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A few days after these scenes, Justin Harley was seated one
morning in the large drawing-room of his house, called “Huntsdon,”
evidently quite absorbed in thought.

Huntsdon was one of those houses whose singular physiognomy
attracts attention. It was a huge pile of age-embrowned brick,
with broad wings, a portico in front of the central building, and had
about it a large and stately look, best expressed by the word imposing.
The grounds were extensive, and dotted with old oaks.
One of these stood on each side brushing the walls, and from the
lofty hill Huntsdon looked down upon a great expanse of country,
once nearly all in possession of the Harley family. The first of the
name in Virginia had been poor, but his successors had become
rich—the estates embracing about fifty thousand acres. Profuse
living had undermined this landed wealth. The Harley of this
story inheriting, as eldest son, the whole, found himself lord of
only three or four thousand acres, a disproportionately large number
of servants—who devoured everything—and an addition of about
five thousand acres of swamp-land, overgrown with laurel, juniper
and cypress, on the Blackwater river—a tract which the owl, the
whip-poor-will, and the moccasin were more the owners of than he.

Huntsdon had been long shut up. The younger brother of Justin
Harley was at Eton, in England, and he himself had been abroad
for many years. He had come back a stranger nearly to everybody,
had seen but few persons whom he knew at his uncle's funeral,
and was now seated in the solemn-looking drawing-room of
Huntsdon, with its antique furniture and shadowy portraits, looking
upon him with an unresting stare, waiting for the old steward,
or overseer, who had managed his estate in his absence.

The scenes and events of this day went far to shape the lives of
several personages of this history. We shall, therefore, leave
Huntsdon and its master for the moment, and listen to the conversation
of two persons who were at this moment speaking of Justin
Harley.

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“Blandfield,” some miles distant, was the residence of Judge
Bland, a member of the governor's council, and was as bright and
cheerful as Huntsdon was sombre. There was a time when the sun
never shone on a fairer land than Virginia, and Blandfield was one
of its most cheerful spots. The homestead stood a mile or two from
the James, amid fertile fields, and was approached from the wharf
running out into the stream by a winding road, the fence on either
side overgrown with the foliage and trumpet-like flowers of the
Virginia creeper. A tall white gate gave entrance into extensive
grounds, studded with very large oaks, broad-boughed and heavy
with foliage; a little brook went laughing under weeping willows,
through a deep-green meadow, and between a double row of elms
skirting the avenue the visitor reached the house.

It was a quiet, homelike old place. At each end rose a slender
Lombardy poplar, shooting its pointed summit into the blue sky;
and masses of old lilacs leaned their delicate purple blossoms, in
the spring, against the walls. In front of the portico was a circle of
the greenest sward, with a gnarled “rustic seat” in the centre, leaning
its lattice-work back against a tree, and other rustic seats were
scattered over the lawn, beneath the oaks. The house stood on a
gentle knoll, and a path led down the hill, on the right, toward the
garden, over whose white palings you caught a glimpse of some
dazzling autumn-blooms. Half lost in foliage, toward the rear, were
the outbuildings, the overseer's house in the distance in its apple-orchard,
and the great barns and stables. In front, far away across
the smiling fields, shone the silver current of the James, dotted
here and there with snowy sails, ascending, or borne on by gentle
winds toward the ocean.

Judge Bland, the master of this peaceful mansion, was a slender
old gentleman of about sixty, with long, gray hair, and an exquisite
suavity of bearing; a man of great social distinction, and beloved
by everybody. Besides himself, the household at Blandfield consisted
of his aged mother, who was a perfect chronicle in herself of
every Virginia family; Miss Clementina Bland, a maiden sister of
the judge; Miss Evelyn and Miss Annie Bland.

A few strokes of the pen will make the portraits of these ladies.

Miss Clementina was thirty-five, and never intended to be married.
She had deliberately chosen not to accept some of the best
offers in Virginia, and although theoretically regarding matrimony
as the greatest blunder that a woman could commit, took an
interest in all the “love-affairs” of the neighborhood—and also
in its gossip.

A very few words in reference to Annie Bland will bring us to
Miss Bland, whose first name was Evelyn. Annie was a little romp

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of sixteen, with a profusion of black curls, pouting lips—always
smiling—and very rosy cheeks. Annie was called a “tomboy” by
some people—she was so very careless, laughing, and independent.
She would cheerfully have “gone barefooted” if it had been decorous;
delighted in climbing trees for birds'-nests; and nothing
pleased her more, when no one was looking, than wading in the run.

Let us pass to Evelyn—Miss Bland.

Evelyn was a young lady of about nineteen; quite tall,—some
persons said too tall—slender, with a dazzling complexion, eyes of
that violet tint produced by the reflection of purple upon deep blue;
and from her childhood had been remarkable for the grace of her
movements. The feet of the baby seemed to trip like a fairy's; the
little head assumed natural attitudes, the perfection of grace; and
as the baby became a girl and the girl a young lady, this exquisite
gracefulness of movement grew. In character the girl was a creature
of impulse, passing from one mood to another with astonishing
facility; now singing like a lark, then sitting with her head drooping,
overcome by sadness, but oftenest gay, daring, satirical, domineering,
and born into the world, it seemed, with the one great
mission of driving the young gallants around her to distraction.
They were afraid of her a little, but her beauty enthralled them.
Evelyn amused herself at their expense, but they quite forgot their
grievances when, seated at the harpsichord, she inclined her beautiful
head, with its rich brown curls, toward one shoulder, gazed at
the hapless youth or youths from the corners of her eyes, and electrified
them by the smile which gave point to the tender words of
her song.

On this morning, as the sun soared above the woods, turning the
dew-drops to gold, Evelyn Bland came out of the front door, and
seeing her father reading his Virginia Gazette, on one of the rustic
seats on the lawn, ran to him and sat down beside him.

“Well, here is my little sunshine, all lilies and roses!” said the
judge, smiling and kissing her. “And what does your ladyship
propose to do to-day?”

“I propose to ride out with my papa, if he is going anywhere.”

“I am going to see Mr. Randolph, and you shall go with me. You
have scarce left the house since going to Mr. Hartright's funeral.”

“An age!—poor Mr. Hartright!”

“He was an excellent gentleman, and 'tis a pity he remained unmarried,
and had no children to cheer his old age. He had nephews,
however—Justin and St. George Harley. Justin has returned, it is
said.”

“I do not remember him,” said Evelyn. “He has been very long
abroad, has he not, papa? Why did he go?”

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