parties who enter are generally composed of tall,
resigned looking gentlemen, burdened with innumerable
boxes and bundles, patient and pale wives, in gray travelling
dresses and lead colored veils, which they hold in one corner
of their mouths, to show only one fourth of the face: sleepy
looking, large boys, with badly fitting clothes, who stumble
along the aisle behind their parents, as if they were still
dreaming; smaller boys and girls following, holding each
other by the hand, each in the fallacious belief that they
are taking care of the other; and mulatto nurses, carrying
in their arms very white headed babies, naturally lachrymose
and nasally aqueous.</p>

<p>Having seen all these and many more come in, I raise the
window. Everything is dripping with fog, and the moisture
is trickling in little crooked streams down the sides of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
coaches. The express wagon comes rattling down, and I
can hear them unloading, with an occasional ejaculation
bordering on the profane. Then I hear the bell of the
engine as it comes out of the yard, and stews and hisses,
backing down the track, nearer and nearer till it touches&mdash;then,
with a loud clack-up of the coaches, everybody is jerked
forward, the train glides back a foot or two, and it is coupled
on. All is comparatively still now, and there is nothing to
remind us of the immense power to which we are attached,
except the odor of the smoke, which is rolling in black masses
along the roof of the shed, and the faint singing of the steam.</p>

<p>I take my head in and find everybody either dozing or
staring stupidly out of the window. Father is reclining in
his seat, mother is resting her cheek upon her hand, with
closed eyes, and Carlotta and Lulie, finding it too damp to
raise the window, have looked through the glass till their
breath has dimmed it, and wiping it with their hands, have
left the print of their fingers in circles on the pane.</p>

<p>William now brings father the checks for the baggage, the
whistle sounds, the bell rings, a few loud coughs from the
great monster that draws us, and we glide from under the
roof, creep under the bridge, jog along the suburbs, rattle
into full speed, and roar out of sight of the town; the last
sign of which is a little negro, standing in the door of a hut
on the embankment above, waving his rag of a hat, as if to
wish us good speed. Trees fly by, fences like long serpents
wriggle past, and the whole country becomes a passing
panorama!</p>

<p>The sun rises, and, dispelling the fog, shines out bright
and sultry. People, aroused by the stir, begin to talk.
Children become thirsty. The lady opposite, with two little
girls and a baby, tells the nurse to hand her the basket, and
opening it to get out the silver mug, sends the nurse after
water. The nurse totters down the coach, rocks backward
and forward while drawing the water, and totters back,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
steadying herself by the arms of the seats, and spilling a
little water at every step. The little camels gulp it down
as if the cars were Sahara!</p>

<p>The conductor staggers in and calls for tickets. Old gentlemen
untie many-stringed pocket-books, old ladies open
their reticules, and young gentlemen point to their hat
bands. He passes out, and the whistle sounds. The brakes-man
rushes to the wheel and gives a turn, then holds his
cap on with one hand, and swings off by the railing to look
ahead. Another whistle, another turn, and we grind into a
small station, where we stop for a minute or two; then on
and on we fly, faster for the short delay. The morning
wears away, and we get out our luncheon. Broiled chicken
and cold tongue! how they are associated with travelling!
Their very odor is suggestive of the rattle of the train!
We had scarce finished eating when the whistle sounded for
Goldsboro’. We got off and found Aleck, one of the farm
hands, waiting for us with the spring wagon, as Horace, he
said, had not yet got up with the carriage. We all clambered
up, and were soon rolling over a level, though dusty,
road to our country place.</p>

<p>As the rattling wagon was not a very pleasant place for
conversation, I had leisure to observe Carlotta, and to mark
the effects of diversion on her beautiful face. Many traces
of sadness were gone, and there was even brightness in her
eyes. Such eyes I have never seen. There was a <i>velvet</i>
expression about them, for to the soft rich effect of that
fabric alone can I compare those orbs and their setting; and
I thought, as I gazed at them, that the soul must be a rare
one indeed that possessed such windows. She seemed trying
to shake off reflections on her own misfortunes, and for
others’ sake, if not her own, to be cheerful. She sat next to
mother, to whom she was already fondly attached, and whose
tender heart fully reciprocated her love. Lulie was all gaiety,
and father was undignified enough to be droll; some of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
remarks even drawing a smile from Carlotta, though only
such a smile a soul in serge can wear; a smile that seems
begun in forgetfulness, and finished with repentance for its
levity.</p>

<p>The afternoon was far advanced when we drove up the
long avenue of trees that led to the house.</p>

<p>The place had been built by my great grandfather, and
the house and all the premises were on the old style.</p>

<p>The great-house, as it was termed by the negroes, was a
large two-story one, with narrow green blinds, a large wing
extending back, and piazzas running almost all the way round.
The chimneys were very broad, and were built half up with
rock, then finished off with brick. The front porch had an
arched roof over it, and was furnished with two stiff benches
on each side. There was a magnificent grove in front, in
one corner of which was a large pond or lake, on which a
flock of geese were swimming. To the left of the house
stood a large capacious kitchen, painted red, and behind and
around the house were ranged the dairy, smoke house, &amp;c.,
all of the same ruddy hue. Back of the yard were the long
rows of negro cabins, with their martin poles, and little gardens
in front of them, and a few hundred yards off, in a small
growth of trees, stood the house for the overseer, Mr. Bemby.
As we drove up to the yard gate a large bull-dog, chained
in his kennel, commenced barking furiously, and this brought
yelping around the house half a dozen curs and hounds
belonging to the negroes. These were followed in turn by
a troop of little negroes, who ran to the gate, shouting in
great glee:</p>

<p>“Yon’s marster and mistis.”</p>

<p>Then ensued a scuffle for the honor of opening the gate,
and a shrill chorus of “How dye’s” as we entered the yard.
Mrs. Bemby came down the steps to meet us, and took us
into the cool, large front room, where she aided mother and
the girls to take off their bonnets and hats, then conducted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
them to their chambers. She soon returned to father and
myself, with waiter and goblets of ice water.</p>

<p>“Col. Smith,” she said, as she placed the water on the
table, “Mrs. Smith said you’ve got her keys; and, Mister
John, your room is ready whenever you wish to go up.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, Mrs. Bemby,” I replied, as father arose and
went to mother’s chamber, “I will wait here awhile, as it is
the coolest place I have seen to-day.” “I must go see about
supper,” she said, taking up the key basket and holding it
against herself while she searched for a key; “don’t, the
niggers will get every thing wrong. I ‘spected to move over
to-day to our house, but Mr. Bemby, he was so busy a plowing,
I couldn’t get all the things away; so, if you find any
of Ben’s things in your room, let ’em stay till in the morning.
It ingenerly takes me a fortnit to get straight when
I come from home to the great’us, or from the great’us to
home.”</p>

<p>I surveyed her and the room while she was speaking, and
found her impress on every article. The room was always
used as a sitting room, and had so many doors and windows
that it was a perfect breeze generator. The chairs were
ranged two and two under every window, as if to let the
wind cool them. Father’s lounge was drawn in the middle
of the room, with its bright chintz covering tucked in so
tightly that it seemed to say to me, “Come and lie down, I
will not let you sink in and be hot, but will bear you up,
that you may get the breeze.” The floor was so clean and
shining that I longed to get down and sleep with my face on
the cool boards. Even the old fashioned piano, with its
yellow keys and little straight legs, had such a tight, scant
cover, that it seemed to have taken off its trousers for the
summer. The broad fireplace was clayed as white as snow,
and stuffed full of feathery fennel, and on the high, quaintly
carved mantel, were plaster images, sheep with very red eyes,
a studious boy with a slate, and his nose knocked off, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
very erect Napoleon Bonaparte, with very large legs, one of
which had grown to a stump, in a way that would have held
him faster than St. Helena. Between these mementoes of
itinerant Italians were ranged double rows of red and green
apples, with Hardee precision. There were several old
portraits in the room, and these had the gauze looped up
around them, as if to give them air. A tall old clock, with a
dignified face, and a lazy second-hand, that waited every
time for the clock to tick before it would jump, stood in its
corner&mdash;the long pendulum passing to and fro by the little
glass door near the bottom, as if it didn’t care if I did see it,
and would as lief stop as not. And then its drowsy tick!
Argus would have closed all his eyes if he could have heard
it for five minutes! A large yellow and white cat, with both
ears cropped, lay asleep in Mrs. Bemby’s work basket, which
sat near the door, and a frisky gray kitten on the hearth
was catching at the flies in the fennel. And I thought, as I
looked around, if Mrs. Bemby could impart such a cool, clean
look to every thing by her short residence in the house,
what must her little home be up on the hill, under those
great shady poplars.</p>

<p>Mrs. B. having found her key, came to her work basket,
shook the cat out of it (the cat coming down slowly on her
fore feet, and bringing her hind feet down a second or two
afterwards, as if half inclined to let them stay up in the air),
and gathering up her work, left the room. I rose and went
up stairs, where I found everything equally antique, and as
clean and cool. I ordered up my trunk, and having made
my toilet I went down, feeling very much refreshed. The
girls soon appeared, and we spent the remainder of the
afternoon exploring the old house. In the old parlor, in the
library&mdash;with long high shelves of books&mdash;up in the old dusty
garrets, down in the basement, everywhere that there was
anything to show, I carried Carlotta and Lulie, listening to
Lulie’s bright laugh and admiring Carlotta’s brightening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
beauty. From the house we walked out into the grove,
down to the orchard, and, with our hats full of apples and
peaches, at last took our seats on the green mossy rocks at
the spring. As Lulie and Carlotta took their seats together,
and seemed so absorbed in each other, I found that the first
little cloud in this country trip was beginning to gather;
that cloud was&mdash;and I blushed for shame at the thought&mdash;Carlotta’s
presence. I knew that she and Lulie would
be inseparable, when I wanted Lulie all to myself. I felt
that I must give up all hopes of private chats; that I
would have no opportunity to tell my love; that all my
courtship must be carried on by looks, and that, I knew,
would be unsatisfactory, as Lulie never returned my tender
glances; yet I could not help admiring Carlotta, and loving
to be with her. She was so exquisitely beautiful that I
could sit and watch her for hours and never weary; but
she was too sad and serious yet to be congenial, and I felt
that she was a bar to my intercourse with Lulie, and could
scarcely refrain from wishing we had never found her. All
the better part of my nature would rise up indignantly at
the unkindness of such thoughts, but still I would have
them. Youth, in love, is excusable for many follies.</p>

<p>While the girls were talking in a low tone together I was
leaning on my elbow, flipping the parings of the peaches
into the water, and indulging a somewhat bitter train of
reflection over my disappointment, when the tea bell rang.
We hastened to the house, and met father at the door, who
said:</p>

<p>“Come in to tea. Mrs. Bemby has not had time to prepare
supper at her house, so I have invited her and Mr.
Bemby, and Ben, their son, to eat with us to-night. Ben is
rather a queer case, but you mustn’t laugh when you meet
him, as it would hurt Mrs. Bemby’s feelings very much.”</p>

<p>We went down stairs to the dining room, where we were
introduced to Mr. B. and son. Mr. Bemby was a large dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
man, with a kind, pleasant face, but rough and sun-burnt in
his appearance. He seemed very much at his ease, as he
knew father and mother so well, and greeted us cordially,
remarking to me, as he shook my hand:</p>

<p>“You’ve growed a’most outen my knowledge, Mr. Smith,
but I hain’t seen you sence you was a mighty little chap.”</p>

<p>As soon as I looked at Ben I knew I had found a rare
case, and I felt that he would contribute no small amount
to my enjoyment. He was very tall and stout, being nearly
six feet high, though he was apparently not done growing.
He had a clear gray eye, full of intelligence, but that always
looked as if it was laughing to itself; his nose was prominent
between his eyes, but flattened at the end by an unskilful
operation for hair-lip, when he was a child; his upper
lip, from the same cause, had a deep scar in it, and was
tucked in his under lip, as if he was sucking something from
a spoon. When he laughed he showed only his under teeth,
which were well set, but stained yellow from the use of
tobacco; his laugh itself was a very singular one for a
young person, though I have sometimes heard very old and
sedate people laugh so. When he was amused his face
assumed a broad grin two or three seconds before a sound
was heard, and then from deep within came a series of short
or long grunts, according to the intensity of his feelings;
if he was very much amused the grunts were lengthened
almost to groans&mdash;one beginning as the other left off; if he
was only laughing slightly they were short enough to be a
kind of chuckle. The best illustration of his laugh I can
find is a thunder cloud&mdash;first the lightning on his face, after
awhile the thunder rumbling up from within. Very often
his face, in ordinary converse, would, like sheet lightning,
flash out a laugh, while no sound at all would be heard.</p>

<p>Mother was suffering with headache from the day’s fatigue
and sent in her excuse, and the request that Mrs. Bemby
would take the head of the table, and make the tea and coffee.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
Mrs. B&mdash;&mdash; accordingly took her seat, and while she is arranging
the cups, let me introduce her more thoroughly by a brief
description. A very stout old lady, with thin gray hairs,
tucked into a small knot by a large horn comb, small blue
eyes, with the under lid much nearer the pupil than the
upper, giving her always a very pleasant but surprised look;
a fat face, with scarcely a wrinkle, a loose under lip, and a
tongue that threatened with every word to come out, so that
all her words seemed to have been fattening before she spoke
them. Her form was very large, so that she looked like a
tierce of good nature. Her whole appearance was of that
kind, that if you had seen her at the door of a house, as you
were travelling, you would have stopped for refreshment,
knowing that everything would be clean, and in that agreeable
profusion that one always enjoys after a journey.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bemby was free and unembarrassed in her manner;
Mr. Bemby unconcerned; but Ben evidently felt awkward,
and was depending upon observation of the conduct of
others for his table deportment.</p>

<p>“Colonel Smith,” said Mrs. B&mdash;&mdash; to father, after grace
had been said, “will you take some tea or coffee?”</p>

<p>“I’ll take a cup of each,” said he. “I am a little peculiar
about that, and generally ice my tea while I drink my
coffee.”</p>

<p>“If I had a’ known that I could a’ had some friz for you,
sir.”</p>

<p>“No matter, Mrs. Bemby. I can soon cool it here.”</p>

<p>“Miss Lulie, which will you have?”</p>

<p>“I will thank you for a glass of milk.”</p>

<p>“Well, Miss Carlotta?”</p>

<p>“A cup of tea, if you please.”</p>

<p>“Mr. John, tea or coffee?”</p>

<p>“Coffee, I believe, madam.”</p>

<p>“Old man, you’ll have coffee, I know,” she said, putting
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>the sugar in Mr. B&mdash;&mdash; ‘s cup.</p>

<p>Poor Ben had been watching carefully, but could not possibly
decide what was <i>au fait</i> under the circumstances, so
that when his turn came he resolved, as the safest course,
to follow father’s example, and, in response to his mother’s
inquiry, replied that he would take some of both, and
“sorter cool the tea while he was getting down the coffee.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Bemby’s eyes certainly looked natural in their surprise
at his answer. Lulie, whose face had been red with
restrained laughter since she had seen him, now broke into
an irresistible titter, to which Ben replied by a grin, without
a sound.</p>

<p>“Ben,” said his mother, still looking at him through her
specs, “you must be a fool; give him some buttermilk,
Harriet.”</p>

<p>There was silence for some time, and then father said:</p>

<p>“Ben, do you ever catch any fish, now?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir; I ketched a cat ‘tother day, big as a bucket.”</p>

<p>“Caught a cat, eh,” said father, setting aside his coffee,
and drawing the tea to him. “You must have baited with
a mouse.”</p>

<p>“Nor, sir, I baited with a worrum. Cats bites at worrums
fine.”</p>

<p>Lulie could restrain her curiosity no longer, but asked,
with all earnestness, if it was a real cat, with tail, claws
and all.</p>

<p>Ben gave a great many long grunts as he said, “Sho’, its
got a tail, but tain’t got no claws, ‘cause its a fish.”</p>

<p>“Oh!” said Lulie, with her hand to her mouth, and a
glance at me.</p>

<p>I ventured to ask if there were many squirrels on the
plantation.</p>

<p>Ben bit a large semicircle out of a biscuit, and said
through the crumbs:</p>

<p>“The trees is just a breakin’ with ’em. I went to a mulberry
this mornin’, and th’was sixty odd on one limb!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p>

<p>“Why, Ben,” said father, looking up, “that couldn’t have
been so.”</p>

<p>“Well, they mightn’t a’ been; but three hundred and
over ran outen the tree when I shot.”</p>

<p>Ben is not the only one I have met whose stories grew
bigger as they repeated them.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bemby now interrupted him.</p>

<p>“Ben, you talked mighty nigh enough. Let somebody
else have a mouth.”</p>

<p>Ben, thus rebuked, was silent, and father and Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;
talked about the farm, while Carlotta and Lulie occasionally
whispered, and I ate in silence.</p>

<p>After the meal the Bembys left for their house, Ben having
promised to take me hunting and fishing in all the best
places; and we went out to the front porch to talk over our
plans for pleasure. Father went to the library to read,
mother was resting in her room, nobody in the porch but
Carlotta, Lulie and I; and again I felt that Carlotta was in
the way.</p>

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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c109" id="c109">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> sky was just reddening when I came down next
morning and commenced to get my gun and accoutrements,
to try my hand at hunting. Father called me as I was
about to leave the house, and told me to come to the back
door. There I found a negro boy, thirteen or fourteen years
of age, in his shirt sleeves, a clean white shirt, and copperas
checked pants, held up by suspenders of the same cloth,
fastened on them by little sticks; one hand resting up
against the house, and one bare foot scratching the top of
the other.</p>

<p>“John,” said father, as I came out in the porch, gun in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
hand, “this is Reuben, one of Hannah’s children. You may
take him for your valet. He knows all the best hunting and
fishing places around here. When you go to Goldsboro’
you can get him some more suitable livery.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, sir; he will suit me exactly. How do you
like it, Reuben?”</p>

<p>Reuben could only snicker and rub his hand on the
weather boarding, as an acknowledgment of his favor.</p>

<p>“I am about to start hunting now; can you carry me to
a place where I can kill some squirrels?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir; ef I c’n git Unker Jack’s Trip, and go over ‘gin
the big spring field, you kin find a sight on ’em.”</p>

<p>“Well, run and get Trip, and come on.”</p>

<p>He ran down to the quarters, and soon came back with a
little blue-spotted, curl-tailed dog, which he declared could
“find ’em eben ef dey wan’t dere!”</p>

<p>After getting over fences, jumping ditches, tramping
through dewy grass, and breaking through wet corn till my
feet were drenched and my clothes saturated, we at last
struck the woods. What splendid woods they were for
hunting. Dignified, patriarchal oaks, matronly cedars,
young dandy hickories, love-sick maiden-pines, that sighed
in the breeze, and families of saplings! Reuben here
thought we would find the game, and told Trip to “look
about.” The little canine obeyed, and was soon out of sight.</p>

<p>We moved cautiously about, listening; nor did we have
to wait very long before Reuben recognized his short, quick
bark, and, with the ejaculation, “dat’s him,” ran rapidly
towards the place. I followed as fast as the nature of the
undergrowth would permit, and we soon found Trip sitting
on his tail, under a large oak, whose thick leaves concealed
all but the lowest branches. I looked long and vainly towards
the top; nothing could I see but the deep green
leaves. Reuben, however, got off some distance from the
tree, and, walking backwards, and looking with hand-shaded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
eyes, soon cried out, “Yon he is; cum year, marse John;
you c’n see ‘im.” I ran eagerly to him, and gazed intently
to where he pointed, and by his continued indications of the
exact limb and fork, I was at last persuaded that I did see
a small gray knot near the body of the tree. I levelled my
gun and fired; all was still for awhile, and then the shot
came pattering back on the trees a little way off. Another
shot, and the gray knot ran out to the end of the limb.</p>

<p>“Dat’s him; I know’d it was,” shouted Reuben, while I
was so much excited I could hardly load. Before I could
get the shot down the squirrel sprang from the tree to
another, the slender twigs bending under him, and the wet
leaves showering down the dew. But Reuben and Trip
were watching, and soon found him in a fairer place. I now
aim more carefully, and fire; he falls several feet, then
catches and recovers himself; another barrel, and he turns
under limb, holding on by his feet. Before I can load again
he slowly releases, foot by foot, his hold upon the limb, and
comes tumbling headlong down, striking the ground with a
heavy sound. Reuben and Trip are in great glee over it,
while I look on with assumed indifference, for it is my first
squirrel, though I had played great destruction among the
rice birds near town.</p>

<p>I was just putting the caps on my gun when I was startled
by the report of another gun close at hand. I soon
heard the thumping of the ramrod, and a little while after
the bushes parted, and the long figure of Ben Bemby emerged,
his gray eyes gleaming under a broad wool hat without
any band, and his scarred lip drawn into a smile. A large
bunch of squirrels hung in his hand, and a long single-barrel
gun rested on his shoulder.</p>

<p>“Mornin’. What luck?” he said, resting his gun on the
ground, and throwing back his hat to wipe the perspiration
from his forehead with his forefinger.</p>

<p>“One fine fellow,” I said, holding my trophy up.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p>

<p>Ben chuckled a little, and said:</p>

<p>“Four shots to one; that’s sorter bad. I got seven outer
nine. That ere little pop-stick of yourn won’t reach these
trees.”</p>

<p>I did not fancy any slur on the shooting qualities of my
gun, which was a very handsome Wesley Richards, a present
from father the winter before, and I offered to prove
that it would shoot as far as his.</p>

<p>“Jumerlacky! Why, I can fetch a squrl when he is
outer sight with this old gun.”</p>

<p>“How do you aim at him?” I inquired, smiling at his earnestness.</p>

<p>“I just git me a hicker nut hull, with the print where a
squrl’s been a cuttin’, and rub it in the shot, and when I
fire, don’t keer which way I takes sight, the shot goes right
arter the squrl what cut the nut, and all I got to do is to
look roun’ and see what tree he’s a gwine to fall from.”</p>

<p>I expressed a great desire to see his gun perform, and
asked if he had killed any that morning without seeing
them.</p>

<p>“Not ‘zactly,” he replied, changing his squirrels from one
hand to the other; “but one run up such a high tree he got
t’other side of a cloud.”</p>

<p>“How did you get at him?”</p>

<p>“Jus’ shot wher he went thew; when he drapped he was
right smarten wet, an’ it rained purtty peart thew the shot
holes in the cloud.”</p>

<p>“Which one of those was it?” I asked, pointing to the
bunch in his hand.</p>

<p>“This here biggest un,” he said, holding him up by the
tail.</p>

<p>“Why, he doesn’t seem to be wet now?”</p>

<p>“Nor; he dried, like, comin’ thew the air.”</p>

<p>I was uncertain whether he was a little flighty or was
trying to quiz me, thinking I was city-green, and a look into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
his laughing grey eye rather confirming this last supposition,
I was about to change the conversation, when Trip’s bark
a little way off in the woods called our attention to him. We
found the squirrel in the very top of a tree that did almost
seem in the clouds.</p>

<p>“Lemme see you knock him out wi’ your little double-bar’l
toot-a-poo.”</p>

<p>With the steadiest aim I could command, I gave him both
barrels, one after the other, with no result whatever, my
piece being a short bird gun, and the tree top an immense
distance from the ground.</p>

<p>Ben said, “Now, let the old gal speak,” and sighting the
old brown barrel a second, he fired. The squirrel made a
frantic leap into the air, and fell right into Trip’s mouth.
Reuben was in a dance of excitement, but felt that he must
take my gun’s part.</p>

<p>“Marse John’s gun’s new; ‘taint got used to shootin’
yet.”</p>

<p>“What d’you know ‘bout guns, you little devil’s ink
ball?” said Ben, turning to Reuben; “why d’nt you open
your mouth when Satan was a paintin’ you, and git some
black on your teeth. Well, Mr. Smith, less knock along
todes home; its mos’ your breakfus time.”</p>

<p>“Won’t you go and take breakfast with me?”</p>

<p>“Nor, siree. Th’ old man said I was fool ‘nough last
night to last a seas’n; but I’ll come in short to see them
ladies agin, for sho’ they’re fine ‘uns.”</p>

<p>“You must be sure to come. You think they are pretty,
do you?”</p>

<p>“Well, I do exactly that thing. I’ve got a gal nigh here
I thought was some on purtty, but she ain’t a pint cup to
these here.”</p>

<p>“Which do you think is the best looking?”</p>

<p>“That’s ‘bout as hard to tell as buyin’ knives. That ere
curly head un is five mules and a bunch er bells, and ef<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
‘twant for t’other would beat the world; but that black-eyed
un, wh’sh! She c’n jus’ look at you, and make you set
still forever. Why, you c’n run er fishin’ pole in her eyes
up to the hand’l and never tech bott’m.”</p>

<p>“Polyphemus would be a mole to her, if her eyes were as
deep as that,” I replied, laughing at his extravagance.</p>

<p>“I never heerd of Polly Whatchoucallem, but ef she looked
like this ere wun, I’d trade Viney Dodge for her, and giv ’em
boot.”</p>

<p>“I expect Miss Viney will soon have cause for jealousy?”</p>

<p>“Nor, siree. Miss Kerlotter, I think the old lady sed her
name was, is a darned sight too fine for me. You can’t sew
silk truck on to homespun; and Viney suits my cloth the
bes’, for she’s three treddle sarge, and a thread to spare.”</p>

<p>There was a fork here in the path, and we separated. I
reached home just as the family were sitting down to breakfast.
I exhibited my game, and was complimented for my
skill.</p>

<p>After breakfast I went to the library, while the girls busied
themselves aiding mother in her domestic arrangements.
Before leaving the table they made me promise to take them
fishing in the evening, or rather Lulie did, for Carlotta expressed
her preference for remaining at home with mother,
and I saw in her face that her intuitive tact had taught her
that I preferred to be alone with Lulie. She was tenderly
devoted to mother, and would often leave gay, frolicsome
Lulie to sit by her, and talk on “grown up” subjects, as
Lulie would call them. With father she was reserved,
though respectful and grateful, and studied to please him in
every way. Toward me she was gentle and kind, but shy,
as if she was afraid of being teased about me.</p>

<p>I cannot describe my feelings for her. There was a thrill
every time I met those great black eyes that I had never
felt before, but I could not call it love, for Lulie engrossed
all there was of that in my nature.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p>

<p>There was a magnetism about her that affected me strongly,
and made me feel that, were we at all intimate, she would
possess an unbounded influence over me, and that its exercise
would constitute my supreme happiness.</p>

<p>The tender pity and brotherly love I had expected to feel
were all gone, for she did not need them; the vast resources
of her own deep soul, and the sympathy and love of mother,
seemed to be enough for her. In all my thoughts I could
only long for her friendship, and I felt that if I could awaken
in her an interest in me as a friend, so that I could go to her
ear and tell my troubles or joys, I would be the happier. In
the common converse of our family circle I always looked to
her first after my remarks, and her smile was a far greater
reward to me than Lulie’s, perhaps because it meant more.
And if I had done wrong I would rather ten times Lulie
should know it than Carlotta; yet, with all these feelings,
resembling so much indices of love, there was no spark of it
in my heart. Her very beauty seemed to fix a great gulf
between us, and down in my soul I felt that she would
never love me, except as a member of the same family.
With these thoughts came the image of Lulie&mdash;bright,
laughing Lulie&mdash;whose heart I could get so near to, if I
could not call it mine; who was something human, like myself,
and whom I loved so tenderly without the slightest
shade of awe. And I longed for the time when I could tell
her of it.</p>

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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c115" id="c115">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h2>


<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> afternoon was still and sultry, as I gazed out of my
window, leaning on the sill, and waiting for Reuben to
bring my fishing poles and bait.</p>

<p>From the corn fields in the distance a trembling haze was
continually rising, and I could hear the occasional song of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
the negroes, as they moved behind their plows slowly up
and down the long green rows. In the yard all was still;
the chickens, with palpitating throats, were lying under the
bushes, flirting the cool dark earth up into their feathers;
and the ducks were gathered around the cool trough at the
well, bubbling the water with their bills, and shaking their
wings as if they wished to dive in it, if the trough were
just wide enough; the bull-dog, at the door of his kennel,
was lying on his side, with his head stretched out on the
earth, from which he would raise it constantly to snap at
the flies biting his flanks. A solitary peacock, with his tail
all pulled out for the feathers, was sitting on the fence, with
his blue neck and coroneted head reverted, as if gazing at the
absence of his plumage. Down at the quarters I could catch
the changing hum of the spinning wheel, making echo to
the nasal minor strains of a negro woman at the wash tub.
Everything was calculated to inspire reverie, and I leaned
there, thinking of the cool shady bank of the creek, and of
Lulie and myself sitting there alone; and musing on the
pleasure of the evening, and wondering if anything would
occur to mar it, I drew my eyes from the scenes in the yard,
and gazed down the side of the house, noticing every little
dent in the planking and the dark rain marks under the
nails; and dropping bits of paper at a lazy red wasp that
was crawling slowly up the weather-boarding. Reuben,
passing under my window with the poles and a gourd full
of worms, broke my reverie, and taking my hat and gloves
I went down stairs, where Lulie was already awaiting me,
looking sweeter than ever in a pink gingham sun-bonnet.
Holding an umbrella carefully over her, Reuben leading the
way with the poles, I went down the avenue through a
long lane, down a wooded hill, and stopped at “de bes’ fishin’
hole on de creek,” as Reuben called it. ‘Twas a steep grassy
bank under a large sycamore, at a sudden curve in the
stream, where the water, running down heedlessly, struck<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
the bank, and hurried off with many a curling dimple of
confusion for its carelessness. After Reuben had undone
and baited our lines, I dismissed him, and we both took our
seats, pole in hand.</p>

<p>The thick branches overhead made an impervious shade,
except where they opened here and there to let a little ray
of sunlight dance upon the water. The lines, serpent-like,
curled down from the poles, and the painted float circled up
and down the eddy, but with no other motion but what the
water gave. Presently Lulie’s stood still, then bobbed under
and up, while the water rings retreated from it as if afraid;
again it goes down, and Lulie&mdash;like all lady fishers&mdash;gave the
pole such a jerk that the line and its hooked victim were
lodged in the branches above. All my efforts to disengage
it were unavailing till, at last, I broke off the line, and threw
pieces of stick at the little fish till I battered it down, its
mouth torn out by the hook, and its shining scales all beaten
off. Lulie took her little victim in her hand very tenderly,
and almost shed tears over it. She declared she would
never come fishing again; that it was mean and cruel to
catch the poor little creatures out of the water when they
were so happy.</p>

<p>“And, John,” she continued, “I am so sorry I broke your
hook and line, when you had fixed it up so nicely for me;
I know you are really mad with me about it.”</p>

<p>I did not notice her remark about the hook and line, but
said (winding the broken line around the pole, and laying it
behind us on the grass):</p>

<p>“Your compassion and pity for the little fish are so sweet,
Lulie, that I wish I could be transformed into one, like
another Indur.”</p>

<p>The old roguish twinkle came back to her eyes as she
said:</p>

<p>“You can have my compassion now if you will be caught
like this fish.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p>

<p>“You know how quickly I would be, Lulie, but all your
lines are occupied.”</p>

<p>“No, indeed, John, you are the one in fault; but, then,
you are completely fastened by a hook baited with a pair of
dark Cuban eyes.”</p>

<p>“Of course, Lulie, you refer to Carlotta; you are entirely
mistaken; she is only a sister, and a very reserved and distant
sister at that. I admire her beauty, but cannot love
her.”</p>

<p>“Well, you look at her as if you did, any way, and I feel
every time that we three are together, that you are wishing
I had not come up here to spoil your pleasure, and be in
the way.”</p>

<p>“Lulie!” I said softly, as I sat down by her on the cool
green moss, and as I said it a hot flush came over my face,
for I felt there was no retreat after such a tone, and that I
must now tell her what I had been hinting at by action and
word through my life from a child. She, too, well knew
what I meant, for she dropped her eyes from mine, and laying
down the little fish, commenced to pick from her finger,
with great earnestness and effort, a bright scale that adhered
to it.</p>

<p>“Let me get it off,” I said, taking her hand and flipping
off the scale, but still keeping the hand in mine; “Lulie, I am
holding the hand of the only girl in the world that I love.
It is no jest now, but solemn earnest truth. Darling, your
own heart tells you how I have idolized you from a child,
and my heart tells me how I adore you now. Sometimes I
have felt that you did not care for me, and my despair has
been worse than eternal death; at other times I’ve thought,
perhaps, you did return my love, and the happiness would
have been supreme but for the dread uncertainty. But oh!
Lulie, I can endure it no longer; tell me, dearest, if you&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>She drew her hand suddenly from mine, and placing both
hands over her eyes, she burst into convulsive sobbing. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
put my arm around her, and tried to take her hands from
her eyes. She turned towards me, putting both arms around
my neck, laid her face, streaming with tears, on my shoulder,
and cried as if her little heart would break. I sat still,
supporting her, and not knowing what to do or say. Gradually
her hands relaxed their clasp, and she raised her
head from my shoulder, and, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief,
which she tremblingly drew forth, said, with a
tear-hoarse voice and a great sob:</p>

<p>“Oh!&mdash;John!”</p>

<p>“Lulie, darling,” I said, gazing at her tenderly, “have I
distressed you so much, and is it painful to you to know
that I love you?”</p>

<p>“Yes, yes, dear John, the deepest pain, because&mdash;because
I cannot love you in return.”</p>

<p>“Not love me! Oh, Lulie! After all the years of fondest
fidelity!”</p>

<p>“John, I do love you as the dearest friend I have on
earth; as the one of all others in whom I can confide most
implicitly; and because I love and esteem you so dearly
your avowal of love causes me such intense pain. I could
tell another I did not love him without remorse, but I know
your noble heart is so truly in earnest, and its love is so
sincere, that it almost kills me to turn it away and to offer
only in return that bitterest of all words&mdash;friendship. But,
John, by all the magnanimity of your generous nature, I
beseech you not to hate me now, but hold me still as the
same little Lulie of the nursery, when our hearts knew love
as only childhood’s friendship.”</p>

<p>I sat as if in a dream, and only murmured:</p>

<p>“Hate you, Lulie! Never! never!”</p>

<p>After a long pause, I at length said:</p>

<p>“Lulie, darling&mdash;for you will permit me to call you so this
evening, at least&mdash;the scales have fallen from my eyes, and
I see so plainly what a blind, blind fool I have been to grope<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
on in vague belief that you loved me. The fault has not
been yours, for your actions have told me a thousand times
that my hopes were vain; but well, indeed, is Cupid always
pictured blind. And, darling, before we dismiss this subject
forever, I want to thank you for the grief, and I know ‘twas
real, that you felt in rejecting my proffered love. Had you
heartlessly cast it aside ‘twould have crushed me too deeply
for fortitude. And for our friendship, I vow before high
Heaven it shall be deepened; and truer than a brother,
with the devotion of an unrequited yet undying love, will I
prove myself your friend.”</p>

<p>“Thank you. Oh! a thousand times thank you, John.”</p>

<p>“But, dearest Lulie,” I continued, “while my heart is
bleeding, let me tear it all it may be torn. Tell me, do you
love Frank Paning? Does he hold what I would give my
life to win? Do not fear to hurt me now.”</p>

<p>“John, dear John, do not ask me;” and her frame commenced
trembling violently again.</p>

<p>“‘Tis as I expected,” I said, bitterly. “But, oh! this is
the keenest pain of all. Frank Paning! To know that he
may hold your hand, and feel it throb its love to his; that
he may gaze into your eyes and read your love for him; that
he may know that Lulie, my darling, my idol, is his alone;
while I&mdash;&mdash; Oh, Lulie, I’d rather you’d love the veriest dog
that laps the dust around your door than Frank Paning.”</p>

<p>“Hush! hush! for the love of mercy hush!” she said, putting
up her hand.</p>

<p>“Lulie, I cannot, will not hush. We will never talk together
again as we do now; and, as that dearest friend you
have termed me, I wish to warn you. He is not worthy of
your love.”</p>

<p>She laid down the bonnet string, which she had been
crimping in her fingers while I was talking, and looking
straight at me, the least perceptible frown on her brow, and
a flush on her cheek, said:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p>

<p>“John, I know you too well to believe you capable of
meanly trying to injure a rival simply because of his success.
I do you the justice to believe you sincere in your opinions,
but your judgment is warped by prejudice; you cannot
know him as I do, or you would love and trust him.”</p>

<p>“My dear Lulie, it is because I know him far better than
you do that I warn you against him. I expect you to believe
that all I say in regard to him is the fruit of my disappointment,
but I must, ere we close this subject forever, tell
you why he is unworthy, and why I warn you against him.
And I trust, as you believe in my honor, you will not think
I am influenced by any hope of thus supplanting him in
your favor. I bow to your decision of this evening as final,
nor would I cause you to revoke it, if I could, by maligning
him.”</p>

<p>“John, I believe you; and I thank you more than I can
tell for your intended kindness, but ‘tis better that we speak
no further on this subject. It might beget unpleasant feelings,
and I would not feel, nor have you feel, one shade of
anger, for the world. My heart is sad enough when I think
what a change one hour has wrought. No more the same
John and Lulie we have ever been; no more the same playful
attentions you have always paid me, nor the same
thoughtless encouragement I have given. Respectful courtesy
now our only intercourse. Oh, how little did I think,
when I lightly returned your looks and smiles of love, to
what it all would lead!”</p>

<p>“Lulie, darling, I cannot feel anger toward you, whatever
you do; but, even if you hate me for it, I must tell you of
Frank Paning. He is utterly destitute of principle. He does
not love you, and if he did would only love you as his slave.
He is tyrannical and overbearing, yet sycophantic in his nature,
imposing on the weak and cringing to the strong. He
is free and forward in the presence of ladies, and impure and
slanderous in his remarks about them behind their backs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
I have known him to leave a company of ladies, and then,
for the mere applause of a vulgar throng, make witticisms
on their appearance and manners that would have caused a
blush in Cyprus. He does not bear a proper respect for
you, for I have heard him publicly boast of your love, and
make remarks that I have been forced to resent.”</p>

<p>“John, do not revile him any more. You perhaps mean
well, but ‘tis an utter waste of breath. For years I have
loved and trusted him; and if an angel were to stand upon
the rippling water there and warn me, I would not believe
Frank false. When I gave him my heart I gave him my
life, and, though you and all the world turn against him, I
will cling to him and trust him, and when he spurns me I
will die.”</p>

<p>“May God protect you, Lulie, my own love, from all
wrong,” and I kissed gently and respectfully her dear, soft
cheek, henceforth to be for other lips. She did not reproach
me, but sat gazing at the dancing sunlight on the water.
I rose and took up the pole that we had left set in the
bank. A fish had hung itself upon the hook, and, utterly
exhausted by its unheeded efforts to disengage itself, came
up from the water limp and motionless. Putting it on
our string, and tying up our tackle, I assisted Lulie over
the rail fence, and we ascended the hill and walked up the
lane in silence.</p>

<p>Reader! did you ever love earnestly and devotedly? Did
you ever, after months, perhaps years, of doubt and hesitation,
at last make up your mind to declare it? and did you
ever have it rejected, perhaps kindly, perhaps cruelly? If so,
you know what I felt then.</p>

<p>So bitterly disappointed, so deeply humiliated to have
confessed yourself so conceitedly mistaken, and such a wild
despair in your heart as you think how she will greet
another with her smiles, while you, poor fool, are forgotten;
how another’s arms will fold her, another’s lips press hers!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
Oh! there’s a world of sad meaning in those exquisite lines
of Tennyson’s:</p>

<p class="ppnq6 p1">“And sweet as those by hopeless Fancy feigned,<br />
On lips that are for others.”</p>

<p class="p1">Again, before we reached home, we assured each other of
our kind feelings, and agreed to act as nearly as possible in
the same old way.</p>

<p>When we reached the house the others were at tea, the
table being placed in the hall, without lamps, as the sun was
hardly down. After being rallied for our solitary fish we
took our seats, and father, taking from his pocket a bundle
of letters, ran over them, and tossed one to me. I excused
myself, and read it at the table. How my face burned and
my hand shook as I found it was from Paning himself! His
father and mother had gone to South Carolina, leaving him
to devote the balance of his vacation to study. He had gotten
lonely keeping house by himself, had written to Ned to
join him, and they were coming up to spend a couple of
weeks with me. They would not wait for my reply, as they
knew I would be glad to see them, but would leave Wilmington
by the next train.</p>

<p>I sat looking at the bold handwriting till the letters
danced on the page, and father said:</p>

<p>“John, that is the longest letter I ever saw to be written
on one page. We have nearly finished tea while you have
been reading it. From whom can it be?”</p>

<p>“It is from Frank Paning, sir. He and Ned Cheyleigh are
coming up to spend a week or two with me.”</p>

<p>I could not look at Lulie, as I said this, but I knew her
face was bent over her tea, with the blood scarcely beneath
the skin.</p>

<p>“I am glad of that,” said mother, “for your sake, John;
you will then have some company in your rambles.”</p>

<p>I laughed as well as I could, and said “yes, indeed!”</p>

<p>“And while I think of it,” said father, taking another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
paper from his pocket, “here is a railroad receipt for a horse,
shipped from Baltimore. He will be at Goldsboro’ to-morrow,
and as you will go over for the boys, you can bring him
home with you.”</p>

<p>I assented, but asked what he wanted with another horse
when he already had several he did not use.</p>

<p>“But this is something extra, my son, and I did not buy
him for myself, but for a friend of mine. You will find his
name on the bill of shipment.”</p>

<p>I looked at it again, and saw that the Bay line had received,
in good order, but subject to a score of risks, one
horse, to be sent to John Smith, Jr., at Goldsboro’, N. C. I
thanked him with all the gratitude I could command under
the conflict of feelings, and we all went out to the front
porch, and sat there till the twilight darkened into night.
Carlotta, with Lulie, took her seat on the steps, and I could
hear her rich voice even laughing heartily at times as they
talked together in low tones. I was glad that she was
resuming her cheerfulness, and felt that I ought to join
them, and not be so silent and moody in my own home.
But I somehow wanted to be near mother to-night, and let
her hand caress my head, because I was in trouble.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c124" id="c124">CHAPTER XV.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> sun shining into my eyes next morning awoke me,
and turning over I heard the rattle and rub of the brush as
Reuben polished away on my boots, just outside the door.</p>

<p>“Reuben,” I yawned, “has Horace fed the horses?” Reuben
came into the room, with one boot casing his arm up to
the elbow, like an ill-shaped boxing glove, and the brush
still flying up and down the shining instep.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p>

<p>“I d’no, sir, spec he has doe, st&mdash;too!” and he stopped
to spit on the end of the brush, as if he wished to spit the
hairs away, “he allays de fust one up on de plantash’n.”</p>

<p>“Well, as soon as you get through with the boots, tell
him to hitch the gray horses to the spring wagon directly
after breakfast; I am going to town; and tell him to put in
my saddle and bridle, as I want to ride my horse back.”</p>

<p>“Which un, Marse John?” said Reuben, as he set the
boots by my bedside, “how’s one horse gwine to pull de
wagin back here agin?”</p>

<p>“Dry up, and go tell Horace what I said. It is a new
horse I am going after, and you have got to attend to him
for me, and you can ride him to water every day.”</p>

<p>“Golly, dat’s ‘lishus; won’t dese quarter niggers stand
back,” and he ran down stairs, cutting an audible shuffle
every third step.</p>

<p>I was just tying on my cravat when Reuben returned,
with a lengthened visage and a woful tale.</p>

<p>“Unken Horris was a waterin’ de horses, and when I tole
him, he said marster dun tole him, and dat was nough; and
just cause I tole him to hurry up, he tuk and cut me mos’
in two with de carridge whip.”</p>

<p>“I expect you were impudent to him; but he ought not
to have struck you when I sent you. I will see him about
it after breakfast.”</p>

<p>This silenced but did not satisfy Reuben, who, like all
negroes, was anxious enough to see swift punishment fall on
one who had offended against himself, though he would have
been full of sympathy for one who suffered for any offence,
however grievous, against a white person.</p>

<p>As we drove into Goldsboro’, an hour afterwards, the
whistle sounded, and the morning train came into sight, nodding
up the track; the engine steamed by like a great hog
rooting its way along; then the baggage car, its door open,
and the baggage master leaning out; then the coaches, and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
as they all came to a stop, amid the shouts of a dozen white
aproned waiters, who were vowing that every passenger
had plenty of time to eat the most delicious breakfast ever
prepared, Frank and Ned, guns in hand, came down the car
steps. I welcomed them warmly, being delighted to see
Ned, and determined that I would crush every feeling of
repugnance to Frank, and receive him with the hospitality
of a Southern home. As we walked up to our wagon,
where our grays were prancing and snorting at the train,
Reuben came around from the hotel stables, whither I had
sent him for my new horse, leading him by the halter. I
almost forgot to breathe in my rapt admiration. He was the
most perfect specimen of horse flesh I had ever seen. His color
was the deepest chestnut or claret, and his hair looked as if
it was just wound from the cocoon, and his large prominent
eye had a soft intelligent expression that was almost human.
His limbs were as delicate as a gazelle’s, yet had that peculiar
turn of the rounded muscles that told of desert born
ancestors. There was nothing of the charger about him&mdash;no
thunder-clothed neck, nor trumpet-like nostril; all was
dainty symmetry, but the symmetry of a form that could
not know fatigue.</p>

<p>I could not tell whether he would drive or not, but I felt
that it would almost be a sin to clog such superb motion
with harness. I ordered Reuben to put the saddle and
bridle on him, and turned to Ned and Frank, and asked
their opinion of him.</p>

<p>“I’ll vow he’s a beauty, John,” said Frank, as we put the
valises in the wagon; “let me ride him home for you, and
find out his bad points, if he has any.”</p>

<p>I could not refuse, and with much chagrin and disappointment
saw Frank gallop fleetly on ahead of the wagon,
as we rattled on towards home. Ned and I had much to
talk about, and almost before we were aware of it, were
driving down the avenue.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p>

<p>Frank had waited for us to come up, and now cantered
along by the side of the wagon, descanting the praises of my
steed in unmeasured terms.</p>

<p>When we entered the house, and Ned and Frank were
met by the family, I was really sorry for Lulie, so great was
her embarrassment. She could not bear to torture me by
greeting Frank with the cordiality their relations demanded,
and she could not bear to hurt his feelings by treating him
coldly without a cause. Frank noticed her confusion, and
asked, in his free and easy way, “Why, Lulie, what is the
matter with you. Have you become so rustic already as to be
frightened out of your wits by the presence of gentlemen?”</p>

<p>“Don’t let him tease you, Lulie,” said mother, coming to
her aid; “Frank has mistaken the roses which our fresh air
has given her for blushes at his presence.”</p>

<p>“Not at all, Mrs. Smith; I am too much of a <i>connoisseur</i>
in ladies’ faces to mistake confusion for health. I will leave
it to Miss Rurleston if Lulie wasn’t ashamed to meet us.”</p>

<p>But Carlotta, with her face all bright with animation, was
deeply engaged in questioning Ned about Mr. and Mrs.
Cheyleigh, and expressing her gratitude for their kindness,
and did not hear his remark.</p>

<p>“Well, boys,” interrupted mother, “I suppose you are
both dusty and warm, and wish to go to your rooms. John,
show them up; and remember one thing, you came up here
to enjoy yourselves; do so to the fullest extent. Everything
on the premises that will serve your amusement is at your
service; the house and furniture are old, so you need not
fear to be as boisterous as you please. When you come
down from your rooms your breakfast will be ready, or I
will send it up, if you prefer it.”</p>

<p>“You are very kind,” said both, “we will soon be down.”</p>

<p>I had persuaded mother to fix the large room for us all
three, so that we could enjoy ourselves more together than
if formally separated.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p>

<p>As soon as we got into our room, and Frank had thrown
off his duster and coat, he broke forth in his praises of Carlotta.</p>

<p>“I’ll vow she is superb; my life! what an eye she has!
I had no idea, when I wrapped her up in our jackets on the
beach, and she looked so cold and pitiful, that she was such a
beauty. Ned, she seemed to tackle to you strongly. I
could not make her hear me.”</p>

<p>“She was only asking me about home. You know she
staid there several days before she came up to Col. Smith’s.”</p>

<p>“She’s devilish grave, though,” said Frank, pouring the
basin full of water.</p>

<p>“Remember, Frank, what she has so recently passed
through,” said I; “she is really bright when she can forget
her bereavement; then, too, she is contrasted here with
Lulie, who is all life and gaiety.”</p>

<p>“Ah!” said Frank, wiping the words out of his mouth
with the towel, “Lulie is the star after all. If she just had
Carlotta’s beauty she would break all your hearts. I wonder
what she meant, though, by being so confoundedly sour
towards me. I believe I’ll try a little game with Carlotta,
any way, and see what grit she is made of, if for nothing
more than to <i>pique</i> Lulie.”</p>

<p>“Frank, you forget Carlotta is my sister, now,” I said,
gravely enough to let him see that I was in earnest, yet not
enough so to offend him, as he was my guest.</p>

<p>“<i>Pardons, mille pardons, monsieur</i>,” he replied, folding a
clean collar, and nodding to me gaily.</p>

<p>“Frank,” said Ned, dusting his hat, “you are terribly conceited.
How do you know that your attentions to Miss
Rurleston will <i>pique</i> Lulie?”</p>

<p>“Oh, that’s my biz, you know,” returned Frank, shutting
one eye at him; “but I am afraid we are keeping Mrs.
Smith’s breakfast waiting; let’s go down.”</p>

<p>As we reached the basement stairs Lulie called me out to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
the porch, while Ned and Frank went down. She was very
much agitated as she said:</p>

<p>“John, I must go home to-morrow.”</p>

<p>“Go home, Lulie!”</p>

<p>“Yes; it will be a perfect torture to remain here with you
and Frank. He does not know of anything having passed
between us, and will be constantly rallying me about a confusion
I cannot conceal, when I think that you are watching
me and suffering with every smile I give him. Oh, John, I
am very unhappy about it all.”</p>

<p>“And poor I am the cause of all. But, Lulie, you must
not go. What will they all think of your leaving so suddenly,
when you came up to spend the summer? I am
afraid they will think there is something unpleasant between
you and Carlotta or myself. Lulie, if you will only stay, I
will promise not to be miserable, however loving you are to
Frank, and I will endeavor to arrange all our plans so that
you will not be placed in a single embarrassing situation.”</p>

<p>“Your motives are all kind, John, but I alone know how
I will suffer by remaining here. I must return, and I have
called you now to ask that you aid me to take my departure
without any unpleasantness. I will make it all right with
Carlotta, and I want you to assure Mrs. Smith that neither
she nor any of the family have given me the slightest cause
for leaving. If it will make your explanation easier, you
can even hint at something between Frank and myself.
Colonel Smith, you know, leaves day after to-morrow for
Havana, and, as he has to go through Wilmington, I can go
down with him.”</p>

<p>“So much the more reason for your not going. Father’s
absence will make it lonely here, and we cannot spare you.”</p>

<p>“Do not, dear John, persuade me any longer. I am positively
determined. Now, won’t you please help me to get
off without so much surprise and resistance on the part of
others,” and she twisted one little finger into the button-hole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
of my coat, and looked up at me with such earnest entreaty
in her eyes, that I readily promised to give her all the aid in
my power.</p>

<p>By way of fulfilling this promise, I sought an interview
with mother, and, after a little confidence in regard to Frank
and myself, and by hard persuasion, made her promise not
to express more than conventional surprise and regret at the
announcement of Lulie’s intention. I had a short talk with
father to the same effect, while Lulie was alone with Carlotta,
down under the arbor; so that at the dinner table,
when Lulie proposed to accompany father to Wilmington,
there was no great outcry against it.</p>

<p>All expressed regret. Ned vowed it was a shame for her
to leave just as they reached here, and Frank simply smiled,
but a smile so like a sneer I could not tell whether he was
pleased or otherwise with the announcement.</p>

<p>After dinner we separated for our afternoon siesta, Frank,
Ned and I going up to our cool, large room, where, drawing
our beds between the windows, with a soft breeze playing
over us, we enjoyed that prince of luxuries, an afternoon
nap. When we awoke, bathed, dressed, and went down
stairs, we found the sun quite low down the sky, and Ben
Bemby out in the front porch, with Carlotta and Lulie, who
were both laughing at his quaint remarks. I introduced
my companions, Ned shaking him warmly by the hand,
Frank saying carelessly, with a stare, “How are you?” and
then, as they all proposed to go to the orchard for fruit, I excused
myself for a ride. Once upon Phlegon, my beautiful
courser, flying along through grass-bordered wood paths,
now reining up on some hill to get a view of the sunset,
now pausing at a gurgling branch, down in some valley, to
see him lower his tapering neck and dip his spreading nostrils
in the bubbling waters, then on again, with freshened
speed and tighter rein, I almost forgot that Lulie did not
love me.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p>

<p>That night, after the lamps were lit in the parlor, father
came in and declared we must lay aside all dignity and
have a real romp. As he agreed to join us we assented, and
for hours the house sounded like bedlam. Carlotta, at
mother’s request, participated, and her beauty was as much
enhanced by the animation of the excitement as is a diamond
when it is brought to the light.</p>

<p>What a delightful thing is a romp in the country, when
you can make just as much noise as you please, and no one
will care; when there is no nervous old lady over the way,
to send over and beg that you be more quiet, as she has the
headache; no simple minded policemen, to knock at the door
and inquire if there is a fire; no next door neighbor to present
you as a nuisance!</p>

<p>We fully enjoyed the rural privilege, and the old clock in
the corner had rung out its warning many times unheeded,
when our games were broken up, as far as the ladies were
concerned, by the entrance of a bat, for there are few things
they are more genuinely afraid of than a little leather-wing.
Like the eyes of a well executed portrait, the bat seems to
follow you wherever you crouch in the room, and dips with
regular precision and nicety of distance at your head, however
low you bow it. Verily, the woman who can stand
the flutter of its dusky wings is a heroine, beside whom Daemeneta
is insignificant! A broom and pair of tongs soon
secured its expulsion, and allowed Carlotta and Lulie to return
to the room. Taking up the lamp, and looking at the
clock in the sitting room, we found it late, and, bidding each
other “good night,” we went to our rooms.</p>

<p>“John,” said Frank, pushing off one boot with the toe of
his other, “Miss Rurleston is your sister now, I know, but
you must excuse me for saying she is superb. I’ll sw&mdash;&mdash;
vow her eyes set me crazy. Lulie ain’t a whiff to her. By
the way,” he continued, getting up in his stocking feet and
shirt sleeves to stand before the mirror, while he took off his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
collar and tie, “I wonder what put the little goose into the
notion of going home?”</p>

<p>“Frank,” said Ned, from the bed, where he had thrown
himself, half undressed, to cool off, “if you do claim Lulie
as your sweetheart, you shan’t speak of her so disrespectfully.
She is an old friend of mine, and I will defend her
from any such epithets.”</p>

<p>“Well, parson,” returned Frank, sitting down on the other
bed, “I will call her the madam, or her highness, if you desire,
but I do think it is confounded shabby in her to leave us
now. I’ll make up for it with the black eyes, though. Excuse
me again, ‘brother’ John.”</p>

<p>I felt that I could not trust myself to reply, and there was
a silence for a few minutes, during which Ned yawned, and
slided off the bed to his knees to say his prayers.</p>

<p>“Oh, John, I forgot to tell you,” said Frank, “that long,
tow-headed booby, who was here this evening, said he had
a fine place for fishing to-morrow, and we promised to go
with him, if it did not conflict with any of your plans.”</p>

<p>“Not at all,” said I, “but I must go down and tell mother,
that she may have breakfast early.”</p>

<p>“No; she already knows about it, and promised to have
us up at sunrise.”</p>

<p>“Of course, I am in for anything you all say.”</p>

<p>“Let’s go to sleep,” said Ned, as he got up from his
prayers, and fell over on the bed. We let!</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c132" id="c132">CHAPTER XVI.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">We</span> were yet at the table when Reuben came in to announce
that Mr. Bemby’s son had come. We went out to
the porch, where he was sitting, his elbow on the railing,
his chin on his elbow, his white wool hat, without a band,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
hanging down like the eaves of a barn over his wheat straw
hair, his red fuzzy wrists, sticking about three inches out
of his coarse flax coat sleeves, and his broad copper riveted
shoes gaping so wide about his bony ankles that they
seemed to have frightened his speckled pants half way up
his legs; his poles, lashed together with old leather shoe
strings, stood against the railing, and his bait-gourd sat on
the bench at his side. He greeted us with a “good mornin’
to you,” and a smile, without any sound whatever. We all
shook hands with him, Frank barely tipping his fingers,
then went back into the house to get our hats and tackle.
Reuben came out with our dinner in a large basket and we
were about to start, when Frank ran back up stairs, and soon
joined us, holding his coat over something against his side.
As soon as we got into the lane he took out a large black
bottle of whisky and a bundle of cigars. I said nothing, but
I could see that Ned was disturbed that Frank should attempt
to do the “fast” with us, for neither of us were yet
sophisticated enough to smoke or drink. Ben, however,
smiled, and prolonged his laugh as he shook the bottle and
watched the bead.</p>

<p>“That’s fine as cat hair,” he said, returning the bottle to
Frank. “Licker’s purtty much like er hole in the groun’;
keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer; but less
pearten er little; we got er right smart ways to walk now,
an’ it’ll be hot enough presn’ly to curl er turckle’s shell.”</p>

<p>We accordingly walked on rapidly, Ned and I together,
and Frank and Ben. Frank, however, had too much of the
haughty about him for Ben, who soon fell back and gave us
the benefit of his ever-going tongue.</p>

<p>“How far is the place where you expect to fish, Mr.
Bemby?” inquired Ned.</p>

<p>“None er your misters for me; jus’ call me Ben,” said he,
shifting his poles from one shoulder to another. “I’m er
gwine to take you up to old Nancy Mucket’s hole.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p>

<p>“Nancy who?” I asked. “What in the world do they
call it by such a name, for?”</p>

<p>“‘Cause old Nancy Mucket got drownded there. I have
heerd daddy tell ‘bout it er thous’n times. Old Nance was
er mon’sus fisher, an’ old Dave Mucket tole her whatever she
done not to tech his ash pole. Nance she tuck it right down
an’ went to the creek. She never come back by night, an’
next day they drug the creek, and pulled her up from the
bottom, where she was hung under er root. She had the
very ash pole in her grip, and when the corrunner sot on
her, ole Dave he come up and shuck his head mighty solemn
like, and talks: ‘Nance, I tole you so; whenever wimmin
gits to doin’ men’s doos they gits into trouble. God made
’em she folks fus, and they’ll have to stay she till the worl
busts.’ Daddy mighty offen tells mo’er ‘bout it when she
wants to go roun’ by herself or drive to town.”</p>

<p>“Is it a good place to fish?” asked Frank.</p>

<p>“Tain’t bad,” said Ben, laconically, at the same time
throwing his legs, one after the other, over a low rail fence,
and saying, “Here’s the place!”</p>

<p>We followed him over the fence, and through some tangled
vines, and stopped at the water’s edge; the bank covered
with short, thick grass, the shade perfectly dense, the yellow
waters of the creek curdled with clear rings and ripples from
a noisy branch, that bubbled limpidly from the coolest of
springs over the whitest of pebbles.</p>

<p>Just where the clear and muddy water mingled, Ben
affirmed the fish would bite best. We undid our poles and
baited our hooks. Ben and Frank had a little unpleasantness,
arising from Frank’s claiming a place for his pole to
the detriment of Ben’s position. His manner and words
were so insulting that Ben was about to strike him, when
Ned and I interfered, and prevented blows.</p>

<p>We found, as Ben had said, it was a capital place to fish,
for we were kept busily employed in attending to our poles.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
Ben, however, easily beat us all. He some way had a knack
of fixing his bait and spitting on his hook, so that his line
would scarcely touch the water before a fish would seize it.</p>

<p>The morning waned, however, and the sun had laid the
shadows of the poles directly under them, when we all agreed
that it was time for lunch.</p>

<p>We carried our basket up to the spring, which bubbled
out of a large rock, and where Nature had spread us a table
with a green velvet cloth. Ham sandwiches, with just
enough mustard, broiled and devilled fowl, cold tongue,
with the parsley between the slices, together with heaps of
covered fruit pies, and mother’s especial boast, biscuit glacé,
in the whitest of paper, to say nothing of a barrow full of
peaches and melons which Reuben rolled down from the
house, and placed to cool in a pond dammed up for the
occasion; all were presented to appetites sharpened by the
sport of the morning. Reversing the order of Aladdin’s
feast, our viands disappeared with as wonderful celerity as
his appeared. After we had fairly choked the branch with
a mound of water-melon rinds and peach parings, we took
our seats farther up on the grass, and left Reuben to clear
up the table. Frank now drew forth his bottle of brandy
and proposed that each one of us should tell a short story,
entirely his own, and that he who could tell the most improbable,
should have the bottle to himself. Ben stretched
himself out on the grass, with his arm under his head, and
said, drowsily, as he tore off with his teeth a large quid of
tobacco from a twist he drew from his pocket:</p>

<p>“Blaze away wi’ yer lies. I’m a biled mullen stalk ef I
can’t win at that game.”</p>

<p>Ned firmly declared he did not want any of the brandy,
but said he would tell his story with the rest, merely to help
out the fun. By request I was excused, that I might act
as judge, and Frank, rapping on the bottle with his knife,
asked Ned to begin. Ned reclined on one elbow, and said:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p>

<p class="pc1 mid">NED’S STORY.</p>

<p class="p1">“I will tell you what happened in the western part of the
State, for Frank’s benefit. Our family were summering at a
small town near the mountains some years ago, when a circus
passed through that section, stopping for a day at our
town. Every wall of every house that presented surface
enough had for weeks been spread over with the marvellous
high colored illustrations of what were to be seen under that
mighty, mystic canvas. They were the same pictures, or
I should rather say works of art, combining the airy lightness
and licensed fancy of Correggio with the Dutch fidelity
of Rembrandt, which you have, perhaps, all seen at different
times pasted, with weather-proof adherence, to any visible
portion of public places. There were troops of monkeys,
done in the blackest of colors, swinging from the greenest of
trees, across the widest and bluest of rivers, by tails of impossible
length and elasticity. There were ibexes leaping
into bottomless abysses, thereby defeating the design of the
artist, who would have them to alight upon their horns.
There was the traditional polar bear, defending her cubs and
leisurely lunching on a sandwich of two seals and a sailor.
The actual bear in the circus, I have found by long experience,
invariably dies at the previous stopping place, bequeathing,
tenderly, its skin to the public of to-morrow,
thereby undergoing a constancy of death and a multitude of
bequests that would startle the profundity of a probate
judge. There were pleasant side groups of men lassoing the
giraffe and zebra, tripping the rhinoceros, and tearing off
tigers from the very hams of elephants, on whose backs were
huddled not quite a full regiment of soldiers in all stages of
the manual of arms. But the chef <i>d’œuvre</i> was the centre-piece,
as large as life, representing the clown, dressed in
the American flag, with stars left out, with a hat reaching
too infinite a point with its peak to be measured by any rule<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
in conic sections, and cheeks too flamingly hectic for medical
aid, handing, with the utmost gravity, a dish of boiled eggs
to a sedate and diminutive mule, seated on its haunches,
with its fore feet up on a barrel as its table&mdash;the only position,
by the way, in which I think a mule could be safely
approached with anything so far from its usual bill of fare
as eggs.”</p>

<p>“Dog gone yo circus picturs!” interrupted Ben, raising
up on one elbow to spit a stream of tobacco juice several
yards behind us, “I c’n see them might’ nigh every year
stuck ‘gin the warehouse over in town; go on wi yo yarn.”</p>

<p>“Well,” continued Ned, kindly taking no affront at Ben’s
abrupt interruption, “I will hasten on. I merely wished to
show how public expectation was worked up to a high
pitch. After awhile the day came, and with it the circus&mdash;wagon
after wagon, with tent poles and furniture; then the
cages with the animals, all closed except the little lattice at
the top, through which could now and then be heard the
scream of a monkey or the cough of a lion, and then the
gorgeous, gilded band chariot, with its music. Negroes,
and boys, of which I was one, were almost crazy with excitement;
we danced and shouted along the sidewalk in a promiscuous
throng, ever keeping up with the long train of
plumed horses drawing after them the gilded dragon, with
its backful of brazen melody. But our glee was hushed into
a very silence of admiration as we saw coming far behind
the band chariot, with solemn grandeur, the great elephant,
its broad ears waving like dusky fans, and its proboscis twisting,
like a great serpent cut in two, slowly from side to side as
he came on, looming like a gigantic tower, through the dust.
As he approached and passed us, his small eyes twinkling
so knowingly on the crowd, his keeper on a dappled
horse, pacing along so fearlessly by his ponderous foreleg,
and his dog trotting carelessly under his curling trunk, the
open mouths of the crowd must have relieved him to a considerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
extent of the dust he seemed to deprecate so much
by his fanning ears.</p>

<p>“Well, to hurry on without so much detail, the canvas was
pitched, the keeper carried the elephant to the river to cool
out, and then brought him up, and tied him to one of the
posts of the market house, which was near the pavilion,
till the afternoon performance should commence. At the
hour he went round, decked in his Oriental costume, and
undid the fastening, and spoke in some unknown tongue to
his mammoth charge. The elephant started, made a step
forward and stopped, with a shrill cry of pain. The keeper
looked up surprised, then uttering a few genuine American
oaths, ordered him to move. Again the elephant made a
great effort, and again stood still, with a prolonged scream.
The keeper, now furious, approached, and drove his short
training spike into him again and again. With each stab
the poor creature would shriek and strain to the uttermost
its cumbrous limbs, but all in vain, it could not move from
where it stood. There was something so new in this apparent
obstinacy that the keeper commenced to examine his
position. He found one of the market house posts nearly
pulled from its place, and the elephant’s tail, stretched to its
last tenacity, sticking out straight as a poker towards the
post, though not touching it by several inches, and having
no visible connection whatever with it. Again he urged the
animal forward, and again the elephant did his best to
move. Just before his tail pulled out by the roots the post
gave way, and tumbling over, hung dangling at the elephant’s
heels. The keeper took the post in his hands, and,
looking closely, found that a little spider had spun a web
from the elephant’s tail to the post, and that this invisible
thread had held him stronger than a chain of steel. Such a
crowd had now gathered that the keeper found the elephant
was drawing more people than the circus proper (or improper),
and ordered him to move, that he might carry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
him under the canvas. The elephant obeying, moved forward,
but the motion of his body set the post to swinging
like a pendulum, which, increasing in its oscillation, at last
commenced to thump him in the side harder than he fancied
was comfortable. The thumps became more violent as he
increased his speed, till, at last becoming frenzied with the
blows, and the shouts, and hootings of the crowd, he broke
away from the keeper, and ran hither and thither in the
streets as fast as his unwieldy body could move, knocking
over signs and boxes, breaking racks, frightening horses, and
occasionally jostling over a clumsy man or two. At last he
plunged through the great wide door of the court house,
scraping his back against the brick arch as he did so. The
post here fortunately got across the door and checked him.
He pulled frantically, but the little web would not break;
he then bent himself around as far as an elephant might,
and tried to tear it off with his proboscis. The web, however,
was so fine that it cut into even his tough trunk, and
burying itself under the skin, held his proboscis fast to his
tail. In his efforts now to disengage himself he fell, and lay
helpless on the ground, and at last had to be rolled with an
immense handspike over and over, like a very large hoop,
till he got to the tent, or canvas, under which he was rolled,
and perhaps unfastened.</p>

<p>“The prominent gentlemen of the town obtained part of
the web, and forwarded it, with proper credentials, to several
scientific societies for analysis. They each gave a different
opinion in regard to the cause of its wonderful tenacity, but
the people about the town always believed, and with very
good reason, too, that the spider which spun it had been
feeding on the beef brought to that market; and thus
accounting for it, they ceased to wonder at the toughness of
the web.”</p>

<p class="pc2">“Ned, that’s a jolly good yarn,” said Frank, tossing the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
serpentine paring of a peach over his shoulder, and puffing
out one jaw with a large section of the luscious fruit.</p>

<p>“Less hear the lord juke tell his’n,” said Ben, nodding
towards Frank, and pushing himself up backwards by his
hands to a large tree, against which he leaned, and folded
his arms around one doubled-up knee; “should’n be suppris’n
ef he can tell a buster, he’s in such good practice.”</p>

<p>“Well,” replied I, “we will leave all discussion of the
merits of each one’s story to the umpire, and proceed.
Frank, it is your time next.”</p>

<p class="pc1 mid">FRANK’S STORY.</p>

<p class="p1">“I hardly know what to tell,” he said, taking aim at Ben’s
foot with the peach stone he had been sucking. “Ned has
fairly taken the wind out of my sails. Let me see; I believe
I’ll tell you what happened to me once when I was very
small. I was out one day in the mountains bird-nesting&mdash;a
wicked employment, by the way, which perhaps accounts
for my mishap&mdash;and found a very large hawk’s nest. It
was in the very top of a ragged old pine, that grew upon the
edge of the most frightful precipice in the country. It was
a sheer descent of five or six hundred feet, looking almost
perpendicular, though in some places it bulged out with
rugged rocks, and in others retreated into caves. All down
the face of the cliff were little scrubby bushes, which grew
straight out for an inch or two, then suddenly turned up in
their course, as if determined to see beyond the great rocky
wall that towered so far above them. The old pine had endured
the agony of fear for centuries, for though its gnarled
trunk leaned far over the abyss, the limbs had all turned toward
the firm earth, and stretched their hard, knotty hands
appealingly to the surrounding forest. Rain after rain had
washed away the soil and left the roots exposed, till half the
foundation stood over the precipice and added its weight to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
the leaning trunk. It was not without much hesitation and
debate with myself that I prepared to ascend. I reasoned,
however, that if it had stood that long through wind and
storm it would not take such a still, calm day to fall; and
then, even if its foundation was precarious, my weight
would be so infinitely small, compared with its own, that it
would never make a perceptible addition. The temptation,
too, was a great one, for I had seen the hawk, one of the
largest kind, fly away as I approached, and then the climbing
was very easy, for a ladder-like vine wound its leafy
folds clear up to the top, like a great green serpent seeking
the eggs. I took off my jacket and commenced to ascend.
With well rubbed pants and an irritating quantity of pine
bark next to my skin I reached the first limb, where I rested;
then went on to the top, like going up stairs. At last I
reached the nest, and there&mdash;rich reward for my trouble&mdash;lay
four brown splotched eggs. Before I proceeded to take
them out and tie them in my handkerchief I took a glance
at my position. One look satisfied me, and made me faint
and dizzy. From my standpoint the tree seemed to stretch
out horizontally over the chasm which yawned hungrily below,
and, looking at it as I did, through the branches of the
tree, it seemed far deeper and more awful than it really was.
Far down at the bottom, where the trees and shrubs shrank
to the level of a green plush-looking surface, two or three
cows were grazing, and they appeared just the size of the
toy cows in my Noah’s ark. As I had to descend to the
level of the valley on my way home, I could not resist the
boyish temptation to throw my hat out into the air and let it
float down; I accordingly balanced it nicely and let it go. It
sank steadily for a little while, then began to rock from side
to side, and finally relapsed into the regular spiral descent,
twisting down and down till my eyes could not follow the
tiny speck. While gazing down to discover it, if possible, I
was startled by a sharp crack near the foot of the tree;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
another and another followed, and I looked in terror at the
roots, to find that the ground was rising slowly upward in a
slanting direction from me. The tree was giving way, and
gradually sinking more and more swiftly over that hell of
destruction. I heard the tearing up of the roots and the
sh&mdash;sh of the foliage through the air, and I knew no more.</p>

<p>“When I awoke I was swinging delightfully, as if in a
hammock. Thick leaves were all around me, and when I
parted them and looked out my position was plain. I had
caught in the net work of vines in the top of the tree, and
was now hanging by one strand of rope-like vine to the tree,
which was dangling, top downwards, about fifty feet above
me. I found, to my great comfort, that I was in a comparatively
safe bed, well padded with abundant leaves, and held
by strong cords which branched from the vine rope. This
was so twined about the trunk of the inverted tree that it
could not become detached; so that my only real danger
was that the immense tree itself, hanging above me by a few
roots that had not given way, might at any moment break
from its slight support and plunge, with me beneath it, into
the vast depths below. The very hopelessness of my position
made me perfectly reckless and indifferent; and finding
that the motion of my descent had given me a considerable
swing, I endeavored to augment it by the constant change
of my position, leaning first on one side, then on the other.
I succeeded so well that I was soon sweeping through an
arc of an hundred feet, with a rush through the air at
every swoop that made my cheeks tingle. With every
swing I increased my speed, and there is no telling to what
extent I might have carried the wild excitement of the moment,
had I not been checked by coming in violent contact
with the face of the precipice. The blow almost stunned
me, but it fortunately stopped my swing, and, with a gradually
decreasing oscillation, I lay still in my nest of leaves.
When I awoke ‘twas late in the afternoon, and I found that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
I was extremely hungry. I ate two of the hawk eggs and
felt relieved. I put the other two away, resolved not to
touch them till I was absolutely compelled.</p>

<p>Having nothing better to do, I amused myself by swinging
again, though I took good care not to swing far enough
to strike the side of the cliff. The sun at last went down,
and darkness crept over the dismal woods. Far up above,
the stars began to twinkle brightly in the sky, and far
down below, the dark void grew intensely black. With a
trembling dread of the dark grim night, and yet with a
strange sense of security&mdash;a feeling of safety from all other
dangers&mdash;I tried to go to sleep. With a faithful remembrance
of the old lady’s instructions I said my prayers as
well as the distraught condition of my mind would allow.</p>

<p>All through the long dreary night I was dozing off, only
to dream that I was falling from my nest, and to awake with
a cold shudder of horror.</p>

<p>After dreary hours of these terrors I hailed with delight
the faint beams of approaching day. Brighter and brighter
grew the sky, till, with a sudden flood of gold, the sun rose
upon the world. What a bright, warm feeling of hope
morning brings to the weary watcher! I knew that friends
would soon be on the search, and I lay in constant expectation
of their shouts. Nor had I long to wait; for soon the
woods were ringing with their loud halloos, as they called
and listened for my voice. At length I saw a party far below
pick up my hat, and from their anxious grouping
around it, and busy search among the rocks immediately
afterwards, I knew they thought I had fallen over the precipice
and was lying, a mangled corpse, somewhere near. I
called and called in vain; they moved slowly hither and
thither, and finally passed out of sight, carrying my hat
with them.</p>

<p>My heart sank within me, and, burying my face in the
leaves of my pillow, I sobbed and moaned most piteously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
Suddenly, in the very acme of my anguish, I heard my name
called aloud, and, looking up through my tears, saw half a
score of friendly, anxious faces looking down from the edge
of the cliff. Half ashamed of my weakness, yet still crying
for joy, I shouted, and begged them for Heaven’s sake to
help me out of my terrible predicament. They had no ropes
with them, and it was a long way to town where they could
be procured, so I could see there was an animated discussion
among them in reference to the best ways and means
to relief. I heard one say, in an angry tone, ‘I tell you it’s
a sho’ thing. The wind hain’t never turned it, and I’ll bet
my own life agin your pus, and that’s empty, that it’ll hold
him for ever. Look at them ribs, man! Sheer! let her drap.
I’ll be ‘sponsible for his life.’</p>

<p>The next instant an enormous blue cotton umbrella dropped
down beside me, and a rough voice shouted, ‘Put your foot
in the crook of the handle; hold her up stiff; she’ll let you
down square.’</p>

<p>Whether the femininity of the umbrella inspired confidence,
or the desperate state of my feelings urged me on, I
cannot say, but getting on the edge of my nest, putting my
foot in the strong oak curved handle for a stirrup, and
grasping the staff firmly, I slipped from the vines, and floated
slowly down, the old umbrella popping and straining as if
it was going to fly to pieces. But with the exception of
rubbing the edges on the rocks, and straightening out the
ribs by the pressure of the atmosphere, I landed safely at
the foot of the precipice, where I found the old man sobbing
over my hat as if I was dead. He no sooner found that I
was really unhurt than he put up his handkerchief, and cut a
before long switch, with which he thrashed me soundly right
the assembled throng of friends. I thought then, and still
think, it was a singular way of thanking Providence for my
safe delivery. This is about all I have to tell, except that the
old gent had a gold handle put on the old cotton umbrella.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p>

<p>‘Go ahead, now, what’s-your-name; let us hear what you
can do in the shape of a yarn.’</p>

<p>Frank drew the fruit basket to him, searched through it
for the largest peach, and, hastily peeling it, threw himself
back on the grass to listen to Ben.”</p>

<p>Ben very deliberately rose, and tossed away his quid of
tobacco, took some water to cleanse his mouth, and walked
to a bush near by, from which he cut a large branch with
an old horn-handle knife, out of which he blew almost a
pipeful of tobacco crumbs before opening the blade. Taking
his seat again, he commenced to trim up his switch and to
tell his story.</p>

<p class="pc1 mid">BEN’S STORY.</p>

<p class="p1 ">“Your two friends, John, has both on ’em told good yarns,
but they went mighty fur from home to get ’em. I’m a gwine
to tell you what happened right up yonder at the house.
Some time along the fust of last year mo’er took her up a
house pig, to raise offen the slops and peelins. It growed
and fattened a power, and was soon ‘bout the likeliest hog
on the plantation, only it got so cussed tame twould’n never
git outer nobody’s way, and was a continuwell being stepped
on, and drug outer the house by the leg. Arter the little
fool had been grown awhile, she come up one day with
eleven pigs, as lively as you ever see, and pime blank like
her, a squealin’ and runnin’ everywhere they hadn’t orter.
I heard a riddle wonst ‘bout a pig under a gate makin’ a
noise, but he ain’t a lighten-bug’s lamp to a pig when he’s
hungry. The older they got the wuss they squealed, till
dad said as how he could’n stand it no longer, the sow
and pigs had to be moved; so me and him bilt a pen ‘bout
two hundred yards from the house, and driv ’em down to it.
There was a free nigger, with a yard full of children, livin’
‘bout as fur from the pen as we did; and the fust night
after we’d put ’em up, long todes bed time, I heer a pig<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
squeal like dyin’, but I thought perhaps he’d got cut out of
his suck, and I never thought on ’em agin till next morning,
when I went down to feed ’em; two of the pigs was bloody
behind, and, when I looked close, thare tails was gone. I
knowed ‘twas the niggers, for a fried pig’s tail is the best
thing a nigger knows how to eat. I tole the ole man ‘bout
it soon’s I got back, and he said how we’d wait till the next
mornin’. When we went to the pen agin thare was two
more tails gone, and two more bloody pigs. Daddy sot on
a rail sometime a studin, then he said, sudden-like:</p>

<p>‘Bengermin, go to the house, and fetch me a shingle an
my powder horn, an the big gimblet.’</p>

<p>I ran off, a wond’rin’ what in the crashen the ole man was
gwine to do with a gimblet and a shingle. Soon as I come
back he tole me to get in the pen, and ketch one of the pigs
with his tail on. When I histed one up, he tuk him and
tied his tail out straight on the shingle, so it twould’n bend.
He tuk the gimblet, and started in the tip end of the pig’s
tail, and bored it clear out. The bloody shavins come a
bilin’ up round the grooves of the gimblet, and the pig
squealed till the air ‘peared to be full of hopper grasses,
tryin’ to kick in my years. When daddy pulled the gimblet
out, the tail looked like a holler skin quill, and would hold
‘bout a double load of powder. Daddy poured it chock full,
then put a fo-penny nail, with a gun cap on the eend of it,
down ‘mongst the powder, so that it’d go off if any thing
totch it, and then tied it all up with horse hair. When I
put him back in the pen that pig didn’t have nary a curl to
his tail; it stuck out as straight and stiff as if it was a handel
to tote him by. We fixed two more in the same way,
and then went home. Next morning, when we went down,
we found one pig dead, with his hams ready baked, and his
back bone drove through his forehead six inches. His tail
itself was split open like a shot fire-cracker, and bent backerds
like a shelled pea hull. The other two tails had just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
shot straight without bustin’, but the kick of the powder had
lifted up their hind legs so high they could’n git ’em down
agin, and they was walkin’ round the pen on thare forefeet
samer’n a circus man. When we came to zamine the pen we
found three niggers’ fingers blowed off, and sticking to a rail,
and little kinks of wooly hair were layin’ round as thick as if
it had snowed black. Daddy and me then went up to the
nigger’s house, where we found a good size boy and girl
with their hands tied up, and thare heads burnt slick on
top. When we asked ’em ‘bout it, the boy said the girl
was a nussin the baby, and went down to the pen to keep
the baby quiet, and he just went along for company like.
He said they got to the pen, and was a peepin’ through
the rails, when one of the pigs come to scratch hisself, and
soon’s he begin to rub he busted all to pieces. They were
mighty badly skeered, and, to keep ’em so, daddy tole ’em
them was some thunder-tailed hogs he got from the South.
We never had another hog troubled in the least, and when
hog-killing time came daddy found it mighty hard to get the
hands to help him. That’s the end of my yarn.”</p>

<p>And Ben got up and walked to the spring, where a large
curved handled gourd hung on a stick cut for the purpose,
and, disdaining Reuben’s offer of a glass, took the gourd, and
dipping up half the spring, drank till the long crooked handle
curled over his hat, and bent back like an officer’s plume
in a windy parade. When he had resumed his seat on the
grass all three called for my judgment, and, with an assumption
of great solemnity and dignity, I proceeded to render it.</p>

<p>“The object, gentlemen, of a wonderful story, or yarn, as
it is vulgarly called, is not only to excite wonder, but also
to evoke a pleasant surprise by discovering relations between
dissimilar or contrary things, which we did not think
of as possibly existing. If these dissimilars or contraries
are too far apart for the mind to recognize any possible relation,
then the narration becomes unpleasantly absurd, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
we shrink from contemplating it. If, however, apparently
improbable relations are brought out in a way that renders
them possible, we are surprised and pleased with the discovery.
Hence, the most exaggerated narrations are not
always the most entertaining, and we derive most pleasure
from hearing or reading those stories where improbabilities
are unexpectedly brought within the range of possibility, or
if beyond it, the fact is ingeniously concealed by possible
concomitants. Thus, Munchausen’s descent from the moon
by a rope of cut straw is not half so pleasant a story as the
firing his gun by sparks drawn from his eye with his fists.
So, were you to tell an audience that you saw a mole move
a mountain no one would be pleased or surprised, as the
mind would have no effort to pronounce it entirely false; but
if you should say you saw a fly trained to play a tune by
buzzing his wings from the top to the bottom of a wine
glass, the minds of your hearers would be pleasantly occupied
for a while in eliminating the true from the false, and
your story would be applauded.</p>

<p>Ned, to-day, in his story, erred by placing his relations too
far apart. A spider and an elephant! There is no exercise
of ingenuity in detecting the falsity of the statement, and
the story, from its very improbability, is almost out of the
range of competition for the prize. Frank has so mixed his
that I scarcely know how to render an opinion in regard to
it. The impossible parts are utterly so, and the possible
are so easily probable we are not surprised. To Ben, then,
I award the prize, as having produced the most entertaining
story, exciting pleasant surprise in each development, and
discovering possibilities in the most unthought of relations.”</p>

<p>“Oh! blow your philosophic nonsense, John,” said Frank,
handing Ben the bottle of brandy; “you got it out of a
book, and I’m the devil’s apprentice if I didn’t earn the
brandy fairly.”</p>

<p>Ben proffered us the bottle, but Ned and I declined. Frank,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
however, took it, and, with more swagger than swallow,
turned it up to his mouth. Ben poured himself out a glassful,
and the bottle was set aside for a smoke. Frank drew
forth his cigars, Ben his pipe. Strange to say, I dreaded
more to appear squeamish before Ben, whom I looked upon
as an inferior, than I did either of the others, and with a
blush for my weakness took a cigar. Ned declined again,
for which Frank called him Parson Conscience, and we proceeded
to light. Oh, dire beginning of troubles! I first bit
off the end of my cigar, and could not get the end out of my
mouth. I sputtered and spit, and twisted my face into more
hideous contortions than Medusa ever wore, but I could not
eject that little crumbling fragment of tobacco. Now under
my tongue, now in the roof of my mouth, and now going
down like a pill. I finally had to take it out disgracefully
with my fingers. Getting over that, I lit the cigar&mdash;a hard
black cigar&mdash;and commenced to smoke. With the exception
of the pain I experienced from crossing my eyes to look at
the end of my cigar, I got on very well for several puffs,
then I found that I could not expel all the smoke from my
mouth, a little would remain and get up my nose or go down
into my lungs. I expectorated, too, very constantly, so that
my throat became so insufferably dry, I swallowed just once
to relieve it, and oh! the bitter, burning taste that went
groping down to my stomach! Clear my throat as I would
I could not get it up; more and more bitter it became with
each succeeding puff. And now a singular sensation came
on; a cloud of swan’s down, or carded tow steeped in this
same nauseating bitterness, seemed slowly ascending up into
my brain, and piling up in sickening oppression just behind
my eyeballs, so that I felt a constant desire to close them
and roll them inward to see this feathery pain. I felt no interest
in the conversation and was absent in all my replies
to questions addressed to me, but I tried to look careless and
at ease. I even took off my hat and leaned back against a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
tree, as if in a high state of enjoyment, and tried to flip off
the ashes from my cigar with the air of an old smoker. Not
understanding this sleight-of-hand practice, my third finger
passed so slowly under the burning end that it came out the
other side loaded with ashes, and ornamented with a large
white blister.</p>

<p>“Smith, how do you like your weed?” said Frank, blowing
out a cloud of smoke, holding his cigar daintily between
his fore and middle fingers.</p>

<p>“Very much ‘ndeed,” I said faintly; “‘tis very fragrant.”</p>

<p>The tow or down now pressed so hard and bitterly upon
my eyeballs that it confused my vision. Frank, Ned and
Ben were continually changing places, and their conversation
seemed to belong to a different period of my life. Objects
were still enough when I gazed steadily at them, but
when I winked and then looked, they would seem to be in
different places. I tried closing my eyes for relief, but the
great downy mass of nausea crowding my brain was almost
visible, and I was glad to open them again. Still the bitter,
burning taste in my mouth kept going down into my stomach,
yet lingering with its sickening flavor on my palate. A
cold perspiration stood on my forehead and hands, and I felt
that I was looking deadly pale. I made an attempt at a
yawn to conceal my faint voice, and said:</p>

<p>“I believe I will take a nap. Wake me if the fish bite.”</p>

<p>I got up and tried to walk to a little hillock a few steps
off; but at every step the ground seemed to rise in a steep
hill or sink into a fearful declivity before my feet, and I
staggered like a drunken man.</p>

<p>“Hello, Smith; has the cigar got you? I thought you
had better pluck.”</p>

<p>I was too faint to answer, but fell down, with my head
hid by a tree, and with many death-like heavings sank into
a drowsy unconsciousness. When I awoke it was late in
the afternoon, and all was still around me. Staggering to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
my feet I heard the distant hum of voices, and taking a deep
draught of the cool spring water to slake my feverish thirst,
I walked unsteadily down to the creek, where I found my
companions fishing with fine success. My vision was not
sufficiently restored to admit of my angling, so I sat on the
fence and yawningly watched the others till it was time to
go home. With well filled baskets Ben, Frank and Ned
walked along merrily, while I stalked on miserably, with a
throbbing in my temples and an awkward consciousness of
being ashamed of everybody, and especially of myself.</p>

<p>At supper I drank a little tea, and, pleading a headache,
hurried up to my room. As soon as the servants had been
served, mother came up stairs to look after me. She found
me with some fever and symptoms of violent cold. A kiss
when she came into the room told her I had been smoking,
and she smiled as she passed her hand gently over my head,
and said:</p>

<p>“John, you have been smoking to-day, and, from your
restless, impatient look, you expect a long lecture, but I
will wait before I say what I have to say on the subject. I
want you to get to sleep now. It is so warm I will open
the window, and take out the lamp to prevent the insects
coming in, and I hope you will become composed.”</p>

<p>She left the room, and I began that hardest of all
tasks&mdash;trying to go to sleep. An intensely hot night! just
light enough out doors to make a checked square of the
window; not a leaf quivering; not a sound without but
the incessant quavers of the katydids; down stairs the
noise and mirth of merry converse!</p>

<p>Tossing from side to side of the bed; now shaking up my
pillow, then reversing my position, and lying with my head
at the foot board; then stretching directly across the bed,
with my hands hanging down over the sides; in all positions
I vainly sought a cool place. The very sheets, except
that they were wrinkled, seemed to have just come from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
under the iron; and even the mahogany of the foot board,
when I laid my cheek against it, felt tepidly disagreeable.
At last, after trying every conceivable position on the bed,
I fell asleep with my feet pressed against the cool wall, and
while watching a firefly that had gotten into the room, and
was flashing his tiny lamp hither and thither as he flitted
along the ceiling, trying to escape. My slumber was uneasy
and fitful, and I was dreaming of strange oppressions and
sensations, and continually waking, to hear the laughter
and mirth down stairs.</p>

<p>Perhaps conscience added a thorn to my pillow; but I
could remember no definite sin I had committed. The cigar
was surely not wrong, for father, and a great many others
who were good, smoked. I could not then analyze my moral
nature and detect the wrong, but years have since shown
me ‘twas in the lack of moral courage, in the yielding to
what I was ashamed of, simply because I was ashamed to
refuse.</p>

<p>Very young men deem the cigar an important adjunct to
manhood, and when they smoke to look manly, the oath
and glass are not far off. A good rule in forming this almost
national habit is to light your first cigar before father or
mother without a blush, and the harm resulting will be
solely physical.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c152" id="c152">CHAPTER XVII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Father</span> and Lulie have been gone an hour; father on his
way to Havana, Lulie returning to Wilmington. Frank and
Ned have gone with them over to town. I am lying on a
lounge in the hall, and mother and Carlotta are sitting near
me, arranging flowers for the parlor vases. Lulie got off
without much trouble with the assistance of mother’s tact;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
Ned expressing great surprise, while Frank was almost
rude in his solicitations to her to remain. Dear little darling,
how tenderly she bade me farewell, whispering as she
pressed my hand, “Don’t be hurt at my leaving, John, ‘tis
for your sake as much as mine!”</p>

<p>My eyes are closed, and mother and Carlotta think I am
asleep, but through a scarcely lifted lid I am watching Carlotta,
feasting my eyes on her beautiful face and form. She
is sitting just inside the hall door, with a lap full of
flowers, and though I cannot see her face, I gaze on an arm
and hand that Phidias might dream of, but never carve.</p>

<p>Her muslin sleeve was turned up to her shoulder, to be out
of the way, and the flesh, soft and snowy, swelled out from
the richly worked undersleeve, and almost imperceptibly
tapered to the elbow, with here and there a tiny thread of
blue, winding its way under the transparent skin. At the
elbow two dimples showed where the liquid flesh eddied
round the curve, and a slope of perfect grace carried it to the
wrist; here no knots disfigured, no roughness marred it,
but, smooth and delicate, the wrist became a fitting bridge
between such a hand and arm. Her hair, caught back by
a crimson velvet band, fell in a dark shower over her
shoulders; not the wiry ringlets, nor the hard straight locks
that all are familiar with, but in soft undulating waves it
fell, as if fairies were trembling the silken strands. Her profile
was exquisite, and the beautiful proportion of each feature,
and the delicate tints that overspread them, formed
altogether a picture that has rarely been surpassed for loveliness.
The peculiar witchery of the face, as I gazed upon it,
was enhanced by an occasional frown and arch of the pencilled
brow, as she endeavored to draw a refractory thread
through the stems of the flowers.</p>

<p>Mother, at last speaking, broke the spell that bound me.</p>

<p>“Carlotta, darling, Col. Smith told you of the letter he
received from your father’s agent in Havana, did he not?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p>

<p>“He told me of it, and also showed me the letter. Papa
always thought his agent very trusty, and I suppose Col.
Smith will find everything arranged properly.”</p>

<p>After another pause, mother asked again:</p>

<p>“Who is this cousin who claims the estate?”</p>

<p>“He is mother’s half nephew. He was always a great
favorite with papa, and staid almost half his time with us,
though his home was on the other side of the island. Papa
used to promise him, when I was a very little girl, that I
should be his wife, but he was so much older than I, I could
never love him.”</p>

<p>Though my fealty to Lulie was unchanged, I could not
help thinking what a splendid thing it would be to have the
promise of such a love as hers.</p>

<p>“But,” continued mother, shaking the dew from a flower
as she placed it with the others, “would you not marry him
when you are grown, to get back so much wealth and riches.
Remember, he has your father’s will, making him the sole
heir in case of your death, and he has also the affidavit of
the captain of the vessel in which you sailed, that yourself
and father were both lost, and could not possibly have been
saved.”</p>

<p>“I would despise him,” she said, scornfully, snapping a
stem as she spoke, “if he tried to get anything wrongfully.
But Col. Smith has all papa’s papers with him, and Cousin
Herrara is too noble, I know, to do anything mean or
sordid!”</p>

<p>She brushed the rose leaves from her lap, and placed the
bouquet she had arranged in the basket of a Parian marble
porter on the mantel; then coming back to mother, she
kneeled down by her side, and laying her cheek sideways
on mother’s knee, with that peculiar winning way of her’s,
said softly:</p>

<p>“I hope Col. Smith will be able to save me something
to repay you all for your goodness to me, for I cannot stay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
under your roof as a charity outcast, and it would kill me to
leave you now, I have learned to love you so.”</p>

<p>“My dear child,” said mother, laying her hand on her soft,
dark hair, “the very idea of compensating us for the greatest
pleasure of our lives! Colonel Smith has gone to Havana
solely on your account. Thank heaven we have as much as
we want, and you may feel that you have a daughter’s place
in our household, and will never, never be a burden. Who
knows,” she added, playfully patting her head and glancing
toward my couch, “but what you may be a daughter, indeed,
to us one of these days.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Mrs. Smith,” said Carlotta so earnestly, that I opened
my eyes in time to see the scarlet tinge of her cheeks, “you
do not know how you hurt me when you say that. ‘Twould
make me hate the very thought of your son, whom I now
esteem so much, to think that I was taken into your family
to please him; that I was being raised to suit his fancy;
that my character was being moulded after his model of a
woman; that it was being constantly said of me, as I have
heard it said: ‘Mrs. Smith is training her up for her son.’
Will I not shrink from his very presence when I feel that he
looks upon me as his to love or not, just as he likes?”</p>

<p>“My dear child,” said mother, looking surprised, “my
words were almost without meaning. Forgive me, and I
will endeavor to prevent any allusion, in this house at least,
that may wound your feelings.”</p>

<p>I here turned over, and moving my arms about showed
signs of waking. This put an end to the conversation.
Mother coming to the couch found me with considerable
fever, and becoming alarmed sent Reuben off after the doctor.
In truth I did feel a little badly, though I had been so
interested in the conversation that I had not thought of my
feelings. My eyeballs were hot and red, and felt as if they
were full of sand; my breath burnt my nostrils as it came
out, and my tongue was dry and coated. An hour of feverish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
restlessness elapsed before we heard the doctor’s horse plodding
up the avenue in a slow jog-trot, the fastest speed
known to the medical fraternity. The doctor himself was
equally deliberate in tying him to the rack, crossing the
stirrups over the back of the saddle with the utmost care,
and finally marching up the steps as if he was a pall-bearer
at a funeral. He laid his hat on the seat in the porch, put
his gloves in the crown, and laid his riding switch across
them, as if it was to guard them. He at length advanced
into the house and met mother.</p>

<p>“How d’ye do, madam; a very warm day, madam,” he
said, shaking her hand with one of his, and rubbing the bald
place on his head with the other, as if all the heat of the day
had centred there.</p>

<p>“It is very sultry indeed, sir,” replied mother, as he released
her hand. “Reuben, hand a glass of water, or perhaps,
sir, you would prefer wine?”</p>

<p>“Much obliged, madam, but water will do. Best for this
weather, madam.”</p>

<p>While the water was being brought he sat down near the
door and waited patiently, without deigning to notice me,
as if anything connected with his profession was farthest
from his thoughts.</p>

<p>“Who is sick, madam?” he inquired, when he had replaced
the empty goblet on Reuben’s waiter.</p>

<p>“My son, sir,” said mother, conducting him to my lounge.
“I don’t know that he is sick much, but he is feverish, and
fever always frightens me.”</p>

<p>“And very properly, madam, for it is a sure sign that
something is wrong in the system. Should always be taken
in hand at once.”</p>

<p>He felt my pulse a long time, slipping his fingers up and
down my wrist, as if he were playing the violin; then felt
my forehead, touching it as he would a loaf of bread, to see
if it were warm, and bade me put out my tongue. He put<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
on his specs and bent over it, as if he were looking for a
splinter, requesting mother to stand just a little out of the
light, madam, and rubbing it with the end of his little finger,
took off his spectacles triumphantly, and turning to mother
said:</p>

<p>“There is no danger, madam; very slight fever; only a
trifling disorder of the system. A good sized blue pill is all
that I would recommend at present. If you have any blue
mass in the house I will make it for you before I leave.”</p>

<p>The box of <i>pil hydrarg</i> was accordingly brought, and a
cup of flour, from which he soon produced a pellet the size
of a robin’s egg, which I was to swallow. There might be
almost said to be only two medicines known to the physicians
of eastern Carolina, so constantly are they required in
their practice, and they are as certain to administer mercury
or quinine as Dr. Sangrado, of Valladolid, was to let blood or
give warm water. I certainly did not bless their mercurial
predilections that morning, and saw the old doctor ride off
with an earnest wish that he had a pill, as large as the conventional
brick, to roll around his hat on his head.</p>

<p>He had hardly gotten out of sight when mother came to
the couch with the pill in the hollow of one hand and a glass
of water in the other.</p>

<p>“Here, son, try to swallow this. The doctor thinks it
best that you should take it.”</p>

<p>I sat upon the side of the bed, asked for a bucket, in case
of accidents, and took the pill in my hand. I found it soft,
and sticky as putty, but with reckless desperation I laid it
far back on my tongue, and took a great gulp of water.
With a toss of my head I made a tremendous swallow, but
a wad of air, many times larger than my mouth, got before
the water and barred its progress down. Most of it got into
my windpipe; the pill, with the flour coating washed off, and
its nauseous taste revealed, rolled down against my front
teeth and stuck there. Shades of Epicurus! how I heaved!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
Tearing it away from my teeth with my fingers I dashed it
down, and vowed that no doctor’s authority could ever compel
me to the attempt again.</p>

<p>Whether the very taste of the pill had a good effect or not,
that evening I was much better, and next morning felt perfectly
well.</p>

<p>As it was the Sabbath, I was anxious to go to church
with mother, Frank and Ned, but mother feared for me to
take the sultry ride, and so I was to stay at home. To my
surprise Carlotta asked leave to stay at home also, though
she removed the flattering unction I had laid to my heart,
that she staid to be with me, by telling mother she wished
to spend the morning in her room. After breakfast the carriage
came round, and mother, Ned and Frank, left for the
church, which was a little country appointment, about four
miles distant.</p>

<p>As soon as they were gone Carlotta went to her room,
and, taking a book, I went out doors and lay down on the
grass, beneath a large cedar at one end of the house.</p>

<p>There are four kinds of days in the year, coming one in
each season, on which I feel an unaccountable, though not
unpleasant melancholy. Days when I want to get far away
to myself, and muse in undisturbed loneliness. Days when
Memory, not Fancy, holds her court, and scenes and faces
long forgotten spring up from her dusty sepulchres, and
throng her shrine and ask for tears. Days that make a prison
of the Present, a worthless bauble of the Future, and lift
only to our heart’s embrace the golden Past, gone from life
forever! Brighter than it ever really was, its pains forgotten,
only its joys remembered! Like a dead friend, it is
dearer now than ever, and we weep because we cannot turn
life’s current back.</p>

<p>One of these days comes in winter, when, after a cloudy
morning and noon, the sun sets cold and clear; when the
wind with a hollow moan sweeps over the bare fields; when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
the long lines of wild ducks, clearly defined against the red
sky, wind their way up the bends of the river, along whose
banks the naked trees stretch their arms like the masts and
yards of weird ships; when the blue birds, with their plaintive
notes, huddle in the clumps of withered leaves on the
oaks in the grove, and the very cows, plodding homeward,
low mournfully, as if in response to Nature’s dreariness.</p>

<p>Another day is in Autumn, when Nature, wrapping herself
in a hazy robe, seems to lift her hand and say, “Hush,
do not break my slumber,” as she dozes into dreaminess.
The sun himself half closes his glaring eye, and looks upon
the world with a drowsy smile, and the purple sky droops
upon the horizon as if Atlas were weary of his load. When
the zephyrs are asleep, and the leaves on the trees are wan
for want of exercise; when the crowing of the cock sounds
like a yawn, and the little fly-catcher, perched, as is its custom,
on a dead and leafless limb, breathes its one little song
as if it was its last sigh. Such a day as Buchanan Read describes
in his “Closing Scene;” the most exquisite verses
ever penned by an American:</p>

<p class="ppnq4 p1">“All sights seemed mellowed and all sounds subdued,</p>
<p class="ppn5">The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low,</p>
<p class="ppn4">As in a dream the distant woodman hewed</p>
<p class="ppn5">His winter log, with many a muffled blow.</p>
<p class="ppn5"><span class="ast1">******</span></p>

<p class="ppnq4 p1">“On slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight,</p>
<p class="ppn5">The dove scarce heard its sighing mate’s complaint;</p>
<p class="ppn4">And like a star, slow drowning in the light,</p>
<p class="ppn5">The village church vane seemed to pale and faint.</p>
<p class="ppn5"><span class="ast1">*******</span></p>

<p class="ppnq4 p1">“Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,</p>
<p class="ppn5">And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom;</p>
<p class="ppn4">Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,</p>
<p class="ppn5">Made echo to the distant cottage loom.”</p>
<p class="ppn5"><span class="ast2">*****</span></p>

<p class="p1">Another day for reverie is such a day as this&mdash;a summer
Sabbath in the country. Sabbath is stamped on the entire<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
premises. The negroes, bedecked in all the finery of ribbons
and beads, have just trooped in long droves through
the gate and gone to preaching. Down at the quarters
there is one old negro sitting at the door of her cabin, with
her head bowed down to her knees as she ties around it
her broad yellow kerchief. Her slight motion as she does
this, and the faint monotonous wail of an infant left in
her care, are all the evidences of life in the long row of
tenements.</p>

<p>The horses and mules all walk solemnly about in the clover
lot, and the sheep graze under the trees in the orchard,
without a bleat to disturb the serene quiet of the morning.
Tiger, the great bull-dog, is lying stretched out at the door
of his kennel, watching with his small bleared eyes a hen
and brood that are scratching fearlessly almost in his jaws.
A mocking bird, down at the old graveyard, is alone forgetful
of the day, and, perched upon the very topmost bough
of the willow, is burdening the air with the joyous trills
of his melody.</p>

<p>Overhead the great blue ocean of the sky is dotted here
and there with fantastic white clouds, melting into various
shapes as they grandly sail across its depths.</p>

<p>Propping my head with my hand, I lay and gazed up at
the sky and around at the beauty of the day, and gave myself
up to musing. Of course my mind turned to Lulie, and
the terrible blight she had given my hopes, and, as the
romance of my youthful mind intensified a thousand fold
the nature of my disappointment, and my feelings were
already made tender by the influences of the day, my heart
could only find relief in tears, and turning my face over in
the long cool grass I wept till I fell asleep. I had lain thus
perhaps an hour, when a little bird, hopping in the branches
overhead, rained down a shower of cedar balls upon me, and
I raised up to find Carlotta standing by me. She started as
I looked up, and said, without any embarrassment:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p>

<p>“I came out to the porch a few moments since, and saw
you lying so still I was afraid you might be sick. Is there
anything I can do for you?”</p>

<p>“No, thanks for your kindness, I do not need anything
at all,” I replied, raising myself from the grass; “but sit
down here with me, I want to talk with you.”</p>

<p>She hesitated a moment, then sat down near me.</p>

<p>“Day before yesterday, when you and mother were talking
together in the hall, you thought me asleep,” I said,
after a pause of some seconds&mdash;a pause that is always awkward
when you are expected to say something, and do not
know what to say&mdash;”but I was not, and am now glad that
I heard every word you both said.”</p>

<p>Her face burned for a second, then became paler than before,
as she exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Oh! why did you not speak, and stop my unkind and
hasty words. Glad, did you say? how could you be glad to
know that I had purposely shunned your presence, and
shrunk from your most casual approach?”</p>

<p>“I was glad, because I had found the key to your conduct,
and then knew why you had acted so coldly towards
me, and refused so persistently the friendship I longed to
offer. I was glad, because I knew then that the distance
between us was not caused by enmity, but your sensitive
nature.”</p>

<p>Looking at me pleadingly with her eloquent eyes, and
with a tremor in her soft voice, she said:</p>

<p>“Will you not appreciate my feelings, then, and forgive
me?”</p>

<p>“I do appreciate your feelings,” I said, with warmth, “and,
appreciating them, have nothing to forgive. I have been
pained that you seemed to mistrust me; that the love and
devotion my brother’s heart would fain have offered, was put
aside, and that you wrapped yourself in such a robe of icy
reserve; but I understand it all now, and you may trust me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
to use all my efforts to prevent the recurrence of any occasion
that would cause you mortification or regret.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, my kind brother, for your consideration of
my feelings,” she returned, warmly; “but let me add a word
before we leave the subject: My annoyance has not been
caused by the fact that your name, <i>as yours</i>, was coupled
with mine, but that the very kindness of your family in
taking me under their roof, is made, in the estimation of
others, an obligation that places me at your disposal;” and
the pride of her high-born soul burned in her glorious eyes,
as she spoke.</p>

<p>“Well, we understand each other now,” I said, soothingly,
“and let us make this agreement&mdash;that whenever we are
unobserved we will be trustful and confiding, as brother and
sister should be, but when occasion demands we will be
reserved and distant, without offence.”</p>

<p>“I agree most cordially,” she said, “and will henceforth
place an implicit confidence in you as my truest friend.”</p>

<p>She motioned as if to go, but it was so pleasant&mdash;something
so new&mdash;to converse with her, to watch the play of
her beautiful features, to catch the light of her great dark
eyes, as she looked into my face as if to see my words, that
I strove to detain her.</p>

<p>“Do not leave me yet, Carlotta. My heart is very sad today.
Will you let me unburden it to you? It seems silly,
I know, but I do so long to have some one to confide in;
some one I can trust as I can you.”</p>

<p>“You may trust me, John,” she said, hesitating as she
called my name for the first time.</p>

<p>After a pause, I said, biting a blade of grass with my
lips&mdash;</p>

<p>“I had been weeping, Carlotta, when you came to me&mdash;weeping
because the beautiful day made me sad.”</p>

<p>“You sad? you weeping? you, who are so full of life and
gaiety!” she said, looking at me with surprise; then adding,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
in a tone of deep sadness, as she thought of herself, “alas!
what cause can <i>you</i> have for tears, in such a happy home,
surrounded by those you hold most dear.”</p>

<p>“What better cause for tears than disappointed love?
Carlotta, I have loved Lulie since I could remember, and if
ever one life can be bound in another mine has been in
her’s, and yet she does not love me. From her own lips I
have learned this bitter truth. I could bear up had I
one gleam of hope; but all is dark, and far worse than the
extinction of hope is the knowledge that she loves another.
Oh, heaven! how it grinds me to the earth to feel that he,
who is most unworthy, should receive her smiles; that a
love I would give my life for is wasted on one who regards
it as the trifle of a day.”</p>

<p>I paused and looked gloomily up at the bright blue sky,
where a fleecy Delos floated.</p>

<p>“I, too, think her love is wasted on Frank Paning,” said
Carlotta, as I looked again at her face. “He may admire
her beauty, and no doubt feels flattered by her preference,
but he does not love her as she thinks he does. It will be a
sad day with her when she learns the truth.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” I replied, savagely; “she will then know what I
feel.”</p>

<p>“Do not speak harshly of her, John, for while she loves
Frank Paning, yet I believe she esteems you more.”</p>

<p>“But how can you speak for her feelings?” I asked, with a
faint touch of a sneer in my tone.</p>

<p>“Because she has told me all,” she replied coolly.</p>

<p>“A perjured little&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Hush!” she exclaimed, looking at me reprovingly. “Do
not judge her too hastily. She only told me part; I inferred
the rest. Her heart seemed as if it would break the night
after you went fishing together, and, when I sought to know
the cause of her grief, she would only say she had made you
unhappy. Hers is a fond, true heart, and I only wish it
were given away more worthily.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p>

<p>“But what do you know of Paning’s sentiments?” I asked
with some surprise. “Perhaps he may be very devoted to
her.”</p>

<p>“I have very good reasons for knowing,” she said, with a
peculiar smile; “but yonder are some of the negroes returning
from church. I must go in and have dinner arranged
before the carriage returns.”</p>

<p>She went into the house and left me wondering what she
could mean. Can she love him, too, I thought, and is it because
she herself has his heart that she knows Lulie has it
not?</p>

<p>I began to grow desperate with the thought of my rival’s
second conquest, when the sound of the carriage diverted
my attention, and mother, Frank and Ned came into the
house.</p>

<p>“Oh, you needn’t have dinner for us,” said Frank to Carlotta,
as he drew a glass of ice-water for himself, and drank
it. “We have already dined sumptuously.”</p>

<p>Mother nodded her head as Carlotta looked at her inquiringly.
“Yes, my dear, we’ve had dinner. Mrs. Bemby invited
us to her table, and of course we could not refuse.”</p>

<p>“How did you like the sermon, Ned, and what kind of
people were there?” I asked. “Tell me all about it.”</p>

<p>“The sermon was very good in its way,” said Ned, “and
the people somewhat amusing; but you must get Frank to
give you full details. I could not do the subject justice.”</p>

<p>I could do nothing else but ask Frank for the narration,
though I was not particularly anxious to hear his voice.</p>

<p>“Well,” replied Frank, nothing loth to do the talking,
“long before we got to the church we began to pass crowds
of people who were walking thither; the men dressed in
long sack coats of homespun, with immensely loose pants
and dusty shoes, most of them carrying in their arms bare-legged,
white-headed babies, who were employed in looking
backwards over their fathers’ shoulders, and mostly gnawing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
very large fat biscuits; the women were arrayed in
bright flowered calico robes, which they kicked up behind
at every step. They all had stick tooth brushes in their
mouths, and long-tailed fly bonnets, which they carried in
their hands. Then we passed others who, a little better off,
were riding in red painted wagons, drawn by rope-harnessed
mules, which trotted along so briskly, under the
kindly influences of overgrown boys and hickory sticks, that
the folks in the body were jolted from side to side of their
split bottomed chairs. Then we overtook the cumbrous
carriages of the well-to-do farmers, with heavy-headed,
clumsy-footed horses, the low boots full of fodder, and large
trunks full of dinner, strapped on behind. As many of these
and other vehicles as we passed, yet when we got to the
church we found the grove full of horses, buggies, carriages
and wagons, and so many people out doors that I began to
fear the preacher would have no congregation.</p>

<p>“At the foot of every tree in sight was a group of men engaged
in the solemn occupation of whittling twigs and spitting.
When we got to the door of the church, which was a
large barn-looking structure, we found it full, and with difficulty
got seats near the door. Such a mixture of people I
never saw before. Here a silk by the side of cotton check,
a broadcloth coat touching a copperas striped one, and a
silk hat resting in the window with one of wheat straw,
bound with green ribbon. As I could see very little but the
backs of the people’s heads, I cannot tell much about the
congregation, except that the men for the most part had
very long and very dry hair, which they wore bushy, while
the women had theirs plaited in two strings and crossed
like wicker-basket handles. The girls wore straw hats trimmed
with ribbons, whose colors were of the rainbow that we
may imagine would appear on a cloudy day. The elderly
ladies wore bonnets that looked as if Noah’s wife had made
them for pastime while she was in the ark, and had fitted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
them on the goat’s head for the want of a better block. The
preacher himself was queer looking, and had a monotonous
drawling tone.” (Here Frank got up in the floor to imitate
his style.) “Ah! my brethren and sistern-er, where are we
to-day? ‘Ere we are in the narrer road.”</p>

<p>“Tut, tut, Frank,” said mother, quickly, “that will never
do. Jest about the people if you want to, but remember
the sanctity of the pulpit.”</p>

<p>“But it does not matter, Mrs. Smith, if we have a little
fun at their expense; they don’t belong to our church, and
he wasn’t preaching to us.”</p>

<p>“It makes no difference,” said mother, rising to go down
to the dining room; “he was preaching the Gospel of Christ,
and, however defective his sermon, we should not ridicule
it.”</p>

<p>“I’ll show some other time,” said Frank, as mother left
the room. “But where was I? Oh, the preacher. Well,
when the sermon was finished we all went out, and Mrs.
Ben or Bem something soon found us, and insisted that we
should eat with her.</p>

<p>“All over the grove the white cloths were being spread
like gigantic snow flakes, and almost as numerous. Scores of
negroes and ladies were unpacking great boxes, containing
biscuit, rolls, cakes, ham, fowls, pickles, apples and peaches,
and everybody was asking everybody else to dine with them.
There was a good sized crowd at Mrs. Bemby’s table when
we went up. They were not introduced, but they all made
us room, and bowed confusedly. Mrs. Smith knew and
spoke to several of them while we took our part out in
staring.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Bemby begged us to help ourselves, and every one
acted on her kind suggestion with quite a zest. Country
belles, pulling off their cotton gloves, alternated the bites at
chicken and bread so rapidly and successfully that they were
soon sucking the bones like candy, while the beaux cut symmetrical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
squares out of corn bread sandwiches, and played
the flute on long ears of roasted corn, with unctuous smiles
and impeded attempts at conversation with chewed words.
Mr. and Mrs. B&mdash;&mdash; did not eat anything, but served the table,
with cordial entreaties to all to spare not; Mrs. B&mdash;&mdash; distributing
the bread and sweetmeats with a lavish hand, and
Mr. B&mdash;&mdash; cutting the meats&mdash;his mode of dealing with a ham
being very unique as well as effective. Standing it up on one
end, and holding the hock in one hand, he sawed the knife
across it like an Italian playing the fiddle, producing far more
satisfactory results, however, than all the army of diminutive
violinists Italy has sent forth. That great gawk of a Ben,
instead of helping was perched on a wagon, idly kicking the
wheels with his feet as he munched on an apple, and
gravely winking at Ned and myself, in acknowledgment of
acquaintance. Altogether the dinner was excellent, and,
after our ride to the church, and our boredom in it, was
particularly relished. There, I have talked enough; get
Ned to tell you the balance.”</p>

<p>“There is no more to tell,” said Ned, as mother called to
us from the basement to come down and eat watermelons.
“I can corroborate all that Frank has told, except his
account of the sermon. That was very good, and much to
the point, though it was plain and without ornament.”</p>

<p>I went down with the rest, but was afraid, for my fever’s
sake, to indulge in melons. If you would know whether it
was any temptation to me or not, imagine a sultry afternoon,
a cool breezy basement, four or five large melons, just
from the ice house, like a row of victims with a knife in
each pink frozen heart!</p>

<p>I felt tired of hearing them talk and seeing them eat, so I
took my hat and strolled down to Mr. Bemby’s to find Ben,
and enjoy a talk with him. He was nowhere in sight, and I
tapped at the door. At Mrs. Bemby’s “Come in!” I opened
the door, and instead of Ben found three strange ladies, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
were discussing with profound interest the events of the
day.</p>

<p>“Come in, honey; you look mighty feeble yet; how do
you feel to-day?” said Mrs. Bemby, kindly, as she met me.
“This is Col. Smith’s son, Mrs. Bailey and Miss Viney Dodge;
Col. Smith’s son! Mrs. Dodge,” she shouted in the ear of the
oldest and most withered of the three ladies, who was armed
with an orchestra looking instrument in the shape of an immense
ear trumpet. Mrs. Bemby had to put her mouth
right down to the opening, and shout my name out twice
before she and I became acquainted. I shook hands with
the old and bowed to the young lady, who gave me a curtesy
in return that shoved her chair back almost out of range of
her reseating figure. Her figure was very stumpy; her
complexion very sallow; her hair very sandy, and her skin
very freckled. Her hands were covered with half fingered
blue gloves, and were employed, one in lying in her lap, the
fingers folded and the thumb stiffly erect, as a sentinel over
their repose; the other in holding, in as compressed a ball as
possible, a dingy cotton handkerchief, which she constantly
used, after a premonitory snuffle, by rubbing her nose very
hard upwards, as if she wished to elevate its depressed
point.</p>

<p>Mrs. B&mdash;&mdash; informed me that Ben would be in shortly, and
I took the chair she offered and looked at the visitors; they
looked at each other, and then there was a silence of some
seconds.</p>

<p>“You beedn sorter poorly, haidn’t you?” said Mrs. Dodge,
adjusting her trumpet and leaning towards me.</p>

<p>“Yes, ma’am!” I shouted, making my reply more affirmative
by a number of up and down motions of my head.</p>

<p>“Umphum! Haidn’t had the summer complaint, is you?
You look a little thidn.”</p>

<p>I transversed the motion of my head very rapidly, and
signed the negative many times.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p>

<p>“A leetle lodomy, drapped in ellum bark tea’s mighty good
for it;” and the old lady, satisfied with her catechism, turned
her trumpet and her interrogative features toward the
others.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bemby remarked having seen mother and the others
at church that morning. Mrs. Bailey then took up the thread
of the discourse where I had broken it off by entering.</p>

<p>“As I was a saying, sister Bemby,” she resumed, “it does
me a sight of good to listen to Brother Weekly’s preaching.
He is so searchin’ to the sinners and comfortin’ to the saints.
His sermins are well pinted, too, and not writ, neither. I
jist know in my soul, d’liver me from a writ sermin.”</p>

<p>“Umph?” said Mrs. Dodge, in a prolonged note of inquiry,
levelling her dread instrument on the speaker. Mrs. Bailey
very kindly screamed the words into her ear.</p>

<p>“Ah, yes, I knowed ‘twas good this mordn-ing, tho’ I
couldn’t hear, for I sorter felt it. Brother Weekly is always
powerful in his lastly, and whedn I see old Udncle Jacob
Sawney slap Sister Brewer in the back, and old Miss Parkidns
twiss her cheer roudn to the wall, and git my Viney
here to untie her specks, so she could rub her eyes, I knowed
he was a having great freedobm; and thedn he got a leetle
louder, and I thought I heerd him say: ‘He’ll meet us at the
gate, Hisself;’ and somethidng told me in my heart he
meadnt the Lord, and I wadnted to go just thedn, for ‘pears
to me I’d be more welcome like ef He told me to come in.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” resumed Mrs. Bailey, without noticing her interruption;
“and did you notice, Sister Bemby, how he brought it
out about the tares and the wheat. Seems to me, if I was
a sinner I couldn’t bear the thought of being sifted out and
throwed away like a no ‘count cockle grain.”</p>

<p>“That was uncommon clear, Sister Bailey,” returned Mrs.
Bemby, “about putting in the sickle and reaping all together,
then sortin’ out the good and bad.”</p>

<p>“That it was, Sister Bemby,” agreed Mrs. Bailey, making<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
a spade out of her tooth brush, and spading up half an ounce
of snuff into her mouth.</p>

<p>There was another pause, and I looked uneasily out of the
window, to see if I could discover anything of Ben, while
Miss Viney rubbed her nose up again, and shot invisible
marbles with the idle thumb in her lap.</p>

<p>Deaf old Mrs. Dodge again spoke:</p>

<p>“It’s a mighty cobmfort, Sister Bemby, to have odne’s
chilldn a growin’ up right. There’s my Viney, she’s been a
perfesser nigh upodn five year, and haidn’t backslid yit.
Why dodn’t you talk to Ben, Sister Bemby? He’s a clever
‘nough boy, but he’s so mischeevous. Sednce I lost my
hearidn I look ’round  some in church, and no longer’n this
mordning I see Ben holding up a streaked lizzard by the
tail, fixing to put him on old Miss Judy Yates, who’s the
feardest of ’em in the world. Brother Bemby seed him jist
in time to stop him.”</p>

<p>“I know it, Sister Dodge,” shouted Mrs. Bemby in the
trumpet’s mouth, “and I have talked to him a heap of times,
but Ben says he ain’t a going to die soon, and that he’ll be
a preacher yet, and he makes me laugh so I have to let him
alone.”</p>

<p>“Is you a lover of the Lord, sir?” Mrs. Dodge inquired,
pointedly addressing me.</p>

<p>“I am afraid not as I ought to be,” I said, confusedly,
shaking my head.</p>

<p>“Well, you ought to love Him with all your heart whedn
you think what He’s dodne fur you.”</p>

<p>I bowed an acknowledgment of the truth of her remark,
and told Mrs. Bemby I would go out and look for Ben.</p>

<p>Not finding him anywhere I turned homeward, thinking
on the glorious Gospel of the Son of God&mdash;a Gospel that,
with the same words, can comfort sister Bailey’s simple
heart, and bind up one bruised beneath a velvet robe&mdash;a
Gospel for all the world! deep enough to baffle the sage&mdash;simple<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
enough to save a child. God alone can be its
Author!</p>

<p>Go to the rustic church, with its rude unpainted seats, its
plain deal pulpit, with a pitcher of water and a cloth
covered Bible on the unvarnished slab. Sit with the simple,
illiterate congregation, and listen to the unpolished man in
the pulpit as, with an effort, he slowly reads his text: “For
God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have
eternal life.”</p>

<p>Hear the story of the Cross told without rhetoric, and
mark the faces around you, how they glow with faith and
shine with tears.</p>

<p>Then let us stand on the broad stone steps beneath the
clanging chimes and gilded spire. See the white-gloved
drivers curb the prancing steeds&mdash;the liveried footmen hold
the blazoned door, while silken trains sweep down the carriage
step and rustle up the aisle. Let us go in and stand
in the purpled gloom of the soft stained light. The golden
legend over the chancel is illegible in the darkness, and only
the bright figures on the windows up in the vaulted roof
show that the glorious sunlight is over the earth. The
tufted aisles make no echo to the footsteps, and the only
sound is the occasional closing of a pew door by the silent
ushers. The cushioned seats are filled, the gas jets around
the preacher’s stand are lit, and all is so hushed we almost
expect the sermon to be whispered, when, with a trembling
sob, as if its very pipes were sinful, the organ’s wail of
penitence is heard. Moaning and groaning at the very
bottom of its voice, it grows louder and higher, till its weird
minor strains peal through the church, as if its windy heart
will burst, and still higher and higher it screams and shrieks,
in its agony of remorse, then, with a galop down the scale,
it breaks out into a lively polka of forgiveness, and is as
happy as an organ can be, till its jig-and-break-down <i>repertoire</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
is exhausted, when it stands on one leg of a note
and waits for the singing. A low, soft trill, like a mocking
bird’s song at night, breaks forth from we know not
where, and its quivering melody fills the vast edifice; but
ere we have discovered its source or meaning it is joined
by another sound&mdash;a high zooning tone&mdash;like a bee far
up in the air. This follows the first through all its wonderful
manœuvres, and a faint conception begins to dawn
on us that perhaps a song is intended. This idea is entertained
for a few seconds, when it is forever put to
flight by the sudden, sonorous bellowing of a bull over its
slaughtered kindred, and while its terrible tones are thundering
from the floor to the roof, we find that it, too, is
following the others, and adding its powerful roar to their
melody. But surprises are not over yet, for just as the
three get fairly under way, they are quickly joined by a
bronchial cat, unusually hoarse, that also takes after the
others, though on a lower key and in strange fuzzy tones.
This zoological <i>vocale</i> is persevered in by the four till,
at last, they approximate a tune. We have some light
thrown on the subject from the remark of a gentleman
with an eye-glass to a lady with diamonds sitting just in
front of us:</p>

<p>“Trilla’s soprano is better to-day in <i>Te Deum</i> than ‘twas
last evening in <i>Trovatore</i>, but Catta’s contralto is horrid.”
“Taurini’s bass is magnificent, though, isn’t it?” the young
fop adds in a whisper, as, with a long orchestral flourish,
the organ ceases to play and the services commence. Worshipping
God by proxy! Because Taurini has a richer,
better voice, and can say “We praise Thee, oh! God” in a
deeper tone than we, we pay him to say it in our most holy
place, careless whether an oath were last on his lips, or an
early bar-room his only preparation for the Sabbath. But all
is so different from the little wooden church, that we almost
feel that they are serving another God with a different religion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
We feel out of place and disappointed, and are about
to leave, when the preacher ascends the pulpit and announces
his text:</p>

<p>“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten
Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not
perish but have eternal life.”</p>

<p>We are at home now; the same verse that has brought
tears from the simple minded, carries conviction to the
heart of the rich and the wise. Though the service in
its appointments may be fanciful&mdash;though the sermon
be burdened with rhetorical roses, or ridiculous in rustic
exposition, or flagrant misconstruction&mdash;Christ’s words
stand forth with the same grandeur of simplicity and force
as they did when the trembling, conscience-convicted Sanhedrimite
sought Him in the darkness, and received the light
of God.</p>

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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c173" id="c173">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></h2>


<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> first of October found us all again in Wilmington.
Father returned from Havana the latter part of September,
having completed all the necessary arrangements in reference
to Carlotta’s property. He found the agent reliable,
and having proved the death and identity of Mr. Rurleston,
he administered on the estate, and qualified as guardian for
Carlotta under the Spanish law.</p>

<p>Ned and I began the winter in hard study, as our last
session in a preparatory school. Frank, however, declared
his intention of going to Chapel Hill, the seat of the University
of North Carolina, in January, and joining the Freshman
Class, half advanced, getting the advantage of a year’s start
by the half session.</p>

<p>Sure enough, in January he left for the Hill, and we soon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
received letters from him telling of the wonderful charms of
college life, and of the rapid progress he was making in his
studies.</p>

<p>The spring passed and Frank came home a Sophomore.
Ned and I felt quite tame before him, though his foppish
ways and overbearing air only added to the dislike I entertained
for him.</p>

<p>Lulie, poor thing, was as proud of him as if he had been
her son, and whenever we met was continually quoting what
Frank said, and telling what Frank did. In the kindness of
her dear little heart she ever tried to consider my feelings,
and it was the inadvertence of these remarks in my presence
that made them doubly painful.</p>

<p>Between Carlotta and myself there had sprung up a
strong, confidential friendship. She was so beautiful in
person and character, so pure, so trusting, that had it not
have been for our daily intimacy, I could have loved her
even to the effacing of Lulie’s image. As it was, she was
only my best friend, and Lulie my hopeless idol.</p>

<p>A trip to Smithville closed our vacation, and we began to
get ready for college. All the arrangements were made,
and the day before our departure came round. Ned, who,
of course, was to be my chum, had come into town with
his baggage, and was to stay all night with me, to be ready
for the early morning train. That night, after tea, he ran
over to Dr. Mayland’s to tell Lulie good-bye, and Carlotta
and I took our seat on the stoop. Neither of us spoke for
some time, for I felt really sad now that the time had come
for parting.</p>

<p>“You will write to me while I am gone, Carlotta?” I said,
at length. “I will enjoy a letter from you more than from
any one else I know.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I will write if you will promise
to reply faithfully, and not to make fun of my letters.”</p>

<p>“That would be impossible, even if I were not too anxious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
to hear from home and from you. I will miss your
bright face and sunny smiles sadly while I am away,” I
continued, looking up at the stars slowly coming out, “for
no matter where I am, or whom I am with, I never feel so
well satisfied and happy as when I am with you.”</p>

<p>“It is I, indeed, who will miss you,” she said, with the
least possible sigh, “for you have been so kind and attentive,
so considerate of all my wishes, yet so unobtrusive in
your attentions, that I can never get another to fill your
place.”</p>

<p>“You will not forget me, then?” I said, drawing a little
nearer to her.</p>

<p>“Never!”</p>

<p>She looked so beautiful in the soft twilight, as she gazed
at me earnestly and said this “Never!” that I did more
than I intended&mdash;I took her hand and pressed it in mine,
though I tried to do it in a brotherly way. But there was
a thrill in her touch, nevertheless. I could see her face flush,
even in the twilight, as she drew her hand once or twice, as
if she would take it away.</p>

<p>“Carlotta,” I said, still holding her hand, “I have told
you how I once loved Lulie&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“And there she is now,” she said, quickly withdrawing
her hand, then putting it back in mine, as if it was nothing
to be ashamed of.</p>

<p>Sure enough, Lulie, Frank and Ned crossed over from Dr.
Mayland’s and approached our stoop.</p>

<p>“John, I have come over to say good-bye, as you would
not come to see me,” said Lulie, seating herself at Carlotta’s
feet.</p>

<p>“‘Twas because I thought you would, of course, be engaged
for to-night, not because I did not want to,” I replied,
in a tone divided between a sneer and a smile.</p>

<p>“You know I am always glad to see you, John,” she said,
rising again to her feet; “but we have not long to stay,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
Frank, and had better go now, as he is so ungracious, even
on the eve of parting.”</p>

<p>“Pardon me, Lulie,” I said, her words recalling me to a
sense of propriety. “Do not let us part in bad humor.”</p>

<p>“Certainly not,” she replied; “but,” changing the subject,
“do you not dread the ordeal of initiation? Frank says,
though, he will not let the fellows, as he calls them, trouble
you much.”</p>

<p>“We are obliged to Frank for his kind intentions, but
hope to be able to take care of ourselves,” I replied, my ungracious
feelings returning reinforced.</p>

<p>“I’ve a great notion to let you fellows alone, and let our
class have its own way with you,” said Frank, tapping the
railing with a little gold headed switch he called a cane.</p>

<p>I had it on my tongue to tell him that I wished he would,
but I restrained myself, and only said that I hoped we could
stand it.</p>

<p>Lulie gave me her hand most cordially, and bade us both
farewell, and she and Frank walked away&mdash;she looking up
at him and talking to him as if her life was his, and he
walking on as if only a toy hung upon his arm.</p>

<p>Father returned from down town, and, requesting my
presence in the library, I left Ned with Carlotta and went
in the house. Father was seated at his <i>escritoire</i> and motioned
me to a chair near him. “As you leave very early
in the morning,” he said, through his teeth, holding between
them one end of a tape he was tying around a bundle of
papers he had assorted, “I thought we had best arrange
our money matters to-night.”</p>

<p>He took a roll of bank bills from a drawer, and, counting
out a goodly heap, pushed it towards me, saying, “That
will be enough for all your expenses till late in the session.
Whenever you find you need more, write and I will remit.
I do not want you to be extravagant, my son, neither do I
want you to be a niggard; I will, however, trust to your
own good sense to regulate your expenditure.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p>

<p>I folded the money up, and, putting it in my purse, was
about to leave, when he closed the desk, and, jingling the
keys into his pockets, said:</p>

<p>“Sit down a moment, John, I want to say a few words to
you in reference to your conduct while you are away. I
am sure your mother has instructed you thoroughly in your
Christian duty, and, therefore, I do not fear that I shall ever
be mortified by a letter confessing debauch and dissipation.
I trust that your early training, with your own sense of propriety,
will deter you from anything so ruinous; but I have
a word or two of advice in regard to your deportment towards
your fellow students and to your instructors. I have
been at college myself and know something of what I say.
You will, of course, be teased, or ‘devilled,’ as they term it,
unmercifully. Every conceivable effort will be made to
mortify you, and to present you in most ridiculous attitudes,
and every one in the class above you will try his wits at
your expense. You will be made the victim of many a
practical joke, and will suffer frequent inconvenience from
the temporary abstraction of your books or the derangement
of your furniture. Bear every thing with quiet dignity, do
not attempt to reply to anything that is said, and, if possible,
keep from showing in the slightest way that you are
teased. If their efforts are without success they will soon
desist, and you will be unmolested. It is a most contemptible
and barbarous practice, this striving to wound and crush
the feelings of another, simply because he is a stranger, as if
that fact alone did not entitle him to more consideration. I
hope, John, that when you join this privileged class of persecutors
you will never indulge in anything so unfeeling.</p>

<p>“To recommend care in the selection of your associates is
a piece of advice as important as it is trite. Associates will
be forced upon you by the location of your room, by your
class and your boarding house. Look well to a student’s
moral and social status before you take him as a companion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
Do not feel flattered into any concessions of your principles
by an intimacy with a member of a higher class. While a
Fresh, you would feel quite honored by an invitation to the
room of a Senior, and you would find it very hard to refuse
a drink with him, lest you should appear squeamish in his
eyes. But remember that advancement is only a question
of time and study, and possess independence enough to
refuse all solicitations to evil, however flattering to your
vanity they be. Ned, I am glad to learn, will room with
you, and he and your books will be society enough for you,
if you study as <i>you</i> now think, and <i>I</i> hope you will.</p>

<p>“In regard to your deportment towards your tutors I have
a word to say, and then I have done my rather tedious
exhortation. Be polite and dignified in their presence, be
attentive in the lecture room, but not ostentatiously so,
making a pretence of continually gazing at the professor,
being the first to answer fly questions, or selecting a seat
very near his desk, as there is nothing more displeasing to
him than the endeavor of a student to make up for lack of
merit by sycophantic fawning. While it is well to establish
a personal acquaintance and good understanding with all
those under whose instruction you are placed, yet do not
make a display of intimacy with them, as the reputation of
a ‘boot-lick’ is easily earned, and is exceedingly odious.
The most disagreeable temptation to which you will be exposed
is to join rebellion against college authority. You
will be continually solicited to aid in schemes to break the
laws of the institution, to annoy the professors, and to deface
and misplace college property. Every conceivable plan for
the defeat of the very objects of the institution will be set
on foot, and you will be scoffed at and ridiculed if you refuse
to join. Will you have the moral courage to refuse in the
face of a jeering class? I hope so, my son. You will find
it easy after the first time or two, and you will be respected
all the more for your firmness. Write to your mother and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
myself often, and write freely. Tell us of your trials and
difficulties, and express all your feelings without hesitation.
But, lest my much advice may seem to evince a doubt
of your strength of character, I will cease. Let’s go to
Carlotta and Ned.”</p>

<p>He lowered the gas, and as we walked out of the library
laid his arm on my shoulder in a tender way, that I have
never forgotten&mdash;for a caress was a novelty from him.</p>

<p>That night, as Ned and I were about to go up to our
rooms, I kissed mother good night, and said to her:</p>

<p>“Have you no parting advice for me, mother? I believe
everybody has had some kind of valedictory for me.”</p>

<p>She drew me to her and said, smiling, as she parted my
hair with one hand:</p>

<p>“I have nothing special to say, John, even though you
are going away from me for the first time. I have endeavored
from your infancy to instruct you in your duty to
your fellow man, as well as to God. It now only remains
with you to perform that duty. The one great thing I have
always striven to impress upon your mind is to act from
principle. Whatever you propose to do, consider carefully
whether it be in itself right&mdash;not whether the time or occasion
renders it so. I have placed your Bible in your trunk;
read it without fail once every day, and, as you have always
done, seek counsel of Heaven; and if my poor prayers will
avail anything, you will ever be fortified with grace and
courage from on high.”</p>

<p>In my room, as I undressed, I could not help looking
around at the familiar articles of furniture, in order to remember
exactly how the room looked after I was gone.
Everything had a farewell for me.</p>

<p>The very bureau seemed to sigh as I took my toilet articles
from its slab; and the chairs, with their worn rounds
and knife-notched backs, seemed to creak an humble good-bye;
the rug that I had scorched so often making squibs;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
the pitcher, whose lip I had broken by jerking it against a
table, when a cat with a fit, on whose head I was pouring
water, suddenly revived and sprang up under my hand; the
book-case, through whose glass doors peeped the familiar
faces of Swiss Family Robinson, Sandford and Merton, Tom
Brown at Rugby, and the portentous covers of Latin Grammar,
Greek Reader, Cæsar, Virgil and Sallust; the closet,
with my gun and sporting furniture, and the bed, with its
flowered coverlid, all looked as if they would be sad after I
was gone, and as I went to sleep I felt prematurely homesick.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c180" id="c180">CHAPTER XIX.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Father</span> awoke us by coming into our room with the lamp
and telling us that Horace was waiting with the carriage.
We were up and dressed by the time William had carried
down our trunks. We went down to the dining room, where
the gas was burning with the sleepy glare it always has in
the morning, as if it had just waked from a sound nap. I
felt no appetite, but gulped down an egg, a bit of steak and
some coffee, as if it were medicine. Horace sent in word
that we had best hurry, as he had heard the engine blow for
backing down some time ago. I slipped on my linen duster,
pulled on one glove, told the servants good-bye with half a
dollar each, pressed father’s hand, received mother’s fond
embrace and fervent “God bless you, my child,” and touched
Carlotta’s lips with a thrill the hurry could not damp, and
Ned and I were rattling over the pavement to the depot.
As soon as my eyes recovered from the glare of the gaslight
I found that day had dawned and objects were plainly visible.
The dwelling houses were all closed, except where an
extra smart housemaid here and there had opened the shutters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
and was sweeping off the steps. Nobody was astir in
the streets yet except one or two butchers’ carts, rattling on
to the market house with their loads of beef. We rolled
on down through the business part of the city, where sleepy
porters, in their shirt sleeves, were taking down shutters
and sprinkling and sweeping out the stores; on past the
newspaper offices, where they were still working by gaslight,
and where little newsboys were coming out with bundles of
damp papers; on down Market street, past drowsy drays,
with lazy negro drivers slapping the fat, sluggish horses
with the ends of the reins; on, till we whirled round the
corner at the river, where the chilly morning breeze was
rippling the water and clicking the wavelets against the
sides of the vessels and rafts that lay on the gray river,
without other signs of life than a sailor leaning over the
railing, dipping up water with his bucket and rope, or a
negro cooking his breakfast at the door of his raft’s cabin.
The rigging, wet with mist, stretched like immense spider
webs from yard to yard, and the jack, left out all night,
drooped straight down the mast. How familiar is every log
and piece of timber in the wharf! Every barrel and hogs
head is an acquaintance, and every spot we pass the scene
of some boyish frolic. Everybody that sees us bows and
says good-bye, and we almost feel sure that the town will
pass resolutions of regret at our departure.</p>

<p>We reach the train just in time, and find Frank already
on board, with seats reserved for us. He is pleasant towards
me, and seems to bear no ill feeling for my rudeness. Being
a good talker, he enlivened the tedium of travel with accounts
of college life, and gave us many valuable points in
regard to our demeanor, instructing us how to “dodge
devilling,” and offering his assistance with as much conceit
as kindness.</p>

<p>When we reached Raleigh, there was a delay of some
minutes, and the train was soon crowded in the aisles with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
those getting out and those coming in. As we sat watching
them Frank suddenly exclaimed, “Yonder’s Carrover and
Brazon, as I am a sinner!” and I saw two young men lounging
up the aisle from the rear door. One of them filled my
idea of what a senior ought to be. His beaver was tipped
just a little on one side of a head covered with a profusion
of rich brown curls, his face handsome, though pale, and
ornamented with a dainty moustache and goatee; his form
tall and graceful, and his dress very elegant but not foppish.
He also carried a gold headed cane, larger and heavier than
Frank’s. His companion impressed me very disagreeably.
He was short and thick of stature, with a bold, red face,
staring pale blue eyes and a carrotty frizz of hair. He was
dressed in very flashy style, and his linen was frowzy and
rumpled. He greeted Frank with boisterous cordiality, and
took the seat immediately behind us. The tall and elegant
young man, I thought, greeted Frank very coolly, as if there
was not much intimacy between them. He took a seat
some distance off, and taking the <i>British Quarterly Review</i>
from his travelling bag, was soon buried in its pages.</p>

<p>Brazon, as soon as there was a pause in Frank’s conversation,
leaned over and asked us politely how far up the road
we were going.</p>

<p>“Only to Durham’s station,” I replied, feeling complimented
by his notice.</p>

<p>“Then you are going to Chapel Hill?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” I said, turning in my seat, so as to look at him;
“you have been at college there, have you not?”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes,” he replied, his pale eyes twinkling maliciously.
“May I ask what class you intend to join?”</p>

<p>“The Fresh, I suppose, unless the professors&mdash;&mdash;” but
before I could finish the sentence he shouted in a loud tone:
“Hello! Frank! here are a couple of Fresh, regular green
ones, too. That’s right,” he said, addressing us, and patting
me on the shoulder, “sit together on the same bench, like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
good little boys. Did mamma and papa tie you together,
for fear you’d get lost? That’s clever, my children, do as
your pairients tell you and the devil will give you candy
some day.”</p>

<p>I was so taken by surprise at the sudden change in his
tone from the polite to the jeering, that I sat with a burning
face under his ridicule, while the car was shaking with the
laughter of the passengers at our discomfiture, and never
thought of resenting it. Frank, however, who had gone to
the other end of the car to get some water, returned and
saw the position of affairs. He caught Brazon by the arm,
exclaiming:</p>

<p>“What the devil are you doing, Brazon? These gentlemen
are particular friends of mine. You must have forgotten
yourself.”</p>

<p>“No I didn’t, either. How could I know they were your
friends when you said nothing about them? But since they
are, I beg pardon. Introduce me and we will shake hands
round and be friends.”</p>

<p>It was with some hesitation I took his proffered hand;
but I felt that it were best to make no enemies on my first
entrance into college.</p>

<p>We all talked pleasantly together during the few minutes
it took the train to reach Durham’s, and, getting off there,
found a number of hacks waiting to convey us to the Hill.
There were many others going there, so we hastened to
secure the best hack, and were soon jogging over that worst
of roads. Carrover secured a seat in another vehicle, but
gave it up to a lady and child, and took a place with us.</p>

<p>We stopped only once to cool out the horses, under some
large trees by a well, when Carrover opened his travelling
case, and taking out a silver flask offered it first to Ned and
myself. We both declined, but I found that, in this my first
temptation, it was difficult to refuse, so afraid was I of
seeming boyish. The other three all complimented its contents<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
by a plentiful inhibition, as the driver checked up his
horses’ heads and we resumed our journey.</p>

<p>When we reined up at the hotel we found the steps
thronged with the Sophs, waiting for the hacks to bring in
their victims. As soon as we got out we were surrounded
by a score of them, all leering in our faces and yelling
“Fresh! Fresh!” as if they had the article to sell.</p>

<p>With most impudent effrontery they gathered around us,
each vieing with the others in casting ridicule upon us;
nor were witty sallies alone the extent of their teasing;
many of the coarsest personalities were indulged in. No
one seemed to enjoy it much, and only an absurd sense of
what was due a foolish college custom urged them on.</p>

<p>“Look what a big trunk,” said one, striking my solitary
piece of baggage with his cane hard enough to nearly blister
the leather; “I’ll bet he has homespun cake in there. Fresh,
let me sleep with you,” he continued, taking my arm, with
every appearance of friendship, “but no, you are too dirty,”
releasing me with a gesture of disgust.</p>

<p>“Hoopee! what a foot!” said another, stooping down to
take an exaggerated measurement of my foot. “Fresh, how
do you get your boots on without a crane to lift your feet?”</p>

<p>“Well, Fresh,” said a pert little fellow to Ned, “what is
the price of tallow where you live? It ought to be very
cheap if that is a sample in your face.” As Ned was really
very sallow this remark called forth a general laugh, during
which we walked up the steps into the office, the crowd
opening before and closing behind us in a continuous yell
of ridicule and shame, heaped on us in every conceivable
way.</p>

<p>Frank’s friends all seemed glad to see him, but, even amid
the storm of persecution that surrounded us, I could not
help noticing that they all wore flash clothes, and had inflamed
eyes and a profane swagger. Frank told us that it
was out of his power to shield us from devilment in such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
crowd, but that he would get us rooms for the night and
we would be safe in them. He went in to see the proprietor
and we were left standing in the midst of a deriding throng.
1 never felt so much like a culprit in my life. Nowhere
could I look and find a single glance of sympathy. On
every side were hoots, hisses and vulgar witticisms; and
the attempt to utter a word was only the signal for such a
roar as would drown every syllable. While standing thus,
a tall, languid youth, with drooping side whiskers and a pair
of gold eye-glasses, pushed his way through the crowd and
asked, “What Fresh are these you have here? Introduce
me.” Some one shouted: “That is Mr. Danvers, Fresh;
speak to him.”</p>

<p>“How do you do, gentlemen? I am most happy to see
you with us,” said Danvers, offering his hand in the most
cordial manner. Eager to touch somebody’s hand that
would sympathize, I extended mine gladly, but ere I
touched his he drew it back with the sneer, “Oh, no, Fresh,
you must wash yours first; you’ve been travelling, you
know.”</p>

<p>“Shame! shame! Danvers. A Junior devilling Fresh!”
exclaimed several voices.</p>

<p>“I confess,” said Danvers, turning off, laughing; “but it
was such a good thing. They are greener than verdure
itself, and will swallow anything you offer!”</p>

<p>Frank now came to us and said he had secured rooms,
and that we could go up now if we wished. Of course we
wished to do so, and once in, and the door locked, we gave
vent to our feelings in no measured terms, both feeling assured
that neither Huguenots nor Waldenses ever felt the
bitterness of persecution as we did, and both wishing at
heart that we were again at home.</p>

<p>We had scarcely bathed and gotten rid of the dust of
travel when the gong sounded for supper. We went down
and found the tables occupied entirely by the students, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
there was little or no travel to such a retired village, from
the outside world. A bevy of Sophomores rose on our appearance
and escorted us to the table, and, drawing back
our chairs, held them for us. Bewildered by their strange
attentions, we attempted to seat ourselves, but, of course,
found the chairs <i>non sub nobis</i>. I recovered myself, but Ned
plumped heavily down upon the floor, to the boisterous
merriment of the whole room.</p>

<p>At last seated, and served by the regular attendants, we
attempted to eat, but every mouthful was declared enormous
by those watching us, every action said to be ill
mannered, and our whole demeanor so criticised that our
appetites departed and we felt no desire for food. If we had,
there would have been little opportunity for its gratification.
If I chanced to turn my head, a teaspoonful of salt
went into my tea. If I asked the waiter for a biscuit, my
tormentor across the table would pour a dozen into my
plate. Silver forks and napkin rings were dropped into
my pockets, and the proprietor called to identify his property.
When we rose we were escorted from the room by
the same guard of honor, even to the door of our room, where
they left us for the night.</p>

<p>Ned and I sat down on the side of our beds and looked
out of the windows at the red evening sky, fast paling into
twilight, and we felt dreary and lonely indeed. Frank was
off with some of his friends, and we were afraid to venture
out lest a renewal of purgatorial tortures should assail us.
After awhile we could hear the noisy throng down stairs
going away in twos and threes for their evening stroll, and,
discovering from the window that they had all departed, I
proposed to Ned that, as it was fast growing dark, we slip
down stairs and take a stroll, as it was too sultry to remain
in our room. As we came out into the hotel porch a lazy
Senior, who was sitting with his feet on the railing, quietly
smoking, with the enviable tranquillity of might, said to us&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p>

<p>“Ah, Fresh,” as we went down the steps, “don’t let the
Sophs find you before you get back. Whenever you see a
party of more than two approaching, cross over, for only
the Sophs go in numbers.”</p>

<p>We thanked him, and walked up the street to the very
road by which we had come in. We turned into this, and
walked on till we came to a small eminence overlooking a
little landscape, and on this knoll we sat down to gaze
on the scene and to condole with each other in our troubles.</p>

<p>The woods and plains below were bathed in the glorious
light of the full orbed moon, which had risen, like a
goddess of serenity, from the horizon. White night clouds
floated lightly across her face, shaking off flakes of fleece
into the blue sea around them.</p>

<p>“Ned,” I said at length, “I look on the moon now as an
old friend. It is the only familiar thing I can see, and I feel
a positive affection for it.”</p>

<p>“So do I,” he replied, “and it seems doubly dear when I
remember that, while it is beaming so placidly on us, it is
also looking down upon the dear ones at home, and that,
while we are so far apart, yet we can both gaze up at the
same object, and imagine it a great mirror, in which each
of us can see the others.”</p>

<p>“Ah! ‘home, sweet home!’ I never knew the depth of
meaning in the words before. I wonder what they all are
doing there now. Would you not give a great deal just to
drop in among them for a minute or two?”</p>

<p>“I would, indeed; but yonder come some of our tormentors.
I think we had better turn back and meet them.”</p>

<p>A half dozen or more students were approaching, laughing
and talking loudly; and, judging from their tones and
appearance that they were Sophs, we thought the best we
could do would be to pass them, if possible, on the shaded
side of the road, and, by an unconcerned air, to go by unnoticed.
We had not got opposite before they detected us,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
and, with a shout of “Fresh! Fresh!” surrounded us.
Every form of insult capable of conveyance by language
was heaped upon us, yet so rapid and constant the stream
that no one in particular could be selected on whom to resent
it.</p>

<p>They turned back with us and impeded our progress by
every conceivable means, thrusting their faces in front of
ours, so that to advance would be to touch theirs; standing
in front of us, so that we were compelled to go around them,
and yelling with all their vociferous might into our ears
the traditional Fresh song or chant, whose diabolical burden
is the harsh and brutish bellowing (with a leader and
a chorus) of these syllables: “Toot, toot, toot-tat-toot.
Ba-a-a-h!” We had returned nearly to the hotel in this
undignified manner, the throng of persecutors gathering
strength as we entered the streets, till we were completely
surrounded&mdash;those in front walking backwards, and stopping
every now and then suddenly, that we might be
jostled against by those who were thronging behind, all
bellowing the pandemoniacal chorus, without words and
still less tune. Sedate professors looked gravely at the
noisy procession, as it successively passed their gates, and
made a pretence of trying to recognize the offenders in the
moonlight; young ladies came to their doors and laughed, as
we marched by like culprits; and even negroes stopped in
the streets to gaze and snicker at our predicament. I was
choking with rage and indignation, but did not well know
how to help myself. Ned, usually so quiet, was, I could
see, terribly roused, and his prudence was fast yielding to
his wrath. As we approached the hotel he could contain
himself no longer, but, stopping short and taking advantage
of the momentary lull, said:</p>

<p>“A foolish custom gives you the right to tease and worry
me inside of college bounds, and I am willing to bear my
part there, but I deny that right in the public streets, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
shall treat all further molestation as an insult. Let me pass,
sir!”</p>

<p>This last remark was addressed to a coarse, burly fellow,
who was standing immediately in front of Ned, with his
eyes open very wide, as if in wonder. As Ned ceased speaking
he thrust his great red face right into Ned’s with a derisive
laugh. The next instant the blood was gushing from
his nose, as Ned struck him with all his might in the face.
This was the signal for a general <i>melee</i>. I had hardly time
to spring forward and ward off a blow from Ned’s head
when a cane fell heavily on my own, making the whole
place dance around with me, and increasing my sphere of
stellar observation wonderfully. I made out to grapple
with the nearest adversary, while Ned went down under
twice his weight. The fencing saved me from a similar
fate, and I had almost succeeded in turning my antagonist
under, when the cry of “Faculty! Faculty!” was raised,
and, as if by magic, every student fled, leaving Ned and me
to claim the honors of the field, if the couple of tall gentlemen
in dark clothes that were now seen approaching were
disposed to accord us any.</p>

<p>“Ned, are you hurt much?” I inquired anxiously, assisting
him to rise.</p>

<p>“No; are you?” he replied.</p>

<p>“No, only a little thump on the head; but yonder are
some of the Faculty coming, and, if we do not wish to be
involved in a long trial, we’d better run.”</p>

<p>“I am surprised at you, John. Run! what for? I
should act precisely the same way under the same circumstances
again.”</p>

<p>The two figures we had seen had come up to us by this
time, and proved to be only a couple of students, members
of the Senior class, and one of whom I recognized as Mr.
Carrover, my travelling acquaintance.</p>

<p>“What’s the row?” he said, looking at us inquiringly, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
we were brushing the dust from our clothes. “Oh, I see,
Sophs devilling you and you resisted; right, too. They
have no privileges beyond the campus. Come, go back with
us, we will see that you are not molested further to-night.”</p>

<p>We were about to proceed to the hotel, when Carrover’s
companion spoke, for the first time, with a soft, rich voice:</p>

<p>“Charlie, you forget me. I shall have to introduce myself.
DeVare is my name&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“DeVare, I beg your pardon,” said Carrover, hastily,
“let me introduce you to Mr. Cheyleigh, of Wilmington, and
Mr. Smith, of the same place.”</p>

<p>“I am very happy to know you both,” he said pleasantly,
offering his hand, “any assistance Charlie or myself can give
you in dodging the Sophs will be cheerfully rendered.”</p>

<p>We thanked him, and brushing the dust of conflict from
our clothes with our handkerchiefs, walked back with them
to the hotel. The porch steps were thronged with students
talking about our difficulty.</p>

<p>“The scamps showed fight, did they,” said one, as we approached;
“that’s too high for Fresh&mdash;they must be taken
down.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” echoed another, “a good smoke will bring ’em
’round .”</p>

<p>“How came they to fight? Was anybody hurt?” asked
another.</p>

<p>“Why, we were just devilling them a little,” said the first
speaker, when one of ’em asked Burly to let him pass, as
if he were the Sultan, and, because Burly didn’t make his
obeisance, put a smasher on his nose. Ellerton tapped one
a little with his cane, and I was choking the one that hit
Burly, but the mutton-headed Faculty broke us up.</p>

<p>We had reached the steps by this time, and passed
through the crowd without molestation. Carrover turned
when he got in the porch and said, addressing the students:</p>

<p>“It was mean enough to devil Fresh in the streets, without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
a dozen of you trying to beat two. If anything further
is attempted to-night DeVare and myself will remain with
them and help them to defend themselves.”</p>

<p>“Whoo-ee,” shouted a half dozen voices, “that won’t
do, Carrover; too plain a bid. Drum for your club more
secretly.”</p>

<p>We only noticed that this sally rather confused Carrover,
when, thinking it prudent to withdraw, we slipped off to
our room unnoticed, and locked and bolted the door. We
lit our lamps and examined the results of our struggle. A
little knot on my head, and a torn collar on Ned’s part,
completed our list of casualties. Summing up the events of
the day, we came to the conclusion that college life was not
such a very fine thing after all, and that John Howard
Payne was extremely sensible when he wrote</p>

<p class="ppn10 p1">“There’s no place like home.”</p>

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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c191" id="c191">CHAPTER XX.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Our</span> second day was spent in the ordeal of examination,
in the selection and arrangement of our room, and engaging
board at the most eligible place. Our room, at the suggestion
of Mr. Carrover, was chosen in the South Building, and
after innumerable expenditures, and Ned’s taste for arrangement,
it really looked comfortable and home like. We
passed the different departments of study without any
serious difficulty, and the bell for evening prayers found us
ready for the session’s work.</p>

<p>We took a little stroll after tea, and were fortunate in
meeting no one. Returning to our room and lighting up,
we got our books and commenced to prepare, with all the
interest of novelty, our lessons for the morrow. We had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
not been thus engaged more than half an hour when there
arose in a distant part of the campus the most diabolical din
conceivable: a fiendish combination of all the disagreeable
noises produceable. Tin horns, tin pan drums, bells,
whistles, paper trumpets, and the <i>vox humana</i> in its loudest,
harshest notes, all roared forth their terrible discord on
the still night air.</p>

<p>We leaned out of our window and listened to this caravan
of horrid sounds approaching, till it entered the South
Building. Even then we did not suspect its destination,
and not till we heard the procession tramping noisily up
the stairs leading to our room did the truth flash upon us
that we were the intended victims. It was too late to
fasten the door. In a moment the room was full of our tormentors,
each one trying to drown the other’s clamor by
extra exertion on his own part. They formed a circle
around us and beat, and blew, and shouted till we were
deafened and stupefied with the noise.</p>

<p>Suddenly it ceased&mdash;everything was ominously still, and
with sober face every one commenced active preparation for
the more serious business of the evening. The door was
closed and locked, the bed was stripped and the sheets hung
up at the windows, with their edges stuffed in the cracks.
Each then drew forth from his pocket an enormous pipe,
and putting tobacco in it, began to smoke. Not the ordinary
puffs of a pleasure whiff, but lighting about half a pipe full
they would put more tobacco in on the fire, and instead of
drawing, blow with all their might, ejecting from the bowl
of the pipe a stream as large, and almost as solid as a man’s
wrist. As soon as I divined their object I got up and lay
down across the bed, taking the pillow in my hand, that I
might lay my face in it if it became very bad.</p>

<p>The great volumes of smoke, rolling up to the ceiling, now
began to spread into a thickening vapor that filled the room,
growing denser and denser every second, and I found myself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
constantly coughing. Another minute and the moving
forms of the smokers could scarcely be seen, while the
lamp standing on the mantel was only a dim halo in the
white fog. The smokers now had to relieve each other,
placing a guard at the door to prevent our exit. Thicker
and thicker grew the cloud, till the lungs, wearied with incessant
coughing, almost refused to inhale the bitter, sickening
air. My eyes streaming with water closed themselves
in spite of me, and my eyeballs were crossed with the
nausea. I pressed my face down into the pillow for relief,
but even that seemed a bag of tobacco, that was driving its
dust into my throat. Every particle of air had its concomitant
particle of smoke, and with every wretched gasp I
gulped down a wad of poison.</p>

<p>A ton of weight seemed pressing on my chest, and my
eyeballs almost started from my head in my intense efforts
to feed my famished lungs, and to prevent the suffocation I
was enduring. A few more gasps and a death-like sickness
seized me; the smoke closed around my head like the band
of the Inquisition, and pressed all consciousness and sensation
out. With a blinding rush of darkness over my brain
I fainted.</p>

<p>The first thing I knew as a fact of consciousness was a
vague perception of the odor of camphor and brandy; then
I knew that my hands were being violently chafed, and that
something cold and wet lay on my forehead. My temples
ached with a dull, unrelievable pain, and a deadly nausea
seemed to pervade the very atmosphere. I opened my eyes
and found that I was in a strange room, on a strange bed,
around which were grouped half a dozen forms with anxious,
fear-whitened faces. Some were holding bottles, some
basins of water, and all intently watching my face for signs
of returning consciousness. I swallowed a little of the
brandy they held to my lips, and as it burnt its way through
my system I found strength to speak. Sitting upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
side of the bed, with the support of two of those attending,
I asked, in an idiotic way:</p>

<p>“What&mdash;are&mdash;you all doing here? Where&mdash;am&mdash;I?”</p>

<p>Their courage and effrontery revived as I revived, and
their propensity for devilling returned as I returned to consciousness.
There was a pause after I had spoken, and then
a deep voice answered, in solemn tones:</p>

<p>“You are in hell! As soon as you can walk we will go
down to the sulphur lake. Pyrophylax, see that the chains
are candescent and send in a bowl of melted lead; he looks
thirsty.”</p>

<p>The utter confusion of ideas consequent upon my loss of
consciousness, and the miserable feelings I was enduring,
rendered this assertion not at all improbable to me, and I
would not have been very much surprised to have seen the
brazen gate flung open, and the aimless chasers of the giddy
flag the great Guelph saw in his Inferno, racing around the
arid sand. At this point, however, some one said that I
had had enough for one time, and offered to show me the
way back to my room. Supported by his arm I staggered
along the hall to my own room, which had been deserted
and opened, to allow the smoke to clear out. The door was
open, the windows raised, and the breeze, like a kind housewife,
had swept the smoke away, but its disgusting smell
still clung to the curtains and the walls.</p>

<p>Poor Ned was lying on the bed in a profound sleep. His
corpse-like paleness, however, showed how much he had
suffered, and the bucket near the bed side bore testimony
to his sickness. It would have been cruel to have aroused
him, so I lay gently down beside him and slept till morning.</p>

<p>A sick headache next day, and an intense smell of tobacco
clinging to everything tangible, alone told us of the night’s
scene, and it slipped back, with the ever passing pains and
pleasures of life, into memory’s great reservoir.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
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<div class="break">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p>

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c195" id="c195">CHAPTER XXI.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">At</span> last we were fairly inducted into college life, and commenced
a regular routine of daily duties. Our room was
pleasantly situated, and all our neighbors agreeable. As
new victims continued to arrive we were forsaken by the
Sophs, much to our delight, and were permitted to enjoy a
good meal at the table unmolested.</p>

<p>Ned and I had formed as yet no circle of acquaintance.
We were together nearly all the time, and having made up
our minds, according to the invariable rule, to study harder
than anybody ever did, we did not care much for the society
of others. We both studied hard, and our progress in the
various branches of instruction was, we thought, satisfactory.
There was this difference between us, however&mdash;Ned studied
uniformly, while I studied by impulse. The result was that
while many of my daily lessons exceeded Ned’s in preparation
and recitation, yet his average was far greater than
mine. Ned studied to learn <i>all</i> his lesson&mdash;to know every
part of it; while I often picked over those points on which
I thought I should most likely be examined. He studied to
master the subject&mdash;to become acquainted with a language
or to understand a problem; I studied to make a good recitation.
He stored up for the future; I looked no farther
ahead than the next morning’s lecture.</p>

<p>I remember well, when we got to reading Homer, Ned
would worry a whole morning over an idiom; and passages
that I found no difficulty at all in rendering would afford
him an hour’s work with lexicon and grammar. I had a
shorter way of doing things. I would take my Anthon’s
Edition&mdash;great friend of the student!&mdash;and, with the aid of
its voluminous references, and the notes in Kühner, I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
easily cram all that it was probable the professor would
touch upon. Simple, easy parts, that I was sure he would
not notice, had to take care of themselves. When we went
in to recite, all the portions I had prepared so carefully were
given to others to render or construe, while I would be taken
up on some part I had thought too simple for my attention,
and would be found woefully ignorant. So, about twice a
month I would make a brilliant recitation, the balance of
the time failures.</p>

<p>I suffered, too, from that great cheat of life, the self-promise
to “turn over a new leaf.” Regularly every Monday
morning, in accordance with the previous week’s resolve, I
would start afresh, and, after tremendous application and
intense mental effort, would go to the section room and pass
the hour without being noticed. Leaving it without having
had an opportunity to manifest my diligence, I would feel
a little less careful about Tuesday’s preparation. After another
day of silence I would merely glance at Wednesday’s
lessons; and Thursday, with just a peep between the pages,
I would be called to recite, and fail signally. The mortification
would then evoke the firm resolve to “turn over a new
leaf,” but, inasmuch as the next day was Friday, I would
conclude to wait till Monday. So Friday would go without
study, and the next week would come and join the retreating
line of its predecessors, and nothing would be accomplished
but a slowly increasing indifference to failure, and
a growing inability to reform. And in all my life since then
there has still predominated that fault, turning over new
leaves, and letting the very first breeze of difficulty flutter
them lightly back again!</p>

<p>Is there anybody like me, or do my readers all paste
their leaves down as they turn them over? If you do not
you will never get farther in the book of reform than the
preface!</p>

<p>But, whether we worked or idled, the days ever passed on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
Ned and I were taking our stroll one evening in the
early part of the fall. We had just turned our faces back
towards the college when a gentleman and lady on horseback
approached. Before I could withdraw my eyes from
an impolite stare, they had passed and were sweeping on
far ahead.</p>

<p>From that moment study was at an end for me. Soul
and body was wrapped in admiration of this beautiful
vision, that had flitted by like a dream. Yet I had not seen
her face; only the glorious wealth of golden hair, mingling
and tossing with the long blue plume in her cap; only the
superb form, gracefully swaying to the motion of her prancing
steed; only the flutter of a rich white skirt beneath the
blue velvet robe, and my heart was gone.</p>

<p>“Great Heavens!” I exclaimed, grasping Ned’s arm,
“what a beauty! Who is she, Ned?”</p>

<p>“How should I know?” he replied, coolly. “I suppose it
is DeVare’s sweetheart, as this is the second time I have
seen him out riding with her.”</p>

<p>“DeVare! then I may yet know her and be happy.
Won’t it be glorious, old fellow?” and I slapped Ned’s
shoulder exultingly.</p>

<p>“Just half crazy, that’s all you are as yet, John.”</p>

<p>“But see, Ned, they are returning. My throbbing heart,
be still, that I may gaze!”</p>

<p>As she again flashed by the wondrous beauty of her face
and form made my jesting extravagance to Ned seem almost
reasonable. I could think or talk of nothing else till we
reached our room, and as soon as the lamps were lit, and I
thought DeVare was in his room, I went to it. I found only
Carrover there, but he said DeVare would be in presently,
and told me to wait.</p>

<p>Carrover and DeVare roomed together, and, as their
rooms were on the same floor, and very near ours, we had
become very intimate with them. Our intimacy was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
strengthened and made more pleasant by Ned and me becoming
members of their club, so that they became our
fastest friends, and we had even reached the point of calling
them Charlie and Ramie. While I liked them both, yet
Raymond DeVare was my favorite. Carrover was courteous
and kind, but there was always a slight touch of frigidity
about him&mdash;a formality I could never quite penetrate&mdash;and
as constantly as I was thrown in his company I could never
feel at perfect ease; I always felt younger, more unsophisticated
and more capable of making blunders when he was
looking at me than at any other time. He was so quiet
and possessed in his air of <i>savoir faire</i> that I always feared he
was thinking that all I did was out of time or place, and was
pitying my ignorance. This feeling was not strong enough
to constrain me in his presence, or suppress my flow of
spirits, but when with him I was always conscious of a
slight hesitation in word and action. With DeVare it was
different. He was even more refined and gentle than Carrover,
but he thought too much of others to think he knew
more, and while he was the most brilliant man in his class,
yet his nature’s vocabulary had no such word as conceit in
it. He always made me feel that I knew as much as he did,
and, whenever we conversed, afforded me the pleasure of
believing that I was very entertaining. He never ridiculed
anybody, and I felt that I could eat peas with my knife,
under his eye, and he never would remind me that it was
customary to use a fork. He had that instinctive and yet
cultivated delicacy that cared for another’s feelings as if
they were his own. Yet, when anything was wrong, he
always condemned it with firmness, yet without bitterness.
His moral character was spotless.</p>

<p>But I am digressing again. I was waiting, then, for him
to come to his room. I lolled down on the bed while Carrover
continued to study.</p>

<p>In a few moments we heard DeVare’s step, and he came
into the room.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p>

<p>“Well,” I said, rising up on one elbow, “I have been
waiting for you a long time. Now, tell who was that
superb woman you were riding with this afternoon, and
where does she live? My heart is hers eternally. I’ll
vow, Ramie, I never saw as much beauty done up in one
bundle before.”</p>

<p>DeVare frowned his brows at me and motioned his head
towards Carrover, but as I thought he meant I would disturb
him, I lowered my voice and went on:</p>

<p>“Please tell me about her, Ramie. I know you love her.
You couldn’t be with her and not love her. Promise me
you’ll take me to see her and I’ll hush, and let Charlie get
his lesson.”</p>

<p>I looked at Charlie as I spoke and found him still intent
on his page, but smiling peculiarly, as if there was something
ridiculous in Blackstone.</p>

<p>“By the way, Charlie,” said DeVare, as if my question
was forgotten, “what do you think of the case for the Moot
Court to-morrow evening?”</p>

<p>“I had not given it much thought,” said Carrover, going
to the bookcase for a volume; “what was the statement of
facts?”</p>

<p>“Oh, bother the Moot Court,” I said, getting off the bed,
I’m on another kind of court now. Tell me about the girl,
DeVare, and I’ll leave you and Carrover to your old, dry
discussions.”</p>

<p>“Jack, you are persistent,” said DeVare, with a laugh in
the corner of each eye, as if he foresaw my confusion, “the
lady I was riding with this afternoon was Miss Lillian Carrover,
Charlie’s sister.”</p>

<p>I felt a hot tingle run up my cheeks, then run down again,
and I glanced hurriedly at Carrover. He was still standing
at the bookcase with his back toward me, and seemed as if
he had not heard our conversation. I first thought of asking
his pardon, but on second thought I changed the subject,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
and, after making one or two common-place remarks,
left the room, resolving in the future not to be so free with
my tongue.</p>

<p>The next day Ramie assured me that Carrover had not
thought anything of it, and told me that if I still desired
her acquaintance he would take much pleasure in introducing
me. I informed him that no other thought or hope
had been entertained by me since I had seen her, and besought
him to make his convenience as early as possible.</p>

<p>We fixed on the morrow’s night as the time of our visit,
and the pages of my books were all blank to my prëoccupied
thoughts for the next twenty-four hours.</p>

<p>Virgil wrote about Lillian instead of Amaryllis, and stolid
Socrates seemed to advise the cultivation of love for an
angel in blue velvet. An equation of the fourth degree on
the blackboard resolved itself into a horse, with a leg for
each degree; and the only thing in the Algebra of any interest
to me was the concrete example about the saddle and
bridle being changed by mountings of different value. I
was constantly with DeVare when not in lecture, and gathered
from him, in reference to my sudden flame, that she
was Carrover’s only sister; that she was a North Carolinian
by birth, but had been adopted by a rich uncle in New
York; that she had been a Fifth Avenue belle since her fifteenth
year; that she had returned in the last spring from
an extended European tour; that she had made a conquest
of all the hearts from Saratoga to the White Sulphur during
the past summer; and, while staying at the last named
springs, had met with Miss Minnie, our Professor’s daughter,
an old playmate and friend. Reviving the old intimacy,
she had agreed to come to North Carolina with her, and
spend part of the winter at the University.</p>

<p>On the morrow’s afternoon DeVare showed me a delicately
perfumed billet-doux, in most exquisite chirography,
stating that Miss Carrover would be most happy to see Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
DeVare and his friend from half past nine to ten and half.
As the parlors of the favorite young ladies at the University
were crowded every night, the plan had been adopted of
engaging the hours, so that a young lady could specify
the hour at which she would receive a visit from a gentleman,
and he was not at liberty to stay longer unless he
was specially invited, and no others had come in. Where
there were so many students to so few ladies this served to
avoid confusion, and gave the many who wished to call
something like a chance to be heard, each for himself.</p>

<p>That evening, immediately after tea, I commenced getting
ready, and after completely exhausting my wardrobe and
patience, felt but poorly prepared to be introduced to a
young lady who had actually been to Europe, and reigned
as one of the queens of our metropolitan society.</p>

<p>As we neared the door I wondered that DeVare could be
so cool and composed, while my heart was fluttering so that
my limbs caught the tremor, and, in spite of the warm,
pleasant night, persisted in having the ague. I saw that
the curtain was down as we knocked at the door, but
there was the reflection of light within, and the murmur of
several voices. I had been thinking all the time of what to
say first. I felt that I could get on very well after the conversation
started, but how to fill up with appropriate remarks
that dismal silence just after the introduction, was
more than my inexperience could compass. I had made up
some absurd compliment about the beautiful northern flower
blooming still sweetly in southern soil, but the rat-tat of the
knocker dissipated every collected thought, and left my
mind blanker than before.</p>

<p>A servant answered our knock; we hung our hats on the
stand. I arranged my cravat and smoothed on my glove for
the thirty-seventh time, and the next thing I knew I was in
a throng of faces, from which rose up one with a wavy mass
of tawny hair, drooping sleepy eyes, and red lips, that parted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
over smooth white teeth. I thought I heard DeVare’s voice,
as in a dream: “Miss Carrover, allow me to introduce my
friend, Mr. Smith,” and I bowed till the part in my hair alone
was visible.</p>

<p>There was another lady in the room, Miss Minnie, the
daughter of the Professor, and I took the only seat in sight,
which was near her. Notwithstanding our engagement, the
parlor was full of gentlemen, and, to my horror, many of
them were Sophs. There was quite a crowd of these around
Miss Minnie, who was a vivacious little personage, full of
mischief and wit, and dispensing her smiles and bon mots
around with generous impartiality. As the conversation
had begun before I entered I could not very well join in, and
as no one addressed any remark to me, I sat bolt upright in
my chair, with one arm thrown, with an attempt at ease,
over the back, while the other fumbled at my watch chain.</p>

<p>DeVare had found a seat near Miss Carrover, and was soon
absorbed in conversation with her&mdash;supposing, of course,
that after an introduction I would have nothing to do but
proceed to enjoyment. A procedure not always of consummate
ease!</p>

<p>As I was sitting very near the circle around Miss Minnie,
I soon found that I was not only the object of their mischievous
glances but also of their wit. Their tones were
just loud enough for me to hear, and after each sally all
would join in a laugh, which Miss Minnie often led. From
this they began to address themselves to me, calling me
Fresh, asking what I had come for, and if I was not ashamed
to use the parlor mirror to dress by. (I had been unconsciously
adjusting my cravat in the mirror over the mantel.)</p>

<p>As I was not certain whether the Sophs’ prerogative extended
to a private parlor or not, I was afraid to say anything,
but sat still, while my embarrassment drove the
blood almost through my cheeks, and beaded my forehead
with great drops of perspiration.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p>

<p>Miss Minnie then inquired if I would sit still or take a
seat nearer the fire&mdash;the point of her remark lying in fact
that it was quite a warm night, and there was not a spark
in the fireplace.</p>

<p>I tried to say “No, thank you,” but not recognizing my
own voice, cut it off with “No&mdash;&mdash;,” which itself was so
meekly stammered it had no decided negative character;
but it had the effect of raising all the voices of the Sophs,
who cried out:</p>

<p>“Oh, how impolite, Fresh, to say no to a lady! Where
did you learn your manners? How extremely vulgar!”</p>

<p>I was just on the point of rushing from the room when
DeVare’s attention was attracted at this outcry, and he took
in the position of affairs at a glance. His face was aglow
with scorn and indignation as he rose from Miss Carrover’s
side and strode to our part of the room.</p>

<p>“Gentlemen,” he said&mdash;looking with withering contempt
on the circle around Miss Minnie, “though the term is a
misnomer&mdash;I have introduced Mr. Smith here: an insult to
him is an insult to me. The presence of ladies is no place
for a quarrel, but I characterize your conduct as ungentlemanly,
and will be ready to hear from any of you at any
time. You know my name and the number of my room.
Miss Minnie, pardon me, but I am surprised that you should
have allowed or encouraged such conduct in your house.”</p>

<p>“Really, Mr. DeVare, you are not in earnest?” said Miss
Minnie, with imperturbable good humor. “Why, I thought
even the ladies had a right to tease the Fresh.”</p>

<p>“That is just as you please to think, Miss Minnie,” he
replied, with one of his bows; “the gentlemen have heard
my opinion of <i>their</i> conduct.”</p>

<p>“Lil, you and I will leave the parlor if the gentlemen wish
to fight,” said Miss Minnie, making a pretence of rising to
leave the room.</p>

<p>Miss Carrover looked at her with a shake of her head, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
with her soft rich voice said: “Minnie!” Then, turning to
DeVare&mdash;</p>

<p>“Come here, Mr. DeVare, Minnie is only jesting. Mr.
Smith,” addressing me, “have you seen these stereoscopic
views of the University? My brother had them taken last
spring. Take a seat here on the sofa and look them over
with me, and see if you can recognize them all.”</p>

<p>Her manner was so composed and gracious that we were
all reseated and everything quiet before we knew it. I had
felt so miserably wretched while DeVare and Miss Minnie
were speaking that I felt eternally grateful to Miss Carrover
for relieving me, even though she treated me as if I were
very young, in doing it.</p>

<p>In a moment or two all save DeVare and myself rose to
leave&mdash;Brazon, who was the ringleader in Miss Minnie’s
persecuting circle, scowling malignantly at DeVare as he
bowed himself out.</p>

<p>As soon as they had gone Miss Minnie came to where I
was sitting, and, with winning frankness, offered her hand,
saying:</p>

<p>“It was very naughty in me, Mr. Smith, to tease you. I
beg pardon, and promise not to do so any more.”</p>

<p>I caught her hand convulsively, and assured her of my
entire forgiveness, and implored her not to give herself any
trouble on my account, and much more to the same incoherent
effect.</p>

<p>She drew her hand gently from mine, and calling DeVare,
said&mdash;</p>

<p>“Mr. DeVare, let’s take those seats by the window; I have
a fuss to make up with you, too.”</p>

<p>DeVare, of course, complied, and I was left alone on the
sofa with Miss Carrover. We still had the box of pictures
in our hands, but as soon as DeVare left she closed the box
and said:</p>

<p>“Let’s put these tiresome old pictures up, and talk some.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
Tell me all about the way the Sophs treated you when you
first came.”</p>

<p>To be near such superb beauty was almost too much for
my poor sentimental heart; and then to have her wish to
hear me talk, and even prescribe the subject, as if my words
would be full of so much interest! I was stupid for awhile
with surprise, and sat for nearly half a minute gazing abstractedly
and impolitely in her face. Indeed, ‘twas well
worth gazing on.</p>

<p>Her hair was not done up regularly, but caught in great
loose folds around her head, so as to best set off her face,
and was rolled back from her clear white forehead in a
great golden wave&mdash;yet its color was not altogether golden;
it had a tinge of red that made it glow with a tawny light.
Her skin was perfectly smooth and clear, and of wax-like
whiteness, tinged with a bright peach pink on her cheeks.
But her chief charms were her eyes and mouth. Her eyes
were hazel or dark gray, I could never tell which, shaded
with very long lashes and deep upper lids, that gave them
a dreamy, languid expression, that always impresses us as
most beautiful, we know not why. Her mouth was small,
and very much arched at the corners; her lips bright red,
and her teeth perfectly white; the upper lip protruded
slightly, as if she was ever a little surprised, and this, combined
with a constant slight arch of the eyebrows, imparted
an air of interest in all you said, notwithstanding the
languor of her general expression. Her beauty was Dudu’s,
and Byron well knew its fascinating power.</p>

<p>As soon as I recovered from my brief contemplation of her
face I made an attempt to give her my experience as a Fresh,
and what with the pleasure of talking at all to her, and her
interest in my subject, and continued ejaculations of pity, I
began to wish the fellows had done me much worse than
they had, it was so delightful to have her listen to the
recital of my woes. When I told her of my fainting under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
the smoking, she smiled such a lazy little smile, and said,
“I did not know gentlemen indulged in such feminine
weaknesses.”</p>

<p>“But the air was so noxious, Miss Carrover, no one
could have borne it. You would have been compelled to
faint.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I faint quite easily,” she said, arching one eyebrow
instead of two, “I came near falling from my horse as I
went to mount last evening, and became unconscious for a
little while.”</p>

<p>“And was no one there to catch you?” I asked, with
earnest heroism in my tone.</p>

<p>“Oh, of course, I took care to be provided with that safeguard.
Do you think you could catch me if we were riding
and I should fall?”</p>

<p>“I would catch you if you fell from the skies,” I replied,
warmly, involuntarily feeling my arm, as if it belonged to
Hercules, and looking at her just in time to catch a glance of
significance passing between herself and DeVare. Feeling
that perhaps I was just a little ridiculous, I endeavored to
leave the subject gradually by asking if she was fond of
riding horseback, and begging the honor of an engagement
for the next evening. She thanked me, and said that as she
had introduced the subject I might have construed it into a
hint, and she must therefore decline the offer. As I seemed
so cut down, however, she agreed to make an indefinite
engagement, the time to be fixed any time after that
evening.</p>

<p>She then drew me out about our halls and libraries, till I
had told of every alcove, and how well they were arranged
for courting, and that all the students carried their sweethearts
there, and ended by asking her to go with me there
some evening after lecture. Another lazy smile, and she
softly reminded me that she had introduced that topic also,
and must therefore decline again, “at least,” she said, looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
at me sideways under her long lashes, “till you claim
me as your sweetheart, as you state that it is the resort of
lovers only.”</p>

<p>I flushed and hushed for a moment, when DeVare rose
from his seat with Miss Minnie, and said it was time for us
to go.</p>

<p>Miss Carrover gave me her hand at parting, and insisted
on my calling again with so much sweet earnestness that I
made myself ridiculous again in my promise to do so.</p>

<p>We had scarcely passed outside the gate when I commenced:</p>

<p>“DeVare, is she not perfectly splendid! I’ll vow I’m
crazy about her.”</p>

<p>“That was shameful conduct in those scoundrels to-night,”
DeVare said, without noticing my remark, “and had it not
been for Miss Minnie and Lillian I would have punished
them on the spot.”</p>

<p>“Do you call her Lillian, Ramie?” I asked with surprise.</p>

<p>“If any of them want satisfaction for anything I said to-night,”
he continued, without heeding me, “I will have to
request you, Jack, to act as my friend.”</p>

<p>“You may depend on me, Ramie; but if there is to be
any difficulty, I must be the principal, as it was all begun
on my account.”</p>

<p>“Oh, nonsense,” he said. “I gave the insult to them,
and of course I only can satisfy them. I do not expect anything,
however, from that crowd, as they are too cowardly
to resent an insult.”</p>

<p>We parted at his room, and when I reached mine I made
Ned put up his books for the night, and listen to my account
of Miss Carrover.</p>

<p>When I had at last wearied him out, and we went to bed,
I could not go to sleep for the dancing train of fancies that
were rushing through my mind. I lay there till far in the
night, recalling every incident of my visit, trying to make its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>

memory as vivid as possible, thinking of every word she had
said, and regretting the many foolish things I had said,
which might lessen me in her estimation&mdash;(but oh! I hoped
not!)&mdash;wondering how she who had seen so much of society,
who had seen everything worth seeing in Europe and America,
and knew almost everybody worth knowing, could be
so interested in my talk&mdash;a youth just approaching manhood,
unused to the ways of the world and unskilled in the
use of the tongue. Then I would, by an ingenious process,
known only to those who are vain, endeavor to convince
myself that she did like me, and would eventually love me.
I would imagine her telling Miss Minnie that I was a handsome
fellow, and so entertaining; then wishing for me to
call again, then giving me a preference in attention when
I did call, then writing sweet notes of thanks for the many
love tokens and gifts I would send her, then a moonlight
stroll, a courtship, a kiss, and eternal happiness!</p>

<p>I would fall asleep only to rebuild and embellish in my
dreams the magnificent air castles of my waking hours.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c208" id="c208">CHAPTER XXII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> morning after our visit I was in DeVare’s room,
waiting for him to come in from lecture, when some one
knocked, and, in answer to my invitation, Ellerton, a Sophomore,
who had been kind to me at first, entered, and asked
for DeVare. Finding that I expected him in soon, he took
a seat, and commenced some trivial talk about college matters.
He had had nothing to do with me since I joined
DeVare’s club, and a salutation when we passed had been
the extent of our intercourse since early in the session.</p>

<p>He spoke with regret of the last night’s affair, and said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
DeVare ought not to have been so quick to resent the
fellows’ fun. This, of course, nettled me, and I was about
to make an angry reply, when DeVare himself came in. He
bowed to Ellerton, who rose and handed him a note. DeVare’s
brow contracted as he read it, and as soon as he
finished he tossed it to me, and sitting down to his writing
table, commenced his reply. The note he had received was
from Brazon, demanding a retraction of the language used
last evening, and an apology in the presence of both ladies,
or the usual satisfaction. Ere I had finished reading DeVare
folded and addressed his answer, and Ellerton, receiving
it, bowed himself out.</p>

<p>DeVare looked at me and smiled as I asked him what he
intended to do.</p>

<p>“My self-respect forbids that I should entertain a thought
of yielding to the first demand; custom and public opinion
compel me to grant the second. I wrote, therefore, that I
had no remark to regret, and no retraction to make; and
that I would accord him any satisfaction he might desire
I took the liberty of referring him to you, as my friend.”</p>

<p>“You were perfectly right in that; but, DeVare, I must
take your place, and be the principal in this affair, as it was
all undertaken on my account.”</p>

<p>“That could not be, Jack, even if I were willing, which
I certainly am not. Do not trouble yourself about it, for I
do not feel one particle of concern or uneasiness in reference
to it. You had best now go to Ellerton’s room, and
confer with him in regard to the arrangements. One thing
I will mention: if there has to be a meeting get it put off
till the end of the session, as the laws of the University
require instant expulsion for any one in anywise connected
with a duel.”</p>

<p>I had scarcely risen from my seat when Ellerton again
tapped at the door, to request me to walk with him over to
his room.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p>

<p>I rose and followed him, feeling, I must confess, somewhat
important as second in a duel which would create
quite a stir, and yet feeling sadly conscious that it was a
strange manifestation of friendship to be arranging preliminaries
for my friend’s possible and probable death.</p>

<p>When we reached Ellerton’s room he motioned me to take
a seat, and said:</p>

<p>“Brazon has read DeVare’s note, and as he refuses to
apologize, I wish to know when he will meet him, and with
what weapons?”</p>

<p>“O! Ellerton!” I said, thoroughly unmanned, “cannot
this wretched affair be settled without recourse to arms? I
was the unintentional cause of it all, and, as DeVare will not
hear of my taking his place on the field, I will submit to
any humiliation to save him.”</p>

<p>“I don’t think your humiliation would do much good,”
he remarked, coolly, sticking his knife through a match
lying on the table, and splitting the phosphorus into a
blaze. “DeVare is the man who insulted him, and Brazon
will alone be satisfied with his blood.”</p>

<p>“I’ll have his if he gets it,” I said, savagely, recalled to
myself by his words.</p>

<p>“Well, well, do not threaten,” he said, throwing the
match on the floor and rubbing it out with his boot; “let’s
proceed to business.”</p>

<p>He got paper and pens, and we agreed on the following
arrangements:</p>

<p>Time of meeting, the 3d of December; place, just in the
South Carolina line; weapons, Derringer pistols; distance,
ten paces.</p>

<p>“Is that all, now,” I said, rising to leave.</p>

<p>“I believe so,” he said, running his finger down the
paper. “It’s pretty far off now, and we’ll have to keep
our principals up to the point. I’m afraid they’ll cool off
and make friends yet.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p>

<p>“You need have no fears in regard to mine,” I said,
haughtily, “he’ll make no overtures, and will certainly be
ready when the time comes.”</p>

<p>I reported all to DeVare, who expressed himself satisfied
with the arrangements, and apparently dismissed the subject
from his mind for any allusion he made to it during the
days and weeks following.</p>

<p>The same evening I walked out, and received a very gracious
bow from Miss Carrover, which set my heart in a
flutter, though I was considerably troubled at seeing Ellerton
in the porch with her.</p>

<p>That night I wrote to father, with many excuses and reasons
for the request, to send me my horse and Reuben; and
feeling perfectly assured they would come, made up my
mind what to do when they did.</p>

<p>After a day or two I called again on Miss Carrover, and
was fortunate this time in finding her alone. I enjoyed a
very delightful <i>tete-a-tete</i> with her, and, among other things,
told her that I had sent for my horse, and that when he
came I would claim the ride she had so cruelly refused me
the evening I had first called. She readily assented, and
expressed the wish to ride him herself. Then she consented
to sing for me; and, having been assured that her favorite
would be mine, selected Meyerbeer’s “Robert le Diable.”
Though her voice was very fine, yet it had been trained in
such affectation of the opera that the song lost all of its
melody and pathos in her rendition. She got up so high in
her screams for <i>grace</i> that it was only possible to descend
by a ladder, which, like Brother Weekly, she constructed of
“er,” and came hopping down with such an impenitent
<i>gra-er-a-er-a-er-ce pour moi</i> that no one could have blamed
Robert for his inexorable “<i>Non, non, non.</i>” At the conclusion
of the piece I was, of course, profuse in my thanks and
praise; but, fearing another such infliction, I begged for
some instrumental music, and was tested, as to patience, by
ten or twelve pages of banging and scaling.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p>

<p>Yet my visit was very delightful, and I departed more
enraptured than ever, if such a thing was possible.</p>

<p>When I recounted my visit to Ned, he only laughed, and
advised me seriously to attend more closely to my books.</p>

<p>“You know how much your father expects of you,” he
said; “and you may be sure this Miss Carrover does not
care a fig for you.”</p>

<p>“I know she does,” I responded, warmly. “Even on
this, my second visit, she has shown me plainly that she
likes me well. I’ll bet we are engaged before three months.
Won’t that be glorious, Ned? Surely, man, you have no
eyes, or you would be enslaved yourself by her beauty.”</p>

<p>“My vision is very good,” said Ned, “but I don’t see any
thing enslaving about her. She is pretty, without doubt,
and is probably entertaining; but there are others equally
as good looking, and more capable of rendering you happy.
Besides, do you suppose that a lady who has been the object
of a great city’s adulation can be pleased with any one in
this little village of students&mdash;half of whom she regards as
mere boys?”</p>

<p>“Umph, we are as good as any Adonis of Broadway.
And then, Ned, a lady who felt at all bored by our presence
would evince it in some way. A look, a careless word or a
sneer would betray her feelings. No, Ned, you are surprised
at my success, and only predict evil because you hate to
confess the contrary is true.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Ned, turning over the leaves of his lexicon
in search of a flea of a word, “go on; but you will find she
is only amusing herself with you during her rustication.”</p>

<p>“But, Ned, I know she likes me; and won’t it be splendid
to call the beauty of Gotham mine?”</p>

<p>“Go your way, old fellow,” said Ned, catching the flea
and pinning it with his pencil on the margin of his text-book;
“but, mark my words, in three months from to-day
your adored will have discarded you, and you will then be
regretting the moments you have wasted on her.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p>

<p>“That reminds me,” I said, taking down my book, “I
must cram Greek for to-morrow.”</p>

<p>After an hour’s study we retired&mdash;Ned well prepared, I
just half.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c213" id="c213">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Several</span> days have passed, and I am still in dreamland
with Miss Carrover. I manage to attend recitations, but
that is all. The tutor’s instructions fall on an inattentive
ear, and his questions receive random answers. My books
are all neglected, and even when I try to study, my mind is
so preoccupied that it proves a perfect Danæan sieve, and
after an hour’s vacant rambling over a page I close the
book, with a more confused idea of its contents than I had
before I opened it.</p>

<p>I visit Miss Carrover every other evening, at least, and in
the interim am thinking of a word she spoke, a smile she
gave; or am forming rainbow conjectures as to how she will
treat me when I next call.</p>

<p>A week after the events narrated in the last chapter, I
received a letter from my father, saying that he had read my
letter with some surprise, but that, while he feared my horse
would prove an hindrance to study, he did not like to refuse
my first request, and had accordingly started Reuben off
with him the morning before; that he hoped I would not let
it deter me from applying myself diligently to my books,
but that my report at the close of the session might be, as
it always had been in my other schools, perfect.</p>

<p>I examined the date of the letter and found that it had
been delayed a day, so that Reuben and Phlegon, starting
the day before, ought to reach the University that day. I
made a minute calculation, and found that they would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
arrive by one o’clock, and so, with a sigh of repentance over
my dereliction of duty, and a firm resolve to do better,
I determined, as that was Friday, to snap lecture, and
watch for Reuben, waiting for Monday to turn over my
new leaf.</p>

<p>Accordingly, when the bell for lecture rung, instead of
going with Ned to the section room, I strolled through the
campus and gave myself up to sweet thoughts of Lillian. It
was one of my autumn days. The sun was shining with a
still, mellow light through a golden haze, which seemed to
have fallen on all Nature, so yellow were the leaves on the
trees and the stubble in the fields. The air was still and
dreamy, and the campus, usually so full of noise and life,
empty and deserted. I tried to think of Lillian as the only
one in the world besides myself; of the universe as being
made for us two, and of how sweetly we would live for each
other. But somehow my soul would not fall into the delicious
reverie her name usually inspired. For the first time
since I had met her I could not think constantly of her, but
my mind was ever and anon recurring to father’s letter
and his admonitions. There was an aching at my heart, a
restless unhappiness I could not understand. I wandered
about for half an hour, then sought out the negro who rang
the bell, obtained the belfry keys from him, and went up in
the cupola of the South Building. Taking my seat on the
window ledge, I gazed on the beautiful scene around. A
large extent of country spread out before me, gently undulating,
and specked here and there with lonely white houses
or groups of negro quarters. The haze of the zenith softened
down to a deep shaded violet as it met the horizon, and long
lines of smoke stood stiffly around the verge, like gray sentinels
guarding the Great Beyond. A little way off a herd of
cows were grazing, and the hoarse monotones of their copper
bells were just audible enough to be drowsy; while
along the red line of the road that wound out of sight by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
the cemetery, a white top wagon, with sluggish horses, was
slowly crawling on to Raleigh.</p>

<p>My mind now easily fell into reverie, but Miss Carrover
was not its burden. Conscience, that had so long been tapping
at the door of a heart too full of love to let it in, now
gained a hearing, and told of wrong after wrong, of duties
neglected, of promises of diligence forgotten, of honors so
easily in reach unstriven for, of a doting father (of whose
kind indulgence I was about to receive such a striking
proof) so culpably deceived, of golden opportunities wasted
which might never be retrieved&mdash;all for a love which was,
perhaps, in vain&mdash;till remorse applied its tortures to my soul
and I was miserable. Then came the struggle. Could I give
Lillian up? Could I drive out all those sweet thoughts of her
that had been such pleasant companions for me while away
from her? Could I bear to think of her sighing for me,
while I cruelly kept away? Above all, could I bear to think
of her smiling on others and forgetting me, only because I
had forgotten her? No, I could not do that, but I would go
to see her less frequently; I would study harder; and redeem
the lost time; I would gain the first honors; and yet
love Lillian. Like Alan of Buchan, I would win both banners,
and father would smile on my honors and approve my
choice.</p>

<p>Patting down my conscience with these good resolutions,
I chanced to look out on the scene again, and saw, coming
down the road from Raleigh, a horse and rider. The horse
was blanketed, but I knew by the lordly bearing and arching
neck that it was Phlegon, and I clambered down from
the belfry, and ran down to the hotel to meet him. The
bell rang for the close of lectures at the same time, and the
students were thronging from the various lecture rooms, and
many shouted at me as I hurried through the campus. I
reached the hotel just as Reuben rode up. I had hardly
gotten through making inquiries about them all at home<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
when the students, in large numbers, came down to the
hotel, and commenced making comments on myself and my
horse. Some of my friends, however, coming to me and
desiring to see him, I made Reuben take off his blankets and
move him up and down the street, to show his action. As
Reuben stripped the cloth from his glossy hide, and the
splendid form stood revealed in its matchless grace, a murmur
of approbation ran through the crowd. And Phlegon
was in every respect worthy. An English thoroughbred,
he possessed the marks of an aristocratic ancestry, lords of
the turf for many generations. The sharp pointed ears, the
mild dark eye, and the tapering mouse colored muzzle, with
its red open nostrils, were a coat of arms as perfect as argent
fields and unicorns rampant.</p>

<p>His color was a beautiful claret, and his coat as glossy as
if just washed in the ruby wine. His limbs tapered delicately,
but the muscles were round and full of strength. He
had evidently been the pet at home since I had left, and it
was with no little pride that I ordered Reuben to take him
round to the stables I had engaged for him. I went back to
my room, feeling a good deal flattered by hearing some one
say, as Reuben rode off:</p>

<p>“That’s a crack Fresh, to keep a horse the first session.”</p>

<p>That evening, of course, I rode out, and, riding out, of
course passed the house where Miss Carrover was staying.
She was on the porch with DeVare as I swept by. I
bowed and said, “To-morrow evening!” and she kissed her
hand at me and said, “Without fail!” I was happy again,
and my good resolutions about such <i>very</i> hard study began
to melt.</p>

<p>The next evening found me in the parlor, while Reuben
stood at the gate holding Phlegon and the horse from the
livery stable Miss Carrover usually rode.</p>

<p>As she swept into the room, holding up the long folds of
her riding habit with one gauntleted hand, while the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
threatened me with her pearl and gold riding whip, I
thought I had never seen anything half so lovely, and I playfully
bent on one knee as she said:</p>

<p>“You wicked boy, why did you come so late. I have
been waiting ever so long for you?”</p>

<p>I apologised with all meekness, threw the blame on Reuben,
and escorted her out to the block. As soon as she saw my
horse she burst into an ecstacy of admiration, and vowed
that I must have the saddles changed; that she could not
allow her escort to ride a prettier horse than she was on.
As I believed him perfectly safe, I ordered Reuben to change
the saddles, then assisted her to mount, took her gaitered
little foot in my hand to adjust it in the stirrup, and then,
springing into my saddle, we galloped away into the evening
sunlight. Phlegon seemed aware of the lovely burden
he was bearing, and curvetted and pranced with a pride
that would have made Lucifer seem humble. She was very
much exhilarated, and lost her dreamy air for one of sprightly
vivacity. She flattered me by innuendo, and said sweet
things at me through my horse, till I was perfectly blind in
my belief in her love for me. She gave me a rosebud from
her hair, which I solemnly assured her should be treasured
till the heart, over which I pinned it in my lapel, should be
cold and pulseless. She spoke of our engagement to visit
the library and fixed the hour in the afternoon earlier than
she had at first appointed, saying, as she did so, “We will
have more time to be together, you know.”</p>

<p>“Thanks for your consideration of my happiness, Miss
Carrover,” I said, bowing, while my heart fluttered with
pleasant surprise to hear her speak so. “Time always
seems to be running a race when I am with you. The moments
fly by only too swiftly when we are with those we&mdash;er&mdash;”
A good spur and a rearing horse are first rate
reliefs for embarrassment when we hesitate for a word; at
least I found them so that afternoon.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p>

<p>She did not make any remark in some time, and I continued:</p>

<p>“You must be very unselfish, Miss Carrover, to confer so
much pleasure on those who visit you, and receive so little
in return.”</p>

<p>“Oh no, indeed,” she replied, tapping Phlegon on the ear
with her whip, “it is a very great pleasure to me to meet
and converse with friends, such as I believe you are, Mr.
Smith.”</p>

<p>“Indeed I am not your friend, Miss Carrover,” I said,
grasping my reins very tight, and gaining courage from the
grasp; “a nearer, fonder word than friendship must express
my feelings for you.”</p>

<p>“No, really?” she said, with that matchless arch of her
eyebrows, looking me full in the face.</p>

<p>When a kettle is about to boil over, add a few drops of
cold water, and it subsides without another bubble. These
two words were like ice to my heart’s fervor, and we rode a
long way in silence, I combing out my horse’s mane with
my fingers, she humming the fragments of a song, and flecking
off specks of dust from her skirt with her whip.</p>

<p>When she spoke she changed the subject, and I had
scarcely courage to speak of the beauties of Nature for the
remainder of the ride.</p>

<p>When we returned I gave up the horses to Reuben at the
gate, and, bidding Miss Carrover good evening, walked
towards my room meditating.</p>

<p>She doubtless loves me, thought I, but of course she is not
going to reveal it till I convince her of my sincerity. She
has probably been annoyed with empty protestations of love
from so many that she believes all men faithless, and my
sudden and inappropriate declaration this afternoon was
certainly not calculated to inspire any belief in its truth.
She is a lady of too much tact and experience to discover
the real state of her feelings till I have proved myself in earnest,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
and that I mean to do before another sun shall set. My
horse, which she knows I prize so highly, will at least prove
that I am not trifling.</p>

<p>I spent that night till bed time writing notes presenting
her with Phlegon, and then tearing them up, till I almost
despaired of getting one to suit me. Towards twelve o’clock,
however, I completed one on the fanciest paper procurable,
and, delicately perfuming it, laid it by till Monday morning,
as the next day was the Sabbath.</p>

<p>Monday morning was the time I had appointed for my
new leaf, but the excitement of sending my horse to Miss
Carrover made me determine to put off the reform I had contemplated
to next day.</p>

<p>After breakfast I told Reuben to take Phlegon, and go up
to Mr. Pommel’s store and get the saddle I bought there
Saturday.</p>

<p>“What chu want wi’ another saddul, Marse John? Dat
one ole marse gin you rides better’n any saddul I ever sot
on.”</p>

<p>“Go and do as I told you, and don’t ask so many questions.
It is a side saddle I’ve bought, and I am going to
give Phlegon away.”</p>

<p>“Gwine to give ‘way Phregon! What you ‘spect to do
wid me, Marse John?”</p>

<p>“You are to attend to him still, and saddle him whenever
the lady wants to use him.”</p>

<p>“Um-umph, dat’s gone by me!” he muttered, as he walked
off to obey my orders.</p>

<p>After he had gone with my note the anxious suspense of
waiting for the answer was immense. I went up in my
room and tried to study, but it was in vain. At the end of
half an hour I heard the clatter of hoofs under the windows,
and found Reuben returned on my horse. His teeth were
gleaming to the first molars as he gave me Miss Carrover’s
note. I tore it open hastily, and read:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p>

<div class="pbq">

<p class="pn1">“<span class="smcap">Mr. Smith</span>:</p>

<p>“Your unselfish generosity in offering such a superb contribution
to my pleasure forbids that I should return your
gift as formally as etiquette requires. A moment’s reflection,
however, will convince you that I could not accept
your beautiful horse; yet I assure you the motives prompting
the offer are fully appreciated, and will be gratefully
remembered. The sentiments of regard you so kindly
express are more than reciprocated, and it will be my greatest
pleasure to continue a friendship which has been so
delightful to me, and, I trust, not unpleasant to you.</p>

<p>“Hoping that this conventional necessity may not wound
your feelings, </p>

<p class="pr6">I remain,</p>

<p class="pr4">“<span class="smcap">The Same Lillian</span>.”</p></div>

<p class="p1">I folded the note with an air of pride and a consciousness
of my powers of conquest I had never felt before. Now I
have the written proof of her esteem. I wonder if Ned will
doubt my success.</p>

<p>“What were you laughing at, Reuben, when you gave
me this note?” I said, turning to where he stood, still grinning.</p>

<p>“He-e-e! he!” he snickered, rubbing his nose against
the saddle, “dem young ladies tinks you’s a gone case, Marse
John.”</p>

<p>“What did they do when you got there?”</p>

<p>“Dey was at de window when I gallupped up, an’ dey
both come out to de porch, an’ de little one laugh like anything
when de purty one told what you sed in de note, and
she pinched her on de arm, and say, ‘he’s gwine to gib you
heself nex’,’ and den dey both laugh. De purty one say
den, ‘I wish he would; I’d keep him.’ An’ while she gone
to write de note de little one asts me sight er questions
‘bout you, an’ I tell her ‘dun no ‘m’ to everything, ‘cause I
d’ want her to marry you, Marse John. Den de tother one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
come back, an’ gin me dat little cranksided invellop, an’ tole
me to fetch it to you. Des as I git in de saddle, I hear one
of ’em say, ‘Boot’ful, ain’t it; and so thortless of my prezure
in him.’ But I never stay der, I tell you, Marse John. I
lef’, glad ‘nough to fetch Phregon back ‘gin.”</p>

<p>“Well, take him back to the stable, and rub him off,” I
said, turning to go upstairs.</p>

<p>The case now stands thus, I said to myself, as I walked
thoughtfully up the steps: She evidently loves me. She
knows now that I love her; all that is needed is a mutual
confession. When shall it take place? The very first
opportunity.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c221" id="c221">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></h2>


<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">I had</span> secured the key from the librarian, and we did not,
therefore, fear interruption, as the library of the Society
was only open to the public on Saturdays.</p>

<p>As we walked from alcove to alcove selecting books, reading
an extract from one, examining the engravings in
another, and I realized that we were all alone in the great
silent hall, I felt the resistless current of my love more
strongly than ever, and determined to reveal it if I could,
before we left the library. But the very thought of sitting
by her side and telling her to her face that I loved her made
a hot flutter rise in my heart that imparted its tremor to my
limbs, and I began to think it were best to put off the disclosure
a few days yet.</p>

<p>At length we took our seat on one of the sofas, and bent
together over a beautifully illustrated copy of that passionate
Persian poem&mdash;the Gitagovinda.</p>

<p>We opened to a picture of Rhada half concealed in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
papyri, gazing on the inconstant Heri as he sports with the
laughing shepherdesses. The sad, wounded look spread
over the chiselled features told of the jealousy within her
heart, and shaded the radiance of Heaven with the blight
of Earth’s sorrow.</p>

<p>“Isn’t that face exquisite?” she said, after gazing for some
time at it without speaking; “and the hand half raised, holding
the broken stem of lotus, how perfect in outline. The
whole picture is the loveliest thing I ever saw.”</p>

<p>“You haven’t had the advantage of a mirror recently,
then,” I said, tamely.</p>

<p>“That is fulsome and exceedingly stale,” she said, with a
smile that softened but did not quite destroy the sarcasm of
her tone.</p>

<p>“Indeed, Miss Carrover, you are lovely enough to make
Heraclitus cease weeping; but I would not seek your favor
with adulation. Your experience as a flirt has doubtless
taught you too well how to estimate the compliments of&mdash;er
(I longed for my horse and spur again, but not having
them with me I was forced to its utterance)&mdash;lovers.”</p>

<p>“Do you call me a flirt,” she said, closing the book, and
setting it up edgewise on her lap, so that she might lock her
beautiful fingers over it, “after all the consideration and
regard I have shown you? Has anything in my conduct
toward <i>you</i> indicated that I was flirting with you?”</p>

<p>“No; I confess with deep gratitude that, so far as I am
concerned, you do not yet deserve the name. But I do fear
your ridicule and sarcasm, or my bursting heart would tell
its love.”</p>

<p>“Poor little heart! do not burst,” she said, patting me
with one hand gently over my heart.</p>

<p>Of course I caught the hand and imprinted a very fervent
kiss on it; a liberty which she resented by calling “Sir-r-r,”
with a great many r’s, and vowing she would not speak to
me again while we were in the library. I gazed at her a
moment, and then broke out passionately:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p>

<p>“Miss Lillian&mdash;may I call you that?&mdash;let’s cease trifling.
I love you; but before you laugh me to scorn let me tell
you how I love you. I have never loved before, can never
love again, as I love you now. My life, my soul is wrapped
up in you; my whole being is in yours; and existence
without your love to possess or to hope for is utterly
worthless. No other thought, no other object has been
mine since I saw you; and I solemnly vow to you now, I
care for, hope for nothing else on earth but your smile and
favor. I cannot, dare not believe that you love me now;
but give me one ray of hope, one straw to cling to; promise
that you will learn to love me in years to come; that after
long, patient devotion on my part, and satiety of conquest
on yours, you will give me your heart. Dearest Lillian, promise
me.”</p>

<p>The sexton of the library had forgotten his broom, and it
chanced to be leaning against the sofa arm near her. She
quietly handed it to me, and said, with an affected sigh:</p>

<p>“Alas! I have no hope to offer, but there is a broom full
of straws for you to cling to.”</p>

<p>I dropped my head into my hands, and moaned:</p>

<p>“Oh heaven! the agony.”</p>

<p>“Really, Mr. Smith, you act your part well. I can only
regret that the programme of courtship you have evidently
studied is a hackneyed one. Indiscriminate flattery, life
and death pledges of devotion and vows of eternal fealty!
The addition of a little poetry, about the fountain of your
heart being sealed, to keep its waters, etc., would have made
it perfect.”</p>

<p>“Miss Carrover,” I said, raising my head from my hands,
and looking at her with a countenance so full of despair I
saw she knew at last that I was in earnest, “it is enough.
Before we drop the subject, though, forever, hear me. As I
hope to be judged in eternity, every word I spoke just now
was earnest truth. As you value the happiness of a fellow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
being, do me the justice, at least, to believe this my solemn
assertion.”</p>

<p>“Mr. Smith,” she said quickly, her face losing the expression
of incredulous derision it had worn, and assuming a
seriousness I had never before seen on it, “were you really
in earnest?”</p>

<p>“Before my Maker, I was.”</p>

<p>“Can you pardon my unkindness, then,” and she offered
her soft little hand. I took it, but did not release it immediately,
but sat holding it in mine, and gazing down at the
floor. Though so near her, I felt that we were separated
by an immense chasm, whose black depths were unfathomable;
but now her last words threw a tiny thread of gold
across it, and on this slender bridge Hope, like another
Blondin, prepared to tread.</p>

<p>“I have been called a flirt,” she continued, to my joyful
surprise letting her hand remain in mine, “and perhaps the
title is deserved; for I confess that I have constantly sought
the conquest of hearts, and I enjoy nothing so much as a
long story of love poured out for my mockery&mdash;not that I
love to cause pain in others, but I have ever found men’s
vows insincere, deserving nothing better than scorn. Whenever
I have had reason to believe one sincere I have always
made the dismissal, if I rejected him, as kind as possible.
With you, my dear friend&mdash;will you allow me to deal candidly?&mdash;I
was much pleased, and enjoyed your pleasant vivacity
and humor exceedingly; so that I will confess I looked
forward to your visits more pleasantly than to almost any
one else’s. Thus, without intending it, I have encouraged
a love which from the first I knew I could not return, but
which I did not suppose was serious. If I esteemed you
less I might bid you hope that I might retain you as a
suitor; but the very earnestness of your love forbids that
I should deceive you. I cannot love you, save as a friend.
That is very trite, isn’t it? Still, it expresses my feelings,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
and I trust that you will believe <i>me</i> when I assure you that
I do and ever shall entertain the highest regard for you.”</p>

<p>“Do not say you can not love me, Miss Carrover. Surely
a love so devoted as mine will yet win some return.”</p>

<p>She did not reply; but slipping the diamond ring on her
third finger down to the tip, and holding it there with her
thumb, she held it to me. I looked down on the inside of
the gold band and saw, marked in ruby points, as if written
in blood, the names Raymond and Lillian.”</p>

<p>“Raymond!” I exclaimed, “who&mdash;what is the surname?”</p>

<p>“DeVare!” she whispered softly.</p>

<p>The golden thread snapped in twain, and Hope fell forever
into the abyss!</p>

<p>I did not reply, for I knew it would have been folly to
attempt to supplant Raymond DeVare, and I would not if I
could have done so at a breath.</p>

<p>As neither of us had any further use for the library we
closed it and walked home. Nothing special was said; only
when I bade her good-bye she said, with the old irresistible
look: “You will still visit me?”</p>

<p>I bowed low, and said, “If you wish me to.”</p>

<p>On my way home I made up my mind to one thing, that,
however much I might feel depressed, I would not let Ned
find it out. He had provoked me enough with his predictions;
he should not now have the triumph of saying, “I
told you so.”</p>

<p>After tea I took a long stroll with DeVare, and, as the
conversation led to it, I told him all. He smiled when I concluded,
and said he had been expecting as much. He then,
in return for my confidence, told me that they had been engaged
since early in the summer. That he and Carrover
had gone to Newport, and he had met her there and loved
her; that they were betrothed before he left, and that they
were to be married the coming June, immediately after his
graduation.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p>

<p>“That is,” he continued, “if the meeting we have arranged
for in December does not prevent it.”</p>

<p>“Does she know of it?” I asked.</p>

<p>“No; and I would not have her to for worlds.”</p>

<p>“But, Ramie, there will never be a meeting,” I said, cheerily.
“Brazon is too cowardly to fight; and if he were not, time
would make the affair too trivial to be remembered, especially
as it is safest to forget it.”</p>

<p>“Brazon would never have begun,” he said, “had it not
been for the advice of others. Of course their purpose is to
continue the affair, as they suffer no uneasiness on account
of it.”</p>

<p>“Well, Ramie, let us look on the bright side of things. I
do not believe that the affair will come off at all, and if it
does it will be without danger to yourself.”</p>

<p>DeVare then gave me his personal history, stating that he
was an only child; that his father had been dead a great
many years; that his mother was perfectly devoted to him,
and that this was the first session she had passed without
spending most of the time at Chapel Hill or Raleigh, where
he could run down to see her often.</p>

<p>“She will not leave New Orleans till the close of November,”
he continued, “when we will together go to Richmond
to spend my vacation. The thought of the terrible blow to
her, if I should fall, is the only thing that makes me shrink
somewhat from the meeting.”</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c226" id="c226">CHAPTER XXV.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> thirtieth November came at last, and found DeVare,
Ned and myself on the train for Wilmington.</p>

<p>The fall session had closed that afternoon, and we had
gone up to Durham’s to take the night train. DeVare was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
going home with me, and would remain till the 3d December,
when we were to go over to South Carolina, that Brazon
might prove himself a gentleman by trying to take DeVare’s
life.</p>

<p>He and Ellerton were on the same train, in company with
Frank, but there was no intercourse between any of us.</p>

<p>We reached Wilmington late the next evening, and were
heartily welcomed by every one. It was delightful to be in
my dear home again, every one so glad to see me, and all
interested in the merest little detail of my experience. Carlotta
was far more beautiful than when I had left her, and I
thought, if years improve her as months have done, she will
be the most superbly beautiful woman the world has ever
seen. DeVare was perfectly enraptured with her, and vowed
that were his affections free he would lay them at her feet.
In fact, everything was made so pleasant to both of us that
he declared my home the happiest he had ever known. My
spirits were very much depressed. Do what I would I
could not shake off a dull, heavy foreboding that seemed to
shroud my heart in perpetual gloom. Even when I would
forget it for a while, there was the same unrest, the same
consciousness of something unpleasant, ever resting on my
mind. Whatever were the consequences of the dreaded
affair to the others, to myself they could be nothing else but
disagreeable. If there were no bloodshed, I would incur
father’s displeasure to the last degree. I would be liable to
indictment in law, and would, perhaps, be expelled from the University;
while if DeVare was killed,&mdash;&mdash; but I could not
allow myself to think of such a horror for the slightest
moment.</p>

<p>Every day I prayed, with all the faith I could command,
that it might not occur, and, if it did, that no blood might
be spilled. I would have informed the authorities had I not
promised DeVare to keep it secret. All this dread of it
arose from the fact that I was only the second. Had I been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
one of the principals in it the romance of excitement would
have kept up my spirits, and the necessity for heroic demeanor
would have nerved me into nonchalance. DeVare
seemed perfectly cheerful, and scarcely ever gave the subject
a thought, but my loss of spirits was so perceptible that
father rallied me in regard to it, and mother became really
solicitous.</p>

<p>The night of the 2d December came round, and DeVare
and I went to our rooms to make preparations for our trip
next morning. I had told them down stairs that DeVare
had a little matter of business in South Carolina, and that I
had agreed to accompany him thither. We had very few
preparations to make, as we expected to return on the evening
train. As I said this to DeVare, when he suggested that
we had best carry a valise, I remember the peculiar smile
with which he replied:</p>

<p>“Perhaps <i>we</i> may not return at all, at least together.
One of us may be in the baggage car.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Ramie, for the love of Heaven do not speak in that
way. If you have any love for me let me take your place
to-morrow. I had rather die a thousand deaths than feel
the dreadful gloom I do to-night,” and I bowed my face upon
the table, while my frame shook with emotion.</p>

<p>“Why, Jack,” said Ramie fondly, laying his hand on my
arm, “you unnerve me. What have you to fear?”</p>

<p>“More than you, Ramie! I had a hundred fold rather
face death than the remorse I must feel if anything happens
to you.”</p>

<p>“Your youth and inexperience shrink from the responsibility
of the position; but look on the bright side and hope
for the best. Now come, sit here by the fire with me, while
I give you some directions about what I want done in case
I&mdash;&mdash;. You understand.”</p>

<p>“Don’t mention that horrid possibility, Ramie. I cannot
bear it.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p>

<p>“Yes; but it must be mentioned,” he said, crimping a
strip of paper between his thumb and forefinger, while he
gazed pensively at the coals flickering their red horoscope
deep in the grate. “If I fall,” he at length said, “have my
body brought back to town and carried to the hotel; I do
not wish to shock the feelings of your kind family by being
brought here.”</p>

<p>“It shall go nowhere else,” I replied, impetuously, forgetting
that the neuter “<i>it</i>” might grate harshly on his ear.</p>

<p>“Then have a metallic case,” he went on, without noticing
my interruption, “and have it expressed to New Orleans,
telegraphing Mr. Dixon, our agent, to meet it and
make necessary arrangements for interment. I expected
my mother here soon, but I wrote her a few days since to
remain in New Orleans till she heard from me again. I
made my will yesterday, and had it signed and sealed, but
there are a few articles of personal property I wish you to
dispose of for me. My ring, with Lillian’s and my own
likeness in it, together with the box of trinkets and souvenirs
you will find in my trunk, please give to her; my watch
and chain send to my mother, and this I wish you to keep,”
and he placed in my hand a beautiful emerald cross, which
he wore as a scarf pin.</p>

<p>He gazed again for some time in the fire, and then looked
up and continued:</p>

<p>“And, John, write to mother and explain all the circumstances
and reasons of the affair&mdash;omitting, of course, the
slight connection you had with its beginning; and tell her
that I die in the faith and communion of the Church, and
in the hope of Heaven. I am speaking thus in case the
worst happens. I trust, though, there may be no occasion
for your carrying out these instructions. Now complete
your arrangements and let’s go to sleep; I want to feel well
in the morning.”</p>

<p>He retired to his room, which adjoined mine; and having<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
occasion to go in there a few moments afterwards, I found
that he was sleeping as peacefully as if on his mother’s
bosom. I could not sleep, but tossed from side to side in a
fever of restless apprehension.</p>

<p>About day I fell into a doze, from which I was awakened
by father’s tapping at our door and telling us it was nearly
train time. I found DeVare already up and dressed, and I
rose, and hurriedly, shiveringly, slipped on my clothes and
went down with him to the dining room, where mother had
prepared an early breakfast for us.</p>

<p>“What time will you return?” asked father, as we got
into the carriage.</p>

<p>“Don’t look for us until you see us,” I said, slamming the
carriage door, and concealing beneath my shawl my case of
Derringers, which Ellerton had agreed to use.</p>

<p>A thought of coming back alone flitted like a raven of
despair across my mind, but I shook it off and assumed
cheerfulness.</p>

<p>As we entered the boat I noticed Ellerton and Brazon on
the forward deck, smoking with affected <i>sang froid</i>. We
sat down near the wheel house, and watched the paddles as
they churned the bluish-green water into white foam, and
rocked the little skiffs passing near, with refluent waves.
Across the river a short dash on the cars took us over
the line and into the little town of C&mdash;&mdash;.</p>

<p>Here we hired hacks and drove out to the place Ellerton
and I had agreed on&mdash;a picturesque spot, and one which
Frank and I had visited when we were boys. It was a
beautiful grass plat, of half an acre, lying between two hills,
and bordered with a little gurgling branch.</p>

<p>We had hardly gotten out and dismissed the driver for
half an hour, when the other carriage drove up, and Brazon
and Ellerton got out, and with them a surgeon from the
town.</p>

<p>We bowed to each other, and Ellerton and I stepped forward<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
to measure the ground. We divided the sun and
shade as equally as possible between them, Ellerton examined
and loaded the pistols, and we arranged to place our
men. Brazon was smoking with apparent indifference, but
that it was assumed could be seen from the nervous, trembling
way he would take his cigar from his mouth, and from
the frequent yawns he made. DeVare was leaning against
a tree in an abstracted manner, and started when I touched
his arm.</p>

<p>“All is ready, Ramie,” I said, conducting him to the spot
assigned him. “Here, take this pistol, be cool and aim
well.”</p>

<p>He only looked at me and smiled, but said nothing. I
told Ellerton he must give the word to fire, as I dared not,
and I withdrew a short distance, and stood with uncovered
head, breathing a prayer which I felt was a mockery.</p>

<p>Ellerton raised his handkerchief while I quivered with
suspense; his voice rang out loud and clear:</p>

<p>“Ready! aim! fire!&mdash;one, two, three!”</p>

<p>At the word “one” Brazon fired, his ball cutting the
foliage a yard over DeVare’s head, while the echoes rolled
in solemn groans through the woods around.</p>

<p>After the word “three” Ramie raised his pistol and fired
into the air, the smoke curling gracefully up towards Heaven,
as if from the altar of a peace offering.</p>

<p>We each ran to our principals.</p>

<p>“Ramie! Ramie!” I exclaimed, “this will never do; why
on earth did you not fire at him? I am afraid now he will
want another shot, as he sees your harmless intentions. A
shot pretty close would have frightened him off.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps you are right,” he said quietly; “but then I
might have killed him, and that is not my object.”</p>

<p>Ellerton now approached, and, bowing, said:</p>

<p>“My principal claims another shot, as Mr. DeVare promised
him satisfaction.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p>

<p>“He can get it,” said DeVare, before I could interpose.</p>

<p>“He also begs,” said Ellerton, addressing DeVare, “that
you will do him the honor to fire at him, as he dislikes to
aim at one who preserves your peaceful attitude.”</p>

<p>“I shall do as I think best,” replied DeVare, with so much
dignity that Ellerton withdrew in some confusion.</p>

<p>Again were the pistols loaded and placed in their hands,
and again rang out those deadly words, “Fire!&mdash;one, two,
three!”</p>

<p>Brazon, who had become very nervous and excited, fired
while the word “one” was yet on Ellerton’s lips. DeVare
gave a slight start, raised his pistol and aimed upward,
then lowered his hand without firing, deliberately uncocked
his weapon and dropped it beside him, then, closing his
eyes with a sudden tightness, fell in a doubled-up heap to
the ground. The heavy manner in which he fell, without
regard to easing himself down, told me all.</p>

<p>I ran to him, and raised his head upon my arm; his eyes
were still closed, and his face was pale as marble. He was
drawing his breath in short gasps, at long intervals, while
the blood was oozing from his lips, and trickling in little red
streams down his chin and throat. The ball had entered
below the right armpit, and ranged straight across toward
the heart, and I supposed that internal hemorrhage caused
the flow of blood from the mouth.</p>

<p>“Ramie! Ramie!” I called frantically, “are you hurt much?
Speak to me, Ramie.”</p>

<p>His eyes opened feebly on mine, and with considerable
effort he whispered:</p>

<p>“I am almost gone, Jack.”</p>

<p>The surgeon now approached with his case of instruments,
and tearing open DeVare’s coat, vest and shirt, examined
the wound. A round spot, closed up with blood and torn
flesh, showed where the death messenger had entered, and
rose and fell with every labored breath. He contracted his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
brow as if in pain as the surgeon ran his probing wire in,
but otherwise remained quiet and passive. The surgeon, as
he drew his wire out and wiped it, put his mouth close to
my ear and whispered:</p>

<p>“He cannot possibly live more than ten minutes. If he
wishes to speak, tell him to cough up the blood from his
throat and take a swallow of this,” handing me a small
vial that contained some powerful stimulant, “the ball has
severed one of the large arteries directly at the heart, and
he must soon bleed to death.”</p>

<p>I put my mouth close to DeVare’s ear and said:</p>

<p>“Ramie, do you wish to speak?”</p>

<p>He opened his eyes languidly, and with a motion of his
brow signified yes. I wiped his lips and put the vial to his
mouth. He swallowed a little of the liquid, which seemed to
revive him for a moment. He tightened his clasp on my
hand and said feebly:</p>

<p>“It is as I expected, John. Tell mother&mdash;&mdash;” but the
flow of blood choked his utterance again. I again put the
vial to his lips, but he turned his head away from it, and in
a whisper said:</p>

<p>“No, ‘tis useless. Oh, my lonely mother, forgive me!
Dear Christ have mercy&mdash;&mdash;” A shuddering clasp of the
white fingers locked in mine, a paler hue on the pallid face,
and only Raymond DeVare’s <i>body</i> lay in my arms. The
great weight of impending evil I had so much dreaded had
crushed down upon me, and I was almost senseless beneath
the blow. I could not realize the fact, but sat in stupid
wonderment, gazing at the lifeless features. Ramie, my
fond, true friend, dead! So full of life and activity but a
moment ago; now dead! Dead for my sake; dead because
I was insulted; dead for a hasty word; dead on the warrant
of cowardly society, that would now shrink from the poor
fool who killed him at its behest. Dead! <i>dead!</i> <span class="smcap">DEAD!</span></p>

<p>I leaned my cheek down on the forehead, already growing
cold, and murmured, weeping like a woman:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p>

<p>“No, no, Ramie, you are not dead? Speak to me, Ramie,
one word, open your eyes; one more look, Ramie!</p>

<p>The surgeon touched my arm and said:</p>

<p>“The carriages have returned, as you ordered; we had
better get the body in and drive back to C&mdash;&mdash;, where you
can telegraph to Wilmington for a case, and carry him home
to-morrow.”</p>

<p>I rose from the ground, laying Ramie’s head gently on my
handkerchief, and calling the coachman we lifted him up and
laid him as well as we could across the seats of the carriage.</p>

<p>Ellerton and Brazon, who had been standing some
distance off, smoking and talking carelessly, got into the
other carriage, and, bowing as they passed us, drove rapidly
on to the station. The doctor kindly asked, as we drove
slowly on, what I intended to do.</p>

<p>“I don’t know,” I replied, vacantly.</p>

<p>“If you will allow me to suggest a plan, I would say go
to our little hotel here, get a room for to-night, and telegraph
immediately for a metallic case, which will, perhaps, come
out on the evening train. The undertaker will seal it up
for you, and you can carry it in to-morrow.”</p>

<p>I thanked him for his kind advice, but told him that as I
knew the conductors on the road I could take the body into
the mail car with me till we got to Wilmington. I lowered
the carriage curtains, and ordered the driver to go as close
as possible to the track at the station and wait for the train.
It was a very short time before the train came in, and I
immediately sought out the conductor, who had known me
since I was a boy, my father being one of the directors of
the road. I told him my friend DeVare had been killed in a
duel, and asked permission to carry the body in the mail
car. He readily accorded it, and had the carriage driven
close up to the door. But with all our precaution, quite a
crowd gathered around as we lifted poor Ramie from the
carriage and laid him on some cushions in the car. Some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
one had heard me call his name to the conductor, and it
passed from mouth to mouth that “a young man named
DeVare was killed this morning near here in a duel, and they
are carrying him home.”</p>

<p>The passengers in the coaches got hold of it, and I was
very much annoyed by the impertinent yet natural curiosity
with which one after another came to the door and looked
at myself and the corpse. At last the whistle sounded, the
train got under way, and I was free from interruptions. I
leaned my face against a pile of mail bags, and gave way to
miserable reflection. The present was too horrible to dwell
on, and the future nothing but remorse and gloom. Remorse
that I had not prevented the fatal affair at all hazards.
Remorse that I had not conquered pride and satisfied Brazon
with my own apologies and explanation; gloom that my
prospects were blighted, father deceived, and angered into
dislike of me, mother surprised and grieved beyond expression,
and Carlotta horrified into repelling me; my
career at the University, which I had resolved, after Lillian
had discarded me, to make brilliant, now cut short in disgrace,
and my hitherto exuberant spirits damped by an ever
vivid remembrance of the terrible tragedy, in which I had
taken so large a part. Then I thought of the shock I would
give them at home as I drove up to the door with DeVare’s
dead body, and as I fancied the faces of horror and words of
reproach, I shrank from the ordeal. My bitter reflections
were interrupted by a hand laid on my shoulder. I looked
up and found the conductor standing by me.</p>

<p>“There is a lady in the rear coach wishes to speak with
you,” he said, counting over some tickets he took from his
pocket.</p>

<p>“Who is it?” I asked, looking at him vacantly.</p>

<p>“Don’t know her. Perhaps she’s some kin to you. She’s
a fine looking old lady, a little gray, sitting two seats from
the back of the coach.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p>

<p>I begged that my friend might be unmolested, and made
my way through the coaches to the last one. A lady was
sitting two seats from the back, and the instant my eyes fell
upon her I had to grasp the arm of a seat for support. The
same noble features that were now lying so rigid in the car
ahead; the same dark eye that I had so recently closed
with a sorrowing hand! I knew in a moment it was his
mother. I strengthened myself as well as I was able, and
approaching her, bowed and said:</p>

<p>“Did you wish to see me, madam?”</p>

<p>She looked at me earnestly, as she replied:</p>

<p>“Pardon me, sir, but are you the gentleman whose friend
has just been killed?”</p>

<p>“I am, madam.”</p>

<p>“I heard a gentleman, a few seats from me, say the unfortunate
man’s name was DeVare. As that is my own name,
and I have a dear boy who has been at college in North
Carolina, I felt a restless anxiety to know more, and ventured
to intrude on your grief.”</p>

<p>I made no reply, and she continued:</p>

<p>“It was a silly fear in me, I’m sure. It could not have
been Raymond, for he would have written to me.”</p>

<p>I still said nothing, for the simple reason I did not know
what to say, and, after a pause, she asked:</p>

<p>“What was your friend’s given name, sir?”</p>

<p>Driven to a corner by her question, I made a stammering
attempt to evade.</p>

<p>“It could not have been your son, madam,” I said, with
evident confusion; “my friend’s name was Lionel.”</p>

<p>Ramie’s full name was Lionel Raymond, but he always
signed his name simply as Raymond.</p>

<p>Her piercing gaze read my flimsy deception in a moment,
and a quick pallor ran over her face, as if her heart had
ceased beating for a while.</p>

<p>“My son’s name was also Lionel. Surely, sir, you would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
not trifle with my feelings? I must go into the front car
and satisfy myself,” she said, rising from her seat.</p>

<p>“Madam,” I said, putting out my hand to detain her, “I
implore you to be seated. The train will reach Wilmington
in a few moments, and you can then see for yourself. Heaven
forbid that it should be your son!”</p>

<p>At this moment the conductor approached, gathering up
the tickets for the last station. She called him to her and
said, with an air of command it was impossible to resist:</p>

<p>“I wish to go to the front car and look at the corpse
there. You will go with me, sir?”</p>

<p>“I should advise you, ma’am, to sit still,” said the conductor,
snipping a hole in the last ticket he had taken; “it’s
not a pleasant sight for a lady, and we’ll soon get to Wilmington
any how.”</p>

<p>“I only wished your aid in crossing the platforms, but I
will go alone,” she said firmly, passing us both and walking
rapidly up the aisle.</p>

<p>I followed mechanically, feeling that nothing could add to
the intensity of my wretchedness. I assisted her from car
to car, till, passing through heaps of mail bags, we reached
the end of the coach where lay the still form of Ramie,
wrapped in my travelling shawl. She kneeled by its side,
and, turning back the shawl, gazed for a moment on the pallid
face, and then, with a shriek that often now rings in my
ears, fell forward insensible on the breast of her dead child.
The mail agent came forward, and we tried all the usual restoratives
without the slightest effect. No sign of returning
animation responded to our efforts, and, making the best
couch we could, we were about to lay her by Ramie’s side
when the whistle sounded for Wilmington, and the train
drew up close to the boat that was to take us over the river.
The conductor and the captain of the boat aided me so
kindly that the body of Ramie and his unconscious mother
were conveyed on board without attracting very much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
attention. A carriage on the other side took us to the hotel,
where I had concluded it was best to go since Mrs. DeVare
had become unconscious. I ordered rooms, despatched one
messenger for a physician and another for father; then,
without waiting for them to come, I left the hotel and
walked rapidly homeward, for I began to experience very
singular sensations in mind and body&mdash;a tingling numbness,
that deadened my extremities; and alternations of
sudden forgetfulness of all that had occurred, and vivid
remembrance of it. I reached our door, and pushing it
open, found Carlotta in the hall. She started at my haggard
face, and exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Oh! John, what is the matter? where is Mr. DeVare?
what has happened?”</p>

<p>“He is dead!” I said, with a vacant stare; then, turning,
rushed up stairs, heedless of her calls for mother. I managed
to reach my bed, when I fell across it into a great
black chasm of oblivion.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/ond.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c238" id="c238">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">How</span> strange those long days of insensibility now seem!
How mysterious that vague consciousness of unconsciousness,
when the mind closes all communication with the outer
world, and lives in a state of semi-existence within itself!
All sight was gone, yet a dull gray blank pressed down
upon my eyeballs&mdash;gray and dull, though invisible; all
hearing was gone, yet a singing sound lingered in my ears,
as if a cap had been exploded near them; feeling there was
none, yet an undefined pain and sickness pervaded my system,
like a dream of deadly nausea. A gap in existence, a
chasm in thought and sense, known through the veil of an
uncertain consciousness! After a long while, as it seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
to me, vague, uncertain shadows began to flit across this
dull blank before my vision. Gradually, after many flittings,
they began to assume varying shapes; and, as the form and
features of a negative slowly come into distinctness as the
photographer washes the plate, so these shapes began to
show distinctly as familiar forms and faces. But oh! how
changed their expression! Those whom I had thought
loved me most now wore the blackest scowl for me, and,
pointing at me, called me Murderer! Father, mother and
Carlotta stood around me constantly, regarding me with a
fiendish malignity and hatred. But among all the faces that
passed before me there was one that never changed its position
or expression&mdash;always directly before me, almost touching
mine; a face with a stony glare from its fixed eyes; a
face with a snarl of hate on its white lips, from which bubbled
a froth of blood; a face I could never escape, go where
I would. I sprang over frightful precipices, I traversed
burning deserts, I climbed rugged wilds, but everywhere,
turning as I turned, <i>that</i> face was ever before me, freezing
my blood with its hideous scowl. After awhile these visions
became less distinct, and soon another blank succeeded, during
which I one day unclosed my eyes and found everything
familiar around me.</p>

<p>The room was darkened and silent. The occasional
clicking of the coals in the grate, as they powdered
their red cheeks with white ashes, and the foot-fall of
a passer on the pavement below, were all the sounds I
could hear. I tried to raise myself on my elbow to make
out what it all meant, but I had scarcely made the effort
when some one rose from a chair at the side of the bed, and
Carlotta’s beautiful face bent over me, with an expression
of anxious inquiry, as if she thought I was still delirious.</p>

<p>“Where&mdash;where have I been? How came I in bed?” I
said, in a weak, drawling voice.</p>

<p>“Oh, you are yourself again!” she exclaimed, with a cry
of delight; “let me run and tell Mrs. Smith.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p>

<p>“No; stop! Tell me what I am doing in this dark room.
What is the matter with me?”</p>

<p>“You have been very sick,” she said, removing a wet
cloth from my forehead, and wiping the dampness away;
“you have been delirious for more than two weeks. But
the doctor says you must lie still and not talk.”</p>

<p>“But I <i>will</i> talk,” I said, peevishly; “I <i>will</i> know how I
came here. Where are Ned and Ramie?”</p>

<p>A half distinct memory of the duel and its consequences
flitted across my mind, but it was all so confused that it
seemed some horrid dream, and in helpless uncertainty I
turned my cheek over on my palm and gazed at Carlotta,
imploringly.</p>

<p>She stroked my forehead with her soft hand, and begged
me to remain quiet, promising to tell me all I wanted to
know as soon as I became a little stronger. Her touch and
sweet voice were so soothing that I fell into a gentle doze,
from which I soon awoke much clearer in my mind than
before. And now a blighting remembrance of Ramie’s death
came over me, with such force as to nearly unsettle my reason
again.</p>

<p>Mother soon came in, and, by skilfully diverting my
thoughts from the painful subject, managed to remove some
of the shadows that clustered around me.</p>

<p>Days lengthened into weeks before I was able to sit up,
and how dreary would have been those convalescent hours
had it not been for Carlotta! She seemed to have no interest
outside of my room. Her attention was never officious
or too constant, and it was rendered with so much tact it
seemed as if I was conferring a favor by accepting it. I
was so sure it was a pleasure to her that I never refused
letting her do whatever she would for me. She would sit
by my bedside for hours reading or talking to me, seeking
to divert me by all means possible from gloomy thoughts or
sad reflections. So bright was the sunshine of her presence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
that I was unhappy unless she were near me; and however
dreary I might be feeling, as soon as she entered, my face
and heart would sensibly brighten.</p>

<p>While she would never allow me to draw her into conversation
about Ramie and his mother, yet I gradually learned
the sad truth. After Madame DeVare was carried to the
hotel every effort was made by the physicians to revive her,
but in vain. The cataleptic stroke, induced by the shock
she received, in spite of all their labor, proved fatal, and
she and Ramie were buried together in the cemetery the
same day.</p>

<p>Then Carlotta would listen with such a pleasant, talk-eliciting
interest to my stories of college life that I could talk
with untiring volubility. In return she would tell me of all
that had occurred at home since I had been away, with so
much originality of expression and artlessness of narration
that I would lie and gaze for an hour at a time on her
faultless face. Occasionally she would lift her eyes from
her needlework, and whenever they met mine I always
looked away with a strange and unaccountable confusion.</p>

<p>One day, in our talk, she asked me if Frank and I were
still good friends. I told her no, and inquired why she
asked.</p>

<p>“Because Lulie has changed so in her conduct towards
me. She has been very reserved and formal with me since
you left, and rarely visits me.”</p>

<p>“Has Frank been paying her much attention this vacation?”
I asked, taking a sip of the cordial that stood by my
bed.</p>

<p>“I have not had many opportunities for observing,” she
replied, driving her stiletto through a floss flower on her
embroidery; “but I have seen them together many times,
and gossip says they are very much devoted. Perhaps it is
at his request she has withdrawn her intimacy from me.”</p>

<p>“No doubt of it,” I replied; “she is perfectly infatuated,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
and he cares nothing whatever for her, except as a conquest
to boast of. I heard him read one of her letters to a crowd
in his room one night, and tell of liberties he had taken.”</p>

<p>Her dark eyes opened with a flash of indignant astonishment
as she exclaimed, energetically:</p>

<p>“And she trusts to such perfidy! I’ll warn her, if she
spurns me, for we have been fond friends. But no,” she
added, after a pause; “that would implicate you, and perhaps
lead to another affray.”</p>

<p>“I don’t care,” I said, punching in the end of the pillow,
as if it were Frank’s head; “tell her by all means. I would
go to her myself, but she would think it was an invention of
my own to supersede Frank in her favor.”</p>

<p>“I hear Mrs. Smith coming up stairs,” said Carlotta, folding
up her work; “and as it is late in the afternoon I’ll run
over to Dr. Mayland’s and have a good long talk with Lulie,
and get back in time to bring up your tea.”</p>

<p>“Bless your dear heart, how I love you!” I murmured,
as I watched her tucking back the curtains and setting
everything to rights ere she tripped from the room. I could
not help instituting a comparison between her and Miss
Carrover, and I could find only one point in the latter’s
favor: that she was a grown lady, who had seen much of
society, while Carlotta was, to my college dignity, only a
child&mdash;too often present for the romantic sigh, and too constantly
near for the heart-throb when I met her.</p>

<p>And, in thinking of Lillian, the faint shadow of a demon
thought began to flit across my mind. The baseness of its
ingratitude made me shudder as I shrank from it; yet it
gradually grew, ever lurking deep down in my heart, as it
whispered, through the reveries of the day and the dreams
of the night, “Lillian can love you now; Ramie is dead.”</p>

<p>Deeply ungrateful as it was to the memory of my noble
friend, I could not help looking forward with pleasure to
my meeting with her: when I could take her hand, and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
looking into her fond eyes, hear her say, “Nothing binds
me now; I am yours forever.”</p>

<p>I would then endeavor to plaster over conscience by imagining
how fondly we would cherish together the memory of
DeVare; how we would pour our mingled tears upon his
grave, and feel that his spirit was smiling upon our union.
And I would endeavor to convince myself that I would be
acting in exact conformity to the wishes of Ramie, could he
express them; and I would say a dozen times in a day, “I
am sure Ramie had rather she would love me than another.”</p>

<p>A day or two elapsed and I was able to walk about the
house before Carlotta had an opportunity of telling me the
result of her visit to Lulie.</p>

<p>She said that as soon as she mentioned the subject Lulie
had gotten into quite a passion about it, and said she had
parents to advise her, and that she was under obligations to
no one else for advice; that she would do as she pleased
and take the consequences.</p>

<p>“May heaven help her,” I said fervently, as we changed
the subject.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c243" id="c243">CHAPTER XXVII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Ned</span> and I are again at Chapel Hill, in our old room. We
found our books and furniture dusty, but undisturbed, and
a day’s preparation sufficed to get us in harness again.</p>

<p>It was with great difficulty father had secured my re-admission.
His first application was peremptorily refused,
but by many letters and pledges to the trustees and faculty,
and in consideration of my youth and inexperience, I was
at last allowed to go on with my class.</p>

<p>For all this I had made extra resolves of diligence, and
had promised father that nothing should divert me from
intense application to my books.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p>

<p>Of Miss Carrover I thought but little. I had heard from
Charleston, whither she had gone soon after the duel, that
she was the gayest belle of its society. This disregard of
what was due the memory of her betrothed, coupled with
the gradually acquired conviction that my suit was hopeless,
and a conscientious desire to do well in my studies,
had somewhat impaired the romantic fervor of my admiration
for her, and I heard with remarkable composure the
statement that she would spend a week or two in Chapel
Hill on her way to New York. I resolved at first not to see
her at all; but, feeling that this was too great a confession
of weakness, even to myself, and having, besides, in my possession
the valuables DeVare had requested me to deliver
to her, I determined to call just once, that I might mark her
deportment before making up my final judgment on her
character. Of one thing I was fully resolved, that whether
she was gay or sad, whether kind and cordial or cold and
distant towards me, no word or glance of mine should betray
the faintest trace of the old love, or depart from the
consistent seriousness of real bereavement.</p>

<p>When I entered the parlor at Professor Z&mdash;&mdash;’s I found
her surrounded by a throng of admirers. As she came forward
to meet me, the same superbly beautiful woman I had
once adored, her usual queenly air softened into one of
kindest greeting, and gave me both hands in her warm welcome,
my heart bounded wildly, and for a moment I had
forgotten Ramie, resolves, and everything save the rapture
of being near her again&mdash;of hearing her soft, rich voice, and
gazing into her dreamy eyes. The presence of other gentlemen
restrained me, or I believe I should have knelt at her
feet.</p>

<p>Taking my seat in the circle, and dropping into a commonplace
conversation, I gradually regained my senses and my
self-control. And as I became composed, and marked the
levity of her conduct&mdash;the jest, the sarcasm and the repartee&mdash;and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
then thought of the cold form in the cemetery at
home, my admiration of her beauty was tinged with contempt
for her frivolity.</p>

<p>Her visitors began to depart, and I was about to say good
night without having accomplished my mission, when she
handed me a slip of paper, on which she had scribbled the
words “Don’t leave.”</p>

<p>Of course I waited, and we were soon in the parlor
alone.</p>

<p>As the last one closed the door she moved on the sofa
and said:</p>

<p>“Come, sit by me. Oh, how tiresome those fellows are!
and I wanted to be alone with you so much. Now tell me
all about yourself, for it has been a dreary, long time since
I have seen you.”</p>

<p>“I thought you were aware, Miss Carrover, that I was
connected with a most unfortunate affair at the close of the
session,” I replied, nervously twisting my watch chain, for I
hardly knew what reply to make, and felt embarrassed and
awkward.</p>

<p>“Oh! do not speak of that,” she exclaimed, burying her
face in her handkerchief, and trembling with very inaudible
sobs. “I was trying to avoid that subject. My heart has
been almost broken in its agony. Only in the past few days
have I been able to compose my thoughts and feelings. Oh,
the terrible shock of the announcement!” Her voice was
so muffled by the handkerchief over her face that her words
were almost indistinguishable. Far better could they have
been lost in the cambric folds than to have vibrated into
eternal existence!</p>

<p>The only reply I could make was to give her the casket
containing Ramie’s ring and jewels, as he had directed.</p>

<p>She lifted her face, with eyes rather dry for such convulsive
weeping, and taking the casket pressed it to her lips,
as she said:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span></p>

<p>“And did he think of me! Oh, how can I ever love you
enough for your kindness to him!”</p>

<p>I ventured to say, “Love his memory.”</p>

<p>“I do, I do,” she replied, looking into my eyes with hers
clear and tearless. “Heaven alone knows how I cherish
the memory of my noble Ramie!”</p>

<p>I did her the justice to believe her, but said nothing.</p>

<p>She continued, trying to open the back of the watch:</p>

<p>“But, my dear friend, for this mutual grief has made you
seem nearer than ever before, there is one point on which I
want your counsel. How must I act towards society?
Must I open my heart to its hundred eyes, and, by a sudden
seclusion and retirement, reveal my sacred sorrow to its
gaze; or must I go through the hollow mockery of gaiety,
and assume a cheerful face with an aching heart? Gentlemen
call every evening, and I am at a loss to know what
to do. If I refuse to receive visitors it will cause remark
and inquiry, and my engagement with Mr. DeVare will be
made public, with all the usual train of disagreeable comment.
I sometimes think it were best to do violence to my
own feelings, and appear in company as if nothing had happened,
while I am here. I will soon be in New York, where
I can adapt my conduct to my sad bereavement. Do you
not think so?”</p>

<p>“Really, Miss Carrover,” I replied, coldly, for the veil of
her pretended sorrow was too thin, “I do not feel competent
to advise you. You know best how the death of DeVare
affects you; and, if you will pardon me for saying it, your
smiles and favors to the frivolous throng to-night would indicate
that your course of action is already determined.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Mr. Smith, you blame me, I know you do, and perhaps
I deserve it; but you cannot appreciate my feelings.
I did love Ramie devotedly, for he was the noblest and best
of earth; but no one knew we were betrothed, and to retire
from society now would be only to reveal what he wished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
kept secret. Besides, I will be candid enough to confess
that I find the best cure for a sad heart in a round of pleasure,
and, knowing that seclusion and manifested grief were
not expected of me, I have sought to drown my sorrow in a
whirl of frivolity.”</p>

<p>She paused, and looked at me for some reply, but, as I
could make none but what would have offended her, I said
nothing.</p>

<p>“I know serious people will blame me for this trifling,”
she continued, “but gaiety and pleasure are as much my
element as the air I breathe. Those who know me will not
cease to love me. And you, who once professed such devotion,
now hate me, because I do not wear a widow’s weeds!
Please do not desert me when we ought to become better
friends; love me still,” and she laid her soft, beautiful hand
on mine.</p>

<p>Who could have resisted? A moment before I was despising
her heartlessness, now, at the electric touch of her
hand, I was changed; the old flame burst forth again with
resistless fervor, and I could take her, heartless as she was,
to be forever mine, only so that she loved me. I almost
crushed her hand in mine as I pressed my lips upon it
again and again.</p>

<p>“Love you, Lillian! Heaven only knows how madly,
how wildly I do love you. Only say just once that you love
me, or bid me hope. I have never ceased to love you, Lillian,
but your faith was plighted to another, and I crushed
my heart into silence. But he who stood between us is
dead, and, as God shall judge me, I have sorrowed sincerely
over his grave; but nothing now binds you; you are free
to love me if you will. Darling, darling Lillian, come to my
heart and be its queen.”</p>

<p>I put forth my arms to draw her to my side, but she drew
back and said:</p>

<p>“No, sir, the change is too sudden. A moment ago there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
was a look of contempt on your face&mdash;nay, do not deny it&mdash;and
now you would have me believe these wild protestations
of your phœnix-like love.”</p>

<p>There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes that told me
she did believe me, and gloried in her wondrous power, but
I was careless of everything save to be lord of her hand and
heart.</p>

<p>“Lillian,” I said, gazing into her face with such intense
earnestness that even her eyes fell beneath my gaze, “you
once believed me; will you doubt me now when I swear to
you that I love you as no other man ever dared love you
before&mdash;that I am willing to give up everything for your
sake, even the memory of Ramie? If that stands between
our love, I will forget that he ever lived and forget that he
ever died.”</p>

<p>I felt a shudder run from her frame into her hand as the
harsh words fell from my lips, but ‘twas only a shudder.</p>

<p>“You are sure you mean what you say?” she said, with
a half credulous smile that irritated me, and a slight pressure
of her fingers that soothed and made me hopeful. I
waited for her to continue, and we both sat for a few moments
gazing into the glowing coals on the hearth before us.
Suddenly, deep in the fire, where the heat was whitest, a
dull red spot appeared, that seemed to rise and fall as if
there was breath beneath it. In an instant I was again
kneeling on the damp ground, with a white face resting on
my arm, and pale lips bubbling blood as they bade me farewell.
It was as vivid as vision itself; and after the eyes
were closed by the surgeon’s hand, I could still see the pale
lips murmuring, “False! False!”</p>

<p>My hands and forehead grew cold as ice, and my heart,
in its remorse, beat audibly, “False loving false! False
loving false!” My resolve was taken from that moment; I
would not be shaken from it by scorn or tears. I dropped
her hand and, rising, said:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p>

<p>“Miss Carrover, I did mean all that I said; you know
that I have loved you; but forget it. Even if you could
love me, which I dare not hope, it must not be&mdash;Ramie’s
spirit forbids it. Will you pardon what I have said tonight?”</p>

<p>She rose and stood before me, the personification of anger
and scorn, her dreamy eyes now flashing, and her beautiful
face flushed with her feeling.</p>

<p>“Do you fear that I am going to accept your paltry love,
that you hasten to retract it? Not content with insulting
me with your cant about what was due the dead, you have
attempted a contemptible flirtation. To say that I saw
through your pitiful design, would indicate that I paid some
attention to your rhodomontade, which I did not; but ‘tis
useless to waste further words upon you; I can never sufficiently
express my contempt; there! go, sir!” and with a
gesture that would have graced Siddons she pointed her
jewelled hand to the door.</p>

<p>With a profound bow, I said:</p>

<p>“Thanks, Miss Carrover, for the lesson of to-night. But
before I take my leave permit me to remind you that you
asked my adv&mdash;&mdash;” but she had swept magnificently from
the room.</p>

<p>The next evening, while strolling with Ned on the suburbs
of the village, I met Miss Carrover riding in a buggy
with Ellerton, who had not yet applied for re-admission to
the University, but was staying with a friend. She looked
confused as she passed us, and averted her head, while I
turned and stared at them till they were out of sight.</p>

<p>“Oh, Ramie, Ramie,” I murmured, as we turned homeward,
“better to wed death than the false creature of thy
betrothal; better the worm at thy lips than her kiss; better
the sod on thy cheek than her Delilah-like caresses.”</p>

<div class="figcenter">
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         alt=""
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<div class="break">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></p>

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c250" id="c250">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">About</span> the first of April I received a letter from father,
saying that they had at last concluded to put in execution
a plan that had been spoken of before I left home&mdash;namely,
going to Europe while I was finishing my studies. They
would go first to Cuba, where they would spend some time
at Carlotta’s home, and where father could attend to the
management of her large estates. They would then sail
directly for Liverpool, and spend two or three years in England
and on the continent. I was to graduate at Chapel Hill,
then go to Berlin or Heidelberg.</p>

<p>I felt almost irresistibly impelled to write and ask permission
to accompany them, but reflecting on it, determined
to remain at Chapel Hill and study with renewed diligence.</p>

<p>A second letter, some weeks later, informed me that all
necessary arrangements had been completed, and that
father, mother and Carlotta would be in Raleigh on a specified
night, on their way to New York, to take steamer for
Havana, and requesting me to meet them, to say good-bye.</p>

<p>At the appointed time I met them, and while they were
cheerful I could not help feeling sad at the thought of being
left here alone; but I bore up bravely under the disappointment,
and promised father that he should hear a good report
of me.</p>

<p>After tea he and mother walked up town to see an old
friend, and Carlotta and I were left together. While she
was affable and pleasant as possible, I could not shake off a
silent moodiness, and she, to divert me, and to relieve our
rather dull conversation, brought me a casket of jewels that
belonged to her mother. They had been sent to her by the
agent of Mr. Rurleston’s estate in Cuba, and had reached
her since I left home. There were antique rings and bracelets<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
of most exquisite workmanship, there were diamonds
that would have made Mahmoud of Ghisni envious, and
pearls that would have equalled the Zanana. I was very
much struck by the design of a pair of bracelets. They were
made in Etruscan gold and were a pair of serpents with ruby
eyes and emerald spots. They were made long, flexible and
spiral, so that when clasped upon the arm they seemed to
be gliding up the flesh. There was some long family history
connected with them, which Carlotta related, but I have forgotten
its tenor. But the most interesting article in the
casket was a beautifully enamelled locket, containing a picture
of her mother. When she opened it and I looked upon
the face, I was perfectly entranced. Its beauty was of that
radiant perfection that seems only to have existed in the
conceptions of Vandyke or Correggio. It was perfect in
every exquisite feature, yet its wondrous fascination lay in
their combination. The lustrous, pensive eyes, the delicately
curved mouth, the soft, olive complexion, the oval
outline of her face, were all beautifully relieved by the rich
mass of raven hair that fell in splendid profusion over the
bare, smooth neck.</p>

<p>Lillian’s beauty depended greatly on her skilful adornment,
and her brilliant appearance was ever in debt to her
toilet, but this face needed no cosmetic, its beauty was
nature’s gift, and art could only enhance it.</p>

<p>It was my ideal, and my heart only withheld its homage
because ‘twas but a portrait.</p>

<p>Looking up from it to address Carlotta, I was startled to
find in her face an exact counterpart of the picture, only her
features were childish and immature. Her beauty was the
bud, this the perfect bloom.</p>

<p>“Will she be like this when she is grown? Heavens!
how I would adore her!” I thought, as I gazed from one to
the other and marked the points of resemblance.</p>

<p>I had ever regarded Carlotta as a pretty child, whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
everybody admired, but I had not thought of her as growing
up into the perfect, lovely woman; but now a strange indescribable
unrest awoke in my heart, and I felt that I should
be far more unhappy when she was gone than I had
thought.</p>

<p>While I had never, and could not then think of loving
her, save as a friend and brother, yet the reflection that she
was going away to forget me and perhaps to love another,
was galling in the extreme to my feelings, both of pride and
disappointment.</p>

<p>“Carlotta,” I said, handing the picture back to her with a
compliment, and looking at her with a newly awakened
interest, “I fear that amid all the splendor and novelty of
the scenes through which you will soon pass, you will forget
almost that I ever lived.”</p>

<p>“No, indeed,” she replied, looking at me frankly, “there
is no danger of that; gratitude, if nothing else, will keep
your memory ever fresh with me.”</p>

<p>“But you will be a grown lady ere you return, and will,
I know, have many admirers. You will love some one of
them, and I will be only a cipher in your past.”</p>

<p>“No, no, you have been too noble and good to me. Do
you think me so base? Here!” and taking a pair of scissors
from her box, she cut off a long curling ringlet of hair
and put it in my hand, “keep that as my pledge that I will
remember you every day while I am gone, and no matter
when we meet again I promise to redeem it, as the same
little Carlotta you have been so kind to.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, Carlotta, I will treasure it carefully,” I said,
folding it up with a strange thrill of pleasure for only a
child’s simple gift.</p>

<p>Father and mother came back now, and after a few
words of parting and some tears, I bade them good-bye and
hastened down to the office, as I was to return to Durham’s
on the night train.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p>

<p>Oh, what a pleasure to me was that single lock of hair!</p>

<p>For days and months after they were gone a glance at it
would recall her dear face in all its beautiful earnestness, as
she so unhesitatingly pledged her remembrance. And now
that she was gone&mdash;for years, perhaps forever&mdash;I found&mdash;yes,
I will confess it&mdash;child as she was, <i>I loved her</i>.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c253" id="c253">CHAPTER XXIX.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> session and a vacation in the mountains passed, I
commenced my studies as a Sophomore, and under this
new dignity fresh trials of my moral courage every day
arose. I was constantly being solicited to join some scheme
of devilment, and though my conscience always bade me refuse,
the voice of the multitude often prevailed, and I was
thus drawn into many an affair of which I was afterward
heartily ashamed.</p>

<p>Our class seemed determined to surpass all of its predecessors
in annoyances to the Faculty, the derangement and
often destruction of college property and the “devilling” of
Fresh. One of the Faculty, whose views of discipline were
rigid, and who could not brook the slightest disturbance in
his room, was our special mark. Going into recitation we
would load our pockets with gravel and acorns, and by
dextrously throwing them over our neighbor’s shoulder we
would keep a perfect hail of them upon the floor, rendering
recitation impossible. Sometimes a rat would be carried in
and turned loose in the room, and every one would mount
his seat in an apparent extremity of terror. Bugs, reptiles
and even poisonous snakes were put on the floor, to run
under the students’ legs and cause a sufficient disturbance
to suspend the lecture.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p>

<p>An attempt to “blow up” the professor was even made
by placing a small quantity of powder under his rostrum;
which, indeed, came near being a much more serious matter
than was intended.</p>

<p>One morning, as Ned and I came out from breakfast, we
were requested to go up to one of our classmate’s rooms,
where we found nearly the whole class assembled. The
object of the meeting was, so we were informed, to consider
the proposition to “dress” for L&mdash;&mdash;, the professor. To
“dress” for a professor was to attend lecture in the most
ridiculous and grotesque costume attainable, and had ever
been regarded by the Faculty as the highest contempt for
their authority, and an offence meriting extreme punishment.</p>

<p>The proposition was warmly seconded and approved,
there being only one dissenting voice, that of Ned.</p>

<p>When the roll was called for the votes, he rose and said
that, while he regretted to oppose himself to the class, yet
the course proposed tended to defeat the object of their
attendance upon the Institution, and was, therefore, wrong;
that it was undignified and discourteous, and that he could
not join them.</p>

<p>Amid cries of “Bootlick! order! Cheyleigh, you’re right!
silence!” Ned took his hat and walked quietly from the
room.</p>

<p>When my name was called, poor, weak I, could only respond,
“I am in for anything the class agrees on,” while
my heart was throbbing to follow Ned’s example.</p>

<p>When we assembled, at eleven o’clock, could Falstaff have
seen us he would have thought his troop perfect dandies.
Great, tall fellows, six feet high, appeared in coats whose
sleeves scarce reached their elbow, and pants that were far
above their knees. Little fellows had on clothes that
smothered them, and which were stuffed out with pillows
till Daniel Lambert would have been a skeleton beside them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
Others wore pasteboard collars, whose points extended far
above their heads, while a whole window curtain of flaming
chintz served them for a cravat. Some had their clothing
on wrong side out, and one man had reversed his entire
suit, putting everything on hind part before. A few had
gone to the trouble of getting up costumes from the stores,
and appeared as demons and devils with most hideous faces,
and horns, hoofs and tails. The most amusing character of
all was a rare genius from the mountains, whom everybody
knew as Joe. A man of brilliant ability and rare attainments,
he was a great favorite with the Faculty, and yet,
from his innate love of fun, he was ever getting into some
difficulty. He was attired, on this occasion, in an immense
swallow tailed coat of brown homespun, and tremendous
copperas striped pants. He had gotten a pair of shoe-store
signs down town and wore them for boots, the legs coming
up nearly to his waist and the feet about a yard long. He
wore a tremendous pair of green goggles, and carried around
his neck a rusty old log chain, from which was suspended a
large circular clock to serve as his watch. A turn down
collar of white cloth extending to his shoulders like a cape,
and a whole sheet crammed in his pocket as a handkerchief,
completed his outfit. He was unanimously chosen our
leader and we marched to the section room. The professor
looked serious and was ominously silent till we were all
seated. He called the roll with unusual gravity, and then,
that the desired defeat of the recitation might not be accomplished,
commenced to examine the class; but the attempt
was futile. One would reply that he would answer the
question as soon as he could get his voice up out of his
collar; another, that his pants were almost long enough
and were stretching, and that as soon as they got past his
knees he would take pleasure in telling all he knew. Joe,
upon being called on, took out his clock with a great rattle
of his chain, then drawing out his immense sheet, proceeded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
to wipe his goggles with it, and then blow his nose as if it
was a trumpet. The ridiculousness of this proceeding called
forth such a laugh from the class that the professor dismissed
us in disgust, first summoning all of us to appear
before the Faculty when the bell rang.</p>

<p>Immediately on our dismissal we held an informal meeting
in the campus and agreed to appear before the Faculty
in our costumes. There was a wide stare of indignation
and surprise on their faces as we filed into the room and
took our seats. The professor preferred his charges, and
the president, having called on each member of the board
for an expression of opinion, asked us if we had anything to
say in justification of our offence. No one spoke for several
moments, and they were about to proceed with the case
when Joe slowly rose to his feet and said in solemn tones:</p>

<p>“Mr. President and gentlemen of the Faculty&mdash;I have
somewhat to say in behalf of these my friends. Will you
be kind enough to state what length of time you will allow
me for their defence?”</p>

<p>He paused and waited a reply, looking as solemn through
his great frog-eyed spectacles as if he was in the High Court
of Chancery.</p>

<p>“Speak on, Mr.&mdash;&mdash;,” the chairman replied, “we cannot
entertain your nonsensical proposals for time, but we are
willing to allow you to make any statement you wish, and
to give any excuses you can for your conduct.”</p>

<p>“My friends,” said Joe, turning to us, “do you hear that?
Bear me witness, and see that they accord the full measure
of their promise.”</p>

<p>So saying, he drew from under his coat the old clock, and
taking the chain from his neck, he let it clatter with great noise
on the floor, and laid the clock before him on a bench, after
the manner of public speakers. He then carefully noted
the time, cleared his throat, adjusted his specs and began:</p>

<p>“Oh, most worthy Paishdadians, the early dispensers of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
justice, in whom are centred the majesty of the Pharaohs,
the wisdom of the Magi, and the dignity of the Conscript
Fathers, both Roman and Sabine! I would not detain you
with useless words, but simply tell why we have appeared
to-day in costumes which you, in the plenitude of your
wisdom, have deemed offensive:</p>

<p>“We are unfortunate young men, severed from the endearments
of home and cut off from the paternal exchequer;
no sewing sisters’ love, no darning mothers’ care! Can
you wonder that our wardrobes have suffered such considerable
depletion that we must make some changes or renew?
As to renew was impossible, with remittances rarer than
angels’ visits, we wisely chose to change.</p>

<p>“The apparent absurdity of these changes is at once explained
by their utility as well as their necessity. Permit
me to enumerate a few, and point out their peculiar advantages.
I have been, as you all know, of very studious
habits; consequently the abrasion of my <i>sedes pantaloonorum</i>
has been constant. As concealment was no longer possible
I exchanged with a smaller friend, whose shortness of leg
will enable him to draw the trite orifices up beyond the
reach of vision, while the brevity of his unmentionables
enables me to preserve my respectability by the display of
a new pair of socks, which I borrowed.</p>

<p>“My fat friend here found that his garments were wearing
out more on the inside than the out, and, consequently,
exchanges with this starved anatomy, that the outside may
catch up. He then squeezes into the lean man’s suit, to reduce
his pinguisity. My reversed friend here,” pointing to
the man who had his clothes with the front turned behind,
“has been suffering with a chronic crick till his head has
twisted entirely around. With an energy worthy of Ithacus
he has resolved to retrograde through life, rather than submit
to the tyranny of his neck and change his clothes;
hence his remarkable attitude and crawfish gait.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span></p>

<p>“The other gentlemen present have reasons equally good
for the fashions they have adopted, and which this out-of-the-way
place may deem a little <i>outré</i>.</p>

<p>“This much, gentlemen, to show that my comrades, as
well as myself, had cause for our conduct. But I see by
the cold regard of your stern faces that you do not believe
me. If it were not for the consumption of your valuable
time I could introduce witnesses to prove what I have
stated, but ‘tis useless.”</p>

<p>“Stop, sir!” exclaimed the president, “we have endured
this farce long enough. Gentlemen,” addressing the Faculty,
“what are your opinions of the offence and its punishment?”</p>

<p>“Sir!” said Joe, with a green, piercing glance, “you have
promised that you would allow me to make my defence,
and I claim the privilege.”</p>

<p>“Well, go on, sir, we cannot wait much longer.”</p>

<p>“I shall take my leisure,” said Joe, stooping down to look
at the face of his clock. “Well, I pass on to my secondly,
then. My firstly was a statement of facts; my secondly
shall be argument, and my thirdly, appeal. I do then emphatically
deny to you the right of jurisdiction in our case. You
cannot take cognizance, even, of our proceedings unless you
make the University of North Carolina a tailor’s shop and
prescribe the fashions for its students. What right have
the Faculty of a purely literary Institution to say what
shall be the cut of my coat, merely because I am a matriculate?
By what authority do you object to my clothing, so
long as it is decent? and I am sure none of my friends here
can be accused of indecency of apparel.</p>

<p>“If, however, you insist upon your right, by what
standard do you condemn our appearance? Do you know
what the latest fashions are? Have any of you seen a Paris
paper this year, and are you certain that your information
on these points is later than mine. If so, I cheerfully waive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
the right to determine for myself, and submit to your direction.
But why multiply remarks; if you can find us guilty
of any infringement of the laws of the University, behold
we are in your hands, to be dealt with after our sins, but we
do protest against being condemned by some perverted construction
of a remote rule.</p>

<p>“And now we know, although you have no right, yet you
will try us and condemn us. We throw ourselves upon
your mercy. Oh! be tender with us. We are young and
unsophisticated; we are away from father and mother, and
some of us, alas! are orphans; will you deal harshly with us
simply for changing our fashion? Oh! ye who have sons,
plead with those who have not, and obtain for us clemency.
Do not, with puritanic bigotry, strain at a gnat of a garment
and swallow a camel of cruelty. Oh have mercy! Have
mercy! We have suffered the pangs of remorse, our bowels
have yearned over our transgression and groaned for dinner,
and we are ready now to get down upon our all fours and
gallop out the door if you will only speak the word. Speak
it&mdash;bohoo-oo! Spe-oo-ea-oo-kit!”</p>

<p>He pulled his great sheet handkerchief out, and spreading
it on the bench before him, buried his face in it and sobbed
aloud.</p>

<p>The Faculty did not smile, and we were too badly scared
to laugh; and so Joe raised his head soon and wiped his
eyes, took up his clock and chain and put it on again, then
leaned back as solemn and sad as Heraclitus.</p>

<p>The President then rose, and without the slightest appreciation
of Joe’s effort, said:</p>

<p>“Your conduct, gentlemen, has been considered by the
Faculty in an impartial and unprejudiced manner, and their
unanimous vote is that you be dismissed for an indefinite
period.</p>

<p>“The farcical character of your defence, delivered through
your representative, and its absurd and contemptible conclusion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
place it too far beneath our notice for any reply;
but I wish to say a word or two to those who have engaged
in this affair thoughtlessly. There is a very mistaken idea
among students generally that it is manly and courageous
to resist constituted authority, and that such a course will
gain for them a reputation for independence and spirit.
They forget that in this resistance, and in the obstruction
of recitation, they injure only themselves, and defeat the
very end for which they have come to college. Resistance
to tyranny is sometimes worthy of admiration, but here
there can be no tyranny, for the same rights and protection
are guaranteed the students as the tutor, and an appeal to
the right source would prove a far more speedy and effective
remedy than the course pursued.</p>

<p>“Many of you joined in this shameful affair for the want
of moral courage, and scarcely one of you really desired to
enter into it. To those who originated the plot I would
say, remember that those you persuade to join you suffer
equally with yourselves, and your magnanimity will surely
deter you from getting others into trouble; and I would
beg those who were led into this, in future to consider the
certain result of their conduct; disgrace and mortification,
without a single point being gained. And I ask you all,
does the paltry pleasure of raising a laugh, repay even the
trouble of dressing, much less the shame each one feels or
ought to feel? I hope that you will look at this question of
deportment in its true light and act thereon. You have
heard the sentence, gentlemen, and can retire.”</p>

<p>We sauntered from the room, and, once outside, commenced
a Babel of confused talk, which was broken up by
our departing to our rooms to put on some decent apparel.
I sat down and commenced to indite a letter to father, but
found it impossible to write in the excited state of my mind.
As we had to leave the Hill in a few hours after our dismissal,
I began to pack my trunk. Soon after dinner, however,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
I learned that the members of the class who had not
joined us, had gotten up a petition for our reinstatement.
The Faculty required a pledge of future good behavior from
each of us concerned before they would entertain the petition
at all; and I found to my surprise that those who had
been most anxious to get up the “dress,” and who had
been most violent in their outcry against those who refused
to join them, were now the most solicitous of all that the
petition should be signed, and were among the first to put
their names to the pledge. There was one exception, Joe
refused to sign anything or in any way recognize the right
of the Faculty to condemn us. He declared he would stand
by the principles set forth in his speech, and nothing could
move him from it. In spite of his frolics he was a great
favorite with the Faculty, and several of them went to him
privately and endeavored to persuade him to sign the
pledge. He thanked them, but firmly declined, and next
morning took his departure. We all gave him three cheers
as he drove off to Durham’s, which he returned by waving
his handkerchief till he was out of sight.</p>

<p>True old Joe! The last tidings I had of him were that, as
Colonel in the Confederate army, he had refused parole at
Appomattox and gone to the Dry Tortugas.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec4.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c261" id="c261">CHAPTER XXX.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> Spring session opened with pleasant prospects for us all.
I was conveniently situated for study, and resolved to make
the most of my opportunity. The great college office in those
days was Marshal for the commencement exercises. Even early
in the session those interested commenced to electioneer for
their respective favorites. Frank was one of the candidates,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>
and in the race for popularity his demagogical spirit was
wonderfully successful. He had never had much to do with
me since the death of DeVare, but he now seemed determined
to renew our old intimacy.</p>

<p>As he fully possessed the art of making himself agreeable,
and hiding his cloven foot, I enjoyed some very pleasant
hours with him.</p>

<p>He was even confidential with me; said that he was engaged
to Lulie, and that she loved him very devotedly, but
that he had not quite made up his mind yet.</p>

<p>“And when do you expect to marry her?” I asked one
day, when we had been talking about her.</p>

<p>“Marry, did you say? Ha! ha! that is a good one.
Marry, the devil! Why, you do not suppose that I am in
earnest with her, do you?”</p>

<p>“You ought to be, if she loves you, as you say she does,
and as I believe,” I replied, with indignation in my tone.</p>

<p>“Well, perhaps I am,” he said with a careless laugh;
“without boasting, she is certainly infatuated with me, and
I&mdash;I love to be with her, hold her hand and clasp her
waist, and all that sort of thing, but whether you call that
love or not I do not know.”</p>

<p>“Why, you do not mean to say you have gone as far as
that?” I asked, in surprise, for I had never supposed that
Lulie, with all her infatuation, would permit such liberties.</p>

<p>“Umph! I should think I had; and I count myself
deucedly fortunate; for it isn’t every day a fellow kisses
such lips as hers.”</p>

<p>“Frank, you shock me.”</p>

<p>“Do I? Oh, Lulie is very prudent, with every one else;
but you see with her betrothed she feels a little freer. By
the way, John, how did you make it with Miss Carrover?”</p>

<p>“I had a pretty fair game,” I replied, cautiously, for I did
not wish to be communicative. “Did you try your hand
there?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span></p>

<p>“Only a little,” he replied; “a stolen kiss or two and a
half squeeze was all I got from her. Ellerton had it out
with her though.”</p>

<p>“You surprise me,” I said. “I thought she was very
chary of her favors.”</p>

<p>“Chary, the devil! I could tell you of a dozen men in
college who were engaged to her. She lived on flirtation.
‘Twas reported that you were swamped terribly. They say
you were the only one in earnest.”</p>

<p>“Those who say so know nothing about it,” I replied
warmly, for I was nettled at his words.</p>

<p>“Well, well, no offence I hope; but, changing the subject,
you will come to my supper, Friday evening, will you not?
I’ll take no refusal. There will be a select company, and we
cannot do without you.”</p>

<p>He was so urgent in his invitation that I finally consented
to attend.</p>

<p>As I started to the supper room Friday night, Ned said,
in his kind way:</p>

<p>“Do not drink much, to-night, John. It is hard to count
one’s glasses in the midst of so much hilarity.”</p>

<p>“Never fear for me,” I said, gaily, as I ran down the stairs.
Frank had secured rooms down town, and on reaching them
I found the company all assembled. There were Markham
and Bolton, two Seniors, to contribute dignity; Trickley, a
Soph., who was brimful of song; Ellerton, who was considered
a wit; two or three others whose names I have forgotten,
and last a little Fresh named Peepsy, who was so
exceedingly verdant that Frank had brought him down as
a butt for us. I shook hands round and bowed stiffly to
Ellerton, whom I had not spoken to since the duel.</p>

<p>The time before supper was laid was, as is always the
case, dull, the Seniors discussing Mill and Say, Vattel and
Montesquieu, as if the fate of the nation depended on their
opinion, while the rest of us addressed each other in short<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
sentences after long intervals of silence. At length a servant
announced that supper was on the table. We passed
through a folding door, and gathered around a table that
was really groaning beneath its massive load of delicacies.
Frank had ordered the supper from Richmond, and Pazzini
had excelled himself. After the usual chair scrapings, waiter
trippings, plate turnings and comic graces, some of which
were shockingly irreverent, we got to work. With some
flow of conversation and a laugh at Peepsy, who called
Swiss Meringue a syllabub sandwich, we came to the removal
of the cloth.</p>

<p>I had determined, on my way thither, not to touch wine
unless courtesy compelled it, but now, as I caught the contagion
of hilarity, and found that what I said was applauded
and listened to&mdash;dangerous flattery&mdash;a reckless spirit of
conviviality seized me, and I threw restraint to the winds,
resolving to have a “good time” for once. Conscience had
withdrawn into a corner of my heart, and revelry held its
carnival.</p>

<p>The green seals were broken and the amber fluid bubbled
in our glasses.</p>

<p>I drank one as we toasted Frank, another after his reply,
and the third at a compliment to myself.</p>

<p>As the glasses were large, and I was unused to more than
half a glass at a time, I felt what I had imbibed glowing
over my system. A warm flush came into my face, and the
mercury of excitement went up several degrees.</p>

<p>After we had exhausted all the cut and dried toasts, and
all the studied things had been said, we were thrown back
upon our own originality. Markham then proposed that we
sing the old song of <i>Vive la Compagnie</i>, toasting each other
in turn, while the man who was toasted must reply by a
distich of the song.</p>

<p>Ellerton immediately rose with a brimming glass in his
hand and said:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p>

<p>“A good idea, Markham, and to commence I propose,
gentlemen, Mr. Smith, the block on which Miss Carrover
sharpened the blade of her coquetry.”</p>

<p>I felt the blood surge to my temples and a harsh retort
rise to my lips, but I controlled myself, as the chorus paused
for my reply, and sang:</p>

<p class="ppnq4 p1">“The block will be happy to sharpen a bit<br />
What so much needs edge, as the gentleman’s wit.”</p>

<p class="p1">Amid cries of Good! good! we drank again, with a noisy
“Vive la, vive la, vive l’amour!”</p>

<p>Others were then proposed, and with each toast my glass
was filled. And now the first effects of the wine began to
be felt. I became conscious of a slight unsteadiness of
vision, and found that when I attempted to look at any object
my eyes went past it like the pendulum of a clock, then
went back again, so that I had to move them several times
before I could concentrate on what I wished to see. Even then
my sight was not very clear, for the lamps had misty rings
around them, and when I reached out my hand for my glass
I had to make an effort or two before I could touch it. The
table, too, seemed to have a wave or elevation in the middle,
and the wall on the opposite side of the room was not exactly
perpendicular. My consciousness, too, was an unreal
consciousness, as if I were dreaming of all these surroundings,
and this uncertainty of vision somewhat confused me
in ideas and actions. Remembering how much wine I had
taken, a sudden fear came over me that I might be a little
intoxicated, and with the thought an intense desire to conceal
it. The best way to conceal it, I said to myself, is to
talk on and convince them that nothing is the matter with
me. Markham was sitting next to me and I resolved to
speak to him of Lillian, for I was afraid that Ellerton’s remark
had produced the impression on his mind that I had
been jilted.</p>

<p>“I say, Mis’er Mar’c’um,” I said, leaning much more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
heavily on his shoulder than I intended, “you did’n think I
loved Lill’yun the most, did y’r? Ellert’n was only jok’n.
B’cause I got’s much’s she did in that game. Umph? Don’t
you think so. Umph? Say, don’t you think so? Umph?”</p>

<p>“Who the devil is Lillian?” he said, turning a red face
and bloodshot eyes upon me. “Hold up. Trickley is going
to sing.”</p>

<p>“All right,” I said, pushing myself up from him; “just’s
you say; I’ll tell you ‘bout it again.”</p>

<p>I saw Trickley indistinctly on the other side of the table
and heard him sing something about</p>

<p class="ppnq4 p1">“The world is all an ocean and the people are the fish,<br />
The devil is the fisherman and baits us as we wish;<br />
When he wants to catch a boy he baits with sugar plums,<br />
When he wants to catch a man he baits with golden sums,”</p>

<p class="pn1">and closing my eyes to relieve them of the misty light I
dozed in a half sleep with my head upon my breast till I
was awakened by the applause at the conclusion of Trickley’s
song.</p>

<p>“H’rah!” I shouted, a little louder than any one else,
smashing my glass as I brought it down upon the table.</p>

<p>“Com mere, Jim,” I said, beckoning to the waiter who
stood near me, “brush off these glass, and hold me up and
sweep under me. D’you hear?”</p>

<p>Negro-like he was full of laughter at my condition, and
snickered outright as he swept off the fragments of glass.</p>

<p>“Who’re you laughing at, you scoundrel? Umph?” I
said, boiling over with rage, and seizing a goblet which
Markham barely caught in time to save.</p>

<p>“I declare, sir, I wasn’t laughing at all, sir,” said Jim,
frightened at my anger.</p>

<p>“You’re a lie, aint you? I say, aint you a lie? Markham,
lend me your pist’l.”</p>

<p>Markham was just drunk enough to do it, and handed a
Sharpe’s four-shooter, but the negro had fled from the room,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
while Frank and Ellerton took the pistol away from me.
Seeing how much intoxicated I was, they told me the poor
negro had no idea of laughing at me, and that I had hurt
his feelings very much, and ought to beg his pardon.</p>

<p>“Bring him in and I’ll do it;” as I spoke he came in again
with some cigars, and I called him to me. He had not lost
all of his recent fright, however, and hesitated about coming
any nearer.</p>

<p>“Why don’t you com mere, Jim. I’ll throw a chair at
you ‘f you don’t come,” I said, making an effort to rise. At
length he drew near enough for me to touch him, when I
threw one arm around his neck and said, with half sobs:</p>

<p>“I beg your pard’n, Jim; I won’t hurt you. Are you
‘fraid of me? Umph? I love you, Jim, b’cause you’re all
right, aint you?”</p>

<p>The others pulled me from him, and told him to get on
the other side of the table.</p>

<p>“No; I want Jim to com mere. I know what I want;
you all don’t know what I want.”</p>

<p>“No, no, Smith, let Jim alone. Here, take a cigar,” said
one or two, offering a case.</p>

<p>“No; I want Jim. Jim’s all right,” I said, looking
sleepily defiant.</p>

<p>“Wait till after supper,” said Ellerton, “then you can see
him. It’s your time to give us a song now.”</p>

<p>“Th&mdash;hat’s all right, Ellerton; you’ll help me sing, won’t
you? Now, I’m going to sing:</p>

<p class="ppnq4 p1">
“Then fill up your glasses&mdash;and your tumbler ‘sand your goblets,<br />
And drink to the health of it&mdash;all up and ask&mdash;for more”&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p class="p1">“Oh, we’ve had enough of that, Smith. Sing us something,
or we will have to try Peepsy, here,” said Trickley,
who had been trying to make Peepsy say something all the
evening.</p>

<p>“Vive la! vive la compagnic!” I sang, winding up with
a hiccup.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span></p>

<p>“Smith, that’s stale, and boring as the devil,” said Ellerton;
“hush! and let us hear the Fresh sing.”</p>

<p>I was too stupid to make any reply, but made out to hear
poor little Peepsy protest that he knew but one song
in the world, and that was a hymn. But they would all
take no refusal, and swore that unless he sang it they would
tie him and leave him in the street all night, a threat he
implicitly believed. I was almost in a second doze when I
heard his little, quivering voice, as he sang:</p>

<p class="ppn6 p1">“I love to steal a while away,” etc.</p>

<p class="p1">A song learned at his mother’s knee rendered in a drunken
carousal! Poor little fellow, he was not in fault!</p>

<p>Ellerton now proposed that we light our cigars and go up
to the campus to have some fun.</p>

<p>The Seniors said it was too undignified for them, and took
their leave, and little Peepsy begged so hard we let him off.</p>

<p>When I rose from my chair the floor seemed to rise in
waves before me, and, attempting to collect my senses and
steady my feet, I fell, and, striking my head against the
table leaf, lay unconscious till they carried me out. The
fresh air revived me somewhat, and we staggered on with a
noise and tumult that called several others from their beds
to join our plans, which were to bar the doors, tar the
benches and put a cow in the belfry, if possible.</p>

<p>Drunk as I was, I recognized in the accessions to our
crowd the lowest men in college&mdash;fellows that I never spoke
to, and who were evidently surprised at my plight. But it
was no time for proud reserve, and so I led the way, shouting
every few steps:</p>

<p>“Come on, boys; we’re all right, ain’t we?”</p>

<p>We procured some tar and smeared on all the benches in
the accessible rooms, barred the doors and then went up to
the belfry, which we burst in to get to the bell. While a
part staid to ring it others went down to look for a cow to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
bring up. I sank down on the steps in a stupid sleep, with
the thought piercing my drunken brain like a sword, “I am
disgraced for ever. My parents will be mortified and my
friends desert me.”</p>

<p>I was awakened by a terrific noise near me, and some
one’s stumbling over me. ‘Twas some time before I could
see what was the matter, but at length, by a dingy lantern,
I saw students above me with ropes in their hands. The
ropes were tied to the horns of a cow that was standing
with glaring eyes and frightful bellowing a few steps below
me. I was too much frightened to move, and with great
relief heard Frank reply to some one who suggested to run
over the fool:</p>

<p>“No, no; that’s Smith. He’s all right. Help him up,
Donnery.”</p>

<p>The person addressed caught me by the arm and gave me
a rough jerk that landed me on the top step, from which I
managed to crawl off to one side out of the way.</p>

<p>“Now for it I” exclaimed several voices below; “pull,
Donnery, you and Haggam pull.”</p>

<p>They seemed to strain and tug at something without effect,
and Haggam said, with a long breath:</p>

<p>“What makes her so devilish hard to move? She came
up the lower flights very well.”</p>

<p>“She got scared of that drunken fool on the steps,”
I heard the coarse voice of Donnery reply, and, intoxicated
as I was, I breathed a solemn vow to Heaven that I would
never merit that term again.</p>

<p>Drawing the ropes tight again, Donnery shouted to
Frank:</p>

<p>“Twist her tail, Paning,&mdash;&mdash; her! that will move her.”</p>

<p>“I have,” said Frank, “and she won’t budge.”</p>

<p>“Let me get hold,” said a great rough fellow standing by
him, and, taking the vaccine caudal in his two hands, he
gave it such a wrench that, with a horrid roar, the poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
creature clattered up the steps, her hoofs sounding on the
wood as if the building were falling. Once on the floor,
they drove her on to a lecture room, and nailing up the
door, left her there. Having finished this job they dispersed,
Frank calling out good night! to me as he passed. I heard
some one tell him he had better see to me, and heard him
reply carelessly:</p>

<p>“Never mind, he rooms on this floor, Cheyleigh’ll find
him,” and my vow gained all the more strength from his
neglect.</p>

<p>I had just sense enough left to try to find my room, and
was trying to totter to my feet, when some one took hold of
my arm and said:</p>

<p>“Mr. Smith, let me help you. Are you hurt much?”</p>

<p>It was little Peepsy, who roomed on the same floor, and
whom I had laughed at so, at Frank’s supper. He kindly
endeavored to assist me to walk, but I was too drunk to make
any progress, even with his assistance, so I sat down on the
floor while he went to call Ned. A dizzy sickness came over
me, and I essayed to lean on one arm to steady myself, but my
elbow doubled under me and I fell over heavily on one side,
bruising my forehead against the hard plank. The only
consciousness left was a sense of shame, and I murmured,
“What would father and mother say if they could see me
now.”</p>

<p>A light appeared at the farther end of the corridor, and
I saw Ned approaching. A last tinge of pride made me
desirous to seem less intoxicated to him, and, as he came up,
I called out, trying to raise my head:</p>

<p>“Hel-lo-old fellor, I’m all right; I want t’go t’me room,
Ned. Where’s se key?”</p>

<p>Ned did not make any reply, but with Peepsy’s aid got
me to our room and assisted me to bed.</p>

<p>I had scarcely tumbled lifelessly upon it before I was
asleep.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p>

<p>When I awoke all was still in the room, the sun was
shining very brightly out doors, and looking at the clock
on the mantel, I saw that it was nearly twelve. Oh! the
torture of that awakening!</p>

<p>My whole body seemed to be scorching in horrid flames,
and my tongue and throat cracked with the heat, while a
raging thirst consumed me. Yet I was so weak and feeble
that had water been near me I could not have stretched
forth my hand to touch it.</p>

<p>But physical suffering was nothing to my mental torture.
My instability of character, my broken resolves, my ridiculous
and disgraceful conduct, my wreck of all pretensions
to moral character, the surprise and pain of my friends, the
sneers of my enemies, and my own consciousness of degradation,
all crowded upon me till I felt that my disgrace was
irretrievable.</p>

<p>With a sigh of relief I heard the bell ring, and put a stop
to the train of my remorseful reflections.</p>

<p>Ned came in, with a kind smile on his face, and, at my
whispered request, gave me a goblet of cool, fresh water.
How intensely delicious it was! Better far than the amber
Chian or red Falernian, mellowed by years in the vaults of
Mecænas, the pure, harmless beverage God hath brewed for
His creatures!</p>

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     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c271" id="c271">CHAPTER XXXI.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Apologizing</span> for the prolixity of my last chapter on
drunkenness only by the hope that a recital of my own
ridiculous behavior may induce some slave of Bacchus,
who may recognize any part of the account as familiar, to
renounce his allegiance and be free, I invite my readers to
take another skip with me.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span></p>

<p>A year has passed and it is Commencement week. I am a
Junior, while Frank is to graduate.</p>

<p>Since his defeat, last year, for Marshal, he has gone
rapidly down, till he has lost all moral and social position
in college. He is drunk nearly all the time, and has gathered
around himself a crowd of low associates, that place him
almost beyond the pale of recognition. We have had very
little intercourse since his defeat, though I have recently
desired to notice him more out of pity than anything else,
because so many others cut him. His brilliant mind, in
spite of his dissipation, still achieves something in his
studies, and it is thought he will get one of the honors in
his class.</p>

<p>The Saturday before Commencement he surprised me
very much by coming to our room with an open letter
in his hand, and saying:</p>

<p>“John, I have just received a letter from Lulie. She and
one or two of the Wilmington girls are coming up to our
Commencement, and, as I will be busy in speech making
and graduating, I must beg you to help me out in attending
to them.”</p>

<p>“It will give me great pleasure to do so,” I replied.
“What day will they get here?”</p>

<p>“On Monday,” he said, looking at the letter. “I believe
you have not been to Wilmington since your father left, but
you used to know all these ladies. You must introduce
some fellows to them, so they will have a pleasant time.”</p>

<p>“Of course I will; but take a seat, Frank, you have not
been in my room before in a long time.”</p>

<p>“No, thank you, I have an engagement at twelve.”</p>

<p>He left the room, and I sat for some time in unpleasant
reflection. If Lulie came to Chapel Hill, and received attention
from Frank and his set, she would be put down as
second class, and my circle of friends would hardly wait on
her, even at my request. Knowing her high social position<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
at home, I knew that Dr. Mayland, as well as herself, would
be deeply mortified when they knew the character of her
associates, if she visited Chapel Hill under Frank’s auspices;
on the other hand, if I went to her and warned her when
she came she would regard my information as a fiction of my
prejudice against Frank, and despise me for it. Yet I felt
sure he did not love and respect her, for only a day or two
before he had said, when I asked if he were going to be
married after Commencement, that he was going to see
something of life first, that Lulie would keep for a year
or two yet without spoiling, and that, even if she did prove
false and love another, he had about tired of her.</p>

<p>After thinking over the matter I determined to wait and
see whom Frank introduced to her, as his own pride might
induce him to select companions suitable to her refinement
and culture.</p>

<p>Going to the post-office that afternoon I received a letter
from father, dated at London, saying that they would start
the next day but one for the United States. They would
land at Halifax, and come through Canada to Niagara,
where they would wait for me to join them as soon as my
college exercises were over. He spoke of the wondrous
beauty of Carlotta, now that she was a woman, and said
that fortunes and honors in profusion had been laid at her
feet, but that she had refused all, and he did not think her
heart had yet been touched. Her cousin, Herrara Lola, a
young Cuban of rank and fortune, had joined them at
Madrid, and had been travelling with them ever since. He
was coming South with them to spend the summer and
autumn, returning to Havana in the winter.</p>

<p>“And your mother and I fear,” continued he, “that when
he leaves he will take away with him our beautiful Carlotta.”</p>

<p>I closed the letter with a great aching restlessness in my
heart. Lose Carlotta! I had feared it ever since I had told<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
her farewell, but my heart had not dared to acknowledge
even to itself the possibility of such a loss. As I had
received letter after letter telling of her ever increasing
charms of person and character, I had longed with a great
desire to see her once again and tell her how I loved her far
more than any other dared to love, a desire made all the
stronger by its utter hopelessness. And I had taken out my
little ringlet each day, and, kissing it tenderly, wondered if
she kept her pledge and ever thought of me. As I had
learned the past winter of her successful <i>debut</i> in society,
and her numberless triumphs, I felt that my hopes were forever
fallen. She would return now puffed up with pride
and conscious of superiority, while I would only appear to
her as a rustic younger brother, whom she would be
ashamed to exhibit to the arrogant Herrara.</p>

<p>“I won’t go to Niagara,” I said, savagely, crumpling the
letter in my hand; “they will all look down on me now, and
even father and mother will think I lack polish, after their
European tour, for travel invariably breeds conceit.”</p>

<p>I took up my <i>Herald</i> to divert my thoughts, and running
my eyes over its columns, saw the following among the
marriage announcements:</p>

<p class="pbq p1">“<span class="smcap">Marshman</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">Carrover</span>. At the residence of the bride’s uncle, Mr.
Isaac T. Carrover, No.&mdash;&mdash;Fifth Avenue, by the Rev. Dr. Deeler, assisted
by the Rev. Mr. Prynn, Hon. Palmer Marshman, M. C. for the&mdash;th Congressional
District, to Miss Lillian Carrover. No cards.”</p>

<p class="p1">Poor Marshman, thought I, the rose leaves are plucked,
only thorns for thee!</p>

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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c274" id="c274">CHAPTER XXXII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">When</span> Frank and I entered the parlor of the hotel, after
sending up our cards to Lulie and the other ladies from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
Wilmington, we found the room full of company. Strange
faces among the ladies, and familiar faces among the students,
were grouped on every side. All were bowing,
smiling and talking in the most eager and interested
manner, as they filled their dancing cards with engagements
for the ball, or brought forward friends to be introduced.
We had only to wait a few moments, when we
heard light footfalls and the rustle of dresses on the stairway,
and the next instant Lulie and her two friends came
into the room and greeted us cordially.</p>

<p>What a fairy vision of loveliness was Lulie! Her exquisite
figure, as <i>petite</i> as Titania’s, perfect in the bloom of
womanhood, a vine-work of brown ringlets clustering around
her shoulders, a sparkle in her bright eyes, and a roseate
hue on her dimpled cheeks! The same beautiful being I had
once adored, though more perfect now in her bewitching
loveliness; the same cherry lips I had kissed before the
nursery fire; the same roguish glance that had so often
brought my heart into my mouth, as our eyes met across
Miss Hester’s school room, and the same silvery laugh that
I had thought was the sweetest music in the world. A
tinge of sadness came over me as I bowed over her hand
and thought of what might have been.</p>

<p>We passed a half hour very pleasantly, talking about old
times and scenes, and making engagements for the festive
occasions before us; but oh! what a yearning desire I felt
to shield her from all possible harm, as I marked her fond
looks turned, so often and trustfully, towards Frank’s
bloated though still handsome features.</p>

<p>I was to escort her that night to the “Fresh” Declamation,
and when we walked up the brilliantly lighted aisle of
the chapel, which was thronged with the beauty of the
State, I saw many a look of intense admiration directed
towards the little fairy on my arm. Next morning a score
of my friends came to ask the favor of an introduction, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
that Lulie held quite a levee down at her hotel, though each
one who called asked me in some surprise afterwards, how
she came to be so intimate with “that fellow, Paning.”</p>

<p>Frank carried her that night to the “Soph.” speaking,
and I could not but feel ashamed for her, as I marked the
looks of surprise and coldness on the faces of my acquaintances,
who, I felt sure, to a certain extent, classed her by
her escort. After the speaking we had a little hop in the
ball room, and I noticed she remained in the room only a
short time, dancing one or two sets with Frank’s friends,
men whom Dr. Mayland would have ordered from his parlor.
I felt it was my imperative duty to advise her of it all, but
I was so sure that she would attribute all my counsel
to prejudice against Frank, and despise me for it, that I
hesitated and delayed.</p>

<p>Next morning, while I was lying across my bed, enjoying
the perfumed breeze that floated up from the flowery
campus, Harrow, a friend and classmate, came in and sat
down by me.</p>

<p>“Say, Smith!” he said, shading a match with his hands
to keep it from being blown out, and speaking on each side
of his cigar, “is that little beauty who was with Paning last
night a friend of yours?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” I yawned; “why do you ask?”</p>

<p>“Because if she was anything to me I would either whip
Paning or carry her away from here.”</p>

<p>“Why? What do you mean?” I asked, rising up on
one elbow.</p>

<p>“Well, well,” he said, tossing the match out of the window,
“it’s none of my business, perhaps; so let it be.”</p>

<p>“No, but you must tell me, Harrow; what have you
seen or heard? The young lady and I at one time were
great friends, and I still esteem her very highly, though she
has not liked me much since that scoundrel Paning has
taken possession of her heart. But I will do everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
I can to serve her now. What do you know about them?”
I rose up and sat by him on the edge of the bed.</p>

<p>“Paning does not respect her much, does he?” he asked,
blowing smoke rings in the sunlight.</p>

<p>“No, that’s just it. She believes him to be the purest
and best under Heaven, and trusts him blindly, while he, a
villain, is trifling with her, and keeps her love only because
he is proud of it. If he respected her he would not obtrude
his polluted presence on her. But tell me, Harrow, what
you know about her,” I continued; “if you wish, I will
keep secret all you confide.”</p>

<p>“The deuce, no,” he said quickly; “I do not care for
Paning. I would tell him about it myself, only I have no
right to interfere.”</p>

<p>“Speak on, Harrow; what is it?”</p>

<p>“Well, for one thing, the very fact that she receives
attention from such fellows as Paning and Donnery has lowered
her in the estimation of your acquaintances; and then,
even during the short time she has been here, those low fellows
have originated enough scandal about her to damn a
dozen women at the social bar.”</p>

<p>“No! Harrow, you cannot mean that; I have not heard
one word against her.”</p>

<p>“Of course not,” he said, smoking vigorously; “nobody
speaks of it before you.”</p>

<p>“She’s as pure as an angel,” I said, indignantly.</p>

<p>“I believe she is,” he replied, lolling back on the pillow;
“but if she allows Paning to carry her into the company he
does, she will not be thought so by others. Last night I
had no lady with me, and, getting tired of dancing, I went
up into the library, which you know was lit up for promenading
couples. When it was pretty late, and everybody
had gone down, I took down a book, and, reclining on a
sofa in one of the alcoves, began to read. I had not read
far before Donnery and another low fellow came into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
library, each with a lady, or I had better say woman on his
arm. They made some show of looking at the books and
paintings, and while thus engaged Paning and Miss Mayland
came in. She was leaning on his arm with an air of devotion
and confidence I have never seen equalled, and they
were speaking in soft, loving tones. Donnery met them,
and, in his coarse way, introduced his companions. After
some noisy conversation, full of slang and rude jest, they
agreed that the hop was a bore, and Donnery said he would
go down to Muggs’ and get some wine if they would wait
and drink it in the library. They all assented except Miss
Mayland, and I distinctly heard her ask Paning to see her
home; but he vowed she must not leave yet, and she remained,
though I knew from her silence that she felt out of
place and ill at ease. When Donnery returned they took
the librarian’s table and made a gay party around it.
Though I could not see them, I knew that Miss Mayland
was blushing at the songs and toasts that passed around;
and I inferred, by Paning’s calling out in a loud tone, ‘No,
not yet, Lulie,’ that she was again begging him to leave.”</p>

<p>“Harrow, did all this really occur as you have described
it?” I asked, in indignant astonishment.</p>

<p>“It did, upon my honor,” he replied. “Several ladies
and gentlemen, on coming to the library door and seeing
who were in there, turned back down stairs, and soon after
I left myself.”</p>

<p>“I’ll tell her of it to-day,” I said, throwing off my slippers
and drawing on my boots. “Paning must be the veriest
villain alive to take the woman he loves, or pretends to
love, into such company.”</p>

<p>“He certainly did so,” said Harrow; “and, as I said before,
I heard much comment this morning from those who saw
Miss Mayland with such a set.”</p>

<p>When he rose to go I thanked him for coming to me with
the information, and begged that he would explain and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
apologize for her presence in the library with Donnery and
company to those whose opinion I valued, and whom he
might hear allude to it.</p>

<p>During the day I was engaged so that I could not procure
an interview with Lulie, and, much to my regret and annoyance,
I saw her walk in the Chapel in the afternoon on Donnery’s
arm, while his coarse face was lit up with an expression
of triumph as he took his seat “among the high up
ones,” as he said in a loud whisper to one of his friends
leaning in the window.</p>

<p>That night the ball was to come off; and, as I buttoned
my kids, and gave the last adjusting pull to the waist of my
“spike,” I resolved that, as soon as I had paid the required
courtesies to the lady I was going with, I would seek Lulie,
and, whether it offended her or not, give her my last warning
against Frank.</p>

<p>It was with difficulty I found her amid the throng that
swayed and surged through the ball room. She was in
rather a retired corner, receiving very little attention from
any one. She had few engagements or none for the dance,
and her usually bright face wore an expression of weariness
and mental pain as I approached. She welcomed me gladly,
and accepted my proposal to stroll in the campus with
eagerness. The avenues were lit up, as there was no moon,
and strolling down one of these, we turned aside to a rustic
seat beneath a large oak. It was a quiet and secluded
place; even the music in the ball room sounded soft and
indistinct across the maze of shrubbery.</p>

<p>The opportunity was now mine, but I shrank from my
duty. She would not appreciate my motives, I was sure,
and would repel my counsel with scorn and indignation.
Yet could I suffer Frank to betray her into imprudences
that would tinge the purity of her character? Could I permit
his villainous designs, palpable to all eyes but hers, to
go unexposed? Could I see her threatened with evil she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
would not suspect till it was too late to avert it, and not
warn her? No, however thankless my task might prove, for
the sake of her dead mother I would tell her of her danger.</p>

<p>“Lulie!” I said, after some moments of silence and reflection
on my part.</p>

<p>“What is it, Sir Solemnity?” she replied, looking into my
face by the dim light of the distant lamps.</p>

<p>“I wish to speak to you on a very important and delicate
subject, and I want you to promise me that you will believe
my motives pure and disinterested in so doing. Do not fear
that I am going to renew the fishing scene of our childhood;
I know too well that my love is hopeless. Let memory
sleep; ‘tis of the present now I wish to speak; and I want
you to take off your glove and put your hand in mine, and
if in what I am going to say you believe there is one single
word prompted by aught save the most sacred friendship,
instantly withdraw it, and I will say no more.”</p>

<p>She undid the lace-edged kid with a slight tremor in her
fingers, and, dropping it heedlessly on the ground, laid her
little hand confidingly in mine.</p>

<p>“There is my hand, John,” she said, “but you really
frighten me with your solemn preface.”</p>

<p>“Well, then,” I replied, with an effort at a smile, unheeded,
perhaps, in the darkness, “to come directly to the
point, do you love Frank?”</p>

<p>I felt a quiver in her fingers as she said:</p>

<p>“Dear John, do not be offended, but we must not talk on
that subject. I know what you would say, but ‘tis useless;
I cannot believe you.”</p>

<p>“But, Lulie, perhaps you do not know how important it
is that we should speak on this subject. Will you answer
another question, then? Do you believe that Frank loves
you?”</p>

<p>She drew her head back with the merest touch of pride,
and said, with a tinge of steel in her tone:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p>

<p>“Yes, I do believe he loves me, because he has proved it
in a thousand ways; and I do not fear to answer your first
question. I do love him with all my heart. There! that
confession is unladylike, but I make it to you alone.”</p>

<p>I bowed in acknowledgment and continued:</p>

<p>“Pardon me again, Lulie dear, for pursuing my catechism.
You were in the library last night?”</p>

<p>“Yes!”</p>

<p>“Do you know the character of those to whom Frank
introduced you, and with whom he forced you to spend an
hour?”</p>

<p>She made no reply, but I could feel her hand growing
cold as the blood left it for her burning cheeks.</p>

<p>“Do you know the social and moral position of those
men he has permitted to wait on you since your stay here?
Do you know how he speaks of you to others? Dearest
little friend, though you hate me for it, I <i>must</i> warn you.
Frank does not love, does not even respect you. He only
retains your love as a trophy of his power. As God knows
my heart, I have no motive but to save you. Will you
heed me, Lulie?”</p>

<p>She drew her hand quickly from mine, and, covering her
face, remained silent a long while; then putting it back in
mine, she said, with a sad earnestness I can never forget:</p>

<p>“I do not doubt the sincerity of your motives, John; but
your words are wasted. Frank has loved me too long and
too fondly for me to desert him now at your bidding. ‘Twas
naughty of him, I know, to carry me into bad company, but
he did it thoughtlessly, and I forgive him for it.”</p>

<p>“But, Lulie”&mdash;&mdash; I interposed.</p>

<p>“No; let’s not speak of it any further. You cannot
know how strangely sad I feel. A great gloom has fallen
on my heart, which, indeed, has been hanging over it since
I came here; and oh&mdash;I do so want to lean on mother’s
breast and cry. Dear John, I shall ever love you dearly for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
your kind interest in me,” and before I could prevent it she
lifted my hand to her lips and kissed it; “but you are mistaken
about Frank. <i>I</i> know that he loves me, and God
knows that I love him, and will trust him even to death.”</p>

<p>We rose from our seats, but instead of returning to the
ball room, she asked me to see her to the hotel, where I
bade her good night and came back up the campus. As I
passed by the seat we occupied, something white in the
darkness caught my eye, and on picking it up I found that
it was her glove, which she had dropped while we were
talking. On taking it to the light I found that some one,
in passing, had trodden upon it, and ground it into the
damp earth, soiling it hopelessly.</p>

<p>“Heaven grant it may not be a type of her life!” I said
fervently, as I laid it in my bosom.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c282" id="c282">CHAPTER XXXIII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">I concluded</span>, after all, to go North. What if father,
mother and Carlotta had travelled while I was studying in
a quiet little village? I felt equal to them in learning, and
resolved that I would be in manners and polish.</p>

<p>I spent a few days in New York, which was very dull, as
everybody was off at the summer resorts. With a pretty
heavy draught on father’s bankers, I filled a trunk or two
with the latest styles and started for Saratoga, where I
would spend a few days before joining our family party at
Niagara.</p>

<p>Having paid the hackman as much again as his legal fare,
and having seen my trunks checked through, I took my seat
on a stool at one side of the already crowded deck of the
Hudson river boat, which was steaming and hissing at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>
wharf like a chained griffin, and gazed, with the interest of
novelty, at the scene before me. The long forests of masts
and yards, with here and there a graceful flag or long
fluttering streamer; the busy, fussy tugs, running hither
and thither like noisy gossips, coughing and sneezing with
bad colds; the patient jades of ferry boats, with their
anxious human cargo, hardly waiting for the dropping of
the chains; the ocean steamer looming its dark hull in the
offing, and curling its black festoons of smoke on the morning
sky; the white sailed skiffs leaning gracefully from the
wooing wind, and the small row boat which a bare-armed
sailor is sculling right under our prow, his blue jacket lying
on the seat behind him, and the motion of his body, as he
rocks from side to side, slushing the water about in the
bottom of the boat, and wetting one sleeve of the jacket on
the seat; the anchored ships, here and there, looking like
immense laundries, with their rigging and sides covered
with the clothes of the crew, all made me forget for a
moment my own existence, till I was aroused to a consciousness
of it by a shrill voice piping in my ear, “<i>Herald!</i>
<i>Times!</i> <i>Tribune!</i>”</p>

<p>Having bought a paper, I turned round on my stool and
commenced to read. People continued to crowd in; a
hoarse whistle from our boat, or some other, I could not tell
which, a few taps on a very hoarse bell, and with a shiver,
as if the water was cold, we glided from the wharf.</p>

<p>I had read, perhaps, half a column when the rustle of a
dress against my crossed feet attracted my attention, and I
peeped under the edge of my paper. It was a very handsome
black silk, and, being caught up over my foot, showed
a beautiful bootee beneath it&mdash;an interesting bootee of purple
glove kid, with a dainty high heel, and a firm curving instep&mdash;a
bootee tapping the deck carelessly, as if about to
execute a pirouette on its flexible toe. Standing against the
silk dress, close to the bootee, was a pair of boots&mdash;large,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
dignified boots&mdash;with broad heels and thick soles, and coming
down over their flat insteps were black pant legs. Lifting
the edge of my paper a little I came in sight of the skirt
of a black cloth coat, and hanging down by the skirt of the
coat was a large white hand holding a morocco travelling
bag&mdash;the hand of a middle aged man, white on the fingers
and near the thumbs, and shaded with dark hairs on the
side toward the little finger, on which was an onyx seal
ring with P. M. in monogram. I knew the bootee belonged
to a pretty woman, and the boots and hand to an intelligent
elderly man, and to confirm my surmisings I took down the
paper with a rattle and looked up at them. The lady turned
her head and looked down at me the same instant.</p>

<p>“Why, Mr. Smith! is it possible?” she exclaimed.</p>

<p>“Miss Carrover!” I said, rising and blushing.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Marshman, sir. Mr. Marshman! an old friend of
mine, Mr. Smith, of North Carolina.”</p>

<p>Mr. Marshman, a frowning man, with heavy gray brows
and a grayer moustache, gave me his hand and a “glad to
know you, sir.”</p>

<p>“Let me make you acquainted with our party,” said Mrs.
Marshman, turning to two ladies and a gentleman, “Mr.
Finnock! Mr. Smith, Miss Sappho Finnock! Miss Stelway!”</p>

<p>I made my obeisance, and, completing the usual commonplace
remarks, “took in” the party.</p>

<p>Mrs. Marshman, as beautiful as ever, but a trifle more mature
and less dashing; Mr. Marshman, as above described;
Mr. Finnock, a pale young man, with very blue eyes and
very red lids, and light mossy side whiskers; he was exquisite
in style and supercilious in demeanor, and very
much devoted to Miss Stelway, a dark skinned young lady,
with a short upper lip and very large front teeth, who
looked at everything on the river with an opera glass, and
whose conversational powers seemed limited to the constant
ejaculation of:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span></p>

<p>“See there, how pretty!”</p>

<p>She was rich, though Finnock’s attentions <i>may</i> have
been disinterested.</p>

<p>Miss Sappho Finnock was a little lady, not very young,
with thin, sandy hair, which she plastered, classically,
around her forehead, and wore in wiry little curls around
the back of her neck. Her eyes were as blue as her
brother’s, and were “near” in their sight, so that she wore
circular gold-rimmed glasses, that magnified her eyes ludicrously
when seen through them. She wore fawn gauntlets,
and her fingers, when she drew off her gloves, were thin
and bluish towards the ends. Her waist was straight from
her arms to her skirt, and her neck long and corded. She
was constantly taking notes in a gilt-edged book, and peeping
at me sideways under her glasses, as I sat by her, which
I did most of the way up the river. She opened her eyes a
little wider whenever she spoke, as if she was surprised at
her own voice, and spoke with a sudden quickness and a
little jerk out of her head, as if she wanted to throw the
words at you. I soon found that as Mr. Marshman would
not give up Lillian, nor Finnock Miss Stelway, Miss Sappho
Finnock was to be my companion for the voyage. I was
not displeased, for she was entertaining for her very sentimentality,
and was not disposed to laugh at any ignorance
of the world I might betray, or any social solecism I might
commit.</p>

<p>In reply to Mrs. Marshman’s inquiries, I informed her that
I was going first to Saratoga to spend a few days, thence to
Niagara, where I would meet our family, just returned from
Europe. At the mention of Europe, Finnock and Miss Stelway
regarded me with more interest, and Miss Finnock
increased her smiles and side glances.</p>

<p>We all talked together for some time, when Mr. Marshman
left us to go to his state room, Lillian took a novel from
the morocco bag, and Finnock and Miss Stelway going to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>
the railing to lean over the water, nothing was left for Miss
Finnock and myself, but to walk to the prow of the boat
and take a couple of vacant seats that were there.</p>

<p>“I always think of the Culprit Fay when I pass old Crow
Nest” she said, arranging her skirt. “Are you not fond of
poetry? I am, passionately.”</p>

<p>“I enjoy poetry very much,” I said, not knowing how
tame the reply would sound till I had made it.</p>

<p>“I declare I almost cry when I think of that dear little
Fay cleaving the waters to catch the crystal drop, while the
great monsters swarm after him. What do you think is the
most descriptive line in the poem, Mr. Smith.”</p>

<p>“Confound Rodman Drake!” I muttered to myself, for I
had not read his poem, having scarcely touched anything
save my text-books since I had been at Chapel Hill. Fortunately,
I remembered a lecture of our Professor of Rhetoric,
on American poetry, in which he had quoted from the poem
in question; I therefore replied, pausing as if to consider:</p>

<p>“Really, Miss Finnock, the whole poem is so full of vivid
descriptions and striking thoughts that it is hard to make a
selection; but I think perhaps the finest passage is that
which describes the firefly steed flinging a glittering spark
behind.”</p>

<p>“Ah, yes,” she replied, “I remember that. But I think
the tiniest, sweetest idea is, ‘their wee faces giggling above
the brine.’” To express the <i>tinyness</i> of an idea, she squinted
her eyes painfully, and squeezed her forefingers and thumb
together, as if she were holding a flea.</p>

<p>“To tell the truth, Miss Finnock,” I said, hoping to take
her out of her depth and thereby change the subject, “I
greatly prefer the old classic writers, or even the earlier
English poets, to the maudlin sentimentalists of the present
day.”</p>

<p>“Oh, you prefer the classics, do you?” she exclaimed,
brightening her dim looking eyes, “then I am glad we are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>
congenial. Homer is too nervous in his style, but Pindar is
so sweet; and Sappho&mdash;do you know I am named for her?&mdash;isn’t
her poetry rapturous? and dear Horace, how pointed
and terse he is. Do you know I have studied harder than
anything his Art of Poetry, for I sometimes try to write
verses myself. Did you ever write poetry? It is really
difficult. And you say, too, you like the old English poets?
How glad I am! I have a copy of Chaucer in my trunk, and
we can read over some of his Canterbury Tales together.
Then there’s Spencer; isn’t his Fairy Queen perfectly charming?
And Sydney’s Arcadia, do you like that? Sometimes,
when I am sad and gloomy, I even like to read the melancholy
musings of poor John Ford. You’ve read Ford, have
you not? and Marlowe?”</p>

<p>Great Heaven! thought I; take her out of her depth
indeed! I have only taken her into it. My only hope to
change the subject, and prevent an exposure of my ignorance,
is to speak of her own verses, as I know she will not
quit that theme as long as I appear interested. I said,
therefore, as soon as she ceased speaking,</p>

<p>“You say that you write verses, Miss Finnock? I am sure
they are lovely; and I would esteem it a very high honor
and privilege to be permitted to read your composition.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I could not think of it,” she said, with an attempt
at a blush; “besides, my portfolio is in my trunk, and therefore
inaccessible.”</p>

<p>I protested my readiness to go below and have her trunk
opened, that I might satisfy my desire to read her beautiful
thoughts, and I insisted so earnestly that she would give me
her keys and permit me to search, that she said, while she
thanked me for my obliging spirit, she would not trouble
me any farther than to get her reticule from Mrs. Marshman,
for, if she was not mistaken, she had in that some
verses on the Hudson that she had composed the summer
before.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span></p>

<p>Of course I was delighted to bring it to her; when she
opened it and took out a yard and a quarter of printed
poetry, which she commenced to read, first making me
promise, a naughty boy, not to laugh at anything in it.</p>

<p>She read the entire yard and a quarter with heaving
bosom and unusually dilated optics; but I cannot inflict
upon my readers more than an inch or two.</p>

<p>The theme of the poem was the launching of the first
steamboat, and in her eyes it seemed an epic fit for Virgil.
The lines were these:</p>

<p class="ppn8 p1">THE HUDSON.</p>

<p class="ppnq4">“Oh thou mighty, sweeping, rushing river,<br />
Through thy cloud-reflecting bosom grand,<br />
With unfledged wheels the first steamboat proud-<br />
Ly plows, while on its trembling bulwarks stand<br />
The gay, triumphant and prophetic crowd.”</p>

<p class="p1">“Oh, that is perfectly enchanting,” I exclaimed, when she
had completed the ninety-third and last verse, feeling assured
that, when she thought so highly of the effort herself,
no commendation could be fulsome.</p>

<p>“Pardon the abrupt praise, but Mrs. Browning could not
have expressed the idea of the untried wheels more strikingly
than you did, by the single word ‘unfledged.’”</p>

<p>“You flatter me, indeed, sir,” she said, looking immensely
pleased; “but, to be candid with you, I thought myself that
the expression was original and effective. Can you imagine
how I got such an idea?”</p>

<p>“Not unless the fairies brought it to you,” I said, gallantly.</p>

<p>“I was at Yonkers last summer, while composing this
piece, and saw a young duck, with unfledged wings, learning
to swim, and immediately I thought of the steamboat.
Remarkable coincidence, was it not?”</p>

<p>“Very remarkable, and all the more striking from that
very fact,” I replied.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p>

<p>“But the most striking stanza in the poem,” she continued,
running her little thin fingers down the paper, and
pinching it at a certain verse, “is the sixty-eighth. Do you
remember it?”</p>

<p>“They are all stamped so indelibly on my mind, by their
wondrous power and beauty, that I cannot distinguish
them by mere numbers; but I can easily recognize it if you
will read it again.” This I said leaning forward with an
increased air of attention and interest.</p>

<p>“There is no merit about the lines, except that they convey
to the mind a vivid impression of the circumstances,”
she said, with a preparatory cough, and read:</p>

<p class="ppnq4 p1">“And should a comet from the starry sky</p>
<p class="ppn5">Fall with its fiery tail along thy bed,</p>
<p class="ppn4">Oh! what a yawning, cracking chasm dry</p>
<p class="ppn5">Would stretch from parched mouth to fountain head.”</p>

<p class="p1">“Miss Finnock!” I said, rapturously, “you are as daring
as Milton in your conceptions. Even Dante does not surpass
the appalling picture you draw. I can almost see the
long, rugged chasm down which the ships are rolling over
and over, snapping off their masts, the fish floundering in
the steaming pools, while the red serpent of desolation winds
its way down the hissing bed.”</p>

<p>I did not deem it necessary to correct her astronomy by a
hint at the nebulosity of comets, or at the absurdity of the
idea that a tail, ten millions of miles long and half as many
broad, could be squeezed into the channel of the Hudson.
I could only admit to myself that if the tail of a comet was
red hot, and small enough to fit the river, her picture of the
effect of its fall was graphic.</p>

<p>She thanked me with many blushes, and as I paused in
my comments she folded up her poetry reluctantly, and returned
it to her reticule. As the bag opened I saw a book in
it, and my respect for her erudition, before which I positively
trembled as she ran through the names I have mentioned,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
was considerably lessened as I recognized Spalding’s English
Literature, and felt that her learning was “crammed.”</p>

<p>As I felt as confident in my smattering as hers; I talked
more boldly, and we spent the morning in a conversation
on literature that would have made Porson envious at our
attainments.</p>

<p>When dinner was announced our party had a private table
in the saloon, and I was embarrassed to find that Mr. Finnock
and Miss Stelway were regarding my table deportment
as if that was the Shibboleth on which they would cut or
notice me. Miss Finnock, however, kept me more employed
in attentions to the outer woman than to the inner man, so
that I got on very well, except pouring her glass too full of
wine and making too loud a sip when I tasted mine.</p>

<p>Mr. Marshman had invited an elderly gentleman to dine
with him, and was so absorbed in a political discussion that
he completely ignored my presence; indeed, he seemed to
forget that there was any one present except himself and
his patient listener.</p>

<p>Mrs. M. was much annoyed by his neglect of his guests,
and wasted many nods and frowns on him. As he paid no
attention to them she spoke to him:</p>

<p>“Mr. Marshman, pass the claret to Mr. Smith.”</p>

<p>But she might as well have addressed the post of the
saloon, for Marshman was at that moment closing his most
forcible argument in favor of his assumption.</p>

<p>“Mr. <i>Marshman!</i>” exclaimed Lillian, a flush on her cheek
and a flash in her eye, “do you know where you are? Mr.
Smith’s glass is empty.”</p>

<p>“Oh!&mdash;yes&mdash;pardon me, my dear,” turning with a confused
smile to her, and anything but a smile to me as he
ran my glass over with the crimson fluid.</p>

<p>For a while there was an awkward pause, during which I
felt very much embarrassed, as having been the innocent
cause of the disturbance.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p>

<p>Mrs. M. soon resumed her smile, and said:</p>

<p>“Mr. Marshman thinks he is on the floor of the House
whenever he gets to talking, and forgets his surroundings.”</p>

<p>“Well, my dear,” he said, pouring out a glass of brandy,
“excuse my absent-mindedness. Come, Mr. Debait, since
they will not let us finish our discussion, we will have to
join the young folks.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Marshman gave him a sign to notice me, and he
said, in a patronizing, Congressional way:</p>

<p>“What are the times in North Carolina, Mr. Smith?
Whom will your people support in the next Presidential
election?”</p>

<p>I was informing him that, as a student, I had not taken
much interest in politics, when Mrs. M. cut in:</p>

<p>“Mr. Marshman, you ought to observe Mr. Smith very
closely. He is the only one who ever really flirted with me.”</p>

<p>“Is he?” returned Mr. Marshman, trying to keep his good
humor, though evidently disliking me. “What did <i>I</i> do
with your heart?”</p>

<p>“<i>You</i> flirt? Oh, life!” and Lillian laughed scornfully,
as she looked around at us all. “I was afraid I was getting
a little <i>passé</i>, and just took you when you proposed,
which you did, you remember, with much agitation and
tremulous fervor.”</p>

<p>We all smiled, as was expected, except Mr. Marshman,
who only drew his bushy brows a little nearer together.</p>

<p>Lillian went on (as what woman will not when she is
succeeding in a tease?).</p>

<p>“You know, Pam, I put you off indefinitely; and, strange
to tell, I received your first letter the very night Mr. Smith
and I came so near loving. If he had talked differently
then, perhaps the answer you received would have been different.
You really owe him thanks.”</p>

<p>But Mr. Marshman, instead of taking the jest, grew very
red in the face, and, pushing his chair back, said, angrily:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span></p>

<p>“You can make the change now, madam, if you desire
it,” and left the saloon.</p>

<p>We looked at Mrs. Marshman, but she was not in the
least disconcerted.</p>

<p>“Poor, dear Pam,” she said, running a spoon under the
peel of an orange, “he loves me so dearly that he is
morbidly jealous. I’ll have him pleasant by tea.”</p>

<p>Miss Finnock occupied the remainder of the hour by
making original remarks and comparisons, if similes without
a shadow of similarity could be called original. She
said the nut crackers were like adversity, because their
crushing discovered the sound fruit; that Italian cream was
like a coquette’s cheek, both pink and cold; that the heart
of the melon was the heart of humanity, and the black seed
black thoughts; that the lemon floating in the finger bowls
was like the selfishness that mingles with the purest waters
of life; and much more to the same effect.</p>

<p>As Finnock preferred Miss Stelway to the wine, we left
the table with the ladies, and going up on deck I excused
myself for my siesta.</p>

<p>As I turned over to the cool side of my pillow, and slid
back the shutter to get the river breeze, I murmured as I
dozed off:</p>

<p>“If little Sappho won’t get in earnest I’ll make love to
her, just for the fun of it.”</p>

<p>Late in the afternoon we all met again on deck, and, to
my surprise, Mr. Marshman was by Mrs. Marshman’s side,
full of smiles and urbanity. I could not help thinking of
Themistocles’ chain of government.</p>

<p>Miss Finnock was unusually sentimental, and her style
of conversation was a continual flow of heroic verse, with
all the necessary inversions and syncope. She said that the
river flashed its wavelet eyes beneath the sunset’s golden
veil, that the mountains donned their purpled robes, their
bald, bare summits, glory crowned: that the houses nestled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
‘long the shore like white ducks resting from their sport; the
steamboats puffed like wearied beasts, the sail boats glided,
graceful swans; and I have no doubt she would have gone
on to personalities about her lonely heart and mine, had not
her brother called her to Miss Stelway.</p>

<p>As they had to spend a day in Albany, we parted there
with many promises to renew our acquaintance at the
Springs. The next day found me with good rooms at the
Union Hotel, Saratoga. As I did not know a single person
there, I found it, of course, very dull, and spent the day
sauntering around to look at the various objects of interest.
That night there was a ball at the Union, but there was such
a press in the ball room that I might as well have been
in the Mammoth Cave without a light, for all I could see.</p>

<p>I retired early, leaving directions to the servant to call
me soon in the morning.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c293" id="c293">CHAPTER XXXIV.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> sun had not been up long when I reached the
spring, and found the little boys already busy with their
long-handled dippers. I gulped down a glass of the water,
which is a bad mixture of soda and Epsom salts, and was
strolling over the grounds, thinking how pleasant ‘twould
be to have even little Miss Finnock along with me, when
the rattling of the circular railway caught my ear and I
walked towards it. A gentleman and lady were riding in
the car, who riveted my attention at once. The gentleman
was strikingly handsome. A snow white Panama hat,
whose flexible brim, bending up before the current of air,
showed a high, white forehead, and black eyes so piercing
in their glance that I involuntarily shrank back as they
whirled past me. A very heavy moustache, parted in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
middle, fell on each side of his lip like a stream of ink; a
graceful, massive frame, yet a small hand turning the crank
of the car and a small foot with high instep rested on the
edge. This much I saw as they rattled by, and strange to
say, so full of admiration was I for the man that it was not
till they were coming around again that I noticed the lady,
who was much the handsomer of the two. She was clad
in a blue morning robe, whose ample folds floated gracefully
out from the side of the car. One tiny gloved hand
rested playfully on the flying crank, while the other held in
her lap the broad straw hat she had taken off. Her eyes
were as black as her companion’s, but were soft and gentle
in their expression; her hair, superbly massive in its loose
folds, was as black as a raven’s wing, and fell in wavy profusion
far below her waist. These were the general outlines
of her features, for I could not see her face distinctly, so
swift was the speed of the car. But even that glimpse had
thrilled me, and an indefinable something in the face seemed
to speak familiarly to my heart, and awaken wild, vague
visions of something forgotten&mdash;perhaps the memories of
previous existence, as Plato calls them.</p>

<p>“Have I seen her in my dreams?” I murmured, “or is
she the star of my destiny which intuition thus reveals, that
her beauty should so thrill me?”</p>

<p>A romantic youth, fresh from college, on the lookout for
adventures, with a very large fund of admiration, on which
beauty could check at sight; is it a wonder I was in love a
second after this bright vision of loveliness floated by?</p>

<p>I waited for them to come round again, but I saw the car
stop on the other side, and hurried through the crowd only
to see them enter a gold mounted phæton, drawn by a
splendid pair of blood bays, the driver and footman in
liveries almost too gorgeous for Republican America.</p>

<p>“May the Fates grant he may only be a brother! They
look alike,” I muttered, as I walked back to the hotel.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span></p>

<p>I sought for them in vain during the day around the
hotel, though I thought once I saw the black moustache
behind the green baize door of the billiard room, but, on
entering, I could not find it.</p>

<p>That afternoon Mrs. Marshman and party came up from
Albany, and took rooms also at the Union. How cordial
was Miss Finnock in her manner towards me! and how
long she let her hand remain in mine when I shook hands
with her! Poor, little cold hand! I felt as if I was pressing
a frog with five legs!</p>

<p>The ladies were too much fatigued to go to the dance
that night, so Finnock and I walked across to Congress Hall
after tea. I told him of the wonderful beauty I had seen in
the morning, and asked if he could not contrive to get an
introduction for us.</p>

<p>“Oh, yes,” he said, carelessly, “presyume so; she’s the
same Monte wrote me about. Devilish pretty, rich, and
so forth. Engaged to that fellow, Monte says. Pious old
couple to take care of her. But yonder’s Monte now.”</p>

<p>He carried me up to a throng of foppish young men who
were lounging on the steps of the hotel. They spoke, after
Finnock’s introduction, with a cool kind of condescension
that irritated, and, to a certain extent, humiliated me.
While in my heart I despised them for their foppish uselessness,
yet I felt they somewhat looked down upon me as
being from the country, and I desired their attention and
consideration more than I did the esteem of the most prominent
gentlemen of my acquaintance; such is pride!</p>

<p>“Why, Finnock, where the devil did you spring from?”
said Monte, a tall, languid fellow, with dark red hair,
roached up in curling puffs on each side of the central
division; somewhat lighter whiskers flowing in long wisps
from each ear to the corner of his mouth, while his short
chin, shaved clean, imparted an angry bull dog expression
that required all the languor of his weak eyes and single<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
eye-glass to soften. “I thought you were going across the
pond?”</p>

<p>“No, not yet,” said Finnock, carelessly, “the old man
swears that stocks are too low to think of Europe. I told
him I didn’t care, I would either take three M’s for Europe
next winter or two for the Springs and Newport.”</p>

<p>“Say, Finn.,” continued Monte, “have you heard about
Sedley?”</p>

<p>“No, anything bad?”</p>

<p>“Rather! got a lift from Lola, took the blues, and went
into the jungle.”</p>

<p>“‘D the tiger hurt him?”</p>

<p>“A little&mdash;fifteen hundred or so. He left next morning,
and I expect has committed suicide.”</p>

<p>“Who the deuce is Lola?” asked Finnock.</p>

<p>“She’s the rage now&mdash;prettier than Venus and richer
than Plutus himself. Don’t you remember my writing you
about her?”</p>

<p>“Ah, yes, I do remember,” said Finnock, “but where is
she from, Monte?”</p>

<p>“The devil knows,” said that gentleman. “I found her
here when I came and as all the first ladies were jealous
and angry, and all the best fellows in love with her, I went
in without questioning her previous history.”</p>

<p>“Sed. was euchred badly,” put in a bloated young man,
with protruding bleared eyes and very red nose; “held a
good hand, too, but played his cards badly and lost. They
say he went a five hundred diamond ring, but she sent it
back.”</p>

<p>“That was hard on him; but, Monte!” said Finnock,
“Smith and I want an introduction, cannot you present us?”</p>

<p>“Certainly,” said Monte, getting up from his chair, and
shaking one leg at a time, to make his pants smooth, “but
it’s useless, that black eyed fellow with her has it all his own
way. She will waltz with no one else, pretends to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>
squeamish, but it is all because he will not let her. The
devil take these old marching Lancers and trotting quadrilles;
give me a soft hand and a trim waist, and my toe is
at your service. Let’s have something to drink!”</p>

<p>All assented, and I followed them into the bar-room. I
did not wish to drink, but my moral courage shrank from
refusing before a throng of exquisites, who were just admitting
me to their fellowship. Accordingly, when the
others had called for juleps, cold punches and “straights,” I
responded to Monte’s inquiry, by stating very faintly that I
would take a sherry cobbler, believing that was the weakest
drink I could name. Monte repeated the orders to Snyder,
the bar man, with the injunction to make them strong, and
we all stood around trying to keep up a desultory conversation,
but watching, with more interest, the preparation of
the beverages, as men always do at a bar.</p>

<p>Snyder, a large fat man, in his shirt sleeves, with a large
diamond pin on his large bosom, and a heavy moustache on
his heavy lip, who had been looking off vacantly while we
delivered our orders, now started as if he suddenly remembered
them, and calling an assistant, took down the bottles,
put in the white hailed ice and sugar, the sprigs of mint,
the slices of lemon, and set the dewy glasses on the counter.
With a bow and a health we drank, and then Finnock swore
we should have another round. This time I had weakened
enough in my resolution to try a julep, and feeling a tinge
of the old excitement coming over me, I asked, as we turned
to leave the bar, the privilege of treating.</p>

<p>“Have you some good champagne&mdash;green seal or Verzenay&mdash;the
best now?” I asked the barkeeper, assuming
something of the bully in my tone.</p>

<p>“Not champagne at the bar!” said Monte, “that is sacred
to the table.”</p>

<p>The barkeeper pointed us to a curtained apartment, and
sent in the champagne and some biscuit.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span></p>

<p>We spent, perhaps, half an hour behind the curtain, and
when we came forth I felt as if I was again at Frank’s
party. Though the others had, perhaps, imbibed more than
I, yet it had not affected them so sensibly, and, muddled as
was my brain, I saw they were enjoying my condition.</p>

<p>They proposed that we have a peep at the Tiger, and I
agreed very readily, having a faint idea that we were going
to a zoological exhibition.</p>

<p>The zoological garden proved to be a brilliantly lighted
room, redolent of cigars and full of tables, around which were
grouped eager, anxious faces. I had never gambled in my
life, but felt compelled to show my contempt for money by
staking a few dollars on a game or two. I soon lost something
over a hundred, and was getting more and more reckless,
to the extent of much larger stakes, when Monte proposed
to leave, saying to one of his companions, in an
undertone, which I, however, heard:</p>

<p>“That will do for to-night, not too much at a time.”</p>

<p>Monte proposed to take us over to the ball room and
introduce us to Lola, the sensation, but I objected that I
was not in evening dress. Monte swore I was fit for Buckingham
Palace, and dragged me along to the room. Our
party was very noisy as we entered the ball room, and
several gentlemen moved away from our group in apparent
disgust. The brilliancy of the scene dazzled and confused
me, and I stood staring stupidly about, holding to Monte’s
arm for support. The floor was full of dancers, who were
circling in a spirited Mazourka.</p>

<p>“There she is, Smith!” exclaimed Monte, “isn’t she
superb?”</p>

<p>Just in front of us was the belle of the season&mdash;my unknown
beauty of the circular railway, floating gracefully in
the embrace of the black moustache.</p>

<p>Her hair was now caught up in a magnificent coil, and
its black folds were adorned with a beautiful spray of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
pearls. Her eyes&mdash;and oh! how melting and tender was
their look&mdash;splendid in their depth of expression, were
turned up to the face of her partner, and her form, perfect
in its outlines, reposed with easy confidence in his arms.
Her arm, round, smooth and dazzling, was shown in fine
relief against the black cloth of his coat, and her neck, white
as snow, tapered exquisitely from her bare, dimpled shoulders
to the shading of her hair.</p>

<p>How my heart throbbed with admiration as she passed
me; and again that strange memory of a dream of her face
came over me!</p>

<p>Again they came around, and her full face was turned toward
me. Heavens, can it be? yes, there, on that lovely arm,
just above the tinted kid, a serpent in Etruscan gold wound
its coils up the flesh, and I knew it was Carlotta.</p>

<p>“Monte!” I said, grasping his arm tightly, “that’s C’lotta;
I know her, I raised her. Lem’me go and speak to her!”</p>

<p>“Wait, Smith, don’t be a fool!” he said, impatiently
shaking me off, and making his way across the room, as the
music had now ceased.</p>

<p>I turned to the others of our party and kept repeating,
“That’s our C’lotta, I know her ‘s well ‘s I want to. She
knows me soon ‘s she sees me.”</p>

<p>An elderly gentleman, who had been much annoyed by
our noise, and who had been looking very steadily at us for
several minutes, now got up from his seat and approached.
I looked at him now for the first time, and oh, shade of
Hamlet! I recognized my father. The most fervent wish
of my heart was that there might be a Samson underneath
that floor with his hands already on the pillars.</p>

<p>He did not smile as I pressed his hand, but said, “Come,
go with me up to our room, John.”</p>

<p>His presence, and my chagrin and surprise did one good
thing&mdash;it effectually sobered me.</p>

<p>As we walked out of the room he left me for a moment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
and when he rejoined me a lady was on his arm&mdash;my mother.
There was as much sorrow as joy in her kiss, and we proceeded
in silence to their rooms. I took the proffered seat,
and no one spoke for some time; then mother burst into
tears and said:</p>

<p>“Oh, my child! my child! you have almost broken my
heart. To think that I left you such a pure, noble boy, and
return to meet you drunk, and in a disorderly crowd. Oh,
John, how cruelly you have deceived us!”</p>

<p>I threw myself on my knees, as I used to do when a child,
and buried my face in her lap.</p>

<p>“Mother,” I said, humbly, “I have not deceived you; let
me explain.”</p>

<p>“My son,” said she, “there can be no explanation. I
saw you intoxicated myself; and even now you are under
the influence of liquor.”</p>

<p>Her last words somewhat nettled me, and I resumed my
seat, saying as I did so:</p>

<p>“I am entirely sober, madam;” which, indeed, was the
truth, for all the fumes and effects of the liquor I had taken
departed instantly from me on the discovery of my parents.
Father, who had been regarding me with much pity, now
spoke:</p>

<p>“Do not be too hard on him, Mary; perhaps this is his
first offence.”</p>

<p>“It is, it is,” I said, gratefully; then suddenly remembering,
I said, candidly: “No, I will confess I was under the
influence of wine once before this,” and I told of Frank’s
party. With that exception this was my first time, and I
promised that it should be the last.</p>

<p>They both seemed mollified, and seeing that I was really
not under the influence of liquor, they gradually fell into
conversation with me, and we forgot all unpleasantness in
our mutual inquiries about each other’s health, and a general
hash of all that had occurred since we parted. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
evening wore on, and I commenced to make preparation for
my departure; I had just taken my hat when a rustling
was heard in the corridor, a musical “Good night!” and
Carlotta came in, holding up her satin trail with its shower
of lace. She started back on seeing a stranger in the room,
but the next instant, as I rose to meet her, she dropped her
skirt, and, holding out both hands, exclaimed:</p>

<p>“John! dear brother!” and putting up her rosy lips she
kissed me, then stood looking at me with earnest happiness
in her glance, as if she was really glad to meet me. What
a joyous feeling there was in my heart! An hour or two
before I had coveted just the honor of an introduction, now
I had pressed her hand and kissed her! There was a delightful
surprise, too, about the kiss, that made it all the
more thrilling. We had never been very intimate, though
living in the same house, and while confiding many secrets
to each other as children, as I have told, yet there was
always a shadow of reserve between us, and it was only by
observing, at a distance, the beautiful depth of her character,
I had learned to love her. After a three years’ residence in
Europe I had expected to find her haughty, vain and supercilious,
and had rather dreaded the meeting; but now I
found that the flattery and adulation she had received, instead
of turning her head, had only conferred the insight of
experience, and made her own heart more earnest and true.</p>

<p>These thoughts of her ran rapidly through my mind as I
gazed at the beautiful, brilliant woman that had bloomed
from the lovely child, whose image I had cherished since we
had parted.</p>

<p>We sat down with father and mother, and as we all had
much to say, there were not many seconds that escaped unfreighted
with a word. Carlotta seemed much more ready
to listen to me, though, than to talk, and instead of telling
what she had seen and done seemed intensely interested in
my dull affairs.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span></p>

<p>Father asked her if she were not going back to the ball
room.</p>

<p>“Oh, dear, no,” she said, drawing off her gloves, “I had
much rather stay here and talk with John; beside, I am
tired. I had a long sail on the lake to-day, and drove out
with Cousin Herrara this afternoon. Please unfasten my
bracelet,” and she extended her arm to me.</p>

<p>As I took her soft white arm in my hand can you wonder
that I pretended to be awkward, that I might prolong the
undoing of it?</p>

<p>“<i>Apropos</i> of the ball, John,” she said, while I was fumbling
at the bracelet, “Mr. Monte asked the privilege of introducing
two friends, Mr. Finnock and Mr. Smith. Did he
refer to you?”</p>

<p>I told her he did, and what a romantic fervor I felt after
I had seen her at the railway, and she and father rallied
me on losing it as soon as I found her out, and mother
helped me to deny it, and we were all so pleasant together
we forgot the lapse of time. Looking at my watch and
finding it nearly day, I bade them good night, and went to
my room.</p>

<p>Like a child with a new toy, I felt a continual surprise
and delight that the brilliant belle of the Springs was <i>my</i>
Carlotta. Mine? The thought of Cousin Herrara placed a
very large mark of interrogation after that word. As all
indications pointed to the fact that she was his, and would
ere long leave our home, the question came to me, bitterly:
Can I give her up?</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c302" id="c302">CHAPTER XXXV.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">A late</span> breakfast found Mr. and Mrs. Marshman and myself
at the table, Finnock and the two young ladies having
gone for an ante-gestacular walk.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span></p>

<p>After a smoke I hurried over to Congress Hall and found
Carlotta and Herrara Lola in the parlor. She was looking
perfectly lovely in a morning dress of India muslin, and with
her hair flowing loose through a band of gold. For the first
time now I felt the abashment I had dreaded, and realized
the disadvantage at which I appeared, in person and
manners, after my long residence among books and boys, as
I met the glance of Herrara’s dark eyes, and imagined I
could detect a smile at my discomfiture beneath the jetty
fringe on his lip.</p>

<p>“Cousin Herrara!” said Carlotta, “this is John, my
brother; you almost know him, I have spoken to you so
much of him.”</p>

<p>I bowed low over his hand, which was soft, and small as
a woman’s, as he said, with just enough Spanish in his
accent to soften the English:</p>

<p>“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Smith. Lola has made us
acquainted ere this occasion.”</p>

<p>His manners were those of a courteous iceberg, and I
endeavored to adjust mine to a reciprocal degree of frigidity.
I had just commenced a stereotyped reply when the same
horses and carriage I had seen at the railway drove up,
and he remarked to Carlotta:</p>

<p>“I ordered the carriage for our usual drive, but I presume
you now prefer renewing old times and terms with
your friend.”</p>

<p>“Certainly, Cousin Herrara, I will stay with John, as I
have not seen him for years, and am with you every day.”</p>

<p>“I resign her then to you, Mr. Smith,” he said, turning
off, while I thanked him with an attempt at one of his bows.
He approached a group of gentlemen outside the door and
asked two of them to ride with him. The three got into the
carriage, a few plunges of the noble animals and the spokes
in the wheels became almost invisible as they whirled up
the street.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span></p>

<p>“A superb equipage!” I said, as we took our seats near
the window.</p>

<p>“Yes, Cousin Herrara purchased the turnout from a
Cuban acquaintance here a few days since. He is going to
send it to Havana.”</p>

<p>“You are very fond of Cousin Herrara, are you not?” I
asked, with something of petulance in my tone.</p>

<p>“Indeed I am,” she said, frankly; “he is as kind and
loving as he can be, and is always attentive without being
obtrusive. I am indebted to him for almost all the pleasure
I have seen since I left Wilmington. But, come, tell me all
the news about the dear old place,” she said, laying her
cheek on the downy tips of her fan. “What of Lulie and
your Chapel Hill love?”</p>

<p>“Lulie is still Frank’s slave, and a remorseless cruel
master he is,” I said.</p>

<p>“Then you and she have never renewed your old feeling?”</p>

<p>“And never will,” I said, solemnly. “The other lady to
whom you refer, DeVare’s fiancée, is here now as the Hon.
Mrs. Marshman. Her old Congressman is, however, too
jealous for her to receive attentions from gentlemen.”</p>

<p>“Really, you seem to be unfortunate in your loves.”</p>

<p>“Indeed I am. I even fear that&mdash;&mdash;” I found that the
sentence might prove too pointed for the occasion, and I
would not complete it.</p>

<p>Without asking for the remainder, she changed the subject
into inquiries about all her acquaintances, and put me
through a regular examination. When she had concluded,
I told her I would now put her on the witness stand.</p>

<p>“Do you love Herrara, Lola?” I first asked.</p>

<p>She looked at me steadily, as if to read my motives, and
then, as the smile came back to her face, said, “That is too
pointed and abrupt; try circumlocution and I will be more
communicative.”</p>

<p>She was so quiet and self-possessed in her evasion that I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>
felt more than ever convinced that she loved her cousin,
and said, with an attempt at ironical pleasantry:</p>

<p>“You are engaged to him, and can’t deny it. Invite me
to the wedding, please.”</p>

<p>She laughed carelessly, as she looked out the window and
replied:</p>

<p>“Your method of extorting information is so ingenious
that I would dread its inquisition, were I not happily relieved
by seeing yonder the object of your inquiries.”</p>

<p>As she spoke Lola’s phæton rolled to the door, and he
and his companions got out. He came in, drew a chair to
Carlotta’s side, and taking her fan from her hand fanned
his face vigorously, turning it from side to side to catch the
wind, and lifting the dark, curling hair from his high, handsome
forehead. As soon as he approached I again felt that
shrinking in his presence, that consciousness of a consciousness
in him of superiority, though my own pride would not
acknowledge it. He was such an Apollo in face and form,
so elegant and <i>recherche</i> in style, that I was sure Carlotta
could not help regarding me as plain and unsophisticated;
and, feeling desirous of escaping the consequent awkwardness
of my situation, I was about to go to my hotel, when
Carlotta spoke:</p>

<p>“Herra, you ought to have remained with us. I am sure
you would have enjoyed our conversation more than you
did your ride.”</p>

<p>“If you conversed at all I would,” he said, folding her
fan and returning it. “The road was so dusty we could
not open our mouths. But you are fortunate, Mr. Smith, if
you can entertain Carlotta for half an hour. Ten minutes
is her maximum time of interest in what I say.”</p>

<p>“Now, Herra,” said Carlotta, “You know I was with you
a whole hour yesterday; but you would have been as much
interested in Mr. Smith’s conversation as I was, as it was
about yourself.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p>

<p>I only heard his nonchalant “Ah! indeed!” when, with
a hot flush on my cheek, and an angry resentment in my
heart, I rose, and without a word of adieu left them, and
walked across the street to the Union. I knew they could
see me from the window, and I fancied them laughing at
my discomfiture. I was just debating whether I would
leave the Springs and continue my tour of travel alone, or
stay there and make love to Miss Finnock, when I saw the
little flat face and wide eyes of the lady in question peeping
out the parlor door. As I approached she smiled a froggy
little smile, and said:</p>

<p>“Have you seen my brother or Mr. Marshman? I have
been expecting them some time.”</p>

<p>“No, indeed,” I replied, offering my arm; “shall we go
in search of them, or wait here in the parlor?”</p>

<p>“We had best wait, perhaps,” she said, glancing toward
two chairs in a shaded corner.</p>

<p>We took our seats, and her ceaseless little tongue began:</p>

<p>“Oh! Mr. Smith, you should have been with us this
morning.”</p>

<p>“Why and where?” I said, affecting Laconicism.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Marshman and I walked out to the Indian encampment
near here, and we saw there such an interesting
old woman. She claims to be of the royal line of chiefs, and,
in her broken way, talks very prettily of the encroachments
of the whites upon the hunting grounds of her fathers.”</p>

<p>“To one of your poetic temperament, Miss Finnock,” I
replied, “she must indeed be an object of interest. What
a romantic sadness attaches itself to a contemplation of the
destiny of these forest children! Poor, fading race! A
few squalid beggars are all that are left of the legions of
feather-decked warriors who once fought their battles here.
Ever receding before the resistless march of civilization, the
last tribe will soon chant their death-song on the shores of
the Pacific, and sink with the setting sun in its waves.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p>

<p>It roused her, and I saw by the spread of her nostrils
that her soul was on fire. My remarks were part of an old
speech at school, which I happened to remember, but they
served very well for a match to the powder of her romance.
She gazed at me as if in raptures while I was speaking, and
when I ended she clasped her hands, with tears, or water, in
her eyes, and exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Yes, indeed, Mr. Smith, there is a romantic interest
that clings to the memory of these Nature’s lords. Their
mysterious origin, their nobility of soul, their mute adoration
of the Great Spirit, the wild poetry of their legends,
all have combined to make me admire them with all the
fervor of my nature. Oh! what indeed must be the agony
of their bursting hearts, as they stand on some lone mountain,
and read in the smoke of the steamer their certain
doom. Ah! when we think of their wrongs, the tomahawk
becomes the battle-axe of freedom, and the scalping-knife
as sacred as the dagger of a Corday.”</p>

<p>Fearing, if I encouraged her, she might pack up and go
West, to become the Florence Nightingale of the Comanches,
I begged pardon for changing the subject, and asked her if
she had seen my sister.</p>

<p>“Your sister!” she exclaimed, in her surprise, “I thought
you were travelling alone, and expected to meet your family
at Niagara.”</p>

<p>“So I did, but it seems they telegraphed of the change in
their plans after I had left the University; and so I was
very greatly surprised to find them here.”</p>

<p>“She is not your sister, except by adoption, is she? I
have heard Mrs. Marshman speak of you in connection
with her. You are expected to love and marry her, are you
not?”</p>

<p>“No, I cannot love on compulsion,” I replied, looking
very steadily at her; “the emotion must be spontaneous,
and unaffected by circumstances.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span></p>

<p>“You express my sentiments perfectly,” she said, looking
at me with a glance that was meant to be searching.</p>

<p>“Have you ever loved, Miss Finnock?” I asked, artlessly.
Her eyes fell to her lap, and her fingers twitched each other
as nervously as if she were a mute and were spelling.</p>

<p>“I cannot say that I have,” she replied, after a pause. “I
may, as a child, have felt heart throbs and bashfulness as the
little boy over the way came to trundle hoops with me, but
I have never felt that fervid and deep emotion which accords
with my idea of love.”</p>

<p>“May I ask, then, Miss Finnock, if you have given nothing
in return for the many hearts laid at your feet?”</p>

<p>“There have been no&mdash;&mdash;;” she commenced the truth but
caught herself, and said:</p>

<p>“I have never had an offer of love I believed sincere, nor,
indeed, one that I could reciprocate.”</p>

<p>I knew that I ought not to say anything more, but Carlotta
had offended me, and I was reckless.</p>

<p>“But did you believe a love sincere, would you return it?”
I asked, deepening my tone of voice to the dramatic.</p>

<p>Her eyes came timidly up to mine, and then fell again as
she said softly:</p>

<p>“That depends on whose the love was.”</p>

<p>“Miss Finnock!” I said, drawing hearer, “If I&mdash;&mdash;.”</p>

<p>“Hush! hush! here comes Lil,” she said, raising her
hands in warning. “Oh, how provoking!” she added, with
a look that was intended to be sweet.</p>

<p>As I looked up, Mrs. Marshman entered the room, and
little knowing how <i>de trop</i> she was, took a seat near us and
commenced some ordinary topic of conversation. I felt
relieved, and was therefore quite affable, but Miss Finnock
seemed put out about something, and was scarcely civil in
her replies to her. She soon excused herself, and leaving
Mrs. M. and myself in the parlor, ran up stairs. She was
gone about ten minutes, and returning, brought with her a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
bark-and-bead cigar case, which, after a moment’s hesitation,
she gave me, with the remark: “I purchased that from
the old Indian, Mr. Smith, and I beg that you will accept
and preserve it as a <i>souvenir</i> of this morning, and of our
mutual admiration of the red man.”</p>

<p>“Why, Saph!” said Mrs. Marshman, while I was bowing
my acknowledgments, “you do not know Mr. Smith well
enough to make him a present.”</p>

<p>“Mr. Smith appreciates the gift, and will not misconstrue
my motives. I dare say he will remember our conversation,”
she added, glancing archly at me.</p>

<p>I assured her that I would, and would eternally treasure
the case, with pleasant memories of the fair donor, and of
our delightful converse, and even ventured on the hackneyed
rhapsody about death alone being competent to part the
said case and myself. She bowed and blushed, and I toyed
with the case in the momentary silence that ensued, and
opening saw that there was a crumpled note deep down in
it. Just as I was inserting two fingers to reach it a waiter
approached, and presented his salver, on which lay two
cards. I looked up in surprise as I read the names, “Herrara
Lola” and “Lola Rurlestone,” and asked where they were.</p>

<p>“In the lower parlor, sir,” he said, bowing as I rose to
follow him. I excused myself to the two ladies, and
thoughtlessly left the cigar case on an ottoman where I had
laid it when I took up the cards.</p>

<p>In the lower parlor I found Carlotta and her cousin
waiting for me. Carlotta was standing near the piano,
looking expectantly towards the door, while Herrara was
leaning carelessly against the instrument, turning over the
leaves of a music portfolio.</p>

<p>“John, what on earth did you mean by leaving us so abruptly,”
said Carlotta, making a feint of striking me with
her glove. “I would have thought you offended if I could
have imagined any cause.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p>

<p>“You ought to have known me better,” was all I could
think of for a reply.</p>

<p>“Well, it makes no difference now, but you must go back
with us. Mrs. Smith sent us over after you. She says
she has scarcely spoken to you since we found you.”</p>

<p>“I am at your service,” I said, and Herrara rose up from
the piano languidly and said:</p>

<p>“Mr. Smith will escort you back, Lola; I’ll go to the billiard
room.”</p>

<p>“May I tell him, Herra?” asked Carlotta, as he walked
off; “it’s such a short time.”</p>

<p>“I don’t care,” he replied, as he lifted his hat gracefully
and left the parlor.</p>

<p>“May I ask what it is you wish to tell?” I said, feeling an
interest in all secrets between them.</p>

<p>“Everybody believes here that Cousin Herrara and I are
engaged, and I assure you it is very inconvenient, for it
deprives me of a quantity of attention which you know I
would receive, and I believe from your conduct you have
fallen into the same error.”</p>

<p>“I have had sufficient reason for such a belief,” I replied.</p>

<p>“Well, it’s no such thing. He is engaged to a lady in
Madrid. He returns to Cuba next month, and then sails to
Spain for his beautiful bride.”</p>

<p>“Then you are still in the market?” I said, with an unaccountable
feeling of relief at my heart.</p>

<p>“Of course I am,” she replied, as we ran across the street
to Congress Hall.</p>

<p>We had hardly joined father and mother in the parlor before
a servant appeared with cards for Carlotta, and soon
Monte and two others entered.</p>

<p>As she received them across the room I was left to a
quiet talk with my parents. We had not told each other a
tithe of what we had to tell when I saw the gentlemen rise
and accompany Carlotta to the piano. As she seated herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
gracefully at the instrument, and gave the warbling
keys the petting of a prelude, there was a hush round the
room, and I listened eagerly for the first note. She sang a
soft Italian air, as full of mellow, rich trillings as a nightingale’s
song, and her splendid voice, perfect in its culture,
rose and fell with exquisite melody and wondrous expression
through the difficult measures. Its floods of glorious
music so filled the room that we could not have told where
the notes came from but for the throbbing of her Parian
throat. When the last sound had died away, like the sobbing
of a silver bell, every one gave the rapt applause of
silence, till Monte, with his affected drawl, asked for a half
dozen screeching arias. When she had sung enough the
gentlemen left, and I was hoping that I would have her to
myself, when another waiter appeared with more cards, and
I found I would only have to play spectator at her levee.</p>

<p>I intended to move over to their hotel, but found, on application
at the office, that it was too much crowded, and kept
my rooms at the Union. That evening at tea I found Mr.
Marshman and lady present, but Miss Finnock had finished
and gone to her room. Underneath my plate I found the
cigar case and a note. I looked up in some confusion, and
found Mrs. Marshman smiling at me, as if she thought our
love was a foregone conclusion.</p>

<p>“Sappho is a dear little girl, isn’t she?” she said, as I unfolded
the note.</p>

<p>“Very,” I replied laconically, finding, without surprise,
that the note was a string of verses, as follows:</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">“Forgotten the gift, the giver, alas!</p>
<p class="ppn5">Cannot claim the least thought in the day.</p>
<p class="ppn4">With me all the moments and seconds that pass</p>
<p class="ppn5">Bear an image of thee on their way.</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">This morning, suspenseful, I hung on thy speech,</p>
<p class="ppn5">And Time, oh, too swiftly did fly;</p>
<p class="ppn4">The cup is dashed down before my lips reach</p>
<p class="ppn5">It, and bliss is cut off with ‘If I&mdash;&mdash;’</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>And oh! what a vista of happiness opes</p>
<p class="ppn5">At the touch of the Sesame ‘if;’</p>
<p class="ppn4">What a sun-colored life, what a Canaan of hopes</p>
<p class="ppn5">Do I glimpse through the unclosing rift.”</p>

<p class="p1">There was no signature, but a holly leaf was pinned at
the bottom of the verses. The emblem of holly I knew to
be “Forgotten;” but if I had picked the verses up in Bessarabia
I would have known Miss Finnock wrote them. I folded
them up carefully and put the cigar case in my pocket,
and finished my tea in silence, Mrs. Marshman having
risen from the table while I was reading. I was really annoyed
at the turn things had taken. If Miss Finnock had
been an experienced flirt I should have regarded the affair
as capital fun, but I felt sure Miss F. was in earnest; for,
though she was old enough, she had never had much experience,
and I had not attained that very desirable point
of social education when I could knowingly trifle with a
young lady’s feelings. I resolved once not to see her again,
but remembered that I had an engagement to visit the encampment
with her next morning.</p>

<p>“Well,” I said, resignedly, as I lit my cigar on the lawn,
“I will certainly not commit myself farther. No word or
hint of love will I give to-morrow.”</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c312" id="c312">CHAPTER XXXVI.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">The</span> waiter’s reveille was very unwelcome next morning,
but I rose and dressed and found Miss Finnock already in
the parlor.</p>

<p>“Oh, the morning air is so bracing, is it not?” she said,
as we left the hotel; “it buoys one up so; I feel so light-hearted
and free early in the morning; I am as airy as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
feather,” and she almost skipped in her youthful exuberance
of spirits.</p>

<p>“You had better weigh,” I said, somewhat morosely, as
we passed the old lame man and his scales.</p>

<p>I confess I was out of humor. Can you blame me? To
be roused at such an hour, to parade over to see tiresome
Indians, with a fidgety little woman, who was trying to
captivate me, and whom I hated now. Would not her very
flow of spirits be provoking?</p>

<p>“See yon dew-drops how they sparkle,” she exclaimed,
pointing with a finger on which shone a diamond ring over
her glove. “Nature, unlike the ladies, wears her jewels at
morn.”</p>

<p>“Then the ladies are not natural,” I said emptily.</p>

<p>“Oh! I confess we are quite artificial in many respects,
though not artful&mdash;at least I am not.”</p>

<p>“Really, Miss Finnock, do you confess to artificial aid in
your beauty?”</p>

<p>“If I had any beauty it would be artificial, of course. You
admire beauty, do you not&mdash;your lady love is so beautiful?”</p>

<p>“To whom do you refer as my lady love, Miss Finnock?”</p>

<p>“Why, the lady who called you away from me yesterday.
Please tell me if you love her. Now, confide in me,
won’t you?” and she looked up at me with an affected squint
in her broad little eyes.</p>

<p>“I would trust you, Miss Finnock, but there is nothing to
confide.”</p>

<p>“Then, of course, there is no love, as that is something of
great importance.”</p>

<p>“Do you think so?” I said, vacantly, as we entered the
camp ground. We spent half an hour strolling about, and
after I had given five dollars for an old bead basket, that was
said to have some Indian legend connected with it, and presented
it to the little enthusiast, we turned back to our hotel.
I was unusually dull, for I felt that it would be inconsistent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span>
with previous attentions and her expectations to introduce
commonplace topics, and I had determined not even to
hint at love. She seemed to notice my reticence, and tried
to rally me.</p>

<p>“You do not seem as cheerful as usual, Mr. Smith. Can
I have offended you in any way?”</p>

<p>“Thank you, Miss Finnock, for the hint that I am not
entertaining,” I said, glad of anything to take up; “let us
hasten our steps that you may be the sooner relieved of my
presence.”</p>

<p>“Oh, how cruelly you misinterpret my meaning. The
pleasure of your company is as great&mdash;I mean that&mdash;&mdash;” she
feigned confusion, “I like to be with you, but there is such
a change in your manner since yesterday.”</p>

<p>“Is there?” I said, mechanically, and thoughtlessly continued:
“I was hardly aware of it. I am sure my feelings
have not changed.”</p>

<p>“Have they not?” she exclaimed eagerly; “neither have
mine.”</p>

<p>‘Twas too far gone to correct, and so I said nothing.
After another pause she tried to look roguish and said, “Did
you not chastise the waiter for his interruption yesterday?”</p>

<p>What could I say but that I feared she had already rewarded
him for so opportune an entrance.</p>

<p>“I regretted it as much as you possibly could,” she said,
softly looking down at the beaten path.</p>

<p>It was abrupt, perhaps unkind, but I inquired if she
would take a glass of water, as we were just then near the
springs. She assented with a slightly reproachful look, and
we approached the circular railing, which was surrounded
by a throng of health-seeking drinkers, all eagerly waiting
for the glasses from the long whirling dippers.</p>

<p>It was the same crowd that is always there. The stylish
young lady, who puts her glass down after the third sip;
the pale young man with the large Adam’s apple, which goes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
up and down his throat like the piston of a pump, carrying
down whole gills of water at every gulp; the tall school girl,
with her hair plaited in ribbons, leaning over to the glass
and holding her dress back with one hand from its drippings;
the fat bad child, his mother holding a glass to his
mouth, and resting her hand on his head as if it was the
faucet she had to hold open for the water to run down; and
the delicate, meek boy, who has been brought to the springs
by his father, who is now standing by, watching with deep
interest and a notch stick the glasses he takes. Poor little
fellow! standing with a Hogarth’s curve in his shoulders,
both hands grasping the glass, he swigs away, while the
veins and leaders in his neck swell and tighten, and the dark
lines under his eyes grow deeper, and his eyelids redder, as
they disappear behind the rising edge of the tumbler. He
takes it down and blows out: “How many’s that, pa?” and
receiving the plaudit, “Five, my dear boy,” is led away to
the hotel, to spend the day in his room, instead of playing
himself into health with other children.</p>

<p>When Miss Finnock and I had left the pagoda, and were
walking up the hill towards the hotel, she made a pretence
of pondering over something, and suddenly said:</p>

<p>“Mr. Smith, will you tell me something if I ask you?”</p>

<p>“Most assuredly, Miss Finnock, if it is in my power to do so.”</p>

<p>“Well, I want to know&mdash;no, I can’t ask you now, I’ll
wait till we part at the hotel.”</p>

<p>When we ascended the steps I begged to know her question.</p>

<p>“Oh! I cannot tell, it sounds so silly,” she said, twirling
the Indian basket with assumed bashfulness.</p>

<p>“I must bid you good morning, then,” I said, turning to
leave.</p>

<p>“No, I will tell you; I don’t mind; I only wanted to
know the remainder of the sentence you left unfinished
yesterday.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></p>

<p>“I will tell you soon,” I replied, bowing and leaving her,
for I knew not what else to say. Now I am in for it, I said
to myself, as I walked across the street to Congress Hall, to
breakfast with our family. I will consult Carlotta upon it
and take her advice.</p>

<p>As unpleasant as my walk had been in some respects, it
had imparted an appetite that made porterhouse steaks and
<i>omelettes souffle</i> disappear with a celerity alarming to the
proprietors. As we rose from the table Carlotta told me
that she and Lola were going over to the lake, and insisted
that I should join them. As I now felt no delicacy about
obtruding, since she had informed me of the relation she sustained
to him, I consented. Lola and I had scarcely finished
our cigars when his carriage was announced, and, going up
to our parlors we found Carlotta waiting, the picture of
perfect loveliness, beneath a broad sun hat. The road was
already filled with vehicles, and the dust was floating in
clouds about our faces; Lola leaned forward and spoke to
the driver; “Go ahead, Michael,” and with dizzy speed
his splendid horses whirled us past every team, and we
were breathing again the pure fresh air.</p>

<p>When we reached the lake house, and had refreshed with
some ices, I went down and secured a boat for a sail. Lola
said he preferred the bowling alley, and Carlotta and I took
our places in the graceful little craft I had chosen. My
experience on the Sound at home had made me a good
sailor, and I dismissed the boatman.</p>

<p>Running up the sail and getting before the wind, so that
there was no danger of a gybe, I lashed the rudder so as to
direct our course across the lake, and took my seat by Carlotta
under the awning. The scene and situation were enchanting.
The purple hills held the crystal lake in their
bosom, like an immense dew drop, while soft fleecy clouds
floated off from their hazy tops like smoke from an altar.
The glittering surface of the lake was crimped by the breeze<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span>
into myriad ruffles, that rustled their little foam against our
vessel’s side. Other boats were sailing far off, and with their
glistening canvas looked like white herons flying hither and
thither with a slow, objectless flight. Behind us was the
lake-house, its verandahs thronged with people, its carriage
way crowded with constantly arriving and departing
vehicles, and at the water’s edge, a long walk-way extending
out into the lake&mdash;all receding farther and farther from
us. By my side was Carlotta, a bright glow on her cheeks,
her beautiful eyes beaming with pleasure, and her magnificent
hair caught up in an immense coil, that seemed oppressive
in its weight as it was bewitching in its negligée.
One glove was withdrawn and her sleeve pushed high up
the swelling arm, while the dimpled hand dangled in the
rippling waters, that reflected the smooth white fingers in
crooked, dancing outlines. Out on the lake alone, and
Heaven only knows how I loved her! yet I did not dare to
disclose it. The very intimacy of our childhood, the relations
we bore to each other in our family, the brilliancy of
her career in society, and the constant adulation she received,
all made me feel that she could regard my tame proposal
of love with nothing less than ridicule. So, while my
heart fluttered with its restrained emotion, I spoke carelessly
and lightly, admiring the view with her, and quoting
Wordsworth and Tupper with pedantic inaptitude. Leaving
scenery we became more personal, and, after asking her
secrecy, I told her of my affair with Miss Finnock and asked
her advice.</p>

<p>“And you promised to finish the sentence soon?” she
said, laughing, and flipping the water from her fingers’ ends
as she drew on her glove; “what was its intended conclusion?”</p>

<p>“I was about to ask her that, if I were to offer my hand
and heart, would she accept?” feeling a little ashamed of the
commonplace phrases.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span></p>

<p>“A subjunctive courtship, truly,” she said, smiling, as she
took off her hat and threw back her hair from her white
forehead to catch the fresh breeze. “Well, you have, indeed,
committed yourself. You have attached too much
importance to the matter, by deferring it, to give it some
trivial conclusion, such as, ‘were I to raise the piano would
you play?’ or, if I call this evening, will you ride with me?
You have promised, and her heart is beating high with
expectation.”</p>

<p>“It will beat a long time before it is satisfied, then,” I said,
somewhat morosely.</p>

<p>“Suppose you write her a note, and candidly inform her
that your feelings have undergone a change,” she suggested
archly.</p>

<p>“That would wound her feelings,” I said, “and I cannot
do that.”</p>

<p>“But are you sure the lady loves you? That is a matter
of some importance.”</p>

<p>“I have every reason to believe it.”</p>

<p>“I see nothing that you can do but wait the issue of
events. Wouldn’t it be funny if you had to marry her, or
be sued for a breach of promise?”</p>

<p>“Pardon me for not seeing the fun in either case,” I replied,
shuddering at the bare idea of marrying her; “but
see, here comes another boat!”</p>

<p>The large boat at the lake house had been manned, and
was rapidly catching up with us, under the pressure of sails,
and oars to which a couple of stout Irishmen were bending.
As they drew nearer we saw that the occupants were Mr.
Marshman and party. Miss Finnock was sitting in the prow
of the boat, armed with an opera glass, which she now
lowered from the hills to our boat. I fancied her eyes grew
wider apart as she saw who my companion was. Their
boat came swiftly on, foaming at her prow, and bearing
down upon us like a pirate on a prize.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span></p>

<p>They were near enough now to bow, and I raised myself
from my reclining position to touch my hat. Mr. Finnock
was steering, and I saw he knew nothing about it.</p>

<p>As I had tied my rudder I did not unloose it, as I thought
of course they would pass by. Such was Finnock’s intention,
but attempting to bear to one side, he gave the rudder
too strong a turn, and to correct that turned too much the
other way, and their boat, at full speed, ran obliquely against
us. Carlotta and Miss Finnock both had risen to their feet
as they saw the impending collision, and were both precipitated
into the water, between the boats, which separated as
soon as they struck.</p>

<p>Carlotta had scarcely touched the water before I was by
her side.</p>

<p>Did you ever see waves close over one you love? then
you know the horror that stamped the whole scene upon my
memory, indelible in its distinctness, and perfectly vivid in
its minutest detail. Her frightened look, as the boats came
together, her agonizing cry for help as she fell, the dull
splash of the water, the eddies that curled above the place
she sank, all are present still. I remember now how clear
the water was, and how, as with one stroke of my hands, I
reached the spot, I saw her dress floating scarce beneath the
surface, and then her face, distorted in her convulsive struggles
for life, slowly rising upward. To draw her head
above the surface was the work of a second, and as soon as
she had cleared the water from her eyes and mouth sufficiently
to become conscious, I bade her take my hand, and
with the other commenced to swim to the nearest boat. As
soon as she realized the situation she regained her presence
of mind, and clung to me tenderly, though not so as to impede
my movements. The large boat was not more than a
dozen feet from us, and the occupants, as is usual in such
cases, were in a frenzy of salvation, throwing overboard for
our assistance, everything that would float. One of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span>
intended life-buoys&mdash;a heavy oar&mdash;struck me on the head,
almost stunning me, but I shook the water from my eyes
and struggled on. The next moment my feet became entangled
in a web of garments, a bubbling shriek burst forth
close at my ear, and my arms were pinioned by the frantic
Miss Finnock, who rose near me.</p>

<p>“B-r-r-sh ok&mdash;ok&mdash;Oh! chtl-Mr. Smith k-k&mdash;tl save your-k&mdash;d-arling,
tlsave me k-ok&mdash;Oh! tlsave-k-me. D-ts-earest tsave
me;” and, sputtering and choking, she clung to my neck,
dragging me down irresistibly. As soon as Carlotta saw
my danger, she let go my hand, and said, in her trembling
voice, “Save yourself, John!”</p>

<p>But all this occurred in half the time I have taken to write
it, and the people in the boat had now recovered their
senses. The two Irishmen were in the water, and Mr.
Marshman and Finnock stood ready with ropes to aid them.
Carlotta was first drawn on board, then Miss Finnock and
myself. Mr. Marshman fortunately happened to have a
flask of brandy along, so the ladies went to work on the
ladies, the gentlemen on me, while the boat hands overhauled
our little boat, took down the sail, and lashed it fast
to the large one. At first I felt weak and dizzy, but after a
while I was able to sit up, though I could not render much
help to the others. Carlotta was very pale, and her loosened
hair, rendered still more glossy by the water, hung in jetty
masses around her marble features. She was conscious,
though faint, and lay helplessly in Mrs. Marshman’s lap,
occasionally raising her soft eyes to mine with an expression
so full of grateful meaning that it thrilled me into life and
activity. Miss Finnock had fainted, of course, and lay like
one dead in Miss Stelway’s lap.</p>

<p>The pallor on her face did not tend to increase her beauty,
and a large roll of wet hair was hanging to her own knot
by a single hair-pin.</p>

<p>Finnock and Miss Stelway were chafing her hands, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span>
trying to get some of the brandy between her lips. Mrs.
Marshman suggested unfastening her clothing, but after Miss
Stelway had stolen a hand under her bodice, she withdrew
it hopelessly, as if there was rather too much to undo and
cut.</p>

<p>Very soon Miss F. commenced gasping, like a fish on a
sand bank, and opening and closing her eyes in the most
approved stage-faint style. Miss Stelway kissed her forehead,
and called her “dear Saph,” with a fine resuscitating
effect, for little Sappho began to utter broken sentences in
faint but nervous sudden tones, jerking the words out, as if
she could not control them.</p>

<p>“Oh where&mdash;where&mdash;is he?” she said, looking straight up
into Miss Stelway’s face. “She sunk&mdash;him&mdash;I know she&mdash;did.
I saw&mdash;her cling-ing to him.”</p>

<p>With Miss Stelway’s assistance she sat up, and her eyes
met mine. When, with an affected scream, she buried her
face in Miss Stelway’s bosom, and sobbed.</p>

<p>“There, darling,” said Miss S., “compose yourself; we all
are safe, and are nearly at the shore.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Nellie,” said Miss Finnock, between her sobs, “did&mdash;they&mdash;all&mdash;see
my&mdash;feet?”</p>

<p>Those at the Lake House had seen the accident, and Herrara
met us at the shore with his carriage. We drove
rapidly back to the town, and were met by mother, with
uplifted hands and a face full of horror. Afraid of forming
a scene, I bade them good morning, and went over to my
room to change my clothes. A strange happiness was at
my heart, for Carlotta had pressed my hand, when we parted,
with grateful fervor.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
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<div class="break">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span></p>

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c322" id="c322">CHAPTER XXXVII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Our</span> accident formed quite a subject of sensation in Saratoga,
and, in a small way, I found myself the hero of the
occasion, and scores of the “fellows” echoed Monte’s sentiments,
when he said:</p>

<p>“Smith, I vow I would like to have been in your place.
‘Twas jolly, I know, saving that angelic Lola. The devil
take your good luck! did she hold on tight?”</p>

<p>The afternoon following the day of the disaster I went
over to Congress Hall, and sent up my card, and inquiries
after Carlotta’s health. The servant returned with a card
from mother, saying Carlotta was almost well enough to go
out, but that she was now sleeping under the influence of
an opiate, and must remain quiet all the evening. They
were in their parlor, and insisted that I should join them.
I immediately went up stairs, and was met at the door by
mother, with her bonnet on. She invited me in, in a whisper,
and explained that she had just gotten ready to do some shopping
that was necessary. She pointed to the centre table, on
which were some new books, and begged me to amuse myself
for a quarter of an hour, when she would be back, or
Carlotta would awaken.</p>

<p>I accordingly took my seat, nothing loth to watch over
such a beautiful charge, and picking up <i>Beulah</i>, which was
the sensation just then, began to read. The room was very
quiet, and the shaded light from the soft green curtains was
very pleasant, but I could not become interested in the
book, and, laying it down, I moved a chair noiselessly near
Carlotta, and sat silently looking and loving. She was reclining
on a folding lounge of pink damask, that reflected a
faint tint on her face, which was white as marble. Her hair
was parted simply over her forehead, and fell in voluminous
waves over the pillow, while her lashes lay in deep black<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>
crescents on her cheeks. One soft hand rested under her
face, while the other lay at her side, its tapering fingers half
closed. No quivers of the lids, no slightest motion, told of
life, save the rise and fall of the snowy frill at her throat.
Oh, hopeless love! the saddest of all earth’s sadness, the
deepest of all earth’s gloom!</p>

<p>She could not, did not love me, I knew from all the past
and the present. To tell her of my love would only distress
her and make home unhappy. Mine alone must be the
struggle and the victory. I would kneel by her side, touch
her cheek but once with my lips, and henceforth only be
her brother. I rose softly and knelt by the sofa, and my
face bent over hers. That kiss was to be the seal of my
silence, and I was, from that moment, to bury the love of
my life in my own heart, and trust to Time to build its tomb.
I steadied myself with one hand on the back of the sofa,
leaned down, and whispering only that one word, “Darling!”
kissed her cheek. As gentle as was my touch her
eyes unclosed and she looked in my face. Overwhelmed
with shame and confusion, I could not move or speak, but
kneeled motionless with our faces almost touching, and my
eyes fixed on hers. The next instant her soft arm was laid
timidly around my neck, and, with a look that thrilled my
very soul, she said, in a tone of wondrous tenderness,
“John!” It was only one word, but it told me all; and
the next instant, in a delirium of surprise and joy, I had
clasped her in my arms, kissing her brow, and cheeks, and
mouth, and murmuring, “Darling, do you love me?”</p>

<p>And when Reason had returned, what a Heaven on earth
‘twas to sit by her side, to hold her hand in mine, to feel the
glorious resurrection of hope and love from the grave to
which I was about to consign them, to know that the very
truth and sincerity of her nature assured the certainty and
earnestness of her love for me! Then it was such a delightful
surprise, so different from what I expected, that I feared<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span>
it could not be true&mdash;that it was all a dream. “Carlotta,” I
said, looking at her fondly, “is this real, do you love me?
Is it possible that, after all my fears, all my despair, you will
be mine, my own darling&mdash;mine to love, cherish and honor,
with a devotion man never knew before?” She looked up
into my face with a depth of truth in her dark eyes that dispelled
every doubt, as she said:</p>

<p>“I have always loved you, John.”</p>

<p>“Always, Lottie? What hours of unhappiness ‘twould
have saved me had I known it; for, though I have loved
you constantly during these long years of our separation,
yet I have felt that my love was hopeless, and while I treasured
that dear curl, the pledge of your remembrance, I
somehow felt that you would remember me only as the
friend, perhaps the brother of your childhood. As I received
letters telling me of your growth into beautiful
womanhood, and of the attention and devotion that were
lavished upon you everywhere, I felt that the gulf between
us was widening&mdash;that you would return proud and supercilious,
inflated with your success, and contemptuous of my
quiet student life. Almost fearing to meet you, I delayed
along my trip, hoping that when I reached Niagara I would
find our party gone; hence I stopped at the Springs, intending,
after a week’s stay, to run across to the Falls. You
know the rest; how cordially you met me, and how the
thraldom of my life was sealed. The love that had glowed
so steadily during your absence burst into a resistless flame
before your superb beauty and lovely character. Yet O,
darling, the anguish of the thought that you would never
love me&mdash;that another would soon claim the hand that held
in its grasp my soul! I could have borne it better had I
found you haughty and vain, for then resentment would have
aided me; but I found that you were still the same sweet
Carlotta that had told me farewell in Raleigh; that the brilliant
belle of every occasion was as guileless and pure as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span>
when I found her on the beach; that she was unspoilt by
the caresses of society. How I worshipped you none can
ever know, and I longed to fall at your feet and tell you all,
but I felt sure you would laugh at the idea of ‘John’s
loving,’ and this evening I was going to kiss your cheek,
and bid farewell forever to my love, when you awoke&mdash;and
thank Heaven for it! And now, darling, tell me again that
you love me, for your voice, talking of love, is the sweetest
music in the world to me.”</p>

<p>She smiled such a tender, loving smile, and, nestling up
close to me, said:</p>

<p>“I have loved you, John, ever since we met. When I
clasped your hand first after the shipwreck there was a
thrill in my heart that ever came back when you were near
me. So fearful was I that you might detect this feeling, that
I tried to be reserved and silent in your presence, and even
avoided you as much as possible. Conscious of my own
love, I felt, child as I was, that every one else knew it, and
hence my extreme sensitiveness at any connection of our
names together. You doubtless remember the scene with
Mrs. Smith, when you were asleep in the hall, or pretending
to be. That explained the nature of my feelings. I shrank
from the position I seemed to occupy&mdash;that of awaiting your
love, and of being trained to suit that love if you pleased
to confer it. While I saw you so full of Lulie and Lillian I
buried my feelings in my own heart, and strove strenuously
to crush them out of existence; but there were times when
you were tender and loving to me, and then they came resistlessly.
Do you remember one night, years ago, when
we were out on the stoop, and you took my hand and held
it awhile? No words can ever tell how I have treasured up
that little scene. When you told me farewell, the night of
our departure for Europe, and I gave you the curl, it was
an earnest pledge of what I faithfully performed.”</p>

<p>“Darling, do not speak of Lulie and Lillian. One was only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span>
the passing object of boyish affection, and the other a heartless
though brilliant woman, who flattered me by her notice
into an admiration that was as vain as it was transient.
Dearest Lottie, your heart believes me, I know, when I vow
that the purest, fondest love of my nature is yours, that
without it all life is void and blank. Darling, have you loved
me always, have you never wavered in your love, as affections
more worthy, but none more devoted than mine, have
been laid at your feet?”</p>

<p>“Never, John. No faintest shadow of love for another
has ever passed across my mind, and the only pleasure I
took in the attention I may have received has been the
thought that, if others see aught in me to love, perhaps,
when we meet, <i>he</i> will.”</p>

<p>“He being myself?” I asked, looking at her with a smile.</p>

<p>“He being yourself. There, I have made enough unladylike
confessions for one afternoon; but ‘tis all a proof of my
trust and confidence in you.”</p>

<p>“As God shall help me it is not misplaced,” and I lifted
her hand tenderly to my lips. “Never was man as proud
of as beautiful and pure a love as I am of yours, and never
was a love guarded and cherished as I will yours, and I will
seek no higher happiness on earth than to keep that dear
brow as bright and beautiful as now. Darling, look into my
eyes and read the truth of love.”</p>

<p>She looked, and would have read, perhaps, had not the
door opened just then, and mother entered from her shopping
excursion. As she saw us sitting lovingly together, Carlotta’s
hand in mine, she was so utterly astounded that she
stood without moving, her hands full of bundles, which kept
dropping on the floor.</p>

<p>To prevent further embarrassment, I rose from my seat,
and taking mother’s hand, led her to Carlotta.</p>

<p>“She is going to be my wife, mother,” I said, and without
waiting to hear her reply, left the room.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span></p>

<p>How bright and beautiful all nature seemed. The cloudless
sky, the rich green foliage, and the fragrant roses scenting
the evening air&mdash;all were in unison with my heart. The
very birds in the lawn seemed to twitter congratulations.
Nothing could have ruffled my temper; a bootblack might
have thrown his brush in my face, and I would have picked
it up for him with a smile. I felt that I could even be kind
and courteous to Miss Finnock.</p>

<p>In this pleasant frame of mind I went in to tea, and found
the two gentlemen and Mrs. Marshman at our table, Mrs.
M., after inquiries about Carlotta, and some compliments to
her beauty, thought of a note for me, from Miss Finnock;
and, as she gave it to me, said that Sappho had been quite
indisposed all day, and had suffered severely from her fright,
and the shock of the cold water.</p>

<p>Excusing myself, I opened the little three cornered note,
and read:</p>

<div class="pbq p1"><p class="p1">“Will the generous and unselfish preserver of my life do
me the favor to call this evening at our parlor, No.&mdash;, that
I may unburden my heart of its gratitude, and offer a hecatomb
of thanks to his self-sacrificing spirit. Call at eight.</p>

<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Waiting.</span>”</p></div>

<p class="p1">In much smaller writing, just beneath this, were some
verses, as usual, across which she had drawn her pen, as if
to erase them, taking care, however, to leave them sufficiently
legible&mdash;</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">“But for thy hand I might have slept</p>
<p class="ppn5">Deep in the bosom of yon lake,</p>
<p class="ppn4">And no one for me would have wept,</p>
<p class="ppn5">And none have wished that I might wake.”</p>

<p class="p1">That’s the first sensible poetry you ever wrote, I muttered,
as I read it. But there was more:</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">“I would not shun the wild waves’ wrath,</p>
<p class="ppn5">Could we sink clasping hand in hand,</p>
<p class="ppn4">To walk together pearly paths</p>
<p class="ppn5">Of mermaids, down the coral strand.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span></p>

<p class="p1">You ought to have said “path,” Saph; you’ve spoiled
your rhyme; and “mermaids” and a “coral strand,” out in
this little lake, are very much strained, but so are the verses.
I was, as I have stated, in a pleasant frame of mind, and
thus jested to myself with the verses as I read them. The
next verse, however, put the case a little more strongly:</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">“I fain would seek a watery grave,</p>
<p class="ppn5">To dwell with thee in grottoes bright,</p>
<p class="ppn4">Or roam through halls where the sea-weeds wave,</p>
<p class="ppn5">And love would make the darkness light.”</p>

<p class="p1">To think of marrying her anywhere! much less down in
a grotto, with sea-weeds and bad colds, and coral, etc. No,
I could not “fain,” as she did; but I glanced at my watch
as I rose from the table, and found that it wanted a quarter
of eight. Fifteen minutes with a Partaga, and I tapped
at the door of her parlor. Miss Finnock after Carlotta!
‘Twas like a dessert of nutgalls after Hymettean honey; but
I felt that the necessary exercise of my ingenuity would be
rather pleasant than otherwise, and looked forward to our
interview, with anticipated pride in my skilful retrogression.</p>

<p>When I entered I found Miss Finnock reclining in an easy
chair, and looking as little like her Lesbian nomenclatress as
scant strings of hair, an unmade, stiff figure, and pale blue
eyes, in a sallow face, could make her. She smiled a faint
little welcome, and pointed me to a seat in front of her.</p>

<p>“Please lower the gas,” she said, shading her eyes with
her hand; “you must excuse me, Mr. Smith, for seeing you
in such <i>deshabille</i>, but I felt sure you would appreciate this
liberty, and feel more free and unrestrained than if I had prepared
formally to see you.”</p>

<p>“I do appreciate and thank you for your consideration,”
I said, feeling assured that if she had known how different
was the effect of her <i>deshabille</i> from what she intended it
should be, she would not have been so considerate.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span></p>

<p>“I sent for you, Mr. Smith,” she continued, in a whispering
kind of voice, “that I might express my gratitude for
your heroic efforts to save me yesterday.”</p>

<p>I would have suspected any one else of irony, but I knew
she was in earnest.</p>

<p>“Really, Miss Finnock, you overestimate my conduct,” I
said; “I must be candid with you, and tell you that I was
doing all I could to save myself, which was almost impossible
with yourself and Miss Rurlestone on my arms.”</p>

<p>She looked at me with a queer little smile, and said:
“What a trying ordeal for you! If no boat had been near
us, ‘twould have been an effectual test of your love, indeed.
Would you have found it difficult to have made a choice, if
you had seen you could not save but one?”</p>

<p>“Not at all,” I replied, hoping she would construe the
preference as intended for herself, and let the subject rest.</p>

<p>She played with the tassel of her wrapper, and said
softly, “Which would you have chosen?”</p>

<p>I pretended not to have heard, and asked if she had suffered
any serious inconvenience from the accident?</p>

<p>“Not much,” she said, with something of a sigh in her
tone. “I have been feeble to-day, but hope to gain strength
rapidly. I expect to take a stroll every morning before
breakfast, and to ride with brother in the afternoons.”</p>

<p>It was a very fine opening for engagements; but I had
had enough of strolls, and so I said nothing. There was a
pause of some length, during which I saw a scrap of paper
lying on the table, and as my name was on it, I looked at it
more closely. The light in the room was very dim, and
Miss Finnock was all the while stealing quick glances at me;
besides, I knew ‘twas highly improper to read it, yet under
all these difficulties I managed to make out its purport. It
was a note from Miss Belle Monte, Miss Finnock’s dearest
friend and adviser, to her “precious Saph,” telling her that
I was only trifling with her, that her brother had certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>
information that I was engaged to Miss Rurlestone; that my
attentions to Miss F. were all insincere; that the best thing
to do was to secure an interview with me, and, on my first
committal, discard me promptly and finally.</p>

<p>I now saw that I had been invited to her parlor that she
might have the credit of dismissing me, and I resolved that
say what she would, I would not, by any reply, give her an
opportunity of so doing.</p>

<p>“When do you think of leaving?” she asked, at length,
lifting her head wearily from her hand.</p>

<p>“We will leave to-morrow or next day for Newport, where
we will spend some weeks before going home.”</p>

<p>“Oh, that is too soon,” she said; “you have not seen
enough of the Springs.”</p>

<p>“As I have not seen my parents in several years, and came
on here to meet them, I must regulate my movements by
theirs. Besides,” I continued, “they were here some time
before I came, and desire a change&mdash;at least, Miss Rurlestone
does, I am sure&mdash;as she has captured every heart here, and
perhaps pines for more.” This I said a little maliciously.</p>

<p>“Miss Rurlestone can probably account for your filial
devotion&mdash;at least gossip says so.”</p>

<p>“Gossip knows very little about such matters,” I replied,
cautiously.</p>

<p>“But is gossip wrong in this instance?”</p>

<p>“Oh, I must not commit myself,” I said, with a forced
smile.</p>

<p>“You are so tantalizing,” she said, throwing her tassel at
me, “and that reminds me that you promised to complete
that unfinished sentence soon.”</p>

<p>“What unfinished sentence?” I asked, with pretended
ignorance.</p>

<p>“You must be forgetful, indeed; do you not remember
your promise when we parted yesterday morning?”</p>

<p>“Pardon me; I do remember now,” and instantly the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span>
thought flashed on me that I would candidly inform her of
my intended flirtation, confess my sin, ask her forgiveness,
and thus prevent her acting on Miss Belle Monte’s advice.
“I recollect now distinctly the sentence to which you refer,
and its intended termination. My remarks were made in
the same light style in which we were conversing, and I had
no idea you would attach sufficient importance to anything
I said to think of it at all afterwards. I was about to ask,
if <i>I</i> loved you&mdash;if I offered my heart&mdash;would you reject it?
I&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“That’s what I suspected, sir,” she cut in before I could
finish, and with a deprecatory wave of her hand dismissing
what I had said as painful, “and while the suspicion flattered
it pained me.”</p>

<p>“But, Miss Finnock,” I said, hurriedly, “you certainly
misun&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Flattered, indeed, I was,” she went on, without allowing
my interruption, “because one so noble and gifted as
yourself had conferred on me the honor of his love, and
pained that I must refuse it.”</p>

<p>I was too much astonished to reply, while she went on:</p>

<p>“But, Mr. Smith, while a calm review of my own feelings
forces me to discard you, or if that is too harsh a word, to ask
you to be <i>only</i> my friend, I can assure you that our brief
intercourse has been exceedingly pleasant to me. It will
ever be an oasis in the desert of my past, and I trust that
the rainbow of mutual regard and esteem will ever arch
brightly o’er our pathways, however diverse they may be.
And when Time’s fingers have plastered over the scars I
regret to inflict, and you have found another love, whose
voice may be sweeter, and eye brighter, and heart dearer
than mine, I hope you will not think of this evening with
anger, but with the pleasure of forgiveness.”</p>

<p>“With pleasure, certainly,” I managed to edge in, as she
drew her breath.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span></p>

<p>“And at your life’s close,” she went on, in her peculiar
strain, “may your barque furl its sails in a peaceful harbor,
and having bosomed” (Sapphic for breasted) “every wave,
anchor safely there.”</p>

<p>As she paused, I broke in&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>“Miss Finnock, you have wofully misinterpreted my
meaning. I was only jesting, as I thought you were; and
my words had no more serious import than the verses in a
<i>bon-bon</i>.”</p>

<p>“I hardly expected that you would thus try to evade the
subject, Mr. Smith. But I have too much consideration for
your feelings to place your name on my list of rejected
ones. The result of our interview shall be strictly <i>entre
nous</i>.”</p>

<p>“Your list must be immensely long, if you put every
name down with as little reason as you have mine. I will
leave you, Miss Finnock; for I can gain nothing in a contest
with a lady who makes half the addresses she rejects.”
This I said without thought, being thrown off my guard by
her treatment; and the moment after I had closed the door
I felt like going back to ask her pardon. Pride, however,
suggested that she had overstepped the bounds of womanly
delicacy in her conduct towards me, and that she must take
outside treatment.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec4.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c332" id="c332">CHAPTER XXXVIII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Perhaps</span> there was never a betrothal made under more favorable
auspices than Carlotta’s and mine. Perfect love
and confidence towards each other, and the most entire
approval of all interested in our welfare! When we met,
father pressed my hand most cordially in token of his sanction,
and mother kissed me, saying, as she did so:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span></p>

<p>“My dear boy, it is a consummation I have devoutly
prayed for. You have won a prize, indeed, John; cherish
it fondly.”</p>

<p>To which my reply was, of course, redundantly affirmative
and sempiternally votive.</p>

<p>As we were preparing to leave for Newport the day following
I did not see Miss Finnock again, and was very glad
of it, as our interview could not have been pleasant; and,
in fact, I thought the rest of the party treated me with sudden
coldness and reserve when we met at the table.</p>

<p>The night preceding our departure there was a grand ball
at the Union, and though I had the honor of escorting Carlotta,
her card was so full of engagements that I could only
stand off and admire her, as a throng of her devotees surrounded
her.</p>

<p>As blind as love is said to be, it is, nevertheless, very
much affected by what others think of its object; and, besides
flattering our own taste, it very much enhances our
devotion to feel that others love what we love. Leander
would never have swum the Hellespont if no one else had
cared for Hero.</p>

<p>With all the fond pride of ownership I watched the crowd
that flocked to Carlotta’s side, when a set closed, begging
the honor of a dance, striving to catch a smile, and wearying
her with ceaseless and multitudinous attention; and, as
I marked the disappointment on the faces of a score, and the
conscious triumph of him who led her out, I thought that if
they thus sought the pleasure of a moment with her, how
supremely blest was I to own her love, and hold her promise
to be mine for life.</p>

<p>I was selfish enough to want her all to myself, and brooked
but poorly the immense popularity that engaged her time
and kept her from me.</p>

<p>At Newport it was the same thing. Her fame had preceded
her, and many of her Saratoga beaux followed her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span>
thither. Her appearance in the ball room at the Ocean
House was the signal for the desertion of other belles, and
our drives on the beach were series of stares, of envy from
the ladies and of admiration from the men. It was amusing
to mark the difference of expression on the faces of the occupants
of a buggy or landau as it rolled past us; the gentleman
invariably gazing at her, with a smile, as we approached,
and turning his head to look back as we passed;
the lady looking straight ahead, with a half curl on her lip, as
if she would say, “Umph! she is not so beautiful after all.”</p>

<p>It was not till we left Newport, and were returning to
dear old quiet Carolina, that I began to realize that Carlotta
was indeed my own. Herrara parted with us in
New York, taking the steamer for Havana, and promising
to bring his bride to see us the next winter.</p>

<p>After spending some days in the metropolis we started
home, and then I was happy to sit by Carlotta’s side in
the train, whose very rattle made our conversation private,
and talk of our future! There is no period so fraught with
pleasure to lovers as that when, the first extravagance of the
proposal and acceptance over, they sober down into conversation
about their plans and prospects; when they talk of
the home they are going to have, and how it will be furnished;
when they tell of how they will live, and what they
will have for dinner; when they make little confidences of
their foibles of disposition and temper, that they may know
how never to hurt each other’s feelings; when they each
draw pictures of their everyday life, that is to be, and dwell
like epicures at a feast on the details; she telling of the nice
cosy breakfast, with just two cups and saucers; of the fine
cigars she will light for him, as she kisses him goodbye till
dinner; of the pretty key basket she will carry on her arm,
all the “long, dreary morning,” till he comes back; of the
afternoon nap, while she fingers his hair; of the evening
drive, of the slippers ready for him after tea, of the “hateful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span>
newspaper” taken out of his hands that he may talk
with her! Bright little heart! is there no tear, no frown, no
headache in your picture? He telling of his compliments
to her rolls and coffee, of his invariable kiss at parting, of
his constant thought of her during the hours of business,
of his haste to return, of his often pretending to be sick
that she may nurse him in her sweet way, of the many
thoughtful gifts he will bring her, of his helping to keep
house and stealing her sugar, of his leaning on the piano
while she sings his favorite songs, of her head upon his
shoulder and his arm around her waist, as they sit together
under the moonlight in their little porch, with all the necessary
vines and flowers. When they both are thinking, yet
carefully avoid speaking, of another tender phase of the
picture&mdash;when something, not a chair, is rocking in their
chamber, and a rack at the fire is full of white cloths, when
the gifts he brings now are gutta percha and coral, and, instead
of the moon the lamp is kept burning all night.</p>

<p>When we got back to Wilmington I found a letter for me
from Ben, inviting me up to his wedding.</p>

<p>It was a characteristic epistle, and went on to tell me that
as he “had laid by his crap” and was “outer the grass” he
had concluded to take unto himself as an helpmeet, Miss
Viny Dodge, though he frankly stated that his “daddy”
said he “hadn’t no more business with a wife than er
oyshter has for gluves.”</p>

<p>As the letter was dated two weeks back I knew that Miss
Viny was already Mrs. Bemby, so I sent my congratulations,
and regrets that I could not have been present, and a
bridal gift for Mrs. B.</p>

<p>Our own arrangements were, that I was to return to
Chapel Hill, complete my senior year, and be married to
Carlotta immediately after my graduation; and then we
were to go to Germany, that I might complete my law
course at Heidelberg.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span></p>

<p>When Ned and I met again in our old room at the University,
we both had so much to tell that we devoted several
nights to the rehearsal of our adventures. Ned had spent
his vacation at the White Sulphur Springs, and was, of
course, well charged with news of himself. As each of us
was more anxious to talk than to listen, our conversation
was a series of mutual interruptions, and this difficulty of
communication, perhaps, aided us in our studies.</p>

<p>When we finally got to work in earnest we found our
position as Seniors very pleasant in every way. Our studies,
though deeper and more comprehensive, were not so tedious,
and allowed us more time for general reading. Ned was
striving hard for the Valedictory, while I looked forward
with some hope to the same honor; our rivalry, however,
was always pleasant. With my studies and readings, and,
above all, with Carlotta’s sweet letters, I found time did not
drag so heavily as I had expected when I parted from her,
and almost before I knew the summer was gone the winter
vacation came on. I went home and spent the time in one
bright dream of happiness. I was with Carlotta!</p>

<p>I returned to college again in January, full of ambitious
visions. Five more months and, with a brow burdened
with honors, I would stand upon the rostrum of the University,
and while the crowded hall was breathless with my eloquence,
I would meet the light of Carlotta’s eyes, and in their
raptured gaze find my best applause. Then would come
our wedding, arranged with all the splendor wealth could
command; then a term of honor at Heidelberg; and then,
with Fame’s temple before me, I would climb until I stood
upon its very dome. But across these bright visions there
drifted now the red cloud of war, and in its murky bosom
muttered our impending ruin.</p>

<p>I found the University, as I had left Wilmington, all
ablaze with excitement over the secession of South Carolina.
The number of students was much smaller than usual,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span>
and many of those who came returned to their homes, as
State after State left the Union. Our noble Commonwealth,
with her resinous nature, stuck tenaciously to the Union,
and when she tore herself loose at last, adhered as closely
to the flag of the Confederacy.</p>

<p>Letters poured in upon me from home. Father and
mother urged me to remain at college till the session closed,
and get my diploma, as it would be but a short delay, but I
was impatient; I wanted to be preparing for the fray, and
Carlotta’s letter decided me. It was full of the fire of her
soul, and while it breathed the tenderest love for me, it was
fervid with patriotism.</p>

<p>“I know that study will be impossible amid the excitement
of the times,” she said, in conclusion, “and you will
accomplish nothing by remaining at the University till the
close of the session. You know, dear John, that I love you
more than all else on earth, but if I did not love my country,
too, I would be unworthy of your love, and if you were
unwilling to defend her, you would be unworthy of mine.
But I know your noble heart, and trust its fervid zeal.</p>

<p>“Remember, dearest, my hand shall gird your armor on,
and my prayers shall shield your head.”</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c337" id="c337">CHAPTER XXXIX.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">When</span> I reached Wilmington I found everything in a stir.
Everybody wore a cockade, a miniature flag, or a uniform.
Officers, with waving plumes, rode furiously up and down
the streets; the roll of drums, as companies marched in
from the camps, was heard at all hours of the day; and
with every whistle of the train arose the thrilling shout of
legions, passing on to the front. Ladies pricked their tender
fingers sewing the stout gray cloth, or thronged the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span>
balconies to wave their dainty handkerchiefs at their favorites
in the ranks.</p>

<p>War was in its youth; the scowl of battle had not yet
gathered on its brow, and the flowers with which Beauty
strewed its pathway were not yet bedewed with the red
drops of carnage, nor withered in the smoke and heat of
conflict.</p>

<p>Father had already raised a company, up at the plantation
in Wayne, and they were now out at the camp
of instruction near town. When I joined, they complimented
me by electing me second lieutenant, and I felt as
proud of the little yellow bars on my collar as Lord Dreddlington
did of his Garter.</p>

<p>What a pastime was soldiering then; sleeping in tents for
the first time, cooking our own meals, going out with a new
gun to play sentry, marching through the dress parade in
the evening, before the long line of carriages, filled with our
sweethearts from the town!</p>

<p>I had moved out to the camp, and though it was very near
town, I had to get a pass whenever I wished to see Carlotta.
The very novelty of this, however, rendered it pleasant, and
I no doubt wearied the commandant by my frequent applications.
Our marriage had been fixed for the 15th of June,
but as our company expected to leave for Richmond by the
12th, we made the appointment nearer by ten days, and on
the 5th of June, 1861&mdash;a fair, cloudless morning&mdash;we were
married. It was a plain, unostentatious wedding&mdash;different,
indeed, from what I had anticipated. Only a few friends
with us, a slight collation in the parlor, a short excursion to
Smithville, and it was all over. Yet Carlotta was dearer to
me, in her simple Swiss muslin, than she would have been
in satin and lace; and I felt, as she looked up radiantly into
my face, that she was prouder of me, in my suit of gray,
than if I had worn the finest cloth.</p>

<p>On our return from Smithville I found a short letter from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span>
Ben, who had enrolled his name with our company, but had
not yet come down to join us:</p>

<div class="pbq">

<p class="p1">“Dear john,” he wrote, “when Curnal Smith was up here,
I couldent leave on account of Viny, but it’s come now, and
a fine one it is, and Viny is doin’ well; so I’ll be down
sum’ers about the last of the week. i hate orful to leave
Viny and the baby, and it’ll be mity lonesome at night, not
to trot him on my nee, but I be dogged if ime goin’ to see
the yankeys get into north Carolina if my carciss will help
to stop ’em. Less me and you git together when we fight,
cause I want somebody ime cwainted with to see me ‘mongst
the balls, and it’ll help me to keep game.</p>

<p>“if i don’t git to Wilminton in time, i’ll meet you at Goldsboro’.
Till Death, yours,</p>

<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Ben</span>.”</p></div>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c339" id="c339">CHAPTER XL.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Father</span>, mother, Carlotta and I are standing in the dim
light of dawn, under the old shed at the depot. We lack only
Lulie to be the same party who stood there five years before,
waiting for the train. How things have changed! The
little dark eyed girl that was gazing out of the car window
then is the beautiful woman who is weeping and clinging to
my arm now. Instead of mirth and cheerfulness, all around
us now is sadness and gloom. Great rough fellows are
dropping their first tears, as they strain a sobbing wife or
little child to their bosom for the twentieth time.</p>

<p>Delicate youths, wearing a brave face in spite of their
quivering lips, are holding in their arms fond mothers, who
are putting back the hair from their idol’s forehead, perhaps
for the last time; and even those who have no one to bid
them farewell, and who are attempting to look careless and
indifferent, often lift their cuffs to their averted eyes.</p>

<p>We have no piles of baggage now; a plain pine box,
filled with the delicacies loving hands have made, and a roll
of blankets, are all that we check for.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span></p>

<p>How Carlotta clings to me, sobbing on my neck!</p>

<p>“Oh John, my husband, how can I give you up? And
to think that I bade you go! I did not know what it was to
part from you. Oh, if you are hurt, it will kill me&mdash;I know
it will kill me. My God, protect him, for thy Son’s sake!”</p>

<p>I kissed her again and again, and told her to look on the
bright side; I reminded her of our duty to our country, and
spoke of war as a field of honor, not of danger. But the
agony of our separation was too close at hand, and my own
heart too near breaking to reason her into composure and
fortitude, and I gave way to my own grief, and mingled my
tears with hers.</p>

<p>A whistle now sounded far across the river, then, with
the roar of the approaching train, rose the thrilling cheers
of its gallant freight. And soon the ferry boat, dimly seen
through the mists, her very bulwarks crowded with men
in gray, strikes out into the stream, and in brazen cadences
the glorious strains of Dixie float across the smoky waters.
Nearer and nearer comes the cheering, louder and louder
swells the music, and in the red light of the rising sun
gleams the Stars and Bars. As they neared the wharf father
said: “Come, John, we must get our seats before the crowd
comes in. Mary! God bless you, good bye. Good bye,
Carlotta, my daughter!” and he walked with a firm step up
the platform into the car. A mother’s kiss and tearful benison,
a sobbing scream and a convulsive clasp of my darling’s
arms, and I took my place in the train. Bowing my head
on my hands I scarce heard the murmur of voices, the ringing
of bells, or the quick thrang of the kettle drum, as the
regiment from the boat formed and marched to the coaches
assigned them. As the long train jerked forward I thrust
my head out of the window and caught sight of our carriage
and its two weeping occupants. They saw me at the
same instant, and, with their handkerchiefs, waved farewell
What an acme of agony in that last view!</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span></p>

<p>We had reached Goldsboro before I had recovered my
spirits, and I was gazing thoughtfully out of the window as
we ground our way slowly under the shed, when a rough
hand was laid upon my shoulder, and looking up I recognized
Ben. He was the same awkward looking specimen of humanity,
clad in a suit of copperas striped homespun. Instead
of the old flapped hat he now wore an oilskin cap,
which he had purchased that morning, and which still had
the price card stuck on the brim. His hair was still long
and sandy, though a trifle darker than when we went fishing
together; his upper lip, with the scar across it, was
covered with a soft yellowish fuzz, that told of an incipient
moustache, and his chin was covered with stiff wiry little
curls, that looked like the vegetation of freckle seed. Rough
and uncouth as was his appearance, I felt, as I grasped his
hand, that it was as full of nerve as Virginius’, and that the
old brown suit would always be the first hid in the smoke
of battle.</p>

<p>“I am glad, indeed, to have you with us, Ben,” said father,
as they shook hands, “John here is a gloomy companion.
He has hardly spoken to me since we left Wilmington.”</p>

<p>“Well, I tell you, curnell,” said Ben, laying a bag full of
biscuit on the seat in front of him, “it streaked my gizzard
powerful to leave Viny and the baby, and when I went to
kiss the little varmint farwell the tears run round my eyes
like rain in a gourd bloom; but I couldn’t make up my mind
to sneak at home, and let somebody else git shot for my
folks.”</p>

<p>“You have expressed your patriotism very pointedly,”
said father, clearing his throat to deliver his favorite speech
on States’ rights. “Our fair and sunny land is threatened
with invasion by the Vandals of the North, and it becomes
every man’s duty to resist them. We are clearly on the side
of right. The original compact of the thirteen States was,
most evidently, no surrender of sovereignty. Each State<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span>
retained its own laws, and was only sufficiently amenable to
the general Government to preserve unity. The very investiture
of each State with the right to change its laws, to
execute criminals, and to regulate its own elections, proves
its sovereign independence. Do you not think so?”</p>

<p>“I don’ know much ‘bout politicks,” said Ben, looking
somewhat flattered that father should have asked his opinion
on so deep a subject, “but seems to me that States is folks,
and folks is sholy got the right to undo what they done
therselves.”</p>

<p>As I had heard these old arguments, differently dished, in
every conversation or debate since the first of January, I
was much relieved by more troops getting on board at the
next depot, and crowding father and Ben out of their talk.</p>

<p>We passed Weldon in the evening, through Petersburg in
the night, and were in regular camp the next day. Then
war began in earnest; our lines were formed in front of cannon
instead of carriages; instead of a flower-wreathed target
a man in blue stood in front of our guns, and our bayonets
now were sometimes red when we unfixed them.</p>

<p>But do not fear, patient reader, that I am going to inflict
a long series of war incidents upon you. You have heard
and read all that I could tell a dozen times; and though no
pen has yet arisen to blazon North Carolina’s deeds, I will
only point to the battle record of the South, and resting her
fame on the glorious valor of her sons, pass on, with only
one chapter of letters, to the close of our struggle, when the
banner we had borne through four years of shot and shell
was furled, and the land we had bled for&mdash;conquered!</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span></p>

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c343" id="c343">CHAPTER XLI.</a></h2>


<div class="pbq">
<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Wilmington</span>, N. C., Oct., 1862.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">My Precious Husband</span>&mdash;The little angel God promised us
has come, and I am so happy. If you were only here, to
see the little cherub nestling by me, I would be <i>too full</i> of
bliss for utterance. To think it is <i>yours</i> and <i>mine</i>, darling!
I feel sometimes that I <i>must</i> send it to you that you may
see how beautiful and sweet it is. Mother says it is like
me, but I see in it nothing but your image. I think it notices
me some already, though it is only a week old, but I
know there never was such an intelligent baby; the very
first name it lisps shall be “papa,” and it shall say its little
prayers each night for dear papa’s safety. I often weep
over it, darling, as I think of the danger and hardship you
are exposed to, and Oh! I do pray so fervently that no
harm may befall you. We are making a fearful sacrifice
for our country. God grant her independence may be won!</p>

<p>There is an old friend of yours here now&mdash;Frank, or rather
Col. Paning, as he calls himself. He relates wonderful stories
of his achievements in South Carolina, and wears his
three stars very proudly. He is all devotion to Lulie, and
report says they are to be married soon. Poor, infatuated
girl, how I pity her!</p>

<p>We are getting on very pleasantly in our domestic affairs;
the servants are all faithful and efficient, and Mr. Bemby
reports excellent crops up at the plantation.</p>

<p>I would write more but feel wearied even with this, and
mother, who has propped me up in bed, threatens to take
away my paper.</p>

<p>Our love and kisses to dear father. Johnnie sends his
little love to papa.</p>

<p class="pr6">As ever your fond</p>
<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Carlotta</span>.</p></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span></p>

<p class="ast3">**********</p>

<p class="pc">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<div class="pbq">
<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Camp near Gettysburg</span>, July 3d, 1863.</p>

<p class="pn"><span class="smcap">My Dear Wife</span>:</p>

<p>I write to-night, because I know you will be uneasy when
you read the telegraphic accounts of to-day’s fight. I am
grateful to say that I am well, and cannot even boast a
scratch, though I have been to-day where a thought of life
seemed folly. The hardest conflict of the war has taken
place here, and even as I write the very air seems burdened
with the groans of the wounded and dying. The loss of life
has been fearful indeed, as the reckless courage of our soldiers
drove them into the jaws of death. Our great commander
and our men did all that human strength could do,
but the position of the enemy was impregnable, and all our
efforts to dislodge them were futile. To-morrow we retire,
though we are not whipped, and if Meade dare leave his
mountain entrenchments we will put him to utter rout.
Would to God our retreat were all I must write, but the
old proverb about the plurality of misfortune is but too
true. Last night Ned, my dearest friend, died, and to-day
father was taken prisoner by the enemy; he was at the
head of our company, in a charge which was repulsed with
heavy loss, and when we fell back, in some disorder, he
was left within the Yankee lines. We trust that he is not
wounded or hurt in any way, as, when last seen, he was
standing erect, waving his sword, and calling on his men to
rally. He will, I hope, soon get a communication through
the lines to some of you. Even if he is sent to Elmira,
or Point Lookout, he has so many personal friends at the
North that he may make his situation comfortable. Help
mother to bear up bravely, for she will need help. Prison
life, however, is not so bad if one can get funds to purchase
comforts, and you know the gentleman who is now holding
father’s property for him in New York will attend to that
as soon as he hears that he is in prison. But, oh, darling!
how my heart bleeds to write of poor Ned’s death. You remember<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span>
he came on to Virginia soon after we did, but his
company was placed in another regiment, so that he was
in yesterday’s fight while we were not engaged. Last
night, about dark, he sent for me to come to him, in the
field hospital. When I reached his side I found him in a
stupor, from which he roused only enough to recognize me,
and faintly call my name, when he again sunk into that
ever deepening coma that seems like the very mantle of
approaching death. He had been struck in the breast with
a fragment of shell, and his lungs were completely torn to
pieces. The surgeons, seeing his hopeless condition, had
given him an opiate and left him to die, turning their attention
to those who could be saved. He was breathing with
great difficulty, and with long intervals between the gasps,
as I sat down by him and took his hand in mine. His
pulse was scarcely perceptible, and I felt that his life would
not last through the night. You, Carlotta, who know how
I loved him, know how deep was my grief as I saw him
slowly dying, his poor torn breast pouring out its life-blood
with every labored breath. I sat, watching him in silence,
‘till midnight, when he opened his eyes and attempted to
sit up, but was too weak; he then commenced talking, in a
confused strain, of angel armies he had seen marching all
night, in white battle lines, over the blue sky, and of how
they had formed a hollow square around his cot; and how
their commander had approached and laid bare his bosom,
that they all might see his wound, and how they had sung
a song of triumph and filed back up the blue vault, out of
sight. He then seemed to become conscious of his condition,
and pressing my hand feebly, said: “I can’t last much
longer, John, but I am ready to die, thank God! Tell mother
I said so. And, John, let me be buried under the old pines
at home.” He closed his eyes and was silent for an hour or
more; when he again opened them there was that strange
vacancy in their look that is Death’s signet, and the tone of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span>
his voice was husky and cold, as he murmured, “The white
army&mdash;has come&mdash;a-gain. I must&mdash;go. For Heaven, forward!”</p>

<p>He made an effort to spring up as he uttered the last
word, but his strength failed, and he fell across my lap,
dead. The bravest spirit that ever led a charge was marching
through the pearly gates!</p>

<p>I had him buried this morning before the battle, and
marked the grave, so it may be easily found. You must go
down to Mr. Cheyleigh’s and tell them how he died.</p>

<p>I close now to visit Ben, who is suffering with a broken
arm. Love to mother, and a kiss to my dear boy.</p>

<p>May God bless and preserve you all.</p>

<p class="pr6">Yours devotedly,</p>
<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">John</span>.</p></div>

<p class="ast3">**********</p>

<p class="pc">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<div class="pbq">
<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Our Country Home</span>, Oct., 1864.</p>

<p class="pn"><span class="smcap">My Dear Boy</span>:</p>

<p>Though it has been nearly three months since your sainted
father’s death, this is the first time I have felt strong
enough to rouse myself from my tears and grief, that I may
write to you. My heart is broken, and I have nothing now
to live for. I can only pray God for patience to wait His
summons. But, my dear child, only those who are bereaved
know how hard it is to say “Thy will be done!”</p>

<p>Sometimes I feel, so full of deep despair, as I look to the
dark, lonely life before me, that I cannot help murmuring;
and did I not know, from all our past, that God does all in
love and infinite wisdom, He would seem now my bitterest
enemy. O Christ! pardon the feeble rebellion of my burdened
soul!</p>

<p>Dear Carlotta is as kind and tender as she can be, and
does all she can to comfort and cheer me, but there are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span>
times when I feel that I shall die, when I think of your poor
father’s languishing on his coarse prison bed, with no comforts
near, and only his enemies to smooth his pillow and
attend to his wants. I know how he longed for <i>me</i> at his
bedside, and how his dying thoughts came back to his dear
old home. O John! it almost kills me to think I shall never
see him again, never hear his voice calling “Mary” any
more.</p>

<p>I hope and pray now for the close of the war, that I may
go with you to Elmira and bring home his dear remains to
our quiet graveyard&mdash;where mine, I trust, will soon rest
beside them.</p>

<p>But I must not fill my whole letter with sadness. Dear
little Johnnie is running all about now, and lisps our names
very sweetly. Carlotta is holding him on her knee near me
as I write, and he says, “Tiss papa for me.”</p>

<p>You see from the date of our letter that we are up at the
plantation. We brought most of our valuables up with us,
and left the house in charge of Miss Wiggs, our housekeeper,
who has taken her brother, the cripple, to stay with her,
and says she is not afraid of the Yankees. All our servants
left us except Horace and Hannah, who are touchingly
faithful in their devotion. The negroes up here are too far
from Federal influence to be much demoralized, and Mr.
Bemby is gathering a very fine crop. Since we left Wilmington
we have heard some very sad news about Lulie
Mayland. Frank Paning, you know, has been in Wilmington
for more than a year, in some position that exempted
him from service. He and Lulie have been very intimate,
and every one expected that they would soon be married.
Lulie made a cloister of her home, and would see no one
but Frank, who almost lived under her roof. Of late, dark
rumors began to be whispered about them, but no one
believed their slanderous import. At last, however, her
shame could be no longer concealed, and your once bright,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span>
guileless little playmate is ruined for ever. Frank has fled,
no one knows whither, though many believe he has gone to
the Federal lines, which is, I think, probable. It is but the
result of Frank’s long studied designs of evil and Lulie’s too
implicit trust and confidence.</p>

<p>The blow has almost killed Dr. Mayland, whose health is
very feeble. Carlotta has written to the poor girl, begging
her to come up here to us, as her ruin will be less marked
in this retired neighborhood. Lulie’s mother was my dearest
friend, and I would love and protect her child for her sake.</p>

<p>Alas! all the news we hear now is sad and gloomy. Fort
Fisher must soon fall and Wilmington be evacuated; and I
fear that even our home here will not be safe from the invasion
of the enemy. But we are in the hands of the Lord.
May He deliver our struggling country!</p>

<p>Write to us often, my dear boy, for you can never know
what a comfort are your letters to your mother’s sorrowing
heart. May God enfold you with His arms of mercy! is her
earnest prayer.</p></div>

<p class="ast3">**********</p>

<p class="pc">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<table id="t01" summary="t01">

 <tr>
  <td class="tdc"><span class="smcap">Headquarters, Army of Va.,</span>
<br />February 28, 1865.</td>
  <td class="tdfont">}</td>
 </tr>

</table>

<div class="pbq">

<p class="p1"><span class="smcap">My Dear Smith:</span> Your application for transfer to the
Army of South Carolina has just been returned to us from
the Department at Richmond, approved, and I take pleasure
in enclosing it to you, together with transportation for yourself,
servant and horse. We regret to give you up, but
hope that you and Bemby may render as signal service to
General Johnston as you have to General Early.</p>

<p class="pr8">I remain, very truly yours,</p>
<p class="pr6"><span class="smcap">Amos Halstead</span>,</p>
<p class="pr4">Acting Ass’t Adj’t Gen’l</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Major John Smith</span>,</p>
<p class="pl6">of Gen. Early’s staff.</p></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span></p>

<p class="p1">As explanatory of this letter, I would state that, when our
regiment first reached the Army of Virginia, it was placed
in the old “Stonewall” brigade. Ben soon began to attract
the attention not only of the officers, but of General Jackson
himself, for his daring bravery in battle, but chiefly for his
skill in conducting foraging and scouting expeditions. So
successful was he in stealing through the enemy’s lines and
gaining reliable information in regard to their strength and
position, that General Jackson honored him with a special
appointment for his own service. Soon after this a friend
of father’s, in high position, secured for me a place on
Jackson’s staff, and Ben and I were thus thrown together in
many a field of danger and hair-breadth escape. After Ned’s
death, at Gettysburg, and father’s capture and subsequent
death in prison, I became more than ever attached to Ben,
and we were fortunate in not being separated till near the
close of the war. When Jackson fell at Chancellorsville we
were both transferred to Ewell’s command, and at his death
to Early’s&mdash;Ben receiving a commission as chief of scouts,
while I was appointed aide-de-camp with the rank of major.
After that memorable valley campaign, and when we had
joined General Lee in the trenches around Petersburg, Ben
was sent to General Beauregard, in South Carolina, to act
as scout and spy; and as I felt lonely without him, and
General Early had little need for staff officers in the trenches,
I applied for transfer, with the result indicated in the
letter.</p>

<p>When I reached the army, Johnston had, at Beauregard’s
request, been placed in command, and, with his splendid
skill, was fighting Sherman at every step, yet drawing his
small force farther and farther back without demoralization,
and without a wagon’s loss.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span></p>

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c350" id="c350">CHAPTER XLII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Eighteen hundred and sixty-five</span>! <i>Annus iræ!</i> Year of
blood and tears, famine and oppression! God send that
Time’s womb may be barren ere such another offspring
shall curse our land!</p>

<p>Could one behold, as in a panorama, the South of ‘60 and
the South of ‘65, even a devil would weep over the ruin
wrought in five years.</p>

<p>In the one picture he would see wide-spreading fields,
with waving, luxuriant crops, worked by throngs of joyous
light-hearted negroes, who sing, in a resounding chorus, as
they guide their sleek teams up and down the fertile furrows;
he would see long villages of negro quarters, each
house with its garden and patch, its pig and chickens, and
its happy children playing at the door, while within some
old camp-meeting hymn is mingling with the drone of the
wheel and the clack of the loom; he would see premises
adorned with all the appliances of wealth, stables filled with
blooded stock, pastures grazed by herds of purest breed,
kennels filled with well trained dogs, gardens of roses, orchards
of fruit, and groves of magnificent oaks, amid which
towers the stately mansion, its windows aglow with hospitality,
and its porches thronged with fair faces and noble
forms.</p>

<p>In the other he would see the broad fields lying idle and
waste, the ditches overflowed, the fences broken down; no
chorus sounds, no life is seen save in a distant corner of the
field, where a “fourth part tenant” plows a little steer
around an arid patch of corn. He would see the quarters
all deserted, the children gone, the wheel still, and the loom
silent, the very doors holding their wooden lips ajar to
speak “desolation!” He would see dotted over the country
the squalid huts of the freedmen, their children sick, and no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span>
one to secure the doctor’s pay, that he may attend; their
mortgage on the crop, made to the nearest merchant, for
their year’s support, consumed in midsummer by their own
extravagance, and the invariable bull, scarce able to plow
an hour in the day for want of food. Oh, Boston! “Hub of
the Universe!” “Cradle of Freedom!” You drove a sharp
trade indeed with Africa’s children when you gave them
the ballot in exchange for life, and comfort, and home! He
would see the mansion amid the oaks, if standing at all,
standing silent and drear, the smoke only rising from one
chimney, the shutters all closed, and a woman in black
walking wearily up and down the gloomy hall, while down
in the garden, under the willow, rests a marble slab, with
the inscription: “Killed at the battle of Somewhere.”</p>

<p>But, as I was saying, it was the spring of ‘65.</p>

<p>The great army of Sherman had wound its blasting way
from Atlanta to the sea. In its trail lay ashes and ruin;
lone, blackened chimneys, plundered cities, and weeping
women. The ever ascending smoke told its course; not the
white smoke of honorable battle, but thick black volumes
from burning homes, that, like the ink of a recording angel,
wrote their hellish deeds upon the scroll of the sky.</p>

<p>Day after day our wary General fell slowly back before
thrice his numbers, checking them, wherever he could, with
a fight, and retreating after the fight, ere they could crush
him by heavier forces. Back, still back, retreating with
undaunted hearts, but alas! too few; skirmishing at Fayetteville,
battling at Averasboro’, the 17th March found us
not far from Goldsboro’ and near my home; but between
us and that dear spot was part of Sherman’s army and the
commands of Schofield and Terry, who had met, one from
Newbern, the other from Wilmington, in Goldsboro’. I had
not heard from Carlotta since leaving General Lee’s army, and
for her and mother’s safety I dared not hope. Mr. Bemby was
their only protection, and with the Yankee army in Goldsboro’,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span>
I knew that one hour would suffice for the house to
be rifled and themselves insulted. The agony of my suspense
was terrible; to be so near home and yet not be able
to see my wife and child. My fears and anxiety almost
maddened me, and I seemed to hear continually their cries
for help and protection.</p>

<p>Ben and I had been sitting in our tent, as the day drew
to a close, talking of our loved ones and thinking of some
plan by which we could get to them, when he rose and said:</p>

<p>“It’s no use a talkin’ ‘bout it, John, I’m goin’ through the
lines; I’ll be darned if I musn’t see Viny and the young
ones.”</p>

<p>“I’ll go with you, Ben,” I said; “shall we start tonight?”</p>

<p>“No, siree! not ef you think much of yer head; a Yankee
would kill a angel ef he caught him flying in the night.”</p>

<p>“It will be impossible to pass them in the day,” I said,
impatient of delay.</p>

<p>“Lem’me take keer of that,” he said, rising; “I’m goin’ to
see Gen. Johnston now and get two days’ leave of absence,
and we’ll git to the old man’s to-morrow night, or the devil
may take my nose to plow ashes.”</p>

<p>He passed out under the flap of the tent, but in a second
rushed back, dragging in an old negro man.</p>

<p>“Look here, John,” he exclaimed, “here’s Horace, he can
tell us somethin’ ‘bout our folks.”</p>

<p>I sprang forward to the old man, who stood grinning in
the door, and grasped his arm.</p>

<p>“Horace, for God’s sake, tell me about Carlotta and
mother! are they safe?”</p>

<p>“Well, Marse John,” said Horace, with great deliberation,
looking at me with love and pride, “Sho nough, dis is
you, but you is changed a sight sence I seen you; you’s
puttier’n ever.”</p>

<p>But I was in no mood for empty compliments, and led<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span>
him in the tent almost rudely, as I pointed to a stool, and
said:</p>

<p>“Sit down, Horace, and don’t speak another word about
any subject till you have told me something of home.”</p>

<p>He shook his head slowly two or three times as he
replied:</p>

<p>“U’m&mdash;m! dere’s news enough, Marse John, and bad at
that.”</p>

<p>“Have the Yankees been at our house yet?” I asked.</p>

<p>“Yes, sir, I should say they has, but they won’t come
again&mdash;not to the house.”</p>

<p>“Why?” I asked, leaning forward eagerly, “What will
prevent them?”</p>

<p>“Dere ‘aint no house for ’em to come to, it’s done burnt
clean to de groun’.”</p>

<p>“Burnt down!” exclaimed Ben and I, in one breath.</p>

<p>“That it is; but I’m mighty forgetful, here’s a letter from
Miss C’lotta.”</p>

<p>He took off his old torn hat, and lifting up the lining,
took out the back of an envelope, soiled and crumpled, and
handed it to me. I snatched it eagerly and read&mdash;</p>

<div class="pbq">
<p class="pn1">“<span class="smcap">Dear John</span>:</p>

<p>I write on this little scrap hastily, to let you hear
something from us. Uncle Horace, who has alone been
faithful, promises to get it to you, if he can. The Yankees
have taken every thing from us, and burned the house.
Darling mother, in escaping, was struck on the head by a
piece of falling timber, and is in a most critical condition.
My precious boy and myself are safe. We are now at Mr.
Bemby’s, whose house escaped, though his supplies did not,
and we have to depend on his and Uncle Horace’s ingenuity
for our daily support. I feel I shall almost go mad with
our trouble. God help me to bear it, and forgive my wild
wicked thoughts! I fear you will be insane with fury
when I tell you that Frank Paning was with the soldiers,
piloting them around, and was very insulting to me. I
cannot write more.</p>

<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Carlotta.</span>”</p></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span></p>

<p class="p1">“May God help me to be revenged!” I shouted, crushing
the letter in my hand, as I sprang to my feet.</p>

<p>Ben rushed to my side, and, clasping our hands, we held
our revolvers above our heads, and registered a fearful
oath of vengeance or death. Then my feelings quieted
down enough for me to turn to Horace, who was looking
at us with a frightened gaze.</p>

<p>“Horace, may Heaven bless you as you deserve. Here
is the only reward I can make you now; take it all,” I said,
drawing a large roll of Confederate money from my belt.</p>

<p>“No, sir!” said the old man, proudly, “I don’t want
nothin’ for taking keer of Mistis and Miss C’lotta; ‘sides,
that ain’t no ‘count ‘mongst dem blue coat debbels in
Goldsboro’.”</p>

<p>“When did you leave home?” asked Ben, as I put back
my currency, rather crestfallen at Horace’s very sensible
reason for refusing it.</p>

<p>“Yistiddy mornin’. I been in camp all to-day trying to
find you and Marse John, but dere’s so many solgers comin’
and gwine I was in a pyo maze like.”</p>

<p>“Horace, tell me all those scoundrels did,” I said, reading
over the letter again. “Don’t leave out anything.”</p>

<p>“Well, you see, Marse John,” he said, taking off his hat
and laying it on the ground, while he wiped his forehead
with a very dingy red handkerchief, “we hears de Yankees
is comin’ up from Newb’n, and Mistis axes me to hide de
silver things, an’ I like a fool gets Reuben to help me, ‘cause
Reuben swears he love Mistis better’n all de Yankees in de
world. That’s how come de silver gone, in the fust place.
Den we hears they is in Goldsboro’, and next morning, by
sun up, a whole squad comes gallopin’ up to the house, and
bust de crib door open, and gets out de corn. I was standin’
by, and says: ‘Dere ain’t much corn dere, ‘cause Wheeler’s
folks got some yistiddy;’ and they say, ‘What Wheeler’s
folks?’ skeered like. I say: ‘Some folks on horses that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span>
come from todes Fa’teville, and stopped all night down in
dem woods yonder.’ Den dey jumped on dere horses ‘thout
puttin’ ary foot in de stirrup, an’ lumbers down de road
‘thout techin de corn.”</p>

<p>“But tell me about the house, Horace,” I exclaimed impatiently.
“I don’t care about the crib and Wheeler’s men.”</p>

<p>“I’m a gittin to it, Marse John. You see mistis was poorly,
and was stayin’ in bed, and every one de niggers lef’, an’ I
had to cook, and tote water, an’ do every thing ‘bout de
house; an’ that day, ‘bout dinner time, I see a dozen blue
coats come dustin’ down de road. An’ ‘fore I c’d git to de
house dey done kicked de door open, and was all over de
rooms; and de first man I see was Frank Paning, and he
had on a blue newniform, too. He knowed me, and looked
sorter mean, but put on like he never been dere b’fore.
They was all rippin’ and cussin’ all over de house, and
Miss C’lotta she come and stood in mistis’ room door, and
her eyes was like coals er fire; but they never noticed her,
only Paning say ‘gim me de keys, my beauty!’”</p>

<p>“The villain!” I muttered, grinding my nails into my
flesh.</p>

<p>“At last one on ’em foun’ de key basket, and den dey
begun in earness. They took out all dere was to eat in
de pantry, and drunk up and spilt all de wine; they eat
some of the preserves, and bust the glass jars on de floor;
they kicked open de ole clock, and split the pianner led wid
one er de weights. Then dey swore they was gwine to
have some silver an’ gold, or burn up de house; and they
went into mistis’ room, where she was sick in de bed, and
cussed her, and asked her where de silver was. Mistis, nor
Miss C’lotta neither, never said a word, an’ one great big
fellow, with cross eyes, come up to de bed and say: ‘Look
here, ole gal! that won’t do; you got to hustle out er them
bed close; you’s silver sick, I reckon.’ And mistis sees
Frank Paning then, and says: ‘Mr. Paning, for de sake of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span>
de pass pertect me!’ an’ Paning says, ‘I don’t know you;
git up!’ and two on ’em ketches mistis by de arm and jerks
her outen de bed on de floor, and mistis faints like, while
Miss C’lotta holds her head in her arms and cries. De
Yankees rips up de bed and scatters de feathers all over de
room, and when they find nothin’, one on ’em say, ‘Less
leave; and Paning steps up to Miss C’lotta and says: ‘Ef
I can’t git silver I’ll take a kiss,’ and smacks her right on
de cheek; and then Miss C’lotta was mad for true. She
jumped up quicker’n lightning and jerks a little bit er blue
pistol outen her pocket, an’ ‘fore Paning could git away
bang! went de little pistol, and Paning clap’d his hand to
his shoulder and says, ‘Damnation! the fool has shot me,’ an’
he pulls out his sode and starts todes her, and Miss C’lotta
was a standin’ lookin’ straight at him with de little pistol
levelled; and a tall man, that hadn’t said much, kotch Paning
by de arm, and say, ‘That’s a woman; let her ‘lone,’
and den dey all leaves. Then Miss C’lotta told me to run
and fetch some water, and when I fotch the piggin I seed
that de house was on fire, and de room was a fillin’ with
smoke. Miss C’lotta tuk some shawls and ropped mistis up,
and tole me to help tote her out, for de fire was all over de
house. And then we starts out, mistis tryin’ to walk, an’
little Johnny a holden on to Miss C’lotta and cryin’, and jus’
as we gits to de front door a piece of scantlin’ fell outen de
top of de porch and hits mistis plump on de head, and she
fell&mdash;&mdash;.”</p>

<p>“Hush, Horace, for the love of God, hush!” I groaned,
as I staggered to my cot in the corner. “Do not tell me
any more. Try to make your way back to Mr. Bemby’s,
and tell Carlotta we are going to make the attempt to get
to her. Ben, give him something to eat, please, and make
your arrangements for our trip.”</p>

<p>I turned over on my face, and lay in a kind of stupor.
The horrors of Horace’s narration seemed to paralyze all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span>
faculties of mind and body, and while Ben was off perfecting
his arrangements, I lay through most of the night without
moving, my ears ringing with Carlotta’s cries of anguish,
and my eyes scorching with the light of my burning home.</p>

<p>About daybreak I awoke from a fitful slumber, full of horrid
dreams, to find Ben standing near me with a large
bundle on his arm, and a covered basket in his hand.
“Great Heavens!” I exclaimed, springing to my feet, “this
tame inaction will kill me. I must start now; if you will
not go with me, Ben, I must go alone.”</p>

<p>Ben put his bundles down with great deliberation, as he
replied:</p>

<p>“John, you know I’d go to Satan’s summer house with
you if you wan’t goin’ to live there, but there <i>is</i> such a thing
as bein’ in too much hurry. Less get somethin’ to eat first,
for we ain’t goin’ to start till after sun up, and we can’t
stop to cook dinners. What we’ve got to do ain’t like goin’
to preachin’ with your sweetheart, no how.”</p>

<p>I saw that he knew best, and let him have his own way.</p>

<p>“I have been to Gen. Johnston,” he said, drawing some
papers from his pocket, “and got two days leave of absence;
here’s his pass through our pickets. Now get your
writing tricks and fill up this one as I say.”</p>

<p>He drew from among his papers a regular Federal pass,
already printed, with only the date and name to fill up, and
gave it to me, telling me to write it for Mrs. Sarah Jenkins
and her son. It seemed to me a foolish waste of time, but
I did as directed, and signed it as all adjutants do, with
such a flourish and complicated A. A. G. that Champollion
would have been puzzled to decipher it.</p>

<p>“And now,” said Ben, taking the two passes, “string up
your nerves while I get breakfast, and then we’ll dress for
the frolic.”</p>

<p>I ate some of the hard tack and drank the cup of coffee
which he kindly brought me, and told him I was ready.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span></p>

<p>“Hold on yit,” he said, as he finished his cup, “the sun’s
jes’ gittin’ up. We must change our clothes&mdash;here, you put
on these, as you ain’t as tall as I am,” and he untied his
bundle, and took out an old faded calico dress, a white cap
and a large fly bonnet.</p>

<p>“You see,” he said, as he spread out the articles, “we are
bound to rig up outlandish, for we can’t help seeing some of
the Yanks. Here’s mine,” and he produced an old home-spun
suit and a wide-brim wool hat. I now saw the design
of his disguises, and giving his hand a warm grasp for his
sympathy and assistance, entered into his scheme and began
to make ready.</p>

<p>“I can tell you,” said Ben, talking while I was shaving
off my beard, “I had a hard time gittin’ these traps. I rode
about ten mile last night, and had to steal the bonnet at
that, though I stuck a five dollar Confed. on the fence where
I grabbed it.”</p>

<p>After half an hour’s preparation I stood as complete an
old woman, with specs and muffled chin, as ever sold eggs
or peddled cakes. Ben was his old self again, and looked as
essentially rustic as when he carried us fishing when we
were boys.</p>

<p>“Now we are ready,” said Ben, when we were fully disguised.
“Less go; don’t mind what our boys holler at you,
it’ll help fool the Yankees better.”</p>

<p>Just outside the tent door were two sorry looking horses,
with rope bridles, and a side saddle on one of them; beside
them on the ground was a hamper basket, with a cloth tied
over it, and another smaller basket full of eggs.</p>

<p>In reply to my regret that our horses looked so poor,
Ben said that our own were too good, that the Yankees
would dismount us, and that these would be no temptation.</p>

<p>I got up to my seat, and after some instructions from Ben
as to how I must hold my basket and how to hide my feet,
we started off.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span></p>

<p>We took a circuitous route around Goldsboro’, and striking
the Neuse, kept down the bank of the river ‘till we were
near our homes. So well was Ben acquainted with every
path through the woods that we did not come in sight of a
Yankee during the day, ‘till, just before sunset, we came into
the road leading to our house, at its junction with the
County road; and here we found three or four soldiers
apparently on picket duty. We rode carelessly up and, on
being halted, presented our passes, which were examined
by one of the men, with the bars of a corporal on his
arm.</p>

<p>“All right, you can pass,” he said, returning the papers
to Ben, while I sat with my face averted and my shoulders
bent as if I was very decrepit. We had hardly started from
the group when one of them called out&mdash;</p>

<p>“Stop, old lady, let us see what you have in your basket.”
Knowing that the closeness of interview required by bargaining
for eggs would lead to our detection, I could not
repress a tremor of apprehension; but Ben instantly relieved
my embarrassment by kicking my horse into a trot, and
saying in a loud tone:</p>

<p>“Go ‘long, mammy; don’t you know the man with stars
on shoulder, what give us the pass, tole us not to talk to
folks that was standin’ guard?”</p>

<p>None of the soldiers said anything more to us and we
rode on without molestation. We had scarcely gone a mile
when we came to the large gate of our grove. It was
standing open and strange cattle were browsing under the
oaks. We looked down the long avenue, and instead of the
tall white house, with its broad porch and door, distant
woods, and the red evening sky beyond, were all that
caught the eye. We galloped hurriedly down the avenue,
and dismounted at the yard palings, a few steps in front
of the ruins. Where the house had been was now a heap
of ashes, that rose in little clouds as the March winds blew<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span>
over them. The tall, silent chimneys stood with their
mouth-like fireplaces whispering to each other of ruin and
desolation, across the smouldering pile. The old cedar
near the house, under whose branches I had wept, as a
boy, over Lulie’s cruelty, was withered and blackened, and
even the palings on which we leaned were charred to coal.
A broad rock chimney showed where the kitchen had been;
and the well house and dairy, which were still standing,
were scorched and blackened with the heat. There was no
sign of life on the premises; all was silent and still, the
stables were open and the horses gone, the negro houses all
deserted, and not even a dog lurked around the lot.</p>

<p>The very evening was full of dreariness! The sun had
gone out behind a hard, red sky, against which the wind
blew in fitful gusts; now with abortive blast, as if to rekindle
the flame of day; now with a frightened moan, as
if afraid of the approach of night. The tall trees along the
river tossed and beat their long bare arms, as if they longed
to break their chains of root and flee from these scenes of
waste and woe. From the swaying top of one of them a
solitary crow flew, with black flapping wings, cawing as he
came, and perched upon the topmost bough of the old cedar,
like a spirit of evil, his black feathers blown into a ruff
around his neck, and his head bobbing with every note, in
mockery of the desolation.</p>

<p>His voice broke the spell of our silence, and I turned to
Ben. He was standing with one hand on the gate post, the
nails whitened by pressure against the wood, and his grey
eyes glowing as if there were lamps behind them.</p>

<p>“Gracious God! what a sight!” I said, as I leaned
against the paling for support.</p>

<p>“Ah&mdash;h&mdash;h,” said Ben, the breath hissing through his
clenched teeth, “and it’s lit up a devil’s bonfire in here it’ll
take blood to put out,” and he tapped his breast, where the
protrusion of a revolver could be faintly seen.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span></p>

<p>“But think, Ben, of Paning’s doing all this. A double-dyed
villain! to burn the very house that has sheltered
him, and insult a woman whose hospitality he has received!
<i>He</i> here at my home, directing a too willing enemy
where to pillage; <i>his</i> foul lips forcing their polluted
touch on Carlotta’s cheek! Great Heaven! the thought
drives me mad; may Infinite Justice help me to meet
him once more!”</p>

<p>As I ceased speaking a strange unearthly wail arose on
the air, and a poor wounded cat, roused by our voices,
sprang, or rather fell from a box in the dairy window to the
ground, and strove to make its way to us with piteous
mewing. It was perfectly blind, as we could tell from its
actions, and its fur and flesh on one side were singed and
burnt by the fire. It was gaunt from starvation, and cried
aloud with a hollow voice in its vain efforts to find us. I
went forward and took it up in my arms, and saw then that
it was a pet of mother’s, that had been perhaps forgotten
in the haste of leaving, and with fond local affection, was
starving rather than quit the place. As I gazed upon the
poor famished creature, with its white sightless eyes and
emaciated frame, and thought of mother’s fondness and
care for it, for the first time losing control of myself, I burst
into tears.</p>

<p>Ben touched my shoulder and said:</p>

<p>“Less go, John; we can’t do no good staying here, and
are wasting a heap of precious time.”</p>

<p>Knowing that Mr. Bemby’s larder now had no room for
cats, I made the poor creature a bed in the dairy, and
placing something to eat and some water by it, we left it.
Throwing our bridles over our arms we walked on to Mr.
Bemby’s, which was but a short distance through the trees.
As we approached the house I saw my beautiful boy playing
near the steps. He looked up in perfect amazement as
I ran to him, and his lips quivered with frightened surprise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span>
as a seeming old woman caught him up and strained him
to her heart. Bearing him in my arms I entered the house,
and at the sound of my footsteps Carlotta came to the door,
her beautiful face pale with anxiety and alarm; for every
footfall on the doorway now meant robbery or insult. She
started back in affright at my wild appearance and grotesque
disguise, but the next instant, as I murmured “Carlotta!”
her arms were around me and she was sobbing on
my shoulder.</p>

<p>“Oh, thank God! we have met again. Oh, John, my
husband, what we have suffered since I saw you last!” she
exclaimed, with convulsive weeping.</p>

<p>“I know it all, darling; Horace has told me. But compose
yourself, dearest, and let us go to mother, if she be still alive.”</p>

<p>“She is still living, but I fear will not live long. She
grows feebler every day. I will go in and prepare her for
your coming.”</p>

<p>She left me and went into another room, while I placed
my little boy, who had been staring at his mother and myself
with a look of amazement, again upon the floor, and tore
off my bonnet and dress.</p>

<p>“No matter what happens,” I said, as Ben came in with his
wife from the kitchen, where he had gone to look for her,
“I won’t wear this ridiculous costume, here at least.”</p>

<p>I had scarcely done greeting Ben’s wife when his mother
came in, not so plethoric as when I had last seen her, but
with the same good natured face and kind heart.</p>

<p>I could only grasp her honest hands with tears in my
eyes, and bless her for her kindness to my dear ones.</p>

<p>“You needn’t go to talk ‘bout kindness,” said Mrs. Bemby,
wiping her specs on the corner of her apron. “Your
mother’s done a sight more for me’n I ever kin do for her,
an’ I want to keep a doin’ long as God will let her live,
which I’m afeard it won’t be mighty long, for she’s poorlier
to-day ‘n I’ve seen her yet.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span></p>

<p>To divert her from such painful remarks I asked if the
Yankees had molested them since they had burned the
house.</p>

<p>“Not such a mighty sight. They’ve tuck my chickens
and vegetables, tho’ they wan’t nothin’ in the garden but
turnips, but we’ve got some meat an’ a little corn. The
wuss trouble we has is a continuwell fear they is goin’ to
break in on us. Mr. Bemby he’s gone to town to-day to git
a guard.”</p>

<p>“A guard!” I exclaimed, in much alarm; “then if we are
discovered here you all are ruined. Ben and I can settle
with half-a-dozen by ourselves, but I am truly alarmed for
you.”</p>

<p>“Never do you mind, John,” said Ben, as he trotted a
little white-headed scion on his knee; “she’ll fix all that;
the old man aint coming back till to-morrow no how, and
we’ll be off by light.”</p>

<p>Off by light! how the words sounded like a knell on my
ears; off, to leave a dying mother and an unprotected wife
and child in the lines of a merciless foe; off to fight, perhaps
die for a now hopeless cause, leaving all I loved to misery
and want. Ah, Mercy! let thy white wing oftenest shield
the poor deserter at the stake, and Justice will have less
complaint!</p>

<p>Carlotta now appeared at the door of mother’s chamber,
and beckoned to me. Walking softly, with a bowed head
and prayerful heart, I entered a small dark room, dimly
lighted by a single candle and a flickering fire on the hearth.
On an humble bed in the corner, with her crushed head
bound with cloths and liniments, lay my mother, pale and
thin, her sweet face illumined with bright surprise yet
strange bewilderment.</p>

<p>“Be careful,” whispered Carlotta, as I paused on the
threshold, “her mind is not perfectly clear.”</p>

<p>In another moment I was on my knees at the bedside,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span>
my face pressed upon her pillow, sobbing, ”Mother! oh
my mother!” She did not speak, but laid her thin tremulous
hand on my head and let it rest there. I was convulsed
with grief to think of losing her after I had been
away from her so long, and that she was dying under such
distressing circumstances, without a home, under a strange
roof, and with a consciousness of helpless dependence.</p>

<p>As in moments of great danger a retrospect of our whole
lives rises before us, so in this deep distress all my acts of
disobedience and unkindness toward mother; every time
that I had wounded her feelings; every harsh word I had
uttered, all came with cruel distinctness into memory to
torture me, and I longed, in my agony, to ask her forgiveness
for every one, and to assure her again and again of my
love. But Carlotta’s warning, and the strange look on her
face, made me afraid to speak, and I knelt with my face on
the pillow, silently weeping, till she herself broke the silence
of the chamber.</p>

<p>”Carlotta,” she said, in a voice so changed that I raised
up to look at her, ”this is John, is it not? When did he
come? Does he know that his father is dead?”</p>

<p>Carlotta made a sign to me not to speak, and drawing a
chair up to the bedside, she took mother’s hand in her’s and
said:</p>

<p>”Yes, mother, this is John. He knows all about father’s
death, and about the burning of the house; and he has
come through the Federal lines, at great risk, to see you.
Can you not arouse yourself to talk to him! He wishes to
know if you feel better to-night?”</p>

<p>Mother now gazed at me with the old look of fondness as
she said:</p>

<p>”Is this my dear boy? and have you come to see your
mother? God bless you for it! I will make the effort to
speak with you; but oh! I cannot remain conscious. <i>Now</i>
all that has transpired is perfectly clear and distinct before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span>
me, and I recognize my dear child’s face, and know why he
has come; but presently a dull gray cloud, or something
from afar off, will float up and envelope my mind, and all I
know or remember becomes confused. Carlotta, darling,
help me keep the cloud away.”</p>

<p>”I will, mother,” said Carlotta, dampening a cloth and
laying it on her forehead; but even as the cool moisture
touched her skin the vacant look came again to her face,
and she asked, looking at me with earnest inquiry: ”John,
have you brought your father home; is the grave ready?
Go have it made wider. I am coming to lie by his side.”</p>

<p>Utterly helpless, we both sat watching and listening to
her incoherent mutterings about father’s lonely grave, and
her desire to go to it, till, dozing off into her stupor again,
she was silent. In a few minutes she opened her eyes, and
was for another interval herself again.</p>

<p>”John, my precious child,” she said, trying to put her
arm around my neck and draw me down to her, ”God
alone knows how I desire to talk with you, for this will be
the last converse we will ever hold on earth. I do not wish
to grieve you unnecessarily, but I feel that I am dying.”</p>

<p>”O mother, do not say so,” I sobbed, as I kissed her
pale, emaciated cheek; ”God is too good to take you away
from us.”</p>

<p>”He knows best, my son. His will be done! But I have
not strength to say much, and even now I feel the cloud
coming. Will you make me two promises? I want you to
bring your father’s remains from Elmira, and bury them
with me under the old cedar at home; ‘twas there I promised
to be his bride in the long ago. And, John, something
tells me that you had another motive, besides seeing
me, in coming hither. Do you not seek Frank Paning’s
life?”</p>

<p>My face flushed hotly as the thought that she might ask
me to forgive Frank flashed upon me, and I felt that even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span>
her last request could not persuade me to forego my vengeance.
But I answered quickly:</p>

<p>”No, mother, as Heaven is my witness, I only thought of
you and Carlotta when I came here; but if Providence
should throw the viper in my path, even you would have
me crush him.”</p>

<p>”No, John, the dear Saviour prayed for those who nailed
him to the cross, and bids us forgive as we would be forgiven.”</p>

<p>”But, mother,” I argued&mdash;though Carlotta shook her head
at me and whispered, ”do as she requests”&mdash;”Frank is so
vile. He has partaken of our hospitality, and I have been
his friend a thousand times, yet he has burnt our home, insulted
Carlotta and murdered you; how can I ever forgive
him?”</p>

<p>”You are full of wrath and hatred now, my son, and I
cannot hope to change your feeling yet awhile; but I can
ask, as my last request, your promise that you will not seek
Frank’s life&mdash;that if you ever meet you will forgive him for
my sake. Do you promise?”</p>

<p>I did not speak, for the hot blood that had written my
oath of vengeance on my heart was still throbbing there,
and I could not at a word forget my cruel wrongs. While
I hesitated the cloud came over her, and her countenance
again was vacant and meaningless, and she began to murmur
broken sentences about the Cross, and Christ’s love,
and her child’s hard heart.</p>

<p>Then there came the heartrending thought that she
might not again become conscious, and might die with my
obstinate refusal weighing on her poor broken heart.</p>

<p>”Oh, merciful God! what is my unholy resentment compared
with the peace of my mother’s death bed?” I exclaimed,
with unfeigned penitence, as I implored Carlotta
to rouse her once more to consciousness.</p>

<p>Falling on my knees I began the struggle, and conquered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span>
self, and then I felt that I could forgive Frank, not alone for
the sake of my promise, but for the sake of Christ and His
Cross. With a faith I had never known before I prayed for
mother’s restoration, pleading the promise, ”If ye shall
ask anything in my name I will do it,” and arose from my
knees with that ”peace that passeth all understanding”
resting on my soul.</p>

<p>After a long while, as it seemed to my suspense, she rallied
again, and addressed some words to me that showed
she was rational. I hastened then to give her my promise,
and assured her that I really, from my heart, forgave Frank,
and would not harm him if I could.</p>

<p>She thanked me in her feeble way, and then asked me to
sit near her and talk with Carlotta, that she might hear the
sound of my voice, though she felt too weak to talk herself.
Then, after Carlotta had put little Johnnie to bed in his
corner, she came and sat by me, and with tearful eyes and
aching hearts we talked of our parting on the morrow, when
we would bid each other farewell, with a probability of never
meeting again; when we would be separated without a possibility
of communication; when each must suffer well grounded
anxiety and prolonged suspense, because the other was
exposed to constant and serious danger; when I must leave
without having done a single thing to alleviate their condition,
or render them less dependent on the Bembys. But
‘twas all for the Stars and Bars, and for them I would bear
it thrice again.</p>

<p>In the ever flowing tide of our sympathy and love we
took no note of time, and when we were startled by a tap at
the door I was surprised to find that the window behind me
was a gray square of light, and that objects were becoming
plainly visible out in the yard. It was Ben who had knocked,
and who said in a whisper, as I opened the door:</p>

<p>”Day’s broke, John; you’d better put on your fixins’,
and let’s git out. The old man and his guard might git<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span>
here before we leave, and that would spile our tramp and
ruinate the folks here.”</p>

<p>With a sudden sinking at my heart, like we feel when we
hear the footstep of the doctor who is to lance a bone felon
for us, I turned into the chamber and began to make ready
for my departure. My poor Carlotta, who had borne all so
bravely, gave way at last, and clung to me weeping.</p>

<p>”Oh, John! I do try to bear up, but it seems that my
heart will break now if you leave me. I know you could
not protect me amid so many foes, but I would feel so
much braver, so much more secure, if you could be with
me&mdash;if I could get your advice and counsel, and have you
help me nurse dear mother. John, what shall I do if she dies?”</p>

<p>”Would you have me stay, Carlotta?” I said, to prove
her. ”I am in the Yankee lines now, and cannot be punished
for desertion.”</p>

<p>”Desertion!” she exclaimed, with a blaze in her splendid
eyes. ”Fondly as I love you, John, I would rather have
you fall dead at my feet than leave our cause now because
it is feeble. No, no, darling, go back to your command, and
if we are conquered I will be proud of my husband because
he wore the gray while I suffered at home.”</p>

<p>Blessing her for her encouragement to duty, I strained her
again and again to my heart, asking God’s protection for
her, and bidding her good bye.</p>

<p>Mother was sleeping soundly for the first time in several
days, and I would not wake her, but touched her forehead
tenderly with my lips, and then bent over my darling child.</p>

<p>I carried my disguise on my arm, for it seemed such a
mockery of all the sad circumstances at Mr. Bemby’s that
I would not put it on till we had gone some distance from
the house. When we had again become the old woman
and her son we mounted our horses, and with sad hearts
set out on our return to Johnston’s camp. We had been
delayed by Mrs. B.’s breakfast and our prolonged farewells,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span>
so that we found now that the sun had been up some time,
and Nature was sparkling in dewy beauty. My feelings
were too much depressed for conversation, and Ben, with
Nature-taught delicacy, refrained from either futile attempts
to console or irrelevant efforts to divert, and our ride began
in silence. As we neared our home, and I saw the chimneys
and the ashes, the old hot feeling came to my heart,
and I remembered my promise to mother with something
like regret. The next moment I was startled by hearing
the exclamation ”Humph!” very much accented, from Ben,
and seeing him dash at headlong speed down the pathway
to the house, or rather where it had stood. I followed as
fast as I could, and saw, as I neared the gate, the cause of
his movements. A figure in blue uniform, mounted on a
powerful horse, stood at the palings, and another, dismounted,
was raking over the ashes and cinders with his sabre
scabbard. At the sound of our gallop the man on horse-back
turned and saw us, and, driving the spurs into his
charger, he fled up the avenue with a speed that defied
capture. Ben was some distance ahead of me, and as I saw
him leap from his horse and dash into the yard, I wondered
that he should thus forget his usual prudence and throw
aside his assumed character when we most needed it. In
another moment I was at the gate, and saw him grasp the
man in blue, who, with trembling hands, was untying his
horse, and drag him by the throat towards me. The prisoner,
oh! promise of forgiveness! was <i>Frank Paning</i>.</p>

<p>His arm was in a sling, from Carlotta’s shot, I thought;
his cap had fallen off, and his dark curls were clustering as
prettily as ever around his white forehead, while his restless
eyes turned any where but towards Ben or myself. Ben
looked up at me with the lamps in his gray eyes burning
red lights, and his lips so pressed over his set teeth that the
old scar stood out like a cord; and drawing a long navy
revolver from his breast, he offered it to me saying:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span></p>

<p>”Here, John, this is your mouthful; I won’t take it from
you.”</p>

<p>”No, Ben,” I exclaimed, turning my head away; ”don’t,
don’t tempt me. I promised my mother, pledged my word,
at her dying request, not to take his life. I cannot break
my last promise to her.”</p>

<p>”John, I feel sorry for you,” said Ben, solemnly, as if the
obligation to spare Frank was a great affliction, and demanded
his sympathy, ”but <i>I</i> did not promise, therefore&mdash;&mdash;”
and his thumb slowly drew the hammer of his pistol back,
till it stood like a serpent ready to strike.</p>

<p>”Gentlemen,” said Frank, in a husky, nervous voice,
while he raised his hand hesitatingly towards Ben’s, as if he
wished to move it from his collar, but was afraid his touch
would be the signal for the serpent to fall on the yellow,
gleaming cap, ”you surely will not do me any violence. I
am your prisoner, and will give up my arms if you will
receive them, and will do anything you say or wish. If
you will not spare me for humanity’s sake, only think of the
danger you are in. Our troops are all around you, and
there is even now a strong body of cavalry just beyond the
bend in the road. You are both in disguise, and, if caught,
will be hung as spies. If you harm me you cannot possibly
escape, but if you promise to spare my life, I will pilot you
safely through our lines, and then go with you to Gen.
Johnston. I can give him very important information about
Sherman’s movements, and will do so cheerfully.”</p>

<p>”You will?” said Ben, with two short grunts for a laugh,
at the same time taking his thumb from the crest of the
hammer.</p>

<p>”Mr. Bemby, for God’s sake don’t shoot me!” cried Frank,
in an extremity of terror, clasping his hands over Ben’s,
that like a vice still held his collar. ”John, don’t, don’t let
him shoot me! Speak to him, please, and ask him to spare
me! He won’t shoot if you tell him not. Remember, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span>
were friends once, and save my life now for the sake of that
time.”</p>

<p>He tried to throw himself on his knees, but Ben held him
erect, and he stood trembling in every limb, and holding
out his hands to me in a cowardly fright, that excited no
feeling but disgust. When he appealed to the past, I remembered
that Carlotta had made the same appeal to him
only to receive an insult, and I had almost stricken him
down with my own hand, when mother’s voice again whispered
in my ear, ”Forgive, as ye would be forgiven.”</p>

<p>My arm was scarcely lowered when the sound of horses’
feet was heard, and, looking up, we saw a half dozen Federal
cavalry coming down the avenue at a fast trot.</p>

<p>Frank’s face lighted up with an expression of fiendish
malice and triumph as he saw them, and, pointing to them,
he said, with a sudden change from an abject to an authoritative
air:</p>

<p>”Take your hands off, sir! Surrender, or I will have
you both shot. You dare not harm me now,” he added,
with a sneer.</p>

<p>”We don’t?” said Ben, with a hiss in his voice and a
redder light in his eyes. Then, giving Frank’s throat a
grip that made his face livid, he pointed with his revolver
to the ashes, and said through is teeth: ”Look there, villain!
is that your work?”</p>

<p>”Yes, by Heaven! it is;” exclaimed Frank, with a gesture
of defiance, for the troopers were almost on us.</p>

<p>”Then, infernal dog, take your pay!”</p>

<p>Before I could speak there was a levelled brown barrel, a
deadly report, and a red oozing spot in Frank’s white forehead.
He stood motionless a second, and then fell limp
and doubling up to the ground.</p>

<p>”Now less scatter ’em yonder, and break for old Joe’s
camp;” said Ben, as he sprang upon his horse.</p>

<p>The Yankees halted with astonishment as they saw an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[372]</a></span>
awkward country lad and an old woman charging upon
them.</p>

<p>But we were on them before they had time for much
wonder. Bang! bang! one reeled, another fell. Bang!
bang! another empty saddle! and we were past them a
hundred yards before they returned our fire. They did not
dare pursue us, and we galloped a short distance up the
road, then plunged into the woods, and, riding on to the
river, we took up its banks, picking our way cautiously
through bogs and marshes, and avoiding every sign of habitation
and life. So careful were we in our progress that
we saw no human being during the day, and at nightfall
found ourselves not far from the place where Johnston had
his camp when we left. But all day long we had heard the
roar of battle, growing louder as we drew nearer, and we
knew that there had been a heavy engagement somewhere,
and that the positions of both armies had undergone some
change. As we determined to ride now in the night, we
stopped some time before sunset in a deep secluded dell, to
rest our horses till after dark. Ben slipped into an adjoining
field and obtained some fodder from a couple of stacks
that were standing near the woods, and gave a plentiful
supply to our hungry cattle.</p>

<p>”The Yankees will get it all soon, any way,” said Ben,
apologetically, as he untied the bundles and shook them out
on the ground.</p>

<p>At sunset we could hear the bugle calls of different
camps, and mapped out our course for the night accordingly.
As soon as it was dark we mounted our horses,
which were much refreshed by food and their short rest,
and set out to thread the maze of pickets extending miles
around. As my disguise was useless in the dark I tore it
off, preferring to ride bare-headed to having both sight and
hearing impaired by the long, projecting bonnet.</p>

<p>Having located the camps by the sounds of the bugles, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[373]</a></span>
made a wide circuit, which considerably increased the distance
we had to travel. After riding for hours in cautious
silence, and being, as we thought, very near our lines, our
horses began to show signs of giving out. After an hour’s
more urging them forward they began to breathe hard and
stagger, so that it would have been cruel as well as impossible
to ride them further.</p>

<p>”What shall we do?” I asked, barely dismounting in
time to keep mine from falling beneath me. Ben’s horse
was much better than mine, and would have held out a mile
or two further, but he got down immediately, and taking
the bridle from his horse, said:</p>

<p>”We’ll have to foot it, I reckon, and leave these Arabs
here; somebody ‘ll find them, and a fine team they’ll have,
won’t they? I was afeard they wouldn’t hold out when
we started, but we couldn’t er got ‘long on good stock.
Take your bridle off, so the varmint can browse, and less
move on. ‘Taint far no how, and I want to stretch my legs
a little.”</p>

<p>Taking the bridles and saddles off we let the poor jaded
creatures go free, and set out on foot through the darkness.
We had not gone more than half a mile when Ben caught
my arm and said, in a whisper: ”Shh! Listen!”</p>

<p>Not a hundred paces ahead of us we heard the unmistakable
tell-tale of the horse, and the frequent betrayal of the
picket&mdash;that peculiar flutter of the animal’s lip as the breath
is forced through the nose&mdash;that is very frequent, and audible
at a considerable distance in the night. Simultaneously
whispering the single word, ”Pickets!” we crept forward
with Indian stealthiness, feeling for twigs before we stepped,
and parting the bushes carefully before we passed through
them.</p>

<p>”What do you intend to do when we find them?” I
asked, in a low voice, of Ben, who generally assumed the
responsibility of directing.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[374]</a></span></p>

<p>”See how many of ’em there is, and act according. If
there ain’t more than two we c’n rope ’em and git their
horses, but we must do it w’thout our pistols.”</p>

<p>”All right,” I whispered; ”I’m ready.”</p>

<p>We went forward a few steps, and there, not twenty
paces from us, at the edge of a wide open field, loomed the
figures of two pickets, seated on their horses. We crept a
few steps nearer till we could hear their conversation, and
paused to listen. They were grumbling about the hardship
of standing picket ‘way off where nobody ever came, and
half a mile from any of the others, and they swore, half
laughing, that they had been freezing there a month, and
would never be relieved. One rallied the other on being
afraid of the dead men in the field before them, and then,
with an oath, said he was ready for dead or living, and that
he had balls enough for both.</p>

<p>Ben placed his mouth to my ear and breathed the words,
not spoke them:</p>

<p>”It is all right, they’re alone, and will be sho to surrender
when we tell ’em. But be ready with your pistol if
the worse comes to the worse; we may have to shoot a
little to git the horses.”</p>

<p>I shuddered at the thought; for while I had been in many
battles, where the balls fell like hail, and never yet shrunk
from duty, yet there was something so secret, and, I must
confess, frightful in this contemplated hand-to-hand encounter,
with an adversary each, out in the lonely night, with no
eye to mark our victory or death, that I fain would have
avoided it. I ventured to whisper to Ben:</p>

<p>”As there is no special necessity for attacking them, had
we not better go around them and hasten to our lines?
An attempt to take them will probably lead to an alarm
and our own capture. You know I am with you wherever
there is need, but I had rather be prudent now, for Carlotta’s
sake.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[375]</a></span></p>

<p>”’Twon’t do for soldiers to think of the home folks, John,
if they’re going to fight right; it makes ’em too soft in the
heart. But them fellows ‘ve got two good horses, and we
can take ’em in so nice. My rule is to never let a Yankee
off; and, if you’d ruther not, I’ll try the game by myself.”</p>

<p>”You must beg my pardon for that insult, Ben, or you
and I will fight,” I said, in the same low tone, but with a
flush on my face at his insinuation.</p>

<p>”You know I didn’t mean to insult you, John; but less
quit wasting time and git to work; what we’ve got to do
is to creep up close and spring on ’em. When I take hold
of one bridle you grab the other, and I’ll do the talkin’.”</p>

<p>Bending down almost to the ground, with panther-like
tread we stole upon the unconscious pickets, while my hand
was trembling and my heart beating audibly with excitement.
Ben was perfectly cool and deliberate, for he was but
reënacting, rather tamely he seemed to think, one of his
many scouting adventures. We were now at their horses’
heels, and Ben, putting his mouth again to my ear, whispered,
”Be certain to go when I do, and keep your revolver
in your right hand. Are you ready? Now!” and we both
sprang to the heads of the horses and seized the reins.
”Surrender! or you are dead men. Steady, boys! do not
fire till I give the word,” exclaimed Ben, in a loud clear
voice, as we levelled our pistols on them.</p>

<p>They made no show of resistance, but cried out to us not
to shoot&mdash;that they yielded themselves up; and when Ben
approached to take their arms gave them up readily.</p>

<p>We made them dismount, and found that they had two
strong, well built horses, of which we took immediate possession.
In answer to our inquiries they told us that there
had been a severe engagement near Bentonsville, and that
Johnston was moving up toward Raleigh. They pointed
toward his lines, which they said were not more than half a
mile distant. Ben examined the horses’ heads, and finding a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[376]</a></span>
halter under each bridle, he took them off, and telling our
prisoners that while he was obliged for their information,
yet for their safety and our own he would have to tie them,
he made them turn their backs to two small trees and
lashed their hands around them. ”The relief’ll be along
pretty soon,” he said, ”so you won’t git tired; and if you
want to scratch your back, or wipe your nose, you’ll have
to rub up and down, or twist your head. Good bye, and
don’t forget to thank the Lord that we didn’t kill you, as
we ought to do.”</p>

<p>Mounting our captured horses we again set out in the
darkness, picking our way still cautiously, and halting ever
and anon to listen and take our bearings, for we did not
place that implicit confidence in the statements of our prisoners,
regarding the position of our lines, that a charitable
belief in the integrity of human nature would have encouraged
us to do. But we had judged them wrongfully, for
we had just passed through the open field at the edge of
which we had left them, and struck another skirt of woods,
when, directly in front of us, crack! went a rifle, and the ball
whistled in uncomfortable proximity to our ears. The next
moment we heard the gallop of the horse’s feet as the picket
fell back to the reserve.</p>

<p>”Quick!” said Ben, spurring his horse forward; ”we
must catch up with him and tell him we are friends, or
we will be shot.”</p>

<p>But catching up was not so easy, for he heard our pursuit,
and dashed through the brush and undergrowth as
if he had a contract to clear up the land.</p>

<p>As our speed was a matter of equal necessity we kept
close behind him, when suddenly his horse fell, and he
rolled over in the darkness.</p>

<p>”I surrender,” he called out, as we rode up.</p>

<p>”What command do you belong to?” I asked.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[377]</a></span></p>

<p>”Wheeler’s cavalry,&mdash;th Regiment.”</p>

<p>”Where’s your camp?” said Ben.</p>

<p>”Just behind us; yonder are some of the fires.”</p>

<p>”Well, go back to your post; we are friends,” I said, as
Ben caught his horse for him. ”I am Major Smith, of Gen.
Johnston’s staff.”</p>

<p>”Yes, sir,” said the poor fellow, who was badly frightened,
attempting to make a salute as he rose from the ground,
where he had been lying during the colloquy.</p>

<p>We left him and pushed rapidly on to the fires which we
saw glimmering through the trees.</p>

<p>Without detailing the halts of the sentinels and our explanations,
suffice it to say we reached our quarters in
safety, got an hour’s sleep, and rose with the army to continue
our ceaseless but gallant retreat.</p>

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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c377" id="c377">CHAPTER XLIII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">If</span> my pen alone, dear reader, could direct the scenes which
must be presented to your view in drawing near the close
of my narrative, rest assured they should be pleasant. I
would tell of a grand triumphant army, marshalled for the
last time beneath the Stars and Bars to hear the plaudits
and farewell of their chieftain; of victorious legions marching
home crowned with laurels, their very footsteps softened
by the flowers fair hands are scattering before them; of every
homestead, blessed with peace and plenty, greeting its hero
returned from the war. I would tell of an Independent Republic,
with Robert E. Lee at its head, growing into power
and greatness among the nations of the earth; while, with
all sectional animosity and bitterness buried beneath the
blood of their children, the United and the Confederate
States join hands in the noble alliance of progress and enterprise&mdash;exchanging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[378]</a></span>
products and commodities, aiding each
other onward, yet vieing in generous rivalry. Alas! the
stern reality presents a darker picture&mdash;the picture of a
people, borne down by want and woe, yielding up at last
their long and gallant struggle, and sitting down amid the
ashes of their country to mourn their children dead for
nought; a picture of two armies&mdash;small, indeed, and wasted
by famine and disease, yet still stepping proudly as they
remember their long record of victories&mdash;stacking their faithful
arms and furling their shell-torn flags with tears of helpless
bitterness; a picture of Southern roadsides filled everywhere
with men in tattered gray, plodding, with blistered
feet, their weary way towards homes where gaunt starvation
hath so wasted the cheeks of loved ones that they will
scarcely flush at their coming, and where, laying down the
burden of war, they must take up the burden of fruitless
labor!</p>

<p>Ben and I secured transportation on the cars from Durham’s
to Raleigh, and set out from there to walk home.</p>

<p>Ah! never to be forgotten are those days after the surrender!
How the Yankees jeered and cursed us for being
rebels, as squad after squad galloped by us, tramping along
our dusty roads! And the people, God bless them! how
kind they were to us, even in their poverty! Stripped to
almost utter destitution by the enemy, they were willing,
like the widow of Sarepta, to share with us their only cake.
As we passed each gate they would come out with a pitcher
of water, a tray of corn bread and potatoes, and, if the
”bummers” had not paid their visits of mercy, a small
piece of meat. Calling us into the yard, under the trees,
they would press us to eat, and lament that they had not
better to give. And as we eagerly ate their frugal fare,
which was more delicious then than were the quails of
Lucullus, and rose to thank them and pursue our way, they
would put what remained in our pockets, and, asking God’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[379]</a></span>
blessing on us, turn into the house to prepare their humble
offering for the next hungry troop.</p>

<p>Thus were the gloomy feelings of our homeward journey
relieved by constant kindness and attention from every house
we passed, and it was not till we neared Ben’s home, and
had left the public road, that I had time to feel the terrible
suspense and anxiety about Carlotta and mother that had
been in my heart since I left them. I dared not hope that
mother was alive; yet my heart did so much shrink from
knowing she was dead, that, as I came in sight of Mr.
Bemby’s, my feet almost refused to go forward.</p>

<p>As we approached we saw no one but Horace, who was
working in a little garden near the house, and we motioned
to him to be quiet. We opened the door of the house softly,
and heard the sound of voices out in the little back porch,
and saw the edge of some one’s dress who was sitting near
the door. Then we heard a chair put down from its tilted
position, and Ben’s wife leaned forward and looked sideways
into the passage. With a loud cry of joy she dropped a lap
full of work on the floor, and ran to meet her husband. She
was followed by Carlotta and Mrs. Bemby. Where was
mother? Carlotta, as I pressed her to my bosom, interpreted
the anxiety of my look, and said:</p>

<p>”God has spared mother, John. She is much improved,
though still feeble. She is out in the porch. Come with me.”</p>

<p>I followed her out to the porch, and there, propped by
pillows in a chair, pale and thin, but still alive, was mother.</p>

<p>I knelt by her, and we both murmured our thanksgiving
to God for his mercy.</p>

<p>Then, when Mrs. Bemby had brought out chairs for us
all, and Horace had brought a bucket of fresh cool water,
how bright and happy were we all as we told of our adventures
and wondered at our mutual dangers and escapes.
Verily, it was worth four years of hardship to experience the
joy of that morning out in Mr. Bemby’s porch.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[380]</a></span></p>

<p>”But tell me, Carlotta, what caused this blessed change
in mother?” I said, after we had finished our salutations,
drawing my little boy to me, and taking him on my knee.</p>

<p>”She was relieved, and commenced to grow better the
very day you left. A short time after you and Mr. Ben
were gone a company of Federal soldiers came up to the
house, bearing with them a dead man and two wounded
ones. Mrs. Bemby and I went out to them and found, I
shudder to tell it, that the dead man was Frank Paning.
They wanted some spades to bury him with, and some
cloths to bind up the wounds of the others. They said that
two spies, one of them disguised as an old woman, had
killed Paning, and, meeting these, had fired on them. We
knew it must have been you two. Oh, John! did you forget
your promise to mother?”</p>

<p>I said nothing, for I did not wish to involve Ben, but he
spoke up directly:</p>

<p>”No, Mrs. Smith, John didn’t kill him; I done it myself.
We found him a rakin’ over the ashes he’d helped to make,
and when he saw his friends a comin’ he tried to make us
surrender, and I let him have a ball in his forred. ‘Taint
worth while to be mealy-mouthed about it.”</p>

<p>”Well,” continued Carlotta, with a shudder at Ben’s
words, ”Horace got the spades for them, and Mrs. Bemby
told them to bring the men into the house, for they were
both suffering very much. We did what we could to alleviate
their sufferings, and when the surgeon who was with
them had bandaged up their wounds, and sent them off to
camp, he asked if he could reward us in any way for our
kindness. I thought of mother; and though my pride revolted
at the idea of asking a favor of an enemy, I begged
that he would see her and give her some relief, if possible.
He went in and examined her head, and saying that
it was an easy matter, took out some instruments and
went to work. He raised up the fractured skull, and, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[381]</a></span>
mother expressed it, lifted a great weight from her brain;
then mixing some medicine for her, and telling me how to
bathe her head, took his leave.”</p>

<p>”Did you not offer to remunerate him in some way?” I
asked.</p>

<p>”Yes, I offered him my watch, as we had no money, but
he refused it with polished courtesy, and said he would only
take a kiss from my little boy, as there was something about
his eyes, as well as mine, that reminded him of a lady he
had loved years ago.”</p>

<p>”Did you not learn his name?”</p>

<p>”Oh yes! He gave me his card, and I think I put it in
this basket;” and she commenced to search in her work
busily. ”Ah! here it is!” and she gave me the card:</p>

<p class="pc1 lmid">”<span class="smcap">C. B. Sedley, M. D., New York!</span>”</p>

<p class="p1">”Why, Carlotta,” I said, ”did not a young man of that
name pay his addresses to you at Saratoga?”</p>

<p>”Oh! certainly; I remember him. How stupid of me to
forget. Poor Charley! I do not blame him for not recognising
the lady of satin in this old homespun.”</p>

<p>”I must go to Goldsboro’ to-morrow,” I said, thinking
gratefully of his kindness, ”and if he is still there offer some
testimonial of our gratitude.”</p>

<p>”It’s useless,” said Carlotta, ”he has gone on to Raleigh
with the army, and I cannot let you leave me so soon.”</p>

<p>Mr. Bemby now came in from the field, and greeted us
warmly in his uncouth way, while Mrs. B. excused herself
to see about dinner. It was a plain meal, of one course,
but Delmonico has never served one that was more enjoyed,
or surrounded by happier hearts.</p>

<p>The next day I went over to Goldsboro’, and, obtaining
a hundred dollars, in ”greenbacks,” the first I had ever
handled, prepared to start with our little family for Wilmington
the following morning, for I could not consent to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[382]</a></span>
impose longer on the good nature of the Bembys, and
crowd them out of comfort in their little house.</p>

<p>The next morning, having bade them an affectionate
and grateful farewell, we lifted mother carefully into the
vehicle I had hired to take us to town, and were soon in
the cars, mother, Carlotta, Johnnie and I, rattling down to
Wilmington. We found that Miss Wiggs had been unmolested
in her possession of our house, and that it was therefore
ready for our reception.</p>

<p>Many of our former slaves now applied for positions in our
household, but, as they had deserted us when most needed,
I refused every one, and engaged an entire new set. About
this time, also, I received a balance sheet from father’s bankers
in New York, showing a large accumulated balance in our
favor, and, drawing on this, we began to surround ourselves
with ante-bellum comforts, and to make home feel like home.</p>

<p>Soon after we had gotten somewhat settled I began to make
inquiries about Lulie, for I felt the deepest interest in her
welfare, and had ever thought of her downfall with deepest
sorrow. As I could hear nothing definite in regard
to her, though it was generally believed she had gone off
with a Federal officer of high rank, I determined to call on her
old maiden aunt, with whom she had lived since her father’s
death, which occurred early in the winter. To my surprise
the old lady would neither see me nor answer any of my
inquiries, but called out to me, in a shrill cracked voice, as I
stood at her door, her long bony feet just visible in heelless
slippers and blue stockings, at the top of her stairway:</p>

<p>”You needn’t come here asking me about the little silly
fool, for I wouldn’t tell you anything if I knew, which I
don’t. She’s gone from my sight and hearing, and I hope to
the Lord you nor any one else will ever hear of her again.”</p>

<p>Of course I could do nothing but give up the search,
though I ceased not to hope she might yet be found and
saved.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[383]</a></span></p>

<p>And now, as the summer wore away, came to me the question
of life; not <i>how</i> we were to live, for our income largely
exceeded our expenditure, but <i>why</i>. The boyish dreams I
had so long cherished, of distinction in the political arena,
were now vanished forever; and the practice of law, for
which I had studied, under the Provisional Government
was little better than a system of pettifogging, that was
as undignified as it was profitless.</p>

<p>There was absolutely nothing to do, and the very <i>ennui</i> of
existence seemed a terrible evil. So, when Carlotta proposed
that we break up here and go to her home in Cuba, I
acceded to the proposal with great delight, and, mother
consenting to go with us, I began immediately preparations
for our departure in the Fall. I could not help feeling some
touches of shame and regret in leaving our dear old State in
this her darkest hour, and had it not been for the beautiful
Cuban home that was awaiting us, I could not have gotten
the consent of my mind to go. But I felt, as a private
individual, of little benefit to the State at large, and that
my first duty was to render those dearest to me happy,
and this I thought would be accomplished by the change.</p>

<p>As executor of father’s will, I found very little trouble in
settling the estate, there being no debts to pay and few to
collect. The real estate in New York I determined to leave
in the hands of our agent, in whom we had the utmost confidence,
and who had doubly endeared himself to us by his
kindness to father while he was in prison. I sold our residence
and grounds in Wilmington to a blockade runner who
had amassed a large fortune during the war, and was anxious
to invest in town property. Early in the fall I went
up to the plantation to see Mr. Bemby, and make arrangements
for its disposal. Taking the surveyor over from
Goldsboro’ I had four hundred acres cut off for Ben, and
two hundred for Horace, making them a fee simple title to
it; the remaining three thousand acres I turned over to Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[384]</a></span>
Bemby, to use the balance of his lifetime without rent.
These kind people were profuse and sincere in their regrets
at our leaving, and Mr. Bemby protested that he and Ben
could make enough on the farm for us all to live in the
house and never go out doors where we could see a Yankee.
They all followed me up to the road, and I felt, as I shook
hands and drove off, that, go where I would, I could never
find more faithful hearts than beat beneath their homespun
clothes. Ben rode over to Goldsboro’ with me, and when
we had gone some distance from the house he drew from
his pocket a twenty dollar gold piece and handed it to me,
saying:</p>

<p>”I want you to give that to the one it belongs to, if you
ever see her.”</p>

<p>”Whose is it?” I asked in some surprise.</p>

<p>”Miss Luler Maylin’s,” he said, putting the coin in my
hand.</p>

<p>”Lulie Mayland!” I exclaimed. ”Where is she; where
have you seen her; I have been trying to find her ever
since I came home.”</p>

<p>”I saw her week b’fore last, right on this road, jus’ above
our house.”</p>

<p>”How came she there? Tell me about it for Heaven’s
sake, Ben.”</p>

<p>”Well, you know Frank Paning is buried up there in
the woods by the road, and last Wednesday was a week I
thought I’d go up and sorter put a pen like ’round  his
grave, to keep the hogs from rootin’ ‘bout on it, ‘cause I tell
you the truth, John, I ain’t never felt right ‘bout killin’ him
yit. I shot a sight of Yankees during the war, but I done
it on account of the Confeder’cy, and I didn’t feel like it was
charged ‘ginst me in the big book up yonder; but I put
that bullet in Frank Paning on my own hook, because I
was mad with him, and it’s looked mighty close kin to murder
ever since.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[385]</a></span></p>

<p>”By no means, Ben,” I interrupted; ”he had ordered you
to surrender, and his friends were close at hand.”</p>

<p>”Well, any how,” he continued, ”I was piling up the
rails ’round  the grave, and kinder askin’ its pardon to myself,
when I heard a carriage ‘comin’ ‘long the road. I got
up and stepped back a little for ’em to pass, for I was sorter
ashamed of what I was doin’. But the carriage stopped
right at the grave, and a Yankee officer got out, and then
handed down a lady dressed finer ‘n the top spot in a peacock’s
tail. The minnit I see her face I knowed ‘twas the
same young lady that come up here wonst with Mrs. Smith
and you all. ‘Soon as she got on the ground she run to the
grave, and fell down on her knees, and put her head on the
edge of the rail pen, and cried a long time. When she got up
the man fetched some white flowers outer the carriage and
she put’em on the grave; then turned to the man and said:</p>

<p>”’Do you think you can find the place, Curnel?’</p>

<p>”’Without doubt, madam,’ he said.</p>

<p>”’I want the granite base very broad and strong, as the
column will be very heavy,’ I heard her say.</p>

<p>”’It shall be as you desire, madam,’ he replied.</p>

<p>”They was about to git back in the carriage when she saw
me, and come towards me with both hands stretched out.</p>

<p>”’O, sir!’ she said to me, with her cheeks all wet, ‘did
you think enough of his grave to take keer of it; let me reward
you.’ And b’fore I could speak she put that money in
my hand. I run up to the carriage as she got in, and tole
her I did not want her money, but they drove off without
saying any more.”</p>

<p>”Do you know where they went to, and did she call the
officer’s name?” I asked, intensely interested in what he had
related.</p>

<p>”No; but I went to town next day, and saw ’em going
off on the train, and the man had a han’ trunk marked New
York.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[386]</a></span></p>

<p>”Poor Lulie!” I murmured; ”would to Heaven I could
find her.”</p>

<p>The train was standing at the depot as we drove up, and
I had to hurry to get on. Ben followed me into the car, and,
taking my hand, said:</p>

<p>”Good bye, John, for I can’t call you Mr. Smith, like I
orter. Remember one thing, no matter where you go or
who you see you’ll never find anybody to think any more
of you than Ben. I didn’t have much religion to start with,
and the war spilled what I did have out; but if I ever do
get to the good place I’d like to see you there, for it won’t
seem natchurel without you.”</p>

<p>The train moved off and he was gone&mdash;a true, tried old
heart.</p>

<p>There was one more duty, a sacred one, for me to perform
before our departure. I must bring my father’s remains
from the enemy’s land, and let them rest in the soil he had
died for. I found no difficulty in identifying his grave at
Elmira, owing to the clear and distinct manner in which it
had been marked by Mr. P., the agent referred to; and taking
up the rude prison coffin, I had it enclosed as it was, without
being opened, in a large metallic case, and thus brought it
home.</p>

<p>Mother had given up her desire to have him buried under
the old cedar, as she knew his grave would be neglected
when we had passed away, and the property had fallen
into strangers’ hands, as it inevitably must some time in the
future. So we carried his remains to the cemetery, and in
the hazy autumn evening, while the sinking sun was mellowed
by the purple mists, we laid him beneath the still
green turf, where the yellow leaves were falling, in ”whispers
to the living,” one by one upon his grave.</p>

<p>And now, with that solemn certainty that alone belongs
to Time and Death, the day appointed for departure approached.
On the evening before we were to leave, feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[387]</a></span>
that I ought to pay a farewell visit to Ned’s grave, I went
down to the livery stables&mdash;our stalls were empty now&mdash;and
hired a horse and buggy, and drove, with Carlotta,
down to Mr. Cheyleigh’s. The old gentleman came out to
meet us with his wonted cordiality, and was as cheerful as of
old, but Mrs. Cheyleigh had never gotten over Ned’s death,
and I could read in her wan, sad face, the tale of incurable
sorrow. We talked all the while of Ned and his death; and
as I told her how the men all loved him for his goodness,
and the officers honored him for his bravery, I could see
that, like a Spartan mother, even in her tears, she was proud
of her gallant boy.</p>

<p>At length I arose and went out alone to his grave. It
was in a grove of pines near the house, and the brown pine
straw hushed my footfalls as I approached, and the wind
was sighing through the boughs. The grave was enclosed
by an iron railing, and over it rested a plain marble slab, on
which were an inscription and some lines in gilded letters.
Opening the wire-work gate, with uncovered head and softened
step I went up to the slab, and, bending over it, read:</p>

<p class="pc1">SACRED TO THE MEMORY</p>

<p class="pc">OF</p>

<p class="pc lmid">EDWARD CHEYLEIGH,</p>

<p class="pc">Born April 8th, 1840,</p>

<p class="pc"><i>Killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 2d, 1863.</i></p>

<p class="pc small">”Tell them to bury me under the pines at home.”</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">I would not rest in the mouldering tomb</p>
<p class="ppn5">Of the grim churchyard, where the ivy twines,</p>
<p class="ppn4">But make my grave in the forest’s gloom,<br />
Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume,</p>
<p class="ppn5">Each dark green bough of the dear old pines,</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">Where the lights and shadows softly merge,</p>
<p class="ppn5">And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines;</p>
<p class="ppn4">Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge,<br />
From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge</p>
<p class="ppn5">For the dead beneath the sighing pines.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[388]</a></span></p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">When the winter’s icy fingers sow</p>
<p class="ppn5">The mound with jewels till it shines,</p>
<p class="ppn4">And cowled in hoods of glistening snow,<br />
Like white-veiled Sisters bending low,</p>
<p class="ppn5">Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines.</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">While others fought for cities proud,</p>
<p class="ppn5">For fertile plains and wealth of mines,</p>
<p class="ppn4">I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud,<br />
I bared my breast, and took my shroud</p>
<p class="ppn5">For the land where wave the grand old pines.</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">Though comrades sigh and loved ones weep</p>
<p class="ppn5">For the form shot down in the battle lines,</p>
<p class="ppn4">In my grave of blood I gladly sleep,<br />
If the life I gave will help to keep</p>
<p class="ppn5">The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines.</p>

<p class="ast4 p1">********</p>

<p class="ppn4 p1">The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod,</p>
<p class="ppn5">His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines;</p>
<p class="ppn4">And, bowing ‘neath the chastening rod,<br />
We lift our hearts and hands to God,</p>
<p class="ppn5">And cry: ”Oh! save our Land of Pines!”</p>

<div class="figcenter">
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         alt=""
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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c388" id="c388">CHAPTER XLIV.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">However</span> pleasant may be the scenes to which we are
going, we cannot repress a feeling of sadness as we leave
those with which we have been long associated, and which
have become, as it were, part of our life.</p>

<p>As the train bearing us from our home moved off from
the shed, I went out to the rear platform, and stood looking
at each familiar place and object as they passed, with a
fond farewell upon my lips, and a desire to stamp all so indelibly
upon my memory that in years to come I might
remember exactly how everything appeared. As I stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[389]</a></span>
with my face down the track I could not see an object till
it passed, and then I gazed at it as it receded, till other
objects flashing by claimed my attention. Now the bridge
overhead, where I had so often stood to throw bits of coal
and wood at the engines passing underneath, its arch and
railing almost hidden in the curling volumes of smoke our
engine has left behind; now the machine shops, where as a
boy I had gathered the spiral iron shavings as great wonders
of art, still clinking noisily above the rattle of the train,
and blinking their red eyes from every forge; now engine
yards, with old rusty boilers cast aside, and broken smoke
stacks lying on the ground; here a pond where I have
fished, its yellow surface darkened with cinders and wrinkled
with the breath of our speed; there the river where
I have bathed, hidden by the trees itself, but its course
revealed by some naked mast and gliding sails; now we
rattle through the coal and lumber yards, almost brushing
against great piles of timber heaped along the track, and
almost grazing dusty carts, with coal-begrimed drivers in
red shirts, and heavy plodding horses with brass-studded
harness, nodding their heads at every step, as if to say they
were used to the cars and could not be prevailed upon to
shy; now flash by streets that open, for a second, elm-bordered
vistas ‘way up into the city, and close them as they
whirl past; now we overtake and pass some one who knows
me, walking along a very narrow sidewalk, and who bows
and says something I cannot understand, and which I can
only reply to by a great many shakes of the head; now we
rattle by a little house with a dingy porch, and a goat with
two kids browsing in front, where a schoolmate of mine
used to live and invite me, and mother would not let me
go; and now we roar out through the suburbs, where
greasy looking men are smoking short pipes in rickety doorways,
and red-armed women, with tumbled-down hair, are
ever carrying water in painted buckets to the crazy shanties,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[390]</a></span>
and never seeming to use it, and where flocks of dirty
children run out to wave and scream at the train; on till
the last tenement is passed, and in the hazy distance I can
only recognize the steeples of the different churches. Even
these at last fade into the sky, and still, in my reverie, I
stand there watching the black rails gliding like two long
serpents from under the train, and the cross-ties ever flitting
like steps to an interminable ladder down the track.</p>

<p>As I had several matters of business to attend to in New
York, I determined to take steamer from that point to Havana,
instead of from Charleston, as we first thought of doing.</p>

<p>The evening after our arrival in the metropolis being
bright and sunny, I ordered an open carriage, and Carlotta
and I, with little Johnnie, drove out to the Park. Ordering
our coachman to let the horses go slowly, we gave ourselves
up to the enjoyment of the beautiful scene. Pausing at each
object of interest&mdash;here a marble statue, there a bronze,
getting out at the museum, that Johnnie might see the animals,
stopping on the edge of the lake, that he might feed the
swans&mdash;time passed swiftly, and the sun was nearly down
as we found ourselves over the terrace, the dress parade
ground for the equipages of the Park. The press of vehicles
here forced us to stop for a moment, and at the same
instant a most superb turnout caught our attention. A
pair of jet black horses, whose champing mouths almost bit
their foam-flecked breasts, covered with harness that dazzled
the eye with its gleaming plate, a glittering gold-mounted
chariot, and a coachman and lackey in green and gold
liveries! There were only two occupants&mdash;a handsome, middle-aged
man, and a lady of striking yet haggard beauty.
Clustering brown curls fell around her shoulders, and her
hazel eyes were very bright, but her wan cheek was rouged,
and the smile she wore was plainly forced and meaningless.
All this we saw in a moment, and then we looked in each
other’s faces, and exclaimed in one breath:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[391]</a></span></p>

<p>”Lulie Mayland!”</p>

<p>Ere we could extricate ourselves from the throng of carriages
and follow, their chariot was out of sight, and we
could only return to our hotel in wonder and surprise.</p>

<p>That night Carlotta and I went to the Academy of Music.
Parepa was to open the season with <i>Maritana</i>, and the vast
edifice was crowded. The curtain was down for the second
act, and Carl Rosa, with his nervous baton was wafting up
from the orchestra a soft, exquisite aria, when the door
of a box across the circle was opened by an obsequious
usher, and a gentleman in an agony of fashion bowed a tremendous
satin trail, a superb white cloak, and a profusion
of diamonds into the seat. Laying a harp of camelias and
tube-roses in his crush hat, he assisted her in removing her
cloak, and, as a cluster of brown curls fell over her bare
white shoulders, we recognized again Lulie. He seemed to
bend over her with pleasant words, for she frequently
smiled; but oh! the look of weariness and despair that
at times would flit across her face! The curtain rose and
fell, Parepa sang her sweetest, and the dome reëchoed the
thunders of applause, but we sat regardless of the stage,
with our opera glasses fixed on the box where Lulie sat.
The gentleman, too, who was with her was an object of interest
to me, for I could not divest myself of the idea that I
had seen him somewhere. The deep red hair, parted so exactly
in the middle, the flowing side whiskers, and the foppish
dress, all seemed familiar, but I could not recall them,
till presently he lowered his lorgnon and stuck in his eyeglass,
and then I recognized Mr. Monte. I immediately rose
and left our box to go to them, but before I had gotten half
around the aisle I saw them both rise from their seats and
leave the house. I followed as fast as I could through the
throng, and reached the pavement just in time to see them
drive off in their carriage.</p>

<p>When we returned to the hotel I rang for a directory and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[392]</a></span>
found Monte’s name and place of business, and lay down
to sleep, resolved to seek out Lulie, and, with Carlotta’s aid,
reclaim her if possible.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec3.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
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<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c392" id="c392">CHAPTER XLV.</a></h2>

<p class="p2">Mr. <span class="smcap">Monte</span> was partner in a large dry goods house on
Broadway, and from what I knew of his habits I judged
that I would most likely find him in the store about two
o’clock. Accordingly, after lunch I took an omnibus and
rode down to the place. It was a massive five story building,
with great iron and glass doors, that turned slowly on
their hinges, and, closing with a loud bang, shut out the
noise and rattle of the great thoroughfare. I stood for a
moment confused by the murmur of voices and the tramp
of feet, as the hundreds of salesmen and merchants swarmed
over every floor of the vast building. The next instant the
door sentry approached, and asked whom I wished to see.</p>

<p>”Mr. Monte; is he in?” I replied, feeling for my card.</p>

<p>”Mr. Monte!” he said, looking somewhat surprised.
”What market are you from?”</p>

<p>”North Carolina,” I replied.</p>

<p>”Oh, then,” said he, walking with me to the head of some
stairs that led to a gas-lighted apartment below, ”you want
to see Mr. Bantam. Ban-<i>tum!</i> Ban-<i>tum!</i>” he called in his
loudest tone, accenting the last syllable, and giving it the
”u” sound. ”Mr. Bantam is from your State; he is down
stairs now with Col.&mdash;&mdash; from Raleigh, in flannels. Will
be up in a moment. How’s trade in your section?”</p>

<p>”I am not a merchant,” I replied, wondering what Mr.
Bantam could be doing with Col.&mdash;&mdash; in flannel, and if the
Col. had forgotten his under garments when leaving home.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[393]</a></span></p>

<p>At this moment Mr. Bantam, an elderly man, slightly bald,
appeared at the bottom of the stairway and called out:
”Who is it, Johnson?”</p>

<p>”A gentleman from your State.”</p>

<p>”All right; I’ll be up in five minutes.”</p>

<p>”Wait a few moments, sir,” said Johnson, going back to
his post at the door.</p>

<p>Leaning back against a case of prints, I looked around
at this hive of human bees. From floor to floor, from wall
to wall, were heaped and piled, like immense breastworks,
goods and merchandise of almost every description; case
after case of prints, rolls upon rolls of cloths and cassimeres,
long brilliant rows of dress goods, boxes of glittering silks,
long counters of notions, great heaps of shawls, rugs and
blankets; laces, ribbons, and white goods; every department
marked by placards with hands pointing to it, and
over each another placard with terms of sale: ”30 days,”
”Regular,” or ”Net.”</p>

<p>Everywhere, at every case, around every heap of goods
were the salesmen and merchants, bending over fabrics,
examining their texture, standing off to get the full effect
of the figure; the one class praising and overrating, the
other undervaluing and quoting prices from other houses.
Just here, at the case next to me, is a fancy young man, with
brilliant studs and a flash cravat, a pencil across his mouth
like a bit, and his shirt sleeves held up by gutta percha
bands, diving head foremost into a box and bringing up a
piece of goods, which he exhibits with a slap, as if it were
a horse, and winks at a passing comrade, who pinches his
arm and says: ”How is it, Saunders?” while the merchant,
an old fellow from the country, with a broad felt hat and
long coat, who licks his short stump of a pencil whenever
he sets down anything in his memorandum book, which has
his name in gilt letters on the back, and was sent to him by
some advertising house, is bending down to examine it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[394]</a></span>
Over there is a red-faced man, in a Cardigan jacket, showing
&mdash;&mdash;. But here is Mr. Bantam, who reads my card and
exclaims:</p>

<p>”Smith! I am delighted to see you. When did you
leave the old North State?”</p>

<p>”On Tuesday last,” I replied, rather taken aback by his
familiar cordiality.</p>

<p>”Where are you stopping?” he inquired, bending the
corners of my card.</p>

<p>”At the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”</p>

<p>”That is the reason I missed you last night,” he said; ”I
did not go higher than the St. Nicholas. Well, I am very glad
you’ve come in. Hope you’ll make all your dry goods bill
with us. It’s much the best plan to concentrate on a
house, and we’ll be sure to do you good. What department
will you look through this evening? I used to sell
your father a great many goods.”</p>

<p>I begged his pardon, but informed him that my father
had never been a merchant, and that I was not merchandising,
but had called in to see Mr. Monte, one of the firm.</p>

<p>”You must excuse me,” he said, familiarly patting me
on the back, ”I thought you wanted to buy. You want
to see Mr. Monte? I expect you’ll have to go to his house,
No.&mdash;West 34th street. He hardly ever comes here. Bless
your soul, he wouldn’t know what to do if he did come.
His money is all the house wants. Give him a new dog
cart and a pair of ponies and he’s satisfied.”</p>

<p>”Then he is not much of a business man,” I said, for the
want of something else to say, as I took down his address.</p>

<p>”Not in this line. He knows how to get in the green
room at a theatre, and is a first rate judge of wine; but his
connection with us is simply confined to putting in some
money every year, and drawing on it like Old Harry the
balance of the time.”</p>

<p>”I am very much obliged,” I said, putting up my pencil;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[395]</a></span>
”I will hurry up to his house, if you think I will find him
there.”</p>

<p>”He is probably there now, but he will drive out to the
Park at four.”</p>

<p>I was about to leave, when a tall, elderly man approached
Mr. Bantam, and said, deferentially,</p>

<p>”Dinkle, of your State, wants Domestics on sixty days.
Shall I sell him?”</p>

<p>”I’ll go see him,” said Bantam, turning off; ”Good bye,
Mr. Smith. Call in again if you have leisure.”</p>

<p>The tall, elderly man was about to follow him, when a
sudden recollection of his face flashed upon me, and I caught
his arm.</p>

<p>”Excuse me, but isn’t this Mr. Marshman?”</p>

<p>”It is, sir,” he replied, turning around to me again.</p>

<p>”My name is Smith, sir,” I said, offering him my hand;
”we met at Saratoga.”</p>

<p>”I remember. How have you been?” he answered coldly,
taking my hand without cordiality, while a flush I could not
understand came over his face.</p>

<p>”You are connected with this house?” I asked; thinking,
of course, that he was a partner.</p>

<p>”Only as a salesman,” he said bitterly, and then added,
after a pause, ”It is not worth while being ashamed of it.
Lillian’s infernal extravagance ruined me, and I was compelled
to do something.”</p>

<p>I could make no reply, and there was a pause of some
seconds, when he continued, with increasing volubility, as
all men do when speaking of their misfortunes:</p>

<p>”Lillian’s old uncle, from whom we expected a great deal,
died insolvent. I spent half of what I had in my last political
contest, and was defeated by the&mdash;&mdash;treachery of my
friends. Still, after that we had enough to have lived comfortably,
by economizing a little; but Lillian would have
her brown stone and her carriage, her silks and her laces.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[396]</a></span>
and now she has to take the street cars if she rides at all,
and that isn’t often. I could stand it all better if she
wouldn’t cut up so, and mope about her poverty, as she
calls it. She turns up her nose at the neighborhood because
we’ve had to come down to Bleecker street. She spends
half her time crying and looking over old finery, and talking
of better days. She puts all sorts of foolish notions into our
little girl’s head, and makes her continually beg me for
things I have not the money to buy. I would ask you to
call and see us, but ‘twould not be pleasant for you, and
only make her worse. It is improper, I know, for me to
talk thus to a comparative stranger, but I am full of bitterness
when I think of Lillian’s conduct, and as you used to
know her I have been communicative. Pardon me. Yonder’s
Mr. Bantam. I must go back to my customers. Good
day! But take this piece of advice: don’t marry a belle,”
he added, over his shoulder, as he walked off.</p>

<p>As I stood on the sidewalk to hail an omnibus, my sympathy
turned from him to poor Lillian, reduced to poverty,
and her very sighs and tears ridiculed, to any one who
might listen, by her unfeeling husband.</p>

<p>When I knocked at No.&mdash;West Thirty-fourth street a
servant in livery appeared and took up my card. I waited
a few moments in a very handsome parlor, when he returned
and requested me to walk up stairs. Going up with him I
was ushered into a sitting room furnished with cosy magnificence,
that is, with a splendid Moquette carpet, on which
you were not afraid to tread; velvet divans, on which you
did not hesitate to recline; a rosewood table, on which an
inkstand and pens were scattered; a marble mantel, with
a half-smoked cigar tossed on it, an <i>etagere</i> with a smoking
cap, a broken meerschaum, and a Sevres vase of Latakia,
perched among articles of rarest <i>vertu</i>. With my first
glance around the apartment Monte came in through a
folding door from his dressing room, wiping his hands on a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[397]</a></span>
Russian towel, and giving me one to shake that was still
damp.</p>

<p>”Smith! old fellow, I am devilish glad to see you. When
did you arrive? We had a gay time at Saratoga that
season, didn’t we! Where the deuce have you kept yourself
ever since? Sit down.”</p>

<p>”I thought you were aware, Monte,” I said, adopting his
free and easy manner, and lolling carelessly down in an arm
chair, ”that we had had a little unpleasantness down our
way. I’ve been in camp four years.”</p>

<p>”Ah, yes,” he said, slipping his arm through the coat his
attendant held ready for him, ”I had overlooked that. So
they made a soldier of you, did they&mdash;powder, blood and
all? I was captain of a company our fellows here got up,
but when they went down South I resigned. If the&mdash;&mdash;
States wanted to secede I had no idea of getting my brains
blown out to prevent them.”</p>

<p>”We were defending our country, you know, and, of
course, had to fight,” I remarked, smiling at his idea of
patriotism.</p>

<p>”I suppose so,” he said, sitting down near me and arranging
his cuffs; then looking up at his servant, who stood
waiting, ”James, tell Thomas to put the bay colt to the
wagon; I will drive to Harlem this afternoon. By the way,
Smith,” he continued, when the man had left the room,
”what ever became of that devil of a beauty that flirted
with us all, and with whom you left the Springs?”</p>

<p>An angry reply rose to my lips at hearing him speak so
of Carlotta, but knowing that it would defeat the object of
my visit, I restrained myself, and replied ”that she had been
living down South during the war, but that I understood
she was soon to return to Cuba.”</p>

<p>There was a short silence, and I was wondering how to
get at any information in regard to Lulie, when he put up
his eye-glass and looked at me again.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[398]</a></span></p>

<p>”You’ve changed a great deal, Smith. I should never
have recognized you without your card.”</p>

<p>It was just the turn I wanted, and I replied:</p>

<p>”I saw you last night at the opera and remembered your
face immediately. But, Monte, <i>apropos</i> of beauty, who was
the lady you were with? She drew my attention entirely
from the stage.”</p>

<p>”Ah!” he said, drawing his eye into the least perceptible
wink, ”She was worth a gaze, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t tell
every one, but you are a transient visitor: that was La
Belle Louise. Half of New York is crazy about her&mdash;that
is, you know, the b’hoys.”</p>

<p>”Not demi-monde?” I asked, looking knowing.</p>

<p>”It was daring in me, wasn’t it?” he went on, without
heeding my remark. ”But she wanted to go and I promised
to carry her. Oh! but I shall have to lie about it to
the ladies. I can cheat scandal out of the morsel if some
fellow who knew her don’t blow on me to his mother, and
she let it out to her set. Confound it, though, who cares?”</p>

<p>”Has she many admirers?” I asked.</p>

<p>”Many seek the honor of her acquaintance, but I believe
I am the favored one. I’ll vow it flattens that deucedly
though to keep her in diamonds,” he said, drawing from
his pocket a mother of pearl portemonnaie.</p>

<p>”I’d like to get a peep at her myself; just a peep, Monte.
Where does she reside?” I said, taking out a card.</p>

<p>”Oh, I don’t mind telling you. But it’s no use, she
won’t see you.”</p>

<p>”La Belle Louise. Number what?” I asked, pretending
to write.</p>

<p>”She is at Madame Dubourg’s, 42d street, if you wish
to know,” he said, somewhat coldly, as if he thought
me impertinent.</p>

<p>Quick as thought ‘twas on my card, and then I said,
smiling:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[399]</a></span></p>

<p>”Oh, well, I was only jesting; I will leave day after tomorrow.
But tell me, Monte, something of my old acquaintance,
Miss Finnock.”</p>

<p>”Little Saph.!” he said, regaining his good humor. ”She
is up the Hudson living with her brother, who married
that horrid Miss Stelway. You remember them?”</p>

<p>”Very well, but is Miss Finnock not married yet?”</p>

<p>”No, of course not; who would marry such a bundle of
sentiment? She often boasts of you, though, as the young
Carolinian she flirted with.”</p>

<p>”I met Mr. Marshman very unexpectedly down at your
store to-day,” I said, not caring to correct little Miss Finnock’s
boast.</p>

<p>”Marshman? Yes, he’s selling there for us on a small
salary&mdash;the best we could give him though. The old fellow
got beaten, took to his cups and went to the bad very fast.
They say his wife has to work hard to support herself and
child, while he drinks up what he gets at our house. My
mother sends them supplies very often, though she has not
visited them, you know, since they left the top.”</p>

<p>”Have you a check book here?” I asked, with a sudden
resolution.</p>

<p>”Yes,” he replied, handing me one from his <i>escritoire</i>.</p>

<p>”Will you do me the favor to get that to Mrs. Marshman,”
I said, filling up the check for a good round sum and
giving it to him. ”Please draw the money and send it to
her so that my name will not be known in the matter, and
do not let Marshman touch any of it.”</p>

<p>”James shall attend to it to-morrow. But stay and dine
with me. We’ll drive out to Harlem, and get back to dinner
at six.”</p>

<p>”Thanks, I must return to my hotel, as I have an engagement
there. Dine with me to-morrow. I am at the Fifth
Avenue.”</p>

<p>”Would be happy. The Sillery’s very fine there, but I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[400]</a></span>
dine our Club on my yacht to-morrow. Speaking of La
Belle Louise,” he continued, following me down to the door,
”Madame Dubourg told me she gets letters from North
Carolina, and that she is continually sending money to Italy
to complete a monument to go over some poor devil of a
deserter from the rebel army, who was killed down there.
Did you ever hear of her before?”</p>

<p>”La Belle Louise? I never heard the name till you mentioned
it,” I said.</p>

<p>”I supposed it was a mistake. Good day.”</p>

<p>”Lulie, I have found you at last,” I murmured, as I sauntered
down Fifth Avenue to the hotel. ”God grant we may
save you!”</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">

<h2 class="p2"><a name="c400" id="c400">CHAPTER XLVI.</a></h2>

<p class="p2">Madame <span class="smcap">Dubourg’s</span> was a grand brown stone building,
with broad carved balustrades, and stone vases of cactus.
I had chosen the hour of twelve for our visit, as the parlors
would most likely then be free from visitors, and we could
see Lulie in quiet. When we alighted from our carriage
there was a large-armed Irish woman washing off the stone
steps, and a man in a paper cap standing on a high step-ladder,
to rub the plate glass windows. They were talking
and laughing together, but ceased as we got out, and looked
at us and each other with some surprise on their faces. The
woman gathered up her cloth and water bucket and disappeared
through the area with an audible snicker, while
the man fell to rubbing the wide panes with renewed diligence.
There was a pretty silver knocker on the figured
glass door, and as I let it fall the door was thrown open by
a footman, who had put on his gold laced coat so hurriedly
the collar was turned under, and from whose moustache<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[401]</a></span>
some fragments of cheese were still hanging. He favored us
with a prolonged stare of wonder, then presented a somewhat
tarnished gold salver for our cards. I laid one in it,
on which was simply written, ”An old friend,” and said:
”To see La Belle Louise.”</p>

<p>”You can’t see her,” he replied, with something of insolence
in his tone.</p>

<p>I restrained my first impulse of anger, and slipping a five
dollar gold piece in his hand, said quietly,</p>

<p>”Take my card up to her, and say nothing about a lady’s
being with me.”</p>

<p>”I will, sir,” he said, with a low bow, his manner changing
instantly at the touch of the gold.</p>

<p>He ushered us through a wide hall, with mosaic floor, into
a spacious parlor, furnished in dark green velvet, and opening
into another of light green satin damask, and this, in turn,
leading to a large conservatory of rare plants and flowers.
Though the furniture and all the appointments were so
magnificent, yet every thing bore the defacement of reckless
vice. The splendid Axminster carpets, though partially protected
by linen tracks, were soiled and worn by muddy
boots, the grand piano had its rosewood surface scratched
and bruised, the music books were torn and scattered, buhl
quartette tables around the room were covered with sloppings
of wine, broken glasses, wet packs of cards and dice,
the embroidered flowers on the ottomans were frayed into
strings, and the gorgeous paintings on the walls were
splotched and blistered, and their gilded frames tarnished.
We had walked through both parlors to the conservatory
and returned to the first, when we heard a light foot-fall on
the stairway, and Lulie came down into the hall and stood
for a moment looking through the side lights out into the
street, with the same look of wan despair upon her face.
The next instant she walked lightly into the room, twirling
the tassel of her morning robe over her forefinger. She advanced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[402]</a></span>
half across the room before she saw us, and then her
eyes opened as if in terror, a leaden pallor spread over her
face, as if life had fled, and pressing her hand to her heart,
with the tremulous wail, ”O God!” she sank down upon
the floor, her pallid cheek resting on the cushion of a <i>fauteuil</i>
that had been overthrown, and her colorless lips uttering
low moans, that were piteous, indeed, to hear.</p>

<p>In a moment Carlotta was down on the floor beside her,
lifting the poor bowed head to her bosom, smoothing the
brown hair from the fair brow that was once so pure, and
dropping the tears of her Christ-like pity on the upturned
face. The poor girl had no strength to stir, but only put
up her white hands feebly and murmured:</p>

<p>”Do not touch me; oh! do not touch me. God knows I
am unworthy to breathe the air you do. Leave me! Cast
me off as all the world have done,” and again she would
make those gentle, piteous moans.</p>

<p>As soon as Carlotta could command her voice she bent
down, and kissing her forehead tenderly, said:</p>

<p>”Lulie, darling, we have come to save you.”</p>

<p>”To save me? Oh, no; it’s too late&mdash;too late!”</p>

<p>”Do not say so, dearest Lulie,” urged Carlotta; ”our carriage
is at the door. Do not wait a moment, but come with
us and leave forever this pit of perdition.”</p>

<p>”Would to God I could,” she said, shaking her head
slowly, and speaking in the same low tone; ”there was a
time I might have gone, but not now, not now.”</p>

<p>”But, Lulie, we are going away from this country to
Cuba, where no one has ever known you. No one is with
us except mother, who is even now waiting to receive you.
We will forever bury the past, and look forward only to a
new life. Lulie, come with us, and be my darling sister in
our happy home.”</p>

<p>She raised herself from Carlotta, and, placing her hands
over her face, sat rocking herself back and forth, her very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[403]</a></span>
frame convulsed with the agony of her struggle. When she
lifted her face again her mind was made up.</p>

<p>”It cannot be, Lottie,” she said, calling Carlotta’s name
for the first time. ”Heaven only knows how I appreciate
your goodness and thank you for it; but I cannot go with
you; I cannot throw the shadow of my presence on your
household. The world has no forgiveness for my sin, and
no life of penitence or purity I might lead would ever wash
away the stain. I do not doubt your kindness; as God is
my witness I believe that you would love me, but, do what
you would to forget and conceal it, in your hearts I could
never be anything but poor fallen Lulie&mdash;and the consciousness
that you all knew of my ruin would make your very
presence a torture to me.”</p>

<p>”But, Lulie,” persisted Carlotta, ”this sensitiveness would
after a while pass off, and our very kindness would beguile
you of your remorse. And even if you suffer, I should think
any change would be better than this life of shameless iniquity,
so utterly opposed to the refinement and delicacy I
believe still linger in your breast.”</p>

<p>”Oh, Lottie, do not chide me. You, whose heart is pure,
who have never known the wild reckless abandonment of
all that is virtuous, all that is good, cannot understand the
terrible remorse that drives me into vice, whose constancy
will prevent reflection&mdash;aye, reflection. An eternity of hell
is compassed in one hour of my retrospect. I cannot be
alone; solitude would drive me mad. One thought alone
has brought relief&mdash;relief mingled with horror&mdash;the thought
of death! Oft in the night has it come to my sleepless pillow
and whispered to me ‘Die!’ and yet, when I poured
the poison in the glass, my trembling hand has dropped it
from my lips. But the crisis has come,” she said, fiercely,
striking her hands together and wringing them till her
jewelled rings cut into the flesh. ”I will not shrink again.
I <i>will</i> die!” and clasping her hands across her head, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[404]</a></span>
gazed at me with such intense anguish and despair in her
hollow eyes, I shrank from her face.</p>

<p>”Lulie, Lulie, dearest, do not speak so,” said Carlotta,
again putting her arms around her and trying to soothe
her. ”You cannot surely contemplate self-destruction.
Think, Lulie, what an awful thing it is to die. There, darling,”
she continued, as Lulie’s head drooped on her shoulder,
”you were speaking wildly just now, you did not mean
what you said. Come, the carriage is waiting. You <i>must</i>
go with us; we cannot leave you here.”</p>

<p>But Lulie only shook her head firmly and remained silent.</p>

<p>After a rather long pause Carlotta spoke again, in a low
impressive voice:</p>

<p>”Lulie, hear my last appeal. For the sake of the long
ago, when we were innocent happy children, and our hearts
were bound with ties of love which have never yet been
broken; for the sake of those dear old days, I beseech, I implore
you to leave these unworthy associations, and seek
with us a better life. Aye, Lulie, for the sake of your dead
mother, I beg you to come. If a heart can be sad in Heaven,
hers is bleeding now to see you thus; her precious
little Lulie in such a place as this! Oh! will you not
make her happy again?”</p>

<p>The fountains of her heart were now broken up, and with
long shuddering sobs she lay weeping on Carlotta’s neck.</p>

<p>I had not spoken yet, but had left all to Carlotta’s tact
and skill. I now knelt down by Lulie and took her hand,
while my broken voice and tearful eyes attested the sincerity
of all I said:</p>

<p>”Dear little playmate, by the memory of our childhood’s
love, by the thousand scenes and incidents that endeared
us to each other&mdash;our nursery games, Miss Hester’s school,
the little parties when you first ventured to take my arm&mdash;by
your first rejection of my love as we grew older, but
above all, by the confidence you placed in me under the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[405]</a></span>
oak at Chapel Hill, I implore you to trust us now and to
put your future into our hands.”</p>

<p>”Oh, spare me! spare me!” she cried, sobbing afresh,
”for humanity’s sake spare me! If you would not kill me,
do not tell me of my joyous, sinless childhood. It is gone
forever from me. Oh, my wrecked and ruined character!
Oh, my blighted, broken heart! Mother! <i>mother!</i> <span class="smcap">MOTHER!</span>
God grant you may be blind in Heaven, that you may not
see your poor, polluted child on earth. Lottie, do not torture
me more; ‘tis useless to persuade me; I cannot go.
Leave me to my fate. If you are willing, put both arms
round my neck once more and kiss me farewell. John, my
noble, true-hearted friend, Good-bye!”</p>

<p>Carlotta strained her again and again to her bosom, then,
seeing she was not to be shaken from her purpose, we
slowly and sorrowfully left the room. At the door Carlotta’s
feelings overcame her, and resolving to make one
more trial, she went back, and embracing her again, said:</p>

<p>”Lulie, I cannot leave you so. By the Blood of dear
Jesus, by the Cross of our Redeemer, I beseech you to go
with us to our home.”</p>

<p>Poor Lulie caught her hand and pressed her tear-wet
cheek and lips upon it, then pushed her from her side, not
rudely but sadly, with despair in her very touch.</p>

<p>And so we left her sitting on the floor, with her head
buried in her folded arms upon an ottoman. We were so
troubled to leave her as we found her, that we wrote a long
note and sent it up to Madame Dubourg’s that evening
from the hotel. The waiter soon returned with our note
unopened, but on it, scribbled with a pencil:</p>

<div class="pbq">
<p class="p1">”Dear friends, forget me!</p>
<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Lulie.</span>”</p></div>

<p class="p1">Next morning, as we stood on the deck of the steamer for
Havana, inhaling the breeze and enjoying the scene, while<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[406]</a></span>
the giant wheels were throbbing us out into the ocean, we
little thought that in the great city behind us, up in a room
with perfumed and silken hangings, an overburdened heart,
slower and slower, was throbbing, throbbing, throbbing a
soul out into eternity.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
     <img src="images/dec2.jpg" width="200" height="26"
         alt=""
         title="" />
</div></div>

<div class="break">


<h2 class="p2"><a name="c406" id="c406">CHAPTER XLVII.</a></h2>

<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Carlotta</span> and I are standing in the balcony of our chamber,
gazing in rapt admiration on the gorgeous beauty of a
Cuban sunset. The home we have come to is indeed a
lovely one; it is situated about fifteen miles from Havana.
The house, built of white stone, is like some Gothic castle, with
its towers, and arches, and extensive proportions, yet has all
the airy lightness of Italian architecture, in tasteful decorations
and elegant finish. It stands on a slight elevation
overlooking the sea, and is surrounded with all the appointments
refined taste could suggest or wealth procure.
White shelled walks, bordered with smoothly trimmed evergreens,
wind through gardens of exquisite flowers, or beneath
wire-trellised graperies, whose luscious clusters rival
those of Eschol. Beautiful drives lead around lawns of
green velvet, where fountains play with sparkling jets, and
marble statues gleam amid the shrubbery, or down through
long fragrant groves of oranges and limes, that drop their
yellow fruit beneath the passing wheels.</p>

<p>Every chamber in the house is fitted up with elegant comfort,
the long suite of parlors furnished in varied magnificence,
the halls filled with works of art, and the library
with rarest literature. All the domestic details, usually so
troublesome when we move to a strange place, are arranged
with perfect system and regularity, and a large retinue of
well trained servants, subservient in demeanor, anticipative,</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[407]</a></span></p>

<p>yet not officious in their attention, await our commands and
faithfully discharge their appointed duties.</p>

<p>All these arrangements were perfected before our arrival
by our very efficient agents, Messrs. Rinaldo, who have
had charge of the estate since Mr. Rurlestone’s death, and
nothing was left for me to do but to assume control of the
establishment.</p>

<p>Herrara Lola, grown portly and plethoric since I last saw
him, yet still exceedingly handsome, is living near, and he
and his lovely Spanish wife are our frequent guests. Indeed
they, and a few Southern families who have fled to Havana,
are the only society we receive, as we desire yet a while
quiet and retirement.</p>

<p>I have heard once from Ben Bemby since we reached here.
All were well, and in good spirits. His father, himself and
Horace, had all gone to work vigorously on their respective
farms, preparing them for the next year’s crop, though he
apprehended great difficulty in securing effective labor. His
letter, though characteristic, showed a spirit of earnest energy
and hopefulness, and was burdened throughout with
messages of love for us all from true and honest hearts.</p>

<p>But, as I was saying, Carlotta and I were in the balcony,
looking at the sunset. Cloudless and alone the god of day
was sinking to his rest. A few fleecy racks towards the
South were blushing with his good-night kiss, and a purple
bank with silver fringe lay beneath him, like the pillow of
his couch. Drowsily he sunk his head upon it, and drawing
the ocean, like a burnished coverlid, over his golden face,
was asleep!</p>

<p>The spell of our silent admiration was broken by Miguel,
my valet, who approached with the mail from Havana.
Running hurriedly through the letters I came to one
directed to Carlotta and myself, and dated from New York
the very day we sailed. Calling her to my side, I tore off
the envelope and read:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[408]</a></span></p>

<div class="pbq">

<p class="pn1">”<span class="smcap">My only Friends</span>&mdash;</p>

<p>When this reaches you I shall be in the grave, where the
scorn and contempt of the world cannot harm me. The
awful abyss of eternity is before me, and into its depths I
blindly plunge&mdash;whither I care not&mdash;any where, any where
to leave earth, with its curses on the fallen, and to crush
out Memory’s page of past purity. There is but one ray
of comfort in the dark Hereafter&mdash;the thought that in the
realms of gloom to which I am going I will not meet the
sad reproof of my mother’s face.</p>

<p>Dying, I leave no reproaches for the dead, no warning for
the living. I fell through my own weakness, and my eternal
doom will be just; but oh! my poor heart breaks as I
think of what I was and what I might have been.</p>

<p>To you, who tried to save me, my life’s last pulse will be
a throb of gratitude. I dare not pray for you, but He who
suffered Magdalen to weep upon His feet will reward you.</p>

<p>Farewell, forever farewell!</p>

<p class="pr4"><span class="smcap">Lulie</span>.”</p></div>

<p class="p1">As I opened the sheet to read the last lines a little flower
fell out on the floor. Carlotta picked it up, and, bursting
into tears, placed it in my hand.</p>

<p>It was a little <i>snow-drop, with its petals powdered with soot</i>.</p>

<p>Carlotta has gone in with the letter to mother, and I sit
alone in the balcony, thinking of Lulie. And the red light
dies out in the West, and the stars shine down from the
sky, and the stars shine back from the sea, and I am still
gazing far over the gray waters towards the land that I
fought for&mdash;a land where orphans’ tears meet widows’ wails,
and maidens wear the mournful pledge of battle-broken troth&mdash;a
land where want and woe are rife, and the burdened
people bow beneath the yoke of conquest; and yet, from
all the wealth and luxury that surround me, my Southern
heart turns with all the yearning of a child back to my
Southern Home.</p>


<p class="pc2 mid"><span class="smcap">Finis.</span></p>
</div>

</div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48883 ***</div>
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